Title: Carlton’s Big Date
Pairing: Shawn/Carlton, I suppose, though it’s slow going.
Rating: 13+
Word count: 2922
Author’s Notes: Sequel to Carlton’s Big Move, which was set immediately after “Poker? I barely know her!” This is set sometime after that, and also sometime after “Scary Sherry.”


Carlton’s surprise at Spencer’s audacity completely overrules his normal quick response, which would have been, of course, “Absolutely not!” The obnoxious brat beats a hasty retreat, and Carlton is left with a feeling of being the last person to get the joke.

The next four days are back to his usual schedule, now that O’Hara is off undercover and Goochberg has been forced into early retirement. He arrives at the station somewhere around seven and leaves about the same time at night, unless something pops up. He and O’Hara are on a roll, getting through their cases in record time. Unfortunately that means he still hasn’t seen Spencer to de-invite him, and as Thursday approaches, he feels something akin to dread. Either he had to cook dinner for Shawn Spencer, or go to the Spencer’s office to cancel.

He supposes he could call, but he doesn’t like to tie up his cell phone with unnecessary calls. You never know when those tox screens or autopsy reports are going to come across.

Ultimately, he decides against canceling. If nothing else, it’s an excuse to use his new cookware. Once he’s decided to cook, he gets excited about it. He’s never made curry from scratch before, though he’s always wanted to try. He decides to make naan and samosas as well. He doesn’t do desserts, but he thinks Spencer probably has a sweet tooth, so he decides to try something simple: strawberry kiwi tartlets.

He’s practically salivating as he’s creating the menu. He considers wine and decides it’s too much, both for the meal and the company. He starts a grocery list and makes notes on the recipes. He decides to make the samosas, chutney, and strawberry kiwi tartlets tonight. That’ll make things simpler tomorrow.

***

“Three points!” Shawn yells as he makes a basket from across the room.

“There’s no three point shots from in here. You have to be in the supply room to get three points,” Gus points out.

“You’re just whining because you can’t get one from across the room.”

“Of course I can,” Gus says, but Shawn doesn’t make him prove it because embarrassment just makes Gus bitter.

“Let’s get lunch,” Shawn says, just to change the subject.

“We can’t afford it,” Gus says, looking up from the ledgers.

“No, but you can,” Shawn says, “now that you’ve got Dr. Mengele – “

“Magnotti,” Gus replies automatically.

“Dr. Magnotti, exactly,” Shawn says. “And you owe that to me. At least some of that.”

“Fine, but no Chinese,” Gus says. “The last place you ordered from was disgusting.”

“It was fantastic!”

“There was a cockroach in my lo mein, Shawn.” Gus looks queasy just thinking about it.

“Well, the kung pao shrimp was good, anyway,” Shawn says, throwing another paper ball into the basket.

“Indian,” Gus suggests, and Shawn wrinkles his nose.

“I had Indian last night.”

“No you didn’t,” Gus answers. “You had KFC. The bucket is in the wastebasket.”

“I don’t feel like it.” Shawn is distinctly uncomfortable, and completely unable to hide it from Gus, which makes it worse.

“What are you talking about, Shawn? You love Indian.” Gus looks up, and Shawn looks down. “Do you have a date?” Gus asks.

“No,” Shawn answers, with a little bite. “No, I don’t have a date. I just want pizza.”

“Pizza?” Gus says, looking at Shawn incredulously. “You only eat pizza as a last resort to avoid going to your dad’s. Who is your date with?”

“I do not have a date,” Shawn says, and absolutely wills Gus into silence. Except that never works.

“Is it the girl from Starbucks? Because then I’m sorry that I didn’t believe you got her digits.” Shawn starts playing Mystic Hunter on the computer, ducking his face down behind the screen so Gus can’t see him. He should have known it would only make Gus more dogged. “It’s not Jules, is it? Because I will have to call that girl and talk some sense into her.”

Shawn has half a mind to bite at that, but asking Jules to cover for him spending an evening with Lassi is just too weird, even for him.

“I’m going to Lassi’s for dinner, remember? He’s cooking Indian.”

Gus’s face is absolutely blank. If Shawn had a poker face like that… well, he wouldn’t win any more, but he’d be able to win without talking so much. “Oh, what?” Shawn whines. “He needs to test out his new stuff. I told him I like curry. It’ll all be very manly.”

“What are you bringing to drink?”

“What? What do you mean?” Shawn asks. “Why should I bring something to drink?”

“Because that’s what you do when someone cooks you dinner, Shawn. And you’re going to need it, if you’re spending any amount of time with Lassiter. He couldn’t relax if the entire staff of the Artesia Medi-Spa worked on him.”

“You’ve got a point,” Shawn says, nodding thoughtfully. “What goes with Indian? Mojitos?”

“Definitely not. Something simple. Vodka tonics, maybe. Just bring the vodka.” Gus answers, and he’s right, as always. The man’s answer to Emily Post.

“So, can we get back to lunch, now? I’m hungry, and I want a sub.”

