A/N: This chapter's about a page shorter than the first, but they're all going to be about this length. Oh, and shout out to Toby Keith. And again to Ink Cat and boredsvunut3. Love you guys. Seriously.

Special dedication to DS. For you. raises glass in toast

Chapter 2: Losing My Touch

I've got good taste for blended whiskey

I can see my way around this bar

I can hear the sound of a vintage jukebox

And smell the smoke of a hand-rolled cigar

I can't read you mind

Baby I can sense this much

When it comes to your love

I feel like I'm losing my touch

I stumble through the dark of my apartment, trying to find a lamp, a switch, anything. One would think I should know my way around my own apartment. Well, anyone who thinks that can shove it. I just want to get to bed, to sleep, even if it is troubled. Even if I only get an hour's worth. Because now, I don't want to think about what just happened. I don't want to think about what I just did and what she didn't do. I just want to wipe it away, get rid of it all and be able to start the day over. Sadly, as I stub my toe on something and curse into the dark, I know it'll never happen. I'll just have to deal with it, about as well as I've dealt with everything else in my life probably.

Finally, I find a switch and flip it, hoping it's the right one. Luckily, it is, and the sudden light near blinds me. Now I'm stumbling because of the light instead of searching for it. I wish love were as easy to find as light on a sunny day. Or even in this moment. Apparently, though, it lurks in the shadows, like those damned dust bunnies or whatever the hell you call them. Although, perhaps that's a bad example, considering how messy my small apartment can get. But, still, I wish it were easier because then I wouldn't be in this goddamned situation with her. I wouldn't be this goddamned wound up. This goddamned sick and tired of all this crap.

I walk into the kitchen, trying to decide if I want a drink or not, whether I should get drunk over this and show up with a hangover at work tomorrow. Somehow, I resist the numbness of the bottle and wander back into the small living room that plays host to couch, TV and overflowing bookshelf. If there's one thing I have from my divorces, it's books. They wouldn't want those. Probably make them get a headache. And then I'd have to hear all that annoying whining. And, inevitably, the yelling would start about how I have too many books and not enough money and I should give her everything she wants, let alone needs. Then would come the headache, soon followed by the couch, or sometimes worse, the station house. I could never win those damn fights.

Collapsing on the couch I turn on the TV, hoping for something to take my mind away. I flip to some channel with a war movie on and let my eyes drift close to the sounds of guns going off and heavy artillery blasting and generals yelling. I don't care if I fall asleep to noise because the chances I will wake to something real, like the events of tonight, are less likely. Somehow, drifting off to the sounds of war makes my life seem much better than what those soldiers are going through and I get somewhat decent sleep.

When I wake, it's to the annoying ring of my cell phone and the sudden explosion of a mine on TV. There's no need to fumble in the dark, but I've no idea where the phone is, so I scramble around, trying to follow the sound which seems to be everywhere in the tiny room. Finally, I find it in my coat pocket and flip it open, answering with a tired tone. Sighing as I hear the information, I say, "Yeah, yeah. I'll be there in..." I check the stove clock. "... Fifteen minutes." There's the hurried telling of the apartment number and I close the phone, tossing it on the table and running a hand through my hair. It's only three twelve in the morning and I want to be asleep still. I go to turn off the TV, currently showing another war movie. Vietnam, by the looks of it. I shudder as I press the power button on the remote.

Quickly getting into fresh clothes (I had fallen asleep in the previous day's suit), I grab my car keys and thank God that it's working today. As I drive to the scene, there's nothing that's on my mind other than the thought of having to deal with another victim. "I really am getting too old for this job," I mutter to the empty car. Checking the hastily written address, I check the nearby street sign and see that I'm almost there. Sure enough, a minute later, flashing lights come into view and the lack of a bus tells me that the victim is on their way to the hospital, if not already there.

Parking and stepping out with a crack and a curse, I flash my badge at the uni at the door and look for the elevator. Noticing one, I walk towards it when a voice behind me says, "It's broken. You gotta use the stairs."

