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bantha_fodderI know I'm not supposed to be writing fic, but the dissertation is just about to go to my independent reader, so what can I do now but twiddle my thumbs whilst I wait? So in this instance, fic is totally allowed.
So, this is an AU, but I've been told if I substituted other names in there it would read like hilarious original fiction, so you have no excuses for not reading this.
title: A Dame Longer and a Beer Shorter (An Elliot Stabler, P.I. Tale)
fandom: Law & Order: SVU
genre: AU
disclaimer: I do not own
do not archive
This is part of the SVU AU game, which is apparently to get us through the summer hiatus. Who knew? Not I, because it is WINTER HERE, and also I have all the SVU I need on DVD (ie, Season One of JOY). Anyway, Sloane said "ELLIOT STABLER PI, FILM NOIR," and frankly didn't need to say anything else because it is FILM NOIR GOLD.
Imagine this is all in black and white.
*
This is my town. I know these streets like the back of my hand. I know every whore on every corner, and every bartender in every bar. I know where all the drug deals go down. I know every waitress in every coffee house. And I don't drink that much coffee.
I've got an office over on East Eighth Street. Shabby looking door in a shabby looking building. Got my name stenciled into the glass. Cliche, but it was all I could afford after my ex-wife took me for all I had. Got a partner, too. Her name's Olivia Benson. We met when she was looking for a lost kid and got stuck in a dead end. I'm a little more world-wise than she is, helped her out. She thanked me for the help, and went on her way, but our paths crossed again when I needed a second set of eyes looking for missing husband.
Her name's not on the door. She says that makes her an assistant, not a partner. I say I'd be lost without her help, but I'll deny it if you tell her.
The name's Elliot Stabler. I'm a dick. That's slang for P.I., although my ex-wife would say differently. And this is a story about people.
*
It started off like a regular day. I went for a jog, had a shower, and stopped on my way to the office at the coffee shop on the corner. Most private investigators start their day around midday. They say it's because all the leg work gets done in bars and clubs and other dark places that don't open whilst the sun's still shining. I say it's because they're lazy. My day starts at six.
I'll sleep when I'm dead.
The early bird doesn't always get the worm, but most of the business we get walks in off the street before lunch time, so Olivia's always in the office by a little after eight. If I time it right, I can sweep in the door just as her coffee's cooling and swipe it off her desk. She hates that, so sometimes I time it a little later and bring her some coffee from the coffee shop. You've got to know how to keep your friends happy.
Anyway, this one morning I've stolen the coffee cup right from her hands, and she's in the middle of giving me the cold shoulder when the door swings open and this dame strides in. "Elliot Stabler," she says. It's not a question, it's a statement, and I know this dame is cold. Most who come looking for me, they poke their little heads in, really cautious, and look so damn pleased when they see the woman in the corner. But this one knew what she needed and knew where to find it.
"That's me, toots," I said, and knew immediately that it was a mistake. I tried not to show it as I indicated the chair in front of my desk. "Take a seat, Miss...?"
"Ms Cabot," she says, no smile. She sits down, crosses her legs, and boy does she have legs. I sit in front of her on my desk, and from the corner of my eye I can see Olivia trying not to laugh. I'll get her back later.
"Ms Cabot," I say. "What can I help you with?"
"I've got a missing boy," she says, and reaches down to her briefcase. She draws out this red folder, and opens it up. "This is Sammy," she says, and passes across a photo. Cute kid. "He's missing," she says. I exchange a look with Olivia, who pretends not to listen in to conversations, but is always ready to back me up or ream me out.
"Ms Cabot," I say, "I'd like to help you out, but isn't this a job for the police?"
She gives me this glare, like I'm a cockroach on the bottom of her shoe, and it wouldn't surprise me if that's what she was thinking. "He's only been missing for eight hours," she says, like I was supposed to know that. "The police won't investigate if he's been missing for less than twenty-four. I think he'll be dead if we wait that long. It's all there in the file." She passes that across, too. "Are there any questions?"
"You don't want to know how much we charge?" That's my girl Olivia, always making sure we can eat.
Don't tell her I called her that.
Ms Cabot shakes her head. "You're the best, and I want the best. Cost is no object to me. Unless you can't do it-"
"Woah!" I say, holding up my hands. "That's not what my partner said." I look over at Olivia, and she's got her arms folded. Something's not right. I look back at the dame. "You don't want to tell us anything more, Ms Cabot?" I ask.
She stands. "No, thank you Mr Stabler. My number's on the inside of that file. I expect results. I'll be back tomorrow." She strides out the door before either of us can get out a word. The door doesn't slam her on the way out.
