Author's Note: Strong T warning for minor sexy-times and language. Don't yell at me. Voight cusses like a sailor. It's not my fault. The characters write themselves and yell at me when I try to do things differently.

Chapter Three: Everything But The Glass Slipper

"You've been such a good baby," Olivia cooed at Noah, trying to get him to eat his peas.

Her son gave her a beady eyed stare. Don't think I don't know what you're trying to do. You know how much I hate those things.

"No, mama."

Olivia sighed with exasperation. She had really better remember to throttle Hank for teaching Noah that word.

"Just one bite for mommy?" She was embarrassed to hear a note of pleading in her voice. Olivia Benson, a sixteen year veteran of the NYPD, was not going to be manipulated by a toddler.

Are you kidding me, Mommy? Have you even tried this stuff? It's gross. Can I have ice cream? That has milk. It must be good for me.

"He's not eating his food?" Her nanny, Lucy, entered with a sympathetic smile.

"No." Olivia sighed. "He really won't. He hates the taste of vegetables."

Lucy bent over Noah. "Are you being a picky eater, Noah?"

No. I can eat anything. Just as long as it tastes good. Peas don't taste good.

"I'll try applesauce." Olivia went over to the kitchen and got out a jar of organic applesauce.

"Olivia, I can do that. Isn't it about time for you to get ready?" Lucy glanced at the clock on the wall.

"Oh sh…." Olivia stopped before she said the 's-word' in front of her child.

Don't think I don't know what you were going to say, Mommy. I might be a baby but I'm not stupid.

"I'll take care of him." Lucy smiled. "I'm sure he'll enjoy the applesauce. He usually does."

No. I. Want. Cookies.

"Thanks, Lucy." Olivia gave her a grateful smile, leaned down and kissed Noah. "Eat your applesauce, baby and then you can play with Elmo."

I hate applesa…wait, ELMO? Yay, ELMO!

Leaving Noah babbling excitedly to Lucy, Olivia went to take a shower and prepare for the evening. Benson, buck up, she told herself, you're not actually going to be tortured and Hank's going to be with you. The evening isn't going to be an entire waste of time.

Especially if she was going to see Voight in a tuxedo. She'd be lying to herself if she said she hadn't imagined how he'd look. She was so used to seeing him in his usual armor of black or brown leather jacket and jeans that she couldn't even wrap around her mind around him dressed up in black tie.

She'd see soon enough.

Now to the part she hated. Hair preparation and makeup. It's just one night, Benson, just one night. Inhaling deeply, she stepped into the shower.

…

Hank Voight stood looking at himself in the mirror, scowling.

Fucking monkey suit.

Fucking fancy ass galas.

Fucking jet lag and lousy naps.

And fucking bowties.

He looked with distaste at the bowtie in his hand. As if he wasn't suffering enough indignity by having to go to this thing in the first place, he had to wear a damned bowtie. He should have gotten a tie. Cursing, he tossed the thing on the bed.

It'd been several years since he'd even put on the tuxedo – he really had no use for it these days but, surprisingly, the suit still fit. Oh, it was tight in areas, a little uncomfortable with the cummerbund around the stomach, but, overall, a decent fit.

Rubbing his hand behind his neck, he glared at his reflection. He kept telling himself he didn't know why the hell he was even doing it but deep down he knew why. Hank Voight liked Olivia Benson. Liked her a lot. And not just in the "I want to bang her all the time" way but on a much deeper level than that.

Since his wife had died, Voight had been a loner. His job, his son, and Erin had been the only things he had truly cared about, truly lived for. He had had no interest in getting involved with anybody seriously and the few women he had seen were usually one or two night flings. Voight hadn't want to connect with any of them on a deeper level than just the occasional roll between the sheets and a sports game. As far as he had been concerned, he'd had his one great love and that was done and so was he.

Until Olivia.

From the beginning, there'd been sparks. Granted, those sparks had mostly been the "I want to throw your ass in jail" "I'd like to see you try" kind. Voight hadn't had much patience with the way Benson conducted her investigations (the touchy-feely crap was really not his thing and it took too goddamned long) but it was undeniable that she was a good cop. And her methods worked.

He would never forget the way she had coaxed Chris Sepka's whereabouts out of his victimizer in the cage, by appealing to the residual scrap of humanity that the man had left. A humanity that Voight thought no longer existed.

When it comes to kids, offenders who kept their mouths shut or had their lawyers handle It, I would see them years later in prison and they were zombies, eaten alive from the inside out, because they had the chance to do what was right, even after all the bad they had done…

I know deep down there's still a human being in there…

It was at that moment that Olivia Benson got Hank Voight's respect.

And something else.

His admiration.

Although they still consistently butted heads, their working relationship had flourished into a friendship, nourished over deep dish pizza (when in Chicago) beer, and frequent Skype conversations. And then one night, an impulsive kiss on the cheek from Olivia turned into a rather steamy make-out session out in Central Park, under a large oak tree.

Despite the aggravating tuxedo, Voight grinned to himself at the memories. And sobered up as he realized just how crazy he was about her.

It'd been a few months now and they hadn't defined what was between them. Neither of them had really wanted to do that. The sex was fantastic and the connection between them comfortable and warm. And why ruin a good thing, Voight told himself, she was in New York, he was in Chicago.

What they had was good enough.

But she was a fucking fantastic woman and a hell of a cop.

And then he looked over at his bed and eyed the bow tie with disgust.

Fuck this shit.

A sharp rap on the door interrupted him from his thoughts. Relieved not to have to worry about the goddamned bow tie for a few more moments, he strode to the door and opened it.

