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.
Thanks to Colleen for this lovely pic!
***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 XVII – Enigma
Oswald Maximum Security Penitentiary 3:44 a.m.
It was the screaming that woke him. It wasn’t as loud as it could be, but it was still loud enough to a man who remembered years of waking up in an instant for the phone, his wife, or his kids. He was one of the few who stayed awake though. Some bolted out of sleep to give a quick glace towards the pod the sound came from, and rolled over to sleep again.
He stayed awake, and rolled quietly out of bed. Beecher’s eyes slitted open for just a moment before closing again, as he rolled over to face the wall. Elliot watched him for a moment before turning back to the glass walls of his cage. The screaming died down into barely perceptible moaning, and he pressed against the glass to angle his head upwards. It was coming from the Irish kid’s pod again, same as last night. It wasn’t him though. It was the skinny Hispanic again.
Pressing closer to the glass, he shifted his weight to his left foot and crossed his arms over his head on the cool slick surface. Leaning on his arms, he dipped his eyes to see what was going on, wishing irrationally for the moment that he could push his head through the glass to see better.
Irish was quick on his feet, hovering over the bottom bunk, his movements quick but furtive.
The sudden pressure of warmth against his back counteracted the cool chill of the sheet plexi-glass against his chest; startling for only a moment, he leaned back consciously against the chest of the man behind him.
Beecher made no move to touch, just leaned against him and dropped his chin on Elliot’s shoulder. The slight stubble of his beard scratched against his skin, but he ignored it as the other man spoke, voice pitched just high enough for Elliot to hear.
“He looks the same when he does this. Even the foot you’re leaning on is the same. I had to look twice to realize I wasn’t dreaming.”
Elliot’s breath fogged the glass under his mouth slightly as he spoke. His eyes dropped to watch it fade each time he breathed. “My brother and I are two different men.”
Beecher’s hand touched his back gently, tracing patterns on his spine, just a gentle pressure of skin on skin, nothing else involved. It was a few moments more before he said anything.
“You are different. You may look the same, sometimes even the things you do are similar, like how you’re standing now, but I’ll always know that you aren’t Chris. I could be a deaf man in a pitch black room and I’d know you weren’t him.”
Elliot didn’t have to ask how. He got his answer as Toby snaked another arm around his waist. He waited a moment as the gentle patterns began on the skin of his stomach, a quiet echo of the patterns on his spine. The other man continued to talk as though there had been no interruption, and his voice carried hot and soft into the shell of Stabler’s ear as he focused on the glass in front of his eyes.
“You smell different, the both of you. There’s something that is the same, I suppose that’s because you’re twins, but there’s just a few subtle differences that only a person who’s spent any amount of time studying the both of you would know.” His fingers traced around a small patch of skin near Stabler’s shoulder.
“He was shot here. I pulled him from the range of fire, and pressed down on it, the blood coming up under my hands in a wave so hot I thought I’d burn. He has a small circle of skin right…here. It’s just enough of a swell to feel under your fingers.” His fingers skimmed across skin lightly, stopping on smooth back muscle.
“He also has a scar here. He almost died that time.”
Elliot’s nose almost touched the fogged glass under his face, the circle of fogged area spreading wider as he opened his mouth to say, “What happened?”
“I shanked him.” Beecher felt the other man stiffen up under his hands and hastened to continue. “It was a fucked up time. I had just gotten out of the hospital, and I was still fucking pissed at him for breaking my arms and legs. He kept apologizing, even turned himself in. It still wasn’t enough. I went a little crazy, and one day, I cornered him in the storage room, and I shanked him. He was in the hospital for a while. It took us a while to work through all the shit that OZ has given us, and there’s always a sick part of it all that’s made me freeze, just watching him sleep, wondering how sometimes I could want to kill a man I love so much.”
“You’re both fucked up.” The bridge of his nose touched the glass as he leaned further into it. “I don’t know why I signed up for this. I’ve got my wife and kids at home. I don’t even know my wife anymore.” He sighed, and Beecher stared obligingly at nothing, hands still tracing their patterns, waiting for him to continue.
“I can’t touch her. She freezes up. It’s insane. We used to be all over each other, half a lifetime ago, and now, it’s like we can’t even stand to be in the same room together. My kids are all growing up and I haven’t seen so much of it. I’m always on the job, running after some other fuck up who couldn’t keep his dick in his pants. I’m always running after the bad guys. I don’t feel anything any more.” He sucked in a breath and held it, letting it out slowly as he continued.
