Measuring Years (1/1)
A Law & Order: SVU Fanfiction
Written by Kate "SuperKate" Butler
September arrived early in the year where everything changed, and Central Park became a bright splash of color against the dull grays and blacks of concrete, cinderblock, and steel. John Munch admired the color with a cautious eye as he rode back from court with a silent, sulking Monique Jeffries. Her eyes remained constantly distant, even as she turned the corner, and the park slid out of view, relinquishing its majesty to sky-scrapers and city-slickers.
This first week after Labor Day would be tense, and John knew it. It was an instinctive knowledge, almost animalistic, and he’d felt it crawling through his bones from the very moment Brian Cassidy had packed up his last box and disappeared out of the squad room. Things would be changing, or so the captain had noted in the next morning’s briefing, and they were to look alive. Be flexible and adaptable. Do as they were told.
Be everything John just wasn’t.
A visit to the courthouse, too, sent that instinctual tingle up his spine, as the new ADA – a pretty blonde thing with legs that were illegal below the Mason-Dixon Line – introduced herself with a Cape Cod coolness and charming, pink-iced half-smile. Jeffries muttered something about Miss Cabot being a ball-buster as they wandered back to the car, but John shrugged it off as her normal combativeness. Still, he didn’t like the chill in the air, or the way the sky felt, heavy and gray and waiting for autumn.
Olivia and Elliot were bickering over a case when they returned to the squad room, and John reported his impressions of the new attorney – minus the editorial commentary from his morose partner – over a cup of the squad-room-brand sludge that masqueraded as coffee. Olivia’s eyebrows hitched and Elliot nodded along, too wound up in whatever brooding he was engulfed in to really pay attention. In fact, John and Olivia were still so engaged in conversation about the new attorney that they didn’t notice the man in the red track suit walk into the room, or Cragen wandering away.
In fact, John wouldn’t have noticed at all, had Jeffries not stormed out of the room only seconds after Cragen’s door shut, and it was an hour later he found out exactly what had happened.
Red was definitely not his new partner’s best color, and he remarked that in the elevator on their way to their first crime scene.
Odafin Tutuola – Fin to his “posse,” which John assumed included himself – just smirked half-heartedly and shrugged.
==
Black narcotic cops didn’t normally spend their lunch breaks in silence at a corner café, eating smoked turkey on whole wheat and studying their partners, but Fin Tutuola did. He blamed sex crimes for it, really, the whole sensitivity of the operation, and John’s ever-watchful eye.
Try as he may, he never felt comfortable calling the other man “Munch.”
The café was nearly empty, the normal lunch crowd having emptied out for the afternoon, and John scowled as two little girls in pink dresses skipped down the sidewalk, hand-in-hand. “I don’t believe parents let their children out alone on Halloween,” he mumbled miserably, coffee cup clenched in his hands. “Don’t they realize this holiday is a pedophile’s wet dream?”
“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell ‘em,” he returned, and John regarded him coolly through his smoky glasses. There was always a certain chill about John Munch, an icy aura that required time and effort to chip away. Every time in the last month that Fin thought he was making progress, John had dodged his chisel and frozen up again, building up his own mystique.
He said nothing more about the holiday or the children in their costumes, instead joining his partner at looking out the window at the orange ribbons someone had tied around the lampposts and the pumpkin stand some beer-bellied “businessman” had set up on the corner. The sky was dark and the clouds were heavy, threatening some form of precipitation, and – as the bell on the door jangled and a late-coming patron wandered instead – a cool blast of air swirled around them.
“Might snow,” he suggested, popping the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth.
“Maybe,” John nodded, not sounding particularly interested. Even behind his tinted lenses, Fin could see a strange spark of thoughtfulness in his eyes, a far-off cloudiness he hadn’t ever noticed before.
“Gonna eat your pickle?”
“No.”
“It’s Kosher.”
John sent him an exasperated, squinty-eyed glare. “That doesn’t take away from the fact that it’s disgusting.”
“‘Kay.” He snatched the pickle from his partner’s plate and popped it in his mouth, munching loudly.
“You are one twisted fellow, my friend.”
Fin smiled. “Don’t I know it?”
==
They were both drunk, or at least on the fast track towards it, as they stumbled through the doorway to John’s apartment, arm-in-arm and singing some ridiculous classic rock song that had been on the cabbie’s radio. John stumbled out of his shoes and nearly missed the light switch, and behind him, Fin laughed uproariously.
