Notes: Alright, here's Chapter 19 and it gets more and more depressing so please think wisely if you can deal with the mention of possible self-harm and suicidal tendencies. It gets worse before it gets better. Chapter 20 is already written and dun dun - we'll make some REAL progress story wise in chapter 21. Dear guest reviewer, I know none of this is a fast ride but there's a lot in the details. If it is too slow for you, that's totally fine - I'm sure you'll be better off moving on. Thank you for your feedback, though!
Gratitude goes out to the wonderful Amilyn for being the best Beta who brainstorms with me for hours and helps make the crappy parts better. You are an angel!
Oh also? This is the part where you're welcome to guess what the hell it is Liv is suffering from. Medical mystery, ya'll!?
Stay safe and healthy! Oh, and review. Always review. The good, the bad, the ugly. Mostly though: Enjoy the sadness.
...
It feels like a lifetime ago since she was last in this office, seated in the once comfortable leather chair with Lindstrom's eyes trained on her. Nothing much has changed here, and yet everything is different. He looks at her differently now too, she thinks. Even in her emotionally most unstable moments Olivia had never perceived an ounce of pity coming from him and now it makes her skin crawl uncomfortably. She knows it when she sees it. She sees it all the time these days.
After several flashbacks and subsequent nightmares, all in three days, Olivia had made an appointment with Lindstrom.
"You said you didn't have flashbacks for a long time. What do you believe triggered that reaction?"
Avoiding the doctor's gaze Olivia slowly shakes her head with small movements as she inhales nervously. "Ah, I... I fell and I bit my tongue," she starts hesitantly, saliva pooling in her mouth like the blood did a few days ago. "And there was blood. In my mouth, on me, on the… on the floor." She swallows and closes her eyes, her facial muscles twitching briefly before she opens them again. "That taste," she whispers, her voice hoarse. "When he… hit me and…" She trembles, stiff with reticence.
"Take your time," Lindstrom encourages, his pen hovering just above his notepad.
"He'd hit me, backhanded me with my gun in his hand across my… my right cheek." Absently, Olivia touches her fingers to the spot, pushing until she feels the row of upper teeth beneath. She told him this before, probably more than once. It isn't easier. "And the blood was… pooling under my tongue, and it was that distinct taste," she looks at him now, her nose curling as she frowns. "It tastes different than… bleeding gums or biting your tongue by mistake," she whispers.
"What does it taste like then, Olivia?" he asks evenly.
She wonders how it is possible that something that shakes her to the core leaves somebody else unaffected. For a few moments she falters, then she exhales, ragged.
"It tastes like him," she croaks despondently. "It tastes like Lewis," she breathes, her mouth staying open, jaw quivering.
Lindstrom, focused solely on her, nods carefully. "Your flashbacks, what are they about?"
"Snippets. Sometimes just a word. My name. The feeling of his touch, the smell of his breath. The...sound of duct tape being pulled off my mouth. I thought-," she swallows again and worries her bottom lip briefly. "I had much worse flashbacks then, but it's… these are making me anxious. I didn't have nightmares like these before, either."
"Tell me about them."
"They are happening to me, but they don't feel like he's doing it to me. I'm standing there, watching myself as he does all these things, and I can move but I don't do anything. I'm just…frozen, watching."
"Okay. And how do you think that ties to yourself or Lewis?"
Olivia licks her lower lip and hugs herself. "I let it happen. I let my guard down and let him get to me."
"You walked into your own home, how is that letting your guard down, Olivia?"
"Something felt off," she breathes, closing her eyes. "I know we've been over this but it always comes back to this moment. Something felt off," she repeats. "And I didn't respond... in time," she adds, voice trembling.
"You did not let this happen, Olivia. It was not your fault there was nothing you could do when he had you tied up on a chair, in a trunk, to a bed-"
"I wet the bed," she blurts out suddenly, tired of the back and forth when this is so much of why she scheduled an appointment. She could deal with flashbacks, even with the nightmares with the changed narrative.
