A/N: This was my first attempt at a post-ep, written in June 2009. I appreciate all reviews, especially constructive ones.

And the obligatory disclaimer: these characters are so not mine.

"Words"

It had stung. Not his face. Not his chest, where the blade had dug in and drawn its blood. No, his physical condition was on the far low end of the pain scale compared to everything else. The words had cut deeper than the knife. And, Christ, it was more than the words.

He knew exactly what she was doing and why she was doing it, but that hadn't made it hurt any less. She was a professional and was thinking on her feet and couldn't have defused the situation more expertly than she did and she saved both their asses and he knew that, and thank God she came when she did, but still: there were the words. And there was what she did.

It hurt. If he was being completely honest—if he was taking Huang's advice and expressing raw emotion, even if it made him feel vulnerable—she hurt him. It was everything he always feared she would say. Everything he was afraid she felt and never voiced. That he was too much of a bastard for her to handle anymore, that she'd trade him in in a heartbeat if she had the chance, that somehow he was standing in the way of her happiness. That she really just saw him as this cocky prick who didn't care about her anymore. That he'd screwed up one time too many and she'd just finally stopped trying to give a damn about him.

And he knew they were only words. And he knew they were only the means to his rescue—and that the very fact she was there meant that she didn't mean any of them—but she still said them. They must have been bubbling under the surface somewhere, right? Otherwise how could she have accessed them so quickly? Even she was not that quick-thinking, not that good an actress.

Or maybe she was. His mind suddenly raced back to another night when he'd been in similar physical peril and she had pressed her naked flesh against his to save their hides again. And afterwards, part of him had let himself believe she wasn't only acting. But maybe that had been complete fabrication, in which case she was that quick-thinking, that good at pretending. And in an instant he realized he couldn't have it both ways. Either she hated him or she had never wanted him. If she wasn't that great at acting, it meant she had wanted him on that night months earlier, but it also meant that she sincerely despised and resented him now. And if she was so masterfully deceptive, it meant that she wasn't sick of him yet, but it also meant that she had never wanted anything more from their partnership. He wasn't sure which alternative he liked better, but ultimately he let himself wallow in believing she genuinely resented him because then, at least, he could remember the way she had felt against him that time, and he could let himself believe it had meant something, if only for a moment.

So had she really wanted him to be jealous or not? Had she suspected how much it would hurt him to see her with someone else? And with, of all people, murderous fuckup Dale Stuckey? Because it did hurt. And he wasn't even going to play macho and pretend it didn't affect him. I want him to watch, she had said. And he had watched, and it was like his world stopped. Part of it was jealousy and part of it was utter self-pity and -loathing. Why wasn't he the one beneath her hands, the one whose lips were pressed against hers? It didn't seem right. It didn't seem fair. She would do that with Dale and not with him? He knew it was only a distraction technique, but it worked too well; he had almost missed his own cue, watching her bestow such an honor on one so low. In a decade of knowing her, he'd never once been the recipient of that kind of attention from her... and then there she was, kissing a goddamn perp. The same one who had tied him up and slashed his chest to hell and... God, there was Ryan, too. Ryan was still lying right there. And Olivia was kissing Dale Stuckey.

The thought of it, even now, made his stomach turn. Had she known? Was she really punishing him? It was worse than having been slapped. It was worse than the words. He'd let himself get angry when she was yelling at him, and it had kind of felt good, but when her fingers threaded through Stuckey's hair, all his ire left him. He was the definition of crestfallen. He was broken. His guard fell. Even if Dale didn't kill him, there was no way he was going to survive it if Liv didn't stop. And for one horrific moment, he was afraid Liv had really turned on him. Then suddenly there was her glance, that signal that they were still a team, and his anger and resolve returned, so he kicked Stuckey harder than he thought he could and the rest had been a blur.

It had stung. Not her palm. Not her elbow, which had cracked against Dale's jaw. No, her own physical condition was tops compared to Elliot. And—Jesus—O'Halloran. Fuck that thought for even entering her mind.

