rispacooper: (lassiface by atlantisgrrrl)
rispacooper ([personal profile] rispacooper) wrote2008-09-25 12:57 pm
Entry tags:

Fic, Psych, "The Lovecats" Lassi/Shawn PG-13 slash 1/3

The Lovecats

For: Psych
Pairing: Shawn/Lassi-pants
Rating: PG-13 for naughty talk.
Summary: Number Five in my Slutty Boys ‘Verse. Though no actual sluttiness this time. This is like the bridge to Slutsville. Also set in S.2. So Shawn and Lassi have had hot bathroom secks and then Shawn went off and chased after fake psychic woman in Psy vs. Psy. They both have issues. Also, there’s a case to solve.
Before you read: Let’s say I wrote two stories from two different POVs describing the same event. Then, just to be difficult, I broke my own POV rule and blended those two stories together. I’m sorry. I will never try to be clever again. Someday when I am less lazy and making a master post for this AU, I will perhaps post them separately too.
Music is by The Cure, obviously. Disney Afternoon and Parker Lewis Can’t Lose references are just there because I am sad.
Please to note: There are allusions in this to a lovely story that [livejournal.com profile] senor_coconut_1 wrote for me based in this universe, from Gus’ POV. Maybe someday she will even post it. :P



By all appearances, it’s an ordinary field on an ordinary, irritatingly warm, day. There are all kinds of grass and wheat and disgustingly fresh air, with no available shade and a crazy amount of bugs that seem to think Carlton was the tastiest thing they had ever seen.

It’s probably a complete waste of time for two experienced detectives who ought to know better to be out here, trying to peer beyond the swaying stalks of wheat and magically find a clue about why the hell they were here, though that all sounds a little too existential for Carlton’s liking.

But of course, there’s no point in wondering; he’s out here following another one of Spencer’s crazy leads. They’re not visions, they are definitely not that. But whatever they are, however Spencer does it, they usually work, somehow. So he’s standing like a lump in this stupid field, blinking up into the orange and trying not to see Spencer squinting at him.

Carlton keeps his back to the trees, peering blindly in the direction of his car even though it’s parked out of sight. There are other leads he should be following, other ideas that may not pan out, but at least he’d be trying, getting things back to what he considers normal before they get inevitably worse. It’s his call to make. Stand here waiting for some kind of Spencer miracle, or get back to work, maybe save a life.

If—when—Spencer finally gets his head out of his ass, he’ll call again. Carlton has never stopped to ask the other man when exactly he got the number for his cell phone, but he knows Spencer has it. Carlton had never saved Spencer’s number in return, but he’d bet his badge that Spencer still has his, programmed into his phone under that stupid nickname, maybe with some picture snapped of him looking ridiculous. He’s not about to ask why; Carlton is not asking why Spencer does anything he does, because thinking about it only leads him back to things he should have forgotten about by now.

If only Spencer hadn’t seemed so sure. Confidence that sounded too much like arrogance had demanded his presence here, his attention, and now Carlton’s burning out his retinas rather than watch the dance in front of him, Spencer shaking his ass and hopping back and forth like a bee trying to figure out the best directions to get honey.

This is the last place he’d thought he’d end up. The field is calm, beautiful, tranquil…and a bunch more adjectives that people use for fields. It’s a little on the warm side, but pretty...for a field. There’s not a building in sight either. There’s not anything in sight, actually, except for rows of walnut trees, acres of some sort of tall, swaying grain, and of course the people staring around at the rows of trees and acres of grass.

Shawn’s neck itches, sweaty and hot under his collar, his Spidey senses tingling a lot like the hum of bugs around them, a sound that’s almost soothing until it’s broken by a sharp slap and Lassiter swearing under his breath about irritating pests, and—call him psychic—Shawn doesn’t think he’s talking about the mosquitoes.

There’s no spot of skin exposed by Lassiter’s suit except for his hands and neck and Shawn’s intrigued enough to look and see where the bug got him. Lassiter sticks out in the field as much as Shawn does. The setting sun doesn’t light up his short hair the way it does Juliet’s blonde tresses and he hasn’t found a spot of shade like Gus. His pale skin is turning pink with the heat, dotted with sweat. He hasn’t even loosened his tie. Under his jacket he’s going to have massive pit stains. Shawn still wants inside it.

Lassiter looks down from trying to track mosquitoes and blinks, and Shawn is very, very aware of how warm he is in the flannel shirt he’d thrown on this morning, that the slight breeze is toying with his artfully casual hair, the fact that he shaved just that afternoon and he’s already scruffy again.

Lassiter is all buttoned up like he’s never been anything else and Shawn can see what Lassiter thinks of him in Lassi’s blue eyes, in the way Lassiter’s mouth tightens. What’s weird is the way his mouth is tight too, that he even cares what Lassiter thinks.

Working so hard, or more likely not working at all. The man is sly and infuriating even with purse lips and tight eyes, and Carlton’s not sure he can wait to catch him looking this way again when they both know he has no right to.

“I am a very talented boy.”

He knows the tone, recognizes it whenever Spencer directs it at him, and burns as the memory comes flooding back, leaving him restless and looking down furiously. He isn’t thinking about it, he tells himself again, because Spencer is too careful to make actual promises, but he always solves a case when he takes it.

He’d probably said the same thing to Leikin, if it was just a con, she would have known.

This field looks ordinary. Pretty, in a quiet way that makes Carlton think of childhood books like Tom Sawyer. One look over and it’s like Tom Sawyer in the flesh.

The burn stays in his eyes when he faces their little group and stares at the outline of Spencer, still for a second before their eyes meet.

Carlton works his jaw, not exactly certain what that makes him in that scenario. Probably just one more fool out of many, nameless and unimportant. Carlton has a sinking feeling that no matter how hard he tries, that will always be his role and it’s got nothing to do at all with the nights where it takes the memory of Spencer and a palmful of something slick to finally fall asleep.

He almost snorts, because he’s not even fooling himself, and a wannabe mind-reader like Spencer can probably see all of that in the circles under his eyes.

It doesn’t matter anyway, Spencer made that clear. Carlton turns his attention back to the case, to his partner standing near Guster, and notices how both of them are also keeping an eye on Spencer.

In the second before he remembers that he’s not supposed to, he wonders if Spencer can sense their concern, or just read it in their expressions.

Lassi’s eyes are all ice. Nothing unusual unless Shawn remembers how they used to blaze pure heat at him even while Lassi was listening to him. He falls back the moment Lassiter’s gaze touches him, coincidentally falling onto Gus and the spot of shade that he’s totally hogging. Gus catches him and pushes him forward again with an irritated growl. It’s like being bounced against rubber ropes and shoved back into the ring and no, he’s never let his dad try to teach him to box beyond that one time. All he’d learned was that the spit bucket was gross, and he has to learn to keep his guard up. He has to always keep his guard up.

