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Dance With the Devil	By : Bucken-Berry Category: G through L > Law & Order Views: 1133 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own SVU or the characters, and am not making money from this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Dance With the Devil
- 1
A/N: I've recently started watching S14, and holy crap, Barba is AMAZING. I was hoping he would interact with George in Born Psychopath, but he wasn't even in the episode. :'( Nonetheless, I still ship him and George hard, and am going to be writing quite a lot of fanfics about them. I hope you enjoy, because you're in for a long ride!
The title of this story comes from a Breaking Benjamin song with the same name. The song really does fit with some of the themes that will be present later in the story. I'd really recommend listening to that song while reading this. :)
Content warnings for this story include homophobia and violence. Please proceed with caution if those are triggers for you!
Hope you enjoy! Please review- I want to know what you think!

As the sun rose, flooding the apartment with light, George stared at two objects on his table: his slightly worn FBI shield, black with the FBI's gold logo in the center, and his government-issued gun, a Glock 23.
Fifteen years; that was what they meant to him. Fifteen years that he had faithfully worked with the FBI, succeeding at every challenge they threw at him. Helping them to catch criminals, prove or disprove various psych defenses suggested by the perps and treat the truly sick ones, and more duties too numerous to name. Fifteen years of his life that he had given to the Bureau, often at the cost of his own happiness and satisfaction, or at cost to his career itself. How often had he been told that he could do so much better on his own, make a bigger name for himself in the field of forensic psychiatry, if he would just leave the FBI behind?
How many times had he been asked why he was still there, when after all this time, he was still only a senior agent, rather than a supervisory agent? Obviously the FBI didn't see as much in him as the rest of the world did, they'd always said.
But he had still stayed. It had still been so important to him, helping not only to treat the mentally ill people who weren't responsible for their actions, but to help get serial rapists and killers off the streets as well. If he left to further his own career, he'd be giving that up. And besides, even if his position in the FBI wasn't going anywhere, the pay was still more than enough, due to his experience and desirability. He had felt comfortable where he was.
But then they'd reassigned him to Oklahoma, of all places, which was as big a slap to the face as he could imagine. He was by no means arrogant, but he knew that if they reassigned him anywhere, it ought to have been a trade up. D.C., Los Angeles, or even a teaching position at Quantico, but certainly not Oklahoma. He deserved better, and almost all his coworkers at the New York field office agreed.
Yet here he was anyway. Overlooked, unappreciated, and insulted. He still might have been okay with it, though, had it not been for his new coworkers.
Oklahoma was a red state, and he had been prepared for some less than accepting people, but nothing like this. He hadn't expected FBI agents, of all people, to make him so miserable. In his experience, the FBI had always been far more open than other law enforcement agencies. His sexual orientation had never been an issue on the rare times he had brought it up, even outside of New York. But this group was the exception.
He hadn't even been the one to bring his orientation up; they had. He had just gone about his business and tried to adjust as best he could to the new city and new job. But the questions had inevitably started- women wanting to know if he wanted to go out for a drink sometime, men wanting to know if he wanted to do "manly things" like catch a basketball game. And finally someone had put the pieces together and asked if he was gay, and he had affirmed that he was.
And everything had changed after that. They were careful not to do anything he could report them for, but from that moment on, it had been very clear that he was no longer welcome. No one invited him anywhere anymore or tried to get to know him. Any time an issue relating to gay rights came up, they were very vocal about their disdain. They all but sneered at him any time they had totalk to him. They always seemed to stop just short of calling him names, just short of harassment.
And then, after last week...
He shook his head once, clearing his thoughts. He didn't want to think about what had happened, just wanted to act. Just needed to find somewhere to go from here. And he knew exactly what to do, so there was no point in thinking about it.
