Walking Seperate Paths - Chapter XIV

Title: Walking Separate Paths
Author: Tara
Rating: R/NC-17 (m/f, m/m)
Pairings: Benson/Stabler, Stabler/Beecher, Beecher/Keller, Keller/m, Alvarez/O'Reilly
Summary: This is technically an AU: We know that OZ is definitely in NY, and Stabler’s wife Kathy hasn’t left yet. This is set around OZ Season 5. A child prostitution ring leaves Elliot with new answers to his own origins, and redefines a new meaning for family. I suck at writing Summaries, but this is one of my better pieces of fanfic, so enjoy.

(***Author's Note- This is a darkfic, so please be aware that this chapter or others may contain explicit descriptions of rape, sex, mental/emotional/physical abuse, child abuse, etc.***)


Chapter XIV:

Oswald Maximum Security Prison, 6:25 p.m.

He loved watching her, each movement she made was poetry to him; waiting for each moment she saw him, spoke to him, he felt like the only person in the room. He loved her wholly, completely, obsessively, and he couldn't refuse her anything. Until now.

"No fucking way." He stared her in the eye.

She was unmoved by his rebuttal, and steeled her resolve. "Ryan, I'm asking you to do this for me. Please. I know you can be a kind man. I've seen you with your brother and I know that out of everyone else I could ask, you're the best one to handle this."

She could see the slightest changes in his posture that indicated that he was succumbing to the flattery, but he was still unresolved. She drove her point further.

"Miguel's been raped, Ryan. We still don't know who raped him, but we don't have the room to keep him in here. You can see how overcrowded we are, and with Cyril in the hospital, you're the only one in OZ with the qualifications and the extra time he'd need to recover. You helped Cyril with his own attack, and you've protected him from his nightmares and fears in this hell hole. Can you help Alvarez do the same?"

His face was tight and pleading and his eyes were frantic.

"Gloria, please, anything but this. I can't room with him. Come on, he's-" He stopped, suddenly realizing he'd swum out into hot water.

"He's what, Ryan? Huh? Latino? A Spick? Last time I checked, you were salivating all over THIS spick, and you were PROFESSING your UNDYING love for me."

He was backpedaling, trying to protest when she grabbed his hand. Completely shocked, he stared down at their hands in silence.

"Look, Ryan. Look at that man." His head swiveled around to follow her pointing finger outside the partially drawn blinds to the ward outside. He noted the paleness of the man she indicated and his struggle to pull on his clothes one-handed, trying to avoid the leers and the staring of the occupants of the other beds. He bit his tongue, and thought of his brother, far away from him and fighting for his life.

She was close enough for him to smell her scent, the smell of her perfume, a faint whiff of her strawberry shampoo, and the beautiful, unique smell of her cocoa skin.

His answer was expected, even in the gentle tone of his voice wasn't.

"I'm sorry, Gloria. You know I didn't mean it that way." He paused. "I'll look out for him."

Her relief was palpable, and her eyes dropped from his. His grip on her hand tightened. "I love you."

