She's quiet, a sudden change in atmosphere to the laughter, cheerfulness, and flirtation from seconds earlier.

"Olivia?" His whisper is soft, pained, and almost shameful.

Lifting his arm from her shoulders and sliding herself to the opposite side of the couch is new to her. She can't remember ever recoiling from Elliot, and if she has, it hasn't been since he returned back into her life.

She's unable to pretend that what he just said didn't affect her. She can't fake a smile or control what her eyes will reveal, so pulling back from his proximity and widening the gap that was recently so tight is the only way she can attempt to compose herself.

"Olivia?" he cautiously asks again, and she knows him well, she knows he's currently flashing back over the last few moments, trying to figure out what went wrong, mapping out whether they have a problem here or if it's just one of those times she needs to take a quick minute for herself.

She stands up and moves to the opposing end of the room because that burning feeling in her throat that pairs with a sudden rush of emotion is forcing her to make a grasp at her neck. She has no idea why she does it, there is no logic, it's not going to help, but she does it anyway. A nervous reaction maybe?

Regardless, Elliot recognises she's upset or annoyed or both, and he's quick to jump up and follow her. "Liv?"

"No," she dryly spits out as she takes another step backwards towards the wall. She watches him, weighs him up. He looks confused, and he's got a damn good right to be because right now, the way she's acting, she's confusing herself.

"No, what?" Elliot queries, matter of fact.

Olivia looks over his continued confused state, biting his lip, jaw-clenched, eyes narrowed, all confirmation to Olivia's thoughts.

He has absolutely no idea what is going on.

"Olivia, come on," Elliot pleads through the difficult silence, and as he says it, she could swear she just noticed the cocky son of a bitch smiling; he really has no clue at all, has he?

If she thinks rationally, she can find reason in the smile; he will be trying to lighten the mood, and even if he is entirely oblivious to what has gone on, he will still be angling for a swift resolution. None the wiser that he is accidently adding an additional ingredient to her emotional cauldron, and if she wasn't quite as enraged before, she is now because the very last thing she wants to have to do is spell it all out for him.

"Are you intentionally being obtuse?" she questions, and if her honeyed tone is not enough to give him a glimpse into her current mood then maybe the head tilt and stern eyes will be.

She realises how harsh she sounds, knows her manner is coming across as unfriendly. She can feel it in herself. She is in one of those dig your heels in, stubborn moods where she's going to end up pushing and pushing until the whole situation goes over whatever imaginary boundary line there is and one of them goes storming out…and as this is her apartment, it's not going to be her.

Elliot doesn't answer. He's silent, eyes carefully observing her stern facial expression before glancing down at her clenched fists, and when he looks back up to meet her gaze, he smiles (again), turns away, and heads towards the kitchen.

A loud, breathy exhale is all she can do to let him know he is about to tip her over the edge. Ignoring her question, turning his back on her, making his way to the kitchen isn't the reaction she would expect from Elliot Stabler. Maybe the therapy he said he's going to is helping?

"What are you doing?" she shouts after him, taking a brief second to decide whether to follow him to the kitchen, or not.

No answer.

She doesn't need long to think about it. Just because there's no part of him that seems to want to confront this doesn't mean she has to hide her feelings on it. After all, he said what he said, and he can come to her.

So she stands her ground, tall, resilient, confident – maybe not so much on that last one, but she's holding her own anyway.

Then, she smiles because just like his old true-to-form self, she watches him spin on his heel and double back towards her.

He's got that look in his eye where he's trying really fucking hard to keep his shit together, his eyes almost pleading with her to drop whatever it is she's furious about and just tell him, because after all of this time, they are too old to play games.

She purses her lips in defiance. She doesn't want to tell him, not because she's enjoying messing with his head or wants to trip him up, but because she wants him to know, she wants him to feel it too. She wants to know that what he said also sent him on a sad journey of a 'what if' analysis. She at least wants him to even discuss it, make it a conversation, not just drop a sentence in the mix and then casually move on talking about sport in blissful ignorance.

