Three days. Shannah was MIA for three days, and Olivia can still feel it, the knot of panic behind her breastbone. Even though she knows Shannah is safe, has just left her, weeping, in the morgue with the remains of her sister, the panic doesn't fade.

Johnny D. William Lewis.

There must be something in the goddamn water, she thinks. The names keep coming up. And not just the names. Maddie being interrogated on the stand by the man who abducted her; his sly, humiliating insinuation that what he did to her was consensual; that juror at the first trial, the woman who fell under a monster's spell, Jesus, that was Bronwyn all over again and Olivia nearly lost it, then; Sykes, missing for three days. Vanished, the way Olivia herself once vanished. Sure, Sykes wasn't kidnapped, tortured, brutalized - or, she was, she was brutalized, but by her own memory, her own conscience, not by someone else - just out on a bender, but for those three days Olivia had no idea where she was, and anything - anything - could have happened to her. Olivia knows better than most what anything means, how many different kinds of horror are gathered beneath the umbrella of anything.

But nothing happened to Shannah. Shannah is safe, and the man who killed Crystal and all those other girls will spend the rest of his life in jail, and the families finally, finally have some closure. It should feel like a victory. It doesn't.

Is this justice? Olivia wonders. He's an old man and they made a deal with him, took the death penalty off the table in a bid to secure his confession because their evidence was thin at best, and without the confession he might have walked. He'll live out his days at the expense of the state, with healthcare paid for and three squares a day, and his wife and grandchildren can visit him - if they want to. Probably they won't but who knows. Some people are more forgiving than others. Where does that leave the families? What about Cal Markham, who confessed to a rape and murder he didn't commit just to give Olivia the evidence she needed? His aunt and uncle didn't want their daughter exhumed, and Cal's lie gave Olivia the leverage to do it anyway. Will they forgive their nephew? What about Mr. Dao, who spent years clinging to hope, finding joy in the possibility that his daughter might still be living; what will become of him, now that he knows for a fact that she is dead, and all the dreams he harbored for her died with her? Christ, what about Shannah?

The case is closed and where the sense of satisfaction, of peace, of a job well done ought to be there is only a great big gaping hole of doubt in Olivia's heart. It's a Friday night and ordinarily that would mean pizza and movies with Noah, a piece of something sweet and good to soothe her weary bones, but Noah is out for the night, at a sleepover with some of his friends from dance. Olivia knows the parents who are hosting - and has run a thorough background check on them - and she knows that he is safe, or as safe as he can be, but she has been in this job too long not to be afraid. How many children have come through the squadroom, children who were left in the care of people who should've been trustworthy but weren't, children who were hurt? She's seen it so many times that there's a part of her that doesn't want to let Noah go at all, a part of her that thinks it would be smarter to rule out sleepovers altogether, but Olivia didn't go to sleepovers growing up, either. Olivia knows what it means, to be isolated from childhood, to grow up without the social bonds that helped her peers thrive, and she wants better for Noah than that. He is a happy child, and she wants him to continue to be happy. Wants him to feel normal, despite the abnormal circumstances of his infancy, because she never felt normal at all and now she's well into her fifties and broken, she thinks, in some ways that may never be put right. She doesn't want him to break.

Olivia wants her son to be happy, so she's let him go to the sleepover, and that's great for Noah but it leaves her at a loss. The world has shrunk in around her; there is no one, really, for her to call, no one to join her for a drink and commiseration. Fin is deliriously happy with Phoebe, and he's earned that happiness, and she will not infringe upon it. Amanda and Carisi are too preoccupied, too busy with their young family and the life they've built without Olivia in it. Bruno and Velasco are her subordinates, and she doesn't want Curry's sympathetic eyes on her while she cries into her glass of wine. Shannah probably hates her now. She hasn't spoken to Rafa in over a year, doesn't even know where he is these days.

There's Elliot, of course. She could call Elliot. Their friendship is stronger and he is steadier than in the days after Kathy's death, but the memories that haunt her are a mystery to him and it's not a story she wants to tell him tonight, but without that background she's not sure what comfort he can offer her. She thinks about him sitting next to her on a barstool, thinks about his blue eyes and the way they crinkle up when he smiles at her, thinks about the breadth of his shoulders, the way his voice goes gravelly and deep when he leans in to murmur words that are meant only for her ears; if he comes to her tonight she'll want him to touch her, and if he touches her she thinks she'll shatter like glass. She's not ready, for Elliot.

There's no one to call, and nothing waiting for her at home, so she does something she has not done for a long, long time.

She goes out to a bar alone, certain that she is making a bad decision and wanting to, anyway. Maybe a mistake is just what she needs.

"So," Randall says, leaning back on the comfortable couch in Elliot's too-nice living room. "You seeing anybody?"

"You serious right now?" Elliot fires back incredulously. "What is this, a middle school sleepover?"

