A/N: this one is for racethewind_10; if this fic were a baby, you'd be its daddy. thank you for letting me run with it. and this one is for featherpluckn, with my thanks for bringing me home to SVU after so many years away. without the two of you i don't think i'd be here at all. love you besties.


They stood, shoulder to shoulder, beneath a wide awning in the shimmering black of the city after dark, peering out in to the hateful gloom of rain in March. The steady, miserable fucking drizzle that wouldn't just settle into anything, enough to be a nuisance but not enough to wash the streets clean. Kat reached for her hair, knowing already it was a lost cause.

By rights they should have been inside by now, Amanda and Kat and Fin and Carisi, but they'd formed a little huddle by the door, waiting on the Captain. None of them really wanted to go and play nice with the brass; politicking was the Captain's job, not theirs. They wanted to greet her, wanted a chance to congratulate her before everybody else got a piece of her, and if they talked to her now they could all run away the second the ceremony was done. Amanda had a sitter on the clock and Fin had that look in his eyes like he was a half second away from bolting already, and none of them wanted to be there, but they were, just the same. They'd do anything for the Captain.

Kat scanned the street again; there was some trouble a few blocks away, anti-lockdown protesters, anti-police protesters, anti-anti protesters, all making noise and giving the unis headaches, but from here things didn't look too bad. It was a quiet night, a quiet street. As quiet as it ever got in the city.

It was quiet, but Kat was a cop, and training and instincts kept her on alert, even when maybe she didn't need to be, and as her eye scanned the street she noticed something out of place. A man, standing on the other side of the road, leaning back against the brick wall of a nondescript building with his hands in his pockets. He wore a scarf the deep red color of blood around his neck. It was too dark to see his face, and he was too far away in any case, but as Kat looked at him she got the eerie sense that he was looking back. That he was watching her, watching them, watching the building full of police behind her. Like he was looking for something. Waiting for something. It made the hair stand up on the back of her neck.

These days, it was impossible to know who was a target, and when and where the strike might come. Were they vulnerable here, all gathered beneath one roof? She thought about the State of the Union, thought about how there was always one congressman, chosen to be escorted away from the Capital, locked away safe somewhere else just in case somebody decided to blow up the building while all of Congress and the president were inside, a contingency plan, to make sure that at least one person would survive, and the country with him. Maybe that was smart, she thought. Maybe they should have done the same thing. Because maybe the best time to cripple the NYPD would be on a night like this, when all the brass would be gathered in one place.

Like shooting fish in a barrel, she thought, watching the man.

"Cap's here," Fin said suddenly, and Kat looked, and sure enough, there was a dark SUV pulling down the street, making its way towards the last available parking space out front. How Fin knew for certain it was the Captain's car Kat couldn't say - really, there was nothing distinctive about the vehicle - but she trusted Fin's gut. He knew plenty of things she didn't.

Across the way, the man straightened up, pulled his hands out of his pockets, like he knew something, too.

"Hey, Rollins," Kat said, very quietly, as they watched the SUV squeeze into the space, listened while the driver killed the engine and the lights went dark. "You see that guy?"

"What guy?" Amanda asked. She was rubbing her hands together; she'd been living in the city for ten fucking years, and she still complained about the cold.

"Over there," Kat nodded towards the shadows where the man stood, watching the Captain's car.

The driver's side door opened, and a foot appeared, one stiletto and then another, then a long black coat, then the Captain, turning to close the door, and then

BOOM!

The street exploded into a hellstorm of heat and shrapnel and screaming. It knocked Kat and Amanda back, sent them flying into Fin and Carisi, blew out the windows of the building behind it, mangled the car - one of the doors was now lying twenty feet away, bent and unrecognizable, the windows all blown out, fire licking at the back seat, perilously close to the gas tank - set off the alarms on every car on the block. The smell of gasoline and burnt rubber filled the air, and Kat's ears were ringing, and spots were swimming in front of her vision, but she blinked them away and took off running, because Jesus, she'd been yards away when it hit and that was bad enough but the Cap was right there, it was her car, her car, and holy shit, someone tried to kill the Captain, someone's killed the Captain, someone's killed her, Jesus, she's got a kid; the thoughts raced through Kat's mind faster than her feet, which were moving pretty damn quick as it was. It had taken maybe three seconds, from the blast to when she started running, maybe as many as seven, not so many as ten. Behind her she could hear voices shouting, a great cacophony of noise, and she'd lost sight of the man, the one she'd seen leaning back against the wall. Should have seen his face should have looked closer should have -

A single voice, louder than the rest, the deep, terrified voice of a man who'd just lost his entire world, rose above the noise, pierced through her brain and left her reeling.

"Olivia!" he roared.

And later she would think about that, and think how strange it was, because she had never, not once, heard anyone call the Captain Olivia.


She couldn't hear. It was like...it was like flying, sitting in a plane thousands and thousands of feet above the ground, and the pressure building and building until everything went muffled, and uncomfortable, and wrong, and hold your nose and blow, isn't that what they said? Chew some gum. Did she have gum in her coat pocket? Her hands wouldn't move.

She couldn't see, either. Her eyes were open - at least, she was pretty sure they were - but everything was black, black, black, no pinprick of light, no teasing shade of grey, just nothing, nothing but the eerie echo of the flash that had thrown her away from the car, more a memory than a vision.

