Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Juliet glanced across the car to her partner. He kept his eyes on the road, not speaking, not even seeming to breath. She wanted to say something, do something…

“Carlton?” Her voice sounded a lot more afraid than she’d meant it to be. Just a whisper. There was a long pause.

The SBPD’s Head Detective turned on the right blinker without saying a word and pulled off the main road. They were in the parking lot of a store; it was closed. Carlton leaned forward and rested his head on the steering wheel.

“Damn it, O’Hara.” His voice was broken and raw. It was a plea. A cry for help.

Juliet opened the car door, walked around the front of the car, and drew her partner out of the driver’s seat. She pulled his tall frame into her arms and held him. Because no one did. Because he needed it. “I’m here, Carlton,” was all she said. And Carlton felt safe, leaning into her, he rested his chin on her shoulder. She held him tighter.

Neither detective said anything more.

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Juliet pushed open the door to her and Shawn’s apartment. She missed Santa Barbara, she missed her city and her partner, and she just wanted to curl up next to her fiancé and watch chick flicks until she felt better.

“Hey Jules,” Shawn called from the kitchen where he was eating cereal. After getting no response, Shawn stood and peeked into the entry way of their apartment. He took one look at Juliet’s face and knew she hadn’t had a good day. He took her jacket and her bag and guided her to the couch, kissing her on the forehead. “I’ll make popcorn.”

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Carlton couldn’t think through the pain. There were people, and voices. He knew them, recognized them as friends. But who, and where, and why were all a confusing blur. Blonde hair came into his view, and Carlton realized he was staring at the sky. Why was he doing that?

The Head Detective tried to sit up, but the pain made him dizzy, and a hand on his chest kept him from moving. Hang in there, partner. Panicked, shaking, O’Hara. Carlton tried to ask what was happening, what was wrong, but he couldn’t speak. Come on, Lassie. You’re alright, right? You’re fine. Spencer. Laughing nervously like he cared. Shut up, Shawn. Guster, angry, defiant. What the hell-?

He couldn’t think, couldn’t remember… He looked into familiar blue eyes. Blue like the sky above him. His partner, O’Hara; not alone. The pain. He was afraid. Help is coming, hang on Carlton. O’Hara was there. Spencer and Guster-

Carlton heard sirens. The pain flared again, and the head detective let his eyes slide closed.

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Carlton fell into his house. He was tired and irritated. After a 46-hour shift, he wanted nothing more than to fall into bed and not move for the next three days. Marlowe came to greet him as he shuffled farther into the house.

“Hey honey bear!” She hesitated. “Tough shift? Did you get the guy?” Marlowe smiled sympathetically at him, and Carlton instantly felt a bit better. He nodded in response to her questions and accepted a kiss on his cheek before pushing past his wife on route to the bedroom. Marlowe laughed lightly, and Carlton flipped her off over his shoulder. Marlowe laughed harder and followed the Head Detective to their bedroom.

Carlton was already sprawled on the bed when Marlowe entered the room.

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Carlton stared at the drink in front of him. A year since the divorce had been finalized. He was alone, and he felt it today. No Victoria, no Barry, no one who cared about him. Not anymore.

Carlton was surprised to hear his phone buzz after the first few glasses of scotch. A text from O’Hara.

Hey partner! Do you want to go grab dinner tonight?

Carlton smiled slightly and replied.

“Only if you come here. And bring alcohol.”

I’m bringing ice cream and the first three Die Hards.

O’Hara arrived ten minutes later, armed with the aforementioned ice cream and movies. Carlton opened the door to his apartment, feeling slightly self-conscious in his sweats and a t-shirt. Of course, O’Hara just smiled at him, and walked in like it was nothing. Carlton watched his junior detective with a sense of disbelief as she put in the first movie, grabbed two spoons from the kitchen and settled on the couch. After a few more moments, O’Hara glanced at him from the couch with an amused smirk on her face. “You gonna sit?”

Carlton smiled as he sat next to O’Hara and prepared to drown his sorrow in action movies, ice cream, and his kick ass partner.

