(For Mixtape's playlist, go to open+spotify+com/user/zt1bbty6pkws8amec3zc7byt9/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr (replace the + with a .) I highly recommend listening as you read, as they were crafted to go together to enhance the experience.)

I'm Alright

*This chapter takes place during season 3 episode 11: Lassie Did A Bad Bad Thing

** The accompanying song is I'm Alright by Kenny Loggins

Carlton felt like he was on top of the world.

Had it not been for the rat bastard slipping out of his grasp and under his radar, much to Carlton's displeasure, he would have caught Chavez years ago. But now – now he had bagged the motherfucker. And it didn't matter whether it was skill, luck, or a generous helping of both that had him cuffing the hardened criminal and hauling him back to the station for booking because the second-in-command of the Cinco Reyes was on his way to lock-up and that was the only thing that mattered.

Carlton would take what he could get and enjoy the feeling while it lasted.

Getting scum like this ass-hole off the street provided him with a natural high and Carlton had found through his many years on the force that the badder the guy, the better he felt post-bust. To him, pushing Chavez through the doors of the precinct and walking the man through a gauntlet of armed and awestruck officers was almost a religious experience.

He felt smart. Powerful. Confident. Things he hadn't felt in far too long.

He was sure of himself, too – something he hadn't felt in even longer.

About damn time, he thought, steering Chavez past his colleagues.

Steering the gang-banger past his brothers in blue, Carlton felt his pride surge at the obvious admiration, McNab looking what could only be described as agog. The cop next to him – Drimmer, Carlton thought his name was – not so much. But that was to be expected. Some of the Gang Unit guys had been ribbing him over his the Rocinante case and now he'd just walked in with what should have been one of their collars, certain his success where they had failed was certain to shut them up. Of course, Drimmer and his pals was pissed – Carlton just did their jobs for them. And he couldn't wait to rub their noses in it, his hatred for those assholes and the fact that they thought they were better than him the driving force behind his strut.

He felt Spencer's eyes on him as he entered the hall, the psychic's gaze searing into him through his jacket, two layers of shirt, his inflated ego and his Fort Knox level defenses, and Carlton struggled to keep his composure, something twitching inside his chest. Spencer. The man was like a one-jerk-infestation with his eyes glued to the detective whenever they crossed paths, yet, even after all they'd gone through together, Carlton found himself far less annoyed by it than he had been before.

Which, of course, was an annoyance in itself.

The lights flickered as he handed Chavez over to the booking officers, the torrential downpour raining havoc as well as water all over their electrical system, leaving Carlton thankful that they'd made through the storm okay, knowing that it hadn't been guaranteed. Between barely being able to see an inch in front of his face and having an angry Mexican spewing epithets in his backseat, he'd had to rely on all his Precision Driver's Training just to get them there in one piece, having barely managed to do so at that. It had been like trying to maneuver a Crown Vic down a kiddie pool waterslide and he wasn't looking forward to ever having to do it again.

Still, he was a little proud of himself, and as he tossed the keys to Andrews with a smile on his face, the lights flickered back on.

"Book him," he said, reveling in the moment of thunderous applause, turning to look at the crowd of cheering colleagues behind him. These were the same people who had been ready to roast his carcass over an open flame because of his Rocinante failure, yet now they were openly adulating.

Huh.

The cop smiled wider. It didn't matter that half of them were kissing his ass and full of crap, credit was due where credit was due; he was taking it whether intended or not.

This is good, he thought, basking in his own awesomeness. I can work with this.

Maybe things weren't going to be horrible forever after all.

It was astonishing how quickly his day could go from spectacular to suicide-inducing, but here Carlton was, seriously considering considering it.

He'd thought being informed that he was losing his case to Agents Douche-bag and Dick-face from the FBI was bad enough, but with his luck, he should have been prepared for things to get worse. It was incredibly on brand for him, after all, things rarely working out as well as they seemed like they were going to, and really, he should have known to expect it. But how does one prepare to get caught standing over a dead body with gun in hand though?

He didn't do it.

Carlton wasn't stupid enough to kill someone who had just turned State's Witness. And even if he was, he certainly wasn't stupid enough to do so in his own damn precinct. If any of these people had half a brain, they'd see that as well. Sure, he had a temper, but that was his way of letting off steam; he was aggressive, yes, but not violent. Most of these people had worked with him for years and they should know him well enough to understand that by now.

