Walking Seperate Paths - Chapter XV - Exorcism

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 XV - Exorcism

Augustus Hill:

“Back in the predawn of the so called modern era, people belived in all sorts of superstitions. Witches, demons, angels, and GOD Himself were all as real as the people we saw every single day.

There was nothing more feared and reviled than evil, in all of its forms. We created among ourselves little rituals to ward off the evil among us. In Spain, ivy hung over a door prevented sickness from entering a house. In Greece, green eyed children were stoned. In France, a black cat was drowned before it could smother a child with its Devil’s Breath. The American Indians used to take icy cold baths in the middle of winter to prove their worth before God.

Let’s not forget Ireland, the most superstitious motherfuckers of them all. In Ireland, men lived in constant fear of the personification of evil. Those boys always had a plan, a way to fuck with the devil before Satan could bite them in the ass.

Well here, black, white, brown, yellow, green, purple, blue. They’re all just colors, like we’re all just men. Superstitions of their own kind permeate even in this modern time, in these modern walls, with these modern men. Because, as we all know, sometimes the devil comes back to bite you in the ass.”

Oswald Maximum Security Prison, 5:30 a.m.

God only talks to you sometimes, but when He does, you’d better listen. Bob Rebadow was tired, and his bones ached from the slight chill in the air. The prison turned down the heat at night to save on costs. He was wide awake, and staring at the springs of Busmalis’ bunk above him, with absolutely no recollection of having slept at all. He made the decision quickly before he could talk himself out of it, and moved his feet out from under the covers. Grabbing his robe and slippers, he shuffled quietly over to the glass, staring out into the catacombs of glass and steel. If he angled slightly to the right, he could see into the first 8 feet or so of Beecher’s pod.

Both men were asleep, like most of the other people outside the glass against his face, but the voice of God was very informative when it wanted to be, and he studied the bottom bunk carefully. The frame of the larger man was curled into itself, back against the glass, and even as Bob watched, the sleeping figure moved, restlessly.

He only stared for a few minutes, but it was enough to reassure himself that he was right. There was a saying in prison that only the guilty slept, and every man in here including himself knew it to be fact. The man lying in that bunk turning wasn’t a murderer, or a rapist. He wasn’t even a criminal. Bob accepted this as fact without batting an eye. God hadn’t been specific, but he figured he could hazard a guess or two. Now the only question was “why.”

A stealthy movement caught his eye, and he angled differently to see in the other direction, just in time to see O’Reilly jump out of bed and land on the floor to bend over the bottom bunk. He couldn’t see anything more as both bodies faded into shadow, but he smiled anyway. God worked in mysterious ways, even in OZ.

~~~

They existed in his every waking moment, behind his closed eyelids. Every moment was a living dream, every dream a waking hell. Their faces called to him, clawing at him. They laughed at him, a bird cheeping for mercy in the cage called OZ. Rivera’s dead eyes mocked him from below the swinging cage, blood streaming down from his sockets to splatter on the blue of the C.O.’s uniform. He was the loudest, laughing and jeering as he held Miguel’s son, his baby out to him, pulling away just as his fingers would have clutched at his son’s skin.

He screamed, he cried, all to no avail. He watched as Rivera smiled, jiggling his crying baby in his arms. He walked just close enough for Miguel to smell his blood.

“¿Como esta, Miguel? Su bebé es muy hermoso. ¿Te adoro, si?”

He held the bundle in his arms close enough for Miguel’s fingers to touch.

“What will you give me for your son, Alvarez? Huh?”

Miguel sobbed. “Anything you want, hermano, anything. Fucking Christ, just give me back my son.”

Rivera sneered, and tilted his face towards the squirming baby.

“Your eyes. Give me your fucking eyes and I might give you your son back.”

“Please, NO!”

The hands grabbed at him, clawed at his flesh, pulling him away from his son, pulling him back…back…

“Miguel!”

He woke to a face in front of him. He clawed at it, scrambling back against the wall, biting the hand that slapped over his mouth as he opened it to scream.

“Fucking shit! Alvarez, wake the fuck up!” It might have been O’Reilly’s voice, or the sudden shock of heat as another body pushed his against the wall. He woke fully.

“O’Reilly?” His eyes were wide open and dilated, his heart hammering in his chest.

“No, you fucker, it’s Saint Patrick himself come to save your sorry Latin ass. You need to relax, or you’ll bring the whole house down on us.”

Miguel froze, as the light from Murphy’s flashlight paused on them both in the same bed. Ryan smirked and waved him on.

“You ok?”

“It was so real. I could fucking taste the blood in my mouth, smell the fear rolling off me.” He suddenly realized how close they were and tried to pull himself together. It was a futile move, the tear tracks still coursed down his face, and his blood roared in his ears, but he no longer felt sick.

Ryan watched him carefully, noting the halfway effective attempts the other man made to pull himself together. That was a good sign, at least. Alvarez wasn’t broken yet. The little shit still had cojones. He slid out of the bunk, hissing as his feet hit the icy floor. Quickly brushing his teeth, he avoided looking at the other man until he’d grabbed his clothes, getting dressed for the morning kitchen shift. It wasn’t until he was shrugging on his shirt that he happened to catch the man staring in the mirror.

“What?”

“O’Reilly, you lose a bet or something?” He pointed to Ryan’s last pair of clean briefs, bright cherry red. It was something there, a brief smile on the other man’s lips that prevented him from throwing his best insult.

“Fuck you, Alvarez.” He grinned as the buzzer signaled the dawn of another flourescent day.