He hadn’t meant to get drunk, and he was sure Fin hadn’t, either. But the reality of a case – a six-year-old brutally raped and murdered behind her elementary school gym while her classmates put on their Thanksgiving pageant – had taken a toll on everyone involved. And, while Olivia could go home to her dog and Elliot to his children, neither John nor his partner had anyone to go home to.
Except, of course, each other.
The second time he reached for the light switch, he caught it with his fingers, and the hallway light blazed to life. He flinched and nearly fell backwards, the luminescence almost painful, but Fin was there and caught him by the bicep, steadying him against the wall.
“Careful, John,” he growled, voice low and guttural, and John slumped back against the white wall, aware for the first time that his hallway was too narrow for one person, let alone two. Fin’s hand still held his arm, but not with the same tightness as before. He could smell the beer on his breath.
He tried to stand upright but nearly fell forward, and Fin caught him a second time, arms sliding to his waist. “You real drunk, John,” he pointed out. John finally righted himself and the grip on his body loosened, but did not entirely disappear. “You gonna do something you regret.”
“Like what?” he challenged, his tongue tripping over his teeth as he straightened his spine and looked Fin in the eye. His eyes were dark, which he’d noticed previously, but they were also deep, two murky pools without bottoms. He floated in those pools, treading water briefly and futilely before finally drowning, and then the world was all darkness, wetness, and heat.
Fin groaned as they stumbled back against the wall, his lips complying to all John’s unspoken requests, and his hands tightened around his belt loops, drawing him close. John could taste the alcohol – high-end beer, though he hadn’t really imagined Fin a beer man at first – as his tongue thrust into the other man’s warm mouth, his hands finding his way down the hard chest and then to his pants and all the pleasant surprises hidden within. He groped Fin hard through his jeans and he moaned, breaking away from the kiss to lull his head back against the wall.
“John,” he gasped, his voice caught somewhere in the depths of his throat. “You gotta – ”
Whatever suggestion he’d meant to voice dissipated as John, skipping all further fanfare, tugged open his fly and reached inside, squeezing his shaft with a rough, carnal need.
“Yes, Fin?” he smiled, his balance still unsteady but quickly improving, thanks to the sobering, exhilarating sight of Fin’s dark hair and skin against the white wall, his eyes smoldering with an encompassing, primitive heat.
The question was answered with lips on his, a tongue in his mouth, and two hands working in record time to pull his pants open and return the favor, and – Fin’s nearly-bared erection pressing against his thigh and the weight of the other man’s body over his – he shuddered in need.
“Bed,” Fin growled into his ear as he bit John’s earlobe, the affection teetering between pleasure and pain. “Now.”
John didn’t argue.
==
Snow in New York didn’t stay white and puffy for long, and Fin kicked at a chunk of black ice, watching it skitter down the sidewalk. Bell-ringing Santa Claus clones clanged and ho-ho-hoed from every direction and, as they made their way to John’s house from work in the standard Friday-night manner, he slipped a dollar in one of their buckets. John sent him a cautious, warning glance, but then looked away again, focusing on the path home.
Despite how close it was to both Chanukah and Christmas, John never mentioned his holiday plans, not even in those wee hours of the weekend nights where he always mentioned some brief, soul-baring tidbit of information. (Last Saturday, he’d shared his favorite color.) In fact, as things were, he just figured John didn't like to talk about his family – which was probably for the best, because Fin didn’t exactly enjoy discussing his, either. So, while Elliot spent his lunch hours rushing from store to store in the bitter cold, searching for those perfect gifts, and Olivia drowned her sorrows in after-work drinks with Alex, they simply braved the cold weather together, waging a silent war against the dirty snow and the demanding holiday shoppers, and never once mentioning the season.
Somewhere halfway between the precinct and John's apartment, John stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and tilted his head up. Soft snowflakes, as they had been all day, tumbled down from the sky and peppered his dark coat and hat, looking something like dandruff.
"I fucking hate this time of year," he announced, loudly enough that his voice echoed off the buildings around them.
Fin said nothing.
"I hate the togetherness. The cheer. We drop everything for a month and pretend that we don't live in a twisted, degenerate world. It's juvenile; close your eyes, and it can go away."
