Chapter One

The last thing Carlton remembered before hitting the ditch was the soft sound of Spencer singing under his breath.

Before that, the incessant chatter from the passenger seat.

He'd told the psychic to shut it with less animosity than he usually mustered, too exhausted to argue with the same level of vehemence they were both accustomed to but unable to bear the noise any longer. It had been a long two days, after all, driving across the state in pursuit of a man he couldn't wait to get his hands on.

Never before had Carlton actually craved the opportunity to kill a criminal, but there was a first time for everything. And if anyone deserved it, it was this asshole.

He couldn't quite believe it when the case had crossed his desk. Had it not been for the look of solemnity sketched across the Chief's face as she'd handed him the file, he would have assumed it to be some sick Halloween prank. But it wasn't. It was some reject mental health patient high on bath salts or something. Some sick twist serial-killing his way across the county. A fucking devil-worshipping sadist stringing up young women as some sort of sacrifice to his beloved Beelzebub.

Carlton had almost hurled at the sight of the crime scene photos, his stomach curdling as he pictured the hell those women had gone through prior to their asphyxiation. He had hurled after the coroner informed him it hadn't been prior, but during. That their perp had strung them up just enough to hurt, raising and lowering them like a human fucking yo-yo as he cut and burned and melted their flesh; keeping them barely breathing and hovering on the precipice of consciousness, only hoisting them to fatal heights and allowing them to choke to death on a combination of rope and terror as they poured their lifeblood into the sigils he had sketched into the ground below.

It wasn't a real Satanist, Carlton knew. He wasn't Head Detective for nothing, having learned through copious amounts of research that the average Satanist tended to be both peaceful and passive. But that didn't make it any better. In fact, it almost made it worse when that information led them to a guy that led to a clue that led to O'Hara going undercover in an attempt to catch the rat bastard.

He had protested, of course.

Carlton had protested more than he had ever protested anything in his life.

O'Hara had been pissed at him for it, thinking his reaction was undermining her skills as an investigator, but Carlton didn't care. She was exactly the type and he couldn't bear the thought of what could happen if things went pear-shaped. For three days after, he'd had nightmares, the crime scene photos swimming through his head, every victim's face turning into hers. Every victim's screams turning into hers. Which is what made it so much worse when his fears became reality, the fucker spiriting her away before they could bust in and catch him, a chloroform-soaked rag left at the abduction site mocking him as he stared.

Spencer had been called in then. He'd wanted to be in on the case since the beginning, but the Chief had said it was too dangerous to involve civilians. Once O'Hara had gone missing, though, the cavalry had been called in, regardless the cost. They couldn't lose her – wouldn't lose her – and it didn't matter what it would take; each and every one of them was willing to sacrifice everything in order to prevent it.

Juliet was their best. She was their brightest.

O'Hara was their heart and fucking soul.

Twelve hours later, they'd found her hanging from the rafters of an abandoned warehouse on the east side just off highway 101, her legs still twitching beneath her body as she swung through the air. Whether from struggling to stay alive or the throes of death, Carlton was unsure. He'd just known that he needed to get her down and ignoring the perp as he'd dashed through the back door to freedom, he had shot at the ropes holding her aloft, yelling at Spencer and Guster to catch her as she fell.

Their bodies cushioned hers as she hit the ground and at that moment, he had never been more grateful for their presence.

Everything after that was a blur. The smell of the ocean breeze as it wafted through the door. The sound of his gun as it dropped to the floor. The screeching sirens of backup as it arrived, the Chief shouting orders to catch the bastard, dead or alive. Spencer holding Juliet's body and the tears that openly fell from his eyes, the man begging and pleading for her not to give up.

Her very faint pulse, barely detectable at Carlton's soft touch.

The paramedics had arrived scant seconds after the Chief had, prying the psychic away from her and whispering promises they had no right to speak; words of solace and statements of hope that there was no way they could guarantee. Vick had walked over to the men then, all three huddled around as the medics lifted O'Hara onto the stretcher, her voice low and unsteady as she told them that there was nothing they could do but thank God they had gotten there before the mutilation had begun.

That they were lucky the motherfucker had spooked, hearing them coming and only hanging her before he had run.

Only hanging her.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Carlton had nearly snapped at the words, stopping himself solely due to the silent hand placed on his shoulder by their resident charlatan. It was a touch followed by a look, both laden with sorrow, and it reminded Carlton that he was not alone. That they were all suffering and his losing it on anyone, let alone the Chief, would do absolutely no good.

