After being allowed to spend less than ten minutes with Olivia, Brian emerges from where she's being kept before they take her to the OR. Elliot anxiously looks up from his perch.

"How is she?"

Brian hesitates. "She's weak."

"She's awake?"

"Yeah, but she wasn't very lucid."

"Oh."

Elliot can't discern if the puzzled look on Brian's face means he's troubled by something specific or just generally weary. He wants to ask, Did she say something? but this is certainly none of his business. He has to remember the pecking order. It's an odd feeling to be the second most important person in Olivia's life.

"Doc says the procedure'll take a bunch of hours," Brian tells him.

"You've been up all night," Elliot says. "I'll stay."

"You look like you've been up too."

"Nah, just since four-thirty."

Brian yawns. "Well, that's more than me."

"Dude, go home, get some rest. I'll call you the minute there's any news."

"Hey man, thanks." He pauses. "You're a good guy, Stabler. I don't think I ever said so when we worked together."

"I appreciate that, man."

Cassidy shrugs. "I was a dumbass back then. Couldn't see past my jealousy."

He's careful to conceal his shock. No sense in showing his cards. "What?"

"That you got to spend every waking hour with her. And I was stuck with Munch."

Cassidy saunters off, before Elliot has a chance to respond.

Elliot sits on a hard plastic chair, waiting for Olivia to come out of surgery.

Even though he's been assured this is not a dangerous operation, he is terrified. Doctor Rubinstein's words from earlier echo in his head, replaying in a loop. Only in his mind's grainy version, the underlying optimism that was the doctor's intent is missing.

Few people would've survived such a horrific assault.

Could this surgery, then, represent the proverbial other shoe dropping? Will tomorrow's headlines read, SVU Detective Dies of Injuries Sustained During Assault? How unremarkable, how unsensational, how probable such a headline would be. He pictures Cragen and Munch and the rest of the squad, as well as more peripheral staff members of the stationhouse coming together, shaking their heads, murmuring platitudes about how terrible and shocking this turn of events was, but belying such words would also be the implicit understanding that her initial survival, like that of a gunshot victim who miraculously makes it through the ambulance ride, ought to have all along been regarded as precarious and temporary, and certainly not the end of the story.

Exacerbating his disquietude is his boredom. He has nothing to read, nothing to focus his mind on. He tries to pass the time thinking about his children, about how well each of them is doing – Kathleen is thriving, finally, and Maureen is engaged to a bright young dental student – but his mind keeps pivoting back to Olivia. In twelve years of working with her, he's never had to sit here for her, never had to go through this with her. Never had to wait.

She's had to for him, many times. But his hospital stays were different.

Because this is not just a lung injury.

This is not just surgery.

It represents the abrupt end to any vestiges of her freedom, to what little dignity she managed to cobble together in the aftermath of her ordeal.

She's been mortified by her physical injuries, but at least she's been able to walk, to move, to function. She's had the option – however ill-advised – to refuse the help of others.

But now she's facing weeks of recuperation. Weeks of physical pain and weakness and helplessness. Weeks of needing other people to take care of her.

Weeks of a recovery process that was already going to represent the most challenging and daunting battle of her life.

And he's pretty sure she's been raped.

About two hours into her surgery, Olivia's phone buzzes, and Elliot, who had dozed off, jumps out of his skin.

It's a text, from a 'Nick.' He searches his memory for this familiar name, and it comes to him: this is her new partner, who, he reminds himself glumly, is no longer quite so new.

Liv, nothing urgent, just wanted to check in & see if you needed anything.

Elliot is instantly impressed by Nick. Olivia has undoubtedly told him, too, how fine she is, and yet he is bold enough to risk her wrath by asking again.

Everybody loves her.

Brian's words from earlier abruptly come back to him. Of course he's right. She is loved. She is beloved. For a second, he muses about the difference in meaning between the two terms, and then decides it really doesn't matter: she is both.

