Chapter 14

The door swung open silently.

In its absence, Elliot stared back at her, frozen in place. His eyes were fixed on the nine millimeter Glock in her hand, the one pointed directly at his chest. "It's okay, Liv. It's just me."

Her eyes darted nervously behind him before she finally lowered her weapon. "Jesus, Elliot. What the hell are you doing here?"

Elliot found himself stumbling over the words. "Cragen said they released you from the hospital. I came to make sure you were okay."

Olivia glared back at him. "I'm talking about you staking out my apartment," she hissed.

He stepped around her, temporarily avoiding the question as he struggled to discern the appropriate response. Denial, concern, empathy…how the hell was he supposed to answer her question? Cragen asked me to check up on you? I can't lose you? The words spun through his head, an endless cycle that would no doubt set her off. He pushed the door shut behind them, locking the deadbolt in place.

After last time, there's no way in hell I was going to take the chance at calling a protective detail…

Elliot froze. That didn't sound so bad, right? It showed sensitivity, concern for her well-being, his ability to respect her wishes… "I wanted to make sure you were okay." Elliot paused, grimacing at the defensive edge to his voice. "I thought you would rather have me here than a protective detail."

He stared back at the look of absolute fury on her face. Shit, wrong response. The expression on her face now was livid. Seeing it, his lips twisted in the faintest hint of a smile. Somehow, it was comforting, familiar--anger he could handle, silence was a given, arguments, a form of silent communication masking the unspoken. It was how they operated. It was how they thrived. It was how they somehow managed to accomplish what no other partnership in the NYPD could when arguments turned to stubborn silence.

"I don't need someone to protect me," Olivia retorted.

"And no one's saying you do," he shot back heatedly.

He regretted the words the moment they left his lips. In an instant, the familiar faded away. Hesitation crept in, insecurity replaced fury, and a fear that suddenly seemed all too real filled the eyes that had once given him nothing but hope and security. She spun on her heels, her retreating footsteps tearing him apart piece by piece, the tears she was fighting to hide suddenly swimming in his own eyes. His feet were rooted in place, not sure whether to run after her, or let her push him further away.

He knew her, knew everything about her. He could instinctively sense what she would never readily admit, could instantly read what she was desperate to keep hidden. He could understand every thought, every emotion by one look in her eyes. He could anticipate her every movement by watching the way she shifted her weight from one foot to another. But suddenly, he was at a loss. The fear that clouded her eyes now was completely foreign. It wasn't his best friend or his partner before him now--it was a woman desperate to hide the truth, desperate to believe that she could hide behind the unknown, and desperately seeking to understand what could never be understood.

He wanted to help her understand, but he had no idea how to help her make sense of it all. He knew how to talk to a victim. He knew what they needed to hear as much as he knew what words should never be spoken. But he had no idea how to talk to Olivia.

Maybe she was right to push him away.

He turned abruptly and followed her into the kitchen. Elliot fought for deep, even breaths, relying on every last bit of training to propel him forward. A victim has had her sense of control stripped away from her. Give her choices. Never make assumptions. "Olivia," he began softly. "Can I come in?"

"Elliot, please stop," she pleaded.

He froze in confusion. Stop? To hell with choices. He stepped closer, studying her carefully.

"Just stop." Numbly, Olivia turned toward the kitchen sink and realized that she had already turned on the tap water. She ran her hand under the cold water, allowing it to soothe the burn left by the coffee still dripping from her fingers.

Her back was still to him when he realized that the rushing water had changed from clear to crimson. "Olivia, you're bleeding."

He saw her eyes fall to her hand slowly. "It's nothing. I just dropped a coffee mug."

His eyes flew to the floor, and for the first time he saw the remnants of a broken mug surrounded by a pool of dark liquid. He knelt down quietly, gathering the pieces and tossing them into the nearby garbage can. Olivia reached for a dishrag and wrapped it around the wound as she silently watched him. When he finished, he turned toward her. "Thanks." Her voice was soft, tentative.

