Nope, still don't own psych. As usual, no infringement intended.

In pursuit of a new hobby, Juliet learns more about not only herself, but her partner as well. Set during the current season, so references may be made to potential spoilers. As such, Shules exists, but I'm taking my cues from how the show writers are playing it, which leaves plenty of room to play.


Soups

"Lassie! Hey, Lassie! Dude, you have to check this out—Gus is convinced he found the Virgin Mary burned into his grilled cheese and I said we needed to find you for verification."

Carlton was going to be sorry he even engaged Spencer, he knew that. But sometimes, engaging was the only way to get the idiot to shut up. "Why?" he growled as menacingly as possible, knowing it wouldn't do a damn bit of good. And people said he was oblivious to social cues and nuances.

"Because we're operating on the theory of like recognizing like and since Gus actually got some last week, we figured you were the closest candidate around here to a—"

Carlton stopped, closed his eyes, and took the deep breaths that his doctor had recommended after his last physical. His blood pressure numbers had been through the roof in such a spectacular way, the doctor had considering referring him to a specialist. Carlton had been forced to explain this was only because Spencer had somehow found out he was scheduled for the mandatory exam and had followed him to the damned office, badgering him in the waiting room with an endless barrage of statistics regarding the various ailments befalling men of a "certain age," most of which Carlton was convinced Spencer had made up or at the very least, butchered from information gleaned via Guster's real job. It was when Spencer got to the part about the dangers of erections lasting for more than four hours that Carlton had drawn his weapon, right there in the waiting room, only holstering it after Nurse Ratched emerged from behind the glass, four feet, eleven inches of righteous fury in blue scrubs and wielding a baseball bat.

Clearly, she'd dealt with Spencer before.

The only reason he wasn't on medication and an enforced leave was because he'd convinced the doctor to allow him to return the next day, early in the morning—far earlier than Spencer liked being up, which Carlton well knew after more than five years of observing the moron. That it had disrupted the doctor's weekly round of golf didn't matter worth a damn to Carlton. Last thing he wanted was an enforced leave of absence during which Spencer would no doubt wreak unimaginable havoc on his department.

Despite an obvious annoyance at missing his golf game, the doctor had nevertheless been astounded at the sheer magnitude of the difference in Carlton's numbers. After receiving advice on the deep breathing as well as a scrip for something "soothing" to be used in cases of extreme duress, Carlton had left, with the doctor muttering something about medical marvel and journal articles.

The filled bottle still sat in his medicine cabinet, untouched, but the deep breathing—that had gotten a regular workout.

"Spencer?"

"Yeah, Lassie?"

Carlton stared down at the younger man's hand on his shoulder. "Take your hand off me before I shoot it off." Deep breathing could only do so much, after all.

"Okay, okay, chill—admittedly, it's just a grilled cheese sandwich." But he removed his hand, although not without a patented Shawn smirk.

"Was a grilled cheese sandwich." Guster appeared, fastidiously wiping at the corners of his mouth with a paper napkin.

Shawn's smirk dissolved into an expression of betrayal. "You ate it?"

"It was getting cold and there's nothing nastier than cold grilled cheese sandwich."

"You could have eaten the other one!"

"Not after you licked it to make sure I wouldn't!"

"Gus, Gus, Gus… you make it sound so dirty."

"It is dirty. Or at the very least, Shawn, unhygienic."

"I'd eat a sandwich if you licked it first."

"You ate a sandwich you fished from the compost bin at Shady Lady's Sandwiches."

"Dude, it was untouched."

"You don't know that."

Carlton took advantage of their marital-like squabbling to slip, unnoticed, out the nearest door. Once outside, he closed his eyes and breathed deep again, although he kept himself on alert for any sounds that might indicate Spencer had followed. In all likelihood, however, his boundless appetite had been whetted by the grilled cheese discussion and with any luck, he was already on the search for more holy food. For another moment, he savored the feel of the sun on his face and the breeze cooling the beads of sweat that had begun collecting at the nape of his neck. It wasn't good to let Spencer get to him so severely. Aside from the fact that it showed weakness, it too-often impaired his ability to do his job effectively and frankly, could well end up affecting his health in a way that could end his career. Or life.

