Have Tomorrow
Sadly, psych is still not mine, no matter how nicely I ask. No infringement intended, TPTB own all, Imma just playing.
Dedicated though I might be to Lassie/Jules, the pairing of Lassiter/Vick intrigues me more than a little, so I'm experimenting a bit. Yes, it's non-canon, but given how little we've seen her this season, anything's possible.
"Mr. Spencer—"
Carlton's head snapped up from the files in which he'd been buried for the better part of the afternoon at the sharp rebuke. Peering around the edge of his computer monitor, he caught sight of the Chief gripping the edges of the conference room table looking as if she was one wrong word shy of reaching for her weapon. Granted, Carlton could relate, but it would be entirely too difficult to explain shooting one of the department's leading consultants, even if it would be completely justifiable on the grounds of total idiocy. Besides, he didn't feel like getting acclimated to a new chief.
Grabbing his mug he headed for the coffee station, conveniently located beside the conference room door.
"While I appreciate the… gesture, a Bon Voyage party was in no way necessary. Or authorized. So please… clear all of this away so we can get back to work."
"But Chief, you're going on your first vacation in—" From Carlton's vantage point he could see Spencer look to Guster for assistance—unfortunately, Guster was currently occupied with staring longingly at the cake resting in the middle of the conference room table. Realizing he wasn't going to get an intelligible answer, Spencer resumed babbling. "Your first vacation in a… a really long time. This is a moment worthy of celebration. Celebration that should be celebrated with delicious cheesy flavor. Which is why we brought the pineapple cheesecake. That will also serve to soothe our souls of the pathos sure to grip us in your absence and the tragedy that is your choice of Lassie to run the show while you're—"
"Mr. Spencer, please—"
Okay, that was it. In all the years he'd known Karen Vick, he'd heard her angry, amused, scathing, worried, tough, calculating, hell, even cold. He'd never, ever heard her sound defeated. Carlton abandoned all pretense of coffee and strode into the conference room, incongruously festooned with metallic streamers and a glittery banner emblazoned with, for some inexplicable reason, "Sayonara, Harry!"
"Hey Lassie!" Shawn called out brightly. "Come to join in on the fun? Oh, wait—that would imply you actually know how to have fun." He smirked and resumed pouring out bowls of Cheetos, Doritos, and Cheese Nips.
Guster sidled up beside him and pointed to the banner. "Borrowed," he said, before offering Carlton a cheese-wedge shaped hat. "They had them on discount at the party store, so Shawn decided it could be the theme for the party."
"Carlton—" He turned to find Karen staring up at him from a chair. "Please."
"Get out," he barked to the two Village Idiots, smacking the cheese-wedge hat out of a startled Guster's hands.
"Now, Lassie, just because you're not in the mood for a party doesn't mean you have to spoil the fun for the rest of us." Shawn's smug grin looked even more stupid than usual from beneath the brim of his own cheese-wedge headgear.
"Shawn, what's going on?" O'Hara came bustling in, stopping short at the scene that greeted her. "Carlton, why's your hand on your weapon?"
"O'Hara, if you value your boyfriend's life, you'll get him and his half-wit best friend the hell out of here."
Her glance took in the room, fine blonde brows drawing together at the sight of their normally austere and businesslike conference room transformed into some crack-addled cheese palace. "What is all of this?"
"Come on, Jules—work with me here. You can still recognize the signs of a party, right? We just want to wish the Chief a happy vacation and see if we can bring her to her senses and get her to declare you the interim instead of Lassie. Here, we have a party hat for you, too." Shawn oozed up beside his girlfriend, trying to place another one of the stupid hats on her head, stopping only when she hit him with a glare.
Her worried gaze glanced over the chief, who sat unmoving outside of methodically rubbing at her temples, before briefly meeting Carlton's. "Shawn, I'm guessing the chief doesn't exactly want a party."
"Jules, everyone wants a party."
Jesus Christ. For someone who played the psychic shtick so effectively, Spencer was remarkably obtuse. Carlton's grip tightened on his Glock, loosening only at his partner's subtle "let me handle him" head shake. He turned his attention to the chief, uncharacteristically staring off into the distance, the fingers of her right hand now twisting the simple gold band she wore on her left.