“Anything, O Amazing Psychic One?” Gus gives an apologetic shrug to Juliet and Shawn gasps and puts a hand to his chest to let Gus know just how hurt he was at that.

“I know where he’s taking the girls!” he’d told Lassi on the phone barely two hours ago, not saying hello, not asking if his favorite head Detective was having a good day, because he’d already known the answer, and anyway, he only had so much time with Lassiter before Lassiter hung up on him.

It was only a breath, held for a moment and then released slowly, carrying even through the phone that let Shawn know that Lassiter hadn’t hung up after all, that he had still been listening despite every time he’d ever called Shawn a liar and a fake. Despite that time in the bathroom, when he’d barely said anything at all.

Shawn had immediately shoved the phone at Gus and twisted away from Gus’ frown, though he could still hear the echo of Lassi-dopolous’ voice once Gus had started explaining. Gus was a faster explainer, he’d answered Gus silently with raised eyebrows, and Gus had given him what was supposed to be Burton Guster Suspicious Stare of Death but which really looked like Burton Guster’s Ridiculously Expensive Underwear is Giving Him a Wedgie, which is as ridiculous as Lassiter at an underground rave, as Lassiter fully dressed in that suit in this boring field.

“You said our guy is holding the girls here?” Juliet wonders and there’s something worried on her face as she glances around. “It’s just a field, Shawn. I don’t even see a shed.”

“I know but…” Shawn argues and then shuts himself up. He isn’t making a rough noise in his throat, but if he was, it wouldn’t be his fault. He knows he is right. He knows the girls are being held here. There are all these little bits of information that everyone from Lassi to Gus has been trying to fit together, and there’s only one place where the separate pieces fit even if he can’t quite explain how yet. But he shakes his head, and frowns, and looks over around. Gus has crossed his arms and is watching him and Juliet is looking lovely and sorrowful and…it’s probably best not to look at Lassiter now. Lassiter is probably enjoying this.

Artfully arranged or not Shawn yanks his hands through his hair and jumps forward, standing on his toes to look over the tops of the trees. His hands are wet; he might be on the sweaty side too.

The answer had to be here. He wasn’t wrong, even if they all had seen how possibly it was for him to be wrong. But this, though it might be hard for them to believe, this isn’t just about him here.

Three girls so far, living in the same sorority house, though thankfully not the one that had brainwashed Jules into almost permanent Barbie-dom. All of them taken with no warning, mysteriously returned after a week with their hair cut and dyed, their skin paler, their nails short and blunt. All with the same story of blindfolds and chairs and the same soft, male voice making them listen to music and poetry, painting their lips with the same cheap black lipstick. Really—the guy could have at least sprung for something from the Mac counter,

“The Dollhouse Kidnappings” the papers had called it. They didn’t know the details, how the girls had been tied to a chair, how when they’d tried to pull on the ropes the total psycho holding them had started to get angry.

It’s only a matter of time before it gets worse, and the police had the tiniest amount of evidence, unless Shawn has something to offer them.

Shawn finally looks over. Lassiter puts his hand in his pocket, touching his cell phone, but he doesn’t take it out. He doesn’t look at Shawn either, but what he’s thinking is obvious with a clue like that.

This is a very urgent situation, the stakes high and getting higher, and he can see in O’Hara’s face that she isn’t sure Spencer can handle the job this time, not after the last case. Glancing at him, stumped and quiet, Carlton isn’t certain either even if he can keep that off his face.

He manages a sneer instead, in case Spencer happens to look at him, a thrill sneaking down his back when Spencer turns and does just that. Carlton counts five, then moves his gaze, ready to puke at just how pathetic he is, that he just used the word “thrill” and meant it. He could make another resolution to ignore Spencer, to try to get past this, except that he knows it won’t work. He’s not a psychic, not that there is such a thing, but he knows that ignoring Spencer is like dangling a catnip-filled mouse in front of a kitten.

It’s possibly the only time he’s ever compared himself to a mouse, catnip-filled or otherwise.

There is so much to do, that needs to be done, and he’s in this field, just holding his breath and waiting. He knows why, even if the idea makes him clench his jaw tight and stare at the polished surface of his shoes.

There had been a backlog of cases needing his attention when the first girl had turned up, stumbled into the station really, heavy boots weighing down her small body, her hair a midnight black mess, smeared lipstick across her cheek. The detectives investigating her disappearance hadn’t even recognized her, she hadn’t known herself after what this sicko freak had done to her, and when the second one of her blonde sorority sisters had gone missing, Carlton had felt that sinking feeling in his gut that every cop learned to trust, the one that said he was only looking at the first pieces of some nightmarish puzzle.

O’Hara, to her credit, had looked at him with dawning horror, her cop instincts apparently finally kicking in.

Three girls had been taken and returned so far and one was still missing after slipping her police watchdog for a date, and judging from the condition of the last one, smacked around for the first time, the bruise dark on her powdery white cheek, it was only a matter of time before the suspect escalated.

Kidnapping to assault and eventually to murder. And not a clue to lead them in the right direction except for traces of wheat in the girl’s identical black miniskirts and black stockings, and the crushed walnut shells found in the soles of all those heavy black boots, identified just that morning.

His back is still to the trees and Carlton moves, coming forward and looking back before facing Spencer. He thinks maybe his eyebrow is arched, but he leaves it and purses his lips while he considers those walnut shells and the fact that Spencer lead them to the closest walnut farm. His partner just sighs.

O’Hara looks tired, worn down with frustration from this case that no one seems to take seriously, except now that he’s no longer blinded, Lassiter can see Spencer sharing his partner’s frown, can see him jerking his head around to stare sharply over the waves of wheat when O’Hara points out the obvious fact that there’s nothing out here.

“I know, but…” Spencer’s voice is an octave shy of whining and Carlton pushes out an impatient breath, sucks in air again to keep himself from saying anything, though he wants to tell Spencer to knock it off, to get him to admit honestly that he’s as lost as the rest of them.

Spencer grabs his stupid hair in his hands and lets it slide through his fingers, and frustrated gesture or not, Carlton feels his palms itch, licks his lips for the taste.

Spencer can’t know, but Carlton watches him lick his mouth too. For half a second he looks like he’s frozen. He has only been that motionless once before, and Carlton drops his head, because he’s staring again, because he doesn’t want to think about that.

All the evidence that Spencer could be wrong leaves him with acid in his throat even though he ought to be smiling. Because of the case, he repeats to himself, as bad a liar as he was a husband. He reaches down to his pocket and lets his fingers rest on his cell phone.

When he looks up, he knows Spencer’s eyes will be on him.

Somehow Lassi was going to blame their increasingly weirdo cases on Shawn, as though Shawn could have predicted sorority girls in full emo gear. The combat boots alone... Well Mindy had not been pleased. She’d been less pleased when Jeni had been taken a day after they’d hired Shawn and Gus.

