Author's Notes: I wrote this for Lucy Hale who asked for Shawn having to take care of a hurt!Lassi in my round of the 'Drabble it forward' meme. Well, this was as close as I could get, I guess. Big thanks for the betaing efforts of Atlantisgrrrl, Jane Elliot and jgjazz; they all helped whip this thing into shape. The remaining errors are my own, but you're welcome to point 'em out.
"Stop! Hold it right there," Shawn shouted, panting slightly from trying to chase down the bad guy of the day. Criminals had no respect for a psychic detective's authority to reveal their evil schemes in front of a riveted audience. Well, maybe not so much riveted as mildly irritated on one side and tolerantly expectant on the other, but Shawn would take what he could get and run with it.
In this case the running turned a lot more literal when mister Moo-steh-feye pushed Lassiter down the front steps of his brother-in-law's burnt down bakery and took off into the alley on the right. It was a bit of a disappointment that giving chase around dumpsters and ducking flying garbage bags wasn't nearly as much fun as it looked on TV.
"I mean it, stop before –" he didn't get a chance to finish as the object of his chase took another sharp right – and ended up bouncing off the Psychmobile.
That's when the shouting started, Gus yelling at Shawn about the dent in the hood, Mr. Mustafi yelling about police brutality, and Juliet mirandizing the banged up bakery arsonist at the top of her voice. Shawn thought it prudent to go and see how Lassiter was doing before backup arrived along with Chief Vick to help raise the volume to new, Guinness-Book-worthy heights.
He heard the pained groan before he turned the corner and hurried up, chest still heaving from the chase. "Lassi, you alright..."
His voice trailed off and for a moment it felt like his heart had stopped in his chest. All his eyes could focus on were: that Lassiter's pants were torn at one knee; that the monogrammed handkerchief he was holding to the side of his head was turning soggy with blood; and that he'd taken off his wedding ring sometime during the past week.
He blinked when the blood – Jesus, so much of it, slowly painting a dark streak down the pale face – was moved out of his sight and Lassiter turned, his blue eyes focusing on him.
"Carlton!"
He didn't remember moving but when the rushing in his ears quieted down to a dull roar he found himself kneeling next to Carlton who was sitting on the shop's steps, injured leg awkwardly stretched out in front of him. Shawn tuned back in to hear him talking in the patient tones he normally reserved for trauma victims and very slow children.
"...It's just a head wound, it's fine. You know they bleed a lot, leave it alone," he batted Shawn's fretting hands away. From the pained expression on his face he seemed glad Shawn was finally starting to listen.
Shawn winced in sympathy. "Here, look, you can use this to, you know," he gestured with the pineapple print kitchen towel he'd pulled out from his back pocket. Technically, it was evidence – very circumstantial evidence that would've spooked the suspect into talking if the bastard hadn't done a Forrest Gump – but Carlton needed it more at the moment, and they could always clean it up later.
Carlton took it with a wary, "Thanks, I think," giving it a decided 'I'm not even going to ask' look, and draped it over his thighs, trying to fold it using his one free hand. In the meantime Shawn had dug up an old hand-died tie, which he could've sworn he'd never seen before (yet there it was, stuffed down his front jeans pocket after all), and with quick, sure movements wrapped it around Carlton's injured knee.
He looked up as Carlton bit back a curse and then Shawn was muttering choice words about 'stubborn, unable to wait or ask for help, bull-headed, really ridiculously lanky cops' through his teeth when he noticed that Carlton was still fumbling with the kitchen towel half-spread across his lap. Shawn took it out of his unresisting hand and folded it into a neat triangle, wiping carefully at the blood on Carlton's cheek before helping to settle it firmly over the bloody handkerchief still covering the wound.
"Who knows where it's been, better not risk it," he started to say when he noticed that Carlton was looking at him, had probably been looking at him with that strange, almost-soft expression the whole time.
"It's just a scratch, Spencer, it'll be fine," Carlton said, still without any bite in his voice. His face was pale where it wasn't smudged with dirt and drying blood, and he had a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth. He looked a lot in pain and a little amused or a little happy or a little of both or maybe neither, Shawn couldn't tell. He kept looking, though, and Shawn felt uncomfortably exposed and fidgety under the patient gaze.
"So. You called an ambulance, right?" Shawn said, talking over Carlton's protests of not needing to go to a damn hospital, "And what a way to wrap up the case! You totally missed out on the epic chase-around-the-block, in which the mastermind behind today's fire-starting mystery was lead into a trap by revenge-hungry spirits," he ignored Carlton's derogatory snort, "and ended up running straight into the hands of justice, or, if we're being precise, the fender of Gus' little blue car."
