Contrition: (n) atoning or showing remorse for a wrong-doing or sin by an act of physical or emotional apology. Words are often unneeded. "When he realized he'd hurt my feelings, he brought me roses as an act of contrition."

Law and Order: SVU is the intellectual property of Dick Wolf. The use of the characters, settings, and plotlines is not malicious. This is a work of fiction.

Her shoulders slumped as she trudged into the apartment, tossing her jacket into a corner and kicking off her shoes, not caring that they'd gone flying in two different directions. She rubbed her eyes as she padded over to the sofa and plopped on it, sinking into the cushions. She closed her eyes and scowled, trying desperately to convince the couch to swallow her completely.

She tried without much success to get comfortable and when she spotted the clock on her cable box, she let out a frustrated groan. Rolling her eyes, she got up and dragged herself into the bedroom. Leaving the door open, she pulled her v-neck sweater over her head, again not caring where it fell as it landed on the floor. With a look of disdain on her face, which reflected the thoughts swimming around in her head, she tugged open one of the drawers on her side of the dresser and grabbed an old red and blue flannel shirt. As she held it in her hands, she felt her lips turn upward into something that resembled a smile.

She remembered the shirt, its significance making her heart ache. She let her fingers trail along the sleeve as she remembered the night she wore it for the first time, mere hours after he't taken it off. The smile faded as she turned away from the dresser and she dropped with a sigh to the edge of the bed, and peeled off her socks, then her black pants.

She reached back and unhooked her bra, a relieved breath escaping as it fell away from her body. She slipped her arms through the flannel sleeves and buttoned three buttons in the middle, leaving the bottom undone and the collar open, exposing the very tops of the curves of her breasts. She looked over her shoulder at the alarm clock on the side table, and that same frustrated and annoyed moan flew from her mouth. She fell back, flat on the mattress, and stared at the ceiling.

An intricate pattern in the stucco caught her attention; the longer she stared at it the more it became a clear image. Him. It was always him, she thought with a soft smile. That's what had hurt the most. The way her colleagues stared and whispered, the questions from her fellow detectives. "How long has this been going on?" "Are you serious?" "What the fuck?"

The only one who understood, who was happy for them, was Munch. He was much older, wiser, and had probably seen all the flirting and furtive glances passing between them over the years. Nothing ever got past him. He had smiled, shook their hands, and gave her some honest advice. "Let him see the parts of you that you don't even show yourself, and you'll be together forever." It was advice he could not take himself, which explained the trio of failed marriages he had under his belt.

But it was the reaction of her captain, the man she'd come to love as a father figure and trust just as much, that had been plaguing her since her shift ended. He refused to speak to them about anything that wasn't related to their current case, he forbid them to interrogate their latest suspect together, and when they had to let him go on a technicality, the captain had sent her home while making her partner stay and finish paperwork.

"Not fucking fair," she grumbled finally tearing her gaze from the ceiling. She let her head loll to the side and she gasped, suddenly sitting up. "You're home," she spat, stunned.

"Really?" he quipped, looking around. "Good, because I'm about to strip, and if this wasn't my place, it'd be rather embarrassing, don't you think?" He tugged on his tie and stepped further into the room, never once taking his eyes off of her. "You look fucking hot," he told her, his voice like honey-dipped gravel.

She scooted forward, dangling her legs off the side of the bed. "This is the shirt..."

"I know what it is," he interrupted, his shirt now in a pile with her long discarded clothes. He winked at her as he undid the buckle of his belt and unzipped his trousers.

She licked her lips as the dark cotton pants dropped to his ankles, and she let out a small chuckle when he gave a small kick, sending them off to parts unknown.

He sat beside her, in nothing but his boxers, and before giving her an opportunity to say anything, he kissed her. It was slow, languid, and one of his large and rough hands curved around the back of her neck. He moaned against her lips and let a long breath out through his nose, inhaling her scent when he breathed back in, and then pulled back, playfully tugging on her bottom lip.

She laughed again, and then took a breath of her own. "Are you all right?" she asked, the brief joyous light in her eyes now dim with worry.

"Not really, no," he answered. "I lost my temper in that interrogation, Fin couldn't calm me down the way...the way you do." He shook his head as he took her hand, stood up, and pulled her to her feet. He let go of her and started tossing the decorative pillows off of the bed. He looked at her as he pulled down the comforter and sheets. "Cragen really let me have it when you left," he told her.

