Originally written for a last author standing community. Answers the prompt "Get mad, then get over it."
Feet spread, strong leg back to take the weight.
Arms up and steady.
Both eyes open.
Inhale, then squeeze on the exhale.
Bang!
The shock of the recoil ripples up Carlton's arms, and the familiar kick is as grounding as the comfortable weight of the gun cradled in his hands. His anger funnels his vision until all he sees is the target. His mind's eye easily replaces the blank face with Spencer's, but even emptying a clip between his mocking eyes does nothing to ease the icy chill clawing it's way up from low in his stomach to choke him. Shooting's always been one of Carlton's only foolproof ways to unwind. It's therapeutic, calming. Leave it to Spencer to manage to fuck this up for him too.
He presses the recall button and the target floats back to him. He should feel at least some satisfaction at the sight of the tight cluster of bullet holes that are so perfectly positioned on the face of the target, but instead his gut clenches and he balls it up with disgust, his fingers squeezing until the paper gives and tears under them. He automatically reaches for a new target, but changes his mind at the last moment and grabs his gun instead, sliding it back into its holster.
When he steps out into the hallway, Spencer pops up from where he was leaning against the wall, his sudden smile almost manic with poorly masked desperation. He bounces up on the balls of his feet, swaying toward Carlton, but reins himself back in with a visible effort before they actually touch. His mouth flaps open and closed like a fish on dry land, all of his pretty words finally failing him. His fingers twitch against his denim clad thighs, and his tells are so obvious, so easy to read, that Carlton marvels at the fact that he managed to get away with lying for this long. Carlton's anger drains away, but he doesn't feel better. He just feels tired, heavy, old. Empty.
"I'm not going to arrest you, although God knows I should." His voice is too loud, and he winces at the way it rings in the empty hallway. It's hard and cold in his ears; he can feel the weight of the words on his tongue as surely as he felt the weight of his gun in his hands. "But this ends now. It's over."
Spencer slumps back against the wall, his pretty, pretty lips slack with shock. Carlton doesn't think he's ever seen him be this quiet for this long. Better not to think about it, he decides as he turns to walk away. When he moves, Spencer springs forward and grabs his arm, his short nails digging in almost painfully even through the fabric of Carlton's shirt. His grip is tight enough to leave bruises, but even that can't reawaken his anger. Carlton looks at Spencer's hand, so golden tan against the white of his sleeve, and wonders if maybe the anger would be better.
"What do you mean 'it's over'? Las-Carlton," Spencer says, his voice low and intense and twinged with anxiety in a way it should never, ever be. "Do you mean the job or us?"
It's so odd to see Spencer acting this serious. It's unnatural. He should be smiling and flailing and making Carlton's life a chaotic-fun-hell. Carlton pries Spencer's hand off of his arm. He doesn't, can't, look him in the eyes or he'll get pulled back in to the destructive, all consuming whirlwind that is Shawn Spencer, so he focuses on a stain on the collar of his t-shirt instead.
"Yes."
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