"Shawn, not now, okay?"
"But Jules—"
"Shawn, we better go, man." Thankfully, Guster finally snapped out of his cheesecake-induced spell enough to realize this was a really, really bad idea.
"Fine." Spencer sighed and sounded put-upon in the way only a self-entitled jackass could. "Should we take the cheesecake, you think? It's not going to keep well—"
"Take the damned cake and get the hell out, Spencer," Carlton snapped, all patience deserting him at the sight of Karen repeatedly twisting the band back and forth, back and forth, sometimes sliding it completely free of her finger before settling back into place, then beginning the pattern all over again.
He watched them collect the food—though not the decorations, despite Guster's worried burblings over having to return the banner by seven, lest his neighbor discover it missing before the going away party he was hosting—and file out the door. Last out was O'Hara, her concerned gaze meeting his over her shoulder. He shrugged in response, the silent communication honed over six years of partnership letting her know that no, he had no goddamned clue either, but he knew something wasn't right. Just as he knew that she'd understand his nod meant he'd try to get to the bottom of things.
With a final nod, she quietly closed the door behind herself. Thankfully, the shades were all drawn, since Spencer and Guster had clearly thought to make this a surprise. Idiots. Still hadn't figured out that the worst possible people to surprise were cops.
He pulled a second chair alongside Karen's and dropped into it. For a long time he simply sat there, alternating between watching her play with her ring and staring at his own interlaced fingers, hanging loosely between his knees.
"Thank you." At its usual volume her voice had sounded normal, if a bit strained. Those two words, however, spoken barely above a whisper, sounded raw and pained and served to reinforce Carlton's suspicions.
"When did he leave?" he asked quietly, knowing damn well he not only might not get an answer, he might well get his ass chewed out—deservedly so. God knows, he hadn't wanted to talk about it when it happened to him and woe be to anyone who might've asked.
No one had.
Silence echoed throughout the room, heavy with the weight of his question hanging in the air along with the tacit acknowledgement that he'd guessed right.
Damn. Just… damn. It wasn't often he hated being right—this had to rank right up there with one of the worst occurrences ever.
"A week ago." She twisted the ring fully off and let it drop to the table, the gold circle landing with a dull clatter against the polished wood. Even from this distance Carlton could see the evidence of many years' worth of wear: the scratches and nicks, the unevenness of once uniform edges, conforming over time to the unique contours of her finger.
"I took the vacation time so I could get away for a few days and let him move his things out of the house."
Carlton digested this information. "Where's Iris?"
"With my parents. She doesn't know yet. She just thinks Daddy's on a business trip." Her voice rose on the last three words, breaking on an unhappy laugh. "I always thought the only lies I'd ever tell my kid would involve nothing worse than the Easter Bunny or Santa Claus. How the hell is she ever going to forgive me for this?"
Carlton listened as her voice rode a high edge of hysteria, sharp and riddled with cracks and waited for the uneasiness to hit. That predictable discomfort that always accompanied painful emotion and that he had no idea how to deal with because… well, because he was bad at dealing with emotions.
He waited, certain it would hit quickly, because it always did and he'd say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing and undeniably make the situation worse and what the hell had he been thinking, swooping in here. Did he think he'd actually be a hero in this sort of situation?
But the uneasiness, the discomfort, it never hit. Not even a twinge and he suddenly understood that it was because this, unfortunately, was something he knew all too well.
"Karen—stop. You're not lying—you're just trying to figure out these new dynamics in a way that won't destroy her. You're protecting her." Carefully, he put his hand over her clenched ones, prepared to draw back at the first sign that she didn't want him anywhere near her.
He was not, however, prepared to have her suddenly slump forward, her forehead coming to rest on his shoulder. She didn't sob—even in her grief she was fantastically controlled—but she did cry, quietly and steadily, as the growing dampness of his shirt attested.
