AN: Please note, I do not watch Law & Order: SVU. This was written for a friend, who's definitely got an unhealthy obsession with the show (kidding!). She's been bugging about an SVU fanfic for ages, and it's her birthday next week, so I figured I'd try to get this up for then. Fingers crossed, all goes well.

I've basically used Google as my reference point for characters, and I've watched the season 14 finale, and the season 15 premier. I, therefore, apologise if the characters are OC. I've tried my best.

All rights go to Dick Wolf. I do not own anything, as per usual.

Please read and review.

GB

xox


Save Benson

Olivia Benson watches as William Lewis paces before her, skin scratching skin as he runs a calloused hand over his freshly shaven face, his hard eyes shadowed by the soft glow of the desk lamp. She sits uncomfortably still. Her head is throbbing with each anxious squeeze of her heart, and she can taste the blood sluggishly oozing from the fresh laceration on her lip; metal. Not unlike that taste of her own gun as it's violently thrust into her mouth when she'd dared to scream, shout, whimper.

"William," she dares, quietly, cautiously, desperately. "Please. Stop." It's a futile attempt at pleading with the psychopath that's sought her out, broken into her home, has already started beating and branding her; a man that gets his kicks from raping and torturing women, hanging their battered bodies and leaving them for dead.

But Benson has to try.

He stops, shoes thudding noisily against the flooring at the abrupt halt; perhaps it would have been loud enough to catch a downstairs neighbours' attention, if she had one. She makes the mental note to find a new apartment; one that's on at least the second floor, and then panic clears that thought from her head as it's chased by a fresh one that reminds her that perhaps this is it; this is where she's going to die. Lewis' mouth twitches into a smirk, his cold eyes crinkling as if amused, his right hand toying with her standard issue gun, but he doesn't speak, doesn't leer. He likes this, she realises; Benson's pleading eyes, her wrists restrained in her own, too tight cuffs, her ankles taped to the legs of a chair she will never be able to sit in again.

"Walk away," she tries, head tilting slightly in the direction of the locked apartment door, as she wills, prays, he'll change his mind, listen to her. His tongue darts out from his mouth, swipes across dry lips as he looks down at her, contemplates her, and she wonders, just for a fraction of a second, if he's actually considering it.

But then he's moving swiftly, closing the space between them with two large strides, leans in to invade her personal space. His hands rest on her thighs, the butt of her gun digging into her leg hard enough for it to bruise and make her cringe, to try and twist her leg away from the pressure as she pushes back into the chair, desperate to put space between herself and the man Hell bent on shoving his face in hers. She squirms as his hot breath fans her face, violates her nose, her mouth, owning every orifice as he laughs without humour.

"Oh no, Olivia," he purrs, stretching her name out, as if tasting the way it sounds as it rolls across his tongue. "I can't walk away tonight." He reaches up with his left hand, strokes her hair softly, caressing her as his eyes trail over her face; her eyes, her bruised cheek, her mouth. "I can't walk away from you."

"Think about this," she says anyway, eyes holding his in an entirely too personal way. "I'm a cop -"

"Okay, that's enough from you," Lewis cuts Benson off, straightening up and grabbing for the roll of duct tape on the small end table.

"No, Lewis, don't -" Benson begins to plea as she watches him tear a strip from the roll with his teeth, but he doesn't listen, of course he doesn't; she'd have been foolish to believe he would. She flinches, even whimpers a little, as he slaps the strip over her mouth, hands pressing firmly to check it's adhered tightly, pulling skin and pressing on fresh, sore wounds. He smiles at her again as her eyes drop to the gun still held in his hand, casually, as if he's used to it's weight, the way it feels in his palm.

"Now," he says, as he turns away from her, walks over to lean against the kitchen counter top, slowly moving as if they have all the time in the world. She twists as far as her restraints will allow, because she wont allow for him to fall from her line of sight, to slink into the background where she can't see him coming. If he's going to kill her, she's going to look straight into his eyes as he does so; she wont back down, wont cower away behind scrunched eyelids, wont give him that satisfaction. He places the gun on the counter, pulls another pack of cigarettes from his pocket, winks at Olivia as she visibly swallows hard. "I've dreamt of this moment." Lewis continues as he lights the smoke, holds it in between his teeth so he can continue his one sided conversation. "It's like," he pauses, as if in deep thought, thrown back somewhere into the past, "Christmas morning, back in ninety-seven, when I got this cool remote control car. I loved that thing. Until it stopped working, so I smashed the piece of shit to smithereens. Turns out, it only needed new batteries." He laughs, as if he's getting the punchline to an inside joke only he understands.

He sobers when he fails to see humour in Benson's eyes, and her stomach clenches as he slowly saunters in her direction, stops before her as he exhales a puff of smoke. She cringes, feels sick. "What about you, Olivia? Hmm? What do you love?" He leans into her again, his right hand landing softly on her thigh, skin rubbing over black pants as his hand inches up.

