Elliot is sleeping. You know because you've already peaked through the window and saw his lax body and closed eyes.
Your hand is wrapped around the door handle, but you're frozen. You should leave. You should just turn around and walk back down the hallway. You can't do this.
But Cragen's words swirl around in your head, refusing to silence.
If it were you, he would have been there every second before and after you woke up.
In your heart, you know he's right. No matter what sort of fight you and he had, if you were the one laying in that hospital bed, Elliot would be there for you every second of every day. You would have woken up with his hand wrapped around yours and exhausted blue eyes staring down at you. He would have been so happy to see you awake. You would have had to kick him out to get him to go home, and even then, you doubt that he would.
Your fingers squeeze the door handle. He deserves the same treatment. He at least deserves to see you. You suck in a shaking breath, and before you can convince yourself to leave, push it open.
The light in the room is on and there's a half-empty plate of breakfast on the table next to him. He didn't mean to fall asleep- you can tell by the way his head is lolled to the side, the blanket is thrown off of him and his arms are slack by his sides. He looks peaceful. There's still an I.V. in his arm, but it's disconnected. Most of the machines that you've grown used to seeing next to him have disappeared. The gray t-shirt he wears is baggy and loose, emphasizing all the weight he's lost. He looks so small.
You swallow hard. Small- a word you never thought you'd use to describe him.
His jaw twitches. You think for a moment about running as fast as you can towards the exit, but you remain frozen where you stand, watching him as he slowly begins to wake. His eyes open and almost immediately catch yours.
"Liv," he murmurs. He blinks hard, like he doesn't believe it's really you standing in the doorway of his room.
You're being pulled in two completely different directions- part of you needs to close the distance between you and him and take him into your arms, let the tears fall, tell him how much you desperately needed him over the past few months. The other wants to slide back through the hospital room door, run, and never walk into this room again. You can't hear him stutter and struggle with his words. You can't see him crumble from one of the overpowering migraines your captain told you about.
But he's staring at you with his wide, sparkling blue eyes, looking so happy and relieved that you can't walk back through that door. His eyes… you're almost unsettled by how exactly the same they look as before the shooting. Like almost three months doesn't sit between today and the last time you sat with him and had an actual conversation.
"Hey, El," you whisper finally.
The distance between the two of you is slowly closing. Your eyes do not leave his body- his set jaw, the way he sits up on his own even as the bed behind his back offers support, his baggy blue sweatpants and hospital socks, the messy sheets beneath him and the blanket thrown to one side. You can just imagine him throwing it off of himself with disgust. He's always hated hospitals. You can imagine how terribly he wants to get out of here.
You mean to sit in the chair beside him, but instead you find yourself perching on the edge of his bed, inches from his warm body. Your face is so close to his- your back nearly brushes against his hip.
This close, you can decipher the emotion in his eyes. They're glistening, wet, but also, at least in part, dull. You never thought you'd be able to see signs of his injuries in something as simple as his eyes. Your heart stings.
His Adam's apple bobs as he stares at you. You watch as his right hand twitches as it rests on the mattress, but other than that, he doesn't move. Doesn't reach for you, even though you knows he wants to.
Your right hand finds his bicep. He doesn't move as you drag your fingertips along the peak of his shoulder, all the way to the seam of his shirt and along the warm skin of his neck. Relief almost immediately pools in the pit of your stomach, and you're amazed by how one simple gesture affects you so much. The hair on his face is rough and tickles your skin as you gently palm his cheek.
Before you know it, your arm is wrapped around his back and you're pulling him close. His head falls against your shoulder and you take the deepest breath since this nightmare started. His body is so warm. You feel the muscles in his arms as he wraps one of them around you, his breath against the skin of your neck. Your body slackens against him with complete and utter relief- he's alright. Thank God he's breathing, he's holding you back instead of pushing you away and calling you out for the terrible partner you've been. He's actually holding you and you wish you could just stay in this moment forever. Never have to deal with why he's laying in this bed. Never see him experience any more pain. Never have to wade through the complexities of your relationship with him. Just sit here with him in your arms and forget the fucked up things that have led you and him here and what you have to do to fix everything.
