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Chapter Text

SVU PRECINCT - June 3, 2004 - 11:14 PM

It was late.

The kind of late where the city hummed low and sullen, where yellowed streetlights flickered against rain-slicked glass and the precinct’s halls echoed like they were mourning something. Outside, the storm came in sideways; sharp, relentless, and cold. Most desks were abandoned, save for the scattered clatter of a coffee mug being rinsed in a distant breakroom, the hum of an old copier exhaling in the dark.

Inside his office, Captain Donald Cragen flipped through files with the weariness of a man who’d seen too many careers rise and fall like bad headlines. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, tie askew, the collar of his shirt slightly damp from the walk in. He didn’t usually stay this late anymore, but the seat across from John Munch had been empty too long.

He needed someone sharp. Someone quiet, fast, maybe a little unhinged, but in a useful way.

Then he saw it.

A manila folder labelled in sharp, formal type:

AMARI-VOLKOV, TALIA NADINE.
MIDTOWN NORTH - NARCOTICS.

He opened it. Read the first page. Then the second.

And by the third, he was whispering her name like a secret. “Talia Amari…”

There was something about the way her report was structured. The hand-scribbled notes in red pen on a printed sting summary. A pattern in the case timeline no one had bothered to highlight, but she had. Quietly. Precisely.

She had completed four successful stings in just under a year, embedded deep enough in Midtown’s underbelly to draw intel from dealers who didn’t even talk to cops. He read about how she once pulled a wire mid-operation and still closed it clean. How she spoke three languages fluently. How her cold case board wasn’t even officially sanctioned but still got two internal referrals kicked up the chain.

Three years on the job. That’s it. Three years, and she was already operating like she’d lived through a dozen systems falling apart.

Cragen sat back. The rain drummed harder against the windows like it had somewhere to be. Munch’s desk sat across the bullpen like a drawn-out sigh, too quiet without someone next to him to poke the static.

This one wouldn’t just fill the space. She’d redraw it.

He closed the file slowly, fingers tapping once on the cover. There was a weight to her name, something he couldn’t quite put into words. She hadn’t even gotten her detective results back yet, but his gut knew. She’d pass. She’d fly.

He stood, slipped the folder into his briefcase, and grabbed his coat.

“Welcome to SVU, Officer Amari.”

The words barely made it past his lips before the light clicked off, and he disappeared into the storm.

Somewhere in Astoria, the sharp-eyed woman with the gold hoops and the secrets in her back pocket stirred in her sleep, unaware that tomorrow morning would change the trajectory of her entire life.

[Excerpt from NYPD Internal Records - Transfer Review File #44119]
Filed: June 3, 2004 | Captain Donald Cragen, NYPD SVU

BADGE #: 44119
[Photograph unavailable - See Security Clearance Level 3]

NYPD PERSONNEL FILE

OFFICER PERSONNEL DATA SHEET
Name: Amari-Volkov, Talia Nadine
NYPD ID #: 103-8110
Rank: Police Officer
Current Precinct: Midtown North - Narcotics Division
Date of Birth: 19-06-1976
Place of Birth: Astoria, Queens, NY
Ethnicity: Egyptian-Russian
Religious Affiliation: Christian (Coptic Orthodox - not self-reported)
Languages Spoken: English (native), Arabic (Egyptian dialect - fluent), Russian (fluent), Ancient Greek (reading comprehension)
NEXT OF KIN: None listed
FAMILY STATUS: [REDACTED - See Addendum A]
Supervisor: Lt. Marcus Tiernan

ACADEMY RECORD

• Admitted: 2000
• Graduation: 2001 (Top 12% of class)
• Commended for:
• Tactical restraint in active shooter scenario (sim)
• Observational excellence in surveillance exam
• Advanced language aptitude (Arabic & Russian fluency)

Final Evaluation Comment:

“Amari is precise, composed, and naturally inquisitive. Unafraid to challenge assumptions. May ruffle feathers.”
- Sgt. K. Halloran, Academy Training Officer

EDUCATION & TRAINING

• Graduated NYPD Police Academy - Top 12% of class (2001)
• Bachelor of Arts in Criminology and Comparative Literature
• Postgraduate coursework in Forensic Psychology (Incomplete)
• Defensive Tactics Certification - Advanced Level
• Firearms Requalification Score: 97% (Most recent evaluation)

ASSIGNMENT HISTORY

• 2001-2003: Patrol Officer, 10th Precinct
• 2003-Present: Narcotics Division, Midtown North
• Undercover stings (4 successful)
• Intelligence gathering
• Suspected involvement in an unsanctioned cold case board (see supervisor note)

Supervisor Note (Lt. Tiernan):

“Officer Amari shows potential well above her rank. Detail-focused, intuitive. Makes people talk. Too curious for her own good, but gets results.”
“She doesn’t trust easily. Keeps her cards close. But her instincts? Dead-on.”

PSYCHOLOGICAL EVALUATION (INITIAL)

“Quietly intense. Highly intelligent. May benefit from mentorship due to tendency toward emotional suppression. Possible history of familial trauma. No risk indicators. Highly promising candidate for investigative work.”
- Dr. Marie Weiss, NYPD Psych Services

Note: Recommends quarterly psych eval due to exposure to high-stress trauma cases and family history (see Addendum B).

DISCIPLINARY & COMMENDATION RECORD

• Commendation: Civilian protection during [REDACTED] (2002)
• No formal complaints or disciplinary action
• Flagged once for “inappropriate language toward superior” (dismissed)

EXAM STATUS

• Detective Exam Taken:✓ (2004 - awaiting results)
• Projected Promotion Eligibility:2005

ADDITIONAL NOTES

• Known for her meticulous cold case logs and off-the-record research into historical crimes, cults, and political corruption.
• Desk includes confiscated items currently held unofficially (e.g., Cold War-era surveillance manuals, conspiracy journals, audio cassette tapes)
• Frequently listens to conspiracy-focused podcasts during late shifts.
• Three registered canines (German Shepherds): Ramses, Anubis, and Heka.
• Medical Record - [Flagged] [See Medical Appendix D - Mental Health Indicators]
  

INTERNAL REVIEW/CONDUCT NOTES:

FAMILY STATUS - [REDACTED - See Addendum A]

ADDITIONAL INTERNAL REFERENCES:

Addendum A - Family history, sealed.

Addendum B - Medical report following 2002 injury (Riker’s).

Addendum C - Unofficial inquiries into politically sensitive cases.

Addendum D - Psychological review (completed).

Addendum E - Pending review: cold case closure submitted without formal reassignment.

INTERNAL REVIEW/CONDUCT NOTES:

No formal investigations currently active.

[Flagged: Subject may have concealed interpersonal relationship while serving under NYPD Narcotics.]

ISSUED GEAR

ISSUED EQUIPMENT (Standard + Specialty):

• Glock 19 (service weapon)
• Smith & Wesson .38 Special (registered backup)
• Lockpicking kit (authorized, undercover)
• Leather-bound NYPD field journal (initials T.A. stamped)
• One (1) silver lighter (unauthorized, retained for personal use)

ASTORIA - June 4, 2004 - 6:32 AM 

Astoria was never quiet, and that’s exactly why Talia loved it. The streets buzzed with life, a constant symphony of languages and laughter, music drifting from open windows, and the scent of food from every corner of the globe. There was a little bit of everything here, Greek, Dominican, Egyptian, Russian, Thai, Colombian. It was chaotic, alive, and most importantly, hers. It was close to work, too, and rare as gold in New York: there was free parking right in front of her house.

Her house.

It was something out of a painting. The rowhouse on 33rd Street was small by most standards; narrow, red-bricked, a single stoop with worn iron railings that creaked in the winter. But inside, it was a world all its own. A world where time slowed and memory wrapped around her like a shawl.

The moment the door opened, the scent of thyme, orange peel, and incense greeted her like an old friend. It lingered in the walls, clung to jackets in winter, perfumed the curtains come summer. The foyer was tiled in uneven stone, worn from years of shoes and stories, with a tall mirror framed in gold-leaf filigree reaching nearly to the ceiling. Above it, a framed Arabic calligraphy of “Bismillah” shimmered in deep indigo and gold, flanked by two small Orthodox icons, the Virgin and Saint George, watching over the space with wide, eternal eyes.

The living room glowed in ochres and pomegranate reds, bathed in soft lamplight filtered through embroidered lace curtains. A stained-glass lamp hung from the ceiling, one her father had brought back from Alexandria, and painted little gems of colour on the walls. A low, carved wooden table sat in the centre, surrounded by mismatched cushions and two faded velvet armchairs that had never quite been reupholstered. Books in Arabic, Russian, and English overflowed from shelves, dog-eared, defiant, beloved. Evil eye charms dangled from the corners of picture frames, swaying gently whenever someone passed, always watching, always guarding.

A small glass ashtray, shaped like a pomegranate and stained at the edges, sat quietly on the windowsill, its rim lined with the ghosts of half-smoked skinny cigarettes she only lit on the hardest nights. She preferred hookah, truthfully, there was something more ritualistic, more ancestral about it, but the cigarettes were faster, quieter, more private. Scattered around the room were tiny glass pomegranate trinkets in ruby and amber, souvenirs from old souks and church fairs, each catching the light like droplets of blood in a bowl of honey.

One wall was devoted entirely to family photos, arranged not by symmetry, but by soul. Her mother in a red scarf, laughing mid-dance. Her brother Samir, proud in his military uniform, holding a toddler version of her. A school portrait of Talia with tightly braided hair, gap-toothed and frowning. And in the centre, the most worn of them all, her parents on their wedding day, their joy captured in fading sepia.

The kitchen was humble but warm, the heart of the house. Copper pots hung from a rail like quiet sentinels. Hand-painted ceramic bowls, chipped but cherished, sat above the stove. A samovar rested on the counter, a relic of her father’s habits. A jar of pickled lemons caught the afternoon light in the windowsill. The fridge was a patchwork of memories: magnets from Cairo, St. Petersburg, and a single photo booth strip of her and her sister, Lana, both with whipped cream on their noses, mid-laugh.

Upstairs, the bedroom, was sacred. Talia's room was exactly as it had always been, tucked under the slanted ceiling at the back of the house. Her bed was layered with a faded Coptic quilt, frayed at the edges, and newer throws in dusty rose and olive green. A wooden vanity mirror, streaked with time, sat in the corner. On top: a small dish lined with dried jasmine petals, beside her mother’s prayer beads, which still smelled faintly of myrrh.

The walls whispered to her; of arguments, lullabies, laughter, and whispered prayers during thunderstorms. The house had long gone quiet, but never cold. There was something sacred in the silence. And Talia had kept it that way on purpose. It was her safe space. Her sanctuary. The only place in the world that truly felt like hers.

Even the outside held pieces of her.

The wrought-iron gate at the front creaked in a way she knew by heart. The small front garden was a haphazard patch of mint and rosemary, cracked pots, and a faded ceramic frog her mother once insisted brought luck.

And then, of course, there was the car.

A matte black 1967 Ford Mustang GT parked out front like it owned the block. It didn’t purr; it growled. That low, hungry sound made the neighbourhood boys stare, and the old uncles shake their heads in quiet respect. They never expected someone like her to drive something like that. But Talia liked it that way.

She’d bought it old, rusting, forgotten, and spent years fixing it with her cousin until it roared like it used to. Now it shined like obsidian under the Queens sun. In the rearview mirror, her father’s prayer beads swayed, a soft rhythm that followed her everywhere.

It had rained that morning. Of course it had. A June drizzle clung to the city like memory; wet, restless, and uninvited. But she rose anyway, same as always, pulling herself from the sheets like a blade from a sheath.

She dressed with intention, as she always did. Black lace, matching, always. Not for anyone else. Just for the poetry of it. A ritual. A promise to herself that she was still the kind of woman who chose silk over survival, even in a world that demanded the opposite.

In the mirror, she caught herself mid-motion. A flash of ink across golden olive skin, her back, a cathedral of secrets. A tapestry of myth and mourning.

Between her shoulder blades, a Coptic cross rose bold and unwavering, framed in sacred iconography that mimicked ancient frescoes. Saint Mary, her halo inked in sepia and lined with heartbreak. Two serpents coiled around the symbol in the shape of an ankh, life, death, and resurrection intertwined. Beneath them, names in curling Arabic script: her parents, remembered in permanence. And just below, a single Russian word, душа. (Soul.) The lettering was careful. Sacred. There were verses there, too, some prayers, some curses. All grief. All hers.

A date lived at the base of her spine, unspoken but unforgettable. And the soft shadow of her sister’s handwriting, tattooed as if Lana might somehow live in the ink.

Her thighs bloomed with roses; wild, thorned, unapologetically feminine. One wrapped around a crescent moon; another curled beneath a watchful Nazar. And buried between them, written so small it was nearly a secret: a line of script you’d have to kneel to read.

Most people never saw the tattoos. That was the point.

She dressed like war disguised as fashion; high-waisted slacks that hugged her hips like sin, a silk blouse in a colour that shifted between blood and wine, and heels that announced her presence before she ever crossed the threshold. Her jewellery glinted gold: stacked bracelets, heavy hoops, a tiny cross that caught the light at her collarbone. Always her Nazar charm. Always the perfume; faint, expensive, unforgettable. And always, always a red lip.

Talia Amari didn’t do casual. She didn’t do forgettable. When she walked into a room, she stayed.

And yet… this day began like all the others.

She locked her door without looking back. Slid behind the wheel of her car. Lit a cigar she wouldn’t smoke. The rain had already stopped, but the city still smelled like something ancient and unfinished. Asphalt and ozone. Guilt and gasoline.

She turned the radio dial, skipping static until she found one of her conspiracy stations, the voice of a grizzled Slav muttering about Cold War espionage and water fluoridation. She let it play. She liked the paranoia. It made her feel less alone.

She thought it would be a day like any other. Another shift. Another lie unravelled. Another corpse no one would mourn but her.

But that was the thing about days like these.

You only realized they were important when they were already over.

MIDTOWN NORTH PRECINCT - June 4, 2004 – 8:02 AM

The Midtown North precinct smelled like burnt coffee, printer ink, and stale ambition. Talia stepped through its automatic doors for what she didn’t yet know would be the last time, the morning light catching on the hard lines of her regulation boots. She ducked into the locker room and changed into her uniform, tugging the stiff fabric over her shoulders with a grimace. It was boxy, unflattering, and entirely designed with men in mind. It sat wrong on her hips, flattened her chest, and made her look like a background extra in someone else's story. She hated it.

Narcotics didn’t allow for flourish. It wasn’t a place for art, just blood, pills, and bad lighting.

When she entered the bullpen, the fluorescent glare overhead made her squint. Her desk; one of many identical, utilitarian workstations, was already occupied. Or rather, her supervisor, Lieutenant Marcus Tiernan, was standing in front of it, arms crossed and waiting like a man who knew something she didn’t.

Talia kept her face blank as she approached, though her spine straightened. “Can I help you, sir?” she asked coolly, sliding her bag off her shoulder.

Marcus didn’t reply at first. He gave her a slow, knowing smirk and handed her a manila folder. She took it, fingers steady, and flipped it open.

Her Detective Exam results.

She passed. Of course she did. Doubting herself had never been the issue. But still, something flickered low in her chest, a brief, private warmth. Pride, maybe. Or relief.

“Congratulations, Detective,” Marcus said, the title landing like a new nameplate. “But I’m afraid I also come bearing bad news.”

Talia raised an eyebrow.

“We’ve got too many detectives on staff here,” he continued, his tone almost apologetic. “So, effective immediately, you’re being transferred to the Manhattan Special Victims Unit. Sixteenth precinct.”

She blinked. “Now?”

“Now.”

He handed her a cardboard box with silent finality. She looked around, at the empty space she was supposed to call a career, the bland desks and fingerprint-smudged partitions. No one turned to see her go. Narcotics didn’t deal in sentiment, and she wasn’t sentimental about it.

Truthfully? She was glad. She’d always hated Narcotics. Too much rot, not enough purpose. SVU was more her rhythm. Victims who mattered. Cases that haunted.

She stripped out of her uniform in the locker room and back into her real clothes. By the time she stepped outside and into her car, she looked nothing like an NYPD officer. More like someone investigating them.

SVU PRECINCT – June 4, 2004 – 8:15 AM

The 16^th Precinct felt different from the moment she stepped through the doors. There was a low buzz in the air, controlled chaos. The kind that hinted at too many open cases and too little sleep.

At the front desk, she showed her transfer paperwork, got her new ID badge, and was pointed toward the second floor.

She rode the elevator alone, eyes fixed forward, fingers brushing the thin gold chain around her neck.

As the elevator doors opened, she stepped into the squad room like she owned it. Back straight. Head high.

The scent of old files and cheap aftershave hit her first.

To her right: the uniformed officers’ desks, hunched over paperwork and half-drunk coffee.
To her left: the detectives.

She clocked them immediately.
A woman, short dark hair, eyes like razors.
Next to her, a man with a strong jaw and sceptical energy, probably her partner.
Across the bullpen, another man, darker complexion, built like he didn’t need backup.
And finally, an older man sat at a desk with dark-colored glasses, and a book cracked open beside a coffee mug.

The desk in front of him was empty.

“You lost?” the tough-looking man asked, giving her a quick up-down glance like she didn’t belong.

Talia opened her mouth to respond, but a voice cut in before she could. “Ah! Detective Amari,” came the smooth baritone of a man approaching. Captain Don Cragen, she guessed from the photos she’d seen. “Welcome to SVU.”

A few heads turned.

She offered a single nod, stepping fully into the room as the gold at her ears caught the light.

There was a beat of silence.

The short-haired woman blinked.
The man next to her leaned forward slightly, as if reevaluating.
Even the older man looked over his glasses.

They’d expected a rookie, but instead they got Talia Nadine Amari.

Chapter Text

SVU PRECINCT – June 4, 2004 – 8:15 AM

The squad room buzzed with the low murmur of printers, phones, and tired feet dragging across linoleum. It smelled like coffee and the faint sharpness of whiteboard markers. A fan clattered somewhere in the back, stirring air that had already gone stale by noon. The bulletin board across the room displayed a collage of mugshots and crime scene snapshots, corners curling with time. Over it all: fluorescent lights, harsh and unflattering, humming like an accusation.

Talia didn’t flinch under any of it.

She sat at the edge of her new desk, posture a masterclass in poised disinterest. Her dark curls framed her face with deliberate softness, a contrast to the sharpness of her eyes, eyes that watched, measured, catalogued.

Hours had passed in a quiet blur. She’d already completed the intake paperwork, signed three different versions of the same release form, and fielded an unnecessarily personal conversation with the M.E. “You have a homicide face,” the woman had said cheerfully. “They’ll like you here.” The techs gave polite nods. Uniforms asked her name twice. But the detectives?

The four of them stayed a unit. Like wolves watching from a ridge.

Except one.

The man at the desk across from hers was silent. He hadn't said a word, not when she unpacked her files, not when she laid out her pens in a line like they were surgical instruments. He read a book with a cracked spine and yellowing edges. Occasionally, he glanced at her over the rim of his glasses. Studying her. Not leering. Calculating. She didn’t ask his name, and he didn’t offer it. But she felt it, like being mirrored in still water.

She reached for her coffee just as the rest of the pack arrived.

They came in like formation. Olivia Benson, all steely grace and quiet force. Odafin Tutuola, Fin, swaggering with a beat in his step like he moved to music only he could hear. And then Elliot Stabler, of course, broad-shouldered and smirking like he knew he was going to say something that would piss her off.

“You must be the newbie,” he said with an easy grin, hands on hips. “We’ve got a bit of a tradition around here.”

Talia didn’t look up right away. She took a deliberate sip, then glanced at him with the kind of expression that could slice a throat in the right lighting.

“Do you now,” she said, voice cool.

“Yeah,” Fin added with a grin. “We read your file, we poke around your stuff, then we interrogate you like a perp. See what you’re made of.”

Talia blinked slowly. Set her cup down.

“How charming,” she said dryly.

“It’s for team bonding,” Stabler threw in.

“It’s for our amusement,” Fin corrected, eyes glittering.

Talia crossed one leg over the other, arms folding across her silk blouse, revealing a sliver of gold chain at her wrist. Her lips curved into a small, deliberate smirk.

“Alright,” she said, leaning back. “Let’s make it interesting. Why don’t you each tell me why I should pick you to interrogate me?”

Fin let out a low whistle, impressed. “Yeah, that’s a Narcotics thing. Turn the heat back on the room. I like it.”

Olivia stepped forward, always the diplomat. “Well, I’m a woman. You’re a woman. We can read between the lines. Might not even need words.”

Talia gave a polite nod. “Understood.”

Fin stepped in. “I came from Narcotics too. Midtown South. Different streets, same war zone.”

She tilted her head. “Respectable.”

Then Stabler. “Elliot Stabler,” he said, just that, like it was supposed to mean something.

Talia raised an eyebrow. “Is that it? Just a name?”

He grinned. “It’s a good name.”

She leaned in, voice a touch warmer now, like a match before it sparks. “We used to call you Stapler over at Midtown North.”

Stabler blinked. “Oh?”

“Rumour was you threw one. At a perp. Or maybe a lieutenant. Hard to tell. Stories change when they pass through enough precincts.”

Fin laughed, clapping Stabler on the shoulder. “That sounds about right.”

Then Fin’s chin jerked toward the man still reading at the desk behind her. “And that’s Munch.”

The man, Munch, didn’t look up.

“Pass,” he said, voice flat, like he hadn’t even paused his sentence in the book.

“Oh, come on,” Fin started.

“I’m old enough to be her father,” Munch muttered, flipping a page. “I’m not playing this game.”

And that’s when she turned.

Talia looked at him, really looked. The curve of her body stilled, breath caught mid-rhythm. Her gaze lingered long enough to make the air shift. She took in the grey at his temples, the trench coat slung carelessly over his chair, the way his eyes didn’t flinch. He didn’t leer. Didn’t posture. Just… existed. Quiet, unreadable, and infuriatingly calm.

She smiled. Not big. Not sweet. Something older. Like a memory of warmth in a cold room.

“Oh, really?” she said, voice like the first touch of whiskey. “How interesting. How quaint.”

Even Olivia turned at that.

Talia stood slowly, fingers brushing her desk, rings catching the light, nails neatly painted. She smoothed the front of her coat and walked past the three detectives without another word. Her heels clicked like punctuation on the floor.

As she passed Munch’s desk, she reached out; absently, confidently, and let her hand brush along its edge.

She didn’t look at him when she said it, but the smirk was in her voice. “You sure you’re up for it, old man?”

He didn’t answer. Not right away.

But as she took her seat on the corner of his desk, legs crossed, smile playing on her lips like a dare, she caught it.

Just the corner of his mouth.

Twitching upward.

Victory.

Interrogation Room 2B – June 4, 2004 – 10:05 AM

They called it “the box,” like it was meant to trap you. A square of chilled air, bolted metal, and two chairs too far apart to feel human. But Talia didn’t flinch when they opened the door. She stepped inside like she’d paid for the concrete herself.

The fluorescent lights above flickered once, then steadied, catching the gleam of gold at her ears and the soft shine of her curls, piled like shadows around her face. Her heels, clicked against the linoleum like the ticking of a well-kept watch. Controlled. Unbothered.

Munch clocked it all. First the shoes. Then the way her trousers flared slightly as she walked. Then the silhouette of her back; rigid, self-contained, shoulders squared like she was preparing for war. And maybe, in a way, she always was.

She didn’t wait to be told where to sit. She slid into the chair across from him with the ease of someone who’d done this a hundred times, but never from that side of the table. Legs crossed at the knee, arms folded, a slight lean back. Her expression unreadable. A woman trained not just in deception, but in the art of appearing uninterested.

The folder in his hand was thick. Her personnel file, post-academy assignments, psychological evaluations, every report she ever refused to comment on. A box of personal belongings sat on the table between them, impounded after an operation gone sideways. A lighter. A chain with two charms. A cigarette case with no cigarettes. A half-scribbled journal page tucked into a leather-bound field notebook that still smelled faintly of coffee and cloves.

Munch didn’t speak right away. He liked to let the silence stretch, let it become awkward. But this one… didn’t blink.

He opened the folder slowly. “Talia Nadine Amari-Volkov.”

She tilted her head slightly, curls shifting with the motion. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m not,” he said flatly, flipping a page. “Just trying to decide if you’re overqualified… or just really good at pretending you are.”

She didn’t smirk, not exactly. Her lips just curved like they knew something he didn’t. “Mystique goes a long way.”

He looked over his glasses at her, deadpan. “So do cult leaders.”

That earned him a ghost of a smile. Not a real one, Talia didn’t give those away for free. “I’ve always had a thing for charisma and mass delusion,” she said.

Munch tapped the edge of her file with a single finger. “Egyptian and Russian?”

“Pharaohs and tsars,” she replied, voice smooth as bourbon. “We did holidays with incense and vodka. My mother read scripture. My father rolled cigarettes on a map of Beirut. We coped.”

He huffed a dry chuckle. “You cope now with Cold War cassette tapes and crime scene poetry, apparently.”

“I collect things,” she said simply, like it wasn’t an explanation, but an assertion of fact.

“Like what?”

Talia leaned back further, eyes half-lidded but watching him with hawk precision. “Secrets. Stories. Men with unresolved guilt and bad posture.”

He arched an eyebrow. “That last one personal?”

“Maybe.”

There was a pause, soft and electric. Munch didn’t fill it. He just sat there, watching her. His arms folded now, mirroring her posture. She noticed. She always noticed.

“You into anything?” he asked.

She tilted her head again, and this time the smile was slower. Deeper. More dangerous. “Men with dark glasses and too many secrets are a type.”

“That a compliment?”

“Sure.”

He didn’t laugh, not quite, but something in his face eased for the first time. Still, he glanced back down at the file, like he needed the paper to break the eye contact.

He looked at her longer than he needed to. “You Jewish?” she asked then, abruptly.

He blinked. “Yeah. Why?”

“You carry it like a flag tucked inside your coat,” she said, her tone softening just enough. “Not showy. But proud. And sharp.”

He stared at her. “That’s either the strangest compliment I’ve ever gotten… or a psychic assessment.”

“Maybe both.”

“You always like this?” he asked.

“You mean perceptive?”

“I meant difficult.”

“Only when bored,” she said, crossing the other leg with a subtle shift. The motion drew his eye for a split second. She noticed that too.

“You smoke?” he asked next.

“Once a year.”

He gave her a look. “Why?”

She didn’t blink. “Redacted for a reason.”

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Munch closed the file, slower than he opened it. “You’re going to be trouble.”

“I hope so,” she said, standing with a movement too fluid for someone raised in violence. “Otherwise, I’m wasting a lot of expensive mascara.”

The silence she left behind wasn’t empty. It was laced with intrigue. Like the start of a very long, very unsolvable mystery.

The metal chair let out a quiet squeal as Talia crossed one leg over the other. A golden anklet winked from beneath her cuff, barely visible, but wholly deliberate. Her bracelets clinked softly as she folded her arms, catching the flicker of the overhead light. She didn’t fidget. She didn’t blink too much. She didn’t smile unless it served her.

She didn’t just look good. She looked dangerous, the kind of beautiful people underestimated, right before she gutted them with a question they never saw coming.

Across the table, Munch leafed through her file with the unhurried detachment of a man who’d read everything twice already but wanted her to think he hadn’t. His glasses sat low on the bridge of his nose. One hand flipped the pages; the other hovered near the edge of the table, tapping a pattern she’d already memorized.

He didn’t look up. Not yet.

“You know,” he said eventually, voice dry and amused, “you wear more gold than half the guys we’ve booked on trafficking charges.”

Talia’s lips curved, just slightly. “I’m the eldest daughter. Of five. In an Egyptian-Russian household.” She tilted her head, letting a curl slide down her shoulder. “This isn’t fashion. It’s lineage.”

That made him glance up. Just a twitch of his mouth, half smile, half something else. “I thought it was an intimidation tactic.”

She leaned forward, just a little. “You intimidated?”

“Only mildly,” he said, eyes returning to the folder. “You’ve got a record longer than most rookies three years in. Stings. Undercover buys. Surveillance files that read like short novels. And enough redacted lines to make a FOIA agent weep.”

Talia lifted a brow. “Is this the part where you accuse me of being a spy?”

Munch hummed. “If you were, you’d be too smart to get caught.”

“And you’d be too curious not to try.”

That got a breath of a laugh. Low. Gravel-edged. Real.

She tapped a finger against the metal table. “Go on. Ask the real questions.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said, finally placing the folder down. “I plan to.”

He looked at her, really looked, for the first time. Her eyes were sharp. Quietly incendiary. Like staring into the reflection of fire on water; beautiful, layered, impossible to track.

“So. Fluent in three languages. Cold War literature in your desk. A lighter with your initials. A cassette marked ‘Stargate: Confirmed?’” He looked up. “You don’t make a simple first impression, do you?”

She shrugged. “I like hobbies.”

“That’s not a hobby; that’s a red flag with a postal code.”

She smiled. “Only if you lack imagination.”

He raised a brow. “And the conspiracy theory podcasts?”

“They calm me,” she said, folding her hands on the table like she was about to host a dinner party.

Munch stared. “The Illuminati calms you.”

“The CIA doesn’t. Big difference.”

“That’s the kind of thing someone in the CIA would say.”

“I’m flattered you think they’d recruit me.”

He studied her for a beat, then exhaled, sitting back in his chair. “So, what’s the deal with the ancient Greek?”

“Scripture. Philosophy. Old curses,” she said with an offhand grace. “I like understanding the things people swore were too sacred to question.”

“That’s… vaguely ominous.”

“Everything sacred usually is.”

Munch just shook his head. “You’re a very interesting woman.”

“And you’re a very curious man.”

“Should I be concerned about that?”

“You should be more concerned if I stop talking.”

He nodded, once. “Your file said the same thing.”

She tilted her head. “Huang?”

“Weiss,” he corrected. “’Emotionally suppressed. Possible trauma history. Highly promising candidate for investigative work.’”

“She tried to get me to cry once,” Talia said, gaze unwavering. “Didn’t go well.”

“Why not?”

She smiled, slow and lethal. “I hate wasting mascara.”

Munch laughed, really laughed. Not loud, but true. It was the sound of a lock turning halfway, startled out of rust.

She studied him, eyes soft but assessing. “Is that allowed? You laughing?”

“Not on record.”

“Well.” She leaned back again, blouse shifting slightly as she moved, gold catching the light. It looked hand-poked. Intimate. Older than it should’ve been.

His eyes flicked to it, then back up. “You believe in the evil eye?”

“I believe in patterns,” she said. “Bad energy clings to broken systems. Sometimes charms help.”

“I don’t usually trust people who believe in everything.”

“I don’t believe in everything,” she said, voice suddenly lower. “Just the things no one talks about.”

He paused, weighing that. “Like?”

She smiled. “Like the Ark of the Covenant being stored in an Ethiopian church surrounded by armed monks. Or that the NYPD’s budgeting committee is run by two Freemasons and a guy who collects teeth.”

Munch snorted. “You know that last one’s probably true.”

“I wouldn’t joke about that,” she replied. “Men like that always have a basement.”

He chuckled again, then rubbed his face with one hand like trying to shake something off. “You know, I thought you’d be more guarded.”

“You think this isn’t guarded?”

“Touché.”

He picked up the file again. “You requested Cold Cases. Why?”

Talia’s tone shifted. Just slightly. “Because I like things that leave traces. Because ghosts talk when no one’s listening.”

“Who are you listening for?”

She didn’t answer. But her expression said enough.

Munch let it hang, then tapped the table once. “You’re very hard to read.”

She stood, finally. Slow, graceful. Every movement deliberate. “That’s intentional.”

He didn’t stop her. Just watched her walk to the door, coat settling at her hips, gold still catching the light.

She paused with her hand on the handle, not turning.

“If you ever want to compare theories, Cold War files, unsolved murders, or the FBI’s missing archive, I don’t keep office hours. But I do take bribes in coffee and original microfilm.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

Munch didn’t speak.

But he was smiling as he opened the folder again, flipped to the last page, and underlined her name once in red ink.

Talia stepped out of the interrogation room, unbothered. She moved with the kind of precision that made people straighten up without knowing why. The second the door shut behind her, three sets of eyes were already on her.

Fin, arms crossed and leaning against a desk, gave her a subtle nod of approval. His face was unreadable to most, but she caught the twitch of a grin at the corner of his mouth. Olivia, sharp-eyed and polite, offered a small smile, welcoming but reserved. And standing between them, barely hiding the mischief in his smirk, was Elliot Stabler.

Talia looked between them, then raised a brow. “So… do I pass, or do I get cuffed?”

Before any of them could answer, a voice called from just behind her. “Congratulations, Detective.”

She turned to see Captain Don Cragen step out from the hallway, coffee in one hand, calm authority in the other.

“You’re officially in,” he said. “And since you’re the newbie, you’ll be shadowing Munch and Tutuola for the next few months. Learn the ropes. Make it look good.”

Talia’s eyes flicked to Munch, who had just exited the interrogation room himself. His posture faltered for a beat, barely noticeable to anyone else, but to her, it screamed resignation and existential dread. He looked like a man who’d just found out his favourite conspiracy theory had been debunked by a woman in vintage lipstick.

“C’mon, Captain,” Munch groaned. “You’re punishing me, and we both know it.”

“Not a word,” Cragen said without looking at him, raising a finger.

Fin let out a quiet laugh.

Talia smirked. “Aw. Was it something I said in there?”

Munch stared at her like she’d just challenged him to a duel. “You know exactly what you said.”

She winked and walked off toward her new desk.

The others dispersed, the morning’s rhythm slowly resuming, phones ringing, chairs creaking, the metallic thud of case files hitting desks. But Talia wasn’t finished yet.

Instead of settling in, she made a sharp pivot and slid into Cragen’s office, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

Cragen didn’t even look up at first. “Close the blinds if you want this to feel official.”

Talia didn’t move. “Why me?”

He paused mid-sip. “You’re going to have to narrow that down.”

“Why me, here?” she asked, stepping further in. “Why SVU? Why now? You don’t just pluck a Narcotics detective out of Midtown North and drop her into this unit without a reason.”

Cragen set his mug down and finally looked at her, really looked. “Fresh eyes,” he said simply.

She narrowed hers. “Just that simple?”

He tilted his head. “Your instincts are loud, Amari. You don’t trust anyone, but you care. That’s rare. And dangerous. Which makes it useful.”

Talia studied him for a beat. “You read my file.”

“Read it? I underlined half of it,” Cragen said dryly.

Her lip twitched.

He leaned forward. “You’ve seen the worst of the city and still give a damn. Narcotics didn’t break you. That matters here.”

A beat of silence passed between them. She nodded once. No thanks. No flattery. Just understanding. She turned to go.

“One more thing,” Cragen added, just as her hand reached the doorknob. “You get one shot to prove you belong here. This unit, this isn’t about collar count. It’s about victims. Do the job for the right reasons.”

She didn’t look back. “I always do.” And then she was gone.

Her new desk sat directly across from Munch; small, slightly dented, the drawers half-stuck, but it was hers. She pulled out her field journal first, setting it beside a tray of incoming files. Next came a photo, its edges worn: her siblings, lined up in front of their old apartment, sunlight and grief frozen in time. Then a tiny icon of Saint Mary, and beside it, a curled parchment bearing a verse in Coptic. She touched both gently, lips moving in a silent prayer.

A gold chain unravelled from her palm, anchoring the corner of the desk like a tether. The evil eye charm glinted under the lights.

Munch passed by, holding a folder and pretending not to stare. He failed.

There was something about her. The way she moved, like everything was on purpose. The way her lips curled just slightly when she was reading something others missed. The way she folded her sleeves with military precision and then leaned back like a jazz singer mid-rant. Even her handwriting looked like it had secrets.

He lingered for a moment too long.

“Something you need?” she asked, not looking up.

“I’m still deciding,” Munch said, deadpan.

She glanced up, eyes sharp. “Try not to be too intimidated.”

Fin snorted from two desks over. “You two are gonna kill each other.”

Munch muttered, “Only if she doesn’t poison me first.”

Talia just smiled and reached for her coffee. “You wish I liked you enough to kill you.”

SVU PRECINCT – June 4, 2004 – 10:47 PM

The precinct after dark was a world of its own. Most of the daytime chaos had drained out with the sun, interns gone, desk phones silenced, even the vending machine had stopped humming. The only lights left burning were the ones that mattered: the ones over the detectives still working.

Talia sat at her desk, backlit by the pale fluorescence of a cracked overhead fixture that made her hair gleam like mahogany silk. She was adjusting the height of her monitor, aligning her notes in a grid only she understood. The cords were coiled like veins across the desk. Her keyboard was wiped, her files color-coded, her digital folders already renamed and nested.

Truthfully? She was stalling. She’d been done ten minutes ago.

What she wanted was simple: to go home, peel off her bra, light incense until the room smelled like thyme and sage, pour a proper glass of whiskey over one perfect cube of ice, and maybe, maybe order in from the Moroccan place down the block. Sit cross-legged on her couch in her silk robe and nothing else. Let the weight of the day melt into shadows.

But no. There were reports to log, and something in her refused to leave a single comma unchecked.

Behind her, the detectives’ bullpen was emptying. She could hear Fin cracking a joke, Olivia laughing under her breath, someone grabbing a jacket from the rack. Keys jingled. Chairs scraped. A final printer chugged.

And then, footsteps toward her.

“Talia,” Olivia said softly, jacket slung over one arm. “You up for a drink?”

“I wish,” Talia groaned, not looking up. Her fingers hovered over the keys. “Just wanna finish this and go home before the building turns into a ghost story.”

Olivia smiled. “Next time?”

“Definitely,” Talia replied, flashing a tired but genuine grin. That kind of grin you only shared with women who’d seen the same bad days you had.

The others left. Their footsteps echoed once, then vanished. Doors closed. Locks clicked. Silence settled like a heavy coat.

Except… one light stayed on. His.

Across the table, Munch hadn’t moved in over thirty minutes. His desk was a landscape of coffee stains, scattered printouts, and a cracked reading lamp. He was leaning over something old, yellowed, and probably not assigned. A file, or a theory. Something dead he hadn’t given up on.

Talia kept typing, but her ears stayed sharp.

Ten more minutes passed. The silence was companionable. Focused. But then, he spoke.

“You done soon?” Munch asked, not looking up.

She smirked, hands still on the keyboard. “Why? You got somewhere to be?”

“I don’t date, kiddo,” he replied, too quickly.

Talia turned slightly in her chair, eyes dancing. “Then what do you do with your nights?”

He didn’t answer. She didn’t press. That was the rhythm of their banter; poke, parry, retreat.

“You can leave,” she offered quietly, more sincere this time. “I’m fine here.”

“I don’t leave women alone at night,” he muttered, eyes still fixed on his paper. “Let alone women like you.”

Her brow lifted. “Women like me?”

He finally glanced up, deadpan. “The kind who attract trouble by simply existing.” A pause. And then, as if remembering manners too late: “C’mon. I’ll walk you to your car.”

She opened her mouth to argue. He was already standing.

Talia sighed, shut her laptop, and rose with that signature elegance that made people underestimate her. They both shrugged into coats at the same time; black, long, functional, and she laughed softly. “Matching now? That’s a level of hell I didn’t prepare for tonight.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Munch deadpanned, but she caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

They exited the precinct, the door creaking behind them. The parking lot was near-empty and unsettlingly quiet, a lone flickering streetlamp casting odd shadows across the concrete. The cold bit at her fingers as she pulled gloves on.

“Where’s yours, Amari?” he asked.

“Around the corner,” she said, casually. They turned, heels and boots echoing in sync.

And then, Munch let out a low whistle, slow and reverent. “Holy hell.”

Talia’s eyes gleamed. “What did you think I drove? A Corolla?”

She hit the fob. Lights blinked. Her car, purred to life like a panther stretching its limbs.

“This,” Munch said, stepping closer, “this is art. This is sex on wheels.”

Talia chuckled, crossing her arms as she leaned against the driver’s side door. “Yeah,” she said with a wry glance at the car. “And tragically? It doesn’t even get me laid.”

Munch let out a sharp laugh that echoed slightly off the brick walls. “Criminal,” he muttered. “Somewhere, some poor schmuck is gonna regret that for the rest of his life.”

She laughed, delighted. “You sound aroused.”

“I am.”

“Flattered.”

“You shouldn’t be,” he muttered. “I’m a New Yorker. I’m hard to impress.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Talia reached for the door handle, but he beat her to it; opened it smoothly, casually, like muscle memory. She raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Sliding into the seat, she adjusted the rearview with one hand, the other resting lightly on the steering wheel.

As she buckled in, she murmured, “Gentleman.”

Munch tapped the hood gently with two fingers. “See you tomorrow, kiddo.”

She watched him walk away in the mirror; long coat, hands in pockets, old soul energy and all.

And though she wouldn’t admit it, not even to herself, she was suddenly, quietly… looking forward to tomorrow.

Chapter Text

SVU PRECINCT – June 28, 2004 – 8:23 AM

A few weeks in, and the rhythm of SVU was starting to settle under Talia’s skin, like a new song with an old tempo. It was quieter than Narcotics, less adrenaline-fueled, more emotionally intricate. Here, the focus wasn’t just on the crime, it was on who it happened to. The how mattered less than the after. That suited her just fine.

Her desk, directly connected to Munch’s, was already a shrine to organized chaos. A ceramic ashtray sat in the corner, holding two lipstick-smudged cigarette butts from a bad night last week. A pyramid of cherry gum packs guarded her case files like a sugary security detail. A framed photo of her sister, leaned just beside her badge. Her notebook, its pages covered in red-ink notes, half-sentences, lay open beside her coffee.

Iced. Vanilla syrup. Extra cold. Always.

She liked the team. Elliot was protective in a big brother sort of way, prone to the occasional lecture but good at giving space. Olivia was warm and sharp, disarming in a way that made even the most closed-off witnesses start to unfold. They sometimes dragged her out for drinks after shift, and she went, laughing along, even when she felt like the baby sister tagging along to a party she wasn’t cool enough for.

Fin, though, Fin was unusual. They’d both come up through Narcotics, both knew what it meant to chase ghosts through tenement halls and watch too many kids bleed out for someone else’s turf war. There was an ease between them, unspoken but solid. He never questioned her instincts. Sometimes they spoke in shorthand the others didn’t catch, and sometimes he brought her coffee without asking, like he already knew what kind of night she’d had.

She got along best with Melinda. Their M.E. had the kind of dry, understated humour Talia thrived on. They laughed at dark things over body reports and bonded over their shared disdain for bureaucracy.

But Munch… Munch was different.

The proximity to Munch was both convenient and cursed. He didn’t dislike her. Not exactly. They shared a desk cluster, a mirrored setup where his world of grayscale sarcasm met her storm of color-coded notes and quiet superstition. Sometimes he’d glance over without turning his head. Sometimes she’d pretend not to notice.

They hadn’t said much to each other since she arrived.

He offered the occasional deadpan comment over his glasses; she responded with the kind of smile that could be either a threat or a joke. Still, she caught him looking sometimes. Not long. Not obvious. Just... long enough.

This morning was bright and blue-skied, one of those New York days that tried to lie about the kind of city it really was. Talia pushed open the bullpen door with her coffee in hand and her curls already half-wild from the summer humidity. She wore a slate-blue blouse tucked into black slacks, rings on her fingers. Her badge caught the sunlight, but she didn’t notice.

She dropped into her chair with a low sigh and cracked open her gum. The smell of fake cherry and cheap peppermint flooded her nose. She liked it. Familiar. Sharp.

Cragen’s voice interrupted her quiet, “Amari.”

She looked up. He was already standing over her desk, manila folder in hand, face unreadable.

“You’re riding with Munch and Tutuola today,” he said, dropping the file onto her desk like it weighed more than paper. “Try not to kill each other.”

Talia arched a brow, unwrapping her gum slowly. “So, I’m the sacrificial lamb this morning?”

“You’re the new lamb,” Cragen replied dryly. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Across the table, Munch looked up over the rim of his glasses. His expression was unreadable, something between irritation and mild amusement. He said nothing. Not yet.

Talia reached for the file, flipping it open with fingers still ringed in sleep. She scanned the report, her brows drawing together.

“What’s the case?” Munch asked finally, voice gravel-soft.

Cragen turned his attention to the room.

“Victim’s female, twenty-three,” he began, his tone neutral but clipped. “Found unconscious behind a bar on 9th and Delancey. Beaten, drugged, says she was raped. No witnesses. She was dumped like garbage.”

Talia’s jaw tightened, as she read the victims name. Her fingers stilled on the folder.

Fin stood from his desk with a grunt. “She conscious?”

“Woke up an hour ago,” Cragen nodded. “Mercy General Hospital. They’ve got her stabilized, but she’s not speaking much. Docs say she’s disoriented. Scared. I want the three of you over there within the hour. Get a statement if she’s willing.”

There was a pause. A beat longer than necessary. Cragen’s eyes landed on Talia. “Take it slow,” he added quietly, only for her. “She’s been through hell.”

Talia nodded once. The weight of that kind of hell, she understood.

They moved to leave. Fin grabbed his jacket. Munch closed the folder on his desk. And without a word, he handed her the keys.

The gesture was subtle, automatic, almost. But Fin arched a brow. “What, no fight over shotgun this time?” he asked, smirking.

“She gets it today,” Munch muttered, already heading toward the door.

Talia followed, heels clicking, still scanning the case file. Her expression was untidy, but under it, something stirred. She could already feel the shape of the story under the facts. And she hated the way it felt.

Fin drove. Munch took the back. Talia climbed into the passenger seat. As the car pulled into traffic, she leaned her elbow against the window and stared out at the passing blur of concrete and commuters. The city was loud. But in the silence between them, her thoughts were louder.

“You alright?” Fin asked, eyes flicking toward her in the rearview.

She nodded. “Yeah. Just... prepping.”

Munch didn’t say anything, but she felt his gaze flick to the back of her head. She wondered, not for the first time, what exactly he saw when he looked at her.

Not just the hoops or the high cheekbones or the trench coat that made her look like a noir detective dragged out of a 1950s fever dream. But the rest of her. The parts she kept tucked behind her smirks and sarcasm.

“You’ve been here, what?” Munch finally asked. “Three weeks?”

“twenty-four days,” she said without turning around. “But who’s counting?”

Fin snorted a laugh. Munch didn’t.

The silence stretched again, comfortably this time. Or maybe just cautiously.

Then, soft and without irony, he asked, “You like it here?”

Talia turned her head slightly, catching his reflection in the side mirror. Their eyes met for half a second. “It’s slower,” she said. “More humane.”

Munch nodded. Once.

Then she added, voice lower, “It’s the first place I’ve worked where they care more about the people than the paperwork.”

Another pause. Then, from the back: “That doesn’t last.”

Talia gave a tight smile. “Neither do most people.”

Fin, wisely, said nothing.

They turned down 5th. The traffic was building. Sunlight cut through the windshield and bathed her in gold. Munch looked away.

He didn’t know why, but there was something about her, something just left of predictable. She wasn’t loud. She wasn’t flashy. But she burned slow, like a candle too close to paper. One gust in the wrong direction and the whole room might catch fire.

He watched the back of her head and thought, she’s going to get under everyone’s skin.

What he didn’t admit was this:
She already had.

MERCY GENERAL HOSPITAL - June 28, 2004 – 10:41 AM

The elevators hissed open with the soft hydraulic sigh of a place too used to grief. Mercy General was always cold, over-air-conditioned, sterile, its halls lined with taupe and pale blue like a poor man’s idea of calm. Talia stepped out first, her shoes quiet against the tile, her coat cinched tight at the waist. Fin followed, hands in pockets. Munch trailed behind, flipping through the case file as he walked, eyes scanning the preliminary report with quiet scepticism.

They were headed to Room 6B. But halfway down the corridor, Talia stopped short. Her breath caught before the memory could name itself.

