Author's Note: I think this is a bit of change from some of the other post eps I've seen on this episode. I sure hope you like it and I sure hope you let me know what you think!

" ) Bensler

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Chapter 7 – Wildlife

November 18

Sight. All of his senses seemed to be on high alert. All except his sight, that is. He could not even open his eyes. The lids were heavy and unyielding to his demands to lift and allow him to view the unfamiliar surroundings. He wanted to see where he was because he knew it was not somewhere he should be. He needed to be able to see her, to know she was all right, uninjured, to know if she were still here.

Sounds. Footsteps in the hall. Rubber soles squeaking along the highly polished linoleum mingled with the sharp click of high heels, and the deep thud of boots. Voices, in whispers, quiet interspersed with crackling pages over an intercom system. Someone laughs out. Shifting, he tried to sit up. There is a loud hiss and the steady beep he hears becomes faster. Much faster. Something stirs in his foggy brain, but he cannot place the sound. Someone is talking to him. His eyes still will not cooperate. It is as though they are glued shut. The words do not make sense. He cannot process them. In the background, a television's volume is turned low and the voices followed by laughter leads him to believe something is funny. What – he has no idea. The sounds are familiar, but he cannot place them.

Taste. His mouth was dry, his lips sticking together, painfully peeling the thin, cracking skin when he opens them to run his tongue along them. His throat ached and was scratchy. Was he sick? The faint taste of hot buffalo wings and stale beer lingered in his mouth. Had he been at a bar? Was there a scuffle? Why could he not remember? The taste was not terribly bad, but neither was it good. He wanted something to drink. A new taste to erase this one. Water. Water would do. And maybe it would ease his throat.

Smells. Antibacterial soap, the sterile scent of new bandages, disinfectant. A whiff of latex as someone adjusts the tubing under his nose. Is this oxygen? Yes, he answers himself as his mind begins to climb from the murkiness that has such a grip on him. A woman's cologne. It's all wrong. The scent. It's not her. Her smell was on him earlier. Invading his nostrils, becoming one with his skin, the familiar smell comforting. The nurse as she fluffs the pillow and helps situate him leaves behind the slight mint of toothpaste, and a heavy, floral fragrance that is too sweet, too flowery. It makes him nauseous and he turns his head away from the smell hanging in the air around him. He wants her smell to overcome this one.

Touch. Someone's deft fingers upon his arm, changing the IV. Other hands dance across his chest, changing the dressings. Pain. There is pain in his chest and his upper left arm. Why is there pain? Why is he here? The cold metal of a stethoscope as someone…a doctor…places it in various places across his chest to listen to his heartbeat. It is beating. He feels it. He is still alive. Why is he surprised to be alive? Slowly, things come back to him. Gunshots. Two. Then his breath halts as panic seizes him. Is she okay? She was there. Yes. But she was okay. Right? Yes. It was later that she came. He was certain she came later. After he was shot. She called his name. She touched him, stroked his head. He wanted to reach out and touch her; reassure her he was okay. He tried to speak. Words would not come. He wanted to call for her. But he could not create any coherent sound. He thought he felt her name upon his lips before the blackness stole her from him.

Her presence. He felt her. He knew she was there. He always knew when she was near.

Her voice. Husky. Thick with emotion. Breaking. Cracking.

Her cologne. Enticing. Fresh and clean. Not overpowering. Simply her.

Her touch. Warm. Causes fire to fill his veins. He is once again alive.

A soft hand grips his arm and slides down to his hand, intertwining fingers with his. He knows it is her. He does not miss the unspoken meaning of this. Two lives so enmeshed, so entangled in the other, there is no survival apart from each other. Not really. And he knows. He knows she feels the same as he does. Feelings both of them know lie just below the surface. The intensity of which frightens them both. Feelings that have, for too long, been forbidden. Are still forbidden. Yet…she said something…or was it only his imagination, his mind impaired first by pain, and then pain medication.

The fear in her voice was unmistakable, 'This is Olivia Benson, Manhattan SVU. I need a bus. Officer down.' Through the tears in her voice he heard her brittle tone as she called his name, barely a whisper, 'Elliot…Elliot.' He tried to say her name and he thinks he did but he doubts it was audible.

