A half-hour after they've left the precinct, he's taken Olivia to their old haunting ground: a 24-hour diner with the world's best comfort food. It's across the street from the precinct, and they can linger there, they can order or not order, and no one will hassle them, try to hustle them out the door. She confesses it's the first she's been here since he left.

"Do you want to talk?"

"About you?" she replies brightly. "Sure. How's Kathy?"

She's testing him. She wants him to tell her that he's here to talk about her. She wants him to say it so that she can then remind him again how fine she is.

He decides to call her bluff. "Our divorce was finalized about six months ago."

She's obviously surprised. "Oh. I had no idea. I'm so sorry, Elliot."

"Don't be. I think it's for the best. We kept it together as long as we could. It wasn't acrimonious."

"How are the kids? Eli must be so big now."

His eyes light up at the mention of his little son. "He's doing great! Starting kindergarten in the fall, can you believe it?"

"Wow. No I can't. Little Eli, wow."

He waits for her to fill the silence, but he realizes she's waiting for him to continue. Four more kids to go, after all.

But he can't keep up the charade. "Liv," he starts awkwardly.

She senses the tremor to his voice, immediately moves to shut him down. "Please, El." There's desperation behind her plea. "Please, I don't want to talk about it. Please, not yet."

"I know," he says softly. "I know you don't. I wasn't… I wasn't going to ask you about it. It's not my business unless you want to tell me."

Her shoulders visibly relax, and she crumples back into the booth. "Thank you," she says sincerely. "I'm sorry I interrupted. What were you going to say?"

"I was going to say that I know I screwed up, bad."

"El –"

"No wait, just please hear me out."

She nods.

"And I know you must be angry. Furious, in fact. And I don't blame you. So the fact that you're not, or don't seem to be, it tells me something, Liv. Either that you're bottling it up, or that you're numb. I'm not trying to be arrogant about what my place was in your life, believe me, that's not what I'm presuming here. I'm just saying, after twelve years, you didn't deserve the sudden radio silence, and the fact that you're not more hostile, well, it's raising my eyebrows."

She's been listening intently, and now she seems to take an extra beat to process his comments. "Okay."

"So I want you to be honest with me, I want to know why you seem so… sanguine, so… forgiving. I deserve your anger, Liv. You shouldn't forgive me so fast. That's not you."

"You're saying I'm one to hold a grudge?"

"I'm saying certain things are less forgivable than others. And I want your forgiveness, Liv, I do, but I also want to earn it."

She pushes out a breath. "El."

He looks at her expectantly.

But she just stares at him from across the table, her eyes searching for clarity, for how to interpret everything. She looks so drained.

And then she seems to come to a decision. "All right, fair enough. How long do I have to wait?"

"What do you mean?"

"How long do you think it'll take for you to earn it? A week? A month? Is this, like, a twelve-step process or something?"

"Liv, come on, don't –"

She looks him straight in the eye. "Because I gotta tell you, El, I don't think I have that kind of fortitude. I need you today, not tomorrow."

Flustered by such unbridled honesty, he manages to get out, "I don't know what to say."

"Well I know what you're thinking."

"What am I thinking?"

"That the attack must've done a number on me if I'm willing to admit I'm too emotionally depleted to stay mad at you."

She's as astute as ever, he'll give her that. "Something like that," he mumbles.

"Well, you're right. It's true."

"It is?"

"Well, partly."

"So what's the other part?"

She takes a sip of her tea, daintily lays it back down, as if the mug might shatter. "After you left, I was angry. For a long time."

She looks up at him, testing him.

"Go on," he encourages.

"I couldn't believe you'd left, without a word. It was like you vanished into thin air."

"I'm sor –"

"No, wait. After a few months, the anger wore off. Life went on. I started to think about it with fresh eyes, a fresh attitude, not tainted with emotion. And I tried to put myself in your shoes. I tried to imagine how I'd be if I killed a teenager. Would I be able to face you? Or would I retreat into myself, close myself off? I finally realized this: I would've done the same thing you did."

A small part of him crumbles. "No, you wouldn't have. You were always a lot more emotionally mature than I was."

She scoffs. "Emotionally mature? Ha!"

"Liv, come on. You are."

"Elliot, you didn't kill that girl for no reason. She was in an irrational state and was waving a gun around."

"I still didn't have to kill her."

"She wasn't innocent."

"Yes, she was."

"She'd just killed two people."

Taken aback by the unexpected side she's taking in this now-academic argument, he retorts bitterly, "One of them was the prince who'd raped and murdered her mother."

But as he opens his mouth to further drive his point home, he looks up at her and is startled by the fierceness in her eyes. All at once, he realizes this is not the conversation he thought it was. Something is off. There's an undercurrent here that he can't see.

He clears his throat loudly. "Well, regardless…. when it happened, I didn't know how to deal with it. I just shut down. It took six months for me to come out of my shell. And when I finally did, I wanted to call you, I swear to God I did, but…."

"But?" she asks, with genuine curiosity.

"But," he starts again, awkwardly. Wary, now, of invisible landmines. "I didn't want to do it by phone. It took me a while to gather the courage, but I finally did, I came to the precinct one day, to talk to you. I hung around outside, waiting for your shift to end. And you finally came out, but you were with some guy – a tall, skinny, dark-haired guy, good-looking. And I realized he was your new partner."

