Where There is Wailing and Gnashing of Teeth

Chapter 22: Chewing the Fat

His partner had a gift for the perverse, that was clear.  He was willing to forfeit the pastry within the first five minutes.  Willing to risk the disease ridden offerings at the station after the first ten and had been detailing the requisite drug cocktails to best stave off infection when Spencer shook himself out of the absent wall staring and actually spoke.  One word.  

“Coffee?”

Attention that had, seconds before, been shifting around a space that Spencer had probably memorized since childhood, the tight eyed focus now zeroed in on the unwilling detective cluttering up the living room.  Lassiter frowned.  “What?”

Rare that the fount of ceaseless chatter was trapped in a scavenger hunt looking for his next word, but Spencer seemed to be doing just that.  Licking his lips and shaping his mouth in silence as he dug around for verbs and nouns and the endless supply of adjectives that appeared to have vanished from his warehouse.  Rage inducing that his prattle had been, watching the pathetic struggle to create conversation actually... hurt.

“No thanks, I'm fine.”  Lassiter finally replied – figuring it easier to play through the inane “good host” moment and get back to staring at one another for the remaining 50 minutes of this torture.

Spencer, though, didn't appear grateful that he'd taken up the slack of their exchange.  Actually he looked even more upset as he blew air out his nose and clenched his fists against his thighs.  No possible reprieve from the elder Spencers – Pops at the station for half a day and the ex missus out of state and more or less back on the job.  Lassiter's envy of her position could be tasted like bad spinach on the roof of his mouth.

“Jules bribed you.”  The shock of a full sentence brought Lassiter back to the discomfort of sharing space in Henry's den.  Perched, as he was, on the leading edge of a chair designed more for afternoon naps than stilted exchanges, Carlton could feel the first stings of his rigid posture.  It was Spencer's observation, though, that convinced him he was in this for the whole hour as he gave in and finally slid all the way into the Lazy Boy.

No reason to lie, Carlton tipped his head towards the truth.  “One hour with you for a daily cup of the best java in town and a bear claw to sweeten it.”  And with his admission he abruptly realized that was what Spencer had meant by “coffee”.  He hadn't been offering but deducing.  The normal reaction to the show of mysterious clue gathering was irritation but given the events that had led them to this odd moment of confidence, Carlton was surprised at the depth of hopeful emotion that surged instead.  That Spencer was able to pull out of himself enough to... see/ conjecture/ Carlton would eat soft tofu while wearing hemp before entertaining the word “divine”... said that the man was actively working to overcome the mind-freezing trauma.  

“Every day?”  Hard to place emotion pulled at Spencer's face.

Carlton scratched the back of his scalp.  “Three times a week.  Tried talking her down to one but O'Hara wouldn't budge on this damn agenda.”  Even he could hear the frustrated pride in his voice and, again, he wondered at his own willingness to continue this enforced chat.  Not like he couldn't buy his own coffee every morning – he certainly factored in emergency stops during his daily commutes.  And yet, when he considered leaving – calling quits on this whole stupid enterprise...

Breathless cries for his mother... blood filled mouth, blood covered hands, the rich stench of it thick in his nose for days afterward...

Funny... how just thinking of it brought back that sweet sour animal stink.  Cloying... the sort of clinging smell that sank into the back of the throat and just... lingered.  He found himself drifting back to that hole at odd moments – a nightmare pit for the time he'd spent there – gore filled rescue all waving flashlights and blurred images.  Enough to provide years worth of dreams.  Spencer had lived that for over two weeks.