The man was never this quiet. He had to be plotting something.

Or he could just be sleeping… oh Christ in a sidecar he WAS sleeping! At… no, correct that, ON Carlton's desk! And good God why was he wet?? And was that the Munderson file?!

"He has a cold."

Lassiter's body remained immobile, but his eyes flicked to O'Hara, who was currently battling a losing war against an incredibly toothy grin. Carlton's glance became a glare.

"Why is he draped across my blotter!" This was followed by the unasked question of why nobody else in the precinct seemed to notice or care that their resident spirit whisperer was collapsed in a boneless heap on the Head Detective's desk, leaking a thin line of drool. Oh, and lest we forget, he was WET!

"Well, he said his head hurt, and he was so pathetic, he just couldn't stop sneezing and I called Gus who said he'd be by to pick him up but he had to finish an appointment first and it would take another hour and a half so in the meantime I decided to share my stash of cold meds only I grabbed the wrong baggie cause it was the one that had the pain medication from that perp that knocked my shoulder out of joint and before I realized it he'd taken two and you're only supposed to take one and…"

"O'HARA SHUT UP!" Carlton gripped the sides of his head, staring at his subordinate with something like horror. No wait… it was definitely horror. Slowly rewinding the last few moments where she'd been rambling like a China white addict after a line, he blurted the first thing that occurred to him.

"You keep your prescriptions in a baggie??"

She blinked. "Well yeah… my purse is too small to carry my wallet, badge, gun, clip, extra clip, gum, AND a bottle, so I eliminated the bottle." She shrugged, still wincing a little at the residual pain from the aforementioned shoulder disjointing. "They're both oval white pills…"

Lassiter groaned. "God, do not turn blonde on me now…" He thought he'd been discreetly quiet, but apparently not enough as Juliet was suddenly pressing a finger into his sternum.

"I'm sorry, what was that?!"

Carlton could face down any criminal no matter what they were packing in bullets and balls- but the sight of his petite partner's blazing blue eyes flaming at his faux pas was enough to sap his personal testosterone reserves.

Thankfully, an unlikely rescuer in the form of his drippy nemesis saved him from losing his manhood. The fact that this rescue was carried out by a less than graceful unconscious kitty-roll from the desk to the floor was a mere bonus. The startled and pathetically disoriented yelp and subsequent one point two seconds of glassy mortification nearly made up for the soaked file and disarranged working space. This, thought Carlton bemusedly, is why they invented camera phones. As O'Hara bent to retrieve the battered psychic from his crumpled position near Carlton's chair, the detective pondered if he could barter for a copy of the security footage.

Spencer was moderately upright by this time, a semblance of his normal cocky expression hovering near his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth. His over-exuberant and slightly congested "Lassy-face!" only slightly marred by the sudden face-plant he took when his toe caught the edge of the chair he'd almost been lying under moments ago. By this time, the rest of the officers in the immediate area actually were paying attention to the afternoon drama. Well, normally Lassiter could care less what attention Spencer's antics drew. The guy clearly thrived in the center ring. And yet… As his partner literally forced the other man to 'sit dammit!' in the twice-cursed chair, Carlton took another look at the fever-bright eyes that passed quickly around the room. It wasn't even close to enjoyment at the unintentional attention that colored the tips of the young man's ears, in spite of the half-hearted salute he awarded his audience.

Oh for all that was holy… "THIS ISN'T A BACKYARD BARBACUE PEOPLE, NOW GET BACK TO WORK!" Bellowed Carlton loudly. Immediately the station vibrated with renewed activity as the uniformed rubber-neckers looked everywhere but at the bedraggled man in their midst. That's right… if you ignore a pink elephant, it isn't real.

Reaching down, Lassiter yanked open the bottom drawer of his desk, fumbling past the stack of manuals and two filled known offenders books until he located the small plastic bag tucked at the back. Pulling it free, he gave it a vigorous shake before tossing it into Spencer's lap. At the confused look, he tilted his chin. "It's a cold pack- go ahead and keep it, I've got more. Though normally I use them 'because' of you…"

That smirk was back again, but Carlton was spared the expected quip when the young man placed the pack against his forehead and practically swooned in apparent bliss. It was actually somewhat indecent…

Realizing he wouldn't get any desk work done while his chair was occupied, Carlton sighed and opted for a cup of coffee during his impromptu break. Then he shook his head. Damn it, he was the Head Detective! If he wanted to sit down, he'd commandeer someone else's chair! He ignored the part of his brain that asked why he couldn't just take back his own. And he wasn't a push-over either! Firmly established with his own mental state, Carlton exactly prepared his mug, a personal indulgence he'd give up with as much likelihood as cutting off his… Clearing his throat, he stirred the slightly burnt liquid until it faded to a milky hazelnut. Taking an experimental sip, he nodded in satisfaction and returned to his desk.

Spencer was wilting again. Nearby, O'Hara sat at her own desk, shooting pitying glances at the rumpled psychic in between typing.

Suddenly the young man's body shook as he sneezed once, twice… and then again…

By the fifth one, Lassiter was striding forward. Latching one hand around Spencer's arm, he dragged the man to his feet. Juliet looked up sharply, but Carlton ignored her as he steered his drooping cargo across the station floor.

"Lassy, iv I'bd known you wanted to dance…"

"Shut up Spencer, I'm taking you home... and if you try to hug me I'll shoot you and leave you to bleed in a gutter."

Nodding wearily, the other man smiled. "Ib wouldn't dream ob it."

It was three steps from the exit when Carlton's brow suddenly furrowed. Pausing for just a moment, he looked the younger man up and down before, (and knowing instinctively he'd regret the answer), asking what had been on his mind since he first cause sight of Spencer passed out on his desk.

"Why, in the name of sweet justice, are you wet?"