Brian's apartment is tucked away on a leafy, ultra-quiet section of West 99th Street. At this hour, Elliot knows they'll have to walk to Broadway if they're to have any chance of getting a cab. Elliot's place is only ten blocks north and ordinarily it would be a no-brainer to walk it, but after better appreciating the torment Olivia's body has endured, he is loath to expose her to any more physical exertion than is absolutely critical.
As they tumble outside onto the darkened street, he takes her overnight bag from her. It's not particularly heavy, but with her handicapped arm, it's a burden. To his relief, she doesn't protest.
They commence their trek westward. He walks slowly, lost in thought, still haunted by the sight of her branded breast. As he approaches Broadway, he realizes she's lagged behind nearly a quarter of a block. "You all right?" he calls over his shoulder.
"Yeah. Just… tired."
"Tired?"
Suddenly he notices that she's walking with a limp – almost shuffling rather than walking – and he wonders how he missed this earlier. He grits his teeth. Another injury to add to the list, apparently. He'd initially regarded the decision to forgo the half-mile walk as a precaution, of sorts, and he's disturbed to learn his judgment was all-too justified.
When she finally catches up, she's trying to conceal her shortness of breath.
"It's late," she explains, embarrassed.
It's a transparently lame excuse, and he wonders what her state of mind is that she thinks he'll buy it. She's young and she's a cop; she's been up a lot later than this. Thoroughly concerned, he takes her in.
"I'm fine," she says snappily, reading his mind.
He doesn't want to piss her off, but his heart thumps with worry. What he knows of her injuries is only what's she told him, and clearly she has left a lot out. To his knowledge, she spent less than a day in the hospital, and it now occurs to him to wonder if she didn't get herself released sooner than medically advised.
"Okay," he says warily. He tells himself they only have a few steps to go, after which she can rest for the remainder of the night.
They cross Broadway to stand on the northbound side, and they're in luck: they wait less than a minute before an empty cab screeches to a halt.
He pulls the back door open for her. "After you."
Olivia hesitates in front of it, as if contemplating how to maneuver herself inside. It dawns on him that this is exactly what she's doing. Without asking her permission, he gets behind her, and gently grasps her by the armpits. Wordlessly, he hoists her with his hands, taking her weight, and eases her into the backseat.
After he scurries in next to her and shuts the door, he turns to her. "Broken ribs are a bitch."
She had been staring at her lap in shame, but at this, she looks up. "Yeah." She pauses. "Thanks."
Predictably, the cab ride takes all of three minutes. As it comes to a stop in front of his building, Olivia musters to produce bills to pay the driver, but with only one hand to work with, by the time she's able to reach into her pocketbook, Elliot has handed the cabbie a five and told him to keep the change. He tries not to roll his eyes at the sheer absurdity of the energy she's spent just to thwart this microscopic act of generosity, but he also knows this entire production is hard on her pride. And so instead of chiding her, he smiles kindly and winks. "You buy the coffee in the morning."
She nods gratefully, probably recognizing his counteroffer for the charade of tokenism that it is.
With the cabbie taken care of, he scrambles out of the car and rushes to the other side before she has a chance to attempt an exit. He opens her door and crouches down to her level. Without asking her first, he reaches forward and takes her again by the armpits. "It hurts less if you don't clench," he advises. "Lean forward on me as you step out. I've got you."
Seemingly cowed by her humiliating failure to pay the cabbie, she accepts his help without argument. Catching her expression of discomfiture, he makes a mental note going forward to concentrate his acts of aid on the places where she truly needs them, so as to curb her deepening sense of emasculation. Perhaps, he muses, he really should let her buy the coffee in the morning.
Lost in thought, he leads her inside, and, out of habit, heads towards the stairs. He lives on the second floor and the elevator is mind-numbingly slow.
She stops in her tracks. "El."
"Yeah?"
"Is it all right if we take the elevator?"
