Fic: "Ein eindeutiger Mangel an Inspiration", various ficlets from jesshelga prompts
Ugh, real-life update and a post basically ignoring this week's Psych later. For now - baby fics!
I told jesshelga a couple of weeks ago that she needed to give me some prompts so I could throw myself back into writing fic. See, I've been having this kind of annoying thing where I am, basically, uninterested in anything. So this is my attempt to get myself excited again.
(New eps of Psych? Not helping. Jack McBrayer? Helping a lot.)
Each cut is the prompt I was given. The J.Helg is a masochist, can you tell?
TITLE: Ein eindeutiger Mangel an Inspiration
FANDOM(S): Psych, Criminal Intent and No Country For Old Men meets RL
RATING: M, for adultness
DISCLAIMER: Not not mine. Except Pieces, I own that superb intellectual property.
1. Ironing Board.
"You don't know how to iron a shirt?!"
The interrobang rang out through the station, and Lassiter winced.
"I learnt how to utilise a dry cleaner as a part of effectively time managing my day, O'Hara."
She crossed his arms and gave him That Look, the one that he knew would end in him doing something he didn't like - usually something to do with fluffy kittens and/or So You Think You Can Dance? - and really? He wasn't in the mood for Nigel Lythgoe tonight.
"Don't even say it, O'Hara."
"Say what."
"'Victoria used to iron them, didn't she' or 'you're a grown-man, Carlton, you really should do your own shirts' or..."
"I don't sound like Minnie Mouse, Carlton, and despite your high-pitched version of this conversation, you're completely right."
"What?"
Juliet walked over to his desk and put her hand firmly on the blotter. "You should learn to do your own shirts. And I'm gonna teach you."
--
Two hours later, they were standing behind a floral-patterned ironing board, his holster peeled off, her coat over the back of the couch and his body pressed against hers.
"Arms through, Carlton," she chirped, pulling his arms through her sides so they sat rather comfortably under her arms.
And, he swallowed, because his biceps were rather close to her breasts, his elbows at the curve that ran into her hips. Her heart was beating through her back into his chest, no doubt running at the same speed as his and - focus, detective.
Trying hard, he brought his attention back to peering over her blonde head at the board, where she was guiding his hands to hold the iron.
"Hold it like this," her hands over his, then guiding the steaming iron over the pin-striped shirt she'd pulled from the laundry. "Over the creases, in sections."
"In sections," he managed to cough out, and he swore she moved her body back further into his. Something moved, anyway, and his eyes rolled to his ceiling as she talked him through the basics of decreasing collars.
"Move with the lines of the shirt." Juliet's hips swayed a little, and he tried not to groan. "Up" - to the left - "down" - to the right, and he worried to think what would happen once they reached the sleeves.
"The lines."
"Got it?"
She was purring. Literally purring, and her heart? Probably close to the speed of that kid's they'd had in interrogation that day for stealing the latest Xbox game from Wal-Mart.
But she wasn't some delinquent. She was his partner. Purring. While teaching him to iron.
Carlton Lassiter liked to think of himself as a strong man. Kind of smart, great at deductive reasoning. That's why he kind of found it surprising when his nose pressed into the back of his partner's ear, through her hair, and his mouth moved down her neck. It was kind of surprising, he deducted, because it was a set-up of epic proportions, but even that didn't make sense in reality.
Ironing isn't a turn-on, he thought to himself, at the same time Juliet's brain matched the smirk on her face with the plain, clear thought - gotcha.
---
Fin.
------
2. The Completely Internal Diary of Juliet O'Hara
7:26pm
Tight knot, stern face. Suspect vaguely intimidated, but saying nothing.
8:15pm
Suspect admits knowing the kingpin. Success results in one finger tug, slight loosening and removal of jacket. Dinner break is chirpy, won't try peanut-butter and jelly with cheese sandwich Shawn produces from nowhere.
9:34pm
Files arrive from storage, spread across the board-room. Tie knot now past top button, hair sticking up from constant hand-pulling through. Face smushed in frown.