Intending to follow the ambulance in his Crown Vic but finding himself unable to drive, Carlton had stalked off after that, covered in a cold sweat. His hands shook and he'd leaned against his car; the driver's door the only thing holding him up as his knees weakened, he was grateful for the handle pressed into his spine – the discomfort it caused the only thing reminding him he was alive.

He didn't know how much time had passed before Spencer stood beside him, inquisitive hazel eyes searching his face for who knows what, that hand back on his shoulder as the other tilted his chin up, forcing him to look the psychic in the face. Spencer was hurting, too, not only in spirit but in body, his movements clearly stiff after acting as a human safety net.

He should've gotten checked out too, but Carlton knew there was no way he would've drawn attention away from O'Hara, willing to suffer through his pain if it meant someone could help her through hers.

"Lassie," he had said, his voice cracking under the weight of the emotion it carried, those searching eyes of his looking lost. Looking scared. "Lassie, what do we do?'

A first for Spencer, the man always insisting he had the answer.

But this time he didn't, and Carlton didn't either, and they just stood there staring at each other as the world spun in circles around them – sights, sounds, and smells all fading into nothingness as their respective worlds crumbled.

"I- I don't know, Spencer," he had said, and Spencer's hand had clutched tight, the fingers digging into Carlton's shoulder almost painfully. He stared at the psychic, knowing he looked just as wrecked as he did, doing everything in his power not to break down. Doing everything in his power to not break down and failing.

"I – We –" he started, unsure of where his words were leading him, what he could possibly say. "We go to the hospital. Then we find the bastard."

He paused. Took a deep breath.

"And if we're very lucky, I put a bullet in his brain."

Shawn nodded at that, lips pressed together in a cold, determined grin that would have scared the crap out of Carlton could he be bothered to care.

It was a grin that was rictus and manic and anguished, and it somehow made Carlton feel safe.

Less alone.

"Works for me," Spencer said, taking the keys from the cop's still trembling hands and gently shoving him aside.

Too tired to protest, Carlton let him.

"Get in," Shawn said. "I'll drive."

O'Hara was unresponsive when they'd arrived. Not dead, just not… anything, her body having slipped into a comatose state at the shock of near strangulation. Or, failed strangulation, rather.

They'd gotten there last, the rest of the team having sped off as they'd been talking, Gus having left the Blueberry behind to go with the Chief. Arriving to faces far grimmer than expected – which said a lot, all things considered – they'd quickly learned why when the Chief informed them that she had been wrong about the lack of mutilation. Carlton's head had spun when she said it, clearing only when Spencer put his fist through the nearest wall, the psychic softly apologizing but clearly not meaning it.

O'Hara had been saved from the worst of it, it had seemed, but the doctors had found a small sigil during their cursory examination; a small piece of hell burned into the sole of her left foot, easily overlooked but still marking her as a victim nonetheless.

It wasn't long after that Carlton had asked the Chief – told the Chief – to send him on the hunt. There'd been reports of someone fitting the description of Satan's Right-Hand Man high-tailing it out of the city headed North and Carlton couldn't just sit on his hands while they waited for news as to whether his partner was going to live or die. He needed to do something – anything – and fueled by a rage he'd never felt before, was determined to bring the motherfucker down, no matter what it took.

What it took, apparently, was Spencer at his side, Vick agreeing begrudgingly, so long as Carlton took the psychic along for the ride.

He should have argued. Should have put up more of a fight than he did. He wanted to care, to protest as much as he used to. But he didn't. Couldn't. And the Chief didn't so much as raise an eyebrow when he sighed a "Fine" of acceptance to her condition to his trip.

Normally, it would have mattered. Normally Spencer's obnoxious presence would have triggered something inside him – unbridled lust or equally matched self-disgust at the growing attraction he had for the man who undercut him at every turn – but he was too grief stricken for any of it to affect him like it should. His partner was clinging to life in a hospital bed. His internal battle with his feelings could go fuck itself.

Spencer was there, and he wanted to help.

Everything else was irrelevant.

They'd stopped at their respective homes long enough to pack overnight bags, Carlton barely blinking at the sight of Spencer's residence as they pulled in to the dry-cleaners-turned-abode. Normal wasn't a word he'd use to describe Spencer as a person on the best of days, so why would his home be any different? What did surprise Carlton, though, was the speed with which he moved, the psychic in and out in less than five minutes, slamming the door behind him as he shrugged a brown leather jacket over his shoulders.

