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rispacooper Nov. 13th, 2008 12:27 pm)
rispacooper Nov. 13th, 2008 12:27 pm)Rebel Yell
For: Psych
Pairing: Shawn/Lassiter
Summary: What do you do when pursued by an amorous Shawn Spencer? Next in the Slutty Boys ‘Verse. This is like…fluff. Fluffy smut. Not pr0n. I’m not really sure how I started out with angst porn and ended up here, but okay…
Rating: Adults Only
Warnings: Fluffy smexin. Slash. Mild language. References to eggplant sandwiches.
AN: (Do they sell Capri-Sun in the rest of the world? For those who don’t know, it’s a juice-like drink for children). Also I made up the Civil War regiment/battle info, just because it seemed vaguely disrespectful to use actual names and battles just to lead into porn.
Song by Billy Idol, obviously.
Look, I just wasn’t in the mood for angst, ok? And Shawn went all girly on me.
While he’s listening to the far-off sound of fife and drums and staring up at the canopy of trees—and all the glaring, happy, irritating sunshine—Carlton takes a minute to wonder if he’s ever going to be able to walk again. Judging from the fact that he can still feel his back—and the throbbing pain radiating up from around his ass—there’s no real damage. It’s too bad he won’t be able to say the same for the idiot who knocked him off his horse when he finds him.
Brigadier General Cartwright was supposed to get hit with the Rebel bullet a little farther along in the battle, get knocked from his horse, only to immediately spring to his feet and grab another horse. Carlton’s horse doesn’t appear to have stuck around, and instead of rallying behind their wounded general, the rest of the 11th Illinois were still finishing their skirmish and working their way toward the ridge where Carlton had been supposed to fall into a prearranged pile of hay.
He frowns up at the trees while he considers leaping to his feet and mounting a horse—and the visit to the chiropractor’s office afterward—only to blink when the trees are replaced with Shawn Spencer’s face, and then the rest of his body. He’s bright-eyed and probably bushy-tailed and staring hard down at Carlton from a distance of only about six inches.
There are spots of color at his cheekbones, but even without them, Spencer’s skin so flushed and warm that Carlton can feel it. It’s a hell of a lot warmer than the sunshine, he decides faintly, damp under his collar, flushing to match, and quickly sweeps his gaze up to look directly into Spencer’s face.
He can see flecks in Spencer’s eyes. Because Spencer is very, very close to him, and getting closer every second that he sits here on his ass.
Carlton sucks in a breath, because if there’s anything he can remember right now that isn’t the last time Spencer had looked at him like this from so close, is that Spencer is not supposed to be this close. Spencer this close equals trouble. He’s been telling himself that for weeks now and he absolutely means it.
Carlton had fought, he had snarled and yelled and shoved to keep as much distance between himself and Shawn Spencer during the last few weeks, no matter how many times he’d turned around and found Spencer grinning behind him. Because Spencer was crazy, and dangerous, and reckless, and a liar, and because there was this little patch of skin just above his collarbone that not one shirt in Spencer’s multi-hued t-shirt collection ever really covered up and Carlton kept imagining putting his mouth there and Spencer’s smiles always said that he knew that.
“What, Spencer?” He recovers enough to snap, but his heart is beating too quickly—still pumped full of adrenaline from his fall. He looks away as he sits up, not particularly surprised when Spencer falls back onto his knees next to him and leans his head to one side. His eyes reflect the blue of his open coat and trousers as they widen with false innocence, and Carlton tenses in expectation of the joke.
“For a second there, Lass, I thought I was going to have to get your band over there to play “Amazing Grace” at your funeral.”
His back hurts, Carlton reminds himself, and clenching his teeth even though the echoing pain is already starting to lessen. His back hurts and he’s in the middle of something here and he really doesn’t have the patience to deal with Spencerisms right now, no matter how serious Spencer had actually managed to sound. Carlton frowns even harder in Spencer’s direction and notices that Spencer is wearing the same outfit he’d worn during the last Reenactment he’d crashed—only he’d forgone the Burnsides…the sideburns this time.
They’d probably been the most accurate things about his last uniform, which would probably be the reason Spencer had ditched them. He was unshaven again, as usual, but his white shirt did seem to have been ironed. Probably Guster’s doing. At least he isn’t holding a weapon.
Actually, he’s holding what looks like a messenger bag. A completely anachronistic messenger bag with Velcro straps across the front flap and the REI logo down the side.
Carlton studies the bag for a second longer than necessary, because knowing Spencer any number of ridiculous things could be inside. And because it’s easier than looking into Shawn Spencer’s face when he knows what he’ll see there.
The last time they’d been in a field together they had also been surrounded by chaos; in fact the bruises around his eye had only just finally faded completely. This chaos at least wasn’t Spencer’s fault—that he knows of.
“I…” he starts, because Spencer is still staring at him, giving him the same smirking, patient look he’s been aiming his way for weeks now. Ever since saving the girl in the Dollhouse Kidnappings.
Freak. Though the guy kidnapping the girls had been pretty weird too.
There’s an ache around his chest. Like maybe somebody had filled their beanbag with rocks instead of beans or rice. He has a pop a few buttons on his coat to rub at the spot and Spencer’s eyes fall to his hand. His grin returns so suddenly that Carlton smiles back before he can catch himself.
“You always let a little beanbag unhorse you, Lassi?” Luckily, that smart ass remark wipes the dumb look off his face.
“Shut up, Spencer.” He’s grunting and he doesn’t care. “What are you doing here?” They’d ended their last case successfully—without Spencer and Guster, who had been off solving something for a private client though no doubt still using Department resources thanks to O’Hara—and with his current workload clear, Carlton had been looking forward to these two days. Two days in the company of his fellow warriors, two days out in the open with every kind of distraction but the one in front of him.
“Very important business.” Spencer is not being coy. Spencer is being mysterious. So whatever he’s got to reveal is big and Spencer won’t be able to keep it to himself. The man loves to show how clever he is, to show off, especially in front of Carlton. So all he has to do wait and Spencer will spill everything. Carlton opens his mouth anyway.
“And what gives you the right to wear that?” Waving a hand at the simple, unbuttoned uniform, which—realistic though it might be, is still annoyingly like Spencer to disregard regulations, makes Spencer’s gaze drop. Then he shrugs.
