"And Always the Soft Idiot Softly"
It's an honest-to-god Dark And Stormy Night, the sort of weather that actually makes Carlton Lassiter glad to be at home – and that's a rarity for the Head Detective, who would typically rather be at work than anywhere else. But this night he's home, warm in one of those damned alpaca sweaters his stepmother insists on knitting for him every stupid Christmas, and PBS is rerunning "Gettysburg" and so if he isn't actually happy, he is – at least – content.
And then there's someone knocking on his front door. This someone is knocking very loudly, and shouting "I know you're home Lassy!," which pretty much means that the unexpected company can only be Shawn Spencer. And that means that all the layers of calm that Carlton's been so carefully cultivating all night dissolve in an instant: he scowls as he gets to his feet, crosses the room to open the door.
Shawn's shifting from foot to foot, shivering; he's got a backpack slung over one shoulder and he looks like the proverbial drowned rat. There's something sad in his eyes, Carlton notices, and then the other man grins like he always does, even at crime scenes.
"Why do you live so far from the nearest bus stop? Dude. I had to walk practically a whole mile to get here."
Of all the things Carlton might have been expecting, a complaint about the state of Santa Barbara's public transportation was not high on the list. He blinks, asks "Spencer, what are you even doing here?"
"It's a long story. It's an epic. An epic tragedy. Can I?" and he tilts his head towards the inside of Carlton's house.
He doesn't answer, just silently moves back out of the doorway, and then Spencer is there, right –there- in his personal space, like always. And sometimes he can ignore that and sometimes he can't and this time he's reminded of the time –he—had showed up at the other man's house uninvited. What happened in that doorway comes to mind, and the only thing he can think of to say is "Spencer. You're dripping on my sweater."
The other man drops his backpack with a resounding thump. "Come on. Wet Alpaca doesn't smell that bad, Lassy. Did you knit that yourself?" and it seems to Carlton that for once that man's damn smile is actually taking some effort.
Carlton doesn't want to talk about the sweater. (Or, for that matter, any kissing that may or may not have happened in vestibules.) "So. Do you care to explain why you're making a puddle on my new carpet?"
"Ohhh. It's raining outside, it's part of the water cycle. Did you know that all water will eventually evaporate and then return as precipitation. I learned that from Mr Wizard, which apparently –you- never watched, or you wouldn't have had to ask." He pauses for a moment, seems to take in Carlton's warning look, and sighs. "And my clothes are wet from the rain and thus, dripping on your carpet, which wouldn't be so much of a problem if I had something dry to wear. Unfortunately whoever is in charge of producing these lovely Cymbalta backpacks is a cheapskate, because it doesn't appear to be waterproof, and so it follows that my change of clothes is just as wet as the clothes that I'm wearing so that won't solve the problem. However, if someone with an entire closet FULL of dry clothes would see fit to lending me something…?"
Carlton blinks at him for a moment before acquiescing. "Fine. Fine. Leave your wet shoes at the door – " he gestures sharply to the neatly arranged row of his own shoes near the doorway – "and then come with me."
He leads his uninvited houseguest down a hall and into the spare bedroom – mostly used as a place to keep his re-enactor gear, but there's other clothes that he doesn't wear everyday. He rummages in a dresser, comes up with a green version of the sweater he's wearing, and hands it to Spencer.
"You're really hardcore with this history thing, aren't you?" and he's touching one of the rifles displayed on the wall, but because it's not the antique one, Carlton decides not to scold him.
"Yes. Also, I like guns. Here," and he shoves the sweater in Spencer's general direction.
"Are you sure you didn't knit these yourself?" To Carlton's ears, it almost sounds like a compliment, and he's disturbed by how much that pleases him. "Oh, and do I get pants too, or do you want me without them, Lassy?" And he actually winks when he says that and it's enough for Carlton to go from pleased to embarrassed, just like that.
It takes far too long for him to come up with an answer, and admittedly part of that is due to his damnable inexplicable attraction to the shameless flirt. He prays that searching through the dresser drawer is an acceptable cover for the silence. "Do you promise not to mock me for owning flannel pyjamas?"