No one would blame him for quitting at this point; even if he did stay, he would be forced to retire in only a few years anyway. He'd had a long and successful career with the FBI, even if he hadn't risen to the top, even if he deserved more than what he ultimately got, and everyone knew that he had more to look forward to on his own. No one would question it and no one would look deeper, even if he was quitting far more suddenly than most. But even then, he was technically giving two weeks of notice, even if he was strategically using the last of his paid days off to ensure he'd never set foot in an FBI office again after handing in his resignation.
He ran his hand over the smooth metal of his gun, a sad smile forming as he remembered those days at the FBI Academy in Quantico, training with the weapon and being secretly terrified that with all the effort he'd put into it, it would be his marksmanship that caused him to get his marching orders. He remembered his muscles aching every day from exertion in a way that nothing else compared to. Even the mental exercises were more stressful than anything he remembered- including medical school.
He touched his badge again, remembering the day he'd gotten his first assignment to Seattle, his first day in the office, when, somehow, he had managed to do everything from the coffee to the paperwork wrong, and yet the senior agents had still remained patient with him- a favor he had been sure to repay every chance he got, both to them and to the new, green agents that filled in over the years.
So many memories, so much effort he'd put forward, and this of all things was what was going to drive him away. In 2013, he, a seasoned FBI agent and respected forensic psychiatrist, was being driven out of his job by homophobia. And allowing it to happen without fighting back.
To be fair, he had been resolute, until that day last week... But he shook his head again. No going back, it was over, and now he only had the future to think about.
He certainly didn't want to quit, but it was his only option if he was going to feel safe and happy again. Even before this, he had been feeling unhappy with his life; he had been putting up with the difficulties of his job, but not enjoying himself. This was his chance to fix it.
The first step was finally going home. He had lived in New York for so long, and it was simply where he belonged. Then he was going to set up his own private practice. At last, he could set his own hours, and not have to be reachable when off the clock. No more carrying his gun and badge everywhere. No more random calls to head to D.C. for an important case. No more being "owned by the Bureau" like he had been for the last fifteen years.
It hurt to let go of all the time and energy he had invested, but it was time. Even ignoring what had happened, it was for the better, and if he did include what had happened, there barely seemed to be another option.
And so he found himself slowly and emotionally typing up his letter of resignation, recalling everything, from the day he had decided to join the FBI to the moment he had decided to quit, as the words filled his screen.
Once he started printing the pages, he muttered, "that's it, then", and stood, brewing a pot of coffee and looking out the window at the sunlight that had gotten brighter in the time he had spent composing his letter. He was already counting down the days until he would see another sunrise in New York City again, and he smiled softly. These last years may have been hell, but getting back to New York was going to be the first step to feeling like himself again.

"You're sure?" George's boss, Katherine, asked him two hours later.
"I'm sure," George said, looking her in the eye. She had been one of the few people with the FBI to treat him kindly even after he came out, and yet she hadn't done a single thing to help, either. "It's time for me to move on, I think. I've done about all I can do here."
"Okay," she said, nodding once. "It will take a few days for everything to be finalized, but as of now, you can consider yourself retired. Thank you for everything you've done for the Bureau."
"Thank you," George said. He inhaled slowly, looking down at his gun and badge as he moved to set them on her desk. He had only parted with them once before, when he had lost his medical license for one month after treating Enzo Cook's heroin addiction with Ibogaine instead of bringing him to a rehab center. And since the FBI didn't have use for a psychiatrist without a license, the suspension had carried over there as well. He remembered his boss back in New York screaming at him, demanding to know what the hell he had been thinking, shouting that he knew better, that an agent as experienced and as (usually) professional as George should have been the last person he had to worry about, and that he was lucky he wasn't losing his license permanently and going to jail.
George had promised himself then, as his boss read him the riot act like no one had done since Quantico, that he wouldn't part with his gun and badge again until the day he retired. And now here it was, far earlier and more depressing than he'd thought it would be. Even though, as far as everyone else knew, it was everything he wanted.
He looked at the gun and badge one more time and then set them on Katherine's desk, the symbolism of the moment not lost on him. He bit his lip and stood, turning towards the door.
