He sits in the hospital waiting room for over two hours, dozing off intermittently. Despite his earlier reassurances, he's nervous about what the blood test will show. The magnitude of the day's events have only just now started to hit him, and he periodically gets up and paces the room, trying to come to grips with it. One piece sticks out to him: that Lewis really did come within a heartbeat of killing her. And Amaro was right, that day in Long Island: It would've been a violent, gruesome death. And she never would have known that anyone was bothering to look for her.

Needing to burn off nervous energy, he wanders into the tiny, crowded gift shop, staring at the rows of greeting cards, anemic floral displays, balloons. Nearly all the cards are of a similar get-well-soon theme, some jokey, some trite, some religious. None is appropriate for the moment. He's about to wander out when he spies the shelf full of fancy chocolates. What the hell, he thinks. He buys a box.

At some point during his long wait, he gets a text from Cragen:

Westin 43rd & 8th. Room booked 7 nights but can arrange for longer. If she asks, tell her department gets discount. Get room service & charge it. Tell her it's an order.

He grins at the phone, replies with a thumbs-up emoji, wondering what strings Cragen pulled to put her up at such an upscale place.

Cragen follows up with one more text:

And for the love of God make her get a new phone!

He nods again, chuckling. On it!

A few minutes later, his phone rings. It's Amaro.

"Can you talk?"

"Yeah."

Amaro sighs. "That was … brutal."

"I know."

"How's she holding up?"

"We'll see." Elliot pauses. "Your instinct was right after all. There was a lot more to the story."

"Not something I wanted to be right about."

"Yeah …." He lets his voice trail off. "Hey, can I ask you something while I have you on the phone?"

"'Course."

"The … pair of underwear we found. What … um, what was the deal in the end?"

There's a short silence on the other end. "You didn't hear that part?"

"She'd already bolted."

"Cragen said he told her the rest."

"Guess he left that out."

"Not surprised," Amaro replies.

"So?"

"Housekeeper buried them with the gun."

"We figured that. But do we know why? I mean, she'd helped her with the rest - "

Amaro stops him. "She … Viva … said they were too torn up. She didn't feel right letting Olivia put them back on."

"Olivia didn't insist?"

"She didn't notice."

He knows he shouldn't be surprised, but the answer is heartbreaking nonetheless. "Damn."

"I know."

"Wonder why Cragen didn't mention that part," Elliot says.

"Probably to let her retain some dignity."

Elliot processes this. "That's … good."

"He – Cragen – completely regrets letting her listen in," Amaro tells him.

"I'll bet."

"No, I mean … I saw him afterwards. He's really upset. He knew about the gun, but I don't think he was expecting … that. I know I wasn't."

"I wasn't either," Elliot admits.

"I keep thinking, maybe I should've anticipated it," Amaro continues. "I mean, everything we heard today was completely consistent with what we knew about Lewis. Plus we already knew … the basic plot of what had happened. But Jesus, hearing it from an eyewitness like that, I sort of wish her memory hadn't been quite so perfect."

"For what it's worth, she was bound to find out."

"Yeah …." Amaro agrees. "But between you and me, I don't think it's about today. Cragen had already felt responsible for letting it happen in the first place. And now, finding out how bad it really was, he's blaming himself for the investigation being bungled, and for completely neglecting her since the rescue."

"That's not his fault."

"Tell that to him."

Elliot's silent.

"Look, I uh, just wanted to call to see how she's … I don't know, just to check in, I guess."

"Thanks."

He hears Amaro hesitate. "It's, uh, none of my business, but … sounds like Cassidy's over?"

"Yeah."

"You, uh …. gonna stay with her?"

"If she lets me."

Amaro waits a beat. "She will."

"El."

His eyes fly open; he'd dozed off again. She is standing over him, vacant-eyed and exhausted looking.

Still holding all her things, he gets up to greet her, cups her upper arms in his palms. "Well?"

"Not pregnant," she replies, emotionless.

He smiles. "Hey, hey, there you go." He glances at her now-bare left hand. "And the wrist splint is gone too."

She looks down at her hand absentmindedly. "He said it was ready."

