Carlton has never been happier to be at a crime scene in his life: because it's keeping O'Hara from asking him about what may or may not have been his date with Spencer last night. It's keeping him from dwelling on it, moreover - (a pleasant enough though confusing event, where they discussed their mothers and cowboy movies and that show on the history channel where people shoot guns at things that Carlton secretly wants to be on). And the whole thing was admittedly a bit soured by thinking of Guster and Spencer betting about him.
It's hard to think about any of this when you're staring at a man dead in his kitchen, surrounded by broken porcelain and the remains of what was apparently an unsatisfactory breakfast. Meanwhile the dead man's young girlfriend is in a state of shock, can't be coaxed into letting go of the cast-iron murder weapon, admits flat-out that she's the one that killed him but claims self-defense and a history of abuse and it's going to be a very very long day.
O'Hara never gets a chance to ask about the maybe-date and Carlton never gets a chance to mention it. It's full dark by the time he leaves the police station.
Just after he gets home, he hears his phone ring: not the ringtone for the station and -he realizes with a twinge of disappointment - not Spencer's ringtone either.
"Lassiter," he answers.
"Hello, Detective Lassiter. This is Burton Guster calling," says Guster in an falsely cheerful tone. "I am calling in order to enquire what you like on your pizza."
The question is so out of the blue - and worlds away from the thoughts of abused women and death-by-griddle - that it takes Carlton a moment to even process the question. "Pizza? From where?"
He can hear Guster's voice, muffled, asking the question, and Spencer's indistinct reply in the background. "It doesn't matter. Assume you have - anywhere in the city, really Shawn? - anywhere in the city."
"Um. Pizza Margherita, authentic Italian, I guess."
"Thank you very much, " and Guster hangs up the phone.
Carlton doesn't have enough brain left to figure any of this out, so he just drops the phone next to the gun on the kitchen table and goes to shower, change his clothes, and find that program with all the guns on tv.
He's honestly surprised when he hears the knock at his front door, and sure enough, there's Spencer on his doorstep, grinning sheepishly, holding a pizza box. "Hey Lassy. Nice pajamas."
"...really?" is all he can think to say.
"Really. So. Remember yesterday, when I told you about Gus and the bet and you got all mopey?"
"I don't mope, Spencer."
"And I got to thinking that you were thinking that this was like She's All That. Or How to Lose A Guy in 10 Days. Or Antitrust. Maybe not Antitrust, but anyway! I decided that the only way to prove it's about you and not a bet - I brought you the pizza. Your favorite pizza. Here."
Carlton, still looking stunned, takes the pizza box. "I wasn't even, um, thinking that. But, thank you," and he smiles, and yeah, it might have been a date and he's surprisingly something more than okay with that.
Shawn smiles back. "You're welcome." He shifts his weight suddenly, leans up and in, and kisses Carlton - so quickly it might have been a trick of the light or a figment of Carlton's imagination - and then he's turning away, dashing towards the warm shell of Guster's car.
Carlton actually reaches up, touches his own lips, and smiles into the night.
[ the eighth day of XMas his true love gave to him: eight pieces of pizza, seven cowboy movies, six cherry candy canes, five peanut butter pancakes, four museum tickets, a three scoop ice cream sundae, two civil war books, and a root beer flavored condom!]