She wouldn't meet his eyes, but she pulled her hand away, and stepped back. "I know. God help me, I know."

~~~

He was almost reluctant to see the empty room, although this new problem left one thing missing. Where the hell was Chris? The sound of the water running reached his ears, growing louder as he stepped into the room.

The heat was almost overwhelming as he walked into the little bathroom. Steam, thick and hot, rose around him, cutting his sight to nil.

A wet, searing mouth caught his own, and even as their tongues battled in the game of dominance, his eyes remained open, challenging Chris'. The kiss stopped, but Chris' lips remained pressed against his. He could feel the smirk against his mouth.

The room was tiny, and it took next to no effort for his lover to push him backward and into the wall. The steam enveloped them both, and the water from Chris' wet body began to seep through Toby's clothes.

"I need you." Chris' tongue traced the shell of his ear, sliding down to dip into the hollow of his throat. He was unbelievably hard, and the heat, the pressure, and the slick feeling of wet skin on his own were making him lightheaded.

He gasped for air and sucked in a breath as his lover's hands slid up his thighs, leaving trails of damp material in their wake. He was ready, pulsing against the thick cotton of his pants. But the hands stopped their ascent just before touching him. They stayed put, dragging their nails in a dizzying pattern up and down the line of his hipbones.

Chris' mouth was not idle, and his lips gently moved over his own, sucking on his lower lip, pulling back slightly every time he tried to deepen the kiss.

"Uh uh." The smirk was back, and he nearly cried as the other man trapped his wrists in both hands, holding them gently but firmly over both of their heads. This strategy brought both of their bodies flushed together, the gentle pulse of Keller against his crotch intoxicating, gentle thrusts that did nothing more than to intensify the edge, echoing the rush of all of his blood southward.

"Make a memory with me, Tobe." His mouth was soft, and he spoke the words against his lover's lips, each breath puffing against his skin.

"I'm going to miss you so fucking much. Make a memory with me that I can take with me out of here."

"Fuck me, Chris. I'm begging you. Fuck me, please." His last words came out on a whine, as his hips thrust up to relieve the pressure.

He never remembered getting out of his clothes. The next identifiable sensation was the sudden shock of cool shower tile against the skin of his back, and the pressure of Chris' hands and mouth as they stood under the beating heat of the spray.

He dropped to his knees as the other man braced himself against the tile, the arc of his back protecting Toby's face front he full force of the streaming water.

His hands slid up the Keller's thighs as his tongue reached out to trace the pulsing vein from root to tip. He felt the body above him shudder, and he relished momentarily in the feeling of his own power. Laying his tongue flat against the underside, he licked a path to the head as his hands reached up to gently fondle Chris' balls. The skin against his mouth began to tremble, and he relaxed his jaw to suck Chris into his throat. His hand met his mouth at the base, and he started a rhythm, slowly pulling back until he could suck gently at the head, pushing back down to meet his hand.

He could taste Chris in his mouth, salt and musk mixing with the heady clean smell of his skin. His lover thrashed above him, his hips beginning to move erratically as he fought for purchase against the slick tile, trying to fuck Toby's mouth and keep his balance.

"Toby. Toby! I'm gonna come, please!" Keller tried to pull out, desperately trying to maintain control. Toby refused, grabbing his ass to hold him in place, his fingers moving inward as his throat moved faster.

Chris sucked in a breath as one of those fingers slid inside him, gently working in and up. He fucked himself back on it, losing himself in the agony of sensation.

Toby swallowed as one last thrust sent Chris' release down his throat. Keller collapsed against the tile, breathing heavily as he shook. He didn't move, just gently massaged the other's thighs before moving out from underneath Chris' legs to hold him as he came down. They kissed gently until Toby's exasperated snort reached his ears.

"You're still hard." He rubbed down the length of Chris' cock, smirking.

"So are you." They stroked each other. "Turn around." Turning Toby to face the tile, he dropped to his knees.

Tobias Beecher, Harvard graduate, top of his class, screamed his lover's name as Chris rimmed his ass. Mind gone, all coherent thought shut down as his lover's tongue drove as deep as he could, fingers following to probe gently, stretching him. One finger drove in and up, crooking inside him. He saw stars as his entire body shook. He was a taught string of feelings, each stroke of tongue and fingers a blinding sensation.

He was almost unaware of the rhythm stopping, even as Chris turned him again, pulling them together. Their mouths found each other as Chris hooked one of his legs over his arm. Guiding himself forward, Chris pushed in gently. They both hissed at the contact, but waited for the initial burn to fade. The position was awkward at first, but far more sensual, as their tongues matched the easy rhythm their hips found.

Chris bit his lip as he angled upward on each thrust, the sensation was overwhelming. Toby didn't know anything more than being filled, above and below. The sounds they made echoed through the room, surrounding them in sensory overload.Chris reached to stroke him even as his thrusts became faster and less rhythmic.

It was Keller's sense of self preservation, honed through years of practical use that told him when the door opened, and his eyes met his brother's over the head of his lover. It was too much for him, and he came hard, screaming Toby’s name.

Toby keened and came a heartbeat later, breathing heavily as his head fell forward. He hadn't noticed their audience yet, but Chris' eyes left Elliot's for only a moment, to pull his lover into a deep kiss. When he looked up again, the doorway was empty. Elliot had left.

“Beecher.” He lifted Toby’s head to meet his eyes. “Protect him for me, ok? I’m going to be leaving this shithole as soon as Pete and the pecker-checker come back, and there’s going to be no one here to protect him. Work with O’Reilly. I’ve been on the side with the fucker for a while. If you can get him to help you out, it’ll probably be your best bet.”

Beecher chuckled mercilessly. “I’ll look after him, Chris. You never even needed to ask.” He turned over the rest of Chris’ statement for a moment. “You mean it, about O’Reilly? Out of all the people in OZ, he’s going to be the one dumb fuck who’s not as dumb as he looks. He’s going to catch on sooner or later that your brother isn’t you.” He paused, and took a second to catch his breath. “Does he know?”

“What? About this?” He grabbed Toby’s balls in one hand.

“Yeah, you bastard. I don’t give a flying fuck what anyone else says, Chris. He’s NOT you. How the hell am I supposed to pretend that he is. You know what people are going to expect…can he handle it?”

Chris smirked. “Look, he knows what I told him before, but I think he’s got the…lay of the land now.” Toby’s eyes narrowed, and he knew he’d missed an inside joke, but he kept silent. Laughing icy eyes met his own, and he started to drown in them.

Keller reached behind them to shut off the shower. Turning back to the other man he kissed him brutally before turning to toss him a towel.

“Don’t wait too long to come back to me, ok? Who knows what atrocious things I might do to fuck up the poor shrink’s head?” He stepped back laughing as Toby’s towel snapped at his ass.

“Fucker.”

“Yeah, and you love it.”