He sighed, retracted his outstretched arms, and shoved his hands into his pockets. He kept his eyes averted, away from Fin and the few people who pushed past them with sideways, irked glances.
For a moment, they stood there, in the awkward silence and the cold, and then suddenly John was walking again, shouldering past a pair of twenty-somethings and then past Fin, too, leaving the other man to either gape or follow. He chose the latter, and caught up with the long-legged strides at the corner.
"I never got Christmas," he stated as Fin stopped at his side, his hands still in his pockets and his eyes and expression distant. "I mean, I understood the Christianity of it, the whole rigmarole about Jesus' miraculous virginal birth, but I just never got it. Not completely."
"I never got the whole eight-day-lamp-oil business." John quirked an eyebrow at him, and he shrugged. "I just figured them Maccabees had to be some pretty tough crackers to make the oil last."
The light turned, and suddenly they were swept up in the crowd, floating across the crosswalk like two leaves caught in a stream. "It's not about being frugal," he scolded in a tone that was both amused and a bit offended. "It's about the miracle of the thing."
"So’s Christmas."
They'd made it to the curb by time Fin said this, and John stopped mid-stride, considering him carefully. The brim of his hat shadowed his face from view, but Fin was left with the distinct impression that he was smirking.
"Smartass," he muttered as they started walking again, perfectly in stride, punctuating his point with a sharp elbow to the side.
Fin smirked right back. "Back atcha."
That night, they microwaved a bag of popcorn and watched "It's a Wonderful Life" on ABC, enjoying the plight of Jimmy Stewart’s character and bickering over the remote during commercials.
And it wasn't actually until he woke up the next morning, tangled in the combination of John's comforter and John, that Fin realized it had been the first time they’d gone home together and not had sex.
==
It was sometime just after Martin Luther King Day that John got laid up with a cold, sneezing and coughing his way through the day and night. Cragen rolled his eyes when the detective declared it anthrax and sent him home to get some rest. John curled up in bed and spent the day listening to Oprah prattle on about her favorite charities while he mentally rewrote his will.
He’d just decided to leave the full body of his alien research to the webmaster of his favorite conspiracy theory website when he heard footfalls echoing through his apartment. Even with the sniffles, he knew a robbery in progress when he heard it, and grabbed his gun off the nightstand before shuffling his way from the bedroom to the hallway.
He very nearly shot Fin, especially when Fin reflexively drew his weapon in response to the barrel pointed at his head.
“Get your bony ass back in bed,” his visitor grumbled, tucking away his revolver. John watched him, curiously, as he picked up the two bulging plastic sacks he’d set down on the floor and started for the kitchen. When he followed, Fin glared at him over his shoulder. “Bed, John.”
He would have argued, but instead he sneezed, and returned to his tissues and bed.
After an hour of drifting in and out of sleep, he found his room overpowered with the warm, comforting scent of some sort of soup. He forced himself out of bed and allowed his nose to guide him into the kitchen.
He tried not to laugh aloud when he saw Fin spooning soup into a bowl. “You have a surprising domestic side, Odafin.”
Fin whirled around, ladle still in hand, and glared at him. “I thought I told you to go to bed.”
“I’m hungry.” John sounded whinier than he meant to, and he accompanied the statement by moving to sit at the kitchen table. Fin rolled his eyes and provided him with the now-full bowl and a spoon.
Halfway through the soup, he pulled his eyes away from the soft, flaky noodles and tender chicken to find Fin standing against the countertop, his arms crossed over his chest and face warm with a self-satisfied smile.
“Cragen will be glad to hear you followed orders,” he remarked, reaching for his tea.
Fin’s smile disappeared. “Ain’t no orders,” he shrugged, suddenly noncommittal.
He looked away, out the window, and somehow, John understood completely.
==
“They’re beautiful!”
Despite her tough-as-nails façade, Olivia fawned over flowers just like every woman he’d ever met, and Fin rolled his eyes as one of the precinct’s many uniforms entered the squad room with a giant bouquet of roses. She elbowed him in the ribs. “Who do you think they’re for?”
He shrugged noncommittally and kept stirring his coffee. “Ken Briscoe, probably,” he replied, tossing his stir-stick. “Or maybe you.”
She scoffed and shook her head. “Yeah, from my imaginary boyfriend, right?”
