AN: Thank you to the lovely people who left reviews for chapter three. This chapter is relatively short compared to the others, but I felt like I ended it in a "good" place so I didn't want to force in an extra scene. And, I also really wanted to update. These will mostly be short scenes post-Grand Jury. It will have a flashback of Nick's job interview, which will be italicized. Chapter title and {lyrics} are from Famous Blue Raincoat by Leonard Cohen.

Thank you so much for reading and reviewing. Please don't be shy to share your thoughts; I love hearing from my readers.

Ruined Beyond Redemption

4. Famous Blue Raincoat

September 2011

"Can you tell me about your work experience?"

"Well, I'm currently a second grade detective with the Warrants division of the 11th precinct. I've been with Warrants for the last two and a half years, and with Narcotics six years prior to that. In the course of my time in Narcotics, I went undercover for a number of drug busts; but my biggest assignment was when I led the taskforce that took down the MS-13 case. Before that, I enlisted with the Military Intelligence Corps of the US Army. I was stationed in Iraq to conduct interrogations post-9/11; I did that for five terms before I returned to the NYPD."

"Looking at your file, I noticed that you made a lateral move to Warrants. Why is that?"

"To be honest with you, Captain Cragen, I made the lateral move for the interest of my family. I understand that Warrants has less high-profile cases; however, doing undercover work in Narcotics was not favorable for my home life. My wife works in propaganda and communications for the military, and in the last two years she has been home for a total of 60 days. We have a five-year-old daughter, who has spent most of her life in the care of her grandmother. I just wanted some time to be a father at a period in her life when she really needs at least one parent to be there for her. My child is my top priority and I want to be the one to raise her, especially while my wife is serving in Iraq. And, yes, I do understand that the amount of work for an SVU detective is demanding, but now that my daughter is in school, I can afford to commit myself again to this type of work.

"It says in your file that you have worked alone for most of your time as a detective. Would you be able to work with a partner?"

"Yes, Captain. The nature of undercover work requires a certain degree of autonomy so I've learned to work independently, while still complying with the orders of my commanding officer. However, it is to my understanding that Special Victims cases are sensitive and complex, thus requiring a team effort. I value trust above anything, and I know that is the foundation of any good partnership. If you were to pair me up with someone, I would put forth loyalty and respect towards my partner. I may have been a lone wolf cop for the last several years, but I would say that I've always been a team player.

"Why SVU?"

"I'm going to be honest with you, Captain. When I first became a cop, my trajectory had always been to work my way up to Homicide. But, having worked in law enforcement and the military for over a decade, I have witnessed numerous cases of assault and domestic violence. I know it's cliché but I'm the type of cop who must find purpose in his work, and I strongly believe this is my next assignment. I understand there's a lot to learn and it will test me mentally, but I have never backed down from a challenge. I am open to learn under your command, sir, and I strive to use my training to do what it takes to protect our city from these heinous crimes.

"Where do you see yourself in five years?"

"In five years I expect myself to be a better trained, more empathetic, and well-rounded detective than I am now. You know, I don't shy away from expressing my drive and ambition. I will tell you right now – and please don't take this as me trying to take anyone's job – but, my goal for the next five years is to take the sergeant's exam. In the next ten, I would like to be a commanding officer of my own unit, where I can use my organizational skills, training, and knowledge to lead a team. My persistence to climb up the ranks is not about power; it's simply about ensuring the law is enforced to protect the people who are most vulnerable. Since I was a kid, being a cop was all I wanted to be; and now that I'm living it, I just want to be able to do more within the department so I can protect and serve more people."

"Nick, you're gonna get through all this. You're too good a cop and too good a man not to."

Captain Cragen's announcement of his retirement tilts your world further from its axis. You feel like you're hanging off a loose thread now, and you don't know if it's the break or the release that will come first. The people who have had your back since you joined this squad – Munch and Cragen – have now left.

Although you have your partner and your trust has grown exponentially since those first few months of apprehension, you both have your own shit to deal with. Liv's still dealing with the stress and trauma from the kidnapping, and much recently the trial. She tries to put on a brave face in the squad room, but in those rare times you catch her back in the apartment, sometimes you see the mask removed and you see the distant look in her eyes. You've stopped trying to ask her how she's doing, because she just turns the interrogation back to you and asks you how you're holding up. The two of you are like a support group on mute.

You and Fin get along at work, but you wouldn't say the two of you have much of a rapport outside of it. He's got a life outside of being a cop. You used to have that – a life outside of work – but your family's over in DC and your son is in Queens living with your ex-girlfriend, who still hasn't quite forgiven you for sending her big brother to prison. A personal life feels like this peripheral concept that you can't quite reach anymore; not that you have much time or energy to gather it all together and mend those relationships. Not when you have to repair your professional life.

Sacrifices have to be made. And again, you're probably making the wrong sacrifices.

