Chapter Text
“We’ll take it under advisement Sergeant.”
“We don’t expect perfection from our officers, human error is inevitable.”
“Don’t be obsessive, Tucker. Ask 10 precincts, Benson and Stabler have taken dozens of cases off their shoulders and showed up for even more emergency calls. Ask 20 precincts, they’ve helped an officer’s daughter, sister, brother, nephew. SVU’s messy. Just leave it alone. Go tell them they’re off the hook. Bury the hatchet.”
Easier said than done.
Tucker jams the elevator button at the 1-6, notices the gate sergeant stare straight at him as he talks on the phone, probably calling the Captain to warn him there’s “a rat in the building”.
He keeps jamming the button when the sergeant’s voice rises behind him.
“Seems to be broken- Sergeant. Better take the stairs, I’ll call repairs.”
Tucker doesn’t bother with a response, simply walks ahead and takes the stairs.
As he’s about to come around the corner to the main corridor, he hears familiar voices coming from the opposite direction -
“…. Said Dickie could use some tutoring. Looks like I’ll be living here at the rate I’m going.”
“… Is he ok?”
Tucker heard a locker close. Stairs must be leading to the back area.
And it’s Stabler and Benson.
“He’s not happy ‘bout it. I mean. He’s 12, how far behind could he be already?”
He hears some shuffling, like shoes on the linoleum.
“Did you speak with his teacher?”
Tucker freezes. Realises it’s a brilliant opportunity to monitor their behaviour in their natural environment, unobserved. Of course, nothing could be admissible in official documentation, but still, from a research point of view, it could prove useful. He lost part of the conversation but he realised they were talking about one of Stabler’s many children.
Benson was speaking in that soft voice of hers, normally used to calm down family members, or victims. Interesting, similar technique used on the unstable partner-
“… Dickie’s a smart kid.”
“That’s what I said.”
Odd. Stabler was responding in a calm voice.
“You think it could be attention seeking?”
Perhaps medicated?
“… Like- because of…?”
“… I mean, it could be a contributing factor.”
Christ. Do they ever finish a sentence? He feels himself grit his teeth in frustration, and forces his muscles to relax. Stabler lets out a breath and nobody talks for a moment.
“Why don’t you take some father son time?”
Tucker heard an encouraged hum coming from Stabler, and the creaking sound of a chair as the man must have got to his feet.
“Yeah. Lots of games on this weekend”
“Exactly. And if you let go of your self-flagellation, and stay away from the Jets for a couple of days-“
Self-flagellation? Stabler’s a practicing Catholic. Could he-
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, calm down Benson, not all of us pick our team from the tourists’ kiosks on Times Square.”
He files it away as probably mind-numbing banter, but keeps a mental note to follow up.
There’s the sound of a door opening and a third voice booms down the corridor:
“Are you two done with your little lovers’ spat?”
“It’s called sparring, Tutuola.”
“Not the way you two do it. Anyway, I’m not here to discuss the sexual tension. Cap wants us all in the bullpen, Tucker’s in the building.”
Tucker hears matching groans as the door closes again. He does find it interesting that the coworker openly admits to the blatant disregard for decency that comes from the closeness those two exhibit.
Stabler continues after the theatrical manifestation of his inconvenience by proper procedure.
“The cherry on top of the crap pie. A tell-all from everyone’s favourite paper pusher.”
“Tell-all?”
“That bastard’s got wires on every building-”
Tucker hears a booming laughter and realises it’s coming from Benson.
“- here to tell us my kid’s got issues, your last boy toy was-“
“- Juan? Disaster-“
“- Munch’s coffee skills should be a war crime-“
“- and Fin’s got too many running bets going on.”
“Exactly. Face it. In Tucker’s world, we’re a bunch of criminals.”
“Thank God his handcuffs are hypothetical.”
The voices grow smaller as they walk out the door and presumably head towards the bullpen.
Tucker curses under his breath. This had been a waste of time. Worthless locker room talk. What’s the matter with him?
He takes out his notebook and scribbles down some things he could find on the database, and then leans back against the wall to wait for a few minutes. That should keep him above suspicion for eavesdropping.
Once he’s satisfied enough time has passed he triple checks his field operation findings file, straightens his tie, and makes his way down the corridor.
Hypothetical handcuffs. Idiots. He’s on his way to getting that idiot Richardson kicked out of IAB, he’ll get these two, no, all four of SVU “detectives” doing traffic control on Staten Island, where they belong.
All he needs is time and evidence. And by God he’ll get it. These petting zoo animals’ days are numbered.