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Disclaimer 2: I'm serious about the dust.

Rating: T

Summary: Carlton and Juliet's all-nighter in an old house tests them both. This is a Lassiet I originally started posting during the week of Halloween, but I couldn't quite make the leap from Ch2 to Ch3 and decided to pull the story rather than let it hang out there. However, the muse came back, and so here we go 'round again, with tweaks and additions galore. Ch2 tomorrow, and the final chapter on Saturday.

. . . .

. . .

Carlton left town for the profiling conference the morning after he kissed her, and answered only her work-related texts over the next week.

He's scared.

Juliet cautioned herself a few times that maybe she was being arrogant—you shouldn't assume every man wants you—but she knew him. As much as he held private from everyone, she knew him.

He was telling himself to pretend it didn't happen, because it shouldn't have happened, so it couldn't have happened, so therefore it didn't happen, and when he came back he would have mustered the courage to pretend to her face that it hadn't happened.

Except, she thought bemusedly on Thursday afternoon as she texted him again, it had happened.

Have you heard from D.A. Clark about the Gray case?

His testiness came through loud and clear: What's he want now?

Juliet smiled at the screen.

He wants more surveillance.

Set it up.

He wants you on it.

Why?

Because you're the best.

Long pause. She imagined him alternating between a justifiably arrogant hell yeah and an eyeroll that Clark would ever say such a thing. Even after the Sergei Czarsky case's successful conclusion, Clark was still unenamored of Carlton personally.

Carlton settled for the justifiable arrogance: Hell yeah I am, but it's just surveillance.

He says you don't miss things.

Another pause.

Neither does Spencer. Tell Clark to get him.

Fair enough, but Clark liked Shawn even less than he liked Carlton.

She keyed in the coup de grâce: Clark said you, and Vick says yes.

Then she waited for his irritation to show up on her screen.

The Grays were two brothers and a sister who allegedly moved stolen goods out of their house at the edge of an old posh neighborhood. The car traffic to their home had initially attracted attention from annoyed neighbors, and since a few of them were nosy as well, it wasn't long before someone spotted suspicious activity far too late at night, with money changing hands.

However, Geoff Gray was an antiques dealer of some standing, so the district attorney wanted to be very sure before anyone moved in on them.

Carlton finally texted back a terse agreement and said he'd call Chief Vick for specs. (He could have gotten the information from Juliet, but clearly wasn't ready to talk to her yet.)

Still, Juliet smiled as she set her phone down. He couldn't hide forever.

. . . .

. . .

"The Pumphrey House," Chief Vick began, "is situated—"

"Excuse me," Carlton interrupted. "Pumphrey?"

"For Cartavious Pumphrey," she elucidated, "who built the mansion in 1900."

He blinked.

Juliet glanced at him. He was all cool remote distance, emphasis on 'cool.' Even the vivid blue of his expressive eyes suggested the North Sea rather than the Mediterranean.

Vick raised her eyebrows. "Anything else?"

"No, just admiring the name. Go on."

The Chief allowed a small smile, and handed them folders. "The mansion is situated on a slight hill above the Gray house, with an excellent view of the back entrance to their garage, where the alleged suspicious activity occurs. Because the mansion is largely unoccupied, we assume the Grays don't worry overmuch about anyone there seeing what's going on. We've arranged with the owners to set up on the third floor at the back, and you'll be there from eight until three. The neighbors have indicated Friday nights are usually busy for the Grays."

"What do you mean, the mansion is 'largely unoccupied'?"

"The owners travel a lot. Franklin and Charity Pumphrey, both retired."

"How big is the house exactly?" Juliet wondered if she'd ever seen it.

"Pretty damn." She consulted her notes. "Three floors plus an attic."

As Vick went on describing what the D.A. wanted out of the operation, Juliet stole glances at Carlton.

He'd breezed in mid-morning straight from the airport, was civil (but remote) when she tried to make ordinary conversation, then immersed himself in catch-up work until Vick was ready to lay out the plan.

But even only two feet away from her, the chill of his self-protective guard was palpable.

