Walking Separate Paths - Chapter XVI -Revelation

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.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characers, despite my obsessive use of them in fanfic. I wish I did, but I don't. They are the property of others with far more power and money than I.

***This is darkfic, so please be aware that this chapter or others may contain explicit descriptions of rape, sex, mental/emotional/physical/sexual abuse, child abuse, etc.***

CHAPTER XVI - Revelation

Undisclosed Location: Manhattan, FBI safe house, 2:34 p.m.

Her knuckles were white over her rosary, and she murmured silently to herself as she watched the posture of the man on the couch slowly relax. Dr. Huang sat at the head of the couch, above and behind Keller’s head, while she sat to his side, close enough to reach out and touch him for reassurance, if need be.

Chris had submitted with his usual smirk and brash nature, but even she saw the doubt in his eyes as the injection slid into his skin. He seemed to fight it for a moment, but gradually relaxed, the leather of the couch creaking slightly under the shifting body.

Dr. Huang’s voice was pitched low and even, gently reassuring as he helped Chris count backwards from 100.

“84...83...Chris, can you tell me where you are now?”

Keller shifted slightly, his eyes tracking back and forth underneath his closed eyelids. She watched as his mouth opened slightly, the words light and low, almost an effort on each breath of air.

“I’m in Toby’s bunk.” Her eyes dropped to her lap, and she clutched at the solidity of the beads in her hands. She was an adult, and she could hear whatever was necessary to get through this.

Huang wrote briefly, even as his voice continued. “What are you doing there?”

“I’m just there. He’s gone, all broken to pieces. ‘S my fault, ya know. All my fault. Made him love me, and he didn’t wanna, and now he’s gone to the hospital. Blanket still smells like him, though. I’m just smelling it…feels better than my bunk. Don’t want to be in my bunk.”

“What’s your fault, Chris?”

“Everything. He didn’t need anything from me, I took and took from him, and I broke him. I listened to the bones snap under his skin, and he screamed as I held him down.” His hands clutched at the couch as a fine sheen of sweat broke out over his skin. His whole body began to writhe against the material, eyes moving under closed lids.

Dr. Huang sat up suddenly as the Keller curled in on himself, crying out in pain. Clutching his belly, he moaned and dry heaved, arching his back away from the back of the couch. Peter Marie pulled her hand back from his face as he snapped at it, keening in the memory of his own agony.

“I’m sorry, Sir, it won’t happen again. I didn’t mean it. I promise!” He screamed as imaginary blows hit flesh, his voice pitching up an octave, childlike and high. “Please! Please don’t. I won’t. I won’t. I won’t!” If possible, the tightly curled ball closed in even further, the veins under the skin standing out in stark relief against the trembling muscles.

Pete was terrified, and she clutched at Chris’ hands, even as Huang fumbled for a syringe. “Hurry!” The trembling grew more violent under her hands, and the man screamed again.

Before the needle could hit its mark, Chris tightened once more, and passed out, limbs sprawling loosely. Huang rushed to feel for a pulse, fingers finding the thready beat even as he leaned close to check Keller’s respiration. He was breathing, albeit shallowly, and George stepped back with a sigh of relief.

“It looks like he’s just passed out. Whatever trauma he’s been masking, these episodes are his way of expressing his fear, and feelings of inadequacy.”

The nun was pale as she reached for a light blanket to throw over the sleeping man. “I can understand the gravity of the episode, but Chris has had plenty of practice with masking techniques. I think I may understand more now what may have been passing through his head as he broke Tobias’ legs.”

He cocked his head and studied her intently. Capping the syringe once more, he dropped it on the table next to them and leaned back. “I’ve read the case files you provided, but is there anything you can tell me about why that particular memory might have triggered an episode this violent?”

She thought a moment before answering, searching for the right words to convey something that was only mow beginning to make itself understood.

“I think that given the type of abuse that we assume Chris suffered, dominance and submission are obvious role archetypes that he’s familiar with. On a base level, he may have commiserated with Tobias, understanding the intimate feeling of abuse from a personal level. He may have actually been driven to his obsessive love for Tobias in an emotional effort to provide solace against that abuse.”

“I don’t understand. If you honestly believe that his feelings for Tobias Beecher are genuine, and not merely obsessive reflections of his own need for affection and understanding from a male figure, why break the man’s legs and assist in his torture?”

