Designated Driver, Psych FanFic
For some reason, I have this condition where I only ever actually finish a fic when I'm supposed to be working on entirely different fics. For instance, I'm supposed to be working on a couple gift fics, finishing the Dean/Carlton fic I started (and have so far only finished the smut for) and the weird AU that popped into my head where Carlton is an empath (yeah, I dunno either).
Instead, I picked up a pen and wrote this in about an hour last night. *sigh*
Master Fic List
Title: Designated Driver
Rating: K+? PG? It's the tamest thing I've written...
Characters: pre-Shawn/Carlton (with mentions of Buzz and Juliet)
Word Count: approx. 1,500
Warnings: Carlton ends up in a towel...but that's as graphic as it gets. Only one bad word even.
Summary: Carlton goes for a good brood; Shawn shows up and takes him home.
AO3 Link
Disclaimer: I own nothing and am well aware I never will. I'm just playing. I'll put them back!
Author's Note: This is a continuation of my McNassiter/Shassie 'verse (if you can call a handful of drabbles a 'verse). It's really just an expansion of #s 9 and 10 of this music/fic meme.
It's Shassie pre-slash; McNassiter (McNab/Lassiter) post-slash...but really that relationship is only implied and all you really need to know about it is: it's over. (But feel free to check out the other fics if you want)
Unbeat-ed (as usual). I never write in this tense and, quite frankly, I don't care for it that much. For some reason I just felt like using it this time. Feel free to point out any errors you see, just please be kind.
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It’s not as hard as it used to be, watching Buzz be happy. Carlton’s moved on, as much as he ever does (about the only thing Victoria left him with was the ability to hold grudges). He’s adjusted; makes an effort not to be so lonely he feels compelled to dwell on the past. He accepts O’Hara’s occasional dinner invitations (just as friends, of course: no way he’s screwing around with a co-worker ever again). Sometimes he even let’s himself enjoy Spencer’s company.
But when this latest news starts to spread around the station, Carlton’s hold on his life slips just a bit. He knows it’s time for him to go home when he snaps at O’Hara hard enough she blushes and walks away.
Carlton has a bar for each of his moods (he tries not to think about what it means if he only has a grand total of three). The Rusty Keg is saved for when he’s his most self-loathing. He breathes a (slight) sigh of relief as he walks in (the last time he’d needed the place, they’d been closed for renovation) and heads for the bar. He doesn’t know the bartender on duty, but that’s okay (one man can pour a scotch as good as another). The man doesn’t look like he gives a shit how Carlton’s day’s been and that’s fine too. In this bar, it earns him a larger tip.
Carlton’s on his third glass when there’s movement to his left.
“Hey Lassie,” Spencer says as he takes the stool next to him. Carlton stifles a groan into the glass he’s just put to his lips.
“What do you want now, Spencer?” he asks with a sigh as he sets the glass back on the bar. He’d had to order Spencer out of the station no less than three times that day and the ‘psychic’ is pretty much the last person he wants to see while he’s in the middle of a good brood.
“Vodka and pineapple,” Spencer answers, directing it more toward the bartender than the detective. From the corner of his eyes, Carlton can see him twist in his seat to face him.
“I heard Buzz’s news today.” Spencer is surprisingly straight-to-the-point and Carlton is careful not to flinch. He keeps quiet, staring into his glass as he forces himself to ignore whatever emotions are trying to brew. Carlton takes a death breath. He’s seen how close Spencer is to O’Hara and doesn’t doubt the man’s here now to lay into him for being such an asshole. He deserves it, really, so he’s prepared to take it.
“That’s gonna be one ugly baby,” Spencer continues. Carlton looks at Spencer quickly in surprise (is that a smirk on the other man’s face?). “I mean, come on, Buzz’s crazy, gangly limbs. And his wife’s got that weird lip thing…” Spencer gives a mock shudder and Carlton can’t help but semi-smile.
“Let me buy you a drink, Detective,” Spencer says in a serious tone and Carlton is surprised to find he has, in fact, emptied his glass again already.