He hesitates in front of her phone, contemplating a response. He doesn't want to impersonate her, but he also knows that he will open a can of worms if he explains the situation. The trouble is, if Nick is half the partner Elliot was, then he will panic if there is no reply at all.

And so he types the truth:

This is Elliot Stabler, Olivia's old partner and friend. She's OK, but had a small setback and needed to come back to the hospital.

He's about to send the message when it occurs to him that Nick knows about Cassidy, and that this will not look good for her. Even if Cassidy himself has blessed Elliot's presence here, and even if Nick is not one to judge, Elliot knows how easily and quickly rumors – however false – can be started, and the idea of his being responsible for one that can be so damaging to Olivia – especially while she's already dealing with so much – is unconscionable to him.

And so he appends, Cassidy was here and just left.

There. Everything above-board. He has nothing to apologize for, and neither does Olivia. It was inevitable that her coworkers would find out she had surgery; it was not something she would've been able to keep from them.

Predictably, the phone takes about six seconds to ring. "Olivia's phone," Elliot answers, though it is obviously Nick.

"Stabler, this is Nick Amaro, Olivia's partner. I know we haven't met but under the circumstances I know you won't mind if I cut to the chase. Is she okay? What happened?"

Elliot is bowled over by the genuine concern – if not downright panic – in Nick's voice. "It was a collapsed lung. She's in surgery."

There's a long pause, accompanied by several exhalations. And then, "Oh, man."

"They said she'll be okay."

"Yeah, okay, I understand… I just…."

"What is it?"

Nick waits a beat. "It's just… man, she can't catch a break."

Elliot hangs up, sure Amaro was going to say something else.

Three hours later, Doctor Rubinstein emerges to talk to him. "Surgery was successful, she's in recovery."

Elliot bounces to his feet. "Thank God. When can I see her?"

"In a few minutes; they're just making her comfortable."

It's now or never, Elliot thinks. "Doctor, can I ask you a question?"

Rubinstein glances around, apparently trying to feign a look of overwhelmed busyness. But his eyes return to Elliot, so bedraggled and enervated, and he sighs. "Sure."

"When you examined her, did you see anything that would explain why she might be walking with a limp?"

Rubinstein hesitates. "That's not something I can discuss with you."

"Even as her next of kin?"

"Even as her next of kin." He shifts on his feet, undoubtedly noting the sincerity of Elliot's concern. He adds, "Like I mentioned earlier, the best thing you can do for her is be there and listen to her and support her."

"Look, I'm not sure I mentioned it earlier, but Olivia and I, we worked in Special Victims. We handled rape –"

"I'm familiar with Special Victims," Rubinstein interrupts, not unkindly.

"Right, of course. But I was going to say, I have a lot of experience… helping… sexual assault victims."

"If that's your way of asking me if she was sexually assaulted, nice try."

"Well, what sort of care – physical, I mean – will she need in the short term?"

"I'll be frank. She's going to be very weak and in a lot of pain. So, all sorts."

She is still unconscious when he enters the room, but the nurse reassures him the anesthesia should start to wear off in the next half-hour.

Her bed is elevated to a forty-five degree angle so that she's semi-reclined like a sunbather. Indeed; if not for the oxygen tubules in her nostrils and various other machines to which she is conspicuously hooked up, he would think she was merely taking a nap.

When he notices her start to stir, he eagerly drags his seat closer to her bed, watching her face. She is still so, so beautiful. He takes a nervous swig out of his water bottle, which he bought hours ago but forgot about till this moment.

Finally, she opens her eyes unsteadily, her gaze droopy and unfocused.

"Liv?"

She looks around dazedly.

"Liv?" he repeats. "I'm right here. You're okay."

Rather than acknowledge him, though, her eyes settle on his water bottle, which he's clutching in his sweaty palm like a security blanket.

"You want a sip?"

She gives a slight nod and opens her mouth. He uncaps the bottle and brings it towards her face. She tracks the trajectory of his wrist as it approaches her. "Your throat must be dry."