“Mr. Mahoney never asked for it back.” As Mahoney was currently in prison, that had undoubtedly slipped his mind. Carlton feels himself arching an eyebrow, playing along, and straightens his face a second too late. He’s not even sure why he bothers anymore; Spencer always seems to know anyway, except that it just seems…incredibly aggravating…to let Spencer get his way so much. It doesn’t matter that everyone plays with Spencer after a while, that there’s nothing special or personal in his games. In fact that makes it worse, makes Carlton more determined to fight the urge this time, to play, to win, even if the prize on the table is so tempting.
“Besides,” Spencer goes on, jolting Carlton back from the memory of Spencer on his knees, all but offering to suck his cock again. “You’re not the only one who likes to play dress-up, Lass.”
Spencer’s eyelids drop, his look getting considering anything but coy and that memory comes right back, mingled with the sweat-slick feel of Spencer’s skin, the uncontrolled, insane squeak in his voice when Carlton had first pushed their bodies together. He had insisted on talking, on continuing to talk, that pleading, convincing tone he always used filthy and sinful once his lips had been swollen and come-wet. Carlton. Spencer had no problem begging when manipulation had failed, like he’d known that hearing him beg only made Carlton hard again, had made him want to yank Spencer closer and tell him to shut up, that he didn’t need to say anything.
It’s when Spencer speaks that trouble starts. The reminder does absolutely nothing for the way his dick is pounding. Neither does recalling that Spencer had been hovering at the edge of his vision for weeks with just the same look on his face every time everyone else had been looking in another direction.
The fact that Carlton had of course already been looking back at Spencer and waiting for the look was hardly a surprise anymore.
He still has to take a deep breath to speak. “Knock it off, Spencer.”
“I thought we were back to ‘Shawn’.” Shawn—Spencer sticks his lower lip for half a second. When Carlton’s eyes fall to it, he changes his mind and uses his tongue to wet it instead. Carlton exhales loudly before he swings his stare—his glare—back up to Spencer’s blue-for-today eyes. “At least, we were last week when I got you in that storage closet…”
Spencer’s hands, all over him, hot under his shirt in less than a second, around his belt a moment later.
There’s a moment of dizziness as most of Carlton’s blood heads below the Mason-Dixon, and the trouble breathing he had before is nothing to his sudden wheezing.
Pushing Spencer away and storming out of the closet had taken less resolve than fighting the urge to turn around and go right back in. But he wasn’t going to have sex with Spencer—again—and not in public, no matter what Spencer seemed to think.
“Knock it off, Spencer,” Carlton says again. His teeth are clenched so hard it’s nearly painful. Spencer lets out a long, exaggerated sigh.
“Knock what off, Lassi?” The quiet question makes Carlton open eyes he hadn’t realized were closed. Spencer is still resting on his knees, watching him with a small frown of confusion on his face. The sight of a lost Shawn Spencer makes Carlton smile out of reflex, even if it’s…possibly…somewhat endearing and that seeing it makes him want to shut up and pretend the two of them aren’t currently engaged in…whatever it is they’re engaged in.
Possibly a battle of wills. If only he knew what it was over.
The point is, he’s confused the brilliant psychic. He is winning at the moment, even if he doesn’t know why.
“This!” He waves a hand between them, regretting it the second he does when the action draws Spencer’s gaze down to the bulge in Carlton’s pants that his uniform isn’t doing much to hide.
“The nice chubs you got going for me?” The grin is like nails pressing into his skin. Carlton’s face gets hot but he puts his hands on the ground and pushes himself to his feet. Spencer goes all wide-eyed and follows him, stepping closer for the half a second that Carlton takes to rub at his lumbar region.
“No, the chubs I’ve always go…. This!” Carlton barks out as his back gives a final twinge and he can stand up straight. He tugs at his coat until he at least looks decent and not out of his mind with Spencer-fueled lust. “Whatever it is you think you are doing in that lunatic, supposedly psychic brain of yours!” He hadn’t known Spencer’s eyes could even get this round, that Spencer could get so still. Carlton steps in to press his advantage without hesitating. Spencer doesn’t step back though one hand comes up between them; Carlton can feel its heat through his tunic coat and undershirt. “I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, Spencer, but I am not…” ‘Not interested’ is too much of a lie, even if Spencer hadn’t just seen his arousal. “…I’m not...” ‘One of your conquests’ is just too Victorian. “…I’m the Head Detective,” he finishes, finally, and glares when a smile spreads slowly across Spencer’s face.
“That’s not all.” Spencer acts like his words make sense, then clicks his heels together and straightens up.
“General!” The breathless question has Carlton turning but Peterson comes to a stop next to him and Carlton takes a moment to look over the field and realizes that the play-fighting has mostly come to a halt.
“What?” he snaps immediately and Peterson comes to an awkward halt in front of him.
“You all right? I can’t imagine how that happened.” Peterson has got Carlton’s hat in his hands, though how that ended up on the other side of the bridge—yards away from anywhere Carlton had been—is not something Carlton really wants to know right now. He snatches it back and gives the man a suspicious glare for a moment before he settles it back on his head and lifts his chin.
“I’m fine.” His back twinges again just to make him a liar, but Carlton grimaces and ignores it. “Find out what went wrong…and find Horatio.”
“CSI: Miami, Lassi? Really?” A pair of sunglasses appear out of nowhere on Spencer’s face and he takes a moment to dramatically remove them before he stows them away again. Peterson’s eyes flick curiously to him.
“It’s Horatio Hornblower…from the novels, Spencer, not that you read.” It’s easy to ignore the answering gasp and following babble. He’s had plenty of experience.
“That hurts, Lass. That really hurts. Just last week I read a Parade magazine cover to cover.”
Peterson however turns to give Spencer a close examination, stopping to stare disapprovingly at the messenger bag. “Don’t believe I know you, Soldier.”
“Corporal Jamie Lee Curtis, late of the 69th Californian Messenger Corps.” Spencer manages some sort of salute and introduces himself before Carlton can say a thing or think of how to save Sergeant Peterson from the friendly smile and the usual confusing stream of babble designed to win him over. In less than a minute, the sergeant is nodding his head and agreeing with everything out of Spencer’s mouth no matter how idiotic it obviously is. “I just got back from delivering a message to Her Majesty. Her Majesty is quite pleased with the way things are turning out here, by the way, freedom, democracy, the cotton gin, the whole shebang. Even offered me tea, but I prefer a nice mellow Darjeeling to a black Assam.”
“Spencer.”
