Disclaimer: Olivia, Elliot and the gang do not belong to me; I can only take credit for the bad guys and the story/situation you are reading. Dick Wolfe – you rock!

Rating is for naughty language, because real cops have filthy mouths. Some graphic violence, sexual situations and angst (oh, the angst).

Reviews: Please. All of you that have left feedback are great – thank you! You make my day!

A/N: I'm sorry this took so long to update – I suck.

Chapter Seven

It was busier than yesterday, the sterile atmosphere warmed by the throng of people bustling back and forth down the hallway branching off from the ER. Though there were always proud new fathers mingling and an abundance of colorful flowers at every turn, the hospital would continue to bring her dread. Because this was also the place she visited the victims, heard the doctors describe the most horrific details of crimes committed against society's innocents. The memory of the shooting only darkened her view of this place of healing; arriving with Elliot in the back of an ambulance, watching as the white coats flocked around him on the stretcher as they barked orders to each other in the foreign language of doctors and all she could do was stare numbly at the bloodied, broken body of her fallen partner.

The visual stabbed at her heart and she knew for certain it would greet her each time she set foot in this hospital, no matter the case she would be working.

Olivia sighed, rubbing her forehead with her right hand. The remainder of her hangover was just a dull ache, nearly made forgettable by aspirin and the sharp pain in her left bicep. It was with great dismay this morning when re-wrapping the injury Olivia had noticed half of the stitches had been ripped out from her bullet wound. Ron's grip from last night had been more forceful than she had first thought. Between the beer, and the fact that she had gone to bed last night in her clothes, she hadn't realized the extent of the damage he had inflicted. The passing thought that maybe the bastard had a bruise on his jaw, or his back might be giving him trouble this morning gave her no satisfaction. She had too much on her mind for that simple pleasure.

So Olivia's first stop in the hospital had been to see Doctor Carter to get her wound re-stitched. She gave monotone, one word answers to his concerned questioning. Olivia knew it was his job to ask, and she herself would initially think domestic abuse by the appearance of the injury. A deep, angry purple bruise in the shape of a large handprint covered her bicep like a molted ink stain, the once small bullet hole with the nice, neat stitches now a mess of raw flesh, reminding Olivia of ground meat. She was surprised the wound hadn't bleed more than it did last night, but the force of it had been held back by the heavy bandage.

A pretty young nurse stood next to Doctor Carter holding supplies, watching the doctor pull the flesh closed again – this time it would not heal into a nice little line, but a heavy, thick mass of scar tissue. The nurse was frowning slightly, and Olivia knew instinctively that she felt sorry for her.

How could she explain to this woman, to anyone really, that it was one scar of many, another addition to her physical and emotional collection? Especially now, what right did she have to mourn any bodily imperfection when her partner was lying in a bed in this same hospital, recovering from a shot to the head and chest? Broken ribs, part of his lung removed…her injury was nominal in comparison. Besides, she had long ago lost any vanity of the flesh she had ever felt. Olivia would be a cop first, a woman second.

Re-stitched and re-bandaged, the Clarkson file tucked under her right arm, Olivia made her way out of the ER through the hallways and up an elevator to the recovery area. The heels of her plain brown loafers clicking against the green tiled floor, she tried to organize her thoughts. Uneasiness tumbled around in her stomach while her hands felt oddly cold with nervousness. She would have laughed at herself; this was going to be simple, productive if they were lucky, so why was she acting like she was on the wrong side of an interrogation? This was Elliot. She drew in her lower lip absently, her footsteps slowing. Exactly – this was Elliot.

She approached the open door way of his private room, hesitating in the deserted hallway, her hand on the metal doorframe.

Elliot was sitting up in bed, his back to her. He was shirtless, the patterned hospital gown from her last visit draped over the foot of the bed. Green plaid boxers covered his lower half, and from her angle, and the cool temperature of the room, Olivia assumed they were probably flannel pajama bottoms.

Her eyes traveled up the length of his muscular back, absorbing the sight of his exposed flesh, pausing briefly on the tattoo that flanked his right shoulder blade. Her hands curled into fists at the involuntary warmth that spread through her belly, her body reacting to the visual she usually only saw in her dreams. Fingernails digging into her palms, she forced her eyes away from the slow appraisal of her partner's back and to the person standing on the other side of him.

