Fic, Psych, "Drinkity, Druggity (Meow Meow Meow) PG-13 Shawn/Lassiter

[rispacooper]

Title: Drinkity Druggity (Meow Meow Meow)
For: Psych
Pairing: Shawn/Lassiter with mention of Juliet/Shawn, and oh…Juliet/Lassi
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: language, some villain types and offscreen violence. Vague spoilers up to Season Three.
Summary: Two (**see ending**) stories about relationships and various forms of love, taking place between Henry and Shawn and Juliet and Carlton…in which Shawn and Lassi have some things to work out. There is, as you might notice, a theme of intoxication.

Druggity






“Carlton?” The voice is a little quieter than he’d been expecting, but Carlton opens his eyes for it anyway. He immediately squints and shuts them again. There’s a steady, dull pounding at the back of his head, and almost no light, but what there is makes his eyes water.

The world is dark, silent enough for sleep, except for the sense that something isn’t quite right. Carlton knows that feeling, every cop does, and tries to force his attention back to…whatever it had been, whoever it had been, saying his name.

No one says his name. No one except his mother, and his ex, and Shawn Spencer.

He sets his jaw, feels a slice of…something…echo through him. It’s as dull as everything else is tinted too bright, and he frowns for it, for the silence that has stretched for over three weeks now. The silence of his life without Spencer in it.

Damn idiot. Always pushing.

“Carlton, are you with me?” There’s that voice again, just a little annoying. But something still isn’t right, so Carlton tries to turn toward it, shifts onto something hard and cold. Actually, everything is cold.

He can’t find his hands, his legs. No, they’re heavy, but there. He just can’t move them.

His heart slams against his ribcage at the thought and Carlton forces his eyes open, blinking at shadows and shapes as they emerge, form into solid walls, a floor, right at his level.

“I’m on the floor,” he says, only knowing it’s his voice by the rasping ache it leaves in his throat to speak. O’Hara’s upside down face is suddenly frowning down at him, until her upside frown becomes a right side up wobbly smile, or something. He is pretty sure his head hurts. “Juliet!” He blinks at her too, wondering why there are dark smudges on her cheeks and neck. “Why the hell am I on the floor?”

“Thank God,” is all she says, which isn’t helpful, he thinks. Not when he’s still down here. But then she blinks too, and the wobbly, shaky, yet somehow perky smile vanishes from her face.

Spencer’s smiles are never perky and he has a lot of smiles. Small secret ones and big wide open ones. Inviting smiles and tiny fake smiles of reassurance for poor Guster and any other sucker who might get in his way.

Any other sucker. Carlton is more careful than that. Or at least, he’s pretty sure he is.

Except that he likes it when Spencer is unexpectedly pleased with him, might even secretly love it. Because then Spencer beams bright and happy across the station, blotting out all the miserable days and nights spent alone in his house pouring over case files. Like Carlton has done something amazing, even if he never knows what it is.

“Carlton,” Juliet calls his attention back and Carlton obediently stares up at her. It isn’t just her smile that seems wobbly. She sways as she leans over him, or maybe that’s the room spinning. “Lassiter, your head is bleeding.”

“It is?” He spends a moment watching his hand come up, which can move after all, which is good, and then spends another moment staring at the dark, shiny stuff all over it, which is bad.

For a second, even in the dark, his vision goes all red and green, like he’s going to be sick.

Carlton squeezes his eyes shut, because he’s not going to be sick. He can think of a lot of ways he can humiliate himself in this moment, but throwing up in front of his junior partner isn’t one of them.

“Just hold on,” Juliet orders quietly, and he looks in time to see her shrugging out of her jacket. She seems pale. Maybe she’s going to puke too. Carlton uses his hand to pat her arm, then stares at the blackish red streak he left on her shirt.

“Sorry,” he grunts, and wonders why O’Hara immediately bends over to peer into his face again. Her arms are moving, and a moment later when the pounding gets momentarily worse, two O’Haras swim in front of his eyes, and her fierce, worried frown is doubly troubling.

Carlton doesn’t like to see them—her—frown. He doesn’t like to see anybody frown, really, except for criminals and scumbags. And what she’s doing, that’s not a cop frown meant to scare lowlifes into submission.

His world spins again and then he can feel something warm and soft pressed to his skull. Juliet breathes out.

“I think you need stitches.”

“Your wrists are red,” Carlton observes right back at her, pleased with himself. Juliet—and when did she become Juliet? That doesn’t sound right—puts a hand to his forehead. He doesn’t have a fever, he’s cold, which he would tell her if she’d just ask. As it is he’s shivering at how hot her hand feels.

“They tied me up, but I got loose,” she informs him. She’s shivering, like she’s cold too, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “Don’t you…what’s the last thing you remember?”

“Shawn watching us leave the station,” he answers immediately, and both O’Haras are back in his face, definitely worried.

Carlton brings his hand up again, touching carefully at his hairline, following a sticky, wet trail back to something that makes the room go light when he pushes at it. He gasps, pain streaking all the way down to his feet and back, and then grits his teeth to stop anymore sounds from escaping.

Station. He’d been at the station, he and O’Hara, finally getting a lead on a case…on a kidnapping spree…local millionaires and…

Spencer had been there, waiting as he had passed, attempting a wave before Carlton had turned away, and the careful, hopeful smile on the man’s face had dropped out of sight.

That hurts too, and Carlton grabs a handful of something, his pant leg, and crushes it in his grip. Tries to, his grip is weak.

After the station, they had come out here, the edge of town, a halfway demolished building, awaiting retrofitting and renovation. He’d turned a corner and…

“Where are we?” His voice is rough, not that he cares. He wants to sit up, pushes his hands down onto icy cold cement and falls back when he can’t find the strength to get himself up. At the little motion, the world tilts again, O’Hara going in and out of focus.

