A/N: So, I know it's been a while. Call it pandemic cabin fever, but I suddenly got the itch again. I intend to finish this story, and have several chapters written. PLEASE bear in mind that I wrote the first half of this before most of Season 15 unfolded, and committed to certain details that unfortunately later in the season were contradicted. I am usually committed to staying true to the facts, and only supplying my own when something has not been addressed either way. However, I decided in this case to continue what I'd started. (Also, I HATED how the subsequent Lewis storyline played out.) All of this is plausible based on what we see during Surrender Benson. Hope you enjoy.

Elliot takes a swig of beer, looks up at Amaro, his partner in crime. Where Olivia is concerned, this man, whom he wouldn't have known from Adam a week ago, has become his staunchest ally. He swipes his forehead with his palm as her partner takes the last fry on his plate, dunks it in a mess of ketchup off to the side. He looks as defeated as Elliot feels.

"If we tell Cragen, we can't undo this," Elliot says. His gaze falls beyond Amaro, to the street outside. It's been unseasonably muggy these last few days, but even though it's dark, the rustling of wind and the behavior of pedestrians scrambling to take shelter is a dead giveaway: any second now, and he expects to hear a crash of thunder. It's unusual for such a storm to be delayed to the twilight hours, but then again, weather has changed in recent years. Everyone can feel its unpredictability. Diagonally across the street from the gastropub where they're grabbing a bite – an upscale, pricy joint that was a dry cleaner and a grubby Chinese takeout restaurant in his final year as a cop – is the precinct.

"You think I don't know that?" Amaro asks. He looks at the French fry in his hand like he's unsure what it's doing there, then tosses it back down, covering his plate with his paper napkin.

"I know you do. I just … needed to say it out loud. For myself, mostly."

Amaro cocks his head. "I get it, man."

"It's not my career anymore. It's …" He hesitates.

"Her trust."

"We gave her our word." His voice aches.

"I know."

"We went out of our way to say it. To reassure her." Elliot's not sure whom he's pleading with: Amaro or himself. He's sickened by the idea of what they're going to do.

"We did," Amaro agrees. "And so let's be clear about what we're about to do here. We're about to break our word."

Elliot slouches in his seat. "Yeah."

"And she's going to feel angry and betrayed."

"Yeah."

Amaro eyes him with challenge. "You prepared for that?"

Elliot grits his teeth, says nothing.

Amaro sighs. "Look man. I know you're in love with her." As Elliot opens his mouth to protest, Amaro waves it off. "Let's not start an argument about that. It's not my business anyway. My point is just that if it makes you feel better, hating us means she won't be hating herself."

Elliot raises an eyebrow. "How do you figure?"

"Well, you saw her. She's still raw. She's living moment to moment, just trying to keep it together. Plus, after that goddamn surgery, she's in constant pain and it's hard for her to focus on anything else."

For some reason, this blunt assessment takes him by surprise, upsets him in an acute, intense way, like a bee sting. "You think she's in pain? I mean, I know there's some, but you think it's … constant?"

Nick looks at him curiously, his expression softening. "I mean, yeah. She went through hell." He looks at the table.

"I guess I thought … I guess I just assumed …" He realizes he's stammering, forcing himself to buck up. "Anyway, okay, I get it, so what's your point?"

"Well, at some point she'll get past the shock, she'll regain some physical strength, and she'll get angry. Angry at the situation, angry that she had to go through this. And then she'll redirect it onto herself. For not speaking out, for not making him pay for what he did to her. For being what she'll construe as too weak to come forward during the critical window of time when she still had control over the narrative."

"But how will telling Cragen what we know prevent that, if she refuses to corroborate it?"

"It'll distract her. She'll be pissed at us instead."

"Take your plates, gentlemen?" They both look up sharply as their server, a chirpy brunette in her twenties, appears out of nowhere, plunks down the check. "Whenever you're ready."

Grateful for something to do, they each reach into their wallets, throw cards onto the table. Elliot squares his jaw, deeply troubled by what Amaro is saying.

