Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Santa Barbara was a city apart from itself.

Located in beautiful southern California, gifted with a gentle mediteranean climate, and filled with Spanish colonial architecture, all white stucco walls and red tile roofs, it spread out along the seaside with a gentleness unusual for a city its size.

Shawn Spencer slept restlessly in his “apartment”-- a repurposed dry cleaners, the old Fluff and Fold on the east side of town.

It had been repurposed by Shawn Spencer himself, and only with the addition of one mattress, a large amount of movie memorabilia, and a microwave.
Shawn often slept restlessly, but it had been especially bad this week. He shifted around and ground his teeth unconsciously, muttering in his sleep.

It was around 4 AM, and outside the dry cleaner’s morning was beginning to peek into the sky, beams of sunlight interrupting the shadows that stretched between the city’s buildings.

The beams of light appeared in alleyways, and in front of frozen yogurt stores, and in the hybrid rain garden/car parks that had begun appearing in city center. All of Santa Barbara began to softly light up, in a gentle golden glow.

As the sunrise stretched on, an observer would notice that it wasn’t just the darkness of night that had been blocking the city from view. A thick blanket of fog hung over it, beginning a few feet off the ground and stretching past most rooftops.

It held the sunlight down, and as the sun continued to rise, the light went with it. Soon enough it would be above the clouds of fog, leaving the city even more obscured.

Santa Barbara had very few streetlights, which usually allowed for locals and tourists alike to see the stars from almost anywhere in town. For 8 months out of the year, the effect was staggering.

When the sun set, cool breezes would drift in from the shoreline, and birds could be heard from the forest on the other side. Everyone felt cradled by both nature and civilization, and people would walk the streets, laughing and talking together sofly, while storefronts kept the glow of their lights on late into the night.

Hikes on the nature trails revealed an even larger number of stars, and from some places, the milky way.

But now it was summer, and the lack of streetlights created an effect that was very... different.

This morning, just like each morning from May through July, Santa barbara’s Small Boat Fishermen would set out on water so blanketed in fog, there was no separation between ocean and sky.

The sun rose sluggishly these mornings. From the forest above the fog clouds, the city looked like a few bright rooftops and streetlamps sprinkled into nothingness.

Or the city looked like nothing at all.

From among the streets, this morning was getting started slowly. Restaurants turned their outside lights up bright as they opened for the day. Cars crawled along the main road, braking carefully at stop signs.

All of the tourists would stay lazy and half-asleep until noon, or later, when the ocean surface temperatures would finally get warm enough for the fog to evaporate, and take the ‘June Gloom’ with it.

The locals weren’t so lucky.

When Shawn Spencer woke up, the dry cleaner’s was shrouded in fog. Thin bands of sunlight streamed through the bottom of the window, peeking in from under the clouds. But it wasn’t the sunlight that finally woke him. It was his phone, blaring noise aggressively on the table next to his head.

Shawn stretched, turned, and buried his face back into the pillow, eyes squeezed shut. His hand reached out and smacked the phone two or three times, knocking it onto the floor. This made things worse, as the phone started vibrating much louder against the wooden floor, but after a while it stopped. Proud of himself, Shawn pulled his knees up to his chest, ready to return fully to sleep.

The phone rang again.

Groaning, Shawn pushed his shoulders off of the bed and tried to reach his arm down onto the floor. He smacked his hand around until he found the phone, and slid his thumb to accept the call.

“Sleeping late, I take it, Shawn?” asked a sarcastic voice.

Shawn sighed.

“It’s 7 am, Dad. It’s closer to my bedtime than anything.”

Henry Spencer echoed his sigh back to him.

“Of course it is. Come over to the house for breakfast, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

Shawn took a deep breath after the phone call ended, the sudden silence pulling him fully into the morning.

He wiped his forehead. It was covered in cold sweat.

He’d had another nightmare last night.

In it, Gus was leaving for vacation, just like he was going to next week. But it wasn’t present-day, and they weren’t partners of their psychic detective agency.

It was back right after Shawn moved back home to Santa Barbara. Back when he was too deep in cocaine withdrawal to work and too fed up to start using again, so he slept on Gus’s couch for a month while he went to the outpatient rehab program at the non-profit down the street during each day, and stayed up watching 80s movies and suffering through the effects of withdrawal each night.

In real life, Gus had patiently waited for him to get better. He dropped off cold water bottles on the end table next to Shawn's head as he left for work each morning.

He picked Shawn up from the rehab program and took him to a different hip new food spot every day, introducing Shawn to the 18-inch chili dog, Pizza Soup, and all the other culinary innovations that had quietly popped up in sandwich shops and food trucks all across Santa Barbara while Shawn had been away.

He waited until Shawn’s headaches had subsided enough for them to go to a movie theater again, and then they went to 80s movie marathons at the local theater every Friday, and always stayed through the last feature, even though they wouldn’t get home until 3 am.

Gus had held his hand every step of the way, until Shawn started walking on his own again.

In his dream, it was different. Gus was leaving. Shawn had just gotten home, strung out and sweating and ready to see his best friend for the first time in three years.

“Well,” Dream Gus had said to him, “Good luck,” and Shawn said nothing as Dream Gus’s taxi stretched itself out backwards until it became the airport, and Shawn was suddenly in the airport lobby, holding the backpack that contained everything he owned, watching Dream Gus smile and wave as he walked past security, to his gate, onto his flight, and out of Dream Shawn’s life forever.

The memory of the dream was fading fast, but Shawn felt an ache in his jaw from grinding his teeth, and knew that it had impacted him deeply.

He felt embarrassed, as if Gus would somehow know about this objectively very clingy dream and judge him for it. Or worse, feel too worried to go on his trip to Canada because of it.

Shawn was grateful as the memory of his dream continued to fade from his grasp. He didn’t want to spend any more time in that part of his subconscious, the part that apparently didn’t care at all that Gus had his own life and deserved to have nice things.

So what if this was the first time in years that Shawn and Gus would be separated for more than a few days? He had been clean for a long time, and he would continue to stay clean. He could do this. He was strong. He could rely on himself.

Shawn spent longer than he should have getting ready, taking his time in the shower and rubbing his temples and jawline, trying to use the hot steam to get his clenched muscles to relax.

Afterwards, he put some coffee grounds into the little drip coffee maker that was placed precariously on top of his microwave, which was, in turn, placed even more precariously on a cheap card table. He thought about microwaving some pop tarts but thought better of it, already later than he was comfortable being.

Outside, he glanced at his phone while throwing his leg over his motorcycle and cringed, knowing that Henry would be angry with him for being late, despite only having a few hours notice.

His dad was always critical like that. He may not have been able to make Shawn follow in his detective footsteps, but he could still constantly push his son towards perfection, no matter how unnecessary perfection was in the situation.

It was.. great. Especially on a sunday morning, and especially before 10 am.

Shawn slowed his bike down carefully as he approached his childhood home, and parked it just outside the picket fence.
The house was small, and cute. The white wash and red trim blended in nicely with the view of the coastline that spread out across the road in front of it.

As Shawn walked up to the front door, Henry Spencer appeared around the side.

“Hey,” said Shawn.

“Come on,” said Henry, moving back around the side of the house. “I need to clean the workshop out.”

Shawn moved after him slowly. “What about breakfast?” he called indignantly.

“Later!” yelled Henry, as he disappeared behind a pile of boxes.

Shawn tried to ignore his growling belly, and wished he hadn’t been invited over under the pretext of free food, or that he had been smart enough to eat at home before coming over anyway.

An hour later, Shawn was still lugging large pieces of wood from one wall of the workshop to another, and the workshop was just as much of a mess. There was no organizational plan that he could see, and he was pretty sure that the workshop was actually looking worse the more they messed with it.

He was starting to feel more than a little fed up.

He had been here since before 9 am, it was a Saturday, been given anything to eat or drink at all except for a small glass of weird-tasting water from Henry’s kitchen, and he was starting to believe the “breakfast” he had been invited over for wasn’t happening at all. He wished he had brought some coffee.

Eventually, Henry Spencer laid down the power tool he had been trying to find a space for.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s eat breakfast.”

Shawn stepped over the objects strewn all over the workshop floor. He had no idea why this, instead of any other point, was when the workshop was deemed “organized enough” for them to stop. It looked exactly the same as when they had started. No... it looked worse.

Definitely worse.

Shawn sat quietly at the kitchen table, sipping his water, and watched his dad fry steak and eggs in a pan. He leaned back in his chair, and realized he was drenched in sweat for the second time this morning.

The noises of his dad cooking filled the kitchen, and Shawn watched the clock tick forward as minutes stretched into a long uncomfortable silence.

“So,” said Shawn. “What did you need to talk to me about?”

Henry didn’t look up from the stove as he responded. “After breakfast.”

Shawn just sighed in response, at the same time that Henry did. His dad pushed the steak and eggs onto plates, brought them over to the table, and sat down.

They ate together in silence for several minutes, until Henry abruptly said “Your mother and I are getting back together.”

Shawn choked on his drink. “What?”

Henry just looked at him exasperatedly, before taking another bite of his breakfast.

“My mom?” Shawn asked incredulously. “My mother? Why, Dad? You didn’t spend enough years ignoring and neglecting her the first time around?”

Henry threw his fork down with a clatter. “You know, Shawn, you have no idea what you’re talking about. You have no idea the toll that being a detective takes on a marriage-”

“Uh, yeah, dad, I think i do know. I was the one who sat with mom all those evenings when you were out on overtime, again. I was the one who consoled mom after you finally decided to just leave her for good. Not you, dad. Your teenage son. Who you weren’t particularly interested in either, by the way. And now what? You’ve finally got enough free time, you’ve enjoyed enough years of retirement that you want a wife to cook and clean for you again? Did you forget that Mom’s not planning to retire anytime soon? Do you really think she’ll have the time for you? Is now really the best time to start over, to try do it all over again?”

Henry pushed his chair back from the table violently, and it made a terrible sound on the tile floor.

He paused, and composed himself. “You know about starting over better than most, don’t you, Shawn?” He asked quietly and calmly.

He made eye contact. Years of experience had taught him how to get under a criminal’s skin.

He had the skills to make a man fall apart with just a few words and a few pieces of evidence. And sometimes, he used those skills on his son.

“Don’t.” Shawn replied softly.

“Are you going to call me next time you need someone to bail you out? Next time you lose your job as a.. Hotdog Salesman or whatever you do, run out of money, and coincidentally decide that it’s ‘finally time to go to rehab’? Next time you decide to start over?”

Shawn started shoving his things in his pockets haphazardly and grabbed his motorcycle helmet. “I’ve had a steady job for three years now. And i’m great at it” he said angrily.

Henry paused and looked at him. “Yeah.” he replied. “Conning the police department and pretending to be a psychic. Just the type of job I would expect from a coke addict.”

Shawn hurriedly turned and speed-walked outside. The door cut off whatever Henry was saying next, and Shawn, with that last word still ringing in his ears, stormed angrily across the yard and kicked his bike, hurting his foot, before getting on it. Without a backward glance, he kicked up the kickstand and roared off down the street.

Some breakfast that was, thought Shawn.

He sighed deeply and took a right turn at the next intersection, headed straight for the Tex-Mex Breakfast Taco stand at the end of Mulholland Drive, the one by the beach.

After second breakfast, the rest of the morning passed in that specific type of blur that happens when you wake up too early or too abruptly, and nothing you do shakes you out of the resulting fog.

Around 2 pm, Shawn called Gus. After two rings, Gus picked up.

“Shawn, no.” he said immediately. Gus was trying to sound annoyed, but Shawn could hear his smile through the phone.

“Come on!” Shawn pleaded. “Let’s go out drinking. Have a good old boy’s night. You know, invite Lassiter, get six drinks deep, witness a murder in the parking lot, spend the rest of the night half-drunk tracking the killer until we discover that he’s no other that the Homicidal Handyman, the serial killer that’s been terrorizing Santa Barbara for the last 8 years.”

“First of all,” began Gus with a huff, “they caught the Homicidal Handyman last year, Shawn. It was Lassiter’s case! He got a commendation from the mayor. And second of all, I told you!” Gus lowered his voice, and Shawn could hear the noises of his coworkers bustling in the background. “I have a really important meeting with my boss tonight. He’s considering letting me be the first international representative of Central Coast Pharmaceuticals.”

“Fine,” replied Shawn. “Then at least take a lady out for dinner. We should get jerk chicken tonight.”

“You know that’s right,” said Gus.

Shawn hung up the phone, feeling much better about everything. Gus always made him feel better. It wasn’t Gus’s job, but he always did it anyway.

After a moment of quiet appreciation for his friend, Shawn remembered the events of the day so far, and felt queasy. There was nothing like having your retired-detective-father yell at your for your life choices to give you a good old dose of guilt and shame.

He felt even worse considering his over-the-top nightmare, one of many over-the-top nightmares he’d been having recently, all brought on by what was, according to the targeted ads about nightmares Shawn was getting now, a major life event that was shaking his psyche.

A major life event. His best friend going on a well-deserved, month-long vacation to what was arguably the best culinary school in the world. At least the best culinary school in North America. (Now that he thought about it, there were probably better culinary schools all over the world in non-english-speaking majority countries, that would never even be in the rankings, because they hadn’t been “discovered” by some white foodie from the Upper East Side of New York.
Anyway.)

Gus deserved better. He deserved a friend who could handle Gus being gone for a little bit, Gus having his own life, Gus taking a month off of having to always be around and available, just in case staying on the wagon got difficult enough for Shawn to worry about falling off.

Henry was right.

Shawn should be handling things on his own.

He resolved himself not to tell Gus about the dreams, or the argument with his dad that morning.
It was less than a week before Gus’s vacation, and there was no way he would go through with it if Shawn brought all of this up to him now.

They went out to dinner together before Gus’s big meeting, and Shawn didn’t bring up the fight with Henry. He knew that if he brought his feelings up, a whole bunch of other feelings would come stumbling out too, and not only would his very best friend cancel his long-awaited vacation, but Shawn would prove Henry right for thinking him immature and selfish. And childish. And a…. a coke addict.

Shawn lost track of what Gus was saying as he white-knuckled his drink glass. You’d think that four years of being clean would mean a little bit more to the people you love.

“Shawn, did you hear what I said?” Gus’s voice filtered over top of Shawn’s inner monologue, shaking him back to reality.

“I said,” Gus started again, “I talked to my boss earlier, and… it’s official! The meeting tonight is just a formality. I got the go-ahead to network on vacation, and I’m going to be the first ever Central Coast Pharmaceutical employee to have a mail-order, international route. All sorts of people from Canadian high society go to the summer program at the Middlewinter School of Culinary Arts. I’m talking doctors, Shawn. Canadian doctors. Doctors who will soon want to buy all their pharmaceuticals from yours truly.”

Gus paused to take a sip of his drink. He was practically glowing with excitement.

“I still can’t believe that Middlewinter has a super-secret scholarship, where everyone who goes to one of their day classes is entered, and 1 student is randomly chosen for their most expensive and exclusive residential program. And that they chose me. This is like--” he took a bite of jerk chicken “--the best thing that could have happened for my career.”

“Pssh” replied Shawn. “I can believe it. And they’re lucky they chose you. Name one other untrained chef who can make an 8-layer s'more with both the flavor and structural foundation that you have.”

“Oh, no one,” said Gus.

“Exactly,” said Shawn. “No one.”

They fist-bumped goodnight after they were done eating, and Shawn grinned up at his best friend.

“Knock ‘em dead. But not literally. Unless you think Psych could get a case out of it, then maybe knock ‘em dead.”

“I hear that,” replied Gus, smiling as he shook his suit jacket over his shoulders. “See you tomorrow?”

“Hell yeah.” Shawn smiled back.

As Shawn rode his bike back home, he bargained with himself the whole way.

He was not going to spiral again tonight until he fell asleep, and he was not going to then head straight into another stress-dream.

He had had, by all accounts, a pretty good day. A day that at least picked itself up from the mess it started in. So what if he had woken up about 6 hours earlier than he wanted to, so what if he had to hear both some bad news and harsh criticism, all in one day?

That was the way it was sometimes.

Shawn checked his watch as he stepped off his bike: 8:30.

And again while laying in bed, determined to have an early and relaxing night: 8:45.

And again as he stepped out of the shower, determined to have an early and relaxing night: 9:08.

After another 20 minutes of laying in bed staring at the ceiling, Shawn abruptly stood up, pulled on his jacket, and hopped back on his bike.

He wasn’t even thinking as he headed straight for his favorite queer bar, Space Odyssey, at the edge of downtown Santa Barbara, where clubs and theaters and high end boutiques gave way to family-owned diners and used bookstores.

He felt so relieved as he sped down the city streets on his bike. It felt so good not to try and have a good night, when he knew he was going to have a bad one either way.

At least this way he wouldn’t be alone with his thoughts.

Inside the bar Shawn ordered a vodka cranberry and looked around cautiously. There were a lot of college kids here tonight.

Shawn sidled past a big crowd of them and out into the garden, where an indie rock band was playing, and small groups were sitting together at different tables, smoking.

He felt someone walk up and stand next to him. He glanced over nervously, and saw a man several inches taller than him, dressed in all black, with a neatly trimmed beard.

“Hey”.

He swallowed nervously. “Hey.”

Chapter Text

Carlton Lassiter was alone. 

Was by himself. 

Was solitary. 

Was.. single. 

He was alone, the way he was every night— and had been every single night since the divorce. He had been alone a lot of nights before the divorce, too, especially the nights when Victoria worked “late”.

But, that type of alone hadn’t been sealed by a months-long, thousands-of-dollars-expensive legal process, that ended with Carlton Lassiter designated unloved. 

He was lying on his back in bed, his dark room lit only by the blue numbers on his alarm clock. They were slightly, but not really, obscured by the half-empty bottle of scotch on his nightstand. They say blue light is the hardest light to sleep in, Carlton thought idly, remembering the news article he had read a few days before.

He could remember a time where he would sooner leave a hangnail than read the news. He used to be so young.

Suddenly his grief felt even more real, and he could feel the weight of it pressing down on his chest. 

He needed to drink another swig of scotch, or else he might cry.

He really might lie here, in between two 12-hour workdays as Santa Barbara’s meanest and most rule-following detective, and sob himself through the night.

He got out of bed. 

Carlton pushed his bedroom door open and padded silently down the hall, stopping to grab his coat and some black pants from the hamper.

Even in the dark, one could see that his apartment was overhelmingly grey. 

He had always loved the color, and now that Victoria wasn’t here to argue, he had indulged himself and painted his walls a cool slate, to match his furniture and decor. 

He slipped out the front door, quiet as a cat. 

He left his tasteful grey apartment, and its tastefully grey building, and began making his way through the city. 

To the untrained eye, his walking speed was normal.

He walked hurriedly, but not too hurriedly, along sidewalks and past the crowds of people who were happily chatting outside of bars and restaurants. But when he passed through unlit streets or alleyways, he would emerge on the other side only seconds after he entered. 

He came to his destination, St. Mary’s Cathedral, and crossed himself before he went inside.

He crossed the entry hall silently and sat down at a pew in the back. There were a few other people scattered throughout the church, praying silently to themselves. The church had been built to be lit mostly by natural light, so it became very dark at night. 

Dozens of lit candles by the altar danced ever so slightly, gently lighting up the area around them. Candles lit for prayers for loved ones, both living and gone. 

Carlton breathed a deep sigh and leaned his head back slightly. 

He sat very still, not worried about accidentally falling asleep. Lately, he just couldn’t sleep. 

At the rate he was going, he wouldn’t really need to sleep for another week, but still, he wasn’t young anymore. It was getting harder and harder to run on fumes. 

Maybe he would be able to sleep for a little bit tonight, though, after he dragged his wretched body out from his home and into the world. 

Into this big, empty cathedral.

Empty enough for the sadness to breathe. 

He wasn’t Catholic. 

He had been raised Catholic, but it had stopped being relevant to his lifestyle quite a few decades ago. 

Who knows, though. Maybe it would become relevant again. Maybe he would take that medicine and never shift again, age normally, be 80 years old in 40 or 50 years, and die sometime after that.

Maybe.

Carlton was a bitter person. 

He had been bitter before the divorce, and when two lawyers and the state of California were busy picking apart his marital life and finances, it hadn’t been the best time for him to work on overcoming that particular character trait. 

He was especially bitter about the aging thing. 

When they were dating, Victoria had told him that it didn’t matter to her if he didn’t want to convert to her religion. They were considered purtianical, extremist in some circles. She knew that. 

So Carlton didn’t convert. 

After they were married, things changed between them. 

Victoria became more insistent about him joining “the group”.

That new, charismatic pastor had just taken over the Santa Barbara group, and now all of a sudden Carlton needed to “prove his devotion to the marriage”.

So he joined. Went to their stupid meetings. He drank the wheatgrass shots. 

He stood up and said their pledge when it got to him in the circle.

“I am Carlton Lassiter, and I am a monster. I will not harm humans. I will not use my powers for self gain. I will not presume to know more than Gaia, the earth mother. I will let my wounds heal naturally, and not prevent myself from aging.” 

He sat there, and politely acted like he was listening, and spoke when it was his turn to speak.

He stared at the “Just because I’m a monster, doesn’t mean I need to act like one” motivational poster stuck on pastor Greg’s altar, and tuned out during people’s stories about having to resist the urge to chase rabbits down the street, or resist turning even though it wasn’t the full moon.

He sat there for the full two hours, every week, and pretended to care. And went back to his life, where he lived by pastor Greg’s rules, and let his moral compass supersede his own.

He had aged 10 years in less than 12. After decades spent in his thirties. 

He hadn’t been ready for that commitment- who would be- but he did it anyway. 

He gave up his ability to bend his knees without stretching, and to go out drinking without getting a splitting headache all through the next day and into the next night.

And after all of that, all of that sacrifice and less than 15 years of marriage, Victoria left.

And Pastor Greg left too.

Days after that new medicine had been quietly announced, the one that allowed you not to shift, or in a lower dosage, to shift without a desire to kill humans, they had left on vacation to Aruba together. 

Divorce papers in the mailbox, and a note asking Carlton to be moved out by the time she got back.

She had been planning it for a long time, the note said. The divorce. 

This medicine was just a sign from the Earth Mother that her plans should be moved up. Now she and Greg could shift all they wanted, and run wild like mother nature intended. Greg was her soulmate, apparently. 

They had met as Antony and Cleopatra, and found each other in every life since. 

One of the few comforts Carlton had at that time in his life, was how fucking insufferable Victoria sounded in that letter. She had said that he surely saw this coming. Their marriage had really been over for years. It was meaningless. For Carlton, it had been a happy, if sometimes cold marriage, to a woman whose work kept her way too late.

He had always admired her work ethic. 

Carlton stood up again, and began the long walk across town to his old apartment. 

He passed through the lively part of downtown, through some cute residential neighborhoods, past a warehouse or two, and across the train tracks, to a dim and rundown area scattered with small homes and apartment buildings, with no sidewalks. 

He had lived here decades ago. He had met Victoria while he lived here.  

He had used everything but the last $8 in his bank account for the security deposit and first and last month’s rent, back when he first moved to santa barbara.

Back when he had decided to get a new lease on life, get out of San Francisco, after… well. After it all went wrong.

He had so many extra human years to live his life, and he kept fucking them all up. Every one.

Carlton checked his watch. Just after midnight.

Luckily, there were fewer streetlights across the train tracks, in this part of town.

Just like there were fewer schools- fewer of everything that the government had to pay for. Funny how that worked.

He could move much more quickly here, under the cloak of darkness that all the back roads provided.

He knew what he was going to do. He would head home, cut westward into the forest where he could run even faster, and sit down with another scotch, in a glass this time, and his police scanner. It would do him good.

Carlton struck out on foot once again.

He started following the same path he used to walk many years ago- along the edge of the cracked road speckled with unfilled potholes, to the convenience store parking lot, then back around the building and off the edge of town.

Carlton listened to the soft crunch of gravel and crumbling cement under his feet as he approached the darkened building. 

Most of the windows were covered with posters advertising deals on cheetos and cigarettes, but there was a dim light inside, and neon signs casting gentle halos into the night.

There was the bulletin board on the outside of the building, same as always. On it, there was a piece of printer paper advertising a 3 band- house show this saturday at 8, address: “ask a punk”. There were landscaping service brochures for competing companies, one pinned almost fully over the other. 

Carlton stooped to pick up a lost dog flyer that had fallen off, so he could pin it back on the board, and suddenly his blood ran cold. 

There was a second flyer on the ground, a dirty shoeprint obscuring most of the fine text. 

The writing on top, however, in large, bold letters, was still clear as day.

“La Boîte de Nuit”.

Carlton held the paper up, and scrutinized the words under the light of the neon signs. 

The paper continued. 

“The ever popular San Francisco-based social club, La Boîte de Nuit, is expanding into historic Santa Barbara. We are open to any prospective members, first month only. Come enjoy our cafe, bar and lounge, library, and dancefloor with others who seek deeper meaning in life. Burlesque on Fridays.”

A completely innocuous flyer, but one that left Carlton breathing shallowly and white as a sheet.

He hadn’t expected his nighttime tour of past memories to take a detour down this dark path.

It had been a long time, a few decades now, since he had read that name. 

But he remembered every square inch of that San Francisco club. 

The moody lighting. The bar stocked with top shelf liquor- not a rail drink in sight. The plush velvet furniture, the richly patterned wallpaper on the club’s “statement walls”, the packed library and the rooftop dance floor. 

And the blood. All of the blood.

And the soapy water that would be used to scrub away the blood, only for large, fresh stains to cover the ground again a few days later. 

Some of the blood had been his. Most of it had not.

The first time he saw La Boîte de Nuit, he just saw dozens of blurred, bright, tiny lights. He had been lying flat on his back, feeling like he had been hit by a truck. His eyelids had been swollen and bloodied, and it had hurt to open them even a crack.

Someone gently rubbed a cool paste on his face, and after a few moments, he could open both eyes. A little. A chandelier swam into view, ornate copper ceiling tiles endlessly refracting the light it gave off. There was a soft carpet against Carlton’s back. A kind face, framed by long dark hair, entered Carlton’s view. 

“Is he alright?” a voice asked loudly from somewhere outside of Carlton’s vision.

“Shh.” the kind face admonished. 

She turned to look at the yell-er, her long hair briefly falling on Carlton’s face and blocking his view again. She looked back down at him studiously. One green eye and one yellow eye stared gently into his. “He’ll be alright.”

That was the first time he met Lillian. 

He met her girlfriend, Gil, a moment later, when she pushed him into a sitting position so he could eat a steaming bowl of beef stew. He had taken a sip, and felt slightly restored. He looked up at the room around him, still blinking in the light, trying to push his swollen eyelids to open all the way.

There had been a ragtag group of people around him. Most dressed in black, in boots or torn up shoes. Shaggy hair. Jewlery on everyone, men and women. Before he really met anyone, before he got to know their names and favorite movies and friends and exes, he had felt drawn to all of them. Intuitively, Carlton knew. They were like him.

The group started making small talk and Carlton laughed at a joke, before wheezing and noticing that he might have a cracked rib. A door opened and the imposing figure of a man entered the room.

He was tall, good looking, and had a predatory air about him. His long hair was brown, but shimmered with shades of blonde in the light. There was something classic about him. Statuesque. The other people in the room immediately reacted to his entrance. Some jumped up to straighten stuff on top of tables, others watched him expectantly. 

“Is that him?” he asked gruffly, pointing at Carlton. 

Lillian nodded.  The man kneeled down to look at Carlton directly.

“We saw those four or five men jump you. Did you know them?”

Carlton shook his head. “No.”

The man stared at Carlton with piercing eyes. “They followed you. They were watching the back entrance of Elisa’s Tavern, the gay bar. They waited until a man came out by himself. And when you did, they followed you down the block. When you got to an alley, they jumped you.”

Carlton just nodded. The man looked at him more intensely now.

“Why didn’t you transform? There were no witnesses, and the fight would have been over in a minute.”

Carlton replied uncomfortably. “It wouldn’t have been a fair fight. I could have killed someone.”

The man held his gaze as he replied drily. “Aw, how moral of you. Don’t worry, we’ll work on that.”

Chapter Text

*Ringgggg*

The noise of a ringtone, and of a phone vibrating against a wooden floor somewhere near Shawn’s head jolted him awake. 

He awoke groggily, almost painfully. 

He was lying flat on the floor of his apartment, near the front door, face down on the ground. His shirt was soaked in sweat. His head was pounding. His jaw ached horribly. 

He felt like he had a 50-pound weight pushing on his back as he lifted his head to answer the phone. “Hello?”

A sweet but brusque voice answered on the other end. Chief Karen Vick. “Mr. Spencer. I’m sorry for waking you, but can you and Burton make it downtown as soon as possible? There’s something you’re going to want to see.”

Spencer rolled onto his back and started working on unclenching his jaw. “Yeah. Uh, yeah, Chief. We’ll be there.”

After the phone call ended, he closed his eyes and took a moment to make sure he had memorized the address.

Yep. He was always good at remembering things, even on a night like this.

He glanced at the time on his phone, winced at how early it was, and then rolled himself towards his bedroom before standing up and walking the rest of the way.  He got into the shower. The hot water helped the pounding in his head, but his whole body felt achey. His brain was so foggy.

This fog had been something that he actually liked about cocaine, back in the day. 

The hangovers had been horrible.

He had forgotten just how horrible, but this one was swiftly reminding him.

It was far worse than any alcohol hangover he had ever had, but there had been something nice about his endlessly cycling, endlessly noticing, endlessly remembering brain being powered down for a bit. 

It had been nice, back in the day, to run on low battery mode for a while. 

Shawn felt sick with guilt.

All he wanted to do was go back to sleep, watch tv, go out drinking, snort some more- anything to distract himself from the guilt gnawing at his stomach. He had been hoping for a day to himself, to recover. 

Maybe it was good that he wouldn’t get one. Having to face the full consequences of his actions would help him make sure that this slip-up was a one-time thing. 

He had been clean for so long, and all it had taken was Gus- no, just the thought of Gus leaving him to get him to take a key bump of coke in the bathroom from a nice-looking guy. And then another key bump, because the DJ told Ben, the nice-looking guy, that his favorite song was next, and they had to dance to it. And then another key bump, because he was getting a little sleepy. 

Shawn let the hot water hit the back of his neck and pondered last night. He slowly sat down on the floor of the shower and sighed deeply. Ben was cute, and it had been really fun to dance with him. But he’d danced with tons of guys over the past few years, and turned down quite a few key bumps in that time. And not just that- adderall, molly, zanax, you name it, and an adorable man, woman, or nonbinary individual with glow sticks and a mesh shirt had offered it to Shawn with a wink. 

He should have gone to the straight-laced sports bar, O’Douls, down the block from his apartment.

Sure, he would have been less likely to get attention and had almost no chance of getting free drinks, but he could have found a nice lady to waste a few hours chatting to. O’Douls was even walkable- it was just down the street. 

Oh. right. 

He’d taken an uber home. Because he’d been in no state to drive. Goddammit. 

Shawn put his head in his hands, took a deep breath, and stood back up. He rushed in the shower. He tried, and hopefully succeeded, to use enough soap to wash away a full night’s worth of stale club sweat, and then called Gus while he threw on some clean clothes. 

“Yes?” Gus answered after the second ring. 

“Hey listen, it’s me, Chief called and we gotta get downtown imemdiatel- uh- is that classical music I hear playing in the background?”

Gus gave a long-suffering sigh. “ Yes, Shawn. It’s Beethoven’s 4th. And it’s a Wednesday. You know that on Wednesdays I wake up at 4 am to read poetry and watch the sunrise.”

Shawn definitely did not know this.

“Um, how would I know that, Gus? I don’t know about every random activity you do.“

Gus sighed again, and symphony swelled in the background.

“I’ve been doing this for 6 months, Shawn. I’ve just about finished ‘The Sonnets of Shakespeare’, which you would know if you ever listened to me.” Gus said testily. “Look, I’m busy- why did you call me?” 

“We got a case!” Said Shawn excitedly. "A murder." He added less excitedly. “Real gristly from the sound of it.” Shawn elaborated and shared what little information he had with Gus. 

Shawn could hear his friend shudder over the phone. 

“Great. I get to go look at another dead body. Well, you said it was at the Ritz-Carlton, I’ll meet you there in half an hour?”

“Yea-- no!” Shawn blurted out. He tried quickly to think of a reason he would need a ride, and of a place to ask Gus to meet him, so that Gus wouldn’t come by the apartment and see Shawn’s bike missing from street parking. “I was um…. thinking-uh- donuts? Yeah! You know that 24-hour donut place? The one right by my apartment? Why don’t I walk down there and grab us a couple of creamsicle donuts and some peanut butter bacon donuts, and you can come pick me up from there?”

“Well, I do love a donut.” said Gus.”I’m surprised that you would want to walk anywhere this early, but sure. And pick up some crullers, too.”

Shawn scrambled to get dressed as he held his phone to his ear by the crook of his neck. “Okay great, 20 minutes? 30? You gotta finish the sonnet you’re reading first? Okay- uh -okay. See you soon.”

He hurried out the door, stopping to grab his wallet and keys. He had plenty of time, but he needed to push himself out the door on adrenaline, or he might collapse back into a heap and fall asleep again. 

Besides, the 24-hour donut place had coffee, and it was terrible.

A few minutes of sipping gritty, black, acidic coffee, and being around other human beings, would help shock him out of the state he was in. Help him look and feel more normal. He needed to seem normal.

There was no way he would ever tell Gus what happened last night. 

It would mess up his vacation. And worry him unnecessarily. And embarrass Shawn. Besides, it was a one-time slip-up. Those can happen to anybody.

Shawn walked quickly down the sidewalk, and the crisp Santa Barbara air started to revive him. 

A one-time slip-up. And look at him, going straight to work the next day, too. Nothing to worry about here. 

Carlton was returning from the woods, flyer clenched tightly in hand when his phone rang. 

“Head Detective of the SBPD, Carlton Lassiter, speaking.” 

“Hi, Carlton,” The chief’s voice came warmly through the phone. “I’m sorry for disturbing you. We’ve got a 419 downtown. I know this is your day off, but I really need my lead detective on this.” Chief lowered her voice noticeably. “McNab’s here securing the crime scene, but there aren’t a whole lot of guys in our new batch of rookies that can handle a scene like this. You’ll see what I mean.”

Carlton smiled and prepared to hide his excitement at having something to do with himself. 

He hated his days off. Hated having to pretend to suffer human effects of exhaustion. 

At least everyone knew better than to ask him if he would be partaking any hobbies on his day off. That question would only be answered with a long, cold stare, and a massive pile of old paperwork with that officer’s name on it. 

He steeled himself. Time to act neutral. As always.

“What’s the address? Mhmm. I’ll be there at 0430 hours.” His message communicated, Carlton hung up without a goodbye. 

He took a moment for a fist bump in the air. Yes! More time alone with his thoughts after finding that flyer was just about the worst thing he could imagine. 

And this was a murder, a gristly one too! The press would be all over this. He might even get a commendation from the mayor when he solved this. 

He put on his suit in a neat and orderly manner, and sat down to eat a quick Italian Sandwich for breakfast.

He had bought one from the restaurant by his house for dinner last night, and another one to save for his breakfast. Same as every day. He cringed each time, when he pretended that the second one was for his wife.

He didn’t need to sleep nearly as much as a human, but he needed significantly more food. He tried to eat at least 4000 calories a day. His coffee order, 3 creams, 4 sugars, helped a little bit, but it was difficult to get enough food. Especially when he needed to eat so much protein.

He took some iron and calcium supplements on the way out, and wished there were more officers at the crime scene so he could call McNab now, and have him pick up a coffee order while Lassiter was on his way.

He tossed the flyer on the coffee table on the way out.

He wasn’t done with it. Not by a long shot.

Chapter Text

Another morning thick with fog. The huge clouds of it moved slightly, buoyed by the sea breeze.

Santa Barbara was like this every summer, but still, the gloom that set over the city always felt so strange. There was something surreal about it. 

Even so, Shawn felt comforted by the weather. It seemed to him that fog often served the same purpose as snow- it wiped you, and the world, clean. 

Shawn walked down the misty street. He was grateful that his neighborhood had so many streetlights. 

The pockets of light caused the fog to wobble hazily, making the walk feel even more surreal. But they also let Shawn know what landmarks he was passing along the way, in the early morning dark. 

There was the park where Shawn sometimes sat and played chess against Old Man Peters, and where a young woman, her name was Andrea, would sit on the bench on weekend afternoons and play classical guitar, the case left open for tips. 

There was O’Douls, which had exclusively domestic beers (and Guinness) on tap. Shawn loved that bar. He and Gus had watched the Super Bowl there last year. 

Shawn had been back living in Santa Barbara for four years now, but he had just recently discovered this part of town. It was set away from downtown, and the boardwalk where the psych office was. It wasn’t in the historic district or the neighborhoods that clustered around it, out by Space Odyssey and all the best bookstores. 

It was mostly run-down buildings, some empty, but the businesses that were there had been there for years. 

Kids played kickball in the street, and tomato and zucchini plants spilled out from his neighbors yards onto the sidewalk. 

It was easy to get around, had good places to eat, what else could he ask for?

The smells, sights and sounds of Shawn’s neighborhood, muted as they were this early in the morning, grounded him. 

He knew he had made a mistake last night. 

A horrible mistake. Maybe the worst one he’d ever made. 

At least the worst mistake he’d made since getting clean. 

But at least the world hadn’t gone crashing out from under his feet.

He arrived at the donut place.

Carlton liked the fog. All werewolves liked the fog. 

It was easy to hunt and easy to hide in. With their superb hearing, werewolves had an advantage over anyone unlucky enough to be hidden in the same fog cloud as them. 

Carlton looked out his front window. He imagined just transforming, right now. 

Just running down to the crime scene in huge bounds, making it there in 10 minutes flat. 

He would smell around the victim to get the killer's scent, go to the murderer’s home, bite into their jugular, and shake his head vigorously until he heard their neck snap.

He would be home in a few hours, in bed, resting peacefully after a job well done. 

Things were so simple for him in his werewolf form. 

Kill. Nowadays, make sure to kill bad guys. 

Eat. Something bloody, preferably lamb, but any lost farm animals that hadn’t made it back to the barn that night were good. 

Any problem, with anyone? Fight to the death. If you were alive afterward, problem solved.

It had all been so easy, back during those years in San Francisco.

Being a human was all paperwork, forms, standing in lines, procedures.

Carlton did love procedures. 

They made him feel grounded, secure, in control. When he was a human, procedures made sense. 

But sometimes he wished that he didn’t need them. 

He shook his head like he was clearing water out of his ears. Enough dwelling. 

The fog enveloped him as he stepped out towards his car, and as he walked, he let the hairs on the back of his neck perk up, and the ends of his fingers sharpen slightly until they became more like claws.

It took a lot of skill and energy to only slightly transform like this, but it was skill that Carlton had. The energy, well, maybe he could sleep tonight when he got off work. 

He breathed the fog in deeply, and reveled in how it obscured the world around him.

There were so many ugly things in the world. Dumpsters. Abandoned Buildings. Billboards. Him.

But the fog kept ugly things hidden from view. At least for a little bit. 

The fluorescents at the donut shop had hurt Shawn’s eyes, but he was grateful for the exposure to them, especially now that he was in the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton, surrounded by bright chandeliers and dozens of reflective surfaces. 

He’d put in some eye drops before he got in Gus’s car, and it seemed that his ruse had worked enough to keep Gus from commenting on how horrible he looked. 

Hopefully, he didn’t look horrible at all. 

His brain was starting to work again, too. 

Small details from all over the room sprung out to him as he walked into the hotel lobby. 

He noticed some loose stacks of papers sitting on the hotel front desk. Even from across the room, he could see words at the top of a few of them.  It looked like a few said “Non-disclosure agreement,” at the top. “Liability waiver,” read the header of another. The stacks were sloppy, and Shawn could see names and signatures from different pieces of paper as they spilled haphazardly onto the hotel front desk. Huh.

It didn’t seem like anyone was working the front desk.

Shawn could see through the partially open door of a back office behind the front desk, and there appeared to be a short man in a stylish gray-flecked wool suit inside, talking on the phone. Shawn could only hear the smallest snippet of the conversation. “Cameras.. No sir, they still--” was all Shawn could decipher before the door swung closed.  

He noticed McNab standing at the corner of the lobby, and they nodded to each other. 

Shawn and Gus walked over to McNab quickly.

“Hey buddy, how’s it going?” Shawn asked enthusiastically. He sounded normal to himself. He had nothing to worry about, he could totally act normal right now.

“It’s going good!” McNab responded happily. “Francie and I went to that new brewery outside of town last weekend, and well, it’s a little spooky this time of year, but the forest is still beautiful.”

He leaned in closer to Shawn and Gus and lowered his voice. “Have you seen the body yet? It seems like some kind of crazed murderer- serial killer thing.”

“Seen him? No.” Replied Shawn. “But I believe the spirit of the victim is starting to communicate to me.”

They nodded their farewells to McNab, and headed around the corner of the lobby, towards an area concentrated with police officers and crime scene tape.

Shawn didn’t think about how there was now another person he had lied to. Another person he had pretended to be normal to. He didn’t think about how lost and unmoored he felt, and how badly he needed someone to talk to. 

“Shawn?” 

“Hmm?” he replied, attention coming back to the world.   

“Are you even listening, Shawn?” Gus asked incredulously. 

“Of course I’m listening. I was just thinking about which of these..uhh.. Delightful fruits to take.” Shawn answered hurriedly, grabbing a clementine from the fruit display. 

“A murder clementine, Shawn?”

Shawn was grateful that Gus was leading the banter-- jokes weren’t coming to him like they normally did.

“It’s not a murder clementine,” He replied. “it’s nowhere near the crime scene tape--”

“Oh come on, like that--

Around the turn, the scene before them was striking, and Shawn and Gus fell silent. 

The room was all marble and glass-- mirrors and copper accents glinting in the light. There was a chandelier that seemed improbably large. 

Before them was the guest lounge, empty, and at the very end of the lobby, the elevators. 

They were blocked off with crime scene tape and surrounded by police officers, and the center of a gristly scene. 

Even from this far away, Shawn could see it. Blood was spattered in high arcs on the inside of the left elevator’s walls. 

There was a bloody, crumpled heap on the elevator floor, and Shawn could only assume that that was the body. He heard Gus beside him gulp.

They walked closer, and Shawn could tell that the crumpled heap indeed used to be a living human.

The corpse of a man was lying on the floor of the elevator, staring straight up at the ceiling. The torso had been cut open, the skin pulled to either side. 

Closer still, Shawn noticed something even more horrifying. Where the organs and intestines should have been, there was nothing. Inside the torso, there was just a spine, ribs, and empty space. The body looked a little like an empty sack.

Whatever blood wasn’t sprayed onto the walls was pooling underneath the body. 

The decorative copper tiles lining the elevator only drew more attention to it all.

“I am going to go, uh, outside.” Gus said quietly, and he speed-walked back out of the hotel.

Shawn was lucky that his childhood where he heard about gristly murders, as well as the many he had seen since becoming a psychic detective, had toughened him up. 

This would not be an ideal day to throw up. 

Chief Karen Vick was off to the side of the crime scene, talking on the phone. She looked distraught. That was strange, the chief was normally unshakeable-- a beacon of calm. 

The chief noticed him, and quickly ended her phone call. 

“Mr. Spencer. I’m so glad you’re here. CSI is almost done, and then you will be able to examine the body. Is Mr. Guster with you?”

“Ahh- yes.” replied Shawn. “He was.. held up, but he will be here shortly.”

Chief Vick nodded in reply, and looked at Shawn seriously. 

“Mr Spencer, if there was ever a case where your psychic powers would come in handy, it’s this one. We’re going to need to solve this one fast, before the public starts to panic. And it’s going to be a lot more difficult than it should be, because---”

Shawn raised his hand to stop her, and raised the other hand to his temple. “Shh, wait, I’m getting something. Something about the… lights? No. The computers? No. The.. the cameras! It’s the cameras.”

“That’s right, Mr. Spencer.” Chief Vick said approvingly. “There’s a--” before she could finish speaking, there was a horrible popping noise from the direction of the body, and the CSIs all began to swarm around it hurriedly. 

“Alright! That’s it!” The coroner yelled. “This is hard enough without all of you crowding around here, so get out! I want everyone who isn’t CSI or securing the perimeter out of here!”

Everyone backed away to the guest lounge, and Chief Vick was pulled away by an officer with questions, before she and Shawn could continue their conversation. 

Carlton’s car pulled up to the Ritz right after Juliet O’Hara’s, and he breathed a sigh of relief. 

Back when they met, Carlton had been annoyed to be assigned such a young, inexperienced partner, but he had come to trust O’Hara more than anyone he had ever met. 

They had been through thick and thin together, and had to depend on one another in many life-threatening scenarios. 

Of course, many of those scenarios were caused by none other than Shawn Spencer.

It was always a relief to know that he would be walking into a crime scene with O’Hara by his side. Together, they projected an air of confidence, the kind that always fell flat when Carlton tried to project it by himself. 

He wouldn’t use the word best friend, because he was not the kind of man who had best friends. Or friends at all, for that matter. But he would help her move, or stop by the bar with her for a few whiskeys to unwind after a case, any day. 

They walked over to each other in front of their cars and nodded to one another. Carlton looked around for eavesdroppers before beginning to confer with her-- standard practice. 

“What do we know so far?” She asked him. 

“419 in there. Brutal. No ID on the victim, and no real suspects so far. Chief’s worried that it’s going to really whip the public into the frenzy, especially happening at a place like the Ritz-Carlton.” Carlton paused. “I never did like that hotel name.” 

Juliet O’Hara nodded and looked at her watch. “CSI guys should just be about done in there. Let’s do this.”

They walked into the building side by side. Carlton saw McNab first-- he was stationed by the hotel front door. 

Carlton knew that the crime scene was around the corner of the lobby, by the elevators, but he noted that CSI was not yet packing up their equipment, and all the officers, as well as the Chief and ugh.. Spencer.. were standing a respectable distance back from the perimeter.  

It was still early in the morning, and it seemed that word of the murder had not yet spread through the hotel. For now, all of the guests appeared to still be asleep, and there were no witnesses or passerbys. That was unusual for any scene, but at a hotel, where people were staying overnight, this was especially unusual. 

They had a rare, perfect, uninterrupted moment to investigate. 

Carlton looked at McNab. “Coffee.” The beat cop nodded and hurried quickly out of the hotel. 

He saw that Spencer appeared to be by himself, and grimaced internally, preparing for whatever barb Spencer would throw his way this morning. Would it be an overly faux friendly greeting? Using him as a prop for one of his “psychic visions”? A joke about Carlton’s appearance?

Whatever it would be, it was bound to be extremely inappropriate for a professional setting, much less a crime scene. 

He turned his back on Spencer, bracing himself for the man’s antics. “Let’s get this over with.” he thought. 

Carlton truly couldn’t stand Spencer. He didn’t know for sure that psychic powers weren’t real-- his existence was proof enough that the world was more supernatural than most people realized. But he knew that Spencer was faking. That man was a con-artist, through and through. 

But he was not going to get thrown off by however Spencer treated him. He and Spencer didn’t like each other, but that didn’t matter. 

And whatever was about to happen wouldn’t matter either. 

He would never understand why Spencer had to embarrass him publicly by pretending to like him all the time. 

And sometimes, more than like him. 

It was inappropriate. It was unprofessional. It was embarrassing. It was.. It was.. 

Carlton realized that he had been bracing for Spencer to come to greet him for a while now, and nothing had happened. 

Surely the man had seen him. And he didn’t seem to have anything else occupying him. Why hadn’t he come over to ruin Carlton’s morning yet?

Carlton turned around and saw that Spencer had moved as far across the room from him as he could, and seemed like he was trying not to look at him. Strange. And he hadn’t even gone up to O’Hara to bother her, either. 

Lassiter continued to visually scan the room but was suddenly hit by an awful smell. 

It was a sickly sweet, pungent, animalistic smell. Ugh. 

Someone here had drugs processing through their system. 

Unfortunately, Lassiter could smell the human reaction to the overuse of substances way more than he would like to. Their bodies were so fragile. 

CSI was beginning to move out their stuff from the crime scene, but the coroner was locked in deep conversation with the chief and had not cleared the scene  for investigation yet. 

Carlton stepped outside for some air. The smell was getting to him, and it was too personal, anyway. 

Doing drugs was illegal, but standing around a crime scene and coming down from a high wasn't necessarily immoral, or hurting anyone. He’d rather not know who it was-- none of his business anyway. 

Shawn saw Lassiter and Juliet come in and immediately did a 180°, and headed to the opposite side of the room from them.  

Fuck. ing fuck. 

Shawn looked down at his hands and steadied his breathing, and realized how stupid he was for not preparing for this.

Of course, Lassiter and Juliet were here. And of course, he was going to have to act normal in front of them. And of course, he was completely failing at acting normal so far.

It’s hard to hide things from your best friend, but Shawn would argue that it's harder to hide things from two detectives who knew you well, and who are not remotely distracted by the disemboweled corpse in the room. 

Juliet was always receptive to his joking and antics and was sure to notice that they were missing, if he couldn’t pull himself together. 

And Lassiter... Well. 

The man was beautiful. His tall Irish frame, his eyes. How he was assertive and independent to the core. His dedication to the law. His weapons holster…

One of Shawn’s favorite parts of the psychic detective gig was the friendly rivalry they had going on. 

They would argue about their different methods of deduction, about Shawn bending the rules. They approached crime-solving in completely opposite ways, and the cases they were both on often felt like a head-to-head battle, to see who’s method of solving crimes was the best. 

The competition would always get Shawn to push himself harder.

They would trade little barbs, some friendly ribbing, and Shawn felt like it helped hide his crush perfectly. 

Sure, he and Lassiter disagreed on, well... everything, and Lassiter couldn’t even begin to accept the idea of a “psychic” or anything supernatural, but at the end of the day, there was an understanding between them. They were equals. 

And Lassiter was a damn good detective, which was why Shawn was going to stand as far away as possible, and avoid looking into his steely blue eyes, until he started to feel better. 

He saw Lassiter head outside and hoped that there would be something important on the outside of the hotel to keep him there. 

But, after only a moment, Gus started walking back into the hotel lobby and Detective Lassiter headed in as well, only a few paces behind him. 

Fuck. Okay. It’s avoid-conversation-with-your-best friend-and-coworkers time. But act natural, and avoid it in a normal way. 

“You there!” Shawn said loudly at a hotel worker walking past. “I have…. A question! Tell me, why aren’t the cameras working?

The hotel worker stammered back at him, holding a large box of keurig k-cups and clearly very overwhelmed.

“Um, Sir?” Shawn was cut off by a short, bald man in a beautiful gray wool suit, with tortisehell glasses and a bright blue pocket square. “That, won’t be necessary. I can tell you about in my office, just like I told your chief of police earlier, heh.”

Lassiter strode over and stood very close to the man, facing him. Almost looming over him. He spoke very quietly.  “No. You will tell all of us, here, now, and to do anything less will result in you being charged for interfering with a police investigation.” 

Shawn barely overheard O’hara as she nudged Lassiter sharply and hissed. “Detective, you can step back a little.”

Immediately, Lassiter moved away and coughed slightly. “Right. Anyway. Explain.” 

He pointed at the other man, and maintained eye contact.

Damn. If Lassiter didn’t do “threatening” well, Shawn didn’t know who did.

“Well, heh, sir, you see-” The short man stumbled over his words, and nervously pulled out a small piece of cloth to clean his glasses. “I’m the owner of this hotel. There’s a convention here this week. They come every year, and they always pay very well. It’s a long-standing tradition, you see. And, uh, in return for their payment, they request certain alternative policies. We, um, turn off all elevator, stairwell, and hallway cameras. We also allow them to bring in their own furniture to the penthouse suite, and use it as somewhat of a common area.” He hurriedly added, ”They always book out every room in the hotel, so there’s no chance of any other guests being disturbed. No visitors allowed, either. Any food deliveries, or individuals of any kind who are not booked in a room, don’t make it past the front desk.”

Shawn looked at Gus with a meaningfully raised eyebrow, and Gus responded with one of his own. Oh no. Please don’t tell us we’re going to have to interview a bunch of people from a--

“And just what is this convention?” Lassiter asked impatiently, scribbling down on his notepad. 

“Well, Mr. Detective, Sir.” The hotel owner fidgeted uncomfortably. “I believe they call it a, uh, Swingers Convention?”

Shawn saw Lassiter go full deer-in-the-headlights for a second. He stood completely still, eyes on his notepad, pen clenched tightly in one hand. 

“I see.” He said after a moment and resumed writing. “Are any of the convention-goers still awake at this hour?”

“It’s possible, but unlikely.” Responded the hotel owner. “We have strict quiet hours at midnight. The local noise ordinances are very clear, and as I’m sure you know, very well-enforced.”

“Ah.” Lassiter replied simply. 

Shawn recalled a piece of paper he had seen on the front desk earlier.

“Hold on, hold on” He said. “I’m getting a… um.. A kit kat. A wafer cookie.. A wafer… a… a waiver? Did these guests sign waivers?”

The hotel owner nodded quickly. 

“Yes. yes indeed. Given that many of the requirements the convention has for the hotel are far out of the range of normal, and would not be covered by our liability insurance, Every guests signs a waiver stating that they understand the risks. The convention provides their own liability insurance as well. It’s all really on the up-and-up, you know.”

Shawn watched Lassiter write all this down, visibility irritated that Shawn was able to deduce something first. 

“And why,” Lassiter asked pointedly as he looked up from scribbling, “is there a dead man in your elevator who seems to be a visitor to the hotel, if no visitors were allowed?”

“We, um, we don’t know, sir. Thomas was working the front desk last night, and I believe he’s already been taken down to the station for questioning. Although I’m sure he didn’t do anything!”

“Alright, Thank you,” Lassiter said to the man brusquely. “My partner, Detective O’Hara, will take your full testimony.”

Shawn saw Lassiter and Juliet nod at each other, and Juliet quickly pulled out her tape recorder and turned to the hotel owner. 

“Alright, let’s start from the beginning. What happened yesterday?”

Shawn and Gus backed away, and Shawn pulled Gus over quietly. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Gus responded, “That the hotel owner’s pocket square and socks match perfectly, and he has some serious style going on”?

“Yes, and?”

“That nobody’s figured out which floor the victim got on the elevator from?”

“Yeah!” Said Shawn. “Let’s go look!”

Shawn and Gus slipped out of the crime scene, and towards the back stairs that had mercifully not been closed off. 

Carlton flipped through his notepad, skipping quickly through page after page of details about the intricacies of the... Convention. Why Mr. Mulligan, the hotel owner, had seen fit to tell him and O’Hara all these details, Carlton did not understand. 

He had just finally managed to extricate himself from the conversation, but O’Hara was still talking to the man, and had just inserted a second tape into her tape recorder. 

It had been just swell hearing all of those details about the convention.

What his morning had really, really needed was for him to take valuable time away from his investigation so that he could hear about the ways in which many, many happily married couples had been enjoying each other's company at this hotel. 

Sigh.

Carlton wandered to the edge of the crowd, rolled his neck around a little, and sighed. He shook his suit sleeve off of his wrist to check the time. 

He’d lost a half-hour, but luckily, it seemed that none of the guests were awake. He could still easily investigate. 

Carlton scanned the crowd, and noticed that Spencer had disappeared, taking Guster with him. 

And without coming up to him and embarrassing him, or even talking to him at all, for that matter. 

This morning was getting stranger and stranger. 

Carlton examined the body. Luckily, CSI had managed to contain the ever-increasing blood pool, so Carlton was able to get up close.

It was… horrifying. Worst of all was the victim’s blank stare up at the elevator ceiling, his mouth still open. 

He had seen his share of desecrated corpses in his day, but here? In Santa Barbara?

Carlton almost wondered if there was a possibility that some of his kind were involved.

He pondered for a minute and gestured for McNab to come join him.

McNab hurried over. 

“Have we found which floor the victim entered the elevator from?” Carlton asked.

“No sir,” replied McNab. "CSI is on every floor, but nothing yet. I think they’re about to transport the body to the morgue. People will be waking up soon, and no one wants them to panic.”

Carlton nodded. He let the chief know that he and O’Hara would split up, and help examine the various floors for signs of the victim entering the elevator. 

Carlton took the 3rd and top floor. 

There was that smell again. Faintly. Like a cross between burned sugar and rotting meat. Maybe he had just smelled it wafting down from up here, after all. At an event like this, there were bound to be many people testing the limits of their nervous systems with drugs of all kinds. 

It was stronger up here, wafting from under doorframes, a huge cloud of it around a trashcan in the hallway filled with puke. Jeez. Some classy event this was. 

The smell was starting to make Carlton’s head spin. He needed to focus. Needed to inspect each elevator entrance on each floor, and try to determine which floor the victim had come from. 

There was another scent up here, too. A warm, clean, musky odor, like fresh dirt upturned from the earth. Someone like him. Maybe more than one person like him. 

Carlton knew it. There was at least one werewolf here. Why was it that when debaucherous activities took place, or humans lost their lives violently, werewolves were never far behind?

Carlton checked each floor carefully, paying particular attention to the area around the elevators. The CSIs had found no evidence, and Carlton didn’t find any either. Well, no evidence of this crime. Evidence of many, many other things was apparent to him, and Carlton wasn’t even the one using the blacklight.

It was strange. The housekeeping had been kept up with, but still, it was clear that this whole place would need a deep clean once the convention left.

But yet, there wasn’t a smudge of blood on the walls, not even a slight stain left behind by a bloody footprint, and no evidence of cleaning supplies having been used anywhere. The carpets were perfectly dry and spotless, save for a few crumbs left behind by last night’s room service. 

The top floor was particularly clean. There were just as many guests on this floor as all the others, so Carlton knew that that had nothing to do with it. 

That smell was here again, faintly. Drugs. And the scent of other werewolves. And absolutely no clues. 

He paced back and forth across the top floor, checking his watch and knowing that he had fewer and fewer minutes before guests would start to wake, and looking for anything that he had missed. 

There was a door, at the other end of the hallway from the elevator. “Roof access”. 

Carlton pushed through it, expecting deadly silence and hopefully, hopefully, some kind of clue. 

Instead, he heard the familiar sound of two adult men squabbling with each other. 

“Dude, come on, that’s totally an illegal move.”

“ No, it’s not, Shawn. It’s a classic double back drop kick, and I would have been able to finish the move if you hadn’t interrupted me.”

“Dude come on! You definitely just dropped that on the ground. Stop making stuff up.”

Shawn Spencer and Burton Guster were halfway across the roof top, looking down at what appeared to be a clementine from the hotel’s fresh fruit display, and arguing over it. 

They hadn’t noticed Carlton yet, he had managed to push the door open partway without it making any noise.

Carlton took a minute to steady himself before he would step out onto the roof and interrogate Spencer and Guster about just how and why they had ended up on the roof of the building, only accessible via several floors of secured crime scene that they had not been invited to examine. 

Hmm. Steadying himself wasn’t working. 

Stupid. This was so stupid. He would just step out there, act as confident as he would if O’Hara was by his side, and react to whatever dumb quip or nickname that Spencer would greet him with by threatening to have them thrown from the building, or taken off the case entirely.

There was nothing to be nervous about! He held the power in this situation, as Head Detective of the SBPD, and nothing that that con-artist said to him should matter. 

And it wasn’t that Carlton got tongue-tied, or anything, he just couldn’t be bothered to respond to half the inane things that Spencer said. 

Alright, he thought, let's get this over with.

He pushed the door open all the way, before striding out onto the roof, walking with a confidence he didn’t feel. 

Only to see Spencer and Guster, no longer chatting, but looking in his direction quietly, smiles playing across both of their lips. 

“Hey Lassie.” Said Spencer, breaking into a wide grin. 

“Spencer. Guster.” Carlton replied gruffly. 

He knew he looked so stiff just standing there, but he couldn’t help it. 

“Were you in the uh- were you standing in the doorway, with the door propped slightly open, just now? For a while?” Spencer asked, and Carlton could hear the laughter bubbling up in his voice.

“Yes Spencer, I was,” Carlton replied, with all the icyness his voice could muster. “There were some interesting scratch marks along the inside of the doorframe, indicating that heavy equipment might have been carried through the roof. I was doing my job as a detective, as I have permission to examine the crime scene. Would you care to explain what you were doing here? Would it have something to do with traveling through my secured crime scene, completely unauthorized?” 

Spencer cocked his head playfully and smiled at him. 

“Well, Lassie. We were just checking out this parking garage next door- Gus thought it would be a great place to practice some hacky sack moves, when what do you know, the hacky sack rolled right over here onto the roof of the Ritz-Carlton, which turned out to be an even better place to practice hacky sack.”

Guster chimed in. “The new hacky sack season starts right after I get back from culinary school. We made it to the semi-finals last year.”

Carlton peered around the two of them. Sure enough, at the edge, there was barely a foot of space between the two buildings, and there was a wide walkway connecting them. 

He looked back at Spencer. “That’s a clementine.”

