She awakens to her world spinning. She knows that her eyes are closed because her world is black as night, but her brain is doing a sickening whirlwind, like she's boarded a carousel that is going a hundred miles an hour and is unable to get off the ride, because her body feels like a useless sack of potatoes and won't move, even if her mind commands for it to do so. She'd rub her eyes and shake her head to clear the nauseating vertigo, but that would require the ability to function like a normal human being. Right now, her muscles are essentially the equivalent to Jell-O and she cannot for the life of her remember why she feels like this.

What went on last night? What the hell did I do and why did I let myself get black-out drunk? She wracks her brain, sifting through the dense fog infiltrating her usually eidetic memory, trying and failing to recall the events of the previous night while squeezing her eyelids together to ward off the increasing sunlight creeping into her face. Too much thought seems to set the hangover jackhammers off in her brain. Too much thinking.

She feels another bout of sickness roll over her in waves, stealing her breath from her and causing her body to break out into a cold sweat. Her face washes over in icy panic. She knows she'll be head first into a toilet bowl if she is not careful and doesn't stay still. Turning her head, moving her arms, hell, opening her eyes will bring whatever still resides inside of her to the back of her throat and then it'll just be over from there. But even if she doesn't move, the inevitable will indeed happen on its own, and she may just end up hurling over her shoulder and onto the ground next to her. Can't let that happen.

Olivia attempts to move herself to her left side, but can't get her body in motion. She sighs in order to distract herself and swallows some of the nausea down, opening her eyes a crack. The light is like a hot, searing knife slicing into her skull. Every single part of her body is sluggish, sore, wobbly. She moans and slaps a hand to her forehead, cursing the devil liquor. She should know better.

Fate is tempted; she feels bile bubbling to the surface of her esophagus. She needs to move now or she will spew everywhere. It is not going to be down the front of her or in her general vicinity where she will have to mop up her own puke afterward. Nothing worse than cleaning up vomit when hung-over. She's not usually a sympathy puker, but she's never really tested that theory after a wild night involving drinking to a stupor.

She turns to her back and an arm-like dead weight shifts with her movement. She is suddenly struck with the realization of her physical state. I'm naked. And who the hell is next to me? Her eyes shoot open despite the pounding headache and she dizzily stares at the fingers draped over the curve of her bare waist. The hand limply hanging over her body is immediately recognized. The same long fingers, closely clipped nails, battle-worn knuckles, and blond-colored hair dusting over the top of the hand and adjoined forearm. These are the same hands she has watched for years peck away at desktop keyboards, pummel locker doors, and sometimes aggressively grab at suspects when the need arises. They are capable of such tenderness and violence, and here they are, draped over her.

This is not happening. What the fuck. Olivia's desperate need for a toilet is renewed with this horrifically forceful, sudden insight. She is lying next to the same man she has been too afraid to even fantasize about in privacy without feeling ashamed of herself for even insinuating a scenario involving the disruption of his tenuous marriage, or ripping apart her precinct over the intrigue and unending gossip. Submitting to the awful stereotype that partners of the opposite sex cannot keep themselves from going there. Here it lay, unfolding before her like some startlingly realistic dream—nightmare, actually—where she is the temptress seducing him into her bed.

But she can't even recall how they have wound up in this situation. She picks up the limp arm with her right hand, briefly enjoying the warmth and striking familiarity of the lifeless limb, and tosses it backward. She ignores the disarrayed unsteadiness of her movements and the lethargy that threatens to turn her into a mess of quivering limbs on the ground, then pushes to herself clumsily to her feet and stumbles to one of three available doors.

The room is completely foreign, but her physical state screams for her to ignore this. She'll deal with it when she isn't going to choke on her internal organs.

She thrusts the door open, and is only mildly surprised by the walk-in closet before her. Olivia only stares for a couple seconds before viscous fluids flood into her mouth, alerting her of the inescapable consequence of heavy inebriation, and she vaults herself toward the door farthest left. She nearly trips over an ottoman in her zeal, but is filled with relief at the sight of the bathroom before her and she scrambles across the tiled floor, sinks down in front of the porcelain toilet, wrenches open the wooden lid and is able to find release for the sickness that she had woken up with. Her insides roll painfully as she retches, and she is shocked at the intensity in which she vomits. Her eyes and nose water uncontrollably and her diaphragm spasms as she coughs, gags, and spits miserably.