~~~

Elliot paced. He criss-crossed the room over and over again, stopped, and paced some more. He was bone tired, he was alone, and now he was positive he couldn’t fucking do this. He’d been prepared, in a sense. It wasn’t like Chris hadn’t been blunt. Maybe even a little TOO blunt. He half admired Chris’ balls at his honesty.

Elliot Stabler had worked SVU too long to throw around any straight male homophobia. He’d been hit on repeatedly, and ignored it in stride. Even his conversation with Chris had been filed mechanically in the back of his head as another part of prison culture. It was one thing to hear it, treat it like a textbook case and toss it away into the dark recesses of his brain. It was another thing entirely to see the mirror image of himself fucking another man and enjoying it.

Chris had enjoyed it. He’d reveled in it. He’d buried THEIR body into another man and screamed his name as he’d came. Fucking Christ. He was really fucked in the head. They might be twins, but they were two DIFFERENT fucking people.

He was straight, and Chris was straight, and he was doing something he needed to do to survive here in hell. He blocked the faint memory of their murmured endearments to each other.

Fuck.

It wasn’t him. It wasn’t his body sliding over wet, slick skim, thrusting in and out, screaming as he buried himself inside. His head was gone, and his body betrayed his mind as the images assaulted his senses. He sagged against the hospital bed as the door to the bathroom opened, and his brother walked over to join him on the bed.

“You okay?” Keller looked him over carefully, his eyes running up his brother’s defeated posture, resting for a moment on his crotch. His eyebrow rose in a smirk. This might be easier than he thought.

“I’m…”

“You’re fucked now, so don’t try to deny it. Go with it. You’ve never had to deal with the thought of facing these walls for the rest of your fucking life. You’re alone, BROTHER. You’ve got nothing but your jizz, and don’t ever let any of these fucks tell you otherwise. Beecher, now he’s got jizz. Just because I fuck him, and he fucks me- (Elliot’s face blanched) it doesn’t mean shit, except that we protect each other. We love each other as much as you can love another man in hell. I broke Beecher’s arms, and helped break both his legs, and I never broke the crazy fucker’s soul.”

Stabler’s shock was all over his face. His attempt to answer was curtailed by Beecher’s entrance, leaning on the wall, watching them both.

Chris snorted. Yeah, O’Reilly’d be sniffing like a hound after this one until he found out what the fuck was going on.

Toby spoke up, staring the other man down. “I used to be you, you know. Then I came here. I’ve been broken and rebuilt more times than I can fucking count. Whatever you think you were on the outside doesn’t mean shit in here. Any of these fucks could tell you that. You have to learn who to ally yourself with, and who to avoid.”