Spencer smiled at him again, and Carlton almost had to look away from his mocking gaze. 

“We’re thinking of going all-natural this year, Lassie. None of those processed hacky sacks they turn out in factories. Just two men and a piece of fruit, like how they did it in the old days.”

Carlton’s tired brain overloaded. “You--that’s not-- hacky sacks don’t come from the-- did you say culinary school???”

Before Guster could answer, Carlton gave up.

He whipped around and headed back inside the building. “Stay out of my crime scene!” He yelled over his shoulder. “And don’t call me Lassie!”

He slammed the door behind him and leaned back against it. He slumped his knees, and let his back rest heavily against the steel. He looked up at the ceiling, and slowly counted to ten. 1...2….3…. ….

Spencer always knew how to get the best of him. There was even a blush touching Carlton’s cheeks. 

The younger man always made him feel so… well.. mortified. 

Like rules were a joke, and Carlton was a joke for following them. 

Like everyone would just be having a grand old time if Carlton would just loosen up a little, just let Spencer break some of the rules, or even all of them. 

That good-for-nothing fake psychic…..

Spencer was lucky that Carlton had bigger fish to fry. 

But he wanted that man out of his police department. As soon as possible. 

...8...9….10…. The middle numbers didn’t matter anyway, right?

Besides, Carlton felt better. His cheeks had cooled. His breath had steadied. 

He was ready to go catch a murderer. 

Chapter Text

Shawn and Gus were getting lunch when Gus got the call. 

Shawn had been feeling better. They were fully into the afternoon, and clean sea breeze and bright Californian sunshine were drifting in through the open car windows. There wasn’t a fog cloud in sight. 

They had just parked, and were about to head in to get Korean Fried Chicken (one of their favorites). Shawn was really starting to feel like himself again. 

He kept thinking back to the way Lassie looked on that roof. So flustered. It had been…. Well, downright cute.  

Lassie was so serious, so authoritative, so commanding, Shawn couldn’t help but love the moments when he could get him to crack a little- to stutter, or lose his train of thought, or sometimes even to laugh. 

“-- And we even got some hacky sack practice in,” said Gus, startling Shawn back to reality. “The clementine you had in your pocket wasn’t as good as a standard regulation hacky sack, but this year's tournament starts so soon after i get back from culinary school, we need all the practice we can get.”

“Uh-- yeah. Yeah, we’re gonna do great this year,” replied Shawn hurriedly. “The team from Millbrook Middle School thinks they’re winning again? Nuh-uh. We’re gonna wipe the floor with them this year.”

“Yeah,” said Gus.“And we’ll finally show that Quentin kid who’s boss.”

The conversation was interrupted by Gus’s phone ringing.

Gus looked at Shawn. “I think this might be the culinary school!” He whispered excitedly before answering.

“Yes?” asked Gus in his most professional voice.

Shawn strained but he could only hear Gus’s side of the conversation. “--Oh really? Well, I would be absolutely honored to attend. Mhmm. Mhmm. Mmm-mhmm. Of course. Well thank you, Melinda, you have a great day too!”

Gus was absolutely beaming as he hung up his cell. “Shawn, guess what?”

“Uh.. you still haven’t found the half-eaten granola bar I left in your center console,” Shawn replied.

“No, that’s not- what??” Gus paused to open the console, pulled out a very aged granola bar, and shook it at Shawn reprovingly. “--I’m going to go to the Middlewinter School of culinary arts a few days early. There will be a dinner for all of the major donors to the culinary school a few days before it begins. A black-tie dinner. And about half the big donors are doctors or work in the medical field. I’m going to be able to go and represent Central Coast Pharmaceuticals. This could be a chance to land a huge international contract !”

Shawn swallowed. “--That’s-- that’s great. When are you leaving?”

Gus smiled again. “Tomorrow night.”

“Wow, I’m so happy for you.”

If Shawn sounded disingenuous, his friend’s head was too far in the clouds to notice. 

Shawn held his tongue through the meal. 

He didn’t tell Gus how much their friendship meant to him, how overwhelmed and stressed he was, or the fact that he was realizing that he had no one else in his life that he could turn to with his struggles with addiction. Shawn had never even gotten a sponsor. Just never felt like he needed to. 

After lunch, they split up, and Shawn got a Lyft to the bar. 

In a move of overwhelming self-control, he went no further than the parking lot. He just grabbed his bike, got on it, and left. 

And it was completely unrelated to the fact that the bar wasn’t open yet. 

When Shawn got home, he didn’t even bother turning on the lights. 

He just kicked his shoes off, closed the door behind him, possibly locked it, and fell face forward onto his mattress and slept for hours. 

When he awoke, there was no light coming in under the curtains in the windows, and he knew it was very late. 

He had almost been hoping that he would still feel bad when he awoke. Hoping that this would be like one of those “30 minute naps” you lay down for at 5 pm, and suddenly you’re awake at 3 am, head foggy and mouth tasting terrible. 

Then, it would be easier to just stay in bed tonight. Put on an old movie, order some chinese food, and eventually fall back asleep. 

But no.

Shawn felt good. He felt great, even.

The sleep had refreshed him and re-charged his energy, and he knew that he wasn’t going to be staying home tonight.

And for how good he felt physically, emotionally he felt horrible. He wanted…. well, right now the logical, sober part of his brain was in control.

And it wanted to make good choices. 

He needed to think of somewhere, anywhere to go that wasn’t a bar. 

He definitely couldn’t go back to Space Odyssey. And if he went to another bar, it would just lead him there an hour or two later. 

And once there…. Shawn knew himself well. 

He would find someone with cocaine and befriend them. 

And he would do the coke, and then he would go through today’s whole horrible ordeal, all over again tomorrow. And he might do it all over again the day after that. 

Shawn sighed. There had to be somewhere he could go. 

He turned on the light in his apartment, and started scrolling through his phone contacts list while he brushed his teeth. 

McNab… It would be way too weird to call him this late at night. 

Juliet… Also way too weird. She might think he was trying to booty call her, which would cause their comfy fake-flirting at work relationship/friendship to veer a hard left into deeply uncomfortable territory. He would have to apologize if Juliet was mad at him. Or worse, if Juliet wasn’t mad at him, he would have to apologize to her because while she was beautiful and funny, and smart, and a great conversationalist, and honestly quite fun to flirt with, there was just no spark of passion between them. And he really wasn’t ready for either conversation right now. 

The Chief.. NOOOO.

Henry… If only. It would be so nice to talk to someone who understood what he was going through. But their fight was too recent, and Shawn hadn’t and wouldn’t apologize for his part in it. So for now, Henry would continue to tell Shawn exactly how he had failed to live up to being the son he was supposed to be.

Gus… Gus wouldn’t be mad, but he was going to have a huge day tomorrow. He was probably already in bed, and besides, Shawn shouldn’t be bothering him anyway. 

Lassie… he paused at the nickname in his phone, the one Detective Lassiter hated. 

It was only around 9 pm.

Lassie was probably still at the station. 

That dude seemed like he never slept. 

What would he say if Lassie answered the phone, and actually was at home for some reason? 

What would Shawn say he’d been calling him about? 

He’d say he called him because.. uh… Shawn had left a half-eaten tuna salad sandwich somewhere in the station, and he was hoping someone was there to throw it away. Yeah. 

Try not to get embarrassed, Shawn.

He shook his head and just hit call.

After a few rings, an uncertain voice answered. 

“….Spencer?” came Lassie’s voice on the other end of the line.

“Hey Lassie!” replied Shawn. “Are you at the station right now? What ya up to?”

“Uh… interviewing suspects?” Lassie replied hesitantly. 

“Oh cool.” Said Shawn. “Cool cool cool. Well, see you there in a bit!” 

He hung up the phone before Carlton could reply. 

Nice. Okay. He had something to do with himself.

Chapter Text

“Spencer, do not come down here--” Carlton said angrily. And then “Wait, Spencer, did you hang up on me?”. 

And then, “He hung up on me!” to the empty room, or to no one in particular. 

Carlton sighed. 

This better be a prank. A visit from Shawn Spencer, Psychic Detective was the last thing he needed right now. 

Okay, it had to be a prank. 

There was no way that Spencer was on his way to the station right now. 

It was Friday night, of all nights. 

And Spencer had already been into work today, at four in the morning. About 8 hours before he usually woke up, as far as Carlton could tell.

And there was no reason for him to come in again- it’s not like the “spirits” or whatever Spencer used to solve his cases required him to put in the same hours of police work that Carlton did.

Carlton shrugged off the whole idea, rolled his shoulders back, and relaxed.

There was simply no way that Spencer would come all the way down to the station, just to mess with him. 

There was nothing to worry about. 

He was definitely out playing video games with Guster, or out looking for girls in some club. 

Whatever. 

Carlton turned his thoughts back to the task at hand: Interviewing every hotel guest, and every hotel staff member. 

The staff members were due to be interviewed tomorrow, but Carlton was hoping to get through all the interviews with the guests today, while their memories were still sharp. 

Detective O’Hara and he had finished a large chunk of the interviews together, and by now Carlton was about 3/4ths of the way through the list.

He had been working alone for hours, as earlier in the day, O’Hara had hit her max overtime for the week and been promptly shooed home by the chief. 

O’Hara had been so apologetic about the amount of work she was leaving him, but secretly, Carlton was glad to be alone.

Glad….. because of one of the names on the interview list.

The one he had been dreading all night.

The one he was about to call.

The sympathetic look that O’Hara shot him when they saw the name had been enough.

He couldn’t imagine looking his partner in the eye after they completed that interview together. 

He looked at the name on the list again and sighed. 

Victoria.

Victoria Nelson. 

Followed immediately by Greg Nelson.

Good old pastor Greg. 

So Victoria and Greg had gotten legally married, after all. 

After all that talk about only needing Gaia, the Earth Mother, to validate their love; not the court system. 

And she had taken Greg’s last name. 

And Carlton hadn’t been invited to, or even made aware of, their wedding. 

Great. 

At least O’Hara was gone.

He had wasted enough time, he needed to start this interview.

Carlton briefly considered the merits of crawling into a hole and dying.

 He wouldn’t have to sit in a small, airless room with the woman who cheated on him for years; and who dramatically left him for a man named Greg.

But he wouldn’t get to solve the case.

He sighed again.

O’Hara would be back in around midnight, anyway. The weekly time clock reset on Friday nights, and she was just that kind of detective. 

He stepped out into the hallway and called Victoria’s name. 

She looked stunning.

She had always been beautiful, but she looked so different now, and more alive somehow.

She was wearing a white lace top; some type of long, beaded shawl; maroon pants that looked buttery-soft, and bangles up both her arms. 

Her skin was bright and clear, almost glowing, and she looked younger than when he had last seen her.

She had looked directly at him and smirked when he called her name.

Her new life must be treating her well. 

Carlton was wearing the same suit he’d been wearing since 4 o’clock that morning, and his stubble was several hours past a five o’clock shadow. 

He felt old and frumpy compared to her.

Which was ridiculous. 

Carlton should have nothing to feel bad about- Victoria was the one who was so pro- natural aging in the first place, and he had done it for her. 

But still, he wished he looked better.

He wished he was ten years younger.

He wished he was the person he had been before he met her. 

Victoria tossed her (fringe-covered, impractical) bag on the interview table.

She sat down in the chair across from him, relaxing into it. 

“Hello, Carlton,” she said with a smile, tossing her auburn waves slightly as she spoke. 

The ghost of a smile stayed on her lips as she looked at him from under her eyelashes. 

She knew she had him tongue-tied.

“Mrs. Nelson,” Carlton replied simply, decidedly not meeting her eyes.

He turned on his tape recorder. 

“So. Tell me about what happened the day before the murder. What did you do?”

“Well Carlton,” she laughed. “I certainly can tell you, if you really want to know. It seems a little inappropriate for you to be asking, considering the, ahh, event that I was attending.”

Carlton restrained himself from rolling his eyes. 

Okay, Victoria.

She couldn’t just give her testimony and get out, of course, she had to brag.

First, it had been her religion that made her feel like she was better than everyone else, now it was her swingers’ lifestyle.

She was never one to just live and let live. 

She always had to make sure people knew exactly why her life was superior to theirs. 

Carlton sighed. “Ma’am.” He said in a flat tone of voice-- as if they didn’t know each other. “The SBPD does not need to know the details of any sexual activities that you took part in yesterday unless you feel they are relevant to the case.”

“Oh, come on, Carlton,” she pushed, voice soft as honey. “I think we both know that you’re curious. My life has changed so much since I cut off the things and people that were no longer good for me, no offense. And we haven’t spoken in so long! I know you want to know what I’ve been up to.”

Carlton stared at her a moment. 

He reached out and clicked the tape recorder off. 

“Victoria…. just what the fuck is your problem?” He asked her in hushed tones. “I am at work. I am working right now. There was a murder. You want to tell me about your sex life? Fine. Go ahead. I just want your testimony, whatever it is, so I can keep making my way through these interviews. And catch the murderer. ”

Victoria pouted slightly and played with the beading at the top of her blouse. 

Her voice was hushed as well when she replied. “Really, Carlton? I’m just hurt . We haven’t seen each other in so long, and now you have nothing at all to say to me? And you’re not the least bit interested in what I’ve been up to? So you’re solving another murder case. Why do you care so much? Humans are so fragile, isn’t dying kind of what they do?”

Carlton was angry, but unsurprised to hear her talk that way.

For all the Worshippers of the Earth-Mother’s preaching about “non-violence” and “keeping away from humans to keep them safe”, they still viewed humans as inferior beings.

They protected them the way humans protected sea turtles.

Which, even for how infuriating it was, was better than most werewolves. 

Many of them saw humans as meat for the grinder, or as fun toys to be broken and replaced.

Watching Victoria laugh and preen, completely unaffected by the death of someone in Santa Barbara, Carlton’s city, whose occupants he was charged with protecting, made him see red. 

He had always known she felt this way. It was how the very kindest of his kind felt about humans. He had never talked about his work at home. 

And he knew that he was the outlier, the weird one, the freak, for seeing humans as equals. 

But he didn’t care. 

Carlton dropped the volume of his voice even further in an attempt to contain his rage.

He was now full-on whisper-shouting. 

“Okay, Victoria. Let’s get this straight. We meet. We date. You want to get married, so I marry you. 

“I join your religion. You make me go to the weekly meetings, led by the guy you’re secretly fucking, for years.  

“You make me stop using every special ability I have, every little thing that makes this curse of lycanthropy worth living with. For your religion.

“Meanwhile, you’re pretending to be ‘at work late’ while you’re spending all of your time with Greg, who you are again, secretly fucking. And then you tell me that you’ve been secretly fucking him and are in love. 

“You kick me out of my own home, a home you don’t even keep living in, by the way. You run off together, don’t even send me a card in the mail informing me of your wedding, and you want me to be more interested in your new swinger’s lifestyle?

“Well, I’m not, and I’m never going to be. You can tell me as much as you want about who you’re sleeping with now, you’re never going to get a rise out of me. You can’t. Since you broke my heart, there’s nothing left for you to get a rise from.

“The only reason I’m angry is that you’re wasting my time, which I need to use to finish these interviews. And if you keep it up, I’ll arrest you for impeding a police investigation. You may not care when a human dies, but I do.”

Carlton took a few breaths after he got done with his rant, realizing he hadn’t stopped to breathe at all as he spoke. 

Honestly, it had felt good to say how he felt about everything. It was something he had never done while they were married.

Victoria just shrugged. “Well, Carlton, my dear, my perspective is that the earth mother must have put you and me together in this room for a reason. You know this is the very first time she’s seen fit to bring the two of us together since I left. We finally get to be together, so I thought we might as well talk and catch up.”

“Victoria... what are you... you have a cell phone. You have an email. Hell, you have access to the U.S. Postal Service. Why would you need to wait for the Earth Mother to-- you know what, forget it. Are you going to give me your testimony or not?”

Victoria sighed again. Carlton wasn’t looking directly at her, but he could tell that she was trying to get him to make eye contact. “ Fine,” She said huffily. “If you’re really not interested in anything I’ve been up to--”

“I’m not.”

Carlton turned the tape recorder on again. “So. Miss Nelson. Talk me through yesterday.”

She did, shooting daggers at him with her eyes.

Her testimony was significantly longer and more detailed than necessary, especially considering the fact that other than a light lunch, all she and Greg had done the day before was hook up with many of the other couples at the convention.

Once finished, she flicked her hair with her hand and looked at Carlton curiously.

“You really care more about this case than anything you and I could say to each other? I’m only in town for the next few days, you know.”

“I really care more about the case, Victoria.”

“Fine, but you know, I’ve been thinking, and.. Maybe we could still be something together. We could.. At least try.” She leaned across the table as she spoke, and Carlton had to look away.

He couldn’t deal with this right now.

All that mattered was finishing these interviews. Completing the next step towards solving the case. 

It didn’t matter that, no matter how hard he tried to convince Victoria and himself, there was still a tiny part of him that cared for her.

And she had just batted it around like a cat with a ball of string.

Any feelings he had could wait. If it came down to it, eating and sleeping could wait. 

He needed to find the murderer before the murderer found their next victim.

Carlton had to end this interview. “Thank you, Mrs. Nelson. We will reach out to you if we have any further questions.”

She left, tossing her hair huffily on the way out, and for some reason, Pastor Greg just walked on into the interview room directly afterward, instead of waiting to be called like everyone else. 

This fucking guy.

Carlton hated to admit it, but Greg almost looked… good. 

He was wearing skinny, but not too skinny --an age-appropriate amount of skinny-- black jeans. 

They were paired with a navy t-shirt, some type of paisley scarf, and his brown hair had grown to at least shoulder length and twisted up into a bun. 

He looked younger too.... wait.... was he wearing toe shoes --the ones like gloves for your feet-- with this outfit? 

And in a police station? 

Neon green toe shoes?

There was a long silence.

“Greg,” Carlton said stiffly.

“Carlton.” Greg awkwardly moved over to the chair and sat down.

They sat there for another long silence. 

Greg twiddled his thumbs and started to whistle, slightly off-key.

Carlton actually did silently count to ten this time. 

“Alright,” Carlton said finally. He clicked on his tape recorder. “We’ll take your testimony now, Mr. Nelson.”

Greg’s description of the day before was identical to Victoria’s, other than being mumbled somewhat nervously and told in 1/10th the amount of time.

Afterward, Carlton nodded, and motioned for Greg to leave.

Greg did not leave. 

He just kept sitting there and looking at Carlton.

Carlton motioned again for him to leave, expectantly, but Greg did nothing.

Finally, Carlton switched off the tape recorder. “What?” He asked impatiently.

“I just wanted to say, Carlton, that I wouldn’t be surprised if, after everything that happened to you, if you struggled in your faith. If you let your connection to the Earth Mother falter. 

“It happens, in stressful times. But that connection is really important, and if you decide that you, you know, need any help restoring your faith while I’m in town--”

Carlton slammed his fist down on the table, which shook so violently that his coffee cup threatened to spill. 

“Thank you, Mr. Nelson,” he said through gritted teeth, turning the tape recorder back on. “That will be all. We will reach out if we have any further questions.”

Greg looked at him uncertainly, like he wanted to talk more, or like he had brought a religious pamphlet for Carlton and was trying to decide if now was a good time to give it to him, but finally, he turned and scurried from the room. 

Well. Those interviews had gone about 1000x worse than Carlton had imagined.

He put his head in his hands and rubbed his temples. 

He was getting the worst headache.

The smells of all the interviewees were getting to him. 

He could smell way too much information on all of them, all the places they’d been, people they’d seen, foods they had eaten the last few days. Whether they were recovering from imbibing a little too strongly. 

All of their overwhelming, heady perfumes and colognes- cedar and orange blossom and vanilla and pine. 

He could smell everything except the tinny scent of blood, or any hint, even a tiny hint, that one of them had been near a murder.

Carlton steeled himself. He was going to go get a fresh cup of coffee, and take a quiet moment for himself. 

And then he was going to call the next witness. 

He was almost done. 

Carlton heard the sounds of the remaining interviewees laughing in the hallway, and groaned inwardly. 

No. 

As if this day couldn’t get any worse.

Spencer was here. 

He opened the door and saw Spencer doing his full psychic schtick, one finger to his temple, and his other hand holding someone’s palm, tracing the lines. “--And according to your love line, that will be the last time you’ll go whale-watching on a first date.” He said with a wink.

The crowd, and especially the woman whose palm he was reading, exploded with laughter over whatever crazy life story Spencer had spun for her. 

Carlton stood awkwardly in the doorway while the laughter died down. 

Spencer lit up when he saw him. 

“Lassie!” he said excitedly. “Do you have time to take a break? Want to hear your fortune?”

Carlton wondered, was this all a setup for an even bigger prank?

Had Spencer come all the way down here on a Friday night, just to make fun of him in front of all the possible witnesses/ possible murder suspects he had to finish interviewing? 

“No,” said Carlton with a scowl. 

He turned and started walking toward the department kitchen. 

Spencer dropped that woman’s palm and hurried after him. 

“Okay, so uh, where to?”

Carlton didn’t answer Spencer, he just walked silently the rest of the way. 

Spencer hurried a little more to fall in step beside him, but otherwise said nothing. 

The SBPD kitchen was at the far end of the building, past a long hallway filled with records rooms. 

It had tile countertops, a fridge, a sink, a microwave, and an industrial coffee maker that Carlton swore made the best drip coffee you could get anywhere.

Carlton busied himself. 

He grabbed a coffee filter, a can of Folgers, thought for a moment and put the Folgers back; opened a cabinet, pulled out an ancient-looking gadget, and a small brown bag with a cursive label filled with whole coffee beans. 

It was silly, but when he was here late at night, and the station was practically deserted --just the night dispatch officers, and some patrolmen making overtime to sit at their desks and make sure none of the interviewees acted out-- when it was late at night and this still, Carlton liked to grind his own coffee beans.

He appreciated having something to do right now-- a reason not to look at Spencer. 

If he had thought having to see O’Hara after interviewing Victoria would be bad, well-- just give it another minute, and he knew the jokes would start flowing. 

All at his expense. 

He glanced over his shoulder, but to his surprise, Spencer looked distracted. 

The man was sitting at the table, twirling his keys around in his hand, and looking at the wall with what Carlton imagined was the closest Spencer could get to a thousand-yard stare. 

Huh.

Carlton took his time putting everything away, still on guard. 

But every time he snuck another peek at Spencer, Spencer looked the same. Distracted. Unhappy? And surprisingly, silent.

He thought for a moment, pulled another mug out of the cabinet, and poured them both a cup of coffee. 

He put cream and sugar in both.

He slid into the seat across from Spencer, and passed him the cup. 

Spencer took it, wrapped both hands around it like he was savoring the warmth, and took a sip.

Carlton watched him expectantly the whole time, but when Spencer still didn’t say anything, Carlton relaxed slightly and sipped his coffee as well.

As they sat in silence, it started to really sink in for the first time. 

Spencer was here. 

Probably to try to further his own investigation by getting a look at, or even some questions in with the suspects. 

But still, Spencer was here, alone. 

It was so strange.

This silence was almost nice. 

He’d never even pictured spending any amount of time with Spencer, without Spencer taking potshots at him. 

He didn’t understand what it meant- Spencer deciding to put their rivalry down for a moment. 

Was it because Spencer wanted Carlton to let him sit in on some interviews with the suspects? 

He certainly had the power to let him in, and the chief would probably even be happy with him if he did it, for a case this mysterious and urgent. 

He just didn’t want to give in. 

Didn’t want to give Spencer any extra information that he could use to solve the case on his own, and claim “spirits gave him the answers”. 

Didn’t want to do for Spencer what so many others did-- just giving the man whatever he asked for. 

Not even once.

Spencer cleared his throat, suddenly ready to speak.

Ugh. 

Here we go. 

Carlton took a sip of his coffee, and didn’t look up. 

He knew it. 

All Spencer wanted was to get Carton to give him inside info on a case.

“So, do you actually have time to take a break from interviewing?” Spencer asked.

“......Why?”

“There’s this great taco truck about two blocks from here, and we have-” Spencer glanced at his watch “About 20 minutes before they close, if we’re gonna go.”

The tacos were really good. 

Carlton hadn’t even realized how low his blood sugar was until he started eating. 

Hadn’t even realized how many hours he’d been cooped up in the station until he was walking down the sidewalk with Spencer.

There were a few picnic benches next to the truck, and they sat and ate there. 

It was nice out. 

Even in summer, the foggiest, creepiest months of the year, on some days the sky was still clear this late into the night.

He wouldn’t have even known that this was one of those nights if Spencer hadn’t come to interfere with his investigation.

Carlton looked down at the taco in his hand. It was carne asada, his seventh of the night. 

He looked at the growing pile of paper plates beside them. Spencer’s eating had kept pace perfectly with Carlton, who was eating as much as he thought he could possibly get away with while still seeming like a normal human.

This was all a little surreal.

Him and Spencer, enjoying good food and cool night air together. 

If he hadn’t come down to the station, Carlton would be knee-deep in interviews again, with only a cup of coffee to keep him company.

Carlton sighed. 

It seemed he was going to give in after all.

“...Alright,” said Carlton, breaking the comfortable silence between them.

“What?” asked Spencer, looking up from some type of churro-based dessert taco. 

“ Alright , you can sit in on some interviews with me. Just until midnight, when O’Hara gets here. And only if you don’t interfere with my questioning.”

Spencer smiled and raised his eyebrows, surprised. “Okay, sure, Lassie! We’ll be the dynamic duo. The number one interview team.” 

Carlton waited for this joke to continue into a personal insult about him. 

It didn’t. 

Spencer must have zero leads-- must be pretty desperate to be acting this nice in hopes of getting Carlton to let him in on the official investigation. 

“Sure.” Carlton shrugged it off, balling up his trash and moving to throw it away. “The Chief says we need all hands on deck for a case as big as this.”

“So do we have a suspect number one yet?” Asked Spencer. ”Or any suspects at all?” 

“Thomas McCain,” Carlton answered with his mouth full. He took a minute before continuing. “He was supposed to be watching the front desk last night, but he was allegedly ‘with a couple in their room.’ We interviewed the couple earlier, but neither of them can recall specific times, so as an alibi it’s spotty at best. McCain is being interviewed with the rest of the staff, tomorrow.”

Carlton didn’t mention his personal theories that a vicious, supernatural predator might have killed the victim, possibly just for fun.

They were walking back to the station when Carlton started to go over the list of suspects out loud, to help himself keep track of who was who. “Okay, so there’s that Brenda and Bryan Smith… The Wimbletons… Tony Fitzgerald and Miriam Hoffman ..Victoria and Greg...”

“Ohh, same name as your ex,” Spencer said suddenly. “Wouldn’t that be the worst. Ha.” 

Carlton just glared at him in response.

“Wait..you don’t mean…” The glare intensified.

Spencer glanced at him, and down at the ground as they walked. “Hey, is she uh, kind of a hippie?”

Carlton sighed deeply. “Yes.” and after a pause, “Did you meet her on the way in?”

“Yeahh…...”

“..........Did you read her palm?”

“Yeahhhh……...”

“....What was the fortune?”

“..... Um. Years of…. happiness….. with her…. new husband. Although now that I’m thinking about it, I think the palm lines might actually have said years of hangnails and also getting repeatedly stung by hornets.” Spencer said the last part emphatically, as if he really believed it. 

“I see.”

They stopped talking as they got back to the station, and Carlton noticed once again that Spencer hadn’t taken the opportunity to embarrass or make fun of him. 

Huh.

Maybe it was because they were alone, there was no audience right now.

Shawn was momentarily startled as he walked into the police station. 

He hadn’t considered that coming down to see Lassie while he conducted interviews would mean seeing all the people waiting to be interviewed, but here they were. 

The crowd seemed to be spread out down the hallway and into the visitors' waiting room. The people close to the door looked up at him curiously as he walked in-- all the convention guests knew each other at this point, so it was clear that he wasn’t one of them. 

“Um, Hello,” he said uncomfortably. “My name’s Shawn Spencer, Head Psychic Consultant of the SBPD. I have some urgent business to attend to, so if you all will just excuse me--”

“Psychic?” asked a cute blonde man, holding hands with his equally cute husband. “Like tarot and palm readings and stuff? Can you read my fortune?”

Shawn glanced at the clock and glanced back at these two men, who were now smiling at him expectantly. 

It would be nice to show off a little. It would help him feel a little more like himself. 

“Well… maybe just one….”

Shawn lost track of time doing palm readings. 

Before he knew it, he’d told the fortunes of most of the people waiting to be interviewed, as well as the fortune of a hippie-lady who seemed a little older than Shawn, and her husband, who were on their way out of the building. Cute couple. 

He kept trying to politely walk away, but it seemed like the more fortunes he told, the more people were excited to hear theirs. He was having trouble extricating himself from the situation.

Midway into another fortune, Lassiter suddenly appeared in the hallway, outside the interview room. 

Shawn dropped the hand of the person he was palm-reading in embarrassment. 

Lassiter hated the psychic stuff, and of course , this was the first thing he’d seen. 

And when Shawn was here to try to get Lassiter’s permission to hang out for a little while. 

Not a good look, Shawn. 

“Hey-uh, hey Lassie!” he called, a little too excitedly. “Do you have time to take a break? Want to hear your fortune?”

Lassiter gave a simple “No.” and walked away from him. 

Shawn hurried after him, cursing himself for adding that last part.

He’d just blurted it out. Stupid.

He had to walk very quickly to keep pace with Lassiter, unsure of where they were going.

They walked through the lobby.

Down the record rooms hall.

Into a... Kitchen?

Shawn blinked in surprise.

He had never been in this room before. 

It was cute. 

Okay. A place to be had been secured, at least for now. 

Shawn sat down at the table, while Lassiter did something over by the kitchen cabinets. 

Shawn knew he should talk. It was weird of him to come here and not talk. But he kept getting lost in his own thoughts. 

He would go off on a mental tangent about Gus, then one about Space Odyssey and whether Ben with the good coke was there again tonight, then one about Henry, then one about the still-unidentified murder victim that he had seen that morning.

Then he would realize that he had been silent for a while, look over at Lassiter and open his mouth, draw a blank, and then try to quickly think of something to say.

And then it would start all over again. 

At least Shawn felt like himself again, like the drugs were fully out of his system.

That was a relief.

He was lucky his metabolism was so fast, things always left his system quickly.

Eventually, Lassiter slid into the seat across from him and passed him a cup of coffee. 

Shawn sipped and was surprised by how good it tasted.

He had been hearing lots of banging and a bit of motorized whirring over by the cabinets, but knowing Lassiter, he had still been expecting to taste like the bottom of the pot at a 7-11.

But the coffee tasted like earth and warmth and chocolate, and cream and sugar. 

The cream and sugar was Shawn’s favorite part.

Lassiter seemed to be respecting Shawn’s silence and was looking away from him. 

The detective was twisted slightly in his seat and was gazing out the one small window in the kitchen.

Shawn couldn’t help but notice the architecture of the man’s face. 

His hair.

His ears. 

The gentle way he sipped his coffee, savoring it like the flavor really mattered, like it wasn’t just hot bean juice that made you go fast. 

All of a sudden, Shawn realized that Lassiter was looking at him. 

Shit.

“Uh, do you want to uh, get, uh, tacos?” Shawn squeaked out.

At least he had said something. 

And he did actually want tacos.

“What?” asked the detective, leaning in a little to hear Shawn better.

“Uh, tacos.” Said Shawn. And then with more confidence, “There’s a food truck near here, we can go get some soon if you want”--he glanced at his watch and realized what a dumb idea it was, when there was so much urgent work to be done--”Oh, but they’re only open another 20 minutes.”

To his surprise, Lassiter shrugged, interested. “Let’s go.”

On their outing, Shawn was having an even harder time keeping his eyes off of the man. 

Noting how he looked walking, how he sounded while ordering, how different parts of his face lit up as he moved under the streetlights.

His strong, capable hands.

He really needed to get himself together.

Shawn was startled again when Lassiter suddenly told him that he could stay for the interviews.

Shit. 

He had forgotten to even ask. 

Shawn hid a smile and bounced on his heels slightly as he finished his dessert, trying to keep his excitement to himself. 

Yes.  

Something to do with himself until midnight, when O’Hara got here. 

After that, he would just need to find a way to kill the last two hours until the bar closed. 

He could do that. 

Chapter Text

Carlton was annoyed to find that —as always— the people being interviewed were much more eager to open up to Spencer than they were Carlton.

Hrmph. 

They were fooled by his charm, all of them. 

Still, Carlton was gaining valuable information, and it was a relief to not have to be the only one asking questions; although it would be a much bigger relief once O’Hara got there, and per their deal, Carlton could shoo Spencer away.

He was surprised at how well they were getting along.

After they had finished a particularly interesting interview with a man who was eager to tell them that while yes he had been arrested several times for attempting to steal different inflatable men from car dealerships; he had NEVER and would NEVER do anything violent, Spencer and Carlton looked at each other, and for one strange moment, it felt like they might burst out laughing together. 

But the moment passed.

“So,” Said Spencer, “Does this guy go the top of the suspect list alongside Thomas McCain, or does the SBPD view inflatable-man-theft and murder as seperate categories of crime?”

Carlton shot him a reproving look before replying. “I doubt this man had anything to do with the murder last night, but go pull his file from the records room just in case. He brought his criminal record up to us, even though we likely would never have known otherwise. It’s worth looking into. The night receptionist will unlock the door for you, just tell her I sent you.”

“Aye-aye Lassie” Spencer said, doing a salute as he left the room. 

Because the idea of anyone respecting authority was sooo funny, Carlton thought to himself drily. 

He rolled his eyes to himself and checked his watch. 

There was time for a few more interviews before O’Hara showed back up to help him finish the last of them. 

He stepped out into the hallway again and looked down at his clipboard. 

Suddenly, his cell rang. 

O’Hara. 

Was she coming here early? 

For a moment, Carlton felt a twinge of disappointment. But then, he remembered himself.

It would be great news if O’Hara was coming here early. The sooner he could get Spencer away from him, the better. 

“Lassiter,” he answered shortly. His version of a casual phone greeting. 

“Hey, Carlton!” O’Hara answered. She sounded out of breath. “Listen--” it sounded like there was some kind of splashing in the background-- “I wish I could come back and help with the interviews, but my basement flooded?” Her voice got higher pitched at the end of the sentence. By now, Carlton was pretty sure that what he was hearing was Juliet bailing out her basement with a bucket. “It’s an emergency.”

“Okay,” Carlton replied “That’s fine, I can finish the interviews. I’ll call you when I’m done, if you need help I’ll stop by on my way home.”

“I’m-- sure it will be-” There was a very loud splash on the other end of the phone. “--Fine. See you tomorrow.”

O’Hara hung up the phone without a goodbye. She knew that Carlton hated wasting phone time with needless talk.

Well, according to their arrangement, this meant Spencer was staying. 

He was not happy about this, and he certainly did not smile when he saw Spencer re-appear in the hallway, file in hand. 

“Spencer,” Carlton said gruffly as the man approached. “O’Hara can’t make it, so you’re staying. You better make yourself useful.”

“Of course, Head Detective!” Spencer responded playfully. He directed his voice towards the people waiting to be interviewed. “If any of these people lie in their interview” --he cracked his knuckles for emphasis-- ”You just show me who, and I’ll give them the old one-two-three.”

He gave Carlton a wink.

Carlton just rolled his eyes. 

Spencer’s show was completely unnecessary. 

Carlton was quite capable of scaring these people on his own, especially now that he had some food in him.

And Spencer hadn’t even said it right.

“It’s called the old one-two,” replied Carlton. 

Spencer shrugged him off with a wave of his hand. “Ah, I’ve heard it both ways.”

At two in the morning, they left the station and went their separate ways, interviews completed. 

Carlton, off to go help O’Hara with some plumbing that had apparently started spraying even more water into her already-flooded basement; and Spencer presumably to home, or whatever that man got up to on Friday nights. 

On second thought, probably not home. 

After a stressful hour of bailing water and waiting for the 24-hour plumber to finally get there, Carlton was finally able to go home. 

He was ready to shut down for the day.

He didn’t physically need to sleep yet, but he tried to get a couple of hours every night. It was better than pushing it for days and having to be out of commission for a whole night to make up for it. 

Usually, sleep wasn’t anything urgent, but tonight, he didn’t even stop to sip a glass of whiskey. 

Emotionally, he needed every bit of rest he could get. 

Seeing Victoria again had rattled him. 

And he had many more hours of investigating this case in front of him.

He couldn’t afford to be rattled. 

He shivered slightly as he lay in bed. 

He ran slightly warmer than the average person, but the night air had cooled, the fog had set in, and it was cold outside. 

He didn’t want to get up to change the temperature on the AC, knowing that if he did he just wouldn’t be able to will himself to lie down again.

His sheets were staying stubbornly cold, even with the comforter on top.

He felt so cripplingly alone. 

He sighed and, embarrassed even though no one was there, grabbed one of his pillows to hug tightly to his chest. 

He thought about... What was it called… Anticotum Phosphate. The new medicine that allowed werewolves to transform safely. 

Or even, in the right dosage taken regularly, not transform at all.

Supposedly it was a compound derived from wolfsbane, of all things. 

He should get over himself, get over his weird fear, and just take it. There was no way it could be that dangerous-- Greg took it, and that man refused to even eat unsprouted grains.

Too bad he didn’t know any werewolves in Santa Barbara any more-- he hadn’t known any but Victoria’s friends, and they all went their own ways when she and Greg ran off. 

Knew no werewolves... except whoever was running the Santa Barbara La Boîte de Nuit. 

Great. 

It seemed like he was going to have to go on a little field trip. 

He thought about Victoria. She was here for a few more days, he could always give in and ask her where she got her Anticotum Phosphate. 

Of course, if he did that, he would probably have to listen to more monologues about how great her post-Carlton life was.

And she would probably offer even more details about whatever her offer to “Be something together” was.

Ugh.

And then... for some reason... right as he fell asleep, he thought about Spencer. 

The man had been… kind to him tonight. 

Especially kind, coming from someone like Spencer, who was always a condescending jerk. 

Or rather, as Carlton had discovered tonight, almost always.

Throughout the interviews, Shawn caught himself sneaking glances at Lassiter. 

Sure, the man was devoted to old-fashioned, by-the-books, methodical police work, the kind that Henry did, the kind that Shawn would take any opportunity to try to show up. 

The kind that Shawn found to be a little silly. 

But, he had to admit, Lassiter was good at it. 

The man was keeping track of his ever-increasing pile of paperwork with an organizational method that Shawn couldn’t begin to understand. 

There was a moment, after a particularly confusing interview where the interviewee confessed to multiple attempts to steal inflatable men from car lots, where it looked like Lassiter was about to actually laugh.  

They looked at each other, and Shawn noticed the corners of Lassiter’s eyes crinkling. 

He’d never seen him do that before. 

Never been close enough to Lassiter, while the man was in a good mood, to get a chance to notice.

Flustered, Shawn looked away and quickly changed the subject. 

Shawn was surprised when Lassiter asked him to go get a file from the records room. 

Normally Lassiter wouldn’t let him in any part of the police station that he didn’t absolutely have to let Shawn in. 

And he was giving Shawn responsibility.

Shawn was going to actually be helpful to the investigation. 

So far, he had been basically just sitting there during the interviews, throwing the occasional question at the interviewees. 

But this task, however small, was actually helping. 

After Shawn located the file in the records room, he checked his watch. 

11:45.

And O’Hara was arriving to take his place at midnight.

Suddenly, Shawn’s incredible self-confidence that he would be completely fine between the hours of 12 am and 2 am tonight, completely able to find something non-bar-related to do, completely disinterested in going back to Space Odyssey to look for Ben with the good coke, all drained away from him. 

He didn’t know why this was so hard. 

He had a life. 

A life that he had worked hard to build, and that he needed to care about and maintain. 

And a life that did not afford him the luxury of falling off the wagon and hoping that someone else would pick up the pieces.

...Maybe that was what was so hard. 

Gus was leaving tomorrow, and Shawn wouldn’t have the person that was always there to catch him when he stumbled.

He probably should have thought of this sometime in the last few years.

He should have found a therapist, or joined a group or something, instead of leaving it all on Gus’s shoulders. 

But he hadn't, and his whole support system was about to be gone. 

Why did that knowledge make him not just not care if he tripped up, but actually want to jump headfirst off the wagon?

It was the sense of freedom, he guessed. 

The worst kind of freedom. 

The freedom to let everything fall apart, without anyone to stop you.

Shawn imagined what Gus’s face would look like if he came back from his vacation, the first real thing that he’d done just for himself since Shawn came back into his life, and discovered that Shawn had destroyed their dream-- the dream that they worked so hard to bring to life. 

No. He had to be stronger than this. 

Shawn looked at his watch again, and cringed when realized how long he had been stuck in his own head.

Lassiter was waiting. 

And Juliet was on her way, or here already, and it was time for Shawn to go.

Shawn took a breath and made himself smile as he walked out of the records room.

Lassiter was in the hallway, and Shawn held the file up triumphantly. 

Honestly, Shawn was proud that he had found it so quickly. 

He had almost been looking forward to looking at it with Lassiter, if the man allowed him to.

Shawn had already perused it himself --without waiting to find out if he was allowed access or not-- but he wanted to see Lassie’s face when he read the file. 

It was gold. Each attempted inflatable-man-theft was documented with several photos showing the inflatable man in question (all different colors) as well as the various ways he had attempted the thefts (wheelbarrow, back of a truck, and once- a pedicab being pulled by a poor innocent pedicab driver).

But Lassiter was going to look at the file on his own. Or with Juliet. 

And Shawn would go... somewhere. 

“Spencer,” Lassiter said as Shawn approached. “O’Hara can’t make it.”

Shawn held his breath, expecting dismissal anyway. 

It wasn’t like he was really adding anything useful to the investigation.

He was practically in the way.

Lassiter opened the door to the interview room and motioned at him impatiently. “You’re staying.”

Shawn smiled and slapped the folder against Lassiter’s chest as he walked to sit down in his chair again, on cloud nine. 

Lassiter didn’t end up opening the perp’s file, and Shawn didn’t push it. 

He was already so appreciative of the level of friendship that Lassiter was showing him. 

He had let Shawn stay, and not even just to fetch him coffee, or to have someone to yell at in between interviews. 

As far as friendship with Lassie went, Shawn was pretty sure that this was practically like the man had invited him to go bowling. 

Shawn did his best to avoid looking at his watch throughout the rest of the interviews. He didn’t want to know how much time he was going to be stuck, paralyzed by indecision, at the end of the night. 

Finally, when he and Lassiter had gone their separate ways in the parking lot, Lassiter even throwing a short “bye” at him, he stopped, closed his eyes, and then slowly opened them to peer nervously at the watch adorning his wrist. 

2:01.

Shawn smiled. Just after Last Call. 

He drank in the cold foggy air as he slowly rode his motorcycle home. 

Gus was leaving tomorrow, but Shawn had made it through today in one piece. That boded well for future days. 

Carlton was back at the station at 7 am, only five hours after leaving. 

He was officially supposed to be here at eight, but he knew that if he wanted any time to go over his notes from the night before, it would have to be before they began the interviews of the hotel staff. 

At 8:05, McNab walked by his desk and nodded. “Chief wants to see you in her office.”

Carlton nodded back. 

He just knew that whatever this was about, it was going to be bad news. 

He was almost never called into the chief’s office for good news, particularly during the middle of a case. 

And that was just how the day was going. 

Bad. 

First, he couldn’t find his keys, then he had spilled his to-go thermos all over the foyer as he was leaving his apartment, then he had caught every red light on the way to work. 

And now this. 

And Carlton had an idea of just who exactly the bad news involved.

“Good Morning, Carlton!” The chief smiled at him warmly as he entered her office, and gestured for him to sit down. 

Oh no. This was a very bad sign. 

“I wanted to commend you,” she said. “I read your notes from the interviews last night, and I’m very impressed that you decided to call in Mr. Spencer when detective O’Hara was unable to return to the station.” 

Carlton was really regretting how he filled out his end-of-day report last night.

At the time, claiming to have called Spencer in for assistance, rather than saying “Spencer came to visit me and we got tacos”, seemed like a much better option, but now he wasn’t so sure.

The chief continued, “I’m also impressed by the consistent and thorough questioning you two maintained through all of these initial testimonies.”

“...Thank you…” Replied Carlton warily. 

He hoped that this conversation was heading towards anywhere but its obvious conclusion.

“In light of this, I would like you to take Mr. Spencer along with you on some of your upcoming stakeouts.”

Carlton coughed uncomfortably. “Chief, if I may--”

She cut him off. “I’m very impressed by you putting aside your differences with our most unconventional consultant for this case, Detective. That is truly model behavior from the Head Detective, and it will help rally and motivate the troops, as well as demonstrate how important this case is.”

“.....Thank you,” Carlton replied, realizing there was no easy way out of this. 

The chief smiled at him again. “I understand that after this morning's briefing, you and O’Hara are going to develop a plan of action for the next few days.

“And that you will most likely be dividing and conquering when it comes to the stakeouts and the like, in order to get the most coverage. You can bring Mr. Spencer with you on some of your solo missions.”

Ugh. 

Carlton would rather sit through one of Pastor Greg’s sermons than take Spencer with him on a stakeout. 

The crumbs alone that that man would get in his car. 

And that wasn’t even beginning to go into his personality. Spencer was not the kind of person that Carlton wanted to be trapped in a car with. 

This is what Carlton got for giving Spencer an inch of leeway and letting him into the investigation. 

He needed to remind himself to never be nice again. It wasn’t worth it. 

Carlton swallowed.

He smiled back at the chief. “Of course.”

O’Hara and he had interviews with the staff scheduled all throughout the day, and there were several scheduled for before the briefing. 

With O’Hara by his side, Carlton was able to get through them quickly and easily. 

It helped that there was less pressure to get as much information as possible from each worker-- they were all local and could be called back anytime, unlike the convention-goers who were all about to leave the city. 

They paused for the morning briefing. It was primarily about their suspect #1, Thomas McCain, who was due to be interviewed with the second batch after the briefing was completed. 

Thomas had an alibi that was, so far, only backed up by two witnesses; who were only certain that they had seen Thomas for some amount of time the night of the murder, but not when or for how long. 

Strike one against the man. 

Thomas had only been hired at the hotel 3 weeks before the convention. 

Strike two. 

And he had a second job at La Boîte de Nuit.

Strike Three. 

Seriously, how much more suspicious could this guy get?

Carlton used all of his heightened senses to watch the man during the interview. 

He was definitely human. 

And his face was coated in a cool sweat.

“So,” O’Hara prompted him. “Tell us about where you were the night of the murder.”

“You know where I was,” Thomas replied nervously. “With Paul and Simon.”

“Sure,” O’Hara replied evenly. “And what time was this?”

“It was… it was the whole night, okay?”

“You left the front desk unattended all night?”

“No! No I didn’t, it was... Uh…. midnight to 3 am.”

“I see.” O’Hara wrote this down, while Thomas looked on anxiously.

She surreptitiously nodded to Carlton. Time to put the pressure on him. 

“Why did you go to their room?” Carlton asked the man, looking him dead in the eye.

“They asked me to.”

“Really.”

“Yeah, really.”

“O’Hara, note that the interviewee said this.”

“Well, okay, uh, maybe I asked them. I just don’t want to lose my job.”

Carlton raised his eyebrow. “You weren’t worried about breaking your contract by fraternizing with the guests, but you think that your boss will care who asked who?”

“Yes…”

“Speaking of, why don’t you tell us about your second job.”

O’Hara glanced up at Carlton. 

They only had a certain amount of time, and this wasn’t exactly the most pertinent line of questioning. 

“Uh, what do you mean?” Thomas asked.

“Your second job, at La Boîte de Nuit.”

“Oh, it’s just a job. It’s just-- nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

Now O’Hara raised her eyebrow. “Mr. McCain, what do you mean by that?”

“Uh--- just-- don’t worry about it. Am I under arrest? Am I free to go?”

Carlton sighed. “You’re free to go, but we will note that you didn’t allow us to finish our line of questioning.”

Thomas was already gone, the door swinging shut behind him.

“Well,” O’Hara said. “That was weird. How did you know the second job would get him to react like that?”

Carlton shrugged and looked down at Thomas’s file. “Just a hunch.”

Werewolf society had a strict code. 

Hurting each other was forbidden. 

And although Carlton was one of the only —if not the only werewolf cop— so there was no official ruling, Carlton knew that included arresting one another. 

But, if a werewolf managed to harm enough humans that it caused the humans to arrest them, it wasn’t like Carlton could do anything about that.

Besides, with Anticotum Phosphate, any of his kind would be completely fine in jail.

Who knew if his hunch about werewolves being involved was right. 

And who knew if he would ever be able to fulfill his fantasy of being able to protect at least a few, at least one human from the more viscous of his kind. 

To finally make up for all the horrors he had watched in the past without stopping.

But either way, it didn’t hurt to start establishing a paper trail.

La Boîte de Nuit was officially added to the case file as a location of interest. 

It was after five when the interviews were all done, and Carlton was finally able to take an extremely late lunch hour. 

He used it to go to La Boîte de Nuit.

Alone. 

Badge and gun hidden. 

The place was beautiful. Very different from the San Francisco club, but beautiful. 

It was in an old Spanish Colonial building, and the wooden beams of the roof were exposed. 

The walls were a bright white, and fresh air drifted in from open windows. There were all types of vines growing down from the rafters. White couches and rattan furniture were dotted around the room. 

Strangely, he didn’t see a bar. 

Or anyone, really, other than a man standing behind a hostess stand. 

A werewolf. Carlton could tell.

Carlton walked up to the stand and tried to project an air of confidence. “I need to speak with the owner of this establishment.”

The host smiled apologetically. “Oh, I’m so sorry, he’s not here, but I can give you his card. Are you thinking of becoming a member of our club?”

“Not.. exactly,” Carlton replied vaguely.

“Well, would you like a tour?”

“Sure,” said Carlton. It was better than leaving with nothing to show for his time here. 

He looked at the business card before putting it in his pocket-- the owner’s name was Benjamin Ward. Huh. Carlton didn’t know him. 

They rounded the corner of the room, and the man pulled open a set of wooden farmhouse doors. 

On the other side, there was a much larger room. The walls and ceiling were painted a deep blue, and there were dark velvet curtains surrounding the windows. Small gold lights dotted the ceiling. 

There was a huge bar at one end of the room, what looked like a dancefloor in the middle, and booths that seemed quite private all along the social club walls. 

Okay.

This was more like what he remembered. 

But still, it was different. 

There were a good number of other werewolves, but also a surprising number of humans.

When Carlton had been at La Boîte de Nuit in San Francisco, humans hadn’t been allowed to set foot in the building.

“There are so many… humans,” Carlton said to the host quietly.

“Indeed!” The man smiled proudly. “After the world discovered Anticotum Phosphate, we thought, why not become human-inclusive? It was about time, really.”

Carlton just nodded.

He wondered, did these humans know that they were surrounded by werewolves-- by predators? If not, what happened when they found out?

“Oh, that reminds me!” The host interrupted Carlton’s thoughts. “I have another card for you. Doctor Hamilton. All of our customers get their Anticotum Phosphate from him. If you do decide to become a member of our club, make sure to do it before you get your prescription-- He’ll give you a special discount.”

“Thanks,” Carlton said, tucking it in with the other business card. At least that had been a lot easier than he expected. 

He bought a drink and pretended to sip it through the last few moments of his lunch break.

He looked around the club. Humans and werewolves playing pool together, talking together, two of them kissing .

It was all so strange. 

Carlton really had been living under a rock-- things seemed to be so different than they were just a year ago. 

In his time, any of his kind would be called disgusting for kissing a human. They were considered lesser beings, after all. 

Maybe werewolf culture was just different now. 

Maybe this place was different. 

Maybe the place that the number one suspect for a murder case had led him directly too, was as gentle as it seemed. 

Maybe.

After Carlton made sure that no one was looking, he tossed his drink in a potted plant and headed back to the station. 

He had an incredible tolerance for alcohol, but he needed his mind as sharp as possible. 

To that end, he would probably need to grab some corn dogs on the way. 

Carlton was ready to get back to work after his belated lunch hour. 

Now that they had completed all of the dozens of interviews, the station was mostly deserted.

Things were relatively calm, and all that was left for O’Hara and Carlton to complete were two massive stacks of paperwork. 

When Carlton returned, he sat down at his desk and immediately started filling out forms, but he could feel O’Hara’s eyes on the back of his head.

Finally, he sighed and looked over at her. “What?”

“So….” There was a glint in O’Hara’s eyes, and he could tell that she was trying not to laugh. “Why exactly was Shawn here yesterday? And why are you supposed to have him accompany you on some missions now?”

Carlton sighed. “He was here because he showed up here. And was actually quiet, for once.

“And he’s accompanying me on some missions because I thought it would make me look good to the Chief if I said I called him in. And it did. And now I’m a babysitter.”

O’Hara did laugh now, a little bit. “Wow, I wish my basement hadn’t flooded so I could have seen that last night. Carlton Lassiter and Shawn Spencer working together.”

Carlton glowered at her. “Yeah, well apparently you’re in luck. There’s going to be more where that came from, unfortunately.”

They sat together and looked over everything they had gathered for the case so far. 

After careful consideration, they made a plan for the upcoming few days: They would task some beat cops with tracking the social medias of everyone interviewed, O’Hara would focus on trying to identify the body of the victim, and Carlton would keep an eye on the hotel and their main suspect. 

He would take turns staking out the hotel with beat cops, ensuring that someone was watching it every night, in case the killer came back to the scene of the crime. 

His first turn would be tonight. And, according to the chief, he just had to bring Spencer.

Carlton sighed and rubbed his eyes. 

He would at least let himself do some more paperwork before he called Spencer to let him know. 

The longer he waited to call him, the more likely it would be that Spencer already had plans.

Hopefully, Carlton wouldn’t have to see him tonight at all. 

Shawn woke suddenly at noon, his bedroom full of light. 

The morning fog had dissipated, and through the window, Shawn could see the bright Santa Barbara sky that he loved so dearly.

He stretched lazily, relishing the fact that he didn’t have to rush out of bed to go to his dad’s house or a crime scene. 

He could probably spend another hour in bed before he rolled out of it, ate some cereal, and began annoying Gus for the day. 

Wait. Gus. 

Shawn remembered. Gus was leaving tonight. 

And every minute spent in bed was a minute with him missed.

Well, so much for lazy mornings. 

Shawn hurried out of bed, and through the steps of his morning routine. 

“See, Shawn?” The responsible part of his brain asked, “Notice how much nicer showering and brushing your teeth is when you don’t have a cocaine hangover?”

Shawn just rolled his eyes at himself. 

His brain was right, this was a lot better without a hangover, but lectures from himself on responsibility just didn’t feel believable. 

Shawn knew that guy. 

He had seen that guy eat a whole hot dog, still in the bun, that he found in the trash. 

Responsibility was not that guy’s strong suit. 

But still, this was nice. And he would get to spend the day with Gus, totally clear-headed and sober.

He was so glad he hadn’t gone out last night. 

He wanted to remember every part of his life that he loved with crystal clarity. 

Everything that made his life worth not sabotaging. 

In the past, before Shawn had moved back to Santa Barbara --before he had gotten clean-- there had been nothing in his life that he cared about. 

And there was always a part of his brain that didn’t believe that things were different now, didn’t believe that his life mattered now. But like, fuck that guy.

Shawn’s life was cool. And he had worked hard for it.

He hadn’t exactly told Gus that he planned on them spending the day together. 

The day started with him showing up at Gus’s apartment, and with “Shawn, no.” and “Shawn, I am busy. I have errands to run.” 

But it had quickly turned into Shawn wandering around the post office, while Gus asked to hold his mail for a month.

Shawn was holding a smoothie in each hand, one for each of them, because Gus refused to be seen holding a smoothie in the post office. 

Apparently, you should “Not bring food or drink into the post office.” And apparently, “Postal workers are powerful enemies, and you don’t want to piss them off!”

Shawn didn't believe it, even though he could feel one of the postal clerks trying to meet his eyes to glare at him.

Shawn went with Gus on the rest of his pre-trip errands. 

Gus bought a new suitcase and a matching pocket square, and picked up a box of fertilizer for his singular fern that Shawn was definitely going to remember to water. 

Watching Gus compare different checkered and striped patterns for his suitcase/pocket square combo, Shawn couldn’t help but smile.

Gus was buzzing with excitement, and Shawn loved seeing his friend happy.

It made him feel good like nothing else. 

That was one of the things that made his life matter. 

He got to see Gus be happy so often . 

Not when they were near any dead bodies, or were in life-threatening danger, or when Shawn took a case without consulting him. 

But-- when they finally cracked a case, when they got to live out the adventures that they had only dreamed of as kids, when Gus was able to use his considerable knowledge to discover a clue-- those were the best moments. 

Who knew it was possible to follow your dreams and make your best friend happy, all at the same time. 

They walked down the beach before heading to the airport, each holding their second smoothies of the day. 

“Shawn?” asked Gus, breaking the silence between them.

“Yes?”

“Don’t forget to do solo hacky-sack practice while I’m gone. We can’t let that Quentin guy win a third year in a row.”

“Don’t worry Gus, in a few months, Quentin will regret the day he was born .”

“Well, maybe don’t say that, he’s a 13-year old.”

“Okay, Quentin will regret the day he learned to play hacky sack .”

“You know that’s right.”

Dropping Gus off at the airport wasn’t nearly as bad as it had been in Shawn’s nightmares. 

It was the moment right after that turned out to be real bad.

Shawn sat in the blueberry in the airport drop-off lane, watching Gus’s back as he slowly walked out of view.

He was staring gloomily through the window, trying to figure out a plan for his night, when suddenly his phone rang. 

It was a custom ringtone, set for a specific contact. 

The Miami Vice theme. Shawn had never actually heard the ringtone before-- the contact in question had never called him. 

He grinned and answered. 

“What’s up, Lassie?”

Spencer and Carlton sat in Carlton’s car together, in a fog-covered parking lot across from the hotel. 

Carlton was ignoring him. 

He had been tasked with doing stakeouts on quite a few nights this week, and he had been told to bring Spencer along for all of them. 

But he doubted it would come to that.

Spencer had no patience, and Carlton was sure that as soon as Spencer realized how much time he would have to spend sitting still, he would be out. 

Of course, Carlton ignoring Spencer didn’t mean that Spencer wasn’t talking.

Spencer was talking. Nonstop.

Carlton was almost glad. 

He wouldn’t know how to handle himself if Spencer had kept acting the way he had been last night. 

So.. quiet. So in his own head. 

At least Carlton knew how to treat normal Spencer. At least this way he was on even footing. 

Even if normal Spencer was like nails on a chalkboard to him. 

“So, according to Gus at least, the way that pineapple enzymes work means that when you eat it, it’s technically eating you back! Isn’t that cool?”

Carlton didn’t respond. He had wanted to say “uh-huh” out of automatic politeness several times throughout this monologue that seemed to just be every single fact that Spencer knew about pineapples, but he resisted the urge to do it. 

He also resisted the urge to comment on the container of pre-cut pineapple that Spencer was currently eating with a plastic fork, after Carlton had specifically told him on the phone, no food on the stakeout. 

Spencer needed attention. 

If Carlton ignored him long enough, Spencer would leave and go get it from someone else. 

Speaking of, where was Burton Guster? It was strange that Spencer hadn’t brought him along.

Carlton sighed and changed his mind about staying totally silent. He replied to Spencer-- only to sate his own curiosity. “So, where is Burton tonight?”

Ugh. He cringed internally. 

Good thing Spencer had moved far on in his monologue and was now talking about something else completely- if it had still been relevant, Carlton might have almost sounded like he cared.  

Hopefully, the answer was that he was on his way to pick up Spencer, or would be soon. 

“Montreal,” Spencer said, in between pineapple cubes. “Remember?”

Carlton thought back. He tried, in general, not to listen when Spencer talked. 

“Ah. Culinary School?” He hadn’t meant to phrase it like a question, but it came out like one.

Great. Now it sounded like he was curious.

“Yeah, a fancy culinary school,” Spencer replied. “In Canada . Soon Gus is going to be making fried reindeer, mixed with cheese curds and covered in gravy, for beautiful Canadian women.” he sighed wistfully. “It’s so beautiful to watch kids grow up.”

Carlton rolled his eyes. “They don’t eat stuff like that in Canad...” He remembered that poutine existed. “ Well, they don’t eat reindeer.”

But Spencer was off again anyway, talking about all the various concoctions Guster would probably be able to make with maple syrup.

At least he wasn’t talking about beautiful Canadian women anymore. 

I mean, whatever, Spencer, we get it . 

Women love you, and if you were married, your wife would never leave you for a man named Greg. 

In fact, she would probably have to worry more about you leaving her. 

Not for a man named Greg, of course. For a “beautiful Canadian woman”.

Honestly, Carlton had had enough of this. 

And Spencer’s incessant talking was practically interference with a police investigation.

“Spencer?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up, or get out of the car.”