"I don't like it, Elliot," Olivia says. I hold up a hand before dropping it and flipping through the file.
"We're taking the case, Olivia," I say, and she holds out her hand for the file like she's not surprised.
Women.
No wonder I'm divorced.
*
Olivia sets up an appointment with the kid's school for quarter past ten. The kids all go out to recess then, and the broad on the phone won't let us come in any earlier. Time was we wouldn't call in advance, but nothing's the same any more. Not in this business; not in any business.
So we make a few calls to make up for the time we're wasting sitting on our hands. I hate that. Reason I became a P.I. in the first place was to get some real, helpful work done. When I think about all the people I couldn't save because of bureaucracy, well, it makes my blood boil. But that's not what we're talking about.
Traffic's always a bitch on that side of town, and the school's a maze, so by the time we find the front office the bell's ringing and the kids are running back to class. "I'm sorry," says the broad at the front desk. "You'll have to wait until lunch time. It's at twelve thirty five." Olivia smiles, and I can tell she's not happy about the whole business either.
While we're in the neighbourhood, we check out the kid's parents. They're completely useless. The mother cries all over Olivia's sleeve, and the father accuses me of not working hard enough. I can see the resemblance between him and the dame from earlier that day. Both cold.
We decide to take a break, and head over to this bar I know.
My old pal Munch polishes glasses in the bar at the corner of 32nd and First. He's been there a while, but he's not so good at the polishing, mostly because he never takes his sunglasses off. Pours a great beer, though. The manager is an ex-cop by the name of Cragen. He and I go way back. He thinks of me like a son. I think he's a real hard-ass.
Bar's not open yet, but after some posing, Munch lets us in. He kisses Olivia on the cheek, and I try not to notice when she laughs.
It doesn't mean anything.
Cragen comes out to greet us. "What brings you to this side of town?" he asks, and claps me on the back.
"Case. Missing kid by the name of Sammy Major," I say.
"He's missing?" asks Cragen. "I hate this town sometimes. The kid's great, and his mom's a real doll, but his old man's a piece of work."
"Oh?" says Olivia. She tilts her head and purses her lips, and I know Olivia was right. This is not a case we should have taken, but Elliot Stabler never backs down from a case.
"Yeah," continues Cragen. "Used to run girls out of a place on Eighteenth Street. Bar called The Red Light Disco. Closed down years ago, but you have to wonder what sort of father a guy like that makes."
"He didn't seem too upset when we talked to him earlier," I say.
"He wouldn't," says Cragen, and shakes his head. "He's a real cold one."
Cragen shakes his head, and I know we need to talk to the father again.
It’s raining when we step out of the bar. Olivia strides along beside me in the rain, doesn’t scramble for an umbrella like some other dames I know. Probably because she’s not just some broad. She’s Olivia, and she acts like the rain’s just some other thing that happens. I like that about her.
At the next corner we turn our separate ways - I keep on walking and she hails a cab. Time was I'd wait for a lady and a cab, but Olivia would have my head if I thought of her like that. So she stands in the rain, and I turn down Second Ave.
She's used to it, and I trust her not to shoot me when I've got my back to her.
Unlike some ex-wives I could mention.
Olivia takes the cab back to the office - afternoon appointment with a broad whose husband took forty million bucks and a new mistress. She's not so keen on the assignment, but the broad pays well and it's an easy job. I head back to the kid's house.
I'm in luck, because the kid's dad is home. "Mr Majors," I say, "can I speak with you again? I've just got a few more questions to ask." He looks around.
"Lost your partner?" he asks.
"I'm alone at the moment," I reply, and he steps back and gestures into the house. I look around as I enter, checking for dark corners and prostitutes, and it's really my own fault that I get taken by surprised and knocked on the back of the head.
Next thing I know my hands are tied above my head, I can't see too good, and I've got a killer of a headache. I survey my surroundings. Small room. It's dark, and I sniff and discover it's kind of whiffy. I sniff my shoulder. That could be me, actually. Little door at the top of some stairs, and a looming shape in the corner. I stare at it for long enough, and it resolves into a furnace.
Basement. Damn. I knew I should have brought Olivia, and I promise myself that if I ever get out of here, we're never taking separate cases again.
I don't know how long I'm down there, but eventually the door swings open and a voice croaks, "Mister Stabler." It takes me a second to place the voice.