“Guido’s,” Gus says, standing up and taking his keys. “Let’s go.”

***

Carlton leaves work early the next day, just a little. There’s nothing happening, and he needs to make sure he has enough time for the dough to rise for the naan. The tartlets and chutney are chilling in the fridge, and he can fry up the samosas in oil when he gets home. Then it’s just the curry and the naan he has to worry about.

He takes the samosas out of the fridge and sets them on the counter on his way through to the bedroom. He looks at his lonely drawer of casual clothes and debates leaving his suit on. Well, he thinks, maybe just the holster. He smiles to himself and changes into jeans and a short sleeve shirt. He doesn’t have an apron, so he starts to set out a second pair of jeans and shirt. Then he remembers who he’s cooking dinner for and puts them back in his dresser.

He starts with the dough for the naan. It needs to rise for an hour, so while he’s waiting he cuts up the chicken and vegetables for the curry. He sets the curry to simmering and goes back to the naan. He rolls it out, pinches it into balls, and sets it aside to rise again. He starts the rice, checks the curry, and compliments himself on how everything’s going to be done at exactly the right time.

Speaking of perfect timing, his doorbell rings. He has a sudden attack of nerves; he can feel the adrenaline rush to the back of his hands, like it does right before he shoots at a suspect.

He goes to the front door and there stands Spencer, smug as ever. Sometimes he wonders if the kid’s face got stuck that way.

“Spencer.”

“Lassi.”

Carlton knows that it would please Spencer more than anything for him to throw a fit over the canine nickname, so he says nothing and ushers his guest in.

“Lassi, it smells wonderful in here! Curry, my favorite.”

“Yes, well, you’re welcome. And what’s that?” Carlton knows that the paper bag doesn’t have a gun in it, but long-ingrained habit makes him want to check. Shawn pulls a bottle of vodka out of the bag and Carlton is surprised at the gesture.

“That’s… thoughtful,” he says. “Thanks.” He has some tonic water, but that’s about all for mixers. He doesn’t even have orange juice. “Would you like some before dinner? I’ve got tonic water…” He lets his voice drift off, hoping Spencer will take the hint.

“I’ve never had a vodka tonic, what does it taste like?” Spencer asks.

“I don’t know,” Carlton answers. “Why don’t you mix one up and you can tell us both. I have to fry up the samosas.”

“You bought samosas?” Spencer asks, and Carlton can feel his jaw tightening despite the fact that he can hear the excitement in Spencer’s voice. He forcibly relaxes and answers him casually.

“No, I made samosas. I just need to fry them up.” He goes over to the fridge and takes out the tamarind chutney he made yesterday and puts it in the closest thing he has to a serving dish. He got some serviceable tableware… Oh shit, he thinks. I forgot to set the table.

“Spencer,” he calls, and turns around to find him standing too close, as always. The kid has a problem understanding the concept of personal space.

“Yes, Lassi?” Spencer says, and Carlton tilts his head to the side and narrows his eyes. It’s an unconscious mimicking of the way his father used to show his irritation, and it’s Spencer who notices.

“Why do you always tilt your head to the side like that? Are you blind in one eye? Hear a dog whistle up the street?”

“No, just an annoyance in my kitchen.” Carlton answers, and hands Spencer the chutney. He immediately sticks a finger in it. “Spencer,” Carlton whines.

“Ooh, that’s really good,” Spencer says, after he pulls his finger out of his mouth. “What is it?”

Spencer’s compliment catches him off guard, and Carlton can’t do anything but answer him, in a subdued tone of voice. “It’s tamarind chutney. For the samosas. Which I’ve got to fry up, so would you mind?” Carlton pushes the plate of uncooked samosas between himself and Spencer and the kid backs up enough so Carlton can get to his stove. He turns the gas on and oils the pan.

“By the way, vodka tonics are not good,” Spencer mentions, leaning a hip into the counter and watching Carlton work.

“I think I have cranberry juice,” Carlton says, wondering if he really does. Spencer goes into the refrigerator to have a look and comes out with a bottle of cranberry juice. He rummages around in Carlton’s cupboards until he has two pint glasses, which he fills with too much vodka and not enough juice.

He hands one to Carlton and clinks it before taking a gulp. “Much better,” he says, and picks up a hot samosa. He immediately puts it down again and sucks on his fingers.

“Those are hot,” Carlton says, unable to contain his amusement.

“Lassi! I think you just smiled!” Shawn says, mouth open in mock disbelief. “Are you having a seizure?”

Even when he’s in pain, the kid can’t help making fun. Carlton turns around and flips on the cold water, nodding his head that direction. Spencer puts his fingers under the spray, and Carlton wonders at his docile acceptance of the unspoken order. He shakes his head to clear it of any thoughts about Shawn’s habits or parenting or whatever, and turns back to the samosas.

He takes a quick sip of the cranberry juice cocktail and winces. It has to be half vodka. He sets it back down and pulls the last of the samosas off, setting them on the paper towels to strain. Spencer is looking at them longingly, and Carlton actually laughs. Out loud. Which causes Spencer to be speechless, for once.