“Anyway.” He’d take a moment to admire Spencer’s ability to bullshit if he weren’t listening to the most ignorant and insane lies to ever come out of Spencer’s mouth. Sometimes he wasn’t one hundred percent sure Spencer had really graduated from high school, despite the fact that he had looked up Spencer’s records himself once during a long, sleepless night. Bill and Ted had gotten more out of history class. “I’d just gotten back to Washington when an urgent telegram arrived ordering me to come out here and have a talk with General…uh…” Spencer waves a hand and shoots him an expectant look. So does Peterson. Carlton crosses his arms and lets Spencer dangle for a moment before arching one eyebrow.
“Cartwright.”
“General Cartwright here…” Of course Spencer doesn’t miss a beat. “...And I have to relay this message to him in absolute privacy.” Carlton is not afraid of Spencer. Not even close. But something shivers down his back at Spencer’s emphasis on those two words and he grits his teeth.
“The General’s tent is right over there.” Peterson helpfully points out Carlton’s HQ, and then flinches when he turns back and finds Carlton scowling at him.
“Sergeant, why don’t you make yourself useful and go tell the men it’s time for a break?” The other two both take a step back at his tone, but Peterson manages a salute before he hurries away. Carlton takes a moment to watch him and make sure the mock-battle actually stops before he turns back.
Spencer has relaxed again. Of course he has. He’s shaking his head at the men, all outfitted for today’s dress rehearsal, as they suddenly drop character and start heading to their cars to go get coffee or food. It is about noon, now that Carlton is paying attention. Not that his carelessness is the reason he got knocked from his horse in the first place, but if it had been, he could always put the blame on Spencer for following him around and tormenting him like this, ensuring that he hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in over two weeks, leaving him so frustrated and so—rightfully—irritated that O’Hara had started snapping back at him.
Though explaining that to his men might be more than a little awkward.
Carlton grimaces and puts one hand to his back, just in case, as he walks over to his tent.
It’s the usual pitched tent, slightly bigger than what the men would be sleeping in if this were an actual campsite the night before a battle. But then a General was supposed to do his planning in his tent as well. It was big enough to fit a long table, a few chairs, and a cot. The table and cot were historically accurate-looking, made by a carpenter on the Confederate side, but the chairs were fold-out.
There’s a few men remaining, he can still hear the regimental band in fact, but no one nearby as he slips into his tent and lets the flap fall closed behind him; Spencer will let himself in, there’s no need to be courteous.
The bag with Carlton’s regular clothes is in one corner, and for authenticity’s sake, there’s a reprint of a map of Tennessee spread out on the table. On the cot there’s a small mirror Carlton had used to put on his facial hair. There isn’t even the slightest thing that would make a good distraction. Not that he’s looking for one. Or that he needs one. He’s not afraid of being alone with Spencer.
As he predicted, Spencer lets himself in uninvited. Maybe Carlton’s a psychic too.
Spencer pauses in the doorway, his eyes darting around as though he’s memorizing the space, which is ridiculous. Then he blinks and focuses back on Carlton with his eyebrows up.
“There was no point in decorating.” Carlton crosses his arms and answers as though Spencer has just memorized the inside of his tent.
“Not even a picture of the girl you left behind?” Spencer wonders as the band outside starts playing that exact song. Carlton knows he’s frowning, not sure whether Spencer does actually know his history or whether that was just a coincidence.
Spencer steps further into the tent without waiting for an answer. It gets darker as the door falls closed behind him, just strips of sunlight sneaking in under the edges and what sun can get through the thick canvas. It’s old canvas, but Carlton enjoys the musty smell. It adds a touch of reality, lets him imagine sheltering in here in the heavy rains, eating beans and hardtack and whatever fruit or vegetables the land provided.
Spencer wrinkles his nose, then shrugs. “You and Gus really ought to get together and go to the geek conventions. Honestly, you really love all this dress-up, don’t you?”
“It’s not dress-up, Spencer.” Just like that, his jaw is clenched again. Carlton takes his hat and sets it carefully down on the cot, smoothing down the large, white feather that he had personally picked out. “It’s remembering acts of heroism and bravery and tragic loss made by our forefathers.” When he lifts his head Spencer hasn’t moved forward at all, but his mouth is curved up. It’s not precisely Spencer’s normal pitying, amused grin, but Carlton still glares at him.
“Spencer, why in the name of Ulysses S. Grant are you here?” He doesn’t care about the tactical mistake of a direct question, he just wants Spencer gone. If he’d thought it would actually work, he would have just told Spencer to go. Spencer’s smile turns into a full grin that does not light up his face no matter how much brighter the tent suddenly seems. Carlton drops his hands to his sides and curls his fingers into his palms.
“Lunch!” Spencer’s answer is as bright as his eyes and Carlton feels his jaw go slack—just a little—when Spencer takes off the messenger bag and opens it. He starts laying items on the table without looking up.
There are two foot-long sandwiches wrapped in paper, a bag of chips, and two pouches of Capri-Sun, labeled piña mango. There’s also a box of cranberry juice that Spencer has to come around to the table to hand to him. Carlton hadn’t even realized he had put the table between them, but he takes the juice without comment and Spencer darts back around to his side and plays with the wrapping on the sandwiches for a moment.
“Cranberry juice seems more your thing, but I wasn’t sure about the sandwiches…”
“Tell me they’re not eggplant.” He can’t help it. Spencer looks up for the first time in a few minutes and there’s an arrested expression on his face, like someone having a sudden realization. Then he firms his lips and shrugs and looks back down.
“One meatball. One Italian. You just give off this ‘meat-eater’ vibe, Lass.” Spencer glances up again to give him an obvious wink and then a small laugh. His leer is so weak that Carlton doesn’t even blush. He just stares for another few minutes, then absently pokes his straw through the top of his juice box and takes a sip.
“What is all this, Spencer?” He asks after he swallows and decides that the juice is not poisoned or drugged.
“Well nothing else was working.” Spencer shrugs again and peels back the wrapping on meatball sub, which is still so hot from the REI bag that some steam rises up. “You hungry or not? If you’re not hungry, I suppose I could give your sandwich to the sergeant out there…or Gus…” His voice trails off into something so quiet it shouldn’t be Spencer in front of him. And yet it is, and he’s still playing with the damn sandwich paper. The fact that it’s an act, that Carlton knows it’s an act to let Spencer have his way doesn’t stop him from opening his damn mouth.
“Italian.” Carlton decides abruptly and Spencer switches back into his usual self that easily. He slides the sandwich down the table but Carlton keeps his eyes on him anyway as he pulls up a chair and sits.
