CHAPTER THREE: Happening

. . . .

. . .

The bar was close enough to the station that she'd be recognized, but not so close as to be overly obvious.

She ordered a large Scotch and rocks, ignored the bartender's raised eyebrow when he spotted her badge, and drank half of it pretty fast. On top of an atypically large lunch, it wouldn't affect her overmuch, especially since she wandered away from the bar, discreetly poured the rest into a planter, and then wandered back to the bar to request another.

Real police would be on the scene of the upcoming accident, and her blood alcohol level would automatically be tested.

For the second drink, she visited another plant to dump the first half of the alcohol, sparing a thought for the plant, then returned to the bar to slowly finish it off, clinking the ice against the glass, smiling beneficently at the bartender, and declining an offer of peanuts.

Be noticed, but don't say anything at first.

When she ordered the third drink, the bartender cleared his throat. "Didn't think cops drank on the job."

"It's my lunch hour," she said glibly.

"Even so."

"My money no good here?" She didn't wait for an answer, slugging back the rest of the brew. "I'm going home anyway, so don't worry. No drunken policing this afternoon."

"Good to know," he said dryly, and moved off to deal with another customer.

"O'Hara," barked Carlton from the door, and several heads turned. "Come on."

She let out a dramatic sigh and got up from her stool, putting money on the bar. The barkeep looked between her and Carlton as if he was considering ratting her out, so she smiled tightly and reminded him, "I'm homeward bound, buddy."

He relaxed, and she followed her (seemingly) irritated partner out the door.

Only he wasn't irritated; he was tense. Outside in the sunshine, they worked the choreographed move where she "somehow" got the keys from him (mainly by being slightly belligerent, which had worked once or twice in the past) and slid behind the wheel while he was still ostensibly fuming about it.

From there they drove to the appointed deserted side road where the switch of personnel would be made.

In a matter of minutes, the car was toast thanks to a tree pre-selected for abuse; Carlton was half in, half-out, his head covered with blood she was told was neither his nor real, and she was screaming into the police radio for backup and an ambulance.

There seemed to be no trace of any other soul around, and she began to understand how very sophisticated professional deception could be.

And how it stabbed at her heart to see Carlton down, no matter how fake it was.

He opened one blue eye and gave her a grin, dispelling her shaky mood. "Cheer up, O'Hara. A couple of aspirin and I'll be good as new."

She nearly threw her phone at him all the same.

. . . .

. . .

Local Detective Intoxicated In Accident Which Injured Partner

The police had come, some of them familiar to her and all of them shocked. They had not at first wanted to do the breath test—come on, Juliet O'Hara? Lassiter's partner?—but when she yelled at a rookie to get away from Carlton, she made sure to breathe on the cop nearest to her, and his training kicked in.

Officer Suspended; Partner Blinded

The ambulance which showed up was all FBI. They extricated Carlton's supposedly unconscious form from the wreckage and whisked him off to the closest hospital.

Juliet was taken back to the station, crying real tears because this could have happened when Carl Dozier rammed us kept repeating in her head, and was formally arrested by a grave Karen Vick.

She was released in the morning on her own recognizance and went promptly to the hospital, because even if she hadn't wanted to, she needed to be seen, distraught and guilt-ridden. A taxi took her there, since her keys and license (and needless to say badge and weapon) had been confiscated.

Blindness Suspected Permanent in Police DUI Case

Carlton, she thought dispassionately, was a long cool drink of water, lying in his hospital bed all cleaned up, his so-blue eyes appropriately bandaged. His hand-picked nursing staff and attending physician were taking good 'care' of him.

But then, he'd been here overnight and was clearly already tired of it, judging by how he fidgeted with the sheets. Good thing he had a private room or the game would already be over.

Juliet called his name from the doorway, and his head turned at once, but he kept his expression neutral.

"Hey, partner," she said more softly when she was at his bedside.

"O'Hara." He was gruff. Patented Lassiter gruff. He didn't know if anyone else was in the room.

"It's clear," she whispered, turning slightly so she could still see the door. "How you doing?"

"The bandages itch and I'm developing bedsores."

For the first time since yesterday, she felt a tendril of amusement. "It's a little too soon for that, but I hear you."

"What about you? I've asked for the TV to be on. All the doctor is telling me is that everything's fine." The doctor was the only one completely in on the plan, and as far as the public knew, taking a personal interest in the case simply because of Carlton's standing in the community.