“He’d need shelter,” Juliet reasons out loud, trying to be helpful, and Shawn knows that, and if it wasn’t Juliet in front of him, he’d give her one of Henry’s best “oh really, kid?” glares. That part is obvious. He’d just…had a moment…when he’d read the lab report about the trace evidence, when he’d heard Mindy’s story about how she’d woken up in the trunk of a car and recited all the dialogue she could remember from her favorite movie to keep herself from freaking out.

Legally Blonde is only ninety-six minutes long. Mindy had been the only one to remember waking up in the car, whatever she’d been dosed with not working, or maybe she’d just been give a weaker dose than the others. Including the time she’d been unconscious, Shawn—ok, Shawn and Gus…ok, Gus—had guessed a search radius. Turns out, the Horton Family Walnut Orchard just happened to be in that radius, and next to a wheat field, though he should probably say “adjacent”. Gus had said adjacent and it did sound impressive.

This must be the place. No place else had even come close to being this perfect. Everything in him, in itch, a hunch, a psychic vibe, whatever, he’s listening, he’s looking, it has to be here.

“I looked up the farm when you called, Shawn, and according to their building permits the only structures are several miles away, on the other side of the trees.” Juliet is stepping closer to him, her hands out, and Shawn looks up from the grass and fixes her with a smile.

“Maybe…maybe they were here but it’s not where he’s keeping them.”

O’Hara makes some little remark about the obvious lack of shelter and Spencer swings his eyes to her. There aren’t any buildings around here, which O’Hara tells him, telling the irresistible Shawn Spencer he’s wrong with a delicate scowl. She’s right of course, but the last time someone had doubted Spencer’s insane ideas, he’d proved a man had been murdered by a dinosaur.

Spencer is smiling at O’Hara like he’s thinking of that too. Carlton knows that smile, has seen several versions come and go from Spencer’s face. It is convincing and hopeful and secretive and it is probably that last part that got so many people to do what Spencer says, wanting to do anything to be part of his special circle.

Just you and me, we know the truth, that smile said, incorrect grammar and all, and if it still galled that Carlton had fallen for it, he could always take some comfort in the fact that that woman had apparently used it successfully against Spencer.

His stomach churns, bringing an icy burn to the back of his throat, and Carlton swallows it and wishes for another antacid.

“Maybe…maybe they were here but it’s not where he’s keeping them.”

O’Hara’s voice is gentle, the kind of gentle that makes Carlton flinch, because it’s not her real voice, it’s the voice she uses when she’s trying to make someone feel better, and again, Carlton is looking at Spencer. They’re all looking at Spencer, even if no one else will admit it.

If Carlton closes his eyes, he can see the afterimage of Spencer with a gun to his head. Of Spencer the morning after, not psychic enough to see an obvious trap, but smirking, loudly pretending he hadn’t fallen for a stupid lie like any other sucker out there who ought to know better.

A beautiful woman. Smart, and not once had Spencer even looked anywhere else. Carlton couldn’t blame him. She’d been young and attractive, and even more accomplished of a liar than Spencer himself. They must have had loads in common.

Spencer didn’t waste time. Carlton’s face is hot, his body shaking, and he squeezes his hands into fists and banishes thought of Spencer’s mouth, firm on his cock, soft against his neck.

She’d been just a little more clever than Spencer, for all that he’d treated the subject as a joke when his partner had asked about her. O’Hara may have bought the act; Carlton hadn’t, but he had seen that look on Spencer’s face before. He hadn’t believed in it, but he remembered it just the same, remembered it so well he dreamed it sometimes. Spencer frozen with uncertainty, his eyes wide, his forehead lined as though part of his brain was still trying to figure out just what he’d gotten wrong, trying to determine how it could even be possible, when Shawn Spencer took such delight in always being right.

Maybe he had known about Carlton, about what he had done with Hornstock, and as skin-crawlingly humiliating as that was, he could take comfort in the fact that Spencer hadn’t expected Carlton to leave him standing there.

So damn confident, warm hands sliding around his neck, across his chest, making offers of more, never once expecting Carlton to say no. That Carlton had been about to say yes was irrelevant and immaterial. For all his crazy impulses and bad taste in clothes, Spencer is a brilliant investigator who often even manages to be charming; anyone would have said yes. But Carlton had come to his senses and remembered just in time what an irritatingly over-confidant ass Spencer could be, what a liar he was.

And not just because Spencer had gotten careless and thrown Hornstock in his face.

Gotten careless and stayed careless, letting that woman get close to him until it had almost been too late to save him. Maybe that’s the reason Spencer dragged them out here now just to fall silent.

He wasn’t so confident anymore and he was still lying. Stalling right now with his friends close by him, with an innocent life in the balance, just because all the pieces look like they fit here; nothing ever just fits like that. He had only had to say that he doesn’t know, he isn’t sure, and they can all search for new clues.

Carlton lets his mouth twist.

His own voice startles him, tears Spencer’s attention away from O’Hara’s nice but useless concern.

Spencer doesn’t seem so sure now, but he’s moving. His look is sly before he springs forward with a gesture right out of Shakespeare, if Spencer has ever seen Shakespeare, which Carlton somehow doubts, unless it involved that Dicaprio guy.

Carlton doesn’t know if Spencer read the lab report he had left open across his desk, but he turns to stare at the wheat field before he can ask. Spencer has resumed his little idiotic tango anyway, dancing around and thumping his chest and going on and on about how hurt he is. Right up until he suddenly stops again and fixes Carlton with a focused stare, so still that Carlton can almost see the spinning going on inside his brain.

He slaps absently at another irritating bug and Spencer blinks and looks at him, looks at him, and Spencer might have chosen to forget their encounter in that damn strip club restroom, but Carlton hasn’t forgotten the strange, mesmerized look on Spencer’s face as he’d followed him in.

It’s there again in his expression, an answer to a question that Spencer hasn’t bothered to share with the rest of them. That he’s not likely to share. Carlton grinds his teeth together and breathes hard as he waits for the random remark that Spencer is sure to make.

Spencer circles closer and Carlton can hear his own breathing over the hum of the bugs, not that Spencer seems to notice. But his face is warm when Spencer edges into nearer and drops the bad English accent and goes on in his usual knowing tone.

“I am fabulous and brilliant, and you are a middle-aged detective who has been sucking on orange-flavored Tums and staying up way past his bedtime. What’s the matter, Lass, getting lonely?”

The pity in his tone is at odds with the way he turns away, and Carlton blocks out the rest of his words for a moment, knowing they are designed to embarrass him and piss him off. But his partner and Guster are laughing nervously and it’s enough to have his hands curling into fists, to make him lean in closer when he had promised himself he wouldn’t, not anymore.

