The Psych characters and situations are not mine, and I lay no claim to them. No infringement is intended, and no money is being made; I'm just borrowing them for a bit of fun and molestation. This story is set directly after episode 1x03, "Speak Now Or Forever Hold Your Piece".
This is all Vertelemming's fault, for ruthlessly egging me on. As usual.
Please, Continue To Hold Your Piece
by Maya Tawi
So the case is closed, the groom's sister is behind bars, and the stolen ring has been returned to its rightful owner-- in this case, the attorney general, which can only be seen as a good thing for the department.
Carlton Lassiter should be happy. He's not.
He's not happy because, once again, what should have been a straight-up police matter has been derailed into a damn carnival sideshow-- with, Carlton thinks, some seriously bad acting to boot. He's never bought Shawn Spencer's psychic act, but more and more it seems he's the only one left in this nuthouse excuse for a police station who doesn't. Even Karen seems to have fallen under Spencer's thrall, and she could usually be counted on to see reason.
Maybe it's a pregnancy thing.
Still, it's hard to argue with results, though that doesn't stop Carlton from doing his damnedest. Since Spencer first turned up on their doorstep, like a lost, mangy, flea-ridden puppy that no one ever wanted anyway, his record has been spotless-- four for four; five, even, if you count the electronics store thing, which Carlton is trying hard to forget.
Doesn't mean he's psychic, though. Everyone knows Spencer's dad used to be some big-shot cop around here, and he's still got friends in the department. Someone has to be feeding Spencer information, and if he ever finds that person, Carlton will be a very happy man indeed. Apart from solving four (or five) cases in a ridiculously short time, Spencer's also gotten Carlton's partner transferred, saddling him with that wide-eyed newbie O'Hara, who seems to have a crush on Spencer of all the damn things; made him look like an idiot one more than one occasion, and in front of his boss, no less; and now the latest indignity-- racking up $1600 worth of room charges on his hotel bill, then somehow weaseling out of it like always, leaving Carlton to take the blame.
Sixteen. Hundred. Fucking. Dollars. He didn't even think it was possible, not in one night. And of course the department isn't going to cover it. Of course Karen refused to believe that dear saintly Shawn Spencer was to blame. Of course Carlton has to pay the charges out of pocket, never mind that hugely expensive divorce lawyer's bill he's already facing.
Well. Will be facing.
In the future. The very near future.
Any day now.
So when he stalks into the men's room after hours, still smarting from the latest dressing-down from the chief-- interim chief-- and miserably contemplating his own imminent poverty-- well, financial inconvenience, anyway-- the very last thing he's in the mood for is Shawn Spencer's smug hair and smug voice and smug fucking face in the mirror as he washes his hands.
"Lassie!" he says cheerfully, turning and wiping his hands on his jeans, and oh, how Carlton hates that nickname. Like he didn't get enough of it in grade school. And college. And the police academy. "Hey, you ever find out who ran up all those charges? Are you sure it wasn't you? 'Cause I know it doesn't seem like it, but those in-room pornos can really add-- awk!"
The red haze of anger starts to clear, and Carlton realizes what he's done-- hasn't even stopped to think, just grabbed Spencer by the balls, right through the crotch of his smug fucking jeans, and backed him up against the row of sinks.
He considers the situation. Spencer's mouth is open, but for once, no sound is coming out, and his face is slowly turning red. He doesn’t look quite so smug anymore.
Carlton decides to go with it.
"Don't you play your games with me, you little shit," he growls, tightening his grip, and watching with vicious satisfaction as Spencer's face shades from red to fuchsia. "I know it was you, and you know why? You've been fucking up my life from day one. No one else would have dared to pull a stunt like that."
Spencer makes another strangled sound. Then, his voice only slightly higher than usual, he squeaks, "Why, Carlton, I never knew you felt this way."
Carlton sees red again. "Shut up."
