I'm honestly a little overwhelmed at the response I received for the first chapter of this- I've never had feedback like that in the eleven (I think!) years I've been posting fanfiction, and I really don't know what to say.

Thank you so, so much if you took the time to review the first chapter of this story. I'm going to go through and reply to all the reviews I can once I get some free time- I'm throwing this chapter up quickly tonight because I know it's been a long wait. But in the meantime, your feedback means the world- I was so, so nervous to post this and I'm still not completely comfortable writing for Elliot and Olivia, so your support means everything. Thank you.

I hope this chapter lives up to expectations!

-IseultLaBelle x

Part II

At the hospital, she can't seem to decide whether she wants him as far away from her as possible, or to never let him out of her sight again.

She's… wired.

That's the only way Elliot can describe it.

She was eerily calm, almost to the point of unresponsive, when he led her out the building.

So much so that he had to make some badly-thought-out excuse he can't even completely recall now, less than an hour later, when the blonde detective who hasn't exactly welcomed him with open arms in the time he's been back in the squad room watched them go and followed them out towards the lift to ask if everything was alright.

Olivia didn't seem to even hear her at first, and so he was forced to step in, brush her colleague's concerns aside and tell her they might be gone a while, because it was perfectly clear she was in no fit state to answer for herself.

(He'd spent the cab ride to Mercy General half-expecting Olivia to receive a phone call from her squad checking he hadn't forced her out of the building against her will, after the rumours they've been spreading about him since his return, but thankfully, none comes.)

When the cab had pulled up outside the hospital, he'd reached over to pay the fare, made it around the other side before she'd even responded; she was motionless, vacant, gaze fixed on the transparent plastic of the cab divider and yet she didn't seem to be seeing it at all.

He'd had to say her name three times before he'd finally gotten her attention.

He'd tried to help her out of the cab and she'd brushed him off at first as though his touch had burned her, even through the thick fabric of her blazer.

But then she'd clambered out, and she'd been swaying so alarmingly that Elliot had made a split-second decision, pulled her into his side to steady her because in that moment, he'd been truly convinced that it was that or allow her to hit the sidewalk, and he wasn't about to let that happen.

She might not be his partner anymore, but she's still…

It's been twenty-two years, and Elliot still hasn't found the words to articulate exactly what she is to him, exactly why she still means everything, even after all this time.

For better or worse.

They might not be partners any longer, but that doesn't mean she isn't stuck with him, for better or worse.

He's not going to make the mistake he did ten years ago.

Not again.

Not ever.

And so he'd caught her when she started to fall, clutched her against him until she could find her balance again, support herself, and mercifully, she hadn't protested.

Except she hadn't regained her balance again.

Not completely.

She'd carried on swaying beside him as they'd walked in through the hospital entrance and around to the ER, and once the elevator doors closed, she'd turned positively white, and her breathing began to display all the warning signs of being about to go to shit again.

It had come on so suddenly.

He'd practically taken her full weight for her as they'd staggered, side by side, along the corridor to the waiting area after he'd checked her in- a bad sign in itself, because a lot can change in ten years, admittedly, but not this.

The Olivia he left behind when he walked away from SVU would never have let him speak for her, never lean on him like this- not him, not anyone.

She's been keeping him at arms-length ever since he's been back, going out of her way to support him and his kids in any way she can while refusing to let him in herself- and he deserves that, Elliot knows he does, isn't about to protest.

But her dependency upon him as they'd arrived at the hospital… that was something else entirely.

She's starting to scare him.

Dutifully, he'd held her upright, and she'd been heavier than he'd anticipated- perhaps because it's been ten years and that time has inevitably aged them both, or perhaps because it's simply because she's hardly supporting herself at all.

They'd only had to wait ten minutes or so before her name had been called, and Elliot still hasn't decided if he should be relieved she's being dealt with quickly, or alarmed at the apparent severity of the fracture to her wrist.

Or perhaps in wasn't her physical injury that caused the triage team to prioritise her at all.

Perhaps they could tell.

Perhaps they could see it in her eyes- because this is PTSD, Elliot is certain of it.

It all makes sense now.

He'd laughed in her face when she'd tried to tell him he had PTSD outside Noah's school that day because he figured what did she know, but it's become horribly clear to Elliot over the course of the last hour that Olivia is more than familiar with the disorder she'd tried to pin to him, saw it for what it was because she knows this struggle well.

