Disclaimer: don't own psych, but if I did, thangs'd be a LOT different.
Rating: T
Summary: My take on what might happen in Lassiter's life after Trout takes over the SBPD. SPOILERS for No Trout About It, the S7 finale. Slightly AU, since as is my usual trick, I pretend Marlowe doesn't exist; consider Lassiter a single man from the start of this one-shot.
. . . . .
. . . .
. . .
Another crappy day in Troutland.
Carlton straightened up, trying not to make the bright red paint stain even worse. As it was, it splattered the left front of his black uniform shirt, and was already dripping down onto his pants.
The snickers started somewhere behind him, and he turned slowly to see the other officers gathered around the lockers, their expressions all expectant: they thought he'd lose it, and that would be their real payoff. They had nothing to fear from him now because he was just like them: a patrolman coming in off a morning shift. No power in the department, no authority to wield over them.
He saw for a moment where he had come from, and where he had progressed; he saw what Harris Trout had made of him in a moment's capricious abuse of power.
And he saw where he had to make his stand.
It had been a month since Trout put him back on the line, a month since Juliet had been partnered with Miller—as his junior instead of the senior partner she deserved to be, a month since Karen Vick had been ridiculously and unfairly suspended for six months, a month since Buzz had been summarily fired, a month since Spencer & Guster had been banned from the station (not that this was something Carlton objected to in the least).
In that month, the men on the line had "played" at least six pranks on him—this one with the paint can tumbling out of his locker the messiest—and it was clear they intended to make the most of his downfall.
A month of subtle and not-so-subtle insubordination and disrespect was enough.
"Okay," he said crisply, and they went on alert, expecting the meltdown. "You've had your fun. You've done just about everything you can to make me as miserable as possible. And since I'm sure you have more crap lined up—long hours in a patrol car provide a lot of time to think—let me tell you this first."
The seven men in front of him wore expressions ranging from smugness to mirth to near-sneers.
"You're forgetting that I won't be down here forever. One way or the other, I'm getting back to the detective squad. And even if I don't get to be Head Detective again, for damn sure I'll have the ear of the person who does, if not Chief Vick when she returns. You know how I made Head Detective so young? Because I paid attention. I remember things." He smiled coolly. "And I'll remember you. You're thinking I deserve all the crap you've given me because I'm a hardass and I run people ragged and most of you hate my guts, but you also know I have damned high standards, and those of you who advance, advance because you've shown you have the ability and the skill."
There was a new quiet among them.
"But sometimes," he went on smoothly, "ability and skill can be trumped by how much of an ass you are, and how much you piss off the people who have the power to help you make those advancements. Try to keep that in mind, okay?"
Not a trace of a sneer was left among those who watched him warily now.
Carlton slammed the locker shut, grabbed someone else's towel from the bench, and took a quick swipe at the paint to stop it dripping. He flung the towel to the floor and strode out: dammit, he was going upstairs to what used to be his bullpen to get some coffee from what used to be his coffee bar (relatively speaking).
If Trout tried to stop him, he'd deck the son of a bitch.
He'd barely cleared the pillar closest to what used to be his desk when Juliet sprang up out of nowhere. "Carlton!" she nearly hissed. "What are you doing up here?"
"Hello to you too." He veered to the coffee bar and started to pour steaming elixir into a mug which used to be among his favorites.
"Trout's in a foul mood. If he catches you, he'll—"
He interrupted. "He'll what? And when is he not in a foul mood? Hell, O'Hara, my mother's nicer than he is, and no one's used the word 'nice' about her in decades."
Juliet was staring at the bright red paint on his shirt.
She was standing between him and the view into Karen's—that is, Trout's—office. As if to shield him. He found it annoying rather than endearing. And damn, did he miss Karen.
"What happened?" She pointed to the stain.
"A gift from my buddies downstairs."
"Oh, Carlton," she began. "I'm sorry. But you can't—"
"It's coffee, O'Hara. Anyone can drink coffee anywhere in the station. I never stopped any uniform from getting a cup up here, and neither did you."
"You're not a uniform. You're Carlton Lassiter. And Trout doesn't want to see you in the bullpen."
Carlton sipped his coffee slowly. "He never told me that."
Juliet was exasperated. "Carlton, don't push him."
He laughed harshly. "Or what? He's already busted me back to patrol. You think he's going to bother nailing me for insubordination because I had a cup of coffee on my lunch break?"
