What the hell's going on here?

It came as something of a relief, the sudden arrival of the stranger who'd been keeping watch over Olivia in Elliot's absence. Elliot had no interest in talking to the guy, and he wasn't looking forward to what came next, navigating the minefield of the Olivia-but-not who stood in front of him with Malcolm glaring daggers at him the whole time, but still Elliot was - almost - glad to see him. Grateful for the interruption. Because the way Olivia was looking at him, the naked longing in her eyes, was a temptation Elliot didn't know how to resist.

It was so unlike her, the open, undisguised desire in her dark eyes. Thirteen years he'd spent walking in lockstep with this woman and she had, always, kept that want to herself. If she wanted him, wanted him to touch her, to hold her, to kiss her, she hadn't let him see it, had known, always, that there was a line they could not cross, and she'd kept herself firmly planted on the right side of that line. There had been moments, here and there, when the veil dropped, when for just a few seconds her yearning made itself plain, but those moments were always cataclysmic, their lives hanging in the balance, adrenaline flooding through their veins, giving them both an excuse to dismiss any brief lapses in judgement. The only times she ever looked at him like she wanted him were the times when she was on the brink of losing him. Never like this, quiet and content in her kitchen in the wan light of dawn, no guns, no bullets, no blood.

Like this she was another woman entirely, soft and unguarded and quietly hopeful. Like this she was warm and gentle and asking for the protection she so often balked under back in their old lives. Like this she'd stood, heartbreakingly pretty in her pink pjs and her bare feet, and swayed into him, looking at him like she wanted him to kiss her.

He really, really wanted to kiss her.

He absolutely could not kiss her.

What a violation that would be, of the trust she'd placed in him so long ago, of the unspoken vow he'd made to respect the boundary between them, to respect her, always. This Olivia might have welcomed his touch, but his Liv would've clawed his eyes out, and as much as he cared for the Olivia in front of him, it was Liv to whom he'd sworn his fealty. It was Liv he would be faithful to, Liv whose desires he wanted to honor, and Liv - the Liv with all her memories, the Liv who knew him - would've been furious with him for even considering it.

And besides, Olivia deserved better, too. Better than a man who'd been captivated by her guileless beauty, better than a man who jumped at the chance to touch her when he ought to have been telling her all the reasons why she didn't want him to instead. He had come all this way to help her, and that wasn't something he could do with his mouth.

"Malcolm," Olivia said brightly, though the joviality in her tone seemed forced. And wasn't that interesting, he thought, that though she did not remember herself, did not remember who she was or what she believed in or what her relationship was to either of them, Malcolm or Elliot, wasn't it interesting that she knew enough to recognize just how profoundly awkward this meeting was? Elliot, her former partner, the one everyone kept warning her about, and Malcolm, her new friend, her sometime lover, facing off across the kitchen; it was awkward, and even Olivia knew it.

"We're making breakfast. Would you like some eggs?"

"Who -"

There was a look on Malcolm's face like he was about to say who the fuck are you, so Elliot decided to cut the guy some slack, and go ahead and answer.

"I'm Elliot Stabler," he said, stepping away from Olivia and towards Malcolm, holding his hand out for a shake.

Malcolm didn't take it.

"I'm Olivia's old partner," Elliot continued, miffed at the snub but trying to keep things civil.

"Stabler," Malcolm repeated, his eyes narrowing shrewdly. "You're the one Fin warned her about. He told her to stay away from you."

Fucking Fin, Elliot thought, running his hand over the back of his neck.

"It's not - I'm not - you don't have to worry about me," Elliot stumbled over his words, trying to find the best way to explain the mess they'd found themselves in. "Fin just didn't want her to get overwhelmed with too many new people at once. I'm just here to help."

"I don't think this is a good idea," Malcolm said, directing his words to Olivia, his tone as firm as if he were lecturing a six year old. Olivia picked up on that, too.

