Chapter Seven: Double Shift

There's pressure building behind his eyes, the start of a migraine just another reminder of how much he wants to be done with work today.

It's not that he doesn't enjoy his job.

In fact, the general consensus is that he enjoys it too much.

But not today.

Today, his caseload was too heavy, he interrogated too many punk suspects, spent too much time in the summer heat, and got to watch Spencer solve one of his cases.

And now, he's stuck filling out piles of paperwork on everything he's done today, and to top it off, he already had to cancel his dinner plans with Elizabeth. As he works his way through the pile that never seems to get smaller, as shift number one does a slow fade into shift number two with no perceptible change, he wonders if it will ever end.

It sure as hell doesn't feel like it.

When he glances at the still-disturbingly high stack of papers, he can't help but give in to a little self-pity. He presses his face into his hands and groans. He rubs his eyes and tries to regain his focus so that he can just get this done, but for the life of him, he can't find the energy to look up.

Until he feels a hand on his back.

Perhaps it's a cop-distrust, or maybe his day has just been way too long, but he whips his head around fully prepared to come face to face with an armed criminal (despite the fact that someone who was going to attack him at the police station has to be both an idiot and also have a death wish).

But instead of a criminal, he is greeted with the sight of Elizabeth, who is grinning at him. "Kind of jumpy today, huh?"

He doesn't even have the energy to smile at her, although he does attempt to soften his tone from his instinctual growl. "What are you doing here, Liz?"

She smiles. "Brought you dinner," she says, holding up a box of Chinese take-out, which he had only just noticed. She sets it down on his desk, along with a packaged plastic fork and fortune cookie. "Thought you might be in need of some sustenance."

He looks at the container and his stomach grumbles with the hunger he has been denying for at least two hours. Then he looks back at Elizabeth. "Thank you...hey, listen, I'm really sorry about tonight. I just had to get this done."

"Hey, no need to explain. We both get our share of late work days, and you look like you've had a rough one."

He shrugs. "You could say that."

She grins and places her hands on his shoulders, massaging them gently. He groans and rolls his neck. "Damn, that feels good."

Elizabeth laughs. "That is kind of the point."

He sighs and allows it for a few moments before saying, "Okay, I think that's enough." He's not entirely sure how professional it looks to have his girlfriend massaging him at his desk, and she seems to understand his concern, because she lets her hands fall away without protest.

She leans against the edge of his desk. "Are you still coming over tonight?"

"Do you want me to? I might not be done til really late..."

"I can stay up for you," she grins. "And if I can't, well, I give you full permission to wake me up when you arrive. I've missed you too much today."

Carlton smirks. "So does that mean I have to come over, and that I don't have a choice?"

"Sounds about right."

"Then I'll be there as soon as I can."

She smiles, leans in and gives him a quick peck of a kiss. "I better be going...I don't need to be distracting you from your work, Detective."

He wants to protest, but she has a point. "Bye, Elizabeth."

"See you later, Carlton." she says, and he watches her leave.

He sighs to himself, feeling wistful but re-energized. He's about to grab his Chinese food container, but pauses as he eyes the fortune cookie on his desk. On a whim, he reaches for it instead. He tears open the plastic and cracks open the cookie, pulling out the small slip of paper as he does so.

He usually hates fortunes and fortune cookies, but this one makes him smile sincerely. The words replay themselves in his head, a happy mantra even two hours later when the pile of paperwork finally dwindles down to nothing.

Before leaving his desk, he throws away the take-out container and the rest of his trash, but folds up the tiny fortune and slips it into his pocket.

He doesn't need to keep it – the words are already burned into his memory – but he does, because he likes having a tangible reminder of what he really believes to be true:

The best is yet to come.