Disclaimer: if you ever thought I claimed psych, you were kinda silly.
Rating: T
Summary: Once upon a time, Lawson227 cajoled me into turning a Lassiet into a Karlton. Now, she's cajoled me into turning a Karlton into a Lassiet. My story Burning Bridges provides a portion of the first chapter of this saga redux (specifically in Juliet's memory of her conversation with Carlton, in italics). This re-visit is centered around Juliet's reaction to Carlton's behavior in that story.

SPOILERS for No Trout About It, the S7 finale. Slightly AU, since as is my usual trick, I pretend Marlowe doesn't exist.

. . . . .

. . . .

. . .

Juliet O'Hara was seldom truly angry.

Annoyed, vexed, exasperated—frequently. Between being a cop and being Shawn Spencer's girlfriend, a woman really had no choice in the matter.

But truly down-to-the-bone angry was an infrequent feeling (also usually related to Shawn in some way), and she didn't like it.

She didn't like being angry, and she didn't like feeling hurt right along with it, and she most especially didn't like that it was because of Carlton.

Who wasn't supposed to hurt her.

He'd certainly annoyed, vexed and exasperated her over the years. He'd been thoughtless in his uniquely Carlton way many times. But he'd never hurt her like this.

She thought back to their Great Divide over his discovery of her relationship with Shawn. There had been pain there, but it was about the situation, and about her realization he was right to be angry. And he'd been hurt: she saw it in his large blue eyes and ached for having done it to him out of her own cowardice.

But even then all he'd said was that he couldn't trust her.

Not like today.

Getting out of the car, she headed down to the beach and snagged a bench the moment an elderly couple vacated it. The wind was sharp, and she told herself it was the only reason her eyes were burning.

. . . .

. . .

He'd barely cleared the pillar closest to what used to be his desk when Juliet spotted him. "Carlton!" she 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. "What? And when is he not in a foul mood?" There was bright red paint all over his black uniform, and yet he still looked trim and orderly as only Carlton could: the black fabric accentuated his vivid blue eyes and the silver in his still mostly-black hair.

"What happened?" She pointed to the stains.

"A gift from my buddies downstairs. The old paint can over the locker door routine."

It had been two months since Trout put him back on the line, two months since Juliet was partnered with Miller, two months since Karen Vick was unfairly suspended, two months since Buzz was summarily fired, two months since Shawn and Gus were banned from the station.

In those two months, she knew the men on the line had "played" at least six pranks on Carlton—this one the messiest—and it was clear they intended to make the most of his downfall. It wasn't something he discussed with her; they'd barely seen each other in weeks and he didn't have a lot to say about it on the phone. Not that she'd pressed: she had her own Trout-related travails.

"Oh, Carlton," she began. "I'm sorry. But you can't—"

"It's coffee. 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. "Don't push him."

He laughed harshly. "He's already busted me back to patrol. You think he's going to nail me for insubordination over 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 two months," he snapped. "Two months of an unnecessarily punitive 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."

"He could fire you! And since he 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 Buzz."

Juliet managed to keep her voice even. "Think what you like about Shawn, but he 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 his '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 is worth dismissing because of numbers." She tried not to sound as icy as she felt. "The sooner you get your job back, the sooner we can start doing what 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 until we can get Vick back, so she can rehire Psych, and we can go back to normal."

He stopped and stared at her. She tried to read his expression and couldn't, and was startled when he grasped her arm and pulled her into the empty conference room, shutting the door behind them.

"What?"

"Let me hazard a guess about your real motivation."

"What do you mean?" She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. "You know my motivation."

He 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 you and 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." Leo Quinn: the man whose complex machinations had led to all of this departmental chaos. Bastard.

"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." She missed him every day, whether they were working cases together or griping over bad coffee.

"You miss Spencer's occasional income. When he forced his way into our cases, he got paid; 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 leechboy who just keeps getting bigger and bigger and—"

"Stop it!" She put her hands to her cheeks, feeling their heat. "That's not fair. I know you're upset about what Trout did to us, but it's not right 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."

Juliet glowered. "You're being a bastard."

"Heard that before."

"Don't you want to get your job back?"

Carlton didn't answer.