"Okay," Lindstrom says calmly, and Olivia can see a hint of surprise swimming in the blue of his eyes.
"Twice," she adds before falling quiet with embarrassment. It had happened once before, in the immediate aftermath of her kidnapping by Lewis when she didn't get instant counseling. But then she had all too real nightly terrors she woke up from screaming for her life. These nightmares don't compare, and she had a lot more compassion for herself then than now. What's left all these years later is utter mortification and disgust.
It disrupts her already unhealthy sleeping habits. The fear of another instance of nocturnal incontinence fortifies her depression and hypervigilance. She's extremely anxious, using the bathroom several times although she doesn't have to. Utter distress is keeping her awake until she can't keep her eyes open and dozes off.
The first time, just a couple of nights after managing to survive Lewis, she was able to comprehend why it was happening after talking about it in therapy-at least somewhat. She was at his mercy, unable to make any choices over what was happening to her at all, how her body subsequently reacted. She had peed herself after several hours in that trunk, her bladder giving out while she was still fuzzy with the effects of alcohol and drugs. And Lord knows there were moments during her captivity in which she felt sheer terror to the point where she was convinced she was going to piss herself from nothing but fear, moments where she didn't dare blink or breathe, wondering what dehumanizing cruelties Lewis would come up with next.
That accident then...it was likely a mirror image of the helplessness she felt after having been stripped off all control. She was dependent on Lewis' good will to use a bathroom, and he hadn't let her more than once a day. But now? All these years later, she cannot make sense of it.
While Olivia is apprehensive to talk about it even to her psychologist, she hopes that not internalizing the problem will be of help.
"Olivia. Olivia?" he asks, and she snaps out of her thoughts to focus on him. "Do you mean just after Lewis or now?"
Her mouth is still partially open, and yet it is incredibly hard for her to speak. She closes it, then opens it again, repulsed by the answer she is going to give him.
"Now." She casts her eyes downward, avoiding to look at him as shame tints her cheeks dark pink. It has a firm hold on her even when Lindstrom tries to reassure her.
"Olivia, you know this is a safe space for you to talk about anything. There's nothing to be ashamed about."
"I just don't understand," she breathes out, head pulled into her shoulders as far as physically possible. "The… the taste of blood triggering flashbacks and nightmares - I can make that connection. But this?" Putting her hands together she shoves them between her thighs and shakes her head.
"You said the nightmares in particular are different. Could you talk about that?"
"In the past they always felt very real. Like I was going through it. He was speaking to me, hurting me, touching me. Now," she stops, exhaling shakily. "It's like I'm standing by, watching him doing these things to a… shell. It's me but then it isn't," she explains. "And I'm not doing anything, I want to tell her-that shell me, whatever it is-to do something but nothing comes out of my mouth, and he just keeps going and going."
"Doing what?"
"Cutting, biting, burning." she says quietly, then presses her eyes shut. "Assault."
"You're right there and yet there's nothing you can do about any of it?"
"Yes," Olivia agrees, pulling her hands back out, intertwining them tightly on her lap, starting to feel more anxious discussing this.
"Olivia, you seemed to struggle when you came here, and it looks like you can't get comfortable."
"Well, obviously." She briefly glances at the crutch, then at her leg.
"Can you talk about how you feel about that? About your body? Your control of it?"
Slowly Olivia cocks her head and looks at Lindstrom crookedly. "This is not about that. This is about him," she says with conviction.
"Okay," Lindstrom says calmly, shifting in his seat. "Dare I say your dreams suggest an increased level of dissociation from your body? You no longer feel in control of yourself so you are watching, helpless, as things are being done to it?"
"I was never in control in any of these situations, you know that."
"But were you, as you put it, a shell?" he presses, not backing off, watching her closely.
