Carlton and Juliet continue circling around each other and their feelings. This time, the shoe's on the other foot. SPOILERS for Ep 6.03: "This Episode Sucks" psychbelongs to TPTB and USA Network and anyone else who has a legit claim. Certainly not I. No infringement intended.

"Damn, that must be one hell of an appointment Lassie's got." Shawn's voice contained its usual mocking edge touched with a hint of genuine curiosity. "Whaddaya think? A colonoscopy? What else would make him look that happy?"

"My money's on a weapons exhibit," Gus chimed in.

"How about you, Jules? Any guesses?"

Juliet barely heard their banter as she stared at her partner's dark-suited form moving purposefully—some might even say jauntily—down the hall towards the front doors. Usually only apprehending a perpetrator brought that sort of lilt to his step. And to have left his desk in such a state of disarray, with crumpled sheets of paper and pencil shavings scattered across the normally pristine surface? To say that was unlike Carlton would be understating it. The man noticed when the cleaning crew failed to put his blotter back in the precise place he preferred. Once upon a time, he used to complain—bitterly and somewhat loudly—but after more than a few eye-rolls and chiding comments from her about people doing their jobs to the best of their ability and that he wasn't some special snowflake who needed to be catered to, and by the way, why don't you just chill, Carlton, he'd resorted to simply heaving a deep sigh before moving the blotter into place with a pointed stare in her direction, as if to prove that yes, he too, could be flexible.

Lately, he'd even quit with the sighing, simply moving the blotter with a small smile her direction before settling into his work.

"I think Jules thinks it's the release of the new taco combo at El Marimbe, right?"

"What?" she finally said, vaguely aware that Shawn and Gus had continued with their banter while she'd been lost in thought, staring at Carlton's desk and seeing again, that small grin on his face as he'd passed them.

"I said, new taco combo, El Marimbe, and they've got karaoke on Wednesday nights, so maybe if we're lucky, we'll get to see Lassie doing his best rendition of 'La Cucaracha.'"

"I'd say that would be unlucky, Shawn. Have you heard the man try to sing 'Happy Birthday?' It's an affront to sound."

"That's just because he's not properly lubed. Tequila makes everyone sound great. You in, Jules?"

No. Shawn and Gus after Mexican were no one's friends. Add tequila to the mix, and no thank you, very much.

"You guys go on ahead," she replied. "I'll, um, catch up with you later."

Shawn remained as unflappably accepting as ever. "Okay." He started to lean in, but stopped as she took a step back.

"Shawn—you promised."

"Sorry. I keep forgetting." He retreated, shoving his hands in his pockets. "It's not like it isn't public knowledge now."

"Still, I work here."

He put on a mock-affronted look. "So do I."

"Yeah, well this isn't your primary workplace."

"So you saying we can neck at our offices?"

"Not if I'm there," Gus protested.

"But that's what makes it fun."

She sighed. "Shawn—"

He held his hands up in surrender. "I know, I know—sorry. Just jerking your chain a little." He leaned in again, but only close enough to whisper. "I do miss you when you're not around, Jules. Never doubt that."

Dammit. Shawn didn't often relax out of his full-on court jester mode, but when he did, it allowed the sincerity to shine through and that—that made him damn near irresistible. "I know." She smiled, trying to convey a promise for later in the glance she sent him. "Me too."

Yet she couldn't shake the feeling that she wanted him and Gus to leave, already. She had things to do and couldn't accomplish any of it with them around.

"Call me when you're done?"

"I will." Seeing that the bullpen was mostly deserted, she relaxed and reached out to give his hand a brief, hard squeeze. Maybe not a kiss, but it would have to do.

With Shawn and Gus finally out of the building, she tried to turn her attention to the paperwork on her desk, but she kept getting glimpses of the chaos of Carlton's desk from the corner of her eye, distracting her yet again. He'd been so intent, scribbling on page after page, sharpening his pencils with vicious swipes of that deadly blade he usually kept hidden in his desk. She knew it had something to do with their most recent case and his near-miss with Marlowe. Probably a statement to be used against her in court.

After all, he'd really liked her, but to find out that she'd been stealing blood and had all but been an accessory to murder? Her heart constricted. Poor Carlton.

Really? Poor Carlton? You're really going the concerned partner route?

She shook off the accusatory voice and stood, anxious to be moving. The inner voice was less likely to pipe up if she was actively busy. And she had to shake the damned voice off—concerned partner was all she could be. By her own rules and the unspoken truce she and Carlton had come to, in the wake of their unexpected encounter a few weeks back. Discovering the depth of his emotion had shocked her—and at the same time, hadn't. He'd all but said he loved her. Had said it, as much as he was able, without using the actual words that would irrevocably change everything. But in the words he had used and in his kisses, she'd felt the emotion he kept so tightly reined.

Emotion she'd been unexpected witness to the other night—when they'd interrupted his encounter with Marlowe. She'd managed to pretend the same shock the others had expressed at the sight of Carlton's military garters, but ridiculous (and honestly, kind of endearing) as those had been, in truth her shock had been reserved for everything else about his appearance. The hair mussed from its customary neat style, the flush streaking across his high cheekbones, the deep open vee of his shirt, revealing the chest that she herself had caressed just days before, but what had struck her more than anything was the glazed, heated expression turning his eyes a deep, intense blue. At the same moment as she understood yet again just how much he'd held back with her, she experienced a deep, primal jolt that had left her shaken for hours afterward. The realization that this man, when allowed, would be crazy passionate and completely uninhibited.