"Don't you want us to be partners?" she persisted. She did. More than anything else in the world these days. Carlton was the center point of her work life, even if she did want to smack him upside the head right now.

He was still silent, the blue shifting in color from uncertain to thoughtful to…

"Well?"

"Honestly, O'Hara, I don't know."

She could not have been more shocked. "Why would you say that?"

Carlton paced away from her. "When 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, the sunlight etching his profile. "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 temptation, and you know better than anyone else how many times I do rise above it." He glanced at her now. "Likewise, you chose to lose your cool. You didn't lay hands on him, but only because I got there first."

She nodded slightly. No argument there. If she'd been closer to Shawn, it would have been her hands around his throat.

"And you chose to let him flaunt your relationship in the workplace."

"That is not true!" she exclaimed.

"No? 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? 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? No. 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. Or as his girlfriend."

"He doesn't," she began, but even to her own ears, 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."

Embarrassment mixed with anger. "You are Crossing. A. Line."

He shrugged. "I've heard that before too. But here's why I said I didn't necessarily want you back as a partner."

Her heart was thundering in her chest. Clutching the back of the chair, she took a deep breath, hoping to ease back from the edge of this disaster.

"It's because I… don't really like you anymore."

She opened her mouth but no sound came out. The silence around them was huge.

Carlton swallowed, and yet he spoke with resolution. "You're the best partner I ever had. The best friend, even. And I know I was important to you once; I saw it for myself when we watched Spencer's stupid Bigfoot movie. It was right on camera for everyone to see."

His eyes were so damned blue, and he was like stone.

"I loved you for a long time. I know you knew."

Juliet froze. All the heat in her drained away and she fought not to tremble.

You are not hearing this. What you knew, you knew privately, and it's not for public statement.

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. 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 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. But 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 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, O'Hara, 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 emotions a wild mix of shock, anger, and hurt.

"Before you tell me I'm nothing to write home about, yeah, I know that. 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!"

He went unhurriedly, ignoring Trout's pointed glance at his watch as well as the curious looks from the others in the bullpen.

Juliet unfroze herself long enough to grab her keys and head out.

. . . .

. . .

She ended up at a parking lot near the beach, hands gripping the steering wheel, pulse still racing, heart still hammering, skin almost clammy.

Sitting now on the bench—and as the sharp wind died down—some of the vast ocean's calm started to soothe her.

But still those words replayed, and Carlton's cool blue assessing gaze was relentless even in his absence.

He didn't like her anymore.

Big deal, she thought defiantly. He doesn't like anyone.

He used to like her.

Big deal. Most people like me.

Carlton seldom followed the crowd.

He liked you in spite of everyone else liking you.

He barely liked Buzz: and who the hell didn't like Buzz?

I am a good cop. I have not let Shawn steer me into madness.

A dozen incidents proving this a lie came to mind and she shoved them away ruthlessly. Shawn was a special case. Not because he was her boyfriend, but because his special abilities were compromised by a total lack of common sense. It wasn't his fault. Not entirely.

Shawn is an extremely intelligent guy, pushing forty, who chooses to act the way he does. He is more than capable of—

Shut it. This is about Carlton, not Shawn.

Carlton knew from the beginning Shawn wasn't psychic.

It took you seven years to figure it out.

CARLTON, she shouted internally, just told you he didn't like you and thinks you've become a bad cop.

That was the main thing, right there. No like, no respect.

He can go to hell.

It was that simple. Because he was wrong. He was upset by what Trout did to them. He was upset about the other patrol officers pranking him. He was upset by the loss of his job title and standing. He was upset, and he didn't mean it.

Damn sharp wind, making her eyes burn again.

Carlton doesn't say what he doesn't mean.

But Carlton was wrong a lot about people. He wasn't good reading people unless they were criminals; then he was spot-on most of the time. She wasn't a criminal; she was his partner. He didn't understand her because he didn't understand women, and he didn't understand Shawn, and if he really had ever… loved… her, he couldn't have been capable of looking at her or her choices with an open mind.

How could he love her and say what he said?

He doesn't love you anymore.

SO? YOU DON'T NEED HIM. You have Shawn.

Who lies. Who steals. Who manipulates.

THIS IS NOT ABOUT SHAWN. Shawn loves me.

"Enough," she said out loud, getting to her feet. "Enough."

