A/N: A new one, a high-school-era AU fic that began as an original story but seemed to beg to be transformed into the lives of my favorite duo. If it's not your thing, that's okay, but it begged to be written. Thanks for reading.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters as written on the TV show, but this version of them? All mine.
"All right, class," the English teacher smiled at the faces of her students, "Some of these were rather impressive," she began handing papers back, one by one. "Miss Cabot, very insightful." She moved up and down rows. "Some of them were...not so good. Mister Cassidy, nice try, but I'm old enough to realize you simply wrote the lyrics to a Beatles song. See me after class." She stopped next to a desk, it's occupant a very handsome young man with bright blue eyes and a sheepish grin. "Mister Stabler, this was good. Dark, but good."
The young man nodded at her as he took his paper, and then looked at the girl next to him, watching the teacher slide a piece of paper on her desk.
"Miss Benson," the teacher said, and then she leaned a little closer, "Olivia, dear, this was beautifully written."
Without looking up from her notebook, the girl mumbled a thank you.
Having reached the last student, the teacher looked up. "Okay," she sounded frustrated as she ripped off her glasses and curled one chalk-dusted hand against her hip. "I have one paper without a name, but ironically, it's the best piece of writing any of you have turned in, so far." She cleared her throat. "Who didn't get their paper back?"
A chorus of silence, and not a single raised hand, answered her, followed by heads turning and whispered murmurs.
"You all got your poems back?" she asked again, stupefied. A bit of black-grey hair fell out of the knot at the nape of her neck, held in place by a broken pencil. "Huh," she huffed.
Elliot Stabler, curling the edges of his lined paper, it's red-emblem B folding away, looked toward the front of the room, ignoring the teacher, his focus on someone else. Olivia. Her chestnut hair was held back with the standard-issue uniform headband, her eyes trained on whatever it was she was scrawling in her notebook. Her pale hand rested against her cheek as she leaned on her desk, and he wished, more than anything, that he could, even for a moment, replace it with his lips.
"So, who wrote this, then?" the teacher asked, lifting the paper up in front of her face with one hand as the other slipped her spectacles back onto her middle-aged face. "The way your fists speak, like lion-roars in a library, like beaten-drums in an empty theater, no audience to muffle the blows, the echoes reverberating in my hollow chest and humming against my ears."
Olivia, Elliot noticed, froze in her seat. Her hand stopped moving, her pencil fell against her desk, and her head slowly straightened up. He knew then. She wrote it.
The teacher spoke again, continuing to read. "The way your hands sing, with sour notes and vibrato like moth-eaten angel's wings, making vain attempts at shielding, the war still creeping in and leaving its destruction in the needle-eye tears in their feathers, the cold seeping in, despite their half-hearted shelter. The way your lips bruise, your mace-wielding tongue landing uppercuts to my soul with every right-hook word from your sandpaper voice, and no one to offer salve or salvation. The way your eyes dance, waltzing around my battle-scars without missing a beat, gracefully sidestepping my tattered and torn skin, exposing dried and scabbed remnants of rounds in the ring with an unworthy opponent I no longer have the strength to fight."
Silence.
Dead silence.
Every face is the room was staring back at the teacher, and not because of her rather eccentric outfit and unkempt hair. Slack-jawed expressions revealed their amazement at the words the teacher had read, and no one had any idea someone in their midst was capable of such powerfully tragic work.
Without saying a word, or even acknowledging anyone in the classroom, Olivia slammed her notebook shut, stacked her books, rose with a swift kick of her chair, and bolted, not even concerned that bell hadn't rung, and she'd probably be in trouble for leaving without permission.
The class began murmuring, whispered accusations, snickers, insults under their breath mixed with a few heartfelt compliments, all directed at a person who was no longer in the room. Elliot shook his head, disgusted at their behavior, more nauseated by the fact that no one seemed to be making any attempt to go after her. "Fuck this," he said, getting out of his seat. He left his books where they were, though, as he ran out of the room. He looked up and down the hallway, trying to figure out which direction she'd gone in, looking for any clues she may have left behind.
