Archive of Our Own ^beta

Shawn works a fingernail into his tooth, coming away with a rogue popcorn kernel. “Dude, finally! Gus, look, this is what I’ve been talking about—”

“I’m not looking at whatever you just pulled out of your mouth, Shawn. That is unhygienic and childish, not to mention totally disgusting.”

“But, Gus. ” Shawn spins around in his chair, ignoring the way Gus crosses his arms. He switches tactics. “This is your fault, you know.” He halts himself on the desk. Taps out ‘ Crazy’ with his fingers. Ah, Gnarls Barkley, you old fiend. 

“How is that my fault?!”

“You made popcorn for movie night three days ago. Even though I told you that Top Model—“ He holds up one finger. “A, isn’t a movie, and B—“ Another finger. “Requires total concentration to—“

“Whatever.”

“Well. Now. That’s just rude—”

“Shawn, you know you have to get out of the chief’s chair before she gets here.”

“That’s what this is about?” Shawn spins around again, dropping the intense look he’d plastered on his face for discussing Top Model. “Don’t be a moldy sandwich, Gus, it’s not like she’s gonna care—”

“ Spencer .”

Shawn grips the desk, pulling himself face to face with Chief Vick, Gus, who’s looking very smug, and, ugh, how embarrassing.

Lassie. 

“Hello.”

“Out.”

“Right away, chief,” he says, standing with a little bow and skirting away. 

“For the record, Mr Spencer, I do, in fact, care. ” Vick settles in her chair, which was very comfortable a minute ago, and which Shawn misses desperately. It’s very good to spin around in, and even better lumbar support, and now he has to stand, hands shoved in his pockets as he scooches between Lassie and Gus. 

“What, no lame excuse?” Lassie turns to him, cocking an eyebrow. “No ‘I was just warming it up for you, chief!’” He says that last part in a terrible falsetto. 

“That is a terrible impression of me, Lassie. Truly. I’m ashamed to be—”

“Shawn.” Gus elbows him, redirecting their collective attention to the chief, and the chief’s unamused face hiding behind her steepled fingers. Steepled? Why do they call it—

“Thank you, Mr Guster.” Vick slides a folder across the desk. Shawn lunges and Lassie beats him to it, holding it to the side and avoiding his glare. “…As I was saying, we have reason to believe there’s something going on in that neighborhood.”

Wait, what?

Before Shawn can interrupt, the chief continues, “Three bodies have been found locally in the last six months, and, as per your latest… vision, Mr Spencer, we’ve decided to stake out the cul-de-sac you pointed out.”

Oh. Now he remembers. The timelines and drive-distance all pointed to one specific road. That, or a public dog park, which is a much less likely location for serial killing. “O—kay…So, are we here so you can thank us? Because that’s not necessary. I just do what I do for the—”

“Oh, I know.” Gus elbows him again, and Shawn twitches himself a little closer to Lassie. “Maybe we’re here to pick up our check. That would be nice. You know, pay some bills. Maybe have a little left over to—”

“Gentlemen, you’re not here for either of those things. Not yet.” Vick gestures to the folder Lassie’s got a death grip on. “Actually, I’m going to need one of you to accompany Detective Lassiter for a few weeks, on a stakeout.”

“A stakeout, ooh, ” Shawn slides back toward Gus as both of them shake their heads. “I’m not sure about—”

“I’m afraid it’s already been decided. Seeing as Detective O’Hara is unavailable, Detective Lassiter will ingratiate himself in the community while one of you—“ She points between Shawn and Gus, a sadistic smile on her face. “Reports back to me.”

“Chief, this is ridiculous.” Oh, that’s fun. Lassie didn’t know either. “How am I supposed to do anything with one of these clowns—?”

“I trust you’ll find a way to make it work, Detective.” Vick stands, a clear sign of closing arguments. “Look, this is going to be an undercover operation, but we still need someone who isn’t with the department to help on the case, and, Mr Spencer, if I may say…Well, your agency fits the bill.”

Lassie goes to protest, and Shawn goes to thank her, but neither of them get the chance. 

“You’re our best, Detective Lassiter, but I’ve been told, rightfully, that you…struggle…blending in.”

Shawn pats Lassie’s arm. “Don’t worry, Lassie, she just means you’re so good at being a cop, that you couldn’t possibly be anything else. It’s practically dripping off you. Like some sort of cop slime! You’re so slimy, Lassie.”

Lassie grimaces, and when Shawn looks around, he finds a trio of matching faces. “Right,” Vick says. “Not sure I would have put it that way, but Spencer’s right. You stand out as exemplary in your field, Detective, and that’s why I need you to accept a little…unconventional help.”

Lassie mutters something about, “ Don’t I do that enough already? ” 

“It’s one month in a nice house, all expenses paid. I’m sure you can manage.”

Shawn’s all prepped to nominate Gus, except when he turns back, Gus is gone. “What—?!”

The door to the Chief’s office clatters shut. 

“Damn it, Gus!” Shawn turns to Lassie, who looks like he’s just gotten the worst news of his entire life. He reaches up to pat his shoulder. “Aw, come on, Lassie-face, it’s not gonna be that bad.”

“Spencer, I swear to God, if you don’t get your hand off me in the next two seconds—”

“Alright.” Chief Vick claps her hands together, holding them out toward the door. “I’ll see you both here bright and early tomorrow morning. Spencer, since it isn’t registered to the SBPD, you two will be taking your car.”

“Oh, sweet, the Blueberry?”

His hand is still on Lassie’s shoulder. 

“Congratulations, gentlemen.” Chief Vick levels them an insanely ominous smile. “You’re moving in together.”

It seems to dawn on Lassie just then what exactly is in store for him in the next thirty or so days. One might categorize the pale flush in his cheeks as something resembling food poisoning. 

“Oh my God,” Lassiter mumbles, devastated. “I’m going to die.”

Part of Shawn wants to mirror that sentiment. 

Another part is wired at the prospect of having so many days to wheedle Lassie down to a little chip of mulch that’ll crumble at the barest pinch between two fingers. He grins wide, with teeth. 

“Maybe so, Lassie. Maybe so.”

The car ride over to the neighborhood is silent. 

As was the entire trip to both Shawn’s hovel of a laundry mat and Lassiter’s apartment, hastily packing for a too-long excursion to the land of the Stepford Wives themselves. The original, not that recent shoddy remake. Shawn did try to talk, sure, but one catty smack to his head with the back of Lassie’s hand might have given him a concussion, as he hasn’t had courage to talk since. 

That is until they pull into their new house (home, it’s really homey) and Shawn perks up at the sight of a plain, white mailbox. 

“I’m going to paint our names on it like you see in those cutesy little infomercials!” Shawn croons, wriggling in his seat as Lassiter waspishly parks and takes the key out of the ignition.

“No, you are not.” 

“C’mon, Lassie. I can’t do the whole no-nonsense macho schtick for a whole month.”

“You’re not because we’re undercover.” 

Shawn’s only half-listening, peering around the neighborhood as much as he can from this terrible angle in the car. He can tell one woman finds her pride in gardening, but only the vegetables. Another is pulling into his driveway, already upset. By the nearly imperceptible quiver of the vehicle’s back end, Shawn deduces that he was rear ended somewhere on the road. 

“Spencer.”

“Sorry,” Shawn responds quickly. “Sorry, yeah. What were you saying?”

“I’m saying we need to agree on code names. Fast.”

Shawn stares at the hard lines on Lassie’s face. 

“Okay, first of all. You’re gonna need to stop the whole cop lingo thing right now. You’re not going to blend in talking all Burt Reynolds in The Best Little Whorehouse In Texas. Yes, in that scenario, I may or may not be Dolly Parton.” He waits to see the twinge of irritation he so adores on Lassiter’s face and continues, “We need to act like normal neighbors, alright? Civilians.”

Lassiter shifts, averting his eyes. 

“I can do that just fine.”

“Okay, second of all. I will be coming up with code names.”

Lassiter stiffens. “What?” 

“That’s my department, Lass. There’s a reason Chief Vick always picks O’Hara for undercover operations unless her hands are tied. You’re not cut out for the simpler stuff.” Shawn sees Lassiter rearing up for another fight and he raises his hands, placating, “Which, again, is good and sexy and cool in its own way, okay?” Lassiter relaxes, though he’s not entirely at ease with any of this. “I’m used to coming up with identities off the cuff. Just ask Gus Sillypants Jackson.” 

“For God’s sake.” 

“Okay, okay,” Shawn says. “Here’s a normal name for me. Dennis Reynolds. Yeah?” 

Lassiter eyes him up, waiting for the punchline. 

“That seems…normal.”

“It is. And for you…” Shawn nearly breaks, a smile tugging mercilessly at his lips. “Ronald McDonald.” A pin could drop in the silence. “I considered Old McDonald but we’re not on a farm.” 

“Spencer,” Lassiter murmurs icily. “Get inside the house.”

“Ronnie, maybe? Ronald might be too on the nose.” 

Lassiter busts out of the car and slams the door shut. Even Shawn flinches at the sound, which means Gus is not going to be happy about the company car getting mistreated in such a way. 

“And another thing!” Shawn hollers, jumping out after him. 

Lassiter skids to a stop in the driveway, turning on his heel to face him. 

“I have got to get you out of those clothes, and now—” because you look like you’re dressed for a department-ordered raid, he’s definitely about to say, but is distracted by the feeling of someone watching him. He shouldn’t have stopped talking at this point but doesn’t register that much until he sees the mild horror on their next door neighbor’s face as he waters his front lawn. 

“Hello, friend,” Shawn greets awkwardly. “What a green front lawn you have. You know what they say though, it’s always, uh, greener on the other side.” Shawn gestures to his and Lassie’s front lawn which is definitely not nearly as green. He laughs carelessly at his own non-joke. 

He shoots a glance at Lassie who has gone pink head to toe. 

And mute apparently because the awkward silence hangs. 

“Dennis Reynolds,” Shawn greets again. 

The man finally nods, overcoming the shock from before. 

“And this is my partner, R—”

“Mac,” Lassie blurts out. Shawn cocks a brow at him. Lassie meets his eyes, furious and anxiety-ridden all in the same breath. “Donald,” the detective finishes gracelessly. 

Their neighbor is confused again. 

As far as first impressions go, this sucks. 

Eventually the neighbor shouts over the stream of his hose, 

“It’s a hot one today, isn’t it?” 

“That it is…?” Shawn muses, questioning. 

“Paully.” 

“That it is, Paully. That it is.” 

It is hot, but not hot enough to constitute a ‘hot one today’ comment in Shawn’s eyes, though he’s not a stickler for details. (He is, Gus would have told him. That’s literally your entire job. )

“Hence the clothing removal,” Lassiter adds on belatedly, far too late to come across normal. “That’s why Spe—Dennis, that’s why Dennis said I should—he’s not my partner, actually.” 

God, this is why they never hire you for undercover work, Lass. 

Paully smiles, a placid friendliness replacing the surprise from before. “Well, it’s—it’s nice to meet you boys. New neighbors and all that. Dennis,” he says, nodding to Shawn, who realizes that he may have just named himself after Wayne Knight in Jurassic Park, and then, “Mac M—Mcdonald?”

Beside him, Lassie tenses, says nothing, and turns on his heel, heading for the door. 

“Yep!” Shawn waves, trying to salvage any hope of blending in here. “That’s us. Mac Mcdonald and Dennis Reynolds. Well, he’s Mac, I’m Dennis. But not like Jurassic Park. That’s—That would be weird.”

Paully flushes, pulling his hose over to a dry spot after totally flooding his hydrangeas. “Sure is a hot one,” he mumbles to himself.

Maybe it was meant for Shawn, but Shawn’s already inside, shutting the door between himself and the weird neighbor and instead trapping himself inside a very sterile house with a very pissed off Lassie.

“So… We left all our stuff in the car,” Shawn starts, crossing through the (first?) living room and into the…other living room. Lassie’s sat at the dining room table, staring daggers at the wall. “I think Paully’s gonna be out there for a while, though, so I say we cut our losses and sleep au naturel, tonight, if you catch my—”

“Shut. Up.” 

Shawn shuts up, staring into the kitchen. It’s a nice kitchen. Maybe a little big for them, but then again, so’s the whole house. It’s annoying him, actually, how big and empty and staged everything is, so while Lassie’s doing whatever he’s doing, Shawn scuffs his foot on the floor just to rough it up a bit.

Squeak.

That’s a fun sound. 

Squeak.

“Will you stop that?” Lassie grits out, although he does sound a little less annoyed than earlier, so Shawn counts it as a win.

Squeak.

“ Stop .”

“Okay, okay. I’m just trying to give the place that lived-in sorta feel. You know, the one crucial to blending in to any environment, but I can see you don’t care about our cover stories the way I do.” Shawn stands, wandering over to check out the living room behind him. “ Mac. ”

“We just moved in, Spencer. Our cover story is that we just moved in. Why would we want to ruin everything—”

Beep!

“Oh my god, Spencer, will you stop that?!”

“What?” Shawn looks down at his shoes where he’s standing on the carpet, pillow-projectile in hand. “It wasn’t me, dude.”

Lassie looks up, those crazy blue eyes getting him to drop the pillow back onto the couch. “What?” 

“It wasn’t me. Look.” Shawn kicks one foot up, letting it thud back down onto the carpet. 

“Well what was it, then?” Lassie starts looking up, canvasing the corners.

“I don’t know, Lassie. I didn’t hear anything.” 

(He totally did, and it’s gonna drive him nuts, but one of them needs to stay sane for, like, at least the first five minutes.) 

“Oh—Oh—Maybe it was a bat! You know, like a rabid little bloodsucker ready to devour the souls of the innocent.” Shawn flops down onto the couch, facing backwards to see Lassie. “Don’t worry, in that case, you and I are both totally safe. Gus I’m not sure about. Juliet, on the other hand—”

“It’s not a bat, you idiot.”

“Are you sure? Because I might have just solved our case. Unrelated, do you believe in Dracula—”

“Spencer, get over here.”

“Really? Because you didn’t seem to want me over there and I just sat down—”

“ Now. ”

Shawn makes sure to scuff his shoe on the tile when he sits. He maybe even drags his chair out with an obnoxious noise, too, because that’s exactly what he’d do if he really was Dennis Reynolds: Homeowner.

Lassie gets that I’m going to give a speech now look on his face. Shawn wishes he’d thought to check the fridge before sitting down for this; they could have had champagne. “You listen to me, and you listen good.”

Here we go.

“We have one month in this house, you and I. Now, I see no reason why that has to be an issue—”

“I completely agree, Lassifrass—”

“Let me finish. We are two…” Lassie hesitates on what Shawn knows to be the word adults. “We both care about getting the job done.”

Nice save. “True. I just go about it with way more style. You need to learn to have a little fun with—”

“Stop talking! No more talking! As I was saying, we have a job to do here. I trust that we can stay out of each other’s way long enough to make that happen, yes?”

“Would you like me to answer that verbally, or…?”

Lassie scowls, stares at him, and then relaxes. “Yes, Dennis, I would appreciate it if you would have this conversation with me.”

O–kay. Freaky. “Well, anything for you sweetcheeks. Honey. Light of my life.”

“Spencer.”

“Yes, Mac , I am as committed to solving this case and saving lives as you are. If we’re being honest, maybe a little more than you. Just a smidge.” Before they can start fighting again, Shawn says, “You know, I wasn’t kidding about your outfit. I’ve literally never seen someone who looks more like a cop.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“Under normal circumstances, Lassie, I’d mean that as a compliment. A real, serious, hope-you-have-handcuffs kinda compliment.”

“Of course I have handcuffs, Spencer, I’m an officer of the law—”

“There it is!” Shawn smacks the table. In the distant bowels of the house, another beep, one Lassie, again, flinches at. “That’s what I’m saying! Lassie’s a cop, but Mac isn’t. Remember what the chief said?”

“Of course. You and I run a dive-bar downtown. Nothing to invite your neighbors to, but enough to explain your frequent absences.”

“Exactly. I’m a bartender, you’re a—What are you again?”

“I—I guess another bartender?” Lassie’s face sets in some pleased determination. “I could be the bouncer.”

“Alright! You can be the bouncer for our bar that doesn’t exist. We can give you a cool nickname, even! Like—like the Sheriff. ”

Lassie’s face, probably against his wishes, starts to smile. “I like the sound of that.”