But you can't do that. So your arms slowly unwind from him and he draws his body away from yours.
"I'm glad," he murmurs, his voice heavy with emotion, "you're here."
"Me too," you whisper. Your hand is still on his shoulder, and you can't find it in you to move it. Instead, you blink hard to get rid of the moisture in your eyes, only to see some gathered in his. God… how could you have waited this long to sit beside him again? How could you even question this moment of absolute relief, of warmth as you sit beside him?
Your arm finally drops off of his shoulder. You immediately feel the loss, and there are many things that you think you should say- how much you missed him. How much you regret that bullshit argument that you had in the bullpen. And most of all, how much you wish that it had been you on that rooftop with him. How much you wish that it was you laying in this bed instead of him.
But you can't get all of those words out. Instead, you ask him about the one thing that you know will make him smile. "See the kids?"
You were right. A broad smile slides across his face and it makes your own lips turn upwards. "Mhm. Doin' great. Kathleen told me 'bout her play." He frowns. "Shit… no… Lizzie."
There it is- you almost choke on air as the relief you'd felt quickly drains away.
He's having trouble processing speech. Thinking of certain words. Putting sentences together. Understanding complex sentences.
When I asked him to read off a sheet of paper, he wasn't able to.
You suddenly remember why you waited so long to come here. He just confused two of the most important people in his life.
"Liv?"
His voice pulls you back to the surface. You still feel like you're going to drown, but his eyes are on you, wide, concerned.
Keep him calm. Keep him calm. He doesn't need this from you right now.
You were expecting this. You knew what was going to happen. You knew what you'd have to face coming here today.
"You okay?"
He has to live like that. Who do you think has it harder?
"I'm fine," you breathe. Your hand squeezes around his as you shove your thoughts as far away as they'll go. "I saw Lizzie's play. It was great, she can't wait for you to see her next one."
He smiles sadly at you. "Wish I hadn't missed this one."
"That wasn't your fault, El," you say. "Lizzie understands. She, Maureen, Kathleen and Dickie are just happy you're alright."
Elliot's eyes won't meet yours. He reaches for the paper cup on the table next to him and takes a sip instead. You watch as he reaches for the pitcher, but his hands are shaking so badly you think he'll drop it before he can fill up his cup.
"Here, let me." Your hand covers his. He lets you take the pitcher and watches as you pour the water. When you hand the cup to him, he takes it.
"Thanks."
But he still won't look at you. You think you see a tint of red on his cheeks, but that's impossible because he's too strong to feel embarrassed like this.
Was too strong.
He takes a long, slow sip of his water. His hands are still shaking. You want to grab them and hold them just so they'll stay still. "El," you whisper. "You know it's not your fault… right?"
"Yeah," he says finally, but his eyes squint as they look past you. You'd spend hours just trying to convince him that this whole mess isn't his fault, that his children love him, that no one should be blamed for this whole mess except the man that pulled a gun on him and perhaps yourself. But you remember Doctor Lima's words- keep him calm. Hearing that comment about Kathleen and Lizzie had almost sent you into a tailspin, you're not sure you can handle any more right now. So instead, you reach over him to grab the television remote on the other side of the bed.
"What do you think? I bet we could find something decent to watch on here."
"You'd be, um… surprised," Elliot grumbles, but you flip through the channels anyway, searching for anything that you know he enjoys as you ignore his hesitation as he tried to find words.
For a while, you reach no such luck. Instead, you and he make fun of the terrible soap operas that are on at this time of the late morning. After a while, Elliot takes the remote from you and flips through each channel himself. He passes most of them with disinterest until he reaches a sports talk program, which he hesitates on. You hate these damn shows. You hate sports, really. But before he has a chance to change the channel, you take the remote back from him and set it down on the table. You're willing to suffer through two men yelling at each other about what team can hit a ball with a stick the most if it keeps him happy.
