Author's Note: It all began with several circular conversations that amounted to this: "You should try second person! It makes it easier to get into the character's head!" "No, I can't/don't want to." "Do it! I challenge you!" "I will if you give me a prompt." etc…and here we are. So I kindly thank my dear Twitter/ff . net friends, Miss cheertennis12 and Miss lucyspencer for encouraging this new experience, and for generally being awesome. Cheerio was the one who pushed me to do this, and Lucio was the one who did the whole second person perspective thing in the first place.

The exact prompt, as per cheertennis12, went: "Bensidy. Second person (either Liv or Brian) right after they leave the precinct in SB." (Spoiler alert: I cheated slightly. ;) ) So this is for you, and I hope it's not a disappointment. If anyone has issues with second person perspective, take it up with her. :P If you have issues with my writing, take it up with me. And please, please let me know what you think, because let's face it, who doesn't love attention? Any line will make me happy.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not the franchise, not even the idea for the story this time.

Surrender

The important thing is not to think ahead, ever. It's vital to break things down into baby steps, into setting one foot in front of the other, because otherwise, this weight will crush you. So you focus on the next best thing, like opening the door for her and making sure there are no reporters around the back exit.

"I've pulled the car around." Verbalising the next step provides structure, although she doesn't acknowledge it. Her mind might still be on that awful walk she had to do just now with everyone's sympathetic eyes on her – or not, you really don't have a clue. All you know is that she doesn't want their pity, to be a victim in their eyes.

At this point, your perception is pretty disjointed as the world has dissolved into a string of meaningless details. The overcast day, the sound of sirens, the way the flag flaps in the wind as the metal pole rattles, none of it actually comes together to form a coherent whole. You are like a kid counting the cracks in the sidewalk for no reason. The details are something to cling to, like flotation devices. You watch her walking with purpose in front of you, her shoulders slumped, and you can't quite believe that she is here again, that you were just in this building together with the world turned on its head.

Your life as you knew it up until a week ago is over. You mentally curse yourself for the thought, because she wouldn't want you to believe that, since it implies that you think less of her now, that she is somehow damaged. You are not allowed to think that. She is strong; she will be…fine? How can you ever be "fine" after going through something like this? But people survive hell, and it's something that has always amazed you. She is alive, that is the main thing, and you will never, ever lose her again. In time, she has to be a shred of okay after her…after her… Your brain avoids the ugly words, the ones like "rape", "torture", "assault", "abduction". You try to steer clear of "what ifs", too, and the weight of guilt that they imply. Because if you had kept your promise, if you hadn't bailed on her the one night you knew she had to be upset over this case… Stop. This is your reality now, and you can do nothing to rewind it. This is not about you, and being a self-involved asshole won't change a thing. All you can do is put one foot in front of the other.

Up until this morning, you were holding up all right, holding it together for her sake and simply grateful to have her back, which is basically a miracle. You were determined to be the most supportive boyfriend ever, and you knew that she could get through this, because she is the strongest person you have ever known. Because she survived this, and you can't even start thinking about it, about the implications of the broken bones, the cuts, the bruises, the burns worst of all and whatever else you haven't seen. You've been confronted with your fair share of broken bodies in the line of duty, but this isn't a body, this is her, and the first time you grasped what any of this meant was when someone had told you that this wasn't a case you could jump in on because you were "involved with the victim". That one phrase made it real. But even so, in your head, the terror never extended beyond the possibility of never seeing her again.

It's only now, while she has been giving her statement actually, that it is starting to sink in. You had too much time to think while she was in there for an eternity, reliving hell, and you were stuck on the outside with the tension so thick you could have cut the air with a knife. It was never a good idea to ask questions, but you were unable to stop yourself now that she was out of immediate danger. So once ten minutes went by, twenty minutes went by, an hour went by, with you pacing around and sitting in a swivel chair as Rollins and Amaro pretended to work, starting at their computer screens with a blank expression on their faces, once Fin exclaimed that he had to "get out of here" for a minute and Munch went after him, you finally opened your mouth. It took a moment until more than hot air came out. "Amaro?"

His head snapped to attention as if you had just fired a gun right beside him. "Yes?"