Hurt, she thought, gasping for a breath. Hurt.

Everything hurt.

Her lungs were burning, choking on smoke that wasn't there. There was a pounding in her head that on its own would have been enough to make her weep. Maybe she was weeping; her cheeks were wet. She reached up to brush the tears away - no, she tried to. Her hands wouldn't move. They were wet, too. Her hands. Well, her left hand. Her left hand was wet. The whole left side of her body. And it burned, burned like hellfire, burned like nothing she had ever known, worse than a cigarette pressed against her chest, worst than a key, heated on a stove, singing away the hair at the back of her neck, burned and stung and my hands, my hands, why won't my hands move?

Panic bit at her, made it even harder to breathe, and her whole body convulsed with the struggle, and Jesus, that hurt, too, and she hadn't been this scared, not for such a long time, not since that day, looking into Lewis's eyes, the gun in her hand, pointed at her temple - don't think about that now, she told herself, because she could feel her heart rate skyrocketing, and words like shock and grand mal seizure floated through her mind, and why couldn't she see? Why couldn't she hear? It was just like being locked in the trunk of that fucking car, she thought, but she needed to take her necklace off, needed to leave it so that Elliot - no, not Elliot, Nick - so that Nick would find it, so that he'd know Lewis had her, so that he'd know she was alive, but her hands wouldn't move why won't my hands move?

Somebody touched her face, and she screamed.


The kid got to Liv before he did. He'd marked her while he'd been waiting, seen them all standing together, Fin and three people he didn't know. The blonde and the guy, they looked older, experienced, comfortable, but the kid was young, long dark hair, long legs, eyeing the street with the earnest sincerity of youth, with all the energy in the world. The explosion had thrown him to the ground and he'd cracked his head and his ears were ringing, and by the time he staggered to his feet the kid was three quarters of the way there.

There, to the spot where the dark SUV sat smoldering, where Liv's body lay, crumpled, on the ground.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

He'd been planning it for a month. The divorce had been final for over a year and he'd been commended for his good work as the NYPD's man in Rome, and he'd been taking all the right meetings, saying all the right things to all the right people, waiting. Waiting for the news he'd received in February. There was a spot for him on an OCCB taskforce, and he was welcome to it. Welcome back to the fold, Detective Stabler, Sergeant Bell had told him over the phone. He'd put in the work, and he'd been right on the edge of reaping the rewards. His family was settled, and safe. He was starting a new job with the NYPD on Monday. And tonight, tonight he was gonna stand up on that stage, and swallow his deep-seated hatred of public speaking, and tell them all how Olivia Benson was the best fucking cop he'd ever had the pleasure of working with, and when it was done he was gonna talk to her, and let her smack him because they both knew he deserved it, and then he was gonna tell her that he was home to stay and lemme buy you a cup of coffee, he'd say, and she'd roll her eyes but she'd let him, and they'd go to a greasy all-night diner, her in some gorgeous dress and him in his best black suit, and he'd buy her a coffee and a slice of apple pie because he knew it was her favorite, and he'd make her laugh and she'd forgive him.

That was how it was supposed to go. That was what was supposed to happen. Only none of it had happened because she'd stepped out of the car and horror had taken her, left her broken and bleeding on the ground and no, that was the only thought in his head now. No, no, no.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

"Olivia!"

Her name tore out of him like the hand of God himself had reached down Elliot's throat, grabbed hold of his heart and ripped it right out of him.


This is bad this is bad this is very bad, Kat thought as she slammed down onto her knees beside the Captain. She wasn't worried about her hair, anymore.

The Captain's dark eyes were wide but unseeing, and the whole left side of her body was mangled and burned and covered in blood. There was blood at her hairline, blood coming out of her nose. If Kat had to guess, her shoulder was dislocated. The heels had broken on both her shoes.

"Hey," she said as gently as she could, though the word came out hoarse, and breathless. "Cap, it's me."

Gingerly Kat reached for the Captain's face, cradled her cheek in her palm, but Liv flinched like she'd been struck, and her whole body started to shake, and her mouth opened like she wanted to scream but no sound came out. Kat's heart was shredding itself to pieces in her chest; it shouldn't be like this, she thought. The Captain was just so fucking good, brave and strong, tireless, fearless, endlessly compassionate, devoted to her work, to her son. Her son, that sweet little boy, the cutest fucking kid Kat had ever seen, he was everything to her and she loved him and she should have been with him but instead she was bleeding out on the sidewalk.

Think, Kat, think, she told herself. Behind her she could hear yelling, and the distant sound of sirens.

"Call a bus!" she screamed over her shoulder. Probably they'd done that already; Fin and Carisi and Rollins, they'd all been on the job a hell of a lot longer than she had. But where were they? Why was she alone here?

Keep her calm, take her vitals, Kat told herself.

"Hey," she said again, but the Cap just kept shaking. There were tears on her cheeks, mingling with the blood, turning it pink. "You're gonna be ok."

She reached for the Captain's right hand, felt around until she could get a pulse, but fast, it was way too fast; she's not gonna make it, Kat thought grimly.

