It had been several hours since he'd been told about it, and he was still in a daze, not entirely sure this wasn't all a dream. A nightmare. Never before had he been this affected by a crime scene. He was haunted by it, in the way he imagined most civilians reacted to seeing the ordinary crime scenes he saw every day. Now he got it.

It was because of the blood. So much blood. Not just anyone's. Hers. Hers!

They'd been led there by a uni, a rookie from Staten Island. The police tape had already been put up, but nothing else had been touched. It was impossible to keep the officers from New York from buzzing among themselves that the victim was a fellow cop; one of their own, in fact. But, to their credit, they did try to show respect – at least in front of him and Fin. But ultimately, he observed, they were treating it like any other crime scene. Like professionals. Which had shocked him. Which had pissed him off. And his shock had, in turn, shocked him.

When the call from Cragen had come, his first thought had been, how could Elliot let this happen? It had been immediately followed by, Elliot's going to spend the rest of his life asking himself how he could let this happen.

And so he'd arrived knowing that his colleague, his friend, the only person capable of making him think good things about the world – truthfully, she was his favorite person – had been viciously attacked. That three men had overpowered her and beaten her and forced themselves on her. He'd been told that her injuries were severe, that she'd been beaten very badly, that she nearly hadn't made it. That she'd nearly died in Elliot's arms.

The details in Cragen's briefing had been scant; partly because his boss had gotten choked up past the first sentence, and partly because Cragen had wanted him and his partner on their way sooner rather than later.

A part of him wanted to comb every inch of this scene like he'd never done before. Get every last hair, every last skin cell these bastards might have left behind. And a part of him didn't. A part of him wanted to go with the facts as they knew them. Because for the first time in his life, he was scared of finding additional evidence. Evidence that even more might have happened to her. Proof that her version wasn't the complete story.

Because in his experience, it almost never was.

He'd known the instant he'd laid eyes on that scene that it must have been brutal. It wasn't the bloody sweatpants, nor was it the sheer quantity of blood that stained the earth over a radius of several square yards. It was the marks in the soft soil. He'd been doing his job long enough to know what those indentations meant. Over near the fire, for example, was where she'd been on her back. And over by the tree was where she'd lain on her side. And there, a few feet away, was where she'd been on her knees. And back on the opposite side of the campfire was where she'd been crawling.

She was one of the few women whom he respected intellectually. One of the few with whom he couldn't get away with pedantically referencing an obscure work of literature in the hopes that the lack of context would go unnoticed by his more pedestrian audience. She was the only one who knew exactly when he was full of shit, and would call him on it every time. He didn't even think she was that voracious a reader, at least not nowadays. Which, ironically, impressed him even more. That she was so sharp, yet so unpretentious at the same time. That she could rattle off Rimbaud off the top of her head, and in the next breath shamelessly mention something she'd read in People. And five minutes after that, get a rapist to confess.

She was the main reason he hadn't remarried. But not because he was in love with her romantically – he loved her as a friend, as a fellow human being – rather, she was living proof intelligence of the quality and caliber he needed could exist in a beautiful woman. In the past, each time he'd married, he'd known deep down that it wouldn't work out, that his lack of respect for his bride's intelligence would eventually doom things. But he'd gone through with it anyway, because he'd had no reason to believe it could be better. But ever since she'd entered the unit, there'd been no way to deny it: perfection in a woman did exist, and unless he met another woman who could measure up to her – and lightning rarely struck twice – he was going to stay single.

It had been a running joke in the squad for years how madly in love Elliot was with his partner. There wasn't a person at the precinct, down to the mail clerk who only worked on Mondays, who hadn't noticed it. It was painted on his face every day. Everyone knew it, but nobody dared mention it, out of respect for Kathy, for the sanctity of their marriage. But only he – and, possibly Cragen, who was in no position to voice his thoughts – could see that she loved him back. And so after the divorce, it was he, Munch, who had encouraged Elliot to pursue her. But Elliot had demurred; she was his partner, his best friend. And surely she wasn't interested. She was too independent.

But she loves you, he'd said.

You don't know what you're talking about, Elliot had scoffed. She could have anyone she wants; why would she choose me? I'm a failed husband with a mortgage and four kids.

Because you, and only you, can make her happy, he'd said simply.

It had taken a week. Seven days to the hour after their little talk, Elliot had walked into the precinct at 7 a.m. sharp, his gait, his demeanor, completely changed. On his face he wore a beaming smile that he worked – but failed – to suppress. And then, precisely six minutes later, she had. And as they'd gone about settling in around their desks, their lack of interaction practically a choreographed event, Fin had caught his eye.