She puts out her hands too, both of them, feeling the ground carefully before she shifts. She’s looking around so Carlton does as well, squinting over a shadowed but empty room. Bare cement walls and a short stairway leading to a raised cement section, almost a platform. There are tiny windows, painted over, the only light peeking through the patches that some jackass had been too lazy to paint properly.

On the other side there’s one door. It looks like metal. It looks heavy.

Carlton pushes out air, sucks some more back in.

“Why the hell didn’t they just kill us?” He’s sure as hell going to kill them, if he gets his hands on them. Just as soon as he can move.

“That isn’t their MO, remember?” Juliet tells him, pausing to look down at herself. “They drug their victims, return them alive once the ransom is paid. I don’t think they wanted to start killing with two cops.” Her skin gets even paler, the smudges on her face glaring in the darkness. Carlton’s hand comes up to pat her shoulder again.

“I’ll get us out of here,” he assures her, and isn’t sure that he really hears her snort doubtfully at him or not.

“They took my gun,” she admits when she finally looks back at him, lifts one eyebrow.

“Okay,” Carlton agrees mildly. “You’re not armed.”

“Are you?”

“Am I?” He wonders right back at her, as seriously as he can, and Juliet takes a second, then blinks. Carlton smacks his hands over his chest once or twice, and then tries a shrug. It’s a Spencer shrug, though O’Hara doesn’t seem to notice that either. She pushes out a breath that lifts her bangs and then scoots closer. A moment later her hands are slipping under his coat.

It tickles, not like when Shawn does it. When Shawn does it, it’s hot and nice and even though it’s always fast, it’s like time is slowing down and he can’t think and all he can see is Shawn’s eyes, his mouth. But he’s not supposed to think about that, because he can’t trust that. Can’t trust him.

He chokes back a laugh when O’Hara’s hand skims along his waist and then she’s pulling back, falling back really, onto her butt. Which is a nice butt, but the ground is really hard and cold, which Carlton could have told her.

“Are you alright, O’Hara?” It’s difficult to say, that name. Not like Juliet. Juliet is like Shawn. Shawn. Shhhaaaawn. A name he does not say, not ever, no matter how nice it is.

“I think they drugged us too.” Her voice is subdued, and Carlton nods. This time when he pats her she doesn’t react.

“Okay,” he agrees and she gives that same little snort again, slightly amused this time. “We’re drugged and we have no guns. They took my gun,” he adds, in case she’s forgotten, and she coughs. “And we are stuck here. But we are going to kill them, right?”

“Right,” she agrees instantly, putting on her game face. It’s a frown, but this one is good, he decides. This is a detective’s face. Serious. Committed. “Right,” she says again, nodding firmly. “I am going to get us out of here, Carlton. You just…just stay there.”

“Okay,” he nods too, then shakes his head. “No.” But she’s already pushing herself back, and he turns, scowling when she gets to her feet. Her shoes have heels. They’re pretty and pink, like the short skirt, only now that’s covered in dirt. The small heels are scuffed, and when she puts a hand out, he can tell she’s not steady on them.

“O’Hara…” Carlton turns some more, lifting his head and ignoring the twinkling little stars that flash around in the sea of sickening red and green.

“Windows first.” Her voice is strained, pitched high, like Spencer when no one believes him. Carlton puts a hand to his head and swings around, feeling cold sweat prickle under his arms at just the little move. Nobody should believe Spencer, not everything is a joke.

The windows are closer, but up the stairs. “Juliet,” he warns again, but she’s smart for a training detective, bends over at the first step—falls over—to crawl up them on her hands and knees. He can hear her breathing from where he is, but has to narrow his eyes to see her shaking limbs.

She topples on the top step, almost, corrects herself jerkily before shuffling to the windows.

“We’re…I don’t think we’re on the first floor. I think it’s daylight, but I can’t really see.”

Carlton nods, immediately winces at the renewed throbbing inside his skull, sharper than before. “Great, now get back here.” For once she doesn’t argue, but he shuts his eyes when she stumbles on the way back, opens them again at the harsh sound of a damn heel catching on cement, which he knows is what it is, even if he’s never heard it before.

She gets her hands out, but falls from the top step anyway, hits the ground hard. Her shocked, pained gasp makes him move, has him panting for air and swearing as he forces his body up. His thoughts are rattling around and he can’t tell what he heard, if there was a snap at all, or if it’s only Juliet swearing too, small, pissed off curse words he’d hadn’t even known that she knew.

He does know that her breathing sounds off, too careful, too shallow, and even though it’s starting to really hurt he gets himself onto his hands and knees and heads slowly toward her. He leaves the jacket behind, doesn’t care about his head.

The distance grows, shrinks, and she’s not the only one gasping wetly for air by the time he gets to her. That was stupid, he wants to snap at her, except that he can’t breathe enough to get it out. He settles for grasping at her shirt and shoving her as gently as he can against the bottom of the cement platform, forcing her to lean back.

O’Hara lets him, scowling at him, but not really moving other than to close her legs, and for a moment, Carlton scowls back at her, like he’s really concerned with how short her skirt is right now.

She’s got her arms crossed, and her skin is dotted with moisture, shining in the dark.

“That was stupid,” he finally gets to say, his voice rasping. “Don’t do that again.”

O’Hara wrinkles her nose, like she’s going to argue, and then gives a short laugh.

“Okay.” He knows her quick agreement means something. It always means something when people give in that easily, laughing at him with their sharp green eyes, going along with him for the moment because they had something else up the sleeve of their Polo shirt. They always had something up the sleeve of their Polo shirt…unless it was a day for flannel.

“Flannel?” O’Hara asks, her voice tremulous, and Carlton stares at her, feels something trickle down past his eyebrow. “You do know you’re saying everything out loud, right, Carlton?”

“What? I am not saying everything out loud.” Or…is he? There’s an echo, soft, in his head. Juliet just gives another small, shaky laugh.

