Work Text:
It all started with that stupid case about the punk rocker. At first, it looked like the drummer was the murderer, they had the suspect’s opportunity and motive (the lead singer had cut some of the long drum solos from the upcoming album), and not to mention, a total lack of alibi from their primary suspect.
Then, of course, Shawn Spencer came stumbling in, walking as if it was his first day on two feet, with Gus trailing closely behind him.
By now, Carlton was an expert at tuning the “psychic” out, but he couldn’t help and track all of Shawn’s wild movements and gestures. For a man who was wildly unpredictable, he generally stayed in control. His supposed ignorance for personal boundaries only impacted the people he was close to, or trusted. He would never nearly accidentally smack a victim in the face like he almost just did to O’Hara.
O’Hara, specifically had mentioned Shawn’s talent for dancing. Carlton had resisted entertaining the thought, let alone deciding if he believed in it or not, but he had seen Gus and Shawn’s performance on American Duos— as loathe as he was to admit it, Shawn was decent. Good, even.
There was something else about that performance. Not the ridiculous wig, or even the way that it actually wasn’t even bad, but that was yet another thing about Carlton’s feelings that he refused to touch even with a ten foot pole. He called that box of things in his mind— nothing. It was called nothing. Because if he had to label the thoughts he had about a certain Shawn Spencer, then he would have to acknowledge that he had thoughts about Shawn Spencer beyond general annoyance and frustration.
Shawn, as he did, insisted that this open and closed case about the punk rocker was more complicated than it seemed. Somehow, though Carlton should stop being surprised at this, Chief Vick hired the Psych team to take a deeper look at the case.
“Come on,” Carlton began to say, as Shawn gave Gus a fist bump. “Is that really necessary—”
“Don’t worry Lassie,” Shawn smoothly cut in. “We have a plan, and we will need your help. You don’t happen to have any glow-sticks, do you? Or an outfit that isn’t a suit?” Before Carlton could think of a reasonable response to either of those questions, Shawn spun to face O’Hara. “And Jules! Do you have a black eyeliner pencil? Ooh! If I buy one for the case, could we charge it to the precinct?”
“Mister Spencer,” Vick said, already sounding exasperated. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“We—” Shawn gestured to Carlton, O’Hara, Gus, and himself— “are going undercover at the punk festival this weekend. Duh!”
This was going to be a bad idea.
If you were to tell Carlton Lassiter of a year ago— no, Lassiter of last week, that he would be standing in line for a punk show at an underground bar, at 2 A.M., he would have laughed silly in your face.
Unfortunately, that was leaving out the most damning information about it: the outfits.
O’Hara was wearing a thick leather collar with metal spikes coming out of it, and she had gotten off easy. Gus was wearing multiple layers of flannel, and pants that he had called “pleather”. He had chains layered around his neck, and he kept pushing his chin out, in an attempt that Carlton could only assume that Gus thought made him look cool.
Carlton was dressed in a torn up white t-shirt, and a leather jacket with so many zippers and buckles that he was slightly worried if he tried to wear it into the police department, he would set off every metal detector in the building. Shawn had tried to spike up Carlton’s hair, but it was thankfully too short to mess with.
Speaking of Shawn, he was currently at the front of the line into the bar. Even if Lassiter hadn’t become skilled at picking the other man out of a crowd, Shawn had spiked his own hair up into such high peaks that Gus had asked if they could see them from space. He, too, was wearing a collar, though it wasn’t as violent as O’Hara’s looked (she kept complaining about getting poked on the underside of her chin with the spikes). It had silver rings that ran through loops around the collar, and thin chains mixed throughout.
It matched the single silver hoop he had hanging from one ear.
He was also wearing a black t-shirt with the arms ripped off, and pants similar to Gus’s, though they were so tight that Carlton had to assume that they were uncomfortable. Somehow, Shawn looked entirely and flawlessly in his element as he chatted up the bouncer. Carlton had to fight off the urge to cover Shawn up in a trench coat, or at least a jacket that hung over his ass.
That wasn’t even the worst part of the outfit, though everything that was previously mentioned was mucking up feelings in Carlton’s stomach.
It was the eyeliner.
No, Shawn’s comment about the eyeliner earlier wasn’t just a ploy to see how far Vick would let him go. He was serious about the eyeliner— so much so that when Carlton finally pulled up to the Psych offices to pick up Gus and Shawn that night, O’Hara was already there, pressing a pencil to Shawn’s waterline.
Carlton found himself standing in the doorway, watching Shawn sit still, and patiently for O’Hara to finish. He hardly even flinched, only blinked a few times when the young detective was done, and thanked her for doing it. Gus gagged loudly, complaining that he couldn’t even watch someone put in their own eye contacts, let alone someone else touching their eyes like that.
