![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drsquidloveSomeone Like You
by Dr Squidlove
drsquidlove @@@ livejournal.com
Oz/Law & Order: SVU crossover
Tobias Beecher's trying to rebuild his family in the shadow of the man he was in prison. Elliot Stabler's struggling to continue in the wake of divorce while his job eats away at his soul. It makes for an odd friendship, but it works.
Beecher/Stabler, Beecher/anonymous fucks, a living history of Beecher/Keller and Elliot Stabler/Kathy Stabler.
Just to be super-clear, this is not a WIP. It's done. It is complete, and unless I get hit by a bus, it will be posted every week to the end. Mostly twice a week, but at least once.
Rated R for violence and explicit references to sexual violence.
Post-Oz. Splits off in season 7 of SVU: Elliot's divorce is in the works, Olivia's his partner, he's cleaned up Katheen's DUI.
Wordcount this post: 5165
Full headers are on chapter 1.
Oz is the property of Tom Fontana and HBO. Law & Order: SVU is the property of Dick Wolf and NBC. The characters are used without permission, but with much appreciation.
Someone Like You
chapter 2: No vices left
by Dr Squidlove
Previously, in chapter 1, A magical copy:
Toby was headed back to his favourite cheap-sex destination when he discovered it had been turned into a crime scene, attended by a detective who was the spitting image of his dead lover. The next morning he went in to give information to the clone, one Detective Elliot Stabler. Toby's information was mildly useful, but his years in prison and his little red dress ruled him out as a star witness.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Toby stared at his reflection: a sad, aging man in a dress. Disgust burned in his stomach. He could feel Chris in the room like he was standing behind him, sneering at Toby the bitch.
Toby sneered right back. You've got a mystical twin, Chris. You're not so special after all.
Detective Stabler was a model citizen with a tie and a wedding ring, probably had pictures of his kids in his wallet, too perfect to be real. Tobias Beecher used to be too perfect to be real, too. Maybe the good detective was on his fourth or fifth marriage. Maybe he was a gambling addict. Toby scraped his imagination for scandalous vices, but he couldn't think of any others he hadn't dabbled in himself.
He picked the eye shadow up off the sink, blended greys and blues to make the gays in Oz proud. He wondered if they'd cleaned Leo's blood off the floor of the stall where he died. Toby was ludicrously grateful he'd never had sex with Leo Markstrom. Another marker on the crazy-meter: he was more comfortable being fucked by a murderer than another murder victim, where his imagination might latch onto the idea of Chris hunting his lovers from the afterlife.
You think I'd care who you fucked now, Toby? Looking like this?
Yeah, Toby thought. You'll always care.
Toby had envisioned Chris waiting for him at the gates of heaven whether Toby wanted him to or not, like a final, inevitable obstacle to ever-lasting peace. Toby had thought he had the rest of his life to gather the strength to turn him away. He hadn't been prepared to find him sooner.
A dash of blush to highlight his cheekbones - lovely cheekbones, he'd been told, by some drag queen who'd clucked in disapproval at his amateurish work and dragged her glittered fingernail along the lines the brush was supposed to follow.
Toby had expected to be overwhelmed when he walked into the station today. He'd tried not to let himself believe he'd magnified the resemblance, but he'd still had to brace himself against the door when he saw Chris hunched at the desk on the phone, frowning down at his tapping pen. In a shirt and tie, sleeves rolled up to his elbows to show off muscled forearms. Toby had wanted to tell the detective everything: how lonely the last years of prison had been without him, how he was still trying hard to forgive him for dying.
He'd wanted to ask why he left Toby behind.
Toby squeezed the lipstick in his hand. He was just missing red for that pretty mouth.
He'd savoured the humiliation today when he told Stabler he'd been dressed like this last night. Like the sharp burn of tequila, shame that stretched all the way from his toes and the tips of his fingers to raise the hairs on his scalp. He'd hoped for more of a reaction, but the detective had taken it like business as usual. It probably was in his line of work. He hadn't called him a bitch or shoved him into a wall or told him Vern got it right.
Chris could sit across a table and feign indifference, pretend to be someone else altogether, but they'd played that game before. It just took time and patience, and maybe a stabbing or an old friend threatening to flip for the FBI, and everything would be good again.
That wasn't me, Tobe. I'm dead, remember? You wanted me out of your life so I left you alone.
Bullshit, Toby thought. You left me standing on that balcony so I could never get away.
He leaned close to the mirror and laid a careful line of Scarlet Siren Gloss along his bottom lip, traced along the bow of his top lip, straightened and checked his reflection. This was how he defied Chris now.
As the interview rolled to its end, Toby had waited with tingling fingers for the moment when Stabler would tell him to call if he thought of anything else and hand over his card. Toby put down the lipstick and picked up the business card off the sink, turned it over in his fingers. Detective Olivia Benson. A phone number and an e-mail address. This was as close as he could get. For Stabler Toby had been nothing but a barely useful lead, forgotten the moment the paperwork was done.
Toby had thought he'd be okay when he got out. And he was, most of the time. The work of rejoining the world and the pressure of appearing okay for his family and the joy of being with Holly had kept Chris in the background, like the sharp ache of arthritis. Toby had a life to rebuild, a family to repair. He had a job and all the resources and distractions a parolee could wish for. He had all the freedoms he'd waited eight years to savour and it was only when he crawled into his cold bed that he wanted to drag Chris back into the world to remind him that he'd stolen all of these things away. And he wanted Chris to curl up behind him, and tell him to get the fuck over it.
And so Toby had gone looking for more distractions. It was almost surprising how easy it was for a lost ex-con to find Franco's, home of a thousand anonymous fucks. A loser addict by night, backsliding in carefully-controlled portions, but he'd kept himself afloat by day, another justice system success story right up until he found Chris was alive and well in Manhattan, and the ache had exploded into blazing need, tangled and raw.
Toby's cock didn't want to hear about the shortcomings of Elliot Stabler. When the Martin Miller's London Dry ran out, you made do with Gordon's.
Even with the sting of two and a half years tacked on by Chris's scheming, with the lingering grime of the deaths of Vern Schillinger and all the Aryans on his conscience, Toby had stared across the table at Detective Stabler and he'd wanted, like a dog eyeing a bone. He'd wanted to know if the detective would know how to make Toby feel anything like the jumbling whirl of emotions Chris had ripped out of him. Or if he'd just let Toby drag him into a back room and blow him, or if he'd be willing to parrot all the apologies and promises of love Toby needed to hear. It seemed unlikely.
He laid down the card and stared at the man in the mirror. That suit he'd worn today, that was the stranger. But this weakling, this absurdity in a dress, Toby knew exactly who he was. Toby could take him out, just be him for the night.
It seemed unlikely that Toby was going to find that same numb pleasure in the anonymous dregs of the meatpacking district when something that walked and talked like Chris was within groping distance.
He'd given up alcohol, cocaine, heroin and Chris Keller, and now the sweet bitter rush of climbing into a dress and going out to get fucked up the ass had been soured by murder and a morning explaining himself to Chris's law-abiding twin. Toby didn't know what he'd been looking for in all those dank bathroom stalls, but he hadn't found it.
