Hello, SVUniverse. This is my first attempt at a fic, so I know it's probably not great, but just track with me. I have a plan and everything. Whoooop. This is post season 14. Only Her Negotiation never happened because unlike the current writers, I don't feel the need to physically torture Olivia. But you never know. Hi Robyn, Nikki, Ashley, Megan. :) Review it or do whatever you want. tell me it blows. JUST tell me something. ;)

The leaves in Central Park were brilliant colors. Autumn had just started to settle in. It's mid September. Warm. Light breeze. It slightly lifted her curled strands of hair that framed her face, and she sighed, tucked it behind her ear. She took step after uncomfortable step. The wind untucked it almost immediately, and she ignored it. Why bothering with something you can't control? You can try, but you'll end up turning a blind eye to it eventually. The world has bigger problems than hair that won't stay in place. To her, every color had slightly dulled. Every sound had dulled. She pretends for herself. She pretends that all this is beautiful, and she pretends she notices it. It's been like this for a few years. The hues were not as bright, and the pastels of the flowers lining the walkway were another shade of gray in her world. She saw things in black and white.

We invited you to celebrate the union of Mr. James Jonathan Levi & Miss Kathleen Bernadette Stabler on the Fourteenth of September at Eight p.m.

The lights twinkled around Belvedere Plaza in Central Park. She didn't see them. She didn't see anything anymore. She just walked. Black strapped dress. It was flattering enough. It flowed down to right above her knee, loosely. The empire band under her chest was a little too tight. But it's not unusal. Her chest is always little too tight. It's gotten a little better. It was cut straight across her chest. Her collarbones were visible, as were her arms. She was keeping it modest. She was in heels that should've bothered her, but then again, nothing does. She wasn't trying to be enticing. Just dressed up for a wedding. A wedding.

How many attending?

She kept walking the pathway to make her way up to the castle. She'd missed the ceremony, but she RSVP'd three months ago. The last minute, she decided to throw her hair up in a clip, and curl the sides. She didn't think. She never did. Thinking doesn't do anything. It just opens the tender scar inside her chest and chokes her throat. It's just a wedding. Just a young lady she's known for fifteen years. God. She's 23. I remember when she was just thirteen and El- We closed a case tonight. We got a full confession. She speaks loudly over a rising memory. This is what she's learned to do. Silently yell. Silently drown it. Block it's entry. Prevent it from being a complete thought. Stay on the job, Benson. Closed a case. He confessed. A rapist with a conscience. Tutuola is an asshole.

"You closed a case in an hour, even got time to get your ass home and prettied up." Olivia had raised an eyebrow and went back to finishing her paperwork. Fin had chuckled and shook his head. "We missed the ceremony, but we could crash the after party."

But he'd called Olivia on her way to the reception, apologizing, and oweing her breakfast on Monday because Rollins asked him to have her six. They had a lead on an eight month old case.

Olivia would've flaked if she hadn't been two blocks from the reception, and if Fin wouldn't have said that she wasn't needed. Be polite, Olivia.

Attending: 1.

"God, isn't this place just gorgeous?" A voice spoke and then sighed. Olivia suddenly realized a woman was to her left. She suddenly realized she was walking in a crowd of people up toward the party.

"They did a great job, for sure." She commented back with a smile. She suddenly heard the buzzing chatter of the guests around her. Kathleen and J.J. have got to be the best looking couple - The dress was a little plain, I gotta say, but her hair was beautif - I hope the music isn't country - I love the bubbles instead of rice or bird seeds - Her dad looked tense as hell walking her down the aisle. Olivia clenched her teeth together, and recited the Miranda warning in her head. In English. Then Spanish. Then French. Then she signed it in ASL discreetly.

Just as she was about to stop for a break from the heels, everyone flooded into the already crowded wedding reception. It was glamorous. She waited in line to be seated, and the staff and caterers were all black tie, as were the guests. She felt a little underdressed, and she pulled her hair out of the clip and tucked it into her purse. She prepared for this. You can never predict the style of weddings, she'd learned. She reached in to her purse and pulled out her diamond necklace, and hooked it. She never wore it. Frankly, she didn't care for it. It was flashy, and it's not her style at all. Her mother had left it to her. She planned to sell it if ever she needed a decent amount of money in a quick amount of time. She spotted Kathy almost immediately.

