Sauces

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

Juliet meditatively stirred the onions as she watched the minute hand inch forward once more. Six fifty-five. He should be here within the next five minutes because while Carlton was many things, one thing he never was, was late. Provided he even showed. Mind, he hadn't given any indication that he would stand her up—then again, he hadn't given any indication that he'd received her texts and intended to accept her invitation. Come to think of it, he'd given no indication that anything at all was different from any other Wednesday. They'd worked a case in the morning, done paperwork in the early afternoon, then he'd disappeared for his standing appointment with Marlowe at the Women's Correctional Facility.

She didn't get it. Well, on a certain level she did. She got that Carlton had felt an immediate connection with the other woman, but once it was revealed why she had approached him so aggressively and that she'd been an active participant in theft, Juliet would have thought that would've been it for Carlton. He was such a hardliner when it came to procedure and rules and the law. But nope—clearly, not enough. He'd been able to look past it and push his own personal envelope—to make an exception where once upon a time, such a move would have been unthinkable.

With a slow, unerring rhythm, she continued stirring the onions as she mulled over how far her partner had come. And yet at the same time, not really. After all this time, she couldn't believe he'd even question that she'd enjoy his company. And even though he hadn't said anything, she knew he'd questioned it. Why else cut himself off and run away before she could give him an answer? Go all remote and quiet and internal for the rest of the day?

It was why she hadn't hounded him past those texts and had played along with his desire to act as if nothing was amiss or off-kilter today. And why she worried he wouldn't show up. Damned stubborn, cranky, insecure—

The doorbell's melodic chime interrupted the righteous rant she was formulating and made her look up at the clock. Six fifty-nine. Well, well, well… He'd shown. Hopefully not to make some half-assed excuse, because she wouldn't put that past him and that unshakable sense of honor. The dolt.

After making certain the onions were spread evenly over the pan's surface, she wiped her hands on the dishtowel she had tucked into her chef's apron as she made her way to the front door, calling out, "Coming!" as the doorbell chimed once more.

Opening the door, she discovered Lassiter standing on the other side, a bottle of wine clutched in each hand, along with a grocery bag looped over one wrist, a baguette, peering over the top edge.

"Since I'm guessing we have some time to go before we eat, I brought a bottle for before along with some brie, toasted French bread rounds, and since I'm guessing you didn't feel up or have the time to tackle baking, yet, a baguette to go along with the soup and omelette and then another bottle to have with dinner itself."

The words emerged in a compressed rush, on what sounded like one breath, his face growing more flushed with every word, though whether it was because of lack of oxygen or something else, Juliet couldn't be certain. Biting back the smile she felt threatening, she reached forward, relieving him of the wine while at the same time urging him through the door.

"I left a hanger on the coat rack for your jacket and holster." She gestured with one wine bottle as she led the way to the kitchen. "Come on into the kitchen after you're done. I have to check on the onions." Plus, she figured he needed a moment to himself if only so he could draw a complete breath.

In the kitchen, she quickly fished a corkscrew from a drawer and placed it on the table along with the wine before turning her attention to the onions, trying like hell not to glance toward the doorway. Normal. She would treat this like any of their normal, everyday interactions. Wasn't that different, really—they even spent a fair amount of off-duty time together, albeit usually in the company of others, on department outings like picnics or softball games or holiday parties. Come to think of it, she couldn't really think of the last time she and Carlton had spent any time together—just the two of them—away from the job that didn't have something, even peripherally, to do with the job.

Huh.

For the first time she began to get a true sense of Carlton's discomfort. And thing is, maybe it should feel weird. But… it didn't. Yeah, at the outset of this project she'd entertained visions of Shawn maybe getting into it—it involved food, after all—and sitting with her and talking to her and maybe even helping, but even before the image had fully formed, it had dissipated into a wispy haze only lightly tinged with longing.

Come on—this sort of scene simply wasn't Shawn. A fact she'd well known going in. And she'd never been the clingy type of girlfriend who forced a boyfriend to change to suit her or her expectations. Especially since expectations and Shawn Spencer were most assuredly not mixy things and anyhow, Shawn was the way he was and she'd fallen for him because of the way he was.

So she'd determined to forge ahead anyhow… maybe… and then it felt kind of weird, for the reasons she'd outlined to Lassiter during their impromptu heart-to-heart the day before. And then he'd blurted out his offer and retracted it, just as fast, but in those few seconds, she'd been hit with an inexplicable sense of yes.

Carlton might not think so, the stubborn dolt, but he really was the perfect person to share this journey with.

And maybe some of the illumination she was hoping to garner from this wacky experiment could serve to provide the reason why.

"Uh, would you like me to open the wine?"

Snapping her head around, Juliet found Carlton had made it into the kitchen undetected and now stood near the table, one long-fingered hand hovering over the corkscrew, uncertainly, it seemed.

When she didn't immediately answer, that same hand retreated to the safety of his pants' pocket as he sidled away from the table and closer to the doorway. "I didn't distract you from an important step, did I?"

She shook her head. "Not at all. I need to flour the onions then add the stock. It's pre-made, because I didn't have time to make homemade beef stock, but at least it's organic, so the quality should be good."

"I'm sure it'll be fine." A half-smile crossed his face although it didn't reach his eyes which were darting around, lighting on everything except her face, it seemed. "It, uh—already smells great."

