Elliot sat on the cafeteria's orange plastic chair, cupping the can of Coke between his palms like it was hot chocolate in January. It was the innocuous can of Coke his boss had bought him, because Cragen knew he needed some sugar and calories, but also had enough sense not to push food, because he knew that it would piss him off to be told to eat, the way well-intentioned relatives did during a tragedy, like you were really going to starve to death.

Cragen was talking to him, but he wasn't listening. He was daydreaming, thinking about her. He was glad his son was with her; he was glad it was making her happy to see his child. He hadn't lied to her: nothing made him happier than to see his kids with her, to see them happy to see her. It wasn't something he took for granted, that his kids would want to spend time with his girlfriend, let alone that they would like her. But today, the opposite was more important to him: that his son could make her happy. And that she'd seemed to be able to be with him alone.

But he missed her. Even for the 30-odd minutes he'd been sitting here, in this depressing, gray-walled cafeteria, a longing had set in. It made him anxious to not be able to be with her at this moment. To not be able to hold her. Not just to reassure himself she was alive, conscious, coping. But also to reassure himself he was.

"Elliot," Cragen was saying, "Do you think she can handle it?"

He was about to spit out his rote answer – she can handle anything – when he realized he hadn't heard the question.

"Handle what?"

"Giving us descriptions. She started to earlier, but we got sidetracked. She saw all of their faces. We need to get those descriptions ASAP. These bastards could be in Canada by now."

It hit him, then, how different an investigation this was. When had he or his partner – or Cragen – ever considered not soliciting a description from a victim? It was something they usually pried out of them while they were still lying on the table having the exam done.

"Well, if she was able to tell us what happened, this should be a piece of cake," he said distractedly.

There was a pause. And then Cragen asked, "Are you okay?"

The question infuriated him. He stared at his boss, glared at the round face, the shiny pink scalp, felt an overwhelming urge to punch him squarely in the nose.

What do you think? Of course I'm not okay! I'm sitting here with you in this goddamn cafeteria in this goddamn hospital in this goddamn town and she's lying there upstairs and I don't know if her heart's still beating.

"Yeah, Captain, I'm fine," he muttered, making the edge in his voice blatant.

Cragen raised his eyebrows, seemed surprised that he wasn't even trying to conceal his irritation. He was probably wondering what exactly had precipitated this outburst. This glimmer, heretofore dormant for so many months, of Vintage Stabler. Why should he be so angry with his boss, when he was here to help her?

Because he wants to talk about how you feel.

"Captain," he said pointedly, glaring straight into his boss's eyes, "Stop – " But he hesitated.

Go ahead, you've got a free pass to be an asshole. Because he's all geared up to be "understanding" and to pass off your behavior as your grief, your shock, whatever…

" – Please stop asking me if I'm okay. I'm fine. Let's just get on with it."

Be careful, warned a little voice. Control yourself. You don't want him to start harassing you to go see a shrink.

Cragen was quiet, obviously startled. He promptly lost eye contact with him, looked down at his own soda, twirled the straw between his fingers, furrowed his brows.

Fire me, Elliot dared in his mind. Just do it. Because what difference did it make? He would not be able to work with her.

"I'm sorry," Cragen whispered.

Stunned, the fury vanished as quickly as it had materialized. He stared at the top of his boss's bald head, suddenly realizing it was Cragen who was trying to compose himself. Two seconds ago he'd hated that face, but now he was looking into his boss's eyes, could see the pain, the hurt, the devastation. And he felt sorry for him. Cragen was a good man.

"No, Cap, I'm sorry. That was really uncalled for. I didn't mean to… I appreciate the concern you're showing, I really do."

"It's okay, Elliot, I'm a big boy."

And he doesn't have anyone to talk to. And he's too proud to admit he's hurting too. And on top of all that he's ultimately responsible for making sure these guys get caught. He probably thinks we'll blame him if he doesn't.

"No, Cap, I really am sorry. I just… You know, I've just been…"

He felt awkward. What else could he say to convey his sympathy and to let the poor man save face at the same time?

"Elliot, it's okay. Forget about it. Look, Munch and Fin arrived an hour ago, but they went straight to the scene. They want to see her, but they thought she might want some more time, and figured it made sense to go there first. I know you did a one-eighty about being on the case, which I still think was the right decision, but I think you should be the one to give them the details when they show up."

