It was supposed to have been a routine call. Olivia felt the gravel bite into her palms as she fell from a crouch into a kneeling position beside the body. Her first thought was, Elliot. Get him out. Out out of here. She glanced over her shoulder, squinting tears out of her eyes. He was still talking with the man who had made the 911 call, and his brow was furrowed in – suspicion? God, she hoped not. Glancing back, she motioned at the young cop to cover up the face of the raped and murdered girl. Rising, she leaned in. The cop's face was fresh and open, with just a tinge of green, doubtless from the mutilated body between them.

"Listen," she breathed through the flurries that were beginning to fall. "Don't allow anyone else near this body except for the medical examiner. My partner and I are going to leave for now, but another detective will be here shortly. Just tell him what you told me. And hold the man who made the call, please."

The cop nodded. Olivia fumbled in her pockets for her cell phone and clumsily, only bothering to wrest one mitten off, dialed Munch's number.

"Munch."

"John, it's Olivia. Elliot and I can't take this call. Get the information from the captain and take over for us, okay? I briefed the cop here, he'll hold the body and the 911 caller, and the M.E.'ll be here shortly."

Munch paused. Olivia had counted on him not to ask questions, and after a long pause, he assented and hung up. Relieved, she jogged over to Elliot, who was still deep in conversation with the caller. She interrupted with a hand on his elbow.

"Elliot, we have to go."

He glanced up from his pad. "Another call? Don't we get holidays?"

"The captain wants us back at the precinct. Munch is going to take over for us here."

There was now a definite look of suspicion, and maybe worry, etched on Elliot's brow. "Did he say what for?"

"Just now. Come on."

To her relief, he followed her without another question.

Munch didn't like to curse. He thought it vulgar, lowly. One of his ex-wives had been especially fond of cursing, and he cultivated a special distaste for it throughout countless sweaty sex-filled nights, heated divorce proceedings, and various threatening post-divorce phone calls, demanding he give up her cat's water dish.

That night, however, nothing seemed to encompass the overwhelming situation as a good, gritty "Shit."

"Shit," he mumbled, removing his glasses to rub at his eyes. "I'm going to kill you, Olivia."

He was crouched next to the inert and carefully filleted body of Kathleen Stabler. Her rapist, after having his way with her in various positions, had gagged and bound her, and then taken something very sharp (probably a straight razor, said the M.E.) and made incisions down the entire length of her body, starting at the shoulder, skirting the breast and continuing down the belly and thighs all the way to the feet. There were shallow, irregular circles carved around her nipples. Her face, on the other hand, was peaceful and untouched except for little dark marks at the corners of her mouth. The rapist had removed the gag post mortem. The medical examiner, a slight Korean girl of no more than twenty-five, looked at him curiously. "Did you know this girl?"

"Her father works in Special Victims." Replacing his glasses and hat, Munch jammed his hands into his pockets. Shit…

"I trusted you, Elliot."

"You can't blame him for this," Olivia protested hotly, yanking her hands out of her pockets and coming around the side of her desk. Elliot was silent, had been silent all the while, staring at something very interesting on the floor while Kathy cried and snarled and finally now hissed, in a pointed whisper,

"I trusted you."

"Elliot, this isn't your fault. She doesn't know what she's saying, she's crazy with grief…"

Cragen saw and approached the three, trying to coax the angry detective away. "It's their private matter, Olivia." Addressing Elliot and Kathy, he asked to deaf ears: "Can I get you two an interview room? Coffee? I'm sure you're still very upset…"

The office had gone deadly silent. Munch rubbed at his eyes again, refusing to look at the almost ridiculous scene that kept stopping and then staggering forward, like an old silent film.

"Shut up, you stupid bitch!" Kathy screeched, not facing Olivia. "What the fuck do you know? Probably more than I do," she said, her voice quieting as she got closer to Elliot and addressed him venemously, with barely contained fury, "probably you've been fucking my husband, which is why he was too occupied to make sure our daughter was safe. First it was Maureen – now this – I can't take this anymore. I've sent the papers to my lawyer, and the children and I are leaving for my mother's in the morning. Does that make you happy, Olivia? He's all yours." Her eyes were filled with tears now, and she beat softly upon her husband's chest, half-embrace, half-attack. "I told you, I told you, Elliot, that this job would kill you. Instead it killed our daughter. Are you happy? Are you happy?" She started a soft, almost gentle keening. "Are you happy?"

Cragen's mouth was open slightly and glistened wet, helpless; Olivia turned, her hand scraping across her forehead, and then walked quickly out of the bullpen. Across the room, Fin quietly answered his desk phone; outside, the snow kept falling.

