Title: Security Blanket
Author: mindy35
Rating: K+, adult themes
Disclaimer: NBC and Dick Wolf etc own 'em.
Spoilers: "Undercover", "Trials".
Pairing: Elliot/Olivia.
Summary: Elliot is not going to abandon Olivia to fight her demons alone.
A/N: Set around the time of "Trials" but nothing to do with the episode apart from Olivia's oncoming PTSD.
She's not sleeping. He can tell.
She stifles frequent yawns and loses track of her sentences. Her shoulders slouch when she sits and her feet drag when she walks. She's reverted to coffee and double the amount she used to need. Her clothes are wrinkled, her temper short and no amount of makeup can conceal the dark circles that have been plaguing her eyes for weeks. She's good at keeping up appearances. But he's better at reading her.
Elliot assumes it's because of what happened in that prison basement four months ago. He doesn't know because she still hasn't breathed a word to him about it. That tells him one thing. It was bad. A decade of working sex crimes means they are used to unpleasant and uncomfortable conversations. They're part of the job. So if his partner isn't speaking, it's because whatever happened to her was real, real, real bad. So bad that he isn't sure he wants to know the details. He isn't sure he can handle those images squatting in his head. Because they will make him want to do what he's been on the verge of doing since working for Special Victims.
Kill. Maim. Annihilate.
Tear limb from limb without hesitation or remorse.
All that's stopping him from acting on this impulse is the state of denial her silence is allowing him to maintain. Although even that is a form of torture. Because after years of staring unflinchingly at blood and spit and sweat and jizz, of the two of them witnessing exposed genitals and vacant eyes, gaping wounds and broken lives, nothing she tells him could possibly be worse than what his unwilling imagination can conjure.
Still – if Olivia Benson doesn't want to talk then Olivia Benson will not talk. He learnt this about her early on. She can shut down on a person more ruthlessly than anyone he knows, including himself. Even as the closest person to her, there are still strict limits to how much she'll let him see, how much she'll let him know, how far she'll allow him in. And apparently, she'd reached her limit. So all he knows is what she might unintentionally let slip. All he has to go on is what he can glean from knowing her, observing her, reading her. All Elliot knows is she's not sleeping.
That's why he enters the crib quietly. Just in case she's getting some much needed rest. To his surprise and relief, Olivia is out cold, coiled tightly on one side, facing the wall at the far end of the only peaceful place in the precinct. He sighs and toes off his muddy shoes. Sighing a second time, he peels off his jacket and throws it sloppily over the railing of the bunk. He tries not to disturb her as he crawls onto the bed above and collapses in a weary heap. He could choose a different bunk – the unspoken etiquette when it came to the crib was to give fellow officers some space. He's too exhausted though to examine his choice of bed so Elliot just closes his eyes and lets his body drift towards sleep.
-x-
A shifting below wakes him. A low cry reaches him. Her body shifts again, the slightest movement resonating up through the rickety bones of the bunk. This time, her cry is clearer.
No.
It sounds like she's babbling underwater, drowning in her own unconscious. Never before, not once in all the years he's know her, has he heard her sound so small, so helpless. It makes his heart clench and his mind reel with unthinkable possibilities. He dreads to even think what might possess the ability to topple his indomitable partner. But whatever it is has gotten into her head and he's damned if he's going to abandon her there to fight that demon alone.
Elliot rolls onto his stomach, dropping an arm down to the lower bunk like a lifeline. She's confined herself to the furthest edge of the narrow mattress, body pressed to the hard wall. He can't reach her from above so he calls out in a soft voice. He says Olivia, he says Liv over and over. He tells her she's just dreaming, he entreats her to wake. She uncoils slightly, turning towards the faraway voice. But she doesn't surface from her nightmare. One arm flings aimlessly outwards, slapping against his. As soon as it makes contact, she grapples for it in her sleep, gripping onto his forearm for dear life. Elliot turns his hand inwards and wraps it around her arm. The ferocity with which she responds nearly pulls him out of his bed. Determined to spirit her out from under whatever has possession of her, he slides off the bunk and drops to the floor. The second his feet hit tile though, the hand holding onto him tenses, her nails dig into his skin. She thrusts him away from her, her whole body bracing for assault. Part of him fears she'll flatten him in her sleep but he reaches for her shoulders anyway and gives a gentle shake.
She doesn't wake immediately, he has to shake her, call her name several times. When she comes to, it's with a start, eyes wide and shocked, lips parted and breath stolen from her panicked lungs. It's only then that he realizes how deep she was under. She's still only half in reality because she tries to squirm out of his grip, muttering a last ditch no.
"It's me," he tells her in a whisper. "You're safe. You're here."
She releases a breath. "…El...?"
"Yeah…" He smooths a swatch of hair out of the corner of her mouth as her head tosses on the pillow, as her dazed, dark eyes attempt to orient herself. "You're at the precinct. You were dreaming."
"It's you…"
"It's me, Liv."
"You— He—"
She's still drifting back to the surface, not coherent enough to sit. But he needs to get closer to her, he needs to ease the tension between their bodies. Hers is twisted and taut on the bed and neither of them likes the way his hands are clutching her shoulders. So he lets them drop, he presses them into the mattress as he moves onto the bed with her.
"He—" she keeps muttering and faltering. "He…"
"No," he tells her softly. "No, I've gotcha. I've gotcha now…"
The second he wraps his arms around her she starts to breathe more normally. He settles on his side and she curls into him, their knees knocking together. Tentative arms reach back to him, holding onto him without knowing if they have a right to. Elliot strengthens the embrace for both of them and her eyes close over in relief. She shakes her head to clear it of its fog, to rid it of its recent terror, and he sees her throat tighten with strained emotion, a glimmer of moisture welling in the corners of her closed eyes.
