Author's Notes: Characters property of NBC/Dick Wolf. Written purely for fun and not for profit. This story references events which took place in the season 13 episode "Learning Curve", which means there is mention of sexual assault as occurred in canon. It is set some eight months later, after the events of season 14's "Manhattan Vigil". Part of my "Spaces in Between" series; see my profile for related works and the order in which they chronologically fall.
John observed the evening parade of humanity along 9th Avenue as he waited for his dinner companion to arrive, enjoying the lively view from his street-side table. The scene beyond the restaurant's full-wall windows kept him more than sufficiently entertained, and he was in no rush to be anywhere else this evening.
The city he watched was forever in motion, always active and speeding forward. He recalled how, thirteen years ago when he'd first moved to New York from Baltimore, this particular neighborhood in Manhattan had been nothing but dive bars and porn shops, flop houses and the location of far too many of their routine calls at Special Victims. Now it was one of the hottest places to be and be seen in all the five boroughs, filled with upscale lounges and restaurants catering to the young and affluent, the tuned-in trendsetters, the Yelpers and the Tweeters...or was that Twitterers? All John knew was no matter what they called themselves, they spent more time staring at their smart phones than paying attention to the living and breathing world around them, and that was a damn shame.
He had nothing against technology, in general. He'd even grudgingly been won over by the e-reader, since it meant he could purchase more books for his collection without having Fin bitch and moan about where they were going to put them all. But sometimes you had to get away from electronic devices and remember there were other ways to stay engaged and stimulated...like simply paying attention to what was going on around you.
These thoughts ran through his mind as he sipped one of the restaurant's so-called "signature" cocktails, a drink made from more ingredients than he could remember yet somehow tasting like little more than an overdressed whiskey sour. Fin would only side-eye him and grimace if he ever suggested they dine out at a place like this one, so John had been grateful for the unexpected invitation from another and the excuse to stray from his typical dinner routines for a night.
Soon enough, he spotted a familiar young man walking past the windows, heading for the front door and then being directed to their table by the hostess. John waved and then stood to greet Ken with a welcoming hug, happy to see Fin's son for the first time in too long. "Hey, kid. Good to see you."
"You too, John. Sorry I'm a few minutes late."
"Are you? I didn't notice. I've been appreciating the chance to unwind and get away from boxes of dusty files and forgotten mysteries."
"Yeah, I called your old number at the 16th first. They said you had transferred to Cold Case?" Ken took off his winter coat and sat down across from John.
"Temporarily and not entirely willingly." After finally closing the long-cold Hector Rodriguez case, the department had been under a great deal of pressure from 1PP to see what other unsolved disappearances and murders in the city—particularly involving young children—could similarly be put to bed. And of the detectives at SVU who had been involved in that investigation, John had been the one deemed most suitable to being "loaned out" for a time to the Cold Case division.
At first he hadn't minded. Truthfully after this many years, and as he knew his time before mandatory retirement was drawing ever nearer, the change of pace had struck him as potentially a good thing. The puzzles of never-closed crimes had sounded interesting, and perhaps easier to handle emotionally after years of sex crimes had become increasingly wearying on his soul. But the reality of wasting hours simply trying to locate ancient files and misplaced evidence in the Cold Case storage rooms of Brooklyn was quickly proving to be drudgery he could well do without. "Hopefully they'll cut me loose after the end of this year and I can go back to regularly harassing your father at work on a daily basis. I know he doesn't get enough of that at home."
"As long as he didn't mind me stealing you away for the night."
"Fin's on a stakeout this evening with Rollins. I'll be lucky if he's home before dawn, so I wouldn't exactly be waiting up for him for dinner, regardless. So, tell me what you recommend at this fine establishment," John asked, finally glancing at the menu which he'd been handed upon arrival. The selections mostly echoed classic French bistro fare but with the threat of "modern twists" looming dangerously in their overly-earnest descriptions.
"What are you in the mood for? The steak frites is always good, can't go wrong with that. And believe it or not the rosemary and lemon roast chicken is probably my favorite thing on the menu. I know chicken sounds boring but it always tastes so good here, and it's a huge portion. The charcuterie and local cheese plate is perfect to share, too, if you're up for that."