"You think I'm feeling trapped in my body," she squeezes her injured leg, glancing at it momentarily. "Because my leg is useless and no matter what, I can't do anything about it. Fine," she says stubbornly. "I fail to see how that would cause me to…," she swallows, not willing to say it out loud again.
"You must experience increasing stress, Olivia. Your accident," his eyes briefly settle on the stitches on her chin. „May have caused flashbacks and the dreams but the change of perspective speaks to a feeling of helplessness and lack of control." He pauses to let her catch up. „Studies have linked depression and anxiety to urinary incontinence in women especially. However, I suggest you see a doctor as well just to rule out any physical problems."
For long seconds Olivia says nothing, Lindstrom's words sinking in. She wants to argue but knows, deep down, that he's most likely right. She scoffs but it's a sad sound. „Great. This is just a gift that keeps on giving then, isn't it?" God, she wants to cry. „So I'm trapped in this, is that what you are saying? Trapped with this useless thing, with the, the pain, Lewis… the bed wetting…" Digging her nails into her palm she shakes her head. This nightmare is never going to end. „This has to stop," she pleads. „I can't… I can't wake up like that again."
„I understand the incontinence in particular is a stressor. One thing you can try is to find ways that make you feel more in control about leaks. Using an absorbent pad may help to make you feel more confident."
„Why? Because it keeps my mattress clean?" She challenges bitterly. „I can't deal with this on top of everything else," she whimpers, embarrassed over showing such weakness.
„Because feeling positively about being protected may be beneficial to solving the problem. If you feel more in control, there's a possibility it will help reduce the frequency of the dreams. It may not make a difference, but do you feel there's any harm in trying it?"
"I guess I could try," she gives in defeatedly because what else is she supposed to say even though she's having a feeling it won't be that simple.
Lindstrom looks at her for a moment, then folds his hands while still holding his pen. "Olivia, have you considered medication to help with your anxiety lately? I know you were averse to trying psychotropic drugs because of the job, but maybe it's time you reevaluate your stand on it."
Looking up at him, a couple of tears roll down her cheek, and she worries her bottom lip.
"But with my pain medications… I'm on oxycodone," she protests insecurely, having heard about how the combination can have horrible side effects.
"The psychiatrist I work with can evaluate your current medication and prescribe something without adverse interactions."
Swallowing Olivia just stares at the man without really seeing him. There is no more reason for her to be hesitant about trying the drugs. She's already lost everything, she might as well pop one more pill. "Fine," she accepts.
…
"Olivia, it's good to see you," Dr. Willem-Vasquez greets her warmly, then directs a warm hello towards Elliot as she sits down behind the desk. "I only see one crutch," the blonde points out, looking at the walking aid, then at Olivia.
"I've tried with both," she reasons. "It made the back aches escalate, so I stopped after a couple of days."
"I see." The doctor folds her hands, nodding once. "Before the physical exam and discussing the PT report I'd like to know how things have been going for you since your last visit. I see something happened to your chin, there?" The stitches were removed a week ago but the scar is still prominent.
"I fell as I got out of the tub. I was certain I had lifted my leg enough but my foot caught on the edge and I went down before I knew it."
"Does that keep happening? That it's getting caught?" the blonde asks, intrigued.
"Elliot got me a board so I can get in and out sitting, so that erm… helps." She'd given him hell for the purchase although she knew it was smart with the safety issues of her previous approach.
"Great. You gained a little bit of weight, which is fantastic," the doctor points out, looking up from Olivia's file.
From her periphery, she sees Elliot smiling proudly, even if it's less than 2 lbs. It's his doing more than hers since he was the one fixing most of her meals. She still doesn't have much of an appetite, but she's trying more for Elliot's and Noah's sake.
"How's the pain? Any changes?"
"It's not better."
"It seems to me it's getting worse," Elliot offers.
"Is that correct, Olivia?"
