AN: Hello again! Thanks to everyone for all the support and encouragement in your reviews; I love getting them. On with the next chapter...

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Saint Helena Hospital

12:15 AM (October 18th)

Chandler Bing's POV

Monica and I burst into the third-floor waiting room of Saint Helena's, after just having completed a dangerously quick drive from Westchester to Manhattan. Monica has clothes, toiletries, food, and a novel all hastily thrown into a tote bag she's brought with her; thrown together in five minutes time.

A man looks our way and stands, a woman sitting beside him also rising.

"Mr. and Mrs. Bing?" He asks.

Normally, I'd crack a joke here. Something about ESP, stalking...anything to break the tension of knowing that he can tell who we are just from the panic written into every line of our faces. But there is nothing funny about this.

"Yes."

"I'm Detective Elliot Stabler, and this is my partner Detective Olivia Benson. We're detectives working with Manhattan Special Victims Unit."

"Special Victims Unit? What does that mean?" Monica asks, tears cascading down her face; unnoticed.

The woman named Olivia looks sympathetically at my wife.

"Will the two of you please sit down?" She asks kindly. After we oblige, she proceeds, "Let me first tell you that Erica is...physically going to be just fine. She had some cuts on her face and back which required stitches, but the rest is just minor cuts and bruises."

Somehow I know. I don't know why or how I know, but I know before they say it. One glance at Monica, though, and I can see her still trying to understand what they're saying. Or maybe she does understand. Maybe she understands, but can't let herself understand.

"Just tell me what happened to her!" Monica says, her voice breaking.

I take her hand and squeeze it. This time, the male detective...Elliot...is the one who speaks.

"Erica was raped tonight."

This is where Monica and I react differently. At this point, all other noises only reach me on a surface level. The world stops with these words, and the only emotion in existence is pain.

Monica, however, starts asking questions; getting information.

"She's received medical treatment? How is she? What medical procedures have been done?"

"She's received treatment, yes," Olivia replies, "I stayed with her through the sexual assault exam, and Detective Stabler was with her while she received treatment for physical injury. She's doing as well as could be expected. She's been asking for the two of you."

At this point, before anyone can ask more questions, a doctor steps in.

"She is a little overwhelmed. I think it would be best if you went in one at a time. Once you've both had a chance to see her, I'll give Erica a sedative to help her sleep through the night. She'll be able to go home tomorrow morning."

"Erica's decided to press legal charges, so we'd like to take her statement tomorrow before you leave for home."

It's so much information at once.

"Chandler." Monica says my name, and I turn to meet her eyes, "Do you want to go first?"

I hesitate. Monica and I have reversed since the drive here; she's become the strong one, and I've begun to break down. Though I would give anything to run into the hospital room and hold my daughter, she needs Monica's stability right now.

"Go ahead, Mon." I say softly, "I just need a minute."

Olivia takes Monica to the hospital room, and I stare at the wall of the waiting room; seeing not the blue paint I know is there, but every parent's worst nightmare.

"I'm a father, too." Detective Stabler's voice breaks into my thought. He moves to sit beside me.

"What do I do, Detective?" I ask, surprised at the weakness, anger, and fear I'm showing a complete stranger, "What do I possibly do to make her feel safe? What do I do? What do I say to her? How do Monica and I possibly comfort her after this?"

"You trust yourself."

His response is instant.

"You trust yourself to know that in the end, you'll know what to do for your daughter. You gave her life, and for sixteen years, you've raised her and loved her. You'll know what to do. Just trust your gut."

I think of what he's said to me. It's true. I've seen Erica almost every day for sixteen years; have raised her. I know her. Her favorite book is The Fountainhead, she can't go more than three days without swimming, she enjoys Indian food with a fierce passion, she loves her friends more than life itself, and California is her favorite place in the world. She has been known to observe and celebrate sacred days on the Jewish, Buddhist, Catholic, and Muslim calendars, as well as practice traditions from all four religions- often all at once, at a rate which makes my head spin.

There is much to love and much to admire about my daughter- an honors student, a natural leader. But what I've always most admired moreso than any grade or extra-curricular achievement...is the way she lives her life; with an open heart. To Erica, life was always an adventure; the unknown was just another chance for something amazing. She'd never been afraid to be herself, to walk to the beat of her own drum...and most everyone we knew loved her for it. For her willingness to attempt to practice four different religions at once, albeit none of them consistently or to the letter of each doctrinal belief. For her willingness to laugh at her mistakes. For how fiercely she loved those around her.

For her innocence. And that is something that this...this...

There are no words to describe this. This...violence has all the power in the world to destroy and break my daughter; it could easily do just that, and I know it. I don't want to watch her lose herself, yet here I am powerless to stop it.

I'm scared to see her. I'm scared to see how deep the damage is. I'm scared that our relationship isn't strong enough to make her feel she can open up to me. I'm scared that if I couldn't save her from being raped, I won't be able to help her through all that will follow.

But as Monica walks back into the waiting room and I walk into my daughter's room, I force everything back. My fear takes the backseat to my need to see her alive...even if that means having to see her so broken, so vulnerable.

Can't things that are broken be made whole? This is what I ask myself as I stand outside her door. I'm her father. Maybe I can't save her; fix her. But I am damn well going to try.

But there is no sight that prepares anyone for what lies before me. It's hard to believe that the tiny form under the blankets, attached to an IV, with bruises and stitched cuts covering her face...is Erica. Erica is the one up at 6AM on a Saturday, laughing in the kitchen singing Delta Dawn with her mom, making blueberry pancakes. Erica is the one who can almost total the family car five times in one driving lesson, and just laugh. Erica's the one who does ballet positions as she empties the dishwasher; constantly in motion and action with a million things to do and see; constantly doing and planning, laughing and smiling.

The subdued, timid, shivering girl laying on the hospital bed before me feels like a stranger, not the little girl I raised. One look at her, before a word is spoken, and already I know that the bastard who did this to her could die the most painful death imaginable and burn in hell forever, and it wouldn't even begin to be enough.

She looks at me, and the spark of life and adventure in her eyes...the glow that I'm so used to seeing...is nowhere to be found.

"I didn't say it back." She says, one tear falling from her eye.

"What, sweetheart?" I say, the intonation of my voice so different from our last full conversation. My anger seems so irrelevent now.

"When I left for school on Friday morning, ready to go to Chelsea's dad's house right after cheerleading practice...you said you loved me. I didn't say it back."

More tears are forming in her eyes.

"I should have said it back. I'm sorry, daddy, I'm sorry!" She says, the tears falling as she looks at me, "I love you. I love you. I...are you mad at me?"

I'm at her bedside, my hand held up in silent supression of other apologies.

"Oh, my sweet girl," I whisper as I slowly sit on her bed, "No."

I repeat the word over and over again as she sobs, kissing her forehead, her cheeks; kissing away each tear.

"Shhh. I love you, Erica. I love you. Daddy loves you."

"They hurt me, Dad." She whimpers, "They hurt me so much. I begged them to stop, I swear..."

They. Not him, they. She was raped by more than one man.

I'm her father. I should know what to do right now; should know how to comfort her. But I don't. I haven't the slightest idea what to do. What do you do when the child you were supposed to protect is in this much pain because you weren't there to protect her?

You hold her. It's the advice I would have given had someone asked me, and it's what I find myself doing now.

"Shhh, they can't hurt you anymore, sweetheart. I'm here. You're safe now. Just rest."

And my daughter slowly falls asleep, cradled in my arms.

Can't what is broken be made whole?

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Monica's POV next. Thanks again for such great, supportive reviews; hope to hear from all of you!