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January 30th, 1977
As the belt painted stripes across his small back, he swore to himself that no one would ever have to know. He was sure of it – he could hide this pain forever, carry this burden on his own. He was almost more afraid of someone finding out than he actually was of it. Of him.
The buckle caught on his skin and a tear slipped down his cheek, despite his best efforts. He tried to wipe it away before his father saw but it was too late. ‘Weak.’ ‘Pathetic.’ ‘Stupid.’ ‘Worthless.’ The words rained down, the blows more painful than anything else as they cemented the physical wounds deep into his soul.
Eventually, his father walked away, leaving a ten-year-old Elliot Stabler crumpled in a fetal position on the kitchen floor. Somehow, his father just walking away hurt worse. The tension in his chest couldn’t reconcile the emptiness, the void. His young heart was torn in two by a need for affection, love for his father, and fear of him, shame for what he had done to incur his wrath. He slammed his small fist into the floor, a punishment for the childish part of him that wished his father would return, scoop him off the floor, clean his cuts… care. That would never happen. It was the way things were. Who would dare defy his fate? He wasn’t the person that got cared for, he was the person that cared for everyone else. And he had failed. But if he had done nothing, he still would have failed. Maybe he was doomed to this life: fails if he does, fails if he doesn’t. He was a failure no matter what.
He sniffled, swallowed the blood in his mouth, and pushed his aching body off the floor. He shoved down his desire to cry, to feel safe. He squished the ache in his chest until it turned into solid anger. Anger was heavier, but it was fuel. It kept him standing, fighting. He couldn’t imagine a life where he didn’t have to fight to survive, so he figured he didn’t have a problem.
Nobody had to know.
***
October 15th, 2022
Now? He thinks, frustrated.
Things have been good, lately. Solid. Calm.
He doesn’t know what to do with it. After Wheatley is gone, he struggles, falling into a near-depressive state for a few weeks. His mission is over and ultimately, it isn’t enough. He had known it wouldn’t be fulfilling, wouldn’t offer him peace, but he tries anyway. There’s nothing left to do but mourn. To sit and to feel everything that happened. So he does.
He feels the hurricane of emotions from the night someone precious was taken from him while another was returned, his greatest loss and greatest gift passing by each other in such a short window of time. He still doesn’t understand it. Maybe he never will. Kathy was there and then she was gone. He was gone and then he was home. Olivia had appeared as suddenly as Kathy had disappeared, and the different, overwhelming emotions attributed to each life-altering event nearly tore his mind apart. But he felt it, talked about it, and processed it. He healed as best he could.
Now everything is good, with his family, with Olivia. Everything is calm and quiet. Everything is safe. But he has searched his soul, trying to find the root of the different emotions he’s feeling, and he should have known better. Not only has he awakened pain that he didn’t want to deal with, but he’s currently in an environment where he can’t hide from it. Can’t distract himself or cover it up. He doesn't have to fight anymore. As soon as his life began to calm, he began to feel dread, fear surfacing from deep within him.
As he has poked and prodded his other scars so they could heal, he has unwittingly aggravated others, ones he had intended to keep buried and hidden forever. But suddenly, a very familiar weight surfaces in his chest, heavier than it has ever been.
He has stopped sleeping after the third nightmare in a row, a nightmare he hasn’t had in well over a decade. Hasn’t had consistently since his teenage years. But now he can’t seem to shake it. He grows restless and impatient, desperately trying to maintain appearances. They’re fine, finally. You can’t mess that up again just ‘cause you had a sad childhood. They deserve better. He refuses to fail them again. He won’t surrender to this weight he carries now. There’s a good chance the pillars of the earth will crumble if he does.
Yet here he stands, in the middle of a store next to Olivia, staring down at the sketchbook in his hands, tears in his eyes as flashbacks momentarily steal him away from the present. He tells his soul to suck it up and it has answered him with a resounding ‘no.’ Olivia eyes him, concerned.
