No Smoke Without Fire
As usual, no infringement intended, no ownership in psych, TPTB own everything, I got nuthin', just borrowing a corner of the sandbox.
Spoilers through ep. 6.09: Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat
Note to Loafer: Hope this chapter's long enough. :-P
Carlton paused, not sure he was doing the right thing. Then again, was there really any right or wrong to this? Analyzing where he'd gone so wrong with Victoria, aside from in almost every way possible, he'd come to the conclusion that when he'd made gestures, they'd often come too late and, as if realizing that on some fundamental level he was trying to make up for their tardiness, had made them too big. Too many of those stupid figurines well after their separation. A diamond necklace when, by all means, he should have realized it was the absolute end of the line. It was only afterward that he realized what he should have done was let her know, every day they'd been together, what she meant. That it didn't have to be a large declaration or gesture, but small… simple. They still most likely would have wound up divorced, simply because they were such different people, but maybe it wouldn't have been quite so disastrous and painful.
Lesson learned.
So part of what he'd decided to do, without having any other real plan, was to start letting O'Hara know, by way of small gestures and words, what she meant to him. The coffee this morning. Letting her get some clearly needed sleep. Finding an out-of-the-way place for lunch, where they didn't have to worry about interruptions from friends, colleagues, or yes, boyfriends. Spencer was many things, but attuned to his girlfriend's needs wasn't one of them and Carlton wasn't above exploiting that weakness to his own benefit.
All's fair in love and war.
This, however, went a little bit beyond small. Not much, but it was a gesture that might have come more easily a few weeks down the line. Still, exhausted as she'd still been at the end of the day, he suspected it was something she'd neglected to take care of. And if she actually had taken care of it, well, this was a multi-pronged gesture. Taking a deep breath, he knocked at O'Hara's door, taking care to tone it down a notch from his usual sharp, impatient rapping.
"Hey, Carlton, what are you doing here?" She blinked drowsily as she shoved a hand through her hair and like earlier in the car, he had to fight back the impulse to touch the loose waves and curls and see if they were as soft as he imagined. Thank God she wore it up more often than not—hair was a weakness for him and hers was especially tempting.
"Did we get a tip on that homicide?"
"Nope." He took advantage of the fact that she was more glazed than a typical Krispy Kreme donut at the moment to look his fill, enjoying the flush of her skin and the way the t-shirt and loose pants managed to find ways to cling to her curves. Shifting on his feet he added, "And even if we had, I would've let one of the other units take it. We're off-duty and you're in no fit condition to be out in the field."
"That noticeable, huh?"
It was possible she could have taken offense, always so determined to be the best, to be up to any task, to not show any weakness. He'd like to think it was something she'd picked up from so many years of partnership with him, but hell, she was that tough and determined on her own, no help from him needed on that score. The fact that she didn't object, however, was yet another sign of just how exhausted she was, along with the dark circles that her makeup had hid earlier.
"That noticeable," he agreed, making an effort to keep his voice gentle, as opposed to the judgmental that had a habit of slipping out regardless of actual intent. Judging by her smile and the slightly surprised light in her dark blue eyes, he'd managed gentle. So there was one hurdle crossed.
"And you wouldn't have just gone out on your own?"
"You're my partner," he replied, simply.
"That I am." Crossing her arms, she spared a curious glance at the bag he held, but otherwise kept her focus squarely on him in a way that nearly made him forget his own name, let alone why he was here. "So what brings you by then?"
"It'd be just easier to show you. May I?" He nodded to the open door, suppressing a smile as he saw the flush rise from the open vee of her shirt.
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry! Of course, come on in—" She opened the door wide, ushering him through with a light touch to his elbow, babbling, "You must think I'm an idiot, leaving you standing out there—"
"O'Hara," he tried to break in, but no dice, she was still going with the self-recriminations.
