SLASH FIC: [PSYCH] EXHIBIT A (1/2) (R)
Title: Exhibit A
Author: Soraya
Rating: R
Genre: Slash, First Time, AU (post season 1)
Pairing: Lassiter/Spencer
Disclaimer: Not mine, USA Network own Psych etc.
Warnings: Contains descriptions of male/male sexual activity
Summary: All the evidence points in one direction
Part One
Carlton watched Spencer's approach with the same sense of despair that had driven him out back in the first place. In one hand, Spencer was holding a florid bag, whose contents Carlton was quite sure he wouldn't want to deal with; and he tried to stay calm, trying to stem the tide of irritation which always seemed to rise at the mere sight of the man.
This was supposed to be his lunch break. He'd come outside to think, away from prying eyes. It was the closest thing he could get to privacy when he was at work. Spencer, though, seemed to have little concept of privacy. Or, if he did, then it was something Spencer chose to ignore. It was one in a long list of things he disliked about the man; and he didn't need this kind of annoyance right now, not today, not with the ink barely dry on his divorce papers, and not with the failure of it all weighing him down.
"Lassie," Spencer cried out. "There's my favourite Head Detective! Hey, mind if I join you?"
Of course he minded, but Spencer didn't wait for him to say 'no'.
"I brought donuts and pineapple," Spencer told him, waving that bizarre looking bag in his face. "You like pineapple, don't you?"
Carlton started that familiar count to ten; Spencer knew perfectly well that he hated pineapple.
"Man, this is a great spot: so peaceful, so quiet."
"It was until you got here," Carlton pointed out.
"Oh, Lassie, really? I'm hurt." And out came one of Spencer's ridiculous pouts.
Carlton looked away, disgruntled. Spencer simply carried on talking, and for once, he was glad he had the sound of his own inner demons to drown Spencer out.
Not long ago, he'd been a great cop. His path to the top had been laid out: first the Academy, then Detective in five, Chief in ten, and maybe, if those idiots at mayor's office got their heads out of their asses, Commissioner in twenty. Now, he could barely see himself making Captain. It was difficult facing up to that sort of limitation. Limits were for liberals and the unmotivated, certainly not for people like him. Yet, looking back at his career, he couldn't help wondering where it had all gone wrong.
Somewhere along the way, he'd forgotten how to play the political game. He'd been too vocal about some of the Chief's stunts, like using so-called 'psychics' to do actual police work, for God's sake! That, in particular, still burned whenever he thought about it, and he thought about it a lot. He agonized over it! It was hard not to with Spencer bounding up to him every day like some sort of overgrown crime-solving puppy. Also, Spencer's successes had the tendency to throw his failures into light.
He could have stomached that part, he supposed, if Spencer didn't have the makings of a great cop. Somehow, it was worse knowing that, while he struggled, Spencer found solving cases easy. Most of the time, the mere thought of Spencer getting the better of him was a bitter pill to swallow, but today having those amateur dramatics turned on him was too much to take.
"What do you want, Spencer?" he snapped, wanting that scrutiny gone. Granted, Spencer hadn't done much aside from babble incessantly, but he always felt uncomfortable under those sharp eyes and Spencer's unswerving ability to see the clues everyone else missed.
"What makes you think I want anything, Lassie?" Spencer countered, as though the two of them hanging out together was perfectly natural.
He realized, then, that Spencer had no intention of leaving him alone. Why that had to happen this day of all days, he couldn't fathom. If he didn't know better, he would have thought Spencer was trying to annoy him out of moping about the failure his life had become. And the idea of Spencer knowing him that well disturbed him on so many levels, he had to get away fast.
Spencer immediately started following him.
So, Carlton picked up the pace. He refused to accept that he was running, although hearing Spencer pant behind him made him glad that this was at least one area where Spencer hadn't managed to best him yet.
***
Inside the precinct, his cycle of misery continued as it always did with a case. This one landed on his desk with a terse: "Get this solved," from the Chief.
Soon after, Spencer landed there as well with a cry of: "Ooh, the circus? I love the circus, Lassie! When are we going?"
Guster then appeared at his desk, saying: "The circus, Shawn? Oh, hell no! We are not going to the circus, Shawn. You know what the circus does to my complexion, Shawn," although thankfully without sitting on anything. But the fact remained that his desk was now cluttered with idiots, and he couldn't see a way to clear it.
Much to his dismay, they never seemed to go away. Each day, he held on to that faint hope that it was a new day, that perhaps a miracle would happen, and that Spencer and his irritating sidekick wouldn't show up to disrupt the natural order of things. He held on to that hope because letting go would mean he was admitting defeat; and one thing he could still say about himself was that he was not a quitter.
On the way to his car, he ran leads with O'Hara and did his best to ignore the fact that Spencer and Guster were following them. It was difficult, since Spencer persisted on spouting nonsense in his ear. But, he was a veteran member of the SBPD, he could ignore most things.
Except, apparently, Spencer trying to leap on him like some sort of deranged Chihuahua.
"Get away from me right now," he snarled.
"Aw, come on!" And Spencer made another feeble attempt to grab his arm-which he was able to counter, much to Spencer's consternation. "Look, no one knows magic like Gus and I do. Really, we just want to help you solve this thing."
Carlton immediately became suspicious. "You want to help me?"
"Of course, Lassie," Spencer told him. "I always want to help!" He sounded fond and exasperated, but the look on his face said he was guilty about something. Or, at the very least, embarrassed, perhaps even constipated.
Carlton went with guilty. Spencer was always guilty of something, which perversely seemed to make it harder to pin anything on the guy. After appearing to give it some thought, he said, "Okay, Spencer, I think I know how you can help!" He put on his sunglasses, ignoring O'Hara's raised eyebrows and the fact that it was approaching dusk. "You can help by staying the hell out of my way!"
Spencer's face screwed up in an expression of hurt, and for some inexplicable reason that left him feeling vaguely unsettled. He'd already moved by the time Spencer came back with: "That was mean, Lassie. So, so mean!" But he ignored those words in favour of getting into his car. He had nothing to apologize for; he was the one, who was the real cop here. Plus, he had a job to do, one that did not involve pandering to the feelings of two con men.
Once O'Hara got in beside him, he sped out of the parking lot to the gratifying sight of Spencer, in the rear-view mirror, fading into the distance.
"You know, it wouldn't hurt to give them a chance," O'Hara said a few minutes later.
He glanced over at her. Her mouth was pressed into a flat line, and that air of disapproval only seemed to grow with his refusal to respond. Frankly, he couldn't see the point! As far as he was concerned, Spencer and Guster had no business working this case, and he was damned if he was going to let some two-bit fraud get the jump on him when he still had some fight left in him.
***
At the circus, the case took that inevitable turn toward the bizarre.
The sign outside said: *Madam Zola, Psychic Extraordinaire*. Beside it sat a big picture of a crystal ball and another sign that said $10. Carlton stared at both of them, considering his options. He really didn't want to go in there. He got enough psychic mumbo-jumbo down at the precinct; the last thing he wanted or planned to do was to go into some garish tent looking for more.