"Wanna talk?" he asks, a lump in his throat.
Olivia shakes her head. "No— just…this."
He rubs her back with one large, flat palm then skates it down her bare arm. "God, you're frozen. Lemme get—"
"No. Please—"
Her grip tightens as he starts to pull away and the plea leaves her mouth before she gives it consent. He knows how much it takes for her to admit to needing someone, how rare it is for Olivia to ask anything of anyone. Especially him. The man with fixed restrictions on how much he can give her. So he settles back and continues stroking her chilled arm, her slowly slackening spine.
"Try to sleep," he whispers, planting a kiss on her hairline. He doesn't plan to but he can't help planting another between her brows then another on the tip of her nose.
She doesn't acknowledge the kisses. Neither acknowledges how unorthodox it is for them to share a bed or indulge in such simple intimacy. It doesn't feel risky and it doesn't feel wrong. It feels the opposite. Which is why, when Olivia drops off, Elliot extracts his body from hers and leaves the bed. He moves on socked feet to the foot of the bunk and retrieves his jacket. He lays it over her before backing to the adjacent bed and sitting down. When he's sure she's not heading back down into that nightmare basement, he swings his feet up onto the cold mattress and lies down facing her, separated by small chasm of floor. He keeps his eyes on her for as long as he can keep them open. Hers remain closed, her face untroubled, her breathing deep.
Eventually, he lets his eyes drift shut, listening to the constant cadence of her chest rising and falling with each breath. He knows that the slightest hitch will wake him. Even through his light slumber, he is aware of her, sleeping peacefully an arm's length away. He's used to keeping her in the corner of his eye, in the back of his mind. Knowing where she is and what she's doing has become second nature to him, as fundamental as his heart's need to beat. Her welfare is his responsibility. And not even in his sleep does he intend to compromise his partner's security.
-x-
"Thanks for the loan."
Elliot looks up from the crime scene photos to see his partner looking like her old self. Her eyes are clear, her spine is straight and her hair falls perfectly about her face. She's holding his jacket out to him, the collar hooked on one finger.
"You sleep okay?" he asks, dropping the photos and taking the jacket.
"Yeah." Olivia shoots a smile at him over her shoulder, heading for the squad's cluttered kitchenette. "Need coffee though. You?"
"I'll get it," he offers, starting after her.
She turns to hold up a don't-coddle-me hand and assure him: "I got it."
Elliot follows anyway, leaning his butt against the counter, jacket folded over his crossed arms. "So how often are you getting the nightmares?" he asks after a moment, voice low despite nobody being round to overhear.
Olivia gives him a quick glance then shrugs off his concern. "Depends."
"What, once a month or so?" he presses, eyes on her profile as she gathers two mugs and begins to pour.
His partner takes a breath but doesn't answer.
"Once a week? Couple of times a week?"
"If I'm lucky," she answers lightly.
"So…every night," he says with a downward sinking tone.
Olivia can't avoid his gaze as she hands him his mug. Her eyes meet his briefly before flicking away again.
Elliot turns to face her, leaning close. "We've all been there, Liv. One way or another."
"I know," she nods into her coffee, voice uncharacteristically unsteady, "you don't need to tell me…it won't last."
"Just sucks while it does."
"Yeah..."
"Wanna borrow my jacket for a while?" he murmurs, earning a sudden smile from her.
She looks up, eyes flashing with silent laughter, before she turns to her desk. "I'm a big girl, El, I don't need a security blanket."
He trails her across the deserted squadroom. "What you need is a decent night's sleep."
"I'll drink a warm glass of milk before bedtime," she tells him by way of closing the conversation.
"Well," Elliot faces her across their twin desktops, fitting his jacket over the back of his chair, "the offer is there. If you change your mind. Seemed to do the trick."
"Thanks but I'm good." Olivia sets her coffee on her desk then picks up the latest array of crime scene photographs. "Now. What have we got?"
-x-
Twelve hours later after they wrap their case, Olivia shuffles to her locker, eyelids drooping. She twists the key in the lock then stalls, mid-yawn. Inside is a carefully folded jacket with a post-it stuck to one pocket. Written on it in a familiar scrawl are two words.
Sweet Dreams.
"Hey."
She turns to see her partner standing by the bank of lockers behind. He's jacketless, shirt rumpled and sleeves rolled to his elbows. Olivia looks down at the offering in her hands but is still formulating an offhand response when Elliot tells her, tone simple but steadfast:
"Whatever. Whenever—"
She lifts her head to look at him.
"You know that."
He lets the implied promise sink in, waits for her to give a barely perceptible nod of understanding. Then he leaves her standing by her locker, his jacket in her hands and her lips parted on a sentence she doesn't yet know how to utter.
-x-
A week passes before she calls and asks him to meet her at a quiet spot in Central Park. It's a dreary day so they hug their coats about them and lean on a railing watching ducks glide through reflections of rainclouds. In a subdued, sometimes shaky voice, Olivia tells him exactly what happened to her in the basement at Sealview. She gives him the bare facts only. She doesn't omit anything. But nor she embellish. She doesn't lament or prevaricate, she doesn't even shed a tear. She simply reports the ugly, unmitigated truth.
Afterwards, she tells him what she's been experiencing since, how the horror of the assault crept up on her. How shaken she feels, how out of control. She tells him she's started seeing a therapist, that it's helping her deal. It's helping her sleep. Then she returns his jacket.
Elliot listens silently, surprised by his own reaction. His jaw clenches but his fists remain loose. His blood thumps hotly in his veins but it's not from rage. He isn't overwhelmed by the desire to beat and rant and roar and kill. He doesn't want to shake his furious fists at a God he doesn't understand and demand why. All he wants to do is hold his friend close and thank God in his heaven that she is whole.
So he does.
END.