Elliot drove them home.

He didn't have a license in his pocket but he didn't feel like they had any other choice; Olivia had started with a glass of red, but she had not stopped there, and by the time Elliot finally convinced her to leave she was in no condition to drive. Not slurring her words or shouting, nothing so gauche as that, but he'd been counting her glasses, and from the expression on Munch's face he got the idea that the old man had been counting, too, and neither of them liked what they saw. What business they had was done - Munch could offer Elliot no answers, but he had offered him a job, a job that Elliot had accepted - and there was no sense in lingering; the only thing left to do was take Olivia home.

I'll make sure she gets home safe, Elliot told Munch quietly while Olivia struggled to get back into her jacket.

You better, Munch responded darkly. If anything happens to that woman…

It won't, Elliot had promised him. Not on my watch.

From what Munch had told him it seemed that Elliot was going to be stuck in this strange alternate reality for a while, and so long as he was here he was determined to make the best of the hand he'd been dealt. The job Munch offered would give him a chance to earn a little money, to find his feet, to start to build a life. He could research and work, devote himself to trying to find a way out of this predicament and still survive. A few weeks of work and he wouldn't have to rely solely on Olivia's generosity to feed himself, would no longer be a burden to her - or at least, not as much of a burden - but he didn't plan to abandon her. Whatever had happened to Olivia, whatever she'd seen, it was plain that she was hurting and lonesome. He was hurting and lonesome, too, and he couldn't shake the feeling that they'd crossed paths for a reason. That he had been put in front of this Olivia for a reason. What that reason was he couldn't say, but she needed looking after, and he wanted to do it.

It was lucky, he figured, that she was still living in the old apartment; he knew it well, and he made his way there from the Waterfront without any difficulty. He remembered where the parking garage was, and found his way to her space, and as he killed the engine he took a moment to look at her, to really look at her, wondering what secrets she was still keeping, wondering what would happen to him if he ever found out.

Christ, she was pretty. The same as Liv, the same face, the same soft curves, the same quiet strength. He'd never really had a chance to tell Liv how beautiful he thought she was; the words were too dangerous to speak while he was still her partner, and when he came back the ties between them seemed so tenuous that one beautiful might be enough to tear them clean in half. She was, though, beautiful. Maybe he'd never be able to say that word to Liv, but maybe one day he could say it to Olivia. She deserved to hear it.

Olivia was beautiful, but tired; her head was resting against the window, her eyes closed, her breathing steady but too shallow for her to truly be sleeping. It was a near thing, though.

"Hey," he said softly. "Come on, we're home."

Olivia hummed, but did not open her eyes.

"Can you walk?" he asked her dubiously. "Or do you need me to carry you?"

"As if you could," she grumbled, her eyes cracking open at last.

He could carry her. He knew that now. He'd carried Liv out of the diner. He could still recall the weight of her in his arms, the wet of her blood seeping through his shirt.

"You wanna find out?"

" 'm coming, 'm coming," she answered, and reached to open her door.

Elliot leapt out of the car, rushed around to the other side just in time to wrap his arm around her waist as she stumbled out of the passenger's seat.

"Jesus, you're a lightweight," he said as he helped her find her balance.

"Didn't have any dinner," she reminded him.

Probably no lunch either, he thought. Liv had never been any good at feeding herself, and Olivia's fridge was bare.

"Come on, let's get you inside. I'll make you a sandwich."

She didn't protest, just let him lead her along, and he kept his arm right where it was, slung around her, holding her to him, determined not to let her fall. The whole way from the garage to her apartment she was quiet, too focused on putting one foot in front of the other, but Elliot didn't mind; he wasn't much in the mood for talking himself. It hurt, the weight of her against him, the warmth of her, the soft scent of her hair; it hurt, because she wasn't Liv, because she didn't love him, because he'd never know how it might have felt to lead his Liv home after a few too many drinks, to be welcome in that home, and not just a charity case.

Inside the apartment Olivia resisted his attempt to drag her into the kitchen, choosing instead to drift off towards her bedroom, and he went with her, half out of fear she'd fall and crack her head on the bedside table and half out of something like curiosity. Drunken words are sober thoughts, wasn't that what people said? What might she say to him, after a few too many glasses of wine? Olivia played her cards close to her chest, never revealed more than she had to, and he thought it might really be something, to hear her words uninhibited.