He nodded, knowing that she didn't really expect a response. Let her make choices. You can empower a victim by giving her the ability to make one decision at a time. "Is there anything I can get for you?"

She closed her eyes. "I just want a cup of coffee."

He nodded. "Okay, do you want to go in the living room? I can bring it out for you." Choices. Allow them to take back control. He paused, waiting for the inevitable protest. It never came.

"Okay." The single word was uttered so softly, he hesitated, wondering if he had misheard her. But as she turned away, he realized he hadn't. He poured two cups of coffee, and then carried them both into the living room. He slid down on the couch next to her, handing her one.

She drew the mug to her lips, forcing herself to swallow the bitter liquid. Slipping her fingers loosely around the handle, she let it rest lightly on the knees drawn up to her chest.

Elliot observed her, allowing the silence of the moment to communicate what he knew she wasn't ready to hear. His eyes followed her every movement, seeking to understand what everyone else had missed. The way her eyes darted back and forth without seeing anything, the way her slender fingers tensed around the handle of the mug in her hand--it was familiar. Maybe he did still know her. Maybe he could still read what she refused to acknowledge. He closed his eyes and exhaled quickly, praying for the strength to hold both of them up. "Olivia," he ventured slowly. "When's the last time you slept?"

The door slammed shut behind him. Fin's stride was confident as he crossed over to the counter. He flashed his shield. "Detective Tutuola, Detective Munch," he asserted quickly, gesturing over to John.

The woman behind the counter snapped her gum. "Tutuola, Munch? What kind of names are those?"

"What kind of name is Schaulzberg?" Munch deflected, reading the name plate at the desk.

She shook her head. "Good point."

Fin glanced down at the notepad in his hand. "We need some information on the owner of a box number 3246."

With an irritated glare, the woman fumbled through the paperwork in front of her. "What about him?"

"Let's start with a name." Munch looked up at her over his glasses, the expression on his face amused.

She ran her hand across the line. "His name's Roger Hammond."

Fin moved closer. "And what can you tell us about Mr. Hammond?"

She stared back at them stubbornly. "Do you think I keep track of everyone who comes in and out of here?"

Munch sighed. "Oh, come on, an enchanting guy like Roger, and you can't tell me anything about him?"

She hesitated. "Well, now that you mention it, he's always very sweet. I keep trying to convince him to take me out some time, but I guess I'm not his type." She shook her head. "Too bad."

Fin rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure he doesn't know what he's missing. Describe him."

"Tall, dark, handsome."

Munch looked back at Fin. "Great, he's a regular Prince Charming. What else can you tell us?"

She paused, wracking her memory. "Last time he was in, he told me he wouldn't be back for awhile. It's a shame too. I'm going to miss him."

"Yeah, I'm sure he'll miss you too," Fin muttered. "Anything in that box now?"

She shook her head. "Nope, he cleaned it out yesterday before he left."

Munch snapped back to attention. "He was here yesterday?"

She looked up in surprise. "Yeah, he came in right around one o'clock when I was coming back from lunch. He parked that van of his right up front." She lowered her voice. "I told him he better be careful or they'd tow it, but he didn't seem to care—insisted he'd only be in here for a minute."

Fin turned back to her, the expression on his face intent. "What can you tell me about the van?"

She shrugged casually. "Honey, I know nothing about cars. It was a van, and it was burgundy. That's all I can tell you."

Munch flipped a card at her. "Okay, thanks. If he comes back for any reason, you give us a call."

She raised an eyebrow. "You givin' me your number, sugar?"

Munch smiled back at her as they turned to leave. "Yeah, it's 911." As they stepped back out on the sidewalk, Munch paused, his eyes scanning the street before settling on his partner. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

Fin's lips curled up in satisfaction. "Yeah, there's a red light cam at that intersection."

When was the last time you slept?

Panic. Fear. Denial. The emotions all melted together into the only one she knew how to express. "We are not having this conversation," Olivia bit back, straightening ever so slightly in her seat.

