Disclaimer: Repost of a yanked & incomplete story from last year—but now it's finished and I'm recklessly posting the WHOLE THING all on the SAME DAY. OH THE HORROR.
Disclaimer #2: This is dedicated to the three people who were still reading the story up through Chapter 6.
Disclaimer #3: (also a repost) The cane doesn't really have anything to do with TimO. This story's been in my head for a while and the cane works out nicely as a plot device. I use a cane myself; so there! I'm a plot device!
Rating: T
Summary: Juliet runs into a man from her past and a lot of things she took for granted turn out to need re-examination. Lassiet OF COURSE. No Marlowe, sorry.
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The cane caught Juliet's attention first.
Standing next to a booth two down from hers, it was coppery in color, with a quad base, the kind to provide extra support. She imagined that was useful around here, if a person ever strayed from town and into the northern Virginia woods.
Sunlight from the windows behind her hit the cane's shaft and made it gleam, and she admired it idly, sipping coffee as she contemplated the empty bowl in front of her. It had recently contained quite possibly the best chicken noodle soup she'd had in years, she had to admit, and the grilled cheese—also long gone—had been an excellent accompaniment.
It was chilly outside, and she'd been waiting for comfort food all morning long. Her temporary assignment at the ranger station kept her outside most of the time, which, most of the time, she loved, but some days just called for comfort food, even when the sun was out.
The owner of the cane was ready to go—she saw his hand reach out to grasp the handle—and he stood, but the waitress appeared then to drop off the check and blocked her view of him.
"Guess you liked that a little," Steffie said with a smile.
"Oh, it was awful," Juliet assured her. "Worst soup yet."
Steffie laughed. "That's what they all say. Come by tomorrow and try the pot pie. You'll hate that too."
"Promise?"
Steffie only laughed again and went on to the next booth, and Juliet, still curious, sought out the man with the copper cane. His back was to her as he stood at the cash register. Tall, lean, denim jacket, jeans. Mostly silver hair which looked to have been black once.
Her heart squeezed a little because for some reason—maybe his build, maybe his stance—he reminded her of Carlton, and it had been a long time since anyone reminded her of him, because there was no one like him.
No one.
He turned now to leave, the cane firmly in his grasp; she watched his gait for a moment—the limp was hard to miss and she wondered what had caused it.
Then she raised her eyes to look at his bearded face, as he paused to speak to a man coming in.
And she didn't know what to do then. She had no idea.
Because he didn't just look like Carlton from the back.
He looked like Carlton from the side too, even with the beard. Maybe because of the beard.
He... damn, he looked like Carlton. Dammit.
Juliet took in a deep but shaky breath.
He was Carlton.
No. Don't be an idiot. He couldn't be Carlton.
Yet for some reason her idiot heart was thudding madly now.
There was no way he could be Carlton. None. She was an idiot. It was simply impossible.
Because Carlton...
Because Carlton had been dead for five years.
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He heard something he probably wasn't supposed to hear.
It was a conversation, in low tense tones, between a white-coated doctor and a dark man in a dark suit whose whole demeanor reeked of military and government and power.
They stood near the end of his hospital bed, where he was hooked up to many blinking and beeping machines. He could see without moving his head too much—not that he could move his head too much—that there was another patient in the room, similarly burdened with medical entrapments.
Muzzy and achy was how he felt from the neck up, and he knew if he started to catalog the many ways he hurt from the neck down, he'd be busy a long time.
The doctor said, "Yes, I've told you, Morrell should be fine eventually. You won't get him back in the field before the end of the year, but you'll get him back. What I want to know is what I'm supposed to do with this guy."
Government Guy said, "What do you mean? Fix him and we'll send him back out too."
"Send him back out?" the doctor repeated. "I don't think you understand the problem."
"Clearly I don't," Government shot back. "Please explain the problem which will prevent Mr. Pollack from returning to the field."
The doctor sighed. "For one thing, Mr. Pollack's probably still in the field. Most likely in a million pieces in the rubble of that blown-up building. For another thing, this patient, according to my tests, is Carlton Lassiter of the damn Santa Barbara Police Department."
"What." Not a question, and all ice.
"Yeah. Congratulations. You just kidnapped a cop—one everyone thinks they had a memorial service for a week ago."
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Juliet couldn't move.
In her mind she was running at him, clutching at him, screaming at him.
But she was rooted to her seat, staring at him, unable to make sense of what was thirty feet away from her.
Carlton—and this was no damned hallucination—Carlton was standing there.
Alive. Breathing.
Alive.
She'd been in this diner a dozen times in two months and had never seen him before. But the man he was talking to was a regular, and they seemed comfortable with each other, so that meant he was a regular or semi-regular too.
Why couldn't she move?
Wait.
Wait, wait, wait.
WAIT.
What if she was insane?
Doppelgangers. They were real. Supposedly everyone had one.
And why shouldn't Carlton have one here in Virginia?