Please don't. A silent plea.

She gives in and closes her eyes, her heart thudding against her chest so hard she is sure he can hear it, feel it thrumming through her body.

"C'mon, Liv," he sneers. "Open up." She can feel him, smell him. "Olivia," he taunts, blowing smoke over her face, and she wants to vomit, to pass out, because his hand has trailed up over her body, slowly, taunting her as his fingers brush the soft skin under the low neckline of her top and she can feel the heat of the cigarette as he holds it millimetres from her flesh, and she just wants it to stop. "Olivia, are you okay in there?"

Bang.

Bang.

She squeezes her eyes tighter, wills herself away, promises herself she isn't going to give in to the psycho aching for her reaction.

"Benson!"

Olivia wakes with a start, bolting upright, heart hammering in her chest so hard, she's sure she can hear it, threatening to cave her sternum. She shivers, forces air into her lungs with short, sharp gasps, wraps her arms around her naked, drenched body and rubs at her goose pimpled skin. Nothing makes sense, her brain is frazzled, and the panic threatens to overcome her and drown her in fear.

Drown her.

It takes a moment, a long second, before realisation begins to filter through the haze in her mind, for her to recognise the white, tiled walls, the overhanging shower, pristine white bathroom suite. She's cold, though the heating is on, because the water in the tub hasn't been hot for a long while.

"Olivia?" A familiar voice, scratchy, tight, restrained; Brian. Bang. Bang. Bang. "Olivia, are you okay?"

She rubs a shaking, wrinkled hand over her face, tries to ground herself, to force her mind to stay in reality, to stop it sinking back into the past, into her memories, where Lewis awaits.

"Liv, God dammit, if you don't answer me..." he trails off, and she grabs hold of the side of the tub, knuckles turning white, fingers pressing into the unforgiving surface as she focuses on her breathing. "I'll break down this door!"

In.

Out.

"Right, I'm coming in!"

In.

Out.

"One. Two -"

"No!" She calls out, voice strangled, hoarse, desperate, as she quickly folds her arms across her chest, covering herself, covering the burns, the bruises. "No, I'm fine." It's a lie, it's always a lie, but Cassidy doesn't get to three; it's enough to stop him breaking in, to stop him seeing her, naked and afraid, battered.

Broken.

"Okay," he says, sounds resigned. "Okay," he repeats, sighing, more for himself, she's sure. "I'll order dinner."

Dinner. Like she eats. Like she's hungry.

Like she's normal.

She waits for three long seconds, and she watches as the shadows of his feet disappear from under the doorway and his footfalls fall into the background somewhere. She lets out a huff of air she hadn't realised she'd been holding as her heart pounds in her chest; not from the fear of seeing Lewis in her dreams this time, but from the fear of Cassidy seeing the cigarette burns that mar her breasts, the mottled skin covering her ribs, the deep bruising circling her wrists, the branding, like Lewis owns her.

Owned.

She feels heavy, legs stiff, as she pulls herself from the cold water, shivering as disturbed air hits wet skin. She refuses to look in the mirror above the sink, doesn't want to see the reflection of someone she doesn't recognise, because she just doesn't know herself right now. Maybe she never will. Because who is she now? The detective that allowed herself to be kidnapped. The detective that was beaten and tortured, assaulted and violated.

The victim.

She dries herself quickly, patting at sore skin with a warm, soft towel, before pulling on one of Cassidy's simple tee shirt, sweat pants, and a large sweater. She can't even bring herself to care enough to miss her own clothes.

When she walks through into the living room of the small, messy apartment, Cassidy looks up over the car magazine he's reading, or pretending to at least, and offers her a small smile. She can see the question in his eyes, the way his brow pulls together a little and his eyes subtly narrow, as if he's studying her, trying to work her out as he visually traces the marks she can't hide.

What happened to you, Olivia?

She doesn't offer a smile in return, because she just doesn't have any smiles left. She offers a small, barely there, head jerk instead, tugs at the sleeves of the sweater to make sure the bruises are concealed, then gingerly wraps her arms around herself, holding herself together so she doesn't come undone, fall apart, as she gently eases herself onto the couch.

"Hey," he whispers, softly, quietly, and she's heard that tone a million times before, has used it herself; when she's looking in the eyes of a rape victim, or an under age molestation victim, the family of a murder victim.

Victim.

"Hungry?" He knows the answer, of course he does, because she hasn't eaten in the three days she's been here with him. Here, but not really here. She shakes her head no, because she doesn't know where her voice has gone, if she can drag the energy from the pit of her soul to form a vocal answer. "I've ordered Italian, just in case," he says anyway, but he could be saying anything – talking about the weather, cars, sports, anything – because she isn't listening, not really. She's gone, somewhere no one can reach her, trapped in the memories she wishes she could escape.