"I knew it!" I say. Maybe not my finest comeback ever, but you've got to forgive a guy when he's tied up in an unpleasant manner. And an unpleasant matter. I don't know what he used, but the ropes feel slimy. I hope it's not blood. "Where's Sammy?" I demand. Sammy's dad strides down the steps, and he looks cocky. He waves his hands and, as he starts to speak, my eyes are drawn to the knife he's holding in his right hand.
Damn I hope he's a lefty.
"Mister Stabler," he sneers as he steps closer. "My son is in the corner." He indicates a pile of rags, and I don't need to look to know that Sammy is dead. I don't need to look to know we were too late when Ms Cabot stepped into our office this morning.
He stops in front of me. "Perhaps you'd like to join him," he says, and it's not a statement. Just as I'm weighing up my options, the door slams open behind him.
"Freeze, dirtbag," says Olivia, and I knew she'd come in handy one day.
Don't tell her that, either.
Sammy's dad turns around, and there's this moment of silence. Pin drop kind of silence. "Gonna stop me, little lady?" he asks, and just like that, Olivia pulls the trigger. He drops, and I watch Olivia in the silence. She's looking at the body in the corner.
After she lets me down, we stand there for a good twenty, thirty minutes before the cops show. Concerned neighbour heard the gunshot. Get asked the usual questions, but it's not like the New York cops have never seen us before.
*
The next morning I open the door to the office, and Olivia pushes her coffee across to me. She smiles. "You okay?" she asks, and I can see that she doesn't quite believe me when I say I'm fine.
Then the door opens, and in walks Ms Cabot. She looks at me, perched on Olivia's desk. She sweeps her eyes around the room, and strides towards my desk. She picks up the red folder. "Nice work," she says, with a tight grin on her face. "I'll arrange payment." She turns and walks out the door. Olivia and I look at one another until we hear the ding of the elevator descending.
"Beer?" Olivia asks.
"Beer," I reply. We pick up our gear and close up shop early. She's a girl after my own heart, is Olivia.
*
So, this is an AU, but I've been told if I substituted other names in there it would read like hilarious original fiction, so you have no excuses for not reading this.
title: A Dame Longer and a Beer Shorter (An Elliot Stabler, P.I. Tale)
fandom: Law & Order: SVU
genre: AU
disclaimer: I do not own
do not archive
This is part of the SVU AU game, which is apparently to get us through the summer hiatus. Who knew? Not I, because it is WINTER HERE, and also I have all the SVU I need on DVD (ie, Season One of JOY). Anyway, Sloane said "ELLIOT STABLER PI, FILM NOIR," and frankly didn't need to say anything else because it is FILM NOIR GOLD.
Imagine this is all in black and white.
*
This is my town. I know these streets like the back of my hand. I know every whore on every corner, and every bartender in every bar. I know where all the drug deals go down. I know every waitress in every coffee house. And I don't drink that much coffee.
I've got an office over on East Eighth Street. Shabby looking door in a shabby looking building. Got my name stenciled into the glass. Cliche, but it was all I could afford after my ex-wife took me for all I had. Got a partner, too. Her name's Olivia Benson. We met when she was looking for a lost kid and got stuck in a dead end. I'm a little more world-wise than she is, helped her out. She thanked me for the help, and went on her way, but our paths crossed again when I needed a second set of eyes looking for missing husband.
Her name's not on the door. She says that makes her an assistant, not a partner. I say I'd be lost without her help, but I'll deny it if you tell her.
The name's Elliot Stabler. I'm a dick. That's slang for P.I., although my ex-wife would say differently. And this is a story about people.
*
It started off like a regular day. I went for a jog, had a shower, and stopped on my way to the office at the coffee shop on the corner. Most private investigators start their day around midday. They say it's because all the leg work gets done in bars and clubs and other dark places that don't open whilst the sun's still shining. I say it's because they're lazy. My day starts at six.
I'll sleep when I'm dead.
The early bird doesn't always get the worm, but most of the business we get walks in off the street before lunch time, so Olivia's always in the office by a little after eight. If I time it right, I can sweep in the door just as her coffee's cooling and swipe it off her desk. She hates that, so sometimes I time it a little later and bring her some coffee from the coffee shop. You've got to know how to keep your friends happy.
Anyway, this one morning I've stolen the coffee cup right from her hands, and she's in the middle of giving me the cold shoulder when the door swings open and this dame strides in. "Elliot Stabler," she says. It's not a question, it's a statement, and I know this dame is cold. Most who come looking for me, they poke their little heads in, really cautious, and look so damn pleased when they see the woman in the corner. But this one knew what she needed and knew where to find it.
"That's me, toots," I said, and knew immediately that it was a mistake. I tried not to show it as I indicated the chair in front of my desk. "Take a seat, Miss...?"