Finally after what seems hours of heaving, she sinks back when she feels confident that the bout is over; her naked rear meets the backs of her feet. Olivia does not care that she is clinging for dear life to some strange toilet, completely nude, and refuses to think about the man who is clearly still passed out in the bed regardless of all of the ruckus she's made.

She finds herself nodding off with her cheek nestled on the toilet seat, but starts upright when she remembers the mess inside and finally reaches above her head to flush and closes the lid. Olivia pulls herself up with the help of the counter next to her and she grimaces at the sight of her body in the large mirror.

The glass extends from the far side of the wall by the door to the end of the counter just before it drops off to the small hidden place for the toilet, and is tall enough for her to view her entire body from about head to hip. Her dark hair is unkempt and stringy, her make-up is smudged, lipstick completely absent, her normally olive skin washed out. She has finger-shaped bruises around both of her arms, and at least four or five bite marks on her shoulders and her breasts. She stares at her dumbfounded expression, and then notices her hands are dirty and that she has dried blood underneath her fingernails. She shudders and has to brace herself against the counter. She ignores the cold marble against the warmth of her flesh, concentrating more on the sticky feeling between her legs and the accompanying soreness.

She feels a strong wooziness when her stumbling brain finally catches up and puts two and two together, but she shoves the growing sensation away to face the man who has apparently had his way with her—spent the night with her in something she always imagined as passionate but caring, not aggressive or rough, as evidence of her bodily wounds. She wants to be astounded, wants to be morally outraged, but for some reason none of this seems out of character for them.

Olivia opens the door and stares at the bed with her partner draped across the mattress in the same manner in which she left him—slumped untidily and dead to the world. His face is buried in the lush pillows, hardly visible in the plush white extravagance, and his arm that had been slung over her waist is still lying in a heap against the bed. She feels a little ashamed of the righteous anger she'd been consumed with when first viewing the damage done to her body. He shares some of the same types of wounds himself, so clearly he'd taken his own lumps. He has crescent shaped cuts and blue-tinted bruises sprinkled down his shoulders, and she's pretty sure those are hickeys on the side of his neck.

She swallows hard, every joint and bone screaming in protest at her in chorus with her pounding head. How embarrassing.

Olivia lowers onto the bed, grimacing at the small movements, loathing how stupid she clearly was the night before. She feels old, too old to be acting this reckless, no less with Elliot, who she has worked side-by-side with for so many years without extending beyond a platonic level. Until now. She glances down at his other hand lying open just enough so that the gold of his wedding band glints off the sunlight. It makes her middle clench, which is definitely not what she needs when her stomach is precariously holding on for dear life as it is.

How had the two of them let it come to this? Olivia palms her forehead, swiping away the fine strands at the front of her hairline. She closes her eyes and tries to recall the previous night, but nothing surfaces. Judging by the condition of their bodies, it must've been one for the books. She's sure it was great, but it's quite ironic that she'd had mind blowing sex with the man she's dreamt about for years and is unable to recall any of it.

Pity.

Kathy Stabler's face enters her mind and she grimaces at the guilt that is a slow growing burn that begins in her spine and continues to climb upward until she feels it in her throat. This is guilt, she's sure. There is a line, and she always promised herself—and the city of New York—that she would never, ever cross it. Marriage, especially his marriage, was sacred. That one truly honest thing in her life that represented peace and happiness. And she had placed herself right smack-dab in the middle of his family and soiled it.

She does not let the remorse set in too long, since she is still confused by the situation she is in. She lets her eyes wander around the sunlit room, noticing perhaps for the first time that the space is completely alien to her. This is not Elliot's apartment, or some seedy, rent by the hour hotel. There's personal items, like a picture frame with strange, smiling faces in it and a few dry cleaning bags draped over a recliner in the opposite corner.

Where the hell are they? Why is her mind so fuzzy and why does she feel like she has fucked a jackhammer? Could it be that they had done such a thing?

Olivia turns her attention to Elliot who remains virtually comatose and ignores how her vision dances crazily with the shift of her head. She reaches out with a weak hand to poke at his motionless form. She pushes at his well-muscled bicep until she hears a disgruntled mumble filter through the bed sheets. He ceases to move or make a noise after a few seconds, so she yanks away the pillows, causing his head to flop lifelessly against the mattress. The irritation that creeps up at the base of her skull makes her feel more like herself. How can the bastard continue to sleep?

"Elliot," she says, wincing immediately at how meek it sounds. She pokes at his arm again, and then waits for a reaction. His eyebrows dart into a frown, forming a crease down the center of his forehead, but he does nothing afterward. Olivia clears her throat and tries his name again. "Elliot!" It sounds stronger, which is much more satisfying. She moves closer to his sprawled form and taps at his cheek, then cups his jaw and wiggles his head back and forth to stimulate him into wakefulness. She peels back an eyelid when all else fails and he finally reacts by wrenching his head away.