She knew exactly what she had to do and why she had to do it, but that hadn't made it hurt any less. She was a professional, and so was he, and even through their ups and downs and little spats and threats and breakups, they were partners who could read each other instantly and she did what she had to do to save him. To maintain Dale's trust and gain control over the situation. And Dale hated Elliot in that moment, so she had to, too.

It hurt. God, did it hurt to say those things. Mostly it hurt because some of it was true. It was all exaggerated, of course, but some of it was real. And she hated herself for taking it out on him then, in that moment. But God did it feel good to hit him. She couldn't lie—it felt good to hit him. There were so many things he had done in the last few years that she had wanted to hit him for doing, but it wouldn't have been appropriate. Dani Beck was one of them. Eli's conception was another. Sometimes he just infuriated her and all she wanted to do was smack him and ask him what the hell he was thinking. But what right did she have to hit him? And sometimes—though she knew in her heart it would never happen—she was afraid that if she ever gave in, he would hit back, that she would break and he would snap, and it would be the end of them both.

And then there was the other reason why it felt good to hit him: it meant her flesh against his. She could probably count on two hands how many times they had ever made skin-to-skin contact. Ten or less times in as many years? Everyone who said they were too close could go fuck themselves. There was nothing close about them, not in that sense. And some days, that was the only way that mattered to her. So today, when she had the opportunity to touch him—to feel the rough skin of his face under her fingers—she took it. It was brief and harsh, but it was intimate.

Her thoughts floated back a few months to the night in the cover apartment when those men burst in and she did the first thing she could think of—and it was stripping down. She had pressed herself against him and cooed to him and clung to him, and she would feel embarrassed about it now if only he hadn't been downright possessive in his hold on her. They had never spoken about that night or the decisions they made in that moment (because, Jesus, when did they ever speak anymore?) but she knew what she was feeling and she imagined from his grip on her that he was feeling something similar, so she refused to be embarrassed.

And thank God for his possessiveness, otherwise she never would have thought of using his jealousy to win Dale over, and she might still be there right now, staring at the bloody chair where she had last seen her partner alive, down twice as many friends and colleagues. She might be there instead of here in the bar, having a silent beer with Elliot and trying to drink away what had happened in that lab. Trying to drink away O'Halloran. He didn't deserve that—to be drunk away—but God help them, they didn't know what else to do.

And then she thought of kissing Dale. Dale Stuckey. What a name. He even sounded like a pest. Like a jackass, like someone who bungled everything. He still had O'Halloran's blood on his hands, and Elliot's, and she had kissed him. She had actually thrown up at the hospital. Elliot had to go for a couple of stitches and to get cleaned up, and while she was in the waiting room preparing her statement, everything suddenly overwhelmed her and she only just barely made it to the ladies' room in time. She wondered how much sleep she would lose over what had happened today, how much of her appetite would go, how many more times she would vomit over the thought of having kissed that fucker, and over what he'd done. And what she'd done—the things she'd said to Elliot, the only-half-true accusations and insults punctuated by her physical assault on him. How could she move past that?

The worst part was when she opened her eyes. The kiss, she had thought, was lasting far too long. She opened her eyes to catch Elliot's gaze and make sure he understood what she expected him to do, but she wasn't prepared for what she saw. He looked positively betrayed.

Was it awful that she would have wanted that reaction in any other scenario? Was it awful that she had sometimes fantasized about ways to make Elliot jealous? Maybe with the tall lieutenant from the 2-9, for instance. Or, you know, Dean Porter. And which made it more awful, the fact that he was her partner and she'd be undermining years of progressive feminism if she fell into the cliché of love with him, or that he was married? One way or the other, she knew she was going to hell. She wanted to imagine Elliot instead of Dale, but she couldn't. It would have been a disservice to her partner, and she knew that if she ever did have the opportunity to feel Elliot's mouth on hers, she wouldn't be able to rid the memory of Stuckey from her lips. And God she wanted him gone, and she wanted Elliot's skin against her skin completely guilt-free.

She had nearly cried when she told Dale she wanted her partner to watch. She knew it was what she had to do to take control, but she didn't mean it—she didn't want Elliot to see her degrade herself like that. And if she ever really wanted to make Elliot jealous, it sure as hell wouldn't have been with Dale Stuckey. She fought back the tears, too, thinking of what could happen if the last-minute plan failed. If this is the last thing he sees, she silently implored, please let him be imagining himself—which left her all the more shaken when Stuckey was finally immobilized and Elliot was actually safe. With the danger over, how could she reconcile herself with the gravity of those thoughts?

