Chapter One

AN: Once upon a time, I decided to play around with writing some fanfic for psych, primarily based around Carlton and Juliet, who I saw as possessing gorgeous chemistry, especially in S4. My second story in the 'verse was the could-conceivably-take-place-within-canon Both Sides Now. Then Loafer started prodding me to take a walk on the non-canon wild side and there I've lived fairly comfortably, especially as S6 evolved and I wasn't exactly nuts about some of the developments. Recently, however, Loafer mentioned she'd love to see a follow up to Both Sides Now and given how often she indulges my whims and writes stories based on my suggestions, I figured it was my turn to return the favor.

Fair warning: while this can be considered a post S6 stand-alone with its attendant spoilers, it will definitely be referring back to incidences that took place in BSN.

As usual, no infringement intended, I own nothing of psych, save for the ideas tumbling about in my head.

No crime scene could ever be called good—especially for what appeared to be a homicide—but as scenes went, this one wasn't… terrible. Located in a canyon adjacent to the Botanic Gardens, it consisted of human remains revealed after recent seasonal rains and a nasty mudslide. Buried long enough that human decomp had combined with the natural loamy decay that under any other circumstance might be considered pleasant into an earthy sort of aroma that could best be described as… ripe.

As far as the condition of the remains themselves? Well, as far as the M.E. on site could figure, they'd been there somewhere in the neighborhood of a month so the body's overall condition definitely resembled something out of a horror film.

Still, though, they'd definitely dealt with much, much worse—including Spencer and Guster following a three-day binge of John Waters movies and the Buy Six Get Six Free ancho chili and bean burrito special at Mucho Gusto Gustatoriam.

Which was why Karen's Spidey-sense was more than a little a'tingle from watching Detective Juliet O'Hara grow progressively greener as the M.E., clearly a disciple of Woody Strode, described the victim's condition with morbid glee. It was while describing the presence of various insects and what, exactly, they had done to the body, all while holding a wiggling, pale white worm-like beast up like he'd just won the blue ribbon at the Calaveras County Fair, that O'Hara finally gave up the ghost, clapping a hand over her mouth and running off into a densely wooded copse.

When Lassiter made as if to follow, Karen held him back with a curt, "You supervise the rest of the canvass—I'll see to O'Hara."

"But—"

"Detective, no woman likes a man to see her losing her lunch. It's… a thing."

He stared at her, wide-eyed. "But I'm her partner."

"And a man." Karen held him in place with a well-practiced glare. "I'll make certain to let you know if you're needed but for now, Detective, the scene takes precedence."

He nodded and while he didn't look particularly happy, at the same time, there surrounded him a faint air of relief. Not such a surprise—Carlton was not particularly adept or at ease with offering comfort, although if there was any one person Karen knew he could unbend for, it was O'Hara.

After a few additional instructions she followed the path O'Hara had taken, finding her a few hundred yards away from the primary crime scene. At the sound of Karen's approach, O'Hara straightened, wiping her mouth.

"Chief, I am so sorry—I tried to get as far away from the primary as I could—"

Karen held up a hand, stemming the panicked flow. "Relax, O'Hara. I'd wager this is a good enough distance and if it's not, well then, the forensics unit has certainly dealt with worse. Sorry," she added as a renewed hint of green overtook O'Hara's pale features.

O'Hara shook her head, mouth clamped shut, as if not completely trusting that what might emerge if she opened it would be words.

"Let's get you back to the car."

"But the scene—"

"Is in good hands with Detective Lassiter."

To Karen's shock, O'Hara didn't argue any further, merely nodded as faint wash of pink—relief, no doubt—eased the wan cast to her features. As she turned to head back up the path towards where the cadre of response vehicles was parked, Karen fell into step alongside, her mind working a mile a minute to solve this new mystery.

Except it really wasn't a mystery, was it? True, it was possible O'Hara had food poisoning or a stomach flu bug, but with the sixth sense that had more to do with being a woman who'd gone through the same than that of being a detective, Karen knew it wasn't either of those possibilities.

At the Crown Vic, O'Hara sank into the passenger seat while Karen popped the trunk and rummaged through the contents of the go-bags stored there. In Lassiter's, because of course, it would be, she found what she was looking for.

"Here—" She tore open a pack of saltines and handed one to O'Hara who took it with a flicker of unease reflected in her blue-gray eyes—eyes beneath which there were grayish circles and dammit, why hadn't she noticed this before?

Mostly because Karen would have assumed O'Hara, of all people, to be possessed of a healthy dose of common sense. Then again, love drove people to incredibly rash and inexplicable acts—like dating Shawn Spencer to begin with. Or look at Lassiter and his relationship with a convicted felon.

