[[Author's Notes:

I really don't know how to even begin explaining this.

It's a work in progress. Inspired a bit by fmapreshwabs' "Operation Romantically Challenged", because that got me to rewatch "Lassie's Done A Bad Bad Thing" and in my head afterwards this just started to fall together.

AU, post 3.11.

Hurt/Comfort Shassie written by someone who usually dislikes the genre and knows, too well, what trauma feels like. I've seen this trope written beautifully, I just don't think I can pull it off. But I'm trying anyway. If you are prone to anxiety/panic attacks/PTSD, I want to put a big glowing warning up for possible triggers.

The guys are probably – definitely? – ooc. Because this is an AU hurt/comfort trauma thing. Yeah.

Lyric tags are from REM's "E-Bow The Letter", simply because it's awesome.

I promise I will update "Handcuffed" tomorrow.

If you like this, please review. If you don't like this, please review. The other four parts may just stay stuck in my head.

H&Ks, Elske]]

"aluminum, tastes like fear
adrenaline, it pulls us near…"

[& day one. AluminumAdrenaline.]

Carlton makes a second round of his apartment, checking to make sure all of his guns are in the places they're meant to be in: and it's not that he's usually this compulsive, really, it's just that for a while his home was a crime scene and it's taking a while for him to get things back to normal.

It's eerily quiet in his house, and he scowls for a moment, soaking the quiet in. It's not something that used to bother him, but things go funny, sometimes, after cases. (after shooting after almost being shot after Spencer): and he tells that little voice in his head to shut up. Better, he'll drown it out with the tv. He perches on the edge of the sofa, scans the room, thinking of where all the weapons are, just in case (just in case of what, Carlton). Just in case of nothing. The case is over and he has his house back and a five-day vacation to put everything to rights and find normal again.

He sinks back against the sofa, closes his eyes, remembers where all the guns are without looking, tries not to think about the smell of gunpowder and the smell of sweat and the smell of fear: tries not to think about Drimmer and his lies, tries not to think about the gleam of gratitude in Shawn Spencer's eyes in that exact moment he realized that he wasn't about to die. (about to die like you were, Carlton). Maybe, he thinks, maybe that's why it's sticking in his head and rattling around so much, this time. He'd been involved in more crimes, more cases, more gunshots, more times tipping over the line between almost dead and almost alive than he'd care to remember, and most of the time – sweet Justice, most of the time! – a good night's sleep and a proper cup of coffee sets everything to rights again.

Carlton sighs, opens his eyes, remembers where all the weapons are.

Maybe it's because it was in his house, his own house, a place where no one else ever set foot (that's the truth of this house, isn't it , Carlton, no friends or family here until Drimmer and Spencer and the CSIs) : his house all torn apart and spilling its guts out into the streets and airing all his dirty laundry and how many people would have heard that lie, about him and Spencer, and thought it the truth?

It's not the truth.

He wouldn't ever take his own life. (You've thought about it Carlton how easy it would be that fine line between almost…)

It's too damn loud. He turns off the television, and he remembers where all the weapons are, and he wants to pour himself a drink but he's not supposed to if he takes the pills in the bottle on the coffee-table like the sweet-face nurse instructed – and it sounded so sincere it might have been her first time counseling, her eyes shining with pity and awe, your charts don't say you're prone to post-traumatic stress, but just in case I want you to have these, if you're having flashbacks, signing the prescription with a flourish.

He's been given those half a dozen times before, and they always ended up folded four times, jammed into the ashtray of his car, eventually discarded with the trash, but something made him take this one to the pharmacy counter to have it filled. He doesn't like taking pills.

It's too quiet, and that's why he jumps when his phone rings, that's why his whole body fills with adrenaline (and it's too soon yet to tell if it's the good kind or the bad) . It's Spencer's ringtone. He manages to take a deep breath, remembers where all the weapons are, and answers the phone.

"Hey, Lassy." Spencer's voice is dimmed, uncertain. "They let you back in your house yet?"

"Yeah. My first night, here."