"Yeah, why not?" Randall answers, grinning. It's Friday night, Mama is fast asleep at Randall's house with the aide to watch over her, and he's hanging out with his brother, drinking good whiskey and shooting the shit. Why shouldn't they talk about girls? Isn't that the kind of thing brothers do? When they were young he and Elliot weren't very good at being brothers; they resented the hell out of each other, and kept secrets, never really trusted each other and never really wanted to. It's different now that they're grown, now that they're older and maybe - maybe - a little wiser, now that they live in separate apartments and Pop's in the ground. The tension that made their childhoods unbearable is gone, and the secrets - most of 'em - are out in the open, and the truth is he kinda likes his little brother. They've got more in common than he realized - than he wanted to believe - when they were kids, and Elliot is good company. Probably that's because they've both become the same flavor of grumpy, smart-assed old men, but it's nice, still.

And Randall worries about him, sometimes. Their entire fucking lives Kathy was there, to give Elliot a home, to ground him, to keep him fed and keep him in the road, and now Elliot is floating along with nothing but a demanding, terrifying job and an empty apartment, and Randall wonders, sometimes, if he's taking care of himself. The bastard's built like a brick shithouse, so probably he's getting enough to eat, but dinner on the table isn't the only thing Kathy gave him.

"What about you, huh?" Elliot asks, deftly dodging the question. "You got anybody?"

Randall laughs and slaps his hands on his belly. "Who would have a washed up old geezer like me?"

Elliot isn't the only one who knows how to deflect, and Randall isn't any more willing than his brother to tell the truth. And the truth is he could, if he wanted to. Could go out, meet women, find one to take home. He's comfortable, in his skin, in himself, and he's old enough to know that confidence and personality go farther in some circles than muscles and a full head of hair. He just doesn't want to. Or he does, he does want to, does think about it sometimes, how good it would be to have a nice, soft woman to hold, someone to take out for drinks and banish the loneliness for an hour or two, but his divorce has shattered something in him, and he's not sure, anymore, that the fun of the ride is worth the price of admission. If he gets real desperate maybe he'll change his mind, but for now he's perfectly content with this state of affairs.

"You could still pull, if you wanted to," Elliot says somberly. If you wanted to; Elliot's seen right through him.

"But not like you," Randall says. It's supposed to be Elliot's love life they're talking about, not his. "Bet the girls love a man with a badge."

"You'd be surprised," Elliot says dryly, and that's when Randall remembers, how much the world has changed. When they were kids, Pop's badge opened every door and every pair of legs he encountered; the old man was drowning in skirts to chase. Cops aren't exactly popular these days.

"Besides," Elliot says. "I'm…I'm good. I've got what I need."

Do you? Randall wonders. The apartment is awfully empty; even the kids don't come by often. What does Elliot have, and what does he need?

None of my business, anyway, Randall thinks, but at that precise moment Elliot's phone starts to ring where it sits face up on the coffee table.

"Here we go," Randall groans. They aren't even halfway through their first glass; they got started late because Mama was sundowning bad and it took longer than usual to get her settled and then traffic was hell getting here, and now Elliot's stupid job is going to take him away before they've ever even really had a chance to enjoy themselves.

Except -

"Who's Olivia?" Randall asks, spotting the name on the screen before Elliot snatches it up. The Sergeant's name is Bell, Randall knows, and the techie's name is Jet, and they're the only women on Elliot's team. Who else is there?

"Nobody," Elliot says gruffly as he puts the phone to his ear, in a tone that tells Randall that Olivia, whoever she is, is definitely somebody.

"Liv?" Elliot says into the phone.

The two of them are sitting together on the couch, and so they aren't terribly far apart, and they're both going a little deaf as they get older, and the volume on Elliot's phone is loud, and Randall hears the voice that answers almost perfectly.

"Sir," a young man says, a din in the background like wherever the kid's calling from is crowded with people. "My name is Charlie, I'm the bartender at McMillian's, I'm here with your wife."

With your what? Randall perks up, confused and very, very interested, because Elliot's wife has been dead for three years and her name was not Olivia.

"Lemme talk to her," Elliot barks at once, sounding both angry and scared.

"She's…uh…she's in the restroom. Look, you're gonna have to come get her, man. The last guy on shift overserved her and she won't let me call her a cab. I don't wanna call the cops on her, I…I saw her badge."

So whoever Olivia is, she's a cop, just like Elliot. Maybe they work together; maybe the kid is just confused, and this lady is just Elliot's coworker. There's an urgency in Elliot's movements that makes Randall think there's more to the story, though.

"I'm on my way," Elliot says, already standing up, looking around for his keys. "You said it's McMillian's?"

Elliot is too far away for Randall to hear the kid's reply.

"Just keep her there," Elliot says grimly. "I'm coming."

And then he ends the call, and Randall stands up, too.

"Sorry, man, you gotta go," Elliot tells him. There's something in his eyes that makes his brother very, very curious. It looks almost like fear.

"Yeah," Randall answers, grinning. "I'm going with you."

"The hell you are." Elliot turns angry fast, the way he always does, and maybe that would give someone else pause, make someone else think twice about standing up to him, muscled up asshole that he is, but Randall is his big brother, and Randall isn't afraid of him.

