#johnmunch

'Remorse' (ii)

Season 1, Episode 20

Law and Order: Special Victims Unit

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𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: john munch x fem!reader

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: john munch thinks he’s found the love of his life. y/n thinks otherwise. when her prediction comes true, munch is left wondering if he’s been cursed.

𝙒𝘾: 2k

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“she’s a witch.”

John Munch had said it with absolute conviction three days ago, as though he’d solved the greatest mystery Baltimore Homicide had ever produced.

The words replayed in Y/n’s head as she shrugged out of her jacket and draped it neatly over the back of her chair before setting her coffee down on the desk.

A witch.

She considered the accusation for all of three seconds. It was entirely untrue.

Her intuition boarded on unsettling. She kept a small pouch of crystals tucked in her bra because, in her opinion, they were no stronger than carrying a lucky coin. She could read tarot cards with alarming accuracy. More often than not, she knew a suspect was lying before they even opened their mouth. And she’d developed an unfortunate habit for saying things that sounded like prophecies only for them to come true a few days later.

Still, she wouldn’t go as far as to call herself a witch. She just enjoyed letting everyone else wonder.

There was something endlessly entertaining about watching seasoned homicide detectives- people who spent every day staring down murderers without blinking- grow visibly uncomfortable because she’d quietly remarked that the vending machine was about to break before it swallowed Lewis’s dollar, or because she’d glanced out the window and casually announced it was about to rain moments before the sky opened.

The uncertainty was the best part. No one ever knew whether she was truly supernatural or just terrifyingly perceptive. And she had no intention of clearing it up.

Picking up her coffee, Y/n wandered towards the break room, already preparing herself for whatever strange scene awaited her.

The break room was less of a place to eat lunch and more a daily social experiment. Some mornings it was an argument over paperwork. Other days it was gossip about another shift. Occasionally someone had decided to microwave fish, which somehow caused more outrage than homicide ever did. There was always something.

Today, however, she hadn’t even crossed the threshold before a familiar, animated voice reached her. “…I’m telling you, Stan, this is different.”

Y/n paused just outside the doorway, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips. John Munch.

She stepped inside to find him leaning back in his chair, coffee forgotten in front of him as he spoke with enough passion to convince a jury.

Stan Bolander looked halfway between amused and exhausted, whilst Meldrick Lewis wore the expression of a man wondering how quickly he could escape.

“I’ve dated women before,” Munch was saying, gesturing dramatically with one hand. “I’m aware of my history.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Stan muttered.

Munch ignored him completely. “No, listen. She’s intelligent. She actually reads. She laughs at my jokes.

Lewis snorted into his coffee. “John, laughing at your jokes doesn’t mean she’s your soulmate.”

“It means she has taste.” he retorted.

“No, it means she’s polite.” Stan corrected.

“It means,” Munch declared, as though unveiling the conclusion to a grand investigation, “that this woman could quite possibly be the love of my life.”

Y/n quietly wandered over to the coffee pot, topping up her mug without saying a word. No one had noticed her arrival yet, or so she thought.

“You.”

She paused with her mug halfway to her lips and slowly turned around before taking an unhurried sip of her coffee.

Munch was pointing directly at her. “You’re a witch. Tell me i’m right.”

Stan let out a tired sigh. “John…”

Y/n raised a brow. “About?”

“This woman.” He gestured vaguely, as if that somehow clarified things. “She’s the love of my life.”

Y/n didn’t answer straight away. Instead, she regarded him over the rim of her mug for several long seconds- just long enough for Stan to shift awkwardly in his chair and for Lewis’s amused smile to begin falter.

Finally, she lowered the mug. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” she said evenly.

It wasn’t a tarot reading. She hadn’t pulled a single card, hadn’t reached for the worn deck tucked away in her desk drawer, hadn’t consulted the crystals hidden beneath her shirt. It was simply instinct- that quiet certainty she’d learned not to ignore.

Besides, John Munch had an impressive talent for mistaking infatuation for destiny. Every few months, another woman became the woman, the one who was different, who understood him, who was surely the love of his life. Y/n had lost count. This time felt no different. Whatever was waiting for him at the end of tonight’s date, she was certain it wasn’t happily ever after.

Munch frowned. “…Excuse me?”

She leaned one hip against the counter, cradling the warm mug in both hands. “The date won’t go well.”

Stan’s eyes drifted from Y/n to Munch, silently weighing whether this was about to become another one of those conversations that somehow spiralled into an argument over the supernatural.

Lewis let out a quiet huff of laughter into his coffee. “Should’ve asked for the weather while you were at it,” he muttered.

Munch scoffed loudly, dismissing the whole thing with a dramatic wave of his hand. “Oh, come on.”

“I’m serious.” Y/n shrugged.

“So am I,” he shot back. “You haven’t even met her.”

“I don’t need to.”

That only made him roll his eyes harder. “I’ve booked a nice restaurant. I bought flowers. She said she was looking forward to seeing me.”

Y/n gave a small, almost sympathetic tilt of her head. “I know.”

“And?” he urged her to continue.

“And…” She took another slow sip of coffee. “I still wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

For a moment, Munch simply stared at her, as though waiting for the punchline.

