There must be no love interest.
The business in hand is to bring a criminal to the bar of justice,
not to bring a lovelorn couple to the hymeneal altar.

S.S. Van Dine
20 Rules for Writing Detective Stories, ca. 1928

3.

Still not sure what they were doing at the library, of all places in the city, Carlton waited, since Shawn waited, too. Opening his mouth to say something, Carlton started as the door opened. A man snappily attired in a peasant's Renaissance costume held it open.

"Good evening, my lords. Your journey was swift and true, I trust?"

Lassiter was beside himself—amused but yet not amused. He recognized the handsome face beneath the floppy velvet hat. "This isn't what I pay my taxes for, Alwin. Don't you have a firetruck to clean?"

Alwin was often called "Dobson's Mike." Not to be confused with Tanglevine owners Mike B. and Mike C. That the three of them happened to be friends, since the Vine had turned out to be something of a cop joint, they were called the ABC's (of Mikes). While addressing firefighter Michael Alwin to his face, however, they generally just called him Alwin or, to everyone's chagrin and confusion, Mike. He merely flashed his brilliant set of pearly whites and took off his hat. "If you find the service not to your liking, please take it up with my husband, whom I believe you know."

Lassiter grabbed the velvet cap and shoved it against Mike's face. But he started chuckling, a quiet and small thing afraid of its own power, and all was well among the three of them. Alwin ushered them into the library. To Lassie's embarrassment, the library was quite open for the public and many patrons were at the computers or in the stacks browsing traditional paper books.

"I hope you have another permit shoved someplace," he mumbled Shawn's direction.

"Relax, I got it under control. Would I lie to you on one of the most important days of our life? H'mm? Really, look at this face." Shawn raised the helmet's visor, and of course all Carlton could see were Shawn's eyes. They were expressive, honest enough, though tinctured with the slightest hint of crap. Carlton slapped the visor back down: Shawn jumped at the noise. "Right in my ear, Lassie. Right in my ear! You're going to pay for that later."

Alwin stopped at one of the private study rooms in the back. Another woman stood there, dressed in modern clothes but with a conical hat and a feathery train of silky fabric spewing out of its top.

"Greetings, gentlemen," she started, gesturing to the table covered in picnic wares. "As you can see, our best table has been reserved for you."

"Thanks, Pilar," Shawn said to his favorite librarian. He was excited that everything was going so well. Maybe he could even talk to Lassie about that thing that he'd been avoiding. "Everything looks wonderful. I couldn't have planned it better myself."

"You did plan this yourself, Shawn," said Alwin. He'd known Shawn about eight months, had known of him a lot longer. He just didn't quite get Shawn. Dobson had the same problem. "Well, I gotta get back to the firehouse. Lunch break's almost over. Have fun, you two. Coming, Lady Librarian?"

Alwin held the door open for Pilar, and it shut with a squeak when they left. The ugly tan mini-blinds had been drawn across the two windows, and a sense of privacy came over the anniversary subjects. Shawn shoved the tip of his helmet to Lassie's chest.

"Tug."

"That'd better not be the most romantic thing I hear from you today."

"I rather doubt it. I'll grunt really provocatively when you do tug."

"I was hoping that undressing you at some point would be the least difficult portion of my day." He grabbed the helmet and pulled. It came off easily. As promised, Shawn let out a particularly pleasant moan. "I was expecting that to be harder."

Shawn winced. "Too—many—puns."

"Did you butter that huge Scottish cranium of yours before you put this on or what?"

"Cooking spray," Shawn joked, smiled, then flattened his face. "Am I kidding, or am I not? You'll never get me to squeal, copper."

"I'm checking the cooking spray when we get home." Carlton turned the helmet around in his hands. As far as he could tell, it looked like a genuine Dark Ages relic. "Where'd you get all of this, anyway, Ye Olde Don Quixote Shoppe?"

"Nope, much like the secret of my greasy Scottish cranium, I can't tell you that either, sweet, sweet lover of mine. Well, aside from the somewhat more obvious handmade portions of my outfit, which came chiefly from our friends, and my dad seems to go through an awful lot of paperboard for a man who lives almost entirely on red meat and fish. I had our friends help me, and I worked on it while you were at work and while I wasn't at work. Barely got it done in time, though." Shawn left his hands out. "Pull my gauntlets, Lassie. You know you want to. Promise, no bodily noises. Unless you kiss me, and our lips make that nice slurpy smacking noise."