"That depends. Do I have to wear those garters like you do?" He grins, then flinches, as though he's realized (for once!) that he's taken things a bit too far. "I promise. Scout's honor."
Carlton holds out the folded flannel towards the other man. "The bathroom's that way." He motions with his head, off to the left. " You can borrow my pyjamas, on the condition that you will then tell me –exactly- why you're here."
"Exactly?" He's pouting a bit, and then he sighs, reaches out to take the pyjamas. "Deal," he says, and his cold fingers brush against the back of Carlton's hand. He honest-to-god skips into the bathroom; Carlton watches him go, shakes his head, returns to his corner of the sofa.
"I borrowed your toothbrush. Hope you don't mind," Spencer announces as he wanders into the living room, and instead of sitting on the sofa like a normal person would, he perches on the back of it, peering down at Carlton like some sort of vulture of a man. And because Carlton realizes that he's neglected to mention the clause in his house rules about not sitting or standing on furniture in inappropriate fashions, he decides not to scold him.
"Spencer. Why. Are you here."
The younger man sighs, closes his eyes, shakes his head. "Apparently I'm insufferable. This is not news to you, Lassy, as you've been saying things like that about me for years. Right now Jules and Gus are having some kind of pow-wow about how insufferable I am. Did you know that apparently it's not adorable to remember everything your girlfriend says in her sleep and then share it as part of a lighthearted conversation over dinner with your best friend?"
Carlton blinks at him. "Did you actually do that?"
He snorts. "Please, Lassy, do you think I would come up with an idea like that and then –not- do it? It's adorable. She was talking rules and regulations, like she was back at the academy or something. I thought it was hilarious. Apparently that was an invasion of privacy because I told Gus – dude, I tell Gus everything anyway. And then she's calling me insufferable and Gus, Gus is –agreeing- with her and going on about how it's impossible to win an argument with me because even when I'm wrong I'm right. Whatever that means. And I wasn't about to stay there and listen to that, so I left."
"That doesn't explain why you're here," Carlton says, and he frowns. "Remember what I told you, about hurting O'Hara."
"Look. She's the one who hurt me. But if you want to shoot me, go ahead, it would go along with that nice stab-wound Gus left in my back. I want to pick which gun though, can you use that civil war one, the one from the eighteenth century?"
"The civil war was in the nineteenth century, idiot," and Carlton surprises himself because the way he says "idiot" is far too affectionate. "I'll take that into consideration, Spencer. But why –here-?"
Spencer shrugs. "Because I'm used to your insulting me. I already know you think I'm insufferable. But also, like, a month ago, you kissed me, man, and it tasted like cinnamon and scotch and, and one of the other 23 flavors of Dr Pepper, only I haven't figured out which one yet. And all I could think about the next time I kissed Jules was that it just tasted like coffee and green tictacs – the dark green ones, not the ones that taste like rootbeer – and you never told me why, you just –left-."
"Violets," is all Carlton can think of to say.
"Violets? Did I just break your brain, Lassy?" Spencer leans down a bit, snaps his fingers very near to Carlton's face. "You in there, Lass?"
Carlton shakes his head, reaches into his pants pocket, brings out half a roll of candies wrapped in purple metallic paper and hands it up to Spencer. "Violets. I can't have mint. I always got them at the gift shop at Old Sonora. O'Hara bought me a case of them for my last birthday. Violets." Because it's easier to talk about candy than kisses.
"You're telling me that one of the 23 original flavors of Dr Pepper is violets? Lassy, please." He inspects the candy, hands it back to Carlton. "That wasn't the question I wanted answered."
Carlton raises one eyebrow, attempts his best inscrutable glare. "You're the psychic, you tell me."
"No. It doesn't work like that, because you don't believe I'm a psychic, you never have, and you really didn't have to kiss me to prove it. I never knew you were into that…"
"Because if you did you wouldn't have flirted with me." Carlton interrupts, neatly, sharply.