He yelled so he didn't hit people.

He went to the gun range so no one got shot.

He manhandled Spencer – and only Spencer– because the man practically begged for it with his words and actions and very existence, constantly thrusting himself in Carlton's face.

If it weren't so damn embarrassing, he'd consider getting in the 'psychic' to tell them how very not dead he was, even though he had spent years putting Carlton through varying degrees of disconcerting abuse – assaulting him with his roving hands and lying lips and body pressed so tight against Carlton's it was almost sinful. Spencer was still breathing, and if that wasn't proof that he had more control over his temper than Ocampo was giving him credit for, he didn't know what was.

Mind you, Carlton still wasn't sure all that hadn't just been flirting…

Shortly after finding her, Carlton had discussed his choice of job with Dr. Foster, worried his anger issues were preventing him from being a good cop. She'd told him that based on what she'd seen so far, she wasn't at all surprised that he'd fallen into the profession, informing him that learning to harness his anger would make him better at his chosen work. She'd also said he needed to learn to trust himself more, his instincts good ones that he instead squashed and ignored – a potentially fatal flaw in both his career and his personal life.

Which is why this entire situation had taken him off-guard. He'd had never had any real issues on the force before; with no internal incidences more recent than the Secret Santa Debacle of 2005, his record was clean, or at least clean enough, and this was somehow the first time something he'd mumbled in anger had come back to bite him in the ass. He'd have to be more proactive about avoiding it in the future.

Somehow.

His rage simmering, the Chief asked him what had gone on, and Carlton was a little surprised when she ordered him to answer. He thought it obvious, but he explained anyway, trying to keep as calm as possible. And as a reward for his honesty Carlton received a face full of indignant FBI officials, with mouths full of accusations. The insinuation had him seeing red; empathy not the most useful of traits in a place like the precinct, he knew may be an asshole from time to time, but he wasn't a liar and these asshats from on high coming to question his character pissed him right off.

Fuckwads, he thought, clenching his teeth as he allowed himself to be held back, desperately wanting to take a swing that would likely land him in a jail cell.

Thank God the Chief believed him.

Carlton didn't know what he would have done without her support, and though he knew she wasn't about to let it happen, he desperately wished he could help her prove his innocence. She was a good Chief, and Carlton was glad she'd had the 'interim' dropped from her title, much as he still might want her job. He also respected the fact that she was capable of putting her personal feelings toward someone aside in the name of justice.

He just wished that someone wasn't him.

Vick asked for his gun with a sad and stressed look in her eyes, and though he knew she was just following protocol, it hurt him more than he could explain. But, proving he was the good cop he said he was, Carlton begrudgingly handed his weapon over without a fight.

With it gone, anxiety began to take hold and he grit his teeth again, trying to remember how to ground himself against the emotional onslaught he was facing and doing his best to remind himself that lacking his weapon did not mean lacking the security that came with it. He was still as strong and smart and capable as he had been with it in his possession, and if he just focused on that, things would be okay. Or so he kept repeating like a mantra in his head, his skin tightening and breath quickening against his will. That in mind, he took a deep breath, focusing on the air as it rushed through his lungs, and he lifted his head, attempting to steady himself before leaving the room, his shoulders squared as followed his boss back up the stairs into the madness that was to be this investigation.

Sweet Lady Justice, what the hell could I have possibly done to deserve this?

Carlton came home from the grocers to find his boss, two buffoons, Ocampo and a brigade of blues spilling onto his front lawn. He instantly knew what it meant, but in his heart of hearts he hoped it wasn't true. He hadn't broken yet, dangling off the precipice by the tips of his toes, but if anything would do it, this might be it. Eyes clouding and mind racing, Carlton stood there silently and when Ocampo brushed past him with barely a glance, the hunger that had led him out to do some late afternoon grocery shopping fled, his stomach turning to stone.

Karen approached him, and listening to his superior place him on suspension, Carlton's heart broke.

Even if they cleared his name – if, a thing that seemed more and more unlikely with every passing moment – his history would always be marred by the memory of this encounter. He was in hell, and he didn't know whether it was the tarnish on his life's work or the shame from being targeted as their number one suspect that pained him most. It wasn't enough that his name was mud – that everything he had worked so hard for was for naught – but they had to publicly humiliate him by ripping his world out from under him on his doorstep, too.

What a fitting reward for his many years of service.

