Both Sides Now
Don't own psych. Can't even pretend to, unfortunately. So just a little playtime in the sandbox and no infringement intended against TPTB.
"What the hell's eating you, O'Hara?"
"Hm?" Juliet glanced up from the computer screen to find Lassiter seated at the edge of his desk, rubbing the last remnants of purple paint from his hands. Not that there had been much there in the first place—he was the only man she knew who could paint a giant donut man while wearing a full suit and come out the other side with nothing more than a smudge or two of paint on his hand. She shuddered to think what Shawn would've looked like had he taken on the task. Come to think of it, she shuddered to think what Bobo the Donut Man would've looked like after Shawn got done with him.
"You've been sitting there, staring at your screen for the last half hour and don't tell me you've been working because you haven't typed a damned word nor have you scrolled past the page you're currently on."
She blinked, glancing from Lassiter, to the screen, and back to Lassiter again. Damn. With Shawn around, people tended to forget how very, very good Carlton was at his job. Maybe he wasn't possessed of Shawn's preternatural skills, but truth be known, it made Carlton's minute observations that much more impressive. Pity so few people ever noticed anymore. Then again, for all of his love of recognition for a job well done, she also knew he preferred that those kudos come at the end, when the job was actually, well… done.
"O'Hara?"
She blinked again, wondering how he'd crossed the distance between their desks so stealthily, when she could swear she'd been looking at him the entire time.
"All right, that's it." He reached into the bottom drawer of her desk, grabbed her purse, and thrust it into her hands. She only had just enough time to sling it over her shoulder before he was grasping her by the elbow and leading her out of the station.
"Carlton, what—?"
"You're not getting anything done, I'm already done with my work, it's the end of the day and I don't know about you, but I need a drink."
"It's not the end of the day—" she began protesting, only to feel the words die in her throat as they walked past the big clock in the entry. The big clock that read 6:05. Somehow, someway, she'd completely lost more than three hours. "Okay, fine." she said with a sigh. "But no drinking. You've gotten in enough trouble this week via alcohol."
"Fair enough." He guided her into the passenger seat of his recently recovered Fusion. Silently, he drove, away from downtown, with only a quick pause at a Starbucks drive through, until he finally turned into the parking lot of one of the less populated beachfront parks. Far enough away that the likelihood of them running into anyone they knew was close to nonexistent.
Seated on a wooden bench, they sipped their coffee, content to watch the gulls wheel overhead, swooping in huge arcs toward the nearby marina, in hopes of stealing scraps from the fishermen's boats. Their demanding caws rose and fell in counterpoint to the muted crash of the waves washing ashore, lending a uniquely intimate air to the nearly deserted beach. It was so easy to be quiet with Carlton, she thought. While he tolerated and maybe even enjoyed her ability to talk about any and everything, she was well aware he was equally satisfied with quiet. There was no need for her to be on go mode all the time just to feel as if she was keeping up with him.
"So Spencer asked you to move in with him."
She wasn't surprised that he knew. "Did he tell you?"
Carlton shook his head, expression unreadable behind his sunglasses. "McNab overheard him and Guster talking about it at the donut shop. He then felt the need to share since he's apparently worse than my Aunt Matilda at keeping confidences. Old battle-axe even managed to find out about the first time I ever—" He stopped abruptly.
"What?"
"Never mind. Suffice it to say, it was something exceedingly personal she felt the need to share. At the Thanksgiving table. So—" He took a sip of coffee, still appearing to stare out toward the horizon, yet Juliet couldn't shake the feeling that his shaded gaze was actually focused on her.
"Remember what I said about getting into enough trouble via alcohol?"
"Ah." Carlton nodded in understanding. "So he didn't really mean it."
"He meant it as much as he's capable of, I guess." She shrugged.
"Which is to say he meant it in the moment then once he realized the potential ramifications, freaked out and talked his way out of it in a way that was in turns, earnest, honest, and thoroughly inappropriate."