Spencer isn’t exactly conducive to the quiet evening Carlton had been hoping for, but, to the younger man’s credit, he is pleasantly subdued. Carlton’s not sure how much is the alcohol and how much is Spencer but somewhere between the fourth and fifth scotch, he finds himself oddly at peace with his companion. (He thinks Spencer…Shawn…is forever going to be two separate people in his mind: the man who annoys him at work, and the man who keeps him company outside of it)
Spen…Shawn rattles on about some movie he’s just seen and, for some reason, Carlton’s enthralled. The man beside him isn’t wreaking havoc; he’s not dancing around the room demanding attention. He’s just…talking; filling the silence so Carlton doesn’t have to.
“Why are you here Lassie?” Shawn asks him abruptly. Carlton had been so busy listening in fascination to Spencer being so normal the return of his nickname nearly makes him jump. Shawn is looking at him in a compassionate way that’s so utterly different from the mocking tone that normally accompanies the name.
Carlton turns quickly to his empty glass. The bartender’s busy flirting with a woman who’s appeared at the other end of the bar and Carlton sighs in defeat.
“I don’t know,” Carlton admits quietly. He looks over, startled when Shawn puts a hand on his arm. Shawn gives him a gentle smile.
“You should go home,” the younger man advises. “Work tomorrow.” Carlton nods a bit and stands. “You got a ride?” Carlton resists the urge to burst out laughing (it’s such a ridiculous thing to be ashamed not to have).
“I’ll get a cab,” he says. Shawn shakes his head and stands as well.
“Keys,” he demands, holding out his hand. Carlton has no clue why he hands them over (it’s not like he trusts the man). Shawn gives him a reassuring smile. “Let’s get you out of this depressing dive.” Carlton wonders if Shawn actually thinks his house is any less depressing.
He doesn’t ask how Shawn knows where he lives. He’s mostly sure the answer would be “I’m psychic, Lassiface” and Carlton really doesn’t want to embarrass himself by actually laughing.
Carlton’s not all that surprised when Shawn walks him to the door (he’s not all that steady on his feet and he supposes having an escort to make sure he doesn’t fall into the bushes is a good thing). He moves into his living room, flipping the light switch and tossing his keys in the general direction of the end table he keeps forgetting was part of his old house (it’s only frustrating when he has to fumble under the couch for the keys in the morning). He forgets about Shawn as he’s struggling out of his suit jacket.
“Can I stay?” the question shocks Carlton and he stumbles slightly as he turns around to look at the younger man still standing in his doorway. Shawn takes a step into the house and Carlton suppresses the urge to take a startled step back. “My apartment’s alllll the way across town and that looks like an awesome couch.”
Carlton blinks slowly. He should’ve known the offer from Shawn to play designated driver would have consequences if accepted. But Carlton finds himself not too opposed to the idea of the younger man spending the night (on the couch, he forcibly reminds himself). The house has been feeling so cold and empty again. It needs the warmth an extra body can add.
“I guess you ca…” he begins hesitantly.
“Thanks Lassie!” Shawn says brightly, shutting the door behind him. Carlton gapes as Shawn immediately pulls off his jacket, then his t-shirt. He’s reaching for the zipper to his jeans while kicking off his shoes when Carlton decides it’s about time for a cold shower (just to sober himself up, of course).
He runs into Shawn on the trek from the bathroom to his bedroom. Shawn’s clutching a blanket, trying to look innocent and Carlton’s trying very hard not to notice one of them’s only wearing a towel, the other just a pair of boxers.
“I…borrowed a blanket,” Shawn stammers. Carlton makes eye contact quickly, cursing himself for letting his eyes wander.
“Sorry,” he says, shaking himself. “Should have thought to offer.” Shawn flashes him a bright smile.
“That’s okay Carly!” he dismisses. “I got a great view out of it.” Carlton’s not sure, but he thinks Shawn winks at him before moving past to return to the living room.
Carlton collapses on his bed and stares up at the dark ceiling for a long time, wondering what the hell had happened that Shawn Spencer is now sprawled out, mostly naked, on his couch. Carlton groans now, realizing his mind (and body) has gone there and buries his face in the pillow before he can think about it much more.
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Shawn’s gone when he wakes in the morning. He knows by the utter silence in the house…and the note on his nightstand. He thinks he should feel angry and/or violated that Shawn had been creeping around his room while he slept. But, as Carlton swallows the aspirin and the glass of water set out for him, all he feels is a sense of fond gratitude (even if he can’t figure out what “I’m giving your headache the day off” means).