"Nick."

"Nick," he repeats, pushing the name around in his mind, testing it. "Anyway, you just seemed so…"

"So?"

"Happy. I knew you'd moved on."

"I didn't have a choice," she says softly.

"Of course."

"No, I don't mean emotionally. I mean, literally. Cragen paired me up with him. It was work with him, or lose my job. So I worked with him. I got along with him. And we do: we get along really well. I like him. We have a good rapport. I trust him. He's a good partner. But El, he's not you."

"Thank you for that. It means a lot that you would say that."

"Well it's true."

"Still."

She sighs. "El, look. You're a good man. I've always known that. Whatever your shortcomings, I knew at the core that you would never deliberately hurt me. I felt hurt, yes, I don't deny it. But I understand your reasons. I understand that in the aftermath of what happened, you had to take care of yourself and your family. I understand… the instinct… t-t-o… " She pauses, trying so hard to fend off the powerful forces of visible emotion that threaten to undermine her stoic veneer, her pride. "…to go into a shell…"

She looks away, trying to compose herself.

He knows the last thing she wants is for him to redirect the conversation back to her ordeal, though in this moment he wants nothing more than to comfort her. "Are you saying you forgive me?"

Her eyes return to his. There is gratitude on her face, that he has chosen to re-steer things in such a transparently self-centered direction in order to let her save face. "On one condition," she quips, poker-face back in place. "That you promise you won't think less of me for doing it so soon. Because you seemed to imply there for a second that I ought to be ashamed of myself if I let you get off –"

He laughs. "I promise."

With the back of her hand, she swipes at her forehead and gasps theatrically. "Phew. Good. It's settled then. I forgive you. Done."

"Honest?"

"Honest. Pinky swear."

He flashes a smile, appreciating her playfulness, but inside, an enormous weight has been lifted.

He quickly grows serious. "I promise never to hurt you again."

But she rejects his somberness, wanting, instead, to keep up the banter, like it's a protective shield. "Good. Because I think I'm all maxed out on hurt."

He's at a loss for words, for how to interpret the discordance of words and tone.

But then he's saved by the familiar-looking waitress – Hope, ah yes, that's her name, how apropos, or ironic, he's not sure which – who bounces up to their table, order in hand.

"Toast for you, hun," Hope declares, obliviously cheerful, "And…. voila, for you, big guy, BLT, everything on it. Bon appetit, folks."

With the much-needed interlude in the conversation established and locked in, he turns his attention to his meal, which he eyes with animal lust. He hasn't eaten since morning, when he first read the paper. The smell of bacon is intoxicating. He digs in.

Mid-way through his first hedonistically delicious bite, his brain practically glowing with base pleasure, he happens to look up at her.

And what he sees nearly makes him choke on his food.

She is green.

"Are you okay?"

"It's just… just smells a little… burned." She swallows.

"What's the matter? You give up meat?"

"No."

He watches as she takes in measured breaths, like she's being coached through a contraction. Something is wrong.

His food all but forgotten, panic rushes up his throat. "Liv, what is it? Tell me."

"The smell… I just… I don't like… I'm gonna be sick!"

Before he can react, she's bolted out of her seat and made a beeline for the ladies' room.

Years of busting in to all manners of private places as part of the job have left him shameless as far as the women's restroom is concerned, and he brazenly pushes through the swivel door.

He's only seconds behind her, but she's already in a stall, retching.

"Liv?" he calls, more to announce himself. "Can I come in?"

In lieu of a response, she flushes the toilet and promptly emerges from the stall, white as a sheet.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

She floats to the sink, and he watches as she uses one hand to scoop water to splash on her face, her left arm more conspicuously useless than ever. It's a maddeningly manual process, but he spares her the indignity of offering his help.

"I'm sorry, El. Geez, way to ruin your meal."

"Forget about that."

She glances at him through the mirror. "Guess I'm off meat after all."

Twelve years in SVU hasn't been for naught. He knows a post-traumatic trigger when he sees one. He just wishes he knew what it was. What the hell did that bastard do to her?

He casually leans a hip against the second sink, watches her in profile. "Do you feel better?"

"A bit."

"Do you want to get out of here?"

"Yes, please."

"Do you want me to drive you to Brian's?"

At this, she hesitates. "I, uh, I guess so."

"I can take you anywhere you want to go."

"I wish… I just wish I could go home. To my own place."

He knows how she feels, though he's not sure she'd believe him. For him, the definition of home is with people. In this post-marriage era, his spartan Manhattan apartment feels so sterile, so lifeless. It is the antithesis of home. But what he dares not do is muse about this out loud, because that would bring into question her commitment to Brian. He vowed earlier not to sabotage things for her. If Brian isn't the one, she'll figure it out on her own. He will not – cannot – play a role in that. Especially not while she's recovering. He would never stoop that low.

"You're welcome to come to my place. I don't live far."

"That's sweet of you, El. But his shift ends in a few hours. I'll be fine."

He smiles sadly, and holds the bathroom door open for her. "There's not a doubt in my mind."