Disclaimer: I don't own Psych. Enjoy.

The party was something special (and a little wild for Saint Patty's Day in Santa Barbara), but it was over now. Somehow, Lassiter got them both back to his home (on the premise that Juliet was in no state to drive, which was completely factual), and had forgotten, in a massive state of intoxication, what boundaries between partners meant. Partners should be like good friends-ones you trust, but ones that don't see the inside of your house. But currently, Juliet was standing in Carlton Lassiter's bedroom. That was really happening.

She felt like she was a tourist in a foreign land-the way most people felt on their first trip to Paris couldn't hold a candle to how she felt about invading his private, personal space.

She wasn't sure what she was expecting to see once she opened the door-perhaps a rack of suits, an immaculately made bed, and a chest of drawers filled only with shirts and ties and un-creased tomes about policing?-but whatever it was, the real room defied any preconceived notion of Lassiter that she had. The bed was a queen sized covered by white sheets, a deep red comforter and a tartan fleece at the foot of the bed. It was a little mussed on the side that she assumed he slept on, but the other side was turned down. The chest of drawers he had was a weathered construct-one she had the strong feeling that he'd made himself-made of different kinds of driftwood. There was also a desk made of the same wood, but had a finish on it that was machine-made. It was piled with papers, a closed (but technologically updated) Dell laptop, and books. There were books everywhere-on top of the dresser, under and on the bed, even on the windowsill.

She heard him clunking around downstairs, probably twice as drunk as she was-which, she had to admit, even in her elevated state of haziness, was impressive as hell-and probably trying to put something together for them to eat. She hoped, vaguely, that it didn't involve anything sharp. Those hands that were so graceful and precise so often were clumsy when inhibited by alcohol.

She wobbled into his bathroom (white floor tiles, sea blue walls, and a meticulously cleaned shower, sink and toilet) and finally stepped out of her high heels. Next went her up-do and earrings, then the jangling bracelets, and finally, her tights. As she walked back into his bedroom and heard him curse loudly at something-God, let him have all his fingers she thought, giggling-she glanced at the little clock balanced on a tattered copy ofA Clockwork Orange It was 2:45 AM.

Staying out late? Naughty naughty, Jules.

She didn't want to think about Shawn right then; not as her boyfriend, or her friend, or even the official SBPD-sanctioned psychic. She just didn't want to think about him at all. And, as she plopped back onto Lassiter's bed for what felt like a good hour, she was surprised to find that she didn't feel one bit guilty about it. Not every waking moment should be devoted to Shawn, she thought. Sometimes it's just nice to be with your partner.

"O'Hara!" she could hear him calling her mistily, and closed her eyes. If she pretended hard enough, she could feel at home here. Slowly his bed was becoming hers (ours, said a weird little part of her mind that she usually told to shut up), the dresser was full of her clothes (our clothes), the bathroom had her towels on the rack (our towels). She found she didn't even need to pretend very hard to feel at home there.

In point of fact, she didn't need to pretend at all.

"O'HARA!" he was calling her in drunk singsong. She, eyes closed and face buried in his sheets, smiled. O'Hara was not a formality, but a familiarity between them. He was the only person who called her "O'Hara" and didn't sound like her fifth grade gym teacher, or the Chief. It was a pet-name when it came from his mouth, sans all of the cutesyness that she knew he hated about couples. Eventually, she rose from the bed and came out on the top of the staircase, hair mussed and dress sagging off her shoulder.

He was standing at the bottom grinning, and she felt her heart hammer against her ribs in earnest.

He's so handsome.

He was still in his charcoal grey slacks, but he'd taken off his jacket and tie (the one, she'd noticed, that she bought him for his birthday a year ago) and unbuttoned his collar. His shirt white with very thin, pale blue stripes (the one that, in Juliet's opinion, he didn't wear anywhere near often enough), and made those big blue eyes of his pop.

"O'Hara, you look like you've been in a wind tunnel."

"I just got comfortable. I hope you don't mind." She descended step by step, the anticipation building with each thudding footfall. His grin was shrinking but that burning in his eyes wasn't, and she was suddenly getting nervous. What the hell am I going to do?

"I don't. You look beautiful."

"Thanks, Carlton."

"Welcome."

