"If someone approaches you for a dance, politely decline. Say you're waiting for someone. If they're still insistent, let Detective Stabler or Agent Huang know via the hookups, and they'll intervene." The specialist had been addressing Laur, but he then nodded to Elliot and Huang, reclining on a couch across the office. "The same goes for the both of you. Detective Tutuola will keep an eye on everything, make sure no one harasses any of you. Your main goal is information. Strike up a conversation. Preferably near the bar, where it'll be quieter, and also preferably with someone who's reasonably sober. The exits from the club are here and here, and that's the stairwell leading to the Internet café. It's not open at night, so that door will be locked. All of the staff will be aware of your presence, and have been appropriately instructed on how to treat you." Huang's cell phone beeped softly and he excused himself, slipping out of the room to answer it. "Fortunately, Closeness has an immaculate reputation. No reported brawls, sexual harassments, anything of the kind. They run a very clean shop."

Laur looked like he wanted to ask a question, but Huang stuck his head back into the room. "That was Captain Cragen. We've got to go."

Closeness was three flights up in a nondescript building tucked between an apartment complex and a Starbucks, where Munch had begrudgingly bought coffee for the captain, Olivia, and himself. He slumped in his chair and fiddled with the receptor on the machine which was receiving and transmitting communication between the four men outside and themselves.

"I don't understand why it was necessary to send Laur in alone," Olivia repeated to the captain, kneading the flesh of her crossed arms lightly to assuage the ache from her impromptu workout earlier that day.

"He's not alone," Cragen replied, not taking his eyes off of the security camera screens.

"You know what I mean. Partnerless."

Cragen sighed. "Olivia, unless you wanted to go undercover as a drag queen, you'd stick out there like…well…like a woman in a gay bar."

"I don't know, Captain, I think a sequin toga, maybe a faux peacock feather hat, and Detective Benson would make a very enticing Miz Understood." Munch smirked faintly, then lifted his hands palms up when she glared.

"And you're in here is because most of the men in this club are young enough to be your children," Olivia shot back, sweetly. Munch placed a hand over his heart in mock-offense.

"Huang's in," Cragen announced. "Cut the crap, both of you, and test his receiver."

"Agent Huang, it's Munch. Do you read?"

"Crystal clear, Detective. I'm heading for the bar, Kronisk's on the dance floor, Fin and Elliot are on their way in."

The inside of the club was a study in chaos contained. Crammed onto a dance floor shimmery with heat, bodies gyrated and slammed into one another, the stench of sweat and alcohol vying with the pulsing music for the position of most obnoxious assault upon the senses. Lights swept the crowd, and shouts were barely audible beneath the tidal wave of sound from the giant speakers placed at strategic points all around the dance floor. On the stage which faced the audience, four dancers in skimpy clothing offered a microcosm of the wild atmosphere in the club, alternately dancing with one another and the poles and high stools which dotted the stage. Elliot strode across the floor, trying to look as comfortable as possible. Mentally, he selected an empty spot at the far end of the bar on the left side of the room. Huang was already comfortably seated at the other bar, chatting with a pair of large, meaty looking men in leather.

The floor felt sticky underneath Elliot's sneakers as he tried to cross the dance floor as innocuously as possible. The music had started a snaky throb of a headache between his eyes. Various body parts pressed at him from all sides, making him jumpy. When he was halfway across the floor, a strong hand on his waist stopped him. Fighting back a violent response, Elliot turned, but it was only Kronisk. The younger detective winked and then resumed dancing.

"Someone want to tell George Michael that this is an information-gathering mission, not a dance party?" Elliot snapped into his hookup before freeing himself from the crowd and sitting down heavily at the bar. He motioned the bartender over to him. "I'll have a Manhattan Dry Comfort, please."

"Mission, Elliot," Kronisk's mocking voice hissed in his ear just as Cragen's voice started, "Elliot…"

"Bartender? Forget the Comfort, I'll have a club soda."

"…And put it in a vise, Kronisk."

"Sorry, Captain."

"Hi there."

For a moment, disoriented by the voices in his ear and the music, Elliot didn't register the tall black man who sauntered up and sat beside him. When he did, he offered a close-lipped smile. "Sorry, this music…"

"Oh, it's fine." The black guy smiled, then motioned at the bartender. "Corona with a lime wedge, please?" Tipping his head at Elliot, he extended a hand. "I'm Walt."

"Elliot."

"I haven't seen you here before, Elliot." Walt accepted the beer with one hand and fixed the hem of his tight maroon shirt with the other. His tone was gentle, just teetering on prying.

Elliot stirred out the carbonation in his soda and tried for a wan smile. "Yeah. Well. My better half didn't exactly like going out."

