Disclaimer: I do not own the recognizable characters of this work of fiction, and am making no profit through the writing, and online publication of this.
A/N: Re-posting this story as per lederra's request.
Elliot Stabler had his own personal demons that he'd laid to rest a long time ago. A dark past he didn't revisit, ever. And yet, standing in the home of their latest victim, where they'd found a little five year old boy huddled in a closet, hiding from his father, he couldn't seem to stop the memories he'd forgotten he had from resurfacing.
The little boy's barely audible litany of: "Please, please, please don't let him find me…" brought one particular memory to the surface, and Elliot felt dizzy.
Elliot covered his ears with his hands and hid in his closet. He kept his eyes closed tight, too. He didn't want to see or hear any of the argument that was going on between his parents. It was scary and loud and he just wanted to disappear, or to make them disappear.
"Elliot!"
Even though he had his hands pressed tightly against his ears, he could still hear his father's voice. It was loud, like the roar of a lion. Elliot held his breath, and tried to be as quiet as he could so that his father wouldn't find him. He even tried to make his heart beat quieter, it sounded like a loud drum to his ears.
The longer he stayed hidden, the longer he'd have to pay for it. Elliot knew this, but he couldn't bring himself to leave the closet and go to his father who kept calling his name. His father sounded angrier and angrier with each successive shout.
"Elliot, if you don't get your ass out here by the time I count to three, so help me god," his father ranted.
Elliot held his breath, the blood rushing in his ears drowned out his father's count to three. He knew he was dead before his father had started counting anyway. He shouldn't have hidden in the first place. It always made things worse in the end.
"Where the hell are you, you little bastard?"
His father was in his room now. His voice was louder, and not as stuffed sounding as it was before, even though Elliot's hands were still clamped over his ears to drown out the sound of yelling. Elliot thought he could hear his father's footsteps, making the floorboards creak, as the man made his way toward the closet where Elliot hid.
One. Elliot counted.
Two. His heart stopped beating for a few seconds, and he drew in a shuddery breath.
Three.
The creaking stopped, and Elliot knew that his father stood in front of his hiding place, that his hand was even now on the knob, that in a matter of seconds his father would pull him out of the closet and punish him.
"Please, please, please," Elliot whispered the words in his head, as he rocked back and forth in his seat on the closet floor, "please don't let him find me. Please."
Olivia's heart felt like it was going to break when they found the little boy, Michael, hiding in the closet. He couldn't have been more than five years old. He was dirty, skin ashen. He was clinging to what looked like a rag, but upon closer scrutiny, Olivia could see that it was a rabbit. No doubt, a toy his dead mother had made for him when he was younger.
From what Olivia could gather, the boy's mother had shoved him into the closet, and told him to stay hidden, that he'd be safe if he kept the door closed tight and stayed very quiet no matter what happened.
Her past was never very far from her, and she called upon her childhood experiences to help her empathize with her victims. Still, sometimes it hurt to remember.
The little boy had a bruise high on his cheek, and Olivia touched her own cheek in sympathy, as a memory of one night, like so many other she'd endured as a child, swept over her.
Olivia held her breath and counted to ten, slowly letting her breath out as she counted. Her cheek hurt, a lot. It felt like it was burning, though she knew that it wasn't. It just stung because her mother had struck her so hard. Olivia knew, even without having to look, that her cheek would be one, big massive bruise in the morning.
She hated it when her mother drank. It always seemed to make her mad, and then she'd yell at or hit Olivia who always tried to be on her best behavior so that her mother wouldn't get mad at her. She hated having to explain away the bruises at school, and even now was thinking of what she'd say if her teacher asked her what happened.
"A door," Olivia whispered. "I don't think I've used that excuse too often. I'll just say that I walked into a door."
She often feigned clumsiness so that the bruises would be easier to explain away. If people believed that she was clumsy, they would buy her stories about walking into doors and corners of walls easier than if they didn't.
"Olivia, you get your ass in here right now," her mother's shrill voice cut through her heart like a knife, and Olivia bit down on her lip.
