Aftermath

As usual, don't own psych, like playing in the sandbox, TPTB own everything, I got nuthin', no infringement intended. I had this idea for a post-script immediately after the ep, but was caught up finishing JJJ&L, so it had to wait. In the meantime, I know that Loafer and KuryakinGirl have both posted their own versions, but hey, the more the merrier, right?

Onward.

He'd stuck to beer at the party, so it seemed prudent to keep to similar at the bar, even though given his druthers, his general bar preference tended to be Jack or if he felt like communing with the Old Country, Jameson's. Whisky, however, had an unfortunate tendency to bring out the maudlin Irish—given that this past week had felt like a whole generation's worth of maudlin Irish drama, the pleasant buzz beer tended to generate was definitely preferable. Keeping the maudlin at bay was also why he opted to sit out on the patio, nursing his Guinness and watching the sun drop low over the Pacific, rather than holed up in a dark back booth where he couldn't tell what time of day or night it was.

Jesus Christ. Whisky or no, he was in a mood.

He ran his thumb along the edge of the pilsner as he studied the darkening horizon. He'd managed to keep a good face on for O'Hara at the party—hadn't even really been that hard, once he'd seen that she was relaxed and seemingly pleased with how things had turned out, forgiving that pinhead Spencer for the multiple stunts he'd pulled over the week and at least tentatively accepting of her father's reappearance in her life. Didn't mean he wasn't worried—guys like Frank O'Hara, they didn't go straight. Not for long at any rate. More than fifteen years as a cop had taught him that one. And fathers who deserted their families tended not to keep promises or make permanent reappearances. Forty-two years as the offspring of a similar son of a bitch had taught him that one. All too well.

So yeah, he worried about O'Hara. But she was tough. Probably tougher than him in the long run. She'd try to mend fences with Frank, but she'd do so warily—he hoped. And he knew she'd fully forgive Spencer because the idiot seemed to be her Achilles heel and for all his faults, he did genuinely seem to want to make her happy, especially if it benefitted himself in the process.

Mired in thought and the study of the horizon, he very nearly missed the slight figure in the dark dress slowly walking along the waterfront. But there was no way it could be, could it? The party had still been going strong when he'd snuck out—left, actually, because there was no reason for him to be sneaking out because it wasn't as if anyone was going to miss him or anything—and there was even less reason to believe it had ended in the last hour. Especially with Spencer and a bounce house. And the balloon man and the shave ice vendor.

Regardless, the cut of the dress seemed right and the hair was pale and pulled into a knot, and then there was the familiar straight set of the shoulders that he'd know, hell, pretty much anywhere. "O'Hara?" he called out, standing up and striding forward, nearly falling over the wrought iron railing separating the patio from the sidewalk that had appeared out of nowhere. "Dammit, O'Hara," he snapped, more sharply than intended, but hell, his hip was throbbing like a mother, "is that you?"

The figure finally turned, leaning forward as if peering through the rapidly falling darkness. "Carlton?" Quickly crossing the street, she approached where he stood, coming to a stop on the opposite side of the iron railing.

"You left the party," she said in a tone that sounded faintly accusatory.

Not exactly the first thing he'd expected to hear.

"It would appear you have as well," he replied mildly.

One shoulder rose. "Yeah, well—"

Well that was illuminating.

"Were you… waiting for someone?" she asked delicately.

He snorted, not at all delicately. "Me?"

"Why should that be so surprising?"

"Hello, have you met me?"

But she didn't answer, merely stared. Stared long enough and penetratingly enough that he started to feel more than a little exposed, standing there before her. Uncomfortable with the thought of what she might see, he broke the silence.

"Were you headed anywhere specific?"

She wrinkled her nose in that way she had as she glanced over her shoulder toward the waterfront. "Not really. Just kind of wandering aimlessly–home, eventually."

"But," he started, confused. "It's your birthday."

"It is," she replied mildly.

"Why—" He stopped, started again. "Don't you and—" Dammit, he couldn't say anything without sounding like an ass—an insensitive one at that. With almost anyone else, he could care less but this was Juliet—and it was her birthday.

"Frank left, Gus was flirting with some girl, surprise, surprise, and Shawn was still occupied with the bounce house. And my partner," she added archly, "had taken off without so much as a goodbye."