"What took you so long?" he asked Spencer dryly, the man quickly and quietly sliding back into the vehicle.

Uncharacteristically, Spencer missed the sarcasm entirely.

"Couldn't find my toothbrush," he said, tossing his duffel onto the backseat.

Lassiter raised his eyebrow, confused and a little curious. "How the hell do you lose a toothbrush?"

Shawn just shrugged. "Stayed at the Psych office last night. Probably left it there this morning."

Carlton had cocked his head at that.

"Why are you sleeping at the office when you have what I assume is a big comfy bed up there?" he said, pointing to the space Spencer had just vacated.

Spencer replied, running his hand along the bridge of his nose like it would rub away the sleeplessness Carlton had just noticed written all over his face. "Why, Lassie... I didn't know you spent time thinking of my bed. Do you think about it often? And with me in it, all naked and writhing about?"

He'd looked at Carlton when he said it, a tired smile in his eyes and on his lips, and when Carlton's response was nothing but slightly flushed cheeks, he sighed and continued. "Never said I slept there, Lassieface. Said I stayed there."

"You couldn't sleep either, huh?"

The question was out of his mouth before he could stop himself, five little words that let Shawn know that they were in the same boat. That they shared the same pain. Too much information; information he hadn't wanted to share. But the little boy-cat was out of the bag now, so what could he do?

He'd expected more snark in response, but the psychic had surprised him, shaking his head no, his face drawn and solemn. "Can't. Every time I close my eyes, I see her swinging, Lass," he said, the admission echoing in Carlton's head, Shawn's truth mirroring his own. "I don't even wanna blink anymore."

Carlton looked at him a moment, their connecting eyes radiating sorrow, a melancholic bond being forged between them.

"Yeah," he breathed, turning his head back toward the windshield as he twisted the key in the ignition. "Me too."

It was silent for a while after that, the only words spoken their order placed at the Starbucks drive-through on their way out of town, Spencer reasonably insisting they get jacked on caffeine since neither had slept. There was no mindless babbling. No unanswerable questions. Oddly, not even the sound of the radio, which Carlton had been sure Spencer was going to fight him on. Shawn just sat there, head against the passenger side window as he stared through the glass unobtrusively – a trait Carlton never thought he'd be able to apply to the man.

It was quiet driving through Los Olivos. Quiet in Santa Maria. Quiet past Avila Beach. And though it had only been an hour and a half since they'd left their home city, Carlton was starting to find the silence unnerving, the lack of sound combined with the setting sun creating a mood he wasn't quite comfortable with.

"Do you stay at the office often?" he found himself asking the man, trying to break the silence with something inconsequential; needing conversation but unable to deal with anything heavy. Not really caring about the answer, it was a question he hadn't planned on asking – but it was something, and something was better than nothing.

Snapped out of his reverie by the sound of Carlton's voice, Spencer turned his head to look at him, surprised by the query. "Sorry, what?" he said. "I wasn't paying attention."

Carlton shot a quick glance Shawn's way. "Yeah, I figured that when we passed Dinosaur Caves Park and you didn't ask if we could stay and play."

He paused a moment, unsure if he wanted the answer to the next question, either.

"Are you okay, Spencer?"

Shawn eyed him curiously, eyes still locked on Carlton's face even after the cop had refocused his vision on the road.

"Are any of us?" the psychic replied after a second. "Are any of us ever?"

The answer was no, of course, but Carlton hadn't expected Spencer to get so existential on him, the usually upbeat consultant seemingly deflated of the life that usually had him flying high. But maybe after seeing O'Hara strung up from the rafters, high wasn't a place he wanted to be anymore. Maybe he needed to be grounded, wanted to be stuck straight to the earth, jet-pack packed away until further notice. Carlton certainly knew he did, needing to find a way to ground himself now more than ever.

Without knowing he was going to, the cop reached out, laying his hand on top of the consultant's unbandaged one and giving it a squeeze as it rested on the man's knee. Spencer had comforted him at the scene; Carlton could bring himself to do the same now, awkward and unintentional though it may be. Because while he knew he came across as heartless at the precinct in order to get the job done, this was one of those instances where shutting himself off would only hurt the people he cared about.

And Shawn was already hurting plenty.

