Summary:

Sketch hefted his backpack on his shoulder to give her a sheepish shrug. "Well, ma'am, I'm your teacher."

"How old are you? 12? Where's the real teacher?" she asked skeptically, her eyes casting a glance behind him.

(Sketch POV when Bernie calls for art classes after finding Sketch's business card in Eli's backpack and Elliot catches him at the apartment. Implied EO)

Characters: Bernie Stabler, Elliot Stabler, Jet Slootmaekers, mention of Noah and Olivia Benson, Sketch

A/N: This is an interlude in the current Eli drug arc as this takes place a few days after Bernie accuses Eli of stealing her pills and searches his backpack in OCs2e5 so is before Eli stealing more pills and going to the party.

Previous story mentions:

-Jet Slootmaekers as Jez - Ch/Part 5 Safety in Numbers

- Eli observing Elliot's reaction to Liv's accident - Ch/Part 12 Family is Everything

- Sketch being Noah's brother - Ch/Part 10 Meaning of Family

Sitting at the Crew's booth at the diner, Sketch stared at the blank paper in front of him. It was rare to find himself in the predicament of not knowing how to fulfill a drawing request. It's for Noah, he reminded himself, still spiraling a bit in disbelief at his brother's request for a family picture of the three of them - himself, Liv, and Sketch. Shifting in his seat, the idea of being part of a "family" still seemed odd to him, even after all these months of spending time with Team Benson. When Noah'd asked, he'd shot an uncertain look at Liv who simply reiterated the request with one of her understanding smiles. So he'd promised…committed himself to this folly of an endeavor, and now, he was stumped. He couldn't even fathom how to start it…let alone complete it.

Hearing someone slide in across, he slammed the sketchbook closed, grateful for the distraction. Glancing up, amber eyes met Jez's dark brown eyes. "You still stuck on this?" she asked in disbelief.

Sketch nodded with sigh, running his hand through his hair. "I just don't know where to start."

"Hey, brainiac, you're overthinking this," she playfully scolded as she stole some of the fries off of the plate Mama K must've dropped off at some point during his creative spiral, "It's not complicated. He's a kid. It doesn't have to be some grand masterpiece."

He looked down at the table, absentmindedly rolling his pencil back and forth between his hands. "I know, but it's the first one he's specifically asked for," he mumbled shyly, "I just don't wanna disappoint or overstep somehow."

A hand with black nail polish stopped the progress of the drawing utensil, causing Sketch to meet her understanding gaze. "So just treat this like a request from another client and start with Liv and Noah. You'll figure out how to fit your ugly ass into it," she advised with a teasing tone in her voice.

"I guess," Sketch sighed as he reluctantly reopened his sketchbook.

"Speaking of clients," she said, leaning forward, "I've got an art class request for you."

"Aww…you know I hate doing those," Sketch groaned, dread filling his stomach. These in-person sessions always made him feel like a scruffy waif playing dress-up in an attempt to look "respectable". It didn't help that since the requests were usually for groups of people seeking to enhance a specific skill set, he'd find himself having to stand in front of them, being judged on his age, dress, and expertise. The very idea almost made him break out in hives.

Jez shook her head. "This is different. It's a solo gig for an old lady at her house."

He shot her an incredulous look. "Let me get this straight. An old lady is inviting a stranger to her house for an art lesson," he repeated, completely flummoxed at the request. "Ain't she worried 'bout her safety? About the 'VID?"

"Apparently not," she replied, stealing another fry from his plate.

"I dunno, Jezzie," Sketch replied hesitantly, "Last thing I wanna do is get accused of getting some old lady sick or, even worse, causing her death."

"Thought of that," she countered with a smirk, "She promised to get tested the day of as long as you do, too."

He shot her an indignant look. "I ain't got insurance to pay for it, so where the hell am I gonna get it?"

"You're smart. You'll figure it out," she said dismissively as her cell phone pinged. Looking down at it, she shot off a quick reply and stood up. "Gotta go. Bernie is expecting you at 10am tomorrow at this address," she announced as she slid a piece of paper across the table to him and began to walk away.

"But I haven't agreed to do it yet," Sketch shouted after her indignantly.