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Carlton walked down the steps of his partner’s house, seething. O’Hara was going to go on another date with that idiot of a man, Shawn Spencer, even after everything that had happened. Lassiter knew it was a terrible idea. No way in hell had Spencer cleaned up his act that well in such a short amount of time. Of course, she wouldn’t listen to Carlton. She’d yelled at him, saying something about the divorce. How he didn’t know anything. He was just the partner after all.

Carlton didn’t know why he expected her to care about his opinions, even if he was just trying to look out for her. They weren’t even friends, really. Carlton knew that. Of course he did. The thing he couldn’t figure out was why his throat felt tight as he got into his car and drove away.

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Carlton pulled his thin blanket up over his chest. His third week on the couch. Victoria and he had had another screaming match, and of course he was on the couch telling himself he wasn’t a complete asshole. He still loved her.

The Head Detective rolled onto his side, but he knew he wouldn’t sleep for a while, if at all. So, he pulled himself off the couch and crept as quietly as possible into Victoria and his shared office space. He could work tonight. Then at least he could be prepared for one aspect of his life, however insignificant it seemed in comparison to his marriage.

Carlton sat down at the desk and opened a case file.

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Juliet sniffed, trying to keep herself from flat out crying in front of Carlton. Her partner had his intense blue gaze fixed directly on her, eyebrows etched in concern. Juliet felt her lip tremble. This was so stupid, she was a goddamn cop. She couldn’t cry. Not over this.

Carlton just stared at her. Juliet wished he’d say something. He just looked at her like she was a fragile doll that he wasn’t sure what to do with. After a few minutes, the Head Detective stood, “Let me know if you need anything, O’Hara.”

Juliet’s friend rested a hand on her shoulder and started to walk away. No!

“Carlton,” Juliet nearly shouted. The head detective turned back to her, placing his hand on her shoulder once again. She set her hand atop his and squeezed it gently. “Please, stay.”

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O’Hara locked eyes with Carlton from across the parking lot. He was crouched beside a dumpster behind a nearby building. The junior detective saw his eyes flashing even with the distance between them. She knew that look. She shook her head, desperately trying to get him to see reason, but he nodded quickly towards the armed man a few yards in front of them. Damn it, Carlton.

O’Hara watched as the Head Detective of the SBPD slipped out from behind his dumpster, gun raised. He fired three shots at Shawn’s attacker. Carlton's target ducked behind a stack of boxes, moving quickly from his position over Shawn’s limp form. O’Hara’s gaze fell on her prone friend for the millionth time since they'd arrived. She spent several seconds trying to determine whether the psychic was alive. She thought he was. He had to be. He’d better be.

More gunshots drew O’Hara’s attention from the prone man across the parking lot. She looked up, steadying her weapon as she prepared to assist her partner. She took aim at the suspect. Juliet heard a gunshot and a cry of pain.

Juliet fired. Because the suspect was still standing, Meaning he was not down; he hadn’t just been shot down. Which meant the shot hadn’t hit him. Which meant- Oh, God.

Carlton.

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Marlowe tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, worrying at her bottom lip as she waited for her boyfriend. He wasn’t normally this late, and Marlowe had to admit she was a bit worried. He was a cop after all, he was in dangerous situations every day. What if he’d gotten hurt, or killed? Who would think to tell a random prisoner at the Santa Barbara jail? Marlowe’s worrying spiraled from there until visitation hours were almost over, and she had convinced herself that Carlton was dead.

She heard the door open for the seventeenth time since she’d been waiting for him to arrive, not letting herself hope that he was there. She couldn’t look up from the table for the fear that it wouldn’t be him. A soft rapping on the glass in front of her. Marlowe beamed, and picked up the phone next to her before even lifting her gaze from the table.

“Hey Marlowe.” He sounded tired, but Marlowe hardly noticed. She was drinking in every detail about the man in front of her .

She just sat there, smiling at him until he smiled too.

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Carlton pulled Marlowe close to him. There were hundreds, seemingly thousands of people surrounding them. Normally, that would have been enough to make Carlton tense up, and huddle in the corner with a pounding headache.