Immediately, all eyes were on the two of you, because it wasn't like anyone was actually getting anything done. You lowered your voice, rolling closer to the detective's desk. He was her partner. He had called you from the crime scene. He knew more than you did. "What did you find…at the beach house?"

Nick gave you a cold look, his jaw tensing up. "That's confidential. You're not…" He softened slightly. "…you're…personally involved."

And he wasn't?! His eyes wandered to the Captain's office for a moment, and you knew that he would never betray her confidence, and that you would always be on the outside looking in. In a way, it almost made you respect him.

"I know, man, but what…was she…" You didn't even know what you were asking at this point.

"What do you think?" He got up abruptly, causing his chair to bump into the desk behind him, and walked away briskly.

You were left behind with a concerned looking blonde, who was clearly debating if she should go after him. "Shouldn't have asked" she muttered at her desk.

You refocused your attention on Rollins, because she seemed like the kind of person you could actually talk to. You recalled the way she faltered while describing Lewis' M.O., and you knew that she had studied every little detail, down to when Lewis preferred to use tape and when cable binders. "What happened at that house?" You weren't expecting an answer at this point, but it was the way her expression changed that gave her away.

"You don't wanna know."

That was the moment, that and there, when things changed for you, especially once Olivia agreed to stay at your place. Because now, it's just you and her with no one else around, and things will never, ever be the same again. This is the first day "after", an after that will stretch on into all eternity. Now, it is the two of you, with you walking three steps behind her because you are afraid to freak her out otherwise. You clearly have no clue what you're doing, and she can't be expected to tell you what to do. "Lost" doesn't even begin to describe it.

You don't know how you get into the car, because after days without sleep and sitting at the hospital all night, everything is a daze. All you know is that you are terrified of being swamped by reporters and having to enter into some kind of car chase with them, which you definitely couldn't handle right now. The radio comes on automatically and you switch it off, because she doesn't need to hear the news right now. She is sitting limply, utterly exhausted and gazing down at her broken wrist. She flinches as you start the car, and you instantly hate yourself for it, but you have to get going, to go on. You keep glancing over at her as she is still fixated on her wrist. Her face contorts slightly, giving her mouth a twisted expression, and it's the first time you've seen her express anything since that time last night when you woke up to find her crying, her body shaking with sobs that she was trying to hold back so much she couldn't breathe. You brushed her wet hair back from her face, but she flinched at your touch, too, so you held back after that, murmuring empty reassurances. Yet still, even that pain was better than this numbness, where it's as if there is nothing left to feel in the world. The grimace leaves her face in a fleeting instant, and it is smooth again, just like that.

"I'm so sorry" you mumble as you reach a red light.

"Don't…not now."

"Okay." Anything is okay, because shit, you nearly lost her and you know what that means now. You have felt the burn in your stomach, that hole that was her potential absence forever. You know you love her, but love is defined in negative spaces now, in terms of the amount of pain you feel at her pain, in terms of needing her.

You will keep your promise.

Somehow, you manage to make your way to your apartment without a tail, avoiding the route that leads too close to her place, her crime scene. You get out of the car to open the passenger door for her, and she lets you. "Do you need anything?" You indicate the small shop across the street, because you're not sure what the protocol is here. You are clearly supposed to get the bare necessities for her, and she needs to rest, but you also can't leave her alone, so how is this going to work? You mentally scan your apartment, but all your overtired brain can think of is shampoo and you have that, even her weird fancy stuff.

She makes it easy for you by shaking her head.

Inside, you press the button of the elevator, and she visibly freezes. Fuck. You remember her odd choice to take the stairs at the precinct, but you live on the tenth floor and she isn't exactly in great shape. You doubt you could carry her all the way up there, but you're willing to try if-

"It's fine" she says, her eyes fixated on the little numbers that light up one by one. The doors part, and you let her get in first, making sure you're not fully blocking the door. You've never noticed just how tiny that elevator is with its metal walls and glaring light. The second the doors close, you see a flicker of panic in her eyes as she presses her lips together to stop her jaw from shaking.

"It's okay" you say quietly, "it'll be over in a moment." You hold out your hand for her to squeeze if she wants to, but she doesn't take it.

Beads of sweat begin to form on her forehead and upper lip, and since when does this elevator ride take a fucking eternity? The moment the doors finally open, she stumbles out, breathing heavily and leaning against the wall while holding her side.

