She quietly thanked Mac as he pulled up beside her building, slipping out of the lab truck before he could offer further help, shaking off the sense of dread that hit her as she made her way down her hallway. Lindsay stopped to unlock her door with the spare key her super had given her, along with a rare compassionate expression on his usually gruff features. She slipped inside the cozy little apartment, finally making it home. The door clicked shut firmly behind her, and she slowly fingering the archaic dead bolt as well as the chain lock she had installed a week or so after coming to the city, when she was worried the older lock wouldn't hold. She placed the spare key in the bowl by the door, frowning when she remembered her cell phone was packed away in an evidence vault, and pushed a few stray curls out of her face as she quickly scanned the room, breathing easier when she saw that everything was as she left it.

Relax, Monroe.

She maneuvered gingerly to her tiny kitchen, putting fresh water in the kettle, and switching on the burner. Leaning against the far counter, taking in the sight of the collection of photos adhered to her fridge. There was a print of her favorite photograph of her and Danny, shot by his halfway sleazy, halfway avant-garde college roommate, Mike something or other. She smiled, remembering Danny's uncharacteristic draw to the more wholesome pictures from that shoot, copies of which were hanging in her tiny living room.

Mike asked, shyly, almost, if they'd be up for photos with a higher rating, while the series of photographs he had taken to jumpstart his business were perfect, the grayscale and their contrasting tee shirts creating a flawless effect, he wanted to shoot a few in color. He was teaching a seminar on the human form, and asked Danny if he could 'borrow his muscles,' as it were. Danny had shrugged, offering his friend a smile, and had pulled his tee shirt over his head without a second thought. The photograph on Lindsay's fridge was one of the last taken in the shoot. Lindsay had flopped down on Mike's worn out couch, watching as Danny followed Mike's instructions.

When Mike had taken a minute to switch out the memory card on his camera, and with his friend out of the room, Danny had climbed on top of her, making her laugh, sliding down her body and pulling up the hem of her shirt, placing a loving trail of kisses along her stomach, scratching her skin with the scruff of his goatee. She had protested at first, but he had caught her hand, tangling his fingers in her own, and relaxing against her hips. Neither of them had noticed Mike snapping a few photographs, capturing the sleek definition of Danny's muscles, tanned from the summer months, contrasting with the smooth plain of her not-so-tan stomach, partly exposed from Danny's kisses. The image showed Danny's New Yorker body with the casual definition of relaxed muscles, his fingers holding hers tightly, the faded black of his tattoo matching the faded black of her tee shirt, her legs tangled into his in a familiar manner that squeezed her heart.

The shrill whistle of the kettle drew her out of her thoughts, and she frowned at the photograph, pulling the kettle off the burner and switching off the heat. She poured water into a mug, taking a minute to let the tea bag steep before turning back to the front of the fridge and ripping the photograph down in one fluid motion, crumpling it up and tossing it in the general direction of the trash, missing by a few inches.

The fridge was covered in other photographs, some of her family in Montana, some of her and Danny, a few of Danny and Flack. Scattered New York tourist sights, usually used as a backdrop to some form of a display of affection. She sipped her tea, willing the adrenaline in her body to ebb, studying their smiles in her collection of pictures. They looked like any other serious couple, secrets forgotten, in the business of building a life of content moments and inside jokes.

It made her sick.

She loved him, really, but in every picture she saw not the gentle slope of muscle that protected her as she slept last night, but the definition of strength that shoved the table against the wall in the interrogation room. It was irrational, she knew, somewhere her conscious was reprimanding her, urging her to pick up the phone, call him, tell him they were going to be fine. Everything was going to be fine. But she couldn't bring herself to do it.

She halfway convinced herself that he was of better use for the case, working with the Special Victims detectives. Although, she wasn't sure just how much help they'd need once they read through the transcripts of the interviews. From Harper's reaction to Danny, she could conclude that her attack, her rape, had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with something rash and pretentious that Danny had said when he accused Harper of raping his own wife.