"All right," he says encouragingly. "Two things."

"Yeah."

"What about the pain when you walk?"

She shrugs, like none of it matters at all. "MRI didn't show anything torn or broken. He said it was probably a bruised ligament, and it would heal on its own. No permanent damage, he thinks."

Elliot frowns. "It was a male doctor who was examining you?"

Her expression remains trancelike, her voice mechanical. "They said it would take a few extra minutes to get a female doctor. I said I didn't care who did it, I just wanted to get it over with."

He notices the sheets of papers she carries in each hand. "What's all this?"

She looks down at her hands, robotically raises her right. "Prescriptions and preliminary lab results." She puts down her right, raises her left. "Bullshit info packet from the rape crisis counselor."

He cocks his head, curious. He takes the second set of papers from her, peruses the top page, a glossy public service pamphlet, chock-full of cookie-cutter information, including the toll-free numbers for several different services: Rape Crisis, Mental Health, Suicide Hotline.

"She was like, nineteen years old. Kept insisting on reciting all this information, and explaining legal options."

"What did you say?" he asks.

"That she should stop by the precinct to get an updated version of that pamphlet. I've got a stack of them on my desk."

He laughs, glances at the one in his hand. "What, did they change the font on these things, or something?"

"No, there's a misprint on that one."

He scrutinizes the top page, spots the error right away. "Councillors available 24 hours a day," he reads out loud. He gives a short laugh. "Somehow I don't see any of those douchebags at City Hall doing rape crisis."

Olivia doesn't crack a smile. "That kind of error used to drive my mother crazy."

"Can't believe they printed it this way."

She shakes her head. "I should've been nicer to this girl. She meant well, and she was sweet. And at least it wasn't someone I already knew, right? I just wasn't in the mood to listen to all this crap. I really just wanted to tell her to fuck off."

"Well, if she wants to stay in this line of work, she'll have to get used to that."

"Yeah …" Her voice is so, so distant.

He pauses. "You ready to get out of here?"

He expects a hell, yeah! or something commensurate with her usual spunk, but all she manages is a quiet, "Okay."

Outside, the night is pitch dark and the air is heavy with humidity. "Do you want to stay at my place?" he asks.

She hesitates. "I was thinking maybe … the hotel? It's not personal, honest, I just need to not feel like I'm constantly crashing with people, you know? I don't like feeling homeless."

"Totally understandable."

"Would you stay with me there?" She meets his eyes with trepidation, apparently worried he might actually say no.

"Of course I will. Unless you want to get the uni outside the door."

He's joking, of course, and he expects a not a chance, or a sarcastic no thanks, but what he gets instead is an earnest, "No."

She thinks for a second. "I don't know even know what hotel it is."

"Westin on 43rd and 8th."

She blinks, surprised. "Theater District? Really?"

He shrugs. "That's where the hotels are." He offers her his hand. "Come, we'll go check it out. Change of scenery might make you feel better."

She takes his hand, lets him start to pull her forward. "Need to … " She distractedly raises the hand holding the prescriptions. "Need to stop at a pharmacy first."

"There's a Duane Reade on the corner."

At the drugstore, Olivia fills her prescriptions, then grabs a basket and starts roaming the aisles. She stares straight ahead as she walks, her gait zombielike. She pulls random bath products off the shelves; soap bars, shampoo, bubble baths. He doesn't remind her that the hotel provides all of these things. She wanders on, to other aisles, and he lets her shop in peace. He picks up two toothbrushes, toothpaste, shaving supplies, deodorant. At the travel aisle, he grabs a 3-pack of boxers, a few t-shirts to sleep in, a pair of socks. The store also has a souvenir section, and there he finds a pair of I Love NY sweatpants in his size that are light enough to sub as pajama bottoms. He picks up an oversized souvenir t-shirt for her, in case she hasn't thought to get something to sleep in.

She insists on paying for everything, and he lets her, knowing that accepting so much help from him is hard on her. But as the cashier reaches to scan his bottle of deodorant, Olivia frowns. "Is that the brand that you usually wear?"

He picks it up, scrutinizes the label. "Actually, no. Why?"

