I PROMISE I'm updating both "Stormy Blue" and "Shot in the Dark" in the next couple of days!! I have most of the a chapter written for both stories but then this idea got in the way.

#ADHD the struggle is real.

Meredith held the coffee cup in her hands as she inspected the shelves in the living room of Stabler's apartment. The ceramic of the cup warmed her hands, but she wasn't really interested in drinking the liquid inside. Her stomach churned uncomfortably as anxiety replaced the rush of adrenaline she experienced earlier. She accepted the cup to be polite more than anything else.

She thought about how she ended up here, in a disaster of a life. Her brother was dead. She shot him to keep him from killing a police officer. He had killed women. So many women. Then there was her father. She suddenly found herself questioning every memory and every word he ever spoke. He killed her mother. She hadn't abandoned them. He had killed her. Apparently, she belonged to a family of killers.

She gave the tea a shot, hoping to quell the angry tumbling in her stomach. The hot liquid burned its way down her throat, and she contemplated asking Stabler for something stronger. He seemed like the sort of man who had a stash of something hidden in his apartment.

The man was a mystery to her, but something in her bones told her she could trust him when she didn't feel like she could trust anyone else. Everyone she knew and everyone she loved were corrupt, and they had tainted her by association. She felt dirty and used, and nothing could change that.

She glanced at the array of pictures lining the shelves. Her fingers left a line through the light film of dust that had accumulated in Stabler's absence. The first photo was of a couple of boys. His grandkids, maybe? He lifted the next picture. It looked old. Like the sort of snapshot taken by a disposable camera in the late nineties. The photo was of a much younger Stabler with his arms wrapped tightly around a blonde woman who held a pair of babies who must have been his. The woman had to be his wife. Late wife, probably. He seemed young for a widower, but he didn't seem like the sort of man to leave his family. She knew he was the staying kind.

Her mind conjured up an article she must have read years ago. She faintly remembered the horrific details of the incident. A visiting NYPD liaison was visiting New York, and his wife was killed in a car bombing. That couldn't have been him, could it?

She studied the picture closer, and took in the others decorating the shelves. The man whose wife was killed had five children. She remembered that detail because it was so uncommon. People in this city didn't have families that big. It was an anomaly, and she was trained to look for anomalies.

She found a full family picture and counted. 1,2,3,4,5. The air escaped her lungs with a whoosh. Five kids. It had to be the same man.

That explained some of the brooding energy.

Another picture caught his eye. It was tucked away on the furthest end of the shelf. The other pictures appeared to be posed or staged photos of family events, but this was different. She lifted the frame and looked a little closer. Stabler was younger, but not as young as the photo of him with his young wife. His hair was receding, but he still had hair, and based on his clothing, she bet the photo was taken in the early 2000s. It was a snapshot of him and a woman. Not his wife, she thought. This woman had dark hair, tan skin, and brown eyes. She couldn't look more different from his wife.

He looked happy in the photo. Truly happy. He was leaning up against her desk while the woman leaned back in her chair. They faced each other, grinning. But they weren't grinning at the camera. They were grinning at each other. The spark in their eyes and the brightness in their countenances made them look so alive. So free.

She felt mesmerized by the mystery. It would be a pretty ballsy move to keep a picture of a mistress among the pictures of his family. The man was clearly brash and fearless, but he clearly cared about his family. She doubted he would proudly display a picture of someone who represented a complicated, potentially painful, part of his family's past.

"Snooping?" The deep timbre of his voice cut through the silence.

"Is it snooping if the items are clearly displayed for the world to see?" She carefully set the framed photo back in its position on the edge of the shelf.

"Guess not." He chuckled. He dropped himself onto the couch with an exaggerated groan. "Damn, I'm getting old," he complained.

She laughed lightly and set her cup on the coffee table before sitting a respectable distance away from him on the couch. From where she sat, she felt the moist heat radiating off him, and the spiced smell of his body wash lofted in her direction.

The combination was a little hypnotic, and she had to shake herself in order to respond to his complaint. "Give yourself some credit. It's only been a couple days since you were tased and strung up." Her heart tightened in her chest when she spoke the words. She wished that entire night could be washed from her memory.

He opened his eyes, but his head remained laid back, resting on the couch cushion. "How are you doing? You know, with everything."

He could be frighteningly intimidating, but there was a softness in his eyes that betrayed his tough exterior. Her eyes dropped to her hands, which were lying limply on her lap. "Well, you know. I feel like you would expect to feel after someone you know tried to kill you."

"You know," he shot her with a crooked smile. "I do know how that feels."

She leaned back into the couch cushions. "Yeah, it sucks."

