"Carlton!"

The young boy smiled. Clothed in a skin-tight blue suit with a plastic gold medal around his neck and ears that poked out a little bit more than necessary under a tuff of messy black hair, eight year old Carlton Lassiter really was the picture of innocence. His mother dropped her keys and pressed her well-manicured hands to her mouth. "Look at you! Look at you. Come here, show me what you got."

The boy grinned wider and took the gold medal from around his neck and handed it to her. Lips quivering, she turned it over in her palm as tears sparkled in the corners of her eyes. She put it back on him and took a step back, surveying her son with a proud smile. "Carlton Lassiter," she said, hands on hips, "my little figure skater. Honey, I never knew…"

"Ah-ah-ah, not you're little figure skater. The Number One figure skater in the district,"

"Oh, well, excuse me, Mister Champion. Come, I think this deserves ice cream."

Naturally, it was on every mother's memo to be proud of (or feign pride, if necessary,) a son who came home with a gold medal around his neck, but for Mrs. Lassiter this was something just a little bit bigger. She had never actually been to one of her son's figure skating meets – not a single one – seeing as it had come as a bit of a surprise to her when, one day, with determined eyes and a set face, young Carlton had informed her that he had signed up for figure skating lessons all by himself and that he would be needing ice skates by Monday. Grudgingly, and lacking a reason to say no, she had agreed and every other day since then he had come home shivering with a triumphant smile on his face and brand name ice skates hanging over his shoulder. Sure, the parents and leaders of the group had tried to get her to come to the meets but she was a busy woman! She had work to do and so did his father (who didn't know that their son was participating in such a 'feminine' sport.) Up until today she had no idea that her son had competed in a district wide competition or that he was such a little star. She smiled and put her hand on his shoulder, about to tell him that from now on she would attend every single one of his competitions for the rest of his life when a noise resounded through the house that made them both freeze.

A door opened somewhere downstairs, followed by a gust of wind and quick, heavy footsteps. An impressive man, maybe six feet tall with dark, brooding eyes and a handsome face set in an ever-lasting grimace, sauntered into the kitchen. Mrs. Lassiter instinctively pushed her son behind her, but not fast enough.

"Honey, outside I thought I saw…" the man's eyes settled on Carlton's face and slowly traveled up and down the boy's body, "What is this? What's he wearing?" He turned to his wife inquiringly.

"He, um, it's… he joined a class."

"What is it, a class for mermaids? Wha-" he grabbed Carlton's medallion and held it up to the light, "Carlton Lassiter," he read, "First Place Winner of the…Victoria Flatts Figure Skating Competition?"

"I was going to tell you!"

"What, when it was too late and you had turned our son into a complete pansy?!"

"Honey!"

But the man ignored her and turned his coal black eyes to the boy's pale face again. He bent down until they were eye-to-eye. "This," he said, yanking the metal off of Carlton's neck so hard that the blue ribbon snapped, "is for weak men. You insult me by wearing it. You insult every man in this family who has ever worked hard in his life. Until you own one of these for the purposes of upholding of the law," he pulled a silvery-black handgun out of his briefcase, making Mrs. Lassiter squeak, "marry a good wife, and hold a decent, high-paying job that serves to better the world and work against its many misfortunes…you will always be, in my eyes, a weak – "

"What can I get you, sir?"

Detective Carlton Lassiter snapped out of his daydream (and seemingly his neck) and looked up. "Yes," he cleared his throat twice and straightened his blazer, "I'll have a Scotland salmon grilled on the skin – hold the fried vegetables – with a side of chilled vichyssoise and French caviar. Oh, and a coffee. Black with two sugars," The waiter, a young male hipster with a fresh face and coral-pink lips, jotted this down on a pink notepad and smiled a dopey, ecstatic-puppy smile that made Lassiter want to vomit and then barf.

"Will that be all?"

"Of course that will be all, do I look like I have an appetite of a whale?"

"What would you do if I said yes?"

"And what would you do if I said 'toe wedging'?"

"Ha, very good, sir! I'll be right back in a minute with your dinner." The waiter gathered up Carlton's menu but then hesitated before picking up the menu placed in front of the empty chair opposite him. He smiled and gave Lassiter a sympathetic look. "Late?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"The lady," he gestured to the empty seat, "Don't worry, sir, I'm sure she'll get here very soon. I once had a lady that kept me waiting for three and a half hours. Worth it, though. She's now my wife."

"I'm not –" Lassiter paused and the two made awkward eye contact. The waiter's smile widened.

"Oh, I see. He's late, is he?"

"I am not on a date with a man!"

"Oh," the waiter paused, "…it's late?"

"You know what, actually I think I see her coming right now," Lassiter placed first his badge then his gun on the edge of the table, "here's her car and there she is!"

The waiter's smile was no longer so carefree. "I'll….I'll get you that meal, sir."

Carlton leaned back in his chair and sighed, listening to the waiter's rapid, click-clacking footsteps get farther and farther away. The dim golden lights surrounding him faded into a gentle blur as the quiet murmurings of the people around him became just that – a murmur in the background – as he closed his eyes. What do you think of me now, dad, he thought to himself in a half-sleepy bliss, a high-paying job, a gun...

Sure you have all that, but where's your wife?

Hey, Victoria and I are still together, just separa…wait a minute, am I arguing with a voice inside of my head?

I'm not the worst voice that you can be hearing inside of your head, you know.

You're right. Imagine if I started hearing that Spencer's -

"So I told him, if you're going to build me a trampolina gigante, you're going to have to include all the works. I'm talking built in hamster cage, a soda pop machine on the side, a pin gum ball machine – you know you can't skimp on that – and, maybe, if possible , a Tears for Fears poster on the side…..you know, as a little extra sp-zaz. Whoa, Lassie!"