The older nurse had stopped in mid sentence in her discussion with Elliot, her focus now on Olivia.

"Miss? May I help you?"

Elliot turned slightly, as much as was comfortable with his injured lung, so he could see the door. Surprise lifted his eyebrows before he could replace the look with a grin. After their last visit, he was unsure when she would return. What they had said, the memory of holding her closer than he ever had before replayed in his head like some sweet, sad love song. But here she was again, the angel from his dreams, standing in the doorway, looking as lost as he felt.

"Liv." Her name came out more like a benediction than a greeting. Elliot tore his gaze from his Olivia and turned back around to look at Nurse Robbins. "Rebecca, this is my partner, Detective Benson."

He watched as the old woman's firm mouth creased into a smile. "Ah. Well, then. Maybe you can talk some sense into Detective Stabler's head. He seems to think he can shave that scruff by himself. Doesn't seem to realize that a punctured lung might make it a little painful, eh?"

Elliot smirked at the nurse, rubbing his hair-roughened jaw with his right hand, forcing his expression to stay jovial as to not expose the pain the small movement gave him. After four days of having other people wash him, feed him, and help him take a shit, he was damn well going to shave his own beard this morning.

He turned back to the doorway, hearing the melodic chuckle of his partner. She was leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed over her chest. "Being difficult, El? And here I was thinking you were the model patient."

Nurse Robbins snorted, bringing Elliot's attention back around. "Ha. This one, oh you should hear him gripe. His feet are cold, the food is crap. Yes, he's been quite the model patient."

Olivia broke out in full laughter behind him. He grimaced at the old nurse, shaking his head. She was a sarcastic, tough old broad, one of his favorites of the nursing staff. "Thanks, Rebecca."

Olivia pushed off the doorframe, making her way across the beige carpet to stand next to Nurse Robbins. He looked at her from his seated position on the tall bed, his smile fading as his ice blue stare took in the full sight of his partner.

She was dressed in a cream colored open collar shirt, which looked soft, like cashmere. A brown leather jacket that had seen better days hung open, exposing her blouse but covering the shoulder strap holster he knew she was wearing. A large expandable file folder was tucked under her right arm, both of her hands in the pockets of her brown slacks.

Olivia's lips drew out in a thin line as her assumption from earlier was validated. He was indeed wearing green plaid pajama bottoms, white socks encasing his feet. Her gaze moved up his bare chest, taking in the site of the large, thick white bandage that contrasted sharply against his tan flesh. An interesting bruise scattered across his side, peeking out from under the gauze. Olivia could only guess it was due to his fractured ribs and the bullet shrapnel.

Her eyes drifted over his hair-roughened jaw, past that perfect mouth, her gaze reaching his.

Her breath caught in her throat. There was a look on her partner's face she had never seen before. His icy stare had grown dark, his expression raw, nearly violent with lust. Before she could question it, his face was neutral again, almost cheerful. Olivia blinked. It was crazy. She had to have imagined it, the look was so quick.

"It appears worse than it is, honey, so don't be letting him con you into waiting on him hand and foot, now," Nurse Robbins told Olivia with a laugh. She had been watching the look the younger woman had given her partner, and had seen the obvious concern in her brown eyes at his chest wound.

Elliot tore his gaze from Olivia back to the nurse. Thank God she had been scrutinizing Olivia instead of him. He was skilled at masking his thoughts, decades as a detective had schooled him well, but he had a feeling the old broad with all her experience would read him with ease. And hell if he wanted anyone to have any indication of the extremely erotic visual of Olivia he had just entertained in response to her slow assessment of his bare chest.

"I have a feeling I won't be coning anyone today," Elliot replied with a smirk. His voice was a little rough, lower than before. He was able to control his own body, exposed as he was in pajama bottoms in front of these two women, but his headlong response to Olivia's slow, if innocent appraisal still shook him. He cleared his throat, forcing a laugh, pushing the thought out of his head so he could focus. "But this isn't a con…"

Nurse Robbins turned back to him, one of her grey eyebrows raised.