Carlton had thought that – hoped that – after so many loyal years he would be granted a modicum of privacy when they tore his life to shreds.

He had apparently thought wrong.

Some detective he was.

But he refused to let it affect him in front of his colleagues, so he blinked back his frustration, wondering if ol' Mrs. McGraw was peeping at the scene from across the road, hiding behind her canary yellow curtains. Far too nosy for her own good, the blue haired biddy could just get bent for all Carlton cared, but the last thing he needed was the news making the neighborhood rounds. He hadn't lived in the area long, but he had been around enough to know the old women in the area would make his life miserable were they privy to this private information and it was something he'd like to avoid if at all possible, his neighbors already thinking him 'queer' because he didn't keep any 'lady-friends'.

Suddenly, seeing his most recent sexual conquest flounce down his front steps and stare as his life upended, it dawned on Carlton that they weren't exactly wrong.

Wearing equally awkward looks upon their faces, Spencer and Guster flanked the Chief, and the knowledge that the sometimes-consultants had been in his house unsettled him. Sparsely decorated though it was, and though it may not seem that way to anyone else, his home was more than just a residence to him; it was his one true safe space, and as a large part of his meager existence, he felt more than a little violated that they had been there without his consent.

Vick was one thing, of course, both an expected and necessary evil, but Carlton's reasons for never having invited the perceptive bastard and his buddy to his abode were valid ones and as such, he hoped they hadn't been allowed to snoop around on their own. Who knew what hidden depths Spencer could discover from the way he organized his sock drawer, after all? Because while he hated the psychic's fool act, he couldn't deny that the man's sense of deductive reasoning was so sharp you could prick yourself with it. It made him shudder – not even wanting to think of what the man would or could have picked up on were he allowed free reign.

Instead he stood silently as the Chief requested his badge, a depressed and conflicted look on her face.

Unable to look back, too many feelings rushing through his thin frame, Carlton's gaze shifted to the man behind her left shoulder.

Spencer looked unimpressed, perhaps even upset, and it certainly wasn't the look Carlton had expected to see on the charlatan's face. He didn't know how to process it, not even sure he should, so he filed it away to unpack later, if he wound up unpacking it at all. Discomfited, he went to shift his bag and Guster surprised him by offering assistance, and he surprised himself when he handed the sack over mechanically, his entire body numb save his eyes.

Those began to burn as he battled back tears.

He was not going to cry in public, god damn it.

Not in front of these people and certainly not in front of Spencer.

Spencer had already seen him emote too much as it was, and he was tired of being so vulnerable in front of him.

He was stronger than this. Better than this.

Except…

Carlton felt like his entire identity was being cut from his core – his existence unraveled with a single pull of the thread – and he didn't know how to react, what to say, what to do, how to feel. He'd never been at such a loss before, the only thing similar being the dissolution of his marriage, and he pictured himself adrift at sea – his body leaden and his chest crushed, legs struggling not to twitch beneath him as waves of bad news swallowed him whole – and he knew that he knew how to breathe, if only he could remember how.

It was just too much, all at once.

Shawn shifted behind Vick, the pseudo-psychic staring at the ground so he wouldn't have to look him in the face, and Carlton wondered what he could possibly be thinking, why he refused to make eye contact. Did he consider this karmic payback for acting like such a jerk? If he did, would he be wrong? More importantly, how could he have been so lucky as to experience his most emasculating moment in front of the man?

Why did Carlton time and time again seem destined to expose himself to this very individual - his hopes and dreams dashed on the ground in front of him for Spencer to witness, leaving him with nothing but memories of what his life had been and fears of what it would turn into?

He just didn't know. It just didn't make sense.

Oblivious to the thoughts racing through her former Head Detective's mind, Vick took his badge, opening her mouth to find she had nothing to say. She quickly closed it, wisely choosing to walk away and Gus handed Carlton back his groceries, wordlessly following suit. Shawn stayed, and it was obvious to Carlton that his friend didn't want to be a part of what was to follow, whatever that may be.

Carlton wasn't sure he did, either.

After a moment of silent staring, Spencer shifted in place, taking a breath and opening his mouth to speak before Carlton could beat a hasty retreat. He looked at the psychic and the psychic looked back at him and he was surprised to see sorrow – not pity, but honest to god sorrow – in those stunning hazel eyes, with no idea why it was there nor whether he deserved the reaction, having treated the man as horribly as he had. He couldn't tell what the consultant was thinking, but it was that look that kept him from running, needing to hear it even if it was the worst possible thing.

