A/N: Tuesday seems like a good day for an update, no? Meant to post it this morning, but my time management skills are... lacking, obviously. Anyway, here it is now, and it's on the shortish side because I split it for pacing purposes. Don't worry, chapter 40 is still a decent size. No trigger warnings, just angst. Thanks for the comments about Gigi's POV in the previous chapter. I'm glad it went over well, 'cause it was fun and sort of freeing to write. Okay, Happy Olivia Benson's Birthday Eve and happy reading!
When the night has been too lonely
And the road has been too long
And you think that love is only
For the lucky and the strong
Just remember in the winter
Far beneath the bitter snows
Lies the seed that with the sun's love
In the spring becomes the rose
- Bette Milder, "The Rose"
Chapter 39.
The Rose
. . .
Her knee was throbbing as it often did when the forecast called for heavy rain. Or when she pushed herself too hard during a run. Last time that happened she had promised Olivia she would get it looked at by a doctor, but she never made the appointment. She was afraid of being told she needed surgery, and the toll that would take on her career, her body, her speed and agility. That all seemed so shallow and childish now. Why hadn't she just done as Olivia asked? Why couldn't she ever just shut up and get it right?
Whatever was causing the pain—the sky had been clear and bright, a beautiful spring day to bring her wife home from the hospital, and she hadn't run anywhere since recovering Olivia from the warehouse—Amanda welcomed it. It was deserved, and it was only a fraction of the pain Olivia was feeling. She couldn't even crawl into bed without Amanda's assistance, her body so weak and sore that their pillow-top mattress and plush comforter made her grimace as if she were lying down on concrete.
Most disturbing of all, at least to Amanda, was that Olivia made no attempts to remove her shoes. The captain hated street shoes on the bed. Once, she had stripped the entire bed, right down to the dust ruffle, and washed every piece of linen on it because Amanda had kicked off her Nikes too hard, accidentally landing them smack in the middle of the comforter. Now she curled onto her side, ankles crossed, the soles of her knock-off white Keds from the hospital mixed up with their clean dove gray sheets.
They hadn't finished making the bed that Saturday morning, a million years ago, when which bagel flavor everyone wanted was the most pressing subject on their minds. Amanda's side of the bed was still a rumpled mess, all cockeyed pillows and tossed covers; Olivia's side was tidier, though she must have gotten hot at some point and kicked aside her corner of the comforter, where it was currently bunched around her shoes. Think about all the filth we find at crime scenes and how much of that we track in just walking around the city, Olivia had said when Amanda teased her for being a clean freak. Now think about that—in our bed.
"Let's get these off for you," Amanda said softly, touching Olivia's ankle first, before lifting or removing anything. Her wife barely seemed aware of where she was, let alone what was on her feet. If Amanda started grabbing and tugging without warning, who knew the harm it might do.
As if proving Amanda's point, Olivia twitched at the sensation of fingers against her skin. It would have been imperceptible to the casual viewer, but Amanda felt it like a shock and had to force herself not to jerk back. "Your shoes, baby. I'm just going to take off your shoes so you'll be more comfortable. That okay?" She grazed her thumb back and forth underneath the cuff of the sweat pants, hoping to reintroduce skin to skin contact, no matter how slight, as soon as possible. They had to be able to touch each other. They had to.
"Um, yeah. Sorry, I didn't realize . . . " Without clarifying what she didn't realize, Olivia nodded for the shoes to come off. At the hospital she'd been adamant about not wanting socks on her painfully scuffed and cracked feet, despite the gauze dressing and the splinters that remained. Socks were too constrictive, she claimed, and the tearful edge in her voice had been enough to convince Amanda not to press.
Constrictive or not, having something besides the cheap insoles that felt like corkboard between bare feet and the stiff canvas shoes would have made removing the latter easier. Amanda undid the uneven laces and pulled at the tongue to loosen them more, but she still had to put some strength into peeling both tennis shoes off, wincing each time they didn't slide free smoothly. She dropped them on the floor and kicked them under the bed to be dealt with later.
"That's better," she said, as much to herself as to Olivia. It was the way you talked to a young child or a pet, letting them hear your voice and find comfort in your words, even when you weren't sure the words were right.
She eased Olivia's ankles back to the same position they had been in, trying not to fixate on how awful her feet looked. The rest of her body was covered in similar nicks, cuts and bruises, some far worse than others, and it wouldn't do either of them any good if Amanda kept brooding over each one she came across. They would never get out of this bedroom that way. Besides, somewhere out there was photographic evidence and actual video footage documenting every single injury Olivia had incurred during her ordeal. No need to commit anything to memory.