The other man's eyebrows jumped. "Go through a rough breakup?"

He nodded. The truth of it must have bored a hole in his calm mask, because Walt clucked concernedly and reached over to place a hand on Elliot's arm. "I'm sorry, honey. It gets better," he offered, lamely.

"Oh yeah?"

Walt sighed, sipped at his beer. "Last year my lover found out he had cancer. He said he wouldn't let me see him like that and lit out for Vegas. Twenty six years we'd been together – friends since we were in grade school, high school sweethearts, that kind of thing. Now he's back in New York, on chemo, dating some real estate agent. Things are hard all over." He leaned back and laughed a little, showing very white, crooked teeth. "Listen to me, pouring all my woes out on you. Sorry."

"Doesn't sound like it got any better."

"No? Isn't this better?" Walt gestured around them. "I come here, I watch them, they're happy, I'm happy. Life: it's abundant and so beautiful." He paused, glancing over at Elliot. "But I don't suppose you came here to spectate."

He had a purpose here, yes, and it was high time he got around to it. "Actually, I was referred here by a friend, Ethan. Haven't spotted him yet, but…"

"Ethan? Ethan Wipley?" Walt's expression was caught somewhere between incredulous and pleasantly scandalised. "He's a little young for you, yeah?"

"He's just a friend," Elliot repeated. "Do you know him?"

"Who doesn't?" The black man nodded up at the stage, where the dancers continued to perform. "Your – friend – up there has the most gorgeous pair of hips I've seen since my ex. The management was lucky to book him. I hear he's only been staying in the city so long because he met someone." Again, his face was upturned, questing, as if he knew or suspected something particularly dirty.

Sensing an opportunity to gain more information, Elliot played along. "Yeah, I heard that too. His boyfriend, Scott."

"I don't know his name, but he looks like jailbait. Not that that would deter some of us." Walt quirked an eyebrow and scooted a little closer.

"Elliot, I could use you over here." It was Huang, in his ear, and his usually controlled voice was tinged with an edge of nervousness.

"Maybe I'll see you around a little later?" Elliot asked, rising.

Walt grinned, but looked like he had gotten the hint. "I hope so," he shot back, then softened. "Take care, Elliot."

Huang coolly edged away the drink he'd been proffered with his fingertips. It left a wet trail on the shiny bar top. "I told you, I'm waiting for someone."

"Are you shittin' me?" the beefy man who'd introduced himself as Red growled. "Look, you might be a nice piece of ass, but you're out of your mind, coming onto me one minute and then screaming rape the next. Think you're too good for me, you uppity Jap?"

"Look, I'm sorry you got the wrong idea – "

"Here's an idea," Red interrupted, getting in close so that Huang could smell his beery breath. "I'll split your fucking skull open."

"Back off," Elliot warned him as he finally extricated himself from the crowd. He glanced at the psychiatrist, whose face was blank with just a hint of ironic smile. Elliot, who knew Huang well, could tell that smile was the closest Huang's face would come to abject fear.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"He's with me, jerkoff," Elliot said, registering Laur sidling out of the crowd in his peripheral vision. In his ear mic, he could hear Cragen instructing Fin to head over, and almost out of instinct he moved closer to Huang.

Red laughed derisively. "You could do better, Jap, and that's sayin' something."

"I'm Chinese," Huang said calmly. "And not interested."

"Who gives a fuck? All of you Orientals are the same to me: tiny eyes, and tiny di – " He trailed off as Fin strode up from behind him and clamped a hand on his shoulder.

"We got a problem here?"

Red glanced back at Fin, who was glaring at him slit-eyed, then to Huang and Elliot, who hadn't moved. "I was just leaving," he sneered, and oozed off into the crowd.

"I want you all to meet me outside, now," Cragen said. "Olivia and Munch will question Mr Wipley. Try not to get in any more fights on your way out."

Laur met Elliot's gaze and rolled his eyes, smiling, but the older detective stared back blankfaced.

"Why didn't you inform us that you employed a man named Ethan?" Munch asked the manager as they waited in his office for the security guards to bring him in.

"Because that's not the name he gave us," the manager explained, wringing his thin fingers together. "He goes by the Bucking Cowboy."

"That must make for interesting paychecks," Olivia commented wryly.

"We don't pay him directly. We pay his booking agent, Rosario Thorne. This is going to be terrible for business; he was one of our best dancers." There was a knock on the door, and he paused. "I'll be in my inner office. Help yourselves to some coffee."

"Thanks," Olivia said, and then raised her voice to call, "Come in."

The door creaked slowly open and a slight Asian man in heavy stage makeup poked his head inside. "Mr Renstaub?" he said, glancing with curiousity at Munch and Olivia.

