[[Author's Notes:
This is the Shassie Fluff that I couldn't manage last night. Follows "Made With Love", in case you're wondering why Shawn's on crutches at Carlton's house. Concurrent with "Guess the Winter…", in case you're wondering what Jules is up to. New Years is the worst holiday of the year, but all told I think this one is already better than the last for me. See you all in 2012.
&hearts, Elske]]
Carlton wakes up to the feel of Spencer's tapping on his shoulder, tap tap tap tap, and he wonders vaguely if he ignores him he'll go away. But then, they've been living under the same roof for almost two weeks, and one thing he's learnt quite quickly is that ignore him and he'll go away is a platitude that never, ever applies to Shawn Spencer.
"Spencer," he mutters, without opening his eyes. "What is it?"
"I wanted to wake you up an hour ago," and Carlton can hear the metallic sound of Spencer's crutches hitting the floor, feel the sofa dip under the other man's weight. "But then I remembered what a crankypants you are when you miss your afternoon nap."
Carlton yawns, opens his eyes. "What time is it, anyway?"
"Almost eight-thirty."
He raises one eyebrow. "And what are you still doing here, Spencer? Shouldn't you be out at some party or another, celebrating this stupid excuse for a holiday?"
"Lassy." There's a hint of disgust in Spencer's voice. "It's not a stupid excuse for a holiday, it's the best day of the year. It's the best moment, when one year ends and the other begins and anything, absolutely anything is possible." And his eyes are very wide and he mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like so why would I waste it at a party when I might be with you, but Carlton's not close enough to catch it.
"What are your friends up to, then?" Carlton wonders, hiding a yawn behind the back of his hand.
"Well, you're sleeping on your half of the sofa – you're so protective of that spot, dude, which makes no sense because you can totally see the tv better from the other side – and you're probably going to grumble and maybe have a scotch and probably go to bed early." Shawn grins, presses his fingers to his head, adds "Psychic, remember? Gus – oh, man, Gus, he was too chicken so he made me go pick up condoms for him so I don't think you want to know what Gus has planned…"
"Too late," Carlton interrupts, wishing for the millionth time that Spencer had a sister so he could return the favor of countless mental images he never wanted.
"Jules isn't answering her phone, which is SO not like her. I mean, I only wanted to wish her a happy new year," he says, too quickly, and then he shoots Carlton a sheepish look: and it's funny, because Spencer hasn't flirted with O'Hara in weeks, ever since that strung-out conversation where he told Carlton he loved him. (And Carlton's not sure if Spencer remembered it; the combination of adrenaline and pain and painkillers can often cloud one's mind and judgment, but Carlton certainly remembers it. He can't stop thinking about it, in fact, and he's caught on the same moral cusp he was when he was seventeen and twenty-some years of life experience hasn't made it any easier.)
"So. There's champagne in the kitchen and I'm not going to let you go to bed early and we're going to celebrate New Years," Spencer proclaims, stretching out to prop his injured foot up on the coffee-table. "But you don't have any champagne glasses left. So we'll be drinking it out of coffee cups. Tim Gunn would be appalled."
"Who?"
Spencer rolls his eyes at him. "Dude. You are so watching the next season of Project Runway with me. It's even better than America's Next Top Model. You could give Tim Gunn's disapproving look a run for its money, you know. Since I'm the one that's in pain here, maybe you could get the champagne from the fridge?"
"Fine. But I'm taking the remote with me," Carlton quips, getting to his feet and slipping the remote control into a pants pocket. He's learnt the hard way that leaving control of the television in Spencer's hands is such a bad idea – and figures tonight that would be especially true, with spectacles like "New Years Rockin' Eve" lurking on the small numbers of his cable box.
True to Spencer's word, there's a bottle of cheap (pink, strawberry flavored) champagne in the fridge and two coffee mugs sitting on the counter. One is pristine, navy blue, with the SBPD logo on it. The other says "I love you" in a black cursive script: it's chipped and missing the handle, but a quick rummage through the cupboard proves it's the only other cup that's clean. Carlton makes a mental note that they've GOT to run the dishwasher tomorrow, even though Spencer complains it sounds like dying cats and upsets the spirits. He pops the cork on the bottle, fills each cup nearly to the brim and somehow manages to juggle the two full mugs and the half-full bottle back to the living room.
"Here," he tells Spencer, holding out both cups in his general direction, and he's not surprised when Spencer picks the "I love you" one and gives Carlton a leering look.
Carlton ignores it, settles into his corner of the couch. "How does this celebrating work; when can we start drinking?"
"Traditionally there's a toast at midnight. But you can start drinking whenever you want," Spencer says sagely and Carlton sighs and brings the cup to his lips.