“Well it’s nice to know you’re not thinking about what’s under my skirt,” she goes on, making him twitch, and the trickle at his eyebrow slides down his cheek. Carlton touches it, feels his hand wet again. He pulls his hand down when O’Hara refocuses back on him. “Don’t worry, Carlton I’ll try not to take advantage of the fact that you have no filter right now.”

It takes effort, but Carlton snorts, lifts his chin.

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t say now that I wouldn’t say anywhere else,” he tells her, enunciating carefully, reasonably certain it’s true until even in the near dark he can see the speculation in the way she raises both her eyebrows.

“Oh really?” Her voice is innocent, the kind of innocence he knows not to trust, and his heart bumps, flails against his chest, because he knows who—what—he was thinking about but doesn’t know what he may have said.

She opens her mouth and then they are both twisting to look at the shriek of metal tearing across cement, the door opening and two men in black suits and black masks striding furiously toward them.

Carlton gets a glimpse of the silver of hypodermic needles and manages two very choice words before everything goes black again.



It’s harder to follow the voice this time, even though he can hear more urgency in it. It’s ‘Lassiter’ this time, ‘Lassiter’ for a while, and then ‘Carlton’. ‘Carlton’ like that last time Spencer had dared to say it, pressed against the wall of an interrogation room, close to the mirrored glass.

Outside had been an empty hallway, everyone gone to arrest a woman for killing her husband over some damn fruit and waiting for Carlton to go up and tell the daughter that her mother was the killer.

And Spencer, Spencer grinning up at him, breathing hard with their bodies so close, moving when he didn’t have to so that with every shift their legs brushed together, their chests just touching.

“Someday you might be as smart as I am, Lassipants. I knew it the whole time.” Spencer, Shawn, being brilliant, daring him, only going silent when Carlton had flinched.

“The whole time?” He can still hear himself, far too quiet, cold as he had pulled away. “Is this all some game to you, Spencer? Don’t you take anything seriously?” He’d wanted him to, too much. But someone who would brag about something like that couldn’t possibly understand what it felt like, how he had felt, standing there with his heart ripping in half. Because Spencer didn’t understand. Not until Carlton had pulled away.

Hadn’t shoved Spencer off. For the first time in a way he should not have been keep track off, he hadn’t shoved Spencer off, he had moved, stepped back and away. And Shawn had blinked, stared at him with startled eyes and a soft mouth.

What he’d really been asking had been so pitifully obvious. Obvious to even a guy like him, glaring at someone like Spencer, a flaky little liar conman. How could he not have known? Carlton had known about the mother too, or at least suspected, but he hadn’t wanted it to be the mother, damn it.

“These are people’s lives!” He hadn’t been able to see around the bright, hot rage, poking out blindly, shoving himself away. “People’s hearts, Spencer, and you…do you know what I have to do now? I have to tell someone that…”

Hands, petting over his chest, hesitating as Spencer had followed him, but whatever Spencer had been trying to do, he hadn’t wanted any part of it. Still didn’t, no matter how it ached, no matter that there was no one smiling for him anymore.

He’d felt cold, and Shawn had been just as frozen, wide-eyed and stunned as Carlton had walked away..

He shivers at the hands on him, across his chest, through his hair, and turns his head away from the sound of his name.

“Don’t, Spencer,” he forces out the words, feels the hands on him stop, move. The small slap to his face makes him open his eyes, just to scowl. O’Hara is scowling back at him, but lets out a long, deep sigh as he focuses on her.

She doesn’t need to worry; he was going to wake up. He has scumbags to arrest.

But for a moment he can see the same worry on Shawn’s face, back at the station, then blinks it away.

“They drugged us again?” He really shouldn’t be surprised; O’Hara must have made too much noise when she’d fallen. She just breathes out again. His head is against her leg, he notices, squinting up into her scrunched face. She’s anxious, but he’s going to get them out of this, just as soon as he can move.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she speaks quietly, reading his mind like Shawn does. He flinches, even though right now nothing seems to hurt. In fact, he feels looser than before, lighter. He waves a hand between them just to watch it, can barely feel it at all. The blood is still wet on his fingers and that seems wrong somehow, but he just shrugs.

It’s only the air that he can feel, chilly even through his suit. There are slight tremors in O’Hara’s leg, slight shivers. She has to be cold too, though he doesn’t know where her coat went.

“Your head, Carlton…” she starts and the line between her eyes does mean that she’s worried. Carlton waves his hands again, gets them on the ground and pushes up.

It’s no effort at all this time, though the room shifts and rocks and even with his eyes closed things are spinning. He feels drunk, like he’s had one too many scotches and all he can see is Shawn Spencer, who’s where he shouldn’t be, looking back at him with the careful smile on his face. On another man, it would have seemed shy.

“I don’t want you to worry,” he grunts when the vision leaves and the dizziness eases enough for him to open his eyes. The room is still cold and dark, O’Hara is propped up against him, or he’s propped against her, both them lying against the base of the cement platform. She lifts her head and Carlton frowns. “But it feels nice, to have someone care,” he admits, wonders why Juliet is always making such tight, unhappy expressions around him. He’s perfectly fine, and capable of taking care of himself. “I always take care of myself,” he adds because she’s still looking at him like that and it’s making him nervous.

O’Hara’s hand curls around his arm and she smoothes her forehead.

“Of course people are worried about you, Carlton.” She hiccups but Carlton leans forward to stare seriously at her, willing his eyes to uncross. “They’re looking for us right now.”

“They are?” Something about the way she’s talking sounds familiar, like something he’d heard a million times in training seminars on how to talk to the public, all reassuring tones and physical contact. He tries to raise one eyebrow to show suspicion, only the action tugs at something on his scalp. He thinks about that, then about rescue. He shakes his head, slowly. “No they’re not. We didn’t radio in where we were headed, didn’t tell…anyone…about the lead we had that led us here. Nobody will find us.” He has to swallow. “I doubt he’s—they would bother looking.”