He turned around and wrenched the shower to hot, stripped the dress over his head.
There were no vices left.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"Are you trying to offend everybody today, or did O'Halloran and Warner just have it coming?"
"She screwed up."
"It was a preliminary diagnosis."
Elliot clamped his jaw shut. If Warner had been clearer about that, they could have saved themselves a day. He pushed his way into the building, let Olivia catch the door behind him.
"What's eating you?"
"People who can't do their jobs."
Olivia cocked an eyebrow, and Elliot shut his mouth. Warner should have been clearer.
She left it alone as they headed back to the elevator.
Elliot rubbed warmth into his hands. What was eating him was seeing Kathy come down the stairs last night, all dressed up, startling like a deer in headlights when she saw Elliot in the kitchen. As if she didn't know Elliot was coming to pick up Kathleen and the twins, as if she wasn't deliberately sticking it in his face that she was going out to dinner with another man. And then she blamed him for being there at six-thirty.
It wasn't like it was the first time he'd shown up early to pick up his kids; his work hours changed, so he came when he could. Was he supposed to drive laps around the neighbourhood until seven? Why wouldn't he be pissed?
And Kathy had given it right back, bitter words spat both ways until Kathy grabbed her coat and slammed out and Elliot was left standing amongst kitchen cabinets he'd installed himself, by the table where he and Kathy had taught the kids their manners, still wearing his wedding ring as his ex-wife went on a date. He'd never noticed when she stopped wearing hers.
Elliot could feel Olivia's sideways looks in the elevator, but he kept his eyes trained on the doors and wished her into silence. He'd been a prick. He knew it, but all he'd been able to see were the earrings he gave Kathy for the twins' birth, casually thrown on to seduce another man.
Dinner with Kathleen and the twins had been cold and awkward, his and Kathy's yelling still echoing in their ears. Elliot had resisted the urge to interrogate them about who this guy was, when Kathy started dating, how often. None of them would have been on his side. Kathleen had never made it a secret that she blamed Elliot for the divorce, and Elizabeth had taken her lead. Dickie didn't give anything away. He wished Maureen had been there: she wouldn't take his side either, but she didn't seem to be carrying Kathleen's resentment.
He couldn't help hoping Kathy's night out was just as ruined as his. Elliot hadn't even thought about dating. He hadn't started making plans for the future that didn't involve his wife and his kids, one family. He touched his ring, turned it around his finger. The paperwork was trundling along, but he hadn't made plans to take this off.
The doors opened and Olivia led the way out. "You need to get out of the house, Elliot. Make some friends."
"You want me to start dating?"
She rolled her eyes. "Why don't you just start with making some friends? Look, I don't have any plans tonight. You want to go for drinks after work? Practise having a social life?"
He could live without the sarcasm, but drinks with Liv sounded a hell of a lot better than going back to that empty apartment. "You sure you can put up with me?"
It was the closest he could get to an apology, but she smiled to show she knew that was what it was. "Since that case is going back to homicide, we can get back to the Leo Markstrom case."
Elliot held back his sigh. They had nothing but dead ends. "You want to re-interview?"
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Olivia skimmed the file in her lap. "Beecher used to be a lawyer."
Elliot flipped the indicator to turn onto Atlantic Avenue. "Criminal law?"
"Doesn't say, but it was his second DUI. The first one he pleaded off on a technicality, never even paid a fine. His victim was an eight year-old girl. I'd say that's why the judge went for the max. DUI, vehicular manslaughter, four to fifteen. Looks like he wasn't a model prisoner. Served eight years, paroled six weeks ago."
"You really think he's got more information?"
"He was holding something back."
Elliot thought so too; he just wasn't sure it was about their killer. He suspected Beecher kept a lot of things back, but it was worth a try. They were out of leads.
"Take the next left; should be number thirty-two."
Elliot pulled up in front of an old brownstone, recently remodelled and turned into apartments. Standard for Park Slope. Elliot flipped up his collar against the wind as he climbed the front steps to the glass door, still littered with Halloween decals. He hit the buzzer.
"Hello?" crackled Beecher's voice.
"This is Detective Stabler. I was wondering if I could come up and ask you a few more questions."
There was a long pause, enough time for Elliot and Olivia to exchange a look.
"I'll be right down."
Another look passed between them. That was a sure sign there was something to hide. A minute passed, another. Olivia asked, "You think he's crawling out a window?" just as feet appeared on the stairs, Beecher coming into view through the glass. A look passed over his face when he saw them.
He was wearing jeans and a grey pullover, hair quickly combed, glasses gone. Nothing of the expensive suit from the other day and no women's clothes, but he didn't look like an ex-con either. He looked ordinary. He could have been a school teacher, or an off-duty cop. Or a guy who worked in real estate.
Beecher opened the door, focused completely on Elliot. "Detectives-"
Olivia jumped in. "Thanks for seeing us."
He threw her an irritated glance. "I told you what I knew. I talked to the sketch-artist."
"We just have a few follow-up questions, Mr Beecher."
"This really isn't a good time."
"Would you rather we dragged you back to the precinct?"
There was a look of betrayal in his eyes as he turned to Elliot. "Are you arresting me?"
Olivia held her ground. "It would only take a couple of calls-"
Something moved behind him and they were forgotten, Beecher's face softening as he looked down into the wide blue eyes of a girl who couldn't have been more than nine years old, pale skin, blonde hair pulled back in a long ponytail, slinking out the door and clutching his shirt. Beecher had a daughter? And they'd just threatened to drag her ex-con father away in front of her. Great.
He bobbed down to look up at her and put a hand around her waist. "Holly, these are friends of mine." He glared up at them, a look in his eye that dared them to contradict him. "This is my friend Olivia, and this is Elliot."
Elliot and Olivia both smiled at her, but she only burrowed closer to Beecher. It was regressive behaviour for a nine year-old. Elliot leaned down. "Nice to meet you, Holly. How old are you?"
She looked to her father, and Elliot paid closer attention still.
"You can tell him."
Holly bit her lip. "Ten."
Beecher swept his daughter's hair out of her face, a move Elliot might have made with his own. "Good girl. Sweetheart, Elliot and Olivia came to visit because they need my help with something. I need to talk with Elliot." She clung tighter, but Beecher pretended not to notice. "But you know, somebody told me that Olivia loves cookies."
Olivia ran with it, gave Holly a coy smile. "Somebody let my secret out."
"Maybe you could take her upstairs, offer her a taste of the ones we made yesterday?"
"You baked cookies? What kind?" Olivia asked.
Barely loud enough to hear, Holly replied, "Chocolate coconut."
"That sounds delicious. I would love to try your cookies, Holly."
Holly gave Olivia a long stare, looking deadly serious.
Beecher gave Holly a nudge. "It's okay. Promise."
Holly finally nodded and went inside. When Olivia moved to follow her, as she slipped past Beecher he caught her wrist. Too tight - Elliot tensed, but Olivia just looked him in the eye, warning. Beecher ignored it. "With your job, you must interview a lot of traumatised kids."
"I do."
Beecher glanced the way his daughter had gone. "She's one."
Olivia nodded once, and Beecher let her go. Elliot didn't doubt she'd take a good look around while she was up there.