When it never came, he let out an exasperated sigh and abruptly pushed his chair back. It scraped loudly against the floor as he stood, snatching his jacket from the back of it.

“Whatever.” He shrugged it on with more force than was strictly necessary before turning back toward her. Peering over the rim of his glasses, he jabbed a finger in her direction. “At least I’m getting laid.”

Y/n barely reacted. She regarded him over the rim of her mug for a beat before an almost imperceptible smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. “Doubt it.”

───

John Munch did in fact, not get laid.

Only twelve hours earlier, John Munch had been convinced he’d met the love of his life. His soulmate. His twin flame. The Juliet to his Romeo. Instead, he’d arrived at her apartment with a bouquet of tulips tucked proudly under one arm. It turned out tulips were the one flower she was deathly allergic to.

Within minutes, her eyes had swollen nearly shut, her face had puffed up like a balloon, and she’d spent the next twenty minutes alternating between sneezing, swearing, and demanding he get the flowers as far away from her as humanly possible.

The evening had ended not with romance, but with the unmistakable sound of her apartment door slamming in his face. The last thing she’d shouted through it had been: “I don’t ever want to see your fucking face again!”

It hadn’t exactly been the declaration of love he’d been hoping for.

And do you know who John Munch blamed? Y/n.

Because, in his mind, this was precisely the sort of thing that happened after she made one of her unsettling little predictions. She never seemed surprised when disaster struck. She simply… knew. Whether it was unnerving intuition, impossibly good observation, or something considerably more supernatural, he hadn’t decided.

Personally, he was leaning toward witchcraft. He should’ve listened. Or, at the very least, he should’ve ignored her less dramatically.

Instead, he’d practically challenged whatever mysterious force seemed to follow her around. Now look where that had gotten him. Needless to say, he arrived at the station the following morning in a mood foul enough to curdle milk.

The moment he stepped onto the squad room floor, conversation slowed. Stan Bolander looked up from his desk, took one look at Munch’s expression, and immediately knew. “Did she end up being your Juliet?”

A grin spread across Lewis’s face before Munch had the chance to answer. “Oh…” Lewis said, trying- and failing- to hide his amusement. “Don’t tell me.”

Munch didn’t dignify either of them with a response. His eyes had already landed elsewhere.

Across the room, Y/n sat at her desk exactly as she always did in the mornings, one leg crossed over the other as she flipped through an open case file that she was still investigating. She looked completely unbothered.

His jaw tightened as he approached her. “You.”

Without lifting her eyes from the report in front of her, Y/n calmly turned the page. “Good morning, John.”

“You did this.” The accusation echoed across the squad room.

Y/n didn’t react immediately. She finished reading the line she’d been on, turned the page, and only then lifted her eyes to meet Munch’s. “I take it the date didn’t go well.”

Munch stared at her in disbelief. “‘Didn’t go well?’” he repeated. “You hexed it!”

The room fell completely silent, but Munch was too busy glaring at Y/n as though she’d personally orchestrated the destruction of his love life.

Y/n, on the other hand, looked almost disappointed. She let out a quiet sigh and closed the case file in front of her. Tucking it beneath one arm, she rose from her chair and regarded him with remarkable patience. “John,” she said calmly, “I don’t have that kind of free time.”

A snort came from somewhere behind Munch. Lewis shook his head, unable to resist. “I told you not to challenge the witch.”

“Woah, what’s going on?” A new voice suddenly cut through the tension. Tim Bayliss stepped into the squad room, pausing as he took in the scene in front of him.

“Thanks to little Miss Witch over here,” Munch said immediately, shooting Y/n a glare, “my date was ruined.”

Bayliss blinked. “Witch?”

“Don’t encourage him,” Y/n muttered. She turned her attention back to Bayliss, completely ignoring Munch’s accusation. “I didn’t do anything.”

“No?” Munch spun back toward her, incredulous. “I bought her tulips, which I thought were her favourite flowers.”

Y/n stayed silent.

“But guess what they actually are?” he continued, throwing his hands up. “The one thing she’s allergic to!”

For the first time that morning, Y/n’s expression softened slightly. “That’s unfortunate.”

Munch stared at her. “Unfortunate?” He looked genuinely offended by the word alone. “She told me she never wanted to see my face again!”

“I imagine,” Y/n replied with a thoughtful nod, “that was difficult for her to say with her throat swelling up.”

Lewis couldn’t help it. A laugh escaped him before he could stop it, and he quickly buried his face in his hands in an attempt to hide it. It didn’t work. His shoulders still shook with amusement.

Bayliss, meanwhile, simply looked between the two of them, trying to figure out whether he had walked into an argument, a comedy routine, or some strange combination of both.

Munch pointed at Y/n. “You know what, you’re evil.”

Y/n raised a brow. “Am I?”

“Yes. You’re evil and you know it-”

“John.” The single word was enough to make him stop. Her voice softened slightly, losing the teasing edge she’d had only moments before. “Maybe this was the universe telling you she wasn’t the one. I didn’t curse you.”

