"Red-lining" Elliot to the emergency area has ensured that he will see a doctor much quicker than the typical wait for the standard patient, and Olivia is certainly grateful for that. She spends plenty of time in hospitals interviewing victims of sexual crimes or children that have endured horrifying accounts of unimaginable trauma to develop an intense hatred for the place. She thinks it may be more than that; it's also the way the rooms look and smell that makes her despise it so much. And she's unfortunately had to spend her own duration in hospital beds, as well as her partner. Police work sometimes includes these kinds of ill-fated visits.
Elliot has been instructed to remove his shirt in order to replace it with one of the lovely spotted hospital gowns that she knows he cannot stand. He'd rather sit shirtless than have to put one on. "I can keep my pants on, right?" he asks uncertainly, looking slightly horrified at the notion that she'll be able to see his backside with one wrong turn.
The nurse nods sympathetically. "Yes, you can keep your pants on." She sets his medical chart into a plastic holder on the front of his door and closes it behind her, leaving Elliot and Olivia alone. He sets about yanking his t-shirt over his head, exposing his naked flesh for her to pretend to avoid seeing. She ducks her head, apparently bashful.
"You want me to give you some space?" she wonders, unsure why she is even asking.
Elliot slides his arms into the gown and allows the back to hang open loosely. He frowns. "Why would I need space?"
"Well, I don't know. You aren't feeling claustrophobic from my constant presence yet?" Olivia hates the way she sounds right now. Unsure. Vulnerable.
He stares at her with an odd expression, mostly covered by his respirator. "Olivia," he begins, and the sound of her full name is strange to her ears since he has made it a habit to call her by her nickname most of the time. "You're always welcome around me. I know, I may be a bastard sometimes, but having you here makes my life less miserable. I'm glad you're with me. God knows my kids can't stand me and Kathy would rather saw off her own leg than be in the same room. I just hope you're not sick of my ass."
She is inspecting the frayed cuticles of her fingernails without realizing it, and glances up to peek at him, probably appearing abnormally coy. "That's good," she says, the side of her mouth quirking up, and she answers drolly to avoid turning the moment into something saccharine. "And if I were the sick one, I sure as hell would be kicking your ass to the curb."
"Hey," he responds, pressing a hand to his chest. "I kid, but you aim to hurt." He tugs on the mask and whips it off to the side, tossing it onto the rolling table to the right of him. After a moment, he lowers against the bed, bored with reading the medical advertisements and public awareness posters on the surrounding walls. He presses the power button on the remote attached to his bed and the little TV in the corner of the room comes to life.
The two detectives sit in silence, straining to listen to the uproarious talk show since the volume doesn't seem to go any louder than above a whisper. For the next twenty minutes Elliot makes outrageous guesses regarding the paternity results of the show's assortment of guests.
Finally, a knock interrupts the latest prediction of fatherhood with the dysfunctional family members on screen and Olivia and Elliot instantly shift from laidback relaxing to tense apprehension. The door opens with a loud clack and a young woman pokes her head in.
"Detective Stabler?" she asks as she pushes the rest of the way through and into the small room. She looks almost too young to be a certified doctor, Olivia thinks, as she gives her the once-over. He nods at the white-coated woman, his face trained into a serious frown. She marvels at how easily he changes his demeanor when he needs to; he seems like a completely different person from moments ago.
"Yes," he mumbles, straightening into a sitting position and pulling the sleeves of the gown around his shoulders a little more.
She is clutching his medical chart. "My name is Dr. Easton." He bites his bottom lip solemnly. A side of her mouth twists into a comical grin. "So, the chicken pox, eh?"
Olivia glances at her partner and she can't keep herself from matching the laughing expression of the doctor all of a sudden. He shoots her a warning gaze from the bed. The doctor goes about her business checking him over, conducting the same kind of precursory tests as the nurse, but she pauses longer over his lungs. She moves a stethoscope over several places on his chest and back and then finally stands.
Elliot's eyes are wide with concern when she wraps the device around her collar. "So, what's up?"
Dr. Easton grimaces and he knows it can't be good. "I noticed a slight crackle in your right lung. I would like for you to get a chest x-ray so I can see the extent of the infection, and then some blood work to determine what kind of course of action I'll be taking to treat the disease."