Spencer appears occupied down at his end, playing with one of his two Capri-Sun. Carlton looks away finally to poke around in his sandwich for traces of mint, or hot peppers, or a used band-aid, or anything else repulsive that either Spencer or a careless sandwich-maker might have stuck in there. It looks clean and smells delicious, seasoned meats and fresh, crisp vegetables. If there’s anything Spencer seems good at, it’s picking out food.
“Better than hardtack, right?” Spencer volunteers more startling knowledge—or mind-reading—but is still fiddling with his “juice” when Carlton glances up.
“I don’t actually eat hardtack when I’m out here, Spencer.” At least, not as a meal, more as a snack. He’s not that much a loser. Besides, it doesn’t taste that bad.
“Oh I don’t think you’re a loser, Lassifras.” Spencer has finally moved on to his sandwich, still without looking up. “Besides, loser apparently works for me.” His voice is low, puzzled. Carlton frowns at the new nickname more than the additional whispered comment, but doesn’t say anything about Spencer’s lucky guess about what he was thinking. He has another problem anyway.
His sandwich is an actual foot long, all on a huge, crusty roll of sourdough. There’s no way he can eat it without it ending up in his beard and mustache.
“Let me give you a hand with that,” is all he hears before his body registers the weight and heat of Spencer sitting in his lap. His legs are still on the floor, but Spencer—Spencer’s ass—is definitely in his lap, and one of his arms is moving up to curl around Carlton’s neck while Carlton is still gaping.
Carlton breathes out, very aware that they are so close that his breath stirs the strands of Spencer’s ridiculous hair that aren’t gelled in place. He shifts, and Spencer wriggles to face him. There’s a flush on Spencer’s face, and a serious expression and it’s only after Spencer pushes a piece of salami between his lips that Carlton realizes his mouth is still open.
He might be panting. It’s hard to say. Spencer is staring at him, watching carefully as he automatically chews, then swallows. It’s good, not that it matters now, not when he’s staring at Spencer’s mouth, which is so close, not when Spencer is licking that mouth like he enjoys the way Carlton is looking, like he didn’t come here today to offer sandwiches for lunch.
His body reacts instantly to the offer and Carlton jerks backward and onto his feet in one move. Like the cat that he had pretended to channel, Spencer manages to stay on his feet, and give him a hurt look at the same time. He even gives a shake and a slinky, short stretch, before he settles on the edge of the table, one leg still on the floor. His ass is right next to the sandwich Carlton had been going to eat.
His lip is still stuck out in a stubborn, pouty look that he must have picked up from Guster, but his eyes roam immediately downward and Carlton gives his uniform coat another good tug. Spencer sighs loudly and directs his eyes back up.
He’s smiling, but he’s not talking. Carlton crosses his arms when he meets his stare. Then he uncrosses them to fiddle with his sword belt, because Spencer still isn’t saying anything.
He hadn’t been this quiet the last time Carlton had pushed him off his lap. If anything, it’s almost like Spencer is waiting. For what, Carlton hasn’t got a clue. It’s like facing down an angry Victoria when she kept insisting she wasn’t mad when in fact she’d been incredibly ticked off because Carlton had been late coming home because of a case, or because he hadn’t noticed her new hair. He’d made a horrible husband, she’d had no problem communicating that part, but the why she’d never explained.
His cases were always life and death. And so what if she’d never noticed his hair? He’d had his mustache shaved for a week before she’d said anything. He hadn’t stared at her with big, bright blue-ish eyes and faked a smile.
Oh crap.
“I didn’t…hurt you…did I?” Carlton waves at the table, not that he had shoved Spencer that hard this time. Not that Spencer didn’t seem to generally enjoy the shoving judging from how often he volunteered for it. And not that he cared. “I mean…”
“Usually, Lass, you disappear about this time.” Spencer’s grin is wide. He flutters one hand in a scurrying motion. “You know, run away like Gus after a spider crawls across his leg?”
“I do not…” He tries to deny it but there’s no shutting up Spencer now. He angles his head to the side and shoots Carlton the kind of sly look that had made everyone at the station think he was so much fun to be around. The insinuating look that had made Carlton the butt of too many jokes when Spencer had first gone into business as a fake detective.
“I’d almost think you were afraid of little old me, or avoiding me.” Carlton scowls instantly at the implication and Spencer’s head comes back up, bobbing a little to the music coming from outside. “But now I know that it’s all your way of keeping me interested. I had no idea you were such a game player, Lassi.”
“I…what?”
“You could have just asked me out. Really, Lass, it was so obvious. Even then.” As though the music is all that’s on his mind, Spencer is moving his head to the beat of what sounds like the new single by the last pair to win on American Duos. Carlton opens his mouth again, gets out one word that rhymes with “Encer”, and closes it.
He’s usually baffled by Spencer’s insane lines of reasoning and his countless pop culture references. He’s generally as confused as any of the criminals they chase together to see a grown man go from flopping on the floor like a fish to being a sharp-minded investigator with the right answer up his sleeve the whole time. And it’s not at all unusual to find himself stumped by one of the many bizarre non-sequiturs that come out of Spencer’s mouth.
That being the case, he knows he is still standing in front of Spencer with his mouth opening and closing and looking like a complete idiot. He shuts his mouth at least, for all of thirty seconds, while his brain repeats Spencer’s remark and focuses on the two words “even then”.
He’s pretty sure he has no idea what Spencer is talking about. As far as he knows, Spencer went from regarding him as the annoying Head Detective he had to mock, deceive, and lie to, to someone he could hide behind in a crisis, to someone he had jumped in a strip club bathroom.
He certainly hadn’t been putting out any signals. Well he had, but not to Carlton; to witness, and suspects, and O’Hara, and the Chief, and McNab, and possibly even Guster, but not to Carlton. Never to Carlton.
Though, to be fair, the last date Carlton had gone on and thought was going okay had ended in less than ten minutes with his date sneaking out through the emergency exit. Considering that that had also been his first actual date in…months…he would hardly call himself a good judge of signals.
But no matter how he looked at it, and he had many times in many ways, restless night after restless night, all Spencer had done to him was drive him crazy with anger. Showing off all the time, acting like an idiot. Sitting on his lap. Groping his leg. Yanking his tie. Then just…flaunting himself…bragging with his eyes about what he’d done in that bathroom at Tom Blair’s. With Hornstock. With another man. As though Spencer had wanted him to know.
And that’s all he had been able to think about, Spencer’s mouth, Spencer’s eyes, his hands pushing forward to touch him, letting him know what Spencer had done, asking him, asking if he could do it again, with him.
Hot and drunk and clumsy, like Spencer never was. Asking him.
