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1
"Question—is that what you're wearing?"
It throws Carlton off not only because Spencer changed subjects out of the blue, but because it was one of the last things he'd have expected him to change subjects to. (Though a moment later he figures that was a mistake on his part.)
He looks down at his suit, and sharply back up.
"What's wrong with what I'm wearing? I always wear this."
"Exactly—" Spencer doesn't skip a beat. "Lassie, you look like a cop. Now come on, man—"
As Carlton looks away in disbelief (that Spencer clearly always has to poke fun at something about him, and to hide that it's actually getting to him), the man hits his side. And then continues to hit it, and Carlton doesn't know why until he looks back at Spencer's disapproving face.
"Is that your holster?"
"Of course it is!" Why on earth wouldn't he have his holster with him while working a case?
"You're here to speed-date, man, not shoot somebody," Spencer tells him, weirdly intense. Like he has any kind of authority or experience over him—which makes something bubble up in Carlton's chest, but he forces it to simmer down. "You gotta loosen up, come on—take off the tie," he adds abruptly, promptly tugging on the blue tie around his neck.
"I am not taking fashion tips from you," Carlton says, and oddly enough Spencer is the one who sounds the most hostile, catching him off guard yet again—
"You need to show some chest hair. Chicks dig the sternum bush. Jules—back me up on the sternum bush!"
That clearly makes Juliet feel awkward enough to leave, but probably not nearly as much as he does. It's been a while since anyone has referred to his chest hair like that, let alone a man, and frankly the fact that it's Spencer who's noticed it... He doesn't know how to feel.
"Alright, come on, let's go Simon Cowell," Spencer continues, snapping him out of it and back into indignance. "You got the salt-and-pepper, man, it's nice."
Yeah, that's... this is —
Spencer is trying to trick him, or something, and he's not falling into his little game, even if they are compliments. Especially because they're compliments. How the hell does he expect Carlton to react to that? Why is he so intense about it? Why does he care so much? (Why can't Carlton bring himself to just ask Spencer those questions outright?)
His response sort of slips out, and not nearly as cold as he'd like:
"I am not taking off my tie just because you tell me to."
And then he walks away, feeling for the first moment like he's won.
A few minutes later, and out of the other man's sight, he yanks the tie off and shoves it in his pocket, and tries to shove down his odd feeling of shame, too.
The next morning, when he opts to only just slightly trim his chest hair, he tries very hard not to think about Spencer.
The week after that, Carlton decides that his chest really doesn't need to be clean-shaven-that the unruly-ish look is going for him. But that what Shawn said has absolutely nothing to do with this.
The next time their consultant mentions his "sternbush" with unmistakable admiration coincidentally happens to be the last time Carlton ever gives a second thought to letting it grow out.
2
It occurs to him later, after the case is closed, that of course it was Spencer who wrote it. Of course he was investigating their case through the newspaper angle, and it's just fucking like him to send a dumb little message through the horoscopes.
"Calcium is especially important to you right now, Mr. Salt-and-Pepper Hair with a maroon car. There may also be a promotion in your future. Try walking backwards through doorways for good luck."
Probably to test him, to see if he would fall for it. Maybe in hope that he'd see through it and know exactly who wrote it.
He thinks he might have known, on some level, as soon as O'Hara read it out—who else would address him like that? But then again, should I get my hopes up?
The real question is, why does that assumption mean his hopes are up?
It's stupid. It was stupid of him. He's never believed in astrology in the first place, just like he's never believed in psychics, and he certainly doesn't want to believe in that kind of shit when he's a grown man, unlike Spencer, and he'll eat his own shoe before he even entertains the thought that what Spencer calls "psychic powers" really are that—
Carlton knows he deserves a promotion, though (maybe Spencer knows it too). And perhaps he's not entirely skeptical about the existence of just... luck. And with his arm in a sling because of an accident on a horse—the one thing that he never expected to hurt him—maybe he could have used some?
Maybe he still can.
3
Are you fucking kidding me? This is the third tie this has happened to...
As Carlton desperately tries to rub the coffee out of his tie before a stain can set, he spots a familiar pair of shoes approaching. He tries not to acknowledge them.