Then there's Amanda. You don't even know where that's going, and it's mostly because you put your blinders on whenever she's around, afraid of addressing the attraction you feel for her. It's a strange feeling only because you haven't seen anyone in this light since your wife. Amanda's proven herself to be a friend, and you're so thankful that you've both gotten past whatever issues you had to be there for each other. Even though you should know by now that feelings always complicate friendships.

At first, it alarmed you that you could open up so easily to Amanda when you couldn't with your own partner. Maybe it's your own insecurity from failing to protect Liv from William Lewis, or maybe it's the reminder that Liv appreciated how you treated her normally when she returned to work. There's just less pressure on yourself to be reliable and dutiful when it isn't your partner. You swear, half-heartedly, the friendship you're forming with Amanda has nothing to do with your basic instincts; and that maybe, it's just filling another void that you've carved up because you were afraid to look less than perfect to another woman.

In time, Amanda will see it too.

{New York is cold, but I like where I'm living}

Pushing paper has never been the reason you rolled out of bed every morning to go to work with a grin plastered on your face. Not that you suck at writing DD5s or can't sign forms for shit, but sitting at a desk was just something that never appealed to you. Ever since you were a kid, you were always so restless; running around the neighborhood, climbing every tree, and jumping off bridges (that your friends "attested" wouldn't be fatal). They were right to some extent; you were still alive after all. But you had a few scars and X-ray films of broken bones to substantiate your stupidity.

Even now, you're still so goddamn restless that Fin constantly has to lecture you to sit your ass down. He reminds you that your ass goes on the seat of your chair. Not your desk. And certainly not his desk.

"You're on desk duty, Amaro. For god's sake, sit down." He scolds you as you pace across the bullpen, reading the latest CompStat report.

You shrug your shoulders and move down towards the interrogation room, checking to see if it's occupied. Once you're in the clear, you step into the cold gray room. At least here, you can pace or fucking prance around and no one is going to give you any grief. You look up at the small window situated eight feet up on the wall. It's impossible to see what's going on in the street below, but you see the featherlike clouds streaking against the blue skies and you realize just how much you miss active duty.

Fuck.

Being desk jockey is making you crazy.

{you're living for nothing now, I hope you're keeping some kind of record}

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

You reach the end of the mandatory retraining survey and only realize at the end of 200 questions that there's a 'select all' option at the bottom of the page. Lifelessly, you click submit and get started on the next safety questionnaire where all the answers are correct, and the only wrong answer is to miss ticking one of the check boxes. Whoever designed this test gets an A+ for efficiency, but is probably the person to blame for dumbasses staying on the force.

Scroll down, select all, and submit.

"What's in the bag?" You glance up from the screen to see Amanda bending down and pointing to the Lowe's plastic bag under your desk. "You redecorating at the Bensons' already?"

You chuckle and shake your head. "Nah, it's just paint and rollers for my house."

She arches an eyebrow. "You're moving back? I thought they still hadn't fixed your window."

"Yeah, well, the powers that be…" You roll your eyes. "Uh, some punk spray painted 'KKK' on my stoop."

Amanda's lips part in complete surprise, but she immediately tries to quell her expression by turning it into concern instead. "Seriously? God, Nick, I'm so sorry."

You smile wistfully. "Just part of the course of being accused of a hate crime, right? I think I should write a book about my experience. Might have a market for myself in the Midwest."

"You're joking, right?"

"I'm fucking with you," you say, watching as she sighs in relief. "That would be the most distasteful thing I could possibly do, and if I considered it, I'd grant you the honor of smacking me on the side of the head."

She laughs at your joke but her face turns serious as she ponders the gravity of the situation. "It's just…" she trails off, unable to find the words to explain it just like you on the night you discovered the tag. You try to fill in the blank with what she could have said: 'ridiculous', 'embarrassing', 'stupid, 'fucked'. But none of those words seem to suffice and you agree that silence best expresses it. "You need any help with painting?"

It's more of a one-man job, but you don't really like the idea of being alone tonight. And Amanda looks like she wants an out from whatever it is she planned on doing after work. For friends that she's been hanging out with a lot in recent nights, you're getting this weird impression that she doesn't even really like their company. You shrug your shoulders and nod your head. "Yeah, why not?"

{your famous blue raincoat was torn at the shoulder}

It's fucking freezing out.

Amanda joins you on the stoop, where you're both bundled up in your old winter coats. She looks so tiny in this blue Members Only puffer jacket you used to wear back when you were working UC. It's been nice having her around to keep you company. When she first saw the graffiti, she shared your sentiments about being disappointed at the lack of creativity. When she inspected the paint can while you grabbed the coats from the back of your closet, she read out the name of the color as 'Showstopping Charcoal'. It made her giggle, which was like stoking the fire of your attraction. You emerged from your bedroom and admitted you didn't even read the name; you just went for the shade of gray that most resembled the color of concrete. She said if your stoop weren't as showstopping as guaranteed, then she'd drive you back to Lowe's to demand your ten-dollars back. "It'll be fun watching you try to be an asshole," she teased.