He smirked and moved to snipe back at her when the uniform paused at a desk, examined the name placard, and then set down the bouquet. All hints of a smile faded immediately from his face, and he took to the stairs, Olivia on his heels.
“They’re yours!” she laughed aloud, and Elliot glanced up from his paperwork as both detectives rushed past. She grabbed for the card and held it just out of his reach. “Do you have an admirer, detective?”
“Gimme that,” he demanded, lowering his eyes.
He could practically feel Elliot grinning behind him. “You know, the last time I bought Kathy any flowers like that was when I was first dating her,” he remarked in his always-casual tone, and Fin’s glare just made his grin grow. “Must be quite a girl.”
“‘To Fin: Happy Valentine’s. Yours, J.’” Olivia’s voice rang loud and clear, and louder still when she started laughing. Fin snatched the card back from her and stuffed it in his pocket. “Wait till Munch hears about this!”
“Hear about what?” Suddenly, John was standing just behind them, still wearing his coat. Olivia started laughing again and he shot her a curious look before noticing the flowers for the first time. Fin felt his stomach turn as John looked at him.
And smirked.
“What have we here?” he questioned in a light-hearted tone, cocking his head at the bouquet. “A mistaken delivery?”
“A token of love from ‘J,’” Elliot filled in, still grinning like a small child in a candy shop. “For Fin.”
Both John’s eyebrows rose, and he eyed this partner curiously. “Really?” he questioned in disbelief, shedding his coat. “And who, prey tell, is ‘J’? Your new flavor of the week? Yo’ baby-daddy?” Fin lowered his eyes, which only fueled the fire. “Why, Odafin, are you replacing my bony ass with something more, what is the word? Ah, yes. ‘Bootilicious’?”
Olivia kept laughing even as she sunk back into her desk chair, and Elliot joined in just hard enough that Fin very nearly considered clocking him one. But John was smiling, a twinkle in his eye, and he leaned far back in his desk chair, as if waiting for a comment.
Fin just rolled his eyes. “Asshole.”
==
They ran into George Huang at the grocery store the day before Saint Patrick’s Day.
“Detectives, this is a pleasant surprise!” he smiled, dropping a pair of oranges into his cart. “Do you live around here?”
The spring sun shone in through the windows that surrounded the produce section as John looked to Fin – who was now busily examining a display of apples – for some sort of help. George, whose wide, casual smile seemed out-of-character for the well-mannered doctor, seemed to be watching his eyes, and he immediately regretted glancing away. A psychologist would certainly read too much into it.
Or, even worse, read just enough.
“Kind of,” he answered dismissively. “Needed to pick up a few vital items.”
“Of course, of course.” George kept smiling, but his eyes drifted down into the bottom of the cart, and John knew he was surveying its contents. Not that there was much to survey, other than the frozen dinners, the carton of milk, and the box of –
“Apples on sale,” Fin announced, and – before John could reach forward in horror or George’s eyes could spot the tell-tale blue box – a bag of apples landed in the cart. “For the Waldorf salad.”
“The Waldorf salad?” George raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah. For Elliot’s Saint Patrick’s Day cookout.” Fin shrugged his shoulders, and John just stared at him, dumbstruck. “I’m bringin’ the drinks, but John can’t cook. So I’m helpin’ him out.”
“I see.” George nodded. “Well, enjoy your barbeque. I’ll see you both later.”
John refused to exhale until the doctor turned down another aisle and disappeared safely out of view.
His companion nudged him in the arm. “You owe me one,” he informed him as they started towards the checkout, one hand on the cart and just barely touching John’s.
John smirked. “And you owe me a salad.”
==
T.S. Eliot had begun his epic The Wasteland with the words “April is the cruelest month,” but Fin had never believed it.
He pondered this as he sat at the bus stop just outside John’s apartment building, the rain pelting against the tinted plastic and thundering in his ears. It’d been pouring since work ended, and the forecast had said it would pour through until morning. And, given that it was already 1 a.m., Fin believed it.
The bus eventually pulled up and he climbed into it, a dead man’s meaningless motions as he paid his fare and sunk into the front-most seat. He sent the rain one last forlorn glance before sighing and cradling his head in his hands. His mind reeled with all the things he should have said, the apologies and the rational responses, but he couldn’t bring himself to get off the bus and go back.
