Thanks to underthepiano and cutting_rm_flr for their help.

It resonated, the feel of his skin against the palm of her hand; a searing, painful sting that made her flesh feel as though it were vibrating. Even hours after it had happened, it wouldn't go away, a phantom pain that Olivia was sure would remain with her for years to come.

The shock she had felt at walking in on the scene had quickly subsided, her analytical skills quickly taking over. Swimmingly, it had gone just fine, even as she pressed her mouth to the lab tech's and felt the bile rise in her throat. Even as she saw Elliot struggle against his bonds, as she saw his eyes flash hot, red anger that she imagined felt like the heat in her hand.

The way it had played out, so fast, had her mind moving in slow-motion-black-and-white; it didn't quite make sense. Each of her movements was precise but as she watched herself move, eyes processing the actions, she'd appeared sluggish. Elliot's movements had seemed so present, so effortless and swift as he was strapped in the chair that for the first time in her life, Olivia wondered if she was dreaming the whole scenario.

She could hear it, the breathing of the moment, the tension. It had beat out a steady, deafening rhythm between her ears. Like fire, hissing and spitting, like static... complete cacophony of white noise.

But the too-present scent of copper and the heaviness in the air reminded her that O'Halloran was at her feet, kept her morbidly grounded in the present; it reminded her that someone would have to be informing his family of their loss, that Melinda would have to examine the body that she and Elliot's fate hung in the grasp of the mousy tech who wielded Elliot Stabler's Sig Sauer. It was then that Olivia broke out in a freezing sweat.

His Sig Sauer. DAK trigger, threaded barrel, front caulking serrations. Olivia imagined that tiny man pumping brass into her partner's chest at nearly 900 miles per hour. The sound of the casing tinkling against the floor, she imagined that too, could nearly see the anonymous lab techs-who had at one time or another filtered through the very room that they were hostage in-bagging and tagging it.

All too real, that gun in his hand, the way in which he quivered, betraying his inexperience not only with firearms, but in such high-stress situations. Game, set, her advantage. The absolute, sudden resolve to grasp control of the situation touched her eyes, set her jaw, spoke volumes to her partner silently as she attempted to whittle away at Dale's bravado. Olivia's brain divided tasks amongst itself in the moment. The right half set to diffuse the situation, while the left side dealt with worrying about her partner, thedepthsofhiswoundsdidhehaveaconcussionwhatthehellelsediddalehaveuphissleeve. Working together, as always, they'd managed to put Stuckey on his back and both come out of it alive.

Not before she had spat insults across the room hating them even as she thought them, not before she'd had them slung back, not before she blurred the line between reality and fiction too thoroughly. Not before they had both... lost something. When his eyes had met hers, Dale between them, she felt something flare inside of her that she didn't recognize, just as an unrecognizable spark flared in his eyes.

Those few short minutes felt like eons, had worn against her psyche, her bones, sapped most of the strength out of her.

Shock had set in almost immediately; it was a full minute of the two of them staring at Ryan's body before either thought to call the situation in, another two before Olivia thought to slap the cuffs on Stuckey's wrists and a full five before either one of them spoke again. "You're really bleeding," she mentioned, her tone not apropos for the amount of blood that had seeped through his shirt. "Shit." And then she was a whirlwind, seeking out adequate compresses for his wounds, tearing at his shirt, sitting him in a chair.

All the while, Elliot did as told, dazed, not speaking, moving this way and that as her shaky hands prodded his flesh, continued to do so when backup arrived. She tended to him as they hauled Stuckey out, whimpering. Olivia had to nearly be torn away from him, answering the responding officer's questions as she mopped drying blood from his sternum with an alcohol pad tossing the evidence all over the floor, so carelessly; their gazes never parted.

But all of that had been hours ago, in another world.

As she sat slumped in a chair at New York Mercy, sweat and his blood caked on her skin, her hands hummed with the impact of his cheek, they tickled with the knowledge that he had the faintest stubble against his jaw. Tired, but not too, she clenched her fist hard and allowed her head to fall back against the thin plaster wall behind her.