Amanda's rolling the paint diagonally in the opposite direction, and she's doing it just to annoy you.

"Come on, right to left, Amanda," you groan. "Get with the program."

"It's the first coat," she retorts, laughing at your obsessive tendencies. "Chill, Picasso."

"You know, technically, your method is more like Picasso's while I was going for more of Mondrian's style."

"Who are you?" She asks, knitting her brows in confusion.

"I took an art history class in college."

"You are such a dork," she says, flicking her paint roller in your direction. The paint lands and streaks across your jacket and your left cheek. Your jaw drops open.

Her face turns pink, tinting her cheeks all the way up to the tips of her ears. You lift your roller and narrow your eyes playfully.

"Sorry," she pleads, crinkling her nose and closing her eyes as she pulls away to brace herself from the impending attack.

But you set the roller down, and you bite your lip as you try to suppress the goofy grin that wants to appear. Amanda removes her gloves and throws them down on her lap. She reaches up to your face and tries to wipe off the gray paint on your cheek. But you're sure she's just made it worse because her face turns into a grimace followed by a sheepish smile. Keeping her palm on your cheek, she gazes up at your eyes and arrests them with her own. You tilt your head against her palm as her eyes drift down to your mouth. She's thinking what you're thinking; and reason flies out your broken window as you slowly inch closer.

The move is slow and deliberate, but it also feels like there's not enough time to think this through before you've captured her lips in yours. Her warm fingertips press on your cool cheeks just as her tongue slips into your mouth and you curve your lips over hers. You cup her jaw, deepening the kiss. Pressing her up against the iron banister, you capture the moan that she releases. She swings her legs down the steps so you can get closer, so you can almost hover over her body. While the surface of your skin feels cool in this January weather, you feel like blood and fire are coursing through the veins just beneath your skin.

It's a showstopping kiss.

Kissing Amanda is like having your first kiss again. Not that stolen peck on the lips you were subjected to when you were in kindergarten, but that first kiss when you were this scrawny 13-year-old with braces, and too much gel in your hair. Ironically enough, your first kiss took place in the confessional booth of your school's chapel while you and this girl were sneaking out of theology class.

It's not that you're thinking about this other girl while you're kissing Amanda. You're brought back to this memory of the thrill you felt hiding in the booth, the overwhelming silence of the chapel, and the sense that you were the only two souls left in the universe. You make the connection as her fingers brush against the hair above the nape of your neck and her lips glide over yours.

There's a thrill to it. You just can't get your mind off the thrill of kissing Amanda for the first time. It's something you've thought about, but never really imagined would ever happen. You flirted with each other; but you heard rumors that Benson used to do the same thing with her old partner, and yet that never materialized into anything. So, you kept up with the seemingly harmless flirting because if your partner could do it, why couldn't you? Yet here you are making out with your colleague, and you figure the two of you probably just have less self-control than the illustrious Benson and Stabler. Who never got caught. Because they never fucking acted on it.

"Fuck."

You pull away in a flash. When you see the rejection on her face, you feel like a fucking idiot. She tries to hide that crushed look by lowering and turning her head to the side; she breathes so heavy that clouds of air escape her pink and parted lips.

"I'm so sorry," you plead, reaching out to her. But she waves your hand off and she tightly crosses her arms around her lithe body.

"Shit," you run your hands over your face, feeling the paint drag along your fingertips. "I didn't mean to do that."

"Yeah, I get it!" She snaps. Her eyes narrow into slits and her mouth is twisted in a scowl. "It was a mistake."

"It's not you, Amanda," you say, trying to mitigate the sting of your words. "You know why we can't do this," you remind her, simultaneously drilling it in your brain that, while grabbing drinks with a co-worker is tolerated by the NYPD's code of conduct, engaging in an inappropriate relationship with another member of your squad is absolutely forbidden. "I can't afford to fuck up with the department again."

She laughs wryly. "Oh, so this is about you and your reputation?" Goddamnit, you're such a fucking idiot. Mentally, you're kicking yourself for opening your big mouth before you've evaluated every word of your sentence. You know you need to put some more forethought before speaking… or you know, before pulling the trigger on your weapon.

"I'm sorry. That's not what I meant. What I was trying to say is that we both know we can't do this if we both want to keep our jobs. I'm looking out for your best interest, too."

She nods her head but the scowl on her face remains. "I'm heading home," she announces, standing up without giving you the acknowledgement of a last look. Turning on her heel, she stares down at the stoop. The red paint is still peeking through the gray. "Let the first layer dry before you paint over it," she points out in a deadpan tone. "Don't fuck this one up too."