Oh.
Carlton might just be having a heart attack.
Crap.
PART TWO
For: Psych
Pairing: Shawn/Lassiter
Summary: What do you do when pursued by an amorous Shawn Spencer? Next in the Slutty Boys ‘Verse. This is like…fluff. Fluffy smut. Not pr0n. I’m not really sure how I started out with angst porn and ended up here, but okay…
Rating: Adults Only
Warnings: Fluffy smexin. Slash. Mild language. References to eggplant sandwiches.
AN: (Do they sell Capri-Sun in the rest of the world? For those who don’t know, it’s a juice-like drink for children). Also I made up the Civil War regiment/battle info, just because it seemed vaguely disrespectful to use actual names and battles just to lead into porn.
Song by Billy Idol, obviously.
Look, I just wasn’t in the mood for angst, ok? And Shawn went all girly on me.
While he’s listening to the far-off sound of fife and drums and staring up at the canopy of trees—and all the glaring, happy, irritating sunshine—Carlton takes a minute to wonder if he’s ever going to be able to walk again. Judging from the fact that he can still feel his back—and the throbbing pain radiating up from around his ass—there’s no real damage. It’s too bad he won’t be able to say the same for the idiot who knocked him off his horse when he finds him.
Brigadier General Cartwright was supposed to get hit with the Rebel bullet a little farther along in the battle, get knocked from his horse, only to immediately spring to his feet and grab another horse. Carlton’s horse doesn’t appear to have stuck around, and instead of rallying behind their wounded general, the rest of the 11th Illinois were still finishing their skirmish and working their way toward the ridge where Carlton had been supposed to fall into a prearranged pile of hay.
He frowns up at the trees while he considers leaping to his feet and mounting a horse—and the visit to the chiropractor’s office afterward—only to blink when the trees are replaced with Shawn Spencer’s face, and then the rest of his body. He’s bright-eyed and probably bushy-tailed and staring hard down at Carlton from a distance of only about six inches.
There are spots of color at his cheekbones, but even without them, Spencer’s skin so flushed and warm that Carlton can feel it. It’s a hell of a lot warmer than the sunshine, he decides faintly, damp under his collar, flushing to match, and quickly sweeps his gaze up to look directly into Spencer’s face.
He can see flecks in Spencer’s eyes. Because Spencer is very, very close to him, and getting closer every second that he sits here on his ass.
Carlton sucks in a breath, because if there’s anything he can remember right now that isn’t the last time Spencer had looked at him like this from so close, is that Spencer is not supposed to be this close. Spencer this close equals trouble. He’s been telling himself that for weeks now and he absolutely means it.
Carlton had fought, he had snarled and yelled and shoved to keep as much distance between himself and Shawn Spencer during the last few weeks, no matter how many times he’d turned around and found Spencer grinning behind him. Because Spencer was crazy, and dangerous, and reckless, and a liar, and because there was this little patch of skin just above his collarbone that not one shirt in Spencer’s multi-hued t-shirt collection ever really covered up and Carlton kept imagining putting his mouth there and Spencer’s smiles always said that he knew that.
“What, Spencer?” He recovers enough to snap, but his heart is beating too quickly—still pumped full of adrenaline from his fall. He looks away as he sits up, not particularly surprised when Spencer falls back onto his knees next to him and leans his head to one side. His eyes reflect the blue of his open coat and trousers as they widen with false innocence, and Carlton tenses in expectation of the joke.
“For a second there, Lass, I thought I was going to have to get your band over there to play “Amazing Grace” at your funeral.”
His back hurts, Carlton reminds himself, and clenching his teeth even though the echoing pain is already starting to lessen. His back hurts and he’s in the middle of something here and he really doesn’t have the patience to deal with Spencerisms right now, no matter how serious Spencer had actually managed to sound. Carlton frowns even harder in Spencer’s direction and notices that Spencer is wearing the same outfit he’d worn during the last Reenactment he’d crashed—only he’d forgone the Burnsides…the sideburns this time.
They’d probably been the most accurate things about his last uniform, which would probably be the reason Spencer had ditched them. He was unshaven again, as usual, but his white shirt did seem to have been ironed. Probably Guster’s doing. At least he isn’t holding a weapon.
Actually, he’s holding what looks like a messenger bag. A completely anachronistic messenger bag with Velcro straps across the front flap and the REI logo down the side.
Carlton studies the bag for a second longer than necessary, because knowing Spencer any number of ridiculous things could be inside. And because it’s easier than looking into Shawn Spencer’s face when he knows what he’ll see there.
The last time they’d been in a field together they had also been surrounded by chaos; in fact the bruises around his eye had only just finally faded completely. This chaos at least wasn’t Spencer’s fault—that he knows of.
“I…” he starts, because Spencer is still staring at him, giving him the same smirking, patient look he’s been aiming his way for weeks now. Ever since saving the girl in the Dollhouse Kidnappings.
Freak. Though the guy kidnapping the girls had been pretty weird too.
There’s an ache around his chest. Like maybe somebody had filled their beanbag with rocks instead of beans or rice. He has a pop a few buttons on his coat to rub at the spot and Spencer’s eyes fall to his hand. His grin returns so suddenly that Carlton smiles back before he can catch himself.
“You always let a little beanbag unhorse you, Lassi?” Luckily, that smart ass remark wipes the dumb look off his face.
“Shut up, Spencer.” He’s grunting and he doesn’t care. “What are you doing here?” They’d ended their last case successfully—without Spencer and Guster, who had been off solving something for a private client though no doubt still using Department resources thanks to O’Hara—and with his current workload clear, Carlton had been looking forward to these two days. Two days in the company of his fellow warriors, two days out in the open with every kind of distraction but the one in front of him.
“Very important business.” Spencer is not being coy. Spencer is being mysterious. So whatever he’s got to reveal is big and Spencer won’t be able to keep it to himself. The man loves to show how clever he is, to show off, especially in front of Carlton. So all he has to do wait and Spencer will spill everything. Carlton opens his mouth anyway.
“And what gives you the right to wear that?” Waving a hand at the simple, unbuttoned uniform, which—realistic though it might be, is still annoyingly like Spencer to disregard regulations, makes Spencer’s gaze drop. Then he shrugs.
“Mr. Mahoney never asked for it back.” As Mahoney was currently in prison, that had undoubtedly slipped his mind. Carlton feels himself arching an eyebrow, playing along, and straightens his face a second too late. He’s not even sure why he bothers anymore; Spencer always seems to know anyway, except that it just seems…incredibly aggravating…to let Spencer get his way so much. It doesn’t matter that everyone plays with Spencer after a while, that there’s nothing special or personal in his games. In fact that makes it worse, makes Carlton more determined to fight the urge this time, to play, to win, even if the prize on the table is so tempting.