They'd told her she could see him in an hour.

Thing was, she didn't know what exactly to say when she did.

---

The air outside of the hospital was heavy with impending rain, but so crisp and clean, Olivia had to wonder if she'd ever really drawn a breath before. Stretching her back muscles, she leaned back, face to the sky and thought of absolutely nothing. Short hairs on the back of her neck stuck to her skin, but she didn't crave a shower, didn't wish for a night's sleep. Truth be told, she had no idea what to do, what to want or need.

'How many scars,' she wondered, 'could Elliot endure?' The realization hit her between the eyes, caused her to straighten and move to a bench, throwing her body onto it. There was no point in wondering, because there was no answer. Elliot would bear as many scars as his soul could stand because he didn't know how to stop, be at rest.

And neither did she. The both of them, a mess of kinetic energy.

Wrapping her arms around herself, it occurred to her that she could count her own scars on one hand; that hardly seemed fair. A quick gust of wind picked up her hair, obscured her vision, didn't allow her to ascertain the identity of the person who was approaching her.

His scent was what reached her first, and she nearly smiled at the reassuring presence. "Hear he's fine... hear he's... just swell," Munch said, his tone as light as she was sure he could manage. "Just spoke with the Chief, you been in yet?"

Olivia swept the hair out of her eyes and glanced at him, appreciative. John had always had a read on her, hadn't always been subtle about it; this time around, that was just fine with her. The words didn't come, but she was fairly certain that she didn't have to tell him, didn't really need to speak the truth: that she was frightened to face him, that she was frightened to find out what it was that had been lurking in his gaze, just before Stuckey was disarmed.

There was a beat and Munch gave her a long look. "You okay?" All she could muster was a blink. "Stupid question," he responded, and for the next few minutes, she watched as he bounced his hand off of his knee. He knew not to ask why; she could have been in that room with him the whole time, watched as the doctors stitched him up, listened as they informed him of his condition, but she couldn't handle it or didn't want to.

Munch would have stayed with Finn, she was sure, and what did that mean, then?

Her voice sounded so unlike hers when she finally spoke to him, addressing the air between them. "John, do you ever wonder... if you're past your breaking point and you just don't realize it?"

They both considered her question for a great while, and when he was moved to respond, the sky opened. "I think there's something in all of us that breaks with every case," they meandered back into the ambulance bay. "Problem comes when you don't realize you've stopped trying to fix it."

The doors slid open and accepted them back inside.

Elliot was one giant bruise when they saw him, all gauze and raw skin. Her mouth didn't move but she swallowed, her throat suddenly tight. There were things to resolve, apologies to be made but nothing seemed appropriate at the present. Nothing seemed appropriate because she could see the stark outline of where her hand had met his cheek…

He greeted them both with a half-smile, his right leg dragging slightly behind the left. "Alright, so I look like shit," he said in jest, playing off what Olivia could only assume were their matching expressions of shock. "Least I get to sleep in my own bed." Munch clamped a gentle hand on Elliot's shoulder before pulling away.

None of them cried, but looking at them you could see the toll it had taken on them, and none of them wanted to speak about it. Not really now, who knew if ever.

"Not filleted too thin then, comrade?" From anyone other than John it would have been crass, in poor taste. But the comment from the older detective made them both smile and managed to relieve some of the tightness in Olivia's chest. Elliot managed a chuckle and it shocked her, managed to wipe the smile off of her face. Together, they stood in the hall, watching as patients and nurses filtered around them, none knowing what to say.

John turned away and managed to croak out, "O'Halloran, ah, Finn's taking care of the notification and-"

"Yeah, yeah," she answered back, in a hushed, pained rush, effectively preventing John from saying anything further. "Yeah..." The memory of the man was still too fresh in her mind; she wasn't ready to begin a grieving process she wasn't sure she'd be able to stop.

