Notes: A fix-it fic for the season seventeen finale, in which Dodds doesn't die and his fiancée isn't a part of it because he was totally secretly seeing Rollins (sorry, Alice).
Words: 2,415
Pairings: Dodds/Rollins.
Warnings: Nothing heavier than the show.

Visiting Hours

Even at the best of times, Amanda's got nothing good to say about hospital rooms. It hasn't been that long since she was a familiar face around the corridors here herself, bounced between doctors and nurses with her hand perpetually resting against her bump. Admittedly, the experience is a little different now that she isn't the one hooked up to monitors.

All the dread weighing her down is second-hand, felt on behalf of someone else—but the bedside chair she's occupying is familiarly uncomfortable. There's still nothing in the way of intellectual stimulation: she's thumbed through this magazine twice already, and the signal here is so abysmal that she can't rely on her phone to distract her.

Anything is better than looking at Mike, though. It's a small mercy that his face is turned away from her while he sleeps, because today is another day in which he looks unreasonably pale. His breath is heavy, shuddering. She should be accustomed to that already, but it seems no amount of visits will make it any less unsettling.

It's a soundtrack that really puts this article on summer dieting into perspective.

That doesn't stop her idly skimming through it, of course. She's educating herself on lentils when that shuddering comes to a halt—and it takes her a moment to realise it's stopped altogether. When she looks up, dull blue eyes are watching her instead.

"Hey."

"Hey, yourself." Though she doesn't close the magazine altogether, Amanda crumples the pages in her hands slightly. She tips her head forward enough to warrant speaking softly. "How're you feeling?"

Mike lifts a hand to the collar of his garb, then tugs at it just a bit. His gaze flickers away from her in thought before he replies, tone flat, "Like a guy who's been shot."

She'd promised herself she wouldn't smile; the severity of the situation doesn't escape her, but she can't help it. Amusement creeps onto her lips, even if they're not out of the woods enough to justify it reaching her eyes. Her line of vision remains on him, and keenly.

"Talking back, huh? Then you must be a little better."

Mike reciprocates her smile, however weakly. Sarcasm isn't really his speciality even when he's not resigned to a hospital bed, so she hardly feels disappointed when all he says is, "Yeah."

It does occur to Amanda that she's being pathetic, when she can only stay fixed for a moment—exchanging tired, pleased looks while they say nothing more. Being a hopeless romantic in denial makes it both a stretch of fulfilment and self-loathing, so she eventually breaks to look away, turning her attention to that magazine. She closes it, then slips it beneath her chair.

While she does, Mike speaks up again. It's like all he's done since his admission three days ago is sleep, and that reflects in his voice: low, but in a strained kind of way. It's almost difficult to listen to him.

"Have you been here long?"

"Not really," she says—and it's a lie, but a little white one.

The last thing she wants to do is make him feel obligated to forego resting up on her account. Maybe it's a fraction selfish, too: an expectation to visit him means stepping foot inside a building she detests. And it also means calling in her last favours with Fin, begging him to watch Jesse because this ward is meant to be quiet. (Still, she knows that when Fin says it's the last time he'll do something for her, it's all talk.)

"Right." She can't tell if Mike believes her or otherwise, yet he's at least quick to move on. "But thanks. I appreciate it."

Perhaps this is worse than being doubted; she frowns, twisting her mouth to one side. Did he really think she wouldn't bother to drop by? Doesn't he realise how harrowing the past few days have felt? It's been difficult enough to avoid the suspicion of their co-workers—she didn't exactly tell Fin where she was going—but even visiting Mike is dangerous, lest his father show up unexpectedly. Or, god forbid, Liv.

She wouldn't be here if she didn't urgently want to be, and the incredulous stare she directs his way says as much.

"You appreciate it...? Wish I could say I appreciate seeing you shot again."