She smiled wryly, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I’ve only begun to understand it all myself, but I do think that now it’s coming together. Chris’ obvious passive aggressive reactions are explainable, but his violence towards the one person he’d found for support was not, until I began to factor in the methods of abuse that were used. Given the age at which the abuse began, I think that his twisted understanding of hierarchy is what led to the incident in the gym. Some internal part of Chris, far removed from whatever conscious part of him is feeling, made a decision to hurt Tobias based on some fierce desire to teach Tobias a lesson. Internally, Chris may have struggled with the idea that Toby was getting away with rebelling from the perceived master/slave relationship. Factor in the heavy pull of sexual abuse and conflicted feelings regarding his own sexuality, and you have a recipe for violence.”

This time, Huang smiled back in appreciation, and some humor. “Oh no…You’re not from the Freudian school of psychoanalysis. Nope. Not at all.”

~~~

Whites and reds.

Flashing lights.

She could taste hot metal in her mouth, and her whole back was on fire. Struggling to breathe, she clutched at anything, eyes blurring and closing. Something was tight, pulling against her chest and arms. She fought against it, moving against the phantom hands on her skin, the indistinct voices floating over her head; quiet sharp commands that made no sense. The itch of something hot and sticky slid over her skin in a horrible sick sensation. It burned and itched, and she was desperate to scratch it. It was just there, the burning itch. She screamed with the desperate fear of it, and there was blackness waiting for her, just behind her closed eyelids.

"We're losing her! BP, dropping fast, 90 over 50 and slowing!"

"Run a line through, full saline IV push!"

"IV in...I'm intubating her, no resp sounds and no-" The shrill beeping overtook the EMT's words as the monitor to his left blared to life.

"Asystole!"

"IV 5 EPI push! Now!"

"Defribulating! Clear!" The hiss of the paddles was cut by the shock of Olivia's body as it rose to meet the current.

"Still in asystole! Again! Clear!"

Finn didn't notice the teartracks that made their way down his cheeks. He sat, watching her body shake uncontrollably as the electricity forced it's way through her chest. For the first time in since the birth of his son, his lips moved in prayer.

~~~

St. Luke's-Roosevelt Hospital , Upper West Side 9:47p.m.:

For a room that was supposedly a calming refuge for those waiting, it was neither a refuge, or calm. Whomever had picked the color scheme had chosen just the right amount of green to perfectly simulate the bile in John's throat. Finn still hadn't moved, blood soaked clothes stiff under his hands, waiting. He sat seperately from them all, even breaths the only indication of movement. He cleared his throat, hoping to catch the other man's attention. No such luck. He was saved from beginning his fortieth circuit of the room by the entrance of the doctor, followed closely by Cragen and Briscoe.

The doctor was young, almost too young for John's standards. Big kid...when the hell did he take his training wheels off?

"Is she going to be okay?" He was almost surprised by the strength in his own voice.

The doctor nodded, but his face was grim. "Detective Benson was shot once. The bullet entered the right anterior chest, perforated the lung and exited through the right lateral chest wall and re-entered the right upper arm, fracturing the right humerus. She flatlined twice, but we managed to resusciate her. She suffered a right haemo-pneumothorax-"

"Doc, English, please." Cragen was white, and his tone would have brooked no argument from any one of his detectives. The young man cleared his throat and began again. "A pneumothorax is a collection of blood in the space between the chest wall and the lung tissue that causes the lung to collapse. We had to implant a chest tube in Detective Benson's chest so that we could slowly reinflate the lung. Arterial blood gases have stablized, and she's stable. The chest tube should be removed by tommorrow or the next day when we're sure that she can breathe on her own."

"Is she awake?"

"She hasn't regained conciousness yet, but she shouldn't be disturbed for the first 12 hours anyway, until we've maintained normal respiration." The pager by his side shrilled insistently, and his face registered surprise.

"I'm sorry, detectives, but I have to go. We'll let you know if there's any change." He was gone as quickly as he had appeared, and John cursed the world of cell phones and pagers. They were all exhausted, but there was still work left to do.

Cragen spoke. “John and Briscoe, head back down to the station and check out the CSI reports. Finn, you-”

“I’m staying here.” His voice was quiet, and Cragen didn’t argue.

“Fine, you can stay. Call if you need anything. I’m going to check on that kid. He should be out of surgery by now.”

“He is…and he’ll live, but not for long.” Warner’s voice carried across the small room. Walking forward, she dropped a metal ring on the plastic table in front of them. John picked it up and examined it. “Is this like the other one?”

The chart in her hands as extensive, but the photos were the most telling. “It was implanted, just like the other one, but this one doesn’t have a name, only a serial number and a date.

Briscoe spoke. “These show the ring implanted. How did they manage to remove it?”

“There’s a very small catch, and a tricky locking mechanism, but it can be removed without surgery. It can’t be removed by yourself though, not without running the risk of perforating the spinal column. Apparently this boy tried. There were fresh nail marks in the skin around his neck.”

