Author's Notes: An early interlude in my "Spaces in Between" series, set following the events of the Season 5 episode "Careless."

Once upon another lifetime, John Munch had hated Sundays.

He'd hated them when he'd been married—each and every time. Always being expected to "do something" with the day when he only wanted to relax and enjoy a little personal time at home with the woman he loved. Maybe simply sleeping in (or staying in bed for other activities), not running around visiting in-laws who hated him, or going shopping which bored him, or doing work around the house that he'd rather pay someone else to do instead.

He'd hated Sundays in-between his marriages, when the solitude had gnawed at the edges of his soul, when work colleagues all had their own families and lives to attend to and he had nothing but the Sunday paper and a week's worth of dirty clothes to schlep down to the laundromat, watch them spin round and round as if in a mocking commentary on the directionless, repetitive state of his life.

Now that lived in New York, Sunday had become a new entity, a day he had actually started looking forward to every week. He appreciated whenever a Sunday came along undisturbed by an emergency call from the captain in the middle of the night, when there was no crisis at the 16th that the weekend shift couldn't handle. Not that he necessarily planned a day full of frenetic activities, but the quiet time no longer left him feeling restless. He could spend the day's hours reading, attempting to catch up on his ever-growing pile of newly-acquired books. Or he could dig in deep with one of his personal research projects, work that might eventually lead to a book of his own some day (or so he threatened his partner, whenever Fin scoffed about the truths behind the government's endless lies and cover-ups). Sometimes he even went out for a concert or a show if something in the New Yorker caught his eye.

He didn't mind doing these things on his own; he was used to it, now, having spent most of the last five years by himself. In fact it had only been over the past year that he'd started having any kind of sporadic company on his Sundays, interrupting what had become his regular weekend activities.

He contemplated this fact as he sipped at a cup of tea, camped out in his living room in a pair of old jeans and a comfortable, well-worn t-shirt. So far this particular Sunday had consisted of nothing more than enjoying brunch at the corner deli and getting through two chapters of a new book on the formative years of the Central Intelligence Agency. As fine as that had been, right now he wouldn't mind a disruption of the routine, one of those occasional visits. He'd been hoping for it, waiting for the call since the work week had ended on Friday. Even before then.

He wanted to reach out and make that call himself. He had a feeling they both could use it, but...

Well.

Things were...complicated.

This relationship wasn't one of his usual romantic flings. He wasn't quite sure what exactly it was yet, even though it had been going on for some time now. And weirdly, maybe that's why it was working, so far. Whatever it was, he didn't want to question it too much for fear of seeing it slip through his fingers.

Not at this point in his life. Not at this age. Not when something about it felt oddly right and seemed to offer the promise of more, someday...if only they could both work through all of their respective hang-ups and neuroses.

"You need me, you'll holler," he'd said, earlier that week.

Now he was just waiting for that holler however it might arrive, by phone or...

...a certain someone knocking at his apartment door.

The sudden noise startled John as he'd fallen deep into his reading. He almost wasn't sure he'd heard it until the knocking was repeated, and then he called out "Coming" to confirm to his visitor that he was at home.

He put down his book, marking the page as it could be some time before he got back to it. Maybe not until next Sunday. He walked to the the door, checking through the peep hole that his assumptions were correct as to his visitor's identity.

Of course he was. Who else ever came calling on John Munch on a Sunday afternoon?

"Just happened to be in the neighborhood?" he asked as he opened the door, giving his guest a small smile.

Fin shrugged and looked down at the worn floor of the hallway. When he looked up, his gaze was slightly apologetic. A little embarrassed, maybe, not that he had any reason to be. But John knew this was still difficult for him. Hell, it wasn't exactly a stroll through Central Park for John, either. "Needed a walk, some fresh air."

"Hell of a walk from Brooklyn to Hudson Heights."

"Gonna start with me already, or you gonna let me in?"

"By all means." John stepped back, waving Fin inside. "You're in luck, my busy social calendar is surprisingly free and clear for the afternoon."

Fin shot him another look but said nothing. His hands were deep in his pants pockets, his eyes still mostly on the ground, studying the old Oriental rug now beneath his feet. This was all routine, standard. The typical dance between them after a not-so-typical week.

