The sound of the door slamming echoes like a shot in Carlton's ears. His entire right side, so recently nestled against the solid warmth of Spencer's body, feels suddenly cold.
"Fuck," he says dismally.
What had just happened? What on earth had just happened?
He replays the last hour in his head. Carlton had been worried - horribly, nauseatingly worried - when Spencer hung up on him, and even more worried when he failed to answer the phone for forty-five minutes afterward. Worried enough to drive over Spencer's apartment and wait outside. When he saw Spencer, he'd had to bite back the words You're okay.
And why? Carlton can't figure out what happened in the last five days to make him feel so...protective. Of Spencer. It's unbelievably stupid: Spencer gets himself into the worst possible situations, and no one in their right mind would try to protect him.
And yet.
Spencer annoys the snot out of him most of the time, but Carlton would take that any day over this hollow-eyed specter. It makes Carlton crazy to see Spencer so wrecked by grief and guilt.
Crazy enough that when Spencer shoved him, he didn't shove back. Crazy enough to pull Spencer into his arms and let him cry.
Crazy enough to admit to himself, finally, how badly he wants Spencer.
Not like this. That was what he would've added, had Spencer not locked up and run. Spencer is desperate and heartbroken and vulnerable, and Carlton is certain that this is the reason for that kiss. No. Carlton doesn't want a random hookup motivated by grief and need. He wants them both to be clearheaded and cogent.
Right.
Carlton stands up. There is absolutely no sound from Spencer's bedroom, and the door remains firmly closed.
He can't take advantage of Spencer's emotional fragility. One or both of them will end up hurt. He can't go after Spencer.
But oh dear God, he wants to.
Because he knows, in his heart, that emotionally fragile Spencer is the only Spencer who will want him. He knows that once Spencer recovers - which he's bound to do quickly - he'll forget this whole thing. And Carlton will go back to his quiet, furious lust.
He paces.
Now or never. Now is wrong. Never is unbearable.
He feels like punching a wall, but instead, he lets himself out and locks the door behind him. Gets in his car and drives.
He finds himself at Tom Blair's Pub, keeping company with three fingers of scotch. He hasn't done this in a long time and it feels painful and raw, a fresh scrape under running water.
He gets drunk in a fast, businesslike way: it takes him less than ninety minutes to plow through eight shots. The cab ride is nauseating. He gets into the shower as soon as he gets home and stands with his palm flat against the cool tiles, the other hand wrapped around himself. Thinks of Spencer as he comes.
He falls into bed naked, still damp. He has the spins for a good twenty minutes before he passes out.
Carlton wakes up half-hoping that the blurry memories of the previous night somehow involve Spencer. His mouth tastes like sour cotton and his head is pounding. Eight AM.
"Ugh." Carlton winces; the light feels like knives in his eyes. He kicks the tangled sheets away and reaches for his phone.
It isn't there.
Holding his head with one hand, Carlton climbs out of bed and walks doubled-over to the bathroom. His pants are wadded on the floor. He searches the pockets, leaning against the counter for support. He finds his wallet - with his credit cards all present, thankfully - but no phone.
"Shit," he mumbles. The cab. It must be in the cab. Or at Tom Blair's Pub. Or -
Did he have his phone when he left Spencer's?
He's brushing his teeth in his bathrobe, trying to will his headache away, when the doorbell rings.
He stumbles to the door, toothbrush in hand. Opens it. Freezes.
It's Spencer.
Plaid button-down shirt. Scruffy: he hasn't shaved today. Tiny silver key on a chain around his neck. He's holding Lassiter's phone and looking nervous.
"I...you left your phone." Spencer hands Lassiter the phone. "I came by last night, but you weren't home. Sorry." He shoves his hands in his pockets, turns his back, and hops off the porch.
"Hey. Spencer."
He turns. He looks...what? Hopeful?
Carlton jerks his chin. "Come in, will you?"
Spencer hesitates. "I...Lassie..."
"Spencer." Carlton steps off the porch and takes Spencer by the arm. Gently. "I have a splitting headache. Will you just come inside?"
"Yeah. Okay. Sure." Spencer allows Carlton to lead him in the house.
"Five minutes." Carlton gestures at the bathrobe.
Spencer flushes and looks away. "Yeah."
When Carlton comes back out of his bedroom, Spencer is in the kitchen with one hand in a box of Chex. Coffee is brewing.
"I figured you wouldn't mind. Here," Spencer says, and tosses a Chex in Carlton's direction. Carlton swipes at it, managing only to bat it out of the air.
"You're supposed to catch it with your mouth," Spencer complains.
Carlton retrieves the lost cereal and flicks it into the sink. His head still hurts, and he can't think of a good comeback, so he stays quiet. The coffee's finished brewing. He pours a cup for Spencer and slides it across the counter, then pours one for himself.
Spencer's lowered himself into one of the barstools and is watching Carlton add cream and sugar to his coffee.