"Sure, why not." Conversation paused for a moment as their waiter came over to take Ken's drink order and rattle off a few specials of the evening. They ended up ordering their food at the same time, since Ken knew exactly what he wanted—the Thursday night cassoulet—and John went with his recommendation of the chicken. "So how have you been? Haven't seen you in a while, feels like it's been months," John continued after their server left.
"I think it has been. But I've been good. Busy at work, this time of year is tough. Always a lot of new kids coming in who need help, and the holidays can be really difficult on them, being away from family—even if they ran away to escape what they were going through at home." After his years volunteering at Williams House helping runaways and street kids, Ken had moved up to an actual paid staff position now that he was finished with university. Like his father, Ken thrived on helping others; they had simply found different paths toward doing so. "And of course I've been trying to spend as much time with Alejandro as I can when I'm not at work."
"How is he doing?"
"He's...okay," Ken answered without a great deal of commitment. "He's back at work as of last month, starting to finally get into a regular routine again."
"That's good to hear. Routines, they're helpful to reestablish."
"Yeah. He finished rehab on his arm a while back, and the surgery on his eye went well so there's no more of the occasional double-vision that was bothering him...physically the doctors say he's recovered remarkably well, all things considered."
"Physically," John repeated. "But...otherwise?"
"Otherwise..." Ken sighed and suddenly looked extremely weary, as if the weight of far too much and too many years already rested upon his youthful shoulders. "It hasn't been easy. That's partly why I wanted to see you tonight. I was hoping maybe you'd have some advice for me on how I can better help him, given all the years you've spent working with rape victims and assault survivors."
"So has your dad, you know."
"I know, but sometimes it's easier to talk about things with a friend instead of a family member."
"...Or, anyone other than Fin. Well, I'm no therapist or shrink but I'm all ears, Ken. Some might say quite literally."
Ken smiled at the small joke, the attempt to lighten an otherwise all too painful reality. John had, of course, dealt with and tried to help far too many men and women who had survived brutal assaults through the years. But very few of them had been so viciously attacked as Alejandro had been—at least, attacked as he had and lived to tell about it.
Alejandro nearly hadn't made it, and his physical recovery had progressed slowly over months. John knew all too well that the mental healing would take much longer than that, and there would always be emotional scars. One didn't simply pick up life as normal after being brutally beaten and sodomized in a gang initiation ritual—targeted by the boyfriend of one of your own family members, no less. Everyone at the 16th who knew Fin and his son had been sickened and enraged by what had happened to Alejandro, and had put in extra efforts to bring down his assailants. The fact that the bastards responsible were in jail now and would stay there for a very long time seemed small comfort after the hateful, pointless suffering and injury they'd caused.
Their server returned with some bread and a promise that Ken's drink was on its way. "I assume Alejandro is still seeing a professional to help work through things?" John asked, picking at a slice of olive loaf.
"Yes, and he has nothing but good things to say about her. She's got him on this one anti-depressant that seems to be helping, and he also goes to a support group every week, made some new friends there to call on when he's having a bad day. Sometimes, though...I wish he felt more comfortable talking to me about what he's going through than with these people he only met this year."
"You feel like he's shutting you out?"
"No, I...okay, maybe sometimes. And then I feel guilty for even thinking something like that, when all I should be worried about is him."
"That's where you're wrong, kiddo. You need to take care of yourself, too. You can't provide support if you're ignoring your own well-being." That was another thing John had seen all too frequently, the loved ones and family of victims having their own lives fall apart because they sacrificed too much of themselves. "There are support groups for caregivers of survivors. You might want to see about getting some help as well."
"I know, it's just...finding one that's convenient with my schedule, putting aside the time for it... And yes, I'm aware that's a flimsy excuse."
John shrugged. "I'll call 'Liv tomorrow. I'm sure she'll have some list of groups I can pass on."
"Maybe that would be helpful. I get so angry sometimes, if I think back too much on what they did to him, and that I wasn't around to help. I was there only five minutes before they grabbed him...what if I'd walked with him to work instead of heading home on my own?"
"I was there, too, remember? You think I haven't lost sleep playing back if I should have noticed anything suspicious, seen their van, spotted them before leaving on my own merry way? You can't change the past or beat yourself up over it. All you can do is try to move on, move forward."