This is PTSD.

It has to be.

What the hell happened in the time he was gone?

She seems to calm a little once they're through into a cubicle.

The doctor assigned to her is female, young, looks as though she's barely out of med school, and Elliot is poised to demand someone more experienced, at first.

But she seems to know what she's doing.

He's found himself here for his kids and their broken bones more times than he cares to count, over the years, and the way the only-just-old-enough-to-be-qualified doctor gently examines Olivia's wrist puts his mind at rest almost immediately; she's confident, in control, but attentive, too, painstakingly careful.

And Olivia responds to him far more positively than he ever could have hoped for, given the state she's been in since they left the precinct, which is after all the only thing that matters.

Olivia.

She seems to regain control a little, once the doctor arrives to examine her.

It's as though…

Scrap that, Elliot decides.

He can't make sense of her behaviour, ever since their confrontation and her… panic attack, flashback, whatever it was, whatever caused her to lash out the way she did, pushed her to lay into him with a wrist she apparently should have known perfectly well wouldn't withstand the pressure of the blow she inflicted, if it's an old injury which never fully healed like she claims it is.

He doesn't know what it's like.

All he knows is that she seems a little more lucid, once she's called through to the examination room.

She's answering for herself, all of a sudden.

She's still pale, withdrawn, shaky on her way down from whatever the hell happened back in the precinct, but at least she seems to be leaving the trance-like state in which she spent the limbo between there and the examination room behind her now.

And she's beautiful.

She's aged in the ten years he's been away, of course she has, but she's still every bit as beautiful as he remembers.

Not that it's relevant.

But still.

She's a little more in control as the ER doctor probes at her wrist.

She yelps in pain at the pressure, subtle, gentle manipulation, but the examination doesn't seem to throw her back into panic territory again the way Elliot had been so afraid it might.

She answers the onslaught of questions that follow with far more composure than he could possibly have hoped for, given the state she was in not five minutes earlier, and perhaps he should be relieved, but he's seen too much for that.

He's worried about her.

He can't shake it.

It doesn't help that she can't seem to decide what she needs from him, now.

She's… torn.

Just moments ago, she seemed utterly dependent upon him.

But now…

Now, she bats him away when he tries to give her a hand up onto the examination table, refuses to make eye-contact with him, focuses on the doctor treating her and acts as though he isn't even there.

But when her doctor asks her gently if she'd like him to leave, Olivia shuts the suggestion down frantically, eyes wide, adamant, and there's an anxiety there that unsettles him somewhat.

She doesn't want him to go; that much is clear.

She doesn't want him to go.

She's just not entirely sure she wants him to stay for this, either.

Elliot can't help but worry she won't let him leave to wait outside not because she wants him in here, but because she's afraid that if she lets him out of her sight now, she might never see him again.

Is she afraid she's scared him off?

Fuck only knows how much of the last hour or so she remembers; she was so out of it until a few minutes ago that Elliot truly wouldn't be surprised if it's all something of a blur to her now, a hazy, traumatic mess she can't quite make sense of, isn't entirely sure if she wantsto make sense of.

Elliot knows that feeling all-too well.

Olivia was right about the PTSD.

What if she's afraid she's scared him off?

What if she thinks he's going to be out of here the first chance he gets?

What if she thinks this… whatever this is, whatever trauma he's not privy to, is too much for him to handle?

What if she's afraid he's going to walk out on her all over again, because the years they've been apart have scarred her and she's scared he won't want to deal with it?

What if she doesn't realise that he'd stick by her through anything?

Except of course she doesn't, Elliot realises with a sinking feeling, watching her as she sits on the edge of the examination table, legs dangling, good hand supporting her broken wrist and she looks so unusually small, all of a sudden, so fragile.

She absolutely doesn't realise that he'd never abandon her when she needed him; she doesn't realise it at all.

How can she, when that's exactly what he did?

"I'm going to have to plaster this," the ER doctor informs her apologetically. "I'm going to put it in a temporary cast for now, and we'll get you booked in with the fracture clinic within the next few days, alright? In the meantime, I'm going to need you to keep it immobilised… you know the drill, don't you? I saw in your notes that…"

"Yeah," Olivia agrees, cuts her off before she can finish. "Yeah, I've done this before."