~~~

He hadn’t slept alone in so long that he’d almost forgotten what it felt like. Even nights spent in quick cat naps on the junkie beds in the precinct hadn’t taken away from the fact that his wife was still at home, in their bed, waiting. He could feel the phantom heat of her legs thrown across his, even in sleep, the creature comforts that a man could call home. Stupid marital connections that had become instinct after almost twenty years, now slipping away from him piece by piece. There was no insane hunger for Kathy, there hadn’t been in years. He’d accepted his own apathy as part of the inevitable toll of his job, his life, his marriage. There was nothing to be said about lust after twenty years with the same person. He was without.

And yet, in the middle of that lie to himself, he remembered his own reactions to the scene in the bathroom, the angry sex with Olivia, the need to forget the mundane, the reality that his life was slipping away from him piece by piece. This whole thing, this whole fucking assignment was a breath of something new into the small slice of his life.

Everything he’d never done, never allowed himself to feel, to experience, it was all here. In OZ.

Every time he’d been tempted to scream, to rage, to break the face of some sneering punk in front of him, some greater force of will had held his hand. He’d brought the dregs of society here, only to lie in the same bed as them. Here, there was no real moral code, just the mimicking notion of survival.

Could he survive?

He finally settled into a comfortable position, legs splayed out against the small space, and closed his eyes against the residue of nagging fear.

Yes.

Manhattan, SVU Squad Room 6:16 a.m.

There was a bone deep sense of exhaustion that pervaded her entire being, and for the first time in a long time she truly understood the sensation of having an ache in all parts of her being.

Even as her head had hit the pillow and she felt her tired joints pop back into place, and the muscles of her back relax minutely into the dirty canvas of the bed, the image of that boy, burned behind her eyes.

He lay as she had last seen him, face upward, eyes closed, his stomach opened for the world to see only what God Himself had seen in creation. His eyes opened as she stood there, and her anguish intensified as she watched his head turn slowly towards her, his eyes pleading at her as she strained to hear his words. She stepped closer, vaguely recognizing the cold slick feeling of the tile underneath her feet. She was close, so close, close enough to try to bend over him as his eyes burned into hers, pleading, begging. His face was close.

She bent closer.

So close.

A whisper of breath on her face.

Her name, soft and insistent.

“Olivia. Olivia please. Help me.”

She fought it, the current of sound and vague acknowledgement of another presence pulling her back. She struggled to keep her dreamscape, but her eyes popped open without her consent. It took her almost a full minute to register her Captain’s face peering at her from where he sat on the opposite bed.

“Benson.” He spoke quietly. He glanced briefly over to the other sleeping form at the far side of the room. John’s chest rose and fell with each shallow breath he took, but his sleep was a deep as hers must have been, and his whole posture exuded exhaustion.

She took a minute longer to fully collect her surroundings, the dank smell of the junkie beds sticking to her clothes and hair. She blinked the sleep from her eyes and sat up slowly, fighting down a tiny wave of pre-breakfast acid reflux.

