A/N: Please heed the story rating label for this chapter. Like Chapter 2, this becomes somewhat graphic M. (Note that it is possible to skip this chapter and read the next. You'll miss a vital piece of the character arcs, but you will still be able to follow the plot through the end of the story.)

Thank you for reading. As always, all constructive reviews are welcome.

Savior

After the late-night phone call from the hospital and the night she spent in the waiting room, she needed a day. Cragen understood, and he told her to take whatever time she needed. She's been home all day, sleeping fitfully off and on.

In the early evening, probably as he is leaving the precinct, Elliot texts her. You okay?

She waits a while to respond, thinking she should probably just tell him that she's fine, but first she has to work up the strength to force that lie through her fingertips.

Twenty minutes proves too long for her to have waited, though, because that's all the longer it is before there's a knock at her door. "Elliot," she sighs, trying to smile as she pulls her door open for him.

He steps in, grinning as he wiggles his phone at her. "I got worried," he tells her.

"I'm fine," she says. It's easier to say it than to type it, but the exhaustion in her voice doesn't help.

"You sick?" he presses.

"No, I—just had a rough night, that's all."

He quiets, and his face changes a little. "Somethin' with the baby?"

She rubs her eyes with the heels of her hands. "Yeah. You know, I kept thinking about what you said—"

"What happened, Liv?"

"They, uh, called me down. The baby's brain was bleeding—badly. They needed permission to operate. And for a while I was frozen—I just couldn't do anything. I just kept thinking about what you said, and I..."

He takes a step closer.

"I told them to go ahead."

The look on his face softens. "Yeah? How'd it go?—"

"She died, Elliot. This little baby that was barely a pound—"

He says nothing but wraps his arms around her.

"Didn't even have a name—"

He pulls her head against his shoulder and holds her there, breathing into her hair.

"You know the worst part? I knew. I knew it was a mistake—I knew it when I told them, but I... I listened to you." She hits him, not hard because she has even less energy than she does room for a wind-up, and it only makes him hold her tighter. "In that moment, I thought, 'Maybe he's right—I don't get it because I'm not a parent,' so I told them to go ahead," she chokes out, her voice muffled by his coat. With this admission, her resolve breaks, and her body shakes with her stuttering breaths as she tries not to cry.

"I'm sorry," he says. It's inadequate, but it's something.

"Her tiny body couldn't handle the stress," Olivia tells him. "They got a shunt in, but... she went into cardiac arrest afterwards." She takes a deep breath. "They tried to resuscitate, but..."

He rubs her back, sways her.

It's silent for a moment as she settles into his hold. "What will I tell Gladys?" she asks, an edge of horror in her voice.

"The doctors did everything they could," he says simply. "It's what she wanted."

Olivia squirms in his arms, and he releases her enough to look her in the eye. She is dubious of how easy it was for him to say that, but his proximity and his stern gaze have her transfixed.

"And you did everything you could for that little girl," he observes. "Don't beat yourself up for that."

"I feel so empty," she confesses, finally looking away from him. She fixates on his shoulder instead. "What if that's the closest I ever come to having a child?" she blurts mechanically, seemingly unaware that she has said it out loud.

"It won't be," he answers firmly, and his voice is so unexpected that it immediately draws her attention. "I promise."

She studies him as if she were calculating something deeply private. "Can you do something for me?" she asks at last.

"Whatever you need," he tells her, and his acquiescence spurs something within her.

"You mean it?"

His eyelids flutter, his jaw tenses, and she could swear his pupils dilate. "You know I do."

Her heart starts thundering in her chest, and it's almost enough for her to send him home right now—just to be reminded that she's alive and can feel things. "Whatever?" she repeats, gasping as she slides a shaky hand around Elliot's torso.

He nods solemnly, watching her carefully as she moves both hands down his body.

One hand slides to his inner thigh. His breathing has become labored in just these few moments. "You can tell me to stop," she tells him.

He leans forward into her just a fraction. "I'm not going to," he says.