"It's… when I move, it's pretty bad and I've been cramping a lot for the past four days," she admits, knowing otherwise Elliot will disclose the information himself. "I've taken two more pills on some days," she shifts uncomfortably and swallows. "I've also… erm… taken Xanax for the past week."
"I assume that means you've picked up psychological counseling?"
"I'm seeing my therapist twice a week for… anxiety and… depression."
The doctor's dark brown eyes soften and she leans in a little closer across the desk. "I'm glad to hear that, Olivia. That certainly is a step in the right direction. Did you, by any chance, try the relaxation techniques?"
„I've found the acupressure mat to be helpful since trying it out last week. It helps to settle my anxiety in the evening."
„That's wonderful news. If it helps you, keep it for now," she pulls the PT report from the thin folder, her face turning more serious. „I'd like to go over the report your therapist sent, so if you'd rather we discuss it just between the two of us…"
Elliot glances at her nervously. No doubt has he picked up on the doctor's change in behavior as she pulled the report.
„It's fine, he can stay."
„Okay," the blonde starts, looking at Olivia compassionately. „You've been to physical therapy for the past four weeks and despite those seven appointments, unfortunately, there have been no positive developments. You seemed to experience more difficulty with most of the exercises within the last three visits. Your core strength and posture were two of the things you worked on. I'm afraid both decreased, which is very alarming."
For a moment it's like the doctor dropped a bomb and they all just stand there staring at the debris left.
„W-what do you mean, it decreased?" interjects Elliot, frustrated. „How is that even possible?"
Olivia whimpers weakly, but after the news she's unable to tell him not to start anything.
„Honestly? I am not sure," she replies, then focuses on her patient. „I'd like to examine and palpate your legs and lower back, before discussing further steps."
Olivia's stunned. The doc and Elliot drive the conversation along like their world keeps turning when hers just came to a complete standstill. She's getting worse, and for weeks-who is she kidding, months-she's felt it with increasing pain, more frequent cramps, more difficulties in movement. Now it sounds like her situation is even more hopeless than she could have imagined when Elliot first dragged her here.
Telling herself she tried doesn't stop her blood from whooshing in her ears. Maybe, it flashes in her mind, Lindstrom has been on point with this, too. Her bed wetting is most likely her psyche responding to the increasing loss of control she has over body. While she used to hold onto things, it seems now she lets go. She has no control over anything whatsoever, does she? Even following all orders, making an effort, doesn't benefit her health. Her legs? Aren't responding to PT. Her bladder? Keeps on giving out several nights a week. Her depression and anxiety?
Well, her new friend Xanny is hardly going to contain anything after this jeremiad.
„Olivia?"
Swallowing, she casts her eyes upwards until the other woman comes into view and gives a single nod in response, although she has no idea why the exam would change anything. It'll probably just bring more bad news.
…
She finds herself alone in a relaxation room on an acupressure mat. Her body is rigid, struggling against the nubs pressing against her back. The discomfort isn't as prominent as when she is lying on the mat without a shirt on but still every muscle in her body is tense.
It's funny how a week ago, Olivia stared at the small orange pill bottle like it was the enemy, reluctant to try benzos. There is nothing wrong with needing help with psychotropic drugs, she'd never stigmatize others for taking them. Thing is - she never wanted it for herself. She prided herself on being strong enough to deal without them after Lewis, as if giving in to Lindstrom's suggestion would have been a sign of personal weakness.
She had taken the first pill grudgingly and now here she is, wanting nothing more than the comfort of Xanax. The anxiety has a firm grip on her as Dr. Willem-Vasquez words keep going through her head. Olivia is getting more tense and restless by the minute. Her heart is racing and she can't get enough air as the worry eats her up.
Physical therapy isn't working. Her strength is decreasing instead of increasing. The doctor's highly focused and unusually taught face during the exam of her legs wasn't reassuring, either. In fact, the more Olivia thinks about it, it's deeply unsettling.
