Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Don't own references to Bram Stoker's Dracula; King Kong; Velcro or Kevlar.

Author's Note: Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome and appreciated. :) Thank you. :)

Warning: This chapter is suggestively sensual, but I think it's well within the T-rating. (I want to point out that this story is a Shules pairing, but since it's Halloween, there may be strange happenings.) ;)

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Chapter Seven: Now The Air Is Getting Thin, You Make My Senses Start To Spin

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# # # # #

"A Halloween party?" Juliet repeated, still incredulous over the notion. She hadn't been there to witness Lassiter's reaction but imagined it closely matched hers. Now, his lips were set in a grim line.

"It's a cover, of course," he told her. "Vick sent out for costumes."

Her eyes bulged. "We have to dress up?"

He shrugged. "I already tried to get out of it." With a loose fist, a gesture of presumed ease, he nudged her shoulder. "I thought you liked this undercover stuff. Maybe you can show me the ropes."

Juliet barely noticed his touch, or his efforts at comfort. "Where the hell am I going to put my gun?" Juliet demanded, taking Lassiter aback.

"Purse?" he coughed. "Uh . . . thigh holster?" Lassiter shook his head suddenly. He was not about to be proved wrong, after he had vouched for Juliet's sanity. His eyebrows knitted together and he told her gruffly, "Get it together, O'Hara. I told the Chief you were up for busting skulls." He gave her a hard stare which dared her to refute his words.

"Where are these costumes? What are we going as?" Juliet asked distractedly, looking around the office as if she hadn't heard him. Are we wearing them now?

Lassiter shrugged. "I really don't care. We've got to be ready for this sting tonight—and we've only a few hours to get briefed on the operation, and the roles we're set to play." His eyes narrowed. "O'Hara!" he barked.

"Carlton, I'm listening," Juliet said, waving a hand in his direction. She was still looking away, finding safety in work and its often complicated and tedious projects. Secretly, she found herself enjoying Lassiter's short temper, his insistence that she get on board immediately with their latest task, because it let her know that he was not, in the least, affected by whatever oddities might be affecting her.

She let herself smile. "Where do you want to start?"

Lassiter rotated his shoulders to release tension. Maybe this would be all right. "Let's start with the objective," he began. "We're setting up a trap to flush out a black widow who, according to FBI profilers, has set a pattern of stalking her targets at very public costume parties exclusively on Halloween . . ."

# # # # #

"That is not the order I placed!" Vick yelled at someone over at the phone. "Look again!" She pinched the bridge of her nose; it wasn't helping, but she just pinched harder. "Yes, I will hold! Do not hang up on me! I am the Chief of the Santa Barbara Police!"

If this was a Halloween prank, it was the least funny one Vick could think of coming at the most inopportune time. She had already grilled the officer sent to pick up the order to the point of getting him choked up—but he had retrieved the same costumes matched to the number on her original purchase receipt. Somewhat flustered, Vick ran her hands through her hair and stared down at the open boxes before her. She had ordered professional, elegant costumes; but at least they did both come with eye masks. Lovely. She huffed. Great fix.

After five more minutes, three of those just on hold, Vick realized the truth of what she was going to have to do. It was October 31st, too late to run out to any seasonal stores still open and get something better. She reassured herself that if Lassiter could close cases wearing the ugliest ties known to man, that it would matter less that these disguises were the ones originally chosen.

Steeling herself, she called them to her office. Vick was relieved to see Detective O'Hara had regained most of her normal color and that her eyes looked sharp. Hastily, she pushed the Halloween Costume Extravaganza! boxes across her desk.

"Bad news," she told the detectives once they were seated, "the costume shop can't find order I placed, and it's too late to get anything else." Her face reddened as she spoke, her eyes drifting to the skimpy fabric in their hands. "I'm sorry, you're stuck with those. Remarkably, they are your exact sizes."

At first glance, Lassiter's costume looked like an ordinary police uniform, but when he examined it, he realized it had pull away pieces—pants that were held together with Velcro, for one. "What is this?" he asked, feeling a lump in his throat. He turned towards his partner, who was open-mouthed. "O'Hara?"

"You know, that reminds me of a getup I saw at bachelorette party—" She stopped when Lassiter's face started turning red, with either rage or embarrassment, or both, and fought a smirk off her lips.

"What?" he croaked, oblivious to understanding. "What?"