All of a sudden, Spencer came out of nowhere, yelling: "You have got to be kidding me! Please tell me you're not going in there!" Which pretty much determined that he, O’Hara, or maybe the whole goddamn PD would be going in there!
He glanced over his shoulder at Spencer, who was twitching like a cat on a hot tin roof. "What's the matter, Spencer?" he jeered. "Afraid of a little competition?" He wasn't above a little taunting of his own when it suited him, and anything that got Spencer riled up seemed like a good place to start.
Spencer, for some reason, lunged at the $10 sign, and it was only Guster's quick thinking that stopped him from falling flat on his face. After some spectacular flailing, during which Spencer tried and failed to extricate himself from Guster's arms, Spencer eventually declared: "That woman is not a real psychic!"
"And you know this because . . . ?" Carlton raised one eyebrow.
"Because I read her psychically."
Carlton didn't even try to stop himself growling. "Look, Spencer," he said, "why don't you leave this to the professionals, and go paint Guster's toenails, or whatever it is the two of you like to do on your girls days out!"
"But, Lassie, I'm sensing that you really don't want to go in there," and Spencer launched into another one of his spasmodic flailing episodes.
This time, Carlton ripped off his sunglasses so that he could glare properly at him. "Spencer, I swear to God, if you don't shut up and get the hell out of my way, I will end you."
When Spencer opened his mouth again, Carlton pulled out his gun.
Spencer very quickly then moved off in favour of hiding behind Guster.
Even O'Hara took a step back as well. "You weren't really going to shoot him, were you?" she said, looking vaguely concerned.
"It was just an option," Carlton admitted before striding into the tent. He wasn't interested in hanging around for pointless chit-chat. For some reason, Spencer didn't want him anywhere near this place. He owed it to himself to find out why.
***
Up close, Madame Zola appeared to be nothing more than a bored housewife, who was using palm reading to supplement her income. First, the woman welcomed him with the trade spiel of 'You will meet a tall dark stranger'. Only, in his case, his true love was apparently of indeterminate height, indeterminate colouring and not entirely unknown to him! Then, after spewing out more rubbish about his soul mate being nearby, she relieved him of $10 without saying anything useful about the case.
Carlton didn't know why he was so disappointed. He didn't believe in psychics any more than he believed in the boogie-man. He did, however, believe in checking out any potential lead that would help solve a case. It was what made him such a good detective, or at least what used to; and the detective in him was a bit disconcerted by the absence of anything overtly suspicious in the tent.
He knew something weird was going on here, he just couldn't figure out what it was. And the thought that two idiots like Spencer and Guster might be on to something, while he was still scratching around in the dark, made him question everything that was sane about police work.
After citing the woman for wasting police time, he stepped out of the tent to find O'Hara and those idiots waiting by the front. O'Hara was at least trying to look like she hadn't been eavesdropping or laughing, but Guster wasn't even bothering to pretend, and Spencer was just a writhing mess of uncoordinated limbs and unnecessary drama.
"Oh, cut the crap, Spencer!" Carlton yelled right in his face. "I know you're up to something, and so help me God, I will stick to your ass like white on rice until I find out what the hell you're playing at!"
Spencer stopped his psychic convulsions and gave him an incredulous look. "Lassie, I didn't know you cared! Although, the thing with sticking white rice on my ass sounds a little weird. That's weird, right, Gus?"
"Oh, it's weird!" Guster concurred.
"See? The jury is in! Gus thinks it's weird; Jules too, although she's trying to hide just how weird she thinks it is behind that incredibly straight face of hers. The point is that it's weird, and dare I say it, a little kinky. And I really don't think we know each other well enough for-"
Carlton stalked off. It was either that or start shooting, and frankly Spencer wasn't worth the bullet or the extra paperwork.
***
From there, despite following every lead imaginable, he and O'Hara couldn't catch a break.
Two frustrating weeks in, even he could sense that he was close to snapping. How much time did they have, he wondered, before Spencer rode in on his psychic horse to steal the show? Hours? Days? Or was the Chief simply going to order another Psych consultation? He hated not having all the pieces lined up. Even more, he hated feeling like he was missing some vital clue that Guster or Spencer would undoubtedly have seen.
It was enough to make him retrace his steps all the way to the circus, until he found himself right back at square one.
Standing outside Madame Zola's tent, he couldn't help thinking about how weird his life had become. Visions, crystal balls and psychics: this was not what he'd signed up for as a detective in the SBPD. He was almost willing to swallow his pride and ask for a reading, if that was what it took to solve this damn case. And he might have done, had he not been presented with a tableau of cocaine, clowns and circus clairvoyants when he stepped inside the tent.
Carlton immediately drew his weapon. Once again, he did his best to ignore the psychic elephant in the room, but it was difficult since Spencer had somehow managed to arrive there before him. One day, he promised himself, he was going to figure out how Spencer always managed to be one step ahead of him. But, for today, he had to settle for scowling. A lot.
He watched Spencer go through an elaborate chicken dance that somehow told a dastardly tale of drug trafficking, murder and cross-dressing. After that, the only thing left for him to do was arrest a lot of clowns.
***
Hours after booking almost every clown in the county, he was still at his desk trying to work out how he'd missed a major drug trafficking ring operating within his jurisdiction. His mood darkened considerably when Spencer showed up. He might have been able to quell the urge to throttle something had Spencer not started talking. But talk Spencer did, about the case-
"That was without a doubt the most fun I've ever had at the circus."
-about his pet sidekick-
"Even Gus managed to get in on the action, you know what I mean? You do know what I mean, right? Because your face is doing something weird, and right now I'm not even sure what that means."
-about some pineapple he was apparently dating-
"Wait! Is this about that lady clown with the huge pineapples? Because it was only one date, I swear, and mostly psychic platonic not date date."
-and Carlton couldn't understand why Spencer thought any of this was of interest to him. When had things got so bad that Spencer could approach him like this? He still remembered the good old days when Spencer wouldn't have dared come near him for fear of being shot. Days which, unfortunately, seemed to be long gone.
He tried walking away again, as though with several long strides he could distance himself from the immutable fact that Spencer was beating him at his own job.
Spencer thwarted that by darting up alongside him.
By the time they reached the vending machine, Carlton was itching to shoot something. Spencer had barely even stopped for breath, and that continual stream of nonsense was giving him a headache. He put a few quarters in the machine, took the M&Ms it spewed out, and had to quickly whip them out of reach when Spencer made a grab for them.
"Lassie, Lassie, Lassie!" And Spencer followed that up with even more of his irritating hand flailing. "Is that the way to treat a friend? A colleague?"
"Colleague?" he spat.
"Too much?" Spencer just shrugged. "Okay, fine! How about a friend, then? Okay? Let's go with that!"
