Sorry, guys. Death!fic is the best I can do right now.
Thanks to DG for the speedy and yet awesome beta.
Disclaimer: Nope. Not mine. Too depressing for a comedy.
This is for Eight, who asked a long time ago for this particular character's death. It's not the one I planned on writing, and I fully intend to finish that one, but this'll have to do for now. Hope you like it, honey.
It happened in the line of duty.
It was a small consolation, but she knew that, at least, it would have pleased him.
Better that he took a bullet for a civilian, saving the life of a young mother of three, than in a car accident or falling off a ladder at home.
It was better, she told herself as she wiped at her tears. It was awkward since she had to use her left hand, her right still strapped to her chest.
It was better.
And yet it wasn't.
Better would be him not dying at all.
Better would be a bouquet of flowers at her home, a card tucked in with a hurried note, in that familiar penmanship.
It would be short, to the point, and terribly uncomfortable, despite being only handwriting. Something like, "Don't forget to do your paperwork on the Minzelli arrest."
Anyone else would see it and think it cold, demanding, and unsympathetic.
But after almost a decade of being his partner, she would know exactly what he meant.
I hope you feel better. I miss you.
I'm sorry.
Better would be going back to work in a week, listening to him gruffly scold her for being five minutes late and giving her coffee a look of disdain. Like the double skim, cinnamon powder, whipped cream, and sprinkles were a contagious disease that would infect his own cup if he wasn't careful.
Better would be him coming by after work with a pack of cards and a bag of butterscotch discs to play gin with her, chasing out Shawn and Gus so she could get some peace and quiet.
The door opened and she looked up quickly, a painful flutter of hope in her chest that she already knew was wasted.
The one person she wanted to walk through that door wasn't going to.
"Hi, Jules."
He slipped in and shut the door behind himself by leaning on it.
She looked away, wiping at her fresh wave of tears.
"Hi, Shawn," she said, as quietly as he had.
He waited a moment, then cleared his throat and said, "You look nice."
Her eyes came up again and she saw him scowling, internally kicking himself.
"I mean, the uniform, it looks . . ." His chin dropped to his chest and he finished in a mumble. "It looks good."
She had to smile at his attempt, even if it was kind of pained.
She didn't want to look nice. She didn't want to be wearing her uniform.
She wanted to be wearing her hospital gown, counting down the days until she could wear her own pajamas.
"Thanks," she whispered.
He nodded and then coughed and sniffed, straightening up. His eyes rose, but he still didn't meet her gaze.
He hadn't since that day.
She knew he blamed himself. She knew he shouldn't.
But it hurt too much.
She didn't want to blame him, she knew he didn't deserve it, but it was hard not to.
He'd saved so many people. How many times had he given them the right information at just the right time and saved lives?
His gift had helped so many people.
Why hadn't it helped this time? Why had it saved so many lives, but not this one?
She would forgive him one day.
But she just couldn't do it today.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
She nodded and started to slide off her bed, wincing in anticipation of the pain. He hurried over and helped her into the wheel chair that had been provided.
"Thanks," she said.
He softly dismissed it and took the handles of the chair.
The halls were quiet, a product of the afternoon lull in the schedule, though she couldn't help but think that it was because she wasn't the only one mourning.
Which was stupid. None of these people knew him. None of them had any reason to mourn for him.
They should. He'd given to them, all of them, even if they didn't know it.
They ought to feel his loss as keenly as she did.
She'd wanted to be a part of the official procession, but her doctor had refused to allow her that much time outside of the hospital. She'd barely gotten permission to attend as it was, and some concessions had been required.
She took them because she'd be damned if she was going to miss this.
Gus was waiting for them at the curb outside, next to the official sedan trimmed for the occasion. He nodded and quietly greeted her as he opened the door.
She returned it and, with the assistance of her escorts, got into the car. Shawn tucked the chair into the trunk and climbed in next to her, Gus on her other side.
She said nothing but reached out and took Gus' hand in her good one, needing the contact.
Gus gave her a firm squeeze in response, and Shawn gently patted her knee. It was enough to help her keep her composure a little longer.
o.o
There was a clump of black across the grass, tucked under a canopy to provide shade, but she only saw it for a second before it blurred behind tears.
It wasn't a pitifully small crowd, but it wasn't nearly as large as it should have been.
Shawn pushed her in silence, navigating the temporary path that had been laid just for her, so she could be present.
The chief—and others—had tried to argue that she shouldn't be there, that she should still be healing in the hospital.
She'd calmly and quietly told them to go fuck themselves.
They didn't know her. They didn't know him.
They'd seen him as gruff and cold and arrogant. They'd seen his mask, the shield he wore. None of them had bothered to get to know him.