For a brief second, John Munch was speechless. Because that was the strange thing about Y/n. She could make jokes. She could unsettle people. She could make a room full of detectives wonder if she had some kind of supernatural ability.

But every now and then, she said something that sounded less like a joke and more like she genuinely believed it.

Munch narrowed his eyes at her. “You genuinely believe that don’t you?”

Y/n simply shrugged. “Yes.” she paused. “Although,” she added, picking up her coffee, “the universe probably should have sent a stronger warning than an allergic reaction.”

As she began to walk towards the squad room doors as if the conversation had concluded, he called after her. “You’re still evil!” His words echoed through the squad room.

Y/n didn’t stop walking. But, just before she reached the doors, she glanced back over her shoulder. The corner of her mouth curled into a small, knowing grin- one that somehow managed to be both apologetic and thoroughly amused.

Then, she pushed the doors open with her shoulder and disappeared into the hallway, the doors swinging shut behind her.

Bayliss cleared his throat, shoving both hands deep into his pockets. “Maybe she’s right, Munch.”

Munch’s head snapped around so quickly it was a wonder his glasses stayed on. “I’m sorry?”

“Maybe she just…” Bayliss searched for the right words. “Maybe she has a point.”

“Oh, so you’re taking her side now?”

Lewis, finally recovering from his laughing fit, shook his head. “No one’s taking any sides, alright?” he said. “But I don’t think she’s the reason your date happened to be allergic to flowers.”

Before Munch could answer, Kay walked past the group with an amused shake of her head. “You boys have no idea,” she said, not even slowing her pace as she headed for the door.

Munch frowned after her. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

───

Hours later, John Munch was still thinking about it. He’d interviewed a witness, filed paperwork, complained about paperwork, argued with Lewis over a case theory, and somehow, despite an entire workday passing, his mind kept circling back to the same conversation.

Maybe this was just the universe telling you she wasn’t the one.

What the hell was that supposed to mean? A sign from the universe. It sounded exactly like something a witch would say. The more he thought about it, the less he liked it.

By the time the end of shift rolled around, he’d managed to convince himself of one undeniable fact. Y/n had cursed him.

Maybe not intentionally. Maybe she’d sneezed over a crystal or shuffled a tarot deck the wrong way. Whatever the method, there was no other explanation for a date imploding with such spectacular efficiency.

The bullpen gradually emptied as detectives gathered jackets, switched off desk lamps, and called goodbyes over their shoulders.

Munch was halfway through pulling on his coat when he spotted Y/n walking past his desk, her own jacket slung over one shoulder and case files tucked beneath her arm.

He hesitated before quickly stepped into her path. ”Hey.”

Y/n stopped, looking up at him expectantly. “Yes?”

Munch glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention.

Unfortunately for him, Lewis immediately looked up. Stan followed a second later. Bayliss, sensing gossip, abandoned whatever he’d been pretending to read.

He lowered his voice anyway. “So…” He cleared his throat. “Hypothetically…”

Y/n folded her arms. “Hypothetically.”

“If someone wanted…” He paused, visibly struggling with the words. “…a curse removed.”

For a long moment, Y/n simply looked at him. Then, one corner of her mouth twitched. “John.”

“I said hypothetically.”

She tilted her head, studying him with infuriating seriousness before asking, “Is this hypothetical person you by any chance?”

He adjusted his glasses. “That’s irrelevant.”

Y/n let out a long, theatrical sigh, shifting her jacket so it rested more comfortably over her arm. “I suppose,” she said, as though she were granting him an enormous favour, “you’ll just have to ask nicely.”

Munch blinked, his eyebrows shooting up. “Really?” he asked, not even trying to hide the suspicion in his voice.

Y/n simply nodded innocently.

He glanced over one shoulder. Stan was pretending to read a file, Lewis was pretending not to eavesdrop, and Bayliss wasn’t even pretending.

Munch leaned in anyway, lowering his voice until only she could hear. “…Please,” he muttered.

Y/n waited for him to continue.

He sighed. “Please may you remove the curse.”

For one glorious second, she managed to keep a straight face. Then her lips twitched. She bit down on her lower lip, desperately trying to suppress the laughter threatening to escape. It didn’t work. A soft laugh escaped her lips.

“John…” She reached out and gave his shoulder a gentle, almost sympathetic pat. “I never cursed you.”

He opened his mouth to argue.

“Like I said,” she continued, still smiling, “the universe was sending you a sign.” She gave his shoulder one last reassuring pat before stepping around him. “Goodnight.”

And with that, she headed for the exit. Munch watched her disappear through the squad room doors, equal parts embarrassed and unconvinced.

Finally, he adjusted his glasses with a defeated sigh. “I still think she’s a witch,” he grumbled.

Lewis wandered past, grabbing his own coat from the back of a chair. “That might be true,” he said with a grin, giving Munch an amused pat on the back. “But she didn’t stop you from getting laid.”

Munch groaned, dragging a hand down his face before switching off the lamp on his desk. Maybe she wasn’t a witch. Maybe she was simply the most unsettling detective Baltimore Homicide had ever hired. He wasn’t entirely convinced.

yes he’s one manly man but i want a HUG. i want ANGST. i want FLUFF.