It had never been about her, really. She had just been the pretty girl in Danny's life when Harper had decided to make good on his sinister promise. Danny had only had three serious women in his life. His mother, Aiden, and her. When she had asked Flack about the nature of Danny's relationship with the former CSI, he had laughed, filled her glass with more merlot, and been very clear in the fact that he had been the one sleeping with Aiden, not Danny. Out of the three women in his life, she was the only one who fit the description of Harper's threat. And she came into his life long after the case had been closed. She made her way to the couch, easing into the soft, worn cushions, curling her feet under her, and cradling the mug of tea in her hands, reveling in the quiet of a second floor New York apartment.

Her phone rang, shrilly, piercing through the silence of the apartment, making Lindsay jump. Deciding to let the machine pick it up, she took a sip from the mug, cringing at the metallic timbre of her voice as the machine clicked on.

"Hi, this is Lindsay Monroe. I'm not around, try my cell phone."

"Linds." Danny's familiar voice came over the machine, and she turned at the sound of her name, but made no motion to pick up the call. "Lindsay, I just- alright, look, I'm sorry, okay? Let me help you through this, Linds. I love you." She frowned at his tone, increasing in disparity and decreasing in volume, until he was speaking with a hoarse whisper. There was a moment of uneasy silence, and Lindsay took another sip, closing her eyes, willing herself to stop the tears she had been sobbing out all day. When he started to speak again, his tone was wavering on the cusp of professionalism. "Lab results came back from the rape kit Jane processed. Semen was a match to Harper's, so Stabler nailed him to the cross, so to speak. DA's gonna get back to you about all the court stuff." He sighed heavily, and Lindsay ran her hand over her eyes, listening to him cough and clear his throat in what she recognized as his testosterone-driven management technique of his tears in public places.

Fleetingly, she wondered where he was.

Out on the street, Danny shuffled through the fallen leaves on the sidewalk outside her apartment building, leaning against the side of his truck, looking up at the soft light leaking through her living room windows, despite the curtains being drawn. He was fast coming to the conclusion that she wasn't going to answer the phone, and that her machine was going to cut him off soon.

"Listen, Linds, I don't want us to fall to pieces, we can make it, and we can overcome this. I love you. Just, just remember that." He bit his lip; willing her to pick up the phone, talk to him. Frustrated, he snapped shut his cell phone, ending the call. Lindsay's neighbor, Jake Newton, came through the door, grinning broadly as he recognized the other man.

"Hey, Detective Messer! Lindsay lock you out?" Danny turned at the sound of his name, and froze, relaxing when he spotted Jake.

"Yeah. Rough patch." He offered, it was a weak explanation, but it was the truth, however understated it might have been. Jake rolled his eyes, flashing Danny a grin.

"Been there. Sucks. Lemme buzz you in. At least you can grovel where there's heat."

"Thanks man." Jake turned his key, opening the front door, holding it open for Danny.

"Anytime. G'luck."

Upstairs, Lindsay had shut off the lights, intent on going to bed, and had paused beside the phone, on the verge of picking up as the dial tone clicked on, and the message ended. Danny frowned at the staircase, making his way up the stairs slowly, trying to plan out his apology.

He took the stairs softly, tears getting caught in his throat as he made it to the second floor hallway. He shoved his hands in his pockets, closing the distance slowly between himself and her door, leaning against the opposite wall of the corridor instead of knocking. He draped one ankle over the other, pushing the frames of his glasses up on the bridge of his nose as he listened to her check the locks on the other side of the door, most likely going to bed. Either she didn't check the peephole, or she didn't want to speak to him, he concluded, as the second lock on her door slide out and then back into place.

At least she was safe.

That was all he really cared about. Everything else could be fixed. Hopefully. He bit his thumbnail in thought, his eyes flicking to the dark under the door as she turned off the last of the lights. They would have to have one of those serious, teary conversations. He wasn't ready for it.

He was still battling validation of his own feelings. Everything he tried dumped him right back at the fact that someone raped his girlfriend. He's a cop. He thought she was safe. Hell, she's a cop. Sighing, he frowned at the door, making his way back down the stairs, running a hand through his hair, making it spike.

Not wanting to go home, he jogged down the steps, turning east on Lindsay's street instead of the west that would take him to his apartment. There was one place he could go, especially now when he was seeking atonement.

And forgiveness, if only from himself.