See? Exceptionally observant and no one ever gave him the credit for it. "Pretty much." Suddenly tired of talking about Shawn and somewhat fearful of what other observations Carlton might make, she turned her attention to him, swiftly pulling off his sunglasses.
"Hey—"
He made a grab for the shades, futile, since she had already tucked them behind herself and the only way for him to get them would be to grope her in a fairly unseemly manner. A sudden thought flitted into her mind that that might not be such a bad thing, startling her with its intensity, before dissipating as quickly as it had appeared, leaving her, "Shut up Carlton," sounding more than a little breathless.
Shaking off the odd sensation, she grasped his chin, holding on more firmly when he tried to pull away. "Let me look, okay?"
"Fine." He stilled, glaring past her shoulder as she studied the purplish-green skin surrounding his eye and across his cheekbone. "I'm okay, you know," he grumbled, half under his breath.
She glanced over the tender skin with gentle fingertips, taking in his slight hiss and recoil. "It's still swollen." Not to mention, more than a little bloodshot, angry red capillaries snaking along the white of the eye and dulling the normally brilliant blue to a more subdued grayish hue.
"Well, I didn't exactly have time to ice it down in the immediate aftermath. Hell, I didn't even know when the immediate aftermath was until hours later." His drawn out sigh left a warm trail across her hand, making her shiver as it met with the cooler breeze coming off the ocean.
"Well, ice isn't going to do a damned bit of good now, but I know something that will."
That dark, telltale eyebrow rose. "What?"
"Come on." She started to rise but froze as she felt Carlton reaching behind her, his arm brushing against the backs of her legs. A moment later, the sensation was gone as he straightened, sunglasses in hand.
"Glad you didn't sit on them, O'Hara." His voice was gruff as he slipped the glasses back on and grabbed both of their empty coffee cups. She sighed quietly, reminding herself yet again what a contained man Carlton was—a man who didn't take kindly to having his personal space invaded, although again, as with the talking, he tended to be fairly tolerant with her. Once back in his car, she directed him to take her home, meeting his sunglasses shaded stare with a direct one of her own.
"It's getting late," he finally said. "Don't you have plans?" His voice was clipped and precise as usual, but the question still contained a distinct feel of trailing off, the implication clear.
"No." She didn't feel any real need to elaborate further and thankfully, Carlton didn't feel any real need to probe further, accepting her answer at face value. He'd either make of it what he would or he'd ask her if he felt the need. She suspected he might—after all, he hadn't probed any further beyond that single question about Shawn and she knew him well enough to know that he wasn't really leaving it there. He was just gathering the available information and formulating his next query.
Question was, what would she say in response?
Carlton sat on Juliet's sofa and watched as she moved around her kitchen, assembling whatever concoction she insisted would help his eye. He didn't really need anything—God knows, he'd suffered far worse over the years, but tending to him seemed to be distracting her from whatever had preoccupied her the majority of the day. Scratch that, make that whoever. Spencer.
A frustrated breath escaped as he weighed whether or not this latest stunt constituted grounds for discharging his pistol. Probably not. If only because while Juliet had seemed distracted, she didn't seem particularly… upset. That's what it was, he realized. Ever since McNab had blabbed, he'd kept looking for signs that she was hurt or upset or disappointed and had seen nothing. If anything, she'd seemed more reflective and perhaps resigned. An emotion that matched his own, really. Shawn had helped a great deal on this case—had helped him—and the thought of emptying his pistol's magazine didn't fill him with the usual calm glee. Although had Juliet seemed genuinely hurt or upset, the question would've been moot. The magazine would've been emptied and Spencer would've been left whimpering like a little girl.
"All right, this is ready," She came into the living room, carrying a small covered dish that she set on the coffee table. "I just need you to relax."
He glanced up at her. "I am relaxed."
She crossed her arms and fixed him with an icy blue glare. "Normal people relaxed, not Carlton Lassiter relaxed."
"Hey!"
"Hey, yourself. Look, you spent a good chunk of yesterday without your jacket and all of it without your tie. That's all I'm asking." Her eyebrows rose. "Oh, and you'll have to take off your holster, too."