They'd been impressed by his record, but offended by his manner. They'd respected his rank, but not him.
And that was bullshit.
In the academy they taught you about the relationship that you had with your partner. They couldn't even begin to explain what it meant.
It wasn't just a fellow cop you worked with. For it to work—for it to be a true partnership—you had to be closer than friends, more faithful than spouses, and more trustworthy than priests.
Partners didn't just help you think things through, help you find the clues, and solve the case. They joked with you on stakeouts, covered your ass on a bust, and listened to your problems, even if they couldn't do a damn thing about them.
If you only cared about your partner at work, you weren't partners.
She and Carlton had been partners. And now he was gone.
Her best friend, her mentor, her older brother, and her other half was gone.
Her expression was stoic as she was wheeled into place on the end of the front row next to his mother.
As Shawn locked the wheels, she felt a hand on her arm. She looked over and saw the woman she'd come to know and respect as much as her son.
Tears filled the other woman's eyes and Juliet got a nod of understanding and gratitude for her presence.
She blinked rapidly and had to look away.
Like she could have not come.
She focused on the casket in front of her, draped in a flag and a huge spray of white roses.
The presentation of the colors was performed by members of Carlton's Civil War reenactment group, their traditional uniforms spotless and perfect, their timing exact.
She didn't hear the words of the pastor. She didn't even hear what Chief Vick said—though she did note that it was she instead of the Commissioner who spoke on behalf of the department.
She didn't know if she should be offended that he'd delegated this duty to an underling, or grateful that the recounting of his service came from someone who had actually known him as more than an annual evaluation to be signed off on.
His sister got up and spoke a few words on behalf of the family.
And then, something surprising happened.
Well, actually, it wasn't initially surprising.
Shawn regularly got up and spoke at the funerals of complete strangers. So the fact that he got up to speak at this one wasn't a surprise.
What he said was, and Juliet found herself completely focused as she hadn't been since that last fateful day at work.
"Carlton Lassiter wasn't a man to show his emotions." He bobbed his head to the side. "Unless it was anger. He didn't mind showing that one." He blinked and refocused.
"To most people who met him, or even those who knew him a little, he was gruff and hard and had very little patience. But I knew a different man."
He looked down for a moment.
"He thought I was annoying and a nuisance and that I didn't take the work he dedicated his life to seriously." Shawn shrugged. "He was right."
That took some of the audience by surprise, and Juliet found herself smiling slightly despite herself.
She really hoped that Carlton was here somehow, listening to this.
He'd be pissed as hell if he missed that admission from Shawn.
"But just because I took—probably too much—pleasure from driving him crazy, that doesn't mean I didn't respect him. He was dedicated to his job and not because it was a paycheck or because he might get a medal and end up on TV. He saw a world full of bad things, full of people who hurt others and broke the law, and he did something about it. Some might say he was too dedicated. But how many of us here right now are here because of him?"
He raised his hand.
"I am. He saved my life on more than one occasion." He laughed softly. "And he didn't even like me."
His mouth turned down into a brief frown before he swept the crowd with an intense gaze that Juliet felt right down to her soul.
"His life has already been recounted by the chief and his sister. They told us of the man who served his city with distinction and the brother, son, and uncle who showed a much softer side to his family.
"But even those can't explain who he was." Shawn's shoulders lifted briefly as he shook his head. "I'm not sure there are words to do so.
"To me he was a cop through and through. I mean, he had the penal code memorized. He slept with his gun. He had an office at home that was just as well used as the one at the station. He was tireless in his pursuit of criminals, and he got justice for those that couldn't. He didn't give up until he had his man—or woman—and he made damn sure that it was the right one. These weren't statistics to him. Victims or criminals, they were people. And while he took the breaking of a law personally, it wasn't about revenge or a commendation. It was about justice.
"He gave up his free time and even sacrificed his marriage for the citizens of Santa Barbara. 'To serve and protect' wasn't just a motto for him. It was a way of life."
His head bowed and Juliet saw his fingers tighten on the edge of the podium. The tears welling in her eyes spilled over, and she had to press her good hand to her mouth to stifle the sob that followed.
He finally sniffed and looked up once more, straightening his shoulders, looking directly at the casket, at the man it represented.
"I can honestly say, Detective Lassiter, that it was an honor to know you and a privilege to work with you." He swallowed thickly.
"Take a break, Detective. Kick back with a heavenly beer and cast your line into that big fish pond in the sky. You've earned it, buddy."
She was vaguely aware of Shawn moving back to his seat as the department honor guard marched into place to set aside the flowers and lift the flag over the coffin.
Then, from a hill a short distance away, came the call.
"ATTEN-HUT!"
The snap of bootheels and shifting cloth was the response.
