CHAPTER TWO: The Talks

. . . .

. . .

Juliet paced the hall outside Carlton's room. He'd been out "for testing" when she arrived, but she was told he'd be back soon for his breakfast and it was just about all she could do to not run through the hospital searching him down.

She'd barely slept in the few hours since her last visit, with Carlton firmly entrenched in her head and apparently unwilling to move out any time soon. Worry and fear and puzzlement and a simple need to be sure he was okay, that he was himself, that he was Carlton… these all tormented her.

The morning nurse at the nurses' station glared at her, presumably because Juliet's heels were clicking on the tile floor, so she forced herself to slow down and then sit on the bench across from his door.

Why aren't you anxious to see Shawn, to see how he's doing?

Because he's only half as bad as he'll tell me he is. His self-indulgent whininess post-appendectomy (not to mention the drama of having been 'slightly' poisoned last year) had been off-putting, to say the least.

Is that the only reason?

No. She didn't want to see him. She was too angry. Pure and simple. She wanted to punch him herself for doing this to Carlton, for causing even one moment's worry for her that her partner and friend would be all right.

And if the situation was reversed? If Shawn had the fractured skull?

Then Shawn would have had it coming and instantly she was horrified to have thought so.

But the two men were so different. If Carlton ever resorted to something as… primitive… as smashing a pitcher against Shawn's head, it would be to stop a massive threat to himself and others. She knew Carlton could easily hold his own in a fist fight; he was fast and strong and keeping arrestees under control was paramount in the field.

Answer the question. Would you be as angry with Carlton if it were Shawn off being tested right now?

Probably. Yes. Of course, yes.

But… she'd also be puzzled, in the extreme.

Her partner was all about self-control, and although even a man like Carlton could lose that self-control, he'd have had to be totally… out of his mind to start the fight in the first place, let alone end it that way when his opponent's back was turned.

She wasn't puzzled about Shawn, not as such. He wasn't violent or aggressive but he was impulsive and petulant. Those qualities, amped up by alcohol, could easily have turned into monumental bad judgment and lack of any filters on his behavior.

Later she would go and see him, but not until she'd talked to Carlton.

Restless, she got up to pace again, and after a few minutes the nurse walked up to her and said, "Please. Go into his room and wait there." Her tone suggested this was not optional.

Juliet went in and resumed pacing, thankful the other bed was unoccupied, and ten minutes later when she'd about worn a path in the linoleum, Carlton was wheeled into the room by a lanky orderly.

His eyes, crystal blue, fixed on her, but he didn't smile. He looked tired and battered and that white bandage around his head was a startling contrast to his still mostly-dark hair.

"Carlton," she said, her smile tentative. "How are you?"

"My head hurts." Succinct. He allowed the orderly to help him out of the wheelchair but got into the bed on his own.

The orderly nodded at her, told him to press the button if he needed anything, and took the wheels away.

Juliet approached the bed, trying not to look at the vee of his bare chest exposed by the hospital gown. But you wonder about touching that chest hair… now stop it. "What were the tests?"

"Making sure my brain was still intact." He was adjusting the sheets, not looking at her, and Juliet couldn't take it anymore, not today of all days.

She grasped his forearm, sliding her hand down to take his. "Carlton. Please look at me."

Slowly he turned his head, and this close to him, she found the blue of his eyes entirely mesmerizing.

"I'm fine, O'Hara. I ache and my head hurts but I'm fine. The doctor thinks everything's going to be okay. He's going to discharge me this afternoon."

His hand was warm and he didn't try to retract it but she could feel his tension.

Oh… is he embarrassed? Or does he think I'm here to apologize for Shawn? Or maybe to yell at him?

"I haven't talked to Shawn yet. Gus called me about you last night."

"Nice of him," he said. "How is Spencer?"

She was surprised he'd even ask, but then again, unlike her boyfriend, he did at least go through the motions of polite conversation.

Which was how he was acting. Polite. Maybe he associates me with the man who did this to him. He might think of me as the enemy once removed.

She shrugged. "I guess he's sore too, but from what Gus said, he deserves it."

Carlton gently removed his hand from hers, ostensibly to scratch his neck, but she wasn't fooled.