"I know, you're right." Ken fell silent for a time, until and when his drink arrived. He took a sip, then spun the ice in the glass around with the small cocktail straw. Ken didn't always bear the strongest resemblance to his father, John had observed, but when he got quiet and broody like now there was no mistaking the Tutuola in his bloodline. And as such John had learned to be patient and wait for both father and son to speak, and only when they were ready.
"I want to move forward but without pushing for more than he's ready to accept," Ken finally continued. "Like us getting married. When we got engaged earlier this year, we planned on having the ceremony pretty quickly, summer by the latest."
"I know, you talked about that at the time."
"Obviously we put things on hold while he was going through the worst of his recovery. Now...if I even mention trying to plan things again, set a date...he just shuts down, wants to talk about anything else. Or worse, starts talking like we shouldn't get married at all. That I deserve someone who isn't 'broken' like he is, no matter how many times I insist I don't see him that way." Ken sighed. "About a month ago, two good friends of ours got married. I'd hoped, maybe going to their wedding and seeing how happy they were, that it might open him up to talking about our plans again. Instead he begged off even going to the ceremony at the last minute. Told me to go by myself, but I wasn't going to leave him alone, I could tell the whole thing had him too worked up."
John thought for a moment, taking another sip of his drink. "I wonder if he associates getting married too closely with his attack."
"Why?"
"Well, how long had you two been engaged before the night it happened?"
"Only...maybe a week."
"How many people had you talked to about it?"
"Most of our friends. My mom. Really the last people we needed to discuss things with were my father and you, and Alejandro's parents because we knew they'd be a problem."
"A week is barely any time at all. And I know it was a major step, announcing your plans and having us meet that evening. So one major, positive event ends up connected with the worst night of his life. Even talking about getting married might be an emotional trigger for him right now, set off his PTSD."
"That makes sense," Ken agreed. "But...what can I do, beyond not talking about it at all? When it's the one thing I really want us to do, to prove that what happened didn't break us apart?"
"I know it's probably not want you want to hear, but I think you have to simply give him some more time, Ken. Don't press the issue, but don't stop letting him know how much you love him, that your feelings haven't changed."
"If anything I love him more than ever, for all that he's been through, and for being so amazingly strong to survive it."
"Then maybe try starting over," John suggested. "Propose again—when the time seems right. When it feels as though you can create a new memory of a happy moment. Perhaps it can replace the old one that's become unfortunately connected with his attack."
"That's...yeah. That's a really good idea."
"Sometimes there are still a few of those left in this old brain."
Ken shook his head, and then took another taste of his own drink. "Speaking of getting married, has my dad worn you down on the subject yet?"
"No, and I think he's finally given up in defeat, thankfully."
"That's a shame." John raised his eyebrows at Ken's words. "I just think it would be nice to see it happen for you and him. You can't tell me after all these years you have been together, that getting married would somehow ruin things. And I know it would make my father happy."
"Oh he's told you that, has he?"
"In one of his rare open moments...maybe."
"Hmm." Their first course arrived and saved John from a deeper reply—or so he thought, for a moment, as he appreciated the aesthetically pleasing array of cheeses, cured meats and select condiments displayed before them. The server went into a lengthy discussion about each different item which was quickly forgotten as soon as they got started actually digging in to the food.
"I'm waiting for you to say I'm just projecting my own desires to get married onto you," Ken said with a smirk as he assembled a thin slice of bread topped with a creamy cheese and honey.
"I wouldn't dare suggest such a thing, but now that you mention it..."
"Ha, ha. I guess I do wish we had rushed out and eloped, as soon as we decided to get married. I can't help feeling like this would all be easier to deal with, that Alejandro would trust more in my commitment to making our relationship work, if we had that to fall back on."
"Marriage is merely a legal construct, and a largely outdated one at that."
"If that's how you choose to see it, maybe. I think it can still mean something...particularly as a gay man who didn't even have the legal right to choose that outdated construct until recently in this state."
"All right, you've got a point there," John had to admit. He wouldn't admit that Fin had thrown the same argument his way more than a few times and it did appeal to his lifelong commitment to equality and personal freedom.