“Of course you do, man, cause you’re the Sheriff! You’re not a cop, though, so we have got to get you something casual to wear. I’m thinking boxers with apron over, no shirt—”

Rolling his eyes, Lassie interrupts, “I packed suburban casual, Spencer. There is more to me than what you see before you.”

Shawn feels like a fly, rubbing its evil little hands together. A whole month with Lassie has the opportunity for so much more . “I’d like to see a lot more than what I’m seeing now,” he says, and he even adds a wink. “Trust me, the second you whip out the stern bush, the whole neighborhood will be spilling their secrets.”

Lassie’s mouth pulls down into a considering frown. Shawn has all the different frowns memorized. This one means I’m not totally off-put by that.

A very good sign. 

“That aside,” Lassie mutters, clearing his throat. Shawn is honed in on every detail, the slight bob of his throat, the twitch of his jaw, the way he blinks faster than the average militarian blinking Shawn is accustomed to counting the beats of. “Someone has to go get our things.” 

Shawn tilts his head. 

“Yeah, that’s all on you buddy. I did my time. You did, like, a pathetic percentage of talking out there.” Lassiter glares hard but Shawn doesn’t waver. “Off you get then, sugar pumpkin…seed.” 

Two pet names mashed together at the last minute do not sound good out loud, jot that down Shawn. Lassiter’s glare falls. He’s stunned by just how bad that attempt at fake husbandry was. 

“Wow.” 

“I’m trying things out, okay?” Shawn grumbles. “Go get my bag. Don’t forget Mr. Binky.” 

“I will leave Mr. Binky out there if you don’t stop calling him that.”

“I told you before, I bought that little stuffed gopher because it reminded me of you. Ever heard of the ye ol’ phrase, ‘it's the thought that counts’?” Hence lovingly naming it after your childhood nickname. It had the cutest big ears, nothing like a gopher’s, but everything like Lassie’s. He’s the one clearing his throat now. “Come back gopherless, and you’re dead to me.” 

“Whatever, Spencer.” 

“Dennis!” Shawn corrects as Lassiter’s tightened, angry shoulderblades disappear past the hall. “We have to get used to using those names so you don’t, sorry, I mean so we don’t slip up!”

The front door slams shut. 

The fridge is stocked, courtesy of the SBPD. 

It’s all mostly healthy stuff. Turkey, cabbage. There’s even macadamia nuts in the cabinet. 

“Okay, was nobody going to tell me the Santa Barbara Police Department had macadamia money?” Shawn snatches up a bottle of orange juice and the whole tin of nuts. “I feel as if having macadamia money should’ve been mandatory knowledge, y’know, as a money-maker in the—”

“God, how does Guster do it?” 

Lassiter’s interruption brings Shawn’s attention to the fact he’s pacing in the kitchen. He only half-noticed him before. The truth is, he talks just as much to himself at home as he does here. 

“Do what? Co-exist with someone this dashingly handsome?”

“Do you ever stop talking?” Lassie asks, a muted danger in his tone. Spencer’s amusement is obviously setting him off more. “This is a serious question. Is there…ever a time? Ever?” 

“I was once quiet for a whole six minutes,” Shawn recounts dramatically, looking off into space as he works open the tin of nuts. “It was food poisoning. At a Waffle House, no less. And the embarrassing part, Lassie, is that it was from a bacon angus cheeseburger deluxe. It brought true shame to the waffle gods, I imagine.” He pauses for effect. “But yeah, I was face down in that toilet for six minutes straight, man. Bad memories. I won’t hold it against you for bringing it up.” 

Somewhere in Shawn’s ramble, Lassiter stopped pacing.

He holds a hand to his head, swaying. 

Anxiety stabs Shawn in the gut for a brief instance. 

“Lass, you alright?” 

“I’m tired,” Lassiter murmurs. “I’m going to bed.”

“It’s, like, eight o’clock. We can’t go to bed now. Don’t be my dad after The Bachelor’s eight o’clock time slot on ABC.” 

“Do what you want, Spencer.” 

“Being like Henry, dude? That’s probably the most unattractive quality a viable young man such as yourself can have,” Shawn complains, only half-serious. He hates seeing his father in anyone. 

Shawn also hates being left alone. 

Lassiter is heading out of the kitchen without another word.

“I call the left side of the bed!” he announced loudly, knowing it’ll send Lassie off the rails. The more important part though, is Lassie coming marching back into his space, all attention on him.

“If you so much as creak my bedroom door open a centimeter tonight,” Lassiter warns, “I’ll make sure you know what the weight of a gun feels like pressed to the back of your molars.”

Arousal rushes through Shawn. 

He feels himself lose grip on the nuts. 

“Hear you loud and clear, honeypot.” 

Lassiter mutters something indecipherable under his breath, likely insulting. Shawn doesn’t care, because Lassie is on his way out of the kitchen again. Leaving him in the dust like a dishrag. 

The beep sounds off again. 

Shawn quickly glances at Lassiter who has skidded to a stop. 

Tension ripples through him, and then he’s finally off to bed. 

That beeping is annoying, Shawn can’t blame him. 

While Shawn is easily distracted, however, he also has a selective focus. He thinks if he knows it’s there, and it’s repetitive enough, his brain can learn to ignore it. Hopefully. Much like Gus’ protestations. 

Shawn brings his snacks over to the couch where he turns on The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas. He mentioned it once today, and that’s how his mind works, he supposes. He does get bored half-way through after his favorite song ‘Sneaking Around With You’ is concluded, so he turns on Jurassic Park instead, also on his mind, and indulges in Jeff Goldblum’s hot 1990s bod. 

He doesn’t know at what point during the film he started to snooze, but he does wake up to an unusual noise. The TV turned itself off (thank the spirits for modern technology) and yet there’s an electric buzzing coming from somewhere nearby, loud enough to have jolted him from sleep. 

Shawn rubs his eyes and searches around.

It takes him an hour to figure out it’s coming from a pool filter and—go figure—they have a fucking pool! Who would have guessed. It’s not like either of them wandered to the backyard. 

Shawn is so giddy he might have shouted out a little ‘yippee!’  

Again, he has never stopped talking. Almost ever. 

He cannot be blamed for something Lassie now knows. 

He was even talking to the pixels that made up Jeff Goldblum’s god-like features earlier, as if he would reach out and respond. 

Shawn heads upstairs to get his remaining Z’s for the night. 

Surely, the pool filter can wait until morning, and not be nearly as droning or alarmingly alarm clock-like when he reaches the cozy warm second floor, where his new queen-sized bed awaits. 

He goes for boxers and a t-shirt, because he’s a normal person who wears normal pajamas, unlike that suit Lassie had on earlier. Seriously? Tops and bottoms aren’t supposed to match— ha! —and they certainly aren’t supposed to be royal blue satin and buttoned up to your chin. Shawn takes a second, staring at the wall and mourning the stern bush that could have been.

That done, he crawls into bed, noting, with a jolt of excitement, that Lassie did, in fact, bring Mr. Binky inside, and, in some odd display of mammilial affection—maybe, a gopher-to-gopher connection?—he’d tucked the little stuffed guy under the duvet. 

“Aw, Lassie, ” Shawn croons, holding the gopher up over his head. 

The pool filter drones on and on and on.

When Shawn drags himself downstairs, Lassie is making breakfast, already dressed for the day. Shawn quickly takes in the less-than casual button-up/slacks combo. It’s a blue shirt, at least, which will make Lassie’s eyes pop. He has also forgone a tie—thank god—and, inexplicably, socks.

A bare-footed Lassie with his sleeves rolled up; now that’s the best part of waking up.

“Good morning, Mac,” Shawn greets, bumping their hips together as he reaches for the coffee pot.

Lassie nods, clearly more chipper in the mornings than at night, which makes no sense for any human person at all. “ Dennis. How did you sleep?”

“Oh, terrible, dude, the—”

“Smoke detector,” Lassie interrupts, and Shawn gapes, amused at Lassie’s serious expression. “It chirped all night, driving me—”

“Well, no, no, I didn’t hear that.” It’s true. From his room, the beeping is super faint. “The pool filter, though? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m psyched we have a pool—Get it? Psyched? Anyway, we’re totally gonna skinny dip later—”

“Sp—Dennis, what are you talking about? What pool filter?” Lassie scrapes at the pan where he’s torturing some eggs. 

“The one that sounds like a jet engine, dude! It’s insane! You should hear it from my room, although I was thinking yours for the first time, you know, just to be classy, but we could start with mine if it makes you more comfortable. After that, I’m thinking we break in the garage. I’m open to suggestions.”

“I genuinely have no idea what you’re talking about.” Lassie’s eyebrows twitch. “Ever.

“...Mac. Mac. Mr. Macaroni Mcdonald! Was that almost a compliment?”

“Delude yourself all you want. Breakfast is ready.”

Lassie tilts the pan over two plates, and Shawn has the overwhelming urge to kiss him, house-wife style. You know, dip him real low. Slip a hand under his skirt. 

Okay. Saving that for later.

They sit at the table, and Shawn chokes down one bite of the eggs before he decides to pick up a pineapple cream-filled donut on the way into the station. “So, Mac, if you’re gonna be here today…”

Lassie looks up from his plate, since he’s somehow eating the disgusting, half burnt, half undercooked scrambled egg mush. “What?”

“Maybe you could work on the pool filter?”

“I’m going to be busy trying to solve our case, Dennis. I don’t have time for your whims—”

“It’s not a whim, man! It’s a need. A need. Plus it’s outside, so you can canvas the neighborhood!”

“I… I guess so. If it’ll get you to stop complaining—”

“Dude, I’ll do so much more than that. Fix the filter and I’ll make your dreams come true, man. Willy Wonka style.”

“...My dream is that you stop complaining.”

“Done and done!” Shawn turns around to stare at the living room wall. “Well…I’m off to work I guess.”

“You barely ate anything.” Lassie frowns, and Shawn runs a hand through his hair, squirming in his seat. “You didn’t like it?”

“No, come on, baby boy! It was good! Really good. Great, even! I just never eat anything in the morning. It’s a medical condition, actually, I’m pretty sure.”

“Right…” Lassie crosses his arms. “Are you going to put pants on?”

“Well, of course I am. Don’t be a silly nursery rhyme, Mac. We don’t want the neighbors to hate us.” He stands, stretching his arms above his head and memorizing the way Lassie blushes, eyes roaming. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Right.” Lassie clears their plates, dumping them loudly in the sink. “I’ll get you coffee to-go, then.”

“Aw, Mac, you’re so sweet.”

“It’s for the cover, idiot.”

“Speaking of covers,” Shawn says, following Lassie into the kitchen and hopping up onto the counter, “I think we should decide on pet names.”

“You already call me whatever you want, Spencer.”

“ Dennis, ” he corrects, moving quickly past it. “You could call me Den.”

“I could call you an idiot.”

“Well, that’s not a very nice thing to call your husband, baby boy.”

“Oh, we’re married now? Wonderful. I’m so glad.” Lassie levels him a blank stare. “And I hate that one, by the way.”

“What, baby boy? That’s fine, we can workshop it. How about Baby Bell?” 

Lassie grimaces. “You want to name me after cheese? You’ve already named me after a fucking hamburger clown.”

“Bringing up baby? Baby mine? Baby alive? Honey I blew up the baby?” 

Lassie’s frown only grows. He practically shoves the metal coffee mug into Shawn’s hands.

“Baby girl?”

Lassie freezes, flushing, before rounding on Shawn. His face is so twisted up that Shawn can almost see the smoke coming out of his ears. “ Absolutely not. I don’t know what kind of game you think this is, Spencer—And, yes, I’m talking to you, Shawn. I need you to get this through your thick skull—”

“I’ll show you something else that’s thick.”

“Oh, really?! Do you want to see how thick the barrel of my Glock 17 feels when I’m shoving it down your throat?!”

Shawn, hopelessly in love, manages to remember to shake his head. “Lassie, I’m gonna need you to stop saying things like that. Either shut up, or do it. ”

Something funny happens on Lassiter’s face. 

Shawn might describe it as a very, very mild stroke. 

“You…you sick fuck, you want me to do that.” 

“Since when have I ever actually cowered at your threats of violence?”

Lassiter appears to genuinely consider that, coming away silently stunned at the fact that Shawn does not resist or run from him. Ever. And Lassiter’s threatened some pretty vile (sexy) actions upon his innocent little body. For shame! 

“Maybe I should,” Lassie whispers, his eyes like ice. They pop out of his skull more than usual; Shawn blames that blue shirt. “Maybe you actually have to feel it to learn how to back off.” 

Oh. 

“Yeah?” Shawn prods, a little out of breath. 

He scans Lassie as the man’s hand moves. It’s just to unclench his fist, nothing more. That doesn’t mean Shawn isn’t wondering now where there is a gun hidden in those thin layers. 

He knows there has to be a gun. 

Lassiter is attempting to calm down, though he can’t tear his eyes away from Shawn, and Shawn finds himself to be in an identical predicament. Something has to snap, and snap it does. 

Shawn burns his mouth taking a loud, obnoxious sip of his coffee. 

“I’m off to the races, then,” he says to break the ice. 

“Fine. Tell the Chief we’re settled down—”

“And that we’ve found nothing yet.” Not true. He knows the backstories of half their neighbors already, all that from a few glances. Hell if he’s going to give Lassifrass up-my-ass any of the credit for those deductions. “Got it. And if you fix that filter, Lassie, maybe I’ll get you a dog bone for your trouble, or heck, a dog. Bet you’re the type to only raise German Sheppies though.” Shawn frowns at that, as he likes small breeds that look more like breathing potatoes. 

“Get out, Dennis.” 

“Now is that any way to talk to the love of your life on his first day out of the new homestead?” Shawn smirks, leaning up on his tiptoes. “How about a kiss on the cheek to mark the occasion?’ 

Lassiter whips around and storms out of the room, muttering about bad luck and getting a new job.

Feeling inspired by spiraling Lassie into the first of many tizzies, Shawn leaves to go check in with the chief. And of course stop for a deluxe pineapple donut. Maybe dinner at Applebees on the way home if he’s feeling particularly fearful about Lassiter’s potential dinner-making skills. 

He savors his coffee (made by his husband of two days which is more days that can be said about any marriages Shawn has entertained in the past, to which there are notably none and for good reason too) for so long that the drink ends up going cold by the time he pulls into the station. 

There was one thing Shawn was never expecting to find when he came home to Lassie (a phrase not to be mistaken with the hit 1943 film Lassie Come Home ) was the detective…socializing. 

Jovially. 

On their living room couch. 

The man across from Lassie is a little bit older, has a beer belly that is more attractive than not, and biceps that could strangle a horse. Shawn’s definitely not totally intimidated by his build. 

“And her brother had a Walther PPK strapped to his ankle. He actually let me hold the damn thing,” Lassiter rambles on about Juliet’s brother. If Shawn never hears about Ewan again, it’ll be far too soon. He crosses his arms, standing in the doorway, waiting to be noticed by him. 

Lassie isn’t anywhere near stopping though, despite their neighbor glancing awkwardly back and forth between the two of them. 

It takes three minutes for it to sink in that Shawn is not going to be noticed just standing here sulking. This is why he never stops talking, goddamn it. 

“Light of my life,” Shawn greets through gritted teeth. “A word please?”

Lassiter jumps, hand jumping to where his holster would’ve been. 

“Jesus, Sh— Sugarplum,” Lassie rectifies tightly, “You could’ve knocked.” 

“Who knocks on their own door, babe?”

“Uh, Jimmy, this is my husband,” Lassiter turns between him and the man on their couch, which Shawn is squinting at now, doing a quick perfunctory read of his person. He smells of chlorine right off the bat, which Gus might’ve deduced a few minutes ago had he been here. His fingers are uncalloused, however, as if Jimmy isn’t actually in the pool-guy business. He’s too old for a complete change in career, such as maintenance, if he doesn’t have any experience in the field. 

“Dennis,” Lassiter adds, “This is the neighborhood pool guy. He does pools”

“You do pools?” Shawn crosses his arms tighter over his chest. “How does that work, do you stick it in the drain and start humping like a monkey on nose clams or is there more nuance to it?” 

“Dennis.” 

“Again, a word.” 

Lassiter sighs loudly, no longer relaxed and easy-going like he’d been when Shawn waltzed in. They disappear into the hall where Jimmy can probably still hear them, but Shawn doesn’t care. 