John Munch awoke slowly, an aching cold seizing his hands and feet. The TV was spouting its ghostly, silent lore across the bedroom, and he fumbled for the remote among the covers, shutting it off to return the room to silence. It was very cold – the heating system was probably broken again. He knew it would make no difference if he complained to the super, as his would be only yet another complaint in a long litany, and there was nothing the man could do about it until someone from the heating company arrived.

Swinging his feet over the side of the high bed, Munch got down and stripped slowly, only pausing to glance at the clock beside his bed: 3:30. It was, then, fortunate that he'd been woken up by the cold, as he was due down at the precinct at four. He, Olivia, and Fin were to follow a lead in the Kathleen Stabler case – a man just released from Sing Sing whose priors neatly matched the M.O. of Kathleen's attacker – and Cragen had instructed them that an early-morning arrest and search of the apartment would be best, not only in hopes of catching the perp, but also so that Elliot didn't have to sit at his desk while he knew the other detectives were out catching his daughter's rapist.

Two weeks had passed since the incident. Elliot was on desk duty, his gun locked in the captain's desk, and having regular, mandatory treatment from Dr. Huang. He'd flat-out refused any more time off than a week. Olivia was training an emergency replacement from Homicide, a Detective Laurence Kronisk. Kathy, true to her word, had taken all her children, including the body of her daughter Kathleen, and flown home to her parents, where Kathleen's funeral was held. Elliot had elected not to attend. The case of her rape and murder was being handled delicately, out of his vision and knowledge as much as possible. This was not hard, as the Special Victims Unit was always busy around the holidays with domestic disturbances and Elliot moreover had his hands full with the divorce.

"Remember all the times," Olivia had said to Munch one afternoon as they sat on the steps of an elementary school and waited for dismissal, "he would say that we didn't know what these parents felt, because we weren't parents? How he would say, well, if it was my kid, I can't say I would have done any different. We're talking about killing people, John. Is he dangerous?"

There wasn't any need to explain who he was. Olivia was loath to talk about Elliot in the first place, and Munch was surprised that she had brought it up in any capacity, especially with him. He knew she'd been to see Huang, and that she talked to the captain and Fin fairly regularly. None of them approached Elliot except in routine matters of duty; Huang had advised against it, for the time being.

Munch had cleared his throat. "You'd know that better than anyone else."

"I don't have a child. I have no idea."

"What did Fin say?"

She'd coloured a bit, as if ashamed that he knew she'd asked Fin first. "He said he'd damn well kill that rapist son-of-a-bitch, and for that matter, he'll kill Kathleen's if he gets even the slimmest justification when we pick him up."

Munch had smiled thinly, seeing the anger and helplessness in Olivia's eyes. "Looks like we're all pretty dangerous."

Now, he shook the memory off with the water from the shower and then toweled briefly. It was a nasty situation, making work even more unpleasant than usual. Munch didn't hold much faith for Elliot staying on at Special Victims. He'd always been the most volatile, the most effected by his work, excepting only Olivia in certain cases. They were awful partners, from that standpoint, but they were also excellent partners for the same reasons. They reached out and controlled the passions in one another, understanding one another far better than if one had been the loose cannon and the other indifferent. Still, he held no hope. Munch was a realist at best, and a cynic most of the time. His divorces had taught him the most important thing about life: change, and most of it disappointment. Especially for those cases where fate brought its heavy hammer, swinging.

Munch felt Elliot before he heard him – a gentle press around his bicep. Reflexively, Munch turned and brought his gun to bear until he saw Elliot's face and relaxed, but only slightly. "What are you doing here?" he mouthed.

"I just want to see him," Elliot whispered, louder than Munch would have liked. He glanced up the staircase that led to the perp's apartment, where Olivia and Fin were about to break in. "I'm unarmed. I just want to see his face." His own face was sweaty but controlled, looking like he'd run from his empty house in Queens all the way there.

Reluctantly, Munch pulled back. "Follow me. Quietly."

They ascended the staircase slowly, but when they were halfway up the winding steps the racket of the break in began with the loud crack of a broken door and then the chatter of breaking glass and muffled shouts. In that moment, Elliot fought his way past Munch and dashed up the stairs.

"Shit," Munch cursed for the third time in a month, and ran after him.

"You have the right to remain silent," Olivia bit out as she manhandled the perp, Richard Van Eyck, into handcuffs. "Fin, you alright?"

"Bastard bit my ear, but I'm fine." He was straddled over a large German Shepard, holding the dog down with difficulty as it struggled. "I think I'm going to have to knock it out."

"Just do it, it's ready to kill the both of us." Olivia stopped when she saw Elliot appear in the doorway. "Elliot, what the hell – ?"