They finally did it, said his look.

Indeed, he had tried to convey.

And then, as he'd walked by Fin's desk, only he was privy to what his partner had then muttered under his breath: 'Bout time.

He chuckled at the memory. Of his clueless coworker, who'd had googly-eyes for his partner, but had had no insight that she did too, that the restraint she showed was out of respect for him, for his marriage.

As he snapped back to the present, he felt thankful once again to have arrived well after the fact, knowing she had, in the end, survived. He couldn't imagine how it must have been for Elliot to have found her. They'd all done it; found victims. And each and every time it was heart-breaking. But to find her – her – on the ground like that, someone about whom all of them had at some point worried, but whom no one had ever really thought was capable of victimhood. Someone they all respected. Someone they all adored.

But it hadn't been him, or his partner. It had been Elliot. Elliot, who wasn't just her colleague, but also her partner. Elliot, who wasn't just her partner, but also her best friend. Elliot, who wasn't just her best friend, but also her lover. Elliot, who worshipped her in a way that was so beyond their own sense of rational. Elliot, who wore his heart on his sleeve. Who lived for her.

It was he, and not Elliot, who'd been the one to meet her first. She'd emerged from Cragen's office after a brief personal welcome from their boss, who had promptly introduced her to them. The new detective, Elliot's new partner. He recalled how she'd looked at him, thinking for a second that he was Elliot, until his boss had clarified it for her: her new partner was apparently in the men's room. She'd confidently shaken his hand, this non-partner who was easily 20 years her senior, looked him up and down, sized him up, and thrown him a keen, knowing smile that said, I can see nothing impresses you so I'm not gonna even try.

He'd liked that. That had impressed him.

Elliot had emerged a few minutes later, seen the bunch of them standing around the desks, talking to the new person. He'd come up to them and seen her, and everyone had given each other a look. He'd watched Monique try to keep a straight face as Elliot had stood there shaking her hand, his mouth slightly ajar, like he didn't quite believe this was his new partner.

And at that moment, he knew he and Monique were thinking exactly the same thing.

You do realize, Captain, that by putting these two together, you're going to be responsible for the break-up of a marriage.

She'd been more reserved. She hadn't fallen in love with Elliot right away. And she hadn't noticed that Elliot was obsessed with her. But eventually, she'd fallen for her partner too. Perhaps it'd been there all along; perhaps she was the sort of person who couldn't fall for someone unless they were available; perhaps it was that he hadn't been on her radar until he became available. Or, perhaps it simply took her that long. Whatever the pace, however, there was no question about how she felt about him now.

It had become evident sometime during the spring, during that spate of heinous cases, which happened to coincide with Elliot's dark period, that time when he found it challenging not to let loose on every perp, to not vent about Kathy at every turn. Perhaps it was that she'd suddenly seen his vulnerable side, she'd had a chance to see him, to help him, without worrying she was overstepping her bounds, encroaching on his wife's territory.

Who knew. All he did know was that she was the best thing that could've happened to his coworker. Elliot had talked to her in a way he hadn't talked to anyone else. He'd been able to open up to her, and she'd been able to listen. He knew this because he'd periodically walked in on them in the crib, sitting side-by-side on the bunk, talking in low voices. Seen them look up, abruptly terminate their conversation.

And over the span of the summer, Elliot's anger had dissipated. And he'd become … happy.

The way Cragen told it, the attack had been so vicious, it was nothing short of a miracle that she'd survived. And yet he'd driven up thinking to himself that of course she would have survived, because she was so tough, so resilient, so proud, that she would survive if for no other reason than to spite her attackers. And so he hadn't felt surprised or even relieved when Cragen had informed him that she was in the hospital, that she was going to be okay.

That is, until he'd arrived at the scene. And had to marvel at the sheer extent of her fortitude, her grit. What had possibly made her want to survive. Because the second he'd glimpsed that scene, he'd realized that spite alone would not have been enough, that this kind of suffering wouldn't have been worth it. That the only possible explanation was that she'd done it for him.

He'd found the lone piece of wood next to the sweatpants while Fin was checking out the footprints with a uni. Though he'd been briefed on this aspect of the attack, it hit him then that this was her blood, her fluids, that this … thing had been inside her, had violated her in the most savage of ways. And he'd realized that no one could withstand something like this without breaking. That she must have begged for her life. She must have succumbed.