Beecher stepped out, right into Elliot's personal space, a hand settling on Elliot's bicep. "Do you mind having this conversation out here? I'd rather have neighbours watch than any chance of Holly overhearing."
"Sure." Elliot edged back until Beecher's hand fell away. He'd never imagined the guy might have a kid. The gentle father he'd just seen didn't jive with the self-deprecating man he'd met a few days ago, and it definitely didn't fit with the promiscuous transvestite witness. What the hell was the guy thinking, going to places like that when he had a kid at home?
Beecher moved a few steps down and leaned against the rail, wrapping his arms against the cold, probably wishing he'd thrown on a jacket. Elliot joined him. He would have preferred to take this inside, but if talking on the front stoop with a wind-chill put Beecher off guard, so be it. At least Elliot had a proper coat.
"Can I ask what happened to your daughter?"
"She was kidnapped when she was six." Beecher stared him right in the eye as he said it, didn't shift around in guilt like most parents of victims.
Elliot looked back to the door, wondered if Olivia was getting the details. "I'm sorry." Poor kid. No wonder she clung. Four years ago: it would have been while Beecher was inside. It must have been hell on him. The daughter was going to be the key to connecting with Beecher, so Elliot pushed a little more. "How is she doing?"
"She doesn't trust strangers. She has nightmares, but not like she used to."
"Time can make a big difference."
"It has."
"Do you mind me asking about her mother?"
"Dead."
"I'm sorry." Elliot searched for a way to ask, wondered if this was even relevant-
"Yes, I was married to her mother. A long and very heterosexual marriage."
Elliot shut his mouth. He had trouble believing that, but he needed to get some ground back. "It must be hard, doing it on your own."
"She's the only part of this that isn't hard." A faint smile touched his eyes, and it transformed his whole face, made him handsome. "My last couple of years inside, I didn't think about anything but making up the years I'd lost as a father. Nothing was getting in the way of getting home to my family." Talking about Holly made him forget whatever else was on his mind, brought his guard down completely. "I worry about her not having a mother, but I'm ten times the parent I was before I went in. I was a workaholic and a drunk. A selfish fuck-up and I didn't know it."
"It sounds like you've turned yourself around." The way Holly had clung to him suggested it was more than just talk.
"Seeing your kids for an hour a week, or not even that - it refocuses your priorities."
Elliot tried to imagine being that cut off from his kids. It wasn't as big a stretch as he would have liked it to be. He grabbed what time he could, weekends and dinners, but he was learning just how much parenting came in those little moments as Dickie came rushing through the house on his way to his friends', or when Kathleen came downstairs late to raid the fridge, or while he was driving Elizabeth to basketball games. Booking formal time out of their busy teenage lives wasn't the same, and it only took a fight with Kathy to make that time a total disaster.
Beecher leaned close, sudden and intense. "Do you have kids, Detective?"
"Four."
Beecher didn't raise an eyebrow at the number, like most parents of only children. "All healthy and happy?"
Healthy, sure. Happy was a variable. None of them had ever been kidnapped. "Yeah, I guess."
"Every night, you should hug them and say a prayer of thanks. You don't have any idea how lucky you are."
"It's not luck that I've never got behind the wheel drunk off my ass."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean..."
Elliot kicked himself. He was supposed to be earning trust, not bringing Beecher down.
"I know what I did, Detective. Believe me, I... I know what I did to that family. And mine. I just mean... You never know how a few simple turns might have changed your life. How easily you could have been a different person. Without your wife, or your four kids." Beecher's eyes blazed, and Elliot felt transparent, like Beecher knew Elliot was in a war with his own temper, nine-tenths of the way through a divorce, losing his grip on his children.
Elliot finally put his finger on the intensity in Beecher's attention. "Have we met?"
That surprised him. "Do I look familiar?"
"No, it's just the way you've been looking at me. Like you're waiting for me to realise we went to school together or something."
Beecher huffed, some quiet joke Elliot wasn't privy to. "I can tell you for certain we've never met. I'd remember you." He said it with total certainty, which that only made Elliot more sure there was some connection he'd missed. But time was passing, and Olivia could only entertain Holly for so long.
"I have to ask you about the description you gave us. We need more information."
Beecher's face closed. "I described him as well as I could."
"I don't think you did. I think you were holding back on us."
Beecher shook his head, but for the first time he looked out at the street, instead of Elliot. Olivia was right.
"Tobias, I think you want us to catch this guy. I think it matters enough that you came down to the station even though it took you the whole night to convince yourself to do it. Don't let us down now."
He had him. Beecher was teetering. Elliot reached without thought, but Beecher leaned in, so he went with it. Put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, felt the sigh. This was what he needed. Elliot rubbed, reassuring, made it personal.
The door behind them crashed open and Holly threw herself against her father. Elliot was forgotten as Beecher pulled her up into his arms and dipped his head to listen to what she was whispering in his ear.
Olivia stood in the doorway, looking concerned. She shot Elliot a questioning look, and he shook his head. He needed more time.
Beecher hugged Holly close. "She didn't mean to upset you." She whispered in his ear again. "You don't have to. You don't have to talk to anyone."
Sceptical young eyes looked up at Olivia. She wasn't going to leave her ex-con father in the hands of police.
Beecher let Holly slide down to her feet. "I'm sorry, detectives. I can't help you."
Last ditch: Elliot knew Beecher's weak spot now. "His parents are waiting on news, Tobias. They need to know what happened to their son."
Beecher huffed, not taken by the cheap gambit, but Holly stared at Elliot, and then up at her father. "Like Gary?"
Beecher's face twisted. "Yeah, Honey. Like Gary."
Elliot wondered who Gary was.
Holly looked at Elliot for a long time, and then reached up and rubbed her father's shoulder. It was a strangely adult gesture. She said, "You should help," and went inside. Beecher didn't take his eyes off her until she was gone.
He moved down the steps to the sidewalk, arms wrapped round his stomach. Heaved a deep breath. "He told me his name was Mike, but I wouldn't put a lot of stock in that. I don't usually give anyone my real name. He liked to give it rough. Always left bruises."
Bile rose in Elliot's throat. "He raped you?"
"No."
Olivia backed up a couple of steps, for the illusion of privacy. Not so far she'd miss a word.
"It can be difficult to admit things that-"
"I've been raped, Detective. You don't think I was the top of the food chain in Oz, do you?"
It shouldn't have surprised Elliot - a lawyer in a prison for rapists and murderers, never mind the big ugly clue of his promiscuous behaviour. But it caught him off-guard, and it took a moment to re-gather, to shift things around in his head. A few moments more to remind himself Beecher was his witness, not a case. "This guy never assaulted you?"
"Some of us like it rough."
Particularly rape victims who hadn't dealt with their self-loathing, but Elliot wasn't here to be a therapist. "Did you have sex with Mike that night?"
"No."
"How often?"
"Twice. The last time was two weeks ago."
"And he was always rough?"
Mouth tight, Beecher nodded. He wasn't staring at Elliot now.
Gently, Elliot asked, "Is that why you went back?"
"Yeah."
Olivia stepped back in, voice soft. "You don't seem to have a lot of trouble believing your lover raped and murdered someone."