The smell of his cigarettes, her burning flesh.

His laughter, his voice.

Those eyes.

"Liv?" She looks up, and Cassidy is staring at her, brow furrowed, obviously waiting for an answer to an unheard question.

"I need sleep," she forces out past dry lips. She gets up without offering anything else, winces as her ribs ache, and her head pounds as the last remnants of the concussion hang tightly to her brain. Cassidy doesn't follow her, hasn't slept in the same bed as her since before the whole incident with William Lewis happened. She doesn't need to ask why, because she knows; the screams wake her, too.


She loses track of time.

It could be Wednesday, or maybe Thursday, she isn't sure. Everything blends into one now, and she wonders if this is how the other survivors feel; the ones she pushes into therapy, into testifying against their attacker, into recounting every single second of their ordeal, every little detail. She shifts a little on the couch, blanches when her ribs protest at the small movement, keeps her eyes trained on the TV, though she isn't really watching it, just staring, as she has done for...how many days now?

She jumps at the loud clatter coming from the kitchen; metal landing on floor tiles.

"Sorry!" Cassidy apologises quickly, and she knows he's just seen her jump, because he's constantly watching her, almost as if he's afraid to let her out of his sight. It's suffocating, but she doesn't tell him that, because she can't imagine just how hard it's been for him. She's not the only one that went through hell; he'd assumed she was sleeping when he had confessed how he'd barely survived the 4 days she was gone, how he'd been terrified of losing her, how he still is.

"It's fine, Bri," she offers, quietly, once her heart rate has slowed a little and the panic has receded.

"I've made waffles," he beams when he emerges, balancing two plates in one hand and two mugs of steaming coffee in the other. Olivia's stomach twists, because she still isn't hungry. The idea of something as normal as eating just doesn't seem to fit in with her now. She wonders, briefly, if Lewis would be charged with homicide if the PTSD made her starve herself to death.

She doesn't even cringe away from the idea of suicide as it quickly flits through her mind.

No. He can't win.

"Thanks," she says, tries to force her lips upwards into a smile, though she's sure it looks more of a grimace as she takes the plate from Cassidy's hand with her uninjured one. His eyes instantly flick to the marks on her wrist as the sweater sleeve falls back.

"I thought we could go to the park today?" He offers as he skilfully places one of the mugs down on the side table, then steps around the couch to sit in the arm chair across from her. "Just an idea."

It's Sunday, then.

"Uh," Benson begins as her fingers starts to pick apart the golden, perfectly cooked waffles. "I dunno." She does know, she just doesn't want to tell him; I can't handle that, yet.

"Okay," he says, because she doesn't need to tell him. "We can watch a game instead."

"Sure," she nods, eyes falling from his to stare down to the destroyed waffles. She sighs, swaps the plate of food for the mug of coffee, and sips at the hot liquid.

"I'm trying, Liv," Cassidy says, his voice tight, restrained, and a huff of air leaves her lungs, heart aches when she looks back at his wide eyes, like he's trying to tell her something she doesn't have the energy to read. She tries to offer a comforting smile, though she knows it doesn't reach her eyes.

"I know," she nods. She wishes she could make it better, easier, for him. But she just doesn't know how. "I've got a headache." It's her excuse, an overused one, for when it gets too much; being around people, having to try and be normal, human. She gets up slowly, her braced arm pressing against her torso, steadying broken ribs, and then turns to head for her bedroom. His bedroom.

"Olivia," he says, and it's his tone that stops her, makes her turn towards him. It's broken, rough, like he's under deep stress, been fighting a losing battle. Like he's exhausted. "I just...I don't..."

She frowns, pulling on the wound that's already begun to heal, to scar, because Brian Cassidy has never been one to struggle for words.

"Did he..." and she knows he's going to ask it before he can finish the question. He hasn't asked about what happened during the time she spent with Lewis, and she doesn't plan to offer up any of the excruciating details, not until she has to testify in court, dredge it all up again. Cassidy clears his throat, runs a hand up through his hair, back down over his face.

"Did he rape you?" It's the pain in his eyes as he asks that hurts Olivia the most, and she knows she'll never forget it, will probably see it every day for the rest of their lives.

"No," she replies, shaking her head, because that's the one thing she's thankful for. If he had, she's not sure she'd have survived it. Being an assault victim is one thing, being a rape victim? She'd seen what that had done to her mother, and there's no way she could imagine getting through that. It's enough of an answer for Cassidy, because he nods once, the relief washing over his face as he settles back in the chair, pops a blueberry in his mouth, and reflects his attention onto the TV.

She watches him for a moment; studying the way his eyes crease as he laughs at the comedian on the tv, how he picks the blueberries from the waffle first without even thinking about it, the way he rubs his ear and scratches his cheek because he's always fidgeting.

Maybe, she thinks as she heads towards the bedroom, one day, she'll stop feeling numb and go back to loving him.