Holding his head low, Munch bid his farewell, "I'm going to go check on my fearless partner," and dropped one more light tap on Elliot's shoulder. "You two take care." Tips of their chin as their farewell, Elliot and Olivia watching him go.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and the movement caught his attention, Elliot caulking his chin to watch her. "You ready to check out?" In her pocket, she fingered the keys to her car, needing a distraction, any, from looking in his eyes.

Slowly, he nodded, moving towards the nurse's station. "We should see Donnelly before we head out," he whispered, somehow managing to fit his hand to the small of her back.

'You scared the hell out of me," she wanted to tell him. Wanted to tell him that he'd always scared the hell out of her, but this time particularly. All she could imagine was him responding in kind, 'You scared the hell out of me," and seeing his bruised cheek move as he spoke the words.

---

If anything was fodder for a nice heaping of PTSD, this would be it, she mused to herself as she maneuvered her hands around the steering wheel of the sedan; neither of them had succumbed yet, and she'd bet that this wouldn't be the thing that pushed them over. "Cathy on her way back?" Olivia managed, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, vision swimming slightly.

His head was against the window, hands limp in his lap, eyes on the sky. "Couldn't get a flight back tonight, she'll be back in the afternoon tomorrow." His words were lifeless and quiet and she had to refrain from commenting on what he'd said. It struck her as incredibly strange that Kathy wouldn't want to be with her husband immediately, that she wouldn't just rent a car, drive back, call his partner to make sure that someone would be around to care for him. Anything.

But then, it struck Olivia as odd that they were still together in the first place and- "I can't go back to the house tonight," he said, an air of immediacy to his voice. "Just, just drop me at the squad."

Pulling up to a red light, she was thrown off guard, thankful that the car was stationary, "What, why? Didn't you-"

"I just, please, I can't go back to the house right now," he pleaded with her and she nodded, barely. Olivia took the next right and headed back towards Manhattan, trying not to think about how she wanted to see his home, and how it looked with just the two of them inside of it, tried not to think of how she'd rehearsed how she would have invited herself in and helped him into bed and sat with him the entire night because she was so, so scared now.

All of a sudden, for the past few years.

She'd hit the Triborough Bridge before she realized how ludicrous his request was. Go back to work, after what they'd been through, to people who would look at him funny and not know whether to ask about it or avoid him. Even at 3 A.M., the water cooler gossip flowed like it did at noon and she knew she didn't want him to have to deal with that. Flicking on her right hand blinker, she merged into the thin traffic and took the exit for Brooklyn. Even as he picked his head up from off of the window, noticing they were heading back south, he didn't say anything, just allowed a relieved sigh to escape his lips, as though he'd been hoping she'd take him home with her the entire time.

They weren't ever going to discuss this, she was entirely sure. Of all the things they'd not discussed in their years as partners, the particularly trying times were least likely to come up. They were both so good at pretending to repress; god, they were a therapist's dream.

She was sure that it had occurred to him, the psychology behind her scheme even if it hadn't occurred to her, in the moment. Why she had chosen something as simple as a kiss to secure Stuckey's trust. He, like everyone else, surely knew that a bond she and her partner shared. So why then, had a kiss been more of a blow then the slaps she'd delivered, the awful words she had forced herself to speak. Elliot had to have noticed, as she did, that Stuckey had only given up, given in when she'd dared to feign a connection with the man. There was too much underlying those actions; she couldn't wrap her mind around them, not now, not with him sitting right next to her.

It was so upsetting, she knew, that these situations in which they were forced to see each other in the shadow of the barrel of a gun were the only times either one of them would allow the other to see that look in their eyes. Olivia remembered what she had said to John and it struck her that she didn't know if she was talking about the job or her partner, or both.

Pulling into a spot at the end of the block, Olivia threw the car in park but didn't remove the key from the ignition. "I'm not going to sleep tonight," she admitted, the rasp in her voice betraying everything she didn't know how to say.

Elliot blinked in her direction and said, "Neither am I."

"Okay," the key slid from the ignition and they exited into the damp pre-dawn.