"Don't push him," she repeated. "You know he's half crazy, and I want you back here as much as you do, so don't screw it up."
"It's been a month," he snapped. "A month of an unnecessarily punitive disciplinarian action over bad choices we made based on your asshat boyfriend's lies. At this point I don't see what's left to be screwed up."
Her eyes were huge and anxious. "He could fire you! And since he's already fired Buzz and Psych, I wouldn't be so quick to test his limits!"
Another sip of coffee before he said deliberately, "The only real shame there is about Buzz."
Juliet scowled immediately. "Think what you like about Shawn, but he's solved a lot of cases for us."
"No, O'Hara. Not for us. With us. And what was it? 100 in seven years? Compared to how many you and I solved without their 'help' at all? What would you say the ratio is, hmmm? A hundred for them compared to thousands for us? Yeah. Big loss."
"No solved case, no saved life, is worth dismissing because of numbers." She was icy now. "The sooner you get your job back, the sooner we can get back to the work we do best."
"Aren't you working with Miller?"
"Are you kidding? Trout's got us on cases so cold there's frost on the folders. It's like he's punishing Miller too."
Carlton shrugged. "Cold cases sound all right." He gestured to the paint on his shirt. "Unless you think this is a good look for me." He took another large sip of coffee and walked away.
Juliet followed, looking anxiously over her shoulder toward Trout's lair. "I mean it. You need to tough it out long enough to get back to the squad. Then we need to get Vick back, and she can rehire Psych, and we can get back to normal."
He stopped and stared at her, trying to figure out her tone. There was something off here.
No one was in the conference room, so he grasped her arm and pulled her in, shutting the door behind them.
"What?"
"Let me hazard a guess, O'Hara, about your real motivation."
"What do you mean?" She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. "You know my motivation."
He finished the coffee and set the mug down on the table. Crossing his arms, he fixed her with his steeliest, bluest glare. "Spencer's costing you money."
Juliet flushed. "I don't—"
"He hasn't worked in weeks, has he? He probably hasn't even looked for work. You just paid this month's rent, I assume, so between you and Guster he's got a sweet life with no expenses at all. Maybe it's begun to dawn on you that this is the way it'll always be. He'll just lie around, watch TV, steal from Guster and eat anything he can get his hands on. He'll never pursue cases for his agency. Ninety percent of their work came from the SBPD, not private cases."
"Wait a minute; Leo Quinn was a private case."
"Which quickly became a police case when the bodies started piling up."
"But it started out as a private case."
"From someone whose plan was to fake his own death and frame someone else for murder. Not exactly your typical client."
"Look, what is your point? I'm trying to help you get back to the detective squad."
"And there was a time when I would have believed it was for me, O'Hara."
She gaped. "What the hell? Of course it's for you. It's for me too. I miss my partner."
"You miss the occasional income. When Spencer forced his way into our cases, Vick paid him; when he made money, he could help with rent and food. Now it's just you, and you're feeling what Guster must have felt all these years: like you've been saddled with a leech and he just keeps getting bigger and bigger and—"
"Stop it!" She put her hands to her face, which was flushed. "That's not fair. I know you're upset about what Trout did to us, but it's not fair to punish me for it."
"I'm just telling you what I see. You want me here because it means we're that much closer to getting Karen back, and once she's back, she'll inevitably let Spencer force his way in, so Psych gets paid, and he can support himself. Not that he would, but he could."
Despite his feelings about Spencer, he didn't really hold it against Karen that she hired Psych time and again. She was usually dealing with pressure from the mayor's office and the media and the public to wrap certain cases up quickly, and he couldn't blame her for that. He knew she wasn't a fan of Spencer's and once over late-night margaritas at a police convention she'd muttered something about wanting just one really good excuse to throw the asshat into a jail cell over a long holiday weekend and forget to tell anyone he was there.
Juliet, when he dragged his attention back to her, was glowering. "You are being a bastard."
"Heard that before."
"Don't you want to get your job back?"
He thought about it.
"Don't you want to be partnered with me again?" she pressed.
He thought about that too.
"Well?"
"Honestly, O'Hara, I don't know."
She could not have looked more shocked.
He was kind of shocked himself.
In a whisper, she asked, "Why would you say that?"
