Title: Losing My Mind: a fic in five parts (II. To Think About You)

Author: Jane Westin

Pairing: Shawn/Carlton

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Not mine. Never mine.

Notes: This is my warm-up (ie, first time writing slash, first time writing Psych fics). Please forgive the lack of plot; I had to get used to the characters before I could think about giving them a murder to solve. I think I know them well enough to put in a little more storyline next time. Thank you for reading!

Carlton knows it, even if Spencer doesn't.

Of course, Carlton has known it from day one. When he and Victoria were still trying to work through the problems in their relationship (ninety-eight percent of which had started with the sex part, and were completely his fault...he should never have told her, if he could take back one thing in his life it would be That Night), he didn't try to kid himself about his attraction to men. But he loved Victoria, and he had truly believed that he could do his husbandly duty and be good to her and they could make it work. Because he believed in their vows. Marriage meant something, and keeping the promises he had made were more important to him than hooking up with any man. She didn't believe it, but he wanted a family: Christmas cards and a minivan and picking school systems, the whole deal, and he didn't see how he could have that any other way.

And Victoria...Victoria was kind and hard-working and good, really good, she deserved a better man than he was. But he thought one day, if he tried his hardest, he could maybe get close.

(Look at me, Carlton.)

He had tried his hardest and it hadn't worked, it had all fallen apart over an agonizing two and a half years. She couldn't get past the sex part, and he couldn't blame her. It wasn't her fault, nothing was, because how could she live with a lie that eclipsed their entire lives? It had started with That Night and ended with both their hearts broken, and he would never forgive himself.

(Why can't you look at me?)

Then Spencer had shown up, all surfer-dude handsome with those eyes and that chin, and had almost-almost-made him forget about Victoria.

And that made him feel like the lowest creature on the planet.

That Spencer had the whole station snowed annoyed him, but what really upset him was his own reaction to Spencer's constant wisecracking; his stupid Malibu Ken hair; his elaborate, prancing gyrations. Not to mention what was obviously a very nice body under all those layers. And it was like Spencer was feeding on the responses he struggled to hide. No matter what Carlton did to avoid him, Spencer was there - sidling up to him when Carlton least expected it, crawling into his lap, running enthusiastic hands through Carlton's hair. He hated it. He hated it because he liked it, and because even then, even after almost two years separated from Victoria, it felt like dishonor.

Yet he couldn't help putting his hands on Spencer when Spencer was nearby. Lust and anger, anger and lust. He had wanted to wipe the smug expression off Spencer's face, wanted to shove him into the wall hard enough to make him realize that the entire damn world didn't kowtow to his supposed psychic abilities. And it infuriated him more than he could tolerate that he craved the feeling of Spencer's shoulders beneath his hands, of Spencer wriggling against him as he hauled him away from a crime scene.

Lust and anger, anger and lust. And encompassing everything, the shame of his failed marriage.

He spent a lot of time at the range during the first six months Spencer was there. It cleared his head, helped him think, worked out his anger. He wasn't an irrational man. He knew, deep down, that he didn't hate Spencer. He wasn't entirely sure, though that he didn't hate himself. Because he hated that he didn't want Victoria. Hated that he wanted men. Hated most of all that he wanted, of all people, Spencer.

Something had happened, though, during that first year. Spencer still drove him insane, with his teeth and tan and perpetual bullshit, but Carlton had gotten used to him. Maybe more than used to him. Maybe even liked him a little.

And that made it easier to accept that Carlton really wants to sleep with him.

He isn't confused about his own feelings, now. He no longer hates himself, at least not most days, and even his ulcer has calmed down. But he's sure as shit confused about Spencer's.

Carlton is nothing if not practical. He knows that it makes no sense, Spencer and he, that he would likely end up tearing Spencer's face off within a month if they spent more time together than they did already. More than that, he knows Spencer would never want someone like him. Spencer is rumpled and careless and cool, and Carlton is...well, Carlton accepted himself a long time ago. He likes himself, even if other people don't.

It no longer infuriates him that his body responds to Spencer's perpetual groping. It no longer shames him that he jerks off at night to thoughts of Spencer's mouth, his skin, his admittedly sexy ass.

What pisses him off was that he can't tell if Spencer wants him, too.

Every time Spencer's fingers skate over his neck, every time he wraps his arms around Carlton's waist and coos into his ear, Carlton's stomach flips over with something that feels suspiciously like hope. Then Spencer darts away again without a backward glance, disappears for days and sometimes weeks at a time, and Carlton sinks into a mire of doubt and anger.

That is frustrating.

He had decided months ago that the best thing to do was ignore it. Spencer is Spencer, and a year and a half has proven that Carlton isn't going to be able to bully him out of acting like himself (although he isn't about to stop trying). He thought he had been doing a relatively good job.

And now this.

Carlton watches the brake lights on Spencer's bike slow at the four-way stop, turn, disappear around the block. What had just happened?

That look on Spencer's face.