“What’s going on, Captain?”

He folded his hands and watched her, waiting until she was fully aware, before continuing.

“You ok?”

“Yeah. I think I crashed around 3:30 or so. Did they get anything out of the M.E.?”

Don sighed, and she braced herself for the impact of bad news.

“He committed suicide early this morning. One of the rookies found him in the holding cell downstairs. He strangled himself with his necktie.” He paused. “When I last checked in you and Finn were on your way over to talk to the other M.E. about that body in Potter’s field. There’s no sign of the other M.E.?”

She shook her head. “We’ve been looking all over the place for most of the night, but we haven’t found anything yet. He didn’t show up for work last night, and his wife says that he never came home for dinner the night before. There’s still 24 hours before they can file a missing persons report.”

“Anything else?”

She continued. “We asked his assistant for the medical records for the case in question. They’re missing. There isn’t even a database entry. We talked to Novak to see if we can get a court order to exhume the body of the other victim. Warner wants to check to see if there are any similarities between our case and that one. Exept for the obvious similar cause of death, we’ve found what looks like matching reports of identical puncture wounds.”

“The collar?”

She grimaced. “Yup. The FBI’s NDC still doesn’t have a match for the ring we found in “Bobby.” There’s nothing to indicate where it was made, or who inserted it. There’s nothing else. Novak said she’d deliver the order this morning.”

“She just did, that’s why I came in to wake you. Before you go, there’s a few things I want to talk to you about.”

“This is about Elliot.”

“Yes, and I’m probably going to get my ass handed to me for telling you anything, so I’d rather put off that appointment as long as possible.”

The details were vague, but her mouth set in a grim line.

“You’re sending him off on a suicide mission.”

“I didn’t send him anywhere. He’s the only one for the job, Liv. He comes out of this, he gets a commendation, a bonus, and the heartfelt thanks of the department. He may also dig up some information about the case.”

“What about the brother?”

“He’s somewhere in protective custody.”

The loud and insistent knocking interruped them, and startled Munch out of his sleep.

Finn stepped into the room and handed Benson her coat.

“They just found the body of Gordon Welsh, Manhattan Medical Examiner, dumped in the Central Park Ramble. His throat’s been cut.”

“What the hell is going on?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.”

Manhattan Central Park, The Ramble, 6:51 a.m.

It was covered in brush, but the metallic coppery tang of fresh blood was still in the air. Olivia was relieved to see Warner bent over the body. She’d swallowed four or five Altoids on the way over, but her stomach refused to settle.

“I knew him. Good guy.” Warner’s voice was soft, as she watched them zip the canvas up over the man’s head.

“It was odd. I was actually on my way over here to see him when I got the call. He’d left me a message on my machine, asking me if we could meet on the path outside the fountain. The message cut out before I could reach the phone and I rushed over here. I got the call on the way.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I. I’d love to know what he would have had to tell me though. I haven’t spoken to him in years, not since the last conference we both attended. I was shocked to get this call this morning. He sounded rushed. I couldn’t have gotten here more than 20 minutes after he called.”

“Any clue what he wanted to talk about?” Finn asked.

“Nope. I can give you two guesses though.”

“Any idea what he might have had to say about our case?” asked Benson.

“I don’t know, but I can tell you that I got the reports back on the dental work from the forensic dentist. All identifying serial numbers have been scraped off the teeth, but he does know that it was an extremely expensive job, probably all done at once, from the look of some of the residual scarring. However, he did let me know that the quality of the work was unusual, and very time consuming. Right now though, I’m more concerned with this.” She nodded towards the police tape and the body.

Finn looked his notes. “Do you mind sending us the tape from your machine, if you have one?”

“No problem.”

“Detectives!” Olivia sighed. The rookie had one of those clean scrubbed up looks and an eager to please expression. What he was holding however, was far more entertaining.

“We found this on the body, inside the lining of the jacket pocket. There was a pretty big hole in the pocket, so this might have fallen through, or it might have been put there on purpose. We don’t know yet.” Handing over the largish manila envelope, he stood at attention, reminding Benson strongly of a puppy expecting a treat.

