Author's Note: I originally set out to write four canon moments for Munch and Rollins, but to quote Kurt Hummel from this week's Glee episode, "The First Time," I am a silly romantic, and I couldn't leave them with only the cheek kissing, especially since I know they'll never kiss on the show.

This moment plays off something else I know will never happen on the show, them going undercover together. The title comes from the Billy Joel song "Get It Right The First Time," which just screams Munch to me; you know if the show ever let him fall in love.

Chapter Five: Never Was Too Smooth

Just let me pull myself together/I've got to give it one good try

"Get It Right The First Time" - by Billy Joel

Suspects, if Munch is honest, don't really affect him one way or another anymore.

He's not Fin or Amaro, who could potentially lose it, and his emotional state was definitely not comparable to that of the recently retired Elliot Stabler whose anger and disgust so obviously raged beneath the surface.

But this suspect, the one that's sitting in front of him now, is different. He recognizes the weary features, the wrinkled skin, head of once dark hair that time has turned silver, the knowledge of when TV was black and white, the Colts were still in Baltimore and Mickey Mantle was playing center field for the Yankees. It's like looking into a mirror, the insecurities he hides behind his acerbic wit, dark glasses, perfectly pressed suits and always shined up leather shoes, bubbling to the surface.

Words haven't stung him in – God only knows how long – but his burn; though, he'll only acknowledge it silently.

"Are you telling me that gorgeous blonde who had her hands all over you at my hotel's bar, would actually give you the time of day if you both weren't cops working some undercover operation, Sargent? Because I'm telling you right now, she wouldn't, and you know it; deep down you do! You're old enough to be her father!"

He swallows thickly, knowing Rollins is outside the interrogation room, listening in that one shoulder navy dress, but really he's swallowing because he knows the miscreant across from him is right. He's closer to her than the others, he's been inside her apartment, even kissed her on the cheek, but nothing beyond friendly and polite gestures is going to ever happen between them.

He doesn't acknowledge the suspect's remarks, he just shakes his head and says aloofly, "News flash; we're not talking about me, we're talking about you, and you're about to be booked on double murder charges, so save your sob story about you being too old for pretty girls and how you can love them better than their young boyfriends for the judge and the jury."

Without a second look, he walks out of the interrogation room.

It's hours later and he's finishing up the paperwork on the case. Leaning back in his chair, he rubs his forehead and reaches for two aspirin in his desk drawer and downs them with the help of a swig from the can of Coke he got from the vending machine who knows how long ago.

He thinks everyone's gone home until he hears Rollins' distinct Southern drawl say teasingly, "Well, how'd you know us Southern gals love a man who drinks straight from the can, Sargent?"

His stomach clenches and he has to swallow again, lifting his head just barely to discretely look her over before he turns back to his paperwork. He knows she didn't do it for him, but if she's going to hang around he's thankful nonetheless, that she changed out of that damn dress and into what she normally wears; dark jeans and a plain long sleeved cotton shirt. The image of her slender, but still shapely legs will stay with him for a long time, he doesn't need another reminder of their beauty or the seemingly never ending miles of smooth alabaster skin the dress revealed.

"Yeah, that's me; swiggin' away." He remarks, tapping the half empty can with his pen.

"A Coke, huh?" She arches an elegant brow as she comes to lean against Fin's desk. Her pastel lips curve into a smile, her clear green eyes sparkling when she says, her voice still teasing, "You plan on drivin' home?"

He sighs as he closes eyes and rubs them behind the dark lenses of his glasses, his stomach clenching and his palms becoming sweaty. He normally enjoyed Rollins' company and talking with her; hell, he'd go as far as to call them friends (even before they ever played Scrabble in her apartment weeks ago), but tonight is not the night for her to be making friendly.

He swivels in his chair, turning to face her with the intention of ending this conversation. Pointedly, he looks at her over the rims of his dark glasses, "Shouldn't you be home by now, Detective? That was the whole point of my offering to do the case related paperwork, you know."

She doesn't look affronted and her smile hasn't diminished any, "Thought your generosity was like The Great Pumpkin? I haven't watched Charlie Brown in a while now, but if I remember right, The Great Pumpkin only came around once a year, and you already did me one favor. So why don't you let me handle the rest of the paperwork, and you go on home?"

"You should have come by earlier," He quips. "I'm practically finished now."

"That's fine; I'll just wait till you're done, so I can give you a lift home. I can't be sure you'll make it on your own after drinking all that Coke."

"I was thinking of calling a cab." He says in jest, trying to ignore the tiny bursts of warmth underneath his skin when she laughs.

He's somewhat surprised she actually stayed until he was finished with the paperwork. He was hoping she'd get bored, since they weren't talking, and tell him she had to go, but instead she didn't move from her spot by Fin's desk.

"You really didn't have to stay, and I think we both know there's no legitimate reason for you to drive me home."