Spencer is generating heat, probably from wearing flannel in the sun, but his body shivers at being so close. Carlton frowns at himself. It was no wonder Hornstock had seen it in him, this want and need. Spencer must have too, Carlton reminds himself, and pulls back at last just as Spencer turns around.

“What’s the matter, Spencer? I thought you always had the answers.”

“Oh the doubt! It stings!” Shawn thumps his chest once or twice where there actually is this uneven twisty feeling that’s almost like pain and cocks his head in Lassiter’s direction. Jules is still watching him, but Carlton’s—Lassiter’s gaze is zigzagging around them, at the field. He looks sour and suspicious and he slaps at a bug on his neck without a single word of complaint about getting bitten again.

Shawn’s internal vision suddenly presents him with the memory of Amanda—victim number two—scratching at the red bite on her neck when he’d first met her. He’d been too distracted at the time to ask about it—sixteen frightened sorority girls wasn’t really something he’d been ready to face ever again after the last time, and this time they’d all been crowded into the office, all blonde and all close to shrieking except for the three girls in the center, quiet and pale, with awful obviously home-done haircuts and dye jobs.

Hair like that…that’s the real crime.

He’d read the papers. Well, Gus had read the papers, Shawn had seen the news. It had still been more than strange, seeing three Goth princesses wearing Alpha Delta Pi shirts, saying someone had suggested they hire him, probably the other sorority house.

Shawn looks at Jules again and then shakes the thought away. Because he’s right, he knows he is, he has to be, even if…even if it’s suddenly, horrifyingly possible that he’s wrong. Wrong again, and almost too late again. Not always lately, maybe not so much, but the pieces, they all fit, even when he doesn’t want them to. It wasn’t like he wanted to be in this field, watching Lassiter blind himself rather than look at him. And Lassiter’s raised eyebrow would be answer enough, but then Lass moves, shifting to cross his arms and face Shawn, and everything about him says—again—that he’s waiting.

Shawn flicks his gaze down to Lassiter’s little Irish chin and lays out the clues available to him, one at a time, in his mind and still the answer comes out that it’s here, this field. It’s the only answer he’s got no matter how many times Lassiter asks him and Lassi has to understand that.

“Well we can’t help what we are,” he counters a little too grandly, and he’s never falling sleep to Gus’ PBS viewing again. He circles a few feet closer to Lassiter and actually feels Lassiter’s attention focus as though he said something important. Lassiter doesn’t step back, and Shawn doesn’t breathe as he looks up. “For example, I am fabulous and brilliant, and you are a middle-aged detective who has been sucking on orange-flavored Tums and staying up way past his bedtime. What’s the matter, Lass, getting lonely?”

Shawn sweeps his gaze away before he can end up falling head first into pools of furious blue and looks over at Juliet and Gus. Then he grins and pulls in a loud breath.

“Oh my god, it’s you isn’t it? Terrorizing young girls with your desire to have your own vampire bride!” The half-smile that Jules quickly hides more than makes up for the death-glare that Lassiter is probably giving him. Shawn turns just in time to catch Lassiter’s eyebrows snap together and he tries a shrug.

“Am I wrong?” Spencer asks him innocently after announcing that Carlton is lonely and a vampire in practically the same breath. After calling him old and sick and desperate, and with each word Carlton can only wonder why Spencer ever followed him into that bathroom. He runs a finger over the ring he still wears as a reminder of yet another failure and flattens his mouth to hold back his words. Then he counts to ten. Then twenty.

Spencer has on green today, which makes his eyes seem green to match, but Carlton has seen them look grey and blue as well, depending on whatever Spencer has thrown on that morning. The setting sun is hitting Spencer full in the face now and he’ll tan, because people like Spencer always tan, but for now it’s making his brown hair look more blonde, giving him color that almost disguises the shadows underneath his eyes that are close to a match to Carlton’s.

Carlton realizes he’s staring the same second that Spencer seems to realize he’s staring back and they both pull their eyes away. Carlton finds himself looking at Spencer’s chest, his stomach, and his palms burn with the remembered feel of him.

Vampires make him think of bad movies, and pale skin and death, and there’s Spencer again in his memory, smirking at him, hot and alive and smelling like vodka and Carlton could still feel shame that he had not once thought to ask if Spencer had been drunk. He hadn’t looked drunk, his mouth open to gasp at the stripper rocking into his lap, touching his jaw, his eyes sliding over to Carlton as though he couldn’t help himself.

For all his attention to O’Hara, Spencer liked brunettes too. That woman, the stripper…Hornstock… Hadn’t minded Carlton knowing that either, had seemed to want him to know. And if he hadn’t…he had asked that question. That damn question, making Carlton think of everything he’d always wanted to beat out of Spencer. But he might settle for just one straight answer coming out of that mouth.

Shawn’s breath gets stuck in his throat and he coughs, which doesn’t change the fact that he’s on fire, directly in the sunlight and watching Lassiter’s skin go from pink to red. He ought to be laughing, because he can tell what Lassiter is thinking about, and it’s what he deserves. He was the one who had pushed Shawn away, not the other way around.

Cold. He’d been cold, shivering until he’d stumbled outside and seated himself at the bar. Gus had found him there and the way Gus wouldn’t meet his eyes told him Gus had somehow guessed everything, or at least enough to help Shawn home without a single “I told you so, Shawn.” Until the next morning anyway.

Shawn had been ready for a night of some hot and heavy Lassiter-loving. It was embarrassing how ready he’d been, cuddling, cuddling Carlton Lassiter, leaning into him and letting him push his pink and surprisingly soft lips against his ear, and his throat. And one sentence, one tiny, little, less-than-innocent statement later and Carlton was pulling back from him, disgust clear in every shaky breath.

He had spied on Lassi and Hornstock, he knows that, Shawn can even…maybe…admit that it had been wrong. But first of all, Lassiter doesn’t know he spied and he’d had as much of a right to as Lassi had to make use of Hornstock’s body in the first place. Shawn tugs on his hair again then shakes his head. And secondly, he still can’t even figure out why just thinking about all of it makes him feel so quiet inside, like his brain can’t figure it out either.

Lassiter is breathing hard, a slow, heavy release of breath that Shawn hears over the hum of the bugs, and even with the heat Shawn is shivering at the way Lassiter is only watching him, at the sour expression that has stayed on Lassi’s face for the past month that no amount of scratching or teasing or dirtynaughty sex with lying con artists posing as psychics had removed. If anything, Lassi’s sour face had only gotten worse, a match to the sour stomach that Lassiter is still trying to fix with chalky little pills.

Shawn puts his hands out and stares at them for a moment, confused.

Spencer looks at him and swallows, his mouth falling open. Carlton can remember that mouth at his throat.