His heart sank in his throat.

How can you tell them what happened? How can you go through it with them?

"Because I'd like to spare Olivia having to repeat the story."

Something clicked.

If you don't, then she has to.

He knew Munch well. Beneath the cynical veneer was one of the best people he knew. But his coworker's ability with victims was not his strongest suit. It was true, his friend was more than competent. Munch was capable of true compassion when the situation merited it. But he was, at heart, a detective, not a counselor.

"Yeah … yeah, Cap, of course. I'll do it. I'll tell them what happened."

Cragen abruptly leaned forward, his eyes settling on his. He took in a sudden, sharp breath. "Elliot," he started gently, "Did she … confide anything else?"

Just that when he came back to beat her and to rape her again, she thought it was me there to help her.

Not that that's what had caused this most recent bout of malaise. Not that that's why he suddenly thought he might lose those precious few calories to a toilet bowl.

But there it was. The part of this whole thing he couldn't get past.

"I heard footsteps and I thought… I thought maybe you'd found me."

That voice. So scared, so broken. Scared to tell him. Scared of how he'd react. So unlike the voice of the person to whom it belonged.

"Elliot," his boss was saying, trying to break his prolonged reverie, "Did she? Did she tell you anything else? Look, I know you decided your role here is strictly not as a detective, but I think you know that you can… well, that it's important that you tell me anything that you know. There's a difference, you know, between defending her from our harassment to tell us anything and everything, and your furnishing us with things she's already told you."

"Elliot, I didn't want to die, I just wanted relief."

"Cap, she didn't tell me anything else. I just, never mind. It's okay."

He thought it'd all hit him before. But then, yesterday, what had hit him, really, was the depth of her suffering. Of watching her go through this hell. This hell of not being able to find peace. Even by dying.

But this – this hitting, was different. It was selfish. It was about him. About the fact that he'd almost lost her. That his life had nearly changed irreversibly.

She almost died. Twice.

It hadn't mattered that a swarm of medical personnel had encircled them, that second time. When her heart had just… stopped.

Oh God, what if it happens again?

He tried to replay the most recent thing the doctor had relayed about her condition. About the likelihood of another… crash. He was pretty sure she was over that hurdle. He was pretty sure that medically, she was stable. But all at once he was obsessing, panicking, that maybe in his absence, something had happened.

You have to see her.

He wondered if this was a permanent state of being for him. If he'd always be so constantly, so relentlessly, worried about her. If he was to be forevermore doomed to that nagging, overwhelming knot in his stomach, the way he felt during those slow minutes after he stood by the living room window helplessly, as one of his daughters jumped into the passenger seat next to her driver-friend. Those agonizing minutes before her call from her little pink cell announcing that she'd arrived safely at her destination. That awful queasiness that was a result of realizing how precarious it was; how, for the next ten minutes, his daughter's life was now at the mercy of the reflexes of her teenaged friend's right foot.

How long will it be before you can be separated from her without that awful dread that she may at this very moment be dying? That her heart might just stop beating?

His own heart beat a little harder.

Oh God, she almost died. She. Almost. Died.

On his lap.

In his arms.

Against his chest.

The world had nearly come to an end for her. The person he loved more than anyone besides his children. The person he lived for.

The end of her existence. And his.

Heaven, salvation, reincarnation, a box in the ground… What the hell's the difference what really happens? She would've been gone to you.

Never mind that she'd also nearly died before he'd even gotten there. Freezing cold, tied up, bleeding, half-naked, in terrible pain.

And completely alone.

It would've been a gruesome death.

How many times during those hours did she wonder if she was going to die? If you'd ever awaken from your beauty sleep and get off your ass and look for her? Did she try to connect with you? Summon you in her mind to come and help her? And did there come a point when she gave up on you? Did it get so bad that she… wanted to die? Prayed to die? And did she know it when Dickie finally found her? Did she know he'd found her and only left her because he was getting you? Was she lucid enough? Did she understand? Or was she so far gone that she didn't care?