He stopped for a moment, letting his words sink in. “Sex is currency here. Fuck it. Fuck the sex, it’s not about the sex.”

“What’s the point then?” Elliot’s arms crossed.

“When you’re in here, you can go days without touching another person. Weeks, even. You spend the rest of your life waiting for a touch, any sensation at all, to prove that this isn’t just another fucking day. You begin to crave it, need it more than anything else, because it’s one of the only ways you know that you’re still alive.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“Yeah it is, but the only other thing that comes close is killing someone, reveling in the heat of their blood, their death, because you know that you’ve beaten them in the game of survival.”

Chris cocked an eyebrow at his lover. Where the fuck had that come from?…hmmm…he’d pull it out of him later. He shifted to look Elliot in the eye.

“You’re going to learn to deal. You’re playing me, remember?”

“What?” Stabler looked…horrified, but resigned.

“You’re playing me, and you’ve got to be…believable. I can tell you who to look out for, tell you who to trust, give you the inside shit on every single scam I’ve worked since coming here. And it still isn’t going to be enough.” Toby stared at him, but said nothing.

“You want me to fuck your boyfriend.” It came out flat, a resigned statement of fact, but Toby had never seen a man blush so prettily in his life. He wondered idly if Chris’ ears blushed rosy pink like that. He sneered. “Welcome to OZ.”

“Beech, play nice. Yeah, to put it any better, you two won’t be believed unless you ARE me, so get used to it.”

Toby pushed off the wall, and walked towards them slowly. He looked Elliot over, his eyes searching intently.

“It’s…uncanny.” His voice trailed off to a purr, and Chris took a moment to pat himself on the back. His lover had learned a few things…and he’d learned them from the master manipulator. The Lord of the Fucking Dance could eat his black Irish heart out.

Toby leaned in close to Elliot, invading his personal space as he sniffed deliberately at the pulse of his throat. He hissed. “Fuck, you even smell the same.”

Chris fought jealousy and desire as he watched his brother hold his ground. The kiss was unexpected. Stabler pulled back from the other man’s mouth, but Beecher’s hands were on his thighs, and his mouth followed.

It was clumsy, and their teeth clicked once, but the sudden, amazing hot rush of a tongue on his own was intense, scorching. He fought back, his own lips and tongue battling for dominance. He smiled, satisfied as he watched the other man pull back, a dazed look on his face. Chris’ face was impassive, but his body betrayed his own reaction.

“Bring on the inferno.”

Kings County Hospital Mortuary, 451 Clarkson Avenue, Brooklyn 7:39 p.m.

He had adjusted his breathing, shallow breaths, in and out of his mouth to avoid the smell. The bodies around them were wrapped in loose plastic, enough to cover the skin and protect it from contamination and the spread of body fluids, but not enough to cover the smell. There was a radio blasting in the corner. Heavy metal music welcomed him to “The Jungle.” He snorted. How appropriate.

Briscoe tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned, catching a glimpse of a white coated figure behind glass. A nod confirmed his guess, and they flanked each side of the door.

Munch knocked, startling the man working in front of him. He turned jerkily, the large prosector’s knife he held in one hand getting stuck on the rib cage in front of him in the process.

“Who the hell are you?”

Munch and Briscoe held up their shields. “Police.”

He didn’t even get to finish his next statement as the knife was suddenly yanked out of the body in front of them, and held up in front of them, vibrating dangerously.

“Get the fuck away from me. I don’t know anything. I promise. Please. I don’t know a fucking thing about that boy.” The man was shaking in fear, making little thrusts at them with the knife, backing them up into the freezer.

Munch raised his hands slowly, defensively. “I didn’t say anything about a boy. Calm down. Put down your weapon and you can tell me what’s going on. You don’t want to spend the rest of your life in prison for killing a cop.” He heard Lenny draw his gun behind him, and stepped to the side to allow the man to see the weapon.

He continued, calmly, as Briscoe aimed a line of sight at the man’s chest. “We’re not going to hurt you. We just wanted to ask you a few questions. Put down the knife.”

It was almost a blur, the motion that sent the knife hurtling past his ear as Lenny pulled the trigger, the shot hitting the man in the shoulder. Blood splattered both of their faces as his body staggered backward, grabbing for whatever he could reach to gain his balance.