Once that's left her mouth, she immediately thinks better of it: antagonising a patient isn't really conducive to their recovery, is it? And it's not like whatever this is between them can be called serious, fledgling as it is—but Mike seems to get it, now. His lips purse with vague surprise, as though he's remembering the last time he'd stood on the wrong end of a barrel.

Back then, there'd been no reason for him to wake up and find Amanda in the chair beside him. She'd merely signed a card for the squad's aloof new sergeant and gone straight back to work. This time, she has reason to commemorate him enduring firearms with her presence. Just thinking about it—that he's living the rawest meaning of the word survival—makes her heart beat quicker, in a good way.

"Sorry," he says, finally. He has the decency to sound sheepish.

"No, you're not." Her face relaxes into nothing more than a raised brow. "But you will be, next time."

His mouth quirks upwards so quickly it almost surprises her, as if he intends to laugh—but he's unable to. All that leaves his throat is an amused chuff.

"Next time?"

"This makes two times in a row. You telling me you won't go for the triple?"

"You say that like you want me to."

He still looks amused, but it's really too easy for her to draw out such a response from him. There's always something abrupt about it, as though he's startled to wind up relishing someone's company. Startled to be enjoying himself.

Now, though, she can't share the sentiment. She runs a hand through her hair, moving on automatic, while her gaze briefly darts away. In an ideal world, nobody would end up shot, of course—but it's disconcerting to find herself aware of just how much more she's bothered by the idea of it happening to Mike again.

And she has been here before: this is a dangerous job that she shouldn't pluck her partners out of. But she defied that for Nick, then defied that for Declan, then... Then they left, and here she is with the latest entry to a line of potential poor decisions. This is a pattern and she falls for it every time.

Pushing fleeting thoughts along those lines back down, she swallows before opting to speak.

"Of course I don't want you to. That would be stupid. This..." She gestures to him. "...is stupid."

"Are you really gonna insult me while there's a hole in my abdomen?"

"You know it." She seeks his gaze again; he hasn't stopped watching her, and she blames that fact for the sudden fondness behind the way she says, "You're stupid."

Her reward is another curt exhale, his eyelids fluttering shut. A touch disorientated, she wonders if that's his way of telling her he's going back to sleep—but the next noise to leave him is a pained hiss, prompted by the way he begins pushing himself upright by his elbows.

"Hey," she says, airily. Then with more determination, "Hey."

First-aid sessions never prepared her for this, so maybe gently slapping his wrist isn't the most medically helpful method of deterrence. Still, it makes him stop squirming around, awkwardly half-propped against the pillows.

"Just trying to get comfortable," he says. One eye opening, then the other.

"Sure," she says, now that it's her turn to generously avoid calling out a lie.

Because he's just trying to keep himself from dropping off again. It's definitely selfish when she considers telling him he can sleep if he wants to... only to ultimately decide against it. The sole act of talking to him is soothing some part of her she hadn't even noticed was panicked, and she instinctively glances down at where her palm is resting over his forearm.

Without having to think about it, she slides her hand down in one fluid motion, past his wrist to thread her fingers through his. For a moment, he simply accepts it—but then his fingers curl back. There he goes with smiling again, but it's a lazy thing, too. The reflexive kind.

How ridiculous. She remembers wondering, once, if any member of the Dodds family was capable of a genuine smile... but Mike's given her the answer to that quandary in spades. Evoking one carries an element of satisfaction.

It also makes her reconsider her hard-line stance against leaving the room, though. If he has to rest, she begrudgingly supposes she should let him. There'll be other chances to visit—and at one stage, even that concept had seemed miraculous.

"You know, if you're tired... you should sleep."

"I'd sleep better if you were with me."

Amanda can't stop her brows from raising, because from anyone else, that would sound like such a line. No such implication from Mike: he just appears... displeased, almost, or longing. Seems she's not the only one with a grudge against hospital beds.

They're both aware of what's ahead of him—physio, time off his precious job, the JTTF likely trying to convince SVU they should keep their resident bullet magnet—but he's lived through the schedule before, after that debacle in Chicago. The prospect of going through it a second time can't be fun.