He took a chance and turned left, running down the hall, stopping in front of a door that gave him hives. Taking a deep breath, he pressed a palm against the wood of the door, feeling his heart pound hard. He wasn't sure if it was the fear of the unknown that lied beyond the panel, or knowing she was there, alone, that caused the anxiety to rise. With another deep breath, he slapped his free hand over his eyes and pushed against the door, opening it. "Benson?" he called blindly into the girls' bathroom. As his voice echoed off the tiled walls, he took hesitant step forward. "Benson, come on, are you in here or not?"
He heard a squeak, a stall door creaking open, and soft footsteps heading toward him.
She wrapped her fingers around his wrist and pulled his hand away from his face. "Get out of here, Stabler. You're already on the headmaster's shit-list, you can't be caught in here." She turned away from him and shook her head.
He bit his lip as he watched her move, tilting his head as she washed her hands and pressed her wet palms against her face. "Are you okay? You ran out of there like…"
"I didn't mean to hand that in," she almost whispered, her head down. Her hands were curled on either side of the sink, her knuckles turning white as she gripped it hard. "I never meant...no one was ever supposed to read that, and she...the whole class heard…" she paused, her voice cracking, and she had just finished crying, there was no way she would let herself start up again, especially not in front of Elliot.
He moved closer to her, reached out a hand slowly lowering it to her shoulder. She jumped and gasped, but he squeezed, feeling her tightly knotted muscles beneath his strong fingers. "Hey, hey," he said gently, "It's me. It's just me." He kept one hand on her shoulder, working out her tension, and his other hand moved up her arm, up her neck, and cupped the side of her face. He narrowed his eyes when he saw her flinch. "What you wrote...it was incredible."
She rolled her eyes. "Bull," she scoffed. Her breath hitched when his thumb smoothed under her eye, wiping away a tear she didn't realize had fallen.
"I'm serious," he told her. "I mean, honestly, I wrote seven lines and made 'orange' rhyme with 'door-hinge,' and got a B minus, so I can only imagine what kind of absolute shit everyone else handed in," he chuckled, and his smile lingered when he noticed she gave him a small laugh, too. "You have a way with words that...I read a lot, and I've never even read anything that deep, so you shouldn't be embarrassed. You should be proud." His eyes met hers. "I'm proud of you. Writing that...that took balls of steel. Real strength."
She shook her head, feeling his fingertips brush against her cheek as she moved. "I wrote it after my mom...I just needed to vent, and I was...I guess when I ripped my homework out of my notebook I grabbed it...and then she read it…" she stopped, and she blinked. "No one was supposed to read it."
"What did she do this time?" he asked in a whisper. "Talk to me." He moved the hand from her shoulder to the other side of her face, holding her head still, keeping his eyes on hers. "Talk to me." He watched her mouth open slightly, a word on the verge of being born, but all that came out was a small, choked sob as she collapsed in his arms. "Whoa, oh, okay," he stammered, using all of his strength to support her as she fell further into him, his arms wrapping around her tightly. His mind raced with a million things he could say to calm her, to get her to laugh, to make her smile, but at this moment, they all sounded stupid. He just held her as she cried, and he kissed the side of her head. "I'm here, right here. I got you," was all he said, all he offered.
To her, it was more than enough.
It was everything.
It took only a few minutes, but her breathing slowed and her cries quieted, and she sniffled as she pushed herself up and away from his chest. "I'm sorry," she wheezed, "Shit, I'm so sorry." She wiped her eyes and took a deep breath.
He shook his head with a firm look in his eyes. "Never be sorry about that," he told her, his hand grabbing hers. "About anything. Not with me." His other hand stretched out toward the paper-towel dispenser and he yanked a rough, brown sheet down and tore it away from the roll. He tilted his head as he wiped her eyes, and then moved just a bit closer to her. He folded the towel over her nose. "Blow," he said with a wink.
She rolled her eyes and laughed softly, but did as he commanded and blew her nose, nodding when she was finished.
He tossed the crumpled paper-towel into a nearby trash bin and pulled her even closer to him, his nose touching hers now. "What did she do?"
She sighed, closed her eyes, and let her forehead press against his. "Drank herself stupid," she said bitterly. "Played an invigorating game of Whack-A-Liv."
