Eggs
AN: Sorry for the delay—Real Life and all that. Hopefully, the next chapter won't take so long. You know the drill: don't own psych, don't pretend to, like playing in the sandbox, TPTB own everything, I got nuthin', no infringement intended, yadda, yadda.
"The lamb stuffed with garlic and herbs, and maybe the orange sponge cake for dessert?"
Carlton considered his partner's suggestion as he continued staring through the binoculars to the window where their current scumbag perp was paying off the lesser scumbag he'd hired to break a local high school teacher's knees. Since, like most scumbag perps, he was an idiot, he hadn't yet realized that Lesser Scumbag had a) been made before he could take out the teacher, thanks to Spencer and Guster, and b) was wired. Now here Greater Scumbag was, just handing over the money, simply assuming because Lesser Scumbag had handed him a newspaper with a planted item about a high school teacher being mugged the night before, that the deed had been carried out according to plan.
"Always ask for proof, asshole," he muttered under his breath. Part of him also wished that the attack had been carried out, given that the teacher had been busted for holding with intent to sell. To his students. But lucky for him, he'd been caught by the parents of a student with whom he was doing said drugs—as well as sleeping with. But because Greater Scumbag was a dealer of some renown and the teacher wasn't completely stupid, he'd offered the guy up in return for a plea deal. And just as they were about to bust him on the expected rape charges, the student had burst in, declaring she was eighteen—a fact her parents had neglected to mention—and hadn't started sleeping with Teacher Boy until after her birthday. Which was probably utter bullshit, but there was no way to disprove it, especially since she'd declared with all the overwrought emotion eighteen-year-old girls could muster—damned loud emotion—her undying looooooove for trigonometry and the creepy little bastard. Said bastard had sat huddled in his chair, nodding along like some goddamned marionette.
In a word, this case, while technically a win, sucked.
"You have to let it go." His partner's comment was mild, almost gentle, yet with that underlying thread of steel that even now, six years on, could catch him unawares. And always made him pay attention. "We're going to get a really bad guy off the streets. Three, really, if you count his idiot enforcer and the teacher."
His fingers tightened around the binoculars. He'd probably have the logo imprinted on his palm for hours. "Yeah, because those two getting light sentences makes me feel so much better."
"Carlton."
O'Hara's voice cut through the hazy red film clouding his vision. He knew she was trying to steady him, bring him back from the edge, and keep him from doing anything that might jeopardize their case.
"You'd better cuff the dealer—I might break the bastard's arms if I do it."
"Who's to say I won't?"
Carlton allowed himself a small grin. Yeah, it would be fun for her to cuff the perp, if only because he'd get to be witness to the expression on the jackass's face when the sweet-faced blonde slammed him up against a wall, growling out the Miranda.
In his earpiece he heard Greater Scumbag congratulating Lesser Scumbag on a job well done while through the binoculars he watched as money and oh, bonus, what looked like a bag of coke, changed hands. These guys really were idiots.
"Let's go!" he barked into his mic, tossing aside the binoculars and drawing his weapon as he bolted from the car at a dead run, O'Hara's footsteps close behind.
With a surprising minimum of fuss, outside of the gun Greater Scumbag tried to pull on O'Hara before she knocked it free and Carlton decked him, they had everyone cuffed and were on their way back to the station.
"The lamb sounds good," he said to O'Hara as if their conversation hadn't been rudely interrupted by a bust. He turned the car into the drive leading to the station.
"What about the orange sponge for dessert?"
"The hell, you two married or something?"
"Shut it, jackass," Carlton snapped to Greater Scumbag, glaring at him in the rearview mirror. To O'Hara he said, "It sounds great, but with everything you have to do for the lamb, you sure it's not too much?"
"I was actually thinking you might want to do the sponge yourself."
"But—" he started to protest, all the old feelings of horning in on her adventure rapidly surfacing. And in that way she had, she cut him off before they swamped him completely.
"Carlton, part of my wanting to do this is figuring things out for myself. One of the things I've figured out in the past six weeks is that not only do I enjoy your company, I enjoy you being part of the process." As he shoved the gearshift to Park, her hand came to rest on his forearm, prompting him to turn to meet her earnest blue gaze. "The more of the work we do together, the more fun it is. Besides, you seem to be showing a real flair for desserts, Detective. The discipline of baking suits you."
He fought to contain his pride at her praise. Nevertheless, a half-grin tugged at his mouth as he confessed, "It has been fun."
"Christ even if you two aren't married, you're married. Or at least," he lazily drawled with a knowing smirk in Carlton's direction, "you're whipped as hell, dude."
In perfect synchronicity he and O'Hara turned their heads toward the back seat and snapped, "Shut up, jackass!" Looking at each other, they burst into laughter that continued as the occasional chuckle as they dropped their charge off at booking. Heading for their respective desks to fill out the requisite paperwork, Carlton looked down at O'Hara, still grinning and flush with their victory. Damn, but she was so pretty. Never more so than when kicking ass.