"Isn't that the third tie you've spilled coffee onto?" Spencer says casually, making Carlton's head jerk up in alarm.
"...No," he lies. Then he blinks rapidly and somewhat aggressively returns his focus to the stain. "Don't you have anything better to do than stand there, Spencer?"
"Of course I do, Lassie. I could be skydiving, or time-traveling to meet a young Gregory Peck, or filling up a bathtub with pineapple juice—but all those are a bit out of my price range, and also not where the spirits have guided me today."
He sneaks a look back up at him, and notices Spencer smiling. Not quite his usual shit-eating grin, but actually smiling.
Carlton scoffs. "So you're saying 'the spirits' guided you here."
"Exactly—I knew you'd need my help with some coffee spillage."
"Then unless you have instant stain remover, you're too late. So you can go away."
"Ah—" Spencer puts two fingers to his temple, which incites some kind of dread in Carlton's stomach. "I can, however, prevent future incidents. First of all, the spirits suggest that you drink orange juice instead of coffee, lest you have a heart attack at 45. Second... T.J. Maxx has a twice-yearly sale on ties, and you can just stock up now and not have to worry about running out of good ones or spending too much. Just racks and racks of seven-dollar ties, Lassie!"
Now he almost wants to laugh, and he knows the stain won't come out by now, so Carlton straightens up.
"Did the spirits tell you about the sale, too?"
It's admittedly a little funny, but moreso aggravating. They both know all this is bullshit, so why does Spencer bother keeping up the ruse when it's just the two of them—?
"Nah," Spencer shrugs. "Just wanted to help you out—but the spirits did tell me that you're the kinda guy who can't pass up a good bargain."
When he finally walks away—without even asking for a case—the only thing Carlton can bring himself to think of is,
That is a pretty good bargain.
4
He hasn't been in this office since Yang targeted Spencer. And he has to admit, mentally, that even though now he's here at night and not for any kind of case, this is preferable. It's a much tamer kind of emotional turmoil—one much easier to hide.
"Lassie—what are you doing here?" He sounds pleasantly surprised, or at least Carlton hopes that's what he is.
He's also alone, and Carlton isn't sure whether he should factor that in. (Would he prefer that Guster be here?)
"I was in the neighborhood," he says with a shrug—and technically he isn't lying. "And I realized that after that... ordeal, earlier, and later at the station, I never exactly thanked you. For saving my life, I mean."
"...Oh."
"As risky and stupid of a way that you did it—"
"Okay, stop there," Spencer laughs, sticking a hand up. "While it still sounds nice."
Carlton frowns. "If you'd let me finish. I was going to say that... throwing a remote at someone holding a gun to my head was an idea that could have gotten me killed, but it didn't. It worked, and your intention was in the right place regardless—and my therapist says I should show appreciation more often so that's what I'm here to do."
He zooms through that last sentence so quickly (and without eye contact) that he expects, for a moment, that Spencer didn't even understand it. But another moment later, the man gives him a look to suggest that he did.
Knowing that makes Carlton want to conclude this mature adult visit and just leave, but he can only make half a turn before Spencer reaches out to stop him.
"Technically, Lassie, I saved your life three times," he says with a smug smile.
It's true, and Carlton doesn't feel any urge to deny it for even a second.
If Spencer hadn't noticed the gunman in the restaurant, he'd have been shot dead right there, right after McNab's birthday song. And if Spencer hadn't called while he was driving—or hell, if he'd even just called a second earlier or later... he likely would have been killed then.
Thinking about that one makes him simultaneously furious about his car being wrecked, and dizzy with how fluttery his heart gets.
"You did." Carlton offers him a short nod, and swallows. "Thanks."
He tries to leave again, just slightly, but—
"Nevermind the fact that you're alive because of me and because I was right, though..." Carlton sighs, mentally preparing himself for whatever stupid thing Spencer is about to say. And then Spencer lowers his eyes and folds his arms. "You're the one who almost died three times. And as a guy who gets very close to death about once a week but probably always appears cool and unaffected... I know it's impossible to just forget about it. So if you wanna talk about it, or something—I dunno, but you're free to hang out here as long as you want," he adds far too casually.