Shawn had only shrugged, and said something about liking the way that it looks. Then, Carlton had stumbled over a pineapple that was randomly in the corner of the doorway, which made Shawn jump out of his seat and greet him loudly. That was when Carlton had noticed the costumes that the three of them were wearing, and Gus approached him with a bag full of his own outfit and accessories.
Carlton absentmindedly twisted one of the many rings on his fingers. Shawn had cut a few other parties in line to make it to the bouncer, far enough away that Carlton couldn’t hear what he was saying. Something ridiculous, no doubt.
Carlton’s suspicions were confirmed when Shawn waved a wild hand back towards them, the bouncer’s suspicious glare turning onto O’Hara, Gus, and Carlton. Then Shawn said something that made the bouncer look back at him. Then back at the group. Then up at the sky, as if he was pleading with some distant god to save him from the man standing in front of him (a move that Carlton has tried many times, to no avail). He finally nodded, and unclipped the shoddy rope that blocked access to the front door. Shawn pumped a fist in the air, and gestured to the others to follow.
The inside of the bar was just as terrible as Carlton had dreaded it would be. Music was being pumped so loudly through the speakers that he could feel it shaking his body. There were people packed in so densely, there was no way to make it five steps without being forced to press against someone else’s body. There was a teenage girl on stage, screaming into a microphone.
O’Hara and Gus, the traitors, immediately voted to check out the bar, see if they found anyone or anything suspicious. Carlton couldn’t hide his scowl as they walked away. Shawn, who was still at his side, knocked into his shoulder.
“Hey,” Or at least, that’s what it looked like what Shawn said— it was impossible to hear over the “singing”.
“What?” Carlton tried to respond with, but couldn’t even hear his own voice. Suddenly, Shawn was pushing himself up onto his toes, pressing his mouth close to Carlton’s ear. His breath was hot against his skin, and Carlton tried not to shiver.
“I said, you come here often?”
Carlton turned to face Shawn, which was a mistake because A., that put him only a few mere inches away from the other man’s face, and B., gave him prime viewing of the eyeliner that had been haunting the detective for longer than he would like to admit.
He paused, noticing something he hadn’t before.
“Do you really have a lip piercing?”
Since Carlton was a detective, who’s sole job it was to notice things and read people, he didn’t miss the way that Shawn’s eyes lingered on his mouth for a brief moment, before going cross-eyed trying to see his own lips.
“This old thing?” Shawn’s tongue stuck out, poking at the hoop that went around his lip. “Nah. It’s a fake. I got it before I pierced my ear, Gus told me I should try out piercings before actually getting them, so we could decide if it was worth it when my dad killed me over them.”
Carlton valiantly pretended like his entire mouth hadn’t just dried up.
“Alright!” There was a pause in the music as a man in a mesh tank top and jeans took to the microphone. “That was the A-Okay Men, let’s give them a hand! Our next band to take to the stage is Canadian Guillotine!”
The crowd cheered wildly, but Carlton found his gaze drawn to the slight frown on Shawn’s face.
“That’s a terrible name,” Shawn said, before grabbing at Carlton’s arm. “Come on, our killer is going to be backstage.”
“Backstage?” Carlton asked, but his question was lost to the noise as a couple of young men started screaming into the microphone as loudly as they could, with what seemed like the most racket that a handful of high schoolers could make. How were they even allowed in this bar?
When they hit the curtains near the stage, yet another bouncer stood in their way. Carlton made a move to pull out his police badge, but Shawn stepped in first.
“Hello there, my name is Johnny Thunders, and this is my buddy Siouxsie, of the Banshees.”
“Spencer-” Carlton grit out, but Shawn leaned heavily into his side, throwing his arm around Carlton’s shoulders.
“We are here to meet with some old buddies, they should be waiting for us,” Shawn tried to leaned around the bouncer, but the burly man remained unimpressed. “Riiiight inside?”
“Do you have a badge?”
“Of course I do!” Shawn said, sounding offended. “How dare you even accuse that I don’t?”
“Spencer,”
“Here, just wait—” Shawn began patting himself down. “I swear, I just had it here… Wait, is that Cyndi Lauper?”
The bouncer turned. Shawn’s grip on Carlton’s shoulder grew tighter as he pulled them both past, and through the curtain. Through absolute idiocracy, they had made it backstage.
“Alright, Joey Ramone. We are looking for a guy with red hair, but I’m sensing it isn’t real… A wig? A toupee, perhaps?” Shawn had brought his hand up to his temple, squinting his eyes. “No… Die… Die… Hair dye? Yes! His hair is dyed red, I’m sensing it!” He patted Carlton on the chest before setting off into the crowded backstage.