9:42pm
Make him laugh with suggestion I could take over interrogation of other suspect. Urge to smack him large. Two top buttons are un-done.
11:49pm
Walk to get coffee, Buzz and crew call to say Kingpin under lock and key. Tie is now in two halves around neck, coffee still far too sweet but I take a sip when he offers it anyway.
12:32am
Vick tells us to head off home as Kingpin passes out from drunken binge. Decide to reconvene at 8am. Tie ends being held in satisfaction, like a boxer holds his towel after a big match.
1:02am
Dropped off at home. Tie with jacket in backseat, shirt unbuttoned to middle and showing wifebeater underneath and spattering of chest hair. Am so tired, I make comment about "working out".
1:07am
Still staring at me like am insane. Decide to kiss him to stop staring, blame overwhelming tiredness.
1:23am
Break lamp in hallway while pulling shirt off.
2:56am
Wonder what the hell we're doing as I climb on top of his waist. For a second time.
3:11am
Tie retrieved from car. Break lamp in lounge room in process.
7:32am
Finally fall asleep.
8:23am
Woken by the Chief. Claim accident and traffic stopping us from reaching the end of our carbon conscious carpooling.
8:24am
Shawn calls. Shawn knows.
8:29am
Shawn hangs up. Retrieve tie from around bed head and hand it to partner. Partner silent.
8:30am
Goes to have shower. Decide to join him in shower. We work out all awkwardness there.
9:13am
Arrive at work. Both work very hard at pretending nothing happened, and I focus on the strong, hand knot at the middle of his neck, and smile.
---
Fin.
------
3. Dawn
He's always been good at debating. Across their desks, he'd start - deliberately taking the opposite side of her opinion because he just got such a damn kick out of arguing.
She supposed it was a sign of his nature, of how he was so difficult and easy at the same time, so humanly foreign she began to wonder whether the same man would walk through the squad room door each morning.
The day a different version walked beside her on the sleet covered streets of New York, she'd frowned into her scarf and pulled her coat closer around her. She wanted to ask and to probe, but she didn't - because it wasn't worth bringing up in case he argued with her why this version was so much better and she just didn't have a case either way.
Like the day his mother died - she really, honestly thought it would be exactly how she'd played it in her head. Like when Joe died, and she held onto her family and grieved outwardly because that's just what you did and let the pain out with the tears and the anguish.
This new version of Bobby didn't do that, and she supposed the old one wouldn't have either. But instead of hugging him and pulling him into her heart while saying it'll be okay, she watched the dawn with a cup of coffee in her hand, alone, and the phone solid on the hook.
She thought of her own mother, and the coffee percolator gurgled behind her. She thought of how she'd never met Bobby's, but knew everything about her, and the sky rolled closer to a blue, sunny day.
"I'm sorry," she whispered to no-one, but somehow, she knew he was watching this morning wake up too.
---
Fin.
------
4. Crossover
It was a busy day at Prestigious Art Gallery Shop, the line to the counter four-deep at each register. Pieces was processing sales, her Cliched Manager face in place and her feet feeling like rocks.
"Who was next?" A tall man, a camera around his neck, stepped up to the counter and placed a pile of postcards in front of her and smiled. Tourist. "How are you?"
"Great, thanks, how're you?" American accent, seven postcards. She hit the appropriate code and quantity on the computer, and smiled.
"I'm good, good. Busy day, y'know. That's seven dollars, thanks."
Opening his wallet, he laughed. "Your money is sure colourful, like from a game."
A pink fiver and a two dollar coin were passed to her. "Monopoly!"
"Exactly! Golly, miss, it sure is pretty though. Kind of neat."
Pieces shrugged, and handed him his postcards. "I like it. It does it's job."
"Sure does." He raised the bag with his purchase in it at her, and nodded, the kind of way a pure-hearted gentleman did in an old timey movie. Suddenly, Pieces' surly demeanor seemed to just...fade away. "You have a good day, miss."
"And you too," Pieces said to his retreating figure, and suddenly she didn't want to kill the kid digging through the badges on the floor to her left anymore.
---
Fin.
