PART TWO - NOVEMBER 19TH

3:37 P.M.

She digs her heels obstinately into the moist soil beneath her feet, effectively preventing him from taking them any closer to the rickety cabin.

"What the hell do you mean?" She says apprehensively, through tight lips, eyeing him with trepidation. He doesn't answer her; instead he ducks his head, tightening his hold on her and leading her inelegantly foreword. Around them, the wind slithers dissonantly through the trees, reminding her of the way snakes glide graceful and sinister toward their oblivious prey. She can't help but feel overwhelmed by the forest surrounding them; by it's greatness. The clouds above are denser than ever, grey cotton balls looming ominously overhead. The raindrops thrum steadily against the green foliage, and the undergrowth seems to spring to life under the precipitation, turning into the vivid greens and reds and oranges of November.

They climb the stairs to the terrace and the porch is slippery with a thin coat of wet moss, the rotted wooden beams composing the insecure platform bending precariously beneath their coupled weight. Elliot steps toward the door, away from her, taking his warmth with him, but he keeps one hand wrapped securely around her wrist.

He reaches out and turns the handle on the door and gives a small push against it. The door swings slowly open on its hinges with a low groan, the dark interior of the cabin baiting her curiosity.

Their footsteps resonate within the walls of the small, yet comfortably cosy bungalow, and she keeps her gaze locked on the floor in front of herself, weary of any debris and fragments of glass that could be scattered across the floor. Surprisingly, the ground is smooth, the wooden planks sanded and level, even looking slightly varnished, free from wreckage and otherwise clean except for a thin layer of dust coating the surface.

The doorway opens to the one room bungalow, rectangular, with two windows on the opposite wall, symmetrical to the ones on the front wall. To her left she sees a double bed, covered with a simple, prettily patterned quilt. The frame is handcrafted, that much she can tell, but in all honestly the bed looks appealing and her tired legs long for reprieve. On the left side of the bed there is a brown bedside table, with a candleholder and wick standing atop. In the centre of the room there is a table, round and sized for two, with the chairs on opposite sides of it. Behind the table, against the far wall, stands a small counter top equipped with a sink and four cupboards, two on each side of the tiny basin. Although there is a tap, it is dotted with rust and she would be surprised if it gave any water. Finally, to her right, there is a cosy, den-like area. A fireplace is on the right wall, with an armchair in front of it. The hearth is stone.

She's used to putting on her tough façade when it comes to most things, things such as perps and perverts and guns.

Nevertheless, she's always been a city girl, and the primitiveness of her new surroundings scares the shit out of her. The skyscrapers and crowded streets are where she belongs. Not in the middle of a dense forest in some god-forsaken house.

"El, come on, let's just go." She steps back and gives his hand a tug.

He smiles a small, worn smile and shakes his head minutely. He steps to her, and with a hand at the small of her back, he gives her a little push further into the room. Stepping back behind her, he closes the door with a dissonant thud. "It's going to be okay, Liv."

"Stop with this shit, Elliot. We're going back to Manhattan." And she is so, so worried. There is something there, something entirely wild lurking in the hues of blue in his eyes, something uncontrollable and unfamiliar and scary. Something that proves he is really not okay.

"Liv," he grates, "Shut up. Please." And she can tell, just by the way his hands twitch identically to the way they do before a locker gets pulverized, that he is getting frustrated with her.

"Elliot…" She softens, desperate to calm him, bringing her other hand to cup the side of his face. "What happened with the little girl -,"

It seems that the mention of the child has unleashed the terror and fury inside of him. His blue eyes become bright pools of liquid in the midst of a vicious storm, the churning of the deep waters filled with emotion. A muscle in his jaw twitches, and his face clenches. He smacks her hand away from his face and then he has a hand wrapped around each of her biceps and he's right in her face.

"Don't," he whispers harshly, his breath falling over her face. He shakes her once, insensitively.

"Elliot -," she says, and there's shock in her voice. She knows he would never hurt her, but the rawness of the anguish written on his face is overwhelming. She twists against his hold, but his fingers only tighten their relentless grip. "Let go of me," she urges, but the intonation of her voice isn't angry. She needs to reach him, to find that connection they've always had.

He sighs heavily, and shakes his head back and forth several times before his grip on her slackens and he releases her.

He looks dishevelled, and he goes to sit on the bed, resting his head in his hands, breathing heavily.

"Do you know what just happened, Liv?" he asks in quiet incredulousness, his voice uncharacteristically small, muffled by his rough palms. "Do you have any idea what I've done?"

She approaches the bed where he sits with caution, ready for any reaction from him. When Elliot merely rests there, hunched over, she sits down beside him on the quilt, and her hand goes to his back.

"It was an accident…" he grates, and there are tears on his face; tears in his voice. "A fucking accident…Olivia, you gotta know…" And on the last word his voice cracks, the tightness in his throat too much to remain steady. He chokes on a sob.