Spencer made loud noises as he came, amazed, happy, lost, and the memory makes Carlton swallow too, and look at those hands stretched toward him. His name, over and over, his name and not that silly nickname.

“If you don’t have the answer, Spencer, just say so and we’ll try to think of something else.” His voice is low and rough, rumbling through the silent field and a glance over lets him see O’Hara blinking at him, her eyes bright in a way that makes Carlton nervous. He turns his head and catches Guster watching him, his eyes narrowed.

“It’s not the end of the world,” he promises in the make-nice voice he’d only used in couple’s therapy and rolls his shoulders at both looks.

Shawn lifts his head and Carlton is scratching his neck, his blue eyes looking just about everywhere but at him. “It’s not the end of the world.”

And as weird as it is to hear something like that pushed out of Carlton Lassiter’s mouth, it’s nothing compared to Shawn hearing himself talking.

“It’s here,” he murmurs and Lassiter freezes. “Trust me.” And again with the words coming out whether he wants them to or not. Next thing he’d be screaming out ohyesLassiplease again, and this was hardly the place for that. That was for his bed at night, and the shower in the mornings, and sometimes in the office while Gus goes to get lunch.

“Of course we trust you, Shawn,” Jules steps in quickly but Shawn is watching the Lassmeister and something twists in him again, painful but different than before, when Lassiter snorts. And what is with that anyway? And the standing around feeling like an idiot, standing around at all, like he’s waiting for something? But his feet aren’t moving, even after he’d bought them a new pair of red Roos, and if he couldn’t move soon he was going to have to try talking to Henry. The situation could not be more dire.

Henry would probably just tell him he shouldn’t have said that. Which he already knew, thanks, Dad. Of course Lassiter doesn’t trust him. He thinks Shawn is as bad as Lindsey, he thinks Shawn used him in some sort of game, thinks Shawn would lead them all out here just for the hell of it. When really Shawn doesn’t know why he’s here at all except he knows it’s right and he’s getting really tired of dancing around when it should obvious that he’s trying and he’s right and still he’s staring at Lassiter.

His partner might have no problem admitting she trusts Spencer, but Carlton keeps himself absolutely quiet, completely certain that Spencer knows exactly why he shouldn’t. It’s Spencer who hasn’t bothered with the truth, they both know that. But he brings a hand up to his gun and then drops it and he’s talking before he can even register that he’s being just that stupid around Spencer. Again.

But no one had forced him to come out here, and Carlton has never been good with lying. No wonder Victoria had won every fight. His face is burning and only gets hotter when Spencer responds by asking everyone if Carlton is being encouraging. It’s obviously a joke until he moves, and Carlton finds himself pinned beneath Shawn Spencer’s focus.

“Well nobody forced us to come out here, Spencer,” Carlton remarks tightly. Those pink and surprisingly soft lips curl in a small, fake smile and Shawn reads that as easily as he reads the way that Gus chews his lip and twitches when he’s playing online poker. It says he’s waiting for the fabulous and brilliant psychic detective to get to it.

Shawn’s the one not breathing now, like a hundred mile-an-hour tennis ball just hit him square in the chest. There’s probably surprise all over his face and he has to turn before Lassiter can see it.

He looks at Gus, shares his frown.

“Correct me if I’m wrong here, Lassi, but are you encouraging me?” he wonders out loud without looking back and Juliet makes a strangled noise that’s pretty much a disbelieving laugh and shoots a glance over at her partner.

Shawn is sliding back over to Lassiter too, before he has a chance to even ask his feet what they are doing.

Carlton knows his eyes are wide and he thinks about taking a step back until he remembers that he’s dealing with Shawn Spencer, and there’s no way in hell he’s going to be the one give ground first. He jerks his chin up and stays where he is while Spencer inches closer. Guster is making all sorts of coughing noises, the kind he makes to bring Spencer out of one of his fits, but for once Spencer looks like he’s all there.

Shawn,” Guster adds after a moment and Spencer actually stops. It takes a lot to look into Spencer’s face and Carlton can’t stop the flush of color across his cheeks. It makes him clench his jaw, because the light is back in Spencer’s eyes, making them every color but ordinary, and they’re too damn knowing, and Shawn Spencer or not, Carlton takes a step back. When he does, Shawn glances down, hiding whatever he’s thinking, and Carlton can’t help noticing that his eyelashes are long, and turn the same bright shade in the sunlight.

Then he thinks that he might be well and truly screwed if he’s noticing Shawn Spencer’s eyelashes.

But they’d felt long, fluttering softly against his neck. And as for ‘might be’, he’s been screwed for months now, something that fucking another man in place of Spencer had forced him to realize.

Spencer’s eyes are asking him another question, and Carlton can pull himself together at that at least, shut his mouth and glare. They’ll both pretend he hadn’t stepped back and that Spencer hadn’t, for whatever insane reason, followed him again.

She had been the first thing Spencer had chased after, after Carlton had left him in that bathroom, and this time Spencer hadn’t bothered to pretend that he wasn’t chasing her. Just like with O’Hara, he had been obvious and even obnoxious, single-minded in his determination to get another sucker into bed with him, evidently not giving a rat’s ass for anyone else’s feelings. They’d been a lot alike in that respect.

He’s staring at Lassi as he gets closer, his mind whirling again, collecting and presenting evidence. It’s possible that Lassiter is just waiting to see him fail again, to mess up as badly as he had with Lindsey. After the scene at the airport, Lassi had been obviously absent, keeping to his side of the station, his “office”, typing up reports, interviewing their suspect in the interrogation room, Jules outside to keep an eye on him, maybe to make sure Shawn didn’t try to watch through the glass.

He hadn’t thought of that before, that they might have kept him away, and he wonders if they’d discussed it, discussed him. But one look at Lassiter’s tight jaw tells him that’s impossible. Lassiter looks like he’s getting ready to take a hit just thinking about her.

All of which meant that possibly everybody already knew that Shawn had been made a mistake, and, as Lassi had just implied, they were all still here. Lassiter is here, his arms crossed and his head cocked impatiently, his face a horrible shade of pink that only made Shawn’s mouth dry. He should make a joke, say something. Lassiter is a man made of stone again, hard, white marble, but the angry heat is coming off him in waves.

It was warm in the field, warm almost like he had been chasing after Lindsey, having her chase after him, after getting ordered out of the bathroom stall, getting shoved away and held there with one cold look from Lassiter, watching Lassiter show up to the station two days later with his hair buzzed.

It was honestly a little sad just how much Shawn had been watching Lassiter’s hair, waiting impatiently for it to grow back to a length he could slide through his fingers, arrange to fall in that little Superman curl over Lassi’s forehead.

The hair is because of Shawn; it’s too much of a coincidence to be anything else. And it’s another thing to confuse him, like signs he’s supposed to be reading leading him in all different directions, not fitting together yet because something is still missing.

