Shockwave

The immediate aftermath of Townhouse Incident.

Author's Note: pure one-shot, don't expect a chapter 2 but do expect Tuckson. Learn to love Tuckson. It's endgame.

The movies will tell you that your life flashes before your eyes before you die.

It's not true.

When the end is headed for you, you feel it coming. Time slows down, voices are muffled, distant and your body feels like you are swimming through molasses.

Olivia Benson knows that feeling all too well. And with her hands defensively in the air and a gun to the back of her skull, the black edges of death are creeping their way toward her soul once again.

She's been careless with her life in the past. Stealing a car to track a psychopath on her own, telling that same man to rape her instead of a child, ending up with a knife to her throat, a cop's battalion to her head, countless fists to her cheeks.

She's put herself in the line of danger more than any cop in the entire borough of Manhattan.

And now, she could get in the car. She could let him take her. She could hope the snipers could take out his tires, or him, while driving. Her temple throbs and her vision in her left eye is becoming blurry. Her hands are starting to feel heavy, but the imprint of the gun is becoming too familiar, too comfortable. She is tired. So tired.

She briefly sees Tucker out of the corner of her eye and she doesn't know why but his face makes her think of Noah. Noah. The one person in this world that truly depends on her. If not for herself, then for him she needs to live.

Her heart starts beating wildly out of her chest because this is it. She has one chance to shove Joe out of her way so the snipers can take him out. If she miscalculates, if they miscalculate…God, please find someone to take care of Noah.

"I'm just going to let Tucker know the plan, ok?" It's autopilot, bullshit that she's said a thousand times to a thousand perps. Tucker is the first name to come to her mind but her brain can't process the implications of that right now. She just knows that she has to shove Joe far enough away from her that it isn't her brains splattered across the sidewalk.

She takes one final deep breath, prays it's not her last, turns around and swings.

The ringing in her ears starts immediately after the gunshot. She can't hear anything else from the scene around her but the buzzing is so loud it causes her to double over in pain. She should move out of the way, she should run to help, she should do anything but freeze in place, her arms still up, like she is doing now. It takes her a few seconds to realize she hasn't moved at all. She isn't sure if it is out of fear, or shock or both. She's not dead, that's the only thing she is sure of.

There are arms around her now, someone is ushering her away from the scene. The hands are warm, familiar and her body instinctively knows it is someone she trusts. She's too shell-shocked to contemplate who is helping her but they've told her she's safe and that's all she needs. She doesn't look back to see if Joe is dead.

It's then she thinks of her child. It makes sense that when her mind has become nothing but a solid brick wall, her child's face squeezes through the chaos.

"Where's Noah?" She doesn't even hear the answer because he is not here in front of her and that means anything could have happened to him in her absence. Oh god, what if he got to Noah? "But where is he?"

She hears just enough over the humming in her ears to make out "Lucy" and "bring him" from Carisi. It's enough information to keep her calm enough not to start vomiting in the middle of the street.

The voice to her left tells her she must take care of herself first. The recognition sets in. "Tucker." Her voice comes out in merely a whisper but she's hopefully she can express her gratitude to the man literally holding her up right now. "Thank you." For being there for her, not only today. But she can't say that much to him now. And not here.

"For what?" Of course after everything he would act so casual about his role in this. "You did a great job in there, Lieutenant. Let's get you out of here."

"Put the gown on, Benson." Tucker tosses the white and blue hospital gown toward her. She sits on the edge of the ER gurney, fully dressed, staring him down.

"They won't start the blood work or get you treated until you put the gown on." It's just Tucker and her in the room, the rest of her squad filling the waiting room of the hospital. He's blocked the door with his body, arms folded across his chest.

It was difficult enough to get her to go the ER, even if she knew she really didn't have a choice. A kidnapped lieutenant, a dead criminal at the hands of a sniper, and two more in custody always warrants an investigation. It doesn't mean she didn't protest though. The only leverage they had was Noah. A ride in the ambulance meant she could hold Noah until she arrived at the hospital.

"He's right, you know." Her nurse, a slightly overweight brunette with bags under her eyes, walks in carrying an array of needles, bandages, tubes and medications. Olivia knows she is fighting a losing battle.

When she picks up the gown and strips off her jacket, it's Tucker's cue to leave. The nurse follows him out to give her privacy.

As soon as he steps out of the room, she wants him back. He's a reassuring presence, a strength, a calm when she is in the eye of a storm. With him, it's the one time she feels like she can relax, like he is enough to protect her.

Alone in the cold of the room, the shock begins to wear off and the reality of the situation sets in. Once her adrenaline levels started coming down, she is able to assess the full extent of her injuries, the ache in her hand, the throb in her temple, the slight blurry vision of her left eye, and the nausea. She knows from experience the side effects of hours of an adrenaline high leave your pulse high, your blood pressure through the roof and your stomach of the verge of puking. She may be stunned, she knows she will have PTSD, but weak is one thing Olivia Benson is not. She swallows the little saliva she has in the throat, pushes her bangs back from her eyes and sits up straight.