She knows he had a fucked up childhood. Has always known, really. In their partnership, it wasn’t something they had sat around and discussed. ‘Close to the vest’ felt like a major understatement to Olivia. The topic of his parentage hadn’t come up as much on the job as hers had, at least not that he showed. She knew nothing at all about Bernie until the eleventh year of their partnership. Mentions of his father were few and far between, totaling to three; each one seemed to be carefully-selected, happy, shallow memories. The way he spoke of them was like he was cautiously treading through an intricate maze of broken glass. Half an inch in the wrong direction and the fragile illusion would be shattered, the monstrous truth rising up unsolicited, swinging before he was prepared to withstand its blows.
She knows the feeling. Despite their mutual struggle of verbal expression, she thinks from the moment she met him, something in her innately knew. Maybe because of how closed off he was. The broken child in her saw him and was drawn out from her hiding place. Chocolate eyes had met crystal blue and “ You’re like me” reverberated between them. A fierce desire to protect each other had formed instantaneously, “ no more” being the sentiment behind it.
However, on some level, she had always believed her upbringing to have been more harsh. But perhaps hers was just easier to define. Alcoholic, absent rapist… there wasn’t truly a need for further elaboration on those descriptions; who they were and what they did to her was implied. She stands beside him now wondering if she has gravely underestimated the reality of his youth; she just had less of a struggle acknowledging it, expressing it. She recognizes the look on his face. This is about his father. About something bad enough to trigger a flashback. She’s stood witness to thousands of disclosures – of all kinds – throughout her career. And yet, she sees the depth of pain in his gaze and finds herself terrified of what horrors he might confess to having survived. Because it’s him. It’s him and it’s a time she wasn’t there to protect him. Despite it being one of their shared burdens, she would do anything to remove it from him. Her heart aches to wrap itself around his, ensuring no more harm can be done and healing any that had already been inflicted on him.
“El?” she tries, softly. He blinks once, eyes slowly refocusing, then looking up to her, startled.
“Sorry, I uh –” He shakes his head, sniffles. “I just…” He huffs out a self-deprecating laugh. “I wanted one of these once. Used to draw,” he mumbles, almost wistfully.
Her eyebrows furrow. “Your father said ‘no?’” She asks, hoping it was that simple. He smiles sadly, keeping his gaze focused downwards.
“Yeah, I’m sure ‘no’ was in there somewhere. Said he wasn’t wastin’ money on me.” Her heart pings, recognizing the words from her own childhood. “Turned into a rant, turned into…” He trails off, pulls his lips into a tight smile and shrugs. “Yeah, I never got it. It was a bad day. I don’t know why I even asked,” he says, attempting to be nonchalant about it. My fault, not his, his brain adds, still unable to see his father in a villainous light. On this matter, his perception has remained that of a traumatized ten-year-old. She doesn’t need to know that. How pathetic you are. He turns to see her pained expression as she sees straight through his attempts to mask the raw truth. He shakes his head and unceremoniously drops the book back onto the shelf. “Doesn’t matter. C’mon. What did Noah want, again?”
***
She tries to let it go. She really does. But she is Olivia Benson, and letting anything Elliot-Stabler-related go is a futile and naive effort. So, here she stands, on his back porch, an empty sketchbook and pack of pencils in hand. The damp, cool night warns her of the precipice she is on, the significance of the discussion she wants to have. Decades later, he has yet to acknowledge it in its whole. He’d rather it stay buried, rather lug it around his whole life than retrieve it for closer inspection. But his soul will never quite settle unless he confronts it. This, she knows, having learned it for herself only a few months ago.
It was wrong, it was done to you, it’s not your fault, you have nothing to be ashamed of. It’s over and you’re safe. She repeats the same mantra she’s used since the truth about Burton was revealed, only this time she applies it to Elliot’s hidden hurt. This is the truth she needs him to see tonight.
She takes a breath and raps her knuckle against the glass pane. It’s the day after his birthday. She had not wanted to taint last night with a subject matter as heavy as this, even if it results in healing (assuming all goes according to plan, anyway).