"And it's still raining out there and it's getting cold and—"
"Juliet—"
"What?" She stopped cold, seemingly realizing they were now standing in the middle of her living room. And that he'd called her by her first name. Something else he was trying to get in the habit of. Seemed to work at distracting her at least.
"It's fine." He put the bag he'd been carrying down on her coffee table and took a moment to look around as she closed and locked the front door. Good girl. He'd only been to her new place a handful of times and of course, the last time, it had been shot to hell, the big picture window completely shattered, due to, no surprise, Spencer. Although he supposed in this case, he could place the blame as squarely on Guster as on Spencer. Regardless, they'd both been idiots.
Of course, that had been months ago and the window had long since been repaired. During the day, he knew, it gave the big room a sense of light and airiness—seeing it now, however, the curtains drawn and night waiting just beyond, the room felt rather more… intimate. Warm. Especially since she only had the one lamp on the end table burning while in a corner, the television played with the sound off.
"You weren't asleep, were you?" Although he suspected he knew what the answer was, even before she shook her head no. He'd gotten the distinct impression over lunch that sleep had been a real issue for her for far longer than a few days, although she'd been weirdly reluctant to tell him why. Probably because it had something to do with Spencer and he had a bad habit of letting her know exactly what he thought about Spencer. Last thing she'd want to listen to in her current state was his recommendation for dealing with Spencer—which usually began with some variation on a theme of shooting him. Considering she had no way of knowing that he'd made a pact with himself to cease and desist on the Spencer-bashing—at least in her presence—he couldn't blame her for not delving into greater detail as to the genesis of her sleep issues.
Weird, though, that the two of them were having problems sleeping at the same time. He'd heard of partners' rhythms growing almost eerily in sync, but to this extent? And again, he thought, weird. But which then made this gesture almost one of necessity, he rationalized. If the two of them were out in the field so severely sleep-deprived, someone was likely to get hurt. Not something that would ever happen to Juliet—not on his watch, dammit. Carlton had never understood the phrase "skipping a beat" with respect to heart rate until the first time Juliet's life had been threatened. Since then, though, he'd gotten all too familiar with it, but lately, the thought of any harm coming to her made him feel as if his heart had come to a complete standstill.
"I wasn't actively trying to sleep, but I'm so tired, my head aches and too much light or sound is like nails on a chalkboard. I told Shawn if he even thought about coming by, I would likely shoot him."
For the first time, Carlton noticed her revolver sitting on the end table within easy reach of the pillow her head must have been resting on. Okay, then.
"Well, I won't stay long, then."
"I don't mind that it's you."
Carlton blinked at the sight of her hand on his forearm, bare, since he'd left his suit jacket and holster in the trunk of his car and had rolled up his sleeves. Which, actually—forget the sight—the feel of her hand… Soft and so damned warm since, as she'd noted, it was decidedly cooler outside now that it was dark.
That soft, warm hand squeezed his forearm briefly as she said, "You don't give me headaches, Carlton. At least not on a regular basis." Then, she smiled, and God help him, he must be hallucinating, because he could swear her hand slid off his arm as much as it fell away. Another sensation to lock away into the memory banks along with how her wrist had felt within his hold earlier, her pulse strong and steady beneath his thumb. He was only grateful she hadn't noticed the small caress he'd permitted himself, an almost infinitesimal stroking of that fair, delicate skin. He really shouldn't have, he knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't stop himself.
It was fifty-fifty odds as to whether the memory of these small, fleeting touches would help or kick his ass with a mocking laugh as he tried to sleep tonight. At the very least, he was seeing another cold shower in his immediate future. And if that failed, more base measures would have to be undertaken.
So much for his vaunted self-control. A month shy of forty-three and a pair of fleeting touches from Juliet O'Hara had him reduced to a giant walking teenaged hormone.
"I'm glad," he replied, finally able to form a coherent thought now that she wasn't touching him any longer.
"So, what did bring you by?" She directed another curious glance at the bag on the coffee table.