At some point during the whole 'colleague versus friend' debate, Spencer had slung an arm round his shoulder. So, on top of the whining, he was now forced to endure Spencer invading his personal space. He really didn't like people touching him. Specifically, he didn't like that Spencer seemed to think it was fine to take such liberties.
The frustration he'd been struggling to contain went from simmer to boil.
"So, I've been thinking about what you said the other day," Spencer went on, reeling him in close. "That thing about ending me if I don't stay out of your way? That's not very friendly, Lassie. And you know what? I'm hurt!"
It was long overdue, he told himself. Only a matter of time before Spencer called him on his earlier behaviour. Still, he was mildly disconcerted by the confrontation now that it was here. Why they even had to go through it was beyond him. Wasn't it enough that he'd tolerated Spencer? That he'd put up with his delusions, and the endless rambling?
No. Of course, it wasn't! Spencer wasn't the type to leave things alone, hence his punishment was destined to be trying and everlasting. Something about the man routinely brought out the worst in him. Even now, after months of Spencer's antics, the mere sight of him was enough to raise his blood pressure when, really, it should have been so simple.
In dealing with Shawn Spencer, all that was required was a little control, understanding, and patience-things that did not come easily to him.
The frustration suddenly boiled over, and the next thing he knew he had Spencer backed up against the wall with his forearm at Spencer's throat.
"You think you're pretty funny, don't you?" he snarled. "Well, guess what, Einstein, thinking is not your strong suit. So, let me do it for you: stay out of my way, and leave the thinking to those of us who can."
He pretended not to notice the stunned look on Spencer's face when he turned and walked away.
***
Later, after he'd calmed down, Carlton started feeling guilty. He remembered how Spencer had frozen, wide-eyed, during his rant, almost as though Spencer had genuinely been afraid of him.
Eager to put the whole episode behind him, he ordered another drink at the bar. Four scotches later, Spencer's frightened face was still on his mind.
It was a cruel thing to have done. For all that he and Spencer tried to rile each other up, they had an unspoken understanding, one where Spencer annoyed him, then he yelled at Spencer, and then they both went their separate ways. This time, even he could tell that he'd taken things too far, and it meant now that he was going to have to be extra nice to Spencer to make up for it.
Carlton honestly couldn't say he was looking forward to that.
The man was and would probably always be an irritating pain in the ass. But as painful as it was to admit, at some time in the past few months, he and Spencer crossed a bridge of animosity into tolerance. He wasn't going to go as far as calling it 'friendship', because under no circumstances would he ever befriend someone so ridiculous. But there was undoubtedly some form of connection between them now, and he could feel it affecting the no longer guilt free insults he used to hurl at Shawn Spencer.
The weird thing was, deep down, he knew Spencer was just trying to help. It was written all over him each time Spencer bounced into the precinct, each time Spencer wormed his way into cases where he didn't belong, each time Spencer inadvertently showed him up. Even when he was off duty, when every inch of him begged for solitude, somehow Spencer still found ways to insert himself into his life. Although, how Spencer equated that with helping, Carlton didn't have a clue.
Halfway through the bottle, still trying to wrap his mind around that, what he was pretty sure was a hallucination of Spencer sat down next to him.
"Oh, hey, it's you," he muttered in lieu of a greeting.
"Hey, yourself! You're looking rather punchy this evening."
Carlton took another look at his drink, well and truly puzzled. "It's not punch; it's scotch," he declared with the sort of gravitas only the truly shit-faced could accomplish.
Spencer's snort was even more puzzling, but it didn't make the slightest dent in the mellow of his buzz.
"I'm glad you showed up here," he went on, riding those clouds of fluffy feelings. "Wanted to say sorry about what I did earlier. Didn't mean to push you." Although, once he noticed that Spencer hadn't responded after a while, he started to feel incredibly affronted. Did this hallucination think he was too much of a jerk to apologize? Because Carlton Jebediah Lassiter could admit when he was wrong, and no way in hell was a-
"Whoa there, tiger! You just took me by surprise, okay? I was not expecting that! In fact, I was kind of expecting something more along the lines of how you consider me to be a waste of the department’s time and resources."
All at once, Carlton relented, insides melting. "That was a long time ago, and we really didn't know each other then. Anyway, we're friends now; you know that!"
He didn't mean it, of course. In the back of his mind, he wasn't sure he would ever completely trust this man or his hallucination. But a little lie wouldn't hurt, and anything was better than those soulful looks Spencer kept giving him. Spencer could be so sensitive at times, such a strange mixture of cockiness and vulnerability.
He touched hallucino-Spencer's shoulder, kneading it in a gentle, apologetic sort of way. Then, he pushed him all the way out of the booth, because it was already past his bedtime.
Outside the bar, the hallucination refused to leave him alone while he waited for a cab. Spencer kept looking at him like he wanted a hug or something. Which was completely out of the question and clearly never going to happen.
Unfortunately, he didn't count on the amount of alcohol he'd ingested.
Somehow, after they got to his place, he found himself clinging to Spencer and offering to show him his gun collection. The rest of the night was a total blur.
***
In the morning, Carlton felt sick to his stomach for reasons that had very little to do with alcohol.
When a man got drunk with another man, it changed things. Bonds were formed; relationships grew from there. It was one of the many reasons why he preferred to drink alone. On the rare occasions when he did drink with someone, he was very particular about who that person was.
For the life of him, he couldn't understand how he'd allowed himself to end up drinking with Shawn Spencer.
Once he'd cleaned himself up, he took stock of the situation like any good detective. He'd woken up fully clothed; at least that was something; although, it was clear from the Advil on his nightstand and the trash can nearby that Spencer had accompanied him into his bedroom. He wasn't thrilled at the idea of Spencer wandering round his home unsupervised, despite the fact that nothing else seemed to be out of place. Still, as he made his way down to the precinct, he couldn't shake the sense that Spencer had somehow gleaned things about him just by being in his apartment. Things, which no one else would have been able to see or guess.
In all honesty, he didn't know if there was such a thing as a psychic. Had someone asked him the question years ago, he would have just laughed and said 'no'. Now, with Spencer, he wasn't so sure.
He put it down to detecting. Most of the time, he felt more comfortable that way. Then again, Spencer had a habit of making him uncomfortable and making him doubt the status quo. With Spencer, up was down, or suddenly down became up; and no matter how hard he worked a case, he was always one step behind. Even more troubling, Spencer was always right.
He wanted to kick himself for having let Spencer near him when his defences were down. It was a massive tactical error. To have any chance of levelling the playing field, he knew he was going to have to gather his own Intel on Spencer from the source that knew Spencer best.
***
Fishing was his third favourite thing, behind golf and putting the bad guys away. So, in his bid to understand Spencer more, he decided to go fishing with Spencer's dad. The last time, he'd learnt a lot about what made Spencer tick just by spending those few hours with Henry. He was quite certain that a subtle dig here and there would yield more useful information.
Sure enough, all it took was a mention of the next civil war re-enactment for Henry to get started.