Those kinds of thoughts were okay, he'd decided long ago. They were objective, empirical thoughts. She was an attractive woman. And she could kick ass. The fact that the combination occasionally—okay, more than occasionally—sent a flash of something that might, just might, be desire shooting through him and heating his bloodstream was not a big deal. A man could find a woman attractive and desirable and it was okay. Normal, even. He'd never acted on it and never would. Especially since they were both involved with others. Never mind that they spent more time in each other's company, than with their respective significant others. And that was without time spent together during work hours, which technically, didn't count.
Which, he acknowledged, was more than a little off. His reason was legitimate, but what was hers?
"That's a funny expression you've got going, partner."
Snapping from his reverie, he noticed her gaze had turned from laughing to quizzical. Fuck. It was okay to have the thoughts—but Rule #4 was never, ever allude to them and most definitely, never let them show. She was the best partner he'd ever had. He wasn't about to screw up again.
Which meant, default to Rule #7: whenever possible, divert attention away. Hard one for him, since he did have a fondness for the spotlight. But not for this.
"Just thinking how your language has really gone to hell in the past few years."
As saves went, not bad.
She laughed and elbowed his ribs. "I may have picked that up from my partner."
He gently elbowed her back. "He's a bad influence, then."
Her smiled softened into something undeniably fond. "Only on my language."
Craaaaaaaaaap
But he managed to return her smile and make it to his desk before he said anything, well, stupid. That would ruin this thing they had going. Not doing that, no way, no how. Those twice weekly cooking sessions were easily the highlight of his week. After his visits with Marlowe, he amended quickly. Little too quick, there, bucko, the obnoxious little internal imp who tended to pipe up at really inopportune times, whispered.
With a mental snarl at the imp to zip it, he pulled the requisite forms up on his computer. But before he could set to work, Juliet appeared at his elbow.
"Do you have the e-reader with you?" she asked quietly.
"Yeah, of course." Reaching into the his bottom desk drawer, he pulled out the e-reader he'd purchased solely so he could get a digital version of Mastering. It was easier than lugging around a physical copy and kept the office snoops and gossips from wondering why their Head Detective was reading a French cookbook. An unexpected benefit came in the form of allowing him and O'Hara to discuss menus and recipes at any given moment.
"I just want to double check the ingredients—I'm stopping by the store on my way home."
Still unnerved by the obnoxious imp, whom he could almost hear chuckling evilly in the background, Carlton handed O'Hara the e-reader, absent-mindedly adding, "If you forget anything, just text me later. I'm going to hit the Farmer's Market tomorrow."
He tried to focus on the arrest report, but it was difficult what with O'Hara still hovering by his elbow—close enough for him to feel her body heat along his entire right side and smell the light vanilla fragrance that was her preferred perfume. Close enough that he could sense her unease and an indecisiveness that was uncharacteristic, to say the least. Glancing up, he saw that she had her head down, ostensibly studying the e-reader's screen, but in truth, studying him from beneath lowered lashes.
"Is there something else?" He attempted to have the question come out in his trademark impatient bark, but instead, heard it emerge on a distinctly concerned note. Not good.
Beneath her suit jacket, her chest rose and fell, a sibilant "Would you mind if I tagged along with you to the Farmer's Market?" emerging on the exhale.
Abandoning the report, he leaned back in his chair, studying his partner's still-downcast head. "Don't you usually reserve Saturdays as Spencer Time?"
She fidgeted, looking for all the world like she was awaiting a particularly unwanted turn in the confessional.
"Never mind. None of my business." He shook his head as he snapped his chair forward. "Of course you can come. I like to get there when they open, so I'll pick you up at eight-thirty." And then that damned imp piped up again, prodding Carlton with his stabbity little pitchfork to add an acerbic, "Should still give you plenty of time to spend with Spencer."
Moments passed and still, he could feel her presence beside him. Finally, she said, "I'm not seeing him tomorrow. Wasn't particularly interested in the Scooby Doo marathon he and Gus are planning on mainlining. Especially since he's using it to give him ideas for alternative investigative techniques."
"Jesus Christ," Carlton muttered under his breath before spinning his chair to fully face O'Hara. Despite the distinct sensation that this was one of the more monumentally bad ideas he'd ever had and God knows, he'd had more than his share, he still couldn't stop the words that came out. "I go every Saturday. Same time. You're welcome to come along any time you want. Better stuff there than at the grocery store anyhow."
The sheer brilliance of her smile momentarily obliterated any concerns that his suggestion was the Worst One Ever. He had brought that smile to her face with a seemingly simple offer. And besides, how could anything that made Juliet so happy be bad, right?
Right?
Who, exactly, are you trying to convince, bucko?
Mentally telling the imp to shut the fuck up, he tapped the e-reader O'Hara still held. "Make the list—we might as well pick everything up tomorrow morning. Eight-thirty."
He turned back to his computer and the waiting arrest report, pretending not to notice the glancing touch O'Hara brushed against his back as she retreated to her own desk.
But he'd be lying if he didn't admit to feeling it well into the night. And that because of it, sleep was damned hard to come by.