If the circumstances had been different, Carlton wouldn't have even considered the commiseration, too afraid his irrational crush may be found out and unwilling to deal with the consequences. But this was a special occasion – one he'd hoped to never encounter – and because of that, society's expectations for him could get fucked. The compassion he offered might help heal them both and he just couldn't bring himself to add to the pain by denying it, desperately needing the lightened load. Isolation was the devil right now and if either of them succumbed to it, they'd both wind up in a freefall of frustration and depression, likely to drown when they hit the turbulent emotional waters below.

Carlton didn't want that to happen. He really didn't want that to happen.

An inquisitive shine in his eyes, Shawn stared, his fingers shifting so their digits interlocked, opening his mouth to say something but quickly deciding against it. Carlton chose not to ask, the sound of the road beneath them passing time and saying plenty with every spin of the tires. They drove like that a little while, neither speaking words both knew needed to be said, the cop trying to focus on following the killer's trail and the psychic letting the feel of Carlton's skin drown out his emotional pain.

It would be a long, weird trip, after all. There would be time for talk after catching O'Hara's wannabe killer.

But about what, Carlton had no idea.

Spencer let go about an hour later, releasing Carlton's slightly numb hand to turn on the radio.

Carlton had almost thought the man had fallen asleep and had been considering slipping free, relieved to find that it wasn't the case and that Spencer had released him of his own accord. Flexing his fingers, he noted how clammy his palm had gotten and was surprised that Shawn hadn't said anything, the feeling bound to have been uncomfortable.

"Why am I not surprised this thing is set to NPR?" the psychic asked as he fiddled with the volume, clearly irritated by the detective's choice of radio stations.

Carlton cracked a wry grin at that, eyes leaving the road for a second as he glanced over. "I don't know, Spencer. Isn't this the part where you go 'blah blah blah, psychic', then do that stupid thing with your fingers to your head? Shouldn't you already have the answer?"

Rolling his eyes, Shawn sighed in response. "It was a rhetorical question, Lassiepants. It's clearly because you're a stuffy, uptight old man with no sense of fun," he said, flipping around until he found a classic rock station before settling back in his seat.

The comment made Carlton pause.

Was that really how Spencer saw him?

He sure as hell hoped not. They'd been working together long enough by now that Carlton had hoped the perceptive son of a bitch would know better than that – that there was a wellspring of personality in the detective far deeper than that of the mask he wore to work most days.

"Is that really what you think of me?" he asked, needing to know and seeing no reason not to be blunt about it.

Shawn shrugged.

"When it comes to your taste in radio? Absolutely."

"And non-radio related stuff?" Carlton inquired, holding his breath for an answer that might change things between them. If Shawn didn't know, if he was walking around with his head so far up his ass that he couldn't see Carlton for who he really was –

Carlton's phone rang, the traditional tone interrupting both his thoughts and Shawn's answer.

Shawn glanced around like he'd never heard a ringing phone before and was wondering where the sound was coming from until Carlton rolled his eyes and informed him.

"It's my cell, Spencer," he said. "And it's probably the precinct. Can you answer it? Without being a jackass, I mean? If it's news from the Chief, we need it sooner rather than later."

"But… it sounds like a phone, Lassie! I swear I've shown you how to make it sound like something cooler. You didn't like the rifle fire I had it set to before?" Shawn asked, making no movement to grab it, a bemused look on his face.

"No, Spencer. I didn't like the sound of being shot at every time it rang. Now can you answer it, please? I'd rather not have to pull over in the dark if we can avoid it."

Shawn smiled, nodding in agreement as the phone continued to ring.

"Sure, Lass. Where is it?"

Carlton paled as he realized the offending piece of technology was tucked away in his trousers, pressed tight against his leg. "It's in my pants," he said. "Never mind, Spencer. I'll pull over in a minute and -"

But Shawn had already snaked into Carlton's pocket, his fingers brushing the top of his thigh as he worked the Blackberry out of the folds of fabric, Carlton's protest dying on his lips when the slightly burn-y sensation from Shawn's hand in such an intimate area overtook his ability to think.

"Lassie's phone. Super sexy psychic Shawn Spencer speaking," the younger man answered, earning him a glower from the Head Detective.

"Spencer…" Carlton growled in warning, secretly thankful for the juvenile greeting that allowed him to refocus his emotions. Shawn ignored him and flapped his wrist at the cop, trying to shut him up, a finger from his damaged hand plugging his other ear as neither man had been smart enough to turn the radio down.