O’Hara gasps, and then Carlton remembers why he’d had to attend all those stupid seminars in the first place.

“No,” Juliet insists a moment later, tossing her head just as Carlton reaches down to awkwardly pat her knee. “No, they will. Shawn will look for us. Shawn will find us.”

Juliet says his name like it isn’t special. Says his name all the time, trusts in him to save them both. She believes in the looks Shawn probably shares with her too.

“Why would he?” He can’t tell how long they’ve been here, but he needs water, his throat is dry, his voice hoarse. O’Hara gives him another sharp frown, waves one hand, the other she leaves at her chest.

“Because…he’s our friend, Carlton,” she grunts back at him, her voice immediately rising with frustration. “Because he’s psychic!” When he snorts, she actually slaps his arms, then immediately gasps when he falls back against the cement.

He breathes out, and so does she. After a moment, she tries again, her voice gentle. “He is going to find us, Carlton.” This time he doesn’t argue, but doesn’t think about it, Shawn bursting in with his usual energy and smart mouth to rescue them, how his eyes would look, how he’d smile. O’Hara is still talking. “And…and we should help him.”

“Help him?” His skin pricks with more sweat, strange when O’Hara is so cold next to him. “How?”

“We can…think about him,” she suggests, the drugs clearly addling her mind.

“What?” he demands anyway, not shuddering at the idea of doing exactly what he’s been trying to avoid for three weeks now. Juliet gives him a perfect Spencer shrug.

“Well he is psychic after all.”

“There’s no such thing.” His throat hurts, his jaw too tight when he tries to speak. He can’t believe in Shawn Spencer… He’s just a liar, a joke. If he isn’t…if he isn’t that he doesn’t want to imagine what he’s done, or to see Shawn worried about this, about them like he was panicked and sick when Guster had been a hostage. He can’t and he won’t.

It seems impossible anyway, or like something that should never happen. Spencer was better off pretending, laughing at Carlton for even thinking for a second that...

“He isn’t a joke, Carlton!” Juliet barks and Carlton shuts up, doesn’t think about what he might have said. “Shawn is going to find us!” Her voice is harsh, enough that for a second he thinks it’s better than anything he’s ever taught her. She coughs, and then her voice is nice again, approaching calm. “Now you sit there and you think about him.”

He opens his mouth, and angles his head away. She grabs his arm. Hard.

“Talk,” she spits out, “talk so I know you’re not falling asleep again.”

“I don’t see why…” he tries, stops when she just squeezes his arm even more. It’s like she’s been taking lessons from his mother. “Fine,” he growls a moment later, because he was taught to keep his partner happy and for no other reason. “Fine. Spencer.”

He stares ahead, at the shadows of the room, the door that looks so far away. Just wait until the drugs wear off…

O’Hara is pressing against him, tiny shivers and a glare he can feel. “It will be weird if they find us like this,” he says, not sure why, but Juliet doesn’t respond. He clears his throat. “Awkward. I don’t normally…” Lucinda flashes before his eyes, disappears.

“Shawn,” O’Hara reminds him, merciless, and he’s damn certain he taught her that. He doesn’t feel proud though, just irritated.

“Shawn,” he repeats without thinking, hisses after the name leaves his mouth. But it’s too late. He frowns, shuts his eyes. “Shawn. A lying ass.” He frowns harder, because green eyes had looked at him with intent, his grin happy, wanting Carlton to be happy too, as though he could be, with a murder hanging over his head. “Spencer,” he tries again, “can’t take anything seriously.”

“Why do you say that?” Juliet lets go of his arm. He listens to her breath for a while. “I’ll admit, he plays around, but he’s helped us so many times, Carlton…even when he didn’t have to.”

Case after case, solved quicker than they would have been, because of Spencer. Some maybe wouldn’t have been solved at all, he can even admit to himself, gritting his teeth to make sure he keeps that inside.

“For money, or for the attention.”

“Whose attention?” Juliet interrupts him and Carlton waves a hand without opening his eyes, ignoring her.

“He doesn’t do it for anyone else, doesn’t think of anyone else. Everything’s a damn joke to him. Sure,” Carlton reopens his eyes, lets the room spin. “It can be…funny…to watch Spencer let loose on certain suspects…”

Juliet lets out a small laugh and Carlton can feel some of tension leave his shoulders, tension he hadn’t known was there. He’s sure she can recall as many cases as he can where Shawn was clearly enjoying himself, strutting around the guilty party, dangling his knowledge in front of them, blatantly showing off.

For O’Hara probably. Carlton grunts, tenses right back up.

“But personally I find it distracting, his mouth always turned up in a smile, always touching me, shoving himself at me, like he wants me to believe…that I’m in on the joke.”

“Aren’t you?” It takes him a few moments before he recognizes that Juliet’s tone has gone suspiciously blank. Carlton lets his scowl get deeper.

“No.” He’s usually on the outside. He’s always on the outside, especially with someone like Spencer, charming and fun, young, smart, sexy.

O’Hara coughs and Carlton swings his head around to look at her. Her eyebrows are up. Way up.

She hasn’t wiped the dirt from her face and that seems strange. He picks up a hand to do it for her, and her cough gets strangled in her throat. Her skin is soft; Shawn’s is rough with stubble.

“Idiot never shaves.” Carlton drops his hand, touches the dusty layer covering the cement floor, the slick fabric of his pants. “Thinks he has everyone fooled. And why shouldn’t they be? I’ve seen him, with any halfway decent-looking suspect, with you, and then he turns to me with those damn eyes that are whatever color he wants them to be, smirking at me like he knows.” He grits his teeth again, but he can hear his words, streaming out, leaving him sagging against the wall.