Olivia Benson was standing there, hand in mid-air getting to rap at his door again.

And Henry Voight forgot to breathe.

But maybe that was the damn suit.

…..

Olivia took a deep breath as she got ready to knock on Voight's door. It had taken her a good hour and a half to get ready, she was a little cranky because she was hungry and knew it'd probably be another couple hours before she could eat anything substantial, and she really didn't want to go.

So you're complaining about dressing up in a gorgeous evening gown, spending the evening with a man you are definitely attracted to, eating good food, dancing with wine. Talk about your first world problems, Olivia.

She rapped on Hank's door.

When he opened the door, she forgot to breathe.

But it was definitely due to the damn dress.

….

Hank Voight wasn't sure how long he stood there without actually saying a word. It could have been thirty seconds or a minute but it felt like an hour. But he simply couldn't get words out.

Funny for a man who always had something to say.

He desperately needed something to drink.

It's just Olivia, goddammit, the Olivia you've worked with, shared beers with, and shared your bed with. THAT Olivia. Open your mouth and don't be such an ass.

Voight didn't know dresses. Not his thing and not really Erin's thing either and he didn't give a damn about the difference between satin, chiffon, taffeta, silk. He didn't even know the fucking names for the material. But this stuff that Liv was wearing, it was all long, and fitted, and white and shimmery. Or was it white? When it caught the light the right way, it almost looked like it was silver. And when she moved, it moved with her and it was if she was clothed in Chicago moonlight.

Because only Chicago moonlight looked as beautiful.

The neckline was scooped into a deep v, exposing smooth and tanned cleavage, offset by a stunning silver and pale pinkish necklace, with large stones. The waistline was fitting, nipping in at the waist slightly, and the skirt flared at the bottom, with a small train.

Her long chestnut hair was long and loose in waves around her shoulders and she wore a small smile on her face, her cheeks flushing faintly.

"Do I have something stuck in my teeth?" She teased him, relishing his discomfort and also flattered by it. He was looking at her like he'd never seen her before.

"You look...different." Voight uncharacteristically stumbled over his words.

Olivia raised his eyebrow. "Wow, Hank, you really know how to flatter a woman."

Voight's only response was to walk over to her and pull her tight against him, his mouth fusing on hers.

Reaching behind her neck, he twined his fingers through her locks, a little roughly but not enough to mess her look. (He knew better.)

Finally, after one heated moment, he let her go.

"Goddamn, Olivia." Was all he could manage. Where the fuck were his words tonight? He felt like a goddamned awkward school boy.

Shit, this was going to be delightful. An evening of torture and awkward sexual tension. Fabulous.

She smiled at him softly, a smile she usually reserved for Noah. "Best compliment I've ever gotten, Hank Voight."

Stepping back a little, she looked him up and down. Voight looked surprisingly natural in his tuxedo. He wasn't a tall man but he was broad and burly. The jacket looked like it was straining a little to hold his broad shoulders but he wore it like a second skin. And when he kissed her, he smelled like pine and the streets and beer and pizza.

He smelled like home.

"Cat got your tongue, Benson?" Voight teased, his brown eyes crinkling with warmth.

"You're missing something..." Olivia mused, refusing to feed his ego.

"Well, damn, that's harsh." Voight made a mock hurt face.

"The bow tie." Olivia snapped.

Voight scowled.

"You couldn't tie it, could you?" She smirked. "Well, well, well...there's something that the almighty Hank Voight actually couldn't do."

"Shut it, Benson." He grumbled. "Let's see how well you handle it."

Olivia picked up the bow tie, placed it around his neck..Voight's pretending that he can't smell her faint scent of orange blossom and honey... and fixed it.

All within 30 seconds.

"There." She said, smirking. "Wasn't that hard, was it?"

Goddamn it.

"Ready to go?"

Voight scowled again.

"Oh, for God's sake, Hank Voight, you're not going to your execution." Benson scolded.

"Yeah, I know. It's worse." He muttered.

"It'll be fine." She patted his arm.

"You're one to talk. You couldn't stop complaining about it last week."

She blushed. To Voight, she'd never looked more beautiful.

"Wait, Olivia." He laid a hand on her arm.

"We're going to be late." She turned to him, frowning slightly, her nose wrinkled at him.

"To hell with that." Voight responded and pulled her close. "I think we've got time for this."

And his mouth touched hers and Olivia was lost.

It's all heat and fire with him and the first time he kisses her, she almost forgets her own name. His tongue is in her mouth, tangling with hers, and his hand is running through her hair, yanking her locks down from her messy chignon. He pushes against her, the hardness of him hot against her thigh. His mouth trails kisses against her throat and neck and she's wrapped around him like a vine...

….and now she's under him, legs spread, he's thrusting into her like there's no tomorrow. Voight's not a gentle man and that carries over to the bedroom. But she doesn't mind, his fierceness lights a fire in her and she responds eagerly. When he enters her from behind, hands rough and gentle against her skin, she explodes. And, together they lay, limbs entwined, his mouth lazily brushing her neck as they both come down.

This time he was the one to pull back. "Come on." He said, with a smirk as he brushes his knuckle against her chin. "We're going to be late."

"Wait." She spluttered, partly aroused still. "Wha..." Dammit, Hank Voight, you don't get to do this to me.

Voight chuckled, laced his fingers through hers, and they both walked out of his room.

She glared at him. "Payback's a bitch, Voight."

"Can't wait to collect, Benson." He smirked.

And, for the first time since she'd asked him to be her "date", he wasn't dreading it.