Outside the room stood three figures. A crying older woman in a floral hijab, her hands knotted in a damp tissue. A middle-aged man pacing. A younger girl, maybe a cousin, arms crossed and eyes darting with suspicion. Talia knew them. Not from a case file. Not from a police report.

From before.

She froze.

“T?” Fin asked, glancing sideways.

“Why don’t you two let me get the victims statement?” Talia’s voice didn’t sound like hers. Not the clipped, assertive tone they were used to. This was softer. Deliberate.

Fin raised a brow. “You know them?”

Talia didn’t answer. She’d already started walking.

Munch watched her go, his eyes narrowing. “She knows them.”

She approached quietly, like she didn’t want to disturb something sacred. Her badge remained clipped to her belt, but it wasn’t what she led with. Instead, she spoke in a low, reverent voice.

“Salam, khaltu,” she said gently, crouching a little as the crying older woman lifted her head. (Hi, auntie.)

The woman gasped, her lined face lighting with something more sorrowful than surprise. “Hayati,” she whispered, reaching out and folding Talia into her arms. (My life.)

Talia let herself be held. Just for a moment.

“What are you doing here?” the woman asked in Arabic-accented English, her voice trembling.

Talia pulled back, giving her a tight smile. “Police duty,” she said softly, lifting her badge but not with pride. “Is she awake?”

A nod. The older woman’s eyes were wet, her mouth trembling as she looked back toward the room.

Talia walked in slowly, the door whispering shut behind her.

The room was dim, one curtain pulled halfway across the window, soft light cutting across the blankets like prison bars. Machines hummed quietly. The beeping was steady. Sterile. Almost cruel in how calm it was compared to the mess of bruises and gauze on the girl in the bed.

Layla.

The name settled on her chest like ash.

She was twenty-three. Dark curls matted with blood. One arm strapped to a saline drip. Her face was puffy, lip split. She looked half-conscious, half in a dream she couldn't escape.

Talia stood for a long time before she moved. The lump in her throat was a living thing. She forced it down.

She pulled the chair beside the bed and sat. Slowly. Like she was afraid to wake the ghost of the girl she used to know.

She reached out and took Layla’s hand. Her fingers twitched. “Hey, habibti,” Talia whispered. “It’s Talia. You remember me?” (Sweetheart.)

Layla stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, sluggish, unfocused. And then, recognition. “T?” she croaked, her voice rasping through bruised ribs. “What are you doing here?”

Talia smiled, but her eyes were glassy. “Heard what happened,” she said gently, brushing hair from Layla’s forehead. “I’m here as a detective. I need to get your statement, okay?”

Layla blinked slowly. “You became a cop?”

“Shocking, I know.” Talia pulled her field notebook from her coat pocket. Her hand shook, just slightly, as she clicked the pen. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“I-I was at the cemetery,” Layla said, her voice growing steadier by inches. “Visiting Lana. I left around seven, stopped by the bodega on 10^th…”

Talia nodded, her grip on the pen tightening.

“And then… I don’t know. It gets fuzzy. Next thing I know, I’m in pain, everywhere. Behind some bar.”

Talia hesitated. “Did you see him? The man who hurt you?”

“No,” Layla said, too fast. Like a match struck too soon.

Talia didn’t press. Not here. Not yet. But her eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of suspicion brushing through her trained instincts. She closed the notebook and leaned forward, pressing her forehead to Layla’s for a second. “I’m gonna find him,” she whispered. “I promise you.”

Layla turned her face slightly, tears slipping down her cheek.

Talia stood. Her knees ached with the effort. The grief in her chest wasn’t clean. It was tangled. Heavy. And older than this room.

She slipped back into the hall, eyes dry again. Armor back in place.

Fin and Munch were waiting by the vending machine.

“You get anything?” Fin asked, handing her a coffee he hadn’t opened yet.

Talia took it with a nod. “Yeah. Enough.”

Munch studied her face. “You okay?”

“Sure,” she said. It wasn’t convincing.

Before anyone could follow up, a doctor in navy scrubs approached. “Detectives?” he asked, holding a clipboard. “I have the tox screen for Layla Nadeem.”

“Positive for methamphetamines?” Talia asked flatly, not even glancing at the paper.

The doctor blinked. “Uh, yes. High dosage. You know the patient?”

Talia didn’t answer. She leaned back against the wall, closed her eyes, and exhaled slowly. The sound was barely audible. But it was the sound of someone trying to bury a scream beneath professionalism.

She walked. Nothing left to say.

Fin watched her go. “What the hell was that?”

Munch’s eyes followed her, something unspoken flickering behind his glasses. “She’s too close to this.”

“You think she should be off the case?”

“I think,” Munch said quietly, “someone should’ve pulled her off already.”

Talia didn’t hear that part. She was already outside.

She got in the car and stared ahead, unmoving. Not crying. Just… waiting for something to hurt less.

SVU PRECINCT - June 28, 2004 – 12:06 PM

The precinct hummed low with fluorescent light and muted urgency. Phones rang, conversations overlapped in pockets, and the sound of sneakers and boots scuffed against linoleum that had seen decades of blood, sweat, and bureaucratic caffeine.

The ride back had been silent. Talia sat in the back seat, framed in the window like a portrait half-lit by the sun. She sat frozen, her thumb tapping the same spot on her knee like a ticking clock. Munch didn’t ask. Neither did Fin. There was something in the air; dense, unspoken, personal. And Talia wasn’t offering.

By the time they pushed through the precinct doors, she had already set her expression to neutral. Controlled. Composed. But the moment they entered the bullpen; she didn’t head for her desk. She veered instead toward the main board, her eyes scanning it like it had insulted her.

The victim’s photo had been pinned. A Polaroid from booking, early 2000s. Black liner, chapped lips, tired eyes. A ghost in soft focus. The woman’s name had been scrawled in red ink beneath it, but Talia didn’t look at the name. Just the face.

She slid up onto the edge of the nearest table, one foot on the floor, the other swinging absently. Her posture was too casual to be real.

Cragen entered with that familiar scent of old coffee and authority. He didn’t waste time.

“Talk to me. Do we have any hits on the DNA?” he asked, crossing his arms, his tone clipped.

Fin answered first. “Running it through CODIS now. CSU’s pushing it.”

Cragen nodded. “And the vic?”

Munch stepped forward, one hand on the back of a chair. “Still running. Nothing yet flagged in active warrants or federal.”

Talia finally spoke, voice lower than usual. “She was picked up in ’94 for possession. Again in ’02. Methamphetamines and cannabis. Lesser charge the second time, probably flipped for a deal.” Her fingers moved to her temple like it physically pained her to say it out loud.

Cragen studied her for a beat. “She still using?”

“Maybe. Or she cleaned up and someone dragged her back in,” Talia muttered, voice flat.

“Okay,” Cragen said, already shifting gears. “Find her dealer. Maybe he knows something.”

“You know her?” Munch asked it softly, eyes flicking over to her. No accusation. Just curiosity wrapped in concern.

Talia didn’t answer. Not directly.

“She had ties to Elias Merza,” Talia said softly, almost too softly for a detective. “Small-time. Been in and out. Used to hang around the bodega on 10^th and Avenue C. Same spot she said she was last conscious.”

A few pairs of eyes turned toward her. Fin’s brow raised slightly. Munch tilted his head, but Cragen didn’t flinch.

“Then stake it out,” Cragen ordered, eyes locked on the board. “Talia. Munch. You’re up. He shows, I want DNA. Anything that ties him to that alley. Watch, wait, do not spook him.”

That earned a pause. Munch glanced sideways, already bracing. “Lucky me,” he muttered under his breath, though not unkindly.

Talia slid down from the table in one fluid movement, coat already slung over her shoulder. “Copy that,” she said. Then added, around the cigarette pressed between her lips, “You drive.”

Munch raised a brow. “You don’t trust my passenger skills?”

She didn’t answer. That earned her a longer look. Cragen didn’t say anything, but his eyes followed her as she moved for the door.

Fin stepped in, voice even. “I’ll be ready to rotate if you need backup.”

Munch nodded. “We’ll call if he twitches.”

As they turned to leave, Munch let his eyes linger on Talia for just a second too long. She hadn’t put out the cigarette. Her fingers trembled slightly as she flicked ash into a plastic cup. Not enough for most to notice. But he did.

She caught him looking. Her voice was soft when she spoke, just for him. “Don’t ask me what’s in the box on this one.”

He didn’t. But as they stepped into the hallway, he filed the moment away.

Because something about this case wasn’t just professional for her.
And the way her voice had cracked, just slightly, when she said, “maybe she got dragged back in”?
That wasn’t a detective talking. That was something else.

He wondered, not for the first time, what ghosts she hadn’t told him about.
And why they suddenly felt a little closer.

BODEGA ON 10^TH - June 28, 2004 – 3:26 PM

The city was loud in that way only New York could be loud, buses groaning down pothole-ripped avenues, car horns like blunt instruments, and the dull murmur of sidewalk conversations that bled through the cracked windows of the unmarked Crown Vic.

They had been watching the corner bodega for hours. Four hours, thirty-two minutes, twenty-eight seconds. Talia had counted each of them, one heartbeat at a time.

Her shoulder ached from leaning against the window. The seatbelt cut into her side, and the rearview mirror had been tilted slightly too high since Munch last adjusted it. She hadn’t said a word about it. She hadn’t said much at all.

The only scent in the car was burnt tobacco and fading bergamot, her cigarettes, tucked into the console between them, and the remnants of his cologne, barely-there but old-fashioned. Her lighter had been flicked open and shut so many times that the silver had warmed in her hand.

Still no sign of Elias Merza. No buzz at the corner. No unusual movement inside the bodega. Just a tired clerk behind bulletproof glass and a teenager buying sour candy. Talia’s jaw locked. She’d smoked through most of her pack, and it wasn’t calming her down, it just made the heat behind her eyes feel raw. It was tradition.

Munch had taken point on the radio, giving mechanical check-ins back to the precinct every twenty minutes. His voice was steady, impersonal, a sharp contrast to the quiet storm brewing beside him. He didn’t look at her. Not yet. But he’d noticed the way her fingers shook slightly as she lit another cigarette, how she’d barely touched her coffee, how she kept her right knee bouncing even though she wasn’t the kind of woman who fidgeted.

Finally, he asked it, low, like a scratch across static. “How’d you know she had meth in her system?”

Talia didn’t answer at first. Her lips parted around the cigarette, exhale trailing like a confession she didn’t want to make. Her voice, when it came, was softer than it had been all day. “I picked her up in ’02.”

Munch turned slightly, eyes still trained on the front of the bodega but his focus drifting now, to her, not the job. “You know her?”

A pause.

Then a slow, deliberate breath left her lungs like a shudder. “She was my sister’s best friend.”

Munch blinked. That changed things. “Was?”

Her voice cracked just slightly on the edge of her next words, but she swallowed it down. Hard.

“Lana, my sister, she overdosed almost two years ago. On meth. Layla and her started messing around with pills when they were still in high school. I knew. I tried to stop them. I wasn’t-” she stopped, cleared her throat, started again. “When Lana died, Layla came to the funeral. Said she’d get clean. Said the pain of losing her best friend was... too much.”

She exhaled smoke and watched it curl against the windshield like fog on the inside of her ribs. “Guess she lied.”

Her voice didn’t break. Not really. But something inside her did. Quietly. Violently. She blinked, and the world outside refocused. The corner of 10^th was still empty. But her hands felt cold.

Munch looked over at her then. Really looked. Her profile was perfect in the afternoon light, cigarette at her lips, eyes locked forward, posture tense. The kind of beauty you don’t compliment out loud. The kind you carry like a burden. She looked like someone who kept her grief in a locket under her blouse and only opened it on anniversaries.

He spoke softly; his voice stripped of sarcasm. “I’m sorry.”

She didn’t respond right away. She didn’t look at him either. But there was a moment, just a flicker, where her lips curved upward. A soft, private smile. Not happy. Not even kind. Just real.

And that, for her, was enough.

Her fingers drifted toward the Nazar charm she kept hidden in her coat pocket, just brushing the edge of it like a prayer. She didn’t say anything about it. He didn’t ask.

But then he said it anyway. “You shouldn’t be on this case.”

She finally looked at him.

Eyes that had seen too much for their age. Eyes that had cried more at night than they ever would in daylight. “I’m not leaving it.”

Munch didn’t push. She was already unravelling. But even in the unravelling, she was composed. Beautiful in that tragic, immovable way. Like a statue with a hairline crack that made it more sacred, not less.

Another moment of silence stretched between them.

Then, with dry humour creeping back in, he added: “You ever think about what you’d be doing if you weren’t NYPD?”

She raised an eyebrow. “What, like a backup plan?”

He shrugged, leaning back. “Most people don’t grow up dreaming of stakeouts in a rusty Crown Vic.”

Talia considered it. Her voice was quiet again. “I’d probably run a bookstore. Small. Dusty. Smell of old pages. Maybe above it I’d live with three dogs and no one who knew how to pronounce my last name.”

He chuckled, a low sound like gravel in his chest. “Sounds lonely.”

Talia didn’t answer right away.

She turned her head, the afternoon light catching against the tiny scar near her brow. Her profile looked sculpted from smoke and secrets. There was something in her expression, not a smile, not exactly. Something quieter.

Then she said, almost lazily. “Maybe I’d just marry some idiot.”

Munch arched a brow, still looking at the bodega but very much listening. “Yeah?”

She kept her gaze forward, voice even. “Someone older. Convinced he’s unlovable. Wears too much black. Probably owns a trench coat for every government he doesn’t trust.”

That made him glance at her, finally. Sharp. Cautious.

Talia didn’t look back at him. But her lips curled, the kind of smirk that meant she knew exactly what she’d done.

“The kind of man who thinks sarcasm’s a love language and doesn’t realize how soft he gets when no one’s watching.”

He let out a single breath; half a laugh, half a surrender. “Sounds like bad judgment.”

She nodded. “Exactly. That’s the point.”

A beat passed.

Then they both laughed, quiet, dark little laughs that didn’t fill the car so much as carve space into it. Not loud. Not long. But enough.
Enough to break the tension.
Enough to mean something.

When the laughter faded, the silence they left behind wasn’t awkward anymore. It was... familiar. A little too familiar for two people still signing their reports with last names and avoiding eye contact in the break room.

Munch shifted slightly in his seat, just enough that his shoulder brushed hers again. Barely a touch.

This time, she didn’t move away.

And neither did he.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, bitter and razor-edged. “Better than watching your sister die with your badge still in your purse.”

And that?

That shut him up.

Completely.

The radio crackled. Static. A dispatch came through. Munch responded like muscle memory. But he looked at her again, longer this time. And she knew he saw it.

The grief she wore like perfume.

The ghosts that lived in her silence.

He wouldn’t ask again if she was okay. He already knew the answer.

But she noticed, when he shifted slightly, their shoulders brushed. Barely. A whisper of contact. He didn’t move away.

Neither did she.

And for just one breath, the stakeout didn’t feel quite so cold.

BODEGA ON 10^TH - June 28, 2004 - 10:37 PM

The streetlights buzzed like dying insects, casting yellow halos over the cracked pavement. Inside the unmarked car, the heat had long gone stale. Talia sat still in the passenger seat, one leg crossed tightly over the other, her fingers drumming against her thigh in precise, irritable rhythm.

Seven hours. No Elias Merza.

She'd lit a stick of clove gum just to keep from pulling out a cigarette, and now it was dead between her molars, bitter and stiff. Her curls were up in a haphazard clip. Her shirt had creased from tension and sweat. She still looked composed. Of course she did. But beneath that? She was storm surge.

Munch sat in the driver’s seat, silent, seeing her from the corner of his eye. He’d learned not to interrupt her when she was like this, still and simmering. She wasn’t just on edge. She was on the verge.

“I swear to God,” she muttered. “If he doesn’t show in five, I’m going in there and breaking his nose.”

“Subtle,” Munch said, deadpan.

Talia’s hand flew to the door handle. “Screw this.”

And then she was out of the car, heels hitting asphalt like gunshots.

“Amari! Wait! Talia!” But she was already crossing the street with that unmistakable stride. That don’t-fucking-stop-me energy. Munch sighed, slapped the wheel once in frustration, and turned off the ignition.

The bodega bell chimed as she pushed through the door. Inside, the air reeked of old coffee and incense. And there he was.

Elias Merza.

The bastard. Twenty-five. Arrogant. Local dealer with a reputation for selling drugs to those younger than him.

He stood behind the counter like it was any other night, bagging gum and soda for some teenager, like he hadn’t left Layla bloodied and broken behind a bar just the night before. Like her screams hadn’t echoed in Talia’s ears every time she blinked since.

“Long time no see, Merza,” Talia said. Her voice could’ve melted steel. Her badge wasn’t visible, but her rage was.

Merza turned. Confused at first. Then recognition bloomed like rot. “Ahhh, Talia.” He grinned, slow and snake-like. “How’s your sister?”

The floor dropped out beneath her.

“You should know,” she said, stepping forward. Every inch closer was a memory, of Lana. Of Layla. Of everything they’d been too late to stop.

Merza’s smirk faltered.

He bolted.

The door slammed open. Talia flew after him.

“Shit!” Munch cursed, scrambling into gear as her figure vanished down the sidewalk. She moved like a shadow stitched to rage, long legs slicing through the dark, coat flaring like wings.

Munch slammed on the siren, the red-and-blue lights bursting against the night like a warning.

She was fast.

Too fast.

He couldn’t keep pace, but he could intercept.

Merza darted into the street without looking. Wrong move. The car struck him hard enough to knock him sideways, but not out. He groaned, trying to crawl. Talia was on him in an instant, breath ragged, hair falling loose, fury written across her face like scripture.

She grabbed him by the collar, yanked him up with enough force to bruise, and slammed him against the hood.

“Elias Merza,” she hissed through clenched teeth, “you’re under arrest for the assault and rape of Layla Nadeem.”

She didn’t wait for backup. She cuffed him herself, fast and tight, not caring if the metal bit too deep.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law,” she recited, each line like a sentence in a poem she’d rewritten too many times in her head. “You have the right to an attorney. If you can’t afford one, one will be provided for you.”

And then, with no ceremony, she shoved him into the back seat. The door slammed shut with a hollow thunk.

Munch eyed her as she stood there for a second, chest rising and falling, hair wild, hands twitching like they weren’t done yet.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

She didn’t answer.

But the guilt was pouring off her shoulders like steam, hot, heavy, unbearable. He could see it. He could feel it. But this wasn’t the place. Not with him in the back seat. Not with her jaw clenched so tightly she might chip a tooth.

He got in the car and drove.

SVU PRECINCT – June 28, 2004 - 10:46 PM

Merza was processed and tossed in the box, already mouthing off about rights and mistaken identity. Munch didn’t even flinch.

“Got the dealer?” Fin asked, walking over with a half-eaten sandwich.

Munch popped the gum from his jaw and muttered, “Yeah. Road Runner here chased him through three intersections.”

Fin looked past Munch to where Talia stood at the corner of the room, arms crossed, staring at the interrogation glass like it might crack under the weight of her gaze.

“Damn,” Fin said, “She always like this?”

Munch didn’t smile. “She’s got personal skin in this one.”

Munch lingered at the glass. Watched her.

“You trust your gut on this guy?” he asked.

She didn’t turn. “I know he did it.”

He nodded once. Then added, softer, “You’re too close.”

She did turn then. Her eyes dark, tired. “I don’t care.”

There was a long silence between them. A breath held too long. And something unspoken crackled in the space. Munch opened his mouth; maybe to warn her, maybe to comfort her, but she was already inside the box. And as the door closed behind her, he just stood there, staring.

THE BOX - June 28, 2004 - 10:57 PM

The fluorescent bulb overhead buzzed like it was straining to stay alive, casting a sickly yellow pallor over the metal table below. The rest of the room was cloaked in soft shadow, just enough light to see the tension crawl across Merza’s face, but not enough to feel safe.

The two-way mirror reflected nothing. But he knew.

He always knew.

Elias slouched back in the chair like he owned the goddamn building. Hoodie half-zipped, wrists twitching from whatever cocktail he’d sweated out an hour ago. There was a cut on his lip; old, crusted. Not from this. From something else.

Talia stood across from him, coat still on, shoulders rigid, her hands resting calmly on the table like she wasn’t a breath away from detonating. Her curls were pulled back, tightly today, no earrings. Her eyes didn’t flinch when he looked up and smirked.

She didn’t sit.

“Where were you last night?” she asked, voice even, almost bored.

Elias tilted his head, chewing on his tongue. “The bodega near the cemetery. 10^th and Avenue C.” He gave a little shrug like that explained everything, then let his back collapse against the chair again.

“You remember Layla Nadeem?” she asked, quieter now.

His brow lifted. “The girl from the cemetery? What’s this about?”

There it was. The shift. His voice light, but his fingers twitched harder. He was still smiling, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes anymore.

Talia said nothing. Instead, she dropped the folder she’d brought with a hard snap onto the table. The sound echoed. The edges curled. Polaroid copies of crime scene photos fanned across the metal surface, one of Layla’s split lip, another of bruises down her spine, medical reports, rape kit, toxicology screens, the hospital intake note with the words unconscious on arrival.

His smile vanished. “I didn’t touch her.”

Talia leaned forward slowly, pressing her palms into the table. “Didn’t say you did,” she said flatly. “Interesting that’s the first thing out of your mouth.”

Elias shifted. His eyes jumped to the mirror on the wall, pupils dilated, jaw clenched. Someone was definitely back there. Probably Fin. Definitely Munch. Maybe God.

She sat down now, deliberately, folding her coat behind her as she lowered herself into the chair beside him instead of across. Her presence changed the room. Too close. Too calm.

“You sold to her before,” she said, voice low. “To Lana too. Ring a bell?”

And there it was.

His head snapped up. She felt it before he spoke, the flicker of panic behind the bravado. He knew the name. He remembered.

Talia smiled, slow and tight. “So, here’s the thing,” she said, tone dipping into dangerous calm. “You can give us a DNA swab now, here, clean, quiet, or we get a warrant and pull it off your toothbrush after you’ve been served powdered eggs in holding and county oatmeal in Sing Sing.”

He barked a sharp laugh. “You’re pissed ‘cause I wouldn’t sell to you too, is that it?”

She could have hit him. God, she wanted to. But instead, she just leaned in, just enough that he felt her breath on his neck.

“You think this is a game?” she whispered. “That girl woke up choking on her own scream, with blood on her teeth and bruises she couldn’t name. And you think I won’t burn every inch of your world down for her?”

He flinched. The kind of flinch that isn’t about guilt. It’s about being seen.

She pulled back. Cold again. Controlled.

“This can go two ways,” she said, slipping the swab packet from her coat pocket and laying it on the table like a dealer laying down the final card. “You hand me your DNA now, or I throw you to Narcotics. You remember them, don’t you? They’re the ones who made your cousin cry.”

Elias stared at the swab. His hand didn’t move.

“Clock’s ticking,” she said and stood.

He didn’t follow. She didn’t look back.

Talia stepped out and let the door hiss shut behind her. The sound was too loud in the silence that followed.

Fin was leaning against the wall, arms folded, chewing gum like it owed him money. “You alright?”

She didn’t answer. She was already walking.

SVU PRECINCT – June 28, 2004 – 11:20 PM

The place was nearly empty. Phones were quiet. Lights half-dimmed. Munch was at his desk, glasses on, reading something Talia couldn’t see. He didn’t look up when she entered, but he spoke.

“You got under his skin.”

She stopped at her desk, set her coat down. “He got under mine first.”

A beat. The tension hovered, soft but unmistakable. Munch finally looked up. His eyes found hers, searching for something.

“You ever heard the term ‘conflict of interest?’” he asked, tone dry.

She smiled without humour. “All my interests are conflicted.”

Another beat.

“You going home?”

“Eventually,” she said, collecting her things; journal, lighter, the same chain with the Nazar and the cross. Her hand lingered on it.

Munch noticed.

“I’ll walk you out,” he offered.

She looked at him then. Really looked. The kind of look that held a hundred silences, a dozen unspoken screams, and one very loud ghost named Lana.

“I don’t need walking,” she said.

He didn’t argue.

But he stood anyway when she left.

SVU PARKING LOT – June 28, 2004 – 11:35 PM

She stepped into the cold night, keys in one hand, the city flickering around her. Her car sat under a busted streetlamp, her shadow stretching far too long for how tired she felt.

She sat behind the wheel, closed her eyes, and let the silence settle around her like smoke.

Inside the precinct, Munch was still watching the hallway she’d vanished down.

Chapter Text

ASTORIA - July 9, 2004 - 08:02 AM

It had been nearly two weeks since the Elias Merza arrest. Two weeks since the cuffs clicked shut around Elias’s wrists, and she had smiled, but only with her mouth. She filed the paperwork with precision, sent the evidence to forensics, briefed the ADA, and then walked out of the precinct without saying goodbye. Just handed in a time-off slip, muttered something about being "done with men who cage ghosts," and left.

Since then, she had barely spoken to anyone except her dogs and God, and even He was getting the silent treatment some days.

In the mornings, she went to the Coptic church down the block, where incense clung to her curls and the chanting reminded her of her mother’s voice. In the evenings, she lit a candle in the Russian church, where no one asked her name. The rest of her hours were spent sitting with Ramses, Anubis, and Heka at the basketball court, watching neighbourhood kids play while she sipped Arabic coffee from a paper cup and fed the dogs pieces of boiled egg, flatbread and labneh.

Heka, now nearly two, had developed a terrifying talent for begging at the bodega. He'd sit just inside the door, wide-eyed and noble, until someone surrendered a slice of turkey or a bite of beef jerky. “Little bandit,” she muttered every time, but still let him do it. No one could say no to those eyes.

This morning wasn’t supposed to be different. She walked the dogs at dawn, scrubbed the dirt from their paws, changed into her work uniform, slate slacks, a white silk blouse with the cuffs rolled up, and heels just high enough to command a room. Her trench coat hung from her arm like armour waiting to be strapped on.

But when she stepped out onto the stoop, locking the door behind her, someone was waiting by the curb.

“You’re late,” Fin said.

She blinked once. “I plan on coming in at ten. I’ve got errands.”

He jerked his chin toward the car. “Then I’m riding with you.”

She gave him a side glance. “You sure, Fin?”

“What?” he said, walking ahead. “Got skeletons in your closet you don’t want me seeing?”

Talia rolled her eyes but followed, heels clacking softly on the pavement. “I’ve got whole graveyards.”

He opened the passenger side door for her. She paused, hand resting on the roof.

“I’m headed to East Elmhurst,” she said.

He hesitated, just for a second. “The cemetery?”

She nodded.

Fin didn’t say a word. He just got behind the wheel and turned the ignition.

They didn’t speak for the first few minutes. Queens passed quietly around them; bodegas opening, kids dragging backpacks, the scent of baking dough and car exhaust thick in the summer air.
Talia kept one hand in her lap, the other curled loosely around the gold chain at her wrist, rubbing the tiny Nazar charm like a rosary.

Fin finally glanced at her. “You’ve been quiet.”

“You’re the first person I’ve spoken to all week,” she said, eyes fixed on the passing streets.

“You needed the time.”

“I needed the distance.”

He nodded slowly, then after a beat: “You picked a hell of a case to get too close to.”

She closed her eyes for a moment. “Yeah… In truth, I did it for my sister. She got caught up in drugs. I thought maybe if I kept the streets clean, locked up the dealers, I could save her… Turns out I was too late.”

A pause.

“I found her in the bathtub. OD’d.”

Fin tapped the turn signal, jaw tight. “That why you joined?”

“Not at first,” she said. “I wanted to do something with literature. Translate dead languages. Read poetry in dusty corners.”

He smirked faintly. “And now?”

“Now I interrogate monsters and write in margins no one reads.”

A beat.

“The Merza case-” he started.

“-was too close,” she cut in. “Way too close.”

He exhaled through his nose, kept his eyes on the road. “Why the cemetery?”

She swallowed. “Tradition,” she said. “My sister’s buried there. So’s my brother. My parents too.”

“You going to see all of them?” Fin asked gently.

“Yes.”

He hesitated. “Anyone else?”

Talia looked out the window again, quiet. “Myself.” She whispered.

Fin glanced at her again, but said nothing. After a long stretch of silence, he reached into the centre console and pulled out a pack of gum. Held it out to her. “You want one?”

She blinked. “Gum?”

“Yeah. My kid says it helps with grief. Gives your mouth something to do while your brain shuts up.”

Talia took a piece. Chewed. “Your kid’s smart,” she murmured.

He smiled. “Gets it from his mom.”

They drove the rest of the way in silence. When they pulled up to the gates of the cemetery, Fin didn’t park on the curb. He pulled in. Turned off the engine.

“You don’t have to come in,” Talia said softly.

He looked over at her. “Yeah, I do.”

She opened the door. He followed.

Some grief needed to be witnessed.

ST. MICHAEL’S CEMETERY - July 9, 2004 - 08:15 AM

The morning air hung heavy with the promise of heat, but St. Michael’s still wore its hush like a veil. The car hadn’t even fully stopped when Talia stepped out, crossing the quiet street with her coat loose around her shoulders. The hum of summer had not yet begun. She moved with purpose; shoulders square, chin set, grief buried deep beneath the muscle memory of years.

Across the street stood the flower vendor’s cart, shaded by a worn canvas and framed by a trellis of ivy that had long since learned to survive New York. The sign read Vartan’s, hand-painted in fading Armenian script, a fixture as steady as the man himself. He was already there, pruning tulips that hadn’t sold yesterday. The scent of roses, water, and old tobacco clung to the air.

“Talusha!” Vartan called out in his thick accent, slipping out from behind the stand like a grandfather stepping into sunlight. His voice hadn’t changed since she was little, a mix of gravel and warmth. “Come, come. I have your father’s favourite ones today.”

She smiled, and for the first time that morning, her jaw relaxed. “Ah, Vartan jan,” she murmured, wrapping her arms around his weathered frame.

He kissed both her cheeks and held her at arm’s length like he needed to check if the years had been kind. “I lit a candle for Mikhail last night,” he said quietly, more to the memory of the man than to her. “And I prayed. Same prayer I always say. That he finds peace before the rest of us do.”

Talia’s throat burned, but she nodded. “Merci,” she whispered, and gestured subtly over her shoulder. “I brought someone with me.”

Fin stood at the edge of the sidewalk, awkward in his leather jacket, watching the moment like he wasn’t sure if he belonged in it. Talia beckoned him closer.

Vartan’s eyes narrowed, assessing. “Who is he?” he asked bluntly, already drawing conclusions.

“He’s a detective,” she replied. “Works with me.”

Vartan extended a hand, but his gaze didn’t waver. “Then you protect her,” he said in a tone that left no room for debate.

Fin, ever the composed one, nodded respectfully. “I do, sir.”

Something in that answer satisfied Vartan. He ducked back behind the stall and returned with two bouquets; white carnations, ivory chrysanthemums, and soft-petaled roses with a blush like sun-touched porcelain. “These are for you. Tell Mikhail I still haven’t forgiven him for not sending you to med school.”

He handed them off without asking for payment. Fin blinked. “Ain’t you gonna?”

But Talia was already walking away.

“She don’t pay here,” Vartan said, watching her go like a father watching his daughter walk into a war. “Not today. Not ever.”

They crossed into the cemetery, Talia knew the way without looking, she’d walked these paths many times. The cracked stones beneath her heels were familiar, the rustling trees overhead heavy with memory. Fin kept pace beside her, quiet in that respectful way of his. He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t try to comfort her. He just walked.

The Orthodox section of the cemetery was tucked behind a low wrought iron gate, the paint chipped and rust blooming along the hinges. It opened with a groan, like the grounds themselves remembered every mourner who passed through.

Inside, the air was still. Sacred.

The graves here bore names written in Cyrillic, etched deep into black granite that caught the light like obsidian. Crosses stood like sentinels, three-barred, with the bottom beam tilted downward in remembrance of the thief who fell. Some had crumbled with time. Others stood proud, adorned with offerings.

There were tokens left on nearly every grave. Loaves of bread gone hard with age. Embroidered cloths from distant villages. Handwritten prayers folded into glass jars. A dyed egg, chipped and sun-bleached, sat beside a bottle of vodka left uncorked. And everywhere, candles. Tall and thin, short and squat, flickering in glass lanterns fogged with age. The smoke smelled like myrrh, wax, and tears.

The graves weren’t abandoned. They were attended to, remembered. This wasn’t a place of silence. It was a place of whispered conversations with the dead.

Fin looked around, quiet. He muttered, “Never seen anything like this.”

Talia stepped forward in silence, leading Fin to the farthest end of the Orthodox plot. She didn’t need to look to know the path. Her feet remembered it. Her bones remembered it.

There, nestled beneath a row of cypress trees that whispered like mourners in the wind, were four headstones, standing together in solemn, eternal formation; like sentries, or a family portrait too still to bear.

She stopped. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe for a moment. Just stood, staring at the names etched in stone.

MIKHAIL VOLKOV

1932-1994

Historian. Father. Beloved.

Truth is eternal, love endures.

MIRIAM NABIL AMARI

1938-1996

Mother. Scholar. Light of Our Home.

Mercy and forgiveness.

KAREEM BASIM AMARI

1973-2002

Son. Brother. Martyr.

They can kill the man, not the dream.

LANA AMARI

1981-2002

Daughter. Sister. Light.

You are still with us.

Talia crouched down in front of her father’s grave, her knees creaking from the cold stone path beneath her. She laid one of the bouquets gently, reverently, as if placing something into a cradle. Her fingers brushed the inscription, now worn soft by rain and time, and she felt the sting of tears behind her eyes, but didn’t let them fall. Not yet.

“My baba,” she murmured, her voice a low hush, “was the one who taught me the world was full of lies. But that didn’t mean truth didn’t exist.”

The candle she’d lit flickered beside the stone, struggling against the morning breeze. “He taught history in St. Petersburg. Real history. Not the kind that got you medals, the kind that got you watched.” Her mouth twitched. “By ’78, he was sure the KGB had an eye on him. He packed us up and moved us to Alexandria overnight. Said we’d be safer under the Nile than under Moscow’s boot.”

A silence settled between her words. Fin didn’t interrupt.

“I was five. I didn’t understand why my dolls were gone. Why my mother was crying in Arabic in a Russian kitchen. But he kept saying, start over, start over, start over. Like it was a prayer. He thought exile was better than erasure.” She reached up to her collar and touched the thin chain tucked beneath, his ring, worn around her neck like a talisman.

“I was eighteen when he died,” she said softly. “It was sudden. Heart attack. I didn’t make it to the hospital in time. I had one missed call from him.”

A breath left her like wind from a punctured lung.

“And I still haven’t deleted it.”

She bent forward and touched the grave, pressing her fingers into the dry, sun-warmed soil like it could hold her back.

“He was the beginning of everything,” she whispered. Then stood, slowly, as if standing pulled grief up with her. She moved to the next stone.

Her mother’s.

Talia knelt again, but softer this time, as though her mother might scold her for wrinkling her slacks. “She was the flame,” she said simply. “Our house was quiet until she walked in. Then it smelled like incense, and coffee, and scripture written in Greek that no one else could pronounce but her.”

She laid the flowers down, smoothing the petals with her thumb, making sure none drooped. “She taught Coptic theology, first in Alexandria, then Columbia. She could argue about Christological dogma in four languages and then teach me how to tie a headscarf in the same breath. She said knowledge was sacred, but kindness was holier.”

She smiled. A real one, but lined with ache. “She burned frankincense on Sundays and played Fairuz on cassette. When I asked if music was allowed in church, she told me music was just prayer that learned how to fly.”

Her throat caught on the next words. She didn’t fight it. “She died of cancer. Two years after my father. It was… quiet. But ugly. I still smell hospitals in my sleep.”

Fin shifted behind her, still silent.

“She made me promise to wear white to her funeral.” Talia’s eyes closed. “We wear white for the resurrection, habibti. Not for despair.”

She pressed two fingers to the engraved cross and traced it down to the verse below. “She and Baba are buried together. She said she didn’t believe in separation, not in life, not in death.”

Fin glanced at the two graves, hands in his pockets. “She sounds like someone who knew what mattered.”

Talia didn’t answer. She just turned to Kareem’s grave. She paused for a long time. As if stepping closer to it would change something. As if, this time, he might answer.

She crouched and retrieved the worn paperback left at the foot of his stone. A book of Darwish poetry. The spine was cracked. The pages watermarked. Her thumb found the fold in the middle of the book like it had muscle memory.

“This was his favourite,” she said. “He used to recite lines when he was angry. Or scared. Or dreaming. Which was all the time.” She held the book to her chest. “Kareem was fire. Raw and righteous. He wanted a better world, and he didn’t care how many systems he had to burn to make it. He organized walkouts in college. Smuggled books into Cairo. Wrote letters to dissidents like they were friends.”

She smiled, but it broke halfway through. “He was my favourite.”

Fin’s voice came softly, almost reluctant. “What happened to him?”

Talia didn’t look away from the stone. “He was shot at a protest. Alexandria. 2002. I told him not to go.”

The silence following her words was like an iron weight. “They aimed at the crowd. No warning. Two bullets to the chest.” Her voice flattened, collapsed in on itself. “I flew there the same day. I had to identify him in a morgue with a broken air conditioner. I remember thinking his hair still smelled like cardamom.”

Her fingers trembled. “He wanted to change everything. But they didn’t even let him finish the sentence.” She ran her hand along the edge of the grave, as if she could feel his pulse through stone.

“I didn’t speak at his funeral,” she murmured. “But I asked him afterward, who am I without you? I still don’t know.” She stood too fast, as if staying crouched meant she might shatter.

Fin took a small step closer, but didn’t speak. He just looked at her, like he wanted to say something, and knew now wasn’t the time.

Then turned to the final grave.

Lana.

Her knees buckled halfway down, and this time, she didn’t catch herself. She landed hard, graceless, dirt smudging the hem of her coat. The last bouquet shook in her hands. She laid it down gently. And kissed the stone like it might kiss back.

“Lana was the baby,” she whispered. “Smart. Wild. Too clever for the world. She once made a professor cry with a question about Greek funerary rites.” Tears slipped freely now. “She got into university. Anthropology. She wanted to find beauty in bones. Said that skeletons told better stories than people.”

Talia laughed, short and sharp. Then crumbled again. “But she… struggled with addiction. With shame. With silence. With shadows. I used to find her in the hallway, humming to herself like she was keeping something away.”

She glanced at Fin, barely. “I didn’t catch her in time.”

Her hand splayed over the soil like she might find her heartbeat buried there. “She had the most beautiful voice. Untrained, but full of colour, like light leaking through stained glass. She sang when she was happy, when she was scared… and sometimes, when silence was too dangerous.”

She blinked through the tears, her voice fraying like thread. “They called it an accident. But the silence she left behind was too sharp. I wore black for thirty days. I burned her letters in a copper bowl.” Talia bowed her head. And whispered the hardest words. “I should’ve sung louder.”

The wind stirred through the trees, lifting her curls, brushing the edges of her coat. And still, she didn’t move. She stayed. Hand to stone. Body bowed. Mourning not just the dead, but the versions of herself buried with them.

And behind her, Fin remained silent. Not because he didn’t know what to say. But because there was nothing left to say that hadn't already been sung in grief.

Talia rose from her knees slowly, as if her grief had weight. Her coat fluttered slightly in the breeze, but her hands were steady now, even as the skin beneath her eyes still shimmered from tears.

Fin said nothing at first, he just stepped beside her, rested a single arm around her shoulder, and gave her a brief, brotherly squeeze. She let him, just for a moment, then straightened, brushing invisible dust off her trench coat.

“Thank you,” she said, finally turning to face him. Her voice was even, not emotionless, but it had that quiet strength she always wore after pain, like armour. “For coming. For not saying too much.”

Fin tilted his head. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I know,” she said. “But I will.”

They reached his car, and as she opened the passenger side door, she paused. “Just… don’t tell anyone about this. Not that I’m ashamed,” she added quickly. “But this, my family, it doesn’t get to be what makes me. Or breaks me.”

Fin looked at her, long and level. “Your story’s your own, Talia. I won’t say a word.”

She gave him a soft smile. The kind that flickered more than it glowed. Then, quietly, she added, “I still have two older brothers. Ameen teaches sociology at Columbia. Samir’s in the army. Iraq deployment.” Her voice thinned. “They’re alive. But far. And I don’t know which is worse.”

Fin didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

She climbed into the car, and he followed. The ride back to the precinct was silent. Not cold. Not awkward. Just… understood. Like grief had pulled up a seat between them, and neither of them dared disturb it.

SVU PRECINCT - July 9, 2004 - 09:57 AM

The precinct was buzzing when they returned. Phones ringing, keys clacking, low conversations slicing through the tension in the air. But Talia could feel it instantly, something was waiting for her.

Cragen stood at her desk, arms folded, jaw tight. His presence drew a quietness from those nearby. He didn’t move when he saw her enter. Just nodded toward his office.

She barely had time to shrug out of her coat when she heard the familiar rasp behind her.

“And so, the prodigal daughter returns,” Munch muttered from behind his desk, not bothering to look up from the file in his hands.

Talia gave him a sideways glance, her smirk automatic. “Missed me, Munchie?”

He finally looked up, arching an unimpressed eyebrow. “Like a kidney stone.”

She laughed under her breath. “Touching.”

And then she was gone, slipping into Cragen’s office and shutting the door behind her.

The blinds were half-closed, streaking his desk in uneven stripes of light. Dust floated in the beam near the window like ash suspended in air. Talia stood at attention, back straight, voice calm. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

Cragen didn’t look up immediately. He scribbled something on a folder; her file, no doubt, and clicked the pen closed with a kind of finality that made her stomach drop.

“Close the door,” he said without looking.

She did. He leaned back, hands folded across his chest, and gave a long, measured sigh. “I can’t let your first case in SVU go without a conversation.”

Talia didn’t respond. She braced herself.

“I know you came from Narcotics. I know you’re used to going off instinct and grit and getting the bad guy no matter what it costs. But this unit is different.” He pointed to his desk with two fingers. “Here, if you lose the victim’s trust, you don’t lose a lead, you lose the whole damn case. And more than that, you lose them.”

She nodded, tight-lipped.

“You chased a suspect down three city blocks. Alone. And you didn’t tell anyone you had a personal tie to the victim.”

He let that hang there.

“You made a survivor feel cornered. Unsafe. And that can’t happen again.”

Talia took a breath. “You’re right, sir. I acted on emotion. Not protocol. I should’ve disclosed the connection. And I didn’t. That’s on me.”

Cragen blinked. He was used to defensiveness. But she offered none. Just acceptance, like a soldier awaiting the blow. He studied her for a moment longer. Then glanced down at the file on his desk. “You’ve got a sharp mind, Amari. That’s clear. You work like someone who’s already seen too much. But you’re still green in this unit. And someone should’ve pulled the reins.”

She blinked. “Sir?”

He closed the file, tapping the corner with his knuckles. “This isn’t just on you. Detective Munch was supposed to be mentoring you during your transition week.”

Talia stiffened.

“He didn’t. He let you operate solo. No oversight. No check-ins. That’s not how this works.” He leaned forward, elbows on the desk now, voice lower. “So, from today forward, you’re officially assigned to Munch. Full-time partner. You don’t move without him. You ride together, work the same cases, sit side-by-side. You split paperwork, you share coffee. Hell, if one of you farts, the other better know why.”

Talia blinked at that. Her lips twitched.

Cragen didn’t smile, but the edge of his mouth moved. “This isn’t punishment. It’s structure. He’s a cynic, yeah, but he’s good. And you…” He tapped her file. “You’ve got potential. But you don’t know how to slow down. And if you don’t learn that fast, this job will tear you apart.”

His voice dropped just a notch. “And maybe, if you’re lucky, you’ll teach that bastard something too.”

Talia finally let herself smile. Just faintly. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Dismissed.”

Talia stepped out of Cragen’s office and walked back toward the desks with a new weight in her shoulders. But it wasn’t defeat. It was steel.

She dropped into her chair across from Munch, met his eyes, and said plainly, “well, detective. Looks like we’re married now.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “God help me.”

Talia grinned. “Come on, don’t act like I’m not your type. You love chaos in lipstick.”

“I love quiet. And peace. And retirement,” he shot back, flipping the page on his report.

“You’re gonna be disappointed on all three counts.”

He finally looked at her, really looked. Something passed between them. Not warmth. Not yet. But curiosity. Respect. Maybe the faintest hint of recognition. She was not what he expected. And he wasn’t sure yet whether that was a blessing or a bomb.

“So, what’s the case?” she asked, grabbing her coat again.

“Stakeout,” he muttered. “Red Hook. Suspect’s been seen loitering near the old warehouse. Possibly connected to two assaults.”

“Sounds fun,” she said, zipping her coat. “Let me guess, you drive like an old man?”

“I don’t drive,” he said. “I sulk behind the wheel and yell about the CIA.”

She laughed. “Perfect.”

They stepped into the elevator together. The doors slid shut.

And for just a moment, in the flickering fluorescent light, as she leaned against the rail and he stared ahead with arms crossed and eyes tired, something shifted.

Maybe it was fate. Or partnership. Or just the beginning of a story neither of them had the words for yet.

But Talia looked at him sideways, her smile soft and unreadable.

And Munch?

He didn’t say a word.

But he noticed.

RED HOOK - July 9, 2004 - 02:12 AM

The air was thick with sea salt and something sour from the docks. The unmarked car idled just beyond the reach of the busted streetlamp, engine humming low, the only thing keeping the cold from creeping fully into their bones.

They’d been sitting there for hours.

Not talking. Not shifting. Just breathing in the silence between them, the kind that wasn’t empty, but dense, like fog. The kind of silence that only came from shared insomnia, broken families, and the kind of job that made sleep feel suspicious.

Munch tapped the edge of his battered thermos with the back of his pen. A soft, rhythmic clink. Not quite impatient. Not quite focused. Just something to fill the air so it didn’t swallow him whole.

Talia was curled in the passenger seat, coat wrapped tight around her. Her curls were pulled into a low knot, brow furrowed as she read the same case file for the fifth time under the yellow light of the glovebox.

She smelled like jasmine and black coffee. A mix of comfort and warning.

Munch was doing everything in his power not to notice.

Not her perfume. Not the way her nail traced the corner of a page without turning it. Not how still she got when she wasn’t arguing, or interrogating, or working a suspect into submission. She’d gone quiet, like a storm just off the horizon.

He stared through the fogged windshield at the warehouse across the street. “Y’know,” he muttered, dry as dust, “you remind me of this girl.”

Talia didn’t look up. She licked her thumb, turned the page. “That supposed to be a compliment or a confession?”

“Just an observation.”

She raised a brow, smirking faintly. “Go on, then. Let’s hear this fairytale.”

He shifted in his seat, elbow against the door. “Back when I was still in Baltimore. Homicide. But there was this one week, I came up here for a cross-jurisdiction case, something in Crown Heights with ties to a guy we were chasing. Should’ve just stuck to the paperwork, but the 114^th needed bodies on patrol. I got roped in.”

Talia’s attention drifted from the file to him, just a little.

“I didn’t want to go home,” he added. “Wife number two had just chucked my vinyl out the window. Thought walking a beat in Queens was better than staring at my own mistakes.”

She blinked slowly. Said nothing.

“I remember passing this bodega,” he said. “Run by an old Arab guy with a trembling hand and a soft spot for the loudest girls in Astoria.”

That caught her.

“It was summer. Air so thick you could chew it. I’d see the same crew out front, girls with big hoops and bigger mouths, arguing about mango juice or screaming about Nas lyrics. The owner pretended to be annoyed but lit up every time they came in.”

Talia tilted her head slightly, just listening now.

“One of them. She stood out. Big hair. Big voice. Moved like she had the whole city in her pocket. Never gave her name. Rolled her eyes every time I so much as breathed. I was just trying to get witness names after a fight broke out, and she…” he chuckled, low, “...she told me if I was cuter, she might cooperate.”