Olivia's stomach feels like it has hit her shoes. "You mean he has pneumonia?" She remembers the clerk at Walgreens and her forewarning. This means a lengthy recuperation and extended misery. Partnering with somebody else and staring at his empty desk for two or more weeks.
The doctor notices her unease instantly. "It's at the early stages if anything," she says as she touches Olivia's arm reassuringly. "I'm going to get him started on antivirals right away. It should stop the infection and make the recovery much quicker."
Elliot is watching the two women dejectedly from his seat on the edge of the bed. "My lungs feel fine."
"Like I said, it's early onset. But it's there. The x-ray will show us how extensive the pneumonia is."
He slumps visibly, realizing that he cannot get out of this even if he wants to. If he tries to ignore the seriousness of the situation and leave, Olivia will probably hogtie him to the x-ray machine.
Another half hour passes by and Olivia is twiddling her thumbs in the same room, looking at the TV in the corner without watching anything before her. She's pretty sure she has focused on the show for its entire duration on screen, but she has not seen any of it. If someone were to ask her what the episode was about, she'd fail miserably. After being poked and prodded, blood drawn, and temperature taken once again, he is whisked away to an x-ray room.
Her partner has been gone the entire time, and she is unable to keep herself from imagining that the pneumonia is worse than originally thought. She breaks out into a cold sweat considering what could happen to him. The illness can kill people, and she mentally balks at the thought.
She climbs to her feet and wanders around the room, hands at her hips, antsy and squashing the urge to burst out the door and down the hallways in search of Elliot.
She is turned around when he comes back, and she swivels in time to see his glum face. "Hey," she says, making room for him to sit once again on the bed. "So, what'd they see?"
Dr. Easton follows him in, holding the black and white films in her hands. She closes the trio into the room and sits onto a rolling stool. "There's a small streak in his right lung. It's a good thing you came in when you did, Elliot. If you had waited to go to your doctor's office until tomorrow, you'd have a full-blown case by then."
Olivia quietly thanks the receptionist at his doctor's office for being persistent, but the reality sinks in and she grimaces in sympathy. "So what does that mean for recovery? How long do you think he'll be out of work?"
Easton shrugs, a thoughtful look on her face. "I don't know. It's really dependent on several factors—taking all of the medication, rest, and the way his own body recuperates that determines when he'll be well enough to return." She walks over to an x-ray viewing box and places the films against the glowing surface, revealing his lungs. She points to something indiscernible to the detectives, but obvious to her in her expertise. She traces a fine white line. "This is where we've found the streak. It's not a lot, but if untreated, can easily get worse."
She tucks his x-rays into a large manila folder and exits, sending in the nurse that came before her, armed with a small cup of water, his first dose of medication, his prescription and release papers. After he signs the dotted line at the bottom of the stack, he is free to go, but not before being informed that he must go straight home, take every last pill he is prescribed, rest, and return if things seem to get any worse. He's also told to make an appointment as soon as possible for follow up.
When the two of them finally exit the sliding doors for Olivia's car, the sun has indeed sunken in the Western skies. The air is biting and cold and Elliot hurriedly throws on his grey hoodie, remembering that he is only covered by a thin t-shirt.
"I should call Cragen," Olivia says softly as she closes herself into the driver's seat. "You'll be out for a few weeks. And the union will need to be informed of your medical leave." She sighs, appearing sad, and he can't help it when he reaches out to touch her elbow in reassurance. She acknowledges his kind gesture by chewing on the inside of her cheek.
"What's wrong?" he asks, trying to look as sincere as possible around all the red bumps and lingering white spots left by calamine lotion.
"I was just thinking that the next few weeks will be pretty dull without you crashing around the precinct like a bull in a China shop," she turns to him and they share a smile. "Plus, I'll probably be paired with Munch or Fin, and you know how they are."
"Yeah, good luck with that."
Olivia shakes her head and turns her key in the ignition, bringing the car to life.