She takes it from him, uncaps it and puts it up to her nose. Then she jerks her face away, looking nauseated. "Elliot, could you … would you mind picking another brand?"

"Sure," he says, bewildered. "Anything in particular?"

"Just … whatever you usually wear."

"You got it." He sprints back to the toiletries aisle, exchanges it for his normal brand. He takes a whiff of the first one out of curiosity; it seems pleasant enough to him. He returns with the new bottle, hands it to her.

"Thank you," she says gratefully, giving it to the cashier.

After she's paid, he carries all the bags away from the counter, and they exit the store.

Searching for a cab outside, Elliot turns to her. "What was up with the deodorant?"

She shifts uncomfortably. "I think it's what Lewis wore."

His eyes widen in comprehension. "Got it. You could tell just from the bottle that it was the same one?"

She looks at the ground, doesn't answer.

Seeing that she's embarrassed, he waves his hand. "Forget it, you don't have to explain, I get it."

As the cab heads uptown on Eighth Avenue, she rolls down the window and lets the summer air hit her face, staring mindlessly out the window.

"I think Brian wore it too."

"What?"

She turns to face him. "I cringed every time he came near me. I didn't know why at first. He thought I was just skittish after the attack. But it was … the smell."

He nods slowly. "Why didn't you tell him to buy something else? I'm sure he would've understood."

Her shoulders pump up and down, once, childlike. "It took me a few days to put it together. I saw the bottle in the bathroom one day and I sniffed it and it clicked. By then, I don't know, I thought he'd be upset that I hadn't spoken up sooner, you know, like I didn't trust him to understand or something. He already took it personally that I wouldn't talk about it. I just felt awkward about it."

"I'm sorry, Liv. That's tough, but it makes sense."

At 42nd Street, they hit a red light and sit for five full minutes, snarled in tunnel-bound traffic. They've arrived in the theater area just as all the shows are letting out, and gaggles of meandering tourists spill onto the street. The hotel is only one block up, on 43rd. Elliot suggests they get out and walk.

Outside in the muggy nighttime air, Olivia looks around at the crowded street, disoriented. "What day is it?"

"Saturday."

"Huh."

As they approach the hotel entrance, a pack of families carrying Phantom of the Opera playbills rounds the corner, almost crashing into them. The show is playing a block away on 44th.

"I always wanted to take the kids to see Phantom," Elliot comments. "Never had the money. Or the time."

"It's good."

"You've seen it?"

"Long time ago. It had just come to Broadway, maybe a year or two before? I was graduating from college, my mother got us tickets as a gift."

"That was nice."

"Actually, it was. She didn't usually do things like that for me. I think it was sort of a peace offering. I appreciated it."

"Did she like the theater?"

"Some of it. Mostly dramas. She preferred the ballet."

At the front desk checking in, the clerk pulls up the reservation and looks at them apologetically. "I'm sorry, all we have left is two queens."

Elliot glances at Olivia, but she stares into space, her newly-healed left hand resting on the cold marble counter.

"It's fine," Elliot says.

"But we did have a cancellation, so I'm going to upgrade you free of charge to a deluxe room. Higher floor, a few extra square feet, comes with vouchers for complimentary continental breakfast."

Elliot nods approvingly. "That sounds great, thank you."

The room is on the 40th floor, and it takes the high-speed elevator less than ten seconds to transport them there, during which time a closed-circuit TV displays images of the spa, the restaurant, the fitness center. Olivia leans against the wall, her gaze trained on a random floor tile.

Inside the spacious corner room, the picture window faces the southeast, at the center of which is the Empire State Building, lit up in brilliant purple and blue tonight. Elliot whistles as he walks in. "This is nice. Quite a view."

He goes up to the window, taking in the panoramic sight of the city in which he's lived all his life. To his right, much farther south, is the Freedom Tower, still illuminated with bright construction lights. "It must be exciting, to come here as a tourist."

"I want to take a shower."

He spins around. She is parked between the first bed and the TV, looking shellshocked.

"Of course," he says. "Go ahead, take your time."