He shook his head. “Then she called me a fascist and walked off.”

Talia had gone perfectly still.

Munch didn’t notice, not yet.

She turned toward him, the case file slipping from her lap unnoticed. “…What year was this?” she asked softly.

He squinted toward the windshield. “Summer of ‘94. Maybe ‘95. Hard to forget.”

Her voice dropped. “Wait.”

He looked over. “What?”

She stared at him, eyes wide with disbelief. Searching his face like it held some hidden doorway.

“That was me.”

He froze.

"...What?"

Chapter Text

BODEGA ON 33^rd - June 17, 1994 - 10:27 PM

The bodega on 33^rd was a staple of the neighbourhood, older than the corner it stood on. Its neon signs flickered like tired eyelids, casting blue and red halos across the cracked sidewalk. Inside, the hum of the fridges clashed with the whir of a half-broken fan mounted in the corner, doing absolutely nothing against the muggy Queens night. The air was thick with cumin, heat, and adolescent chaos.

Talia barely eighteen, sharp as a switchblade and twice as pretty, was arguing by the refrigerated section, a mango juice in one hand and a guava in the other, glaring like her life depended on it.

“Mango is superior. It’s rich, it’s complex,” she said, lips glossed, gold hoops catching the light as she moved.

Zeyneb clapped back, flinging her arm toward the guava shelf. “Guava is tropical elegance. You just don’t get it.”

“You don’t get it,” Talia countered.

Dunya was already halfway through a bag of hot chips, licking the neon red powder off her fingers like she was preparing for war. “You’re both wrong. Passionfruit clears.”

Marianna, Cuban, brassy, and bold, leaned over the counter like she owned it. “Ali habibi, how much do we owe you?”

Behind the counter, Ali; grizzled, patient, and decades past giving a damn, looked over his glasses with a sigh. “It depends. Are you paying for what’s in your stomachs or just what’s still sealed?”

Meanwhile, Zeyneb had popped the lid off a container of labneh and was loudly smacking her spoon into it. “This one’s mine now.”

“It’s mine,” Talia snapped and yanked it out of Zeyneb’s hands.

“Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” Zeyneb smirked, licking the spoon slowly just to provoke her.

Ali muttered something in Arabic and crossed himself for good measure. These girls had been coming in since they were twelve. They were loud. They were beautiful. They were trouble. And they were family.

But tonight? Something was brewing.

Outside, the summer air buzzed with that specific tension Queens got right before midnight on a Friday. A call had gone out: “group of rowdy young women disturbing the peace.”

Enter Detective John Munch.

Still technically on loan from Baltimore Homicide, doing legwork for a potential connection to a case that had slipped north. The 114^th Precinct needed extra warm bodies, and Munch, always the reluctant nomad, was here, cigarette unlit behind one ear, trench coat on despite the oppressive heat, and tie loose like it had given up.

He looked like film noir died and got dumped in a borough that never stopped yelling.

The unmarked car pulled up slow. The streetlamps caught the sheen of sweat on his forehead, and he stepped out with all the enthusiasm of a man summoned from the grave. His shoes crunched gravel, and the second he clocked the girls, he felt it, trouble.

Five of them, crowded into a bodega like it was their private palace. Talia was in the centre. Tank top hugging her figure, baby hairs slicked beneath a paisley bandana, curls spilling like defiance down her back. Her arms were folded, gum snapping. Her gaze met his like she was sizing up a worthy opponent.

“Ladies,” Munch drawled, voice as dry as dust.

No one answered. Dunya crunched louder. Meriem popped her gum. Zeyneb stuck her head further into the fridge.

Munch exhaled. “Alright, what the hell is going on here?”

Still nothing.

Then, an explosion of giggles. Marianna slapped Zeyneb’s arm, Dunya choked on her chips, and Talia just tilted her head.

“Oh my God,” Zeyneb hissed. “Who the hell brought their dad?”

Talia stepped forward, her walk deliberate, hips swinging like the street was her stage. “You got a warrant, old man?” she asked, voice honeyed and deadly.

Munch blinked. “This is a bodega. Not your living room.”

“No shit?” she replied sweetly.

“You wanna tell me what happened here?”

“No.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Do you have ID?”

“No.”

“You’re legally required-”

“Nope.”

Finishing her third ‘no’ like it was the most delightful syllable in the alphabet, she blew a bubble with her gum and let it snap loudly. She was taunting him.

Munch sighed hard and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was too old for this. “Miss, I’m not gonna ask again.”

And that’s when Dunya leaned against the chips rack and started chanting, “Racism! Racism!”

Meriem raised a fist. “Police brutality!”

“I haven’t even touched anyone,” Munch muttered, looking completely done.

“And you ain’t going to,” Talia shot back, stepping even closer. Close enough to smell her coconut oil and defiance.

For a moment, there was nothing but the hum of the fridge and the buzz of the fan.

He stared at her. She stared right back.

Ali, now visibly sweating behind the counter, waved his arms like a man warding off a curse. “Leave them be, detective! They’re just loud! They’re always like this!”

Munch’s gaze shifted to Ali. “You sure?”

“They're good girls,” Ali said. “Mostly.”

Munch ran a hand down his face. “You’re lucky he’s in a forgiving mood.”

Talia smirked, saccharine and smug. “If you was cuter, I might’ve cooperated.”

That caught him. Just for a second, something unreadable flickered across his face. And then she turned. Hair bouncing, labneh in hand, she strutted out with the others in tow like a five-woman revolution. Marianna tossed her curls. Meriem whistled at a passing car. Dunya yelled something in Arabic too fast for Munch to catch.

As they disappeared around the corner, Zeyneb yelled loud enough for the entire block, “I’d let that old man handcuff me!”

Talia laughed. Loud. Bright. Free.

Munch stood in the doorway of the bodega, watching the chaos recede.

Ali passed him a bottle of water, unasked. “Don’t take it personal. That one?” He nodded toward where Talia had gone. “She bites everyone.”

Munch just shook his head and took a long sip. “She’s gonna be trouble.”

Ali chuckled. “She’s already trouble.”

And somewhere, under the heavy Queens heat, a seed had been planted.

A summer of hell for Talia Amari-Volkov had just begun.

BASKETBALL COURT NEAR 33^rd - June 24, 1994 - 11:23 PM

The court lights buzzed like hornets overhead, flickering every few minutes like they were arguing with the dark. Summer had settled over Queens in its usual way; thick, slow, loud. The air tasted like bodega cigarettes, hot concrete, and someone’s cousin’s cologne drifting too far from the court.

Talia lounged on the bleachers like she owned them.

Her curls spilled in every direction, the gold hoops in her ears catching the broken court light like little suns. She wore a zip-up hoodie, too big for her frame, the hem hitting mid-thigh over the white cotton shorts underneath. Her Jordans were clean, too clean to be from today. Her white crew socks were scrunched perfectly low, like she’d rolled them down with attitude alone. One leg stretched out long; the other bent casually beneath her, foot tapping to the beat of the boombox somewhere behind the fence.

Her iced coffee from the corner bodega sweated against the bench beside her. Half-finished. Extra sweet. A straw chewed nearly flat.

Across the court, her girls shouted over the ongoing pickup game; Meriem, Dunya, Zeyneb, and Marianna. Loud. Beautiful. Shameless. They played in their own language of shrieks and laughter, as sharp and bright as the gold jewellery they all wore like armour. The boombox was blasting Biggie, bouncing off brick walls and making the yuppies on Crescent sweat in their sleep.

Talia wasn’t in the mood to join. Not tonight. She just watched that signature pout painted across her lips, chin resting in her hand like she was waiting for something she couldn’t name. There was something faraway in her stare, like she was watching her friends from a different year, or maybe from a few feet deeper in grief.

And then, the deep growl of a tired engine. An unmarked car rolled slow into the alley next to the court.

Door opened. Cue trench coat.

John stepped out into the heat like a man walking into purgatory. Same wrinkled button-down. Same crooked tie. And yes, still wearing the goddamn trench coat like he didn’t believe in summer.

He looked like a noir film got left in the sun, set on fire, and then dragged into Queens.

He scanned the court like a man doing mental calculus about how many reports he could ignore and still sleep at night. Then muttered, mostly to himself, “Let me guess… someone’s blasting Biggie again and scaring the yuppies on Crescent.”

Talia didn’t even flinch.

She turned her head slowly, met his eyes like she was already bored. “Ain’t you got people to catch, officer?”

“I’m not an officer,” he replied, dragging out a cigarette like it weighed five pounds. “Homicide detective. Fancy, right?”

She squinted. “Homicide? Out here? What, someone choke on a slice of halal pizza?”

“Closer to a domestic dispute that turned into a stabbing. Don’t worry, your crew doesn’t match the victim profile.”

“Oh,” she said flatly, “you profiling now?”

“I’m always profiling,” Munch replied, lighting up. “It’s half the job. The other half is filling out paperwork about people who don’t listen.”

She turned toward him fully now, her legs crossing at the ankle, the ice in her coffee clinking softly as she lifted it to her lips. “You always this charming when you’re off-duty, detective?”

“Only when I’m exhausted and underpaid,” he said, exhaling smoke like punctuation. “Which is always.”

He took in the scene, the court, the chaos, the barely functional lights. Then back to her. “You always sit out while your friends raise hell?”

Talia tilted her head, curls bouncing. “Someone’s gotta keep an eye out in case the Feds show up.”

Munch laughed under his breath. It surprised them both.

There was a long pause. The game continued behind them in bursts of shouting and laughter. Someone missed a layup. Someone else called them trash. Meriem screamed “You got no ankles!” loud enough for half the block to hear.

Talia sipped again. Her eyes shifted, just a bit softer now. “You ever even shoot a basketball, old man?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you challenging me, labneh girl?”

She blinked. Her smirk was slow. “You remember me?”

“Hard to forget the teenager who tried to weaponize dairy products and civil disobedience,” Munch muttered, cigarette between his lips. “You got your whole squad chanting police brutality.”

Talia shrugged like it was nothing. “Maybe you deserved it.”

“I definitely did,” Munch agreed.

He sat on the bleachers, not too close, just enough to let the smoke drift between them. He didn’t look at her directly. That would be too much. But he was listening. Watching the way she shifted. The way she quieted when no one else was around.

“You always this quiet when your friends aren’t looking?” he asked.

Talia’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You always this nosy when you’re not investigating a corpse?”

“I’m naturally curious,” he said. “Sue me.”

“I might,” she said.

“Please don’t. I’m terrible in court.”

A silence fell, but it wasn’t awkward. Just... charged. The kind of quiet that sits between two people who don’t know each other but recognize something anyway.

She didn’t ask his name.

He didn’t ask hers.

They just sat there, bathed in the heavy heat of late June, letting the night stretch long around them. Then, “T!” Meriem’s voice shattered it all. “Come get your man before I do!”

Munch blinked. “Your man?”

Talia groaned, standing up in one fluid motion. “Don’t flatter yourself, detective.”

He leaned back on his elbows, watching her go. “Nice seeing you again, labneh girl.”

She tossed her empty coffee into the wire trash bin with a clean arc. “Try not to die of heatstroke in that coat.”

And she walked away, shoulders loose, curls bouncing, hoops catching the light like halos, like warnings.

He watched her go. Didn’t know her name. But he’d remember her walk for the rest of his life.

SIDE STREET NEAR 33^rd - June 30, 1994 - 09:49 PM

The sidewalk shimmered faintly in the leftover heat of the day, like the pavement itself was sweating. Streetlights flickered overhead in that lazy Queens rhythm; on, off, on again, like even the bulbs were too tired to commit. Somewhere in the distance, a car door slammed. A dog barked twice, then went silent. A faint radio played something slow and Spanish from an open apartment window.

John turned the corner slowly, one hand in his coat pocket, the other gripping a spiral notebook he hadn’t written in for the past twenty minutes. Patrolling the area, he’d say if asked. Technically true. But the unspoken truth sat heavier than his badge in this heat.

He’d passed 33^rd three nights in a row now, habit by now.

Not because of any official lead. Not because it was his jurisdiction. But because... he didn’t want to go home. Not to the silence. Not to wife number two’s half-packed boxes. Not to the sound of his own thoughts echoing off drywall and failed wedding vows. And if he just happened to take a detour near the neighbourhood where that girl lived, that mouthy little anarchist with the curls, well. Who was he to argue with fate?

And tonight?

There she was.

Leaning against the chain-link fence of the locked basketball court like she was posing for a mixtape cover. One leg bent behind her; the sole of her sneaker hooked lazily into the fence. Her joggers were cinched at the waist, hoodie zipped halfway down, sleeves pushed up. A cheap gold bracelet glittered on her wrist. Her hair, pinned up messily with a plastic claw clip, spilled loose curls around her face, damp at the temples from the heat.

She was smoking. Of course she was.

The cherry of her cigarette glowed with each drag, lighting her features in brief flashes of gold and shadow. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t need to. Her voice came low, cool, like she already knew the shape of his breath. “You stalking me now, detective?”

Munch stopped mid-step. A beat of silence passed. He smiled, slow, sardonic. “You think everything’s about you?”

She let the silence stretch, then smirked, barely turning her head. “No. But you might be.”

That landed. He sighed, stepping closer, his trench coat fluttering with a hint of drama that he didn’t quite earn. “This your turf now?”

Talia tapped her ash onto the sidewalk. “This has always been my turf. You’re just late to the party.”

“Story of my life,” he muttered. He stood beside her now, not too close. Just within reach of the chain-link fence. Just close enough to smell the faint sweetness of her perfume, vanilla and coconut and rebellion.

She glanced at him; cigarette pinched between her fingers. “Didn’t think you’d actually stop.”

“Didn’t think you’d be out here alone.”

Talia shrugged, flicked ash again. “I like the quiet. Plus, cops keep cruising by.”

Munch gave a dry chuckle. “Can’t imagine why.”

She held the cigarette out toward him, casual. “You want one?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You offering to corrupt an officer of the law?”

“I’m offering to be polite,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Take it or don’t.”

He took it.

Their fingers touched, just a brush. Her skin was warm. His was rougher than he remembered. There was something about the contact that felt... heavier than it should have. She lit it for him. Flame against filtered paper. And now they stood shoulder to shoulder, framed in amber streetlight, passing slow curls of smoke between them like a shared secret. For a long moment, neither of them said anything. The city went on around them, loud and oblivious. But this corner? This corner was its own pocket in time.

“It’s too hot to sleep,” Talia said eventually, voice lower now. Not flirtatious. Just honest.

Munch glanced sideways. “You don’t strike me as someone who sleeps easy.”

She gave a small laugh, short, bitter. “That obvious?”

He shrugged. “Takes one to know one.”

She looked at him fully then, her face unreadable. “You married?”

He blinked. “Was.”

“Divorced?”

“In progress.”

Talia made a face like she’d just solved a riddle. “That explains the trench coat in July. Divorce energy.”

Munch took a drag. “And here I thought it was style.”

“Mm. You’d be cute if you smiled.”

He didn’t.

But he looked at her, eyes tired, smile tugging at the edge of his mouth like it wasn’t sure if it wanted to show up. “You always this charming with strange older men?”

“Only the ones who stalk me,” she said, grinning wide this time.

Another silence. Then, unprompted, he asked: “You got someone to walk you home?”

She scoffed lightly, but it wasn’t rude. More like... amused. “You offering, detective?”

“I might be.”

Talia tilted her head, assessing. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “I’m the scariest thing walking these streets.”

He didn’t doubt it. But still. He searched her face for a moment, like he could find the blueprint of her future etched there. Like he could find the crack before it ever formed. “You don’t have to be,” he said quietly.

Her smile faltered. Just a hair.

And then, because she didn’t want to linger too long in anything that felt too soft, she turned. Flicked her cigarette to the pavement. Ground it out with her sneaker like it never meant a thing. She walked off. Slow. Confident. Curls bouncing with each step. The kind of walk that made men turn and women take notes.

She didn’t look back.

Until she did.

Halfway down the block, she glanced over her shoulder, just once. Her brow raised. Not seductive. Not wistful.

Daring.

A dare in gold hoops and streetlight.

Munch stayed rooted in place. The taste of her cigarette still on his tongue. Her scent, vanilla and heat and whatever the hell was happening, still clinging to his coat.

He knew, in that moment, this was going to be a problem.

And he didn’t care.

STEINWAY ST - July 4, 1994 - 02:38 PM

It was the kind of heat that made your bones feel swollen. Humid, wet, and mean. Like the air itself was mad about something.

The city crackled with Fourth of July static, kids tossing firecrackers in the gutters, someone grilling on a roof five buildings over, sirens weaving in and out of the soundtrack of Steinway Street. But here, in the narrow alley behind the laundromat, the celebration stopped.

Yellow tape fluttered like cautionary prayer flags between rusted poles. The body lay slumped near the dumpster; gunshot to the head, close range. No wallet. No ID. Just a bloodstain soaking into the concrete like the city was drinking it in.

John ducked under the tape with a clipboard in one hand and a flashlight he didn’t need in the other. His trench coat stuck to his shirt like betrayal. His shirt stuck to his skin like punishment.

Baltimore said two weeks, he thought bitterly. It’s been a month.

He didn’t miss home. Just missed being somewhere else. Anywhere that wasn’t melting asphalt and nosy Queens residents gathering like pigeons around a tragedy.

The crowd was already thick. Neighbourhood uncles leaning out of windows with iced tea. Kids craning their necks. A trio of women whispering about curses. A man yelling from the sidewalk, “Yo, that kid from 34^th? Heard he owed people money.”

Munch squinted at them. “This isn’t a block party. Go home. Grow up. Learn a skill.”

“Was it a robbery?” someone shouted.

“Execution-style?” another whispered.

Munch sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do I look like the ghost of Crime Scene Future? Move back.”

And then. “Yo, Detective Noir!”

The voice slid in like smoke; feminine, amused, unmistakably familiar. Munch’s spine tensed.

He turned his head.

There she was.

Talia was leaning against the brick wall of the corner bodega across the street, arms crossed, legs bare beneath frayed denim cutoffs. A vintage Knicks tee was knotted at the waist, and a red bandana kept her curls half-up, but most had slipped loose, clinging damp to her neck. Her gold hoops swung when she tilted her head, catching sunlight like weaponry.

Lip gloss gleamed. So did her grin. Of course she would be here. Of course she’d spot him first. She strolled over with the casual arrogance of someone who had never once been asked to leave a place she didn’t want to be. And if she had? She didn’t listen.

Talia slipped under the police tape like it was streamers at a party. Munch opened his mouth to stop her, but she was already next to him, peering over his shoulder, one hand on her hip, the other pulling a piece of gum from her mouth like she was unwrapping a secret.

“What happened?” she murmured, lowering her voice to match his. “Give it to me on the down low.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” Munch hissed, stepping slightly in front of the body.

“Neither should half the people gawking at the corpse, but I don’t see you arresting Mrs. Ghada from the second floor.” She nodded toward a nearby woman in a floral robe and slippers, loudly praying under her breath.

He sighed. “Homicide. Gunshot. Male. No ID. You happy?”

“You always this charming around dead people?”

He shot her a look. “Are you always this smug near crime scenes?”

She grinned wider. “Only when they’re boring. Robbery?”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

“Execution-style?”

He narrowed his eyes. “How do you know that?”

Talia shrugged, unconcerned. “It’s the neighbourhood. You think I haven’t seen this before?”

That landed harder than he wanted it to. He studied her for a long moment, too long. Then finally asked, “Did you see anything?”

She hesitated just enough for it to matter. “I saw a car. Around 11:45. Black Impala. Tinted windows. Two people in the front. Could’ve been women. They were laughing.”

Munch blinked. “Laughing?”

She nodded. “Not loud. Just... like a joke had landed. Then they peeled off. Fast. Toward Crescent.”

He scribbled it down, brow furrowed. “You always this observant?”

She met his eyes without blinking. “You always this slow?”

He let out a short laugh, unexpected, almost real. “Jesus. You’re exhausting.”

“And yet,” she said, already turning, “here you are.”

“Wait.” He moved forward a step. “At least give me a name this time.”

Talia turned halfway, walking backward now, smirking. “Still a detective, right?”

Munch rolled his eyes. “Come on.”

She cupped her hands around her mouth like a cheerleader. “Figure it out!”

Then she turned fully and slipped under the tape again, sliding into the crowd like she’d never been there. But not before tossing one last glance over her shoulder; playful, proud, unreadable.

The sun hit her just right.

Her skin glowed like honey. Her hoops shimmered. And the gold chain around her neck bounced lightly against her collarbone as she moved, disappearing into the sea of heat-dazed onlookers.

He watched her until he couldn’t anymore.

“Munch!” his partner snapped, snapping a latex glove on his hand. “What the hell are you doing? We’ve got blood trace and no timeline!”

Munch looked down at his notes, then back toward where she vanished.

“I think I just met my best informant,” he muttered.

He didn’t say what else he thought. Didn’t say that something about the way she walked away made his stomach knot. Didn’t say that he’d remember the exact shade of her lip gloss longer than he’d remember this poor bastard’s name. Didn’t say that it was already too late to stop whatever this was.

BODEGA ON 33^rd - July 10, 1994 - 00:27 AM

The bodega was dim, the kind of quiet that only existed after midnight. The fridges hummed with the low, electric drone of insomnia. Fluorescent lights buzzed above like bees trapped in glass. Outside, the block had gone to sleep, firework debris littering the curbs, smoke clinging to the air from earlier barbecues. Even the stray cats had disappeared.

Ali sat behind the counter pretending to read a newspaper, his glasses perched low on his nose. He wasn’t reading. He was listening. As usual.

In the corner, by the tiny folding table tucked between the stacked water bottles and the busted ATM, Talia was curled up like she belonged there. She had her legs tucked under her in the red plastic chair, worn smooth from years of use. A container of labneh sat open in front of her, half-eaten. She dipped the back of her spoon into it like it was gelato. Her pomegranate juice, still unopened, glistened with condensation beside her keys and a pack of Orbit gum.

Her curls were twisted up into a clip, some strands rebelliously falling down around her face. Baby hairs still slick, kohl smudged faintly under her eyes, like she’d been out dancing and didn’t bother fixing it. Bangles clinked softly every time she moved her wrist.

She looked peaceful. But her eyes were red. From crying.

And then, ding. The door chimed.

She didn’t flinch.

“Back again, detective?” she said, not even looking up. “I’m starting to think this is less ‘coincidence’ and more ‘tragic compulsion.’”

“I like the labneh,” Munch replied dryly, stepping in with that weary noir gait, trench coat still on like he hadn’t realized it was July. Glasses slightly crooked, the circles under his eyes deeper than ever. “And the... warm hospitality.”

Talia scooped another bite without blinking. “You’re just hoping I’ll insult you again. Admit it. You like being humbled by teenage girls.”

“I didn’t arrest you,” he said, hovering near the chips aisle, arms crossed. “I asked for ID.”

“And I said no.”

“And I said-”

“That I was legally required. Yeah, yeah. And I said no.” Talia waved him off.

Munch blinked, exasperated. “You have a perfect memory. It’s unnatural.”

She smirked without looking up. “It’s a blessing and a curse. Mostly a curse when people try to lie to me.”

There was a moment of silence between them, filled only by the fridge and the soft clink of her spoon against the plastic container.

Then, casually, Munch said, “We picked him up.”

She looked up at that. Just her eyes first; slow, sharp, alert. The spoon stilled midair. “The guy from the alley?” she asked.

He nodded. “Paulie Mansour. Black Impala, two priors, mouth like a buzzsaw. Girlfriend cracked first. Said he came home sweaty, paranoid, and reeking of fear.”

Talia snorted. “I knew it was Paulie. I said that. You remember me saying that? The way he hit the curb like he’d never driven under pressure before? Rookie hour.”

Munch tilted his head. “Still not giving me names?”

“Nope.” She licked a bit of labneh off her thumb. “I’m not a snitch. I’m a prophet.”

He actually smiled at that, just a twitch of the lips, but it was real. “You ever think about doing this for a living?”

Talia paused, furrowing her brow. “What? Sitting in a bodega eating labneh and talking shit?”

“I meant... being a detective.”

She blinked. Then scoffed so hard she nearly choked on her juice. “Me? Please.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’ve gotta be out of your mind.”

Munch stepped closer, one hand in his coat pocket, voice softer. “You’ve got the eye. You see things. Details most people miss. And you’ve got instincts.”

She leaned back in the chair, balancing her spoon between two fingers like a cigarette. “My oldest brother’s getting his Master’s in sociology. The other’s in the military. My brother writes political essays that get censored internationally. They’re out here doing shit that matters. I’m the one who gets into yelling matches over guava juice and makes mixtapes about Zizek.”

Munch didn’t laugh. He just looked at her. Really looked.

“So what?” he said gently.

Talia faltered. Just for a second. “I don’t know who I am yet,” she said, voice smaller than usual.

And for once, she didn’t armour it with a joke. Not right away. Then, “but I do know Paulie drives like a bitch.”

He chuckled, then pulled his glasses off and rubbed at his face. “You change your mind... about the whole ‘figuring yourself out’ thing... let me know. I’ll put in a good word. You’d make a hell of a detective.”

Talia raised an eyebrow. “You think I’d take career advice from someone who wears a trench coat in the summer?”

He turned, walking toward the door. “You’ll remember me.”

“Oh, please.” She rolled her eyes. “Detective Noir. Queens’ favourite killjoy. You’re like a fever dream I can’t get rid of.”

The bell over the door jingled as he stepped out.

And just before it shut. “Hey!” she called after him.

He paused.

“Don’t forget the juice next time.”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t turn around.

But she saw the corner of his mouth curve, just slightly.

Unbeknownst to Munch, it would be ten years before he heard Talia Amari-Volkov’s voice again.

By then, she’d have a badge of her own.

And he’d already be too far gone.

Chapter Text

RED HOOK - July 9, 2004 - 02:12 AM

“…What?” Munch said, his voice caught somewhere between disbelief and a laugh he didn’t trust himself to have. He didn’t move, didn’t even blink, just froze, eyes locked on her like maybe if he stared hard enough, the answer would be different.

Talia leaned back, one palm covering her mouth, eyes sparking like a fuse had just been lit. “The summer of ’94?” she said, and her laughter slipped through the cracks in her composure. “That was me, old man!” Her voice rose with the giddy disbelief of someone unearthing a secret they weren’t supposed to find. “My friend Zeyneb said she’d let you handcuff her!”

He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose like the weight of the memory might give him an aneurysm. “Oh, God.”

“I knew you looked familiar!” She slapped the dash once, not hard, just enough to punctuate her glee.

“You were a menace,” he mumbled, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him.

That sent her over the edge. She doubled forward, laughter breaking out in a rush, unrestrained, belly-deep, the kind that makes you lean into the moment with your whole body and that made her wipe her eyes and catch her breath in shaky little gasps. It lit her up from the inside, and for a few seconds, she wasn’t the detective with a dozen walls and a file full of redacted trauma. She was just… joy. She was a girl in a bandana again, impossible and alive.

Munch couldn’t look away. He’d built his life on being the guy who didn’t get caught staring, and yet here he was, caught like a rookie. He tried not to, but there it was, the sight of her glowing like this, all teeth and light and reckless amusement. He didn’t mind being the punchline. Not right now.

He cracked a smile. “You’re lucky I didn’t book you for disturbing the peace.”

“I was the peace,” she shot back, twirling a curl around her finger like she’d just declared victory.

He snorted. “You were a fever dream in a bandana.”

That only made her giggle more, softer now, like they’d stumbled into a secret no one else could hear. She leaned back against the seat, smirk still tugging at her mouth. “You really remember that?”

“Yeah.” His eyes flicked to hers, then back to the road ahead. “Didn’t know why. Guess now I do.”

The quiet settled in again, thick but not heavy. Outside, a streetlamp buzzed, casting pale halos on the wet asphalt. Inside, the air smelled faintly of her perfume and his coffee, a combination he suspected might be dangerous in the wrong hands.

“Guess I’m the reason you became a detective,” he said, smirking over the rim of the cup.

“As if,” she scoffed, mock-offended.

“Then why?” His tone shifted, not teasing, but genuine curiosity. It was enough to make her hesitate.

She turned toward the window, watching the way the sodium light caught in the slick streets. Why? For Lana? For the helpless ones? For every bad ending she couldn’t stop as a kid? Her parents had built a life in books and lectures. Her friends had degrees and safe careers. And here she was, chasing predators in the dark.

“I don’t know…” she murmured at last, her earlier smile dimming. “I guess I just wanted to protect people who couldn’t protect themselves.”

He studied her profile, the set of her jaw, the quiet conviction in her tone. “You’ve got good instincts, Amari,” he said finally. “Annoying as hell back then. But sharp.”

Her smile this time was smaller, worn-in. “Thanks, Munch.”

Their eyes met, held just long enough for something unspoken to hum between them.

“Doesn’t seem like he’s going to show up,” she said after a while, voice back to business.

“Guess you’re right,” he muttered, turning the key in the ignition. “Let me drive you home.”

The rest of the ride was quiet in that companionable way that sneaks up on you. She gave him directions, and he followed them without comment, winding through sleeping streets until they pulled up outside her rowhouse. The lights inside were off; the street was still. No barking, no scuffling, Ameen must’ve already taken the dogs out and fed them before heading upstate. The only light came from a streetlamp across the way, its glow cutting soft shadows across the stoop.

They stepped out together. He followed her up the worn steps, hands deep in his coat pockets.

“You want coffee, old man?” she asked, one brow arched.

“I shouldn’t,” he said, but the words came slower now, less conviction than there should’ve been.

She narrowed her eyes playfully, then shrugged. “Then don’t. See you tomorrow, John.”

And before he could reply, she leaned in, close enough for him to catch the warmth of her breath, the faint trace of jasmine and soap, and pressed her lips to his cheek. Not a polite brush. A kiss with just enough weight to make his pulse shift, just enough time for her to catch the cedar and sandalwood of his cologne.

Her favourite.

She lingered there a second too long, then pulled back, slow, letting the space stretch between them. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched her.

She stepped inside, closed the door softly, and leaned back against it, her heart drumming louder than the quiet hallway around her.

She’d just kissed a senior detective.

And God help her; she didn’t regret it.

Outside, Munch stayed where she’d left him, staring at the closed door like it might open again if he willed it hard enough. His hands were still in his pockets; shoulders squared against the night. What the hell just happened? He’d spent his career talking people into saying things they didn’t want to say, pulling truth out of silence. And now he was the one left wordless.

Eventually, he turned and walked back to the car. The door creaked as he slid into the driver’s seat. He didn’t start the engine right away. Instead, he sat with his hands on the wheel, eyes fixed on the building across the street.

She’d been right there all along. In the same city. Crossing the same streets. Breathing the same air. Ten years of near-misses, and he never knew.

He remembered the girl from ’94, sharp laugh, quicker wit, the way she’d thrown him off balance in a way no one else had. And tonight, she’d done it again. He didn’t know whether to be irritated or grateful.

He should’ve said yes to the coffee. But coffee wouldn’t have stopped there, he knew it, and maybe she did too. Talia Amari had a way of pulling something out of him he didn’t show anyone else. Something warm. Something reckless.

The radio crackled softly in the background. He didn’t hear it. He just kept his eyes on that rowhouse until the streetlight flickered and the moment passed.

When he finally pulled away, the ghost of her laughter was still in the car with him.

SVU PRECINCT - August 6, 2004 - 10:08 AM

By now, Talia had been at SVU just shy of three months. Long enough to find her rhythm, short enough that she still felt like the new kid in the room. Her days had fallen into a kind of unspoken routine with Munch, early stakeouts, long afternoons chasing dead leads, and hours in the research room with case files spread across the table like some sprawling conspiracy map only the two of them could decipher.

Most mornings, he’d swing by her house in Astoria. Sometimes he honked from the curb, sometimes he came up the steps with a sarcastic, “Sleeping in on the taxpayers’ dime kiddo?”

They’d stop at her bodega for her usual, iced coffee with vanilla, heavy with milk, and a plain butter croissant she swore was the best in the city. He never ordered anything. Just leaned against the counter, reading whatever paper was handy and muttering about ‘the state of the world.’ Then they’d drive to the precinct with WNYC murmuring through the radio, arguing over whatever bizarre headline caught his eye that day.

It was comfortable. Familiar. And if either of them noticed how easy it had become, they didn’t say.

But today? Today, comfort had been replaced by misery.

New York was boiling, 36º in the shade, and the SVU precinct’s air conditioning had finally given up. The vents sighed like an old man’s regret, pumping nothing but humid breath into the bullpen. Maintenance said it’d be a few hours. Nobody believed them.

The place looked like a hostage situation. Olivia had tied her hair up with a pen, looking ready to stab the next person who spoke to her. Elliot was on his third shirt of the day, the sleeves already darkening with sweat. Fin was sprawled under a fan, eyes half-lidded, muttering about ‘Arizona being cooler than this.’

Talia, for her part, refused to give the heat the satisfaction of seeing her wilt. She sat at her desk in a silk blouse and high-waisted slacks, legs crossed, posture perfect, jaw set like she could will herself into feeling cool. In reality, the fabric clung to her like a second skin, and her curls were starting to frizz at the edges.

Across the room, Munch sat looking… infuriatingly fine. Not a bead of sweat on him. Jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled neatly to the elbow, shoulder holster sitting just right. His tie was still perfectly knotted.

It was obscene.

“Heat getting to you kiddo?” he asked, not looking up from the paper he was flipping through.

“No,” she lied.

He gave a disbelieving hum. “Thought you were raised in the desert.”

She shot him a sideways glance. “I was raised in Siberia, you ass.”

That earned her a smirk over the rim of his glasses. “Guess that explains the cold shoulder.”

Before she could throw something at him, Cragen’s voice cut through the room from his office door. “Alright, break protocol. I don’t care if you come in wearing a swimsuit. I’m melting.”

A murmur of half-hearted laughter rippled through the squad, but Talia was already on her feet. “Permission granted,” she said under her breath, grabbing her bag.

“Where are you-” Munch started, but she was already heading to the locker room.

Ten minutes later, she walked back in. The room went silent for half a second, and then Fin let out a low whistle.

She’d swapped her slacks for high-waisted black dress shorts that skimmed just below her hips, paired with a fitted white tank top so light it was practically painted on. Her gold jewellery caught the light with every step; the hoops, the bracelets, the chain around her neck and ankle. Ink peeked from beneath the hem of her shorts and by her shoulder blades when she moved.

It was effortless, unbothered, the kind of heatwave outfit you wore because you valued survival over modesty. There was no flirtation in it. Which somehow made it worse.

Munch nearly inhaled the wrong way.

“Jesus Christ, girl,” Fin muttered, holding up a palm for a high five as she passed. She tapped it without breaking stride.

“It’s hot,” she said simply, sinking back into her chair and rifling through a stack of case files like she hadn’t just walked into the room looking like that.

Munch’s eyes stayed glued to his desk. His jaw was tight enough to crack teeth. He wasn’t looking. Absolutely not looking.

Until she stretched.

She leaned forward to reach the far end of the table, tank top pulling just enough to reveal the looping black ink along her side. His eyes darted up before he could stop himself.

And she caught him.

Her gaze lifted from the file to his, locking for the briefest, most electric second. She smiled. Not big. Not obvious. Just slow and knowing, the kind of smile that asked how long do you think you can keep pretending you’re not looking?

“You alright, Munchie?” she asked, voice syrup-smooth. And once again, she was just the loud mouth girl who would stand outside the bodega on 33rd and share a cigarette with him, before either of them realized there might be something more.

“I’m fine,” he said too quickly, flipping a page he clearly wasn’t reading. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Fin glanced between them with a grin. “You sure? You look a little… flushed.”

Munch didn’t answer.

The heat made the day sluggish, cases dragging like they were moving through molasses. By noon, tempers were short. Olivia had snapped at Elliot. Elliot had snapped at CSU. And Talia, who normally handled Munch’s sarcasm with ease, found herself glaring at him across their desks when he questioned one of her leads.

“Pretty sure we’ve already checked that,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

“Pretty sure you didn’t,” she shot back, tapping her pen against the file. “Unless your definition of ‘checking’ is reading the first line and giving up.”

“Kid,” he drawled, “I’ve been doing this since you were in high school.”

She arched a brow. “And yet here we are, in the same room, same job.”

That earned her the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he was trying not to smile.

By mid-afternoon, the maintenance crew finally got the air back on. The first rush of cool air sent an audible sigh through the room. Munch loosened his tie, just slightly, and glanced over at her.

“Better?” he asked.

She pretended to think about it. “Almost. If someone would get me an iced coffee, I might survive.”

He shook his head, standing. “You know, I’m not your personal barista.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she murmured, smirking down at her paperwork.

When he came back twenty minutes later with her exact order from the bodega, she didn’t say thank you. Just took it, sipping slowly, eyes flicking up to meet his.

He rolled his eyes. “You’re welcome.”

She grinned. “Knew you liked me.”

It was stupid, really. Neither of them would call it flirting. It was just… whatever this was. Sarcasm traded for smirks. Coffee runs traded for rides home. Shoulder holsters and silk blouses in the same frame.

And if anyone in the squad noticed the way they gravitated toward each other’s desks, the way they lingered in conversation just a little too long…

Well. Nobody was saying anything. Yet.

BUSHWICK - September 3, 2004 - 06:19 PM

Bushwick was caught in that thin, grey pause between daylight and nightfall, where the streetlights hadn’t fully taken over, but the sun had already given up. The air had the metallic edge of coming cold, sharp enough to bite at the skin. A trash bin rolled down the block, pulled along by the wind until it slammed into a cracked curb and came to rest with a hollow clang.

Talia sat in the passenger seat of Munch’s unmarked, the paper cup of mint tea hot against her palms. She’d bought it on the way from the precinct; from the same halal cart she always stopped at. He knew the guy by now, just like she knew Munch pretended not to notice she paid extra so the vendor would throw in an extra teabag.

Her fingers clung to the cup as though it were a lifeline. The iron pills the department doc had prescribed hadn’t been doing much lately; she still felt the slow chill in her bones, the kind that no coat could fix. But she kept that to herself. She always did.

Through the windshield, frost formed in thin spiderwebs at the corners, catching the pale light from a distant streetlamp. The heater rattled and groaned like it had survived two decades of stakeouts and was considering retirement.

Four months she’d been in SVU now, four months of cases that still clung to her, dead-eyed suspects, raw-voiced victims, endless nights where she and Munch traded theories over bad coffee until the janitor kicked them out. Four months of sitting across from him in the bullpen, watching his eyes flick over files faster than his mouth could keep up with the sarcasm.

He’d been… difficult, at first. Not unkind, exactly. Just guarded in a way that felt like a locked archive room. But she’d learned the rhythms: how he reached for coffee when he didn’t want to answer a question, the way his shoulders eased when she made him laugh, the flicker in his eyes when a suspect lied badly.

Tonight, though, the silence felt different.

She glanced over at him now. Collar up, coat zipped, hair combed in that stubborn side part no wind could move. His eyes tracked the front door of the walk-up across the street. They’d been watching it for two hours, waiting for a suspect who was apparently in no rush to get arrested.

“You know…” she began, her voice cutting through the quiet like the sudden strike of a match, “you’re quite handsome.”

His head turned, sharp. He blinked at her, caught between amusement and suspicion. “What?” He let out a short laugh that sounded like it was checking the exits before committing. “You okay? You hit your head on the way in?”

“I mean it,” she said, and there was nothing teasing in her tone this time. Just honesty, laid out plain.

Munch stared for a beat too long before looking away, suddenly more interested in the frost forming on the edges of the windshield. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Say things you don’t mean. To… make me feel good.” He rubbed his jaw, eyes still on the street. “I’ve had a lot of years, and a lot of women try that trick.”

Talia tilted her head, studying him. “I’m not trying anything.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, scepticism wrapping around the sound like wire.

She didn’t look away. “I just think you’re handsome.”

“Jesus.” He huffed a laugh, rubbing his hand over his face as though the words had physically landed.

She smiled faintly. “You make it sound like an insult.”

“It’s not that,” he muttered. “It’s just… I don’t hear it often anymore. Not when someone’s not trying to win something.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was weighted. The hum of a distant train filtered in through the cracked window, mixing with the slow tick of the cooling engine.

Talia leaned back in her seat, eyes flicking to the suspect’s building. “You know what I see when I look at you?”

“A cautionary tale?” he said without missing a beat.

She laughed softly. “No. I see someone who still gives a damn. Even when it hurts.”

Munch’s eyes slid to her, narrowing just slightly. “Careful. Keep talking like that and I might start thinking you’re not just here for the free coffee.”

“Maybe I’m not,” she said lightly, but her gaze didn’t waver.

A figure appeared down the block, just enough to make them both tense. Munch leaned forward, lifting the binoculars. Talia reached for the notepad on her lap. But the man kept walking, head down, hands buried in his jacket pockets; wrong height, wrong build. Just another neighbour heading home before the dark settled fully.

They settled back into their seats. The heater coughed once, then went quiet entirely.

“Four months,” Munch said after a moment, his voice thoughtful. “That’s how long you’ve been at SVU.”

“Mm-hm.”

“And you’ve lasted this long without telling me to shove it. That’s unusual.”

“Maybe I like you,” she said, sipping her tea.

He made a face, somewhere between disbelief and amusement. “Or maybe you’re just slow to realize I’m an ass.”

“I figured it out week one,” she said, smiling into her tea.

He gave a faint huff of laughter, one that she suspected he didn’t mean for her to hear.

Outside, the street dipped further into night. A dog barked in the distance; a car rolled past with bass rattling its loose license plate. The suspect’s door stayed shut.

“You remember that guy in Brighton Beach?” Munch asked suddenly.

“The one who thought he could out-stare you in the interrogation room?”

“Yeah. You smiled at him, and he folded in five minutes.” He shook his head. “I’ve been doing this for decades and I’ve never seen that.”

“It’s not a trick,” she said, watching him from the corner of her eye. “I just let him think I saw the part of him he was trying to hide.”

“That’s dangerous,” Munch said. But his voice was softer now, almost like approval.

The heater coughed once, then died altogether. The cold began creeping in faster, drawing the warmth out of the car in slow, deliberate pulls.

“You ever wonder,” Munch started, still staring straight ahead, “why people like us sit in freezing cars for hours, waiting for people who don’t even know we exist?”

“All the time,” she admitted. “But then I think, if we don’t, who will?”

He glanced at her. Just a quick look, but it stayed with her longer than it should have.

The suspect never showed. Eventually, Munch switched off the engine, and the cold began to creep in faster. Talia tucked her hands deeper into her sleeves, still holding onto the last traces of heat from her tea.

Munch noticed the way she hunched into her coat, how her hands stayed wrapped around the tea like she could will the heat back into her body. Without comment, he reached over and adjusted her scarf, tugging it closer to her throat. “You’re going to freeze to death before you make Sergeant.”

She laughed quietly, the sound soft in the cold.

He left his hand there for a moment longer than necessary before pulling it back. “Don’t read into that,” he muttered.

“I wouldn’t dare,” she replied, but her smile said otherwise.

They sat in the growing dark, the city pressing in around them. Somewhere in the unspoken space between them; between the cases, the coffee, the four months of wary partnership, something shifted. Neither named it. But they both felt it.

Chapter Text

ASTORIA - September 25, 2004 - 3:32 AM

Talia eased the Mustang to the curb outside her rowhouse on 33^rd, the engine dropping into that low, satisfied growl it made only when she coaxed it home. The block was in that pre-dawn silence that isn’t quiet at all, pipes clanking alive in old buildings, a late N train groaning on the elevated, the wind rattling someone’s plastic lawn chair down the sidewalk. Her shoulders still held the case like armour. Four months at SVU and she was already learning which horrors learned her name and stuck around.

She killed the engine, sat a second, then slipped out with her heels hooked in two fingers. Asphalt was cool under her feet. In the building across the way, an Armenian auntie peered through lace curtains, decided it was only Talia, and let the drape fall. Astoria had eyes; they were gentle.

The front door opened with that familiar iron sigh. The scent inside; thyme, laundry soap, the ghost of incense, met her like a hand to the cheek. The living room lamp had been left on low. On the rug: three German Shepherds in one catastrophic pile. Ramses snored with a whistle. Anubis’s paw twitched like he was chasing something glorious. Little Heka, the youngest, tucked his nose under Anubis’s chest like a child hiding in a brother’s coat.

“Idiots,” she whispered, smiling despite the weight in her bones.

On the stove: a heavy pot, lid slightly askew. Ameen had been by. There was a scrap of paper under a magnet:

Fed them. Walked them. Sleep. Eat. Call me in the morning, dummy.

She lifted the lid; steam lifted with the smell of lamb, cumin, and the kind of patience that makes rice an act of love. Uzbek plov. Ameen always tried to pass it off as his, but the aluminium takeout lid in the trash betrayed him. Astoria alchemy: bought with love was still love.

She ate at the couch with the TV off, the silence loud enough to fill her ribs. The first bite was too hot, the second perfect, and then Heka’s ears pricked. He slid from the dog heap with the stealth of a thief, thumped onto the cushion, and set his chin on her thigh. Those eyes, devotion dressed like manipulation.

“No,” Talia said, firm. Heka did not move, except to lean harder.

“No,” she repeated, and Heka blinked very slowly, a saint suffering.

She ate and didn’t taste it because in the same mouthful she was still hearing a little girl’s voice cracking through a 911 line, crying I can’t find the windows, and Olivia saying calm, impossible things like Okay, sweetheart, tell me what you can smell. Fin had run the streets with her for hours, triangulating sound and faith. Monsters felt closer when they were quiet. Their quiet was always deliberate.

She finished and left two lamb-slick grains of rice for Heka, because she was only human. He licked the bowl with cathedral reverence and then collapsed, satisfied, half on her lap like a warm living scarf. She sat until the clock had no more minutes in it. Then sleep came sideways, the kind that isn’t sleep so much as the body giving up.

ASTORIA - September 25, 2004 - 7:52 AM

She woke to a patch of sunlight stabbing her eyelids and a dumb, heavy weight pressing down on her ribs. Somewhere between awake and gone, she’d migrated to the floor and joined the tangle. Ramses had chosen her midsection as his pillow. Anubis was draped over her shins like a very determined throw blanket. Heka had his face tucked against her neck, breathing dog coffee.

“Move, Anu,” she muttered into fur, pushing at an unmoving flank.

Anubis answered with the slow, operatic yawn of a man on vacation and stretched until his toes shook. Ramses followed with a full-body shiver. Heka, affronted, tried to crawl onto her shoulders, failed, and settled for her lap.

“Okay, okay. Shower. Then the park. Democracy.”

Three heads cocked at the word park. Three tails made soft thuds on hardwood.

Upstairs, they followed her because in this house privacy was theoretical. Talia stood in the bathroom and stared at her reflection while the shower beat steam against the mirror. The case lingered behind her eyes, the kind of residue no soap cuts. “Not the church of grief today,” she told herself, unconvincing. She glanced at her back when the glass cleared: saints and serpents and script; her mother’s name, her father’s; ink stitched over bone like a quilt of the things no one could take.

She thought about the painting again, Christ in Gethsemane, head bowed in that terrible, tender surrender. She’d been circling it for weeks, how to carry a garden at war on her shoulder. “Not today,” she said to the mirror. The mirror kept her secrets.

She dressed for anonymity: an oversized grey hoodie with a faint bleach constellation on the cuff, matching sweats, battered Jordans. Hair up. Gold hoops because she never left the house without something that shone. Keys, phone, bags, treats, patience. Collars and leads clicked; Ramses tolerant, Anubis dignified, Heka so excited he sat because he could not possibly stand.

