Olivia finally feels rested. Finally. For a moment she relishes the delightful effect of the comforting embrace of tranquility, of being warm and relaxed, and of having no other worries than simply remaining asleep. A shock of lucidity rips through her when she remembers her last conscious moments—Wilson on top of her prone body throwing fisted clouts to her head—Elliot staying at her place while he recuperates—and her muscles tense in recollection of the pain and fear and the resounding worry.
A hand clutches her left forearm and a voice erupts at her side, but she is in such a state of panic that she doesn't hear any of the words, just that it is a man's voice and that Wilson is trying to kill her and that she must have been unconscious for some time to make her feel this restored. She pushes at the grip as forcefully as she can and lets out a sharp cry, putting her hands up to her chin in a defensive position, ready to fight.
"Liv, Liv, Liv…it's okay," the man says, taking hold of her face with both palms against her cheeks. The voice is familiar and comforting, but the gentle, reassuring action doesn't correlate with who he is and it feels all too alien. "You're okay," he continues, using his thumbs to stroke her face delicately. The edge of his finger skims the sensitive spot under her right eye. She grimaces. "Liv, look at me."
She realizes then that she has not yet opened her eyes, and when she does, she immediately notices Elliot looming over her. His presence puts her at ease and she allows herself to calm down her frazzled nerves. She no longer feels as though she is in a threatened position with him at her side. She also realizes that the lights above her are far too bright and that her vision is slightly skewed, as she is seeing doubles. That can't be good.
"El," she whispers, bringing her fingers up to cover her eyes.
He moves his hands to her shoulders, cautious yet intimate. "You okay there, partner? You need anything?"
Olivia clears her throat. "Yeah, can you turn these damn lights down?"
"Sure," he responds and the weight of his embrace leaves her arms as he obliges to her request. The intense brightness of the overhead bulb goes out and she removes her fingers. The only available light source is the built-in lamp that illuminates her bed, but it doesn't bother her, so she decides it is acceptable.
"Thanks."
Elliot answers in a sigh as he returns to her side and sits in the chair next to her.
She's in the hospital.
That means someone came to her rescue. Somewhere in her subconscious she recalls the memory of Wilson's filthy hands pushing up her shirt for what she presumes to be his opportunity to victimize her. She squeezes her eyes shut, and the action causes a barb of pain to flare up at her swollen right cheekbone. "What happened?"
Elliot moves around restlessly and takes a few seconds to respond. "Munch and Fin found you pinned under Wilson in one of the library conference rooms, about ready to use his knife on you. They were able to get him to disarm himself and he went into custody without any resistance."
She turns and looks at him with a driving intensity. She will accept whatever his answer is to her question, regardless of what it makes her become. She can handle victims of sexual assault and their grieving families, she can handle the sickest perps of New York, so she can handle being a victim herself. "Did he…?" Despite her resolve, she cannot seem to finish her inquiry. Did he rape me?
He shakes his head, folding his arms and she watches his physical ministrations for deception even though she knows he'd never lie to her about something this serious. "No. He didn't even get a chance, Liv." She lets out a relieved breath that trembles a little.
A couple of heartbeats pass before she speaks again. "So, what's the prognosis? Concussion?"
"You took some hits to the head, but they didn't see any fractures or internal bleeding. There was some underlying hematoma and your eye is swollen, but you were very fortunate. Not a lot of damage was done."
"How long was I out?" She tests the back of her head and feels a protruding, painful bump.
"A few hours."
"Jesus," she mutters, then lets her gaze sweep his form. Her focus is better now, and there is no longer two Elliots dancing before her, only one solemn, unmoving figure in his seat looking dark and pensive. He seems tired. "How are you feeling?"
"Me?" he asks, surprised. "I'm fine."
"How long ago did you take your medication, El?"
He laughs quietly, coughs, and shakes his head. "Don't worry, I've been a good boy. I forgot the pills back at your place, but the nurses were nice and gave me a booster."
"Good."
Elliot leans forward, the smile gone and a disconsolate grimace in place. She watches him stare at his hands just before he takes one of hers into his own. She cannot help but feel that the act is still strange for them. When did they start holding hands? When did they start touching each other at all in general? He has been off-limits territory to her for such a long time, even when he'd announced unceremoniously that he and Kathy were getting divorced and it was suddenly all right to do so. She'd respected his boundaries, however, and never pursued anything for the sake of their partnership. She didn't even let her glances linger too long on him. He always seems to know that her eyes are on him-he almost always knowingly meets her stare.
"This is my fault," he says out of thin air.
She is struck dumb for a brief second. "How is this your fault, Elliot?"
"If you weren't so worried about taking care of me, you'd've had a clearer head and could have avoided getting hurt."
"Elliot," Olivia says, giving him a funny look. "You didn't do anything to me. Wilson got the drop on me because I wasn't paying close enough attention."
"You should have been more focused on work. If you weren't so distracted by this chicken pox shit, this—" he indicates her wounds with a gesture of his hand, "-wouldn't have happened."
"Who else would make sure you were okay?"
"I can take care of myself, Liv."
She lets a side-long grin grace her lips. "Really? Because you sure seemed pretty clueless when I dropped in that first night. And if I hadn't've dragged you to the ER, you'd probably have gone into septic shock by now."
He fails to read her dry humor. "My point is if you weren't so worried about taking care of my stupid ass, you wouldn't have been so exhausted."
"Elliot," she says as a warning. He allows his thumb to run along her knuckles, and a fluttering begins to erupt in her abdomen.
"In all reality, I should have been there to back you up."
"You can't control being sick, El."
"Okay, but it's my responsibility to protect you." His eyes convey an sincerity that softens the edges of her sarcastic grin. She knows that his concept of duty is what defines him—he will do anything to keep those that he cares about most safe.