There was a heavy silence between them when she realised that he was a hairsbreadth from her and wasn't making any moves toward or away from her. She was dizzy and it definitely wasn't because of the six cosmopolitans she'd downed in an hour.

Okay, maybe a little bit.

"Want to eat?" he asked abruptly.

"Yeah." she replied. He produced a small plate of sandwiches (PB&J) and a medium sized bowl of pretzels and two Cokes.

"Carlton! You cut the crusts off!" Juliet was giggling and grinning and Lassiter was struggling to breathe. Struggling to maintain a gruff exterior when all he wanted to do was pluck her off the ground and kiss her. Dammit dammit dammit.

"Just habit. I used to do it for my kid sister all the time."

"That's very sweet. Can we watch TV?"

"That'd be great."

He practically fell onto the couch, which elicited another peal of very un-Juliet giggles from her. He smiled up at her and patted the cushion next to him. She sat next to him and rested her side against his, her eyes fluttering between waking and sleep. The TV was flicked onto TCM (she wasn't surprised) they began eating-very slowly-and watched Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell argue.

"I like them." she said around a mouthful of PB&J and pretzel.

"Huh?"

"Them. They just work together."

"Yeah. I always wondered why it took them an hour and a half to get fall back in love." His hand was around her shoulders, half because it really was more comfortable than sitting shoulder to shoulder, and half because he could pretend he was going to sweep her into his lap and kiss her at any second. Asif he'd ever dare. God damn everything.

"You okay?" she asked. He smiled wanly and rested his head on hers.

"Just fine."

"You look a little lost."

"I'm right where I ought to be." She was almost half angry at him for only being able to say those kinds of things when he was drunk. But the other, more predominant, and giddier/more panicked side was saying something on the lines of: what did he just say oh my GOD what did he just say?

He could feel her face curve into a smile. For a few minutes they wallowed in the tension along with Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell. Really, thought Lassiter, their lips were spatially closer than they'd ever been. She was a very few inches from his head, and moved to snuggle just a little bit closer ever few minutes-or was he just imagining that? Her hair was so soft and warm and smelled like peach and lilac...he could smell her makeup which, to him, was just the smell of basic femininity. All of these were, of course, complimented by a sharp tang of vodka (someone had spilled a martini on her and he'd almost broken their left arm) that made him shiver. She was perfect, resting against him, and was so there. So currently available. And yet simultaneously so very, very off limits.

It was like when you get very close to a famous work of art, he thought. It's so close that, if you brave enough (or stupid enough) you could reach out and touch it. But you also know that there's no way you can just reach out and touch it without a dozen security officers suddenly and deftly about to break you into a dozen pieces for the sake of the painting. Juliet is the Mona Lisa, he thought, and I'm a poor Irish hick visiting on my vacation. Socks with sandals and mismatched Hawaiian shirts and all.

"Carlton?" he'd never heard Juliet's voice sound quite the way it did just then-a little raspy, hushed. Like she was speaking inside of a church.

He turned to ask her what was wrong, and caught her lips instead.

Holy. Fucking. Crap.

For half a second, every self-depreciating remark in the book flew through his head. Unprofessional, stupid, emotional, impulsive and even home wrecker. And also, fuck it. Just kiss her.

Which was the only thought that he decided to listen to. His lips was suddenly covering hers, and his hand was at the small of her back and the other was pulling her gently into his lap, and she was sighing (moaning?) softly, deliciously, into his mouth. She tasted like alcohol and Coca Cola and something so bright and bubbly and delicious that he couldn't stop. He needed more, needed now, couldn't be bothered to complicate things with words.

When they broke away, he just looked at her, eyes burning brighter than she'd ever seen and a little out of breath.

"Is this alright?" he asked, almost hyperventilating. She swallowed hard and nodded, and without another word, dragged him into another wild kiss, a good deal deeper and more desperate than the last. Her hands were knotted in his hair (surprisingly soft) and she was enthralled with the experience of him. He smelled faintly of Old Spice and leather, tasted like heat and strength and maleness.

"Jesus, Juliet," he growled, guiding her downward onto the sofa. "We should go to parties more often." She shivered when he called her Juliet.

"Yes, Carlton," she replied, undoing the buttons on his shirt one by one. "We really should."

End.