Vague images flit across the screen of his mind. Real or imagined, he was not certain. The violent rattling of doorknob. Someone is angry, trying to get in. Hollering. Calling a strange name. Mike? Where was he? He does not know this place. The room is unfamiliar to him. But she was there, too. At his side. Like always. Yes, she had been there before the shooting. And after. The panic filling her face must have reflected what he felt at the loud voices thundering on the other side of the trembling door. He knew something was wrong. He shoved something into her hand as he pushed her toward the back of the house. To safety. A cell phone? Yes. She had given him her cell phone because someone had taken his. They…the voices…had taken his. Why, he wondered?

His mind would not stop spinning, yet he was tired. So tired. His eyes were closed and he wanted to see nothing. Remember nothing. He wanted to rest. But the images, the memories would not stop. The sound of a toilet flushing and strong arms shoving him toward the sound now confused him. She was supposed to be quiet, not draw attention to herself. That much he did understand. That much he remembered. Another hard shove caused him to lose his balance and stumble across the bed.

More images assaulted his memory. Regaining his balance, he saw her coming out of the bathroom. Her blouse was gone. Only her bra and jeans remained. What in heaven's name is she doing? He had never seen her in this state of undress. Though he had imagined plenty, he was unable to truly look at her. He knew he would never be able to function normally again with her by his side if his gaze remained too long. But it was already too late. Already the image of her in the sheer, plum colored bra was permanently stamped onto the memory board of his brain. Every bit as beautiful as she was in his imaginations, he knew he would never forget the sight before him.

'Ooh, are you ready for me, Daddy?' She is walking toward him.

Not just toward him, to him. He grins self-consciously at the men as he tries gallantly to avert his gaze, to not see her bare olive skin, to not play out the thoughts he has struggled against for years. And especially since Gitano. Since the day he finally faced the fact that he loved her. Not as his partner and his best friend. He loved her. As a woman. That day he came face to face with the knowledge that he was in love with her.

Now, the heat of her body pressing against his is overwhelming. He is torn between his need to pull her into his arms and the need to stave off the danger they are apparently facing. To protect her. But her cologne…its sweet, clean fragrance is clinging to his body, filling his head…even now laying in the hospital, wounded, he catches a hint of it. He still wants to bury his head against hers until her smell becomes his, and his hers.

'Oh, didn't know we were havin' a party… that's gonna be $100 to watch, $250 to join… each!' she looks over her shoulder smiling seductively at the two other men in the room.

What is that accent? And is she nuts? He wants to holler at her and shake her until she realizes the danger she has put herself in. What if they decide to take her up on the offer? What does she think they will do then? What does she think he would do? Does she think he could possibly survive if they sexually assaulted her? Or worse?

She is touching him now. They do not touch. And especially not like this. Ever. She wraps her arms under his, her hands coming up over his shoulder, caressing him. He remembers a time they did touch. A time when they stood almost just like this, their bodies melded together. Their emotions raging in turmoil. After the accident when he was so thankful to see she was not injured, he had pulled her into his arms and held her. And he never wanted to let her go then. But it was different. Then there had been layers and layers of material between them. Tonight there were no barriers. Tonight it was skin on skin.

She is wrapping her arm around his shoulder and her body is flush against him, bare skin touching bare skin. He cannot even make himself put his arm around her. To willingly touch her would be more than he deserved, and much more than he could handle. There were too many points of contact as it were. It is almost more than he can take but she is pulling him to her and rocking him back and forth as she whispers in his right ear. Be still. Please. He just wants her to be still. What!? What did she say?

'Elliot, just play along…' her breath was hot in his ear. If this had been another time, another situation, if he had been a free man…

She is speaking again, the words rushed, 'In case we don't make it out of here…you gotta know…I'm in love you, El…I love you…you hear me? I love you.' Placing a brief kiss on the side of his face, she resumed her role as the prostitute.

Now both of her arms are around his neck, 'Why so tense?' Her right hand is running down his chest and it feels like fire is trailing from her fingers. She just told him she was in love with him…they are in danger…she is rubbing against him…half-dressed…and she wonders why he is so tense? His mind is reeling from her words, her touch.