He looks at Lassi’s hair and he just gets angry in a way that has nothing to do with it being a bad haircut. Though it’s awful and all wrong for Lassi-face. Either Lassiter did it himself or paid someone less than eight dollars to do it at a place with “Super” and “Cuts” in the title.

So no one had believed him about Lindsey. That shouldn’t be a surprise; Lassiter never believed him. Except for when he did. When he had, letting Shawn move his hands beneath his suit jacket and gasping out orders into Shawn’s hair and Shawn had….really, really screwed things up in a way that apparently really, really mattered.

Henry would have yelled at him and to go back and look again—if Shawn would have told him, which of course, no, never, ew—because obviously Shawn is missing something obvious. But he hadn’t and he wouldn’t, why should he? It’s nothing to him if Lassiter wants to cut his hair and ignore Shawn, just like it’s nothing to Lassiter if Shawn acts like it never happened, that they never came close to spending the night together, that Shawn had turned right around and chased after… And Lassi is looking at him like he hates him. Which ought to be an improvement after ignoring him for the month before that, but it’s not, not at all.

Hearing Lassi make a joke about Chip and Dale, it’s almost like before, back in the good old days when Lassi had indiscriminately thrown him against walls and Shawn had mocked his hairline and his love life and the only thing between them had been air.

At least, he thought it had been air. Maybe it hadn’t been, considering how much he could use some indiscriminate up-against-a-wall time with Lassi and that maybe that’s why he’d been making all the jokes about Lassi’s hairline, and his love life…and maybe his skin tone.

Lassi is pale, and burning out here. Hours in a tanning booth and Lassi would probably still burn. But of course he didn’t bring any sunscreen with that bottle of Tums hidden in his suit pocket. It’s like Lassi couldn’t help looking like he spent all his time in a crypt.

It’s still a mystery why Shawn would want him, but there it is, all that creamy white skin beneath that suit that’s got Shawn’s imagination working overtime.

Creamy. White. Skin.

Shawn snaps his head up and catches the flash of recognition in Lassiter’s eyes right as the other man leans away from him, and even not really understanding Lassi’s motives, he follows, stepping in after him with his chin up.

Spencer looked like her. She had been cool, faintly challenging, and even trying not to look, Carlton had seen their exchanged glances, the kind of look that people like Spencer specialized in. The heated glance across a smoky bar, the kind of look that pulled people into restrooms and alleys, the kind of look Carlton had never received before. Not until that night anyway. To Spencer he had probably just been there. And if he ever needed proof that it hadn’t been more than that, he only had to think about her.

He’d been waiting long enough. He was roasting out here, probably turning as red as Spencer’s shoes.

“If Chip and Dale and the rest of the Rescue Rangers are done…” Carlton doesn’t finish, and he doesn’t look at Spencer though he sees Spencer looking critically up at his haircut for at least the fifth time that day alone. O’Hara makes a startled face that her quick scowl doesn’t quite cover. Guster lifts his head and frowns.

“Didn’t know you enjoyed the Disney Afternoon, Lassi,” Spencer comments softly. “And I so call Chip, Gus. Though honestly I was always more of an Aladdin fan.”

“No way am I Dale, Shawn,” Guster snaps back. And it’s like nothing in the world could ever persuade Spencer to take anything seriously.

“I was working the night shift then and had lots of spare time during the day,” Carlton grunts but ignores Spencer’s small smile. Spencer is still standing far too close to him, his eyes half-closed, like he’s trying to get his fake psychic vibes from something. Carlton wants to back up again, but doesn’t. Spencer is warm, has to be melting in his flannel shirt, but on Spencer sweat looks good, and the man probably knows it. For the barest second he imagines Shawn Spencer wearing that stupid vest and baggy pants combo that Aladdin had always worn to show off his golden skin. His own skin is so white that it looks like he’s been held in the same place as all of their victims.

“…Really more of a Jafar with that skin tone,” Spencer finishes and Carlton blinks and actually meets Spencer’s gaze. He’s gone from being a vampire to a Disney villain and just when he’s about to open his mouth to tell them all that he’s had enough, and that Mozenwrath was a more effective nemesis than Jafar, he sees the careful smile drop off Spencer’s face. All his attention focuses inward and Carlton’s heart kicks nervously against his chest because that looks means Spencer’s about to start in with the dramatics, but it also means Spencer has the answer.

He leans away with a caution borne of experience when Spencer abruptly snaps back into the moment and his smile says he has it, and it’s so good, that it’s going to be so much better than anything else will ever be.

Carlton can feel the words wanting to pour out of his mouth in response to that look. Spencer’s face is dusky, shining.

“Skin. Their skin. White like Lassi’s here. Too pale for girls with lifetime memberships at every Planet Beach tanning salon.” For the first time in a month, Spencer reaches out, stepping forward to match how Carlton has pulled away. Carlton twitches and goes still, staring into the other man’s eyes as Spencer drags his fingertips across his cheek for no real reason and lets them rest at the edge of his mouth before he finally pulls them away. He remembers that dancer doing the same to Spencer right before she’d straddled his lap, and it only takes him a second to imagine Spencer crawling over him.

He’s diving back into fierce, warm blue and Lassiter is letting him, waiting, holding his breath just the same as Shawn reaches for him, his face, his mouth.

“…Too pale for girls with lifetime memberships at every Planet Beach tanning salon…” he mumbles, forgetting everything he’d been going to add when Lassi does not pull away from him. He drags his fingertips across Lassi’s bottom lip, and sucks in a breath at the rush of color through Lassi’s skin. Maybe Lassi is a vampire with skin like that, but Shawn is thinking he might be down with that, Carlton’s mouth moving across his neck.

O’Hara speaks up and Carlton coughs. She’s bringing up the case with the speed dating and naked men—and Spencer’s mistaken focus on the tanning salon—and Carlton has a chance to clear his throat and break eye contact. He makes a note that he owes O’Hara a coffee for that, and puts a hand to his face as Spencer watches.

“I can feel them here,” Spencer insists, softly and O’Hara makes a noise that says she’s trying to understand. Carlton yanks himself back into the case, refusing to count that it’s the third time he’s had to in just one afternoon.

“This isn’t going to the tanning fiasco again, is it?” Juliet wonders, but Shawn doesn’t turn. He might even be frowning a little, because at the sound of her voice Lassiter twitches away.

The pads of Shawn’s fingers feel rough and scorched, in a good way, and he thinks that now that he’s finally done it, he has to touch Lassiter again. But Lassi turns his head this time, his breath catching. It’s not a subtle reminder at all, but Lassiter is not a subtle kind of guy. Or maybe he is, because he still hasn’t moved away. Shawn curls his hands and breathes out.

“I can feel them here,” he tries and then shakes his head and makes a face. It’s like nobody believes him anymore. He waves a hand and opens his mouth, trying to think of the right words when he doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to say. The wrong words have a tendency to hang in the air way longer than they should.