The alternate ending to the story was playing out in his head. Of them, sitting by the side of the road. Of that awful wheezing, that horrid sound of her lungs fighting to get air. Of that beet-red face, that furrowing of the brows, that expression of pain, of suffocation. Like diving into a pool and realizing too late that the surface was so much farther up than anticipated. Of struggling to make it up, but failing.

And then of that gradual sinking, forward slumping of the head. Deeper into his chest. Into a coma-like stupor. Of the tremors. Those terrible convulsions, like a heroin addict going through withdrawal.

And finally of that devastating moment when he'd realized the end was near. When he knew there was nothing left he could do for her, except hold her and talk to her and try to make her last moments bearable. When he knew that the right thing to do was to tell her that it was going to be okay, that it was almost over, that if she couldn't hold on any longer, she didn't have to. That he'd understand. That he loved her and that she should try to sleep. Try to sleep and let the soothing blackness take over. That she should go – go on to the next place, that she wouldn't be alone, that she shouldn't be scared. And that he'd join her one day.

But he hadn't done that. He hadn't told her it was okay to let go. He'd told her to stay. He'd pleaded with her not to leave him. Because he needed her. Because he couldn't live without her.

And she'd obeyed. Against her will, she'd stayed with him.

It took all he had not to hyperventilate, as all this descended on him, like a cloud of insects. Threatened to consume him.

She came so close. There was a second when she actually did let go. You felt it. You knew it.

He had wanted to hold her hand. He had sensed that it was the right thing to do, the only way to help her not be scared. To let her know he was with her, was in this with her, that he would escort her wherever she was going, that he wouldn't let go, that she wouldn't die alone. But he hadn't been able to do that for her. Because he'd been terrified of releasing that rib, the source of what had surely been one of her most intense periods of suffering. How could he do that to her, when she only had a few minutes left?

And so it had come down to a choice. A choice between alleviating fear and alleviating pain. And he'd chosen the latter.

It would've been maybe a couple more seconds, one more breath.

He didn't know how or why she'd pulled back. But he knew she'd wanted to let go. He knew that something had happened to change the course of things. Something beyond, something he couldn't explain.

But if things had stayed on that course…

One more breath and then you would've held her totally limp and she wouldn't have had a pulse.

And it wouldn't have mattered if the fanciest ambulance carrying a team from the Mayo had shown up right then and there. And it wouldn't have mattered how many times they'd raped her or what else they'd done to her. Or what they'd made her do.

And your twelve year-old son would've witnessed a death. Would've watched you clutch a dead body in your arms. The body of somebody you love. Somebody he loves.

Oh Holy Jesus. He needed to see her. He needed to see her alive. Right. This. Minute.

Not for her. For him.

He sprang out of his seat like a jack-in-the-box.

Startled, Cragen looked up sharply. "Elliot?"

Wordlessly, he sailed out of the cafeteria.

He was charging down the corridor like a bull-runner. The alternate ending was playing and playing in his head, ruthlessly searing his insides.

You would've driven back to the city without her.

He could picture it. The vacant passenger seat. The rays of crisp September sunlight filtering into the car, warming the upholstery. Her empty Coke can and the mix CD and the NYPD t-shirt she'd left in the car. But not her.

And there'd be a funeral to plan.

He could barely see in front of him; his footsteps pounded in his ears and his vision was blurry and everything was distorted as though he were driving in a rainstorm in the middle of the night on a two-lane highway. Like he couldn't find the button to turn on the brights. He nearly plowed into an empty gurney as his jellowy legs carried him down the hallway. Chaotically, frenetically, hysterically. Like a man on fire.

He passed a men's room, smashed through the swivel door, barged straight into a stall. Didn't have enough time to lock the stall door before he found himself on his knees, toilet seat up. Heaving everything he had into the bowl. Which wasn't much: Four sips of Coke, two bites of a burger and two fries. All gone.

And you would've had to live out the rest of your life without her. Not just without her as your girlfriend, your soul mate, the love of your life. But she wouldn't have even been there as your partner. Things wouldn't have even been rolled back to the working relationship.

Even that platonic friendship that had been so satisfying yet so unfulfilling, so frustrating. Gone.

You would've had to work cases with someone else. That is, if you ever again became functional enough to work a case.

He was coughing into the bowl. Hacking a lung. Coughing nothing. A stream of saliva refusing to detach itself from his lips.