Outside, the morning had remembered itself. Stoops sprouted grandparents. Kids chalked galaxies on the sidewalk. A Greek bakery worker hosed down the curb; a Yemeni bodega owner coaxed his cat inside. A woman in a housecoat watered basil and blew Talia a kiss. “Kalimera, Talia!” (Good morning / Greek)

“Sabah el-kheir, Mrs. P.” Talia lifted a hand. The dogs pranced like a small parade. (Good morning / Arabic)

The park was already patchy with dogs and people who loved them. She unclipped the leashes and watched Ramses transform into an agricultural philosopher, nuzzling grass, while Anubis angled for a tug-of-war and Heka made a beeline for the least dry patch of mud. Talia sat, spine long, on a bench that had seen a century of backs. She let the city move around her; a film she could watch without sound. A jogger in a Mets tee. A man dragging a Radio Flyer full of bagels. A teenage girl practicing fouettés on the gravel because sometimes you had to dance where the earth would let you.

“Ostavʹ,” Talia called, not looking, as Heka considered a pigeon. (Leave it / Russian)

He detoured into a puddle and loved it greedily. She smiled. The bench knew her weight. For a precious hour, the grip around her heart loosened. Fin would text later. Olivia would call. Cragen would ask for paperwork in that way that meant and how are you. Elliot would say something direct and jagged and accidentally kind. But for now; dogs, sun, the reliable rhythm of this corner of the world that never forgot anyone’s name.

When the tongues lolled and the sprints collapsed into pratfall trots, she leashed them and crossed to the Egyptian café on the corner. It was owned by her ‘uncle’ Hassan, not by blood, but by the kind of history that counts more. He’d grown up with Talia’s mother in Alexandria, and his son, Ali, had been the one to help fix up her Mustang when she bought it.

In Astoria, everyone was family, and Hassan had claimed her as his own years ago. The place had two wobbly aluminium tables, plastic chairs, and an awning the colour of sweet tea. The chalkboard out front always lied about specials because Hassan preferred to make what he wanted and then bully you into liking it.

“Talusha!” he called from inside when he saw her through the glass, voice a bell that rang down thirty years of friendship. He wiped his hands on a towel and shouldered the door open like it weighed more than it did.

“ʿAmmo,” she said, hugging him one-armed around the tray he insisted on carrying. (Uncle / Arabic)

“What will you eat? And don’t do that little ‘I’m not hungry’ face, I know your blood sugar.” He clocked the dogs. “Three bowls for the princes?”

“Bread, cheese, cucumber, tomato. Tea. And yes, three bowls. Their majesties will dine al fresco.”

He wagged a finger. “You’re too thin. I will add eggs. I won’t charge; you can fight me.”

She rolled her eyes. “You never charge.”

“Because I am a terrible businessman.” He grinned and vanished. A minute later his wife, Nadia, set down a battered stack of bowls from under the counter where Talia kept a Tupperware of kibble. The dogs flopped under the table and ate with the delicacy of jackals at a wedding.

Talia leaned back in the chair and let the neighbourhood wash through her. Cabs braided down 30^th Avenue. The N/W rattled somewhere like a distant drum. An old man sold newspapers with the day’s promises banded in ink. She reached for the café bookshelf, dog-eared paperbacks stacked two deep, and pulled down a copy of The Master and Margarita with a split spine. The margin notes in a stranger’s hand had started to feel like cousins. She found the page where she’d left a subway receipt as a bookmark and read the first line three times before the air shifted.

“As-salāmu ʿalayki, Nadine.” (Peace be upon you, Nadine / Arabic)

She looked up into a grin she’d known since they were both missing front teeth. “Wa ʿalaykumu s-salām, Alūsh,” she said, standing to hug him. (And upon you be peace, Alūsh / Arabic)

Ali was tall now, more beard than boy, hands grease-creased from the shop. He crouched to scratch Heka’s head; Heka pretended not to care and thumped his tail traitorously.

“How’s life, Miss Police?” he teased, collapsing into the chair at her side and stealing a triangle of bread so smoothly it counted as tradition.

“You don’t want to know.”

“Too late. I already asked.” He looked at her face properly then, and the grin quieted in the corners. “Bad night?”

“Long,” she said. “Hard.” She left it there, because what could you say that didn’t break something open at the wrong table?

He nodded like he understood the sentence she hadn’t spoken. “I heard they picked up Merza,” he said, voice casual, eyes not. Neighbourhood radar, every story came home, in time.

“Yeah,” she said, taking a sip of tea. “They did.”

“Good.” He put a warm palm on her shoulder for a second, squeezed, then let go. “When are you coming to the mosque? Sheikh Omar keeps asking you to talk to the boys about-” he waved a hand to include the whole chaotic city “-all of this.”

She smiled, lopsided. “You ask like I sleep.”

“You don’t,” he said. “So come on a Friday when you’re already awake.”

“I haven’t even been to church in a while,” she admitted, eyes on the steam rising from her glass. “Feels-” she searched for the word, found six, chose none, “-loud.”

He shrugged, kind. “Allah hears you over the noise. That’s His whole thing.” He pointed at the dogs. “Tell them to come by the shop. I’ll change the oil for free if they say please.”

“They’re greedy,” she warned. “They’ll eat your sockets.”

“Good. I hate those sockets,” he said, and stood, already backing away. He kissed the air near her temple the way the neighbourhood did, public tenderness with the volume turned down. “ʾEḥna benḥebbak, ma tebaʾāš gharib.” (We love you. Don’t be a stranger / Arabic)

She watched him cross the street and vanish into the bright mouth of the auto shop, radio already blaring a pop song that would be haunting every block by afternoon. Hassan came with the eggs he’d sworn to add and a paper cup of extra tea. “For your nerves,” he said, which was code for because I’m worried.

“Shukran, ʿammo.” (Thank you uncle / Arabic)

“Tell your brother he must let me win chess once in his life. I’m an old man; it’s cruel.”

“He’s not capable of mercy,” she deadpanned.

“Like you,” he sighed with love. “Go home before the day learns your name.”

ASTORIA - September 25, 2004 - 12:05 PM

Back at the house, the dogs galloped upstairs like a cavalry and presented each paw for washing because in Talia’s home cleanliness was a sacrament. Paws. Peepee. Butt. The indignity accepted with stoic sighs, because routine was safety and they were safe here.

She crossed the hall and opened the door to what used to be her parents’ room. The air shifted the way it does in spaces that remember. She’d remade it into a small church: icons on the walls in a soft halo, a brass candleholder with beeswax tapers, a low table with a bowl of holy water, a shelf of her mother’s theology texts, and her father’s history books side by side like they were still arguing gently about everything and nothing. The rug was a woven red that felt like warmth under her knees.

She lit a candle. Flame took with a tiny hungry sound. She kissed her fingers and touched them to her parents’ portrait; Miriam’s eyes a lake you could drink forever, Mikhail’s smile like the first chapter of a long story. “Ṣabāḥ el-kheir, Mama. Dobroye utro, Pap,” she said, and the words landed in the room like birds. (Good morning / Arabic & Russian)

The prayer beads were cool in her palm. She crossed herself; forehead, chest, right shoulder, left, and sank onto the rug. The city’s pulse faded to a muffled ocean. She let the beads slide, one, two, three, a rosary of breath. She tried to pray, and what came out first wasn’t a prayer so much as an inventory: Four months. Four months of children talking bravely on phones they shouldn’t have to know how to use. Four months of mothers counting breaths beside ER beds. Four months of men who lied like they breathed and women who apologized for bleeding. She had learned the smell of certain hallways and the weight of certain words. She had learned how to be gentle and how to be steel and how to hold the line when her hands shook.

It was changing her. Of course it was. She felt the case work in the tendons, how she moved, what she carried home. The precinct had its own tenderness, too; unexpected, worn smooth by use. Cragen’s Are you okay? that sounded exactly like Finish your report. Olivia’s steady hands and steady eyes, the way she could talk a storm down. Fin’s humour landing like a wool blanket. Even Stabler, who could set a room on fire by looking at it, had learned to lower his voice two shades when she touched a wall like it might bruise.

And then there was Munch.

She tried not to think his name in this room, but thoughts have their own keys. He’d become a hallway in her head she kept pretending not to walk down. Stupid Munch, sarcastic Munch, cynical Munch, kind Munch when he thought no one was looking. Handsome Munch. Driving-her-home Munch who never asked if she wanted to talk; he just drove with the windows cracked and the radio murmuring late-night jazz no station claimed, and somehow she arrived feeling like she’d spoken a hundred words out loud. That very same Munch she kissed on the cheek; quick, almost nothing, but her lips had remembered the warmth like it was a secret.

Stupid Munch with his stupid big ears and that nose that looked like it had read every book before she did. Stupid four divorces lined up like caution tape he walked past every morning. Stupid comb-over that he pretended was not a comb-over and somehow was perfect anyway, pointing in the exact, infuriating direction she wanted to tug. The stupid holsters. The stupid dress shirts that were always crisp even on days the world wasn’t. The tie knots that made her hands feel very, very unholy.

No. Not these thoughts. Inappropriate. Or if she was being honest, which she rarely was in this room, maybe not the thoughts themselves, but that one perfect, ruinous image: the squad room after hours, blinds drawn, the hum of the city muffled behind glass. His voice low, telling her exactly what line she’d crossed, and exactly how he intended to deal with it.

The weight of his hand settling at her waist, warm, claiming, drawing her forward until her hips brushed the desk. Her palms flattening on the cool wood as he stepped in close. The sound; sharp, metallic, of his belt unbuckling, the slide of leather through denim loops. His breath near her ear, the faint scent of coffee and aftershave, and the unbearable pause before-

“Stop it,” she whispered to the candle, cheeks hot in the empty room.

She pressed the beads to her heart until it hurt a little. “God,” she said softly, not sure which language to choose, so she chose all of them at once. “I don’t know how to carry this and be kind. I don’t know how to want what I want and stay right. If You’re listening, I’m not asking for peace. Just… accuracy. And the strength to keep choosing it.”

The doorframe held her mother’s scarf on a nail. She stood and brushed her fingers over the fringe like greeting a shoulder in passing. Her reflection in the glass of an icon looked like a woman who had not slept and had no intention of lying about it. “I wish you were here to guide me,” she told her mother, voice as steady as she could make it. To her father: “You’d say read more, worry less.” She smiled. “I’m doing one of those.”

She blew out the candle. Smoke lifted and curled, a ribbon of incense and bees and summer kitchens. In the quiet, the house breathed with her. Down the hall, three dogs resettled, dream-whuffing at some perfect park that never closed. Outside, Astoria cleared its throat and began another song.

Talia pressed her forehead to the cool wood of the door for a heartbeat. Then she straightened, rolled her shoulders back, and walked out to meet the day that always, always, remembered her name.

ASTORIA - September 25, 2004 - 8:49 PM

The sun had just gone down, leaving the streets in that soft glow before night fully settles. After the mess of thoughts she’d had earlier in her prayer room, Talia stayed in the living room for the rest of the evening, quietly reading. She hadn’t eaten, didn’t feel like it, and only noticed the time when the dogs started getting restless for their final walk of the day.

Outside, the last light slipped low behind the buildings, painting the sky a muted orange. She clipped their collars on but didn’t bother with leashes, letting them roam around her like they always did. Ramses, Anubis, and Heka trotted ahead as she stepped down onto the sidewalk.

The block was alive in the way she’d always known it, kids running and laughing in the street, teenagers she didn’t recognize smoking next to her building, the older men gathered around their usual backgammon boards on the sidewalk. The sight of it all made her chest loosen a little. This was home.

The dogs led the way toward the Russian Orthodox Church. Evening prayer had ended long ago, and she figured the place would be empty except for one person, Father Aleksei Petrov. He’d been a close friend of her father’s. They hadn’t met back in Russia, but here in Astoria, over countless cups of tea after liturgy, talking about history, exile, and faith.

And of course, when she turned the corner, there he was, standing outside like he’d been waiting.

“Is that a ghost I see?” he called, his warm, rusty voice carrying that thick Russian accent that had never faded, no matter how many decades he’d lived in New York.

She smirked, climbing. “Thought you didn’t believe in ghosts, Father.”

“I believe in the Holy Spirit,” he said, lifting one eyebrow.

The dogs halted at the bottom step, polite as courtiers. They knew this was boundary and blessing both.

“It’s been awhile,” she said, trying for lightness, failing.

“Usually every other week.” He didn’t ask, didn’t push, only waited with the patience of someone who had watched generations argue with God and still come back for a candle.

“Work,” she said, which was true and not the truth. Four months at SVU, four months of rooms that smelled like bleach and testimony, four months of voices that broke in the same place every time. The precinct had its own incense: copier toner and coffee, grief and fluorescent hum.

Father Aleksei stepped close, studying her the way icons study. “Doch’ Mikhaila Volkova ne zabyvayet tserkov’, v kotoroy yeyo vospitala.” he murmured, and the syllables were a hand on her back guiding her through a door she’d been avoiding. (A daughter of Mikhail Volkov does not forget the church that raised her / Russian)

The breath she’d been holding all day slid out. She glanced at the church doors and saw a hundred small ghosts: herself, knees scabbed, whispering to Lana during Liturgy; her father and Aleksei in the parish kitchen after, steam rising off chipped cups; Lana on the steps singing ‘Katyusha’ off-key until the priest himself gave up and joined.

“I should get the dogs home,” she said, already knowing she’d step inside if he asked her twice.

He didn’t. He only touched her cheek, thumb warm and fatherly. “Zazhgi svechu zavtra,” he said softly. “Za Mikhaila i za sebya tozhe.” (Light a candle tomorrow, for Mikhail and for yourself as well / Russian)

“I’ll try,” she answered, because promising felt like a vow she wasn’t ready to keep.

“Khrani tebya Bog,” he said. (May God protect you / Russian)

She descended the steps backward, a half-bow without meaning to, then turned. The dogs rose as if summoned. As they walked, people nodded, called her name, asked about her brothers, pressed pastries into her hands she didn’t remember agreeing to take. Anubis licked a toddler’s face with solemn ceremony; Heka permitted small hands to drum his ribs like a harmless storm; Ramses high-stepped like a show horse he’d never been.

This was home, which meant it was also an archive. Every building held something she could name. The deli with the mural of St. George and the dragon. The bodega where the owner had let Lana run a tab for gum and sunflower seeds. The upstairs window where Mrs. Aziz kept a plant she swore was the Prophet’s favourite. The back lot where she’d broken two teeth and the corner mailbox that still bore a nick from a summer night in 1994 when she’d thrown a bottle at a tall, comb-over detective who’d asked too many questions and not the right ones.

She returned the dogs, bathed them in quick, then took a bowl of plov back outside because September still let her pretend the stoop was a dining room. The night around her cooled into something tender. Down the block, a scuffed football skittered past under a spray of bare knees. Nico, Marianna’s nephew, saw her and waved as if he’d spotted a celebrity.

“Miss Talia! Can we borrow the dogs?”

She didn’t look up from her bowl. “Only if you bring them back uninjured.”

The shriek that followed could have lifted the dead. The dogs exploded into motion. Ramses carved loops like calligraphy; Anubis tripped over his joy, righted himself, howled; Heka performed his favourite play, become a wall, let the ball bounce off, bask in applause. Children became orbiting moons around them.

Across the way, a cluster of teenagers smoked in a corner that did not belong to them. They weren’t from here. The posture was wrong, the glance too sharp. Talia’s eyes slid over them like a warning.

“You have an extra?” she called, suddenly hungry for smoke.

They shuffled, everyone on this block knew the Amari-Volkov rowhouse, knew a detective lived here, knew which side of their own lungs their future was. One kid handed her a cigarette, then abandoned the street entirely. She put the filter to her lip, the cigarette bobbing slightly as she patted her trench pockets for a lighter she no longer carried, partly because she was trying to be better, partly because she kept forgetting she’d promised.

The paper stuck to her mouth when she muttered around it, “Damn kids,” low and almost affectionate, like she couldn’t decide if they were a nuisance or her entertainment for the evening.

“I got a light,” said a dry voice just outside the pool of lamplight.

This time she looked, just enough to catch him leaning on the railing of her steps like he’d been there for hours, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his coat, head tilted in that way he had when he was pretending not to be watching her.

John freaking Munch

Hair a little mussed, tie off-centre, his coat shrugging off the rules of tailoring. The lamplight picked out the tired lines on his face, the ones she’d learned to read as well as case notes. God help her, he looked… dangerous in that quiet, inconvenient way. The kind of dangerous you couldn’t quite outlaw.

It took effort to keep her voice flat. “You shouldn’t be here. Unless you’re here for my leftover rice.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Wanted to make sure my partner was okay after yesterday.”

A lie. And also, true. Which was his specialty.

Four months at SVU had taught her his tells; the way he scanned exits without moving his head; his doctrine of two coffees, one sarcasm, one silence; the brief, almost imperceptible pause when a victim’s story slipped past the barricades he kept around himself.

And in those same four months, he’d learned hers; the superstition in her fingers when they brushed her Nazar charm, the way her jaw went still when someone lied, the razor’s edge between her compassion and her temper, the exact burdens she let him carry: evidence bags, cups of bad coffee, but never the grief she tucked behind her eyes.

“You gonna stand there looking like a suspicious funeral guest,” she said, “or sit?”

He didn’t ask twice. Just lowered himself onto the stoop beside her with a groan that sounded half real, half for show. The space between them felt intentional.

The neighbourhood wrapped around them like a living thing; the deli bell chiming, a couple upstairs arguing softly in Greek, a TV laughing in Spanish. Across the street, the slap of backgammon tiles came down like verdicts.

“Usually, I see this block at three in the morning,” he said at last. “Didn’t know it looked like this when the world’s awake.” He nodded toward the church dome, catching the moon instead of the sun now. “Figures.”

“What figures?”

“That you belong in a place that looks like it remembers things on purpose.”

She offered him the bowl. “Plov,” she said. “Lamb, rice, garlic, pride.”

He made a sceptical face with his mouth only. “I’m familiar with three of those food groups.”

“You cook, Munch?” she asked, and the question was both a test and an invitation.

“I speculate,” he said. “And I’ve been known to build a sandwich that can make grown men cry.”

“I also eat cereal out of a mug,” she said, as if offering a flaw to balance the ledger.

He took a bite, surprised by his own yes. “You look different,” he said, and immediately wondered if that was the wrong line to throw into this precise night.

She tipped her head, letting lamplight braid the dark in her hair. “Good different?”

He studied her for a moment. Not her blouse, not the way her hair caught the light, her. “Real.”

What he meant: You’re not wearing your armour. What he remembered: a younger version of her in 1994, all fire and sharp corners, refusing to be put in the box he’d mentally labelled ‘angry girl.’ What he knew now: she’d forged herself into something stronger, steadier, and it was killing him to realize he liked that even more.

A shout splintered the thought. “Miss Talia!” Hamid, Dunya’s nephew, skidded to a stop, panting. “Heka’s cheating! He’s just laying there like a wall and we can’t get past him!”

She cupped her hands. “That’s strategy, habibi!” (My dear / Arabic)

The corners of Munch’s mouth tugged up without permission. The laugh came low, warm, escaped before he could catch it. He didn’t laugh often in front of her. It sat between them like an unwrapped gift.

He watched her watching the kids and thought: This is what you look like when you’re not bracing for impact. And then, the thought he didn’t want to name: You don’t visit your partner’s stoop. You don’t memorize the way her block smells like bread and incense. You don’t come because you’re afraid a case took too much out of her and you want to make sure it leaves her enough to stand on in the morning.

He looked away before the thought got a name.

On cue, someone upstairs began singing to a baby. Across the street, old men roared at a move on the backgammon board like it had geopolitical implications. Nico shouted that Ramses had scored with his tail. Heka lay on his side and contemplated becoming a saint.

“Your block loves you,” Munch said, like he was stating a line of testimony.

“They loved my parents,” she corrected, but softer. “That’s the thing about church. About people like this. They keep receipts. When the world goes stupid, they show up with soup and cigarettes, and the priest says your father’s name like it never left his tongue.”

He let himself imagine, for just one unwatched second, the way her name might sound coming from a pulpit, wrapped in prayer. His hand itched to find her knee, her wrist, any point of contact, just to see if she’d lean into it, and that was exactly why he kept both hands still. He banished the thought as treason.

“You came to check on me,” she said, watching a lamppost halo his profile like a bad idea. She said it like a fact that wanted no flowers.

“I came because we’re partners,” he said, and neither of them believed that was the whole sentence.

Her lips curved slightly, accepting the fiction. “Then as your partner, you should know Heka’s tactical innovations might disrupt the balance of power on this street.”

“We should open an investigation,” he said. “Stakeout. I’ll bring the sandwiches.”

“And I’ll bring the incense.”

A silence followed, full, not empty.

She reached for the cigarette between her lips. “Got that light?”

He leaned in, closer than he needed to, until the faint warmth of him slid across her cheek. The scent of coffee and his aftershave threaded through the air, enough to make her forget the flame for a heartbeat. He flicked the lighter, its tiny snap loud between them. The glow lit her eyes first, then her mouth.

She inhaled, lips closing around the filter, and the taste of smoke tangled with the trace of his cologne that had stayed on the air between them. It made her want to lean in again, for reasons that had nothing to do with the cigarette. For a second, his pulse betrayed him. When she exhaled, the smoke curled between them like something that knew too much.

She held the cigarette out, and his fingers grazed hers in the handover, not an accident, not quite deliberate. It was the lightest brush, but it landed in her chest like a heavier thing. He didn’t smoke, just tapped ash into the gutter, letting the ember die slow.

“You ever notice,” he murmured, eyes on the church, “how some places keep people from falling apart even when there’s nothing left to hold onto?”

She followed his gaze. The dome, now silvered by the moon, looked like a shoulder you could lean your whole life against. “It’s not the place,” she said. “It’s the hands that built it.”

He nodded. And somewhere behind his careful expression, he was back in ’94 again, remembering the girl who would’ve burned herself down. Wondering if he’d be here when she decided to light another match.

“Miss Talia!” Nico again, triumphant. “Ramses scored three goals! We’re taking them around the block!”

“Be back by ten,” she called. “Or they turn into pumpkins.”

The kids saluted like bandits. The dogs swarmed them like they’d been enlisted.

“You trust them?” Munch asked.

“With my dogs?” she said. “With my life.”

He let that hang. It was heavier than it sounded. A breeze lifted, carrying a thin ribbon of old incense from the church, the memory of wax and myrrh threaded with the laughter of children and the far-off metallic squeal of the subway turning itself inside out under Queens. Talia closed her eyes for one count, one, and opened them steadier.

“Tell me a conspiracy,” she said suddenly. “Not the tinfoil-hat kind. The kind that’s really about grief.”

He thought for a beat, of Rasputin, of men in rooms and power behind a curtain. “Every conspiracy,” he said, “starts because someone can’t accept the randomness of loss.”

She nodded like he’d passed. “My father would’ve argued with you for hours.”

“I would’ve let him win,” he said, and surprised himself with how much he meant it.

“Liar,” she said, but the word softened between them.

The football thudded against the curb; Heka chose to bless the block by rolling onto his back and refusing to move. Old men crowed over a backgammon upset like the world had tilted toward justice. Upstairs, the baby stopped crying. The dome held the moon without complaint.

They stayed until the kids returned with the dogs like an honour guard. Ramses rested his head on her knee, Anubis flopped against her side, Heka just looked smug. The cigarette was long dead in his fingers. Quiet had become the bravest thing to choose.

When he stood, it was slow. “See you in the morning.”

“See you,” she replied.

He made it three steps before turning back. “And Talia-”

She waited.

“Sometimes… standing outside the door is harder than going in.”

He didn’t wait for her answer. Just walked into the night.

She watched him go, the church dome silver in the corner of her eye. Tomorrow could wait. She reached for Ramses’ ears, Anubis’s paw, Heka’s impossible calm.

“Let’s go home,” she murmured.

The block exhaled. The dome kept its watch. And the stoop, for one fleeting moment, felt like the safest place in America.

Chapter Text

ASTORIA - October 4, 2004 - 9:03 AM

The morning began with the faint chill that hinted winter was coming. Astoria hadn’t shaken off its weekend quiet yet, streets lined with corner bodegas opening their shutters, the smell of fresh bread and coffee winding through the air. Inside the rowhouse, Talia tied the belt of her dark grey trench coat, straightened the cuffs of her blouse, and tried to quiet the ache in her chest that came every Monday morning.

Five months at SVU, and she still hadn’t decided if the place was eating her alive or stitching her back together. Maybe both. She’d learned the rhythms, the walk through the squad room, the glares of fluorescent lights at 7 AM, the shuffle of case files and muted conversations about bodies and broken families. She’d learned her partner too. Or maybe not learned him, Munch was a maze, all sarcasm and cigarettes he pretended not to smoke. But he had a routine now: every morning, like clockwork, he showed up outside her house in Astoria.

He called it convenience. Said it was ‘on the way.’ It wasn’t. Not even close. But she didn’t argue.

This morning, she’d already walked the dogs, their paws clicking against the pavement. They were lazing by the window now, watching for the familiar figure. Talia was halfway through locking the door when the knock came; sharp, precise, impatient.

“He’s early,” she muttered to the dogs, who answered with wagging tails and low whines.

When she opened the door, there he was. John Munch. Trench coat. Sunglasses. That eternal air of someone who’d already solved the case but wasn’t going to tell you until you caught up.

Talia raised a brow. “You know, Munch, I’m starting to think you actually like spending time with me.”

He smirked, dry as always. “You presume much, kiddo.” The line was an obvious lie, wrapped in sarcasm. The corners of his mouth twitched, betraying what he wouldn’t admit. “We’ve got a case.”

“Of course we do.” She reached for her keys, slipping them into her pocket with a sigh. Her coat brushed against his as she stepped past him, his was black, hers slate-grey, the pair of them looking like mismatched shadows in the morning light. “So, what’s the damage?”

He adjusted his sunglasses, his tone suddenly flat, professional. “Shooting at P.S. 74.”

Her stomach dropped. “How many kids?”

“Three shot. One dead. Two on their way to Bellevue.” His voice was low, steady. The words hit like stones, the kind you couldn’t dodge.

For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the barking of a dog down the block and the hum of a passing bus. Talia breathed out slowly, steadying herself. She’d seen plenty in Narcotics; overdoses, gang shootouts, kids used as runners, but SVU was different. It cut differently.

Munch opened the car door for her; a small gesture he’d never call chivalry. Just habit. She slid into the passenger seat, her mind already running through possible suspects, motives, the nightmare of parents being called.

As he settled in behind the wheel, she asked quietly, “And where are we going?”

He glanced at her, then back at the road. “Got a suspect. Fin’s meeting us there.”

The car rumbled to life. They pulled away from the curb, the city swallowing them up in its morning noise, sirens in the distance, a street vendor shouting in Spanish, the faint pulse of hip-hop from a passing car.

For a long moment, neither spoke. Then Talia broke the silence, her voice softer, almost teasing. “You really could’ve just let me meet you at the precinct, you know. Saved yourself the detour.”

Munch kept his eyes on the road, his mouth curving into the faintest grin. “And risk starting the day without Cuban coffee? What kind of partner would that make me?”

She smiled despite herself, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“Accurate,” he muttered. Then, after a beat, his tone shifted again, quieter: “But maybe not wrong.”

The words lingered in the air, heavier than either of them intended. Talia turned to the window, hiding the way her chest tightened. She’d grown used to suppressing the flicker of something that wasn’t professional, something that sparked when he made her laugh, when his cynicism softened just enough to let the truth bleed through.

She pressed her lips together, the city blurring past. This wasn’t the time. Not with dead kids waiting for their names to be written into evidence files.

But still, five months in, and the routine had already started to feel like something else. Something she was terrified to name.

The car sped on, toward another crime scene, another day. And in the small silence between them, unspoken words pressed against the glass, waiting.

MAYHEW RESIDENCE - October 4, 2004 - 9:45 AM

The Mayhew building was one of those Queens walk-ups with peeling paint around the doorframe and neighbours watching from cracked windows. A patrol car sat out front, lights spinning lazily, doing nothing to calm the block. Talia adjusted the strap of her coat as she and Munch stepped up onto the stoop.

Fin was already leaning against the railing, arms crossed, eyes sharp. “What took you guys so long?” he muttered.

Munch didn’t miss a beat. “Princess needed to kiss all three dogs goodbye.” His smirk slid sideways toward Talia.

She rolled her eyes but didn’t bite. Her cheeks heated anyway, damn him. “Better manners than you.”

“Point taken,” Fin said with a grin, pushing off the railing.

They entered together. The apartment smelled of yesterday’s fried food and too many cigarettes. Family photos lined the walls in frames that hadn’t been dusted in months. The furniture was old, sagging, a life lived pay check to pay check.

Other uniforms were already inside, canvassing, but Talia stuck close to Munch and Fin, notebook in hand. Narcotics had taught her to watch corners, but here; it was about listening, reading, knowing when to push and when to soften. Munch had been drilling that into her from day one.

The three of them started in the living room.

Munch bent down, pulled open a drawer in the side table, and came up with a gun. His voice was razor sharp. “A .380 semi-automatic is not a toy, Mrs. Mayhew.”

Across the room, Mrs. Mayhew froze. A boy, Johnny, shrunk behind her, eyes darting. She turned on him in a flash. “I told you never to go near that!” Her hand twitched, ready to strike.

“Whoa!” Fin cut in, stepping forward with that commanding presence he had. “You’re in enough trouble already.”

“What’d I do?” Mrs. Mayhew snapped, turning her fury toward them instead.

Munch lifted the weapon, tilting it slightly. “This reeks of cleaning oil.”

He held it close enough for Talia to smell, and without hesitation she leaned in, inhaled. The sharp tang of solvent caught the back of her throat. She met Munch’s eyes, the smallest flicker of approval flashing in his. Her mentor, testing her.

“You covering for your son, Mrs. Mayhew?” Fin asked, arms crossed.

“I clean it once a week. So, it won’t jam if I ever need to use it,” she said, chin high, defiance sharp.

Talia’s pen scratched across the paper, but her voice came calm, even. “Weekly maintenance for a weapon you supposedly never use?” She arched a brow, just enough to let the lie hang in the air.

Munch didn’t wait. “Safety isn’t on. No lock on the drawer. I guess a child lock is out of the question, huh?” His tone was dry as dust, the kind that cut without needing to rise.

“You got a permit for that?” Fin asked, stepping forward.

“It was a gift from my brother.” Mrs. Mayhew’s voice cracked a little as she busied herself with a tray on the counter, her hands shaking.

“And you never registered it?” Talia pressed, head tilted, soft but insistent.

“I was supposed to?” she shot back, irritation bubbling.

Munch’s jaw tightened. Fin was already pulling out his pad.

“Mrs. Mayhew, we’re gonna have to charge you with possession of a weapon and endangering the welfare of a child,” Fin said.

“Get outta here.” She tried to wave them off, the tray clattering against the counter.

“And a tech needs to run a gunshot residue test on Johnny,” Munch said, his tone cutting through her protest like steel.

“Why? He hadn’t even left the house yet. There is no way my Johnny shot those kids.”

Talia stepped closer, voice lowering. She knew this rhythm; mothers, always mothers, clinging to innocence like a lifeline. “The tech still needs to run the test. Just for safety. It’s procedure.” Her eyes softened, almost pleading. “Let’s just make sure. For his sake.”

Mrs. Mayhew stared at her, something unspoken passing between them. Maybe she saw it, the grief buried deep in Talia’s eyes, the kind of grief only another mother or daughter could recognize. Slowly, reluctantly, Mrs. Mayhew nodded.

That was their cue.

The three detectives stepped back toward the door. The air in the apartment was stifling, heavy with denial and cigarette smoke.

On the way out, Munch leaned just close enough for Talia to hear, his voice low, meant only for her. “Not bad, kiddo. You’ve got the eyes for this job. People tell you things they’d never tell me.”

She swallowed, fighting the flush creeping into her throat. “Maybe because I don’t lace every sentence with sarcasm.”

“Give it time,” he said, smirking as he opened the door for her.

Fin rolled his eyes. “You two done with your comedy routine? We got a school shooting to solve.”

The three of them stepped out into the Queens morning, the city buzzing around them, each of them carrying the weight of different truths.

And Talia, her heart caught somewhere between grief and the slow burn of something she refused to name, followed Munch to the car, her notes clutched tight in her hand.

P.S. 74 - October 4, 2004 - 11:38 AM

The sun had already risen high, but it gave no warmth. The air over P.S. 74 was thin, brittle with the kind of chill that clung to concrete rooftops. A yellow police tarp flapped lazily against the chain-link fencing; CSU gear scattered in neat disarray. Reporters hovered down on the street, their long lenses turned skyward, waiting for a glimpse of a story they didn’t understand.

Talia followed Munch across the gravel-coated roof, her heels crunching softly against grit and cigarette butts long ground into the tar. She squinted against the glare of the city skyline, her trench coat pulled tight against a sudden gust of wind. Even after months in SVU, the sight of schools cordoned off by tape left her chest hollow. Places meant for children should never be stained with this kind of silence.

CSU had already marked off a corner behind a ventilation unit, the vantage point where the shooter had perched. Munch slipped his phone from his pocket, his expression unreadable behind dark glasses.

"My left or your left?" he muttered into the receiver, stepping to the side with his usual deadpan.

Talia’s lips curved into the ghost of a smile. She leaned slightly against the ledge, watching him with something dangerously close to fondness. “You look ridiculous squinting like that,” she teased softly, her voice meant for him alone. But her eyes lingered on the crease of his brow longer than she meant them to. The sun caught his hair, the deep lines on his forehead, the way sarcasm always lived at the edge of his voice. God help me, I’m starting to think that’s charming.

He clicked his phone shut and pocketed it. “The shooter picked them off from right here.”

She exhaled slowly, pressing her gloved hand against the rooftop railing. “From this height… he had the whole schoolyard in his scope.”

"Got something," one of the CSU techs called from behind them.

Talia pushed off the ledge and moved closer, the notebook already in her hand. She tried to focus on the facts, the work, not the way Munch’s hand brushed the small of her back as he guided her through the narrow space toward the find. It wasn’t much, just a hand steadying her past CSU equipment, but it left a heat that lingered longer than it should. He didn’t comment, and she pretended not to notice.

“Cozy little sniper’s nest,” she muttered, surveying the arrangement, a flattened spot on the gravel, food wrappers, the faint trace of boot prints CSU had already photographed.

“Perfect location,” Vizcarrondo agreed, crouched by the smokestack. Talia remembered her; sharp eyes, quick with a joke, always respectful with her.

“Complete with a little hiding place,” Munch added, his voice dry. “What’d he leave us?”

Vizcarrondo’s lips twitched. “Looks like he was smart enough to pick up his brass. But remember that line ‘leave the gun, take the cannoli’?”

She straightened and tugged a rifle free from the hollow of the smokestack.

Talia’s breath hitched as the sunlight glinted off the steel. “That explains why no one saw a weapon afterwards.”

“Folding stock, bolt action, internal magazine,” Vizcarrondo narrated, handing it over carefully. “High-powered scope and a flash suppressor.”

Talia pulled on gloves, the leather stretching snug across her fingers. She crouched low, examining the rifle with clinical precision, but her heart thrummed at the weight of it. A gun meant for war, hidden on a school roof. She pressed the butt gently against her shoulder, aligning her eye with the scope. The playground below swam into focus, its swings twisting gently in the wind. She dropped the rifle back into her lap, her stomach tight.

“I think we can rule out little Johnny Mayhew,” Munch deadpanned, one brow raised above his glasses.

Talia shot him a sidelong glance, her voice low. “Johnny barely knows how to tie his shoes. This? This was deliberate.” Her lips twitched at his raised brow, almost smiling despite the horror of the scene. It struck her how easily he pulled her back from the edge with nothing but a look.

Vizcarrondo nodded grimly. “This is a precision sniper rifle. Kind you use with a specific target in mind.”

Her pen scratched against her notebook as she carefully copied the serial numbers, every digit pressed hard enough to leave an imprint. “Which kid was he gunning for?” she asked quietly, the question hanging heavy in the air.

The silence that followed said more than words. Children weren’t supposed to be targets. Not like this.

“Time to find out,” Munch finally said, his voice softer than before. He slipped his hands into his coat pockets, then pushed the stairwell door open with his shoulder. “Ladies first,” he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear. Sarcasm usually coated everything he said, but not this time. It was gentler, almost old-fashioned.

Talia lingered a second longer, her eyes flicking back to the playground below. The laughter of children should’ve been echoing up here. Instead, the sound was gone, replaced by sirens and whispers. She swallowed hard, then turned and followed Munch.

For a moment on the landing, their shoulders brushed again, closer than necessary. Neither of them moved away. The silence felt charged, but neither broke it.

He’s been oddly kind these past few weeks, she thought, her chest tightening as she stepped into the dim stairwell.

And maybe that was the problem.

Because she was starting to look forward to these moments, the half-smiles, the subtle touches, the way he made space for her without saying a word. And if she admitted it out loud, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stop.

Because kindness, from John Munch, was more dangerous than any rifle left on a rooftop.

SVU Precinct - October 4, 2004 - 2:46 PM

The bullpen was alive with its usual late-afternoon chaos; phones ringing, printers grinding out arrest reports, the muted chatter of detectives piecing together a dozen different tragedies. The windows along the far wall glared with pale autumn light, casting long rectangles across the squad room floor.

At her desk, Talia pushed a strand of hair back from her face and twisted the rest into a quick knot at the base of her neck. A pencil and two capped markers were already tucked behind her ear. Her prayer beads dangled from her right hand, the beads clicking softly as she spun them around her fingers while the system loaded another page. The notepad in front of her was already filled with tight lines of handwriting; English, and Cyrillic, the margin cluttered with half-thoughts and arrows pointing to names and dates.

She was already halfway through running the rifle’s serial number through the national trace system, her fingers moving with practiced speed over the keyboard. The gun had been wiped clean, no prints, no DNA. It didn’t matter. There was always a trail if you looked hard enough.

Munch leaned back in his chair a few feet away, pretending to scan the affidavit on his desk, but really? He was watching her. Watching the way her brow creased when she concentrated, the rhythm of those beads in her hand, the way she tapped the cap of her pen against the paper when the system lagged. Rookie nerves disguised as composure. She thought no one noticed. He noticed everything.

She rose from her chair with a small sigh, gathering her notepad and a handful of markers before moving to the glass board. With the prayer beads looped loosely around her wrist, she started writing, neat block letters mapping the rifle’s journey across the country. Her movements were sharp, efficient, but her lips tightened when she wrote Staten Island.

Munch caught himself staring again. Proud, sure. But there was something else in the way his chest tightened as he watched her. Something he refused to name.

“John, Amari, where are we with the gun trace?” Cragen’s voice carried as he strode back into the squad room, coffee in hand. He didn’t stop moving until he was standing at the edge of the glass board.

Munch straightened. “On a cross-country tour. Amari’s run the number.” He joined her at the board, eyes flicking once more to the Cyrillic scribble in the margin. He couldn’t read it, but he liked that it was there, her fingerprint on the case.

Talia stepped aside just enough for Cragen to see the board, marker still in her hand. “It was lovingly manufactured in Sturgis, South Dakota,” she began, her tone laced with dry humour as she underlined the state name. “Made its way to a wholesale distributor in Brainerd, Minnesota. Who then shipped it to a whimsically named little shop called ‘GUN HO!’ on Staten Island.” She underlined the shop name twice, her lips quirking wryly.

She didn’t look at Cragen when she said it. She looked at Munch, just for a second. He smirked faintly. Yeah. She was learning.

“When?” Cragen asked.

“Less than a month ago. GUN HO! sold it last Thursday,” Munch answered, flipping through his notes.

Cragen’s brows knit. “We have a legal purchase?”

“Complete with loophole,” Talia replied, marker squeaking as she circled Staten Island. “It’s a long gun, so no background checks are required.” She spun the prayer beads once around her finger, the gesture sharp, annoyed.

“Cash sale,” Cragen muttered, exasperation in his voice.

“Of course,” Talia added, shrugging one shoulder. Her voice was flat, but underneath it lay the sting of inevitability. Another loophole. Another kid dead.

“Buyer’s signature on the affidavit?” Cragen asked.

Munch reached across his desk, pulled the paper free, and taped it up on the board. “Yeah, but it’s illegible and I guarantee you; it is bogus.”

The three of them leaned in to study the scrawl.

“Okay, well, looks like, uh, ‘S. Brockwull’ or, uh, ‘Rockwell,’” Cragen guessed, tilting his head.

“First initial could be ‘G’?” Talia suggested, tilting her head. She pointed with her marker, a smudge of blue ink staining the side of her thumb. “Who made the sale?”

“The owner of GUN HO!” Munch replied. “His name is... Brian Ackerman.”

“Well, he did a pretty half-assed job,” Talia muttered, scribbling his name onto the board. “Didn’t get a clear signature or a full first name. We’ve basically got nothing. Except that he doesn’t give a damn.”

“Go talk to Mr. Ackerman,” Cragen ordered.

Talia blinked, surprised. She hadn’t expected him to send her out point on the interview. Cragen caught the flicker of uncertainty in her face. “Training wheels off, Amari.” His voice was firm, but not unkind. Then he turned and walked away, already barking for Olivia across the bullpen.

Talia stood still for a moment, the beads wound tight between her fingers, the weight of responsibility settling heavy in her chest. She turned to look at Munch, half expecting him to cut her down, to remind her she was still green.

But he was just watching her. Really watching. Not the way you watch a rookie, but the way you watch someone you’re betting on. Pride flickered in his eyes. Pride, and something softer, something he’d never put into words.

“Well,” he said finally, his tone dry but his mouth curving, “let’s go talk to Mr. Ackerman.”

Her lips tugged into a small, involuntary smile. She tried to smother it, but it lingered. “Let’s,” she replied, her voice low.

They walked out side by side, coats brushing, the faint sound of her beads clicking between her fingers as she shoved her notepad under her arm.

Munch kept his gaze forward, but his thoughts trailed where he couldn’t afford them to. The kid was sharp. Smarter than she gave herself credit for. And maybe he liked watching her prove it a little too much.

He pulled the bullpen door open for her, his dry mutter barely audible as they stepped into the corridor. “You’re gonna make me look bad, kid.”

She glanced up at him, the corner of her mouth tugging again. “That’s the goal, Munchie.”

The door swung shut behind them, cutting off the noise of the bullpen. Just two detectives, trench coats trailing, headed back into the city, carrying case files, unspoken tension, and things neither of them were ready to name.

Chapter Text

STATEN ISLAND - October 4, 2004 - 8:13 PM

The drive across the Verrazzano felt longer than usual. Staten Island always did. By the time Munch pulled into the deserted strip mall parking lot, the sky was a deep navy, streetlights flickering over cracked asphalt and the hollow quiet of shops long closed for the night.

He cut the engine, staring at the storefront ahead: GUN HO! The metal gates were half-pulled, neon letters buzzing faintly in the window. The place looked abandoned, the kind of hollow, ugly space where nothing good could grow.

Talia arched a brow, stepping out into the night air. “Lovely place,” she muttered, her voice edged with sarcasm, trench coat brushing her legs as she joined him on the sidewalk.

Munch smirked. “Only the best for Staten Island.”

They approached the glass door; grime streaked across its surface. Munch banged hard on it with his fist. “Anybody in there?”

For a moment, nothing. Then movement. A boy emerged from the shadows of the shop, pressing closer to the glass. He couldn’t have been older than sixteen; face smooth, expression guarded but too practiced for someone his age.

“I’m sorry. We’re closed. What is this regarding, please?” he asked, polite, rehearsed.

Munch tilted his head, his suspicion sharpening. “A little young to be working in a gun store, aren’t you?”

The boy straightened his shoulders. “I’m sixteen, sir. My dad’s the owner.”

Talia stepped forward, her gaze steady. “What’s your name?”

“Kyle. Kyle Ackerman.”

She glanced at Munch, their silent exchange saying the same thing: this didn’t smell right.

“Your dad leaves you here all alone?” Munch pressed.

“Yeah. I sweep up as part of my allowance.”

Talia softened her voice, but not her stare. “Kyle, you need to open this door.”

He hesitated, jaw working. She knew that look, saw it in kids she’d arrested running drugs in Queens, in teenagers covering for brothers or fathers they feared more than the police. Too innocent, too clean.

After a beat, Kyle reluctantly unlocked the door. The detectives stepped inside. The air was heavy with oil and metal, the walls lined with rifles, pistols, shotguns, all gleaming under fluorescent light.

Kyle stiffened. “Excuse me. Do you have a warrant?” Panic crept into his voice.

Munch didn’t miss a beat. “For what? We’re investigating the string of burglaries your dad had.” His tone was casual, but Talia caught the edge in it; he was lying, but his suspicion was already burning.

“We thought we’d check the security system,” she added smoothly, letting a trace of smugness curl her words.

Kyle shifted from foot to foot. “Can you come back tomorrow?”

Talia’s eyes roamed the walls of weaponry, her stomach knotting. She’d never liked guns, loathed them, really. The only reason she carried one was because the badge demanded it. Even then, she never chambered unless duty forced her hand. Her father had drilled into her that firearms were tools of oppression, not freedom. And here was a child, barely sixteen, standing in a room lined with them like wallpaper.

“You know,” she said evenly, “I don’t feel comfortable leaving a kid alone with all these weapons and ammo.”

Kyle bristled. “I’ve been around guns all my life.”

She shook her head, muttering under her breath, “That’s the problem.”

“You can’t be back there, sir,” Kyle added quickly as Munch moved behind the counter.

“Just want to check your security,” Munch said, already nosing near the register. “Make sure your dad doesn’t lose any more inventory.”

That’s when they heard it.

A loud, hollow banging from the back room.

Talia’s head snapped toward the sound, her eyes narrowing. “I thought you said there was no one else here.”

Kyle’s face faltered. “It’s none of your business.”

“Could be our burglar,” Munch said, already moving toward the noise.

“No, it’s not!” Kyle stepped forward, panic rising. He followed as Talia and Munch walked toward the back. “Hey, look, I’m serious! You cannot go down there!”

They didn’t stop. Talia pushed the door open, revealing a staircase. The smell hit first, damp concrete, ink, and something acrid. They descended.

Nothing could have prepared them.

The basement was a shrine of hate. A massive Nazi flag covered the back wall, its red and black stark under a single hanging bulb. Stacks of cardboard boxes lined the floor, spilling over with flyers plastered in white supremacist slogans.

Talia’s breath caught. Her chest tightened, memories flashing unbidden: 9/11’s aftermath, standing in uniform while strangers spat slurs at her, told her to ‘go back,’ the weight of suspicion in every glance at her surname. She blinked it back, her voice ice.

“Damn,” Munch muttered, stepping forward, fury seeping through his sarcasm. “There’s something you don’t see every day.”

“So, what do you do here, huh?” Talia demanded, her voice sharp, cutting through the silence. “Stockpile hate between broom sweeps?”

A woman emerged from the shadows, carrying another box filled with flyers. Her hair was stringy, her eyes hard. She set the box down and answered flatly: “Exercise our First Amendment right to free speech.”

Munch picked up one of the leaflets, reading aloud, his voice dripping disgust: “‘The reason the Jews made up the Holocaust.’”

Talia gave a bitter laugh at the sheer audacity. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The woman’s lips twisted.

“I’m sorry, Star,” Kyle muttered, his voice small.

Star stepped closer, her gaze narrowing on Munch. She leaned in, sniffing him like an animal, then recoiled. Her face contorted. “Jew?” she sneered.

Talia’s body tensed instantly. She stepped forward, her voice sharp as a blade. “Are you this boy’s mother?”

Star turned, gave Talia a once-over, then muttered under her breath, “Terrorist.”

Talia’s eyes hardened, but she didn’t flinch. She’d been called worse.

“I’m a friend of the family,” Star snapped. “What’s your business here?”

Munch’s jaw flexed. “We’re investigating the shooting at P.S. 74.”

“What about it?” Star asked, annoyance thick in her tone.

“An African-American boy was murdered,” Talia said, her words deliberate. “With a rifle purchased right upstairs.”

Star’s lips curled. “Oh. You mean that dead little jungle bunny?”

