Prelude to a Kiss

We know how it goes, yeah? No ownership in psych, no infringement intended, TPTB are very, very cool people and I'm just borrowing a corner of the sandbox.

Yes, I yielded to requests (and demands and some outright threats *gives Alysheba and Loafer the side eye*) and decided to keep going. Thanks for asking for more—you guys are the best! Hope to live up to the expectations.

"It would appear we are… married."

All Carlton could see of Juliet as her quiet words died out were the waves of hair shielding her face and her hands, shaking almost violently despite her death grip on the sheets.

He had to see her face. Needed to see her face. Had to find a way to let her know it would be okay. Even if he had no idea how. That they could fix this—together—the way they fixed so much else. While he shoved into submission the part of him that absolutely, positively, no-way-in-hell had any business speaking up that was whispering maybe this wasn't anything that really needed fixing.

Because despite the absolute horror of waking up to find themselves God only knows where and married with no memory of it, not to mention, well… what had obviously followed getting married, Carlton couldn't deny how damned good he'd felt as he drifted awake. How right. Physically sated and exhausted, yet energized in a way he hadn't experienced in far too long.

Whatever had happened between them—it had been very, very good.

Oh, hell, who was he kidding?

Of course it needed fixing. He and Juliet married? No. Not what was supposed happen, in this reality or any other.

Juliet would never voluntarily marry him. Not when she had Spencer.

Oh dear Lord, Spencer.

Never mind that Carlton thought the man was a charlatan, a cheat, a con artist of the highest magnitude, not to mention, a complete and utter jackass, he was Juliet's boyfriend.

Carlton knew, despite what really should be better judgment on her part, that Juliet truly loved the idiot. For all he knew, she'd envisioned a future with marriage and children and oh, hell—

How in the name of Sweet Lady Justice was she going to explain this? He knew her. She'd want to be completely aboveboard and honest. How Spencer would take it was anybody's guess, but Carlton knew what his reaction would be and knew it would involve firearms.

Whatever happened, he'd just have to be there for her. If she even wanted him anywhere near her after they got back to Santa Barbara. Which they could deal with after they figured out where the hell they were, how the hell they'd gotten here, and most important, after he saw her face.

"Juliet?" He swallowed against the intense dryness in his throat, breathing a little easier as he saw her grip relax marginally, the sunlight streaming through the windows glinting off the gold band as her left hand dropped to her lap.

"Can you look at me?" He swallowed again, feeling as if there was a desert's worth of sand clogging his throat. "Please?"

He could touch her, right? They were partners and they were friends and that had to trump even the whole married thing, which—

A thought occurred to him, simultaneously hopeful and terrifying, but he shoved it aside as not important right in that moment. Right now, what was important was connecting with Juliet again. She hadn't objected to his touching the livid reddish-purple mark on her throat and had, in fact, touched him as well.

And he had to touch her. Had to prove to himself that she was real. That all of this, terrifying as it was, was real.

He carefully took her left hand in his, instinctively closing his warmer fingers around her icy ones. With his free hand, he reached out and brushed the curtain of her hair back, prompting her to slowly raise her head, her gaze meeting his.

"Hey," he said softly. "It's going to be okay."

Almost gingerly she shook her head.

"I swear, Juliet, we'll figure this out."

"I—" Her mouth clamped shut as her eyes widened. In the next instant she bolted, dragging the sheet with her as she charged toward the bathroom. An instant later, the unmistakable sounds of retching emerged from behind the partially closed door, prompting him to charge from the bed, pausing only long enough to paw through the discarded clothes on the floor. Unearthing his boxers he quickly yanked them on, muttering curses as one foot got briefly stuck, making him stumble in his haste to get to her.

Kneeling beside her, Carlton gathered her hair in one hand as with the other, he alternated stroking her back with putting a supportive hand beneath her forehead. After several minutes punctuated by a few extra bouts of dry heaves, she pushed away from him and slumped against the wall. She wiped at her streaming eyes with a trembling hand before using the sheet on her mouth.

With a sigh, Carlton rose and wet a washcloth at the enormous double vanity and filled a glass with cool water. Kneeling beside her, he handed her the glass while he busied himself wiping her sweaty forehead, and lifting the heavy mass of her hair to swab her neck.

"Can't say I blame you," he murmured as he gently stroked her throat, mindful of the hickey that by any standard, was fairly impressive. Yet another reason for her to hate him.

"Victoria threw up the morning after our wedding, too."

Next thing he knew, he was flat on his ass, cheek throbbing as Juliet loomed over him, eyes blazing, arm drawn back.

"The hell?" Instinctively, Carlton dropped the washcloth, catching her arm just before it connected again. "Juliet—stop—" Despite his size and strength, she had the advantage of surprise and what seemed like a righteous head of fury as she fought, hard, to try to slap him again. But why?