"Oh, come on, O'Hara—"
"My house, my rules."
"Why am I here again?" he muttered, even as he began removing his jacket, followed by his tie, handing them to a waiting Juliet, who neatly hung them in her hall closet.
"Because I asked." Her reply, just above a whisper and spoken into the depths of the closet might have escaped anyone else. But over the past several years Carlton had found that he was uniquely attuned to the sound of his partner's voice—to the multitudes of shades and tones that colored it and revealed her moods almost more than facial expressions or body language.
With a deep breath, he slipped off the holster and gun and placed it into her waiting hands, watching as she carefully set it on the out of the way yet easily accessible table next to her own weapon.
"Now, lie down." She patted the throw pillows she'd arranged at one end of the sofa—clearly, he was meant to put his head there and judging by the expression on her face, if he didn't do it voluntarily, she was liable to physically flip him onto the sofa and pin him into place.
And would that be such a bad thing?
Alarmed, he quickly lay down, steeling himself against the sudden fist of tension that had grabbed hold, deep in his gut. "Now what?" he asked, wincing inwardly at the lower than usual note in his voice.
Dammit, dammit, dammit… now is not the time and she is most definitely not the woman. No matter what you think. Or want.
"Close your eyes."
Every instinct he possessed was rebelling against the request—not just because it would rob him of a most valuable sense, but more importantly, it would leave him vulnerable. But of all the people in the world whom he trusted, and those he could count on the fingers of one hand, she was the one he trusted most. Relaxing slightly, he let his eyes drift shut completely, keeping in his mind's eye the vision of her leaning over him, a gentle smile on her face. Moments later, he felt something cool being placed over his bruised eye.
"It's a tea bag," she murmured, so damned close, he could feel her warm breath teasing the rim of his ear, the soft ends of her hair skimming his cheek. "The tannins in the leaves help to shrink blood vessels and reduce the swelling. I always save my tea bags and keep them in the fridge for this purpose. Given that we do seem to acquire our fair share of bruises on the job." With his vision obscured, he was that much more sensitive to her voice, hearing both laughter and resignation and further down, something more. Something exceedingly soothing that was echoed in the touch of her hands as her fingertips began massaging his temples where a low-grade headache had throbbed since the horrifying moment where he'd woken up and found himself in the Psych offices, having apparently spent the night spooned with Woody, of all goddamned people, and with absolutely no idea how he'd gotten there. Even now, after all had been solved and explained and every moment accounted for, he felt himself tensing all over again.
"Shhh… Carlton, it's okay." Her fingers continued rubbing small circles. "It's over," she murmured, as if she had a window straight into his thoughts. "You're okay." The circles continued and unless he was losing his mind, he could swear her fingertips were making brief forays into his hair. "You didn't actually lose control—you were coerced into it."
"But I should've been aware enough to realize someone had spiked our drinks."
"How could you?"
"I—"
"Carlton, you're a great cop—but you're also human. Cut yourself some slack."
"I can't, O'Hara—"
"Try." No mistake about it, her voice was even closer, so close, he could almost feel the brush of her lips against his ear, and her fingertips were most assuredly in his hair, massaging his scalp in a hypnotic, almost sensual rhythm. That fist tightened its hold on his gut, making him shift restlessly on the sofa. Trying to move away? Or get closer?
Don't answer that.
"I'm glad you've let your hair grow out some. It suits you."
His tongue felt thick and clumsy, seemingly incapable of wrapping itself around the simple "Thanks," he finally managed to utter.
Long moments passed as she continued to massage his temples and scalp, pausing only to switch the teabag on his eye for a fresh one. When she resumed the massage, she shifted her hands so her thumbs rested on his temples, her fingers curving to press into the knotted muscles at the base of his skull. As painfully aware as he was of her closeness, he also felt an undeniable sense of peace and relaxation begin to flow through him, leaving him loose and liquid. He might have even drifted off a bit, a feat he might have considered impossible an hour before. Through that hazy fog somewhere between awake and asleep, he heard her voice.