Elliot winced inside. Usually he was the one to stomp in with the rough questions, but this time he'd fallen into the role of confidante and Olivia had the job of keeping Beecher honest.
Beecher didn't flinch, but as always, he directed his answer to Elliot. Misogynist? Defensive? Or just clinging to the nice cop? Elliot still hadn't nailed him down. "'Lover' is something of an overstatement. We fucked. In prison you learn to live with all sorts of people you never would have gone near when you were a contract lawyer with a nice, nuclear family." Beecher paused, gaze drifting off in the middle distance.
"What is it?"
"He'd done time. He even mentioned it, once." He closed his eyes, reaching for a memory. "O-something... Otisville? Three years, five years, something like that."
Best lead they had so far. "That's great, Tobias. Do you remember exactly what he said?"
"No."
"Try to remember."
"I don't."
"The exact words could provide the details we need to-"
"He said I was so well-used, I reminded him of that time he jumped in on the end of gangbanging some fag in the laundry at Otisville. So, definitely Otisville. And I guess he worked in the laundry. Does that help?" There was ice in his eyes.
Elliot shuddered. "Yeah. That helps."
Beecher came up the steps, all the earlier vulnerability switched off like a light. "Look, I need to go check on my daughter. Let her see I haven't been arrested. Are we done here?"
"We're done for now, but..." Elliot scrambled to get a card out of his pocket, doubtful Beecher had kept the one Olivia gave him the other day, glad when he took this one. "Thanks for your help."
As Beecher was unlocking the door, Olivia asked, "Where was your daughter while you were out getting roughed up by ex-cons?"
He didn't flicker. "With my mother. My mother raised her after my wife died; after all these years I couldn't just rip her out of there. Shared custody seemed the best solution."
After one long last look at Elliot he went inside. The door closed behind him, and he never looked back as he climbed the stairs.
Elliot let out a long breath. That was rough, but least they had a starting point. They could show Beecher's sketch around Otisville staff, tell O'Halloran to start cross-checking the DNA.
Olivia looked over as they headed back to the car. "You believe him?"
"Yeah. I think he'd lay bare his entire life if his daughter asked him." Elliot would. He'd do anything if one of his girls looked at him like that. Of course, he wasn't sure his kids would look at him like that anymore. Kathleen hadn't even trusted him enough to call when she got the DUI. "Did she talk to you?"
"She barely talked at all until I started asking her about her father. That's when she sprinted downstairs. Did Beecher tell you her history?"
He circled around the car to take the wheel. "He said she was kidnapped a few years back. He didn't get into details."
"She only told me her dad would never let anyone hurt her, then worried if we were doing anything to him."
They climbed in, and Elliot took a moment to think. However much Beecher had failed Holly, it seemed like he'd made it up to her - in her eyes, anyway. "What was it like upstairs?"
"Boxes everywhere. The kitchen seemed unpacked, but there wasn't much furniture. Holly said they moved out of her grandmother's two weeks ago. She watched me like a hawk."
"What do you think of Beecher? Do you still think he was ignoring you because he has a problem with women?"
Olivia smiled. "No, I think it's because he has a little crush on you."
Elliot rolled his eyes.
"I'll tell you one thing for sure. You missed out on some really great cookies."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The microwave beeped, but it took a couple more minutes for Elliot to find the will to get up. He shuffled out to the kitchen and took the shrink wrap off the beef and veg, promising himself he'd cook a real meal tomorrow. If he got home before eight.
A beer and a sheet of paper towel, his feet up on the coffee table and a Jets game on the TV. Every bachelor's dream. He'd been tempted to go straight to bed, but he'd never sleep this early so it was either zone out to football or deal with the file of papers that had been sitting on the counter for a week. That was how twenty years of marriage ended. Not with a bang, or a whimper, but endless pages of legal documents with little yellow 'sign here' post-its.
He'd tried calling Maureen earlier, then Lizzie. Tried not to be paranoid that they hadn't answered. Left it at two kids, because if all four didn't pick up, he'd really think it was personal.
He wondered if this was what Tobias Beecher's home life looked like. Or did he prance around his house in a dress even when he wasn't headed out to a bar? He didn't seem like a guy who pranced. He didn't seem like a guy who'd wear a dress, so what the hell did Elliot know?
He didn't know why Beecher had stuck in his mind. That constant stare had something to do with it, like he was waiting for Elliot to do something, or remember something, or... something. There was something about the jumble of pieces, the way none of it fit together. How did he let men abuse him like that, and then come home and hug his daughter? Elliot had seen enough to know Beecher was right about being a good father. Maybe Elliot just wanted to know how he kept all the dirt in his life from affecting his relationship with his kid.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
end chapter 2
And, once again:
Dr Squidlove inappropriately touches all feedback. Concrit thoroughly welcome, warm fuzzies treasured.
This lj is fic-only. If you want to follow the story, you can friend this without me cluttering your feed with any boring RL posts.
If anyone can recommend where I should be posting this, it'd be much appreciated.
S.
by Dr Squidlove
drsquidlove @@@ livejournal.com
Oz/Law & Order: SVU crossover
Tobias Beecher's trying to rebuild his family in the shadow of the man he was in prison. Elliot Stabler's struggling to continue in the wake of divorce while his job eats away at his soul. It makes for an odd friendship, but it works.
Beecher/Stabler, Beecher/anonymous fucks, a living history of Beecher/Keller and Elliot Stabler/Kathy Stabler.
Just to be super-clear, this is not a WIP. It's done. It is complete, and unless I get hit by a bus, it will be posted every week to the end. Mostly twice a week, but at least once.
Rated R for violence and explicit references to sexual violence.
Post-Oz. Splits off in season 7 of SVU: Elliot's divorce is in the works, Olivia's his partner, he's cleaned up Katheen's DUI.
Wordcount this post: 5165
Full headers are on chapter 1.
Oz is the property of Tom Fontana and HBO. Law & Order: SVU is the property of Dick Wolf and NBC. The characters are used without permission, but with much appreciation.
Someone Like You
chapter 2: No vices left
by Dr Squidlove
Previously, in chapter 1, A magical copy:
Toby was headed back to his favourite cheap-sex destination when he discovered it had been turned into a crime scene, attended by a detective who was the spitting image of his dead lover. The next morning he went in to give information to the clone, one Detective Elliot Stabler. Toby's information was mildly useful, but his years in prison and his little red dress ruled him out as a star witness.
Toby stared at his reflection: a sad, aging man in a dress. Disgust burned in his stomach. He could feel Chris in the room like he was standing behind him, sneering at Toby the bitch.
Toby sneered right back. You've got a mystical twin, Chris. You're not so special after all.
Detective Stabler was a model citizen with a tie and a wedding ring, probably had pictures of his kids in his wallet, too perfect to be real. Tobias Beecher used to be too perfect to be real, too. Maybe the good detective was on his fourth or fifth marriage. Maybe he was a gambling addict. Toby scraped his imagination for scandalous vices, but he couldn't think of any others he hadn't dabbled in himself.