"What did you fight about?" Gus had been vague, claiming he hadn't heard much, but it was an over-the-top nervous evasion and she knew there was more.

He glanced at her again, a flash of surprise quickly masked by a more impassive gaze. "I don't remember."

"You… don't remember?"

"I'd been drinking," he said with a shrug. "I remember he came to my booth and started in on me, I remember that when I told him off he hit me, I remember hitting him back, and that's all."

The last part was probably true, and Carlton didn't often lie to her but again, just as with Gus, she knew there was more.

"Why were you even there?" she persisted.

He frowned. "Why does anyone go to a bar? I wanted a drink."

"How many drinks did you want?"

He shook his head slightly, and she could read irritation… discomfort… reluctance… hiding.

"Carlton," she said softly. "Please. I'm worried about you."

"Thanks, but you don't have to be." He looked out the window, his face impossible to read.

Juliet walked around to the other side of the bed to block his view, and saw no reason to be shy about her next question. "What's wrong? Why do I feel like you're upset with me?"

Carlton stared at her. "I'm not."

"Then why are you being so… remote?"

"Remote," he repeated, still searching her out. "O'Hara, I'm beat up and bruised and my head is killing me and the whole idea of having a fractured skull isn't exactly comforting, you know? It's safe to say I'm not myself. To top it all off, I have a damn hangover."

She smiled a little, and he smiled back just enough to make her feel better. "Okay. I'm sorry. I… it's just you're really important to me and I'd hate to think you don't consider me someone you can rely on at a time like this." She wouldn't say trust, not after the past year.

"I know I can." His smoky voice was steady.

Juliet held his blue gaze until she was satisfied of his sincerity. "I think Vick's coming in to see you. When will you be discharged? I'll give you a ride home."

"I can take a taxi—"

"Forget it," she interrupted. "You are not taking a taxi."

"I need to get my car from Circles," he pointed out somewhat aggravatedly.

"You don't know even know whether your doctor wants you to drive yet. I will make sure your car gets back to your place. And this afternoon, I'll take you home. Clear? Partner?"

"Clear." It was gruff. "Thanks."

"I'll even bring you a clean shirt from your overnight bag. I imagine the one you had on last night is ruined." Beer, blood… bad memories.

"Most likely."

She reached for his hand again, and this time he let her take it, and he didn't draw away—although his already large blue eyes seemed to grow wider—when she leaned in to kiss his cheek. "Call me when you're ready."

. . . .

. . .

When Karen Vick walked into Carlton's room—after meeting Juliet on her way out the main entrance—he was out of bed and standing by the window. In his hospital gown, and wearing what she presumed were his pants from the night before, he looked… like a wreck, but a striking wreck nonetheless.

He turned at the sound of her heels. "Chief," he said with some appreciation. "O'Hara said you might come by."

"I'm not the only one who wants to, but I understand you'll be going home this afternoon." She touched his upper arm lightly. "How do you feel, really?"

His answer was the same as he'd given Juliet, and his delivery of it even and unemotional.

Karen crossed her arms and surveyed his bruised face, his bandaged head, and his air of watchfulness. The latter was normal for him.

"I talked to Gus so I know the structure of what happened. What I don't know is exactly how to proceed. I'd like to know what the fight was about, and whether I should have Spencer arrested for what he did."

Carlton glanced at the floor for a moment, and then looked out the window again. "I can't remember what we argued about."

That was what he'd told Juliet. "Gus would only say it was personal," she prompted.

But he merely repeated, "I don't remember enough to be sure. Are you asking if I want to press charges against Spencer?"

"Technically I don't have to ask you that. It's automatically a criminal matter. I can arrest him, take it to the DA and make prosecution his call."

His blue eyes bored into hers, but he said nothing.

Karen sighed. "Look, you two have a long history of shared irritation but this is a lot bigger than that. If you're hesitating because you don't want to upset your partner—because she's his girlfriend—you need to get over that, and so does she. Although," she amended, "I haven't exactly heard her step up and plead for mercy on his behalf."

Something flickered in the wide blue of his eyes, and she filed that away for later reflection. "I don't know what I want to do. I don't know what's best." He returned his gaze to the view out the window. "Ask me tomorrow."