"Cap, I gotta see if I can stop the bleeding," Kat told her. She wrenched her own coat off, thinking maybe she could press it against the worst of the wounds, ran her hands lightly over the Captain's side, and a sharp, sudden, horrific wail ripped out of the Captain's mouth. Loud, it was loud, and primal, the feral, desperate cry of a rabbit caught in the jaws of a wolf and Kat recoiled from the sound of it, but before she could try again to soothe her Captain two strong hands caught her by the shoulders and all but threw her to the side.

"Get the fuck away from her," a man's voice growled as she went tumbling, and when the black spots cleared from her vision she saw him, the stranger who'd been leaning against the building when the bomb went off, and she reached for her gun - shit, the gun she wasn't wearing because she wasn't on duty tonight - because him, it has to be him, he's gotta be-

"Olivia," the man said in a ragged voice, and he reached for her, same as Kat had done, his palm cradling the least bloody side of the Captain's face. "Liv, it's me. It's me." It's me, he said, like he thought that would mean something to her. Like she'd hear his voice, and know who he was, and be better off because of it. "I'm here." I'm here, he said, like that was all she'd want, just to know that he was there, and with her. "Just hang on. Hang on for me, Liv." For me, he said, like that was enough, like he was reason enough to keep breathing.

Who the fuck is this guy?


Those hands. She knew those hands. The size of them, the heat of them, the scrape of the calluses on his palms against her cheek. She'd felt those hands on her skin before.

She was crying, now. Olivia knew she was crying, could feel the hot, wet slide of her tears down her cheeks, but it didn't matter, any more. None of it mattered, not how bad she hurt, not her hands, limp and idle by her sides, not her ears that wouldn't hear, not her eyes that wouldn't see. It didn't matter.

This is the end, she thought. It had to be the end. She had to be dying, because she was certain, absolutely, completely certain, that Elliot was here with her now. He couldn't possibly be; she hadn't seen his face or heard his voice in ten fucking years, didn't know where he was, what he was doing, didn't know anything, except that he'd decided he didn't want her in his life any more. And that meant he couldn't be here, but she could feel his hands on her face. She could smell him. Old Spice and shoe leather and mint from his gum. Someone was there, holding her, and maybe they were talking; she couldn't hear it, but she could feel the rumble of the voice, vibrating through her chest, and it was Elliot's voice. Elliot's hands, Elliot's voice, Elliot's smell, wrapping around her, cradling her.

When she'd been in that house with Lewis, there had been a moment when he'd noticed that her eyes had gone distant and unseeing, and he'd asked her about it. Asked her who she was imagining. Someone who you would give anything to see just one more time...you're gonna cry his name out at some point. He'd been half right; she'd been thinking, then, about Elliot. Been praying, as weak and helpless as it made her feel, that Elliot would come back to her. That Elliot would save her. He hadn't, though, and Lewis had also been half wrong. She'd never called his name out. Never needed to, because she'd freed herself, and when her restraint broke and she went after Lewis with the metal rod, half-crazy from rage and from fear and from pain, Elliot's voice had been in her head, urging her on. That's my girl, he'd said to her as she hit Lewis again, and again, and again. Good girl.

She'd fought it, though. Let the rod drop out of her hands and given her head a shake to clear the phantom traces of Elliot away and gone to call Nick. She'd found the strength, then, to admit to herself that he wasn't really there, that he wasn't ever gonna be, that she was, then and always, on her own.

It was a strength she didn't have, now. Everything hurt and she was blind and deaf and her hands wouldn't move and the world had been swallowed by the sun. This is where it ends, she thought, and so she closed her eyes, and gave in. Gave into the blackness, and allowed herself to believe that Elliot was there, with her. Holding her. She pictured his face, hovering above her, the shape of his nose, the blue of his eyes, the way his lips would move, saying her name. Liv, she could almost hear him calling, and a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Liv. She turned her face into his palm, and sank into the warmth of him.

I missed you, she thought.


"Who the fuck are you?" Kat barked at the man as she got her feet back under her. He was kneeling beside the Captain, his hand on her face, and Kat didn't trust him but he'd called the Captain Olivia, and that gave her pause. She started to approach but he lifted his head, his expression bleak and terrifying, and all but snarled at her.

"Back the fuck up!" he shouted. "Give her some fucking space!"

And Kat didn't know what the fuck to do about that, because she needed to help the Captain but this asshole wouldn't let her come near, and she didn't want to brawl with him right there on the sidewalk, but she needed some goddamn answers.

I need help.

The thought had no sooner occurred to her than help arrived; feet came crashing along the road behind her, and then they were there, Amanda and Carisi and Fin and a horde of uniforms, more and more bodies spilling out of the building behind them, the block filling up with noise.

"Bus is on its way, ETA seven minutes," Carisi said.

"Oh, Jesus, Liv," Amanda breathed, rushing towards her.

"I said back the fuck off!" the man on the ground roared, and Amanda jerked back, and Kat watched her hand dart to her hip, same as Kat's had done, only Amanda wasn't armed, either.

"Elliot?" Fin said, very softly.

Everything stopped, for a second. Amanda's eyebrows shot up to her hairline and her mouth opened in a little O of surprise, and Carisi reeled back like someone had punched him in the gut, and Kat held her breath, because Fin knew this guy's name, and she didn't.

The man - Elliot - turned to look at Fin, and as he did the glow of the streetlights washed across his face, and Kat saw, to her shock, that there were tears staining his cheeks.

"It's bad, Fin," he rasped. "It's real bad."