"Uh-huh," he said into the phone, his face falling at whatever he heard. "Uh-huh. Yeah, okay."

A pause.

"Yeah, I'll let him know."

Another pause.

"Thanks, Chief. You, too."

The suspense was killing Carlton, the look on Spencer's face telegraphing that it was bad news. He felt sick to his stomach, part of him dying to know and the other part wanting to flee from whatever information Spencer held as fast as he possibly could. But he was a cop and this his duty, so no matter how much he may have dreaded asking, he had to.

"Shawn -?" he said, the man's name slipping out, the gravity of their situation diffusing the playful banter they usually had between them. He was always Lassie and Shawn was always Spencer and their refusal to give each other even an inch regarding their given names was practically foreplay for them. But foreplay was the furthest thing from his mind right then, the look on the psychic's face scaring him.

"How far away are we from King City?" he asked, and Carlton blinked, the response not what he expected.

"About twenty minutes," he said, voice hardening as he tried to brace himself for whatever was coming. "Why?"

"Vick wants us to pull in there for the night. Their PD has some info for us, it seems. They recognized our perp from the BOLO she sent out and we're supposed to meet with their Chief in the morning. Name of Nick Baldiviez. You know him?"

Carlton's jaw clenched.

"Yeah, I know him. Met him at a conference a few years ago."

"And?"

"He's an asshole. Way too opinionated for a man who runs a staff of seventeen people. Spent three days stuck in a hall with him trying to tell the organizers how things should be run, as if that backwoods almost-hillbilly had all the answers," he replied, thoughts flitting to a weekend he hadn't thought of in years. He'd hated the man, not that the man had noticed, and had it not been for the fact that they were both cops, he probably would've popped him a good one at some point. "Wouldn't surprise me if he was a dirty cop, either. Just seemed too…"

He let the sentence trail off, not knowing how to end it and preferring not to get himself riled up. He already had too much on his plate pissing him off. The last thing he needed was to head into King City with a grudge against the man who might be helping them, as well.

"Too what, Lassie?" Shawn asked, pressing.

Carlton shook his head.

"I don't know. There was just something about him," he replied, answering the question as tactfully as he could, knowing his refusal would just keep Spencer on his ass about it. "He seemed off. Too big for his britches with no reason to be, I guess."

Shawn laughed, weaker than his usual chuckle but the man still obviously amused.

"Check you out using your intuition, Lassie! I wasn't sure you even knew the word."

"Of course, I know intuition," Carlton replied, a little smug. "You can't be a good cop without it. It's also why I know there's something you're not telling me."

Shawn's smile warmed at that, the man responding playfully as he deflected, clearly not wanting to share the information he promised Vick he would and doing his best to distract Carlton from it.

"There's lots I'm not telling you, Lassie. My SAT scores. My secret recipe for pumpkin cookies. The color of my favorite butt plug."

Carlton's ears turned red when he heard that, his cheeks quickly flushing the same shade of crimson as his car as Spencer continued listing things off.

"Why I have a hate-on for daddy dearest most days. The thing that got me suspended from the third grade for most of a month. What I'm getting you for Christmas this year…"

"Spencer," Carlton sighed, exasperated. "It's about O'Hara, isn't it?'

Shawn stopped mid-sentence, Carlton's words drowning out what he was going to say. His head dropped to his chest and Carlton knew it wasn't good. He knew it wasn't good and he felt his fingers grip the steering wheel tight, his knuckles turning lily-white, his breath slowing to almost non-existent as his heart pounded in his chest. It wasn't good and here Spencer had been joking with him like neither had a care in the world. He'd been sitting here thinking of Spencer's hand on his thigh and what color plug he liked to shove up his ass and O'Hara was still fucking dying and what the fuck was wrong with them both?

Shawn looked up at him, expression guarded, like he didn't want to be the messenger that got shot.

"She – I –" he started, staring at the phone he'd dropped into his lap after the call, like looking at it hard enough would make the news go away.

Carlton felt sick. He felt angry. He felt like he was going to kill someone, and if Spencer didn't answer him soon, it was probably going to be him, regardless of the affection he felt for the man.

"Spencer! Out with it!" he snapped and watched as Shawn flinched, Carlton's phone sent flying to the floor of his car.

