FANDOM: Psych, Juliet/Lassiter
RATING: PG, totes
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Less Roday = my show.
Psych-verse, thirty-first of January 2008
NOTES: jesshelga is sick. I wrote her cliche fic. The end.
For Sicky Jessie
The first time Carlton Lassiter called in sick to work, Juliet O’Hara peered out the window of the Santa Barbara Police Department to see if the Apocalypse had come.
“He’s not well,” was all Vick would say, before shooing Juliet towards a day of filing, avoiding Shawn’s “psychic hands” and having a lunch with Buzz that consisted of him telling her the names of his future children and their professions (all cops except Annabelle who’d be a nail technician).
The time ticked. The pile of files got smaller. The mental images of Buzz being a father didn’t fade.
She missed Lassiter. Hey, she could admit it, she was a big tough cop and she enjoyed her partner’s company, who shouldn’t admit that? The snatching away of his cup when she used it, the squeak his chair made when he was leaning back and thinking, the smell of his shoulder holster and soap when he leaned over her shoulder and pointed out another mistake she’d made in her report…all the small things that are normal and day-to-day between two detectives.
Normal things. Everyday. Mundane!
A good partner would do something for the other if they were unwell. In sickness and in health, right? So she excused herself, stopped at the supermarket and found herself on her partner’s doorstep without really knowing why or when or how, just that the lights were on (one upstairs, one down) and that was a refreshing sign of life.
He took a while coming to the door, and when he did, she knows he hesitated at opening the door because his slumped shadow against the obviously-chosen-by-his-wife-when-she-li
“Carlton! How are you feeling!” She barrelled over the threshold without making eye contact, because eye contact could break a suspect and she kind of felt like one with the air of “do not enter” he was giving off.
“What. Are. You. Doing.”
Of course, he didn’t finish this sentence for a coughing fit of epic proportions over took him, and Juliet’s eyebrows went up in alarm and her mouth formed a perfect O.
“Sit, sit, sit, sit,” was all she managed, pulling him over to the couch despite him weakly struggling against her. His face was pale, his eyes were watery; nose red and blue and white striped PJ bottoms stuck out from under his SBPD jumper, and Juliet had never seen her partner look sweeter - with a little messy hairdo and handful of tissues to boot.
This, of course, was an unacceptable thought, so she stuck the can of chicken soup with The Simpsons noodle shapes into his hand like it was the freakin’ Holy Grail.
His coughing drowned out any verbal response, but the eye roll gave her an idea of his feelings. Still, she knew he was too weak to force her out the door, and danced into the kitchen before he could sick any hidden animals he might have onto her.
The kitchen was large – obviously well used, with the burners showing the wear of fine cooking and the oven big enough for Hansel and Gretel. It took her a second to get her bearings – pots above her, spoons two draws over, bowls in the cupboard next to the stove – and before long, Homer and Bart were simmering on the stove.
”You’re making soup.”
“And you look like death warmed up, if we’re stating the obvious.”
“Look. O'Hara.” He sat down at the table, obviously tired from the long walk from the lounge room into the kitchen. “I am not a ‘good’ sick person. I like to heal in my own time, on my own terms, and without seeing a soul.”
“I have no great plans, no rhyme or reason, just getting better through sleep and sport on cable and pumping myself full of drugs. I don’t need –“ He stopped short as she pushed the bowl into his hands.
“Eat. Back to your bed. Now.”
She could feel his eyes in the back of her head as she lead him to his room, but she didn’t care. They were partners, and partners helped.
David Letterman blared at them, and Juliet snuck a look at Lassiter, who’s coughing had stopped after she forced medicine down his throat and made him change his jumper and PJ pants.
He was, easily, the worst patient she’d ever had – but as he got more tired, as she molly-coddled him more and more, Juliet could see the defences coming down and the sick little Carlton give over and win.
The light from the television hit his forehead, illuminating his shuteyes and unfurrowed brow. Like a baby. Trying to be as quiet as she could, she picked herself up from the chair beside his bed and made for the door.
“Stay. Closer to work.”
His eyes were still closed, but he was holding the covers open while coughing into his other hand, and she was suddenly very happy for the low light because the shock on her face was almost embarrassing.
Without disturbing the bed too much, Juliet scooted into her partner’s bed (which was totally normal, mundane) as he closed the covers over her and patted them with satisfaction. Closed eyes, still, but she stared at him like any second he was going to order her out from under the quilt and write her up for indecent actions.
But as the minutes past and his breathing grew heavy with sleep, she relaxed. Turned over and made herself comfortable, mirroring his pose – their backs touching until they both slept the sleep of two people who felt completely safe.
Even if she did wake up every time he coughed.