She risks a glance at him, and then shyly averts her gaze away from him, toward the hospital room window. "Don't."

The white sheet is pulled up to her waist, and a pale violet gown covers her torso. A thick patch of gauze is secured to the back of her skull by a band of medical tape that circles the circumference of her head.

"Olivia," he murmurs, from his seat in the hard chair beside her bed, "Don't start this, okay?" He leans forward, and takes her cold hand in his own. "Okay?" he gives it a small shake, trying to get his message across. "Liv," he gently urges, squeezing her hand.

After several breaths of silence she speaks, but her eyes stay petulantly turned away from him. "I have nothing to say," she amends, looking down at her lap. "Please, just drop it, okay?"

His eyes close briefly, out of frustration, and he fleetingly thinks back over the last several hours. The ambulance ride had been hell. They had had to sedate her.

Olivia had slept for three hours and, because of the head injury, has to stay awake for the next hour.

"Olivia, I'm asking you," he softens his voice at her flinch, "to tell me the truth," he gently encourages, rubbing the pad of his thumb soothingly across the soft skin on the back of her hand. He tries to swallow his hurt as she snatches her hand away from him. This isn't about me, he reminds himself constantly.

"There's nothing to tell," she says adamantly, dropping her gaze to the blanket that covers her, willing the moisture in her eyes to disappear as the events of the parking lot replay in her mind.

"Olivia," he starts, getting up from his chair and sitting carefully on the small amount of space allotted to him on the side of her bed. He places a warm hand on the side of her face, cupping her cheek. "There's absolutely nothing to be ashamed of." Elliot ducks his head to the side, trying to catch her tired gaze. "Nothing."

"Don't play games with me," She growls, shifting painfully away from him on the small bed. "I know how this works, and I know what I'm doing. I'm fine." She tentatively meets his gaze, and softens her voice. "Please, just leave it alone."

Elliot is not surprised at her reaction. It is, in fact, the very thing he has anticipated. Although he doesn't think that Olivia was raped, there's a cold feeling residing in his gut at the image of Olivia's torn shirt and lowered slacks. He knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that Olivia is hiding something from him, no matter how small it is. He wants nothing more than to make her feel at ease, safe, and he knows that as long as her mind dwells on the accident in the parking lot, she'll never feel secure. He knows she wants to share. Needs to share.

"Liv," he whispers, his index finger guiding her chin to look at him as he sits on the edge of her cot. "It's alright to tell me." His eyes portray the honesty he feels, and he tries to convey how much he wants to help her. Her eyes have that deer-caught-in-the-headlights expression again, and it throws him off a bit because he's definitely not used to seeing it on her. He can only hope that she's as okay as she says she is. He can only hope that she'll let him take care of her. "You can trust me."

Because he wasn't there for her. He didn't do his duty as her partner and he let her down. He doesn't know what happened.

Olivia swallows thickly, and her eyes still don't meet his, but he can tell that she's considering his words. Her fingers fidget restlessly with the edge of the quilt, picking at the loose threads, unravelling the terrycloth and twisting it tightly around her fingers.

"Um…" she says, and it's quiet and unsure.

He places a gentle hand on her thigh, just a reminder.

"Um," her voice cracks. "Uh, I think I really want to go home," her voice climbs higher and higher as she speaks, and it's strung tight, like she's trying to keep the tears at bay.

"Olivia -," he starts, disapprovingly.

"No," she interrupts decidedly, with a shake of her head. "Take me home."

Elliot sighs, and gives her hand another light squeeze. "Okay." He tries for a smile, but it probably comes out as a grimace. "Okay, let me go talk to your doctor."


Olivia had been furious that she'd had to stay in hospital for another two days before she got the green light, but her complaints had ceased and her willingness to work with Elliot cooperatively had returned the moment she'd handed Elliot her discharge papers. And so it is with determination that she treks to his car, excited to get home as soon as possible.