"I was relieved, Carlton."
This time the soft tone was tinged with something so painfully sad, he nearly sat up, the instinct to take her into his arms nearly overwhelming. He forced himself to remain still, however, sensing she had more to say. He also knew she was aware he was fully awake, but understood she might not feel able to speak so freely if she had to face him.
"I like him so much—even love him on some level—but when he couldn't immediately answer me when I asked him if he really wanted to move in together, the first thing I felt was relief. And then he asked me if I was disappointed in him and God, no, I wasn't, but I could tell, he was disappointed in himself. That he couldn't be that guy. And I could see the fear, too, that maybe, he wouldn't ever be able to be that guy.
"And then, just like you guessed, he started joking. Turned it around on me, saying I was the one who didn't want him moving in, that I was secretly a hoarder and all of the typical stream-of-consciousness Shawn-isms that you might expect. I get that he was attempting to shift the spotlight from himself and that part of the blathering is his way of parsing out his true emotions, but why couldn't he just… say what he was thinking?"
Hell with it. Carlton gently grasped Juliet's hands, stilling them enough for him to sit up. Dropping the used teabag into the dish containing its twin, he stood, pulling her to sit in his recently abandoned spot on the sofa.
"Where's your wine?"
Eyes closed, as if she just couldn't face him yet, she waved toward the kitchen. In the neat, twilight-lit room he found a small rack on the counter with a selection of reds while in the refrigerator, a pair of bottles of white rested on a shelf. Feeling an earthier red was called for, he swiftly uncorked a bottle and brought it back into the living room along with a pair of goblets discovered in one of the glass-fronted cabinets. After pouring them each a generous measure, he took a glass and pressed it into her hand, wrapping her fingers around it so she wouldn't have to open her eyes until she was ready.
"The easy assumption is that guys like Shawn see commitment as a trap, but that's not true. At least, not where he's concerned." He stared down into his wine as he spoke, the liquid glowing a deep ruby in the low light of the room.
"What is it then?"
He shot a sidelong glance her direction, noticing that while her eyes remained closed, she'd obviously taken a sip of the wine, a small claret drop clinging to her lower lip. As he watched, her tongue emerged, sweeping across her lip and making him grateful her eyes remained closed.
"Strange as it might sound, commitment, for someone like Shawn, means admitting weakness. Saying he wants to live with you, to share his day-to-day life with you on such an intimate level, would mean admitting to a measure of dependence on you. He's no longer just Shawn—he's part of Shawn and Juliet. For someone like him, who's fought so hard to forge an independent identity, it would be a difficult reconciliation." He hesitated, but told himself he was only being completely honest with her. "Maybe an impossible one."
Finally she blinked, her eyes slowly opening and closing and that, combined with the dim, intimate light surrounding them, brought to mind visions that he had no damned business entertaining. Not about his partner and friend. Not about a woman who was taken.
"What does it say for me, then, that I was relieved?"
"That on some level you understand that about him? That you wouldn't want a partner to take that step unless they're all in. No hesitation." He took a long drink of wine and turned to refill his glass, ignoring the voice in his head that said two liquor-fueled escapades in one week were two too many.
"What about you, Carlton?"
"What about me?" He held the bottle up, tipping it over her extended glass.
"What does commitment mean to you?"
A humorless chuckle escaped. "Well, considering I spent two years trying like hell to fix an irretrievably broken marriage, one might argue that I see it as a safety net. That I was too fucking scared to let go even though I knew I should."
Juliet's voice was gentle. "Or one might argue that you really loved your wife."
He sighed. "That's a lovely thought, Juliet, but if it was true, would I have cheated on her?"
"Extenuating circumstances," she replied without missing a beat. "And I repeat, you're human. Under normal circumstances most bodies crave contact—when you work in a job like ours, it almost becomes an imperative. We need the affirmation of something good and real and alive." Her voice dropped, taking on a husky, sleepy quality. "The fact you held out as long as you did—that says a lot about you."