"Not like I got anything better to do," Randall says. "And besides, you might need some help." Dragging a drunk and belligerent woman out of a bar sounds like a two-man job to him. "You can tell me all about your wife on the way."

"Jesus Christ," Elliot swears under his breath, but Randall just starts walking towards the door, confident his brother will follow.

"You coming?"

Elliot doesn't answer, but he doesn't fight him, either, and the two of them march out into the night together, off on an adventure.

Despite Randall's best efforts, Elliot speaks no more than four words on the drive to the bar. Those words are no, in response to Randall's repeated attempts to weasel some information about the mysterious Olivia out of him, and gotta get gas, a grumbling refrain he repeats no less than five times. From the passenger's seat Randall can see that the tank is in fact sitting on empty; Elliot's got one of those ridiculous, oversized SVUs with all the bells and whistles and it's got an electronic ticker on the dash, counting down the miles to empty. By the time Elliot parks in front of the bar - a light spinning silently on the dash for good measure - the gas gauge says they've got three miles left. Elliot's pushing it, Randall thinks, but he's also wound up tighter than the strings of the guitar he used to pick at in high school, and Randall doesn't want to be the one to make him snap.

"You wait in the car," Elliot tells him tersely as he kills the engine.

So much for not making him snap. Randall has no intention of waiting in the car.

"Look," Randall says seriously. "I don't know what's going on here and I don't know what your problem is, but I know that vein on the side of your head looks like it's about to burst -" it does, it really does - "and whatever's going on in there, you might need some help. Just…let me help you, man. You can…talk to me, and stuff."

It isn't funny anymore. Olivia, whoever she is, and the kid at the bar who thinks she's Elliot's wife; Randall thought it was funny, at first, but the longer Elliot stews in this brooding, miserable silence, the tighter he holds his jaw, the longer he maintains this dogged, defensive stance and refuses to let Randall in, the more the gravity of the situation sinks in. Inside that bar there is a woman, a woman Elliot knows well enough that her name is saved in his phone, a woman with a badge who is so drunk that the bartender wants to kick her out. Whatever this is, it can't be good, and Randall is Elliot's big brother. He's supposed to help. He wants to.

"Fine," Elliot says, eyeing him up like he's just realized that an extra pair of hands might do him some good. "Just…keep the wisecracks to yourself, ok? I just wanna get her home."

"Just here to help," Randall promises.

"Let's do this," Elliot says, and then they step out of the car together, and Randall follows his brother into the bar. Elliot is marching, a soldier ill at ease, his eyes sweeping through the shadows in front of them, looking for his woman.

The bar is crowded and the lights are low; there's music playing, and bodies swaying in a tight pack on a bare patch of floor in the corner that serves as a dancefloor. There's too many people between the brothers and the bar for them to even try to make the approach, but Elliot pulls his badge out of his pocket, and when he catches the bartender's gaze he holds it up so the kid can see. The kid's eyes go wide like he knows exactly what it means, and he points to the dancers.

Together Elliot and Randall turn towards the dancefloor; Randall doesn't know what he's looking for, but Elliot does, and Randall knows the second he's spotted it. Elliot starts to move, long legs carrying him so fast that Randall almost has to jog to keep up with him, and using the badge and his broad shoulders like a cudgel Elliot bulls his way through the crowd, straight to a couple swaying lazily near the wall. Randall can't see the woman's face; she's wearing black slacks and a white blouse, and her long dark hair spills down past her shoulders, but that's all he can make out with her back towards him. The man's hands are creeping down, inching towards the full swell of her admirable ass, but before he can make contact Elliot is upon them, grabbing the dude by the shoulders and wrenching him away.

"Get your hands off my wife," Elliot snarls as he flings the man back so hard the guy very nearly falls on his ass, tripping over his own two feet and cursing, and Elliot breathing like a bull about to charge; it's a wonder smoke hasn't started pouring out of his ears.

The woman is not his wife - or is she? What the fuck, Randall wonders - but the lie is a good bet, seems like a good way to make the man lose interest in a hurry.

"Elliot, what the hell -" the woman's voice is low and warm but her words are slurred, just a little, and she's unsteady on her feet. Randall wants to get a good look at her but can't just yet; he's watching Elliot's six, eyes open in case the other man has friends coming to defend him.

"She doesn't need you, pal," the guy spits at Elliot.

Ah, hell. He's drunk, too, wobbly and belligerent, and Randall can smell a brawl brewing. So can the other patrons; they're giving the foursome in the corner a wide berth, but their self-imposed distance just creates the illusion of a stage, a stage on which Randall and Elliot are standing square in the middle with a spotlight shining right on them.

If it's a fight the guy wants, it's a fight he's gonna get; Randall steps up close behind Elliot, glowers at the guy over Elliot's shoulder. It takes the prick a second to realize that he's up against two stone-cold sober assholes who are each twice his size, but even drunk he seems to realize there's no way he's going to win the fight, and he backs down.

Coward.

"You can have her, then," the guy says, and stumbles away.

Crisis averted, Randall thinks, feeling just a little relieved.