A chill which had evaporated—turned to steam, even—when he kissed her four days ago.

Poor Carlton, she mused. Having to be in control All. The. Time.

Well, she wasn't going to push him right now.

She had from eight to three a.m. to do that.

. . . .

. . .

The Pumphrey mansion loomed imposingly near the end of the cul-de-sac, and in the fading light of early evening appeared to be watching them intently as they drove closer.

Juliet shook herself free of such nonsense. It was merely a big house, that's all, built a hundred years ago when the homes of the wealthy were meant to be imposing.

This sensible attitude carried her through to meeting the very pleasant owners of the house, Franklin and Charity Pumphrey, who were all courtesy and good manners as they welcomed their official intruders.

"I'm Detective Lassiter, and this is my partner Detective O'Hara." Carlton put his badge away. "I understand you occupy this floor only?"

Charity glanced at her husband, not quite uncomfortable but alerting Juliet nonetheless. "That's correct. When we have company, we put them in rooms on the second floor, but we rarely get up to the third floor. I'm sure we won't even hear you moving around."

"We'll try not to disturb you," Juliet assured her. "I can't promise you won't notice when we leave at three a.m., but we'll be quiet."

Carlton asked what part of the first floor their rooms were in, and then they were shown to the stairs which led to the upper floors. He and Juliet carried their gear up, but Franklin and Charity stopped at the second floor landing.

"When your colleagues were here the other day," Franklin said, "they found the rooms at the southeast corner to have the best views of the Gray house."

"You don't want to show us?" Carlton inquired mildly. "Make sure we don't go astray?"

Franklin smiled. "You're police officers. I have complete faith in you. And anyway," he said, "our knees don't handle the stairs so well anymore."

"That's right," Charity said apologetically. "I hope you don't mind. Do you need anything? We generally retire early but you're welcome to anything in the kitchen, especially the coffeepot, and there's a fresh batch of cinnamon raisin bread on the counter."

"You're very generous," Juliet said. "Thank you."

With that, the Pumphreys rapidly descended the stairs, and Carlton The Ice King headed up to the third floor after the merest glance at Juliet to be sure she'd follow.

She held her smile.

You're gonna have to talk to me sometime, badass.

. . . .

. . .

Normally when Carlton experienced a sudden temperature drop, it was in the presence of an angry woman.

Victoria had been especially talented at controlling a room's climate with merely A Look, but both Chief Vick and Juliet were similarly skilled.

However, the temperature change he noted as he advanced down the wide hall to the southeast rooms was remarkable because he was pretty sure it had nothing to do with having pissed off a woman.

Not even Juliet. She'd been nothing but pleasant since his return, not that he was encouraging her or even reciprocating.

Chicken.

He knew she was behind him, and he heard her mutter about how cold it was, and that was more proof she wasn't the reason he was so chilled.

Well, old house, bad insulation, whatever. He had work to do. They had work to do, and it didn't include any discussion of how he'd lost his mind a few days ago and kissed her.

The door to the room at the end of the hall was closed, and he turned the cold knob to open it. It resisted, but he knew it wouldn't be locked because the guys who did the recon had specifically recommended this room for the surveillance.

"Stuck?" Juliet asked, catching up.

"Not for long." He turned and pushed hard at the same time and the door gave way, revealing what seemed to be a large sitting room in the shadows.

Juliet set her bag down and found the light switch, illuminating the room enough for them to get a proper view.

Two large windows on the south wall featured drapes already pulled back, and the furnishings were in dark blue brocade and dark wood and dark everything. A man's room, he thought, but still too dark.

And damned cold. The fireplace on the east wall radiated its own coldness from the stone comprising it.

"Lights off," he said, and she obeyed. They didn't want anyone in the Grays' back yard looking up to see light where normally there was darkness.

They each went to separate windows to look down on the target house. "This is a great view," she commented.

"Let's check out the one next door." He'd noticed part of the driveway around the side of the house was obscured by a taller tree. "Maybe we should set up an extra camera in there."