“Probably thought I was funny too, inviting me closer with his screwball behavior, daring me to get him pinned, to shove myself back, and then when I get him right where I want him…” He can’t breathe again, feels Shawn pressed hot and hard against him, struggling just enough to get closer, eyes lit up. Playing with him. “And I was stupid, to think he’d actually want me.”

“Oh my God.” The quiet exclamation abruptly reminds him that O’Hara is still there, hearing every word. “Oh my God,” she says again and Carlton can feel the press against his skull as he turns to look at her. “You like Shawn!” A beaming smile splits her face in two, and then she’s laughing, softly, into his shoulder.

It’s hard to move, but it doesn’t hurt. Not right now, he’s way too high. But at the slightest attempt to get up, O’Hara’s hand is back on him, and this time he notices that it’s her left hand, that she’s stretching it awkwardly across her chest, leaving her right arm in her lap.

He stops, glaring as much as he can in the dark, trying to see her injuries, even though she’s laughing at him now too. Both of them, thinking he’s some big joke.

“I’m not laughing at you,” Juliet giggles, gasping a little at the end when he sits back down so he won’t hurt her.

“Oh yeah?” Carlton lifts an eyebrow, looks away.

“I just…wow. But it all makes so much sense now.” Her laugher finally quiets down. It’s only a matter of time before the interrogation starts. O’Hara breathes in deep and then clears his throat. Carlton’s stomach tightens. He focuses on the door, the damn door that won’t open for any rescue. “Is that why you’ve been running out of the station every day for almost a month now? Why Shawn and Gus are barely around?”

“I…”

“He’s been watching you too.” She hums, not even bothered to imply that he’s been watching Shawn. “I thought he was afraid of you. But oh…wow.” She keeps saying it, like it’s so unbelievable. “Carlton.” Her fingers pry at his elbow again, creep over to his chest until he’s looking back at her. He can’t seem to scowl, can’t seem to move at all. “That’s not shoving, he’s throwing himself at you. Of course he likes you back.”

‘Like’, it’s such a young word, and Carlton flinches from that too.

“I doubt it, alright, O’Hara. Even if he is really…someone like Spencer isn’t going to want me. Even my wife didn’t…”

“Huh.” There’s so much disgust and scorn in such a small sound.

“What?” He snaps because he’s tired of it all, the laughter, the games, because they are talking about everything but what they can’t talk about here, and if it means listening to him spill his heart out, then it’s better than facing the obvious.

“Shawn is nothing like your ex-wife, Carlton.”

“Yeah,” he snorts, breathing heavily when he can feel a twinge at the back of his head. The drugs are wearing off again. He snorts again, for emphasis. “He has a dick.”

At his crudity O’Hara just gives a startled laugh that fades quickly. It’s not how he’d normally be talking and they both know it.

“How’s that head?” she asks, as lowly as she can, barely a whisper. She moves, and something panicky flickers across her face when her hand comes back wet. When he moves he can feel the steady drip down his neck, blood that won’t stop. His heart is pounding. “We need something to stop the bleeding,” she mirrors his dizzy thought, and slides a hand over his coat.

Carlton gets it, quicker than he expects to, shifting away from her enough to get the coat off. He can feel O’Hara helping him with her one good hand. She’s a good partner, better than most, maybe the best he’s ever had.

“She said…” he says, and holds still as O’Hara presses his coat to his wound. There’s only a twinge, he’s still thankfully numb. Too numb to stop himself. “When she first left, she said nobody would want me.”

“Bitch.”

“What?” He still can’t quite believe what he’s hearing, O’Hara has never sworn this much…ever.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Carlton,” she tells him, her voice light considering that she’s trying to press a heavy coat to a head wound with one hand. She leans his closer, takes a second to try to pat at his shoulder. “After all I’m sure you remember that when I first joined the department…I had kind of a little crush on you.”

“What?” It’s all he can seem to keep saying. He’d stare, but he’s facing the wrong way.

“Oh it went away, but really, you are sort of impressive, Carlton.” That does make him turn around, staring at however many O’Haras there are. Her skin has some color, for the first time in a long time. She shrugs, but in an embarrassed sort of way, makes a gesture that means “big”. “Very…uh…rough.”

“Anyway,” she goes on, clearing her throat while Carlton is trying to remember that this is his partner talking, trying to feel grateful that in the old days partners would never have had a talk like this. O’Hara recovers herself, focusing on pressing the coat to his head as firmly as she can. It twinges again. “Do you really think Shawn would spend all this time messing with you, just for a joke? I mean he’s not exactly subtle.” She picks up speed, and Carlton wonders if she can see the tension in his shoulders. “I mean, when he had his little crush on me, he followed me around too, but that’s nothing to the way he is with you, I’m serious.

He’s not having this talk. He’s not bleeding out from a head wound and drugged with God knows what and being forced to listen to O’Hara talk about Shawn Spencer chasing after her. Except as usual she won’t shut up.

“I know he can be a little…overwhelming…which is why…well… I just couldn’t… Even when he went right for a kiss the second he thought he could. Well not really a kiss…”

The cement is so cold it makes him ache. Carlton bends in, away from the wall, from O’Hara’s hold on him, and shuts his eyes.

“You kissed him?” He could have died without knowing that. Really.

“No, he kissed me…well sort of.” It makes it worse that he can picture the scrunched up look on O’Hara’s face. Considering it, considering Shawn kissing her. He shakes his head, but she either doesn’t see or doesn’t care. “It was really more of close talking…”

She drops the coat behind his head, around his shoulders, and tugs at his arm until he opens his eyes. He’d like to think he’s frowning, but isn’t sure what is on his face.

“He kissed you,” he repeats, and he’s too stoned to really feel like someone stabbed him. It shouldn’t matter anyway, he should never have expected anything less from a lying, sneaky, con artist psychic.