As their server departs with their cards, the two men are left to sit in silence.

Finally, Elliot shakes his head. "I can't do it."

Nick's eyes settle on Elliot, as if trying to decide if he's always struck such a sorry sight. "I can do it myself," he offers. "Let you off the hook."

"What's the point?" Elliot asks miserably. "It'll cause the same harm. It'll become public information."

"Do you really believe it'll harm her?"

"Maybe not in the long run, but it should be her choice."

"Do you believe, in her right mind, she would choose not to report this part of it?"

"Being traumatized doesn't mean she's not in her right mind."

"Stabler, when you were in the unit, how many victims did you convince to come forward, even though they were reluctant?"

"Too many to count."

"And how many ultimately regretted going forward with a prosecution?"

"Almost none."

"And how many cases were lost because too much time had passed between the crime and when it was reported?

"Too many to count."

"And how many of those victims wished they'd spoken up sooner?"

"Probably all of them."

"Which means, all of these women, when the crimes first happened, were not in the right frame of mind to make a decision they wouldn't later regret."

"That's true. But he is being prosecuted. And Olivia is an even fiercer advocate of that philosophy than I was. So I know she fully understands the consequences of not reporting this … piece of it. And so if she's still refusing to, then how can we – "

"I think you just proved my point. That for her to go against everything she believes must mean she's not competent – yet – to make this call."

"Or it could mean she has her own private reasons that are none of our business."

"If you really believe that, then why are we here? The reason we confronted her in the first place was because we wanted to, A, rule out some other explanation we weren't thinking of that only she could provide, and, B, we thought she might be in denial – whether because she'd blocked a traumatic memory out, or because she was deeply ashamed – but not, C, because we were interested in finding out her decision about what to do, assuming it was all true."

Elliot shakes his head rapidly, as if to shield himself from this undeniable truth. "I know, I know. I know you're right. I just… okay, this is selfish, I admit it, but I just… I just finished apologizing to her for the last two years, and so to turn around within a week and just betray her like this, I'm afraid she'll shut me out for good."

"Look, Stabler. I get it. I've been on shaky ground with my wife for over two years. Ever since I mistakenly accused her of cheating on me. The last thing I'd want to do is violate her trust. But this is different."

"Why?" Elliot asks, genuinely hoping for some way to justify doing this to Olivia.

Amaro's dark eyes are pained. "Because that gun is proof that Lewis raped her. Not threatened to, not tried to, but actually did it. Violently. Viciously. He needs to be held accountable for that. It could make a material difference in his sentence. I can't let that go. And in her right mind, I know she couldn't either. Because she kept him alive for a reason."

He turns Nick's words over in his mind, trying to come to terms with them. The logic is there. Nick's being rational. But he, Elliot, can't quite get there. All at once he realizes why.

"We were once on a case," Elliot starts. "Victim had been drugged, had no memory of having been assaulted. We only found her because he'd kept a video library of all the different women he'd attacked. This poor woman had no idea she was a victim until we confronted her. Olivia was really shaken up. She said to me afterwards, 'I don't know what's worse – not remembering your assault, or not being able to forget it.' Nick, what if she really doesn't remember it? What if making her aware of it is just … cruel?"'

"What did you say?"

"What if making her aware – "

"No. I mean, when she said that, about not remembering. How did you respond?"

"Oh. I told her that being in denial backfires eventually. I told her – " He stops, grimacing at the memory of how the conversation ended. "I told her that she, of all people, should know that."

Nick nods without asking Elliot why he'd thought she might know something about victimhood. Elliot wonders how much Olivia has shared with him about her past cases. Her past traumas.

"Look, Elliot. She's physically injured from this. Five days after it happened, she still couldn't walk properly, according to you. God only knows the internal damage. Some of it could be permanent. Have you thought about that? Even if you're right, and she doesn't remember it now, she will eventually put it together."