He had studied the piece of wood carefully, for several moments, like he was trying to extract truth from it. And then he'd slipped it into the evidence bag and stood.

During the drive up, he'd pictured visiting her in a hospital bed like she'd been shot. Cragen had come right out and told him she'd been raped, but somehow in his mind he'd envisioned she would be different. Shaken up, probably in some pain, but stoically and perhaps even with a hint of good cheer, asking about the case, complaining of boredom and of the food and of how she wanted to go home.

But this piece of wood had changed everything. This object in his hand meant he could no longer pretend it had been just another injury.

And he'd known, when he came to see her, that she would look like all the others. She would look like a victim.

For the first time since that point on his lap when her lungs had giving out and she'd thought the hell was going to consume her, she wanted to disappear. Not die, per se, like she had in that one terrifying moment by the road, but be anywhere but here, with him, facing him.

Because telling him this part of the story was like giving up a part of herself, like hacking off a limb, like cutting out her core. If this man, not any man, but this man, this man for whom she lived, of whom she thought the world, if he found out about what had been done to her, of what she'd said, duress or no duress, she would no longer be the same person in his eyes. She would be someone who had succumbed, who had submitted. Someone who'd been compromised. Someone who's lost her dignity. And though she knew on a rational level he'd continue to love her, she didn't think she wanted him loving this new her. She thought she might prefer to disappear.

But, as always, as had been the theme all along in this painful saga, she did not have the luxury of such a choice. For she knew that by not telling him, she wouldn't survive either. Because he was a part of her, because she did feel that close to him.

Because the burden of not telling the sole person who was going to help her survive, who had already helped her survive so many times, would be as painful as withholding from him the fact that she loved him.

He held her securely while she spoke. The story was physically painful to tell, and as her voice broke at every juncture, it was like her body was pulling her downwards, towards the floor, bending her face to her knees. And only he was there to hold her up, to give her support. Because she couldn't afford to be moving so much, to be bending. She didn't have the luxury of being emotional. Because her body couldn't handle it.

She told him everything. She'd been inclined to hold back, to just tell him about the oral rape itself, and not about being made to ask for it, being made to say thank-you, about having to do it in front of the other two as they watched, listened, snickered. But she turned, took one look into his eyes, and realized he was right. She needed to unburden herself. She needed to share it with him. She needed to let herself trust him completely, to take that final leap.

He listened. He kept his cheek close to hers, he held her. When she broke down, he rocked her, he soothed her, he encouraged her. And he listened.

It occurred to her that he probably didn't understand why she'd been so reluctant to divulge these particular details, in light of everything else she'd revealed they'd done to her. Which meant, oddly, that he did understand. He understood that what the Fat One had made her say had had nothing to do with who she was, had not compromised her. He wasn't associating it any way with their own lovemaking, with the fact that she'd done almost exactly the same thing to him, uttered those same words to him, less than two hours before her assault. It wasn't even hitting his radar. In his mind, this aspect of the attack, all of it, had been part of the violence, the perversity, the depravity. And the words may have technically come out of her mouth, but they were as meaningless as the earlier ones to him had been meaningful. And as much against her will as the rapes themselves.

Now she just needed to believe it herself.

He knew this was only the beginning. That there were many days, many nights, ahead like this. Of crying, of trembling, of holding. And while it broke his heart to watch her go through this, he was so honored that she'd chosen him. He didn't know what he'd do if she shut him out, if she didn't trust him. It wasn't that he was glad she had no relatives, no spouse, no one else vying for her love, for her trust; rather, there was no one else he would trust to properly help her through this. He couldn't bear the thought of not being the one to be there for her when she needed someone, of never feeling confident that whoever was there would give her the right kind of support, would understand her needs, would treat her with the quality of respect she required, deserved. Would honor her. Would love her.

He wanted so badly to make her understand, to make her feel not just that she was safe now, but also that her story was safe. That it was not at risk of being misunderstood, downplayed, disrespected. That this story, this particular part of the story, symbolized her dignity. And her love for him. Her trust in him. That she was putting her pride, herself, on the line by telling him. Gambling all her emotional chips. Leaving herself as raw, as exposed, as a person could possibly be.

And yet in spite of how draining it had just been for her to tell him, in spite of how hard he'd fought to get her to tell, the floodgates were apparently now opened. She openly wept, relaying the details that so haunted her.

"I begged him, Elliot. I actually … begged!"

"Well of course you did," he said. "Anyone would have."