Steadier now, Carlton led her to the sofa and urged her to sit, taking the spot beside her, just close enough for their shoulders to brush as he leaned forward and reached into the bag, extracting a rectangular box that he placed on her lap.
"If you already bought one, you can take this one back. The receipt's in the box."
"I didn't buy one yet." She ran her hand across the top of the box holding the stereo alarm he'd chosen with, as she'd said she wanted, radio, CD, and iPod capabilities. "I was so tired and my headache was so bad, I just couldn't stomach the idea of trying to figure out what to buy."
She pressed her lips together and, oh, holy hell, were those tears in her eyes? "O'Hara, did I do something wrong? You can take it back if you don't like it. Hell, never mind, I'll take it back myself—" He went to snatch the box from her lap and once again found himself staring at the sight of her hand on his arm—wrist, more accurately and yes, it was sliding, down to his hand, where she held it pinned against the box.
"Don't you dare." She sniffled. "Stupid tears," she muttered with an impatient swipe at one cheek. She looked up at him with eyes turned a brilliant blue-gray and for the first time, he felt his heart skip a beat in a moment where Juliet's life wasn't in danger. His, on the other hand? Oh, dear Lord. He forced himself to take as subtle a breath as he could possibly manage.
"This is just about the loveliest, most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me. Thank you." Her free arm looped around his neck in an unexpected hug, there and gone too fast for him to do anything other than feel his heart skip again.
She tilted the box, reading the list of the alarm's features with a smile while he tried to get his breathing back under control as he reached into the bag for the rest of his gesture.
"Given how you said you reacted to that soothing sounds CD, I didn't bother replacing it," he said as he pulled a disc from the bag and handed it to her. "So I thought maybe some music, instead? If you like it you can set the stereo so it'll play the CD as you go to sleep and maybe set something different on your iPod to wake up to."
"What is it?" she asked, looking down at the plain disc, inscribed with a simple "Juliet" on the surface.
"It's a mix I made," he admitted, proud that his ears and the base of his neck felt only the slightest bit warm. "Just some low-key songs." That he'd put together because they reminded him of her and that he used to drift off to sleep when he could, but he wouldn't be sharing that—
Yet.
Before she could say anything, he reached into the bag one last time and produced a bottle of Bushmill's with an index card taped to it, grinning at her raised eyebrow expression. "And if all else fails, I brought you my Great-grandma Lassiter's hot toddy recipe. Family legend has it she used this for nighttime feedings once the babies got to teething age." He chuckled as her eyebrows rose even higher and her mouth parted, just a little, and damn, but the temptation was strong. But it was too soon. She was too tired and too vulnerable right now. And frankly, so was he.
Forcing his gaze to the bottle, he flicked the card with one finger. "I admit, it would explain a lot about the relatives on that side of the family, but as a straight up sleeping aid, beats anything else I've ever tried."
"Sold." In an instant, he found himself holding the radio on his lap while she'd snatched the bottle from his hands and was on her way to the kitchen. "While I make us some, would you do me a favor and set the radio up? I'm so tired, I'm afraid the instructions will read like they're in Farsi." She paused in the middle of pulling a saucepan from a drawer and glanced back over her shoulder. "My bedroom's down the hall—first door on the right."
He nodded, his grip on the box just this side of a stranglehold. Not exactly what he'd expected, in terms of the turn of events. In his mind, he'd imagined she'd be delighted with the radio—check. Maybe they'd share a toddy—okay, that was on its way to becoming a check. But that then, comfortably warm and relaxed she'd send him on his way, maybe with a hug, before plugging in her new stereo and drifting off to sleep. Maybe with a pleasant thought of him on her mind.
Being invited into her bedroom, albeit for a completely innocent task, was a bit of a left turn and one he wasn't sure his scrambled hormones were equipped to handle.