------
Does the world need a songfic to "Nookie" by Limp Bizkit? No? No? Damn.
I told jesshelga a couple of weeks ago that she needed to give me some prompts so I could throw myself back into writing fic. See, I've been having this kind of annoying thing where I am, basically, uninterested in anything. So this is my attempt to get myself excited again.
(New eps of Psych? Not helping. Jack McBrayer? Helping a lot.)
Each cut is the prompt I was given. The J.Helg is a masochist, can you tell?
TITLE: Ein eindeutiger Mangel an Inspiration
FANDOM(S): Psych, Criminal Intent and No Country For Old Men meets RL
RATING: M, for adultness
DISCLAIMER: Not not mine. Except Pieces, I own that superb intellectual property.
1. Ironing Board.
"You don't know how to iron a shirt?!"
The interrobang rang out through the station, and Lassiter winced.
"I learnt how to utilise a dry cleaner as a part of effectively time managing my day, O'Hara."
She crossed his arms and gave him That Look, the one that he knew would end in him doing something he didn't like - usually something to do with fluffy kittens and/or So You Think You Can Dance? - and really? He wasn't in the mood for Nigel Lythgoe tonight.
"Don't even say it, O'Hara."
"Say what."
"'Victoria used to iron them, didn't she' or 'you're a grown-man, Carlton, you really should do your own shirts' or..."
"I don't sound like Minnie Mouse, Carlton, and despite your high-pitched version of this conversation, you're completely right."
"What?"
Juliet walked over to his desk and put her hand firmly on the blotter. "You should learn to do your own shirts. And I'm gonna teach you."
--
Two hours later, they were standing behind a floral-patterned ironing board, his holster peeled off, her coat over the back of the couch and his body pressed against hers.
"Arms through, Carlton," she chirped, pulling his arms through her sides so they sat rather comfortably under her arms.
And, he swallowed, because his biceps were rather close to her breasts, his elbows at the curve that ran into her hips. Her heart was beating through her back into his chest, no doubt running at the same speed as his and - focus, detective.
Trying hard, he brought his attention back to peering over her blonde head at the board, where she was guiding his hands to hold the iron.
"Hold it like this," her hands over his, then guiding the steaming iron over the pin-striped shirt she'd pulled from the laundry. "Over the creases, in sections."
"In sections," he managed to cough out, and he swore she moved her body back further into his. Something moved, anyway, and his eyes rolled to his ceiling as she talked him through the basics of decreasing collars.
"Move with the lines of the shirt." Juliet's hips swayed a little, and he tried not to groan. "Up" - to the left - "down" - to the right, and he worried to think what would happen once they reached the sleeves.
"The lines."
"Got it?"
She was purring. Literally purring, and her heart? Probably close to the speed of that kid's they'd had in interrogation that day for stealing the latest Xbox game from Wal-Mart.
But she wasn't some delinquent. She was his partner. Purring. While teaching him to iron.
Carlton Lassiter liked to think of himself as a strong man. Kind of smart, great at deductive reasoning. That's why he kind of found it surprising when his nose pressed into the back of his partner's ear, through her hair, and his mouth moved down her neck. It was kind of surprising, he deducted, because it was a set-up of epic proportions, but even that didn't make sense in reality.
Ironing isn't a turn-on, he thought to himself, at the same time Juliet's brain matched the smirk on her face with the plain, clear thought - gotcha.
---
Fin.
------
2. The Completely Internal Diary of Juliet O'Hara
7:26pm
Tight knot, stern face. Suspect vaguely intimidated, but saying nothing.
8:15pm
Suspect admits knowing the kingpin. Success results in one finger tug, slight loosening and removal of jacket. Dinner break is chirpy, won't try peanut-butter and jelly with cheese sandwich Shawn produces from nowhere.
9:34pm
Files arrive from storage, spread across the board-room. Tie knot now past top button, hair sticking up from constant hand-pulling through. Face smushed in frown.
9:42pm
Make him laugh with suggestion I could take over interrogation of other suspect. Urge to smack him large. Two top buttons are un-done.
