Law and Order: SVU" belongs to Dick Wolf and Universal Television. No profit is being made from this story.
I've read quite a few stories imagining the possibilities of a reunion between Benson and Stabler since he's been away from SVU. This is a slightly...different, darker tale surrounding that premise. Sorry. I'm not a big "fluff" writer, personally. Hope no one minds.
Also, this will veer slightly into AU territory with regards to later seasons because I have only slightly glimpsed a few episodes since season 12 ended. Buckle up...this one will be a longer journey for anyone so inclined to join me.
October 2019
The first day that he woke up and found himself in a bed with pillows, blankets, and a down comforter, his immediate assumption was that they had finally killed him.
There was no other explanation. He was actually relieved, so much so that he almost started to weep. Now he could be with his kids and this time never be separated from them again. He was completely free, something he'd thought would never happen again in his lifetime.
Then he looked around more closely and realized with a sinking heart that he was still very much alive. He could feel the warm air of the heater blowing next to the bed and feel the sharp headache behind his eyes that was a daily misery coming back.
There was no doubt about it, though-he definitely was in a bed. A nice bed. And he could get up the moment he felt like it. So that told him that he was either dead or dreaming.
A sudden sharp knock made him jump. He looked over and saw a door open across the room. A man wearing a suit stepped one foot inside and leaned in far enough to be seen.
"Good morning," the man said. "If you'd like some breakfast, I can get it brought up or you can go down to get it, whichever you prefer. There are clothes in the bag by the desk."
The man pointed. He blinked and then looked over to see a large white plastic bag there.
"You'll need to meet me in the lobby in an hour so we can get your paperwork and bus pass sorted," he went on. "Feel free to take a shower if you want."
He blinked at the man for a long moment and then nodded dumbly. The man nodded back and backed out of the room, closing the door.
He swallowed, his face crinkling in slight confusion, and then robotically pushed himself out of the bed. He walked slowly over to the plastic bag and looked inside. He saw blue jeans, white socks, and a nondescript white sweatshirt, along with a pair of black shoes. Everything appeared to have been previously worn before.
He crossed the room and stepped into the bathroom. He touched small bottles of shampoo and soap, a wrapped toothbrush, and a razor that all sat by the sink. He didn't open any of it. He walked back out, crossed over to the bed again, and sat down on the end.
He buried his face in his hands. He couldn't process what was happening and was still in slight denial that he wasn't dreaming.
F.B.I. Agent Tom Moore was sitting at a small table in the dining area of the hotel skimming a newspaper when he came out of the elevator 40 minutes later. He tugged self-consciously on the stiff neckline of the unfamiliar sweatshirt as he approached.
Agent Moore looked up at his arrival. "Breakfast?" he offered, waving his hand over the plate of food in front of him.
"Not hungry," he answered.
He stood fidgeting next to the table. Agent Moore dabbed his face with a napkin and stood up. He picked up a small manila envelope laying by his elbow and opened it.
"Alright then," he said, pulling items out one at a time, handing him over as he spoke. "Here's one bus pass. This is a hotel voucher for any location in the city giving you a room for a maximum of four nights and three days."
He watched the items being put into his hand. He felt like he was underwater, not quite sure what to do.
"This is a prepaid cell phone with 500 minutes that expires at the end of the month, a $100 Visa gift card to use for meals, and a list of shelters with available spots open."
Agent Moore took out a business card and a pen, scrawling on the back messily.
"This is my number at headquarters," he said, placing it on top of the list. "Call me anytime."
Moore finished speaking and stared expectantly.
A heavy beat passed. Swallowing hard, he looked at the agent in front of him. Hesitation played on his face.
"What happens now?" he asked.
"Now?"
Agent Moore looked surprised at the question. He furrowed his brow.
"Well, Elliot-" he answered, shrugging.
He flinched at the name. He still wasn't used to hearing it.
"Now...you figure out where you want your life to go from here. We've provided these resources to help along the way ."
He looked almost sympathetic.
"There's a list of victim support groups in there. They might be able to offer more assistance than we at the Bureau can. Other than that, what happens now is up to you. Our jurisdiction ends once you leave the hotel."
He held out his hand. "I wish you the best of luck," he concluded.
Elliot shook the agent's proffered hand in a daze. Moore walked away, leaving him to stare down at the items he held in his hands.
He slowly went to the front entrance of the hotel and pulled open the doors leading outside.
Then, for the first time in eight years, Elliot Stabler stepped out onto the sidewalks of New York City. He had no idea where to go or what to do and could only stand still anxiously.
People pushed impatiently past him. He couldn't keep from staring at each one, nearly making himself dizzy. His breath shook as he awkwardly crumpled the papers in his hand in nervous, unconscious fashion.
What now?