“Here, wait a minute,” Carlton says, patting them down to remove the extra oil, and putting the coolest ones on a plate next to the tamarind chutney. Spencer hikes himself onto the counter and devours the whole plate. Carlton watches, amused. He wants to try one, but he doesn’t dare put his hand within reach of the Spencer eating machine.

“I’m glad you like the appetizers, Spencer, but if you choke to death, there’s no way I’m doing mouth to mouth on you.”

“Aw, Lassi, you wouldn’t save my life if I was dying in your kitchen?” Spencer says, and Carlton turns his back to Spencer before he smiles. “I saw that,” the kid says, and Carlton groans inwardly before he pats down the next batch of samosas and sets them on the plate, grabbing one for himself before Spencer can eat them all.

He’s pleased with the recipe, though he thinks perhaps a little less of the potato mixture and little more of the meat, next time. He’s rewriting the recipe in his head when he remembers the naan.

The dough has risen, and he wipes the frying pan down before cooking up the naan. Spencer has slowed down on the samosas, eating them in two or three bites instead of stuffing them all in his mouth at once. Carlton’s glad he only made a half batch. At least the food keeps him relatively quiet.

Carlton takes the bay leaf out of the curry and gives it a quick stir. He takes another sip of his vodka and finishes up the naan.

“You’re really good at that,” Spencer says, and if Carlton didn’t know better, he would say that was something close to awe in his voice.

“Thanks,” he says, and flips a piece of naan in the skillet. “Hopefully it tastes as good as it looks.”

“The samosas kicked ass,” Spencer says, and Carlton is uncomfortable with Spencer’s sudden earnestness. He notices, of course (does he notice everything? Carlton thinks,) and teases him. “You need to loosen up, Lassi. Have some more of that vodka cranberry, there.”

Carlton nods and takes a big gulp, wishing he had thought to hold his nose. He really doesn’t like vodka that much. “Gah,” he says upon swallowing, and reaches for the bottle of cranberry juice to water down the drink. Spencer hands it to him, and he tops off his glass.

Everything has timed out perfectly. The buzzer for the rice goes off as he is scooping the last piece of naan out of the skillet. He smiles and pulls down a couple of plates, deciding to serve it up here instead of bothering to set it out on the dining room table. He piles rice and curry on a plate and hands it to Spencer, stopping to put several pieces of naan on a napkin next to him before dishing up his own plate.

Spencer stays right where he is, sitting on the counter and wolfing down food like he only eats once a week. He’s also silent while eating, and Carlton can hardly believe that. It turned out pretty well, though he has some thoughts about the spices before he tries it again. He has to set his plate down before he’s halfway finished, and he looks over and realizes his glass is nearly empty.

He can feel the effects of the alcohol, a slow fuzziness on the edge of his vision, a warmth in his belly. Spencer has started talking again, and without his permission, his mouth has started talking back. And laughing. And saying yes to another drink.

***

When Carlton wakes up the next morning, with the worst case of drymouth ever, he remembers some vague discussion of classic movies, eastern philosophy, and a whole lot of cranberry juice. He doesn’t feel too bad, for having drunk enough to make his memory fuzzy (though if he’s honest with himself, it doesn’t take that much).

He takes two aspirin and showers, feeling fit enough to face the day until he walks down the hall to the kitchen. He didn’t clean anything up, and the pans and plates and glasses are everywhere. When he glances into the living room, he sees Shawn Spencer on his couch.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he shouts in Spencer’s ear. Spencer claps his hands over his ears and yells back at him.

“You said I should stay, Carlton, that I was too drunk to go home.”

Carlton stops at the purposeful use of his first name. Then he plows onward. “You could have taken a cab,” he suggests.

“I had to drag you to your bedroom, Carlton, you could hardly stand. I figure you blacked out somewhere around dessert, and seriously, tartlets? What were you thinking?”

“I didn’t black out,” Carlton says, though he knows damn well he can’t remember much after dinner itself and nothing after asking Shawn if he wanted dessert.

“So you remember asking me to stop calling you Lassi? Telling me to call you Carlton?” Spencer’s typical smug look is on his face, and Carlton wishes he could wipe it off.

“I would never say such a thing. Under any circumstances.”

“It’s too bad, really,” Spencer says, and Carlton braces himself. He knows there’s a punchline coming, and it will take all he has to keep from smacking the kid. “I kind of liked Carlton.” Spencer takes advantage of Carlton’s speechlessness to get to the joke. “Not that Lassi isn’t fun in his own way.”

Carlton frowns, thinking about Spencer’s rather serious (for him, anyway) reprimand. It bothers him. Perhaps because he’s telling the truth, and Carlton hates to hear the truth from someone else before he’s figured it out for himself. It’s one of the reasons Spencer bothers him so much. Still, he can’t force himself to apologize, though he does manage a peace offering.

“What do you want next week?”

***