Finally he says "Lassie."
Carlton meets his eyes. The playful expression is gone, and now Spencer just looks tired.
"You invited me in, no promise of pancakes or omelets or frottage or anything. Why?"
Spencer drops his gaze to his coffee, and Carlton hears pain creep into his voice. "Twelve hours ago you wanted nothing to do with me."
Carlton stands up straighter. "It wasn't that."
"Yeah?" Spencer cocks his head to one side, eyes narrowed. "What was it, then? Interested but straight? Like guys but not interested? I've heard both of those before."
"Jesus, Spencer." Carlton turns away, exasperated.
"Well?" Spencer is out of his chair, coming around the counter to face Carlton squarely. "I have to know, Lassie." He pauses. "Carlton."
Oh, he had to have known what effect Carlton's name on Spencer's lips would have. Carlton sucks in his breath. They're so close - Carlton's back is against the island; Spencer's hands are on either side of Carlton's hips on the granite countertop. So close, but Spencer is pointedly not touching him at all.
"First question." Hazel eyes burn into Carlton's. "Into dudes: yes or no?"
Oh, no. No no no. "Spencer - " Carlton protests, but when he tries to move to one side, to escape, Spencer tightens his grip on the counter. He is surprisingly strong.
"Yes or no." Spencer isn't smiling.
Carlton exhales. "Spencer, I really don't think - " and Spencer rocks forward and bumps Lassiter hard with his hips.
"Lassie." He leans in, flush with Carlton stomach-hips-thighs. Carlton feels himself harden and wills it to stop. Spencer is staring up at him. "Yes or no."
"Yes, okay? Yes." The words are out before Carlton can stop them, and immediately Spencer steps back.
"Good," he says, walking back around the counter and picking up his coffee. All easy smiles and lax muscles, now. "If you lied to me about that, we would really have problems moving forward."
But Carlton can't respond, because the significance of what he's just said has just sunk in. Spencer asked, and he had answered yes. Under coercion, sure, but he hadn't said no. It makes him feel disoriented and uncomfortable. Lightheaded.
Or maybe that's the hangover. He sways.
"Oh boy." Spencer is at his side in less than a second, one arm around Carlton's waist. He drapes Carlton's arm across his shoulders and clamps his hand firmly around Carlton's wrist.
"Come on, big guy," he says.
He wrestles Carlton to the couch. "I'm fine, Spencer," Carlton mumbles, although he feels a little as though he's going to vomit.
Spencer is gone and back again, carrying a small trash can lined with a plastic bag. "Had to swipe it from the bedroom," he says. "Hope that was okay."
"Sure." Carlton is suddenly exhausted. He puts his forehead on the armrest, looking up only when he feels Spencer's hands on his legs. Spencer pulls Carlton's feet up to the couch and drapes the throw across Carlton's body.
From his position on the couch, Carlton hears Spencer in the kitchen. Fridge opening. Water running. Ice clanking.
He's back with a pitcher of Gatorade. "This'll cure what ails ya," he says. He sets the pitcher on the end table by Carlton's head. Lifts Carlton's legs and drops to the couch beneath them, then puts Carlton's feet in his lap.
"That must have been quite a bender," he says.
Carlton makes a face. "Let's not talk about it."
"Sure." Spencer smooths Carlton's pant leg. His hands are warm on Carlton's shins.
"Second question," Spencer says after a moment, and Carlton throws an arm over his face.
"Now what?" he groans.
"Here's the thing, Lassie," Spencer says seriously. "I was feeling all sorry for myself yesterday because I'm Max Fischer and you're Rosemary Cross."
It's like he's speaking a different language when he says things like that. "Spencer, I don't know what you mean."
"I like you and you don't like me," Spencer explains. He rolls his eyes. "Don't you watch movies?"
"I never said - " Carlton starts to protest.
"Shh." Spencer pinches Carlton's toe. "Let me talk. I don't think you heard me. I like you."
Carlton looks away. "Spencer, you don't know what you're talking about."
"Now why would you say that?" Wounded pout.
"Come on," Carlton says. "You belittle and undermine me almost constantly. You're insulting. You try as hard as you can to irritate me."
"Pfft." Spencer rolls his eyes. "Yeah. Because I like you!"
"You think I'm a joke."
"Hey." Spencer's roving hands fall still and the smirk immediately drops off his face. "I may make fun of you a little bit, but I have never thought that you're a joke."
Carlton snorts.
Spencer leans toward him. "Are you kidding me? You're smart and tough and cool under pressure. Not to mention super sexy. You're Mike Lowrey. You're Clarice Starling, Julianne Moore version. You're John McClane with hair."
Carlton's stomach knots, but Spencer is still talking. "You may be a little bit uptight, and okay, you get mad kind of easily at little stuff, but you're what every detective should be. You're amazing, Lassie."