That relief lasts for no more than a fraction of a second, because as the defeated dancer disappears into the crowd Elliot's woman steps up, and slaps him right across the face. An alarmed murmur ripples through the crowd around them; time to go, Randall thinks. He doesn't know enough about this woman and her relationship with Elliot to know if this is funny yet, but he desperately hopes they'll all laugh about this tomorrow.

"What is wrong with you," Olivia hisses while Elliot rubs at his jaw. She's sloppy, uncoordinated; she made contact, but there wasn't as much force behind it as maybe there could've been, and Elliot doesn't really seem to be hurt. It won't leave a mark.

Now that she's facing them Randall can finally get a good look at the mysterious Olivia, and truth be told he likes what he sees. Her clothes are clean and professional, but wrinkled, now, and one too many buttons undone on her blouse; she looks like she came here straight from work, like she's been drinking all night. Would have to have been, to be this far gone before midnight. Her tits are every bit as alluring as her ass, a pretty golden pendant hanging from a chain right in the warm crevice between them, her eyes big and dark and lovely, and her face…Christ, that's a good looking woman. It's a little sad, he thinks, that she's so drunk she can't stand up straight; she's probably a goddamn force when she's sober.

"What's wrong with me?" Elliot fires back, crowding her, invading her space while she glares up at him blearily. Her hands press against his chest, pushing him away, and he leans forward, pushes right back, and there is an ease to their physicality, to the way they push and pull at one another; Randall feels certain this is not the first time these two people have laid hands on each other. "What the hell are you doing, Liv?"

"It's not any of your business -"

"The hell it's not -"

"Uh, guys?" Randall cuts in. The bartender is glaring daggers at them from across the room; the kid said he didn't want to call the cops, but they're making a scene, and he just might change his mind. It would make for a hell of a story, ending up in lockup with his brother and his brother's drunk whatever-she-is, but Randall would much rather spend the night in his own bed.

"Right," Elliot says, eyes darting to the bar as he realizes how precarious their situation has become. "Come on, Liv, let's go. I'm taking you home."

"I'm not going anywhere with you." She crosses her arms over her chest and pouts, defiant and beautiful, stubborn as a mule. They're well suited in that regard, Randall thinks. Elliot's the stubbornest son of a bitch he's ever met.

"Ok."

There's a flash of something in Elliot's eyes; resolve, like he's been debating his next move and her words have just settled him on a course of action. It happens so damn fast; he sets his jaw, bends his knees, and then he rushes forward. His arms stretch out, and just like that he scoops her right up off the floor. One arm beneath her knees, one around her back, he picks her up like she weighs nothing at all, even though she's damn near as tall as he is in those boots. An undignified little screech escapes her as he does it, but she retains just enough good sense to throw her arms around his neck to hold herself steady.

"Randy, get the door," Elliot growls from behind clenched teeth, back straight and legs steady; he looks determined, to hold her, to save her from herself, and she looks like ten pounds of trouble in a five pound bag. What a night.

"On it."

And off they go; this time, the crowd parts for them of its own accord, and Randall leads the way while his brother marches along behind him, that beautiful woman in his arms cursing him the whole way.

It's kind of impressive, actually, how easily Elliot carries her. Maybe Randall ought to hit the gym.

"Purse," Elliot barks suddenly when they're halfway across the bar; Olivia wasn't carrying one on the dancefloor, but Elliot's right, she probably came with one, and will probably be pissed as hell if she wakes up without it tomorrow. But how is Randall supposed to find it? He hesitates in the middle of the bar for a second while Elliot huffs behind him and Olivia calls him an asshole for the third time, but the bartender comes to his rescue.

"Here!" The kid calls, holding up a massive black leather bag, and the patrons blocking Randall's path to the bar chip in, pass it from man to man until it's safe in Randall's hands. It's kind of nice, their willingness to help. Maybe the world isn't all bad.

"Hey, thanks," Randall says to the men watching him and his brother, that milling crowd of faces who all look like they're just grateful it's not them caught up in this mess.

"Let's go," Elliot grumbles impatiently behind him. Olivia is wriggling, trying to get free, and there's a pained expression on Elliot's face. Randall isn't sure if it's his pride or his back that's hurting right now. Maybe both.

"I'm going, I'm going."

They're moving again, and encounter no more delays, and he holds the door wide for them, and Olivia stops raging as they step out into the night; she's still holding on to Elliot and her expression is still murderous, but she seems to have realized that she can't stop what's happening. Elliot left the car unlocked so Randall opens the back door for him, and Elliot tosses his woman into the backseat, points a finger at her as she struggles to pull herself upright.

"Put your seatbelt on," Elliot tells her, and then he slams the door, though not quite fast enough to block out the sound of her calling him an asshole. Again.

There's sweat beading on his brow and his face is red as a tomato; maybe carrying her wasn't that easy, after all.

"Your wife, huh?" Randall asks, hefting Olivia's purse onto his shoulder. What's she got in there, bricks? The damn thing is heavy. Not as heavy as her, though; Elliot definitely had the tougher load to carry.

"Shut up and get in the car," Elliot grumbles.

"Yes, boss."