Carlton paced away from her. "Last month, after Trout let us have it over in Karen's office, I wanted it to be Spencer's fault. Most things are, after all." He went to the window and looked out into the parking lot, remembering that final afternoon. "But the truth is, I made my own choices. Yeah, he's a pain in the ass and yeah, he provokes me like nobody else, but I chose to try to choke the son of a bitch. I can't always rise above the temptation, and you know better than anyone else how many times I do rise above it." He glanced at her now; she nodded slightly. "Likewise, you chose to lose your cool. You didn't lay hands on him, but only because I got there first."
Another slight nod.
"And you chose to let him flaunt your relationship in the workplace."
"That is not true!" she exclaimed.
"How did you react when he called you 'sweetie' right there in front of Trout, the man who was deciding whether we still had jobs or not? Hell, he slapped you on the ass in front of everyone in Billy Lipps' house. Did you tell him hands off? Did you tell him to address you professionally? Nope. You just squealed like Betty Boop and let him go on."
"Betty—I did not! How am I supposed to stop him from saying anything?"
"By telling him," he said flatly. "As many times as necessary. And holding him accountable. The man supposedly loves you so he ought to show some respect right along with it."
"We're talking about Shawn, Carlton. He doesn't operate by the same rules as anyone else."
"That doesn't mean he gets to do whatever he wants without consequences. It doesn't mean you should let him run roughshod over you as a cop. Hell, as his girlfriend."
"He doesn't," she began, but her tone was uncertain.
"Yeah he does, and everyone sees it. Everyone but you, maybe. Maybe you tell yourself if you don't chew him out in public everyone will think you're the mature one but what you really look like is a doormat. One more toy for him to play with when he feels like it."
Bright spots of color flared in her cheeks. "You are crossing a line, Carlton."
He shrugged and returned to where she stood by the table, clutching the back of a chair with great force. "I've heard that before, too. But here's what you wanted to know. Why I said I didn't necessarily want you back as a partner. It's because I don't really like you anymore, O'Hara."
The color drained away and she opened her mouth but no sound came out.
"I did for a long time. You're the best partner I ever had and I don't expect I'll ever have another one as good for me—or good to me—as you were. And I know I was important to you once; I saw it for myself when we watched that stupid Bigfoot movie. Right on camera for everyone to see." He considered her, studying her lovely face, her wide dark blue eyes, the golden light in her hair. "I loved you for a long time. I know you knew."
She seemed frozen.
He went on tiredly, "But ever since you got involved with Spencer, you've let your standards drop as a cop. You let him cut too many corners. You let him lie to you again and again. You let him trample over your feelings, your interests and your hopes. You let him be all the things you said you were done with when you wrote your con artist father out of your life. I don't know why exactly you broke up a few months ago but for a little while I saw something in you I hadn't seen in awhile: resolve. Character. Determination to get out of the Spencer swamp and back to who you were. And then it was over again. You went right back to him. You started lying to me. You started becoming his shadow rather than his girlfriend. You let him belittle you, interfere with cases to the point of nearly blowing them completely—like your undercover op with the dating site—and I finally see how it is, and how it's always going to be. The truth is that I'll probably always love you a little but I just don't like you anymore, because it's not all his fault. He's a master con artist but without a patsy, he's got no power. You give him the power because despite being a cop and despite knowing better because you're the daughter of a con artist, you let him play you like everyone else. Honestly, you're just a version of Guster he can sleep with."
Juliet let out a long, shaky breath, her gaze locked to his and her expression part shock, part anger, and part hurt.
"Before you tell me I'm nothing to write home about, yeah, I know that. People don't like me. I'm hard to get along with and I'm about as sensitive as a clod of dirt. If I get out of here without you slapping my face it'll be a freaking miracle. But you wanted to know, and now you do." He headed for the door, and turned back to see her still standing there mute. "You can write me a nasty letter. I'm sure there won't be anything in it I haven't heard before, and that includes the part where you say you never want to see my sorry ass again."
With a mock salute, he opened the door and paused a moment in the hall to take a breath.
Trout called down from his office door. "Lassiter! In here now!"
Great.
He went unhurriedly, ignoring Trout's pointed glance at his watch as well as the curious looks from the others in the bullpen. He heard Juliet whisper his name as she came out of the conference room, but he had to ignore that too.
Trout slammed the door shut behind him. "Care to explain the paint?"
"No."
"Ah. Then let me rephrase. Explain the paint."
Carlton looked at the man who held his professional fate in his hands—hell, had been playing with it—and said calmly, "No."
One eyebrow went up. "I see. Interesting. This would be my first opportunity to write you up for insubordination, but as you know, I hate paperwork. I'll just have to extend your time in the uniform. Maybe add foot patrol."