"Stay in touch. And good luck," Katherine called after him.
George almost snorted, but managed to keep his composure. She didn't have to know that as soon as he left, he was going to forget that Oklahoma even existed. "Sure," he said smoothly. "Goodbye. And good luck to you too."
And with that, he turned and walked out of the room, and continued out of the field office itself, closing the door on his fifteen-year career as an FBI agent.

"So, how was your weekend?" Olivia asked Nick, sliding two chopsticks into a carton of Chinese take-out.
Nick shrugged. "It was alright. Zara was sick, though, so we didn't get to go anywhere."
"Aw. Well, maybe next time," Olivia said. "How's Gil?"
That got him to smile softly. "Good. We're going to another baseball game tomorrow."
"Who's his favorite player?" Olivia started to ask, but then she looked up from her desk and blinked in surprise. "George! We weren't expecting you- we didn't think you'd be back in town for months!"
George grinned and leaned against the doorway. "Well, you said your doors are always open," he said. "Thought I'd take you up on your offer."
"Of course they are," Olivia said, standing and walking across the room to him. "I'm just surprised, that's all. You didn't tell me you were coming!"
"Thought I'd surprise you," George said. Olivia held her arms out, and he smiled softly, hugging her tightly.
"How long are you going to be here?" she asked, pulling away.
George looked at her for a moment, trying to anticipate her reaction, and then he said, quietly, "For good."
"What? They reassigned you again?" Olivia asked, disbelief clear in her voice. "I've heard of Feds getting moved around like ugly furniture, but that's ridiculous! Not that I mind."
"No, they didn't reassign me," George said slowly.
Olivia frowned, and then startled when realization hit. "You quit? But why?"
"I just wanted to come back. I want to open my own private practice, and I didn't like Oklahoma very much," George said, shrugging. He had rehearsed this moment carefully, at least a dozen times, to ensure that no one, not even Olivia, would be tipped off to the truth. "So here I am."
"Well, welcome back," Olivia said. She looked suspicious, but George was confident she'd let it go soon, once he convinced her that nothing was wrong.
"Thanks. It's good to be back- I missed it here," he said.
"You got a place to stay?" Olivia asked him.
George didn't want to lie, but being honest would give her a hint that he had done this on the fly, and that something specific had triggered this, and he couldn't let that happen no matter what. "Yeah. Still getting settled in, but there's a bed, at least," he said.
It wasn't too much of a lie, technically. Olivia had asked him if he had a place to stay, not a place to live. And he was getting settled in the hotel room, which really only had a bed and not much else. Tomorrow, he would go to his old apartment building and see if they had any available apartments, and if they did, he would sign a lease. Then he'd arrange for all his belongings to be moved back over to New York. He had spent the last few days packing everything up, and had moved them into a portable storage container. All he'd have to do was call the company and arrange for it to be shipped from Oklahoma to here.
"Well, let me know if you want to grab a bite or a drink later," Olivia said. "It's been a slow day, which probably means I'll get slammed right when my shift ends, but on the off chance everything works out..." she said, smiling.
"Sure," George agreed, and he turned to leave. "See you then." He turned and gave a small wave to Nick. The other detectives, he figured, were still getting their own lunches, and even though he wanted to see them, he was simultaneously grateful for it.
"See you," Olivia said softly as he walked off. "Glad you're here."
"Me too," George said. And he was. Happier than he had been about anything in years.
Once outside of the building, he allowed his composure to slide a little, and he leaned against the brick wall, closing his eyes. Even though he was truly happy to be home at last, there still a lot of demons that he'd only be able to hold off for so long before he had to fight them head-on. What had happened wasn't about to go away.
Well, at least today had shown him one thing. He was very, very good at pretending to be okay even when he wasn't. That would come in handy, because as far as he was concerned, this had to be done alone.
Pushing himself off the wall, he straightened and started trekking through Manhattan, conflicted at the happiness, fear, and sadness that rose in him in equal amounts.
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Dance With the Devil