"Call it a request," Elliot continued, still smiling. "Call it…rehabilitation. I mean, if a man can't shave his own face, what can he do?"

Nurse Robbins snorted again. "Really now, Detective…"

Elliot gestured to one of the chairs by the bed. "Watch me if you must. But I have to start doing this myself some day."

The old woman's mouth was pursed again as she glanced at her watch. "As much as I'd love to sit here and watch you butcher your pretty little face, I do have other patients to see, Detective Stabler."

Elliot's eyes shifted from her to Olivia. "Liv?"

Olivia nodded. "I can make sure he doesn't hurt himself," she spoke, a small hint of amusement touching her voice. She moved her right hand a fraction, exposing more of the file folder under her arm. "We do have police business to discuss as well."

The older woman sighed. "Well, all right then. But let me show you the bandages, because most likely he will bleed."

"Your confidence in me is encouraging, Rebecca," Elliot laughed, watching as the nurse pointed to the supplies already lined up on his metal meal tray. She then knelt down, pulling out some gauze from lower drawer of the bedside table and setting it down next to the far water bowl on the tray.

Nurse Robbins turned back to him, tapping the face of her watch, her nail clicking against the glass face. "You do have an actual rehabilitation session in forty minutes, Detective, so try and finish this up by ten, all right?"

He nodded, watching as she gave a quick good bye to Olivia and walked to entrance of the room.

"You're the best…"

"Serve you well to remember that, Detective Stabler," she shot back, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

Olivia stared at the closed door, her breathing seemingly audible now in the suddenly quiet room. Part of her wanted to walk over to the door and push it open; another part laughed at that thought. What the hell was wrong with her? It was irrational, this unexpected fear of her partner, her best friend.

But that was just it. It wasn't just him. It was her. She was scared of her own thoughts now, and her ability to hide from him what she had successfully hidden from herself for all these years.

She closed her eyes briefly, and then glanced back at Elliot. The smile was gone, his face unreadable. Half naked, bandaged on his head and chest, arms loose at his side, Olivia imagined any other man would look vulnerable, but his icy blue stare made him look almost predatory.

"Liv…"

"I brought the file," she spoke quickly, silencing whatever he might have said. Olivia dropped the large folder on the bedside table, pushing off her battered leather jacket and tossing it over the back of the chair, in turn revealing her shoulder holster, gun snug against her left ribs. Elliot's gaze was drawn to her arms; the soft cream top was sleeveless, exposing the rather thick bandage on her left bicep.

A mix of emotions caught in his chest at the visual. Guilt, for not thinking first and foremost about her wound; his partner had been shot saving his life and he hadn't even asked her how she was holding up. Anger, that the bastard had even got a shot off at her; pride, that she took a bullet and asked for no sympathy; fear, because he hadn't been able to stop it. Because if she had walked first into that alleyway instead of him, their positions would have been reversed and it would be her in this bed. The bandage on her arm forced him to acknowledge that emotion, that visceral fear of the "what if". Because if she had died….

"How's your arm?" He asked, pushing out the disturbing thought.

She stopped mid-motion in her reach for the file. "Um, fine." For a moment, she wondered if Munch had spoken to Elliot about their encounter last night, but then realized it was just a friendly question. If Elliot knew about the bar altercation, surely he would have mentioned it already.

She wasn't going to elaborate. Their usual easy banter had become forced, awkward. He sighed, pulling the meal tray so it was half across his lap, inspecting the contents. Nurse Robbins had prepared thoroughly for his shave after helping him bathe this morning. Two bowls of water, razor, towels, shaving cream, and now the offending gauze - everything he needed was lined up neatly on the tray. He glanced at Olivia again. She was sitting in the chair next to his bed now, rifling through the folder.

"So let's start from the beginning," Elliot spoke quietly, taking one of the towels from the stack and folding it across his lap. She looked up from the file, watching as he leaned over the closest bowl of water and started splashing his face. "I'll shave, and you can talk us through it again. M.O., signature, victims…what are we missing in the scheme of these crimes, Liv? If there is a second perp, how does he relate to Clarkson?"

