All Those Little Moments 76, 56, 73, 51

[coffeebuddha]

Title: All Those Little Moments Are What Make A Life
Author: coffeebuddha
Rating: R/FRT (overall)
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me.
Summary: A collection of drabbles and shorts for a 100 Themes Challenge. Contains various genres, characters, and ships-mostly Shassie with some Shules, Gules, and misc.

***

 

76. Broken Pieces

"What the hell are you doing?"

It's not a question, not exactly. He knows what's going on. He has eyes, doesn't he? He's not so fucking stupid that he can't figure it out, but the words slip out anyway. His voice sounds eerily calm in his ears.

The first few seconds were numbed by shock, but now he feels the anger. Pain. A ripping, tearing hurt that's rapidly clawing him apart.

Because Shawn is there naked in their bed. And he's not alone.

The girl looks scared. Scared of him. Probably because of whatever she sees on his face. He doesn't care. He doesn't think he's ever hated anyone as much as he hates her in this moment. He wants to take his gun from it's holster and pull the trigger, fire bullet after bullet, until her features are unrecognizable.

He clenches his hands at his sides. Knuckles white. Fights the urge. Fights the bile rising in his throat. Fights the questions rising with the bile. Why? How? When? Why?

He doesn't want to know. Doesn't want to hear the answers. Doesn't want to be seeing this. What he wants is to forget, rewind the clock to yesterday when everything was full of happy, warm, promise. When everything was right.

Shawn's scrambling out of the bed-their bed-doesn't bother to cover up. There's a mark on his neck that he knows he didn't make. He closes his eyes, but he can still see it. Can still see the small, shocked smile frozen on Shawn's swollen lips.

"Lassie…"

The voice is close, too close. His eyes snap open. Shawn's there, wobbling a bit. He smells like perfume and sweat and musk and alcohol. There's alcohol on his breath. That doesn't make it okay. Doesn't make this any better. Because there's alcohol on his breath, but there's also lipstick under his ear. Under his ear, above the mark.

Shawn lifts a shaking hand toward him, but he backs away. Steps on something that shifts. Looks down at a scrap of lace peeking out from under his shoe. Underwear. Looks expensive. He wants to grind it under his heel. Instead, he kicks it toward the corner where the girl is struggling into a skimpy club dress and looking everywhere but at them.

Shawn swallows. He can hear it. Can see his Adam's apple bob.

He wants to scream. Wants to cry run break something shoot something do anything that isn't staying in this room that smells like sex.

Shawn takes a step toward him, gets a hand on his arm this time. Even through the layers of his shirt and jacket, the touch burns. His other arm draws back. The fist stops just short of Shawn's face. He drops it, draws away from Shawn's hand. He can't touch him. Not even to hurt him. Can't touch him. Can barely look at him.

The girl's disappeared, but Shawn's standing there, making small pleading sounds.

"Lassie-"

His hand's in the space between them, flat, palm toward Shawn. He didn't move it, but it's there.

"You brought her into our house. Into our bed." That's not his voice. His voice isn't that cold. Even with convicts, his voice doesn't sound like that. That's not his voice. He knows it isn't, but the words are coming from his mouth. "Some random whore. Here. Our home, Shawn. What were you thinking? Were you thinking?"

"Lassie, please. I love you." Shawn's eyes are wide, desperate.

"I trusted you."

He turns and stumbles into the hallway where he doesn't have to smell the sex. See the rumpled sheets. The sheen of sweat still clinging to Shawn's body. The mark at his throat.

Shawn is behind him. His breathing is loud, more pants than anything. Now his voice is desperate too.

"Lassie. Carlton. Carlton, please. It was a mistake. I was drunk and it was so stupid and her eyes are the same as yours and, and please, Carlton. Please, Carlton, let me make this better. Tell me what I have to do to make this better."

"No." His voice cracks on the word. Clears his throat. Tastes the bile. Tries again.

"No, Shawn." Better. Steadier. Firmer. Oh God, what is he doing? "You can't fix this."

*

56. Danger Ahead - Companion piece to 76. Broken Pieces

They've had plenty of fights worse than this one. Hell, half of the time it seems like their entire relationship is based off of fighting. Or maybe it's based on make up sex. Shawn really doesn't know anymore.

