Disclaimer: I wanna know; have you ever seen the rain? No psych-y no mine-y.
Rating: T because.
Summary: I always wondered the real reason he didn't like the thing you'll read about here, so now I've written my own explanation.
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They had been hiding in the dark for an hour, hoping the men downstairs in the large office wouldn't hear them.
Carlton nudged Juliet's shoulder. "You still with me?" he whispered.
"No, I stepped out," she whispered back. "You're hallucinating."
He smirked. "Just checking."
It was nearly three a.m. and they'd nearly been caught once via a stray creak of a floorboard. Two men with guns had raced upstairs and begun to search the rooms, but the lack of electricity in this part of the building had helped Carlton and Juliet remain hidden in deep shadow.
The men probably didn't want to find anyone anyway, so their search was cursory at best.
But this trapped him and his partner there, for any other sounds to give them away would most likely result in all of Salva's crew coming up to perforate the rooms, as it were, and the two of them as well.
"How long does it take a drug deal to go down anyway?" she groused.
They couldn't even call for backup. Salva had equipment set up to scan for any other active cell phones in proximity to the warehouse, and the moment either one of them tried to send even so much as a text, they were toast.
It was supposed to be a simple job: follow one of Salva's henchmen to find his headquarters, scope the place out if possible, and report back to the station if they found anything.
They'd indeed tailed Cannon to what seemed to be a deserted building, and slipped in through a door at the back which fortuitously led up a flight of stairs to this room, where at first they could hear Cannon talking on his phone. Within minutes four other cars arrived, one of which unloaded Salva himself, and the lower floor seemed to become very full of very bad men, one of whom could be heard loudly and snarkily securing that back door with a padlock.
So.
Waiting.
In the dark.
Fifteen versus two. No way out, no way to get help. Just waiting.
"Crap on a cracker," Carlton said wearily. "If they don't wrap this up soon, they're going to hear my mind running in circles. Damned thing's gonna squeak."
She laughed softly. "We could sing Kumbaya."
"I don't think so, O'Hara."
"We could tell each other secrets."
"I don't think so, O'Hara."
"Come on, why not? We might die up here."
"We're not going to die up here."
"We might."
"No, we're more likely to be stuffed in one of those car trunks, taken into the woods, and be shot dead there."
"That's more like it. Beautiful night to be shot to death."
"There's really nothing you can't be optimistic about, is there?"
"Probably not. So tell me a secret."
"No." He glanced at her shadowy shape. "You tell me one."
She surprised him by resting her head on his shoulder. "Okay. I flunked my driver's test. Twice."
"And now you're never driving the Vic again," he said with satisfaction.
Juliet thumped his arm. "I'm a perfectly good driver. You're just a macho car-hog."
"That's fair." He tilted his head, listening to the shifting rumble of voices downstairs.
She nudged him again. "Your turn."
"What? No."
"Hey! A deal's a deal."
"We didn't make a deal. I said tell me a secret and you caved like a wuss."
This only seemed to amuse her. "That's deceitful, Carlton. You should treat me better."
"I should." He knew he sounded smug, and he knew he was lucky she didn't swat him again.
Instead she pressed on. "Okay, how about I ask you three questions, and you have to answer one of them?"
He thought about it. "Are they going to be crazy questions?"
"Of course not!"
"Trick questions?"
"Carlton…"
"O'Hara, you already know everything about me anyway. What's left to tell?"
She was silent a moment. "I think you have a lot of secrets. Well, maybe not secrets per se… just things you don't like to talk about."
"Doesn't everyone have things they don't like to talk about?"
"Maybe, but you're my partner and I guess I'm nosier where you're concerned. Maybe I've earned the right to be nosy? I know I'd tell you just about anything you asked."
He wondered if that were true… and kind of knew it was. She liked things out in the open between them.
"And anything I tell you stays between us?"
"Of course."
"Because you know," he said slowly, "that sometimes what I tell you ends up coming back at me by way of Spencer."