There isn't the slightest hint of mockery in Spencer's tone. And not one word of his little speech sounds contrived.
Is it possible?
After all this time thinking that Spencer was laughing at him, was he really just trying to - what? Get Carlton's attention?
"So." Spencer pats Carlton's shin, all business once more. "As I was saying: second question. Interested. Yes or no?"
"Interested?" Carlton's heart pounds in his throat.
"In me, Lassie." Spencer looks as though he's bracing himself.
Carlton sits up, pulling the throw out from under him and tossing it to one side. He runs his hand over his face. "Ah. Spencer."
Spencer visibly bristles. "Okay," he says.
"Stop doing that," Carlton says.
"What?" Spencer says sharply. "Replying?"
"Getting pissed off before I have a chance to explain," Carlton says, just as sharply.
"Explain what?" Spencer is scowling, his eyebrows drawn down over his eyes. "It's a yes or no question. Shouldn't require a lot of exposition."
"Will you just - " Carlton breaks off. "Look. This is kind of...new...for me, okay?" He takes a deep breath. "I just need to...process a little."
At that, Spencer's demeanor changes. Softens. "Oh," he says. He looks guilty. "Sorry."
Carlton looks away. "No problem," he says.
There's a long, uncomfortable silence. Carlton feels sweaty and ill.
"But you've been with a guy before." Carlton hears the question in Spencer's voice.
Carlton clears his throat. "Yeah," he says, and the honesty tastes harsh and metallic.
"I'm sorry," Spencer says again. "I just assumed - I shouldn't have assumed."
Carlton sees the distress on his face. He sighs and looks forward again.
"I am..." Pause. As professionally as he can muster: "...attracted to you."
Spencer doesn't answer. Then he says, quietly, "That's nice to know."
Carefully, deliberately, he moves down the couch next to Carlton.
Carlton's heart rate picks up. He forces himself to breathe evenly, slowly.
"Is this okay?" Spencer asks, and Carlton swallows hard. Nods.
"Do you have anything planned for today?"
Carlton shakes his head. He can't quite speak. Spencer is next to him, Spencer knows how he feels. Spencer wants him.
It's a lot to digest, and he feels skittish and jittery and scared.
Spencer reaches forward, picks up the remote, and turns on the TV. He puts a hand on Carlton's shoulder, gently pushing him backwards. Then he lifts Carlton's arm and ducks underneath it, settling against him.
"Okay?" he asks again, angling his head to meet Carlton's gaze.
Carlton's pulse is starting to slow. Spencer isn't pushing any more, isn't demanding. He starts to relax.
"Yeah," he says.
Spencer leans his head against Carlton's shoulder. "Okay," he says.
They make it through two episodes of Cops before Carlton starts to get sleepy. Spencer apparently senses it, because he pulls away and sits up. Grabs one of the pillows. Moves to the other end of the couch.
He puts the pillow in his lap and pats it. "Here," he says, and Carlton decides he's too tired to think, or wonder, or second-guess. He stretches out, pulls the throw over himself, and puts his head on the pillow in Spencer's lap.
As comfortable as Sunday morning.
Spencer's fingers rake through Carlton's hair, over his neck, across his shoulders. Slow and gentle. Carlton's eyes start to slip shut.
The scotch from the previous night has taken its toll. Carlton dozes fitfully, head on Spencer's lap, and when he finally wakes up, he feels leaden and slow.
"Mmgh." Carlton rubs his eyes.
"Hi," Spencer says. "How are you feeling?"
"Better." Carlton's headache is gone, and he's no longer nauseated. "What time is it?"
"Eleven-thirty." Spencer brushes his fingertips over Carlton's forehead. "Are you hungry? 'Cause I am."
Carlton realizes he is ravenous. "Yeah."
"Good. I ordered pizza." Spencer waves his phone. "Domino's app."
Carlton sits up and stretches. "What kind?"
"Pineapple and ham for me, supreme with no green peppers for you." When Carlton's eyebrows go up, he shrugs.
"I may not be psychic, but I pay attention," he says.
They eat in silence when the pizza arrives, and then they watch television.
For the next six hours.
Spencer doesn't move close to Carlton. He doesn't try to grab him or grope him or kiss him. All he does is flip channels, make snarky remarks at whatever show they're watching, and periodically get up to retrieve another glass of water or grab handfuls of Chex. After the first half hour, Carlton stops wondering if Spencer is going to try to talk about anything.
When the sun starts to go down, Spencer stretches and stands. "Thanks, Lassie," he says.
Carlton looks up at him. "For what?"
Spencer shrugs. "Just...thanks." He picks his keys up from the coffee table and shifts from one foot to the other. He doesn't quite meet Carlton's eye. "And let me know...I mean, I'm here." He toys with the keys. "Whenever you figure stuff out. See you tomorrow, Lass."
He squeezes Carlton's shoulder once, quickly, and leaves.