The moan that escapes is incoherent and pitiable. His face changes and she can't help but feel sympathy consume her when he grimaces and the color drains from the skin of his face. Olivia imagines that he probably feels about the same as she does at the moment.

"Come on, El," she says, her hand unconsciously rubbing circles into his shoulder blade. "Let's get you to the bathroom."

First thing she needs to do is find their clothes, because she is not going to drag the man out of this bed in the nude.

Olivia glances around for her clothing, but the floor is surprisingly free of any that had been hastily tossed about during what she assumes was a drunken, frantic scramble to be rid of her outfit. The comforter will have to suffice. She stands on unsteady feet and wraps the blanket around herself. Her partner's body is only covered underneath the bed sheet to hip level, and she forces her eyes away from the bare flesh. Her face feels hot and cold at the same time, and a heat rises inside of her in spite of it all.

Even in her condition, she has to practically drag him off of the bed, and he is no help whatsoever. His movements are slow and weak, and he does not say a word, probably for fear of getting sick in front of her.

Apparently, he drank far more than she had, because he has no coordination in his arms and legs, and can only open his eyes a crack. He leans into her frame heavily and she can feel him trembling with exertion. He does not seem to acknowledge that he is naked as the day he was born either. She staggers under his weight, but manages to haul him into the bathroom, then deposits him in front of the toilet. The smell that clings to the air from the previous bout of sickness makes her feel ill again, so she turns as quickly as possible back to the room, but not before closing the door. She pauses and hears his forceful retching and knows that if she sits for a minute longer concentrating on the sound, she'll be doing the same. She supposes she probably is indeed a sympathy puker.

Olivia focuses on the task of finding her clothes, but she cannot see anything on the ground, nothing hanging off of the lavish furniture that surrounds them except the dry cleaning bags, nothing in the closet except a stranger's wardrobe. She casts a wary look at the door she has not opened yet, wondering if she should take her chances and check it out, but she decides she should at least wait until her partner is done throwing up his spleen.

She finally decides that she stands a better chance having Elliot at her side, even in the condition that they are in. A shoddily wrapped comforter will have to suffice.

She hears the toilet flush, and a barely audible voice escapes through the crack in the door. "Liv?" He coughs.

Olivia pushes open the door slightly, feeling awkward and unusually shy at the sight of his form keeled over the toilet bowl. He is covering himself, but looks completely miserable and defeated, and the porcelain appears to be holding all of him up. Tiptoeing through the doorway, she drapes the thin white sheet around him, and he looks up at her through narrowed eyes with a combination of gratefulness and disbelief.

"Thanks," he says, swathing the linen around himself, and then dropping his forehead to his available hand. "What happened?"

She leans into the counter, grateful for the barrier the comforter gives her from the cold surface. "I don't really know."

Elliot moves his head carefully, surveying the room, realizing possibly for the first time that it is unfamiliar. "Where are we?"

She shrugs. "Couldn't tell you that either." Their eyes meet, and he lets his gaze fall on the wounds that peek out from underneath the blanket.

"Is that what I think it is—" he starts, but she cuts him off abruptly.

"Yes."

"Is it from—"

"Yes, Elliot."

He squeezes his eyes shut, covering them with his hand again. "Oh, my God." When he looks back up at her, she notices that his eyes are bloodshot and he's starting to look a little green again. "Think you can get me my clothes?"

She chuckles humorlessly, and his head snaps up in astonishment, but he falters when he is overcome with dizziness. "I don't even know where our clothes are." She pulls the comforter tighter around herself. "Think you can get up and help me find them without puking?"

He shakes his head in derision, but lurches carefully to his feet, gripping the edge of the counter for support and stumbling briefly until he finds better stability. "What the hell did we do last night?"

Olivia creeps over to the unopened door, dragging the king-sized blanket across the ground. "Jesus, El. I think that much is obvious."

He scoffs, looking wounded for a short moment. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure I figured that one out myself."

She sucks in a deep breath as she twists the knob, her police instincts firing on all cylinders. He positions himself at her side, readying for any kind of action, and she almost snickers at how ridiculous they must look. She swings the door open, and then peers down the darkened hall both ways before shaking her head at him silently to let him know she sees nothing.

At least they know that they are in someone's house. Whose house it is remains to be seen.