"Stop your fussin', all right?" There's a hint of frustration in her normally easy tone as she shakes her head, strands of silken platinum hair (he can't help but remember touching) falling in front of her clear green eyes. "Can't a girl just return a favor? Or are you afraid, I'm gonna corner you into finally givin' me that Scrabble re-match I've been eggin ya on about, and I'll wipe the floor with ya again? Is that it?"

Staring into her clear green eyes, so alive with warmth and sparkling with humor, he breathes in deeply and shakily releases the air he took in. he hasn't been in this position – actually wanting a woman, to pursue something with someone – since Sarah Logan, the reporter, and right now he doesn't want to think about how long ago that was. In another time and another place, he'd pick now to reach for her, pull her against him and press his lips to hers to make certain she knew he wasn't thinking about ducking out on her Scrabble re-match. But he wasn't that man anymore, and hadn't been for quite some time; probably since he handed Billie Lou the divorce papers and left Charm City behind for good.

"You okay, John?" Her soft drawl brought him out of his head, and he smile sheepishly, ducking his head, "Sorry, did you say something, Rollins?"

Calling her by her last name is his way of distancing himself from whatever feelings have started to develop on his part. It's easier to think of her as his colleague by using her last name. She's the new girl from Atlanta, someone who still has a lot to learn about Special Victims, but not Amanda. Amanda is someone else entirely, and he's not going to go there; even in his head.

"I asked if you were okay," Her elegant brows furrow and her small nose scrunches, and damn it, if he can't stop himself from thinking it's cute. "You seemed a little lost there for a second. You still thinkin' about the case? If you are, I propose beer and that re-match. I had fun the last time we played, and I felt better too. Whaddya say?"

His heart clenches at how pretty she looks with her Kewpie features bathed in encouragement and hopefulness. She's looking nothing like she did earlier in the evening all dolled up to complete the "look" that went with that damn dress and the high heels. He doesn't know why he's torturing himself, but he lets himself imagine this – the way she looks now; relaxed, warm, comfortable – is what she looks like on weekends playing Scrabble with that neighbor kid she likes in her building; naturally pretty. You know the kind that makes other women hate her and want to claw her eyes out.

"Maybe some other time. I'm tired and just want to crash for the night." It's a lie; he'd rather stay up till God knows how long playing Scrabble, sharing beer after beer and talking and laughing like they did in her apartment, but it's ridiculous to think she genuinely wants to. A pretty young blonde like her had better things to do than to spend the night with an old man like him.

"Oh." All the encouragement and hopefulness is gone; replaced by a stiffen cordial air. "Are you sure?" She tries again and he thinks it's for his benefit more so than she's really disappointed that he turned her down.

"Yeah."

"Okay." Her pastel lips are pursed tightly and she nods, turning on her heel to walk away. She stops in the doorway, clear green eyes a little brighter than moments before when she says, "The offer for the ride still stands, though, John."

Against his better judgment, he couldn't turn down her offer to give him a ride. It was irrational to think he'd disappoint her if he didn't say yes. She was just being the Southern Belle she was raised to be; nothing more and nothing less.

He's poised to climb out of her car, when he hears the distinct unbuckling of her seat belt. Looking over his shoulder, he arches a severe brow, "What are you doing?"

Her tone is obvious as she smiles, "Comin' up with ya; what's it look like I'm doing?"

Her pretty features soften and he feels heat course through his veins as she looks at him from under the impossibly long fringes of her eyelashes, "You walked me up, figured I could do the same for you."

He wants to protest, to follow through with what his better angels are telling him to do, but he can't.

Those pastel lips are smiling and those clear green eyes are sparkling, and it's just too damn much, and he's too tired and frustrated and well, if he's being honest, lonely to decline the offer of her walking him up; despite knowing he should. He's only feeding his clearly one-sided need to be alone with her, and that's the worst thing he can do.

She's teasing when she bumps her hip against his and says, "Don't go shuttin' me out of your apartment. I showed you mine, you show me yours."

His stomach is like a coiled spring, his hands shake and he swallows as hard as he ever as. "You're lucky I'm a gentleman. Saying something like that to the wrong man could get you in trouble, Amanda."

"Good thing I said it to you then." Her voice is low and like liquid heat rolling over his skin, and he has to let out a shaky breath.

"You should get home; it's late." His voice isn't nearly as strong as he wants it to be.

"I should do a lot of things, but what about what I want to do?"

He's pretty sure all of this is happening in his head. She's not actually moving closer, her hand isn't cupping his cheek, her tongue hasn't slipped from her mouth to wet her lips, and she's sure as hell not whispering his name, "John," like she wants him.

Her smell of kiwi and coconut is swirling all around him and he's not sure if he's groaning because she's so close or any second he'll wake up and be alone in his bed with the cold realization that this is all a dream.