"You mean I actually won a debate against John Munch?"
"No, but you may have landed a scoring blow in round one. However, the night is young and we've got a lot of food to consume before this evening is over. I'm sure plenty more opportunities will arise for you to convince me that I should subjugate myself to marital imprisonment once more."
"You make it sound so appealing."
"You've never met any of my ex-wives."
Fin climbed the stairs up to their third-floor apartment, glad to finally be home. A long day spent mostly stuck in the car on stakeout always did brutal things to his back, and these days left him miserably grouching I am getting too old for this shit to himself. He was contemplating a quick, hot shower before collapsing into bed to help ease the pain come tomorrow, if he wasn't too tired for even that small reward.
What he really yearned for was one of John's lengthy massage sessions; the man knew how to use those hands of his to work out all the deep knots in Fin's back. But it was almost two in the morning and John would surely be asleep by now. Fin would have to put his massage request on hold until the weekend, and hopefully he'd be rested up enough by then to offer more than sufficient payment in return.
Fin unlocked the door to their apartment and heard the television still on in the living room, albeit playing at a low volume. He knew John was prone to falling asleep on the sofa when Fin wasn't home (and sometimes even when he was), dozing off to the chatter of the late night talk shows, so that didn't surprise him much. He hung up his coat and left his shoes by the door, and did in fact find John stretched out on the living room sofa, but he wasn't asleep. He had his Kindle in hand, the apartment dark save the glow of the t.v. screen and John's small handheld device.
John looked up as Fin walked over. "Hey."
"Hey. Didn't expect you'd still be up."
"Was kind of wired tonight. Guess I should have skipped that last cup of coffee after dinner. Felt like waiting for you before going to bed, anyway." John tilted his head to meet Fin's lips for a light kiss. After a day apart—Fin still not used to John being away from the 16th—he wasn't going to neglect that small moment of affection. "There's some roast chicken in the fridge if you're hungry."
"Nah. Too late to eat. But you think it's too late for a beer?"
"Never."
"You want one?"
"No thanks."
Fin went to the kitchen to grab a cold bottle from the fridge, pop it open, and then returned to join John. He sank down onto the sofa with a happy, weary sigh as John scooted his legs over to make room. John was wearing his favorite black pajamas—Fin's too, quite honestly, and if he wasn't feeling so tired he might have done something about getting John out of them. Instead he took a long draw on his bottle, savored the refreshing hoppy taste of the beer on his tongue, and simply appreciated the fact that the day was finally over. "This feels good."
"That it does. Say, Fin?"
"Uh huh."
"I think we should get married."
Fin blinked, then turned to look at John, certain in his current state of fatigue that he'd misheard the man. "What?!"
"You know...you and me, tie the knot. Get hitched. Put a ring on it. Jump the broom. Buy the cow."
"You want to get married now."
"Yes."
"I've been trying to convince you for how long and all of a sudden you're bringing this up to me at two in the morning, soon as I come home from work? No hi, how are you, how was your day?"
"Okay, fine. Hi. How are you? How was your day, Fin? How about we make it legal after all these years of living in sin?"
Fin shook his head, confused, and took another long drink from his beer to try to clear his head—or muddy it enough that he could deal with his mercurial partner. "I will never understand you, John. Never."
"But will you marry me?"
"This is how you're asking me to marry you."
John sighed and gave Fin his best bitch, please look—of which he had many variations in frequent rotation. "I'm not getting on my knees on this hardwood floor to propose if that's what you're expecting from me. Let's simply be practical about this. I can pick up the paperwork tomorrow on my lunch hour—if I don't finally get completely lost deep within the bowels of Cold Case storage never to be found again. It'll likely take me all weekend to pull together documentation from all of my divorces, especially as I'm not sure which box they're in from the things I haven't unpacked yet from my old place. But provided I can get those sordid affairs in order we could probably do the deed one day next week, if we can both arrange at least a coordinated afternoon off from work."
Practical matters. Those were all Fin could think of at the moment as John prattled on over these details he'd clearly been contemplating in depth for who knew how long. "Okay...uh...what about rings?"
John shrugged. "I got a guy in the jewelry district. I'm sure he can hook us up with a deal. I'll call him tomorrow, he can probably stay open late to meet us after work."