Shawn reached down to pick it up, wincing when he banged his bandaged hand against the glove-box, gingerly setting the cell in the center console after he'd retrieved it. He looked at Carlton, mouth open like a fish gasping for air before closing it again and shaking his head.

"Not here, Lass. I know you wanna know but wait 'til we get to King City, k?"

He paused, his voice pleading as he finished.

"Please?"

It took everything he'd had to not wring Shawn's neck, the knowledge that bad news was coming hanging over his head like the sword of Damocles until they'd pulled into the Fireside Inn, just a few blocks from the King City Police Department. He'd grabbed their bags from the backseat after snatching his phone from Spencer's lap, storming towards the front desk to check them in and trying not to think about the fact that his fingertips had grazed something clearly not in the psychic's pocket.

Shawn had shifted in his jacket, reaching to take his bag back from the detective only to get his hand brushed away, standing wordlessly beside Carlton as the cop asked for two queens when offered that or the choice of a single king. They were on a stipend, so Spencer knew he wasn't getting his own room, but Carlton had half-expected a crack about them bunking together and was almost a little disappointed when it didn't come. Shawn just looked at him gently, grabbing both bags from his hands as the cop reached for his wallet to pay and slipping the key off the counter from where the ugly old woman had tossed it while Carlton was busy signing them in.

He stood silently as Carlton got his receipt. He followed silently as Carlton trudged toward the room through the thick night air. He handed Carlton the key, watching without a peep as the cop let them in and flipped the switch, bathing the room in an ugly yellow glow. Carlton turned to Shawn after that, eyebrow arched as he waited for something to be said – something to be done – and Shawn just shuffled in, not making a sound.

It was really starting to piss him off.

The psychic shut the door behind them and dropped their bags on one of the beds, squeezing past the dresser and the shitty tv to open the mini-fridge, a frown on his face as he noticed its lack of complimentary alcohol.

"Spencer…?" Carlton started, frustrated by the lack of communication. "We're here. You –"

"Need to find the nearest liquor store," Shawn finished, pulling away from the icebox and turning to see Carlton crowding his space.

"This isn't party time, Spencer," Carlton replied, voice tight with fear and anticipation as he took what he had hoped was an intimidating step closer.

He was tired. He was tired, and he was irritable, and he just wanted to find out the worst and move on with his night. They had a cop he hated to talk to in the morning and a killer he wanted dead to track down after that and he just needed to know what the hell was going on so he could work his way through it and try to get some fucking sleep.

He didn't need the psychic getting drunk.

This wasn't a National Lampoon road trip, after all, even though it looked like he'd have to remind the man of that. They were reverse Thelma and Louise-ing it on the hunt for the man who'd abducted O'Hara and if Spencer didn't share what he'd learned soon, Carlton was going to fucking snap.

"Now would you tell me about my partner, or do I have to call the Chief and get you fired for withholding information?" he continued, brow furrowing as he glared.

Shawn's eyes flashed, a mixture of hurt and surprise crossing his face as he replied, indignant.

"You wouldn't dare."

Carlton just stared back, nearing his last nerve.

He most certainly would dare. But he didn't want to and hoped the man wouldn't force his hand on the matter. It was true that he hadn't wanted Spencer on the trip in the first place, but now they were on the road, he couldn't imagine going on without him. Shawn's presence – though currently insufferable – soothed him in ways he hadn't expected, and he didn't know if he could bare to part with that feeling. Being around the man was its own special kind of hell – the cop's thoughts bouncing from arousal to aggravation to ennui and back again – but being alone would be so much worse, the distraction Spencer provided probably the only thing keeping Carlton sane.

"Try me, Spencer. I'm not in the mood for your shit tonight," he said, staring the psychic down. "Now either spill or I'll start dialing and you can explain to the Chief why you're hitch-hiking it back to Santa Barbara."

The threat was hollow, but Shawn didn't know that. He'd never make the younger man hitch-hike, though he knew the psychic would probably do it simply out of spite, the tales of his travels around the world prior to coming back home having included the unsafe method transportation more than once. Really, if push came to shove he would probably call Henry to come and pick his son up, but he didn't want to have to, knowing it would fracture the relationship he had with Shawn even further, the man's dislike for his father evident.

"For fucks sake, Lassie!" Shawn exclaimed, turning to shoulder back past the detective, clearly frustrated with the response. "Is that a threat? Are you really threatening me?"