11:49pm
Walk to get coffee, Buzz and crew call to say Kingpin under lock and key. Tie is now in two halves around neck, coffee still far too sweet but I take a sip when he offers it anyway.
12:32am
Vick tells us to head off home as Kingpin passes out from drunken binge. Decide to reconvene at 8am. Tie ends being held in satisfaction, like a boxer holds his towel after a big match.
1:02am
Dropped off at home. Tie with jacket in backseat, shirt unbuttoned to middle and showing wifebeater underneath and spattering of chest hair. Am so tired, I make comment about "working out".
1:07am
Still staring at me like am insane. Decide to kiss him to stop staring, blame overwhelming tiredness.
1:23am
Break lamp in hallway while pulling shirt off.
2:56am
Wonder what the hell we're doing as I climb on top of his waist. For a second time.
3:11am
Tie retrieved from car. Break lamp in lounge room in process.
7:32am
Finally fall asleep.
8:23am
Woken by the Chief. Claim accident and traffic stopping us from reaching the end of our carbon conscious carpooling.
8:24am
Shawn calls. Shawn knows.
8:29am
Shawn hangs up. Retrieve tie from around bed head and hand it to partner. Partner silent.
8:30am
Goes to have shower. Decide to join him in shower. We work out all awkwardness there.
9:13am
Arrive at work. Both work very hard at pretending nothing happened, and I focus on the strong, hand knot at the middle of his neck, and smile.
---
Fin.
------
3. Dawn
He's always been good at debating. Across their desks, he'd start - deliberately taking the opposite side of her opinion because he just got such a damn kick out of arguing.
She supposed it was a sign of his nature, of how he was so difficult and easy at the same time, so humanly foreign she began to wonder whether the same man would walk through the squad room door each morning.
The day a different version walked beside her on the sleet covered streets of New York, she'd frowned into her scarf and pulled her coat closer around her. She wanted to ask and to probe, but she didn't - because it wasn't worth bringing up in case he argued with her why this version was so much better and she just didn't have a case either way.
Like the day his mother died - she really, honestly thought it would be exactly how she'd played it in her head. Like when Joe died, and she held onto her family and grieved outwardly because that's just what you did and let the pain out with the tears and the anguish.
This new version of Bobby didn't do that, and she supposed the old one wouldn't have either. But instead of hugging him and pulling him into her heart while saying it'll be okay, she watched the dawn with a cup of coffee in her hand, alone, and the phone solid on the hook.
She thought of her own mother, and the coffee percolator gurgled behind her. She thought of how she'd never met Bobby's, but knew everything about her, and the sky rolled closer to a blue, sunny day.
"I'm sorry," she whispered to no-one, but somehow, she knew he was watching this morning wake up too.
---
Fin.
------
4. Crossover
It was a busy day at Prestigious Art Gallery Shop, the line to the counter four-deep at each register. Pieces was processing sales, her Cliched Manager face in place and her feet feeling like rocks.
"Who was next?" A tall man, a camera around his neck, stepped up to the counter and placed a pile of postcards in front of her and smiled. Tourist. "How are you?"
"Great, thanks, how're you?" American accent, seven postcards. She hit the appropriate code and quantity on the computer, and smiled.
"I'm good, good. Busy day, y'know. That's seven dollars, thanks."
Opening his wallet, he laughed. "Your money is sure colourful, like from a game."
A pink fiver and a two dollar coin were passed to her. "Monopoly!"
"Exactly! Golly, miss, it sure is pretty though. Kind of neat."
Pieces shrugged, and handed him his postcards. "I like it. It does it's job."
"Sure does." He raised the bag with his purchase in it at her, and nodded, the kind of way a pure-hearted gentleman did in an old timey movie. Suddenly, Pieces' surly demeanor seemed to just...fade away. "You have a good day, miss."
"And you too," Pieces said to his retreating figure, and suddenly she didn't want to kill the kid digging through the badges on the floor to her left anymore.
---
Fin.
------
Does the world need a songfic to "Nookie" by Limp Bizkit? No? No? Damn.