Archiving: I don't care as long as I know where it is. It'll be put on FFnet where all my fics are, and as soon as SVUfiction validates it, there too.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Feedback: is food for my hungry soul and fodder for my ego.

A/N: Just something I thought needed to be explored. Hope you like it. Entirely from Elliot's POV, which is different for me, because I empathize with Liv. Please read and review.

Elliot shot up in bed, sweat dripping from every pore, awoken from a nightmare that had almost come true that week. Couldn't sleep. He couldn't get the sight of Liv covered in blood out of his head, blood not hers, but so close to being that it killed a part of him inside. Next to him, his wife turned away, as if she unconsciously didn't want to be party to his ongoing struggle. Adding another topic to the growing pile of debris swept under the rug marked "Pre/Post-Reconciliation." That lump was getting pretty large, and soon it would be too big to pretend the issues weren't still there.

But his mind wasn't on Kathy or their problems. It remained firmly on the events of the past week and in particular the shooting that had nearly taken his partner from him. Fourth nightmare in two days and he couldn't get through the night. He needed an outlet. He needed to get out, get away, focus his energy because it was obvious sleep wasn't coming anytime soon. 2:47am and he was getting dressed. Slipping away from the bed proved easier than he thought, and he crept down the stairs silently, boots and gun in one hand, avoiding the creaky floorboards, instinctive after eleven years of getting call outs to crime scenes with his partner. Downstairs, he pulled on his boots, strapped his gun on, snagged the keys and cell, and quietly left.

Aimless driving proved not so aimless as he found himself at the 1-6. Let himself in. Elliot was grateful for the late hour as the precinct was blessedly bare of personnel. He ran into one officer on his way to the basement. A brisk nod, quick glance at his face, not his eyes, he didn't want to be that familiar, and he was riding the elevator down. The gym was empty of any other individual and that suited Elliot just fine. He wanted to work out in the quiet, his thoughts to himself, and not have to pay lip service to someone who wanted to chat.

He wasn't in the mood to talk. His emotions felt raw, bruised, and he felt like he'd been sliced open. He didn't like the feeling. He didn't like the lack of control and he needed to gain it back. The only way he'd ever accomplished that was by lifting weights, jogging, working at the punching bag. Something about the sound of his breaths as he lifted, the pound, pound, pound of his feet on the tread, the muffled and sometimes sharp slaps of his fists against the leather helped calm him.

Lifting weights without a spotter wasn't smart on a normal day, but with his mind preoccupied by the movie played out over and over behind his eyes, the smear of blood on her jacket, the tears held at bay in her eyes, the pleading evident in their dark depths…it proved even more dangerous. His mind was so far removed from his actions that by the time he finished the instant slow replay, his arms were aching, the muscles straining, and he almost didn't have the strength to replace the bar with the 200-pound weights on the rest.

But lifting weights didn't help. He still felt that panicky, gut-twisting feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Jogging helped for a few minutes, but the movie came swiftly back, this time in high definition audio. And soon Elliot was no longer jogging, but running, pounding on the tread to escape the hell.

"I'll KILL her!"

"Shut up, you lying bitch!"

Over and over, the conversation played, the sounds becoming sharper, harder, edgier. He could hear, even now, the panic in her voice, the shallow breaths she took as she thought those were going to be her last moments. The ache in the tone that denoted, God, this it. This is how it's going to end. Right here. Right now.

Elliot had to pull the emergency cord and almost didn't get his feet on the sides in time as the tread stopped abruptly. He shook hard, trembled, hands gripping the handles like lifelines, head hung low, back bowed, tremors cascading finely over his body as he recalled those few seconds, imagining what she was thinking. Remembering what he was thinking at the time. I can't. I can't take the shot. But I have to. She can't die like this. Not good enough. Damn it. Should've practiced more. Should have spent more time at the range.

And then when he'd heard the report of the bullet leaving the chamber, he'd heard her cry out, in pain, in fear.

God, please, no. Don't take her from me. I know I don't deserve her. Not after everything. But I'm not ready. Christ. Christ. Please. Please…!

He'd never prayed for anything harder in his life or with more fervor, not even when his wife had left him. Because at least then, she was still alive. And at that moment, in the split second between the shot and reaching her, he'd not known if Olivia was dead or alive. If she was still with him.

Not good enough. Damn it, should've practiced more. Should have spent more time at the range.

That's it. That's where he needed to be. Elliot walked the short distance to the range area and logged out a couple of clips and a box of ammo. He set up at one of the stalls and loaded the extra four clips. Olivia was his partner. If anyone should have her back, it's him, but he hadn't.

Where had it gone wrong? Where had everything gone to hell that allowed Rojas to take his partner hostage? Maybe it was their earpieces. Those damn things were ancient. How many millions and millions did NYPD get each year for the fiscal year in funding and they couldn't afford a couple of discreet wireless earpieces? Why did he have to talk into his wrist to get a message across?

Or maybe it was the way he'd dressed. Elliot admitted he had the 'cop look' down pat. Even off-duty he got called on by passersby, as if he had his gun everywhere. Call 911 if you have a problem.

It wasn't either of those and he knew it. As much as he wanted to blame outdated surveillance equipment or the manner of his dress, Elliot knew it was because of the stare he'd leveled at Rojas just before he grabbed Liv. If he hadn't looked right at him, if he hadn't made it so obvious he was a cop, he'd never have had to bring Olivia into the situation.