Olivia sighed. "Good question. The theory we started with was based on two perps; even Huang's initial profile of the unknown subject centered on the belief that it was highly probable this crime was perpetrated by two completely different white males. Yes, he mentioned the bi-polar psychosis of one perp as another explanation for the different treatment of the victims, but we only stepped back to the one perp theory after Clarkson's public defender released his psych records to Novak."

"Liv, Clarkson did have untreated schizophrenia."

Olivia looked up from the file in her lap. Elliot's jaw and upper lip were now covered with a thick layer of shaving cream. He picked up the razor, swirling it in the water bowl and tapping it briefly on the side of the basin. Bringing the blade up to his face, he paused for a moment, looking back at her. "What?"

Realizing she had been staring, she looked back down at the file, flipping to the next page. "You don't need a mirror, El?"

He smirked, causing the shaving cream to crease at the corners of his mouth. "No. I usually shave my face in the shower, you know, when I'm not recovering from gunshot wounds."

Face warm at the sudden visual of a naked Elliot under a stream of water, she was glad she was looking down at the file to hide the evidence of her attraction. Damn, Liv, get your mind out of the gutter. She had a case to solve. This was her partner and she was here to discuss police business.

"So, he had untreated schizophrenia," she continued, picking back up the train of reasoning. "And bi-polar psychosis if his records are to be believed, and from our interview, I'll agree with that assessment. Clarkson was a very violent, psychotic personality – I have no problem with the conclusion that he was the perp that killed those three girls. His fingerprints were at the scene, his DNA came up in two of the three rape kits during autopsy. But I just can't see him beautifying their faces post-mortem. Even with his bi-polar personality, the swing from intense violent rage into calmness…something doesn't fit with that and action during the crime."

"Perhaps the crime is what caused the swing, Liv. The brutal rape, mutilation, maybe afterwards the intensity of the act made his brain shift," he replied, rinsing the razor and tapping it against the side of the bowl again. "The act of dressing them up could have been caused by guilt. Hell, maybe it was even soothing to him."

She watched him slide the razor down the right side of his jaw, revealing smooth skin. Sighing, she looked back down at the file, Tammy Jensen's picture now visible. The first victim, only ten years old, her green eyes bright, freckles smattered across her little nose. The picture had been given to them by Tammy's mother, taken during the Jensen's last vacation together, the image contrasting greatly with the crime scene photos.

"Maybe you're right, El. Maybe it was soothing to the perp, but I don't think the one that put makeup on these victims was Clarkson. The precision seems to…I don't know, calculated, where as the crime itself wasn't."

Elliot brought the razor back to the bowl after finishing another pass down his jaw. Absently swirling the razor clean, he watched the play of emotions on her face as she scanned a certain page of the file. She was biting her lower lip in concentration and he had a sudden urge to pull that plump flesh free from the gentle assault of her teeth. Grumbling at the thought, he tapped excess water from the razor, bringing it up against his throat.

"If he had an accomplice, Liv, don't you think he would have narked? It's not like this bastard subscribed to any loyalty of any kind. And the rape he served time for in '96 was a one-man deal. Usually if a perp engages in sex crimes with a partner, it's a signature that develops early in the guy's sheet. There was no indication…"

"I know," Liv sighed, her lower lip jutting slightly in response. They had gone over this before and the reasoning was sound. She knew Elliot was repeating the information to help her; as partners they had done this more times than she could remember, discussing the aspects of the crime to bring ideas to the surface. It was an invaluable tactic and personally had made her a better detective.

She was irritated now because something felt off and she couldn't place it. Like a puzzle with all the pieces, and from a distance looked complete, but something was missing.

"Maybe…damn." Olivia tapped her fingertips on the cloth armrest of her chair, her vision blurring slightly on the crime scene photo in front of her. "Another perp, doesn't leave prints, no DNA in the victims, make-up, like little dolls…but not a pedophile?" She was murmuring to herself now, digging through the file for the autopsy on Marcie Zumalt, the one victim whose rape kit came up negative for semen. "Hmm, no latex present, but brutalized, can it be that…makes no sense...," her voice trailed off as she flipped through the coroner's report.