“What do you think you’re doing bragging about Ewan?!” he exclaims in a hushed whisper. 

Lassiter snarls, “You think I’m stupid enough to sabotage this whole operation? No, if this thing falls through, it’ll be because you fucked it up. Royally. I left out the key details, obviously.”

“What do you think you’re doing telling stories at all?! The more lies you have to recall the details of, the more likely it is that your cover dissolves. I thought you went to detective school!” 

“Oh, shut up, dropout.”

“I’m literally in the same job position you’re in now, so who’s the bozo, huh?” Shawn doesn’t like being angry, ever. He needs to squeeze in a joke fast but there’s something about Lassiter inviting the pool guy over that is just rubbing him in all the wrong ways. “You needed help with a damn pool filter? Are you kidding me, Lassie? Just Google how to do it, what are you, five?”

“He’s been helpful.” 

“He’s eating all our macadamia nuts!” 

“Shh!” Lassie’s hands are on his shoulders, suddenly, pushing him until his back is against the wall. Shawn tilts his head, looking up into Lassie’s face and trying to make a decision. Anger? Or, extreme horniness—either way, it’s one or the other. 

At this moment, before he’s able to decide, it’s both, which just means he wants to bitch-slap Lassie, and maybe he’s getting a little hard. Since it’s utterly useless and incredibly boring keeping his mouth shut, he doesn’t. “I’m very angry with you right now. And also a little turned on. Is this how you treat all your spouses? Should I call Vi—”

Lassie drops his hands like Shawn’s got cooties, but he doesn’t move away. “In case you haven’t noticed, Dennis, I was trying to do something nice for you.”

“Oh, really? I thought you were trying to get me to stop bitching about the pool filter. And now I think you’re trying to fuck Jimmy! ”

“I—That is ridiculous, Spencer! If you could stop thinking with your dick for two seconds you’d see that all I’m trying to do is—!” 

“Uh, guys?

“ What?! ”

They both whip their heads to see Jimmy— fucking pool asshole —standing awkwardly in the hallway, hands in his pockets. Shawn notes, gleefully, that he’s got mud on his shoes and splattered on his jeans.

Good. He hopes it gets everywhere. 

“I—I thought your name was Dennis?”

Lassie freezes, so Shawn takes over, stepping out from between six-foot-one of Head Detective, and the wall. “My middle name is Spencer. Dennis Spencer Reynolds. Really fucking bad to meet you. Do you want my social security while we’re here? Huh? How about my passport?”

“Oh, no, I—I just wanted to fix the pool, honestly. Your husband invited me in, I didn’t think it would be a problem—”

Shawn turns back to Lassie, who’s giving him a formidable glare. It doesn’t do shit, though, because Shawn was raised by Mr. Asshole of the Mr. Men; he’s immune to almost all forms of anger, threats, and dumbass masculine aggression. “ You invited him in?! ”

“It was polite ,” Lassie grits out, slamming his palm against the wall where Shawn’s head had been.

Jimmy sneaks past them, and Shawn watches him out of the corner of his eye. Huh, he’s all hunched in on himself, one foot suspiciously turned in. Sciatica? Or guilt! “Yeah, I think I’m just gonna go.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” Shawn tilts his whole body to see around Lassie. “And don’t let the door bite your ass on the way out!”

The door closes lightly behind Jimmy.

Shawn would have rather it slammed.

“It’s ‘hit you.’”

“Lassie, I love you, but the whole ‘domestic violence’ thing is getting a little old.”

“What? No. It’s hit you. ‘Don’t let the door hit—’ You know what? I don’t care.” Lassie heads back into the… back living room— living room 2 —and starts…? Fluffing pillows? Angrily fluffing pillows.

Shawn leans against the wall, watching him. “Whatever. I’m sure I’ve heard it both ways.”

“I’m sure you have.” Lassie shakes out their nicest pillow—the blue one with tassels—and throws it onto the couch. Jimmy’s ass might have touched that pillow. Shawn weighs the consequences of dragging the whole couch outside and burning it. “You do realize he hadn’t fixed the filter yet, right?”

“Wha—You invited him in when he hadn’t even done anything?! ”

Lassie’s very long, very shapely legs carry him across the room and up in Shawn’s face before Shawn could say supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. Actually, Lassie gets there faster than Shawn could say help! “Need I remind you, this is an official police investigation? Jimmy Smithson is a murder suspect, just like everyone else in this godforsaken neighborhood . This isn’t a game!”

“Clearly. If it was a game, I’d be winning, and picking all your stupid little pieces off the board and putting them in piece jail—”

“ Spencer— ”

“ Dennis! My name is Dennis! You slipped up earlier, and I had to cover for you. How’s that for being a big, fat, sore, loser? ”

Beep!

Lassie twitches, fists clenching. 

“Tell me you heard that.”

Shawn leans his head back until it thumps against the wall. “Heard what? ”

“I can’t take much more of this!” 

“It’s been two days, Mac!” Or is it three? Jesus, if Shawn is losing track of the time already that doesn’t bode well for their future days under this roof—as homey as the house under said roof is. 

“I really hate that name,” Lassiter grumbles. 

“Well, you chose it, asshole. I gave you so many options! You could have gone with Ron, or Ronnie, or Ronald , or— or Donny , and instead you chose Mac! I can handle calling you Lassie, Lassifrass, Lassiepants, Lassadaisical without slipping up but you can’t seem to handle calling me a name that is shockingly more simple than even Henry Spencer himself bestowed upon me at birth.” 

“Stop riling me up all the time!” 

“You scrunch up your face like Mr. Binky and I can’t help it, Lassie. How can I help it when that little stuffed gopher is my favorite thing in the whole wide world?” Gus. “Second favorite.” Heath bars. Damn. “Third favorite.” Pissing off Lassiter. Also damn. “Alright, one of my favorite things.” 

Lassiter pulls the gopher face now, as a matter of fact.

God Shawn just wants to squeeze it between his palms.

Lassie does it for him, digging his knuckles into his temples. 

“Shut up, just, shut up.” 

Gosh, he’s really irritated. 

It’s not that normal irritation Shawn catches in the precinct, either. He’s strung out, incensed by that damn beeping that Shawn refuses to acknowledge, and likely stir crazy from being banned from work for—infinity, because days off work in Lassie years is like ten years per day— fuck.

Shawn thinks about how he didn’t have time to stop and get dinner on the way home. In fact, he got home from the station pretty earlier than expected. There wasn’t much to tell Chief Vick. 

They need to cool off. 

Shawn’s still thinking about Jimmy and his uselessness. 

He doesn’t want to be thinking of that guy.

Nobody can ruin Shawn Spencer’s fun. 

“Okay…okay children, how about we have dinner and talk about what you’ve figured out?” Shawn suggests, clasping his hands together. “And I will be making dinner, mind you.” 

Off Lassiter’s flinch, Shawn quickly adds,

“Not that breakfast was abysmal or atrocious or painfully hard to chew and swallow without shedding a tear or anything, well…poor choice of words…” Where was he going with this? Shawn sighs and says, “It’s probably fair to divvy up the responsibility, though, yeah? So—”

“I’ve made dinner,” Lassie utters. 

Shit. 

“Okay,” Shawn says, less confidently. “That’s okay too. We’ll eat that. Now Lassie, baby, is this the type of dinner that hardens to stone when you leave it out cold for too long, and the type that never quite regains its shape or texture no matter how many times you throw that slugger in the microwave?” Please say no, Shawn wants to beg. Please tell me we can heat this up properly.

Shawn isn’t sure he can stomach any more bad food. Let alone pretend to be able to. By now he and Gus would have been at a Taco Bell, a Wendy’s, or hell, even Del Taco for those little cheesecake pastries. 

“It’s a casserole,” Lassiter answers smartly. 

That’s not as daunting as anticipated. 

“Surprisingly, I’ve had worse dinners.”

The casserole is easy to heat up and plate.

And there’s so much of it, they won’t be going hungry for days. He imagined they might as Lassiter doesn’t seem like the type to cave for spontaneous trips to McDonalds for nuggies. 

The kicker is; it’s good. 

Like, unbelievably good. 

“Lassie, Jimbo the Clown didn’t leave this for us, did he?” 

Shawn doesn’t want to compliment the dish until he knows for certain Lassiter himself cooked it up, home-style. He likes the imagery of Lassie getting so worked up because he’s cooped up in the homestead that he fusses over spices and ingredients. Probably pouring over various recipes. 

All for Shawn. Well, for him too, but mostly for Shawn. 

He could swoon, if he wasn’t already moaning over the taste. 

“Nope. All me.” 

Lassie can’t wipe the half-smug, half-endeared look off his face. 

He can have it, Shawn thinks. 

“Fuck, I could literally marry this thing.” 

“You’re married to me,” Lassie remarks, rather swiftly. 

Shawn opens his eyes, catching the hard crease between Lassie’s brow before it disappears. 

“All shacked up,” Shawn agrees, a smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe we should get rings.” 

Jimmy is all but forgotten. 

“That’s for non-married couples.”

“Huh?”

“The phrase ‘shacked up’ is for people sleeping together who aren’t married.” 

That’s not us? Shawn is glad he neglects voicing that, because he and Lassie are not in fact ‘shacked up’ or not yet anyway. If Shawn had his way, well, there might be a lot of shacking. As it is, they’re doing… whatever the opposite of ‘shacking up’ is. A fake marriage and Shawn’s empty bed.

He’s distracted again by the heavenly taste of the casserole. 

“Seriously, I was worried when you said you made dinner because those eggs this morning sucked!” Shawn elongates the last word for emphasis, curtailing it when he sees Lassie’s glare. 

“Thanks,” Lassie mutters, regaining enough hubris to say, “In the past, I’ve called it the Las—”

Shawn’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline.

Is Lassiter sincerely going to name his dish? 

Lassie knows there’s no escape. It’s evident in the pout of his lips. 

“The…Lassirole.” 

“Oh. My. God.” Shawn reaches across the table, grabbing for the primly buttoned button at the cuff of Lassie’s sleeve. “You’re so cute. ”

“I—” Lassie’s staring down at Shawn’s hand around his wrist. “I think I liked you better when you were angry with me.”

And that’s the kicker, isn’t it? Shawn wants to say something about earning it; affection, but he’s not sure he’s ready to think about it now, either. 

Or ever.

So, instead, he rubs a thumb over Lassie’s pulse point, counting his steady heart rate without meaning to. It’s almost fast enough to be considered human—he must be very stressed indeed. 

With his free hand, Shawn takes another bite of Lassirole, and falls a little more in love.

“Man, you know we can so do this.”

Lassie’s eyes meet his, those ridiculous, bluer-than-blue eyeballs of his. Shawn, once again, is thinking about skinny dipping. “Do…this?”

“Yeah. The mission, Lassie! The mission.” Shawn smiles, swallowing another delicious bite. “Although, I’m down for anything else you might want to do.” Before Lassie can get annoyed at the innuendo, Shawn switches gears. “Need I remind you—” He points with his fork out the back window. “Pool. McLassie, we have a pool! And, so far it’s been shitty, between the fucking filter and—and Liam or whatever his name was—”

“Jimmy.”

“Right, like I care.” Shawn laughs, tightening his hand on Lassie’s arm, and Lassie, in response, gives him a little smile and a lot of Irish blush. “My point is, we’ve been here for way too long to have not gone swimming yet.”

“Well… I guess we could. It wouldn’t hurt to see about asking some of the neighbors over—”

“No, no! I’m not talking about the mission right now, babe. I’m talking about you and me, taking a nice, relaxing, nighttime swim. Mr and Mr style—Hey, why don’t we have the same last name?”

“I’m going to assume it’s because no one wants the name ‘Mcdonald.’ Or, maybe it’s because you didn’t think of that earlier, and now it’s too late.”

“I was only saying that we should have a reason, baby boy, but now I see you’re not prepared to compromise about this.” Shawn lets go of Lassie’s arm, finishing the Lassirole on his plate with a sigh. “Ah, well. I wouldn’t have married you if I didn’t adore how stubborn you are.”

“Sh— Honey. ” Lassie fiddles with the sleeve Shawn had been holding. Unbuttoning, rebuttoning, and finally pushing the whole thing up to his elbow awkwardly, showing off that delicious salt-n-pepper arm hair. “I think you’re right. About us being able to do this.”

“Of course I’m right! I’m always right, dollface. That’s something you should know about me.”

Beep!

“God dammit! ” Lassie goes to stand, but Shawn reaches out again, palms up, shushing. Like you might do to, say, a spooked horse. 

“Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay, Mac. What happened?” Aw, shit. He’s lying about it accidentally now.

“The—You don’t—” Lassie takes a calming breath. “We can do this.” His hand is fisted at his holster hip. “It’s okay. We can do this. We can do this.”

“Exactly! Look, everything is going to be fine. ”

Shawn has finally fallen asleep despite the world's loudest pool filter, when something else startles him awake.

A bang, downstairs, and then silence, followed by the faintest beep.

He lays there for another three and a half minutes before he gives up, gets up, and creeps to the door, easing it open.

For a second, there’s such an absence of sound that Shawn thinks he might have imagined it. Just a byproduct of another dream about his importance in the world, or something equally corny; maybe, he thinks, he remembers his dad, wearing a hat made out of worms. Worm hat. Good for fishing, maybe—

Beep!

“ Oh, you motherfucker— ”

That’s definitely not a dream. It’s Lassie, muttering to himself downstairs.

Shawn scowls, looks down at his AppleJacks t-shirt and boxers, and decides, fuck it, let’s do this. No pants required.

Downstairs, an odd assortment of lights are on. 

“Lassie!” Shawn finds him in living room 2, back turned to him. “What are you doing, and, follow-up question, can you do it quieter? ”

Lassie doesn’t answer. His back tenses, shoulders shaking, hands held suspiciously in front of him.

“Better yet, babe, maybe we don’t have to do…whatever this is. Like, at all.”

Shawn rounds Lassie’s stock-still body, not at all surprised to see the gun clenched in his grip. He’s staring wildly at the ceiling; when Shawn looks up, he sees a smoke detector.

(He already knows it’s not that one.)

“Shawn, I’d advise you to get out of my way.”

“What, you’re not even gonna try to take the batteries out?” Shawn tuts, reaching for a kitchen chair. 

It’s a little unnerving, standing on a chair, in his underwear, while Lassie frantically points a gun at the ground by their feet. Still, Lassie’s bedhead is cute enough to get him up there, and the gun really is so shiny…

“There,” he says, tossing the battery in the air before catching it and hopping down. “Now can you please go to bed?”

“I hate this place.” Lassie flops down onto the couch, long robe falling open to expose nothing exciting at all; just more satiny pajama bottoms that belong more on any grandma than on the exceedingly attractive man splayed out before him. “I really hate it.”

“Yeah, man.” Shawn sinks into the couch beside him, clutching the blue-tassel pillow of awesomeness to his chest, picking his teeth. “Honestly? Me too. There’s nothing to do out here.” Annoying you is a lot less charming running on zero sleep.

“The goddamn beeping.”

“The pool filter.”

“Garbage only comes once a week—Do you know how much garbage you’ve already produced, Spencer?”

“I’m assuming it’s a very normal amount. Mac, I seriously hate it here.” He tilts his head back, groaning at the smoke detector’s black hole of an eye where the light used to be. The battery presses into his palm. “I can totally see why the neighbors started committing murders.”

Lassie huffs out a laugh. “Of course you can.”

“Oh, like you’re not the one toting a loaded gun around in the middle of the night.” Shawn eyes where the gunmetal grey is still visible. Just a sliver from where it’s tucked beneath the robe. “I’d ask if you were just happy to see me, but—”

“Surely there has to be a better way to do this.” Lassie’s, like…pleading. Begging the wall for a change of plans. If Shawn was any less exhausted, he’d be really reveling in the idea of Lassie on his knees. “Anything that doesn’t involve us being here anymore.”

Shawn estimates they have about two minutes until the next beep. “Hey, Lassie, can I see your gun?”

“What?” Lassie’s looking at him, at least, but he’s not begging anymore. His swimming pool eyeballs are narrowed and harsh. “Why?”

