Work Text:
December 28th, 1977
A young boy is visiting his aunt and uncle in Ohio, for the first and last time, because things are complicated at home. No one has told him this, but he is not stupid. You don't get sent away for Christmas if things are going fine.
It's snowing.
He is supposed to be excited about the snow. His parents said he should get to see it, at least once. Go sledding. Build a fort. Pelt other children with small, cold projectiles.
He hates the snow. It's bright. It's inescapable. It's cold. He wants to play outside, and he is not accustomed to that simple act requiring layers and layers of winter gear. His aunt took him shopping for a snowsuit, but he can't stand the stifling heat either. It makes him feel like he's choking.
So he has been indoors, 24/7, since before Christmas.
He has still managed to catch a cold. Or something. It has progressed from mild to annoying to scary over the course of several days, and the medicine isn't helping. It just makes everything... foggier. His throat hurts, more than anything has ever hurt. His eyes burn. It's hard to sleep, and harder to breathe, and there's a rash all over his body that makes him want to crawl out of his own skin.
He trudges from the bathroom back to bed, wincing at the texture of carpet-cleaning powder on his bare feet. Snow is wet, on top of everything else that's wrong with it, which means the dog is constantly tracking mud into the house, which means the carpet is in a perpetual cleaning loop. The powder always sits overnight. He hates the powder, too. It's like he can't even escape the snow indoors. The burning cold, scorching his feet.
He stares down at the floor for several seconds, struggling to catch his own train of thought. Something is nagging at him. Something isn't right.
But he's sick. He's tired. He wants to go home. And sleeping will make the time pass faster.
He shakes his head and pushes open his bedroom door, shutting it behind him to keep the dog out. He glares for a moment at the snowglobe on his nightstand, a cheery little Christmas village smothered in white powder, and then crawls into bed.
He wakes up five hours later in the ER.
December 23rd, 2013
There's a goddamn snowglobe on his desk.
There are snowglobes everywhere. All over the station. Not in a tacky, ridiculous, obvious way, which is unusual for Spencer, but the man is capable of subtlety and cunning every once in a while. The snowglobes are nestled in with garlands and other wintry decorations.
Except the one on Carlton's desk.
Heat creeps up the back of his neck and into his face—nothing serious, nothing real, just feelings, but it's enough to make the walls start closing in. Enough to give the panic an edge. Heat prickles across his chest, his arms, the soles of his feet. He thought—
Never mind what he thought. Stupid. Stupid. His throat hurts. His eyes are burning. He can't breathe. He can't—
He can't do this here. He is not asphyxiating. He is not dying. He is just... freaking out. And he cannot do that here. He would rather die.
He turns on his heel and walks the opposite way, striding briskly past O'Hara, trying not to look at Spencer and Guster. He doesn't want to see the smirk. He doesn't want to see the gloating.
Down the hall, where the garlands become less plentiful. Through one set of double doors. No decorations. Good. Another door. No corpse today. Paperwork. Good. Good.
"Woody," he gasps. "Can I have a panic attack in one of the lockers?"
"They're all full up, I'm afraid."
"Fine, fine. Is your floor free?"
"I would be honored! Do you want company, or should I skedaddle?"
"No! People will be suspicious if you leave."
Carlton sinks to the ground with his back against the wall, loosening his tie clumsily. He can barely feel his fingers, but the tie is too much. Everything is too much. Every point of contact between skin and—and—and anything is smothering him, cooking him, burning him alive.
He rips the tie off, unbuttons his collar, and forces himself to stop there.
No, no, no. Actually. No. He kicks his shoes off. Then he stops.
His heart is pounding. This is a loop, he knows. A vicious cycle. The panic floods the body with adrenaline, sends the heart into tachycardia. The brain reads those things as warning signs that something must be wrong. There must be trouble. You must be dying. Here's some adrenaline to help. I see smoke, there must be fire, I'll fix it with more smoke, oh my god there's so much smoke, where did all this smoke come from? Stupid human body. Stupid human brain. Fragile and finite and maybe he shouldn't have picked the coroner's office for this, actually, maybe that's not helping. At least it's cold. Very cold. Maybe too cold. Stop, stop, stop.