Ignoring the little voice inside of her head that is telling her to 'talk to the man' instead of antagonising him, she moves closer towards him.

"You know what El?" Her voice is slightly snarky but also very fitting. "Just forget it, honestly, I'm fine."

Elliot rubs his hand across his face and raises his eyebrows as he wordlessly looks directly at her.

He knows she's not fine, she knows she's not fine, and in fact, anyone who's ever heard her say 'I'm fine' knows she's not fine, but she can't help it. That little red danger button in her head that was fuelling her fire was begging to be pressed.

He's quiet, she's quiet, eye contact locked, watching as the colour drains from his face, a more irritated shade of red taking its place. She holds herself, in half regret, but still she is holding herself and her breath.

That one, she wasn't consciously aware of when she took in that last inhalation of displeased air, but she needs to release it now, and there's no way to do it without him thinking it's an exasperated sigh, so she might as well add that in too.

For good measure.

On cue, Elliot rolls his eyes at her exhalation. "You're fine?" he asks, no mask for the frustration in his voice anymore.

"You're fine?" he asks again, nodding his head in irritated succession while brushing the palm of his hand against the back of his neck. "Ok Olivia, I don't know why you're desperate to have a fight with me but come on, let's have it."

'He really doesn't know,' she deliberates to herself again.

Screw counting to ten; forget the deep breaths to keep calm. How can he honestly not understand?

"Are you being serious?" she barks and she wonders if by now he was going to actually take a hint and have some form of any clue as to what this is all about. "You honestly have no idea?"

"No Olivia." He throws his arms up into the air before taking a small pace on the floor in what appears to be disbelief before continuing. "I don't. Please just tell me, what did I do?"

He displays his arms in front of himself now, and she really has to fight the irrational urge to tell him to stop throwing his hands and arms around because he is not in a fucking puppet show. Usually, if lighter circumstances his animated gestures wouldn't annoy the hell out her, but today, now, when she is seething, she has to resist every petty temptation that presents itself.

Olivia turns her back to him now and walks away because unless it finally clicks with him, she is going to say something she cannot take back.

Her legs and a little bit of anger are carrying her faster down the hallway than she actually wants to move, because ultimately she does want to talk to him about this. She does want him to understand why she's so upset but she's too stubborn, always has been, probably always will be.

She slowly, pitiably pulls down on the handle to the bathroom door. She doesn't actually want to storm away and lock herself in the bathroom, but she has come to the conclusion that this conversation isn't going anywhere soon. About to enter, she feels the careful and cautious feel of his hand wrapping around her upper arm, gently swaying her around to face him, and she can't help but hide her face and smile.

The wave of cedar wood and vanilla from his new aftershave hits her all at once, and she realizes, this is the first time since they started 'fighting' that she has taken note of it. As he pulls her closer in towards him, she keeps her head buried and it perfectly resides against his chest. Squeezing her eyes shut, she takes a minute to enjoy the scent, him, the closeness.

The smell is more apparent here than it was before, and this usually happens when she's on an emotional high. She misses the little things.

He is so gentle with her, so soft and considerate even when she is mad, and she knows she can't keep it up, and she doesn't want to keep it up because she can't keep maximising her fury thermometer with this anymore.

"I'm sorry," her dry, raspy voice sounds out through the muffling from his chest.

His body stiffens, she can feel it in his grip, and when he doesn't respond, she looks up through her lashes towards his face. A sense of surprise takes over as he abruptly drops his hold on her arm.

"You have nothing to be sorry for Liv," he reassures her, halting her response by transferring his hand to the side of her face, delicately holding it in his palm.

"I'm sorry." His voice is calm, stable, and assertive. It's calming, and she feels some of the tension leave her body. His eyes follow his thumb as he tenderly traces it back and forth across her jaw, the sensation causing her mouth to part ever so slightly.

She could fall asleep here, upright with nothing to rest against but him, in safety and contentment. It is remarkable, how this one man has the ability to briefly absorb her of all inner emotional turmoil, but at the same time still completely infuriate her.