The nurses knew not to ask questions, and when one of them popped in a minute later, Juliet shook her head and she retreated again.

"I've been arrested, arraigned, released, and vilified. Not necessarily in that order." She kept her tone even, because as long as he couldn't see her face, he wouldn't be able to tell how much it was cutting at her to be so quickly thought of as a bad cop. A bad person.

"You've been at the station?"

"Not since Vick arrested me yesterday. I have no plans to go back any time soon."

"She came by last night. And this morning. I told them no other visitors yet."

His mother was traveling—"some silly-ass place where you have to pay a departure tax to leave, and don't think I didn't consider emptying her bank accounts after she got there"—and when Juliet asked about his sister, he said he'd talked to her by phone and requested she not visit until he was able to handle it. She herself was away in the northern part of the state, so even if she overrode his request—I would, Juliet thought—they had a little time yet.

"And now we wait," he said simply.

"Too bad you suck at waiting."

"I hear that." He moved his hand, probably to adjust the sheet again, but brushed hers accidentally—and Juliet, on impulse, held on to those long warm fingers.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"For what?" Even with bandages hiding his expressive eyes, his surprise was clear.

"For encouraging me, and for… for everything, Carlton. Really, just everything."

Color suffused his cheeks, and she felt an almost unbearable wave of warmth toward him. Squeezing his hand, a grip he returned, she bent to kiss his forehead, because he couldn't see it coming and wouldn't be able to stop her.

"O'Hara." He was back to being gruff.

She wouldn't apologize. "Get used to me being around, partner. Part of the show is me chained to your bedside."

After a pause, he said, "I'll cope. You might just keep me sane."

You might just keep me sane, she thought, and squeezed his hand again.

. . . .

. . .

The pattern for the next few days was simple.

Juliet went to the hospital daily by cab. She avoided her phone. She avoided newspapers, TV and emails. She didn't have to deal with family inquiries because the news hadn't traveled there yet—but she knew it would—and she was dodging everyone else.

FBI agents disguised as orderlies kept reporters at bay while she was visiting Carlton.

Shawn called. Many times. He left messages on her phone from his number. He left messages on her phone from Gus' number. He left messages on her phone from Henry's number.

Late Monday morning, as she was walking toward the hospital entrance with a bag of doughnuts for herself and Carlton, he got up from the bench where he'd been waiting.

"Jules."

She kept walking. "I can't, Shawn."

"Jules, come on. Talk to me." He got in front of her to slow her path.

Juliet sighed. "I don't have a gun so I can't shoot you, but please know that I would."

"Honey—" He stopped, seeing her expression. "Juliet. I'm worried about you. And Lassie. They wouldn't let me see him. How is he?"

"He's blind," she said bluntly. "Because I got drunk and wrecked the car. Any other questions?"

"Yeah. Yeah, a lot of questions. Like why were you driving at all? Why were you drinking at all? Why can't I see him?" His hazel gaze was guileless—for Shawn—and he seemed quite earnest.

"You can't see him because he doesn't want visitors. I was driving because I wanted to. I was drinking because I was an idiot. Can I go now?"

He dropped his hands, staring at her curiously. "Are you being hostile because of our breakup? Because I'm here for you, Jules. No matter what, as your friend. Although you know I'd love another chance with… with us."

Juliet took a mental step back and ten seconds to review how best to respond.

"I'm hostile, Shawn, because my incredibly stupid and selfish act cost my partner and best friend his vision and his career and oh yeah, my career too. I'm worried about him and I just don't have time to make things easier for you. You can tell yourself you tried, and then you can go away. And you know what? It's not even personal. Excuse me." She got around him and went inside, and for once in his life, he had enough sense not to follow.

But he'd be back. She knew that too.

. . . .

. . .

Carlton was restless. Enforced leave never set well with him—you really have to develop some hobbies, Lassiter—and the one good thing about this charade was that his impatience didn't have to be feigned.

Prowling the room, he learned it by heart, feeling out the bed and the furniture and the equipment and cabinets. He knew the bedside drawer stuck and the closet door handle was loose and there were several uneven spots in the linoleum. He imagined the room being light blue. It didn't help.