"Readyyyyyyy!"
The rifles clacked as they were lifted into place.
"Aim!"
A faint swoosh was heard as barrels were aimed at the sky, then the sound of seven guns being primed.
"FIRE!"
A deafening boom washed over her, followed by the faint smell of smoke.
"FIRE!"
Another round of clacks.
"FIRE!"
There was a beat of silence, then, "PRE-SENT ARMS!"
The clack and shuffle of the entire firing party returning their rifles to their sides followed.
The department's bugler lifted his brass instrument, and the solemn, heartbreaking sound of Taps drifted on the air.
The final note was accompanied by the release of white doves and Juliet had to bite her lip.
She could all but hear her partner's grumbling words of seeming annoyance as he rolled his eyes. She knew he'd be honored despite himself.
The officers holding the flag stepped to the side and solemnly and respectfully folded it, the presenting officer then using precise steps and turns to bring himself to stand in front of Carlton's mother.
"On behalf of the Governor of California, the Department of Public Safety of the city of Santa Barbara, and a grateful city, we offer this flag for the faithful and dedicated service of Detective Carlton Lassiter."
With tears in her eyes, Carlton's mother accepted the flag, hugging it to her chest as the officer saluted.
When it was over, after Carlton's family had made their way along the casket and said their goodbyes, Shawn came behind her to unlock the wheels.
"No," she said softly. "Help me up."
He hesitated and she looked at him.
"Please."
He nodded and helped her to her feet, an arm around her waist to support her as she hobbled forward to the faded AstroTurf that provided the cover for the open grave.
She couldn't stand on her own, but she was grateful that Shawn respected her grief by remaining silent as he supported her.
She stared at the casket, the flowers that had been replaced, the whole grandiose display. She reached one white gloved hand out and lightly touched the sun-warmed, polished wood.
"Thank you for not giving up on me. For giving me a chance when I know some thought I didn't deserve it. Thank you for teaching me and being patient with me and," she smiled, "even letting me pick the place for lunch sometimes." She had to pause as her face crumpled in a rush of grief. "I'm sorry I wasn't a better partner. I'm sorry I didn't have your back that day. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." She couldn't do more than repeat that, and now Shawn moved, pulling her against his chest as she cried.
He didn't tell her it wasn't her fault, that she had nothing to be sorry for, and for that she was grateful.
Even if there was nothing she could have done—and, having completed the review board of conduct for the day, she knew there wasn't—the fact remained that her partner was dead.
When she finally manged to regain her composure, she gratefully accepted the handkerchief offered and wiped her eyes and face.
With a sniff, she squared her shoulders and came to attention. She offered a salute, focusing on the movement to ensure it was perfect.
She held it for a moment, then dropped her arm.
Looking at the casket one final time, she spoke, her voice hard, her tears gone.
"I've got to go, Carlton. Criminals don't take a day off for mourning."
She nodded once and then glanced at Shawn, indicating she was done.
He helped her back to her chair and popped the locks, wheeling her off.
She twisted in her seat, looking up and back at him. "Shawn! Aren't-"
He shook his head. "Nah. I already said my goodbyes. Besides, you know if he could ask for anything it would be that I stop talking and let him rest in peace."
She faced forward again.
"He didn't hate you," she said. "He didn't even dislike you, really."
"I know," he replied easily. "But even I have more respect for him than to share his secrets at his funeral."
She nodded, grateful, and they made the rest of the trip back to the hospital in silence.
o.o
As he eased her back into bed after waiting patiently for the nurse to help her change out of her uniform, she spoke.
"Shawn, I know that you, uh, sometimes . . ."
She swallowed and closed her eyes.
"Jules?"
She opened her eyes.
"He doesn't blame you," Shawn said, using his gift and reading her mind. "If anything, he'd like to apologize for you being hurt as well."
She blinked rapidly as tears once more welled up. Dammit she was so sick of crying already.
"He- You talked to him?"
Shawn smiled that crooked smile of his and laughed softly, hands jammed in his pants pockets. "You think he'd come back to talk to me? Really? That would require admitting I was right."
She laughed herself. "True. Never mind."
Then he sobered. "But I don't need to talk to him to know that's how he felt. He was proud of you, Jules."
She lay back on the pillow and let the tears fall.
"Thank you, Shawn."
He shrugged and removed one hand to brush back her hair, before pressing a kiss to her forehead.
"Get well, Jules. Like you said, crime doesn't stop. We have criminals to catch."
He left her with her thoughts and memories. She was surprised to find that, though they made her cry, they weren't all sad.
When her physical therapist showed up half an hour later and asked if she wanted to take the day off, she shook her head.
"I need to get back out there. I've got a job to do."
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