So he knew Fin, too. They knew each other. Spoke one another's names heavily, voices dripping with meaning, and Amanda was visibly shaking, now, from head to foot, and Kat just wanted to know why, and no one was telling her a damn thing.

"I know," Fin said, his voice low, and soothing. Amanda looked like she was about to throw up and Carisi's head kept swinging back and forth from the man on the ground to Fin and back again like a spectator at a tennis match.

Fin knows this guy, Kat told herself. This guy, touching the Cap, this guy who wouldn't let anyone else near her, this guy who'd called her Olivia, Fin knew him, and it was looking less and less like he was the one who'd detonated the bomb, and more and more like he was trying to hold his whole world together with his own two hands.

"Give 'em some space," Fin said, grabbing Carisi's bicep with one hand and Amanda's with the other, gently tugging them back.

"I'm not leaving him alone with her," Amanda snarled, and there was a fire in her eyes that Kat couldn't understand at all. Amanda pulled herself away from Fin's grip and went to kneel on Liv's left side, the side that had taken the brunt of the damage. Carefully, very carefully, she reached out and brushed the Captain's hair back from her face. Her hand came away bloody, and she didn't try to touch the Cap again.

"I'm here, Liv," she said, in a voice choked with tears. Ten years they'd known each other, Liv and Amanda. Ten years and three babies and a lifetime of grief, they'd been through it all together, and Liv was the one who was supposed to be steady, the one who was supposed to tell the rest of them what to do, where to go, but Liv was the one bleeding on the ground and Amanda looked like she was coming unraveled and Kat couldn't blame her.

The man, Elliot, looked like he wanted to toss Amanda aside the same as he'd done to Kat, but he took a breath, and turned his full attention back to the Captain, let Rollins stay where she was like he knew she had the right to be there. They were looking after Liv, the pair of them, so what was left for Kat to do?

"Where's Noah?" she asked, rocking back on her heels and looking up at Fin and Carisi.

"Jesus," Carisi swore. "I'll call Lucy-"

"Wait til the ambulance gets here," Fin said. "We need to be able to tell her what hospital they're going to."

We need to be able to tell her if Liv is gonna die or not, Kat thought.

"Olivia," Elliot said very softly. He reached for her right hand, caught hold of it tight with his own, leaned down close to her face. "Liv, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand, ok?" he said. "Squeeze my hand."

When Kat tried to talk to her, it seemed like the Cap couldn't hear her. Seemed like she couldn't see, either, like she was too lost in pain for them to reach her. But she'd stopped shaking now, and she wasn't trying to scream anymore. Maybe she knew she was safe, Kat thought. Then again, maybe she was already halfway to dying.


The pain was fading. She was floating in darkness, but it didn't bother her so much, now. If this was dying, it wasn't so bad. The blood was rushing through her ears, but it was a comforting sort of sound, like the wash of waves on the shore. I was supposed to take Noah to the beach in the summer, she thought. He loves to swim.

He loved the Italian ice and digging in the sand, loved splashing through the water.

Oh, sweet boy, she thought. I'm sorry. You deserved better than me.

That voice was rumbling again. That voice that should have been Elliot's but wasn't. The voice she was just gonna let herself believe was his, because having him with her made it easier, somehow. If she was gonna die, she wanted him with her. Wasn't that how it was always supposed to end, him and her? It was always supposed to be us, she thought. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. It's the fall that's gonna kill ya.

What was the voice saying?

Squeeze my hand, she heard, distantly. Elliot wanted her to hold his hand. She wanted that, too.


"Squeeze my hand, come on, 'Livia, come on," he was saying. Over and over again, like it made any fucking difference, and Amanda looked like she wanted to deck him. Eta seven minutes, Carisi had said, and it had been two already, and this guy, Elliot, wouldn't shut the fuck up. Kept asking Liv to squeeze hand, as if she could hear him, as if it would only take one more time, just one more time, and then somehow, miraculously, the Cap would hear him, and rouse, and smile at him. As if he needed it, needed some sign that she wasn't dead already, needed it more than his next breath. His eyes were trained on her face but Kat was watching the Captain's hand, her fingers curled limply around his.

Please stop, she thought. She can't hear you. Please, stop.

"Just once, just for me, come on," he said, and Kat watched, a strange sort of numbness settling over her shoulders - no, not numb, she thought, warm, and she looked up and found that Fin had draped his coat over her. Her own was lying over the Captain, soaking up her blood. Fin's face was lost in the darkness and Kat looked away because he was being nice to her and that was enough to make tears prick at the corner of her eyes and she couldn't cry, not now, not here. Her eyes darted around wildly, landed on the Captain's hand again.

"Don't you leave me, Liv," Elliot said brokenly. "Just once. Just squeeze my hand."

Of all the dead bodies and broken faces and scared, screaming women, of all the blood and wrecked cars and gangbangers who'd lost the game, of all of it, every horrible thing she'd ever seen, every nightmare that kept her up in the still dark hours before dawn, this was the worst, Kat thought. And it was the worst because most of the time the people who loved the victims weren't there, holding on to them. The singed black cuts oozing blood on the Captain's beautiful face, the tangled, matted mess of her hair, the unnatural angle of her left arm, the smell of gasoline on her clothes, that was bad enough, but this man's devastation was almost more than Kat could bear.