"I was thinking…" and he trails off, and Carlton can hear him sigh. "It's stupid. I'm stupid. I'm a grown man and I'm stupid and you're probably just fine even though I'm not and I wanted to come off all smooth and it's not working. I was going to give you a pick up line, something about how it would be a shame to spend the first night back home alone, and you'd tell me to knock it off like you do every time I hit on you and – oh, fuck."

"Yeah," Carlton agrees, eyes focusing and then unfocusing on the pillbottle.

"I'm being entirely serious when I say this, Lassy: can I come over? I don't want to be alone right now, and…" he trails off again, mutters something under his breath that Carlton can't quite make out. "Look, no one else would get it but you were there and you deal with almost dying all the time, and it's not just that and I don't know how to…"

"It's fine," Carlton interrupts, neatly. "You can come over."

"Thanks."

Carlton snaps his phone shut and remembers where the weapons are and watches out the window for the lights of Spencer's motorcycle: so he can be there, waiting. (so you know who exactly you're letting in so you don't have to flinch at the sound of a knock at your door so…). It's too damn quiet, he thinks, and he switches the television back on while he waits.

Soon enough, Shawn's there, on his doorstep, and Carlton notices the other man's hands shaking as he unfastens his motorcycle helmet. His eyes are wide and wary and it looks like he hasn't slept in days; and then he gives Carlton one of those looks that's so unsettling: full of earnest appreciation. "Thanks, man," he says, and Carlton moves out of the doorway so Spencer can enter the room, and then he locks the door and throws the deadbolt and pulls the curtains tightly shut.

"You're welcome. I almost got you killed, I suppose I owe you." He's trying to make a joke but it falls a bit flat; Spencer just looks a bit wounded and then flops down on the couch and pretends he's terribly interested in the re-run of "America's Most Wanted" and Carlton does the same.

There's a commercial on for something when Shawn turns and gives him one of those disarming (breathtaking) looks. "Can I ask you something?"

Carlton just nods.

"I didn't think anyone knew, but if Drimmer did, then…does everyone?"

Carlton frowns, and his forehead creases with the effort, and he asks "Knew what, Spencer?"

Shawn's eyes are downcast. "How I felt – feel – about you. The last thing I was thinking before you got there – I should have been thinking of a way to get out of there, I should have been using my mind , I should have been doing something psychic, and all I could think was: this is how Carlton is going to find out, over my dead body and that's not a saying people should ever take literally." He blinks up, makes eye-contact.

And Carlton feels dizzy, because this is nothing like the childish flirting teasing that he's used to from the other man, this is something raw and real and thus frightening as all hell. "What do you mean, how you feel about me? Are you saying you have feelings for me?"

"Yes. Romantic-sexual-I don't know how to explain it, and now you're going to toss me out, so maybe we can just both forget I said anything and watch some Thundercats?" He attempts a smile, and Carlton has to look away.

He breaks the eye contact, and remembers where all his weapons are. "If you just started feeling this way, it's because of the incident, here. Any psychologist will tell you that. I've had other people think that I was some kind of hero after I…"

"It's not that," Spencer protests. "Fuck, I'm not a child, Lassiter." He rolls his eyes. "It's been like, two years man, and I can't believe you haven't noticed…forget it."

"I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not the type of person that can just forget it after someone says they have feelings for me," Carlton says, almost primly, (and because that happens to you just how often exactly, Carlton?)

From somewhere down the street comes the sound of a police siren and both men jump – towards one-another! – and as the sound fades Carlton remembers where all the weapons are, and realizes that he's in Spencer's arms.

"I'm sorry," whispers Spencer.

"It's okay," says Carlton. "It honestly honestly is," and he closes his eyes, tips his head against Spencer's shoulder, and thinks it might just be the good kind of adrenaline this time because he's still processing what the other man had said earlier, about feeling feelings (you remember what feelings are, Carlton, those things you pretend you don't have).

"You didn't like me before, I doubt this will help."

"Why would you say that?" Carlton says, honestly confused, and he feels Spencer's dry laugh before he hears it.

"You never have anything nice to say to me. You never have anything nice to say about anyone, and…"

Carlton closes his eyes, and remembers where the weapons are, and murmurs "You astound me, Shawn Spencer."