He wouldn't look at Carlton. His expression was all eyes, big hurt scared sad eyes. Mouth still and silent, for once not vomiting nonsense. The bandage over his right ear, tape peeling a little at the edges although the dressing looked new, hiding the nick from Carlton's bullet. And then he had said something. What?

Don't get lost.

But it had been Spencer who looked lost, even as he reached for Carlton and pressed both palms to Carlton's chest. And Carlton had frozen, his heart picking up speed, feeling himself immediately harden, just like he always does when Spencer touches him. But it was wrong, no, this wasn't playful or affectionate or sexual, this was Spencer like Carlton had never seen him, this was Spencer breaking.

He tried to be careful, because although he isn't as smart or as quick as Spencer he suspects that Spencer is very good at hiding his real feelings behind glibness and idiocy. He tried to be careful but Spencer saw it anyway, saw Carlton's hesitation, and in that instant his hazel eyes went lucid. He looked straight at Carlton, and Carlton saw horror and embarrassment and shame, and that was worse than the hurt. He pulled his hands away from Carlton and ran like hell.

Carlton slams the door shut and locks it. He feels something twist in his chest, something that hurts more than months and years of pent-up rage and self-hatred. Spencer doesn't take anything seriously, but he is as resilient as a cockroach because of it, and seeing him look like that makes Carlton feel like the world is tilting on its axis.

Of course...

Of course, just because Spencer doesn't take anything seriously doesn't mean he can't take anything seriously. Obviously, he's capable of emotions Carlton hasn't given him credit for having.

Carlton falls onto the couch and runs a hand over his face. He should do something about this. Maybe he should have called after Spencer.

But Carlton has never been very good at following cues, or at knowing the right thing to do in situations where feelings are involved. He just knows that the look in Spencer's eyes will be carved on his memory for as long as he lives.

Why? Because of the Rourke thing? Because he had watched Carlton shoot a man in the head? Rourke was a bad guy and although Carlton has the same unsettled feeling he'd had the last time he shot someone, he knows he did the right thing. Because he had seen Rourke's finger move on the trigger and if he hadn't acted then, Gus would have died.

Oh.

Carlton feels dull and slow. Of course. Gus.

Carlton picks up his phone from the coffee table and turns it over in his hands. O'Hara is a hyperemotional sap, which is why she'll know what to do. He scrolls to her number and hits Send.

She answers on the second ring. "O'Hara."

"It's Lassiter." Clipped, curt. Like always.

"Oh, hi!" Her professional tone melts into delight, God is she perky. "How are you?" As though they hadn't just seen each other five hours ago.

"I'm..." He pauses. "I'm fine."

She obviously hears the emphasis, because she immediately sounds concerned. "What's wrong? Please don't tell me someone else has been kidnapped."

"No. Nothing like that." Another pause. "I was hoping we could discuss...or rather, I was wondering if you could advise me..." He takes a breath. "I think Spencer is upset."

There's a long silence on the other end, then "What?"

"I said, I think-"

"I heard you." O'Hara interrupts him. "I just wasn't expecting...Since when are you concerned about how Shawn feels?"

"Since whenever," Carlton snaps. "I just need to know what to do about it."

"Um." O'Hara sounds genuinely confused. "Have you tried to talk to him?"

That should be obvious. "No."

"Do you want me to talk to him?"

Carlton feels an immediate, almost physical response to her question. "No!" he blurts. He hasn't forgotten Spencer's infatuation with O'Hara - in fact, he isn't quite sure Spencer isn't still infatuated with her. The last thing he wants is O'Hara turning into Spencer's goddamn shoulder to cry on.

"Oookay." O'Hara draws the word out, managing to sound at once annoyed and slightly hurt. "Carlton, I want to help you, I really do, but I'm not totally sure what you actually want."

"Just..." Carlton stops. What does he want, exactly? He wants Spencer to...feel better, he supposes, even though that seems trite and girly and so very, very gay. But he also wants to be the one to make Spencer feel better. It's selfish, he supposes, because he probably should want Spencer to feel better in any way possible, even if that way is talking to O'Hara.

Still, it was Carlton's doorbell Spencer had rung, not O'Hara's, or McNab's, or even Guster's (although he suspects that Guster's doorbell has been rung so much in the past three days that he disconnected it and Spencer was forced to find other doorbells to ring). And that makes Carlton feel kind of...not possessive, exactly, but maybe a little protective. Of Spencer. Which is a really stupid way to feel, because what's he trying to prove, anyway? To Spencer or anyone else? How compassionate he is? What a good guy he is, on the inside? No one would fall for that.

But that look on Spencer's face.

"Carlton?" Annoyed has overridden hurt, and now there's a splash of impatience in O'Hara's tone, as well.

"I'm here." He clears his throat. "I'm sorry, O'Hara. I don't think your assistance is actually required. Thank you for your willingness to help, though."

He hears her loud, exasperated exhalation. "You are incorrigible, Carlton." She hangs up without saying goodbye.

Carlton puts the phone back on the coffee table. Debates for a full fifteen minutes whether to call Spencer or not.

He waits too long, and decides on not.