If Juliet had known what was going to follow her decision to go to work that day like a responsible adult, she might have— No, scratch that. She definitely would have decided against it.
It really wasn't her fault though.
She'd just been discussing a case with her partner and their other (self-assigned, but not really actual) partner and his (actual, though not in quite the same way) partner when she turned away to find a file on her desk.
She'd flipped through the file once she located it and reviewed the list of seized contents from the laboratory of one Dr. Timothy Terrence “Titties” Ramsaceous.
Not that he called himself “Titties”, but many of his colleagues had, some disparagingly and some while giggling.
One had opted not to, but instead called him “Dr. Sexy-Ass”. Juliet had done her best to scrub that image from her mind because that guy had just been weird, toilet plunger glued to his bald head aside.
She refocused on the list in a way that would make lasers envious.
“Fingerless gloves, FrankenBerry—case of, French Connection DVD, Froot Loops—three cases of, Gak—seventeen different colors, Grape Nuts—six cases—What is the cereal obsession?—glowing rock of unknown composition, lab beakers—four-hundred and eighty-three...” She skimmed a chunk of the list thinking it was further down. “Ocular enhancer, ospreys—ten...”
"Ospreys are birds of prey known for their ability to see through the glare of light on water to catch fish," Gus interjected.
Juliet tried not to jump when she realized that the pharmaceutical rep was looking over her shoulder. She hadn't even noticed him there.
“What?” Then she replayed what he said. “Hold on. Was that what that thing was?”
“The bird that attacked you?” Gus asked, going a little grey at the memory. He swallowed noisily. “Yes. That was an osprey.”
She scowled, rubbing at her arm where her suit sleeve concealed a white bandage which itself concealed the fact that she was missing a chunk of flesh on her arm. She was normally mostly indifferent to birds, but that one yesterday... She didn't regret the paperwork that came from discharging her firearm in this instance, that was for damn sure.
“I'm telling you, Lassie! The spirits say that there was something else going on in that lab!”
“Like what, Spencer? Unethical tests on animals in an effort to create a sentient army with which to take over the world?” He snorted. “Please. The only thing unethical in that lab yesterday was the fact that the fridge hadn't been cleaned in months—if ever.”
Lassiter shuddered at the memory of the tiny voices that he'd heard cry out in confused terror upon opening the fridge. He didn't know what sort of creature had colonized that appliance, but it apparently hated light and it could make anyone who exposed it to such regret doing so.
“Jules! Back me up here!”
She remained frozen as she stared at the two of them.
The fact that her partner (the actual one, not the self assigned not-actual one) wore those little knee-high sock garters didn't really surprise her. The fact that he had on silky boxers emblazoned with little bottles of Tabasco sauce and the words “Hot Stuff” was more surprising. Disturbing too.
Very, very disturbing.
Movement out of the corner of her eye drew her attention away before she could think about what else there was to see in close proximity to the Tabasco Boxers.
Gus said, “Juliet?” in that concerned tone that drove Brittany over at the crime lab nuts.
Juliet was too busy being grateful that Gus had on sensible cotton blue-pinstriped boxers.
“Detectives—” The chief said just then, and Juliet looked her way before she could think about it. She tilted her head and gave a considering sound.
Juliet would never have pegged her for the kind to wear something like boyshorts. Still, that wasn't so bad. Maybe she just liked the cut—
Juliet's eyes bugged out of her head and she couldn't help the gasp when Chief turned to answer a question and the words “Sexy Mama” came into view, stretched in an arc across the chief's butt cheeks.
She covered her eyes and turned away, steadfastly ignoring the confused looks from her coworkers before she hid behind her hand.
“I have to go,” she said and spun on one heel, keeping her hand up so that the only thing she could see of her coworkers as she walked away were their bare legs and socks.
Calls of “Juliet?” and “O'Hara?” followed her, but not even the threat of losing her badge could have made her turn around right then.
She had no idea if she was hallucinating or on drugs or if that osprey yesterday—damn that osprey—had been radioactive and given her superpowers when it bit her, but until she figured it out she was going home and locking herself in and steadfastly not thinking about the fact that she now knew whether her partner (the self-assigned but not-actual one) was a boxers or briefs guy.
The answer was neither. Apparently, he preferred to go commando.