She doesn't elaborate.

"Okay," says the ER doctor gently. "Okay. I'm going to go get the plastering kit… can you manage to roll your sleeve up on that shirt? I'm going to need to get up to your elbow, just so I can make sure…"

Olivia glances over towards Elliot now, awkward, bites her lip. "Probably not."

"Alright. Can you take your shirt off for me, while I'm getting the plastering kit? Can you manage to…"

"I'll be fine." She brushes her doctor's concern aside with the same politely uncompromising tone she's been using whenever anyone offers her help the entire time Elliot has known her, and yet she blinks uncertainly, regards the stiff, chiffon fabric of her shirt with utter distaste.

"Okay," the ER doctor sighs. "Okay. Do you… do you want some privacy?" she asks carefully, eyes Elliot with suspicion.

She hasn't warmed to him at all.

Maybe she hasn't bought Olivia's vague explanation of how she fractured her wrist pinning a perp to the wall, or maybe she's just sensed the tension between the two of them, his slight twisting of the truth when he'd explained he was her partner- still partners, present tense, should have realised that even an ER doctor might know that as an NYPD captain, Olivia won't havea partner.

Elliot isn't sure.

Either way, though, the ER doctor doesn't like him.

It's not that she doesn't trust him; that's too strong.

But she certainly hasn't warmed to him.

"It's fine," Olivia brushes her concern aside, glances between Elliot and the floor and back again. "It's fine, he can stay."

The door swings shut, and they're alone.

"Can you…" Olivia begins.

Elliot nods. "Alright. You sure you don't want me to…"

"Just turn your back to me for a minute?"

"Sure."

Does she know? Elliot finds himself wondering, tries to feign interest in the covid poster on the wall behind his chair.

Does she know he saw the cigarette burn scars to her breasts, back in the women's restroom?

Or was she too out of it then to realise she'd unwittingly given him a perfect view?

Elliot doesn't know, and he's not exactly about to ask.

He reads the covid poster through word for word four times through, just to be sure he's allowed her enough time to battle with her broken wrist.

"You alright?" he calls out at last, the covid poster practically committed to memory.

He's not asking her because he expects an honest answer.

He's asking her because he knows he'll hear the truth in her voice.

He can tell.

He can always tell, with Olivia.

"I'm fine," she insists firmly, and Elliot can't help but wish that for once in her life, just once, she'd be truthful. "I'm fine, it's fine."

Her voice betrays her spectacularly.

"Can I turn around?"

"Uh huh."

She's shifted a little on the examination table, shirt discarded to her right, stripped down to her bra and her expression is horribly anxious, but that's not the part that's worrying him.

She's wrapped both of her arms around her abdomen, broken wrist now unsupported, dangling at an awkward angle as she tries to cover herself, but the horrific scarring he glimpsed earlier is on full display.

So there's something worse, Elliot realises, nausea building within him.

The burn marks are…horrific.

There's simply no other way of putting it.

They're horrific, but it's not those scars, despite the intimacy of their location, that she's prioritised trying to cover up.

That has to mean that there's something worse she doesn't want him to see.

How the hell can it possibly be worse?

All of a sudden, Elliot feels physically sick.

She won't look at him.

She's both horribly pale and flushing with embarrassment all at once, stares determinedly at the floor, and she's hurting, Elliot knows she is.

She's, hurting, and it's not just the PTSD episode and the broken wrist.

"It's… it's probably not doing your wrist any good, holding it at that angle," Elliot tries apprehensively. "It looks painful…"

"It's only for a minute." Olivia shrugs him off abruptly, cringes, awkward, lost.

How can this feel so natural and yet so painfully uncomfortable all at once, this… this?

"I know. But still. The doctor said you'd snapped it clean…"

"I know."

"So-"

"So what?" Olivia challenges, cutting him off.

She's defensive.

She's defensive- unnecessarily so, and Elliot's worry for her is building by the minute.

"So you're probably going to be in less pain if you support it like you were before you…"

"I'm half-naked," she protests, wrapping her arms around herself tighter still.

"Do you want me to step outside, then?" Elliot tries. "You know, so you don't have to feel…"

"Not particularly."

She's making no sense at all, but her lower lip trembles, and he knows better than to argue with her.