"Of course." She has no way of knowing it's only one flight up, but if he informs her now, he risks making her admit even one set of stairs is too much for her.
In the elevator, he snakes an arm around her waist, which she doesn't resist. On the contrary, she subtly leans into him, using him for support.
When they enter the apartment, he shows her his bedroom, tells her he'll sleep on the couch.
Predictably, she objects. "Let me take the couch," she implores him.
He sighs, but keeps all traces of exasperation from his face. This is not her fault; if the situation were reversed, he knows he would mount the same protest. On this point, though, he won't budge. "Olivia, I'm not trying to be chivalrous here. Your body needs to heal. You need a proper bed."
Thoroughly defeated, her eyes skirt towards the bathroom. "I'll, um, go change."
Although he knows the answer is yes, he resists the urge to ask if she needs help.
As they settle in, he wonders what – if anything – she plans to tell Brian about this sleepover. Surely Brian will finish his shift before she makes it back in the morning, and he'll wonder where she is. It's not Elliot's business that she's chosen not to tell Brian where she's spending the night, but Elliot also considers she might be too distraught to have properly thought through the timing and logistics: it is conceivable she has calculated that Brian simply won't find out, and has justified the white-lie-by-omission as an innocent act to spare her boyfriend any misguided hurt, and thus herself from the drama that might ensue. The last thing Elliot wants is to be the reason she has a fight with her boyfriend, however much such a development would further the fantasy lingering in the periphery of his mind of an eventual breakup. Because right now she needs more, not fewer, people to support her, and as pettily tempting as it is, he has to put her interests above his.
She waits patiently in the living room as he busies himself getting the bed ready for her. Now that he has a better picture of what was done to her, his horror is eclipsed only by worry for her wellbeing, physical and otherwise.
When he's done, he traipses back into the living room, where she's sitting stiffly on the couch, looking like she feels distressingly useless.
"What time does Brian's shift end?" he asks casually.
"Seven A.M."
"He won't wonder where you are in the morning when he gets back?"
As he suspected, she had not thought about this, and she sighs wearily, the dawning hitting her face. She is not used to having to document her whereabouts to others. "I guess… I guess I should send him a text. I'll say I'm staying at Amanda's."
He wants to point out that Brian might happen to innocently contact Amanda, but he refrains, realizing the chances are low and that he might cause more stress than it's worth. They can cross that bridge when they come to it, he decides, and there is always the harmless truth to fall back on. He nods approvingly. "Come," he says, when she's done with the text. He offers her his hand. "Bed's ready."
She takes his hand without argument, and he hoists her to her feet.
She grimaces as she walks, obviously suppressing winces.
He glances to his right. She is in pain and trying to hide it.
"Hospital wouldn't give you painkillers because you still had too much alcohol and drugs in your system," he ventures. "They were concerned about interference, is that it?"
"Yeah."
He pauses. "You know, it's been two days."
"So?"
"So, your system should be clear by now."
"So?"
"So, you're in pain."
"El, I'm fine."
"Look, Liv, I have a little codeine left over from a root canal."
She glances at him. "I can't."
"Liv, I know it's not strictly above-board, but I think under the circumstances – "
"El, no."
"It's not that strong. Tomorrow we can get you a proper prescription, but just for tonight, let me give you –"
She stops in her tracks, turns to him. She is breathing laboriously. "Elliot. You don't understand. I can't swallow another pill."
He closes his mouth, nods. Kicks himself for only putting half the puzzle together.
At 4:32 a.m., he startles awake. Since his retirement, he's slept like a baby, but his Ikea couch is lumpy and doesn't quite accommodate his over-six-foot frame.
Shaking off the tail-end of a dream, he glances around at the darkened living room, confused. As his head starts to clear, he hears the sound of the shower.
He shuffles to the bathroom door and knocks softly. "Liv?"
There's no answer, but he doesn't panic: it's a noisy showerhead; he's been meaning to have it fixed. "Liv?" he calls again, more loudly.
