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The light streams through the stained glass, flecks of dust catching and drifting in front of his eyes as he waits - impatiently - for his turn in the box.
Last time he’d been here - when Father had gently prodded him into the realization that perhaps for someone like Elliot Stabler, two years is two too many to wait - his confession had been cut short. He’d found himself craving the absolution; albeit short lived, that a true airing of sins could give him.
The creaking of the confessional door echoes through the church; and then it is his turn. The sign of the cross and his knees hit the shortened pew; his mind racing with what he needs to say.
“Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been…two weeks since my last confession. These are my -“
“Good morning, Elliot.” The man on the other side interrupts. “I’m glad to see you back.”
A sardonic chuckle crosses Elliot’s lips.
“Yes, Father - I apologize for cutting the last confession short.”
“The job - well. The job, you know.” Elliot begins again. “Anyways, these are my -“
“Elliot, please let’s um. Let’s put a pin in this for a moment.”
Elliot’s eyebrows rise, as he feels the beginnings of annoyance bubble up inside him. He is here for this, not for a chat. He needs the freedom that this can bring, the relief that telling will allow. Needs to admit yelling at his kids, second guessing his faith; needs to confess to impatience during a call from his mother, impure thoughts about the actress on the late night circuit last night. He doesn’t need to put a pin on anything.
“Let’s take a step out of here, Elliot.” The priest’s voice is soft, firm and unresolved; but patient.
Elliot sighs, gets to his feet. Follows the older man back into the sanctuary. Father slides into a pew, motioning for Elliot to sit next to him. They are silent for a moment before the older man begins to speak.
“Elliot, when you were here last time; you said you kept losing people. Your family, your kids, your - your friends?”
Elliot’s head hangs, his hands clasped together as he hunches over. He nods, not willing to elaborate. This is not why he’s here.
“How are you pushing…these people away, Elliot?”
The priest is astute; keeps calling him by his name so he won’t be tempted to drift away, to let his mind wander from the present; the task at hand.
He wrings his hands. Hesitates before he allows himself to begin. Feels it - whatever it is is; a confession, an admission, an opportunity for admonishment catch in his throat.
“I uh. I get angry, Father. I yell.”
The priest doesn’t speak, allows Elliot to fill in the silence.
“I blame, I push away; I just. I’m angry. I yell,” he repeats the revelation. “It’s like - it’s like it’s the only thing that I can do to - feel…” His pause is long, drawn out. He waits a beat before continuing; takes a shaky breath in. “It’s like it’s the only way I can feel. The only way I feel al-”
His voice is a whisper at the last part.
“Elliot, my son. When do you feel - when do you feel the most? The most alive?”
The rush of images in his conscious is immediate; unbidden and instinctive. It’s the dark of night and the brush of fingers on his arms, eyes meeting and no words needed as they move through a crime scene in silence. It’s the sound of heels clicking down the street, his own footsteps following directly behind. It’s the five o’clock shadow on his face at 3 am, her passing him his fourth cup of coffee as they hunch over a file in the dim light of her desk.
It’s the tenth hour of a stake out and their laughter bordering on hysterical as they listen to Fin and Munch bickering again.
It’s the way his day doesn’t start until she walks through the doors and he feels the slight catch in his heartbeat, his body recognizing something he can’t admit.
It’s the reluctant relief when she emerges from the locker room in work gear, red dress put away, date cancelled, as a case ruins her plans with someone else.
It’s him watching her through the glass, her voice changed as she holds the victim through their pain, soft and solid and the pride he feels in those moments, knowing that she’s his partner, his alone; and that their names run together whenever anyone speaks of the other.
It’s the fights in the hall; the only way to exorcise the feelings bubbling over; his heart pounding in his chest as he tries to push her away; compartmentalize her into something; anything that makes some form of sense. Anything but whatever this feeling has become; this steady knowledge of partners and stability and knowing what to expect from each other disappearing as he fights back against something unexplainable and visceral; something in the marrow of their bones that they can’t stop. It’s a freight train roaring at them and suddenly; he sees it. It clocks him in the face, and her leaving makes sense; he hates it - but the only way to bury this, to bottle it up and put a cork in it and throw it in the fucking ocean is for them to be apart. She can’t do this if he can’t do this and he definitely - he definitively cannot do this.
“Elliot?”
The soft voice of the man next to him brings him back to the moment; the reason he’d come here today.
“I, uh -“
He cannot confess this; whatever this is or whatever it isn’t - because it isn’t something he can sit in a pew here at his family church and confess away. This isn’t something he can even admit in the darkest spaces of his mind, let alone out loud to his God.
“I got a call, Father. I have to go.” The excuse is flimsy, overused; but Elliot doesn’t look back as he slides out of the pew, kneeling to make the sign of the cross one more time before he flees.
This is it. This is done. This is six feet underground for both of them. Bury it, and move on.
It’s the only way.