Elliot placed the earmuffs on and aimed downrange. Fired. Again and again and again. Dry-fired. Loaded the next clip.

She'd have been safe at the car. Safe. Instead of having a loaded gun pointed point-blank at her head. So many things could have gone wrong when Porter pulled that trigger. His aim could have been off. Just one slight jerk…

He remembered how the wind had whipped through her hair, jerking the strands to and fro until they blinded her vision. The wind had been whipping through the parking lot that day, and Elliot knew enough about guns and target shooting that the wind could have pulled the trajectory of that bullet off by just millimeters and that day would have had a different ending.

If Porter had been one inch off….

Elliot would be attending her funeral right now. His throat closed up at the hellish thought. He should have had her back and he hadn't. Instead Porter had had to take the shot. Because he couldn't. Because he wasn't sure of his aim. Because he was too damn close. Too close to her. Because the thought of taking the shot—of missing, of shooting Liv instead—tore him to pieces.

Something broke inside at the acknowledgment of his own weakness. As much as he wanted to say it wasn't, it had been exactly like that warehouse four years ago. Exactly. And now, he could honestly say he understood her reticence then. Because he couldn't have taken the shot. Even though he'd aimed, adjusted his grip, calmed the fine tremor in his wrist. Even though he'd narrowed his focus, he'd still not have been able to. And if their positions had been reversed four years ago, he still wouldn't have been able to.

Not enough time at the range. He could hit center mass all day long, but that shot had taken precision. Precision that Elliot had never mastered. But he'd be damned sure he'd take care of that now. They'd been lucky. Porter had been able to make the shot, by the grace of God. But he couldn't count on the bastard to be there the next time, and so he needed to practice. He wasn't letting his partner, his best friend, his…down again. She was essential to him. He couldn't do this job without Liv. He didn't want to. That still held true today as it did on that fateful evening in that quiet hospital hallway. The words still rang true, even after all this time. After their reconciliation. After Eli. God help him, because even after everything, even now he'd gotten his family back, he still needed Olivia like he needed air to breathe.

And Christ knew, he didn't deserve her.

A creaking sound coming from the end of the stalls pulled him from his thoughts and Elliot's head whipped in that direction. A familiar form slowly approached, brown hair streaked with caramel and auburn cascading across a smooth, flawless cheek. "Hey," she said softly. "Thought I'd find you in the gym."

"Didn't work this time," he said, voice rusty from disuse. "Tried something else."

Olivia nodded gently, hands slipped into the front pockets of her jeans, and her leather jacket bunched around her chest. She took a step closer and peered into his stall. Checking out his progress. The cluster of circular holes around center mass, but not dead center at the X marked in the middle. Understanding innately the reason he was there, target shooting at 5:30am. Why he'd been there for hours.

Elliot didn't back off and for a few seconds, she was in his personal space, and he could smell her hair, feel the heat from her skin, and visually remind himself that she was alive, that Porter hadn't missed, that Rojas hadn't reflexively pulled the trigger when he was shot, taking Olivia with him.

Irrational tears pricked his eyes and Elliot had to fight to keep them at bay. Why the hell was he crying? She was alive. She was right here.

Not in Warner's morgue. Not six feet under the ground in some cold cemetery.

"Hey," Olivia reassured quietly. "I'm here, El. I'm right here." With you. Always. She placed a tentative hand on his bare forearm and slipped down slowly, towards his wrist, and even more slowly, hesitantly toward his hand, fitting herself into the curve of his fingers.

She always knew. She always knew when something was up and when it really mattered, what was wrong. His breath hitched. Elliot's head dropped to touch hers, press his forehead lightly against hers, their noses brushing, lips millimeters away, their breaths mingling and merging, and his hand curved around her fingers, gripping them like a lifeline. Elliot laced his fingers through hers, needing a closer touch. Needing the reassurance. His other hand released its grip on the table and cupped the curve of her face, thumb stroking softly the satin skin of her cheek beneath, pulling her impossibly closer. That seemed to give Olivia the courage to slide her free hand around the back of his neck and curl her fingers into the short strands at the sensitive nape.

In the quiet of the moment, Elliot's voice harshly broke, like glass shattering, as he whispered, "Sorry…couldn't prot—Shoul—'ve…" His voice trailed off, unable to voice his thoughts for the knot blocking his throat. Took a deep breath, attempted to anyway.

Liv squeezed his hand tightly and relaxed her grip, still pressed close, but not strangling the circulation. "I know, El. I know." Olivia closed her eyes and just breathed with him, taking it, taking him in. Reassuring him without words.

Their connection, it wasn't in the brush of hands. It wasn't in the conversations, the sharing of words. It was in the space between, the silence, the secret glances where so much was left unsaid, but felt. That space was full of so much history never fully explained, or explored, and just a few key words could conjure a wealth of hard memories: Gitano, Oregon, Sealview. Innocuous words that to anyone else would mean nothing, but to them meant so much more. And now they could add one more word to that growing list: Rojas.

He'd come there needing to gain some perspective, to remind himself that everything was all right. That Rojas hadn't taken her from him. That Porter hadn't missed. And that he would work harder to protect her. As he should. As her partner. As her best friend. As all the things they were to each other that could never be spoken. And he'd found his touchstone. In this moment, the world stopped spinning, his heart calmed, and in this silence, he cried tears of relief that God had heard his prayer.