She spends nearly an hour in the shower. He periodically pads over to the bathroom, places his ear against the door. Hearing activity, he goes back, waits on the bed, flips through the channels. His stomach growls, and it dawns on him that neither of them has eaten anything since the lone bagel they each consumed at the precinct, more than thirteen hours ago. And, come to think of it, he's pretty sure she didn't touch hers at all.

She emerges, finally, in the plush white terrycloth robe provided by the hotel. Behind her, steam pours out of the bathroom, colliding with the chilly airconditioned room. Her hair is sopping wet, and the scent of bath products swirls around her.

"Feel better?" he asks.

"Not really."

She climbs onto the second bed, the one next to the window, and lies down on her left side, curling up.

"I'll go take a quick shower too, okay, and then maybe we'll order some food?"

She doesn't respond.

His own shower takes less than three minutes, two fewer than it usually takes him, and about as long as he feels comfortable leaving her alone. When he emerges, wearing the cotton Hanes t-shirt he picked up at the drugstore and the I Love NY bottoms, she hasn't budged from her position on top of the covers. He tiptoes over to her, thinking she might have fallen asleep. But her eyes are opened, her gaze trained on the humming air conditioner, which is partially obscured by the heavy curtain. He sits down on the bed behind her. He reaches over, slides his hand up and down her arm. When she doesn't flinch or pull away, he lies down behind her on his side. When she still doesn't pull away, he puts his arm around her waist.

"Not every day will be this hard, Liv. Today was unusually traumatic."

Still, she's non-responsive. Wide awake, she stares straight ahead, despondent.

"Do you want some food?"

"Not hungry," she murmurs.

"Might make you feel better to eat something."

"Hmph." The high-pitched hum, almost a squeak, is the meaningless filler response meant to sub for a verbal one, when talking takes too much effort.

He pulls away to retrieve the room service menu, which is perched on the nightstand right behind his head. Startled, she reflexively grabs at his arm.

"Sorry!" He quickly snatches the laminated menu, then rolls back behind her and again lobs his arm around her waist, flexing his wrist to hold up the menu for both of them.

"Grilled cheese looks good," he says.

She doesn't respond.

"Or the gourmet chicken fingers and fries?"

He waits.

"Liv?"

"Fine."

He bites his bottom lip, decides. "I'll order a few things, you pick what you like."

She doesn't answer. He pulls away to make the call. She doesn't move a muscle. After he's done, he swings his legs back onto the bed and peers over at her face from behind. Tears now pour freely down her cheeks, but she doesn't make a sound. He lies back down behind her, this time hugging her body flush against his. "It's gonna be okay," he whispers. "You're going to get through this."

She continues to cry softly, clutching the length of his forearm against her chest, like a log to keep afloat.

He curls his body around hers as much as it will go, buries his face against her shoulder blades. "I love you, you know that, right?"

He lies on top of the covers with her, his body forming a parallel letter C against hers.

After a few minutes, he asks, "Tell me what you're thinking?"

"Mmm… I was just thinking about my mother."

"Do you miss her?"

"A little. But mostly I'm glad she didn't live to see … this."

He is saddened to hear her frame it this way. "You are going to recover. You believe that, don't you?"

"She didn't."

"But it's different."

"Why? Because I won't have a fucking baby around to remind me?"

"No." He squeezes her to him, reflexively. "No, that's not at all what I was going to say. Because you're a much stronger person, and you have much more support than she did, and because you're not alone. She would've been a better mother to you if she'd had those things. And you would be an excellent mother to any baby, no matter – "

She cuts him off. "That night, after the show. Phantom. We were coming out of the theater and we had trouble finding a cab. And you remember, this area where we are, near Times Square, used to be really dangerous at night. As soon as the show let out, the crowd dissipated and we ended up on this deserted side street, looking for a cab. Some creepy dude approached us, started harassing us, making lewd remarks."

"What happened?"

"My mother was frightened, but I was all bluster, you know? I refused to be intimidated. I got in his face and told him if he touched us I'd knee him in the you-know-what. I'd taken this self-defense class my last semester on campus and I was all gung-ho to try out these moves."

"What did the guy do?"

"He backed away. Didn't bother us."

"Your mother must've been proud."