John had asked what it meant. A simple question, really, and definitely one he deserved an answer to. It’d been a quiet request, murmured in the afterglow, in the time that they used to spend finding their clothes and saying awkward goodbyes. But they hadn’t dressed in the dark for months, now, and John had been half-asleep when he’d asked it, socks on and eyelids heavy.
Fin would have done good to shrug off the question and give into sleep.
Instead, he’d answered, “Fucking, John. That’s what it means.”
He’d told the lie straight-faced, and it ached, now, both inside and out. The sobered, pained expression that immediately overtook John’s sated, languid expression was enough for him to know he’d said too much, and suddenly he was looking for his boxers while John yelled at him.
John Munch, yelling. Had he not seen it with his own two eyes, he wouldn’t have believed it.
He yelled back, lied more about how little it meant, how he should have spent Earth Day on his couch rather than listening to John prattle on about environmental irregularities that were covered up by the government, about how he would rather be anywhere but there, in that faux-intellectual apartment with the damned white walls. And then he was anywhere but there, and his apartment felt foreign and empty.
It’d been weeks since he’d slept there.
He crawled into his bed and stared at the ceiling for a moment, but found that the sheets were cold and the rain was too loud. Padding across the apartment in silence provided little comfort, so he sunk into a chair and pulled out the first book he could think of.
The Wasteland.
“April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.”
For the first time since he’d read it, so many years ago, The Wasteland tugged at all the right heartstrings, and he cried to the sound of the rain on his windowpanes.
==
It was somewhere near Cinco De Mayo when John stopped sleeping.
He couldn’t explain the insomnia, as much as he tried, and he lay at night staring at the ceiling and willing some part – any part, really – of his body to give into the day’s exhaustion and fall asleep.
The first few nights had been easy enough to get through, really, and he’d found the silence and the solitude boundlessly comforting. There were no messages on the machine, no strange foods in the fridge, and no beat-up basketball shoes hogging his welcome mat. He caught up on his reading, emptied the TiVo of its saved documentaries, replenished his alcohol supply, and even considered taking up chess in the park.
Until he stopped sleeping.
He felt somewhat like the walking dead, eyesight blurry and wit definitely fuzzy, and Cragen dragged him into his office somewhere near his seventy-fifth consecutive hour awake. “John, call Huang,” he urged after a brief conversation about the Yankee-versus-Oriole rivalry. “He can prescribe you something so you can sleep.”
They both knew he wouldn’t call.
He ran through the motions easily enough, and his stressed work relationship with his partner was dismissively explained as a by-product of their constant squabbling. He made it through most the month on minimal sleep and maximum coffee, and – while Huang watched him cautiously every time he nodded off at his desk or made a particularly inappropriate comment – he prided himself in avoiding the subject and remaining a functioning member of society.
And really, what business did his colleagues have knowing that his bed was cold at night?
The Thursday after Memorial Day saw him sitting down for coffee with Olivia, their respective partners off chasing some low-life sleazebucket with everyone’s favorite shrink. They chatted pleasantly about the coming summer weather, the blue sky, the books they were reading, and anything else that came to mind.
She caught his hand just as he threw away his coffee cup.
“You look like shit,” she told him, tightening her grip so he couldn’t bolt. He met her gaze evenly, glad for the sunlight. His dark lenses hid his bloodshot eyes, if not his exhaustion-drawn face. “What happened?”
“Nothing.”
She quirked an eyebrow. “Nothing?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“Yeah, right.” She released him and shook her head, partially like a concerned friend and partially like an annoyed parent. “Whatever it is, you need to tell him you’re sorry and get over it.”
He’d been keeping up with her footfalls, always evenly paced, but the comment made him falter and stop. She whirled around, waiting.
“Who says it has anything to do with Fin?”
If ever John had seen Olivia’s face light up with a satisfied smirk, it was that moment, on the sidewalk.
“Because he looks just as shitty as you do.”
==
Fin loved the sound of John’s breath in his ear, hot and rasping, a cross between a gasp and actual, coherent speech, and he tightened his hands on the hips he’d so often called bony. The oversized American flag his upstairs neighbor had hung for the impending holiday snapped in the wind, but they both ignored the noise, choosing instead to fill the room with sounds of their own. The mattress, not used to a second body, squealed as they, fueled by the heat outside and the heat within, broke their languid pace for something faster, more demanding, and he wasn’t sure if the thumping noise against the wall was the headboard or his neighbors, demanding peace on their Sunday afternoon.