Spencer ignores him; big fucking surprise. "Then again, that would explain why you're grabbing me all the time. And your fetish for putting me in handcuffs. And that wrestling thing in the hotel kitchen, I thought there was some groping going on, but I just figured it was the heat of the moment. But hey, you know what they say, physical violence is just a manifestation of repressed--"
Carlton doesn't wait to hear what Spencer thinks he's repressing; he twists, just hard enough to hurt, but not enough to cause real damage. This time, Spencer's squeak is nearly off the charts.
"Shut up," he said again, for emphasis. And then-- because it is oh so tempting, and hey, as long as he's committing physical assault, might as well go the whole hog-- he grabs the cuffs from his belt and dangles them in front of Spencer's face. "You like 'em so much? Put 'em on."
Something like real worry flashes across Spencer's face. He lifts his chin and says, "How 'bout no?"
Carlton twists again. "Put. Them. On."
Spencer's nearly purple now. He grabs the cuffs and snaps one around his wrists, glaring at Carlton all the while.
"Behind your back," Carlton grits, tightening his grip as Spencer reaches for the other wrist.
Spencer rolls his eyes and complies. "I usually get dinner first," he mutters.
Carlton smiles grimly. He's about to read the kid the riot act-- not the actual riot act, though of course he knows it by heart, but something about how Spencer's treading on thin ice, and he's pissed off the wrong detective, and if he thinks Carlton's buying his psychic act for even a second he's sadly mistaken, and Hey, how about coughing up those sixteen hundred bucks you owe me?-- when something odd happens, arresting the words on the tip of his tongue. What was a moderately-sized handful is quickly becoming a larger handful.
He stares in disbelief.
Spencer glances down at his crotch. "Hey," he says, mock-surprised, "I think he likes you," and his voice only cracks once.
Carlton continues to stare.
Spencer wriggles a little. "Well, what did you expect? You come in here, metaphorical guns blazing, you big strong man, you--"
He swallows whatever else he was about to say as Carlton changes his grip-- moving on instinct, not squeezing now, but rubbing, his own eyes narrowing as Spencer's roll back into his head. This, he's gotta see for himself.
"Oh, Lassie," Spencer breathes, "give it to me," and Carlton grips his jaw with his free hand, holding that fucking mouth closed and forcing Spencer to look at him, glaring daggers as the little pissant writhes against the sink. He didn't even lock the bathroom door, he realizes. Anyone could walk in and catch them-- him-- red-handed.
The thought should frighten him, but it doesn't. Spencer's already all but ruined his career; what's one more nail in the coffin?
Carlton starts to rethink his stance as Spencer stiffens and comes with a hoarse shout. The bastard isn't even trying to be quiet. He claps a hand over Spencer's mouth, too late, and instead of the bite or lick he expects, Spencer just stares at him over his white-knuckled fingers, eyes glittering.
He keeps his hands in place a few seconds longer, loath to face the aftermath, until he feels the sticky warmth start to seep through the denim. Then he jerks both hands back as though scalded and manfully chokes down a curse.
Freed of his grip, Spencer slumps back, clutching the edge of the sink and breathing hard. He looks dazed. Carlton's fingerprints are white spots on his jaw, fading to red even as the rest of his face gradually pales to its original hue.
"Dude," he says after a long silence, glancing up at Carlton with lazy, hooded eyes, "this sleeping-with-coworkers thing is becoming almost pathological."
Carlton takes a step back and scrubs his hands on his trousers. His right hand still burns. "We don't work together," he snaps, "and I'm not sleeping with you."
"Maybe you should," Spencer says, and drapes the handcuffs artfully over Carlton's shoulder, before sliding off the sink and walking bow-legged to the door.
Carlton watches him go, too stunned by his Houdini act to ask to which part Spencer was referring. Not that he would, if he could.
Spencer's halfway out the door before he musters enough wits to say, "If you really were psychic, you would've seen this coming."
Spencer grins. "Who says I didn't?"
He winks and disappears, and for the first time, Carlton realizes he's hard. And he still has to take a leak. Worse, now Spencer has some prime blackmail material, should he choose to use it-- and Carlton sees no reason why he wouldn't.
And worst of all? He still has to pay the damn hotel bill.