She scoffs. "Not in the least. She was furious at me. She said I'd shown terrible judgment in provoking him. She told me I was just asking for it. And then … she made me promise that I would never let myself get raped."

"Oh, Liv."

"All these years, I sort of had this little satisfaction, that I'd kept that promise. There were some close calls along the way, but never… until today."

"You didn't let anything happen to you. He was a psychopath with a gun. You couldn't defend yourself. Especially with a child in the room."

"But, see, that's exactly why she made me promise. Because she knew that by taking this job, it was bound to happen eventually, especially if I felt I had something to prove as a female. And she was right."

"It was just her way of trying to keep you safe. But she should never have made you promise something like that."

She lets out a sob. "I feel like I let her down."

He leans forwards, plants a soft kiss near her temple. "I think she would just be thankful that you survived."

"I keep wondering if that's the real reason I didn't remember it. Because I couldn't face her. Which is so pathetic, I mean, she's been dead for years."

"I don't think that's it, Liv. From what I heard today, the way he terrorized you, the extreme cruelty you were subjected to, your mind had no choice but to shut down. It was protective. It's unfortunate that you had to find out this way, before you were really ready."

She takes in his words, seems to turn them over.

"I think I knew before," she says after several moments.

"Yeah?"

"You were right, there's been … pain when I walk. Right from the start, there was a little voice telling me something was wrong. But I forced myself to believe it was just stress, you know? But the last few days, I started having little flashes. Like, these brief clips of him on top of me. I told myself I was having a false memory, you know, because he'd been threatening to do it, and he'd almost done it, and I'd been so terrified the whole time that he would go through with it. But even when you and Nick told me about the gun a few nights ago, I convinced myself you were wrong."

"I'm sorry about th-"

"No, no. I know what you were doing. I would've done the same thing. But then tonight …"

"Tonight? You mean, today?"

"No, tonight. At the hospital, while he was …. examining me. I suddenly remembered it."

He clucks his tongue. "They should've had a female doctor do the exam. Those things are hard enough as it is."

"It wasn't that. He touched … I don't know, a bruised spot, I guess? I was startled from the pain. He had to stop the exam. But the thing is, it was familiar pain. It was exactly the same way it felt when he jammed the gun … into me the first time. You can't imagine how much it hurt. I remembered feeling like I was being torn apart. But mostly I remembered how humiliating it was that he was getting off on how hard I was screaming. He'd broken me, and he knew it."

"He didn't break you. Everybody screams when they're in pain. It's a natural human response to being tortured."

She sniffles, clutching his wrist to her body. "It doesn't change … the feeling."

He pulls her close, wishing he could make her see. "I know."

"You said something earlier. I realized something."

"What did I say?"

"About my wrist. About why I didn't hit him harder."

"What did you realize?"

"That it had been throbbing for hours."

"Your wrist?"

"Yes. I think he broke it in the car the night before. I was handcuffed to the door handle in the backseat. He …. yanked the door open without warning. I think that's when it happened."

"And?"

"And, you were right. When I broke the rod free and swung at him, I almost passed out from the pain. It took everything I had to swing a second time. But … in the memory I had of beating him, there wasn't any pain. I was able to do it easily. I realized the memory couldn't have been real."

There's a sharp, firm knock at the door. Olivia jumps.

"Sorry!" Elliot exclaims, like he's the one who knocked. "Sorry, that must be the food. It's okay, he can wait."

"No, no. Go get it. Those guys work hard. Don't make him wait."

He waits a beat. "All right. I'll be right back."

He goes to the door, receives the cart of food, gives the guy a generous tip and thanks him. The food smells incredible.

He settles back onto the bed next to her, sitting up against the backboard, the cart of food parked in front of the other bed. He leans his head back, waits a few more minutes, letting her rest, then lays a hand on her upper arm, shakes it gently. "Do you want to get up, have something to eat?"

"You have it."

He tries a different tack. "Why don't you sit up with me for a bit, I'll put on the TV?"

She considers the request. "Okay."

She slowly pulls herself up, like every muscle aches, and he thinks they probably do.