“Good job. Thanks a lot.” He trotted back to the scene, leaving the envelope in her hands.

Undisclosed Location: Manhattan, FBI safe house, 5:32 a.m.

His mouth was full of a funny taste, something metallic and oversweet, tickling the back of his tongue, just THERE, where he couldn’t swallow it down. His tongue was fuzzy, and his head felt so heavy. The air around his body was hot and cloying, sticking to his skin in damp waves of sweat. The slick scratchiness of the mattress is oddly comforting. The dark is so thick he’s not really sure whether his eyes are open or closed. Is he even awake? It’s hard to tell. Strangely comforted by the blackness, he falls again.

Sometime later, he wakes. He’s not sure what wakes him, but his is suddenly AWARE, and fully alert. Groping in the darkness, his elbow hits cold metal, shooting pain sliding up his arm to register in a grunt of pain. Crying out as it finally connects back to his brain, he cradles the elbow against his body.

The touch on his arm is soft, non-threatening, but he lashes out anyway, fists and feet making contact against soft flesh. Ignoring the high pitched whine of pain, backing away into the dark, he waits until the sounds become faint, and finally stop altogether.

The shock of light is blinding, burning his eyes, and even the sudden reddish glare behind his eyelids is almost too much to bear. Strong hands lift him, carry him, and suddenly the rush of cool air on his skin gives him the first realization of his own nakedness. Eyes still shut tight against the glare, the hands slide something cool and rough against his neck. The clean clear feeling of the chill of metal slides against his skin, and his eyes are forced open, the glint of the new metal chain on his cheek and the brand new leather collar on his skin startling and new. A jerk of the chain brings him to his knees, and he feels the collar dig into his throat.

Chris does not know why now, just as he did not know then, why he followed the man about him on his hands and knees, crawling alongside the long legs walking slightly in front of him. He just follows. He hears, rather than sees, the other occupant of the room fall into line behind them, to crawl in a line of swaying flesh down the hallway, cold marble floors a shock to his knees. He barely feels it though, the doors looming in front of the line of flesh are far more frightening.

“Stop!” The man’s voice is pitched low, and the tug on the leash makes him point.

The man steps forwards and knocks on the door.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock!

…

He’s out of the bed and on his feet before he knows it, and the silhouette against the light takes more than a moment to process in his memory. It’s the Chinese guy, the Fed from the night before. His posture is deliberately relaxed, palms turned up and open.
Most of last night had been a blur, an odd déjà vu moment of Toby holding him close, the scratchy orange jumpsuit too big on his frame, an odd sensory recall back to the moment he’d been shipped off to Massachusettes for putting the hit on Schillinger’s kid. It had felt the same last night as it had then. Even the realization that he’d be getting out of OZ hadn’t closed down on him as the sickening feeling of fear had, dragging all this shit out of his system in full view of the people who could use it to hurt him the most.

The ride here had been a blur, the rain coming down in torrential sheets, whipping against the windows of the transport bus as each turn sent him sliding back and forth on the narrow, long seat.

His thoughts leave him as the man moves, imperceptibly, watching him.

Keller’s breath is tight in his chest, and he doesn’t even realize he’s been holding it.

He doesn’t let down his edge though, and he waits.

And waits.

“You going to come in, or are you going to stand there staring at my dick all day?” He grinned.

He had to give the guy credit, he didn’t turn a hair, although he did smile back.

“I didn’t want to barge in uninvited. How are you this morning? Did you sleep? He settled into a chair on the other side of the room.

“I guess so.” He grabbed a pair of cut off sweats and slid them on. Grabbing his chair, he settled himself astride it. “So…what’s up Doc?”

Huang smiled, amused. “Not much, although I know you must be hungry, and so I’m not going to be long. I just wanted to let you know what the routine is going to be and answer any questions you might have.” He crossed his legs and looked at Keller intently.

“First of all, you may have gathered that this will be invasive. I’m not going to lie to you, it is. But in order for this to work, you and I have to trust each other. You are not a prisoner in this room. This is a secure area, but you should feel free to roam the apartment. I’ve spoken with Sister Peter Marie, and we’ve agreed that there’s nothing to be gained from making you feel any more confined than you have to be.”

Chris smirked, but he was honestly shocked, and he knew it showed on his face.