Though it was less stifling as the main bar, it was still filled with people who were all going in varying directions. Some were holding instruments, and others were chatting with each other.
Carlton followed after Shawn, before the younger man could get lost in the crowd and do something particularly stupid.
Another band had performed on stage and left before anything actually happening. They were lingering in a nook beside the dressing rooms, where people had dumped instrument cases and other various items. Carlton was trying to pretend like he wasn’t sweating in his leather jacket. Shawn was poking around different boxes, either looking for clues, or pennies.
There was a thunk as Shawn stubbed his toe on a loudspeaker. Carlton raised an eyebrow, watching as Shawn waved his hands wildly.
“Quick, he’s coming!” Shawn hissed. He was suddenly crowding into Carlton’s space. Carlton backed up, until his back was pressed uncomfortably a wall.
He scanned the room in front of them, looking for the apparent danger. There was man with the red dyed hair was walking towards them, but his attention was being held by a young woman with a headset on.
“Are you sure that’s our guy?” Carlton asked. Shawn nodded, but as he was pressed up to Carlton, he more felt it than saw it. “How?”
“I’m feeling it,” Shawn insisted.
Carlton was feeling something else— namely, Shawn’s chest pressed against his own, and his leg slotting between Carlton’s.
Carlton scoffed, tried to readjust, but that only made Shawn look up at him. His breath was warm, but Carlton’s skin flushed all on it’s own.
“Uh-” he started to say, pulling his eyes from the younger man to track the supposed suspect, just in time for the man with the red hair to make direct eye contact with him. “Shit, he’s on his way over here,”
“Lassie, do you trust me?” Shawn asked, his voice unusually serious. Carlton let his eyes dart from the approaching suspect to Shawn. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes…?”
Shawn grabbed the lapels of Carlton’s stupid jacket, and yanked him down, bringing their lips together.
It was like in the movies— stupidly, that was his first thought. The pounding music faded to the background, until all that he could hear, no, feel, was Shawn’s heartbeat in his chest, and the slide of lips against his own.
The younger man’s infuriating lip ring pressed into Carlton’s own lips, and it was warm, and had a faint tangy mental taste.
Shawn easily, seamlessly leaned up, wrapping his arms around Carlton’s neck, somehow bringing their bodies even closer together.
“Spe-” Carlton tried to say, but Shawn took that opportunity to tug at his lower lip with his teeth. “We-” he tried again, but all that came out was a shaky breath into Shawn’s mouth.
He realized belatedly that his eyes were open. This close, Shawn was just as gorgeous, and the eyeliner, God, his eyeliner-
Shawn’s eyes flashed open, and instead of pulling away, laughing at the way that Carlton’s legs were going weak in the knees, Shawn peppered kisses down Carlton’s jaw.
Out of the corner of his eye, Carlton realized that the red-haired man was nowhere in sight.
Carlton’s eyes rolled back into his head as Shawn made his way down his neck, pausing to nip at his adam’s apple.
“He’s gone,” Carlton hissed, but Shawn didn’t stop.
Goddamnit. There was no way that Shawn Spencer was this good at kissing. This had to be some type of cosmic joke, because it was impossible that Shawn Spencer not only looked this good in eyeliner and was this good at kissing.
“Spencer,” Carlton said again, but this time, Shawn readjusted his hands so he was holding Carlton’s face.
“Come on, Carly-town,” Shawn murmured, pulling his lips away from Carlton, but still remaining just as close. “Jules and Gus are waiting outside the stage door with backup. When David-Bowie-wannabe caught a glimpse of us, he made a run for it towards the nearest exit.”
Carlton leaned out of the little cranny that they were shoved in, he caught a glimpse of the stage door out the bar swinging open. As Shawn said, O’Hara was standing there next to the suspect, handcuffing him.
Then the door swung shut again. Shawn tugged at Carlton, and he followed.
“You will find the real murder weapon hidden in his shoe. Now, I believe we were in the middle of something—”
“Spencer,” Carlton tried to say in a warning voice, though it’s affects were mitigated by him getting lured right back into Shawn’s lips. “Spencer.”
“Come on, Lassarino,” Shawn whispered. “Come on, let’s make a Ramones song come to life! Ooooh, because I wanna be your boyfriend,” he sang.
Carlton kissed Shawn, to shut him up. Also because he could.
“Lassie, be honest,” Shawn said, though his words were half against Carlton’s lips. “Was it the eyeliner? Was that finally what worked?” He pulled away just to blink his eyes in an over-exaggerated manner. As if he thought he was being sneaky, Shawn’s hands started to creep up underneath Carlton’s t-shirt.
“Shut up,”
Shawn’s laughter tasted infuriatingly sweet.