Carlton's amusement showed in his eyes, pulling off Shawn's gauntlets without a kiss. He was very aware of the surrounding public building, mini-blinds or no mini-blinds. Aside from a few rambunctious interludes while camping, he tended to prescribe to the same belief as Rachel's troubled spouse in the film Imagine Me & You: They have their own house, with their own bed, and they didn't have to do stuff like that anymore, now that they were mature and old. Shawn would never act his age, besides the occasional glimpse of it, and far too much of that had happened since the disastrous Hayworth case. But Carlton did provide Shawn with a brief nuzzle as he passed by. He dropped the gauntlets in the helmet, and left both on a table covered in delicious eats.

"This is strange-looking food, Shawn."

"Old food. I had a theme. Can't you tell? That's roasted lamb that Lady Olga made for us. Jules and Gus brought the bread. I assume it's from Breezeway's, but I wouldn't swear to it. My dad brought us the bottles of mead. And I made the tarts."

Carlton stared.

"Yes, I can bake without needing a fire extinguisher or the services of our valet. And I made these for us. Apple tarts. They're good. I ate one earlier to be sure that, you know, I didn't drop down dead or anything. How embarrassing would that have been? And sucky for you, too, on our anniversary and all, having me just die like that. Death by tart. Not exactly the way I'd like to go. Um, on that note, let's eat!"

He hurried them into chairs now that he was starting to feel like now would be the opportune time to talk to Carlton about that thing that he'd been dreading. Was it really necessary to bring it up? He supposed it was. Gus wouldn't let him rest until he did. If Gus wouldn't, neither would Juliet. Let the vicious cycle of nagging end before it began!

Carlton was still in a state of amazement, and sometimes his brain unwound entirely, leaving him with nothing to say for seconds together. "How'd you do all of this? And why the library?"

"The library because I like it here, and Pilar is awesome. Having two of three kids in the gay way will do that to a woman, I guess. Want to eat now or just talk? I want us to spend some time together. I'm sorry about the polo match tonight. I asked them to reschedule, but you know how it goes when you're the lowly serf at the stables."

"You manage the stables," Carlton added friskily.

"Co-manage," amended Shawn. "And that doesn't give me enough power to tell them not to schedule me on a night of an important polo matchup. Stupid equestrian games. Stupid polo playoffs. Stupid hunky guys in uniforms."

"Don't ogle them too much. I know how those polo players are."

"Really? How are they, Lassie? I'm suddenly very curious."

"It isn't them so much as you being a magnet that attracts them."

Shawn had no idea how to handle that compliment. "Gosh, yeah, it'd be nice if I could just wear some kind of symbol to let other people know I'm taken. I'll wear my rainbow bead necklace. That'll scare them off. Things might even end early."

"At least you'll be done by the time we have to go to the airport." Carlton finally tried the lamb, and found it much more savory than he thought it'd be. Lady Olga wasn't a bad chef, after all. Must be those southern roots. Shawn's continued silence unnerved Carlton. "You will be going to the airport with me, won't you? I don't want to pick them up by myself. I hardly know them!"

"No, it'll be fine. Really." Shawn grabbed Carlton's hands and pressed. "Really, I'll be there. Breathe. It'll be okay. They won't bite your head off or anything. They might interrogate you slightly and vet you to a noticeable degree, but you can put up with that! You're tough as nails! I mean, how many times have you been—"

Carlton stopped chewing. Shot? How many times had he been shot? Is that was Shawn was going to say? But Shawn had gotten shot too many times, and it seemed he was still having trouble talking about it and facing it. He picked up the bottle of mead. "Have some more of this, sweet, sweet lover of mine. I shouldn't be drinking it—I have to go back to the office."

"Vick won't be checking your breath. I already asked her not to."

"It's really weird, but I believe you. Then let us drink and be merry, love, for in another hour we have to go back to work!"

Shawn smiled, relieved that Lassie had the presence of mind to distract him. He clinked the top of their pewter goblets together. He sipped and ate, ate and sipped, and while masticating the heck out of the chewy but delicious bread, he finally knew he'd have to do it. He'd have to say it. He'd have to. If he didn't, he'd never say it and they'd never talk about it, and he and Gus would be in a whole lot of trouble with their domestic partners. Of course, Gus had already talked to Juliet about it, but still—

"I have something to tell you," Shawn blurted out.

