The first thing he becomes aware of as he awakens is the scent of ash. Potent and caustic, it accosts his nostrils.
He takes in his surroundings. He's immersed in darkness, save for a handful of faint rays that manage to permeate the rubble directly over his head. The rays cast a gloomy glow around the cavernous space. He can see, but just barely.
There's a strange weight on him, too. Groggily, he feels around, trying to clear his head, recall what in the world he's doing here.
He jumps when he feels flesh, the memory instantly sharp as day: Olivia!
Frantically, he touches the heap that is, miraculously, still intact in his lap, checking for signs of life. "Liv?"
She murmurs something, but he doesn't catch it.
It doesn't matter; the point is, she responded. "Are you all right?"
But his jubilation is cut short as he recalls what poor condition she was in just before the building's collapse. No matter what, that was as well as she could possibly be doing right now.
Her speech is slurred. "Are you… are you here?"
He instinctively pulls her closer, arching his neck so he can just make her out in profile. He wishes he could see her better, ascertain how badly she was injured in the fall. Or prior. "Yeah, I'm here. I'm here, and it's gonna be okay. Just stay with me, okay?"
He barely catches her throaty whisper. "I'm sorry…"
His heart breaks. Oh, honey. "You have nothing to be sorry for," he chokes out.
"But I… I…" she stumbles.
"Liv – "
"Why are you… why are you here?" she manages finally.
Even in this state, it strikes him as an odd thing to ask. "I'm here… to help you."
"No, in here."
"In where? I don't understand."
"This is… this is where I'm… s'pposed…s'pposed…mmm…" her voice trails off.
He gapes at her helplessly. "Liv, I don't understand what you're talking about."
It takes her an extra beat to answer. "Why… why did you come here?" She tops the question off with a cough. The air is terrible in here.
The guilt assails him violently. He'd left her. A relationship she'd depended on, the only stable one she'd ever had. And oh, the irony: she'd counted on him in spite of never knowing how much he really loved her.
He sighs, reminding himself this is no time to devolve in self-reproach. She needs him. "Honey, just relax, okay? We're gonna get you some help."
He expects this to be the end of this thread, but apparently she's fixated on getting a literal answer to her question.
"But… why?"
He feels like he's talking to a child. "Why what?"
"Why are you helping me?"
Elliot blinks. No victim, no matter how confused or traumatized, has ever asked such a thing. He must be mishearing something. Maybe he hit his own head. "What?"
He senses her agitation, even before she makes her next statement, which manages to frighten him more than anything his own imagination could conjure in six days straight of picturing all the things those bastards might have been doing to her.
"I didn't earn it."
He tells himself she's still dazed from her ordeal, or that she's confused, thinking about something else.
And yet he senses she's genuinely troubled by his presence. He pulls her closer, lays a cheek against her bare back, desperately wanting to comfort her.
She jerks, a little, then coughs again, sucking in gulps of tainted, ashy air.
Then he feels it: wetness on his cheek. He touches it to confirm, instantly recognizing the sticky texture and familiar metallic smell.
Tears well up in his eyes as his fears are finally confirmed. "You've been beaten."
Her profile is a silhouette against the backdrop of the pile of debris. He watches her eyelids shutter, her cheek twitch. She doesn't want to tell him.
"What… what did they do to you?" he asks gently.
Finally, she opens her enormous eyes, gleaming in the shadows. "Th-they punished me." Terrible shame punctuates each word.
Frantically, he covers his mouth as vomit pools up his esophagus, as he's once again plagued by the memory of all those days of inaction. Of how he stood outside passively, obediently listening to the Feds while she was being beaten. He could've found a way to sneak inside, to sidestep the explosives that, after so much careful and patient research and planning, everyone managed to miss anyway. Even if it had meant landing himself a jail cell in Federal prison. It would've been worth it. She is worth it.
With all that he has, he wills the vomit back down, taking several breaths to calm himself. More than ever, she needs him to be strong right now. "I'm so sorry you had to go through this," he tells her quietly. I'll never let you suffer again. I promise you that.
"I-I did have to go through it," she states.
He furrows his brow, unsure what she means. He lets it go, though. She's obviously not fully clear-headed.
In any event he's preoccupied by the need to check her, to see how extensively she's been assaulted. And by how to do it tactfully. The last thing he wants is to upset her. "How many times did they beat you like this?" he ventures.
He knows by the way she inhales sharply that she's heard the question. He waits several seconds, but it's apparent she doesn't intend to respond. That's okay; her silence is his answer: many times. A lone tear finally escapes from his eye, trickles down his cheek.
"Elliot?" she asks abruptly.
"I'm right here," he reassures softly.
She pauses. "It's… it's you."
"Yeah, Liv, it's me. I'm here. I'm here for you. I'm gonna help you."
"I'm… I'm glad you're here," she blurts.
He loves her with all his heart, but all the same he's troubled by the childlike declaration. The Olivia he knows would never admit to needing him, at least not quite so bluntly, so nakedly.
"I'm so grateful I got to you in time," he rejoins, still digesting the tenor of her comment.
He pulls her closer into his embrace, mindful, now, of her beaten back. He inhales the scent of her hair; sweet and fruity. He can't help but sigh in delight; in spite of the direness of the situation, it feels so good to be able to hold her.
And then he starts, the realization hitting him:
She smells… clean.
Not that it's unheard of for hostages to be allowed to bathe, but… it just doesn't jive with how mistreated she otherwise seems to have been.
Which means she was likely… made to bathe. For reasons that had nothing to do with her personal comfort.
His whole body shakes as he considers the implications, as he tries desperately to deny what he knows in his gut to be true.
He knows it's not right of him to ask her, while she's still in such poor physical and mental condition. But he has to know.
He tries to make his voice as unthreatening as possible. Still, it hitches as he finally brings himself to vocalize the question. "Olivia, did they… did they rape you?"
To his surprise, she's quick with a reply. "No… no, they didn't."
He exhales a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. So she took a bath. It was not some twisted, pre-assault purification ritual. There is some mercy in the universe after all. He can help her with physical wounds. Those will heal. "Oh thank God."
"It was consensual."