"Carlton, it's a stripper costume," Juliet broke to him gently. "Look in the box. I bet it comes with a thong—"

Vick, who had kept quiet during the exchange, put her hands to her face. Welcome to my nightmare, she told them silently. Aloud she commented, "They also come with masks."

"Chief!" Lassiter balked when he could finally speak again. His face was bright red; enraged, he wondered what kind of luck allowed him not to scream bloody murder. "This is . . . half of a costume!" He pointed at the plastic gold badge. "I can't wear something in public that says 'Officer Bad Sexy'!"

"I think you can," Juliet piped up. Both Vick and Lassiter jerked their heads toward her. She shrugged. "Carlton, it's one night. Halloween night. It'll be okay."

A vein bulged directly above Carlton's left eyebrow. "You're one to talk!" he snapped, going off before Vick could intervene. He stabbed a finger towards the fabric between her fingers. "Where are you going put your gun?"

Inside herself, Juliet felt her skin smile a bright, wicked grin. She shrugged it off as best as she could, finding herself chilled, and unable to flush properly. Instead of feeling sympathy at her partner's reaction, she had only wanted to giggle. "It's just one night," she whispered. Then added, in the same ethereal whisper, "Office Bad Sexy."

Lassiter started to speak, no doubt to sling some nasty curses her way, when Vick snapped her fingers to get his attention. "Don't say something to your partner you're going to regret," Vick advised sharply, making eye contact with him.

"But, Chief—she's—" She's going along with this without question. She's teasing me. He felt a wrench of emotion pulling him in two directions, but he could hardly say this, even if he could have formed the words. Earlier, she had despised the whole idea while he couldn't have cared less—and now, she had no objections. It was beyond weird to him.

"Detective," Vick ground out. "That is an order." Because she was still looking at Lassiter, Vick missed the faint smile on Juliet's lips, and the way her eyes appraisingly traced Lassiter's body in profile.

Unlike her partner, she had held the dress up to her chest, feeling intoxicated; it was white over all, with a sheer sash at the waist which would drop to her knees in a slit, lacy near the hem like a wedding gown, and far too revealing. It was designed to accentuate legs and cleavage—show some skin. Let it out. Just one night.

Was this such a gown that the modern Dracula would give to Mina Harker, expecting her to eagerly dress, take his hand, mesmerized, as he nuzzled her neck? As he adorned her with his kisses first and then his bites?

Juliet shivered, but then chided herself for the fantasy. She let the costume slide through her fingers back into its box.

"O'Hara—" Lassiter started, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. He faltered, then found himself relenting. "Fine."

After they were fully briefed and on their way out of the office, Lassiter snatched the box from her hands. In spite of Vick's insistence that the two of them actually put on these most unsuitable costumes, he intended to toss them both in the trash. Their regular clothes would suffice, he decided. He'd take the dressing down from the FBI, if there was one. At least one of them had to remain sane and he figured it was best if it was him.

Lassiter missed Juliet's surprise completely as he stepped in front of her, on his mission to the trash. "Where are you going with my dress?" Juliet called behind him, following at his heels.

"We don't need these, O'Hara," he told her sternly.

"Carlton, we need to look the part. This is a reason why you're never asked to do undercover work."

Her tone hurt him more than what she said—it was dismissive and condescending, unusual to hear from her.

But the worst part was that Lassiter couldn't wrap his head around O'Hara's lack of reaction to what they had been given to wear. Why wasn't she as indignant as he was? One could hardly strap on holster or put a Kevlar vest over such insubstantial material; it would be a wonder if he could hide his real badge in one of the tearaway back pockets.

But when one was undercover, would one still need these material possessions?

He dismissed this immediately; of course one would. He would be naked without his gun and shield.

The receding blush creeped back to the surface. Naked, a poor choice of words.

Angrily, Lassiter grabbed the fabric of the dress in his fist, letting both boxes drop to the floor. A small card fluttered out of the tissue paper. Intrigued, Juliet reached for it. The writing was a silky black calligraphy flourish and read simply:

"To My Dearest Juliet O'Hara".

Without thinking, Juliet dropped card with a miniature yelp. Lassiter, looking like a King Kong who had already squeezed Ann Darrow out of her dress, spun around. He was shaken for a moment, and felt suddenly foolish on his errand to throw the costume in the trash. "What happened?" he demanded. The dress sagged across his arm.

"No-nothing," Juliet replied, blushing. She bent to retrieve the card at her feet.