The regret instantly washes over her. Did she over react? Did she accidently twist something that was said in a perfect, sweet moment?

Olivia focuses on the now-deflated Elliot, noticing the difference in his eyes. His aged, tired eyes that once looked so fresh and young are a perfect resemblance of her own.

So much time passed by, so many 'what if's' and 'maybe's'.

"Liv?" he asks through the new silence.

"No," she abruptly replies, feeling a fleeting sense of de-ja-vu. "I'm not sorry," she responds, her voice as wound tightly. She meant it; she was not sorry.

She takes it back. He doesn't share the responsibility of the apology anymore, because this was all on him, this was his choice, his decision. He had decided for them, he had decided for her what path her life would take and for that, she does have a right to be furious.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you," he quickly offers, and she laughs in response, but it's not a happy laugh. It's a pedantic, passive aggressive laugh where she hopes he can pick up on her wordless true feelings once more, so that she doesn't have to waste her time telling him what he should already know.

Her eyes are stinging now, and the burning sensation matches what she had experienced with her throat earlier, so she squeezes them closed, hoping it clogs up her tear ducts and keeps the liquid at bay because if she cries now, she's not going to stop.

"I wish you hadn't told me," she mumbles, her words not showing the sureness her previous laugh had.

Instead, the ambience of her words were as if she had ripped open her chest, displayed the dimmed colour and fractured construction of her slow beating heart, and invited him to look inside, showing him all her innermost vulnerabilities all compartmentalised into its marked sections of pain, of hope, of love.

"I'm sorry," he whispers again.

She watches him again; her eyes feel weary, blurry, and wet.

He looks uncomfortable, and she knows his heart is a mirror image of hers, except its sections are made up of its own tainted memories and trauma. She doesn't want to say what's just come into her head because it's not something that needs to be an argument; it's not something that needs to be a discussion, a consideration, or even a thought.

She swallows her words, accepting the innate advice from her conscience.

"Can you give me a minute please?" she requests, hearing her own sadness in her words, but he doesn't reply. He observes her, the sadness and sorrow strewn across his face.

Elliot clears his throat and nods. She wasn't waiting for his approval, but it was respectful, an understanding, a mature new development that they both appreciate, and when she closed the door behind her, she felt the overwhelming pressure to break down.

Her mind dances through flashes of mental images of her past, his past, their past until she runs the cold faucet and the sharp coolness of the icy water releases her from her journey through time.

She picks up the hair clip she keeps by the side, twists her hair, and clips it up, allowing the bottom of her neck some reprieve from the heat.

As she looks over her flushed reflection in the mirror, she recalls the look Elliot had moments before she closed the door. It was a look of registration, of acknowledgment; he had finally connected the dots.

He innocently, in a blissful moment of happiness, in a time of laughter, emotion, and pleasure had said those eight words she knows he now wished he could have taken back.

"I should have come to you that night."

She had smiled at first, after he dropped that bomb, after he told her that the night he knocked up Kathy he should have come to her.

She smiled because the confirmation entirely consumed all of her feelings; the eventual validation of how their love had not always been one-sided, as she had always believed, was right there, in that sentence.

She now knew he had thought of her, he had thought of her that exact night, and he wanted to be with her.

Then, she felt the glint in her own eye fade when she began to think deeper. He didn't go to her.

Olivia's mind had wandered, all of those years racing before her, and she realized the only reason they missed all of those years was that he made a decision for her.

Her head's resting against the back of the bathroom door, and this internal battle needs a cease-fire. She can't let her mind speak for him, she needs to talk to him, to know what he's thinking instead of having to follow the habit of a lifetime and guess.

She stands up, takes a deep breath, and guardedly opens the bathroom door.

"Hi," she sheepishly announces, as her figurative waving of the white flag.

"Hey," he wearily replies from his position sat on the wooden floor, legs outstretched. She likes that he stayed there and waited. He's protective enough to be outside the door, but respectful to give her the space she needs.