"Not a threat. A promise. And it's nothing less than what you deserve for defying a direct order. I've waited long enough," Carlton said, no longer trying to hide how frayed his nerves were, cracking the knuckles on his right hand with his thumb as he tried to dispel some of the pent-up irritation he felt. "Can't you see how much this is killing me? She's my fucking partner, Spencer! Don't you think I deserve to know what the hell is going on?!"

"It's because I see how much this is killing you, jack-ass!" Shawn replied, holding both his ground and Carlton's gaze, his chin jutting out in defiance. "Do you really think so low of me that you'd believe I was withholding important information for no reason, Lassie? Especially info about Jules? I'm not doing it to piss you off, I'm doing it because I know how you're going to react, you idiot! And it'll be way easier for you to cope with what I have to tell you if we have some booze in the room to take the damn edge off!"

He stopped barely long enough to breathe, the ire in his statement tapering as he implored, "Would you please just fucking trust me for once?"

Carlton took a step back and blinked, startled by the vehemence with which Shawn spoke. It was rare for Spencer to snap and this was the second time in one day, if you counted his fist through the wall as the first. It was even more uncommon for him to lose it on Carlton, the words ringing in his ears as he realized that the psychic wasn't trying to aggravate him – he was trying to protect him. The thought warmed a cold dark place deep inside, and while it was nice to think that the psychic cared that much about his state of mind, it didn't make it any easier to deal with. It just made him feel like an asshole, having forgotten that Spencer was just as fucked up and strung out as he was right now.

Maybe more so, seeing as he was the one who actually knew what was going on back home.

Carlton rubbed the back of his neck as he responded, fingers threading through the fine hairs there as he tried to temper his misdirected anger.

"I do trust you. You wouldn't be here if I didn't," he admitted, sinking into the threadbare cushion of the chair he stood in front of with a sigh, his head dropping into his hands as the weight of the day hit him. "I just –"

Spencer looked at him; the rage in his eyes fading with the words, he cocked his head, patiently waiting for Carlton to finish.

"You're right," Carlton said after a minute, lifting his head and taking a deep breath to steady himself. "If it's bad news, I'll probably need a drink. And based on the fact that you won't tell me..."

He stood and took a step toward the exit – toward Shawn – and Shawn said nothing, slipping back into that uncomfortable silence he kept springing on Carlton. The man just watched him warily as he walked to the door and opened it, swiping the key back off the nightstand where he'd set it and looking at the consultant. He leaned against the teak frame, nodding his head toward the car like that was all was needed to make Shawn get in, and when Shawn refused to move, he dropped his shoulders in defeat.

"I'm sorry, Spencer," he sighed. "I shouldn't have threatened you."

The apology sprung Spencer back to life again and the man kicked into motion, flicking the light-switch off as he walked through the door, barely brushing Carlton's chest as he passed him by. It tingled, but Carlton forced the thought from his mind, now the exact wrong time to be thinking of their bodies pressed together.

"No, Lassie. You shouldn't have. It was very Sergeant Friday in that one episode of Dragnet of you. But I'll forgive you this time," Shawn said, walking to the car and waiting with his fingers on the handle for Lassiter to unlock the door. "You're buying, though. It's penance. Also, my wallet's buried in my bag somewhere. And I'm broke."

Rolling his eyes, Carlton approached the vehicle, taking the fob from his pocket and pausing a moment to gather his nerve before letting Spencer in. He didn't like how things were going, the last few hours fucking with his emotions in a way he was totally unprepared for, the ambivalence wearing him thin.

"Fine," he sighed, looking at the man over the top of the car, the sinking feeling in his stomach making him feel sick. It was all too much all of a sudden, and he just didn't know how much more he could take.

"Just tell me one thing. O'Hara…"

Shawn looked back like he knew what Carlton was going to ask and didn't want to answer, his face a pale white, his eyes somehow both dull and shining bright.

Carlton continued, a chill racing through his body as he spoke the words that could change his whole world. It was information of the utmost importance and also the absolute last thing he wanted to hear. This limbo he was living in was a fucked-up kind of cushioning for a blow he knew was coming but he didn't think he could take a step further without the knowledge of how his partner was doing, no matter how much it might wreck him.

He saw Shawn blink in slow motion, felt the breeze drag across his skin like it lived there, the hairs on the back of his neck rising like they'd been electrified.

He was nervous, and he was nauseous, and he was a little terrified.

But still, he had to know.

"Is she dead?"