Juliet raised her head; he could feel her stare. "I don't betray your confidences."
The sharpness, despite the whisper, was clear. He felt uncomfortable. "I didn't say you did. I don't think you do. But Spencer… he eavesdrops. And since I know he's been through my laptop, and probably my phone, you should assume he's been through yours."
She was silent again. "I hope you're wrong."
"How much privacy does Guster have?" He heard her sigh. "And don't I recall you figuring out Spencer was the one who went through your contacts and sent all the men pictures of a dog labeled 'this is you'?"
Another sigh. "My grandfather was so confused."
He was glad she couldn't see his smile.
"I hear you, Carlton. But that's for solving another time. Tonight I need you to know I don't betray your confidences. Ever."
"I know," he assured her, and her head returned to his shoulder, and he felt better. "So okay. Ask me three questions and I'll answer one."
"Okay. Let me think a minute."
While he waited, he half-listened to the noises from downstairs, and felt the gentle pressure of her body against his, and felt oddly content considering their precarious situation.
"Tell me about your first school dance, or tell me about your first screw-up in the academy, or..." She hesitated. "Or tell me why you hate snowglobes."
"Hell. Those are terrible questions."
"Terrible dumb, or terrible you-don't-want-to-answer?"
His first school dance... he was fifteen, tall and gawky. Miserable night. He only went because his mother insisted he take the weird neighbor girl, and she only insisted because she and the girl's mother had bet on a game of canasta and the other woman won.
His first screw-up... lost control of his service weapon and shot out a cruiser window. He was not telling her that.
Snowglobes...
"Carlton?" she prodded.
"I'm debating."
"I'll give you a hint. I'd really like to know about the snowglobes."
Figured.
"You don't buy into Spencer's theory that I'm afraid of being trapped inside one?"
"Uh, no. And if you were, it was pretty crappy of him to tell everyone to give you snowglobes that year." She patted his arm. "But… you're not, are you?"
"I'm dysfunctional, O'Hara, not mental."
She chuckled against his sleeve. "I know. So what's the story?"
Reluctantly he dredged it up in his mind, each painful nuance.
Downstairs, the rise and fall of voices continued. It was almost soothing.
"When I was eight or nine, my father was around for Christmas. He and Ma were getting along pretty well for a change. It was..." he hesitated. "It was nice. I didn't know what to make of it, but it was nice."
His worthless father hadn't put in an appearance for awhile, but for several weeks that December, the household had been nearly... settled.
"Ma had this old snowglobe her grandfather gave her. She loved it. Big fancy thing with the London Tower in it. I liked imagining it was... real inside. I guess kids do that."
"Yes," she agreed. "Miniature worlds, big dreams."
Carlton sighed.
"Christmas Eve, he started drinking. Spiked egg nog, you name it. And when my father was drinking, things didn't go so well."
Her hand moved on his arm lightly.
"Ma was in the kitchen, and he started in on me about—hell, I don't know what—and he was gesticulating. He probably thought he was in a good mood. But in one of his swings, he knocked that damn snowglobe off the end table."
He could hear her intake of breath.
"Hit the floor at just the right angle. Shattered."
Like he'd been, seeing the shards of glass, the fallen Tower, the sparkles settling into the shabby wet carpet.
That hand on his arm was comforting. "Oh, Carlton."
"Ma came in while we were staring at the floor, and she freaked out. And my father…" he trailed off.
It was still hard. Thirty-five years later, he could still feel the pain of that night keenly.
Juliet was still stroking his arm. He might love her.
"My father started yelling at me for breaking it. In front of her. I was stunned because... although I already knew he was no good, he was still my dad. And dads aren't supposed to lie like that, not about their kids. Not to cover their own asses." He closed his eyes briefly against the bitterness he still felt. "And it had been a pretty calm few weeks. I thought things were better. But..." he swallowed. "He dumped the blame on me, and she started yelling too, and worse than that, she was hurt. My ma didn't show hurt very often. She... well, you know. She's a damn harridan most of the time."
