I hope to hell she's not serious. She wants me to go ask Cragen for his permission? Or is she just trying to torture me?
"You want me to go take him to dinner and ask him for your hand in marriage? Do things right?"
She shakes her head and wipes her eyes. She's still crying. I'm hoping that's a good thing. "Just messing with you," she replies, sniffling.
There's a box of tissues on the table beside her bed. I pull a couple out and hand them to her. She wipes her face, quickly, dabbing at her eyes.
"That's one way to do it, Liv," I murmur, when she's done.
"You gotta go tell him, though," she replies. "I'd do it, but I kinda can't." She finally lets go of my hand - she's had a grip on it for the last five minutes - and nods to the door.
I step out into the hall. Now I think I understand how my daughters' dates feel. Why they always look so nervous, when they walk in the door. Why the girls don't want to bring a guy home to meet me.
I know Olivia would never admit to seeing Cragen as a father figure, no more than he'd admit to seeing her as a daughter. The child he'd never had. But from watching them interact, I know I'm about to tell the closest thing Olivia's ever had to a father that she's engaged to me. And I really don't know how it's going to go over.
"Cap?" I question, thumbs hooked in my belt.
Don runs a hand over his bald head. "What's up?"
"I, uh . . . " Why do I need to bother fumbling through a speech? It'll be better if I just tell him outright. "Olivia and I getting married."
He gives me a sharp look. "When did this happen?"
I shake my head. "About ten minutes ago. It wasn't a spur of the moment thing - I've been thinking about asking her for weeks." I knew he'd be worried about that. Afraid that we were going to rush into something. And he does want to protect her, like any father.
"You've got a strange sense of timing, Elliot," the boss comments, arms crossed over his chest. "But she's happy with you."
I think that's his way of giving his blessing. I hope so.
"Getting married again so soon?" Munch calls.
He and Fin were sitting a couple of feet away. They overheard the whole thing. I shake my head, and they get up, to congratulate me. And, then, we all head in. They want to congratulate Liv.
She looks up, when the four of us come into the room. "Okay? What's going on?"
"Didn't you think we'd want to congratulate you?" Munch questions, as Don leans in to hug her. "Not that I think that's it's anything worth celebrating, but"-
That earns him an eye-roll from Olivia. Finally, someone else is on the receiving end of that.
"Listen, man," Fin cuts in. "No one cares about what you think. And why do you wanna ruin it for them, anyway?"
"I'm not trying to ruin it for them"- John begins, annoyed.
Olivia sighs. "Hey, guys - you think you can save the argument for out in the hall? My head's killing me."
The beginning of what could have been one long Munch and Fin argument ends there, when she cuts in. That's the first time I've ever heard them stop, for anyone.
After a few well-meaning threats about what will happen to me if I should ever hurt her, I'm left alone in the room with her again.
"You okay?" I pull up my chair beside her bed, again, and lightly stroke her hair. "You want me to see if they can give you anything?"
She shakes her head, slightly. "No. Painkillers'll only knock me out again." She groans, quietly. Her face turns white and she makes a strangled choking sound. "Gonna be sick," she groans, trying to push herself up.
I look around, seeing the blue plastic basin sitting on the table beside her bed. I grab it and help her into a sitting position. I don't know how strong she is. If she's able to support herself.
She drops her head, leaning forward a little more. I use one hand to hold the basin for her and let the other arm slip around her chest, to support her. "It's okay, honey," I soothe, quietly.
I know what she's feeling. The urge to vomit and get the offending something out of her system. With four kids bringing every germ on the planet home from school, I've been sick enough times to know. But she can't do it. She draws a ragged breath and coughs. I feel her stomach heave and she gasps, as her insides expel what looks like a couple of days' worth of meals.
She gags and heaves, a few times, trembling from head to toe. Her stomach heaves, one last time, and she coughs, as the last of it comes up. I move the basin out of the way and gently rub her back, still supporting her weight. Her face is bright red, her eyes bloodshot and filled with tears.
She coughs, harshly. "El?" Her voice is rough. Her throat's raw, scorched by the stomach acid as it came up.
"Yeah? You all right?" She seems to be okay. Just a little weak. But what's worrying me is what's making her sick. What the hell would make her throw up everything in her stomach like she just did? Then I remember. They probably had to knock her out, to work on her.
Anesthetics can make people sick. When they had to remove Dickie's appendix, last year, he was sick that whole first night.
She slumps back against the pillows, weakly, as I head into the room's small bathroom, to flush the contents of the basin down the toilet. Then, I call a nurse and explain.
The woman in pale scrubs confirms my suspicion. It was probably just the anesthetic making her sick. She brings a cup of water into the room, so Olivia can soothe her raw throat and clean out her mouth.