"Ceremony?"
"Must we? The excessive and ritualistic trappings of marriage have never brought me anything but heartbreak and near financial ruin. I'm offering you legal commitment, Fin, not the sum of my retirement savings not already claimed by the ex-Mrs. Munches on a day of frivolity. I thought we could just keep it simple at the courthouse. Buy a few rounds for the gang at bar afterward, if you insist."
"John."
He titled his head. "Yes, my darling?"
Fin sighed. "Just tell me what changed your mind after I've been harassing you for over a year about this."
"I suppose I had an epiphany today." John shifted around and moved closer, leaning in against Fin's side. "I realized, on my way home this evening, that we've been incredibly fortunate. Not simply in having found each other against all odds and logic—I never take that for granted. But that we've made it this long, working the kind of job that we do, being the people we are which puts us at higher than normal risk, without anything going horribly wrong."
"We've both been shot."
"I've seen colleagues get it a lot worse than a bullet in the ass. And you wouldn't even take a full day off when you got shot. There are the many practical reasons we should do this which you've rattled off to me endlessly before, all of which make perfect sense. But beyond that...I realized that if something were to happen to you, or to me...I want us, the record of us as John Munch and Odafin Tutuola, partners in love and in law, to be known and to remain unscathed."
Fin reached his free arm around John's shoulder and placed a kiss into his hair. "I won't argue 'cause you know I'm not going to say no."
"I was counting on that."
"But even if we do the courthouse thing, I think Ken and Alejandro should be there."
"I would certainly invite them, but...I suggest you talk to Ken privately, first."
"Why?"
"Well, A, I just think you should, and B...it could be a tender subject since they still haven't tied the knot themselves after everything that happened earlier this year."
"Yeah, true."
They sat for a while, comfortable in the quiet, Fin trying to fully wrap his thoughts around the idea that John had—in his own way, of course—finally proposed to him after rejecting the idea so many times in the past. After the lengthy struggle involved in convincing John to get rid of his old apartment so they could find a newer, bigger place together, Fin had nearly given up on the marriage question entirely, considering it a lost cause.
Fin knew it wasn't even worth trying to understand what had changed John's mind on the subject, that he should simply appreciate that he had. Which Fin did, far more than he was letting on to his partner, although he had a feeling John knew precisely.
The smug bastard.
Fin nuzzled against John's head, breathing in the familiar scent of his hair as it tickled his nose. Through the years, Fin had watched that hair go from dark brown (albeit dyed, he knew, a vanity curiously ceased not long after they'd gotten together) through all stages of salt-and-pepper before reaching its current platinum grey, which somehow made John all the more stately and handsome in Fin's eyes. Fin liked to think of John's aging in those terms, instead of worrying about the other things it meant for him, for both of them. He was no youngster himself any longer, his own hair now kept close to shaved clean even as John occasionally whined of how he missed playing with his old ponytail or braid when things got frisky.
There were things Fin missed about being younger, too. But in the great balance of his life, he wouldn't trade those earlier years for the comfort and love he had now.
John stole Fin's beer bottle to take a sip, then turned his head for a kiss, much deeper than their first of the night. It was the kind of a kiss that went a long way toward making Fin decidedly less tired and sleepy than he'd felt upon first arriving home.
"Ready to go to bed?" Fin asked, hearing a roughness in his voice that hadn't been there minutes ago.
"Bed, yes. Sleep? I don't know about that."
"Me, neither."
John put the bottle down on the coffee table and got to his feet, Fin close behind him—although Fin cursed under his breath as he stood, pain shooting from his lower back down to his right ankle.
"That didn't sound encouraging," John said as he flicked off the television with the remote.
"Damn sciatica acting up."
"Need some magic fingers therapy?"
"Wasn't gonna ask for it this late, but..."
"C'mon. I'll see what I can do about your aching back provided you don't fall asleep before I'm done with you...my plans involve more than just a massage."
"Deal." Fin took hold of John's wrist and pulled him in close for another kiss, a chance to feel him up and down in those favorite thin pajamas. "Love you."
"Always, Fin." John reached up to touch Fin's cheek, and Fin could feel even more than he could see John's smile shining bright in the darkness. "Always."