A/N: Sorry it's taken me a while to update this. Like everyone else, I've been having finals and projects and shit but most of that is done so now I can focus on this.
There have been plenty of times that Carlton's felt awkward sitting next to Shawn. In fact, there are very few moments were he hasn't felt awkward in one way or another. Sometimes it was the fact that Shawn had one upped him yet again or it was that God awful tension the cop couldn't place and sometimes it was just the plain reality that Lassiter didn't know what to talk about with people, let alone someone as quirky and unique as Shawn.
But this particular time is the most awkward of times, it is the the alpha, the omega of all things uncomfortable. Carlton's new, navy blue couch is now the ocean (so much like Shawn's that it actually hurts) and the lights are so dim in the room that it feels like they've submerged themselves in the deepest and darkest of waters. Straight ahead is the the blur of lights, a semi-grainy 80's movie with that ginger girl in it, the one from the other movie with a wedding and a birthday but now she's from a poor, broken family and dresses oddly even for the 80's. The only thing really illuminated by the tv is Shawn's face, tinted a white-blue and he's got this small grin hiding in the corner of his mouth like he doesn't even know that the detective's drowning.
Suddenly, Shawn glances over and then does a double take as Lassiter quickly shoots his gaze straight to screen, hoping that he hadn't been caught staring.
"Something wrong, Lassie?"
Nope. He's caught all right. He focuses on the screen though, trying to catch something, anything that he can make up an excuse with.
"...just wondering why this kid's bobbing his head like that..." the cop doesn't even have to feign his confusion as he watches the young man with the John Lennon glasses and the stupid hat as he cruises down the hall.
Unfortunately, this excites the man child, causing him to lean in closer and widen those uniquely colored blues of his.
"It's Duckie!" Shawn replies as if that answers everything, "The guy's just got his own groove. Wait until you see him dance later to the beautiful stylings of Otis Redding, you'll love it!"
"I'll be holding my breath," the cop clings to his disinterest desperately and turns a little away from Shawn, pretending to have a sudden hunger for the popcorn sitting on the table.
Guster has simply got this all wrong. There is absolutely no way that Shawn...likes him. After all, it's just movies. Only movies. It's not like watching movies has an explicit romance to it.
Lassiter grunts a laugh as a girl hits Duckie across the face after his proposal for pregnancy and that earns a full fledged smile from Shawn. The cop coughs to try and cover up his already obvious enjoyment and he can feel the red tinge his cheeks.
Lassiter wishes the room was brighter and there's an uneasiness in his gut as Shawn gets up from the couch and hastily reappears with a beer in each hand. The cop can't even complain about the little shit helping himself to the fridge anymore, it's become so customary but they've never drank before when watching these movies and the idea of alcohol is unsettling. Lassiter likes alcohol, that's to be sure, but he likes drinking alone. Drinking with other people leads to...
-heat and sweat and-
...problems.
The cop's eyes linger a bit on Shawn's when he's handed the already opened can and his stomach flips but he sips it anyway if for no other reason than to have an excuse to look away.
The movie is at least good for distraction but it isn't long until Lassiter realizes that Duckie is loud and obnoxious, witty and awkward. He has this boundless energy and a quirk in his step and it all screams; Shawn, Shawn, SHAAAAWWWN!
"You put the Warsaw Pact is the pact named after Warsaw," the ginger from the movie says and damn it all if the following conversation isn't the epitome of Duckie's Shawness.
"I take it back," Lassiter grumbles.
"Take what back?" Shawn asks.
"You're not Mouth," Lassiter decides to be honest, hoping he can keep things light, "You're the Duck kid."
Shawn pauses, debates this for a second and then accepts. He takes a swig of his beer and the bottom on the silvery can rises high indicating it's emptiness. Apparently, being Duckie is acceptable maybe even a compliment.
Lassiter laughs internally fully coming to the decision that the pest's best friend is just plain wrong. Shawn is acting like Shawn. He's being himself the way he's always been. So, yeah, he's showing Lassiter some movies, so what? It's not like he's getting sentimental or physical or anything and the 'flirting' is just a part of his asinine nature. It's nothing. Gus is just being overprotective.
Duckie flops back onto the laced up bed and something in their calming ocean shifts. Suddenly the waters are too still and it causes the detective to glance at Shawn. And after Lassiter glances, he's trapped and he can't look away.
"I love this woman," the tv says, "I love this woman and I have to tell her."
Shawn's sitting there, stiffer than anything, brow furrowed and a fist pressed quietly against his mouth.
"And- if she laughs, she laughs- and if she doesn't love me, she doesn't love me-"
Shawn's stares at the coffee table and swallows hard, something that's deep in the back of his throat. Something heavy and terrifying.
