Chapter Nine

"See?" Shawn yelled through the glass door of his converted laundromat/apartment. "This is exactly what I wanted to avoid."

Carlton frowned. He balanced the small baker's box he was carrying on one hand and tried the handle to Shawn's front door with the other. "Spencer, just let me in."

"Not recommended, Lassie. I wasn't expecting company this week and my place is in no condition to entertain."

"Open the door," Carlton ordered again.

"Dude, I'm serious. It's too hard to shower or change clothes with this arm. I think I smell like Charlie Sheen's hair."

"I don't feel like arguing with you, Spencer. I —" Carlton stopped talking when Shawn suddenly approached the door to peek at the package in his arms.

"What's in the box?" he asked, he face pressed against the door. He reminded Carlton of a child gazing in at a toy store.

The detective rolled his eyes at him and held the pale green box up for inspection. "Cupcakes. They were a gift from some baker."

Shawn swung open and reached out to grab the box. Carlton held it just out of his reach before sliding past him and through the doors. Glaring, Shawn snatched the box away and shuffled past him.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," he mumbled, kicking a pile of clothes from his path. Carlton was momentarily pleased that Shawn didn't tell him to get lost, but the feeling gave way to distaste when he looked at the state of the other man's apartment.

"What did you do to this place, Spencer?" he asked, taking in the mess. Fast-food cartons and empty frozen daiquiri packages lay scattered across the floor, and piles of clothes sat in mounds on the furniture.

"I lived in it, Lassie. Living's just been real hard these past few weeks." Shawn sat down at his converted cashier counter/breakfast nook and flipped open the box. A note scrawled on a pale yellow napkin with the words 'Cups of Cake' printed in a green script was taped to the lid.

Psych - It was the kitchen manager with help from wife. I've let go of them both. I appreciate your help. In exchange, try my new cupcake flavor inspired by the experience. I call it 'Cinnamon Rage.'

Shawn frowned. Inside the box were tiny spice cakes with bright-red icing and cinnamon candies on top. The tray had space for 12; there were four left.

"Where are the rest of my cakes?" Shawn asked.

Carlton shrugged. "I don't know. Guster said the baker brought them by your office earlier this week."

"He ate more than his share. Some partner."

"He only ate three. O'Hara and I also had some."

Shawn gave him an accusatory glare.

"He offered," Carlton replied simply.

"I did all the work," Shawn pouted, before popping one of the cupcakes into his mouth. "It's spicy!"

"I think that's the point."

"Dude, who wants a spicy cupcake? It makes as much sense as carrot cake. No, I take that back; carrot cake makes less sense. Who want's a vegetable in their dessert?"

"Spencer," Carlton interrupted. "I didn't come all the way out here to talk about cake."

"Wanna talk pie?"

"I want to talk about Stiles."

Shawn shook his head in annoyance. "'Talk about Stiles.' 'Talk about Stiles.' 'Talk about Stiles.' Did you and my father watch the same episode of Dr. Phil?"

"We're both officers and we're both concerned about what happened."

"Well, my arm's all bandaged up and the creep's going to court, so there's nothing to be worried about." Shawn rose from the counter, holding his box of cupcakes awkwardly with his good arm.

"I haven't seen you around the station in two weeks. Guster said you hadn't been by your office in three."

"Taking a much needed vacation."

"Three weeks is a bit much for a vacation, don't you think? Last time you got shot, you were back at the station and flirting with O'Hara in four days."

Shawn ignored him as he made his way over to his messy bed. "Thank you for the concern, Lassie. Make sure you lock the door on your way out."

Carlton hesitated a moment before following after Shawn. "You've gone through a severe trauma," he told him. "You may think you're able to deal with it, but it will affect you. And we're all worried about what will happen when it does."

Shawn halted suddenly before turning to glare at Carlton. "'We're?'" he repeated. "Did you tell Gus? If anyone told him anything I swear I'll —"

Carlton scoffed and crossed his arms. "Give me — and Guster — some credit. If he knew about what happened between you and Stiles, do you really think he'd send me to come check on you? He would have pulled you out of this sty weeks ago."

Shawn visibly relaxed at that logic.

"I didn't tell anyone anything, but everyone could tell that something about the case was bothering you," he continued. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Guster would have come with me, but with you AWOL, he's been unable to afford to take more time off. He thinks you're upset because it was your father's former partner."