Lenny squinted at the date etched on its surface. “Any idea what this means?”

Warner sighed. “I may. He’s HIV positive, and he’s in the earliest stages of Pneumocystis carinii pneumonia. They’re giving him anti-virals, but the gunshot to the leg didn’t help any. They’ll start him on Retrovir as soon as they think he can handle it.”

Cragen turned to Finn. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

“No. I didn’t get hit. Not even a fucking scratch.”

Melinda turned. “I’ll leave these with you for now, but I’m going to let the attending on call know that they may have to test Benson for HIV.”

Oswald Maximum Security Penitentiary 6:53 p.m.

Given how much of his life he'd spent in prison, he'd learned to expect the unexpected. Prison life was a seperate subculture all its own, intricate and heirarcal in nature. He'd always been the hunter, but in a world where wolves came together only briefly before separating again, he'd also been the hunted. The quiet hiss of the voice in his ear was neither threatening or loud, conversely it was quiet and even toned. It didn't have to threaten to be threatening. The quiet chill of the tone was enough to frighten the man holding the phone. Sweat ran in rivulets down his back as he stared at the wall, trying to ignore his own reaction to the conversation.

"I understand what you're saying Sir, but it's just not an easy situation for me. You've asked me to...yes, sir, I understand completely. No sir, there won't be any mistakes." The was relived as the phone slid into its cradle, and turned to look at his lieutenant, leaning against the wall.

Chewing on one filthy nail, Robson hadn't spared much attention to the conversation, preferring instead to focus his line of site on a bunch of niggers playing pool at the end of the block. His comment stilled in his lips as he took in Vern's appearance, slumped against the wall, face almost as white as the pasty gray cement behind it.

"Vern, what the fuck? You look like you're going to have a heart attack or something. What the fuck is up with you?"

It took a full minute before Vern's eyes focused on the man in front of him, but when he finally did, his body snapped back to attention.

"Get the rest of the Brotherhood together. I want to see every available man in the gym in 15 minutes. Don't fuck this up, Robson. And leave the fucking niggers alone!" Spinning on his heel, he headed back towards his cell.

~~~


"Mr. Alvarez, you got a second?" The kid was a rail, tricked out in some garish eyeliner and cheap lipstick. Miguel had decided to ignore the brat when his expression caught his eye. There was an almost desperate look to him, and it was more out of boredom than anything else that made Miguel decide to address him in the first place. Stubbing out the remains of his cigarette, he flicked the butt into the toilet and flushed it away. Clearing the smoke away from his face, he motioned the boy inside, leaning casually against the sink.

The stark relief on the boy's face would have been amusing if his next words hadn’t come in a rush that made Miguel's head spin.

"Mr. Alvarez, sir, I was requested by my…friends to deliver a message of thanks to you for what you did for us the other day. Anthony's been troubled by some of the Latinos before and we wanted to say thank you for what you've done." He paused. Miguel wasn’t sure whether he wanted a response, or whether he was remembering something else he had to say.

"Look, prag. I don’t have any beef with your people, see? I just didn't like what was going down over there, and I acted before I could think anything else up. I don’t need no thanks or shit like that. It's enough that El Norte's gonna be breathing up my ass like flies on shit now. So just leave it."

It was almost too quick to even think about, and it was a second before his consciousness registered that the kid had dropped to his knees in front of Miguel, and was making short work of his fly.

"Holy shit! Get the hell off me!"

The boy back away on his haunches, hands up to cover his face, waiting for the blows that never came.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"I…we…I…just wanted to show you our appreciation for what you did."

"I don’t need a fucking blowjob from a faggot, ok? Get the fuck out of here."

The kid nodded, just enough to acknowledge, and left as quickly as he'd come. Miguel flopped back on the bed and winced as the motion screwed with his bruised ribs. Breathing was a little hard, but the pain was a little easier to deal with. Ryan should be back any minute from kitchen duty. The rest were supposed to be at that stupid meeting in the cafeteria, getting another lecture from Glynn about being tolerant of each other and other shit.

It was all a waste of time anyway, Miguel knew. You couldn't just take all the big cats out of the concrete jungle and shove them in the same cage together. Sooner or later there was gonna be a pissing contest of monumental proportions. He flicked his eyes to the bunk above his head, musing momentarily on the whole Ryan O'Reilly deal.

The skin of his hands was closing over, scabbed and sore, but it wasn't the pain that had bothered him. Pain reminded you that you were alive. Picking at the scab with the nail of the other hand, he watched as the blood began to flow sluggishly again, a few drops forming a small pool in the center of his palm.

Blood in, blood out. It was a fact of life, and O'Reilly knew it. What was so important about Miguel that O'Reilly would be willing to part with his blood to keep his trust and ensure his backup?

Miguel had no idea, but he knew too much about the Irish to accept it at face value. They were crafty sonofabitches, all of them, and O'Reilly was the biggest bastard of all. Miguel had watched him dance his way out of trouble for four years. He mused, poking idly at the coagulating blood in his hand. It might be a great ally to have. O'Reilly had his hands in everything, tits included. It would definitely be nice to have a slice of that pie, right under El Norte's nose.

A knocking on the glass disturbed his reverie, and he looked up to see Fiona, mop in one hand, waiting outside. What the fuck was with all the faggots at his door today?

Grabbing a towel, he pressed it against his hand as he walked towards the door and pulled it open. Leaning on the doorjamb, he studied the other man intently, ignoring the obvious leers that covered his bare chest.

"You gonna stand there all day, or are you gonna tell me what you want. And make it quick, I don’t have all day."

Fiona smiled, and his/her eyes settled on his face. "Look, sugar. We just wanted to let you know-"

"Look, you people already sent me a boygram. I don’t need any of that shit. I did the right thing, and unless you feel like delivering El Norte to me on a plate that I don’t have to worry about, you and I ain't got nothing to say."

"You know we can’t do that, sugar. But we're sorry that you didn't like Carlos. He's really very talented, and we figured that since he was Latino, he might better received."

"I don’t need a fucking blowjob, what I need is for everyone to leave me the fuck alone so I can lie down and get some peace."

"Can’t leave you until you name something you want, darling. We’re grateful that you fought for us, but we don't need to owe anybody anything."

"You don’t owe me shit. That good enough for you?" Now get the fuck out of here."

"Anthony thought you might say that, so he wanted me to give you this. He got it from our darling Nat, right before the execution." Reaching into his/her blouse, he pulled out a black computer floppy disk and handed it to Miguel.

"What the fuck is this…? What does Ginsberg have to do with anything?"

"That's for you to find out, sugar. Given your recent acquaintances, you might have more to gain from this than any of us could, and it's not going to help any of us anyway."

"Whatever you say, okay?" Turning his back on the other man, Miguel pulled the door of the pod shut and flopped back down on the bed, turning the disc over in his hands.

