A/N: did I fuck up and have Wheatley say Mia's eyes are blue when they're brown? Yes. Am I going to pretend that never happened? Also yes. C'est la vie.


August 24, 2021

"I'm not a complete invalid," Elliot grumbled. "I can open a door by myself."

"Would you just let me?" Kathleen answered, exasperated. "You're supposed to take it easy, and we both know you're not gonna do that unless someone makes you."

You're so much like your mother, Elliot thought fondly, sadly, a wistful little smile tugging up the corners of his mouth as he watched Kathleen bull in front of him, unlocking his apartment door herself with his overnight bag slung across her shoulder.

These last few days Katie had been a godsend; the other kids had come to visit with him as often as they could, which was not terribly often, considering Dickie and Lizzie had jobs to go to and Maureen had the boys to look after and Eli had school, and Elliot had insisted that they all continue to live their lives as normal and not spend all their time fawning over him while he was recuperating in the hospital. They'd all looked at him like he was crazy, but they'd done as he said; dad's word still carried some weight, apparently. At least with the other four; Kathleen, not so much. She'd done her job from a laptop in his hospital room, had taken it upon herself to go to his home and gather up all the things he needed, brought him food, listened in rapt attention to the doctor's instructions, and everyday she'd stopped in and checked on Mia, brought him back reports of how she and Liv were doing. Kathleen had been such a help - if also a little bit of a pain in the ass - had been so like Kathy, so eager to do, to roll up her sleeves and step in where she was needed, to mother him, a little bit, and for all the difficulties they'd had with one another he loved that girl so fiercely, and he was, truly, grateful for her care.

He had, finally, been released from the hospital, released back to his own home, told to take it easy and not go near the office for another six weeks at least, had been given an actual fucking packet of information regarding the dos and don'ts of his recovery, and he was kinda looking forward to getting some rest - hard to do in the hospital - to just existing, without people mooning over him or taking his vitals every couple hours, without the constant feeling of being watched. He was happy to be home - strange, how quickly he had come to think of the apartment in Long Island City as home - and to be on his own, except that Katie was still there, carrying his bag into his bedroom, muttering under her breath about the state of the apartment.

"You're not gonna clean up," he told her firmly, following along behind her like a duckling behind its mother. "I don't want you waiting on me hand and foot, baby."

"If you think I'm gonna let you push a vacuum around you're crazy," she fired back.

"So I'll use the broom-"

"Dad-"

"Sweetheart, seriously, look at me."

They were standing in his bedroom; she'd dropped his bag on the bed and was standing there with her hands on her hips, frowning in a way that reminded him so much of Kathy it made her difficult to look at. He reached out and gently laid his hands on her shoulders, and tried again.

"I love you," he said. "And I'm thankful for your help. But I don't want you spending all your time taking care of me. I'm gonna be fine, Katie. I'm gonna rest, and I'm not gonna do anything too strenuous. I'm gonna lay on the couch and eat pizza-"

"The doctor said to avoid fatty foods -"

"I'm gonna lay on the couch and eat a salad," he amended, grinning, "and I'm gonna be fine. Go on, go home. Take care of yourself. You can come see me tomorrow, all right? But right now, just…just take care of you, ok? Don't worry about me."

For a second it looked like she was about to argue, about to tell him how wrong he was and how stupid he was and how she was gonna move in with him until he was cleared to go back to work, but he saw the fight leave her eyes. The last few days had been hard on her, he knew; Kathleen had her mother's capable hands, but she had a wild and fretful heart all her own, a heart too much like his mother's, and she needed to rest, too.

"Fine," she said. "You promise you won't clean up?"

He had no intention whatsoever of cleaning the apartment. Let the dust stay where it was; it wasn't going anywhere, and neither was he.

"Promise," he said, and then he kissed her forehead, and they made their goodbyes, and five minutes later he was, mercifully, alone, collapsing on his bed in the middle of the afternoon like some kind of pampered brat and not at all like the working class Irish Catholic boy he had been raised to be.

Jesus, he was tired, though. Shit really takes it out of you, he thought, being cut open. What did a liver even do, anyway? Not any kind of work he'd ever noticed before. He hadn't even lost the whole thing, just part of it, and he couldn't say right now whether he really felt any different. All he felt was weary, the exertion of leaving the hospital, riding in the car, making his way into the apartment more activity than he'd done in nearly a week, and it felt good to close his eyes, to relax back into his pillows, his own pillows, with no threat of some chipper nurse walking in unexpectedly.

There was one thing he wanted to do before he fell asleep, though. He fished his phone out of the pocket of his sweatpants, and fired off a text.

Home, he wrote. Tired. Thought Katie was gonna offer to move in but I sent her home. You good?

He set his phone down on his belly, closed his eyes, and waited for it to buzz with an answer.