"He's not too far off," Shawn said before turning away again. Carlton watched him as he fumbled his way awkwardly across the messy room. After almost 20 years in the field, his unsteady gait was suddenly recognizable.

"Are you drunk?" he asked.

Shawn grinned before taking a bite of another cupcake. A smidgen of red icing dotted his nose. "No," he answered. He stumbled abruptly over a pair of tennis shoes before righting himself. "Tipsy? Yes."

Now Carlton was worried. In the nearly seven years he'd known the private investigator, he'd never heard of him getting purposely intoxicated.

"Don't look so scandalized, Lassie," Shawn said, licking his lips. He popped another cupcake into his mouth and sat down on the edge of his bed. "Although, I am glad that I'm still able to get that kind of reaction out of you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm not a victim."

"I didn't say you were."

"But you think I am. You're here. You think I need someone checking in on me."

"I think you need something. I just told you, Guster sent me. He was worried."

"Well you can go report back that I'm just fine."

"Are you?"

"Yes."

Carlton gestured at the trash and clothes scattered around the floor. "I don't think so."

Shawn snorted dismissively and ate his last cupcake. He shrugged as he chewed. "Well, what do we do now?"

The head detective shuffled awkwardly; he wasn't good at healing emotional wounds. He looked around again at the apartment. The place was a disaster and he had a feeling that Shawn was in a similar condition. He approached the younger man and ran a hand through his greasy hair. Shawn froze at his touch.

"When was the last time you showered?"

"Are you serious?"

"Yes. You go take a shower and I'll clean up out here. Just be careful not to fall with that arm."

Shawn chuckled slightly. "You clean?"

"I live alone, Spencer. Who did you think picked up after me."

"Is this your grand plan on helping me get over 'my trauma'?"

Carlton met his eyes uncomfortably. "I just want to help you. Period."

The younger man laughed harder. "You think this will do it? A hot shower and a clean floor?" He flopped backward on the bed. "Carly Poppins here to make everything better." His laughter grew more hysterical until Carlton realized he was crying. He sat down on the bed next to the emotional man, careful not to impede his personal space.

"Spencer?" he asked awkwardly. "Are you okay?"

"Why are you here?" Shawn demanded. He sat up, eyes red and glaring. "What do you want from me? You want to hear everything he did to me? You want to hear how shitty I feel?"

"No, I just want to make sure you're okay."

"'Okay, okay, okay.' What does that even mean? You want me to run around and crack jokes and pretend like everything's alright just so you feel better?"

"No! I —"

Shawn didn't let him finish. He reached out and grabbed his suit jacket, pulling the taller man down next to him on his unmade bed.

"Spencer!" Carlton shouted, attempting to push Shawn away from him. "What are you doing?"

They wrestled awkwardly until Shawn had Carlton pinned underneath him.

"You want to help me?" he fumed. "That's what he said, too. He just wanted to help me. He just wanted to make me feel good. He didn't give a damn how I actually felt. It was all for him!"

It took a great deal of Carlton's patience not to knock the other man to the floor. "Who the hell do you think I am!?" he raged. "I'm not Stiles. I'm not here to take advantage of you."

"Then why are you here?" Shawn shouted.

"I already told you."

"No! You told me that Gus asked you to come. The Lassiter I know doesn't take orders. So, I'm asking, why are you here?"

"Because I want to be here!" he shouted back. "I wanted to make sure you weren't hurt. You're my friend."

Shawn stared down at him for a moment, breathing hard from both his emotions and his earlier exertion. After a few tense heartbeats, his anger melted out of him and he collapsed onto the other man. Carlton lay still, terrified of which direction Shawn's emotions would swing next.

"I'm sorry," he heard Shawn mumble.

"It's ... it's okay."

"No. It was wrong. You're right. You're not Stiles. I just ... I can't think straight anymore. I don't know who I can trust anymore."

Carlton felt hot moisture seeping into his cotton button-up as Shawn fisted the fabric of his suit jacket.

"I hate what he's done to me," Shawn fumed. He pulled on Carlton's jacket tighter. "He made hate myself. I hated that I allowed him to do that to me. I hated that I ... " Shawn exhaled raggedly, warming Carlton's skin.

"Yes?" he prompted quietly.

"I hated that I enjoyed it."