"Name?" The hostess asked. She looked to be in her 60s or 70s. She had long gray hair that was slicked back into a ponytail, but she didn't seem tired. Olivia can't remember a time when she wasn't tired. She doesn't remember what energy actually feels like.

"Benson." Olivia half-smiled. She adjusted her purse strap and rubbed her arm.

"Olivia Benson, table eight." The hostess pointed to the same direction as Kathy Stabler, but back to the right. Olivia walked with her eyes glancing around, trying to look occupied, awed, trying to avoid drawing her partn- drawing the woman's attention. It worked. She sighed and smiled, seeing a comfortable presence ahead. She clicked in her heels to the table where her captain, and Sergeant John Munch sat.

"Where can I get a drink?" Olivia chuckled and set her purse down beside her chair and sat to the left of Munch at the round table. The centerpiece was simple. It was a vase with a cinnamon? pumpkin? smelling candle and around the vase was another glass layer filled with gold, auburn, and dark brown glass rocks.

"Open bar." John nodded across the room. "You look about as comfortable as I feel in a tux." He states as he sipped on his drink. Don Cragen chuckles.

"You look about as comfortable as I feel around an open bar." He jokes at his own expense. Olivia grimaced and lifted her foot from under the table.

"Not exactly the shoes I'm used to wearing, guys. But thanks for the compliments." She smirked, and ran her fingers through her hair. She swallowed hard and ground her teeth together. She ran her hand through her hair again and shifted her position.

"Scotch?" Munch stood up and put his hand on her shoulder. She chuckled and nodded once.

"On the rocks with a twist." She suggested. He patted her shoulder and walked toward the bar. Captain Cragen looked up, and Olivia was still watching John walk away with too much focus. He watched her jaw flex.

"Liv-" Cragen started, the sound of sympathy and warning blended together in one tone. She turned her head to him and held up her hand.

"I'm fine." She nodded, and raised her eyebrows. "How was the ceremony?" She asked, her eyes focusing on the waiter walking over with appetizers. He set the tray down, smiled, and walked away. She reached for a the bowl of dinner mints in the center of the table instead.

"Predictable. All weddings are the same." Cragen offered. "She tripped over her vows a bit. She promised to love him in hickness and in stealth instead of sickness and health. Got a good laugh."

Olivia chuckled once and popped a mint into her mouth. Olivia saw John walking back, and mouthed a thank you. He set the drink down in front of her. He cleared his throat and dropped his voice closer to her ear. "He's coming from behind us to the right."

Her fingers felt numb around her glass and she nodded. He gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. She braced herself. It hadn't been a breath yet since Munch straightened his back. He had the balls to walk over here when she was still sitting here. He had the guts to walk this direction when he hadn't even breathed in her direction for two years. He hadn't sent a telephone wave her direction for two years. He didn't send an email her direction for two years. He left her alone for two years. He ran in the opposite direction. He ran and he hid. The empire band below her chest was suddenly much tighter than she recalled.

She felt his presence before she felt his hand on her shoulder.

Her hand shook around her glass and her whole body trembled immediately. It was less than half a second reaction. The ice clinked audibly for not even a fourth of a second. She regained composure as immediately as she lost it. Nobody saw her reaction. He burned her. His rough, calloused hand burned into her shoulder, and her stomach lit ablaze. His thumb lightly brushed over her shoulder bone, and she ground her teeth together for the hundreth time in the last ten to fifteen minutes. The searing heat turned to a burning chill and it travelled down her arm and to her wrist. The sip she'd had of her drink was ravaging her insides, dissintegrating any comfort, and replacing it with nausea.

She flexed her hands and cleared her throat.

His hand left her shoulder almost as immediately as he'd touched her. It just a tap, in all reality. But it was the tap that cracked her walls and opened the roaring floodgates that she now guarded with her pathetic paper thin facade of indifference.

And she turned around.