"Can I get you anything to drink, or eat?" John asked, with genuine concern. Sometimes Fin came by just in need of the company, to be with a friend, to share a beer or two away from after-work happy hours and the forced conviviality of hanging out with their coworkers.

Sometimes. But that was rare, these days. Usually when he came by, he had something else in mind.

"Nah. I'm cool."

"You're 'cool'," John repeated, stepping in closer. "A woman shot herself in front of you this week, died in your arms, but you're cool. You catch a foster mother who killed one child in her care and abused all the others, but you're cool."

"I don't want to talk about work."

"I know. That's not why you're here. I'm sorry." John placed his hands on Fin's shoulders, squeezing gently. He regretted his sarcasm; Fin didn't need that today. It was how John always reacted when things hit too close to home. Though this had primarily been Fin's case, John hadn't been immune to its horrors and had hated to see how it had gotten to his partner.

"Nothin' for you to apologize for. Just..." Fin trailed off, struggling with his own words, admitting to what he wanted.

We're a right pair, aren't we? John thought to himself. I talk too much, he holds it all in.

"It's fine." John pulled Fin closer to him, a tentative embrace, not rushing it. He waited for Fin to reach out for him in return, hands landing gently on John's back. He waited for the feel of Fin's head settling against his shoulder in surrender, his breath warm and tickling the hairs on John's neck. There was no denying that Fin's touch and nearness were quickly stirring John's desire for more, but they also filled him with a strong sense of comfort, rightness, and calm.

In time he felt Fin's head shifting, turning, enough to accept a kiss on the mouth from John's waiting lips. They held on in that embrace for some time, their kiss deepening, the spark igniting between them which was becoming more difficult, with each passing day, to keep so tightly under control.

"Need you," Fin said roughly.

"I know."

John kissed him again, then slipped out of Fin's arms, taking one hand in his own as he led the way to his bedroom.

"Sorry for the mess." The room was in a bit of a state, even for the apartment's usual condition of barely contained chaos. He hadn't made the bed that morning, although he had changed the sheets the day before—one of his necessary Saturday rituals to maintain some sense of decorum and order. But a mountain of dress clothes due for the dry cleaners sat on the floor, along with a precarious stack of recent magazines he'd meant to sort through to recycle or keep.

"Like it's not always a disaster?" Fin remarked, unfazed. "You should consider hiring a cleaning service to come in once a month or somethin'. Don't know how one person can accumulate so much crap all the time."

"I'm a man of varied and many interests."

Fin shook his head and sat down on the edge of the bed, kicking off his shoes. Fin's apartment couldn't be any more different from John's: neat, clean, uncluttered, everything in its right place. John might say it came off a little cold and impersonal, but then Fin could say his place came off a little serial killer.

"Music?" John asked, heading to his stereo system. His old record player still saw more use than the compact disc player beside it, and he could use something to set the mood given how the surrounding decor clearly failed him.

"Sure. Something that ain't too sad. Had enough sad to last a lifetime this week."

"I hear you." Mingus Plays Piano had ended up in the front of his stack lately and seemed to fit the bill. One thing they'd found a surprising, common appreciation for is jazz, and John had an ample selection of records from which to choose. Fin never seemed to complain about that extensive collection.

One of these weekends, John thought, it might be nice to go to a club together to hear some live music, maybe Birdland or Blue Note. That was, if they ever graduated from casual fucking to something more like "dating".

The first track of the vinyl lp crackled to life and John walked over to the bed where Fin sat waiting for him. The earlier hesitation in his partner's eyes had been replaced by something far more fiery and needy, leaving John eager to do whatever Fin asked of him. Fin pulled John toward him by hooking a finger into a belt loop on his jeans, tugging on it hard, possessively. He nuzzled John's stomach through the thin fabric of that old t-shirt, hands reaching up and under the fabric.

John shivered at the touch, hissing his approval through clenched teeth. He loved it when Fin went right for what he wanted, what he needed. He was getting better at that, bolder with time and familiarity. John began fumbling with Fin's braid, undoing the lower tie so he could loosen his hair, then moving to the second tie close against his scalp. Fin sighed softly in appreciation at John's touch, his breath hot and teasing against John's stomach where he placed hungry kisses.

