Do Nots and Donuts

[windscryer]

Title: Do Nots and Donuts
Collection: Dress Blues and Gold Badges
Rating: T
Characters/Pairings: Lassiter/Juliet
Warnings: Lassiter-flavored fluff, regulation infringement, intra-departmental fraternization, crossing the ship line into unfamiliar territory, EW KISSING YUCKY!
Genres: Romance, Het
Chapters: 1
Completed: They're all standalone one-shots, so . . . sort of?
Word count: 3136
Disclaimer: *eyebrow arch* Really? You have to ask. *shakes head*
Notes: For Styles, my commiseratory chat-buddy.

Summary: He'd been doing so well. She didn't suspect a thing. And then there was a bust stakeout and donuts and a sweater. Damn that sweater.

Carlton checked his watch and then glanced up at the darkened building across the street.

Yeah, there was no one coming for a midnight meeting. Spencer's 'spirits' were wrong. Again.

He glanced over at his partner, smiling slightly at the tiny snores buzzing from her nose. A moment's debate and he decided to let her sleep. He'd wake her when they got to her house.

He turned on the car, wincing when the engine cranked loudly, but O'Hara just rolled her head to the other side and snuffled, lips smacking indelicately as she resettled. He reached out to brush a strand of hair from her face, then rethought that idea and pulled back.

Expression grim, he faced forward and gripped the wheel with both hands to keep either of them from straying over to her side of the car again.

What the hell was wrong with him anyway?

Blondes did not, as a rule, catch his eye. Call it prejudice, accuse him of stereotyping, but he'd lived here in southern California his whole life and known a lot of blondes, well, stereotypes existed for a reason. Most blondes he encountered were naturally dumb as a post-or the victim of bottled brain damage.

He couldn't stand either one.

But for some reason, when said blonde was his partner-and female, of course, because yeah, he was definitely the kind of guy to appreciate a nice pair of legs leading up to an even nicer ass and he especially appreciated a nice-

Anyway.

He liked girls.

Women. Of the appropriate age and maturity.

But he didn't usually like blondes.

Unless the two were combined into the one person he had to spend most of his time with-and who was also the least available to him.

Technically.

That hadn't stopped him with Lucinda, but, well, he figured that was an aberration. She had just come out of a bad breakup and he was in the middle of an unpleasant separation and . . . well, even he was capable of making mistakes.

On occasion.

Anyway.

He'd assumed that Lucinda was a fluke. Timing and the fact that Tori leaving him was messing with his head and the stress of work all combined to cause his judgment to take a little detour off the strait and narrow.

And then O'Hara had shown up, a month after Lucinda transferred.

He'd had a partner, of course, because he was Head Detective and therefore expected to help train the junior ranks. But Chief had swapped Polanski out for O'Hara within a day of her arrival in town.

And that was the thing.

It wasn't that he was attracted to blonde female cops. He'd pondered that, assuming that their being a cop filtered out the idiots-mostly-and that was why he made the exception, but Karen was blonde and female and a cop and he didn't feel anything even remotely like attraction to her.

Sorensen down in booking was the same way. Close to his age, female as they came, and intelligent enough to make her one of the people he actually didn't mind talking to at a department social function. Her hair was as blonde as wheat, but she did nothing for his libido. Not even a flutter.

Of course, she was competition on the dating front, not a prospective partner, so maybe that was it.

He stopped for a red light and saw the light was still-or already more likely-on at the Dunkin' Donuts and made a split second decision to pull in and get some coffee and maybe a cruller or two.

He'd drop O'Hara off so she could grab some sleep before their shift started in three hours, but he had to go over reports and try to figure out where Patterly was going to be next.

Maybe he'd go ask their 'psychic'.

His lips curved in a smile at that thought. Spencer had probably been asleep about as long as O'Hara, he guessed, glancing at his watch again as he cut the engine.

O'Hara stirred when the engine shut off and Carlton winced.

Damn. He'd been hoping that wouldn't happen.

She blinked and pushed to a more upright position, looking around in sleepy confusion.

"Where-" A yawn cut her off and Carlton had to swallow and look away.

How did women look so incredible right upon waking up? Men-himself included-usually just looked like they'd been hit with a two-by-four.

Not freshly tumbled and sexy as hell.

And it was really time he was getting out and going for donuts now.

"I just stopped for coffee-"

"Ooooh," she slurred in a sleep-husky voice. "Cooooffeeee. Mmmm.” She blinked languidly and smiled softly as she turned and pawed at the door.

He rolled his eyes in an effort to hide his stupid grin.

Damn she was adorable when she just woke up.

And that was such an off limits topic. Okay. Time for coffee and donuts.

He got out and rounded the car, reaching out a hand to steady her when she stumbled out of the vehicle.

She chuckled and glanced up at him, a faint blush painting her cheeks. "My foot's asleep. Sorry. One second."

She held onto his arm and gave her right leg a vigorous shake, hissing and cursing as the blood flow returned painfully.

