It's not the frantic sex of teenagers, nor the passionate sex of the affair everyone assumed they'd been having for years; it's the clumsy, mid-morning, first-time sex of two nearly-fifty-somethings, and there's really very little going for it except the raw emotion that led them here.

There's no screaming, no keening, no shrieking of names or curses. It's mostly grunting and panting; his love-making was crafted over twenty years of not waking the children in the next room, and she only makes noise when she thinks her date needs it.

She gasps in surprise the first time he makes her come, driving his thumb against her as he lifts her hips and pushes deeper into her. It's only the fourth time in her life that another person has ever done it, and it is so startling that she can hardly keep her eyes open afterwards. Heavy-lidded, they seem to roll back in her head as he continues on, not letting her ride it down on her own.

When she recovers, she resumes flexing and grinding against him, and he comes shortly thereafter with a shudder and nearly immaculate silence. He collapses on top of her, and they both lie there breathing heavily, gasping for breath.

He's so exhausted that all he wants to do is roll over and go to sleep, but he's still inside her, and she's naked beneath him, and he wouldn't trade this moment for anything. His lips find her jaw and he kisses her wetly, reveling in the taste of that thin sheen of sweat. She reaches across herself to scrape her fingers through his short hair and pull him closer, and the phrase "post-coital haze" has never seemed more appropriate to her.

He's nuzzling her ear, and she sighs, and his hand slides up between them to palm her breast briefly before trailing back down her stomach until his fingers find the heat and dampness where they're still joined. With his mouth still on her neck and his limp cock still inside her, he works her clit with his deft fingers, rocking his pelvis slightly against hers until she comes again—brought there for the fifth time ever by someone else.

Her walls contract at the climax and literally push him out of her, and he, oblivious to how momentous this orgasm or the one before it was, simply shifts off of her to the side and holds her hip as his lips work their way up to hers. She accepts him with an open mouth and they lie there lazily kissing in what might just be the most tender moment the two have ever shared.

She finally breaks the kiss and rolls over with her back to him. He instinctively presses himself against her, and when she starts squirming a little, he misunderstands and simply pulls her with him farther onto his side of the bed, away from the wet spot on her side. She lies there with her eyes wide open, trying to process the enormity of what has just happened.

And she is not a cuddler.

Panic creeps in. This is a double-edged sword, she realizes too late. Because, on one hand, this is everything she ever wanted—or something damn close to it. It's great sex, it's someone in her personal life that she trusts implicitly, it might be a relationship. It's Elliot. More amazingly, it's Elliot in her bed. And at the same time, it is—or could be—the end of everything: of their careers, of their partnership, of self-preservation. What a fucking mess.

And, on top of it all, he made her come. Twice.

Elliot's arm is wrapped securely around her waist, his hand tucked between her breast and the mattress, and she can feel his warm dick and the scratch of his hair against her ass, and there's something indescribable about the feeling. There is something so unnatural about it, but so comforting—so familiar—that it doesn't even make sense to her. The moment is nothing less than surreal.

And she lets go.

For once, she gives herself over to it. Stops analyzing. Stops worrying. Breathes.

He wants to say something in the stillness, maybe profess his love again, or thank her for going here with him, but he's afraid of ruining what has become a comfortable silence, so he just tightens his grip on her and burrows down behind her.

Olivia has closed her eyes, and gradually, the partners' heartbeats fall into step, and so does their breathing, and before long, both of them are asleep again.

She is vaguely aware of him getting up at some point to use the bathroom. She rolls over while he's gone and folds into him when he returns, pressing her chest to his and tucking one leg between his. Other than this disruption, neither wakes until the afternoon.

"Oh shit," Olivia groans when she twists in Elliot's arms to see the clock. "Hey," she grumbles, half-awake, to Elliot as she lightly slaps his elbow. She groans again as she pulls herself out of his grip. Her body is aching, and she feels like absolute shit. "Get up," she mumbles, thumping his knee with the heel of her foot. He grunts in response and she drags herself to the edge of the bed. "It's after one, Elliot. You've gotta go home and... and change." She glances back at him, and she is totally blown away by her desire to kiss him. The craziest thing is that she suspects she's allowed to now, but despite that, and despite the fact she has never wanted to kiss anyone else as much as she wants to kiss him in this moment, she's reluctant to make the first move this morning. What if... he had changed his mind? What if he decided he only wanted a quick fuck after all? Olivia is fully awake now. "Elliot, get up," she says a little more coldly.