Lassiter groaned inwardly as Shawn, his arm draped possessively around some gorgeous woman's shoulders, waved at him as he entered the restaurant. "I'll be with you in a second," he whispered into her ear as he sat her down at a table. She smiled, a ruby-red lipped smile, taken by his charm. Lassiter then groaned outwardly as, much to his disappointment, Shawn came and sat down at his table instead. "Lassie, my man. What, uh, what are you doing over here all alone? I mean, come on, this is sort of a Couples Only."

Suddenly, Lassiter couldn't help but notice that the room seemed to be full of happy, snuggling lovers who were…kissing a lot while he sat here with... "Spencer, what the hell are you doing here? How can you even afford this place?"

"Connections, Lassie. It's all about the coe-neck-she-uns."

"You stole Gus's credit card, didn't you?"

"Eh," Shawn paused and an awkward silence descended upon them. He scratched his upper lip and watched as his date, rather impatiently, began to tap her foot and glare at him from across the room. "So what's up with you, man? Where's your date? She late?"

"I am not dating a woman."

"Oh," Shawn raised his eyebrows and made a teeny 'o' with his lips. "I see. He's late?"

"I AM NOT DATING A MAN!"

"Oh…it's late? Can I even say that? I don't -"

Just when Lassiter thought it couldn't get any worse the fresh-face waiter arrived with his dinner. "Oh! You must be the lover," he smiled at Shawn, who nodded in turn, before turning to Lassiter, "You know, you could've just told me. I'm not judgmental. What can I get you, sir?"

"Uh, I'll have the Millefeuille de tomate et chèvre frais," Shawn said, "Don't know what that is, just as long as it doesn't have any goat cheese or too much tomato. Actually, hold the tomato...if it has any tomato." The waiter took down his order and walked away. Shawn sighed in contentment and turned to look at Lassiter, only to find himself staring into a pair of sizzling, albeit quite handsome, eyes.

"Dude, you've got to stop d –"

"Okay, listen Spencer, I am not 'dude,' I am not your pal and I would appreciate it if you left this restaurant and left me alone now."

Spencer threw up his hands and hissed in disgust. "Okay, what is up with that?"

"What?!"

"This 'I am not your buddy,' 'I am not your pal' nonsense. Lassie, you're sitting in a couple's restaurant all alone. A companion wouldn't hurt!"

"You, of all people, my companion?" Lassie scoffed none-too-convincingly, "Listen, I don't need a companion."

There was a silence, tinged with something specific to each man. The waiter came by and dropped off Shawn's food, but suddenly neither of them seemed really hungry. "Lassie…" Shawn stirred some of the gooey white nonsense around at the end of his fork, the light of the tiny, dancing candle flame throwing shadows across his drawn face. Lassiter couldn't remember ever seeing Shawn so silent and pensive before. Finally he looked up, his dark green eyes scanning his with a guarded emotion. "Everyone needs a companion."

"Yeah, well, I don't –"

He leaned over and kissed him. He, the funny little psychic living life as if it were one big roller coaster ride, kissed him, the head detective of the Santa Barbara Police Department living his life as if it were one big crime scene. In a restaurant full of gasping, pointing people and sympathetic waiters, Shawn kissed him slow and, frozen, Carlton didn't pull away…

For eight totally delicious seconds.

Finally, finally, when he couldn't take it any longer, he pulled back slowly and opened his eyes. The people around them hesitantly returned to their conversations and expensive meals. "Spencer…"

"I…I'm sorry." Shawn got up, upsetting the dishes on the table, and stumbled backwards, "so…terribly sorry, I...don't know what got into me. I…my brain got a little fuzzy…and…this crazy food on the table and…is this goat cheese? I mean, psh…come on, I…" mumbling, stuttering, he backed away and out of the restaurant before Lassie could stop him, leaving him alone with the flickering candle and a redolent plate of food in front of him.

Everyone needs a companion.

He brought his hand up to his mouth, feeling the spot where Spencer's lips had met his; his pouty, thin, pink lips that had so often been the conductors and starters of their playful banters and light teasing. Having kissed those lips, would he ever be able to stand just looking at them again? Would silly 80s references and sing-song tones suffice as substitutes for the solutions that would quell the feelings that he now…possibly…felt for the young psychic?

"In the name of god…" he ran his hand up to his temple where a migraine was quickly forming.

"That was gorgeous!" A waiter, female this time, bent over and replaced the candle, "he really loves you, I can tell. You gonna go chase after him?"

"What's that?" Lassiter pulled his hand away from his face and looked at her as if in a daze. Then, slowly, very slowly, a crooked smile crept over the side his face, "you know…I think I will." Resolved and determined as hell, he pulled his napkin from his lap, pocketed his badge and gun, and got up. "I'm going to go find that man and tell him that I…" he paused, "well, I'll see when I get there."

"Great!" The waitress squealed happily as the tall, straight-backed detective strode purposefully out of the diner. She paused when she noticed the untouched plates of food, "Hey, who's going to pay for all this?" Then her eyes lighted on Spencer's forgotten date, still sitting at a table with an awe-struck look upon her face. Oh, there'll be other fish in the sea, she thought sympathetically as she advanced upon the woman, a three-digit bill in her hand.

xXxXxXx

Author's Note

So, I'm going back and re-editing all of my previous stories in hopes of finding some inspiration and this one still, after the 14th re-edit, makes me laugh. Every time Carlton says, "I am not on a date with a man!" I think, "Oh, but you will be soon." Also, as a side note, Millefeuille de tomate et chèvre frais is actually a meal composed of nothing but goat cheese and tomato (I mean, correct me if I'm wrong.) Ha ha, poor, poor befuddled Spencer. I have so much more in store for him ;)