This time she led the way, back into the ornate hall and down to the next room. This door stood open, and showed them an equally-blue brocade bedroom.

"I think the real reason they don't come up here is they hate the décor," he muttered.

Juliet laughed. "It's a bit heavy. Probably hasn't been redone since 1900."

Carlton went to the window and peered out. "Not much better here." Not much warmer either.

They checked out the other rooms—some open, some closed, all dusty and disused and quite posh. Cartavious Pumphrey had sunk some serious money into this place over a hundred years ago, and his descendants had clearly remained well-off.

All rooms inspected, they agreed their southeast sitting room was the best viewpoint.

He could do this. He could be professional with his partner, whom he'd kissed the hell out of a few days ago in a moment (or three) of complete and utter madness.

Glancing at her as she looked out the window one more time, he thought I'd do it again if I thought I'd survive, because she was—even in this dim light—lovely and fresh and Juliet.

Turning on his heel, he headed into the hall. "Let's get set up."

"As you wish," she said mildly, keeping pace.

Something in the hall caught his eye and he paused; Juliet stopped beside him. "It's this house, isn't it."

A painting at least four feet wide and nearly as tall hung between two bedrooms. It depicted a young man standing before the mansion, from the front at the northeast corner. He was scowling at the unseen painter, his hand on the collar of an Irish setter. He looked as if he'd been caught by surprise rather than having had to pose for probably days on end maintaining that exact expression.

Behind young man and serene dog, the mansion rose as if protecting them both.

"Hope the painter got paid extra for that job," Carlton said in a low voice.

"Wonder who he is?"

"A Pumphrey scion," he decided. "The pride of the family and king of the Santa Barbara coastline."

Juliet was amused. "Nice taste in dogs too, although I'm not sure why he's got a death grip on that one."

The dog seemed perfectly calm, but the young man's grasp of the collar suggested he was just barely holding him back from lunging.

"Control issues," Carlton decided, and resumed their trek to the end of the hall.

Where the door to the sitting room was once again firmly closed.

Carlton looked at it, frowning.

Juliet cleared her throat. "Did you close that when we left?"

"I did not."

"Okay."

He opened the door—no resistance this time—and they stepped inside.

The lamp in the corner by the wingback chair was on.

Juliet looked at him. "I suppose you also didn't run back in and turn that on either."

"I did not," he repeated with asperity.

A few moments went by in silence as they stared at the lamp, and Carlton's mind ran through a dozen scenarios which were plausible but unlikely. If one considered sentient robo-squirrel invasions plausible.

Juliet spoke. "Should we assume Franklin came up here and turned it on and then closed the door and went back downstairs without us hearing him?"

Carlton looked directly at her, judging her tone along with his vague sense of unease.

She met his gaze readily.

"Yes," he said firmly. "Let's do that." If he could ignore having kissed her, he could certainly ignore a one-time anomaly involving a lit lamp and a closed door.

She nodded as she crossed the room to turn out the lamp.

They set up their cameras and tripods, each took a set of binoculars, and stationed themselves at the two windows. Dusk had turned to dark, and stars twinkled benevolently in the sky.

"It's only October," Juliet complained, trying to wrap her jacket more tightly around her. "It got up to 67 today. Why is it so cold?"

The chill was the kind to reach through to bone, and he considered offering her his jacket but even if she didn't refuse, it would just make him colder, and she'd figure that out herself.

"I'll get the windbreakers out of the car," he offered.

Juliet shook her head. "I'll tough it out. Maybe the heat'll come on."

He doubted that, but said nothing, peering down into the yard again. One of the Grays pulled a lawn chair out of the garage and sat down to smoke a pipe.

"You think we're allowed to move furniture?" she asked after another few minutes.

He followed her gaze over to the nearest wingback chair. "Let's find out." He helped her move it to the window—it seemed to resist being lifted from its spot—and get it situated so she could sit but still see out the window and man the camera.

"Thanks. We'll take turns. Might help warm up, too."

She could be right about that, but he made no comment.

"Carlton, it'd be nice if you talked to me."