He tries to take a deep breath. He can figure this out. This is not his first rodeo. He can do this. He must do this, because the alternative is asking for help, and he has maxed out his tolerance for that sort of bullshit by naming what's happening and asking Woody for the use of his space. He shouldn't even need that. He never has before.
But it's so much worse than it's ever been.
He can usually get a handle on these things. Barely, but quickly, and deal with any aftershocks at home. In private. Off the clock. (the clock, christ, he has so much work to do—)
The "barely" is a problem. He knows it's a problem, thank you very much, everyone who's ever put him through a mandatory psych eval because he "watched a man bleed out" or "nearly died three times in one week", as if he can't handle himself. As if he needs coddling. Please.
The problem is he knows it's dangerous to be out in the field like this. To let a body ruled by panic walk the streets with a gun. So he can't bring himself to lie when they ask about this, which they always do, because talking about it once got it written into his file, and the good evaluators are conscientious, and the bad ones are nosy.
He tells them the truth: That he mostly deals with the snowglobe thing by not looking at snowglobes, which is easy for 11/12ths of the year and impossible in December. At which point, he deals with it by collecting himself (they don't like it when he says "act like an adult"), putting it out of his mind (they really don't like it when he says "suck it up"), and confining himself to deskwork if his heart rate doesn't settle.
Every year around Christmas, Carlton spends a few days telling himself he'll work on this before next December. Then that he should work on this, eventually. Then the season is over, and there is never a moment when he can justify prioritizing this. People are dying. He has work to do.
Maybe this year, he thinks, and maybe he means it this time—no, he always means it, but maybe he'll keep meaning it this time, because he has never been unable to calm down at work before. He can't and won't tolerate that.
The problem, of course, is Spencer.
Carlton has, by necessity and sheer force of will, actually stumbled his way into a genuine method for discreetly dealing with... the snowglobe thing. Focus on his face and his fingers, the only parts of his body not encased in clothing and therefore not subject to the sudden feeling that he is wearing sandpaper. Focus on every inch of exposed skin and the fact that there is nothing wrong with it, nothing happening to it. Wait for the moment that that clicks into a visceral sense of relief, and use the momentum to start breathing more deeply. Focus on the fact that he is able to do that, his lungs aren't aching, his throat isn't swollen. Seize on that relief, too, and coast until he can slip away to the restroom to loosen his tie, roll up his sleeves, and splash water on his face, neck, and wrists. Stay in the bathroom until his heart rate is under control. Put his clothing back in order. Leave.
It's a system that works—barely. It works if everything goes exactly right. If he recognizes the problem with enough time to spare before the panic slams into him. If his face and hands and throat aren't in any sort of pain. If he really can take deep breaths. If there's a bathroom to slip away to. It's a fragile system, and Carlton is accustomed to pushing through mundane, annoying setbacks like shaving nicks and chest colds.
What he has never had to account for is betrayal.
Well—no. What he has never had to account for is betrayal that he cares about, on a personal level. Anger and shame and—and grief, as loathsome and pathetic as that is, grief, all flooding him with heat and adrenaline before he's ready.
He thought—
"Lassie, you in here?"
"Get the hell away from me," Carlton snarls, or tries to snarl. He's wheezing. His vision is clouding over with black spots and blurring with tears. God damn it. He shuts his eyes. His mouth keeps moving without his permission. "I thought we were friends."
Spencer drops down beside him on the floor.
"It wasn't me," he says. "Or Gus," he adds. "If you thought it was Gus. Which, I'm guessing you didn't."
Spencer sounds... serious, relative to his usual. But his usual is "pretending to be psychic", so Carlton is wary. No matter how badly he wants to believe him. Spencer has proven time and again how adept he is at shamelessly, earnestly lying his ass off.