There was a time… as recently as, honestly, last week, when Carlton Lassiter would have jumped at the chance to put Shawn Spencer behind bars. She doubted he'd suddenly started liking the guy, and above all things he was a stickler for the law and would be outraged if someone else in his situation didn't want his attacker arrested and brought to justice.

So what the hell was going on?

. . . .

. . .

Early in the afternoon, Buzz McNab first followed Juliet to Carlton's condo where she dropped off her Bug, then drove her over to Circles to find Carlton's Fusion, still in the lot. Somehow the sight of it filled her with a pang of regret that he'd even felt the need to drink until he was drunk. There was so much he kept from her—not that he didn't have a right—and so much she wanted to know, to understand him more deeply than she thought she already did.

No one put up walls better than Carlton.

She thanked Buzz (who was still stunned by the news and already asking hesitantly if he could go see Carlton in the hospital) and got into the Fusion with the set of keys she'd collected from the nurses' station, where they still held his wallet and other personal items.

The car smelled of Carlton, his aftershave and his… she didn't know what it was exactly. His essence? No matter—it simply made her feel better, as if she were close to him again.

She was driving back to the station when it occurred to her that she really ought to check in on Shawn.

And that she still didn't want to.

Suck it up, girl.

He'd texted her twice after ten, once to say he was still at Henry's and once to say he'd love a hand-delivered smoothie.

Reluctantly, she drove to Henry Spencer's house and parked in the gravel lot across the street, taking a deep breath to steady herself before going up the walk to knock on the door.

Henry himself pulled it open a moment later. "Juliet," he said with a raised eyebrow. "Good to see you."

"Hi. How are you doing?" It had been a few months since he'd left the force, and he looked good, recovered nicely from his gunshot wound.

"I'm great. Everything's copacetic, except for that strange lump on my sofa." He urged her in and gestured to the den.

"Jules!" Shawn cried, indeed from within what appeared to be a large cocoon on the sofa. Thoroughly wrapped in blankets from neck to toe, he looked more as if he were recovering from the flu than a fist fight.

He tried to sit up and failed.

Juliet sat on the coffee table and watched his efforts.

"Little help?" he suggested with a smile. "I'd like to kiss my sweet girlfriend."

She looked him over. Well, what she could see of him. Black eye, split lip, bruise on the other cheek. Hair smushed. She was surprised he didn't feel that the most keenly.

"You should rest," she said matter-of-factly. "How do you feel?"

He looked disappointed. "No kiss?"

"It might hurt you," she lied.

Shawn settled back on the sofa, and managed to work one arm free from the blankets which swathed him in order to scratch his nose.

"So? How do you feel?"

"Like an enchilada," Henry suggested from the doorway. "That's how he looks, anyway. I'm going out to pick up some food. You want anything, Shawn?"

"Smoothies. Many. Pineapple chief among them. Nothing will soothe me like a smoothie. In fact, they should really call them soothies."

Henry shook his head and left.

As soon as she heard the rumble of his truck—Shawn seemed to be listening for it too—Juliet asked simply, "What happened last night?"

Shawn was a very good liar but for one-quarter of one second his bloodshot eye gave away that he was about to evade. "I really can't say, Jules. I was just too snockered. I guess I got in his face like I always do and it just escalated because I was stupid-faced drunk."

"You never strike your first blow physically, Shawn. You're a verbal assault kind of guy." Very verbal, starting at a high level and regressing to childish if it went on too long.

He showed no reaction. "Enough jello shots and anything can happen. Truth is, I don't remember using the pitcher. I can't believe I did."

"Here's the thing," she said softly. "I've known you almost seven years and I've been dating you for over a year. I've seen you piqued, annoyed, frustrated and pissed off. I've also seen you pitch the occasional and highly unflattering hissy fit. One of the few times I thought you were genuinely angry, it turned out you were only pretending—that was when we first dealt with Yang and you went off on us in the Psych office. The point is, for you to throw a punch at Carlton at all means you were angrier than you'd ever been about anything."

Shawn was practiced at deceit, but his arm was moving restlessly. Maybe that was his tell. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I don't believe you can't remember."

He flung his head back against the sofa and then immediately winced. "Ow. Look, I guess you've never been so drunk that you lost your memory of what you were doing and why, but that's how it was for me. I know I was a jerk. I just don't remember the specifics. And that's the tru—"

Juliet got to her feet abruptly, a wave of impatience moving her away from him. Don't you use the word 'truth' to me, she wanted to snap.