“You think I feel safe, here? Come on, you know I’m as good as you with a handgun, and so long as we’re in Murdersville I’d feel better knowing we’re both armed. You’re Steed, by the way. You could totally rock a bowler hat, and I’m dying to pull off the catsuit.” Shawn takes a second to admire the perfect recall of Emma Peel in that chastity belt, and then, channeling Diana Rigg herself, he holds out a hand, saying, gently, “Give me the gun, Lassie.”

“I only have one on me right now, Shawn.”

“That’s fine.” Way, way better than fine. “Please? Don’t tell me you don’t have spares in every room. If I look under your pillow right now, how many firearms am I going to find, huh? Because you and I both know it’s more than three.”

Lassie frowns, shrugs, and then practically throws his gun at Shawn, just in time for the next beep. “Oh my god! ”

“Hey, Mac, come on, now.” Shawn’s holding the gun in one hand, and the battery in the other, but he needs both hands for this. He tucks the gun into the back of his boxers, tossing the battery onto the floor somewhere. “Look at me.”

Now he’s free to grab Lassie’s face. Two hands, standing in front of where Lassie’s sitting, holding his cheeks. 

“There. See? It’s not so bad.”

Lassie tries to ask, “What are you doing, Spencer?” Except it comes out muffled and soft where Shawn’s squishing his face.

“I’m helping you,” Shawn says, leaning down cautiously until his lips connect with Lassie’s forehead. “Now,” he says, talking against Lassie’s skin, “I think we should have a dinner party. You, me, Jules, and Gus. We can pretend they work at the bar with us.”

Silence from Lassie, but that’s fine. Shawn takes a little step forward, and Lassie spreads his knees, letting him get closer. 

He pulls his head back, still holding on to Lassie’s cheeks, drinking in the half-annoyed, half-confused, half-flustered look he loves so much. Lassie is that good; he’s made of three whole halves. “We can even invite Henry if you want.”

Lassie shakes his head, hard , against Shawn’s hands. “Ab’tholutely not.”

“I’m just saying, one dinner with that man might convince us that this place is literal paradise. Besides, don’t you want to give everyone an opportunity to see how cool it is? We can go swimming, and—Oh! Oh! Lassirole! ”

Lassie’s eyebrows scrunch up in the most adorable way. Mr. Binky style.

God, he just wants to—Shawn thinks kissing him now, all sleep-deprived and hopped up on the adrenaline from the weight of the gun in his pocket isn’t the best idea. Maybe a kiss at all, isn’t. 

But boy is it tempting. 

“Fine,” Lassie mutters in response, breaking Shawn’s reverie. “Have it your way. You’ll probably work better with Guster around, anyhow. He’s like the railroad to your speeding train.”

“I could say the same about you and Juliet.”

Lassiter rolls his eyes but doesn’t disagree with that. 

“I’ll plan it tomorrow,” Shawn suggests. “Call the Scooby Gang, let them chime in. ‘Cause for now, buddy, I’m three seconds from conking out and I doubt you want to carry me up the stairs bridal style and tuck me in like you did with Mr. Binky, and don’t think I didn’t love that little display.” Shawn savors the disgust on Lassiter’s face as he pulls away, apparently humiliated.

“Goodnight, Spencer.” 

Lassie stiffly stands and stomps up the stairs. Shawn doesn’t totally check out his ass on his ascent, but well, he does. It’s just that Lassie’s got such a nice one and they’re hard to come by. 

Shawn yawns and follows suit. 

He tucks the gun under his pillow after turning the safety on. 

Then, he clutches Mr. Binky to his chest and dozes off. 

That next morning, Shawn strolls out of the house with another cup of coffee made courtesy of Lassiter (after a stilted and rather quiet morning—the sleep deprivation is doing their attitudes no favors, not that Lassie’s attitude has ever been favored) and is stopped by their neighbor Paully. 

“Hot one today, isn’t it!” he shouts out, once again watering his lawn. 

Shawn glares at him, which is uncharacteristic of him and more so characteristic of his husband, and maybe it’s not getting enough sleep because of that damn filter, or maybe it’s because he’s not cut out for this kind of lifestyle (routines, party-sized Polly Pocket houses, the 9-to-5) because he feels genuine disdain for—a repetitive question, mind you—this simple question. 

“Hadn’t noticed!” Shawn grits out, overly chipper. 

He eyes Paully’s lawn, the grass turning as mushy as stale salad. 

“You should have joined the C.I.A!”

Paully frowns, baffled.

“Huh?”

“They love to waterboard!” Shawn gestures at his drenched plants. “You’d have done great work.” 

Appalled by Shawn’s distasteful humor (brought upon by the short fuse he woke up with this morning), Paully gawks at him with a judgmental frown, though doesn’t say another word. 

Shawn cracks his neck, trying to shake the interaction off. 

He hops in the car and heads off to the station.

Once again, he’s able to leave early without needing to recite any serious leads.

He does bring up the pool guy to Chief Vick and experiences sick pleasure from the fact she actually jots the Joe-Schmoe’s name and address down on a piece of government issued paper. 

Sweet. 

On the way back, he’s faced with the serious idea of having to face Lassie again after he got up close and personal with him last night. Which, honestly, he doesn’t have a problem with, it’s just that he runs from everything in his life that makes his tummy tingle in a sort of inexplicable way. 

So, he pulls into Applebees, and stays there too late.

He tells himself it’s harmless to dilly-dally. 

It’s easy to brush off, especially when Shawn forgets he’s living with a detective now. 

“Lassie, baby, hold me,” Shawn moans in despair, falling into Lassiter’s unsuspecting arms the second he sees him pacing in their living room (god, Shawn’s forgetting which living room is which again). He collapses forward, pulling a classic move on Lassie—going boneless. 

Lassiter is surprisingly strong, holding him up easily with two arms tucked under his. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Spencer?” 

It’s not spoken with its usual poison. Lassie is tired, that much is certain. Or, maybe he’s just tired of fighting the wholly irresistible charm of one Shawn Spencer, Psychic extraordinaire. 

“Tired of the traffic,” he mumbles into Lassie’s shirt. 

It’s true. Traffic was killer, as all the old folk say. 

“Well, what’s lying on me gonna do about it?” 

He’s not pushing Shawn away, though. He’s actually—oh God, he’s distributing more of Shawn’s weight onto him so he can easier hold him (and now it feels more like they’re hugging). 

Shawn feels a little faint now, and not because he’s tired. 

“You’re soft. Much like Mr. Binky, but big. And warm, in that natural way only a human can be, not like a stuffed animal I tossed in the microwave for thirty seconds because I’m lonely.” 

“You microwaved your plushie?” Lassie asks, sounding disturbed. 

Shawn pulls back slightly. 

“The tag says microwave safe.”

They meet eyes and Lassie still isn’t pulling away.

“I, uh, talked to Gus. He said they can probably come by tomorrow.”

“Gus and Juliet,” Lassiter says, almost a question.

“And Henry. Maybe.”

Lassiter snarls. “I told you—”

“Gus suggested it, and I don’t know, maybe he won’t come.” 

Shawn thinks maybe now would be an appropriate time to pull away from Lassie but he doesn’t want to and he’s so not good at refusing things he wants. What he wants is to hold Lassie tighter.

Then, Lassie announces with an excited lilt, “I found something out.”

Jerking back (and unfortunately out of Lassie’s warm embrace), Shawn scans him from head to toe, mind suddenly moving a mile a minute. This could mean their exit ticket, if a perp is fingered. 

Hah. Fingered.

“Tell me!”

“You know the woman right across from us on the other side of the road?” Lassie asks, nodding at Shawn for him to follow. Shawn does, right up to the slatted windows where he can see the woman with the yellow bob, and her yellow little house across the way, one window glowing. 

“Miss Drew Barrymore in Scream?” 

“That’s the one.”

“What about her?” Shawn prods, waiting for the punchline. He saw her once in passing, and she barely said hello to him. Thank God for that, because one more ‘a hot one, isn’t it’ may end him. 

“I saw her on Jimmy's porch, yelling at him. Telling him she’d make him pay for what he did, whatever that means. But I’ll find out, I promise you that,” Lassiter confesses, eyes alight with purpose. “I was taking a look at Jimmy’s pool filter, so I got close enough to hear everything.”

“God, this is great. We’ve barely gotten any lead so far—hold up. Why were you at Jimmy’s house?”

Why can’t Jimmy just fix their filter? Why is Lassie looking at his filter now? 

“He said he could show me the parts I was missing.”

“Yeah, I’m sure he did,” Shawn mutters hotly, glaring at the other side of the street.

Lassiter aggressively closes the slit he made in the blinds of the window and crosses his arms. 

“Do you think I’m sitting on my ass here all day waiting for you to come home, Spencer? That I’m some housewife just here to cook and clean? I’m actually trying to get the job we came here to do, done. Meanwhile you’re, what, at the station for over six hours just chatting people up?” 

“No, really, did he invite you over?” 

Shawn won’t be able to drop this until he knows the details. 

“Dennis,” Lassie barks out, “Can we get back on topic?” 

“This is the topic,” Shawn argues, incensed. “I didn’t realize our broken filter was located in Jimmy’s backyard, but hey, maybe that’s just me not knowing how goddamn pool technology works!” 

“I can’t believe this. I got evidence and you’re hung up on how I got it.” 

“The how is just as important as any other police question. Just as important as the who, the why, the…erm…” Damn, he forgot the other W’s. And there are so few of those W’s to begin with.

“I didn’t realize you passed the bar, your honor. ” Lassie snarls, a proper canine. Shawn’s not thinking about puppy ears. “This isn’t a court of law, Spencer, I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

“So you’re going to tell Judge Leland that you obtained a possible lead while answering a booty call?”

Lassie’s hand fists in the curtain like he’s going to tear them down. “If you must know, I needed to get out!”

“Oh, really?!”

“Yes! It was an opportunity to gather information, idiot. Unless you mean to tell me that you could solve the case and manage to spend all day in this fucking house all by yourself, just by staring out the windows. ” 

Shawn takes a deep breath, kicking the carpet. “Probably not. That’s why the chief gave you that job.”

“At least you get to go to work,” Lassie grumbles, and that’s the last fucking straw.

“I get to go to work?!” Shawn kicks the sofa chair thing nearest to him, sending it rocking oddly side to side. “Oh, look at me everybody! I get to take a two hour drive every day that should be twenty goddamn minutes! I get to—”

“ Enough! ” Lassie looks just about ready to punch something. If they’re very lucky, it’ll be Shawn. “I’ve had just about enough of this.”

“Fine. You know what? Whatever. I’m going to go solve this goddamn case because you’re too busy trying to get your dick sucked by the pool guy!” 

“Oh, come on— Dennis! ”

Shawn’s halfway out the door when he stops, looking back at Lassie. “By the way? No one’s that bad at fixing things.”

Lassie frowns. “How do you know I didn’t?”

“I can still fucking hear it, dude.” Shawn makes a loud, obnoxious, drawn out sound; an incredibly accurate impression of the pool filter.

“Just go. ”

Shawn does.

Okay, so, good news/bad news. 

Good news is that Jimmy the pool guy is a dog-murdering bastard. 

Bad news is, the only person he’s hurt is the Drew Barrymore neighbor—AKA Megan. Or, rather, her beloved poodle, Brünnhilde.

Shawn hates him even more now. He’s not a people-murderer, and somehow that’s even worse, knowing that he buried the poor dog corpse in the front yard.

(Hence, the mud on his shoes the other day. Jimmy ran over a dog, buried it, and from there then went straight to homewrecking .)

Shawn sneaks around in several backyards, even more side yards, and one or two more interesting looking porches. He even climbs a trellis, although that’s more because it’s there than anything else, and he’s always wanted to climb a trellis.

It’s very, very dark by the time he drags himself to his own front door, and this is all he’s found out:

Blue House White Fence is growing weed in his basement. Newspaper over the ground-level windows, heat through the pane. It’s either weed, or he enjoys relaxing in a dark, humid, incredibly warm subterranean environment, which would make him a lizard person. Either or.

The family in the three story across the street recently came into some extra money. He’s guessing the Mrs. got the promotion, because she’s the one with the fancy new sunglasses when he watches the whole brood pile into their luxury SUV. The day MacDennis moved in, the husband had been mowing the lawn. (He’d also been the one driving the rear ended car.) Today? Landscapers.

Jimmy is a dog killer and Shawn hates him, but Jimmy’s wife is very lovely, and invites prowlers in her backyard inside for hot chocolate. Shawn loves Jimmy’s wife. Her name is Jane, and she’s funny and sweet and doesn’t deserve a cheating asshole like Jimmy. (Shawn counts enthusiastically listening to Lassie ramble as cheating. ) From what he can tell from their house, there’s nothing much else going on. Kids artwork on the fridge, backpacks by the door, loud thudding from upstairs indicating a brawl. Etc.

The yellow house is where Megan—former dog mom—lives, and she’s noteworthy for two immediate reasons. The first is that she’s one of the only people on the street who lives alone. The second is that she’s very pretty. (Okay so maybe Shawn gets a little distracted.)

Then it gets interesting.

Paully and his crispy, drowning garden isn’t interesting at all, except that he's across from David and Emily, the vegetable people. Shawn tramples their snap peas a little bit on accident, and has to profusely apologize when David comes out wielding two drumsticks as weapons, and Emily follows close behind, clutching what looks like a giant plastic femur. 

“I am so sorry,” he says, and he notes how David and Emily’s nice shirts and slacks have a crease, both of them, on the same hip. 

Hmm.

“I can go buy you a new plant from Lowes!” 

Shawn thinks back to the night before, when he’d gotten a glimpse—entirely on accident—of his own ass, in his boxers. 

Gun tucked into his waistband.

Emily shakes her head. “We don’t want that.”

“Yeah, we don’t want you to do that,” David says. “Just get off our property. Now.”

“O—kay! Going now, and I’m gonna take this nice stone path you guys have here, instead of, you know.” He points to the mini trail of destruction he’d left trying to peek inside their windows. “Uhh…If you change your minds about the plant, I live right over there with my husband, and—”

“Good for you,” Emily deadpans. “Leave.”

After that, he checks out a few more houses, but nothing comes up anywhere near as promising as the gun-creased-waistband vegetable defenders.

He unlocks the front door, walking into a completely dark house.

Great. 

Somehow, standing in their quiet, very empty home, Shawn’s little revelations don’t feel like anything at all. All he can hear is the pool filter droning.

Goddammit.

So, Shawn doesn’t get sleep that night. 

At all. 

He can only ignore a pool filter for so long—as well as that goddamn beeping he refuses to acknowledge but his attention is caught by just as frequently as Lassiter’s—and his fuse has run short. He feels like one of those video game characters with the health bar set to almost zero as he trudges down the stairs, a walk of shame after hours of investigation, coming up with zilch. 

One more push and he might just die. 

Not to be dramatic. 

To make matters worse, Shawn doesn’t smell coffee when he enters the kitchen, nor does he smell breakfast of any kind (perhaps a blessing in disguise), so he has to resort to starting his own. 

“Ahem.”

Shawn spins around, sighing loudly. 

Lassiter stands there with his hair all fluffy and cute and Shawn cannot take it this morning because if he has to stand here one more morning without being allowed to jump this man-sized Gopher’s bones he’s going to set the whole place on fire—the whole thing, he’s serious here. 

“Dude, what?!”

“You wanna explain why I woke up to this on our doormat this morning?” Lassie asks, eyes sharp and dangerous. Shawn’s exhausted animosity shifts gradually into a very muted arousal. 

Lassiter tosses a folded up piece of paper in front of him. 

Shawn sets down the coffee grounds and opens it. 

Leave now or we’ll make you leave.

“What is this, some lame chain mail?”

“It’s a threat, Spencer.”

“No, no, a threat is ‘I’m here to chew bubblegum and kick ass and I’m all out of bubblegum’ John Carpenter style, not whatever shit this is,” Shawn remarks, tossing the letter back to Lassie like it's worth nothing. It’s worth it to see Lassie scrabble to grab it from the floor. The thing is, Shawn knows it's worth something, in fact, he’s a little annoyed at how obvious David and Emily are being. And for fuck sake, those snap peas didn’t even look tasty to begin with. Who cares this much about peas? And just how many people have they killed over those veggie monstrosities? 

“No more movie references,” Lassiter hisses, raising his hand upwards towards the ceiling, shakily holding it horizontal, voice going vibrantly shrill. “I’ve had it up to here. Up to here!” 

Shawn considers the height of his hand. 