He pretends to wonder innocently – and simultaneously hates it that he really doesn't wonder – why she's taking a shower at this hour.
He taps at the door with an index finger, testing it, and it swings open several inches. He hesitates, wanting to respect her privacy.
But her wellbeing is more important, he decides, and right now it is incumbent upon him to confirm it.
When he pokes his head inside, he is horrified by the sight before him.
She is lying on the floor, crumpled on her side, facing the door. She is soaking wet and completely nude.
But it's her skin, and not her nakedness, that has captured his attention. Blanketing her torso is a litany of fiery-red blisters, brand marks in the shapes of various keys, and what he could swear are cattle prod burn marks. This is in addition to the clusters of hard purple bruises, telltale evidence of the multiple beatings she took, and clearly left out of her earlier story. But it's the brand marks that really take his breath away. They begin at the tops of her breasts and checker their way downwards, until they disappear into her pubic region. There are far, far more of them than she'd led him to believe.
Involuntary emotion swells up in him, and he swallows, hard, to keep himself in control.
Because right at this moment, he doesn't have the luxury of dwelling on this.
Because, heartbreaking as the sight is, he doubts it is the reason she is lying on the floor, barely conscious.
He grabs the bath towel off the rack and drops to his knees in front of her, covering her. He taps at her cheek with the backs of his fingers. "Liv? Stay with me, okay?"
Her breathing consists of short, staccato-like intakes, her lungs stabbing at the air like chop sticks trying to grasp a single grain of rice. He reaches out to feel her neck and winces by the pace of her pulse. It is racing, like a revved-up car motor stuck in park, wildly burning through energy.
She is moaning in pain.
"Liv? Where does it hurt?"
"My… chest…" she grinds out.
He feels his stomach drop to his feet. He stumbles out of the bathroom to grab his phone, realizing it's all the way in the living room where he's been sleeping. He pounds out 911 on the keypad as he rushes back into the bathroom. He collapses back onto his knees in front of her, reminding himself he can no longer identify himself as a detective, no longer order a bus with the sense of authority of a professional on the job. "I need an ambulance! 456 West 107th Street, Apartment 2-B. B as in bravo! I have a woman who –"
She's clutching at her chest. He watches her gasp again.
But the voice on the other end does not seem to share his sense of urgency. "Sir, can you tell me the nature of –"
"Please, she's on the floor, her pulse is racing, she says her chest hurts!"
"Sir, an ambulance has been dispatched. Please, can you tell me – "
"El," she gasps. She rocks to and fro on the mat. She starts to cough.
Then he notices that her lips having taken on a bluish tint. Alarmed, he takes hold of her good wrist, and, momentarily distracted by the angry imprints left by too-tight restraints, checks her nails. They are blue too.
She is not getting enough oxygen.
"Please, please hurry! She's turning blue!" he barks into the phone. "Liv – it's gonna be okay, the ambulance is on its way!"
"Sir, does she have a history of heart trouble or stroke?"
"What! No! She's only forty-five!" He tries to hurry through the explanation. The sooner the dispatcher has context, the sooner she can provide advice. "She's recovering from an assault. She has broken ribs, a concussion, and I don't know what else – "
"All right, sir. Stay calm. Is she still conscious?"
"Yes, but barely. Should I – should I sit her up? Will that help? She's on the floor here, and I –"
"Sir, just stand by. The ambulance will be there is less than two minutes. Try to stay calm."
She gasps again, taking in several shallow breaths in rapid succession. "Please… "
"Liv, don't try to talk, just stay awake, okay?"
Another hacking fit overtakes her. He pulls her head up into his lap, to give her leverage. "It's okay, it's okay, I've got you…" he soothes.
"I don't…" Gasp.
"Don't talk, honey."
"I don't…" Cough.
His eyes widen in horror: the phlegm she has coughed up is crimson-colored. "Liv, don't – "
But she is intent on her message. "I don't… want to die."
And then her head rolls back and she goes completely limp in his arms.