"Elliot?" Fin looked up and the dog partially wiggled free. As Elliot began to move toward Van Eyck, Fin clubbed the dog with the butt of his gun. Elliot was yelling hoarsely as he came across the room: it was clear that he was intent on killing Van Eyck. He'd wrapped his hands around Van Eyck's throat, his face a mass of red and veins, and Munch had appeared in the doorway when Olivia said sharply:

"Let go of him."

Something in her voice perhaps caused Elliot to turn, just a little, though his hands remained where they were, working in fury.

"Let go of him, Elliot." He was staring into the barrel of her gun.

This was all he had time to register before Fin came up behind him and broke his hold, wrestling him off Van Eyck. Munch moved inside of the apartment, catching Olivia's stricken gaze as she lowered her gun. He grabbed the perp, who had fallen gasping to his knees, and hauled him out of the apartment to the waiting squad car below. Olivia followed, dragging the German Shepard, and last of all Fin, who led Elliot discreetly out of the back door. His nose was bleeding a little from the struggle with Fin, but he declined to wipe it. He had a curious glazed look in his eyes. Fin eyed him, and then put an arm around his shoulder gently, leading him. He was limp and compliant.

"Let's go back to the precinct."

Richard Van Eyck's trial went swiftly and smoothly, supplemented by the still-bloodied mutilation utensil in his apartment. Kronisk had taken on full-time with Olivia. She never spoke about that morning to anyone after the captain had interrogated her. She never spoke to Elliot at all. Elliot didn't speak to her, either. He'd lost miserably in the divorce proceedings – Casey, from her examination of the transcripts, said he simply hadn't tried. Kathy had full custody of the children; he kept the house. He was still doing desk work and complained to no one. His silence lent an eerie quality to the bullpen. Two weeks after Van Eyck had been jailed, someone had laughed, a genuine, heartfelt expression of joy. It had seemed so inappropriate that Munch had physically cringed. He actually began to enjoy going home in the evenings, where he could feel as he pleased, instead of being crushed under the weight of Elliot's misery. But mostly he felt the same way in his apartment as well: guilty. Why did he feel so damn guilty? It was none of his business. But the whole squad felt guilty. It was like having a perpetual funeral without a body. Perhaps they were mourning Elliot.

One night, Huang approached Munch as he gathered his things and wrestled on his coat. "I'd like to take you out for a drink, if you don't mind, John."

Munch liked Huang – intelligent, businesslike, perceptive. He, unlike most of the squad, didn't mind having his brain picked over. He'd gone for 'drinks' with Huang before, mostly to debate and discuss philosophy and psychology. Neither of them drank much. It was nice, the bizarre mindfucking that didn't have anything to do with a current case and wasn't banal nice-talk. Tonight, though, Munch heard something else in the psychiatrist's voice.

"Business or pleasure?"

The shorter man quirked a tiny smile. "I can't fool you, can I?"

He grunted. "Let's at least pretend you don't want anything from me."

"You read my mind."

Behind the bar, a sitcom was on the TV, but it was impossible to hear over the clinking of drinks and laughter of the patrons. Their conversation had faded to a comfortable lull, and Munch swished another small mouthful of vodka and cranberry juice over his tongue.

"How's Olivia doing?"

"I wouldn't know. She's bonding with her new partner. And she doesn't talk to me unless she's exhausted her options of Kronisk, Fin, Cragen, and you, in that order."

"You don't sound bitter," Huang offered mildly. Mildly, everything about Huang was mild, like a tepid bath. Mild. Mildew. Munch was on his way to drunk.

"I'm not. We weren't ever exactly close."

"And do you talk to Elliot?"

Munch raised his eyebrows and inspected Huang over his glasses. "You know the answer to that already, and I object to being asked a question that's obviously purposed to lead me somewhere."

"Guilty as charged." Huang laughed softly, then sobered. "John, I have something to ask of you."

"Here it comes."

"This may strike you as odd, but I hope you'll understand my reasons. I have only the interests of the squad in mind. I've discussed my proposal with Don and Elliot, and they've both agreed with me. Of course, everything will depend on your aqueiescence. This is a request, and by no means an order or a necessity."

He paused, took another sip of his drink. On the television, a man and a woman were embracing while laundry flapped on clotheslines behind them: a laundry detergent commercial. "You sound like you're about to ask me for my badge. Or castrate me. Go on."

Huang nodded. "I'd like you to consider sharing your apartment with Elliot."

This was hardly what he had expected, but his usual cynicism and the alcohol flattened his response. "Is this because that whole adopting a cat suggestion fell through? Because I'm willing to reconsider, even though I maintain that I'm not a pet person."

"This isn't for your therapeutic benefit, John, it's for Elliot's."