“Hmm. I think we can aim higher.” He looks around the kitchen, patting his pockets for the keys he knows are already stashed there. “Well then, gotta be on my way. Got lots to tell the chief.”

“Can we at least talk about this letter before you leave?!”

“What’s there to talk about? Seems pretty cut and dry to me.”

He doesn’t know why he isn’t being fully honest with Lassiter. Part of him thinks it’s just another way to continue to push his buttons, or maybe it’s punishment for putting out so easily, or maybe Shawn really is just too tired to hear himself talk any longer which would be an all-time first. 

“Don’t wait up, pumpkin pie.” 

“Denn—Spen— Shawn, get back here!” 

“Yes, dear, it would be lovely to come home to a spanking new pool filter!” 

Lassiter shouts something incoherent, and angry, but Shawn is already out the door, cracking his arms above his head and trying to readjust his achy bones. He strolls to the car as he stretches. 

“Hot one today, isn’t it?”

Shawn skids to a stop, eyes twitching.

“Yeah?!” he roars, somewhat regretting it, but not fully because damn it feels good to see Paully’s mouth snap shut, his eyes downcast to his plants like he never wants to speak again. 

Shawn jumps behind the wheel and shoves the key into the ignition. 

It royally sucks to watch Chief Vick get rid of the pool guy’s name off the suspect list, truly. He almost sheds a tear, though that may be due to the absolutely zero sleep he achieved last night. 

He’s a good boy; he gives her the rundown of what they’ve figured out so far. He even gives Lassie credit for overhearing Jimmy’s scuffle on his porch, however, it’s not like that exactly got them anywhere other than narrowly narrowing down their list of suspects. Though, Vick agrees with Shawn that David and Emily do seem the most likely so far, and that they should pursue the lead. Feeling slightly less wired, and slightly more accomplished, he exits the station with the intention of driving to Applebees (on mental auto-pilot at this point) and taking a huge nap there. 

He’s stopped by Gus in the parking lot. 

Shawn lets out a sigh of relief and bear hugs him.

Gus pats his back in solidarity, good old reliable. 

“Man, am I glad to see you.”

“Where were you going, Shawn? You said you’d drive us over,” Gus reminds him sternly, as if waiting for Shawn to fuck up like he always does (and honestly is about to). 

Oh shit. Oh, that’s right. 

“Dinner,” he murmurs, the memory crashing back. “God, that’s right, man. I’m sorry. Yeah, yeah I’ll drive you over.” He doubts Lassiter remembers they’re coming over either. Should he warn him? No, that’ll just make it obvious he forgot the dinner party and Juliet and Gus will hate him!

“You alright, Shawn?” Gus places his palm over Shawn’s forehead. “Damn, you’re hot as hell.” 

“That’s forward, Gus,” Shawn teases half-heartedly, “But I’ll have you know I’m a taken man now. Bedded and wedded, well, except for the bedding part. And, honestly, the wedding part.” 

“What are you talking about, Shawn?” 

Shawn doesn’t feel like explaining his and Lassie’s meticulous married cover stories but wonders if he’ll be painting himself into a corner with the neighbors if he doesn’t just tell them outright. 

Juliet comes rushing out of the station and down the steps, hair done all pretty with a red clip to match her casual red dress. “Sorry, got held up at my desk. I’m ready to go now! Hi, Shawn!” 

“Why hello there, Desert Rose.” 

“Oh. Is that a Sting reference?”

“What? No. Don’t be ridiculous, Jules.” Shawn points to the car. “We should go. Dear old Lassie should be starting dinner by now. That or the house is a burnt down pile of rubble.” The arson fantasies are probably more his thing. “...Or riddled with bullet holes.”

“Not going well?” Gus asks, thankfully taking the driver's seat in what is, technically, still his company car. Jules somehow called shotgun when Shawn wasn’t looking, probably because while he’s stuck in Hell-de-sac, Gus and Jules are becoming all buddy-buddy BFF’s, while Shawn is stuck with the husband, also, coincidentally, from Hell .

Shawn slides into the back, totally prepared to bitch for the entire duration of the trip, when he remembers that this dinner is about making things better. Cheering them up, reminding them that things could be worse, and, maybe, ultimately, proving that they’re doing fine. They totally are.

We can do this.

So he gets comfy, stares out the window at the beautiful traffic, and says, “Sorry, guys, I honestly think it’s harder being away from home right now.”

That meets him with a silence that manages to feel concerned. 

Gus clears his throat. “You do know none of this is real, right?”

“Yeah,” Jules chimes in, because since Shawn’s been away apparently her and Gus have started sharing covert looks and agreeing with each other. “I’m a little concerned about you, Shawn. You look tired.”

He wants to yell, Oh, really?! That’s because my bitch of a man-crush/fake-husband is too much of a slut to fix the fucking pool filter. Instead he sighs, affected, saying, “Of course I know it’s not real. Come on, guys! I’m in character!”

Jules turns around, horribly dangerous in any moving vehicle, to talk to him face to face. “Speaking of which, I was thinking about my cover. I could pass for your sister, right, Shawn?”

“Oh, God, no! You—You can’t be my sister, Jules!” Shawn taps Gus’ shoulders, urging him, “You know what I mean, right buddy?”

“It’s not a bad idea, Shawn. We were talking about it earlier, and we think it lends a layer of credibility to the story.”

“ We?! Since when are you two a we?! ”

“Since you decided to go all domestic with Lassiter.”

“I’ll have you know that I decided nothing. You’re the one who abandoned me there, Gus. I haven’t forgotten that, by the way. I’m very angry with—Woah, wrong exit, man.”

“Uh, no, Shawn. We’re picking up your dad, remember?”

He had not remembered. Shit.

Jules locks eyes with him. “I think you mean our dad.”

It’s a torturous car ride, only marginally better than fighting the traffic on his own. When they finally pull into the neighborhood, Shawn asks—and he totally doesn’t beg—for the three Musketeers to stay in the car while he checks on Lassie. 

When he walks in, he smells food, which is a very good sign. 

“Mac!”

“Dennis,” Lassie says, hunched over the stove, and, honest to god, he’s wearing a fucking apron . “Welcome home.”

Shawn’s brain short circuits, falls in a pool, puts itself into a bowl of rice, takes itself down to the Geek Squad, and finally, finally reboots. “Oh. Yes. Hi. Hello, honeybunches. I—I really—Oh! Oh, did you—You didn’t forget about family dinner, did you? Su—Um. Sugarplum.” 

“Family—You mean Guster and O’Hara? Of course I didn’t forget. See?” Lassie bends over, looking in the oven, and Shawn has a total meltdown-reboot, again.

“Right, well, Jules is gonna pretend to be my sister, and also Henry’s here, so I hope you made enough Lassirole—”

“Goddammit, Dennis, I thought I told you I didn’t want him here?”

“Well excuse me, babe, but me and Jules have to have our dad here, so—”

“He’s not even her father!”

“I’d love it if he wasn’t mine either. Actually, we should take a paternity test, just to be sure. What do you think? You, me, Henry, and a phlebotomist.”

“...Why would I need to be there?”

“Uh… Date night? Obviously. Couples who know their common ancestry stay together, baby boy. Now I know they’re melting out there, and I care very much about two of their lives. Can I let them in, or do you wanna do a quick smooch before—”

“I’d prefer it if you remained professional, Dennis. No… smooching. And no ‘baby boy’ or anything like that. I already told you, I don’t like it.”

“That you did, sweetcheeks. Sorry, that one just slipped out.” Like the curve of Lassie’s ass when he bent over, earlier. “I will be on my very best behavior, okay? No loving nicknames or saying I’d like to kiss you, or squeeze your cute little butt, or—”

“Go let them in, Dennis.”

“You could at least come with me. Come on, it’ll be fun! We can even pretend we like each other.”

Lassie’s face does something odd, that Shawn, genuinely, cannot understand. He looks, for a second, indescribably sad. The second passes. Lassie slips the apron over his head, hanging it from the pantry doorknob. “What are you waiting for, then?”

Shawn lets it go as much as he can even though his irritating genius brain is already showing him Lassie’s face falling: on loop. “Sure, sure. We’re gonna have so much fun.”

“Right.” Lassie smooths a hand through his hair, styled down from that morning. Shame. “Of course. Fun. ”

“Guys, isn’t this delicious?” When everyone at the table nods in appreciation of the casserole, Shawn continues, “He calls it ‘Lassie’s famous Lassirole!’ And it is famous. In my stomach!”

Lassie manages a smile.

“Well…we’ve never heard of it,” Gus says. “And we’re pretty much the only people you know, so…Can’t be that famous.”

Shawn struggles to kick him beneath the table.

“So, boys.” Henry leans back, plate cleared and napkin set on top. Shit. He’s gonna start a whole thing. “How are you liking this place?”

“It’s a good location,” Lassie says, and before Shawn can romanticize his property-talk, he continues, “360 views so I can keep an eye out for any suspicious activity.”

Shawn sulks a little about that, especially once Henry nods, clearly pleased.

“And you’re not going a little stir-crazy, yet? Wow. That’s impressive. You know, I—I keep hearing this chirping sound, I’m surprised that hasn’t driven you both nuts by now.”

Lassie groans. “Dennis says he doesn’t hear it—”

“Oh?” Jules smiles, a wide, dangerous smile. “ Dennis? ”

Shawn jumps in. “We needed codenames, Jules. ‘Shawn’ may be nondescript, thanks, dad, but there’s no way we’re blending in here with Carly.”

“He chose the names.” Lassie takes a sip of beer, which marks the second time ever Shawn’s seen him drink. The first time was that wonderful bar, when Lassie told him he was astounding— No. Not here. Not now. He’s gone back there too many times, in too many… other situations. The kind he doesn’t need in front of his dad, his best friend, or his fake-sister.

Jules hides her face behind her beer bottle. “Well…what’s yours then, Detective?”

“I’m Dennis Reynolds,” Shawn interrupts. “Dennis Spencer Reynolds, actually, because of a little last name debacle in front of someone. Before you get mad, dad, it wasn’t anyone important. Not important at all, actually—”

Lassie stands abruptly. “I need to piss.”

Shawn squints at him, intensely confused. 

No normal person announces a bathroom trip like that. Well, he might, but not Carlton Lassiter. The man who makes it his life goal to never be embarrassed (and failing at it epically—always). 

“Out of my penis,” Lassiter utters, even though he sounds pained to say it. 

Henry chokes on a bite of Lassirole. 

Lassiter glances at everyone’s expressions of mild shock before skittering down the hall towards the empty study by the backdoor coming across like a not-so fuzzy Big Foot with stage fright. 

For a second, Shawn is much more confused than before, then he gets it—this is Lassie’s half-assed attempt at getting his attention. He wants to talk in private. If Lassie thinks Shawn is going to go quietly without letting the group know he believes this may be Lassie’s lowest moment, aside from the snowglobe massacre at Christmas, then Lassie doesn’t know him at all. 

“Well,” Shawn starts, splaying his hands flat across the table so he can push himself out of his seat. “Obviously Lassie wants to talk to me in private. Why he can’t do that without bringing up genitalia is frankly beyond me, but feel free to let it poorly affect your judgment of his already questionable character. Gus, I can see you’re currently in the process of taking this advice.” 

“You know that’s right.” 

Gus continues digging into the casserole, unphased by Shawn and Lassiter’s strange behavior. 

Jules looks confused still, and Henry, well, he’s always got that disappointed mug of a face. 

“If you’ll excuse me,” Shawn says, dramatically turning on his heel to follow Lassie down the hall. He can feel Juliet’s eyes on his back but he’s not sure what else he can say to do damage control. Lassiter is showing their wounded underbelly to the entire group; this isn’t supposed to happen. 

Nothing is supposed to appear wrong. 

“What are you doing ditching me out there?” Shawn exclaims. “Everything was going great!”

Lassiter waves him in before waspishly closing the door behind Shawn and resuming the very quick pacing Shawn found him in the middle of when he entered the study. 

“I needed to talk to you,” Lassie mutters. 

“Yeah, I got that much from the ‘penis’ comment. You would have come off less suspicious if you just asked to talk to me, dude. What’s up with you? Why are you crapping out on me here?” 

“I don’t know,” Lassie murmurs, those huge, mesmerizing eyes of his boring into Shawn’s far too suddenly. He looks wired, overwrought. “Seeing them all here, it just…became clear I don’t have the chops for this. You’ve always been right about me, Spencer. Under the right amount of pressure, I implode. I’m just not cut out for undercover work. I’m not as sharp as I am at the station, I’m not as clear-headed. I’ve forgotten how to do basic human things like sleep eight hours straight. They’re going to find out! They’ll find out I’m a fraud, a phony, a fake, a—”

Time slows down. Lassie wets his lips, a brief respite before rambling onward.

It catches Shawn’s eyes immediately. 

Oh. 

Shawn rushes forward and kisses him. 

It’s firm, majorly close-lipped. Mostly Shawn does it because he can’t bear to hear Lassiter degrade himself for another second. Not when he knows Lassie doesn’t truly feel that way about himself and is just stressed because of the lack of sleep, all this suburban noise—this damn case!

Then he realizes what he’s done. 

He just kissed Lassie. 

Is kissing Lassie. 

Lassie isn’t moving but he also isn’t pulling back. 

Okay then. 

Shawn pulls back, mouth agape to match Lassiter’s. 

They stare at each other, pure shock ricocheting between them like small lightning bolts. The electricity hurts, similar to magnetization, bouncing to-and-fro against Shawn’s heart, his temples, his knees which are barely holding his weight up now, and god, between his legs a bit. 

“Hah…” Shawn voices, bothered by how dry his own voice sounds. “Lass, I, uh…wow.”

“You just—”

“I did.”

Lassie sputters, “You—Did you just kiss me to shut me up?”

“Maybe,” Shawn answers, shrugging. “Yeah, a little.” 

“How dare you.” 

“What?! Are you saying that wasn’t in the top ten—sorry— five kisses of your lifetime? I’ve mastered the art of the kiss, I know I just rocked your world!” Unlikely, as even Shawn can agree, that was one of his more lackluster attempts at a kiss. Hey, he was really nervous and he didn’t know what he was doing—he shouldn’t be held accountable for that one, right? Damn it!

He’ll do it better next time.

Next time?

“I was in the middle of speaking,” Lassie shoots back. 

“Oh, is that all—”

The door swings open, causing Shawn to squeal like a pig. 

He jumps next to Lassie, huddling close. 

It’s just Juliet, thank the powers that be. 

Something about his father walking in right then would have made Shawn feel like eight kinds of shit. Jules is merely a mirage in a desert, though, because she comes bearing serious questions. 

Questions he’s not sure he nor Lassie are equipped to deal with right now. 

“You guys are acting much weirder than you normally are, which is saying something, especially about you, Shawn,” she says, crossing her arms. “Sorry,” she adds hastily, apologetic. 

“Truth is, Jules, we’re not doing so hot.” Shawn pauses. “Much like Jonathan Frakes in Star Trek: Nemesis.” Once he’s elbowed hard by Lassie for an innocent reference, he mutters with the hoarseness of a wise, elder wizard, “It’s true.” 

“What’s wrong? Is the case worse than we thought?”

“It’s not the case, O’Hara,” Lassiter replies bitterly. “It’s this damn house.” 

For a second, there’s just silence. 

Shawn shuffles his feet and fails not to gnaw on his lip. 

There’s still a taste of Lassie. Or maybe it’s Shawn’s imagination.

God, their lips fit together so well.

Then, Jules is speaking and he’s unfortunately startled back into reality. 

“It’s…the house?”

All Shawn wanted was for his friends and family to see him and Lassie here and understand that they’re in need of zero assistance. That they adjust just fine to the standard suburban lifestyle. 

Instead he’s here, pathetically admitting,

“Yeah, we’ve been having trouble adjusting.”

“Uh huh.”

“Don’t act like that’s so unbelievable,” Lassiter mumbles. “I didn’t go to the academy for this!”

Shawn chimes in with, “He didn’t go to the academy for it!” 

He does it just so Lassie knows how silly his comment is. It doesn’t work exactly the way he wants, though, because it comes out all strained and sweet and agreeable, and now Lassie’s nodding, biting a knuckle in a display of anxiety so blatant it might as well be in flashing neon lights.

SHAWN JUST KISSED ME!

Blinking into Juliet’s unwavering stare.

