Work Text:
Noah taps his pencil against his chin deep in thought about the story he was trying to write. He had a creative writing assignment due Monday morning, and he was completely stuck on what to write about. Normally, the stories he wanted to tell easily flowed from his mind onto the page, but lately, everything was a garbled mess and nothing, absolutely zilch wanted to be written on the page. The blank page stares back at him, teasing him with its emptiness. He flips over his assignment sheet again quickly refreshing his mind on the parameters in which he was supposed to write—write a short narrative based off of one quote—but even that didn’t help. He had already spent hours scrolling through quotes online trying to find a good one, but even that didn’t spark any creativity. He was stuck.
Come on, Noah. He tosses his pencil down and runs his hand across his face, it shouldn’t be this hard to just write. He checks his phone again to see if Grandma B had texted her word for the day, maybe that would spark something, but alas she hadn’t sent anything, yet.
He groans as he flops back on his bed, Seriously, Noah. Its writing. You’re good at writing. He rolls his eyes at his inner monologue, not today apparently. His new bout of writer’s block was easily becoming exasperating. Why was he so stuck on writing? He could easily spout off bigger than necessary words, but actually combining those words to write was a chore today. He sat up and picked his pencil back up, just start. Write whatever comes to your mind. That’s the problem! I have nothing, absolutely nothing. He drums his pencil against his leg and then places it against the page, writing this blank page teases me with its emptiness. He rolls his eyes before ripping out the page, scrunching it up, and throwing it haphazardly into his trashcan. He looks around his room trying to find some inspiration on one of his dance posters or anything that might stick out to him. He sees his library book sticking out of his backpack, the zombie filled cover sparks a little creativity as he writes: Once upon a time, Noah Benson couldn’t write a single word on his assignment that’s due Monday morning; therefore, the zombies would eat him for breakfast. He shakes his head in amusement; That was dumb, and this is useless. He tosses his notebook on his bed again just as he hears a knock on his bedroom door.
“Noah?”
“Come in, Mom!” He smiles at her as she walks into his room. He laughs as she takes in the mountain of paper wads littering the outside of his trashcan.
She raises her eyebrows pointing at the paper wads, “new decorations?”
He moves to pick some of them up off the floor and actually place them in the bin, “no, writer’s block.”
“Ahh, I see,” she sits down on the edge of his bed, “what are you trying to write?”
He shrugs his shoulders, “something based off of a quote.” He sits down next to her and picks his notebook up off the bed before passing it to her. He waits as she reads the one line about zombies eating him for breakfast, “obviously, it’s not going so well.”
She grins, “I mean, it’s not the worst.”
Noah shakes his head, grinning. She would always be his biggest cheerleader when it came to his hobbies, but he knew they both knew that wasn’t his best work. He hadn’t written like that since he was in fourth grade. She was trying though, and he would give her that.
“Come on, Mom!” He took his notebook back and held it up, “that is absolutely deplorable.”
She laughs, tugging him in to her side, “I see that creative writing elective of yours is really paying off with expanding your vocabulary.” Noah leans into her embrace, and beams inwardly at the praise he’s receiving. He really had been trying to expand his vocabulary lately because using the same adjectives in his stories was starting to get boring. Monotonous. He would have to send that one to Grandma B later as her word for the day. Enhancing their vocabulary had become sort of a game to them. He and Grandma B would share words with each other and the other person had to define the word and correctly use the word in a sentence. Sometimes they even kept score for the week, and the winner got to pick the ice cream flavor and the movie for Benson-Stabler movie night. It was fun, and he liked that it gave him something to bond with Grandma B over. They had instantly connected on their first meeting, and right away she had insisted he call her Grandma because, as she had said, “everyone else does, dear.”
He grins at his mom, “I try. It’s pretty fun.”
“I’m glad. It makes you very studious.” She winks at him and points at his notebook, “you’ll get it. You just need the right inspiration.”
“Well, my muse seems to be on sabbatical.”
She laughs, and he smiles, “it’ll come back, eventually.” She stands up and ruffles his hair, “Elliot and I are thinking of ordering in. Anything specific you want?”
“Chinese?”
“Chinese it is,” she nods as she walks toward his door before quickly turning back around to face him again, “Hey, are you okay with going to Elliot’s this weekend? Grandma B will be there, and she wants to decorate for Christmas.”