"Borrowing your moustache wasn't Shawn's most brilliant idea. That boy has so much potential and he's just wasting it."
From his perspective, Carlton wasn't seeing the potential, but he didn't think it was wise to comment on that. "Maybe he's a late bloomer?" he suggested instead.
"Oh, please!" Henry reeled his line in with a dismissive scoff. "First of all, Shawn doesn't know what he wants. That's why he keeps flitting from one thing to the next instead of settling down like a mature adult. Then, even when what he does want is right there in front of him, he does everything possible to sabotage getting it!"
The line went back out, flicked into the water and settled there.
Carlton kept his eyes fixed on it firmly. Months ago, he might have wondered how Spencer's apple had fallen so far from Henry's tree. Now, of course, he knew better: Spencer had jumped. He still had no clue where Henry was going with all of this, especially when Henry suddenly brought up the topic of his rivalry with Spencer.
"You know, I'd almost given up on him finding anyone who could handle him. Gus just goes along with his harebrained schemes; he has since they were kids. But, you, thankfully, you're not letting him push you away."
"I'm sorry, what?" Carlton looked at Henry sideways.
"I'm talking about Shawn's constant need to sabotage his relationships!" Henry sounded uncomfortable even having to explain that much. But Carlton had already started connecting the dots, and in all honesty he couldn't believe the picture Henry was painting for him. "Look, I'm not saying he's ever going to change!" And by then Henry had turned to give him an encouraging look. "Just, with you at least, he knows it has to be an adult relationship. That's what he needs: someone with a firm hand, and someone who won't put up with all his crap."
The subsequent pat to his arm felt a bit awkward, but there wasn't anything weird about it beyond the fact that it conveyed an acceptance of him and of Spencer, and of the two of them together. That was when he rewound the entire conversation in his head, and then replayed it at half speed, listening very carefully to each and every word.
The astonishing part was that Spencer's own father appeared to be giving him his blessing to do something with his son.
Carlton had a horrible idea what that thing was.
Before he could examine it further, he shoved the whole thing to the back of his mind. Because, no way in hell was he ever going to date Shawn Spencer let alone get into a long-term relationship with him. And, God, just the idea of dating Spencer. That incessant flailing. Not to mention the ridiculous sidekick. God!
No, the whole thing was insupportable, and he wasn't having any part of it.
Henry seemed content to let him mull things over in silence. Which was fine by him. Men weren't even supposed to talk about relationships; it was no wonder he was lost for words!
The only positive, as far as he was concerned, was Henry's stance on the whole thing. Even if he weren't entertaining the thought-and he most definitely was NOT-being liked by the in-laws was new territory for him. Victoria's mother had barely tolerated him during their marriage; now that they were divorced, cold wars had felt warmer. Knowing that Henry approved of him where Spencer was concerned was something of a revelation.
It felt good to have someone on his side for once. And, well, he and Henry fished together on occasion. Which was nice. Plus, their camaraderie drove Spencer crazy. Which was even better. And not once had Henry criticized his pole technique since he'd thrown the idea of him and Spencer out there. So, okay, yes, there were undoubtedly some other positives to dating Spencer.
Except, he was NOT going to date Spencer. Not ever!
***
But, like a certain stubborn psychic, the thought refused to go away; and despite the rest of the afternoon passing without further attempts at matchmaking, Carlton couldn't stop thinking about it.
The whole thing made his head ache!
Spencer was everything he hated in a person: flighty, irresponsible and full of shit. He was a loyal friend, though, which seemed out of character somehow with all his other personality flaws-and which some traitorous part of his mind seemed determined to point out. But the flaws more than outweighed any good points, and that was all he needed to know.
He still didn't get where the idea of him and Spencer as a couple had even come from in the first place. Aside from a vague segue into mutual tolerance, there was no love lost between them. Everyone knew that! Unless there was something else going on that he'd missed, or which people had somehow managed to keep from him?
Carlton didn't know what to believe any more.
He wasn't completely oblivious. He knew Spencer had been throwing himself at him for some time now, but he'd always put it down to Spencer trying to throw him off his game. Henry's suggestion seemed to imply that there was more to it than that.
He thought about Spencer's vastly inappropriate behaviour: the heckling, the interference, and the general invasion of his personal space. Had Spencer been any more juvenile about it, he would have called it pulling pigtails. It was almost as if Spencer were deliberately trying to annoy him just to get his attention.
When he looked at it in that light, he came to one shocking conclusion: Shawn Spencer had a crush on him.
***
The next few days were a trial, having never experienced the situation of unwanted male affection. How long had this been going on, he wondered, watching Spencer regale O'Hara with some outlandish story about their current crime scene? He hated thinking that Spencer had been lusting after him right under his nose and that somehow he'd missed it.
Had he not been a consummate professional, he would have challenged Spencer on the spot. But making scenes was more Spencer's style, and he was having enough trouble with the concept that Spencer had genuinely been flirting with him all this time. It was impossible to resist going over their past interactions, like old cases, looking at the evidence.
Like 'Exhibit A': the touching.
The unavoidable reality was that his line of work often called for some degree of physical contact. Spencer, however, it seemed, loved touching him under the flimsiest of circumstances. In fact, Spencer looked for any opportunity to touch him; if one didn't exist, Spencer simply manufactured one.
Then, there were the pet names: Lassie, Lassie-face, Lassidophilus, and the utterly unforgivable Lassie-buns.
He took everything out, rearranged it and came back with a picture of flirtation and courtship so bizarre it was no surprise he'd missed it the first time around. Of course, now that he knew what was happening, he couldn't seem to stop seeing the signs!
He wasn't sure whether to curse Henry or to thank him for taking the scales off his eyes. Either way, he decided, he was planning to carry on as if nothing had changed.
Wondering how the hell he was going to pull that off, he joined O'Hara, Spencer and Guster, who were standing by the staircase, waiting evidently for him. To avoid any drama, he went to stand next to O'Hara. Only, somehow Spencer slipped in beside him and had the audacity to pat him on the arm.
It could have been a manly pat between two guys, who just happened to cross paths at work, or it could have been an I want you pat. Carlton wasn't sure any more, and that unnerved him. Spencer had been giving him pats like that for several months now. And now that he thought about it, he wasn't at all happy that Spencer might have been touching him all this time for the purposes of some illicit gratification.
He took a step back.
O'Hara looked at him sideways. "Something wrong?" she asked.
"Of course not! Why would anything be wrong?" he deflected. But now everyone was looking at him, even Spencer's sidekick. "What?" he growled.
The sidekick looked away. O'Hara raised one eyebrow, saying nothing. Spencer, meanwhile, looked like he might be a little hurt, or constipated; Carlton really couldn't tell any more.
To avoid making things worse for himself, he kept his mouth shut. The important thing was Spencer had no clue that he was on to him; and he wanted to keep it that way, at least for a while longer, at the very least until he figured out how to deal with the situation. Because, he really didn't think he could cope with two relationship conversations in one week, and he certainly didn't want to get any more involved with Spencer than necessary.
