Superficially, the place looks the same as he left it, but there's a palpable stillness to the air, an absence of bustle. Stationhouse life has been on hold.

The horizontal blinds rustle predictably as he enters the dusty, dark-paneled office with a soft knock to announce himself. He's not expected, but his presence is not surprising, either.

"Elliot."

It's been nearly two years, but he dispenses with greetings. "I read what happened."

"And you came to see her."

He waits a beat. "Is she here?"

So does Cragen. "Do you think it's a good idea?"

He shifts on his feet. "Captain, is she here?"

"You just missed her. She came to give her statement. She and Brian just left about five minutes ago."

Pause. "Cassidy?"

"They've been seeing each other."

He narrows his eyes, but keeps his thoughts to himself. "I thought I saw him on my way in. But he was by himself."

"Maybe he went to bring the car around."

"So where's she? I didn't see her waiting."

"I don't know."

"So she might still be in the building?"

Cragen concedes. "She might be. Or she might've slipped out the side exit."

In his head: That dolt let her walk out of here by herself, a day after a vicious assault?

Out loud: "How's she doing?"

His former boss sighs, hesitates.

So he answers his own question. "Not well."

"I wouldn't quite characterize it that way."

He's careful to keep any sarcasm out of his voice. "Then how would you characterize it?"

"I would say, she is doing well, considering the hell she's been through."

"But?"

Sigh. "But. But. The hell she was put through was considerable."

He's crestfallen by this answer. He'd held out hope the media had embellished. "So she's not doing well."

"She's in shock. More worried about the other victims than about herself."

He raises an eyebrow; he hadn't heard this part. "Other victims?"

"He killed a rookie trooper who threatened to check the backseat where she was tied up. He raped and tortured his lawyer's mother in front of her. Forced her to watch."

He swallows. "Jesus."

Cragen looks him in the eye. "It was bad, Elliot."

He forces down a lump. "Did he… did he rape her?"

"No."

His relief is obviously written on his face, because Cragen feels the need to add, "But it was still… bad."

"Of course it was."

"No, I mean, you should…. prepare yourself. She was tortured. And I don't just mean psychologically."

"But he didn't –"

"Look, it's not right of me to discuss this with you. If she wants to talk to you, you should hear it from her."

"You won't have me arrested if I take a peak upstairs?"

Cragen sighs again, shoots him a warning glance. "No, as long as you promise to leave her alone if she doesn't want to see you."

He manages to make it to the second floor without running into any of his former colleagues. Depleted from days-straight of round-the-clock investigative work, they were dismissed the second Olivia left.

Though he thinks there's only a small chance she's here, he's careful not to barge when he opens the door.

Her back is to him when he comes in. She is planted, still as a statue, in front of the locker room's only full-length mirror, which faces the door directly. From such a vantage point, he knows she's had fair warning of his entrance and that he could not have possibly startled her, but she looks shaken by the intrusion, her body primed with what he recognizes as fight-or-flight adrenaline. He immediately wishes he could take back the moment; knock first, perhaps.

He traverses the short space between them with a light tread, his feet padding softly across the waxy floor. Partner of a dozen years or not, he has enough sense and experience not to barrel down on a woman who's just been through what she has. He doesn't pretend she's above the fray when it comes to trauma. Still, he has to restrain himself a little; the urge to scoop her up in his arms is powerful. He's never been so glad to see her.

Nothing has prepared him for her physical appearance: Left arm immobilized and useless in a sling, conspicuous stitches across her forehead, both juxtaposed against shiny clean hair, neatly combed and side-parted like a school girl's, the tips of which blanket the loose-fitting men's blue button-down she wears. All in, she bears the forlorn expression of a lost child. But as she looks him up and down, her shock at seeing him evident on her face, he suddenly questions how she will interpret his abrupt reappearance in her life. Its timing, its motivation. What will she read into it? Will she accuse him of wanting to coddle her in the aftermath of this event? Of only being interested in her when she's in a weakened state?

"Elliot."

Her voice is tired, strained, pained.

He can't control himself. "Liv," he blurts, his own voice cracking. "I'm so…. I'm just so glad to –"

"You heard what happened."

He slackens his neck in affirmation. No point in denying it. "I'm so sorry."

"It's okay."

"Believe me when I say I wanted to see you so many times, I just couldn't face you."

"I tried to call you."

"I know, I know. I was too ashamed."

She takes a second to think about it. "Okay."

"But I'm here now."

"Because of what happened."

The words gush out of him like a spigot, unfiltered, unorganized, unproofread. He wants to just lay it all out there. "I had to see for myself that you were okay. I know you're probably pissed I'm doing this, showing up here like this, like maybe I'm barging into your life again at this convenient time to rescue you or something… but honestly, I hope you just accept… we had a twelve-year partnership and I never stopped caring about you and I couldn't just sit back and not see you after I heard what hap-"

To his astonishment, she waves a hand dismissively. "Elliot. Stop. Please. It's okay. I don't have the resources right now to overanalyze this."

She flashes him a sad, weary grin. It's an understanding between partners who have over a decade of foundation beneath them. We're cool. Let's move on.

That's all he needs. He won't look a gift horse in the mouth. He takes a single stride forward and pulls her into a loose hug – he's mindful of injuries – and wraps his arms fully around her.

She disappears into his embrace. Without hesitation, reservation, trepidation. Even after a two-year gulf topped off by a four-day odyssey of unspeakable hell, she trusts him completely.

More so, even with only one good arm, she clings to him. The honesty in her need touches him and also frightens him. Even after Sealview, she was not this nakedly raw, this transparently vulnerable. He never heard the full story, but he knew Sealview was bad. From this he concludes: So this was worse than Sealview.