He ran his hand through his hair—longer now, wavy—and her heart pounded like it was trying to escape her chest and run at him all by itself.
She tried to stand up, but her legs were rubber. Useless. She wobbled and sank back into the seat.
His name was on her lips but she jerked it back—whoever he was, he wasn't using that name. This she knew instinctively. If he was a stranger, "Carlton" meant nothing. And if he was Carlton like she knew down to the last blood cell in her heart he was Carlton, he would not answer to that.
It didn't matter anyway, because he was walking out and she was still paralyzed.
Juliet slid to the window, anxiously staring and studying. He was efficient of movement despite the limp, so it was not a new injury. The dusty gray SUV he hauled himself into wasn't new either, and before he closed the door he paused to wave at someone she couldn't see.
He was known here.
Whoever he was—and he couldn't be Carlton even though he looked like Carlton because Carlton was dead, damn him—he was known here.
She just had to get her damned self together and get some facts. But first, she had to get her damned self together.
And right this minute that seemed like a pretty daunting task.
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"Explain how you picked up the wrong guy," Carlton said.
He had the room to himself now; the other patient had been removed at some point and he could only hope it was to the man's advantage.
Donovan—previously etched in Carlton's brain as Government Guy—scowled. "What do you remember about that day?"
"An office building blew up with me and a bunch of other people in it." If he said it without emphasis he could pretend it wasn't as horrific as it must have been. That other people hadn't lost their lives.
That he, of all sorry sons of bitches, had somehow been spared—but only because of an error.
"You weren't supposed to be in it, were you?"
"It wasn't supposed to blow up, was it?" he countered. "I was there after an embezzler." He was glad he'd been on his own, glad Juliet had gone to the dentist. All he had to do was drop in on an embezzling accountant, rattle his cage, and get back to the station before lunch.
Next thing... boom. Then another. And more. Louder, closer, more. Pain. Hell of a lot of pain. Then darkness.
Something new occurred to him. "Did your guys blow it up?"
"No," Donovan snapped. "That's not our style."
Carlton suspected it might sometimes be a little bit of their style, but decided not to say so.
Donovan was still scowling. He scowled a lot. "Anyway, when things blow up, things get... mixed up. You had significant injuries and cranial swelling and—have you been given a mirror yet? Here's a tip: if they offer one, say no."
"Duly noted," Carlton said dryly, and in truth had no interest in seeing how he looked if it was as bad as he felt most of the time.
"You weren't at your best, shall we say, and since you landed where we expected to find our guy, and were about the same build, you were assumed to be him." He grimaced. "Also, we didn't have a lot of time to waste."
He spared a thought for the erstwhile Mr. Pollack. "I had ID. A badge. A phone."
"Operative word: had. Half your clothes were ripped off by the force of the explosions and the effects of the debris." He paused. "According to my review of the SBPD records, the fact that they found pieces of your badge and items from your wallet helped them conclude you were among the victims."
A ripple of unease washed over him. Whatever anyone at the SBPD thought of him personally, no one in blue likes to lose a compatriot.
"But I've been here for at least a month now." More than a week since he overheard the conversation. He'd been mostly sedated since then and he imagined it was not only for his medical benefit but also to allow them to figure out what to do about him.
The other man didn't respond to that, which told him he was right.
Carlton wondered what the hell they were going to do about him... and also wondered why he wasn't more interested in going back to his life.
Had anyone attended his memorial service by choice rather than obligation?
Juliet, of course. Probably his mother, if it didn't cut into one of her soap operas and Althea could talk her into it.
Buzz McNab. The Chief. Spencer and Guster. Spencer would have made some maudlin and wildly inappropriate speech and Guster would have cried if Juliet did. Others might have gone to be polite.
He had no illusions that anyone would miss him, though, other than Juliet. Maybe Althea—she was a genuine sweetheart. But he and his sister weren't close—they talked a few times a year and he suspected she thought he was odd. And his mother was… a sentence best left unfinished.
He had no life to go back to.
Juliet was so sunny and kind and perfect that she would move on easily in time. He hoped she wouldn't put up with too much crap from Spencer, because God knew she deserved better.
Donovan was talking to him but he wasn't listening. He was wondering what would have happened if he'd ever had the courage to tell Juliet he loved her.
And he was wondering, too—now that the choice had been made for him—how it would be to live without her.
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Juliet left the diner under her own steam, somehow, called the ranger station to say she needed an extra hour, and without knowing how she'd gotten there, sat in her cabin, in the middle of the bed, knees to her chin, silent and cold.
She was a special agent with the National Park Service. Until a few months ago she'd been stationed in Colorado, but had been asked to fill a temporary vacancy in Virginia for the fall.
Three months after Carlton died, she submitted her resignation to Karen Vick.
The station, the job... the whole city. Even the ocean. Everything reminded her of Carlton, and everything caused her pain. Every moment of every day was torture because he wasn't there.
Karen asked her to consider grief counseling.
Juliet told her she'd been in counseling since the second week.