***
End of Part One
Continued in Part Two
Author: Soraya
Rating: R
Genre: Slash, First Time, AU (post season 1)
Pairing: Lassiter/Spencer
Disclaimer: Not mine, USA Network own Psych etc.
Warnings: Contains descriptions of male/male sexual activity
Summary: All the evidence points in one direction
Part One
Carlton watched Spencer's approach with the same sense of despair that had driven him out back in the first place. In one hand, Spencer was holding a florid bag, whose contents Carlton was quite sure he wouldn't want to deal with; and he tried to stay calm, trying to stem the tide of irritation which always seemed to rise at the mere sight of the man.
This was supposed to be his lunch break. He'd come outside to think, away from prying eyes. It was the closest thing he could get to privacy when he was at work. Spencer, though, seemed to have little concept of privacy. Or, if he did, then it was something Spencer chose to ignore. It was one in a long list of things he disliked about the man; and he didn't need this kind of annoyance right now, not today, not with the ink barely dry on his divorce papers, and not with the failure of it all weighing him down.
"Lassie," Spencer cried out. "There's my favourite Head Detective! Hey, mind if I join you?"
Of course he minded, but Spencer didn't wait for him to say 'no'.
"I brought donuts and pineapple," Spencer told him, waving that bizarre looking bag in his face. "You like pineapple, don't you?"
Carlton started that familiar count to ten; Spencer knew perfectly well that he hated pineapple.
"Man, this is a great spot: so peaceful, so quiet."
"It was until you got here," Carlton pointed out.
"Oh, Lassie, really? I'm hurt." And out came one of Spencer's ridiculous pouts.
Carlton looked away, disgruntled. Spencer simply carried on talking, and for once, he was glad he had the sound of his own inner demons to drown Spencer out.
Not long ago, he'd been a great cop. His path to the top had been laid out: first the Academy, then Detective in five, Chief in ten, and maybe, if those idiots at mayor's office got their heads out of their asses, Commissioner in twenty. Now, he could barely see himself making Captain. It was difficult facing up to that sort of limitation. Limits were for liberals and the unmotivated, certainly not for people like him. Yet, looking back at his career, he couldn't help wondering where it had all gone wrong.
Somewhere along the way, he'd forgotten how to play the political game. He'd been too vocal about some of the Chief's stunts, like using so-called 'psychics' to do actual police work, for God's sake! That, in particular, still burned whenever he thought about it, and he thought about it a lot. He agonized over it! It was hard not to with Spencer bounding up to him every day like some sort of overgrown crime-solving puppy. Also, Spencer's successes had the tendency to throw his failures into light.
He could have stomached that part, he supposed, if Spencer didn't have the makings of a great cop. Somehow, it was worse knowing that, while he struggled, Spencer found solving cases easy. Most of the time, the mere thought of Spencer getting the better of him was a bitter pill to swallow, but today having those amateur dramatics turned on him was too much to take.
"What do you want, Spencer?" he snapped, wanting that scrutiny gone. Granted, Spencer hadn't done much aside from babble incessantly, but he always felt uncomfortable under those sharp eyes and Spencer's unswerving ability to see the clues everyone else missed.
"What makes you think I want anything, Lassie?" Spencer countered, as though the two of them hanging out together was perfectly natural.
He realized, then, that Spencer had no intention of leaving him alone. Why that had to happen this day of all days, he couldn't fathom. If he didn't know better, he would have thought Spencer was trying to annoy him out of moping about the failure his life had become. And the idea of Spencer knowing him that well disturbed him on so many levels, he had to get away fast.
Spencer immediately started following him.
So, Carlton picked up the pace. He refused to accept that he was running, although hearing Spencer pant behind him made him glad that this was at least one area where Spencer hadn't managed to best him yet.
***
Inside the precinct, his cycle of misery continued as it always did with a case. This one landed on his desk with a terse: "Get this solved," from the Chief.
Soon after, Spencer landed there as well with a cry of: "Ooh, the circus? I love the circus, Lassie! When are we going?"
Guster then appeared at his desk, saying: "The circus, Shawn? Oh, hell no! We are not going to the circus, Shawn. You know what the circus does to my complexion, Shawn," although thankfully without sitting on anything. But the fact remained that his desk was now cluttered with idiots, and he couldn't see a way to clear it.
Much to his dismay, they never seemed to go away. Each day, he held on to that faint hope that it was a new day, that perhaps a miracle would happen, and that Spencer and his irritating sidekick wouldn't show up to disrupt the natural order of things. He held on to that hope because letting go would mean he was admitting defeat; and one thing he could still say about himself was that he was not a quitter.
On the way to his car, he ran leads with O'Hara and did his best to ignore the fact that Spencer and Guster were following them. It was difficult, since Spencer persisted on spouting nonsense in his ear. But, he was a veteran member of the SBPD, he could ignore most things.
Except, apparently, Spencer trying to leap on him like some sort of deranged Chihuahua.
"Get away from me right now," he snarled.
"Aw, come on!" And Spencer made another feeble attempt to grab his arm-which he was able to counter, much to Spencer's consternation. "Look, no one knows magic like Gus and I do. Really, we just want to help you solve this thing."
Carlton immediately became suspicious. "You want to help me?"
"Of course, Lassie," Spencer told him. "I always want to help!" He sounded fond and exasperated, but the look on his face said he was guilty about something. Or, at the very least, embarrassed, perhaps even constipated.
Carlton went with guilty. Spencer was always guilty of something, which perversely seemed to make it harder to pin anything on the guy. After appearing to give it some thought, he said, "Okay, Spencer, I think I know how you can help!" He put on his sunglasses, ignoring O'Hara's raised eyebrows and the fact that it was approaching dusk. "You can help by staying the hell out of my way!"
Spencer's face screwed up in an expression of hurt, and for some inexplicable reason that left him feeling vaguely unsettled. He'd already moved by the time Spencer came back with: "That was mean, Lassie. So, so mean!" But he ignored those words in favour of getting into his car. He had nothing to apologize for; he was the one, who was the real cop here. Plus, he had a job to do, one that did not involve pandering to the feelings of two con men.
Once O'Hara got in beside him, he sped out of the parking lot to the gratifying sight of Spencer, in the rear-view mirror, fading into the distance.
"You know, it wouldn't hurt to give them a chance," O'Hara said a few minutes later.
He glanced over at her. Her mouth was pressed into a flat line, and that air of disapproval only seemed to grow with his refusal to respond. Frankly, he couldn't see the point! As far as he was concerned, Spencer and Guster had no business working this case, and he was damned if he was going to let some two-bit fraud get the jump on him when he still had some fight left in him.
***
At the circus, the case took that inevitable turn toward the bizarre.
The sign outside said: *Madam Zola, Psychic Extraordinaire*. Beside it sat a big picture of a crystal ball and another sign that said $10. Carlton stared at both of them, considering his options. He really didn't want to go in there. He got enough psychic mumbo-jumbo down at the precinct; the last thing he wanted or planned to do was to go into some garish tent looking for more.