He picked the eye shadow up off the sink, blended greys and blues to make the gays in Oz proud. He wondered if they'd cleaned Leo's blood off the floor of the stall where he died. Toby was ludicrously grateful he'd never had sex with Leo Markstrom. Another marker on the crazy-meter: he was more comfortable being fucked by a murderer than another murder victim, where his imagination might latch onto the idea of Chris hunting his lovers from the afterlife.
You think I'd care who you fucked now, Toby? Looking like this?
Yeah, Toby thought. You'll always care.
Toby had envisioned Chris waiting for him at the gates of heaven whether Toby wanted him to or not, like a final, inevitable obstacle to ever-lasting peace. Toby had thought he had the rest of his life to gather the strength to turn him away. He hadn't been prepared to find him sooner.
A dash of blush to highlight his cheekbones - lovely cheekbones, he'd been told, by some drag queen who'd clucked in disapproval at his amateurish work and dragged her glittered fingernail along the lines the brush was supposed to follow.
Toby had expected to be overwhelmed when he walked into the station today. He'd tried not to let himself believe he'd magnified the resemblance, but he'd still had to brace himself against the door when he saw Chris hunched at the desk on the phone, frowning down at his tapping pen. In a shirt and tie, sleeves rolled up to his elbows to show off muscled forearms. Toby had wanted to tell the detective everything: how lonely the last years of prison had been without him, how he was still trying hard to forgive him for dying.
He'd wanted to ask why he left Toby behind.
Toby squeezed the lipstick in his hand. He was just missing red for that pretty mouth.
He'd savoured the humiliation today when he told Stabler he'd been dressed like this last night. Like the sharp burn of tequila, shame that stretched all the way from his toes and the tips of his fingers to raise the hairs on his scalp. He'd hoped for more of a reaction, but the detective had taken it like business as usual. It probably was in his line of work. He hadn't called him a bitch or shoved him into a wall or told him Vern got it right.
Chris could sit across a table and feign indifference, pretend to be someone else altogether, but they'd played that game before. It just took time and patience, and maybe a stabbing or an old friend threatening to flip for the FBI, and everything would be good again.
That wasn't me, Tobe. I'm dead, remember? You wanted me out of your life so I left you alone.
Bullshit, Toby thought. You left me standing on that balcony so I could never get away.
He leaned close to the mirror and laid a careful line of Scarlet Siren Gloss along his bottom lip, traced along the bow of his top lip, straightened and checked his reflection. This was how he defied Chris now.
As the interview rolled to its end, Toby had waited with tingling fingers for the moment when Stabler would tell him to call if he thought of anything else and hand over his card. Toby put down the lipstick and picked up the business card off the sink, turned it over in his fingers. Detective Olivia Benson. A phone number and an e-mail address. This was as close as he could get. For Stabler Toby had been nothing but a barely useful lead, forgotten the moment the paperwork was done.
Toby had thought he'd be okay when he got out. And he was, most of the time. The work of rejoining the world and the pressure of appearing okay for his family and the joy of being with Holly had kept Chris in the background, like the sharp ache of arthritis. Toby had a life to rebuild, a family to repair. He had a job and all the resources and distractions a parolee could wish for. He had all the freedoms he'd waited eight years to savour and it was only when he crawled into his cold bed that he wanted to drag Chris back into the world to remind him that he'd stolen all of these things away. And he wanted Chris to curl up behind him, and tell him to get the fuck over it.
And so Toby had gone looking for more distractions. It was almost surprising how easy it was for a lost ex-con to find Franco's, home of a thousand anonymous fucks. A loser addict by night, backsliding in carefully-controlled portions, but he'd kept himself afloat by day, another justice system success story right up until he found Chris was alive and well in Manhattan, and the ache had exploded into blazing need, tangled and raw.
Toby's cock didn't want to hear about the shortcomings of Elliot Stabler. When the Martin Miller's London Dry ran out, you made do with Gordon's.
Even with the sting of two and a half years tacked on by Chris's scheming, with the lingering grime of the deaths of Vern Schillinger and all the Aryans on his conscience, Toby had stared across the table at Detective Stabler and he'd wanted, like a dog eyeing a bone. He'd wanted to know if the detective would know how to make Toby feel anything like the jumbling whirl of emotions Chris had ripped out of him. Or if he'd just let Toby drag him into a back room and blow him, or if he'd be willing to parrot all the apologies and promises of love Toby needed to hear. It seemed unlikely.
He laid down the card and stared at the man in the mirror. That suit he'd worn today, that was the stranger. But this weakling, this absurdity in a dress, Toby knew exactly who he was. Toby could take him out, just be him for the night.
It seemed unlikely that Toby was going to find that same numb pleasure in the anonymous dregs of the meatpacking district when something that walked and talked like Chris was within groping distance.
He'd given up alcohol, cocaine, heroin and Chris Keller, and now the sweet bitter rush of climbing into a dress and going out to get fucked up the ass had been soured by murder and a morning explaining himself to Chris's law-abiding twin. Toby didn't know what he'd been looking for in all those dank bathroom stalls, but he hadn't found it.
He turned around and wrenched the shower to hot, stripped the dress over his head.
There were no vices left.
"Are you trying to offend everybody today, or did O'Halloran and Warner just have it coming?"
"She screwed up."
"It was a preliminary diagnosis."
Elliot clamped his jaw shut. If Warner had been clearer about that, they could have saved themselves a day. He pushed his way into the building, let Olivia catch the door behind him.
"What's eating you?"
"People who can't do their jobs."
Olivia cocked an eyebrow, and Elliot shut his mouth. Warner should have been clearer.
She left it alone as they headed back to the elevator.
Elliot rubbed warmth into his hands. What was eating him was seeing Kathy come down the stairs last night, all dressed up, startling like a deer in headlights when she saw Elliot in the kitchen. As if she didn't know Elliot was coming to pick up Kathleen and the twins, as if she wasn't deliberately sticking it in his face that she was going out to dinner with another man. And then she blamed him for being there at six-thirty.
It wasn't like it was the first time he'd shown up early to pick up his kids; his work hours changed, so he came when he could. Was he supposed to drive laps around the neighbourhood until seven? Why wouldn't he be pissed?
And Kathy had given it right back, bitter words spat both ways until Kathy grabbed her coat and slammed out and Elliot was left standing amongst kitchen cabinets he'd installed himself, by the table where he and Kathy had taught the kids their manners, still wearing his wedding ring as his ex-wife went on a date. He'd never noticed when she stopped wearing hers.
Elliot could feel Olivia's sideways looks in the elevator, but he kept his eyes trained on the doors and wished her into silence. He'd been a prick. He knew it, but all he'd been able to see were the earrings he gave Kathy for the twins' birth, casually thrown on to seduce another man.
Dinner with Kathleen and the twins had been cold and awkward, his and Kathy's yelling still echoing in their ears. Elliot had resisted the urge to interrogate them about who this guy was, when Kathy started dating, how often. None of them would have been on his side. Kathleen had never made it a secret that she blamed Elliot for the divorce, and Elizabeth had taken her lead. Dickie didn't give anything away. He wished Maureen had been there: she wouldn't take his side either, but she didn't seem to be carrying Kathleen's resentment.