"Yes, that's exactly when I realized it too."

He moves out of Spencer's arms, gives the other man a puzzled look. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You don't remember? Of course you don't remember." Spencer closes his eyes, shakes his head. "You don't remember, you were drunk enough to be off guard, and you were looking at me all blue eyed and beautiful and that's exactly what you said, that I astound you and…forget it."

"I am not going to fucking forget it, Spencer," Carlton breathes, a tint of anger coloring his words, and then he watches as Spencer flinches away. And that flinch gives him the coldest, the sharpest, the most horrible feeling he's ever had. "Shit, Spencer, I'm sorry."

And then Spencer's turned to kiss him, a kiss just as sharp and angry as Carlton's sudden outburst: over just as quickly and Carlton's blinking, shocked, and Spencer laughs that dry laugh again. "Guess we're even."

"Yeah."

Shawn cups a yawn in his hand, then leans so he can retrieve the bottle of pills from his pocket. "I can't decide whether I love or hate these things," he admits to Carlton. "For one, they take away all my psychic powers, they dull my reflexes. And they make me feel like I'm invincible and that I could do anything in the world but before I get the ambition I fall asleep. But it's a good sleep, no worries to it," and he palms up one of the pills and dry-swallows it and Carlton just watches.

"I think the nurse gave me the same ones," he admits, finally.

"Have you taken them?"

Carlton shakes his head, mutely. Shawn tips a small blue oval of a pill out into the palm of his hand, "The benefits outweigh the drawbacks, Gus reassured me of that."

There's a trembling starting in Carlton's hands so instead of reaching for the pill he just opens his mouth, tips his head, closes his eyes, and it's bitter like poison and it takes him far too long to summon enough saliva to choke it down. He shivers, and remembers where all the weapons are, and doesn't flinch away when Shawn puts an arm around his shoulders.

The calm slowly grows around them, and faces of criminals flash on the television screen and there's so many criminals that Carlton can't remember which of them he knows and which only look familiar. A vespa screeches down the street and he only flinches a little bit, and maybe Spencer was right about the benefits outweighing the drawbacks.

He turns to say something to Spencer at just the wrong moment: their foreheads collide and then they're laughing and then they're kissing and it's really the best kissing of his entire life, Carlton thinks, because it is so calm, so unhurried. He ends up in Spencer's lap, and he's twitching the blanket from the back of the sofa down to cover both of their heads, trap them in a warm woolen cocoon, and it's beautiful: the safest he's felt in his whole damn life and he doesn't care where all the weapons are, not when Spencer is kissing him like that, coaxing with his tongue and he feels like it's impossible to get close enough. He thinks if he could get close enough they could breathe the same breath they could share the same heartbeat and that would be safe, but even if it's not safe it's wonderful. And it's definitely the good kind of adrenaline this time, not even enough to get aroused – and kissing like this should be arousing, but it's not quite that.

Spencer yawns against his lips; Carlton stretches and overbalances them both off of the sofa in an ungraceful woolen heap.

Carlton fumbles for the remote control, fumbles to get the thoughts coherent in his head, tries to figure out how to ask Spencer what he wants to ask Spencer: his brain butterflies around four different ways to say it and finally he says "There's more room, in my bed."

Spencer nods. "I like this blanket," he proclaims, "I'll bring it." He follows Carlton down the hallway to the bedroom.

"I'm glad you're here," Carlton admits, pausing on the threshold.

"Me too," says Spencer, with another yawn: he pushes past Carlton to dash across the room, vault into it as though he's afraid there might be a monster underneath.

Might there be a monster underneath?

Carlton hesitates by the light-switch, because he's too fuzzy-brained to remember immediately exactly where the weapons are. "I'm leaving the light on," he says, looks over to see Spencer nod, and he makes his own dash for the bed, stepping out of his trousers along the way. He pauses before shedding his shirt, and then he decides comfort trumps the need to get dressed in a hurry just in case (just in case of what, Carlton?).

Spencer's hands and feet are cold, but he lets Carlton hold him as tightly as he likes.

(Carlton's last thought, before falling asleep, is that he's pretty sure their hearts are beating in the same rhythm.)