Spencer’s got it all right, and he’s not listening to any spirits. The frustrated grimace on his face tells him that plainly enough and when no one believes Spencer, his gestures only get more out of control. Carlton shuts his mouth hard and it’s like the silence is all Spencer is waiting for. He lunges forward and shuts his eyes and if Carlton doesn’t put out his hands to grab at his elbow, he’ll fall.

It’s tempting.

Lassi’s hand is hot through his shirt, strong enough to hold him up and also hurt, just a little. Shawn gasps, warm all the way through even before he’s consciously aware that he’s leaning against Lassiter. His mind gathers evidence without him, Lassiter’s hand, supporting him.

“They came through here. In a…no that doesn’t make sense, ladies, ladies, you need to calm down.”

Spencer is hot, strong and weak all at once, stumbling into Carlton, babbling away. There are no spirits flocking around Spencer, but Carlton imagines them anyway, a whole gaggle of blondes with long, straight hair and the one token brunette, then the three exceptions with their dyed black hair and chipped nails. Their thick glasses and heavy clothes were all down in evidence at the station, but they had been there with their stories in Spencer’s office. All three of them looking like Carlton’s college girlfriend.

A dozen sorority girls talking at the same time, somehow perfectly decipherable to Spencer as they’d talked about the blindfold and the dark, the music. Spencer taking it all in stride, only occasionally looking up over the sea of Coach bags and oversized sunglasses as though needing help, a frown between his eyes when Carlton had left O’Hara to explain and taken off.

“It’s so dark. So dark…down here,” Shawn hints as much as he can and opens his eyes to see Lassi scowling thoughtfully. A moment later his eyes drop to the ground. Shawn shuts his eyes again and tries not to smile. It’s totally not the moment to smile. That’s for later. But he wants to smile so much that he can feel it in his toes, all warm and scrunchy.

He wants to talk too, to say Lassi or Carlton, and that’s not really startling anymore, just how it feels to have Lassiter trusting him. His chest is heart attack tight again, but he must be getting used to it, because he barely slows down at all. He just points and waves and tries to make everything as clear as he can for Lassiter.

He deepens his voice too and tries to droop miserably, which is way harder than it ought to be. “Dark and black, like my soul,” he pouts like the emoest emo boy that ever was. He purses his lips, recalls Lassiter’s sliding through his hair as though he suddenly hadn’t thought Shawn’s hair was ridiculous anymore. “Black, like the Raven, like page after page of bad poetry written with a pretentious feather quill.”

“Cold,” he lifts his head to switch to someone else, and Little Girl Voice has never been so useful. “And icky damp down here.”

“Underground?” Lassiter asks in disbelief and Shawn opens his eyes and looks at him. Lassi is frowning at Jules. “When you looked up this land, did it say what it used to be used for?”

“Farmland.” Jules is quiet, thinking back. Her frown clears after a second and she’s radiant with the realization. “But in the Fifties the Government owned it.”

“The Government? For what?” Oh now Gus is excited.

“Probably Cold War surplus storage.” Lassiter takes his hand away to tick off on his fingers and Shawn fights away a serious frown of displeasure and then snorts to realize exactly what would pull Lassi’s attention from him. “Guns, emergency supplies hidden underground in case of a nuclear attack. Possibly a bunker as well, if it did house weapons…”

“It’s so dark down here.” Spencer, surrounded by imaginary sorority girls or not, shoots Carlton a long look with his last two words before he shudders dramatically and goes on about the cold.

It only takes that moment, and he doesn’t know if it’s despite knowing Spencer or because he knows Spencer, but Carlton looks down at the ground. He wets his lips and glances up at O’Hara, who, as junior detective, had had to research this place when Spencer had called.

Underground structures are pretty rare on the West Coast unless they’re in wine country, but there are exceptions. The moment O’Hara mentions the military, Carlton remembers that special on hidden bunkers of World War Two. The government had wisely planned for future attacks by hiding and protecting all the valuables.

“…Guns, emergency supplies hidden underground in case of a nuclear attack…” he lists them and then pauses. “What?” Carlton asks when they all stop and stare at him. Why the hell is Spencer’s mouth twitching? He intensifies his frown. “I like the History Channel.”

“He’s right,” Guster agrees after a pause, as though Carlton had needed the help. He shoots a glower in the other man’s direction and tries not to look back, though Spencer is watching him again. He hasn’t really stopped watching Lassiter, not today, not for this past month and whatever it is Spencer expects him to do, he’s not going to give him the satisfaction.

He rolls his shoulders and scans the field again, looking for a sign of…something…and when he flicks a look back, Spencer is smiling, as though that is just what he wants. Carlton scowls.

“Of course you like the History Channel!” Spencer laughs at that, just about on his toes, and Carlton clenches his jaw. Stupid psychic always thinks he knows everything.

“Well if you know everything, where are they?” he demands, forgetting for a second that he hadn’t said the first part out loud, that he has been trying not to talk to Spencer much at all. Spencer’s a mind-reader, let him guess if he doesn’t know already. Carlton’s mind is right there, every humiliating thought and memory right near the surface whenever Spencer is this close.

“He just needs a moment to consult with the spirits again,” Guster steps in again and Carlton twists up his mouth in a little sneer. He even thinks a sneer, just in case Spencer really is psychic after all, and it’s a sign of how crazy he’s going that he can possibly think that. And it’s absolutely mental to note to Spencer’s eyebrows jerk up for a moment as though he read that sneer anyway.

Spencer stares at him and his smile slips before he replaces it with something bigger, cocky and ridiculous, a smile he hadn’t had a chance to use in that bathroom. No chance to use it because Carlton had told him to stop and he’d stopped, honestly confused there, his low, intense question hanging in the air between them. Carlton is still sick to think about that question, how Spencer had known, though none of that was material compared with the result. Spencer’s eyes wide, his throat working while he’d remained frozen, hovering on the balls of his feet when Carlton had put a hand up.

He could hate Spencer for that, letting him see a real emotion after what he’d done.

Carlton tears his gaze away and stares at his partner. She’s staring at Spencer too, as though she’s not a cop and it’s somehow fair for them to rely so much on someone else. If Spencer knew the answer, he would have led them there already. It’s obvious that he doesn’t know just like it’s obvious that Spencer is incapable of simply saying that he doesn’t know. He’ll just keep offering up scraps until someone tells him he has done a good job.

It’s almost pathetic really, but the uncomfortable newness of the thought doesn’t stop Carlton from speaking.

“It’s not going to show up on any map or registered blueprint,” Carlton tosses out at Jules and watches her watch Spencer as the idea takes hold of them. He’s not planning on looking at Spencer, but the man suddenly jerks into motion, dropping onto his knees and then popping back up to jump in the air. Carlton’s knees ache just looking at him. Not that he’s thinking about Spencer’s knees. Not at all.