Rapid footsteps. The door opens again. Great. Terrific. Maybe this will be the one time out of every ten that Guster at least attempts to rein Spencer in, instead of actively spurring him on. Or maybe they'll both just stand there like idiots and watch Carlton cry on the floor.
"Shawn, you can't just take off running in a police station, that's—what's happening in here?"
"Panic attack," Woody says cheerfully. "He picked my office!"
"Close the door," Carlton growls. "I don't need the whole damn department listening to—"
"Guys! You can't just take off running in a police station! Why—what's happening here?"
"Oh, Jesus Christ," Carlton groans, burying his head in his hands. "O'Hara, get in here and shut the damn door! Please!"
The door swings shut. "Somebody start talking," O'Hara orders.
"I beat my own personal record last night for fastest lung dissection."
"That's great, Woody. I think. Don't elaborate. Somebody else. What's going on?"
"Trout's fucking with Lassie."
Carlton whips his head up, glaring at Spencer. "What?" he croaks.
Spencer puts a hand to his own temple. "I'm sensing—"
Guster, O'Hara. "Shawn—"
Carlton. "Spencer—"
Spencer drops his hand. "I think Trout saw you flinch at the snowglobes on that witness's frankly adorable sweater last week. And the one on that victim's mantle last month, which, in your defense, was out of season. And—"
"We get it."
"It's either a coincidence, or he's decided that would be a great way to harass you, because if anyone confronts him, he can pretend it's just some uncharacteristically festive office decor."
"Oh my god." O'Hara has the tact—or the optimism—to sound shocked.
She also follows that up immediately with, "That totally sounds like something he'd do."
Carlton mulls this over.
O'Hara is right, it's... plausible. Terribly plausible, and plausibly terrible. It's worse, really, infinitely worse, if his superior officer is the one fucking with him.
But he doesn't care about Trout.
The knot in his chest loosens, just a little. He looks around the room, trying to take in his surroundings. Get his bearings, quell the panic.
Shawn is sitting a surprisingly respectful distance away from him, knees up to his chest, head pillowed on his arms, staring at him intently. Woody is at his computer, ostensibly working. Gus and O'Hara are standing uncertainly just inside the doorway. When they see him looking, Gus steps back. O'Hara steps forward.
"If any of you touch me, I will throw up." Carlton is too exhausted to make that sound like a threat. It's just a statement of fact.
"Noted." Shawn.
"Wasn't planning on it." Gus.
"What happened?" O'Hara.
"I... I am, uh..." Carlton isn't sure why he's doing this. Maybe it's a rehearsal. He hasn't explained the whole thing to Marlowe yet. Just asked her not to put any snowglobes up in the condo. And to let him buy all the household cleaning products. And hand soap. She accepted all that at face value, but he knows she's worried. And curious. And he can't blame her. And he wants to talk to her. But he's never told anyone the whole, stupid story.
So. Rehearsal. Deep breath. It hurts. He clutches at his chest, and reminds himself firmly that it's just the panic. He's not ill. He's not reacting to anything. He was breathing fine when he got to work. He's been in this room hundreds of times. It's the panic.
It's the panic.
With practiced not-quite-ease, he squashes the instinct to berate himself for that. It's never helped. And he doesn't have time.
"I am allergic—or something—to SLS," he says, between gritted teeth, and doesn't look at anybody.
Gus audibly winces. "That's in a lot of things."
"Slim Laurence Shady? Sausages Lacking Substance? Sandal-Laundering Slanderers."
"Sodium laureth sulfate," Gus and Woody chorus.
"And what would I have seen her in?"
"It's a surfactant, Shawn."
"Okay, I know you think you're answering my question—"
"IT'S SOAP," Carlton shouts. He coughs harshly, pounding his chest with one fist, covering his mouth with the other. When the coughing subsides, he manages to take a full breath for the first time since this whole mess started.
"It's an ingredient," he rasps, clarifying. "In soap. Shampoo. Toothpaste. And my uncle's carpet cleaner of choice when I was about nine years old."
Beat.
O'Hara pulls a series of increasingly distressed faces, punctuated by Shawn's noises of understanding. "Ohhh. Oh. Ooh. Oh no."