He ignored the last in favor of what had come right before it. "The bounce house?"

Juliet shrugged. "He was determined to get his money's worth out of it plus he wanted to see if he could top his personal record for bouncing. I was tired, though. Been a hell of a week, you know?"

"Oh for Christ's sake—" Irritation stabbed him with a thousand tiny needles, plus one big one that jabbed him short of saying anything else. "Never mind," he sighed.

Restaurant chatter coupled with the occasional car passing by on the street to fill the silence, yet it still seemed really, really… silent. An echoing kind of silence. Carlton knew he should probably say or do something, but he so often said and did the wrong thing. And it was Juliet's birthday and she'd as much as said that she'd been abandoned in favor of a bounce house.

"Join me for a drink?"

He glanced over his shoulder, trying to figure out where the voice had come from, because surely, that wasn't him. But when he looked back at Juliet, there she was, smiling. Not just smiling, but nodding and walking the short distance to the patio gate and weaving her way through the tables and before he knew it, there she was, in front of him, and he was even holding the chair out for her that she was slipping into with a grateful smile directed up at him.

"Oh, it feels good to sit," she said with a sigh. As Carlton resumed his seat, she disappeared beneath the table, then popped up a moment later. Bemused, he watched as she stretched like a cat, while he did his best not to entertain any mental visuals that went beyond their current, very public, restaurant setting.

"Whoa, what's that?" He jerked in his chair as he felt a light brush against his ankle.

"Sorry." Even in the mellow light from the lanterns illuminating the patio, her blush was evident. "I slipped off my shoes. Should've known better than to go walking in new heels."

Peering under the table, he spotted the shoes, carelessly tumbled one over the other. "I don't know how you work all day in the heels you do wear."

Her eyebrows rose. "You get used to it—and if I didn't wear them, I'd look that much younger and fragile next to you."

He couldn't help the snort that escaped. "You, fragile? Not hardly."

"That's you," she countered. "And you have thought of me as young."

Just then the waitress appeared—after requesting a fresh Guinness for Juliet and a refill for himself, Carlton leaned back in his chair. "I have been guilty of that, yes. But now that you're on the wrong side of thirty…"

Juliet waited for their waitress to set their drinks in front of them and leave before she leaned forward, intent drawing her brows into a straight line. "You really don't want to go down that road, do you, Carlton?" she asked in a silky, deceptively innocent voice. He knew that voice. He'd heard that voice disarm more than one perp over the years. He also knew how to counter that voice.

Leaning forward so that only a scant few inches remained between them, he replied, "O'Hara, I not only know that road well, I know every detour, switchback, and side road. So yeah, I'm game if you are."

They eyeballed each other over the rims of their glasses before breaking into simultaneous grins. "Happy Birthday, O'Hara," he said, raising his glass.

She lifted hers and touched it to his with a smile. "You already wished me happy birthday."

"So?" He shrugged diffidently. "It's still your birthday."

They drank in silence for a few moments then Juliet spoke again. "Why is it so hard for you?"

Carlton blinked, feeling as if he'd been dragged back into a conversation he'd zoned out on, except he never zoned out on Juliet any more. "Come again?"

She leaned back in her chair and regarded him. "When you wished me happy birthday at the party and hugged me, it seemed—" she paused, then finished, "awkward. Like you didn't really want to."

Didn't really want to? Dear God.

"O'Hara, trust me, if I didn't want to, I wouldn't. I wouldn't have even been there."

Not the right thing to say, judging by the downcast gaze and the way she was biting her lip. But what did she want him to say? Or do? As usual, he had no idea what in hell the right thing was, other than he rarely ever got it. As they sat in silence, this one a bit more uneasy than the first, she shivered—an uncontrollable, full-body shiver—and he realized that with the sun now fully down and the evening breeze picking up off the ocean, it was decidedly chillier than it had been. And there she was, in her thin dress with her shoulders bare and he finally knew at least one right thing he could do.

"Here—" He yanked off the sweater he wore over his button-down and khakis. Rising slightly from his chair, he leaned across the table and draped it over her shoulders. "It's not much," he said as he awkwardly tucked it around her, "but it's better than getting a chill and then a cold that might turn into pneumonia and then you'd be out on sick leave and I'd be assigned a temporary partner who'd probably be useless and we know the likelihood of that going well would be somewhere between slim and hell freezes over and then Vick would get on my ass—"

"Carlton—"

Trapped in mid-rant, all he could do was blink and offer a bewildered, "What?"