He kept her from falling and tried very hard to not focus on her hand on his arm, the warm spot it created that seeped through his shirt, suit coat, and overcoat.

She made a face and gingerly lowered her foot, straightening after a moment. "Thanks," she said with a smile and squeezed his arm.

"You're welcome," he said. It was stiff and formal and oh man he had it bad.

He hurried ahead to the door and opened it, hoping to slip back into his normal professional manner, but apparently his feet had other ideas because they stopped just inside, turned, and waited while his arm held the door open for her.

Who the hell was running this show anyway?

She smiled again and said, "Thank you, Carlton," and his heart gave an unsteady lurch.

Well, that answered that question, didn't it?

Fortunately the business of ordering coffee and donuts passed in relative normalcy.

If you didn't count the way he was hyper-aware of her the entire time.

In a bakery-type facility, you'd think the smells of sugar and yeast and other baked good type things would be overwhelming. Not to mention the fresh brewed coffee percolating behind the counter.

But no.

No, those scents were only background notes to her perfume. Something flowery with a hint of exotic spice he couldn't quite place.

And she hummed.

She hummed a lot actually.

Pretty much anytime they were standing around waiting and she got lost in thought, she'd start humming. He was not nearly enough of a music connoisseur to guess what the tunes were, but he liked the sound of them anyway.

When she got distracted by her thoughts, her whole body got into the act, fingers drumming on her leg or the counter, foot tapping the floor, head giving the occasional bob.

He loved to watch it-from the corner of his eye usually so as to not draw her notice and embarrass her into stopping.

This morning she wasn't that awake, but she was humming nonetheless.

He collected their food and handed her her cup and she popped the top and inhaled deeply.

"Mmmm. Good morning, beautiful," she murmured, then sipped carefully at her triple caramel macchiato with cinnamon and whipped cream.

Someone hated him. The fates, God, whoever was in charge, hated him.

Because she had a spot of whipped cream on her nose and, heaven help him, he wanted to clean it off.

His hand clenched and he resisted the urge, though he did manage to grit out, "O'Hara."

She looked up at him, wide eyes unguarded in her half-awake state and he had to swallow.

"You've got . . ." He gestured with his hand and she crossed her eyes and then swiped at the spot with her napkin, blushing furiously.

"Oops," she said, averting her gaze as she led the way back outside.

She was going to kill him.

She was.

Because she'd made it very clear how she felt about inter-office relationships-and by that, of course, it was meant that she'd stated explicitly that she didn't believe in or participate in them-and he found it harder and harder every day to not break that particular regulation.

He wanted to respect her wishes. He really did.

But some days, he thought with a sigh, he wasn't sure he was going to survive that vow he'd made to himself.

Maybe he should just drop her off at home and tell her to take the day off. They'd been up all night on a stakeout, after all and he was senior partner.

He had that authority. If he thought her ability to do her job was compromised by her physical or mental state, he could send her home.

She said nothing as he drove home, her eyes hooded and her thoughts obviously turned inward as she drank her coffee.

He almost got in an accident when he glanced over and saw the tip of her tongue swipe over her lips to get rid of the foam that was left behind.

Which meant he wasn't talking either, because after that he recited the California Penal Code inside his head and focused on the roads.

He didn't even check his passenger side mirror for fear of what else he might see in his peripheral vision.

Finally-finally-he pulled up in front of her house and was able to shift into park.

He left his hands on the wheel because removing them would reveal the shaking tremors that were caused by not touching her.

He closed his eyes for a moment, made a mental note to talk to the Chief as soon as was socially and professionally acceptable about requesting a new partner, and then opened them again and turned to speak.

Juliet was already climbing out of the car.

Thank Lady Justice.

For the view as well as the lack of awkward conversation.

His head tilted slightly as she righted herself and then stood there, facing away as she checked her purse and adjusted her coat and did whatever the hell she was doing.

He couldn't complain really. Especially since he could look his fill without having to worry about getting caught.

Then she turned and he looked away, focusing out the front again.

"Well?" she said as she bent to duck her head into the car again. "Are you getting out or what?"

"Come again?" he said dumbly and turned to look at her.

Big mistake, right there. Her blouse under her suit coat was by no means revealing.

Until of course she bent forward and gravity took over, giving him a fantastically unobstructed view of her bra and the contents thereof.

Black lace was, somehow, not what he would have guessed for her to wear to work.

He realized suddenly what he was seeing and his eyes shot up, but she was just blinking at him and he was grateful to realize she was still not awake enough to notice what he was doing.

"Are you getting out?" she asked again.

He frowned, then realized she had the bag with the donut box in her hand.

Dammit.

Dammitdammitdammit.

"Um, I . . . really need to, uh, go over the case notes and-"

She arched an eyebrow and he began to wonder if she was as sleep-fuddled as he'd imagined.

"Carlton," she said slowly. "The case files are inside on my table. I am not a delivery service. So if you want them, you have to come get them."