"I'm only mildly allergic," Carlton says, tilting his head back to rest against the wall. "Or..." He grits his teeth again. "Quote-unquote 'sensitive', or whatever I am. It's... irritating. That's all. It's fine. Unless I brush my teeth with the stuff, or..."
Another deep breath. Easier this time. "...spend two weeks in a house where the carpet gets a fresh dusting every other night. With the windows closed. Taking Nyquil for a cold I don't have."
O'Hara looks stricken. "Carlton, that's awful."
"And your uncle..." Shawn shuts his eyes and puts one hand to his own temple again, reaching with the other towards Carlton, but maintaining a few inches of distance. "...was a traveling snowglobe salesman."
Carlton surprises himself by laughing. "No. But he gave me one for Christmas that year. It was on my nightstand. And the carpet cleaner was a white powder, and on some level I knew it was..."
He falters. He can't quite bring himself to say that carpet cleaner was hurting him. He clears his throat.
"Anyway, I almost died," he says, waving dismissively. "And it all just got... jumbled. Permanently, I guess. White powder. Trapped in the house. No way out of a snowglobe. You see how a stupid child brain could cross those wires."
There is a long pause, indicating that perhaps some kind of silent argument is happening above his head. Carlton doesn't care. Gives him time to take some more deep breaths, and appreciate the fact that the dreadful, prickling heat is fading.
Finally, Shawn speaks. "I swear on Gus's honor, which is much more valuable than mine, I did not know most of that when I put all those snowglobes on your desk a few years ago. The... spirits... were oddly stingy with the details."
"The spirits knew about the nightmares," O'Hara says, voice tight. "That's bad enough."
Shawn shrugs helplessly. "I swear on Gus's honor I'm less of a dick than I used to be?"
"Stop swearing things on my honor, Shawn." Gus steps further into the room, brow furrowing. "Do you think Trout knows how serious this is?"
Shawn snaps his fingers. "Yes! Excellent idea, Gus, let's all focus on Trout, and be mad at Trout, and let bygones be bygones, unless they are Trout's bygones, in which case, we should kill him."
Carlton snorts. "There's no way. Not unless he got his hands on my psychological profile."
"Yes, which only a monster would do," Shawn says loudly. "But let's not get caught up in who broke whose trust!"
"Or what laws," Gus mutters.
Carlton rests his head against the wall again, staring up at the ceiling. "Save your breath, Spencer. I don't care about any interaction we had before July 2008."
"That's the spirit, Lassie, no need to dwell on the past."
"Carlton..." He doesn't look O'Hara in the eye. He doesn't want to see the pity. He looks her in the knee instead, and gestures for her to keep talking.
"If it's Trout... We have to be careful. We need a game plan before we go back out there. Even if it wasn't him, we can't just ask to take them down. He'll want to know why."
"I'll just deal with it," Carlton says abruptly. He tries to stand, and is bowled over by a wave of dizziness that sends him sliding back down the wall. He growls at himself, shaking his head to clear the new spots blotting out his vision. It makes them worse instead.
"I just need a few minutes!" he barks at nobody. "I just—I'm fine. It's fine! Why are you all making such a big deal over this?!"
Says the man on the floor. Stupid. Stupid.
"Lassie," Shawn says, with sudden and unsettling seriousness, "there are at least 18 snowglobes up there."
"19," says Gus. "Or 20. There's one in the men's room. Probably the ladies' room too."
God damn it. God fucking damn it. The bathroom is the only place where he can unobtrusively pull himself together every couple of hours. Maybe Trout won't notice if just one snowglobe ends up in the trash... Or maybe that's exactly what he's hoping for. Confirmation that his plan is working.
Carlton's head is spinning. His breath catches, which is a step backwards that he can't afford. He scrubs his hands over his face. "I can't—hh—" God damn it. He swallows. "I can't just not go to work. I'll deal with it. I have to. I'm a grown man, I can do this, just—just—everybody stop looking at me—"
Everyone looks sharply away from him, and then—bbrring—at the phone on Woody's desk.
