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"Look, Carlton, I think the most natural scenario is if I'm too invested in my career to have time to nurture our relationship. You feel neglected, you take up baking, you have an emotional affair, whatever—nobody will suspect a thing."
"That scenario has been done by every undercover cop team from now back to Antietam. What we need, O'Hara, is something fresh and original."
"And you really think political blackmail is the way to go?"
"If we're trying for something natural, you bet your badge it is. It makes sense—you're the liberal California girl running for state legislature, I'm the time-honored conservative bankrolling the governor's campaign with the help of the NRA—"
"It would never work."
"Yeah? Why the hell not?"
"For one thing," O'Hara said, "while I am as proudly liberal as the next California girl, thank you very much, I also believe that the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed!"
Lassiter made a strangled sound and said, "My god, O'Hara."
Vick rubbed her temples. "My god is right. You two aren't even undercover yet, and you're already arguing about your fake marriage."
"I'm not arguing—"
"She's the one—"
"You know, it really is a miracle I haven't fired the pair of you yet," said Vick. "While your ability to close an astonishing number of cases—even without the fledgling psychic who appears to have imprinted on you—is nothing less than remarkable, I sometimes wonder if you're worth the effort. Do you know what that means?"
"Get out?" said O'Hara.
"Get out," Vick agreed.
As they left her office, she overheard Lassiter say, "Hey—maybe you're so invested in your political career that you're trying to blackmail me to gain access to my connections."
"You know what," said O'Hara, "that could really work."
-
As much fun as all those years of counseling had been, in Lassiter's opinion there was nothing better for stress than putting a hundred rounds through your service weapon at the end of a long day.
"Range clear!" said the range master. Lassiter yanked his earmuffs down around his neck and circled out of his booth to collect his target. The silhouette didn't have much of a head left—or much of a center mass, at that. Out of a purely professional curiosity he glanced at the target of the next lane over; it was in much the same state, more hole than paper, with a few scraps of confetti still fluttering to the floor.
"Huh. Nice," he said.
"Really?" O'Hara's voice came from just behind his shoulder. "Thanks, Carlton."
She brushed past him, unclipped her target, and replaced it with a new target that depicted a newly-arisen zombie. Her earplugs were pink.
"Didn't know you came here," he said.
"I started last year. I really like outdoor ranges better, you know? But for pistol practice, this is the most convenient. It's on my way home, although the bathrooms are, wow, beyond nasty."
"I haven't been to an outdoor range in forever."
"So much better," she said, and sighed. Her hair was coming loose; a piece was stuck to the side of her neck. "You know what I really miss? Shooting trap."
"Tell me about it. I modified the stock on my Model 101 shotgun, but I've only tried it out a couple of times. There's a new sporting clays course out Route 192 that's been calling my name."
"Mind if I tag along some weekend?"
"Sure," he said. "Need me to supply the hardware?"
"I'll tell you what," said O'Hara, "you bring the hardware, I'll bring the ammunition, and we'll tell Vick it's a training program and let her spring for the beer."
-
There was something about pretending to be married that really brought you closer to a person, although that might have been the adrenaline talking.
"My god," said Lassiter, "how in the name of sweet lady justice did we end up buying three hundred dollars of magazine subscriptions from that woman? Is she trying to send her son to band camp or the moon?"
"Are you sure she isn't the arsonist?" said O'Hara.
He scrubbed a hand across his face, ruffling his hair in the process—this, O'Hara assured herself, in no way made him appear more attractive—and groaned. "O'Hara, I am sure of nothing."
"I'm sure I don't like being undercover anymore," she said. "It was better when you were you and I was me and there wasn't a chance that we'd be burned alive for fun."
"It was better before I had a subscription to Polish Foods Monthly."
She snorted. "Upside: The being married thing's not so bad."
"You're only saying that to lower my defenses," Lassiter said, and nudged her shoulder. "But I see right through you, O'Hara—you and your filthy blackmail scheme."
-
After they caught the arsonist, they celebrated with a hundred rounds of sporting clays at the new course out Route 192. O'Hara won on a technicality. The technicality did not prevent her from rubbing her victory in Lassiter's face, although when that face started to have the cast of a pout, she did concede to give him a one-armed hug.
He rolled his eyes, hugged her back, and said, "Now what? Beer?"
"Beer sounds good," she said. "Maybe you can tell me where you get your reloading equipment. I always wanted to reload my own shells, but I just don't have room with all of my comic books."
He started to roll his eyes again; she turned the hug into a sleeper hold.
"Watch it, O'Hara—I didn't say anything."
"Better not. The man who dresses up in a fake beard and a costume to reenact battles that didn't happen has no room to call my hobbies juvenile."
He sighed noisily in her ear and did not let go.
And then, finally: the beer.
-
When they woke up on Sunday morning, they were both naked, and the bedside lamp was wearing a cowboy hat.
"I move that we don't talk about this," said Lassiter.
"Motion carried," said O'Hara.
"So. So…" Was this an appropriate time to talk regulations? Probably not. "So...about that decapitation case."
"Oh my god!" said O'Hara, and sat bolt upright.