For a second, Carlton tries desperately to find some hint of teasing in his face, just to get an excuse to storm out of here and drop this whole damn thing—but he can't. The most he can bring himself to do is to scoff and twist his face into something hostile.
"Why the hell do you think I'd want to stay here?"
Spencer only looks just slightly put off, and shrugs. "Maybe you don't want to go back home and you're putting it off. Isn't that why you showed up here?"
I showed up here to express gratitude for you saving my life, I already told you, is what he has on the tip of his tongue. But Carlton knows that they both know that's not the truth.
Instead, he simply tells him "No, it's not." Which is at least a half-truth.
The most honest thing Carlton could say is that he's not entirely sure why he decided to come here, that it was an impulse decision and that it's rare he follows an impulse like this but it was strong and he's not entirely rational right now and he doesn't think he was actively thinking at all when he made the turn towards this part of town.
And somehow, he feels sure that Spencer—through natural methods and no "psychicness" involved—already knows all that.
"Then why are you still here?" he asks, sounding bitter but with a stance no less welcome.
"Because you keep stopping me," Carlton answers easily.
"I'm just trying to help!"
"You've helped me plenty already, Spencer—"
"Yeah, so? Is there some kind of limit on helpfulness? Because I've got plenty to give out, Lassie! I didn't save your life for a thanks, or because of the kinda duty you have as a cop—I made the effort because you're my friend, so, you know... I prefer you alive and without a bullet in your head, I guess. Believe it or not, I also prefer you not internalizing all that bullshit."
"Well..." Carlton freezes for a second, unsure which of the several things popping into his mind he should say. "Maybe I like myself better with all of it internalized. Dammit, I've wasted enough of my time here..."
Knowing that he just admitted that Spencer was essentially right about everything, Carlton practically books it for the door. He doesn't want to face him or what he just said, and he doesn't want any pity or even sympathy and he especially doesn't want it from him—
Two long strides toward the exit later, he's being turned around by the arms, and pulled down into the most awkwardly positioned half-hug in his life.
It barely constitutes a hug. Spencer's forearms are around the back of his upper arms, and there's still a good six inches of space between them, and Spencer's head is just barely pressed into his shoulder. He should jerk away on that basis alone.
He doesn't.
"Spencer—"
"Don't, Lassie."
Once again, Carlton really isn't sure what to say to that. He lets Spencer stay like that, lets him inch closer, even—lets himself sigh and drop his hands and lets his fingers brush Spencer's waist.
And this makes him think of having Mr. Salamatchia drawing a gun on him, how angry he was at both himself and the other man for winding up in that position. Salamatchia forcing him to his knees, pressing the gun to the back of his head—hearing the gun click, and feeling, for that second, oddly ready for it. Like he deserved it.
Then seeing O'Hara and Spencer and Guster and feeling a renewed will to stay alive.
Now he feels an urge to curl his fingers into Spencer's shirt and pull him closer, into something more than this uncomfortable, half-assed affection—something similar to the urge that drove him here.
Instead, he lifts his hands to the other man's shoulders.
"I don't need this, Spencer," he lies, in somewhat of a rough laugh. "I'm alright."
Carlton didn't expect him to actually believe it, but he also didn't expect him to say anything like what he does.
"It's okay to not be alright, Lassie."
"...I'm alright," he repeats, and this time Spencer lets go and takes a moment to just look at him.
Then he nods and pats him on the chest. "Yeah, you are."
There's a turn in Carlton's stomach and he doesn't know whether it means he's relieved or upset that Spencer moved away. What he does know is that he can't dwell on it—and that he's made up his mind about what he wants to do.
When he backs away this time, Spencer sits down and doesn't make any attempt to stop him. Possibly because Carlton faces him while he goes, and because he tells him with the slightest of smiles,
"I'm going to bed, Spencer."
5
He hates this. He hates it, and for possibly the first time—if only for just a few moments—he allows himself to be fully, articulately aware of why he hates it. It's been five years, after all.
It isn't fair. Spencer can't do this to him, he shouldn't be with her—but what did Carlton expect, really?
Certainly not this, at least. Maybe he never believed Spencer would come forward and be direct and confess outright, without any games, that he'd been in love with him, and maybe he never imagined that he himself would ever find the courage to do something... But in all this time it never occurred to him that the guy would wind up with Juliet, either.