"You will," she said confidently as she waved over her shoulder.

He huffed out an annoyed sigh as he fingered the paper she'd given him with a Long Island City address written on it. She was right, and he knew it. Despite recent revelations that his grandparents had likely taken him in out of duty, he found himself unable to shake their influence so easily, making him a sucker for seniors asking for anything. It was a character flaw that Jez knew all too well, and one she knew exactly how to exploit. Maybe I'll get lucky and not be able to get a test, he thought as he pulled out his phone to make a call.

Father Miguel's warm voice came over the line. "Hello, Diego."

Sketch swallowed. "Hey, Father. You got a second?"

"I'm in the middle of writing my sermon, but I've got a minute."

The teen nodded his head and twirled the pencil on the table. "I gotta take a test for the 'VID tomorrow. You know any place that'll do it for free that can squeeze me in?" Please. Please. Please say "no", the mantra pounded in his mind to the same rhythm as his beating heart.

The man on the other end hummed and said, "You're in luck. One of the non-profits here is doing it, and they were just telling me that they have some spare. I'll just have to vouch for you."

Shit, Sketch mouthed, shoulder slumping. "Thanks, Father, I'll stop by in the morning."

Slamming his flip phone closed, he stared at the tabletop forlornly. At least, I kinda know where I'm going thanks to all the time we've spent in the area with Eli, he thought reluctantly accepting his fate.

The next day, Sketch found himself in a former warehouse district staring up at the building he'd been instructed to go to. Ugh…why couldn't I just say 'no' for once? He despaired, as he tugged nervously at his "nice" shirt and looked down at his "nice" pants to double check it remained stain-free.

"Look as good as I'm gonna get," he muttered to himself, as he hefted his backpack on his shoulder before taking a deep breath and making his way into the building. Glancing down at the paper in his hand, he kept looking around for the right apartment until he found himself standing outside the appropriate door. "Okay. Here we go," he said, takin in another deep breath before knocking on the door.

"Coming," he heard a voice call from inside, and he shoved his hands into his pocket, rocking on his heels a bit with anxious energy.

The door swung open to reveal a senior lady with a shock of white hair and brilliant, blue eyes that looked at him stupefied. "Who are you?" she asked, giving him an assessing glance.

"You called Artistic Minds NYC for art classes?" he asked in his most professional voice, hoping to confirm he was at the right place.

"Yes, I did after finding the card in my grandson's backpack," she confirmed, eyes glinting with the light of suspicion.

Sketch grabbed the strap of the backpack slung on his shoulder and gave her a sheepish grin. "Well, ma'am, I'm your teacher."

"How old are you? 12? Where's the real teacher?" she asked skeptically, her eyes casting a glance behind him.

For someone willing to invite strangers into her home during a pandemic, she sure seems paranoid, he mused before explaining patiently, "I'm Diego. I believe you were told to expect me."

"Get out!" She shouted, startling him as she moved to close the door while mumbling, "Since that boy took my pills, I should've known he'd get involved in some sort of scam."

"Wait," Sketch called, his hand stopping before she could completely shut it, "Maybe I can prove it to you?"

Wary eyes poked around the edge of the door. "How?"

Sketch swung his backpack around in front of him and pulled out his sketchbook. "I can show you some of my stuff."

"Well, I'm not letting you in here. You'll probably scope out stuff to steal," she huffed, "There's a gate on the other side of the wall that leads to the patio. Go that way."

Before he could say anything, the door slammed in his face. Rubbing a hand across his face, he heaved an annoyed sigh at having his integrity questioned. Yet, he couldn't help but let out a slight chuckle as her actions were eerily reminiscent of his grandmother's when Jehovah's Witnesses would knock on their apartment door back in the day.

A nearby gate creaked open, and a slightly frail voice called out, "Are you coming or what?"

Oh yeah, he thought as he made his way to the back gate, This is exactly how Abuela would've been at her age. A sharp pain pricked his heart at the thought of his late grandmother who, despite everything, remained a central figure from his childhood.

Sitting down at the little patio table, he pulled out his drawings and showed them to her.

"My grandson has drawings from this artist, so you could've bought these," she announced, unimpressed. "Wait here, and I'll get them." She stood up and went back into the apartment.