"Jesus, what!" said Lassiter, already scrambling for his sidearm. When he opened the nightstand drawer, he found an attractive little Lady Smith .38 Special revolver—not his, unfortunately.
"I just realized," said O'Hara, "that I haven't shown you my crime-scene diorama. It really clears everything up, especially the weird location of the head. Hang on just a minute—" She slid out of bed and did not take the sheet with her.
"Take your time," Lassiter managed. His chest felt tight. Probably a side-effect of the hangover.
-
They continued not to talk about it four times a week for the next six months to life.
-
"Listen," said Vick, "I don't think I'm out-of-line in bringing up the regulations about dalliances between partners. There's a certain amount of wiggle room when it comes to married couples, but especially with your record, Detective Lassiter, we really can't afford to have another fling blow up in our faces—"
"Whoa, Chief, whoa!" said O'Hara. "I have no clue where this is coming from, but I can promise you that Carlton and I are definitely not in a relationship."
"Definitely not," Lassiter agreed. "We're not even friends, frankly. In fact, I can't stand O'Hara. She's a repulsive, repulsive individual."
"Totally repulsive," O'Hara concluded. "There you go. No smoke, no fire, no problem."
"I…" Vick started. "Right."
Behind her back, O'Hara held out her palm. Lassiter maintained a perfectly straight face as he delivered a high-five.
They probably thought they were being covert. Vick wondered if this was how despair tasted.
-
Shawn Spencer wasn't super into shooting, coffee, or historical costume dramas, but he did know a little something about his pals at the police station. Jules was too bullheaded to reveal anything, but if he came at Lassie from the right slant, the good detective might let slip why'd developed a shifting pattern of love-bites up the right side of his throat.
Shawn Spencer had a plan.
The plan involved two cones of frozen yogurt and the bench outside the station where Lassie ate lunch alone when Jules had to be at court. Like clockwork, Lassiter appeared at high noon, sunglasses and scowl firmly in place.
"Spencer," he said. "What are you doing here?"
"Vanilla?" said Shawn, and made his offering.
Lassie took it, managed to spit out a mutter of gratitude, and ate the whole thing in four neat bites. "So where's Guster?"
Shawn huffed. "He had to work. Can you believe they make him work every day?"
He could hear Lassiter roll his eyes in response—the guy really needed some WD-40 for those big blues. "Stop whining like a little girl, Spencer, and suck it up. Guster will be home with some flowers for his trophy husband before you know it."
"Wow, Lassie, that really hurts, but not as much as you're going to hurt when Jules hears that her trophy husband thinks 'little girl' is an offensive slur."
"...We will never speak of this again."
"Got it," said Shawn. "Trophy husband silence pact. They won't hear anything from me, buddy."
-
"But they moved in together," said Gus.
"Well, sourpatch, I don't understand it any more than you do. Jules says that they're 'roommates' for 'purely practical reasons having to do with finance,' but yesterday this stenographer made a pass at Lassie and Jules looked like she was going to staple the woman to my dad's desk."
"It is a nice house," Gus said. "I guess I can't blame them for not wanting to tie the knot, though—half of marriages end in divorce."
"Dude, what about us?" said Shawn. "We're at least a little bit married."
"Yeah," said Gus, grinning. "I know. I kind of love it."
-
"But if we did get married," Lassiter was once overheard to say, "it would be for purely professional reasons. Power of attorney, hospital access. Practical considerations."
"Oh yeah," O'Hara was known to agree, "only to cut through all the legal stuff. Purely professional."
-
After that, things escalated quickly.
"Jules, you still haven't told us whose it is."
Flushed, sweaty, drugged, and triumphant, reclining in her hospital bed like a queen upon a throne, Juliet said, "It's mine, Shawn. This is one case where I was the primary." Her smile had far too many teeth, but her giddiness was infectious despite the slight slur to her words. "Although Carlton has generously agreed to make himself available if the kiddo needs a male role model," she added. "Right, Carlton?"
Shawn looked at Lassie, who was openly weeping at the sight of Juliet holding the baby.
"I'm sure he has, Jules, I'm sure he has. What's the little guy's name, anyway?"
"I'm following the age-old tradition of naming him after my partner."
"...Carlton O'Hara?" said Gus.
"Lassiter," said Juliet. "Lassiter O'Hara."
Oh yeah. She was drugged out of her gourd.
"Uh-huh," said Shawn. "You know, I'm not actually sure that's a tradition."
"Of course it is." The new mother was beginning to look obstinate. "Henry, didn't you name Shawn after an old partner of yours?"
"No," said Henry.
"See?" said Juliet. "Exactly my point. Exactly my point."
EPILOGUE
In a shady corner of the cemetery was a headstone that read:
CARLTON LASSITER
1968 — 2066
"Pure coincidence that I'm buried next to O'Hara."
JULIET O'HARA
1981 — 2066
"Carlton who?"
"To be honest, I'm amazed he lasted three whole weeks without her. Thought they'd like the corner, though—that way nobody can sneak up on their six."
"The inscriptions are particularly moving, I think."
"I considered something like 'partners in life, partners in death,'" said Lassiter O'Hara, "but this just seemed more them, you know?"
"Trust me, kid," said Shawn, "it's totally them."