A Law & Order: SVU short story
By Patrick Nguyen Huu
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of L&O, nor do I have any rights to the wonderful people who portray them.
Summary: Short introspection into the episode "Fault." What would happen if Olivia's injury had been life-threatening? Or the police sniper hadn't arrived in time?
One: Him
It went so fast. One moment I'm staring at the boy, the next I hear a scream to my side. Olivia's on the ground, and our man's getting away. I linger for an instant, caught between wanting to grab the boy and helping Olivia. It doesn't take much more than that; the boy will have to fend for himself a moment longer. I don't even remember taking the handful of steps to her side as I kneel next to her, gently trying to pry her fingers from around the cut on her throat.
She finally removes her hand, and I fight the urge to retch. It's a nasty cut, and from the looks of it, it probably nicked an artery. And there's the blood. So much blood. It's pooling around her already, even as I pull out my hankerchief and press it to the wound, it seeps through, onto my hands.
"Oh god, Olivia. Stay with me." The words don't register; it feels as if I'm not the one saying them. She opens her mouth, trying to speak, but chokes and coughs up more blood. Her free hand – the one that is not on mine, pressing the 'kerchief to her neck – rises shakily, pointing in the direction Victor has taken with the two kids. I glance down at her, and shake my head. Her eyes harden. She's telling me to go after him, to not let him get away.
There's really no choice for me. I know it's my duty to go after the guy and make sure he damn well pays for what he's done. I know it's my duty to make sure those two kids make it out alive. But it's a choice between my partner's life and someone else. And it's not a choice at all, really.
Yes. She means that much to me. Sometimes, it hurts to care. The EMTs arrive, and as soon as they have her surrounded and on a stretcher, wheeling her out of the terminal, I rise, and turn towards the escalator he's taken. My hands find the cool grip of my service weapon, smearing Liv's blood all over the handle. I don't care. I rush up the stairs to see a crowd of people. Fin is there, and as soon as he sees me, he turns and blocks my way.
"Don't. You don't wanna see this," he tells me. I push past him, too angry to care, but what I see feels like a blow to the gut. There, lying in a pool of blood, is Ryan, his throat slit. I nearly empty my lunch onto the ground.
V-----------------V
"I was going to say, in a situation like that, there is no good choice," I almost don't listen to Huang, but the man's got this weird quality that makes you listen to what he says, even if you don't want to. "Every choice becomes a sacrifice."
I turn to glare at him, but he shrugs it off. "That's right. It's my fault. It was my choice. I choose to help Olivia."
"There's nothing wrong with that." Huang frowns. I think the good doctor misunderstands my situation. It's not about making the right choice – deep down, I know it wouldn't have mattered who it would have been; if I had to choose between Liv and them, I'll always choose her.
"I let him get away, George. I let him get away and kill a child. And I don't regret it." I smirk coldly as realization dawns on him. He stares at me intently. "You had to choose between saving Olivia's life, or that of the kid. Would you do it again, given the same situation?"
This time, there's no hesitation. I nod. "Yes." And then I walk out the door.
V-----------------V
I stand, outside the ICU ward of St. Anne's. She's alive, barely, hanging on by a thread. I know she'll pull through. She's been a fighter for as long as I've known her. She'll fight tooth and nail to live. But standing here, looking through the window at her prone form, lying on the crisply white hospital sheets, so pale from the blood loss, surrounded by the sterility of a hospital…it's wrong, somehow. She doesn't belong here.
She belongs out there, on the streets, chasing down the bastard that did this to her. She belongs at my side. It's odd, what nearly loosing her made me realize. There is something to that old saying, "you never know what you have until you lost it," after all. For as long as I've known her, despite all our arguments, and fights, and disagreements, we were there for each other. She always had my back, and I had hers.
We are best friends, colleagues, partners. We are both more and less than lovers, not physically, but emotionally and mentally. We know the other so well, we automatically compensate when the other's a bit off.
She doesn't belong in that bed. She belongs with me, out there. And I'll make damn sure that he pays for this.