“I fucked my partner, Liv, two days ago. I fucked her until we couldn’t breathe anymore. I didn’t feel a goddamn thing. I don’t know why. The attraction’s there. It always has been. Sometimes, I can talk to Benson about shit, like I can’t talk to my wife. I know she wanted it, and was as desperate as I was. I just didn’t…feel it.” His voice caught as he struggled to hold in his emotions, and his breathing quickened to pants.
Spinning faster than even he would have thought possible, he pulled Beecher in front of him, and used his body weight, hip to shoulder, to pin him to the glass. His voice dropped, but their faces were so close that it didn’t matter. Still facing the darkness outside, Elliot leaned into the other man’s ear.
“I don’t know what the fuck you and my brother have. I don’t know what it is, I don’t want to know.” He waited, searching for the words that eluded him. “I hear that kid screaming his head off, envying every second he screams, knowing that even here, he screams because some part of him feels something.”
Toby didn’t say anything, just feeling the breathing of the man leaning against him in tandem with his own. He wasn’t a shrink, and this wasn’t in a fucking handbook. “Prison For Dummies, a Ten Step Manual for Coping With Futility.” He almost smiled at the thought, and the last conversation he’d had with Chris flooded back to his senses, a sensory bouquet of reminiscent smells and tastes. His gaze focused somewhere into the shadows of the cell, palms flat against the glass behind him.
“What do you want, Stabler?”
Startled silence, a hitch in breath , and the dance began, sliding on the edge of a knife.
“I don’t want anything.”
“Rule one: Everyone wants something, Elliot, even you.”
His palms left foggy imprints on the glass as the force of his body moving forwards pushed Elliot back, throwing him off balance.
“Rule two: Don’t play with fire.” He squared off, watching Stabler’s face. He gave it two seconds before he closed in. Pushing Elliot back into the wall was far easier than it should’ve been. Chris would’ve been so fucking proud. Beecher could almost see him, smirking his ass off, leaning against the wall.
He closed in. “Rule three: Shut the fuck up.”
Undisclosed Location: Manhattan, FBI safe house, 4:00 a.m.
His skin itched, the collar chafing uncomfortably against his throat. It had almost become second nature to hear the faint metallic ring of the clips and tags behind his neck. He’d learned in no time at all not to struggle against the leash. It had taken slightly longer to learn to walk on all fours carrying a tray. The first time he’d been able to put a full tray at the Sir’s feet, he’d been petted, rubbed behind the ears and allowed some juice.
The marks from Holder’s leash were fading now, faint remnants of itchy scabbed marks on his back. Fourteen marks. One for each mistake. He’d learned, though. There hadn’t been any other mistakes since. The older boys mocked him. None of them was allowed to speak, (for that alone he’d had three marks) but they made their displeasure known all the same.
When one boy failed, they all failed. The Sir had a routine that must never be interrupted, no matter what the circumstance. That was Holder’s job. The man only spoke in sharp commands, and simple gestures of movement, but even a glance was enough to frighten the most reluctant of all of them.
It was unusual to be touched by anyone other than Holder. Every distinct surface had a unique feeling as it dragged against his legs and arms, crawling on the floor. He’d spent the first few days in a miserable shivering state, as the constant feeling of being naked passed.
Working and crawling made the blood flow, made it easier to ignore the chill, ignore the strap behind him, ignore everything else. He’d never cried for the woman who called herself his mother, and he never would. To Christopher, the Sir was his Mother and Father now.
He hadn’t cried since his first arrival here, over three weeks ago, and his sleep was as deep and unbroken as the others. They lay, curled in bunk beds, the only sound the faint clinking of the chains that clipped to the ring at each bedpost. He had his own bunk, with his name carved into a brass plate that gleamed dully over his head.
The slight tug on the leash woke him, and he was awake almost instantly. Startled, he stared into the eyes of one of the oldest boys.
Raul was one of the nicer boys. He had a sweet, sincere face, and had been nice to Chris when he had first arrived. He was the Sir’s personal boy, and he was never far from his side, crouched, on all fours, like a dog. Sometimes, when he had brought trays, he could see the Sir feeding the boy like a dog.
Raul didn’t sleep with the other boys. He had a mat in the Sir’s room, and he rarely came out among them.
He watched in fascinated horror as the boy unclipped his leash and tugged. Holder would be angry. Holder would…Chris had no time to think about any of it. The slack on his leash grew taught, and he struggled to follow.
Follow.
That was the first rule.
Always follow.
