Picking himself up from the concrete, he gently feels his bleeding face. He'd seen it coming; he always saw it coming, but he never stopped it. He takes everything dished out to him and he doesn't know why until he looks up through the blood and sees the strong backed man striding away. To the open mouths and obvious stares, he follows the man, trying to stop the bleeding, because he loves me; I know he does.
It'd been the twelfth time that week, and it was only Wednesday. Carlton knew something was up; he was detective for goodness sake and he knew that twelve large bruises sprouting over the fake psychic detective were not just the product of clumsiness. So, as he did in all concerning situations, he handled it maturely. He staked out Spencer's house.
Pulling up in his Crown Victoria, he parked in the least obvious space he could find on the annoyingly open street near the rundown apartment building and hauled the binoculars to his face, ready for a long night of nothing. Stake outs, though very useful for catching suspects in compromising situations, were extremely long and boring, so he wasn't expecting anything out of the ordinary despite being on a seedier side of the town.
Training his binoculars on the window and keeping his eyes on the door to Spencer's specific door, he waited. To Carlton's surprise, it took very little time before another motorcycle pulled up beside the fake psychic's.
A broad shouldered man hops off and strides purposefully towards Shawn's door. The door is open before he gets there and Spencer is standing there illuminated by the light spilling forth from the doorway.
Carlton can't see much but what he sees shocks him, as Spencer, head bowed and shoulders slumped, moves quickly out of the way of the other man. The door is shut again, and Carlton is left with unanswered questions.
The next day at the station is quiet for the most part, until Shawn shows up flamboyant as usual. Something, though, is off. Something isn't right and as their eyes meet, blue and green colliding, he sees that Shawn knows; he knows Carlton knows and his eyes and body reflect fear for the briefest of moments before he is off knocking things off desks and making a nuisance of himself.
The stalking doesn't stop. Carlton follows Shawn through his daily routine. At ten, he is out the door and high-tailing it to the nearest Jamba Juice for his favorite snack. Random store visits and work visits to Psych and the station proceed and then he is home, always at the same time. Every day, he returns at nine and the strange man returns at ten.
Carlton watches closely that week for clues and when the weekend rolls around, he gets a break in his personal case.
The strange man bangs out of the door at seven, fervently followed by a pleading and shouting Shawn. The man, face twisted into an ugly snarl, turns on Shawn when they make it down the stairs. Instead of standing his ground, Shawn immediately backs down, cowering under the taller man's disgusted glare. It's too late.
Carlton is horrified as the man savagely grips the back of Shawn's neck and pulls his face up to glare into his eyes and he sees the fear and the knowing in them. Remotely, Carlton notices blinds go down and doors shut. Ferociously, the man throws Shawn back and as he stumbles, advances on him again. The backhanded slap resounds through the suddenly quiet neighborhood followed by the loud roar of an engine as the man drives away leaving Shawn in a heap upon the ground.
Shawn's eyes seek out his, like that day he seemed to look straight through the one-sided window, and he starts. He sees it. He sees it. Shawn's eyes look haunted, and Carlton finally sees the pleading in them, the need, the hopelessness and wonders where he has been looking to miss such an obvious clue.
Later, he would get his revenge. Shaking in anger, he would chase down that scumbag and cuff him. That man would be in the back of his car and in a jail cell for as long as Carlton could put him there. If it needed to be done, that man would be dead, the law be damned.