It's a data point. A piece of information that can help him navigate.

He pulls back to talk into her ear, pretends he's clueless about Cassidy. "Can I drive you home?"

He can't be sure, but he thinks she stiffens. "I'm staying at Brian's. He just went to bring the car around. I came up here to grab some stuff while I waited."

He wants to cluck his tongue, inhale sharply, do something to demonstrate his distaste. But he restrains himself. This is not about him. He has to show her he's not the possessive, brutish partner she might remember. He's also concerned about the more mundane implications of her statement: that her physical condition is bad enough as to preclude a walk of what can't be more than a block or two.

"So let me keep you company till he gets here."

She thinks about it. "Okay."

He smiles, looks down at the bundle of clothes she's collected from her locker, and how manual a process it'll be to one-handedly stuff them into her bag. He knows she'll refuse his help, so he instead preemptively grabs her tote bag from the floor, holds it wide open for her.

"Thanks," she says, and stuffs each garment in, one by one.

When she's done, he lays the bag down and gestures to the bench. "Let's sit."

She agrees without argument.

"I won't ask if you're okay, because I know you hate that."

"Thank you."

"Can I ask how you're feeling?" The question is delivered with deliberate cheekiness. He's betting she'll appreciate the levity as a reflection of his status as an old, familiar confidante; someone she can be herself around, like family. Because in his eyes, she is family.

She raises an amused eyebrow; his bet has paid off. "That's not the same thing as asking if I'm okay?"

"Not really," he says, with mock-pensiveness. "I'm figuring even you understand that you can be okay and not feel physically well at the same time. I want to know if you're feeling physically well. If you're in any pain."

"Yes, some," she admits.

In spite of his neat bit of logical framing, her candor still unnerves him.

He can't help the gush of worry that rushes up his throat, but he manages to keep his voice even. "Painkillers not strong enough?"

"I'm not on any."

"What?" He's genuinely shocked. "I'm sorry, I just thought…. You, uh, the broken wrist, you know…."

She glances down at her useless arm. "Yeah, there's that." She regards her lame limb like a bratty child she's being forced to babysit.

Suddenly he's desperate to know how badly she's been assaulted. He also knows he can't force her to tell him. "Why'd you refuse painkillers, Liv? No one thinks you're weak if you –"

"I didn't refuse them. Doctor wouldn't give me any."

"What are you talking about?" His voice is gruffer than he intended. In his head, he's already pummeling the insensitive intern who dared to judge her. "You don't have a history with prescription drugs."

But she looks at him, her eyes as beautiful as he remembers them, but also haunted, and infused with a pain that no drug can erase. "It, uh, it was a precaution."

"I don't understand."

Her pupils flood with spontaneous tears, and he watches as she struggles to contain them. He's devastated to have upset her. "I'm sorry," he starts, "I didn't mean to –"

"No, no, it's okay. I just meant, my system was already –" She is cut off by the buzzing of her phone from within her pocket, which causes her to jump out of her skin. "Sorry!" she exclaims, in reference to her frazzled overreaction, not to the interruption itself. Her voice is shrill with startle-reflex adrenaline. She musters to grab the odious device and thus put an end to the cacophony. She presses a button. "Brian?" She takes a deep breath, gathering herself, apparently so as not to alarm him. "Where are you?"

Elliot sits back, consciously instructs himself to keep his mouth shut and his expression neutral. He watches her face, trying to decipher the upshot of the conversation before she hangs up.

"Okay, that's okay," she's saying. Pause, and her eyes flicker to Elliot. "It's fine, I'll find my own way. You don't have to –" Pause. Exasperated sigh. "Brian. I'm not a baby. I'll get a cab. It's fine." Pause. "Okay, good. See you there, then."

She ends the call, and he notices that her fingers surreptitiously switch on the phone's silencer.

"How long have you been seeing him?"

"About eight months."

"I'm glad for you," he lies.

He senses she knows he's lying, but she takes the comment at face value. "Thank you."

"So… he's not coming?"

"He got called in."

He's scrupulously careful to keep any trace of a smirk from his face. "You didn't tell him I was here."

"He wouldn't have understood."

It's not quite the response he'd expected. He'd figured she'd ask, as only women can, Why would he care if you're here? He wants to read something into her statement. He wants it to mean she believes his presence is significant and meaningful to her; not that Brian might be irrationally jealous in a juvenile, misguided way. He wants her to realize Brian should be jealous. Because even if Elliot doesn't intend to act on his feelings – and his feelings are surely there, there's no denying it now – the emotional support he wants to provide, needs to provide, is reason enough for Brian to eventually feel marginalized.

If Brian finds out. That's up to her.

"I know what you're thinking," she says.

"What am I thinking?"

"You're thinking, what kind of guy can't make it his business to give his injured girlfriend a ride home."

He grins. "Can't put anything past you, Detective."

She smiles wistfully, and this time, it's he who knows exactly what she's thinking: Am I still a detective? What happens if they don't let me come back? But before he has a chance to intercede, to reassure her, she abruptly snaps out of it, addresses the topic at hand. "Trust me, he feels terrible. But he feels more terrible about Tuesday."

"Tuesday?"

"He had to pull a double-shift at the last minute. We were supposed to get together."

He doesn't follow. "So what was Tuesday?"

She waits a beat, as if he's supposed to figure it out on his own. When it becomes evident that he won't, she explains, her voice hitching. "Lewis got me on Monday."

His whole body freezes, the full significance washing over him in a tidal wave. For a second, he actually feels sorry for Brian, before he promptly realizes at whom his sympathy ought to really be directed. He swallows guiltily. "Oh."