One arm around her, he reached with the other to snag a stupidly festive "Happy Trails!" napkin from the stack on the on the table. Patiently, he waited—no rocking, no crooning because instinctively he knew Karen wasn't one for rocking and crooning and besides, one simply didn't do crap like that with the Chief of Police—until finally, she raised her head, strands of dark blonde hair sticking to her forehead, brown eyes damp and swollen, but with no fresh tears that he could see.
Still, looking at her up close for the first time, he could clearly see the bruised circles beneath her eyes, how the fine web of lines at the corners seemed to have deepened, and the unhappy set of her mouth—things that hadn't developed overnight or even over the course of a week. This had clearly been building and he hadn't seen a damned thing.
Some detective he was.
Mindful of the napkin's rough texture, he carefully pressed it to her cheeks before putting it in her hand.
"Blow." He indicated his own nose. He would've held it for her himself, but while she'd been willing to exhibit a fair amount of weakness in his presence, he wasn't sure it extended to helping her blow her nose.
Colleague. Chief of Police, he reminded himself. Could handle multiple classes of firearms.
Woman who'd just had her whole life fall apart around her. Maybe, for the first time, simply Karen—a friend.
He mused over the various distinctions as he grabbed several more napkins and dunked them in a nearby pitcher of ice water. After wringing them out, he silently handed them to Karen, who accepted them with a grateful, and maybe slightly watery, smile. As she placed the damp cloths over her eyes she said, "Sorry."
Idly, he shredded yet another napkin. "About?"
"Unloading on you. Falling apart." A delicate pause. "Your shirt."
He glanced down at his shirt which was decidedly… gooey. Dunking yet another napkin in the pitcher, he used it to swipe at the damp spot before calling it a lost cause. Hell, he'd had worse on him—usually because of Spencer. Tossing the napkin to the table, he settled back into his chair.
"First off, I asked. And you hardly unloaded." Left unsaid was that outside of knowing that her husband had left a week ago, he didn't know jack. Would he ask for more? He chewed on the pad of his thumb as he considered for a moment.
Yeah… Surprisingly, yeah. He would.
Not because he needed to know in that pesky Spencer sort of way where he'd use information gleaned to his own advantage. No. He'd ask because he wanted to know how he could help. If she even wanted the help. He had no idea what sort of support she might be getting from her parents, outside of assistance with Iris—but he seriously doubted that Barb would be any great help in this matter, probably wanting her little sister to get right back on the horse, provided it wasn't a man she was interested in. Like Lassiter.
Carlton shuddered, recalling their one ill-fated lunch. She'd spent a hefty chunk of it detailing how fabulous she was in bed and how lucky he was going to be, to be among the few, the proud—that is, when she wasn't crowing over how she'd beat Karen out for his affections. So much so that he'd almost, almost been tempted to tell her that he was only with her because he couldn't have Karen. Never mind that it would cause even bigger problems between the sisters. And also never mind that it was a blatant lie. Christ, the last person he would ever entertain romantic thoughts over was Karen Vick. For one, she was married.
Yeah, he was a prick who'd technically cheated on his wife, but messing around with another man's wife? Oh, hell no.
Second, and perhaps more importantly, she was his boss. Yeah, he was a prick who'd slept with his former partner and jeopardized both their careers, but his boss?
Oh. Hell. No.
Back to the matter at hand, though, no, Barbara Dunlap wouldn't have the first clue how to help her sister. Honestly, he couldn't think of anyone who really could. He had no idea who her friends were—if they were part of a couples' circle like what he and Victoria had had and would avoid a suddenly single woman like she was Typhoid Mary, or were they friends made through her husband who would naturally fall to his side. He really didn't know a whole lot about her, other than she was a damned good cop, because you didn't get to be the Chief of Police at her age without being a damned good cop and yeah, he could finally admit that after all these years. And because he had working knowledge of what it took to become a damned good cop himself, he knew how much time and devotion it took—how the job became everything. A job that she'd somehow balanced for years with a spouse and child. Okay, yeah, the likelihood that she had a lot of friends—if any—that she could rely on in this particular situation probably wasn't all that high.
Which left him.
He was fairly certain there was an entry in the dictionary under 'irony' that he had a better handle on the situation than anyone he could think of off the top of his head.