I freeze, knowing the voice immediately. I don't want to be near the owner of that voice right now, but I know I'll have to be. I turn and look at her, seeing nothing but a hardset expression set on her face. It's the mask she wears, the mask all of us wear and I feel mine slip down almost immediately as I see her. "Where's Stabler?"

"He's got the kids this weekend." It's a simple enough response. Her voice is almost devoid of emotion and I know that she's trying to ignore what happened earlier tonight. She's trying as hard as she can to not let her own life get in the way of the Job, something not always easily done.

I start climbing the stairs and she follows, the silence between us thick and filled with something I can't quite place. Probably guilt or fear or concentration, I can't say which. We reach the fourth floor and I'm tired already. For the second time in ten minutes I think to myself that I'm getting too old for this. She then steps ahead, leading me to the apartment, not that I couldn't have found it on my own. It's the only one with crime scene tape on the door and CSU techs swarming along with uniforms. But I know she didn't lead me because she thought I didn't know the way. She led me because she couldn't bear walking behind with me in her sight. I don't know how I know, but something in her walk, in her attitude, tells me.

"What do we got?" I'm finally able to say as she leads me through the apartment.

"Victim's Carol Erikson, twenty-three. Lives alone. She just got home when a man grabbed her from behind, pressed a knife to her neck and then he led her in here and raped her. Fin went to the hospital with her."

"She just got home?" I'm still stuck on that first part, my mind not fully awake yet at... I check my watch again... three thirty-four in the morning. "Do these perverts ever sleep?" I mutter more to myself than to her but she answers anyway, looking around the room instead of at me.

"I guess not."

I sigh and busy myself with the CSU guys, asking what they've got while still trying to shake myself into fully functioning consciousness. Slowly, as facts and tidbits of information seep into my sleep deprived brain, I'm able to ask intelligent questions and put myself entirely into the task at hand. But there's still that small part of my brain, not asleep, merely wandering, without making headway. I wince at the pun as I finally leave the scene at close to six, having to supervise the lifting of fingerprints and the unis.

On the way to the station house, I stop at some deli and get myself coffee and an egg sandwich. I'm not usually one for such things, but this morning I need something different and something strong, unlike my normal tea. When I finally walk into the squad room, I'm bombarded with ringing telephones and the Captain shouting something. Detectives are running everywhere and I turn to Fin, the closest person to me. "What the hell happened?"

"There were two other rapes last night, both in the same few blocks, all supposedly by the same guy. Grabs 'em from behind as they're coming home, pulls 'em in and rapes 'em."

"How's our first victim?"

"Still under at the hospital. They're gonna call us when she wakes up," Benson answers as she passes by.

"How about the other vics?"

"One's dead, the other's in the hospital, too."

"Munch, Benson!" The captain calls and I drop my breakfast, still in its paper bag, on my desk, setting my coffee next to it. "Get over to the hospital. Erikson's awake. Fin, get over to the other crime scene. See what they got."

We all leave quickly, knowing what's at stake here. It's the same thing that's at stake every day: lives, innocent lives, and as Benson and I climb into the sedan, her driving, me in the passenger seat, it somehow feels different. Somehow, something feels wrong, out of place, but I'm not sure yet what it is. The victims? No, haven't met them yet. The crime? No, I deal with it everyday. Doesn't change much, really. The suspect? No, don't have one yet.

"Munch, c'mon." We're at the hospital already and we walk in flashing our badges at the nurse and getting directions to Erikson's room. Quickly negotiating the hallways and going up the elevator a few floors, we get to her room, where everything seems to slow down. For once this hectic morning has decelerated, but I don't want it now. Not for this anyway. For just about anything but this.

"Carol? I'm Detective Benson and this is Detective Munch. Could you tell us what happened?" I'm glad Benson's taking charge. I don't have the heart to do it, not today anyway. Not after last night, I think, but push it away to a dark corner in my mind, to think about later, I tell myself. To ignore until later. Perhaps with a nice bottle of beer or other alcoholic beverage. Whatever happens to fit my mood. Whichever happens to dull the pain most efficiently.