"Jules," he said softly, and she saw clearly in his hazel eyes that he knew he was in trouble, and he knew getting out of it would be very difficult.

"You could have killed my partner," she said, her voice flat and cold. "You could have left him brain-damaged. He's my best friend and you of all people ought to understand how important a best friend is. I don't care how drunk you were, and maybe I don't even care what set all this off. I only know I'm incredibly angry with you, Shawn, and I don't know when I'm going to get over it. Or if I even can."

He was staring at her—partly aghast, partly confused.

Her phone beeped and she glanced at the screen: a text from Carlton. He was ready to be picked up. "I have to go. Carlton's being discharged." She went to the doorway and looked back at her swaddled boyfriend. "And by the way, one of the first things he asked me when I went to see him this morning was how you were. I don't recall you asking how he is." She didn't wait for an answer or an excuse, let alone another damned lie.

. . . .

. . .

Gus tapped on the open door of Lassiter's room, nervous but determined.

Lassiter looked up from the chair by the window, wary. "Guster."

"Uh… how you doing?" Juliet had mentioned a bandage but it was gone now except for a white square at the side of his head, which was probably to keep some of the cuts from the glass covered.

"I'm getting out in a little while. Waiting for discharge papers and a clean shirt from O'Hara. How's Spencer?"

"I haven't seen him today. Talked to him, though. He's at his dad's and I guess he's all right."

One dark brow arched. "Recuperation under Henry's supervision must be… interesting."

Gus smiled. "Yeah, he'll be asking for a ride home any minute now."

Lassiter leaned back, arms folded, his blue gaze regarding him thoughtfully.

Gus broke. "Look, I wanted to apologize."

Lassiter blinked. "I don't believe you did anything wrong, Guster. And thanks, by the way, for calling O'Hara last night. I appreciate it."

"I did do something wrong," he insisted. "I didn't get him out of there fast enough, and I stood by while it was going to hell."

Glancing past him to the open door, as if to be sure no one could hear, Lassiter said carefully, "There's no way to stop Spencer doing anything he's determined to do. And as I recall, it didn't take very long anyway."

Conscious of his pulse racing, Gus went a little closer to the solitary man in the chair. "How much do you remember?"

"Everything up to turning around to see the bouncers approaching. What does he remember?"

"All of it, I think. I told him not to tell anyone." He paused. "Juliet especially."

Lassiter's bruised face was shadowed. "And you didn't tell Vick."

"No. Nor Juliet. And I won't. I wanted you to know that."

"Spencer will." His tone was almost resigned.

"I don't think so. I think I made him understand he'd only be making things worse for everyone."

Slowly, Lassiter nodded. "Thanks."

Gus shoved his hands in his pockets. "Is Shawn going to be arrested?"

The blue eyes looked at him sharply. "I don't think it's up to me at this point. Chief Vick let me know she'll make the final call. But I'm not asking for it, if that's what you mean."

He said something which surprised even him. "You should."

Lassiter was quizzical. "Because it'll teach him a lesson? That's never worked before. He doesn't learn lessons."

"No, but you should do it anyway. I've known Shawn since I was five, Lassiter. He's done a lot of dumbass stuff but this was serious, and ugly, and it was wrong."

For a long time, Lassiter didn't say anything at all, and Gus was on the verge of prompting him when he spoke. "The sooner everyone believes no one remembers what happened, the sooner this goes away. For all of us." He paused, and added very softly, "And O'Hara."

Gus caught the tiniest glimpse of pain in his eyes, but Lassiter could hide almost as well as Shawn from those who sought to understand his heart and mind.

"Okay. I understand. You're probably right. I just… I just wanted to talk to you about it. I'm glad you're okay, Lassiter. You have no idea."

"I have some idea how glad I am that I'm okay." He allowed a faint smile to ease his stern expression, and Gus relaxed a little. "Thanks for coming by."

Stepping forward, because this he knew was the right thing to do, Gus extended his hand to Lassiter, who shook it and smiled slightly one more time.

As he left the room, Gus couldn't help but think he's a much better man than most people give him credit for.

. . . .

. . .