He said something to her, didn't he? What was it? Oh, yeah…he just wanted to get her out of there. Out of danger. He wanted her gone so he could deal with Bushido and Tybor.

Names. He remembers names. Slowly, his memory is returning.

'Umm…not tonight,' he told her all the while wishing she would pull away from him or at least be still against him.

She pulled back from him, 'Well, guess what? You still have to pay,' she chuckled softly, playing her self-imposed role to the tee.

Suddenly, he is cold. She has been ripped from his arms and he is denied the heat of her body. He watches in fear as Tybor, his gun trained on her, pulls her out of the bedroom. She looks over her shoulder just as they exit the door; he cannot see her eyes, but he knows she was looking for him to 'talk' to him. He knows this because he needs to do the same thing.

Bushido is motioning for him to follow them. Elliot watches as Olivia is alternately dragged and pushed down the hallway. He wishes there was something he could do to protect her without blowing his cover. Cover? That's it! He was undercover! He is Mike. Somehow they had been drawn into the illegal wildlife trade. He wishes Tybor would not touch her. Then she is out the front door trying to put her blouse on, her jacket in hand. And he, at last, feels relief. Relief that they have believed her act and allowed her to leave unharmed. She is safe.

The feel of the hand in his is comforting and he has become aware that her thumb is rubbing a soft line up and down his thumb. He knows it is her. He feels her presence. He still cannot get his eyes to open. He wants to see her, to let her know he is okay and that he will be forever grateful that she was there for him. He tries to caress her hand, too.

"Detective Benson? There's a phone call for you at the nurse's desk," he hears a voice say quietly from the doorway. He wants to open his eyes; they flutter but remain closed.

She responded, "I'll be right there," and slowly disengaged her hand from his.

He thought he held onto hers tightly…he tried…but suddenly the warmth was gone. Her warmth. Then he felt the soft touch of her lips against his forehead. As she leaned across him, the scent of her cologne, muted by the day, drifted over him.

"El, I won't be long," she whispered.

He had to wake up. Completely. He had to see her.

Finally. He does. After what seemed like an eternity later, but in reality was only a few minutes, she had returned. Her tall, lithe figure appears before him. He had finally been able to open his eyes and even managed to sit up in bed. She was at the doorway and stopped when she saw him sitting.

Relief washed over her expression and she grinned, "You're supposed to duck."

"You were supposed to leave," he retorted, grinning sheepishly at her.

"Yeah, well, when my partner hangs out with scumbags, I like to stick around and see what happens," she grinned back and he thought she blinked tears from her eyes.

The Olivia that revealed her feelings to him as she stood half dressed, her body pressed against his; the Olivia that held his head in her hands as she waited for the emergency crew; the Olivia that moments ago entwined her fingers with his when he was unconscious; the Olivia that just a short time ago kissed his forehead, is gone. And just like that they are back to the old Olivia and Elliot. Back to being partners. Best friends. Bantering back and forth. Teasing. Benson and Stabler.

With no warning, the look between them grows serious as their smiles fade away. Instantly, the air is thick with heavy emotion and silent words crashing into each other around them. Neither seems to be able to speak aloud as they stare at one another silently, yet saying so much with their eyes. The still forbidden feelings swirling around them like a vortex waiting to pick them up and suck them into its dark abyss.

The awkwardness of the moment causes her to begin to fidget, twisting her watch around and around on her wrist. She begins to shift her weight from one foot to the other. She repeatedly pokes her falling bangs behind her ear. She looks broken and he wants to put her back together. He knows she is about to bolt. To run as she always does when things get too intense, too emotional, too complicated between them.

He beats her to the punch and motions for her to come to him and then pats the bed beside him. Her mouth falls open, her eyes widen in disbelief, her left eyebrow arching quizzically, but she does not protest. Instead, she takes a step toward him; then another and another until she is at his beside. Still fidgeting, still silent, she stands self-consciously before him.

She makes no move to sit, so he reaches up to grasp her left wrist and pulls her down to his side. He does not release her hand and this time he is the one that winds his fingers around hers. He looks at their joined hands. Her long, slender, slightly tanned fingers, soft against his larger, thicker fingers, roughened and scarred from years of fighting perps and lockers, feels right. It feels right and he thinks he could do this forever. He could sit here and just hold her hand and be satisfied that she was here. At his side. With him.