Lassiter frowned. "Like hell," he growled. He got to the card before she did, his eyes narrowing to blue slits as he read it. While he was distracted, Juliet slid the dress away from him. She pressed the fabric to her cheek, and inhaled its sweet scent of violets, roses, and vanilla.

Carlton cursed, but didn't share his accusation. I should have known. This is the kind of mix-up that has Spencer's name all over it. I'm going to get him for this—tampering with police business. I should have arrested him when I had the chance! He crumpled the card in his fist and stalked back to his desk. He didn't notice O'Hara following him, carrying both boxes. He started when she said his name in the whisper she'd used in Vick's office, the one that set him off balance.

"Carlton," Juliet repeated softly, handing him his box, "we should try on our disguises. See if we can get comfortable in them before the party."

Lassiter glared at her as if she were insane. "What the hell are you on, O'Hara? Let me see your pupils." He actually started reaching for her face.

Juliet slapped his hands away, disgusted. "Can't you just try it on?"

Lassiter pressed his lips together grimly. He wasn't sure what to do; O'Hara was thwarting all of his arguments; even in front of Vick, she'd said she was okay with the hand they'd been dealt. "I will not," he growled, crossing his arms.

"So . . . it's a little X-rated," Juliet said, pulling the top half of the stripper uniform from the box, looking it over inch by inch. She sighed. "You should keep it for dates, Carlton. I mean, Officer Bad Sexy."

Lassiter's jaw dropped and he stared at her in shock, not sure what to say. It was rare that any subject left him speechless, but O'Hara was doing a decent job with many today. He looked appalled, but managed to stammer, "The whole uniform, or just the badge?" He uttered it without a touch of sarcasm, but unbeknownst to her, he was fighting another mean blush that was creeping at his temples. Then, "I know you're my partner, but . . . honestly? Women like this silly crap, O'Hara?"

Juliet handed him the costume with a wink. Leaning towards his ear, she whispered, "It's called foreplay." The word hung in the air between them, even in the seconds in which Juliet pulled back, blushing furiously. "I-I apologize. That was . . . inappropriate—"

"To say the least," Lassiter interrupted, his eyes still wide with shock.

"To say the least, yes," Juliet repeated, nervously running her fingers through her hair. "I don't know what came over me. Excuse me." With the dress still on her arm, Juliet left quickly. She covered her face and chided herself for her own strange behavior. What in the world could have made her . . . flirt with her partner? The notion made no sense; Lassiter didn't even possess a flirtatious bone in his entire body; besides, she wasn't interested in Lassiter beyond a partner/platonic relationship. Why the hell is happening to me? Juliet asked herself, hating the disorientation she felt within her own head, hating that it was almost manifesting itself as physical.

# # # # #

After O'Hara's abrupt departure, Lassiter ran his hand across his mouth. It had been right on the tip of his tongue to ask if she was okay, maybe this time get a better look at her pupils and deduce what kind of drug she might be on—maybe it was something she'd taken unwittingly; even better, maybe Spencer had given it to her. If Spencer had drugged his partner, Lassiter would get have charges that would stick and he'd get to arrest Spencer. No bail, he'd argue, no bail because Spencer was a runner. And a danger to society.

Lassiter grinned darkly. Maybe this Halloween would actually be a happy one.

His eyes drifted to the police stripper uniform O'Hara dropped in her hurry to be wildly inappropriate. Wasn't it unusual, he considered, that O'Hara told him it looked sexy, when he knew that neither of them found the other remotely attractive? But then she said he should keep it for dates. Was there a chance other women might find it—or even better, him in it—sexy?

Would it hurt to try it on, really?

Yes, yes it would. Lassiter shook his head hard to clear it. You know better than to get caught up in the nonsense that is this "holiday," he berated himself. You know better . . . Damn it.

The white dress had vanished along with his partner, not a good sign. Lassiter, with sudden dread, wondered if he'd be able to say no when O'Hara got back, if she was wearing that dress.

Maybe, if he tried on the uniform, and then they both saw how silly they looked, they would reach a mutual understanding of what a terrible idea this was. Undercover, bah. Maybe he wasn't cut out for it.

Rolling his eyes and scowling at the ceiling, he grabbed the uniform, accidentally pulling apart its Velcro-ed pieces. He hoped no one was watching. Muttering a curse, he shoved the whole bundled under his arms and left to change.