“Actually, I suppose it was subtle, in a way. Because he got as close as he could, as the situation would allow, and then…waited, I guess. For me to…” Carlton doesn’t ask for what, he knows, has seen that hopeful smile directed at him more than once. “But it wasn’t anything, and when I walked away from it, he got over it and moved to you!”

Nobody in her situation should sound that perky. Carlton grunts at her. Like that is supposed to reassure him somehow, that Shawn had tried to kiss her when Shawn had never tried to kiss him. He means…that Shawn had gotten over it so quickly.

“Oh for Pete’s sake, Carlton!” she snaps and he must have spoken. “It wasn’t anything, really. It was…” Carlton has a second to blink, to even try to focus, and then he has to shut his eyes because O’Hara is so close. Her eyes are open, he realizes, and then freezes at the gentle puff of air across his lips, the knowledge that O’Hara’s mouth is millimeters from his.

“See?” Juliet whispers, not that he sees anything, he can only feel someone less than an inch from kissing him, a warm, sweet presence, and if Shawn had done this to him he knows he wouldn’t have pulled back or walked away no matter how embarrassing that admission is.

O’Hara’s lips part for a quiet gasp, but neither of them is moving. The space around them is warm for the first time all day, O’Hara is warm, her lips soft for a too-brief moment and then Carlton is scowling and lifting his head.

There’s a line between O’Hara’s eyes too when he looks, and she’s reaching for the gun she doesn’t have anymore, looks frustrated.

“We’re in a very stressful situation,” he remarks, not wetting his lips.

“I know!” O’Hara is a second away from shouting and stops to clear her throat. There’s some color in her cheeks at least. The fact that it looks pretty makes Carlton lower his head, no matter how much it pulls at his wound. His partner, he reminds himself, getting dizzier by the second. Sort of impressive, he adds, to himself, blushing too.

“We have to get out of here.” They have business to take care of. Juliet—O’Hara nods, glancing around. Carlton doesn’t think he’s imagining that the light seems dimmer, doesn’t want to know how cold it’s going to get in this room at night.

“How long been in here anyway?” Oh yeah. Carlton brings up his arm, squints at his wrist. Even the glow-in-the-dark numbers don’t make sense. He shoves his arm, and his watch, at her without looking. He only realizes that he must have hit her sore arm when she makes a funny noise and quickly bends over.

It’s been too long since she’s eaten, but the sound of dry retching makes Carlton get onto his knees, hesitating for a moment before grabbing her hair and holding it back. He rubs a circle—carefully and in all ways properly—on her upper back.

She’s still cradling her arm, supporting herself on one, and that amount of pain—even with drugs—means something broke in her fall.

“Damn it, O’Hara! You need to tell me crap like this!”

“So you can…what?” She’s bent over and breathing hard, her skin slick with sweat, but still cranky. It’s oddly pleasing to hear her being so self-assured, like she’s learned something after all. “I can handle it myself.”

He can see that, trying to vomit on a dirty floor and distracting them both from the shit creek they’re currently paddling up by talking about Spencer.

The heat in his body has nothing to do with whatever’s in his bloodstream and he rubs her back again as she stops shuddering.

“You shouldn’t have to,” he mutters, though she probably can’t hear. He reaches for his tie, tugs it off, so clumsy he nearly chokes himself. The room is cold and getting colder—or Carlton is, bleeding too much—but he unbuttons his dress shirt and peels it off as O’Hara sits back up. He twists it and then holds it up significantly.

“Have to keep that still for now,” he adds, and she finally seems to get the point of his crappy little sling. Her frown is not happy, but she doesn’t move as he ties it around her, only sucks in a breath, white with the pain. O’Hara deserves more. She’s a good partner. Maybe the best he’s ever had.

“They’ll find us,” he whispers, tries to picture Spencer running through that door, for O’Hara’s sake. He pictures the smile on Spencer’s face too, but that’s for himself. “He’ll find us.”



He wakes the third time to cold, silence, and a lot of pain.

His head is ringing, or it’s his ears, and opening his eyes hurts. His neck is wet, sticky, his fingers chilled and numb. The only heat he can feel is the burning, yellow throb of the wound at the back of his head and O’Hara, curled up next to him.

The room is darker but he can see that the door hasn’t opened, that no one is there but the two of them. They must have fallen asleep from exhaustion, or boredom, because he feels everything, the hard ground on his ass, at his spine, each goosebump on the bare skin of his shoulders and arms.

“They didn’t come back?” Juliet comments and Carlton wonders just when she woke up, if he moved. She scoots away almost immediately and he shivers when even that bit of warmth is gone. Then he opens his mouth, swings his eyes to the black corners of the room before he can answer that they’ve probably been left here to die. O’Hara will be hopeful, will want hopeful, so he says something else.

“I should try the door.” It’s huge, heavy, it’s going to take both hands and a lot of strength to get it open, if it’s not locked, which it probably is.

O’Hara just snorts. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Carlton.” She’s still moving, getting to her feet but leaving her heels on the ground this time.

“It’s better than wasting time with the windows,” he growls as he tries to move too, seeing his hands going to the floor, moving too slowly. He’s not drugged anymore, he should be able to move, but his fingers slip in the dust, his arms won’t hold him up for more than a few moments as he turns himself around.

“Well I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly at the time!” O’Hara growls right back, breathing hard as she gets to her feet. “Neither were you, if I recall correctly.” She looks at him as she wobbles, and then her mouth falls open, her eyes going wide. She looks away a second later, points to his coat. “Carlton…you need to keep pressure on that…on your head.” She’s way too breathless.

“Who gives a crap about my head?” He narrows his eyes, but reaches for his coat, already stiff with dried blood, really stiff, with a lot of dried blood. Too much. His arms ache as he holds it up. “I want a scotch.”

O’Hara laughs shortly, quietly, for his benefit, then shuffles to the door without speaking. She’s not graceful, and it takes too long, but Carlton bites his lip and doesn’t say a damn thing. Not until she’s back and shaking her head.