He emerges from his bedroom in dark gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt, a neutral expression on his face as he pulls the door open. She studies his face in the silence that follows. He looks tired, the kind of tired that has an unshakable depth to it. His eyes flick down to the sketchbook in her hands, and he gives her a bittersweet smile. She holds it up to him, shrugging.
“You really think you could confess to a hidden talent and get away without showing me?” she asks quietly, playfully. He huffs out a laugh and takes the gift, hands gently brushing over hers.
“Thanks, Partner,” he whispers, holding the sketchbook and accompanying set of charcoal pencils like they’re precious gold.
He steps aside and she gracefully maneuvers past him, shutting the door softly as she does. She takes a seat at the corner of the island, shrugging out of her coat. She pulls the sleeves of her thin, white cardigan up and leans on her forearms, hands wrapped around either elbow. Elliot stands at the other corner, finally setting his gifts down. He mirrors her posture, eyes flicking up to meet hers, a fragile expression on his face.
“So?” he asks, quietly. She nods.
“So…” She takes a breath. “Tell me, Elliot.”
He swipes his tongue over his teeth, trying to quell his immediate instinct to fight against her implication. Respond, don’t react , he thinks. “Tell you what?” he asks quietly. He’s not trying to be difficult, but he genuinely doesn’t know where to start. Everything in him just wants to run. He’s never quite felt fear like this before; his heart’s pounding and his breathing’s already shaky from the effort to suppress his flight or fight. The urge to freeze is sneaking up on him.
She sighs and places her left hand tentatively over both of his. He’s grateful for the warmth. “About your father. About what he did that’s been upsetting you. Whether it was a specific event or…”
He takes a deep breath in, shoulders tensing, jaw setting. His eyes are fixed on the counter in front of him. He shakes his head, opening and closing his mouth a few times. “Liv, I – I can’t – ” Tears begin to build along with his frustration.
“When I was eight years old, I had to go to my neighbor in the middle of the night and ask her to help me get glass out of my scalp,” she blurts out, her tone borderline detached.
Elliot’s eyes whip up to search her teary ones. A mixture of heartache and rage flood his features, and his hands open to hold hers.
“I tried for hours to get it out myself, but there was some I couldn’t reach.” She sniffles and his heart cracks. “Was just pushing it deeper. My mother was passed out on the couch at that point so I went next door. The neighbor was this old lady. She barely spoke English, mostly Russian, so we had talked before. Took me an hour to work up the courage to knock on the door and ask for help. I didn’t want anyone to know, but it was her or the school nurses the next day. Thankfully, she didn’t ask questions. Just cleaned me up and sent me home.”
She looks up at Elliot. “I said something to set my mother off. I figured I deserved it.” Her eyes blaze pointedly. “Do you think it was my fault?” she asks, gently but firmly. Tears fill his eyes and he looks back to his spot on the counter.
She squeezes his hand. “Tell me… El. Just whatever you can.”
He can feel her eyes pleading with him, even as he keeps his gaze downcast. She’s already seen the darkest parts of him, but the prospect of saying this out loud puts a knot in his stomach. He feels the overwhelming urge to pull his knees up to his chest, protectively, to allow for some sense of security. He lets out a nervous laugh and swipes at his nose, hating how close he feels to that scared, desperate little boy curled up on the kitchen floor. It’s close enough that he feels the two versions of himself occupying the same space in his chest. The notion of everything he should be slips away as the tattered, hidden pieces of his soul are called to the surface by their counterpart. He’s painfully aware that these pieces of himself cannot withstand another blow. But if she truly wants them, he’ll hand them over.
His tear-filled eyes focus on their entwined hands, finding some semblance of reassurance in that. He holds her hand tighter as he finds his voice, clearing it first. “Ya know, there was this one time…” He sniffles and shifts his weight. “...he got home from work. And he was bad. I just knew it was a bad day.” He figures she’ll understand from her own experience what that means and his suspicion is confirmed when he sees her nod in his peripheral vision.