What? What now? he thought, expecting the worst and already self-castigating. I'm down and ready for the kicking, Spencer. Just give it to me already.

Shawn looked back at him warmly, shooting Carlton a soft smile before departing.

"I know you didn't do this buddy," he said, "and I'm going to do everything I can to prove it. I promise."

Floored, the detective stood there, mind reeling as he tried to piece things together.

Oh.

Spencer didn't hate him. He wasn't taking the mickey out of him or telling him this was the work of the almighty karma chameleon or pointing and laughing or any of the things Carlton had expected and had steeled himself for.

Shawn was there, and he wanted to help.

He wanted to help, and he believed in Carlton, even after everything.

That…

Changed everything.

Groceries in hand, Carlton stood in his doorway, glancing at the officer posted at the door and dismayed at the disarray only he would notice.

Though his colleagues had done their best to be respectful of his things, over a decade on the force had taught him to spot the discrepancies in seconds and he frowned as he entered the room, wondering what the warrant had covered. He hadn't asked, the news of his suspension leaving him too despondent to remember that he even should, and he knew he'd have to talk to Vick about it later, if only he could convince himself to show his face at the precinct.

Maybe a phone call would suffice.

Putting his purchases away on auto-pilot, he tried and failed to numb his racing thoughts, doing his best to mentally pack his bags, knowing he'd need to find somewhere to stay since his place had just been declared a crime scene. It was stupid, of course – Chavez was killed at the station, so no crime had been committed there, but he was sure Ocampo had put them up to it, the man with an obvious hate-on for the suspended Head Detective. Still, the entire house was a hot button and one that made him long for the past – those halcyon days prior to his having been made aware of his many control issues; days where he wouldn't find himself clutching his counter tight, fending off panic as thoughts of stranger's hands searching through his personal things set him off.

No, not stranger's hands – his colleague's and boss' and… Shawn's, which made it so much worse.

Were he living in the past, he wouldn't be standing here, shaking, bile rising in his throat. He wouldn't be bordering on tears, every dark whisper in his brain magnified by his mounting anxieties, the voice he'd always tried so hard to stifle having him half-way to hyperventilating.

He wouldn't be –

He wouldn't be –

Three fifths of a decanter of Scotch later;

Soused, Carlton sat slumped against the door of the seedy motel room he'd sprung for, more miserable than he had been to begin with. As dusk set, it dawned on him that he had forgotten to turn on the light, having been relying on the afternoon sun to illuminate the room. He laughed as he realized it, not knowing if he cared enough to rectify the issue, only knowing he couldn't stand a second night in this hole feeling the way he was – the sounds of screaming from the far end combined with raunchy sex from the room next door driving him mad.

Fuck it, he thought. The room could stay as dark as he felt.

The wood hard against his spine, he shifted in place and reveled in his misery, saddened by the lack of commiseration he received and wondering how much of that was because his colleagues sucked and how much was because he did. Not having friends didn't usually bother him – he was too busy for much of a social life most of the time, or at least that's what he'd been telling himself – but he'd expected something from someone, not even getting a call from O'Hara to express her condolences.

Fuck those fuckwads, none of them giving a shit…

Carlton breathed deep and after a moment – reminding himself that his partner had probably been told she couldn't contact him – pulled himself off the floor and dragged himself over to the thread-bare chair, taking another self-pitying swig from the bottle of scotch he'd bought on the way, emptying the bottom third of the bottle in a single swallow and grimacing against the burn.

But Spencer… Spencer cared.

Spencer, who could have kicked him in the shins and run far and fast and been completely justified in doing so…

He cared.

Carlton groaned in embarrassment, overwhelmed and confused by the plethora of feelings he had for the man and the rush of it all flooding back to him. He had denied the attraction, then acted on it, then lashed out at Shawn for his own stupid actions. Now he was sitting there on suspension, drunk as a skunk with nothing to do but remember, hoping to hell that the man he spent so much of his time devaluing still found value in him.

God. I'm such an asshole. A grade-A jackass asshole. What the hell is wrong with me?