“Didn’t really expect them to leave it open for us.” At his pissiness, Juliet snorts again. She takes a deep breath before she starts back up the stairs. At his “Be careful!” she flips him off, with her good arm of course, then stops and gives him a careful smile at the top of the stairs, so like Shawn’s it isn’t funny. Not that any of this is funny.

“I’m going to break the glass, see if anyone’s out there. Give me my coat.”

He has to look for it, stretching just to get it in his hand and then shaking when he has to hold it up. She’s shaking too, to bend down to get it, but a minute later she sucks in a breath and he can hear the noise of breaking glass.

She’s leaning against the wall when he looks, obviously tired. “We’re on a second or third floor.” Her voice is low, flat. “It looks like an empty construction sight, and I don’t see any people. The sun is setting.”

“We can signal them, O’Hara. In the morning, someone will see.” In the morning… Carlton lets his coat fall and picks up his tie. There’s blood on it just from where it rested on the floor, but he holds it up like a flag. “Hang this out the window.”

“Your tie?” O’Hara asks and Carlton gives a careful smile of his own at the frown in her voice. But she works her way over, takes it. “Who would notice this?”

“Shawn.” The truth no longer hurts, not when everything else does. Carlton swallows and falls back against the cement. He shuts his eyes at the scraping shuffle of O’Hara going slowly back down the stairs, opens them when she gets herself back into a kneeling position with effort. She’s staring at him, and whatever he looks like it can’t be good.

There are probably pints of his blood on the floor around them, drying on his clothes, on hers. By morning if it doesn’t stop, he won’t have any left. He’d swear, but he’s too tired.

“You’re a good detective, O’Hara,” is what he says instead. He even means it, though he twitches his expression into a scowl. “You aren’t ready to work alone yet, obviously,” he adds, because she is headstrong, and still has a lot to learn about listening to her partner that she should think about next time she’s trapped in a small, freezing room with a broken arm.

O’Hara opens her mouth and makes a noise. Carlton fixes her with the hardest look he can manage and she knocks it off so he can finish.

“The Chief…” He pauses, thinking it over, then nods. “Karen is smart, you should listen to her, though a good cop has to trust his—her—instincts too.”

“Carlton…” she starts again and Carlton leans his head back, not really giving a crap about the pain.

“Shut up, O’Hara,” he orders. His mouth is dry, he really wants a scotch. Of course, he’s not likely to get anything he wants now, never really was. “And don’t let Spencer lead you around by the nose.”

“…Don’t think I’m the one with that problem.” Juliet’s voice is light. Carlton glares at her, but her eyebrows are up, her face blank.

“If he gives you trouble, you just remind him that not everything is a joke.” Not that he wants Spencer to be serious, not really, he just wants him to get that sometimes he might need to be.

“I think he knows that, Carlton.” Juliet’s tone is still bland, but he gaze is intent on his face. “And if he didn’t, the past few weeks have certainly taught him that.”

“What?” He doesn’t give a crap about his tone either, not when he’s going to die in this shithole. O’Hara rolls her eyes, moves to sit on her legs at his side.

“You’re honestly telling me you haven’t seen the way he’s been looking at you from across the station?” She doesn’t even wait for an answer to that, just keeps going, getting louder until the last word, then she breathes in deep and glances at him through her hair. “But you can talk this out with him yourself.”

Which is so cliché that she deserves the glare he gives her. Besides, there’s nothing to talk about. Maybe people will be looking for them by now, maybe even Spencer who always solves his cases, but that doesn’t mean that anything else is true.

“I….he was just toying with me O’Hara.” If he wasn’t, then it means that Carlton had hurt him, and maybe it’s the pain, or the blood loss, but he’s weak and pissed and worried sick at the very idea. Because he’d never really wanted to hurt Spencer. Well, at the beginning, but not afterward, not when they had sort of, kind of, become friends, or allies, or something. What he wants, has wanted, is to make sure Shawn never stops smiling, because secretly, maybe, he likes that Shawn has never been touched by murder, or by things like this and he would never have snapped if Shawn hadn’t been so close.

“Carlton!” O’Hara barks the order, interrupting either thoughts or words, he’s not sure. But he twitches, looks at her. “Do you want to get out of here?”

“Yes.” He’s not a moron.

“Then trust me, trust Shawn.” O’Hara pants at him, jabbing a finger at him in a way that’s oddly familiar. “He always comes through in the end, right? Right?” she says again when Carlton hesitates, wets his dry mouth without answering.

“Yes.” He could be humoring her, but he drops his head and speaks into his chest. “It takes that idiot a while,” he adds for the sake of pride, because he won’t be able to take it if Spencer doesn’t come through that door, “but he always comes through in the end.” It’s true, the same way that Spencer is never wrong. Shawn will show up, grinning and carefree.

O’Hara is like an Academy instructor, pounding the point into him, even if he is injured.

“So when he walks through that door, you’re going to…”

“Kiss the smartass right out of him,” Carlton snaps back at her, gulping down a breath and shaking his head way too late to wipe the annoying grin off her face. So what if he’d actually, finally said it out loud, it wasn’t going to happen, no matter how much he wants it to.

Even if Shawn does come to save them, even when he comes to save them, Carlton isn’t going to kiss him, or almost kiss him, or whatever it was that Spencer does according to O’Hara.

But O’Hara is gasping and Carlton turns his head to yell at her to be quiet when he sees where she’s looking. He sees the door shake before he hears the heavy bang and flinches back in reflex even knowing that their abductors wouldn’t need to break down the door.

It sounds like a ram, hits the door three times before he can hear muffled shouting.

“Police officers inside!” he shouts out a second after he processes that they’ve been given an order to get back.