"Christ," Sketch muttered, trying to tap into the well of patience he'd developed living with his grandparents. When the memory of her mumblings about pills being stolen floated to his mind, it sparked a recollection of a time when his grandfather once acted a bit like her when he'd run short on one of his anti-anxiety meds. Maybe that's what's going on now, he thought with a flash of understanding that soothed his previously tumultuous feelings.

He flashed the older woman a smile when she came back, drawings in hand. As he flipped through them, it sank in that sitting across from him was Eli's grandmother…the woman whose cats they'd helped to round up. His heart sank at the revelation that the grandson she mentioned stealing her pills was, in fact, the teen he knew. What is going on with him? He couldn't help but worry. The Crew's past experience with Paco indicated that this kind of behavior was the harbinger of nothing good.

"Yeah, I gave these to him," Sketch said with a nod.

"You could just be saying that," she huffed.

"What can I do to convince you?" Sketch asked before coming up with an idea, "How about I do a sketch for you?"

Crystal blue eyes stared at him before conceding, "Fine."

Sketch gave a relieved sigh before pulling the sketchbook towards him. "Okay. Please describe a place that brings you happy memories."

A far off look entered her eyes, and she began to speak, describing a house on the beach where her kids used to play in the sand, building sand castles, and where she used to have room to paint. Sketch gave it a bit and as her tale winded down, he asked more questions to help gather more details. He wasn't sure why he felt compelled to do so, after all it wasn't like he was planning on adding all of them, but after the trying morning he'd had so far, the routine felt comforting. As he listened to her tales, he became envious of the life she described. All the while keeping in mind that her recollection was likely more perfect through the lens of time than reality.

"So what do you think?" he asked softly after a bit, pulling her attention to the rough sketch he'd put in front of her. Of course, more detail could be added, and if she were a paying customer or if this were a memory sketch, he'd likely have spent the time doing it.

The resulting gasp and the slight sheen that made her eyes shimmer like the ocean gave him a sense of satisfaction at having his reputation redeemed in her eyes. Letting out a shuddering breath, she looked up at him and whispered, "I'm sorry. Please come inside."

Moving to put his hand on one of hers covered by thin, wrinkled skin and with a few fingers showing signs of arthritis, Sketch paused, concerned that the move would be unwelcome, and pretended to grab the edge of the book instead. "It's fine, ma'am. I'm used to it. Always better safe than sorry," he assured her with a gentle smile as he put the book into his backpack and followed her into the apartment.

"Call me 'Bernie'," she said with a wave of her hand as she entered the kitchen, "Ma'am makes me sound ancient."

"Will do, Bernie," he agreed as he made his way over to the spot on the kitchen island staked out for their lesson by pencils, sketchbook, and other supplies. His eyes roved over the space, taking in the boxes that remained scattered around and the work that still needed to be done. While it was still evidently a converted warehouse, the furnishing and the plants helped to start to give the place a homey feel to it. "This place is really coming around," he noted absently.

"My son and grandson certainly don't notice, so thank you. It's nice to have my efforts appreciated," she griped, as she opened the refrigerator door. "Can I get you something to drink?"

She turned an expectant look on her face. Having a feeling that a refusal would lead nowhere, another trait she likely shared with his abuela, Sketch went with the easiest option. "Water is fine," he requested as he sat on one of the bar stools and crossed his arms to watch her flit around the kitchen area.

Pulling a glass out of a cupboard, she filled it with water from the dispenser on the fridge and handed it to him before starting to pull out a container of homemade cookies. "I'll make you some food."

"You really don't have to do that," Sketch protested with a roll of his eyes, "These cookies are fine." To prove a point, he grabbed one and took a bite. His eyes flew open wide as the flavor burst forth in his mouth. "Oh my God. These are the best I've ever had."

It melted his heart at how she preened at his praise and shot him a pleased smile. "Nonsense. You're too skinny," she insisted, pulling out the makings of a sandwich.

As she worked, Sketch decided to start to figure out how he could help. "You mentioned before that you painted, so what do you need me for?"