The entrails of the dead man in front of them make a sick wet sound as the examiner grabbed at them for support, ripping most of them free as he sagged to the floor.

Lenny lurched towards him, sliding on the floor. He reached for a pulse, then looked back at him.

“You okay?” He nodded an affirmative, too shocked for the moment to speak. He grabbed for his cell phone and flipped it open.

“This is Detective Munch. I need a bus at the King’s County Hospital Mortuary immediately. I have a 10-22 on the ground, bleeding from a gunshot to the shoulder. Hurry the hell up.”

“Your phone manners are laughable.”

“Shut up, Lenny.”

Oswald Maximum Security Prison, 9:00 p.m.

The whooshing sound of the pod door opening was loud in the silence of OZ. Murphy's tone was gentle, but firm.

"We cleared Cyril O'Reilly's stuff out of here. Ryan's down in the shower. He should be up in a second. You need anything?"

Alvarez shook his head in the negative, and hunched forward, dropping his personal belongings on the bottom bunk. Gathering up his courage, he turned to face the C.O. "Where the fuck are the rest of the pack rats?"

"Glynn's called a meeting about the riot over in B. They're going to be there until he gets bored or finishes yelling, whichever comes first." Miguel nodded.

"O'Reilly should be back in a few. Just relax. Dr. Nathan give you anything to help you sleep?" Nod.

"Okay then. Settle in. I'll check in on you later." Suddenly, in another "whoosh" of sound, the big man was gone, leaving Miguel alone.

The sound of silence began to close in on him. He barely registered the already made bed in front of him as he scrambled back against the wall, dropping to the floor. His knees pulled up to his chest, he rocked silently.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

He had rocked his son this way, and now he rocked himself, trying to stem the flood of emotions that made his chest ache. His stitches throbbed and itched, every one a pinprick of pain. Dr. Nathan had refused him anything but the most gentle pain medications, remembering his earlier experiences trying to crawl out of his skin with drugs.

He craved them now, begging inside to be free of anything, everything, just for an hour, just for a moment. His breath hitched in his chest, and he remembered the smell and feeling of his son, soft and tiny in his hands, more fragile than anything he'd ever held in his life.

Tears streamed down his face, salt biting into the scratches and gouges left from the attack. He ignored each sting, continuing to rock. He jumped back at the pressure of a hot hand on his shoulder, cracking his head against the wall behind him.

"Fuck." If he hadn't gotten a confirmation from Murphy, a first glance might have led him to believe that he was alone. The shock of seeing the other man curled into himself, rocking on the floor in the corner flooded him with images of Cyril, rocking himself to sleep in a nightmare filled hell.

Ryan's body was still wet, and he knelt down, trying to squeeze next to the other man, in the tiny space between the bunks and the wall. He reached out to touch the other man, but the arms in front of him quickly rose to protect Miguel's face, and his whole body curled into itself, impossibly tighter than before.

"Please…" The voice was soft, and hurt, a child's voice. "Don't hurt me. I'll do whatever the fuck you want. Just don’t hurt me." His eyes raked over Ryan's half nude body, and O'Reilly suddenly understood. He backed away, unfolding himself and holding his hands out in front of him.

"I'm not going to fucking touch you, hermano. I promise. Comprende?"

The other man uncurled minutely, just enough to nod an affirmative.

O'Reilly shrugged and dropped his towel, quickly getting changed.

The silence was unbearable.

"My brother Cyril, he's in Benchley Memorial. You'll be sleeping in his bunk for now, but it's HIS, and you'd better not forget it." A sudden noise below interrupted his rant, and he stepped to the glass to see below. His pod gave him a perfect view of most of OZ, and that was how he liked it. Looking out now, he recognized Beecher, Sister Pete, and Keller, and they made their way over to Beecher's pod.

Keller looked fucked up and dazed. His eyes darted all over the room as he walked, and a thick bandage covered one temple. Ryan caught his gaze and flipped him off, smiling. He frowned as Keller said something to Beecher, who looked up at him and ushered Keller into their pod. Words were said, but they were too faint for him to hear, and Sister Pete followed them in. His line of sight cut out as the door closed, and he leaned his head on the glass. He had his own shit to deal with.