None of which were acceptable outcomes.

With another deep breath, he opened his eyes, automatically reaching for his sunglasses and conducting a visual sweep of the surroundings. All was calm and as expected except for one minor anomaly. Squaring his shoulders, he cautiously approached the bench set at the furthermost edges of the grounds and its unexpected occupant.

"O'Hara?"

His partner's head snapped around at the sound of his voice, allowing him to see the half-eaten apple she held in one hand and the book in the other. The trapped rabbit expression that had initially crossed her face at the sound of his voice relaxed into a smile.

"Carlton—did I lose track of time? Is our lunch break over already?"

"No." He rounded the bench and dropped beside her. "I just had to escape your boyfriend."

A pained expression crossed her face. "I'm sorry."

"Why are you apologizing?"

"Because if I'd had lunch with him like he wanted, then he wouldn't have been able to bother you."

"You're not his keeper, O'Hara. Nor mine, for that matter. I can handle Spencer."

"Yeah, I know but still." Her nose wrinkled in that way she had when she was feeling unaccountably guilty.

"Why didn't you have lunch with him anyhow?"

"I just wanted some quiet time—maybe get some reading in. It's tough to do with Shawn around."

He could well imagine. Much as the man loved Juliet, and Carlton was well aware of just how much, it simply wasn't in Spencer's nature to remain quiet or still for long periods of time. It would certainly be a near-impossibility for him to comprehend Juliet's enjoyment of losing herself in a book when she could be actually "out in the world living life, Jules, not experiencing it secondhand!" Spencer was brilliant, no doubt about it—but he was also often denser than a brick wall when it came to human nature. In this, Carlton could relate—it had been a failing of his own for far too long, but at least he'd finally been made aware of it and had been taking steps to remedy that particular fault. And at least with respect to O'Hara's penchant for quiet time and reading, he could definitely relate. As much life—and death—as they experienced, the ability to step back and lose oneself in another world—to cocoon themselves, if only for a short period of time, was a valuable skill. More than once, he and O'Hara had spent rare moments of downtime each immersed in a book.

"Well, since I missed my lunch, I'll just take your other apple and we'll call it square."

"Deal." She handed over the brilliant Red Delicious that had been resting on the books stacked between them. Admiring the apple's glossy, unblemished surface for a moment, he bit into it, savoring the crisp crunch, followed by the sweet sharp burst of flavor with visceral satisfaction. His partner was the only other person he knew who loved the Reds as much as he did, everyone else around the station preferring either the sharper Granny Smiths or the too-sweet Honeycrisps and Galas. For him and O'Hara, however, Red Delicious provided the perfect balance. When fall rolled around, he could count on finding an apple resting on his desk most mornings, along with a seemingly endless supply during long stakeouts.

"I'll buy you coffee later," he mumbled around a mouthful of apple.

"That'd be nice," she replied somewhat distractedly, her attention already back on the book she held. Curious, he looked through the ones resting between them. My Life in Paris and Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Leaning forward slightly, he read the spine of the book she held: Julie & Julia.

"What's with the interest in Julia Child?"

She glanced up, eyes wide and startled. "What?"

"All of your books—they have something to do with Julia Child. What gives?" He drew the heavy blue-jacketed volume of Mastering onto his knee as he eased back against the bench. Keeping the juicy apple well away from the still-pristine pages, he carefully thumbed through the pages, exotic-sounding recipes like Boeuf Bourguignon, Côtes de Veau, and Tarte Normande aux Pommes skimming beneath his fingers. Looking more closely, he read the English subtitles: beef stew, veal cutlets, and apple custard tart. Okay, so not so exotic in English, but they sounded good, nevertheless.

"How'd you know that?"

"Know what?"

"That they all had to do with Julia Child?"

All he did was raise an eyebrow, smiling faintly at her blush.