Over the next few hours, Carlton was happy to discover that if he used this phrase sparingly during Spencer's monologue about who-knows-what, it could buy him a solid 15-20 minutes of silence at a time. 

Much to Carlton’s annoyance, Spencer ended up staying the whole stake-out, and Carlton had to follow Chief’s instructions and drop Spencer off at his home in the early hours of the morning. 

The Chief “didn’t want multiple vehicles leaving the stakeout location at one and drawing attention.”

It was only ten minutes out of his way, but Carlton resented every second of it. 

And of course, Spencer ended up being one of those people who told you to take turns at the last possible second or else told you several streets too late. 

Finally, Carlton pulled up in front of an old, empty-looking building. 

“Well, this is me, Lassie, thanks!”

“Spencer…. This is a dry-cleaners.”

But Spencer was hopping out of the car and slamming the door behind him. “Bye Lassie, see you tomorrow!” was the only reply that Carlton got.

Whatever.

When Carlton arrived home, he realized that Spencer had left the empty pineapple container in his car. 

He gave a long-suffering sigh as he brought it inside to throw away.

The sacrifices that he made in the line of duty….

Chapter Text

It was the third day since Gus had left Santa Barbara, and Shawn entered the morning like a pebble being dragged down a drain. 

He woke up and there it was, waiting for him-- the deep well of sadness that had overtaken him the last few days. 

Shawn was sober, had stayed sober this whole time, so there was less shame. But the sadness was so sharp . And it was all his fault. 

He’d googled therapists and groups over the last few days, but hadn’t been able to make himself go through with contacting any of them. 

Another reason he was a failure.  

This was just the kind of thing that would make Henry look at him with an expression that was so i-told-you-so that it was practically triumphant. See, Shawn, I told you you weren’t responsible.

The fact that Shawn had never actually argued about whether he was a fuckup didn’t matter. 

Henry would love the opportunity to prove it to him anyway.

Shawn groggily made coffee, ate a bowl of cereal, and puttered around his apartment in his pajamas. 

He looked around his home, trying to think of something to do, but nothing seemed like it was worth the effort. He wished the day would just be over faster so he could go back to sleep. Eventually, he decided to just go down to the station. 

It was late enough in the day that the fog was gone, and the weather was perfect for going for a ride on his bike. 

And if nothing else, it would pass the time.

On the way, he popped into the town bookstore, and wandered over to its clearance section. 

He ended up buying a self-help book that was marked at an impressive 90% off. 

“Pasta-tivity: Changing Your Life for the Better, One Noodle at a Time.”

He sat down on the bench outside the store to read it. 

It seemed to be some kind of self-help book that explained how to improve yourself through pasta metaphors. 

He flipped to a page at random. 

“Be the Boss of Your Sauce,” read the heading. “Sometimes, we spend so much time trying to be a marinara sauce, we don’t even stop to realize that we might really be an alfredo. Don’t be afraid to express whatever sauce is true to you. ”

…...What?

For a moment, Shawn was too confused to feel sad. 

This was…. not helping. 

It seemed that this book may have been priced at 90% off for a reason. 

Shawn sighed, hopped back on his bike, and headed to the station.

He wished he had someone-- anyone to talk to. But how could he, when everyone around him was oblivious to the fact that he was struggling? He was trying to hide it, but honestly, he wished that at least one person would notice a crack in his exterior, and ask him what was wrong. 

Shawn parked his bike in front of the SBPD station. 

He paused and-- knowing he was being his own worst enemy-- put a smile on his face before he entered the building. 

Carlton was at his computer, typing up his notes from his stakeouts the last few days. 

Spencer had accompanied him on all of them. And Carlton hadn’t throttled him yet. 

In fact, they had settled into some kind of routine. 

They would meet at the station, or Carlton would pick Spencer up from his apartment-- which, it seemed, actually was in an old dry-cleaners. They would drive to the Ritz-Carlton, and park in various alleyways and lots that allowed them to be hidden while maintaining a clear line of sight to the hotel. 

And they would wait, to see if the killer returned to the scene of the crime. 

The stakeouts lasted from 10 pm to 2 am each day, regular and reliable, just how Carlton liked his work to be. Reliability and regularity in police work often came in the form of monotony and tedium. But the reliability was a nice contrast to never knowing what you would get called in to deal with during a shift. 

It was something that made stakeouts nice. 

Usually. 

But of course, Spencer had to go and mess it up.

The man wasn’t being his old reliable, over-confident, over-loud, teasing-- sometimes mean -- self. 

At the first stakeout, he had been. 

But ever since then, he’d seemed more and more... somber.

The first time that Spencer had ever been quiet around Carlton, the night he came to visit him at the station, he had seemed like his thoughts were weighing him down. But now, he seemed almost trapped in them.  

It was like a weight had begun pressing down on Spencer as soon as Guster left the country, and it got heavier and heavier every day. 

It was… bothersome. 

It was probably over nothing-- Carlton felt almost sure that Spencer only had the kind of problems that could be wrapped up in a 30 minute (22 minutes without commercials) sitcom episode. 

But still, it irked him.

When Spencer arrived at the station, Carlton suddenly thought that he’d imagined all of it. 

The quietness. 

The hints of sadness behind Spencer’s eyes. 

That Carlton had made it all up-- projected onto the inevitable stretches of quiet that happen when you’re on a stakeout with someone for hours and hours. 

Carlton was trying, again, to contact Benjamin Ward-- the owner of the Santa Barbara La Boîte de Nuit. The club wasn’t on the radar of the criminal investigation yet, but it could be soon. And Carlton wanted to speak with the owner in a non-official capacity first. Besides, a conversation with Benjamin might lead to some clues in his own investigation-- the investigation of whether this murder was committed by supernatural beings. 

But Benjamin Ward kept sending him to voicemail after one or two rings, so now Carlton was frustratedly trying to text him. 

Complicating the matter further was that Victoria kept trying to call Carlton, and he kept sending her calls to voicemail. 

She had just interrupted his typing by calling again, when Carlton was hit by the scent of pineapple and melon, hair products and soap, and Spencer was suddenly way in his personal space, leaning his head over Carlton’s shoulder.

“Hiii Lassie. Call from the ex-wife?” he asked playfully. 

Carlton shrugged him away. “I’m busy, Spencer, bug off!” 

Spencer just smiled at him, whirled around daintily, and went off to go bother O’Hara. 

Jeez. 

Carlton had been so engrossed in his own thoughts, he hadn’t even heard Spencer creep up behind him. 

The man must have entered the station quietly, for once in his life. 

Carlton gave up on trying to deal with his cellphone and just turned it off. He returned his attention to the document he was filling out. He vaguely noticed O’Hara being called into the chief’s office, and then after a moment, realized it was strangely quiet around him. 

Spencer wasn’t loudly regaling any new cops with tales of his past heroics or trying to steal files off of Carlton’s desk. 

Had Spencer left the station already?

Carlton glanced around and saw that Spencer wasn’t doing his normal schtick-- wasn’t seeking attention from anyone at all. 

The man had gone over to an empty-ish corner of the station, and was leaning against a column, staring out the window. 

Ha . So Carlton hadn’t imagined it. 

Spencer was acting weird-- all quiet and somber. 

Suddenly, Spencer turned away from the window, and Carlton didn’t glance away fast enough--and the two men’s eyes met. 

Spencer’s hazel eyes, rimmed with long lashes, were undeniably sad.  

After a long moment, Spencer dropped his gaze, walked to the other side of the room, and began loudly and dramatically telling a group of new cops about the time he caught a mummy. 

After that strange interaction with Spencer, Carlton went back to powering through paperwork like normal, and tuning out all other noises.

He was just finishing the document when he heard the chief’s voice ring out. 

“Detective Lassiter, I will see you in my office.”

Carlton entered and took a seat next to O’Hara. The chief nodded at them before she began speaking. 

“Detective Lassiter, Detective O’Hara, you know you are my two best detectives. The Ritz-Carlton Murder case is of critical importance, and I need one of you here.” 

The Chief took a deep breath before continuing. “However, I received a call from the Chief of the San Fransisco Police this morning, and he informed me that an almost identical corpse was found outside a bakery in Fisherman’s Wharf. As no photos of the victim have been released, we clearly have a connection to our murder victim.

“I cannot spare my Head Detective, so, I will be sending Detective O’Hara to assist with the case. That leaves the question of who will investigate the case here, in Santa Barbara.”

“---Chief,” Carlton interrupted, “I’m perfectly capable of investigating this case on my own.”

Chief Vick held up her hand to silence him. “You are capable of a great many things, detective, but this is a two-man job. Therefore, you have some options. I noticed that your stakeouts with Mr. Spencer have been going well. You may bring him on as lead consultant to the case, and consider him your partner. Or you may pass this case to someone else.”

“Chief Vick,” Carlton began, wishing he was charismatic enough to influence the conversation, “Is there no one else available?”

“Unfortunately, detective, no officers are willing to volunteer to be your temporary partner. Let me know when you decide.”

With another nod, she shooed them from her office. 

The chief had phrased it a little harshly, but Carlton wasn’t surprised to hear that no one else was willing to work with him. He’s taken all of his coworkers to task over various failures in the past. 

O’Hara and Carlton walked to the breakroom together, and Carlton tried to figure out what he was going to do. Obviously, he had to work with Spencer. He was, at this point, almost certain that some of his kind were the murderers. And he couldn’t ensure that anyone who wasn’t partnered with him would be safe investigating. 

But O’Hara would be going to San Francisco.  The home of La Boîte de Nuit. This had to involve werewolves. And there were far more of them in San Francisco than there were here. 

Carlton did his best to smile encouragingly as O’Hara talked about the opportunities this would present for her career. 

And then he went home early, dug in the back of one of his dresser drawers for a scrap of paper with a phone number on it, and reluctantly placed a call. 

Shawn was carefully adding cards from a second deck onto a giant house of cards when his phone rang. 

“Hello?” Shawn asked, holding the phone in the crook of his neck. 

“Mr. Spencer,” came the voice of the Chief. “I was hoping to make time to tell you this in person, but I will have to be brief. You have been promoted to lead consultant on the Ritz-Carlton Murder case. Congratulations, you will be partnering with Detective Lassiter.”

“Wow, chief,” Shawn replied, still trying to get a card to sit in the exact right spot on the top right corner of the house. “This is an honor.”

“Detective Lassiter will brief you on the details.” She replied. “Reach out to me if you have any questions.”

Thank God.

Shawn only had the ability to amuse himself for so many hours in a day, and house-of-cards making was less exciting than it had seemed. 

Now he would have something to do to fill up the time in between stakeouts. 

Much later that night, Carlton was sitting in his car, Spencer in the passenger seat beside him.

Carlton was watching the Ritz-Carlton, never letting his gaze falter. He was exhausted. The phone call he had placed had left him tired, shaky, and lightheaded. Not a good state to be in during a stakeout.

And Spencer was acting strange, again. There were long stretches of quiet, and Carlton didn’t even have to threaten him to get them. And some of Spencer’s joking had been obviously half-hearted. 

There was... something hidden deep in the man’s face. 

Flickers of sadness that crossed it briefly-- so briefly that if Carlton had blinked, he would have missed them.

Carlton shouldn’t even care . 

But...

The first time Spencer was quiet, it was nice. Carlton didn’t have to think on his feet, didn’t have to hear any insults. But once Carlton got over his joy at not having to be on the defensive, Spencer’s quietness became unsettling. 

There were a few constants in the universe that Carlton felt like he could count on.

The sun would rise and set. 

The pothole in front of his apartment would remain unfilled.

And Spencer would be loud, brash, and annoying. 

But now, all of a sudden, Spencer just… wasn’t.

Spencer was sprawled despondently in the passenger seat, staring out the window, again.  

His usually perfectly-styled hair was messier than usual, and Carlton could see dark shadows under his eyes.

There was a small spot of stubble, towards the back of his chin, that Spencer must have missed while shaving. 

The man’s jawline was as strong as ever, and-- okay, that was probably enough looking. 

Carlton tried to think of something, anything to say.

Seemingly in his own world, Spencer grabbed his shoulder bag off the floor irritably, and out fell a book onto the floorboards:  “Pasta-tivity: Changing Your Life For the Better, One Noodle at a Time.”

Shawn was trying to be normal.

To meet Lassiter with his normal energy. 

He knew exactly what he was supposed to be doing. 

Usually, Shawn would drive Lassie insane, Lassie would yell at him... it was easy. 

But not today. 

Today, Shawn didn’t really want to talk, or have anyone look at him. He wished everyone would just forget he existed. 

Dammit. 

He was not being normal-- he had gone silent again. 

Shawn grabbed his shoulder bag nervously to pull out his starbursts-- they would help him focus. He couldn’t get his bag open and shook it in frustration, causing a book to fall on the floorboards in front of him with a loud thump. 

That stupid pasta book. 

Whoops…..

“A self-help book, Spencer?” he heard Lassiter ask, surprised. 

“It’s… um…. It’s not for me..” Said Shawn, redirecting helplessly. “It’s for…... my…. cousin.”

“Really?” asked Lassiter, and Shawn was almost sure that he detected a bit of interest, instead of just begrudging i-will-respond-to-you-out-of-bare-minimum-politeness in his voice.

“Yeah…..” said Shawn neutrally.

“Is that why you’ve been so down today?” asked Lassiter, and Shawn almost gasped in surprise.

That question was far more thoughtful than he would expect from Lassiter. He sounded like someone who... no… surely not… it sounded like he cared .

And also, how had he noticed ? 

Juliet hadn’t noticed and had even commented on how bubbly he was that day. 

McNab hadn’t noticed, the Chief hadn’t noticed, the smoothie salesman he saw every day hadn’t noticed. 

But Lassiter had?

Well, the man was a very observant detective.

Shawn thought quickly. Maybe this was his chance to talk about what was going on, if he lied carefully. And if Lassiter actually was interested. 

“Um, yes. Yes, that is why,” Shawn replied. “My cousin… he’s really struggling.”

Lassiter nodded and adjusted his body carefully, making sure that he had a good line of sight towards the hotel before replying. “Why, what’s going on?”

Wow. 

Lassiter looked like he was settling in to listen to Shawn talk and maintain focus on the hotel at the same time. 

Instead of yelling at Shawn for distracting him.

Okay. That was… surprising. 

“My cousin’s... been struggling with drugs. Cocaine,” said Shawn.

“Oh,” replied Lassiter, voice surprisingly soft. “That’s rough.”

“You’re not judging? You don’t think he gets whatever’s coming to him? He’s breaking the law, after all.”

Lassiter glanced over at him for a half-second before retraining his eyes on the hotel. 

“There’s legal and illegal; and moral and immoral. And it doesn’t all necessarily overlap. If your cousin’s involved in drugs, there are plenty of crimes he could have committed-- things he could have gotten mixed up in surrounding that. If he shot someone... If he robbed a store... If he was dealing… that should be prosecuted. To the full extent of the law. But just using?” Lassiter spared Shawn another half-second look. “Addiction is a disease.”

Shawn’s voice was much quieter than he meant it to be when he replied. “Yeah, I’ve.. I’ve heard that. Somewhere.”

“In that pasta book?”

“No… uh… the pasta book isn’t as… specific as that. It uses a lot of metaphors.”

“Interesting. You bought it for your cousin?”

“No… I’m… reading it. He, uh, he’s reading it too, and he asked me to read it alongside him.”

“Oh, I see.” Lassiter gave a nod. 

There was a silence. 

“He was clean for four years.” Shawn blurted into the silence. “Before he… slipped up.”

“Wow. That’s a long time.” Shawn could see Lassiter’s face reflected in the car window, and his eyes looked softer than normal. Almost... Sympathetic. 

Shawn was focusing so intently on watching the other man’s reflection, and on looking like he wasn’t watching, that he jumped a little when Lassiter spoke again. 

“What happened?”

“I don’t…. I don’t really know,” said Shawn. “My…. other cousin, his brother, left… moved out of state…. for grad school… at the start of the summer. I think he slipped up right around then.” 

“Wow. And after four years.” Lassiter glanced at Shawn again, and Shawn couldn’t remember if they had ever made anywhere near this much eye contact before. “Your whole family must be so worried.”

“No……” Shawn responded slowly. “They aren’t. He hasn’t told anyone else but me. Most of our family didn’t really care about the whole ‘four years clean’ thing, so…”

“What do you mean, they didn’t care?” Lassiter asked indignantly.  He was looking at Shawn again . He was breaking his concentration on the stakeout to hear about Shawn’s personal issues, and Shawn was rendered speechless.

Before Shawn could get it together to reply, Lassiter cut in again. “Nevermind. I’m sorry, I was prying. It’s not my business.” 

He gave Shawn one last look before he turned back to the stakeout. “I’m sorry about your cousin, I hope he’s doing better.”

“I’ll... tell him you said that,” Shawn said, so quietly that he wasn’t sure if Lassiter heard him or not. 

As Carlton sipped his end-of-night whiskey, (from a glass tonight, rather than the bottle on his nightstand) he thought about Spencer. 

His interactions with the man were getting stranger and stranger. 

He had confided in Carlton tonight. 

About the real problems that he apparently had. 

It... could have all been a lie. 

Spencer lied constantly. 

But he had no reason to lie to Carlton now-- he was already the lead consultant on the case, so there wasn’t any information to pry out of Carlton that Spencer couldn’t just read in the file. 

And something about the way Spencer had spoken-- so quietly and urgently, made Carlton believe the story was true.

Carlton tried to keep his thoughts from straying to his latent attraction to the man-- the attraction he had told himself he had dealt with months ago. 

He should have dealt with it months ago. 

It should have never been there in the first place.

But Spencer was handsome. And confident. And incredibly self-possessed. 

And the thing about Spencer that usually made Carlton hate him the most, was that if Carlton tried --no matter how hard he worked at it-- he wouldn’t be able to do a single thing that Spencer did. 

Spencer was always able to talk his way in or out of anything, to connect with people, to make connections that no one else could see, to put himself out of his comfort zone, to get the girl. 

I mean, no wonder Spencer always got the girl, with those looks. 

And as Carlton had learned tonight, Spencer was not only incredible at what he did, but also capable of caring and having deep feelings. 

And Carlton…. had barely any leads on his case so far, and was having inappropriate thoughts about his new partner on day one. 

This was off to a great start. 

Carlton added a heavy pour of whiskey to his glass, and downed the whole thing in one swallow. 

He needed to go to bed. 

Chapter Text

Shawn awoke-- not with a start due to a loud noise, or with supreme reluctance to get out of bed and face his own sadness, but calmly-- easily. He felt almost relaxed, and he stretched idly in bed, looking out the window at the fog-filled morning. 

It would be too early for the beach to be nice , the air there would still be chilly and fog-filled for hours before the sunshine cleared it away, but Shawn decided to go there anyway. 

He walked along the shoreline, pausing every so often to pick up a smooth, flat rock, and skip it across the water. As he walked, Shawn thought about his family.

He didn’t actually have any cousins, but if he did, they would certainly have a hard time quitting cocaine. The only relative he had was uncle Jack, the treasure hunter, and the only thing his uncle had said about Shawn being four years sober (three at the time) was to ask if Shawn was *totally sure* that he didn’t want to step outside and do a bump with Jack before opening presents last Christmas. 

Between him, Henry, and Shawn’s mom, who… he had never actually told about his struggles with drugs, Shawn didn’t have a lot going for him in the family support department. 

Maybe he should call his mom. Madeleine. 

Tell her that her adult son had kept his drug problems secret from her for years, even though she was a psychologist and ostensibly the person most qualified to help him. 

She would fly down here in a panic, help Shawn check into a rehab, and go to bed worried sick about him, every night from now on, forever. 

No.

She deserved better than that.

And Shawn was an adult. 

He could work his stuff out on his own. 

He walked along the shoreline, watching the waves gently wash in and out. Watching clouds of fog be gently pushed between ocean and shore. In the distance, he could vaguely make out some of Santa Barbara’s small fishing boats, silhouetted behind the fog.

Shawn felt… marginally better than he had yesterday. 

Which was at least a reverse of the trend of waking up every morning feeling worse than the day before. 

And all thanks to Lassie, he thought to himself, a little amused at the fact of it. 

Shawn was used to keeping people at bay.

He’d kept relationships and friendships light and short in his years traveling the country; and once back in Santa Barbara, his job as a “psychic detective” and general desire to show off and entertain, rather than connect with anyone deeply, had continued that trend. 

The only serious relationships he’d had in his life, of any kind, were with his family and Gus.  

Although it seemed that Chief Vick, Jules, McNab, and Lassiter had become an important part of his life over the last few years.

Still, of all the people that Shawn would expect to console him, Detective Carlton Lassiter was firmly at the bottom of his list. Well, slightly above Henry, and some of Shawn’s past one-night-stands. 

But still, nowhere near the top. 

He spied a perfect skipping stone and picked it up gently.

Lassie had talked to him and made him feel better. 

Shawn turned towards the ocean and flicked the stone with his wrist, sending it bouncing across the water. 

Skip---skip---skip----skip--

The stone bounced four times before falling into the water with a ‘plop’.

Not bad, Shawn thought, smiling to himself. 

The smile didn’t last for long, but at least it was there for a moment. 

Carlton started his day uncertainly, counting the hours until he was scheduled to meet Spencer at the police station. 

What would Spencer be like today?

Would Spencer joke at him, make fun of him, take him to get dinner, tell him about his family, stare out of a window sadly and silently in a way that shouldn’t bother Carlton but did?

Honestly, he hoped Spencer made fun of him. 

He hoped that Spencer walked in the door, and immediately started grabbing papers out of Carlton’s desk, and pointing out his big ears, and saying that he would surely solve this case far before Carlton could even think about doing so. 

And Carlton would yell at him and threaten to throw him out of the station, but not actually be able to throw him out of the station, because he needed to keep working with Spencer if he wanted to keep this case. 

Which he desperately did. 

If werewolves really were involved and another cop took it, they probably would not last the week. 

Ughh.

How did this all get so complicated?  

O’Hara was gone, Victoria was leaving today, Spencer was his partner, and Carlton couldn’t even get a text, much less a call back, from that stupid club owner.

Speaking of... Carlton checked his phone for messages from Benjamin Ward. Nothing. 

He sent him another “Hello Benjamin, I would like to speak with you at your earliest convenience” text, angrily mashing out the letters. 

Stupid tiny keypad. Stupid tiny phone. 

He took a deep breath. 

He just had to get through this day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next, and after an indeterminate number of days, if he worked himself to the bone during all of them, while staying on top of every other case that inevitably got dumped on him, he would finally identify the killer. Well, this killer. 

Yep. 

God, when did Carlton get wound so tight? 

Honestly, he knew when. It was the moment when he was handed a gun, a badge, and the responsibility to protect the citizens of Santa Barbara.

He looked at the clock. 

It was only 6 am. And he was supposed to be at the station at 10. 

He could see from the window that it was still heavy with fog outside. 

Well, it couldn’t hurt to get an early jump on the day. 

Carlton was working at his computer silently when he heard someone walking past him.

“Morning, Lassie,” Spencer shot him a quick smile that looked a little forced, and then sat down in a spare office chair. 

Carlton nodded and continued to type the rest of the file he was working on, but he couldn’t help but feel annoyed. 

No theatrics, no big entrance, not even a quip! 

Just quiet and sullen and-- Carlton looked back over his shoulder-- staring out the window again . 

He had never thought that Spencer could get any more annoying, but sad Spencer was driving him absolutely crazy.

Shawn and Lassiter headed to the morgue-- O’Hara had been in charge of trying to identify the body before she left, but for some reason had not yet been able to receive an autopsy report. 

When they arrived, the morgue was oddly…. Busy. 

There were construction workers carrying various bits of lumber through the lobby, plastic sheeting on the floor covered in a thin layer of sawdust, and morgue workers trying to move past the construction workers and each other.

The reception desk was empty. 

Lassiter flashed his badge at the nearest morgue worker. “What’s going on?”

“Construction,” the morgue worker sighed, clearly annoyed. “The new wing was supposed to be done getting built three weeks ago.”

Lassiter just nodded, obviously not interested in the morgue worker’s struggles. “I need an autopsy report on a John Doe. Came in a few days ago. Real ripped up.”

The morgue worker grimaced and nodded, “I know which John Doe that is. I’ll be right back, just wait here one second!”

They waited for significantly longer than a second, people and equipment moving around them. 

Shawn had finished cataloging all the details of all the people and fixtures in the room and was now humming the Knight Rider theme song. 

“...How’s your cousin?” asked Lassiter, in a voice low enough to stay private, asking like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Shawn could have melted. “He’s.. good. Thank you.”

Lassiter nodded. “I know that… after a slip-up like that… it can get really difficult.”

Shawn blinked in surprise at the empathy, but before he could respond, Lassiter yelled at another one of the morgue workers. “Oi, you! Get me the autopsy report for my John Doe, now!”

The morgue worker scurried off meekly. Hopefully to get the autopsy report. 

Far too much time later, they finally went back to the station, report in hand. 

The autopsy report was… strange.

They learned that the victim was between 18 and 22 years old, that the toxicology report was clear, and that the victim had died rather quickly from stab wounds. 

None of that was particularly surprising. 

What was strange were the details regarding the victim’s torso. 

The victim had been, Carlton wished he could think of a better term, but, ripped up .

There had been little remaining inside the victim’s chest cavity, much of it had been strewn across the floor of the elevator. 

But, inside the chest, on the flesh that remained, there were several marks that looked like the flesh had been cauterized, with some kind of precision tool. 

Compared with the outward chaos and brutality of the murder, it was… nonsensical. 

It didn’t fit. 

Carlton kept turning over that information thoughtfully in his head, long after he had put the autopsy report away with his other files. 

Spencer had been quiet most of the day, a fact which Carlton begrudgingly accepted.

If the man was going to be sad, he could be sad. 

There really wasn’t much Carlton could do about it. 

So he didn’t let it bother him. 

Too much. 

They wrapped up their work for the day, and Spencer left, headed home to relax for a few hours before their stakeout.

But a few moments after Spencer left, Carlton heard the familiar sounds of the station doors being thrown open, and a loud “Hey, Lassie!”

Half irritated, half curious at what had caused Spencer to regain his normal boisterous attitude for a minute, Carlton turned to look. 

Spencer was holding two cups of frozen yogurt.

The fro-yo guy must be outside with his little cart. 

“I got you one!” Spencer said proudly as he made his way over to Carlton’s desk. “Strawberry yogurt, strawberry syrup, and pink sprinkles. I tried to get it with your usual pink cup and pink spoon, but can you believe, they didn’t have it?” 

He set the frozen yogurt down with a grin. 

Carlton sighed. He didn’t even eat frozen yogurt. “Leave me alone, Spencer, I told you-- I have work to do.”

“And now you have fuel to do it with!” Spencer replied, rolling his eyes as if it was obvious. He headed for the door again, calling “Bye, Lassie!” over his shoulder. 

Carlton grumbled to himself for a moment… but… the yogurt did look good. 

He took a bite. It was. 

The frozen yogurt did end up fueling him through quite a bit of paperwork, but of course, Carlton still had a large stack to complete after he finished it. 

It had been nice to see Spencer happy for a moment. 

Even if he was being obnoxious. 

“Hey, Detective Lassiter! That autopsy report have some good news?” McNab asked as he walked past Carlton’s desk. 

Carlton lifted his head and scowled, annoyed at being interrupted. “Why would you think that?”

“It’s just…. You were smiling while you were writing.”

Carlton glared. “Do you want to be filling out all this paperwork?”

“No… no sir.”

“Then I suggest you scram.”

McNab did as he suggested, hightailing it out of that part of the station. 

Carlton hadn’t been smiling to himself. 

He had been maintaining a neutral, work-focused expression. 

He was pretty sure of that. 

Besides, what business was it of McNab’s, anyway. 

Shawn slowly rolled the window down a fraction of an inch, then back up.

He and Lassiter had been staking out the hotel for hours.

Shawn glanced over at Lassiter. The moonlight was hitting part of the man’s face, highlighting his salt and pepper hair, his angular cheekbones, the stubble starting to form there. 

“You know, you don’t act like a divorced guy,” Shawn said.

That wasn’t how he'd meant to say it, and he cringed as soon as the words left his mouth. 

Ugh. Here Shawn was, taking the small amount of friendship that Lassiter had offered him, the only friend he had in his life right now, and fucking it up.

He expected one of Lassiter’s exasperated sighs, or the slamming of a fist against the dashboard that would let Shawn know that he had pushed him too far, but Carlton... Lassie, was quiet.

Lassiter glanced at him, quickly, but Shawn didn’t see any anger on his face before the man looked away. 

“What do you mean?”

“Well, most divorced guys I know start dating as much as they can, as soon as the papers are signed. They start looking for someone new to settle down with. They get new cars, they grow the mustache their wife would never let them have, they try to do it all over again, just, this time with someone younger.” 

There was a small pill of fabric on the knee of Lassiter’s slacks, and the man was fiddling with it and staring at it closely. 

He cleared his throat a little, and responded softly, without looking up. “I never wanted to get married.”

Shawn looked away too. 

He didn’t want to freak Lassiter out by pressing, but he was curious. 

Lassiter was telling him about himself. Lassiter.

“You mean you didn’t want to get married in an ‘old ball and chain’ kind of way, an ‘I don’t believe in monogamy’ kind of way, or in a ‘baby, why does the state have to have any say in our love for each other’ kind of way?” Shawn asked.

That… also had not come out the way he meant it to. 

Lassie had talked to him so thoughtfully last night, but it seemed like Shawn just couldn’t return the favor. 

Surprisingly, Lassiter looked thoughtful before he responded. 

He put his hand to his chin and stared off to the distance, just barely keeping the hotel visible in his peripheral, in a way that Shawn had never seen him look before. 

So.. un-hurried. 

“It was none of those things,” Lassiter replied slowly. “It was just that... she didn’t love me. I used to hope that she did, or would someday, but.. it never happened.”

Shawn was shocked at the honesty of the man’s answer. 

He immediately felt guilty for pushing Lassiter to talk about it, and felt like he was being voyeuristic and had already learned too much. Shawn panicked, reaching around in his brain to try to find a normal way to change the topic. 

“You know, I thought I was in love once.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, but it didn’t work out.”

“What happened?” asked Lassiter. His voice sounded carefully emotionally detached. 

“Well, it turned out she wasn’t really Katie Holmes,” answered Shawn forlornly. “Celebrity impersonator. And a pickpocket. Just fantastic at both, though.”

Lassiter gave one of his long-suffering sighs, but Shawn could hear a smile behind it. “I see.”

“Yeah, I figured it out after she left,” Shawn said. “I mean, why would the real Katie Holmes pickpocket both my and Gus’s wallets?”

Shawn heard a snort that sounded like the beginning of a laugh, but Lassiter quickly cut it off. 

“I’m sorry about that,” Lassiter said.

There was another long, almost companionable silence, and then Lassiter spoke again. “Victoria left today. Back to… wherever she’s living now. In a renovated van, I think, maybe? Or at a winery somewhere?”

Shawn tried not to let his voice reveal anything more than a passing interest when he replied. “Do you… miss her?”

Lassiter started to shake his head no, stopped, and shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said sadly. “She kept trying to get me to meet her before she left, but… I just couldn’t go through with it.”

Shawn didn’t know what to say. 

“You know--” said Lassiter suddenly, a dangerous combination of laughter and anger rising in his voice, “--You know what she actually said to me?”

Shawn nervously shook his head no. 

“She said she wanted to be something with me. All it took her was --what was it, 12, 13 years of marriage-- and I’m not even going to tell you how many of those years she was cheating on me during; all it took was her leaving me , publicly, humiliatingly; and suddenly, she’s realized-- she wants to be something with me. And not a relationship. A something. ”

Lassiter laughed, humourlessly, steam practically rising from his ears. “As if I’m just waiting around for her, ready and willing to be there any time she wants to remember what our marriage was like for an hour or two. Like I’m not good enough to actually be in a relationship with, to actually care about; but now that we’ve been apart long enough, she’s decided that she wants me to be an option she could call when she’s bored on a Thursday night.”

He did punch the dashboard now, just once. 

Shawn tried to think of the right thing to say, but his brain was working so slowly, and the silence between them stretched on.

Lassiter misinterpreted the silence, and shuffled in his seat uncomfortably, looking away from Shawn. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s not exactly a workplace-appropriate conversation.”

Shawn put out his hand before he even realized what he was doing, and laid it softly on the arm of Lassiter’s suit jacket. 

He could feel the cool weave of the fabric, and the warmth of Lassiter’s arm underneath. 

“She doesn’t know what she’s missing,” Shawn said quietly.

Lassiter glanced at him, and Shawn saw a few different emotions flicker across the man's face. Then he turned back to the hotel and shrugged Shawn’s hand off of him. “You’re just saying that,” he grumbled.

No. Shawn thought to himself. I’m not. 

Carlton’s shoulders felt lighter after he was finally home for the night.

He even smiled a little to himself as he sipped his nightly whiskey. He was drinking it from a glass again, and from a comfortable seat on his couch while he caught the last of a Civil War documentary on the History Chanel.

Shawn Spencer kept surprising him. 

It hadn’t been smart, really, for Carlton to open up about his failed marriage like that.

It had opened the door for all kinds of insults. 

Insults about how Carlton was a stick in the mud, about how he wouldn’t be able to identify a ‘romantic’ fancy restaurant to save his life, about how he probably failed at listening to Victoria because he was so wrapped up in his work, about other things he must have failed at to cause her to leave him for another man, the possibilities were almost endless. 

And yet, Spencer hadn’t taken the bait.

Hadn’t even acted like Carlton had given him bait. 

It was so strange, but lately, Carlton almost got the sense that Spencer cared about him. 

It was probably just boredom and loneliness.

Guster and O’Hara were both out of town for the foreseeable future, it made sense that Carlton and Spencer would start to connect. 

Although….  Did it make sense? Did it really?

It wasn’t like they were friendly coworkers who had just never spent much time together.

They were rivals. Enemies. 

Weren't they?

Carlton’s head was whirling with thoughts when he laid down to catch a couple of hours of sleep. He felt relief in having confided in someone about Victoria. Fear that, once Guster and O’Hara returned, Spencer would tell them everything that Carlton had said. Regret that he hadn’t agreed to see Victoria one last time before she left town, if only to refuse her offer to her face. The thoughts took turns tormenting him-- each time he thought he'd shut one down, another would spring up, and fill him with anxiety all over again.

The memories of his past that he had been trying so hard to avoid the last few days began creeping up on him, too, and as he drifted off, they inched their way into his dreams. 

Chapter Text

Carlton had a vivid, confusing nightmare. 

He was climbing up the face of a sheer cliff, high above some trees. 

Wind whipped around him, whistling in his ears and --of course he would be in his work clothes-- lifting his suit jacket from his back.

In each hand he was holding onto the cliff by a chunk of dirt, but he could feel his handholds detaching-- the roots that held them to the cliffside were loosening, and he knew it would only be a matter of time before they fell apart in his hands.

The tips of his shoes were pressing into the cliffside below him, trying to hold on as well, but he couldn’t find purchase, and they kept slipping down. 

He tried to shift into his werewolf form, but found that, for some reason, he couldn’t.

He heard a tinkling laugh from up above him, and, taking care not to move too quickly, lest he cause his handholds to pull away from the cliff completely, he looked up and saw Victoria on the cliffside, about 20 feet above him. 

She was perched casually on a small rocky ledge, looking like she didn’t have a care in the world.

“Oh Carlton,” she said, sighing condescendingly. “Why would you think you’d be able to shift? You took this, remember?”

She held up a bottle, and Carlton knew what it was, even from far away. Anticotum Phosphate. 

He felt the dirt he was holding onto in both hands start to dissolve-- it was sifting into the air in a fine powder.

It was now or never. 

He swung up an arm, hoping to grab hold of a thick root protruding from the cliff above him. If he could grab it, he would be able to take a moment to get his bearings, and start to mentally plot out the rest of his journey up the cliffside. If he could just figure out a way to reach the ledge that Victoria was sitting on, then he could rest for a moment and give his aching arms a break. After that, the rest of the cliffside wouldn’t be so bad.

As his hand reached around the root, it snapped away, and suddenly his hand was in midair, holding the broken-off piece. 

Now that he looked at it closer, he realized that the root was dead.

Had always been dead. Clearly been dead. It never would have been able to take his weight. 

As he looked back up from the root, he realized that his arms were now too far away from the cliffside to grab onto any part of it, and he was feeling the most sickening sensation of slowly turning onto his back.

Falling, he realized. He was falling. 

And as soon as he understood that, it was like time sped up, and suddenly he was plummeting away from the cliff, through the cold air, while Victoria peered down at him curiously. He knew, as he watched Victoria get smaller and smaller, that soon he would reach the tree canopy. And that would be it for old Carlton. 

Just before his back hit the trees, just as he was feeling the pine needles on the thinnest, tallest branches brushing up against him, the dream ended; and Carlton was suddenly on his own couch, sitting in his undershirt and work pants.

His jacket, button-down, and tie were loosely piled next to him. 

He was holding a beer. He’d ripped the label off. 

When he was young, people told him that ripping the labels off beer bottles was a sign of sexual frustration, but thinking back-- everyone who said that had smoked, and thus already had something to fidget with, or been one of those lucky people who don’t constantly have the urge to do something with their hands.  

In his other hand, Carlton was holding his cellphone to his ear, and it was ringing. 

He heard the noise of it being picked up. 

Then, pure silence on the other end. 

Of course , this guy would answer his phone like this. 

Carlton tried to shake off the sensation that the couch and floor beneath him weren’t real, that he was still falling, falling towards an ever-approaching ground that he couldn’t see, and finally spoke first. “Hello.” 

A deep, male voice answered. “Is this who I think it is?”

“...Yes.” Carlton replied, thinking to himself, I am sitting on a couch. My feet are on the floor. I am sitting on a---

“Carl! How lovely to hear from you! It’s been.. well… must be over a decade now. To what do I owe the pleasure-- you finally decided you miss me?”

“ No, Romulus--” Carlton couldn’t keep the venom from bleeding into his voice. (If he was still falling, surely he would have hit the ground by now). “--I don’t miss you. Never have.”

“Mhmmm.” There was a pause, and then, “... well, you just let me know if you ever change your mind. Ta-ta--”

“Wait!” Carlton interrupted. He wished he had another beer bottle label to rip. “I need a favor.”

“Oh? Well, that’s….  intriguing. What is it?”

“A cop is being transferred up to San Francisco temporarily. Juliet O’Hara. I want her safe.” As Carlton said this, he got up and started pacing. (There was no way you could pace while falling. right?)

“A girlfriend of yours? Should I be jealous? ”

“A friend. Just a friend. ” Carlton replied through gritted teeth. He resisted the urge to ask Romulus if he even knew what that word meant. 

“Well,” the voice on the other end sighed. “I’m sure you know that humans don’t have anything to fear from werewolves anymore.”

Carlton just paced, silently.

“But fine. I agree. And Carl--”

Carlton tensed at the repeated use of the nickname-- one that he had used exclusively during the worst times in his life. He’d never liked it-- hadn’t even let other kids call him that in grade school. But Romulus liked it, so…

“Carl, are you listening?”

“Yes. I am.”

“You know what this means. You owe me. Agreed?” 

Carlton could hear Romulus’s smile through the phone, and he hated him for it. He sighed. “Agreed.” 

“Good. I’ll talk to you later, Carl. Goodbye now!”

The phone call ended with a click. 

Carlton sighed. “Goodbye, Romulus,” he said quietly, speaking to the dead phone line.

---------

Carlton awoke with a gasp, back and sheets soaked in cold sweat. 

He sighed, and pushed himself out of the bed into the far too early morning.  

At least this time he knew, he definitely wasn’t falling. 

----------

A short time later, Carlton was working at his desk with a pounding headache, one that no amount of advil or water could help. 

A headache that only got worse when Spencer finally showed up at the station. 

“Lasssssieeeee!” Spencer called excitedly, “Are you ready to catch a depraved killer?”

“Ugh, Spencer, not today, please--” Carlton said, laying his head down on his desk. Loud noises currently felt not unlike being stabbed in the skull. 

“Oh, so you’re not ready to catch a depraved killer? That’s bad news for the department.”

“ Spencer! ”

Without lifting his head from the desk, Carlton grabbed the first thing he could find, which turned out to be his tape dispenser, and chucked it at Spencer. 

Carlton heard it clatter to the floor, and heard the sound of Spencer walking away. 

Good, he thought miserably. Spencer should leave-- should go tell the Chief that he can’t work with me, so that I get thrown off the case and become even more useless than I am right now. 

He kept his head flat on the desk, thinking miserable thoughts to himself.

After a few minutes, he heard the sound of someone walking up to him, and setting something down near his head. 

A cup of coffee. 

The smell wafted towards him. It smelled like the beans had been freshly ground. 

He looked up. 

Spencer was standing next to his desk, his own mug in hand. 

He raised his eyebrow at Carlton and smiled, and then took a sip from his mug. 

Carlton sat up, silently, and took a sip from his as well. 

Spencer sat next to him, and they began looking over the files for the case together. 

Carlton didn’t apologize for his yelling, and Spencer didn’t mention it at all. 

They were starting to hit a brick wall in their investigation. The body of the victim still hadn’t been identified, and the killer hadn’t returned to the hotel. Thomas McCain had accepted the police’s requests for further interviews, but Lassiter and other officers had already done several, and those interviews hadn’t revealed any more information. And the evidence pointing towards the man really was just circumstantial. Spencer and Carlton went over everything they knew, and ended up right back where they started.

All they could do was hope the victim’s body was identified, keep staking out the scene of the crime, and plod forward with their investigation. 

As they were discussing this, the Chief suddenly came by Carlton’s desk. “Detective Lassiter, Mr. Spencer,” she said by way of greeting. “Detective, may I speak with you for a moment?”

They stepped off to the side, and the chief sighed. “Detective, I’m sorry, but I need to ask you to step away from your case for a few hours-- there was a hit and run at the corner of West Carillo and Chapala street. You’ve hit a bit of a lull in the investigation, correct?”

Carlton nodded. “Yes, Chief. A temporary lull.”

“Can you make it out there to examine the crime scene? No one else is available.”

“Sure, Chief. Should I bring Spencer?”

The Chief glanced at Spencer briefly, then back at Carlton. “No. The security cameras from the stores on the corner most likely caught the license plate of the perpetrator. We just need someone to document the scene, and interview the witnesses. There’s no need for Spencer’s services and…” her voice dropped. “He is a civilian. There’s no reason to subject him to a crime scene like this.”

Carlton nodded again. “I’m on it, Chief.”

---------

Hours later, on the way to pick up Spencer for their stakeout, Carlton still felt ill. 

* * *

He had retrieved the security camera footage easily enough, and the entire license plate number of the offending vehicle had been on it. 

Witness interviews had proceeded in a manner that was quickly and orderly.

It was…. documenting the scene that had been difficult. 

There had been so much blood.

Surprisingly brutal for a hit and run. 

Victims of those didn’t usually die, and even then, usually not so gruesomely. 

Try as he might, he couldn’t erase the image of it from his mind’s eye.

The body of the victim, fallen half onto the sidewalk, half onto the road. Disfigured-- the limbs twisted into impossible angles, and crushed by the impact of the car. 

With the fog around him, obscuring the morning light, the scene had looked like something from a horror movie. 

* * *

It had reminded him vaguely of years ago-- at the San Francisco La Boite de Nuit.

Where Carlton had, for no good reason-- out of fear, out of cowardice, out of a stupid desire to be around other people like him-- lived for years. 

It had often been…. fine.

Just… fine. 

But there were always, every so often, the bad nights. 

The nights Romulus would find a human on the street and bring them back to the club, and everyone would laugh, and gather round, and see how much blood loss the human could withstand before dying.

Everyone…. but Carlton. 

He would refuse, so he would be the one who had to clean it all up. 

He hadn’t had to clean up this crime scene, but he did have to document it. 

All of it. 

He hated these cases. 

There was nothing to investigate-- nothing he could do to convince himself that he helped Lady Justice-- that he had made the world a slightly better place.  

He hadn’t made the world a better place.

He hadn’t done anything that looked like penance for the crimes he had stood by and witnessed, all those years ago. 

Tonight, two uniformed officers would go to the home of the man who had committed the hit-and-run, and they would arrest him. 

And Carlton would have been completely useless, far too late to save the victim. 

To do anything but write it all down. 

------------

Carlton had been silent when he picked up Spencer from the dry-cleaners he called home, had stayed silent for the first three hours of the stakeout, and he was still silent now. 

The footage of the crime scene was still playing on an endless reel in his head.

He didn’t feel like talking. 

Couldn’t talk.

But of course, Spencer didn’t care.

Of course, Spencer wanted to wheedle information out of him. 

“Lassie, come on, what’s wrong?”

Silence. 

“Is it about the crime scene you went to earlier?”

Silence. 

Spencer just didn’t understand . 

Somehow, even though his father was a cop, Spencer didn’t understand that not every crime scene was a fun puzzle for him to solve. 

That some crime scenes weren’t puzzles at all. 

That at some, there were no clues to be found in them-- just demonstrations of the worst parts of humanity. 

And here Spencer was-- trying to make Carlton give up some clues that would help him solve the case “psychically”. 

Even though there was nothing to solve.

This was just classic.  

Carlton shut down the pesky thoughts at the back of his mind; thoughts about how he and Spencer had opened up to each other the last few days, and how things might be different now. 

He just let himself be angry. 

He willed Spencer to be trying to hurt him, trying to take the case away from him, so he could be angry at something real and tangible and right in front of him, rather than just angry at the kind of world that let things like drunk drivers and hit-and-runs happen. 

“Lassie, what happened at the crime scene? You can tell me .” as Spencer asked, he touched Carlton on the shoulder, and that, for some reason, was the last straw. 

Carlton turned to face him directly. 

He was furious, practically spitting out his words. “Spencer, for the love of God, shut the hell up. You’re not going to be able to talk enough information to sweep this case out from under me and solve it before I can. Try to get that through your thick skull-- it’s already solved . There was nothing to investigate, and there is no information to take. ”

Silence. 

From both of them now.

After a while, Spencer cleared his throat and spoke. “Okay. Well, we’re not too far from the psych office, and I don’t mind late night walks, so I guess I will be….. seeing you later.”

He was grabbing his things and opening the car door while he spoke, like it was completely natural and uncomplicated and not a big deal, but Carlton could hear the man’s voice catch in his throat. 

The car door closed, and Spencer began to walk away. 

Carlton, uncertain about what he was even doing, clambered out of his own side of the car, and started walking after him. 

He called after him, “Spencer…. wait. I’m… sorry.”

Spencer turned, reluctantly. “Those things you said… You really think that of me?”

Carlton wanted to speak from his heart. 

Wanted to say some of the things he had been thinking about Spencer this week. 

But his feelings from the last three years of working together were so much clearer . They made sense.

Nothing…. nothing that he had thought about Spencer the last few days made sense. Not really.

Besides, Spencer knew what the deal was. 

He knew they were enemies. 

Carlton shut down his train of thought and replied. “Well... yeah. I do.” 

“You think that the only reason I would want to talk to you about a case is so that I can take it away from you?”

“Well…... yeah .”

“And you think I’m not psychic, you think I’m just a big lying liar who lies all the time about how he solves cases?”

This was so unfair . 

The hurt look in Spencer’s eyes was so unfair right now. 

Spencer knew that this was the way things were between them. 

It was the way things had always been.

Still, Carlton knew he was doing the wrong thing when he answered truthfully. 

The word caught in his mouth, and came out as barely more than a breath. “...Yeah.”

Spencer turned around and kept walking away. 

Carlton walked after him. 

The car and hotel were around the corner now, forgotten. What was wrong with Carlton. 

He should be letting Spencer leave him. 

So what--- if he left, Carlton would have to finish the last hour of the stakeout himself, it didn’t matter. 

But he knew, as he hurried, that it did. 

But it wasn’t his fault that things between him and Spencer suddenly seemed different. It had only been a few days. 

How was he supposed to adjust?

“Spencer, stop!” Carlton called. 

Spencer did stop, several feet ahead of him, and turned again. “So, why have me partner with you on this case? Why involve me at all?”

Carlton sighed. “Well, first of all, you were my only choice if I wanted to keep the case.” 

Crap. 

Spencer turned again. 

God, for someone as lazy as Spencer, the man could walk fast.

Carlton jogged a little to finally catch up. “Spencer, wait-- wait--” without thinking, he grabbed the man’s hand.

Spencer finally stopped and turned, and Carlton dropped his hand as if it had burned him. “I’m sorry, I... I don’t know why I did that” 

Carlton was stumbling over his words, and getting increasingly flustered when Spencer finally met his eyes. 

Spencer’s hazel eyes were misty.  

Carlton realized for the first time that there was fog all around them-- they were obscured. 

Spencer looked at Carlton expectantly, and he knew he had to be the one to fix this. 

He had to say something. 

Hopefully, something that wouldn’t make Spencer angrier.

But speaking kindly wasn’t something Carlton was good at-- when would he have had time to practice?

And this would all be so much easier if Spencer would just go back to acting like normal. Back to making fun of him. Back to trying to rip every case out from under him. Back to never catching Carlton’s eye and smirking slightly at him when something amusing happened at work, never bringing Carlton snacks, back to not being so easy to talk to. 

Carlton took a deep breath and sighed. “Spencer….. I… may have been wrong.. about you.”

Spencer just crossed his arms, glancing briefly at Carlton, and then away. “That’s all you’re going to say?”

“.....Yes?”

Shawn looked at him with an emotion that Carlton couldn’t understand, and he knew, again, that he was doing this all wrong. 

He sighed and moved away, and sat down on some concrete steps in front of a nearby building, putting his face in his hands. “I don’t understand . I shouldn’t even care that I upset you.”

Spencer came and leaned against the brick wall of the building, a couple of feet away from him.

“Wow, Lassie, you’re off to a great start here,” he replied dryly.

But Spencer didn’t leave. 

Carlton looked at him, almost plaintively. “You know what I mean. I don’t care when I hurt people’s feelings. So why do I care now?”

Shawn crouched down to about the same height as him, and sighed. “Because you just insulted me, my profession, and my character?”

Carlton rubbed his hands. “Yeah.”

“I mean….” Spencer looked off into the fog. 

He was sitting back on his heels a bit, no longer quite so tense.

His voice wasn’t as sad anymore, it was more… searching. “You don’t have to care. If you decide you don’t, I won’t hold it against you. And I understand if that’s how you see me. It’s just, since we’ve been working together... I thought…”

He trailed off. 

“No, you were… you were right,” Carlton replied. “I do think differently of you now. I still know that those psychic visions of yours are fake” --Spencer opened his mouth as if to reply, then closed it as if he thought better of it-- ”but I don’t think you’re just trying to con your way into everything all the time.”

“So…. you don’t think I’m a conman?” Spencer asked.

Carlton thought about it, and shook his head, reluctantly. 

“But you do still think I’m a lying liar who lies all the time?”

Carlton paused and nodded his head, just as reluctantly. 

Shawn smiled. “I’ll take it.”

Carlton breathed a sigh of relief as the tension dropped between them. 

Carlton still didn’t understand why he cared so much; why the thought of him making Spencer sad made him want to do something-- anything-- to make it better. 

“You know what this means, right?” Spencer asked. 

Carlton looked at him curiously. 

“We should be…” —Spencer crooked his head at him, and smiled that winning smile— “...friends.”

It was so juvenile, but Carlton couldn’t help but smile as well. 

“Friends it is,” he replied. 

“Hi, my name’s Shawn,” Spencer said, sticking his hand out.

“Carlton,” he replied, shaking it. 

Spencer wrinkled his nose a little. “I’m still going to call you Lassie.”

Carlton looked at him, irritated. “Well, then I’m still going to call you Spencer!”

Spencer smiled again. “I’ll take it.”

Shawn waved at Lassiter when the man dropped him off after the stakeout, then turned and rolled his eyes to himself in affectionate exasperation. 

Oof. What a night.

Only Lassiter would finally admit to begrudging acceptance and respect for Shawn, right after verbally tearing him apart.

Shawn didn’t think that Victoria had made a good choice when she left him. 

And she was a horrible person for cheating on him.

But Shawn thought, maybe, he might understand her perspective. 

He didn’t agree with it, but well… he thought he understood. 

It was probably hard for some people, being around someone with such a short fuse, and such a legendary lack of tact. 

Lassiter’s tactlessness, and the way he was quick to anger, could probably distract a lot of people from the honest, hardworking, truly decent man who was underneath. 

Also, Lassiter could be harsh.

Shawn unlocked his front door, and unceremoniously dumped his bag and shoes on the ground. 

He should call Gus. 

But Gus was in Montreal, 3 hours ahead, and it would be way too late, or way too early when Gus received the call. 

And… if Shawn called him now, he wasn’t sure that he would be able to keep it all in. 

How tired he was. 

How uncertain he was. 

How, even though Lassiter had yelled at him and been a total asshole tonight, Shawn was still holding the memory of it close to his heart and smiling dopily about it, because Lassiter had said that he didn’t think Shawn was a conman anymore. 

And damned if, coming from Lassiter, that didn’t sound almost like an “I love you”. 

And how Shawn wouldn’t want Lassiter to say “I love you”, ever, because that was crazy , and even ignoring the fact that Lassiter was probably straight, and either way would never look Shawn’s way twice, even though, Shawn thought to himself grumpily, --he was obviously hot and worth looking twice at-- an “I love you” would require more than 1 to 3 dates, and that just wasn’t how Shawn did things. 

And how, as much as he was looking forward to Gus and Jules coming home, he didn’t want this summer to end, because he knew that once Gus and Jules were back, and the summer turned to fall, and the fog over the city lifted, everything would be different. 

He wouldn’t spend time alone with Lassiter. 

Would maybe never spend time alone with him again. 

And how, even though it was crazy , that thought almost broke his heart in two. 

Chapter Text

After the stakeout, Carlton thought at least a dozen times about calling Spencer, just to apologize to him again. 

Carlton had been such a grade-A jerk , and Spencer had been so kind and understanding, when he didn’t have to be, at all. 

Spencer could have yelled at him, could have refused to continue working with him, could have at least left Carlton alone and miserable after he yelled at him last night, and it would have been completely justified. 

But he didn’t. 

For some reason, he stayed.

He talked Carlton through it. Calmed him down. Brought him back to reality. 

When, he now realized, the whole thing had started after Spencer was only trying to comfort him in the first place. 

Carlton couldn’t stop hearing the things he had said to Spencer in response to his simple questions. 

All Spencer had done was ask him what was wrong, and Carlton had gotten so angry. And personal. And said such mean things-- things he didn’t even really believe anymore.

Usually, when Carlton yelled at people, his words never stuck with him. He was often just left with a vague sense of having been right. 

But this felt like it did after the regrettable times when he yelled at O’hara.  When she would try to hide the hurt look in her eyes, cross her arms and tell Carlton that it was okay , which of course made it not okay, because you had to be some kind of jerk to yell at someone that forgiving. 

This felt like that. Or maybe even worse. Because he’d said things that cut deep.

He’d already apologized. Of his own free will. 

That, in itself, was newsworthy.

And now he was having to stop himself from reaching out to apologize again. 

When was the last time that Carlton had said he was sorry, to anyone?

He’d said it to Victoria, sometimes. 

Once, a few years ago, they had had a particularly memorable marriage counseling session, when the counselor had made them take turns apologizing to one another (and for some reason, apologizing to the counselor as well) for the better part of the therapy hour. 

And sometimes he said it, quietly, under his breath, if no one else was around, at crime scenes. 

But there was a difference between apologizing to a human for their loss of life, and apologizing for his own horrible actions. 

Well.. nowadays that was true. 

He wanted to apologize to Spencer over and over. 

The worst part, possibly, was that Carlton knew that he didn’t have to. 

He could tell from the kind, understanding look that Spencer had given him last night that he had been well and truly forgiven. That there would be no disciplinary meeting with the chief, or eye-rolls or silent treatment from Spencer. 

It all just made him feel worse. 

It also made him think back to their last few years of working together-- the barbs traded, the attempts to get Spencer fired, the many, many, many arguments.

He had always thought of Spencer as a bit of an immovable object. 

As someone whose self-confidence was much too high for anything Carlton said to ever get to him. But last night had shown that the things Carlton said did affect him.  Could even, it seemed from Spencer’s misty eyes, affect him deeply. 

He realized now that it was possible, even likely, that Carlton had hurt his feelings in the past. It was just as likely that last night wasn’t the first time Spencer had forgiven him for something he said that cut too deep. 

None of it made any sense. 

Every day, it seemed, Carlton was learning something new about Spencer. 

Every day he was more and more confused about where they stood with one another, and where they had stood these last three years.

---------

Throughout their mutual workday at the station, Carlton was distracted by his own thoughts. 

He tried to read his files, but no matter how many times his eyes ran over the words, his brain refused to take them in. 

He struggled to make conversation with anyone, but especially Spencer. 

He could barely speak to the man-- anytime he went to say something, he felt an apology well up in his throat, and he would swallow it back down and say nothing at all. 

The mental fog followed him home, and before he knew it, hours had passed and it was time for the stakeout. 

He drove to Spencer’s apartment, still confused about everything. He felt a familiar, almost comforting flash of annoyance when he saw that the man wasn’t waiting outside like he usually did. 

He sighed and honked his horn. 

Nothing. 

He sighed again and honked the horn again.

Still nothing. 

This was just classic Spencer-- running late when he had had hours to get ready. 

Carlton checked his watch to see just how late Spencer was making them, and--- oh. 

He had gotten the time wrong. 

He was here half an hour early. 

And he had already honked, which had alerted Spencer to his presence, so there was no turning back now. 

And Spencer was, of course, apparently not going to come outside to meet him. Carlton would have to go knock on his door. 

Suddenly, it felt to Carlton like the door to Mee Mee’s Fluff and Fold was looming in front of him ominously. 

It was strange, but knocking on Spencer’s door felt like crossing a professional boundary, somehow. It was a step into the man’s personal life.

Carlton shook his head at himself. He was being anxious for no reason. 

He would knock on the door, they would go to the stakeout early, and their working relationship would proceed as normal. Whatever this strange new “normal” between them was. 

Before he lost his nerve, and still angry at himself for his sudden nonsensical anxiety; Carlton got out of his car, locked it, and went to go knock on the door. 

As soon as Lassiter walked through the station doors that morning, Shawn could tell that there was something wrong with him. 

He didn’t have his usual pep in his step-- “pep” being an angry, slightly obsessive determination to catch and serve justice to as many bad guys as possible. 

He wasn’t glowering at everyone or stomping around the station the way he usually did. 

He was just drinking cup of coffee after cup of coffee and avoiding looking Shawn in the eye. 

Lassiter clearly felt bad about last night. 

Shawn had seen him angry at himself before, to a smaller degree, over various cases. But he wasn't sure if he had ever seen the man this angry at himself. 

Shawn just tried to give him space. 

He couldn’t go around getting wrapped up in Lassiter’s feelings, or trying to make him feel better. As he had been reminded last night, that was likely to just end up making Lassiter mad at him. 

Besides, Shawn told himself, he didn’t care that much about how Lassiter felt, anyway. 

Still, for some reason, it was hard seeing Lassiter look so down all day.

-------

The mid-day break from investigating --between working together at the station and completing a stakeout-- was a welcome reprieve, and Shawn took full advantage of it. 

He went by the beach at sunset-- it was clear and clean and beautiful. There was never any fog at this time of day. 

There were frisbee players, and nature photographers, and dog walkers, and Shawn wandered between all of them.

He took himself out for pulled pork at the hickory-smoked bbq place by his apartment, and then headed back home as the night sky fully darkened, and the first wisps of fog rolled in. 

Then he settled down for a few hours of retro gaming. 

-------

Shawn was halfway through an intense game of Donkey Kong 64 when he heard a honk outside. 

He checked his watch. 

Lassiter was here to pick Shawn up for the stakeout, more than 30 minutes early. 

Shawn kept playing the game.

There was another honk, which Shawn also ignored, and after another few minutes, a knock at the door. 

“Come in!” Shawn yelled.

After a long moment, the door opened and Lassiter walked into the dry-cleaners, looking annoyed. 

Lassiter looked momentarily shocked as he stepped in the door, and Shawn couldn’t help but smile to himself. 

He always enjoyed it when someone came to his apartment for the first time, and he got to watch them notice that his living space was undeniably cool . 

“You live here?” Lassiter asked incredulously. 

“Uh, yeah, duh. You pick me up from here like…. every day.”

“Yes, but I assumed the dry cleaners had been renovated into an apartment or something! You still have the huge hanging rack of clothes!”

“The dry-cleaning machines still work too. And it has been renovated, Lassie,” Shawn said, moving his arm in a sweeping gesture to draw attention to the bed, chair, tv set, and coffee pot.

Lassiter’s eyes flicked over a popcorn machine, and lingered on a poster for ‘An American Werewolf in London.’ “Mhmm,” he replied, doubtful. “ Anyway , Spencer, what are you doing? We have to go to the stakeout.”

“Umm, no we don’t,” replied Shawn. “Not for… 32 more minutes, Lassie.”

“What’s it matter? We can go a little early.”