The drink is cloyingly sweet, but it's not nearly as bad as he expected alcohol purchased by Shawn Spencer to be, really.
"Lassydear? Can't we watch something more festive than Dateline? Please? If we keep watching these cop shows we'll solve all their cold cases," Spencer whines. "We need to watch the one with the Portrait of Dick Clark and the people celebrating in New York."
"The Portrait of Dick Clark?"
"Ohh, yeah." Spencer sips at his champagne, grins. "Somewhere in that man's attic is a portrait that's getting older and uglier every year. At least, that's my theory. Gus thinks he's a vampire."
"The man had a stroke, didn't he? Show some respect. And no, we're not watching that. You've got two choices, the crime channel or the cowboy channel, take it or leave it."
"Hmm. Cowboys, then," says Spencer, and Carlton reluctantly changes the channel.
They watch a movie in black and white, not talking much, and then Carlton gets up to refill their makeshift champagne glasses. "I should go to bed," he murmurs, much like he does every night, and – as per usual – Spencer protests.
"You have to stay up until midnight with me. It's only right. It's New Years. It's tradition."
"Fine," says Carlton, settling back onto the couch. He picks up the remote, changes it back to the crime channel, and Spencer - -to his credit – doesn't protest. He's drowsily in the middle of trying to figure out if what the Canadian cops found was admissible evidence when he hears Spencer staring at the neon digital watch he's been wearing all night, counting down from sixty.
Almost the New Year, then, Carlton thinks, and he's glad that he has a sip of champagne left for that traditional toast he figures Spencer's counting down to.
"Three," says Spencer, "Two," and then he's abruptly launching himself across the couch and Carlton finds himself flat on his back, pinned down against the awkward weight of the younger man. He's blinking up, confused, and Spencer's lowering his head, whispering "one" very close to his lips and then they're kissing.
Somewhere in the back of his brain Carlton registers that this is a New Years tradition too, but it's hard to think at all with Spencer pressed up against him like that – like that time in the office in his lap, and he's reacting the same way, and when Spencer pulls back a second later, grins, whispers Happy New Year Carlton surprises himself by being disappointed that it's over.
He finds himself reaching out, cupping the back of Spencer's neck and pulling him into another kiss: he's dimly aware of the feel of Spencer's fingers curling into his hair and a flicker of Spencer's tongue against his lips and yes, yes, a fine time to figure out that he has, in fact, wanted this. Exactly this. He breaks the kiss, shoulders Spencer sideways towards the back of the couch, and manages to reverse their positions; he blinks down at Spencer and actually smiles. "Happy new year, Spencer."
Spencer grins, reaches out to clutch at Carlton's hips, shifts against him in exactly the right way and it's enough to make Carlton whimper and he's thinking yeah, maybe there's some truth to what Spencer said earlier, about one moment when anything in the universe was possible, even then things you'd spent years trying not to let yourself think about at all.
Spencer's nuzzled into his neck, kissing him there, and Carlton thinks there's not enough room on this couch, that they're both wearing too many clothes, but it would be injudicious to interrupt because he really doesn't want Spencer to stop doing what he's doing, kissing him like that and rubbing against him like that and it's even better than that day in his desk chair (or any of the dreams he'd disavow having that followed it).
"Lassyface," Spencer whispers, "Lassyface, I don't want to stop, but my foot really hurts and it's distracting me and is it too forward if I ask you…"
Carlton manages to lean his way to a sitting position, and then a standing one, and he holds out one hand towards Spencer. "Yeah, we can go someplace more comfortable," he says, but as soon as Spencer's on his feet he's clutching at Carlton and they're kissing again and if there's truth to the new years superstition – the one that says what you're doing when the clock strikes twelve-o'one is how you'll spend the rest of the year—Carlton thinks there's a reason to believe this is going to be a very good year.
[[*******]]
Morning finds Carlton without a shirt (because it turns out Spencer has some sort of odd fascination with his chest-hair) and without his pants too, down to a worn pair of cotton boxer-shorts; Spencer's in his tee-shirt, boxer-briefs, and a pair of Carlton's socks that he insisted be worn because his feet were cold as ice-cubes.
The sunlight is coming in through the east-facing window opposite Carlton's bed – and he'd arranged it that way on purpose so he wouldn't over-sleep – but he's in no hurry to get up for new years day. He smiles to himself, pulls the snoring Shawn Spencer into his arms, drags the down comforter overtop of both of them to block out the sunlight. He turns his face in against the back of Spencer's neck, and it's the honest-to-god-happiest he's been for longer than he can remember. Happy new year indeed, he thinks, and he clutches Spencer possessively close before falling back to sleep.