He was here until the doctor decided he was fully stable—or rather, until everyone would believe he'd been there long enough to be declared stable. The doctor, when non-FBI persons were present, talked about occupational therapy, places Carlton could go to learn how to deal with his new blindness, counseling.

He listened impassively, wondering how he would cope if this were real, and knowing he'd be lost, and lost fast, and lost deep.

But then Juliet would come in, and he'd hear her voice. Usually he'd detect her pleasant scent first, when she approached without speaking ahead of time.

He'd discovered… or rediscovered… how much he liked her voice, and her soft laughter.

It was softer now, because they couldn't afford to be heard by anyone they didn't know was on their side, but it was a lovely sound at any volume.

She often touched his hand, or held it outright, and he liked that too. He knew she was only calming him, because this was a form of incarceration for him, playing sick, but he didn't mind.

He could hear in her voice the things she didn't want to say, and that was another reason he wanted to get home: with the bandages off and no one else around, he'd be able to look into her eyes and know if she was dodging without her having to say a single word.

The TV news, when he could find the remote and its volume button, let him know she was still being talked about. He'd refused to grant any interviews or make a statement, but that had the unfortunate effect of causing further speculation on their part.

"I should make a statement," he said as he accepted a still-warm doughnut, as if they'd been talking about that instead of her annoyance with the rude cabbie.

"No you shouldn't."

He heard her pull the chair up closer to the bed. "It's killing me."

"I know, and I'm sorry. But it's not about you now; it's about me. Berman said the more speculation about me—about us—the better I look as a… contender."

I don't want you looking like a contender.

"One thing just worked out," she added too casually. "Shawn was waiting for me outside. I'm sure some people saw us talking, so when I go out drinking after I leave here, it'll play into the master plan."

Carlton cut through all that. "How did it go?"

"He might still be a problem, but I—"

"I mean, how are you? About him?"

He wanted to know. It was none of his business, but he wanted her to be all right.

Juliet sighed. "I'm fine. Thank you. Breaking up with him actually… freed me. I feel better knowing I'm… I don't know, sane again? It was liberating. I care about him and I wish things were different, but honestly, what I wish was different… is Shawn. I wish I could know him after he grows up."

At 36, Spencer seemed an unlikely candidate for late-onset maturity, but Carlton thought better of expressing that viewpoint aloud. Still, he understood her meaning. Spencer's intelligence and perceptiveness, coupled with actual adult behavior and decision-making, could actually make him a good mate for… well, not for Juliet; she would always deserve better. But for someone, yes.

Someone in another state, preferably.

Or Canada; they'd take anyone.

. . . .

. . .

Juliet started 'drinking' that afternoon. The bar they'd chosen was within walking distance of the hospital, allowing her to be seen on the way to and from, and she took cabs home. It was also close enough to Carlton's condo that after he was discharged, it wouldn't be unreasonable for her to keep going there.

Over the last few days, reporters occasionally approached her near the hospital, but she'd wave them off with a curt reminder that even without a weapon she could defend herself. (To one man she said, "After what I've done, it seems to me that punching paparazzi would get me back on the force faster.")

They didn't bother her in the bar. No one bothered her in the bar. The bartenders, regardless of what they thought of their customers (and at least one knew who she was; she could see it in his body language when he served her), didn't tolerate their customers being interrupted on their paths to semi-oblivion.

She wasn't on that path, but she liked the relative peace there nearly as much as the time she spent with Carlton: he was her refuge now.

He'd been clean-shaven that morning.

"I was getting used to the new beard," she told him.

"I asked the orderly to do it." He ran one hand over his smooth face. "I've never had anyone else shave me before."

It was part of the plan anyway, for him not to do his own shaving, but Juliet was sure he felt more normal without the fuzz. Even if she'd kind of liked it. Even if she felt a tickle of jealousy that the orderly got to touch his face.

The first few days of the week, she spent an hour in the bar after visiting Carlton. She went back to him after dinner, and stopped in the bar after that. Patterns, Berman and Fuller reminded her. It was all about establishing patterns.

(She intended to be reimbursed for the liquor, however, especially as so much of it was being poured surreptitiously into plants and trashcans. She couldn't afford to not be completely alert when she was approached.)

Make your move soon, she silently pleaded to… to whomever was going to approach her. The waiting was getting more difficult.

For Carlton, too; Wednesday morning was the day he'd been anticipating.