All of a sudden, Spencer came out of nowhere, yelling: "You have got to be kidding me! Please tell me you're not going in there!" Which pretty much determined that he, O’Hara, or maybe the whole goddamn PD would be going in there!
He glanced over his shoulder at Spencer, who was twitching like a cat on a hot tin roof. "What's the matter, Spencer?" he jeered. "Afraid of a little competition?" He wasn't above a little taunting of his own when it suited him, and anything that got Spencer riled up seemed like a good place to start.
Spencer, for some reason, lunged at the $10 sign, and it was only Guster's quick thinking that stopped him from falling flat on his face. After some spectacular flailing, during which Spencer tried and failed to extricate himself from Guster's arms, Spencer eventually declared: "That woman is not a real psychic!"
"And you know this because . . . ?" Carlton raised one eyebrow.
"Because I read her psychically."
Carlton didn't even try to stop himself growling. "Look, Spencer," he said, "why don't you leave this to the professionals, and go paint Guster's toenails, or whatever it is the two of you like to do on your girls days out!"
"But, Lassie, I'm sensing that you really don't want to go in there," and Spencer launched into another one of his spasmodic flailing episodes.
This time, Carlton ripped off his sunglasses so that he could glare properly at him. "Spencer, I swear to God, if you don't shut up and get the hell out of my way, I will end you."
When Spencer opened his mouth again, Carlton pulled out his gun.
Spencer very quickly then moved off in favour of hiding behind Guster.
Even O'Hara took a step back as well. "You weren't really going to shoot him, were you?" she said, looking vaguely concerned.
"It was just an option," Carlton admitted before striding into the tent. He wasn't interested in hanging around for pointless chit-chat. For some reason, Spencer didn't want him anywhere near this place. He owed it to himself to find out why.
***
Up close, Madame Zola appeared to be nothing more than a bored housewife, who was using palm reading to supplement her income. First, the woman welcomed him with the trade spiel of 'You will meet a tall dark stranger'. Only, in his case, his true love was apparently of indeterminate height, indeterminate colouring and not entirely unknown to him! Then, after spewing out more rubbish about his soul mate being nearby, she relieved him of $10 without saying anything useful about the case.
Carlton didn't know why he was so disappointed. He didn't believe in psychics any more than he believed in the boogie-man. He did, however, believe in checking out any potential lead that would help solve a case. It was what made him such a good detective, or at least what used to; and the detective in him was a bit disconcerted by the absence of anything overtly suspicious in the tent.
He knew something weird was going on here, he just couldn't figure out what it was. And the thought that two idiots like Spencer and Guster might be on to something, while he was still scratching around in the dark, made him question everything that was sane about police work.
After citing the woman for wasting police time, he stepped out of the tent to find O'Hara and those idiots waiting by the front. O'Hara was at least trying to look like she hadn't been eavesdropping or laughing, but Guster wasn't even bothering to pretend, and Spencer was just a writhing mess of uncoordinated limbs and unnecessary drama.
"Oh, cut the crap, Spencer!" Carlton yelled right in his face. "I know you're up to something, and so help me God, I will stick to your ass like white on rice until I find out what the hell you're playing at!"
Spencer stopped his psychic convulsions and gave him an incredulous look. "Lassie, I didn't know you cared! Although, the thing with sticking white rice on my ass sounds a little weird. That's weird, right, Gus?"
"Oh, it's weird!" Guster concurred.
"See? The jury is in! Gus thinks it's weird; Jules too, although she's trying to hide just how weird she thinks it is behind that incredibly straight face of hers. The point is that it's weird, and dare I say it, a little kinky. And I really don't think we know each other well enough for-"
Carlton stalked off. It was either that or start shooting, and frankly Spencer wasn't worth the bullet or the extra paperwork.
***
From there, despite following every lead imaginable, he and O'Hara couldn't catch a break.
Two frustrating weeks in, even he could sense that he was close to snapping. How much time did they have, he wondered, before Spencer rode in on his psychic horse to steal the show? Hours? Days? Or was the Chief simply going to order another Psych consultation? He hated not having all the pieces lined up. Even more, he hated feeling like he was missing some vital clue that Guster or Spencer would undoubtedly have seen.
It was enough to make him retrace his steps all the way to the circus, until he found himself right back at square one.
Standing outside Madame Zola's tent, he couldn't help thinking about how weird his life had become. Visions, crystal balls and psychics: this was not what he'd signed up for as a detective in the SBPD. He was almost willing to swallow his pride and ask for a reading, if that was what it took to solve this damn case. And he might have done, had he not been presented with a tableau of cocaine, clowns and circus clairvoyants when he stepped inside the tent.
Carlton immediately drew his weapon. Once again, he did his best to ignore the psychic elephant in the room, but it was difficult since Spencer had somehow managed to arrive there before him. One day, he promised himself, he was going to figure out how Spencer always managed to be one step ahead of him. But, for today, he had to settle for scowling. A lot.
He watched Spencer go through an elaborate chicken dance that somehow told a dastardly tale of drug trafficking, murder and cross-dressing. After that, the only thing left for him to do was arrest a lot of clowns.
***
Hours after booking almost every clown in the county, he was still at his desk trying to work out how he'd missed a major drug trafficking ring operating within his jurisdiction. His mood darkened considerably when Spencer showed up. He might have been able to quell the urge to throttle something had Spencer not started talking. But talk Spencer did, about the case-
"That was without a doubt the most fun I've ever had at the circus."
-about his pet sidekick-
"Even Gus managed to get in on the action, you know what I mean? You do know what I mean, right? Because your face is doing something weird, and right now I'm not even sure what that means."
-about some pineapple he was apparently dating-
"Wait! Is this about that lady clown with the huge pineapples? Because it was only one date, I swear, and mostly psychic platonic not date date."
-and Carlton couldn't understand why Spencer thought any of this was of interest to him. When had things got so bad that Spencer could approach him like this? He still remembered the good old days when Spencer wouldn't have dared come near him for fear of being shot. Days which, unfortunately, seemed to be long gone.
He tried walking away again, as though with several long strides he could distance himself from the immutable fact that Spencer was beating him at his own job.
Spencer thwarted that by darting up alongside him.
By the time they reached the vending machine, Carlton was itching to shoot something. Spencer had barely even stopped for breath, and that continual stream of nonsense was giving him a headache. He put a few quarters in the machine, took the M&Ms it spewed out, and had to quickly whip them out of reach when Spencer made a grab for them.
"Lassie, Lassie, Lassie!" And Spencer followed that up with even more of his irritating hand flailing. "Is that the way to treat a friend? A colleague?"
"Colleague?" he spat.
"Too much?" Spencer just shrugged. "Okay, fine! How about a friend, then? Okay? Let's go with that!"
At some point during the whole 'colleague versus friend' debate, Spencer had slung an arm round his shoulder. So, on top of the whining, he was now forced to endure Spencer invading his personal space. He really didn't like people touching him. Specifically, he didn't like that Spencer seemed to think it was fine to take such liberties.