That was a really bad time for his eyes to drop down those six or seven inches to where a bright pink silk bow marked the clasp of her bra.

"Uhhhh," he said intelligently.

'Lassiter!" she snapped.

His eyes jumped up again and he cringed in preparation for the verbal tongue lashing he certainly deserved.

But she just glared and jerked her head toward her house, then shut the door and headed up the path.

He swallowed, eyes locked on her departing figure, then cursed and got out of the car.

He was halfway up the walk before he realized he'd left the keys in and the engine running.

Cursing all the way, he ran back, turned off the car, removed the keys and managed to remember to lock the doors even.

By the time he reached the front door he'd . . . mostly gotten himself under control.

It wasn't like this was the first time he'd been in her house.

Or worked with her while part of his brain was focused on non-work thoughts.

He could do this.

He just had to go inside, get the files, tell her to take her clothes- THE DAY. Take the DAY off, and then make his exit.

He resisted the urge to wipe his hand over his face and inhaled and exhaled deeply instead.

Which was somehow an even worse idea.

Her house smelled like her, only much more intense.

Which made sense since she lived here, but-

"Carlton?"

He jumped and turned toward her dining room where she was standing next to the table, plate in hand with a donut on it that she was holding out.

"Your cruller with chocolate and sprinkles," she said, smiling.

"Oh, uh, thanks. Thank you. I'll just . . . uh . . ."

He started to shuck his coat and she set down the plate and came over, her hands reaching up to help him.

He closed his eyes and thought of traffic regulations.

She hung up his things and gestured to the table. "I'm actually kind of cold, so I think I'm going to put a sweater on. I'll be right back."

He bit his tongue to protest her putting on more clothes-this was a good thing, a VERY good thing-and nodded.

"I'll just . . ." He shut up and moved to the table.

She disappeared upstairs and he sent a look heavenward asking for strength-or a cardiac event that would require he go to the hospital immediately-and sat, pulling the nearest folder toward him and breaking off a bite of his donut.

Thankfully he was slightly more professional than his recent behavior would indicate and he was able to immerse himself in the details of the case once it was in front of his eyes-and when other more distracting things were not.

He was scowling when he heard her footsteps return and she said, "What's wrong?" as she pulled out a chair and folded a leg under herself.

He couldn't answer.

He was too busy choking on his tongue.

She lied.

She lied to him.

That . . . that was not a sweater.

Sure, it had the general shape of a sweater-only, maybe a size or two too small-and it probably had the knit of a sweater-he couldn't really tell since it was cashmere and the fluffy, wispy, please-touch-me-now texture of it made that harder to see clearly-but who the hell made a sweater that fell off the shoulders and hung that low on her . . . assets?

He could say definitively that she had changed-or completely removed-her bra.

Any chance of his resuming work on the case in this house was gone.

He needed to leave.

Now.

He started to gather up his things-or blindly scrape papers toward himself-and stammered whatever his blood-deprived brain could come up with for an excuse.

"-check at the station, and see if the, uh, the . . . reports! The forensic reports are in! Yes! And- And-"

"Carlton."

He froze and, after a moment to swallow a time or two, looked up.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I- Look, I respect you, O'Hara. As a person and as a cop and as my partner." He gulped and forced his eyes to meet hers.

"And that's why I have to kiss you." His face scrunched up and he mentally kicked himself. "LEAVE YOU! That's- That's why I have to leave you."

"Carlton."

"I'll put in the request for a transfer first thing. I'm sorry. I really am. I thought I could handle it, I really, really did, O'Hara, but-"

She cut him off with her lips pressed to his.

He was hardly aware of her hands coming up to rest on his cheeks, so focused was he on her lips and her tongue and, oh hell, she was going to kill him right here and now.

She slipped her tongue past his teeth and slid it up against his, tasting him as he returned the favor and tasted her, the cinnamon from her coffee the strongest flavor.

He was marginally more aware when she pressed her body to his, eliminating the spaces between them and making him very conscious of all the places they touched.

Her hands moved back as she kept kissing him, sliding up to tangle in his hair, her fingernails scratching his scalp.

He groaned low in his throat, the rational, responsible part of his brain fighting to surface and remind him of all the reasons this was a bad idea.

She must have sensed something because she pulled back-though she took her sweet time doing so-and when they were finally far enough apart to see each other without crossing eyes she said, "You need to relax."

"I . . ." he tried, but it stalled there. Her lips were plumped and red and he really wanted another taste of them.

"Carlton?"

His eyes rose to hers and the amusement was clear.

"Remember when I told you that I didn't believe in inter-office romances?"

He nodded and like a rush of cold water dropped on his head, he realized that this right now was pretty much the very definition of what she said she didn't want.

"I wasn't talking to you. I was talking to myself."

She pressed another soft kiss to the corner of his lips.

"And I think I've changed my mind."

He had half a second to wonder if that meant what he thought it meant when she slid an inch to the side and deepened the kiss.

After that, thinking seemed like a pretty bad idea.

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