Elliot's having a tough time making his way to his jeep, juggling the keys, three packets of prescription drugs, and her backpack containing several of her overnight belongings on one arm, while holding her tightly around the waist with the other. She's breathing laboriously, and he's staring to doubt the doctor's words that 'she'll be okay if she stays in bed for a while.' She has two fractured ribs; both on the left side of her body, accompanied by a fantastic bruise the size and shape of the average shoe. The doctor had warned her that they would prove to be very painful once the pain medication wore off, so the nurses had pumped her system full of morphine for the trip home.

Olivia limps along beside him, holding tightly to his shoulder and the hand at her hip, taking to holding her breath and then releasing it in huge gusts when she can no longer stand to keep it in. But she's determined. A lucky thing, for the drugs have her wiped.

"You okay?" Elliot asks, for the sixth time since exiting through the main doors of the hospital.

"Mmyeah," she slurs, too focused on making it to the car to tell him to shut up.

"Are you sure? Because the doctor said-,"

"S'fine, El," she insists, out of breath. "Just," she inhales. "Get to," she exhales, "th'car."

"We're almost there," he encourages, a sweat breaking out on his brow, for he supports most of her weight.

"Yeah," she huffs out, nodding and dropping her head to his shoulder.


Elliot inserts the key into the lock on the door of her apartment, hasty to get inside. It is dark, the only light coming from a dim lamp about halfway down the hall, and because of Olivia's body, the handle is cast into the shadows. Olivia leans her full body weight on him, her head lulling from side to side in the crook of his neck, the morphine kicking in full force, and she's mumbling about how much she hates the winter.

"S'always too damn cold," she slurs sleepily, her breath hitting the side of his neck warmly. "Hey El, I'm cold."

"I know," he says, acknowledging her words, not really listening to what she's saying. "Let's get inside, Olivia," he pushes the door open with his foot and dumps all of the things he's been carrying onto the floor right inside her door. "Careful," he warns her against the clutter on the floor, holding her up with his forearms under her armpits, her back against his chest. Olivia's head falls back and hits the bone of his shoulder with a thud. She groans sleepily.

"What's wrong, Liv?" he asks, a smile tugging on his lips at her grumpiness, and the fact that her horrid accident is apparently forgotten for the time being.

"S'mthng n ma fttt."

"What's that?" he asks, trying desperately to understand what she's saying.

"S'mthing's on my feet," she says again, sniffling. "Elliot," and she whines, and she's becoming restless and upset at the thought of unknown things blocking her from walking properly. "Geddit offff…"

"Shhhh, it's okay, it's alright," he soothes, trying to calm her down. He looks down at her feet to see nothing but her clunky, untied shoes, and wonders if that's what's bothering her. "I'm here to help you," he explains, as he squats next to her and slips off her work shoes. "There." He states, standing back up and supporting her again. "Better?"

"Mmmffff."

"Better, Olivia?" He gives her a nudge.

"Mmmmm," she says, and turns in his arms to slump against him. "Sleepy," she states, her cheek on his shoulder.

"I know. Come on, let' s get to bed," he tells her, walking her slowly backwards towards her bedroom.

"El," she whispers, as he passes the threshold of her room, and casts a quick glance around for her pyjamas. "Eeellllll," she slurs, bringing her hand up and trying to touch his face, missing his cheek, and crushing his nose painfully with her fist. "Elliot,"

"Yes," he answers, locating her pyjamas in a ball by her closet. He deposits her softly on her bed, laying her down, and going to retrieve her pyjamas. She doesn't answer him, and he didn't really expect her to. He picks up her sleep clothes, consisting of a tank top and cotton light blue pants, and turns them right side out before walking back to Olivia, who is lying on her side, facing away from him. Her breathing is steady and her shoulders rise and fall in a fixed rhythm, and her eyes are closed. The morphine has kicked her right out.

Elliot rolls her until she rests peacefully on her back, slightly inclined by the pillows, the position the doctor suggested for maximum comfort for her ribs. He sets her pyjamas down on her other side, and softly brushes the hair from her eyes.

"I'll be on the couch, Liv, if you need me," Elliot whispers, and it's more for his comfort than for hers, because he knows that she's asleep, entirely wiped from the drugs.

