Fairytale

Insanity. Brain hemorrhage. Possibly some sort of bizarre alternate universe. Whatever it was that prompted this little field trip, Carlton Lassiter sorely wished it would go away…..

But banishing that crestfallen, woe-be-gone look planted on his partner’s face was going to take extreme measures. Drastic measures. Oh dear God in Heaven, he couldn’t do this….

“Uh, Lassie? What are you doing here?” Too late, deer in headlights, the bedraggled sight of Shawn Spencer warily peeking out his door at the even more bedraggled detective froze his already uncooperative tongue, plastered it and all his courage to the roof of his mouth. Funny, he’d known he should’ve let that bottle tag along.

“Alcohol run?” Yeah, Spencer was rather free with the spirits, more so with the liquid variety than any real ghostly visitations. The charlatan had to have some sort of alcohol to refortify Carlton’s flagging nerve tucked away in his rumpus room.

“Uh, yeah, they’re called liquor stores. 7-11, dude. Perhaps you’ve heard of them? And please don’t say you drove here in this condition.”

“Cab.”

“Again, Lassie, what are you doing here? Sloshed. At three thirty in the morning.”

“You’re doing it all wrong, you know.”

“Greeting inebriated cops on my doorstep? Yeah, don’t think so. Got some practice with Henry a couple of times.”

“No, nincompoop,” and while Shawn mouthed his choice of insults silently, Carlton slipped into the psychic’s domicile, invaded his domain, and sought refuge on the nearest reclining surface. Blanket strewn sofa, while no doubt in need of a vigorous haz-mat visit, oh so comfy. “O’Hara….” Some weird hiccup/belch hybrid derailed his speech and his entire train of thought. And ugh, buffalo wings, tasty the first time, not so much the twelfth.

“Juliet’s okay, isn’t she?”

Fear, terror, real, true, not the usual little plays and shows that the fellow excelled in presenting hither and yon. Which cemented his cause all the more. Didn’t mean those wings weren’t on an imminent passage out not usually intended by the human body, but he’d forestall the purging, for now. “Despondent. Dejected. Delusional.”

“You’ve come here to badmouth your partner? To me? Uh, Lassie, you are aware I am probably not the person----”

Huh, so that’s why Spencer flailed about all the time to shut him up…. Face, palm, except for the stray line of spit, it was kinda fun. “She wants it. The whole nine yards. House, kids, wedding. That whole fairytale.”

“Jules doesn’t believe in marriage.”

“Uh-huh. She has bridal magazines. A subscription. She wants it.”

“And this brings you here, why?”

It was a struggle, a battle, but the phrase managed to just beat out the wings by a breath. “I just can’t imagine why in God’s name she wants it with you.”

“Yeah, right. She made herself very clear, Lassie. Me, her, it’s not happening.”

“Shawn Spencer, the boy who never grew up, the boy who never gives up, is going to roll over? Now?”

“Lassie, I’ve taken it one too many times, and her aim, she’s deadly. Flowers, gifts, little expressions of interest, all shot down with unerring accuracy and a tight little no.”

“Cause you’re doing it wrong.”

“How is giving a girl flowers wrong? And hello, I’m supposed to take advice from you? Didn’t your marriage incinerate in a display more spectacular than the Hindenburg?”

“You stole the flowers. Half-assing is not a way to impress her. Your little gifts, little displays, she wants you to think it out, not just toss whatever is handy her way. O’Hara likes the little boy in you, but she wants …” Ugh, he couldn’t believe he was actually pontificating this drivel. “She wants to see the man.”

“So, snatching flowers out of the beds outside the station is a no. What do you suggest then, Cyrano?”

“Tulips. Orange. She likes orange tulips. Wouldn’t shut up during the McNally stakeout about those damn flowers. I nearly snuck there with lighter fluid and matches just to stop the damn chatter.”

“Orange … tulips. You have got to be kidding me. Is this some sort of elaborate Torment Spencer hijinks you’ve concocted?”

“Spencer, my partner is miserable. You do it right, she won’t be. You just need a little inside help.”

“Hold on, are you telling me, are you saying, you’re here as Juliet’s fairygod partner or something? Thank God you left the pixie dust and tutu at home.”

“One stipulation….”

“Just the one?”

“This is it, for real. You hurt her, Spencer, and swear to God, life as you know it will cease. I will prove you for the charlatan you are, and I will smile as you are locked in a cell with your new boyfriend. Do we have an understanding?”

Deep breath, one minute ticking away to three, Lassiter watched that internal debate wage behind Spencer’s eyes, watched a calm settle over the fellow as the decision cemented. “Mold me, whip me, make me worthy, Lassie.”

“Juliet, Guster, no one else can ever know. And why do I feel like I’m feeding a guppy to a shark?”

“Hey, Lassie, no worries. Though, what kind of house do you think she’d like? I have a little savings, but….”

“Spencer, let’s get you a date first, okay?”

And, soul sold, Carlton found himself in cahoots with the Devil’s poster boy, subjecting himself to the inherent trials and tribulations of young love from both sides, the never ending yammerings of fret and worry. What the hell had he done? He was stuck; if he balked, Spencer would so sell him down the river, and O’Hara would gut him with more expediency than a redneck field dressing a deer.

Over time, it became a little easier, resigning himself to those text messages on the sly, pointing Spencer to the website offering the vest O’Hara would gush over come New Years. Nothing zinged with more accuracy to a woman’s heart like kevlar. The earrings she eyed longingly during the Jackman’s Fine Jewelers robbery case. The need for an oil change and tune-up for her little green matchbox transport right as it was coming due.

And, as their romance whirl winded, settled into normalcy, those little messages became few and far between. Spencer, the annoying little boy playing at detective, well, he was just as annoying, still playing, but he became a part of the woodwork Carlton was willing to overlook. For his partner. And the jabs, the verbal cuts, became less caustic and more … banterish filler.

And then quite before he knew it, he found himself sneaking into O’Hara’s little haven of solitude, meeting her gaze via mirror, adjusting the clasp on her necklace just so. “There’s a car idling outside, just in case.”

Deep breath, Juliet grasped his hand in her own, smile radiant and blinding. “Stop wasting gas, Carlton. This is a done deal.” One final flutter of nerves, a twitter of disbelief, and she rose, a vision of lace and pearls, and sheer beauty. “Tell them I’m ready.”

One final snapshot, the corners of his mouth involuntarily twitching at the knowledge that he’d jumpstarted this whole mess, and Carlton skedaddled to take his place. Up front, amid the groomsmen, helping to keep a weak kneed Guster standing, Carlton Lassiter glued all attention to his partner’s breath taking entrance.

It was worth it, the constant aggravation, the nagging and downright trying presence of a perpetual Spencer orbit. His own fairytale, wife, house, children, all immolated, ruins forever branded on his heart. O’Hara, O’Hara’s fairytale life was just starting. And no Brothers Grimm ending for her. Happily ever after.

Even if he had to don a damn tutu to make it happen, nothing was going to destroy her dream. Not if her fairygod partner had any say in the matter….