Disclaimer: If Lycan-Cub and Bucken-Berry owned the show, do you reeeeeally think it wouldn't be obvious that Elliot and George love each other?
A loud yawn escaped George as he relaxed on his sofa. He stretched leisurely, allowing his body to unwind from the long day. They had a heavier caseload than usual, and the fact that Elliot and Olivia were currently undercover didn't help. While they weren't profilers, they still understood easier than the rookie detectives that had been called in to replace them until they came back. He hadn't even needed to turn around to see Fin and Munch rolling their eyes at the countless stupid questions the new recruits asked George.
He sighed softly and took a sip of wine, thinking about Elliot and Olivia's undercover assignment. They had gone undercover to bust a child trafficking ring; with George's help, they had each faked a persona that had convinced the leaders that they were the real deal. Currently the two were recording the leader's conversations about who they were going to sell the children to, and where they were going to move them next.
George shuddered lightly at the thought. Very few things could disturb him, but children being harmed and sold like property...
Shaking the thought out of his head, he drank more wine and wondered what Elliot was doing right about now. He was probably returning to the temporary apartment, George thought, looking at the clock. He hoped Elliot was being careful- no, he hoped they were being careful. Elliot and Olivia, because both of them were in danger; both of them were risking everything by being there. But it was hard to divert his thoughts from Elliot, these days.
He wasn't sure when or how he'd fallen for the detective, but he had, and his mind showed no signs of letting him move on and forget about it any time soon. Multiple times every day, he'd find himself wondering what Elliot was doing, where he was, if he was okay. He didn't like to admit any weaknesses within himself, yet it was becoming abundantly clear that Elliot was his weakness, and George was falling hard for him. His mind's protests that Elliot was straight, and thus any feelings of love were going to be unrequited, were promptly ignored by his heart. So, for the first time in his life, George gave up on rationality and continued to hope that Elliot did care, like some shrinking violet schoolgirl who hoped the captain of the football team would take notice on her.
He glanced at the clock again. Elliot- and Olivia, he reminded himself irritatedly- would be checking in any moment. George, being with the FBI, had been assigned as Olivia and Elliot's case agent, which meant he was the only one allowed to have contact with them.
Sighing softly, he set his wine glass down and reclined against the armrest. He allowed the stress he'd accumulated over the long day to gradually drain away, and eventually he felt relaxed enough to try to sleep. If Elliot and Olivia ever decided to call, that is, he thought with a slight scowl.
Ten more minutes passed with no word from the detectives. Worry began to seep into him, his heart rate increasing slightly as he wondered what might be going on. But he forced himself to think of any explanation but the worst one. The traffickers had forced them to stay late. Their car was broken. They had decided to go to the grocery store and time had simply slipped them by.
When another half hour went by without a word, however, the worry turned into full-blown panic, a cold dread that gripped his stomach like an icy fist, and turned his blood cold. He inhaled deeply, trying to soothe his nerves, but he couldn't. Something was terribly wrong- he could feel it.
His hands began to tremble as he stood and retreived his phone. He was supposed to wait for them to contact him first, but he figured the situation justified it. If not, it would still be worth getting yelled at and lectured on maintaining cover, if it mean he would have his panic assuaged.
He dialed Elliot's number and pressed call, but it went to the answering machine immediately. Swallowing visibly, he waited for the answering machine to beep and said, "Elliot, it's George. I know it's against protocol, but I need someone to call me and say if you and Olivia are okay- you were supposed to check in almost an hour ago."
Then he hung up and called Olivia's phone, only to once again get the answering machine. He didn't bother leaving a message this time- he just hung up and started to walk around the living room restlessly.
He jumped and almost shouted when several loud, rapid knocks sounded on the apartment's front door. He froze for a moment before he heard Olivia shouting, "George, it's Olivia. Come on, Elliot and I need help!"
"Coming, Liv, hold on!" George called back, sprinting towards the door. He began to open it, asking, "What's going-"
He blinked in shock when he caught sight of them. Olivia was supporting a semi-conscious Elliot, who's t-shirt was covered in a rapidly-growing bloodstain. He was drenched in sweat- his body's reaction to the trauma and agonizing pain he had to be in- and his skin was deathly pale. A shiver ran through his form constantly, indicating that he was already in hypovolemic shock. Elliot's eyes were half-closed and growing duller by the second, and his breath was coming in weak, hoarse gasps. His chest heaved with the effort of drawing enough air to satisfy his body.
"Jesus, what the hell happened?" George asked, moving to support Elliot. They struggled to carry Elliot's dead weight inside the apartment. "Elliot, can you hear me?"
"He's been unresponsive to my voice for the last few minutes, and he stopped helping to support his weight once we got to your door," Olivia explained.
"What happened to him?" George demanded, tugging on Elliot's arm and finally getting him to move his legs.
Elliot moaned softly, a sound that tore at George's heart. Gently, George murmured, "Shh, Elliot, you're going to be okay. Just lie down a second."
"I'm going to call an ambulance," he added to Olivia as they eased Elliot onto the sofa.
Frantically, Elliot shifted, clearly trying to convey something. Olivia turned to George and said, urgently, "We can't. The traffickers think Elliot died when they shot him, and we need to keep it that way- our cover's blown."
"Fuck." George almost never swore, but he felt justified at the moment. He turned his attention to Elliot again and removed his blood-soaked shirt, revealing a large wound between his stomach and chest. He began to apply pressure, eliciting a groan of pain from Elliot, and it was then that he realized the severity of the situation. He clenched his hands into fists and exclaimed, "So what are we going to do?"
"I just... whatever you can do, you need to," Olivia said.
George shook his head angrily. "I'm not a surgeon or a traumatologist, Olivia. If the bullet hit something, there's nothing I can do. I don't know if he has an internal bleed, I don't know if he needs the bullet removed or not. I don't even have the equipment to stitch the gunshot wound! Why did you bring him here of all places?"
"Like I said, we can't go to the hospital- that would have told them he was alive. Bringing him to you could just mean that an associate is going to help us cover this up," Olivia said.
Gritting his teeth, George ordered, "Get my first aid kit from the upstairs bathroom, and grab a blanket from the closet."
Olivia hurried to complete the task, and George leaned over Elliot. Stroking his eyebrow with his thumb, George whispered, "Elliot, can you hear me?" He grabbed Elliot's hand and gently squeezed it. "Squeeze my hand back if you can hear me."
Elliot's hand tightened around his own. Elliot's eyelids fluttered slightly, trying to reopen. "Shh, save your strength, Elliot," George soothed. "But do stay awake."
"Nnngh... c... can't... do it... doc..." Elliot gasped. The shivers intensified, making the sofa shake. "H... hurts..." he moaned.
"I know, Elliot, just hold on and keep fighting it. I'll think of something to help," George urged, wrenching his hand out of Elliot grip to press harder into the wound. "Stay with me, Elliot, stay with me!"
Elliot opened his eyes and looked right at him. He tried to speak, but the only sound that escaped was a loud exhalation; almost a sigh.
And then his eyes closed again and he went limp, slumping against the sofa.
"Elliot!" George yelled, panicked. "Elliot, wake up! Wake up!" George tapped his face a few times, but to no avail. Elliot's head lolled slightly to the side.
He pressed two quivering fingers to Elliot's jugular and took his pulse. It was thready, and so weak and irregular that it was barely there at all.
To his horror, George realized that there was every chance Elliot would die right there, before he could even begin to try and save him.
He kissed Elliot's temple intimately and vowed, "I will save you, Elliot. I'm not going to let you die."