The silence that followed was heavy. Munch’s knuckles whitened around the flyer in his hand. Talia felt something sharp twist inside her chest, grief and fury colliding. She let her mouth curl into a smirk, masking the ache. “She’s all torn up about it.”

Munch tore the flyer clean in half.

“Hey, you can’t do that,” Star snapped. “This is not a police state. You are destroying private property and you’re trespassing.”

“Well, we were just leaving,” Munch said coldly. He reached out, gripping Star’s arm firmly. “You mind coming along with us?”

Star yanked free, spitting venom. “I’m not going anywhere with you, kike.” She slapped him across the face.

For a second, Talia froze, heat flaring in her chest at the sight of his cheek reddening. The anger that surged wasn’t just professional. It was personal.

“Assaulting a police officer,” Talia snapped, stepping forward. Her voice was steel, steady as she grabbed Star and forced her wrists behind her back. “Well, now you’re guaranteed a ride with us.”

“Oh, like hell I am. I don’t recognize the authority of the puppets of the Zionist-occupied government!” Star hissed, struggling. She turned toward Kyle. “Call your daddy on your cell phone. Tell him I’m being taken political prisoner.”

Talia marched her up the stairs, every word Star spat ricocheting off her like poison. As she recited Star’s rights in a clipped, precise voice, she stole a glance at Munch. He was behind her, one hand clamped on Kyle’s shoulder, his face carved in stone.

Something twisted in her chest again; not just fury, not just sorrow. She wanted to reach out, to touch his hand, to steady him. But she swallowed it down, kept moving.

There were dead kids waiting for justice. And this basement of hate was just another circle of hell they’d have to walk through together.

SVU PRECINCT - October 4, 2004 - 9:15 PM

The ride to the precinct was quiet in the way that only seething silence could be. The hum of the Crown Vic filled the gaps where conversation might have lived, broken only by the venom that dripped from the backseat.

Star had made herself comfortable enough to spit poison into the air, tossing out racial slurs like confetti: kike, commie, terrorist. Words that still landed like blows no matter how many times you’d heard them. Talia sat in the passenger seat, her jaw tight, hands folded in her lap, eyes forward. Munch’s hands clenched the wheel just a little too tightly, knuckles pale.

Talia forced herself to breathe evenly, but the words crawled under her skin. Terrorist. Always the one that cut deepest since 9/11, a wound that never healed. She thought of her mother in Astoria, head wrapped in a veil on her way to church, how strangers used to glare like she carried bombs instead of prayer candles. She thought of Karim, shouting at protests, calling out injustice until it killed him.

And then she thought of Munch beside her. She wanted to reach out; take his hand, squeeze his fingers, kiss his cheek, something to tell him she saw him. That she knew what those words did to him too. Jew York City. She couldn’t imagine the years of it. New York. Baltimore. The sneers, the threats, the muttered comments when people thought you couldn’t hear. She wanted to tell him he wasn’t alone. But professionalism held her in place. She stayed still, head forward, her silence saying what her lips couldn’t.

When they pulled up to the precinct, the city noise greeted them, sirens two blocks over, a vendor calling out bagels and coffee, the distant rumble of the subway beneath the pavement. Talia stepped out first, smoothing the trench coat over her hips as if the gesture could iron out her fury. She reached into the back and grabbed Star by the arm, firm but steady, while Munch hauled Kyle out beside her.

Star, true to form, couldn’t keep her mouth shut. “Clean up all the crime in Jew York City? Or are you just afraid to do the job you’re actually paid for? Chasing down gang-banging, crack-smoking killer spics and coons.”

Her voice echoed across bullpen, slicing through the morning bustle. The last words were aimed at Fin, who had just stepped through the doors with his usual unshakable calm.

Talia’s stomach lurched. She saw Fin’s jaw tighten; his shoulders stiffen. Before she could even draw breath, he snapped back. “So, you know, I’m employed here.”

“Affirmative action, hard at work, ladies and gentlemen,” Star sneered.

Talia’s blood boiled, but she kept her face smooth. Astoria had taught her to hide the fire until the right moment. Her community had survived centuries of slurs and survived by meeting them with quiet dignity, or with sharp tongues when it mattered. Right now, her job was control. She flicked her eyes at Olivia and Elliot, who were crossing the bullpen floor toward her, and gestured subtly. Take her. Get her away before I break something.

“Right this way, son,” Munch said, his voice dry as dust, as he guided Kyle up the stairs. His hand at the boy’s shoulder was deceptively light but firm enough to leave no room for choice.

Talia held onto Star, dragging her through the maze of desks toward the interrogation rooms. The woman’s venom didn’t stop. “Wait, wait! Well, now, wait a minute. You can’t separate us. I demand to act as his guardian and be present when you interrogate him.”

Munch didn’t even look back. He just kept walking Kyle toward the second floor, his trench coat flaring like a shadow behind him.

“Honey, he’s not under arrest,” Talia muttered, rolling her eyes as she shoved Star toward the glass-walled room.

“We’re only gonna let him stay here till his old man comes and picks him up,” Munch tossed over his shoulder.

Kyle’s voice carried from the stairs, young but already hardened. “Do not tell them anything, Star. You wait until my father gets here. He’ll know exactly what to do.”

Star craned her neck back to answer, defiant even with Talia’s grip on her arm. “Don’t you worry, honey. Of course he’s gonna know what to do. He’s gonna sue your ass. I hope you’ve got yourself a really good shyster Jew lawyer.”

Talia didn’t flinch. She just shoved Star into the interrogation room and slammed the door shut with a sharp metallic click. She leaned against it, arms folded, lips curved in a smirk colder than ice. “Oh, I got a good one,” she shot back, voice dripping with acid.

Elliot and Olivia arrived just then, their eyes hard, ready for the interview. Talia pushed herself off the doorframe, brushing past them with a nod.

“You good?” Elliot asked, searching her face for cracks.

“Yeah.” She shrugged, though the weight in her chest begged otherwise. “Never gets easier.”

She didn’t wait for a response. She turned, heels clicking against the tile, and headed for the side exit. Outside, the city air hit her like a slap. She lit a cigarette with practiced hands, though the taste turned her stomach. It wasn’t comfort, not really. Just ritual. Smoke filled her lungs, acrid and heavy, burning out the rage just enough to function.

Her mind drifted backward, back to Astoria, where racism never went unchecked. Her neighbours; Greeks, Egyptians, Armenians, Dominicans, Russians, argued like family but stood like stone when someone outside tried to cut one of them down. Even men she didn’t like would step up when slurs came flying, because that was the rule: no one touched their own. Here, though, in this city of flashing lights and press conferences, hatred felt bigger. Louder. More protected. White supremacists in suits, smiling as they spat venom.

She crushed the cigarette under her heel, the ember dying in silence, and squared her shoulders. There was no space to fall apart. Not here.

Back inside, she hurried up the stairs, the murmur of the bullpen fading as she reached the interview rooms. Munch and Fin were already seated with Kyle. Across the room, she caught a glimpse: Munch leaning back, deceptively casual, eyes sharp as razors behind his glasses. Fin leaned forward, voice low but unrelenting. Kyle squirmed in his chair, the arrogance cracking at the edges.

For a moment, Talia lingered at the glass, watching Munch. The way he carried himself; sarcasm as armour, cynicism as shield, she recognized it because she wore the same. She wanted to walk in, sit beside him, let their shoulders brush. She wanted to let her hand rest over his on the table, steady and certain. She wanted him to know she was angry too, that they were in this together.

Instead, she took a seat and sat down across from Kyle. Professional. Controlled. Her rage folded neatly into her jacket pocket, alongside her badge.

The interrogation was about to begin. And beneath it all, buried deep, her heart thudded harder every time John Munch glanced her way.

SVU PRECINCT - October 4, 2004 - 10:02 PM

The upstairs space of cold metal and stale coffee. The walls pressed in, painted that bureaucratic shade of grey that always looked dirtier under fluorescent light. Kyle sat slouched in the chair, all teenage arrogance, the hair, the smirk, the kind of cockiness that came from being told your whole life you were better than everyone else.

Talia sat across from him, her posture deceptively relaxed; trench coat still on, curls falling into her face. Her hands were folded loosely on the table, but her eyes were sharp, unflinching. Munch sat to the left, Fin sat to the right, arms crossed.

The door swung open. Dr. George Huang slipped in with a laptop in hand, silent as ever. His calm presence never failed to unsettle suspects, and sometimes detectives too.

“You need to see this,” Huang said softly, setting the laptop down. The hum of its fan filled the silence as the screen blinked to life.

The site loaded. Black-and-red banners, swastika-style fonts, white power slogans. The kind of filth that spread through the underground corners of the internet like mould. Talia’s jaw tightened.

Kyle leaned forward eagerly, his eyes lighting up like a kid at Christmas. “Yeah. This is my site.”

With a few keystrokes, he pulled up a game. Crude graphics, ugly sound effects. A digital caricature of hate.

The computer voice screeched, tinny through the speakers: “Keep running, Jew! Keep running!”

Munch’s lip curled, disgust flashing behind the dark lenses of his glasses.

Kyle grinned, proud. “The game’s called Final Solution. Players get to be a cyber-clansman or a skinhead gang member. Chase minorities around a virtual urban landscape.”

Talia blinked once, slow. Her face was calm, but the fire behind her eyes betrayed her. Disbelief and annoyance fused into one sharp glare.

“Little webmaster-racemeister, huh?” Munch’s voice was dry, razor-sharp.

“I have the current high score,” Kyle said, puffing out his chest.

Talia leaned forward, her eyes narrowed on another file name on the screen. “What the hell is JFK Reloaded?”

“Trust me, you don’t want to go there,” Fin muttered, reaching over to slam the laptop shut before the images could poison the room any further.

“They’re just games,” Kyle spat. His voice dripped with contempt. “There are plenty of games where white men get killed, but obviously your kind has no problem with that.”

Talia’s stomach clenched at the phrase your kind. She saw Fin stiffen.

Fin tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “My kind? You mean cops?”

Kyle didn’t flinch. He leaned forward and said it, “Ni***rs”

The room shifted. Silence rang out like a gunshot. Talia’s nails dug into the skin of her palm beneath the table. Munch’s jaw worked, the vein in his temple throbbing. Fin laughed, a dry, bitter sound, because the alternative was breaking the kid’s jaw right there.

“So, you’d be happy if somebody exterminated the three of us and everybody that looks like us?” Munch asked, voice tight, each word deliberate.

“Of course not. RAW doesn’t advocate violence. We leave that to the savages. We all know who those are.” Kyle’s eyes slid to Talia, slow and deliberate, the insult sharpened for her alone.

Her heritage wrapped into one sneer: Russian, therefore a communist. Egyptian, therefore, a terrorist. A double betrayal in his eyes.

Talia sat very still. Her voice, when it came, was low, steady, dangerous. “You never had a chance, did you?”

Kyle blinked, confused. “What?”

“Your father’s been filling your head with hate since you were a baby. You’ve never thought for yourself a single day in your life.” She tilted her head, her voice softening with scorn. “I actually feel sorry for you.”

His smile snapped back, defensive, cruel. “Oh, don’t. I was lucky to be born a Caucasian. You were the one who drew the genetic short straw.”

Munch straightened from the wall, his voice cutting through the air. “You know, scientists have discovered there’s really no genetic difference between the races. It’s only skin-deep.” His eyes slid to Talia, his tone softening by a fraction. “And I truly doubt Detective Amari drew the short straw, as pretty as she is.”

The words landed like a stone thrown into still water. Talia froze, blinking once, heat rising to her cheeks. Fin glanced between them, biting back a smirk. He’d seen this coming a mile away.

Kyle sneered, undeterred. “Jews are the descendants of the union between Eve and Satan.” His eyes locked on Munch, spitting venom.

“And who do you think spawned you?” Talia shot back, her voice sharp enough to cut.

The room tensed again. Before anyone could respond, shouting erupted from downstairs. A man’s voice, calling Kyle’s name.

Kyle shot to his feet, eyes wide. “Dad!”

The detectives moved as one, following him out the door and down the stairs. In the squad room, a heavyset man stood flanked by Cragen and Olivia. His presence filled the space, Mr. Ackerman, the patriarch.

“Dad,” Kyle said breathlessly. “I’d like you two to repeat what you said about my father to his face.” He turned on the detectives, venom still dripping. “Cowards.”

Munch’s jaw tightened. Talia’s lip curled.

“I understand you home-school this boy,” Fin said, his tone flat, edged with disgust. “You afraid to expose him to the truth?”

Mr. Ackerman’s eyes glittered with pride. “My father’s a brilliant teacher,” Kyle spat before his dad could answer. “He doesn’t dumb down the lessons for minorities like they do in public school. Or distort history to mollify them.”

Olivia’s voice broke through, sharp, cutting. “Sweetheart, he’s completely brainwashed you.”

“You’re the idiot embracing the lies,” Kyle shot back at Olivia. His words spilled fast, hateful. “Sorry I let you down, sir. I should never have allowed them to breach the perimeter.” He turned to his father, eyes desperate for approval.

Mr. Ackerman laid a hand on his son’s shoulder. “We’ll talk about this at home. Let’s go.”

But Cragen’s hand was quicker, blocking their path. “Not so fast.”

Talia turned away, shaking her head, muttering under her breath, ‘Fun times.’ She drifted back toward her desk, already pulling out the forms for her report. The ritual of paperwork steadied her, the scratch of her pen a small defence against the bile still sitting in her throat.

She didn’t look up until she saw Officer Taylor, one of the Black patrol cops, escort Ackerman out. The disgust on his face mirrored her own. For the first time that night, she almost smiled, a bitter little chuckle slipping out.

Ten minutes later, Munch emerged from Cragen’s office. His expression was unreadable.

Without looking up from her paperwork, Talia asked, “How mad?”

“Not mad at all,” Munch said, his tone deceptively casual. “But we got a name on the possible shooter.” He sat down on the edge of her desk, trench coat brushing against her notes.

“You going to pick him up?” she asked, finally meeting his eyes.

“Yeah. Along with the others. And SWAT.”

His hand moved without thought, brushing a stray curl from her face. The gesture was casual enough to pass as nothing. But her heart stuttered.

She smirked faintly, pushing back the weight in her chest. “Have fun.”

Her wink was lighter than she felt. She rose, gathering her things. It was late. Too late. Cragen had already told her to take some time off, reminding her she was still green, that she didn’t need to be front line for everything. And when Munch had said ‘enough is enough’ in that low, certain voice of his, she hadn’t argued.

The cab ride home was quiet, the city lights blurring through the window. She leaned her head back, replaying the day, replaying his words.

As pretty as she is.

She hated how much it stuck with her. Hated, and wanted more.

Chapter Text

NYC SUPREME COURT - October 27, 2004 - 10:02 AM

Nearly two weeks had crawled by since the shooting at P.S. 74, and Talia Amari had been buried beneath paperwork ever since. Long nights chained to her desk, fingers inked from scribbled notes, reports stacked in uneven towers around her. GUN HO! had eaten her whole; transcripts, interviews, the endless paper trail of bureaucracy.

But her mind kept drifting elsewhere.

Every time she allowed herself a second of distraction, she heard it again: Munch’s voice, that sharp deadpan, breaking through when he’d called her pretty. He’d done it casually, publicly, like it meant nothing. But every time she replayed it in her head, a grin threatened to spread across her face. He thinks I’m pretty; she kept whispering to herself in the quiet hours, embarrassed at how girlish she sounded even in her own head.

So, when Munch and Elliot had invited her to join them at Supreme Court for the trial, she didn’t even hesitate. Watching Casey Novak in action was something she wanted, needed. To see justice happen, to watch the fight continue in another arena. To see the case carried all the way through.

And maybe, just maybe, to sit beside John Munch and feel like she belonged there.

The marble steps of the Supreme Court gleamed in the weak October sunlight, worn smooth by decades of jurors, attorneys, and defendants. The building loomed, massive and cold, as if justice itself had been carved into its bones.

The three detectives climbed the steps together. Munch walked with his usual slouch, trench coat collar pulled high against the chill, sunglasses still on though the sky was grey. Elliot was all business, his broad frame cutting through the crowd of reporters buzzing around the steps. Talia kept pace between them, her own coat brushing against Munch’s, steadying her heartbeat with every step.

Casey Novak was waiting outside, red hair catching the light. She looked up, surprised. “Didn’t think you’d show,” she said as Talia moved in for a quick embrace.

“Couldn’t miss this circus,” Talia laughed softly. Her voice was steady, but she meant it. Watching Casey at work was as thrilling to her as a good bust.

Casey smiled, and Talia realized how quickly she’d come to value the ADA. Drinks with her and Olivia after long shifts, the quiet solidarity of women who knew what it was to be underestimated in rooms full of men. The friendship was still new, but it felt solid, like stone underfoot.

The four of them moved toward the side entrance, flashing their IDs to the court officer who barely looked up before waving them through. Inside, the air was cooler, heavy with the scent of paper and polish. Their footsteps echoed off high ceilings.

Munch drifted closer as they walked the long corridor toward the courtroom. “You ever been to a trial?” he asked, his tone curious rather than condescending.

“Not really,” Talia admitted. “Narcotics didn’t sit in courtrooms. We were too busy watching dealers in the alleyways.”

He smirked. “Then this’ll be fun.”

He said it like a joke, but she caught the flicker in his eyes; he enjoyed this, the theatre of it. And when his hand brushed her lower back, guiding her forward through the swell of people, her heart jolted. The touch was brief, steady, but enough to make her flush. She prayed no one saw the way heat bloomed in her cheeks.

Inside, the courtroom was already buzzing. Judge Schuyler presided at the bench, his reputation preceding him, quick-tempered, sharper than he looked. Reporters scribbled in the back rows, and the pews creaked with every movement. Talia and Munch slipped onto a bench midway back, Elliot taking the other side. She smoothed her coat, trying to still her nerves.

The bailiff’s call silenced the room.

Star, the first witness, was sworn in.

“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?” the clerk asked, holding out the Bible.

“I do.”

“State your name.”

“I plead the Fifth.”

A ripple of surprise moved through the courtroom. Talia leaned forward, brows drawn tight.

“Ms. Morrison, it’s just your name,” Judge Schuyler pressed.

“I invoke my right against self-incrimination as afforded me by the Fifth Amendment of the U.S. Constitution.”

Talia exhaled through her nose. Of course.

“Ms. Novak are the People prepared to offer this witness immunity?” the judge asked.

“We already have, Your Honor,” Casey said firmly.

“Ms. Morrison, I understand that you have been granted immunity,” Schuyler said.

“I plead the Fifth.”

The judge’s gavel cracked. “This witness is dismissed.”

Casey stepped forward. “Your Honor, could I please request a brief recess?”

“Call your next witness, Ms. Novak,” Schuyler snapped.

“The People call Brannon Lee Redding,” Casey said.

“Sidebar,” the defence attorney barked, hurrying to the bench.

As Casey and the lawyer crowded near the judge, Talia leaned sideways toward Munch, her lips curved in dry sarcasm. “You’re right, this is so fun.”

“There’ll be drama,” Munch smirked back. His voice was low, a spark of amusement under his cynicism. He tilted his chin toward the doors just as court officers escorted in Brannon Lee Redding, wrists chained, tattoos crawling up his arms.

Talia studied him. “He’s the shooter?”

Munch nodded once, eyes still sharp behind the tinted glasses.

The testimony began.

“Mr. Redding, when did you first meet the defendant Brian Ackerman?” Casey asked.

“About a week after I got out,” Redding answered, voice flat.

“And what happened at that meeting?”

“He sees my tattoos, finds out I just got out of Rikers. Starts trying to bait me.”

“How?”

“Says skinheads are all talk. Says his group’s more organized. Says, ‘I got a whole list of targets.’ And there should be one I’m especially interested in.”

“And what target was that?” Casey asked.

“The adopted sambo of some white Rikers security guard. He gave me his home and school address. He even gave me his school picture.”

The words were still hanging in the air when chaos exploded.

“RACE TRAITOR!” Kyle screamed. He was on his feet, gun in hand, the barrel pointed at Redding’s chest.

The courtroom erupted, screams, bodies lunging for cover, pews scraping across the floor. Talia dropped instantly, muscle memory from Narcotics kicking in, her gun out before the echo of the first shot had finished. Beside her, Elliot yanked a woman down behind the bench, his own weapon raised.

Munch yelled as he drew down on the shooter. “Kyle! Drop it!”

The gavel thundered, Judge Schuyler shouting, “Court officers! Court officers!” But the order was drowned by the crack of another shot. Blood spattered across the witness stand.

Munch kept his aim steady, but before he could fire, another figure moved. A man in a court officer’s uniform; too fast, too precise, raised a weapon.

The gun fired. Munch staggered.

Talia’s stomach clenched as she saw him jerk back, crimson blooming across his back like a grotesque flower. Her instincts screamed to return fire, but Elliot’s gun cracked a split second later, dropping the imposter where he stood.

Casey screamed as Kyle seized her, dragging her close, pressing the barrel of his pistol hard against her temple.

Talia’s weapon tracked the scene, but she held, gun ready, but her mind crystal-clear. A wrong move would get Casey killed. The standoff shattered in seconds. Kyle shoved Casey away, firing wildly. A shot tore through Elliot’s elbow, sending him crashing to the ground with a howl. Another round swung toward Talia.

She froze, every calculation running at once. If she fired, she risked hitting Casey. If she hesitated, he’d kill Elliot. Slowly, deliberately, she raised her hands. “Don’t shoot,” she said, her voice calm but firm. Her gun slid across the floor with a nudge of her boot. She lowered to her knees; eyes locked on Kyle. Keep him focused on you. Not on them.

Kyle sneered, but turned back toward Elliot, raising the gun to finish him.

And then, the crack of another shot.

Star.

The federal agent’s bullet cut him down. Kyle collapsed in a sprawl of limbs and fury.

“Drop your weapon!” a court officer shouted, guns trained on Star.

“Federal agent!” Star barked, badge raised. “Hold your fire! Federal agent, don’t shoot!”

The room spun with shouts, chaos, the metallic smell of blood thick in the air.

Talia moved before she realized she was moving. Munch was down, blood spreading fast across the back of his shirt, staining the trench coat she’d silently grown so fond of. She dropped beside him, knees hitting the polished floor hard.

“John. Look at me,” she ordered, pressing her hands tight against the wound. Her palms were slick instantly, warm red seeping between her fingers.

His eyes fluttered, glassy but defiant. “You’re an idiot,” he muttered.

A laugh tore from her throat; shaky, raw, but real. “You’re bleeding out on the Supreme Court floor, and I’m the idiot?”

He tried to smirk, failed.

Her focus didn’t waver. Pressure, steady, keep him conscious. Around them, officers swarmed, shouts echoing, EMTs fighting their way inside. But Talia didn’t move. Her hands stayed firm, her body hunched over his like a shield.

She didn’t cry. She wouldn’t give him, or anyone, hat image. Instead, her jaw set, her eyes burning with a promise only she understood: Not today. Not like this.

“Stay with me,” she whispered, voice low, meant only for him. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

Munch’s gaze flickered toward her, lips twitching with the ghost of sarcasm. “Lucky… me.”

And then the EMTs were there, pulling her back gently, their hands replacing hers, bandages pressing where her fingers had been.

Her palms were drenched in his blood. She stared at them for half a heartbeat, then wiped them on her coat and stood tall.

She didn’t move until the stretcher rolled past her, Munch’s face pale but alive.

Only then did she allow herself to breathe.

NYC SUPREME COURT STEPS - October 27, 2004 - 6:27 PM

The street still smelled of cordite. Yellow tape fluttered in the wind, snapping against the rails like a metronome for grief. Reporters were being shoved back by uniforms; cameras flashed against the dusky sky. Talia sat on the courthouse steps, elbows on her knees, cigarette smouldering between her fingers. Smoke curled upward, blurring her face as she watched the EMTs wheel Munch away.

Her hands were still stained with his blood.

She stared at them, flexing her fingers as if that would change the colour. The copper tang clung to her skin, sunk into the cuticles. She didn’t even bother wiping it off, what was the point? Some stains stayed, no matter how hard you scrubbed.

Footsteps approached. She didn’t look up until she heard the familiar rasp of Fin’s voice.

“What happened?” He stopped in front of her, hands on his hips, eyes narrowing at the sight of her hands, the pallor of her face.

“They shot Munch,” Talia said flatly, smoke slipping from her lips with the words. It was too casual, too quiet. Nonchalance wasn’t real; it was armour.

Fin sighed, the kind of weary sound only another cop could make, and offered her a hand. His palm was steady, solid. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

She dropped the cigarette, crushed it beneath her boot, and slid her bloody hand into his. His grip pulled her to her feet with surprising gentleness.

Her eyes caught something as Fin shifted, something tucked in his jacket. The edge of a paper bag.

“What’s that?” she asked, squinting, suspicion cutting through the fog of adrenaline.

He smirked. “Oh, you’ll see.”

“Fin,” she pressed, narrowing her eyes.

He just chuckled, steering her toward his car. “Patience, Amari.”

She didn’t argue. She was too tired. They climbed into his sedan, and as the city blurred past, Talia pulled out her phone with shaking fingers. A quick text to Ameen; Take the dogs out. I won’t be home tonight.

Her brother would know better than to ask why.

BELLEVUE HOSPITAL - October 27, 2004 - 7:14 PM

Hospitals at night always smelled the same: antiseptic and coffee burned down to tar. The fluorescent lights bleached the corridors into something sterile, inhuman. Bellevue was no different. The hallways buzzed with voices; uniforms lined the waiting area, detectives pacing with Styrofoam cups, their faces etched with the familiar cocktail of rage and relief.

Talia walked beside Fin, her trench coat draped over her arm now, sleeves rolled to the elbow. The blood on her skin had been washed, but she swore she still felt it there.

They turned the corner toward Munch’s room. Through the half-open door, she saw him, laying on the side in the hospital bed, IV line in his arm, sunglasses off for once. Beside him sat Dana Lewis, the FBI agent they’d all just found out was undercover.

Dana rose as they entered, giving them a wry smile. “Here comes your partners.” She touched Munch’s hand briefly before moving toward the door. “Excuse me, and you take care.” Her words hung softer, more personal than protocol.

As she passed Fin, she paused. “Detective Tutuola, I want to apologize to you for-”

“We’re good,” Fin cut her off, extending his hand. His forgiveness was brisk but real.

Dana turned to Talia. “Detective Amari-”

“I’ve heard worse,” Talia said, with a wink that was more armour than charm. She brushed past Dana, lowering herself into the chair at Munch’s bedside. Her hand rose instinctively, cupping his cheek. His skin was warm, rough against her palm. For once, she let herself be soft. Just for him.

Dana caught the moment, her expression flickering, but she said nothing. “All right. Take care.” She slipped out, leaving the three detectives in the muted hum of hospital machines.

Fin settled at the foot of the bed, leaning back casually like they were at a bar and not in intensive care. “So where is it you got shot?”

The bluntness made Talia laugh; a sharp, unexpected sound that cut through the sterile air.

“That would be in the ass,” Munch replied dryly. His voice was gravel and sarcasm, as always. “You want to kiss it and make it better?”

Talia laughed harder, clutching his blanket to stifle the sound. Relief and fear twisted inside her. He was alive. He was still himself.

“You better ask Talia that,” Fin deadpanned. Talia rolled her eyes, cheeks warm, lips pressing together to hide the smile tugging at them.

Fin leaned forward, fishing in his jacket. “You be nice to me, or you won’t get the shake I smuggled in for you.”

Munch perked up instantly, suspicion giving way to interest. “Fig? From McGinty’s?”

“Of course,” Fin said, producing the cup like it was contraband.

“Oh, thanks, man.” Munch’s voice softened, almost boyish for a second as he accepted it.

Fin shrugged. “Thank you for not making me have to break in another partner.” Talia blinked, confused, before he added quickly, “You don’t count.”

She raised a brow. “Gee, thanks.”

Fin’s grin softened the jab. He glanced at Munch. “I’m glad you pulled through, bro.”

The three of them sat together in the hospital room, laughter breaking through the tension, the sounds of a precinct family stitched back together. But as the minutes passed, Fin eventually excused himself, muttering about giving them space, leaving Talia and Munch alone. The noise of the hospital became distant, muffled, like the world knew to leave them in their bubble.

Talia shifted in her chair, her coat pooling across her lap. She watched him, really watched him. The rise and fall of his chest beneath the thin hospital blanket. The gauze at his side. The way his hair stuck up at odd angles, dishevelled from the gurney ride and hours of strain. He looked older in the hospital light, but softer too; less guarded.

She broke the silence first, her voice almost tentative. “Does it hurt?”

Munch cracked one eye open, smirking faintly. “Well, I wouldn’t recommend it. But I’ll live.” He yawned, then added, “You should go home. You’ve had a long day.”

“Nice try,” she said, leaning back in her chair, folding her arms. “You’re my partner. I’m not leaving you alone.”

He chuckled, the sound low and sardonic, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re too stubborn for your own good.”

“Maybe,” she allowed, a small smile ghosting her lips. “Or maybe I just know better than to trust you not to make trouble the second I walk out.”

That made him laugh properly; short, sharp, and genuine. “You think highly of me.”

“I think realistically of you.” She tilted her head, studying him with a kind of fond exasperation. “Which is to say, you don’t make it easy on yourself. Or anyone else.”

Munch exhaled, sinking deeper into the pillows, his smirk fading into something gentler. “And yet here you are.”

“Here I am,” she echoed softly.

The words hung between them, heavier than they had any right to be. She tried to busy herself, straightening the blanket near his shoulder, but her fingers brushed his hand instead. His knuckles were cool, calloused. She didn’t pull away.

“You scare me, you know,” he said suddenly, his voice quieter, stripped of its usual armour.

Talia blinked, surprised. “Scare you?”

“Yeah.” His eyes stayed on hers, unflinching. “You care too much. It’s dangerous in this line of work.” He swallowed. “I stopped letting myself do that a long time ago.”

Her chest tightened, but she smiled faintly. “You don’t scare me, John. Not even a little.”

He snorted, amused despite himself. “You should.”

“I won’t,” she said simply.

They sat in silence for a moment, the machines softly beeping in the background, their hands resting near each other on the blanket. His fingers twitched, as if fighting the urge to reach for hers.

“You’re ridiculous,” he murmured, closing his eyes again, though the corner of his mouth betrayed a smile. “Sitting here babysitting a cranky old man.”

“You’re not that old.”

“That’s generous.”

She smirked. “You’re my partner. That’s what matters.”

Something flickered in his expression, relief, maybe, or something deeper. His hand finally shifted, brushing against hers. She didn’t move away.

Her heart pounded. She leaned forward, every movement deliberate, fragile. Her eyes roamed his face, the lines carved by decades of cynicism, the stubborn brow, the mouth that never seemed to soften except now. He closed his eyes, seemingly falling asleep.

Her voice was barely a whisper. “You don’t get to die before I’ve even kissed you.”

And then she did it, she pressed her lips to his cheek, close enough to graze the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t quick. It lingered. Long enough for her to feel the warmth of his skin, long enough for her to know she was crossing a line she couldn’t uncross.

When she pulled back, her thumb traced along his jaw, featherlight. “Good night John,” she murmured.

She rose slowly, gathering her coat, willing herself not to look back again. At the door, her hand on the handle, she allowed herself one last glance.

He was still. Eyes closed. Breathing steady.

But once she turned, once the door slipped shut.

His eyes opened.

And he smiled.

Chapter Text

ASTORIA - October 30, 2004 - 6:56 AM

Three days. That’s how long John Munch had been stuck in Bellevue Hospital, and three days was all Talia had spent at the precinct, throwing herself into paperwork and evidence logs like drowning would keep her from thinking. She replayed the courtroom shooting on a loop, every second etched into her memory. The sound of the shot, the spray of panic, the sight of him staggering down with shock painted across his face. The way her heart had stopped when she saw him fall; not a stranger, not just her partner, but the infuriating, brilliant, sarcastic old man she hadn’t meant to care for. Shot in the ass, of all places. Trust Munch to nearly die in the least dignified way possible.

She hadn’t visited him, well not after the first night. Not once. She stayed away, half telling herself it was because she had too much work to do, half because she didn’t know how to sit by his bed without giving herself away. But today was different. Today, he was being discharged. And something inside her, something stubborn and tender and terrifying, told her she couldn’t let him go home alone.

When she asked Cragen for a few days off, his gruff voice didn’t even hesitate. “You earned it, Amari. P.S. 74 was a nightmare. You held the line.” He didn’t say and you kept your head when Munch got shot. He didn’t have to.

The sky was just starting to pale as she bundled herself in scarves and her long wool coat, hair tucked away, heels clicking against the sidewalk. She’d chosen her uniform of armour that morning; silk blouse, high-waisted slacks, sharp as glass. Dressed to impress, dressed to distract, dressed to keep herself from trembling. If she added a wide brim hat, she thought dryly, she’d look like Munch’s mirror image. She didn’t mind.

Her Mustang coughed alive with a roar loud enough to shake the street. Neighbours twitched curtains, but it was Talia, the girl who left soup on stoops and walked everyone’s kids across the street, so nobody complained. She adjusted the rearview, smiled faintly at the sound Ali had tuned into the exhaust for her, and muttered, “Thank you, Ali.” The boy had made her car sound like thunder. The whole block probably hated it. She couldn’t care less.

She drove toward the hospital, the weight in her chest growing heavier with every red light. She told herself it was just to check on him. Just to help. Just to make sure he had soup and a safe place to rest. But beneath it all, there was something rawer: she wanted to take care of him. She wanted him to let her.

BELLEVUE HOSPITAL - October 27, 2004 - 7:29 AM

Hospitals at dawn had their own atmosphere; antiseptic and sleepless, corridors glowing too brightly, nurses moving briskly with coffee cups and clipped conversations. Talia showed her badge at the desk and wove past the uniforms stationed for protection. Word travelled fast when cops were shot; everyone had something to say, most of it whispered.

She found him near the discharge desk, slouched in a wheelchair he clearly hated, arguing with a nurse young enough to be his daughter.

“You need someone with you, Detective,” the nurse was insisting, scribbling notes on a clipboard. “Gunshot wounds aren’t something you just walk off. You’ll need rest, you’ll need-”

“I’ll be fine,” Munch huffed, pushing at the armrest like he could lift himself out on sheer stubbornness. The wince betrayed him. His face pinched, jaw tight, and he let out a breath that was almost a growl.

Talia stepped forward before she could stop herself, her hand firm on his shoulder, pressing him back down. “Don’t be an idiot.”

He turned, startled. His eyes widened; not much, just enough to show surprise, and then narrowed again, like a shield snapping back into place. “When did you get here?”

She ignored the question. Her gaze flicked to the nurse. “I’ll take him.”

Munch jerked upright, or tried to. “No, you won’t.”

“Yes,” she said, crisp as glass.

“No.”

Her eyes narrowed. “John.”

He met her glare with one of his own, though his had more weary sarcasm than fire. “I don’t need a babysitter, Amari.”

“This isn’t babysitting.” She leaned in closer, voice low, so only he could hear. “I took care of my parents through illness. I’ll take care of you.”

His mouth twitched, defences coiling. “And then your parents died,” he muttered dryly, the words harsher than he meant.

The air between them stilled. That was a blade through her ribs. But Talia didn’t flinch. She pressed her lips together, breathing through the sting, and whispered, steady: “And you’re not old enough to die. Not yet.”

For a second, he said nothing. His eyes softened, the sarcasm slipping at the edges. He looked at her like maybe he hadn’t expected her to stay, hadn’t expected her to want to.

The nurse cleared her throat, awkward. “So… you’ll be with him, Detective?”

“Yes,” Talia said without hesitation.

Munch sighed like the weight of the world was sitting on his bandaged hip. “God help me.”

She signed the papers. He let her push the wheelchair even though he grumbled the entire way.

“You realize this is entrapment,” he muttered as they rolled toward the doors.

“You realize sarcasm won’t keep you from falling on your ass in the shower,” she shot back.

“I’ve lived alone for decades, sweetheart. I can handle a shower.”

“Sweetheart?” Her eyebrow arched, just enough to unsettle him. “Already pet names, and you haven’t even moved in yet.”

He groaned. “You’re going to be insufferable.”

“And you’re going to eat soup and keep your stitches intact. Seems fair.”

Outside, the October wind cut cold through her coat. She pulled the Mustang to the curb, helping him in with more patience than she knew she had. He complained the whole time, muttering about bucket seats and vintage cars, but his hand brushed hers as he lowered himself down, and lingered. Just for a second.

They drove through Manhattan as the city woke, sirens and horns echoing in the dawn. He watched the skyline, his face softer than usual, and said quietly: “You didn’t come see me.”

It wasn’t an accusation. It was a confession.

Talia’s grip on the wheel tightened. “I couldn’t.”

He turned to look at her, waiting.

“If I saw you in that bed,” she said slowly, “I would’ve broken. And I couldn’t afford to break. Not then.”

Silence. Then, softer than she expected: “But now you can?”

Her throat closed. She glanced at him, met his eyes, and let herself say the truth without saying it. “Now I want to.”

The Mustang growled through the Queensboro Bridge, the city unfolding around them, two detectives caught in the quiet gravity of something they hadn’t named. Not yet.

But it was there.

ASTORIA - October 30, 2004 - 8:02 AM

Astoria was already awake when Talia pulled up. Bakeries spilled their warmth into the crisp morning air; fresh bread, sesame rings, buttered pastries. Grocers barked prices in Greek, Arabic, Spanish, and Italian, voices weaving into the noisy harmony of a neighbourhood that had never learned silence. Radios hummed behind open shop doors, children skipped rope on the cracked sidewalks, and the smell of strong coffee drifted from every corner café.

Talia inhaled it all like it was oxygen. This was home.

Munch, on the other hand, was not doing nearly as well. He grimaced with every step, one hand clamped stubbornly to his side, the other gripping his overnight bag like it was evidence in need of guarding. Pride kept him from surrendering the weight to her, but his body betrayed him with each sharp intake of breath.

“C’mon, old man,” Talia muttered, slipping a hand just behind his back without touching. Hovering, ready to catch him if he stumbled, but too careful of his pride to make it obvious.

He shot her a look. “You always this charming to the wounded?”

“Only the stubborn ones.”

The brownstone rose before them, modest but proud, its brick façade softened by ivy and the scuff of decades. She pushed open the wrought-iron gate, and the scent of jasmine drifted down the stoop, jasmine and something darker, warmer. Coffee, freshly ground.

Munch hesitated at the threshold, his gaze snagging on the details. Photographs crowded the hallway wall; sepia and colour alike, siblings smiling, parents in formal portraits, candid’s from holidays long gone. Icons of Mary and Saint George hung alongside Arabic calligraphy and a small silver Nazar bead, catching the morning light. The house felt alive, layered, unapologetically hers.

Something in his chest tightened. He didn’t want to go in. Because if he did, some part of him knew he’d never want to leave.

She nudged him gently. “Inside. Before you collapse and I gotta drag you, which I will.”

He obeyed, muttering something about not needing a babysitter.

And then he saw them.

Three German Shepherds sat at the foot of the staircase, tails wagging in perfect sync, ears pricked like soldiers waiting for command. Their eyes locked onto him, sharp and expectant.

Munch froze.

Talia raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He sighed, muttering under his breath like it wasn’t meant for her to hear. “Perfect. My very own private Gestapo.”

The corner of her mouth tugged upward, and then she burst into laughter; a bright, unrestrained sound that cut through the weight in the air. She leaned against the wall, shaking her head.

“They like you,” she said once she caught her breath.

“They’re staring at me like I’m a suspect,” he replied flatly. “Probably waiting for a confession.”

“Don’t worry. They only attack on command.” She winked and plucked his bag from his hand before he could protest. “You’re in my bed.”

That snapped him out of it. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Bed. Upstairs.”

“And you?” he asked cautiously.

“Living room.” Her tone left no room for debate.

He opened his mouth to argue, but she was already guiding him up the stairs. The bedroom smelled faintly of lavender and jasmine incense, the kind that lingered soft in fabric. Fresh sheets, smoothed with care, pillows plumped. She’d prepared this. For him.

“You don’t have to-”

“Sleep,” she interrupted.

He wanted to say he didn’t need coddling, didn’t need her fussing. But the truth was written in the heaviness of his limbs. The moment his head touched the pillow, exhaustion dragged him under. Talia slipped off his glasses and set them on the nightstand. For a long moment, she just looked at him, his face unguarded in sleep, all the cynicism stripped away. Then she bent down, pressed her lips softly to his forehead, and whispered, “Sleep well, John.”

She changed quickly; bralette, grey sweatpants, matching hoodie, slides. Comfortable, functional. She whistled for the dogs, clipped their leashes, and slipped out the door with grocery bags folded under her arm.

The morning bustle swallowed her whole. First stop: the corner grocer. A narrow storefront with crates of herbs and greens spilling onto the sidewalk. The sign read Mansour’s Market, but to everyone in the neighbourhood, he was just ʿammo Mansour.

Talia tugged the dogs to sit a few paces back, so they wouldn’t scare off anyone, then stepped toward the doorway just as Mansour emerged balancing a crate of parsley on his hip.

“Ṣabāḥ el-khēr, yā bintī!” Mansour called. (Good morning, my daughter / Arabic)

Talia smiled, slipping into the rhythm like she never left. “Ṣabāḥ el-khēr, ʿammo.” (Good morning, uncle / Arabic)

He squinted at her, catching sight of the shadows under her eyes. “What are you cooking today?”

“Shorbat ʿAds. And chicken broth.”

He raised his brows. “Are you sick, yā bintī?” Concern laced his tone. (My daughter? / Arabic)

She chuckled softly, inspecting the coriander bundles. “Not me. My partner.”

Mansour straightened, his face lighting with mischief. “Partner?”

“Detective partner,” she clarified, stepping inside for lentils.

But Mansour just grinned knowingly. “Detective, eh? Still, he’s a lucky man. You cook for him? Very lucky man.”

At the register, as she dug for her wallet, he slipped a small box of baklava into her bag. She caught the motion immediately. “Mansour-”

“No arguing,” he cut her off, raising a hand like a priest giving blessing. “ʿAmto Salma made them fresh this morning. Have them with your coffee.” (Auntie Salma / Arabic)

“Shukran.” She tried to refuse, but he waved her off. (Thank you / Arabic)

“Tfaddali, yā bintī. Allah yḥrissik.” (You’re welcome, my daughter. May God watch over you / Arabic)

Next stop: Nikos’s Butcher Shop. The smell of raw meat hit her before the bell above the door even jingled. Hooks gleamed overhead, rows of lamb ribs and thick slabs of beef hanging like ornaments. The place was busy, a couple of old Greek women in black kerchiefs waiting for their lamb shanks, two Armenian teenagers arguing over cuts for a barbecue. The butcher shop was never quiet; it was a kind of town square with a cash register.

“Guard it,” she told the dogs outside, setting her grocery bags down on the stoop. Their ears pricked at the smell drifting through the doorway, tails thumping like war drums. “I mean it,” she added, pointing at them. They whined dramatically, as if she’d just denied them their last meal, but stayed put.

Inside, Andy, Nikos’ son, was leaning on the counter like he owned the place, broad shoulders, curly black hair slicked back, a white apron smeared with traces of the morning’s work. He looked up the second she walked in, flashing that grin that could sell soap.

“Good morning, T.”

“Morning, Andy,” she muttered, tugging her hoodie sleeves up. “Two whole chickens, cut up. And whatever bones you’ve got for broth.”

Andy plucked a cleaver from the rack, twirling it once before dropping it on the cutting block with a satisfying thunk. “You making broth? For whom? Not for me, I know.”

“Dinner,” Talia replied curtly.

“Dinner,” he repeated, dragging the word like he was tasting it. “For this partner you keep talking about?”

She shot him a look. “Andy.”

“Hey, I’m not prying. Just saying. You show up here, early morning, buying chickens and soup bones, smells like love to me.” He smirked, already carving.

Talia ignored him, scanning the shelves stacked with jars of olives and tins of imported feta. “You mind if I run next door? Rosa’s expecting me.”

“Go,” Andy said, cleaver coming down on the breastbone with a crack. “But don’t think you’re getting away from the interrogation that easy.”

The bell over the door chimed, and Talia sang it like a ritual: “Rosaaa Rosaaaa” stretching the last vowel into a dramatic little operetta. The shop was already warm enough to fog the glass cases. Sugar and espresso in the air, butter and yeast humming underneath. Loaves of ciabatta cooling on racks, rosette piled in baskets, biscotti lined up like soldiers; almond, pistachio, chocolate-dipped. A tray of anginetti shone under lemon glaze. In the corner, a chalkboard listed the day’s specials in looping hand: crostata di frutta, maritozzi, cannoli, pane caldo.

Rosa popped up from behind the counter, flour on her cheek, hair twisted into a messy knot with a pencil jammed through it. She and Talia were the same age; same impatient stride, same get‑it‑done eyes. The place was hers now; her parents had passed it down last spring, keys wrapped in a dish towel like a blessing. She’d grown up in a port town outside Rome until she was ten, and it lingered in everything; her vowels, her hand gestures, the way she slapped dough like it owed her money. Rosa wasn’t Italian‑American. She was Italian, Italian, and everyone in Astoria respected the difference.

From behind the counter, Rosa popped up, apron dusted with flour, hair pulled back in a messy knot. She threw a hand on her hip. “Where the hell have you been?”

Talia leaned across the counter to kiss her cheek. “Work, amore.” (Love / Italian)

“Always work,” Rosa groaned, rolling her eyes like an Italian auntie twice her age. “Bella mia, you vanish for weeks and then you walk in here singing like Pavarotti.” (My beautiful one / Italian)

“What can I say? You inspire me.”

Rosa swatted her playfully with a dish towel. “Inspire, ha! You look thin. You eating? Or just drinking that detective coffee all the time?”

Talia smirked. “Ciabatta and some biscotti. That’s all I need.”

Rosa made a scandalized noise in her throat, already bustling around to fill the order. “Just bread and cookies? Madonna, no wonder you’re tired. Here.” She grabbed a tray and started stacking extra anginetti into the bag.

“Rosa-”

“No, no. Don’t argue. You’re family. You take them. You eat them. And you tell me tomorrow they were delicious.”

Talia laughed, shaking her head. “You spoil me.”

“You love it.”

“I do,” Talia admitted, winking as she passed a bill across the counter.

Rosa slid it right back. “Next time. Today’s on me.”

“You serious?”

“You kidding? My mama would rise from the grave if she heard I charged you for biscotti. Go, go. Take care of whoever you’re cooking for. And bring him by sometime. I need to see if this mystery detective eats like a man or like a bird.”

Talia just shook her head, smiling as she pushed out the door.

When Talia returned to the butcher, Andy slid a neatly wrapped parcel of chicken across the counter, but before she could thank him, Nikos himself emerged from the back, wiping his hands on a bloody apron. His eyes lit up the moment he saw her.

“Ahhh, Talia!” His voice boomed like a church bell. “Why haven’t you married my son yet?”

Andy grinned like the cat who’d gotten the cream, leaning against the counter with folded arms.

Talia raised an eyebrow. “I’m busy.”

“Busy!” Nikos scoffed, throwing his hands up. “Too busy for love? Nonsense. Look at him! Strong, Orthodox, good with children, good with meat. Every mother in Astoria wants him for a son-in-law!”

Andy tried to look modest but failed spectacularly, smirk growing wider.

Talia accepted the bag, keeping her face carefully neutral. “I’m sure they do.”

Nikos waved a cleaver in the air for emphasis. “And yet, here you are. Always alone. You’re wasting your youth!”

Andy leaned closer, stage-whispering, “Don’t listen to him. He thinks the world revolves around me.”

Talia rolled her eyes. “Of course he does. He’s Greek.”

That made Nikos bark out a laugh, clapping her on the shoulder with a meaty hand. “You see? She has the fire. She’s perfect.”