For some odd reason, Fin smirked inwardly as he realized that this was John’s first visit to his abode.
And then, his thighs shuddering as they tightened around his waist and eyes clenched shut, John cried out Fin’s name and came, covering his stomach with a wet heat. The splash against his skin only caused Fin to surge forward, and within second he’d abandoned himself to the white-hot lights in his peripheral vision and plummeted over the edge.
They collapsed onto the sheets, a jumbled mass of sweat and skin and come, all exacerbated by the fact that the building’s air conditioning hadn’t worked in something like four years. Once their pulses had settled, John turned his head and shot him a sated, if annoyed, look.
“A seduction won’t always solve our woes, Odafin.”
There was something about his tone of voice coupled with his state of undress that made Fin laugh, and he rolled his eyes at the serious expression slowly crossing the other man’s face. “‘Course not, John,” he returned after a moment, tucking his hands beneath his head. “I just...”
He didn’t finish the sentence, but he figured he didn’t need to, and John sighed before mimicking his positioning.
“You have got to call your landlord about the sweltering heat,” he finally said, eyes lulling shut. “A man my age could die in this condition.”
“So we’ll screw at your place.”
“That is certainly a plan I can get behind.”
They both chuckled at the double meaning, and Fin sighed before rolling over and, in a bolt of sudden possessiveness, wrapping his arms around John. “Missed you,” he murmured against his hair, feeling somewhat ridiculous.
“You too,” John replied softly, and somehow, any ridiculousness Fin felt melted away with just those two words.
==
The first time he said it, Fin didn’t hear him.
Or at least, John thought he didn’t hear him. Up on the roof, only a block or so from where the actual fireworks display was being held, the only sounds either could easily hear were the booming explosions of Independence Day revelry, peppered with the occasional shriek from a small, frightened child. A number of Fin’s neighbors watched from their fire escapes, but Fin – either a romantic or a masochist, and John could not be sure which – suggested they watch on the roof. Every noise echoed off the buildings, building echoes upon echoes until his ears hurt, which is why he’d leaned in so close to say it.
Fin said nothing, and just kept watching the display.
As much as John hated the government, sometimes, he had to admit to a love of fireworks. He loved the colors as they burst into the black-blue night sky and then faded away, and the awe they inspired.
He suspected that Fin knew this, which was most likely why he’d grabbed a six-pack of beer and dragged them both up to the roof, setting up bar on the ledge and providing them the best seat in the city.
Taking a deep breath, John ignored the soaring feeling in his heart, turned to Fin, and repeated himself, more loudly than before.
A firework crashed and lit up the sky.
“I love you.”
The explosion covered the “I,” but not the other words, and his announcement bounced back at him from the surrounding buildings, echo upon echo upon echo.
Fin smirked, his eyes still focused on the sky. “Heard you the first time, John,” he replied. “Love you too.”
Another firework burst to life.
==
Taking a holiday up to Connecticut to get away from the grime and grit of the city had been John’s idea, and, lounging on the porch and watching the sun set over the lake, Fin had to admit the brilliance of it. He sipped champagne – because John claimed that it was National Champagne Day, and woe to the man who did not celebrate such a momentous occasion – and listened to his companion prattle on about this and that, his voice soothing and almost comforting to the ears.
“This would be a good place to retire, John,” he said after some deliberation, interrupting his raving companion mid-diatribe. John froze, hands suspended in the middle of a gesture, and glanced at him over the edge of his glasses. “Ya know. When we’re old.”
“That implies I age,” he replied with just the right hint of bitterness to his voice, topping off his glass of champagne. “I resent that implication.”
Fin rolled his eyes. “I just mean, ya know… Later.” He glanced away, focusing on the glimmer of the sun’s rays across the lake, and the way the summer breeze tossed the leaf-heavy boughs of the oaks surrounding them. The tranquility was breath-taking and left him with a strange tightness in his chest. “For both of us.”
There was a certain sardonic twinkling in Munch’s eyes as he took a long swig from his glass, and Fin could imagine him playing the words around in his mind, building a appropriately snide-but-playful retort as he always did.
But instead, he set down his drink and joined Fin on the porch swing. “Might be nice,” he admitted, the seat rocking and swaying beneath them. He leaned back, as though carefully considering the question, and Fin watched his eyes lull shut. “Yes, I can see it now. You’ll take Elliot and the captain out on the rowboat for some bluegill fishing while I serve cheese and wine to Olivia, Alex, and George. Perhaps Doctor Warner could join us, as well.”