"Ms Cabot," she says, no smile. She sits down, crosses her legs, and boy does she have legs. I sit in front of her on my desk, and from the corner of my eye I can see Olivia trying not to laugh. I'll get her back later.
"Ms Cabot," I say. "What can I help you with?"
"I've got a missing boy," she says, and reaches down to her briefcase. She draws out this red folder, and opens it up. "This is Sammy," she says, and passes across a photo. Cute kid. "He's missing," she says. I exchange a look with Olivia, who pretends not to listen in to conversations, but is always ready to back me up or ream me out.
"Ms Cabot," I say, "I'd like to help you out, but isn't this a job for the police?"
She gives me this glare, like I'm a cockroach on the bottom of her shoe, and it wouldn't surprise me if that's what she was thinking. "He's only been missing for eight hours," she says, like I was supposed to know that. "The police won't investigate if he's been missing for less than twenty-four. I think he'll be dead if we wait that long. It's all there in the file." She passes that across, too. "Are there any questions?"
"You don't want to know how much we charge?" That's my girl Olivia, always making sure we can eat.
Don't tell her I called her that.
Ms Cabot shakes her head. "You're the best, and I want the best. Cost is no object to me. Unless you can't do it-"
"Woah!" I say, holding up my hands. "That's not what my partner said." I look over at Olivia, and she's got her arms folded. Something's not right. I look back at the dame. "You don't want to tell us anything more, Ms Cabot?" I ask.
She stands. "No, thank you Mr Stabler. My number's on the inside of that file. I expect results. I'll be back tomorrow." She strides out the door before either of us can get out a word. The door doesn't slam her on the way out.
"I don't like it, Elliot," Olivia says. I hold up a hand before dropping it and flipping through the file.
"We're taking the case, Olivia," I say, and she holds out her hand for the file like she's not surprised.
Women.
No wonder I'm divorced.
*
Olivia sets up an appointment with the kid's school for quarter past ten. The kids all go out to recess then, and the broad on the phone won't let us come in any earlier. Time was we wouldn't call in advance, but nothing's the same any more. Not in this business; not in any business.
So we make a few calls to make up for the time we're wasting sitting on our hands. I hate that. Reason I became a P.I. in the first place was to get some real, helpful work done. When I think about all the people I couldn't save because of bureaucracy, well, it makes my blood boil. But that's not what we're talking about.
Traffic's always a bitch on that side of town, and the school's a maze, so by the time we find the front office the bell's ringing and the kids are running back to class. "I'm sorry," says the broad at the front desk. "You'll have to wait until lunch time. It's at twelve thirty five." Olivia smiles, and I can tell she's not happy about the whole business either.
While we're in the neighbourhood, we check out the kid's parents. They're completely useless. The mother cries all over Olivia's sleeve, and the father accuses me of not working hard enough. I can see the resemblance between him and the dame from earlier that day. Both cold.
We decide to take a break, and head over to this bar I know.
My old pal Munch polishes glasses in the bar at the corner of 32nd and First. He's been there a while, but he's not so good at the polishing, mostly because he never takes his sunglasses off. Pours a great beer, though. The manager is an ex-cop by the name of Cragen. He and I go way back. He thinks of me like a son. I think he's a real hard-ass.
Bar's not open yet, but after some posing, Munch lets us in. He kisses Olivia on the cheek, and I try not to notice when she laughs.
It doesn't mean anything.
Cragen comes out to greet us. "What brings you to this side of town?" he asks, and claps me on the back.
"Case. Missing kid by the name of Sammy Major," I say.
"He's missing?" asks Cragen. "I hate this town sometimes. The kid's great, and his mom's a real doll, but his old man's a piece of work."
"Oh?" says Olivia. She tilts her head and purses her lips, and I know Olivia was right. This is not a case we should have taken, but Elliot Stabler never backs down from a case.
"Yeah," continues Cragen. "Used to run girls out of a place on Eighteenth Street. Bar called The Red Light Disco. Closed down years ago, but you have to wonder what sort of father a guy like that makes."
"He didn't seem too upset when we talked to him earlier," I say.
"He wouldn't," says Cragen, and shakes his head. "He's a real cold one."
Cragen shakes his head, and I know we need to talk to the father again.
It’s raining when we step out of the bar. Olivia strides along beside me in the rain, doesn’t scramble for an umbrella like some other dames I know. Probably because she’s not just some broad. She’s Olivia, and she acts like the rain’s just some other thing that happens. I like that about her.