Woody frowns, holds up one finger for quiet, and puts the call on speaker.
"Go for Strode."
"Do you have two of my officers down there?"
"Dead or alive?"
"Mm, don't care. Are Lassiter and O'Hara down there? Alive or otherwise."
Carlton holds his breath. Maybe he's imagining the smugness in Trout's voice. It's normal to wonder where they are. It's normal that someone would have seen them go down this hallway. Maybe it's nothing.
"Yep," Woody says brightly. "I wanted their help on a cold case. Of course, all my cases are cold. Little autopsy humor. You know—"
"Just send them back up," Trout's voice crackles over the line, laced with his usual impatience. "They have real work to do."
"Well, I'm afraid I had to ask them to get a little 'hands-on' for this one—more like 'hands-in', I suppose—so we'll need some time to, ah, put everything back. Gotta follow the protocols, avoid contamination."
"Fine. Five minutes."
"Ohh, we'll need more than that. Unless you wanna come down and help! We could make a game of it."
"Ten minutes," Trout snaps, and hangs up.
"Yessir," Woody says to no one.
Carlton breathes again, a series of coughs. "Thanks," he rasps. "Ten minutes. Okay. I can—"
Shawn leaps to his feet. "Hold that thought, Lassie, I must confer with my partner."
Carlton watches in a daze as Shawn and Gus whisper furtively to each other. He's never been entirely convinced they use real words when they do that.
Eventually Gus nods, and Shawn steps out of the two-person huddle, raising his hands in proclamation. "It is the official position of the Psych board of ambassadors—"
"You mean 'directors', which is also not what we are."
"It is the official position of Gus and myself that 1, Trout is not going to hire us today no matter what we do, and B, ten minutes is more than enough time to pick out some of your colleagues who are open to the wisdom of the spirits, and pass along the urgent message—" Fingers to forehead again. "—that the office snowglobes are harboring some seriously bad vibes, and should be removed forthwith."
Carlton stares at him. And at Gus. "You'd... do that?"
"We not only would, we will. Nay, we must." Shawn smiles. "We are friends, Lassie. Plus, the spirits say I owe you one. Gus does not owe you one, and would like me to clarify that he was not affiliated with the snowglobe incident of 2000-and-whatever, but we both care about you and stuff. Let's move, people!"
Shawn is swanning out the door before he's even done talking. Gus gives Carlton a shrug and a thumbs-up before following him out.
Shawn must have waited in the hallway after his dramatic exit, because Carlton overhears Gus say "Remind me to get him some barrier cream. That is not a man who takes care of his skin." as the door swings shut.
O'Hara's lips twitch. "I'm sure he meant that in a kind way."
Carlton grunts. "Frankly I'm relieved someone got through this little episode without thinking I'm the kind of man who knows what barrier cream is. Which I don't." Bad enough that he has to read ingredients on soap.
O'Hara rolls her eyes, but doesn't pursue that line of questioning. Instead she drops down beside Carlton on the floor, in the spot recently vacated by Shawn.
"Talk to me, partner," she says briskly. "How can I help you be okay in ten minutes?"
"Talk to me, partner," he echoes wearily, shutting his eyes. "Tell me about our caseload. Be normal."
"Should I avoid the more gruesome details?"
"I said be normal."
"Alright. Woody, I'm pretty sure last night's lungs belonged to our John Doe. What did you find?"
Post-Credits Scene
Woody glances at his watch. "Oh! That time already."
He hops up and walks over to one of the lockers, sliding it out of the wall. "Up and at 'em! You have work in an hour."
McNab sits up and stretches. "Thanks again for letting me sleep here, Woody. Did I hear voices earlier? You could have pulled me out if you needed backup. Someone sounded upset. Unless it was the night terrors again. Or day terrors, I guess."
Woody waves off his concerns and helps him down from the locker. "Oh, nothing we couldn't handle. Get your sleep where you can, McNab. Believe me, I know what it's like on the graveyard shift."