~~~

"You didn’t have to do this, you know. They'll heal up pretty clean on their own."

Gloria smiled as Stabler winced at the antiseptic ointment, and carefully re-bandaged the bite.

"Ah, yes, it'll be just my luck to have yet another man's battle scars on my conscience. Also, given the amount of time you’re going to be spending in a less than sterile environment, I never like to take any chances. She got you good, didn't she?"

"What?" Stabler started, hissing as the tape in her hands ripped away from an inch of skin.

"Come on, I spend enough time patching this stuff up to know what it looks like. Besides," she laughed. "Nothing else besides a woman's fingernails is going to give you marks like these." Tracing a finger down a particularly deep gouge, she smirked as the red flushing his neck found its way to his ears.

"It’s okay, don’t say anything, That'll be a refreshing change, actually. Most of the guys in here can't do anything except talk about their latest conquest, or try to talk me into bed with them."

Stabler laughed. "I take it you've gotten very good at playing hard to get."

"You could say that." Snapping the lid shut on the antibiotic, she caught his eye. "Speaking of that…I know it's none of my business, but I hear things, working down here."

He cocked an eyebrow. "Like what?"

"You know, when you do that, I can’t believe…sorry. It's just too hard to believe sometimes."

He waited for her to continue.

"Anyway, I don’t know how…involved…your job description is, but there have been a few people noticing differences since you got here."

"Differences?" He studied her face.

She didn't want to look at him, but she met his gaze unwaveringly.

Despite himself, he was impressed. "Keller was…is…a force of nature. He's like a dog, always on the outskirts of a pack of wolves. He always makes sure they know it, that we all know it. Every little thing anyone does is studied and retained by someone, and from what I hear, "Keller" has been a little off his game lately. I'm suggesting, that if he were so inclined, "Keller" might want to keep a tighter hold on what's "his," before another dog tries to take his bitch." She locked his gaze, and the full implication of her words hit him slowly, but the sudden connection they made was unmistakable.

"You're kidding?" He hoped she wasn't.

She wasn't. Her gaze told him his answer.

He scrubbed his hands over his face. "He said something like this might happen. He also gave Beecher to me."

"Well, from what I can tell, then you have nothing to worry about."