"I do know," she whispers hoarsely, rubbing her hand up and down his back. "Elliot, I know."

"I killed her…Oh, god, I killed her…" And he turns into her, his face pressed right above her breast, his arms linking tightly around her waist. His back quivers and as she wraps her arms around his back, reciprocating the hug, she can feel every tremor that wracks his frame. "You can't leave me…"


4:11 P.M.

He has calmed, quieted, his face still resting against her, his weight still leaning upon her muscles. She wonders idly if he has fallen asleep, until he shifts against her, his head rising to rest in the crook of her neck, his hot breath blowing out against her. "Mmm, Liv."

"Elliot…c'mon," she whispers, breaking the dissonant silence surrounding them like a bubble. "We should get out of here."

He sighs deeply, but after a moment of quiet deliberation, he gets up slowly, and her heart leaps because she thinks that he is finally seeing reason, that he is finally listening to her.

He reaches into his pocket, a strange but soft expression printed across his face. "Stand up, Livia."

She does so, with a small smile on her face, relieved that in the wake of tragedy, he can still see reason. She reaches for his hand, wanting to guide him, to lead him out of the dark woods like he lead her in.

He reaches for her, but instead of accepting her offer of strength like she assumed he would, he closes his calloused palm around her wrist. She starts, not sure what to think, and she fleetingly wonders if he needs to reassure himself of his own capability by leading her… But then he withdraws his other hand from his pocket and there is a gentle clank and a flash of silver in the dim light.

The handcuff is cold around her wrist. She tries to draw her arm back, but it's already locked and he's holding the other one in a firm grip.

"Elliot!" she exclaims, in shock. "What are you doing?"

"Shhhh," he soothes. "Stand still."

"Stop," she whispers in protest, and she tries again to pull her wrist back. "Unlock it."

"I…can't do that." His voice is low, grating, and breaks again on the last word. There is pain in his eyes, in the set of his jaw. "I'm sorry."

She shakes her head vehemently, disbelieving. Her breathing quickens. "Take it off."

He moves again and she hopes, she hopes he's listening to her. But he just walks her to the bed and locks the other cuff tightly around the solid wooden bedpost.

"Do you think they're looking for us yet?" His voice sounds gravely, shaky, and she can tell that he isn't accustomed to crying. She knows without asking that he is referring to Cragen and the rest of the team.

She remains silent, staring at him in shock.

He shakes his head, as if trying to clear his thoughts, or reassure himself. He speaks lowly, as if the words are only meant for him, to comfort himself. "We don't usually get back to the precinct before seven anyway. No, they're not wondering yet."

He takes her phone and her gun and keys, and sets them down on the small granite step in front of the fireplace on the other side of the room. "Stay here Liv, okay? I'll be back soon."

"What?" She says, incredulous. "Where are you going?" She starts to breathe heavy again, her heart thumping.

"Just…I'll be back soon. Do you need anything?"

"Do I need anything?" she laughs, but there is no humour. Her voice is cold. "I need you to take me the fuck back to New York, Elliot."

He shakes his head, once, briskly.

"Talk to me, El," she pleads, because she just wants to know what he's thinking. She yanks up her cuffed arm, and the handcuffs clank against the bed. "Why?"

"You just…you can't leave me, Olivia. I can't take that chance."

She is so, so confused, and suddenly it dawns on her how not right in the head he is right now.

"Here," he says, and he folds her fingers around a small white pill. "Take this if you get too restless. I promise it'll help."

She sits, staring at him, hoping to communicate, to reach him and to hold onto him and make him see reason. Minutes pass. Months, years, decades, and still she is faced with his blank stare, his seemingly empty eyes that simultaneously hold too much emotion, too much mystery. She can't feel him right now, and that scares her more than anything.

He bends to kiss her hair quickly, and then he is gone, the door creaking shut behind him.


6:28 P.M.

She has never felt so alone. She has never been so aware of her isolation, so conscious and alert of every sound surrounding her. She can hear the rain, a steady thrumming against the roof of the cabin, against the leaves outside, and she can hear the chirping of birds, happily digging for worms in the wet weather.

He has been gone a long time, and she is terrified that he has done something stupid.

He has a gun, after all, and a propensity for doing things without thinking. No one knows better than she does how he can dig himself a hole so, so deep and fill it with water and mud and then just jump right in, fully prepared to swim and swim in circles until he exhausts himself completely and gives up.

She keeps reminding herself that he wouldn't do that to himself with her still tied up here, because while he's perfectly fine with tormenting himself to no end, he'll surly pummel anyone who would hurt a hair on her head.

She looks across the room wearily, eyeing her phone and her keys in yearning.


10:17 P.M.

She has to do something. She cannot sit here like this for one more moment. On her key ring there is a small silver key, with an oddly chiselled shape, and it unlocks the department handcuffs. They are on the opposite side of the room, however, and unreachable. She was never one to give up easily, though.