“It may not matter to you, but I get paid by the day! I can’t afford to work a bunch of extra time for free.”

“Right, because what you’re doing is so important” Lassiter replied sarcastically. 

“It is! Come on, sit, you can watch me play.”

Shawn saw Lassiter’s eyes flicker uncertainly between Shawn-- who was sitting in the only actual chair in the apartment; to the old vinyl bench seating under the window on Shawn’s left; to Shawn’s unmade bed on the right. 

He sat on the vinyl bench seating. 

Shawn couldn’t help but notice that, for the first time all day, Lassiter’s shoulders didn’t look slumped.

He still wasn’t meeting Shawn’s eyes, but it was possible that he was just focused on how amazing Shawn was at playing Donkey Kong 64. 

“So, what’s the point of this game?” Lassiter asked, voice still sounding irritated. 

“Well, right now, I’m collecting yellow bananas so I can save my friend Diddy Kong. Actually, you know what, I’m about done with this level. I think I have another controller- do you want to play a game of Mario Kart?”

“A game of what cart?”

“It’s fun , you’ll see. Besides, we still have 28 minutes.”

“...Fine.” 

Shawn grabbed his other controller and loaded up the game, and noticed Lassiter’s look of mild disgust and horror as Shawn grabbed the two pillows from his bed and dropped them on the floor in front of the tv. 

“What?” Shawn asked defensively. “It’s important to be close to the tv for this game. Or, I could move the tv and we could sit on the bed.”

Shawn saw Lassiters face redden slightly before he replied. “Um no… no, this is fine.”

Shawn couldn’t help but smile as he watched Lassiter sit down awkwardly on the pillow, in his work clothes and well-shined shoes. 

The man really seemed like he never relaxed. 

Shawn chose Toad for Lassie, and Donkey Kong for himself. 

Lassie narrowed his eyes slightly in confusion. “Isn’t that the same character you were just playing in the other game?”

“Yes, good eye! Although in that game I was trying to save all my friends and prevent an island from being blown up, and in this game, I just drive this little car.” Shawn pointed at the little car on the screen, for emphasis.

“.....Okay,” said Lassiter, not looking like he got it at all. 

Shawn loaded them into a game on the Royal Raceway. “I think this map is the easiest,” he said by way of explanation. 

Thanks to some explaining from Shawn about how all the items worked, Lassiter came in at a respectable second place. 

“So? Did you like it?”

Lassiter shrugged non-committally. “It’s fine. But you only won because you’ve played more than I have.”

“Well, we have enough time before we go for a tournament. Best of 3?”

“Fine.”

Carlton did not win the tournament.

But, he enjoyed playing the game. 

It was weird. Sitting on the floor like that, elbow-to-elbow with Spencer, he found himself, for the first time in weeks, not thinking about something upsetting.

As he played, the chatter in his mind quieted, and he found himself actually able to focus on something other than work. 

Usually, he avoided “leisure time” like the plague, because he always ended up spending that time brooding. Brooding about cases he was working on, brooding about his recently failed marriage, brooding about his more distant past.

But this was… fun . 

Even though the game was flashy and confusing, and the controller felt difficult to use, and he kept missing turns for some reason, it was fun.

He didn’t even know that he could still have fun.

It was another thing that he had always judged Spencer for— maybe the central thing. How he was able to make light of and have fun in almost any situation.

But clearly, there were benefits to it— as many horrible things that Spencer was around, he never seemed weighed down by them.

After they finished playing, Carlton sat down again on the uncomfortable vinyl seating, watching Spencer haphazardly get his stuff together.

A few days ago, he probably would have taken this opportunity to point out that, now that it had been 30 minutes since he had arrived and Spencer still wasn’t actually ready, they were at this point late to the stakeout, but he didn’t.

He didn’t even say anything when Spencer picked his bed pillows back up off the floor, and after only a cursory thump to remove dust, dumped them back at the head of his bed; although he was sure that his shock was clear on his face. 

He just looked around the apartment and watched Spencer get ready, until Spencer grabbed his converse from by the front door and sat down on the end of his bed to tie them. The sight of Spencer sitting on his unmade bed made Carlton blush involuntarily, and he had to quickly look down at the floor. 

The apartment surprised him. It shouldn’t have, because once inside the door, the place was so clearly **Spencer**, but still, Carlton hadn’t expected it. 

Spencer was constantly surprising him. 

He’d been trying to find the right words to fully apologize with the whole time they were playing the game, but they still eluded him. 

He was still trying to find the words, even as Spencer was searching for his keys for the third (and hopefully final) time; even though he knew the moment was about to be over and, if it ended, he would have to spend at least the next few hours trying to work up the nerve again. 

“Sorry” just wasn’t really in his vocabulary. Neither was “I was wrong.”

They usually didn’t need to be, because he was usually right. Well, he was often right .  

“Spencer,” his voice came out a little cracked due to his nervousness, and he cleared his throat quickly. “I’m sorry.”

“Hmm? Oh! Don’t worry about it. I knew what was going to happen as soon as you picked up the blue shell. That’s the way it goes, you know-- sometimes you hit someone with the blue shell, sometimes it hits you. Besides,” Spencer continued, grinning, “It’s not like you were able to win, anyway.”

“No, Spencer, I’m… sorry. I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you last night.”

“Oh.” Spencer said again, much quieter this time. “You already said that. Last night, remember?”

“Yeah, well—“ he didn’t even know what he was going to say, and he lost the nerve to try and find out. “Nevermind,” he muttered, looking grumpily back down at the floor.

He felt Spencer’s eyes on him, so he looked up and saw that the man was smiling at him.

“What??” He asked indignantly.

“Nothing,” Spencer replied simply, still smiling but finally, much to Carlton’s relief, breaking off eye contact. 

He was grateful when a moment later Spencer yelled “A-ha!” and held up his keys triumphantly, and they were finally able to leave the apartment, and that uncomfortable moment surrounding his apology could finally come to an end.

Chapter Text

Shawn was eating cereal when he got a phone call from Lassiter. He had been waking up a little earlier than usual, and it was nice to eat a lazy breakfast and hang around for a bit in the morning.

He answered. “Shello?”

“Spencer?”

“Whhtshup?”

“Are you eating?”

Shawn took a moment to finish chewing and swallowing. “ Maybe . I’m an accomplished multitasker, Lassie.”

He heard Lassiter sigh on the other end of the line, and he could just picture the man pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Whatever. Just come down to the station, we identified the victim.”

Noting the urgency in Lassiter’s voice, Shawn didn’t even stop for a second bowl of cereal before he left his apartment. 

---------

The Victim:

Elijah Tate, 19

Height: 5’ 11’’

Hair color: Brown

Eye color: Green

Blood type: O+

Last seen: Leaving San Diego to hitchhike his way up the coast of California.

Tate had been an amateur filmmaker and had been making a documentary about his trip up the coast and the people he met along the way. Apparently, he’d made quite a few friends on his trip so far, and was hoping to hitchhike all the way up to the California/Oregon border. 

His video camera, along with tapes containing hours of footage and the rest of his personal belongings, were nowhere to be found.

His parents hadn’t heard from him in a week, but they had only reported him missing yesterday. 

He had only called them every few days on his trip so far, so they had thought nothing of the lack of contact until the number of days became unusual.

The missing person’s report had matched the description of their John Doe, the parents had driven up this morning to I.D. the body, and here they were.

Shawn looked up from reading the report and sneakily watched Lassiter make his way around the room, the man suddenly full of energy. 

This had only added a small amount of information to their investigation, but it was something new, and Shawn couldn’t help but admire the way that Lassiter lit up as he strategized to ensure that no stone was left unturned. 

They commandeered a conference room so that they could use the whiteboard, and put up all the information they had. The list of hotel guests and hotel staff, with particular focus on Thomas McCain. Photos of the entrances to the hotel-- both ground floor and rooftop. The... distinctive crime scene that the killer had created. The photos of the inside of the torso, which showed signs of a cauterization tool being used. Everything they knew about Elijah Tate and his missing video camera. 

After setting all of this up, Lassiter stopped for a long, silent stare at the whiteboard. Finally, he nodded decisively and spoke. “Okay. First thing we do is look for that video camera. We’ll check all of the pawn shops in Santa Barbara for that model. Then, we see if we can get Tate’s email password from his parents. Apparently, he made a few friends along his journey so far, and they had been emailing him. Maybe one of them knows if he planned to make any particular stops in Santa Barbara.” 

“And,” he added, and Shawn noted that for some reason he paused to pull out his cellphone and check it before he continued, “let’s call Thomas McCain in for another interview. Make him sweat.”

It was impressive. 

Not just because of Lassiter’s dedication to the case, but because he and Shawn both knew that they were still deep in the weeds, and unless they caught a lucky break, still quite far from closing the case. 

But that didn’t seem to matter to Lassiter. 

It didn’t matter how small and boring a task was, if it was a step forward into the investigation, he dedicated himself to it fully. Even as the hours passed and the excitement over the new information faded and his usual grumpiness took over, Lassiter continued to methodically call pawn shops and send emails to the recent responders in Tate’s email inbox. 

And Shawn……. waited. 

----------------

A few hours later, Shawn was standing near Lassiter’s empty desk, tossing a paper ball up and down in the air. 

He couldn’t help but feel discouraged. 

So this was what normal police work was like, even after there was a break in the case. A lot of standing around, and waiting, and doing paperwork, and discovering dead end after dead end. At least he knew for sure that it wasn’t at all that his dad had cracked it up to be. 

He thought through the case, trying to put the pieces together. 

The body. The cauterization marks. The crime scene. Elijah Tate, the hitchhiking amateur-film maker turned-corpse. Thomas McCain, the relatively unassuming hotel employee, and the closest thing they had to a suspect. The crime scene, and the fact that after an entire week , it seemed that the killer had no interest in returning to gloat about his crimes. 

It just wasn’t coming together. He needed more information... What he needed, honestly, was to do some psych-style investigating. 

Following police procedure had made it clearer why Shawn was able to solve cases that the cops were far behind on-- they had to work from a much more limited pool of information. 

Because they followed the “laws”. Like a bunch of lame… loser… dumb... nerds, Shawn thought grumpily.

“Hey.”

“--Oh! Hey Lassie!” Shawn replied, surprised, trying and failing to catch his paper ball. Lassiter had gone elsewhere in the station about an hour ago, taking care of something or other for a different case, and Shawn was surprised to see him back so soon. 

Lassie tossed something to Shawn, and Shawn caught it. 

A pack of m&ms from the vending machine. 

“What’s this for?” Shawn asked, curiously. “A case? Do you think someone poisoned these?”

Lassiter shrugged noncommittally. “They’re for you. You’re not being a loud jackass like usual, I thought you might be hungry.”

Shawn’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and he smiled. 

Oh.

That was… super rude of Lassiter to say, but Shawn could sense the meaning behind the words. 

That he had noticed that Shawn wasn’t in the best mood, and that he cared. 

And perhaps more importantly, that these m&ms were indeed for him. 

“Thanks,” Shawn said, tearing into the package of candy. 

At the stakeout, Carlton drummed his fingers on the dashboard impatiently. 

Over a week of these, and nothing. No killer, nobody suspicious entering the hotel through either entrance, nothing at all of interest. 

This was starting to look like yet another dead end.

And of course, Benjamin Ward, the owner of the Santa Barbara La Boîte de Nuit, was still dodging his calls. And texts. Maybe bringing Thomas McCain in for a few more interviews would cause Benjamin to leave whatever corner of the city he was hiding in. 

And, at least now that Tate’s body had been identified, they had a few more possible leads. 

Now they just had to figure out why Elijah Tate had ended up at an exclusive, closed-off swingers convention, filled mostly with people two decades older than him. Or at least, how his body had ended up there. 

Maybe it would be good to talk it through with Spencer again-- “psychic” or not, the man often had surprisingly insightful things to say.

He glanced over at Spencer and saw that the man was leaned back in his seat. His eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open, and he was breathing slowly and heavily. Carlton passed his hand in front of the man’s face, and he didn’t react at all. 

He chuckled to himself a little. Leave it to Spencer to fall asleep on the job. 

He was surprised this hadn’t happened earlier, to be honest. Stakeouts were quite boring, and the ones they had been doing were very late. 

Carlton turned his head back and kept his eyes focused on the hotel. There was no harm in letting Spencer sleep for a little bit. 

Why had Tate come here? He wondered. He couldn’t have been dropped off at the Ritz-Carlton by someone giving him a ride through town-- no one would assume that a hitchhiker could afford a room there. Someone must have told him to go there. But who? A friend he met on his trip? Someone he knew online?

As he pondered this, Carlton suddenly felt something press against his right shoulder. He turned his head to look over, and his chin bumped into the top of Spencer’s head. 

Oh. Well. 

Spencer was….. very close to him right now. And he was…. using Carlton’s shoulder as a pillow. 

Carlton carefully shifted so that he could peer down at him, and saw that his eyelids were closed, and there was a peaceful look on the man’s face. Well, no harm in letting him sleep, Carlton thought to himself again.

He thought about shaking Spencer awake, to ask him his thoughts about this development in the case. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had to be missing something, and it was starting to drive him crazy. 

Besides, he and Spencer were suddenly a bit closer than he was comfortable with. 

But he glanced over one more time at Spencer’s sleeping face, and then leaned back against his own seat, Spencer murmuring softly at the movement. 

Carlton could smell Spencer’s hair-- it smelled like pineapples and mango and hair gel, and he could smell his laundry detergent, which also seemed to have a slight pineapple scent. The feeling of Spencer’s cheek against his shoulder was warm, and Carlton tried not to notice how nice this was. 

It wasn’t just that he was suddenly in very close proximity to another person, and that it had been a long time since that had last happened. Or that he was in close proximity to another man, though it had been a far , far longer time since he had last experienced that. 

It was that he was close to Spencer. 

Spencer, who drove him crazy, but who he suddenly seemed to have a soft spot for.

Sure, the man was no O’Hara, but he had been helpful on this case. He was certainly more help than that idiot Dobson would have been, or any of the other buffoons in the station that he could have gotten paired with. 

Spencer was a buffoon, but also, possibly one of the most complicated people Carlton had ever met?

He certainly had far, far more going on than he showed on the surface. 

Anyway, Spencer never had to know that Carlton had let him sleep on his shoulder like this-- knowledge which would surely embarrass them both. 

If Spencer woke up, Carlton would act like Spencer had just leaned into him, and like he’d already been shaking him off in irritation. 

He sat there for a long time, watching the hotel, and listening to Spencer’s quiet breathing.

Suddenly, he heard a sound from a few blocks away. It was hard to tell what it was-- some kind of thump or crash. He stilled, straining to hear if any more sounds would follow it. After a moment, he could hear more noises from the same directions. Some kind of heated arguing. 

He gently shrugged Spencer off of his shoulder, and thankfully the man stayed asleep. 

The noises were from too far away for him to have a chance of seeing anything from here. It was likely only due to his super-strong hearing that he had heard them in the first place-- Spencer might not have heard anything at all, even if he had been awake. 

He stepped out of the car and checked one last time that Spencer was asleep.

Then he rushed into the alleyway, quickly pulled off his clothes and shoes, and transformed. 

His joints popped, and then popped again, as his limbs shifted into new lengths and orientations. His ears doubled--tripled in size and then pointed upwards. His face pushed forward into a snout.  Suddenly, he could hear and smell everything .

Once in wolf-form, he bounded off to his right, into the network of alleyways, his keen ears drawing him to the sound of the scuffle. 

He was as comfortable on two legs as he was on four in werewolf-form, but he always chose to travel on four legs if he transformed within the city. Traveling on four legs gave him less of a chance of being seen and reported on as some kind of cryptid. Carlton did not want to see a photo of himself under a headline talking about the “the Santa Barbara Wolf-Man”. 

After a few stressful minutes, as Cartlon raced towards the sound of the arguing and hoped that it wouldn’t be resolved before his arrival with the crack of gunfire and sudden silence, he finally tracked the source of the noise.

There was a man in a suit, backed against the alley wall, passing his wallet to another man in a baseball hat and all-black outfit, who was holding the point of a knife to the first man’s chest.

Good. Just a knife. So far, at least. 

This mugger would never know, but he should count himself lucky that he didn’t have a gun, and that Carlton would be able to take him down more easily. The sooner this was over, the less the mugger would have to be hurt. 

He crept forward from his position in the shadows, and after the mugger’s face changed and Carlton knew that he had moved forward enough for the moonlight to glint off of his fangs, he let out a snarl. 

Time slowed down as he leaped into a pounce, and he adjusted his positioning to make sure his attack would come from the correct angle before jumping at the would-be mugger, biting onto the back of his shirt and yanking him down to the ground. The mugger fell with a hard thump.

The man who had been held at knife-point looked at him, terrified, then grabbed his wallet from the ground and sprinted away. 

The mugger just lay on the ground in the alley, groaning in pain.

Carlton sprinted away as well, in the opposite direction of the fleeing man, back to his car. 

He stopped to transform back, wincing slightly at the pain from his joints popping in so many different directions in such a short amount of time-- that would surely hurt tomorrow, and pulled his clothes and shoes back on, buttoning his shirt and tucking it in as he jogged to the car. 

He slipped into the driver’s seat and put his key in the ignition. He tapped Spencer on the shoulder-- hard but not too hard. “Wake up, Spencer.”

Spencer shook himself awake, looking every bit confused and disoriented. “What’sh going on?” he asked thickly, rubbing his eyes. 

“Heard some yelling from a couple of blocks away.” was all that Carlton said in reply. 

He turned the car on and raced it back through the network of alleyways. 

The mugger was still there, knife in hand. He was limping away slowly, nursing what looked to be a sprained ankle. Carlton couldn’t help but smile when he saw this-- he had coordinated his tackle properly. 

As Spencer was still looking around confused and asking “What….”, Carlton hopped out of the car. His gun was held forward, barrel slightly down.

The mugger turned to look at him and shakily held his knife out in front of him, in what was probably supposed to be a threatening stance. 

“I don’t think so, asshole,” Carlton said.

The mugger just dropped his knife helplessly and put his hands behind his head. 

At the station, Carlton couldn’t help but laugh through the one-way mirror of the interrogation room, as the man told a uniformed officer about how he had “Totally seen a wolf, man!!”

He would have preferred for another office to make the arrest. He didn’t usually like to tie his name to something like this on record, but it was gratifying to see how scared the man was.

It was gratifying to know that Carlton had made someone, anyone, afraid during their attempt to commit a violent crime. 

“What’s up with the wolf thing?” Spencer asked from beside him, sleepily. 

“Who knows,” Carlton replied with practiced dismissal. “He’s probably just a…..” the next words out of his mouth were going to be ‘drug addict’ because that was just about the easiest excuse in the book, but he looked at Spencer and didn’t finish his thought.

“A what, Lassie?” Spencer asked, with a challenging smile that implied he knew exactly what Cartlon had been about to say, and was looking forward to the opportunity to shame him for using such judgemental language.

Carlton glanced over at him but didn’t respond. He had been trying to be thoughtful, and if Spencer wanted to be childish, that was his problem. 

“A mugger?” Spencer asked, clearly trying to poke his buttons. “A…. guy who wears hats?”

Carlton sighed in defeat. “Yeah, Spencer.” He said flatly. “A guy who wears hats.”

“Oh,” Spencer said, apparently unwilling to leave this topic alone. “I didn’t know you were so judgemental towards… guys who wear hats.”

Carlton sighed again. “I’m not judgemental-- whatever . Can you just leave, so I can finish my paperwork and go home?”

“Yeah, sure,” Spencer replied easily.

“Good. Then go.” Carlton smirked and turned back to watch the interrogation.

“Uh, Lassie?”

Carlton glanced back at Spencer and saw the man was still smiling his most infuriating type of smile at him. He sighed. “Yes?”

“You’re my ride.”

“Oh.” The night had been so crazy, he had forgotten that they had driven there directly from the scene of the arrest, the perp handcuffed in the backseat. “Right.”

Carlton checked his watch. 

He could arrange for someone else to take Spencer home, and he could get all his paperwork done now, or Carlton could take him home and come back to finish his paperwork after. 

Dropping him off wouldn’t add that much time to his night. 

“Let’s go,” he said simply, turning towards the interrogation room door.

Chapter Text

After days of infuriatingly slow back-and-forth texting, Carlton finally got Benjamin Ward, the owner of the Santa Barbara La Boîte de Nuit, to agree to meet him.

Now, he was in his car, headlights sweeping over a thick ocean of fog as he drove to meet him at the social club.

He hoped it wouldn’t be too crowded– it was a weeknight, but it was nighttime, primetime for people to be at a place like that. 

And thanks to Benjamin dodging all of his calls and only responding to texts, he had no idea what the man looked like or sounded like, and would have no hope of finding him in a crowd.

When Carlton arrived at La Boîte de Nuit, he was surprised to see that most of the exterior and interior lights were off. 

The Spanish Colonial building looked more like the set of some hokey cowboy–ghost movie, rather than a social club. 

There were only two other cars in the parking lot, and the place looked to be completely empty of people. 

On the front door was a sign that simply read “closed for a private party.”

Uneasily, Carlton pushed the door open and walked into the club. The lobby was dim, and in the absence of sunlight or warm lighting, the interior looked washed out rather than cool and minimalist.

There was someone at the host's stand-- the man who had given him a tour the first time he came here. 

He just smiled at Carlton, and pointed him in the direction of the back room. 

Carlton walked over by himself, his footsteps echoing in the empty room.

He opened the wooden farmhouse doors and walked in. The first time he had been here this room had held a good number of people, who had been enjoying the music playing over the loud sound system, as well as the brightly lit dancefloor and bar. 

When he walked into the room this time, it was empty, and all of the lights and music were off.

Whoever this “Benjamin” was, he had an overdeveloped flair for drama.

“Alright!” Carlton yelled as he stepped into the room, arms spread wide, annoyed at the theatrics of it all. “I’m here! Can we finally get this over with?”

A man stepped out from the shadows by the bar. 

Carlton felt a surge of annoyance as the man finally came out to greet him. Whoever this guy was, he was really playing this up. 

As the man stepped forward into the dim light, Carlton’s feelings turned from annoyance, to shock, to horror. 

No. 

That face.

It was a face he would recognize anywhere.

A face he had hoped to never see again. 

And it hadn’t aged a day.

“Orion,” Carlton said bitterly. “What are you doing here? Romulus finally let you off your leash?”

The man smirked in reply. “Romulus sent me, his most trusted advisor, down here to manage the Santa Barbara La Boîte de Nuit. And I go by Benjamin now. Or just Ben. And it’s nice to see you too, Carl. It’s been a decade, I would think a nicer greeting would be in order, no?”

“It’s Head Detective Carlton Lassiter to you,” Carlton replied, brushing him off. “And you consider yourself Romulus’s most trusted advisor now? I suppose a lot can change in a decade. Last time I saw you, you were little more than his coffee boy.”

Ben walked behind the bar, and began calmly making himself a cocktail. 

“That’s interesting to hear, coming from you.” he replied. “When you were just his boytoy.”

Carlton just rolled his eyes at the weak attempt to upset him. Why “Ben” would think that, a decade later, Carlton would be hurt by him minimizing his past relationship with Romulus was beyond him. Orion…. “Ben” could think and say whatever he wanted to about Carlton. 

It didn't matter.

He hadn't cared what "Ben" or Romulus thought about him for a very long time.

Carlton sighed. “Look, I wanted to talk to you about the Ritz-Carlton Murder. Can I do that? Or should I go?”

“Fine, fine,” Ben replied. “Come, sit. Have a drink.”

Reluctantly, Carlton came and sat at the barstool. 

He watched as Ben pulled out a cocktail shaker, some fresh herbs, liquor, bitters, and several devices and vials that Carlton didn’t recognize, and began to mix himself some sort of frou-frou cocktail. 

“So, there's a private party tonight?” Carlton asked, holding his breath in hope that he wouldn’t have to see anyone else from his past.

“Of course,” Ben looked at him with a smirk. “You and I, reuniting. Don’t worry, there’s no one else from La Boîte de Nuit here. After the way you left us, I’m sure you would be quite embarrassed to see any of them. Not like me, of course, you know how understanding I am.”

“Understanding” was just about the last word that Carlton would use to describe the man. 

“Where were you, during the Ritz-Carlton murder?” Fed up with Ben’s version of small-talk, Carlton looked him right in the eye as he asked. 

“Why, here, of course. You can ask anyone.” Ben replied, easily making direct eye contact back.

“Mhmm. And what about your employee, Thomas McCain?”

“Who?” Ben glanced up as he did something involving mashing a fresh herb in a mortar and pestle, and the faux-confusion on his face made him look so punchable.

Carlton shot Ben a glare. “You know who.”

Ben just shrugged. “You’re free to question any of my employees, but I have no knowledge of what they do while they’re off the clock. Workers have a right to privacy, you know, Carl.”

“Right, because you care so much about worker's rights. And I told you, it’s Head Detective Carlton Lassiter to you.”

“Alright, Detective,” --Carlton didn’t miss the subtle downgrading of his title– ”Feel free to ask me and my employees anything you like. We love to help.”

He smiled a simpering smile at Carlton that, for a moment, made his face even more punchable. It shouldn’t be possible to have that punchable of a face and walk around without taking right-hooks to the nose all day, Carlton thought irritably. 

He didn’t want to ask any of the specific questions he had come here to ask.

He hadn’t expected to see Orion... ugh, “Ben” of all people, here, and he felt unbalanced. 

Ben was smart.

He had brought Carlton here to get information from him, and any detailed questions Carlton asked could be overplaying his hand.

Carlton sighed. “So, you had nothing to do with the Ritz-Carlton murder?”

“Me? No! Of course not. Why would you even ask that?” Ben asked, making a 'who, me?' face.

 He kept it up as he started pouring various liquids and ice into his cocktail shaker.

Carlton shrugged and watched him. “A human died a violent death. I seem to remember you in lots of similar situations.”

“Yeah, and I seem to remember you being there as well, Detective.”

Yeah. Carlton thought. Hiding in the corner, or the next room over. Not like you-- you were usually the one holding the knife. 

Well, if all Ben was going to do was play dumb, argue, and dredge up the past, there was nothing useful left to say.

Carlton started to stand up to go, but “Ben” held him back with a question. 

“So, have you tried Anticotum Phosphate yet? I heard that we gave you our doctor’s card.”

Carlton sat back down reluctantly, and Ben continued. “Word on the street is that you haven’t tried it at all. You know it’s been months since it became available, right?”

Carlton glared at him. “I know that.”

Ben looked him over, and Carlton could feel him trying to catalog information about him. His older age, his stubble, his suit that was surely somewhat rumpled from the hours he had put in the station that day– he felt like all of it was going in a folder about his possible weaknesses.

After a long pause, Ben shrugged, like this conversation wasn’t interesting to him anymore. “You should try it. It’s a beautiful thing, knowing that you can transform without harming humans.”

As he said this, Ben poured his cocktail from the shaker into a glass, and picked up the last vial, which contained a red liquid, seemingly to garnish his drink with it. 

He opened it, and the metallic smell hit Carlton full in the face.

* * *

Carlton didn’t even try to hide the horror on his face. “Is that a vial of… human blood?”

Ben just shrugged. “I think that would be obvious, Detective. Why, do you want me to make you a cocktail, too?”

Carlton felt himself go stiff– felt a pallor go over his face. This shouldn’t make him so scared. “Why do you have that? Why are you drinking it?”

“This drink would be completely unbalanced without it. The flavor it adds is just… spectacular.”

“Since when do you drink human blood for fun?” Carlton asked, still horrified by this new information.

Ben poured the blood into his cocktail, and it turned the amber-colored drink a sickening, deep, red.

* * *

“Oh….” Ben took a sip and smacked his lips, looking as if he was trying to remember when he had first discovered aioli. “A few years, now.”

“You’re disgusting.” 

“Oh, relax, Carl! I’m not hurting anyone. One moment…” –Ben turned his head to call behind him, into the closed-off area behind the bar. “Zander! Are you still back there?”

A young man who looked like a surfer, aesthetic complete with tie-dye tank and boardshorts, stepped out from behind the bar.

“Zander, this is Carl. Carl, this is Zander.”

Carlton was far past the point of trying to stop him from using that old nickname. 

Ben turned to Zander as he sipped his drink, and lifted up his other arm for Zander to slide under. “I was just telling my friend here, how delicious your blood is. The Earth Mother truly blessed you.”

Carlton just stared on in horror as Zander smiled, turned and gave Ben a kiss on the lips. “Awh, thanks!” was all he said in response, apparently more interested in making lovey-dovey eyes at Ben than anything Carlton had to say. 

“I have to go,” Carlton said, jumping out of the stool and turning to leave the room. 

“Okay, but come back soon!” Ben called after him. “Zander just loves meeting other people who are our kind.”

Carlton’s only reply was the slam of the wooden double-doors to the back room closing behind him, and the building’s front door slamming behind him a few seconds later. 

----------

Carlton drove around, feeling far too keyed-up to go home, and one thought kept returning to him.

He should call Spencer. 

They were on top of their investigation, but if they went to the station, surely they would find something to do. At the very least, there were more pawn shops to call.

Sure, Carlton could work on it alone, but the work would go faster if there were two people.

And you want to see him, he thought to himself. You’re floundering, and you –know– that seeing him will make you feel better.

He sighed, pulled over, and placed the call. 

Spencer answered.

“Hey–” Carlton started awkwardly. “-Hey, Spencer. I was on my way to the station, to do some more work on the case, and I was wondering— oh, you can meet me there? Okay. Or… I could pick you up.”

—---------

In the car, on the way back from the station, Carlton glanced over at Spencer and felt an unexpected surge of protectiveness. 

Seeing “Ben” had brought up a lot of horrible memories, involving many humans that he had been unable to protect.

A part of him– an increasingly loud and insistent part of him, wanted to reach out and touch Spencer, and make sure he was real, and there, and safe.

Carlton’s fears were soothed a moment later, when Spencer made some complicated maneuver in his seat that somehow lead to Spencer’s dirty sneakers kicking against the buttons of Carlton’s stereo, causing his Willie Nelson CD to begin to play. 

Yep, Spencer was definitely real.

Spencer perked up at the sound of the CD, and then looked over at Carlton, surprised. 

“Wow, Lassie, Willie Nelson. I didn’t know you were so sensitive,” he said with a grin. 

Carlton's eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about Spencer? Willie Nelson is a country icon.”

“Maybe..... but I say he’s a crooner if I ever heard one.”

Carlton scoffed angrily. “He’s not a crooner.”

“He’s totally a crooner, listen to how sentimental he sounds!” Spencer gestured to the stereo, which was currently playing Willie Nelson's "Buddy", as if it would help prove his point.

“I think you just don’t have an appreciation for country music,” Carlton replied huffily, going to turn off the stereo.

“Yeah I do!” Spencer replied, batting Carlton’s hand away gently. “I love this song. Besides, you can’t stop the CD in the middle of a song! Let the man croon, Lassie.”

Carlton rolled his eyes, but he put his hands back on the steering wheel and kept driving. 

Spencer rolled down his window and turned up the CD volume, and Carlton didn’t stop him, even though Spencer should know better than to touch things in Carlton’s car. 

When the song ended, Carlton rolled down his window too, and when the next song began it felt like his car was floating, buoyed by the music and the night air.

Carlton rested his arm on his open window, feeling the fresh night air; and when he looked over at Spencer, he saw that the other man had done the same.

They got to Spencer's apartment.

After Spencer got out of the car he leaned back in through the still-open passenger side window; all well-styled hair and rumpled clothes, the light from the parking lot bouncing off his face.

“See you tomorrow, Lassie,” he said with a grin.

Carlton just rolled his eyes and waved before driving off, but he couldn’t help but smile to himself as he listened to the CD again on the drive home. 

The morning after Shawn listened to Willie Nelson in Lassiter’s car started much like any other morning. 

A few days had passed quickly since Elijah Tate’s body was identified, and Shawn and Lassiter had settled into another kind of routine.

As more and more days had passed since the murder, it seemed less and less likely that the killer would re-visit the scene of the crime. Which... kind of put a damper on the “serial killer” theory. Or at least their theory about the kind of serial killer that they were looking for. 

As Shawn had been learning from Lassiter’s explanations, all signs at the crime scene pointed towards an uncontrolled, frenzied killer, who was killing as much for the thrill of getting caught as the murder itself. 

It wasn’t just that they had left the body to be found, and displayed it in such a terrifying way, it was that they had done this in public, in a hotel filled with dozens of people, and left no clues behind. It was almost heist-like. 

And wouldn’t the most irresistible thing to this killer be to return to the crime, to relive the murder all over again?

It would appear not. 

Unless…. As Shawn and Lassiter had noted to each other yesterday, unless the killer didn’t need to sneak back in to go revisit the crime scene. Maybe the killer could go revisit the crime scene anytime they wanted... like if they worked there.

Most of the employees had quit after the murder. Bookings had dropped massively, anyway, so the place only needed a bare-bones staff. A staff which still included one Thomas McCain. 

Thomas McCain was now at the center of their whiteboard, his photo circled in bright red marker. 

Never a place you want to be. 

They were going to have beat cops follow the man round the clock-- rotating officers, rotating unmarked cars, so they were less likely to get noticed. And they were going to investigate the man’s second job at-- Le Petite Bonnet, or whatever. 

So, Shawn and Lassiter’s stakeouts were on hold for the time being. 

Honestly, Shawn didn't mind. 

The nights were getting a little easier for him now. He was able to stay home-- he wasn’t so overwhelmed by the siren song of Space Odyssey and whatever drugs she held. 

Plus, half the time Lassiter called him and asked him to come meet him at the station for some more late-night work on the case, anyway.

“Okay, so, our search for other suspects is on hold.” Lassie was saying. His suit jacket was off, and the sleeves of his button-down were rolled up to his elbows. He was moving around some of the other information on their whiteboard. “We are now zeroing in on suspect number one… Mr. McCain…”

He trailed off a little at the end, and he seemed like there was something else he wanted to say, as he often did when talking about the suspect. 

Shawn didn’t push it. 

He’d been at the station all morning-- certainly longer than necessary to cover the updates of the case for the day. 

Lassie had already taken a couple of hours to work on some of the smaller cases he was assigned, and he hadn’t dismissed Shawn yet. 

Shawn felt like he had, by pure luck, ended up inserted in much of Lassiter’s daily life. 

And he didn’t want to alert the man to his presence too much, lest Lassie realized and made Shawn leave. 

He did, however, sneak a look at Lassiter’s phone screen, after it buzzed with what sounded like a text notification, and Lassiter opened it. 

Who was texting Lassie?

“Oh cool, you’re texting a guy named Benjamin? I know a guy named Ben, too.” Shawn said nonchalantly, standing right next to Lassiter and craning his head to read. (Okay, who was texting Lassie and was glad they got a chance to chat?)

“Spencer!” Lassiter jumped and shoved Shawn away from him angrily. “Stay a normal number of feet away from me, or I will shoot you,” he said irritably, although there wasn’t quite the usual bite behind his words. 

Shawn just smiled at him, closer than he knew Lassiter wanted him to be. “And what is a normal number of feet, Lassie? Two? That’s what you and I have, and I was never closer than two feet away from you.”

“You can’t breathe on somebody’s neck from two feet away, Spencer. You’re not even two feet away from me now!”

“Alright, alright, sheesh,” said Shawn, moving back to sit down at the desk he had been lent for purposes of helping with the investigation. 

(Well, Shawn had got the desk himself. And the “desk” was more like a rolling chair with a missing wheel that had been taken from its spot next to the trash, and a notepad taken from Dobson’s desk that still had several of Dobson’s grocery lists written on it)

He smiled to himself as he went back to drawing his best approximation of a dragon. 

Hmm. 

Who knew that he and Lassie were capable of actually being friends.

Absentmindedly, Shawn drew a heart, and then quickly scratched over it and started trying to cover it up with something else. 

“Spencer,” called Lassiter as he put down his dry-erase marker and grabbed his suit jacket and sunglasses. “I’m getting lunch. Are you coming?” 

“Sure!” Shawn ripped off the part of the page with a heart on it and stuffed it into his pants pocket. “Just one sec.” 

They passed Buzz McNab on the way out, who nodded and smiled at Shawn, and then cast a surprised look at Lassiter. “Wow, detective, once again you look really happ--” --he quickly stopped himself-- “--normal. You look really normal, again, today. Sir.” And then he speed-walked off without a backward glance. 

“That was weird,” said Shawn. 

Lassiter didn’t reply. 

—------

They ate lunch at a restaurant by the boardwalk.

It was really nice. 

“Well,” Lassiter said as they wrapped up the meal. “We’ve probably done about all we can for this case today, and I’m sure you would rather spend your afternoon and evening somewhere other than the station.” 

“Oh-- yeah. Yeah.” Shawn answered quickly. 

These were always the worst moments. 

It was his own fault. 

He still hadn’t called a therapist, hadn’t gone to any groups. All he’d done was replace hanging out with Gus all day with following Lassiter around for as much of the day allowed.

Which was not a good long-term plan. 

Shawn counted out cash for the tip on his half of the bill as Lassiter stood up and nodded at him. “I’ll call you if anything comes up, but I wouldn’t expect it. You can take the rest of the day off, Spencer, you earned it.”

“Great...” Shawn muttered to himself after Lassiter left. 

He stayed afterward, killing time, making perfect crawly snakes out of his and Lassiter’s straw wrappers, and sipping the last of his soda slowly. 

He glanced up and saw a cute man with a beard looking at him as he walked past on the sidewalk, and Shawn smiled at him reflexively. 

The man stopped and looked at him for a second longer. “Wait!” he said. “I know you! Shawn, right?”

It took a moment for the recognition to set in. “Oh! Hey! Ben?”

The man smiled. “Yeah! It’s great to run into you- can I sit?”

Shawn paused for a second. 

It was Ben. Ben from Space Odyssey. Ben with the good coke. 

But it was also someone to talk to. 

And besides, this was an outdoor table at a cafe, about as far from the bathrooms of the Space Odyssey as you could get. 

Shawn nodded and gestured for Ben to take a seat. 

Ben smiled at him again. “So, what’ve you been up to? I’m new to town and I don’t know many people, and I’ve been keeping an eye out for you at Space Odyssey.”

“Oh, yeah.” Shawn picked up his straw-wrapper crawly snake. “I… haven’t gone in a while.”

“Well,” said Ben. “I was hoping to see you around, I wanted to ask if you want to hang out again? We could go out dancing, or... Just go back to my place.” he laid his hand gently over Shawn’s as he spoke.

Shawn pulled his hand back as politely as he could. “That’s-- that’s great, Ben. Thank you. But I’m…..” ---he tried to think of something to say other than ‘trying to get back on the wagon after your cocaine helped me jump off it, and also busy hanging around a detective I have feelings for who likes to yell at me’--- “.....trying to get sober. So, I don’t know...”

“Oh really?” Ben, if it was possible, seemed like he perked up even more at that. “Me too! Hey, why don’t you come to an NA meeting with me?”

“An NA meeting?”

That did sound nice. 

It was just the kind of thing that Shawn had been looking for. 

“Yeah, it’s at my social club. I run a social club” Ben said, with what seemed like faux-humbleness. “La Boîte de Nuit. We just opened, and we want to be very sober inclusive. We’ll have nonalcoholic liquor, all that great stuff. And NA meetings once a week.” He passed over a business card, which did indeed say “Benjamin Ward, Owner”.

Shawn’s eyebrows shot up. La Boîte de Nuit. Where their suspect #1-- Thomas McCain worked. Thomas McCain, who had never seen Shawn, and thus wouldn’t know he was working with the police. Shawn was suddenly so grateful that he hadn’t helped conduct any of the man’s interviews. 

It was a perfect opportunity to do some good old-fashioned undercover psych investigating.

He wouldn’t be able to tell Lassiter. He would threaten to kick Shawn off the case, and Shawn would have to explain why he was going to NA meetings. (maybe Lassie would believe that Shawn was going to NA meetings by himself because his cousin was also going to NA meetings by himself?)

Well. 

What Lassie didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. 

“Sure,” Shawn said with a smile. “What time?”

That night, when Carlton called Spencer to ask if he wanted to meet at the station for some late-night paperwork, he didn’t notice the car idling across the street from his apartment complex.

Nor did he notice when that car, after waiting a moment to allow another car to get between them, turned and followed Carlton’s Crown Vic as he made his way across the city to the police station. 

He didn’t notice when he reached the block that the police station was on, and the other car pulled off the road and parked, just barely in line of sight of the building. 

And, call it stress from the case, call it excitement about seeing Spencer, call it whatever you want, but for some reason, Carlton was distracted.

When he left his car and went to meet Spencer at the bottom of the stairs to the station, he still didn’t notice anything unusual. 

If he had looked, if he had been paying attention, if he had been on it, he would have seen so-called Ben, in a shiny black car at the end of the street, watching him and Spencer through binoculars.

But he didn’t see him.

He just waved hello to Spencer, laughed at a joke the man said, and walked with him up the steps to the station.

"Ben" saw it all.

Chapter Text

Carlton didn’t understand how he’d gotten here.

First, he had hit his max overtime for the week, so he decided to look over the case files at his apartment, rather than the station that night.

And Spencer had offered to come by for a few minutes.

Spencer had brought over some truly disgusting pineapple wine spritzers; and while he and Spencer were working on the case, Carlton was technically off the clock, so he decided to pour himself a scotch.

They had ended up working together for much longer than Carlton expected.

It was quite late by the time he told Spencer they needed to wrap it up-- Fargo was playing on the Movie Classics Channel soon, and Carlton wasn't about to miss it. He had been looking forward to it all day.

It turned out that Fargo was one of Spencer's favorite movies, too, so the man stayed.

All of that made sense.

What didn’t make sense was how he'd gotten here: in his kitchen, awful wine spritzer in hand, and pinned against his fridge by a very close Shawn Spencer.

Earlier that day

Shawn sat in the Psych Office, flipping through TV channels casually.

He and Lassiter had had a short day at the station. Now, Shawn was relaxing with a pineapple smoothie after a long walk on the beach.

Tomorrow, he was going to go check out the NA meeting at Le Petite Bonnet, or whatever that place was called.

But he had nothing planned for the rest of today.

There was nothing good on TV, and he was just about to bite the bullet and turn on a re-run of American Duos when his phone rang. The chorus of “Smooth Criminal” let him know that Gus was the one calling.

Shawn broke into a wide grin as he answered the call.

“Gus! Buddy! How is Montreal?” Shawn asked excitedly. 

He was glad that Gus had waited until now to call.

Thanks to the time spent with Lassie and the lead he'd just gotten on that Le Petite Bonnet place, Shawn was feeling much better than he had been. He could even answer the phone with genuine happiness in his voice.

“Shawn, it’s amazing. There’s this gorgeous PA named Emily in the same program as me, and I think she might give me her digits today. I’m supposed to be in the cheese-smoking class right now, but I just had to leave. This jerk named Julien has decided that he’s the only one who gets to set up the smoker before every class. He doesn’t want my advice at all– can you believe that? I know my cheeses, Shawn!” 

Shawn couldn’t help but smile listening to his friend talk. “Who is this Julien guy? Is he Canadian?”

“No! He’s a car salesman from Phoenix, but he still acts like he knows cheese better than everyone!”

“Wow, what a dickbag!”

“I know. Speaking of dickbags, how is working with Lassiter? Jules told me that you guys are partners now?”

Shawn shook his head to himself. 

After everything that had happened over the last two weeks, he couldn’t help but feel like dickbag was a little harsh.

Then a bolt of suspicion ran through them. “Wait, when did you talk to Jules?”

“Oh, we’ve been texting,” Gus responded casually.

Shawn briefly forgot everything, in a flash of outrage over the fact that two of his favorite people had the nerve to text each other and not include him. “What?! You’re texting? I can never get Jules to text me back.”

“That’s because you’re not smooth like I am, Shawn.”

“Okay, wrong. I am so smooth.”

“Please. You wish you were as smooth as me. But, seriously, how is working with Lassiter? How many times has he yelled at you so far?”

“It’s… um….” Shawn’s automatic urge was to lie. Gus would not be happy to hear about how much time he was spending with the man who had vowed, repeatedly, to prove Shawn wasn’t psychic.

“Um….. it’s fine. We don’t really see each other a lot; he avoids me as much as he can. I think he’s gotten even sicker of me with no one else here to act as a buffer, heh.” 

Shawn forced out a chuckle as he spoke, but he could picture the relationship he was describing in his mind’s eye. Lassie ignoring him, dumping all the worst and most boring tasks on him, ditching him whenever he could. 

It was almost what he had expected when he and Lassie had been assigned as partners. 

For the first time, he really thought about how differently Lassie was treating him.

He seemed like he wanted to be around Shawn a lot.

Which brought up a question that had been on the back of his mind.

Hmmm.

Shawn didn’t like lying to Gus about important stuff, but he could really use his advice, and if Gus would be mad about the time he was spending with Lassiter, that would go ditto if he revealed his crush on the detective. 

“Um, Gus, I did want your advice on something else, though. There’s this guy that I have a crush on.”

“Ooh! Who? Do I know him?”

“No! You don’t know him. He’s a new guy down at the… uh…” Shawn tried to think of a suitable lie. “... uh… the morgue.”

“Wait, he works at the morgue? I mean, I guess I’m glad that you met someone hot enough to break your ‘no people who work with dead bodies’ rule, but I still think that’s creepy.” 

After a beat, Gus continued, and his voice took on a more serious tone. “Wait, Shawn, he is hot, right?” 

Shawn thought about Lassiter’s tall Irish frame; his blue eyes; his sternum bush; the new cologne he had started wearing; and his loud– even imposing voice, which, lately, he had used to comfort Shawn.

“Oh yeah, he’s hot.”

Gus wouldn’t agree with him about that, but Gus with his straight-as-an-arrow ways had no idea what he was talking about.

“So what about this guy?”

“Well, he’s cool… and hot… but I don’t know if he’s gay. Or bi. And we work together.”

“So…. what? All of a sudden, you don’t want to do your usual thing and just walk up to him and flirt outrageously?”

“Well….” (Honestly, Shawn already had done quite a bit of flirting outrageously over the last few years, to seemingly no effect. He felt very reluctant to push it any farther, in case his assumption was right and Lassie was straight.) “..... kind of. We’ll have to keep working together if he says no, and it could get awkward. He could be homophobic, Gus!”

“Wow. A possibly homophobic morgue worker. He really sounds like a keeper.”

“Alright, Gus, how about you keep your opinions to yourself, and I don’t bring up the time you dated that rodeo clown.” 

“That was her hobby, Shawn! Not her job! And Melinda’s family had been rodeo clowns for seven generations, you know that. It was important to her.”

“Mhmm. Doesn’t change the fact that you dated a clown.”

“Alright, alright! Fine, Shawn. I won’t comment anymore. All I’ll say is that it might be good that you want to exercise a little caution– especially if you have to keep working with him. Just.. throw something into conversation casually about how you’re bi, and see how he responds.”

“Okay, I’m listening. Something casual.”

“Yeah, and then if he responds well, just try to be cautious and flirt slowly. Keep it respectful. You want to be really careful with working relationships, Shawn.”

“Okay,” Shawn nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, that could work. Or…. I could just break into his apartment and look for evidence that he likes men.”

“Sorry Shawn, I didn’t hear that last bit,” Gus replied. “I think I see Julien in there trying to talk to Emily, and I know he isn’t trying to play with me like that. I gotta go.”

“Alright man, I’ll talk to you later. You go get those digits, Gus!”

“Oh, you know I will.”

Shawn went back to tossing the TV remote up and down in the air, and weighing the pros and cons of subjecting himself to an episode of American Duos.

Thankfully, his phone rang again.

The Miami Vice theme. 

Lassie was calling him. 

Shawn smiled again when he answered. “Lassie-face! Do we have another dead body to add to our murder case?”

Lassiter sighed on the other end. “No such luck, Spencer. I was just calling to let you know that I won’t be working on the case at the station tonight. I’ll be looking over the files at my apartment.”

It looked like Shawn wasn’t going to be stuck watching American Duos after all.

“That’s great!” Shawn replied. “What time should I get there?”

“Oh! You want to come by. Okay. Um…. let’s say 8?”

Shawn checked his watch. That gave him just enough time to grab a burrito. “Sounds great, Lassie, I’ll see you soon.” 

Nice.

He was going to Lassie’s apartment.

And he wasn’t even going to have to break in. 

—----

Shawn stopped to pick up some wine on the way. 

Wine seemed like the right kind of thing to bring to a man’s house when you were hoping to steer the conversation away from work and towards... well... gayness.

But what type of wine?

Shawn couldn’t even pronounce the names of most of the wines in the store. 

Cabernet Sauvignon? Tempranillo? Merlot? 

What did those words even mean?

He wandered by the coolers at the front of the store, and passed by a 6-pack of pineapple wine spritzers. 

Perfect.

—-------------

Shawn sipped a spritzer slowly. Lassiter did the same with a glass of single-malt scotch while they went over the case, checking again for any small detail that they had missed.

They didn’t find any, but Shawn didn’t mind. 

He was here for the company more than anything. 

After a few hours, Lassie checked the time, pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration, and started to put all the papers back into folders.

“We’re going to have to wrap it up here, Spencer. Fargo is playing on the Movie Classics Channel in 15 minutes, and—”

“Ooh, Fargo? I love that movie,” Shawn interrupted, giving Lassiter his most expectant smile.

“Oh. Well, I suppose you could stay. If you wanted to—”

Shawn was already flopping onto the couch and grabbing the remote, searching for the correct channel.

“Ooh, Lassie, look!” he called out. “They’re showing an interview with the director before the movie starts. Why didn’t you tell me earlier– we already missed the first half of it!”

“I… was kind of hoping to catch that interview, too.” Lassie replied, hesitantly walking over and sitting down at the opposite end of the couch.

“I didn’t know you liked this movie,” Shawn said. “The humor seems a little bit…. humor-y for you.”

Lassie rolled his eyes. “Of course I like this movie, Spencer. It’s a testament to the power of good police work.”

When the movie started, they lapsed into a companiable silence, which Shawn barely even interrupted to add in commentary.

Shawn was distracted when Lassiter suddenly tapped his arm, and said “Look.” Lassiter pointed at a red State Trooper car that appeared onscreen. “That’s a Chevy Caprice,” he said to Shawn. “This one was made the first year that Caprices were used as police cars—”

“--1986. I know.” Shawn cut him off, smiling at Lassiter’s look of surprise. “I had an ex who was into classic cars.” Shawn explained, still enjoying Lassiter’s confusion.

Lassiter raised an eyebrow. “You had an ex-girlfriend who was into classic cars?”

Wow. 

This was the perfect opportunity to follow Gus’s advice, and it had presented itself so easily.

It was nerve-racking, but Shawn decided to take advantage of it.

“Ex… boyfriend.” Shawn replied, as casually as he could.

“.......Oh.” was all Lassie said.

Lassie turned up the volume of the movie, and stared determinedly down at the floor. 

It didn’t look like he was going to volunteer a response, so Shawn took another chance. 

“What about…. you?” Shawn asked. 

Lassiter startled at the question.

“Oh, I was always into classic cars.” Lassie replied, as if he didn’t understand what Shawn was asking. 

“And… what about boyfriends?”

Lassie sighed and looked away. “I was always into those, too.”

“Oh.”

Now it was Shawn’s turn to be speechless.

After another second, Lassiter jumped up from the couch, holding his scotch glass.

“I’m... uh… going to have another scotch. Do you want one, Spencer? Or one of those pineapple wine spritzers you brought with you?” He asked over his shoulder as he hurried into the kitchen, decidedly avoiding eye contact with Shawn.

“Sure,” Shawn replied easily.

He sat on the couch, and took a deep breath, remembering Gus’s advice. “If he responds well, just try to be cautious and flirt slowly.” “You want to be really careful with working relationships, Shawn.”

Then he turned and looked behind him, towards the kitchen.

Caution was, according to Gus, important.

But Lassie was right there, and unless Shawn was crazy, he had just let Shawn know that he actually had a chance.

Screw it.

He hopped up from his seat, and followed Lassie into the kitchen.

Lassiter was looking into the fridge, and when he glanced over his shoulder at Shawn, Shawn could see that the man was actually blushing.

Lassiter turned back, and looked around in the fridge for far longer than necessary.

Shawn could practically feel the nervousness radiating off of him.

Finally, the man sighed and closed the fridge, wine spritzer in hand.

He turned and held it out to Shawn, still not quite meeting his eyes. 

Shawn took his chance– he stepped forward so that Lassiter had barely any space between him and the fridge. 

He took the spritzer gently from Lassiter’s hand and set it on the counter. 

“Thanks,” Shawn said softly, and then stepped forward again so that Lassie was well and truly pinned. 

Lassiter weakly put his arms up to hold Shawn away from him, but he was looking directly into Shawn’s eyes now, and his were wide and dilated.

“Spencer–” he said nervously, “If this is a joke….. it’s not funny.” 

Shawn curled his hands on either side of Lassiter’s hips, and he heard a sharp intake of breath from the other man. 

“It’s not a joke.” 

Lassiter’s arms weakened– they weren’t holding him back at all now. 

“Besides,” Shawn said, leaning forward, his lips ghosting over Lassiter’s, “since when do you think my jokes are funny?”

Lassiter just had time to mumble out “I think the funny ones are funny,” before Shawn leaned in and pressed their lips together. 

There was a long, terrifying moment where Lassiter didn’t kiss him back– didn’t move a muscle, didn’t say anything, just stood there, stiff as a board; and Shawn began to wonder if he had misunderstood everything. 

This didn’t make sense.

One moment, Carlton had been nervously getting a drink for himself and Spencer, and the next his back was pinned to the fridge, and Spencer was right there and pressing his mouth against his. 

They weren’t kissing, really, because Carlton was standing there like a deer in the headlights, and you can’t really have a kiss with just one person participating. 

Carlton still didn’t really understand what was happening— Spencer wanted him?

He kissed back, softly, just a little, to see what Spencer would do— still half-convinced that this was some stupid joke.

But Spencer leaned deeper into the kiss, tightening his grip on Carlton’s hips, breathing out a quiet “Lassie…”.

Spencer was so warm.

Carlton opened his mouth into the kiss, and pulled Spencer towards him, pushing his hands under the man’s rumpled shirt to glance across warm skin. 

Carlton gently bit Spencer’s bottom lip, and was rewarded when Spencer groaned into his mouth. 

Spencer.....Shawn.... wanted him. 

Probably only wanted him for tonight, but… so what. 

That didn’t matter right now. 

There were a lot of things that didn’t matter right now; now that his private, previously embarrassing fantasies had come to life, and Shawn was here in the flesh and actually groaning at his touch.

 For the next few minutes, Shawn was his.

 Carlton reached his hands up and curled them into Shawn’s hair, kissing him deeply, possessively. 

Shawn moaned in response, and then he pulled Carlton even closer and roughly ground their hips together, and oh wow, Shawn was really enjoying this.

“Fuck… Shawn,” Carlton whispered, staring down at where their hips met.

“Oh, so that’s all I had to do to get on a first-name basis with you?” Shawn asked, trying to sound casual but thrusting against Carlton in a way that seemed more than a little desperate.

Carlton's only reply was to slide his hands under Shawn’s hips and pick him up.

He placed him on the kitchen counter, roughly pushing the man's back against the kitchen cabinets. 

“Oh… fuck yeah,” Shawn sighed happily. “I love when you push me around, Lassie.”

Carlton swallowed nervously. “Y– yeah?” he replied, a little overwhelmed by the idea that Shawn had felt an attraction to him before tonight, and that Carlton wasn’t the only one who had been affected by their roughhousing while arguing over cases. “You do?”

Shawn wrapped his legs around Carlton– tightly, greedily, pulling him closer. “Yeah. I do. Do you want me to show you how much I love it?” he asked, eyes half-lidded, reaching both hands out to start undoing Carlton’s zipper. 

Carlton gasped and jumped back, quickly batting both of his hands away before grabbing both of his wrists. 

It had been a long time since he had slept with anyone, and he was worried about how quickly this experience would be over if he let Shawn touch him too much.

“Um. Later,” he said, in what he hoped was an authoritative voice.

“Wow, okay, bossy,” Shawn replied, pulling his hands free and beginning to unbutton Carlton’s shirt. 

“Is ‘bossy’ good? Did you… did you like that?” Carlton asked nervously, feeling what little self-confidence he had begin to slip through his fingers. 

That was the thing about fantasies– you didn’t have to worry about doing the right thing; about knowing how to please them. 

It seemed like Shawn read the nervousness in his face, because suddenly the man’s palms were flat on his chest, smoothing across his shirt fabric soothingly. 

“Hey,” he said softly, and then paused until Carlton finally looked him in the eye. “Lassie. You’re hot, and I like you. If you do something I don’t like, I’ll tell you, and it’ll be no big deal. And, I–” –he leaned forward to kiss Carlton– “really, really, want to do this. And if you do too, there’s nothing to stress over.”

Carlton cleared his throat nervously, but his voice was still hoarse and gravely when he spoke. “Yeah, Shawn. I want to.”

“Good.”

And then they were kissing frantically again. 

Shawn pulled Carlton's shirt off and tossed it to the floor, and Carlton let out a long exhale at the feeling of Shawn's hands on his back.

He pulled Shawn's t-shirt off over his head, only getting a moment to admire Shawn's chest before Shawn kissed him again, desperately.

One of Carlton’s hands curled tightly into Shawn’s hair at the base of his neck, while the other palmed across the front of Shawn’s jeans as the man thrust up against his hand. God, he wanted to know what this felt like without Shawn's jeans in the way.

He leaned in closer to trail kisses along the man’s neck, drawing out small, whimpery noises.

He kissed up his neck and jawline, to the man's earlobe, before going in for an experimental bite. 

Shawn gasped and tipped his head back quickly, hitting it on the kitchen cabinet.

“Ow.” Shawn said, rubbing the back of his head irritably.

“Are you okay?” Carlton asked with a worried look.

“No,” Shawn replied. “I think my head’s been irrevocably damaged. I’ll have to wear a helmet from now on. Or a very soft hat. But,” he grinned. “We’re busy. My new life of protective headgear can wait.” 

Carlton gently touched the back of Shawn’s head, just to check that he was really okay, and then grabbed under his hips– lifting him to carry him again. 

“Let’s go somewhere a little softer,” he murmured against Shawn’s mouth. 

"Okay," Shawn murmured back.

They kissed throughout the walk to the couch, and Carlton deposited Shawn gently.

He stood next to him and touched the back of the man’s head one more time. “You’re sure you’re okay?” 

“Ugh, yes, Lassie, I’m fine.” Shawn said, batting his hand away.

He pulled Carlton down onto the couch, and jumped into his lap, straddling him. 

It suddenly felt like they were much closer than they had been a minute ago.

"Hi, Lassie," Shawn said, nipping at Lassiter's neck and then moving to suck the skin below his collarbone-- far enough under his shirt that it wouldn't matter if he left a mark.

"Shawn...." was all Carlton could say in response, his voice getting embarrassingly higher pitched at the end when Shawn pulled at one of his nipples.

He went boneless, sinking into the couch under the sensation of Shawn kissing, licking, and biting all across his chest.

Finally, he pushed Shawn far enough away from him that he was able to take the lead instead.

He kissed across Shawn's jawline and down his neck again, going in for another bite without the fear of Shawn hitting his head on anything.

He felt Shawn's legs tense around him as the man pressed into him, with a quiet "Oh......"

Carlton's world shrunk down to just him and Shawn, and the way their bodies were pressed against each other.

Everything became a bit of a blur. 

He'd wanted Shawn to come first, of course.

But Shawn had dropped down to his knees in front of the couch and pushed Carlton's legs apart, smiling wickedly, and it was clear that the man had other ideas. 

It was..... God, it was good.

Carlton just did his best to hold on, to not cry out too loud, to not pull on Shawn's hair lest it hurt his head; and did his best to provide a similar intensity when he hauled Shawn back up onto the couch to repay the favor a few minutes later. 

It wasn’t long before they were both collapsed onto the couch, faces flushed, breathing raggedly. 

Shawn was lying on his back, taking up the vast majority of the couch, and Carlton was perched on the edge, trying not to nervously stare at Shawn.

Shawn sat up a little so that he could look at Carlton more easily.

“That was pretty cool, right?” he asked with a smile.

“Um… yes.” Carlton replied. “That was… pretty cool.”

That wasn’t how Carlton would have chosen to describe it. He probably would have said something more along the lines of “reckless”, or “stupid” or “a terrible idea,” but looking into Shawn’s eyes, it was hard to feel that way.

When he looked into Shawn’s eyes, it felt more like “amazing” or “the best– the absolute best idea,” were better descriptors. 

Unexpectedly, Shawn moved across the couch, right into Carlton’s personal space, and reached up and took Carlton’s face in both hands, kissing him slowly. “Thanks for that,” Shawn said softly. 

Carlton closed his eyes, and he knew that this, rather than any other moment they’d had tonight, was the moment he never wanted to end. 

But he pulled away anyway.

“This….. isn’t how I pictured this happening,” Carlton said, trying his best to look Shawn in the eye instead of staring down at the ground. 