"I am talking to you." He took a photo of the pipe-smoking Gray. "That's Geoff Gray. He's the antiques dealer."

"I know who he is." She sounded patient, but he wouldn't look at her. "Carlton, come on."

Another man came out of the garage, and when he turned, the light from inside illuminated his face. He had a cigarette and carried a glass.

"That's Michael Gray," Carlton said neutrally. "He does the heavy lifting."

She sighed. "It's not going to kill you."

"Neither is not talking about things we don't need to discuss." He took another photo. "The sister is—"

"The sister is Helena," she interrupted, "and she keeps the books and works the front counter at the shop. Yes, I know this."

He was ragingly uncomfortable, but the side effect wasn't bad: the heat of embarrassment was at least driving back the chill of the room.

"They're all in their mid-to-late forties," she continued, "and have worked the business for three decades since inheriting it from their father. Anything else we need to recap for no damned reason?"

Carlton shot her a glare. "Look, O'Hara, what do you want from me?"

"A conver—"

"Besides that," he cut her off. "Some things don't need to be rehashed. Staying on point for the case is what's important."

"They're just having an after-dinner smoke. Look, here comes Helena with cake."

Indeed, the lady in question was carrying a small tray, and Michael Gray pulled up a chair for her to sit in after she distributed the treats.

"I don't think they're expecting stolen goods right this minute," Juliet added dryly.

The only answer he gave her was short. "Don't assume."

But she was persistent. "Partners are supposed to communicate."

I am not communicating how I felt about kissing you.

"Some say it's crucial."

So is pretending it didn't happen.

"Carlton, honestly."

You are not ready for how honestly I want to kiss you again.

"Enough, O'Hara," he snapped, and at the same moment, something fell over on the mantel behind him.

They both jumped, and he went to see what it was. It was hard to see at first in the dim light, but he found it soon enough; a wooden carving of a dog, about four inches tall. It had fallen to its side, and when he used his penlight to see why, all he found was undisturbed dust where it had once stood.

Juliet was beside him. "What made it fall?"

He shrugged. "It likes things quiet," he said meaningfully, and she rolled her eyes.

"Fine. I'll go get the windbreakers, since it's not only the room that's cold." She was gone before he could even think of a riposte.

Though if he had, it would have been "good one."

You're an idiot.

No, he'd been an idiot. Avoiding this conversation was not idiotic. Risking her wrath, which would be temporary, was smart.

Kissing her… that had been idiotic.

. . . .

. . .

Sunday evening, just past dusk. He'd knocked back three shots of bourbon—on a nearly-empty stomach during a melancholy mood—and a pleasant awareness of not being 100% in control of his faculties was creeping up on him.

Now, Carlton could certainly handle a lot more liquor than that: he was a cop. Hell, he was an Irish cop. But these had been downed in quick succession, and maybe he was slipping in his advancing age.

His cell rang, and Juliet asked if she could come over and borrow his jack.

For a moment he thought she meant Daniels.

Amused, she clarified that she was about four blocks away with a flat tire and a missing jack, and she wanted to borrow the jack from his Fusion to put her spare on.

Hell no, he told her, because his male ego forbade such a thing. However, he would bring the jack to her and change the tire himself.

She said, "Well, you can try."

Properly challenged, he went down to the car, dragged out the jack, and headed into the night.

(He'd have walked a lot farther than four blocks for her, but that was irrelevant.)

Juliet was surprised when he arrived on foot.

"I'm probably over the legal limit," he explained.

She grinned. "Then you probably shouldn't be changing a tire either. Give me that."

Carlton easily kept the jack in his grasp, and Juliet—how did she always look so pretty, no matter what time it was or where they were or how she was dressed?—shook her head and let him get to to work.

"This can't be safe, Carlton."

From his kneeling position, he eyed her. "There's no statute against drunk tire-changing."

"Not yet. How drunk are you?"

"Not enough to embarrass myself with a tire jack."

"Okay, partner." She was still amused.

"You call me partner like it's a shield," he said, regretting it instantly. Jack the car, idiot. Jack the car.