“Well,” Shawn says, snapping fully back into conversation/deflection mode and not…whatever mode that just was. “As much as I’d love to stay and chat with you both here, there’s Lassirole out there, and I’m pretty sure I can actually hear it calling my name.” 

“Stop,” Jules says, and her tone actually makes him freeze in place, wobbling. “What is going on here? Because the way I see it, all you two have to do is exist here while you solve a case.”

Lassie speaks around his knuckle. “I can’t make this house into a home, O’Hara.”

“Yeah, he didn’t go to the academy for that,” Shawn says, again aiming for biting and ending up somewhere very soft, eyeing his Head Detective as he says it.

“Right. Carlton, no one’s asking you to be Martha Stewart.”

“Well, she’s a convicted criminal who’s served jail time.” Lassie shrugs, like that’s a normal thing to bring up. “I wouldn’t exactly call her a role model.”

“I don’t know, Lassie. You in that apron earlier seemed pretty—”

“ My point is, ” Jules interrupts, planting her hands on her hips. “I think you’re both reading too much into this cover, guys.” She tosses her hands up, dropping her impression of Chief Vick until she’s just the Jules that Shawn knows, loves, and definitely doesn’t want to be related to. “You’re acting like you’re actually… married. ”

“Well, now, that’s just ridiculous.” Shawn turns, leaning a little more into Lassie’s space. “Lassie would never go for someone like me. Haven’t you ever seen his type? It’s clearly women who scare people. I’m afraid I’m just not that intimidating. I do look great in most blouses, though—”

Jules yells, “Shawn!” at the same time as Lassie mumbles, “What?”

Shawn puts his hands up in mock surrender.

“You’re not helping, Shawn.” Juliet crosses her arms, feet shifting. She’s wrapping up. “Look, you only have to stay here for as long as it takes you to solve the case, right? Just work together, guys! I mean, you’re incredible at what you do—and yes, I mean both of you.”

Shawn turns to Lassie, who gives him a look best interpreted as I guess so.

“All we have to do is exist, huh?”

Maybe so.

Shawn thinks long and hard about how to cheer Lassie up. 

Besides kissing him. 

Because Shawn wants to kiss him, again and again and again, but he thinks Lassie might be mad about it. After they’d driven everyone back Lassie had been silent, refusing to even acknowledge any of Shawn’s conversation starters, non sequiturs, or very funny jokes. He’d gone straight to bed when they got home.

And it’s totally because Lassie is upset, and not at all about Shawn freaking out. Shawn’s not freaking out. He’s not.

Thus, the cheering up.

In snooping around the house for that exact purpose, he comes up entirely empty handed. It’s almost 3am, and Lassie is, thankfully, dead asleep. Shawn knows that because he’d spent ten minutes rummaging through everything in the Detective’s slightly disheveled—and entirely out of character—room.

He’d also made some very silly faces at the sleeping man, and Lassie hadn’t even moved so much as a twitch.

See? Definitely asleep.

Shawn heads back downstairs, disappointed and over-tired to the point of energized again, just in time for the morning paper to be delivered. “3 am?” He grabs it, ducking back inside away from the chill. “That’s ridiculously early.”

As he’s setting the paper on the table for Lassie to peruse over coffee, he catches a glimpse of something at the fold.

Animal shelter adoption event starting today.

He reads a little further, taking in everything about the overfilled shelter and the wave of spring litters now aged enough to take home and—

There he is. Three pages over as the article continues.

The shelter’s newest additions include this adorable eight-week old German Shepard (pictured above).

Shawn’s got his keys in his hand before he can think about all the ways this could go wrong. 

“Lassie,” he says aloud, into the stupidly big house and the never ending droning of the pool filter and the obnoxious, perfectly timed beep! “Prepare to meet Lassie Jr.”

“You better have a good reason for waking me up an hour early,” Lassiter hisses, though he’s not resisting as Shawn leads him by the hand, downstairs. “I need my full eight hours, Dennis. You know I haven’t been sleeping. ” 

As if he was managing to sleep anyway, with that blasted beeping.

Shawn can see the dark circles under his eyes. 

(They make him even hotter, somehow). 

“Oh, trust me, it’s more than a good reason. It’s like a hundred great reasons mixed into a really yummy jawbreaker, save for the breaking of your jaw, and edibility,” Shawn giddily responds. 

He’s got a firm grip on Lassie’s fingers, and Lassie’s gripping firmly back. 

So, he’s not completely in the dog house (hah).

Sweet. 

To keep it a surprise, he tries not to eye the dog he’s left on the couch, all snuggled up on a big grandma-pillow, staring its big googly eyes up at the two of them. He then drops Lassie’s hand. 

The sunrise casts an orange glow over the room. 

Lassiter puts his hands on his hips, one brow tilted up as if to ask, what is this about then?

“Juliet was right,” Shawn states. “I mean, she usually is, but still. This time she was really right.”

Confusion twists up Lassie’s face adorably. 

“What are you on about?”

“All we have to do is exist here, man. I know you probably feel left out when I’m at the station, all cooped up here like a parakeet in a cage. A really nice cage, mind you. With a pool that we could totally be using if—” He stops himself, knowing better than to taunt right now. “Hey, I digress.” 

Lassiter sighs, then frowns when Shawn bends to pick up a clipboard he left on the coffee table. 

“What is that?” he mutters, suspicious. 

“A to-do list.”

“What?!” 

“Babe,” Shawn whines, “You ask too many questions.” He shoves the clipboard with a bullet pointed list into Lassie’s hands, watching with a smile as Lassiter reads over the instructions.

He smiles wider as he expects the good news to be sinking in at any minute.

“I think you’ll go stir crazy if you just keep scrambling for answers about the case instead of, I don’t know, just living life a little. We’re not even paying for this place. You should bask in the luxury, and hey, find companionship in the form of things not shaped like Jimmy the pool guy.”

Lassiter meets him with a sour glare for that one. 

No, Shawn will never drop Lassie whoring himself out to the pool guy. 

“So you gave me chores.”

“Hey now. Incentives. To not go insane. Just for a little while longer.” 

“But these don’t even make any sense, Spencer,” Lassiter posits, brandishing the clipboard like Shawn didn’t write out the list himself ten minutes prior. “We don’t have a dog. Why is the first thing listed here ‘name the dog’?” 

“Are you sure about that?” 

Shawn smugly directs his gaze to the dog on the couch. 

“What do you mean am—Am I sure we don’t have a dog?” Lassiter sputters viciously. “Wow, let me think of that one for a minute, oh wait, I don’t have to. I know we don’t have a damn dog!”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Shawn replies, biting his lip in excitement. 

He stares intently at the dog in question. He’s surprised the thing hasn’t yipped or whimpered yet. He would take any help he could get at this (awkward) stage. 

“Mac, I think I would know if we had a dog on the premises.” 

“Oh for—Turn around, Lassie.”

Lassie rolls his eyes and turns around. 

He immediately sees the dog, freezes for a few seconds, then turns to face Shawn looking like he’s seen a ghost. He does a double take and Shawn tries not to grin as the reality sets in for him. 

“What is that animal doing on our living room couch?” utters Lassie.

Shawn frowns, having expected ecstatic declarations. 

Not this weird tight-lipped uncertainty (and fear?).

“That’s not just any animal,” Shawn explains, circling around him to pick up the puppy. It fits in the palm of his hand, it’s so small. He kisses it sporadically and then holds it out to Lassiter who eyes it with—honest to God, not making this up—a detective’s suspicion. “It’s our new dog.” 

The dog barks, to assert its existence. 

“Spencer, you’re expecting me to conduct an investigation and take care of a pet at the same time?” he finally exclaims, the pitch of his voice shooting sky high. “Are you actually crazy?” 

“Please, it’s not like it’s a newborn baby. What else are you doing?”

“Cooking, cleaning!” 

“Cleaning what—just, okay, here.” Shawn pushes the puppy against his chest so that Lassie is forced to take it into his hands. And he does take little Lassie Jr., so gently, Shawn’s heart strains. 

Lassiter instantly falls quiet the second his hands are on its soft pelt.

He strokes it, melting right before Shawn’s eyes. 

“It’s a police breed,” he murmurs eventually. 

“You know that’s right,” Shawn says with a smile. “God, you two together. Seeing this is so much cuter than I imagined it would be. I wanna take a family portrait, or, oh! We can get some professional painter to paint us a family portrait, like one of those ugly renaissance paintings!” 

“We’re not doing that.”

“One step at a time, then.” 

Then, a grin breaks over Lassiter’s face. 

“Hi there, little one. Hi, how are you?” Lassie whispers into its ear. The puppy snuggles closer, mewling a little. Shawn’s heart is now undergoing full palpitations at the sight—he might die. 

“Now that you and Lassie Jr. are acquainted—” 

“Excuse me. I thought my first task was to name the dog.”

Shawn is so baffled, he’s speechless.

“Well, yeah, but the name is obvious, no?”

Lassie scoffs. “What just because Lassie’s a dog’s name?”

“Yes, actually.” 

Lassiter seems stumped by that, then says, 

“Spencer is just as much a dog’s name as Lassie is. And I don’t have to shorten your legal name into some lame nickname to use it like you do with mine.”

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I’m sorry, hey peanut gallery,” Shawn gestures to the walls, knowing that they’re the only people that can hear them, “Can anybody in a five mile radius name a dog movie called Spencer? No? How about a ten mile radius, how about a fifty mile—”

“Enough. Fine, Lassie Jr.” Lassiter hugs their dog closer, giving it a quick kiss on the forehead as if Shawn isn’t staring at him outright and won’t notice (fuck, it’s so fucking cute, he’s going to squish them both to death—it may not be good to voice that aloud). Quickly, he rectifies, “It’s only because my name isn’t actually Lassie anyway. It’s the name of some husky on television.” 

Shawn gasps with flair, mouth formed into a perfect ‘o’. 

“Lassie was— is —a collie.” He drapes a hand over his heart. “She’s an American hero!” 

“She’s dead.” 

The gasp turns into a stuttered series of gasps, as Shawn surges forward to tenderly cover the ears of their baby— dog —from the vile words of his husband. Lassiter rolls his eyes fondly. 

Then, Shawn realizes how close they’re standing.

He’s running on a severe lack of sleep and perhaps the high he always gets from bad decision making, and all he can think about is how Lassie is close enough to kiss…just like yesterday. 

He leans forward, over Lassie Jr’s tiny little head, and then—

Lassie meets him halfway.

Shawn groans into the chaste kiss, one hand leaving Jr’s ear to cup Lassie’s head, thumbing over his cheek as he tilts his head, deepening it. Their noses bump, and Shawn laughs, turning his face ever further, mashing his smile against Lassie’s.

Lassie takes a step forward, and Shawn goes with it, backing up until his calves hit the couch and he drops, dragging both man and dog down with him. 

There’s something deeply fulfilling about Lassie in his lap for a change. Something about his knees sinking into the couch cushions and his bony ass on Shawn’s thighs and his narrow hips beneath Shawn’s fingers, all while those lips—those lips that are always frowning, except for now—move against Shawn’s like he’s trying to devour him.

When Lassie licks into his mouth, Shawn abandons his hips, grabbing at his head instead to bring him even closer. The movement squishes Jr. between them, a warm bundle of fur touching its cold nose all over Shawn’s neck. A little distracting, but a lot cute; he laughs again, tugging Lassie’s hair and thumbing over his big, beautiful ears.

“Dennis,” Lassie groans, leaning back, and Shawn’s suddenly disappointed by a whole bunch of things. Lassie leaning back. Dennis. “Did your dog just pee on me?”

“Oh?” Shawn’s hands are on Lassie’s hips again. He hasn’t tried to get up, but Shawn’s hands are there anyway. Stay. Please stay. “So now he’s my dog? I’m pretty sure he’s named after you, Lassie-face.”

“Spencer,” Lassie snarls. “Let go of me. I think I just got peed on.”

“Indeed you did,” Shawn says, because he can see the wet spot on Lassie’s silky pajamas. “Only a little, though. I wouldn’t make a big deal about it—”

“ Shawn! ”

Lassie goes to shower, and Shawn takes Jr. out to the backyard to run around. 

Neighbor Paully may be an irritating nuisance, but he is right about one thing. It’s hot. Hot at 7 am in the morning as Shawn perches on the edge of one of their pool recliners and laments never having dipped his entire body into the glorious body of water before him.

Jr. flops down on the ground in front of him, tuckered out from a well-earned bout of zoomies.

“You’re a bad boy, you know that?” Shawn reaches down to scratch between the puppy’s ears.
“You should know never to interrupt me when I’m making out with Daddy.”

“Don’t call me that.” Lassie comes up behind him, dressed in a robe and wearing a towel on his head. Cute.  

“Well what should I call you? I believe you’ve already vetoed baby boy and daddy. That doesn’t leave you with a whole lot of options for your role here.”

Lassie sits down next to him on the recliner… leg part. “You could call me Sir. ”

That should not be the most erotic thing Shawn’s ever heard, and yet, here they are. Lassie has a goddamned towel wrapped around his head! Nothing and no one should make Shawn feel like this when they look like that.  

“Oh my god,” Lassie says, smiling. “Did I just find a way to make you shut up?”

“What?” Shawn’s voice totally doesn’t catch in his throat. “No. Absolutely not. Don’t be ridiculous, babe. I just—”

“You should see your face,” Lassie says, reaching down to scoop Jr. into his hands. “I’ve seen poison ivy rashes less red than you are right now.”

“You shut your mouth,” Shawn says, watching him walk toward the back door. “We’re going swimming,” he calls after Lassie’s soft blue plaid covered back. “Tonight!” 

He stares at the flat, clear blue water. 

“Tonight,” he repeats, all to himself, thinking.

Shit. What now?

Shawn hangs out back there for a while longer, noting that David and Emily have a visitor. It’s the lady that may or may not have just gotten a promotion, which is weird, because the gun-having veggie freaks don’t seem like they’d be friends with a woman who gives off alarmingly similar vibes to Mrs. Peacock. 

And now he’s just wishing his neighbor could actually be Eileen Brennan. He bets she’d make a delicious banana bread.

Now he’s thinking about banana bread.

Shawn goes back inside before Mrs. Peacock comes out of David and Emily’s house, accepting a cup of coffee from Lassie, who, apparently, is going to be carrying Jr. around for the foreseeable future.

“You do know he has legs, right?” Shawn settles at the table, pouring himself his fifth bowl of cereal today. God, he needs to start sleeping.

“Of course he does.” Lassie looks unreasonably proud, shaking one of Jr’s adorable paws at Shawn. “It’s a big house, Dennis. I don’t want him getting lost.”

“I’m sure that’s your reasoning,” Shawn teases. “It has nothing to do with you falling in love with a small, furry man.”

“Are you talking about the dog, or you?” 

Lassie immediately seems to regret what he’s just said, while Shawn is latched, leech style, to the implication of love.

“Not that I love—I don’t love anyone,” Lassie says, clearly trying to backtrack, and failing miserably. “Well, I mean, I love my mother, but then she became a lesbian and—not that there’s anything wrong with that, I just—I love…! I…I love justice .” Lassie’s face crumples, and then he walks away, out of the kitchen and up the stairs before Shawn can even attempt to process anything that just happened.

“O—kay.” Shawn takes a bite of his soggy cereal. “Love you too, Lassie.”

He’s not thinking about it. He’s not thinking about any of it. The smoke alarm beeps obnoxiously, and, upstairs, Lassie Jr. barks at it.

Shit.

Shawn tells Chief Vick about David and Emily, and also about Mrs. Peacock visiting them. He doesn’t rat out Blue Suburban for the whole weed thing, though, because first of all, who cares, and secondly, he’s starting to think he’d survive the ‘burbs way easier if Lassie took up smoking.

Personally, he’s not a fan. Apparently genius and jazz cabbage don’t mix very well. He’d spent an entire night freaking out, convinced the cops were going to find him, arrest him, and maybe taser him. All very reasonable assumptions when you’re hiding in your childhood bedroom, Henry goddamn Spencer right downstairs.

Gus, on the other hand, had found it all very funny, and then immediately fallen asleep on the floor of Shawn’s closet.

Shawn would very much like Lassie to find him funny and then fall asleep. Preferably in his bed, although Shawn would gladly do a sleepover in Lassie’s room if that’s what it takes. 