Beside him, Juliet made some cautious sound of acknowledgment.
"Young as I was, hurt as I was, I knew if I protested, if I told her he broke it, whatever... easiness between them would be over. Christmas would be ruined. Our first good Christmas with him in my nine-year-old memory." He ran his hand through his hair, restless, unhappy.
But it was so long ago. And Juliet kept stroking his arm, quietly, patiently, soothingly.
"Up until that night, I still thought there was some chance he could stop being the jerk I knew he was. I thought..."
She whispered, "You had hope. And he killed it."
"Yeah. Dead. But I didn't want to kill it for Ma. So I let him yell, and I cleaned up the mess, and I let his lie—his self-serving throw-his-own-damned-son-under-the-bus lie—stand."
Juliet squeezed his arm, sighing a sigh to match his. "So awful, Carlton. I'm so sorry."
"He was gone by New Year's anyway. They had a screaming fight a few days after Christmas and he took off. And when I told her a few years later, during one of our screaming fights, that he was the one who broke the snowglobe, she said she knew. She said she'd known that night, but let me take the blame. God, such a screwed-up family." He rubbed his face hard, willing it all away.
Didn't work.
Juliet was still holding on to him, and he really might love her.
"And that, partner," he concluded heavily, "is why I hate snowglobes. They represent a really crappy night with my really crappy father. Merry crappy Christmas."
She moved suddenly to wrap her arms around him in a from-the-side hug, and he took in the sincerity of her care for him, grateful she was the kind of person—so opposite from him—who could find the optimistic view of anything she faced.
Whispering again that she was sorry, she thanked him for telling her, said if Spencer ever came near him with so much as a bubble she'd pistol-whip him, and then added somewhat diffidently, "You should know. I actually flunked my driver's test three times."
Carlton had to struggle to keep his unexpected laughter under control—he still would prefer not to die at Salva's hand tonight—and hugged her back. "Thanks. I mean it."
Settling back beside him, she patted his arm again. "You turned out pretty damn good despite your upbringing, you know."
"Think so?"
"Yes. I just wish you could figure out how to get us out of here."
"Me too."
But in the next moment, they heard other cars arriving outside, and he moved as quietly as possible to peer out the window. "Deal's going down."
"Finally!" She crouched at his side, and they watched as Salva's customers exited their vehicles with briefcases, to be met by Salva's men and escorted inside.
Jotting down license plates and car info, and daring to take a few photos of the shadowy figures, they waited a relatively short time before it was all over.
Voices rose, voices fell, deals were made. The customers drove away with different briefcases, and soon thereafter, Salva and his crew also left, getting into their cars and driving away.
"Did you count the same number of heads leaving we counted coming in?" Juliet asked hopefully.
"Yep."
"Me too. Can we go now?"
"Yep." He helped her up and they made a very quiet exit, except for the part where, after making dead sure they were truly alone, they had to smash a window at the back to get out.
It was nice to be under the silver stars again, in the cool fresh air, even if they were moving extremely rapidly to get to the Vic where it was hidden a quarter-mile away.
"The night wasn't a total waste," she commented as they slid into the car.
"Nope. Got some photos, got some credible information." He started the engine and eased the car out onto the main road before turning on the headlights.
"And I found out you really do trust me."
Carlton glanced at her sharply. "You doubted that?"
She shrugged. "It's hard to tell sometimes. I mean about personal stuff."
He frowned. "Whackaloon."
"What?" She laughed. "Me?"
"Just because I don't throw everything out there doesn't mean I don't trust you, O'Hara." After a moment, he added, "It just means I'm... skittish."
"Oh, I knew that. But good." Now she sounded satisfied.
"Okay."
"That means I might still get you to tell me about your first dance and first screw-up."
"Next time," he growled as they picked up speed, "I'm leaving you in the warehouse."
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