They clamber into the front seat together, and both breathe an audible sigh of relief as the doors close, as they relax for the first time since they entered the bar. There's a part of Randall that feels almost disappointed the guy in the bar didn't really try to fight them; it's been a long time since he's thrown a punch but he's certain he remembers how, and the adrenaline rush is a high he hasn't felt for a long time. It's exciting, storming through the city with Elliot, rescuing damsels in distress, standing up to ruffians and miscreants; no wonder Elliot doesn't want to give up the job. A man's world can shrink down to almost nothing, without a little excitement.

There's a much bigger part of Randall that's just grateful they got out of the bar without incident, though. Sure, it would've been exciting, but there would've been hell to pay come morning. No one is bruised, no one's been arrested, and Olivia is safe in the backseat; it's a job well done.

"Liv," Elliot says to her, twisting around in his seat. "Liv, look at me. Look at me."

Randall turns, too, turns to look at this woman his brother is so willing to drop everything for. She's slumped against the window, her dark eyes closed; she got the seatbelt buckled like Elliot told her to, but she seems to be drifting now. Like the only thing keeping her upright in the bar was the sheer animal force of her stubbornness, and now that she's been defeated she doesn't even have the energy to keep her eyes open.

"Liv-"

"God! What?" Her eyes flicker open, petulant and angry, glaring at Elliot.

"Where's Noah?"

"Sleepover."

Randall doesn't recognize the name but Olivia's response gives him all the explanation he needs; Noah is her kid, and it's no wonder Elliot is worried about him. No child should have to see their mother in the state Olivia's in right now. Maybe it's a blessing the kid is out of the house. He doesn't have to know what happened here tonight.

"All right," Elliot says, satisfied. "I'm taking you home."

It's an admirable thing Elliot has done, rescuing his friend in her moment of crisis, but the job isn't done yet, and Randall frowns to himself. Who is waiting for Olivia at home? Does she have a husband of her own, someone who can take over for Elliot, someone who can hold her hair back while she pukes - because he's pretty certain she's gonna, there's a green tinge to her pretty face - and tuck her into bed and feed her aspirin in the morning? There's no way for him to know, but he has to wonder; if she does have somebody, a husband, whatever, where is he? Why isn't he the one who came to collect her tonight? And if there's nobody, if her home is empty, then he can't in good conscience let her stay there alone. Surely Elliot couldn't, either.

"We'll take her to mine," Elliot murmurs to him then, in a voice so low Olivia does not hear it. That answers Randall's questions; Olivia is alone, and Elliot is not enough of a bastard to leave her to fend for herself.

"Who's your friend?" Olivia calls sleepily from the backseat. Her eyes are closed again, but Elliot winces when she asks her question, like it's one he doesn't want to answer.

"Uh," he says as he pulls the car away from the curb. "This is my brother, Randall. Randall, this is my…friend, Olivia Benson."

"Nice to meet you-"

"Your fucking brother?"

They speak at precisely the same moment, and Randall's pretty sure Olivia doesn't hear him at all.

"Can we not do this right now?" Elliot asks plaintively.

Why does he sound so defensive, and why does she sound so angry? If they're friends, surely Elliot's told her about his family, his brothers and his sisters at least, if not the woeful saga of his parents. Why wouldn't he?

"I don't know why I'm surprised," Olivia grumbles. "You never tell me a goddamn thing."

"Ha!" Elliot barks mirthlessly. "You wanna talk about keeping secrets, Liv?"

What is this? Randall wonders. Who are they to each other? They both seem so angry, and Olivia was so resistant when he tried to talk her out of the bar; what if they aren't friends? Or what if they were friends, once,, but something happened to tear them apart? It feels like he's just wandered into a telenovela.

"I wanna go home," she pouts.

"We're going," Elliot says darkly. "But I gotta stop for gas."

They aren't gonna get far without it; starting up the engine cost them another mile, and the ticker now somberly proclaims that they only have two left. The bright lights of a gas station are shining two blocks down, though, a beacon calling them through the darkness, offering them shelter and a chance to top up; if Elliot can nurse the car through the next two traffic lights, they're going to be ok.

"You wanna tell me what happened back there?" Elliot asks her as he drives. There's an edge to his voice; he's trying to keep his tone level but it's clear to Randall that his brother is either very angry, or very scared, or quite possibly both.

"I just went out for a drink. 's not a crime."

"You went out for a drink?" Elliot scoffs. "How many did you have? Seven?"

"Screw you -"

"This isn't like you, and I'm worried about you. Would you just talk to me?"

"You've got no idea what I'm like."

"Yeah, I do," Elliot says softly. They're stopped at the last red light before the gas station, and his eyes flicker up, searching Olivia's face in the rearview. Even angry, even scared there's a softness in him that Randall has only ever seen directed at the people he loves, at his children, at Mama.

But Olivia doesn't answer him, and the SUV limps into the gas station lot in silence. Elliot pulls up to a pump, and then turns to his brother.

"I'm gonna go inside, get her some water and some meds," he says. "You want anything?"