Elliot hadn't been too long in the hospital. They'd done a couple of scans, put in a couple of sutures, cleaned and dressed the wounds, and sent him on his way with a tetanus shot and a handshake. Internal Affairs had shown up while Elliot was being seen. They caught Olivia in the waiting room. She gave her initial statement and set up a time to be more fully debriefed the next day; Cragen had demanded IAB give them the night to recoup. Elliot's initial statement was terser than Olivia's, and it left IAB hounding the two detectives as they walked out of the hospital, in stride as always.

Out of habit, Elliot walked to the driver's side of the sedan. Olivia came up, shaking her head, an amused smile on her face as she withdrew the key from her pocket. Elliot just nodded and walked around to the passenger side.

"Thanks for the shirt," he mumbled when they were both settled in their seats but before Olivia had started the car. She had swung by the station and picked it up from his locker before joining him at the hospital.

She eyed him as she turned the key. "There were a lot in there," she observed. "Didn't know which one you'd want, so I just grabbed the first one I saw."

"It's fine, thanks," he said quickly and quietly.

"El, why are there so many—"

"Let's just get a beer, huh?"

"Fine."

She drove them down to a place in SoHo where he had taken her twice before. It hadn't quite seemed like his style until she walked in and it was a quiet, clean, decently-lit place with lots of wood furnishings and a distinctly Irish bartender. This evening it was pretty empty and they secured themselves a table before Elliot limped to the bar and got them two shots of whiskey.

"Ryan?" Elliot prompted, raising his glass.

Olivia toasted it. "Ryan," she agreed, her voice a lot huskier than she expected, and they downed their shots before Elliot went to pick up a first round of beer.

They sat and drank for a while in silence. Olivia wondered if they would ever speak about today or if it would fall to the wayside unmentioned like everything else significant in their lives had. It was Elliot, actually, who broke the silence. Huang must have brainwashed him or something, because he just couldn't keep it all in anymore.

"Kathy kicked me out again," he said quietly. Her face twitched towards a sympathetic grimace but never quite made it. "That's why all the shirts," he explained.

"When?" Olivia asked. Curious, but not pressing.

"Three weeks back?" he estimated.

Her eyebrows jumped. Three weeks and he hadn't said a peep. She suddenly hated herself for having hit him and for having enjoyed it. "I'm sorry," she said soberly, and she thought she meant it.

He shrugged as he finished his beer. "I should have signed the papers the first time. I shouldn't have gone back."

"It's your family," Olivia reasoned. "Why wouldn't you?" This was the argument she had given herself night after night for the last two years.

He grunted and rolled his empty glass between his hands. "My being there did nothing that my absence couldn't do better."

Elliot left again to get a second round and Olivia watched him go, wondering where the openness was coming from. She worried about the alcohol and whether they had given him any pain meds, but it wasn't her place to nag, so she smiled as he returned with two more drinks. She hadn't quite finished her first.

He sat back down across from her and watched as she finished her beer and started her second. His still sat sweating into his napkin. He was frowning. Finally, he blurted out, "I'm sorry I called you a bitch."

"What?" she asked instinctively. Then, in a flash, she realized they were talking about it.

"I'm sorry I called you a bitch," he repeated more deliberately.

She cocked a genuine smile at him. "It's okay," she said, "I am one."

He gave her a quiet smile. "No you're not. You might try to harden yourself like one, but you're the farthest thing from one I know."

Then fell silence. Olivia had tried to add levity to the situation but Elliot had brought the mood down again.

"Aren't you sorry for calling me a prick?" he suggested quietly.

"But you are one," she teased, a playful grin fully transforming her features.

He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes because the response cut him a little. Somewhere he believed she was being sincere.

"You know what I am sorry about? Kissing that sadistic twerp."