She smiled. "Thank you." Wrapping it more fully around herself, she snuggled—snuggled—into the depths of the navy blue wool, murmuring, "It's so warm. I hadn't realized how cold I'd gotten."

So warm? So warm? She had no idea. And since she was currently busy maneuvering her arms through the sleeves, rolling up the cuffs, and doing more of that snuggling thing, she also had no idea he was sitting there gaping, like some damned landed trout. Watching as strands escaped from her updo to drift across her face and another smile graced her face, leaving her looking soft and pleased, like she had at the outset of her party.

Hell, only reason he realized it was because their waitress, passing by, tapped the underside of her chin with a meaningful stare. Kind, kind waitress. He'd have to make sure he left a decent tip. He closed his mouth with an audible snap—and just in time, since Juliet finally finished snuggling and had moved on into looking pleased and content, curled up in the chair, again, bringing to mind a satisfied cat.

Dammit.

It had been a long, long time since he'd been assaulted by any of these sorts of feelings with respect to his partner. Sure, he'd entertained the odd notion, even as they each pursued relationships with others, and after the clock tower there'd existed a new closeness between them that allowed him, at odd moments, to think maybe…

But always in the back of his mind lay the warning of how dangerous a road that would be to travel—for a lot of different reasons. So he'd allowed their relationship to evolve into a close friendship, the best he'd ever had, really, as they traveled along their parallel roads. And ironically therein lay the real answer to her earlier question.

He had to be awkward.

"Better?" He tried to keep things gruff, but also didn't want to risk bringing that disappointed expression back to her face. More fool he.

"Much." The fingers of one hand toyed with the sweater's buttons while she reached for her pilsner with the other, taking a long drink. "I probably should take it easy on that," she said as she regarded her nearly empty glass. "Too much Guinness, too fast on an empty stomach is not a good thing."

A fresh wave of irritation left Carlton feeling even more jangly and unnerved. "You haven't eaten?"

"I nibbled." She shrugged as she held the glass close. "Shave ice and Velveeta dip do not, however, make for a substantial meal."

Son of a bitch. Of all the lame-brained, half-assed, idiotic— Swallowing a rude comment that wouldn't have helped anything, Carlton stood and flagged down their waitress.

"Shepherd's pie, please. And—" He glanced down at Juliet who was gazing up at him, brows drawn together. Tough. She was going to eat a decent meal if it was the last thing he did. "An order of the bread pudding. A couple of Irish coffees, too, when you bring dessert."

He settled back into his chair, holding Juliet's gaze with a steady defiant one of his own. She could be pissed at him—he could deal with it. Might even be easier that way. "I know bread pudding's not exactly birthday cake, but it's a house specialty. I think you'll like it."

"Why didn't you order for yourself?"

"I—" The mildness of her tone, given what he'd expected threw him—not to mention, the question itself.

"We'll share," she said, as if he'd actually spoken and offered some sort of lame response. He supposed not speaking was fairly lame, in and of itself.

"That's not necessary, O'Hara."

"Yeah, it kind of is, Lassiter."

So she was annoyed with him—at least a little. Good.

When the food came, Juliet calmly requested an extra set of silverware and fresh Guinness for each of them, leaving the waitress leveling an undeniably amused glance his direction. Crap. Maybe he needed to rethink that tip.

The steaming, oversized dish between them, they ate quietly, no extraneous conversation beyond her comment that the mashed-potato topped meat pie was extremely good and his response that it was a favorite of his. As usual, she was left to fill in the blanks—clearly, this was a place he came to fairly often, at least, often enough to have a favorite dish and know that the bread pudding was a house specialty. Still such a Sphinx, after all these years, she mused, recalling how Chief Vick had pointed out to her that quiet was who Carlton was. Which made the question she tossed out over their Irish coffees and bread pudding, also shared, all the more surprising, since it wasn't on the sort of subject they normally tended to dwell on.

"How's Marlowe?"

Blue eyes, intense even in the dim patio lighting, regarded her over a forkful of bread pudding. "She's good," he said simply before putting the fork in his mouth, a clear sign that was all he intended to offer.

