Peter dug through the remnants of his leftover Chinese takeout, barely registering the baseball game blaring on the TV. His eyes slid to the unopened box in the corner; the one he'd inherited posthumously as stated in his father's will. He knew it was foolish to keep the box there, gathering dust like some sort of sacred shrine, but the act of disturbing its contents would make it too real. Too raw. Despite all of their squabbles over the years, Peter loved his father, and his chest ached as he recalled those happy moments they had shared in-between all the meaningless drama.

The deep-set ache radiated to his shoulder and lingered until he massaged the stiff muscle through the flare. The old injury from his broken baseball career had all but healed, but lately, with the sudden death of his dad, the painful visits with his mentally handicapped sister, and the added stress of his new position…Well. Peter worked his shoulder a few tentative minutes before returning to his takeout with far less gusto. He spared one last glance at the untouched box then turned his attention to the stack of papers on his kitchen table pertaining to this week's newest caseload.

The ADA skimmed their contents and tried to suppress the post-injury ache from returning. The crimes New York's SVU handled were horrific: more disturbing and twisted and personal than anything he'd encountered in Chicago. Ever since his impromptu admission to the team, Peter had struggled to keep pace with the profound men and women that dominated the field.

But it wasn't so much the nature of the cases or even his own ignorance that caused him grief. Those were skills he could eventually learn over time. No, what gnawed at his conscience was the team itself. The professional, adept, highly respected team that had been thrust into his incapable hands.

He couldn't seem to connect with them.

Although Peter tried to remain impartial, he couldn't help but compare his newfound career to the one he'd left behind with Mark Jeffries. He absentmindedly rubbed his shoulder again.

Should he just return to Chicago?

It was, logically, the easier choice. No one would blame him, least of all Lieutenant Olivia Benson, for deciding to pursue his former position at his old stomping grounds. Even though Jeffries had played a role in the negotiations for Peter's switch to SVU, he'd also promised to reserve a place for him in Chicago should he change his mind.

Peter picked up his cell phone and hesitated. It would only take one call to Jeffries. By this time next week he could be reacquainting himself with his old office and returning to his former circle of trusted staff. Anna, Laura, Antonio…

He tossed the phone onto the couch and out of reach. That decision could wait until tomorrow. Just like that box.

The next morning, after accompanying Olivia to the home of a potential witness and gleaning what little information they could for the case, Peter padded back to his office with the lieutenant on his heels. She closed the door behind them.

"Stone—" she began, as he tossed his jacket in a forlorn chair.

"It's a weak testimony at best," he interrupted and returned her resolute gaze. "It would never stand in court." Olivia pursed her lips.

"She described the suspect in full detail, identified the scarf that we found at the scene…Her words are valuable."

"And flawed," came the snappish reply. "I can't fit my entire defense around her story. She lied about knowing the victim and waited nearly a week before coming forward. She doesn't look credible." Peter flopped into his chair and slapped his hands on the armrests. "If we want to proceed with this case, I suggest we get more information."

"You know that won't be possible," the brunette said curtly. "No one else is willing to come forward." She sighed. "Stone. If we can get her on the stand, we win the jury." Peter almost refuted her with the nonchalant front he was famous for, but a sudden thought seized him.

"Tell me. How would Barba have handled this?" He knew that the shock of Rafael's sudden departure still weighed heavy on the hearts of his new colleagues. Especially Olivia. Peter had never been acquainted with Rafael personally, but he knew enough friends in the business, courtesy of his late father, who'd cited the man as passionate and brilliant in the courtroom.

It made Peter wonder if his hardened attitude toward cases, much different than Rafael's empathetic philosophy, was the cause of the friction he felt between himself and the lieutenant.

Olivia hesitated and her silence was answer enough. He nodded.

"All right. That's what we'll do, then." She gaped at him while he proceeded to rummage through the stacked folders on his desktop.

"What do you mean?" she ventured and was met with his perplexed stare, as if it should be obvious.

"Pursue the case." He tore his attention back to a hefty file and shrugged. "Unless you'd like me to drop it completely, which is still my preference."

"No, of course not," Olivia said with conviction. "I'll follow up with our witness." She backpedaled to the door with purpose before stilling her steps. "I appreciate it, Stone." He gave her a brief smile in return.

"Sure thing, Benson."

Peter worked in relative silence for a time as he attended to the inevitable backlog that had accumulated after Rafael's absence. He felt a twinge of guilt as he thumbed through the incomplete files that bore Rafael's signature and added his own co-sign.

Sighing, he rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands.

Would he always feel like an outsider in New York?