"Hey…" You stand around helplessly, raising your hand to touch her, then dropping it, then raising it again and stopping in mid-air. "Can I…?"

She gives a curt, affirmative nod, and you touch her shoulder gently where you know she isn't injured, until she surprises you by leaning forward. Your heart skips a beat as her forehead comes to rest against your chest, her hand on your waist, clutching your shirt. It's the most intimate, the scariest moment you have ever shared, because you both can't see a way forward from here, not when a simple car and elevator ride have become most gigantic hurdles fraught with complications. Your hand has settled on her upper back –lightly, lightly- and you both stand there in the corridor for a moment, because your feet are like lead and taking just one more step seems impossible.

"You've made it this far, Liv" you whisper into her hair. "The hardest part is over. We'll get through this."

She shudders and pulls back, and you have no idea what you've done, but it's not good. You suppose this is what your life will be from now on, reading her non-verbal cues and creating a mental notebook of rules. You have no idea how you'll do it, since you couldn't even handle special victims when they were strangers, and you've never coped too well with Ganzel's underage, trafficked or abused girls and the horror of being unable to help them. This is Liv, and she's always been the strong one. Always. Seeing her like this is terrifying.

You finally make your way to the door, fumbling with your keys unnecessarily, and once you actually manage to open it, you turn on all the lights in the appartment even though it isn't dark yet. That only makes it worse, though. You bite your lip, staring at the mess in front of you. You haven't been home in days, crashing at the cribs at your work instead whenever they told you to leave the 1-6, because sitting around your empty apartment with reminders of her was too much. Now, you feel like you have entered a museum from a previous era, the preserved, frozen version of your life before. It's like an exhibition designed to make you say "ah, so this is what people did back in the day", because it's about as foreign as that and oddly trivial. Papers are strewn around everywhere, a mixture of business and personal, there is a laundry basket of clean but unfolded clothes sitting next to the couch, and an empty coffee mug on the table with a dried rim of spilled liquid next to it. The place needs air.

"I'm sorry. I haven't been…home."

The mess doesn't even seem to register with her, but she looks like she's about to throw up, so you decide to usher her over to the sofa to sit down, sweeping some papers to one side. You run one hand down your face, debating your next move. You are probably supposed to sleep out here, right?

"You want some water?" you ask, hoping she'll say yes because you need to do something for her.

"No. Thanks."

"Are you hungry?" It's the wrong question, you realise as soon as the words leave your mouth, because she's not going to feel like eating, but that doesn't mean she shouldn't eat at some point. Not that you have any food besides cereal, and not that you have ever been able to persuade her to do anything she doesn't want to do…

She shakes her head weakly, staring at the coffee table with a vacant expression. It's that haunted look, the way the life is gone, that frightens you the most.

"Okay. I'll just go change the sheets for you, so you can rest if you want-"

She gets up without a warning and walks over to the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her.

"-to" you finish.

"Trauma is a complex process" Google says. "Supporting a loved one can be difficult. You may find yourself the target of anger and grief, and this may leave you feeling upset, angry or helpless. Remember that this is not about you. Do not pressure her. Respect her boundaries and avoid taking over. Be patient. Be consistent."

"Immediate reactions to sexual assault can range from expressed anxiety and anger to detachment and very controlled behaviour" the old handbook with the stained paper used to say. "Do not expect victims of sexual assault to behave in a certain stereotypical manner during the initial interview. Frequently, they will not disclose the full sequence of events in an orderly manner. They may feel ashamed, or their memory may be fragmented or too overwhelming to put into words. It is advisable to give them room to tell the story in their old time, allowing them to amend their statements, rather than asking probing questions."

"Just be there for her" Munch says. "Whatever is going on between you to, be there for her now. She won't admit it, but she needs our support. You can do this, kid. You gotta."

When she doesn't come out after five minutes, you find yourself beside the bathroom door, listening. You can hear the sound of running water, but that may be a cover. "Liv?" You knock. No answer comes. "You okay?" Obviously not. You want to go in, to make sure she hasn't collapsed on the bathroom floor, but that would be intruding on her space, a definite no go. It would be another violation. Because you are now one of these people, these men who violate.

So how long do you wait? Ten minutes? An hour? A year? Forever?

You don't know. You never will.