He rolls the cart up between the beds, and jumps back onto the bed, sitting up next to her. He puts his arm around her. During the interlude she's stopped crying, but she leans into him listlessly.

With his other hand, he takes the grilled cheese sandwich from the tray. It is heaping with a blend of three cheeses, melted to perfection on freshly baked toast. He offers it to her, but she pushes it away. "You have it."

He takes a bite. He thinks it's the best grilled cheese he's ever tasted. He tries to offer it to her again, but she shakes her head, her eyes drooping. He knows she's tired, and he doesn't want to harass her, but he's getting worried. He flips on the TV, starts to surf the channels, hoping to buoy her mood. He keeps his other arm around her, her temple still rested against his shoulder.

He flips through, passing by the cable news channels, a random foreign-language cartoon, an old Seinfeld episode, the Weather Channel.

"Wait, go back. I like that one."

He flips back to the Seinfeld, picks up the sandwich and takes another bite, eyeing the rest of the food he ordered, trying to devise how to convince her to eat something.

"You know this is the first show I ever watched?" she says.

He furrows his brows. "Can't be. Seinfeld came out in the 90s."

"Technically, 1989. And I never watched TV until my senior year of college."

"You didn't have a TV growing up?"

"My mother had a little one in her bedroom that got, like, three channels, and she hardly ever turned it on, except to watch the evening news, and the Yankees."

He's incredulous. "My god, what did you do with your time as a kid?"

"I read a lot of books."

He puffs out a wad of air. "Strict mother."

"No, you know, I loved to read. It was an escape for me. God, there were so many books in our apartment. Every time I thought I'd read everything we had, she'd come home with more. I'd sometimes read four or five books a week."

"What kind of stuff did you like?" He's genuinely curious.

She shrugs. "I'd read anything. I liked a lot of classics. I liked Dickens." She chuckles. "I don't know, maybe I identified with the characters. I also read a lot of thrillers, and tons of mystery novels. Those were my guilty pleasure."

"I played Nerf Ball and watched Happy Days."

She smiles. "Even in college, there were some TVs in the common areas in the dorms, but it never interested me. I was in my last year the first time I ever really sat down and watched anything." She chuckles. "Course, it gave me a skewed impression. I thought every show was as funny as Seinfeld."

On screen, Jerry and George confront a maître d' about the stench their valet left in Jerry's car.

"Do you still read a lot?" he asks. "I remember maybe one bookcase in your apartment."

"Very little anymore. No time. And I switched to a kindle a few years ago."

Elliot picks up the basket stuffed with chicken fingers and fries. "Have one?" he asks, mock-pleadingly.

She trains her eyes on the food for the first time. "Did you order all this off the kids' menu?"

Embarrassed, he grabs the menu again, scrutinizes it. "No, main menu," he confirms, relieved. "But I guess they figure people want comfort food when they're on vacation." He holds the chicken finger up in front of her. "Do I have to do the airplane into your mouth, like I used to do with Eli?"

Without even lifting her head, she pushes his hand away. "Stop it." She pauses, softening. "Please, El." Her eyes drift shut. "I really don't feel like eating right now. You have it."

Defeated, he returns the chicken finger to the basket, lays it down on the nightstand. He finishes the grilled cheese.

"What are the pills you have to take?" he asks, recalling the prescriptions.

"Don't know," she mumbles, eyed closed.

He pulls each one out, reads the labels. There's a painkiller, a sleeping aid, an anti-viral, an antibiotic ointment and another ointment for burns. It doesn't appear any of it has to be taken right away.

With the Seinfeld still on, he glances at Olivia, whose head is laid comfortably against his shoulder, her eyes closed, but he thinks she's still awake. Suspended in indecision, he watches the episode for several more minutes. When he realizes, finally, that dinner is a lost cause, he nudges her body down onto the pillow. Then he pulls up the covers from his corner, shakes her shoulder gently. "Scoot under," he whispers. "You're on top of the sheets."

Without opening her eyes, she obeys.

He pauses an extra second and pulls away.

"Mmm … stay with me."

"Just going to brush my teeth," he says.

When he returns, he climbs into her bed with her, leaving the second one to house their scant belongings.