03:42 A.M.

She notices that the bed isn't screwed into the ground. The legs are planted firmly, and it looks heavy, but she's sure she could move it. She could move it, drag it across the small room and get to her keys.

She stands up, wincing at the ache in her arm as the blood flows downwards. She grasps the bedpost with both hands, the cuffs clinking with the movement. She tugs on the bedpost with all the force in her arms, but all that results is the bedpost jerking loosely away from the frame. She yanks on it again, tugging several times in a row, the muscles in her abdomen tightening with every pull. She grunts softly with every haul, and every time she pulls on the bed it moves a centimetre along the floor.

It isn't long before her elbows start to ache from the shock of pulling and yanking and pushing the bed. Her lower back muscles are sore, and she hasn't made it halfway across the room yet. It is very late, or very early, and despite the worry she has for her partner, despite her yearn to be free of the cuffs, she is too tired to expel any more energy on moving this bed. She is exhausted, and she flops down unceremoniously on the quilted blanket, still careful to not further injure her cuffed hand, which bears a thick band of red, irritated skin around the wrist. The repeated rubbing of the cuff against her skin has even caused small areas where tiny beads of blood have smeared. It stings, and it is one more reason why she can't bring herself to move the bed any longer. The moving of the cuffs is too painful. And she is cold. So, so cold, the chilly November night air slipping through the poorly isolated walls.

Despite Elliot's odd behaviour, she still trusts him implicitly. She holds tightly to her belief that he would never intentionally hurt her, or tell her to do anything that would bring her harm. She fishes in her pocket for the small pill he had handed her, and tries to ignore the throbbing in her muscles, the throbbing in her wrist. She has this desperate urge to stretch her legs, to walk around and get out of the cabin. Take this if you get too restless. I promise it will help. With a shake of her head and a grim smile, she swallows the tiny pill.

Ten agonizing minutes later, she lies limply across the bed, her gaze fixed dazedly on the doorway. Her mind is all warm, and her body feels cocooned, soft, like butter, and she thinks that it is the most wonderful reprieve in the world. Every nerve ending is calm, fuzzy, and she just wants to sleep.

Each time she blinks, her eyes stay closed for a moment longer than the previous time, until she has to force herself to remember how to open them. But she figures that that part of her brain must already be asleep, because she can't, for the life of her, think of a reason why her eyes shouldn't stay closed.

He opens the door to the cabin, slipping inside quickly, wanting to keep all the warmth of the cabin inside. He had remembered, about three hours ago, that he hadn't lit a fire for her. He had apologized to her mentally over and over, and promised to take care of business as quickly as possible in order to get back to her.

Inside, he sets down the three enormous bags he had dragged with him onto the floor. He leaves the ones containing their clothing and other obligatory supplies by the door, but he takes the one safekeeping all the money from his personal bank account – and any other cash he could scrounge up – and deposits it safely on the other side of the bed, away from the door. Next, he takes the box of matches out from his pocket, arranging two logs and an old newspaper in the hearth. As soon as he is greeted by the warm golden blaze of a comforting fire, he picks up her keys which are resting right beside him. He thinks she must have taken the sleeping pill he had offered her, because Olivia is a very light sleeper. She would have woken up at the sound of his entrance had she not been under the influence of the small drug.

He walks quietly over to her, and notices for the first time, in the dim light provided by the fire, that the bed is a good four feet out from the wall, where they'd originally found it. Her wrist is red and abused, and he knows exactly what she must have tried to do.

"Fuck, Liv," he murmurs under his breath, as he inserts the key into the lock of the handcuffs. They unlock with a gentle clinking noise, and he tosses them onto the nearby table. He looks at her unconscious form. "What were you thinkin', huh?"

She is out cold, not even roused in the least at his movements. He pulls the covers back from underneath her, folding them back overtop of her body so that she is completely covered by the soft quilt, save her head. He takes a pillow and places is gently under her, her hair falling silkily across it. When he touches her face gently he is worried by how cold her skin is. He is a bastard for leaving her here, he knows it, but taking her with him and risking her blowing his cover was too dangerous. He had gone back to the city, back to their apartments and packed all the necessities, emptied his bank account and taken the cash from her apartment. They have what they need for a while now, and he's going to keep her safe. He will keep her safe, and he will keep himself safe. Safe from the authorities, the people that will want to take her away from him, the people who will put her through hell just for being with him when the girl was shot.

He slips out of his shoes and crawls underneath the blanket with her, shifting until his restless body is comfortable, tucking his arms around her to keep the cold out and her warmth in.

He breathes in the scent of his partner, of his best friend, and she is the scent of comfort. She is the wonderful fragrance of acquaintance and familiarity, when the cold anxiousness in the pit of his stomach is overwhelmingly foreign.


A/N: Thank you for reading :)

Nita - I'm off now to go read your work. I'm so, so sorry it has taken so long. But I'll get there, I promise!