"I didn’t sign on for this shit."

"Neither did I, but we make our own beds and we have to lie in them. OZ is all I have now, and it's taken and given me everything." She shook herself out of her own introspection and smiled wryly. "Look at it like a chance to do all the weird experimenting you never got a chance to do in college."

"Oh yeah, that's me, Elliot Stabler, a.k.a. Chris Keller, pledging the frat the Hell."

"Go get 'em pledge Keller."

St. Luke's-Roosevelt Hospital , Upper West Side 2:22 a.m.:

"Finn."

A little louder. "Finn."

"Mmmm."

"Finn. Wake up."

"Whaddaya want, Munch?"

"That is no way to talk to a man who went to the best Kosher deli in the Upper West Side to get you a Turkey and Mustard on Rye."
"Rye?"

"If you would open one eye long enough to look at me, I might be persuaded to give you this sandwich, and the cup of coffee the obliging grocer gave me to go with it."

"All right, I'm up, I'm up." Struggling to a sitting position was easier said than done, since Finn's frame had long since lapsed into a rather uncomfortable position in the chair. Cursing the pins and needles that shot through his legs, he moved to sit up. Taking the sandwich gratefully, he registered the clock on the wall.

"Christ, it's almost 2:30."

"Yup. And if my overwhelming concern for your being hadn't led me here, I would have been at home, catching forty winks of much desired beauty sleep."

"Don’t go there John, I don’t think I could possibly need another excuse to make fun of you."

"You're just jealous of my dashing good looks." Munch grinned.

"Yeah sure, John. Just keep telling yourself that."

"Shut up and eat your pickle."

Manhattan, SVU Squad Room: 3:49 a.m.

“I need a drink.”

“If you think a shot of Jim’ll settle you, that’s all I can offer.”

“Don, why do you have a bottle of liquor in your desk?”

“For times like these, ok? Don’t make a big deal out of it.” Pouring out two healthy glasses, he set one down in front of Briscoe.

Briscoe grimaced at the taste, but swallowed anyway, grateful for the slight burn in his belly. “I did the dump on the M.E.’s house with CSU and Munch…found a couple of interesting things, but we’re not sure what it all means yet. We’ve got the forensic cartographer working over a few of the papers.”

“What’d you find?”

Reaching behind him, Lenny fumbled in the pocket of his coat before removing several copies and handing them over.

Cragen studied them for a moment, but looked puzzled.

“What do you think they are?”

“I’m not sure, but Munch had a few interesting ideas.”

Grabbing his magnifying glass, Cragen leaned over one of the copies, studying it intently. “This makes some sense to me. It feels like it’s just at the back of my mind, like I’ve seen it somewhere else.”

“Which one?”

“Here.” Pushing the paper over, he handed Briscoe the lens.

It was a photocopy of a card that had been taped to the underside of the examiner’s desk. Blank on one side, the other only had an odd mixture of letters and numbers.

~~~
SIR
U5K500A5U7K65
A7U9K87A9K100

~~~

"You think you've seen this before?" Briscoe looked confused. "Funny, because that's what John said."

Cragen sat up straighter in his chair. "Did he think it might be connected to one of our earlier cases?"

"He wasn't sure. He's got another copy. He said he was going to check up on Finn at the hospital and take a look at it over there."

"I told him to go home and get some sleep."

"Don, he's never listened to you before. What made you think he was going to start now?"

Oswald Maximum Security Penitentiary 11:14 p.m.

There was only so long you could pretend to read anything with a six foot carbon copy of your lover staring at you. Tossing 1984 to the side, he regarded Stabler with a mixture of curiousity and annoyance. Moving out of the scant light he was reading by, he sat up on the bunk.

“You’re in a weird mood tonight.” He chuckled, as Stabler looked confused.

“Don’t be so confused. I’ve had the joy of spending hours at a time in this 9x9 hellhole, with you, only to discover that you have no attention span at all. I’d almost managed to track the patterns of your pacing in the floor.”

Stabler cocked a brow and stared at his cellmate. When he was positive he had the other man’s attention, he spoke, his voice pitched deliberately low against echoing sounds.

“You know Beecher, I’ve spent over 20 years as a cop, with 12 of those in SVU. I’ve put so many people in prison, I can’t even count any more.”

Toby regarded the other man with the slightest dawning of comprehension. “You know something, Stabler? I used to be a lawyer. Did they tell you that?”

Elliot nodded.

“Good, because it might put a few things in perspective for you. You deal with the scum of the Earth, every single day. So do I. Before I came to OZ I was an alcoholic, and I murdered a little girl driving drunk. There’s nothing I’ve experienced here that I don’t deserve in some way. God gives no man a cross he cannot bear.”