Her eyes flick to his for reassurance, and he nods once. In response, she steps aside and indicates her couch with a tilt of her head. He looks at it, glances back to her, then goes to it and sits after removing his coat. She follows immediately and stands in front of him, still not quite sure how to get what she needs. Finally she points at his feet and then at the other end of the couch. He obeys wordlessly and turns to stretch his legs down the length of the sofa without so much forethought as to remove his shoes.

She meets his feet and unties and pulls off his shoes for him then steps back to inspect the scene. She feels him watching her.

Olivia steps forward again, taps Elliot's knee, and gestures upward. He pulls his knees up and leans forward to rest his elbows on them. Unconsciously, Olivia makes a face and shakes her head then waves her partner down the couch.

With a small frown, Elliot scrabbles awkwardly across the cushions until he is roughly centered on the couch and Olivia motions for him to stop. He watches her curiously as again she steps back to think.

She approaches again and puts a firm hand on his shoulder. She pushes until he yields, and then he's lying on his back, staring up at her, knees still bent at ninety degrees.

She lowers herself to the floor beside the couch and reaches for Elliot's crotch. His legs fall open as she rubs him. She hears him groan, and one of his hands suddenly grips her shoulder, massaging it in rhythm with her own strokes. When she turns to look at him, to tell him to stop, he has his other arm draped over his face, and she decides to let it go, returning her full attention to the firm flesh beneath her fingers.

When Elliot's slacks seem to grow too tight, Olivia unclasps the belt, opens the fly, and struggles to slide both pants and briefs down and over Elliot's ass. She succeeds in getting them to mid-thigh, and when she returns to her previous task, she discovers that Elliot has taken it over for himself and is slowly tugging at his own cock. For a moment, she freezes. It wasn't supposed to be like this. She's still not entirely sure what she had been expecting, but it wasn't this. She is so terrified that he might be looking at her that she refuses to even turn her head in his direction. Instead, she stares at his knees, then at the enticing glide of his hand, as she tries to figure out her next move.

She knows now what she needs, but she also understands with equal clarity that it borders on desire, and she won't let Elliot see that. She won't make him unfaithful to his wife. Yes, she will use him for what she needs, but it won't be anything more than that to either of them. She refuses to let it get personal. Without a word, she spins away from the couch and disappears into her bedroom.

She returns a few minutes later in her silk robe and is glad to find that Elliot has continued his efforts in her absence and has instinctively pulled his shirttails out of the way. She still hasn't looked at him past his navel, but from the soft whoa he utters, she assumes he has noticed the change in her attire.

Before she can second-guess herself, she gets down to business—because that it what it is: the business of satisfying a need. Nothing else. Still standing over him, she reaches for his cock, shooing his hand away, and reassumes control of the heavy appendage.

Without warning, then, Olivia straddles her partner, who responds with a surprised oomph! and a small jolt. She tucks one leg into the crease of the sofa where the seat meets the back but leaves the other extended, foot on the floor, for stability. Positioned over his stomach, she's not yet resting her full weight on him, but she completely blocks his view of his lower half. She knows that all he can see is her back, and it gives her some comfort. And courage.

Knowing that he can't see her, she continues to stroke him with one hand, and with the other, she reaches for her center. Elliot also can't see that she's not wearing a stitch underneath her robe. She slides a finger between her folds and tries to feign surprise to herself about just how wet she is. Without thinking, she switches hands on Elliot's dick and only realizes her small error when he moans behind her—no doubt at the unexpected moisture.

Enough is enough at last, and she shifts forward incrementally until she's right there, her aching lips just touching his base. When she releases him, his rigid length springs back and pulses against her, and she takes a moment to collect herself.

Bracing herself with one hand and forearm across his upraised knees, she grips him again in her other hand and holds him still. She rises off of his pelvis and tilts her hips to align him between her folds. Then, still holding him steady, she slowly sinks onto him.