"I was coming home from a friend's and I had just opened my door when someone grabbed me from behind and pulled me inside, closed the door behind him." She is reluctant to go further, something I, we, see day in and day out. It's nothing new.

"What happened next?" Benson is talking softly, trying to calm Carol. It's the voice she uses when dealing with victims. That's nothing new, either.

"He... he pulled me into my bedroom and he... he... "

"Go on. It's over now."

"He raped me." It's a whisper and Carol turns away, tears running down her cheeks. I sigh softly and leave, deciding I should find the doctor and find out what I can about Carol's injuries. Maybe part of the reason is to get away, to escape the pain that fills the air. I know Benson can handle it. Benson can handle anything. Yeah, but you're not so sure Olivia can handle everything, a voice tells me. I sternly tell it to shut up and ask the nurse at the nearest desk where I can find the doctor that worked on Carol Erikson. She points to a bearded man in a white coat coming down the hallway.

"Doctor, you examined Carol Erikson?"

"Uh, yes."

"What are her injuries?" Sometimes this part is easier than talking to the victim. For me, at least, I'm able to somewhat detach myself from her. It's just a broken arm, bruises, rape kits. But sometimes I can't because they're so beaten, I can't help but wince when the doctor tells me how the perp did something to further torture the victim. Sometimes, I downright want to throw up, though years on the Job stop me from spilling my lunch all over the hospital floor.

"Cut on the throat, not that deep. Bruising on her pelvis and thighs."

"Rape kit?"

"Negative for fluids."

"So the bastard used a condom. Great. Thank you," I add to the doctor and he walks away as I'm left to go back to the room. Luckily I'm saved from that hell only to be thrown into another as Benson walks up. I've decided, for the time being, to call her Benson. It's only calling her that that I can ignore what happened last night. Forget, temporarily at least, what she did to me. Briefly, I hope she's going through the same turmoil that I am. The thought is gone as quickly as it comes because I realize I could never wish pain upon her. Never could I wish anything bad against her. How could I even think of anything like that?

"What did the doctor say?"

I repeat what the doctor told me. Her reaction is like mine, as I expected it would be.

"Great."

"Did you get anything else from Carol?"

"No. She didn't see him and he didn't say anything. Only thing she remembers is the knife and that he was wearing a ski mask."

"Did he take anything?"

"Her virginity."

That simple statement ends the conversation and we head back to the car. Before we get there, though, my cell rings and I answer, Benson waiting a step ahead. When the Captain finishes, I sigh, curse, flip the phone shut and cram it into my pocket. "Gotta check on our other vic. She supposedly woke up not that long ago. While we were here actually."

I feel as if we turn around and suddenly it's a half hour earlier heading down the same hallway to ask where a victim is. In this moment, I feel as if none of this will ever end. None of this pain and torture will ever end. In this moment, the Job seems more pointless, more useless than it ever has, but I keep a straight face as we head for the room of Maribel Antonio.

After the same process we had gone through with Carol, we know the same amount of information in twice the time through twice the pain. I really need a new job, I think for the third time that morning as we finally make it back to the car. I half expect Cragen to call and have us check on something else, but we make it safely back to the squad room.

When I'm finally able to sit down at my desk, Fin tells me they got a match on a fingerprint in the dead victim's apartment. I half think that he's going to drag me out of my comfortable chair near the sweet smell of coffee, even if it is badly brewed, but he doesn't. Just tells me who the print belongs to and that they're trying to track the guy down now. He looks good for it, I think as I pull the guy's record over to my desk from Fin's. Assault, assault with a deadly weapon, statutory rape, and numerous other lesser charges.

It looks as though this might not be as bad at is seems. Might not be, until I glance over at Benson and see her hang up the phone, grabbing her keys from the desk, coat from her chair, as she bolts from the squad room.

Yeah.

Right.

Next joke.