And eventually people with good intentions would've forced you to go on dates. To "get on with your life."

Oh dear God, the thought. That indescribably depressing thought. Of taking nameless, faceless women out for a drink. Somebody's husband's first-cousin. Somebody's girlfriend's sister.

You would have to sit at a bar and buy them a cocktail and force yourself to pretend you were interested in their lives, in learning about them.

When what he'd really want to tell them about was her. About how beautiful, how talented, how funny, how kind, how… amazing she'd been. About how they didn't hold a candle to her.

When what he'd really want to do was sit in a corner in his living room with the lights out and a bottle of whiskey. And think about her. Drink himself to sleep. In order to dream about her.

And now he was sitting on the floor of the stall. Hugging his knees to his chest like a frightened child. Weeping, trembling, rocking himself. He felt cold, deflated, depleted. Like he'd been sucker-punched in the stomach. He wanted to lie on the floor. Feel his ear, his skull, against the cold, Pine Sol-smelling tiles. Get as low as he could go. Be at the bottom of the world.

His stomach was beginning to cramp from sobbing so hard, but it felt oddly cleansing to let it go. He hadn't wept so hard since … maybe he'd never wept so hard.

Ten full minutes elapsed before he felt himself emerge. A tentative hatching of the shell. A sense of renewal. A return to the world. To reality. That the worst of it had passed. Of the hitting. The dawning of how things had nearly been.

Cautiously, he lifted his head from between his knees. Forced himself to stare at a spot on the gray wall of the stall, to let the dizziness dissipate.

It's okay, Stabler, it's okay… calm down… it's okay, it's okay, it's okay. It didn't happen. None of it happened. She's alive. She's alive. She's alive. She's hurt, she's traumatized, but you can be with her. You can drive home with her. It's okay, it's okay. Everyone's alive.

He woozily stood up from the floor, had to use the stall wall to steady himself. Forced himself to go to the sink, to splash water on his face, to rinse his mouth. He had to calm himself down, lest he come barreling into her room, grabbing her and clinging to her desperately with an ardent determination she might mistake for Angry Interrogator Stabler. It wasn't that it would scare her; even after all this he knew he could never scare her. It just wasn't how he wished to present himself. He didn't want her to think he'd regressed, that her predicament was to be his unraveling. She deserved more than that. Nor did he want her to think he didn't believe her when she insisted she could be by herself. He didn't want her to think he had arbitrarily decided it was time to play protector again.

But he needed to see her. And so he hoped she was … ready for him. That she would let him be with her, hold her. To make himself feel safe. By being reassured that she'd survived. That she was there for him. Just like he'd told his son: to ease the trauma by seeing with his own eyes that her desperate wish by the side of the road hadn't been granted. Her plea to let her die – to find relief – was something he had simply not been able to bring himself to do for her.

But no matter what, he had to remember that all of these needs still took a backseat. To hers. That above all else, he'd promised her he'd be there for her. That she was depending on that. And would be for a long time.

"I'm worried you'll dote for a while then wonder why I'm not bouncing back…"

Her words still rung in his ears. Stung him, upset him profoundly. Because they meant he'd failed. Failed at communicating.

Oh, my dear, if only you knew.

He wished she could truly comprehend, appreciate, fathom, how utterly grateful he was for the opportunity to dote. For the privilege. To help her, to do things for her. To do anything for her. Not just because he'd made that pact with God in the car. Not just because she deserved it. But because there was nothing else in the world he would rather do with his time. With his life.

But how to get her to believe it? To accept it?

For suddenly he understood what she'd meant. Her insecurity about being too needy. Because if it had been someone else …

If it had been Kathy, the prospect of all those nightmarish nights, all that crying, all that pain… wouldn't it become a burden after a while? Wouldn't there come a point when you wished she'd just get better? So that YOU could get on with YOUR life?

He had to face it: if the same had happened to his ex-wife, even during the good years, there surely would've come a time when the emotional support he provided was borne purely out of a sense of duty and loyalty. But not love.

And now he was panicked, scrambling to replay everything he'd ever said to his partner, trying to recall if he'd ever inadvertently implied to Olivia that maybe there was some limit to his patience; some expiration date to his understanding, his devotion, his willingness to live by the terms and pace of someone else's recovery.