The cough had started making its presence by the time they'd left the pharmacy. It is a dry hack, but she recognizes it as something ominous, like a monster hiding within and waiting to fully emerge. Elliot had taken a dose of Acyclovir at the hospital, but she worries that the timing will be off and they'll be too late. Will the antiviral be effective?
When they return to his place, she forces him to eat some chicken noodle soup, but he whines his way through dinner and she finally succumbs to setting the picked at food in his sink.
"I'm not really that hungry." Elliot closes his eyes and settles into his couch cushions again. He kicks up his feet, finding time as she sits next to him to furiously scratch the side of his neck. She scoffs and bats at the offending hands.
"Elliot! Stop it, or you'll scar."
"That's like telling me to quit breathing," he says grumpily. "They're even worse. Liv, please put me out of my misery. The gun's in my bedside table drawer, fully loaded. Do it quickly."
She elbows him. "Knock it off. I'm not going to shoot you. You're not the only person to ever have the chicken pox. Other people seemed to get through it without committing suicide."
Elliot fidgets impatiently and rubs his palms down the front of his pants. "The doctor didn't throw a sedative into my prescription, did she?"
"Nope," she says, sounding exasperatingly unyielding. "She did say that you can take Benadryl or NyQuil to make you sleep easier."
He finally accepts his fate and the two watch a crime documentary on the ID network featuring Claus Von Bulow and the murder investigation surrounding the controversial socialite from the '80s. Olivia ends up smacking his hand periodically so that he is thwarted from effectively scratching and he grumbles irritably each time. Eventually he gets tired of her determined actions to prevent his itching and gets up with a long, audible stretch.
"I think I'm going to take a couple Ibuprofen."
She narrows her discerning eyes, concerned. "What's wrong?"
He shrugs, his features drawn and fatigued. "I don't know."
"Is the fever back?" she asks, immediately palming his forehead without a second thought. Sure enough, the skin underneath is overly warm, and she can feel frustration rise. "Yep, that's what it feels like. Damn, El. You can't make being sick easy, can you?"
"Never."
He heads to his bathroom, opens the mirrored medicine cabinet, and finds the pain reliever quickly, tossing two into his mouth. "I should be good in about half an hour," he mutters around two pills when he notices her figure behind him.
Olivia leans against the door jamb of the bathroom. "Think it's all right that I take a shower?"
"Of course. You don't need to worry about asking, Liv. I'm just going to lie down."
"If I catch you scratching, I swear I will tape your fingers together."
"I'll just peel it off with my teeth."
She raises her eyebrows as a warning. "Try me, Stabler. Don't make me handcuff your hands to your bed frame." She blushes when she realizes the clear implication of her statement.
He keels over with a wheezing laugh, coughing as a result. "Olivia Benson! If I didn't know any better, I'd say that was an invitation."
"Shut your pie-hole, you jackass. Don't hurt yourself."
His silly grin drops into something more serious. "I'm kidding, you know that."
She exhales. "I know. But I'll be checking on you when I'm done."
"All right." Elliot mumbles as he falls to his bed as she moves into the small room. "I'll keep the handcuffs ready."
"I heard that," he hears from the other side of the door.
Long after she is done with her shower, Olivia leaves a voice message on her captain's desk phone informing him the unfortunate news of her partner's sick leave and kicks back onto Elliot's couch with a cup of her tea that she'd nearly forgotten about. She drinks it slowly as she watches late night TV, and thinks that her apartment is much more relaxed and appealing, and that she should just try to entice him to crash over at her place if she's going to play nursemaid.
She hears a coughing noise from the bedroom and knows that the small streak of pneumonia is now very present.
Olivia creeps into Elliot's dark room, treading as quietly as possible to avoid waking him up, but when her eyes adjust to the darkness, she notices that he is propped up onto an elbow, already reaching for his bedside lamp to switch on the light. He clears his throat, and although he is not looking directly at her, she knows that he's aware of her presence.
"Hey," he mumbles, rubbing a hand over his head.
"I can hear it now," she says softly, speaking of the wet sound underneath the cough. "I can't believe it showed up that fast."
"Hm," he responds, and then finally looks up at her. "Did I wake you?"
