Munch and Fin worked in tandem, silent and efficient, of a lower profile than the famed Stabler-Benson duo simply because neither one of them had tempers. (That anyone knew of.)

Fin was stoic, simply awaiting her return like a loyal friend should. He knew the Feds could have her doing God-knew-what for God-knew-how-long, and he chose not to dwell. He worked like he always did, only he regretted when Cragen nodded at him and his cynical partner, rather than mixing it up and throwing Olivia by his side. Ever since the first case they'd worked together, he knew he liked her. He knew he could trust her.

So he was grateful that Beck was always with Stabler. That Cragen never tried to 'mix them up' a little. He'd heard how she was, and he knew he didn't want to deal with that kinda mess. One Elliot was enough for him, he didn't need a Stabler-ette beating the crap out of a suspect with him left to pull her off the guy. Frankly, he knew if the guy was the perp, he wouldn't care enough to protect him, despite all his reservations against police brutality.

Only every once in a while, when he was dutifully filling out paperwork at his desk, and he was left too alone with his thoughts did they drift to her, and how she was doing. And don't ever accuse him of not caring. He felt exactly opposite: he didn't want to care too much. So when he took a stretch to rub his itchy eyes and curse the crappy chairs the state stuck them with, he automatically turned his head to his left and sighed.

He sighed because the desk was empty of her presence. It was filled with a stranger, or a stranger's things. He sighed when her pictures were missing, and her ordered mess of files were gone. He almost grimaced if Dani was sitting there, but his mouth only drooped into a cheerless line if it was empty.

Only in those long looks at her empty chair did his eyes convey the mood so many were feeling, and so many couldn't voice.

"I want Olivia back."

-

Munch wasn't stupid. He saw those looks Fin gave her desk, and behind his tinted glasses, he blinked slowly at the desk that no longer belonged to Olivia Benson.

Temporary, his freckled ass. She was gone. He was ready to think up a plethora of conspiracy theories for her demise already. His bitter nature had already seeped into the memory of the last good woman around him, and she wasn't even technically gone, too.

Damn. Time to be obstinately ornery and especially cranky and painfully grumpy. All of Fin's ribbings slid off of his dark suits, all especially tailored and of varying shades of black, to mourn her. It was just his way.

Oh, hell. Who was he trying to impress with his denial? His regret smacked him straight in his large, Jewish nose every so often, too. The worst was about a week after she was gone, and he had a question on their last case. Having strolled in around daybreak, he creaked his old knees upstairs to the crib around six, sure she had spent the night. For some reason, looking back, he couldn't explain why for the life of him. When he leaned on the doorknob, and swung into the cot-stuffed room, her absence gave him a nice punch in the face.

That's right, he'd thought. She left, too. His slow closing of the door and return to his desk was even more lugubrious than his usual nature, and Fin arched an eyebrow at him.

"What's up with you, man?"

"Huh? Oh, nothing."

And he looked down at his hands for a few minutes, thinking the thought that had kept Stabler alone and sleepless in that crib for the past week.

"I want Olivia back."