Slowly he lifts his eyes to her and sees she is staring at their hands, too. He is struck that she seems mesmerized by such a simple act. She is aware that he is staring at her, but she does not look at him. He is content to feel her hand in his and to watch her face as conflicting emotions run across her features.

When she finally speaks, her voice is so soft he has to strain to hear her. "We don't do this, El," she whispered.

"What?" he asks though he knows what she is talking about and grips her hand tighter as he places his other hand on top of them. "What don't we do?"

"This," she raises her eyes to meet his and they are brimming with tears.

"Why is that, Liv? Why is it that we keep avoiding this?" he did not know what he was doing. Why he was saying these things; encouraging the discussion of these forbidden subjects when he was still with Kathy? When he had a one year old and four other kids.

"Elliot, don't. We…we… c-can't do this," she tried to pull her hand from his, but he held tight.

He managed to pull her down to him so they were face to face, her brown eyes huge, terror filled as he searched them to know he was not imagining what he heard earlier, "Liv…you told me something in that house. You told me that…"

She turned away from him, trying once again to get away. Desperate to get away. "Elliot, please…please," she begged.

"No," he hissed. "I know what you said, Olivia. And I want you to know that I…" his voice was deep and ragged and tore at her heart.

"Don't say it, Elliot. It serves no purpose," now she looked him boldly in the face.

"No purpose?" his face crumpled into a mixture of incredulity, hurt and anger. "Then why? Why did you say it?"

She bit her lower lip and sighed. "Because it's the truth. Elliot…I told you that because…because…I really d-didn't think we were going to get out of there alive…and I…I…wanted you to hear me say it before it was too late," she whispered as her eyes burned into his.

"Then why can't I say it to you? It's true, you know. It's been true for years, Liv, I do," his eyes now watered and a tear tickled his cheek but he would not release her to wipe at it.

"I know…I know you do and it tears my heart out, Elliot. If I heard you say it aloud…it would…would only hurt that much more. So, please…don't," she struggled to maintain a steady voice, but when she looked back at him and saw the tears flowing down his face, she lost it.

The tears now streamed down her face as well and he had to say something. "Liv, you mean everything to me…"

"Elliot…" she warned. "You're married. Okay? You're married and you don't say these things other women."

She was right. He knew she was right. He had gone back to Kathy because she was pregnant. Now he stayed with her because of Eli. They still fought. All the time. About his job, the hours he put in, the family time he missed. The fiasco with Kathleen had nearly busted them up again. Kathy still had not forgiven him for he had done.

He was miserable and so was Kathy and they made everyone around them miserable, but they stuck to their vows. No matter how wretched their marriage, they kept their vows. He knew he had to give it his best shot. And he would. But he knew they would not last. It was a matter of time before she would leave him again. Or maybe…maybe this time he would have the courage to be the one to say it was not working. To be the one to leave. Maybe now Olivia's words would provide the courage he needed to make a decision.

"There's only one woman I want to say it to, Olivia," he corrected.

"Elliot…please," she begged.

"Okay…okay…but if you won't let me tell you how I feel, can I at least show you?" he asked quietly.

Bewildered at his request, she stared mutely at him.

"Can I hold you? Just for a little while?" he pleaded softly.

The look on his face was irresistible and against her better judgment, she nodded her head ever so slightly. He released her enough to put his arm around her shoulder and pull her down to him.

His eyes closed as he felt her settled onto the bed and mold her body to his. He wound his hands through her hair and buried his face in the soft, brown silk and inhaled the sweetness of her. Her hand was warm as it worked its way between the pillow and his neck, her fingers lightly caressing the knots, her fingers strong yet gentle. Her right hand cupped his left cheek and he slid one of his hands from her hair to cover it.

With her in his arms, he relaxed. He was more content to hold Olivia than he thought he had ever been in his entire life.

Pure and simple, he loved this woman. And one day…one day he was going to tell her that she meant everything to him. That she was his air and water and blood. That he loved her, was in love with her.

One day, he swore to himself, he was going to tell her, 'I love you, Liv.'

And she was going to let him.

~ ~ ~ eoeoeoeoeo ~ ~ ~