In five whole years, it really never fucking occurred to him. For a head detective, he's got to be the most oblivious guy in the world.
But Spencer has to have noticed, too... And his own partner? He's never said anything, but has she really not noticed, either?
What the fuck is wrong with them?
What the fuck is wrong with him?
This isn't fair, and it makes Carlton feel sick to his stomach. It makes him want to punch somebody in the mouth. It makes him feel like he did when Victoria first told him she wanted to separate—and god, he and Spencer were never even together... Something must seriously be wrong with him.
That something is all sorts of things, but he can't deny that raging jealousy is a part of it. And he hates that, too. He hates that he has to be like this, that he's really had these feelings for so long and for someone who just plays with him, he hates that he feels so much, and he especially fucking hates that he knows it's not even unrequited. Not fully. He knows there's been something, however ambiguous, between them.
And he knows that Spencer chose Juliet over him, which is worse than never being a choice.
Maybe tricking his own partner into a polygraph test was a dick move, but he feels like being a dick. Maybe he shouldn't be so outwardly disapproving of his partner being in a happy relationship, either—but as terrible as it might make him, he can't stand to see her in one if the other person is Shawn Spencer.
Maybe he shouldn't be going after Spencer's credibility at a time like this—especially after spending so long actively keeping the real evidence a secret. But if he's going to do this to him, maybe Spencer doesn't deserve his job. Maybe he deserves prison after all. Maybe he shouldn't even be in Carlton's life anymore.
Maybe he knows that he's only ripping his own heart all the way out, but at least he's got control over it. And that control is satisfying.
"Look, Lassie, we both know what this is about—this is about me and Juliet."
Yeah, it is. Hearing him say it aloud makes it difficult to keep the bitterness out of his own voice.
"Answer only my questions, please—"
"Yes, we're together. You hate it—" I do. "I get it." Do you?
"Spencer—"
"I, I can't help it, man—"
"Spencer."
"I've been fighting this thing for years—"
"Spencer, stop."
"It's not just gonna go away—!"
"Stop!"
"You're just gonna have to deal with the fact that I love her, okay?"
That's the nail in the coffin. Carlton remains composed, and more motivated than ever (not to say that he truly has been before the past few days) to just... ruin Spencer's life.
But he can't. Because this guy... this fucking idiot, genius little brat... just beat the polygraph somehow. Carlton knows he isn't psychic, and he knows they both know it. And they both know he can't prove it, still, after all this time.
It's one lie that Spencer's place here in the station is built on. A lie that Spencer's relationships with all of them are built on—the difference with Carlton being, he's never believed it. After a while he got the feeling that Spencer appreciated that.
Does he still?
Does he appreciate that Juliet is naive enough to believe him? Is that why he chose her? For some kind of narcissistic gain in having a girlfriend who believes you have supernatural powers when you don't, as opposed to a boyfriend who knows how you work and has been trying to understand the real you for years?
Jesus, maybe this thought process is going too far.
...Maybe, as Carlton thinks later—much later, after the case is solved and after he warns Spencer not to hurt Juliet, after he goes home and punches a few things and takes a numbingly cold shower—maybe Spencer was right. About just one thing.
You're just gonna have to deal with the fact that I love her, okay?
Well that—that's an objective truth. Unless he can break up the relationship, he will indeed have no choice but to deal with it. But... there's an obvious underlying message, which he can hear simply because he's known Spencer for so long.
You should make an effort to deal with it and not just let it sit. You should try to move on.
(I want you to move on?)
Perhaps that's just wishful thinking on Carlton's end. Regardless... he thinks he himself might prefer to try to move on than to be filled with bitterness and rage at the mere sight, or even thought, of Spencer.
He takes his interpretation to heart; the next chance he gets, he makes an effort to fall in love.
+1
It's funny, because for most of this time Carlton's been under the impression that Spencer had a bad relationship with his dad. In a way it's disappointing that they've turned out not to be alike in this respect—that Spencer does care for his father deep down, that his bitterness over his childhood hasn't ruined them for good, that he would prefer to see the man alive.