Please, she found herself thinking, praying, not about him, not to God, but to Liv. Please, just squeeze his hand. Don't let him watch you die. Squeeze his hand.

The breath froze in Kat's lungs, waiting. Elliot kept begging, squeeze my hand, and Kat kept praying please, and the seconds passed, and the Cap didn't move, and maybe she wasn't ever gonna again, was never gonna hold her son or sit behind her desk or tell this man she loved him, ever again, she wasn't gonna move, she wasn't gonna-

But then she did. She did. Kat watched it happen, against all the odds, against all reason. While Amanda wept, sitting on the sidewalk by Liv's head, while Kat knelt beside her, eyes blank from the horror of it, while Elliot pleaded with her and Fin and Carisi looked on in silence, the Captain tightened her grip on Elliot's hand, and squeezed.

"There's my girl," he said all in a rush, reaching out to smooth his hand over her bloody hair. "Good job. Good girl."

Girl. the Captain was old enough to be Kat's mom, and he was calling her girl, but it didn't seem patronizing, somehow, coming from him. It seemed proud, possessive, like she really was his, even if Kat had no idea who he was, had never seen his face before. The kid, she thought suddenly. Noah had to come from somewhere. And this guy, Elliot, she could see the shine of his blue eyes in the glow from the streetlamps. Blue eyes, just like Noah. No one had ever said where his dad was and Kat had never asked but she thought maybe she had her answer, now. Maybe that's how Fin knew his name. Maybe that's why Amanda and Carisi weren't questioning his presence here. Maybe he'd come to see his girl receive the honors she so richly deserved, and watched her car blow up instead.

Jesus, Kat thought. Poor guy.

"That's my girl," Elliot said, again, his fingers curled hard around hers.


It wasn't supposed to be like this.

He could see her long legs, spread wide on the sidewalk, could see she'd been wearing stockings, and they'd been all but shredded by the blast. Stockings, and a beautiful dress, just like he'd imagined; he could see part of it where her coat was spread open around her hips, could see the skirt rucked up above her bloody knees. She'd done her makeup, and styled her hair, but it was all ruined, now, streaks of the reddish pinkish blackish cocktail of blood and tears and mascara running down her cheeks, the soft curls of her hair matted with blood.

He'd wondered what he'd find, when he finally saw her again. Thought about how the time might have changed her, asked himself what she'd see, when she looked at his face. The skin of his neck and the corners of his eyes were wrinkled softly now, and that furrow between his brows from one frown too many was all but permanent. His skin was tanned from the Italian sunshine and since the divorce he'd been spending every free minute in the gym or out in the city, walking, lifting, working, until he was heavier, stronger, bigger than he'd ever been, and it felt good and he'd wondered if she'd like it.

It seemed like time had taken her in the opposite direction; Elliot was harder now, but Liv was soft, all soft, warm curves, her skin the same sunkissed brown that he remembered, but the night was dark and she was bloody and it wasn't fucking fair, because she was still so, so beautiful, but looking at her hurt him, cut him like a knife, because she was hurt, and he'd been right there and done nothing to stop it.

But she was holding his hand. The sight of her face, bloodied and bruised, the sight of her body lying weak and still and crumpled on the sidewalk, it cut him to the quick, but she'd heard him, and she'd responded, and that meant she wasn't lost to him, not yet.

The guy, the one he didn't know, had said an ambulance was coming, but Elliot had no idea how much time had passed since then, and he needed to do something, now, needed to try, somehow, to help her. When he smoothed his hand over her hair again his fingertips came away bloody, so he reached for his scarf, unwound it from his neck, and then felt gently around the back of her scalp until he found the stickiest section of her hair. There, he thought, that's where it was all coming from, because head wounds bleed like a son of a bitch. A soft sound of protest left her lips when he touched her there and the blonde woman's head jerked up like she wanted to push him away, but he ignored her. Instead he just murmured softly to Liv, and tucked his scarf under her head, right there, let the weight of her press into the fabric of his scarf like it was a bandage, and hoped that would be enough.

"You're doing so good," he told her. "You're doing so good. Just hang in there for me, ok? Just hang on."

She couldn't leave him. Not now, not yet. Not like this. Not when there was so much left to say, not when he'd only just found her again. Jesus, they just needed a little more time. Just one more chance to get it right.

Where the fuck is that bus?


The ambulance came tearing up and the medics spilled out of it and for the first time since the car exploded Kat drew in a steady breath. Fin was explaining the situation as the medics crowded around, and Carisi dragged Amanda bodily away, and Kat was left to pick herself up off the ground, all alone.

Elliot wasn't moving.

"Sir," the nearest medic said, reaching for his shoulder. "We've got her now. We need you to-"

"I'm not leaving her," Elliot growled. His voice was deep, and low, and gravelly, and the scariest fucking thing Kat had ever heard.

The medics ignored him, crowded around, started checking the Captain over, trying to assess the damage, and one of them reached for the scarf under her head and Elliot snapped, batted his hand away with a curse.

"Sir, we need to help her, and we can't do that-"

"Elliot," Fin was there, suddenly, catching him under the arms. "Let them work. They're gonna take care of her. You did good, let them do this now."

Maybe he just needed to hear a familiar voice; Elliot gave his head a little shake, and let Fin haul him to his feet, and stepped back.