“You can’t mean to tell me that you appreciate being here.”

“I won’t say that. I will say that OZ has given me some of the best, and worst experiences of my life. I watched my son and wife die while I was in here, and I helped to hurt others. At the same time, I’ve discovered a part of myself that finally woke up to reality. I will leave here with an understanding of how precious what I have really is, and how important love can be, even in the oddest places.”

“If you can love him so much, how can you do this?”

“What’s this?”

Elliot snarled. “Don’t fuck with me, Beecher, okay? I saw you and Chris in that hospital room. How can you just fuck him and then fool around with me?”

“Last time I checked, we’d never fooled around.”

“Fuck this, I’m going to bed.” Stabler pivoted on his heel, bending down to pull back his sheets. Teetering slightly off balance, he reached to pull one of the sheets free. A warm weight knocked into him from behind, and he collapsed forward, bracing himself on one hand against the counterweight on his back. Flipping to the side, he managed to flop over pulling Beecher down next to him, so that they lay, half in and half out of the bunk, facing each other, breathing heavily.

“Fuck…” The other man’s face was so close, Elliot could feel his breath on the skin of his face.

“Not yet, but maybe.” The grin was back before a warm mouth covered his own. He froze, startled and half scared out of his mind. The lips against his spread in a smile against his mouth, and Beecher’s laughter fell in a puff of breath onto his skin. “Relax…”

His eyes were wide. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“It’s like learning to ice skate. If you know how to roller blade, then you know how to ice skate.” He couldn’t stop laughing at Elliot’s utterly confused expression. “Ok, no euphemisms. They’re totally lost on you, anyway.” He felt the stiffness of the body against him and pulled away, grabbing the edge of the top bunk with one hand to anchor himself while he pulled himself up. He only half heard the muttered “fuck” from his bunkmate before a rough jerk pulled him back down into the mattress.

Kissing a man is different from kissing a woman. There’s just no buts about it. Men are harder, leaner, stronger, and there’s the interesting sensation of stubble burn. Not to mention the fact that men are usually the dominant kissers, and, well, that’s always an interesting battle of wills.

Most of this was only a flash in Toby’s mind as the other man’s lips crashed against his. No other descriptions would have sufficed. Crashed, indeed. Somewhere, somehow, Toby just knew Chris was laughing his ass off at THIS mental image.

Angling his head better, he made no move to bring Stabler to him, just relaxed and let the other man take the lead. It took almost 2 or three minutes of solid mouth-fucking before Stabler realized that Toby wasn’t going to flip him over fuck him in the mattress. Finally, his mouth eased its pressure as he snaked his hands around Toby’s waist, using his weight as a counterbalance to bring Toby up further, until they lay, face to face, mostly in the bunk.

Elliot’s eyes betrayed his own insecurities, and for a moment, he seemed to come to himself as he tore his gaze away from Toby and registered the other eyes, a captive audience on the other side of the common area.

“I’m sorry about that, okay. I’ve never done this before.” His eyes were still glued to the watching sets of voyeurs.

“Ignore them. Lay back, and watch.” Beecher adjusted their bodies so that they lay together on the bed, the lower half of his body between Stabler’s legs, the upper half of his torso propped on one elbow next to the other man. Bringing a hand up slowly towards Elliot’s belly, he massaged the skin gently, just enough to soothe. Waiting until the other man’s breathing evened, he dragged his nails up and down the thighs of Elliot’s sweatpants, ignoring the obvious for now. Focusing instead on seduction rather than sex was key. Stabler was too skittish for a quick fuck.

“I won’t do anything you don’t want me to, okay? Just relax. Think you can handle it if I kiss you?” His bedmate seemed to take the question seriously. A heartbeat later, an entire sensation of acceptance seemed to flood the physical senses as his whole body relaxed imperceptibly, and his eyes locked on Toby’s.

Mouths met again; this time, Toby led the show. It was frightening, almost, to repeat some of Chris’ favorite tricks on his mirror image. Someday, not today, he’d need a whole lotta expensive therapy for this one, but for now, he focused on the sensation. Each kiss was brief and barely contacting, a feather light touch of skin on skin. Chris had been the first man to kiss him like this, and now, Elliot was reacting as he had done. He ended each kiss on a slight uptake, drawing up just enough to make the other man follow him into it.