"I swear, I held out as long as I could. But when they… when he…"

He was saddened by the implication: Why do you talk like you think you let me down?

And also intrigued by how easily her own counseling to others was forgotten when it came to herself.

"Liv, these words meant absolutely nothing," he said. "You were just mechanically pronouncing syllables in order to achieve a goal. Don't you understand? You said them against your will." As she began to shake her head in protest, he sighed, trying to find the right words, that elusive combination of words that would get her to see things as he did. "Look, I understand this instinct to, I don't know, show me, show everyone, that you're as tough as cops are supposed to be. I know you've always craved this … this acceptance, this respect, as a fellow cop. But this is different. You weren't just being beaten, you were being tortured. Tortured. These guys were animals. Anyone – man, woman, Hercules – under the same circumstances, would have said the same things you said."

"Elliot, I'm not even talking about that… part. I even… oh God, when Jake was… doing it. I begged him to stop. I know it should mean nothing, but … I can't let it go."

"Well what did you say?"

"No," she answered in horror, taken aback that he'd even ask. "No, I can't tell you that."

"I'm not asking because I want to judge for myself whether what you said constitutes weakness or something. Is that what you think? Honey, this is haunting you. I want to share it with you."

"I was just … begging them to stop. Groveling. I… I said I'd do… anything. If they would just leave my arm alone."

"You were groveling to save your own life. Your life is worth that. It doesn't mean you have no pride. Is that … is that what you're worried about?"

"I said … I said ..."

"Tell me, it's okay."

"I said I'd … suck them all if Tommy would just let go of my arm."

He didn't dare let himself miss a beat. Took scrupulous care not to let his face react, to register even the hint of shock. Of disappointment. "Of course you said that," he said firmly. "It doesn't mean you wanted to do it. That's what torture is! Getting people to say or do things completely against their will. It's why it's a war crime, for pete's sake. Because nobody can withstand it!" He took a breath, reining himself in, striking a gentler tone. "It must have been excruciating, what they were doing to you, doing with your arm."

She looked relieved. Like she'd been scared he wouldn't understand how an emotionally insignificant body part such as her arm could be used as a weapon against her.

"It was," she replied. "You'd think … it's just an arm, but it just … oh God, it hurt so much." She shook her head. "But now, now when I remember saying it, when I remember saying all of it, I just want to crawl out of my skin. It was the most … humiliating moment of my life."

"I know," he acknowledged quietly. What else could he say?

That was exactly why they did it.

"I can't get the words out of my mind. I wish I hadn't said any of it."

"And what else could you have done?"

"Taken it."

"No, they would've killed you," he said simply.

"They might've just broken my other arm, or – "

"No, they wouldn't have. They wouldn't have stopped there, you know that. They would've just tortured you until you said whatever it was they wanted to hear. And …" He paused, his voice suddenly breaking as his own memory assaulted him, "… the way we found you … I don't think you could've withstood much more."

She nodded. "We tell victims not to resist, but this memory … oh God, this memory … for the sake of my own pride, I wish I would've resisted more."

And I'm so glad you didn't. Why can't you understand that thinking you chose to say these words is about as accurate as thinking you chose to have sex with them?

"Olivia, say, for argument's sake, they would've just broken your other arm. Now, you know they wouldn't have stopped there, that they had complete control over you, so they had no reason to stop there. But okay. Say that's all that would've happened. Would another broken bone — a major one — have been worth it?"

She considered the question. "I don't know."

"Think about it. So you'd be in two casts right now, and you'd feel even more helpless than you already do. And it's not like they were going to give you anesthesia; it wouldn't have been a mercy-breaking, if you will. They were deliberately trying to make it as horrifying an experience as they possibly could for you. All for what? To preserve your image in front of the losers, the scum of the earth? What did you need to prove to them?"

"Nothing."

"Why are you so afraid I'll judge you for this?" he asked quietly.

"I'm not. But I judge myself."

"You know, I've never once seen you judge a victim for things said or done during an assault. I've watched you tell victims who endured a heck of a lot less than you did that nothing they did was their fault, nor did they have any reason to feel ashamed."

"Well it was all a load of crap, then. What the hell did I know?"

"You knew the truth."

"No, I thought I did. But I didn't get it at all. That's what's so insidious about this whole thing. It's not the injuries, and it's not even how it physically… felt. It's the…"

"What?"

"The shame," she whispered, like she was ashamed of being ashamed. She started to cry again. "And I do," she wept, as her voice took on a high-pitched wail, "I feel so ashamed!"