When Carlton noted Shawn's pale lips and startled eyes, he dropped his fork and had another sip of mead, just in case. A very large sip of mead. "What about?"

Shawn's throat constricted, and while he was having trouble catching his breath, his heart managed to beat in his stomach, across the back of his neck, everywhere but where it was supposed to. His head swam, and he could feel perspiration prickling his armpits—but that might've been the thickness of the costume and the heat of the small room.

"Shawn?" Carlton prompted. He tried to think really fast. What was it? Something bad. All he had to do was look at Shawn to know it was bad. Shawn had gone to the doctor last week—and—and he'd seemed a lot quieter since. "Is something wrong? Are you okay?"

Shawn spit out the first thing that made any sense to him. "I love you—and I'm fine. I'm not sick."

Carlton's emotions dropped several degrees. "What'd you scare me for? Is it something else? Are you—"

"Jeez, Lass, I'm not breaking up with you. Will you just—just let me tell you—"

"You can tell me anything."

From the depths of the picnic basket, then on the floor by his feet, Shawn pulled out a small clipping from a magazine. With a trembling hand, he gave it to Carlton. He waited a second for Carlton to let it sink in. As soon as Carlton lifted his gaze, Shawn licked his wavering lips and spilled the secret.

"I know where the third sea chest is. That's why I asked you about it this morning. And I'm going to—" He gulped and sweated and practically heard his stomach churning. "I'm going to look into it with Gus. For now. I just wanted you to know."

Carlton tried not to show too much enthusiasm. "I think that's good."

"Good?"

"You can look into it if you want. Why didn't you want to tell me?"

"Because I swore off solving cases after—after—" He gave up trying to mention it. His therapist had suggested he try talking about it, even if he was alone in the house by himself. Talk about it out loud. But that seemed weirder and even creepier, even in Swedish, even in ASL. "I said I wouldn't do anything else except chase around some cheaters. And only then it would have to be the worthy cheaters whose cheatees pay well. I'll stop this sea-chest hunt if it gets dangerous, if I smell even a modicum of cordite, Lassie, I'm bolting."

"That's up to you. You know I've always supported you. I even read your articles for typos. I believe in you, Shawn, and I know you have talents, whether those talents are spiritual or magical or what-have-you. It's … it's been hard on you, I think, not solving cases. But I know these sea chests mean something to you, whatever that something is." He scooted the article back to Shawn using a forefinger on the table. "You have my blessing, just as long as this isn't going to prevent you from going to the airport with me tonight."

"No," Shawn's small grin lightened, the burden removed, "it won't. It won't interfere with anything. Anyway, I can't wait to tell them about it when they get here. Maybe they'll want to help."

"Why would they want to help?"

"I sense it, that's why. The way I sense many things, Lassie, except that one time we were in bed."

Carlton snickered, then broke into a laugh. "Eat your lamb, smartass. And tell me again what Jason and Sean Laramie have been up since you saved Sean from a murder trial." He was afraid Shawn would dwell. It'd taken a lot of therapy, ice cream and My Little Pony to bring Shawn back from the depths the Hayworth case had dumped him, and any reminder of a case-gone-bad could shift Shawn into a semi-catatonic state again. "I haven't seen them since they went away together."

"First of all, you can't call Sean Laramie Sean. Don't laugh. I'm dead serious." He waited for Lassie's airy chuckles to subside. "You have to call him See-an. It's the only way I'm going to put up with having two Shawns around."

"He spells it differently."

"He spells it See-an. I'm the phonetic Shawn. See-an and I have already agreed on this, and we expected everyone to comply while the two of us are in the same room. I fully expect to call him Avery at least a half-dozen times, too. But our boy's all grown up, got himself hitched, and has his husband's last name. I bet he still has a stripper's physique, though, and killer eyes. No, don't pout, I like yours better. Maybe I should change my name when I get married. Shawn the Amazing. Lassie, I insist you change your surname to The Amazing."

Knowing Shawn's views on marriage—through osmosis, long talks with Juliet and, of all people, Dobson and the ABC's, Carlton had no fear of playing along—at least mildly. "I'll see what I can do about that. Do you even want me to ask about the third sea chest?"