"Can you get me some Reese's?" Randall asks hopefully. It's not a real road trip adventure without candy.

"What are you, five?" Elliot grins when he says it. "Yeah, I'll get you your fucking candy. Keep an eye on her."

"You got it, man."

The second the car door closes behind Elliot Randall locks the doors for good measure. He doesn't really think Olivia's going anywhere, though; she's still leaned up against the window, her eyes closed again. She's drifting in and out and that's a problem; Randall doesn't want her to pass out in the backseat.

"Hey, look at me, beautiful," he says to her, and she cracks one eye open to stare at him incredulously.

"Are you really his brother?" she asks.

" 'fraid so. What are you to him?"

That's what he really wants to know, and he thinks she may be just drunk enough to answer.

"Nothing," she says sadly.

"I don't believe that for a second."

No way is she nothing; it is palpably, painfully obvious that this woman means a hell of lot more than nothing to Elliot.

"I was something, once," she says. "We…we used to be something. But now there's just…nothing." As she speaks her hand drifts up to play with her necklace, draws Randall's eyes once more to the pretty swell of her breast, straining to escape the confines of the blouse that's only partway buttoned over them.

"Well, if you ask me, I think he wants to be something."

Maybe this is why Elliot didn't answer the question, earlier in the evening, the question about whether he was seeing anybody. Maybe it's because he isn't seeing anybody, but there's somebody he wants, somebody he thinks he can't have. Somebody he'll drop everything and run halfway across the city for without question. Somebody he'll take home, and care for. Someone he loves, maybe.

"He doesn't know what he wants," Olivia says. "He doesn't know what it means."

Olivia appears to be both a mean drunk and a philosophical one, but Randall doesn't quite follow what she's saying.

"Seems pretty simple to me," Randall says. "Man wants a woman, woman wants a man, what's the problem?"

It's not like Elliot's married, anymore, and it looks like Olivia doesn't have anybody waiting on her at home, so where's the disconnect? Why fight it, if there's nothing standing in their way?

"What's your name again?"

"Randall."

He wonders if she'll remember that, come morning.

"Well, Randall," she says, "there's a whole hell of a lot you don't know."

"So tell me. We got time."

Elliot has decided to pump the gas before he goes inside the station for their snacks, and he isn't finished with the first leg of his journey yet. It'll be a little while before he rejoins them in the car, and Randall is hopeful that by the time Elliot comes back he'll have some answers. He wants the answers. Wants to nudge Olivia, a little. Wants to push the two of them together because he loves his brother and he wants to see the old bastard happy, and he thinks Olivia deserves a little happiness, too.

"I love him," Olivia says softly, sadly. "But he doesn't want me."

"Bullshit."

There's no way, Randall thinks, that Elliot doesn't want her, because she is gorgeous and headstrong and clever, because Elliot has come running to her side, because Elliot looks at her like he wants to hold her. What kind of moron wouldn't want a woman like that?

"He wants the old me," she says. "The one he used to know. He doesn't want…he isn't gonna want me when he knows."

"Knows what?"

What has she done? What secrets does she carry that she thinks are so heavy, so unpleasant, that they'll make Elliot walk away from her? It's hard to imagine anything dark enough to make Elliot turn aside from her, but she's a cop, just like him, and maybe there's a kind of darkness they know that Randall can't even begin to fathom.

"He's gonna find out eventually," she says. "It's a fucking miracle he doesn't know already. And when he finds out…I'll be just another victim to him. And he'll be too careful, and he won't…he won't love me the same, when he knows."

Jesus Christ. What the hell is he supposed to say to that? He has no idea what happened to her, what makes her a victim, but the word scares him. There are some things, he thinks, that a man just isn't supposed to know.

"Olivia -"

"Let me show you something," she says.

She slips out of her seatbelt a little clumsily, rocks her body forward until she's leaning against the back of the driver's seat, her face swinging close to Randall's. Her hands rise up, start unfastening the buttons of her blouse, and Randall starts to sweat.

"Hey, uh, maybe that's not a good idea -"

She's a beautiful woman and Randall's only human, but Elliot got there first, and Randall doesn't want his brother to come back and find Olivia half naked in the backseat. If that happens, there might be punches thrown tonight after all.

"Calm down," Olivia grumbles. "I'm not gonna strip."

There is a very small part of him that's disappointed by that.

"Just…look," she says.

The shirt is unbuttoned to her navel, and that is where her hands stop. The night is heavy and black all around them but the lights of the gas station are glaringly bright, and Randall can clearly see what it is Olivia means to show him. Scattered across the tops of her pretty tits, along the smooth skin just below them, are a series of jagged, uneven scars. Some of them Randall recognizes; some of them are the roundish divots of old cigarette burns. He's got a cluster of them on his own shoulder, from the halcyon days of his youth when he worked in the grimy kitchen of a shitty restaurant, and all the line cooks went out drinking one night and burned each other in a stupid game of chicken. It's a fond memory, for him, a fun if regrettable one, but whatever the circumstances of Olivia's burning it is patently, painfully obvious that those marks aren't anything to smile about. His eyes dart outside the car, but Elliot has finished pumping the gas, is already making his way inside the store. Thank God he isn't around to see this.

