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


He'd kissed her.

Carlton lay on his bed, staring up at the dark expanse of his bedroom ceiling.

He hadn't planned it that way. To his way of thinking , this campaign was still in its infancy. He'd figured he had another two, three weeks of lunches and small gestures before he could progress to suggesting they spend time together away from work. And then it would have probably been something more innocuous—that happened during daytime hours and in a bit more public setting. A movie, especially at a theater like the Paramount was just so damned intimate. But then he'd overheard her exchange with Spencer—and it wasn't as if he could completely blame the idiot for wanting to see Underworld. Of course, it was likely a ridiculous movie, but really, Kate Beckinsale in leather? No, he couldn't really blame him, except for the unforgivable sin of not listening to Juliet and what she wanted.

But when Juliet had shoved Spencer off the desk for making the crack about him something imperceptible shifted and to hell with the plan—he had to ask her out and there was no question about where he'd take her, provided she was amenable.

Nevertheless—it was still just a date. An extension of the small gestures and the lunches—a way by which he could show her what a date with an actual adult could be like.

Be honest, Lassiter—that's been the key to this whole thing.

Okay, a way by which he could show her what a date with him could be like. How he was different.

How he was, away from work, away from being a detective, away from having to prove that he wasn't the idiot he so often felt like and invariably wound up looking like, no matter how hard he tried.

Away from being Lassie.

He'd known he could do it. What had surprised him was how easily it had come. The talking, the hand-holding, it had all come so easily and led so naturally to that moment outside her door when he, Carlton Lassiter, had smoothly and confidently kissed the ever-loving hell out of Juliet O'Hara.

And it had been magnificent. Amazing. Mind-blowing. Her body soft and pliant against his, hands sliding up into his hair, her mouth—dear God, her mouth—fitting to his perfectly and when he finally let her up for air, gasping his name. His. The stuff dreams were made of.

And dreams of what could have followed were all he was going to have for the foreseeable future.

"Dammit."

Propping himself on an elbow, he punched the pillow with a bit more force than was strictly necessary, then flopped back against the mattress, head propped on his crossed arms as he resumed staring up at the ceiling.

It was his own fault. He could have had more. He could have had everything. But it wasn't time yet. By his own admission, he was courting and courting required following certain rules. First rule being don't take advantage of a woman. There was no doubt in his mind that he could have followed that kiss to its logical conclusion and made love to Juliet and he knew it would've been every bit as magnificent as that kiss. But wrapped in that knowledge was the absolute certainty that she would've regretted it the minute it was over. She was a good person, was his Juliet. And he knew she would hate herself for cheating on Spencer and that guilt would eat her up and ruin what was growing between them.

Part of executing a successful campaign was knowing when to advance and when to retreat. And while Carlton wasn't above exploiting their mutual attraction in the name of advancement, he would only do so up to a point.

He could wind up with pneumonia from all the cold showers for all he cared, but he would not make love to Juliet until they could both do so with a clear conscience and no regrets.

He was playing for keeps here.

So with one final lingering kiss he'd left her at her door with nothing more than an "I'll talk to you soon," and a silent promise to give her space. Painful as hell, but the right move. Juliet was as analytical in her own way as he was and would want to break down what had just happened. He could almost imagine her lying in bed—and dammit, that was all too easy since he'd been in her bedroom—maybe having a toddy, listening to the CD he'd made her, on the stereo he'd given her, and she'd begin piecing together the clues.

As to what would happen after that?

Well, he'd just have to wait and see how the next battle unfolded wouldn't he? In the meantime, he had the memory of a truly spectacular kiss to hold close as he drifted off to sleep.

He blinked up into the dark.

Or not.

Body tight and aching, he threw back the covers and headed for the bathroom.


The next afternoon, Carlton sat on his sofa, the case files from the homicide, possible domestic abuse case, spread across his coffee table, and a barely-touched beer on the end table beside him. He and Juliet both knew there was something hinky about this case, they just hadn't quite put their finger on it yet and it was bothering the hell out of him. The memory of that little girl, Emily, crying for her mother while clinging to her father—it just set every kill instinct he had on high alert—especially since he had a bad feeling about the father. The victim's autopsy had revealed evidence of a lot of old injuries—enough that even Woody had been rendered unusually somber—and of course the son of a bitch husband claimed innocence. They all did. Even after they were caught and presented with irrefutable evidence of their cowardice.

Because that's what they were, those scum-sucking bastard abusers—cowards.

And he hated that they hadn't been able to find the evidence to pin this on the father, yet, because with every minute that little girl spent with him, it put her one minute closer to becoming a victim herself and he was damned if he'd allow that to happen.

Truth was, too, in a stunningly selfish admission, he had to admit that studying the case files was also serving as a much-needed distraction. He'd been making more of an effort not to bring work home with him, but after last night, and then this morning, running into Guster at the grocery store, cheerfully reporting that Shawn and Juliet were on a date, he needed a distraction.

Not that this wasn't what he'd expected. Sure, maybe part of him had hoped she'd show up this morning and fall into his arms—he was human and damn, he wanted her so much—but he knew Juliet better than that. She was going to weigh options and consider and above all, she would be fair.

And in the interests of remaining scrupulously honest, he also knew himself well enough to know that had Juliet shown up on his doorstep, he wouldn't have trusted it.

Too soon. Too soon. Too goddamned soon.

It was his own frickin' personal mantra.

Beside the beer bottle, his phone buzzed with a text alert.

Glancing at the screen, his heart skipped a beat as he saw it was from Juliet.

Can I see you?

He picked up both phone and beer, taking a meditative sip as he studied the screen and debated what to do.

There was the simple response: Yes. Okay, the simple response was actually d'uh, but yes was more civilized and adult.

There was the more complicated response of No. Not what he wanted, because of course he wanted to see her, but was it wise at this point? He'd promised to give her space—he knew she needed space. Besides, wasn't she out on a date with Spencer?

Which brought him to the even more complicated response of no response at all. He could remain silent and feign ignorance with some lame-ass excuse about having his phone turned off if she even asked him about it, except she'd read that like the lie it was. She knew he always had his phone nearby and turned on—always prepared to be called in. Especially important since he'd given up having the police scanner at home.

After taking another sip of beer, he set the bottle aside and with hands that shook only slightly, typed in his response:

If you like.

Less than ten seconds later, Yes, please, flashed across his screen. Good thing, too, since he wasn't sure he'd drawn a breath since he hit the Send key.

Calmer, now, he typed in Where and when? Resisting the urge to follow it up with asking if she was okay and wondering what in hell had happened with Spencer.

His phone vibrated again.

Botanic Gardens in an hour?

I'll be there.

He stared at the screen, debating, and finally quickly typed, Do you need anything?

The phone buzzed almost immediately and the screen lit up and his heart not only skipped a beat, it skipped several damned measures' worth as he read her response.

Rubbed his eyes, then read it again. And again.

And each time, it was the same.

Just you.