It’s not until well into the afternoon, when Carlton realizes the ‘psychic’ hasn’t been in to pester him all day, that Carlton understands the message. He smiles softly, not caring to figure out just why his day feels a tad bit incomplete.
/end
Instead, I picked up a pen and wrote this in about an hour last night. *sigh*
Master Fic List
Title: Designated Driver
Rating: K+? PG? It's the tamest thing I've written...
Characters: pre-Shawn/Carlton (with mentions of Buzz and Juliet)
Word Count: approx. 1,500
Warnings: Carlton ends up in a towel...but that's as graphic as it gets. Only one bad word even.
Summary: Carlton goes for a good brood; Shawn shows up and takes him home.
AO3 Link
Disclaimer: I own nothing and am well aware I never will. I'm just playing. I'll put them back!
Author's Note: This is a continuation of my McNassiter/Shassie 'verse (if you can call a handful of drabbles a 'verse). It's really just an expansion of #s 9 and 10 of this music/fic meme.
It's Shassie pre-slash; McNassiter (McNab/Lassiter) post-slash...but really that relationship is only implied and all you really need to know about it is: it's over. (But feel free to check out the other fics if you want)
Unbeat-ed (as usual). I never write in this tense and, quite frankly, I don't care for it that much. For some reason I just felt like using it this time. Feel free to point out any errors you see, just please be kind.
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It’s not as hard as it used to be, watching Buzz be happy. Carlton’s moved on, as much as he ever does (about the only thing Victoria left him with was the ability to hold grudges). He’s adjusted; makes an effort not to be so lonely he feels compelled to dwell on the past. He accepts O’Hara’s occasional dinner invitations (just as friends, of course: no way he’s screwing around with a co-worker ever again). Sometimes he even let’s himself enjoy Spencer’s company.
But when this latest news starts to spread around the station, Carlton’s hold on his life slips just a bit. He knows it’s time for him to go home when he snaps at O’Hara hard enough she blushes and walks away.
Carlton has a bar for each of his moods (he tries not to think about what it means if he only has a grand total of three). The Rusty Keg is saved for when he’s his most self-loathing. He breathes a (slight) sigh of relief as he walks in (the last time he’d needed the place, they’d been closed for renovation) and heads for the bar. He doesn’t know the bartender on duty, but that’s okay (one man can pour a scotch as good as another). The man doesn’t look like he gives a shit how Carlton’s day’s been and that’s fine too. In this bar, it earns him a larger tip.
Carlton’s on his third glass when there’s movement to his left.
“Hey Lassie,” Spencer says as he takes the stool next to him. Carlton stifles a groan into the glass he’s just put to his lips.
“What do you want now, Spencer?” he asks with a sigh as he sets the glass back on the bar. He’d had to order Spencer out of the station no less than three times that day and the ‘psychic’ is pretty much the last person he wants to see while he’s in the middle of a good brood.
“Vodka and pineapple,” Spencer answers, directing it more toward the bartender than the detective. From the corner of his eyes, Carlton can see him twist in his seat to face him.
“I heard Buzz’s news today.” Spencer is surprisingly straight-to-the-point and Carlton is careful not to flinch. He keeps quiet, staring into his glass as he forces himself to ignore whatever emotions are trying to brew. Carlton takes a death breath. He’s seen how close Spencer is to O’Hara and doesn’t doubt the man’s here now to lay into him for being such an asshole. He deserves it, really, so he’s prepared to take it.
“That’s gonna be one ugly baby,” Spencer continues. Carlton looks at Spencer quickly in surprise (is that a smirk on the other man’s face?). “I mean, come on, Buzz’s crazy, gangly limbs. And his wife’s got that weird lip thing…” Spencer gives a mock shudder and Carlton can’t help but semi-smile.
“Let me buy you a drink, Detective,” Spencer says in a serious tone and Carlton is surprised to find he has, in fact, emptied his glass again already.
Spencer isn’t exactly conducive to the quiet evening Carlton had been hoping for, but, to the younger man’s credit, he is pleasantly subdued. Carlton’s not sure how much is the alcohol and how much is Spencer but somewhere between the fourth and fifth scotch, he finds himself oddly at peace with his companion. (He thinks Spencer…Shawn…is forever going to be two separate people in his mind: the man who annoys him at work, and the man who keeps him company outside of it)
Spen…Shawn rattles on about some movie he’s just seen and, for some reason, Carlton’s enthralled. The man beside him isn’t wreaking havoc; he’s not dancing around the room demanding attention. He’s just…talking; filling the silence so Carlton doesn’t have to.