Law enforcement, she could still do. But not there. Not where her whole life had been colored by Carlton.
Shawn said she shouldn't run away. Not from her life, and not from him. She should remember that others were hurting too; that he was hurting.
She believed him. For all the time he'd spent disrespecting and tormenting Carlton, the empty space his death created was huge—too big for one person. Carlton wasn't supposed to die. His energy and irritability and stubbornness and caffeination should have kept him going until he was at least a hundred and eighty five.
Shawn pleaded with her to stay. We'll get through this together, he said. You and me. Please.
Well, you and me... and Gus, he meant; either way she knew he was sincere.
But to stay would have killed her again and again, every day. Every single day Carlton wasn't there would have killed her.
And dying every day was something she preferred to do on her own, far from the world she'd shared with her partner.
What she couldn't say to him—what she would never say to anyone in Santa Barbara—was that in the weeks before everything ended, she had come to realize that her dysfunctional relationship with Shawn was standing in the way of the relationship she wanted even more.
It was after the incident in the woods with that idiot Kate Favor and her sidekick Chavo, when she thought she'd lost Carlton. When the others thought he was dead and she was burning up inside with the certainty that all was lost if he was, and so he couldn't be, and if she had to single-handedly snatch him from the jaws of death so be it—and how she felt went way beyond merely being partners and close friends. Way beyond.
But before she could break it off with Shawn, and before she could confess her feelings to Carlton, there came the morning when he said he'd go talk to the accountant while she was at the dentist.
"We'll have lunch later at El Cielo. Refried beans for you, O'Hara," he said with a smirk. "Something soft. Extra napkins in case you drool."
She'd swatted at him with a case folder and he grinned, crystal blue eyes alight.
"Fried ice cream after that," he promised, and held up his hand for a high-five.
"That's better, you doofus."
Their last conversation.
Juliet drew in a breath, a deep hitching breath, and shivered in the dim light of her room.
Five years ago.
And since then, no fried ice cream, and no Carlton. Only memories.
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"You do understand," Donovan said flatly, "that there is no scenario where you ever set foot in Santa Barbara again. Carlton Lassiter is dead. You understand that."
Carlton, who'd lost track of the weeks since his arrival here, not that he had any idea where "here" was, looked back at him impassively. "We've been over this. What would I go back to?"
They'd profiled the hell out of him. They knew, or guessed, the extent of the lifelessness of his life. Donovan had even gotten dangerously close to suggesting he was aware of how much space Juliet occupied in his heart, but it turned out Carlton still had the ability to shut someone up with a Look—even a powerful government agent who could essentially make him disappear again.
Donovan pressed on, "And you understand that the work we were doing that day is still classified."
Classified, yes, he thought. Also, a bit of an embarrassment to have 'lost' their man and removed the wrong one. To have to give him back—especially when it took a couple of weeks to figure out they had the wrong guy—would have been a public relations nightmare separate from the issue of exposing their actual investigation.
"Yes. Why are we having this conversation again?"
"I need to be sure you have a proper grasp of your circumstances."
Carlton rolled his eyes. "I got it."
Donovan relaxed. "Good. Because now we can discuss your options."
"I have options?"
Interesting.
He listened.
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It was a rough night, but in the morning, Juliet felt clear-headed again.
Her heart was aching as if the wound was fresh, but her perspective was back where it ought to be.
Carlton was dead.
She had stood at the edge of the smoking pile of rubble. Grim-faced rescue workers had refused to let her any closer. They didn't care that she was a cop. They didn't care that she was his partner. They didn't care about her dying heart. They only wanted to do their jobs. Their terrible, terrible jobs.
Thirty-six people had been in the building that morning, and only seven made it out alive—all of them in critical condition. Two of those didn't last the week.
In her possession was one small piece of his gold badge, retrieved from the debris. She should have given it to his mother, but a jealous, possessive, desperate part of her said no. She had cleaned it and polished it and clung to it over the years, and would never let it go, because it was hers.
This one thing is mine. This thing he cherished—this job he shared with me—it's mine.
He was gone, and had been gone.
The man she saw in the diner yesterday looked like him. Looked a hell of lot like him, in fact.
But he wasn't Carlton, because he couldn't be.
Even if Carlton could have escaped the multiple explosions, the falling concrete and metal and fire… where would he have gone? And why? How would he have escaped notice, certainly bloody and injured?
He would not have walked away from his life willingly. Not from his life's work.
And never from her.
She knew how important she was to him—that was the only reason she'd been building the courage to tell him she returned those feelings. Because although he'd never said it—and may never have said it on his own—she had seen it more than once in his eyes, heard it in the cadence of his voice, felt it in the way he smiled at her and only her.
He would not have left her.
Whoever that man was yesterday—and why the hell ever he was put there to reopen these old wounds—he wasn't her Carlton.
So it was time to get back to work, out here in the forest, focusing on the present and the future, pretending her heart wasn't still back in Santa Barbara buried in the rubble with the one man she would always love.
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