"Fuck!"

Elliot's low hiss brought Olivia's head up sharply, breaking her focus immediately from the file and to her partner. Blood trickled in a small stream from the right side of his throat as he dropped the razor in the bowl and grabbed one of the small towels, pressing it against the tiny wound.

The file folder was in the chair and Olivia was standing in front of him in a second, her warm hand pressed against his over the towel on his throat.

"Jesus, Elliot," her voice came out in a rush.

He chuckled at the concern in her large brown eyes, amused that such a small cut had her worried and at the same time enjoying the simple pleasure of her touch. "Sorry to scare you, Liv. Just a nick."

Olivia sighed, shaking her head. She tugged gently against his hand, pulling back the towel from his throat to look at the tiny injury. "The nurse wasn't kidding, was she? Is it your lung, making your arm tired?"

He grunted. "Can't a man cut himself shaving without it meaning I'm some sort of cripple?" She looked up from his neck to his face. "Seriously, Liv, I'm fine."

Not bothering with a response, she took the towel from him and placed it back on the metal tray; the tiny wound had already stopped bleeding. She reached into the bowl and retrieved the razor, wiping the handle dry with the edge of the towel. Hand posed at the rim of the metal basin, she looked back at him, surveying his half-shaved face.

"I would never think that. But for my sanity, can you please let me help you? I've seen enough of your blood to last me a lifetime, Stabler."

The admission caused an odd rush of warmth to burn through his chest. He swallowed, his blue eyes piercing hers for a long moment as he tried to find words, some sort of response, to answer her. She moistened her lower lip with a quick dart of her tongue, drawing his gaze to her mouth again. Never had he wanted to kiss her so much, feel that soft mouth against his, taste her.

"Olivia, we need to talk," he spoke in a rough whisper.

"I know." Her voice was husky with emotion and she closed her eyes briefly, trying to gain some sort of semblance of control. She brought the razor up against the right side of his face, her hand steady, pausing for a moment as she glanced from his jaw to meet his eyes again. "But not now. I don't…want to hurt you."

The double meaning of her words was thick in the quiet room. His eyelids closed as he felt the razor glide smoothly across his right cheek. Her other hand was curled at the back of his neck, supporting his head. Keeping his eyes closed, he released his other senses to the situation. The slickness of the razor on his jaw. The soft strength of her hand at his neck. The gentle abrasion of fabric as she moved closer between his thighs. The sound of her breathing, the clink and splash as she cleaned the razor between every other stroke of his beard.

Her hand against the back of his neck pressed gently upwards and instinctively his head tilted, exposing his throat to give her better access. Olivia leaned in, keeping her hands steady even as a fine tremor made its way through her body, burning everything in its path.

She continued her task, wanting to say something, anything, to break the languid silence, to distract the desire that was building. But she couldn't seem to form words, shaving her partner's face in slow, deliberate strokes while her mind raced. His eyes were still closed and she wondered what he was thinking. With nearly all of the thick shaving cream now gone, his face was visible to her again – thin, wide mouth, prominent nose, heavy eyelashes and eyebrows. He really was a beautiful man.

Setting the razor down on the tray, she reached over for the washcloth and dunked it into the clean bowl of water. She wrung out the excess and turned back to Elliot, pausing at the intensity in his ice blue eyes.

"El…"

"Don't fear me, Liv."

She swallowed, breaking eye contact and pressing the washcloth against his jaw. "I don't. It's not…"

"What I think?"

She let herself smile at that. Sometimes infuriating, his knack for finishing her sentences, at least he got it right most of the time. "Yes."

Olivia traced the cloth the length of his jaw, wiping away any residue left from the shaving cream. She dropped the washcloth back into the bowl and reached for a dry towel.

"Then tell me, Liv. Talk to me."

She turned back to him, pressing the dry towel against his flesh to remove any remaining water. His hand curled around her wrist, pulling her attention from his jaw back to his eyes.

"Something changed between us, El. The shooting…your injuries…," she trailed off, closing her eyes. How could she explain it? She couldn't even make it clear in her own mind.