But you know, he was a grown man, dammit—moreover, he was a detective. Her bedroom—her inner sanctum—would at the very least give him a measure of insight into the parts of Juliet he had yet to learn. You know, this could ultimately only be a good thing.
Not to mention, a surprise.
He paused on the threshold, taking in the surroundings. The walls were painted a pale blue-green, a stark contrast to the dark wood furniture with its simple clean lines. The bedspread was dark brown with a wide frame of that same blue-green around the edge, while small pillows in creams and blues clustered near the headboard and a matching throw was tossed at an angle across the foot. There were throw rugs set at angles across the polished wood floor, a dark wood and fabric screen in one corner, and candles set in small groupings around the room.
Serene. That was one word for it.
Reflective.
And surprisingly sensual.
Much like Juliet, he realized.
The public rooms of her home were sunny and light, much what anyone would expect of perky Juliet O'Hara. The one who could challenge him on police code, who was cheerful and upbeat and could make conversation at the drop of a hat. But this room was something else altogether. This was the Juliet with whom he could be quiet . This was the Juliet who'd held on to him. This was the Juliet who'd refrained from telling him about Spencer not just because she knew he'd hate it, but because it had been hers.
And while he knew that Spencer had spent time with her here, it somehow didn't bother him. There was really no sense of the other man here. No impression left behind. Which, considering how big a personality Shawn Spencer possessed, was more than a little curious.
He mulled on that as he unboxed the stereo and set it up on her bedside table, knowing which side was hers because of the extra wear on the night table, the hair clip left alongside the lamp, the tube of hand lotion that, when he moved it slightly, left a bit of residue behind. Rubbing it into his fingers, he lifted them and sniffed. Familiar, but he couldn't quite place it…
"It's bergamot."
He spun to find her on the threshold, a mug in each hand. "Excuse me?"
She nodded at her night table and the tube of lotion. "I guess you got some on you by accident?"
It was close enough to true.
"Primary scent of the lotion is bergamot—also the primary ingredient in Earl Grey tea," she explained. "So don't worry, Detective—no girly smell."
He'd let her go ahead and think that's what had concerned him. And made a note to buy some Earl Grey tea on his way home even though he'd never drunk tea in his entire life, Irish ancestry notwithstanding.
Taking the mug she handed him, he took an appreciative sip while taking another look at her room. As the whisky-laced milk warmed his bloodstream he felt himself relax further. "Your bedroom's beautiful, Juliet."
Juliet paused, the mug halfway to her lips, a slow smile blossoming. "Thank you," she said, with such a genuine note of pleasure and surprise, Carlton had to wonder if anyone had ever said anything to her about it. Crossing to the bed, she sank down on the mattress and took a long sip of her toddy, looking around the room herself, as if seeing it through his eyes.
"I changed it all up not that long ago. After—" She hesitated and he watched as her fingers tightened around the mug, her knuckles going white. "After the Ying/Yang case was finally done." Dropping her head so her hair shielded her face, she took another sip. "I wanted something peaceful and completely removed from it, you know?" she added in a small, muffled voice.
Without hesitation, he closed the distance and sat beside her, again, close enough for their shoulders to brush. Close enough so she knew he was there.
They sat, sipping their toddies in companionable silence until she reached over and hit play on the stereo, Eva Cassidy's gentle vocals streaming from the speakers with the poignant lyrics to "Fields of Gold."
Juliet said nothing, just sat, a calm, dreamy smile on her face as she listened and sipped and Carlton could have sat there forever, just watching as Eva segued into Peter Gabriel and on and on, song after song, every one reminding him in some way, of her. Eventually, though, he saw her eyes drifting shut as her head found that perfect spot against his shoulder and much as he would have loved to hold her there, the way he had earlier that afternoon, he knew if she was going to stay asleep, she needed to lie down.
