"You were sleeping good," Elliot murmured from the other side of the pillows. His eyes were warm and kind and sad, his hands resting on his belly, his body tense as he strained not to touch her. It was a shame, she thought, that in waking life he should hold himself back from her, when in dreams he'd cradled her so gently. She missed it, the warmth of him, the closeness of him.

"I could sleep more," she sighed, stretching just a little.

"Do you remember what you were dreaming about?" It was nice, she thought, nice to lie here in bed next to him, talking quietly about dreams.

"What makes you think I was dreaming?"

If she had dreamed she couldn't recall it; all she remembered was waking up soft and comfortable and wrapped around him. All she remembered was his hand running gently over her hair, his deep, gravelly voice calling her baby. She wanted to hear it again.

"You - uh." He cleared his throat, looked away. "You said Ed's name."

"Oh."

Had she been dreaming of him then, her husband, the man she'd loved, the man who'd left her? Maybe she had; she closed her eyes and tried hard, so hard, to remember his face, to snatch at any fragments of the dream still floating through her mind, but she could not grasp them. All she remembered was Elliot, the smell of him, the brush of his hands, the hardness of his thigh between her legs.

"I don't remember," she confessed.

I don't remember him. I remember you.

"Well, I hope it was a nice dream, anyway," he said. "Come on, we gotta go get Noah."

And just like that, he slipped away from her, and she watched him go, wondering how many times in her life she'd watched him walking away from her.

"So, Elliot," Rosie said, smiling at him warmly over the rim of her wine glass, "what do you do in the city?"

"I'm on the job," he answered. "I'm a detective with the Organized Crime Control Bureau. We investigate -"

"Organized crime?" Rosie suggested, her smile widening. She had a very nice smile; a nice smile for a nice lady.

"Yeah," he grinned. "Think like the mafia. It's different now, it's not just the Italians running rackets in the city, we've got a broader scope than that, but that's the gist."

"It sounds so exciting." Rosie's eyes danced over to Olivia, something curious, thoughtful in her gaze. "Is that what Olivia did?"

"I investigated sex crimes, apparently," Olivia supplied helpfully from the other side of the table.

"Goodness." Rosie paled, and took a long sip of her wine, no doubt looking for safer topics of conversation, not that Elliot could blame her.

And wasn't that strange, he thought, that Rosie was supposed to be Olivia's friend, and yet knew nothing about the work she'd devoted her life to? How could Olivia have known this woman for two years, and never once mentioned SVU?

Maybe she really did want to forget, he thought. Thought about Fin, and the story he'd told about Olivia's rapid and unexpected departure, thought about all the questions he wasn't sure any of them were ever going to get an answer to.

The three of them were sitting together, Elliot and Rosie and Olivia, enjoying a glass of wine while Malcolm endeavored to cook their dinner and Noah sat in his booster seat, watching them all with wide, curious eyes.

The ladies made for pleasant company, and he was glad Rosie had come. Glad for Liv to have another woman to talk to, glad for this proof that there was someone - besides Malcolm - who cared for Olivia in this town. Rosie was kind and warm, and she didn't seem offended by his presence there. Then again, Rosie wasn't trying to fuck Olivia - unlike Malcolm - and Elliot was no threat to her. It was nice, just sitting around talking - while someone else cooked the food - nice to be among people who were not the gun runners and thugs he'd been sharing meals with for the last six months, and Elliot didn't want it to end.

End it must, he knew; he still hadn't told Olivia about the text from Bell. The last three hours he'd been fighting with himself, trying to work up the nerve to tell her was leaving and then deflecting at the last second. There was a lot of activity in the house just now, and they were having a nice time, and he didn't want to spoil it, didn't want to overwhelm Olivia with more bad news. Soon he'd have no choice; after dinner, after Rosie left, he'd have to find a quiet moment, and break Olivia's heart all over again.

"Dinner's almost ready," Malcolm announced from the other side of the kitchen.

Elliot ignored him.

"So, Rosie -"

"Olivia, have you-"

They spoke at the same time, Elliot and Rosie, and he gestured for her to continue. It wasn't like his question was particularly important; he was about to ask Rosie what she did for work, and he was much more interested in what Rosie had to say to Liv.

"Sorry," Rosie said, flashing him a bright smile. "I was just wondering - have you made an appointment with the occupational therapist yet?"

There came a great clatter as Malcolm dropped the pan he'd been holding over the sink; he swore, but it looked like their dinner hadn't been ruined, for which Elliot was thankful. Man oughta be more careful, he thought.

"The - the what?" Olivia asked, her brows pulling together in confusion.

Malcolm whirled around as Rosie's eyes darted to him, narrowing in suspicion.

"The occupational therapist," Rosie repeated. "You know, the person who's going to teach you how to write and work your email and all that stuff."

"There's - there's someone who can do that?"