Shawn shook his head, diving into the remaining bits of Lady Olga's excellent roasted lamb. "If I find out anything interesting, I'll tell you. It's just a lead at this point. And damn those polo players! If they didn't have that match this evening—" Shawn noticed the thinnest thread of annoyance in Lassie's face, and promptly shifted his saying—with a Texas twang. "Why I'd be swinging you on the back of my trusty steed, Lassie, and we'd be riding off to make sweet and sassy jambalaya out in the nectars of this good earth, and below the blazing heavens."

"I never heard a Medieval knight from the range before."

"Ain't too many like me, Lassie."

Thank goodness. A man only had one heart. "I've also never heard it called jambalaya before. You know how I feel about food metaphors."

"I've heard you mention it a time or two, and I've seen how it gets your dander up a bit, Pooch. Except for that one time when we was in bed. You didn't mind so much then."

Carlton let this go. His mind was beginning to regret the few hours of work he had left, the long hours before Shawn returned from the country club—stinking of horse and horridly sweaty. God, he couldn't wait. "Are you done eating? Need a ride to work? I can swing by the station and pick up the car."

"No need for that," Shawn started, getting up from the chair with ample cringes, "I've got it taken care of."

"Enough with the accent."

"But it's sort of natural-like. I can't seem to help it." Shawn returned to himself with a soft kiss from Lassie, first on his cheek, then on his mouth. "Thanks, I needed that. I also wanted it, so I'm a winner all around. No, don't clean up." He waved his hands as Carlton, took the plate out of his hands and shoved the remains of the chewy bread in his mouth. "Alwin and Pilar agreed to clean up for us."

"And why the library again?"

"Obviously, I couldn't ride Octavia all the way to the house! And I really wanted to do the horse thing. I conspired with Pilar and she said it was okay if we had our little tryst here. You and me. Not me and Pilar. That would be weird. And I can't even—ugh. I'm going to have some more mead. This is good stuff." He sipped, leaving the goblet on the table. "You look very dashing today, by the way. Everyone's amazed that I got you to wear an orange shirt."

"It's peach." Carlton patted the collar and tie knot self-consciously. It was a pretty peach shirt that Shawn had given as a birthday present. Months had passed before he had the balls to wear it. It strongly resembled the color of one of Shawn's beloved Little Ponies.

"You say peach, I say oh-raaange, so we'd better call the calling off—off. I don't think that's how Gershwin wrote it. All right, Pooch, let's get out of here. But kiss your savage and unruly knight first. After all, I work around unpredictable equines all day, and you get shot at by unruly civilians who experience an above-average rate of recidivism. These are dangerous days in the kingdom, my lord. We must be on our guard."

Dangerous days? Shawn forgot all about it once loss in a good kiss that curled his toes, sweaty in their cotton socks and leather boots. Curling nonetheless.

Back at the front door, Alwin tipped his velvet cap as he let them out. Waiting at the curb, a black limousine. Carlton was in shock.

"You hired a limousine to take us four blocks?"

"It's also taking me to work. You can go home, if you'd like. No one would hold it against you if you didn't go back to the office, not even the chief."

"You know I can't do that. I wouldn't mind going home if you were going to be there."

"But, since I'm not—yeah, I know. I'm heading off to work pretty early. Mandatory meeting with the bossman, and I'll need Morrissey's help getting out of this thing I'm wearing. Don't worry, she won't be scarred by what's underneath. I have my nude-colored leotard on, so we're good. I'll save it for later."

He nibbled Lassie's lower lip, now in the privacy of the limousine. They were kissing, the car was moving, and suddenly they were not kissing and the car had stopped.

"Damn, that really was a short trip. Ah well, we're at your castle's portcullis, my prince, and I wish thee a pleasant evening."

"Have a good day at the horsey office, Shawn. Thanks for lunch. And for being you. It's never a dull moment with you, Spencer."

"Except for—"

"That one time we were in bed. Yes, I know." He hugged Shawn, adding depth and feeling into it as only he could. He kissed Shawn by the ear. "Happy anniversary."

"Happy anniversary, Lass."

Carlton waited until the limousine drove out of sight, then kicked up the heels of his shiny black shoes to take the stairs two at a time. He couldn't wait to tell O'Hara what had transpired over lunch.

oOo

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