There is motion on the bed behind her. "I don't wanna get up," he groans dramatically, and when she turns to look at him, he is completely sprawled out in the bed. He turns his head to meet her gaze, and the sight of her brings a sweet smile to his face. "Good morning," he whispers.

Doubts fully obliterated, she smiles back at him. "Good morning," she responds before turning to crawl over to him. He sits up to meet her when she gets there, and he lets her kiss him.

He inhales deeply, perpetually on the verge of telling her he loves her.

"You should go," she repeats, sitting in front of him on the bed.

"I don't want to go," he whispers, taking her hand in his and threading their fingers together. He catches her eye, a wicked grin on his face, and leans forward to press his open mouth to her throat.

Her eyes close and with the hand he isn't holding, she reaches for him and holds his head in place. "I don't want you to, either," she admits, scratching her fingers along his scalp, "but you need to." Her hand slides to his shoulder.

He pulls back and smiles tightly at her. "I know." He squeezes her hand and releases it, then scoots to the edge of the bed. She also climbs off and then, unclothed and unashamed, heads for the bathroom. "See you soon," he says to her as he approaches her in the doorway.

"Yeah, okay," she agrees, and then he pecks her quickly on the lips and she disappears into the bathroom while he bends to start collecting his discarded clothing.

He arrives at work seventeen minutes after she does. He rounds the corner into the bullpen and sees her across the room, hunched over some file on her desk, and she looks like she's been there all day. When she sits up and rubs her eyes, she looks haunted and weary—as she often does by this time of day at work. He's a little surprised, maybe disappointed; deep down, he had always thought that he would be the one who could erase all her worry and pain, and that, similarly, when they finally slept together, she would afterwards look rested, refreshed—at peace—for the first time in years.

What he doesn't realize is that he, too, still looks as haggard as he always has. And that, no matter this morning's events—however much like a resolution that might have felt—it was too brief to completely unwind either of their bodies from the twelve years of tension that had brought them to that point. More than a decade of determined restraint is one hell of a precedent to overcome, and it was going to take a lot more than just this morning to fully resolve it all. Besides, today could only have offered but so much relief; whatever tension had unwound, the events had stirred something new inside of him, something that just couldn't wait to spring again.

When she finally pulls her thumbs from her eyes, she glances up and sees him. She smiles softly, and she looks less tired when she does that. "Hey," she offers quietly, not wanting to give the slightest sign of anything to their coworkers. She lifts her travel mug as she says it, indicating with the gesture that she noticed the coffee he had brewed for her on his way out of her apartment.

"Hey," he grunts in return like he might have on any other day, but he can't take his eyes off her, and there's a wolfish twinkle there that tells her he's not as indifferent as he sounds. He tosses his jacket on the back of his chair and goes to the coffeemaker to pour himself the last of what's there and start a new pot. Tepid coffee in hand, he returns to his seat. "What time did you get here?" he asks across their desks.

"Not long ago. Twenty, thirty minutes maybe."

He nods. "We got anything?"

She shakes her head. "Things seem pretty dead. Cragen's in a meeting, so I haven't been able to check in with him yet. I was just going over what I wrote last night—making sure it makes sense, you know?" she says with a smirk.

Elliot laughs, his fingers trailing over the rim of his coffee mug, and briefly glances at Fin and Munch, both of whom are busy with their own paperwork. He fixes his gaze on her. "You get any sleep last night?"

She flushes instantly and shoots her own glance towards Fin and Munch. She's about to ignore him completely when rationality kicks in and she realizes that, under any other circumstances, it's a perfectly normal question. "Some," she replies, trying to keep her voice light. She angles her head and rubs the back of her neck. "You?"

"Not much," he says, leaning as far back in his chair as he can. "I don't know," he muses. "When I'm the most tired, I just can't sleep."

