In the elevator, Elliot is lost in thought rehearsing what he will say, when Amaro turns to him. "Put your car keys away."
"What?"
"Put'em back in your pocket. You're still holding them."
He looks at Amaro quizzically.
"She doesn't like keys."
A beat passes before his eyes widen in comprehension. "Good call, thanks." He pauses, leans against the railing. "You think we should've talked to Cragen first?"
Amaro shakes his head. "We do that, we set things in motion that can't be unset. This is her life, my career, and your relationship with her. All on the line."
Elliot presses his lips together. "Yeah."
They push the doorbell three times, letting tens of seconds pass between rings. They know she's home; where else would she be? Just as Elliot's about to pull out his cell to call her – his heart is already, irrationally, racing with panic – they hear languid, slippered footsteps shuffling to the door.
"El?" a weary voice calls out.
The minute she opens the door, he regrets coming here. It is only six in the evening but she is in her pajamas beneath a plush white robe, her hair sopping wet from a recent shower. She is gasping softly, her air intake wheezy and labored. For some reason it had not occurred to him she would need to expend energy to physically answer the door. Perhaps because he had not anticipated Cassidy would leave her here alone. For a second, he bristles at her boyfriend's neglect. But he also knows that if Brian went out, it was surely at Olivia's insistence.
Regardless, she is frail-looking enough that he goes to her immediately. "Liv." He reaches out to grasp her waist.
"I'm fine," she croaks out, batting him away.
"Okay." He puts his hands up, backs off. He doesn't want to upset her within a minute of his arrival; there'll be plenty of time for that during this visit, he thinks grimly.
But she is huffing and puffing and he instinctively reaches to her again, and this time she accepts his help. He pulls her close and ensconces her waist in a secure, sideways bear hug. Beneath the flannel layers, she is shivering. "Let's go to the couch," he says quietly.
"All right." She glances at her current partner and throws him an embarrassed smile. "Hey, Nick." But her eyes plead: Pay no attention to this little production.
"Hey," answers Amaro, with proper sheepishness, following the huddled pair across the living room.
She is partly doubled up as Elliot walks her to the couch, her still-bruised temple bumping against his bicep. He is hyper-aware of her limp now, wondering why no one else has commented on it and questioned her about it. He is horrified all over again, as it fully registers just how violent this part of the assault must have been if its physical aftermath is still so prevalent and conspicuous this many days later. He makes a mental note to see to it – one way or the other, and this could prove delicate – that she receive proper medical treatment for it. Even if it means personally shelling out for a private doctor.
Several feet shy of their destination – it's a surprisingly spacious apartment for a guy on Brian's salary – she stops in her tracks to cough forcefully, her chest reverberating like the Tin Man. They wait, patiently, for the fit to subside. Elliot exchanges glances with Amaro, knowing they are having identical thoughts: She's not up to this. It's cruel.
The sheer force of the coughing dislodges her from his grasp and so he shifts how he's holding her, his fingers now pressing into a different section of her waist.
"Ahh!" she cries out, pulling away.
"What's wrong!?" he exclaims, flummoxed and startled. "What happened!?"
"Nothing," she pants. Instinctively, she pulls the flaps of her robe closed. Her eyes skirt to the floor. The hacking continues, but its intensity is compounded by her need to suck in more air to accommodate her burst of pain.
"Did I hurt you?" Yes, d'uhh, he obviously did. "Oh God, I'm so sorry."
"It's fine." But she is quietly hissing, and tears sprinkle her eyes. She coughs more, and a stream of saliva exits her mouth, stretching towards the floor.
He feels terrible. "I'm so sorry," he repeats. "Can I do something?"
She shakes her head, still wincing silently and trying to catch her breath.
Seconds pass, as she stands hunched over, detached from him now, an isolated island of pain. He watches helplessly, wanting to at least help her to the couch. But he lets her be.
"Liv," Amaro now pipes up. "Do you have any honey?"
She looks up. "What?"
"It can be soothing. For burns. Trick I learned from Maria. They pick these things up in Iraq."
"Maybe, uh, in the cupboard," she stammers, pointing vaguely toward the kitchen.
Amaro scurries away. "Be right back."
Elliot, meantime, reaches for her again. "I've got you," he soothes. Just as he does this another coughing fit seizes her and she doubles up over his forearm, like a pair of pressed pants folded over a hanger. He lightly strokes her back, patiently waiting it out. When she's done, clearly depleted, she keels into him sideways for support, and he guides her the remaining distance to the couch, where he carefully eases her down. The fit has exhausted her, and she accepts his help without objection.