The feel of her lithe frame (soft in all the right places that belie hidden strength in those same places) presses against his lanky one, and how he's still standing he doesn't know. Her other hand slides up his arm, fingers curling into the crisp fabric of his grey shirt as she leans in even closer their foreheads meeting, and lips barely centimeters away.

"Amanda..." He breathes out her name, blood pumping hard throughout his body from feeling her shudder.

"I know what I want." The softness of her voice makes him close his eyes tightly. "I just wish I knew what you want."

He knows he'll sound like a jackass and if she was Liv or any of his ex-wives or former lovers, she'd haul off and back hand him, but he can't stop himself from asking. His eyes open slowly and somehow his stomach, that's a tightly coiled spring, still manages to contract from how her clear green eyes have darkened to a mossy green.

"If this is about being lonely..." He doesn't get the chance to finish as she shakes her head, several loose strands of her silken platinum hair fall against his face, and he has to breathe in the fresh scent of her shampoo; who knows if he'll ever be this close to her again.

"Guess I know what you want."

"No, actually you don't know what I want."

"Then why don't you tell me." Her eyes blaze with frustration. "Cause I'm damn tired of chasin' my own tail! What that sleaze ball said in the interrogation room got to you, didn't it?" She says slowly, realization seeping into her pretty features. "That's why you kept tryin' to get me out of the squad room and wouldn't take me up on the Scrabble re-match. You don't think I could want you. Well, you're wrong."

Her voice is firm and her eyes are determined, like they were that night in the viewing room all those months ago, and his body shudders from the sight.

He's still unsure, his eyes downcast and head hanging low, but with the gentle tip of her hand to his chin, he's staring deep into those now darkened mossy green eyes. Her fingers spread across the skin of his cheek, heat flowing in their wake, until the skin is cupped by her entire delicately curved hand.

Her pastel lips are curved slightly, hinting at the bright smile he's come to know and her voice – slow, drawl more pronounced – is soft and coaxing, relaxing him and making him feel impossibly stiff at the same time, "Tell me what you want, John. We're on the same page here; I just need to hear you say it."

"You." The word tumbles off his lips shakily. His voice is a little stronger when he breathes in deeply and says in confirmation, "I want you, Amanda."

Her lips touch his first; tentative, unsure, and still, waiting for him to move his own. He does and then everything is slow; her lips coming alive against his, her tongue sinking into his mouth, his dancing with hers, his fingers trailing up her arm, to the back of her head and finally coming to rest in her silken platinum hair while her own fingers grasp the rough silver strands of his own as the kiss deepens.

When air becomes necessity, she's looking at him from under hooded eyes and with the most beautiful peach flush filling her cheeks as she breathes heavily. Her fingers slide away from his hair and play with the silk of his tie as soft laughter escapes her lips that now resemble crushed rose petals.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," The peach flush turns deeper and the elegant curve of her neck now matches her sculpted cheeks. "But I haven't been kissed like that in a long time."

"You're right; I don't believe you." He laughs with her, but the idea that all the men she's surely to have crossed paths with, haven't taken the time to kiss her slowly, is as crazy to him as the 'Single Bullet Theory.'

"Whether you believe it or not, it's true." Her forehead comes to rest against his as she relinquishes his tie and lays both of her hands flat against his chest.

"Now what?" He asks after a long beat of silence stretches between them. He feels like he's gone back in time and is standing in front of his sixth grade crush Helen Rosenbaum, and he's not sure what's more ridiculous that he feels like this or that all three of the assassinations of JFK, MLK and RFK were found not to be conspiracies.

One of her hands snakes up the front of his shirt to rest against the back of his neck, her fingertips idly playing with the hair at the nape. Her teeth sink into her bottom lip briefly, making him hold back the groan rising in his throat, and then she's moved her forehead away from his and her lips are inches away from his ear, "I know I wouldn't mind bein' kissed like that again."

His lips curve wryly, "Neither would I."

She laughs again, and he wishes he was as funny as he thought he was just so he could be privy to that beautiful sound whenever he wants. She presses her lips to his ear, kissing the outer shell before whispering, "So kiss me like that again, John."

And that's what he does; kisses her soft, slow and lingering, until they break apart after who knows how long and she finally takes her leave from the hallway of his apartment.

He calls her about a half hour later, wanting to make sure she made it home okay, and he shakes his head after hanging up about how far gone he is already.

Note: The Single Bullet Theory refers to The Warren Commission's (the committee hired by President Lyndon Johnson to investigate the assassination of JFK) findings that JFK was wounded by one single bullet; thereby disproving that he was victim of a conspiracy.

Helen Rosenbaum, according to an episode of Homicide: Life on the Street, was Munch's sixth grade crush. He tells his partner Meldrick Lewis about waking up from a dream where he's naked and wandering the halls of his middle school when he runs into her.