At the next corner we turn our separate ways - I keep on walking and she hails a cab. Time was I'd wait for a lady and a cab, but Olivia would have my head if I thought of her like that. So she stands in the rain, and I turn down Second Ave.
She's used to it, and I trust her not to shoot me when I've got my back to her.
Unlike some ex-wives I could mention.
Olivia takes the cab back to the office - afternoon appointment with a broad whose husband took forty million bucks and a new mistress. She's not so keen on the assignment, but the broad pays well and it's an easy job. I head back to the kid's house.
I'm in luck, because the kid's dad is home. "Mr Majors," I say, "can I speak with you again? I've just got a few more questions to ask." He looks around.
"Lost your partner?" he asks.
"I'm alone at the moment," I reply, and he steps back and gestures into the house. I look around as I enter, checking for dark corners and prostitutes, and it's really my own fault that I get taken by surprised and knocked on the back of the head.
Next thing I know my hands are tied above my head, I can't see too good, and I've got a killer of a headache. I survey my surroundings. Small room. It's dark, and I sniff and discover it's kind of whiffy. I sniff my shoulder. That could be me, actually. Little door at the top of some stairs, and a looming shape in the corner. I stare at it for long enough, and it resolves into a furnace.
Basement. Damn. I knew I should have brought Olivia, and I promise myself that if I ever get out of here, we're never taking separate cases again.
I don't know how long I'm down there, but eventually the door swings open and a voice croaks, "Mister Stabler." It takes me a second to place the voice.
"I knew it!" I say. Maybe not my finest comeback ever, but you've got to forgive a guy when he's tied up in an unpleasant manner. And an unpleasant matter. I don't know what he used, but the ropes feel slimy. I hope it's not blood. "Where's Sammy?" I demand. Sammy's dad strides down the steps, and he looks cocky. He waves his hands and, as he starts to speak, my eyes are drawn to the knife he's holding in his right hand.
Damn I hope he's a lefty.
"Mister Stabler," he sneers as he steps closer. "My son is in the corner." He indicates a pile of rags, and I don't need to look to know that Sammy is dead. I don't need to look to know we were too late when Ms Cabot stepped into our office this morning.
He stops in front of me. "Perhaps you'd like to join him," he says, and it's not a statement. Just as I'm weighing up my options, the door slams open behind him.
"Freeze, dirtbag," says Olivia, and I knew she'd come in handy one day.
Don't tell her that, either.
Sammy's dad turns around, and there's this moment of silence. Pin drop kind of silence. "Gonna stop me, little lady?" he asks, and just like that, Olivia pulls the trigger. He drops, and I watch Olivia in the silence. She's looking at the body in the corner.
After she lets me down, we stand there for a good twenty, thirty minutes before the cops show. Concerned neighbour heard the gunshot. Get asked the usual questions, but it's not like the New York cops have never seen us before.
*
The next morning I open the door to the office, and Olivia pushes her coffee across to me. She smiles. "You okay?" she asks, and I can see that she doesn't quite believe me when I say I'm fine.
Then the door opens, and in walks Ms Cabot. She looks at me, perched on Olivia's desk. She sweeps her eyes around the room, and strides towards my desk. She picks up the red folder. "Nice work," she says, with a tight grin on her face. "I'll arrange payment." She turns and walks out the door. Olivia and I look at one another until we hear the ding of the elevator descending.
"Beer?" Olivia asks.
"Beer," I reply. We pick up our gear and close up shop early. She's a girl after my own heart, is Olivia.
*
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2005-05-12 08:49 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-05-12 08:49 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-05-12 08:55 pm (UTC)She’s Olivia, and she acts like the rain’s just some other thing that happens.
ROCK.
YOU ARE AWESOME AND THIS IS THE BEST GAME IN THE WORLD.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-05-12 09:37 pm (UTC)Oh, that is just perfect. I love it.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-05-12 09:56 pm (UTC)So GOooood!
(no subject)
Date: 2005-05-13 05:53 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-05-15 09:06 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-05-24 10:46 pm (UTC)That was *great*. And so crime fiction - tight down to Elliot calling Alex "toots".
(and imagining the black and white wasn't hard!)
Heh heh heh - just too delicious. :)
(no subject)
Date: 2005-05-30 04:19 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-05-30 07:30 pm (UTC)Yeah, let's do a coffeeeee. I'm in all week this week. What time suits you? Come in at 4.30 and we can go to Angazi and I won't have to rush back to work. :)
(no subject)
Date: 2005-05-30 10:02 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-05-31 12:12 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-05-31 07:04 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-05-31 07:14 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-01-01 09:33 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-01-04 11:06 pm (UTC)