The physical examination was nothing short of being dragged through hell and back. It was time consuming and energy-sapping, but nothing could have prepared Olivia for the excruciating pain brought on by the palpation and tests. To say it by help of the doctor's traffic light system: there was nothing but red. Frailly, she had groaned and hissed, then cried, and eventually shrieked several times, reaching her breaking point. While the doctor had been deeply sympathetic last visit, she had hardly tried to reassure Olivia this time, only muttering how she was sorry twice. Thinking about red, the lack of communication is probably a red-flag, too.
They gave her a shot for the pain after stripping her of what was left of her dignity, and the drugs are starting to work. The anxiety, however, has her on edge to the point where she thinks she's going to have another panic attack.
If she gets worse and worse, and there's nothing they can do - then what is going to happen to her? What is going to happen with Noah?
For months she had hoped she was only imagining moving around getting harder, the pain getting worse, or how she's overall been feeling much weaker than before. She wonders if her physical, and with it her mental, condition keep on deteriorating, what does that mean for her? Is she going to end up in a wheelchair, unable to walk at all?
Her cheeks start tingling, followed by her palms, making her feel nauseous. Erratically Olivia tries to breathe as tears slide down her temples. She can't keep doing this. She can't take any more of this never-ending nightmare. It feels like she's stuck in a gigantic maze with no actual way out.
How can she do this to the people around her if she's going to become more and more of a burden? How can she possibly do this to her son? Noah deserves so much more, so much better than her.
Hope, even while thinking she's no longer had any, has been an elusive thing. It is now slipping through her fingers, like quicksand and the last instincts to fight liquify with it.
Life has never been more abhorrent to her.
With her fingertips against her cheek she tries to feel something. Beneath her hands she's numb, but deep within that familiar ache settles in her bones, creating nothing but friction in between.
Her leg is blissfully quiet from the injection and yet she's here, in her cage with her ball and chain. Her leg. Maybe they should have cut it off, she thinks for the very first time. It couldn't have been worse than this, could it?
The more tears fall, the more fatigued Olivia feels. Her body no longer fights to defy the acupressure mat. Her blood starts rushing rhythmically through where her body touches the spikes. It's a unique, soothing sensation, warming her entire system. Her volatile breathing pattern evens out and she feels herself relax, although tears are still streaking down from her temples into her hair.
The doctor has sent Elliot away to go for coffee or tea, maybe get something to eat, as the physical exam was going to be more extensive. She wonders if he's back by now. More than that she wonders if now he's finally done being optimistic.
Allen comes to get her after what feels like an eternity. Elliot is there in the hallway and the way he looks at her is telling. She must look like shit.
"Hey, how's it been going?" He asks, his voice unusually gentle.
"I don't know anything yet," Olivia replies wearily.
"Are you alright?" he inquires, leaning in closer although Allen gives them some room.
Her face hardly gives anything away as her eyes find his until the corners of her lips twitch and tilt downward, her eyes glistening with tears. "It really hurt." Her voice cracks at the last word. Instantly Elliot pulls her in and tugs her against his chest. His voice permeates her ear as he mutters.
"I'm sorry, Liv." He squeezes her just barely, his lips grazing her temple before she feels him press them against the patch of skin for a brief moment.
The doctor stands at the end of the hallway, in front of her office, watching the display of affection before she calls out to the nurse and gives him a sign, apparently letting him know she's ready to see Olivia because next Allen leads them back to the examination room.
They both walk inside and for once she doesn't mind that Elliot helps her to navigate the narrow space between the chairs and desk. She allows him to guide her by the arm, to take the crutch. She doesn't even want to whack him across the head when he quietly asks if she's comfortable like this. Maybe right now she needs some tenderness, some caretaking.
"I'm sorry it took so long, I wanted to confer with a colleague first. I hope you're feeling better, Olivia? I know it's been…." It seems even the doctor can't find appropriate words about what has transpired about an hour ago. "Did the medication help with the pain?"