He grips the edges of the table on either side. They made a mistake promising her they would keep this confidential. He sees that now. And he knows they have to do this. He knows that regardless of what was done to her, they have to turn in the gun. He knows, too, that it's the right thing to do. For justice. For Olivia.

But he also knows that this will devastate her. Even after two years of estrangement, she has given him her trust. She has, quite literally, let him see her scars. How can he do this to her?

"Maybe there's another way."

Elliot looks up sharply. "What?"

"I have an idea. It's not perfect, but it may be the only way."

"Okay, so we're clear on how we're doing this."

Nick, his eyes downcast, gives Elliot a nod to his right. "Clear."

"Good." Elliot jumps at the sound of the elevator ding, as they come to a dead stop on the third floor. They wait anxiously for the doors to open. Beyond is the squad room.

"Ready?" Nick asks.

"No."

The two men step off, their eyes skirting the mostly empty room. It's pushing nine o'clock. Elliot's gaze zeroes in on the cage, and then on the shiny linoleum floor ten feet away, the spot where it happened. The blood has long since been mopped away, but he still sees it. The spot where he tried to revive Jenna. He looks away.

And now his eyes flood at the sight of Olivia's desk. It's packed with at least a dozen bouquets of assorted flowers, some with balloons. There also two rose plants, one orchid, and scores of boxes of chocolates, cupcakes, candy and other random wrapped gifts. There is artwork made by children of varying ages. Where her laptop would normally sit is a chocolate cake with "Get Well Soo" printed in white frosting. A knife splices the cake, and three pieces are missing, one of which presumably contained the N. Elliot chuckles to himself; apparently no one figured she would take any time off.

He was here a little over a week ago, but he either missed the display, or it's built up since then.

Munch and Fin are nowhere to be found, but a pretty blond seated where Munch used to gets up to greet him. Elliot guesses this must be Amanda.

"They just keep coming," she says, gesturing towards the gifts. "We're running out of space to put them all. Far as I can tell, every single one of 'em is from a victim she's helped over the years." She gestures sheepishly at the cake. "We offered it to the cleaning staff. It's perishable, we figured she wouldn't mind."

Elliot laughs. "It's the thought that counts."

Amanda nods as her eyes land on Nick. "Hey, man."

"Hey."

She turns back to Elliot and sticks out a hand, smiling. "I'm Aman – wait. I know you. You're Olivia's old partner."

Elliot throws her a quizzical look. Amanda reaches over to Olivia's desk, takes the framed photo tucked away behind one of the rose plants, and shows him. It's of him and Olivia, taken fifteen years ago, in the infancy of their partnership.

Seeing the photo brings a wistful smile to his face. He again has to suppress a wave of emotion. He clears his throat, deflecting. "I've put on a few pounds since then."

"Haven't we all." Amanda's voice is all charm. But the southern accent (Georgia? South Carolina?), of which he detects more than a trace, lends her words a certain warmth and graciousness, which he finds endearing.

Grateful for the banter, Elliot looks her up and down, demurring. "You? You must've been in Pampers when this photo was taken."

Nick looks on with amusement.

"Easy," she warns, her eyes shifting from one man to another. She calls his bluff. "Well, when was this taken?"

Elliot shrugs. "Ninety-nine? Maybe two-thousand."

"Eleventh grade."

"There you go, you were a baby," he teases.

"Sure," Amanda retorts. She sticks out her hand. "Now that we've settled how old I am, I'm Amanda."

Elliot shakes her hand. "I'm Elliot. Nice to finally meet you."

Amanda raises an eyebrow. "Finally, huh? So if you already know who I am, then I guess y'all have seen Olivia recently."

Nick shifts uneasily.

Aware of his misstep, Elliot wills his cheeks not to flush. The last thing he needs is for one of Olivia's coworkers to draw erroneous conclusions. "Yeah," he starts. "I – "

But Amanda waves a hand in the air. "Don't sweat it. I'm good at keeping secrets." She winks.

