Carlton walked into the station inhaling deeply in a recently ingrained reflex. His ears were perked and his eyes were actively scanning, his taste buds watering in true Pavlovian response. His fingertips twitched at the anticipation of being covered in sweet, sticky ambrosia.

He was rewarded for his devotion and unswerving focus by the sight of white dotted with a green that always made him think of money.

O'Hara was waiting for him by the communal coffee machine, but she was smart enough to know that she needed to wait to speak.

His fingers deftly snagged a napkin and then he was forced to endure his weekly moment of anguish.

How could he choose? It was almost physically painful that he had to limit himself, but he was stronger than the temptation. He knew mentally, if not physically, that he would regret giving in.

His stomach weighed in and said effectively—and loudly—that it didn't care which one he chose as long as he did so fast.

He resisted the urge to close his eyes, though he did pick randomly, the napkin coming up to catch any crumbs or—more likely—flakes of delicate glaze. Wasting them would be a crime indeed.

Even if they weren't as hot and fresh as he wanted because the nearest store that made them was almost eighty miles away. But still, they were as fresh as he could get without going there and if he did that he'd never get work done on a Tuesday. Also, he'd probably eat himself to death. A happy death, but death nonetheless.

He couldn't keep his eyes open though when his teeth sank in to the delicious softness and the sugar coated his tongue, melting with the heat and flood of saliva. It raced into his blood stream and went straight to his brain shutting down all higher functions.

He swallowed the first bite quickly—he aways did, because going down it carried the hum of pleasure he refused to allow out, even if he was no longer conscious enough to process why.

If he were to someday be a victim of random workplace violence that took his life he hoped it was exactly four minutes after eight on a Tuesday morning. He could die in perfect contentment then and only then.

"Lassie!"

He smothered a sigh with another bite. It was not one of resignation alone, however. Longing for an indefinite stay in this four minute vacation to heaven once a week was liberally mixed in as well.

But this was as routine as the rest of it and that made it a sacred—if annoying—part of the ritual.

O'Hara had to speak her line while he savored his current bite. "Good morning, Shawn. Thanks for the donuts."

"You're welcome, Jules."

Carlton swallowed bite two and paused long enough to mutter, "Thanks, Spencer," before he could resist no longer and had to take another bite.

These things should probably be checked to make sure they weren't laced with some sort of addictive and/or sedative-type drug, he always thought as he felt the calming buzz kick in and reason and logic were slowly released like hostages from the clutches of the felonious endorphins running loose in droves in his brain.

On Tuesday morning there were two things everyone in the station knew: 1. You didn't get between Lassiter and his Krispy Kreme. And 2. He would be somewhat slow to respond/react/do anything for about a half hour afterwards.

He probably needed counseling and a twelve step program. But the first step was admitting he had a problem and he couldn't quite bring himself to do that because it would mean that he was on his way to giving up this addiction.

He never wanted to give up this addiction.

It was also known by everyone that on Tuesdays Carlton Lassiter showed Shawn Spencer more slack than he showed him the entire rest of the week combined.

Because Carlton Lassiter was not the kind to bite the hand that fed him. And Shawn Spencer was the Bringer of Krispy Kreme.

There was even a bet in the station pool that if Carlton was witness to Shawn committing an actual crime on a Tuesday morning he'd let him off with a glare and a, "Don't let me see you do that again."

Many a stakeout debate ensued over whether or not this was true and the split in the police force would be a danger to their ability to work together if they weren't all reunited every Tuesday in the joy of sharing Krispy Kremes.

For Carlton wasn't the only one who loved them and with the glaze of brotherhood making all of them revert to childhood days of licking your fingers to clean up instead of using a napkin, they found their camaraderie was renewed.

Even if some of them were stupid enough to believe Lassiter would go easy on Spencer for any reason at all.

"You're welcome too, Lassie!" Spencer said. He was way too perky for this early in the morning, but he'd brought donuts so he'd be allowed to live. For now.

Not wanting to say something he'd regret—and by that he meant something that might end the donut deliveries—Carlton chose discretion and retreat as the better part of valor and walked back to his desk to finish his donut in peace.

Surprisingly Spencer didn't follow, though O'Hara did.

She remained silent, knowing that until the donut was gone trying to converse with Carlton—or, heaven forbid, get him to think about anything but his breakfast—would be both unsuccessful and just generally a bad idea.

She felt much like a hyena watching a lion devour a zebra. They had a sort of symbiotic relationship that some might call a partnership, but she knew that she was only tolerated, not welcome. If she overstepped her bounds and tried to encroach on his ability to think while he was still eating he'd turn on her and it would end with blood being spilled.

So she hovered at the edges and waited for him to finish.

Finally, his every last finger licked clean, his mouth wiped, and a long sip of coffee—the good kind which Spencer also supplied on Tuesdays—taken, he turned to her.

"Yes, O'Hara?"

"Shawn would like to speak with you outside."

Carlton blinked, then looked around with a frown.

"Wasn't he just here?"

"Yes."

"Well why couldn't he tell me this?"

O'Hara shrugged, though there was something about her expression that suggested she suspected she might know.

"He just asked me to pass along the message."

Carlton sighed. He was not looking forward to this. It was too soon to get up and actually do anything, let alone deal with Spencer in one of his moods.

"Fine. Let's go."

He started to walk away when he realized he was alone.

"O'Hara? You coming or what?"

She shook her head. "He said he needed to talk to you alone."

With an eye roll that was just delayed enough to be concealed by his turn he continued on his way and wondered if today he would have to go back on his unspoken vow to not harm Spencer on a Tuesday.

o.o

Spencer was waiting outside, but not right outside.

He was sitting on Lassie's trunk, feet up on the bumper and arms stretched out behind himself to acts as braces so he could more fully bask in the sun.

"Feet off the car, Spencer. In fact, all of you off the car."

Spencer grinned and jumped down, but when he pulled off his sunglasses Carlton was surprised to see that the smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Lassie, hey! Thanks for coming, dude. We don't have much time," he said as he circled the car to the passenger side door and reached for the handle, "especially since we can't use the sirens, but-"

"What are you talking about?" Carlton demanded. "Where do you think we're going?"

"Not too far," Spencer said, tugging on the handle of the car again in a less than subtle request for it to be unlocked. "But we need to hurry and-"

"Spencer, stop. Just stop."

He stopped talking. Well, verbally.

But his body language and his facial expression continued to urge Carlton to get moving.

"What is this about, Spencer?"

His eyes flicked away, then back, so quickly that Carlton wasn't entirely sure he'd seen it.

"I'll tell you on the way," he said and pulled on the door handle again.

"No, you'll tell me now. Or I'm going back inside to do some real work."

"Can't you just trust me on this?"

The moment's worth of hesitation came solely from the fact that his answer could potentially affect his Tuesday morning routine.

But he wasn't a dishonest person, despite the danger to Krispy Kreme Tuesday.

"No."

A look of genuine hurt crossed Spencer's face and his whole posture seemed to deflate.

There was another moment of silence, then Carlton turned and headed back inside, valiantly repressing the feeling that he'd just taken a puppy and kicked a Superbowl-winning field goal with it.

It didn't escape his notice that Spencer didn't follow.