"I couldn't protect myself," she says sadly. "He said…he said something to me once. Said he couldn't always be looking over his shoulder, making sure I was ok. And I was so pissed at him for that, but he…he was right. Because when he wasn't there, I couldn't defend myself. He's gonna…he's gonna know I was weak. He's gonna blame himself for not being there and he's gonna know I wasn't strong enough to take care of myself."

The thing is, Randall hasn't exactly had an easy life, but it's not been a miserable one, either. Pop had a heavy hand and Mama was out of her mind half the time, and he grew up battered and bruised. Left home before he was really ready, struggled for a long time to find his feet. He's been poor and lonesome, but he also put in the work, and overcame it. Found a good woman and raised a family with her - until she got tired of him, and shattered his heart - built a business and made a comfortable life for himself. There were hard times, but no one's hit him since he left home as a teenager. The guilt, the shame that drips from Olivia's voice, he felt that way as a child, but he hasn't known that kind of pain in more than thirty years. And he doesn't know what to do with it, not really.

He doesn't know her, and he doesn't know the circumstances of her wounding, and he has no idea what she and Elliot are like together. The way she talks, it's obvious they've known one another a long, long time, but she speaks of his absence, and Randall thinks of the years Elliot spent running after he left the job, the lost decade when his brother turned his back on everything and everyone, was nowhere to be found. Randall knows that Elliot walked away from his family, but it never occurred to him to wonder before now who else Elliot left behind when he went. The answer is staring him in the face; a beautiful woman with a heart full of grief, a beautiful woman who needed him to save her, tonight and the night when she was burned, and his heart constricts at the thought.

What is there to say? He doesn't know Olivia, and he doesn't know what she needs to hear. Should he tell her that she is strong? He wants to believe it, but he doesn't know. Maybe she isn't strong, because she got herself into this pickle tonight, had to be physically carried from the bar. But maybe that's ok, that she isn't as strong as she wants to be. Maybe she doesn't need to be.

"Can I tell you something?" he asks her.

Olivia sighs and flops back against the seat, nodding. Her blouse is still mostly unbuttoned and it is very, very hard for Randall to keep his eyes on her face.

"You got a great rack, Olivia," he tells her seriously, and she barks out a laugh, runs her fingers through her hair and doesn't scold him for being so forward. "And I promise you, when Elliot sees it -" he's pretty sure, based on the way she's been talking, that Elliot hasn't seen her naked yet, and that's a shame - "there's no way he's not gonna want you."

"You're sweet."

There is not a single person on planet earth who has ever accused Randall Stabler of being sweet.

She really is drunk, he thinks.

"He wants to be there for you, so…so maybe you should let him."

It isn't lost on him, that the advice he is giving her is the exact same advice he and his brothers always fail to take. It's not something they do, let people in, let their guards down. Well, Joey does sometimes, but that's because Joey is an idiot and the baby. There was always someone else around to protect Joey from the truth; everybody coddled him, and Pop kicked it before Joey ever found out just how big of a bastard he was, and the result is that Joey has bumbled through life without any of the defense mechanisms that kept his brothers safe. But Elliot, Randall, they don't really do vulnerability, and he thinks maybe Olivia doesn't, either. Something's gotta give, though. If either of them, Elliot or Olivia, is ever gonna be happy, they're going to have to give a little ground, and tell each other the truth.

"He gave me this," Olivia says suddenly. She's fiddling with her necklace again, holds it up so Randall can see it. "It's a compass."

The big sap, Randall thinks, grinning.

"Something to help you find your way?"

"That's what he said."

Oh, Elliot's got it bad. Giving a woman jewelry before he's ever even got her in the sack? The sentiment behind it is so plain he wants to laugh; how can Olivia believe, even for a second, that Elliot doesn't want her?

"Maybe you should follow it, then," he says. "I don't know what made you come out tonight -" and privately he thinks he doesn't want to know, doesn't want to know what sorrow, what grief, pushed Olivia to this point - "but the next time you feel that way, I think maybe you oughta call him, sweetheart."

"Maybe I will," she says, and as she speaks she looks out the window, and Randall does, too, looks and sees his brother marching across the empty parking lot with his hands full of water bottles and candy.

Looks, and sees something different, for perhaps the very first time. Usually when he looks at Elliot he sees the same gangly sixteen year old he wanted to beat to a pulp with his fists, a boy with a smart mouth who escaped Pop's wrath more often than Randall did, that kid who was good at everything he touched; drawing, football, guitar, girls, church, Elliot was good at all of it, and everybody loved him, and Randall just got hit and chewed out for not being any good at all. It never seemed fair, when they were kids, but they haven't been kids for a long, long time, and he understands Elliot better now than he ever did before. He looks at his brother, and he sees the guy who shows up. The guy who showed up for his girl when she was seventeen and pregnant and scared, the guy who showed up for his kids - if perhaps not as often as they needed him to - the guy who shows up for his friends when they're in peril. A man of duty, and of honor, a man who cares.