The hand at her wrist moved gently, his thumb rubbing into her moist palm. She dropped the towel as she felt his other hand at her back, pulling her close to him. She was flush against the side of the bed now between his legs, the soft material of her shirt tickling the bare skin of his chest. Eyes closed, resting her head against his shoulder, she let herself melt into the comfort of her partner's embrace. Like coming back to a home she had never known, a feeling of satisfaction, completion, in his strong arms.

"Maybe it's something that's been there all along, Liv," his voice was soft against her ear. He heard the small hitch in her breath and closed his eyes. It felt as if he was at the edge of a cliff. Intense fear and excitement intertwined so tight he no longer had the energy to try and decipher the two emotions in response to the woman in his arms. Nothing had ever felt so right.

Her free hand was in the hair at the base of his neck and he turned his face towards her throat in response to the small movement. The soft smell of her soap greeted him and he nuzzled against her gently. Hearing her gasp, his mouth instinctively opened, and he entertained a desire he had been harboring for nearly a decade; he tasted her.

The action stole her sanity. She moaned, arching against him as a stab of unfettered lust nearly made her forget everything.

"Christ," Elliot groaned against her throat, the hand at her back pressing her roughly against him. His lung screamed in protest, but the pain was nothing compared to the sudden intense ache throbbing between them. It was frightening; he hadn't felt such raw desire in decades. And from just a taste…

The sound didn't register at first. Olivia opened her eyes groggily. The look Elliot gave her was almost lazy; his eyes were the darkest blue she had ever seen, his pupils dilated and his eyelids heavy.

She tore her gaze away, reaching down into her pants pocket, nearly dropping the phone before she could flip it open.

"Benson," she gasped into the phone, her breathing still heavy.

"Olivia, it's Cragen. I need you down at 22nd and River right away. There's been another one."

The sound of her captain's voice immediately sobered her. Her eyes still locked with Elliot's, she clutched the phone tighter.

"Captain?"

"M.O. is different, but the signature is the same."

Her stomach dropped at his words. M.O., or modus operandi, was how the crime was carried out, and was a dynamic in serial crimes. A killer could always change from shooting, to stabbing, to strangling his victims. But the true signature of the crime, the emotional fulfilling but unnecessary aspect, such as putting make-up on the victim post-mortem, that would always remain similar.

"Oh, God…."

Elliot's face changed from simple curiosity to concern. He reached out for her hand when he saw the dark look in her brown eyes, her lips parting in untold sadness.

"You were right, Olivia. You were right." Cragen sounded defeated, the familiar sounds of a crime scene in the background only adding to the dejected tone coming through the receiver.

"I'll be there in ten minutes," Olivia replied, her voice barely above a whisper. She flipped the phone closed and pocketed it. Letting go of Elliot's hand, she walked back to the chair, hurriedly pulling on her jacket. Grabbing the Clarkson file, she paused for a moment before turning back around to her partner.

"What's happened, Liv?"

Her expression was tight when she faced him. "There's another dead girl, El. Clarkson's death didn't stop it…," she swallowed, the movement sharp.

"Fuck. Two perps. There's two perps. God damn it."

She nodded wordlessly, not knowing what to say. You were right, Olivia. She looked back at Elliot, both of them staring at each other in silence. What had just happened between them, another death, not knowing, not saying…

"I have to go," she said quietly.

"I know." He paused for a moment, and then reached out his hand to her. She took it without hesitation, standing in front of him again. Once more they stood in silence, both searching the face of the other with so many things to say but both knew it wasn't the time. The job came first.

He lifted her hand to his mouth, kissing her knuckles with a sweetness that almost brought tears to her eyes. "We still need to talk about some things, Liv."

She smiled softly; Elliot, always the man of the understatement. "We will."

"Call me with the details."

"Of course."

He nodded, and understanding the urgency, released her hand from his comforting grasp. She turned, walking towards the door.

"Liv?"

She stopped, looking back in question.

"That Heckler and Koch model doesn't fire as clean as the Glock, so be careful for me, all right?"

She blinked; a slow smile curved her mouth as the realization hit her. He had known the entire time. She shook her head, turning back around. "We'll talk later," she admonished him as she walked out the door.

Fucking Munch.