Carlton sighed. "He knew that, Shawn," he comforted. "He knew you'd blame yourself. That's what makes him a predator. He was an adult. It was his responsibility to protect you, not your responsibility to look out for him." The younger man didn't answer, but Carlton could feel the wet spot on his shirt growing bigger and could still hear him struggle to control his breathing.

"I going to tell you something, Spencer, but only if you promise to not throw it back in my face later."

When Shawn didn't reply, Carlton took that as permission to continue.

"I envy you."

Shawn scoffed.

"I do. Really. You are — you have everything I wish I did. You're a natural detective. You make my job look easy. Your father and your mother adore you. You have a best friend you've known your entire life. Everyone loves you."

Carlton pulled Shawn closer, remembering to be careful of his arm as he settled him more comfortably on his chest.

"I'm sorry," he continued softly. "I'm sorry you were hurt. I'm sorry no one was there to help you. But we're here now ... I'm here now and I'm going to do everything I can to make sure he never hurts you or anyone else ever again."

"He's already hurt me, Lass."

"Then I'll help you get better."

"I don't need you to be some kind of cliche hero."

"I know," Carlton admitted. "But I want to be."

He felt Shawn stiffen in his arms, before pushing himself up with his good arm to look down at the detective. Hazel eyes searched sky blue for answers to questions that neither one knew. With their faces already only inches apart, Carlton could feel his heart skip when the other man pressed closer.

"Shawn?" Carlton whispered softly. That seemed to break the momentary spell and Shawn quickly rolled off him with a shake of his head. He rose from the bed and ran a hand through his hair.

"Sorry, dude." Shawn gave a nervous laugh as he turned to hide his face. "I think I'm gonna go take that shower now. You can see yourself out, right?"

"But —"

"Thank you, Lassie, for checking on me. I'll be fine."

"You won't do anything ... stupid, will you?" Carlton asked, voicing a fear that had been hanging in the back of his mind since he'd noticed Shawn's continued absence at the station.

Shawn laughed humorlessly. "He only hurt me, dude. He didn't break me. I'll be back, I promise. I just need some time to myself."

Carlton figured that was as much comfort as he was going to get. "Okay," he said simply. "Call me — or your father or Gus or O'Hara — if you need anything. It's not a problem."

Shawn just nodded before going into his bathroom and slamming the door. When he came out an hour later, skin still pink from the hot water, his apartment had been straightened up: Dirty clothes had been placed in the hamper, trash and food cartons had been taken out and a note had been left on his fridge door.

Remember, Shawn, you don't have to tell us what happened to tell us you need help. Carlton

It had been a week since Carlton had visited Shawn and they still hadn't heard anything from the private eye. The detective was concerned, but Shawn had promised he wouldn't do anything rash, and in all the years that Carlton had known him, Shawn had never broken a promise.

So, he waited. He worked on cases — completely free of distractions, interference and psychic visions — and spent an increasing amount of time "de-stressing" at the gun range. He tried not to reflect on why.

"Is something bothering you, Carlton?" Juliet asked one late Friday afternoon.

"What makes you think something's bothering me?"

Juliet gave him a look. "I don't know, maybe the fact that you've gone out to the range three times today alone. Not to mention, you nearly body slammed a couple suspects in that gang murder case this morning."

Carlton shrugged and started packing up to go home. "Tough job."

Juliet smiled a bit sadly, as if she understood. That was one of the reasons why Carlton loved her; she got him better than any other woman in his life. "You can call him, you know," she told him gently.

"I already visited," was his automatic reply. When he realized what he said, he flushed and looked up to see Juliet grinning at him.

"Really?" Juliet replied. "You didn't invite me to go with?"

"It was a sort of on an impulse." Not entirely comfortable with the direction their conversation was headed, Carlton rose from his desk and shut down his computer.

"Are you blushing?"

"Of course not, O'Hara," he stated. He fumbled with his bag and jacket and hurried to rush out of the bullpen. The urge to shoot something had been building since lunch and he needed to take care of it. Now.

"There's nothing wrong with visiting a friend, Carlton," Juliet shouted out after him. "And there's nothing wrong with admitting that Shawn's your friend."

Maybe not, Carlton thought. But there was certainly something wrong with admitting that friend may be something more.

A/N: You're almost there! This was originally much longer, but I wanted the next scene to get a chapter all it's own.