This was about a man she thought was her partner and friend telling her she didn't measure up to his crazy standards. He'd been unhappy for two months and he was taking it out on her because he couldn't take it out on Trout.

I was the one who stood by him. I made excuses for him when he was rude. I counseled him on how to get along with people. I took the time to see beyond the scowl.

I was his friend, dammit.

And it's not my fault Trout demoted him. It's not. And any problems he had with me as a cop or his partner he should have told me about a long time ago, not today because he got doused with paint.

This is not right.

And I will not take it.

"He can go to hell," she told the ocean, and went back to work.

. . . .

. . .

She hadn't been in the station long, resolutely focused on the case file on her screen, before she picked up that something was going on. Glancing around, she noted groups of two or three cops scattered throughout the bullpen, and Trout's door firmly shut.

Through the mostly-closed blinds she could see that odious man pacing. Occasionally he would stride to the desk and pick something up and then toss it down again, but she couldn't see what it was.

Miller passed by with a mug, and with his back to her at the coffee bar he said, "So. You heard about Lassiter?"

"It's paint," she said shortly, not turning either. "Not acid."

"Not that."

Juliet jabbed at the enter key savagely. "I don't know anything about Lassiter, and right now, Miller, I really do not care."

He was quiet a moment. "Okay. But you might want to know this."

"Doubtful." She finally looked over her shoulder at him. "I do want to know what's up with Trout."

"Lassiter," he said meaningfully.

"I don't want to talk about Lassiter." She got up and started toward the copier, not that she had anything to copy, and Miller followed her over there. "What?"

"He quit."

"Who quit?" She was fussing with the paper feed. No reason. Made her look busy.

"Lassiter quit."

Juliet straightened up and stared at him. "The hell he did."

"After he stomped on Trout's timer."

"The hell he did," she repeated, because Miller was insane if he expected her to believe Career Cop Carlton would ever quit, although stomping on a timer she could easily imagine and even applaud.

Miller sipped from his mug. "Happened right after you left."

She couldn't process this. It was crazy. It was one more bit of crazy stemming from the crazy that was Carlton Lassiter.

It was not her problem. HE was not her problem. Not anymore. He made that clear and she'd gotten the message perfectly.

"Good," she said icily. "Glad he's gone."

Miller's jaw dropped. "But—"

She cut him off. "Excuse me. I'm finishing up the witness statement reviews in the Greenwood case. Let me know when you're done reviewing the forensics."

Stalking back to her desk, she immersed herself in the files as if there was any chance she wasn't already sucked into the crazy herself.

. . . .

. . .

A different kind of crazy was waiting for her at home.

Now that Rachael was away in England, Gus and Shawn were joined at the hip again, and when she walked up the steps into the living room, she found them sprawled on the sofa playing some video game and berating each other. Tortilla chips and soda bottles, an empty box of pizza and the remains of what might have been homemade nachos were spread across the coffee table.

"Jules!" Shawn cried out, not taking his eyes off the screen. "Would you quick call the Noodle House and see if they're still running that special on moo goo Guy Pearce?"

"Gai pan," Gus corrected him, shoving him slightly on the sofa.

"No, thanks." Juliet went through to the bedroom, ignoring Shawn's plaintive cries and Gus' muffled protests as more shoving evidently took place.

With the door closed behind her, she changed out of her work clothes and brushed her hair and tried not to think about Carlton.

The bastard.

Cold, unfeeling—how could he quit? How could he just give up like that?

By all accounts he'd been doing great out in the field—not that she'd ever doubted he would—and all they had to do was wait out Trout's stay. Scuttlebutt had it that Trout seldom roosted anywhere longer than four months. He was like a plague of locusts unto himself, ravaging police departments making 'improvements' before moving on to the next locale with his damn egg timer.

But no. No. Carlton, the selfish bastard she'd tried to be a friend to all these years, had just gone all petty and whiny-ass and quit.

Just as well, she thought, slamming the brush down. Not like she wanted his sorry self-serving ass back as her partner, not after today.

Fine. She would stay the course. She would do the best damn job she could, even if it meant freezing to death in Cold Cases, until Trout moved on and the dust settled over whatever was left of the mess he'd made of the SBPD.