But how to recollect the scores – the perhaps hundreds – of conversations they'd had about the aftermath of trauma? On stakeouts, during long hours in the car, in the precinct. How to know what kind, if any, of impression he'd given her of the kind of emotional support giver, caregiver, friend, he might turn out to be in a situation like this? Not in the immediate aftermath, but over an extended period of time?

And much, much more importantly, how to convince Olivia it was all irrelevant? Because she was so, so, different?

He peered into the mirror, clutched the edges of the lone sink, leaned on it, brought his nose close to the glass. Studied the lines in his face like it was the first time he was seeing his own image.

You have to make sure she understands she's special.

He rinsed his mouth with the tiny bottle of travel Scope Cragen had given him, and felt instantly refreshed. And it dawned on him then, how this was all she'd been trying to do earlier, when she'd set out to get to the bathroom: to cleanse a little. Such a simple, everyday act. One to be taken for granted. To be able to rinse one's mouth, to splash water on one's face, to take a moment to stare in the mirror and to regroup in peace. To collect one's thoughts, to feel clean again. He'd never felt so lousy in his life, but at least he could do this for himself. Freak out in private, then take a moment to reflect, to let reality seep back in. Without the hovering, the well-intentioned sugary-sweet concern, the nosiness of others. Without having to explain.

He could still do all these things for himself.

And that's when he made a vow:

You will help her get to the sink or the shower whenever she needs.

Because he knew she would never ask.

There she was, sitting with his son. Alive and conscious and using her otherwise useless right hand to hold a hand of cards.

And so, so beautiful.

He paused at the doorway. Took several deep breaths. Forced himself to walk into the room slowly; to smile, to strike a casual, genial pose.

"Hey."

He wanted to append a "sweetheart" to his greeting. But knew it was time to start rationing his use of such terms of endearment. That they should now be limited to truly intimate moments, that now that she was physically better, she might view excessive usage as patronizing, chauvinistic.

She looked up. Smiled into his eyes. "Hey."

His son looked up as well. "Hi, dad."

But something hung in the air. His son looked nervous.

They've talked about it.

He approached the twosome, wasn't sure where to sit. Dickie was sitting up on the bed, opposite her, and there would have to be some maneuvering on one of their parts if he was to sit there too. He nearly sulked as he eyed the chair. He didn't want to sit there. It was too far away from her.

She noticed this. Patted the small space next to her at the head of the bed. "Here, Elliot, come sit with me."

She tried to scoot laterally to the side, to make more room for him, but he stopped her. "No no, don't move, there's enough room, I've got it." He lowered himself onto the bed next to her, in the bit of space that seemed to have materialized, like she'd created it just for him.

All the stress, all the grief, vanished instantly.

It feels so good just to be next to you.

His first inclination was to wrap his arms around her, to envelop her completely, but he was wary of doing so, lest she take it the wrong way: that he'd unilaterally decided she needed re-rescuing.

What happened next, however, was far better. Somehow through the physical awkwardness of her position on the bed, and her general lack of mobility, she managed to slip her good arm behind him. To snake her hand across his back. Beneath his shirt. Cup his waist in her palm. Stroke his bare skin with her fingertips.

How did she know?

She lightly bumped her cheek against his as a playful gesture of acknowledgment. "I'm glad you're back."

He couldn't have been happier if she'd said it under the best of circumstances. Because it was the way she'd said it. She was glad he was there. Period. Not because she was scared, not because she was having trouble coping, feeling unsafe, feeling vulnerable. But because she loved him and wanted to be with him.

He rested his chin lightly on her shoulder.

And then he wrapped both his arms around her; one around her shoulders, the other across her waist. He gently pulled her into him. "I love you, sweetheart. I only wish you understood how much."

Dickie had gone downstairs to call Kathy, who'd asked Elliot to have their son call her during the morning; a request he was more than happy to oblige. It was the least he could do for his ex-wife.

And it meant, too, that he could be alone with Olivia.

He was holding her in bed, wholly and completely, swallowing her in his arms. And to his utter delight, his worry that she might misinterpret his need as coddling, had been for naught. She seemed content; relieved, in fact, to be cared for so tenderly.

"El, are you okay?"