Within minutes the nurse is back, picking up where she left off. Olivia stretches her arm out before her, unflinching as the nurse draws her blood. She's watching the door. Is it inappropriate to ask the nurse to bring Tucker back in here? He was the hostage negotiator but he's still IAB. It could be brought up later.

The nurse says something about her blood pressure and passes her a handful of pills that she swallows without question.

"I can bring him back in."

"What?" Shit, she's caught.

"The guy with you. You're allowed to have visitors." Before Olivia can answer, she's waving Tucker back into the room as she walks out.

He settles 15 feet away, leaning back on a counter. She appreciates the space, but it's feels just touch too far.

"You're allowed to come closer."

And he does. Even closer than she expected. His hands close around the sides of her cheeks, one finger tracing down to the bruise forming around her eye.

"What are you doing?" His hands continue their revenant trail around her neck, shoulders. Goosebumps erupt in their wake.

"Making sure you are ok."

"I'm fine." She doesn't miss a beat.

"Don't give me that. I know you better than that." She pauses. He's right. Anyone who knows Olivia Benson for longer than a day could tell you that response is bullshit.

"I asked for you." She drops her head as his hands leave her face.

"What?"

"Joe. The robber. Rapist. He asked if there was anyone in the NYPD who cared if I lived or die."

"And you called me." It's a fact, to the point.

"And I called you." It comes like a whisper and she isn't sure if she sounds informative or ashamed.

He doesn't respond so they stay like that, her teetering on the edge of the bed, him directly in front of her like he is waiting for her inevitable fall. She might be telling him too much. The silence is starting to make her left ear hurt again and the cloud of doubt is clawing its way back.

"You are spending too much time in here. My squad is going to get suspicious." It's a defense mechanism. She's physically injured; she doesn't need to be emotionally injured as well. Better to get out before you can get hurt; lick your wounds in private.

"I'll tell them I had to question you about what happened in the house." He doesn't start to turn away, he doesn't even flinch at her feeble attempts to hide behind an emotional wall.

He wants to stay.

"We…" She starts a sentence she has no intention on finishing.

He calls her out again. "Do you really want me to go?"

She sheepishly shakes her head. "He raped the daughter. I…I couldn't do anything to stop it." Her voice breaks as the tears silently begin to fall.

Tucker sits down next to her on the bed. He maintains his distance, a good 3 inches between them, while she silently cries. Finally, she concedes and leans her head onto his shoulder. He instantly brushes the hair back from her face so he can see her, make sure the tears are ceasing.

It should be a comfortable silence. The nurse had silenced the monitors in the room, the door was closed and she waits for the waves of peace of pass over her as he strokes her hair. But something is off. Tucker is too stiff next to her. His face hadn't relaxed since the ambulance ride. Even his fingers in her hair are unsteady, forced. He's probably regretting being here. Seeing this mess, this broken woman; this isn't what he signed up for. Hell, he didn't even sign up. It had been 3 "dates," if you can even call them that. This wasn't a relationship. She didn't want her problems to be thrust upon him so suddenly. Again she thinks about asking him to leave but no words form.

She looks down at her hands, palms up on her lap. There's dried blood under her nails, she has no idea whose. It's Tucker's eyes then that she can feel, but they aren't looking at her hands like she is. He's focused just passed them where the gown stops along her thighs. He's studying her legs, carefully. That's when it hits her.

"He didn't rape me." His hand captures hers. He doesn't thread his fingers through hers. No, he grabs the back of her palm like he is holding on for dear life. She can feel the slight shutter as he blows out a tense, unsteady breath.

"That's…that's good." He whips his head up to look straight ahead, trying to maintain his composure like a lighthouse in a storm. But that shutter told her everything she needed to know. He was just as frightened as she was the entire time.

"Let me come over." Her head lifts from his shoulder at his words.

"Ed, you don't have to do that."

"I know I don't have to. I want to. You will need help with Noah tonight. And you shouldn't be alone. You need someone there…."

His words cut off but she knows what he was getting at. She can't care for her child if she can't even care of herself. Having Tucker there would keep her from drowning herself in red wine after Noah went to sleep and until she passed out of the couch.

They'd never slept over. There had been drinks at the start of Amaro's troubles, followed by a kiss. A dinner that she left early for a call. And another night of drinks that ended with her vacating his bed at 4am. They were still new, fresh. A tiny part of her wants to flee; this wasn't the time to get seriously involved with someone. A bigger part of her is tired. Tired of fighting things between them, tired of nightmares, of being alone, of handling things on her own.

"Ok."

"Ok?"

"Ok you can come over. Stay over." She could feel his face soften into a smile and his body relax. This time when he reaches over to take hold her hand, his fingers capture hers and his grip is soft.