On the ground, the Captain started to moan, a pitiful, painful little sound that made Kat want, more than anything, to run home to her mother.

"Pulse is too high," the medic holding her hand said.

"Neck's stabilized," the one by her head said.

"Jesus, we gotta get this arm back in place before we move her," the one on her left side said.

"Don't you hurt her!" Elliot cried, but Fin was holding him back, and the medic grimly wrenched the Captain's arm back into place, and she screamed, and Kat could hear the ragged, desperate sound of Amanda drawing in a sharp breath, like Liv's pain was her own.

"Let 'em work, El, let 'em work," Fin said.

And he did; his jaw was working like he wanted to swear at them all and his hand was clenched into a fist like he wanted to fight his way through the medics just to get back to her, but he let Fin hold him back while the medics got down to business. Bandages and IV lines appeared, and then they were muttering among themselves, and then they were rolling her onto a board, and the Captain was moaning, again, and then they were lifting the board onto a gurney, and she screamed, again, and began to convulse, bucking against the restraints.

"We gotta calm her down," one of the medics said, and Elliot broke, then.

He wrenched himself out of Fin's grasp, and bulled his way through the medics until he could touch her face again. The medics tried to push him away but he wouldn't let go, remained right where he was, holding on to the Cap.

"Olivia," he said beseechingly. "Liv, baby, you gotta stop, you gotta let them help you."

Baby.

The word didn't suit her, Kat thought. The Captain, she was her own woman, she wasn't anybody's baby, but she was Elliot's good girl, and when he touched her she stopped trying to vault herself off the gurney. When he touched her she settled, and breathed, like his hands were the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth.

"Sir, you gotta back up-"

"You want her calm? Let me keep her calm, you assholes are scaring the shit out of her-"

"Sir-"

"El."

They all went still, for a second, because for the first time since the car exploded the Captain was talking. Just that one syllable, just that one soft, hoarse sound sliding through lips that were cracked and bleeding, but she'd spoken, and surely, Kat thought, surely that meant she was ok. Surely that meant she knew her man was here with her, was aware enough of her surroundings to mark his proximity, and call out to him. Then again, maybe she was delirious from the pain, and only imagining his presence, but her addled mind had called out for him, and he was here.

"Right here, Liv," he said, reaching for her hand. "I'm right here."

"We gotta go," one of the medics said impatiently. "We got room for one in the bus-"

"He's going," Fin said, pointing at Elliot. Amanda looked like she wanted to murder him on the spot. "Which hospital?"

"Mercy," the medic said.

"We'll meet you there."


There had been so many times, over the years, when he'd sat in the back of an ambulance, trying to comfort some vic on the way to the hospital, trying to stay out of the way while the medics worked, trying to make himself as small and non threatening as possible. It should have been familiar, given the fact that he'd been in this exact position once every couple of weeks for damn near two decades, but it wasn't, because he'd never been here with Liv.

At the moment he was sitting by her head while the medics worked her over, reciting the litany of her injuries to one another, assessing the damage and trying to keep her calm. Trying and failing, because the only thing that kept her heart rate from shooting up into astronomical digits was Elliot's hand on her skin. The medics knew that, so they let him keep touching her, as long as he didn't interfere with their work. Her blood was drying crusty and brown on his hands, but he didn't care, didn't even see it. All he saw was her. Her brown eyes, wide and unseeing, the tanned skin of her chest where they'd opened her coat and started to cut her dress away, trying to get at her body to see just what they were working with. Her shoe, dangling halfway off her stockinged foot.

"You're gonna be ok, Liv," he said, very quietly, and her eyelashes fluttered, sticky from the tears and the blood, but she heard him, and her lips worked, opened, closed, opened again as she tried and failed to speak.

"Don't try to talk," he told her. "We can talk later."

Please, God, give me the chance to talk to her later.

"Promise," she whispered, struggling for every syllable. Whatever she was trying to ask him for it was important enough for her to fight like hell through the pain and the waning of her consciousness. Whatever she needed from him, he'd give it to her.


This was the end, and she knew it. There was no way she could survive pain like this. She'd thought, after Lewis, that there was nothing she couldn't endure, that she'd already seen the worst that life had to offer and come out the other side, but she'd been wrong, because this was too big, and there was no coming back from it.

The phantom touch of Elliot's hand stayed with her, and she was trying, so hard, to talk to him. There were things he needed to know, things she'd never gotten the chance to tell him. That was nobody's fault but his, since he hadn't picked up the goddamn phone, but she hadn't driven out to Queens, either. She'd known where he was, had known that all she had to do was turn up at his door and wait and he'd have to face her like she'd forced him to do so many times before but she hadn't done it because she had known, somewhere deep down, had known it the last time she saw him walking away from her, that he wasn't coming back, and no matter how much it hurt being left in the dark she'd known it would hurt worse hearing it from his lips. He hadn't answered and she hadn't gone and ten years had slipped away and now she was dying.

The dream of Elliot stayed with her, though, comforting her in her final moments. She wondered where he was, wondered if he'd wake up in a cold sweat with her name on his lips the instant she died. It was a nice thought. Like they were bound to each other, still and always.