"It's much better, thank you," she says politely, but she's completely spent, grateful to have Elliot by her side as her ears.
"Okay. So the things I could see from the exam is that you have lower muscle tone, definite signs of atrophy. I can also confirm what the physical therapist concluded, you have lower levels of strength. Your muscle weakness explains the increased drop foot, which is most likely responsible for your fall from the tub when your foot didn't clear the edge. Your pain today, just from when I was palpating your left leg, is quite clearly much more intense than on your first visit," she pauses briefly and Olivia tries to wrap her head around it all. "And quite honestly, it puzzles me. What I would like to do is order a myelogram with dye contrast because I want to see if it'll show more in terms of nerve compression than the MRI."
"All right, so how does that procedure work? I've never heard of it, I don't think," Elliot asks, looking from her to the doctor.
"Right. Myelography allows us better evaluation of the spinal cord, nerve roots and spinal lining. The duration of the procedure is about one hour. Since dye will be injected in the spinal cord, you'll need to have someone to pick you up, Olivia," the doctor explains, looking at her directly. „Irene at the desk will give you some information and preparation material so you'll know what to expect, same as with the MRI. If you agree I'll schedule an appointment. They should be able to get you in this week."
„And you… ah… you think that's going to show more than the MRI?" Olivia asks flatly, doing her best to follow.
„I hope so. I think it's our best shot without being too invasive. I know it's hard to hear how things didn't get better but we will figure this out, okay? I am not giving up on you and neither should you. This is not the end."
"Isn't it?" Olivia asks, her voice husky and close to cracking under the weight of... everything. "Because ever since this started, there hasn't been any progress." There's a part of her that needs to hear the confidence in Dr. Willem-Vasquez words, while another can hardly deal with what are most likely empty promises. "Since day one I was willing to fight and I thought: For sure this can't get any worse. But it is," she manages throatily, lowering her head. "All the time." Elliot's hand is on her back, his thumb stroking her affectionately. Shakily, Olivia exhales and rubs her hand across her forehead.
"I understand. But there has been progress that you can be very proud of. You actually gained some weight, you are giving your body the nutrition it needs to help you in this time. Let's do the myelogram and take it from there, okay?"
She has given up already so when she nods, the movement of her head just barely visible, she doesn't mean it. "Okay."
…
She fiddles with the sheets as she's staring at nothing in particular. She's tired. So, so tired of… everything. She always feels either trapped and overwhelmed, like she's unable to cope with another setback, her leg cramping, taking another fall… or hopeless with another inconclusive result.
And then, like now, she feels nothing at all, and while that used to be scary it is now oddly comforting. She starts to yearn for these moments of emptiness. There's no guilt in this place, and most of the time she's carrying a lot of it. For disrupting everyone's life, especially Elliot's. For not being the parent she should be and causing her son so much pain. What kind of future is Noah looking at, burdened with an incapacitated mother? He's four now, but he'll grow older, and one day her care will fall back onto him. What kind of life is that going be?
Her shame is overwhelming these days, too. For gradually needing more assistance when she used to be independent and strong. For going back to therapy when she thought Lewis would never get the upper hand again. For wetting the bed two, three nights a week.
She wonders what they would think if they knew. The mere idea of anyone finding out about it sends her into a state of sky-high anxiety. Purchasing the absorbent pads at the store was one of the most humiliating moments of her life. She's hiding the soiled chucks in a garbage bag in the back of her closet because Elliot's the one taking out her trash. She's getting more paranoid by the day that he could find them or smell something despite the promise that the product locks in any odor. She's so utterly disgusted with what she's become. She just wants it to stop. All of it.
Clearly Noah would be better off without her. They all would. She's nothing but a liability these days. Alive but worthless. Physically here but wasting away.
They deserve better.
She deserves better.
Pulling her legs up towards her chest, Olivia shifts her body and rolls up in a fetal position, her gaze landing on her nightstand. The orange bottle of percocet stares back at her.