To Carlton, it felt as if the air around them was now simmering with the same live-wire tension he'd fought so hard to keep banked all evening.
"I like commitment," he found himself saying. "Crave it, actually. I draw strength from knowing I have someone to care for. To protect. To… love," he admitted quietly, hardly believing that he'd uttered the words out loud. Damned alcohol. Didn't stop him from gulping down the remainder in his glass and pouring another, though.
"Carlton?" He forced himself to meet her gaze, luminous in the shadowed half-dark of the room. "What if the person you're committed to derives the same enjoyment and strength from caring about and protecting you?"
"That's what makes it work." He couldn't keep looking at her. He could be honest with her, but he couldn't let her see the whole truth behind his words and he knew if he looked at her, she'd be able to see every damned thing. Each word emerged slowly, weighted with the emotion he was too damned close to letting completely out. "True commitment's not a one-sided thing. It can't be and survive."
Suddenly, the wine glass he'd been clutching for dear life was gone, replaced by her hand.
"Juliet—don't." Even so, his fingers curled around hers, enveloping her hand with his. "I can't—"
Her head was bowed, her gaze seemingly fixed on their intertwined hands. "Why not?"
"Because I'm damaged goods. With a bad track record." He swallowed hard. "Because Spencer was always there. And always intrigued you. And whatever his issues with commitment, the man honestly loves you."
"And you?"
Him? As she'd made a point of reminding him, more than once, today, he was only human. And he was tired of fighting. Especially since she seemed to genuinely need some sort of reassurance from him. He knew she would never intentionally use him to soothe her ego—that this was more about her knowing there was more. Needing the facts. Digging to get the entire story. They were so alike in that way—relentless until they got everything needed to move forward.
Emptying his clip in Spencer's general direction suddenly seemed a hell of a lot more appealing. Admittedly, he could sympathize to a certain degree with the man—the utter terror inherent in that sort of commitment but at the same time, that he'd done this to Juliet with one stupid, subconsciously motivated, asshatted move…
Tugging on her hand, he brought her with him until they were propped against the throw pillows, her head on his chest.
"Okay, I need you to stay quiet and listen to me because this may be the only time you'll ever hear me say this. Make no mistake, if the opportunity presents itself and the circumstances are right, I'll say it until you're sick to death of hearing it but until then, this is it. Okay?"
He waited for her nod, the smooth strands of her hair stroking his neck. One hand protectively cupped over her head, the other resting on her waist, he quietly said, "The clock tower."
It was cryptic, perhaps, but as attuned as he was to her responses, he could sense the silent question surrounding them was based not so much in confusion at his statement as in wonder at what might follow. "I have never in my life been so angry or so scared as that night. I went for you not just because you're my partner, but because it was you, Juliet. The only thing I knew in that moment was that I had to get to you, I had to protect you, and I was damned if I was going to let you die."
The hand resting on her waist trembled with the remembered fear and adrenaline. "In all the world, you are the person I care for the most, that I cherish the most, that I need to protect, that I—"
Love.
But he wouldn't say it out loud. Not yet. It wasn't fair to lay that on her while she was dealing with the maelstrom of emotion from Shawn's declaration and subsequent retraction. Besides, given what he'd already said, she knew.
"Can I talk now?"
His heart thudded painfully in his chest as he nodded. What would she say now? Outside of maybe "Get the hell out, you whackjob."
"Shawn knows."
Not what he expected her to say.
"Come again?"
She propped herself up on one elbow, the better to look into his face. "He told me, after the clock tower, that he'd told Gus the only way he couldn't be there for me was if he knew Gus was."
"Okay." Unable to help himself, he reached up and brushed wayward strands of hair back from her face.
"But he said that wasn't completely true. He was relieved that Gus was there, sure, but he said that in all honesty, he knew I'd be safe because you were coming for me." The hand on his chest toyed with a button on his shirt, sliding it in and out of the hole, the short edges of her nail inadvertently scratching against his skin and making him shiver. "He said," she added, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, "if there was any one thing he knew, it was that you would just as soon die yourself as let any harm come to me."