Elliot relaxes, only for a pall of dread to wash over him, as he remembers why he's really here. It's not to make small talk with Olivia's coworkers. He nods towards Cragen's closed door. "Is he …?"

"He's in there, as always," Amanda confirms.

Nick turns to Amanda. "Catch up later?"

"You bet," she replies, understanding that the pleasantries are over; they are here for a reason. "Nice to finally meet you," she calls.

"Yes," he agrees, turning toward the far end of the room, where the object of this visit unwittingly waits.

But before he has a chance to fully turn his back, Amanda stops him. "Wait, Elliot." She reaches into her bottom drawer and pulls out a plastic Duane Reade shopping bag and hands it to him. "Give these to her, will ya? I've been holding them for safe keeping."

He takes the bag, which weighs several pounds, peers inside, and nods. "There must be hundreds of greeting cards in here. I will. Thank you." He turns to leave.

"Oh, and Elliot?"

"Yeah?"

"Send her my love, will ya?"

As they make their way across the room to Cragen's office, Nick whispers to him, "Don't worry, she's cool."

"I know."

Cragen is completing a call when they knock. His eyes widen at the sight of the two men, and he waves them in. "Yes, Chief. Of course. I will. Thank you." He hangs up the phone. "Didn't know you'd two met," he says by way of greeting.

"We had someone in common," Elliot states flatly, taking a seat in front of the familiar desk of his former boss.

Cragen nods. "What can I do for you? Nick, I thought you were taking the week off."

Amaro shifts in his seat. "Captain, Elliot and I… we just came here to see if you had any new information. Lewis, he, you know, he knows every legal loophole, and, well, we just wanted an update."

"How's she doing?" Cragen asks, in lieu of answering. His eyes land squarely on Elliot.

Elliot and Nick exchange glances. Cragen picks up on the tension his question has triggered. "Tell me," he presses. His forehead is etched with concern.

"Not great," Elliot concedes.

Cragen's eyes are full of compassion. "Well, you can at least tell her the case against him is solid. Barba's confident he'll get the max."

"What are the charges?" Nick asks.

"First degree aggravated kidnapping, assault of a police officer, attempted murder, attempted rape."

"That's it?"

Cragen looks at Nick. "What's missing?"

"Torture."

Elliot's mouth goes dry, as he remembers the sight of her body in the bathroom floor. Each individual mark its own crime.

"Part of the kidnapping charge." Cragen clears his throat. "Look, he's facing over a hundred years in prison."

"You think all the details are solid?"

Elliot winces, concerned that Cragen could get suspicious if Nick pushes it, but either Cragen's lost his touch, or Nick is right: He doesn't want to know more.

Cragen looks at them expectantly. "So what else can I do for you, gentlemen?"

Amaro pulls the crumpled paper bag from the messenger bag he's been carrying on his shoulder all evening. He hands it to Cragen. "Need to give you this."

"What is it?"

"Open the bag."

Cragen rummages inside, pulls out the contents, a hardy plastic evidence bag. "It's a gun." He looks up in shock.

"Yeah."

"Whose gun?"

Nick shrugs. "Not sure."

"Where did you get this?"

"I found it," Elliot says.

"Where?"

"I don't remember."

"It's department-issued," Cragen observes. He studies the gun through the bag, scrutinizing its appearance. "Is that … blood?"

Elliot shrugs again. "Don't know."

Cragen is frustrated, but also understands what's happening. He again directs his attention at Nick. "And is there anything that perchance will jog either of your memories?"

Nick shakes his head. "Don't think so. No."

"And if I were to ask Olivia about this gun, would she know anything?"

Elliot leans forward in his chair, looks his former boss straight in the eye. "Don, she says she doesn't know anything about it. So it would be a waste of time for you to ask her."

Cragen lets a silence pass, sizing each man up. "And you're positive she would not want the opportunity to rethink that answer?"

"Positive."

Cragen sits back in his chair. "Well, if you're positive, then I guess you're right. No point in asking her about it."