What would happen if she took them all?
She swallows although there is no saliva in her mouth. Her heart starts galloping in her chest. It's wrong. She knows it is. She shouldn't entertain such thoughts. It's not healthy. It should scare the shit out of her.
Oddly she's not scared at all. Her heart may be racing but this idea has a calming effect on her.
Maybe she'd fall asleep, lose consciousness, and just… stop breathing. In her imagination it's peaceful. Quiet.
Or, a more sane voice in her head whispers, you'll puke all over your bed and choke on your own vomit. Or, worse yet, end up a vegetable after multi-organ failure.
She turns on her back, rubs a hand over her face that feels prickly all of a sudden and exhales shakily.
If she were to do this…
Her head starts spinning. She shouldn't think these thoughts but they keep coming.
If she were to do this, she better make sure she won't wake up again. Take the percocet. Throw in the Xanax. Benzos and oxy don't make for a good cocktail, everybody knows that.
You should know better. You resent your mother for being so selfish and choosing her escape over you and in the end it killed her. You hated her for being so weak, for not putting you first. Do you really want to do the same thing to your son? Abandon him so you find your peace? Sounds like he really deserves better. Somebody's going to find you. It's either Elliot, or it's Noah. Sound appealing?
No longer calm, Olivia rubs her hand across her mouth, feeling the anxiety starting to spread in her veins. With it comes a wave of breathtaking nausea. This is not good. This is a huge red flag and she knows what the right thing to do would be: Tell someone.
It's Prevention 101, after all. Hell, she repeated it back to victims hundreds of times. She is highly aware of the danger these thoughts pose. This was more than a fleeting thought, this was a plan including the means and opportunity. The only thing that's missing is the intention. And she's halfway there.
She doesn't want to kill herself. She just wants to feel better.
Nervously she starts wringing her hands. Then there's a knock on the door and Olivia almost jumps out of her skin. The door opens and Elliot leans against the frame. Her eyes are wide and it feels like he just caught her doing the unthinkable but just to be sure she looks at her hands, finding them empty.
"Hey, dinner's ready," he says softly.
She wonders if he knows but if he does, he doesn't let on.
"Ah… I'm not… I don't think I can eat." Not when she's still nauseous.
"Are you sure? It's spaghetti," he says as if it would do the trick it always does on her son.
"Yeah. Maybe erm… maybe later," she gives although she doesn't mean it. Elliot nods once and that's enough for her.
"You gonna join us at the table, though?" He rubs the back of his neck, looking at her hopefully. She'd go, if only for Noah's sake, but right now she can't even move.
"I've got a headache so I'd rather…"
"All right. Get some rest. I'll tuck him in before I leave then."
"Thanks," she whispers and sees him direct a small smile at her that doesn't reach his steel-blue eyes. He pulls back and starts to close the door. "El, wait?"
He stops and pops his head in again. "Need some water?"
"No, I…" she swallows and glances away shortly. "I was just wondering… could you maybe stay here tonight? Please?" She sounds small but the truth is, she knows for sure she's not going to do anything stupid as long as he's around, and right now she doesn't trust herself. She doesn't think she's a severe suicide risk. But then, this morning, she never would have believed she'd entertain such thoughts, at all. She may not be ready to let him in on it, but she wants to do something that'll give her a sense of safety until her appointment with Lindstrom tomorrow.
She thinks Elliot is thrown, because he's looking at her like she's going to change her mind any second. Of course she doesn't usually ask for things, least of all for him to stay with her.
"Sure. If you want, I'll stay." He waits a few beats before he adds: "Any time you want, I'll stay."
She nods and draws her bottom lip in for a moment. "Thanks."
"Try to get some sleep if you can," he encourages, and she nods, although she knows it's not going to happen.
The injection is still working its miracles in terms of pain, and if things were any different she'd take that advice and get a couple of hours in. However, it seems she has yet another problem to address. God, she's tired.