“You can move around the apartment as you wish, but I’d like to believe that the restrictions aren’t going to be a problem.”

“I won’t try to escape Doc. This is sweet deal, and I promise…” his smile grew sultry…“I won’t fuck it up. I won’t hurt anyone who doesn’t hurt me first.” Huang’s eyebrow rose, but he said nothing.

“You’re going to start with one hour of regressive therapy every day. It’s not a typical type of emotive therapy. You will receive a small dose of a sedative to help you relax, and under guidance from myself and Sister Pete, we hope to regress you back to where you can remember what happened.”

Chris’ stomach tightened. He was tired of the bullshit, the nightmares, and the fucked up sense of sleepwalking every day. On the other hand, if he was knocked up and over the moon, he’d have no control. He’d be giving up his control to have his head shrunk by this fucker, and he’d open himself up like a bitch. Fuck.

He straightened, and the natural grace with which he moved was completely eclipsed by the predator’s smile. Two long strides took him across the room, and one more fluid motion brought him to his heels, palms sliding up the other man’s thighs.

“Just don’t pull a Kevin Bacon on me, Doc. I don’t feel like talking to dead people.” His hands stopped just short of the other man’s hips, sliding into a dead stop right before the noticeable bulge in the other man’s pants. His voice pitched low, and he smiled sweetly, disarmingly.

“Now...just tell me that you’ve got cable, and I’ll be a good boy.”

Oswald Maximum Security Prison, 6:14 a.m.

Getting Miguel into the kitchen had been easy. Keeping the homeboys from toasting his ass every five seconds was not. He finally just ignored it and went about his own business. Fuck it. Alvarez was going to have to learn to take his punches, or he’d wind up with Schibetta in the nut ward. Adebisi was gone, but that didn’t stop that boys from trying to prag out every single piece of virginal ass that came that way.

New day, same fucking faces. Beecher was whispering in his husband’s ear as they came down the line, accepting whatever shit passed for food.

He would have ignored the implosion of fists and hurling bodies that erupted on the end of the line, if a certain Latino bitch hadn’t launched himself over the cookline railing at the tangled mass.

Fuck.

“Alvarez!”

More than once, Ryan had blessed his skill at navigating bullshit. Getting to the spick was relatively easy, considering the press of sweaty screaming men. He pushed past the “Kellers”, noting absently that Beecher had a restraining hand on the hubby’s arm. An elbow caught him in the ribs, and he focused on the task ahead.

The other man was on top of Guerra, slamming his face into the concrete. The hacks were being held back by the mass of other fuckers that’d decided to brawl for fun. He had to scream louder to make himself heard.

“Alvarez!” The blood covered Miguel’s hands, sliding up his arms.

There was another man lying in the corner. Only a glance had to tell him that it was one of the fags, surrounded by the rest of his fag bitches. It looked like Anthony, the boxer’s bitch. His pants were torn and his face was bleeding. He understood what must have happened even before his brain fully clicked.

Fucking Alvarez.

“Miguel! Miguel! Stop!”

Cocoa brown eyes met his, and he dragged the other man behind the aluminum and steel counter. The sound of the hacks beating the others back was a cacophony of batons on flesh, and several other fights started on the other side of him. Alvarez was panting like an animal, short hard bursts of air that made him wince every time he took a breath.

The buzzer cut through the din like a knife.

“Lockdown!”

Reaching above them, Ryan grabbed two pieces of cornbread from the pan, and stuffed them in his shirt.

Fuck. Stupid Alvarez.

~~~

Five years in a 9 by 9 box taught you a few things. In his case, patience was hard won, but well earned. You could pump iron and exercise only so long before you lost your mind. The trick to it was learning to move slowly, read slowly, wash slowly, let the time pass faster than you could pass it by. It had taken him a long, long time to learn though, and he doubted very much that Elliot would learn in four hours of pacing back and forth. He flopped over on his stomach and went to sleep.

~~~

“You ok?” He rinsed out a cloth in water turned up as hot as he could stand it. He checked out the reflection of the man on the bed behind him, silent and poking at his ribs tenderly. He winced about halfway down, maybe on the fifth or sixth set.