“Oh?” Shawn replied with a wry smile. “You pictured this?”

Carlton didn’t elaborate. 

Didn’t explain that what he meant was that he’d always thought that, if there was ever even a small chance of this happening, that it would only happen if they were both really drunk, and really lonely. Or possibly, really angry with each other.

Not when they were both a respectable one drink in, and not in the middle of a very fruitful working relationship, and not knowing that they would spend hours together tomorrow. 

And he never would’ve thought that it would feel this right.

Carlton looked down, trying to find a way to bridge the gap between this minute and whatever one minute in the future would look like.

He had no idea how to act- how to go back to “normal”.

“Hey,” Shawn said, interrupting his thoughts. “Are you hungry? Because I’m starving.”

A short time later, they were both sitting on the couch, and everything was mostly back to normal. 

Lassie had poured himself another scotch. 

They were watching an old Hitchcock movie that had started playing on the Movie Classics Channel and eating pepperoni pizza delivered by the late-night pizzeria in Lassie’s neighborhood.

Not much was different than it had been a few hours ago, other than the fact that everything between Shawn and Lassie had just changed, and that Shawn had just had one of the best nights of his life.

Not that an outside observer would ever know that. 

He and Lassier sat far apart from each other on the couch, exhibiting perfectly platonic body language. 

Lassiter, it seemed, was acting as if nothing had happened.

Shawn tried to do the same.

Shawn checked his watch– it was getting late, even for him, and he could feel sleep starting to pull at him. The mind-shattering orgasm probably hadn’t helped with that. 

Shawn rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands and yawned, before standing up and patting his pockets to make sure he had his phone, wallet, and keys. 

“Well, I think I better get going,” he told Lassie.

He watched carefully for the other man's response.

How eagerly Lassie pushed him out the door would help Shawn guage what things would be like at work tomorrow— something that currently felt very uncertain.

“Oh!” Lassie stood up awkwardly, but didn’t take any steps towards or away from him. “Okay, um. Okay. Goodbye.”

Hmm. 

Unexpectedly, Lassie didn’t seem eager for him to leave at all.

Shawn felt like he should leave it be. Should try to act like nothing had happened between them. 

Should try to match Lassie’s energy. Try to act normal.

But, after a night of taking so many chances, he might as well take another one– even though he had no idea what he meant by doing so.

He stepped closer to Lassie, put his hands on the man’s shoulders, and leaned in to place another kiss on his lips. 

This time, Lassie only hesitated for a second before he kissed back, wrapping his arms around Shawn to pull him closer.

After a long moment, Shawn pulled back and smiled. “See you tomorrow, Lassie.”

As he opened the door to leave, he turned back one more time to wave, and saw Lassie still standing in the same spot in his living room, looking star-struck.

Chapter Text

Carlton laid on his couch for a long time after Shawn left: lying on his back, hands folded together right above his solar plexus. 

Thinking.

Sleeping with Shawn Spencer had been nothing like he had imagined it would be. 

And sure, he had imagined it a lot, but if any other red-blooded, even slightly bicurious male had worked as close as he had with Shawn– been on the receiving end of so many flashes of stomach and so much playful groping, they would have imagined it too. 

He had imagined that it would be like almost everything else between them; a power struggle.

He’d imagined that, if it ever happened, it would be fast, and rough, and desperate, and quiet, both men's eyes screwed shut or pointed at the ceiling– anything to avoid eye contact with each other. 

He’d imagined that, if Shawn had ever decided to sleep with him, it would have only been because Carlton happened to be there; on some strange night where Carlton was the closest available body, and for some reason found himself ready and willing. 

Last night was so much worse than that. 

It had been kind of a power struggle. 

But… in a good way. 

In, possibly, the best way. 

Shawn had kissed him furiously, had climbed all over him, had moaned his name. Well, at least, that ridiculous nickname. Shawn had talked about the way Carlton pushed him around the station. He had acted like this was all the culmination of some long-held desire. 

As if acting like that wouldn’t make it that much more painful for Carlton when he remembered the night years later, and remembered these unspoken signs of potential between them. 

As if Carlton wasn’t only going to have last night, or in a dream world: a couple of random repeats of last night, before Shawn moved on to someone more interesting. 

Why couldn’t he just have treated Carlton less kindly? 

Acted less caring? 

Not, for god’s sake, kissed him goodbye?

Why did he have to give Carlton hope? 

Buddhists saw hope as a form of suffering. 

Carlton was inclined to believe that they were right. 

He couldn’t sleep at all that night. 

He padded around his apartment, waiting for the sun to rise, and for it to be tomorrow, and for everything to go back to normal. 

Shawn fell asleep with a soft smile on his face, incredibly happy about the night that he and Lassie shared.

He awoke with the feeling that Lassie was probably right. Everything should go back to normal between them. 

Yes, last night had been awesome. 

Yes, Lassie had been awesome.

Yes, Shawn now knew that Lassie was an absolute tiger in bed. 

Yes, things between them had been electric, and the connection Shawn had felt was on another level…... 

But.

What would happen if they continued sleeping together?

They would last a few days, maybe, before they ran headfirst into Shawn’s complete fear of commitment, and Lassie’s need for seriousness in every aspect of his life. 

It just wouldn’t work. 

Shawn was flighty. Impulsive. Always had been.

Shawn didn’t date seriously, and Lassiter didn’t sleep with people casually. Shawn should be grateful that the man had made an exception. 

If they kept sleeping together, Shawn just knew that they would end up having a conversation about whether Shawn would consider taking this seriously, and his answer would be “no.”

And that would be the end of things, with significantly more hurt feelings than either of them had right now. 

The best thing he could do, for both of them, was try to help the process of everything going back to normal.

Normal, straight, co-worker-y thoughts. He could totally think those about Lassie, no problem. 

Carlton didn’t avoid Shawn while they were working together at the station. 

He just happened to need to do things in different rooms, and he happened to leave to do them right after Shawn walked into whatever room he was currently in. 

It was simply how his day’s workload was set up. 

Until Shawn followed Carlton from the evidence room to his desk. And from his desk to the SBPD kitchen. And from the kitchen back to the evidence room. All in the span of 10 minutes. 

Finally, Carlton whirled around and looked at him. “Shawn… I mean.. Spencer, what?”

Shawn looked back at him and shrugged. “Nothing, Lassie. You just haven’t told me what we’re working on today.”

Oh yeah. 

The case. 

The major murder investigation. 

That they were partners on. 

Carlton grumbled to himself, then handed over the newest file to Shawn. It was full of his attempts to track down who had driven Elijah Tate on his hitchhiking trip; and in particular, who had driven him into Santa Barbara. 

The most promising clue was a partial plate that had been seen by an “internet friend” (whatever that was) that Tate had met on his travels. 

Shawn perused the file quickly. “Hmm,” he said. “No psychic vibrations yet, but hopefully something will come up.”

Their interaction was short and mundane, but it made Carlton relax. 

He had been worried about what would happen when Shawn and he spoke: awkward, stilted conversation with long pauses and no eye contact, or possibly Shawn spouting off inuendos even though they were in a police station for God’s sake. 

But it felt almost like nothing had changed. 

Like nothing strange or out-of-place had happened between them. 

Like nothing had happened at all. 

Which was totally fine. 

They fell back into their usual rhythm of working together, now focusing on the possible routes that Tate could have taken up the coast. 

Would he have hitchhiked up Route 101 once he made it to LA, or gone off the beaten path?

The possibilities were many, and a little mind-numbing. 

After working together for a few hours, Carlton decided to talk to Shawn about an issue that was bothering him. 

Not the “how dare you fuck me so tenderly and get my feelings all wrapped up in knots” issue. 

A different one. 

They were working in the conference room, and no one else was around, but Carlton lowered his voice anyway before he spoke. “Spencer…. I have to ask. Are you going to tell anyone at the station about what happened between us?”

Shawn looked back at him, shocked. “Of course not!”

Carlton shot him a worried look.

“Relax, Lassie,” Shawn continued, matching Carlton’s quiet tone. And then, lowering his voice even more, “I can be discreet.”

Carlton just crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at the other man, disbelievingly. 

Discreet?

That was certainly not a word that came to mind when he thought about Shawn.

“I totally can!” Shawn whispered. “Come on, how many of the people I’ve slept with do you know about?” 

Carlton raised both eyebrows now, and went to reply that he knew about quite a few, actually, when Shawn interrupted him.

“Okay, how many of the people I’ve slept with who didn’t turn out to be murder suspects or actual murderers, who you then arrested, for murder?”

Carlton closed his eyes and tried to remember. “Not that many, I guess.”

“Exactly.” Shawn said triumphantly. “Because of discretion.”

“Or, you just sleep with a lot of murderers,” Carlton replied.

“Hey, rude! Maybe it’s both. But it’s at least partly discretion.” Shawn said, leaning back and crossing his arms as if his point was undeniably proven. 

“So…. you’re not going to tell anyone?” 

Carlton looked in Shawn’s eyes, checking for a hint of doubt, but didn’t find any.

“I’m not going to tell anyone.” Shawn thought for a moment. “Unless you become a murderer..”

Carlton took a deep breath and asked the question that was bothering him the most. “Even…. if I kick you off a case?” 

“What, like as revenge? Dude…..” Shawn shook his head. “That would be messed up.”

“…. Okay.” Carlton replied, following it up with an awkward “Thanks.”

They kept working together for hours, and it felt… almost normal. 

Kind of. Depending on your definition of normal. 

They were looking at Carlton’s computer, pulling up license plates that could potentially match their partial plate, when Shawn suddenly looked at his watch and sighed. “Sorry Lassie, I have to go. I…. uh….. picked up a private case, and I need to get ready for some investigating.”

“Oh! Sure. Yeah. Of course. Sure.” Carlton replied, suddenly very interested in his computer screen.

But Shawn didn’t leave, and after a moment, Carlton looked over and saw that Shawn was smiling conspiratorily at him.

“What?” he asked, a little nervously. 

Shawn leaned forward and gave him a meaningful look. He spoke in a whisper. “Hey.”

“What is it, Spencer?”

“Should we….. have a fake argument right now, so everything seems normal between us, for discretion's sake?”

“I don’t think that that’s…..”

But Shawn was already backing away from the desk.

“How dare you, Detective Lassiter!” Shawn yelled, his voice directed at the station at large. “Don’t tell me to get out of your station, I will leave on my own! For the last time, Detective, my psychic methods are real, and they will help me find the murderer.” 

Shawn stomped back towards the station doors as he spoke. 

He only paused to give Carlton a subtle wink and thumbs up before he walked out and slammed them behind him. 

The rest of the officers in the station were suddenly quiet, and staring at Carlton nervously. 

At least that was normal. 

As Shawn got on his motorcycle to head to the N.A. meeting, he started to have second thoughts. 

The meeting was at nine, and while that wasn’t terribly late, it seemed like an odd time for aspiring sober people to meet.

Shawn had also had a string of very long nights recently. 

But…… it was far too good of an opportunity to investigate to pass up. 

Some good, old-fashioned, psych-style secret investigating was sure to help them solve the case.

So he went.

—--------

Shawn’s bike rolled up to La Boîte de Nuit slowly. 

The fog had rolled in early tonight, and it was a powerful sight– the Spanish Colonial building lit up against a blanket of fog. 

Shawn walked up to the door slowly, taking in as much information about the place as he possibly could. 

There was a sign taped on the door, announcing tonight’s NA meeting. 

The lobby was quite brightly lit through the windows, all white and tan furniture and clean white walls. 

A group of people were sitting in a circle on the couches. 

Shawn could recognize Thomas McCain from his photo, as well as Ben. He couldn’t place anyone else. 

Ben looked up and smiled at him as he walked through the door. “Shawn! You’re here!”

Shawn pulled out his wide, people-pleasing smile. “I heard there were going to be free oreos on the refreshments table afterward, and I was not about to miss those.”

The group laughed appreciatively, and Shawn sat down in one of the available seats, scanning the room. 

Two hallways extended from the lobby, one going left and one going right. 

The hallway on the left curved out of sight. The wooden floor in that direction was more worn, suggesting more people walked that way. 

That hallway most likely led to the main social club.

The hallway on the right had lots of doors. It looked like it held offices, and most likely the janitors closet. 

Everyone in the group looked happy to be here. Ben, and a few of the other members of the group stood out in appearance– they looked like they had a youthful glow about them. 

Ben was sitting next to another man. The man was younger, but didn’t have that same glow, and looked to be a typical surfer bro. Ben shuffled his papers, and for a half-second, his hand brushed the younger man’s thigh.

Shawn focused on Thomas McCain, the closest thing he and Lassie had to a suspect. 

He had left his post at the front desk during the time of the Ritz-Carlton murder, and he had no solid alibi. 

That was all the evidence they had. It was circumstantial, but still, it was very suspicious. 

The man looked jumpy. He seemed like he was trying to present a facade of calm, sitting still and laughing and smiling politely, but he was bouncing a foot frantically– like he was full of pent-up energy. 

The group went around the circle slowly, each person introducing themselves with “Hello, I’m ____, and I’m an addict.” Then, each person talked about their week, and any stressful moments they had had. 

When it was Shawn’s turn, he tried to hurry through his part quickly. Thomas McCain hadn’t spoken yet, and he wanted to glean more information about the man.

“So, Shawn,” Ben said with a smile, “Why don’t you tell us about yourself?”

“Oh, hi, my name is Shawn, and I’m… an addict.” 

(Shawn hadn’t said those words since his time at the out-patient non-profit rehab program down the street from Gus’s old apartment. That group had been mostly 50 year old lesbians, and Shawn thought he might prefer their company.)

Shawn looked out at a circle of smiling faces, and continued. “I had a pretty good week. Went to the beach, had a good time at my job as a…. Pharmaceutical salesman, even though my job is extremely boring and lame. I re-watched Fargo last night. That’s about it.”

Shawn expected the person to the right of him to speak, but they didn’t.

The circle of smiling faces kept looking at him. 

“Shawn,” Ben said. “Thank you for sharing. As you’re the only new member, perhaps you could share some more details about your journey?”

“Oh! Okay. um. Do I… have to?”

“Well, NA officially doesn’t state to encourage newcomers to talk, but we like to do things a little differently here.”

(“Encourage” was a bit too positive of a word for the peer pressure Shawn was feeling right now. These people smiled… a lot.)

Shawn, holding out hope that this weird meeting would actually help him, decided not to make up a fake story.

He just swallowed uncomfortably and started talking. “Okay. well. I’m a… uh… cocaine addict.”

Ben smiled at him again. “We’re listening. How did you start?”

Shawn sighed. “I started out using at parties, on the weekends. For fun. It kind of… spiraled out of control from there.”

“Why’d you start using?” Ben asked curiously.

“Oh…. you know. It made fun… funner. And it made me cooler and funnier, or at least I felt like it.” 

(And it had been a gift in two ways: when he got high, and could finally get his brain to stop darting around and focus on just one thing; and when he crashed, and could barely focus on anything at all.)

Ben nodded. “And then what happened?”

Shawn looked around uncomfortably. “Should someone else talk? I don’t want to .. uh... take up all our time.” (and he did not want to miss what Thomas McCain had to say. This was the perfect opportunity to gain information about the suspect.)

Ben shrugged, and looked at the rest of the circle, who also shrugged. “Go ahead. We’ve all heard each other’s stories anyway.” He laughed. It was a nice laugh, if a little fake-sounding. 

This was starting to feel really weird. 

But Shawn wanted to ingratiate himself among the group, and it seemed like they really wanted him to keep talking.

“Well, uh, I started wanting to feel smarter and funnier a few times a week ……and then… it was every day. And by that time, most of my money was gone.”

“And then what?” Ben asked.

Everyone was staring at Shawn curiously. He wanted to interrupt himself and tell them all that this story wasn’t nearly as interesting as they were making it out to be, but he didn’t.

“And then?” Ben prompted again.

Shawn must have been silent for a while.

“And then… I mean…” Shawn laughed. “......I don’t know what you want me to say. And then I got evicted from my apartment, and went on a two-week long bender and woke up in Kansas, and that’s how I ended up going to rehab… the first time.”

Henry had driven all the way out there to pick him up, after Shawn called him from a payphone. 

It was a 25- hour drive, and Henry had made it in a day and a half. 

Shawn would never be able to forget the anger and sadness on Henry’s face that day.

Ben spoke, snapping Shawn back to reality. “Oh, I didn’t realize you had been to rehab.”

(Oh, right. No one here even knew that Shawn had been clean for four years. And he still really didn’t want to explain to Ben that he had helped end Shawn’s sobriety.)

“Yeah,” Shawn replied, distracted, the things Henry had said to him on the drive back to California suddenly playing, on loop, in his head. 

Immature. Stupid. Unstable. Criminal.

The worst part had been seeing the way Henry kept glancing over at him during the drive. 

Shawn hadn’t just made him angry, he had made him scared. 

The fear had faded, but the anger… well…..

 “I went to rehab twice. My dad paid for it both times, and it, uh… didn’t take.”

“Clearly,” Ben replied with a smirk. 

Which was pretty uncalled for, to be honest, coming from a guy who had given Shawn cocaine not even three weeks earlier. 

This was… not fun. 

At all.

But, at least Shawn would be able to gather some important intel. 

“So what about you, Thomas?” Shawn asked, curiously.

“Ah–ah–” Ben cut him off and looked down at his watch. “Look at that! That’s our time, guys. Great meeting. Thanks be to Gaia, Earth Mother, for creating all things in perfect balance….. yada yada yada, you know the rest. Everyone feel free to help yourself to refreshments or mocktails at the bar.”

Um. What.

What kind of NA meeting was this, where everyone involved was encouraged to immediately head to the bar? 

The social club seemed like it was closed for the meeting, maybe? 

So there probably wouldn’t be a bunch of people drinking in there, but still.

Also, what was that stuff about Gaia, the Earth Mother? What did that even mean?

This sucked.

Shawn wanted to go home. 

But…… he hadn’t heard Thomas McCain say anything, and he wanted to investigate more. 

He followed the group left, trailing at the back, and Shawn was proved correct– that hallway did lead to some large wooden farmhouse doors, which, when pulled apart, revealed an elaborate and decadent bar area, lit by dim multi-colored lights. 

As soon as Shawn saw the doors open, saw those lights, he was gripped by a powerful feeling. 

He needed to leave. Now. 

He turned back from the group, and rushed outside, panic building up in his chest. 

What the hell.

He was supposed to be investigating. How and why had it turned into him telling his entire life story (actually, only the worst parts of his life story) to a bunch of people he barely knew, and a suspect?

His palms were damp.

His heart was pounding.

He needed to go home. 

Or somewhere. 

Immediately. 

Memories of his time in the throes of addiction– memories he worked so hard to block on a daily basis, were swirling around him now. 

There were fuzzy, blank patches, but due to his eidetic memory, everything he did remember was with crystal clarity. 

He’d been such an asshole back then. 

So uncaring about anyone but himself. 

No, not even caring about himself, not caring about anything, just letting his life slip through his fingers. 

And it had taken so much effort to get better. 

Shawn wanted….

He wanted one thing. 

Desperately.

He wanted to see Lassie.

For the first time, he regretted sleeping with him, only because their almost-nightly hangouts would certainly be over now.

When had Shawn become so used to spending time with Lassie? 

It had only been a few weeks, why did the absence of that hurt?

Shawn got on his motorcycle. 

He put on his helmet. 

And then he pulled out his phone. He was being so selfish, but…. he didn’t know if he had ever wanted to see Lassie, ever wanted to see anyone as much as he wanted to see him right now.

Lassie answered the call.

“Hey, Lassie. I think I left my uh…. stapler… at your apartment yesterday,” Shawn said lamely. 

Wow. 

Shawn hadn’t planned anything to say, but he had definitely expected to come up with something better than that.

“Your stapler,” Lassie said, disbelievingly. 

“Yeah.”

“Shawn… I mean… Spencer, there’s no way you own a stapler.”

“Okay, well, you can just let me know if you find it. Or….” Shawn took a deep breath. “I’m on my way home now, and I could… come look for it.”

“Oh.” 

There was a long silence.

“Sorry— never mind. Just, um, just let me know if you find it anywhere,” Shawn said quickly.

He was about to hang up the phone when Lassie interrupted him.

“Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Come look for it.”

A short time later, Shawn stood on the doorstep, nervously, waiting for Lassie to open the door. 

It was so cold outside in the fog. 

It was usually never this cold during summer. 

His brain was still whirling, and he felt a little sick from it all. 

He was remembering the first time he tried cocaine, how free and powerful it made him feel; the first time he borrowed money to buy drugs and never paid it back; the faces of dozens of short-lived friendships and relationships that had been fueled by the drug. 

The eviction notice on his apartment door, way back when.

His eidetic memory and his panic combined to make it all feel so real– feel almost more real than his feet on the ground, and the night air on his face. 

Lassie opened the door, still in his work shirt and slacks. 

He was so handsome.

Shawn didn’t say anything, just stepped up to him and kissed him.

Okay, that– that was definitely real. 

Lassie kissed him back, and then pulled away, looking at Shawn closely. 

“What—” Lassie started to ask, but Shawn silenced him with another kiss. 

“Can we, uh—- Can I see your bedroom?”

Lassie’s brow furrowed a little. “...Okay.”

He closed the door behind them.

And then they were kissing through the hallway.

And then they were in the bedroom, and Shawn was finally letting the tension and stress in his body drop, and leaning his weight into Lassie.

And then Lassie was pulling off Shawn’s clothes, and gently batting Shawn’s hand away when Shawn tried to remove anything beyond Lassie’s workshirt. 

And then his hand was on Shawn’s cheek and he was looking at him closely again, and opening his mouth to say something, before Shawn stopped him with another kiss. 

And then he was nodding, like he understood, and pushing Shawn down onto the mattress, and the thunk of the mattress against Shawn’s back felt like hitting cool pool water on a hot day, and suddenly Shawn could breathe again.

And then, Lassie was kissing his way down Shawn’s chest, and then up his inner thighs. 

And then he was gripping Shawn’s hips tightly in his hands and holding him there; holding him still and keeping his warm, wet, steady mouth around him even after Shawn bucked his hips up and let out a “Fuck, Lassie, I’m…..”; and then, when Shawn finally whispered that it was too much, he was pulling away.

Shawn’s eyes were closed– when had he closed his eyes? –but he felt, briefly, just for a moment, Lassie’s hand stroking his hair.

And then it was gone.

Shawn opened his eyes, and Lassiter was sprawled out at the other end of the bed, still in his work slacks, studying him.

Well, that was all wrong. Lassie should be next to him, or on top of him or under him, and they should be rolling around in the sheets or whatever. 

Shawn scooched closer to kiss the man, to pull him over to his side of the bed, but Lassie held his arms out to his chest to stop him. 

Just like he had last night, but this time he didn’t look nervous at all. 

Last night felt like it had been a million years ago. 

He was staring into Shawn’s eyes, like he was trying to read them.

And then he spoke.

“........Shawn.”

“What?” Shawn asked, in what he hoped was a chill voice.

“Are you… okay?”

“What? Yeah! Of course I am!” Shawn said defensively– as if that was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. 

Lassie looked at him, and shook his head slowly. “I…. don’t know if you are.”

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

“I… don’t know,” Lassie said in reply, raising his eyebrows as if Shawn could tell him. 

As if Shawn could just tell him that he was a cocaine addict, and that lately, he had been doing really bad, but then he started feeling okay again, but tonight (which, oh yeah Lassie, by the way, you know how you hate when I break police protocol to investigate a case? Well guess what I was doing tonight.) had dredged up everything and now suddenly Shawn didn’t feel okay at all. 

As if Shawn could tell him anything.

And, what was Lassie doing, looking at Shawn and just magically being able to tell how he was feeling?

Not. Cool.

“Okay, well, uh, I’m fine,” Shawn said. “What you’re saying– that’s crazy talk. And you know what, Lassie… I’ll just get out of your hair. Now.”

Lassie just moved back a little as Shawn angrily got out of the bed. 

Shawn hurriedly got dressed and went to the bathroom to splash some water on his face. 

He came back out of the bathroom, and Lassie was still just standing there, arms crossed, looking at him, all handsome and cozy looking and ugh, Shawn should never have come here. 

He made a big show of angrily, loudly putting on his sneakers, and looking for his phone, wallet, and keys, before remembering he had dumped them all by the front door. 

Ughhhhhh.

He stomped off to the living room.

He was finally done gathering all of his things, and about to walk out the door, when he heard Lassie come out of the bedroom. 

Shawn turned to look at him, and his mouth dropped open. 

Suddenly, he forgot what they had been fighting about, and just stared. 

Lassie noticed his staring, and shot him a defensive look. “What?” 

“Lassie, you’re in sweats.”

Lassie had changed out of his work slacks, and was wearing a baggy gray police academy t-shirt, and navy blue police academy sweatpants. And cozy-looking socks. 

“Yeah, so?” Lassie asked.

“You look so casual,” Shawn said, still staring.

“So what?”

“I didn’t know you could look casual!”

“Hmmph,” Lassie said non-committedly, before walking over to his tv and pulling something off a bookshelf. 

Shawn, no longer quite so angry or quite so anxious to leave, cleared his throat. “Whatcha doing?”

“What I was doing before you got here– trying to choose a movie to watch tonight. There’s nothing good on the Movie Classics Channel, and the History Channel is playing Ancient Aliens” (those last two words were said with anger usually only reserved for criminals in the interrogation room) “so… a DVD it is.”

“Oh. Cool.” Shawn bounced on the balls of his feet, watching as Lassie settled on “The Untouchables”, put the DVD in, and sat back on the couch with the remote. 

He waited to see if Lassie was going to turn and look at him. 

The answer seemed to be ‘no’.

He turned, and was just about to head out the door when Lassie spoke again. 

“Hey, Shawn.”

“Mhmm?” Shawn asked, in what he really hoped was a chill voice, although he was starting to doubt it. 

“You can stay if you want. And, whatever's wrong, you don’t have to talk about it.”

“.......Oh. Okay.”

After a moment, Shawn came and sat on the other end of the couch.

Lassie rolled his eyes, but it didn't seem like it was in anger or annoyance. 

Lassie stayed on his side of the couch, and Shawn relaxed into his own side. 

The old movie playing on the tv made the room feel warm and comfortable.

Shawn sent a silent apology to Lassie, for being so selfish, for being here instead of making it easy for Lassie to end things.

He would make it up to him. Later. Somehow.

And then, Shawn scootched over a little, off of his side of the couch, so that he and Lassie’s arms were touching. 

Even though Shawn didn’t really cuddle, and especially didn’t cuddle with men. 

Lassie gave him an appraising look, but didn’t move away or ask Shawn to get out of his personal space. 

So, after a while longer, he rested his head gently on Lassie’s shoulder. 

Lassie looked at him again, and it seemed like about a thousand different emotions passed over the man’s face. 

And then suddenly his arm was up and around Shawn– not hugging, or pressing really, just around him, and Shawn was suddenly nestled in the crook of Lassie’s shoulder, next to his chest, close enough to feel his breathing. 

They didn’t talk about it.

Chapter Text

After Shawn left, Carlton was having trouble remembering all of the reasons he had been so upset the night after they first slept together.

Or at least, they didn’t seem as important anymore. 

What mattered much more was that Shawn had been feeling miserable, and had shown up here of all places. 

To see him.

And that Carlton had made him feel at least a little bit better. 

He hoped. 

It was all a little surreal.

In the span of a couple of weeks, he’d gone from hating Shawn Spencer, to hanging out with him, to working as partners, to bouncing most of his ideas about the case off of him, to confiding in each other about their problems, to… whatever had been going on between them the last few days. 

To sleeping with him, Carlton guessed. 

For some reason, it didn’t feel like a steep, rapid escalation.

It was more like, as soon as he opened his eyes a little and realized that Shawn wasn’t the worst guy ever, that he actually had some good qualities, everything else was just half-a-step behind. 

Wanting Shawn’s opinion on cases. 

Wanting not to hurt his feelings. 

Wanting to open up to him, to actually open up to him, about Victoria. 

Wanting to know that Shawn was safe. And okay. And happy.

And…. God, yes, wanting to realize his long-buried attraction and sleep with him. 

These last three years, he’d always felt like everyone saw something in Shawn Spencer that he just didn’t. 

Sure, he could see Shawn’s incredible solve rate on cases, but that was about it.

Everyone else saw something that made them want to help him out, made them laugh at his jokes, made them brighten when Shawn walked in the room.

He’d never understood it. 

He wondered now if, as embarrassing as it was to admit, it hadn’t just been his ego and competitiveness that had kept him from seeing Shawn’s good qualities. 

Maybe, on some level, he knew that being blind to those good qualities was the best way to avoid all these feelings he was having for him now. 

It wasn’t fair. 

He would kind of rather still think that Shawn hated him. 

That Shawn wanted only to embarrass him, to steal success out from under him. 

That everything Shawn did was a personal attack. 

Instead, he understood now that Shawn was just like that. 

Shawn was hyper-competitive, and stubborn, and spurned authority, and teased everyone no matter who they were. 

But none of that was personal.

What was personal was that Shawn saw him, relatively clearly, and apparently didn’t hate what he saw. 

Shawn saw him on his best days and his worst days, and had still developed an attraction to him. 

An attraction that had apparently started a few days ago, and was most likely already over. 

Great. 

Carlton was going to think about these last two days for the rest of his life.

And, in another twist that was just great, he felt protective of Shawn, now. 

He’d felt protective over him before, of course. 

He often was the person who Shawn called for back-up in dangerous situations. 

He always felt a surge of protectiveness over the man, like any good cop would, when he followed him to an abandoned warehouse or an insane asylum or wherever else to make sure that Shawn was okay. 

But lately, it was like the feeling of wanting to protect him just…. wasn’t going away. 

Instead of lasting for a few hours, it was becoming more and more present in Carlton’s mind. 

He was probably always going to wonder what was going on with Shawn, from now on.

Wonder if Shawn was okay. 

Going forward, he doubted he would ever know the answer. 

Shawn would certainly find one person, or many people, who were better than Carlton to share his troubles with. 

He certainly didn’t trust Carlton enough now to tell him the truth, so… why would that change in the future?

But…….. Carlton would wonder. 

He would see Shawn from across the station, or at crime scenes; and if those shadows of sadness kept crossing the man’s face like they had the last two weeks, he would want to know why. 

More than anything.

Right now, he wanted, more than anything, to know why. 

But, although his chest was still warm from where Shawn had leaned against him, he was gone. 

Shawn had left without explaining anything.

And, unfortunately, Carlton missed him. 

As Shawn rode his motorcycle home, through the fog, he wondered:

What the hell was going on with him?

First, when he and Lassie first slept together; he hadn’t had his usual urge to run away immediately afterward.

He’d stayed, and they’d hung out. 

For hours.

But: that made sense. 

Kind of. 

He and Lassie had already been hanging out beforehand, and besides, he had been super hungry. 

But then, when he felt miserable and completely out of control tonight, he had felt the overwhelming urge to go and see Lassie.

And Lassie had steadied him. 

Lassie had seen that something was wrong with him, because apparently that was just an ability that Lassie had now. 

The fact that Lassie could see through his “psychic visions”: he was used to that.

The fact that Lassie could now apparently see through him when he was pretending to be fine: it was more than a little alarming.

Although….. God, it was nice to not have to pretend that everything was fine. 

Shawn hadn’t even wanted to leave tonight.

He’d almost fallen asleep, sitting on the couch in the crook of Lassie’s arm, and he’d ended up rushing out the door before his feelings got the better of him and he asked Lassie if he could spend the night. 

And he never spent the night.

With anyone. 

Unless it was late enough that passing out wherever he was just made more sense.

But, deciding early on to stay the night? 

On purpose? 

It was unheard of.

That was serious. 

And, as previously discussed, Shawn just didn’t do serious. 

Ever. 

So…. what was going on?

He had achieved zero answers by the time he got home, so he just slept.

—-------

When he awoke, his first thought was of Lassie. 

He should call him, see how his morning was going, and… wait. 

No.

Nope, nope, no.

He needed to slow his roll and let Lassie set the pace for the interactions between them. 

Lassie probably wanted space. A lot of space. 

He probably wished that Shawn would leave him alone. 

Or at least stop coming onto him. 

And Lassie was going to have to see him at the station in a few hours, anyway.

And, besides, Shawn didn’t do serious. 

Calling Lassie the morning after hooking up was objectively a serious thing to do.

So he wasn’t going to do it.

—----------

On the way to the station, Shawn rode his motorcycle back to….. Le Petite Bonnet? Seriously, why could he not remember what this place was called?

Whatever. 

That place with the french name. 

After the events of last night, he felt very reluctant to return, but he’d learned nothing about Thomas McCain last night. 

He needed to take every opportunity to investigate that he could get. 

In the morning light, the building was brightly lit, and sunlight streamed in through the lobby windows. 

It looked beautiful, and white, and sleek, and much less spooky than it had last night.

Shawn stood alone in the empty lobby. 

There was no one in sight. 

This was a great opportunity to try to sneak down what he thought was the office hallway– the mysterious hallway to the right of the lobby, filled with doors. 

But Gus wasn’t here to provide a distraction.

Shawn was just about to decide to just go for it anyway, when Ben suddenly walked into the lobby from the left.

“Shawn!” he called happily. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“Oh, just checking in on my favorite french social club,” Shawn replied easily. 

Damn, he’d missed his opportunity. 

Ben smiled at him again. “Well, we’re happy to have you here. What did you think of the meeting last night? You opened up quite a bit.”

“Yeah… yeah, I did,” Shawn replied nervously, stepping back. 

It looked like Ben might try to hold his hand like he had when he had first invited Shawn to the club, and Shawn was quick to get out of hand-grabbing range.

“It was…. great.” Shawn continued, hoping that his voice sounded convincing. 

“I’m so happy to hear that! Has anyone given you a tour of the club yet?”

“No, no, not yet. But I would love a tour.” Shawn replied, raising his voice as he saw Thomas McCain and the young surfer-looking guy he’d met last night walk around the corner. 

Thomas McCain looked at Shawn with what felt a little bit like a glare, and then turned and disappeared back down the hallway.

But the surfer-guy perked up as soon as he saw Shawn and waved, walking over to join their conversation.

“Hey Shawn!” he called. “Were you saying you wanted a tour?”

“Yeah, I would love one!” 

“Zander’s great at giving tours,” Ben said, wrapping his arm around the man’s lower back; and for a moment, Shawn was worried that he was going to wrap his other arm around Shawn’s lower back and try to hold them both.

Okay, even in the morning light, Ben definitely still had weird vibes. 

Zander led Shawn through the lobby, gesturing at the hallway filled with closed doors behind them. “The offices are over there, but that’s all boring stuff.” 

Aha! So Shawn had been right.

He led Shawn to the left, towards the main dancefloor that Shawn had been too anxious to enter last night. 

It was a large, dazzling room, with a bar, a large open area, and cozy booths lining the walls. 

The room was filled with many overlapping textures that still managed to somehow coordinate with each other. 

Zander pointed out his favorite booth and some of the more interesting art pieces on the walls. 

Shawn recognized a few of the people here from the NA meeting last night. 

Both of the people besides Ben who had the same bright, youthful glow that he did were here again. 

But, in general, it was just like any other bar at around nine in the morning. 

Boring. 

Shawn couldn’t see Thomas anywhere. 

He turned to Zander. “Do you know where Thomas went? I…. wanted to ask him about how he ended up joining NA.”

Zander sighed with annoyance. “No. He’s always going off somewhere and doing stuff he ‘can’t talk about’ nowadays.”

Shawn nodded and waited another few moments, but after it seemed that this was as far as his investigation was going to get today, he thanked Zander for the tour and left. 

 —---------

Lassie was already working in the conference room that they often borrowed when Shawn arrived. 

As soon as he entered the room and closed the door, Lassie turned away from the whiteboard to look at him. “Hey, Spencer.” 

“Hey.” 

Lassie gave him a long, searching look. 

Then he lowered his voice, even though they were alone in the room. “Are you feeling better than you were last night?” 

Shawn smiled. 

Who would have guessed that Lassie was this thoughtful under the surface? 

He almost wished he could bridge the gap and kiss him.

“Yeah. I am. I’m sorry about last night….” Shawn trailed off. 

Lassiter cleared his throat nervously. “It’s okay. Um…. anytime.” 

There was a pause.

“Sorry I was late today, too. I had to do some investigating for that private case I picked up.”

“I understand,” Lassie replied. “What’s your private case about?”

“Oh…. I can’t really talk about it.” Shawn replied.

It’s definitely not me breaking every rule of police protocol to follow our number one suspect, if that’s what you’re wondering.

“It’s boring, anyway, Lassie. What are we looking into today?”

Lassie passed over a large stack of files. 

They were investigating more angles to see if they could figure out how Elijah Tate had gotten to Santa Barbara. 

As they worked together, it didn’t take any time to settle into a comfortable routine. 

They were just… comfortable. Immediately.

There was remarkably little awkwardness between them, even though less than twelve hours ago, Carlton’s mouth had been….

He shook his head. 

This was not the time to be thinking about that.

It was time to be thinking about the case. 

The case they were working on together. 

The case that Shawn had offered quite a few valuable insights into already.

Shawn had, honestly, so many interesting things to say.

Carlton didn’t know how he’d never realized it before. 

And Shawn was so funny. 

Sometimes.

Not all the time, no matter what Shawn had said. 

And he looked so good today, even though he was dressed entirely in rumpled clothes that had likely been on the floor of his apartment for a week. 

Only Shawn could live in literal dry-cleaners, and still keep half of his clothes on the floor. 

It had been incredible, last night, how much Shawn had wanted him. 

He could still remember the way Shawn had felt, curled up against him on the couch.

And before that, the small, desperate noises Shawn had made when Carlton….

“Hey, Lassie.” Shawn’s voice shocked Carlton back to reality.

“Hmm? Sorry, what did you say, Shawn? I mean… Spencer?”

“You alright there?” Shawn asked with a laugh. “You’ve been highlighting one sentence on that page for like…. 15 minutes.”

Carlton looked down at the page. He had.

“Ah. Yes. Well… it’s an important sentence.”

“Mhmm. I’m sure.”

Carlton felt an unexpected surge of bravery overcome him.

Sure, Shawn probably wasn’t still interested.

Why would he be?

But…. what was the harm in asking?

“Hey, um, Spencer…” Carlton began. “Are you free, later? I know you have that private case, and you’ll probably be busy investigating….” 

Shawn’s eyes widened. “Busy? Me? No! Not busy at all. Available, even, one might say.”

He leaned back in his chair and looked at Carlton curiously. “Uh, why…. Why do you ask?” 

“Do…. you want to come by my apartment later?”

“To work on the case?”

“No. Not to work on the case.”

“Oh…. yeah. Yes. Definitely. If you want me to.”

“Okay. Come over around eight.”

—---------

Carlton found himself spending the hours between leaving the station and eight obsessively cleaning, even though Shawn had already seen every room of his apartment over the last two days, and certainly wasn’t going to judge him for having dust along the tops of his bookshelves. 

He may have even stopped on the way home and bought a candle. 

It was tobacco and vanilla scented. Masculine. Not frou-frou at all. 

Then he sat on the couch and anxiously waited for Shawn to knock on his door. 

At 8:12, unsurprisingly late, he finally heard the knock. 

He went to go open the door, changed his mind and doubled-back to blow out the candle and shove it behind some books; and headed back to the door once it was satisfactorily hidden. 

Carlton opened the door to find Shawn standing on his doorstep, hands in his pockets, looking cool and casual as ever. 

Shawn gave him one of his investigative, completely disarming smiles. “I’m surprised you wanted to see me again.”

“I could say the same thing to you,” Carlton replied.

Then, preamble over, he grabbed Shawn by the jacket and pulled him in through the door, pressing a kiss against the man’s lips as he shut the door behind them.

Shawn exhaled and leaned into the kiss, and for a moment, they just stood there in the hallway, embracing. 

“It smells nice in here,” Shawn murmured.

“Does it? I hadn’t noticed.” Carlton replied vaguely. 

There wasn’t any nervousness at all between them as they kissed this time.

It wasn’t even fair how many times Carlton had wanted to kiss Shawn over the last few days. He slipped his hands onto Shawn’s waist, and pulled him closer.

“Wow, Lassie,” Shawn said, pulling back from the kiss. “Tsk, tsk. I come all the way over here, and now I find out you just want one thing?”

Carlton stepped back, unsure if Shawn was serious or just messing with him. 

He walked further into his apartment, leaned against the back of his couch, and looked at Shawn uncertainly. “Well…” he replied. “...Not if it’s not what you want.”

Shawn walked over to meet him. 

He gently pushed Carlton’s legs apart with his own, and stepped forward to stand in between them. 

He lifted his hands up to Carlton’s shoulders and kissed him again. “...no, I think I’m definitely interested.”

Then he pushed Carlton down onto the couch.

“Hey! Shawn!”

Shawn jumped down on the couch after him. “Sorry,” he said, not looking sorry at all as he climbed onto Carlton and straddled him. “You know, Lassie, I think it’s way more surprising that you wanted to see me again.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“Well, you’re, you know, so serious, and I’m….”

“What? Annoying? Chaotic? Unreliable?” 

And funny, kind, smart, and so much more complicated than you ever let on, Carlton thought but kept to himself.

“Mhmm. Not how I would have phrased that, but sure.”

He dipped his head to kiss across Carlton’s jawline, and Carlton inhaled sharply.

Shawn paused between kisses. “Should we have sex?” 

Carlton blushed. All of a sudden, things were moving very quickly. “Sex? Tonight?” 

“Yeah, I mean… or not. Either way.”

“Did… did you prepare… I mean… are you ready for that?” 

Shawn pulled away to look at him, and Carlton knew he had said something that Shawn was going to make fun of him for. 

“What?” he asked defensively. 

“Did I prepare?” 

“Yes, that’s what I said.”

“Wow. Are you assuming that, just because you’re more macho than me, you’re automatically going to top?” 

That was exactly what Carlton had assumed.

“No…. of course I didn’t assume that. But, I mean, look at yourself Shawn, you’re not the kind of person I would expect to top. You’re so… flouncy.”

“Flouncy? Flouncy?? How dare you Lassie, I am not flouncy.”

“Okay, what word would you use?”

“Dashingly handsome? Sexy? Mysterious?”

“Okay, whatever. You still seem like a bottom to me.”

“Okay, wow, Lassie,” Shawn replied. He moved off of Carlton’s lap to sit on the couch next to him and crossed his arms. “Really, just wow. I didn’t know you decided to quit being a detective to get a job at the internalized homophobia factory.” 

Carlton cracked his neck irritably. “That doesn’t even make sense, Shawn.” 

“It doesn’t make sense to me, either. I have no idea why you would take that job– it certainly pays less than your detective salary.”

“Mhmm. Can we move on from this, please?” 

“Sure, yeah, if you would like to cease all discussion regarding us having sex, that’s fine by me.”

“Well…… okay, so you’re telling me that you’re a top. I get it.” 

“Not exactly, Lassie. I’m not an either/or kind of guy.” 

Carlton sighed. 

Why couldn’t Shawn have just said that, instead of making this difficult?

“Okay. I see.” 

Shawn nudged him with his shoulder. “What about you?” 

“I’ve been known…. to do both. On occasion. But I’m not going to bottom. Not tonight. And.. not for you. No offense.” 

That came out harsher than he meant it to, and he hoped Shawn wouldn’t be offended. 

But Shawn just gave him an investigative look, before smiling and putting his arm around him. “Aw, Lassie, scared I’m going to rock your world?”

“No,” Carlton replied defensively, shrugging the arm off.

In truth, Shawn wasn’t that far off base. 

The idea of Shawn… and him…. and that was…. very intimidating.

He was more than a little scared to put himself in that situation.

Scared of how he would act. Scared of how much he might like it. Scared to lose control. Scared that he might come completely undone and completely embarrass himself in front of Shawn. 

“Relax, Lassie. I’m just messing with you. I wouldn’t want you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”

Carlton breathed out. “Okay.” 

“So… sex is off the table?” 

Carlton felt another unexpected surge of bravery, and he looked Shawn in the eyes as he responded. “No. I didn’t say that.”

Shawn raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” 

Then, Shawn cocked his head, smiled, and jumped back onto Carlton’s lap to straddle him again. “Okay, Lassie, I get it. You’re intimidated by me.” 

“I am not–” Carlton started to reply, but Shawn shut him up with a kiss. 

“Well,” Shawn continued, “No pressure. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

Shawn started to unbutton Carlton’s shirt, and placed slow, lingering kisses along the side of his neck. 

“There are lots of options for things we could do tonight. And we don’t have to hook up at all.” Shawn continued. 

“But…..” he gave Carlton a wicked smile, and pressed the weight of his hips down onto Carlton’s. “...You want to top tonight?” Shawn leaned in and lightly bit the other man’s bottom lip. “Then take me.” 

Shawn was suddenly acting with a confidence that he hadn’t shown at all before in bed; a contrast from the kind encouragement of the first time they had slept together; or the quiet, secret sadness he had been embodying the second time. 

It was the kind of confidence he usually showed in the station, when he was proving that, against all odds, he was right about a case. 

The kind of confidence that usually made Carlton feel so pissed off.

The air between them felt electrified. 

“What did you say?” Carlton asked, his breath hitching in his throat. 

“You heard me.” Shawn kissed him again, and ground against him for emphasis. “We both know how you’ve manhandled me across the station all those times that I teased you, we both know you want to. We both know I want you to. Take me.” 

Fuck. 

This was so hot. 

This was the power-play Carlton had been expecting when they first slept together. 

But once again, in a completely different way. 

In a good way.

A really good way. 

He swallowed. “Wait… you’re saying that, all those times in the station, you weren’t making fun of me, you were…”

“Trying to get you to notice me? Yeah.”

“Huh.”

Carlton experimentally reached a hand up to grab ahold of Shawn’s hair, and Shawn closed his eyes, and leaned into his hand with a small gasp. 

He pulled on Shawn’s hair, tilting his chin up and exposing his throat to gently kiss it; and Shawn squirmed on his lap, trying to generate friction. 

Carlton grabbed the front of Shawn’s belt and pulled him up and away, denying him the contact. 

“Shawn, you’ll tell me if I do something wrong?”

“Yeah, Lassie, but you’re—” Carlton tightened his hold on Shawn’s hair, and the man whimpered. “--You’re on the right track. I promise. Fuck.”

Carlton paused, uncertain about what to do next, and Shawn used the opportunity to push Carlton’s hand off his belt so he could grind down onto him again. 

“Come on, Lassie,” Shawn said impatiently. “.....Unless you’re intimidated by this, too.”

“Shawn… are you trying to make me mad?” Carlton grumbled, grabbing Shawn’s belt again.

“Uh, yeah,” Shawn replied, reaching to push Carlton’s hand away a second time. “Duh.” 

—------------

At first, Carlton made sure to go slow. 

To be careful.

To be gentle.

He carried Shawn to his bedroom. 

He took his time making sure that Shawn was ready for him, making sure that Shawn was more than ready for him, so that he wouldn’t accidentally hurt him. 

But once Shawn was under him and so tight and hot and wanting; and was whispering in Carlton’s ear; talking competitively at first– clearly still trying to make Carlton mad; and then confessing some of the fantasies he’d had about some of their more tense exchanges at the police station; and then saying, over and over again, so quiet he could hardly hear it, just “Carlton”; it was hard to stay controlled. 

He got rougher than he meant to, there at the end.

A lot rougher. 

And then suddenly, Shawn was crying out his name, loudly,

And he was biting Shawn’s shoulder, and oh no, sorry, that was definitely going to leave a mark; and Carlton was releasing Shawn’s wrists, which, whoops, he hadn’t realized he had pinned; and they were rocking together, slowly coming down; and then Carlton was pressing his face into Shawn’s neck and breathing deeply.

Shawn still smelled like pineapple. 

The fruity scent, mixed with the smell of the man’s sweat, was maybe the best thing that Carlton had ever inhaled.

He felt sorry that he hadn’t lasted longer, but also thankful that the sex was over; because if it had gone on for another moment, the stupid, idiotic, obviously incorrect thoughts he was having about how Shawn was his might have spilled over to his mouth, and that would be awkward.

Shawn was silent for a while, and Carlton began to worry that he’d been too rough, too eager…… too much.

No, he’d definitely been too much.

But then Shawn turned to kiss him. “Wow,” he said softly. “That was awesome. Remind me to make you mad more often.”

He gently draped an arm over Carlton’s chest as he spoke. It almost felt like they were cuddling.

Carlton leaned into the sensation.

“I wasn’t mad, I was just doing what you wanted me to do.”

“No, you were definitely mad," Shawn laughed. "Remember when you said you were going to ‘punish me for all the times I—’”

“Okay, okay! We don’t need to talk about the details. Maybe I was a little mad. But anyway, you were the one who kept telling me to, and I quote—”

“Okay, you’re right.” Shawn laughed again and pressed his face into Carlton’s chest. “We don’t need to talk about the details.”

“Mhmm. That’s what I thought.”

Shawn traced his hand up Carlton’s arm, withdrawing from him sheepishly when Carlton caught his eye. “So…. we could order some dinner… or I could leave if you want.”

Shawn was speaking in a tone that was probably supposed to sound like his usual casual, unconcerned voice, but there was a noticeable difference. 

Oh.

Carlton thought he might understand why Shawn had been so pushy tonight. Why he had been trying so hard to get a rise out of him. 

He was the one who had asked Shawn to come over, rather than the other way round, and Shawn was uncomfortable with not having the upper hand in the situation. 

And now, he wasn’t sure how soon Carlton would ask him to go. 

“Yeah, Shawn,” Carlton said, leaning in close to kiss him. “We can get dinner.”

—-----------

They ended up on Carlton’s couch again, some dumb action movie that Shawn had seen on the TV guide playing in the background. 

They had been working their way through an impressive spread of Chinese Food, and now Shawn was relaxed into the couch.

He was taking up most of the couch, again, but Carlton didn’t mind. 

Shawn was sprawled out on his back, one leg hanging onto the floor and the other leg propped up.

The leg that was propped up was pressing comfortably against Carlton’s arm.

It was nice.

Domestic.

Disarmingly so.

“That was so fun, Carlton,” Shawn said, over the noise of the action-movie hero giving a speech in the background.

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. And I can’t wait to totally make you beg for it next time. I mean… if you want me to.” 

“Yeah, right. You could never do that.” Carlton replied, rolling his eyes and trying to act like the idea didn’t send a small thrill through his body.

“Can too. And I don’t even have to top to do it, although it would certainly help.” Shawn sat up and leaned over to kiss him. “You’ll see.”

“Maybe.” Carlton replied, shooting him a sidelong glance. “If there is a next time.”

“Oh…. yeah. You’re right….. sorry, I don’t know why I said that.” Shawn replied, his voice suddenly small. 

He quickly moved away from Carlton and looked down, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. 

That was a stronger negative reaction than Carlton had expected, and he looked down at his Lo Mein, trying to find the words to explain that No, he didn’t mean it like that, like he wasn’t interested in a next time, it was just that there was no point in pretending about a future that they wouldn’t have. 

But when he looked up, Shawn was somehow already off the couch and shoving his things in his pockets, almost ready to head out the door. 

Carlton caught his eye and they looked at each other for a moment, but…. well … what was there to say?

Shawn just gave him a look that he didn’t understand, and then surprised Carlton by leaning over to affectionately rumple his hair.

“See you later, Lass,” Shawn said as he pulled his hand away, and before Carlton could reply, he was gone, out the door.

Chapter Text

Lassie was right. 

There might not be a next time. 

Which was like, fine. 

It was totally fine. 

They’d already slept together three times, and that was about as many times as Shawn usually slept with anybody, anyway.

And yet, here he was; over an hour after arriving home from rushing out of Lassie’s apartment (again), lying in bed and thinking about him. 

And not even thinking about sleeping with him, although there was quite a lot to think about in that category.

Despite the late hour, and the long day he’d had, Shawn was wide awake.

The mental preoccupation he had with Lassie was beginning to weigh on him. 

Why couldn’t he stop thinking about the man?

He’d always had a crush on him, but this was… different. 

Usually, Shawn would get infatuated with someone, and then when he got closer and realized that they weren’t who he had imagined them to be, he would lose interest. Often he was a lot more interested in an idolized idea of someone, rather than the real person. 

But Lassie… when would he have had the time to idolize Lassie? Back when they first met, sometime in the few hours between Lassie informing Shawn that, because he’d called in the tip that solved their robbery case, he was now their lead suspect; and Lasse purposely hitting Shawn’s head as he handcuffed him and tried to shove him in the back of a police car?

No. There was no idolizing happening here.

Lassie had always been upfront about the fact that he was a jerk. It was when you started to get beyond his jerky-ness that things started to get interesting. 

The more Shawn got to know Lassie, the more things that he found that he liked about him. Like the way Lassie kissed. And the fact that he owned cozy socks. And how he often left case files open on his coffee table while he watched TV, so he could take glances at them during the commercial breaks. How his mind was practically always working– just like Shawn’s.

Ugghhhhhh.

This was so dumb.

Shawn should be asleep, not lying awake thinking about Lassie’s case files and cozy socks and wry smiles. 

Eventually, he decided to just call Gus, even though Gus would NOT appreciate being called so late. 

It was the middle of the night in Santa Barbara, and Gus was four hours ahead in Montreal.

This was an objectively uncool time for Shawn to be calling. 

But he was starting to get really stressed out about this whole thing, and he really needed some advice. 

Gus answered after 2 rings, his voice groggy with sleep. “Shawn? W-wht’s wrong?” 

“Nothing’s wrong!” Shawn replied quickly.

There was a pause. 

“Okay, goodbye Shawn.” 

“Wait,” Shawn interjected. “I have a question! It’s kind of important.”

“M….hmmm…..” Gus replied sleepily.

“Have you ever slept with someone a few times, and then, like, wanted to keep seeing them? Like, not wanted to pretend to get busy with work, or like you lost their number, or to have developed a life-threatening allergy to their pet cat?”

Gus yawned. “Is this the.. uh.. the.. homophobic morgue worker?”

“Well, he’s not homophobic. But yes.”

Gus yawned again. “I dunno Shawn, sounds like you love the guy or something.”

“Woah, no. I do not.”

The only response he got was silence.

“Gus?”

Shawn heard the faint sound of his friend snoring on the other end of the line. 

Okay. 

Well. 

That was a very unhelpful phone call, thank you, Gus. 

“Love.”

Yeah right. 

That phone call was so unhelpful, in fact, that Shawn was just going to pretend that it never happened.

When he managed to finally fall asleep, he felt no better about anything. He slept fitfully, and he awoke the next morning, surprisingly, to a phone call from the chief. 

—--------

Shawn’s presence had been requested at a crime scene, ASAP.

There was a development in the Ritz-Carlton Murder case. 

Before he left his apartment, he picked up his copy of the case file from the table and started flipping through it.

All the boring details were a lot harder to remember without Gus around to remember them for him, and he didn’t want to forget anything that could be useful during a “psychic vision”. 

As he was flipping through the file, his phone rang– Gus was calling him. 

Shawn hesitated. He really needed to head out, but…. he always had time for Gus. 

And Gus had answered the phone for him last night. Returning the favor was the least he could do. 

“What’s up, Gus?” Shawn asked. “I only have a minute.” 

“Shawn, I saw that you called me last night, what’s going on? Is it about the case?”

“....You picked up last night, remember?”

“I did? I do not remember that.”

That was probably for the best, Shawn thought to himself. 

“Well…. it wasn’t about anything important anyway.”

“Okay, good, because I have to tell you what just happened to me.” Gus’s voice sounded incredibly huffy all of a sudden. “Shawn, I’m going to kill Julien.”

“Who?”

“The car salesman from Phoenix who thinks he knows cheese better than everybody!”

“Oh, right! What did he do now?”

“He asked for Emily’s number, Shawn! After I’ve been making my move on her for weeks! We were right in the middle of blanching class, and he just asked!”

Shawn continued to flip through the case file, dividing his attention between that and the phone call. 

“Wow. What’s wrong with this guy?”

“I. don’t. know. Shawn. I don’t know! And now I’m probably late to put my artichoke hearts in their ice bath!”

“Wait… what? Is your cooking class still happening?”

“Yes, I just had to leave. Can you believe Julien acted like that?”

“Okay…. I don’t know what blanching is. It sounds like some type of runner’s injury, but I’m assuming that it’s a way to make food. Can you un-blanch his vegetables while he’s not looking?”

“No, I can’t—------- actually…. you know what, I’ll call you back later, Shawn.”

Shawn flipped to a photo in the case file that drew his attention immediately. 

“Wait, Gus! Really quick, one more question!”

“Okay, what?”

Shawn was looking at one of the photos from the autopsy, showing the inside of the victim’s empty torso. It was zoomed in over one of the marks that the autopsy tech said were possible cauterization.

“Okay, tell me your thoughts on this: why would a corpse have had part of its inner torso cauterized, with some kind of precision tool?”

“What do you mean? Like….. after the person was killed?”

“I’m not sure, but I think so.”

“Huh. That’s weird. I have no idea. Sometimes in surgeries, electrocauterization is used to remove unwanted tissue or to seal off blood vessels, but I have no idea why someone would want to cauterize the inside of a corpse.”

“Huh.”

“Listen, Shawn, I gotta go sabotage some artichoke hearts.”

Shawn smiled. “Alright, Gus, talk to you later.”

“Bet.”

—-------

Shawn arrived at the crime scene, out at a nature preserve on the edge of town. 

He found the Chief, CSI, some uniformed officers, and Lassie already there. 

Another body had been found. 

This victim had been killed in almost the exact same way as Elijah Tate. 

Shawn slowly crossed the large field at the entrance to the nature preserve. The wildflowers in the tall grass stood out against the fog, and contrasted oddly with his view of the crime scene in front of him. 

For some reason, he had the strangest feeling that the body was going to be someone who had been at the NA meeting the other night. 

But it wasn’t. 

Of course it wasn’t. 

That feeling didn’t make any sense.

Just because they were a really weird group of people, who had made Shawn feel really weird, didn’t mean they were…. Whatever. 

Anyway.

The body looked almost exactly like the first one: The torso was cut open and the skin was pulled to either side. Again, inside the torso, where the organs and intestines should have been, there was nothing. Just a spine, ribs, and empty space. The body was crumpled into the grass, and the ground around it was blood-soaked.

Lassie was standing near the body and staring down at it. 

He looked….. freaked out. Which was odd for anyone who had seen as many crime scenes as he had, and especially odd for Lassie.

Shawn cleared his throat as he walked up, and Lassie jumped. He was usually always on guard, he must be deeply absorbed in thought to get spooked like that. 

“You alright there, Lassie?” Shawn asked gently.

Lassie looked at him and gave him a tight smile. “Yeah. Glad you’re here, Spencer.”

Chief Vick walked by and gave them a happy nod. “I’m glad to see you two working together so well, gentleman.” 

“Oh, for now,” Shawn replied quickly. “Just wait until the spirits start communicating with me, and Lassie here will be yelling at me like usual. I’d say we have… five minutes?”

“I see.” The chief shot a quick look at Lassiter as she walked away. 

After she was gone, Shawn looked at Lassie and silently mouthed the word “discretion”.

Lassie just rolled his eyes, but Shawn saw the slightest edge of a smile as he looked away.

There were some unusual dark circles under Lassie’s eyes. The man looked tired.

Shawn wished he could ask him how he was doing, ask if he had gotten any sleep last night. 

But they were at work, which required the aforementioned discretion. While it wouldn’t be that far out of the realm of possibility for Shawn to ask, it would be very strange for Lassie to reply with anything other than outright anger. 

Shawn could ask later. 

He hoped.

For now, he looked around the crime scene, taking in everything. 

There were no cameras here, of course. The woods were on one side of the field they were in, the parking lot was on the other. There was a mowed path leading through the field, and around it, tall grass and wildflowers. 

The body was dumped in the long grass, a few feet off of the path. It was strange, the way the body was just….. left there, when this was such an elaborate murder. 

Shawn took another look at the long grass around him, and noticed something odd. 

There were two extremely faint lines in the grass going from the mowed path out to the body, and in between them, the tall grass was slightly bent at the top. 

It looked like someone had rolled some sort of large cart through the grass. 

Or a gurney. But why? 

Why bring one all the way out here, and take it with you when you left?

Shawn stepped forward and looked more closely at the body.

It was hard to see anything through all the blood, but he thought he might be able to see a mark like the ones that had been on the first body– the ones that looked like they might have been cauterized.

And there was something very strange on the outside of the body. Right where the body had been cut into. The edge of some kind of mark. The rest of the mark had been removed with the skin, but… not all of it. A corner of it remained. 

Some type of deep slash. And the tiny edge of another one, right below it. And another one, right below that. Three knife wounds? 

Or… some sort of claw?

Okay, think… think.

If someone was transporting a body, a cart/gurney, and possibly some kind of weird cauterizing tool, they wouldn’t be able to transport it all in a sedan.

At least, probably not. They would most likely need an SUV. Or a van.

Maybe.

Wow, this was a lot harder without Gus to bounce ideas off of. 