He couldn't help hoping Kathy's night out was just as ruined as his. Elliot hadn't even thought about dating. He hadn't started making plans for the future that didn't involve his wife and his kids, one family. He touched his ring, turned it around his finger. The paperwork was trundling along, but he hadn't made plans to take this off.
The doors opened and Olivia led the way out. "You need to get out of the house, Elliot. Make some friends."
"You want me to start dating?"
She rolled her eyes. "Why don't you just start with making some friends? Look, I don't have any plans tonight. You want to go for drinks after work? Practise having a social life?"
He could live without the sarcasm, but drinks with Liv sounded a hell of a lot better than going back to that empty apartment. "You sure you can put up with me?"
It was the closest he could get to an apology, but she smiled to show she knew that was what it was. "Since that case is going back to homicide, we can get back to the Leo Markstrom case."
Elliot held back his sigh. They had nothing but dead ends. "You want to re-interview?"
Olivia skimmed the file in her lap. "Beecher used to be a lawyer."
Elliot flipped the indicator to turn onto Atlantic Avenue. "Criminal law?"
"Doesn't say, but it was his second DUI. The first one he pleaded off on a technicality, never even paid a fine. His victim was an eight year-old girl. I'd say that's why the judge went for the max. DUI, vehicular manslaughter, four to fifteen. Looks like he wasn't a model prisoner. Served eight years, paroled six weeks ago."
"You really think he's got more information?"
"He was holding something back."
Elliot thought so too; he just wasn't sure it was about their killer. He suspected Beecher kept a lot of things back, but it was worth a try. They were out of leads.
"Take the next left; should be number thirty-two."
Elliot pulled up in front of an old brownstone, recently remodelled and turned into apartments. Standard for Park Slope. Elliot flipped up his collar against the wind as he climbed the front steps to the glass door, still littered with Halloween decals. He hit the buzzer.
"Hello?" crackled Beecher's voice.
"This is Detective Stabler. I was wondering if I could come up and ask you a few more questions."
There was a long pause, enough time for Elliot and Olivia to exchange a look.
"I'll be right down."
Another look passed between them. That was a sure sign there was something to hide. A minute passed, another. Olivia asked, "You think he's crawling out a window?" just as feet appeared on the stairs, Beecher coming into view through the glass. A look passed over his face when he saw them.
He was wearing jeans and a grey pullover, hair quickly combed, glasses gone. Nothing of the expensive suit from the other day and no women's clothes, but he didn't look like an ex-con either. He looked ordinary. He could have been a school teacher, or an off-duty cop. Or a guy who worked in real estate.
Beecher opened the door, focused completely on Elliot. "Detectives-"
Olivia jumped in. "Thanks for seeing us."
He threw her an irritated glance. "I told you what I knew. I talked to the sketch-artist."
"We just have a few follow-up questions, Mr Beecher."
"This really isn't a good time."
"Would you rather we dragged you back to the precinct?"
There was a look of betrayal in his eyes as he turned to Elliot. "Are you arresting me?"
Olivia held her ground. "It would only take a couple of calls-"
Something moved behind him and they were forgotten, Beecher's face softening as he looked down into the wide blue eyes of a girl who couldn't have been more than nine years old, pale skin, blonde hair pulled back in a long ponytail, slinking out the door and clutching his shirt. Beecher had a daughter? And they'd just threatened to drag her ex-con father away in front of her. Great.
He bobbed down to look up at her and put a hand around her waist. "Holly, these are friends of mine." He glared up at them, a look in his eye that dared them to contradict him. "This is my friend Olivia, and this is Elliot."
Elliot and Olivia both smiled at her, but she only burrowed closer to Beecher. It was regressive behaviour for a nine year-old. Elliot leaned down. "Nice to meet you, Holly. How old are you?"
She looked to her father, and Elliot paid closer attention still.
"You can tell him."
Holly bit her lip. "Ten."
Beecher swept his daughter's hair out of her face, a move Elliot might have made with his own. "Good girl. Sweetheart, Elliot and Olivia came to visit because they need my help with something. I need to talk with Elliot." She clung tighter, but Beecher pretended not to notice. "But you know, somebody told me that Olivia loves cookies."
Olivia ran with it, gave Holly a coy smile. "Somebody let my secret out."
"Maybe you could take her upstairs, offer her a taste of the ones we made yesterday?"
"You baked cookies? What kind?" Olivia asked.
Barely loud enough to hear, Holly replied, "Chocolate coconut."
"That sounds delicious. I would love to try your cookies, Holly."
Holly gave Olivia a long stare, looking deadly serious.
Beecher gave Holly a nudge. "It's okay. Promise."
Holly finally nodded and went inside. When Olivia moved to follow her, as she slipped past Beecher he caught her wrist. Too tight - Elliot tensed, but Olivia just looked him in the eye, warning. Beecher ignored it. "With your job, you must interview a lot of traumatised kids."
"I do."
Beecher glanced the way his daughter had gone. "She's one."
Olivia nodded once, and Beecher let her go. Elliot didn't doubt she'd take a good look around while she was up there.
Beecher stepped out, right into Elliot's personal space, a hand settling on Elliot's bicep. "Do you mind having this conversation out here? I'd rather have neighbours watch than any chance of Holly overhearing."
"Sure." Elliot edged back until Beecher's hand fell away. He'd never imagined the guy might have a kid. The gentle father he'd just seen didn't jive with the self-deprecating man he'd met a few days ago, and it definitely didn't fit with the promiscuous transvestite witness. What the hell was the guy thinking, going to places like that when he had a kid at home?
Beecher moved a few steps down and leaned against the rail, wrapping his arms against the cold, probably wishing he'd thrown on a jacket. Elliot joined him. He would have preferred to take this inside, but if talking on the front stoop with a wind-chill put Beecher off guard, so be it. At least Elliot had a proper coat.
"Can I ask what happened to your daughter?"
"She was kidnapped when she was six." Beecher stared him right in the eye as he said it, didn't shift around in guilt like most parents of victims.
Elliot looked back to the door, wondered if Olivia was getting the details. "I'm sorry." Poor kid. No wonder she clung. Four years ago: it would have been while Beecher was inside. It must have been hell on him. The daughter was going to be the key to connecting with Beecher, so Elliot pushed a little more. "How is she doing?"
"She doesn't trust strangers. She has nightmares, but not like she used to."
"Time can make a big difference."
"It has."
"Do you mind me asking about her mother?"
"Dead."
"I'm sorry." Elliot searched for a way to ask, wondered if this was even relevant-
"Yes, I was married to her mother. A long and very heterosexual marriage."
Elliot shut his mouth. He had trouble believing that, but he needed to get some ground back. "It must be hard, doing it on your own."
"She's the only part of this that isn't hard." A faint smile touched his eyes, and it transformed his whole face, made him handsome. "My last couple of years inside, I didn't think about anything but making up the years I'd lost as a father. Nothing was getting in the way of getting home to my family." Talking about Holly made him forget whatever else was on his mind, brought his guard down completely. "I worry about her not having a mother, but I'm ten times the parent I was before I went in. I was a workaholic and a drunk. A selfish fuck-up and I didn't know it."
"It sounds like you've turned yourself around." The way Holly had clung to him suggested it was more than just talk.