She clenched her fists to her side and closed her eyes, willing herself away to somewhere better, safer, and with a mother who loved her.
"You've hidden the whiskey again, haven't you?"
Olivia tasted blood and wiped at her bloodied lip with the back of her hand, smearing it across her chin.
"Please, please, please don't find it," Olivia pleaded silently, "please stop drinking Momma."
Olivia slid down her bedroom wall to the floor, and gathered her knees up to her chest, resting her head on her arms. She tried to make herself as small as possible, and prayed that her mother wouldn't find the bottle of whiskey she'd emptied into the kitchen sink.
Elliot knelt down in front of the closet. He remembered how intimidating his own father had looked to him when he'd towered over him, and he didn't want to frighten the little boy, Michael, any more than he already was.
"Michael," Elliot said, using the voice he used with his children after they'd had a nightmare, "it's safe. You can come out now."
Michael's eyes, a striking blue, met his and Elliot offered him a smile. He held his hand out to the little boy who eyed it warily. Michael's breath hitched, and he clutched his little stuffed rabbit even closer to his chest. Elliot knelt there, waiting until Michael decided that he could trust him. His knees and back ached, but he was rewarded when the little boy's repeated pleas ceased and he reached out and grasped Elliot's hand.
Elliot let the little boy crawl out of the closet, and then he hugged him close, whispering, "It's okay, you're safe. He's not going to hurt you anymore," against the little boy's ear.
"Elliot?" Olivia crouched down next to the two, her hand resting on her partner's back.
"I think we'd better get him to the hospital," Elliot said.
Olivia nodded, and smiled at the little boy.
"You're safe now, Michael," she said, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear.
She watched as Elliot stood, deftly lifting the little boy in his arms and rearranging him so that the little boy could sit on his hip and wrap his legs around his middle. The smile that Elliot gave the little boy didn't quite reach his eyes, and the wrinkles around his mouth betrayed sorrow.
She arched her back as she stood, and eyed the emptied bottle of whiskey that lay barely hidden beneath the bed with disdain. Alcohol had been the death of her mother, she knew that alcohol had factored into Elliot's upbringing, and now she could see that alcohol had claimed yet another life, and affected the future of a little boy.
"C'mon, let's get you out of here," Elliot said.
"He's not coming back?" Michael whispered.
Elliot and Olivia shook their heads, and simultaneously, they said, "No, honey, he's not."
Alcohol had claimed, not just Michael's mother's life, but his drunken father's as well.
At the end of the day, after Michael had been tended to, and they'd wrapped up the case, Elliot went home to his wife and children, and thanked his lucky stars that, in spite of his upbringing, he hadn't turned into his father.
He had a home filled with love and laughter. A home free of fear and terror. A home where no one had to hide in a closet to escape a drunk on the warpath.
He hoped that the same could be said of Michael when the little boy grew into manhood, that he'd be able to break the cycle of alcoholism and violence, and that one day have a family who would love and respect him.
Olivia twisted the stem of her wine glass between her middle and index finger. She watched the dark crimson liquid swish and sway in the glass, cling to the sides and then slide down them, and wondered how anyone could be beholden to the addictive substance.
She took a sip of the wine, swirled it around in her mouth – it tasted bitter, like bark and smoky, like a campfire. The small swallow burned the back of her throat and she wondered how anyone could not stop drinking it. How anyone, like her mother and Michael's father, could drink, and drink and drink until they were sick and completely out of their minds.
She frowned, placed the glass on the table, and then walked away. Her mother had marveled at how she could stop drinking alcohol after a single sip, or that she could stop after one drink. For her part, Olivia had marveled that her mother had never stopped.
She hoped that Michael would find it in him to never start drinking, and that, if he did choose to drink alcohol that he'd be able to stop before he turned into a monster. There was hope yet for him. Just as there'd been hope for her, for Elliot. They'd both managed to overcome their genetic makeup, and were good, strong adults as a result, using their pasts to help others in the present.
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