She wasn't doing much talking, though.

When she reached her bed she slumped onto it, dropped her purse unceremoniously on the floor and then just sort of melted down into the mattress, still wearing her jacket and her boots. That jacket; Elliot didn't know what she'd do, what she'd think if he touched it, if he reached for the zipper nestled between her breasts and tried to tug it down, so he decided to leave it alone. She'd be warm enough, sleeping like that, and since she'd laid down on top of the blankets it wasn't like he could cover her, anyway. The boots he could help with, though, so he sat himself down on the edge of the bed by her feet, and lifted the closest one into his lap.

The boot had a zipper along the inside, and it was easy enough to slip it off and drop it to the floor with a thunk, and she sighed contentedly when he did, so he turned his attention to the other one. He decided that he'd get her settled, pour her a glass of water, find some Advil and some food if he could, leave it all by her bedside so that when she woke in the night she could take care of herself. It didn't look like she planned to stay awake long enough to eat now.

"There we go," he said as he took off her second boot. Her socks were black just like the rest of her outfit. Had Liv worn black socks, too? He didn't know.

Olivia didn't answer him; asleep already, he thought. But asleep on her back, and that wouldn't do; he rose to his feet and leaned over her, carefully rolled her onto her side into the recovery position, just in case. If she had to puke in the night he didn't want her to do it lying on her back. At the touch of his hands she stirred, and when he started to pull away she reached for him, fumbling in the dark until her hand landed on his forearm.

"Stay," she murmured, her eyes closed up tight.

How many times had he longed to hear Liv ask him to stay? To ask for him, to want him, to acknowledge that she needed him, that she didn't want to have to do every goddamn thing by herself? How many times had she walked away, how many times had he let her go, instead of just saying stay?

She's not Liv, he reminded himself.

But the way he saw it, that didn't mean he had to leave. There was no history between them, no decades of repression and obligation. He'd never hurt Olivia and she'd never pushed him away, and if Olivia regretted her request in the morning it wouldn't shatter him. With Liv he'd been so scared to reach for her, so worried about hurting her, but Olivia didn't know him, didn't care about him the way Liv did, had never looked at him and told herself no. He'd never felt Olivia's blood tacky on his hands, never hated himself for loving her while he was married to someone else. Kathy was dead and Olivia had never met her. So why should he leave Olivia now? Nothing untoward was going to happen; she was drunk and he was tired, and neither of them wanted to be alone.

"For a little while," he said.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips, and he held that smile close in his heart while he took off his own shoes and laid down beside her. On his back, on top of the blankets, he laid down beside her, and wished for a moment that he could hold her; it was a little chilly without any cover, and he'd not had anyone to hold for such a long time now.

Beside him Olivia made a dissatisfied little sound and shuffled around, and he thought for a moment she was trying to get away from him, until she pressed her ass hard to his hip and reached blindly behind her.

"What do you need?" he asked, hardly breathing.

"Cold," she grumbled.

That wouldn't do; he couldn't leave her cold.

He rolled slowly onto his side, careful not to bounce her around too much, and fitted his body against her back, draping his arm over the curve of her hip, burying his face in her hair. That was better; it was warmer, lying together like this, and it felt safer, too, somehow, his fears and his doubts quieting as he held her.

"Better?" he asked, because he knew how he'd answer the question but he wanted to know that she was all right with it, too.

"Better," she agreed, dragging her fingertips across the back of his hand. He was careful, so careful, not to touch her more than he had to, not to let his palm settle against her belly, not to press the line of his cock against the curve of her ass, careful because she deserved that care, he thought, careful because it seemed that no one else had been careful with her, not even Olivia herself. She was not Liv, but that was starting to matter less and less; he was learning who this Olivia was, and what he found was a woman he wanted to know. A woman he wanted to hold, a woman he wanted to protect, for her own sake, and not just for the sake of the woman whose face she wore. Lonely, and cold, and sad, Olivia was all of those things, but she was brave, and reckless, and kind, had looked after him when she had every reason not to, and he wanted to look after her now.

"Sleep, Olivia," he murmured. "I've got you."

She did not answer, but her fingers kept ghosting gently across the back of his hand until they both faded slowly into dreams.