Satisfaction spread across his face. It was far from an admission, but it was good enough for him. "Like hell we're not," Elliot returned. "How long, Olivia?"

She stared back at him angrily. She needed to escape. She needed to run. She needed to find some way to get away from his piercing glare because it was like staring within herself. And there were a hell of a lot of emotions she was nowhere near confronting locked away in that. She opened her mouth to speak, but couldn't find the words to deny it. Somehow, pure exhaustion set in above all else, and she felt herself beginning to slip, beginning to fall. She tried desperately to stop it, to fight it, but it was too late. Tears sprang to her eyes. "Stop it, Elliot," she begged.

His voice was gentle now. "Olivia, how long?"

"I don't remember." The confession slipped from her lips before she could stop it. She closed her eyes, bracing herself for his response.

Elliot froze. When her eyes opened again, he saw a truth within them that scared him. She wasn't dodging the question. She wasn't fighting against him. She couldn't remember. "Olivia, why haven't you slept?"

Exhaustion overcame her ability to fight back the tears that spilled forward. Silently, they fell. She returned his gaze miserably, making no attempt to brush them away. "Do you know what it feels like to wake up and not remember what happened? I have no idea what he did to me in that time. I don't even know if I went with him willingly."

Elliot took a deep breath, praying that the truth would give her some closure. "Olivia, he slipped GHB in your drink. That's why you can't remember."

Her eyes widened as the truth settled in. Olivia had told herself she just needed time, that as the dust began to settle, she could slowly piece together the memories of that evening. "I'm never going to remember what happened."

He shook his head. "I'm sorry."

She let her head fall back against the cushion behind her. She wasn't ever going to remember. She wasn't ever going to know for sure what had happened. She would never have the ability to tell them. She would never have the ability to tell the jury. The reality of it terrified her.

Elliot hesitated. "That's not the only reason, is it?" He forced himself to look into her eyes, wondering if he was ready to hear the truth behind the fear that he still saw within them.

Olivia shook her head wordlessly. "I felt a needle prick my skin, and I lost consciousness. When I woke up, my whole body was numb. I watched him rape me, and I couldn't stop him. I couldn't control my own body." Her words were hollow, empty.

We found Midozolam in her system…he used a small amount so she would have known exactly what was happening to her, but it would have made her out of it enough that she wouldn't have been able to fight back.

The words hit him with a truth that stole his breath away. As he looked into her eyes, he realized the truth. Finally, he understood…not the sheer terror that she had experienced in that moment, not the shame and humiliation that came from being violated, not the forced independence that had become the only way she knew to survive the pain. He understood what it took to break Olivia Benson. It was the complete inability to fight back that had shattered her, and it was the fear of it happening all over again that consumed her now.

For the first time, he realized that Olivia had been physically incapable of doing anything to defend herself. She had been forced to watch a complete stranger take away the one thing she had fought to control her whole life. And not knowing what that felt like or how to help her through it scared the hell out of him. "Olivia, I'm sorry I wasn't there for you."

She turned toward him slowly, confusion on her face. "Elliot, it's not your fault."

He stared back at her, wanting so much to believe the words that fell so easily from her lips, but unable to do so. It was his fault. It was his fault for not protecting her. It was his fault for not being there. And as they slowly closed in on the truth, he was beginning to realize that it was his fault she had been attacked in the first place.

"El, look at me." Olivia stared back at him, concern temporarily overriding all of her fears and insecurities. "You know this isn't your fault."

He did look at her. He stared into her eyes, and the fire reflected within them. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. He wanted to shake her by her shoulders and tell her she had it all wrong. He wanted to hold her and tell her that she didn't have to be strong enough for both of them, but he realized he couldn't. He didn't have the strength to accept what she managed to do so effortlessly. So instead, he allowed her to take the role she had perfected through the years. Without a word, without a touch, he allowed her to comfort him, to soothe him. He relinquished every bit of his control to her, trusting her to be the one to hold both of them up.