He totally zones out in the chief’s office, and again a minute later when Jules starts explaining something about very dangerous and keep an eye out. In his world, he’s kissing Lassie again. If there’s one good thing his parents ever did for him, it was giving him the ability to perfectly recall the way Lassie kisses. The feeling of his lips, the stale, minty taste, the weight of him in Shawn’s lap.

Sure, the solving murders thing is good too.

But he can solve murders anywhere, and he can find Mrs. Peacocks anywhere. Miss Scarlets, however, are hard to come by. If he saw a carbon copy of her in their neighborhood, well then.

Mr. Green wasn’t his only sexual awakening from Clue . 

Shawn thinks in another universe Lassiter could’ve been a convincing Mr. Green, or maybe Professor Plum, but certainly not—no actually, he’s exactly like Colonel Mustard with the attractiveness of Yvette. Now he’s daydreaming about Lassie in a maid outfit, not too dissimilar to the apron he wore earlier but with a lot more skin showing and a feminine ‘V’ brandishing that hollowed neck… 

His daydreaming takes him through the station and out the door—much like a cartoon character being led through the air by the visible scent of a warm apple pie—putting him in such a daze, he really has no clue (hah) how he got outside or how any of his discussions about the case ended. 

So, despite the blaring red warning sign in his brain telling him he’s too sleep-deprived to drive safely, he hops behind the wheel of the car and heads off towards Applebees for a triple chocolate meltdown, the Lassirole be damned (but it's not as if he won’t partake eagerly later). 

The problem is, he dozes off at Applebees. 

For like, five hours longer than he planned on staying which was already edging further into the evening than Lassie would be happy with. The woman waiting on him was too polite to wake him, apparently, and is only doing so now because they’re closing early due to short wait staff. 

“Fuck, fuck me, fuck,” he grumbles, brown crumbles of lava cake streaking his stubble. God, he hasn’t shaved in days. He hopes Lassie likes beard burn—hell, maybe he does. Maybe he’s kinky like that. Please. Shawn groans, knowing he’s in for an earful when he gets back. If he gets back. 

He stands after paying the bill and nearly crumbles. 

His legs are jelly, and not in the fun post-orgasm way.

It’s in the pins and needles rushing up and down his ankle bones and calves way that has him wincing and whimpering with every step. 

The singular upside to this is that the traffic has dissipated this late into the night.

It’s only around nine (closer to ten), though he isn’t sure if he should be hopeful Lassiter is still awake or if he decided to go to bed. The latter is probably true but maybe that’s wishful thinking. 

When Shawn enters their house, with thankfully no threatening note on the doorstep to speak of, he hears a barrage of barking and excited yipping. If Lassie was asleep, he’s definitely not now. 

Shawn picks Lassie Jr. up and kisses his wet nose, nuzzling into those pointy little ears. His attention is drawn by another beeping sound (are the noises coming closer together now?), and when he looks over to their first living room, he sees the back of Lassie’s head peeking over the sofa. 

He’s staring blankly at the television which is…sideways. 

“TV’s not working,” Lassie mumbles when Shawn enters the space, setting their dog down to toddle and sniff around curiously. 

There’s a stale smell of casserole in the air. After a nauseating intake of sugar and lactose, Shawn’s stomach can’t help but turn at the thought of indulging in any more of the same food. 

Not that he doesn’t love it, he does, but the same old same old wears him down. It always has. Just ask Gus who knows not to bring him to McDonald’s three days in a row without risking a meltdown of magnificent proportions. Akin to an annoying five-year-old’s temper tantrum. 

“Did you…try to fix it?” Shawn asks. 

He doesn’t realize that might come off as a nag until he says it. 

He’s just genuinely curious how the thing all but came off its hinges. 

“What do you think?” Lassie asks darkly. Slowly, much like Dracula after a three-hundred year nap, rises from the couch, back still turned to Shawn. “Why were you gone so late, Dennis?” 

“Got caught up with Gus,” Shawn easily lies. “He needed help with…erm, pharmaceutical stuff. You know, your Viagras, your supreme Viagaras. Gus has always had erectile dysfunction,” he jokes with an entirely serious tone. “It really explains all of his behavior if you think about it.”   

Lassie doesn’t laugh, barely turning to face him.

“Is that so,” he drones. 

Then, he’s heading off towards the stairs.

“Aren’t you gonna tell me what you’ve figured out today?” Shawn asks, suddenly desperate. He didn’t expect this strangely cold, stilted interaction when he got home. Anger, maybe. Not…this. 

“Nothing out of the ordinary.” 

That doesn’t sound like the Lassie he knows. 

Shawn listens as he stomps up the stairs, the beat like a funeral march.

He rolls his eyes and shouts out, “Goodnight to you too, Jack Torrance!” 

Something wet nudges at his heel. 

Shawn sighs, picking up Jr. again. 

He brings him up to his bedroom and feels more at peace with his inner turmoil with Jr. wrapped up in a little ball on the unused pillow. He wakes up far too early to the scent of dog piss and sighs. 

With nothing to give Vick the next morning, Shawn comes straight home instead of going to Applebees or taking other detours. Maybe it’s mercy, or maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s masochism because Shawn ends up getting stuck in miles long traffic on the way home, despite his efforts. 

He’s trying to be there for Lassie. He’s trying to be a good husband! 

“I’m trying to provide! But papa needs his Applebees time, damn it! And so what if I had a triple chocolate meltdown just for me yesterday, it’s not like anyone should hold grudges about that, let alone their housewives— husbands, partners in crime— justice, fuck!” He shouts at the cars in front of him that can surely not hear him. “Oh, for the love of—merge goddamn you, merge!” 

The cars refuse to merge.

Another car attempts to merge into his lane. 

Apparently nobody has ever learned how to drive. Which is saying something because Shawn has never been a good driver to begin with. 

“Not letting you in!” Shawn hollers, voice shrill. “I’m not letting any of you traitors in! Read the goddamn room— road —you motherfuckers! Do you see anybody else merging into this lane?!” 

Finally, Shawn arrives home. 

“Hot one today, isn’t—”

Shawn doesn’t look at Paully. He raises his hand holding the keys in his direction, as if to say shut the fuck up before I end you, and marches up to the chipper doormat by their front door. 

“Hot one today, isn’t it?” he mutters to himself, infusing a childish edge to his tone, “Yeah, like yesterday wasn’t a hot one. And the day before wasn’t a goddamn hot one. Every day is a hot one. I have human skin, is that not, like, visible to the human eye? Doesn’t Paully know I have skin and can feel heat like any other organism susceptible to the electromagnetic spectrum?!” 

He tosses the car keys on the kitchen counter.

They slide off without him noticing. 

“I hope to god that Paully did it. I hope he’s got a basement full of dead people just so he can rot in jail for a thousand years. And maybe get stabbed with a shiv by a curly haired prisoner named Joe-Schmo the Relentless Impaler!”

Lassie doesn’t look at him. He’s staring out into the backyard where, upon inspection, Jr. is chasing a squirrel. 

“Look at that,” Shawn says, leaning over the counter. “He’s just like his daddy.”

“I thought I told you not to call me that,” Lassie mumbles, one hand in the sink, limply stirring the dishwater inside an oily pot.

“That you did. Do I look like I care, though?”

Lassie looks over at him, eyeing him up and down blandly. “Not really.”

“Very astute, Mac, ” Shawn sneers, and he’s not even sure why. Maybe because picking a fight would at least get Lassie up. Rearing and ready to go and with zero hands in the dirty dishes. “I’ll call you whatever I want. Always have, always will. So I’m sorry if you’re offended by me calling you ‘Daddy’ or ‘Baby boy’ or ‘St. Lassifer Cosmas Damian the third.’”

Lassie shrugs. “Whatever.”

“You—Nothing? Really? Nothing for ‘St. Lassifer Cosmas Damian the third?!’”

“Aren’t Cosmas and Damian the patron saints of barbers?”

“Yeah, and surgeons, and confectioners, and twins. They got around. You know what? Screw you.” Shawn isn’t even sure why he’s so mad, beyond that he is, and the goddamn pool filter won’t stop running, and he can smell the Lassirole in the oven, which means they’re going to eat Lassirole. For dinner. Again.

“Twins, huh?” Lassie’s back to blankly staring out at Jr. “I used to wish I was a twin.”

“Oh, really?! You’re not special, you know. I had a whole imaginary world where me and my twin sister Shawna were crime fighting—sometimes crime causing—superheros, a la Wonder Twins, alright?!”

“That’s a terrible name for your twin. ‘Shawn’ and ‘Shawna?’”

“And what’s your twin named, huh? Carlton and Carla not good enough for you?”

“I already have a sister. You met Lauren.”

“Yeah, well, she’s not your twin. ”

Shawn’s about to storm off. To rush Paully’s basement all by himself, maybe; a one-man swat team dedicated to taking down aggravating neighbors. In his head, an odd rendition of the intro to ‘So You Think You Can Dance.’ So you think you can… So you think you can… So you think you can murder! 

Yeah. Maybe he does.

Lassie clears his throat.

“I—I used to imagine a twin brother.”

“Nice,” Shawn says, not bothering to turn around. “What was his name, then? Cra—Craerlton? Cucumberton? Cuuuuurlton? ”

“No.”

Lassie sighs, a deep, tremendous sound. Shawn slaps a hand on the wall to keep from doing something worse. 

“He didn’t have one.”

Shawn stares down the empty hallway. 

There are dog treats crushed into the carpet. Dog toys scattered everywhere. Three mismatched individual socks, somehow, in a trail up to the stairs. 

“Well, now, Lassie.” Shawn steps over a squeaky toy. The smoke alarm beeps. “That’s just sad.”

Shawn can’t help it. Lassie, wild-haired and exhausted, sets another goddamn plate of Lassirole in front of him, and Shawn can’t fucking help it.

He picks it up, and tosses it down the hall.

Lassie doesn’t even blink. He just sits down, with his mess of salt-n-pepper hair flopping around, and raises a bite to his mouth.

“How can you still eat that?” Shawn digs his fingernails into the table. “I mean, seriously, I can’t even look at you eating it right now.”

“So don’t look,” Lassie says, talking with his mouth full like a goddamn feral child. 

Shawn suddenly, disturbingly, understands Henry’s assertion that Lassiter was raised by wolves. “Did you even bother getting dressed today?”

Lassie’s blue-blue eyes are staring right through him. “I don’t think so.” 

“You don’t—You don’t know?! ”

Lassie shrugs. “Been a long day. Long couple of days. Long life. Here. With you.”

“Oh, fuck off, Lassie.”

Down the hall, Jr. is sniffing at the exploded frisbee of Lassirole.

“Your dog is going to swallow porcelain.”

“What?” Lassie turns, yelping, rushing for Jr. before he can open his tiny little mouth. “Ah—shit! Were you just going to let him—?!”

“No, of course not.” Shawn’s not sure why his voice sounds so flat. He means it, though. He’d never let an innocent dog get hurt. Not even to spite Lassie.

“Jackass,” Lassie accuses him, sitting back down with Jr. in his lap, letting the puppy eat directly off his plate.

“There, you see? Lassirole is dog food. And—god, you know what? That is disgusting. That is absolutely revolting.”

“I told you,” Lassie says, taking a big, heaping forkful right from the spot Jr’s licking. “Don’t like it? Don’t look. ”

Shawn can’t sleep. Where? 1313 Hell Street. Why? The pool filter. When? Ever.

He’s staring up at the ceiling, listening to the smoke alarm chirp, muffled through the door. 182 seconds: chirp. 7 seconds after that: chirp number two.

Repeat.

Every three minutes.

Between chirps? The fucking pool filter.

He struggles out of bed, stalking out of his room and down the stairs, a sleepy puppy flopping in close pursuit behind him

“It’s your dog, Lassie,” Shawn says to himself, letting Jr. out the back to pee, hoping to avoid another incident. He watches the little brown fluff run back and forth in the wet grass. “You should be up at all hours of the night letting him piss. In the dark, mind you.”

Never mind that Shawn hadn't been asleep anyway. Never mind that Lassie isn’t even around to hear him.

Shawn watches Jr. for a few more minutes. It’s as he’s whistling to call him back inside that he sees it.

A light.

Just a flash, like someone accidentally turned on a flashlight from their hiding spot in Shawn’s backyard, only to shut it off a second later.

Actually, it’s exactly like that.

Shawn races back upstairs, Jr. in his arms, not even bothering to knock on Lassie’s door as he barges in.

“Lassie!—Mac! McLassie!”

Lassie has a pillow crushed around both ears and he’s snarling at the ceiling. It’s not a promising stance, if Shawn’s being honest, but it doesn’t stop him from setting Jr. down on the bed and crowding close enough to blurt out, “There’s someone with a flashlight in our backyard, Lassie!” 

Despite the stress and the sleep-deprivation, Lassiter’s eyes sharpen at that. 

His mojo is back, at least temporarily, and he’s surging up, tossing the pillow aside and grabbing a gun from—Shawn has no clue where he just spawned this thing from but he also doesn’t care—somewhere, soon loading it with the efficiency of someone in interpol, not the SBPD. 

Shawn is hot on Lassie’s heels as he charges out of his bedroom and down the stairs. 

“Dude, now is so not the time, but you are so fucking sexy right now!” Shawn whispers frantically, nearly colliding into him as Lassiter halts at the bottom of the steps, peering down the hall towards the backdoor for any sign of intrusion. He keeps moving, Shawn following swiftly.

“You’re going to need to get quiet fast, Spencer.” 

“Aye aye, Captain.” 

Lassiter hesitates at that title, for an extremely brief instance, but Shawn makes sure to log it in his mind that Lassiter very much likes being called ‘captain’ no matter what he denies later on. 

He smirks as Lassie opens their back door. 

The pool shines purple under the moonlight. 

“They must’ve left when they heard the commotion,” Shawn suggests, disappointed, as they scan the perimeter and come away with nothing. He’s not sure exactly what commotion could’ve scared them off. Their dog yipping, or Lassie’s bigfoot stomping down the stairs and hall maybe. 

“Son of a bitch,” Lassiter growls, whipping around in nothing but his droopy pajamas. He probably needs to toss those in the wash by now, and Shawn somewhat wants to offer to strip him of them right this instant because he’s feeling so unsuccessful that he’s horny. He gets horny when he can’t accomplish things because, hey, if he can’t achieve anything, he may as well fuck. 

None of those dirty thoughts come to fruition, however, because Lassiter stops having the temper tantrum of a four-year-old. He’s fallen quiet, staring at the biggest bush in their backyard. 

Shawn strides over, peering over Lassie’s shoulder. 

There’s a boot stuck in the bramble, as if whoever had been wearing it got it caught and he knew it was either his life on the line or risk leaving the boot, so he left it. Or she. Who knows, really. 

Shawn dramatically raises two fingers to his temple. 

His memory tells him this shoe wasn’t there before, when he was sitting by the pool outside earlier in the day. Lassie doesn’t need to know that he doesn’t remember seeing it here, however. 

“The spirits are telling me this was not here this morning.” 

“Are the spirits telling you who it belongs to?” Lassie asks, bending to pick it up. 

“I think…” Yes, Shawn knows whose it is. “I believe this belongs to Emily.” He remembers her gardening with this specific shoe. The faded flowers at the bottom are quite specific and he’d recall them even without an eidetic memory. “I’m getting a vision of her bent over those snap peas, these boots on. If…” Shawn feels ecstatic, piecing things together. “If she’s in on it, maybe her husband is too.” He remembers how in sync they were, how overly defensive of their crops too. Shawn is an exemplary people reader, and he knows. “Actually, I’m all but certain he is.”  

While Lassiter never buys his psychic bullshit, he knows when to listen to Shawn.

“You have to tell the chief. As soon as possible.” 

“Right, yeah,” Shawn agrees with a large yawn. “When the sun actually decides to come out, cause I don’t think she’d appreciate me showing up to the station at the buttfuck hours of dawn.”

“The buttfuck hours?”

Okay no buttfucking. Not yet, anyway. 

“I don’t know, Lass. I’m tired.”

“Wait, hang on.” Lassiter turns the boot over in his hands. “Light. We need light.”

The two of them convene in the living room, enough lights turned on to make Shawn wince, and Lassie points at the brown stain in the grains of the soles that doesn’t match the other browns. 

“This isn’t soil,” Lassie hisses. “This is blood.”

Shawn feels faint. 

“Okay. I’ll bring it then, um, give it to Woody. He can probably get us an I.D.”