I offer the cup to her and she takes it, sucking a mouthful of fluid through the straw. She swirls it around in her mouth, to clean her mouth out and looks for a place to spit. I hold up the room's small trash can, that doesn't have a thing in it, and she spits the mouthful of water out.
Olivia settles back and sighs, quietly. She lifts up her left hand and regards the silver band on her ring fingers for a minute. "So you couldn't be bothered to go buy me a ring, huh?" I see the amusement in her eyes. She's joking.
"You'll have to take that up with Maureen," I inform her. "It's her fault I'm always broke."
"Sure. Blame it on your kid," she retorts, reaching for the cup again. "You've told me only a thousand times how much you hate shopping."
"Hey. Even with her paying half of her own tuition, I'm still broke," I reply. "But I'll get you a ring."
"I've got one," she answers.
"What?" I blink. She can't possibly want to wear that band as her engagement ring. It doesn't make sense. "Liv, I'll get you a real ring."
"No. I have one. Gold and diamond - the works."
"It isn't a trophy from some ex-fiance, is it?" I question. If she thinks I'm going to let her spend the rest of her life married to me, while wearing an engagement ring from another man, she's crazy.
"No," she shakes her head, disgusted and impatient. "It's my grandmother's."
That's the first time I've heard her mention her grandmother. I knew she had to have grandparents, like anyone else, but I don't think she's even mentioned them. "Your grandmother's?"
"Are you a parrot now?" She demands, annoyed. "Yes. It's my grandmother's engagement ring. She left it to Mom, when she died, with her pearls. I found all of it, when Mom died and I cleaned out her apartment. When I get out of here, I'll show it to you."
"You're not gonna be in here forever, Liv," I murmur, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "Trust me. We'll get you home."
"Yeah, but I can forget about going back to work for the next month or so," she replies, miserably. She's thinking about spending days at home, doing nothing. She hates being idle. She has to do something.
"You could go back and do my paperwork for me," I suggest, earning myself a glare.
"No." Olivia shoots me a look of mock-disgust. "First it was your shopping, now your paperwork? I feel used."
"I was just trying to find you something to do," I kid, lightly.
She sighs and regards her left hand again. "You know, now that we got that ring stuck on there, I don't think it's coming off."
"Huh?"
"It was sized for the middle finger of my right hand. It's on the ring finger of my left. I think it's stuck there."
I shake my head. "Is it too tight?" I don't want to make her any more uncomfortable than she already has to be.
"It's fine. I just don't think we're going to be able to get it off," she replies, quietly. "You know, I didn't think you'd be all too interested in getting married again."
"Who wouldn't be interested in marrying you?" I raise an eyebrow and she pretends to look unamused. But there's a soft look in her eyes. The look I've come to recognize as affection. "I'd been thinking about it for a while. You remember when we went out a couple of weekends ago?"
"Morelli's?" She questions.
"Yeah. I was thinking about asking you there. But it just didn't feel right."
"Oh, and the middle of a damned hospital did?" She fixes me with both eyes. "You mean you just couldn't work up the nerve."
"Yeah. Fine. That too," I admit. She knows when I try to lie to her. Not that I'd ever want to.
"So what made you decide to do it?"
"I could've lost you. That was what," I reply, touching her face, lightly. "If he'd been a better shot . . . "
"Don't think about that," Olivia takes my hand in hers. "Don't. I'm fine. You know, you have one hell of a strange sense of timing."
I shake my head. "I wasn't waiting."
She shrugs. "So there goes my dream of a nice, romantic proposal, huh?"
"We've still got the wedding," I point out.
"Can we afford one?" She questions, giving me a poke. "With you crying broke and all?"
I laugh. She's fine. Normal. She'll heal. "You're fine, all right," I tell her, kissing her cheek.
She glances up at me, with those big eyes of hers. "You know I'm gonna have scars when the stitches come out. A couple of nasty ones."
"So?" Does she really think I care about something that superficial? "Battle scars. You should be proud of 'em."
She rolls her eyes. "What is it with guys and being proud of having scars? I don't get it."
"Like I said. Battle scars. You survived. Be proud of 'em," I tell her. I really don't care how scarred she is. I love her, for her. She'd be beautiful, even if she didn't look like the rest of the world's definition of 'pretty'. It was what she had on the inside that caught my attention, first.
"You know," Olivia sighs, quietly, trying to adjust the pillow behind her. She winces, in pain, and I quickly move to help her. I don't want to do everything for her and make her dependent - she'll slowly start to hate me, if I do. But I don't want to see her in pain. I don't want to see her hurt herself.
She settles back, a little more comfortable. "You know, when I was younger, I thought I'd get married. You know, settle down, raise a couple of kids. Have something to come home to. When I thought about it, I thought about the wedding day. For the longest time, I didn't even think I'd want my mother there. We really didn't get along, when I was younger."
I nod. She's told me that she regretted being so hostile toward her mother. They'd only just started to get along and get to know each other, when her mother died.