Still, he had to say something. 

“I’m getting something!” Shawn called, putting his finger to his temple. “The spirits are shy today, but they do have something to say. I’m getting….. a wheelie? Is BMX involved in this murder? No… no… but something with wheels, something you push by hand, was somehow involved in the murder. A gurney, maybe? And, the killer had a large car! At least an SUV, possibly a cargo van. Maybe a truck. Possibly… wait…. no….. possibly even a Subaru Baja.”

He would save the claw mark thing for later. Mostly because he had no idea what it meant.

And the cauterization stuff. Because it was always good to hold onto something, in case you needed to divine something later, in a pinch.

Chief Vick smiled at him. “Well done, Mr. Spencer, that gives us several angles to go on. I trust that you and Detective Lassiter will begin following up on these immediately.”

Lassie nodded. “Will do, chief. Even though I don’t believe in that psychic mumbo-jumbo anyway, because….” Lassie started to flounder. “… it’s… it’s dumb.”

The Chief raised her eyebrows, but then just nodded before she walked away again. 

Shawn grinned at Lassie. “How discreet of you.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re impressed by me.”

Lassie shook his head and looked away. “Nope.”

“You are. You totally are.”

“I am not. We’ll see how this theory pans out. If it pans out, and doesn’t just end up being the first of nine theories, the last of which is somehow correct. Then, maybe I’ll be impressed.”

“You mean you’ll be even more impressed.”

“I don’t mean that even a little bit.”

“Uh-huh, sure. Whatever you say.”

Lassie sighed. “Whatever. If you’re done with your ‘visions’,” Lassie did some dramatic air quotes as he said that last word, “I’m heading back to the station to start looking into these leads.”

“You mean the very impressive leads that I gained from the spirit world?”

“....... Some things related to your leads, yes. But there’s some real police work to be done as well.”

“Okay. The spirits tell me that I should join you at the station. I do have to make a stop on the way, though. ”

“The spirits tell you that you should go to the station, to do the job you’ve been hired to do?”

“Yep. Are you impressed now?”

“No!” Lassie actually did smile this time, and then looked very annoyed that it had happened. “Goodbye, Spencer. I will see you there.”

He had known as soon as he stepped out of the car. 

This was not a human-on-human crime. 

First, there was the faint smell of blood. 

But not tinny human blood.

Werewolf blood. It had a wet, heavy smell, like soil at the base of a tree, thick with disintegrating leaves. 

And there was the tuft of fur, on the fence near the parking lot. 

The tuft of werewolf fur.

The tuft that Carlton had subtly removed and placed in his pocket, because, despite anything his kind could do, his first loyalty would always be towards keeping their existence hidden from humans. 

He’d noticed all of this even though he hadn’t slept last night, for the third night in the row. 

It was… sloppy. Maybe not sloppy enough for a human to notice anything unusual, but still, sloppy.

And there was the faint edge of the claw mark on the body of the victim. 

The murderer (or murderers?) had cut away the skin where it appeared, but not perfectly. 

Had they been in a rush?

What had happened here? 

It seemed like the human victim had unexpectedly fought back, and whatever werewolf had done this had transformed in order to put a quick end to the fight. 

The smell of werewolf blood lingering in the air demonstrated that whoever the killer was, they hadn’t gotten away without a scratch. 

The killer must have some kind of injury. 

Of course, werewolves healed very quickly, so they wouldn’t be injured for long, but still.

That, and Shawn’s “vision”, were enough for him to go on. 

Carlton had woken up grumpy, and the bloody crime scene hadn’t helped. 

But he had felt better– reflexively– he couldn’t help it, as soon as Shawn showed up, looking happy.

Good.

Shawn looked happy, that was good. 

It was a sign that things were alright in the world.

On the way to the station, Shawn stopped by La Boîte de Nuit.

That surfer guy from the NA meeting, Zander, was standing outside smoking. He gave a friendly wave as Shawn pulled up.

“Hey man! How’s it going?” Zander asked excitedly. 

There was something that made Zander’s friendliness feel different from Ben’s. Zander seemed a little more genuine. And a lot less pushy. 

“It’s going good, how about you?” Shawn replied, leaning against the wall next to Zander. 

“I’m great, man. I’m about to drive up to Point Arguello to catch some waves. Usually, there are never any good waves in the summer, but I’ve heard it’s beautiful up there today. Hey, you should come with me!”

“I wish I could, but I can’t. Work stuff.” Shawn replied. He loved the beach, but there was the new development in the case to focus on, and he couldn’t surf to save his life. 

“Okay, no worries, maybe next time.” Zander inhaled the last few puffs of his cigarette. “I’m just happy to be getting out of this place. It gets kind of boring sometimes, sitting around while everyone’s planning—- well, never mind.”

Before Shawn could respond, Zander headed across the parking lot towards his car. “Later man!” he called behind him. 

“Later!” Shawn replied uncertainly, still a little confused by that last thing Zander said. 

He stepped into the building, and once again found himself in an empty lobby. Dammit. He should have asked Zander if Ben, or anyone else who had an office, was here.

It looked empty. It sounded empty. There was at least one person who Shawn knew wasn’t here. This was probably the best opportunity he was going to get. 

He took a deep breath and went for it, glancing behind his shoulder as he walked over to where the offices were. He quickly made his way through the hallway and around the bend, walking past a janitor’s office, supply room, and kitchen while he searched for the room that he was looking for. 

Finally, he found it at the end of the hallway. Benjamin Ward’s office.

Shawn gave the door a casual knock. There was no reply. 

He tried the handle. Mercifully, it was unlocked. 

With one last look at the hallway around him, Shawn slipped through the office door. 

The office had black walls, kind of a weird choice for an office, which made searching it without turning on the light much harder. 

There were a lot of papers. There didn’t seem to be any personal effects, other than some protein powder and a hippie-looking book about “Earth Mothers” or something. 

Shawn pulled open drawer after drawer. 

Papers. Papers. More papers. 

None of the papers were interesting, and there no secret compartments as far as he could see. 

Finally, Shawn checked his watch and shook his head in frustration. He’d needed to get out of here before he got caught. 

Less than a second after Shawn slipped out of the office and softly closed the door behind him; Ben appeared at the end of the hallway.

“Shawn!” Ben called happily, walking up to him. “What are you doing back here?”

“Oh, I was—”

Ben interrupted. “Looking for me?” he asked, moving very close into Shawn’s personal space.

Shit. Abort. Abort. 

Ben raised his hand to touch Shawn’s face (weird), and Shawn noticed a large bandage on the man’s outer forearm.

“I’m seeing someone,” Shawn blurted out, as he quickly moved out of touching range. 

Not technically true, but…. still.

Shawn thought he saw a millisecond-long flash of anger on Ben’s face before it was replaced by his normal friendly look. “Congratulations,” Ben replied, and this time it was easy to detect the faux-enthusiasm in his voice. 

“So,” Ben asked again. “Why are you here?”

“I, uh, I was looking for you,” Shawn replied quickly. “I was hoping you could set me up with a club membership. I like the, um, vibes.”

“Fine.” Ben replied, a slight iciness in his voice. “I’ll set you up at the front desk.”

Shawn stared around the lobby as he finished signing up for his club membership, his gaze once again landing on Ben’s bandage. 

“So…. “ He asked. “What happened to your arm?”

“It’s nothing.” Ben replied. “Someone broke a glass last night, and of course, the owner had to clean it all up.”

“Wow, big bandage.”

“Yep.”

“It must have been a big glass.”

“It’s $200 for a monthly membership,” Ben replied brusquely as he set a card-reader in front of Shawn. 

It seemed that the time for friendly chit-chat was over. 

One swipe of Gus’s credit card later, and Shawn was a proud member of (seriously, what was that place called? Whatever. The French place.)

He headed to the station. 

Time for some, as Lassie said, “real police work”

Carlton was working through a mountain of paperwork while Shawn was off investigating whatever the private case he had picked up was.

He was exhausted. 

He shouldn’t have allowed himself to stay awake stewing in his thoughts the last three nights. 

He should have slept at least an hour or two like he normally did. 

But he hadn’t.

And now he was feeling incredibly run-down, and thanks to the break in the case, unlikely to get any sleep tonight either. 

He stopped to put his forehead in his hands for a moment. Not because he was sleepy. Because it helped him think. 

He heard the door to the conference room open, and something being dropped on the table next to his head. 

It smelled like an egg sandwich. 

He looked up. 

It was an egg sandwich. 

And Shawn was here. 

Thank God. 

Carlton had at least five ideas that he wanted to bounce off the other man. 

He couldn’t share what he knew about the supernatural features of the killer, but he could still get Shawn’s help putting the bastard away. 

“You’re totally sure you’re okay, Lassie?” Shawn asked as he sat down, giving him a suspicious look. 

Carlton just grabbed the sandwich and rolled his eyes. “I’m fine. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Shawn replied, with noticeable sarcasm.

Carlton didn’t bother replying, just handed Shawn some of the papers to look over. 

As they worked together, he ignored the fact that Shawn was spending 90% of his time staring up at the ceiling, and 10% of his time working through the papers.

Working together was still better than working alone. A lot better. 

—-------

Many hours later, Carlton was in his car.

Alone.

He had been watching La Boîte de Nuit through binoculars for hours. 

He was certain now, the clump of fur was proof, that werewolves were involved in these murders. 

And the most werewolves in Santa Barbara (if not all of the werewolves in Santa Barbara) were here, at La Boîte de Nuit.

Over the last hour, most of the lights in the building had gone out, and now Carlton was just waiting for Orion, or “Benjamin” as he went by now, to finally leave. 

Once he was gone, Carlton would jimmy a window open and take a look around. Incredibly illegal and against protocol, of course, but protocol went out the window when supernatural beings and crime mixed.

These killings were so strange.

Why?

Why were these killings happening?

What was the point of them?

None of them had happened on a full moon, so it wasn’t uncontrolled blood lust.

And, though, the scenes were so bloody and brutal; Carlton didn’t believe these were crimes of passion.

There was something meticulous about them. 

Something precise.

Shawn’s comments about a gurney had stuck with him for some reason.

It was like there was something he just wasn’t seeing. 

But soon, he would have a chance of finding answers. 

Once Benjamin was gone, Carlton would hopefully uncover some clues, and he and Shawn could start planning the nex—-

On that thought, Carlton’s phone began to ring, loudly.

He patted his pockets. His phone wasn’t in them.

“Dammit!” He cursed under his breath.

Realistically, he knew that Ben couldn’t hear his cellphone from all the way inside the club; even with the advanced hearing that all werewolves had, but it still felt a little like his cover was blown.

He must be truly exhausted if he had forgotten to put his phone on silent before starting the stakeout. That was an amateur mistake.

Carlton felt around his car in the dark, frustrated, until he finally found his phone under the seat.

Shawn was calling.

There could be important news about the case. 

Or Shawn could be sad again.

Ugh. 

Fine.

“Shawn?” Carlton answered, annoyed at the worry he heard in his own voice. “Are you alright?”

“Oh yeah!” Shawn answered on the other end of the line, and Carlton was relieved to hear that his voice sounded normal. “Sorry, I know you said you wanted to take the night off from working on the case, I just thought I’d call and see if you had time to chat.”

“Chat? About what?” Carlton asked incredulously, still watching the social club via binoculars.

Shawn lay on his bed, playing absentmindedly with the buttons on his shirt as he talked.

“I dunno, it can be about anything. That’s why it’s called a chat. How’s your night going?”

“Good….. I suppose. Yours?” Lassie replied. His voice sounded tense on the other end of the line.

“Pretty good. Do you think it would be weird if I put up my old Val Kilmer poster in my apartment?”

“Depends. What movie is it from?”

“Oh, it’s not from a movie, it’s just a picture of his face.”

“Okay…. where are you thinking of putting it?”

Shawn looked up at the poster, already in its new location. “On the ceiling, above my bed.”

“.....Why?”

“To add to the atmosphere.”

“I see. I do think that would be weird.”

“Hmmmmm. Agree to disagree.”

Shawn thought he heard Lassie laugh a little. “Okay. I guess. Is this the only reason you called me?”

“Um. No.”

“Okay…. So? What’s up?” Lassie’s voice took on an edge of worry. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay! I…. just had a question.”

He heard Lassie sigh. “Shawn, I swear, if you’re about to ask me what I’m wearing—-”

“I’m not! Although…. I wouldn’t complain if you wanted to tell me.”

“I’m going to hang up now.”

“Wait! Lassie. I have a real question.”

“.... Okay.”

“So… you know… Gus is coming home in a couple of weeks. And Jules is probably going to be back pretty soon, too.”

“Yes, I know.”

“And, I was just wondering, when they’re back, are you going to miss all this time we’ve been spending together?”

There was a long pause before Lassie replied, his voice coming quietly through the phone.

“....... Are you?”

“Um…… yeah, Lassie. I think I will.”

There was another long pause.

“......Why?”

Shawn closed his eyes and tried to catalog his thoughts– tried to think of the best place to start, or of anything sensical, at all to say.

He was about to reply, although he had no idea what he was about to say, when Lassie’s voice came through the phone again. 

He spoke in a short, clipped, and businesslike tone. “Sorry, Shawn. I’ll call you back.”

And the line was dead. 

Shawn looked down at his cellphone.

Well. 

That was rude. 

And knowing Lassie, he probably wasn’t even going to call back.

Maybe it was for the best.

Shawn really hadn’t known what he had been going to say. 

At all. 

Mostly because he didn’t know how he felt. 

At all. 

He grabbed his N64 controller. 

At least Donkey Kong always knew how he felt. (Like he needed to defeat King K. Rool and save his friends and their island)

Carlton shoved his cellphone back in his jacket pocket. His other hand held his binoculars steady. 

Orion…. Ben… Whatever. 

He was finally leaving. 

Carlton watched from across the street as Ben got in his car and left. 

Quiet descended over the street corner.

The lights were off at La Boîte de Nuit, and the parking lot was empty. 

Carlton slipped out of his car, quiet as a cat, and made his way towards the building. 

Even though he was tired, he pushed himself to transform just slightly.

It was much more difficult than just transforming fully; and required extended effort to maintain, but it would be very helpful for breaking and entering purposes. 

Carlton’s ears became slightly pointy on top, and grew slightly in size. 

His vision sharpened in the night, and he became more able to catch small bits of movement in the dark, as he lost the ability to make out some details and all the colors he could see dimmed and flattened into another until they were all shades of yellow or blue. 

His nose pointed out slightly, and his super powered sense of smell became even more powerful. He could smell food cooking at restaurants blocks and blocks away from him. 

It hurt. It felt kind of like he had to sneeze, and kind of like he had smacked the back of his head against the wall. Holding a partial transformation was unnatural– his body was not able to accommodate it easily. Small bolts of pain shot down the back of his neck. 

But he took a deep breath and pressed on. 

He needed to investigate tonight. If there was evidence linking Ben to the murder to be found, it was most likely to be found in the 24 hours after the killing. 

It only took him a second to pry open a window, and after that, he was only a few steps away from where he wanted to be. 

The offices. 

Carlton found the management office and stepped inside. 

There were quite a few more filing cabinets than he had expected in here. Surprisingly, there was a lot of actual business paperwork.

A book on the desk caught Carlton’s eye. 

Praising the Earth Mother.

…… What was a book about the Earth Mother doing here?

Why would Ben be interested in that weird, conservative religion that Victoria and Greg belonged to, and that Carlton had reluctantly participated in for a long time?

No matter. 

He didn’t have time to think about that right now. 

Carlton methodically searched the office, but unfortunately, he turned up nothing of use. 

He kept glancing over at the book while he worked, and eventually, he gave up on ignoring it and walked back over to it. 

He picked it up, and realized that some of the passages in the book were underlined in pen. 

Just as he was starting to read one of the underlined portions, he heard footsteps behind him. 

They couldn’t be from a human. Not to be able to sneak into the buildings, sneak up on him with his boosted hearing. 

He thought he might already know who it was. 

He turned, and “Ben” stood in the office doorway, smirking. 

By way of greeting, Ben just laughed.

“What?” Carlton asked angrily.

“It’s just funny, you’re not the only person I’ve found in my office today,” Ben said, meeting Carlton’s gaze.

“What do you mean?”

Ben just shrugged, infuriating as always. “It’s nice to see you, Carl. Care to tell me why you decided to drop by?”

Ben’s shrug drew Carlton’s eye straight to the bandage on the man’s arm. “That’s a fresh injury.”

“I suppose it is,” Ben replied.

“That happen to you last night? In a field, maybe?” Carlton asked.

He was quickly getting tired of these games. 

And tired of maintaining his partial transformation. 

And, to be honest, tired of standing up.

Ben smirked again and crossed his arms. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Carlton didn’t answer.

Truth be told, he didn’t want to know.

If Ben had been in the field last night, (and due to the injury on his arm, Carlton felt certain that he had been), Carlton didn’t want to know what had happened. 

He knew enough already about what happened to vulnerable humans around Ben.

He’d seen enough to last a lifetime. 

All those nights, at La Boîte de Nuit, those horrible nights when Romulus had demanded they drag a human off the street and…. kill them. 

Ben had always volunteered. 

To find the victim. 

To bring them back to the club. 

To hold the knife. 

He had smirked back then, too. 

Smirked the whole time.

Carlton hid in another room as often as he could, on those horrible nights, but he had still been able to hear the screams. 

And he’d still had to clean the room afterward. 

To mop the room four, five, six, seven times; as many as it took until he got all the last traces of the blood. 

And now, Ben had brought those horrible nights here, to Santa Barbara. 

To the humans that lived in the city that Carlton was charged with protecting. 

Carlton’s lack of response seemed to bore Ben. “I think this conversation is over, Carl.” Ben said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

It wasn’t worth it for Carlton to keep pushing. And he was far too tired to fight indefinitely to maintain the upper hand in a conversation with Ben.

“Fine.” Carlton replied. “For tonight.” He added pointedly as he walked out of the room, maintaining eye contact. 

At the end of the hall, he turned and took another long look at Ben. “I’ll speak with you later, Orion,” he said curtly, before turning back around.

“You’ll stay out of this if you know what’s good for you, Carl!” Ben called at his back. “I mean it!”

Carlton walked at a steady, even pace to his car, keeping his back straight. But he felt like he was going to start staggering at any moment. 

He closed his eyes and collapsed into the drivers seat as his partial transformation ended. 

Ow. 

That had really hurt.

He hadn’t realized how truly tired he was. It was dangerous to transform at all when he was that run-down, much less to transform only partially. 

He needed to get out of here, but in the state he was in, he felt worried about driving all the way across the city to get home. 

Shawn’s place was closer. 

Maybe he would let Carlton come by. If he could just rest for a moment, just catch his breath, he would be able to make it home. 

He pulled out his phone and called him.

“Hey Lassie,” Shawn answered, sounding surprised. “You called me back.”

“I did..”

“Because… you wanted to chat some more?”

“Actually….. I was…. Wondering if I could stop by your place.”

“Yeah!” Carlton could hear Shawn’s smile through the phone. “Of course you can stop by.”

“Okay. I’ll see you soon.”

He would ask Shawn later about what he had been trying to say before their conversation had been interrupted. 

Right now, he had to focus on just making it there.

--------

Carlton’s car pulled under the warm orange glow of the streetlight outside Mee Mee’s Fluff and Fold.

A warm glow came from behind the curtains of Shawn’s apartment, as well. 

Sometimes……. it seemed like everything Shawn touched ended up radiating his warmth. At least for a little while. 

Shawn opened the door and gestured for Carlton to enter, and Carlton did, leaning heavily against Shawn’s counter top with a yawn. 

“I can only stay for a few minutes.” Carlton said apologetically, sneaking a look at Shawn. 

Shawn didn’t seem annoyed by this, and he walked over to lean against the counter next to Carlton.

Their hands were almost touching.

“Long day?” Shawn asked him softly.

Carlton laughed a little. “You have no idea.”

“Well…..” Shawn was suddenly giving Carlton one of his incredibly annoying curious looks. “I was with you for like 80% of your day, so I probably have some idea… I mean… unless something crazy happened this evening….”

Carlton leaned over and ended Shawn’s line of questioning with a kiss.

With Shawn’s lips against his, suddenly he didn’t feel quite so tired, and in a short time they were making their way across the room, and Carlton was pushing Shawn down onto the bed.

—-------

Carlton opened his eyes, and the first thing he saw was a man’s face looking at him.

The face was either very large, or very close.

After a moment, he realized it was a poster. 

And that the room he was in was filled with sunlight. 

And that he was lying in a bed that was not his own. 

And that his head was absolutely pounding.

He looked over and saw Shawn on the other side of the bed, texting someone.

“Hey, Shawn?” Carlton said, his voice coming out raspy and rough as he realized how thirsty he was.

Shawn looked up and smiled at him. “Oh, hey Lassie, you’re awake! What’s up?”

“I hate your poster.”

Shawn looked up at the ceiling poster, and then back over at him. “Noted.”

“What—-“ Carlton started. “What happened last night?”

“Well, we started kissing, and you pushed me on the bed.”

“Okay.”

“And then…. Pretty much as soon as you hit the mattress, you fell asleep.”

Carlton groaned and pulled the blanket above his head. 

His headache was quickly becoming a splitting headache, and this was so embarrassing. 

He took a deep breath, and poked his head back out from under the blanket. 

“Sorry.”’

Shawn laughed. “It’s okay.”

“What time is it? How soon do we have to be at the station?”

“Well, it’s Saturday, and I’m sure you’ll go into the station at some point just because that’s the type of detective you are, but we don’t have to be there at all.” 

“Ugh. I’m going home.”

Shawn turned out to have enough coffee and cereal to share. 

And somehow, against all odds, he had an unopened spare toothbrush that Carlton could use. 

“I think this might be from a dentist visit I had in like the 10th grade,” Shawn had warned him, pulling the toothbrush package from a dusty bag under his sink.

Carlton shrugged. “I’ll take it.”

Shawn made a pretty good cup of coffee.

And had pretty good taste in cereal.

And he was polite enough to sit on the uncomfortable vinyl seating that was bolted under his apartment window, and to let Carlton sit in the only real chair. 

Carlton stayed…. longer than he expected. The food helped his headache subside a little bit. 

He kept almost apologizing to Shawn for last night– it was still extremely embarrassing, but it didn’t seem like Shawn minded. At least, it didn’t seem like he minded that much. 

Shawn sent him off with a promise to meet him at the station to work either later today or Sunday, and with a goodbye kiss that Carlton firmly decided not to read anything into.

He was probably just being polite.

Chapter Text

It had been a few days since Carlton accidentally fell asleep at Shawn’s apartment. 

A few…. really strange…. days.

He hadn’t seen Shawn at all outside of work. But Carlton had basically stopped doing anything outside of work. 

Lately, if he wasn’t at the station, he was out looking into leads regarding the case. 

He stopped working for maybe six hours a day, often much less than that. Just enough time to go home, eat something, and sleep for an hour or two. He couldn’t afford to fall behind on sleep again– he needed to be at his sharpest. 

His conversation with Orion (Ben…. whatever) had lit a fire in him. He was consumed with this case. All he cared about was figuring out what was going on.

Figuring out why Orion was doing this. 

There had to be a purpose to these murders. 

Carlton had seen what it normally looked like when Orion killed humans. Killed them for fun, or because it was a full moon and he had transformed and lost control, whatever. It was always incredibly violent. 

It made sense now why these murders had been so brutal, so…. cruel seeming.

But… the precision. The precision was what made no sense– it was completely counterintuitive to everything else that Ben did. 

It had to have a purpose. 

Carlton found himself drawn back to the crime scenes over and over again. 

He would drive around the roads surrounding the Ritz-Carlton hotel– making sure there were no businesses that they had forgotten to requisition the camera footage from. 

He would drive on the backroads near the nature preserve, looking to see if any of the farms on the roads had cameras at the ends of their driveways. 

They didn’t. 

Farmers liked their security, but, in general, valued their privacy more. 

He would pace the floors of the hotel, even though he knew he would find nothing there. 

Some days, Thomas McCain would be working the front desk, and he would look at Carlton with something between a glare and a completely blank stare. 

Carlton would just stare back. 

He would walk up to the roof, remembering that infuriating interaction that he and Shawn had had only a few weeks ago. 

It felt like that had been a lifetime ago. 

He would run his hand across those strange scratch marks on the roof access doorframe. They were probably there from a long time ago. Some heavy equipment had probably been brought in when they built the hotel, or when they renovated.

That hadn’t stopped Carlton from directing CSI to take photographs of them. Carlton had directed CSI to take photos of everything.

He would walk the long trail in the nature preserve– looping the five miles past where they had found the body, even though he knew there was nothing back there. 

He would stare up at the tree canopy in silence and wonder again: why? 

The fog had been especially heavy during the last few days, and it was like the weather was reflecting Carlton’s headspace. Reflecting the confusion and heaviness that had begun to settle over him. He had to drive to work in the mornings at 10 mph, headlights on, eyes peering out into the heavy clouds. 

There was a view, he had been told, at the nature preserve. But he always went too early in the morning, before the fog disappeared, to be able to see it. 

Maybe he should go in the late afternoon. 

But… maybe the view wasn’t worth seeing at all. 

He’d even broken in to the La Boîte de Nuit again. 

There was something so strange about the fact that Orion had that book about the earth mother, with all of those underlined passages. 

But, although no one had caught him breaking in this time, the book had been gone. 

There had been nothing of use to him there.

And, he’d barely seen Shawn. 

Well… he’d seen him at work. 

Shawn had joined Carlton for many of the long nights he spent at the station working the case, but they couldn’t say much to each other there. 

And Carlton wasn’t up for much conversation while they worked, anyway– he couldn’t afford to be distracted. 

Shawn seemed to be overwhelmed by work of his own. 

The leads on the case had split off in a few different directions: trying to identify the victim, trying to locate security footage of the murderer’s car, and trying to figure out if there was some strange purpose to these murders beyond just sating the desire to kill.

They had received the autopsy report a few days ago, which had confirmed that the murder was essentially identical to the murder of Elijah Tate. 

Other than that, it had very little information to offer. 

The Victim:

John Doe

Age: 18-22

Height: 6’3’’

Hair color: Black

Eye color: Blue

Blood type: O+

Last seen: Unknown

Cause of death: Blood Loss

That was it.

Shawn and Carlton were juggling everything to do with the case as best they could. 

But Shawn was spending a lot of time investigating his private case– whatever that was. 

Carlton could have pointed out that Shawn was dedicating an awful lot of his time to investigating his private case when they had just received an important break in their murder case; when in fact Carlton was pretty sure that the Chief had forbade Shawn from working any private cases at all during this investigation, but he didn’t.

To be fair, Shawn could have pointed out that Carlton was pretty much ignoring the search for this victim’s identity, even though the Chief had said that was the priority. And how Carlton kept steering them towards further investigation of the autopsy report, with no explanation as to why. But Shawn didn’t. 

Shawn also could have pointed out that Carlton was continuing to search for Elijah Tate’s lost video camera, even though the Chief had specifically told them to drop it and focus on more important things, but Shawn didn’t point that out, either. 

They just both kept working. 

—---------

They were busy. Overwhelmed, even. 

So they hadn’t seen each other outside of work once since the night when he fell asleep at Shawn’s apartment. 

That shouldn’t feel strange. 

For the first three years they had known each other, Carlton could count the number of times he had seen Shawn outside of work on one hand. 

But it did feel strange. 

It almost seemed like it felt strange for Shawn, too. 

Because… Shawn kept calling him. 

At night, after they’d both finally dragged themselves home from the station at 1 or 2 or 3– Carlton to be back no later than 9 am, and Shawn to return sometime in the late afternoon. 

And, whether at home, or back outside La Boîte de Nuit, or back outside the hotel, watching the location with binoculars, Carlton would answer. 

“Just to chat.”

He was still really weirded out by these phone calls, but it did seem that Shawn really just wanted to chat. 

Only one of these phone calls had devolved into something more debaucherous than a general conversation. Shawn had jokingly asked what Carlton was wearing again, and Carlton decided that he might as well reply and see where it took them. 

And it was after Carlton had had an incredibly stressful day, so…… it was understandable. 

The rest of the time, they just talked about…. whatever. Favorite albums. Carlton told him old cop stories. Shawn told him stories about his time working at concession stands in different sports stadiums around America. 

It was… too nice, was what it was. 

Too… confusing. 

Too much to think about, too distracting, at a time when Carlton couldn’t afford to be distracted. 

Carlton was still incredibly embarrassed about the night he had spent at Shawn’s apartment. He didn't really remember any of it, but from what he could gather, he just kind of passed out, and slept curled up like a big lump on Shawn's bed.

It could have been worse.

But it was still very embarrassing. 

And what were these phone calls, what was all of this, if not just further opportunities to embarrass himself?

He knew he needed to end this. 

Soon. 

Shawn should probably wash his pillowcases. 

Laundry day was several days past at this point. But that had been before Lassie came over, and now one of Shawn’s pillows smelled like Lassie. And… there was really no sense in messing that up. 

He should also probably give Lassie his tie back. Lassie had forgotten to take it with him when he left, and seemingly hadn’t remembered that he had left it behind. 

But….. Shawn didn’t really want to. 

For one thing, the tie was atrocious. 

It was green, with diagonal stripes, even though Lassie should really know by now, after all these years of tie-wearing, that he looked best in royal blue, or grey, or black.

For another thing… it was Lassie’s. 

It was a reminder of the night that Lassie had spent at his place. 

Shawn had been living at Mee Mee’s Fluff and Fold for about a year, and before the other night, nobody had ever slept over there. 

That was the way he liked it. 

Especially this year. 

He hadn’t used to care so much about maintaining his personal space, but these days, he got uncomfortable having to share it with anyone. 

Maybe because the Fluff and Fold was basically a studio apartment– he no longer had a living room couch to retreat to when he couldn’t sleep, and whoever was spending the night was passed out on his bed and hogging all the blankets. 

He just… he liked his space. 

Liked it enough that he was more than happy to pay for people’s taxis home, sometimes even with his own money rather than Gus’s credit card. 

Or to take them home on his motorcycle himself, if he hadn’t had too much to drink.

Plus, when he did that, sometimes he and whatever lucky lady or fella or otherwise defined person he was riding with would stop for waffles on the way. 

Which just went to show that it was good to have boundaries. 

You didn’t get 3 am waffles by being overly generous with your personal space. 

But…… the other night….

Shawn didn’t know how he felt about it. 

It had been nice, surprisingly really nice to have Lassie in his space. 

Shawn…… hadn’t told Lassie everything about what had happened that night. 

He hadn’t explained that after Lassie passed out, Shawn had decided to try to pull the man’s suit jacket and tie off, so that Lassie would be comfortable and wouldn’t strangle himself in his sleep.

At first, he had been worried about waking Lassie up. But he realized quickly that Lassie was out cold– a car could crash through the front window of Mee Mee’s Fluff and Fold, and he might still sleep through it. 

So he had pulled off Lassie’s tie, and then, as he struggled to get his suit jacket off, Lassie had sighed happily and leaned into Shawn’s hands.

Shawn had frozen for a moment. And then, when he moved again, Lassie grumbled unhappily as Shawn pulled away.

It was… cute. 

Really cute. 

Shawn had always imagined that Lassie would sleep like a secret agent– hand near his gun on his nightstand, ready to pop out of bed and draw his weapon at the slightest noise. 

He suspected Lassie often did sleep like that. 

It seemed like something crazy had gone on last evening– something that had exhausted Lassie beyond the point of being able to function normally. Shawn didn’t expect that the other man would tell him what it was. 

Shawn had avoided going to bed as long as possible. 

He played some video games, he watched some late-night tv, he even deep-cleaned his microwave when he had run out of distractions. 

He thought about just sleeping on the floor. 

But no, he reasoned, this was his apartment. His bed. There was no reason for him to give himself back pain just because Lassie happened to be in half of his bed. 

They could share. 

Shawn still had a perfectly good other half of the bed to use. 

He would just make sure to stay in his personal space. Lassie would definitely feel awkward and embarrassed about this tomorrow, and Shawn would do everything he could to minimize those feelings. 

It would just be… two guys passing out in a bed. That was it. 

Shawn changed into his pajamas and lay down on his half of the bed to sleep. Lassie had passed out on top of the comforter, so Shawn dug around in his closet until he found a spare blanket to throw over both of them. 

It was nice, comfortable, there was a solid two feet of space in between them. 

Shawn curled onto his side, facing away from Lassie, and closed his eyes.

Then, he felt something hit against his side. 

(Lassie’s arm, maybe?)

It was confirmed to be Lassie’s arm when Lassie, mumbling something incoherent, used a surprising amount of strength to pull Shawn closer to him; until they were cuddling, Shawn as the little spoon. 

Once he held Shawn close, Lassie wrapped his arm around him tightly, with a contented sigh.

Shawn struggled a little, but Lassie’s grip felt like iron. It didn’t hurt or anything-- in fact, it felt like just about the safest, most comfortable place in the world, but Shawn was determined to leave. 

He didn’t want Lassie to have to deal with the embarrassment of them waking up like this. 

He kept struggling, and eventually, managed to make it out from Lassie’s arm, Lassie grumbling unhappily all the while. 

Shawn made it back to his side of the bed, and took a deep breath, staring up at the ceiling. 

Okay. 

That just happened. 

Shawn normally hated cuddling, but now he had just found out that cuddling with Lassie felt… good. And …. safe. And….. right. 

And Lassie was passed out, and probably wouldn’t remember any of this in the morning. 

Maybe Lassie hated cuddling too. 

Maybe this was a fluke, or maybe he thought that Shawn was his ex-wife, Victoria. 

For some reason— some stupid reason, that last thought was almost too much to bear.

Whatever. It was fine. It was—-

Lassiter’s arm reached out again, patting the mattress gently until he reached Shawn. 

When his hand landed on Shawn’s stomach, he just left it there for a moment, resting gently as Shawn held his breath and his stomach stopped rising and falling completely. 

Jesus. Christ. 

Seriously, Lassie?

He braced for Lassie to yank him across the bed again, but instead, Lassie shuffled slowly towards him. Shawn moved his arm up and out of the way automatically, and Lassie scooched towards him until his head was resting on Shawn’s shoulder, his hand was on Shawn’s chest, and one leg was thrown over Shawn’s.

It was only when Lassie stopped moving that Shawn realized he was still holding his breath, and finally, he exhaled, slowly. 

He could clearly see the salt and pepper in Lassie’s hair from here. Lassie’s face looked so relaxed, and Shawn realized how much tension he was used to seeing in it. Shawn’s arm was still outstretched across the pillows, out of the way. He put it down on Lassie’s back, gently. 

He would move in a minute. He would look for a second spare blanket, and go to sleep on the floor. Or if he couldn’t find one, he would just stay up all night. 

Lassie would be so embarrassed about this. And he probably did think Shawn was Victoria. It wasn’t…. ethical or whatever to keep cuddling. 

Lassie rubbed his hand gently across Shawn’s chest as he slept and Shawn lay there thinking. 

Eventually, he moved up to Shawn’s face. Shawn held his breath again as Lassie traced his hand gently over Shawn’s features.

“..... hmm…… s–spencer?” Lassie mumbled, sounding uncertain.

Shawn cleared his throat. 

That was him. He was Spencer.

“Yes?”

Lassie’s mumbled voice was barely above a whisper, and his brow was furrowed, as if speaking was incredibly difficult. “did you… um…. file.. th…. th…. the…. r-report?”

Shawn thought back. He was pretty sure that Lassie was referring to a report Shawn had filed earlier that day.

Shawn swallowed. “Uh, yeah, Lassie. I filed it.”

To his shock, Lassie turned his head to nuzzle into Shawn’s neck, and barely pressed a kiss against his skin.

“thnks,” Lassie mumbled softly.

“Um, yeah,” Shawn whispered back. “You’re welcome, Lassie.”

Lassie sighed happily and snuggled in closer.

Just one more minute. And then I’ll move. Shawn told himself. 

And he kept telling himself that, until suddenly, he opened his eyes and the room was bright. 

—---------

When he awoke, Lassie had been curled half-against him, half-on top of him, just like he had the night before. 

Moving away from the man was a very delicate process, and Shawn had just barely managed to extricate himself out from under Lassie, and walk over to the empty side of the bed to lie down again when Lassie woke up. 

Shawn had sighed with relief when it seemed that Lassie was none the wiser. 

It was better that way. 

—---------

But now, several days later, Shawn was inhaling the smell of his pillows when he went to sleep, and catching glances of the tie he had neatly folded on his nightstand, and calling Lassie every single night because, he was discovering, he loved the sound of the other man’s voice. 

He was trying to figure out what it all meant. 

The word “dating” kept coming to mind. 

Shawn hadn’t done anything even close to dating somebody since he was… what… 21?

Since people he knew from high school started getting married, or (occasionally, somewhat scandalously) applying for the newly created “domestic partnerships”; and it suddenly seemed like everyone in Shawn’s generation was dating with some kind of implication.

The implication of a far-off but still permanent future.

It had felt like, no matter how someone felt about him at the time, there was no telling what would happen if they stayed together for a few years– maybe they would suddenly expect a ring and a promise that Shawn couldn’t deliver, and blame Shawn for wasting half their twenties. 

Shawn never stayed interested in someone for long, usually, either. 

So, “dating”, which had hardly seemed worth it to begin with, became definitely not worth it at all.

So Shawn didn’t date. 

Ever.

As a rule.

….. But……

Lassie.

The way he was starting to feel about Lassie turned everything Shawn knew about himself on its head, but… it felt kind of worth it. 

What was that saying about personal growth?

“If you can’t… um….. then you….” 

Whatever. He would ask Gus later. 

Shawn checked his watch. It was noonish.

Just as good a time as any to head to the station, and to make a stop at that stupid french place on the way. 

—--------

Shawn was getting really frustrated with his attempts to investigate the social club. He hadn’t been able to catch Thomas McCain alone for a single moment– the man was almost never there when Shawn came by, and if he was, he usually shot Shawn a glare and disappeared right after Shawn arrived.

It was so strange. McCain should have no idea that Shawn was with the police. So… either he was just that rude to all strangers, or he had really hated Shawn’s life story that he shared at the NA meeting, or something else was going on. 

Shawn pulled up at the social club, and sighed, disappointed, when he saw that Zander’s jeep wasn’t in the parking lot. 

Zander had become a bright spot in Shawn’s investigation– he was just about the only person here who didn’t react to Shawn with weird over-friendliness, or unexplained hostility. 

But Shawn would press on.

He walked into the lobby and– holy shit– Thomas McCain was right there.

And the lobby was empty otherwise. 

“Hey! Um… Thomas, right?” Shawn called out, hoping not to lose his opportunity to talk to the man. 

Thomas looked up at the sound of his name, and his eyes narrowed at the sight of Shawn. But he didn’t run away. 

Shawn walked over to him, trying to make his quick pace look like a casual, unconcerned amble. He usually never had this much trouble tracking down suspects to speak to. 

Well….. unless they were guilty, and bad liars. 

Those suspects did have a habit of running away. 

Hmmm.

“What’s up, my guy?” Shawn asked him as he got close to the man, trying to lean casually against the host stand as he spoke. 

McCain looked at Shawn like he was barely worth the breath it took to speak to him. “Nothing. Can I help you?”

Shawn pressed on, ignoring the man’s tone, and responding as if McCain had been speaking genuinely. 

“Yeah! I’m so glad you asked. I’m a member now, but I’m not sure about how to incorporate this club into my whole trying–to–get–sober thing. I know you were at the meeting the other night, so I thought you would be a good person to ask.”

McCain’s eyes narrowed even more. “You sure you wouldn’t rather ask Ben? You were practically throwing yourself at him at the meeting.”

Shawn felt a little at a loss for words. Throwing himself at Ben? If anything, judging by the number of physical advances Shawn had had to politely rebuff, the opposite was true. 

Also, wasn’t Ben like dating Zander or something?

“Um…” Shawn replied nervously. “I’m…. in a relationship. With a man. I’m not interested in Ben.”

Shawn tried not to notice that lying about being in a relationship with Lassie didn’t even make him feel freaked out. 

It felt… nice. 

It was a nice lie. 

McCain stared at him for a minute, and it seemed like his face softened slightly. “.... Oh. Good.”

“So….” Shawn started again, feeling a little braver in the face of McCain’s slightly lessened hostility, “about the sober living thing….”

“Look, Shawn–” McCain cut him off quickly. “Not to be rude, but I’m not the person to go to for advice. I–” the man started to look smug, “get all my advice from the owners of the La Boîte de Nuits. This one, and the one in San Francisco.”

“.... O…kay..” Shawn replied, feeling once again a bit at a loss for words. He was having trouble figuring out how to enter the ‘normal conversation’ territory with McCain. 

“So…” Shawn started again, awkwardly. “You work here?”

“Yeah,” McCain replied. “And before you ask, they’re not hiring.”

“..... Okay. Is this your only job?” 

“No, I work at the Ritz-Carlton. You know, of the Ritz-Carlton murder?”

Shawn was surprised to hear McCain bring up the murder so boldly to someone he hardly knew, particularly when he knew that the police already considered him to be a suspect.

Not that Shawn was complaining. This was exactly the information he had been opening for

“Yeah,” Shawn replied nonchalantly. “I think I heard about that.”

“You wanna know something crazy?” McCain asked, dipping his head down to talk to Shawn quietly.

“Yes,” Shawn replied. “Definitely.”

“I was working when it happened.”

Shawn raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“Yeah, dude. I heard the screams.” 

McCain had definitely not told that to the police. But, he hadn’t been bragging or trying to impress anybody when he talked to the police.

“Wow,” Shawn replied, making sure to put on his impressed face. “That’s crazy.”

“Right?” McCain seemed very smug about his proximity to the murder. “Listen, I’ve gotta get back to work.”

“Oh sure!” Shawn replied quickly. “Thanks for talking to me.”

McCain turned to give him one last look before he walked away. “You know what, Shawn? You’re actually alright.”

“Oh, thanks!” Shawn replied. “You… too?”

McCain smiled at him and left, and Shawn walked back out of the social club, shaking his head at the strangeness of that interaction. 

McCain didn’t seem like a bad guy, but being on the other end of his “friendliness” was just as strange as being on the end of his open hostility. 

Shawn was still thinking about it when he kickstarted his motorcycle and headed back into mid-day traffic. 

McCain could have been lying. 

But he said he had heard the screams. 

—--------

Shawn brought two huge reubens with him to the station– one for him, and one for Lassie. It had become an unspoken rule between them that, since Shawn arrived at work so much later than Lassie did, he would bring lunch. 

He wished he could tell Lassie what McCain had just said to him. 

But… he couldn’t. Shawn needed to keep investigating the social club until he had enough evidence to fuel a “psychic vision” that would prove McCain’s guilt. If he told Lassie now that he was investigating the social club on his own time, Lassie would just make him stop, and they would be back at square one. 

So Shawn didn’t say anything.

Working together felt strange, lately. It felt like there was always something unspoken on the tip of Shawn’s tongue, but still so far from actually being said. He felt a little closer to saying it during their phone calls.

It scared Shawn.

Not because he was scared to talk to Lassie, or scared to tell Lassie things. He felt… incredibly comfortable with Lassie, nowadays, to be honest. He was scared because he had no idea what, exactly, it was that he wanted to say.

—-----

As Shawn left the station around two, he paused at a stoplight. 

It was late. He should turn right, towards home. 

Instead, he turned left, towards the mountains. 

He rode up Route 154, and then turned onto Camino Cielo– an unlit, twisting road in the middle of the national forest. He took the turns up through the dark forest carefully, until he finally crested the mountainside, and stars spread out above him in an intricate tapestry. He guided his motorcycle a little further along the road, until he reached a gravel pull-off. The pull-off was hard to notice from the road, and it was a closely-kept local secret that was always empty of tourists. 

It was usually empty, period– just like it was right now.

At this high elevation, and this far away from the coast, Shawn was high above the ocean fog. He could see the clouds rolling in below him, down by the beach. But up here, the sky was clear. He could practically see the entire night sky. 

Shawn put down his bike’s kickstand, and gazed down at Santa Barbara below him. 

He’d been coming up here since he was a teenager, and he’d always thought that, if he wanted to ask someone out, this would be the perfect place to do it. He pulled off his helmet, and turned it over in his hands thoughtfully.

All of a sudden, he thought he knew what he wanted to say.

What he’d been wanting to say.

After another moment, Shawn clipped his helmet back on, and rode his bike back down to the city. 

Carlton was sitting in his living room, suit jacket and tie off, telling himself he was watching TV, but actually just staring at his cell phone. 

Shawn hadn’t called. 

Which was fine.

He should have lost interest in Carlton a long time ago, realistically, anyway. And Carlton needed to end this, anyway. He’d told himself that he was going to end it. It was just an uncomfortable hit to his pride that, it seemed, Shawn had been the one to end it instead. 

His phone rang. 

Carlton did not jump out of his seat to grab it when he saw from the caller ID that it was Shawn. He grabbed it normally. Unhurriedly. 

“Hey,” Shawn said softly. 

“Hey.” Carlton replied. 

“I was wondering….. can we leave the station a little early tomorrow night? There’s…. um… something I want to show you.”

“Okay. I guess. For the case?”

“No… um…. No.”

Carlton wrinkled his forehead in confusion. “Okay… sure. What—-”

He was cut off by his phone ringing with an incoming call. He checked his phone and groaned. “Sorry Shawn, O’Hara’s calling me–”

“Yeah, I’m getting a call from The Chief.”

“Okay…. I’ll talk to you later.” 

Carlton hung up just in time to catch O’Hara before his phone sent her to voicemail. 

He could hear wind whistling in the background behind her.

“Lassiter?” O’Hara sounded out of breath. “I’m in San Francisco, on the wharf. Our case just got another body.”

Chapter Text

Turkey and cheese. 

No…. Bologna and cheese. 

No…. Nachos. 

No…. Mini Pizza. 

Yeah.

Mini Pizza was definitely the most romantic type of Lunchable. 

Shawn grabbed two from the grocery store fridge and threw them in his basket. That was enough food for a late-night star-gazing picnic, right?

…. right?

Shawn had felt so sure of himself last night when he called Lassiter. But now, in the light of the morning, trying to plan what to say tonight, he was starting to feel a little ridiculous. 

How did you even ask someone to be in a relationship with you?

The last time Shawn had asked somebody out in even a slightly serious way was in high school. 

When he asked Abigail Lytar out, and then choked, and watched her from the bushes while she waited on the pier for an hour. And then… pretty much never talked to her again.

That did not bode well for this attempt.

Ughhhh. 

Shawn would give anything to just be able to jump into this headfirst, with little or no conversation, or planning, or emotional honesty. 

But…. he knew that wouldn’t go over well with Lassie. 

At all. 

If he really was serious about being with Lassie, and he was, he needed to act like it. 

At least knowing where he was going to ask Lassie out helped a little bit. Everyone liked stargazing and picnics, right?

—--------

On the way to the station, Shawn stopped by the social club, hoping that he could get some more information out of McCain. 

Lassie wasn’t going to be super happy with him for doing undercover investigating stuff. He might even be kind of pissed off about it. 

And, perhaps more importantly, once Shawn told Lassie about the unsanctioned investigation, he would have to stop. 

Shawn wanted to start their relationship off on the right foot, which meant drastically reducing the number of secrets he was currently keeping from the man, so he knew he had to tell him tonight. 

It would just be so convenient if McCain was at the social club, and happened to want to confess to at least one murder. Or at least drop something incriminating into casual conversation. 

Shawn didn’t expect Lassie to be that mad. Especially because he could leave out the part about the secret searching of offices and whatnot. 

A little unapproved undercover work certainly wasn’t the worst thing in the world. 

He would just… really rather have something to show for all of this when he told him. At least so he could rub it in Lassie’s face that his methods -totally did- work. Or, depending on how mad Lassie was, to use to help beg for forgiveness.

Honestly, he wasn’t even worried about it. 

He was worried about a different conversation. 

The conversation where Shawn would have to explain how and why he had joined the social club’s NA meetings. 

Where he would explain that, actually, he didn’t have a cousin who was an addict. 

That…. it was him. He was an addict. 

The conversation where he would explain… exactly how much of a fuck-up he was. 

That conversation…. worried him. 

It worried him a lot. 

He wouldn’t be surprised if it was a deal-breaker. 

And if it was, that would be completely fair, and there would be nothing he could do about it. 

So… he tried not to think about it. 

Instead, he thought about Lunchables, and remembering to grab a blanket for the picnic, and hoping that Thomas McCain would be hanging around and feeling extremely forthcoming today. 

—--------

When Shawn pulled up to the social club, he discovered an empty parking lot and an empty-looking building.

Huh. It was 9 am. They were always open by now.

Shawn parked his motorcycle and pulled out his phone to text Zander– glad that he’d gotten the man’s number the last time they ran into each other.

(Shawn 9:08 am) I’m at Le Petite Bonnet, where is everyone?

(Zander 9:08 am) What?

(Shawn 9:09 am) The place. U know, the social club

(Zander 9:10 am) Oh!!! It’s not called that haha. And we’re all heading back from being out of town– we’ll be back this afternoon

(Shawn 9:10 am) Oh cool, what are you guys up to?

(Zander 9:15 am)  Long story, lol

(Zander 9:15 am) ………………

(Zander 9:15 am) Hey shawn?

(Shawn 9:16 am) What’s up?

(Zander 9:17 am) Do u ever feel like ppl aren’t rly who they say they are? Like they say they have good reasons for doing things, but actually they don’t?

(Shawn 9:17 am) Yea sure, sometimes

(Zander 9:17 am) Me too

(Shawn 9:18 am)  Sucks when that happens :(

(Zander 9:18 am)  Yeah….

(Shawn 9:19 am) So….. where are u guys haha

At that question, the responses, which had been coming in very quickly, suddenly stopped. 

Shawn started up his bike and let it idle for a moment, before giving up and heading to the station.

So… everyone from Le Petite Bonnet had gone out of town together. And it seemed like Zander wasn’t going to tell him where. 

Not the conclusive evidence he was hoping to use to rub in Lassie’s face, or possibly to beg him to be less mad, but it was…. Interesting.

Also… what was going on with Zander? 

What could he have meant by talking about people who “say they have good reasons for doing things, but actually don’t”?

More and more, Shawn was feeling like there was more to this place than met the eye. 

By mid-morning, Carlton had been working in the station for hours. 

A huge amount of paperwork had come in overnight– faxed from San Francisco. The crime scene photographs were due to arrive later that day. 

There was another dead body. Killed in the exact same way. 

To add to the intrigue, the corpse had been killed a few days before it was found. Most likely killed on the same date as the John Doe that had been found in Santa Barbara, in the field. 

The body had been in the bay for a few days and had only just washed up on the wharf last night. The time the body had spent in the bay had certainly reduced the amount of usable evidence, but Carlton would work with what he had. 

This corpse was the second one that had been found in San Francisco.

Where Romulus lived. 

Where O’Hara was currently stationed. Investigating this case.

Thank God he’d called Romulus and asked for O’Hara to be kept safe. He didn’t like owing the man a favor, but whatever price he ended up having to pay, it would be worth it. 

Maybe he should go up to San Francisco– see if the chief would allow a fact-finding trip. Just to see O’Hara, and make sure for himself that she was okay. 

But there was so much work to do.

And….. he had a feeling that things were about to get even worse.

The circled date on his desk calendar kept catching his attention, though he tried to ignore it. 

In two days, it would be a full moon. 

Carlton still needed to acquire Anticotum Phosphate– the medicine derived from wolfsbane that allowed werewolves to, among other things, stay in control of themselves when they transformed on a full moon. 

He had been so afraid of Anticotum Phosphate just a few weeks ago, but he knew that during this full moon, he would need to be in control of his faculties. 

There was no telling what his kind might do. 

Or if Shawn would do something stupid like show up at his apartment while he was spending the full moon the way he usually did– barricaded in a room. He needed to ensure that he wouldn’t accidentally hurt the man.

And now, he was going to have to take time out of his workday to talk to Shawn about…. whatever it was that Shawn needed to talk about. 

Or “show him”, whatever that meant. 

This “thing” (not a relationship, he firmly reminded himself) with Shawn had been…. fun.

But…… he couldn’t afford the confusion. Not right now.

It was time to end it. 

He should have ended it earlier, but…… he hadn’t wanted to. 

Because… ending it would mean having a conversation where they admitted, out loud, that this whole time, everything had meant far more to him than it had Shawn. 

And some dumb, tiny part of him wanted to hold onto hope that Shawn was feeling these emotions, feeling this… connection too.

But… no. Shawn was, apparently, able to sleep with someone, cuddle up with them on a couch, make them breakfast (well… pour them a bowl of cereal), tell them about the first CD he ever bought and the time he almost accidentally burned down his high school, talk about failed marriages, and about hardest cases, and about how the series finale of Knightrider should have been written— and would have been if the writers had any sense; Shawn was able to do all of that with someone he was seeing… casually.

Carlton sighed and stared down into his cup of coffee. 

He needed to get over himself. 

Shawn wasn’t his. 

Had never been his. 

He needed to accept that. 

Maybe tonight would be a good time to end things between them. They would see each other in person. He wasn’t concerned about Shawn getting upset when Carlton ended things. He expected casual acceptance– he doubted that Shawn cared one way or another. 

No…. it was himself that he was worried about. 

Shawn ran into Lassiter as he was leaving the SBPD kitchen, right after he put the Lunchables away in the station fridge for safekeeping. 

Almost bumped directly into him, actually. 

“What are you doing back here, Spencer?” asked Lassie, with a notable amount of snark.

Shawn smiled. He kind of loved when Lassie pretended to hate him at work. “I could ask you the same thing, detective.”

Lassie rolled his eyes. “I’m getting a cup of coffee.”

“And…. getting one for me?” Shawn batted his eyelashes.

Lassie sighed, and lowered his voice, although they were alone in the kitchen. “Okay, fine. But you better be ready to seriously focus. A lot of information came in overnight.”

“Psh… I’m so serious…. and focused….” Shawn lowered his voice too. “Are we still on for later? If we have time, I mean?”

“Yeah,” Lassie replied, not quite meeting his eyes. “We’re still on for later.”

“Shawn, whatever this is, it better not take too much time away from us working on the case,” Carlton grumbled from the driver’s seat. 

His foot was steadily on the accelerator, and his eyes were fixed on the bit of dark road lit up by his headlights as he drove them up the side of the mountain. “Where are we anyway?”

“Camino Cielo. You’ve never been up here?”

“No.”

Carlton wouldn’t admit it, but he was a little intrigued by whatever this was. 

The whole thing felt… mysterious.

“I used to come up here all the time in high school,” Shawn said.

Carlton rolled his eyes. “Great. Are you going to tell me why we’re up here yet?”

“.... No. But, you see that gravel road on the right? Turn there.”

Carlton grumbled to himself about how his car better not get scratched from this, and turned onto the small gravel parking area. 

“Oh….. wow,” Carlton said quietly, as the night sky became visible through the windshield; the forest, the ocean, and the city of Santa Barbara down below it. 

“Pretty cool, right?” Shawn looked over at him with a smile that seemed, surprisingly, a little bit shy.

“Yes, actually. But why....”

Shawn shook his head. “Not yet. Come on.”

He hopped out of the car. 

Carlton followed. 

They were standing in a small gravel parking area. It was empty of anyone but them. 

The night air had a gentle breeze.

There were so many stars. 

And he was pretty sure that he could see the station from up here, set amongst all of the city’s twinkling lights. 

He’d lived in the city for over a decade, but he’d spent so much of that time in his home, at the station, and at various crime scenes. It was easy to forget how beautiful Santa Barbara really was. 

Shawn led him over to a huge, flat boulder at the edge of the parking lot. He pulled a blanket out of his bag and unfurled it on the rock. 

Carlton, now really confused about what was going on, shot Shawn a bemused look, but he climbed up on the boulder and sat down. 

He couldn’t help but stare up at the sky, and at the almost-full moon. 

“Two days until the full moon,” he said to himself. 

“I didn’t know that you cared about the moon, Lassie,” Shawn said, looking at him curiously. 

“I don’t,” Carlton replied, in a tone that was sharper than he meant for it to be. 

Shawn didn’t say anything back, and he winced internally. 

Why did he always have to come across like such a jerk?

“Here,” Shawn said, breaking the silence and pulling some plastic-y looking containers out of his backpack. “If you get hungry.”

“Oh, thanks,” Carlton said as he accepted it. It was a…. Lunchable. He’d heard of them before. “I’ve never had one of these.”

Shawn blurted out a quick reply that sounded a lot like: “I got the most romantic flavor”.

“..... What?”

“I said I got the best flavor.”

“Ah.”

They made their mini pizzas together, by the light of a lantern that Shawn had also, apparently, brought with him. 

As they talked, and laughed, and ate, Carlton let himself relax and forget about all the work that needed to be done.

After they ate (and packed up their trash– leave nothing but footprints and all that), they both lay back on the blanket, a few feet apart from each other, gazing up at the stars.

Shawn was so scruffy, and…. cute, and Carlton couldn’t help but smile each time Shawn looked at him. 

The star-gazing up here reminded him of the star-gazing out on Santa Rosa Island. He should see if Shawn had ever been camping out there. Carlton could take a long weekend and they could go together—--

Wait.

What was he doing? 

Daydreaming about planning vacations with Shawn?

God… he really had it bad. 

He sighed to himself. 

This was… officially too much for him.

The fun had to end sometime, and tonight was as good a night as any.

“Shawn….” Carlton said quietly, still looking up at the sky.

“What’s up?” Shawn asked, turning on his side to face him.

“I, um…” Carlton didn’t know what to do with his hands. “I think we need to talk about something.”

“Okay, sure, shoot.”

“These last few weeks have been…well…..” Carlton trailed off, eyes fixed on the stars. “But, wouldn’t it be best for both of us if we ended things here? I just… I don’t really do casual. And you don’t do serious.”

Shawn turned onto his back again, and said nothing for a long time.

Then, he sat up cross-legged on the blanket, and looked at Carlton earnestly.

“So…..” Shawn began. “I’ve had like… sixty jobs, right?” 

Carlton sat up too, indignant. “You’ve had how many jobs?” 

“Like… sixty. The exact number isn’t important.”

“Okay…. but Shawn, I’m trying to talk you about—-”

“Like…. 57 jobs.” Shawn interrupted. “58, now, I guess.” 

“Okay…..” Carlton said slowly. “That’s…. a lot of jobs.”

“Yes!” Shawn smiled at him. “Exactly my point. And I got bored of all of them. Didn’t make it six months at any of them.”

“....Okay. That’s unsurprising.”

“Until… well… until I started Psych. I’d never known that this was what I wanted to do, you know. But then it was like, once I started, I realized that I wasn’t going to get bored of Psych anytime soon. Maybe ever.”

“........Shawn, come on. You’re already hired as the lead consultant on this case. And this is a really inappropriate time to pitch Psych to me.” Carlton started to get huffy, “Just because we’ve slept together a few times, doesn’t mean that I’m going to vouch for hiring you—”

“Um….” 

Shawn put his hand down on top of Carlton’s. 

Carlton trailed off as he looked down at their hands together, confused. 

“...That’s not what I’m saying.”

Shawn gently turned Carlton’s hand over and intertwined their fingers together. 

He cleared his throat. “I’m saying that I’m not a serious, committed person. Or at least… I didn’t think I could be. But… you are a serious, committed person. I know that.”

Shawn pulled Carlton’s hand up, and clasped it gently in both of his.

“And…. sure, one option we have is to end things between us and go back to normal. But….. I have a question for you.”

Carlton just stared, forehead wrinkled in confusion. 

This couldn’t be going where it sounded like it was.

Shawn took a deep breath before continuing. “ And… um…. don’t answer just yet. Because there are some things I need to tell you... about me, and my past…. that might affect your answer to this question….”

Shawn actually looked nervous. He never looked nervous. 

“.....But, I’ve been thinking… about you… and me… and... a hypothetical ‘us’...” 

“What do you mean by ‘us’?” Carlton started to ask, but Shawn cut him off. 

“Shh!” Shawn said dramatically. “Just… let me finish. I’m almost done. Anyway,” he took another deep breath. “I like you. I thought that I had liked you for a long time, before these last couple of weeks. But you know, it turns out that I hadn’t even scratched the surface of how much it was possible for me to like you.”

He clasped Carlton’s hand tighter, and kept talking. 

“And…. I… um…. I’ve been thinking about… if you and I decided to be serious about this, I would probably be bad at it. Terrible at it. I don’t know if I would even have anything to offer in the serious relationship department. But, if you would let me, I think I would like to try?”

“...... Are you serious? Shawn, is this a joke?”

“Lassie—-Carlton, what would possibly be the punch line to that joke?”

“That I have more feelings for you than you have for me?”

“That’s a terrible punchline. Are you sure you know what a joke is?”

“Shawn…. please.”

“Okay, sorry— I am serious. Super serious. I even talked to Gus about this.”

“You told Guster we were sleeping together?”