Somewhere, a cheering section in his head started screaming, and his cock saluted the sensation of the first tentative touch of hands on his head and back, pulling him closer. Vaguely registering the need, he moved over Stabler’s body, hands sliding under the shirt to feel skin. It jumped under his fingers, and he settled comfortably within the spread of Elliot’s legs, not touching, just propping himself up enough to make sure that Elliot knew he could feel it, hard under the skin of his thigh, pulsing lightly with each heartbeat.

Propping himself up on both elbows, he gently angled their hips together, smiling against his partner’s mouth as he felt Elliot push back against his hips to relieve pressure. Taking a chance, he moved upward once, gently thrusting against the countermovement.

“Fuck!” Elliot hissed, and Toby took this opportunity to slide his tongue inside, gently coaxing. He didn’t expect the reaction he received as Stabler’s mouth opened to his, and matched the movements his hips were now making with his tongue.

“Fucking Christ.” He rode the sensation in waves, riding each thrust as it came.

“Ahhh…FUCK!” Tearing his mouth from Toby’s, Elliot cried out as he came, hard, under Toby’s thigh.

Toby rode the wave to his own orgasm as he felt the other man clench heavily against him. He breathed heavily into Elliot’s neck.

Making up his mind to move before he could fall asleep where he lay, he arched upwards on one elbow.

“You ok?”

“I don’t think okay covers it. I am definitely more than okay.” Stabler grinned, despite himself.

“Good deal. We gave the pervs their show, so now I can get back and clean myself off.” Sitting up, he padded over to the sink and dampened two washcloths, tossing one to Stabler, who was looking at his sticky sweatpants with ill-disguised disgust.

“Thanks.” Pulling off his shirt, he tossed it into the corner, and leaned over to grab another from his trunk. A stealthy movement caught his eye as he cocked his head to see better. Vaguely recognizing the Irishman Toby had greeted earlier, he stared, watching the man drop to the floor and squat next to the bottom bunk.

“Hey, Beecher?”

“Hmmmm?”

“Remember that Irish kid you pointed out? O’Hara, or something like that?”

“O’Reilly. And for fuck’s sake, don’t forget his name. Keller and O’Reilly have cooked up some pretty bad shit together, so don’t forget his fucking name or your ass is definitely grass.”

“Got it.” Stabler pulled on a dry pair of sweatpants. “Who’s his cellmate?”

“Cyril. Oh no, wait, fuck, Cyril was transferred to Benchley Memorial. Nasty head wound. I think O’Reilly’s got Alvarez in with him now.”

Elliot continued to watch for a moment, as Beecher brushed his teeth and climbed into the bunk behind him. “Hey, Beecher?”

“Yup?”

“They fooling around?”

“Who?”

“O’Reilly, and…Alvarez. Wasn’t that his name?”

“Yes, that’s his name, Miguel Alvarez, and no. They’re not fooling around. O’Reilly’s the straightest motherfucker in here. Five years, I’ve been in this hellhole and I’ve never heard shit about O’Reilly having eyes for anyone other than Dr. Nathan.”

“She’s the cute one who patched me up?”

“One and the same.”

Stabler moved to brush his teeth, the angle of the glass cell changing just enough to obscure his view into the other cell. Spitting into the sink, he looked up to catch Beecher’s eyes, staring at his in the reflection of the glass.

Beecher smirked. “You know, we just dry humped like a couple of teenagers. You’re not half-bad, Stabler.”

Elliot ignored his eyes as he got into his own bunk, staring at the springs above his head. He let a few moments pass to collect his thoughts.

“Beecher.”

“Hmmmm.”

“You’re straight, right?”

“Straight, gay, bi, it’s all relative, but yeah, I guess if I had to put a label on it, I’d generally say straight…why?”

“Where’d you learn to kiss like that? It was like…I don’t know.”

Beecher stifled his laughter. “I could tell you, but then you’d probably have an excuse for at least five years of extensive therapy.”

It took another moment to process Beecher’s answer. “You mean…?”

“Yup! At least you got the potential for the family talent, kid.”

“Aww, fuck. Beecher, get to fucking sleep already.”

St. Luke's-Roosevelt Hospital , Upper West Side 2:27 a.m.:

“What’re you looking at?” Finn was only nursing the coffee now, the heat of the Styrofoam soothing against his hands. He ignored the incoming rush of caffeine and hot food in his system and focused instead on his partner’s intermittent scribbling on the table next to him.

“We pulled a bunch of stuff out of the M.E.’s brownstone. Briscoe and I hauled it all down to the house to sort through it all.”

“Then what’s in your hands?”

“It’s…I don’t know. It was hidden in the guy’s desk. It’s a random combination of numbers and letters in a specific pattern.” Pushing the copy away from him in disgust, he leaned back and closed his eyes.