Trying to expel her dark thoughts, Amanda began fussing with the bedclothes, fluffing and refolding them even where it wasn't needed. She had the urge to tidy everything in the room all at once, putting things to right in hopes that they might stop feeling so terribly wrong. "Do you want the covers on or off?" she asked, drawing up the blanket before she got an answer. Severe hypothermia had been staved off at the hospital, and the fever probably burned away the rest, but Olivia still periodically shivered like she had a chill.
Without replying, or perhaps speaking too softly to be heard, Olivia nestled down into the bedding, her face nearly hidden by the puffy comforter. Her eyes were just visible over the top, and they searched Amanda's for a long time, until warmth and exhaustion set in and she turned drowsy, each blink heavier than the last. She was about to drift off when a thought occurred to Amanda.
"Oh, shit. Hey, Liv sweetie," Amanda half-whispered, checking the urge to pat or shake the comforter. A soft grumble from Gigi was warning enough, but she couldn't just let this one go, either. "You should eat something before you get to sleeping too deep. How 'bout I fix you something real quick? Egg and toast, maybe? Or I think we've got a can of chicken noodle soup. That and some crackers?"
Olivia shook her head, the rustling pillow louder than her response. "Not hungry. Tired."
"I know, baby, but . . . " Amanda fretted her bottom lip, glancing at Gigi as if waiting for the golden retriever to grant her permission to continue. The dog cared about Olivia's health, she should damn well be concerned about her diet as well. "You've barely eaten anything in, like, five days. You can't get better that way. Gotta eat something to get your strength back. Come on, let me heat up the soup for—"
"Ate at the hospital."
If three tiny bites of bread from a ham sandwich, a spoonful of applesauce, and one side of an Oreo cookie wafer—not all consumed at the same meal—could be called eating. Part of the problem was Olivia's shattered back molar, which caused her quite a bit of pain with chewing. But she also had a poor track record with food in general; that is, consuming enough of it to stay alive and conscious, especially when she was struggling emotionally. Without Amanda's gentle reminders, sometimes she just seemed to forget food existed.
And that tooth. Jesus, that was going to be a bitch getting taken care of. Amanda wanted to make the appointment as soon as possible, but there was no way Olivia could handle it right then, the state she was in. She hadn't liked anyone messing around in or near her mouth before this assault, how would she ever get through a dental procedure of any kind now? Or any kind of medical procedure, for that matter?
How would they get through anything?
"Hospital 'food' is a joke, e'rrbody knows that," Amanda said lightly, trying to press without making it obvious what she was doing. Olivia tended to push back when she caught on to that stuff. Or worse, she folded completely and Amanda ended up feeling like a control freak. As if she were relying on Olivia's history of abuse and manipulation to get her way. "'Sides, you hardly touched it, all that sleep you's getting. I bet you'd rest a lot better with something on your belly. Wouldn't she, Geeger?"
It was low, including the dog in her persuasion tactics, but if it kept Olivia from starving herself to death or resenting Amanda for hounding her about it, Amanda could live with that. She could live with anything, so long as Olivia wasn't suffering. "That's right, hooman," she narrated in a goofy high-pitched voice, more Mickey Mouse than noble Gigi. She gently pinched the dog's snout a few times, creating the illusion her lips were moving. "I always sleep better on a full stomach myself, O wise master number two."
The lame bit of puppetry didn't earn so much as a smile from Olivia, and Gigi sighed and moved her head in the opposite direction, muzzle tucked safely between Olivia's arm and side. They usually laughed when one of the dogs rejected their affection or humor. Amanda had always reasoned that they would be okay, as long as she could keep making her wife laugh.
"I can't eat right now." Olivia's hands became fists, balling up the bedsheets. For a moment it appeared she might stuff the gray wads into her mouth, blocking out food—or anything else that might want to get in. She didn't do that, thank God, but she did press her fists over her mouth, fingers curled in against her lips, as if lowering the sheet in a game of peekaboo. "My stomach hurts. And . . . I'm still so— It hurts. Going to the bathroom. I'll just feel worse if I eat. Please don't force— Don't make me."
Amanda felt the blood drain from her cheeks at that. Pain with urination and bowel movements was to be expected after the kinds of physical trauma Olivia had sustained, not to mention the hysterectomy and the sutures. She had taken much longer than normal in the bathroom at the hospital, but Amanda hadn't even considered that as a factor in her rejection of food. It made Amanda ill just thinking about it; no wonder Olivia couldn't stomach anything.
The real kicker was the plea at the end, though. Please don't make me. People had been forcing things into Olivia's body for days—drugs, dicks, tongues, fingers, swabs, blades—and Amanda would be just another in a long line of many if she forced her to eat. For now she had to let it go. For now. "Okay, okay. Shh-shh. I'm not gonna make you eat if you don't want to. Just promise you'll let me know when you're feeling up to it, okay? So I can stop worrying? I'll fix you anything you want, and if I can't fix it, I'll order in."