Once he sees the way Spencer is breaking down, changing into a whole new person under the duress—the same way he's seen him change before, when Guster was in danger... he starts to think.
He thinks for a long time, actually—trying to figure out if he might hold some feeling for his own father, deep, deep down. If his old man showed up in his life again after thirty odd years... if Carlton would even care to see him. If he'd want to do anything but punch him in the face, or arrest him. Or even shoot him himself.
That line of thinking stops when his concern for Spencer's well-being grows.
The man is hell-bent on revenge, and Juliet doesn't seem very keen on helping him. Granted, it's because it's both dangerous and illegal (at the very least, for trespassing)... but this is the one situation where Carlton can't see why that should matter. Spencer's only going to put himself in more danger if no one gives him any help.
If his own fucking girlfriend doesn't want to do anything, I will.
"Tell me now, Spencer," he starts soon after Spencer climbs into the car with him. "Do you want Jerry Carp imprisoned, or dead?"
The casualness in his expression and voice when he responds makes Carlton worry more for him, but he understands.
"I'm fine with either, but if it comes down to it, I'll kill him."
"...I can work with that."
It's strange, having Spencer be so serious about all of this. Barely cracking half of his usual jokes while coming up with strategies—hardly even making an innuendo as Carlton helps strap weapons onto him. He can't tell whether he prefers this.
The most positive emotion he hears from him all that day is in the car, late that evening, as they wait outside of Carp's hideaway.
It's a sniff, and a soft look, and the kind of smile that still manages to make his chest go warm.
"Can I ask you something?"
He knows he's going to regret this. "If you must."
"Why are you helping me, really?"
Of course.
"...I figure there was nothing on earth that was gonna stop you from going after your dad's shooter," he tells him. Which is the truth.
"Right."
"And I'd do the same thing if I were in your shoes." Which is a lie, but he hopes Spencer will accept it.
"...And?"
Guess not.
"And what? That's it."
Spencer gives him a knowing look, and smiles just slightly wider. "You care about me."
Carlton swallows, and makes an effort to keep a hardened expression.
"Get out of the car."
"...Your heart hearts me."
"Seriously, get out of the car."
Spencer obeys, though this is clearly the most fun he's had all night, judging by how widely he grins as he opens the passenger door and slides out. Carlton feels some residual bitterness from the past year.
"But if you just said it once aloud," he says, outside the car now, "I promise you'd feel free."
And then, as Carlton goes against his better judgement and looks out the window,
"I love you, man."
He pauses. Does he genuinely want him to say it back?
Why is he doing this to him all over again? Why the fuck is he reopening this wound?
...Is he even trying to reopen a wound? Or is Spencer trying to fix it?
Carlton's throat closes up. Part of him knows the only reason for that is because he wants to say it, he does, but his body won't let him. The rest of him tries desperately to ignore it.
You'd feel free. Is he right? Would he feel better if he openly acknowledged this thing that's survived through their respective girlfriends, or even just that yeah, six years between us has affected me.
Or would he feel worse... or just afraid?
He feels afraid now, and for that reason his jaw won't even come open. He can't say it, and he won't.
Spencer starts to say it again, and Carlton's instinct is to slam his foot on the gas pedal.
-1
When Spencer disappears in his rear-view mirror, Carlton's hands slam down on the steering wheel seemingly of their own accord.
"Yeah, I fucking love you, Spencer," he says through painfully gritted teeth. His throat feels raw and his face feels hot and, as much as he tries to stop it, his eyes fill up halfway with tears.
Yeah, I care about you, you asshole. Yeah, I want you in my life. And I want you to be safe and happy and healthy and I'd do anything for you and I don't even want to imagine a world where you never showed up in Santa Barbara six years ago, and I'm still fucking in love with you after all this time — is that what you wanna fucking hear, Spencer? Like you don't know it already? What do you even plan to do if you heard me say it?
A few minutes down the road and onto the highway, Carlton forces himself to calm down. Concentrates his breathing until his throat feels normal and his face isn't burning hot and the feeling is stuck in just his chest.
He takes one last deep breath, and looks in the mirror, and looks back at the road.
"Yeah." He sniffs, staring ahead. "I love you."