Disclaimer: I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

Rating: T

Spoilers: Through season six finale


Chapter Three: A Night to Barely Remember

Who in God's name was shining the searchlight into his face? And why did his tongue feel like a fuzzy caterpillar that had died last summer and turned into a fuzzy caterpillar mummy? And who was the asshole who cut the top of his head off and filled his brainpan with hot broken volcanic glass?

Oh.

Yeah.

This was a hangover.

Lassiter groaned and covered his face with one hand. He didn't typically drink to the point of real drunkenness - what in the world had possessed him to overindulge? And why…why wasn't he wearing any pajamas?

And more importantly still, who exactly was the equally naked woman lying half on top of him?

Oh dear good Lord and sweet lady justice, please don't tell me I hooked up with a random and probably diseased stranger last night.

He risked a glance and saw nothing but tousled honey-golden hair. It looked an awful lot like O'Hara's hair, actually, and the body pressed quite firmly against his own was about the right size. Dear good Lord and sweet lady justice, don't tell me I hooked up with a random and probably diseased stranger because she looked a little like my partner.

The woman, whoever she was, stirred slightly. "God, somebody turn off the sun, my head hurts," she moaned, and tried to burrow into his chest. God help him, she sounded a little like O'Hara.

He had an idea that his face might melt right off his skull if he saw what he was afraid he was about to, but he had to know. He reached out and gently lifted her head so that he could look at her face.

"Holy Shit!"

He shot sideways out of bed and onto the floor, landing in a naked heap beside the bedside table. "Not so loud, please," O'Hara whined. "God, now I'm all cold."

She tunneled under the covers. Lassiter peered over the edge of the bed, hair wild and eyes wilder, unable to believe what his senses were telling him was true. He had actually…slept…naked…with O'Hara. He couldn't, at the moment, even conceive the idea that there had been more to it than simply sleeping. He probably would have stayed there in a pile on the floor, locked up by shock and terror, if the cool morning air acting on his unprotected skin hadn't eventually made him aware of one other natural consequence of an all-night bender. On hands and knees he crawled to the bathroom.

When the urgent business of relieving himself of about half a gallon of Jack Daniels was over and a cold shower restored some of his equilibrium he was in a better state to take stock of the situation. O'Hara was not in his bed, that was ridiculous. He'd had some sort of nightmare, or perhaps an hallucination, and when he returned to the bedroom he would find the bed empty and no trace of any wrongdoing would remain.

He slipped into his bathrobe and, with a light heart, returned to the bedroom. O'Hara was now sitting up in the middle of the bed, comforter held just under her breasts, looking around herself as if she wasn't quite sure where she was. She didn't look upset, just curious. The platinum pendant swung just below her clavicle, the only article of clothing she retained from the night before.

"Hey, Carlton," she greeted when she saw him. "Please tell me you have a cabinet full of black coffee."

He turned smartly on his heel and headed for the kitchen. "I'll put some on."

Enough time passed while he brewed a fresh pot for Juliet to have her own shower, and she walked in wearing one of his shirts and nothing else. She was just in time to rescue the carafe from Lassiter's shaking hands.

"Are you okay? Maybe you should sit down," she said.

He leaned his elbows on the countertop and hid his face in his hands. "O'Hara, I - I don't know what happened last night but I am so, so sorry."

"I knew it - you're freaking out, aren't you? Come on, let's get you sat down and see if we can't head off this panic attack."

She took him by the arm and led him into the living room, where she pushed him down onto the loveseat and sat beside him. "Listen, Carlton, there's no sense in getting upset over last night. We're both adults here, we can deal with this rationally. Now, what do you remember about what happened?"

"Evidently I got you drunk and took advantage of you," he said, face still buried in his hands.

"Carlton. That is not what happened. Wow, you were a lot drunker than I thought if you really don't remember."

He risked a peek through his fingers. "You mean…nothing happened?"

"Nothing bad," Juliet said matter-of-factly. "We got drunk, we screwed."

"Oh God." He hid behind his hands again.

She grabbed his wrists and pulled his hands away. "Carlton, look at me: you didn't take advantage of me. We were both drunk, we were both evidently in need of a little comfort and communion. We had sex, and maybe it was the Scotch but it seemed like pretty good sex to me. Maybe if we hadn't been so drunk we would have thought better of it, but it happened and we can't change it. And for my part, even if it was a mistake, I don't regret it. You're a good guy, Carlton, and I needed a good guy last night."

"You'll regret it. Even if you don't regret it now, sooner or later you'll regret it. It's going to come back to haunt us. In a major, major way."

She hugged him. "Everything will be okay, Carlton, you'll see. Do you want me to stay or would you rather have your space right now?"

"Sooner or later I suppose we're going to have to have a real discussion about this," he said, "but right now I think maybe I could use some time to think."

"Fair enough," she said. "I'll get dressed and call a cab. If you need to talk later, we'll talk."