He averted his eyes, couldn't believe they were really going to have this conversation. There. Then. "Liv," he began, "you were doing your job. You don't owe me any kind of expla—"

She looked at him like he was crazy. "I'm not apologizing," she said, unrestrained laughter in her eyes. "I'm saying I regret having done it!"

"Yeah—right. Right, I know," he backpedaled quickly as he took the first sip of his new drink.

Perhaps, she considered then, she was being too light in the face of what had happened to him that day. "I was doing my job," she agreed quietly. She didn't think she had to ask what she did next, but she needed to be certain: "You know that, right?"

He nodded and it rocked his whole body.

"I mean, I don't feel that way—"

"You were doing your job, Liv. Can we leave it at that?" he cut in.

She nodded once and took another slug of beer. Elliot's was still basically untouched.

The silence stretched on and as she drank her beer and Elliot left his alone, she wondered how they had gotten to this point, the two of them sitting sullenly at a table together after having begun to have what should have been a meaningful conversation.

Finally she'd had enough of the silence. "No," she said, "we can't leave it at that. I had my reasons, but I crossed lines I shouldn't have crossed today. Okay? I kissed Stuckey, for one, and I do want to apologize—"

"Just shut up Liv," Elliot mumbled. "Just shut up, I said!" he repeated more loudly when she continued. "I was wrong, all right? You and me, we don't talk about things. We're much better when we don't talk about things. I shouldn't have said anything. If I'd just kept my damn mouth shut—"

"Fine, I'm sorry I called you a prick, is that what you want to hear?" she asked angrily, not sure why she was deflecting his anger with attempted humor.

"Jeez, this isn't about any of that!" he muttered.

"Then what is it about?" she demanded. He was silent. "What's it about?" she pressed curtly. "Kathy?"

"Just shut up. This was a mistake. Can you take me home?"

"Elliot, we were talking. What was so bad about talking?"

"Never mind, I'll just get a cab," he said, sliding awkwardly out of his seat and heading for the door. The beer he left behind was still nearly full. Hers was more than half gone.

She caught up to him just outside. It was darker out than she had been expecting. "Look," she said, "before we call a complete moratorium on talking, can I just say one thing?"

He shot her a menacing glare which had never really intimidated her. At the same time, he wasn't walking away, he wasn't wailing on something, he wasn't even lifting his hand to hail a cab. He was, as best as Elliot Stabler could manage, listening.

She tried to plan her words very carefully. Finally she said, "I'm sorry I said I wanted you to watch."

He started to growl as she was finishing the sentence. "Stop, Liv," he warned.

"I never imagined you'd—"

"What, fall apart?" he asked angrily. "'Cause that's what I did. I mean, fuck trying to play stoic now—I fell apart in there, seeing you with him."

"I know," she breathed, and her eyes were wet with the same tears she almost cried earlier in the day. "I'm sorry." She took a step towards him and he didn't move away, didn't even flinch as she reached to wrap her arms around his neck. He let her be there for a moment, even held her.

Her hands found their way to the nape of his neck. One hand gently held the back of his head, the other his neck. She pulled away only slightly and then tipped his head so she could see the damage done by the pistol-whipping. Cautiously, she moved to kiss the wound. He did not shy away.

"I'm sorry," she whispered again against his temple.

"You did what had to be done," he murmured. "And you saved me," he added, suddenly drawing her against him full force. He didn't care how much it hurt his chest to have the pressure of another body pressed against it. In fact, he sort of relished that feeling because it reminded him that he was alive and real, and so was Olivia. He held her like that for some time, not even caring if some random uni who knew them passed by and saw them there.

Finally they broke apart. She stood back for a moment, almost unsteady on her feet, desperately wanting to kiss him. "Let me give you a ride," she finally said, dragging her gaze from his lips to his eyes and tossing her head in the direction of the sedan. She turned and he fell into step beside her.

Something had happened, and as much as she wanted to feel his skin on hers in that moment, she restrained herself because she knew that things were different now. A new leaf had been turned—and it was a fresh page in the book of their partnership. Kathy wasn't written anywhere in the new chapter, and Elliot and Olivia had learned to talk. Olivia understood that there would be words now; words would doubtless follow, and they would inevitably draw the partners closer, and lead Olivia right where she wanted to go.