They'd been texting a lot, the last few days. It was just easier; Liv couldn't get up, and the doctors weren't exactly letting him wander at will, and there were all these people. His kids, in and out of his room, and her people, in and out of hers. Brian and Noah were there a lot, splitting their time between Liv and Mia, and Fin and Rollins and Carisi and that kid Kat were always coming and going, sometimes there just to check on Liv, sometimes there to talk business, and it wasn't like he and Liv could really talk, not with all those people around. They could text, though, and they had; it had never been, and would never be, his preferred method of communication, but it worked, for now. For now when there was still so much chaos around them, for now when Liv was still bedbound, for now when he didn't know what the fuck she expected from him, or what was going to happen next.

You really do love me, don't you?

I do.

I love you, Elliot. I do.

They'd said it now, both of them. Said that they loved each other, and meant it. But they weren't kids passing notes in algebra class; what was he supposed to do, ask her to go steady? They'd shared a few meals, a few drinks, since he'd been back, had been moving toward something that felt more like their old friendship now that he had his head screwed on straight, and he wanted to love her, to touch her, to hold her, to kiss her again, if she'd let him, but how were they supposed to get there from here? Here, where Liv was bed bound and her daughter was recovering from surgery and Elliot had been ordered to rest in his home for weeks? Even if he knew what to do next, would Liv want him to? Was it enough, that they loved each other, that they'd said it out loud; was his love enough to help her move past the hurt he'd caused and the doubt he knew his sudden resurgence into her life had sown in her heart?

On his stomach the phone vibrated to herald an incoming text message, and Elliot scrambled to pick it up so quickly he damn near threw it across the room.

She's a good kid, Liv had written. We're good.

Elliot had wanted to check in on Mia himself, while he was still in the hospital. He'd wanted to go down there, and see her precious little face, her dark eyes so like her mother's, had wanted to speak to her, if only for a moment, but he hadn't done it. It felt wrong, somehow, going to see her without her mother there, felt like an imposition, especially given the sacrifice Elliot had just made for her; Mia didn't know him, really, and the last thing he wanted was to make her feel uncomfortable, to make her feel like she owed him something. She didn't owe him shit; he was happy to have done this thing for her, happy to know that she was good, now. He wanted her to be good; he wanted her to be happy, and healthy, wanted her to have the childhood she deserved, one bright and hopeful and free from pain. He didn't want to bother her. He hadn't gone.

When are they letting you out? He asked Olivia next. Her answer had been typically brief; Liv didn't like anyone seeing her weak, and she had been tightlipped about her own condition, hesitant to admit to being in pain, to being scared. She didn't have to say it out loud; he'd seen it in her eyes, the few times he'd been able to visit her room. Everyone else was talking about how miraculous her recovery had been so far; maybe they just hadn't learned how to read her. Elliot had always known.

Later this week, she said. Today was Tuesday; later this week was hardly an answer, but Elliot smiled despite himself. That was her, he thought, that was his stubborn girl; she never did like to give anything away.

You going crazy cooped up in there?

He'd been going stir crazy himself and he could only imagine what Olivia was feeling, with a department to run and two kids to worry about, and Brian fucking Cassidy the person she was relying on to care for them. Sure, Elliot had kids of his own, but they were taking care of themselves, taking care of each other; he didn't have to worry about a sometimes childish ex maybe burning his apartment down while he was chained to a bed.

I'm gonna shoot somebody if I don't get out of here soon, she said, and then don't tell anyone I said that.

Secret's safe with me, he promised.

It was nice, the texting. Not the same as being with her, not the same as seeing her face, hearing her voice, but nice, still. In a way it made him feel almost as if she were in the room with him; if he closed his eyes he could almost imagine her sitting next to him, could almost hear her voice speaking the words she'd typed. He could almost see her face. Christ, he wished he could see her face.

The phone was still for several long minutes, though, like maybe she'd gotten distracted; maybe Rollins had come by to see her, or maybe she'd gotten a phone call from Garland. That was the thing about the texting; it worked because they could talk in and around everything else that was going on, but sometimes that meant she couldn't answer right away. He'd just have to wait, but he was perilously close to falling asleep; he was tired, and the bed was comfortable, and the apartment was quiet, but just before he drifted off the phone buzzed again.

I'm scared.

The other benefit of texting, he'd found, was that he could take time to choose the right words, not just blurt out the first thought that came into his head, and he thought long and hard before he answered her now. There was plenty for her to be scared of, he figured; she could be scared that the transplant wouldn't take, that Mia would just keep getting sicker, or she could be scared for herself, worried that she wouldn't fully recover from her grievous wound, or she could be scared for him. She could, he thought, also be scared of him, scared of the things they'd said to one another and scared of what might happen next.

I know, he typed slowly. But you're gonna get through this, Liv. You always do. And I'm gonna be right here with you.

She'd been through too much, while he was away. Had suffered too much grief, too much pain, had been forced to carry those burdens all by herself for far too long. He needed her to know she wasn't alone, now. He needed her to know that he had come home, and that he meant to stay. He needed her to know that he would be with her, always.