Count. One. Two. Three.
"That seems fair."
Trout laughed. "You're entertaining, I'll give you that."
"Delighted."
"But don't push it."
"I'm not sure you'd notice if I did."
Trout let out a low whistle. "Nice. What else you got lined up in your cesspool of resentment and bitterness?"
"I won't know until you push the right buttons."
"Oh, I think I can push as many as you have, Lassie." He grinned. "Shouldn't you be calling me 'sir'?"
Carlton stared at him. "In what universe?"
"This one," he shot back. "The only one you know. The one in which if you play your cards right and I do mean if, you get your job back in a few months. Maybe."
"Sounds like a crapshoot to me." Ma'am, he added silently.
With a grin, Trout settled into his chair. "It kind of is. Good call." He nudged the ever-present egg timer slightly; Carlton could hear it ticking from where he stood.
"Is there anything else?"
"Stay away from the bullpen and stay away from O'Hara. She's not your partner anymore and won't ever be again if I have anything to say about it, which, may I remind you, I do."
Given that he'd just sliced at the very heart of that partnership himself, Carlton felt this was rather anticlimactic. He merely met Trout's gaze impassively. "I'm sure you'll continue to make decisions of stellar quality for the SBPD."
Trout's eyes narrowed. "Your days could well be numbered. Hear that ticking? It could be for you, Lassie."
Carlton leaned forward and in one move swept the timer off the desk savagely. It flew several feet and crashed into the wall, landing with a squelched 'ding' on the carpet.
On his feet at once, Trout started snapping something at him but Carlton overrode him.
"I checked you out, you know. I found out you used to be a good cop and a good consultant. You fixed a lot of problems for a lot of police departments. But somewhere along the line you went insane. You started making changes based on your mood. On your diet. On that damned timer. You started screwing with people because you could. You'd drain the life out of a police squad like some kind of human locust and then move on to the next host, and right now, we're it. Fine. It's our turn to be harvested, whatever, I get it."
Trout eased back into his chair, radiating smugness, looking rather as if he were about to start watching a particularly amusing TV show.
"I screwed up with Spencer that day. He had it coming, as you know perfectly well, but I shouldn't have done it. I admit it, and there you go. We all screwed up, either in condoning his behavior or covering it up. But what you've done is beyond punitive. It's just assery. Suspending Karen Vick for six months based on your snap judgment over a case it took you fifteen minutes to hear about, downgrading me, punishing O'Hara—that's all complete crap and you know it." He held up his hands. "But you've got all the power, Trout."
"Yes, I do." Smug. So smug.
"Yes, you do. And I know nothing would make you happier than for me to quit, or better yet, give you cause to fire me. Because that'll look good, won't it? Firing a twenty-year veteran of the force, one with multiple commendations, because he broke your little egg timer?"
Trout said coolly, "Your personnel folder isn't all commendations."
"No, it's not. But if you look at the write-ups, you'll see they're almost all about the alleged over-use of my service weapon. The rest are about Spencer, and your short time with that narcissistic whackaloon asshat should have made it perfectly clear why any semi-sane person would lose it now and then."
"My mother gave me that egg timer."
"You hate your mother."
"True. So what's next in the big speech?"
Carlton went over to the egg timer and stomped on it, eliciting a genuine gasp from Trout.
"That's enough, you son of a bitch." He was on his feet again, and pissed off, but he kept his distance all the same.
Carlton reached for his weapon, and Trout's eyes widened. But all he did was lay it on the desk, along with his badge. "You win. I've been valuable to the department and I've done damned good work, but I'm not hanging around to be your punching bag, because I deserve better and the city deserves better. In the morning I'll start the retirement paperwork, and if you screw with me on that, I will involve the media. I'm sure they'll love hearing about how the mayor's special consultant is forcing experienced and dedicated police officers out."
Trout paused for a moment, but spoke firmly. "You don't have that many friends in the outside world, Lassiter, and the media's had fun with you before."
"Yeah? I also have copies of my performance reviews as well as all those commendations, and I'm told my big blue eyes can be a real asset when I smile wide and play nice," he added acidly. "Just stay out of my way and no one has to know how you teared up over the egg timer."
At the door, with Trout still agape, he turned to add one more word.
"Sir."
. . . .
. . .
As far as being suspended went, the past month hadn't been so bad.
Karen had caught up on her reading, had deeply enjoyed spending more time with Iris (who seemed to find the experience equally pleasing), and had puttered around the house enough to make it feel like hers rather than The House Formerly Shared By The Vicks.