But the music was just loud enough and just soft enough, and the woman in front of him was beautiful. The background people, the loud and stressful environment faded away. He had Marlowe, and she was leaning against him. She trusted him completely. And that was more than enough.

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Juliet felt sick. Her partner rested a hand on her shoulder, but she barely felt it. Couldn’t hear the words he spoke. There was something extremely wrong about sitting in the waiting room of a hospital with Carlton on one side and Gus on the other. Henry pacing the floor in front of them. Karen Vick biting her fingernails near the coffee machine. Because there was one person missing. All of them knew it. All of them could feel his absence. Could feel the fear, the hope, the agonizing hope.

Please God, let him be okay. Juliet hadn’t ever been one for praying. But she did now. Please. Anyone. I need him to be alive. I need him...

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Shawn Spencer pulled up in front of his dad’s house, straddling his brand-new motorcycle. His dad was gonna be so pissed. The young man, barely out of his teens, threw his helmet on the seat and skipped up the steps to talk to his dad, a smug grin plastered on his face.

“Heya, Pop!” Shawn grinned when his dad opened the door. Shawn knew prolonging the conversation would not work in his favor. Better to just get it over with. He gestured vaguely towards his new ride, “I got a bike!”

A pause. Then-

“Dammit, Shawn.”

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Shawn struggled to breathe. His entire body was consumed with pain. He heard himself wheezing in the silence of the night. He had to breathe. Had to move. Had to do something, say something. Had to cover up the pain with words. Like always, like normal.

“Lassie,” The word was an effort, and came out as more of a whisper. The dark-haired detective was working frantically, his coat pressed onto the wound in Shawn’s stomach. He didn’t look up at Shawn’s word, but the fake psychic could see something that looked a lot like fear in those blue eyes. But that didn’t make sense. This was Lassie Shawn reminded himself. But as Shawn watched the detective, he came to another realization. Yes, it was Lassie, but Lassie was human too, wasn’t he?

“Lassie, it’s okay.” Shawn gave his best attempt at a smile. Had to keep Lassie from worrying as much as possible. He worried too much as it was.

Labored breaths continued in the night. Until they stopped.

“Spencer?” Carlton held his hand to the fake psychic’s chest. No movement. “Dammit. No,” the Head Detective pressed his fingers against Spencer’s neck. Faint, faint pulse. Lassiter didn’t hesitate. Years of training, years of hesitation, had given him the skill he needed to save people. He hoped to God he could save this one.

Lassiter started compressions, breathed air into Spencer’s lungs. Screaming into the night with every push on the psychic’s chest. “Come on, Spencer. Come on, dammit. Wake up.”

Five minutes later the ambulance arrived.

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Carlton fired his weapon into the target in front of him. The shooting range was his happy place, no doubt about it. But this wasn’t working. His anger was slipping away as he fired, but it was leaving behind a sort of hollow feeling. Something he wasn’t used to. Without the anger what did he have?

An empty feeling inside and a shitty romantic life. Lassiter growled and fired three more shots into the target. He holstered his gun and stormed out of the firing range.

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Carlton slammed his fist on his desk. Another false lead. Another dead end. Another day wasted when he couldn’t afford it. Not when O’Hara was at stake. Junior Detective, promising future, kind smile. His best fri- his partner.

She’d been missing for five days, and Lassiter was at the end of his rope. What else could he do? He’d checked everything, done everything. O’Hara was just gone. Off the map completely. No trace, no leads, no hope.

The Head Detective sighed and sat back in his desk chair. He could see the Chief in her office, looking worse for wear, staring down at some files on her desk. McNab looked visibly deflated without his resident partner of optimism. Spencer hadn’t even been by the Police Department in a few days. Everything was falling apart around Carlton, and he wanted to scream.

O’Hara was his rock. His partner and confidant and everything good in his miserable, lonely life. And now she was missing, and he couldn’t do anything except try harder. So, he buried himself in files and searches and leads that would lead nowhere. Anything to fill the space in his mind.