There was one piece of unfinished business that mattered more to her than all the rest, though. There was one request she had to make of him, and so she gathered all her strength, drew in all her breath, and tried like hell to speak, hoping, praying, that those soft words would carry through the air, through the night, across the city, across the world, to wherever he was. The last will and testament of Captain Olivia Margaret Benson was a whispered prayer to a man whose face she had not seen in a decade, and never would see again.


"I promise, Liv," he said, but she frowned, like he'd misunderstood her, and tried again.

"Promise," she said again. "Promise you'll...take...care of...my...son."

The breath froze in his lungs, turned hard as ice and sank down, and down, and down, slicing through all the tender, delicate pieces of him inside his chest until all that was left was grief, a great, towering, wrenching horror that made him feel like he was about to puke, only he couldn't, because that block of ice was there, and nothing was getting past it. Just frozen, stiff, solid, and cold, he couldn't move, couldn't draw a breath.

My son.

How many times had he thought to himself, over the years, that she would make a wonderful mother? How many times had he thought how unfair it was, that Liv should have a heart so full of love, and no one to give it to? How many times had he seen her cradling a child, humming softly, her hands deft and sure, her eyes warm and full of sorrow, and wished, with everything he had, that he could make that dream come true for her? He'd promised to support her, to help her in anyway she needed, would have gone to court for her, would have gone to bat for her, would have done anything, whatever it took, to give her a child because there was no one earth who deserved one more. How many times had his heart shattered as he watched the opportunity for a family slipping through her fingers?

That day, that day they'd come and wrenched Calvin out of her arms, he'd held her back and grimly tried to remind her that the boy wasn't hers but if only he could have he would let her go, would have fought them all, would have lifted the boy bodily from the floor and taken Liv's hand and run for the door with them, if only there had been some way for that to end with Liv being a mother the way she always should have been, and not rotting in prison. But there had been no way out for her and he'd had to be the one to hold her, his arm tight around her waist, his lips by her temple; he'd been the one to break her, because he hadn't supported her when she'd needed it most. That had been her last best chance for a child, and they'd dragged the boy away from her, screaming her name, and she'd just had to stand there, and take it, and she'd never been the same, after that.

Only she did have a child, now. A son, and that was right, he thought, a son to replace the one that cruel fate had wrenched from her grip. A son he'd never seen, a son he never even knew existed. The thoughts flashed through his mind, Liv with some man, Liv with her belly swollen heavy and full of life, Liv in a rocking chair with a baby - her baby - sleeping on her chest. Her beatific smile, the sureness of her arms, the fullness of her love. His first steps, his first words, his first day of school, every moment Elliot had missed, and every moment Olivia would treasure. Her son, and she was entrusting the boy to him now, because she thought that she was dying, and she couldn't leave without making sure he'd be taken care of, first.

"I promise," he swore.

But I won't need to, he thought. You're gonna be ok. You are. You will. You'll see your boy again.

On the gurney Liv sighed, and her eyes fluttered closed, and her whole body went limp. Peaceful, and quiet, relieved, like now that she knew her boy would be safe, she could rest.

Only it went too far, and the machines started to beep, and the medics started to swear.

"We're losing her!"

They pushed him out of the way and Elliot drew his knees up to his chest, and wept.


It was late.

The waiting room was full of cops. Uniforms, and the brass in formal wear. Carisi was wrangling the Chief of D's and Fin had taken charge of Garland, and Amanda had called Lucy and told the girl to just let Noah sleep. It wouldn't do him any good to be here now; Liv wasn't conscious, and the sight of her was almost too painful for Amanda to bear. Her son didn't need that image in his head, haunting him for the rest of his life. Bring him in the morning, Amanda had told Lucy. Like the morning would be any different. Like Liv's face would be any less hard to look at in the daylight. Like she'd be any less bruised, any less scarred, any less broken. Maybe she would be. Maybe Amanda was just trying to make herself feel better.

The nurses said no more than two people in her room at a time. At first they'd said no one but family, and that made Stabler snarl, and Amanda had pointed out through clenched teeth that Liv's only family in the whole world was a seven year old boy. That made the nurses relent. Stabler set up camp in her room and refused to budge, so the rest of them rotated in and out. It was Amanda's turn, now.

Clutching a cup of bitter hospital coffee she drifted through the trauma ward, and slipped once more into Liv's room, and stood for a time, staring.

It looked like he was asleep. He'd hauled the one available chair in the room up close to her bed and the whole left side of his body was resting on the edge of her mattress; he'd had to lower the rail to get to her, but now his head was lying on her pillow, their faces almost touching. His hand was wrapped tight around hers, but he'd been mindful of the IV line when he took hold of her. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing, deep and slow, in time to the rise and fall of Liv's chest.

Amanda didn't know what the fuck he was doing here. This asshole who'd left her, who'd just walked out on her, just left when he knew he was the only person in her whole world who mattered, he'd broken something in Liv. Amanda knew it because she remembered the way Liv had been back then, bitter and angry and pushing everyone away, so hurt by his departure that she seemed unwilling to let anyone get close to her again. That heartbreak had eased, just a little, over the years, and she'd opened her arms and her home to her squad, become the fierce, devoted mama bear at the center of their ragtag little family. She'd found love, and peace, but she'd never been the same, and Amanda knew it. Amanda knew it because she'd read the case files, some of them. Read about the old cases, read about the lengths Liv had gone to, to save the day, read about the lengths Liv and Elliot had gone to for each other, read about a woman who was almost - almost, but not quite - like the one she knew. Almost, because there was something missing in her now. Something reckless, something wild, something free, something he'd taken with him when he left.