And Carlton could do whatever the hell he wanted as an ex-cop. As her ex-partner. As her damned ex-friend.

Shawn burst into the room. "Jules! Sweetums!" He put his arms around her from behind and squeezed, nuzzling her cheek with Cheez-It-scented breath.

"What's left for me to eat?" She extricated herself from his arms, moving to hang up her blazer and put her heels in the closet.

"Well, it turns out Noodle House is now running a special on Chop Suey Chopsticks. With every two orders you get three sets of chopsticks and four eggrolls. Gus says he's in. You in?"

"Pass." She picked up the laundry basket with the clothes she'd asked him to fold and put away, and dumped it on the bed.

He leaned against the dresser, arms folded, giving her his best I know everything look. "You had a bad day."

"Yup."

"What did Trout do?"

"Nothing."

"Sure about that? Because with Lassie out on patrol, it's really only Trout who can get on your nerves these days."

Juliet turned to him, one of his t-shirts in her hand. "Really? He's the only one?"

His glance fell to the shirt. "Pretty sure."

"What did you do all day other than put up laundry?" she inquired pleasantly.

Went right over his head.

"Ooh! Gus and I designed a rocket ship which will only travel between churro stands. It's still in the early stages, but if we can talk the churro stand guys into maintaining one position long enough, we think we can get funding."

She stared at him.

He blinked. "We also mapped every popsicle cart in a three-mile radius."

"So you were busy, then. Good thing Gus is unemployed like you." She brushed by him with an armload of towels.

"Jules, you know I have a job. Gus, well, he's in transition, but I have a full-time job."

"Gus has a full-time job as a pharmaceutical rep. You have a failing detective agency."

Outraged, he followed her into the bathroom. "Failing? What are you talking about, failing?"

"Have you had a case in the last six weeks?" She was being generous: he hadn't had a case since the Leo Quinn debacle. Most of the time, if he went to the office at all, he left the 'closed' sign on the door.

"Vacation! Everyone's entitled to a little vacation. Besides, I'm still recovering from what Trout did to me."

Juliet closed the towel cupboard door firmly and faced Shawn. "What he did to you?"

"He cut the heart out of my business," he said sadly.

"The only reason," she said as she advanced—and was grimly satisfied that he backed up, "that Trout had any effect on your business is that all your business came from scrounging cases from the SBPD." She kept moving, and he kept backing up, into the bedroom and up against the bed. "Karen Vick got suspended. Carlton got demoted. Buzz got fired. I'm stuck in Cold Cases. But you're the one who needs a two-month 'vacation'?"

Turning away before he could say a word, she left the room and went to the kitchen, opening the fridge in hopes there'd be even one bit of food for her. Even a limp slice of cheese would do.

Gus came in carrying the empty pizza box. "The Chinese should be here in fifteen."

"The British in twenty." She closed the fridge door. "Is there anything else to eat at all?"

He set the box on the counter, and Shawn sidled in behind him. "What are you in the mood for?"

"I'm in the mood to have Shawn do some housework and shopping while I'm at work all day," she snapped, eyeing the man in question.

"She had a bad day," Shawn explained in a stage whisper to Gus.

"Don't be condescending, Spencer."

"Spencer." He smirked. "Are you channeling Lassie now?"

Gus snickered, but only briefly; his expression turned to fear when he saw how Juliet glared at Shawn.

But she sucked it up and said nothing, forcing them to move out of the way so she could escape the kitchen and go… where?

From the bedroom she heard her cell ringing: maybe she was in luck and there'd been a horrific crime requiring all hands on deck, and she could get out of this place which was more Shawn's Clubhouse than their home.

Snatching it up, she saw to her surprise that it was Harris Trout's name on the screen.

"O'Hara."

"Interim Chief."

He chuckled. "Starting eight a.m. tomorrow, you're the new Head Detective of the SBPD. Trial basis until you piss me off, which I'm sure you will."

Juliet was silent. This was a trick. And she didn't want the job.

"Oh, and also on a trial basis, you can bring in Psycho in on cases at my approval. They screw up even once—hell, you screw up even once—and they're not only re-fired, they're in jail. Bye now."

She listened to dead air for a long time until she remembered to disconnect, and then she just sat on the bed frowning until the damned Chinese came.

. . . .

. . .