Andy smirked one last time, handing her the parcel. “See you soon, T.”

She didn’t answer. Because the truth was simple, and it gnawed at her as she stepped back outside to the dogs waiting loyally with the bags: Andy wasn’t the one she wanted.

Back home, the house was quiet except for the soft, steady sound of Munch’s snore upstairs. Talia unloaded the bags in the kitchen, then took the dogs to the sink one by one, washing their paws and bellies. Clean, they bounded upstairs and, ignoring her whispered protests, leapt onto the bed beside him.

She covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. “Please get down, he’s going to have a heart attack if he sees you.”

But they didn’t move. They curled protectively around him, one at his feet, one pressed to his side, one at the headboard like a sentry.

And Munch, asleep, shifted, just enough to rest a hand on the nearest dog, like he’d been doing it his whole life.

Talia stood in the doorway, heart twisting. The sight was ridiculous. And perfect.

She tugged off her hoodie, left in her bralette and sweatpants, and padded downstairs barefoot. The kitchen welcomed her with quiet. She set a pot on the stove, laid out the vegetables, the herbs, the chicken bones. The rhythm of chopping, stirring, simmering filled the silence.

It wasn’t just cooking. It was ritual. Care. The language she didn’t know how to speak to him yet.

She caught herself smiling.

And for once, she let herself.

ASTORIA - October 30, 2004 - 1:28 PM

The house smelled of simmering herbs and warm broth. Not the sterile smell of takeout containers she’d left in the precinct bin that week, but something fuller, deeper, almost ancestral. The windows in the kitchen had fogged up faintly where the pots bubbled; one with chicken broth seasoned exactly as her father used to; onion, carrot, bay leaves, peppercorns, and a generous bouquet of parsley and coriander. The other pot held lentils, her mother’s recipe. Cumin, turmeric, garlic, softened tomatoes, a squeeze of lemon at the end.

Talia hadn’t planned to cook. She never did, not in the chaos of her work schedule. But grief and longing had a way of guiding her hands toward the stove, pulling her into memory as if her parents were leaning over her shoulders, whispering, more salt, not too much heat, let it breathe, let it rest.

She stirred slowly, listening to the tick of the old kitchen clock and the occasional honk of traffic from 33^rd Street outside. The neighbourhood was alive: kids yelling in English and Spanish, the grocer’s bell chiming faintly whenever someone pulled the door, the steady hum of the auto shop across the block.

With both pots set to simmer, she finally had time to sit. She wiped her hands on a towel, tugged at the elastic waistband of her sweatpants, and reached for the book she had left on the counter. Pushkin. Nostalgia tucked between pages the way other people tucked photographs into albums. She curled up in the chair with a faint sigh. She felt Soviet today.

The dogs had abandoned her a while ago, drawn upstairs by the warm body still dozing in her bed. She smiled faintly at the thought.

Upstairs, Munch cracked one eye open to the sound of claws shifting against the blanket. The German Shepherds had taken up most of the mattress, pinning him in with the resigned loyalty of watchdogs. He groaned.

“I must be in hell,” he rasped, his voice gravelled from sleep.

He could hear Talia downstairs, pots clinking, pages turning. He imagined her ignoring him, which only made him more aware of the empty space at his side.

When she didn’t answer, he sat up, hair sticking out at impossible angles, his glasses lost somewhere on the nightstand. His body ached from the shooting. But here? Here, in her bed, it felt like time had stalled.

He was still adjusting to that. To her.

Talia heard his voice filter through the old wooden floorboards, and her lips tugged into a wry smile. She set her book down, smoothed the curls that had escaped their bun, and reached for a tray. One bowl of lentil soup, warm bread from the bakery down the block, a few biscotti, her book balanced carefully on top. She carried it upstairs like a ritual offering.

He was sitting up when she entered, shoulders hunched, squinting at her through the glare of daylight. The dogs thumped their tails against the mattress like they knew she carried food.

“Sleep well?” she asked softly, setting the tray down on the nightstand.

Munch rubbed his face with both hands. “Yeah, if you don’t count the Gestapo watching me breathe.” He jerked his head toward the dogs. “Your three goons here, I swear, they took shifts making sure I didn’t make a run for it.”

Her laugh was quiet, warm. “They like you. They don’t like anyone.”

“Great. The hounds of hell approve of me. Guess I should be honoured.”

He finally looked at her properly, and froze.

Sweatpants. Simple, grey, low on her hips. And a bralette, thin cotton, hugging the soft curve of her breasts, her skin glowing in the golden afternoon light. Her curls had spilled loose down her shoulders. Casual. Effortless. Unbearable.

Munch swallowed, throat dry. “You… cooked?” he asked, voice raspier than he meant.

“Don’t sound so shocked.” She handed him the bowl, steam curling between them. “It’s just soup. Mild. No spice bombs. Even you can handle it.”

He accepted the spoon but didn’t lift it right away, too distracted by the sight of her settling onto the edge of the bed beside him. She sat close, close enough that the heat of her body brushed his arm, but not touching. Not yet.

“You didn’t have to-”

“I wanted to,” she interrupted, pressing the spoon into his hand like a command. Her fingers lingered on his knuckles, soft but insistent. Something in his chest stuttered.

Talia opened the book again, flipping idly through its pages as he ate. The scratch of paper and the sound of his spoon were the only noises in the room. She read aloud here and there, a verse in Russian, translated softly into English. Her voice was calm, steady, almost hypnotic.

It was domestic. Dangerous in its simplicity.

Munch found himself watching her more than the print. The way her bralette shifted as she leaned forward, the dip of her waist above the elastic of her sweatpants, the curl she tucked behind her ear when it tickled her cheek. She didn’t seem to notice the effect she had on him, or maybe she did, and that was worse.

She caught him once, his gaze lingering too long. “You’re staring,” she murmured, not looking up from the page.

“Am not.”

“Mm.” Her lips curved into the smallest smirk. “Sure.”

The soup disappeared spoonful by spoonful. She reached over once to break the bread in half, handing him a piece like it was another unspoken offering. Their fingers brushed, and neither pulled away fast enough.

By the time the bowl was empty, the book had slipped from her lap onto the floor. Silence stretched; not awkward, but taut, like a string drawn too tight. The dogs shifted and sighed, oblivious.

She brushed a curl from her face, tucking it back with hands that trembled only slightly. “See? Not so bad having someone take care of you.”

He tried for a smirk, but it faltered. He held her gaze, long and steady, until the air between them turned thick, unbearably warm.

He wanted to say something. Thank you. Don’t stop. Stay. But the words jammed in his throat.

She didn’t press. She just let him see the truth in her eyes; care, warmth, and something softer than either of them dared name.

The dogs snored. A horn honked faintly outside. The world went on.

And here, in her room, they hovered at the edge of something neither could walk back from.

She wanted to reach for him. To slide her hand across the narrow gap and trace the line of his jaw, to anchor him where she could see he wanted to drift. But she didn’t. Not yet. Not when the timing would snap the thread too soon.

Instead, she stood, clearing the tray. The air shifted immediately, cooler without her so close.

“Rest, John,” she said, voice low, almost tender. “I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

She left, carrying the scent of cumin and fresh bread with her.

The room felt empty as soon as she was gone.

He leaned back, staring at the cracked ceiling, his chest hot with something he hadn’t let himself feel in years. Not attraction, he knew attraction too well. This was worse. Softer. More dangerous.

Her laugh, her care, her soup simmering like a prayer, he couldn’t file it under casual. Couldn’t shrug it off with a joke. Not when every part of her had carved itself into him already.

The dogs shifted, filling the silence, their warmth pressed against his legs like they were standing guard.

“Yeah,” he muttered to himself, running a hand through his wild hair. “Definitely in hell.”

But he didn’t move. Didn’t leave. Didn’t want to.

Because hell had never tasted like lentils and felt like home.

Chapter Text

ASTORIA - October 31, 2004 - 10:19 AM

The first thing John Munch registered when he woke wasn’t pain, which surprised him. He’d grown used to waking with some kind of reminder that his body was aging, a shoulder that protested, a rib that caught on his breath, the old wound that flared if he slept on it wrong. Today? Nothing. No pain. Just warmth.

For a moment, in that sleepy blur between dreams and consciousness, he thought maybe it was her. Maybe Talia had fallen asleep across his chest, hair spilling everywhere, the weight of her hand resting just above his heart. He wanted that image so badly that his brain gave it to him before his eyes opened. He clung to it, until he blinked.

Instead of her, three large German Shepherds were sprawled across the bed like sentinels who had abandoned their posts to take over his. Ramses had his head on the pillow where Talia should’ve been. Anubis and Heka were stretched diagonally, pinning the sheets in a tangle.

Munch let out a dry groan. “Figures. I’m not even the most important man in her bed.”

Still, he didn’t move right away. He breathed in. The sheets smelled like her; jasmine, smoke, something warm and spiced he could never name. The room was all soft edges, clutter that wasn’t really clutter, the faint sound of a radio left on somewhere in the house. Everything about it was the opposite of his apartment: hers was fresh coffee instead of instant, sunlight instead of lamps, colour and spice instead of grey walls and cold takeout boxes.

It wasn’t him.

And yet… he wanted it. Wanted it so badly it scared him.

With a reluctant sigh, he eased himself up, careful not to disturb the dogs. His side didn’t hurt at all, though he’d never admit that to her. He’d let her worry, if worrying kept her close.

On a chair by the dresser sat a neatly folded stack of clothes. He picked up the shirt and slacks. Too big for him, too neat to be anything he’d ever buy. Must’ve belonged to one of her brothers. “Great,” he muttered. “Now I’m stealing from the dead or the disapproving. Freud would have a field day.” Still, he tugged them on and padded downstairs.

She was there. Talia lay curled on the couch, arms folded, hair tumbling wild around her face. Even half-asleep, she glowed. To him, she always did, whether she was pulling apart an interrogation transcript with razor focus or standing barefoot in her kitchen with mascara smudged from yesterday. It hit him like it always did: the ridiculous, impossible thought that she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

She stirred when he passed the stairs. “I’m not sleeping,” she murmured without opening her eyes.

“Then why are your eyes closed, doll?” he shot back automatically. The word slipped out before he could catch it.

He froze.

She heard it. He could tell by the way her lips curved, slow and knowing, though she still hadn’t opened her eyes.

“Habit of yours, calling women that?” she asked.

“Only the dangerous and pretty ones,” he muttered, retreating toward the kitchen. He found the coffeepot on the stove, already brewed. Of course, she’d thought of it before he woke. Of course.

She pushed herself up, stretching lazily, the hem of her bralette riding up just slightly. He pretended not to notice, but his eyes betrayed him for a heartbeat too long.

“It’s Halloween,” she said softly. “We need to pick up candy.”

Munch glanced over his shoulder. “You celebrate that?”

“Not really,” she shrugged, reaching for the hoodie draped over the arm of the couch. “But the kids in the neighbourhood… they like to stop by. If I don’t have candy, their parents will guilt me for a year.”

He let out a half-laugh, half-sigh. It wasn’t judgment, but it was. He’d never celebrated anything in his life with that kind of tenderness. The idea of buying candy for neighbour kids felt… foreign. But he could see how natural it was to her.

For a long beat, he stood silent, mug halfway to his lips, thoughts too loud in his head. The warm kitchen, the smell of thyme and oud, the sound of her dogs padding around upstairs, it was all too much. Too close to something he couldn’t have.

“I’ll head home today,” he said, too quickly, without thinking.

The words cut through the room.

Her head snapped up, hurt flickering across her face before she caught it, tried to bury it under a calm mask. “Why?”

“You worry too much,” he said, shrugging like it didn’t matter. Like she didn’t matter.

Her voice dropped. “No, John. I care too much.”

He felt it like a blade between his ribs. Coward. That’s what he was. He wanted to grab her hand, pull her against him, promise he’d stay, stay forever, stay until the house grew quiet and the dogs grey. But the coward in him was louder.

Instead, he cleared his throat. “Where are you going?”

“Taking the dogs out. Stopping at the store for candy.” She bent to tug on her sneakers, pulling her hoodie tight against the morning chill. The dogs thundered down the stairs, tails wagging, circling her like worshippers around their queen. She clipped their leashes on, then turned back to him.

“You want to come?” she asked lightly, masking the plea under casualness. “See the neighbourhood. Meet the people I grew up with.”

The worst he could do was say no. The best would be-

“Sure,” he said. Too fast. Too unguarded. He reached for the coat she’d left for him, the one that matched hers almost embarrassingly well.

She smirked. “Where to first?”

“The bodega,” she said simply, tugging the door open. The morning sun spilled across the stoop, gilding her hair.

BODEGA ON 33^rd - October 31, 2004 - 10:59 AM

The bodega hadn’t changed in years. Not since she was a teen sneaking sunflower seeds and soda from the counter, not since her mother sent her down with a crumpled bill for fresh bread. The cracked linoleum floor, the flicker of the neon sign, the scent of old coffee and stacked plantains, it was all the same. Even Ali behind the counter looked exactly as he always had slouched, cigarette tucked behind his ear, nodding at customers without ever looking up.

Talia pushed the glass door open with her shoulder, the little bell chiming, and for a moment it was as if she had never left. Behind her, the dogs sat obediently outside, patient and watchful, their breath fogging the glass. She slipped between the shelves, familiar steps over worn tile, until she reached the candy section.

“Of course,” she muttered, half to herself. The shelves were stuffed for Halloween; plastic jack-o-lanterns of Tootsie Rolls, stacked bags of Milky Ways, Sour Patch Kids, Hershey bars. She reached for what she really wanted: peanut M&M’s, Reese’s Pieces, Snickers, a rainbow spread of Skittles and Starburst. Bright little packages of sugar against the greyness of the week. And then, without hesitation, she plucked up a handful of blue raspberry lollipops, tearing one open and slipping it between her glossed lips before she’d even thought about it.

Behind her, Munch stood still. Watching her.

She didn’t see him right away. He wasn’t looking at the candy. He was looking at her. The way she moved through this space, unselfconscious, like she belonged to it and it to her. Everyone here knew her. The old women haggling over bread nodded when she passed. Ali’s eyes had flickered up just for her. She wasn’t just another detective on the job here. She was rooted. Known.

And Munch, Munch lived in grey walls, half-light, piles of conspiracy books barricading him from the world. His fridge held beer and condiments that had expired before Y2K. No neighbours knew his name. Watching her now, he felt the weight of it; the difference. The danger of it.

He remembered the last time he’d really seen her. She had been crying then. Red eyes, tear-slick lashes, her face pale in the weak streetlight. He’d never asked her why. He told himself it wasn’t his business. He told himself she wouldn’t want him to. But the memory gnawed at him now.

She turned suddenly, a bag of peanut M&M’s in her hand. She pressed it into his palm without thinking, her fingers brushing his.

Electric. Immediate.

“You okay?” she asked softly, lollipop stem tilted from the corner of her mouth.

The truth pressed up against his teeth. No. I’m not okay. I’m in love with you, and it’s killing me.

Instead, he smirked. Armor up. “Yeah. Just never thought I’d see the day I’d be accessory to a candy run.”

She rolled her eyes, lips twitching around the lollipop. “Consider it field training.”

And then she was moving again, tossing another bag into the basket, as if she hadn’t just cracked him open.

They left the bodega in sunlight, the door jingling behind them. The dogs leapt up instantly, tails wagging, crowding around her legs with unrestrained joy. She let them loose without a second thought, three leashes dropped casually into her pocket as the pack moved down 33^rd with her like a tide.

Munch followed, slower. His eyes caught on the Nazar charm at her belt loop, glinting against her trench coat, swaying with her stride. Protection against the evil eye. She probably didn’t even think about it anymore. But he did. He thought about all the ways she needed protecting, all the ways he wanted to do it and couldn’t.

Astoria in autumn was noisy, bustling, but this stretch of 33^rd was something else, Talia’s name for it was the old city. And it fit. The synagogue, the Coptic church, the Russian Orthodox church, the mosque, all crowded onto the same block, domes and crosses and minarets brushing up against each other like family forced to share a table. The leaders of each congregation stood out front, baskets of candy on their steps, greeting neighbourhood kids, greeting her.

The Coptic church came first. Its sandstone facade stood strong, carved with crosses her mother used to trace with her fingertips. Father Stephanos Rami stepped out onto the steps, his cassock brushing his ankles, his hair silvered with age. His eyes lit the second he saw her.

“Ṣabāḥ el-khēr, yā bintī!” he called, voice echoing down the block. (Good morning, my daughter / Arabic)

Talia smiled; a real smile, unarmoured, the kind Munch almost never saw. She touched her forehead, chest, shoulders in the sign of the cross, bowing her head slightly. “Good morning, Father,” she said, warmth in every syllable.

The dogs bounded to him, nudging his hand until he chuckled and blessed them too.

“Light a candle for your mother tonight!” Father Stephanos called after her as she moved on.

Talia only nodded. She didn’t need reminding. She lit one every day. Munch walked beside her in silence. He didn’t miss the way her smile had dimmed after the priest’s words.

Next came the mosque. Sheikh Omar Al-Karim, tall and robed, stepped down to the sidewalk. He had known her mother in Alexandria, decades before, and his affection showed in the way he opened his arms.

“Aḥad Mubārak,” he greeted gently. (Blessed Sunday / Arabic)

Talia touched her hand to her heart. “Mubārak,” she returned softly, and kept walking. (Blessed / Arabic)

And then the synagogue. Munch felt his chest tighten before he even saw the man. Rabbi David Levy stepped out into the sun, basket of wrapped candies in hand, his voice booming. “John! Long time no see!”

Munch froze. Talia stopped too, her head tilting curiously. The rabbi was already striding forward, hand out, eyes bright. “Rabbi Levy?” Munch’s voice cracked into something unguarded. “I didn’t know you were here.”

The rabbi clasped his shoulders, laughing like they were back in Baltimore thirty years ago. “Transferred a few years back. And look at you, thought I’d never see you outside a basement again.”

Talia lingered at the edge of the sidewalk, watching. Munch hadn’t said a word to her about knowing her rabbi. He looked… different in this moment. Younger. Less tired. Like someone who remembered what it felt like to belong.

When they finally broke apart, she teased, “Didn’t know you knew my rabbi.”

He chuckled, shrugging like it was nothing. “Your rabbi? I’ve known him longer than you’ve been alive.” Her smirk softened, eyes lingering on his profile longer than she meant to.

The Russian Orthodox church sat at the corner, its domes catching the autumn light. She hesitated at the steps. The dogs waited patiently, already knowing the drill. She slipped inside alone, trench coat sweeping behind her.

The air was heavy with incense; the smell of beeswax candles and centuries of prayers soaked into the wood. Icons stared down with solemn faces, saints painted in gold halos and sorrowful eyes.

She lit four candles, one after the other. One for her father. One for her mother. One for Kareem. One for Lana. Her throat ached, but she said nothing aloud. She didn’t need to.

When she stepped back out, blinking against the sun, Munch was there. Holding the dogs’ leashes. Waiting.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

She nodded. “Always.”

Neither of them believed it.

They walked toward the park, the dogs leading the way. For a while, neither spoke. The sounds of Astoria filled the silence, car horns, a vendor hawking hot pretzels, kids laughing as they raced to collect candy.

Finally, Talia broke it. “You looked different back there.”

“Back where?”

“With Rabbi Levy.” She glanced at him sidelong. “Like you belonged.”

He smirked faintly. “Don’t get used to it.”

“I liked it,” she said, too soft. And then, to cover: “It suits you. Being around people who actually like you.”

He barked a laugh. “Don’t start rumours, Amari.”

She grinned, and he felt that same electric pull he’d felt in the bodega. The one that told him if she asked him to stay, really stay, he wouldn’t say no.

By the time they reached the park, their conversation had shifted; old stories, half-jokes. She told him about running these streets as a kid, getting scolded by the church ladies, sneaking into the mosque with her shoes on. He told her about Baltimore basements and conspiracy rants that never quite landed.

And somewhere between her laughter and his smirk, the weight lifted. Just for a little while.

Talia never wanted the day to end. Neither did Munch.

But neither of them said it. Not yet.

ASTORIA - October 31, 2004 - 12:38 PM

The autumn air still clung to them when Talia unlocked the door, her dogs rushing in ahead like a tide breaking loose. Ramses bounded for the hallway first, Anubis close behind, and little Heka skittering in after them, nails clicking on the wood. They carried the damp scent of sidewalks and leaves, the ghosts of candy wrappers, the faint trace of firecrackers someone had already let off down the block.

Munch followed more slowly, leaning heavier on the frame than he would ever admit. His coat looked too big for him, like the weight of it was another thing dragging him down. He hated the way weakness lived in his body now, hated the tug of half-healed pain at his side. But when she turned to check on him, steady as a sentry, he only gave her that crooked look; half sarcasm, half surrender.

“You walk three German Shepherds like you’re leading a battalion,” he muttered. His voice was thin, but the sarcasm was intact. “Next time, I’m hiring backup.”

“Next time,” she said, brushing rain from her curls, “you’ll still be in my bed, where you belong.”

She didn’t give him time to answer. Her coat came off, hers first then his, both hung neatly on the rack. She ushered him inside with a hand against his arm, not too firm, but insistent. He didn’t resist. Not really.

The sound of children echoed faintly outside; trick-or-treaters shrieking in delight, the rustle of plastic bags, footsteps on stoops. A siren wound its way down Steinway Street, too far to matter, close enough to remind them of where they belonged.

“Sit,” she ordered softly, pointing him toward the couch. “Don’t argue.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he lied, lowering himself with the care of a man who wanted to pretend every movement didn’t cost him.

She left him there long enough to wrangle the dogs into the bathroom. The sounds carried: running water, her voice low, firm, coaxing, affectionate. The Shepherds whined, splashed, shook themselves like a rainstorm. He could picture her sleeves rolled up, fingers quick and certain, the ritual of cleaning what she loved so it wouldn’t track dirt into the sanctity she kept upstairs.

By the time she returned, her curls damp around her temples, the dogs smelled of soap and patience. She pressed a hand briefly to her hip, steadying herself, then turned to him. “Upstairs.”

“Bossy,” he muttered, but rose anyway. She shadowed him up the creaking stairs, one hand brushing the rail, the other hovering as if she could catch him if he faltered.

Her bedroom was spare but warm, the bed already turned down. She steered him to it and pressed a palm to his chest until he lowered himself onto the mattress. He let out a breath like surrender.

“You should be asleep,” she murmured, smoothing the blanket over him.

“Hard to sleep when you hover like a guardian angel with a bad temper,” he rasped. His humour was dry, but it cost him a little breath.

Her lips curved despite herself. “Better than dying alone in your Brooklyn apartment.”

That earned a laugh, low and broken but real. He tipped his head against the pillow, watching her as she reached for his glasses, slipping them carefully from his face. Without them, he looked both sharper and more vulnerable, as though the armour of distance had been lifted.

“You’ve got an answer for everything, don’t you?” he whispered.

“Someone has to keep you alive, John.” She lingered; the words heavier than they sounded.

The silence thickened. She didn’t move away. He could feel her breath warm on his cheek, see the soft gleam of her eyes in the muted light. His hand twitched beneath the blanket, aching to reach up, to touch her hair, to do something reckless.

“Talia…” His voice broke on her name.

Her pulse stumbled. She leaned in without realizing, the space between them evaporating, his breath mingling with hers.

He swallowed, his mouth curving into the faintest, wryest smile. “If you’re gonna kiss me, doll, do it before I lose what’s left of my dignity.”

Her eyes widened, soft and uncertain. She wanted it, God, she wanted it, but she let the moment stretch, unbearable, until she whispered, “Not yet.”

Her hand lingered on his chest, pressing lightly against his heartbeat, before slipping away. She stood, forcing air into her lungs, and turned for the door. “Rest. I’ll bring you something.”

He closed his eyes, his expression unreadable, and let her go. Downstairs, the kitchen welcomed her like a memory. She lit the burner beneath the pot of lentil soup she’d made the night before, the scent rising: garlic, cumin, lemon. She set out bread, tore it with her fingers, arranged it all on a tray with quiet precision. Outside, children’s voices swelled again, feet pounding past her stoop. The city went on living.

By the time she carried the tray back upstairs, he was already asleep. His chest rose steady beneath the blankets; his mouth slackened in rest. She paused in the doorway, staring at him for a long moment. He looked younger this way. Softer. Like the weight of everything he carried had finally set itself down.

She placed the tray quietly on the dresser. Then she slipped onto the bed beside him, careful not to wake him, her back against the headboard, Pushkin open in her lap. The dogs settled at her feet, warm sentinels. The room felt wrapped in something holy, something fragile.

She looked down at him once more, her heart aching with the kind of love that came only after fear. This, this was everything she wanted. Not the badge, not the endless cases, not the ghosts she carried. Just this: him breathing beside her, the city safe outside, the soup waiting on the dresser, and her book resting on her knees.

It was all she wanted. And, though he hadn’t said it, she knew it was all he wanted too.

Chapter Text

ASTORIA - November 2, 2004 - 8:48 PM

The rain had not let up all night. Sheets of it fell across Astoria, blurring the rowhouses into watercolour silhouettes, smudging neon signs into nothing but a dull glow. The gutters overflowed, rushing with a muddy stream that carried cigarette butts, soggy leaves, and half-crushed coffee cups down toward the East River.

Inside the Amari-Volkov rowhouse, it was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that sits heavy in the chest, where the sound of the rain only makes the silence feel deeper. The lamps in the living room were off; only the kitchen light glowed faintly, casting long shadows down the hallway. The air smelled faintly of coffee and incense, of rain seeping through the old brick walls.

Talia stood at the door, sleeves of her hoodie falling past her fingertips, twisting the fabric like it could tether him there. Her curls were loose, still damp from the shower she had taken hours earlier, when she had washed the smell of him from her skin only to let him back into her bed again. Four days. Four days of pretending the world outside didn’t exist, of pretending she wasn’t a cop, and he wasn’t her superior, of pretending the city didn’t breathe down their necks.

And now he was leaving.

Munch stood with his hand on the doorknob, trench coat collar turned up, rain already streaking the glass behind him. He looked out of place here; this wasn’t his Lower East Side walk-up with its conspiracy-strewn walls and cluttered bookshelves. This was her home, warm with gold frames and the faint glow of Orthodox icons, photographs of a family half-buried in grief. And somehow, in the last four days, he had fit here too well.

He turned slightly, his glasses catching the low light, and Talia saw it; the hesitation, the pull. The part of him that wanted to stay.

“You don’t have to go,” she whispered, voice barely carrying over the rain against the windows. Her eyes found his, steady, aching. “Not tonight.”

Munch exhaled, a low laugh without humour. “Doll… if I don’t leave now, I won’t ever leave.”

His words hung in the air like cigarette smoke; soft, bitter, clinging.

She stepped closer, so close she could see the lines around his eyes, the exhaustion etched into him after decades on the job, after decades of never letting anyone this close. She lifted her hand, tentative, fingers brushing his. The smallest contact.

“Then don’t,” she said, barely a breath. “Stay.”

His hand caught hers, fingers long and warm, and he pressed her palm against his cheek like it was the only anchor he had. For a moment, the world outside could have drowned, and neither of them would’ve cared.

“I want to,” he admitted, voice rough, low. “More than anything. You think I don’t? You think I haven’t been playing out every possible way this ends?” His thumb traced the back of her hand, slow, reverent. “But the truth is, Amari… I don’t get happy endings. I get half-measures. I get ghosts. And you… you deserve more than whatever I am.”

She shook her head, eyes glassy. “Don’t decide that for me. You don’t get to tell me what I deserve.” Her voice cracked, but she steadied it. “You think I don’t know who you are? I know, John. I know you’re bitter and complicated and you believe every shadow has a man behind it. I know you don’t sleep, and you eat cold Chinese takeout at three in the morning. And I know-” her breath caught, “-I know you’ve been waiting your whole life for someone to prove you wrong about yourself.”

The silence between them felt alive.

Munch looked away first, down at their hands. “Four days, Talia. That’s all it’s been. Four days and I feel like I’ve known you my whole damn life. Do you understand how dangerous that is? For both of us?”

She stepped even closer, close enough that the chain around her neck brushed against his chest. Her voice was steady, but her eyes betrayed her. “Then let it be dangerous. For once, let yourself want something without running from it.”

His hand slid from her palm to her face, tracing the curve of her cheek, her jaw, lingering like he wanted to memorize it. His lips parted like he might finally give in. The rain drummed harder against the glass, like the city itself was holding its breath.

“Talia…” he whispered, almost a prayer. “You don’t know how badly I want this.”

“Then stop leaving,” she whispered back. Her breath mingled with his. “Stay.”

For one suspended second, it felt possible. It felt like maybe he’d drop his bag, maybe he’d let the rain drown the city outside, maybe he’d follow her back upstairs and let the night stretch on forever.

But the second passed.

Munch pulled back just slightly, his hand dropping, his eyes shuttering. “If I stay tonight,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt, “I’ll never walk out that door again. And then what? You and me, hiding from Cragen, sneaking around like we’re teenagers? You think the squad won’t see it all over our faces? I can’t… I can’t risk screwing up the one good thing left in my life, my badge. And I won’t let you screw up yours.”

The words hit like a gavel. Talia’s throat tightened. She wanted to argue, wanted to scream, wanted to beg. Instead, she reached for him one last time, fingers catching the lapel of his coat. “So that’s it?”

Munch’s eyes softened. He leaned down, kissed her forehead. It was brief, but it seared. “Four days I’ll be replaying for the rest of my life,” he murmured.

Then he opened the door. The rush of cold rain-filled air hit the warmth of the house. And just like that, he was gone.

Talia stood frozen in the doorway, watching his figure dissolve into the rain-slicked street, trench coat vanishing into shadow. The sound of his footsteps faded, drowned by the storm.

She closed the door slowly, pressing her back against it. Her hands trembled. The house was too quiet again, the silence pressing in. She crossed herself instinctively, fingers brushing over the little Coptic cross on her keychain.

Upstairs, the bed still held the faint impression of him. His warmth still clung to the sheets, his scent to the pillow. For four days, she had let herself believe in something impossible. For four days, she had loved without restraint.

Now the house was cold again.

And she was alone.

But God help her, she knew he loved her too.

SVU PRECINCT - November 22, 2004 - 9:15 AM

The lull was the kind of rare gift no cop ever trusted. It was a Monday morning in late November, the kind that smelled like burnt coffee and printer ink, and yet, miraculously, no new cases were coming through the door. The bullpen was quieter than usual, detectives scattered at their desks, typing up reports, pretending to catch up on paperwork, half-heartedly scanning through old files. The hum of the fluorescent lights above was louder than the phones.

Talia sat at her desk, hair still damp from the cold air outside, curls pulled back loosely, trench coat draped over her chair. She was annotating a witness statement in the margin, pen clicking against her knee in idle rhythm. Across from her, Munch was buried in an old case file, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, lips pursed in that permanent state of scepticism. He looked the same as he always did, except he didn’t. Not to her. Not after the last three weeks.

Three weeks of avoiding what they both knew.
Three weeks of carefully edited sentences.
Three weeks of pretending.

He hadn’t called her doll once in public since. Not once. And she missed it, though she’d never admit it out loud. When he drove her home at night, he waited until the lights flicked on in her living room before pulling away. She knew because she caught him once, his reflection in the glass, headlights lingering a beat too long. He hadn’t said a word. Neither had she.

The quiet broke when Olivia breezed in, hanging up her coat with a smile so faint it was almost invisible. Almost. But not to this group.

Fin clocked it immediately. “Somebody had a good night.”

Olivia froze mid-step, gave him the kind of look that could dismember a man in seconds. It might have worked, if she wasn’t grinning.

“Shut up,” she said, but there wasn’t much heat in it.

That was all the spark the bullpen needed. Elliot leaned back in his chair, smirk spreading like gasoline on fire. “So? How was the date?”

Olivia’s cheeks went pink. “It was fine.”

“Fine?” Fin echoed, eyebrows raised. “That’s it? Fine?”

Talia glanced up from her notes, curiosity tugging. She slid off her chair and perched herself casually on the corner of Fin’s desk, legs crossed, pen still twirling between her fingers. “What was wrong with him?”

“Nothing was wrong,” Olivia insisted, shrugging out of her blazer. But the smirk lingering gave her away.

“C’mon, Liv,” Elliot prodded, leaning forward now, like a kid who smelled gossip. “What’s your type, huh? ‘Cause we know you’re not saying yes to just anyone.”

Olivia threw her hands up. “I don’t have a type.”

Everyone laughed. “Everybody’s got a type,” Fin said. “Tall? Short? Clean cut? Scruffy? Come on, talk to us.”

Munch didn’t look up from his file. His voice cut through anyway, dry as dust. “Her type is anyone dumb enough to think dating a cop is a good idea.”

That got Talia. She burst into laughter, shoulders shaking as she covered her mouth. Olivia shot Munch a glare, but her lips twitched. “John.”

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Munch said, finally glancing over the rim of his glasses.

“You’re wrong,” she fired back.

He arched a brow. “Am I?”

Olivia groaned, already regretting walking into this. “Why are you even in this conversation?”

“Because” Munch said, returning to his file like it was scripture, “watching all of you try to dissect romance like it’s a police sketch is the most entertainment I’ve had all week.”

That set off another round of chuckles. Even Cragen poked his head out of his office for a moment, smirk tugging at his mouth as he shook his head at his detectives acting like teenagers. For once, the air was light. Almost normal. Almost human.

Then Elliot ruined it. “Alright, fine,” he said, tossing his pen on the desk with dramatic flair. “If Liv won’t tell us, we’ll go around. Type check. Who’s first?”

“Not it,” Fin said immediately.

“Not it,” Olivia echoed.

Elliot grinned, scanning the room like a shark. His gaze landed squarely on Talia, still perched on Fin’s desk. “You’re up.”

Talia’s head snapped toward him, brows arching. “Oh no. Don’t even start.”

“C’mon, Amari,” Fin chimed in, grin wide now. “Don’t tell me you don’t have a type.”

She let out a low laugh, shaking her head. “Why do men think women sit around making lists of features we like? That’s not how it works.”

“That’s deflection,” Elliot said, pointing a finger like he’d cracked a case. “Total deflection.”

“I’m not deflecting,” she countered smoothly. “I’m ignoring.”

That made Fin snort. “She got you there.”

But Elliot wasn’t letting go. “Okay, okay, let me guess. Your type’s… tall, dark, handsome. The gym-rat thing. Probably drives something flashy.”

Talia barked out a laugh. “Wow. Groundbreaking.”

“Don’t tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re wrong,” she said easily, twirling the pen.

“Oh, okay.” Elliot leaned back, grinning. “Then what? You like the bad boy type? Tattoos, motorcycle, leather jacket?”

“You’ve been watching too much TV,” she fired back, shaking her head.

“So, what then?” Fin pressed. “Come on, Amari. Spill.”

For the first time, she hesitated. Just long enough for Munch to notice. His posture didn’t change; still bent over the file, glasses slipping, but she could feel it. He was listening. Bracing.

The silence stretched. Then her lips curved, slow and deliberate. Mischief lit her eyes. “You know what?” she said at last, voice casual. “I like my men old.”

That landed like a gunshot.

“Old?” Elliot repeated, choking on a laugh. “Like… retirement home old?”

“Old,” Talia confirmed, dead serious. She tapped her pen against her knee, expression giving nothing away. “Preferably almost dying. Definitely Jewish.”

The bullpen erupted. Fin doubled over. “Yo, what?!” Olivia buried her face in her hands, laughing so hard her shoulders shook. Elliot slammed his palm on the desk. “You’re kidding. You have to be kidding.”

“Completely serious,” Talia said, serene as ever. She glanced across the room, just long enough to lock eyes with Munch. The moment stretched, too brief to be caught by anyone else, too sharp to be anything but intentional. Her smirk deepened. “That’s my type.”

For a man who’d built a career out of deadpan sarcasm and stone-faced paranoia, John Munch was undone by five words. His ears went hot, red creeping up his neck before he could stop it. He coughed, flipping the file like it was suddenly urgent, muttering, “Guess I should update my will.”

Talia didn’t look away. Not yet.

When she finally did, her smile lingered.

SVU PRECINCT - November 22, 2004 - 9:29 PM

The bullpen had emptied hours ago. Desks were bare, phones quiet, the silence heavy. The city outside hummed in neon and sirens, but here it was only paper shuffling and the low creak of old furniture. Munch sat at his desk, stacking files into neat, unnecessary piles. The ritual of avoidance.

He didn’t hear her until she was there. Talia, coat over her arm, hair pulled loose from its clip. She paused by his desk, shadow stretching across his paperwork.

“Almost dying, huh?” he muttered without looking up.

She leaned down, just close enough that her voice brushed warm against his ear. “Almost dying,” she confirmed softly. Then, after a beat that cracked him open, she added, “Don’t forget, you’re the one who left.”

And then she was gone. He watched her go, watched the elevator doors close, the echo of her perfume lingering in the air. His ears burned again, and for the first time in years, his heart thudded like it had no business still working.

He muttered to himself, the words falling flat in the empty room: “She’s gonna be the death of me.”

SVU PRECINCT - November 23, 2004 - 8:28 AM

The bullpen was alive in that way it only ever was between cases; half chaos, half lull. Phones rang, keyboards clacked, chairs squeaked on worn linoleum. A half-eaten box of donuts sat abandoned on the corner table, powdered sugar dusting the manila folders underneath.

Fin had his feet kicked up on his desk like a man who knew he was about to start trouble. His smirk stretched slow, deliberate. He waited until the chatter hit its peak before dropping his line like bait into water.

“So,” he drawled, just loud enough to make heads turn, “I ran into Mike Sandoval down at Narcotics yesterday.”

Talia glanced up from her notes, brow raised. Olivia shot a look across her desk, already bracing. Elliot paused mid-sip of his coffee.

“Oh yeah?” Elliot asked, always ready to stir the pot.

“Mm-hm.” Fin nodded, drawing it out like a man telling a good joke. “Tall. Smooth. Works out. Educated. Polite. Guy’s even got decent shoes, and you know that’s rare.”

Olivia smirked. “Wow. Be still my heart.”

“I’m serious,” Fin pressed, his grin widening. He jabbed a finger across the room toward Talia. “Amari. I should set you two up.”

Talia blinked, pen still poised over her notes. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Fin said, smug. “You keep sittin’ around here with these dinosaurs, you’re gonna start collectin’ dust. Sandoval’s a good guy. I’ll give him your number.”

“Wow,” she said flatly, tossing her pen onto her desk. “How very thoughtful of you, Detective Tutuola. Really looking out for my best interests.”

Olivia bit the inside of her cheek to hide her smile. Elliot leaned forward, smelling blood. “So? You interested?”

Talia tilted her head, fingers tapping a rhythm on her notebook. “You know what? He does sound cute.”

That was all it took.

“Ha!” Fin slapped his desk with triumph. “Finally. A normal answer outta you.”

Elliot grinned. “See, Fin? Miracles happen.”

Olivia arched a brow. “Don’t get too excited. You’re acting like you just won the lottery.”

But Talia’s eyes slid sideways, toward Munch. He hadn’t joined the chorus. Hadn’t even looked up from the stack of case files he was pretending to read. But his jaw was tight, his ears pink, and when Talia said cute, his pen stopped moving.

She caught it instantly. And she couldn’t resist. “Oh, come on,” she said, a grin tugging at her lips. “What’s the harm? Maybe Fin’s right. Maybe I could use a little… normal.”

Fin spread his arms like a man vindicated. “Exactly. Dinner, drinks. Boom. Next thing you know, you’re not sittin’ home readin’ crime scene reports with these sad old men.”

Munch finally snapped his gaze upward. “Hey,” he said sharply, his voice slicing through the noise. “I happen to enjoy reading crime scene reports at home.”

Olivia didn’t even glance up. “That’s not a defence, John.”

Elliot coughed into his coffee, trying to hide a grin.

Talia leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. Her voice was calm, but the undercurrent was wicked. “Besides,” she said, eyes fixed on Munch like she’d been waiting all morning for this, “old men are kinda my thing.”

The bullpen erupted. Elliot nearly spit his coffee. Olivia pressed her lips together so hard her shoulders shook. Fin slapped the desk again, doubled over in laughter.

Munch froze. His ears flamed. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, ducking his head back down into the file like it could shield him.

But the corner of his mouth twitched. And Talia saw it.

She always did.

ASTORIA - November 24, 2004 - 1:38 AM

Queens was a different city after midnight. Quieter, but not silent, an occasional siren in the distance, the hiss of tires on wet pavement, the hum of neon bleeding from a bodega that never closed. The rowhouses along 33^rd Street seemed to sleep, but Talia’s home glowed faintly, lamplight slipping through gauzy curtains, scented with rosewater and clove.

She was tired, but the ritual of coming home was grounding: shoes by the door, blouse shed on the arm of the couch, glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, not that she needed them. Silk shorts and a black bralette, bare feet sinking into the worn rug. Her dogs moved with her, lazy guardians; Ramses heavy on the couch, Anubis trailing like a shadow, Heka nudging his nose into her palm. She curled up with a book, one knee tucked under her, hair pulled loose, and for the first time all day, she exhaled.

The knock shattered it. Sharp. Out of place. At nearly two in the morning. The dogs barked once, but their tails wagged. Whoever it was, they knew him. Talia froze, book lowering slowly, a frown cutting across her face as she rose and padded barefoot to the door. She opened it.

And there he was.

John Munch. Rumpled trench coat, collar askew, hair in disarray. A man dragged here by something he couldn’t name. He clutched a case file in his hand like it was an excuse, but his eyes gave him away; restless, dark, burning in the low light.

Her voice was soft, careful. “John?”

“Don’t get excited,” he muttered, brushing past her into the living room before she could answer. He set the file down on the coffee table with too much precision, like order could disguise chaos. “I just came to drop this off. Case file. Important.”

Talia closed the door slowly, arms folding. She arched a brow. “You came all the way to Queens at two in the morning… for a file?”

“Yes.” His tone was sharp, clipped. Too sharp. He didn’t look at her.

“Uh-huh.”

The dogs padded forward, sniffing at his shoes. Heka leaned into him, tail wagging like he’d found an old friend. Munch crouched briefly, scratching behind the shepherd’s ears, eyes fixed on the dog instead of her.

“Something you want to say?” she asked gently, her voice losing its edge.

He laughed once, hollow. “No. I just… don’t think Fin’s matchmaking is a good idea.”

Her brows rose. “Oh?”

“Sandoval,” he said bitterly, spitting the name like it left a bad taste. “He’s… young. Shiny. Probably thinks cologne is a personality. He’s not-” He cut himself off, jaw tight.

Her lips curved faintly. She stepped closer, voice dipping low. “You jealous, Detective?”

His eyes snapped up. Sharp, dark, and pained. His voice cracked like a wire pulled too tight. “Don’t.”

She tilted her head. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t joke about that.”

The room stilled. The hum of the fridge, the faint hiss of the radiator, the sound of her dogs settling back down, all of it faded until it was only them.

Talia took another step, closing the gap until she could see the twitch in his jaw, the lines around his tired eyes. Her chin tilted upward, her voice a whisper. “John…”

He swallowed hard. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “You think this is a game?”

“No.” Her voice broke soft, stripped bare. “Do you?”

For a long, unbearable moment, neither moved. His breath uneven. Hers steady. Weeks of tension pressing down like a weight. His hand twitched; jerked, almost, like it wanted to reach for her, but he fought it. His voice was ragged when it finally came. “You deserve someone better than me.”

Her smile was devastating, heartbreakingly soft. She shook her head. “I don’t want someone better. I wanted you.”

That undid him. His exhale was ragged, his eyes shutting for a beat like her words had cut him open and stitched him shut all at once. When he opened them again, she was still there. So close. So warm. Waiting.

Her hand lifted, trembling slightly as it brushed his sleeve. A feather-light touch, barely there. His breath hitched. He leaned in. Just slightly. Just enough that she could feel the heat of him. Inches. Less. The air hummed.

“John…” she whispered, the sound barely air, her lips parted, her curls spilling loose around her face.

His gaze flicked down to her mouth; once, twice, and back up. His hands shook at his sides. He leaned closer, his nose nearly brushing hers. The scent of her; oud, silk, the faint smoke of her candle, pulled him under. His voice broke like confession. “Talia…”

Her lips curved in the faintest, saddest smile. “I know.”

She didn’t move closer. Neither did he. The silence roared. The almost became unbearable. It wasn’t a kiss; it was worse. It was everything but.

He closed his eyes, leaned just a fraction closer, his breath ghosting her lips, so close it was already a kiss in his head. And then, he stopped.

Like pulling himself back from the edge of a cliff.

He stepped away. One step, then two, trench coat closing like armour. His sarcasm slid back into place, brittle and thin. “I should go.”

Her throat tightened, but she nodded. “Goodnight, John.”

At the door, he hesitated. His hand lingered on the knob, knuckles white. He glanced back. His eyes were raw, tortured, overflowing with everything he couldn’t say, everything he’d denied himself.

And then he left.

The door clicked shut.

And Talia stood in the quiet, heart pounding, lips trembling with the ghost of the kiss that never was.

Chapter Text

SVU PRECINT - November 26, 2004 - 7:15 PM

The bullpen was thinning the way New York thins after dark, by degrees, with noise lingering in the corners. Phones clicked over to voicemail. Chairs scraped. Coat sleeves slid over tired shoulders. The fluorescents hummed like they resented being left on.

Olivia had ducked out first, a hand in the air, a smile that said don’t burn the place down. Elliot followed with a muttered line about traffic on the FDR and a grimace that insisted he’d be right. Even Fin had vanished, wearing a smug grin and the words ‘setting things in motion’ like a sign around his neck.

Talia knew exactly what motion he meant. Mike Sandoval. Narcotics. A decent guy by all objective measures; tall, good posture, polite. The kind of man strangers described in wedding toasts as solid. He’d texted earlier: Dinner? 8:00? She’d answered Sure with her thumb dancing over T9, more politeness and curiosity than conviction.

It was 7:15 now. And she should’ve been heading out the door.

Except John Munch was still at his desk.

He sat hunched over a battered brown file, glasses low on his nose, the lamplight carving him out of the shadows with soft gold. Tie loosened, sleeves rolled, collar slightly askew, he was all edges and exhaustion and something that felt like gravity. A curled photograph lay at the top of the stack, colour drained into sepia: a bank of winter-bare trees, black water, a shape in the reeds you didn’t want to look at twice.

Talia stood by her own desk with her jacket in one hand and keys in the other. She watched him. The bullpen’s low sounds softened around the outline of him, and she felt the familiar twist in her chest, the one that meant danger and comfort and something she refused to call by its name.

She set her keys back down. “Cold case?” she asked, voice gentle as she crossed the space between them.

Munch surfaced like a diver out of deep water, blinking. “Hm? Yeah.” He tapped the top of the file with two fingers. “Eighty-nine. Girl vanished in December. Body turned up months later in the Bronx River. No witnesses. No clean evidence. No one cared long enough.”

“Fifteen years,” Talia murmured, pulling out the chair across from him and sitting. “You pulled it today because…?”

“Because insomnia’s cheaper than therapy,” he said, deadpan, then smirked like it almost counted as a joke. “And because puzzles shouldn’t get the last word.”

She propped her chin on her hand. “Cheaper, sure. Not healthier.”

He gave her a look over the rim of his glasses. “Look at you. Diagnosing me already. Must be love.”

The corner of her mouth lifted, but she didn’t give him the satisfaction of a comeback. The light pooled on the desk between them like a warm secret. Farther out in the room, a copier clattered into sleep. Somewhere near the break room a coffee pot gasped its last breath over burnt grounds, the smell like old pennies.

“Walk me through,” she said.

He did. The cadence of his voice lowered, the sarcasm sanded down by the habit of reading the dead out loud. He skimmed notes in a hand not his own and frowned when he found mistakes, hummed when he found something that lined up. She watched his fingers trace the margin where some forgotten detective had scrawled a theory, watched the way his mouth tightened at lazy leaps. She offered a counterfactual here, a thread there. He took them without comment, but the glint in his eyes sharpened.