And he'd never looked back, never called, never gave a damn. So why was he here now? Why was he sitting there, holding her hand? Calling her baby, saying there's my girl like he had any right to her? Where the fuck had he been, and what the fuck did he think he was doing turning up out of the blue?

She wanted to hit him. She wanted to claw at his face with her hands, wanted to tell him he had no right to hold Liv now, wanted to tell him what a fucking dick he was, wanted to tell him Liv was better off without him. But after ten years and not one fucking word he'd touched Liv, and his touch had been enough to calm her when nothing else would. After ten years, and the complete and total shattering of her heart, he was still the one she wanted, the only one she'd hold on for. There were so many things Amanda didn't know, but she knew what that was. She knew what it meant.

Across the room Stabler stirred; he sat up straight, groaned a little as his joints protested the movement. Kept that hand wrapped tight around Liv's but reached for her with the other, smoothed his hand tenderly over her hair.

"How's she doing?" Amanda asked. She expected him to jump - he'd not even looked at her, couldn't have known she was even in the room - but he didn't so much as twitch, didn't even raise his head to meet her gaze.

"Docs say she's gonna be fine," he told her. "Pain meds are gonna keep her out for a while, but they stopped the internal bleeding. Had to take out her spleen, but they say she's not gonna miss it."

"That's all?"

He did look up then, his blue eyes baleful, and angry, and sad.

"Broken collarbone," he said. "Bruised ribs, broken wrist, fractured tibia, concussion. Fucking surgery to repair her insides. She's gonna be scarred all to hell and it'll be months before she's back to where she was." He returned to his grim examination of her face.

But she was gonna get there, Amanda thought, and that was what mattered. How the hell the explosion hadn't killed her Amanda would never know. Maybe it was just one of those things. A God thing, her mama would say, like God was real and he cared enough about one single, solitary person to reach down and push her a fraction of an inch to the side, just far enough away to save her life, just because she was good enough to deserve his care. If anyone was good enough, it was Olivia goddamn Benson, but still, Amanda wasn't sold on the God thing.

"They had to cut her hair," he said, very softly, and something twisted in Amanda's gut. Liv had such gorgeous hair. Dark and thick and shiny; Amanda would have killed for hair like that. Hair that would curl, and not just hang limply two hours after she'd styled it. For the last ten years Liv's hair had always been long and soft and feminine, except for those few months after Lewis, when she'd sheared it into a bob and everyone knew it was heartbreak that had done it and no one said a goddamn word about it. With her hair short like that and her nails painted black Liv had been a walking challenge, just daring fate to try to hurt her again. It hadn't, though; fate had sent her Noah instead, and she'd grown her hair long again, and Amanda thought it looked beautiful. She thought it looked like healing.

"She won't like that," Amanda said softly, but Stabler just laughed.

"You never saw her in the old days," he said. "She used to cut it real short. For years. I'm talking like," he made some vague gesture, but he was such a fucking man, he didn't have the words to explain it. "Real short," he said, and held out his fingers about two inches apart. "I think she wanted everybody to know she was tough. Didn't want the perps to think she was soft."

It was hard to imagine, Liv with hair that short. Hard to imagine a Liv who had anything to prove.

"I liked it, though," he said. His hand was still resting at the crown of her head, his fingers threading through her hair. "I could see her face. She wasn't hiding from anything."

His voice was so goddamn soft, so knowing, his touch so gentle and sure. Ten fucking years he'd been out of the game, and he'd missed so many heartbreaks, so many losses, Dodds and Lewis and Tucker and Brian fucking Cassidy and Noah, and all of it. Amanda wanted to believe he didn't know her any more, but there he sat, certain as anything, like he hadn't missed a fucking day. Like none of it mattered, like the last ten years which had so shaped the course of her life were no more than a drop in the bucket. Like the piece of Liv was more of her than Amanda would ever have for herself.

"I want to hate you," Amanda told him, the words slipping out of her mouth before she could think better of it. "For what you did. Leaving her."

He raised his head to look at her, but he wasn't angry, wasn't defending himself, wasn't asking her what she thought gave her the right to talk to him that way. Instead he was just...calm. Accepting. Like he understood. Like he wanted to hate himself, too.

"But the way you were with her tonight...you saved her. Just by being there."

And she knew it was true, because she'd watched the whole goddamn thing happen right in front of her, and the only time Liv had breathed easy was when his hands were on her.

"Don't you ever fucking leave again."

He nodded, his jaw tight.

"I'm home," he said. "I'm right where I always should have been. I'm not going anywhere."

And even though she didn't know him, even though she had no real reason to trust him, Amanda believed him, then, because when he looked at Liv it was with the expression of a man who was looking at the most precious thing in his whole world. Maybe he'd learned his lesson, she thought. Maybe he'd been there tonight for a reason. Maybe it was a God thing, or maybe Elliot Stabler had already decided, before that car ever blew up, that it was time for him to come home. Whatever the reason, he was here now, and he'd said he wasn't leaving, and she believed him.

She hummed, and took a sip of her coffee.

They're gonna be ok, she thought. Please, God. Let them be ok.