The concern in her voice touched him. It was neither of the disingenuous sort he expected from acquaintances who felt too awkward to say anything else, nor was it derisory, the way children might make fun of each other for being too emotionally demonstrative. Nor was it the result of the desperation with which he was clinging to her. For he was careful not to communicate how scared he'd been, how low, how depressed he'd felt out in the men's room. None of those feelings was in this embrace. He'd filtered it all out. What remained was simply his love.

And so he felt confident that when she asked if he was okay, her question was just a reflection of her awareness that he'd suffered too. Not from any specific worry that he couldn't handle it, that he was too weak to keep it together.

She had that confidence in him. She was the only one who always had.

She could ask you a hundred times it you're okay and it wouldn't piss you off at all.

"I am, I am," he gushed. "I'm just … so glad to be with you."

He felt her smile. "I am too," she said. "Just, please, will you promise me you'll take care of yourself?"

"I will, honey. I will." More importantly, "Are… you okay? Are you feeling all right?"

"Yeah, I'm feeling… better. Your son plays a mean game of gin rummy. He wiped the floor with me."

Instantly, his radar went off.

She changed the subject too quickly. Something's bothering her.

"Did you two … talk about … it?"

"A little. You should talk to him, Elliot. He's strong, he's mature, but he's… upset."

"I will, I will."

What did you talk about? What did he say?

"You should do it today," she said.

"I will."

"Good." She leaned back against him. "Elliot… "

"Yeah?"

"Will you tell me the truth if I ask you something?"

His heart skipped a beat. "Of course. Of course I will. What is it?"

"Well … the thing is, I don't really remember that much after you and Dickie … found me. I mean, I sort of do, but…"

Where's she going with this?

And then it was upon him. He'd forgotten. About that. About that… part of it. Because while it might have been the most traumatic thing he'd ever had to do, that particular thing hadn't directly involved her imminent … death.

Shit. She's going to ask why she remembers Dickie on top of her, holding her down. What did he tell her about that?

"Just ask me, Liv. What is it?"

He held his breath.

"Well, this is going to sound ridiculous, but did we possibly, somehow… encounter one of them along the way? Please, tell me the truth. I need to know."

Huh.

He hadn't seen that coming.

"You mean like… one of them?"

"Yes."

Where'd she come up with that?

"No, we didn't. Of course not. What makes you ask that?"

"The fat one. I don't know why, I guess I just thought maybe … I don't know, I must be mixing it up, my memory's fuzzy."

"You think we somehow ran into him?"

"I don't know. I guess my memory's not very reliable."

"Liv, they were long gone when we found you. And the minute we did, you weren't by yourself for even a second after that. I was with you the whole time. I promise you. I promise you. I would never have left you alone."

"Okay … " Her voice trailed off, like she was considering this. Then, more emphatically, like she'd decided what she'd been contemplating was ridiculous, and the matter was now settled in her head, "Okay."

And now he was disconcerted.

She noticed. "El, forget it. I trust you completely."

"I swear to God, I didn't leave you alone."

She leaned into him. "I know, honey. I know. I know you never would've done that."

"Never."

Several moments passed in silence, as he held her against him, feeling the hum of her breathing against his chest. With the strange episode seemingly settled, he cleared his throat.

"So Munch and Fin are in town. And obviously they want to see you, but they completely understand if you don't… if you're not ready to see them."

"I … I can see them…"

He immediately caught the hesitation in her voice. "Olivia, listen, I guess you know they're here… on the case. Which means they really need to know exactly what happened. Now, Cragen and I have talked about it, and we… I… I'm happy to tell them. That is, if you… don't mind. I just figured you probably didn't want to go through it all again."

"Okay…" she said warily.

"The only thing is, some of the details…"

She sighed. "El, I know how this goes. I guess as long as I don't have to be there while they… hear about it. Look, I realize there's no good solution here. They have to know. There's no choice."

She's so level-headed. It's unbelievable.

"Good… that's settled then. But if you change your mind, you tell me, okay? Now, the other thing is, Cragen and I haven't actually… compared notes yet. I don't want to tell him any of the things you told me in confidence, and he hasn't shared whatever it is you told him. And we'll be happy to keep things that way, to respect – "

"Elliot, I was… raw before. It's painful, it's true… But I have to be realistic. They all can't do their jobs if they don't know everything. That's ridiculous. Tell them everything. It's okay, I won't blame you."