"I'm not a little kid, Malcolm," she told him, a bite in her tone that reminded him more of the Liv she had been than anything else she'd said so far. "You can't expect me to just sit around and let everyone else make decisions for me. This is my life -"

"Olivia -" there was something in Malcolm's eyes that made Elliot think the guy knew exactly how thin the ice beneath his feet had become.

"And I am going to live it!" she threw down the spatula she'd been holding with some force, the clattering of the thing hitting the countertop emphasizing her point. "I called him -" she pointed her finger at Elliot - "right before the accident. I wanted to talk to him before I lost my memories, and I want to talk to him now, and this is not up for debate."

He'd been wondering, from the moment Fin told him about Olivia's accident, how much of her would remain without her memories. What would be left without the experiences that had shaped her - and the coping mechanisms she'd used to process those experiences and prevent them happening again. Had been wondering how much of the Liv he knew was intrinsic to her, and how much was learned. This moment seemed to answer that question; the most important parts, that's what was left. The desire for truth and the hatred for injustice, the impatience and the kindness, the fierce independence, those traits of hers he knew best were all still there. Of course the endless coddling of the men around her would chafe; Olivia never did like being told what to do.

But she was wrong.

Sure, she'd called him right before the accident, left him a voicemail, but it wasn't because she wanted to talk to him, not really. Wasn't because she wanted to mend their friendship, wasn't because she wanted him back in her life.

I don't know who you are anymore, that's what she said in the voicemail. I don't think I want to know.

The Liv who'd called him wouldn't want him in her kitchen right now.

Then again, maybe she would. Maybe she was just angry, lashing out on impulse; maybe if he'd had the chance to answer her, the chance to explain why he'd come back, why he'd chosen to wait until the op was over to call her, maybe she would have retracted her claws, just a little. Maybe she'd only sounded so furious on the phone because she was hurt, and maybe if he'd been given the opportunity to grovel a little he might have been able to ease some of that hurt.

He was never gonna know.

"I'm sorry," Malcolm said. Smart man, Elliot thought; there was no defense Malcolm could offer in this moment that Olivia would want to hear. The apology was the right choice; discretion being the better part of valor, and all that.

"I was just surprised. Noah's still asleep, there's a strange man in your kitchen, I didn't know what to think."

And if Elliot were being honest with himself, if he'd been in Malcolm's shoes he'd have been pissed, too. Would've been furious, to wake up and discover that she'd invited a stranger over in the dead of the night, that some guy he didn't know was banging around her house while her baby slept down the hall. If it had been Elliot there, watching out for her, protecting her, he'd have thrown the intruder out with his own two hands.

Malcolm wasn't Elliot, though; he was clearly still angry about this turn of events, but he didn't back it up with his fists.

"Fine," Olivia huffed. "Nothing's wrong. See?" she waved her hand around, gesturing for him to see for himself that the house hadn't burned down, that no one was hurt, that everything was fine, apart from the kitchen being tremendously messy.

"Olivia -"

"Do you want breakfast or not?"

Please say no, Elliot thought. The whole point of cooking every egg in her refrigerator was to give her a chance to try them all herself, and he still wanted that to happen. He wanted to sit at the table with her, and watch her discover for herself what she liked, what she didn't. He wanted the quiet of the early morning alone with Olivia, just a cup of coffee and a fried egg and her, the way it used to be. Malcolm's presence in the kitchen spoiled the domestic bliss of the scene Elliot had painted for himself in his mind.

"Yeah," Malcolm said, and Elliot only just managed to stifle a groan of frustration. "Breakfast sounds good. I can make us some coffee."

The coffee pot was sitting empty, he must have seen that from across the room. But now that he'd given himself a job, made himself helpful, there was no polite way for Elliot to tell him to fuck off.

"I'll get us some plates," Olivia said, and flounced off towards the cabinets, reached up to retrieve the plates, and when she did her pink satin pajama shirt pulled up, just a little, just enough to show off an inch or so of tanned soft skin at the small of her back, and he was flung back in time to 2002, Liv with her hair cut short in a pair of low slung trousers, the brightly colored t-shirts that never quite seemed to meet them, the sliver of skin at her belly, her back, made visible when she raised her arms, and the lump it left in his throat, the guilt that churned through his gut every time he forced himself to look away. This was like that, but worse, because this Olivia smiled when she caught him looking.