While he still firmly believed the psychic act was a load of crap, Carlton still couldn't restrain the chill that ran through him at the knowledge of Spencer's prescience.
"It left him sort of ashamed, you know."
"Shawn's not capable of shame," he scoffed, but his tone was as much curious as disdainful.
"Well, he did ask Abigail if there was a bomb before he went into the water after her."
The cop in him was too deeply ingrained to pull judgment. "Seems like a perfectly reasonable question."
"Yeah, but what he's ashamed of is that if she'd said yes, he's not sure what he would've done."
Recalling how Shawn had immediately bolted for the bank once he discovered Gus was being held hostage, Carlton felt compelled to defend the guy. "He would have gone after her."
"Oh, I think so, too."
"But…" Because there was a definite "but" hanging between them.
"He said for a second… just a split second…" Her voice was hesitant, but her gaze remained firmly locked with his as she said, "He wasn't sure."
"Oh."
Once again, he felt an unfamiliar pang of sympathy for Spencer. That had to be hell to live with—but at the same time, Abigail had to have recognized it, given that she'd broken up with him in the wake of the experience. Guster had mentioned, in one of his too-gossipy moments that tended to drive Carlton nuts, that Abigail admitted she had a lot she wanted to accomplish and she couldn't do any of it if she was dead. So clearly, on some level she'd sensed the hesitation and on another, had recognized that for her part, she didn't fully trust Spencer to come for her every time.
"Yeah." Her gaze finally dropped, focusing on the button with which she'd resumed toying. "There's one more thing."
He put his hand over hers, stilling the movement and at the same time, establishing that most basic connection, their linked hands and resting over his heart.
"What is it?"
"He said—" She took a deep breath. "He knew you wouldn't hesitate. That… you didn't hesitate. Not for a second."
"No."
What else could he say? He wouldn't lie to her and he wouldn't sugar coat it with any "Oh, I only did what anyone would do," bullshit. Because he wouldn't. Truth was, if it was anyone but Juliet, he would think twice, too. For him, she came first.
"Oh, Carlton—"
He trailed his knuckles along her cheek. "It's okay, you know."
Her eyes were sad. "Is it?"
"Right now, it kind of has to be, doesn't it?"
"Maybe not." She rolled more completely over him, making him suppress a groan.
"Juliet—"
"Shh…" One finger rose to his lips, making him catch his breath. "Your turn to stay quiet, okay?" She waited until he nodded. "You're right in thinking I'm not a hundred percent sure how I feel. And that I have a lot of… stuff to resolve. But I think…" She pressed her lips together, as if trying to form the words. "I think the reason I was relieved about Shawn retracting his offer to move in together was that it meant… I wouldn't have to make that choice. To put him first." The deep breath she took pressed her breasts into his chest, making him catch his breath. "Ahead of you."
Oh, hell with it.
His hands rose to her shoulders lifting her slightly. "Juliet?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm going to be human now, okay?"
"Oka—" she began, the end of the word muffled as Carlton pulled her head down, covering her mouth with his.
There were several factors playing into making this one of the most mind-bending kisses he'd ever experienced. One was that despite popular opinion, he was actually more experienced than most would imagine. Two, he was of the firm belief that outside of engaging in the actual deed, the single most erotic physical contact in the world was a kiss, in all its forms and iterations, so when given the opportunity, he tended to spend a lot of time engaged in that particular activity. And three, for God's sake, it was Juliet.
Juliet, in whose hair his hands were twisted as he tilted her head back, trailing kisses along her neck. Juliet, whose hands were busy unbuttoning his shirt, her teeth nipping his earlobe before her tongue dragged along the incredibly sensitive underside of his jaw, making him tense beneath her. Juliet, who tasted of red wine and candlelight and dark nights.
Juliet.
Juliet. Jesus Christ, this is Juliet. And she's not really yours to do this with.