"Seeing your kids for an hour a week, or not even that - it refocuses your priorities."
Elliot tried to imagine being that cut off from his kids. It wasn't as big a stretch as he would have liked it to be. He grabbed what time he could, weekends and dinners, but he was learning just how much parenting came in those little moments as Dickie came rushing through the house on his way to his friends', or when Kathleen came downstairs late to raid the fridge, or while he was driving Elizabeth to basketball games. Booking formal time out of their busy teenage lives wasn't the same, and it only took a fight with Kathy to make that time a total disaster.
Beecher leaned close, sudden and intense. "Do you have kids, Detective?"
"Four."
Beecher didn't raise an eyebrow at the number, like most parents of only children. "All healthy and happy?"
Healthy, sure. Happy was a variable. None of them had ever been kidnapped. "Yeah, I guess."
"Every night, you should hug them and say a prayer of thanks. You don't have any idea how lucky you are."
"It's not luck that I've never got behind the wheel drunk off my ass."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean..."
Elliot kicked himself. He was supposed to be earning trust, not bringing Beecher down.
"I know what I did, Detective. Believe me, I... I know what I did to that family. And mine. I just mean... You never know how a few simple turns might have changed your life. How easily you could have been a different person. Without your wife, or your four kids." Beecher's eyes blazed, and Elliot felt transparent, like Beecher knew Elliot was in a war with his own temper, nine-tenths of the way through a divorce, losing his grip on his children.
Elliot finally put his finger on the intensity in Beecher's attention. "Have we met?"
That surprised him. "Do I look familiar?"
"No, it's just the way you've been looking at me. Like you're waiting for me to realise we went to school together or something."
Beecher huffed, some quiet joke Elliot wasn't privy to. "I can tell you for certain we've never met. I'd remember you." He said it with total certainty, which that only made Elliot more sure there was some connection he'd missed. But time was passing, and Olivia could only entertain Holly for so long.
"I have to ask you about the description you gave us. We need more information."
Beecher's face closed. "I described him as well as I could."
"I don't think you did. I think you were holding back on us."
Beecher shook his head, but for the first time he looked out at the street, instead of Elliot. Olivia was right.
"Tobias, I think you want us to catch this guy. I think it matters enough that you came down to the station even though it took you the whole night to convince yourself to do it. Don't let us down now."
He had him. Beecher was teetering. Elliot reached without thought, but Beecher leaned in, so he went with it. Put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, felt the sigh. This was what he needed. Elliot rubbed, reassuring, made it personal.
The door behind them crashed open and Holly threw herself against her father. Elliot was forgotten as Beecher pulled her up into his arms and dipped his head to listen to what she was whispering in his ear.
Olivia stood in the doorway, looking concerned. She shot Elliot a questioning look, and he shook his head. He needed more time.
Beecher hugged Holly close. "She didn't mean to upset you." She whispered in his ear again. "You don't have to. You don't have to talk to anyone."
Sceptical young eyes looked up at Olivia. She wasn't going to leave her ex-con father in the hands of police.
Beecher let Holly slide down to her feet. "I'm sorry, detectives. I can't help you."
Last ditch: Elliot knew Beecher's weak spot now. "His parents are waiting on news, Tobias. They need to know what happened to their son."
Beecher huffed, not taken by the cheap gambit, but Holly stared at Elliot, and then up at her father. "Like Gary?"
Beecher's face twisted. "Yeah, Honey. Like Gary."
Elliot wondered who Gary was.
Holly looked at Elliot for a long time, and then reached up and rubbed her father's shoulder. It was a strangely adult gesture. She said, "You should help," and went inside. Beecher didn't take his eyes off her until she was gone.
He moved down the steps to the sidewalk, arms wrapped round his stomach. Heaved a deep breath. "He told me his name was Mike, but I wouldn't put a lot of stock in that. I don't usually give anyone my real name. He liked to give it rough. Always left bruises."
Bile rose in Elliot's throat. "He raped you?"
"No."
Olivia backed up a couple of steps, for the illusion of privacy. Not so far she'd miss a word.
"It can be difficult to admit things that-"
"I've been raped, Detective. You don't think I was the top of the food chain in Oz, do you?"
It shouldn't have surprised Elliot - a lawyer in a prison for rapists and murderers, never mind the big ugly clue of his promiscuous behaviour. But it caught him off-guard, and it took a moment to re-gather, to shift things around in his head. A few moments more to remind himself Beecher was his witness, not a case. "This guy never assaulted you?"
"Some of us like it rough."
Particularly rape victims who hadn't dealt with their self-loathing, but Elliot wasn't here to be a therapist. "Did you have sex with Mike that night?"
"No."
"How often?"
"Twice. The last time was two weeks ago."
"And he was always rough?"
Mouth tight, Beecher nodded. He wasn't staring at Elliot now.
Gently, Elliot asked, "Is that why you went back?"
"Yeah."
Olivia stepped back in, voice soft. "You don't seem to have a lot of trouble believing your lover raped and murdered someone."
Elliot winced inside. Usually he was the one to stomp in with the rough questions, but this time he'd fallen into the role of confidante and Olivia had the job of keeping Beecher honest.
Beecher didn't flinch, but as always, he directed his answer to Elliot. Misogynist? Defensive? Or just clinging to the nice cop? Elliot still hadn't nailed him down. "'Lover' is something of an overstatement. We fucked. In prison you learn to live with all sorts of people you never would have gone near when you were a contract lawyer with a nice, nuclear family." Beecher paused, gaze drifting off in the middle distance.
"What is it?"
"He'd done time. He even mentioned it, once." He closed his eyes, reaching for a memory. "O-something... Otisville? Three years, five years, something like that."
Best lead they had so far. "That's great, Tobias. Do you remember exactly what he said?"
"No."
"Try to remember."
"I don't."
"The exact words could provide the details we need to-"
"He said I was so well-used, I reminded him of that time he jumped in on the end of gangbanging some fag in the laundry at Otisville. So, definitely Otisville. And I guess he worked in the laundry. Does that help?" There was ice in his eyes.
Elliot shuddered. "Yeah. That helps."
Beecher came up the steps, all the earlier vulnerability switched off like a light. "Look, I need to go check on my daughter. Let her see I haven't been arrested. Are we done here?"
"We're done for now, but..." Elliot scrambled to get a card out of his pocket, doubtful Beecher had kept the one Olivia gave him the other day, glad when he took this one. "Thanks for your help."
As Beecher was unlocking the door, Olivia asked, "Where was your daughter while you were out getting roughed up by ex-cons?"
He didn't flicker. "With my mother. My mother raised her after my wife died; after all these years I couldn't just rip her out of there. Shared custody seemed the best solution."
After one long last look at Elliot he went inside. The door closed behind him, and he never looked back as he climbed the stairs.
Elliot let out a long breath. That was rough, but least they had a starting point. They could show Beecher's sketch around Otisville staff, tell O'Halloran to start cross-checking the DNA.
Olivia looked over as they headed back to the car. "You believe him?"
"Yeah. I think he'd lay bare his entire life if his daughter asked him." Elliot would. He'd do anything if one of his girls looked at him like that. Of course, he wasn't sure his kids would look at him like that anymore. Kathleen hadn't even trusted him enough to call when she got the DUI. "Did she talk to you?"