When Amaro returns, he has a clean white cloth in hand, with several food court honey packets. He pushes the coffee table away and kneels in front of her, tearing open one of the packets and saturating the cloth with it. "Lie back," he says gently. She does so, slouching against the pillows. "Will you lift your top a little?"
Feet away, Elliot watches as Amaro pauses to search her eyes for signs of shame, of reluctance, of refusal. He is keenly aware, Elliot sees, that this is tricky territory.
She unties her robe slowly, her eyes fixed on Amaro, like he is her spiritual guide. In any other context, there would be something seductive – or obscene – about this display. But instead Elliot is struck by the unconditional kindness her partner shows her, by his tenderness and by his determination to preserve her dignity. Elliot watches, transfixed, as she then, tentatively, hesitantly, lifts her pajama top to expose the blistering skin of her waist.
The burn in question consumes a shockingly wide swath of flesh, stretching from the crook of her waist all the way to the far side of her naval. It is still blotchy and flaming-red. It is too extensive to have been created by cigarettes or keys.
The cattle prods? An iron? Or, possibly…. the blow torch?
He shivers, thinking about how terrifying it must've been to watch, defenselessly, as Lewis slowly brought the flaming object – whatever it was – ever-closer to her vulnerable flesh, probably prolonging the suspense on purpose. And then about how, when contact was finally made, the exquisite pain must've sent her out her mind with virtually intolerable agony. He just can't imagine it.
Amaro gently presses the honey-soaked cloth over the entire area of the burn. He waits.
Seconds pass as all three are silent.
And then, she sighs. It is a protracted, gush-like "Ahhh.…" It is the sound of sheer relief.
"Better?"
"Yeah," she gasps softly, her breathing finally returning to normal. "That actually feels good." She looks at Amaro gratefully. "Thank you."
"I'm glad." All business, Amaro now takes her good hand in his and leads it to the cloth. She takes over pressing it against her skin.
Watching this exchange, Elliot is in awe of the tight bond between partners. But rather than feel the stab of jealousy he expects, there is only gratitude. This man has no romantic inclinations towards Olivia, but it is plain he is completely devoted, and also very fond of her. As partners go, he is perfect.
Amaro promptly scrambles to his feet, backs away, and, clearly sensing she needs a few moments of privacy – perhaps to lather other, more private, parts of her body – he looks up at Elliot, his expression conspiratorial. "We'll help ourselves to a glass of water."
Not fooled by the flimsy pretext, she swallows, nods. "It's nice to, uh, not have to ask."
The response strikes Elliot hard, and his gut wrenches with raw emotion. At the poignancy of the remark, and the dignity she is fighting so hard to cling to. He is haunted by her admission the other day that having to beg Lewis for basic bodily needs was more degrading than any of the more overt torture he inflicted on her. Of how he loved to repeatedly remind her – a proud, veteran cop; one who built her identity around being a woman in a man's world – of her helplessness and subservience and, most of all, of her special vulnerability as a female. He can't imagine what it must have been like to slowly be broken down mentally, to be fully aware it was happening and to know that the only way to stop it was to submit to ever-more brutal acts, which, to her deep (and misplaced) shame, she quickly learned she was unable to withstand. For in all her years at SVU, she had always ultimately been able to retain the persona she so cherished – that of a superwoman – a ninja, of sorts; impervious to pain, serious bodily harm and, at the end of the day, to rape.
In the immediate aftermath of the attack, (and he has to remind himself, it's only been a handful of days) the memories of everything that were done to her are surely still crisp and vivid and viscerally alive for her. Detective or not, mentally strong or not, every innocent gesture, every comment, every ordinary metal object, has the potential to be a trigger for her.
Because this attack was not yet truly in her past. And it wasn't someone else's horror, like her mother's was. Nor was this the buffoonish kidnapping of Merritt Rook, or the everyday dangers she faced at the hands of garden-variety criminals. Nor was this anything like the incident at JFK airport, where at least if Rojas was going to kill her, it would've been swift and relatively painless. Brady Harrison, Ned Bogden, Richard White, Paul Gitano, Robert Morton's nutty follower; none of those attacks rose to the level of causing psychological damage, of requiring serious mental resource depletion just to convince herself to survive. Their aftermaths consisted of a day or two of feeling rattled, accompanied, perhaps, by a stitch, a bruise, a bit of blood. But within a day she'd always bounce back as though such attacks were part of the normal course of life.