“Besides,” Spencer goes on, jolting Carlton back from the memory of Spencer on his knees, all but offering to suck his cock again. “You’re not the only one who likes to play dress-up, Lass.”
Spencer’s eyelids drop, his look getting considering anything but coy and that memory comes right back, mingled with the sweat-slick feel of Spencer’s skin, the uncontrolled, insane squeak in his voice when Carlton had first pushed their bodies together. He had insisted on talking, on continuing to talk, that pleading, convincing tone he always used filthy and sinful once his lips had been swollen and come-wet. Carlton. Spencer had no problem begging when manipulation had failed, like he’d known that hearing him beg only made Carlton hard again, had made him want to yank Spencer closer and tell him to shut up, that he didn’t need to say anything.
It’s when Spencer speaks that trouble starts. The reminder does absolutely nothing for the way his dick is pounding. Neither does recalling that Spencer had been hovering at the edge of his vision for weeks with just the same look on his face every time everyone else had been looking in another direction.
The fact that Carlton had of course already been looking back at Spencer and waiting for the look was hardly a surprise anymore.
He still has to take a deep breath to speak. “Knock it off, Spencer.”
“I thought we were back to ‘Shawn’.” Shawn—Spencer sticks his lower lip for half a second. When Carlton’s eyes fall to it, he changes his mind and uses his tongue to wet it instead. Carlton exhales loudly before he swings his stare—his glare—back up to Spencer’s blue-for-today eyes. “At least, we were last week when I got you in that storage closet…”
Spencer’s hands, all over him, hot under his shirt in less than a second, around his belt a moment later.
There’s a moment of dizziness as most of Carlton’s blood heads below the Mason-Dixon, and the trouble breathing he had before is nothing to his sudden wheezing.
Pushing Spencer away and storming out of the closet had taken less resolve than fighting the urge to turn around and go right back in. But he wasn’t going to have sex with Spencer—again—and not in public, no matter what Spencer seemed to think.
“Knock it off, Spencer,” Carlton says again. His teeth are clenched so hard it’s nearly painful. Spencer lets out a long, exaggerated sigh.
“Knock what off, Lassi?” The quiet question makes Carlton open eyes he hadn’t realized were closed. Spencer is still resting on his knees, watching him with a small frown of confusion on his face. The sight of a lost Shawn Spencer makes Carlton smile out of reflex, even if it’s…possibly…somewhat endearing and that seeing it makes him want to shut up and pretend the two of them aren’t currently engaged in…whatever it is they’re engaged in.
Possibly a battle of wills. If only he knew what it was over.
The point is, he’s confused the brilliant psychic. He is winning at the moment, even if he doesn’t know why.
“This!” He waves a hand between them, regretting it the second he does when the action draws Spencer’s gaze down to the bulge in Carlton’s pants that his uniform isn’t doing much to hide.
“The nice chubs you got going for me?” The grin is like nails pressing into his skin. Carlton’s face gets hot but he puts his hands on the ground and pushes himself to his feet. Spencer goes all wide-eyed and follows him, stepping closer for the half a second that Carlton takes to rub at his lumbar region.
“No, the chubs I’ve always go…. This!” Carlton barks out as his back gives a final twinge and he can stand up straight. He tugs at his coat until he at least looks decent and not out of his mind with Spencer-fueled lust. “Whatever it is you think you are doing in that lunatic, supposedly psychic brain of yours!” He hadn’t known Spencer’s eyes could even get this round, that Spencer could get so still. Carlton steps in to press his advantage without hesitating. Spencer doesn’t step back though one hand comes up between them; Carlton can feel its heat through his tunic coat and undershirt. “I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, Spencer, but I am not…” ‘Not interested’ is too much of a lie, even if Spencer hadn’t just seen his arousal. “…I’m not...” ‘One of your conquests’ is just too Victorian. “…I’m the Head Detective,” he finishes, finally, and glares when a smile spreads slowly across Spencer’s face.
“That’s not all.” Spencer acts like his words make sense, then clicks his heels together and straightens up.
“General!” The breathless question has Carlton turning but Peterson comes to a stop next to him and Carlton takes a moment to look over the field and realizes that the play-fighting has mostly come to a halt.
“What?” he snaps immediately and Peterson comes to an awkward halt in front of him.
“You all right? I can’t imagine how that happened.” Peterson has got Carlton’s hat in his hands, though how that ended up on the other side of the bridge—yards away from anywhere Carlton had been—is not something Carlton really wants to know right now. He snatches it back and gives the man a suspicious glare for a moment before he settles it back on his head and lifts his chin.
“I’m fine.” His back twinges again just to make him a liar, but Carlton grimaces and ignores it. “Find out what went wrong…and find Horatio.”
“CSI: Miami, Lassi? Really?” A pair of sunglasses appear out of nowhere on Spencer’s face and he takes a moment to dramatically remove them before he stows them away again. Peterson’s eyes flick curiously to him.
“It’s Horatio Hornblower…from the novels, Spencer, not that you read.” It’s easy to ignore the answering gasp and following babble. He’s had plenty of experience.
“That hurts, Lass. That really hurts. Just last week I read a Parade magazine cover to cover.”
Peterson however turns to give Spencer a close examination, stopping to stare disapprovingly at the messenger bag. “Don’t believe I know you, Soldier.”
“Corporal Jamie Lee Curtis, late of the 69th Californian Messenger Corps.” Spencer manages some sort of salute and introduces himself before Carlton can say a thing or think of how to save Sergeant Peterson from the friendly smile and the usual confusing stream of babble designed to win him over. In less than a minute, the sergeant is nodding his head and agreeing with everything out of Spencer’s mouth no matter how idiotic it obviously is. “I just got back from delivering a message to Her Majesty. Her Majesty is quite pleased with the way things are turning out here, by the way, freedom, democracy, the cotton gin, the whole shebang. Even offered me tea, but I prefer a nice mellow Darjeeling to a black Assam.”
“Spencer.”