Amanda must be feeling particularly comforting today, because she deigns to take his hand between both of hers, clasping it.

"I could wait for you to wake up. I mean, I won't enjoy it, but..."

"Don't worry," Mike is swift to interrupt. He examines their fingers, then her face again. "That's not the same thing, anyway."

"I know." She'd feel sorrier for him if she wasn't still irritated at him for putting her through the past three days of galling uncertainty. Still, her sympathy is ample enough for her to ask, "Have you thought about where you're going to sleep when you get out?"

Mike pauses. "I'd... Well, I'd go home. What do you mean?"

"I guess your place is a little nicer than mine."

Objectively speaking. His apartment barely feels lived in at all: that's one of the benefits that come from not having an infant and a dog in tow. But it's also an advantage for someone recovering from an injury, she thinks.

Diplomatic to the bitter end, Mike seems intent to say nothing about the disparity between her housekeeping and his. So she fills the gap instead.

"Jesse and I... could come stay for a while. Until you're on your feet again."

And there it is—the reason behind this particular visit, out in the open for Mike to scrutinise. The idea of him recovering with only the occasional stressful visit from his father is demoralising... and it would provide him with an opportunity to understand what life with Jesse is like. To learn the ins and outs of caring for Frannie.

So maybe there are implications in that offer beyond simply looking out for Mike, but she's in no mood to voice them.

As dense as he is diplomatic, Mike doesn't seem to appreciate the art of leaving difficult things unspoken.

"I don't want to put you out. And you know my father comes 'round like he has a key to the place, right? The saving grace is that he doesn't. Besides, if you're not staying at your place—the squad might begin to suspect—"

"I know," she says, quickly, not least of all because she wants to stop being made to consider the repercussions of her bad choices. "They... might reach a few conclusions. Are you okay with that?"

Turns out, his blank stare is just as frustrating as his tone-deaf questioning. Seeing his jaw drop a fraction is still oddly gratifying, even when the only response he can eventually give is, "Amanda."

"Mike." It's a struggle to stay stonefaced—because even when she's laying herself bare, he's still so eager to give her the upper hand. "If you don't want to..."

"No. No, I..."

He trails off, not entirely to her surprise. What does surprise her is the second squeeze he gives her fingers, noticeably firmer than it had been before. There's a residual weakness in his grip; these are the hands of a boxer, after all, the conviction in them rendered dormant. It still inspires the lamest little flutter in her chest: fulfilment and self-loathing, reprise.

"I'd like that."

His dull blue eyes light up with something—or maybe they were always this bright. She can only watch, as transfixed as she is abruptly, emphatically unsettled.

For this is the pattern she keeps trying to ignore: it starts with taking a man from the job because it's so hard to trust men outside, and it always ends with them leaving. Mike might be an anomaly; she doesn't fear losing a man from the conventional methods when he's suited to being terribly serious, dedicated enough to die for his causes.

Rather, there's a reckless streak in him that she recognises, a trait they share no matter how well he tries to hide it beneath the solemnity. That's what she'd lose him to.

Aware she's getting ahead of herself, she casts her head down for a moment. Lifting it again is done with a half-forced injection of higher spirits—even if she returns his grasp a little more tightly than necessary.

"You know, I should warn you... If you think you'll sleep better with us there, wait 'til you have a night of dealing with Jesse."

Mike tips his head back into the pillows, and now he's positively grinning. His free hand hovers above his stomach, as though displaying mirth hurts, but a touch of pain doesn't put him off.

Everything here is new: new relationship, new reasons for wanting one. They haven't had that conversation yet, the one where she asks what the hell he sees in her—but she thinks she can make an educated guess about a few of the reasons. Wandering spirits seek stability wherever they can get it, and there's only genuine delight in his tone when he speaks again, enough to make her mirror his expression.

"I can't wait."