((This is my first published fanfic, ladies and gents, so be nice! This is an extension of Rage, from a season number that has escaped me at the moment, when Elliot gets into a fist fight with the lockers. Who comes to rescue him, I wonder? I own nobody.))
The last clash of flesh and metal echoed through the dark squad room, abandoned for moonlighting activities of an undisclosed nature, snuggling with missed spouses, or snoring. Elliot sank to his knees, his breathing heavy as he ran his hands to clasp behind his head; blood glistened, trailing down his raw knuckles, seeping into his shirt, once pure and white, tainted only by sweat.
Deep breaths worked to harness the emotions that had been unleashed. Elliot Stabler had lost control. His passion, his rage, could now only be hidden by gloves or gauze; his emotions were branded upon his hands, for the entire squad to see, each member of the New York Police Department, his captain, his neighbors, future victims, the perpetrators, and his partner
His partner.It wasn't as though his fire had been much of a secret. A steady stream water cooler chitchat was difficult to maintain in a department of the NYPD that required more chasing and interrogating that deskwork and boredom, but through the grapevine, without help of singing raisins, detectives and uniformed officers had come to know of the blaze that was Detective Stabler's temper.
The maintenance staff crept about the building in muffled thuds, opening doors and pacing the halls. Weak from his outburst, Elliot remained grounded, expecting to be discovered by the homely janitor, Fred, some minutes later. On cue, the door to the bullpen swung upon, a creak the was inaudible with the bustle of the average workday signaled a series of excuses Elliot could whip out, justifying his late stay, his bruised knuckles, painted crimson.
"Elliot?" The strong, attractive voice was certainly not Fred's.