“You don’t have to be a smartass about it,” he muttered, the tightness dissipating as it was replaced by something remarkably like heartburn. “I was just sayin’ – ”
“I know. And I was suggesting that we host a housewarming party when we do retire to Connecticut.” John spoke with such finality that Fin nearly dropped his glass, but the other man, now focused on the horizon, didn’t seem to notice. “Though, seeing as we’re each paying for a New York apartment on a civil servant’s salary, I don’t foresee retirement until we’re in our nineties.”
The comment was so glibly stated and causal that Fin almost missed the slight suggestion to it, and when he did catch it, he also caught John peering at him out of the corner of his eye, waiting.
He often caught John with that expression, expectant without being eager, simply biding his time.
He took another sip of his drink. “Are you sayin’ what I think you are?”
John shrugged. “Just making conversation. You’re the one filling in the blanks.”
Fin shook his head, somehow both extremely exasperated and completely content, and John’s side was warm against his as they trailed off into silence and watched the sun disappear behind the tree line.
==
September arrived more languidly as it ended the year where everything changed, and the leaves shifted color with a certain laziness. Munch observed this phenomenon as he passed the park on the way to the new apartment, laden with grocery bags. His new upstairs neighbor was even kind enough to hold the door open, and help him carry the bags upstairs.
Fin was bustling around the kitchen when he entered, slicing cheese and toasting bread for bruschetta. The newest radio-edit single from 50 Cent blared in from the living room and John rolled his eyes as he started stocking the cabinets.
No one seemed at all surprised when the two partners – best friends by all worldly standards – decided to share an apartment with one another, and both Elliot and Cragen had even gone as far as to help them move. They made great fanfare about bringing in two beds, one for each of the rooms, and two full sets of earthly belongings, carefully manufacturing the perfect pretense. Olivia suggested a housewarming party and promised wine, and all their friends seemed genuinely happy to see the pair abandon their original awkwardness and become what they saw as genuine friends.
And neither Fin nor John planned to tell them anything different, now or ever.
A few hours later, 50 Cent was replaced with some easy-listening jazz that George had brought over and the group mingled over cheese, crackers, fresh bruschetta, cheesecake bites, wine, and soda. Munch watched the goings on from the corner with a strange sort of distracted contentment, the Merlot only slightly cool against his hand through the glass as he watched Fin, Elliot, and Cragen laugh about something trivial.
Olivia laid a hand on his shoulder. “Nice get-together,” she praised with a quirking half-smile that suggested she knew better. “You should do this more often.”
He snorted and shook his head. “And endure another three hours of Fin trying to convince me that ‘Fitty’ is the ideal cooking music?”
“That bad?”
“Worse.”
She laughed and shook her head, and he smiled around the lip of his glass, his attention drawn to where George and Alex were now pondering a piece of art.
“You know,” Olivia began, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, “I know who ‘J’ is.”
“‘J’ who?” he replied, shooting her a dubious look.
“The roses.” John could feel the color draining from his face, and she reached up to pat him on the shoulder. “It’s okay,” she assured him, her hand warm as it slid to his upper arm. “Your secret’s safe. I just thought you should know.”
He smiled, somehow not as weakly as he’d anticipated, and nodded. There was a sincerity surrounding her – in her eyes, her smile, even the way she held his arm – that made him feel like she really did mean it.
“Thanks, Olivia.”
A few minutes later, gathered around the kitchen table, it was Olivia who raised her glass towards the light fixture and, sending him a meaningful glance, proposed a toast.
“To Munch and Fin’s new place,” she dedicated, the light fragmenting off her glass and casting prismatic patches of light onto the table. “May we all find a partnership as strong as theirs.”
Elliot seconded the motion and touched his glass to Olivia’s, setting off a chain reaction of clinking, chiming glasses and good friends laughing.
On the opposite side of the table from Olivia, Fin glanced up at John and smiled, the kind of smile that John wouldn’t have expected to ever see aimed at him, the kind of smile that, when he’d met his partner a year earlier, he’d not even dreamed of seeing.
Squeezing Fin’s hand discreetly, but not really caring if anyone noticed, anyway, they clinked their glasses and, together, smiled.