As carefully as possible, he reached past her and pulled down the bedspread and sheet beneath before easing her head onto the pillow. Sliding from the bed, he lifted her legs to the mattress and as he drew the covers up over her, finally gave into temptation, running his fingers through her hair, catching his breath as she instinctively turned toward his hand.
"Carlton," she murmured, her breath warm as she nuzzled his palm.
Holy Christ.
It was the damnedest thing, really, his groin tightening almost painfully while the rest of him relaxed very nearly to the point of sinking onto the bed beside her and maybe not moving until next Thursday. But he couldn't. Much as he wanted to, he couldn't. Because he was going to do this right, dammit.
For now, though, the fact that she knew it was him—that it was his name she was saying in her sleep—
It was a hell of a good start.
Better, really, than he might have expected. It was one thing to silently declare war, but another altogether to realize that the battles might not be quite as bloody as expected.
Except one.
There would be no escaping the pain of the one battle he knew he had to confront head on.
At the sound of the door behind him opening, he turned, smiling, as he had so many other days before. But this day was different and it was clear by the expression on her face, she knew it, too.
"Hi, Carlton."
"Hello, Marlowe."
She took the seat behind the tempered glass with a sad smile. "So this is it, huh?"
"It's not what you think." Taking his own seat, he felt a heavy pang of guilt. It was the right thing to do. The only thing. He just felt truly bad that Marlowe would end up suffering the fate of collateral damage. None of this was her fault after all.
"Oh, I'm pretty sure it is." Her smile deepened into something undeniably kind, although a trace of sadness remained. "I always knew I was the substitute, Carlton."
He felt his jaw drop as a shiver ran down his spine. Even though she definitely wasn't a vampire, there'd always been something a little otherworldly about Marlowe. This just proved it.
"How did you know?" No point in denying it.
"You looked so stricken when she was questioning us about my press-on nail," Marlowe explained, her expression thoughtful. "Like you were devastated that you might be disappointing her." She shrugged. "Of course, once I saw her, too, I got why you responded to me so quickly."
"You're a beautiful woman in your own right, Marlowe," he insisted, wanting to reassure her. "I responded to you. I truly felt something for you. You have been incredibly special to me."
"Maybe." She shrugged again and although she was trying for carefree and calm, Carlton could see it was costing her some effort. "But it's nothing like what you feel for Detective O'Hara." She folded her hands on the table in front of her and stared down at them, her nails short and unpainted, everything about her the antithesis of what she'd been when he first met her, but still so beautiful. So sweet and so nice. Just not the one he wanted.
"I'd hoped," she began, still staring down at her hands, "that if we made it through my six to eighteen months, that we'd have a true chance. That if you really got to know me, past the sick brother and the Clint Eastwood movie references that eventually—" Her shoulders dropped with her long sigh. "Oh, well. I always knew the possibility existed that what you felt for her would trump everything else, including her boyfriend." She looked up, a knowing tilt to her lips. "Is she still with him?"
He nodded, that shiver going down his spine again.
"And it's not stopping you?"
He shook his head.
She shook her head almost mournfully. "Poor sucker doesn't stand a chance."
A grin tugged at the edges of his mouth. "I don't know about that, Marlowe. She did choose him, after all."
She met his grin with one of her own and a raised eyebrow. "You ever think maybe he was the substitute, too?"
His smile faded. "I don't think so."
"That's because you weren't paying attention. My God, the way she looked when she questioned me," Marlowe replied with a rueful laugh. "Trust me, I think it bears consideration."
He laughed quietly, the thought too absurd to even contemplate. "Ever the optimist."
"Ever the pessimist." As had been their habit, she raised her hand, her gaze intent through the glass separating them. She nodded slowly, as if coming to a conclusion. "Except this time. You really think this is going to work."
Cue another shiver that he suppressed as he pressed his hand to the glass. "I don't know about that, but I do know I have to try." With a deep breath, he let his hand fall away. "Goodbye, Marlowe."
Slowly, she lowered her hand to her side. "Be happy, Carlton."