Disclaimer: Olivia, Elliot and the gang do not belong to me; I can only take credit for the bad guys and the story/situation you are reading. Thank you, Dick Wolfe and company, you guys are awesome, but could you please, please bring a little joy into their lives?

Rating is for naughty language, because real cops have filthy mouths. Some graphic violence, sexual situations.

Reviews: Please. All of you that have left feedback are great – thank you! Special thanks to Hepburn – that email "push" helped this chapter.

A/N: I apologize this took so long to update. My other projects have had to come first. But I still love (!) SVU (of course) and my favs Elliot and Olivia. FYI: This chapter may seem a little "different", but it will all "fit" in the next three chapters.

Chapter Six

The place was every bit the image of a seedy downtown bar. Peanut shells crunched underfoot, the beer was mediocre, and an old Ted Nugent song was screaming in scratched up beauty through a vintage juke box in the corner. The clientele was just as reputable, divided among the beefy, sweat-stained construction workers playing pool at the lone table, the couples hidden in booths in various states of fornication, and the drunks lined up along the bar. It fit Olivia's mood perfectly.

After finishing up shift with Munch, the last thing she had felt like doing was going back to her empty apartment. She didn't want to spend another night drowning in the constant flow of thoughts, some pathetic TV dinner warming her belly, her guns as her only companions.

Munch and Fin had invited her out, Munch nearly convincing her it was a good idea with his steady conspiracies theories; if anything, surely that would give her mind a rest. But while she didn't want to be alone, it would be painful to pretend normalcy in front of the few friends she had. She didn't want to lie to them, she didn't want to drink beers and tell old cop stories and laugh like her world hadn't been totally altered just four days ago.

"Livia, damn it…Love you." His words haunted her. For years she had lived at the edge of Elliot's life, seeing his love for Kathy, feeling his pride and patience for his children, his concern and almost fatherly compassion for her. How many men she had dated and none of them had come close to the perfection of her partner. That she would give her life for him was never a question, but the revelation that his thoughts mirrored hers had put her life into a spin. Elliot wanted her, needed…her. And that left her feeling more lost than she had ever been before in her life.

She closed her eyes, pushing the thoughts out with a violent shove as she took a hearty swig of the warmed beer. She set the empty glass down on the wooden counter, reaching absently to scratch at her bandaged bullet wound again, covered discretely as it was by her thin black jacket. The pain had numbed into a dull ache, replaced by an intense itch as her body healed itself.

"'Nother beer, beautiful?"

She turned slowly to her left, taking in the large man sitting on the barstool next to her. His name was Tom, or Bob, or something similar, and his flirting wasn't all unappreciated since it caused a distraction from the constant replay of today's events in her head.

"Sure."

She watched him order another draft from the thin man behind the long mahogany counter, paying him with a couple of wadded up dollar bills. Olivia took the offering wordlessly. She didn't want to think anymore; she was exhausted and just wanted to drink and forget.

Her acquaintance shifted in his barstool, his thigh brushing up against hers, dragging her attention away from the frothy surface of her fourth beer and back up to him. He was a big guy, a firefighter in Queens if she remembered right from their initial banter, and he was quite a bit younger than her, early twenties if she had to place it. Probably 6'4", though it would be more of an estimate since he hadn't moved from the same barstool since the moment she arrived over an hour ago. He was attractive in that urban Italian sort of way with black hair, brown eyes, broad chest, and hairy arms made muscular with manual labor instead of some gym.

She caught herself profiling him and smirked, looking away and taking another gulp of beer.

"What?" His accented drawl was loud to reach her through the music.

She glanced back at him. "Nothing." What else could she say? That she could pick him out in a line up if she had to? That she looked at him not as a woman looks at a potential lover but as a cop looks at a possible perp?

She sighed. That was her life. There was very little gray area between perpetrators and victims. Her mind functioned liked that, as pure cop, even outside the job. The only person that seemed to break through it, that could reach the vulnerable woman underneath, was the same man that had been off limits to her for so long. And now that it was possible…

She took another swill of beer. Since she had left Elliot's hospital room at ten this morning, she had problems focusing on anything but him and their conversation.

"So, you come here a lot?"

"No. You?" She countered, thankful again for the distraction.

"Nah. But if you're plannin' on makin' it back soon, I'll be too." His smile appeared more as a leer to her, and she shifted on the leather barstool, breaking the contact between their thighs.