"Then, I thought about it, you know. She was my mother. What the hell was wrong with me? Thinking that I didn't want my own mother at my wedding?"
"Liv . . . " There's nothing I can say to that. We grew up in completely different worlds. I can't possibly tell her I understand what she went through, because it wouldn't be right. Because I don't.
To the average outsider, who looked at the backgrounds we came from, they'd say she was better off. An only child, raised by a single mother with a solid career, who could more than adequately provide for her. Compared to me - one of six kids, raised by a beat cop from Queens and his wife. My parents didn't have much money to go around.
A college education was a sure thing for her. She could definitely go. I had to go into the military to go to college.
She could have had anything she wanted, as a child. She didn't go through times when the electricity was cut off, because my father had a choice to make - pay the bill or buy groceries to feed us.
So, to someone who looked at our backgrounds, her childhood would seem better. But my parents were able to give us all one thing that she never had. Attention. Some kind of affection. I looked forward to going home, as a kid. I know she hated it.
I knew what I was going to walk into, when I came home. My father at work and my mother in the kitchen or scrubbing the floor, trying to settle the never-ending arguments between my sisters and my brothers. I know it was different for her. She never knew what she was going to walk in on, when she opened the door.
So, in a way, I know I was better off than Olivia, as a child. There wasn't much to go around, but my parents were trying. They cared. Paid attention to all of us. So I don't know what she went through. I can't tell her I understand, because I don't.
Olivia offers me a sad look. "I'm going to get married and she's not here. I"-
I think back, remembering my own wedding, the first time around. My to-be mother-in-law threw herself into everything, being the mother of the bride. I know it would be a big deal for a mother, to see her little girl moving on. Building a new life for herself. So it hurts her, to know that her mother's not here for this. To see her happy.
"I know," I reach for her hand. "But she's probably happy for you."
"Yeah," she agrees, shrugging. "Who's gonna walk me down the aisle? I don't have a living relative."
"Hey - you nearly sent me out there to ask for Cragen's permission to marry you. Ask him. He loves you like a daughter, Liv. I should know that kind of thing when I see it."
She nods, again and pushes her hair out of her face.
I tuck back a few pieces of hair that she missed. "And you know Sarah and Emily are gonna want in on this." I shake my head, thinking of the nightmare I just created. Wedding showers and dresses and flowers . . . God. I don't even think I'll be able to set foot in that apartment for the next year or so. Between her, my sisters and her small group of close friends . . . "Now I don't think this was a good idea."
She laughs, quietly. "Promise we won't start talking about flowers in front of you. I didn't think you paid attention to girl stuff anymore."
"It's kind of hard not to," I comment, dryly, "when it's put right in your face, every single day, for years."
"And it's your own fault," she replies, her face completely deadpan. "If you'd stopped gambling with the birth control, you wouldn't be surrounded by women."
I shake my head, slightly. Until you really get to know her, she gives off this impression of being dark. Unhappy. No one ever thinks that she has a sense of humor. She does. She's a complex human being, but I don't mind that.
I just wish I saw more of her sense of humor. The side of her that isn't so dark. She's beautiful, when she's happy. When she smiles. I love that smile. Even when she's half-asleep or simply exhausted and so sick of being with me that she could never see me again and be happy, it always reaches her eyes. Makes them glow, just a little.
"You know, maybe I should let you get some rest," I suggest, quietly. She's still a little pale. Even for her light skin. Dark bags are forming under her eyes.
Olivia nods and shifts herself, slightly. Her face tightens, for a second, and then, she seems to relax. Moving seems to be tough for her. "You okay?"
"Yeah. I just kinda moved the wrong way," she replies, softly. "Stay with me?"
"Sure. I'm right here," I reply, kissing her smooth cheek.
It doesn't take her long to fall asleep. Knowing her, she was more than likely exhausted, but she wouldn't admit it to me. She's got her stubborn pride. And it takes her a while to swallow it.
She's asleep, lying on her back, her hair a mess on the pillow. She murmurs and turns her head away from me. She's sound asleep now. Olivia mutters again and sighs.
She doesn't talk in her sleep, like my son used to, when he was younger. But she does make noise. Dickie used to have full conversations with people, in his dreams, but she doesn't. It's a quiet mutter or a sigh.
I hope I can give her what she deserves. She's an angel on the ground. A woman like her deserves the kind of devotion and love that my father had for my mother.
When my mother passed away, my father fell apart. He wouldn't have made it without her. He didn't know how to. I think he gave up on living, after Mom died, because I was standing at his grave a year later.
She deserves that. She's always been behind me. Backing me. No matter how evil I might have been to her. I've hurt her. Shut her out. And she stayed there. She didn't quit on me.
She did that for me and I was too blind to notice it. Acknowledge it. I owe her something for that. But I'm not marrying her because I owe her something. I'm marrying her because I love her.