He covers her with her comforter, tucking it safely around her, before walking into her dining room. He leaves the door to her bedroom half open, and an ear out for any sounds. He knows that she probably won't wake for a while, but he's on edge nonetheless.

Retrieving her prescriptions from the bag on the floor, he counts out the pills she is to take in the morning and sets them out on the counter next to a huge glass of water. He drinks the water in large gulps, then re-fills it and sets in next to the pills again.

Elliot's been here a handful of times; he knows where she keeps the sheets and extra pillowcases. He gathers what he needs from the linen closet in the bathroom, and walks back to her couch. He covers the throw pillow with a pillowcase, and kicks off his shoes and socks as he stretches out under the soft, Olivia-smelling blanket, exhausted.

It isn't long before sleep claims him.


His eyes snap open, and he sits bolt upright on her couch, nearly falling off it. He strains his ears and his eyes; intent on discovering what is was that pulled him from sleep. The numbers on her microwave blare green; it is three twenty-three in the morning. Everything is silent, with the exception of the errant car passing by below. He is about to conclude that he is all too paranoid and lie back down, when he hears it again.

The sniffle. The noisy ruffling of sheets in the bedroom. Olivia.

He scrambles to his feet and almost trips over the sheet tangled around his shins as he hurries to get to her. "Jesus," he mutters, and kicks the sheet away. He bunches the sheet with his hands and throws it back onto the couch.

He runs down the short hallway, and throws open her door, approaching her quickly. She's struggling with her sheets, all tangled in them, and her fighting only makes them wind tighter around her. Her hair is wet with perspiration.

Her eyes remain steadily closed though, and he knows that she's still sleeping.

"Olivia!" He calls, trying to help her with the blankets. "Wake up."

She doesn't, just fights him too, scratching at his arms when her jerking hands come into contact with him.

"Hey, hey," he encourages, tugging at the sheets, loosening them from around her, and shaking her shoulder in a futile effort to waken her.

He doesn't expect her right hook, which is how she manages to clock him a good one in the jaw. He stands there, leaning over her wriggling body, stunned for a moment, letting the ache of it wash over him. And then he watches in acute horror as she wakes herself up, reacting to the pain in her hand and the pain in her side.

"Ung," she clutches her hand to her chest, her eyes frighteningly wide, her breathing erratic. "El," she pants, and her head snaps around to look at him.

He fold his arms around her, ignoring the pounding in his jaw, he envelops her in his safe embrace, whispering words of reassurance and of affection.

"Don't touch me," she warns, pushing against his chest with her palms, her shaky inhales causing her chest to tremble.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes; raising his hands by his head and backing away a pace, blame coursing through him steadily. He mentally berates himself for forgetting all the rules in these situations.

"Liv it's over," he murmurs, trying to reach her from his distanced position. "It's all over."

And then she's scrambling desperately, her face contorted in pain at the movement of her ribs, frantically slipping down from her bed and tripping drunkenly into the adjoining bathroom, her arms are pushing against the doorframe propelling her toward the toilet.

Clutching her ribs in a panicked hug to try to ease the pain, she vomits violently into the bowl. "God," she expels, crouched over, her breathing heavy. "Fuck." She coughs and is sick again.

He hurries to her side, and pulls her hair back loosely in a one handed ponytail, his other hand cupping her forehead. "Okay," he whispers, standing behind her. "It's just the drugs, Liv. It'll be over soon," he soothes.

"Oh, fuck," she whimpers, and another tremor races through her body, wracking her broken ribs, causing her to clutch them again as another wave of nausea hits her.


"Can you…" she mumbles, from her spot in her bed, tucked under the thick blanket with a box of Kleenex and a plastic bowl.

"Yeah?" He turns and walks back toward her.

"Can you…stay till I fall asleep?"

He nods, offering her a small smile. "Sure."

"Th-thank you," she breathes, her eyes fluttering closed. "I'm fine, El, just…"

"It's okay," he whispers, running his hand down her arm slowly. "You don't need to explain." At least not yet, he thinks to himself. He desperately wants her to trust him.

He sits on the edge of her bed, his eyes trained on the white blanket beneath him, as her eyes close and he listens to her breathing evening out.