"Don't...don't trivialize this," he said, knowing she was using humor to deflect, to soften the blow. "You can make all the jokes you want, I'm not laughing." He felt her breath, hot against his lips, and he whispered, "Stay with me, tonight. Wait till she passes out, I'll leave the ladder up, she won't...she won't hurt you, tonight." He took a moment, contemplating his next words. "Maybe you can tell my dad about…"
"No," she straightened up fast. The color that had only begun to return to her face flushed away again. "No way in Hell!"
"Okay, okay, forget I mentioned it," he said, his eyes wide and his hand still firmly grasping hers. He pulled her to him again, this time, his lips hit their target. The kiss was soft, gentle, but emotional. Pulling away with an almost silent smacking sound, he exhaled harshly and said, "You're still staying...staying with me, right?"
Hesitating for a minute, she stared at him, into his blue eyes. She blinked once. "Yeah."
Relief flooded him. He let out a deep sigh and tugged her back toward him. He kissed her again, slowly this time, litting his lips linger on hers, allowing his tongue to trail lightly across the seam of her mouth. When she gasped, he took flight, his tongue now dancing effortlessly with hers. One hand left it's home in her palm to find new shelter at the nape of her neck, holding her, caressing her.
She pushed him away gingerly, catching her breath as their lips parted. "The bell's gonna ring, you really shouldn't be in here to begin with, if anyone come in to…"
"Oh, you just don't want to be caught making out with me," he laughed, softly moving her hair behind her ear.
With a laugh and raised eyebrows, she said, "Not in the bathroom!"
He laughed, then, too, and looped an arm around her as he guided them both to the door. "I left my stuff in Miss Brenner's class," he said. "I, uh, I think you should come back with me." He used his available arm to carry the books she'd dropped on the corner of a sink, and he kissed her temple. "Take credit for your masterpiece."
Nodding, she walked with him, one arm around his waist, the other at hr side, her hand shoved in the pocket of her navy blue, wool cardigan. She was surprised at how comfortable it was, how she fit against him so perfectly, no matter how they positioned themselves. He was tall for his age, stronger than most of the other freshmen. His low voice and slight layer of stubble contradicted his playful, energetic personality. He was sincere, but tough. He was defensive and aggressive, but overprotective when it came to her, and she wondered how she got lucky enough to have him in her life. She didn't believe in coincidences, but she didn't believe in fate, either. She looked over at him and realized he was really the only thing she believed in completely.
"I know what you're thinking," he said, turning to her as they stopped in front of the door to their English classroom. "You're right."
"Am I?" she asked, her fear and sadness pushed aside to let his light in, "And what do you think I'm thinking anyway?"
"We're different," he said. "We're both, uh, a lot older than we're supposed to be. You and me, baby, we grew up a long time ago. That's why we are...the way that we are. We get each other, and...and we belong to each other." He kissed her cheek and asked, "Don't we?"
She nodded, pressed her lips to his tenderly, and said, "We do."
The bell rang just as Elliot pulled the door to the room open. Olivia walked in first, shooting an apologetic glance toward the teacher, who looked back at her with an unreadable expression in her eyes. She waited near the chalkboard for Elliot, who ran to his desk to scoop up his books. She watched, only from her periphery, as the students passed her, whispering to each other, their heads turning to keep staring at her as they filed out into the hallway.
She let a slow smile spread across her face. They could talk all they wanted, they could stare if it made them happy. There was only one person that really mattered to her, and he took his place at her side as soon as he could.
"Sorry, Miss Brenner," he said, offering a charming smile. "I had to check on her after she…"
"Understandable, Mister Stabler," the woman said, and then she turned toward Olivia, holding out the poem, folded, and slowly handing it to her. "You wrote this," she said. "I should have known. You really have a talent, here, Miss Benson. I just…" she cleared her throat. "If there's ever anything you need to talk about, you know, my door is always open."
"It's just a poem," Olivia said fast, taking her paper. "But thank you." She smiled, and turned around when Elliot pulled her toward the door. She let him pull her close and she looked up at him with love in her eyes. She was grateful for Miss Brenner's offer, but she didn't need her open door. She already had an open window.
Elliot's.
A/N: Different, for me. This will eventually take us through all four years, touching on moments of their history given in canon, and others given to them by me. Thank you for giving it a chance.