Oswald Maximum Security Penitentiary 3:50 a.m.
Their faces were scant inches away from each other. Stabler was doing his best to try to gain control of the situation, and it made Toby smirk to see it. The tic in the other man’s cheek was priceless, and the effort he made not to push Toby away was just as palpable as the movement would have been.
Toby’s voice was low, but he knew the other man heard every word. He stressed each syllable, each word bringing him closer. Their lips were almost touching.
“I can’t tell you what you want. You can’t tell me what you want either, but…” He paused, and his smile was wide. “You can show me.”
Elliot was at war with himself. Every nerve sang with the sensation of heat on his skin. The man was so close to him that all he could see was a sea of blue eyes in his tunnel vision. This was insane, he was insane. It was all fucking insane. His heart was hammering against his chest and his eyes were starting to hurt from staring.
“Leave me the fuck alone, Beecher.”
“Rule Four: If you can’t say something nice…” Teeth smacked against his as Beecher assaulted his mouth, and for the moment, there was no thinking, there was only the feeling. Tongue against tongue, Beecher fucking his mouth like he’d fuck his ass.
Christ.
He didn’t remember the feeling of shoving the man away, hard, feeling the rush inward of cool air against his skin. He didn’t remember pulling himself down in his bunk and curling against the wall, either.
Shutting his eyes, he willed away the only sound that penetrated, as Beecher’s laughter followed him into sleep.
~~~
The little psycho was going to drive him up a fucking wall. He’d had enough nights of Cyril screaming in his sleep to be used to waking up out of a sound sleep, but this was a fucking nightmare.
Jumping down from the bunk as the sounds ripped into his dreams, he was only half awake when he slapped a hand over Miguel’s mouth to try to cut of the noise.
Big Mistake.
Strong hands grabbed for his throat and arms, as sharp teeth sank into the flesh of his hand. Cursing under his breath, he yanked his hand away as man underneath his body bared his teeth in a feral grimace. Alvarez’ eyes were open but unseeing, and his pupils were small and dark, dancing wildly, unfocused.
His open palm slapped hard across Miguel’s cheek, earning him a foot in the thigh and a low rumbling growl for his pain. The eyes were still glassy in sleep, and the growling mouth twisted into a snarl. This time, his fist connected with bone as he slammed solidly into Miguel’s cheekbone, making the other man’s head snap back against the bunk.
The eyes slowly blinked, and focused on him, as the pupils widened and dilated normally. His breathing hitched, and a trail of blood stained saliva oozed from the corner of his mouth as Alvarez struggled to breathe normally. The panic, and the adrenaline of the struggle were still fresh in his system, and he began to pant, fighting for oxygen.
“Don’t you wheeze out on me now, you little shit. I haven’t gotten a decent fucking night of sleep since you got here. Last fucking thing I need is you dying in the bunk. Won’t even give me the time of day before they toss my ass in the Hole, and add another lifer onto my shit. Breathe, Goddamn it!”
Climbing onto the bunk, he shoved his back against the wall, legs spread wide. Pulling Alvarez up and into his chest, he rolled the man’s head back against his shoulder, muttering under his breath.
“Breathe, Miguel, just relax, feel me breathe. Can you feel me breathing? Come on, can you feel me breathing?”
Miguel nodded imperceptibly, breathing evening just a bit as he fought to control the burning pressure in his chest.
“¡Respire, Miguel, Relaje!” He made “shhing” noises in the other man’s ear, and every other comforting sound he could think of.
Gradually, the pressure faded, and Miguel’s heartbeat slowed as the pressure faded and his breathing evened. Choking slightly on the blood in his mouth, he swallowed it down.
“Your accent sucks, O’Reilly.” Feeling the other man tense behind him, he hastened to add, “Thanks, man. I haven’t had that shit happen since I was like, 15, or something.”
“Anything to shut your ass up. You were screaming again.”
Miguel ducked his head against his chest. “Sorry ‘bout that shit.”
Ryan gripped his hair and pulled his head back against his shoulder. “Keep it like this for another ten minutes or so. You need to keep your airway open so that you can make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Miguel twisted slightly, trying to angle his head to see Ryan’s face. “How’d you know what to do? You have asthma or something?”
O’Reilly shook his head. “Nah. Not me. My mom did though. My father, he was a real asshole. She was fucked for a while, always having these breathing fits until we found out about the cancer. But he’d come home, all hung over, and he’d start bitching about some shit or whatever. Anyway, sometimes he got so bad that he’d smack her around, and she’d collapse, crawling away from him, trying to breathe. Second time it happened, I brought her to the free-health clinic, and one of the nurses there showed me how to help her if it happened again. She gave me an inhaler for her too.”