Shit, Randall's getting sentimental in his own age.

In the backseat Olivia hurriedly does up the buttons on her blouse, and when Elliot crashes into the driver's seat she looks almost presentable.

"Here," Elliot says, passing her a bottle of water. "Drink this."

"Thank you," she says, and Randall could swear she bats her eyelashes as she speaks.

There's a bottle of water and some Reese's for Randall, too, and as Olivia drinks gratefully Elliot pours a few pills out of a bottle, and then passes them back to her, and she takes them without a word of complaint.

"Everything ok in here?" Elliot asks him grimly.

"Yeah, we were just getting to know each other. That's a hell of a woman, my friend."

Elliot's eyes flash to the rearview, seeking out Olivia's face once more.

"Don't I know it," he says.

Olivia's asleep about five seconds after they pull out of the gas station, and for most of the drive Randall just sits quietly next to his brother, thinking. There's things he knows now that Elliot doesn't, but he also knows it's not his place to spill the beans. The secrets Olivia carries are hers and hers alone, and it has to be her decision, when to tell Elliot, how much to tell him. But Randall doesn't trust either of them to do this on their own; Olivia had to get drunk out of her mind before she was willing to make her confession to him. How much harder will it be for her to talk to Elliot? Can she even talk to Elliot, sober and clear headed? What happens if she doesn't?

"Can I tell you something, man?" Randalls pipes up finally. They're only about two minutes from Elliot's apartment; it feels like it's now or never.

"Sure."

"That woman wants you bad."

Elliot immediately scoffs, like it's the stupidest thing he's ever heard. But why should it be? He's the one the bartender called to rescue her tonight - though Randall still doesn't know how that happened, how the kid got hold of her phone, how he knew to call Elliot - and Elliot's the one who bought her that pretty necklace; he's gotta know there's something between them, something that looks an awful lot like love. Olivia said it was love but she's also drunk, so. Grain of salt.

"But she's scared," Randall continues relentlessly.

"You think I don't know that?"

Well, shit. Yeah, Randall thought he didn't know, thought he was doing his brother a favor by telling him.

"I'm just saying, don't give up on her. She's coming around."

"She tell you that?" Elliot asks incredulously. He knows his woman well, and he can't believe she'd just come out and say something like that, and he's right.

"Not in so many words."

"Right." Elliot sucks his cheek between his teeth like he's getting grumpy again.

"She thinks you think she's weak."

It's a fucked up little game of telephone, translating Olivia's drunken ramblings into a message for his brother, and it makes his teeth itch talking around the truth like this, but he means to prove he's worthy of Olivia's trust, and that means he has to be careful.

"That's the last thing she is," Elliot says softly.

"Well, just… maybe just give her a reason to believe it."

How Elliot's supposed to do that Randall's not really sure, but it's the best advice he can give under the circumstances.

"I really don't wanna talk to you about her anymore," Elliot grumbles. They've arrived at his apartment, and he parks the car, turns to look at his brother in the darkness that's settled over them. Christ, he looks tired.

"I'll stay out of it," Randall lies, holding his hands up in a gesture of defeat. "Just…if you don't want her, can I have her?"

"Fuck off," Elliot tells him, grinning. "She's mine."

Yeah, Randall thinks. She is.

They step out of the car together; Elliot tosses Randall the keys and then he eases the back door of the car open, careful not to let Olivia spill out of it. He gathers her once more into his arms and she flings her arms weakly around his neck, mostly still asleep. She nuzzles her face into the side of his neck and Elliot looks down at her with an expression of such gentle affection that Randall is forced to look away, can't face it head on. Instead he picks out the housekey and leads the way into the apartment, Elliot following along behind him with Olivia secure in his arms.

They pause just inside the front door; it looks like Elliot's trying to decide where to put her down, but before he can make up his mind her head jerks up and her eyes snap open in alarm.

"Gonna hurl," she gasps.

"I got you," Elliot says, and then he rushes across the apartment and into the bathroom, gets her settled on her knees in front of the toilet just in time for her to heave the contents of her stomach into it. While she pukes he holds her hair back from her face with one hand, runs the other soothingly over her back.

Better him than me, Randall thinks, making his way to the couch, flopping down there with a sigh and stretching out on his back. He's tired down to his bones, and he winces every time he hears Olivia retch. She's in for a rough night, but at least she's got someone to take care of her. Someone to watch over her. Maybe she doesn't want to admit that she needs that, maybe she thinks it makes her weak, but Randall knows the truth, and the truth is that everybody, him, her, Elliot, everybody, needs somebody. No one can make it through life alone, not really, and he's glad they have each other.

It's too late and he's too tired to try to make it home tonight. He intends to sleep right here on Elliot's sofa, and how Elliot and Olivia pass the night is their business. But maybe they can all go out for breakfast in the morning. Yeah, he thinks. That'd be good. Strong black coffee and pancakes, and maybe when Olivia's got some carbs in her belly she'll perk up enough to tell him some funny stories about his brother.

Maybe they'll be all right. Shit, he really hopes they'll be all right.