He knew he'd treated the other man like dirt. Had known it while he was doing it and still did it anyhow. Carlton had spurned his affections after having returned them, and he'd been cold – colder than cold – to the consultant since. It wasn't fair of him and he knew that, too. Not sure who he was punishing by doing so, he'd kept Shawn at arm's length, terrified he'd do something he would regret if he didn't and feeling like he'd had no other choice. His proximity to the man was a trigger – one far more dangerous than any be found on a gun – and so he did his best to stay distant, both physically and emotionally.

It wasn't helping as much as he had hoped, and though he knew he'd have to apologize eventually, now was not the time. He was too busy fending off a stress induced existential crisis now, and any words of apology said wouldn't be meant like they were supposed to be.

So, he didn't apologize. He drank instead.

Carlton hated the lack of control he possessed over his own life, and it was this mess he was in that made him realize he'd had far less control than he'd originally thought, his turgid rigidity having gotten him nowhere. He had grown up doing everything he was supposed to, after all – he'd listened to his mother, read all the right books, taken all the right classes; he thought all the right things, had run with the right crowd, and had become a respectable, responsible Republican…

So, what the hell had happened?!

Drunk and frustrated and unable to wrap his head around what should have been obvious, he sighed, sliding into self-pity mode. He'd thought his life had come crashing down around his ankles when his wife had left him, but that was nothing compared to this. At least back then, he knew who he was. Or, at least, he'd thought he had. Now… now he didn't know anything, his guidebook thrown out the window, his sexuality in question, and his job on the line.

The only thing left to do was laugh, his distress now bordering on hysteria.

Another swallow from the bottle found it dry and he let it tumble from his fingers on to the floor. It didn't break but bounced, and he laughed at that, too. He'd gotten far too drunk far too fast and because the liquor had disarmed his brain's most reticent tendencies, Carlton's sub-conscious was ready and willing to communicate now it finally had the chance.

If only his sub-conscious wasn't such a prick, reminding him of all his failures as both a cop and a man.

He knew he needed to get back on track – that it needed to be his first step, as a matter of fact – but that it would never happen with the situation as out of control as it was. The thought galvanizing him, Carlton struggled to sit up straight, quickly realizing that how he was sitting was the only straight thing about him and that he had no idea how to rectify the issue – issues – regardless of how much he might want to. The thought left him feeling defeated and slumping for a moment before loosening his tie, he questioned why he'd bothered wearing the damn thing in the first place before concluding that he'd been putting on airs, its necessity brainwashed into him by many years of caring more about what others thought than about what he did.

It had become second nature, and suddenly, his nature something he felt a deep hatred for, that just wouldn't do.

How the hell can I ever achieve normal if I can't figure out what that means to me?

Carlton let his head drop between his knees and breathed deep, feeling like he was bordering on an emotional breakdown and aware he needed the kind of help that happened fast but unsure of how to get it. Proud of himself for thinking of his colleagues first, he wished he could reach out to O'Hara or the Chief, but quickly remembered that their hands were tied in a not even remotely kinky manner – not that he'd ever considered either woman in that manner. That was weird, and gross, even if he had slept with a colleague that one time.

It took him a bit, but he finally came up with an answer after what felt like years of drunken pontification. The conclusion he came to was consternating, and as the idea came to mind, his smile turned into a furrowed frown.

He didn't want to, really didn't want to, but he had no other choice.

If he couldn't rely on his colleagues, his pride would have to be shoved to the side and replaced with… well, he wasn't quite sure what the feeling was. But if he couldn't get help from them, it left exactly one person for Carlton to turn to.

His mind wandered to the man with the sad hazel eyes – the man who had smiled at him, offering his assistance. Shawn had wanted to help, not once, but twice, even though there had been nothing in it for him, nothing in it at all except for Carlton's happiness.

The detective started, the thought sobering him instantly.

Nothing but my happiness.

The idea rolled around in his head, slowly accumulating others as pieces of an unseen puzzle fell into place, growing into something much larger.

Something much more profound.

Something somehow intensely esoteric.

Carlton shook it away, not wanting to acknowledge it and hating to admit he required the assistance. Hating to admit he required Shawn in any way, even though he needed him in many.

I need him.

The thought popped into his head as if it had been summoned there and he flushed, not wanting it to be true. But it had already been validated and it wasn't going to leave.

I need him.

It was louder the second time, even louder the third, and he stood from his chair, looking at the little mirror above the dresser to see his face determined and pale.

Dammit, I'm going to have to hire Psych.

His eyes shone bright.

I need him.