Yes but your wellbeing comes before their being able to do their jobs. They don't have to do their jobs… if you don't want them to.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. Just ... do one thing for me."

"Anything."

"When you do tell them, just do it. Don't tell me you're doing it, don't tell me when. Don't tell me what you said or how you said it or how they reacted. Just do it."

"I understand."

She shifted slightly in his arms. "What time is it?"

"It's about two-thirty in the afternoon. Why?"

She looked at her lap sheepishly. "I'm kind of … tired."

"That's okay. You should take a nap. Munch and Fin can come by later. There's no rush."

"Will you … lie with me?"

"Of course! Of course I will. I'm tired too. I could probably fall asleep right now."

"El, you, um, don't have to stay after I'm … I mean, I'd like it if you stayed the night, but for now if you want to just stay till I'm asleep, I don't want you to feel … I know how much it sucks to lie in a bed in the middle of the afternoon when you can't sleep. I don't want you to feel trapped."

It only sucks if you're not in my arms.

"I'll stay with you. Don't worry. It's okay."

She abruptly pulled away. "No. No, don't do that, please. Promise me you'll listen to what I'm saying. It would make me happy to know you've gotten up, walked around, that you did your thing, whatever, if you couldn't sleep. I promise, I'll let you know if I need you to stay, but I just… I don't like to feel like someone is… uncomfortable because of me."

He was all set to argue, to list the countless reasons why she was wrong, why nothing about being with her could ever be uncomfortable. But he resisted. Because she was who she was, and he wasn't going to change that. And if it made her happy to know he was listening to her, that he wasn't doing what she thought – mistakenly – was martyring himself on her behalf, if that's what made her happy, then, by God, that's what he would do.

"Okay," he said finally, "I promise. Here, let me help you lie down."

"Thanks."

He gently took hold of her upper body, helped her down onto the pillow, onto her left side. Had to watch as she winced through the maneuver and tried to compensate by taking in deep breaths. Which itself exacerbated the pain from the rib fractures.

He grimaced.

She has such a long way to go.

But she was withstanding it, and he knew it was nothing compared to the hell she'd already endured. That she was used to it, that she preferred if he pretended not to notice. If he showed his respect for her by demonstrating he was on the same wavelength: when it comes to pain, you pick your battles. Only weaklings fuss over every ache and pain. And although it still upset him to see her like this, to watch her force herself to be so stoic, he knew it was better for her to maintain this pride, this dignity.

She was on her side, her back towards him, and he lay down himself, behind her. Laid his hand across her waist over the blanket and spooned her. And then he extended his neck forward, kissed the nape of her neck.

In response, she took his hand in her partially plastered right hand, and guided it backwards, retracted its path. In order to take a new one. One he hadn't anticipated taking for a long time, if ever again. For she led his hand now beneath the blanket, beneath the sheet, beneath her gown. Slowly, back across her stomach. Her bare stomach. Her naked flesh.

His fingers reflexively hooked onto her waist.

"Yeah?" he asked, taken aback.

Really? I can touch you like this?

"You feel… closer this way."

There's hope. There really is. It's going to be okay.

He began to stroke her skin. So gently, so carefully. Barely a tickle. There were still so many bruises. Like a mine field.

"Good, I'm so glad."

You should tell her.

But he hesitated, knew she had too much to deal with. That it could ruin everything.

She's your partner. She loves you. She wouldn't want you to let this stop you.

And yet, how could he tell her, lying on her side on the bed like this? She'd be startled; wouldn't have the physical dexterity to react.

Don't qualify it, don't tell her you know it doesn't have to be right away. Just say it.

He continued to stroke her skin, but the debate went on in his head. He wanted to tell her. So desperately. The words were aching to escape his lips.

But he knew it could wait. This time, this time, he could wait until later. Tomorrow, perhaps. That he should wait till at least tomorrow, because it wasn't the right time. And because he could afford to wait. There would be a tomorrow. He felt confident there would be.

He buried his nose between her shoulder blades, listening as her breathing grew steady.

And now she was asleep, and he'd accidentally-on-purpose missed his chance.

I want to marry you.