It happens too fast for him to react.

Just as the bottle is about to make contact with her lips, her eyes widen in abject terror and she clamps her mouth shut, shrinking away from the object like a toddler being fed carrots. Then she reaches out and bats the bottle out of his hand. It flies across the room, landing on the waxy floor, spilling as it rolls away and leaving in its wake a sizable puddle, before finally coming to a halt at the leg of an empty bed.

"Liv!" he exclaims, startled. "Hey, hey, it's okay, it's okay."

Eyes closed again, she whimpers softly.

"It's over, Liv, it's over. You're in the hospital. Open your eyes again, it's okay."

He waits. Twenty seconds tick by as she struggles to gather herself. Just as he's about to call the nurse – he's worried such agitation will affect her breathing – there's a palpable change. And then, slowly but surely, she reboots, this time, thankfully, to a fully conscious state. When she opens her eyes anew, full recognition dawns.

"You all right?" he asks mildly.

"God, El. I'm so sorry. I must've –"

"Don't worry about it," he interjects.

"Please don't –"

"It's forgotten." He smiles kindly.

"Thank you."

"How are you feeling?"

She groans. "Like I got hit by a bus."

He chuckles softly. "I'm so sorry, Liv."

"You didn't call anyone, did you?"

"Like who?"

"Brian?"

He furrows his brows, a little thrown. "Honey, Brian was here, earlier. He went in to see you right before the surgery."

She clearly doesn't remember. "Oh. Right. Of course." As if to distract him, she then asks, "You didn't call Cragen, did you?"

"Of course not. You're on leave. And besides, it's not my place to tell your boss anything. But your partner texted you. I didn't want to ignore the message, and I didn't want to lie."

"So he knows?"

"About this? Yes. But he's respecting that you want to be left alone."

"I didn't want anyone to know about this… episode."

"Episode," he repeats, disdainfully. "You make it sound like you had some kind of mental breakdown. You had a collapsed lung, Liv. This was completely medical."

"I know. But they all feel so guilty already. Nick, he was the one who got to me first. I'd already subdued Lewis, but… I was in bad shape. He blames himself, even though he didn't do anything wrong."

He makes a mental note. Talk to Nick. Nick will have insight.

"Well, I understand how he feels," he says lightly, to fill the space.

She clucks her tongue. "Just… please. Don't say things like that. It makes me feel guilty."

"You have nothing to feel guilty about."

"Elliot, let me ask you something. Would you rather be the victim or feel responsible for someone else's victimhood?"

He answers swiftly and truthfully. "I would rather be the victim."

"Yeah, I figured you might say that. But what happens if the people you're closest to feel the same way?"

"I don't follow."

"I was the one who was… attacked. But the people around me are suffering too, because they're carrying around all this guilt. They think they let this happen to me. And that makes me feel guilty. They're suffering, because of me."

"Liv, I guarantee you, nobody's suffering as much as you are."

She sighs. "I know you know what I mean."

"I do."

"This is hard enough. So just let me have it my way please."

"You know I'll do anything you want."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"And… thank you… for bringing me here."

He seizes the opportunity to inject some levity into the conversation. "Yeah, well, I thought about leaving you on the floor to let you sleep it off, but then I thought, what the hay, I was up anyway –"

She attempts to swat him in the arm playfully, but the IV hookup limits her range, and she doesn't make contact. "Stop it."

"I'm sorry. You just – you don't need to thank me."

A minute passes in silence. He gazes at her, wondering what she's thinking, watching her chest rise and fall beneath the sheet. She is alive. She is awake and breathing and talking. He needs to be grateful for that. He will help her with her pain. He will help her recover. He will help her face her demons. Things will be okay.

"When I was lying there, I thought it was the end."

He involuntarily draws up that terrible image from last night. It's a Polaroid, etched in his brain forever. "You're a survivor, Liv." It's a trite statement by now, but never has he been more serious, and emotion blots his words.