John loved this—loved the undoing of Fin's ponytail as much as he loved the way the man's hair looked and felt in his fingers when he was finished. And it wasn't just a sexual thing, some kind of fetish. It was a matter of trust and openness, built between them through time.

"When your hair's down, you're mine. I have the you that no one else gets to see," he'd admitted to Fin when questioned why he enjoyed it so. And those words had earned him one of Fin's shy smiles that he didn't get to witness nearly often enough, either.

But right now there was nothing shy about the way Fin was touching him, working to undo his jeans by popping the button, then pulling down the zipper. "Look so hot in these jeans, baby. They hug you tight in all the right places."

"If they look so good, why are you working so hard to get me out of them?"

"Oh like you don't know what for." Fin's hands tugged down the denim, then moved on to John's underwear. As soon as he had opportunity he took hold of John's stiffening cock in one hand, gracing it with eager licks and kisses. John moaned appreciatively, the feeling of it so good—and knowing that Fin was the cause of it so much better.

He sunk his fingers into Fin's hair as he tried to restrain himself, to hold still as Fin began sucking him off in earnest. The pulse of the music playing in the background began to quicken...or was that just Fin picking up his pace to match the rhythm of those fingers on the keyboard? Sex was an improvisational act, not unlike jazz, and Fin could set a tempo that was hard for John to match when he was this desperate for it.

If John looked down, he knew he might come simply from the sight of Fin there, fucking him with his mouth. So he tried for a moment to think of less sexy things. Like several of his least favorite defense attorneys naked...or the captain in a thong. Or Elliot in...well, anything at all. Or just Elliot, period. Yeah, that was enough to put a momentary damper on his raging libido.

Fin suddenly pulled back and John dared to look down, even as he wanted to whimper at the sight of Fin's lips all wet and glistening. "Want you."

"You have me," John said.

"Want you to fuck me."

"There's an offer I can't refuse." John wouldn't say no, not on his life. Fin knew that, of course, and was already shifting back on the bed to get to work undressing himself. Fin's t-shirt flew off quickly, then he shrugged his running pants down over his hips. Lust shot straight to John's dick as he took in the sight of that gorgeous body, wanting to kiss all over, claim and mark it for himself.

John tossed his own clothes to the floor for later concern. He felt his cheeks flush from the way Fin looked at him, so much heat in those eyes as he teasingly stroked himself that John felt he would spontaneously combust.

He wanted to pounce, like a cat on captured prey. Wanted to fuck Fin senseless and that would certainly happen in short order. But he also didn't want to rush things; Fin usually needed to be pretty liquored up before he was loose enough to be asking for this, and John hadn't tasted even a hint of alcohol in his kisses today. He might want to be fucked to forget the pain of the week past, but John wasn't going to replace that with pain of a different kind. He climbed onto bed but went for Fin's mouth first, rubbing up against him, relishing the way it felt to be close to him like this. He sucked on that full bottom lip and pressed against him until Fin groaned, gasping for breath. He kissed a path down his body until he could get his mouth on Fin's cock, sucking it hard, greedy for a taste of pre-come on his tongue.

"John...Jesus, fuck..."

He loved that desperation, hearing his name cried out, Fin swearing and cursing like he never did otherwise. If he were honest with himself, he'd admit that he loved Fin, period. Didn't he?

Of course he did. It wasn't a question any longer, really...as if it ever had been, before this aspect of their relationship had even began. He always fell in love hard and fast; this time he'd merely been more cautious about admitting it to himself or to the object of his desire. Because he wasn't sure Fin could handle hearing that yet, if either of them could. Easier to act, for now, as if it were only about the sex. That they were friends who happened to fuck, from time to time, albeit with steadily increasing frequency.

John pulled back, looking up, almost ready to say something, wholly inopportune moment or not. But Fin rolled over to make his needs and desires at that moment perfectly clear, and John decided all other matters could wait for another day.

He kissed Fin's lower back, caressed him...let his tongue slip down between those cheeks to tease and gently probe. Fin whimpered and cursed at him again. "Fuck, John, please..."