That at least brought the sheet down a fraction of an inch. The fists remained, but they parted enough for Olivia to speak without muffling her already diminished voice. "I promise. I'll eat soon. Just . . . not right now."
Amanda got the sneaking suspicion she'd be hearing that a lot from now on, about more than just food. And there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it. You couldn't rush healing, you had to sit back and wait, and hope the other person was up for the challenge. A week ago she would have said yes, absolutely without a doubt, Olivia was the strongest person she knew and could handle anything. But then Amanda had watched that livestream. No matter how strong someone was, they didn't get through an experience like that unscathed.
"Okay. Can I at least get you some water? You said your belly's hurting you, how about some Pepto Bismol? I'll grab your pain meds while I'm at it." Amanda made to stand up from the edge of the bed, but Olivia dropped part of the sheet and caught Amanda's sweatshirt sleeve in its place. She let go right away, as if the physical contact was an accident, though it succeeded in keeping Amanda seated next to her. "Yeah, darlin', what do you need?"
She was prepared to jump up and fetch whatever Olivia's heart desired, no matter the difficulty level, but Olivia closed her eyes and slowly shook her head. "You don't have to get me anything. I just want to sleep some more. Maybe I'll feel more up to that other stuff when I wake up. My head feels so . . . "
Leaving the conclusion open-ended, Olivia faded—her voice, her breathing, her form underneath the covers. She was visibly retreating in front of Amanda's eyes, wilting into sleep like a dying rose, and she seemed already beyond reach when Amanda shifted her weight on the bed, uncertain of where to go from here. If Olivia woke up alone and frightened, it would only compound the trauma, but if she slept for hours Amanda might join her, and there was too much else to be done.
Then again, Amanda didn't know if she could even bring herself to leave her wife's side. Her body felt leaden, the thought of Olivia being out of her sight for more than a minute like a paralytic. After days of watching the unbearable images unfolding on that laptop in the squad room, she found she couldn't look away.
But it was Olivia who broke the spell, opening her eyes so sedately it was startling. As if a stone statue had come to life, the princess waking with no need of true love's kiss. In the closed-curtain bedroom light, her irises were as shiny black as buttons. Somehow, when she spoke, it sounded plastic and sewn-on, too. Not really a part of who she was inside. "You don't have to stay. I'll be all right. I'm too tired to dream."
Well, that wasn't true. Amanda had been woken from a dead sleep more than once because Olivia, exhausted and stressed by the day's work, was having a very vocal nightmare. The more depleted she was, physically and emotionally, the worse her sleep was plagued by devastating memories and imagery both horrifying and eerily prescient. But Amanda would not point that out. Why risk jinxing her if she had the chance for real rest, not the pseudo kind available only in hospitals?
"Are you sure? I can curl up with you girls for a bit, if you want some company." Amanda glanced at the empty spot on the opposite side of Gigi. She didn't realize she was holding her breath until she looked back to Olivia's solemn, watchful face, the features strangely enhanced by the bruises. She looked like a battered child, all eyes and puffy lips. "Daphne can hang out with the kids for a little longer. I could scratch your back or something, help you fall asleep faster."
"No. That's sweet of you to offer, but . . . I think I just need the quiet? And Gigi will wake me up if I need her to. I'm sorry, love. You should go be with the kids."
It was obvious Olivia expected her to be a little hurt by the rejection, no matter how smoothed over its delivery, and true, it did sting a bit. After days of keeping vigil at her bedside, she was choosing a dog to provide comfort instead of Amanda. But at the same time there was relief. Shameful, unbidden relief. Amanda had permission to leave the room, to leave Olivia behind with all that gloom and darkness, and she was going to take it.
She had to take it. For the kids, she told herself, without really believing it.
"You sure?" she asked, knowing full well Olivia would insist. Some things never changed, and the captain's tendency to isolate herself while she processed difficult emotions and experiences was one of them. Amanda's approach was much different—she ran headlong into the nearest distraction she could find, be it another person or a poker table, a hostage situation or a high stakes bet.
The gambling was not an option this time; she didn't even feel the urge, to be honest. And she'd had enough life or death decision-making in the past few days to last her a lifetime. Maybe focusing on the kids, Daphne, and the dogs, would help her restore some balance. She felt like she was teetering on the edge, about to fall without a net. "I don't want you to be lying in here alone and upset. Maybe Daph could come sit with you—"
"I'll be fine. Please don't send in Daphne. Not right now. I'd rather just . . . have some space." Olivia sent up an imploring look that assuaged some of Amanda's guilt. Not all, but some. She truly wanted to be alone, and who could blame her, after having no choice in the matter since being dragged off into that van? If you counted the video feed, her constant companion in that hellhole container, she hadn't had a moment by herself in at least five days. Even a nurse had accompanied her to the bathroom at the hospital.
