Lassiter slumped down in his desk chair, before reaching for his coffee. It was only two in the afternoon and Lassiter was exhausted. He'd been at the station early that morning and then they'd chased a suspect across eight blocks. As he let himself relax slightly, Lassiter looked around his desk. Spotting a blue folder near the corner, Lassiter reached for it. The folder wasn't a case file, he knew that much, case files came in manila envelopes. There was no name on the file and as Lassiter opened it, he only found sheets of paper. They were printed off from a word processing program. Curiosity got the better of the head detective and he began to read.
The wind whistled through Abby's hair as she stared into the deep blue eyes of the scowling detective. His eyes were the deepest of blues, the kind of blue that women wanted to do cannonballs into.
Lassiter's memory stirred at that last phrase, but he continued reading.
The detective stared back loosing himself in a pool of eyeliner. He had always put his career before anyone and anything, but now in this moment he found himself pondering what a white picket fence with appropriate goth decorations would look like.
What the hell was this pile of trash? Lassiter couldn't figure it out. There were pages and pages of this 'story'(?) He wasn't sure what to call it.
It wasn't that they couldn't be together. That just wasn't it, Leroy Jethro Gibbs thought to himself, as he headed down to the forensics lab. They just…. shouldn't. He looked at the CafPow in his hand. He was sure the detective could provide for her, money wasn't an issue…. It was the straight and narrow, that bothered him. Abby needed someone that would let her be…. Abby. He opened the door and what he saw made him drop the giant sized drink on the floor.
Abby jumped back from the man she was currently embracing. "Gibbs, that was weird I didn't sense you coming down here… at all."
Gibbs turned his attention to the other man in the room. The man with eyeliner smudged on his cheek, not because he wore eyeliner, but because Abby did. Gibbs turned to that man and growled. "What the hell is going on here, Lassiter?"
Lassiter sat bolt upright in his chair. He quickly reread the last paragraph of this romantic, trashy piece of… what was it O'Hara had called writing like this… oh yes, fan fiction. He quickly flipped to the next page of the story.
"Special Agent Gibbs, we weren't expecting you." The Irish detective from Santa Barbara stumbled over his words as he straightened his tie.
"Obviously," Gibbs was unaware of the red liquid now seeping into the soles of his shoes. "Why don't you head upstairs and help McGee with the cell phone trace."
On his way past the senior agent, Lassiter felt a hand whap the back of his head. As much as he wanted to turn around and arrest the man for assaulting an officer of the law, Carlton Lassiter knew he would never make it out of the lab alive if he did so.
Lassiter tossed the folder on his desk in disgust. Who in the station would write such a stupid, inane, awful piece of fiction? It wouldn't be McNab, he wouldn't put it past the rookie cop, but McNab was smart enough to not let Lassiter get a hold of the story. O'Hara wouldn't dream of writing anything involving her superior. The grammar wasn't clean enough for Guster. And after going through multiple scenarios in which the chief would be the author, only to shoot every one of those down, Lassiter came to the conclusion it had to have been Spencer. He was sure the 'psychic' would be back to the station before too long. He never seemed to let Lassiter go a day without interfering in police business.
While Lassiter waited for Spencer he eyed the folder still sitting open on his desk. He could finish the story... Lassiter internally smacked himself, that was just morbid curiosity. He didn't even like the Naval show that Spencer was putting him into. There was a page showing, and with his 20/20 vision Lassiter could read it from where he was leaned back in his desk.
"You just have to tell him how you feel about her." Tony told the detective. "Gibbs is a hard man to read, but if you tell him the truth he'll respect you."
Lassiter ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair. "At least he understands ex-wives. This is the first time that I've felt this way about a woman. Even my ex, Vicki, we never saw eye to eye like Abigail and I do."
"Good read?" Shawn Spencer's voice whispered in Lassiter's ear.
"Damn it, Spencer!" Lassiter swore as he jumped. "It's like watching people sleep."
"You were so into my story, Lassidoodle I didn't want to interrupt you." Shawn plopped himself down on the detective's desk.
"What the hell is this trash?" Lassiter asked, holding up the folder.
"I just thought I should flex my creative writer muscles." Shawn shrugged. "Gus told me I only knew how to write grocery lists, so I decided to prove him wrong. I liked the way my story turned out, so I sent you a copy... well the only copy, Gus made me delete the computer file. Something about it being evidence in a court of law if you sued me for libel."
Lassiter stood slowly, trying to control the urge to punch the smirk off Spencer's face. "Spencer, next time you decide to be Angela Lansbury in Murder She Wrote. Your life will become Murder I Wrote."
Spencer looked taken aback for a moment. "Lassie, did you just make a joke? If you did, it was hilarious, and deserves a celebration." He hopped off the desk and headed for the vending machine. "Do you want bugels too?"
Lassiter didn't respond, but reached in his desk for the book of matches and grabbed the folder off the desk. There was no way on Earth, anyone was going to ever read that story... but maybe he would finish it first... just to make sure he could sue for libel.