They've had worse fights, but Shawn gets the feeling that he pushed this one too far. It's hard when it comes to Lassie. Hard to hold himself back. Everything he says provokes such an explosive response that he just wants to keep taunting and prodding until Lassie's puce and screaming in his face. Because after the puce, there are frantic hands and hot, biting mouths and completely different screams and maybe a few carpet burns to embarrass Gus with.

Most of the time that's how it goes. Tonight isn't one of those times. Tonight, just as they're screaming out every insecurity and flaw that they've learned about each other in their years together, Lassie gets the call to come into the station. So instead of sex and apologies and pineapple chunks in bed, Shawn's left with a cold, hard ball of anger in his stomach and the implication that nobody in their right mind other than Lassie would ever want to be with him if they knew how damaged he is.

He's on his sixth shot when the girl approaches him. Her hair is blond, but her eyes are Lassie blue. He smiles.

She wants him. He wants to prove that he can have her. Flirting isn't the same as cheating. It's harmless. Just an ego boost.

He's forgotten how many shots they've done and is way too drunk to drive his motorcycle, so when she offers a ride, he lets her take him home.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Oh God.

No.

*

73. I Can't

"I can't do this."

Carlton freezes in the kitchen doorway, his gun holster halfway off. Victoria is hunched on a stool by the island with her face buried in her hands. When he doesn't say anything, she looks up. There are tears on her face and she swallows once, twice, three times before speaking again.

"I hate it, Carlton. I try and I try and I try, but I just can't do this."

The holster slips down to suddenly nerveless fingers, catches for a second, and falls to the ground. He swallows back his fear and paranoia and manages to keep his voice steady.

"Can't do what, sweetheart?"

Victoria looks at him like he's lost his mind and gestures at the kitchen counters.

For the first time, he notices the mess that not even the most generous critic would have called food.

The cold dread that had curled in the pit of his stomach at his new bride's words eases. He wants to laugh with relief, but she looks so distraught that he keeps his expression serious as he circles the island to pull her off of her stool and into his arms.

"It's just so stupid, Carlton." Her head is tense on his shoulder, her breath warm against the patches of his neck where it's managed to slip under his collar. "All you have to do is follow a stupid recipe. I should be able to follow a recipe!"

Carlton makes vague soothing noises and smooths his hands down the curve of her spine, which has always seemed to calm her in the past. After a few minutes, she's still sniffly, but much more relaxed. He can't resist the urge to tease her a little.

"I didn't marry you for your culinary prowess, you know. If I'd wanted a cook, I'd have married Janie Turner when she asked me."

Victoria snaps her head up to glare at him. "When who did what now?"

Who knew a glare could be so cute? He presses a quick kiss at the corner of her pursed mouth. "Oh, I told you about her. Sweet girl. Brought me cakes all the time."

He relaxes his grip a little as Victoria leans back in the circle of his arms to frown harder. She's trying to be intimidating and that's just adorable, but he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning and ruining his Serious face.

"You've never told me about her." Victoria says accusingly.

"Didn't I?" He asks, pretending to be puzzled. "I'm certain I would have at some point. After all, we were pretty serious. We were together for almost all of third grade." Victoria's jaw drops in disbelief and he grins. "She was a whiz with an Easy Bake oven."

Victoria rolls her eyes and swats at his chest. Carlton chuckles and pulls her in tighter, kissing her, light and teasing, over and over until her mouth is pliant and laughing beneath his.

He smiles against her lips. He can't imagine his life without this woman.

"So, should we order Chinese or pizza," he asks as his wife shifts to nuzzle her face into the crook of his neck.

"Surprise me."

*

51. Sport

A lot of different people called him a lot of different things. Detective, Lassie, sir, Booker, you bastard, Lassiter, Binky. Occasionally someone would even go a little crazy and call him Carlton.

When he walked into the rundown dive that night, the last thing in the world he expected was to hear another name that hadn't been on that list for decades. The older man sat down next to him at the bar, but Carlton ignored him until he spoke, his voice rough and almost but not quite familiar.

"It's been a long time, sport."

All it took was that one word and it was like being transported back in time. For a second his head spun and he felt as light and free as he had as a small child. Only for a second, though, because then he came crashing back down with all the memories of his mother crying and every missed event and his carefully maintained anger. Carlton turned slowly on the stool and looked at an aged, barely recognizable face.

"Dad."