At some point; some quiet, unremarkable point, the rest of the squad room slid into darkness. Desk lamps winked out one by one until only their corner glowed, a little raft of light in a grey sea. The windows reflected the room back at them: two investigators in a small constellation, the city beyond as a score of amber dots and steam.

Talia forgot about the time. She forgot about Mike’s text. She forgot, even, to sling her jacket over the back of her chair. She leaned over the desk for the photograph, shoulder brushing his as she angled the light, and neither of them moved away. They breathed like conspirators.

“You’re supposed to be leaving,” he said after a long stretch, tone dry but too quiet to be teasing.

“I was,” she answered, not looking up from the photo. A modest house, a chain-link fence with a sagging corner. “Then you started talking about the way the reeds bent.”

“Cancelling dates to sit with me under a desk lamp.” He huffed a laugh that felt like surrender. “Your standards need work, doll.”

There it was. Doll. The syllable looped around her ribs like silk, and she hated what it did to her knees. She turned her head. The lamp threw his face into planes of warm and shadow, softened the comb-over she pretended to dislike and turned it into something that only existed in dim light and soft rooms. He was not beautiful. He was worse, interesting.

“Maybe my standards are exactly where I want them,” she said softly. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was charged, like the second before a storm when the city holds its breath.

SVU PRECINT - November 26, 2004 - 8:47 PM

Her phone buzzed once in her bag: You still coming? - M.   She slid it farther down without looking and nudged a paper toward Munch with the back of her knuckle.

“See that?” she said. “Autopsy notes say diatoms consistent with the lower river, not the upper. If she was found up near Scarsdale, why’s she breathing water from near the salt line?”

His mouth twisted in appreciation. “Because she wasn’t dumped where she drowned.”

“Or wasn’t drowned where she was dumped,” she countered.

“Semantics,” he said, but softer now. He liked when she met him in the margins. He liked that she saw the stubborn little burrs that snagged on his brain at three in the morning.

They moved together the way they sometimes did in interviews, two hands on one wheel, arguing through the turn but flipping the blinker at the same time. He pulled a city map from a drawer and anchored the corners under a mug, a stapler, a paperback someone had left behind. She stood, leaned over the desk, pointed with a capped pen.

“Bronx River Park, here,” she murmured. “Maintenance access by the old footbridge… and this inlet would pull debris south on a rainy night.”

He watched her hand hover over the map. He watched her wrist, the bracelet there, thin gold, like the edges of icons. He watched the curve of her mouth as she hunted a detail to death. It should have been infuriating. It had been, once. Now it was a slow, stunned delight he kept trying to talk himself out of.

“You ever going to tell me why you like this stuff?” he asked, lightly. “Rusted cases, bodies in rivers. You could’ve picked any part of this job.”

She didn’t look at him. “You ever going to tell me why you keep reopening them?”

“Because I’m a masochist,” he said.

“Because you believe,” she corrected. “Even if you pretend you don’t.”

He made a face like she’d stepped on his foot. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Be nice to me.” He gestured at the file. “It messes with my brand.”

She smiled without showing teeth. “You’re not a brand, John.”

“No? Then what am I?”

“Something real,” she said, and the word real lodged in his throat like a pill he couldn’t swallow with water. He reached for sarcasm and found none.

Her phone buzzed again.

She ignored it.

Somewhere outside, a siren wound itself into a scream, then faded. Steam out on the street vented slow from a manhole, white ghosts blurring the curb. From Cragen’s office; the light off, blinds half-drawn, the faint smell of the Captain’s cologne clung to the air like authority that lasted longer than he did.

“You’re going to miss your dinner,” John said, mild.

“Maybe,” she answered.

“Your guy-” he made a faint face “-Mike, he’ll be disappointed.”

“Maybe,” she said again, and looked at him like he was the better gamble and the worse idea.

SVU PRECINT - November 26, 2004 - 10:11 PM

By the time the computer screens dimmed themselves into screensaver fish and the heater thumped like an old man’s knee in the cold, they were still there. The case file had grown restless, spilling its pages across the desk, a fan of paper wings. Munch rubbed his temple with two fingers, the soft, thin skin at his eyes reminding her he’d lived a life before he ever walked into SVU. She wanted to know it like a file she could only open when the lights were low.

“You’re still here,” he said, as if he’d just noticed, as if it hadn’t been the only thing he’d noticed for an hour.

“You’re observant,” she shot back.

He gave her a look that wasn’t quite a plea. “I’m serious, Amari. Why?”

It was the way he said her name, Amari, like a dare and a prayer. She tilted her head, curls glinting dull bronze in the lamplight. “Because you’re here.”

The words hung, heavy as incense. He swallowed, his gaze dropping to the file as if paper could shield him from the oldest truths. “Dangerous thing to say.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ll believe you,” he said, too soft for the room and too loud for his chest.

Her breath snagged. He felt it, because he felt everything about her, the way she did him, the micro flinch when a witness lied, the way her shoulders dropped when a victim finally let go. He felt the beat where she almost reached across the desk. He felt the way he wanted to let her.

SVU PRECINT - November 26, 2004 - 11:07 PM

Her phone lit her bag again. This time she pulled it out, stared at the screen, at You still coming? and the timestamp, then typed with precise, impolite mercy: Rain check. Sorry. She flipped the phone closed with a soft snap and slid it away.

“Sandoval?” he asked, too casual.

“Yea,” she said. A smile curled at the edge of her mouth. “Cancelled.”

He made a show of returning to the map. “Your loss.”

“Undoubtedly.”

They worked in comfortable, charged silence. He asked her to read him the paragraph again about soil composition at the shoreline. She did. He countered with the precinct log of patrol car sightings the night the girl disappeared. She corrected his assumption with a detail about traffic patterns on a Friday before Christmas. When she finished, the quiet that fell wasn’t empty. It was full, like a held breath.

He leaned back and the chair protested. The sound felt intimate, like a bed creaking in a room where no one spoke. He scrubbed a hand over his face. “You ever feel like we’re just rearranging bones?” he asked, a sad little grin to soften the fatalist in him.

“Sometimes,” she said. “But sometimes you rearrange them into a skeleton that stands up.”

“Look at you. Poetry.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

She laughed then, quiet, real. It cracked something gentle open between them. She let her hand rest near his on the desk. Not touching. Close enough that his pinkie brushed hers once when he shifted. A nothing touch. A seismic event.

He didn’t move away.

SVU PRECINT - November 26, 2004 - 11:54 PM

It had grown late enough that the building itself forgot them. Lights in the hallway snapped off on an automatic timer. Somewhere, a fax machine chewed paper like a dream of the last decade. The world outside their circle felt very far away.

“Munch,” she said, her voice barely above the low hum of the lights.

“Hm?” He didn’t look up. He couldn’t.

“This thing between us…”

His head snapped up like the words had hooked his jaw. For a breath, he let himself be caught, eyes on hers, open and raw the way he never was when the sun was up. She didn’t do wide, pleading eyes as a rule. But something in them tonight was unguarded, the part of her that held icons in her hands when no one watched and touched the Nazar on her keychain between cases.

He shook his head quickly, retreat like habit. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Soft, steady.

“Don’t name it.” He swallowed, laughed once without humour. “Don’t ruin it.”

“You think admitting it ruins it?”

He pulled his glasses off and set them down as if they weighed a pound. “It would ruin me,” he said, and the honesty of it landed between them like a body.

She stood without hurry and came around the desk. He held perfectly still, like prey that knows a gentle thing can still be dangerous. When her hand touched his shoulder; light as a moth, warm as a candle, he didn’t flinch. He didn’t move toward her either. It was restraint by the micrometre.

“John,” she whispered, and he realized he would remember the way she said his name even if he forgot everything else. “Look at me.”

He did. That was the problem . Looking at her was always his undoing, her mouth with its stubborn curve, the worry born from a hundred crime scenes carried soft at the edges of her eyes, the gold that glowed at her ear like a small crescent moon. Her breath mingled with his, clean and cool with the faint sting of cherry gum. She was close enough that he could see the breathless flutter at her throat.

She leaned in a fraction. His breath stuttered. He leaned, too, helpless against a law older than gravity. The distance between them thinned to an ache. He could feel the shape of her mouth without touching it, and the part of him that had lived a whole life alone screamed don’t and the part of him that had survived only by faithlessness whispered please.

He stopped.

He stopped so close that it felt like a cruelty. His voice caught and broke. “No,” he said, a thread. “Not like this.”

Her chest rose. She held his gaze, neither pleading nor angry, just there with him in the equal pain of it. “Then when?” she asked, not as a demand but as a prayer for a time he couldn’t name.

He couldn’t answer. There was no calendar square for a life like his. If he kissed her now he would not stop at the kiss. If he kissed her now he would never be able to lie again. And he was built of small, necessary lies, the ones that let you walk into rooms like the ones they did and come back out.

“Please,” he managed, a word he didn’t say, a word that sounded like mercy and surrender at once.

The moment fractured, not loudly, but with the quiet shiver of something fine breaking under a fingertip. She stepped back a half-step. He did too, as if they’d been tied at the ribs and the knot had loosened by one shake.

“It’s late,” she said at last, finding her voice like a hand on a rail in the dark. “I should go.”

“Yeah.” Hollow. He nodded like a man accepting sentence. “Yeah.”

She gathered her things without rushing, the ritual steadying them both: the slide of the file back into its jacket; the small click of a pen; the sweep of curls off her shoulder as she slipped her jacket on. He watched her like evidence he needed to memorize before someone locked it in a cabinet.

At the door, she hesitated. Turned. He was still sitting as if the chair had claimed him, hands clenched on his own knees, eyes dark in the lamplight. Something inside her, something stubborn and young and holy, refused to let silence file the last line.

She crossed the space in three measured strides, leaned down, and pressed her lips to his cheek, right at the corner of his mouth. Not a kiss, not really. A benediction. A brand. A promise. She stayed there a heartbeat too long to pretend it meant nothing. He smelled like old coffee and clean soap and the rain he hadn’t walked through yet. His skin was warm. Human. Hers to hurt.

When she drew back, his eyes had widened, shock and want and fear warring in them like weather. He made a sound; small, involuntary, not quite a word.

“Goodnight, John,” she whispered, and this time her voice shook.

He didn’t move. Couldn’t. The click of the door echoed across the empty room like a gavel. He sat a breath, then another, then lifted his hand and touched the place where she’d left herself. He let out a long, ragged exhale that felt like laying down a weapon.

“She’s gonna kill me,” he said to the dark. It didn’t sound like a complaint. It sounded like relief.

ASTORIA - November 26, 2004 - 12:29 AM

Outside, the city exhaled steam and late trains. In the car, window, her reflection stared back, flushed, eyes bright, mouth curved with a grief too sweet to call pain. She took out her phone and read the last text from a decent man who would have been kind and forgettable and typed the truest thing she had left:

Rain check. Something came up.

At home, three dogs lifted their heads and thumped their tails as if she’d done something brave. She laughed at herself in the hallway mirror and didn’t look away.

SVU PRECINCT - November 27, 2004 - 12:29 AM

Back at the precinct his desk, under the thin circle of lamplight, Munch reopened the file and tried to read. The words swam. He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose and whispered, to the empty precinct and the old ghosts in it, ‘Not like this,’ as if the room could hold him accountable when he couldn’t hold himself.

The fax machine chewed another page; the heater rattled; somewhere far below, a siren stitched two boroughs together with sound. The city kept going.

They did not kiss . It was worse.

And somehow, it was better, because now there was no pretending. Only the long ache of a promise deferred, the kind that rewrites you while you wait.

Chapter Text

SVU PRECINT - November 29, 2004 - 7:48 AM

Mondays at SVU were a special brand of hell. The bullpen buzzed with the clatter of typewriters, the squeal of chairs dragged too hard against linoleum, the constant ring of phones. CSU had dropped off evidence bags that no one wanted to catalogue, and someone had spilled sugar into the coffee pot so the whole floor smelled faintly of burnt syrup.

Talia slipped in early, scarf wrapped high around her chin, curls caught in a loose bun that looked thrown together but wasn’t. Her trench coat draped perfectly from her shoulders, just shy of theatrical. She looked tired but still sharp, the kind of tired that turned heads and made people wonder what she’d been doing all weekend.

Munch noticed. Of course he noticed. He always noticed.

She slid into her chair, set her coffee on a coaster, and bent over her notes. Not once did she glance at him. Munch buried his nose deeper into the cold case file he hadn’t actually been reading since Friday. Every thirty seconds, though, his eyes flicked over the rim of his glasses. Just to check.

The bullpen doors swung open. Mike Sandoval walked in like the damn sun had decided to visit Manhattan. Neat fade, broad shoulders under a pressed navy blazer, folder tucked under one arm, coffee cup in the other. He smiled the kind of smile that seemed designed to melt tension.

“Detective Amari,” he greeted warmly, heading straight for her desk. “Sorry about the other night.”

Talia looked up, startled. A sheepish smile tugged at her lips. “Mike. Hey. Yeah… I should’ve called. That cold case with Munch ran long.”

Across the desks, Munch froze. Pen stilled in his hand. His face didn’t move, but a small, traitorous smile crept at the corner of his mouth like he’d just been given a secret. With Munch. She’d said it like it meant something.

Mike nodded, easy, genuine. “Hey, no problem. Comes with the job.” He set the coffee on her desk, nudging it toward her. “Figured you could use this.”

Talia blinked. Twice. Then smiled wider, touched. “That’s… really sweet.” Her voice was softer than she meant, brushing something raw in the room.

Munch heard it. Every syllable scratched down his spine like glass.

Mike leaned casually against the corner of her desk, shoulders loose, posture confident. “Listen,” he said, “if you’re free, maybe we grab a coffee sometime this week? No pressure. Just… off-duty.”

Most of the room didn’t notice. Olivia was on the phone, Elliot buried in forms. Cragen’s office door was shut. But Fin? Fin clocked every second, leaning back in his chair with that unreadable smirk like he’d been waiting for this plot twist.

Talia hesitated. She could feel Munch’s gaze, hot even though he hadn’t looked up. She should say no. God, she wanted to say no. But John had been stonewalling her for months; late-night, half-breathed confessions, tension so thick she could choke on it, and still, he refused to take the step. Still, he held back.

So, her lips curved. “Coffee sounds nice.”

Mike’s grin widened. “Great. I’ll text you.”

“Okay.”

Munch didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His eyes stayed on the same page of the same file. White-knuckled grip on his pen. Inside, he was burning. Coffee. She was saying yes to coffee with Sandoval. Because he couldn’t get his act together. Because he’d told himself no so many times she’d finally listened.

Sandoval clapped Fin’s shoulder on his way out. “Good to see you, brother.”

“Later,” Fin said, eyes tracking the scene like a hawk.

When the door shut, the bullpen air shifted. Talia took a sip of the coffee he’d brought. Too bitter. Not her order. She glanced up, just in time to catch Munch staring at her over his glasses. It was quick, subtle, a flicker of something raw before he dropped his eyes again.

An hour crawled by. The precinct thinned slightly as interviews pulled detectives away. Olivia ducked into Cragen’s office; Elliot disappeared with CSU. Phones still rang, but the noise had dulled.

Talia typed steadily, jaw tight, shoulders set. Across the desks, Munch flipped through another cold case, glasses slipping, pen tapping an erratic rhythm against the folder. He hadn’t read a word.

Fin leaned back in his chair, watching the two of them like he was courtside at a Knicks game. He smirked faintly to himself. No way in hell was he interrupting this. Let them stew.

By lunch, the bullpen was nearly empty. Olivia had a meeting downtown, Elliot trailed after her. Cragen retreated to his office with a fresh pot of sludge coffee.

For once, it was just the three of them. Talia stood, stretching. Her trench fell open, silk blouse gleaming faintly in the harsh light. “I’m gonna grab something to eat.”

“Taking Sandoval with you?” Munch’s voice cut across the room; flat, almost bored. His eyes stayed glued to the file.

Her brows shot up. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He flipped a page without reading. “Bet he’s lurking around right now with a sandwich in hand.”

Her lips parted, incredulous. “Wow. Subtle.”

He looked up then, finally, and the look in his eyes made her stomach flip. Dry, sarcastic, yes; but sharp. Possessive.

She swallowed, forcing her voice steady. “It’s just coffee, John.”

“Yeah,” he said flatly. “That’s how it always starts.”

The air crackled.

Fin cleared his throat loudly. “Y’all want me to step outside, or…?”

Neither answered.

Talia left. She didn’t eat. Couldn’t. Her chest was too full. She thought of Mike’s smile, his easy warmth. She thought of John’s eyes, the way they’d burned when he finally looked at her. By the time she got back, her phone buzzed. See you later this evening? Mike’s name lit up her screen.

She typed back: Sure.

When she looked up, Munch was watching again. Glasses low. Expression unreadable. And Fin, still leaned back, muttered just loud enough for himself: “Messy.”

SVU PRECINT - November 29, 2004 - 2:14 PM

The bullpen had settled into the afternoon rhythm, phones ringing in predictable cycles, stenographers clacking, the hum of the copier spitting evidence packets. Talia worked quietly, eyes fixed on her monitor. She could feel him staring. She always could.

Finally, she broke. “You got somethin’ to say, John?”

He didn’t look up. “Nope.”

“You sure? You’ve been glaring at that same sentence for an hour. Pretty sure the ink’s fading.”

His mouth twitched. “You’re imagining things.”

She leaned back, arms folded, smile razor-sharp. “Am I?”

His eyes flicked up, just once, and lingered. Long enough to sting.

“You don’t get to be jealous,” she said softly. “Not when you’re the one holding the brakes.”

That hit him. Hard.

Fin’s chair squeaked as he stood, stretching. “Alright, I’m definitely takin’ lunch now. Y’all figure your soap opera out before I get back.” The door slammed behind him. Now it was just them. The silence pressed, heavy.

Finally, Munch exhaled. “He’s… good for you.”

Talia blinked. “That what you want me to believe?”

“That’s what’s true.” His voice was dry, but his knuckles tightened on the file. “He’s normal. Safe. Young. You deserve that.”

Her laugh was soft, broken at the edges. “Normal doesn’t keep me up at night, John.”

His eyes shot to hers. Something raw, unguarded. Then he dropped his gaze again. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“I know exactly what I’m asking for.” The words hung there, electric.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, glasses slipping. “Christ, Talia.”

“Say it,” she whispered.

He shook his head.

“Then I’ll say it for you,” she pressed, voice trembling. “I know what I feel for you. And I’m so damn tired of you pretending you don’t feel it too.”

The bullpen was silent but for the hum of fluorescent lights. He stared at her, hollowed out, undone.

Finally, he rasped, “You’ll regret it.”

She smiled, sad and certain. “Not a chance.”

ASTORIA - November 29, 2004 - 7:30 PM

The rain came sudden and merciless, hammering the streets of Queens like it was trying to wash the borough off the map. Sheets of water bounced off pavement, pooled in gutters, ran in rivers toward the storm drains. Streetlamps glowed hazy, their yellow halos blurred by the downpour. The faint rumble of the N train overhead melted into the storm, distant but constant.

Inside her rowhouse, the storm felt far away. Talia’s bedroom was warm, golden with lamplight, the lace curtains trembling slightly against the windowsill drafts. Her closet doors hung open, half her wardrobe spilling out in silk and satin. Clothes littered the bed: slacks, dresses, jackets that whispered power in muted jewel tones. Tonight, she’d chosen differently something she never wore on the job.

A black dress, short, simple, but sharp enough to wound. Her curls fell loose, coaxed into soft waves. A string of gold glinted faintly at her wrist, the Nazar charm turned inward toward her skin like a secret. She leaned into the mirror, steady hand drawing lipstick over her mouth in one clean sweep.

She looked perfect. Too perfect.

Her reflection stared back with poise, but she could see it, the slight hitch in her breath, the way her shoulder tensed when she set the tube down. She was nervous, though she’d die before she admitted it. Mike Sandoval was… nice. Smart. He made her laugh at lunch last week. He remembered her coffee order. He’d offered to pick her up, but insisted on sending a car instead. Gentlemanly. Smooth.

It should have been easy. It wasn’t.

The dogs circled her heels, restless. Anubis pawed the floor near the front window, ears pricked. Ramses gave a low huff. Heka barked once, short, certain. Then came the knock. Sharp. Urgent. She frowned, slipping her heels off the bed. The storm had covered everything, but the dogs heard it before she did. She crossed the hall, silk hem brushing her thighs, and pulled the door open. Her breath caught.

John Munch stood on her stoop, rain streaming down his trench coat, glasses spattered with droplets, hair plastered to his forehead in sodden strands. He looked like a man who’d walked miles through the storm without an umbrella, without a thought to stop. His face was pale, drawn tight.

“Talia,” he rasped. His voice was low, rough with exhaustion, or something sharper.

Her brows knit. “John? What the hell are you doing here?”

He stepped inside before she could protest, water dripping onto her hardwood, leaving a trail darkening the entryway rug. His coat sagged heavy, rain clinging to it like a second skin. “You can’t go.”

Her pulse jumped. She shut the door behind him, heartbeat ricocheting against her ribs. “Go where?”

“You know where.” His eyes flicked over her once; dress, lipstick, curls, and then darted back up, sharp and unwilling to linger, as if every second hurt. His jaw clenched. “The date. Don’t go.”

The words landed like thunder. Talia folded her arms across her chest, though it did nothing to steady her. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he said, his voice cutting, not cruel but too honest. “Don’t go.”

Her laugh was thin, incredulous. “You show up on my stoop, looking like you drowned in the East River, just to tell me not to have dinner with a man who’s actually interested in me?”

His eyes flickered. Hurt. Jealous. Defiant. “I don’t want you to.”

The silence roared louder than the storm outside. Talia’s chest rose and fell, lips parting, her words caught halfway. “You don’t get to tell me what to do, John. Not after months of brushing me off, pretending you don’t see me.”

His wet hair dripped onto his glasses as he pulled them off, setting them down on the entry table with too much force. He met her eyes bare for once, nothing between them, no shadows to hide behind. “I was wrong.”

Her throat tightened. “About what?”

His voice cracked, almost imperceptibly. “About thinking I could watch you walk out that door with someone else. I can’t.”

Her hands curled against her arms, gripping her own skin. “So, what is this, huh? You decide now? You wait until I put on the damn dress and heels and-” She broke off, laughter sharp and broken. “You’re unbelievable.”

He stepped closer, rain dripping onto the floorboards. The heat from him rolled through the space despite the storm clinging to him. “Talia, I-” His voice faltered, rebuilt itself. “I don’t do this. I don’t show up at people’s doors, I don’t beg, I don’t…” His jaw clenched again. “But you… you’re not supposed to be with someone like him.”

Her eyes burned. “Why not? He’s kind. He’s normal. He doesn’t make me feel like I’m begging to be seen.”

His voice snapped, raw. “Because I see you.”

The words cut her breath in half. She stared at him, lips trembling. The storm outside rattled the windows. “Then what do you want, John?”

His throat bobbed. His hand twitched at his side like he wanted to reach for her, but he held it back. “You,” he said simply. The word landed between them, heavy, undeniable. Her chest ached, as if her ribs might splinter. She stepped forward once, tilting her face up. Close enough to feel his breath, close enough that his stubble brushed her cheek when he leaned down. The scent of rain, cigarettes, and coffee clung to him, and she wanted to drown in it. It was there. Finally.

But his control was iron. Inches from her lips, his voice dropped hoarse. “If I kiss you, doll… there’s no going back.”

Her lips curved, trembling. “Good.”

But he froze. He shook his head once, rain dripping onto her bare shoulder. “You’ll hate me for it. You’ll wake up and regret every second, and I-” His voice broke, softer now. “I can’t lose you like that.”

Her hand rose, slow, deliberate, brushing a raindrop from his cheek. She smiled faintly, devastatingly soft. “Then maybe you should let me decide what I regret.”

His eyes burned. For one wild second, she thought he might cave, might finally, finally give in. But instead, he exhaled hard, staggered back a step, armour slamming shut around him.

“You deserve better,” he said roughly. “Better than an old man who reads conspiracy theories and collects failed marriages.”

She laughed once, broken. “And yet you’re the only one who makes me feel like I’m not drowning.”

The words hung in the air. His face twisted, as though they’d undone him. She shook her head, lips trembling. “Go home, John. Before you catch pneumonia.”

The dismissal cracked the air between them. But her voice was soft, not cruel, like she was letting him live another day. She turned, curls brushing her bare shoulders, and walked back into the house. The dogs padded after her, tails swaying. She didn’t look back.

The door clicked shut behind her. John stood there, rain streaming down his face, chest heaving like he’d just run ten blocks. His body screamed at him to go after her. But his feet stayed planted.

Through the gauzy curtains, he saw her move across the living room. She pulled the earrings from her ears, one by one, setting them delicately in a dish. Her necklace slipped off next, her fingers careful, reverent. Then she unzipped her dress, sliding it off her shoulders.

The lamplight painted her skin gold. The black lace beneath clung to her like water and stone. His chest constricted. Lucky bastard, he thought bitterly, the one who was supposed to see this tonight. The one who wasn’t him.

Her phone rang. She picked it up, voice low, apologetic. “Mike? Hey… it’s me. Yeah. Listen, I’m so sorry. I can’t tonight. The rain, it’s just… I don’t feel great. Maybe another time.” A pause, then a soft sigh. “Thanks for understanding. Goodnight.”

She hung up. Dropped her phone onto the couch. Pulled a blanket around her shoulders like a shield. The dogs curled against her legs as she sank into the cushions, her face haloed by the lamp’s glow. She didn’t look regretful. Just certain. John tore his gaze away at last, swallowing hard. He shoved his hands deep into his wet pockets and turned into the storm. The rain swallowed him whole.

SVU PRECINCT - November 30, 2004 - 9:03 AM

 The precinct was loud that morning, as usual, buzzing with the kind of energy that lived in its bones. Phones rang off their hooks, CSU lugged in bags of evidence with the usual warnings about chain of custody, and Elliot was already muttering about the coffee machine being broken again. The air smelled like burnt grounds, printer toner, and rain-soaked wool coats hung to dry.

Talia walked in like she always did; poised, cool, trench still damp from the downpour outside, curls pinned back just enough to keep them from brushing her cheek as she moved. To anyone else, she looked untouchable, unbothered. The truth? Her stomach was still twisted from last night.

From Munch on her stoop, dripping rainwater, telling her not to go. From the way his voice cracked when he said he couldn’t watch her walk out that door. From the way he almost kissed her, close enough to taste the rain on his lips, before pulling back like it might kill him.

She didn’t let any of that show now. Munch was already at his desk when she passed, glasses low, pen scratching furiously across a file. He didn’t look up. She didn’t stop. But Fin noticed. Fin always noticed. He leaned against the corner of her desk mid-morning, grin wide, body language radiating mischief. “So,” he drawled, folding his arms like he had all day to stir the pot, “how was the date?”

Talia blinked once, pen pausing mid-note. Her lashes lowered, then lifted again. She didn’t flinch. “Didn’t go.”

Fin’s brows shot up. “Oh yeah? Why not?”

She shrugged, casual, smooth. “Rain. Felt sick. Figured I’d stay in.”

Her tone was believable. Too believable. That was the problem.

Fin tilted his head, studying her face. His smirk tugged wider, but he didn’t push. “Mm-hm. Rain’ll do that.”

Across the room, Munch’s pen froze mid-scratch. He didn’t look up. His ears burned red. Talia’s hand clenched her pen tighter. She didn’t let her eyes flick toward him, not once. But she felt it, the static like a storm hadn’t left the room.

The next day was… strange. They didn’t linger in the hallways like they used to, didn’t share quiet coffee breaks in the corners of the bullpen. They didn’t sit too close during briefings or let their knees bump under the conference table. It was like they’d been rewired, orbiting around each other with careful precision, terrified of colliding. Too careful.

But every glance lasted too long. Every file handed off brushed fingers that lingered a fraction of a second. Every silence hummed with the memory of rain on glass and lips that almost, almost touched. Olivia caught it once, just the flicker of a glance, Talia’s eyes darting to Munch when she thought no one noticed. Liv said nothing, but her brow arched, a knowing half-smile ghosting across her face. Elliot, as always, was oblivious. Fin, on the other hand, clocked everything and filed it away with a grin.

SVU PRECINT - December 2, 2004 - 2:48 PM

By Thursday night, the tension had settled into routine. Until Cragen emerged from his office, stack of papers in hand, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. “Listen up,” he called, and the room quieted. The bullpen was never truly silent, but when Cragen’s voice cut across the chatter, the detectives tuned in, half respect, half dread. “Next Thursday, there’s a fundraiser gala. City council wants SVU representation.”

Groans rippled across the desks. Olivia rolled her eyes, Elliot muttered something under his breath about monkey suits, and Fin just chuckled like he’d been handed a gift. “Yes, I know,” Cragen deadpanned, flipping through the flyers. “But attendance is mandatory. Formal dress. And they want you bringing partners.”

“Partners?” Olivia repeated, half horrified, half laughing.

“Guess I’ll dust off my tux,” Elliot grumbled.

Fin leaned back in his chair, grin sharp. “Oh, this is gonna be fun.”

Talia’s chest tightened. She didn’t move, didn’t blink, but the sound of her own pulse drowned out half the room. Across the way, Munch shifted in his chair, glasses flashing as he finally looked up, just for a second. Their eyes didn’t meet.

Cragen slapped the flyers onto desks one by one. “Before you ask: no, you can’t skip. Yes, there’s an open bar. And no, you can’t bring your dog.”

That earned a few chuckles. Even Olivia cracked a smile. Elliot muttered about babysitters and ties. Fin was already pulling out his phone, probably texting three different women at once to see who wanted to play ‘date to a cop thing.’

Talia stared at the flyer in her hand. Gala. Formal dress. Partners.

She could feel Munch watching her. Not directly, never directly, but in those sidelong glances he thought she couldn’t catch. She didn’t look back. She couldn’t.

The rest of the shift blurred. Files shuffled, suspects booked, victims interviewed. The rhythm of SVU life continued, relentless, but the weight of what wasn’t said hung over every interaction. At one point, Talia brushed past Munch on her way to the copier. His shoulder grazed hers, the contact so brief it could’ve been accidental. But he stilled. She didn’t stop walking. Later, he passed her a case file, his hand lingering a second longer than necessary against hers. Their eyes met for the first time in days. Just a flicker, just a heartbeat. It was enough to unravel her all over again.

By the time the night quieted, Fin circled back, leaning against her desk once more. “So. Big gala, huh?”

She arched a brow, keeping her voice cool. “Mm-hm.”

“You bringing Sandoval?” His grin was all teeth, taunting.

Her pen froze mid-scribble. Across the bullpen, Munch stilled too, though his gaze stayed firmly on his paperwork.

Talia didn’t rise to the bait. She flipped a page, calm. “I haven’t decided.”

Fin chuckled. “Better decide quick. Guy like him won’t stay single long.”

Her jaw tightened. “Neither will I.”

It was casual, believable, too believable. But Fin’s smirk lingered, like he’d just watched a chess game play itself out. And Munch? He didn’t look up. Not once. But his ears burned red again.

ASTORIA - December 3, 2004 - 3:24 AM

That night, Talia lay awake in the rowhouse, the rain starting again against the window. The flyer sat on her dresser, the words ‘formal dress’ blurring as she stared. She imagined the gala; the lights, the music, the photographs. She imagined Munch there in a tux, scowling at the politicians, glasses catching the chandeliers, a glass of scotch in his hand. She imagined the way his gaze would find her across the room. And she hated it. Hated how badly she wanted it. Because he’d already told her she deserved better. And still, she couldn’t picture standing beside anyone else.

Chapter Text

SVU PRECINT - December 6, 2004 - 9:48 PM

The squad room was nearly empty. Phones sat on their cradles, quiet for once. The fluorescents hummed overhead, relentless and pale, casting the bullpen in that sickly light that made every face look tired. Most of the detectives had gone home hours ago, but three desks still glowed with life. Cragen, in his office, head bent over paperwork. His blinds half-drawn, the orange glow of his lamp seeping through like a weak secret.

Munch, at his desk, across from hers. Reading, or pretending to, glasses low, the file held just close enough to obscure his mouth. And Talia, at hers. Notes spread in neat stacks, her pen moving, the gold chain at her wrist catching the light every time her hand turned.

The silence had stretched twenty minutes before Munch cleared his throat. “So.” His voice was casual. Too casual. “That gala thing Cragen announced.”

Talia didn’t look up. She hummed faintly, her pen still moving across the page. “Mm. What about it?”

He pushed his glasses up his nose, eyes flicking to her, then back to the file. “You got a date?”

Her pen paused. Slowly, she lifted her gaze. Her eyes cut sharp, narrowing. “Why?”

He shrugged, deadpan. “Because apparently mandatory fun requires a plus-one.” His tone cracked a little on the word fun. Then, softer, almost reluctant: “You, uh… you wanna go with me?”

She stilled. The bullpen hummed with silence, the kind that comes just before a confession. Her eyes studied him, steady and unreadable. The way he leaned too hard into nonchalance, pretending it hadn’t cost him something to ask. The faint tension in his jaw. The telltale pink at his ears.

Finally, her lips curved. Not teasing. Not smug. Soft. Certain. “John,” she said gently, almost like a vow, “you don’t have to ask.” That startled him. “I’m your partner,” she continued. “I’ll always be at your side. No matter what.”

Something flickered across his face. Relief. Something sharper, quickly masked under sarcasm. He muttered, “Lucky me.”

Her smirk sharpened. “Lucky you.”

Their eyes held a beat too long. The bullpen felt smaller for it. Cragen’s blinds rattled faintly with the draft from his heater. Papers shuffled. The city roared faintly beyond the window. But between the two of them, time had gone still.

Munch ducked his head again, voice low. “You’re gonna regret saying yes.”

“Maybe,” she said, pen poised again, voice steady.

SVU PRECINT - December 9, 2004 - 5:48 PM

The locker room smelled faintly of starch and soap, overpowered by the metallic tang of fluorescent lights. The tile was sterile, the benches dented, but tonight the space felt conspiratorial. Like a backstage before curtain call. A garment bag hung from a hook, unzipped. Black silk spilled against steel.

Talia stepped out of her stall barefoot, curls falling loose down her back. The dress poured over her like ink on water, clinging and shifting with every step. Black silk, slit high up her thigh, neckline low enough to make her collarbone look like a blade. She fastened a thin chain at her throat, then another, then another, gold catching the light at every turn of her neck.

Bracelets kissed softly as she moved. Her lips were painted deep, her skin luminous under the fluorescent assault. She slid small hoops through her ears, then layered studs above them, each one a star against her skin.

Olivia, pinning her own hair into a sleek twist, let out a low whistle. “You weren’t kidding about that dress.”

Talia smiled faintly into the mirror. “Would I ever?”

“Not about this,” Olivia said, tugging her lipstick into a perfect red.

From the next aisle, Melinda stepped out in deep green silk, elegant as glass. She nodded toward the ink visible on Talia’s back, the Coptic cross framed in saints and serpents. “Saints and serpents. I like the honesty.”

Talia’s eyes met hers in the mirror, warm, steady. “It’s all prayer,” she said softly. “Some of it just… sharper.”

Olivia laughed under her breath. “You two are going to make every donor forget why they wrote checks.”

“Good,” Talia murmured, sweeping a faint shimmer of gold across her eyelids. “They should suffer.”

The door swung open, bullpen noise spilling in; laughter, footsteps, the rumble of men waiting like boys outside a dance. Olivia smoothed the skirt of her gown, arched a brow. “Ready?”

Talia snapped her clutch shut. “Always.”

They pushed through the door like a headline. The squad room froze. For one decadent second, the precinct looked like an old photograph, colour leeched out, the fluorescent wash painting everything flat, except for the shock of two women lit like trouble. Olivia, sharp and luminous. Melinda, poised as a blade. And Talia, ruinous, soft as sin.

Fin let out a low, appreciative whistle. ‘Damn.’ Melinda’s answering smile was sharp as a secret.

Elliot grinned at Olivia. “You’re gonna make me look underdressed.”

“You always do,” she shot back, but warmth melted the words.

Munch rose slowly from his chair. Tuxedo. Bow tie. Crisp shirt, narrow lapels, cufflinks that had seen better decades. Glasses glinting under the lights, silver at his temples catching the glow. He looked like he’d stepped out of an old magazine cover, noir resurrected. He didn’t speak. He just looked.

At her.

The black silk clinging to her waist, the ink on her back like scripture, the gold chains glittering like promises. The way her mouth curved faintly when she saw him seeing her.

His thought; sharp, savage, undone, was simple: hell yea, I got the best one.

He didn’t say it. His mouth knew how to lie even when his eyes didn’t. So, he smirked instead. Talia’s gaze slid over him like a slow blessing. “You clean up,” she murmured as she stopped in front of him, “obscenely well.”

“Careful,” he said, voice low, gravel edged. “You’re going to encourage me.”

Fin clapped him on the shoulder as he passed, offering Melinda his arm. “You two try not to get us kicked out before the appetizer.”

“No promises,” Talia said, her voice soft, dangerous.

Munch offered her his arm. She took it. They fit. Not Bond and the Bond girl. Bond and the woman who would ruin him, and he’d let her. As they crossed the bullpen, Talia leaned just close enough for him to hear her whisper. “If you wanted me on your arm, John, all you ever had to do was ask.”

His throat bobbed. He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. But his hand lingered just a second longer at her waist when they stepped out into the cold.

THE WALDORF ASTORIA - December 9, 2004 - 6:09 PM

The Waldorf never forgot who it was. Marble gleamed like wet bone, staircases curved in perfect sweeps, chandeliers poured constellations over men in tailored suits and women in silk. Outside, the rain lacquered Manhattan to a mirror shine; inside, everything was gold and low light and the gentle churn of a jazz trio at the far end of the ballroom.

Talia had dressed deliberately, not to draw attention, but because the place demanded respect. Her perfume trailing in her wake: jasmine and oud, rich and ancient, the kind of scent that lingered long after the body left. At the coat check, the maître d’ glanced up, polite professionalism breaking for half a heartbeat when his eyes landed on her. It was nothing, a flicker,  but Munch caught it.

His hand settled at the small of her back, steady, proprietary.

“Don’t start a fight with the staff,” she murmured, her voice a soft tease wrapped around steel.

“I wasn’t going to,” he said mildly, eyes on the maître d’. “I was thinking of tipping him to look somewhere else.”

She arched a brow. “Then tip me.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The look he gave her was tender and terrifying, currency enough.

The ballroom was full of the city’s best illusions. Donors laughing the laugh of people who liked their money to be seen doing good. Council members trading handshakes, brass officers in full plumage, Casey moving like a flame through clusters of politicians. Olivia and Elliot peeled off with the practiced ease of partners who’d danced this routine before, closing in on a deputy commissioner. Fin and Melinda made their own orbit, he pulling grins, she disarming men in suits with dry wit.

Talia and Munch drifted instead. Neither belonged to this world of checks and lapel pins, and both knew it. They lingered at the shadowed edges where the chandeliers dimmed, and the music softened. A waiter appeared like a conjuring trick; tray balanced on fingertips.

“Whiskey,” Munch said without hesitation.

The waiter’s eyes flicked to Talia. “For you, Detective?”

“Raspberry martini,” she said smoothly. A pause, then: “And a tall glass of water.”

Munch’s brow lifted. “Pacing yourself?”

She took the stemmed glass delicately. “Decadence is an endurance sport.”

He huffed something like a laugh. “You’d know.”

The martini was cold, sweating in her hand. She watched the light skitter along its rim, sipped slow. Tart first, sweet after, warmth settling in her chest. Munch drank his whiskey like it was truth serum, no flinch, no pause, just the bite and the burn. He didn’t say a word, but she caught him watching her mouth when she drank.

“Don’t,” she said without looking at him.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You never have to.”

They lasted fifteen minutes in the room. Long enough for two city council aides to introduce themselves with oily smiles, and one bored philanthropist with a lapel pin worth more than a month’s salary to corner them. Munch endured with his signature cynicism-disguised-as-politeness. Talia countered with precise charm, just enough warmth to make men think they were winning while she steered the conversation.

They haunted, they drifted, and then the sign appeared above a stairwell like a whispered plan:

Cigar Lounge - Terrace Level.

Munch’s eyes flicked to hers. His hand slipped lower at her back.

She smiled like sin. “Let’s go make trouble.”

The lounge was grandfathered into a legal twilight, the kind of room that still believed the law stopped at its door. Dark wood panelling, leather chairs softened by decades, a ceiling fan turning as slow as a heartbeat. On the far side, French doors opened onto a covered terrace where the rain whispered against the city like secrecy. Inside, tobacco had already painted the air in soft curls of amber and ash.

Munch inhaled it like memory. This was not the precinct. This was ritual. At the counter, he chose a cigar with unhurried care, not flashy, not cheap, Cuban. He rolled it gently between his fingers, pressed it to his nose, closed his eyes for a second too long. A man remembering fathers, train stations, nights when being older than you were felt like power. The cut was clean.

Talia, meanwhile, drew from her clutch a slim gold case. She plucked out a cigarette, not flimsy white, but a narrow black number, elegant, faintly wicked. From her bag came a lacquered holder, black with a gold mouth. She held it between two fingers like she’d been born to it, the jewellery on her wrist chiming faintly.

“Smoking indoors?” she asked, amused.

“Historical exemption,” he said, producing his lighter. “This place hasn’t acknowledged the future since 1931.”

She stepped in close. Too close. The silk of her dress whispered. Her bracelets chimed. She touched the unlit cigar to his lips, holding it steady. “Open,” she said, velvet command.

He obeyed. She flicked her lighter, flame a bright coin between them. Her wrist turned with slow precision as the cigar caught, ember blooming. He drew deep, and she turned it gently to keep the burn even. Her perfume mixed with the tobacco, jasmine lacing smoke. Her breath skimmed his knuckles. The first exhale curled between them, thick as scripture.

“Good?” she asked, voice low, approving.

“Dangerous,” he said.

She set the lighter between their chests, the space between them thin as paper. “My turn.”

Munch cupped his palm beneath hers as she brought the holder to her mouth. The gesture wasn’t necessary. It was intimate. His thumb flicked the lighter open again, flame steady. She leaned in, dipped the cigarette into fire, drew slow. Smoke coiled, orange ember flaring.

She didn’t look at the flame. She looked at him.

Through her lashes, eyes half-lidded, mouth curved around the holder with the kind of deliberate elegance that could ruin a man politely. Smoke slid from her lips, past him, into the room.

Munch took the holder from her, briefly, tasted the warmth of lacquer, the faint ghost of her lipstick, and returned it. Their fingers brushed deliberately. She set it back to her mouth, leaned against the doorframe. He mirrored her, opposite, both framed by smoke and rain.

The fan turned overhead. The city whispered beneath them. For a long moment, they smoked like they were writing each other in a language no one else spoke.

Finally, she broke the silence. “I didn’t go.”

He didn’t ask what she meant. He already knew. His eyes stayed on her, sharp and pained. “I know.”

“You looked?” she asked softly.

“Through your window,” he admitted, shameless, quiet. “It was raining.”

Her lips twitched. “Perv.” The word had no heat. “You didn’t call,” she added.

He exhaled smoke, low and bitter. “I was busy trying not to walk back up your steps and ruin both of us.” He tapped ash into a crystal tray. “How am I doing?”

Her smile was small, knife-sharp. “Poorly.”

He laughed once, rough. “Good.”

The door brushed open. A couple in evening wear drifted in, caught the charge in the room, and left just as quickly. Whatever lived between them had weight, enough to make strangers feel like they’d intruded on a church.

Talia’s eyes slid toward the stairwell beyond the terrace. Above it, a sign: Roof Access.

An idea.

She stubbed out the cigarette, leaned in, her voice a whisper against his ear. “Come with me.”

Her hand slipped into his. Warm. Certain.

And this time, he didn’t resist.

The stairwell door groaned when they pushed through, metal echo swallowed by the wind. And then the city spilled out before them; endless, electric, drowned in snow. Manhattan stretched like a pulse: neon signs sputtered and flickered, horns muttered faintly from streets far below, but the horizon was already bruising grey, the first hint of dawn waiting in the wings of night.

The rooftop smelled of cold iron, wet stone, and the faint char of the Waldorf’s chimneys. The ledge was rimmed in snow, softening the hard lines of the skyline, but the air still cut sharp, freezing breath into smoke.

Talia stepped out first. The silk of her dress caught the faint December breeze, dark fabric glinting like spilled ink beneath the security lamps. She leaned casually against the low ledge; cigarette holder balanced between her fingers. Smoke curled pale against the city, rising into the snowy dark.

Behind her, Munch struck a match, cupping it against the wind with practiced care. The flame trembled, then steadied, catching the cigar’s edge with a slow ember glow. He exhaled, smoke unfurling into the night like an oath.

His trench hung from her shoulders. He hadn’t even realized he’d draped it there until she didn’t give it back. His hand stayed at her waist, thumb pressed low at the curve of her back, holding her like he’d decided the space was his. She didn’t move it. She didn’t want to.

“You’ve kept that hand there all night,” she murmured, voice velvet wrapped around steel.

“You mind?” His tone was dry, low, trying for even, but it cracked at the edges.

She glanced over her shoulder, lips curving faintly, smoke slipping from between them. “If I minded, John… you’d know.”

He huffed a laugh, the kind that hurt, and pressed a little more into the silk at her back. “Good.”

They smoked in silence for a while. Silence wasn’t silence here; it was the hum of a city pretending to sleep. It was the sound of her breath, steady against the winter, and his, rougher, like it had to fight its way past words unsaid. Every time she shifted, the muscles under his hand flexed, the faintest tether tightening. He wasn’t sure if he was steadying her or himself.

She tilted her head toward the skyline, exhaled smoke into the sharp night. “Never thought I’d see this city quiet.”

“It’s not quiet,” he said. His voice rumbled low, smoke on smoke. “It’s just pretending.”

Her lips curved. “Like us.”

That made him look at her. Really look. The stairwell light painted her in fragments, the slope of her cheek, the gleam of the gold cross at her throat, the shimmer of smoke clinging to her hair. She looked alive. Tired. Devastating. And for once, he didn’t look away.

“Doll…” His voice cracked. The word felt pulled out of him, hoarse and reverent. His thumb traced the small of her back like he needed proof she was real. “I can’t keep pretending.”

Her chest pulled tight, her laugh small and sad. She turned toward him fully, silk and smoke and all that warmth wrapped in his coat. The cigarette holder dangled loosely from her fingers, ember dimming unnoticed. “Then don’t.”

The silence burned. The city leaned closer.

And John Munch; cynic, fatalist, sworn bachelor, professional coward, bent his head and kissed her.

It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t polite. It was inevitable. His mouth claimed hers with a slow, steady heat, cigar smoke still clinging to his breath, rain and old trench coat and the salt of December clinging to his skin. His hand slid higher on her waist, pulling her into him, the other cupping her jaw, tilting her face to him like he’d been rehearsing it for months.

Talia melted into him with a helpless sound that broke something in his chest. Her fingers curled hard into his lapel, silk dress whispering against his suit, her body warm and alive under the jacket he’d never get back. She kissed him back like she’d been waiting for this through every lie, every avoidance, every storm.

The snow fell soft around them, unnoticed. The city below churned on, unaware.

When he broke away, it was only by an inch. His forehead pressed to hers, his breath uneven, his hand still stroking slow circles at the small of her back. As if to remind her, I’m here. I’m not letting go.

She laughed, shaky, lips brushing his. “Took you long enough.”

“Had to make sure,” he rasped, voice cracking under the weight of honesty. “That when I did… you’d want me to.”

Her smile was tender and sharp all at once. She kissed him again, firmer, smoke and dawn tangling between them. His hand slid into her curls this time, palm anchoring her skull, mouth hungry, as though he could devour years of restraint in one press of lips.