Yet.
Oh, this was going to have to be filed under the heading of most incredibly selfless and quite possibly stupid acts he'd ever committed. With more than a little effort, he dragged his mouth from hers, sucking in air and trying to remember how to think. "Juliet—" When her hands kept moving, pushing his shirt open and scratching her nails down his chest, he shuddered, feeling his resolve weakening, but from somewhere deep within that iron-clad code of conduct that was as much a part of him as the color of his eyes, he found the will to grasp her hands. He was not, however, strong enough to move them completely from his bare skin, reasoning that who knew when he'd feel her touch like this again.
And also, that he was only human and damn, but her hands felt good.
But—
"We can't." Damn, but his voice had gotten higher in pitch. Or, rather… it was Juliet, sliding off to one side, but still obviously as unwilling to lose all contact as he was, given how one hand remained firmly planted on his chest.
"No, dammit, we can't." Now that was his voice, patented aggravated growl and all.
"Carlton…"
"Sorry." He closed his hand over hers, holding it tight. "I should never—"
"Don't you dare say you regret this. Or that we shouldn't have done this." Angry tears turned her eyes a brilliant pale blue and left him feeling like pond scum that she'd think that, even for a second. Even so, he wasn't prepared to let himself off the hook so easily.
"Dammit, Juliet, the last thing you need is a second alcohol-fueled incident completely screwing with your head—"
"Are you drunk?"
"No." The initial slight buzz from the wine had worn away within 1.7 seconds of that first kiss..
"Are you going to remember this in the morning?"
He felt his eyebrows hovering in the vicinity of his hairline. "Are you kidding me? I'm going to remember this the rest of my life."
"Then you're already one up on Shawn." She pushed herself up to a sitting position, shoving her hands through her hair. Her skin was flushed, her lips more than a little swollen, and he tried desperately to recall what the weather forecast was for the next few days because she might need to wear a turtleneck to cover the love bites he could see forming, even in the dim light. Actually, what was the probability of a freak snowstorm hitting Santa Barbara in the next hour, trapping them long enough for him to mark every inch of her?
Not helping, Lassiter. Make yourself actually useful, why don't you?
With a sigh, he reached over to the coffee table and picked up one of the discarded tea bags. Closing the distance between them, he gently pressed it to the worst spot on her neck.
She tilted her head back, ostensibly to give him better access, but the action allowed her gaze to meet his. "I'm the one who should be apologizing, you know?"
"Why's that?" Now that he knew what it was like to touch her, he couldn't seem to stop. Even if it was on the surface, a completely innocent act, like threading his fingers through her hair to hold her head steady. Or when her hand rose to hold the tea bag in place, using his newly freed hand to trace the outline of her face. Almost like a sickness.
"I'm the one who's involved and who has questions and doubts and now—" She waved one hand helplessly. "And you don't have any doubts and it would be so easy."
He shook his head, feeling on firmer ground. "But that's the thing—you don't do this because it's easy. You do it because you have to. Because there's absolutely nothing else you can see yourself doing. Because there's no one else you can see yourself with."
She stared up at him, a look in her eyes that let him know she was so close. And if he wanted, all he had to do was make one move—one more kiss or even just say something—
"You're not there yet, Juliet."
That was not the thing that would tip the scales in his favor, dammit. But it was the right thing to say. Christ, but the high road sucked.
Pressing a kiss to her forehead, he stood and quickly grabbed his holster and gun from the table on his way to the front door, buttoning his shirt haphazardly. "I've still got the spare key to your car. I'll have a uniform bring it by later—tell them you weren't feeling well and I drove you home."
He was almost out the door when her voice stopped him. "Are you there, Carlton? Are you absolutely sure?"
He turned to look at her, huddled on the sofa, clutching the tea bag to her neck. Finally, he said simply, "Clock tower," and gently closed the door behind himself.
AN: This one got a bit away from me and took an unexpected left turn to Albuquerque. So given the way it ended, it's possible there might be another chapter. Or not. We'll see.