Holy shit. It hadn't occurred to Elliot to ask, before now, whether there was someone who could do those things for Olivia, someone whose job was to teach her those things. From the moment he arrived, Malcolm had been running the show, gave every appearance of being competent and capable and devoted to Olivia. Sure, Elliot had disliked the guy from the very first, but he'd thought, before now, that Malcolm had Olivia's best interests at heart. But if he did, if Malcolm really did want to help her, surely he'd have set her up with that therapist.

Wouldn't he?

Judging from Olivia's wide eyes and furrowed brow, it seemed that yes, this was the first she was hearing of the occupational therapist. And that set alarm bells to ringing in Elliot's head.

"Rosie," Malcolm said, a note of warning in his tone.

Rosie didn't seem cowed by his apparent displeasure; the smile had vanished from her face, and she shot him a dark look before returning her attention to Olivia.

"There is," Rosie told her. "The doctors at the hospital gave Malcolm all the paperwork."

Son of a bitch. It took every ounce of self-restraint that Elliot possessed not to shoot up from the table right then, not to cross the room and strangle the man with his bare hands. Olivia - and her fucking doctors - had trusted this man to care for her, and instead of helping her he had withheld the assistance available to her. Or at least it seemed like that was what had happened. When he arrived Elliot had promised himself that he would be calmer, quieter, gentler than the man of Olivia's long lost memories, that he would be steady for her, that he would not do anything to make life more difficult for her than it already was, so he swallowed his tongue and kept his fists to himself. For now, at least until Malcolm had been given an opportunity to try to explain himself.

"All you have to do is call," Rosie continued, "and they'll get you set up with some help. I thought -" she spoke the word with heavy emphasis, and Malcolm flinched as if she'd struck him - "that Malcolm was going to call them for you this week."

"Is that right, Malcolm?" Elliot asked him quietly, his hands curling into fists on the table top.

"She only just got home," Malcolm stammered, his face turning red while he twisted a dishrag in his hands, looking for all the world like a rabbit caught in a snare.

"You…you knew about this?" Olivia asked, a rage such as she had never known beginning to boil in her blood. Had she ever been this angry before? If she had, she could not recall it. But oh, she felt it now, in the trembling of her hands, the racing of her heart. Anger, bright and powerful, coursed through her, made her want to scream, to throw things, to get her hands on Malcolm only to shake him.

How could he have done this to her? Hidden this from her, made her so reliant on him when there was more help - professional help - to be had? What else had the doctors told him, she wondered; what other secrets was he keeping from her?

The moment she woke up in the hospital Olivia felt herself standing on unsteady ground, the world shifting like sand beneath her feet. Each time she thought she'd found a solid place to rest it moved again, threw her off balance, left her spinning. For the last two weeks, Malcolm had been her constant, his reliable guidance a lifeline she had clung to. She'd trusted him, depended on him, and all along he had been lying to her. Hiding things from her.

"Of course, I was going to call, Olivia," Malcolm insisted. It looked for a moment like he meant to come to her side, to take her hand, to look into her eyes as he implored her, begged her to believe him, but before he could take a single step Elliot rose menacingly to his feet.

"When were you gonna call?" Elliot demanded. "Before or after your fucked her?"

"Goodness," Rosie murmured quietly.

"Excuse me?" Malcolm snapped.

"You tell me, pal, you're the one who kissed her, you're the one who's practically moved in here. She can't remember shit, that turn you on?"

"Sit down," Olivia barked at Elliot. He was getting worked up, red faced and apparently as angry as he was, but she resented him for what he'd said about Malcolm, about their kiss, resented the disdain in his voice and the way he tried to take control. It was her turn to stand; this was her battle to fight, not Elliot's. For a second she worried he wouldn't listen, worried he'd insist on taking charge here, taking charge of her, but though his face was dark as a thundercloud he sank slowly back into his chair just like she'd told him to. Maybe he could feel it, the anger rolling off her in waves; maybe he knew, as she did, that whatever happened next was up to her, and no one else.

It's my life, she told herself. It's my goddamn life.

"When were you going to call, Malcolm?" she repeated Elliot's question.

"Next week," he answered quickly. Too quickly; there was something in his eyes Olivia didn't trust. It was a terrible thing, to lose that trust, to look on a man she cared for, a man she'd been fond of, a man she'd trusted, and know that he has betrayed her, that he was not the man she believed him to be. For two weeks she'd been so grateful for him but now she felt no gratitude; now she all but hated him. Maybe that was wrong; maybe he was telling the truth, and maybe he had intended to make the appointment the following week, but he had kept this monumental secret from her, prevented her yet again from making her own decisions about her life and her future, and that alone had hardened her heart towards him. It was one infraction too many; she would not continue to live her life under his thumb.

"I swear, Olivia-"

"Why didn't you tell me? If you knew there were people who could help why didn't you tell me?"