The frustration he'd been struggling to contain went from simmer to boil.
"So, I've been thinking about what you said the other day," Spencer went on, reeling him in close. "That thing about ending me if I don't stay out of your way? That's not very friendly, Lassie. And you know what? I'm hurt!"
It was long overdue, he told himself. Only a matter of time before Spencer called him on his earlier behaviour. Still, he was mildly disconcerted by the confrontation now that it was here. Why they even had to go through it was beyond him. Wasn't it enough that he'd tolerated Spencer? That he'd put up with his delusions, and the endless rambling?
No. Of course, it wasn't! Spencer wasn't the type to leave things alone, hence his punishment was destined to be trying and everlasting. Something about the man routinely brought out the worst in him. Even now, after months of Spencer's antics, the mere sight of him was enough to raise his blood pressure when, really, it should have been so simple.
In dealing with Shawn Spencer, all that was required was a little control, understanding, and patience-things that did not come easily to him.
The frustration suddenly boiled over, and the next thing he knew he had Spencer backed up against the wall with his forearm at Spencer's throat.
"You think you're pretty funny, don't you?" he snarled. "Well, guess what, Einstein, thinking is not your strong suit. So, let me do it for you: stay out of my way, and leave the thinking to those of us who can."
He pretended not to notice the stunned look on Spencer's face when he turned and walked away.
***
Later, after he'd calmed down, Carlton started feeling guilty. He remembered how Spencer had frozen, wide-eyed, during his rant, almost as though Spencer had genuinely been afraid of him.
Eager to put the whole episode behind him, he ordered another drink at the bar. Four scotches later, Spencer's frightened face was still on his mind.
It was a cruel thing to have done. For all that he and Spencer tried to rile each other up, they had an unspoken understanding, one where Spencer annoyed him, then he yelled at Spencer, and then they both went their separate ways. This time, even he could tell that he'd taken things too far, and it meant now that he was going to have to be extra nice to Spencer to make up for it.
Carlton honestly couldn't say he was looking forward to that.
The man was and would probably always be an irritating pain in the ass. But as painful as it was to admit, at some time in the past few months, he and Spencer crossed a bridge of animosity into tolerance. He wasn't going to go as far as calling it 'friendship', because under no circumstances would he ever befriend someone so ridiculous. But there was undoubtedly some form of connection between them now, and he could feel it affecting the no longer guilt free insults he used to hurl at Shawn Spencer.
The weird thing was, deep down, he knew Spencer was just trying to help. It was written all over him each time Spencer bounced into the precinct, each time Spencer wormed his way into cases where he didn't belong, each time Spencer inadvertently showed him up. Even when he was off duty, when every inch of him begged for solitude, somehow Spencer still found ways to insert himself into his life. Although, how Spencer equated that with helping, Carlton didn't have a clue.
Halfway through the bottle, still trying to wrap his mind around that, what he was pretty sure was a hallucination of Spencer sat down next to him.
"Oh, hey, it's you," he muttered in lieu of a greeting.
"Hey, yourself! You're looking rather punchy this evening."
Carlton took another look at his drink, well and truly puzzled. "It's not punch; it's scotch," he declared with the sort of gravitas only the truly shit-faced could accomplish.
Spencer's snort was even more puzzling, but it didn't make the slightest dent in the mellow of his buzz.
"I'm glad you showed up here," he went on, riding those clouds of fluffy feelings. "Wanted to say sorry about what I did earlier. Didn't mean to push you." Although, once he noticed that Spencer hadn't responded after a while, he started to feel incredibly affronted. Did this hallucination think he was too much of a jerk to apologize? Because Carlton Jebediah Lassiter could admit when he was wrong, and no way in hell was a-
"Whoa there, tiger! You just took me by surprise, okay? I was not expecting that! In fact, I was kind of expecting something more along the lines of how you consider me to be a waste of the department’s time and resources."
All at once, Carlton relented, insides melting. "That was a long time ago, and we really didn't know each other then. Anyway, we're friends now; you know that!"
He didn't mean it, of course. In the back of his mind, he wasn't sure he would ever completely trust this man or his hallucination. But a little lie wouldn't hurt, and anything was better than those soulful looks Spencer kept giving him. Spencer could be so sensitive at times, such a strange mixture of cockiness and vulnerability.
He touched hallucino-Spencer's shoulder, kneading it in a gentle, apologetic sort of way. Then, he pushed him all the way out of the booth, because it was already past his bedtime.
Outside the bar, the hallucination refused to leave him alone while he waited for a cab. Spencer kept looking at him like he wanted a hug or something. Which was completely out of the question and clearly never going to happen.
Unfortunately, he didn't count on the amount of alcohol he'd ingested.
Somehow, after they got to his place, he found himself clinging to Spencer and offering to show him his gun collection. The rest of the night was a total blur.
***
In the morning, Carlton felt sick to his stomach for reasons that had very little to do with alcohol.
When a man got drunk with another man, it changed things. Bonds were formed; relationships grew from there. It was one of the many reasons why he preferred to drink alone. On the rare occasions when he did drink with someone, he was very particular about who that person was.
For the life of him, he couldn't understand how he'd allowed himself to end up drinking with Shawn Spencer.
Once he'd cleaned himself up, he took stock of the situation like any good detective. He'd woken up fully clothed; at least that was something; although, it was clear from the Advil on his nightstand and the trash can nearby that Spencer had accompanied him into his bedroom. He wasn't thrilled at the idea of Spencer wandering round his home unsupervised, despite the fact that nothing else seemed to be out of place. Still, as he made his way down to the precinct, he couldn't shake the sense that Spencer had somehow gleaned things about him just by being in his apartment. Things, which no one else would have been able to see or guess.
In all honesty, he didn't know if there was such a thing as a psychic. Had someone asked him the question years ago, he would have just laughed and said 'no'. Now, with Spencer, he wasn't so sure.
He put it down to detecting. Most of the time, he felt more comfortable that way. Then again, Spencer had a habit of making him uncomfortable and making him doubt the status quo. With Spencer, up was down, or suddenly down became up; and no matter how hard he worked a case, he was always one step behind. Even more troubling, Spencer was always right.
He wanted to kick himself for having let Spencer near him when his defences were down. It was a massive tactical error. To have any chance of levelling the playing field, he knew he was going to have to gather his own Intel on Spencer from the source that knew Spencer best.
***
Fishing was his third favourite thing, behind golf and putting the bad guys away. So, in his bid to understand Spencer more, he decided to go fishing with Spencer's dad. The last time, he'd learnt a lot about what made Spencer tick just by spending those few hours with Henry. He was quite certain that a subtle dig here and there would yield more useful information.
Sure enough, all it took was a mention of the next civil war re-enactment for Henry to get started.
"Borrowing your moustache wasn't Shawn's most brilliant idea. That boy has so much potential and he's just wasting it."