He watched in trepidation as she waved the hand holding a knife as she explained, "My doctor said that I should get back into it, and as you can see, there isn't room for me to set-up a studio." She turned to grab a bag of chips before sliding a plate and the bag in front of him. "Eat up," she ordered before leaning over to snag a cookie for herself. "She also said fine motor skills would be good for my brain, so I thought why not try to do two things at once."

Not having eaten this morning due to nerves, the food was much appreciated, and he thought about what she'd shared with him as he grabbed a few chips to add to the inside of his sandwich. "Thanks for this," he said with an appreciative smile as he took a bite. The satisfying crunch of the chips, making him hum in appreciation.

Pausing before taking another bite, he looked around, trying to figure out what had sparked the curious look on her face. "What?"

"You just added chips to your sandwich," she pointed out in confusion.

Sketch glanced down at the food in his hand and looked back at her with a slight laugh. "Oh, Granddad taught me that. Said it added 'texture' whatever that is," he explained with a shrug, "Guess I just do it automatic now."

As she pulled up a stool next to him, he wiped his hand on the napkin she'd given him and turned to her. "Okay. Since you're not a beginner, the first thing to do is for me to get a sense of your skills." Taking a sip of water, he instructed, "Why don't you start to draw something…anything for the next 15 minutes."

He watched her as a scene of a beach started to form on the paper in front of her. I should've known that's where her mind would take her, he thought fondly. Taking a bite of food, he nodded as his eyes ran over the start of a drawing. "Okay. This is a great start. I can see that you're thinking of it as the start of a painting, so what we're gonna do is focus on making things more detailed...more refined."

As the lesson time wore on, Sketch could tell that her energy had started to flag. "Bernie, maybe we should call it a day?"

"No, I want to finish this," she insisted, "Let me go take a nap. Can you stay until I wake up?" Hopeful eyes glanced at him as she got down from the stool.

He shifted uncomfortably on the stool. "Don't think your son and grandson would appreciate a stranger having full access to the place."

"I want you to stay." A glint of Irish stubbornness entering her blue eyes, making them sparkle like sapphires.

"Bernie," he groaned, "I can come back tomorrow."

"No," she stated with determination as she headed to one of the rooms down the hallway. "Stay there. You've proven yourself, young man, and if you're not here, then I hold your pay hostage."

"For my sanity, I'm gonna wait outside, okay?" he called.

"Take the cookies with you," she shouted back before closing the door behind her.

Letting out a small smile at her spicy temperament, he grabbed container of cookies and filled up his glass of water before moving out onto the garden area. Recalling the tendencies of the elderly he'd had to shape his life around as a child, he knew that this "nap" could last an hour or two or three which raised the question he asked himself, "What the hell am I gonna do?"

Plopping down at the small table, he pulled out his sketchbook, deciding to bite the bullet and get started on Noah's project. Staring once again at a blank piece of paper, he picked up a pencil and muttered Jez's advice, "Just start with Liv and Noah. Yeah, I can do that." Closing his eyes, he pulled up one of a mental picture of Liv's face creased with a genuine, nose-crinkling smile and with her brown eyes sparkling with a level of joy that only Noah seemed to be able to evoke. It was this image that he began to put to paper in front of him.

Her likeness began to take shape under his skillful hands, but he found himself needing to take breaks, possibly because of the size of the table or maybe even the set-up. During one of these breaks, he went over to the vegetable garden to the side of the patio and began drawing upon his time helping his abuela with hers to identify everything planted there. It was then he heard a husky voice call out, "Mama?"

Sketch froze, knowing that this must be Eli's father, the infamous Elliot Stabler. His heart began to pound furiously at the notion that he'd be meeting the other half of the dynamic duo so revered by the Crew and the man oh so important to Liv (even if she tried to deny it).

The bald, bulky man dressed in jeans and a sleeveless hoodie must've caught sight of him through the window or maybe it as the door leading outside because the next thing Sketch knew, he was barreling through the door to grab him by the collar of his "nice" shirt and slammed him against the wall. Oof, Sketch thought, the breath temporarily knocked out of him before he answered cockily, "Hey, man. Watch the shirt. It's the only decent one I got."

"Who the hell are you?" the older roared, blue eyes glinting with a hint of violence and anger as he gave the teen a quick shake. "You casing our place or something, punk?"