"Never mind. Sorry," she stammered. "It's just when Shawn saw the books, he said—"

"I'm not Shawn," Carlton broke in mildly, really not wanting to know what inanity Spencer had spouted. After all, this was the same man who claimed to have seen the Virgin Mary in a grilled cheese sandwich.

Her searching blue gaze met and held his steadily. In a very quiet voice she said, "No—you're not." After a moment of silence she added, "I'm thinking of trying my own version of the "Julie and Julia" project."

He remained silent, waiting for her to elaborate. After a moment, she gestured toward the book resting on his knee. "Julie Powell cooked her way through Mastering over the course of a year and blogged about her progress."

"Why?"

"Because cooking was her salvation. Because she was approaching her thirtieth birthday and felt she hadn't fulfilled any of her potential." O'Hara sighed and glanced down at the book resting in her own lap. "Because she'd never really finished anything she ever started."

He turned slightly on the bench to better face her. "I don't see either of those things as an issue for you, O'Hara. You're fulfilling your potential as a cop and God knows, you're one of the most stubborn, dogged people I've ever met. Leaving things unfinished simply isn't an option for you."

"I guess."

Both eyebrows rose. "You guess?"

A sheepish grin graced her features along with another faint blush. "I get that those were Julie's issues and not necessarily my own, but I don't know. At its heart, it's... more."

"Then what?"

"You can't possibly want to hear about my existential crisis," she protested, head bent as she occupied herself with wiping her hands clean and tossing her apple core into a paper bag.

"I believe I just asked. And you know me—if I didn't want to know, I wouldn't bother." Plus, existential crisis? If there was anyone he imagined was completely grounded and secure, it was O'Hara. The fact that she was using words like "crisis" had him on high alert, so yeah, damn skippy he wanted to hear about it.

"O'Hara?" he prompted in a gentler voice than he would ever use with anyone else.

"Julie Powell…" she began slowly, "and Julia, herself—they were looking for… more. And in cooking… they found something."

He took his time considering her statement before responding. "You think they found their answers in cooking?"

"Maybe not answers, per se." She glanced up with a crooked smile. "But maybe… illumination?"

Again, he carefully considered her words. "I guess I can see that."

Her eyes widened, a full ring of white visible around the blue. "You can?"

It was his turn to feel a blush creeping up his neck and over his face. "Yes," he responded gruffly, dropping his apple core into the paper bag and accepting the napkin O'Hara held out. Wiping his hands clean he added, "I may not be the most insightful person in the world, but I can respect the hell out of anyone for whom it comes more readily."

"You're more insightful than you think, Carlton. You at least make the effort."

Despite her calm expression and reassuring smile, he could nevertheless read all she'd left unsaid and felt a twinge of sadness for his partner. It was hell to be in love with someone with whom you weren't in sync. He'd learned that the hard way with Victoria. And gotten a fleeting taste of what that sort of synchronicity could be like with Marlowe.

"So—" he said, trying to steer the conversation away from insight and personal relationships. "Julie Powell made all these recipes in a year, you say?"

She nodded as she gathered the books into a neat stack. "All five hundred and twenty-four of them, but that's unrealistic for me. She cooked every night after she got home from work and given that some nights we don't even make it home—I just can't commit to that." Releasing a gusty sigh, she slumped against the bench's curved back. "Besides, it's not like I'm blogging or trying to prove anything and you know, maybe the whole thing is just an unrealistic goal."

Completely unaccustomed to seeing his partner so quickly defeated—defeated at all, actually—Carlton found himself responding with an alarmed, "Why?"

"It's silly."

"O'Hara…"

"Okay, okay…" She threw her hands up in a gesture of surrender, although an unreasonably high flush stained her skin. In that moment, Carlton could just see her, standing in a hot kitchen, a streak of flour across her cheek, wooden spoon clenched in hand, the tip of her tongue peeking from between her teeth as she perused the now-stained pages of the cookbook, determined to beat the hell out of whatever recipe was presenting the current challenge.

