Post 'Raw'; My first SVU fic (not my first fan fiction by far) and hopefully not my last. I'd love to know what you think. Thanks Kirsten, Inc. for the beta.

His arm went out, slowly, and was pulled back equally as slow. The hiss of pain he emitted made the physical therapist's eyes flicker up to his face.

This. Sucked.

Gritting his teeth, Elliot repeated the action two, three, four, twelve times until he was so fed up with the relentless repetition that he began to worry his lip. He wasn't cut out for recuperation; he wasn't one to sit idly by and recover. If it had been anything else he would have worked through the pain but he couldn't stomach the thought that he wouldn't be able to handle a gun correctly again.

So he dealt with the commute, he dealt with the sterile smell of the hospital.

Home had never felt as comfortable as when he returned from those sessions, popping a beer. His vicodin stated clearly not to be mixed with alcohol but he found the results to be so pleasant that he designated them a much needed perk to having to take the pills and downed a few more before bed.

That was the day by day for a few weeks and when the monotony really set in, he went about cleaning the grout out of his bathroom.

In the afternoon he'd fallen into the habit of catching reruns of Columbo on Bravo. Cigars were looking very, very appealing. That was what he'd been doing when he'd been drawn from his reverie.

Three solid knocks resonated in the dim quiet of the living room and while he didn't want to get up from his position on the couch, he did. Who knew what wonders waited on the other side of his door? Then again, there was a great possibility that it was a lost delivery man.

The grin he was met with at the door was worth it. "To what do I owe what I assume is going to be a pleasure?"

Olivia's grin morphed into a mask of sarcasm as she waited for him to step back and allow her entry.

"Whatcha got there?" he asked, lifting his head as he watched her walk to his sofa, moving his head around attempting to divine what was in the brown paper sack.

Olivia set her coat down on the arm of the couch and opened the bag, pulling out a large tupperware container. "Soup," she specified and placed the food on the coffee table.

Sauntering forth, his own sarcastic smile firmly in place, he stated, "But I'm not even sick," and with that he picked up a spoon and sat down next to her. She still stood, glancing down at the top of his head, the soup, out the window at the bustling metropolis below.

"Deal with it," came absent-mindedly from her mouth as she watched a man attempt to hail a cab stories below. "It was the first and last thing I could think of."

"Sleeping lately?" he asked as he carefully pulled the cover off of the hot liquid. "Ah, cream of broccoli, strike my sick comment from the record." With a giant heave of a sigh he dug in, wishing for a moment he had some oyster crackers to stir in.

Olivia sat down next to him then, reaching into the supposedly empty bag to extra a small package of the crackers he was longing for. He snatched them, tore them open, poured them in and then nudged her shoulder with his good arm. "Thanks, I appreciate it."

There was a nod and a sigh on her part and she grabbed the bag off of the table and crumpled it up, tossing it over near his television.

They sat and breathed and listened to the sounds below, so, so far away. He glanced at her and she glanced at him and they smiled and just... didn't talk.

The tick of the wall clock registered in both of their ears but they chose not to mention that he had been away from work for nearly three weeks now and it would be another six until he would be able to carry again. She wouldn't mention that she missed him more than she rightly should and he wouldn't and didn't mention that he appreciated her company and enjoyed simply sitting next to her.

Friends needed to talk about things like that; friends needed those reassurances. They didn't need any of them and while they weren't friends and they weren't something more they were something else entirely. They were something that defied distinction and it had them both rightly confused.

Grabbing her bag that was at his feet, she extracted something and waved it in front of his face. "And since there's nothing good on in the middle of the day..." She held a copy of CSI season two in front of his face and with his bad arm, he reached out and snagged it... a little too fast.

Elliot dropped the case at his side and sucked in a harsh breath. "It's... jesus, I hate this." She blinked. "Not this," he held up the DVDs slowly, "This sitting. This nothing."

"I know."

Silence reigned again as he continued to bring the plastic spoon from soup to mouth and back again. Another pattern, another habit... it would all dissolve into nothingness.

"You know, Munch wanted to call Kathy and-"

"How about we just not talk." The spoon stood stagnant in the soup and he leaned back, tracing the edge of the box set with a finger, not looking at her. "Let's just not talk for a bit." The sorrow in his eyes, the surprise in hers, there was nothing to say for it; there were no words.

There in the silence he found patterns of sound outside, birds chirping, cars honking. There were benefits to the everyday mediocrity of living; he'd been able to set his thoughts straight, able to finally convince himself that a divorce was for the best.

Olivia half smiled to herself and leaned back into the sofa astride him. He could feel the heat radiating off of her side and it comforted him. Her mere presence really meant something and that was... something.

He saw the pattern of her blinks as he watched her. Patterns in her breathing, the way her thumbs twiddled in her lap as she pretended to pretend that he wasn't watching her. It was nice sitting there, pretending that nothing had changed.

Yes, the way she blinked.

Sometimes not speaking, not moving, not really thinking had its benefits.