Five whole days wasted; a whole week, really, since it was Friday now and the therapist's office was likely closed over the weekend. A whole week when she could've been learning how to write, how to type, working with people who might be able to help her retrieve her memories. Fin and Elliot had been a help to her but they could only take her so far; she needed more, and Malcolm knew it, and he'd kept that from her.

"I didn't want you to do too much too fast -"

"You didn't want me to do anything at all!" She burst out. All the fear, all the confusion, all the anger of the last two weeks came boiling out of her in a furious torrent of words, and it was not until she'd spoken them that she realized just how very true they were.

"Admit it, Malcolm. You liked that I needed you. You wanted me to rely on you. You tried to cut me off from Fin and Elliot, you didn't want Rosie to come to dinner tonight -"

"What on earth?" Rosie murmured.

"You wanted me helpless-"

"I wanted you happy!" Malcolm's voice boomed out suddenly, louder than she'd ever heard it, his eyes dark and terrifying. "Christ. Yes! Yes, I didn't want you to push too hard. Yes, I've been enjoying my time with you this week. Because I want you to be happy, Olivia-"

"You want me to be a doll for you to play with," she hissed. "You don't want me. I don't think you ever did. You want someone soft and quiet and under your control and that's not me."

"Don't I know it," he muttered.

"Liv," Elliot called to her softly from his seat at the table.

Please, his eyes seemed to say. One word from her, she knew, one word from her and Elliot would rise up from the table and tear Malcolm limb from limb. Part of her wanted to say that word, wanted to watch Elliot destroy Malcolm with his own brute force, wanted to sit back and revel in the feeling of vindication as her partner defended her, but a much bigger part of her wanted to do it herself.

"Get out," she said to Malcolm in a low voice, pointing imperiously towards the entryway.

"You can't be serious," he spluttered.

"Get out of my house," she repeated, unfazed, unrelenting. Her mind was made up, and there would be no turning back now. Whatever they had been, whatever they could have been, was over now. She would not ever trust this man again.

"Who's gonna take care of you when I'm gone, huh?" Malcolm demanded. "Who's gonna make sure you're fed, that you get Noah to school on time? Who, Olivia? Him?" He sneered as he pointed at Elliot, as if he could think of nothing more ridiculous than Elliot's help.

"Me," Rosie said softly, and Olivia turned sharply to see her friend watching her with sad eyes. She'd almost forgotten that Rosie was even there, but now that sweet, quiet lady owned the attention of every person in the room.

"I'm sorry, Olivia," Rosie said sincerely. "I never thought…I thought you were safe with Malcolm -"

"Of course she's safe -" Malcom insisted, though Rosie did not let his interruption break her stride.

"But I was wrong," she continued. "I should've watched more closely. I want to make that up to you. I'll be here, for whatever you need." And then she reached out, and took Olivia's hand in her own, held on tight for a moment, and Olivia returned her grip fiercely. Malcolm was not the only person who cared for her; she would not be alone without him, and that made her brave.

"Thank you," Olivia said earnestly.

"I don't understand what you think I did wrong," Malcolm was almost pleading now. "Olivia, come on! I didn't even do anything -"

"You've done more than enough," Elliot's voice rumbled grimly from the table.

"Get out of my house," Olivia told him again, her voice steady, if more than a little frustrated about having to tell him so many fucking times. "And don't come back."

It looked like he wanted to fight. To fight her, fight for her, but he was outnumbered three to one, and Elliot alone would've broken him in half. His shoulders slumped as he realized he'd lost not just the battle but the entire war. Whoever he thought Olivia was, whoever he thought she could be, she was never going to be what he wanted. That simple, easy, happy woman did not exist.

My name is Olivia Benson, she reminded herself. And I have survived much scarier things than Malcolm.

"Fine," he said. "You wanna do it on your own? Be my fucking guest."

He threw down the dishrag he'd been holding, and stormed out of the kitchen. Elliot followed after, perhaps to make sure he really did leave, perhaps just to scare him. It didn't matter. Malcolm was gone, and strangely Olivia felt lighter without him there. Sadder, but lighter; she felt as if she'd discovered another piece of her own self, right there in the kitchen. A piece that was fierce and headstrong, a voice of her own that she could trust when everything around her was mired in uncertainty. She didn't need Malcolm; she could find her own way.

"I'm sorry, Olivia," Rosie said softly. "I didn't…I never imagined…"

"It's all right," Olivia said, slumping back into her chair as the front door slammed; she had no idea which man was responsible for that, not that it mattered, really.

"He didn't…I don't think he's a bad man," she continued. "He's just the wrong man."

The sound of boots on hardwood drew her attention to the kitchen entryway, and she watched as Elliot stepped into the room, his shoulders straight and his eyes fixed unerringly on hers.

Malcolm was the wrong man; was Elliot the right one?

"All right," Elliot said. "Who's hungry?"