Spencer snorts. "Because you were married. Because you had an affair with your partner and you had a thing for the chief's sister and because you're so…" he waves his hands in mid-air, as if searching for the right word. "You're so –Lassiter-. So proper, that's' the word, like if you looked up proper in a dictionary the list of synonyms would include Carlton Lassiter, with your silk ties and your sock garters and that line, right there" he leans down, brushes his fingertips gently across Carlton's forehead. Carlton feels his eyes close, as if of their own accord, and he can feel the beginnings of a flush across his cheeks. "You never smile, you know?" Spencer continues, his voice getting softer. "You're proper in that follow all the rules all the time, bring home a wife and two and a half kids – and I've never understood that, by the way, where are people putting the other halves of their kids? That's just creepy. Ugh. But, I mean, you're not like me, I'd done enough experimenting to know that I tend to prefer the attentions of the fairer sex and – wait. Wait wait wait."
Carlton opens his eyes. "What?" he says, warily.
"What you said earlier. You noticed I was flirting with you?"
All Carlton can do is make an exasperated sound of disgust. "Of course I noticed, Spencer, I'm a detective, we notice things. Everyone noticed. O'Hara noticed. I think even Buzz noticed." He rolls his eyes. "Look, are you done humiliating me or not?"
"No, no, no, we're having some kind of breakthrough here!" Spencer grins, presses his fingers to his temples, closes his eyes. "You noticed I was flirting with you and you never said anything. Because you wanted me to go on thinking that you were just asexual or oblivious. Because you knew that if you said something I'd stop, and you didn't want me to stop, because you like me. And you were afraid that if we talked about this I'd figure it out. But my psychic vibes were clouded, probably by Jules or something, and CARLTON LASSITER YOU LIKE ME."
"Congratulations, Sherlock," Carlton grumbles. He's been feeling sicker and sicker to his stomach all through this conversation, and now comes the part that he'd been dreading ever since he'd had just the right amount of alcohol to convince him that kissing Shawn Spencer would be a Good Idea. Spencer would laugh in his face and delight in teasing him about his stupid schoolboy crush until retirement, possibly until death. Maybe he can ask for a transfer, he thinks, or maybe he can take down that rifle after all and put himself out of his misery, or maybe…
"Loosen. Up." Spencer declares, and then he's sliding down from his perch atop the couch to land all warm alpaca flannelly in Carlton's lap. "I thought you'd –like- this part," and he leans his head in to kiss Carlton.
It's enough of a shock to render him mute and immobile; dimly he's aware of Spencer saying something along the lines of "Lassy, I know you can kiss better than this," and a frustrated sigh, and then warm breath in his ear: Spencer, whispering "Lassiter. Kiss me back," all breathy drawn out syllables. And because that's one of his weaknesses – why he –never- lets anyone talk too close, how that whole mess with Lucinda got started in the first place, whispers close – too close! – during a stakeout, - he finds himself shivering all over.
There are a million reasons why this is a bad idea, and Carlton spends a fraction of a second considering all of them. None of them are as compelling as a lapfull of Shawn Spencer, and so he finds himself reaching out and roughly gathering Spencer closer.
"That's better," Spencer murmurs, catching his hands in Carlton's hair, tilting to just the proper angle for a kiss – and this time he does as he's told, he –does- kiss him back, rather possessively in fact. And part of Carlton's brain still wants to label this as 'wrong', but it's a difficult thing to do when you're overcome by the persuasion of Shawn Spencer's lips and teeth and tongue – and fingers, ohgod, and fingers – and he finds himself reciprocating in kind. Soon enough they're all tangled up there on the sofa, touching and kissing, and it's urgent and inevitable; Carlton feels invincible and when Spencer's breathing in his ear again, asking him shyly "Lassiter, can I?" he whimpers iyes/i and stops thinking at all, it's only feeling, shivering and shuddering and warmth and Spencer over and under and everywhere.
In the early afternoon he's awakened by the sunlight, reflecting directly into his eyes off of the framed copy of America's first crime scene diagram. The house is still and quiet and empty, and it's almost as if he's dreamt it all.
(Carlton Lassiter is no psychic. If he were, he'd see it clearly: Shawn Spencer wandering into the station on Monday, overdressed in Carlton's missing blue alpaca sweater, and he'll look over his shoulder and give him a wink and the sort of lascivious smile that's enough of a confirmation that all of this is perhaps too real, indeed.)