"-but if- if I don't find out..."
"Lassie?" Shawn asks, still concentrated on that spot on the floor.
This is the calm before the storm. Lassiter can feel it in his throat, bloating out so much that it's suffocating him from the inside.
"...yeah?"
Shawn digs through his back pocket and there in his hand is the bottlecap and then with resolution, it's on the table. The tv gives it a dull shine and they both stare at for a while. Even though Duckie Dale is currently bumbling his way out of Andie's room, they stare at that bottlecap and it's conversationally silent and it's hard to breathe and for a full minute no one moves.
Then Shawn looks up and slowly he looks to Lassiter, he takes a deep breath.
"What are you-" Lassiter tries to ask it quickly, ask it fast enough to stop whatever's happening but Shawn holds up a hand and damn it all if it doesn't stop the cop's very heartbeat.
"I think it's time I come through on that something crazy, Lassie," Shawn says and he leans in closer and closer and closer.
Lassiter can taste the alcohol on the other man's breath, those full lips opened and too close. The younger man's head tilts to the side and world goes with it. The faint taste of beer becomes intoxicating and the darkness around them feels familiar. Lassiter's gut feels like the split second between stepping off the ledge and actually falling, that second where you're terrified of the drop but you can't go back.
But this time, he keeps his eyes open, wide open even as Shawn's lids fall close and his face gets too close and then right up against his. His eyes stay open as he feels those unaturally-soft-for-a-man's lips pressed against his own. And he watches, watches even as the younger man's face blurs into itself from closeness. A tongue pokes at his lips and even with just the graze of teeth, Lassiter feels that familiar beer and that causes him shut his eyes and his body to shudder.
And then he opens his mouth. And there's a tongue on his tongue. And hands on his hands, on his chest, running through his hair and it feels good and it feels safe. He even presses into Shawn, starting from the fingetips into the other man's sides and then his weight just ends up leaning more and more. The couch creaks under them with that sound that only a new couch makes. Lassiter can feel the want, the need welling up inside him as he hovers above Shawn and he wants to be like this forever.
But he can't.
He can't and he knows it because he's not a teenager. And this isn't a party. And Shawn isn't Jeremy. Because Jeremy's dead. Because he was gay. Because he kissed Lassiter. And Lassiter couldn't save him. Lassiter can't save anyone.
The tears start their descent just seconds before his elbows buckle and he sort of falls off Shawn in slow motion and lands in the consultant's polo clad chest. There's a button against the detective's cheek and it's cold and hard there. He wishes he could've shoved Shawn away, yelled at him or punched him. He wishes that anything else but this but he can't get up either.
"L-lassie?" Shawn asks, his voice embarrassed, "Um- you mind explaining this?"
The cop wants to call the idiot what he is. He wants to hit him hard in the stomach and tell him that he hates him for this, that he can't stand him. He's ruined everything. All the progress Lassiter's made is just in shatters around him, a sea of couch covered in the remains of his personal growth as he clings to a raft made of man.
Shawn's arms come around Lassiter very carefully and very slowly and that forces the crying man to start sobbing. His blunt nails dig into that green polo shirt like it's all he's got left to hold to and he makes hideous faces and chokes on his own tears as Shawn rubs his back at a medium pace, his attempt to be tender.
"Hey, hey," he nearly whispers into the top of the cop's head, "come on. It's all right. You're all right. I'm right here, buddy. You're going to be okay, okay? It's all going to be okay."
He's nervous and Lassiter can hear it. It's in the way he's ranting but it's also in the way his fingers are trembling against the cop's already shaking shoulder blades. He has no idea what he's supposed to do right now and Lassiter knows that and that makes him hate everything more but his voice is still soft and it means what it's saying.
The crying runs out after a while and even though Lassiter can feel his face pooled in his own tears and snot and spit, he doesn't get up. He can't. There's nothing left in him after all that so he keeps lying there even though he knows he's heavy and Shawn probably wants to go home.
"You're a liar!" Andie screams on the tv, "You're a filthy fucking, no good liar!"
She keeps yelling but sleep tugs at the broken cop's eyes and, in a way, it's therapuetic to hear someone screaming and raging. He wishes he'd had the energy to do that but he didn't. No, instead, he's lying on top of Shawn, still huddled against him like a child clinging to a teddy bear. He'll hate himself more in the morning but for now he surrenders to this, because there's nothing else he can do. He knew he was falling the minute Shawn went quiet and now he has no other choice but to lie here at rock bottom.
A/N: Omg, all the angst! D: But at least I'm updating, right? Riiiiight?