"Juliet—goddammit, would you stop it?" he grunted, as he fought to keep her from beating the hell out of him while at the same time, attempting to gain some measure of control and not hurt her in the process. Except it was like trying to control an enraged wolverine, flying limbs and hair with a strength and power belying its size.

Maintaining his hold on her arm, he slid his free arm around her waist and hauled her down across his body, rolling them over, grateful for the plush bathroom rug serving as a cushion and praying that she wouldn't throw up again. Kind of praying he wouldn't either, as his stomach lurched uncomfortably. But at least she quit struggling, her body still beneath his outside of one long, shuddering breath that he felt as intensely as if it had been his own.

"Juliet," he repeated, more softly, thinking that calling her O'Hara hadn't even occurred to him once. "What's going on?"

To his surprise and horror, two slow tears trailed down her cheeks, more tears filling her eyes and illuminating the hints of green normally hidden by the dark blue.

"Don't do that."

"What?" Still cautious, he kept hold of her arm, though his grip gentled. "What did I do?" And how could he fix it?

"I am not your ex."

"No," he said slowly. "You're definitely not."

For one thing, Juliet was sane. Most of the time. A damned good shot. Tough as hell, but never malicious. Sweet-tempered and a lot more sensitive than she liked to let on. Never ever afraid to call him on his crap but in a way that, while it might annoy him in the moment, ultimately made sense and made him reconsider his position. Most of the time.

No. Definitely not Victoria.

She sniffed, another pair of tears leaving silvery tracks on her pale cheeks. "How could you even think that of me?"

"Uh… I wasn't trying to cast aspersions on your character."

"But you did, you idiot." She wrestled her arm from beneath his body but rather than use it to beat him some more, she merely grabbed a clean section of sheet and angrily swiped at her nose and eyes.

This situation was becoming more surreal by the moment. If he didn't know better, he'd think Juliet was actually defending her decision to marry him. A decision neither of them could, for the love of God, even remember making and it was really starting to piss him off.

"I'm… sorry?"

"You should be." She sniffed inelegantly as she swiped at her nose again, but her expression softened as she gazed up at him. "Is this an ideal situation? God no. Did something really unexpected and bizarre and that I have no idea how to explain to anyone happen? God, yes. But Carlton, for the love of all that's holy, get it through your thick skull—you're my partner. Whatever happened, it happened to both of us—and both of us are going to work together to figure it out."

Juliet paused, her lips pressing together with an obvious worry that, as inappropriate as it was, tempted Carlton to kiss from her expression.

Dear God, he really, really wanted to kiss her and remember what it was like. Especially since, judging by the reddened skin and slight swelling evident as her mouth relaxed and her lips parted slightly, he'd apparently done quite a lot of it last night.

"Carlton?"

Her voice was low and throaty and God help him, so damned inviting, and he was going to burn in a Very Special Hell for this, he knew. But he had to—

"Please don't hate me, okay?"

She blinked slowly, her skin flushing lightly and her eyes deepening to a soft blue that brought with it a sudden awareness that only a sheet and his boxers separated them from everything they'd done the night before.

"You still don't get it, do you?" Her free hand, her left, the one with the ring he had put there at some point, rose to his cheek. "I could never hate you."

"Juliet," he exhaled, lowering his head and stopped—

"Carlton?" Her hand slid to his hair and tugged gently and dammit, he wanted to let her pull him down and lose himself in the memory and reality of Juliet, but he couldn't.

Dammit.

He couldn't even trust himself to give her a small kiss—a kiss of consolation or of promise—because he couldn't make that sort of promise and worse still, had no real right to. Not to mention, he couldn't trust himself to stop.

"I'll be damned," he said quietly.

"What?"

Disappointment sliced through Carlton with a surprising intensity at the sound of her voice, throaty still, from her bout of sickness, but the tone completely different.

"Look," he said, clearing his own throat and trying for his usual brusqueness—immediately giving it up at the shadow of obvious hurt that passed across her face. Rolling off Juliet. he helped her to a sitting position and immediately took her right hand in his again, extending her arm. "Look," he repeated, more quietly, as he pointed out the pair of tiny red marks in the crook of her elbow.

Juliet's eyes widened, followed immediately by her brows drawing together as she grabbed both his hands and extended his arms. The ends of her hair teased his skin as her fingertips trailed along the sensitive crooks of his elbows, pausing inside his left, where three angry pinpricks marched along the blue line of his vein, prominent against the fair skin he'd inherited from some misbegotten Irish ancestor.

"Son of a bitch," she muttered in a voice that shook Carlton with how much it reminded him of… well, him.

Eyes narrowed, she looked up and met his gaze.

"What the hell happened, Carlton?"

He turned his wrist, capturing her right elbow in his hand and rotating it so the insides of both their elbows faced up, the first real piece of evidence they'd come across staring at them in all its angry redness.

"I have no idea," he finally managed, furious at the sight of the red needle marks marring Juliet's skin. "But when I find out who did this, I swear to you, Juliet, I'm going to kill the son of a bitch."