Fair warning, I wrote this because I was bored.
"Fucking hell!" Olivia shrieks as she bounds back from the cupboard under the sink with an adrenaline fuelled crash of limbs. The wrench slips from her hands as a slimy brown paste spews from the crack in the pipe beneath the sink.
She sits, shocked, as the dirty mixture of everything from old sink water to residues of things she had poured down the drain months ago drip from her face and onto the kitchen tiles. "Oh, that's fucking disgusting," she growls under her breath, standing and dabbing at her face with a wet cloth. Frustrated, she kicks the cupboard door as hard as she can, and the painted board of wood smacks loudly against the frame before bouncing back on its hinges and hitting her in the shin.
She picks up her phone and presses speed dial.
"Stabler."
"Can you come over?" she says, hanging her head heavily in her hands.
"What?" he asks, confused. "Why?"
"Something horrible happened."
"What did you do?" he sighs, and she can hear running water in the background. He's probably dealing with clean, clear water right now, the polar opposite of the slick, dark brown splatters in front of her.
"I didn't do anything," she snaps. "It's my fucking twenty year old kitchen sink. The pipes burst." She sighs as she observes the gunky mess that is her kitchen floor. "It just regurgitated everything that's been in it for the past three months."
"Sounds disgusting," he replies, and just from his voice she can tell he's got his jackass grin on his face.
"Please, El," she gripes, sighing heavily into the phone. "This happened to you before. You fixed it once, you can fix it again."
"Yeah. And last time I tried, I flushed down my son's turtle. He was traumatized for a week. I'm not attempting Mr. Fix It again. I'm watching the game tonight."
"Fine. Whatever. I'll fix it myself, then. Thanks so much for your help." And she slams that phone shut, hoping he will feel guilty and show up at her door.
Forty minutes later, she's on her hands and knees with a bucket of bleach and an old rag before her. The pipe is covered in a thick layer of duck tape; her clumsy wrap job clogs the leak with an excessive amount of silver tape. She's done five layers, just to be sure.
She's finished moping up most of the putrid substance from her floor, and as her anger at the sink ebbs off, her anger at her partner's lack of support begins to simmer. Fuck him, anyway. She can do it; the proof is right in front of her. There's no way that sink is leaking again, not with the way she's donated a whole roll of duck tape to it's reconstruction. So yeah. Fuck him.
She's sweating by the time she dumps the bleach into the bathtub and throws the rag into the laundry room, and she's still dirty from when the damn sink exploded on her. So she strips her clothing and rolls it all in a ball, tossing it into the washing machine, and steps under the hot, inviting spray of the shower.
She wonders who'll be laughing next time Elliot needs her help with something.
In the middle of the night, she is woken by a loud hissing sound, like that of a dangerously angry cat. Or like a pop bottle that's been shaken into oblivion and then had the cap slowly unscrewed.
"The hell?" she mumbles under her breath, sitting up. When she realizes the noise is coming from the kitchen, she curses and bolts upright, tossing back the covers and pounding down the hall in her tank top and panties.
What she sees in the kitchen makes her cry.
The sink is totally, epically backed up, but instead of from the pipe, this time it's from the actual opening in the drain of the sink. The same mouldy, greasy slime as before is splattered across the counter, small splotches staining the steel of her fridge, and the ceiling above her sink is creamed with the thick substance, the occasional splotch of goo becoming too heavy to resist gravity and splatters back to the sink. The force of the explosion had been strong enough the send the splatter on an upward projectile, splattering across her ceiling.
She inhales shakily, her hands trembling. Instinctively, she reaches for her phone, and dials his number.
"We get called in?" he grumbles, his voice thick with sleep.
"N-no."
"What's wrong?" he asks, immediately picking up on her distress.
"My…my sink," she whispers, staring at the mess that is her apartment in utter shock.
"You haven't fixed that?" He asks, and she can tell he's slightly exasperated that she woke him up.