From his perspective, Carlton wasn't seeing the potential, but he didn't think it was wise to comment on that. "Maybe he's a late bloomer?" he suggested instead.
"Oh, please!" Henry reeled his line in with a dismissive scoff. "First of all, Shawn doesn't know what he wants. That's why he keeps flitting from one thing to the next instead of settling down like a mature adult. Then, even when what he does want is right there in front of him, he does everything possible to sabotage getting it!"
The line went back out, flicked into the water and settled there.
Carlton kept his eyes fixed on it firmly. Months ago, he might have wondered how Spencer's apple had fallen so far from Henry's tree. Now, of course, he knew better: Spencer had jumped. He still had no clue where Henry was going with all of this, especially when Henry suddenly brought up the topic of his rivalry with Spencer.
"You know, I'd almost given up on him finding anyone who could handle him. Gus just goes along with his harebrained schemes; he has since they were kids. But, you, thankfully, you're not letting him push you away."
"I'm sorry, what?" Carlton looked at Henry sideways.
"I'm talking about Shawn's constant need to sabotage his relationships!" Henry sounded uncomfortable even having to explain that much. But Carlton had already started connecting the dots, and in all honesty he couldn't believe the picture Henry was painting for him. "Look, I'm not saying he's ever going to change!" And by then Henry had turned to give him an encouraging look. "Just, with you at least, he knows it has to be an adult relationship. That's what he needs: someone with a firm hand, and someone who won't put up with all his crap."
The subsequent pat to his arm felt a bit awkward, but there wasn't anything weird about it beyond the fact that it conveyed an acceptance of him and of Spencer, and of the two of them together. That was when he rewound the entire conversation in his head, and then replayed it at half speed, listening very carefully to each and every word.
The astonishing part was that Spencer's own father appeared to be giving him his blessing to do something with his son.
Carlton had a horrible idea what that thing was.
Before he could examine it further, he shoved the whole thing to the back of his mind. Because, no way in hell was he ever going to date Shawn Spencer let alone get into a long-term relationship with him. And, God, just the idea of dating Spencer. That incessant flailing. Not to mention the ridiculous sidekick. God!
No, the whole thing was insupportable, and he wasn't having any part of it.
Henry seemed content to let him mull things over in silence. Which was fine by him. Men weren't even supposed to talk about relationships; it was no wonder he was lost for words!
The only positive, as far as he was concerned, was Henry's stance on the whole thing. Even if he weren't entertaining the thought-and he most definitely was NOT-being liked by the in-laws was new territory for him. Victoria's mother had barely tolerated him during their marriage; now that they were divorced, cold wars had felt warmer. Knowing that Henry approved of him where Spencer was concerned was something of a revelation.
It felt good to have someone on his side for once. And, well, he and Henry fished together on occasion. Which was nice. Plus, their camaraderie drove Spencer crazy. Which was even better. And not once had Henry criticized his pole technique since he'd thrown the idea of him and Spencer out there. So, okay, yes, there were undoubtedly some other positives to dating Spencer.
Except, he was NOT going to date Spencer. Not ever!
***
But, like a certain stubborn psychic, the thought refused to go away; and despite the rest of the afternoon passing without further attempts at matchmaking, Carlton couldn't stop thinking about it.
The whole thing made his head ache!
Spencer was everything he hated in a person: flighty, irresponsible and full of shit. He was a loyal friend, though, which seemed out of character somehow with all his other personality flaws-and which some traitorous part of his mind seemed determined to point out. But the flaws more than outweighed any good points, and that was all he needed to know.
He still didn't get where the idea of him and Spencer as a couple had even come from in the first place. Aside from a vague segue into mutual tolerance, there was no love lost between them. Everyone knew that! Unless there was something else going on that he'd missed, or which people had somehow managed to keep from him?
Carlton didn't know what to believe any more.
He wasn't completely oblivious. He knew Spencer had been throwing himself at him for some time now, but he'd always put it down to Spencer trying to throw him off his game. Henry's suggestion seemed to imply that there was more to it than that.
He thought about Spencer's vastly inappropriate behaviour: the heckling, the interference, and the general invasion of his personal space. Had Spencer been any more juvenile about it, he would have called it pulling pigtails. It was almost as if Spencer were deliberately trying to annoy him just to get his attention.
When he looked at it in that light, he came to one shocking conclusion: Shawn Spencer had a crush on him.
***
The next few days were a trial, having never experienced the situation of unwanted male affection. How long had this been going on, he wondered, watching Spencer regale O'Hara with some outlandish story about their current crime scene? He hated thinking that Spencer had been lusting after him right under his nose and that somehow he'd missed it.
Had he not been a consummate professional, he would have challenged Spencer on the spot. But making scenes was more Spencer's style, and he was having enough trouble with the concept that Spencer had genuinely been flirting with him all this time. It was impossible to resist going over their past interactions, like old cases, looking at the evidence.
Like 'Exhibit A': the touching.
The unavoidable reality was that his line of work often called for some degree of physical contact. Spencer, however, it seemed, loved touching him under the flimsiest of circumstances. In fact, Spencer looked for any opportunity to touch him; if one didn't exist, Spencer simply manufactured one.
Then, there were the pet names: Lassie, Lassie-face, Lassidophilus, and the utterly unforgivable Lassie-buns.
He took everything out, rearranged it and came back with a picture of flirtation and courtship so bizarre it was no surprise he'd missed it the first time around. Of course, now that he knew what was happening, he couldn't seem to stop seeing the signs!
He wasn't sure whether to curse Henry or to thank him for taking the scales off his eyes. Either way, he decided, he was planning to carry on as if nothing had changed.
Wondering how the hell he was going to pull that off, he joined O'Hara, Spencer and Guster, who were standing by the staircase, waiting evidently for him. To avoid any drama, he went to stand next to O'Hara. Only, somehow Spencer slipped in beside him and had the audacity to pat him on the arm.
It could have been a manly pat between two guys, who just happened to cross paths at work, or it could have been an I want you pat. Carlton wasn't sure any more, and that unnerved him. Spencer had been giving him pats like that for several months now. And now that he thought about it, he wasn't at all happy that Spencer might have been touching him all this time for the purposes of some illicit gratification.
He took a step back.
O'Hara looked at him sideways. "Something wrong?" she asked.
"Of course not! Why would anything be wrong?" he deflected. But now everyone was looking at him, even Spencer's sidekick. "What?" he growled.
The sidekick looked away. O'Hara raised one eyebrow, saying nothing. Spencer, meanwhile, looked like he might be a little hurt, or constipated; Carlton really couldn't tell any more.
To avoid making things worse for himself, he kept his mouth shut. The important thing was Spencer had no clue that he was on to him; and he wanted to keep it that way, at least for a while longer, at the very least until he figured out how to deal with the situation. Because, he really didn't think he could cope with two relationship conversations in one week, and he certainly didn't want to get any more involved with Spencer than necessary.
***
End of Part One
Continued in Part Two