O’Hara looks at him. The door is some distance away, but they have nowhere to go except up the stairs, which neither of them can do with any sort of speed. And he might be crazy, but he swears he hears McNab yelling “Fire in the hole!” and it might be the single most frightening sound he’s heard in his life.

He ducks and shuts his eyes, feels O’Hara wrap her one arm around him.

The noise is deafening, makes his stomach lurch and his head pound so hard he can’t see. He imagines there’s a flash and a lot of smoke, but doesn’t look to see the door get blown off its hinges.

Too much of whatever it was, is all he can think, letting silence replace the ringing in his ears, tightening and then relaxing his grip on O’Hara.

She’s moving, sitting up though still pressed to his side, saying something he can’t hear. Her body is vibrating, or that could be the room itself, the building.

“What idiot set that charge?” is the first thing he says, his hearing abruptly returning, and with it the ringing and too many voices, his heartbeat, all of it dizzying. The room is smoky, and he coughs, pats O’Hara as she coughs with him. She is talking, whispering, probably not meant to be heard.

“Thank God,” she breathes out and Carlton opens his eyes at the sound of the Chief’s voice.

“I’m not sure about that, something tells me you ought to be more grateful to Officer McNab for keeping unauthorized explosives in his squad car.” Even with everything, Carlton is wincing at her tone, focusing as much as he can on McNab, standing sheepishly by the door—which has been split open from the outside and is still smoking and red hot at the edges.

They had to push it open, which means all of that had only been to blow the lock, and Carlton narrows his eyes at a quiet and sort of stunned-looking McNab and all the powder on his face before turning to Karen.

The Chief has her vest on and her gun out. She’s on her phone as she strides over to them, calling for a damn bus and giving their location. “Tell everyone else to end the search, and let SWAT know we’ve cleared this building and not to worry about any explosions they may have heard.”

“SWAT?” O’Hara croaks and McNab finally remembers he’s a cop.

“They’re at the construction site next door, taking down the two who…well…”

“You’re alive, detectives.” Karen interrupts him, thank God, letting out one breath. “I told Mr. Spencer not to worry.”

“Spencer?” The renewed pounding in his chest would panic him, if Carlton weren’t sure he doesn’t have that much blood left to lose. He leans back, flicks his eyes to the door, and sure enough, sees Shawn step slowly into the room. His steps are slow, unsteady. His eyes are closed.

Carlton blinks, watches silently as Guster peeks around the door after him, at Carlton and O’Hara, and then whispers something to Shawn that makes Shawn sigh and open his eyes.

“Yeah,” McNab is still talking, wiping at scorch marks on his face, drawing Carlton’s attention. “We were at the site too, wondering if they still had you two, when he saw your tie in the window. I don’t know how he knew it was yours though.”

“The spirits told me.” Shawn’s voice is quiet, but closer than Carlton expected. He blinks again, smoke in his eyes making them water. Through the blur Spencer seems as shaky as O’Hara had been. He’s not smiling, and Carlton hurts. “Or I could see the coffee stains from a mile away.”

That Shawn is frowning makes Carlton frown, but he doesn’t say anything while sharp green eyes dart around, from him to O’Hara, to the floor and how little space is between them, back to him. Spencer’s face seems a little green too.

“Where the hell is that ambulance?” Karen is swearing and Guster is saying something, something about Carlton’s coat, and bleeding, as he’s helping O’Hara to her feet. She’s staring at Carlton too and Carlton scowls, once again not in on whatever it is that everyone else seems to know.

And he knows whose fault that is, and forces himself to focus on Shawn’s face as Shawn kneels down, picks up Carlton’s coat. Everyone else is still talking, though the ringing in his ears is getting louder, as loud as the beat of his heart, which is too fast, which is bad, even he knows what that means. He wonders if Shawn does, Shawn seems to know everything.

“Now, Lassi, you can’t go bleeding all over your suits.” Of course Spencer is trying to joke, curving up his mouth only to toss his head and push out a breath. “You really only have two that are even worth wearing.” He lifts the coat and nearly falls back onto his heels when Carlton tries to bat it away. It’s blocking his view.

“Not everything is a joke, Shawn,” he growls, says the name, the name he isn’t supposed to say and grabs a handful of Polo shirt.

His eyes are closed, his senses swimming, but this isn’t almost kissing, or blood loss and drugs. This is kissing, and time seems to slow.

Shawn is a hot, impatient presence in front of him, rough stubble against his face, hands at his shoulders. His lips part instantly, not to breathe, or laugh, but to kiss him back. His hold is tight, whether Carlton is in pain or not, but he doesn’t feel any. He feels Shawn, pushing back against him, licking at his lips, at his tongue, and there’s nothing almost about it.

“This is real,” Shawn breathes when he finally pulls his head away, not far, gasping against Carlton’s cheek. He’s warm, close, still, not even squirming.

Carlton can see the outlines of everyone else. McNab, Karen, staring at him like he’s lost his mind, or at death’s door. O’Hara grinning, as pink as her skirt, Guster rolling his eyes, glancing away. But nobody seems that upset, not that he can tell anyway, not that he cares, not right now. Maybe later.

Because he’s not going to die.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says out loud, his voice hoarse and strange, and Spencer’s fingers curl into his skin.

“Crap.” he mutters a second later, not red in the face, not at all, and stares as seriously as he can when Shawn really does pulls away to study him. Shawn’s eyes are wide, his mouth a flat, worried line, which is very, very bad. “That was supposed to make to you smile,” Carlton comments, swaying as he tries to sit up.

He has no idea why that seems to do the trick, but he lays back and stares at Shawn as the EMTs rush in, Shawn who is beaming at him like Carlton has just done something amazing.

He has no idea what this is either, but his head hurts, so Carlton finally closes his eyes. As the world gets a lot darker, he can feel Spencer fluttering around next to him, worried and clumsy, in the way and too close, but there.

Then he smiles.

It actually is pretty funny.

Onto the secret bonus fic