No: Lewis' attack was in a class by itself; worse, even, than Sealview, where, at least what was going to happen would take place over the course of minutes rather than days, and where the specter of Fin's help provided the pretense of hope. This horror was prolonged, protracted, unadulterated. Most insidiously, it was tailor-designed for her, to expose her raw nerves and burrow in on them ruthlessly and relentlessly. To challenge, compromise and ultimately destroy the person she'd thought she was, the person she needed to be to feel at peace with herself. This attack had humiliated her to the core.
And it all took place less than two hundred hours ago.
Six days ago at this very time, a slew of everyday metal objects, red-hot and fresh off the stove, were being pressed firmly against her bare chest, one after the other. On purpose. With no intent other than to senselessly traumatize. The sizzling sound they must've produced as they made contact – normally a helpful piece of feedback to signal the bodypart in question to jerk away – would only have served to further remind her of her powerlessness to do anything to mitigate the excruciating pain.
Four days ago, she was being dragged, bloody and beaten and barely conscious, to watch another woman's rape; to be mentally manipulated into believing she alone was responsible for the gruesome torture of an innocent sixty-five year-old woman.
And a mere eighty hours ago, that same torture was being inflicted on her. And she, younger and fitter and nimbler, was failing to make it stop.
And at every step along the way in this odyssey through hell, a sick but chillingly credible voice was gleefully reminding her that not a single person in her life gave enough of a damn about her to help her.
And she, drugged and hungry and losing sight of her own humanity, might've been starting to believe him.
And so as the hours ticked by, she must have slowly come to realize – and possibly accept – that she would have no choice but to endure this. Take it. Submit to it. That there would be no recourse, no bargaining, no bartering.
Not even when she offered him her life.
And so it is no wonder she is so leery, so tentative.
What is a wonder is that she is alive at all, answering doors by herself, sitting here alone with two unambiguously stronger men, graciously and genially. She is completely functional.
Indeed; when they return to the living room from their interlude in the kitchen, it is Olivia who boldly, and, with a hint of mischief, opens the conversation.
"So. What is this, an intervention?" She grins cheekily.
Rather than sit upright, she has now curled horizontally across the couch on her side, bringing her knees close to her chest in a fetal position. Such prerogative is off-putting to witness; Olivia would ordinarily never forgo basic etiquette, not to mention sacrifice the strategic advantages of an assertive posture, in the name of comfort. "Hope you don't mind, it's much easier to breathe this way."
"Of course."
Amaro takes a seat on the loveseat. Implicitly, Elliot is meant to sit on the couch next to Olivia, which, it dawns on him, was exactly Amaro's intention. They exchange guilty glances.
Which she unfortunately picks up on. "Seriously, guys. Is this an intervention?"
Are we that obvious? "No, Liv."
"I feel like I'm in front of the review board. You here to critique my recovery?" But there is no accusation underpinning the sarcasm, just simple curiosity.
Elliot says, "Of course not. We just… wanted to talk to you."
Her eyes flit from one to the other. "So you two have bonded, I see." She addresses Amaro: "He already give you a hard time about ordering a Diet Coke in a bar?"
Elliot chuckles softly.
Amaro says, "We bumped into each other on the sidewalk the other day."
"Ah." She grins sardonically. "Well in a city this size, it's bound to happen."
"In front of this building," he clarifies.
"Gotcha."
"So," Amaro starts. "How are you feeling?" The compassion in his voice is hypnotic. He is a good partner, Elliot reaffirms; if he, Elliot, can no longer watch her back, then let it be Amaro.
"Getting there," she says, sighing. As if on cue, she coughs once more; a short, staccato chop. She winces from the aftershock in her chest.
Amaro leans forward, his elbows perched on his thighs. "Is the chest pain easing up a bit?"
Again, Elliot is taken by her partner's sincerity. He isn't asking out of politeness, secretly hoping not to be burdened with the tedious details of a truthful answer. Elliot also likes that he asks specific questions related to her physical injuries. Questions that aren't emotionally charged.
"Comes and goes," she replies. "I'd just really like to go outside or something. Take a walk." She gestures towards the expanse of the living room. "I'm going crazy stuck in here twenty-four-seven. But Brian's like the KGB." She glances around stealthily, as if the walls are recording her. "Who knows, he could have a nanny-cam stashed around here."
Amaro frowns disapprovingly.