When she finally drew back, she bit his bottom lip softly, just enough to make him groan, ragged and low.

“You’re impossible,” he whispered, almost a laugh.

“And yet…” Her eyes glittered with the challenge, with the victory. “Here you are.”

They lingered on the roof as the cold didn’t bother them. Between kisses they smoked, the embers glowing red against the morning grey. He teased her for using a cigarette holder like a femme fatale; she told him he looked ridiculous with snow in his hair. He said she was going to ruin him. She told him that was the idea.

The skyline shifted as the sun rose, spilling light across glass towers and rooftops, turning snow into a city of fire. They stood close enough that her perfume had sunk into his shirt, his trench swallowed her whole, and the only thing tethering them to the cold reality of work waiting below was the sound of traffic picking up on Park Avenue.

When she finally leaned back, lips swollen, cheeks flushed, she whispered, “We’ll regret this.”

He shook his head, kissed her once more, slow and final. “Not for a second.”

They stayed until the sun was fully up, until they were both shivering but unwilling to move, until the Waldorf’s rooftop felt like it belonged only to them.

When they did finally leave, coats pulled tight, smoke fading from their mouths, they weren’t pretending anymore.

THE WALDORF ASTORIA - December 10, 2004 - 2:02 AM

By the time they descended from the rooftop, the jazz had faded, dissolving into memory like cigarette smoke. The ballroom looked gutted, abandoned to the ghosts of perfume and champagne. Tables stood half-cleared, wineglasses tipped and forgotten, napkins discarded like silk casualties of a glamorous war.

The SVU squad trickled out together in pairs, each pair carrying its own story: Olivia with Elliot at her side, heads bent toward each other as they laughed at some unfinished joke; Fin with Melinda Warner, his hand brushing the small of her back with such casual intimacy that it drew the faintest, knowing smile from her.

And then there was Talia and Munch. His tux jacket still hung over her shoulders, a deliberate drape, not once removed since the rooftop. His hand was steady, proprietary at her waist, guiding her through the last of the crowd. Not obscene. Not PDA in the technical sense. But obvious. So obvious.

Fin caught it first. His brows ticked up a fraction, the corners of his mouth sliding into that grin that said I knew it, I knew it before they did. Melinda followed his gaze, her eyes narrowing briefly before she leaned into Fin, murmuring something that made his chuckle rumble low.

Talia, either oblivious or pretending to be, tilted her head toward Munch. “Your hand’s going to bruise my ribs if you keep it there.”

“Good,” he murmured, dry as gin, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Maybe then you’ll remember who you walked out with.”

Her laugh came low, private. She leaned into the hold, her warmth slipping beneath his cynicism like it always did.

THE WALDORF ASTORIA - December 10, 2004 - 2:16 AM

The city was coated in white by the time they left, the snow falling in slow drifts that softened even Midtown’s hard edges. His car was parked a block away, dusted with powder. He brushed the windshield with his sleeve while she adjusted the jacket tighter around her shoulders. They slid inside, both moving with the quiet ritual of long nights: her tucking her dress carefully beneath her legs, him shrugging his coat back into place, glasses catching the glow of the dashboard lights.

He drove the way he always did; cautious, precise, a man who trusted neither traffic lights nor fate. But his right hand strayed. First to the gearshift. Then, casually, to rest against her knee. And then, slowly, his hand slid higher. Just enough to make her breath falter. His palm settled against the inside of her thigh, thumb brushing her skin through silk, deliberate and steady.

She dropped her hand over his, lacing her fingers with his, anchoring him there.

And Christ. Her thigh was warm. Too warm. Soft in a way that made his pulse thrum low and heavy. He’d spent years cataloguing autopsies, case files, bloodstains on concrete, but nothing in his life had ever felt as decadent, as dangerous, as that inch of skin beneath his palm.

God it was so soft.

The thought hit him like whiskey. He tightened his grip, thumb pressing firmer. The image flickered unbidden, sharp and obscene: burying his face between her legs, the silk gone, the warmth unfiltered, the taste of her on his tongue. It was enough to make his jaw clench, his glasses fog faintly at the edges.

He swallowed hard, eyes locked on the road. He didn’t dare look at her, not yet. If he did, he wouldn’t stop. She tilted her head toward him, lashes low, smile curling like smoke. “Eyes on the road, Detective.”

He didn’t flinch. “Call it multitasking, doll.” His eyes stayed forward. His hand stayed exactly where it was.

The silence that followed wasn’t silence at all; it was thick with everything unsaid. The city blurred past in streaks of gold and red, the snow blinding against the streetlights. His pulse hammered. Her lips parted, just slightly, as though she could taste the weight of it.

ASTORIA - December 10, 2004 - 2:47 AM

By the time he pulled up outside her rowhouse, the air inside the car was suffocating. She turned toward him, her dress pooling across her legs, curls spilling free from the night’s careful styling. Her voice was softer than it had been all evening. “You don’t want to come in? For coffee?”

Hope threaded the words, delicate but unmistakable. His hand lingered on her thigh. He finally turned, really looking at her, glasses low on his nose, eyes sharp and exhausted and wrecked all at once. His mouth curved, something between a smirk and surrender.

“If I do,” he said quietly, “I’ll never leave.”

She smiled, sinful and tender all at once. “As if I want you to leave.”

And then he leaned in. The kiss was firm, claiming, the taste of whiskey and smoke still clinging to both of them. It wasn’t cautious. It was the kiss of a man who had resisted too long, finally surrendering. His hand gripped her thigh tighter. Her free hand lifted, brushing along his jaw, thumb grazing the corner of his mouth.

When he pulled back, it was sharp, ragged, like yanking himself from the edge of a cliff. He exhaled hard, eyes burning. His hand slipped from her thigh. He reached for the door handle.

“Goodnight, doll.”

She opened her own door, stepping into the snow. He watched her climb the stoop, watched her curls catch snowflakes like stars, watched the way her dress hugged and moved with her. She reached the door, keys in hand, then turned, glancing over her shoulder with a smile that nearly gutted him.

It should’ve ended there.

It didn’t.

He hadn’t driven off.

The driver’s side door slammed, and his shoes crunched the snow hard as he followed. By the time she slid the key into the lock, he was on the stoop behind her, standing a step below, his hands firm at her waist. She startled, then melted under the touch, her body leaning back into him instinctively.

“Munch-” she whispered, half startled, half knowing.

“Don’t tell me goodnight yet.” His voice was hoarse, rough like gravel scraped low in his throat. He stood a step below her, which meant his mouth hovered at her collarbone, close enough to feel the heat of her through silk.

Her breath hitched. She turned in his arms and he caught her, hands sliding down to her hips, gripping firm. He kissed her like a starving man, no restraint now. Her mouth opened against his, soft but yielding, and he groaned low in his chest as if she’d undone something he’d held locked for years.

Her fingers slid behind his head, curling in his hair, pulling him closer until his glasses knocked against her cheek. He tore them off without looking, shoving them into his pocket. His hands dragged up over the curve of her ass, pulling her flush against him, and she gasped when she felt him hard against her thigh.

“John-” she tried, but it broke into a moan when his tongue slid against hers, the kiss deepening, hungry.

Snow clung to her curls, melted cold against his jaw, but her lips were hot, tasting of champagne and something sweet, something he couldn’t name but needed more of. His thumb hooked into the slit of her dress, dragging the silk higher until his palm pressed bare skin, warm and soft under the snow-chilled air.

When he finally tore away, both of them were panting, their mouths red, his lips stained with her lipstick, his thumb still pressed into the silk at her thigh.

She steadied herself, smile breaking through the haze. “If you don’t go home now, detective, you’re not leaving my bed until Monday.”

He laughed once, sharp, torn from his chest. “You say that like it’s a threat.”

She kissed him again, quick but tender, lips brushing his with a promise. Then she slipped inside, shutting the door soft but final.

Munch stayed on the stoop, dazed, snow dripping into his collar, his hands still burning with the shape of her. He touched his mouth, the ghost of her lipstick still smeared across him.

God help him. He didn’t care.

Because he wanted to marry that girl.

Chapter Text

ASTORIA - December 10, 2004 - 2:47 AM

The rowhouse swallowed her whole the second the door shut behind her. Talia leaned against it, chest heaving, head tipped back against cool wood. Her legs trembled, not from the heels, not from the long night, but from the echo still burning on her lips.

Munch kissed her.

It wasn’t a trick of champagne or jazz-blurred memory. He had kissed her, his hand bold on her thigh, his mouth claiming hers in a way no man had ever dared. And he hadn’t just kissed her. He had wanted her. She’d felt it, every ounce of restraint vibrating in him like glass about to shatter.

She laughed under her breath, half-delirious. “You stupid, stubborn man.”

Her heels clattered to the floor as she padded upstairs, the weight of the slip dress still brushing against her thighs. She flicked the bedroom light on, amber glow spilling out toward the street. And then she froze, because she knew.

He was there.

Under the streetlamp, trench coat collar up, cigarette burning low, John Munch. Watching her. A sinner caught in his own devotion.

Her lips curved. She shoved the curtain wide open and leaned into the frame, eyes sharp with mischief. “Perv.”

But she didn’t close the blinds.

Instead, she let the dress fall.

The straps slid from her shoulders like silk rivers, satin whispering down her hips until it pooled on the floor. She stood in nothing but black lace, delicate bra, barely-there panties, stockings cutting elegant lines into her thighs. The kind of lingerie meant for sin, meant for ruin. She stretched slowly, deliberately, as if giving him the full anatomy of her desire: the arch of her back, the rise of her breasts, the tattooed roses wrapping her legs.

Talia turned toward the window, knowing the angle gave him everything. She cupped her breasts, squeezing them together, thumbs brushing lace, and laughed low at her own reflection. Then she bent, ass high, the straps of her panties digging as she tugged her curls free. Her hair spilled forward like shadow and gold.

On the sidewalk, Munch forgot how to breathe. The cigarette trembled in his hand, ash falling unnoticed. His jaw clenched, glasses fogging faintly in the night air. He couldn’t move, couldn’t look away. His heart beat hard enough to bruise.

Talia twirled once, slow, wicked, jewellery catching light across her collarbone. Her tongue flicked against her lower lip as she leaned forward to the glass, close enough he could imagine fog on it. “Poor old man,” she murmured, but her smirk promised the opposite; mine, mine, mine.

She blew him a kiss, wicked and sweet, then pulled the blinds shut with a single sharp motion.

Munch staggered back a step. His knees actually bent as if his body was ready to go inside, to break every promise and every law and give in. His hand twitched on the cigarette, then dropped it, ember hissing out in the gutter.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasped.

But he didn’t climb the stoop. Didn’t knock. Didn’t let himself fall into the fire she’d opened for him. He shoved both hands in his coat pockets and walked back to his car with the weight of lust and sin dragging at every step. Retreat wouldn’t save him. He already knew.

Talia Nadine Amari-Volkov had ruined him.

SVU PRECINCT - December 10, 2004 - 9:58 AM

The morning after the gala felt like another life entirely. The squad room was a hive of motion, phones shrilling, CSU rolling carts of evidence down the hall, and some poor patrolman swearing at a jammed printer like it was a suspect. The coffee pot smelled burnt, the fluorescent lights unforgiving. New York hadn’t paused to accommodate hangovers.

Talia arrived late, with Cragen’s begrudging mercy bought on account of last night’s open bar. Her curls were tamed into something presentable, trench coat hanging elegant off her shoulders, sunglasses hiding eyes that still ached from too much champagne and too little sleep. She looked like she hadn’t lost a step, but the pause in her stride as she crossed the bullpen betrayed otherwise.

Munch was already there. Slouched behind his desk, glasses low on his nose, the comb-over combed but hardly convincing, shoulder holsters digging into his jacket as though he wore the weight of them out of punishment. His paperwork was spread wide, a paper barricade between himself and the world. He didn’t look up when she passed, didn’t acknowledge the soft click of her heels or the faint perfume that lingered like memory.

His pen scrawled too sharply, as though carving into the paper. Pages flipped with unnecessary force. Every movement was loud with shame.

What the hell was I thinking?

She was too young. Too radiant. Too alive. He could still see her in the slip dress, ink gleaming against her skin like scripture carved in moonlight. And him? Four divorces, a body that woke him with aches at dawn, a soul rusted with paranoia and conspiracy theories nobody wanted to hear anymore. He couldn’t even look in the mirror most days.

She deserved someone solid. Someone un-haunted. He thought bitterly of Mike Sandoval; tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of detective who smiled easily and slept through the night. Sandoval looked good in a suit. Sandoval wasn’t a ghost.

But Talia noticed. Of course she noticed. She always noticed. Her gaze lingered a second too long as she passed his desk, steady and deliberate: you’re not going to pretend last night didn’t happen, are you?

He kept his eyes on the file. Knuckles white.

Her lips curved faintly, dark gloss catching the light, but she said nothing. She just sat, posture perfect, and went to work.

SVU PRECINCT - December 10, 2004 - 12:04 PM

By noon, the bullpen was at its loudest. Phones shrilled. Printers spat out warrants. Casey strode through with a stack of motions like a crusader with paper armour. Detectives shouted across desks about interviews and suspects and coffee orders.

Talia sat directly across from him, a picture of composure. Her rings glittered each time she turned a page, bracelets clinking faintly with her pen. She looked untouchable, untarnished by last night.

Munch stared at his own files, but the words bled together. He wasn’t reading. He was stuck replaying ghosts: the voices of his ex-wives; too cynical, too closed off, too much, and beneath them, images he couldn’t stop.

Her thigh under his palm, silk warm. Her laugh under the snow, spilling like gold. The taste of her lipstick, the heat of her mouth. Not just lust. It had been honest. Christ. It had been love.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. She was fire and scripture and God’s cruellest dare. He told himself distance was mercy. If he stayed sharp, cold, sarcastic, maybe she’d get bored. Maybe she’d drift toward Sandoval or someone equally whole.

But then he looked up; one slip, one moment too unguarded, and caught her watching him. Her eyes steady, unreadable. Warmth, though, unmistakable. She tapped her pen against the desk, leaned slightly forward. “You going to pretend you didn’t kiss me, Detective?”

His pulse spiked. He forced a smirk, mask on. “I kiss a lot of people when I’m drunk.”

It was a joke. It was supposed to keep distance. But the way her smile died, sharp to frown, frown to hurt, nearly gutted him. “Oh,” she said softly. The word was small. Wounded. She shrank in her chair like he’d just erased her.

What the hell are you doing, John?

SVU PRECINCT - December 10, 2004 - 7:27 PM

The squad room emptied one desk lamp at a time. Chairs scraped. Doors slammed. Someone in holding shouted, ‘I know my rights!’ at a ceiling that didn’t care. CSU’s carts squeaked down the hall.

The fluorescent hum grew louder in the absence of voices, nagging the stragglers to leave. Talia slid into her trench coat, her movements precise, avoiding looking anywhere near his desk. Her eyes pinned to the elevator doors like she was waiting for curtain call. All she wanted was to go home, crawl into her sanctuary in Astoria, cry until sleep stole her.

“Need a ride?” His voice came from behind her shoulder, quiet, tentative. The glasses caught the lamplight. His tie was loosened, his posture uncertain.

She didn’t turn. “No.”

The word landed like a slap. He blinked, caught off guard, as the elevator dinged open. She stepped in without looking back, and the doors shut, leaving him staring after her, hollow.

PRECINCT PARKING GARAGE - December 10, 2004 - 7:39 PM

Her chest heaved as she unlocked her car. Breathing sharp, uneven. Stupid, stupid girl. Why would he ever choose you?All poise, all gloss, but scarred inside, broken in ways even she couldn’t hide. She pressed the key fob with trembling hands.

“Talia!” His voice echoed across concrete.

“Go away,” she muttered, fumbling at the door.

“Give me your keys.”

She spun, furious. “Go to hell, Munch.”

He stepped closer, surprising her with the force in his grip as he caught her arm. “Give me your keys.”

She yanked, but he was stronger than he looked, trench coat and all. “Goddammit, John-”

“Please,” his voice cracked, not commanding now, but desperate. “Just… give me your keys.”

Something in his tone; ragged, pleading, silenced her. The old Soviet steel in her told her to submit when a man demanded. She pressed the keys into his palm, wordless, and slid into the passenger seat.

The drive to Astoria was silent, Queens crawling past in sodium-orange streetlights and patches of snow. Talia stared out the window, tears sliding quiet down her cheeks. No sobs. No sound. Just heartbreak.

Was it all just alcohol? Smoke and snow? Was it all a dream?

ASTORIA - December 10, 2004 - 8:16 PM

The Mustang’s engine rumbled low as he eased it against the curb outside her rowhouse, snow still coming down in thin, silver streaks against the windshield. The wipers dragged, squeaked, like the city itself wanted to keep scraping at him.

Talia’s hand was already on the door handle, desperate to bolt. Her sanctuary was only a few feet away. If she could just get inside, she could cry alone, bury her face in incense and shadows, and forget the humiliation pressing against her ribs.

But before she could push the door open, his hand shot out. Not rough, but desperate, the kind of touch that wasn’t about strength but about need.

“Why are you crying?” His voice was soft at first, almost pleading.

“I’m not.” She jerked her chin stubbornly, eyes shining in the half-light of the streetlamp.

“Doll, I can see the tears.” His thumb brushed one away, traitorous, before she could turn from him.

Her laugh broke sharp, jagged, splintering like glass. “So, it was all a dream. A stupid, drunken lie?”

The silence that followed nearly tore her in half. He just sat there, breathing hard, the weight of every unsaid word choking him. Finally, hoarse, cracked open: “No.”

“Then why?” Her voice pitched higher, cracking with desperation. “Why are you acting like nothing happened? Why did you- why do you-” She pressed her hands against her temples.

“Because I’m not worthy!” It wasn’t just raised; it was screamed, ripped out of him like something sharp tearing free. His voice filled the car, echoed off the windows, raw, jagged. “I’m not worthy of you. Do you understand that?”

Her breath caught, stunned into stillness. “I’m old,” he barked, louder, harsher, his hands slamming against the steering wheel with a hollow crack. “I’m falling apart, Talia. My knees hurt every morning. My back aches like hell. I need glasses to read my own goddamn reports. My hair’s thinning, my skin’s grey. I am decay in a trench coat.” He turned toward her, eyes fever-bright. “You want to know what I am? I’m four failed marriages. Four women who walked away and told me I was impossible to love. I’ve got an apartment that looks like a storage unit for bad habits, a credit score that makes banks laugh in my face, and a heart so full of rust I can barely remember what it feels like to beat without fear. That’s me. That’s all I am.”

His voice broke. He dragged a shaking hand through his comb-over, pulled his glasses off, pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes like maybe he could claw the shame out of himself. “And you? God, you-you’re light. You’re young. You walk into a room, and it changes colour. You laugh and people turn their heads because it sounds like something they forgot they needed. You’ve got warmth in you, Talia. Fire. Life. And me? I’m just-” he choked on the word, spat it, “-Baltimore’s leftovers. A ghost in a trench coat. You don’t deserve a ghost.”

Talia’s chest caved with each word, like he was smashing every bone in her ribcage with his confessions. Her hands trembled on her lap, tears burning down her cheeks.

Her voice came out low, gutted. “Then you don’t know me.”

She tore at the handle, forcing the door open, snow and night air rushing in. Boots crunching hard against ice, she stumbled up the stoop, her hands fumbling with her keys. The world blurred, house lights swimming through tears, fingers shaking too much to fit metal to lock.

Behind her, his voice tore open the street. “Then tell me who you are!”

It was screamed, almost animal, cracked through with anguish. The kind of scream that wasn’t meant for her, but for the universe.

She froze, only for a heartbeat, then forced the lock open. The door swung wide. She stepped inside, coat falling off one shoulder, and disappeared into the darkness of her rowhouse.

But he followed, boots pounding through snow, trench coat flaring in the wind, chasing her into the only place she thought she could hide.

ASTORIA -  December 10, 2004 - 8:07 PM

The door slammed behind them, muffling the sound of the street. Snow clung to their coats, melting into dark patches on the old tile. The space was intimate, lived-in, kind of home that had weathered grief and still dared to glow.

But Talia didn’t glow now. She ripped off her coat, her movements sharp. Rage and heartbreak rolled off her in waves.

“You think I’m perfect,” she spat, spinning on him. Her voice echoed in the living room, bouncing against bookshelves stacked too high with theology, history, and case files. “You think I’m poised, neat, some untouchable saint; well, you know nothing, John. Nothing about the shit I’ve done.”

She stormed to a shelf, grabbed a stack of files; heavy, battered, their tabs creased from years of hiding, and slammed them onto the coffee table. Papers spilled out: reports, photographs, handwritten notes in the margins. She forced him down onto the couch with a look alone, her glare brooking no refusal.

His glasses slid lower down his nose as he stared at the files, confusion cutting into dread.

“Tell me,” he said finally, jaw tight. His voice wasn’t a challenge. It was a plea.

Talia opened the first folder with trembling hands. The coroner’s report.

Lana Amari, female, 21, cause of death: overdose.

The black-and-white autopsy photo looked obscene under her soft bathroom light. Talia shoved it at him like a weapon.

“This is my sister.” Her voice cracked, then sharpened. “You want to know what I did? I destroyed evidence for her. More than once. I caught her with drugs; coke, pills, you name it. I took them, burned them, made sure no one knew. And when she died-” Talia’s breath hitched, but she forced the words out, “-I stole evidence from her crime scene. Photos, baggies, needles. I destroyed it all. Because I wanted her to die with dignity. Not as another junkie headline.”

Munch’s face went slack, stunned. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. She snatched another file. Kareem’s. Arrest records, court dockets, protests gone violent, mugshots where his eyes still blazed with conviction.

“And my brother. Do you know how many charges I buried for him? Property damage. Possession of a weapon. Conspiracy to incite violence. Even talk of ties across the border, to groups everyone called ‘fundamentalist.’” Her voice shook, but her eyes were knives. “I made them go away. Turned felonies into misdemeanours. Pulled strings, called in favours. I bent the law until it broke.”

Munch’s lips pressed into a thin line. He stared at the file, his hand twitching like he wanted to shut it, to shove the truth away. Still, she wasn’t done. She yanked another folder open and slid out a photo. Faded, worn from too much touching. A younger Talia stood arm-to-arm with Fotios Dimopoulos; crime boss, Velentzas Organization. His hand rested heavy on her shoulder like ownership.

Munch recoiled, recognizing the face from too many intelligence bulletins.

“You want honesty?” Talia said, her voice hoarse. “I cut deals with them. You think Astoria stays safe on its own? No. They run gambling, loansharking, rackets. But I made sure the streets, my streets, stayed safe. The kids, the families, untouchable. They stay clean, or I burn them myself. That’s the deal.”

Finally, her hands dropped. Exhaustion poured out of her like sand through glass. She sank into a chair opposite him, her posture no longer poised, just tired. Broken. For a long time, there was only the sound of the radiator hissing, the faint crackle of snow outside.

Munch stared at the table, at the pile of evidence, at the cracks in the foundation of the woman he loved. The perfect, radiant Talia Amari-Volkov had just bared herself raw, and what he saw left him gutted.

When he spoke, his voice was low. Almost frightened. “Do you have any idea what happens if any of this gets out?”

She shrugged, a bitter laugh escaping. “Nothing. Lana’s dead. Kareem’s dead. What’s left to ruin?”

His voice rose. “And you being in bed with organized crime? Jesus Christ, Talia-”

“Oh, don’t you act so damn high and mighty.” She snapped upright, eyes flashing. “Don’t pretend you’ve never broken the law because you thought it was wrong. You think I don’t know? You manipulate witnesses. You tap phones, you hack into cameras, you twist every rule until it breaks. Don’t stand there and judge me when your hands are just as dirty.”

Silence fell again. But this time, it was heavier.

Because she was right.

Munch had bent rules, skirted warrants, tapped into things he had no business touching. He’d justified it every time: for the victim, for the truth, because the system is rigged anyway. But hearing her say it, with that fire, that rage, it was like standing in front of a mirror he couldn’t look away from.

He dragged a hand down his face, the scrape of stubble rough against his palm. His chest ached like a weight pressing him into the couch. “I thought-” he started, then stopped. His voice wavered, uncharacteristic. “I thought you were better than me.”

Her laugh was sharp, wet with tears. “Better? John, I’m worse. I make deals with devils.”

His eyes burned. He wanted to argue. He wanted to tell her she was wrong. But the truth sat heavy in his chest. Still, he looked at her, really looked at her. Her curls fallen out of their pins, her eyes red but defiant, her hands trembling over the pile of ghosts she’d dumped onto the table. And all he saw was love.

“All this,” he said quietly, gesturing at the files, the sins, the confessions. “And I still love you.”

Her head snapped toward him, disbelieving. “Don’t say that.”

“I mean it.” His voice cracked, desperate, like a man begging at a confessional. “You think these sins make you unworthy? Doll, you’re the only person in this godforsaken city who sees me. Who looks at me and doesn’t flinch at the ruin. You think I care about Velentzas, about Kareem’s charges, about evidence burned?” He slammed his hand onto the table. The files jumped. “I care about you. And God help me, I don’t know how to stop.”

Talia’s lips parted, breath uneven.

“You think I don’t wake up every morning hating myself?” His voice was rising now, raw with anguish. “Four divorces. No kids. A closet full of trench coats and bitterness. My apartment’s a mausoleum. I’m a joke. And you-” his voice broke, “-you sit there with your ghosts and your sins, and you still shine brighter than I ever could. And I can’t stop loving you. Even if it ruins us both.”

Her tears fell freely now, but she didn’t wipe them. She just stared at him, the truth of it written all over his face.

“You’re an idiot,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” he said, voice thick. “I know.”

The files lay between them like a battlefield. Her sins. His doubts. Their love, bleeding through it all. And for the first time that night, the silence wasn’t hollow. It was charged. Alive. Terrifying. Snow beat softly at the window. The radiator hissed on. Somewhere down the block, a kid laughed in the street, the sound surreal against the storm brewing in her living room.

Talia reached across the table, her hand shaking, and laid it on top of his. Warm. Fragile. Defiant. “Then don’t you dare pretend we’re not in this together,” she whispered.

His fingers closed around hers, tight, trembling.

And for once, John Munch didn’t have a comeback.

Chapter Text

ASTORIA - December 21, 2004 - 9:04 PM

Winter had finally gotten its grip on New York. Two weeks had passed since the night Talia ripped her heart wide open in front of him, laying her sins bare like evidence files. Since then, something unspoken had shifted. John Munch carried her confessions with him, but instead of recoiling, he found himself admiring the sheer force of her will. She had carved deals with devils, and yes, bent the law until it cried out, but the result was undeniable: Astoria was safe. The streets her family had walked still hummed with life. Kids played. Shopkeepers waved. Elders nodded with pride when she passed.

And every morning when he pulled up outside her rowhouse, he saw her in the snow; tossing snowballs at teenagers, ducking behind parked cars with kids half her age, laughing with elders who watched from stoops. Talia wasn’t just part of the neighbourhood. She was its heartbeat.

He couldn’t judge her anymore. He wouldn’t. He loved her.

But loving her meant sneaking. The little rituals became survival. Holding her hand in the car, letting go before they crossed the precinct doors. A kiss before she left Astoria each morning. Another in the dark when he dropped her off at night. And more than once, he lingered on her stoop until midnight, wanting nothing more than to stay, to fall asleep in her arms, and hating himself for walking away.

They spent evenings in her living room, curled on the couch with mugs of tea and stacks of books. Sometimes they read. Sometimes they argued about conspiracy theories. Sometimes they just laughed, the kind of laughter that cracked something inside him wide open, reminding him what it felt like to be alive.

But always, every night, Talia begged him to stay. Not for sex, though the desire between them simmered hot, undeniable, but simply to sleep in his arms. To share the quiet, the breathing, the warmth. And every night, he wanted to say yes. But the ghost of his own life, four divorces deep, whispered don’t ruin her too.

This night, though, fate intervened. A nor’easter barrelled down on New York. By the time he drove her home from the precinct, snow was already swallowing the streets, buses crawling to a halt, the subways stalled in icy darkness. By midnight, the city was locked in white silence. Snowdrifts piled against cars and storefronts. Bridges closed. The whole city, for once, stopped moving.

He was snowed in. In her home. Two days before Christmas.

“Do you think it’ll clear?” Munch paced her living room, trench coat still hanging off one shoulder, glasses fogged from the storm outside.

Talia barely glanced up from her book. She was curled under a blanket, legs tucked beneath her, her dogs sprawled in a lazy pile around her feet. Ramses snored against her thigh. Anubis twitched in his sleep. Heka had wedged himself between couch and radiator, blissful.

“No,” she said simply, flipping a page. His groan filled the room.

She smirked without looking up. “I don’t understand why you can’t just sleep here.”

Her innocence cut straight through his defences. He laughed, too loudly, manic in his nerves. “I can’t sleep here.”

“Why not?” She set her book down finally, her eyes glimmering with mischief.

“Because-” he flailed, searching for logic that wouldn’t betray his want. Why couldn’t he? It was warm. There was food. And her.

“Yes?” She chuckled, standing now. The blanket slipped to the floor. She was wearing nothing but an oversized NYPD sweater and black lace panties, cut indecently high on her hips.

“Doll…” His voice cracked on the word, pleading.

She closed the distance, slid her hand into his. “Please. Just stay. One night.”

He was a fool. He was doomed. He was hers. “Okay,” he whispered.

Her smile lit the whole room. She darted upstairs, leaving him rooted on the rug, dogs blinking at him as if to say about time. When he finally followed, he found her in her prayer room closet, kneeling in the glow of votive candles, pulling down an old duvet and a stack of folded men’s clothes. Her joy was infectious, radiant.

“The heater might give out,” she said brightly, brushing dust off the duvet, “but this one’s duck feathers. And these were my brother’s, might even fit you.”

He just nodded, throat too tight. She swept past him into the bedroom, humming under her breath. The room smelled faintly of incense and lavender. She laid the duvet across one side of the bed, then peeled off her sweater. Her back was to him as she unclasped her bra, shoulders bare, skin luminous in the lamplight.

Munch froze. He hadn’t seen her tattoos up close before. Ink coiled across her back, crosses, serpents, script in languages he didn’t know. Scars and prayers woven into her skin.

He stepped closer, almost reverent, his hand trembling as he traced the lines. “It’s beautiful.”

She stilled, shivered under his touch. Slowly, he turned her to face him. The sight stole his breath. Perfect. Too perfect. His fingers mapped her like scripture: hips, waist, the curve of her breast, up to her jaw, until he cupped her cheek. His lips pressed to her forehead, a kiss heavy with devotion, not lust.

He grabbed a T-shirt from the chair, slid it over her head with careful hands, covering what he wanted but couldn’t yet take. Then he changed into her brother’s clothes; worn sweatpants, a threadbare tee, and lay beside her.

“Come here, doll,” he whispered.

She melted into his arms, her scent filling his lungs. For once, his mind was quiet. No conspiracies, no ghosts, no regrets. Just her. And he slept, truly slept, for the first time in a decade.

ASTORIA - December 22, 2004 - 7:28 AM

The city was still silent when he woke. No buses groaning, no honking horns, no subway rattle beneath the floor. Just the muffled hush of snow pressing against glass.

He blinked at the clock: 7:28. His body felt lighter than it had in years. Beside him, Talia slept on her stomach, curls spilling across the pillow, one hand tucked under her cheek. Peaceful. He watched her breathe, slow and even, and thought: Don’t wake up. Please. Stay here forever.

Then her phone rang. He cursed under his breath, fumbling across the nightstand. Her hand twitched, her body stirred. He answered before she could fully wake, already regretting it.

“Amari?” Captain Cragen’s voice barked down the line.

“No, sir,” Munch said, mentally facepalming.

A pause. “John?”

“Yes, sir.”

Another pause, thicker this time. “Why the hell do you have Amari’s phone?”

Munch pinched the bridge of his nose. “Well, uh… stormed in last night when I drove her home. She offered me to stay.” Half a lie. Half truth.

Cragen sighed. “Uh huh. John, I don’t care whose bed you sleep in. File your relationship with IAB.”

Munch swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“Keep your pants on at the precinct, and I’ll let you two stay partners.”

Munch barked out a laugh despite himself. “Understood.” He hung up, still shaking his head.

He turned back to her, touched her shoulder gently. “Doll, Cragen knows.”

She blinked one eye open, groggy, voice rasping. “He’s known for a while.”

He sat up straight. “What do you mean he’s known for a while?”

She rolled over, burying herself in the duvet again. “I told him.”

“You told him?” His voice cracked in disbelief.

“Mhm.” She yawned. “Go back to sleep.”

And against all reason, he did. They stayed tangled together until noon, snow still sealing them in, the city outside frozen in time.

For once, neither of them cared.

ASTORIA - December 22, 2004 - 11:48 AM

The morning in Queens didn’t wake them, at least not the city. It was the dogs. Ramses whining first, a sharp impatient yelp; then Anubis, pacing the wooden floors with nails clicking like typewriter keys. Heka, dramatic as always, added a wounded cry from the foot of the bed.

Talia groaned but swung herself upright, her curls tumbling forward as she reached for her robe. “Alright, Habibi,” she murmured, stroking Heka’s ears before slipping into slippers. She padded downstairs and let them out into the little backyard, where snow had piled like a barricade against the gate. The shepherds bounded out, noses buried in drifts, barking at the flakes as if they were invaders.

Inside, the house was hushed in that winter way, the silence thick, like the walls themselves were wrapped in cotton. Munch lingered in the living room; his coat still draped on a chair from last night. He wasn’t tired, he rarely was anymore, but the quiet here felt different from the silence of his apartment. Not empty. Not lonely. Alive with echoes.

He wandered along the wall of photos.

Her brothers, caught in mid-laugh the day before Kareem boarded that doomed flight to Egypt.
Talia and Lana, two wild girls in ’97, arms slung around each other like conspirators, eyeliner smudged from joy.
One of Talia as a child, perched at her father’s knee, her smile bright while her father was bent over a book of Pushkin, lips moving silently.
Another, blurred, but tender: Talia and her mother veiled at church, both caught mid-prayer, eyes lowered, halos of light from a candleholder at their backs.

She looked so happy, he thought. Happy in ways he hadn’t seen since she walked into SVU six months ago.

His gaze drifted to the staircase. The bedroom door stood ajar, shadows spilling across the landing. He told himself he was just looking for something to wear, something less rumpled than yesterday’s shirt. But his feet carried him not toward the dresser, but the closet.

The closet smelled faintly of rosewater and tobacco. Neatly folded blouses, silk and satin, hung beside trench coats that looked like they had been stitched for war. At the back, a cardboard box sat half-hidden under a shelf.

PRIVATE, scrawled in marker.

He hesitated. Only for a moment. “A small peek won’t hurt,” he muttered, his voice softer than conscience. The lid lifted with a sigh.

Inside: photographs. Dozens, maybe more. Talia younger, almost unrecognizable in places, soft-faced but already sharp-eyed. In Moscow, bundled in a thick coat and ushanka, standing with her father in Red Square, the towers of the Kremlin behind them. Another, Alexandria, hookah smoke curling like incense around her brothers in a café, laughter frozen in grainy print.

And then, his fingers stopped. One photo had slipped partly free.

The summer of 1994.

Talia in streetwear, bandana knotted, gold hoops, mouth curled in defiance. And him, trench coat in July, cigarette lit, watching her like he already knew she’d undo him someday. The two of them together, blurred but undeniable.

The air left his chest.

“What are you doing?”

Her voice cut the quiet like a knife. Munch froze. She stood in the doorway, sweatpants in hand, her curls spilling wild around her face. Bare feet. Eyes like flint.

“I… uh…” he stammered, words failing. He couldn’t explain. Not this. She crossed the room in three strides, snatched the box from his lap, and slammed the lid shut. She slid it back onto the shelf with shaking hands, her jaw tight. But the photo, their photo, remained in his hand.

“Don’t touch what isn’t yours,” she muttered, not meeting his gaze. Her voice was low, but beneath it, a tremor. She grabbed the sweatpants, pulled them on with clipped motions, and walked out. He followed her downstairs, the photo burning between his fingers.

“Did you know about this?” he asked quietly, almost pleading, as she moved toward the living room.

“About what?” she asked flatly, plucking a book from the shelf.

He saw the title; The Gulag Archipelago. Solzhenitsyn. The margins were crowded with pencilled notes in Russian, her father’s handwriting slanting sharp and impatient. A photograph of them together had been tucked into the spine, worn from use.

“This photo.” He held it out. His voice cracked more than he intended.

Talia glanced at it and, against her own guard, smiled faintly. Not mocking. Fond. “I found it a few months ago,” she admitted, her thumb brushing the book’s spine.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he pressed, sitting beside her on the couch. The photograph trembled between them.

She hesitated. Long enough for the silence to ache. Then, softly, “I didn’t know if you cared for me the way I cared for you.”

The words landed like a blade, sharp and clean. Munch’s throat closed. He looked at her, not just at her, but into her. At the way her fingers lingered on her father’s notes. At the way her lips pressed together, as if holding back something that might break her if it escaped.

His eyes softened. He set the photo down on the table, gently, like it might shatter.

“Tell me the story of this book,” he asked, his voice low, reverent.

And for the first time that morning, her face lit.

ASTORIA - March 15, 1986 - 1:39 PM

Spring in New York was not like spring in Russia or Egypt. In Russia, it was mud and thawing ice, the smell of iron in the air. In Egypt, it was dust storms and jasmine and the promise of unbearable heat.

But in Queens, spring felt alive. Green bursting between cracks in concrete, church bells mingling with car horns, languages colliding on every stoop. For ten-year-old Talia, none of it mattered. Her favourite place was not outside but in her parents’ bedroom. Their study, really.

It smelled of lemon and ink. Books leaned two-deep on every shelf, some in Russian, some in Arabic, some in English still too complicated for her. An icon of Saint George watched from one wall, while on the other a yellowed map of old Russia curled at its corners.

Talia sat cross-legged on the floor, chin in her hands, while her father sat at his desk. Mikhail Volkov: tall, bearded, his dark eyes lined with years of exile but softened by love. He stroked his beard absently with one hand while the other flipped the fragile pages of a battered book.

He read aloud in Russian, voice rolling like thunder wrapped in velvet. Pushkin. The room vibrated with it.

“Ty znayesh’, pochemu Pushkin vazhen?” he asked suddenly, glancing down at her with that half-smile that always made her feel chosen. (Do you know why Pushkin is important? / Russian)

“Potomu chto on umer na dueli?” she guessed. (Because he died in a duel / Russian)

Mikhail laughed, deep and warm. “Net, Talusha. Potomu chto on zastroil revolyutsiyu zvuchat’ kak muzyka.” (No, Talusha. Because he made revolution sound like music / Russian)

Talia frowned, rolling the thought in her head. Revolution, music. They didn’t seem like the same thing.

She tucked her bare feet under her, eyes bright. “Mozhno, ya prochitayu odno?” (Can I read one? / Russian)

Her father didn’t hand her the Pushkin. Instead, he reached for another book, a slim volume in French and English. Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince. He placed it carefully into her small hands, his fingers brushing hers with deliberate gentleness.

“Poprobuy eto,” he said softly. “Eto o lyubvi. No na samom dele, o tom, chtoby videt’ serdtsem, a ne tol’ko glazami.” (Try this. It’s about love. But it’s really about seeing with the heart, instead of just the eyes / Russian)

She opened it, reverent. The pages smelled faintly of dust and lemon. The words sang to her, even if she stumbled.

Her father leaned back, watching her. The way her lips shaped each word. The way she frowned in concentration, then smiled when she got it right. Pride swelled in him like an ache.

For Mikhail, who had fled KGB suspicion, who carried exile like a scar, there was no greater victory than this: his daughter, reading with fire in her eyes, ready to inherit the world.

“Ty ponyemesh’ odnazhdy,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “Istina vechna, Talusha. Lyubov’ prebyvayet.” (You’ll understand, one day. Truth is eternal, Talusha. Love endures / Russian)

ASTORIA - December 22, 2004 - 12:36 PM

The snow pressed itself against the windows like a thousand small hands. Outside, Queens was muffled in white, cab horns softened, the sound of tires sloshing through slush replaced by the occasional distant shout. Inside, the radiator hissed and cracked, filling the small living room with an uneven warmth.

Talia sat curled on the couch, legs tucked under her, a hardback resting carefully on her knees. She hadn’t turned the page in ten minutes. Instead, her fingertips hovered over the pencilled margins, tracing the slanted notes that had once belonged to her father.

“He used to write back,” she said finally, voice unsteady. “Like he was arguing with the book. Whole paragraphs sometimes. Like Solzhenitsyn was in the room with him, ready to debate.” Her throat worked. “I used to laugh. Said it was pointless.”

A brittle laugh escaped her now, breaking halfway through. “But he said books demand conversation. That silence was the death of thought.”

Munch, hunched forward in the chair across from her, didn’t move. His eyes stayed fixed on her face, not the book, not the snow. He watched her like he watched fire; entranced, careful, as if too much closeness might sear him, but unable to look away.

She smoothed her hand down the fragile paper, almost tender. “The last thing he gave me was The Little Prince. Said it was about love. I thought it was a children’s book. I didn’t get it then.” Her lips parted, as though the memory itself hurt. “I get it now.”

He wanted to reach for her hand, but his fingers only twitched once against his knee. He stayed still. Instead, his gaze wandered, caught on the wall where a framed photograph hung: a younger Talia and her mother, veiled in white, bent in prayer beneath the candlelight of their church.

He spoke softly. “And her?”

Talia’s eyes followed his. Her breath hitched, shoulders curling inward as though bracing against something larger than memory. When she answered, it was nearly a whisper. “My mother was light. Even when she was dying, she was light.”

And she closed her eyes, to remember.

COPTIC CHURCH IN ASTORIA - April 17, 1996 - 10:04 AM

The incense was suffocating that morning. Heavy coils of frankincense and myrrh clung to the air, so thick it felt like breathing through smoke. The marble floor gleamed with an unnatural brightness, the light from the high stained-glass windows splintering into colours that fell on Talia’s face like judgment.

Her hands tightened on the metal grips of the wheelchair as she pushed her mother inside. Each squeak of the wheels echoed across the nave, unbearably loud in the cavernous silence.

Miriam no longer looked like the woman who had once stood before classrooms with her spine straight and her voice steady. Cancer had eaten her from the inside, leaving behind sharp bones, sunken cheeks, lips that cracked from dryness. Her headscarf slipped loose on her thinning hair, and Talia reached forward to fix it, fingers trembling. “Ya mama… iḥna hina. Abuna Stefanos mustannīna.” (Mom, we are here. Father Stephanos is waiting for us / Arabic)

Miriam gave the smallest nod, her eyes glistening but unfocused. It was all she had left in her. Father Stephanos’ shadow moved across the altar, robes heavy, voice deep and mournful:
“Ahlan, Miriam… w Talia. Yalla, nṣalli.” (Welcome, Miriam and Talia. Let us pray / Arabic)

The words rang like bells in the empty church. He crossed himself, then traced the sign of the cross in the air over Miriam, as if blessing could mend the body that was already collapsing. Talia guided her mother to the very front row, adjusting her veil again before crossing herself, the familiar motion suddenly desperate. She fell to her knees beside the chair, pressing her forehead to the cold wood of the pew until it almost hurt.

Father Stephanos began, his voice thick with incense and sorrow: “Ya Rab yasouʿ el-Masīḥ, ashfi w ʿāfi ʿabīdak, waʾtīhum quwwa w baraka.” (Lord Jesus Christ, heal and strengthen Your servants, and grant them power and blessing / Arabic)

The prayer echoed against the high arches, filling the silence like thunder, like pleading. Talia lifted her mother’s hand. It was ice. Paper-thin skin stretched over bones that used to braid her hair, stir pots of cumin and olive oil, press books into her palms with a teacher’s urgency. She kissed each knuckle as though trying to breathe warmth back into them. Tears fell onto Miriam’s skin, soaking into her like holy water.

Her whole life had unravelled since her father’s sudden death. Samir was half a world away, swallowed by the war in Iraq. Ameen was drowning in graduate work. Kareem had become fire and fury, his voice hoarse from protests, his fists scarred from holding banners in the cold. And Lana… Lana was already slipping into smoke and shadows, rolling joints on rooftops while the city roared beneath her.

And so, it was Talia here. Twenty years old, already carrying the weight of the house like a condemned beam. She had dropped out of LaGuardia Community College the week before, unable to keep pretending she could read poetry in classrooms while her mother coughed blood into tissues at night. She bathed her mother’s frail body, fought with insurance clerks on the phone until her throat was raw, read doctors’ reports she didn’t want to understand. And she prayed. Every night, she prayed.

Father Stephanos’ voice rose again, deeper, slower, each word like a hammer blow against stone. Talia’s lips moved with him, but no sound came. Her faith was there, but her voice was gone. When the prayer ended, the silence felt merciless.

She rose on trembling legs and lit a thin candle before the icon of the Virgin. The flame flickered uncertainly, as though even fire did not want to stay. She whispered her father’s name in Arabic, her voice so low it barely stirred the air, and crossed herself again with shaking fingers.

She wheeled her mother back out through the nave, past the saints staring down in painted silence, past the altar where smoke still curled like unanswered prayers. The squeak of the chair wheels echoed one last time, swallowed by the heavy doors.

By noon, they were back in the hospital. Two days later, Miriam passed away.

Only Talia was there. No choir, no Father Stephanos, no family. Just the mechanical rhythm of a heart monitor flattening to silence, and her mother’s head leaning against her arm. Talia pressed her lips to Miriam’s forehead, tasting salt, antiseptic, the faint ghost of rose oil.

“Light, mama,” she whispered, her voice breaking in two. “You are light.”

And then there was nothing.

ASTORIA - December 22, 2004 - 12:48 PM

The memory drained out of her like blood, and when her eyes opened again, she was back in the living room. The snow was still falling. The radiator still hissed. But her face was pale, lashes wet. Munch hadn’t moved. His jaw was tight, his glasses halfway down his nose. He looked at her the way men look at something they can’t fix. The silence ached between them.

Finally, she exhaled. “It broke me,” she said quietly. “Losing them both so close. I thought maybe if I studied enough, prayed enough, worked hard enough, I could keep the house standing. But grief doesn’t bargain.”

He wanted to tell her he understood. That he, too, had stood in churches, in funeral homes, had lost people in ways that made the world tilt. But the words didn’t form. Instead, he asked the only thing he could. “What did she give you?”

Talia blinked at him, confused.

“Your father gave you books,” he clarified, voice low. “Arguments in the margins. What about her?”

For the first time, Talia smiled. It was small, fragile, but real. “She gave me music. Said prayer was music that learned how to fly. And she gave me her hands. Always braiding my hair, always cooking beside me, always lighting candles.” Her gaze softened. “Even when she was in pain, she found light.”

She shifted closer, curling deeper into the couch. “Your turn,” she murmured. “Tell me something no one knows about you.”

Munch looked caught, like she had aimed a spotlight at him. “What kind of something?”

“Anything,” she pressed. “You think you’re a mystery, John, but you’re not. Give me one truth.”

He thought for a long moment. Then shrugged, almost too casually. “Last summer, before you transferred here… I took the Sergeant’s exam.”

Her eyes widened. “I’m sorry? what?”

“And I passed,” he added, smirking faintly.

“You passed?” She sat up straighter, incredulous. “And you didn’t say anything?”

He laughed dryly. “Didn’t seem important.”

Talia groaned, flopping back against the cushions. “God, you drive me insane.”

For the first time that day, the heaviness in the room cracked. Their laughter filled the little rowhouse, spilling warm against the windows while snow muffled the world outside.

The rest of the afternoon passed in slow spirals of memory, teasing, silence, and something gentler; the quiet thrum of two people learning, against all odds, that grief could still make room for love.