"NYPD," Olivia corrected him, lifting her badge. "Why don't you come in and make yourself comfortable?"

The dancer's eyes widened, but he slipped inside, shutting the door behind him. "I didn't do anything illegal."

"We're not accusing you of anything, Mr Wipley." Ethan kept looking back and forth at Munch and Olivia, and he visibly tensed whenever she addressed him. Olivia noticed this, and she rose, giving him a wan smile, and retreated to the back of the room to pour some coffee. Munch watched her for a moment and then gestured at one of the seats, leaning his body against the manager's desk so that he faced Ethan.

"Won't you sit down?"

Relaxing a little, Ethan nodded and sat. "What is this about, officer?"

"Actually, it's Detective – no, that's fine. Would you like some coffee?"

"No, thanks."

Munch accepted his Styrofoam cup from Olivia and sipped at the tepid liquid inside. "We have some questions about your boyfriend, Scott Creeching."

Immediately Ethan looked nervous again. "We never did anything," he said, spreading his hands in an almost-pleading gesture. "I know the law. We were waiting until he was able to give consent."

"That's good, Mr Wipley, but that's not why we're here."

"I swear I never touched him." The dancer choked a little on his words, then looked down into his lap at his limp hands. "I loved him."

"Did his parents know about your relationship, or that you two went out together?"

"No. As far as I know, they aren't even aware that I exist."

Munch caught Olivia's gaze before he continued. "And were you aware of Scott's penchant for auto-erotic behavior?"

"What?"

"Did you know that he liked to strangle himself while he masturbated," Olivia asked flatly.

Ethan seemed physically repulsed, but reluctantly nodded. "Yes. He told me. I thought it seemed too dangerous. And it was," he added vehemently, almost as an afterthought. Again he seemed to choke and looked down.

"Mr Wipley, I'm sorry to have to ask this. Where were you on the morning of Scott's death?"

"Here. Online, talking to Scott. Then I went next door for coffee. He was supposed to call me, but he never did."

"He called someone," Olivia intervened in the conversation, coming around the side of the desk. "His phone records show that directly after your conversation he made a call to a pre-paid cell phone."

"I don't have one of those." Ethan shifted back in his chair, as if he could draw himself away from her.

"We know that someone else was in his room with him when he died. We found ejaculate on the floor." Olivia cocked her head. "Was it possible that he was cheating on you?"

"No. He wouldn't. I mean, he could have, and I wouldn't have known. But he wouldn't."

"How do you know that, Mr Wipley?"

Ethan's face crumpled, and Olivia got up heavily and walked out, slamming the door behind her. There was a tense pause, and Munch drank his coffee silently while the dancer cried. Then, wrenching:

"I'm sorry, I'm s-sorry. I just miss him."

Munch nodded. "Are you planning on attending the funeral?"

"No, of course not. His father…his father would kill me."

"Why would he kill you if he doesn't even know who you are?"

Ethan had been looking up as he spoke, pleadingly. Now he looked down and his face collapsed again as he cried. "Please – "

"Look." Munch sighed, put his coffee down, and got up. "Here's my card. Give us a call if you can think of anything pertinent." Ethan didn't take it, so Munch laid it gently on the desk and went out.

Olivia was standing on the curb outside, smoking, her mouth angry. Munch approached her, pulling on his gloves.

"You don't usually smoke." An observation, a question, an accusation.

"You don't usually pry." A command.

It was flurrying. Munch worked his pinky into the right glove and turned away, heading up the street toward home.

"We don't need to do this now, Elliot," Huang said gently as he watched, in his peripheral, another gin disappear down the detective's throat. At the other end of the bar, Fin shot him a worried look, but Huang shook his head back at him just perceptibly. Drinks had been Fin's idea, and Huang had only volunteered to go because Elliot seemed show some interest. Once at the bar, though, Elliot had proceeded to get very drunk very fast, and Fin had tactfully steered a stupidly beaming Kronisk to the other end of the bar. The young detective was a blissful, happy drunk, and he didn't seem to be giving Fin much trouble, just annoyance. Huang waved back with a wan smile as Kronisk grinned and raised a sloppy salute, then turned to face Elliot, whose face was several inches from being buried in the bar top. "Let me drive you home."

"No, this is important," he protested, slurring his speech only slightly. "All that crap we been talkin' about in the sessions…don' give a fuck about it…wanna tell you this. Lemme, lemme tell you."

He sighed. "Alright."

"I'm little, okay," Elliot said. He hadn't moved, and his sweaty face reflected dully in the dark red of the bar. He stared back at it while he spoke. "I'm little, an' my family has all these parties, only I gotta go to bed. So I lay in bed and I listen all night to them talkin' and drinkin' and laughin', and mostly they play cards and drink or watch T.V. and drink or just drink, and all the while they laugh an' laugh. I was so jealous. Sounded like they were havin' so much fun. I used to listen…at the door…in my pajamas." He stopped abruptly.