“I tried not to leave him alone on days like that. ‘Cause if one of my siblings did something stupid to upset him, I could usually get away with doin’ somethin’ bigger to get him mad at me instead.”
She closes her eyes, her heart clenching as she remembered all the times he had done the same to protect her. With perps, with the brass, even Cragen… He continues on.
“My little brother had left his shoe on the floor.” His voice broke and dropped to a whisper so he could carry on. “Dad tripped. And we all froze. He grabbed my brother by the collar ‘n lifted him into the air. I didn’t know if he was gonna hit ‘im or throw ‘im, but either way, he was too tiny.”
His accent becomes thicker as he recounts the story and she pulls her lips into a tight smile. He lifts his eyes to hers, briefly. “He was six,” he tells her, as if trying to justify his actions. Brow furrowing in pain, Liv nods for him to continue.
“So I put all my weight into it. Which wasn’t much,” he chuckles. “And I hit my dad.” His voice breaks again, with guilt and shame. “I hit ‘im as hard as I could. That did it,” he says with a finality in his voice.
He sniffles again and looks up to see tears of fury and pain swirling in her kind eyes. “That did what, El?” she asks softly, straining to keep her own voice from breaking.
He shrugs. “Got ‘im to let my brother go. He was fine. Told him to run to his room and he did.” She sighs, knowing he’s deflecting.
“And you?” she whispers.
Tears immediately fill his eyes as his face twists in pain and he drops his head again, shaking. Olivia sniffles and reaches out to cup his face with both hands, lifting him up as she silently tries to convey that he has nothing to be ashamed of. He keeps his eyes down, feeling too raw, too exposed, too dirty to look at her.
“What about you, El?” Her voice breaks..
He takes a shuddering breath in, his chest tightening. He lets out a humorless laugh, a last ditch effort to shrug it off and put on a brave face. Be a man , his father’s voice echoes in his head. He shakes off the misguided sentiment.
She patiently waits for him to regain the ability to speak, soothing her thumbs gently across his cheekbones as if trying to heal an invisible wound. His mouth twists into a humorless smile.
“I had to sleep on my stomach for a few weeks,” he confesses, trying and failing to mask his hurt with a detached tone. Her hands instinctively drop to his shoulders, protectively. He leans into it, letting the safety of her touch melt down his back, washing away the phantom sting of his father’s belt and leaving a forcefield in its wake.
“It wasn’t like that all the time,” he says, defensively. “It got worse when Mama was gone. But… maybe once a month,” he whispers.
“Elliot,” she whispers as a few tears fall down her face on his behalf.
“‘T’stopped after I met Kathy,” he says, a small, grateful smile crossing his features. “I went over to her house one day… her mom saw the bruises on my wrist, jaw… sometimes I didn’t hide it ‘cause no one really bothered anyway. Figured I just got into a fight, but not her. She went to speak to my dad, even though I begged her not to. I don’t know what she said but it stopped.” He gives a watery-chuckle. “That woman hated me.” Liv spares a smile, remembering tales of his relationship with his mother-in-law. “But she saved me. Didn’t even know, not really.” She nods and he sniffles.
His eyes finally flick upward to hold her gaze. They are pure, crystal clear blue, lighter than she’s ever seen them. An adoring smile finds its way across her features and her hands move to the back of his head. She pulls him forward and kisses away his tears, even as a few more slide down at the gesture. She peppers kisses along his jawline and pulls him into a fierce hug. Her arms wrap firmly around his shoulders as she rubs her hands up and down his back, replacing the burdens inflicted on him with a loving touch. His right hand cradles her head and he anoints her with small kisses across her scalp in an attempt to return the gesture. She shifts so her arms are around his waist, her hands making their way beneath his shirt and continuing to soothe over his skin. He exhales, shakily, and melts further into her arms, nuzzling into her shoulder.
Later that night, he draws a picture of a girl with stars glittering in her hair instead of broken glass.