Peter picked up his cell phone and stared at the screen. He nearly shoved the phone back in his pocket, but a moment's hesitation stayed his hand. He steeled himself then made the call.

"Hey. This is Peter Stone. Listen, we need to talk…"

During the rush of lunch hour, Peter took a seat in a restaurant reminiscent of Molly's and scanned the menu while he waited for the seat across from him to fill. The lively atmosphere did little to quell the reoccurring ache that consumed his shoulder. Within minutes, he noticed a figure weave his way around scattered tables to the corner booth and he stood to shake the man's hand.

"Barba."

"Stone."

The duo took their seats and Peter ordered two beers from a passing waitress. He then studied the attorney from across the table.

"I honestly didn't know if you'd show up or not," he admitted. Rafael, to his credit, offered him a tired smile.

"Well, I wasn't about to pass up a free beer."

The last time they'd exchanged words, Peter had been trying him for murder. The memory of that horrible day was still fresh in his mind. It had been a case he'd never wanted to pursue and had colored him the devil incarnate for anyone who personally knew Rafael. But the law decreed his presence, so he'd taken the case despite its heart-breaking nature. He cleared his throat and continued, deciding it best to skip the usual formalities and cut right to the chase.

"Have you considered returning to SVU?" If the question caught the dark haired attorney off-guard, he didn't show it. Instead, he thanked the returning waitress for the beer and took a generous drink before replying.

"No. At least, not in the capacity I was before." Rafael set the glass on the table with a soft thump. "The real question is, are you thinking about moving back to Chicago?" Peter reached for his beer.

"I don't know."

It was the first time he'd admitted his indecision out loud. Maybe it stemmed from his baseball days, but he'd always believed quitting was just another fancy synonym for failure. If he left SVU, while still trapped under the shadow of his father's legacy…Peter set his jaw and stared at the dog-eared menu while he waited for the expected scoff from the attorney across the table.

"I've never known anyone working in the Special Victims Unit who hasn't felt like leaving at one time or another," came the simple reply. "This job, the cases, the victims. You can't help sometimes but to make it…personal." At this, Rafael sighed and leaned back in his seat. Peter stared at the man, surprised that he hadn't taken the opportunity to exploit his moment of weakness.

"You can't tell me Lieutenant Benson's thought about leaving," Peter eventually said as the silence stretched between them. The name brought a sad smile to the former ADA's face.

"Olivia? Plenty of times. But she'll never give up doing what she loves. She cares too much."

"Yeah, I kind of got that impression," Peter acknowledged. He recalled his prior conversation with Olivia in his office while she'd defended her opinion about the worth of the witness's testimony. "The thing is, I don't work that way, Barba. I don't have the patience to be a bleeding heart for every victim on every case." The words sounded callous, even to his own ears, but they bore a nugget of truth. He couldn't combat Olivia on every decision, not when his caseload was easily five times that of Mark Jeffries' docket. Rafael shrugged.

"Then compromise."

It sounded so easy, but Peter's blood ran cold at the suggestion. He'd never compromised. Not in baseball, when his shoulder blew out and he subjected himself to countless agonizing surgeries in the hope of pitching again, and not in Chicago, when he routinely butted heads with his old boss, even under the threat of termination.

"I'm not good at compromising." Peter wasn't sure why he bothered answering. Surely there could be no trust between them, not after he'd questioned Rafael mercilessly in the courtroom and then, for all intents and purposes, took over his position as ADA. He reached for his wallet and placed a couple bucks on the table. "Look, forget I said anything. Get yourself something to eat, on me. Enjoy the beer." He made to stand.

"Stone. You won't forgive yourself if you leave SVU," Rafael said, making no move to collect the discarded money. "If you walk away, you'll regret it for the rest of your life." Peter rubbed a hand across his face.

"I don't know if I'm cut out for this role."

"Then why not find out?" Rafael persisted. "You're the up-and-rising star from the Midwest. It certainly sounds like you've got the talent. So prove it."

A challenge. That was something Peter could relate to. He settled back into his seat and took a swig of beer.

"So…compromise."

"If you don't want to be eaten alive…yes," Rafael nodded. "And a word of advice, Stone. Trust Olivia's instincts. They're usually right."

That night, Peter returned to his apartment and tossed his coat to the side. He loosened his tie and made a beeline for his bedroom when an item in the living room caught his eye. His father's box. He stopped in his tracks, his tie now forgotten. After a moment's hesitation, the attorney knelt in front of the forlorn object and placed a hand on the lid.

"You were right, Dad. About New York. I think it's about time I try my luck here for awhile. Let's see if I can end up being half the man you were."

And with that, Peter lifted the lid.