The man behind him was muttering in Spanish, too faint to hear. He'd resumed his rocking. He pulled the blanket and pillow off of the bottom bunk.

"Miguel?" The rocking continued.

"Miguel, I know you can hear me. You're gonna listen to me, okay? I'm not going to hurt you. I wouldn't do that." Moving slowly, so that he wouldn’t startle the other man, he leaned forward, and gently pulled the blanket around Alvarez.

"Alvarez, usted me entiende?” Miguel looked up. His eyes were still glassy, but he had more focus.

“¿Se habla español? I never knew you spoke Spanish.”

“Yeah, well, it’s only one on my list of many talents. I’ve sold and bought so much shit from you spicks over the years that you have to pick up some of the shit eventually.” Miguel smirked.

“Your accent sucks.”

“Yeah, well, fuck you too.” He waited, gauging the reactions of his words. He got up, and fished around his foot locker. Pulling out a box, he sat down crosslegged by the wall and offered it to the other man. Miguel looked, but didn’t touch.

“It’s crackers, niño. I know you haven’t eaten a thing all day, and you’ve got to be fucking starving.” It took a minute, but a hand reached out for the box, disappearing quickly into the crevice between legs and lap.

“Don’t call me a baby, O’Reilly.”

“Look, niño, I call ‘em like I see ‘em, and last time I checked, you were a baby.”

“Fuck you.”

“Sorry, Alvarez, no ass for you.” He winced as soon as the words left his mouth, the shuttered reaction of the eyes in front of him closing down again, and the other man turned away into the wall.

“Fucking Christ.” He stood up, and crawled into the top bunk. He was fucking sick and tired of playing Daddy. Let someone else do it for a change. He pulled his blanket over his body and forced himself to sleep. Cyril sat behind his eyes, accusing, crying, blaming. He felt his own tears, hot on his face, and fell into oblivion.

Downstairs…

“They’re going to be back in a few minutes, Elliot. Are you okay with everything? Do you understand everything?” Sister Pete looked him over carefully.

Elliot’s smile was pained, but he nodded. “It’s okay, Sister. And it’s Chris, now, I guess. Don’t forget that.”

“Believe me, NO ONE forgets Chris Keller.” She left as quickly as she had come.

The room was small, even smaller than he had imagined. His whole body seemed to take up so much space, and the sudden press of Beecher’s body as he moved to grab clothing from his trunk was almost claustrophobic. He stepped back to allow the other man room to change, retreating into the relative space of the bottom bunk.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply for a moment, sucking in the stale air.

“You get used to the silence. It took me a while too. Outside seems pretty vast compared to being stuck in here all day.”

“All day?” Elliot looked up.

Toby leaned on the sink. “Yup. When there’s a lockdown we’re in here twenty four hours a day. There’s nothing to do but talk, fight, sleep, and fuck.” Elliot winced on the last word, but only imperceptibly.

Toby had begun to notice the tiniest changes in Stabler’s demeanor already. The man was playing a role he’d been born to play. Or was he? How much of Keller was Stabler, and how much of Stabler was Keller? He snorted, and vaulted up to the top bunk. He’d leave that question till tomorrow.

Elliot gathered the blankets around himself and tried to relax, despite the harshness of the fluorescent light on his eyes behind his closed lids. His last thoughts as he drifted into sleep, weren’t of his wife and kids, Olivia, or even the boy by the river. His mind played the sex between his brother and the man sleeping above him over and over again. He betrayed his own body as he shifted, trying to ignore his hard on.

He shifted to his side, his eyes flicking up to the mirror to check and see if Beecher was asleep. He appeared to be, his eyes were closed, and his breathing was deep and even. Elliot cursed his dick, even as he wrapped a hand around it, trying to ease the pressure. He disgraced himself as he stroked gently, staring at the reflection of the man in the bunk above him. His orgasm was almost instantly upon him, and he bit his teeth to avoid being heard.

He came all over his hands, and wiped the mess on the sheets, grimacing. He turned to face the wall, sleep finally overcoming him, as the lips of the man above him curled into a smile.




TBC...