Glaring at the man in front of him and drawing upon years of living on the streets, Sketch adamantly stated, "I ain't a thief." Well…technically…he guessed he was one, but in his mind, the pick pocketing, purse snatching, and shoplifting he'd done in his life weren't really illegal; they were a matter of survival…a way to not starve. So for him, thieves were the burglars or robbers who threaten people with weapons, break into houses, and do other crazy, violent shit like that.

Blue eyes so similar to those currently resting in the other room glared at him, glinting like glacial ice in the sun. "Then what the hell you doin'?" he growled, giving Sketch another shake.

"Looking at the vegetable garden," Sketch answered truthfully as he gathered all of the cool he'd developed over the years of dealing with threats on the streets. It was like dealing with a wild animal, if he stayed calm and relaxed more than likely he'd make it out of it alive.

The man in front of him gave him a rough, incredulous laugh before he sneered, "You have an interest in our tomatoes?"

Sketch shrugged the best he could in the older man's hold. "Hey, man. Don't knock the tomato. They're a good source of fiber, potassium, and vitamins A, C, B9, and K1. They're low in sodium, are fat and cholesterol free, and are good for eyesight and heart health."

"What are you? An encyclopedia?" The man looked at him in disbelief, the hand on his shirt loosening just a bit before it tightened again hauling him towards the table. "This your shit?"

Sketch gulped a bit and nodded slightly, hoping that he'd be let go soon. Fuck! He mentally groaned as he remembered that his drawing of Liv was there for all to see. Knowing that there were active threats against Liv, he knew that this could make the volatile situation even more tenuous.

Elliot Stabler glanced down at the sketch, a slight softening of his eyes at the expression Sketch had started to capture. The presence of the image must've sunk in because the temporary, gentle look on the older man's face suddenly transformed to one that was hard granite. His eyes, which once burned with angry fire, became stone cold like ice. A shiver went up the teen's spine at the drastic change that came over the man in front of him. It was only then that he understood what Eli had meant when he'd mused one night after Liv's accident that his father would burn New York down to protect or save Liv. "Why do you have a picture of Captain Benson?" the man growled, his jaw clenching in restrained anger.

Sketch swallowed hard and began to talk fast, "Look, I'm your mom's art teacher, and this is just a picture of some woman I saw in the park."

Elliot finally released his shirt as he shoved him away from him and began to prowl around him like an animal circling his prey. Sketch scrambled back and tugged nervously at his clothes, trying to make them look less rumpled. "You didn't answer my question. Why do you have a picture of Captain Benson? What are you planning? Who do you work for?"

With each question, he grew closer and closer until he was once again in Sketch's face.

The teen huffed in annoyance. "I tol' you. Your mom called our company, Artistic Minds LLC." He pulled one of the crumpled business cards he carried in his pocket. "To ask for art lessons." Waving at the sketchbook open on the table, he thought fast as he scrambled to find an explanation that'd get him out of this mess, "Dunno what you want me to say. I saw her in the park and thought I'd draw her as a test of my recall skills."

Elliot shot him a considering look, his hand stroking his beard. "Pack up your shit and leave. And if I ever see you again, you'll regret it."

Sketch gathered his things, all the while glaring at the man. "Fine, but you better tell your mom I left under protest, so she'll pay me for my time." He shoved his sketchbook into his backpack and poured all the remaining cookies into his bag as well, shooting the man a look that dared him to protest.

As he went through the squeaky gate, he couldn't help but throw out, "Tell your mom thanks for the cookies and the sandwich!"

"Fucking unbelievable," he muttered, casting a resentful glare back at the building as he left. No matter what he seemed to do. No matter how he tried to be normal. He always seemed to get pegged as homeless or a criminal. When will people learn to look beyond the window dressing that was his age and his clothes to see his potential? "That's the last time I'm doin' anything one-on-one. Don't care what Jez says," he muttered as he pulled out his cell and shot Jez a text to let her know what happened. He knew that she'd follow-up and maybe…maybe…just maybe…he'd still get paid. And maybe…just maybe…he'll be able to teach Bernie again…this time in exchange for more of her cookies.

A/N: Info about tomatoes comes from an online source.