She smiles faintly and nods, knowing the phenomenon well, but also knowing that they each slept for more than seven hours last night—collectively, of course, but it was still the most sleep in one night that either of them had gotten in a week or more.

He follows her lead and pulls out the files he finished last night, proofing them for careless errors only made possible by sleep deprivation.

Damn, he's good. As she watches him return to work, he almost has her second-guessing whether last night was real or just another dream. But the coffee that she didn't make herself is still warm through the plastic against her hand, and her muscles are still sore from recent overuse, and she had found one of his socks in the sheets when she stripped the bed before leaving for work. It strikes her that they are alarmingly good at acting like nothing happened. They play normal well. She imagines it probably comes from the twelve years of practice they've had, pretending to everyone, including themselves, that they felt nothing for each other. And maybe, she suddenly thinks, maybe this could work. They didn't discuss how to handle the matter with the Department—whether one would request a transfer or early retirement or what—and now she thinks maybe they don't have to. Maybe, if they're this good at concealing the truth, they won't have to declare a thing, and they'll be able to remain partners.

Just then, Cragen's door flies open. The captain from the 2-7 stalks out, turns abruptly, mumbles something to Cragen, then shakes his hand and leaves. Cragen saunters out. He surveys the bullpen then strolls over to Benson and Stabler. They both put down their pens and look up at him.

"What's up, Cap?" Olivia asks, rubbing her face.

Cragen eyes them both suspiciously. "I thought I told you to get some rest—"

"We did, we're fine," Olivia interjects.

"What time did you finally leave last night?" Cragen continues.

Elliot shrugs. "'Bout two," he answers, crossing his arms and leaning over his desk.

Cragen eyes the clock. It's nearly three. "Well you look like crap. Take another day."

"Captain—" Elliot protests, and he and Olivia share a brief, knowing glance.

Their CO has already turned around. He holds up a hand as he walks away. "Keep your phones on, I'll call you if we get something, but I don't need either of your tired asses in the office today. Now get out of here." The door to his office slams shut behind him, and in the distance, some desk clerk's phone rings.

Elliot's jaw is tight as he looks across his desk at his partner. "How do you like that," he mutters with a shake of his head. He's honestly considering staying despite Cragen's orders, and his pensive gaze drops again to the file on his desk.

"Well," Olivia tosses as she closes her folders and starts to pack up, "you do look like hell."

Suddenly incensed, Elliot fixes her with a glare. But her expression is smug, and it's clear that she's only pushing his buttons because she knows which ones to push. His anger ebbs. "You still look pretty beat yourself," he sniffs.

"Yeah," she grunts as she slides into her jacket, "I'm not arguing with another day off." She stands there for a moment, looking down at him. "Well? Are you staying, or are you leaving?"

He looks up at her, wondering if he'll ever not look like hell, now that she has wrecked him. "Okay, fine, I'm leaving," he breathes. He caps his pen, pushes himself away from his desk, and swallows the rest of his coffee. Standing, he closes the folders on his desk and leaves them there. "Happy?" he asks his partner as he swings his jacket on.

She laughs in response and heads for the elevators. "Come on," she says lightly. "You can drive me home." She can't see the show he makes of dropping his shoulders and rolling his eyes behind her.

"Never cut a break, can ya, Stabler?" Fin laughs from across the room.

Elliot snorts at the needling for Fin's benefit, but hurries to catch up to Olivia in the hallway. He leans in close as they wait for the elevator. "You realize I might just look more tired tomorrow?" he whispers in her ear, hoping to throw her off with his ravenous insinuations.

"Mm. I hope so," she says as the doors ding open, and it's official: she will be the death of him. She steps into the car ahead of him, leaving him standing stupidly in the hall. Her eyes are bright and mischievous as she beckons him in. "Hurry up, Stabler. I need to get home."

Once he regains his senses, he lurches forward to join her, and the elevator doors close behind him.

-fin-

A/N: Thanks for reading. Like I said at the outset, this was my first attempt at adult content, so... thanks for bearing with me. Also, for those of you who have been waiting a week for this installment, I apologize for the delay.

I appreciate all comments, so don't be shy. =]