She sighed and exchanged her fork for the Irish coffee, liberally dosed with good whisky. What else did she expect, really? While she'd been mostly forthcoming in the past about her love life, especially if she'd needed advice, Carlton had historically been anything but. And had gotten even more withdrawn and taciturn since the revelation of her relationship with Shawn. Their relationship, once as much friendship as partnership, if not more so, had regressed in the last few months. Between her and Shawn being together—an uncomfortable topic considering how Carlton felt about Shawn most days and the fact that she'd, you know, kept the relationship a secret from her partner—coupled with his new relationship with Marlowe—also an uncomfortable topic, given that Juliet had had to take the woman into custody and question her as a potential murder suspect and she was currently in the pokey—there'd been precious little opportunity for personal interaction. Even their shared lunches tended not to stray far from case discussions. Come to think of it, this was probably the most personal time they'd spent together in months. The easiest time.

Why had it taken an awkward hug and an accidental meeting to make her realize how much she missed it?

While Carlton paid the bill, she slipped her shoes on and began unbuttoning the sweater, preparing to say thank you and good night and try not to burst into embarrassing girly tears at how unexpectedly lovely her birthday had wound up turning out and how little it'd had to do with Shawn's surprise party, thoughtful though it may have been. The intense blue glance Carlton shot her as he signed the credit card slip, however, stilled her hands.

"Do you still want to walk some or would you prefer I drive you home?" The tone of his voice made it clear those were pretty much her only two options.

"Walk, please."

Falling into silence again, they crossed the street to the waterfront. In the distance she could see the lights of the Psych office, still burning bright, the number of moving shadows indicating that the party was still going strong. With a final glance, she turned away and headed the opposite direction, Carlton ambling alongside, hands in his pockets. If he'd taken note of her deliberate path, he gave no indication. Oh, who was she kidding? Of course he'd noticed. Yeah, sometimes he missed the obvious, but not as often as most tended to assume.

"You never really answered my question."

"Which one?" His gaze remained fixed straight forward, but the slight twitch of a cheek muscle revealed he knew damned well which question she meant.

She grasped his elbow, pulling him to a stop beneath one of the tall, iron lanterns. "Carlton—"

He stopped and turned, the action pulling him free. "Why is it so important, O'Hara?"

"I don't know." A lie. She did. She missed her friend. Not that they'd ever been prone to much physical contact, but dammit, there had been something so wrong about that hug. Something that had been missing.

His narrow-eyed gaze studied her for the longest time, and for the first time she could ever remember, it wasn't the intense color that so captured her attention as the emotions so clearly shifting beneath the surface. What they were, she couldn't say, until the very last one—the defeat. Leaning against the lamppost, he stared out at the water, nearly invisible in the dark, but audible, in the movement of the waves as they approached shore. Loud enough that it almost drowned out his words.

"O'Hara, I never meant to hurt your feelings. I wouldn't have ever imagined that the way I hugged you or leaving your party without saying goodbye would have hurt your feelings."

"Why does it seem to come as such a surprise that it would?"

The shoulder not resting against the lamppost rose, but he remained stubbornly silent. Such a… a… man. Sadness overwhelmed her, making her sink onto a nearby bench.

"What's wrong with us, Carlton?"

His head snapped around so quickly, he narrowly missed braining himself on one of the decorative iron curlicues suspended from the lamp. "What do you mean?"

"Things haven't been…" she floundered for the words, "right, between us for a while." Cold, despite the sweater she still wore, she wrapped her arms around herself, inhaling the faint aroma of Carlton's aftershave clinging to the wool. "It's not that you're mad or anything," she continued, anticipating his counterargument. "But you've been… distant. And the way you acted today just reinforces that. If you really do want a new partner—" She swallowed hard, not knowing what she'd do if he agreed that maybe it was best. That maybe their partnership had finally run its course and it was time for each of them to move on because some integral layer of trust had been breached beyond repair.