In the early afternoon, a woman comes in with a tray for his lunch. He drinks water, has the coffee, and eats the cups of fresh fruit and Jello, but only nibbles at the chicken soup they provided.
"Eat up," you say gently, prodding at his ribs. "You've got a lot of catching up to do."
"Mm," he answers noncommittally, stirring the soup with his spoon. He sips at the broth but drops it immediately back into the ceramic bowl. "Try this and tell me how… hungry you are."
"Next time I'll bring you something more appetizing, how does that sound?"
His eyes light up and you know what he's thinking. Next time.
There's another knock on the door. An older woman with gray streaks in her hair pushing a cart with a laptop on it slides into the room.
"Hello," she greets kindly. "I'm Jillian, you must be Olivia."
Your heart jumps. He's talked about you. Probably telling her how long he's been waiting for you to finally come see him.
You offer the old nurse a small smile. "Yeah. I just came by to say hello."
"Well, don't let me disturb you. I just came to check on Elliot." Her soft eyes fall to the bed. "How're you feeling this afternoon?"
Elliot glances at you before answering. "Not bad."
You squeeze his hand, suddenly feeling awkward as you watch Jillian take Elliot's arm and starts to wrap a blood pressure cuff around it. He watches her with mild disinterest, makes a bad joke about how he needs to start getting the gym soon because the cuff wraps around his arm a lot looser than it has in the past.
"I should go," you say as Jillian tears the velcro away. "I'll see you later, okay?"
Elliot's eyes fall back on you and you see the disappointment there. "Hope so," he rumbles.
You stand in the doorway and watch for a moment as Jillian types in her computer and takes a minute to fold the blanket that's wadded up next to him. The second she asks him to spell his first name, you push off of the doorframe and walk towards the elevator.
There's no way you're ready to hear his response.
/
It's nearing three o'clock when you enter the squad room. You'd taken the entire day off to go to the hospital, but the thought of going home and allowing yourself to think makes you shiver.
Cragen is sitting at his desk when you walk into his office. He looks up at you and leans back in his chair as you sit down across from him. "Olivia, what's up?"
"I…" you swallow. "I went to go see him."
He nods. "How'd it go?"
You think about the healing scar tissue on his forehead. His guilt over his children that he had no control over. The way he thought of Kathleen instead of Lizzie, and the way his hands shook so badly. Seeing him had felt so damn good. But witnessing those things, the things that made his injuries so apparent…
"I don't know," you whisper. "I didn't think it was going to be easy… but…"
"What happened?" Cragen asks.
Tears form in your eyes. You'd managed to hide them in his room- managed to keep it out of your mind for at least the time that you were still with him, but now…
"He mistook Kathleen for Elizabeth." Your breath hitches. "Before I left… his nurse asked him to spell his name. I…"
"You didn't stick around to hear him answer," Cragen says.
"If I had, what would he have said?" You get to your feet and cross the room to the window that looks into the bullpen. Do you really want to hear his answer? Are you ready to hear it?
"Last time, he spelt it with one 'L'," Cragen says softly. You feel him approach you from behind and set a hand on your shoulder. "E-L-E-O-T. Jill asked him to spell his last name. S-T-A-D-L-I-R. He mixes up his 'b's and 'd's. His 'e's and 'i's, too. When he doesn't know a word, he tries to sound it out. Repeats it out loud."
You never thought this could hurt so much. E-l-e-o-t… He can't spell his name. He can't spell his name.
Cragen turns you towards him. "He's getting better, Liv. He needs time… and he needs us. We can do this together."
You can do this. You can be his friend, be there for him, just like you've always been. He'll be back to normal soon, and things will go back to being just as they've always been. You won't have to think about him mistaking his kids, not being able to spell his name, stuttering when he tries to speak sometimes or mixing up words.
It'll be fine.
Everything will be fine.
A/N: Please let me know what you think!