As O'Hara slowly nibbled at the cracker, Karen uncapped the bottle of water and waited. And observed. Despite the grayish circles and the pallor from this bout of sickness, there was a new, gentle fullness to her face and while nothing else was readily visible, the manner in which O'Hara kept one hand over her abdomen spoke more to protectiveness rather than a token gesture by which to settle queasiness.

Again, Karen just knew.

"How far along?"

"A little over three months," she answered softly around tiny bites of cracker and a cautious sip of water.

"Would you like me to call Mr. Spencer?"

"Shawn?" O'Hara's glance up was startled to the point of panic. "Oh, God, no Chief, please don't call him."

Karen drew her brows together, first confused, then shocked as she understood the source of O'Hara's alarm. "He doesn't know?" she said quietly, aware that personnel were beginning to make their way back up from the crime scene.

Both arms around her midsection, a fresh wave of nausea overtaking her features, O'Hara shook her head. "No one knows." Her gaze was equal parts panicked and resigned. "Well, no one knew."

She drew in a deep breath and released it slowly—yet another technique Karen remembered well from those early days and one which she could now recall the younger woman employing on a regular basis around the station. Usually when fresh coffee was brewing or one of the officers brought in a particularly fragrant lunch and dammit, how could she have missed this for so long?

"How have you explained cutting back on coffee to Lassiter?" He was a man, yes, but a detective above almost all else and such a fundamental change to his partner's routine wouldn't go unnoticed. She thought.

A wry smile tugged at O'Hara's mouth. "I've been offering to fetch it more often and get myself decaf tea instead. When he insists on getting it, I only take a sip or two." Her shoulders twitched slightly beneath her boxy suit jacket. "Doctor says one cup a day is acceptable and isn't going to hurt anything."

Okay then—so she'd seen a doctor. Along with her concern for her caffeine intake and the revelation that she was past the crucial first trimester mark made it clear she wasn't about to take measures to… relieve herself of her condition. Which left the question of why she hadn't yet told Shawn and while normally, Karen would file it strictly under "subordinate's personal lives, therefore not of her immediate concern," the fact that it concerned two subordinates and could conceivably affect the day to day operations at the station slid it over into the "definitely of her concern" column.

Damn.

Double damn.

"Were you waiting until you were… certain—" a good, all-purpose term that could cover both general health and/or decision-making, "to tell Shawn?"

Once again O'Hara's face tightened into miserable lines. "Chief, I can't tell Shawn. Please, promise you won't say anything—please."

Stunned, Karen stared at O'Hara—steady, mature O'Hara, her Head Detective's responsible, more than capable partner—and saw nothing more than a terrified, yet incredibly certain young woman.

"Oh, dear God, Juliet—" She scrubbed a hand over her face, stinging as if it had been physically hit with the irrefutable truth. "It's not Shawn's, is it?"

Silently, Juliet shook her head, her eyes glittering almost feverishly and damp with unshed tears.

"I haven't… been with him since before Henry got shot."

Not quite four months before. Weeks later, not long after the Jerry Carp case had wrapped and it was certain Henry would survive, Shawn, as if overwhelmed by the… gravity—the sheer adulthoodness—of it all, had taken off without a word. Stayed away and then had reappeared as suddenly as he'd disappeared ten days earlier, acting as if nothing at all was amiss. Henry was back home and well on his way to a full recovery, Guster was still holding down the fort and working at being an actual responsible adult, and Juliet was… Juliet. Still outwardly bright, still positive, and still tenaciously working cases alongside Lassiter.

As far as Shawn was concerned, nothing had changed.

Yet clearly, everything had changed and even Shawn Spencer, master of denial, had to be aware of it on some level, if he'd made no move to resume his relationship with Juliet. At least, not to the extent to which they'd been previously involved.

Knowing Juliet's baby was not Shawn's should have by all means been a source of relief for Karen—on multiple levels because if there was anyone absolutely not prepared to become a parent... But with that no longer an issue this could slide the information right back into the "subordinate's personal lives, therefore not of her immediate concern," column and yet…

And yet…

The Spidey sense was still tingling madly, prodding her with the knowledge that there was more to this story. More that she needed to know much in the way a seismologist needed to know when the Big One was on the verge of sending the foundations crumbling into insubstantial ash.

"O'Hara—what the hell's the matter? Are you all right? I told you that new Thai place was a bad idea for lunch—who knows if they've even passed their health inspection yet but did you want to listen to me? Nooo. Swear to God, I don't know why we couldn't just go to Garden Fresh for salads the way we do every Thursday."

Karen watched the play of expressions flit across O'Hara's face as Lassiter strode up to the car and stared down at her in a familiar mixture of impatience and aggravation tempered by the deep-seated concern Karen had never known him to spare for anyone else. Not even Marlowe.

And in that moment she became irrevocably certain of two things:

One: Juliet O'Hara was carrying Carlton Lassiter's baby.

And two: he had absolutely no clue.