She was there at his side when the doctor came in with a nurse and announced it was time to take the bandages off. He warned Carlton that he would likely see nothing given the damage to the optic nerve, and Carlton nodded.

Juliet wasn't sure who the performance was for, but at this point, everything was an act, and the stage was getting bigger.

Carlton played his part well: tense and then resigned, gruff and then silent as he 'understood' he couldn't see. He put his hands to his eyes and sighed, and Juliet reached out to pull one down into her grasp briefly.

The doctor and witness…er, nurse… left them alone, and Juliet circled to the other side of the bed to block anyone's view of Carlton from the door.

The few seconds gave her an opportunity to assess how unexpectedly happy she was to see his big blue eyes again. No, not just unexpectedly happy… shocked happy. Unsteady happy.

"Nice to see you again," she managed to murmur, and he looked at her directly, a faint smile softening the lean planes of his face.

"Same old me." But his gaze narrowed as he studied her. "You look tired."

"I am," she admitted. No point in trying to lie to this man. "It's a hard life, taking taxicabs to bars and hospitals, drinking and chatting."

Carlton wasn't fooled. "Don't con me, O'Hara."

"Waste of time, isn't it? Anyway, you're out of here tomorrow. Once I can start hiding at your condo, I'll have more time to relax."

"You won't relax."

"It'll be better, though, behind closed doors."

He nodded. "For both of us. Berman swept my place?"

They had to make sure it wasn't bugged once he took up residence there again and she accepted the 'job offer' they were expecting. It was reasonable to assume DiMera's people would want to keep an eye (and ear) on her, if not Carlton, and they absolutely needed to know if they were being overheard. The FBI would be checking her place too but she already knew she'd mostly be with Carlton.

A thought which was more appealing than ever before, truthfully.

She assured him her communications from Berman were all green lights, and he relaxed a little.

"Be careful, partner." He reached for her hand and squeezed it—and that wasn't like him, to initiate contact.

Juliet promised him she would, and thought his eyes were the most beautiful shade of blue she'd ever seen in her life.

Then she pulled herself together, thrust his new dark glasses at him along with a warning to keep them on at all times, and went on her way to continue Phase 2.

At the bar, while waiting for the bartender to hand over the glass of amber liquid, she couldn't get over the sensation—a pure and simple female reaction—to seeing his face, to looking into those eyes as he clasped her hand… as he looked into her.

No he didn't, you idiot. You're just worn out and stressed out and freaked out.

And stupid.

He would be released on Thursday, and she had promised to bring the best cab in town to collect him. (She could have bummed transportation from Buzz but Carlton said no; it would make Buzz too happy and he wasn't ready for Happy!Buzz yet.)

Right now, there was public drinking to be done.

She found a table in a fairly direct line of sight from the door. As always, she didn't want to be conspicuous, but she didn't want to skulk either. Undercover operation or not, she didn't want any living soul to think she couldn't handle herself.

The first drink went down fast and smooth; that one was for her. The real Juliet under all the acting.

The second one she sipped, as she contemplated the blue of Carlton's eyes. The many shades of blue and the many ways his emotions changed their hue. He could be so cold, and then he could be so vulnerable. He could show nothing at all, and then, for a fraction of a second, everything. He could stare at her, searching her expression, trying to make sense of whatever she was telling him (usually when she was suggesting a calmer way to deal with a situation), and never have a clue how much he revealed—from faint self-doubt to arrogance to uncertainty.

And oh, his eyes when he was laughing. Never did he look more Irish than when he was laughing, and sometimes, startlingly and just for an instant, his eyes took on a green cast which she found utterly captivating. That's the Irishman in you, Carlton. The relaxed, comfortable, and yet endlessly complex Carlton.

You could have lost him five weeks ago.

Dammit. Her eyes were suddenly burning.

You could have lost him five weeks ago, and you never would have known until the hospital notified you as his official next of kin.

She finished the drink too quickly, and blew her nose.

A man at the bar turned to glance at her… no, to study her.

He was thin and polished and gray, dressed in jeans and a black turtleneck, and she was pretty sure he was one of the men in the set of photos Berman & Fuller had shown them of DiMera's crew.

Juliet glared at him—because she didn't know him, right?—and he smiled knowingly before turning away again as if she meant nothing.

But tomorrow, he'll approach.

Tomorrow, it really begins.

She got up abruptly and left.

. . . .

. . .