And for the life of him, he couldn't figure out why he was seeing the scene so clearly, almost as if he was right there with her, nor why it was causing an unaccountable sense of what could only be described as longing deep in his gut.

"It's just that… Julia and Julie both—" She stopped and looked out past the trees and the street and the passing traffic and off into a distance only she could see. "They both had someone to cook for. Julia had Paul and Julie had her husband, Eric. They were there, along every step of the journey, sharing in the highs and lows and enjoying the fruits of their efforts."

"But—" Carlton started, then stopped at Juliet's look.

"Shawn thinks corn dogs are haute cuisine."

Carlton cringed even as he agreed. "True."

"Besides, he'd most likely think that strict adherence to a recipe would be akin to submitting to the Man and he'd be badgering me to commit anarchy and God only knows what else and I'd completely screw up the recipe and then he'd just wind up ordering Chinese."

Again, left unsaid would be that Spencer would, without a doubt, not get what Juliet was after with this project. To be fair, much as Carlton hated to admit it, he'd probably try, but there were simply too many factors inherent in both his nature and his upbringing conspiring against his ability to comprehend or appreciate what she was trying to do.

"I'll do it."

"What?"

It took both Juliet's startled response coupled with her shocked expression for Carlton to realize he'd spoken aloud. "Never mind," he muttered, busying himself with collecting the paper bag and rising to toss it in the nearby garbage can. "I'll see you inside." He took off for the building at a brisk clip, breathing deep the whole way.

"No, Carlton, wait!"

Behind him, he heard O'Hara scrambling to gather her things, followed by the sound of her footsteps.

"Dammit, Carlton, wait up—it's impossible to run across the grass in these heels!"

The temptation to speed up and oh, maybe go hide in the bathroom, was near overwhelming, but much as he wanted to, he couldn't do that to her.

"Carlton?"

He waited in the shady alcove by the door, hoping it would mask the heat he could feel flooding his face. Dammit, he hadn't blushed this much since he was sixteen. Maybe not even then.

"What did you mean that you'd do it?"

"Forget it, O'Hara—this is your thing. I shouldn't be trying to muscle in."

"You're not," she replied reasonably. "At least, it doesn't sound as if you are." Holding the door open, she looked at him expectantly, then let it drift shut at the shake of his head. "What did you mean?"

He wasn't even sure. Hell, he hadn't even been aware he'd spoken. All he'd been able to see was that image of her, flour-streaked and flushed and feeling overwhelmed with the sense that he was there, dammit.

"If," he began, carefully trying to formulate the right response, "you'd, um… like company. Or help. Or—hell, never mind," he repeated, yanking the door open and striding through. Thankfully, she didn't immediately follow, hitting him with a barrage of questions. It was a stupid impulse anyhow, not one worth any kind of serious consideration.

The rest of the afternoon he kept himself buried in paperwork, grateful, for once, that no cases erupted that would require being alone in the car with O'Hara for any length of time. Grateful that, despite her occasional curious glances across the distance separating their desks, she didn't feel the need to bring it up again. Clearly, she'd gotten the gist of what he'd been trying to say and had realized it for the utter ridiculous folly it was. Besides, this was her journey—he didn't have a damn bit of business interfering.

It wasn't until late that night, sitting in bed with a military campaign book he was reading but couldn't recall a damned thing about, that he heard from her in the form of his text alert going off.

I figure Wednesdays and Sundays are doable. Easier recipes on Wednesdays & more elaborate on Sundays when we'll have more time. First up: Pipérade (an open-faced omelette) and Soupe À L'Oignon (i.e. onion soup). 7PM tomorrow.

Bring wine.

Bemused, he stared at the screen until it went dark, the words scrolling through his mind until the alert pinged again and the screen lit up with a new message.

Yes, I really mean it and yes, I would really enjoy your company.

Once again, he simply stared at the screen, reading the words until yet another new alert replaced them.

Shut up, Carlton. Stop thinking so much. Unless it's about the wine. See you tomorrow after work.