But when he looks up and blinks, Spencer and his idiot partner are going on about the fun they are going to have searching a hidden bunker, as though it’s filled with pirate treasure. He swears he hears the word “Dude” about six times.

“No, no you don’t.” There’s no way in hell Spencer is searching anything with that sicko around and being the weirdo magnet that he is. Putting an end to their fun just makes Spencer pout at him, a lot less successfully than his partner does, but then O’Hara speaks up again, reminding him about their agreement about not damaging the property.

There is nothing more boring than the History Channel, so it makes total sense that Lassi would love it. The man enacts battles and enjoys dress up a little too much too. What makes less sense is the fact that Shawn wants to make fun of him and kiss him for it at the same time. Dude. He’s never been more grateful for a case that can take his mind off bizarre and horrifying thoughts like that one.

He settles for mocking Lassiter a little more and then moving quickly on when Lassi fixes him with a pouty, confused frown that is borderline adorable.

“Dude, Lassi’s right. Spread out and look for…uh… Gus what are those things like with the sewer, or like at a bank…? You know, with the twisty knobs and the locks?”

“A vault door?”

“Yes!” Shawn is in the air again and even Jules takes a step back. “The entrance to an underground storeroom. Dark and damp and secret. Dude…!” He spins back to Gus. “…We get to search a bunker!”

“No, you don’t,” Lassiter immediately butts back in and Shawn turns at the same time Gus does to object. “You get to stay here and out of harm’s way while O’Hara and I search. And keep an eye out for anything suspicious.”

“Aw, but Lassi, wouldn’t four people searching go much faster?” Shawn argues. Lassiter’s head comes up, blue eyes wary. “Think of the girls,” Shawn goes on before Lassi can open his mouth.

“Why not just call everyone out to search?” Gus reasons, either trying to be helpful, or more likely, trying to get out of going anywhere dangerous.

“We don’t have a warrant. The owner gave us permission only as long as we didn’t disturb anything. A search team is definitely going to disturb things.” Jules explains in a sigh, always coming out on the right side—Shawn’s side—and Shawn grins at her.

“Fine.” Lassiter spits out the word and Shawn spins to include Lassi even though Lassi just glares at him for it. The Head Detective is speaking, and Shawn’s hardly going to object to that. But when he nods, Lassiter just looks at him even more sourly, suspicion in his raised eyebrows. “We spread out and look, when we find proof, then we’ll call in for backup.”

“Fine.” Carlton bites out and when Spencer spins around he glares at him. Spencer just nods in happy agreement, probably not at all bothered by the fact that Carlton is going to have to stop on the way home and buy another package of Tums. “We spread out and look, when we find proof, then we’ll call in for backup,” he decides out loud and then gulps down air and tries not to look too pained when he realizes what he just said.

He fails of course, judging from Spencer’s face.

Lassiter looks like he just about swallowed his tongue when he notices that he said ‘when’ and not ‘if’. Shawn’s practically shaking with that urge to crawl inside Lassi’s suit, an urge that had never really gone away, ever, that one that only gets worse whenever Lassi does something that even Lassi knows is beyond sad.

“Oh, Lassi,” Spencer sighs and even done in the voice that Carlton is starting to think of as Spencer’s Little Girl Voice it sounds a lot like Spencer is actually pleased. If anything, even with the heat, Carlton can feel himself getting warmer.

He doesn’t need to be a mind-reader, Carlton’s being obvious enough.

He makes himself sneer and walks away. A moment later he has to turn back, because he knows exactly what an unsupervised Spencer and Guster can get up to; they are lightening rods for stupid lunatics. Spencer just bobs his head and follows Carlton’s waving finger like Carlton is an orchestra conductor in a cartoon.

“But no stupid heroics or thrashing around. If you’re in any danger at all, you call one of us.” His hand is out instantly, poking Spencer hard in the chest and wiping that stupid grin off his face.

“I’ll just wait in the car…” Guster murmurs, already in motion. If only Spencer had half his sense.

“Dude!” Spencer scolds without even turning around. Guster stops and punches the air in frustration and then seems to remember that they are all still there, and can see his little fit. “Gus, the life of an innocent could depend on you.”

It might be why when Gus whines, Shawn is a little harsher on him than usual. Though Juliet is watching, Gus could at least attempt to man up. It might also been the reason that when Lassi takes off without another word, Shawn stays where he is instead of edging his way closer to Jules.

His words are serious, but Spencer is staring steadily ahead, nodding his head as though he’s answering a question that Carlton knows for a fact he hasn’t asked.

“But…” Spencer goes on a second later and Carlton jerks away from him and starts walking. O’Hara, being smarter than Spencer, takes off in the opposite direction, her hand at her side. Spencer and Guster will probably head after her, more like Chip and Dale than they want to admit, not that Carlton cares; he is fine with being alone. Totally fine.

Weird. It’s the perfect opportunity to be alone with Jules, but he’s shaking his head before the thought is even finished. Jules won’t need the help anyway.

Jules frowns after Admiral Lassington, then at Shawn, but she waves at the trees and then takes off in that direction. Shawn turns to Gus and Gus is still standing there.

Shawn points at Jules. Gus shakes his head and waves his arms. So Shawn has to point again, jumping with the force of it and Gus scowls and jerks his shoulders forward before he goes after her. Shawn doesn’t have to be psychic to know that the second Gus catches up to her he’ll be all smiles, but he stays still long enough to watch it anyway.

Shawn grins and hops forward too now that Gus and Jules are taken care of. He turns his face up to the sun that Lassiter really does need more of and pretends not to notice the momentary pause as Lassiter hears him coming up from behind. It makes him feel a little like Pepe LePew, and really, Pepe would have been kind of a jerk if there hadn’t always been that moment when the girl-cat almost went for it.

There’s a soft commotion behind him that Carlton does his best to ignore, but after a moment the sounds fall away to just the nearly-silent sound of footsteps and careful breathing that Carlton knows aren’t Guster’s. He straightens up and feels his chest get tight.

The physical reaction is not what he not what he would feel for his partner, even if O’Hara were capable of this much silence. His footsteps slow despite himself and Carlton inches his head around for one quick look and twists it back at the glimpse of stupid hair.

He doesn’t understand, when O’Hara is out there and there might be the chance to play hero, but if anything it’s probably just to drive Carlton crazy. Not that he’s going to ask why, or what the point is of insisting that everyone split up if Spencer is just going to follow him around; he wouldn’t believe the lie he’d get for an answer anyway. He inhales through his nose, smelling the dirt and manure that’s probably all over his shoes.

It will be all over Spencer’s new shoes too. That’s a thought to make him smile and keep walking.

Part Two



Once again I have babbled, and so this will need *three* posts. Sigh.