“No! No no no. I told him I was sleeping with somebody. I made a whole cover story, don’t even worry about it…… Although, if we did seriously date, I…. would want to tell Gus. And Jules. And… my dad. Maybe. I don’t know, I haven’t really thought about that yet. Or, on second thought, I would probably tell my mom and swear her to secrecy. At least until Thanksgiving came around. If you wanted to come home for the holidays with me, that is. Sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself.”

Carlton stared at Shawn. 

Shawn just looked back at him, seeming completely open and genuine. 

Carlton’s voice wavered as he spoke. “You’re… really serious about this.”

“As serious as I am capable of being.”

“Why? No offense, but this is not like you. At all. Why pick me for this sudden change?”

“No—” Shawn shook his head. “You’re looking at this backward, Lassie.”

“Shawn….” Carlton grumbled. “If you’re serious about this…. you should really be calling me Carlton. Especially during serious conversations.”

“Okay. Sorry. Carlton. I didn’t decide I wanted to change all of a sudden, and then pick you. I’ve been lying awake, every night for the last few weeks, thinking about you. And thinking about you when I’m busy during the day. And not just thinking, having all of these…. emotions. And…. I can’t even tell you how quickly I usually get bored of people. Or start feeling smothered. But with you… I don’t know. All I know is that it’s completely different.”

It finally started to sink in.

This was real. 

Shawn, it seemed, was serious.

This hadn’t all meant much more to Carlton than it had him. 

He hadn’t been the only person reluctant to hang up the phone, or looking forward to seeing the other man all day.

He hadn’t been the only one who felt like this was turning into something real.

And Shawn– flighty, impulsive, commitment-phobic Shawn, wanted to try being in a serious relationship with him. 

With him.

Carlton leaned towards the other man. 

He went to put his arm around him, and realized that Shawn’s heart was pounding.

Carlton’s probably was too. 

He pulled Shawn into his lap— wanting only to be as close to the other man as possible. 

He wrapped his arms around Shawn and held him tight, peppering his cheeks with kisses, before taking Shawn’s face in both of his hands and kissing him deeply.

Had Shawn brought him up here just to ask him that? 

That was so… romantic.

“Um— Carlton?” Shawn said quietly, breaking away from the kiss. “My question…”

“Oh, right! I say yes. Obviously, yes.” Carlton replied quickly, and then leaned in to kiss him again. 

Shawn pulled back again and shot him a serious look. “Well, Lassie, before you answer…… I have baggage. There’s some stuff about my past that I need to tell you.”

“Shawn, whatever it is, it’s not going to matter to me.”

Carlton was a literal werewolf, and truthfully, it was going to be a while before he let Shawn in on that secret. 

And he already liked Shawn. Liked him so much. And that meant accepting whatever baggage Shawn had as just another part of him. 

Carlton just wanted to lean in to kiss him again, to find a polite way to tell Shawn that he didn’t care what Shawn’s baggage was (well, obviously he cared, just… not in a way that would change things between them), but he could tell from Shawn’s face that this was important. 

“......Okay, Shawn,” he said. “I’m listening.”

“Okay… so… baggage. Well, when I was younger—-”

*Ringgggg*

The harsh noise of Carlton’s cellphone broke the sense of stillness around them. 

Carlton sighed and pulled it out of his pocket. 

“It’s the Chief.”

Shawn nodded in understanding. 

“Hey, Chief,” Carlton said into the phone. “..... Okay. Tonight? Both of them? ….. Okay. I’ll be there ASAP.”

He hung up and sighed again. “I’m sorry Shawn, I know we have a lot more to talk about, but… we just got a break in the case.”

“What is it?” Shawn asked, and Carlton didn’t miss the glimmer of curiosity in the man’s eye.

“The body we found in the field a few days ago was identified.”

“Nice!”

“And… the body that was found on the wharf in San Francsico was identified as well.”

“Oh… cool! Both of them were identified today?”

“Both of them were identified ten minutes ago, thanks to DNA sampling. They’re brothers.”

“Huh. Weird.”

“Yeah. I need to get back to the station…. immediately.”

Shawn sighed too. “Duty calls, I guess.”

Carlton tensed involuntarily. “Is that a problem?” 

He knew that Shawn was as passionate an investigator as he was, but still, already, before they had even talked about anything, before anything had really begun, Carlton could see it all falling apart. 

He could see things ending the way they had with Victoria, and the way they had started to end with Lucinda too, before she was transferred. 

With Carlton apologizing for never being home, and when he was home, being ready to take off at almost any moment for the job. 

And when he wasn’t ready to take off, flipping through his case files obsessively, not even able to fully relax and watch an episode of TV without glancing at them. That had always driven Victoria insane. 

And Carlton had apologized for it, had apologized for all of it, but had never been able to change. Part of it was the job– its intense demands on him as Detective and then Head Detective. And part of it was Carlton– that was just who he was. Obsessed with his work. 

Shawn interrupted his train of thought with a kiss to the cheek. “Nope,” he said, smiling. “No problem. I’m sensing that this might require my psychic sensibilities?”

Carlton put his arm around Shawn and pulled him close again, trying to believe, trying to imagine that it was okay for him to do so. That Shawn was actually his. “Maybe. Can you focus, and respect the fact that we’re at work?”

Shawn nodded. “Yes. Totally. And…. you don’t have to answer my question just yet. We can talk more tomorrow.?”

“My answer is yes.” Carlton kissed him. “And, yes, we can talk more tomorrow.”

They kissed for another moment, appreciating each other and their surroundings and the cool night air, before they packed up the picnic supplies. 

As they got back into the car, Carlton heard Shawn whisper “now I can finally wash my pillowcases.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

There were quite a few other lookout areas, higher up the mountain. 

Some were official state park sites, some were just flat spots filled in with gravel, with rocks around the edge as a makeshift barrier. 

The one that Shawn always went to was, in his opinion, the best. You were able to see almost the whole city, and a huge area of beach, very easily. 

The other, higher-up lookouts were just as good for stargazing. 

An inferior choice for looking down at the city and shoreline. 

But where they really excelled was when you wanted to spy on the lookouts below. 

Orion, new name “Benjamin Ward”, watched a lookout below him via binoculars with great interest. 

He sat in his car, windows slightly cracked. 

With his superior hearing abilities, even more heightened than usual due to the…. “spa treatment”… he had received last night, he could easily hear everything around him. 

He could pick up voices– even whispers, and even from halfway down the mountain. 

He watched his old frenemy turned just “enemy”, and his investigative partner, that human, as they set up a picnic. 

He listened to their conversations, and their bickering, and their tiresome declarations of “feeling things” for each other. 

He had guessed that the two were close, but clearly they were very close.

Ugh. 

Sleeping with humans was one thing, but this was just…. ugh.

It was just like Carl to fall in with humans– if you can’t get along with your own kind, you might as well stick with whatever inferior beings will have you.

Although, he chuckled to himself as he watched their conversation, it didn’t even seem like the human liking him was a certainty.

It was ridiculous– Carl didn’t even ask that human to do his bidding. 

What was the point?

His eyes narrowed as he listened to their conversation about the two corpses being identified. 

He had told Carl to stay out of this case, but apparently the man just wouldn’t listen.

No matter. 

Everyone had a weakness, and it looked like he had just found Carl’s.

…….. Shawn. 

A fragile, easily breakable weakness if he’d ever seen one.

Chapter Text

Carlton woke up early. 

For once, it wasn’t so that he could head directly to the station and get started on his workday hours before he needed to. 

Instead, he cleaned his apartment top-to-bottom, again, although he knew that at this point his cleaning was getting a little ridiculous. 

He went by the store to get some bagels and cereal and a spare toothbrush, in case Shawn ended up deciding to come home with him after dinner tonight, and wanted to spend the night. 

Carlton was planning on asking him to spend the night, but he wasn’t sure if Shawn would feel like that was taking things too far, too soon. 

He hoped Shawn wouldn’t, because he was excited to show him all of this– especially the breakfast stuff. He knew how much that man loved food.

He’d even grabbed the candle he bought the other night and put it on the coffee table, and dug out a spare blanket to leave on the couch.

His apartment was almost… cozy, now that he’d added in all of these little things that he never would have added in just for himself 

The idea that, in less than 24 hours, he and Shawn Spencer might be here, cuddling up on the couch and then going to bed together, like a real couple, filled him with a happy energy that he wasn’t sure what to do with. 

It had been so long since someone had wanted him. 

He had been the one to pursue Victoria; and while Romulus had pursued him, it had been more about the fact that Carlton was an interesting new face in the pack than anything about who he was as a person.

But Shawn actually liked him for him.

He still couldn’t quite believe it.

He was smiling to himself all morning. And sure, once he arrived at the station, part of that smile was because of all the new information they’d gained through the identification of those two bodies, but that smile was about Shawn too. 

He couldn’t wait for their dinner tonight. 

As soon as he woke up, Shawn left his house and headed for the foggy beach, trying to ignore the anxiety that was slipping under his skin. 

Why did they have to get interrupted last night?

Now he had to work up the courage to tell Lassie about his past all over again. 

He wished that he didn’t even have to tell him. It was so much to drop on someone, so early into the relationship.

But he had to. It was important to start their relationship off honestly.

But Lassiter was a cop.

But he had just told Shawn a few weeks ago that he believed addiction was a disease– a much more sympathetic perspective than Shawn had expected.

But being sympathetic to people with addictions wasn’t the same as wanting to invite a recovering addict on a date, or into your bed, or home to meet the parents. 

Shawn bent down to grab a piece of seaglass, and saw the vague outline of his shadow in the water. 

“You were supposed to be a cop, Shawn.”

Suddenly, his father’s voice was booming in his ears, as he remembered one of the many, many arguments they’d had over the last few years. 

“But you had to go and steal that car, and then turn into an addict. Why do you want to be a criminal, Shawn? Do you enjoy throwing your life away?”

Shawn splashed the water in frustration, distorting the image of his shadow. 

Henry had never understood that Shawn didn’t want to be a cop– was never going to be a cop. He always acted like Shawn had stolen away his real son, and he was just the fuck-up that had decided to fill his son’s shoes instead. 

He didn’t understand that there was no other Shawn who was a cop, and who went fishing every weekend, and who never made his dad angry.

There was just him.

And Shawn was just…. Shawn. 

For better or worse.

He stuck the sea glass in his pocket and headed to the station.

—------------

At the station, time passed incredibly slowly. It felt like every hour only led to five minutes moving on the clock. 

They at least made a good dent in the new files they were adding to their case from San Francisco. 

Or… Lassie made a good dent in them. 

Shawn mostly spun around in circles in a desk chair. 

Eventually, the clock reached seven, Lassie gave him a look from across the conference table, and Shawn grinned and started grabbing his stuff.

—------------

Finally, Lassie drove them from the station to the restaurant Shawn had picked for dinner.

Shawn took deep breaths the whole drive, trying to remind himself that it didn’t matter how Lassie reacted when he learned about his past– what mattered was that Shawn was honest with him. 

They parked, and Lassie seemed to be doing about a million different things to get ready to get out of the car, while Shawn just wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and looked down at the floor.

Shawn had moved onto fiddling with his wallet nervously when he felt a hand gently on his chin. 

He turned his face, and suddenly his lips met Lassie’s as the other man leaned into kiss him softly. One of his hands held Shawn’s cheek, and the other moved up to curl into his hair. 

Shawn’s heart fluttered at the other man’s touch, and he reached both of his hands out to hold onto Lassie’s shoulders as he deepened the kiss. 

Shawn laughed a little as they both pulled back to take a breath. “What was that for?”

““I’m just….” —Lassie took Shawn’s hand in his own– “really glad that we’re doing this.”

“Me too.” Shawn smiled, and for a moment, the only thing that mattered to him was that he had at least a 1% chance of being able to date Lassie.

He could totally work with those odds. 

“So… are we going in, or did you want to just hold hands in the parking lot all night?” Shawn teased.

Lassie rolled his eyes in response, but it only drew attention to how not-annoyed the man actually looked. 

Not-annoyed looked good on him.

“Let’s go.”

Carlton looked around at the restaurant Shawn had chosen appreciatively. 

It was a steakhouse, down by the wharf, not overly fancy, with booths that were separate enough from each other to easily allow for private conversations. 

Carlton was still so surprised by these thoughtful gestures from Shawn– gestures that showed he did care. Like picking a restaurant where they wouldn’t be overheard while talking about what *this* was. 

They were on opposite sides of a curved booth, and he and Shawn kept catching each other’s eye and giving each other small smiles as they looked over their menus. 

“So….” Shawn said, breaking the silence after the waiter took their drinks order and left, “We… have a lot to talk about.”

“Yeah,” Carlton replied. “We do.”

Shawn smiled at him again, and then looked down and fiddled with his straw wrapper, and Carlton could feel the other man’s nerves radiating off of him. 

‘Nervous’ was not a look that Carlton had ever seen on Shawn before the last few weeks, and he was surprised by how often it had appeared on the man’s face lately. 

Although… it made sense, tonight. They were both far out of their depth. 

“I, um…. have two things to tell you.” Shawn began. “The first thing is....” Carlton was listening with rapt attention, but Shawn’s voice trailed off, and he cast a surprised look over Carlton’s shoulder. 

Carlton turned to see what Shawn was looking at, and his chest tightened in anger as he saw who was striding across the restaurant towards their table. 

Orion.

Or… “Ben”.

His eyes were directly on Shawn, and he was smirking as much as ever. 

Carlton turned back to glance at Shawn, and saw that Shawn was now pointedly not looking in Ben’s direction. 

But that first look of surprise proved it– somehow, they knew each other. 

Carlton turned back to stare Ben down.

Whatever he wanted… whatever was going on…. could be dealt with later.

Shawn had something he wanted to tell him. And it was clearly important. 

Ben approached their table, and before Carlton could open his mouth to tell him to get the fuck out of there, right now, Ben walked over to Shawn’s side of the booth and sat down right next to him. 

Shawn quickly shifted into the middle of the curved booth to make room, and though he was trying to look unaffected and unbothered as always, he was obviously uncomfortable. 

Now that Ben was so close, it was easy for Carlton to see that the man was glowing. Even more so than usual.

He seemed youthful, invigorated, and Carlton could almost swear that he looked a few years younger than he had the last time he had seen him. 

He looked….. “good” wasn’t the right word, not exactly, but he looked… something.

“Hi, Shawn,” Ben said with a wolfish grin. “Hi, Carl…… ton.” 

The long pause in the middle was clearly to let Carlton know that Ben might use his old nickname for him if he felt like it—- might bring up anything about their shared past if he wanted to. 

There were quite a few stories he could tell about Carlton without even coming close to revealing the secret of their kind’s existence. 

But that implicit threat wasn’t what bothered Carlton when the man spoke. 

When Ben opened his mouth, the tinny scent of human blood had hit Carlton in a wave.

The scent was so powerful that it almost left him feeling light-headed. 

Ugh. 

Had he just drunk human blood before he arrived here? A lot of blood?

This man was…. truly abhorrent to Carlton. 

In every way. 

“Ben,” Carlton began, a threat rumbling low in his voice. “You—-”

“So, Shawn,” Ben cut him off as if he hadn’t even spoken. “Is this the person you’re seeing? Detective Carlton Lassiter?”

“Yeah…” Shawn said slowly, glancing quickly between Carlton and Ben, and Carlton could practically see the gears turning as Shawn tried to figure out how they knew each other 

“Wow,” Ben replied. “He’s quite the catch. I’m sure he’s told you that we go back quite aways.”

“Um, yeah,” Shawn replied, looking at Carlton like he was trying to get a hint about how to handle this situation. “He… totally did… tell me that.” 

Carlton opened his mouth again to tell Ben off, but the waiter arrived to take their food orders, and Ben quickly and loudly told the man to bring him “The most expensive steak and wine on the menu, and some appetizers for the table.”

The waiter nodded and turned to Shawn, who didn’t order but instead made the waiter laugh with a joke about just eating the appetizers which Ben was apparently paying for.

The waiter then turned to Carlton, who must have looked almost as furious as he felt, because the waiter just paled and walked away without a word. 

They sat there in painful silence. Carlton gripped his fork in his hand like a weapon and gritted his teeth as he held in the urge to ask Ben just what the fuck he thought he was doing, coming here like this. 

And just how the fuck he and Shawn knew each other. 

The uncomfortable silence stretched on until Shawn suddenly cleared his throat. “I’m... going to the bathroom,” he said, tipping his head slightly at Carlton as he spoke. 

A few weeks ago, Carlton would have no idea what that small bit of body language meant, but now he guessed that it might mean that Shawn was going to the bathroom and not coming back, and that Carlton should leave too when he could.

Maybe. Or it could mean nothing. 

But the fact that he even had a guess, a good guess, showed just how close he and Shawn had grown over these last few weeks. 

And now, tonight, they were supposed to finally talk about it– and now Ben was here, fucking everything up.

Well, not for long. 

Carlton nodded at Shawn, and moved to step out of the booth so Shawn could slip past him. 

He continued to glare down at Ben, who just continued to smirk right back at him. 

Shawn gave another tiny motion of his head as he stepped past, this time at the door, and Carlton was sure that he had been right.

Shawn was going to ditch this place, Carlton would follow shortly afterwards, and they would continue this conversation somewhere else. 

Without Ben.

Good riddance to bad rubbish and all that. 

Carlton sat back down, fork still clenched tightly in his hand. 

Ben turned to watch Shawn leave, and Carlton, following the line of the man’s eyes, realized that he was checking out Shawn’s body as he walked away. 

Carlton clenched his teeth so hard that his jaw popped, and red clouded the edges of his vision as he began picturing breaking the oath that all werewolves had against harming one another by putting the fork he was gripping right through Ben’s eye for daring to look at him like that. 

Okay. 

Count to 10.

At least count to 2 or 3. 

He had to calm down. There was an important conversation he needed to have tonight.

And… these were some very possessive feelings to be having over a man he wasn’t even officially dating yet. 

1……. 2.

Good enough.

Time to get some answers, and then get out of here and reclaim this night. 

“Ben,” Carlton said in a clipped tone, after Shawn rounded the corner and disappeared out of sight. “What are you doing here?”

“What do you mean?” Ben asked in a faux-innocent voice, cocking his head to the side as if that was a ridiculous question. 

“What are you doing here? At this table?”

“Oh, well, I just saw two people that I know quite well sitting together, and I thought I might as well join.”

1……..2……..

Calm down, Carlton.

“How do you know Shawn?” he replied through gritted teeth.

“Oh… you don’t know?” Ben asked, sounding surprised. “He’s been coming by the social club, undercover, trying to investigate us, for weeks now. I really thought you knew.”

Carlton looked down to the side angrily. “No…. I didn’t.”

“Really?” Ben asked incredulously. “I really thought you had put him up to all of it. He’s quite the effective honeypot, it’s a shame I saw right through him.”

Carlton looked at him and then away, unable to speak. He heard the words Ben had said, but he couldn’t bring himself to believe them. 

But still, his stomach dropped, and a sickening sense of dread began to overcome him. 

The hours that Shawn had been busy the last few days. 

The…. “private case”. 

Shawn had been investigating the “private case” for hours almost every day lately. 

And that word… Honeypot. 

Ben couldn’t mean that in the way that spies used it. 

He couldn’t.

Ben picked at his nails, not saying a word but still somehow openly gloating. He stopped and splayed out his fingers, admiring his cuticles. 

He smiled again, a little pityingly this time, like it was incredible that Carlton had missed something so obvious. 

“He and I are sleeping together, Carl. I think he started it because he was hoping to get information out of me, but it’s been going on for quite a while now.” Ben sighed lazily. “Who knows, maybe he still thinks he’ll get information out of me.” 

“But,” Ben added with a smirk, “That certainly doesn’t seem to be the only thing he’s getting out of the relationship.” 

Carlton was falling again. He was sure of it. 

The floor was falling away from him, and he was dropping into a bottomless pit. 

Maybe he’d never even woken up from that nightmare he thought had ended days ago. 

Maybe this was all just a twisted way of his own psyche torturing himself. 

He pinched himself. 

This was real. 

But the sensation of falling didn’t stop. 

A million thoughts went through his head, but first and foremost was the thought that Ben was dangerous. And that as long as Shawn was around him, he wasn’t safe. Not even a little.

Carlton tried to keep his voice steady as he spoke. “Ben, I want you to stay away from him.”

“Oh, believe me,” Ben replied. “I’ve been trying, out of respect for you. But there are only so many times I can say no, and he’s quite persistent. He really didn’t tell you about this?”

Carlton flashed back to memories of Shawn –- Shawn kissing him relentlessly, pushing him down onto the couch, climbing on top of him, whispering “take me” in Carlton’s ear.

He screwed his eyes shut and forced the memories away before he spoke again.

“I don’t care how persistent he is. Stay away from him. Or--- I won’t hurt you, Ben-- I respect the code, but I swear to god I will make your life a living hell.”

Ben gave him a long, appraising look, before he suddenly burst out laughing. “Oh, I see. You’re” –he pointed an accusing finger at Carlton– “in love with— what’s his name… Shawn. The human. And it looks like he likes me more.”

“I’m not in love with him.” Carlton ground out, unable to meet Ben’s eye. “I just don’t want you around him.”

“Whatever you say.” Ben replied in an exaggerated tone that implied that he didn’t believe him at all. “But, I think you can guess what my price is for staying away from your little human… friend.”

Suddenly, he understood Ben’s reason for being here. He wasn’t content to just break Carlton’s heart, he had to twist the knife in as well. 

“The case.” Carlton replied coolly, hiding the fact that he was screaming on the inside. 

“That’s right.” Ben smirked. “Stop investigating the Ritz-Carlton murder case. Give it to someone else. Or keep it, and do everything I tell you regarding the investigation.”

Carlton didn’t even have to think about that deal. The investigation was important, and Ben forcing his hand like this was proof that he was close to finding out what was really going on, but he would have agreed to any price to keep Shawn safe. 

“Fine.” Carlton replied, as he thought about those hours and hours and hours of work going to waste, and the victims who would now likely never get justice. 

“Great!” Ben clapped his hands happily. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Carlton didn’t reply, but it didn’t seem to affect Ben’s mood as he stood up to leave. He smirked. “I’ll stay away from your little human, and as long as you stay off the case, I won’t hurt him. I was getting bored of him, anyway.” 

As he walked past the booth, he leaned in to speak into Carlton’s ear, and Carlton had to seriously resist the urge to slap him. Or stab him with the fork. Or injure him with whatever body part reached his face first, and then just hit him over and over. “Talk to you soon, Carl.”

Ben’s breath was hot on Carlton’s ear, and the smell of human blood was unbearable from this close.

Carlton just sat there, motionless, trying not to inhale, until Ben finally smirked again and left. 

Then he put his head in his hands.

Shawn was sleeping with other people. Had been sleeping with other people this whole time. And it just so happened that he was sleeping with one of Carlton’s worst enemies. 

Why hadn’t Shawn just told him?

Why didn’t he let Carlton decide for himself if he wanted to be one of Spencers apparently, many, sexual partners. 

Maybe that was what Shawn had been planning to tell him at dinner. 

It wasn’t ever going to be what Carlton had, stupidly, been expecting. 

What he had been imagining all day. 

They wouldn’t have talked and laughed about the last few weeks and all the small moments that had led to them getting closer. Shawn had just been going to tell Carlton, now that he well and truly had him on the hook, that there were several other bachelors and probably some bachelorettes on the line too. 

Carlton had been so stupid. 

Of course, Shawn didn’t want to be in a serious relationship with him. 

Who would?

Shawn peeked around his shoulder as he rounded the corner into the hallway that held the bathrooms.

Good, Ben couldn’t see him.

In a few moments, Shawn was through the bathroom door, shimmying through the bathroom window, and then landing easily on his feet on the grass outside the bathroom.

Nice.

He turned the interaction he’d just had over in his head as he headed towards Lassie’s car.

The interruption to him and Lassie’s dinner, while very unwelcome, was also very intrguing.

How did Lassie know Ben? 

Ben, who had only lived here for a few weeks, but was solidly in the running for “weirdest guy in Santa Barbara”?

They “went way back”? Shawn couldn’t imagine Lassie going way back with, well, anyone.

But this could be good for Shawn. Great, even. Lassie had an in with this guy! That could be a major boon to their secret investigation.

Of course, first he had to convince Lassie to help him with the secret investigation. And before that, he would have to convince Lassie to let the unsanctioned investigation continue. And before that, he…. was probably going to have to listen to Lassie yell for a while.

But…. Shawn thought, as he leaned against Lassie’s car, all of that could wait for tomorrow.

Tonight was about them.

Well, okay, talking about the case could at least wait until later tonight.

Carlton threw down some money on the table for Ben’s bill because, of course, that jerk hadn’t left anything, and stormed out of the restaurant.

He headed towards his car, almost hoping that Shawn (No, not Shawn, Spencer.) wouldn’t be there, so Carlton wouldn’t have to face him right now.

Carlton had never been this angry in his life.

At Ben, for tormenting him and being so willing to hurt humans that he would threaten Shaw–Spencer without a second thought. For, he was certain now, playing a part in the murders he’d been trying so hard to solve.

And yes, angry at Spencer for costing them the case without knowing. And playing with Carlton’s heart like that, knowingly. Like his feelings didn’t matter. Like he was nothing.

But of course, Spencer was waiting at his car and called out as soon as he saw him. “Hey! So….”

Carlton stopped a good distance away from the man, and held up his hand. “Don’t. Just…. Don’t. Spencer, what the hell were you thinking?”

“Woah,” Spencer replied, stepping back. “you’re so mad at me that we’re back to a last-name basis? All I did was climb out the bathroom window!”

“No,” Carlton gritted his teeth. “I mean what the hell were you thinking, investigating La Boîte de Nuit without telling me?”

“Oh…..” Spencer shrugged at him, looking confused. “I know that it’s not procedure, but I didn’t think it was that big of a deal, I mean…. you know how Psych does things.” 

Had Spencer slept with people involved with every case he’d solved? Had all those crime scene flirtations been about not just getting dates, but information?

Carlton seethed at the thought. Unprofessional didn’t even begin to cover it.

He glared at the man. “Yeah. I know how you do things. Do you even care that you’re risking your life? And do you care that everything you’re doing could completely compromise the sanctity of this investigation? If it came out in court….” 

“But it’s not going to come out in court.” Spencer replied, sounding frustrated, like he had any right to be frustrated right now.

“It could,” Carlton said harshly. “and… that’s not what I care about. What I care about is you putting yourself in a huge amount of danger, for no reason, by… fraternizing with the suspects. 

“And…” Carlton’s voice got quiet. “You could have told me.” 

“I was going to tell you,” Spencer replied, exasperated. “Tonight. And it’s not like you tell me everything– I know that you have secrets.” 

Carlton stared at Spencer, dumbfounded. “Secrets? Like I don’t have a right to know about you doing this?” 

Spencer leaned back against the car doors, looking worried, while Carlton paced in circles around the car.

Carlton finally stopped pacing on the opposite side of the car from Spencer, and leaned back against those doors. They were both facing away from each other, the car in between them.

He was glad Spencer couldn’t see his face right now. 

He tried to keep his voice steady as he spoke. “I… don’t have a right to know. You’re right. I don’t own you, Spencer, you’re not beholden to me. I want you to do whatever makes you happy, I want you to be happy. But there’s only so much I can give you. And I can’t keep doing… this.”

“Just like that?” Spencer asked bitterly. “Before I even get a chance to show you what this could be?”

“Just like that.”

“And you’re really going back to calling me Spencer?”

“Yep.”

“Fine.”

A long silence passed between them. 

“Spencer, if you want me to have you removed from the case…..”

“No. I’ll see you at the station tomorrow. 12 pm sharp.” Spencer’s voice was strained.

“Do you… need a ride home?”

“No. Goodnight, Lassie.”

Carlton felt Spencer turn behind him to look his way. 

Eventually, he relented and turned too. 

They stared at each other from across the metal expanse of car, and Carlton felt like they might as well have been a million miles away from each other.

Spencer looked serious. More serious than Carlton had ever seen him. 

He looked like he was analyzing every bit of information on Carlton’s face. 

Finally, Spencer nodded.

“I’m sorry for hurting you,” Spencer said, and turned and walked off into the night. 

Carlton drove back to his apartment building, feeling more empty inside with each turn. 

Once he got back, he stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked up at his building. He’d been so excited about the possibility of Spencer coming over tonight, and now, he couldn’t bear to go home without Spencer there. 

So he just started walking through his neighborhood. 

The fog around him obscured most of the buildings and sky, and settled onto the shoulders of Carlton’s suit jacket as tiny, cold water droplets. 

He relished the feeling, as well as the chill in the air. 

He thought back to the past few weeks. Everything had happened so quickly– him and Spencer becoming… close… to one another.

It had felt so… emotional. So real. 

It had felt like the beginning of a relationship.

It was only now, knowing that Shaw—Spencer had been seeing other people the whole time, and had kept these huge, massive secrets from him, that Carlton realized he had been wrong. 

It hadn’t been the start of a relationship at all. 

At least, not any kind of relationship that Carlton could handle being in. 

Carlton, caught up in his thoughts and not looking where he was going, stepped off of the sidewalk directly into a puddle. 

He stumbled slightly as cold water began to seep into his shoe, and that– for some reason, out of all of the things that had happened tonight, was the straw that broke the camel’s back. 

He pulled his foot out of the water, cursing, and if he was a more sensitive man he might have cried, as all of the feelings he’d been holding back snuck up on him. 

He thought about himself, and Spencer, and everything he’d stupidly hoped they could be, and felt part of his heart break.

Oh.

Oh no.

Ben was right.

Carlton had, without even realizing it, fallen in love. 

Fallen in love with a cocky, self-obsessed, lying, intelligent, funny, wonderful man. 

But Carlton could never be with him. Not after this. 

He had meant it when he said that he just wanted Sh-Spencer to be happy. If Spencer wanted to be dating around, even sleeping around, then he should.

Carlton would be happy for him. But, no matter how much he was drawn to Spencer, physically and emotionally, no matter how much he wanted, suddenly, to be the kind of person who was okay with that, Carlton wasn’t. 

He was a one-and-only kind of person, always had been. 

A long, long, long, time ago, before he had spent years playing servant to Romulus and husband-from-a-respectable-distance-away to Victoria, he had been searching for the love of his life. 

And now, his stupid, idiot, traitorous heart had decided to love Shawn Spencer.

The literal bane of his existence. Now more than ever.

And he hadn’t even been able to fully hold Spencer’s attention for a few days.

But, it was fine. He would deal with it. 

He would just try to stay emotionally detached, and do everything in his power to keep Spencer safe. 

Why hadn’t Spencer just told him that it wasn’t that serious to him-- that he didn’t want to be exclusive?

Just told him where he really was, what he was really doing during those hours he had said he was working a “private case.”

Carlton thought that Spencer would understand. He had told him about Victoria, after all. About how long she had cheated on him for. 

Not that Spencer had been cheating. They had never said they were anything… obviously never had been anything.

It was just….. why Spencer would ever think it was “no big deal” that he was sleeping with Ben…. Carlton would never understand. 

And now he was getting hurt again, in a way that ripped the scab right off of his old wounds and left his heart bleeding.

But…. This was just the way things were.

This was why “love” was pointless.

No matter how strongly Carlton felt about someone, there was always going to be someone better than him for them to choose instead.

Chapter Text

Orion… or “Ben” as he was known to most people nowadays, relaxed into his chaise lounge lazily, swirling a cocktail glass filled with a deep red liquid and smiling to himself about the success of his plan last night. 

The look on Carl’s face had been delicious. 

One little lie was all it had taken for the man to start to crumble. Ben only regretted that he hadn’t been able to cause him to truly break.

“Zander!” he called out vaguely, snapping his fingers. 

His young human servant hurried over to him from another room. “Yes, boss, sorry. What is it?”

“Bring me my phone,” Ben replied smugly, pointing at his cellphone not ten feet away on the bar. 

He could have grabbed it himself, but he’d been alive a long time, and he felt that he’d earned the privilege of not having to do menial tasks. At least, not while there was a human nearby who he could make do them for him. 

Phone acquired, he hit number one on his speed dial, reaching a number in San Francisco. 

“Hello, Romulus,” Ben said, slipping easily into a deferential tone. “The.. ah.. Carl problem has been dealt with. He has a little human down here in Santa Barbara that he just couldn’t bear to see anything happen to, and it only took a tiny bit of convincing for him to agree to stop looking into the murders.”

A deep voice on the other end of the line gave a thoughtful hum. “.... Good. With that, and the human I’ve agreed to keep safe for him in San Francisco, we should have more than enough to keep him in our pocket.”

“What?” Ben asked sharply into the phone. He winced at the tone of his own voice, and then quickly backpedaled. “I mean—- Romulus. You, ah, didn’t tell me that there was another human.”

“Do I need to tell you everything, Orion?” the other man asked, voice just as sharp as Ben’s had been a moment ago. 

“No!” Ben replied quickly. “No, of course not, sir. I am merely… interested in knowing all of the facts, to ensure that our plan runs smoothly.”

Romulus sighed. “Yes, there is another human. A woman.”

“So…” the wheels in Ben’s head turned with this new information. “There are two humans that Carl would do almost anything to keep safe.”

“Yes,” Romulus replied irritably. “Is there anything else that you called me about?”

“No… sir.” Ben replied. “Nothing else at all.”

He hung up the phone and placed it on the lounge next to him. 

He took a long sip of his ruby-colored cocktail, staring off into space thoughtfully.

Two humans that Carl cared about. 

Two pieces of collateral. 

Really, when you thought about it, one more piece than necessary. 

He’d always hated Carl, and it was frustrating that the man wasn’t treating him with the respect his new station deserved. 

Lying to Carl and convincing him that his little human friend was sleeping with Ben hadn’t been quite as satisfying as he had hoped. Carl had been hurt, but he was a proud man and it seemed that it would take more than that to shatter him.

But if one of Carl’s pieces of collateral was… destroyed, it would show Carl how much Ben was to be feared. 

Carl would probably do anything at all to keep the remaining one safe. 

And that would show Romulus that Ben had this situation under control and that he could be trusted to handle complex situations. 

Plus, the full moon was tonight, and Ben was itching to go out and have a bit of fun. 

And if that fun ended with Carl broken-hearted, under their control, and without one of the only things in this world that he cared about? So much the better. 

“Zander!” Ben called again, and the man rushed from across the room to his side. 

“Yes?”

“That, um, human. Carl’s human. What’s his name?”

“.... Do you mean Shawn?”

“Yes. Shawn. He trusts you, right?”

Zander rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. “I… don’t know if I would say that, boss.”

“Call him. Ask him to meet you here, for drinks, tonight.”

Zander paled, and his eyes widened. “Tonight? But… it’s going to be the full moon.”

“Exactly,” Ben smirked and took another sip of his cocktail, savoring it. 

“But… boss,” Zander said imploringly, “You said that as long as the detective did what you asked, Shawn would be safe.”

“I did say that,” Ben replied, tired of this conversation. “When I thought Shawn would be useful to us while alive. But, it turns out that he may be more useful to us dead.”

Zander just stood and stared at him. 

“What are you waiting for?” Ben asked impatiently. “Call him.”

Zander looked white as a sheet and was shaking a little, but he shook his head. “No.”

Ben narrowed his eyebrows. People didn’t say no to him. Humans, especially, didn’t say no to him. 

“Fine,” he replied, voice cold as ice. “Give me your phone, I’ll call him myself. And get out of my sight– I’ll deal with you later.”

To his surprise, Zander kept eye contact with him and looked at him angrily for a long moment, before tossing him his phone and leaving the room. 

Ugh. 

Humans.

So emotional.

Shawn woke up to the sound of passerby chattering outside of his apartment. 

That was weird, there was normally never much foot traffic near his place.

His bed felt weird, and he didn’t seem to have a blanket or pillow, and his cheek was squished onto a slightly-scratchy fabric. 

He opened his eyes and looked around blearily—- oh. right.

He was at the Psych office. 

He’d had no way to get home last night, and he hadn’t felt like dealing with calling a cab, so, he’d just spent hours walking along the beach, and then crashed here, on the couch in the psych office, in his boxers. Shawn turned on his back on the couch, and allowed himself five whole minutes of staring up at the ceiling self-pityingly before he stood up and got dressed in yesterday’s clothes. 

He needed to go home, get some coffee, and get to the station– hopefully in that order, but at this point, he wouldn’t really complain either way. 

But his bike was at his apartment, Gus was in Montreal, Jules was in San Francisco and he obviously wasn’t going to ask Lassie to pick him up.

Maybe he could ask…… Henry?

Although things had gone really badly last time they’d talked, and Henry wasn’t going to be particularly happy about Shawn calling him up just to ask a favor. 

Shawn checked his phone and… oh. There was a voicemail from Henry.

“Hey, Shawn, it’s around 6 am. Maybe you’re still sleeping. Or maybe you’re out “partying”, for all I know. I’m calling to see when you’re coming over to finish cleaning the workshop. Your mom’s coming to town soon, and I need it done before then. I know you can’t ever stick to anything you start, but you left things a real mess. So, call me to let me know when you’re coming over.”

Jesus.

A taxi it was, then.

—----

Shawn held his breath as he walked into the police station, one change of clothes, egg sandwich, and large caramel latte later. 

But, surprisingly, Lassie wasn’t at his desk. Or in the SBPD kitchen. Or in the evidence room. 

Shawn was wandering around a little aimlessly when McNab walked past him and greeted him with a nod and a smile. 

“Hey, Buzz!” Shawn called out. “You- um… you seen Lassie anywhere?”

“Oh… yeah,” McNab replied. “I think he went to a doctor’s appointment or something?”

“Oh, cool. Cool. So I’ll just–” Shawn pointed towards the conference room, and then headed in there by himself. 

The door clicked loudly behind him as he walked in, emphasizing how empty and quiet the space was.

He’d never spent more than a few moments in this room without Lassie, and it felt strange, standing there alone, with the whiteboard and all of their case files in various piles, and Shawn’s notebook covered in doodles.

It was like you’d gone to watch your favorite movie, and realized that somehow, it was now just a photograph. 

But like, he felt fine, though. 

Totally fine. 

Carlton had waited until the last possible second to deal with this. 

The full moon was tonight, only hours away at this point, and he was just now, finally, going to get a prescription for that stupid Anticotum Phosphate medicine. 

The compound derived from wolfsbane that allowed werewolves to control their transformations in various ways, yada yada yada, whatever. 

At least it was a distraction from thinking about last night, and thinking about… Shawn.

He pulled up outside of Santa Barbara’s main hospital, a large, new, impressive building that hosted the very best equipment for cutting-edge medical care. 

He looked down at the business card he had been given and frowned, but —no— this was the correct address. 

He’d expected something a little…. seedier than this.

He walked up to the front desk, taking in the huge lobby— all glass and sunlight. 

“I’m here to see Doctor Hamilton,” Carlton said, rapping his knuckles on the desk impatiently.

The man at the front desk frowned. “Are you sure? I don’t believe he has any patient appointments scheduled for today–”

Carlton just sighed and flashed his badge. 

“Right.” The man said quickly. “Just take the elevator up to the third floor, his office is all the way down on the left, can’t miss it. And if there’s anything else I can help you with, officer–”

“--Detective.”

“---detective, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

Carlton nodded and continued his journey, finally reaching the third floor of the hospital, and the last door on the left. 

The nameplate read:

“Doctor Hamilton

Cardiothoracic Surgeon” 

Surgeon?

Even once he was in the hospital, Carlton had been having a hard time shaking his expectation that “Doctor Hamilton” would turn out to be some med-school dropout, selling the medicine out of the back of his van that he also lived in. 

Carlton knocked on the door. 

“Come in!” a smooth voice called from inside the office. 

Carlton opened the door and stepped into yet another brightly lit, airy room. It was minimalistic, sleek, modern– a little sterile, but nice. A bald man in a lab coat and horn-rimmed glasses sat behind the desk– elbows pressing onto the wooden desktop, and fingers threaded together just under his chin. 

He simply raised his eyebrows as Carlton entered.

Both he and Carlton were able to tell immediately— they were kinfolk— both werewolves. 

“Doctor,” Carlton said with a nod. 

“Detective.” The doctor replied. “I was told you were coming up to see me with some… questions?”

“Not exactly,” Carlton admitted. “I need…”

“Antictoum Phosphate?”

“Yes.”

“And you flashed your badge to get up here?” The doctor smirked. “Oh my.”

Carlton bristled. “I’m a detective, I don’t have time to wait in line for appointments.”

Doctor Hamilton nodded slowly, before pulling out a key, and opening a desk drawer. He brought out a small, amber-colored bottle, and held it in his hand. 

“And, I’m assuming that… today, in particular, you really don’t have time to wait.”

Carlton hesitated before nodding. 

“Bit last minute, don’t you think?” The doctor asked. “It’s only hours before the full moon.”

“Seems like it worked out alright.”

The doctor finally broke into a smile and nodded again, placing the bottle on his desk. He brought out some papers from the drawer, and began looking over them.

“Any allergies to medicine?”

“Nope.”

“Have you come into contact with wolfsbane before?”

“No.”

“Are you currently taking any human-created medications?”

“No, I’m not.”

The doctor wrote down his answers, and stored the papers back in his desk. “Well, this all seems to be in order, but I’m going to give you my card with my personal cell number in case you have an adverse reaction– it’s been known to happen rarely. Each prescription should last several months if you only use it on the full moon, or one month if you take it every day. Do you have the $100?”

Carlton definitely had not been told that he needed to bring $100, but he sighed and counted the cash in his wallet– he had just enough. 

The doctor took it but still didn’t hand over the Anticotum Phosphate. “Well, detective,” he said. “Would you like a tour of the hospital while we go over how it works?”

Carlton really wasn’t interested in a tour, but the man hadn’t given him the medicine and he couldn’t just leave, so he sighed. “Fine.”

“Great!” Doctor Hamilton brightened. “Follow me.”

He led Carlton through the hospital as he explained the medicine. Most of the information was things that Carlton already knew.

Like that Anticotum Phosphate could allow you to stop transforming completely if you took it every single day. And that it allowed you to retain much more of your human self when you did transform, even on the full moon, when animal instinct usually completely took over. 

But one piece of information did catch his attention. 

“You can stop your full moon transformation after only one dose of the medicine,” Doctor Hamilton said as they walked past a surgery ward. 

“What?” Carlton asked, unsure if he’d heard the man right. 

“Temporarily.” The doctor clarified. “It’s more like— holding it back than truly stopping it. And it’s quite painful. But… it can be done. For a short while.”

He handed over the medicine as he spoke.

Carlton looked down at the little brown bottle curiously. “Huh.”

They walked past a glass-walled room, with lots of high-tech equipment inside, including several high-tech-looking gurneys. Everything in the room was sleek, and chrome, and covered in little dials and blinking lights.

Carlton, although he was ready to leave, still stopped curiously at the sight of the room. It looked like something out of a sci-fi movie. 

“Impressive, no?” Doctor Hamilton asked. 

Carlton nodded. “What is it?”

“It’s where we keep the equipment for our mobile surgical unit. A unit I head. It’s one of the only ones like it in the United States.”

“Wow,” Carlton replied. “You must save a lot of lives.”

“Quite a few, yes.” The doctor replied. “It’s why I went into medicine, you know, the satisfaction that comes from saving lives. I, and from your position as a detective I assume you must feel the same, believe that it’s my duty to protect humans.”

Carlton nodded, surprised to hear another werewolf express views similar to his. 

“The earth mother made everything and everyone for a reason, you know,” The doctor went on. “I like to think of myself as a gardener, or a shepherd, tending to the flock.” 

He smiled as he spoke, and Carlton noted that the man’s teeth were slightly sharp.

The man’s smile was exceptionally wolf-like.

Carlton’s forehead wrinkled at the mention of his ex-wife’s religion. When had it become so widespread among his kind?

“Where—”

The doctor’s pager beeped, and he sighed. “We’ll have to cut the tour short here, I’m afraid. Nice to meet you, detective.”

“Yes….” Carlton replied slowly, still feeling a little surprised by what the doctor had just said. “Nice to meet you, too.”

Shawn waited for a few hours, but Lassie didn’t show up to the station, at all. 

Maybe….. maybe it was better that way.

Now they would have another whole day before they had to figure out what to say to each other– how to act. How do you treat your almost-kind-of ex-boyfriend? 

Shawn had no idea. 

He sighed to himself as he got on his bike— taking his time double checking that he had all of his stuff, and keeping an eye out in case Lassie’s car pulled into the parking lot. 

He was about to give up and head home– resigning himself to a night alone with a burrito and whatever was on TV, when his phone rang. 

Zander was calling him. 

Nice! 

Zander had weird friends, and one of them might be a murderer, but he was honestly a pretty cool guy.

He answered, and was surprised to hear Ben’s voice instead.

“Shawn!” Ben greeted him. “Zander and I were wondering if you would come join us at La Boite de Nuit for drinks tonight, we’re having a little get-together.”

An opportunity to hang out with Zander, who Shawn had started to consider a friend; an opportunity to figure out how Ben and Lassie knew each other (which, it seemed from last night, they did); and an opportunity to get drunk and forget all about Lassie unceremoniously dumping him halfway through their first date?

How could he turn that down?

“Sounds great,” Shawn replied with a grin. “I’m in.”

Carlton sat in his bedroom and stared out the window, watching the sun set. 

Every full moon, since he’d stopped being human, had been somewhat terrifying. 

He’d always barricaded himself in a room, hoping that the locks he set up were enough to keep himself contained. Hoping that the night would pass without incident, and the blurry memories he would have the next morning would just be of a night spent restlessly pacing around a room, rather than something more bloody. 

He’d always dreaded watching the moon slowly rise across the sky, feeling his conscious mind slowly recede as he became almost a slave to his animal instincts. 

Tonight wasn’t like that, at all. 

He’d taken a dropper-full of the Anticotum Phosphate as soon as he got home. It had tasted at once lightly floral and horribly bitter, and had left his mouth tingling slightly. 

He’d barricaded his bedroom door, just in case, and sat down on his bed to watch the moon slowly rise, the way he always did.

But as the last light from the sunset faded on the horizon, and the moon, huge and white and beautiful, started to rise across the sky, he didn’t feel his control start to slip. 

He didn’t feel his thoughts start to become more simple– more visual than word-based. He didn’t feel his memory become more short-term. 

He didn’t feel most of the parts of his personality get buried away, and he didn’t feel an irrational fear that they would never come back.

He just felt the call of the wild.

Hair grew thickly all over his body, and his face pushed forward into a snout. Long fangs and claws ripped through his flesh where his human teeth and fingernails had been. Popping noises sounded from the joints all over his body and his bones twisted and bent and stretched. His muscle mass increased. 

Finally, he found himself a full foot higher, chest twice as broad, strength and energy coursing through his veins. It felt like he was being fueled by the moon itself. 

But he still felt like himself. Like Carlton Lassiter. 

He turned to look in the mirror, a little mezmorized by his own physique. 

His full moon transformation was always the most dramatic, and he had never been sentient enough to take in how he really looked before. He flexed his claws, staring into his own blazing yellow eyes. 

Okay…. yeah. 

This could work.

He remembered, suddenly, what the doctor had told him– about being able to temporarily stop your transformation thanks to the medicine. 

Experimentally, Carlton closed his eyes, and tried to shift back to human form, the way he was able to any night other than the full moon. 

He tried to let his claws recede again, but it felt like someone was driving nails into the ends of his fingertips. 

He swore and clutched at his hands as his claws grew through again. 

Then he took another deep breath and tried again. He willed his body to shrink back down to his normal human size, and every part of him started to burn with unbearable pain– inside and outside. 

It felt…. It felt like he was on fire. 

Finally, taking in deep, choking breaths, he looked in the mirror again. He looked normal, aside from his eyes remaining yellow. 

It truly did feel like he was holding back his transformation– like his wolf form was trying to burst through his body. His muscles ached with the effort, his skin burned, and his bones felt like he was a nine-year old having growing pains, again, but all over– even his skull. 

He closed his eyes, and tried to maintain the immense effort it apparently required to hold back his transformation, but the pain only increased with every second, but it quickly became unbearable and he fell to the ground, breathing raggedly as he transformed back.

He looked at the clock on his bedside table. 

Three minutes. All of that, and it had only been three minutes. 

The doctor had been kidding when he said it was “quite painful”.

Carlton sighed, padded onto his bed, and curled up in the middle of it, looking at the full moon as it hung heavy in the sky. 

Maybe in an hour or two he would slip out of his apartment, go patrol around the edges of the city and try to make sure that his kind weren’t up to anything horrible. 

But for now, he would wait. 

This night was so weird, Shawn thought to himself as he stumbled down a poorly-lit back road near the french social club place. 

Full moon nights always seemed to have a weird energy, but tonight was especially so. 

It had been pretty chill, at first, drinking and hanging out at the bar. 

Even though Ben had said that Shawn was coming to meet him and Zander, and Zander had never actually shown up. 

It had been kind of fun. It had at least been distracting. Shawn’s drinks had been free, which was always nice. 

But then…… Thomas McCain, who was there for some reason, had handed him a drink that tasted really weird, and said “I’m sorry, Shawn. I gotta earn my transformation somehow.”

Which, what a weird thing to say!

That wasn’t what you were supposed to say at all when gave someone a drink. You were supposed to say “you’re welcome” or something. 

Shawn looked at the street sign blearily when he reached the corner. The letters all blurred together, but Shawn was pretty sure that that sign wasn’t supposed to say “RKLJHDH STREET”

Damn.

Where was he?

Shawn couldn’t even remember leaving the club.

He pulled out his phone, and realized he had a voicemail from Zander. 

Oh, nice. Maybe Zander was back at the bar, and maybe he could come pick Shawn up from whatever street this was. 

Shawn hit play, and the man’s voice came through the phone, sounding whispered and urgent. 

“Hey, Shawn, listen. Whatever you do, don’t come to La Boite de Nuit tonight. Please, whatever you do. Just trust me, man. please. I— I gotta go.”

Hmmmm.

So Zander probably wasn’t back at the bar, and probably couldn’t pick Shawn up. 

Damn.

Shawn clicked some buttons and then stared at his contacts list, moving the phone closer to and farther away from his face until he was sure that he was focused on Lassie’s name. 

The phone started to ring, and Shawn kept walking– he could see a more brightly lit street up ahead. 

Maybe it would be one he recognized. 

As Shawn walked and started to think about how Zander’s voicemail had been kind of weird, actually, he heard a noise somewhere behind him. 

A wolf howling. 

Or… three wolves. 

Huh. 

Hadn’t wolves been missing from California for like a century or something?

But there they were, howling. 

Didn’t that signal that it was the start of a hunt?

Chapter Text

“Shawn? Shawn?” Carlton yelled into the now-dead phone line, coughing as his vocal chords stretched and then stretched back, his panicked voice coming out more like a roar. 

But Shawn had hung up on him. 

And he was out in the city by himself, by La Boite de Nuit, somewhere.

And it was the full moon. 

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck. 

Pain seared along Carlton’s body, and he dropped his phone as he transformed into wolf-form once more.

He took one moment to breath raggedly as yet another painful transformation ended. Then he awkwardly used his massive, clawed hands to shove his cellphone into the bundle of clothes that he’d prepared several hours ago. 

Comfortably in wolf-form again, he gently closed his jaws around the bundle, and then padded swiftly over to the little balcony off of his living room and prepared to jump. The fall would be from two stories up, but with the full moon and his speed-healing, he should be able to handle it. 

He jumped up on the railing, and then down to the dark parking lot two stories below— rolling slightly to minimize the shooting pain that went up his ankles. Then he was off, sprinting through the shadows on all fours, quickly speeding up to forty miles-per-hour as he raced towards the edge of the city. 

Please be okay, Shawn.

Please.

Shawn stumbled down the road, looking up at the streetlights above him and the stores lining either side of the road. 

He didn’t recognize any of them. 

He’d hung up on Lassie as soon as he reached the main road, because like, he could totally handle it from here. 

But now that he was here, on this surprisingly confusing main road, he was starting to feel a little less confident in himself. 

And a little more lightheaded. He stopped to press his hand against a building, leaning on it heavily as he took in some deep breaths. He heard some noises nearby, that sounded like someone moving, but when he looked up, no one was there. Why did that keep happening?

He dropped his head back down as another wave of dizziness overtook him. 

Ughhhh.

This was not turning out to be a fun night after all. It wasn’t even distracting. All he could think about was stupid Lassie, and his stupid, deep, calming voice as it had come through the phone; and his stupid face when he had broken up with Shawn last night; and how stupidly cute he’d looked just before that, smiling in the restaurant like he, for once, couldn’t find a single thing to be grumpy about. 

Shawn breathed deeply as his vision blurred, and stared down at the sidewalk until the wave of dizziness passed. 

Then he lifted his head at some more noises, closer now, and again, found nothing there. 

Okay, what the hell.

Also, this night officially sucked.

Shawn stood all the way up again and kept walking down the street, fighting to keep himself steady. If his guess was right, he was just a few blocks from the beach, and from there he would be able to find his way anywhere. Plus, he’d be closer to the main stores and restaurants, and the cabs. 

He just had to keep ignoring those weird noises, keep walking just a little bit farther. 

He was almost there. 

…… Probably.

Carlton’s breath was raw and ragged as he raced through the fog, the small bundle of clothes held precariously between his teeth. 

He raced through the forest and rural areas that ran parallel to the city, dodging quickly between trees, jumping over logs and fences, keeping a careful lookout for unexpected barbed wire. 

His heart pounded as he ran, and not only from exertion. 

From fear. 

Finally he got close to the part of the city that held La Boite De Nuit, and he cut a hard right out of the woods, racing over a state highway and into a network of backroads and alleyways. He sprinted behind gas stations and pawn shops, then past residential homes and charming old churches as he got closer to the beach. 

Tonight of all nights, people could report all the sightings of a weird giant dog, or possibly even the first wolf seen in California in a century, that they wanted. 

He couldn’t give a damn. 

He pricked his ears up as he finally approached La Boite De Nuit, hoping that Shawn would be within eyesight of the building. 

Hoping he would be right there, leaning against the side of the building by the front door, and everything would be fine, but no.

No no no.

Fuck. 

He couldn’t see Shawn anywhere. 

He inhaled deeply, and he could faintly smell Shawn’s scent, as well as the scent of three werewolves. 

One of them was Ben.

Panicking, he stood frozen for a second, then he ducked into a shadow and quickly, painfully, transformed back into his human form— so that as soon as he saw Shawn, he would be able to run up to him and sweep him away.

And he would see Shawn. 

In just a moment. 

He would. 

He pulled on his clothes frantically, hissing from the pain as he moved his tender, still-shrinking limbs into the fabric. He called Shawn on his phone with one hand as he got dressed, but… nothing. Not even a ringtone that he could overhear from one of the next few blocks over. 

He took off in a sprint again, in the direction that he thought Shawn had gone.

Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes. Whether it was from pain or fear, he didn’t know. 

Please let it not be too late. 

He ran behind the social club, following Shawn’s faint scent on the wind, but he still couldn’t find the man anywhere. 

The pain seared down his spine as he ran down the road, following the scent. 

As he followed it, the scent of the other wolves grew stronger as well.

Shawn has to be okay, he thought to himself. Shawn has to be okay.

He thought it over and over, like a mantra, or a wish, or a prayer.

It felt like the muscles in his back were starting to tear at the edges from the stress of holding back the transformation, and his legs ached, but it didn’t matter.

All that mattered was Shawn.

He didn’t want things, in life, usually. He didn’t hope for things. And now, now that all he wanted in the world was to turn the next corner and see Shawn alive, he should get that, right?

You’re allowed to save up all of your hopes and wishes and dreams for when you really need them…. right?

More tears pricked his eyes, and he hurriedly wiped them away. 

He was getting close to a brightly lit street, and as he approached, he could tell from the scent on the wind that Shawn had turned down it.

He turned the corner and —-there—- two blocks ahead, he could see Shawn, alive, stumbling down the sidewalk.

 He could smell the other wolves here too– right here, somewhere, behind a building or something. 

Suddenly Shawn stumbled more violently, and crashed down onto the sidewalk.

“Ow! Fuck!” he called out, struggling to get up again. 

Carlton sprinted up to him, the pain of pushing his already stretched muscles meaningless to him. All his muscles could tear completely right now, for all he cared. 

He ran up to Shawn and, forgetting himself, wrapped his arms around the man as he pulled him into a sitting position. 

Shawn was safe.

Shawn was safe.

He could feel Shawn’s heartbeat, and this was the best, the best moment he’d ever experienced. Better than seeing a million sunsets, closing a million cases, better than anything. 

Shawn looked up at him blearily. “Oh. Hey jerkface.”

….. Alright, that was a little uncalled for. But this was still the best moment.

“Hey, yourself,” Carlton replied softly.

Shawn yawned. “I can’t hang out right now Lassie– I’m busy.”

Carlton raised an eyebrow. “Busy walking down the street and falling?”

“….Yess.”

“You called me, remember?”

“No….” Shawn shook his head. “I don’t… think so. That doesn’t sound like something I would do.”

Carlton almost wanted to laugh at the absolute absurdity of this situation. That Shawn had gotten himself in this much danger without realizing it. 

And then, he almost wanted to cry, because Shawn almost hadn’t called him. And he had almost been too late. 

And that was just…. too many ‘almosts’ for him to take right now. 

“I’ll… um….” Carlton started to gently pull Shawn to his feet. “Let me get you someplace safe. And then I’ll leave you alone, okay?”

“Okay good.” Shawn nodded. “Because I don’t hang out with jerkfaces.”

“Fair enough,” Carlton replied, slinging one of Shawn’s arms around his shoulder so that he could more easily half-walk with, half-drag him.

He didn’t notice how nice it felt to hold Shawn like that. How nice it felt to be close to him. He just kept his eyes and his thoughts set on the sidewalk ahead. 

“What did you drink tonight?” Carlton asked as he readjusted his arms to take even more of Shawn’s weight– the man was incredibly unsteady on his feet. 

“Um…. pineapple… drink,” Shawn replied blearily. 

“I see.”

“I feel… pretty weird though, Lassie. Really sleepy.”

Carlton set his jaw as they walked.

Ben and his lackeys were already going to suffer massively for trying to hurt Shawn, but if they had drugged him…. there would be hell to pay. 

Fuck the pact. 

Carlton wasn’t just going to hurt them, he was going to invent new ways of hurting people. 

“Where– where are we going, Lassie?” Shawn asked, lifting his head up.

Oh. Shit. He hadn’t thought about getting home.

“Is… um… is your bike here?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I’ll drive that.” 

Carlton prepared himself for a fight, but Shawn just yawned and nodded his assent. “Can we go to the… um… the arcade?”

“I thought you didn’t hang out with jerkfaces.”

“Oh yeah….. you can drop me off at the arcade.”

“...... Maybe.”

There was no way in hell that Shawn was going anywhere other than Carlton’s apartment, where he knew the man would be safe. 

The searing, painful sensations were continuing, worsening, still, but if that was the trade he had to make to make sure that Shawn was okay, he would take it any day, a thousand times over. 

They turned right at the next intersection, and began to walk back towards La Boite de Nuit.

Carlton breathed a sigh of relief as they walked, and the scent of the other wolves stayed behind them. Then he took in another deep breath, because Shawn’s head was drooping heavily on his shoulder, and Carlton’s nose was just a few inches from his hair. 

He was getting in a great deal of practice, already, at coping with being in love with Shawn Spencer and being unable to date him. 

Soon, he would probably be great at it. 

He turned to Shawn awkwardly when they finally got back to the social club and Shawn’s bike. 

“Spencer?”

“Mmmm?” Shawn replied, half-asleep from the looks of it. 

“Keys?”

Shawn shoved his hands in his jean pockets and began searching for his keys, pulling his waistband down an inch or two in the process. Carlton swallowed and looked away, wishing he didn’t feel so incredibly awkward. If nothing else, this life-threatening scenario should have been enough to cure him of any awkward feelings, but apparently, it had not. 

Eventually, Shawn called out triumphantly and pulled out a ring of keys, swaying in place. 

Carlton gave him a nervous look as he passed him the only helmet. “Spencer?”

Shawn snorted angrily, eyes closed as he leaned against someone’s car. “Stop calling me that.”

“It’s your name.”

“You know what I mean,” Shawn grumbled back. 

“Well, anyway, are you going to be able to hold onto me the whole ride back?”

“Duh, I’m great at riding motorcycles, Lassie. Oh hey!” His face perked up as he opened his eyes again. “Your bike looks just like mine!”

“Uh-huh.” Carlton replied, sitting down awkwardly on the bike. It had been a long time since he’d driven one. “Put the helmet on. And please let me know if something’s wrong. I’ll drive slowly, but just—- just let me know.”

Shawn put the helmet on and sat behind him, wrapping his arms tightly around his waist. 

Carlton swallowed nervously, and looked down at his hands on the handlebars. 

“Lassie?” he heard Shawn ask. 

“Yeah?”

“When…. when did you get a motorcycle?”

—---

He really did drive slowly, as he took them back across the city. 

Probably a little too slowly, as he was very obviously riding a motorcycle without a helmet, and by now the intensely painful sensation had made it’s way past his spine and out through his limbs, down to his fingers and toes and also his teeth, somehow, even though he was pretty sure your teeth weren’t supposed to be able to experience burning pain. 

