A/N: It's two for the price of one today, since I'm procrastinating on my homework. Enjoy the third chapter!

III

Lassiter and Guilt

Carlton Lassiter is the strong and silent type. Shawn Spencer is the exact opposite: still strong but certainly not silent. Never silent, never still, always bouncing around. Carlton is like coffee black, strong and bitter; Shawn is like coffee with all the fixings, one sip will have you bouncing off the walls. But Shawn isn't bouncing off the walls in the waiting room, in fact, he's hardly moving at all. Carlton is on the other side of the room from him, at a perfect vantage point for observation. The side of his face is swelling and purple from where Shawn hit him, and while Carlton would normally be angry it doesn't even cross his mind this time.

Every once in a while Shawn's leg will jerk as if he is spasm, then it will cease and the man will return to his state of relative motionlessness. The only real movement he makes is a fiddling with something in his lap that Carlton can't see. Karen isn't there, she had to leave to take care of the gunman's booking, but she promised to return later; Henry isn't their either, though he was earlier. Henry had stormed past him, towards the exit leaving Shawn behind. Juliet is giving Shawn strange, almost scared looks, which Carlton partly understands. Shawn was frightening when he was angry, but Carlton was more frightened by his placid state now. Normally he would be harassing someone: a doctor, a nurse, him; but Shawn does nothing. His gaze is fixed on the ground and he does not look up.

With a sigh, wondering what the hell he is doing, Carlton stands and walks over, taking the seat next to the younger man. From his closer perspective he realizes that Shawn isn't fiddling with something in his lap; he is wringing his hands. He looks up when Carlton sits next to him, then returns his gaze to the floor as soon as he knows who it is.

"Sorry about your face, Lassiter." Normally there would have been an insult in there, or some form of a joke. But his voice was flat and dull, serious in a way that Carlton didn't know Shawn Spencer could be. And he says 'Lassiter' instead of Lassi or Lass or whatever strange new form of nickname that he comes up with next. The name sounds strange to Carlton; he expects the nickname, even enjoys it. To not hear it means that Shawn Spencer is most definitely not okay.

"Are you okay, Spencer?" It isn't like Carlton to ask, but he can't not. He won't admit it to anyone but he likes Shawn. The man amuses him, and he does good casework even though he insists on continuing the psychic charade. He makes life livelier, and Carlton is never bored around him. It is nice to have someone around who doesn't either fear, greatly respect, or hero-worship him.

Shawn doesn't look up. "Yeah. I'm fine. I punched a detective, scared a girl that I really like, and got my best friend shot. What could be wrong?" His voice is bitter, loathing, and Carlton realizes what he is seeing for the first time.

Guilt.

Carlton realizes that he has never seen Shawn Spencer guilty before. Even when he was lying and Carlton knew he was lying—like every time he pulled his damn psychic bit—there was not a trace of guilt on Shawn's face. Even when he went too far and people got angry at him he was only ever sorry, but not guilty. He apologized and Carlton was sure he meant it, but there wasn't guilt in him. Carlton didn't know that Shawn even felt guilt.

"Spen—Shawn. It wasn't your fault. You couldn't have known…."

Shawn cracks his knuckles methodically, his eyes still on the ground. "I should have known. The signs were all there: the door slightly ajar, the carpet messed up, the slight dirt treads, it was all there and I should have known!" Carlton's eyebrows rise.

"What are you talking about?" Shawn's eyes flicker up for a moment.

"Cut the crap Lassi. You know I'm not psychic. I should have known. I wasn't paying attention, and if I had been I would have known he was there, I would have pulled back. Except I probably wouldn't have because I'm so stupid!" He kicked violently at the table in front of him. Carlton falls silent, his expression serious. Shawn has just confessed that he isn't psychic. Carlton could throw him in jail right now if he wanted to. But he doesn't want to, so he'll just pretend that he never heard a word of Shawn's confession.

Carlton Lassiter isn't good with comforting people. That's Juliet's part of the job, but with Juliet freaked out the task falls to him. "Okay Shawn. Yes, you should have known." Shawn looks up, his eyes shadowed and hurt. "You should have known, and so should have I, so should have Juliet. We should have known better to let you in to an unsecured crime scene; the two of you should have known better than to go in without letting us secure it. We all made mistakes, Shawn. We're all to blame. But it isn't your fault any more than it is my fault or Juliet's fault. It's the gunman's fault. So stop blaming anyone other than him."

Shawn looks down again, avoiding his gaze, and Carlton sighs. "It is not your fault, Shawn. It is not, understand me?" He feels almost like he is talking to a child. "I don't care that you hit me, because I would have done the same. Juliet will get over being scared. And Gus will absolutely forgive you. So stop beating yourself up."

Shawn looks up and doesn't try to hide. His eyes are bloodshot, as if he hasn't slept in days rather than a matter of hours, and he looks like he is about to cry. Carlton lays his hand on the younger man's shoulder. His guilt is written on his face. "We all screwed up Shawn. But it is not your fault." He puts special emphasis on each word. "Not your fault."

Shawn leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. "All right Lassi. All right."

Carlton sighs and settles into his seat. For the moment, for his sake and Shawn's, he isn't going anywhere.