"Well, that's sweet of you, but I'm really not into the bar scene."

"Shame. So what do you do for fun, babe?"

The unexpected heavy hand on her right shoulder tensed her body instantly; her senses were razor sharp, splitting through the alcoholic haze. Her right hand had instinctively slipped inside the thin black jacket she was wearing, fingertips brushing against the hidden shoulder holster. The leather was smooth against her white tank top, sitting snug against her ribcage under her left armpit. She had turned on the barstool in less than a breath, ready for any confrontation.

"God, Munch, are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

Munch stood less than a foot away from her, looking the same way he had been when she left him at the precinct over three hours ago. Black slacks, grey shirt and tie, black, knee-length over-coat, same signature smirk. His hand lifted from her shoulder and he adjusted his tinted glasses, his brown eyes moving from her, to her acquaintance, to her beer, and then back to her face as he sat down on the empty barstool to her right.

"Just checking your sobriety without the breathalyzer."

"I took a cab, John."

"That makes two of us," Munch replied. He noticed the man to Olivia's left giving him a curious, territorial look. One of his grey eyebrows quirked up in response, but then he turned away, hailing down the thin bartender. Olivia watched Munch order a whiskey on ice, her lips pressed together in a line.

"Munch, why are you here?" She asked as Munch took a sip of the amber colored liquor, the ice clinking against the glass audible to her as Ted Nugent drifted into a tamer howl.

"Who is this guy?"

Olivia turned to her left; her new acquaintance was staring at Munch in open annoyance, his brows lowered over dark eyes.

"Well, Tom…"

"It's Ron."

"Well, Ron, this is my…," Olivia paused. What exactly was Munch to her? "This is my friend John. We work together."

"Lucky, aren't I?" Munch winked, his scarred and weathered face still pulled into a grin. Ron looked startled for a moment, his emotions quickly turning back to visible anger at the smaller, older man. The fact that this attractive, robust twenty-something man was feeling threatened by Munch would have amused Olivia if she wasn't sitting between the two.

"Munch…," Olivia started to scold him.

"Did Olivia tell you she's a cop?" Munch asked Ron, ignoring Olivia. By Ron's reaction, Olivia realized she hadn't mentioned it for the hour she had been here. His black eyebrows shifted upwards, his face reflecting his surprise.

"Nah. Really?"

"Yeah." Munch was still grinning, his voice dropping into a fake conspiratorial whisper. "She works in sex crimes."

"Damn." Ron leaned back on his barstool, his eyes shifting from Olivia to John and then back to Olivia. A slow smile spread across his tanned face, and Olivia's reaction was immediate, disgust and revulsion scooping like frozen steel into her stomach. "Why didn't you say nothin', babe? That sounds hot."

"Nzzzt. Wrong answer, pal," Munch replied, smirking. He took another sip of whiskey, winking at Olivia over the edge of his glass. She ignored him, turning back to Ron, her skin feeling flushed with anger.

"Hot? How can you think that? There is nothing remotely hot about sex crimes…"

"Hey, babe, don't get so worked up," Ron tried to soothe her, his right hand reaching out to squeeze her left thigh. Ice water spiked her veins.

"Remove your hand from my leg. Now," Olivia spoke evenly.

"And don't call her babe," Munch added from Olivia's right.

Ron's hand lifted away from Olivia's leg slowly, his attention locked on Munch. The look he gave Munch this time was violent.

"Hey, fuckhead, me and her were gettin' to know each other over some beers before you came outta no where. What are you, fucking stalking her? Get lost."

Munch picked up his glass again, rolling his wrist so the liquid swirled in a slow circle. Olivia felt the almost palpable agitation of the man to her left at Munch's calm, laid back demeanor. Munch finally took another slow, long drink, resting his empty glass back on the counter.

"I'm not going anywhere unless she asks," Munch replied, his tone light, the smirk still there as he glanced at Olivia. He shifted his focus to Ron. "And that's Detective Fuckhead to you, dumb ass."

Olivia saw the visible shift of anger to sullenness on Ron's face as it finally clicked. Two cops. Not his lucky night. She almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

"Well, I'm done." Munch stood up, stretching, looking around the busy bar and then back to Olivia. "Feel like an evening walk in the park, Olivia?"

"Absolutely." She pushed up from the barstool, shifting around towards the right side to get away from the counter.