"I'm kidding," she says, rolling her eyes at him.
"I know," Elliot says. He nods, clears his throat. "Where is Brian, incidentally?"
"At work."
He shoots a glance at Amaro, who gives a slight nod to the head. Coast is clear.
Which, tiringly, Olivia again picks up on. Her condition has not compromised her astuteness. "All right. What's the big conspiracy here?"
Elliot takes the lead. "We – I – but I think I speak for Nick too," he glances at her partner, who nods in encouragement, "want to just say, we support you. Completely."
"Okay…" She turns a little red. "You do understand how awkward that was, as opening statements go."
"Yeah, we do," Elliot answers without smiling.
But Olivia either doesn't notice or chooses to ignore his somber tone. She smiles playfully. "Just checking."
"Liv."
"Okay." She puts two fingertips to either side of her mouth, forcing a frown onto her face, like a child who's trying – unsuccessfully – to stop giggling. "Sorry. Being serious now…"
Amaro intrepidly jumps in. "We just want to talk. Off the record. And whatever you tell us, we'll do. You have our word."
Elliot nods his agreement.
"Seriously, you two, you're freaking me out. What, did Lewis escape or something?" She chortles nervously, now, as though it's suddenly occurred to her this is a distinct possibility.
"No," Amaro says. "We have some information."
"About?"
"About your time with Lewis."
"What kind of information?" She shudders, abruptly. Her body language instantly changes; she curls into herself even more, and there is naked fear in her eyes. "Information that I… didn't give you?" She is testing the waters.
Elliot says, "We went to the house on Long Island."
He can't be sure, but he thinks she flinches.
"Why?"
He ignores the question. "We found the gun, Liv."
She stares blankly at him. But she's experienced enough that he can't discern if she's feigning it or truly doesn't remember.
"What gun?"
"Your gun." He pauses, makes it a point to soften his tone. He has to remind himself: this isn't an interrogation. "The one you buried in the ditch."
She furrows her brows. "My gun? I don't know what you're talking about."
He immediately changes course. "Olivia, where's your gun now?"
She answers robotically, like she's rehearsed and memorized this exact response. "I don't know. Lewis took it away from me as soon as he got me. That was the last I saw it. This was all in my statement." Her eyes now defer to Amaro, as if this is all a big misunderstanding, and he will confirm her story.
But Amaro says instead, "We had it tested. Private lab, off the books."
And now her voice takes on an edge. "I said, I don't know what you're talking about."
Undeterred, Amaro presses. "Olivia, I think you do."
She takes careful, measured breaths, not saying anything, just trying to stay in control. But her eyes betray her: they flood.
They have hit a nerve.
The words are uttered barely above a whisper, but they are enunciated with purpose. "Please leave."
And with that, they have overplayed their hand.
"Liv –"
"I gave my statement. I told you all the sordid details of what he did to me. I was required to. But I won't repeat it."
"Cragen –"
She looks up sharply, her eyes flaring with anger and hurt. "What did you tell him?"
Amaro says, "Nothing, Liv. We haven't spoken to him. But at some point, we have to. It's a department-issued gun and also a material piece of evidence. We can't hang onto it, and we can't discard it."
"You just finished telling me you would do whatever I wanted. You gave me your word."
"We will honor it. But –"
"But?" she challenges.
Elliot rushes to jump in, afraid she'll follow through and kick them out before he makes his point. "You know the toll it's going to take on you. It's going to eat away at you if you deny this happened."
"If I deny?" she spits out. "What is it you think I've denied?"
Elliot takes a breath. He counts to three. "That he raped you with your own gun."
Dead silence.
The sentence hangs in the still air like a noxious fume, refusing to dissipate.
She stares, wide-eyed and dazzled; deer-in-the-headlights.
All at once, doubt consumes him: is it possible he and Amaro have it wrong? The lab confirmed the gun was coated with vaginal cells, but they don't know for sure they're hers. Could there have been another victim? Maybe he's been away from the job too long; maybe there are alternate explanations he's missed.
He shoots a glance at Amaro, whose eyes indicate he's having no such doubts.
And then he recalls the reason he'd thought to suspect any of this in the first place, and his momentary flicker of hope evaporates: she had no documented leg, ankle or foot injuries. And so nothing else explains her limp.
"Lewis didn't rape me," she says icily. "He did a lot of stuff, but not…. that."