"Thank you. I took Julia's advice to heart and used the best quality ingredients I could get my hands on. Then it's just a matter of following the directions and patience." An idea occurred to her. "The pantry's right behind you—could you get me the flour please?" Never mind that the flour canister resting just inches away on the counter was full.

"Um, sure."

She returned her attention to the onions, listening as the door opened and closed, and then he was beside her, easing the rubber band off the bag before placing it within easy reach. But before he could beat a retreat back to the table, she spoke again. "Would you grab the measuring spoons? I need three tablespoons sprinkled over the onions while I stir."

He didn't respond, but from the corner of her eye she could see him reaching for the spoons she'd already had out and separating out the tablespoon. Just before he dipped it into the bag he asked, "Level or heaping?"

Level or heaping. He'd just asked if the spoonfuls needed to be level or heaping. Standing there, one eyebrow raised expectantly, spoon hovering over the open bag, waiting for her to answer, certain that it mattered. That he would think to take the time to even ask—he couldn't possibly know how happy that simple, seemingly insignificant question made her. "You know, I'm not sure. The book's right there—see if Julia specifies."

The pages rustled. "No… I don't see anything."

Juliet blew at the piece of hair that habitually worked its way free from her ponytail to fall in her face. "There might be something in the introductory chapters—I seem to recall reading something about precise measurements being more important for baking. For this, I'm not sure it's as big a deal. Why don't we call it somewhere between level and heaping?"

"All right."

As she stirred, he carefully sprinkled flour, patiently waiting for her to incorporate each spoonful before adding another. After the third one, he reached past her to the back burner for the pan of boiling stock, having clearly read ahead in the directions. At her nod, he carefully poured it over the onions while again, she stirred, the two of them exchanging grins at the heavenly aroma. Now, it was just a matter of letting it all simmer for another hour while she prepped the ingredients for the pipérade.

"I really do want you here, you know."

He didn't look up from folding over the top of the flour bag and securing it with the rubber band, but the compression of his mouth was a clear indicator he was fighting against delivering some sort of comment to refute her statement.

"Yeah, I could do all of this by myself, but I like the company. I like your company."

Silence as he turned to return the flour to its place in the pantry, but the fact that he rolled up his shirt sleeves and grabbed the sponge from the sink, wiping the counter down so it was ready for her to start on the omelette prep, spoke louder than words. Another crooked smile crossed his face as he tossed the sponge back into the sink and dried his hands, but this one made it to his eyes, prompting one in return from her.

"I need to add wine to the soup. What'd you bring?"

"A pinot gris and a merlot."

"Let's open the white. I'll add some to the soup, then we can have some with the brie. I love brie, by the way."

Yet another smile slowly emerged, broader and lighting up not just his face, but his entire demeanor, sloughing off the exhaustion from the day. The same sort of shedding she'd experienced once she'd started on the food preparation, every slice of the knife taking her further from the day's troubles.

Like a sigh of relief.

"I think you'll like this—it's a goat brie. Do you have any good preserves?"

She thought for a moment then shook her head. "Just some Smucker's strawberry jam."

"Next time, then," he replied distractedly as he pulled the cheese from the bag and placed it on the board she set on the table. "Oh, hey, this'll work though." Reaching to her fruit bowl, he retrieved a Bartlett pear and a Red Delicious apple. "Knife?"

Exchanging another grin, she handed him a paring knife then busied herself uncorking the wine and after adding the prescribed amount to the soup, poured them each a glass. As she did, she watched him peel the apple, his hands moving with surety, the skin falling away in one long strip. With quick, efficient movements, he cut the apple into slices then placed them on top of cheese-topped rounds, handing her one.

"Oh my God," she breathed around a mouthful of creamy brie and apple and toasted French bread. "Oh my God," she repeated as she closed her eyes, the better to savor the melding of sweet and tart and creamy and tangy.

"Oh, my God, this is as good as sex."

The sudden, horrifying realization that she'd actually blurted the words out loud coincided with the sound of Carlton's surprised—and undeniably amused—chuckle. She kept her eyes squeezed shut as she blindly groped for her glass, hoping the wine would cool the heat flooding her face. Before she could take a restorative gulp, however, Carlton's hand gently grasped her wrist, holding the glass just shy of her lips. Cautiously opening her eyes, she watched him use his free hand to lift his glass to hers.

"To the journey?" he offered, his blue eyes dark with the insecurity he clearly still felt. Even now.

Juliet swallowed the remnants of the fruit and cheese, and transferred the wine to her other hand, tilting the glass to gently touch his. Meeting his gaze with hers, hoping he could see how much she meant it, she repeated, "To the journey," as the crystal resonated melodically in the quiet room.

For several seconds, their gazes remained locked and somewhere in there, she could feel a subtle shifting—the sense that some corner had been turned. They'd been partners for six years and friends for nearly that long. Her life had literally been in his hands and she knew he wouldn't hesitate to trust her with his, but now…

Now felt like maybe it was the beginning of their true friendship. And that thought made her feel not just reassured, but good. In a comforting sort of way.

"So how are your egg-beating skills?"

He smiled, full out and finally fully relaxed. "How am I whenever I get to beat anything up?"

"Touché." She returned his grin. "I'll get you a bowl."

As she rose, Carlton reached out and grasped her wrist once more, his hold warm and extraordinarily gentle. His voice matched his hold as he quietly said, "Thank you."

She gazed down into his upturned face, feeling the comforting sensation wash over her again. "Ditto."