She shakes her head grimly. "Not really, but I don't expect to sleep very well tonight anyway." She studies him for a moment. "Are you sure you'll be all right, El? Maybe we should go back to the ER. They'll be able to monitor you closer there."
"I'll be okay," he says in a voice usually suited for children or victims, the tone that is meant to soothe. She'd normally shrug that kind of response off as nothing more than mulish obstinacy, but he looks pretty sincere and she yields.
"Okay," she whispers. Her hands wring together uselessly and she stands awkwardly as if she is unsure of herself.
He grins gently, knowingly. "Would you sleep easier if you camped out in here with me?"
She throws him a look like a blow. "You mean like on the floor? No thank you. I like my back the way it is."
He almost laughs out loud. "No, over here next to me."
She is genuinely surprised. "El," she warns, backing away uneasily looking as if she is an animal being caged. "I don't think that's a good idea."
He plays it as carefully as he can. "Come on, Liv, I'm sick. It's not like I'm going to get handsy on you. I just want to sleep, so if you want to be thinking clearly at work tomorrow, you'll need to get at least a full six hours. And in case you're worried about it, I can't infect you."
"Elliot, don't play stupid. You know what I mean. We're partners…it would be against procedure."
"Since when have I ever cared about policy and procedure? No seriously, it's completely innocent, honest. Scouts honor, I swear you'll be as safe as a church." He puts up a few fingers, and she's unsure if he's ever confessed to being a Boy Scout as a child and if he's allowed to use that promise, but she doesn't feel like questioning him on that when he looks at her with wide eyes and an impish grin. "How about this, I'll lay on top of the blankets, and you can lie underneath them."
"You need to be covered. No way."
"All right, then. You sleep on top of the blankets."
She watches him with a funny glint in her eyes, then finally moves toward him and sinks down nervously. They both lie on their backs stiffly. "Yeah, I'll be able to sleep a full six hours tonight," she says sarcastically.
Elliot lets out a chuckle that turns into a fit of coughing. When he catches his breath, he says in a low tone, "You're making my act of chivalry into something weird."
"Chivalry is dead, El."
"I promise, I'll be a good boy and stay on my side of the bed."
Olivia kicks off her shoes and settles onto the mattress, noting that the bed, the pillows, hell, the entire room smells like his aftershave and she can feel butterflies race around in her stomach at the prospect of what could happen between them if they decided to throw caution to the wind.
She attempts to push the girlish yearning away, trying to avoid being immersed in emotions that she'd encountered throughout their tenure as partners but had to suppress in order to function effectively as a detective. Early on she had been idealistic and starry-eyed, but she had known that it was a pointless endeavor since he was married and they were partners. A crush was all it had been and all it could stay.
Unfortunately for her, the attraction has remained over the years, and it means that she has kept men at a distance because none of them have been able to measure up to Elliot.
She hears him sigh and a tiny, nearly imperceptible rattle accompanies it, "Good night, Liv."
"Good night," she answers.
A while passes and Elliot falls into a fitful slumber in which he tosses agitatedly, coughing so often that Olivia finally gets up from her spot and digs around in his medicine cabinet for the NyQuil she'd purchased much earlier that day. She pours him a cupful and rounds to his side of the bed to stand before him.
She sits down on the edge and nudges his shoulder. "Elliot," she says, realizing that he is radiating heat. Feverish again. His eyes open slightly, but they are glassy and distant and she wouldn't be shocked if he is delirious. "Take this. It'll help you sleep better."
He pushes himself up and drinks the medicine without arguing or any complaints. "Thanks," he croaks, and falls back to his pillow.
The shot of NyQuil seems to do the trick—Elliot is out like a light after that. He's so exhausted that he has not moved for nearly a half hour, no tossing or turning, not even to cough. His breathing has leveled out and is heavy—she can feel the soft warmth of his exhalation skim over the bare skin of her neck.
Olivia should be sleeping, but she cannot help the way her body responds by being hypersensitive to the noises he makes while resting, the heat of his nearness, and mostly, the proximity of his presence and how strange it is to be so close to him. They have never slept in the same bed before. Slept in the same room, sure, when a case is deemed too urgent, too important for their release home and shacking up in the crib is in order. She'd lie on the lumpy cot on one of the bottom bunks across from him, facing away but listening the same way she is now. Sometimes he'd find a fitful sleep, but a typical stay in the crib involved simply spreading out onto the cots and lying quietly in companionable silence.