"Okay," Amanda drawled, getting up slowly. Relief aside, she was still reluctant to leave her post. She wouldn't have gone along with it, if not for the fact that she would just be in the next room, and she could be back at Olivia's side in a flash if called on.
It was a small comfort, when her wife had literally been snatched away from her as they were walking side by side. But it would have to do for now. She couldn't stand guard over Olivia every waking moment for the rest of her life. They would both end up losing their minds. "Only if you're sure. And only if you promise to call me if and when you need anything. Oh shit, you don't have your phone, do you? Lemme go ask Daph where—"
"I can yell if I need you," Olivia said, her voice too scratchy to finish the sentence without clearing her throat. She did it compulsively a few more times, to no avail that Amanda could hear. "Or I'll just send Gigi out to get you. That will be simpler. I'm sorry, love. I just . . . I need some time."
"You don't have to apologize. I get it." Out of habit, Amanda leaned over to kiss Olivia's forehead. Halfway there she hesitated, wondering if she should back off, but worried it would come across as rejection or disgust if she didn't follow through. She hoped Olivia might rescue her from the awkwardness again—reach for her, draw her in—but they were too out of synch to read each other's signals.
Finally, she closed the distance and dropped a hasty kiss to her wife's forehead, near the hairline, mostly getting air and the wispy baby hairs that grew there like down. They smelled of sweat and something vaguely musty, as if Olivia had been held in a damp basement instead of a shit-filled storage container. She'd been allowed to sponge off at the hospital, their pathetic attempt at providing a post-op, post-rape bath, but she was still in desperate need of the real thing.
Perhaps, later, Amanda could run Olivia a warm bath and help her wash out what was left of her hair. Perhaps she would suggest it. Later.
"Just rest, my darlin'. I'll be right out there if you need me."
Before she stood, Amanda mouthed I love you to her captain, lips grazing her brow. She couldn't tell if Olivia mouthed it in return, as was their custom, practically reading each other's minds in the darkness of their bedroom or when they weren't even making eye contact in the squad room. She hoped she had. They needed that connection now more than ever.
Olivia snagged the hem of Amanda's sweatshirt as she turned to go. The little girl had returned, her big imploring eyes so overbright it was almost frightening. Malnourished children had that look, their hunger so keen it shone out of them, sharp as knives. But this was a different type of hunger than for food. Amanda thought it might be related to love—or rather, the lack of it. How did the song put it? An endless, aching need. There were hints of that need in Olivia's face whenever she spoke of her dead mother.
"Tell the kids this isn't their fault," she said with the import of a deathbed wish. It was disconcerting—the voice of a dying woman coming from a bruised and broken little girl wearing Olivia's face—but nothing about the past few days had been easy to deal with or respond to. Nothing Olivia had experienced was tolerable. "None of it. That they didn't cause this and neither of us blames them. Make sure they know that. Please, Amanda."
The best they could rely on now was instinct, like they were novices to pain; indeed, like they were little children, lost and groping their way back to each other through the dark. Amanda did the only thing she could think of, reaching back to undo the clasp of the necklace with their children's names on it. She'd planned to return it when Olivia wasn't quite as vulnerable, her nightmare not as fresh, but maybe that made this the perfect time for her to wear it.
"I'll tell them," Amanda said softly, threading the necklace behind Olivia's neck, her head lifted slightly from the pillow, and fastening it on the other side. She straightened the charm in front, placing it as delicately along Olivia's collar as a tiny seed in the soil. "I won't let them think it, not even for a second. I promise. You rest now, sweet darlin'. If you need anything—and I mean anything—you send Gigi, okay?"
When Amanda was outside the room, the door cracked just enough for Gigi to nose her way out if necessary, she paused to lean against the wall and collect herself. She had never been so exhausted in her life, not just in body, but spirit as well. Getting shot had taken less out of her than this mess, and that almost killed her. But she would have traded the way she felt now for another round in the gut any day.
"Sleep," she whispered toward the door, unsure if she was casting a spell or praying. She put a hand over the St. Jude medal inside her sweatshirt. Maybe it was her imagination, but she could swear it had gotten hot against her skin when she took off the pillar necklace. It might be holy, after all, and though she didn't believe in those things anymore, it couldn't hurt to recruit as many as possible to Olivia's side, be they saint or any regular old Jude. "Just let her sleep."
. . .