However, she knew full well that it wouldn't be long before she was bored out of her mind (minus the Iris part) because she was not the stay-at-home kind. She needed to be busy, even if it was busy with meetings and paperwork and more meetings.
Plus she loved being the Chief of Police, even when it was bloody hard.
Plus she missed quite a few people from the station.
And she missed one person quite a lot more than she wanted to.
They hadn't been in touch. She knew Trout had sent him back to the front lines, and she was sure Carlton wasn't having an easy time of it, but he was a tough son of a bitch and more than capable of sticking it out just to prove he could, to himself if not to Trout.
She thought back to the last day, when she used her box of office belongings as a shield—an excuse—to avoid being hugged by either O'Hara or Carlton, but the truth was if she'd let Carlton hug her she might not have let him go again.
She wasn't sure when, exactly, she had admitted to herself that she held him in more than professional regard. It was somewhere during the first months of her separation from Richard last year when Carlton began to invade her dreams, when he began to invade her waking hours as well. She caught herself watching for him in the hall, watching for when he went to get coffee so she could refill her cup too.
She caught him noticing this. She caught some cautious smiles and a crackling awareness that she wasn't imagining him imagining on his own exactly what she was imagining.
That he never acted on it didn't surprise her, just as she knew it didn't surprise him she didn't act on it either. She was the Chief of Police. He was the Head Detective. She was still married, and her separation wasn't widely known.
Plus... Carlton? That's what most people would say. Carlton Lassiter? You have the hots for that unfeeling, smug bastard?
Karen smiled. Hell to the yeah, she did, because she was among the very few (with Juliet O'Hara being one of the highly select others) who knew the truth about him and his sensitivity and his heart and how securely he shielded it from view. It had taken her years to see it clearly but it was there, and he was in his way the best man she'd ever known, multitudes of imperfections notwithstanding.
Daily, she talked herself out of calling him.
Daily, it grew more difficult, even though to form a private connection between them now would be a very bad thing so long as Trout was on the loose.
Wasn't it interesting, she mused, that she assumed Carlton would want such a private connection?
Not really. Somehow she knew he wanted it as much as she did, and maybe it was feminine ego or flat-out delusion on her part, but she knew it.
And their time would come.
. . . .
. . .
Karen went to answer the doorbell, glancing at her watch. It was just past one; Iris was in school for another two hours and the mail had already come.
Carlton—inexplicably in a uniform and covered in red paint—stood on her doorstep.
She was embarrassingly delighted (and breathless about it) to see him, albeit puzzled.
He glanced down at her bare legs, but she wasn't embarrassed. She'd been in the back yard watering her flowerbeds, and her tee and shorts were perfect for the sunny spring day. Plus, she didn't mind this man of all men seeing her legs.
"Hi," he managed. "I've just burned all my bridges and you're my last stop."
Huh. "Well then, come in. I'd hate to have my bridge burned on the front porch. The neighbors have enough to talk about with me being on suspension."
Carlton grimaced, running a hand through his black and silver hair as he stepped inside. She closed the door and led him into the den.
"What's with the paint?"
"Pranked," he said succinctly.
"Idiots." She sat down and gestured for him to do the same. "I heard Trout put you back in uniform but I didn't think it'd last this long."
"It's how he plays the game." He looked tired. Wonderful but tired. Karen wanted to sit beside him, but sensed she should not make that move just yet.
"What's going on, Carlton?" she asked softly.
He took a breath. "I pulled future rank with the uniforms, I told O'Hara I didn't like her anymore and don't want to be her partner again, and then I broke Trout's egg timer, told him off and resigned."
Her mouth fell open. "Oh."
He met her gaze, and his was as expressive as ever, whether he knew it or not: he was surprised by himself, but had no regrets.
"How about a tall glass of iced tea?"
Carlton blinked. "Long Island?"
"Sorry. I have to go get Iris at three," she said apologetically.
He nodded, and she went to get the tea, but when she came back he was standing by her fireplace, trailing his long fingers along the cool marble idly.
Fingers she wouldn't mind trailing along her bare…
Stop it!
"Why did you tell O'Hara you didn't like her?"
"Because I don't," he said readily. "Not like I did. For a long time it was enough that she was sunny and good-natured and willing to work with me. But lately all I can see is how she's debased herself for Spencer and I can't hold him solely responsible for that. She's let him do it and she doesn't even see what she's become."