Olivia startles when he does move, and she feels a heavy arm fall over the curve of her waist. She is stunned into immobility, especially when he caresses the soft part of her abdomen and pulls in his direction until her backside is flush against the front of his. She wonders if he is at all aware of what he is doing, especially when he nuzzles her hair for a moment, then settles his head onto the pillow, lips pressing into the nape of her neck.
Her heart is beating frantically at the contact, and she contemplates the terrible irony of having a heart attack here in Elliot's bed and by a single unconscious touch. The butterflies are back with a vengeance, fluttering against her ribcage. She's afraid to move, because if he wakes up, he'll realize his error and she'll have to endure the embarrassment of the situation. She can't quell the growing excitement and desire inside of her, the warmth that is spreading in spite of her attempt to ignore it. She curses her body for betraying her, and she longs for sleep to take her so that she can pretend like none of this is happening.
He seems content with the closeness, because he does not make any other movements except for his breathing and the rhythmic beat of his pulse. She lets her eyes fall and concentrates on the cadence of his slumbering body, and she finally finds reprieve in Elliot's arms.
She is bolted awake by the noise of her cell phone resting next to her head on the table, and she fumbles for the chiming device while cursing furiously. She checks the time and groans.
5:39 a.m.
God forbid she actually gets more than a few hours rest for fuck's sake. Olivia presses 'talk' on her cell phone screen, pressing it to her ear just as Elliot stirs against her.
"Benson," she says sleepily.
"Olivia, sorry to wake you, but we're going to need your presence bright and early."
Cragen.
She rubs her face just as Elliot rolls away and she almost complains when the heat of his nearness is taken away and replaced by the freezing air of his bedroom. "What's up?" she asks and watches as he blinks awake.
Cragen's sigh blows static into the receiving end of his phone. "Looks like another attack at Hudson. One of the work study students from their library—Wilson's at it again. This time he took it a step further. She's in the ER at the moment clinging to life."
"Shit," she curses. "Is she alert? Able to give a statement?"
"The docs say she's in and out of it. They're worried about the head injury, said that there could be some brain swelling that it is potentially life threatening. I've got Munch with her right now just in case this gets upped to a homicide investigation."
"Was there any evidence of a sexual assault?"
"Looks like it. Warner is prepping for a rape kit. I'm heading over to the university library right now. I'm going to need you to meet me there."
Olivia and Elliot share a glance. "All right, I'll see you shortly."
Cragen clears his throat. "So, how is your partner? Is it the chicken pox?"
She frowns. "You didn't get my message?"
"I just woke up twenty minutes ago, Olivia. What's going on?"
"Elliot has varicella pneumonia. He'll probably be out for about two to three weeks."
"Great. Just what we need. I suppose I'll have to take care of that later. See you soon."
"Yeah." Olivia ends the call and sits up, exhaustion rolling over her in waves. "That was the captain. There was another attack."
"Wilson?" he asks, yawning dramatically and rubbing his forearms. "Sorry. I know you didn't sleep much."
She shakes her head. "It's not your fault, El." She slips her shoes on and pauses to stare at her feet. "I think I may crash at work afterward. And I think I should probably stop sleeping over here. At least for a night or two."
Elliot looks at her with a combination of apprehension and petulance. "Why?"
"Elliot, I haven't slept more than five hours in two days! Your place is always cold and you do get handsy in your sleep. I miss my apartment, and I probably have a huge stack of mail waiting for me."
He chews on his lip, knowing full well that he has no right to demand that she stay at his apartment and that the only reason he wants her there is because he is lonely and likes her company. "If that's what you want…"
She nods and then faces him, indignantly waiting for him to blow up on her. She is aggravated when he simply stares back at her gloomily in all his chicken pox glory. She can't help but feel bad. "I guess if you want to, I'll pick you up after work and take you to my place."
"Okay," he mutters, and watches her walk out of his bedroom before he can say another word.