Huang waited for Elliot to continue. When he didn't, Huang, honestly puzzled, asked him quietly: "Why are you telling me this?"

"What?" Elliot's head came up a little, and he frowned deeply. "Oh. So I'm listenin', at the door, an' I swore to myself then and there that when I grew up I was gonna have fun like that, and never go to bed. Stupid kid shit. I was convinced that there was somethin' down that hall, where the light was on and all the laughin' was, that could make me happy, instead of a miserable ten-year-old." He snorted, squeezing his empty glass. "I never fuckin' got out of that room."

"Elliot – "

"I'm still in that room, a whiny little kid listenin' to everyone else live and not knowin' what the hell to do with myself. Like everyone's got some secret big party goin' on, and I hadda go to bed early and just listen. But I didn't even try. Not where I shoulda tried…not with Kath, not with my kids. Shoulda quit my job. I was a shitty husband. I was a shitty father, am a shitty father. Shitty Catholic. I don't understand. I don't understand what I did wrong. I don't get somethin'. I always turned Kath down when she wanted to go out, do somethin'. Mostly just made sure my kids stayed out of trouble – that didn't work, sure. Sold my soul to the NYPD, convinced myself I was doin' something okay, that I was a good person. Fact is, I can't connect, can't get people. Just piss me off an' make me want to kill them or kill myself, 'cause I love them and they don't know…my kids…" He trailed off this time, choked up on gin and his own weeping.

Again, Huang was silent. When he spoke, he reached out and touched Elliot's forearm. "Give me your keys, Elliot."

Munch opened the door at one-thirty in the morning to find two of his colleagues, both rumpled, one on the verge of sleep or unconsciousness, one wilting under the weight of the other. He pulled out his best smirk.

"Dispose of the evidence before the investigation begins, Doctor? You're more devious than I originally thought."

"I've been taking notes on the job," Huang shot back in a rare display of counterwit. "Are you going to give me a hand or not?"

"How's a standing ovation?" Munch asked as he applauded briefly and ironically, then eased the door shut and helped an embarrassed but clearly drunken Elliot with his coat.

"It's way too late at night for puns, John," Huang said, his voice deadpan and tired. He looked down at Elliot, who was trying to balance himself with one hand as he knelt in order to untie his shoes. "I parked his car in your extra spot, in case he doesn't remember or the super doesn't complain. Keys are in his coat."

"I've got it under control," Munch replied, seeing Huang's hesitance to leave. "Go home, sweet Freudian dreams."

"Yeah, you too."

After Huang had gone, Munch glanced down at Elliot, who was swallowing and blinking, one hand braced on the wall while the other picked at his shoelaces. He'd only seen Elliot this drunk once before, after a particularly rough case involving two little girls that they'd tracked down successfully, only to find them brutalised and violated, D.O.A. placed at a half-hour before their arrival. He'd half-expected Elliot to give in to the solace of liquor sooner than later, and was surprised to find himself surprised at his colleague's current condition. He knelt and undid Elliot's shoelaces for him, the younger detective sliding down on to his buttocks against the wall and allowing Munch to take his shoes off. There was a thump and Munch glanced up, observing that Elliot had whacked his head against the wall.

"Careful, they're making those out of a puree of aardvark spittle and Styrofoam peanuts these days. Open up a hole, the carolers'll start climbing inside. And I'm fresh out of eggnog."

Elliot didn't laugh, but Munch didn't expect him to, especially not in his condition. He rose and pulled Elliot to his feet, guiding him across the living room and into the main bedroom, where he put the light on and opened the door to the bathroom: just in case.

"I got it from here, thanks," Elliot protested when Munch started to turn down the bedcovers. He was holding on to the bedpost tightly, but managed to stay upright, and his eyes were focused.

Munch nodded, padding out of the room and pulling the door closed but not shutting it behind him. He was already in his pajamas – he'd been reading an old, tattered copy of The Power and The Glory when Huang knocked – and somewhat reluctantly he shut off the lights and his computer, and settled down in the guest bedroom. He lay for about an hour staring at the dark outline of the elephant ear fern against the lighter dark of the ceiling, then rose to take a few more kava and have a glass of wine. On his way back to bed, he peeked in at Elliot. The light was still on, and the detective had managed to get himself underneath the covers, but it looked like he was still wearing all of his clothes. Munch flipped the light off and shut the door, then padded back to bed, sipping at his wine. Wine in a mug at three in the morning: it was beautifully pathological, somehow.