"What?" Why?" she asked him, her voice dripping with a mild anger. "He has no right to...I mean, shit, El, we have lousy interrogations all the time, and the DNA wasn't a match so you didn't..."

"It wasn't about that," he said, stopping her from getting too worked up. He jerked his head toward the bed and wrapped his hands around her hips as she moved into the middle of the mattress. He climbed into bed beside her, grinning, and trailed his hands down her body, swooping up under the hem of the flannel shirt.

"El," she warned with a cocked eyebrow, smirking at him.

He gave a throaty chuckle as he poked two fingers into the waistband of her underwear and pulled gently, teasing her as he slid the garment down her legs. "He's got his jockeys in a bunch because of us," he told her, dropping the silk over the edge of the bed and letting it drop to the carpet. "I told him that Tucker didn't have the same reaction, and..."

"Wait, you told Tucker?" she cracked, ignoring his sneaky fingertips playing at her bare hip. "Why the hell would you..."

"I had to, Liv, you know that," he asserted, moving his fingers toward her inner thighs. "He told me he knew something like this would happen, and up until today, he thought we were already..."

"Oh, my God," she moaned, both in response to his statement and his thick fingers sliding home.

He laughed again, almost evilly, and began to pump his fingers slowly as he said, "Tucker didn't even bat an eyelash at this. He just told us he'd write us up if he caught us in any sort of compromising position at work, or if we let personal issues affect..."

"We haven't," she whispered breathlessly. "We won't."

"I know that," he affirmed, dropping his head to her neck. He kissed and bit her sensitive skin as he twisted his fingers and ran the pad of his thumb over her now-swollen and sensitive clit. The movement made her yelp and buck her hips, and he moaned against her neck.

"What...what happened after..." she tried to speak but her body was wracked with pleasure and her brain was slowly turning to mush.

He sank his teeth into her neck a bit harder, earning another sensual moan from her. He dropped small kissed to her chin and then her lips, and he said, "Cragen was pissed that I even went to Tucker. I told him off, told him to stay out of my personal life since it's really none of his concern as long as I'm not doing anything against code, and I walked out of his office. I finished the report, said goodnight to Munch, and got the fuck out of there." He kissed her again as he moved his fingers faster, twisting and dragging them out of her and then back in, hard and deep. His thumb moved again, rapidly, over the nub of nerves.

She cried his name into the kiss and her body quivered, pressure and anticipation building in every muscle and every cell. "El," she whimpered, grabbing the sides of his head. She kissed him back with more vigor, feverishly diving in after every ragged breath she took.

He growled, then, his need for her growing. He used his free hand to tug his boxers down only enough for exposure and freedom. He ripped his working digits out of her and thrust hard, replacing them with his cock. He slammed into her with force, making her cry his name again, and he let a low and rumbling groan.

Her grip on his head tightened as did the rest of her body, and her eager body rose to meet his with every powerful thrust. She was so close, on the brink of an intense orgasm, but she was fighting it, fighting like hell, trying to wait for him.

He moved faster, harder, hitting deeper into her, kissing her almost violently. The gnashing together of their teeth and the grinding pelvic bones brought a pleasurable pain and spurred him on. "Baby," he moaned through his clenched jaw. "Fucking losing..."

She never heard his next word. His name flew out of her mouth on an erotic scream. She lost vision and clawed at his back as her entire body shook with a rolling, electric release.

He gave in when she clamped around him, forbidding him to move anymore. The pulsing of her muscles dragged out his climax, and somewhere at the very bottom at his soul knew that somehow this time, tonight, was something more. Something incredible. He panted as he stilled inside of her, his lips still attached to hers.

She was enjoying the moment, with him, her heart beating with his, escaping the harsh reality of their lives. A swift knock on the door got their attention, and Elliot begrudgingly pulled out of her and ran toward the living room, grabbing his robe off the hook on the way. He opened the door, puzzled, as no one was out there. He was about to go back and start round two with his lover when he looked down and saw it. He knelt to pick up the envelope, and with a furrowed brow, he opened it.

His eyes widened, and then softened. He read the full page twice, understanding it for what it truly was.

Cragen's act of contrition.

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Peace and Love,

Jo

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