Bottom line, if Karen needed someone as a sounding board or to simply rage at—he, Carlton Lassiter, Head Detective and notoriously bad people person, would do what it took to make himself available.
Voluntarily.
O'Hara would be so proud. If he told her. Which he wouldn't. Nobody's damned business.
"As far as falling apart," he continued, "everyone's entitled. You do what you have to."
Slowly, Karen drew the wet towel from her eyes although she couldn't quite meet his gaze. "How did you cope?" she asked, tearing the napkins into soggy shreds.
"I got drunk," he answered bluntly. "A lot."
Her gaze rose, brown eyes surprisingly clear. Her mouth worked, as if words were fighting to get out while her hands methodically twisted the shreds of napkin in her lap, stray drops of water squeezing out between her fingers. Fascinated, Carlton watched the visible signs of struggle, unaccustomed to seeing fast, decisive Karen Vick struggle with anything. Hell, come to think of it, last time he'd seen her working so hard to get anything out, she'd been in labor and trying to break his hand.
Finally, she stilled, her gaze once again focused on the soggy mess clutched in her hands. "Getting drunk sounds like a great idea." Her voice was very soft.
"It can be," he said carefully. "It can also be monumentally stupid."
"But you'll keep me from doing anything stupid." Her gaze met his. "Won't you?"
Outside the conference room phones rang, footsteps echoed, voices called to each other—their normal world, going on, whether they were there or not. In fact, Karen wasn't even supposed to be there, officially on vacation as of fifteen minutes ago, he noted, with a quick look up at the wall clock. But still—deliberately helping his boss get schnockered? Probably not a good idea.
But then again, what was the alternative? Let her go to a bar and get drunk amongst strangers? It was one thing for him to do it—he was used to it. An image of Karen, alone, at a bar, tossing back drink after drink, trying to drown her unhappiness took shape in his mind's eye. He could just see it—lovely, lonely, unhappy woman drinking alone would draw every lowlife predatory bastard within ten miles to circle her like sharks. Those guys, man, they could smell vulnerability like it was blood and they'd swoop in for the kill.
Which left only one option, really.
"If that's what you want," he answered slowly.
"Yeah, Carlton—" She pushed herself up from her chair with a sigh, looking exhausted and more than a little sad and betrayed. He remembered that look well. He'd seen it all too often in his own mirror. "It's what I want."
He nodded and silently headed for the door—just as he began to turn the knob, her hand came to rest over his, stopping him.
"Carlton?"
He looked down at her bent head. "Yeah?"
"How did you know?"
Out of the corner of his eye he observed the way her thumb absent-mindedly rubbed the indentation on her fourth finger. It would take a while for that to go away, he knew. Years weren't just erased in a matter of minutes.
"The way you were twisting your ring," he confessed. "Like you knew you needed to take it off yet you couldn't quite bear the thought of it. Not yet." He hesitated, but… what the hell. She'd left herself open to him. Least he could do was offer a bit of the same. "I did the same thing. For six months," he quietly confessed. "And even then, after I finally took it off… I'd go home at night and put the thing back on. Like it was some sort of goddamned homing beacon. Like I thought if I wore it, Victoria would somehow know. That it would make her come back."
She laughed, but no humor colored the sound and it definitely didn't reach her eyes. "The things we do, huh?"
"Yeah." He offered his own half smile as he opened the door then began immediately glaring at anyone who shot a questioning glance their way. They could wonder all they wanted. What they didn't know couldn't hurt them. As Karen disappeared into her office with a murmured comment about getting her things, Carlton snagged McNab, instructing him to have the conference room cleaned and to have a bill, charged at time-and-a-half for the extra work, sent to the Psych offices. Not that the little weasels would pay, but Carlton wanted them thinking twice before they pulled that sort of harebrained stunt again. A final thought occurred to him and he ducked back into the conference room where he spotted the sliver of gold, peeking from beneath wads of shredded paper. Quickly, he pocketed the ring and left the room.
Karen emerged from her office, hair brushed, back straight, looking every bit the put-together Chief—until you looked in her eyes. It was all there.
"Ready?" he asked, pulling on his jacket.
She nodded, a familiar look setting her features in determined lines. "Let's go get hammered."