Her shoulders shook as she broke, her body trembling, the sobs infiltrating her, consuming her.

"Shhh … " he soothed. "It's okay, it's okay. It wasn't your fault."

"I let myself down," she whispered.

"How?"

"I've spent my whole life learning how to protect myself and the one time there was a real threat against me, I let my guard down completely. I let myself down."

No, you just didn't have superpowers. Like I didn't.

"… And the worst part of it is, Elliot, is that you're involved. You're … in this now, and you had no choice about it."

My involvement is not the worst part. It's the only good part.

"And you did have a choice? Liv, you can't – "

"Your son found me," she interrupted. "And he … he had to help me. He probably didn't know what to do. He saw me like that, all beat up, all … I couldn't move, I could barely talk. He was probably hoping I'd tell him what to do. But I was so … all I wanted was for him to help me. I knew he was just a kid, that he was scared, but I couldn't help it. And he was just left to figure it out by himself! And now I have to live with that, with what that must have done to him."

"You don't have to live with that. Because it wasn't your fault."

"He was so scared. He told me."

"I know. But he'll be okay."

"Don't just say that. You don't know that."

"I know my son. He's strong."

"He's just a little boy."

"He's okay, Olivia. He is. I'm telling you the truth."

"I wish he hadn't found me."

"If he hadn't, you would've died," he responded simply.

"Maybe that would've been better."

"No, no! You can't say that. Please, whatever the trauma, the heartbreak, the pain is now, we'll work through it together." His eyes filled with tears, as he paused to soften his tone. "But please, sweetheart … you can't talk like that."

"But I … I scarred him forever. How can you forgive me for doing that to your child?"

"You use the word 'forgive' like you did something wrong."

"Still."

"I …" he began, not sure how to express his despair that this was how she felt. Hopeful, though, that on some level, she didn't really believe her own words. "First of all, you're blaming the victim here. This wasn't your fault," he repeated, not sure what else he could say to refute her words. "Secondly, Dickie … Dickie will be okay. He will. He's a strong, intelligent kid. I'm going to watch him. I'm going to be there for him too. He'll have all the help in the world if he needs it."

"I'm so sorry he had to see me like that."

"It was an accident of fate. It should have been me out there looking for you. I should've been the one to find you. Not him. But that wasn't your fault. And I'll make sure he gets through it, I will. But however traumatic it was for him, it's nothing compared to your life."

"I shouldn't have been so brazen. I sat there all alone, feeling invincible, and – "

"It. Wasn't. Your. Fault."

"And … he's your son… and he… he… "

"He is my son and no one's more concerned about his welfare than me. And I'm telling you, he's going to be fine. In fact, the best help he can get is to see you. He adores you. He just wants to see you get better. That'll be help enough for him."

"Are you sure?"

He was struck by the hopefulness in her voice. "Yes."

It's amazing, she really doesn't remember being held down by him. If she did, that's the part she'd focus on. Thank God.

After a few minutes, he felt her muscles relax, and he perceived that the worst of it had passed, that the sobs were dying down, that she was ready to talk again.

"Elliot," she began, "I know, in my head, that it wasn't my fault. I mean you're right – I do this for a living, I understand that. But the problem is, I don't … I don't feel it. I keep coming back to how I didn't turn around when he crept up behind me. I could've prevented all this if I'd just turned around."

"And I could've prevented this if I'd just woken up."

"It's different. You had no reason to wake up. Whereas I was … aware."

"Yeah, you were sitting on a ridge a hundred feet away, with your back to our campsite, and you were aware of someone coming up behind you to surprise you. And you had every reason in the world to believe it was me. If it had been me, it would've ruined the surprise if you'd turned around. Honey, we'd been flirting all day, playing these little games. We'd just made love. We were on vacation. By all rights, it should have been me."

She nodded, the tears abating for the first time in several minutes. "I think that if you and I were watching a rape victim have this conversation with her boyfriend, we would probably fall all over ourselves trying to tell them how wrong it was for either of them to feel guilty. Normal, maybe, but wrong. I never realized how easy it is to fall into that trap. How … natural. You just can't help it. And I do. I feel like I'm partially to blame for this."

"I feel the same way," he said. He sighed, rubbing her shoulders. "I guess it'll just take time. Eventually, it'll click for you. I can't say when that'll be, but I know that it will. You have to cling to that." He paused, kissed her lightly on the cheek. "And until then, I'll be here reminding you. For as long as it takes to get you believing it."