“Anyway.” He’d take a moment to admire Spencer’s ability to bullshit if he weren’t listening to the most ignorant and insane lies to ever come out of Spencer’s mouth. Sometimes he wasn’t one hundred percent sure Spencer had really graduated from high school, despite the fact that he had looked up Spencer’s records himself once during a long, sleepless night. Bill and Ted had gotten more out of history class. “I’d just gotten back to Washington when an urgent telegram arrived ordering me to come out here and have a talk with General…uh…” Spencer waves a hand and shoots him an expectant look. So does Peterson. Carlton crosses his arms and lets Spencer dangle for a moment before arching one eyebrow.
“Cartwright.”
“General Cartwright here…” Of course Spencer doesn’t miss a beat. “...And I have to relay this message to him in absolute privacy.” Carlton is not afraid of Spencer. Not even close. But something shivers down his back at Spencer’s emphasis on those two words and he grits his teeth.
“The General’s tent is right over there.” Peterson helpfully points out Carlton’s HQ, and then flinches when he turns back and finds Carlton scowling at him.
“Sergeant, why don’t you make yourself useful and go tell the men it’s time for a break?” The other two both take a step back at his tone, but Peterson manages a salute before he hurries away. Carlton takes a moment to watch him and make sure the mock-battle actually stops before he turns back.
Spencer has relaxed again. Of course he has. He’s shaking his head at the men, all outfitted for today’s dress rehearsal, as they suddenly drop character and start heading to their cars to go get coffee or food. It is about noon, now that Carlton is paying attention. Not that his carelessness is the reason he got knocked from his horse in the first place, but if it had been, he could always put the blame on Spencer for following him around and tormenting him like this, ensuring that he hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in over two weeks, leaving him so frustrated and so—rightfully—irritated that O’Hara had started snapping back at him.
Though explaining that to his men might be more than a little awkward.
Carlton grimaces and puts one hand to his back, just in case, as he walks over to his tent.
It’s the usual pitched tent, slightly bigger than what the men would be sleeping in if this were an actual campsite the night before a battle. But then a General was supposed to do his planning in his tent as well. It was big enough to fit a long table, a few chairs, and a cot. The table and cot were historically accurate-looking, made by a carpenter on the Confederate side, but the chairs were fold-out.
There’s a few men remaining, he can still hear the regimental band in fact, but no one nearby as he slips into his tent and lets the flap fall closed behind him; Spencer will let himself in, there’s no need to be courteous.
The bag with Carlton’s regular clothes is in one corner, and for authenticity’s sake, there’s a reprint of a map of Tennessee spread out on the table. On the cot there’s a small mirror Carlton had used to put on his facial hair. There isn’t even the slightest thing that would make a good distraction. Not that he’s looking for one. Or that he needs one. He’s not afraid of being alone with Spencer.
As he predicted, Spencer lets himself in uninvited. Maybe Carlton’s a psychic too.
Spencer pauses in the doorway, his eyes darting around as though he’s memorizing the space, which is ridiculous. Then he blinks and focuses back on Carlton with his eyebrows up.
“There was no point in decorating.” Carlton crosses his arms and answers as though Spencer has just memorized the inside of his tent.
“Not even a picture of the girl you left behind?” Spencer wonders as the band outside starts playing that exact song. Carlton knows he’s frowning, not sure whether Spencer does actually know his history or whether that was just a coincidence.
Spencer steps further into the tent without waiting for an answer. It gets darker as the door falls closed behind him, just strips of sunlight sneaking in under the edges and what sun can get through the thick canvas. It’s old canvas, but Carlton enjoys the musty smell. It adds a touch of reality, lets him imagine sheltering in here in the heavy rains, eating beans and hardtack and whatever fruit or vegetables the land provided.
Spencer wrinkles his nose, then shrugs. “You and Gus really ought to get together and go to the geek conventions. Honestly, you really love all this dress-up, don’t you?”
“It’s not dress-up, Spencer.” Just like that, his jaw is clenched again. Carlton takes his hat and sets it carefully down on the cot, smoothing down the large, white feather that he had personally picked out. “It’s remembering acts of heroism and bravery and tragic loss made by our forefathers.” When he lifts his head Spencer hasn’t moved forward at all, but his mouth is curved up. It’s not precisely Spencer’s normal pitying, amused grin, but Carlton still glares at him.
“Spencer, why in the name of Ulysses S. Grant are you here?” He doesn’t care about the tactical mistake of a direct question, he just wants Spencer gone. If he’d thought it would actually work, he would have just told Spencer to go. Spencer’s smile turns into a full grin that does not light up his face no matter how much brighter the tent suddenly seems. Carlton drops his hands to his sides and curls his fingers into his palms.
“Lunch!” Spencer’s answer is as bright as his eyes and Carlton feels his jaw go slack—just a little—when Spencer takes off the messenger bag and opens it. He starts laying items on the table without looking up.
There are two foot-long sandwiches wrapped in paper, a bag of chips, and two pouches of Capri-Sun, labeled piña mango. There’s also a box of cranberry juice that Spencer has to come around to the table to hand to him. Carlton hadn’t even realized he had put the table between them, but he takes the juice without comment and Spencer darts back around to his side and plays with the wrapping on the sandwiches for a moment.
“Cranberry juice seems more your thing, but I wasn’t sure about the sandwiches…”
“Tell me they’re not eggplant.” He can’t help it. Spencer looks up for the first time in a few minutes and there’s an arrested expression on his face, like someone having a sudden realization. Then he firms his lips and shrugs and looks back down.
“One meatball. One Italian. You just give off this ‘meat-eater’ vibe, Lass.” Spencer glances up again to give him an obvious wink and then a small laugh. His leer is so weak that Carlton doesn’t even blush. He just stares for another few minutes, then absently pokes his straw through the top of his juice box and takes a sip.
“What is all this, Spencer?” He asks after he swallows and decides that the juice is not poisoned or drugged.
“Well nothing else was working.” Spencer shrugs again and peels back the wrapping on meatball sub, which is still so hot from the REI bag that some steam rises up. “You hungry or not? If you’re not hungry, I suppose I could give your sandwich to the sergeant out there…or Gus…” His voice trails off into something so quiet it shouldn’t be Spencer in front of him. And yet it is, and he’s still playing with the damn sandwich paper. The fact that it’s an act, that Carlton knows it’s an act to let Spencer have his way doesn’t stop him from opening his damn mouth.
“Italian.” Carlton decides abruptly and Spencer switches back into his usual self that easily. He slides the sandwich down the table but Carlton keeps his eyes on him anyway as he pulls up a chair and sits.
Spencer appears occupied down at his end, playing with one of his two Capri-Sun. Carlton looks away finally to poke around in his sandwich for traces of mint, or hot peppers, or a used band-aid, or anything else repulsive that either Spencer or a careless sandwich-maker might have stuck in there. It looks clean and smells delicious, seasoned meats and fresh, crisp vegetables. If there’s anything Spencer seems good at, it’s picking out food.
