Sex, Drugs & Rock n' Roll

"Sex, Drugs and Rock n' Roll"

by Cardinal Robbins

Disclaimer: Munch isn't mine, but I'd take him in a heartbeat. Zelman is

mine, but Wolf can't have her unless he says, 'Pretty please.'

Author's Notes: This is the third in a series I'd like to call "Near Misses,"

set before "November Rain," for those who pay attention to my SVU AU fanon.

It had been a long day for John Munch, made all the more miserable because he had a headache. A grinding tension headache, stripping him of his last vestiges of civility. To put it as bluntly as the pain in his head, he was generally pissed.

He'd reached into the center drawer of his desk for some ibuprofen, found the bottle and it was empty. Then he remembered having given his last two tablets to Olivia, because 'the painters were in' at her place. Another lovely colloquialism for the cramps she was having, which made the day as utterly rotten as her mood. Where had Elliot been, with his ever-present aspirin? In court with Fin and Casey, leaving him with a silently aching Benson, who inadvertently snapped his head off before she swallowed his last two pills.

Munch walked into the neighborhood CVS, a friendlier place than most of the 'big box' type of places like Target or Costco. He'd be able to shop at his leisure, finding something to ease the pounding in his skull. While perusing the aisle of analgesics and cold remedies, he heard sniffling. The sound didn't surprise him, but as he turned to check the other side of shelves, her appearance did.

She was bundled in a heavy gray parka, ubiquitous leather gloves, a royal blue scarf around her neck, head down in concentration as she tried to decide which cold remedy would keep her on her feet.

He tried not to stare, but there she was: 'The Enigma,' as he mentally referred to she who'd evaded him so many times before. And, this time, she obviously had a cold or something along those lines. For a moment, he wanted to sidle up to her and recommend she drown her sorrows in Nyquil or Tylenol Cold, but he fought the urge. After the day he'd had, approaching a woman who didn't feel well wasn't such a swift idea.

However, it didn't mean he couldn't try to get a look inside the red plastic basket she carried.

Curiosity will out, especially when you're doing a little 'advance work' in case an opportunity presents itself in the future. He knew it bordered stalking, but there was no pang of guilt to warn him off. Instead, he moved behind and to the left of her, sneaking a quick look. Tylenol caplets, three red and white individual servings of chicken noodle soup, Kleenex tissues, Benadryl, Claritin, two 'break and shake' cold compresses, and he looked away just as she'd dropped in a bottle of Nyquil.

She sniffled again, her head still down, and he suddenly felt terribly sad. Obviously, she had no one at home to take care of her. No one to warm her chicken soup and bring it to her in a mug, with oyster crackers and a sympathetic smile. No one to take her temperature, bring her something cool to drink, to do whatever it took to make her comfortable until her fever broke. He knew the signs. Alone. Like he was.

His peripheral vision was sharp as he tipped his head back a bit. She was flushed, miserable with whatever bug she'd picked up. He longed to say something, do anything to make her feel better; he was tongue-tied and worse, his feet wouldn't budge.

John, you buffoon, think of something! But what? 'Hope you feel better soon'? 'I've been checking out your purchases'? 'Want me to warm up that soup for you'? Munch, for a fairly intelligent, literate human being, you're a disgrace to your gender, he thought bitterly. If he said the wrong thing, she'd bolt like a stray animal and he'd never see her again, he was sure of it. But if he said nothing at all, he'd have committed the same crime thrice in a row – not introducing himself. Not even making an attempt to connect. He'd be just another chicken-shit goon, dreaming of the one who got away.

He drew in a deep breath and turned around, ready to simply say 'hello," but she was gone. Something about her was stealthy, silent, like a big cat who could disappear in the jungle brush without so much as disturbing a leaf. Don't just stand there, John, he told himself. Find her! Go after her and stop being so damned hesitant!

His mental pep-talk worked. Munch moved quietly down a central aisle, two rows over from the cold remedies, there she was. She'd put the basket on the floor and walked farther down, looking at shampoo and conditioners, her parka unzipped and her scarf now hanging loosely around her neck. Probably sweating out a fever, he considered, momentarily worried.

Another glance into her basket and his heart sank. Condoms. Not just your average Trojans, either. Extra thin, in an assorted flavor pack. Flavors. Once she recovered, someone would be getting more than their fair share of action; peppermint, probably. Wonderful, John. It's your damned luck – she's already sleeping with somebody. He winced as the tension headache sent a renewed salvo of pain searing behind his eyes.

Munch turned around quickly as she wandered back to her basket. He heard teenaged laughter as three boys ran for the front of the store. He grabbed some Speed Stick antiperspirant, since they were having a sale on it in his preferred scent.

He walked down the next aisle and she followed, her attention focused on perusing a display of CDs. He moved down to the office supplies in the same row and seriously considered pens and Scotch tape, wondering if she'd tip her hand and choose some music. He got his answer as she went by, a '70's Rock of Ages' disk in her basket. He knew that one; it had a couple tracks by Lou Reed. He was more intrigued than ever, save for the little conundrum of the latex.

As she made her way toward the check-out counter, he followed at a discreet distance, allowing two people to step ahead of him in line. They were short enough, he could watch her over their heads. One of the many advantages of being tall.

She wearily went up to the cashier, taking everything out of the basket one item at a time. Her hand rested on the condoms and she gave a short huff, handing them over. "These aren't mine," she said hoarsely, figuring the kids had dared each other to drop them into her basket while she decided upon Herbal Essence shampoo.

"No problem, I'll put them back."

"Thanks," she almost whispered, swiping her debit card through the machine and secretively keying in her pin-code.

He almost jumped when she turned and noticed him. Her direct gaze saw right through him, dark glasses and all, yet she smiled shyly as her face reddened. He could feel his own cheeks getting hot, because she'd busted him once again. Without a word, she nodded her thanks to the cashier and took her receipt. He was determined to watch which direction she went, but the crash of a box of dropped glass picture frames caused him and everyone else to startle and turn toward the noise.

When he turned back, she was gone.

John paid for his purchases and walked out, feeling more isolated than ever in a neighborhood where he knew almost everyone. So, the condoms weren't hers, he thought. No one would be getting a multi-flavored night of passion. No one to lay close to, to steal the covers from; no one to curl up with on a cold night, to share a newspaper with the next morning over a cup of tea. Did she even drink tea? She should be drinking it now, especially, he thought, letting his mind wander. She should have someone with her…someone who would care for her.

Walking home, footfall after footfall on the grayed concrete, daylight left and cold darkness gathered above. More than anything else at that moment, he wanted that someone to be him.


End file.