“Sure,” he smiles, excited at the idea of hanging out with Grandma for the whole weekend. It had easily become one of his favorite things to do lately because she always had a story to tell. Maybe Grandma could give him an idea for a story, and maybe if he was lucky, Kieran and Seamus could come over for a sleepover. He picked his notebook back up and tapped his pencil against his leg just as his phone began to ring. He picked it up to see that Grandma B had finally sent her word for the day. He reads the text and turns to his mom, “Want to join today’s word game? Grandma’s just sent her word for the day.”
“Absolutely.” Mom grins at him. He smiles back, knowing how much she enjoys joining in on the word of the day when she can, “What is it?”
He shows her the screen and then reads the word aloud, “pulchritudinous.” He wracks his brain knowing he has heard that word before, but he can’t place it or remember exactly what it means.
“I think your mother is the most pulchritudinous Captain in the NYPD.” Elliott steps into the room and wraps his arms around Olivia from behind, kissing her on the cheek, which makes Noah smile as she blushes. Noah knows how hard it is for Mom to accept compliments.
“You know what that means?” Noah is completely surprised Elliot knows the definition.
“Beautiful. Having great physical beauty and appeal,” Elliot winks at him, “hey, don’t act so surprised; I paid attention when I helped you with your vocabulary homework to go along with that novel you were reading. Remember?”
“Oh, yeah!”
“See I know stuff,” Elliot looks at him from over Mom’s shoulder, “I’m cool like that.”
Noah laughs as mom snickers at Elliot, “sure you are, babe.”
Noah looks at his Mom, surprised she called Elliot babe, before deciding not to comment on that little fact, “I forgot I loaned Grandma my book.” He picks his phone up to text Grandma back, “thanks Elliot!”
He typed the definition and a new sentence out on his phone quickly before he could forget the sentence running through his brain.
Noah: Pulchritudinous: adj. having great physical beauty and appeal. Despite the bald head, Elliot is still pulchritudinous.
Grandma B: Haha! Oh, good one. GB 10 & NB 11.
Noah: He actually knew what that meant. Your word is monotonous.
Grandma B: Let me think. It will be a bit. New Bridge game and then Katie is taking me Christmas shopping. Tell that son of mine that his Mother thinks he was the most pulchritudinous baby in New York, behind Olivia of course. I’ve seen pictures.
Noah: Haha! Good one! I’ll tell him you said I was the most pulchritudinous baby boy in Manhattan.
Grandma B: Go for it, kid! You were adorable! Love you, Noah!
Noah: Love you too Grandma B.
Noah laughs and then reads his sentence and Grandma’s response aloud, “she thought that was funny. Grandma’s hilarious!”
He laughs harder as Elliot narrows his eyes at him, doing his best not to actually bust out laughing, “it’s a good thing I love you, kid!”
“Oh, I know.” he grins noticing he must have caught Elliot off guard because whatever Elliot was about to say is quickly replaced with a huge smile.
He really did like Elliot. He made Mom extremely happy, and he always made sure he made time for Noah. Sometimes all he had time for was a quick Good Morning and Goodnight text when the cases were tough, but he always did it without fail. And when he had more time, he would also help him with his homework and take him for ice cream and just spend genuine time with him. Sometimes he would take him, Kieran, and Seamus out to the park to ride bikes or to games when he could get tickets. Noah’s favorite though was when Elliot was just there; he never had to ask because Elliot would just show up. And that was awesome. Splendid.
“Eaten by zombies,” Elliot’s voice broke through his thoughts, “is this the new version of my dog ate my homework?”
Noah laughs at Elliot’s amused expression as he holds up the notebook Noah had abandoned on his bed, “no, I’m trying to write a new story.” He hands Elliot the assignment sheet, “it’s supposed to be based on a quote. Problem is I can’t find one I want to write about.”
Noah watches as Elliot scans the paper, “does it have to be a quote from a book or something?”
“It doesn’t actually say,” Noah shrugs his shoulders, “it just says a quote.”
“What about a quote that was pretty famous around the 1-6 back in the day?” Noah sees Elliot turn and grin at Mom, who narrows her eyes, not quite hiding the grin that is threatening to spill across her face. Noah waits, knowing they are currently in the middle of one of their silent conversations. “Come on, Liv. He needs a good quote and that’s the best.”