"Yeah, but… first Alice Parker, then Vanessa Mayer's mother. They both died exactly two days after their rescue."

A chill runs through him. He hadn't connected the dots quite this way. Doctor Rubinstein's words come back to him like an omen: You saved her life.

"But you survived," he repeats with emphasis. He wonders whom he's trying to convince.

She reaches over and squeezes his wrist. "Thanks to you." She pauses. "How did you know?"

"Know what?"

"That I… that something was wrong? I tried to call out to you, but I was gasping too hard."

"I don't know. I just woke up, and I decided to check on you."

She nods. "Brian sleeps like a log."

His brain lights up with guilty glee, but he's careful not to react, unsure if the implicit criticism was intentional, or if she was merely blurting out a fact impulsively.

"Elliot, you, uh, I guess... uh…"

He waits, knowing what she's about to ask. But he doesn't push her.

She swallows. "You saw my body?"

The humane thing to do is to lie, but he finds, simply, that he can't. "Yes." He doesn't elaborate on just how much of it he saw; there's a chance her memory will remain fuzzy as to the exact state in which he found her.

"Oh God," she chokes, turning a little red.

"You have nothing to be ashamed of," he offers quickly, realizing too late that sympathy oozes from his voice. He knows how proud she is, and he wishes she could understand he doesn't see her differently, and, based on his conversation with Brian, neither will he.

Clearly mortified, she turns her head away. "I didn't want anyone to see," she murmurs.

"Those marks don't change who you are."

"They're disgusting."

"They're skin."

"Come on, El. We all have to have a little vanity."

"You're a stunningly beautiful woman, Liv. A few scars won't change that."

She turns back to him and meets his eyes. She wears her vulnerability like a cloak. "I hope," she squeaks desperately.

A few moments pass in silence. He gives her time to process.

"He hasn't seen the burn marks yet, has he?" he ventures.

"No."

"Has he asked you?"

"He's trying to be respectful of my privacy. But I… can't undress in front of him."

"Are you afraid he'll see you as damaged?"

She sighs. "Let's face it, I am damaged."

"No, your skin is damaged."

The muscles in the column of her neck flex, nearly imperceptibly, like she was just about to say something – to correct him – but restrained herself at the last second. "My skin is part of me."

"It's one part," he argues. "He loves you, Liv. Those scars won't matter to him."

Again, he catches the millisecond of hesitation. Nobody knows her better than he does; every gesture, every blink, every microtwitch. There's something more she hasn't told him.

"You say that, El, but come on. Men are visual. Those marks are hideous."

"You're wrong. What you went through getting them, that's what's so hideous. But you also survived. Because that's who you are: a survivor. Don't let those marks define you. Don't let this attack define you. That's the difference between a victim and a survivor. And that's what Brian loves about you."

She shows no reaction to his reiteration of Brian's feelings for her, and he wonders, with inappropriate hope, what this means.

"I know how this works," she says. "At some point I'll have to show them to him. And he's gonna make a big point of telling me they don't matter to him. And I'll never know if he's telling me the truth."

"You have to decide if you trust him. If you do, then it means you believe him when he says they don't matter."

She looks him straight in the eye. "Would you ever have admitted to Kathy that something on her body turned you off?"

It's not the same thing, he wants to say. Because he never loved Kathy the way he loves her. But Olivia would never believe him. Olivia has always believed Kathy was the love of his life, and Elliot never contradicted this, because it was in everyone's best interests – professionally – for her to believe this. "I don't know," he concedes.

She frowns. "I trust him to do what he thinks is best for me, and he might think that the right thing to do is to spare my feelings and lie to me."

"Well, what do you think?"

She takes a second. "I'd be upset if he lied to me." She pauses. "But if I were being honest, I don't think I could take it if he told me those scars turned him off."

There's nothing he can say out loud to make her feel better.

Because only one response springs to mind:

I would take you in a heartbeat.

But she's not in any state to hear this.