“Why are you here Lassie?” Shawn asks him abruptly. Carlton had been so busy listening in fascination to Spencer being so normal the return of his nickname nearly makes him jump. Shawn is looking at him in a compassionate way that’s so utterly different from the mocking tone that normally accompanies the name.
Carlton turns quickly to his empty glass. The bartender’s busy flirting with a woman who’s appeared at the other end of the bar and Carlton sighs in defeat.
“I don’t know,” Carlton admits quietly. He looks over, startled when Shawn puts a hand on his arm. Shawn gives him a gentle smile.
“You should go home,” the younger man advises. “Work tomorrow.” Carlton nods a bit and stands. “You got a ride?” Carlton resists the urge to burst out laughing (it’s such a ridiculous thing to be ashamed not to have).
“I’ll get a cab,” he says. Shawn shakes his head and stands as well.
“Keys,” he demands, holding out his hand. Carlton has no clue why he hands them over (it’s not like he trusts the man). Shawn gives him a reassuring smile. “Let’s get you out of this depressing dive.” Carlton wonders if Shawn actually thinks his house is any less depressing.
He doesn’t ask how Shawn knows where he lives. He’s mostly sure the answer would be “I’m psychic, Lassiface” and Carlton really doesn’t want to embarrass himself by actually laughing.
Carlton’s not all that surprised when Shawn walks him to the door (he’s not all that steady on his feet and he supposes having an escort to make sure he doesn’t fall into the bushes is a good thing). He moves into his living room, flipping the light switch and tossing his keys in the general direction of the end table he keeps forgetting was part of his old house (it’s only frustrating when he has to fumble under the couch for the keys in the morning). He forgets about Shawn as he’s struggling out of his suit jacket.
“Can I stay?” the question shocks Carlton and he stumbles slightly as he turns around to look at the younger man still standing in his doorway. Shawn takes a step into the house and Carlton suppresses the urge to take a startled step back. “My apartment’s alllll the way across town and that looks like an awesome couch.”
Carlton blinks slowly. He should’ve known the offer from Shawn to play designated driver would have consequences if accepted. But Carlton finds himself not too opposed to the idea of the younger man spending the night (on the couch, he forcibly reminds himself). The house has been feeling so cold and empty again. It needs the warmth an extra body can add.
“I guess you ca…” he begins hesitantly.
“Thanks Lassie!” Shawn says brightly, shutting the door behind him. Carlton gapes as Shawn immediately pulls off his jacket, then his t-shirt. He’s reaching for the zipper to his jeans while kicking off his shoes when Carlton decides it’s about time for a cold shower (just to sober himself up, of course).
He runs into Shawn on the trek from the bathroom to his bedroom. Shawn’s clutching a blanket, trying to look innocent and Carlton’s trying very hard not to notice one of them’s only wearing a towel, the other just a pair of boxers.
“I…borrowed a blanket,” Shawn stammers. Carlton makes eye contact quickly, cursing himself for letting his eyes wander.
“Sorry,” he says, shaking himself. “Should have thought to offer.” Shawn flashes him a bright smile.
“That’s okay Carly!” he dismisses. “I got a great view out of it.” Carlton’s not sure, but he thinks Shawn winks at him before moving past to return to the living room.
Carlton collapses on his bed and stares up at the dark ceiling for a long time, wondering what the hell had happened that Shawn Spencer is now sprawled out, mostly naked, on his couch. Carlton groans now, realizing his mind (and body) has gone there and buries his face in the pillow before he can think about it much more.
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Shawn’s gone when he wakes in the morning. He knows by the utter silence in the house…and the note on his nightstand. He thinks he should feel angry and/or violated that Shawn had been creeping around his room while he slept. But, as Carlton swallows the aspirin and the glass of water set out for him, all he feels is a sense of fond gratitude (even if he can’t figure out what “I’m giving your headache the day off” means).
It’s not until well into the afternoon, when Carlton realizes the ‘psychic’ hasn’t been in to pester him all day, that Carlton understands the message. He smiles softly, not caring to figure out just why his day feels a tad bit incomplete.
/end