"Want to talk?" he offers, gesturing his head towards the sofa, and she lets out a small laugh because she feels for him. Sitting on a cold, hard floor isn't as easy as it once was.

She smiles and offers her hand out to help him up. He doesn't need it, but still, it's a nice thing to do. "I think that's a good idea," she confirms.

"That night?" she begins, as she fluffs up the cushions next to where they were originally sat before this whole thing escalated.

"That night could have changed our lives so much Elliot, could have changed our paths all together. All the heartache and pain you experienced in those years apart may not have happened, all of my..." She pauses, turns her face away, clears her throat before returning it to a brief whisper. "Lewis may not have happened."

Elliot squeezed her knee. He knew not to go into it any further, not at the moment. They'd had this conversation; Olivia had surprised herself at how much she opened up, and for the first time, with him, re-telling the horrific story hadn't been as bad as the other times.

"Do you not think I've thought this time and time again Liv? Thought about everything we could have had, everything we missed? Who knows where we would have been if we had made the move to be together. I wish, more than anything, that I'd gone to your apartment that night instead of going home, but I didn't, and I can't do anything about that now, but I am sorry Liv, and I am here now."

He's pulls her in closer against him. She could never tire of his embrace, and she is grateful for this moment, especially after spending what felt like a lifetime truly believing they would never find their place, and now she has it.

She's disappointed in herself. She's wishing for more, and its taking away her appreciation of what they finally have now.

"I didn't go to the house that night for Kathy, Liv," he soothes. "I went for the kids. I don't know if I ever told you that, but I needed to see their faces after that case, and my head was all over the place. I wasn't me that night, Liv. I wasn't myself for a while afterwards, and then when I was, well..."

"Well," she interrupted with a laugh. "You had Eli," she smirks playfully, watching for his reaction.

"… and I'm glad you did," she follows up when he relaxes his shoulders, hearing the new-found humour in her voice.

As she leans in and nestles herself on his shoulder, she looks around her living room, taking in the images of the many photographs on her wall. So many of Noah, her squad, friends, family, vacations, and days out, and she can't help but wonder if this was meant to be, if this was the time for them to be together. Maybe they needed to experience and have all that they had in order to fully give themselves to each other.

Maybe she shouldn't wish on a butterfly effect.

"I would have let you in that night, if you'd showed up," she speaks softly, slow, tired. "I would have accepted you, all your flaws, would have just added them to mine. I would have taken on your pressures, stresses, desires, everything."

He leans down and lightly kisses the top of her head. "I know you would have, but I couldn't do that to you. I couldn't risk messing it all up because if I had, maybe we wouldn't have now."

"And we wouldn't have had Noah and Eli," she says, lifting herself from his chest to look at him.

"Also," he speaks slower, huskier. "If we'd been together then, we might not have been here now." He slowly trails his hands down the length of her side. "On this couch together."

"Hmmm." She mirrors his tone while repositioning herself, making sure she's sat exactly where she needs to be, legs tightly straddled either side of his. "Oh I don't know El," she whispers, leaning in and hovering her lips just in front of his.

"I was younger then." She pauses her whisper briefly, keeping the inviting proximity of her lips.

"Fitter," she lets the sultry whisper roll off her tongue.

Widening her eyes, she maintains the close but yet, so far distance from him. She knows it's destroying him to hold him there, but she is relishing in it.

"I had more to offer then," she finishes off her sentence before teasingly pressing her lips against his.

Smiling through the brief kiss, she pulls away, restricting his access to her. Slowly arching her back, she individually begins to undo each button from her shirt, attentively savouring the caged animal look in his eyes with each reveal of fresh skin.

"Fuck it," he mutters, lust and overpowering thirst for her taking over. He holds his hands against her hips. Picking her up by the material on her pants, he manoeuvres her to lie flat before him.

Youthfully giggling, she feels the weight from his muscular torso on top of her as he leans to concentrate his attention into her eyes.

"You, Olivia Benson, like this….exactly how you are, is more than I ever could have dreamt."