Five Stages of Anger
Annoyance
On Carlton’s first day back, nothing went right. Annoyance stoked the small flares already building inside; hot, bright.
The empty chair in his way.
Files on his desk.
Buzz.
Each burned hotter as Carlton snapped, released steam but not enough, never enough.
The Chief’s eyes tracked him, shining, pitying. Pity annoyed him most of all. Head Detective Carlton Lassiter did not need to be pitied. He needed to be left the hell alone so he could get some damn work done.
Spencer slinked through the station, quiet in a way that he never bothered to be before, and passed by Lassiter’s desk without meeting his eyes.
That annoyed him too, but Spencer’s always been annoying.
Rage
Spencer continued to skulk around, despite having nothing to do and being unwanted.
Days later, Carlton cornered him in the file room.
His rage exploded, violent and searing, but Shawn kept his head down, defenseless against Carlton’s anguish.
With Shawn’s shirt curled tightly between his fists he couldn’t stop himself. Words like your fault, ass, coward, tumbled out, because everything was wrong and it was Spencer’s fault, but Spencer didn’t utter a word. He stood there and took it, all of it, until Lassiter shoved him into the wall hard enough for his head to bounce, and he looked up with dead eyes but still said nothing. Carlton wanted him to say something, anything, but the son of a bitch wouldn’t, couldn’t admit it out loud.
Carlton left him a silent heap on the ground.
Indignation
When Carlton came back, Chief Vick suggested that he start slowly, perhaps only a few days a week. Carlton scoffed, indignation scorching the back of his throat. He had work to do. Murderers don’t arrest themselves.
Martin Lemmings had already been arrested; that case had been closed within days of the shooting (Spencer had one last vision, no antics or show, that Lemmings had holed himself up in a motel; an anticlimactic ending to a nightmare). There were other cases he needed to finish, the pile forever rising as he ignored them to double-triple-quadruple check Spencer’s work. Spencer was an idiot who had to have missed something, had already missed something that proved to be a dangerous ending.
Carlton wouldn’t sit back and let it happen twice, even though there wasn’t much else to lose if he did.
Frustration
Two months, and Carlton hadn’t solved a single case. Carlton spent his nights sitting at the same table staring at his scotch. His frustration suffocated him, dying embers settled deep as the smoke slowly rose.
He heard someone sit down, the swish of jeans, the crinkle of the stool, an awkward cough, and he brought his eyes up from the glass. Spencer. Shawn moved slowly, carefully, enough space between them for an easy escape if necessary; still didn’t say anything to Carlton, but this time Carlton savored his silence.
Spencer looked like hell. Exhaustion and grief, eyes without any light or depth or smirk building behind them. Sympathy released itself in Carlton’s sigh; he knew that if anyone had lost as much as he had it was Spencer.
Carlton ordered him a scotch, and the two sat and drank for hours, sometimes talking, although never about why, but mostly the two drank in miserable, loathing silence.
The night ended with an apology, quiet and tormented, and then Shawn disappeared, outside calling Guster for a ride home. Carlton never had a chance to answer.
He ordered another drink.
Acceptance
Four months. Exactly four months ago, Carlton Lassiter failed in his duties as a detective and protector.
The Lemmings case stretched into weeks of murder, chasing, and dead ends. Spencer himself divined two leads, each time blustering when he was wrong, bravado, misdirecting; the proverbial boy who cried wolf.
Carlton stopped listening.
But when Spencer divined another location, O’Hara - Juliet - listened, patient if unbelieving.
Carlton didn’t follow her out the door.
He was in his car when the distress call came in, Officer down send back up, and his phone was ringing. Spencer’s voice, too high, too serious, too panicked, told Carlton what happened before the words were even said.
He raced through crowded city streets, pleaded with Sweet Lady Justice but it was too late. Juliet was declared dead upon arrival at St. Thomas of the Apostles.
- - - -
Four months, and Carlton has a new partner. Chief Vick tells him it’s time, that it will be good for him to have a partner again.
Carl Hollins. A nervous, bumbling rookie. Carlton hates him, not just because he probably can’t sit in the car for hours with him playing police code trivia, nor because he’s obviously going to be a pain in the ass, but Carlton despises what he represents.
Four months, and the world was moving on without Juliet. There were other cases to solve, more people to protect, even if he hadn’t managed to protect the one person he cared about. The one who worried about him, brought him a sandwich when he skipped lunch working on a case, asked about his weekends, tried, tried to get him to open up. He had, at least to her; she became his partner, his confident.
His friend.
Henry calls in his son, and doesn’t let Shawn say no, refuses all Shawn’s excuses because Henry’s decided it’s time for Shawn to move on too. For the first time in his life, Carlton sides with Shawn, but ultimately says nothing.
Spencer comes in with a smirk, forced and fragile like the rest of his stupid charade. He’s not ready, but he’s pushing himself forward, jackass bravado his carefully constructed defense. None of it reaches his eyes; Carlton avoids their vacant gaze. Guster’s there, silent and still as Shawn bounces and flits, his presence keeping Shawn grounded.
Carlton looks around the conference room, clearing his throat as he starts reviewing the case. If they’re moving on, then he has to accept it and move forward as well.
Acceptance feels hollow.