But Amaro, to his credit, stands his ground. "He did terrible things to you. Things that no person should ever, ever have to endure. And he had only one goal: to break you down. The rape, Liv, was part of that goal. It was the only way for him to feel he had power over you, because you were so resilient in the face of all the other things he was doing to you. You've studied these guys long enough to know, this wasn't about you, it was about him, and his powerlessness. Raping you with your own gun – a symbol of your pride and strength – it was the lowest, meanest, most degrading thing he could think of to do to you. He did it because you're strong and proud, because you weren't afraid of him. It was a way to humiliate you. I won't give you the speech about how you, of all people, should know this. I appreciate that this didn't happen to me and so I have no right to pretend I know how it feels. I don't. But I can promise you this: It doesn't change how any of us looks at you. What he did to you was sick and depraved, and also cowardly. Anyone can hurt another person, if they have a gun. No human being is stronger than a gun. That's all it was, Liv: a gun. He would've subdued Elliot or me just the same. The power he had over you was manufactured and forced and had nothing to do with who you are."
"I know," she whispers, her chin now quivering uncontrollably. Her mask is off, and any doubts Elliot has have now vanished completely. Still, she does not concede. "I know all of this. I've given this speech to God-knows-how-many women myself. But this… what you're saying happened…. did not happen."
And so it's his turn, now, to intercede. He puts up both palms in a gesture of peace. "Liv. If you're worried you won't be allowed to work again, Cragen, he's not like that, you know that. You can talk about it, it's okay. You can admit it happened and it won't cost you your job. You'll get all the help and support you need to get through this. Everybody loves you. Everybody does. And I love you. This revelation doesn't change that. It doesn't change how I f– "
He is brusquely cut off.
By the sound of the goddamn front door opening. Cassidy is back.
Fuck, he thinks miserably. He had thought he had a shot at getting through.
"Liv?" Brian calls jovially, blissfully unaware of the drama he's stepping into. "I'm ho – Oh! Company."
"Olivia –" Elliot says, more sharply than he intended, and which she apparently misinterprets as a warning shot.
She narrows her eyes. "Actually, Elliot and Nick were just leaving."
But he and Amaro are frozen in place. They bungled this; their window of opportunity is gone, and they have no Plan B.
Cassidy picks up on the hostility Olivia is directing at the two men, interpreting – correctly – their continued presence as intransigence. His eyes settle on Amaro, who, Elliot now recalls, he has had prior beef with. "You heard her," he snarls.
Elliot's only chance is to appeal to her. He reaches for her arm. "Liv, please. We only want to –"
It happens too fast for him to react.
Out of nowhere, a muscular forearm snakes around his throat, yanking him away with such force he is thrust off the couch in a whirlwind gust of backward propulsion. By the time he is able to react, he is trapped in a firm headlock, gasping for air and being dragged across the living room, neck-first.
"You get the fuck away from her!" Brian shrieks.
"Cassidy!" Elliot gasps, struggling to pry the meaty arms off of him.
"Whoa! Cassidy! What the fuck, man?" Amaro, too, leaps to his feet, shocked by the situation's sudden escalation.
"Brian!" Olivia exclaims, still frozen on her side on the couch. Her lassitude is especially conspicuous; ordinarily she would have lifted herself, asserted herself, even inserted herself into the mayhem. But her precarious physical condition precludes this, and she lies motionless, relegated to beckoning from the sidelines.
Elliot, still in Brian's clutches, tries to reason with the enraged man. "Dude, I wasn't trying to –"
"YOU DON'T TOUCH HER UNLESS SHE ASKS YOU TO!" Cassidy barks shrilly. Elliot has never seen him this furious.
"Brian," Olivia repeats, wearily. "Calm down. Let him go. It's okay."
"No, Liv. It's NOT okay!" But he nevertheless does as she asks, releasing Elliot abruptly, and thrusting him in the direction of the front door.
Still shaken, Elliot leans against the door to catch his breath, eyeing the scene before him with newfound wariness.
Despite this shocking burst of temper, he knows Brian would never hurt Olivia, and so he is not uncomfortable leaving her here with him, even though every fiber of his being wants her to come with him. But he knows it's his jealousy, and not fear for her safety, that is driving this impulse. After all, he too would pummel any man who dared touch her while she was in this state.
And so for tonight, he has to let her go.
But as he steps into the corridor with Amaro, he is nonetheless deeply unsettled by the incident.
Not because her boyfriend's instinct – however misguided – was to protect her.
But rather because Olivia didn't protest it.
In the elevator, Amaro turns to him. "We need to talk to Cragen."