“Better than hardtack, right?” Spencer volunteers more startling knowledge—or mind-reading—but is still fiddling with his “juice” when Carlton glances up.
“I don’t actually eat hardtack when I’m out here, Spencer.” At least, not as a meal, more as a snack. He’s not that much a loser. Besides, it doesn’t taste that bad.
“Oh I don’t think you’re a loser, Lassifras.” Spencer has finally moved on to his sandwich, still without looking up. “Besides, loser apparently works for me.” His voice is low, puzzled. Carlton frowns at the new nickname more than the additional whispered comment, but doesn’t say anything about Spencer’s lucky guess about what he was thinking. He has another problem anyway.
His sandwich is an actual foot long, all on a huge, crusty roll of sourdough. There’s no way he can eat it without it ending up in his beard and mustache.
“Let me give you a hand with that,” is all he hears before his body registers the weight and heat of Spencer sitting in his lap. His legs are still on the floor, but Spencer—Spencer’s ass—is definitely in his lap, and one of his arms is moving up to curl around Carlton’s neck while Carlton is still gaping.
Carlton breathes out, very aware that they are so close that his breath stirs the strands of Spencer’s ridiculous hair that aren’t gelled in place. He shifts, and Spencer wriggles to face him. There’s a flush on Spencer’s face, and a serious expression and it’s only after Spencer pushes a piece of salami between his lips that Carlton realizes his mouth is still open.
He might be panting. It’s hard to say. Spencer is staring at him, watching carefully as he automatically chews, then swallows. It’s good, not that it matters now, not when he’s staring at Spencer’s mouth, which is so close, not when Spencer is licking that mouth like he enjoys the way Carlton is looking, like he didn’t come here today to offer sandwiches for lunch.
His body reacts instantly to the offer and Carlton jerks backward and onto his feet in one move. Like the cat that he had pretended to channel, Spencer manages to stay on his feet, and give him a hurt look at the same time. He even gives a shake and a slinky, short stretch, before he settles on the edge of the table, one leg still on the floor. His ass is right next to the sandwich Carlton had been going to eat.
His lip is still stuck out in a stubborn, pouty look that he must have picked up from Guster, but his eyes roam immediately downward and Carlton gives his uniform coat another good tug. Spencer sighs loudly and directs his eyes back up.
He’s smiling, but he’s not talking. Carlton crosses his arms when he meets his stare. Then he uncrosses them to fiddle with his sword belt, because Spencer still isn’t saying anything.
He hadn’t been this quiet the last time Carlton had pushed him off his lap. If anything, it’s almost like Spencer is waiting. For what, Carlton hasn’t got a clue. It’s like facing down an angry Victoria when she kept insisting she wasn’t mad when in fact she’d been incredibly ticked off because Carlton had been late coming home because of a case, or because he hadn’t noticed her new hair. He’d made a horrible husband, she’d had no problem communicating that part, but the why she’d never explained.
His cases were always life and death. And so what if she’d never noticed his hair? He’d had his mustache shaved for a week before she’d said anything. He hadn’t stared at her with big, bright blue-ish eyes and faked a smile.
Oh crap.
“I didn’t…hurt you…did I?” Carlton waves at the table, not that he had shoved Spencer that hard this time. Not that Spencer didn’t seem to generally enjoy the shoving judging from how often he volunteered for it. And not that he cared. “I mean…”
“Usually, Lass, you disappear about this time.” Spencer’s grin is wide. He flutters one hand in a scurrying motion. “You know, run away like Gus after a spider crawls across his leg?”
“I do not…” He tries to deny it but there’s no shutting up Spencer now. He angles his head to the side and shoots Carlton the kind of sly look that had made everyone at the station think he was so much fun to be around. The insinuating look that had made Carlton the butt of too many jokes when Spencer had first gone into business as a fake detective.
“I’d almost think you were afraid of little old me, or avoiding me.” Carlton scowls instantly at the implication and Spencer’s head comes back up, bobbing a little to the music coming from outside. “But now I know that it’s all your way of keeping me interested. I had no idea you were such a game player, Lassi.”
“I…what?”
“You could have just asked me out. Really, Lass, it was so obvious. Even then.” As though the music is all that’s on his mind, Spencer is moving his head to the beat of what sounds like the new single by the last pair to win on American Duos. Carlton opens his mouth again, gets out one word that rhymes with “Encer”, and closes it.
He’s usually baffled by Spencer’s insane lines of reasoning and his countless pop culture references. He’s generally as confused as any of the criminals they chase together to see a grown man go from flopping on the floor like a fish to being a sharp-minded investigator with the right answer up his sleeve the whole time. And it’s not at all unusual to find himself stumped by one of the many bizarre non-sequiturs that come out of Spencer’s mouth.
That being the case, he knows he is still standing in front of Spencer with his mouth opening and closing and looking like a complete idiot. He shuts his mouth at least, for all of thirty seconds, while his brain repeats Spencer’s remark and focuses on the two words “even then”.
He’s pretty sure he has no idea what Spencer is talking about. As far as he knows, Spencer went from regarding him as the annoying Head Detective he had to mock, deceive, and lie to, to someone he could hide behind in a crisis, to someone he had jumped in a strip club bathroom.
He certainly hadn’t been putting out any signals. Well he had, but not to Carlton; to witness, and suspects, and O’Hara, and the Chief, and McNab, and possibly even Guster, but not to Carlton. Never to Carlton.
Though, to be fair, the last date Carlton had gone on and thought was going okay had ended in less than ten minutes with his date sneaking out through the emergency exit. Considering that that had also been his first actual date in…months…he would hardly call himself a good judge of signals.
But no matter how he looked at it, and he had many times in many ways, restless night after restless night, all Spencer had done to him was drive him crazy with anger. Showing off all the time, acting like an idiot. Sitting on his lap. Groping his leg. Yanking his tie. Then just…flaunting himself…bragging with his eyes about what he’d done in that bathroom at Tom Blair’s. With Hornstock. With another man. As though Spencer had wanted him to know.
And that’s all he had been able to think about, Spencer’s mouth, Spencer’s eyes, his hands pushing forward to touch him, letting him know what Spencer had done, asking him, asking if he could do it again, with him.
Hot and drunk and clumsy, like Spencer never was. Asking him.
Oh.
Carlton might just be having a heart attack.
Crap.
PART TWO