"Oh, Olivia," he moans behind her, and she feels his hands go to her silk-covered hips. His thumbs stroke down the globes of her two ass cheeks, and he moans louder when she lifts herself a few inches, and louder still when she sinks again.

She removes her hand from his cock and wipes her fingers dry on his bare thigh before moving to brace herself with both hands on his knees—doesn't want to leave a mess he can't explain on his clothes. She pulls herself up and down steadily, rocking sporadically to make sure he reaches where she needs him most.

And this, she knows, was the only solution. For the first time since the baby had died—for the first time in much, much longer, really—she doesn't feel empty. She doesn't feel empty at all. Elliot fills her in a way that her fingers, a toy, another man, never could. It's not just physical. She thinks of kissing Dean Porter on this very couch and how "feelings don't matter." Tears come to her eyes—whether from ecstasy, from guilt, from the crushing realization that she will never have this with anyone else, she is not sure. But suddenly, and silently, she is crying.

Behind her, Elliot grips her hips more firmly and pulls her down, holds her against him, rocks her forward and back. She wants to tell him to let her go, that this isn't about him, but she doesn't trust her voice right now. He changes his tactics, though, and holds her steady while he bucks into her from below, and at that, she does bat his hands away and regain control of the situation, arching her back as she rises and falls above him.

He gets the message—maybe—because it's a few moments before his hands return to her body. They slide up her back almost to her shoulders, then, with splayed fingers, back to her hips and forward along her thighs. From there they travel to her abdomen and up her ribcage. Behind her, he struggles to sit up, and Olivia gasps despite herself and removes her hands from his knees, throwing her head back as he shifts inside her. He can reach her breasts from his new position, and he slides his hands up under them, respecting the thin boundary of the robe as he takes their weight into his palms.

She shudders when his thumbs brush over her nipples, and her arms flail, looking for support. One lands on the back of the couch, the other behind her on Elliot's abdomen, which she feels tense further to support the new pressure. She rocks her hips again, and with a grunt, he releases her breasts and falls back to the couch.

She hears him panting behind her, and now that she has succeeded in getting his hands off her, she returns hers to his knees and picks up her pace a little. Somehow, she manages to maneuver herself even farther down his shaft than ever before, and he moans loudly again when she holds herself there. "Oh, Olivia, I love y—"

"Shh!" she cuts him off sharply. Everything seems to stop. Blood pounds in her ears. "No," she tells him firmly.

He doesn't say anything in response, doesn't ask any questions or try to argue. He is silent, except for his raspy breathing, and she waits a moment to see what he will do. She wants to know before she decides whether to resume.

He lies motionless under her, hands to himself. She slowly lifts herself almost completely off of him but then lowers herself again. He shudders but doesn't speak, doesn't reach for her.

She continues.

He's silent except for a few grunts until, after a few minutes, he quietly warns her, "Liv, I'm close." Her pace doesn't change, though, and after a moment, his warning is more forceful: "I'm really close!" In response, she drops a hand to his balls and lightly strokes them, and it's all over. "Oh, God, Olivia!" he howls as he unloads into her.

She stays impaled on him for a moment longer, circling her hips once and pulling an aftershock from him. Then she stands abruptly and turns away from the couch, walking around it in a wide arc to avoid seeing him. Her strides come from the knee, her thighs held tightly together, and she hopes that if he notices, he assumes only that she's trying to avoid a mess. She swings by the kitchen bar to get a used dishtowel which she tosses back to him on the couch without a word.

In her room, she closes the door and goes immediately to the bathroom, where she starts the shower, hoping to send the message that he should leave. She doesn't get in, though.

Back in her bedroom, Olivia listens at her door and hears movement in the other room, even over the noise of the water: the shuffle and clump of shoes, the faint click of a belt buckling, a throat being cleared.

When she is convinced that he is leaving, she drags her dusty yoga mat out from under the dresser, lies down on it, and slowly raises herself into a shoulder stand. She closes her eyes and rests, relaxing a little more when her apartment door opens and closes, and utter silence follows.