"Doesn't he have a family member, a friend, that he can move in with? My apartment – "

" – is adequately sized for the two of you to live comfortably. And no, from what Elliot's told me, between his job and his family he hasn't had time to cultivate many new friendships, or attend to old ones. None of his family lives close enough for him to commute. He's planning on moving out of his house anyway, but I don't think that an abrupt transition from his empty home to an empty apartment is a wise idea. He's suffering from so much guilt and depression…I'm considering putting him on medication."

Munch glanced over at him. "Are you allowed to tell me that?"

"Not really, no."

"But you hoped it would help to convince me."

"You're the best choice. Olivia is not an option, and she wouldn't be even if he wasn't angry with her. Sharing an apartment with her would be too much of a sexual situation, which would create even more tension between them and within the squad. Elliot has no connection to Fin whatsoever, and the captain would also be an inappropriate choice. Many officers who are bachelors share apartments, especially in light of recent rent hikes. I don't think this would be any different."

"I'll tell you how it would be different. You're putting me on a glorified, twenty four hour suicide watch."

"No, I don't believe Elliot would kill himself. I'm asking you to serve as his point of connectivity with the rest of the squad. Right now, he's trying to wall himself in from everyone. If he succeeds, he'll lose his job, and what passes for a life. But he's agreed to share your apartment, and that tells me that he's not unwilling to reach out. You can't imagine what he's gone through."

"Well, I'm glad you're all in agreement about turning my apartment into a psych ward. I can't imagine what he's gone through, true, but I also can't believe you're asking me this."

"I'm only asking," Huang sighed. "I'll let him know your decision tomorrow."

"No." Munch drained his glass and stood. "I'll let him know myself. This whole situation is ridiculous. Maybe you should have offered your apartment, Doc, before you cooked up this crazy scheme."

"That wouldn't be appropriate, John. He's my client and my co-worker."

"He's my co-worker, too. Think about that."

"I'm going to get lunch." Munch stretched out in his desk chair. "Do you want anything?"

Fin glanced up from the list of phone numbers on his desk, covering the phone on his shoulder with his hand. "Chinese?"

"I was thinking deli. We had Chinese three times last week."

"That's because you left the ordering to Detective Pork Fried Rice over there. I don't think the kid eats anything else. Ham and cheese, no lettuce." Fin uncovered the mouthpiece. "Yeah, I said 1992. No, a fax on that."

Munch swung his chair around. "Olivia? Deli?"

"Laur and I ordering Chinese," she called back.

He got up and went over to Elliot's desk, which was covered in photocopies of intimidating-looking graphs and pie charts. Elliot was bent over them, one hand digging into his skull. Munch tapped him on the shoulder.

"Take a break and come pick lunch up with me."

Elliot looked up absently. He had dark circles underneath his eyes. "I thought we were ordering Chinese."

"Detective Pork Fried Rice and his partner, Detective Moo Goo Gai Pan, are indeed ordering Chinese. I'm going out for something with a little less MSG." It sounded flatter when Munch said it, or perhaps it was just because he was saying it to Elliot. In any case, it didn't seem to matter, as Elliot agreed, even cracking a smile.

They drove in Munch's car to a deli, even though it probably would have been more expedient to walk. It was the second week in December, and had been freezing and snowing on and off since early November. The Christmas season pushers were delighted, and the inside of the deli evidenced that: holiday lights hanging from the ceiling, several gaudy Christmas trees, and even a miniature dancing Santa who swung his hips in a variety of grotesque ways and sang "Jingle Bell Rock" when activated. Munch quirked an eyebrow.

"I'm guessing this isn't a kosher deli."

The paunchy man behind the counter looked up from his slicing and grinned. "Nah, you want Yoichie's. Just two blocks over." Gesturing at Elliot, he said, "You want anything? Best roast beef in the Big Apple."

"No, thank you." As they left, Elliot remarked to Munch, "I didn't know you were observant."

"Maybe I'm getting paranoid in my old age." Reflecting on how that comment would strike Elliot, he added, "Or maybe I'd rather get my sandwich from a deli where the guy wears gloves and a hair net."

Elliot started to reply, but Munch's cell phone cut him off. Slightly irritated by the snag in the lunch run and now what was probably Fin calling him to switch his order around, he fished it out of his pocket. "Munch."

"Cragen. Listen, we've got an apparent suicide I'd like you to check out."

Munch glanced over at Elliot, who was looking at him. "Ah – captain – "

"I know Stabler's with you. Let him tag along. This shouldn't be anything that would upset him." Cragen paused, then gave him the address. "You got that?"

"We're on our way."

"Oh, one more thing. Fin changed his mind, he wants turkey on rye. I told him he'd have to wait another hour, and he said it's not a problem."

Munch rolled his eyes.