Really? You're still trying to play that this surprises you? God, you're stupid. Or being deliberately obtuse. I vote for deliberately obtuse, because I know you were there the other night. You know? Hands in his shirt? Tongue down his throat? And would have gladly gone further if only—

Okay, okay—she'd also been shocked at finding him like that—with someone else. But she'd fought back the unreasonable surge of anger that had swept over her at the sight of Carlton, hovering close to Marlowe, arm protectively around her at every possible moment. Her rational brain understood that he was perfectly entitled to follow through on an attraction to another woman. She had no claim on him. None. She herself was taken and he'd been a complete gentleman, understanding that she needed time. That she needed to follow through on the attraction that had dogged her and Shawn for five years, constantly thwarted by an unbelievable string of bad timing. And now the timing was right. For her and Shawn.

That's what her rational brain said.

Her irrational brain, on the other hand, was righteously pissed off at what could only be called another incidence of bad timing and furthermore, hadn't been at all sure who she wanted to smack more: Marlowe or Carlton. For a multitude of vastly different reasons, none of which she cared to examine too closely.

Her irrational brain had also breathed a massive sigh of relief the moment Carlton had snapped the cuffs on Marlowe's wrists, turning her over into Juliet's custody before tersely stating that it was now her case and he'd be at home if he was needed to give a statement.

Her rational brain had then wanted to smack her irrational brain for being such a selfish, self-centered bitch.

Out of habit she began to reach for her weapon, intent on disassembling it, before she stopped herself. Everyone knew this was her stress-reliever. But what did she have to be stressed about? Nothing. Zip. Zilch. They'd solved the case and the perp was even sympathetic, driven to desperate acts by the heartlessness of Big Insurance and was finally getting the medical help he needed. Everything was just peachy, wasn't it? Outside of poor Carlton having to deal with Marlowe's betrayal. The knowledge that she'd only come onto him for his blood type. She hadn't really liked him that much, had she? No, not at all. So other than honest worry for Carlton's well-being she had no reason to want to take her weapon apart and put it back together, attempting to best her personal record. Nope. No reason at all.

What else could she do, though?

Once again, the littered surface of Carlton's desk caught her eye. Okay, then. There was something she could do—clear his desk off. She was just being a good partner, right? Right. Gathering the crumpled yellow sheets, she told herself she wasn't snooping, not really. It was just accidental that she happened to catch a word or two, here and there, written in the distinctive block script Carlton preferred.

Marlowe…

My dearest…

We have…

I'll wait…

No. He couldn't possibly mean… No. Balling the sheets together, she tossed them into the nearest recycling bin. After storing the knife back in its usual drawer and straightening his blotter, she returned to her desk, determined to complete her work. Yet the words kept echoing in her mind, forming a picture that she'd known, deep down, was more accurate.

Yes, he'd been devastated at Marlowe's initial deception and subsequent incarceration, but there'd been something more.

Giving in to impulse and hating herself for it, she stood once more and retrieved the legal pad from his desk. Using a pencil, she skimmed lightly over the surface of the page, the indentation of Carlton's handwriting gradually revealing itself.

My dear Marlowe

Okay, this had been bugging her since the first moment they'd encountered her, but seriously, what kind of film noir, femme fatale name was that anyhow, she thought, not for the first time. That couldn't possibly be her real name.

Temper, temper…

She snarled at the internal voice.

"Detective O'Hara? Everything all right?"

Startled, she glanced up then smiled at McNab's concerned expression. "Sorry. Needed to clear my throat."

His blessedly trusting face revealed no sign that he thought she was completely full of shit. "Some tea might help with that."

"No thanks, Buzz, I'm fine."

"A lozenge, maybe?"

"Buzz—"

"Right, fine. Sorry."

She waved off his apology, making a mental note to bring him some doughnuts or something to apologize for being so cranky, before returning her attention to the legal pad. She continued skimming the pencil lead over the page, an unpleasant chill creeping higher up her spine as each word was revealed.

My dear Marlowe,

I will wait for you these next six to eighteen months.

See you next Wednesday.

Today was Wednesday. Visiting day at the prison. That had been his appointment. He wasn't devastated. He was sad they couldn't be together, sure, but overall, he was… expectant. He was… happy.

She sat straighter in her chair. He was happy. Blinking back the unexpected sting of tears, she ripped the page from the legal pad and fed it into her shredder before returning the pad to his desk. She'd only just resumed her seat when he came striding into the bullpen, a small smile playing about the corners of his mouth.

He was happy.

She should be happy for him. They both had what they wanted. More or less. She had Shawn and the relationship they were building, while Carlton, for the first time in too long, had… hope.

"O'Hara?"

She glanced up to find Carlton staring at her. "Yeah?"

"Did you do this?" he asked with a wave at his clean desk.

"Um, yeah… I hope you're not upset, I just know how much you like your desk a certain way and you left in such a hurry and—"

"Thank you."

She blinked as she watched him sit down, running his hands over the blotter but not even adjusting it the slightest amount. "Excuse me?"

"Thanks—I appreciate the gesture. I owe you a coffee."

No questions or suspicious accusations. Just simple gratitude and as he leaned back in his chair, a contented, secret smile.

He was happy.

She should be happy.

So why did she feel so miserable?

AN: Okay, not only did this story spawn a second chapter, there's a third brewing, since we have to see Carlton's side of this little bit of unexpected fall-out. Thanks so much for the reviews!