Disclaimer: who, me?
Rating: T
Summary: Inspired by a book title, I had to take this little thing where it wanted to be taken. No pairings, really. Just a little thinking. One-shot.
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Two little words.
Two little words, and he was cast into a sea of... well, a sea of something he didn't want to be in a sea of.
(He immediately heard one of the nuns from his school years haranguing him for ending a sentence with a preposition, but banished the voice because those two little words were taking over again.)
He and his partner—who was especially cool, crisp and pretty today in a light gray suit—were in the public library waiting to meet with the business office manager about a rather large monetary donation made by a gentleman whose company they'd been seeking for quite some time. They wanted to know if anyone had actually met with him, and when, to get a clear line on his appearance and perhaps current-ish whereabouts.
While they waited outside the administrative offices, Juliet inspected some leafy plants in the bay window overlooking the street below, and his gaze was drawn to a display of books with, he gathered, a musical theme.
And there in the middle of the middle shelf, were those two words.
Black words in a white circle with a bright yellow background.
Staring at him. Taunting him.
The author was Nick Hornby. He knew the name, though he'd never read him.
The two words wreaking such havoc on his ... everything ... were the title.
Juliet, Naked.
Carlton swallowed.
Twice.
Funny how dry his throat was.
Juliet, Naked.
He wanted to pick the book up to see what it was actually about, but oh, no. No no no. No and no again.
A thousand NOs could not have encompassed the downside of being seen by Juliet (dressed), while he held in his guilty grip a book called Juliet, NAKED.
Of course his naturally pessimistic brain instantly careened down the road of imagining the horror of such thing—which happily had the effect of dampening his libido—the utter horror of Juliet smiling as she approached, asking what he'd found to look at, and then… holy mother of God, the look which would overtake her lovely face as she read the title clutched in his sweating, unworthy, tainted hands.
She would draw her service weapon on the spot and shoot him.
If he was lucky, it'd be straight between the eyes.
If he was unlucky (how much would she want him to suffer?) (probably not at all; she was kind-hearted and besides, the sooner he was dead, the happier they'd both be that this horrible moment was behind them), she'd shoot him below the waist, and he would die a slow lingering death, in the fetal position.
His library card would be revoked for sure.
Swallowing again, he resolutely turned his back on the evil tormenting hormone-activating book display, and cast a baleful gaze upon the administrative suite door.
Juliet approached. "Do you think we're going to get any useful information?"
"About what?" He was completely blank, trying not to think about Juliet, Naked.
She frowned. "Um, about Richard Potter? Are you okay?"
No. No, I am not okay. If you knew how not okay I am, Juliet Naked, you would…
The door opened and a woman approached. "Detectives? Come on in."
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They actually did get a little useful information; the bookkeeper had been handed the cashier's check by the elusive Richard Potter personally, and they were able to update their description. However, a cashier's check didn't provide an address for the man, and when they went to the issuing bank, the teller who'd taken his cash was on a three-week vacation and video footage of the transaction revealed primarily that Richard Potter knew exactly where the camera was and how to avoid having it capture much of his face.
The library had video footage as well, but not in the administrative area, and Potter had worn a hat and glasses up until he passed through those doors.
Carlton had resolutely shut down the part of his brain which was circling madly around the words Juliet, Naked to focus on his frickin' job.
Why had Potter given money to the library at all?
The bookkeeper said he'd spun a story about a dying mother, her deathbed wish, and his general love for the institution.
Now they were looking for his mother, since the last they knew of her, she was playing endless canasta while drinking endless daiquiris on an endless series of Caribbean cruises.
But now he was home, Carlton was, morose and tortured.
Oh, Juliet Naked, he sighed.
Why those two particular words together?
Why couldn't it have been anyone else, naked?
Because Fate didn't work that way. Not for him.
He went to the computer, glass of Jack in hand, and looked up the book on Amazon.
To his relief, it had nothing to do nudity, sex, or even a real Juliet. A third of the reviews said it sucked. It was published in 2010 and he discovered that a movie based on the novel would be out in a few months.
Swell, he thought grimly. Peachy-damned-keen. Bad enough he'd seen the book cover, but if there was any kind of publicity about the movie...
Forewarned is forearmed.
Yeah. And with four arms, he could hold himself steady while beating himself up.
Just go there, the traitorous devil-voice urged him. Think it. Imagine it. You know you want to.
He did, but he would not.
(Not again, anyway.)
But he didn't sleep that night, and the cold showers which bracketed his attempts to rest weren't very effective.
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"Hey, hey, hey! You're about to be famous!" Spencer crowed as he and Guster strode into the bullpen.
He was speaking to Juliet, who looked up from her desk in puzzlement.
Carlton gave them one glance and returned to studying his screen. They had just confirmed Potter's mother was alive and inebriated somewhere in Cozumel.
"In the movies!" Spencer explained.
Carlton eyed them.
Juliet was still puzzled and Guster looked uncomfortable.
"Shawn, we should go," he urged.
"We just got here," Spencer protested. "And it's lunch time, and the movie star needs to come with us to celebrate."
"I'm working, lunch was an hour ago, and what are you talking about?"
"You like Ethan Hawke, right?"
Prickling senses...
Something wicked this way comes.
Guster looked even more uncomfortable, and Juliet was frowning. "Yeah, why?"
Spencer leaned in over her desk. "In August, he becomes your ticket to fame."
"I gotta go." Guster headed away, but Spencer grabbed his arm. "Let go, Shawn. I told you this was a bad idea."
"What makes it a bad idea? It's cool. Juliet gets her name in lights. How is that bad?"
Juliet had suddenly begun typing, and now she looked directly at Spencer and scowled. "Really, Shawn? You're titillated by a movie because it's called Juliet, Naked?"
Something wicked is about to blow the damned house down.
Carlton turned to openly watch the potential melee.
Guster said, "I told you she wouldn't think this was funny."
Spencer seemed genuinely surprised. "But how often does a person get her name in a movie title? Are there even any movies with Shawn in the title? I mean—"
"I'm working, Shawn. Go away."
"But Jules—"
She stood up. Shorter than he was by several inches despite her heels, she appeared to tower over him. "Go. Away."
"But—"
"Spencer," Carlton said smoothly—and oddly feeling much of his own angst slipping away—"do as the lady says."
"I'm leaving, Shawn," Guster said again. "You want a ride, you'd better be in the car in thirty seconds." He strode off.
Juliet was still glaring at Spencer.
"Spencer," Carlton repeated, less smoothly.
Spencer looked sheepish, and took off after his ride.
Juliet let out a deep breath. "Thanks."
"You didn't need me." He smiled.
"I always need you," she muttered. "For that last bit of backup if nothing else."
I always need you.
And with that...
Later, he thought, yes. With that, the power of the two words which had tormented him for days faded. Not completely—they would never fade completely—but enough.
Enough to focus on their partnership and friendship.
And he would take that.
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A/N—I don't know what this was. I saw the book cover today and suddenly imagined Carlton's reaction if he saw it sometime. Plus, it's obsessedwithstabler's birthday so here's a treat for her. . . . . .