She lets Carisi drive her home. He treats her with kid gloves and she doesn't like it. He opens the car door for her, checks her seat belt. He even rolls up slowly to stop lights as not to jolt her. She tells him she's fine twice and he makes a remark about his sister once before she gives up and leans back into the vinyl seat of the car. He's trying, he really is, but he still has no idea that this isn't close to the worse she has faced in her life.

When they walk through her front door, she wordlessly picks up Noah and the tears start again. At least Carisi gets the hint this time and makes his way to Lucy to strike up a conversation before they leave together.

She wonders through the small apartment, rocking her child in her arms, turning on every light, locking every door. There is a bottle of wine on the counter and she starts to pick off the foil, Noah still on her hip when she remembers Tucker is coming over. With near perfect timing, there is a knock on her door, immediately followed by Tucker's voice announcing it's him. Her grip relaxes on the bottle.

She's greeted not only by Tucker, but by a bag a food in his arms.

"I brought Italian." He slides in passed her and into the kitchen. He's casual about it, so casual that she's waiting for the other shoe to drop. She's amazed he was even willing to come over tonight, let alone provide her dinner.

"We already ate." From the corner of her eye, she sees him stow the bottle of wine away without mentioning it to her.

"He already ate." Tucker motions to Noah with a breadstick. "I know you didn't eat."

Truth is, she wasn't hungry. Somewhere between the nausea and knots in her stomach, she decided it was best to not even attempt dinner.

He makes her a plate without waiting for a rebuttal.

The night runs like she's on autopilot. Small, inconspicuous bites of food in between playing with Noah under Tucker's watchful but concerned eye; Tucker helping her put Noah to bed. He knows she is putting on a show for his sake, but damn she is doing a good job at it. She ushers him to the bedroom, kisses him on the cheek and crawls under the covers next to him like nothing is amiss.

The blood-curling scream wakes him. He bolts upright in bed, his hand on his gun. He doesn't lift it front the nightstand, he knows what's causing the noise. She is already sitting up, eyes wide, her forehead and white t-shirt covered in sweat. Her eyes are glassy and he knows just enough about trauma to know she is anywhere but here right now. He's thankful that he hid her gun after she fell asleep.

"Where is he?"

"He's not here. He can't hurt you, Olivia." He tries to maintain a steady, calming voice, hoping it will help bring her down.

She's scrambling out of bed, her shorts-clad legs untangling the covers before she's running for the door.

"Noah!" It's ear-piercing.

He'd screwed up. She wasn't having a nightmare about Joe, it was about Noah. He dives for her before she reaches the door handle. His arms pin hers against her body and he is enveloping her. She bucks against him, the back of her head connecting with his chin. His teeth rattle together and it feels like one might have chipped. His hold stays strong, the deep pressure is supposed to suppress the sympathetic nervous system and calm her. It doesn't seem to be working.

"Get. Off. Me." He instantly put his hands up and backs away. She is bent at the waist, her arms wrapped around her middle like she was physically trying to hold her body together. It's eerily similar to the picture she painted on the sidewalk this afternoon, with Joe dead next to her legs. Her tears fall directly onto the carpet, leaving a round stain of salt and mascara in their wake.

"I don't…you shouldn't see me like this. Go. Just leave." He prays her anger wasn't a direct result of his actions but he complies anyway. She refused to look up at him as he side steps his way to the bedroom door, careful not to touch her.

This Olivia Benson was a stark contrast to the one he'd known for the past 14 years. She is broken, frightened. After he hears the shower turn on, he goes to check on Noah, thankful the child has slept through the entire ordeal. Now he sits in the soft morning light, his hands around a fresh mug of coffee.

It is another 35 minutes before he hears the water of the shower turn off. He had been so tempted to go check on her. He got so far as his hand on the doorknob of the bathroom. When he heard her soft voice "You're fine. You're safe. Noah is safe," he knew she needed space.

He is so overwhelmed, emotionally exhausted from the day. His eyelids feel heavy and when he looks over at the tableside clock, he notices they had only been asleep for 2 hours when this ordeal began. But he doesn't leave. He knows she is going to be pissed as hell when she realizes he is still here.

However, sitting here in the quiet of the morning, it dawns on him. She will fight to go to work today, she will tell him she is mentally ok and won't eat her gun. And it isn't denial, it's strength. It's unwavering fortitude. Deep down in her gut, no matter what she sees, what she faces, she has hope. He has never once seen her give up. She told a man to rape her instead of a child for Christ's sake. It's…he's in awe. He should want to run. He should want to go back to his quiet apartment and his dog and spend the day in his office where no one shoots at him. But he can't. Because he is drawn to her.

In this, her mental breakdown, he realizes she's the strongest person he's ever known, male or female. And he thinks he loves her for it.

It's not the time to tell her. No, the last thing he wants is for her to think he's using this entire day to make her dependent on him, or worse, to get in her pants.

He sets the coffee mug on the table and leans back into the couch cushions, closing his eyes. He'll wait for her to come out to the living room and they can talk, they can work through this and they can begin healing. Together.