It was another surprise to hear Carlton actually laugh when Shawn made bouncing-into-the-air-like-a-rag-doll motions with his hands as he described the incident. A pleasant surprise, though, like the kind you don't know to expect 'til you actually have it in front of you and it doesn't bite you or runs away screaming or laughs in your face. The kind of surprise that Shawn really, really didn't want to be analyzing right now. But his thoughts were miles ahead of him, as always, and he was left feeling at a loss as he knelt there on the cold concrete, fussing with the tie around Carlton's knee. He would need an ace bandage and a cold press and Tylenol for the swelling and maybe a band-aid for that nasty looking scrape, but should he take painkillers with a head wound and –
"Shawn. Shawn," Carlton was saying, trying to get his attention. His free hand squeezed Shawn's hands where they were clenched around his thigh just above the injured knee, no doubt making it ache more. "I'm going to be alright. You're in shock; we'll get the paramedics to take a look at you when they get here."
Shawn's laugh at that was in no way hysterical. "You're the one who's covered in blood, you – you're bleeding, Carlton," and Shawn definitely wasn't the one sounding lost and confused while his pulse played the bongos in his ears. He made his hands unclench and carefully, carefully massaged around the abused knee, felt the strong heartbeat pulse through the swelling flesh and concentrated on counting the steady beats.
"I thought we'd covered this already. I have a head wound. They bleed." Trust Lassi to be amused and flippant the one time Shawn couldn't even think let alone crack a joke, "Sometimes they even bleed a fair amount of blood." If that strange, surprising smile hadn't become his new favorite expression Shawn would've been tempted to smack him for that eye-roll. "From the sounds of it, backup is minutes away and the ambulance will be right behind them, so there's nothing you can do but wait for them to arrive."
There so were tons of things he could do! He could get up and check on how Jules and Gus were doing subduing the bad guy, he could call Henry and gloat about having solved another case without his precious help, he could – "Kiss it better," he blurted out.
Carlton did that eyebrow-raising thing that could make you doubt your sanity if you let it, but he didn't really sound more surprised than Shawn felt. "Could you, now."
He was still almost-smiling, a fact which was seriously starting to short-circuit Shawn's brain. It didn't matter, anyway; Shawn was embracing his insanity with both arms.
... And apparently, Carlton as well. (Shawn's limbs had been possessed by grabby spirits; that was his story and he was sticking to it.)
Before the situation got too embarrassing for everyone involved he pressed a quick, dry kiss to Carlton's forehead, then pulled back and repeated the process with the injured knee, trying not to linger. Carlton's scent blocked out everything else for a moment and he forced himself to take a steadying breath.
Shawn sat back in time to see Carlton staring at him, eyes huge as he gulped loudly, free hand hovering uncertainly near Shawn's side – then the cavalry came blaring around the block, lights and sirens in full swing.
Before he knew what had happened he found himself ushered to sit in the back of an open ambulance, legs dangling over the edge, while Buzz and a medic helped Carlton limp his protesting way next to him. Then there were penlights flashed into their eyes and poking and prodding and inventive, vaguely Irish-tinged cursing. Chief Vick arrived followed by several news vans, and Shawn's prediction of record-breaking levels of yelling came true a minute later. Everyone seemed to disappear into the alley, medics and uniforms included; Shawn wasn't at all sure how all of them could fit in there.
In the sudden stillness of finding themselves alone again he turned to grin at Lassi, a witty comment on the tip of his tongue. He found Carlton smiling – that totally was a real smile; he did a small mental victory dance – faintly at him, looking a lot tired and in pain and definitely, definitely a little happy.
Shawn really had no choice when Carlton ducked his head to try and cover it and wobbled alarmingly, one hand clutching at the edge of the ambulance floor for support, but to reach out and tangle their fingers together, steadying him.
Carlton shot him a grateful though pained look, starting to look muzzy around the edges. "Thanks," he said, leaning back against the side of the ambulance and.... staring? Definitely staring, a little out of focus but still, ooh boy. Shawn licked his mouth experimentally, and yep, definitely tracking. And flushing slightly, it looked like.
Now, that kind of revelation Shawn could work with.
"Seeing as we've been abandoned, I think it's a good time you let me give it better than the old college try, don't you think?" he said, smirking a little at Carlton's instantly suspicious expression, blue eyes snapping up warily.
"Do what better, Sha– Spencer?"
He gave him a bright grin and slid closer on the edge of the ambulance, pressing them both into the corner where no one could see them, then kissed his protesting mouth until it was soft and responsive against his own. "Kissing it better, of course," he said when they broke for air, a little breathless. And proceeded to do just that to his very best ability while Carlton gasped and tried to squirm away and made noises that weren't giggles and did very little to stop the small kisses being pressed all over his bruised and bandaged but so very tempting skin.
Shawn made a mental note to get the medic who came wandering back, no doubt driven by his sense of duty to his patients and the loud now-televised drama going on in the alley, to sign a written statement about what he witnessed before he did a quick about-face and muttered something about being just around the corner if he was needed. Because personal revelations or not, Shawn was definitely getting tangible proof that he could make Carlton Lassiter, head detective of Santa Barbara PD, laugh out loud and swear onto everything he held holy that he was cured, and all by the power of one Shawn Spencer, psychic detective's – carefully maintained to a state of perfect moist softness, Shawn might adds – lips.
The End