"Come again?"

He concentrated on removing the tire.

But Juliet the detective never gave up on anything she really wanted to know.

"Carlton? What do you mean?"

"Nothing."

"Don't lie to me. What do you mean?"

"Nothing important," he amended, yanking the tire free.

Juliet took it from him and set it down, and rolled the spare over. "I call you partner like it's a shield?"

He was tired. The alcohol wasn't being burned off by the physical activity. "To keep me in a box," he said shortly. "So I don't forget my place."

When he glanced up at her, she was staring at him, blue eyes wide with puzzlement. "Your place?"

"I'm not going to forget we're only partners, O'Hara." He put deliberate emphasis on her surname. "You don't have to keep reminding me."

"I wasn't," she protested. "I call you partner because you're… my partner. You're not in any box. There's not some place for you to be in."

Carlton got the spare on and kept his mouth shut.

"Carlton." Her voice was soft. "Partner is just about the best possible word. It means a lot more than friend."

Lugnut.

Juliet waited.

Lugnut.

"Talk to me," she whispered.

Lugnut. Lugnut.

He tested the tire to be sure his three shots of bourbon hadn't just caused him to endanger her life before she could get a proper replacement, then lowered the Beetle back to the ground.

"Done." He straightened up, collecting the jack and tire iron in as smooth a move as he could manage, but Juliet caught his arm and pulled hard and he stumbled to her, dropping the tire iron.

The jack slipped and cut his finger; she noticed the blood before he did and grasped his hand.

Carlton pulled it away, thinking don't touch me, don't you touch me—and Juliet was annoyed now.

"What is wrong with you?"

"This," he growled, and since she was close enough to kiss, and damned fragrant and lovely and dammit so very Juliet, he yanked her to him. "This," he repeated, before tugging her to him even closer, encircling her with his arms and kissing her deep and hard.

He didn't know what he was doing but to be doing it felt so right, and Juliet's body pressed to his felt even better, and he wasn't so drunk that he didn't know she was kissing him back, because she was. Her lush mouth opened to his and he kissed her and learned her and tried to absorb her.

She let out a sigh as she pressed close to him—and that little sigh, of all things, scared the crap out of him.

He let her go abruptly and watched as she put a shaking hand to her mouth, her eyes wide and stunned in the glow of the streetlamp.

She might have called to him before he got very far down the block, but he couldn't hear over the pounding of his heart.

. . . .

. . .

Thus, he concluded in the cold room on the third floor of the Pumphrey mansion, he was indeed an idiot. Too much bourbon, too many years of want, too much cowardice. Kissed his partner, skittered away like a crybaby, and now he was trapped with her in this icebox for the next six-plus hours hoping she'd just give up and write him off as a dysfunctional whackaloon with a likely drinking problem.

Yay, me.

Nothing was happening behind the Grays' house. The siblings were eating cake and chit-chatting at the edge of the open garage.

Suddenly the cold intensified.

It was as if someone had opened a freezer behind him, and Carlton felt a cliché come to pass: the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

Juilet was back, he decided. The old, well-constructed house had masked her approach down the hall and through the open door.

That was it. Juliet.

Slowly, he turned.

No one was there. The room was still and silent.

The door was closed.

The hair on the back of his neck jumped ship and ran off in terror.

He took a moment to breathe—to be sure his heart was even still beating.

No more being an idiot tonight.

He crossed the room to open the door.

Before his hand touched the knob, he heard a sound behind him. A shifting… a sighing.

Curtains. He must have stirred the curtains with his rapid movement.

Yes.

Or maybe Juliet had come in, slipping silently into the dark room because she was angry with him, only now alerting him to her presence.

So… yes.

So… that was now her hand settling on to his shoulder as the temperature dropped another ten degrees.

His breath caught as he turned his head.

He knew a lot of things about Juliet O'Hara. In long hours spent together he'd probably learned more about her than anyone alive.

And one of the things he knew about her very damned well was that she was always, always visible.

Unlike whoever was gripping his shoulder.

. . . .

. . .