Not to mention he was the SBPD Head Detective, and his passenger was either a very drunk or possibly drugged psychic consultant for the same police department. Which felt like it would be…. a lot to explain, should they get pulled over. 

He kept his ears tuned carefully to Shawn as he drove, listening to his breathing, his heartbeat, making sure none of it was slowing down too much, that his worst fear wouldn’t happen and Shawn wouldn’t fall asleep and tumble off the bike.

He talked to him, too, the whole drive. About nothing, really, just yelling whatever he could think of over the sound of the motorcycle. It seemed like Shawn wasn’t sober enough to realize that Lassie couldn’t hear any of his replies, and was just yelling a string of random things to him with pauses in the middle, so… it worked out. 

—------

Shawn’s head was drooping even more heavily by the time they made it back to Carlton’s apartment, and he practically had to carry him up the stairs. 

A flash of rage came through him again, mingling with the pain, as he wondered what exactly they’d given Shawn. 

He thought he knew why they had given it to him, whatever it was.

Those bloodthirsty monsters. 

But… he couldn’t think about that right now. He couldn’t.

Tomorrow. 

Tomorrow, he could let the rage consume him. 

Right now, he needed to make sure Shawn was safe. 

Shawn murmured something quietly as Carlton carried him– it sounded like something about how he didn’t know that the arcade had so many stairs. 

—-----

Carlton deposited Shawn on the couch carefully, and then went to grab him a glass of water. He tried to hand it to him, but Shawn waved him off and closed his eyes, leaning back into the couch. 

Carlton rubbed his temples with his hand frustradedly, truly unsure how much more time he could handle being in his human form. “Spencer…..”

“That’s… Shawn Spencer, sy…sykick detective to you,” Shawn cut him off loudly. “since …..you want to act so FORMAL.” 

He tossed a pillow at Carlton without opening his eyes, still somehow managing to hit him square in the chest. 

The impact made Carlton take a deep breath involuntarily, which made his entire chest seize up in an extremely painful crushing sensation, and he tried to speak, but all that came out was a harsh cough. 

“I’ll—-” he tried to breathe, but his lungs weren’t cooperating with him, and he could feel his werewolf transformation rapidly start to take hold. “I’ll be right back.”

He all but ran to his bedroom and slammed the door behind him, quickly pulling off his clothes even as they began to rip away from his body as the transformation took hold. 

A few seconds later, he could finally breathe again, and he did, taking in big gulps of air as he slid to the floor, his back pressed against the door. 

He put his head in his hands and just breathed for a moment, remembering what it was like to do something as simple as take in oxygen without experiencing searing pain. 

“Lassie?” he heard Shawn’s voice call out from the hallway as he knocked on Carlton’s bedroom door. 

Carlton almost jumped up and hid, startled, but then he gratefully remembered that he’d locked the door. And, Shawn didn’t even try the handle. Carlton could tell that Shawn was standing there on the other side of the door, apparently not willing to try to cross the boundary. 

Carlton tried to figure out how to respond to him in a way that wouldn’t sound like a growl. He experimented with trying to just move his vocal chords a few times, and finally found that he could transform just enough to let his voice sound normal, with searing pain only in his throat. 

“Yes?” he asked.

“Did you…. did you leave because you’re mad at me?” 

Shawn’s voice was quiet, and he was still slurring his words, and Carlton felt a pang of guilt for leaving him, for not being there for him while the alcohol and whatever else he took worked its way out of his system. 

“No, Spencer, I just—- I’m worried I have a cold.” he replied lamely. “I don’t want to get you sick.”

“Oh.”

He heard a gentle thumping noise from the hallway– Shawn had slid down to sit on the other side of the door. 

“So…..” Shawn said. “What’sh up?”

“Not much,” Carlton replied carefully, not having a whole lot that he could truthfully share about the last twenty-four hours. “How was your night out? Before… you got lost on some random backroads somehow?”

“S’okay. Not… as bad as getting dumped last night.” Shawn mumbled, and then sighed deeply. 

Carlton sighed as well. “Spencer… I’m….. it’s just…. I think we both know that I’m just a passing fancy for you. And I’d rather it be easy when that fancy ends.”

“........ Wow.” Shawn replied, sounding incredibly sad all of a sudden. “You and my dad today, huh? Have…. have you been talking to him?”

Carlton’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “No…. why would I?”

“I get it.” Shawn replied, slurring his words, so quickly that he practically spoke over top of Carlton. “Shawn’s unre…unrelieble, can’ commit, can’ stick to anything. Whatever. You gonna tell me that I’ll always be an addict, too?”

“A… what? Shawn?” 

But Shawn was going off again, like the facelessness of their conversation had emboldened him, like Carlton wasn’t really hearing everything he said.

“I think my dad thinks that…. like… I took away the life his….. son was supposed to live. That, you know, his son the…. the detective, who never stole that car, who never got addi…. addicted to drugs, who never wen’ to rehab…. he’s still off in the…. the void…… somewhere. And I’m jus’, you know…. the person who took…. who took his son’s place. Dis— disappointmen’. That doesn’t even begin to ...describe it. But I guess you’ve been talking to him, so…. you already know all of that.”

An overwhelming sense of sadness settled in over Carlton. Sadness that Shawn had gone through so much. And sadness that Shawn hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him any of it. 

“I haven’t been talking to him.” Carlton replied, angrily, feeling a little hurt about being kept in the dark. 

“So you jus’ came to the same con… conclusion on your own? Great. That’s great.”

No, I just don’t like that you’re fucking other people, he almost replied, and then bit back his tongue. That fight, if it ever did happen, should happen while Shawn was sober. 

“I—--” Shawn started to say from beyond the door, but then Carlton heard the sound of someone standing up and walking away quickly, and a door being thrown open, and someone puking. 

And Carlton, deciding that he could stand the pain of maintaining his human form for a little bit longer, left his room after only a moment, and found himself standing in his bathroom and gently rubbing Shawn’s back, nowhere near as angry on his own behalf as he probably should have been. 

Mostly just… sad. 

————-

Shawn seemed more sober after he threw up, that is— less under the influence of alcohol. But suddenly he was unable to stand without Carlton helping him, and it took him about five tries to properly rinse out his mouth, and Carlton knew that he had been drugged. 

Shawn almost collapsed in his arms as he led the man to his sofa, and the thought of Shawn being that out of control around a trio of bloodthirsty werewolves caused Carlton’s vision to start to blur red at the edges again, and he had to quickly count from 1 to 10 several times in a row to keep claws from bursting from his fingertips.

He set Shawn up with a blanket and a pillow, and laid him carefully on his side, and checked on him every fifteen minutes for the rest of the night. 

And it was… fine, mostly. 

Except for the moment when he was checking on Shawn, the fourth or fifth time, and he let himself brush a stray hair off of Shawn’s forehead. 

And Shawn had woken up, and cracked his eyelids open a little bit, staring up at him blearily. 

And then he’d grinned when he saw that Carlton was the person messing with his hair while he was sleeping like an absolute creep.

He’d just smiled, and yawned, and Carlton froze and left his hand on his forehead, and Shawn pressed into it slightly as he started to go back to sleep. 

And then, as Shawn had drifted off, he’d said, so quietly, “I know you don’t believe that I would be a good boyfriend, Lassie, but... I wish I’d gotten to try. I think I would have liked it.”

And that, that was worse than all of the physical pain he’d experienced tonight, a thousand times over. 

But other than that, it was fine. 

Chapter Text

Shawn woke up to an unfamiliar room filled with bright light, a horrible headache, and the sensation of someone shaking him gently awake. He groaned and, without opening his eyes, pushed the mysterious hand off of his shoulder irritably. Then he grabbed at the blanket draped over him, and pulled it completely over his head, blocking out the light.

Whoever had been shaking him awake stopped, and let out a long-suffering sigh that sounded somewhat familiar. But Shawn ignored them and shuffled on the couch to get comfortable, ready to settle in for a few more hours of sleep. Burglar, security guard, angry person who had found Shawn passed out on their couch— whoever it was, they could wait. 

The hand shook his shoulder again, and a familiar, annoyed-sounding voice growled out “Spencer.” 

Oh. Fuck. 

Of course it was Lassie. 

Opening his eyes under the blanket, Shawn ran through his memories of last night and was alarmed to find that they contained quite a few blank spots. There was really no telling how much of an embarrassment he had made of himself in front of his kind-of-ex-boyfriend. 

He mentally prepared himself for a really awkward conversation and pulled the blanket down. He blinked in the bright sunlight. The first thing he saw was a steaming cup of coffee, and beyond that, Lassiter’s face. Dark circles were painted under his eyes, almost as if he had been the one who got blackout drunk and made an absolute fool of himself last night. 

“Drink up,” Lassie said grimly. “We have a crime scene to go to. There’s another body.”

Shawn accepted the cup of coffee, and then some advil and a piece of toast. He sat at the kitchen counter and watched Lassie out of the corner of his eye as the man moved around his apartment, fetching things for Shawn and going about his morning routine. Shawn filled the empty air between them with chatter, but Lassie didn’t respond. He barely even looked his way. 

Apparently, the conversation about whatever Shawn had done last night was going to be postponed until later.

That bad, he supposed. 

The sunlight of the morning (...or… afternoon? What time was it?) was making it hard for Shawn to see- hard for him to think. It felt like he was being stabbed in the forehead by a thousand tiny knives. He laid his forehead on the cool kitchen counter and exhaled at the brief relief it gave him.

“Lassie,” he said without bothering to lift his head up, “do you have any sunglasses I can borrow?”

—--------

Sunglasses procured, he and Lassie stepped outside. Shawn stopped and stared at something parked along the side of the road, the bright Santa Barbara sunlight bouncing off the chrome. 

“...... My bike’s here.”

“Yep.”

“Why is my bike here?”

“I drove it,” Lassie replied, as if it was no big deal.

Shawn turned to stare at him, but Lassiter was still avoiding his gaze. “Lassie, you drove my bike? Since when do you know how to ride a motorcycle?”

“You were really drunk, lost on some random road downtown, but your bike was nearby, so….. I drove us home.”

“Wait….. what?” Shawn’s memories were starting to come back from last night, in bits and pieces. “...... I thought I went to La Boite de Nuit last night.”

“You… did. And then something happened, and you started wandering the streets by yourself, and… you called me. So I came to get you.”

“Wait…… so then how did you get downtown?”

“It………. doesn’t matter.” Lassiter looked at the ground as he said that. It was obvious he was hiding something, but Shawn’s headache was killing him, so he didn’t push it.

“I can’t believe you know how to ride a motorcycle and you didn’t tell me.” Shawn said, shaking his head as he got into the passenger seat of Lassie’s car. 

Lassiter went back to ignoring him as he drove, and Shawn couldn’t think of something to say to fill the silence. He was far too distracted by the sensation of his body being in a metal box traveling 45 mph, a sensation of which his hangover did not approve. He gripped the edge of his seat for the first few blocks, lurching uncomfortably with each turn. But soon, he settled into the rhythm of the drive and relaxed, looking out the window through Lassie’s dark sunglasses. 

They drove along a street filled with restaurants. Palm trees were dotted along the sidewalk.

“You shouldn’t go back to La Boite de Nuit,” Lassie said, breaking the silence, keeping his eyes on the road.

Shawn turned his head, startled by the seemingly random statement. “Wait….. what?”

Lassiter didn’t even look at him. 

Shawn scoffed. “That’s what you care about from last night? You’re not mad that I called you, blackout drunk, acting like an idiot, for no reason?”

“I don’t think it was for no reason,” Lassiter replied without elaborating. 

“I mean, I guess. It was because I was dumb enough to walk out of the building I was in and down a random road, even though I was too drunk to read street signs.” 

Saying it out loud made Shawn feel pretty bad for how he had acted last night— it would have been an idiot move to make at any time, but… it was during an investigation. 

There was a long silence. 

“............That wouldn’t have happened to you if you hadn’t gone.”

“Okay, so now you get to decide where I go and where I don’t go?” Shawn replied hotly, crossing his arms and looking back out the window. 

First Lassiter backed out of dating him, and now he was acting like a total control freak. Shawn must have been kidding himself to think that a relationship between them could ever have worked. 

“Spencer, I’m serious.” Lassie replied as he pulled the car up to the crime scene. It looked like it was in a parking lot along some random road— not unlike the road Shawn had been lost on last night, he thought uncomfortably. “Don’t go back there. There’s something really weird going on at that place.”

“Obviously there’s something weird going on!” Shawn replied as he stepped out of the car, not waiting for Lassiter. “That’s why I’m investigating.”

Lassiter got out of the car too, and turned to glare at him. “Spencer. Listen to me. If I hadn’t shown up last night…..” 

“Thanks for the concern, Lassie. But, you have no say in what I do, and you’ve made it very clear that you aren’t interested in having any. Maybe I just won’t call you next time.” 

A look of hurt spread across Lassie’s face, and Shawn started walking, suddenly unable to meet the other man’s eye.

“Why would you even say that?” Lassiter asked. “Of course you’re going to call me. Especially now, when O’hara and Guster are out of town. Shawn?”

Shawn just ignored him and kept walking. 

Lassiter put his hand on Shawn’s shoulder and stopped him. “Shawn… I mean… Spencer. Tell me that you’re going to call me.” 

Shawn looked down at the hand, and then back at Lassie’s face, confused and angry and annoyed about whatever it was that was going on right now. 

After a long moment, Lassiter removed his hand.

Shawn gave him a fleeting look, and replied, quietly, “Yeah, Lassie. Of course I’m going to call you. But, I’m still going wherever I want, whenever I want.” He shrugged and gave Lassie the type of grin that he knew the man found particularly obnoxious. “I have to go wherever the spirits lead me.”

Lassiter glared at him and opened his mouth to argue again, just as Shawn opened his mouth to yell something back, and they ducked under the crime scene tape together. 

But then, finally, they were close enough to see the body of the newest murder victim, and they both fell silent.

Shawn stared down at the body, outlined in chalk. 

He scanned it, and his eyes settled onto the cold, unmoving face of Thomas McCain. 

There was a long pause.

And then Shawn turned to Lassiter and spoke. 

“Okay, you may have a point.”

-------

Chief Vick nodded at them from across the crime scene, and walked over to them quickly. 

“Mr. Spencer, Detective Lassiter, good morning. This body was found by—” she stopped, suddenly, and gave Shawn a curious look. “..... Are those Detective Lassiter’s sunglasses you’re wearing?”

“No!” Shawn and Lassie replied immediately.

The Chief looked back and forth between them for a moment. “Uh-huh. Well.” She beckoned them to follow, and they walked together along the edge of the crime scene. “The body was found by garbage collectors. Time of death couldn’t have been before 2 am.”

Shawn glanced around the crime scene quickly. Immediately, the chain link fence at the back of the lot stuck out to him. The trash cans were disturbed, as if someone had hopped the fence. And was that— fur? sticking out from the fence in a clump. 

“There’s something else,” the Chief added as they kept walking. “Something that you may be able to help with in particular, Mr. Spencer. There were some… sightings.”

“Sightings?” Shawn asked as he turned to face her. He noticed that Lassiter seemed to tense slightly. “Of what?”

The Chief sighed and rolled her shoulders back, before looking him in the eyes and replying. “Wolves.”

Lassiter scoffed. “Wolves haven’t been seen in California for a hundred years.” 

“And… it’s possible they still haven’t been,” Chief Vick replied, tipping her head towards him in agreement. “There are no photos. But several dozen people reported either seeing wolves or hearing them howl.”

A memory from last night hit Shawn suddenly— 

Stumbling down the street, holding his ringing phone and hoping that Lassie would answer. 

Behind him, the sound of three sharp wolf howls piercing the night, each one closer than the last. 

A hit of primal fear, straight to his stomach, and then, still holding the phone to his ear, starting to run. 

“....Wolf howls,” he replied, nodding, hoping his distraction hadn’t been obvious. “Interesting. I’m getting some very… interesting… readings.”

Shawn continued to walk around the crime scene as Lassiter and the Chief discussed some more of the technical details. He backed up to the fence and surreptitiously grabbed the piece of fur, slipping it into his pocket. 

His eyes kept being drawn back to Thomas McCain. The fact that this victim was someone he knew, someone he had seen last night, made this all feel more real. His eyes slipped from the ripped-open torso, to the blood pooling around the body, to the man’s unseeing eyes. He stepped closer, another small detail sticking out to him. 

There were none of those weird cauterization marks. What did that mean? Had they had to dispose of the body too quickly to do… whatever they usually did?

Shawn backed slowly towards the other end of the crime scene as the Chief and Lassiter talked. He glanced around to make sure that no one was paying him any attention, and then sauntered casually out of the parking lot, and around a building. He sped up as soon as he was out of sight, running around the sides until he was in an alleyway. He creeped into the alleyway, the chain link fence that marked the edge of the crime scene slowly coming into view on his left. 

Shawn stopped, and noticed that the alleyway branched off to his right. It seemed like a dead end, but…

He crept in that direction, ducking behinds stacks of pallets in order to keep out of view of the cops. At the end of the alleyway, he realized that it was not a dead end. Far from it. Another, short alleyway led away from it, and when he craned his head, he saw that it opened into a zig-zagging path between buildings, which led to the back of a building several blocks away. 

He glanced back towards the crime scene, to make sure that no one had noticed him. No one had. He leaned further into the shadows, just in case. Then, he squinted, trying to figure out what the building was from far away. He couldn’t see any signage, but he thought he knew that place. He’d been there. He’d…… he’d…….. he’d been there last night. 

Shawn froze, and a chill fell over his body as he recognized the building he had spent so much time in the last few weeks: La Boite de Nuit. At the same moment, he realized that there was someone inside a window, facing away from him. A second later, the person suddenly turned, and locked eyes with Shawn. 

Ben.

Startled, Shawn stumbled back against the alley wall, and turned back to the crime scene, only to lock eyes with Lassiter. The man was standing against the chain link fence, exactly where the clump of fur had been before Shawn removed it, staring directly at Shawn.

Shawn looked back and forth between the two men staring at him. With a gulp, he pushed off from the wall and began to jog back towards the crime scene, trying to look casual. He couldn’t avoid making eye contact with Lassiter as he did, and he shivered a little as he realized that there had been something… strange about the way that Ben looked at him. And Lassiter was looking at him a bit like that too.

He reached the chain link fence just as the Chief walked over to Lassiter and turned around in frustration, calling out “Where on Earth has Mr. Spencer gone to?”

“Right here, Chief.” Shawn said as casually as he could, leaning against the fence.

“What are you doing outside of the crime scene?” the Chief asked, a hint of amusement cutting through her irritation. 

“The spirits.” Shawn responded, waving his arms around vaguely. Not his best work, by far, but his headache was cutting into his skull.

“Uh huh. Well, I need you two in San Francisco, immediately. There’s… another crime scene.”

Lassiter scoffed and crossed his arms. “Chief, we plenty to deal with here. We have our own crime scene.”

An oddly… somber look crossed the Chief’s face before she replied. “It can wait. You really need to see this. I told Detective O’Hara to expect you within six hours.”

Shawn turned to look at Lassiter. He accidentally caught the man’s eye again, and was startled by the mix of emotions he saw flit across his face as he looked back at Shawn. 

Anger, and possessiveness, and…. concern. 

Something caught in Shawn’s throat as he nodded. “Can do, Chief.”

Chapter Text

There was something soothing about driving on a highway, Carlton thought. Something meditative. Driving defensively, watching the scenery roll by, half-listening to whatever CD was in his car or some dumb radio talk show (anything but NPR), it all blended together into something that kept his attention suspended on this current moment. 

This moment: where he drove up the 101, away from the suburbs and onto the little highway that wound between coastline, and forest, and mountains, and rolling hills, and made him remember everything he loved about California.

With Shawn Spencer, psychic detective, alive, safe, passed out in the passenger seat and snoring gently. 

The first moment that Carlton had time to…. stop. To stop and think about what Shaw… Spencer had said. Confessed to? 

He would have been triumphant if Spencer had confessed to him a year or two ago. Hell, maybe even a few weeks ago. If he’d found out that everyone’s favorite antics-causing consultant had a record of drug abuse. Found out that, by most people’s standards, he had no place working in a police station. He would have felt like he’d finally won. 

He could have exposed Spencer, gotten him fired. Or kept the knowledge close to his chest, so that he could remind himself, during his most disappointing cases, that Shawn Spencer was kind of a fuck-up. 

Now… the knowledge just hurt. The idea of someone, anyone, using the knowledge against Spencer hurt even more. And of course, what hurt most of all was that Spencer hadn’t told him.

He couldn’t blame him for that. Even aside from their rivalry, Carlton knew that he didn’t exactly seem like the kind of person that someone would want as a confidant. He’d made sure of that, after the divorce.

He’d made sure that he carried himself through the world exactly the way he wanted to. 

Heart: Closed. Walls: Up. Himself: Protected. 

And…. it turned out, he was too slow on the uptake to change in time to be there for Spencer when the man needed him. And he had needed Carlton. Had at least wanted him. For a moment, there, at the beginning. He was sure of it. 

Maybe if he’d paid more attention, tried harder to understand what was causing Spencer’s sudden lapses of sadness, maybe he would have been enough for him. Maybe he would have been able to find a way to temper his cold, work-obsessed tendencies. To balance himself out into someone who could be a better partner. 

Maybe. 

It was too much to think about. 

He tried to just focus on the road, on the scenery, on Spencer’s quiet, even breathing. 

And he tried to find some small amount of comfort in the fact that it was Thomas McCain’s body he had found at the crime scene this morning, and not… Shawn’s. 

He didn’t find it.

Shawn closed his eyes and let his forehead rest against the car window, pretending to be asleep. Cowardly, maybe. But a much easier way to pass the five hour drive to San Fransisco. 

Lassie still hadn’t said anything about last night. 

What had Shawn done? 

Tried to kiss him? Begged him to take him back? Told him how much the relationship had meant to him? Lied and said it never meant anything at all?

He felt sudden, overwhelming shame– hot and sharp and clutching his chest tightly in its hands, and he wished he could be anywhere else. Somewhere where he wouldn’t be reminded of how he’d fucked things up.

You’d be surprised, Lassie —-or maybe you wouldn’t— about the number of things I’ve fucked up in my life. Broken. Given up on. Wandered vaguely away from and never gone back to. 

I just— why bother sticking with things, when you know something better is around the corner? Another job, another city, another person.

And sure, maybe sometimes you crash and burn. Maybe you end up in Chicago, working the concessions stand at Cellular Field, watching the games for free, and bar-hopping every night away. Not really lonely, not really sad, but… stagnant. And bored out of your mind. But here’s what you do, Lassie, listen to me: you give up on that too. 

When someone you just met tells you that their horrible boyfriend just dumped them and they have a spare non-refundable ticket to Costa Rica, you make sure they’re not a murderer and then you go.

You just go. Wherever it is that the universe is offering to take you. And maybe that place isn’t any better, except, it is. It’s new and shiny and different and unfamiliar enough that no two days are the same. 

And, so, I never bothered to make something work. To stay when things got hard– to push through. Nothing ever seemed worth it. Until… well, until Psych. 

I’ve been realizing, people don’t just stick around in the same place and do the same thing every day because they’re boring. Or cowards. Or spending their whole lives doing what they’re told. 

They do it because they like it. They like the things they wake up to do every day. They like the people they get to see. 

I don’t know. 

Not that I’d ever tell you any of this, but… I guess there’s nothing left for me to say. 

That’s all there is to it, really. 

I like Gus. I like Psych. And I like you. 

Shawn opened his eyes a little, just enough to watch the passing scenery through his eyelashes. Scrub dotted the mountainsides, and along the highway, wild sage grew up from the soil at the bottom of the mountains, swaying in the breeze. 

It was getting darker outside. The sun would set soon, and then they would be driving through black night on this barely-lit highway. 

In some spots, they might be able to really see the stars. 

It was with that thought that Shawn fell asleep.

---

“Hey, Shawn. Wake up.” 

Shawn struggled to open his eyes for the second time that day. And then he found himself with Lassie’s arm on his shoulder for the second time today. And… he really needed to not make this a habit. 

“What’s up?” Shawn asked, startled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. 

“We’re here.” Lassie replied. He looked away, off into the distance somewhere, his face grim. “I talked to Detective O’Hara…. we should take a minute before we go look at the scene.”

“Okay,” Shawn laughed a little. He hopped out of the car and stretched, looking around himself with interest. A warehouse district. “Why?” Are you worried it’s going to traumatize me?”

Lassie gave him an inscrutable look. “Yes. Drink this water bottle.”

Shawn took it, stunned temporarily into silence. 

Suddenly, Juliet walked around the car. “Carlton. Shawn. Are you both ready?” 

Her shoulders released what looked like a huge amount of tension when she saw them both, but her face was grim. 

They nodded. Whatever this was, Shawn was as ready as he was ever going to be. 

Jules walked ahead of them, her heels punctuating her steps on the torn-up asphalt parking lot, and then echoing loudly on the warehouse hallway’s concrete floor. It was dim. And dark. And empty. And quiet. 

“What… is this place?” Shawn asked cautiously. 

“It used to house medical equipment,” Jules replied over her shoulder. “It’s been abandoned for a few years now. Lucky that a witness called in that they saw something strange, or it could have been weeks before anyone found the crime scene.”

“Okay.” Shawn nodded thoughtfully. 

They reached the end of the hallway. Two huge double doors.

Jules turned back to them. “Shawn, I’m sorry you have to be here. We wouldn’t have called you in to see this, but… we need to know if you can sense anything. And Carlton….”

Shawn saw Carlton and Jules exchange a small nod, before she sighed and finally pulled the double doors open. 

* * *

They walked into a huge room. Hastily set-up floodlights stood in a couple of the corners. Cops were everywhere. Crime scene tape wrapped around a huge portion of the room, criss-crossing over itself infinitely. 

And in the middle….. bodies. 

At least a dozen. Maybe more. 

And so much blood that, at first, Shawn thought the concrete floor had been dyed red. 

* * *

He inhaled sharply. “What did you say that the witness claimed they saw?”

Juliet turned, and suddenly Shawn could see the dark circles under her eyes. 

She sighed. “Wolves.”

---

So…. wow. A lot of people were dead. That was pretty fucked up, Shawn thought, and he said so, staring down into his whiskey sour. 

“Yeah.” Carlton sighed. “Tonight was—- this was a bad one.”

“Thanks for looking at it, Shawn,” Jules said as she stirred her vodka cranberry, looking gloomier than Shawn could remember ever seeing her. “Still no contact from the spirits? No ideas?”

Shawn sighed. “No. None.”

Although… that wasn’t exactly true. He did have an idea. A few, actually. And only one or two of them were so crazy that he couldn’t possibly share them. The rest, he just couldn’t share yet. Not until he’d gathered evidence. 

They’d planned to have one drink at the hotel bar, but the servers were really fast at taking away their old glasses, and Shawn was starting to lose track of how many drinks had been brought to their table. Enough drinks to feel kind of dumb, but not quite enough to truly dull the horrors they’d seen tonight. Shawn was starting to suspect that he wouldn’t be able to drink enough to accomplish that. That the only thing that would help, at all, was being here, in the company of his friend and his…. Whatever. He could call Lassie his friend. Lassie would just have to deal with it. 

He sipped his drink again. “Wow, you know what, Lassie? You were right. Whiskey is good.”

“Hmm.” Lassie replied from across the table. “I usually don’t drink mine mixed with juice and syrup, or with a marischino cherry on top.”

“Why not?” Shawn asked. “It tastes good.”

Lassie caught his eye, and they both froze for a moment. 

Shawn realized that he had titled his head and started smiling flirtatiously without even realizing it.

He shook himself out of it, grateful that Jules was distracted by something on her phone.

“That was the coroner.” Juliet put her phone away again. “Those strange marks were on the inside of all of those bodies. Practically the only thing left in any of the victims’ torsos.”

“Wait….” Shawn said, his brain suddenly whirling. Information from that sentence stuck out, made him remember something else he’d heard recently, made him realize…. “You’re texting the coroner?”

“So what?” Jules asked, sipping her drink through a tiny cocktail straw. (The kind that people always say you aren’t supposed to drink from, but Shawn had always known better, because why would there be a straw if you weren’t supposed to drink from it.)

“So, you never text me back! And Gus told me that you’ve been texting with him, too!”

Jules rolled her eyes. “Well, stop texting me obscure 80s references that make no sense at 2 am, and asking me where you are on my Myspace top 8 friends list, and maybe I’ll reply! I don’t even have a Myspace!”

“Jules, clearly you aren’t even reading my texts! I said if you had a Myspace, where would I be on your top 8 list! Those are completely different things!”

Shawn carried on, feeling a little indignant. “With the time difference, Gus always texts me back at weird times! I’m lucky that Lassie texts me back or I’d have no one to text with some days!”

Jules stopped mid-sip of her drink and put her glass down, raising her eyebrow. “Oh?” 

Oh…. whoops.

“I hardly ever text Shawn back.” Lassie cut in, flustered. 

“.... Did you just call him Shawn?” Juliet asked, the hint of a smile teasing on her lips.

Whoops… at least that one wasn’t my fault. Not really.

“Spencer.” Lassie clarified quickly. “I hate texting, anyway.”

“Okay,” Jules replied with one of those shrugs that implied that she knew you were hiding something, and she also knew that you would end up telling her and asking her for advice later on anyway. “Anyway, Shawn, if I had a Myspace, I promise that you would be in the top three on my friends list.”

“Really?” Shawn asked, feeling kind of sappy despite himself. 

“Really,” Jules replied, placing her hand on the table on top of Shawn’s. 

They caught each other’s eyes and dissolved into giggles, and Shawn was relieved to find that the spark he’d sometimes felt between them had faded completely, and evened out into a pure, comfortable friendship. 

Lassie glanced between Shawn and Jules, his gaze falling on their joined hands. “I’m going to go.” He said suddenly. He downed the last of his scotch. “I’ll walk down to the pizza place on the corner, get a late dinner.”

Shawn hopped up too. “I could come with you?” 

Please. he thought. And then, please don’t make me say please. That would be totally embarrassing. 

“….Fine. O’Hara?”

She shook her head. “I ate hours ago. You both have your hotel keys? I think we’re all on the third floor.”

They nodded, and exchanged goodbye hugs, and Shawn was struck again by how grateful he was to know Jules. 

That’s something to add to the list, maybe. 

I like Jules.

Lassie didn’t look at Shawn as they closed out their tabs, and he headed off to the hotel front doors without a backward glance. Shawn just watched him leave for a moment, annoyed, because… rude. Then he hurried after him. 

He stepped out the front door, and for a second he thought that Lassie had waited for him, but…. 

“Shit.”

“..... Yeah.”

“Do you have a rain jacket?”

“Nope. You? 

“No.”

“Well……. we can make it, it’s just a drizzle.”

There was a loud crack of thunder, and Lassie turned to him with a raised eyebrow. “Won’t be a drizzle for much longer.”

“Psh, not with that attitude!” Shawn replied as he pushed past Lassie into the rainy street. “Come on.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Lassie stepped out after him, and they walked quickly down the sidewalk. 

They were in some random, not-at-all trendy neighborhood in San Francisco, both dead-tired, and speed-walking together towards a restaurant that had no decoration except a neon “open” sign and “ ‘ZA “ painted on the window in huge letters. And the weather was bad and about to get worse, and they were here to investigate a pretty horrible crime, and Lassie wouldn’t even look at him, but….

It was nice. Really fucking nice. 

The chill air and the raindrops brushed Shawn’s skin, his arms unprotected by his t-shirt. The chill and the walk started to sober him, and…. he realized that he was happy. 

Tonight had been horrible. But this, right now, was so much better than any attempt to dull it could ever be. Walking down the street with the grumpiest man in the world.

Who didn’t want to be with Shawn, but who cared about him.

It felt like the answer. 

To something.

---

Either the restaurant’s claim, boldly printed above the counter, to have the “best pizza in San Francisco” was an exaggeration, or San Francisco did not have great pizza. 

But still, it was restorative. Warm, greasy food made by a short, bearded man who could have rivaled Lassie for grumpiness, and who only became slightly more accepting of Shawn and Lassie’s presence in his restaurant after Lassie flashed his badge. Bright, flourescent lighting that helped Shawn make a comfortable slide out of “tipsy” and into “sober.” 

They sat in a booth near the front door, apparently the one that Lassie had deemed the safest in case of an attack. 

Cop instincts, Shawn thought with an eyeroll.

Shawn couldn’t help but pick at his food, more focused on making a crawly snake out of his straw wrapper than anything. And…. on the question weighing on his mind.

Finally, he decided to just clear the air. “You…… never told me what happened last night.”

Lassie shot him a look. “Yes I did. You got drunk. Got lost. Called me. I picked you up.”

Shawn lowered his voice. “I got lost, a couple blocks away from where a murder victim was found? Who was killed that very same night?”

Lassie looked at him warily. Then he leaned back against his side of the booth, and Shawn realized with irritation that the man’s interrogative side was coming out. Against Shawn. In a pizza restaurant. 

“.... What does that have to do with anything?” Lassie asked suspiciously. 

“I was with him.” Shawn said in a low voice. “The victim. Earlier that night.”

“... Hmmm. And you didn’t tell this to the police because……”

“Because I felt like it might derail the case a bit if I told them that you and I were near the crime scene, right before the murder!” Shawn whispered.

Something in Lassie relaxed. “Right. Okay. That makes sense.”

He stared at the wall behind Shawn for a moment, apparently interested in a cork bulletin board that was all the way across the restaurant. 

Then he turned back to him, voice oddly controlled. “You saw Ben last night?”

“..... Yeah.” Shawn replied slowly. “Why?”

Lassie shook his head. “Nothing. It’s none of my business.”

“Okay….” Shawn moved on from the strange question. “Well… did you… see anything while we were out last night?” Shawn whispered. “Did you see or hear any…. wolves?”

“Wolves haven’t been seen in Southern California for a hundred years,” Lassiter replied flatly. 

“Yeah….. Until last night.”

Lassie sighed, and looked down at the table for a moment. “I didn’t see anything. And I’m going back to the hotel.”

A huge clap of thunder punctuated his statement, and he and Shawn stared at each other. 

“Shit.”

They threw away their trash as heavy raindrops started hitting the windows in a thick patter. 

“Maybe it’s not that bad.” Shawn said hopefully.

They opened the restaurant door, and huddled together under the awning. 

It was that bad. 

Lassie gave Shawn a wry look. “What was it that you were saying earlier about how the rainstorm wouldn’t get worse if I changed my attitude?”

“I said it might not get worse. Plus, you have to actually change your attitude for it to work. You were supposed to do something that made you happy.”

Lassie looked away from him, and Shawn suddenly felt like he’d said the wrong thing. 

“I’m going back,” Lassie said simply.

“Me too!” Shawn said hurriedly.

“Okay.” Lassie still didn’t look at him. “Should we run for it?”

“Yeah.” Shawn said. “On three. One..”

“Shawn, I said run for it. Not race for it.”

“...Two….. three!”

They both took off down the dim sidewalk, feet slapping the pavement. 

Lassie quickly pulled ahead, but then Shawn matched him, the heavy rain and short distance leveling the playing field even though Shawn was terrible at running. They ran up the sidewalk together. Raindrops soaked their clothes and hit their faces, making it difficult to see. Finally, the hotel came within view, and with a triumphant yell, Shawn managed to cut across Lassie and rush over the last bit of the parking lot, ducking under a tiny awning. His fingers reached out to brush the hotel just as Lassie caught up with him. 

Shawn laughed, and then Lassie laughed too, and…. god, that man should laugh more. 

Shawn leaned back against the hotel wall, feeling better than he had all day. Like his excess adrenaline had finally had somewhere to go. Lassie stood right in front of him, crowding up next to him to stay under the shelter of the tiny awning. His arms were placed on the wall on either side of Shawn’s head, and… he was smiling.

It was a perfect moment. 

A perfect moment that froze and shattered when they realized how close they were standing together. 

Lassie cleared his throat. “We should….”

“Yeah.” 

They ran through a bit more rain until they got to the back door of the hotel, then stood together silently in the elevator. 

The silence continued as they walked down the hallway of the third floor, clothes dripping the whole way. 

“Well….” Shawn said as they reached room 312. “This is me—-”

“We can talk about last night some more.” Lassie interrupted him suddenly. “If you want to. And…. I brought my go-bag with me. If you want to borrow some dry clothes.”

Shawn thoughtfully tossed his room key in the air once, twice. And then he caught it. “Yeah. Okay.”

Shawn was safe. 

Shawn was safe. 

He was okay.

He was safe.

Carlton thought the words to himself over and over again, but still, they couldn’t create anything like the calm that he felt when Shawn walked out of the hotel bathroom, in some of Carlton’s old police academy sweats. 

He was being ridiculous. Possessive. He knew that. 

Shawn was… Spencer was in danger. But not right now, and not in either of their hotel rooms. 

It was just… the bodies. At the crime scene. And the adrenaline and fear that had been clinging to him since last night, like his body wasn’t willing to calm back down just yet, in case something else horrible happened. In case he needed to be ready.

Carlton’s heart was pounding. He just…. needed proof that Spencer was okay. For a moment. For however long Spencer wanted to stay here before he went back to his own room. It would be enough. It had to be. More than anything, he wanted to ask Spencer to spend the night. But… Spencer wasn’t his. It shouldn’t be so hard to remember that. 

“Tea?” Carlton asked over his shoulder, fiddling with the tiny hotel coffee pot and trying to figure out how it worked. And how you were supposed to make tea with it.

“Sure.” Spencer replied. Carlton glanced over at him, and saw that Spencer was leaning awkwardly against the hotel room wall. There was only one chair and a bed in here. Would it be more horribly awkward if Spencer sat on the bed and Carlton sat on the chair, or vice versa? 

They could both sit on the floor, like kids or hippies. 

Carlton turned back to the coffee pot. 

Finally, he turned back around with two styrofoam cups of possibly-good, possibly-bad green tea. He sighed, and sat down in the only chair. 

Spencer took his cup of tea, and perched lightly on the edge of the bed. Strange, Carlton thought. He always seemed like the type that made himself completely at home in other peoples’ space. After another moment, Shawn leaned back, and started bouncing on the bed slightly. Carlton smiled to himself behind his (bad, after all, it turned out) tea. That seemed more like Spencer. 

“Did I…. say anything… embarrassing last night?” Spencer asked, faux-casually.

“You have nothing to be embarrassed about.” Carlton replied quickly, remembering Spencer’s comments about how Henry had always judged him for his struggle with addiction. 

“Oh…. shit.” Spencer laughed a little. “What did I say?”

Carlton struggled to figure out how to reply. Then he decided to lead with the thing that felt most important, that he most wanted Spencer to hear from him.

“I’m sorry about everything that Henry’s said to you, about your struggle with addiction. He shouldn’t speak to you that way.”

Spencer's eyes widened and he put his tea down, before covering his face with both hands. “Oh man. That’s pretty embarrassing.”

He pulled his hands away to look at Carlton again. “Please tell me I didn’t tell you a whole bunch of stuff about how I feel about my dad.”

“I…..”

“Oh no.”

Spencer flopped back on the bed, hands firmly hiding his face again. “I’m sorry, Lassie. Gus is the only other person who knows, so I don’t really have anyone to talk to about this stuff, and it’s been really hard the last month, and…. I don’t know. It all must have just come out.”

…. Guster was the only other person who knew?

Carlton stood up, uncertainly. He was filled with anxiety, with the feeling that he was overstepping his place, but he moved forward anyway. He walked over to the bed. Then he sat on the end of it gingerly. “Spencer?”

“Yeah?”

“.....Henry’s wrong about you. I know you know that, and Guster knows it, but…… I need you to know that I know it too. He’s wrong about you.”

Spencer went completely still for a moment, and then he pulled his hands away from his face again. “Thanks…. Lassie. Thank you.”

Carlton flopped back on the bed, too, with a sigh. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’m not angry. I’m just curious.”

Spencer turned on his side, and looked at Carlton seriously. “I was going to. Before we were interrupted at dinner.”

Carlton felt the most overwhelming urge to reach out and brush Spencer’s cheek. 

Spencer gave him a soft, sad smile, as if he knew what Carlton was thinking. “Maybe it was good we got interrupted. Seems like we would have just learned about another deal-breaker a few minutes later anyway.”

Carlton wrinkled his forehead. “What do you mean?”

“This.” Spencer said, gesturing to himself in a way that was apparently supposed to indicate something other than a handsome man in Carlton’s pajamas. “I’m a recovering addict. I don’t have a cousin struggling with it, that’s probably obvious.”

Carlton shook his head, confused and a little offended. “That wouldn’t have been a dealbreaker. Obviously you should get some kind of treatment, and I would understand if you didn’t want to have a relationship while you work on yourself right now… if you wanted to wait. But… no. That wouldn’t bother me.”

Spencer nodded vaguely at that, and turned on his back to look up at the ceiling. There was a long silence. “Want to see my NA chip?”

“Sure,” Carlton said, surprised by this sudden intimacy. Apparently…. Spencer did trust him. He wasn’t sure what to make about all of this. 

Spencer flopped out of the bed, and Carlton suppressed a laugh when the man stubbed his toe on the table leg as he struggled to pull his wallet out of his wet jeans. 

Spencer tossed him the chip. “It says one day, but… I’ve been back on the wagon longer than just one day. They just don’t give you another chip until you hit 30 days. Which is dumb. And stingy.”

Carlton took the small, round piece of white plastic and turned it over in his hand reverently. “NA meetings?”

Spencer was acting casual, but Carlton knew that this was anything but. This was a step in, towards a man who deflected practically everyone and everything with easy grins and ridiculous jokes. 

“Yeah.” Spencer looked down. “I went to one with Ben. It was really weird.”

Carlton froze, suddenly remembering that it wasn’t his place to feel reverant towards this tiny piece of plastic that had helped Spencer. That it wasn’t his place to feel… any of this. 

He placed the chip down onto the bedspread carefully. 

Spencer stayed standing, leaning against the table. He looked at the chip, and then at Carlton, and then away.

And Carlton realized that it had been a really long time since he had spoken. 

“The NA meetings…. and…. Ben. Why didn’t you tell me about that?”

Well. That was not what he had meant to say. 

This was why talking about feelings was better left to the likes of women and Willie Nelson. 

“I was going to tell you,” Spencer replied, giving him a strange look. “At the dinner. Remember?”

Carlton sighed, and rubbed a hand through his hair. “..... Yes. I remember.”

Spencer took the chip, and started tossing it in the air gently, passing it back and forth between his fingers. “Pretty fucked up, the crime scene tonight.”

“Yes.” 

It was all Carlton could think to say. 

“I wish criminals would… be a little more chill. Be nicer towards the people who have to solve the crimes. Leave behind the clues, the misdirections, the puzzle to solve; without all the…. bodies.”

“The puzzle to solve.”

Carlton felt himself react automatically to that fragment of information. The hint that Spencer did have to solve the crimes step-by-step, just like everyone else. 

“Do you like solving the puzzles?” he asked, his voice slipping into interrogation mode even as his mind screamed what are you doing??? And does this even matter anymore??

Spencer caught the NA chip in midair and turned to look at him, an uncharacteristically sad smile on his face. “You want to know, Lassie?”

Carlton looked back at him. Yes, he wanted to know. No, he didn’t. He… he wanted whatever would keep the spark of their rivalry alive, would keep them connected in the future, would make sure that this wasn’t just…. it.

Spencer tsked gently. “I tell you one secret, and now you want all of them. I can’t exactly go around giving up the secrets to my psychic powers.”

He tossed the chip up in the air and caught it one more time. He looked down at it, and then, with a nod of finality, walked toward the hotel room door. 

“So don’t.” Carlton called to his back.

“What?”

“Don’t.” Carlton repeated. “Don’t tell me anything. Just… stay here.”

Spencer paused, looking confused and curious. “Stay?”

“Yes. It’s late. We should sleep.”

It was a ridiculous thing to say, when Spencer had his own hotel room just down the hall, but what was Carlton supposed to say? 

“I don’t know how long it’s going to take me to get over you, so please, just let me have tonight”

“You could have died . You don’t know it, because I can’t explain it to you, but you really could have died, and now you owe me proof that you’re alive and safe so I can sleep soundly ”

“I think I’m in love with you, and isn’t it funny, how it’s both too early and too late to tell you that?”

“Okay,” Spencer said, as if Carlton was being logical. “Yeah. I’ll stay.”

---

And after that, it was easy to turn out the lights and lie back on the bed together. Still, not touching, in the dark. 

It was easy to look over at Spencer, to faintly make out the edge of his profile in the dark of the hotel room. To listen to his heartbeat.

Carlton reached out, gently, like an idiot, until he felt the warm skin of Spencer’s arm under his fingers. Until he felt his pulse thrumming, joyous confirmation that Spencer was alive. That he was safe.

“.... Hi.” Spencer said, from across the span of the bedspread, out there in the dark.

“......Hello.” Carlton replied.

And then, before he even really realized it, Spencer was turning towards him, and he was opening up his arms to make room for him, and they were curling up together under the bedspread, all warm bodies and cold hands, heartbeats matching each other, beat for beat.

“Hi.” Spencer said again.

“Hel—” Carlton started to say, but then he was cut off by Spencer leaning up to kiss him, and by jerking his head back and away so fast he might have whiplash. 

“Spencer,” he said, unsure where he was going with this. 

Spencer gently extricated himself from between Carlton’s arms, and scootched away across the bed. “... Um… my bad.” he said softly. That sad smile was back, Carlton could just barely see it in the darkness, and he was looking down at his hands. “I thought I was getting mixed signals, but it could have just been…. the spirits… of… the spirit world. They’ve been known to cause interference.”

“I’m sorry.” Carlton replied. “ It’s… it hasn’t been easy for me to let go of what we had.” (almost had, a mean voice in his head pointed out)

“Yeah?” Spencer looked over at him, and his sad smile subsided a bit. “Well, it’s not my fault that you decided to try to date someone who’s been known to work outside of the law. And around it. And sometimes directly against it. But… you know, I can see why that was a deal-breaker. No hard feelings.”

Carlton turned Spencer’s words over in his head, slowly. They weren’t… exactly how he would describe what had happened between them. They weren’t how he would describe it at all, actually. He thought he might as well try to express how he felt about things – this might be his best and last chance to do so. But Spencer was shifting around the bed uncomfortably, and if Carlton was silent too long, he would leave….

“I just— don’t want to just be another notch in your bed post.” Carlton blurted out. 

Harsh, but… true. He didn’t want that. 

Spencer looked at him, and then away again, and then back at him. “....Wait… what?” he asked, his voice full of confusion.

“I….” Carlton took a deep breath. “It’s just... I know how you are. And I don’t want to keep sleeping with you and become just another number to you.”

“How I am? Lassie…. are you slut-shaming me right now?”

“No. I’m not. I’m telling you that you can sleep with whoever you want— sleep with all of Santa Barbara if you want. Just… don’t involve me in it.”

“Okay….. what the hell, Lassie? That’s like…. really rude. You are so rude, like, all the time. Do you know that?”

“Spencer. I’m not trying to be rude, I understand that you like to... sleep with lots of people, and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. I’m just trying to tell you that... I don’t want to be just another notch on your bedpost. I can’t be just another notch on your bedpost.” 

Spencer moved to the end of the bed, sat up, and turned on the light. 

He stared at Carlton, exasperated. 

“Okay, first of all, only you would address me by only my last name while slut-shaming me. Which is what you’re doing right now! And…. I don’t even understand where this is coming from. That’s not how I treated you, at all.”

Yes, you did. Carlton thought angrily. And you didn’t even tell me the truth about it.

Spencer went on, pissed off enough to be waving his arms dramatically. “If you’ve got cold feet, if you don’t like me after all, if you don’t think we would be good together, if you realized you don’t actually want to date a man- just tell me. But don’t hint around about how I’m too slutty for you, or how you’ve suddenly realized you’re too good to date anybody who’s so much as had one single threesome in a bathroom at a U2 concert.”

“Wait…..” Carlton sat up too and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. 

His befuddled brain was trying to parse together Spencer’s words, to separate out Spencer’s meaning from the very explicit imagery that had just appeared in his brain. His brain was not successful. “Spencer, what?”

“I’m saying that we’re both adults, Carlton, and if you have a ‘must be under this amount of slutty’ requirement for dating, that’s the kind of thing you say upfront, not the kind of thing that you keep to yourself. And I can’t believe you’re judging me for my past. Like, what, I was supposed to just wait around my whole life until we met? Besides, if we’re talking slutty, let’s not forget who told who that they were going to fu---” 

“Spencer, hush. Give me a second.” Carlton put out his arm to quiet the man, who had been practically yelling by the time Carlton cut in.

Spencer frowned, crossed his arms, and said something in reply, but all Carlton heard was “Mumble mumble last name mumble mumble.”

Carlton was trying to figure out how the conversation had taken this turn. He was extremely distracted by whatever that story involving a bathroom at a U2 concert was about.

Then he realized, Spencer had misunderstood him somehow. 

“Spencer, it’s not about any of that. I don’t care about your past. It’s about you and Ben.”

“What do you mean? What about him? And you know what, I’ve been meaning to ask you, how do you know him? Since when do you ‘go way back’, with anyone, especially a nightclub owner?”

“It doesn’t matter how I know him.”

“Okay, it definitely does matter, but…. will you just tell me what you’re talking about?”

Carlton turned and looked at Spencer, and saw that the man was staring at him, confusion and pain written on his face. 

He… really didn’t know what Carlton was talking about. 

And Carlton was…. an asshole. Possibly the biggest asshole of all time

Carlton’s voice was a bit squeaky when it came out. “Okay… it seems….. I may have been wrong about you.”

Shawn laughed in exasperation and climbed out of the bed, then flopped back down on top of the comforter exhaustedly, stretching out like a starfish. He laid his elbow over his eyes, shielding them from the light. “Lassie.... how many more times am I going to have to hear you say that?”

Carlton slipped out of the bed too, and walked over to sit at the farthest corner of the bed from Shawn, cross-legged. 

It was a while before he could speak. “Ben... told me that the two of you were sleeping together. For weeks. Even while you and I were… getting to know one another.”

“Okay, well we’re not. And we weren’t. Ever. I barely even know the guy. The only person I was sleeping with was you.”

“That is… becoming clearer to me.”

“Carlton, you’re so dumb sometimes.”

“That’s….. fair.”

Shawn peeked out from under his elbow. “So….. are you going to catch me up on who Ben is, why you’re discussing your sex lives with each other, why he’s lying to you, and why you trust him more than me?”

Carlton winced. All of the various aspects of his life were colliding in a much more dramatic way then he had ever been prepared for, and…. he really wasn’t sure what to say while keeping his supernatural origins secret. 

“......No?”

“Carlton.”

“....Okay.”

Carlton lay down, next to Shawn, and took a deep breath before he began to speak. They were laying flat on their backs, looking up like they were cloudwatching, even though it was just the hotel room’s popcorn ceiling above them.

“So…. you know, I haven’t always been a cop, and I haven’t always lived in Santa Barbara.”

Shawn turned on his side, towards Carlton, and gasped. “Wait, am I getting Carlton Lassiter backstory right now?”

“Yes, hush. I lived in San Francisco for a long time. I was in a relationship with this man... Romulus.”

“Romulus?”

“Yes, Romulus. He owns the San Fransisco La Boîte de Nuit.”

“The La Boîte de Nuit where our number one suspect worked? And where he was last seen alive?”

“Yes… but, the original one.”

“... Who are you?” Shawn asked in mild amazement, as he lay his hand gently on Lassiter’s arm. 

Carlton leaned into his touch. “You know me. I’m Carlton Lassiter, head detective of the SBPD. And….. I don’t like talking about my past. But Romulus was part of it. And so was Ben.”

“Okay, so how was Ben part of it?”

“He was Romulus’s… assistant, I guess you would call it. Still is, it seems. And he always hated me.”

“Is he dangerous?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you warn me?”

“It’s… complicated.”

Spencer rubbed his hand gently up and down Carlton’s arm, thoughtfully. “And by that, you mean that I’m still missing 90% of the context here.”

“You are.”

“Are you going to tell me?”

“Tonight? No.”

“Someday?”

Carlton realized uncomfortably that “someday” might have to come very soon, with the way the murders were escalating. The way the danger was escalating. 

He sighed. “Yes. Maybe tomorrow.”

Shawn rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

They laid like that for another minute. 

Carlton closed his eyes and enjoyed the feeling of Shawn’s hand gently on his arm. 

“I have another question.” Shawn said thoughtfully.

Carlton stilled. “What is it?”

“Will you please just kiss me already?”

A wide smile spread across Carlton’s face, and he took a moment to take in the way Shawn looked right now. To notice everything about this moment. 

The gentle hotel lighting, the soft white bedspread, the expectant smile that Shawn was watching him with, the way that Shawn practically swam in Carlton’s old police academy sweats. He wanted to remember all of it. 

He wanted to remember every detail of the moment that he realized it was okay to let himself fall in love. 

He lightly put his hand around the back of Shawn’s neck and rolled onto his back, pulling Shawn on top of him. Their lips met, and…

He would have expected it to be fiery, brash, intense. For all the feelings they’d apparently both been struggling with to come to the surface, driving them both to throw themselves at each other desperately. 

But it wasn’t like that it all. 

It felt like… like he’d been on a vacation. Or on a work trip, maybe. And finally, it was over. And he’d driven for hours, and pulled off the highway at his usual exit, then wound his way back through the streets of his neighborhood, each turn more familiar than the last. And the season had been changing the last few weeks— foggy summer giving way to crisp autumn, maybe. And he hadn’t noticed it before he left, not really, because he never remembered to notice those things. But now, here, back where everything was familiar, all the tiny changes stuck out to him. The slight cool breeze in the air. The distant sound of waves, picking up steam after a flat and docile summer, crashing against the shore. 

Like he was taking it all in, all these tiny changes that were easy to completely ignore, as he stepped out of his car. And feeling his legs stretch as he walked to his apartment building, in the way that your legs stretch when they somehow know you’re done with a long trip, and that it’ll be a long time before they spend that many hours in a row cramped up in a car again. And grabbing his mail, and walking up the stairs, everything now so familiar that he could do it blindfolded. 

And then… it was like he was home. 

Shawn’s lips were soft, and slightly chapped, and he still tasted faintly like a whiskey sour. And he was holding himself so carefully over Carlton, so gently, and it felt so pure.

That thought fled to the back of Carlton’s mind one moment later, when bit down on Shawn’s lip, and Shawn’s mouth opened onto his with a deep groan. 

---

Shawn liked it rough. Carlton knew that. 

And he liked it too. The push and pull, the energy, how easy it was to lose himself in the moment and suddenly feel brave enough to try a new position, or try some random idea he’d just thought of, spurred on by the desperate drive to give both of them, but particularly Shawn, more.

But that didn’t stop him from easing Shawn back off of him, from turning the other man over and pressing him down into the bed. It didn’t stop him from quelling Shawn’s intense energy with a long, slow back massage— slow enough that Shawn eventually gave in and stopped trying to kiss him, and instead relaxed his shoulders with a sigh, sinking down into the mattress. 

It didn’t stop him from covering Shawn’s body in small kisses, his hands stroking across the man’s body as well all the while. Shawn twisted around during that, too, trying to yank Carlton down to kiss him, trying to grab Carlton’s ass to drag their hips together, but Carlton just slowed down even more, and Shawn gave in again and fell back with a sigh, letting out the quietest noises of appreciation and pleasure. 

Carlton pulled off his own clothes carefully, wanting to savor this moment for as long as possible. 

“Shawn.” was all his brain had to say, pretty unhelpfully. But… yes. It was right. Shawn.

When Carlton finally slid between Shawn’s thighs, finally kissed him and slotted their hips together, finally wrapped his hand around both of their erections and stroked— long, and slow, and savoring, it felt like time had slowed down somehow.

Like Carlton had cheated, and really had turned this moment until the longest moment of his life. 

Like, if he wanted, he could stay there forever.

---

Afterward, he and Shawn lay flat on their backs on the bed again. The alarm clock had been turned upside down, so they didn’t have to think about how many hours of sleep they were losing. Well, Shawn was losing. For Carlton, it didn’t really matter either way. 

But Shawn, eyes half-open and one hand gently tracing across Carlton’s chest, clearly needed the rest. 

“It’s weird to think about, Lassie,” he said with a yawn. “We know each other pretty well. But also, like, we don’t. There’s tons of stuff we don’t know about each other.”

“I know you’re loud and annoying,” Carlton replied automatically as he blinked his eyes open. He had been falling asleep, without even realizing.

“You mean that you know I’m great in bed.” Shawn replied. Which Carlton had not meant, but… it was true, so he didn’t say anything. “But there’s tons of things you don’t know about me. And I don’t know about you.”

“Hmmmm.” Carlton replied non-commitedly. “I’ve been building up a resistance to chloroform for over a decade.”

“See!” Shawn said loudly, lightly slapping Carlton’s chest. “And you know how to ride a motorcycle. You’re a mystery man, Lassie.”

“Mhmm.” Carlton closed his eyes again and reached out for Shawn, pulling him closer until they were spooning. He was more tired than he had realized.

“Lassie.” Shawn hissed.

“What?” Carlton asked, annoyed. 

“Ask me something.”

“Okay…. Tell me something about yourself I don’t know.”

“Hmmm.” Shawn said thoughtfully, snuggling closer to him. “Let’s see. Someday, I’m going to invent the savory churro and become rich and famous. I can’t drive stick. Umm…. My blood type’s AB negative, so Gus always gets waaaay more attention than me at blood drives. I mean, It’s like they don’t even want my blood sometimes. I—”

“Shawn.” Carlton intrerrupted him, his eyes suddenly wide open. “Say that again.”

“Gus gets more attention than….”

“The other part. Say the other part again.”

“Oh. My blood type’s AB negative.”

Carlton sat up, quickly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His mind raced through the theory that it was quickly pulling together, trying to remember all the autopsy reports, trying to remember if…. yes. He was almost certain. 

He stared down at Shawn’s curious, groggy expression, and took a deep breath before he spoke.

“Shawn, I think we just solved the case.”

Chapter Text

Carlton stared down at the autopsy reports, spread out all around him. He’d been right. It was the same. In almost every single one.

Looking down at them all, in the dim light of the hotel room, he felt untethered. His thoughts kept drifting into anxiety, fear, anger at himself for not thinking of this sooner. 

But then Shawn would shift slightly in his position, curled up on the bed with his head in Carlton’s lap. Or he would mumble something in his sleep. Or the noise of a car passing, or the overly-loud AC clicking on would fill the room, and Carlton would remember that it didn’t matter how serious this was, or how much death he would have prevented if he had figured this out sooner.

He knew what they were doing, now. And he could stop it. 

…… If only he knew why.

Shawn shifted in his sleep again, mumbling something about how he “couldn’t fit that many pineapples in his briefcase”.

Carlton laughed and bent down to kiss him on the forehead. This wasn’t how he would have chosen to spend their first night together, as a real couple, (that was, if Shawn still wanted to be a real couple) but he wouldn’t have traded Shawn’s presence for anything in the world. 

He looked back down at the reports. 

Blood Type O+.

It was the one, unifying factor that linked almost every single victim. They were all universal blood donors. Universal organ donors. 

It had taken him so long to see what was happening, because, well, humans didn’t really do meticulous, back-alley surgery to remove every single one of someone random person’s organs, killing the donator in the process, before dumping the body in a field, or on a pier, or in the elevator of a five-star hotel. 

But… his kind…. apparently did.

He looked up from his papers again, and over at the curtains, where the sun was starting to rise behind them, creeping into the room from behind the thick panels in a bright, golden glow. 

Morning. Already.

Carlton sighed. He knew what he had to do if he wanted to get some answers. 

He slid out of the bed carefully, amidst Shawn’s quiet noises of protest. He dressed and put all of the autopsy reports back in their case files silently. 

Then he looked around the room one more time, trying to ignore the growing feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. 

It was just an errand, he reminded himself. A quick conversation. One that was no longer avoidable, if he wanted to understand the full picture of what was going on. 

He would go out. And then he would come back, and he would apologize for refusing to explain any of his theory to Shawn last night. And he would tell him everything. 

And together, they would decide what to do next. 

He paused one more time, grabbed a small notepad printed with the hotel’s logo, and scrawled a quick note. 

“Shawn, I have to do something. If you wake up before I get back, just meet O’Hara downstairs for breakfast. I should be back in time to join you.”

Then he added, in cramped letters at the bottom of the small piece of stationary, 

“I can’t wait to be your boyfriend. If you’ll have me. —Carlton.”

Outside the hotel, the morning air was chilly and half-opaque. Carlton felt amused, and oddly at home amongst the clouds of San Francisco fog. 

He looked back at the hotel one more time. 

The feeling of dread was still stuck in his stomach, decidely immobile. But he was being ridiculous. 

Carlton would be fine. 

He’d be back at the hotel in a few minutes or hours, and he would talk to Shawn, and then O’Hara, and they would come up with a plan. 

And everything would be fine.