"I couldn't agree more."

A moment of silence passed before he asked, "And things with your father?"

She blinked slowly and stared at the ceiling. "I'm starting to feel a little numb. I mean, he's my dad. I always knew he didn't do things expressly by the book, but I always chalked it up to politics." She sighed. "But now." She shook her head. "How do you deal with finding out the person you always thought you knew wasn't that person at all? I feel like I'm picking up every memory and examining it, looking for clues about his." She pinched her eyes shut. "Corruption, lies, deceit."

He rolled his head to the side, and she could feel his eyes on her even though she didn't return his gaze. "Welcome to the shitty dad club." He rolled his head back so he was staring at the slowly spinning ceiling fan. "We probably should make t-shirts or something."

She laughed at the absurdity of the idea. "I'm not sure it's something I want to advertise, but thanks for the invite."

"Eh." He grinned cheekily. "The offer will still stand."

"Thanks?"

They chuckled and fell into a comfortable sort of silence before she asked. "Your dad?"

He sighed and shifted uncomfortably. "It seems like the more I find out about him, the more I want to hate him."

"I hear ya." She just found out her father and brother were basically sociopaths, but she couldn't find it in her heart to hate them.

"We had a family dinner last week," he started.

"Yeah," she prompted.

"It was a disaster."

"Isn't it always? I feel like a family dinner always equates to family drama." She observed.

"Yeah, my brother planned it." He shook his head. "Lots of stuff came out, and... I guess I'm saying I get it. I'm doing the same thing with my old man. I'm looking at every memory, and I just wonder... I don't know."

"Yeah." She agreed. "At least your father wasn't a corrupt, murdering politician," she joked darkly.

"No, he wasn't, but he was a corrupt cop who beat the hell out of my brother and sick mother." He shifted his weight again. "And I didn't see it. He was this intouchable thing, a great cop." He chuckled darkly. "I was so wrong. And everything feels so... "

"Tainted," she finished for him.

"Exactly."

He didn't seem to want to go into more detail, and she didn't feel the desire to press him for details. It was enough to know that there was at least one person on the planet who understood the crisis she found herself in.

"Do you wanna shower or something? I probably have some food...somewhere."

"You don't sound super confident about that." She laughed out loud.

"I'm not. I spent the last week in a crappy motel."

"Oh yeah."

"I'll…um…I'll shower, I guess." It felt a little awkward, showering in this man's apartment. A man she barely knew but had no choice but to trust.

He lifted his body off the couch with a pained groan. "Let me show you where the bathroom is, and the towels. "You can sleep in my mother's room. She's staying with my daughter right now, and she wouldn't mind."

She wanted to crack a joke about a grown man living with his mother, but it was touching. His mother would be at an age where she probably need a lot of care. It was touching that he wanted her close. It was just another interesting juxtaposition to his outwardly gruff exterior.

He paused and slid open a hallway door. "Bathroom is right here." He pointed to a closer at the end of the hall. "Towels and linens are over there." He turned again and stepped toward a closed door. He turned the door knob and pushed the door open. "Mama's room," he said simply.

She cleared her throat as a wave of gratitude washed over her. "Thanks. This is..." she couldn't find the words. "Just thanks."

He shrugged and turned away as if he were embarrassed by the acknowledgement. "Well, that town of yours is more dangerous than any neighborhood in the Bronx. I can't have them off you before we get this wrapped up."

Before she could respond, a knock on the door cut through the air. "You expecting someone?" she asked quickly.

"No," he said as his brows knit together. He reached into the pocket of his sweats and pulled out his phone. He pulled up what she assumed was a security app. All at once, his somber expression lifted. She reasoned that he obviously knew the person at the door, and she wouldn't be encountering another masked murderer in a single night.

His eyes remained on his phone, clearly distracted by the unexpected visitor. "Go ahead and shower. Use what you need. I need to answer this." He immediately started down the hallway towards the front door.

Meredith stood with her hand on the bathroom door, curiosity getting the better of her. She should mind her own business and use the time to get ready for bed, but it was almost midnight, and she wondered what sort of visitors frequented the detective's home this late at night.

She heard the deadbolt flip and the door click open. "Hey." His voice was incredibly soft. Softer than she thought him capable of.

"Hey yourself." A woman's voice responded. Her voice sounded warm and deep. Comforting.

"Come in."

There was a shuffling of steps, but then silence. She couldn't help herself from tip-toeing a little closer. She took a quick peek around the corner, then padded back before she could be discovered.

Standing in the entry hallway was a woman with warm brown curls, and she had Elliot Stabler wrapped in a bone-crushing embrace.