“It looks like a bitch, but it doesn’t look like it’s cracked. If it was, you’d feel it. Cyril and I busted up a few ribs each back when we were both out.” Ryan was babbling, and he knew it, but it had the desired effect.

Miguel looked up at him, and the same look of fear and puzzled desperation that had taken so long to leave Cyril’s face was there, mocking him. He couldn’t speak, but he played the role of nursemaid with a dogged familiarity. Smacking the other man’s hands away, he bent down on his haunches and pressed the steaming cloth to the injured ribs. Alvarez hissed, but didn’t move.

“Leave it on there for as long as you can stand it. Heat works better than the cold.” He met Miguel’s searching eyes dead on. Cocoa eyes…Gloria’s were darker. (Where the fuck did that come from?)

“Why are you helping me, O’Reilly?” You’ve never helped any ass that didn’t give you something back.” He stopped, looking at Ryan’s hand on his skin.

“What do you want from me, asshole? I’m helping you. I help who the fuck I want to help, how about that?”

If the lunge forward was unexpected, the feeling of O’Reilly shoving his mouth against his was even more surprising. The kiss was over before it had even begun.

O’Reilly’s eyes met his.

“If all I’d wanted in this place was a quick fuck, Alvarez, I could’ve gotten any single one of the juiced up pigs to bend over and spread ‘em for a duster. Listen up. I set the terms before I do anything. If there’s no terms, there’s no price.”

“So how long should I expect to live?” The Latino spoke with a heavy layer of sarcasm, but the question was serious.

Ryan sat back on his heels and regarded the other man with a some speculation. “Why’d you save that fag today…Anthony, the boxer’s bitch?”

Miguel looked even more uncomfortable. It was a few moments before he answered. “I don’t know. I saw him getting fucked over by Guerra and the rest of those pigs, and I just…flipped out. It’s fucked up.” He paused, searching for the words to say what he really meant. “It fucked with my head, you know? No one needs that. No one. You can get the shit beat out of you and you’ll heal, but that shit’s never gonna be healed.”

“I know, you know. I know you were raped. No fucker, look at me.” He waited until Miguel met his eyes. “That sucks, and I know why you did it.” His next words were almost to himself. “Cyril would have done the same thing.”

Alvarez narrowed his eyes. “I’m not your brother, O’Reilly, and I’m not going to be your ticket to salvation.”

“Fuck you, asshole. I’m sporting waterfront property right next to the sea of burning fire and brimstone. I don’t want fucking redemption. Cyril and I…we’re family. We have to protect each other. Now he’s stuck in that bed, and he may never wake up again. And you’re here, and for all intensive purposes we’re alone.” He paused, and waited for his words to sink in.

“We don’t have to be alone. You get my back, and I’ll get yours.”

“What about El Norte?”

O’Reilly snorted. “Fuck ‘em. They’ve tried to kill you how many times now?”

“It’s not that easy, O’Reilly. Blood in and blood out. I pledged my life.”

Ryan’s stare bored into his forehead before the man turned and walked over to his trunk. Lifting the lid, he rummaged for a bit before closing the lid again, black felt-tipped pen in one hand. Miguel watched as the removal of the cap exposed a thin sliver of razor where the felt tip should be.

Ryan moved back over to the bottom bunk and sat down crosslegged, facing the other man. Pulling up the sleeve of his right arm, he cut a swift line across the palm of one hand. Blood welled up swiftly, pooling in his palm.

“Madre de Dios.” Miguel breathed. “O’Reilly, what are you DOING?”

“Blood in, blood out, right?” He grabbed for Miguel’s hand, waiting for resistance.

There was none.

“I’ll get your back, O’Reilly. Just be there for me.” The blade sliced into the meat of his hand, a diagonal line between the meat of his thumb and pinky finger.

“Deal?” Ryan held out his bleeding hand.

“Deal.” Their hands clasped.

Miguel snickered. “So…O’Reilly, does this make you blacker, or me whiter?”