"Alright. Alright, but… that wrist looks…"

"Dr Gardner said she'd only be a minute."

"I know," Elliot agrees. "I know. But I still don't want you in pain just because you don't want me to… you know." He gulps awkwardly. "Because of me…"

"I'm fine."

"I've seen you in less," he points out, braces himself for her reaction, but what else is there left to try?

He casts his mind back to that undercover job that now feels like a lifetime ago, her gate-crashing that had nearly ended in disaster, and all because she was determined to save his marriage.

"Yeah, about twelve years and thirty pounds ago." Olivia pulls a face.

"Stop."

He's in unchartered territory, here.

Kathy's rarely tried to bring anything like this up with him- besides pregnancy-related complaints concerning her body at least- and now all of a sudden, Olivia is springing it on him out of nowhere and he's no idea how he's supposed to respond.

He forgets, sometimes.

Or he used to, at least, and somehow, he's fallen back into that old, well-established manner of existing alongside her again, even after all this time.

Sometimes, he's all-too-aware of her femininity, consumed by it, engulfed, and other times, it passes him by, and he's treating her like just another of the boys because that's what she wants from them all in the patriarchal world of the NYPD.

Until all of a sudden, he's confronted by her being female, and it's all-too-late to react appropriately, work out what she needs from him before he's already let her down.

This is one of those occasions.

She's glaring at him, evidently self-conscious, and he doesn't know how to handle it.

"I don't want you in pain," he tells her simply, dances around her bodily insecurities instead. "You've got two choices. Either I can wait outside the room- and I'll stay right outside the door, Olivia. I swear. I'll be back in as soon as you want me. Or you can stop worrying about… look, we were partners for long enough, weren't we?" he tries now. "I'm not… there's… no judgement from me," he says stupidly, cringes the moment the words tumble from his mouth, but it's too late, now. "I'm not going to…"

"You might want to put the shovel down, Elliot."

"Alright. Alright, I deserved that," he admits, cringing himself now because this is all just so fucking awkward, regrets even raising the subject now, but how was he to know she'd bring it round to this? "I just… I don't want to make this any worse for you, alright? I don't want you in pain on my account, that's all…"

"Have you got something to say?" she challenges now.

She's hostile, in full-on cop mode, and he can't work out why.

"What?"

"Give over, Elliot," she accuses, voice wavering as though she's on the verge of tears- tears of sheer, pure humiliation. "You haven't stopped staring since the restroom."

Too-late, he realises, curses himself.

He hadn't meant to.

Those old, now-healed wounds are just so fucking horrific, still so angry, even after the time it's taken for them to fade to white, discoloured blemishes against delicate tissue, that the rage he feels within him towards whoever hurt her while he wasn't there to prevent it is all too much, and he can't not look.

He's been doing it to torture himself.

Elliot can appreciate that now.

Unconsciously, unintentionally, he's been staring furiously at the damage done to her ever since it first came into view, and she's quite rightly assumed that he's staring at her…

Fuck.

"It's worse there, isn't it?" he asks rhetorically, gestures stupidly to his own abdomen with more awkwardness than he can recall exhibiting around a woman since he asked first asked Kathy out on a date. "Your… that's why you don't want me to see…"

Deep brown eyes meet his for the first time since they left the precinct, dilated pupils, red-rimmed, pained.

"Don't ask, Elliot," she pleads with him. "Please? Please, just don't ask what ha…"

"I'm not going to," he promises. "I'm not going to go there. Okay? That's none of my business, that's fine. Can I…"

He's operating on instinct, now.

Every rational thought he still possesses at this stage is screaming at him that this next question he's about to pose to her in the place of the one she's desperately trying to shut down is a truly terrible idea, and yet even after all this time, Kathy was right.

They're still in synch.

It's strained, imperfect, tarnished a little by the time that's passed and the circumstances under which he left her, but still, they're in synch.

He doesn't know the person she's become, in those ten long years he's been gone.

And yet at the same time, he still knows every inch of her.

Every inch but this.

"Can I…" Elliot tries again, holds her gaze, begging her to let him in. "Can I see?"

She hesitates.

She hesitates, and for several horribly long moments, Elliot worries that he's fucked up well and truly, can't predict her any longer after all.

And then she nods.

"Okay," Olivia whispers, vulnerable, exposed. "Okay."