"Which should I try first?" she asked him, shooting him an encouraging grin over her shoulder.

"Take a little bit of all of 'em," he said hoarsely. "See what you like."

"Will you help me?"

The answer to that question was, and always would be, yes.

While Malcolm messed around with the coffee maker - watching the pair of them furtively all the while - Elliot and Olivia divided up the eggs, and brought the lot of it over to the table for breakfast. With Malcolm.

Breakfast was an awkward affair; Elliot refused to speak, and Malcolm kept trying to talk to Olivia about Noah, or the weather, or anything that wasn't Elliot or eggs, and both men refused to look at one another. Olivia was getting tired of it, fast, but she had a question to answer, and so she dutifully tried each of the eggs, chewing thoughtfully, thinking hard about the taste, the texture, the sensation of the food in her mouth.

"Well?" Elliot asked her as she set her fork down at last. He was smiling over the rim of his coffee cup, sitting sideways in his chair so that he was looking straight at her, and not at Malcolm.

"She likes the omelet best," Malcolm said. "She always did."

"No, she doesn't," Elliot answered, without even bothering to look at him. "Which one, Olivia?"

"The sunny side up," she said, and a smile flashed across Elliot's face, a smile that somehow managed to seem both relieved and triumphant. "Is that right? Is that what you thought?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said lightly, almost teasing. "You always liked a fried egg. But not too runny. Omelets are fine but you don't like all that stuff in your eggs. You're a purist."

It felt good, to get the answer right. To know that some things remained the same, even if she couldn't remember what those things were. It felt good to look into Elliot's eyes, and see the face of a man who knew her.

Malcolm's face, on the other hand, was dark as a thundercloud.

He's going to be trouble, she thought.

"Rosie will be here soon," Malcolm said, rising from the table. "Elliot and I can clean this up, why don't you go get dressed and get Noah up?"

There he goes again. Telling me what to do.

The last few days, in the hospital and then coming back home, his steady guidance had been a comfort. Going where he told her, doing what he told her, knowing she could rely on him, made this nightmare seem so much easier to bear. The comfort of it was beginning to wear thin, though; there were some things she wanted to decide for herself.

But he was right about the time; she really did need to get moving.

"Thanks," she said, and left the men alone with the dishes, venturing off down the hall to her bedroom.

Once inside she considered the question of clothes; it would be cool outside, she thought, like yesterday, so she'd want a warm sweater for the walk to Noah's daycare with Rosie. But so many of her sweaters were black, and she didn't want more black today. She rummaged around in the back of the closet, and eventually came out with a nice white sweater, heavy and loose, comfortable looking. When she pulled it on she found that the wide neck naturally hung down low, left one of her shoulders bare, the black strap of the bra she'd chosen - so many of the bras were black, too, there really was a theme with her clothes - on full display, but she thought it looked kind of nice, and decided to keep the white sweater on. Paired it with black leggings, warm and soft, because she liked the way they felt, and because she liked the way her legs looked in them, liked the close fit of the leggings beneath the loose sweater.

She stopped at her vanity, ran her fingers through her hair and looked at the jewelry on display there. It was mostly gold, necklaces and earrings and bracelets, all subtle and pretty, but one piece in particular caught her eye. It was the necklace they'd found in the bags of stuff from her car, the St. Jude's medallion. When she hung it around her neck the pendent swung low between her breasts, and she liked the way that looked, too. She kept it on, and danced out of her bedroom, humming a song she could not remember.

This is going to be a good day, she told herself. Malcolm and Elliot could stare grumpily at each other all they wanted, but she was determined not to let them spoil this for her. Her name was Olivia Benson, and she liked her eggs sunny side up, and her friends were with her, and this was going to be a good day. She would make it a good day.