"She barely talked at all until I started asking her about her father. That's when she sprinted downstairs. Did Beecher tell you her history?"
He circled around the car to take the wheel. "He said she was kidnapped a few years back. He didn't get into details."
"She only told me her dad would never let anyone hurt her, then worried if we were doing anything to him."
They climbed in, and Elliot took a moment to think. However much Beecher had failed Holly, it seemed like he'd made it up to her - in her eyes, anyway. "What was it like upstairs?"
"Boxes everywhere. The kitchen seemed unpacked, but there wasn't much furniture. Holly said they moved out of her grandmother's two weeks ago. She watched me like a hawk."
"What do you think of Beecher? Do you still think he was ignoring you because he has a problem with women?"
Olivia smiled. "No, I think it's because he has a little crush on you."
Elliot rolled his eyes.
"I'll tell you one thing for sure. You missed out on some really great cookies."
The microwave beeped, but it took a couple more minutes for Elliot to find the will to get up. He shuffled out to the kitchen and took the shrink wrap off the beef and veg, promising himself he'd cook a real meal tomorrow. If he got home before eight.
A beer and a sheet of paper towel, his feet up on the coffee table and a Jets game on the TV. Every bachelor's dream. He'd been tempted to go straight to bed, but he'd never sleep this early so it was either zone out to football or deal with the file of papers that had been sitting on the counter for a week. That was how twenty years of marriage ended. Not with a bang, or a whimper, but endless pages of legal documents with little yellow 'sign here' post-its.
He'd tried calling Maureen earlier, then Lizzie. Tried not to be paranoid that they hadn't answered. Left it at two kids, because if all four didn't pick up, he'd really think it was personal.
He wondered if this was what Tobias Beecher's home life looked like. Or did he prance around his house in a dress even when he wasn't headed out to a bar? He didn't seem like a guy who pranced. He didn't seem like a guy who'd wear a dress, so what the hell did Elliot know?
He didn't know why Beecher had stuck in his mind. That constant stare had something to do with it, like he was waiting for Elliot to do something, or remember something, or... something. There was something about the jumble of pieces, the way none of it fit together. How did he let men abuse him like that, and then come home and hug his daughter? Elliot had seen enough to know Beecher was right about being a good father. Maybe Elliot just wanted to know how he kept all the dirt in his life from affecting his relationship with his kid.
end chapter 2
And, once again:
Dr Squidlove inappropriately touches all feedback. Concrit thoroughly welcome, warm fuzzies treasured.
This lj is fic-only. If you want to follow the story, you can friend this without me cluttering your feed with any boring RL posts.
If anyone can recommend where I should be posting this, it'd be much appreciated.
S.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2014-09-30 01:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-09-30 02:42 pm (UTC)S.
no subject
Date: 2014-09-30 01:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-09-30 02:56 pm (UTC)I have terrible rage for bad exposition. When it's clunky or obvious or characters explain stuff to characters who should already know that stuff because they want to tell the audience that stuff but the writers are too lazy to fold it into realistic conversation. I have a weird love for SVU, but every time one cop explains police procedure or basic criminal psychology or a famous case to another cop I throw things at the television. I wish that just once, the other cop will respond with, "Are you kidding me? Why wouldn't I already know that?"
See? Rage. I can rage about bad exposition.
So thanks, sparrow!
S.
no subject
Date: 2014-10-01 12:22 am (UTC)And Toby looked so good in dragno subject
Date: 2014-10-01 12:43 pm (UTC)Thanks, iskra!
S.
no subject
Date: 2014-10-02 01:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-10-02 01:59 pm (UTC)Thanks, helvetica!
S.
no subject
Date: 2014-10-05 06:32 pm (UTC)I've died and gone to crossover heaven.
no subject
Date: 2014-10-06 08:37 am (UTC)I wrote a WIP once, years ago, and immediately swore I'd never do it again. It's too hard. I have to go back and fix things and lay in seeds of stuff I didn't know I was going to do and oh just too much pressure.
But I also can't polish up an enormous piece without breaking it down and throwing on some deadline pressure, so chapter-posting it is.
I hope I can hold you all the way.
S.
no subject
Date: 2014-10-07 09:58 pm (UTC)He'd wanted to ask why he left Toby behind.
... and by the time I started really getting into the part with Holly, I was so overwhelmed that I had to stop. In my defense, it had been a long, hectic, tiring day. And, the dust! I got dust in my eyes!
Your introduction of Holly packed SUCH a powerful punch. (Loved the detail of Elliot underestimating her age, by the way.) I could see it all unfolding--you did a great job painting the picture of a vulnerable, disturbed Holly relying on her equally-damaged father, but being protective of him as well. And then there's Elliot's increasing awareness of Toby's issues with (and reasons for) self-loathing. And, as if that all wasn't enough, Holly mentions Gary! :(((
Oh, this was so painful to read, but so good. SO, SO GOOD.
no subject
Date: 2014-10-08 02:04 am (UTC)Sorry about the dust. Should have vacuumed this before I posted it.
I like that in the show, while there's a recurring question of whether it's good for Toby to be in his kids' lives, every time you see Holly she's clinging to him. There's no doubt in her mind. There's a lot of that in this story.
There's also a lot of Elliot's outsider-perspective on Toby's life. That's what always makes Toby/Elliot so fascinating to me: the jumble of Elliot's personal and professional views on Toby as victim and perpetrator.
Thank you so much vanillalime! Your comments make me bounce!
S.
no subject
Date: 2014-10-15 05:17 pm (UTC)As another poster said it's remarkable how you give bits of info about Toby's past, weaving them so naturally with the current story.
I loved that Holly is so protective of her father and that she makes the connection of the boy's situation to Gary.
I left the SVU fandom after CM left the show, so I don't know what's left, after SVUfiction.com vanished.
May I suggest you post a note and link to your fic at the leeloni.livejournal.com ?
It's a LJ mainly for news about Lee and Chris, but sometimes there have been fics posted.
Post more soon, please, please.
no subject
Date: 2014-10-16 02:18 pm (UTC)I can do better than soon! Take another peek: there are actually seven chapters up. (I'm not going to post updates to all the lists, because I don't want to drive people nuts with crossposting.) I may get the eighth up tonight, though sleep would probably be more sensible.
I'm so happy the subtle exposition is working. Like I told sparrow, it's something I'm very snobby about.
I love that through everything on the show, Holly so obviously adored her father. They could have easily played up how screwed up she was, but you only get a couple of vague passing mentions. I may have to take up the slack on that one. :-)
I stopped watching with CM, too. I was there for the Elliot-Olivia friendship. And the crossover bunnies. Thanks for the tip! I'll put something over at leeloni.
S.
no subject
Date: 2014-10-16 08:28 pm (UTC)immediately. Only afterwards did I see there were seven chapters. I read them all yesterday and am looking forward for more.
no subject
Date: 2014-10-16 08:59 pm (UTC)Thank you!
S.
no subject
Date: 2014-10-16 02:53 pm (UTC)Oops - and thank you so much! Didn't mean to leave that part out...
S.