Finn leaned forward and snatched the paper. Squinting at the Xeroxed page, he could barely discern the copied letters from John’s mismatched doodling.

“What were you trying to do?”

“It’s a code, obviously mathematical, although it’s driving me up a wall.” John stretched, joints popping faintly as he settled back into the chair.

“Is that what this doodling is? You’re trying to figure it out?”

Munch glared at the ceiling. “It’s not responding to the standard set of normal coeffients. It doesn’t follow any true sequence, and the numbers cannot correspond to graphical or literary archetypes.”

Putting the paper back on the table, Finn leaned back and closed his eyes. A few moments passed before he spoke again.

“Hey Munch?”

“Hmm?” The leather squeaked as John rested his head back.”

“You like puzzles, huh?”

One eye opened to bestow a bareful glare. “Every Sunday the New York Times prints a crossword. I don’t think I’ve missed one in ten years.”

“You know, I can see why the ladies are falling all over themselves to date you. Anyway, that’s not the point, Munch. I had a friend, back maybe ten years ago, who went into the Intelligence Section of the U.S. Military.”

This time, both eyes opened to glare. “Ah yes, yet another member of Big Brother, watching over the small penitent man.”

“Shut up, Munch, and listen.”

“I’m listening.”

“I went up with him for drinks a few years ago, and he was telling me about a sequence that the military had used for major commands at base in the 1980’s. It was a sequence of six letters, and only the people in the know would have access to the next set of three letters.” He glanced over. Munch definitely looked interested.

“Anyway, since it was determined that code patterns should be scrapped every couple of months, this one was too, until one of the scientists working at the base took a stab at it.”

“How long did it take him?”

“Three weeks, I think. The guy was brilliant, and he was so damn proud of himself for figuring it out that they began to use the sequence in intelligence tests. It worked out great, until they hit a major snag.”

“What kind of snag?”

Reaching out to grab the pen on the table, Finn scribbled six letters on a piece of paper and slid it over to John.

~~~

O…T…T…F…F…S…___...___...___

~~~

“This is it?”

“Yup. You can work on it while I finish telling you the story. Anyway, they were using it in intelligence tests until they hit a snag. One day, a middle school teacher presented the sequence as a joke to her students. She was blown out of the water when over half of her class was able to complete the sequence in less than ten minutes.”

This time, Munch’s surprise was evident. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. I can tell you that the origin of the sequence is mathematics, and people were stunned to hear that kids figured this shit out faster than a leading geek. Now, I’m going to tell you the answer, because there was actually a point to this whole damn story.”

“I don’t want the answer.”

“John, just give me the fucking pen.”

Grabbing the pen, he scribbled in the next three digits.

~~~

O…T…T…F…F…S…S…E…N…

~~~

“I don’t get it.”

“Just let me finish, Munch. Here’s the point. Think back, WAY back. Do you remember middle school at all?”

“Middle school was a hell from which my psyche will never fully recover.”

“Get over your bully issues, John. Anyway, do you remember number lines? That little strip of tape that the teacher stuck to the top of your desk when you were learning how to count, and add and subtract?”

“Vaguely.”

“Okay. Stay with me here, Munch. The point of this whole exercise is that kids, unlike adults, tend to make things as simple as possible. You’re making letters numbers, and numbers letters, and you’re forgetting the obvious.” He pointed to the first six numbers. “One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six. O, T, T, F, F, S, S, E. Do I need to go on?”

Munch looked annoyed. “It can’t be that simple.”

“It is. That’s why it took the kids ten minutes and the adults weeks. Adults complicate everything, because they always expect complications.”

“What does this little interlude have to do with anything?”

Finn grabbed the copy and smoothed the copy out over the table. Leaning down, he pointed to the first set of letters and numbers.

“First of all, remember that not everyone’s a genius. That M.E. was nothing special, and you have to assume that this information is simpler than it looks.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t. It’s nice to take you down a few pegs once in a while. Look.”

~~~

SIR
U5K500A5U7K65
A7U9K87A9K100

SIR
Under 5, $500K, Above 5, Under 7, $65K
Above 7, Under 9, $87K, Above 9, $100K

~~~

“Oh God.” John looked sick. “It’s a price list. He’s selling boys.”

“When I worked narcotics, we had simple price lists like this to try to set up new kids with business. They had to be able to look at them in a moment and know what was going on, but if a cop picked them up, they wouldn’t be able to read it.”

“I’m calling it in.”

“Go ahead.” He waited. “Hey, Watson. Now that Sherlock has done your work for you, can he get some sleep?”

“Fuck you, Finn.”

“Not even with a borrowed dick, John.”



TBC...