“Shut up, Alvarez.”

~~~

Ok, it was getting to be too much already. If he watched that man pace one more time, he was going to shank him.

“Chris…crap. Elliot. Can you calm the fuck down already?” Icy eyes met his and he was suddenly looking at Chris, only for a moment before the shade dropped and all that was Elliot rose to the surface.

Elliot looked abashed. “Look, I’m sorry Tobias, it’s just-…”

“Believe me, I know. And its Toby, or Beecher, not Tobias. The only one who still calls me Tobias is my Father. Oh, and Sister Pete. Her, and half the kids who beat the crap out of me back in high school.” He slid off his bunk and landed on the floor. Splashing his face, he regarded the other man in the mirror. Elliot had retreated back to Chris’ bunk, and was looking through Chris’ sizable stack of porn with a mixture of revulsion and curiosity. He met Toby’s eye in the glass and raised and eyebrow.

“Beating off is a full time hobby for Chris. He can’t sit still either.” He wiped his face off and sat down on the edge of the bunk, next to Elliot.

Stabler had balls. He looked Toby in the eye and settled back against the wall of the bunk, forcing his body to relax.

“Beecher, you and Chris…aren’t you…do you…love him?”

Toby laughed. He had to. “I love him. And…I am straight. GOD, am I STRAIGHT. Chris is…you just have to love him. He’s like…he just…he’s Chris. It doesn’t matter what he is, or that we’re here. We ARE here, and we love, and fuck, and time goes faster.”
Stabler looked interested despite himself, and he nodded in acknowledgement, grimacing as a joint popped in his neck.

Beecher regarded the other man a moment. “Take off your shirt.” If he hadn’t been trying so hard to remain cool and collected he would have been on the floor laughing hysterically. The look on Stabler’s face was priceless.

“Look, fucknut. I’m not going to fuck you. But if you can take off your shirt and lie down, I’ll give you a massage.” Eau de Straight Male was wafting off Elliot in waves, but he surprised even himself by obeying, and stretching out shirtless on his stomach.

...

Elliot wasn’t going to think about the last twenty four hours. It was too much. All of it. He didn’t even remember what day is was, let alone anything else that made sense. The touch of the other man’s hands was oddly soothing, and the thought came to him that maybe Beecher had done this to Chris. He tossed that thought away as soon as it occurred to him. Thoughts like that led to things he didn’t want to think about right now.

Beecher had pulled the chair over to the bed, and was leaning over him, hands running the line of his spine as they kneaded and pressed, pinpointing knots and tension areas.

Elliot shifted and sighed. His lower back popped back into alignment and his muscles eased.

Toby laughed. “God, you and Chris really are the same creature. You both carry all your tension in your asses.”

Stabler snorted. “My wife’s been telling me that for years. I have no clue where I get it from, but it’s big and obnoxious. You try getting pants that fit this and see how you like it.”

“No thanks. I’ll leave my white ass alone, thank you.” His thumbs dropped down to splay the length of Elliot’s back, fanning just over the swell of behind. Digging into one knot that spread right over the top of the tailbone, he kneaded the line of tension, dipping dangerously lower with each pass of his hands. His fingers dipped between the line of both cheeks, pressing and pushing skin and muscle.

It wasn’t until the twentieth pass or so that Elliot began to realize his predicament. He was rising up to meet the press of hands against his skin, pushing upwards in tandem. His hips had a mind of their own, each stroke of the other man’s hands a distinct reminder that he enjoyed it.

Fuck.

Elliot had always been on good terms with his dick. They had an understanding. Now, that understanding was shot to shit as Elliot’s dick told him to fuck off, because that was what it wanted to do.

The last vertebrae on his spine popped back into place, and he bit back on a moan. Beecher sat back and popped his own neck.

“Better?”

Elliot told his dick off. “Yeah. Thanks.” The buzzer was loud, and obnoxiously welcome as the woosh of the electronic lock told them that lockdown was over.

The other man bent over to pick up a towel and his shaving kit before turning back to Stabler, still lying on his stomach on the bed.

“I’m going to take a shower. You’d better take one before the rush. Otherwise you’re gonna end up black and blue from all the towels snapping your ass.” He turned as though to leave, before stooping to pick something up and throw it at Elliot’s head.

He stared at Chris’ porn before turning to look at Toby.

“All things said, this is still prison, and you might want to take care of that BEFORE you take a shower.” Beecher smirked, and left.