Miguel didn’t respond. He really didn’t know how to answer that. Rolling his head back to expose his airway, he concentrated on mimicking Ryan’s deep, even breaths.
Closing his eyes, Ryan tipped his head back and tried to ignore the man sitting in his lap. He’d definitely said more than he’d wanted to say, that was sure. Annoyed with himself, he made a mental note to tell Miguel to ask Gloria for an inhaler tomorrow. Realizing he was lulling himself into sleep with the breathing and the warm weight on top of him, he opened his eyes, intending to shove Alvarez away and crawl back into his bunk. He eyes met the column of Miguel’s throat, the beating pulse barely visible under the skin. Miguel still smelled of sweat and fear, but there was something else there, musky and strangely inviting.
Fuck NO.
He was NOT going to go there. The last thing he needed was Alvarez in his brain, under his skin, like Gloria. Their skin had that same rich smell. He could almost imagine her, on her knees, blowing him. He looked down to watch her, and he saw Miguel instead, cocoa eyes smirking at him as he sucked Ryan off.
Moving on instinct, he gripped his inner thigh hard with his nails, enough to bruise. It worked, but just barely as Alvarez opened his eyes to stare at him. The concern on his face was enough to make him squeeze tighter.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, look, just get the fuck off me.” Ryan bit his cheek, ignoring the rapid flush of blood that was making him giddy.
“Sure man, whatever you want.” Miguel moved, but slowly, cautiously away from Ryan’s lap.
Ryan practically vaulted into the top bunk, pulling his blanket up over himself.
“Alvarez, get a fucking inhaler.”
Oswald Maximum Security Penitentiary 5:35 a.m.
Mornings were a fucking bitch. Each Wednesday the delivery truck guys came with new shipments for the kitchen, and because he’d been “elected,” he met the truck early in the morning, to pack it out before the rest of the fuckers could make their way into the dining hall.
His eyes were gritty and stung, but he moved quickly anyway to warm up. The floor was icy under his feet as he moved slowly towards his trunk. Picking up his shirt, he pulled it on, moving quietly.
Stooping, he leaned over the bottom bunk. Alvarez was wrapped in a cocoon of his own making, tightly curled into himself. His color looked good, and he was breathing normally. At least that was a step in the right direction. Pulling his sweatshirt on, he moved quickly to the door. Catching Murphy’s eye, he waited for the suction of the airlock, and when it came, he slipped outside.
Making his way down to the lower level, he passed the Beecher/Keller pod. Movement caught his eye, and for a moment he stopped to stare as Keller went through a series of military style pushups. Finally realizing he was being observed, Keller stopped, and pushing himself up on one hand, he made eye contact.
“Hey! O’Reilly! Hustle up over there. You’d better get that load packed out before the rest of these assholes wake up.”
Flashing a smile and a quick nod to Keller, Ryan moved to the side hallway that led to the kitchens.
Undisclosed Location: Manhattan, FBI safe house, 5:35 a.m.
If he had been asked later, he wouldn’t have said that it was the sounds that woke him. In fact, the apartment was almost eerily silent. It had taken him more than a few moments to realize that he was awake, and had been for some time. Resigning himself to fate, he’d made his way downtown, and now stood, rather foolishly, he thought, in the small apartment kitchenette, watching Keller cook breakfast.
He’d remembered arriving to the smell of frying eggs and bacon, and was awed to see Chris clad only in a pair of sweatpants, with a towel tucked into the band, muttering to himself about spices.
Keller turned from the stove to throw a disarming smile over his shoulder.
“Hi honey, you’re home.” He smirked. “Want breakfast?”
Dropping his coat and briefcase on the small armchair by the door, Huang eyed him. “Depends on what you’re serving…and if it’ll kill me to eat it.”
Whipping the towel out of his pants, Chris turned back to slide a few pieces of sizzling bacon onto a second plate. Plopping himself into a chair, he gestured at the second plate with his fork. “It’s a bacon and American cheese omlette, with a little fresh grated pepper and salt, and fried bacon and hash browns on the side. As to the second question…” He smirked, and dug in, eating with relish.
George grabbed a plastic knife and fork from the bin on the counter. If the smell had been any indicator, the taste was even more fantastic. Closing his eyes for a moment in appreciation, he turned his attention to the small pile of hash browns on his plate.