Karen sipped her tea, commenting carefully, "I was under the private impression that you loved her."
Because I was jealous of her once. Before I suspected maybe I didn't need to be.
Carlton glanced at her, blue eyes direct, and did not hesitate. "I did. I mean, I still do, but not like that. She's not the one."
For a second she felt utterly speared by his tone and by the look in those eyes.
And this why I was right to assume he wanted a connection. This right here.
Swallowing, and then taking another sip of tea for fortitude (wishing now it was Long Island), she felt unaccountably undressed all at once. "And what," she went on as if she were clad in business wear and a holster, "did O'Hara have to say to this?"
"Nothing. I gobsmacked her and then went toe-to-toe with Trout." He carried his glass to the chair and sat down wearily.
"Was resignation your only option?"
"Seemed like. Man's gotta draw the line somewhere, and that was mine."
"You're a little young to retire, Carlton." She took the chair opposite, noticing his glance as she crossed her legs.
He gave her a grin. "Didn't say I wasn't going to work. I'm just not working for the SBPD."
"Couldn't you just go on extended leave? You have more than enough time and I do expect to be back on the job in five months. The place wouldn't be the same without you."
"Might be better."
"I wouldn't be the same without you." She remembered, just barely, to breathe after saying those words.
Carlton's eyes darkened, and his smile was slow. "I came by today to thank you. O'Hara was the best partner, and you were the best Chief. You kept me in line when you had to and you supported me when I needed it most. It meant a lot that you believed I didn't kill Ernesto Chavez. It meant a lot that you wanted to protect me during the Salamatchia case."
Karen held her tea tightly. "You weren't too happy with being cooped up in the station."
"I was happy when you showed me you cared," he said simply.
Her mouth was dry; she took another slug of tea. "So far you don't seem to be burning any bridges here. Sounds more like you're building one."
"I don't know what I'm doing, Karen. But as far as work is concerned, I know nothing will be the same, even if Trout moves on tomorrow and you return to your post. I've wrecked everything with O'Hara and I don't even want to fix it. The uniforms hate me more than they did before. I don't see how you're going to be able to rehire McNab without a fight and honestly I'm not sure you'll have much clout when you come back. Not for awhile, anyway. And if, God forbid, you do get permission to hire Psych again, I know I can't deal with how insufferable Spencer's going to be as he gloats about it."
All fair enough. "So what are you going to do?"
"Beats me. Probably move."
"Please don't," she said immediately, her heart in her throat. "There's work here in Santa Barbara. We'll find something for you."
"We," he echoed.
"We."
"Now who's building a bridge?"
She hoped he couldn't see the trembling of the hand which held her glass of tea.
"Karen," he went on, "when was your divorce finalized?"
"The day after Trout ousted me." It had been a long time coming; she and her husband had drifted apart and it honestly had nothing to do with her private feelings about her irascible, gun-happy blue-eyed head detective. "We separated about a year ago."
"And when can you start dating again without attracting too much unwanted attention?"
His voice was steady and so was his gaze, and Karen heard in the question a whole host of others right behind it.
"The minute the bridge is finished," she whispered.
Without missing a beat, he said, "Did Richard leave any tools around the house? We might could work on it together."
The glass started to slip from her nerveless fingers and Carlton crossed over to her as she was trying to regain control of it.
He knelt before her, and she barely registered the smell of the red paint. "Karen."
Karen sighed. "Yes."
"Yes, what?" So damn mesmerizing, those ocean and sky and cerulean blue eyes.
"To everything, Carlton."
He swallowed, and for the first time seemed unsure of himself. "Should we talk about what we're agreeing to? Where this bridge is going?"
"Not right now," she said breathlessly, and leaned forward to kiss him, sliding her hands from his lean warm face into his soft hair, tasting in his return kiss a lot of years of pent-up wanting, both hers and his.
"Okay," he agreed, just as breathlessly. "Did I mention you're incredibly beautiful and I love your eyes and your smile and how you look when you're so mad at me you could shoot me with my own gun?"
"No, but you can tell me the next time I get so mad at you I could shoot you with your own gun."
He started to say something else, but she shushed him with another kiss.
Thus this new bridge was built, rising up gleaming white amid the smoke and ashes of those he'd already burned.
Karen got a faint smudge of red paint on her tee before he tugged it off of her, and the glass of iced tea got knocked over… but no building project is ever completed without some kind of minor hitch.
And later, he told her it turned out to be a pretty good day after all.
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F I N