"You won't be able to defend me all the time." Something about this conversation seems reminiscent of their hospital conversation about a year ago, right before she'd transferred out of SVU because of the emotional conflict between her and Elliot. Despite a couple decades of both military combat experience and police work, he'd placed too much emphasis on protecting her when he should have saved little Ryan Clifford's life—the boy had been a few feet away, but he'd made the decision to scramble to her side when he'd seen blood soaking through her fingers as she'd gripped her neck.
Olivia bites her lip. She tries to avoid thinking about that awful day. Elliot had never forgiven himself, and had even become hostile to her, accusing her of taking away his attention from what was most important—placing the culpability at her feet, as if the boy's inevitable death was her fault somehow. She recalls the singe of hurt and the spring of tears in her eyes when he had unleashed his anger on her in front of everyone at the precinct. His control had been razor thin at that point.
It had almost been a relief of sorts to join forces with the FBI. Her stint as Persephone James had landed her in a place she never imagined—all the way across the country, in the clutches of a group of crunchy, beard-friendly, eco-maniacal domestic terrorists. Hillsden was the farm-friendly suburb of hipster Portland, and the place had been the epitome of laidback West Coast complacency. No one was ever in a hurry, green living was a religion, and almost everyone she encountered was stoned.
After a few days of impersonating the life of the tomato-growing eco-terrorist, she'd missed the rush of New York, the unique assemblage of ritzy skyscrapers, expensive brownstones, and depressing ghettos, but she had mostly missed Elliot, even all of that brooding intensity and fiery rage. She'd dreamt of him nearly every night, even attempted to call him, but had never had the guts to talk when he'd answered.
Olivia brings herself to present and adjusts her bed so that she is in a sitting position. She meets his gaze and she searches his expression. "I don't blame you, Elliot."
"I can't stand to see you get hurt."
"You've seen me get injured before. It's all part of the job." She's feeling apprehensive, uneasy, and suddenly their partnership seems finite whereas before she'd never even considered what the end would be like.
"I know," he nods, holding her gaze until she decides to look away.
"What the hell is going on with you, Elliot?"
The emotion in his façade fades into impassivity and she immediately regrets her hasty words. "Things have changed."
"What?"
"It's different between us."
She barks an exasperated laugh. "How have things changed between us? Because I took care of you when you were sick? How many times have we done the same for each other?"
His mouth thins to a frustrated line. "You know what I'm talking about." He pulls his hand away from hers and leans back, folding his arms defiantly and the action makes her aggravated.
"No I don't," she says stubbornly, thinking instantly of their nights lying next to one another, cuddling, even awakening to their bodies spooning. Her face blushes in recollection of the heat and yearning she'd felt when he had pulled her to him. She remembers the solid wall of his chest and stomach and the gentleness of his hand on her hip.
Olivia tugs the cannula from her nose and winces when she uses too many of her facial muscles. She curses Wilson silently for pushing her headlong into the damn chair and using her head for boxing practice.
"I think you know exactly what I'm talking about." Elliot is narrowing his eyes, appearing smug.
"Want to fill me in here, El? I'm not sure we're on the same wave length."
Elliot's chin ducks and he chews his bottom lip. He's seriously contemplating something, and she's not entirely sure she'll be happy with the outcome, especially with the muted grimness of his mannerisms. This does not look good. Olivia thinks of his words before retreating outside of Rebecca Clifford's hospital room, that she and the job were the only things holding him together—that they couldn't be partners if they kept letting their personal feelings interfere with the job. She suddenly fears what he has to say, almost wills him to stay quiet, to forget the past week and a half.
"Elliot—" she says in a small voice, but she is cut off when he pushes forward from his seat and grabs her chin, earnestly pressing his mouth to hers. She is initially dazed, lips and body stiff with surprise. She tries to gage his response to this spontaneous decision, but his expression is hidden by closed lids. He cups her left cheek with his other hand and she lets her eyes slip shut, softens her mouth. She grasps the soft fabric of his sweatshirt and pulls him closer. She has been kissed many times in her life by a wide array of men of various different physiques and backgrounds, and she remembers make out sessions that left her swooning, but she cannot recall ever feeling so ablaze with desire before. The feeling is heady and drowns her with the fierce hunger that has always been simmering below the surface.
He brings her bottom lip into his mouth as she holds his shirt. She moans a little when his tongue nudges her parted lips and she obliges to his silent request for permission to let him in. The intensity grows and soon their teeth are colliding, tongues taking and receiving, hands roaming. Her lips are tingling when he pulls away and she feels disappointed by how cold she is without him against her.
She opens her eyes and when she sees him, she doesn't notice the ridiculous, scabby chicken pox, but rather the manifestation of longing and panic in his expression. Olivia stares into the face she's looked at for nearly a decade across from her desk, longed for in her most secret of dreams. Fantasized about.
Her skin burns hotly and she hates the self-consciousness and melancholy clawing its way up her spine.
A quick knock on the door to her room startles them both and Olivia grumbles audibly when it swings open and a kindly nurse peeks in.
"Knock, knock," she says in a sing-songy voice and Olivia cringes. "Oh, great! You're awake! Your doctor will be very pleased." The woman enters the room and glances at Elliot before focusing her attention on the patient in the hospital bed. "Elliot, how are you feeling?"
"I'm all right," he says blankly, swiping at his mouth. He gets to his feet.
"Where are you going?" Olivia asks, alarmed.
"I need some air. I'll see you later, Liv. Okay?"
He's gone before another word is spoken. Her jaw hangs ajar and she only notices when the nurse knits her eyebrows in concern.
"Everything okay, Detective?" Her voice is genuinely sympathetic.
Olivia laughs contemptuously and nods after a moment of staring at the door. "Yeah."
Not really.