“Fine,” Noah notices the blush rising up his mom’s cheeks, “but tell him the whole story. I don’t need him getting any wrong ideas about what actually happened.”
Elliot laughs as he sits down on the edge of the bed, “ever hear about the time your mom, swore—,” Elliot’s face lights up at the memory, “and I quote, “I'm not the one who stabbed the Captain with a pickle!”’
Noah busts out laughing, “what? You can’t be serious!” He turns around looking at his mom, “someone seriously thought you stabbed Grandpa with a pickle? A pickle?”
“To be fair,” Elliot pauses to catch his breath from laughing, “she was high on mushrooms.”
“Elliot!” Noah laughs harder as Mom smacks Elliot on the arm, clearly miffed he’s leaving out some important part of the story, “tell him the whole story!”
“Mom! You were high on—” he pauses to close his mouth from the shock, “mushrooms?”
Noah sees Mom turn quickly to Elliot, completely riled up, “Elliot!”
“Come here,” Elliot pulls Mom closer to him until she is pretty much sitting on his lap; he’s clearly amused that he has her so riled up with his retelling of the story. “I’m getting there!” He laughs, “you have to admit, that’s a pretty good introduction!”
Mom narrows her eyes at Elliot, clearly choosing not to respond.
Elliot simply kisses her temple and wraps his arms around her waist before continuing, “it was during a case, but yeah, your mom was high on some mushroom fumes she accidentally inhaled. She didn’t do it on purpose.” Noah sees Mom relax a little as Elliot continues the story, “we were in interrogation, and your mom starts talking absolute nonsense before yelling out, I’m not the one who stabbed the Captain with a pickle!”
Noah rolls with laughter, “that’s hilarious!” He quickly wipes the tears from his eyes before thinking about the random ornament they hung on their tree each year, “wait, is that why we have a pickle ornament on our Christmas tree?”
“You still have that?” Elliot grins as Mom looks down at him smiling, “do you have all of them?”
Noah looks over at Elliot in shock, “there’s more than one?”
Noah hears his Mom laugh, “Elliot, Fin, and Munch spent the whole twelve days of Christmas that year giving me pickle themed gifts. There’s plenty of pickle paraphernalia I keep hidden away.” Noah looks at his mom perplexed with the idea of twelve days’ worth of pickles, “I left the one pickle out for nostalgic purposes.”
“So,” Elliot, who had hidden himself behind Olivia’s back laughing, peeks around Olivia’s waist, “that help with your story?”
Noah picks up his notebook and pencil again, “yes!” He starts writing frantically, “this is going to be awesome! What was the line again, Mom?”
Noah looks up expectantly at his mom, who shakes her head in amusement before easily reciting, “I’m not the one who stabbed the Captain with a pickle.”
“This is great!” Noah’s pencil flies across the page as he copies down the quote, “I think my muse has returned!”
Elliot laughs, “I’m glad. Did your muse bring pickles?”
Noah snickers, “maybe.”
“We’ll leave you to write and call you when the food arrives,” Noah smiles as Mom pulls Elliot out of the room behind her. He waves doing his best to not lose his new train of thought. This could be a mystery. A whodunnit in the hilarious sense. The pickle mystery. Noah laughs at his inner monologue. He laughs harder at the visual he sees of his mother stabbing Grandpa Cragen with a huge pickle then swearing her innocence to Elliot, Munch, and Fin as they interrogate her.
Noah’s pencil lead almost breaks from the haste in which he has begun to write. He taps his pencil against his chin again, I need a title. What would a mystery about a pickle stabbing be?
He smiles as the title comes to him, and he writes it down with a laugh.
“In a Pickle: Who Stabbed the Captain?” A Mystery by Noah-Porter Benson. He stops, looking at his name, and he takes a second to think about it before crossing it out completely and writing a new name, a pseudonym of sorts. For now, at least, hopefully.
“In a Pickle: Who Stabbed the Captain?” A Mystery by Noah Benson-Stabler.
The squad room was a flurry of activity as the detectives quickly reacted to the scandalous crime that had taken place in their own station house. Their Captain had been stabbed and his bucket of red vines stolen. The oddity of the situation, if one dared call it that, was their Captain had been stabbed with a pickle. But why? And by whom? Who had stabbed the Captain and why had they used a pickle? Detective Bensler must solve the crime and quick, for the perpetrator was still among them and may strike again.