"Dammit, O'Hara, don't you ever listen?" Blue fire snapped from his eyes as he straightened and shoved a hand through his hair, disheveling it into an unruly series of cowlicks and curls that were normally kept under strict control. "Didn't you hear me babbling back there at the restaurant about how hard it would suck to have to deal with a new partner, even on a temporary basis? Do you think I'd give a rat's ass about your health and well-being if I wanted a new partner? Jesus." Thrusting both hands in his pockets, he spun away to stare back out at the water, the broad line of his shoulders rigid with tension. The pose was so familiar, Juliet could easily envision the accompanying facial expression, without actually having to see it. Thin-lipped, brows drawn tight, twin lines cutting deep slashes between them as he glared at some unfortunate victim.

Slowly she stood and approached, stopping alongside him and staring out over the water. "Then what is it?"

"Look, let's just accept that things are… different." At least he was acknowledging something was wrong and she wasn't the only one who'd noticed.

"Okay, they are," she agreed. "But does that mean things between us have to be different?"

He turned to her, the expression that briefly flashed in his eyes naked and exposed and making her catch her breath at its ferocity before he quickly shuttered it. "Yes, it does."

I wish I'd never gotten involved with Shawn.

The thought flitted in and out of the transom of her mind so quickly, it was almost as if it had never happened. But it had. And now it was imprinted deep within her, like a brand and she'd have to live with those consequences—both of the action and the thought. Everything had changed once she got involved with Shawn, a lot of it for the better, because really, he loved her and she loved him and they needed to give each other a chance rather than live with continual missed opportunities and a lifetime's worth of what ifs. If she was being completely honest, however, she'd also have to admit a lot had changed for worse, too. It was clear now she'd irrevocably lost a piece of Carlton she might never be able to retrieve, but she'd be damned if she'd lose all of him.

With a deep breath, she gently touched his elbow, prompting him to slide a curious glance her direction, but to nevertheless take the cue to resume their walk. Knowing him as well as she did, she knew what he was thinking—it was unlike her to not press for resolution and he'd remain wary and on edge, wondering when it would happen. Utterly certain it would happen. Dreading when it would happen because as much as he thrived on emotions like anger, true emotional confrontation took too much out of him and had a tendency to make him want to retreat to a dark corner so he could lick his wounds in private.

Under the cover of darkness, she smiled to herself. He'd be shocked to realize she knew that much about how his mind worked. Hell, she was half-shocked herself, but she knew it, with a rock solid certainty. The reparation of their relationship couldn't be based on confrontation—it had to be subtler than that, built gradually, from the ground up and in a way that couldn't ever shake it this hard again.

In the silent, comfortable accord they enjoyed during the majority of their working hours, they followed the walkway eventually doubling back to where his car was parked. She responded to his raised-eyebrow look by getting into the passenger seat and letting him drive her home. At her door, because of course, he'd walked her up, gentleman that he was, she began unbuttoning his sweater, more than a little loathe to give it up, not so much because it was warm, which it was, and not just because it smelled of Carlton, which was comforting, but because of what the simple gesture had brought to light. While not a lot of conversation had been exchanged, a lot of thinking had been done—at least on her part. She'd screwed up, she realized. Being with Shawn had made her so attuned to words, that she'd used that as a fallback for her interactions with everyone else. Problem was, words were the least reliable indicator with Carlton. With him, it was all about actions and she'd been so overwhelmed with the wordiness of Shawn World that her observation of actions had fallen by the wayside. Not a good trait in a detective. An even worse trait in a friend.

A glancing touch to her hand made her pause.

"Keep it," he said, not meeting her gaze. "It's still chilly. You can give it back later."

She studied his profile, the security light creating a myriad of planes and shadows, and throwing a silver sheen over his hair. He looked at once solid and amorphous; someone who'd always be there, yet would insist on remaining just out of reach.

The hell he would.

She grasped his arm and turned him slightly, just enough so that he'd be forced to look at her. "Thank you." After a beat of silence where they did nothing more than look at each other, they stepped toward one another in perfect accord, her arms going around his back while his circled her shoulders—no hesitation, no awkwardness—just two pieces of a puzzle fitting together smoothly.

Over her head, his quiet "Happy Birthday, Juliet," resonated with genuine emotion—the kind that had been lacking in their prior embrace. And for way too long, now.

Stroking the sweater late that night as she lay in bed she knew one thing for certain—one dinner, a long overdue conversation, even a heartfelt hug—that wasn't enough. It was a start, but they'd have to fight to fix their relationship.

Then again, though, the best things were always worth fighting for.