“Chris, you don’t have any metal silverware. How did you-?”
Keller pushed back his chair and pushed his plate away. His food was already gone. “It’s an old trick. If you boil the potatoes before you peel them for the hash browns, the skins just slide right off in your hands afterwards. It takes a little longer, but it gets the job done easier.”
He smiled and ate another mouthful. “This is fantastic, Chris, thank you.”
Shrug. “Doesn’t look like the FBI feeds you for shit anyway.”
“It’s one of the job hazards they don’t fill you in on in the Academy.” Waiting for a moment to pass, he ventured forwards. Establishing trust was the key, and it needed baby steps.
“Who taught you how to cook? I may be a doctor, but cooking is beyond me. Following a recipe was just a disaster waiting to happen.”
Chris folded his arms in disdain. “You don’t need a recipe to cook anything. All you need is your tongue and your nose. If it doesn’t taste right, then try something else.” He rolled his eyes. “Bonnie couldn’t cook for shit. I’m surprised she didn’t burn the fucking house down a couple ‘a times. Made no fucking sense…woman’s big like that, she’s gotta like to eat, right? Why the fuck couldn’t she boil water without fucking it up?”
George smiled. Chris had completely ignored the first question. Round two. “It just comes naturally to some. But we all have to learn the basics sometime. Who taught you?”
For a moment, Keller looked blank, and confused, searching for a memory that just wasn’t quite there. Finally, he shrugged again. “Dunno. Natural talent, I guess. You haveta ask Stabler if it runs in the gene pool. Like other things.” This time, he leered.
Huang ignored him. Finishing the last bite, he stood. “I don’t know, but I think it would be interesting to ask sometime.”
Leaning casually against the stove, in a calculated position that cocked one hip forwards, Keller smiled, and his eyes narrowed. “I don’t know, I have the feeling that we’re both…the hands on type.”
This time, George ignored him, and went to pick up his briefcase. “Oh, I’m sure you are,” he muttered.
Oswald Maximum Security Penitentiary 5:42 a.m.
Stacking cans was a bitch, and was usually a boring fucking job. He hid the last two packing boxes under the shelves, and stood up. Grabbing a cigarette from his front pocket, Ryan ducked behind the back shelves to light up. It was a tight fit, but because the ceiling stooped at an odd angle, the shelves were actually a foot or so away from the wall, leaving just enough space to light up, or in Adebisi’s case, get his dick sucked.
The flare from the match was bright, and he studied it for a moment as he sucked the heated smoke into his lungs, rolling the taste in the back of his mouth. Letting the match burn until it almost touched his fingers, he leaned back against the wall and sucked down another drag in contentment. The stealthy noise to his left startled him out of his moment, and his hands went up reflexively. Peering around the corner of the shelf, he saw Pancamo duck his head under a shelf, obviously looking for him.
Crushing the cheery of his cigarette on his heel, he moved to walk out of the space when a second movement caught his eye. Pancamo’s voice echoed in the space, answering the questions of the quieter man to his left.
“O’Reilly’s not here. He probably packed out already. What’s the fucking emergency?”
There was quiet interrogative murmuring.
“Yeah, I’m fucking positive. You said this was a goddamned emergency, and you dragged my ass out of bed to tell me what?”
More murmuring.
Pancamo’s voice pitched lower, but it was still loud enough to hear. “What the fuck are you talking about? I already settled that shit with the rest of the fucking moolies. There’s nothing left. Ginsberg settled his account with us right before he bit it.”
This time the murmuring was urgent, although the words were still intelligible.
“Yeah, I know who he is. He’s sleeping bitch with O’Reilly. Heard his own raped the fuck out of his ass. What the hell does he have to do with it?”
There was a pause, and the low speech went on uninterrupted for several minutes.
Pancamo sounded resigned. “I don’t know. We’ve been hearing rumors pitching ‘bout O’Reilly pragging him out, but Dugan says O’Reilly made it crystal to the Irish that he was a full partner. Personally, I don’t buy it. I think he’s sucking O’Reilly’s dick, and he’s getting protection out of it.”
A short staccato burst of speech followed.
“Yeah, whatever. We’ll get the disk, don’t worry about it. We’ll take care of it and dump him. Io capisco. Non ti preocupare.”
The sounds of double footsteps receding faded, and Ryan slumped against the wall. Pulling out his cigarette, he lit up again. Nothing like a fucking vacation before round two.
TBC...
Thanks so much for the support! Real life has been evil, but I'm happy to be back on my feel writing again! ~ Tara