Ron's hand clamped down on her left bicep, and if his hold alone wasn't strong enough to cause her pain, her bullet wound screamed at the harsh grip, pain searing through the injury like scalding water on naked flesh.

Her right fist made contact with his jaw, the movement shocking him into releasing her arm. She pulled back and he grabbed at her right forearm, his other hand reaching for her throat. She deflected and pushed hard into his chest, heaving him up and over her head. Olivia spun around, her right foot, still encased in a modest black loafer, pressing squarely across the neck of the man lying on his back in front of her. Her left foot was solid on the dirty floor, both of her hands curled into loose fists.

The bar had gone quiet; even Ted Nugent seemed to be singing softer in response to the situation. All eyes were on 6'4", 250 pound man lying among the peanut shells, breathing heavily, his face red, and the slender woman standing over him, her hair mussed and lipstick smeared but without a scratch.

Ron shifted, his right arm moving up. Olivia increased the pressure of her foot slightly against his throat.

"Please. Give me an excuse."

He stopped moving, staring at her with wide eyes, still panting.

Munch cleared his throat, still behind her, next to the bar. Olivia glanced back at him. He had his badge out, a forced smile on his weathered face.

"It's all right, people. NYPD. We're just trying to clear up a little misunderstanding here. Please, folks, get back to your libations. No need for alarm," he addressed the crowd loudly with authority.

There was a moment more of silence as the twenty or so patrons stared at the bizarre scene. And then, like true New Yorkers who had seen it all, they drifted back to their drinks and conversations, the pool game continuing from where it had left off. They were still being watched by a few people, but with significantly less interest.

Munch leaned close to Olivia, glancing down at Ron. "Bad day, Olivia?"

"Bad week."

Munch grunted, and looked down at the man splayed out on the floor. "Well, it looks like you're up the unsanitary tributary without any means of locomotion, my friend."

Munch laughed at his own joke, and then turned to walk back towards the bar. Olivia could hear pieces of his conversation as he spoke with the bartender and whatever management had appeared from the backroom.

"Hey, um. I, uh, I didn't mean to touch you."

Olivia glanced down again at Ron. He still looked shocked, but his breathing had evened out. He swallowed nervously and she relaxed her pressure against his throat.

"You grabbed me," she corrected him.

"Yeah. Uh, yeah, grabbed. Listen, I'm sorry. Really." He looked scared, the emotion making him appear on the very early side of his twenties. "You're not gonna arrest me, are you? Really, I'm sorry. I am."

Olivia sighed. Her bicep was throbbing, her knuckles ached from the punch and she had consumed enough beer that all of the action had made her nauseous. She had wanted this night to be over. Simple. Leave work, change, drink a couple beers at a bar, go home alone, go to bed. Sleep. Pray for no thoughts, no dreams. Wake up and work another day, another case.

Nothing in her life was ever simple. It was a lesson she continually failed to accept.

"Give me your wallet."

"What?"

"Ron, don't make me repeat myself," Olivia replied. "Slowly."

He nodded as much as he could with her foot against his throat. His right hand slid down his side, his hips rising off the dirty wood-planked floor as he reached into his back jeans pocket. He lifted his arm slowly to her, handing over the battered, brown leather wallet.

She flipped it open with her left hand, locating his driver's license with relative ease. She pulled it out, staring silently at the information. It was methodical, a part of her job, a part of her life. She didn't have a photographic memory, but she could make certain things a permanent part of her mind. And now Ron D'Annuzio's address and Social Security number joined the million or so other details she would take to her grave.

Olivia slid the driver's license back into place, closed the wallet and handed it back to him. He pocketed it nervously, his eyes shifting from her to her left. Munch was once again at her side.

"What do you think, Liv?"

She glanced at Munch and then back at Ron. "Listen, I don't want to arrest you. But you've made a mistake, Ron."

He nodded wordlessly again, his attention completely on Olivia.

"Don't ever grab a woman when she walks away from you. Ever."

Ron nodded again, the movement jerky, his eyes still wide.

"We're not going to arrest you tonight, Ron. But I know who you are. I know where you live. From here on out, you are on my personal list, and I will know if you've made a wrong move. Do you understand?"

"Y-yes," his voice wavered on the word. Olivia shifted her foot from his neck to the floor. She reached down to him with her right hand.