Manhattan, SVU Squad Room, 11:45 a.m:

The first dry erase board had been joined by two others. There were over two hundred faces on those boards, all boys, their ages running from about 4 to 16. Olivia couldn’t look at it too long without feeling nauseous. She was scrabbling through hundreds of casefiles, piled almost three feet high on her desk, some spilling over onto Elliot’s. Finn sat in Elliot’s chair, highlighting similar cases, looking for connecting records.

Cragen walked unnoticed into the room, but stopped short at the sight of the three boards in the center. God, he needed a drink.

“Finn, I think I’ve got something.” He rounded both desks and waited.

“I went through the city records for our friend the M.E., who commited suicide.”

Finn popped his knuckles. “What’d you find?”

“It doesn’t stand out immediately, but there’s something fishy going on with the financials. Even on an M.E.’s salary, this stuff is just too much. He just applied for a mortgage in the Caiman Islands. He also owns property in New York, Conneticutt, and Hawaii. There’s nothing too fishy on the tax returns, but that’s because all the property’s in his son’s name.”

“You got an address?”

“Yup, Amsterdam Avenue, Upper West Side.”

Don dropped his coat on the chair and grabbed the phone. “Munch and Briscoe are already out at Warner‘s. Get out there and see what you can find. I'll get Novak and see if she can get you a warrant.”

143 Amsterdam Avenue, Upper West Side, 3:44 p.m.

It was a beautiful brownstone, reminding Benson vaguely of the brownstone she had grown up in. Finn relayed their position back to the Captain as she double checked her appearance in the side mirror. The dark circles around her eyes were larger than they had been yesterday, and the bite on the side of her neck was carefully hidden by her black turtleneck. The bandage over it pulled uncomfortably, but she ignored it. Melinda had given her a look when applying it, but had thankfully asked no questions.

Olivia wasn't sure she could lie. She didn't know what to say. Straightening up, she caught Finn's eye. Pulling out her shield, she headed up the front steps, pausing to ring the doorbell.

A few minutes passed.

Finn frowned and reached in front of her to push the bell again. "If no one's home we may have to stop back at the end of the...wait. Look." He pointed to the curtains on one of the front windows. They'd moved.

The door opened slowly, as several locks clicked back. The boy on the other side was young, maybe sixteen. His entire posture was bowed in on itself, and his eyes darted up to meet theirs only briefly before dropping back to his feet.

"Sir. Madam. How can I be of assistance?"

Finn stepped forward. "Hi, kid. How old are you?"

The boy stepped back, frightened by the advance, and Olivia stepped between them, briefly showing the boy her badge.

"Hi. My name is Detective Benson, and this is Detective Tutuolla. Is there anyone else at home?"

The boy frowned, but didn't loosen his grip on the door. "It's just me and...my...dad."

Finn smiled, and stepped back to allow the boy room. "Son, we're going to have to ask you to come down to the station with us. There's a couple of things that need to get straightened out, and we need to ask you a few questions."

The boy looked at them, and then behind him. His nervousness became even more apparent than before. "I can't...leave. He told me to stay inside. He's not here. I can't leave."

Olivia gently laid a hand on his arm. His muscles were unbelievably tight, and he started at the contact. "What's your name, hon?"

"Michael."

"Michael, something's happened, and we need you to come down to the station with us, ok. Please sweetie, you have to come with us."

There was a moment of indecision before he finally relinquished his hold on the door and stepped forward. Hesitating, he pulled the door shut behind him. She stepped to the side to allow him to pass, and held his arm gently as he maneuvered down the stairs in front of them both.

She heard the shots before she saw the car. Everything moved in slow motion as she dived forward, pushing the boy down, Finn pulling his gun. Something pushed her back, shoving her back to hit the stone stairs. Her head cracked on the stone, and she slipped into darkness.

Undisclosed Location: Manhattan, FBI safe house, 2:33 p.m.

The sofa was cool leather on his skin. The pinch and slide of the needle into his arm was unnoticeable as his muscles finally relaxed against the chair.

The psychiatrist's voice was soothing. "Are you comfortable?"

He managed a nod. He was too relaxed to care, sinking into the darkness.

The voice came again, from far away. "Ok, Chris. You're in a safe place. You're warm and comfortable. I want you to count back for me, Chris. Count back from 100.

"100...99...98...97..." He slipped into the blackness...



TBC...