"I thought I did…please El, you have to come."
"Call your landlord, Liv. He'll know what to do. It'll be okay."
"He's on vacation." A small sound of frustration at the utter disaster in her kitchen escapes her throat. "Please come over. There's no one else to call. I'll never ask for anything again, I promise."
On the other end of the line, there is silence. It takes him a few long moments to speak. "You do realise that it's my week with Eli, don't you?"
"I'm sorry, I just –,"
"I'll be there in an hour. And you'd better not do anything stupid before I get there because I have every right to kill you while you're perfectly healthy."
In his apartment in Queens, Elliot snaps his phone shut and slips out of bed, yanking on his jeans and faded Yankees t-shirt. He cringes, the thought of what kind of hell his partner has created in her apartment flashing before his eyes. She'd sounded honestly distressed, which is the only reason he's going. He knows he'll never be able to deny her help, but he's just bitter about it because it's his week with his baby and he cannot, under any circumstances, fuck it up. Kathy would rip him a new one, and so would her lawyer, if they ever found out about a nightly escapade across the city.
He approaches the crib that sits close to the window in his bedroom, and watches his son sleep in a heavy, furrowed-brow baby sleep before leaning over and slipping his warm hands under the child's armpits.
Eli stirs, his face scrunching and his head twisting until his eyes open, and he makes short staccato grunting noises until he is fully roused. When Elliot settles him against his shoulder, the baby, unhappy to be interrupted from sleep, begins to whimper until he keens out a full-blown wail into his father's ear.
"Shhhh," Elliot soothes, hugging the baby close for a moment before depositing him on his back on the bed. "It's okay," he hushes. "I'm pissed at her, too."
He reaches inside the suitcase Kathy had packed, and pulls out a fresh diaper, a onesie, and soft looking, comfortable jumper for his son to wear.
Changing the angry baby is a nightmare, for Eli twists and kicks under Elliot's palm on his stomach, and the child's face is nearly purple with the force of his wailing. Eli is still too young for real tears, but his eyes water sadly when he isn't allowed back in his father's arms.
Finally, after a few moments of wrestling with Eli's frog legs to keep them still as he tries to slip on the jumper, Elliot manages to fasten the last button and gently picks up the baby. Immediately, Eli's piercing baby cries die down, and his thumb finds its home in his mouth.
Eli rests on Elliot's left arm, and with his free hand, Elliot walk around his small flat gathering everything he needs to bring his son along. The carrier, the wool slippers, the coat, the mittens, the fluffy hat. After gathering everything and dressing Eli for the cold fall weather, he lays the baby in the carrier and folds two warm baby blankets over his tiny body.
"Sleep, Eli," Elliot murmurs, yanking on his jacket and shoving his feet into his boots. "Liv can sleep on the couch, you're getting her bed tonight."
An hour and seven minutes later, there is a knock on her door. She jumps up from the couch and quickly turns the knob. "Elliot. Thank you so much -,"
"Yeah," he murmurs, gesturing to Eli in his carrier, whose big, blue eyes are closed, his tiny chest rising and falling rhythmically under the blankets.
"He's sleeping," she smiles, happy that her disturbance didn't cause too much trouble with the baby.
"Of course he's sleeping. What time is it again?" He says, his tone sarcastic.
She sighs. "Elliot, look." She points to her kitchen.
His eyes widen. "Jesus fucking Christ."
"Exactly."
Elliot sighs heavily, and rubs his face with his hands. "Okay. Okay, go put Eli in the bedroom." He hands her the carrier, and her gaze softens as she glances down at the perfect, tiny replica of the man before her. She turns down the hallways and deposits the sleeping infant in his carrier on the centre of her bed.
"Night, Eli," she whispers, stroking her finger down his soft cheek.
At lease the baby can sleep peacefully. She knows that the hours ahead of her will be anything but pleasant.
There's more if you'd like it. Let me know :)