"What's that, my dear?" He slipped a finger into Fin, who groaned in his desperation.

"Dammit...just fuck me before I kill you."

"You sure know how to sweet-talk a man." John slid up the bed to grab a condom and the lube out of his nightstand drawer. He prepped himself and then slicked up his fingers with the lube, sliding one back in, then a second. Fin bucked up to meet his thrusts, eager, still cursing him for more, louder still when he added a third.

"You'll thank me soon enough," John chastised.

"Thank you when you finally give me some dick."

John had to grin at that. He shifted position, withdrawing his fingers to grant Fin his demands for more. And fucking goddamned hell if it didn't feel good, that first push inside, Fin so tight and hot around him and John just wanted to thrust in deep, hard, bury himself forever in his lover's body.

Fin grunted beneath him, his body suddenly more tense than before. John leaned closer, dropping his head into Fin's hair, kissing the back of his neck. So hard to hold back the words he wanted to say, but he bit his tongue. Or rather, he nibbled at Fin's ear and told him instead, "You feel so good. Want to make you come so hard your balls ache for days."

Fin made some kind of incomprehensible reply, whether responding to John's dirty talk or his cock sinking deeper inside, what did it matter? John moved slowly, gently until Fin's body relaxed, his reactions more clearly those of pleasure than shock or pain once again. He wrapped his arms around Fin's chest, pressed and rocked against him, every movement bringing him closer to orgasm.

He wanted to make sure Fin got off good on this too and had doubts he'd be in any state for giving a satisfactory blow job after this. He rolled them both into a more side-by-side position, urging Fin, "Stroke it. Come for me, let me feel it."

Fin didn't need to be told twice. He had his hand on his cock, pumping, while he cursed and panted and John fucked him hard, wishing he could keep going like this for hours. He felt sticky, hot and sweaty, burning up with need and the heat of his lover around him. He could barely hold on, but tried to until Fin cried out, shaking and bucking hard in John's embrace. A few more frenetic thrusts and John followed after him, biting down on Fin's shoulder to muffle his own cry of release.

John didn't want to let go, didn't want to move. So he didn't, for a time, content to hold on and feel that wave of pleasurable exhaustion wash over him. But he eventually had to pull away to clean up, grabbing a handful of tissues and passing several to Fin while he was at it. Sex was great but could also be messy...and he had just changed the sheets.

"You good?" John asked, settling back down to spoon against Fin's warm body.

"Mm hmm." Fin placed his own hand over John's, where it fell lightly across his stomach. The record had reached the end of side one some time before but John was too damn comfortable to get up to turn it over. Fin would likely fall asleep soon anyway, at least for an hour or two. John might slip away then to grab his book to read in bed, or he might simply enjoy having Fin there beside him, wondering if he could convince him to stay the night.

As it was, Fin would probably wake up, perhaps in the mood to go for another round. Maybe then ask to use the shower, to go out for a beer and something to eat, then take leave. They had work tomorrow, after all. After Sunday night always came Monday morning, bright and early. Another week of tragedies and sorrows no doubt waiting for them, more crimes and victims that would make a man question his faith in his fellow man.

"I'm sorry," Fin said absently, out of nowhere.

"About what?"

"This week...it was rough. I wanted to come by sooner, but...I don't know. "

"I do. And we're cool, Fin."

"We are?"

"Yeah."

"'Kay." Fin yawned. "Might take a nap, if you don't mind. Didn't sleep much last night, or the night before."

"Truthfully neither did I."

"Actually drove over, just so you know."

"Kind of figured you didn't walk a half-marathon on a Sunday morning."

"Smart ass. Got a bag down in my car. A few things for tomorrow if that's all right."

"To spend the night in my cavern of horrors?" John teased, even if it was precisely what he'd been hoping to hear.

"It ain't so bad here. Long as I can put on the game tonight. Knicks playing the Bulls, don't want to miss it."

"I think that's an acceptable bargain."

As expected, Fin was soundly asleep a few minutes later, and John decided maybe joining him in a mid-day nap wasn't a bad idea. Sundays were good days for taking it easy; maybe they were even becoming his favorite day of the week.