He took it gingerly and she pulled him up. Standing, he towered over her and Munch, but Olivia had no fear of him.

"There's a cab waiting outside," Munch said. "You need to take it directly home."

"Okay."

Munch gestured toward the door and the three of them walked towards it together. She saw Munch mouth something to the bartender and another man standing behind the counter, obviously both men relieved that they were leaving.

Olivia grabbed her trench coat from the wall on the way out the wooden and stained glass doors, shoving her arms into it as they walked into the blustery October night.

She stood by the doors, hands deep in the pockets of her coat as she watched Ron get into the back of the cab. Munch leaned in through the front passenger window to talk to the driver. He said something, laughed, and then gestured with a pointed finger in a circle next to his head. Olivia could hear laughter from the driver. Munch stepped back on the curb and the cab drove off.

"Thanks for getting me into a bar fight, John."

"All in a good night's work, Olivia," he replied, deadpan. "I was serious about the walk, by the way. There's a 24 hour café not too far from here. The coffee's shit, but we could get some greasy eggs and bacon…"

"God, Munch." Olivia held a hand against her mouth, nausea burning her throat at his comment.

"Had enough beer?"

"One beer would make that sound disgusting."

"Fair enough. I'll eat the greasy spoon special, you can have some toast and a Coke. I wouldn't suggest the coffee."

They started walking together on the sidewalk, the street to their left busy with traffic even at the late hour.

"Why did you come tonight, John?"

"Want me to tell you my theory about the Bermuda Triangle and Parapsychology?"

"No, I'm afraid after all of the beer I've had, it will make sense," she laughed. Olivia reached for his hand. His fingers curled around hers and they slowed their pace. "John…"

"It's a sound theory, Olivia."

"Munch…" She stopped walking and he turned to face her.

"I was worried," he spoke quietly. "I've been concerned, but I didn't realize until after speaking with Stabler today…"

"You spoke with Elliot?" Warmth spread through her body at the mention of his name.

"Fin and I went to see him after shift. Fin couldn't stay, something with the incest case he's working on, but I was there for about an hour."

Olivia stared at Munch under the street light, gauging his non-verbals. Even with the harsh shadows, she could read him.

"He told you to follow me." It wasn't a question.

"No, Olivia. He says he's tried to call you, but you don't answer. He's worried, as we all are, that this shooting, this case, is particularly hard on you. He's right. You killed a man. How can that not affect you?"

Annoyance that Elliot would express personal concern for her to Munch intertwined with her relief that he hadn't mentioned any of his personal conversations or revelations with her to anyone else. That she would not be able to handle. None of the others could know her heart and how she really felt.

"How long?" She asked, releasing his hand to rub the back of her neck.

"I followed you from your apartment to Ecklie's Gun Shop on 35th."

Olivia sighed. "It's personal, John."

"Tell me."

"Some women buy expensive shoes when they're upset. I buy guns."

"I find that strangely erotic," he smirked.

"Shut up, Munch."

He laughed. "Heckler and Koch P2000. Nine millimeter. Very nice. Did you get the interchangeable backstraps?"

"It comes with the gun. And since you tailed me so well, obviously you already know the answer."

"Do you have it now?" He asked.

"No. It's in my kitchen between the blender and toaster. Why the hell do you care?"

He turned wordlessly and started walking again. Having no choice but to follow, she hurried to keep up.

"I want you to stop, John. I don't need a babysitter."

"Obviously. That was impressive. I don't think I could have tossed that guy but you made it look easy." Munch glanced at her, still walking. "I'm sorry, Olivia. I was just making sure you were all right."

She bit her lower lip, wondering how much to say. She didn't want to lie to him, he was one of the closest friends she had, but she couldn't tell him the truth.

"I'm…working on it," she sighed. "I have a lot on my mind. But I'm not losing it. Honest. I'll make it through. I'm sorry I have problems expressing it."

"Don't apologize, Liv." He looked over at her, slowing down their pace and then stopping again. "I know you're a private person. I just want to help you. Isn't that what friends do, Liv?"

She reached up impulsively, kissing his weathered cheek. Olivia stood back, smiling at him, the smile softening when she noticed the blush reddening his face, highlighted by the streetlamp.

"Thank you, John. That's exactly what I needed."

He smiled back at her, holding out his hand. "Breakfast?"

She took his hand and they continued their walk towards the café.