“And see if it matches any of the three bodies found.”

This could be their ticket out. 

Shawn is going to pass out. Everything is coming to an end. He should want it to. Part of him doesn’t want it, though. Part of him just wants to spiral into madness here alone in the middle of nowhere because at least Lassie would be by his side until the end. At least that’d be certain. 

They meet each other’s eyes. 

Lassiter looks so much more tired than he feels and Shawn wants to feel bad, he does, but he’s tired too. Luckily, they’re both too tired to continue that passive aggressive communication from earlier.

“Come get the dog from my room,” Lassie insists softly. 

He may like the dog but he hasn’t quite upgraded to sleeping in the same room with it yet. It might be that he loves it, he just doesn’t trust it. Shawn is too exhausted to argue with him. 

They leave the boot on the coffee table and head upstairs. 

Somewhere along the way, Shawn really does pass out. Or half-way passes out. He remembers Lassie’s strong arms (seriously, so hot) lugging him the rest of the way and right into…his bed. Not Shawn’s bed. He remembers being tucked in, though, with the bed never dipping, not once. Lassiter left, bringing the dog with him. When Shawn wakes up later, groggily, to bright sunlight casting over him from the window, he feels rested enough to drive which is an actual miracle. 

However, he remains incredibly confused.

He worries Lassie didn’t get any sleep. 

He’s also semi-curious if Lassie went to sleep in his bed.

When he gets downstairs, there is coffee hot in the pot, yet no Lassie in sight. Nervously, he chugs it down and grabs the car keys from off the floor. He considers leaving a note, then decides against it. Lassiter knows he’s going to the station, and wherever he is, Shawn is sure he’s being careful. Or perhaps that’s just wishful thinking since Lassiter hasn’t been this strung out in ages. 

Shawn hops in the car and heads off. 

The one thing he truly takes away from talking to Chief Vick are the words “don’t do anything rash until the blood test comes back” and that’s when he worries about not having checked in with Lassie before leaving the cul-de-sac, because who knows whose basement he’s snooping. 

Lassie better not be making any rash detective decisions, not that Shawn has ever stayed away from rash decision-making in the past. It’s just not fun when his fake husband is doing it and risking his life, potentially. Probably not. Hopefully not—please don’t be. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

When he gets home— shit, he should probably stop calling it that, now— Lassie and Jr. aren’t there. He scopes the whole inside of the house, including all the closets, and then the backyard, coming up empty in every single spot.

He rushes back out front, confronted by the sight of Lassie.

Before he can rejoice, Lassie looks up, listing, holding onto an exhausted puppies leash.

He’s completely covered in dirt. Their tiny German Shepard son is flopped onto the ground, snuffling half-heartedly at a leaf.

Shawn notes that it’s a suspiciously familiar leaf, and it’s not the only one. In fact, there are several others, all clinging onto Lassie’s crumpled slacks. He knows he’s seen them before — but where?

He tosses his hands up, asking the first question on his mind. “Dude, what are you doing?! ”

“Walking the dog,” Lassie deadpans.

“Haven’t seen you for a bit. Staying inside for this heatwave, huh?”

Shawn turns away from Lassie to face Paully. He’s gonna have to ask Gus if real people can have nemesis…es? Nemeses? Numa numa yeahises? Neme—It doesn’t matter. What does matter, is that Paully is it.

Shawn’s Moby Dick. 

Scratch that. There will be time for jokes later.

For now, he has a goddamn neighbor to take down.

Shawn sneers, “It’s hot, huh? Yeah. It is super hot. Yeah. It’s getting real hot around here.” 

He takes a step forward, yanking at his t-shirt.

“So hot, Paully. But you don’t really know what hot is, do you? Hot’s a storm.”

Lassie eyes him blandly as he tosses his shirt aside, popping his jeans open.

“You ever been in a storm, Paully? I mean, a real storm? Not a thunderstorm, but a storm of fists, raining down on your head .”

He toes off his shoes, tugging his jeans and pineapple boxers down in one easy motion, kicking them off behind him.

“Blasting you in the face. Pummeling you in the stomach. Hitting you so hard you think your heart’s gonna stop.”

Shawn gets closer, crowding, giving Lassie a good old view of his ass while he’s at it.

“You ever been in a storm like that, Jack?! ”

Shawn screams, throwing, what Henry would call, a temper tantrum. It’s not a temper tantrum, though. It’s a totally reasonable, totally deserved, fucking storm, and he’s gonna unleash it all on—

“Dennis.”

This goddamn bitchass motherfucker neighbor, always talking about heat and weather like he’s some sort of fucking weatherman. Shawn’s been a weatherman—or, at least, weatherman-once-removed. He knows so much more than this—

“Dennis.”

“ What?! ” 

He turns to Lassie, seething, fingernails digging into his palms. The worst part? It is hot out. He’s starting to sweat.

“Who are you talking to?” Lassie asks, and when Shawn goes to point a finger at the nemesis himself…

He isn’t there.

Shawn has a perfect memory of stripping to his birthday suit on the lawn, and yet. Fully clothed when he glances down. Didn’t even take off his shoes.

“Oh. No—No one. I guess.” Shawn makes a mental note to ask his mom about it the next time she bothers to tell him she’s in town. “Let’s just—Let’s get you inside, huh?”

“Sure,” Lassie says. Shawn has to pick Jr. up as they go in, because the puppy is too worn out to move, and Lassie doesn’t seem to realize he can walk first.

“Okay. In we go. That’s it.

Shawn herds them all inside before he actually strips naked and screams in someone's face—weird fantasy, looking back—and before Lassie, extremely sleep deprived and vacant, does anything as radical as, say, shoot everyone in the cul-de-sac, and then himself.

“Let’s eat, shall we?”

“I made dinner,” Lassie monotones.

“ Of course you did. Where would the world be without—Oh, look! Another fucking Lassirole!”

Shawn sits down, and lets Lassie serve him, because he’s annoyed and angry and very sweaty; goddamn Paully for being right.

Lassie sits across from him, leveling him with a stare.

“Aren’t you going to ask about my day, Dennis?”

“Well—No. Actually. I wasn’t. I think I got a pretty clear picture of your day, Lassie. You took the dog for an eight hour walk, didn’t you? And I bet you didn’t even bring water, or doggy sunscreen, or human sunscreen, for humans, even though you have delicate Irish skin, and—” 

He cuts himself off, shoving a bite of Lassirole in his mouth. He hates Lassirole. He never wants to taste it again.

Lassie shifts in his seat, avoiding his plate. Ha. So we both hate it.

“Why don’t we talk about your day, then. Oh, not today, but how about every day for the past goddamn week, huh?”

Lassie slaps photographs down on the table. Actual, printed photographs. “If those are your boudoir pics, Lass, I’m really not in the mood.” For once, he’s telling the truth. 

“You know, it’s funny. I thought you were supposed to be at the station all this time, working to solve our case and get us out of this hell-hole.”

“I am, Mac, where do you think I’ve been—”

“ Applebees! ” Lassie aggressively points to the photos, and, when that’s not enough, he starts slamming his palm on the table. “You’re eating dumplings, by yourself, while I’m here, doing everything. Cooking and cleaning and investigating and—”

“Oh, yeah, I’m so glad you’re here to cook this shit. ” Shawn shovels another mouthful, talking around it. “What the hell are you even talking about, man?”

“I’m talking about you, slacking off like you always do, sleeping at Applebees and—and—” Lassie’s face clears like he’s having a revelation. “Everything I do is for you.”

Shawn scoffs. “Yeah, right. Whatever, man.”

“I bet you didn’t even notice that I switched up the Lassirole.”

“Oh, what, this?! This is what it’s about?!” Shawn stabs at his plate with his fork, loading it up. “Of course I noticed! You put little fresh veggie chunks in it! Oh ho ho, look at that. Little snap pea chunks. ” He scoops bite after bite of the Lassirole he despises into his face, less chewing than just holding it there, waiting for his gag reflex to wear off. “Delicious!”

“Oh yeah? Well of course Dennis would love David!”  

Shawn’s eyes bulge, confused and somewhat mortified. 

No, it can’t be. 

It isn’t. 

“It’s David!” Okay, it’s not David, but Lassiter is clearly enjoying the fear in his eyes growing by the millisecond. “...‘s vegetables! But he got his grimy little murder fingers all over these peas!” 

Shawn gags, spitting out the grossly half-chewed bite from his mouth. 

Lassiter cackles wildly, watching it all unfold. 

“You’re eating our suspect’s garden! Hah!” 

“You’re a sick freak, what the hell,” Shawn sputters, swiping his tongue over the napkin after everything is out of his mouth. That’s what those leaves are, stuck to Lassie’s pants. Goddammit. “There could have —it could have touched human blood, Lassie!” 

Lassiter rolls his eyes, muttering something spiteful. 

Shawn glares at him hard, taken aback by just how out of sorts they’ve both truly become. 

“Why would you do that?!”

“I don’t know!” Lassie exclaims, coming back down to Earth. “Maybe it was a cry for attention, who fucking knows.”

Shawn stands abruptly, his chair dragging across the tile with an ear-splitting screech. 

“That’s it. I’m out of here. Vick can dock my paycheck or whatever, I don’t care. Where are my things, man?” Lassiter scoffs, uttering things like ‘fine’ and ‘whatever’ and ‘don’t let the door hit you on the way out’ and then suddenly, out of nowhere blurts out, “Wait, Shawn, don’t go in—!”

Shawn goes in there. The closet by the back door. 

Boxes upon boxes of Velveeta cheesy casserole dinner kit collapse in on each other, obviously having used the door for balance. Shawn takes one step back, eyeing the incriminating landslide. 

Lassiter is next to him now; Shawn’s not sure when he ran over. 

Feeling oddly calm, and a little insane, Shawn turns on his heel to face him.

Lassie, though maniacal moments prior, currently has a concoction of humiliation and anxiety written all over his face at the sight of the boxes. Shawn cracks his neck slightly and says,

“Tell me about Lassie’s Famous Lassirole.”

“Okay, I can explain,” Lassiter swears, frantic. “I called it the Lassriole originally as a joke, but then you didn’t even really laugh and you called it cute, and damn it, nobody ever calls me cute, okay? I didn’t know what to do so I just bought way too much in response and stored it in here.” 

Shawn is mildly endeared by that, but mostly irritated.

Because if Lassiter had just decided to make other food, he probably would have gotten a lot more ‘you’re cute’ comments from Shawn, and maybe even a few, ‘you’re a cutie-patootie.’

“You’re pathetic,” Shawn murmurs. 

“You’re pathetic, Spencer!” Lassiter tosses back. “Falling asleep in your triple chocolate meltdown.” He crosses his arms. “Those are meant for two people to eat, you know. Two.”

Shawn wants to say a bunch of mean things. Choice words, if you will. Words that would make his mother cringe and his father scold him until he feels like a discouraged baby. He wants to ask why Lassie didn’t just ask him about Applebees and request to join if he really wanted some of that lava cake chocolatey goodness, because hell, Shawn would have gladly let him come along. 

Being that annoying couple in the faraway booth sharing a spoon and feeding each other a mixture of brownie and ice cream until they end up kissing far too intimately in the middle of a restaurant would have been Shawn’s ideal Friday night—they just could not figure out how to communicate. 

All those thoughts fly out the window when the doorbell rings. 

Lassiter stiffens and Shawn lets out a slow laugh. 

“That must be nosy Paully…” he trails off, patting around for a weapon. Anything he can get his hands on. He’s justified, he tells himself, because anyone in this damn neighborhood could be a killer. He turns to Lassie, and he’s sure the evil grin on his face is what keeps Lassie from resisting as he closes the distance between them and grabs a handful of his ass, only to feel for the gun hidden in the hem of his boxer shorts. Lassie snarls when he realizes what he filched. 

“Coming to see what all the hubbub is about, huh?” Shawn mutters to himself, gradually wandering off to the front door,  but not before he checks that Lassie’s gun is locked and loaded. 

“Dennis —Spencer— Get back here!” 

“Why don’t we show him what it’s about? Why don’t we show him right now?!”

“I won’t let you go off half-cocked here!” Lassiter grabs his arm when they’re back in the living room with the broken TV, somehow still broken. Everything around them is in shambles. 

Shawn keeps moving and Lassie shouts, “Calm down!” 

His glare full of cold intent is directed to Lassie now. 

“Don’t tell me to calm down, Mac.”

A mechanical beep fills the air. 

Lassiter growls, automatically reaching for the gun Shawn stole from him just a minute ago, pissed when he’s reminded where it is. He’s shooting daggers through his eyes at the ceiling. 

“There’s that damn squeaking again. How are you not hearing that?!”

Are you even a detective?! Shawn wants to cry out. 

“Newsflash asshole!” Shawn shrieks. “I’ve been hearing it the entire goddamn time!”

Lassiter’s eyes are as wide as saucers, his eyebags and mussed hair giving him a rugged look that Shawn is totally putting into his mental spank bank later, not that he has the wherewithal to acknowledge it — or Lassie’s sexy embodiment of the best kind of Old Spice scent — right now. 

“Why didn’t you say something?!” exclaims Lassie. 

“Because I hate you!” 

“Son of a bitch,” Lassie responds, in a way that tells Shawn he doesn’t believe him for a second. And sure, Shawn doesn’t hate Lassie, he doesn’t even dislike him, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t high strung and looking for a reason to unload this gun into the nearest human threat —oh God. 

He seriously may need therapy after this ordeal. 

First, he stomps to the front door because the doorbell rings again. 

Lassiter is hot on his heels, following closely to make sure Shawn doesn’t make a decision he regrets. When the door is opened however, Shawn is scrambling to hide the gun behind his back. 

Before them stands Henry, Juliet, and Gus. 

Juliet is holding a basket of two wine bottles, while Gus and Henry hold little party horns. Only Gus blows into his. Thankfully, nobody notices the gun that Shawn had just badly been wielding. 

Lasssiter quickly snatches it back and tucks it into his boxers without anyone noticing, either. It’s kind of hot how he can do that on the down low, but Shawn’s still a little too wired to fully care. 

“Huh?” he asks dumbly. 

“O’Hara,” Lassiter adds, “What are you doing here? We…we weren’t expecting you.”

“The blood sample got a positive I.D. to one of the victims,” Juliet announces cheerfully, perhaps too much so. “And you were right, Shawn. The boot did belong to David and Emily. There was a DNA trace of someone not matched to either David or Emily or one of the three bodies, though we suspect another unlocated victim.” No, that doesn’t make any sense. “That’ll come out in their interrogation, though.” 

“Cheers, fellas,” Henry says. “You just solved the case.” 

“And get to come home,” Gus adds happily. 

Shawn’s too overjoyed for a second, letting his head fall to Lassie’s shoulder without thinking. “Oh, thank all the members of The B-52’s,” Shawn mumbles. The only true Gods. “Wait…”

Lassiter is obviously too skittish to touch Shawn back in front of Shawn’s father, but that isn’t the problem. Out of habit, Shawn raises two fingers to his temple, mimicking a psychic vision. 

“Not another victim,” Shawn mutters. They would have found another body; the others were hidden indiscreetly. Poorly, to say the least. “They…most definitely weren’t working alone.”

Juliet’s face slowly falls, as does Gus’.

“Son of a bitch,” Lassiter mutters again, distraught.

Jules sighs. “You’re certain about this, Shawn?”

Shawn leans away from the warmth of Lassie’s body. “As certain as I am that there’s going to be another victim before we’re done.”

Henry frowns, disapproving, as Gus and Jules share a look. One of many looks, Shawn notes. Too many. 

“How can you possibly know that?” Lassie asks, tired, hand pressing suddenly against Shawn’s back.

Unpacking that later. “Because either the accomplice is going to be tying up loose ends, or…” Shawn tilts, looking up and over his shoulder at the shadows gathered below Lassie’s eyes. “We’re going to kill someone.”

After assuring everyone that he’s just joking, because he’s totally just joking, they gather in the dining room to review the evidence.

Lassie, magically, manages to whisk the incriminating Applebees photos away. Unfortunately, they can’t do anything for the state of the rest of the house, which, Shawn now realizes, has crossed over from could be neater to oh, god, maybe he wasn’t joking about the murder. 

The only upside to the whole thing is when Henry sits at the table, directly in an unnoticed pool of dog pee. Nice. 

Shawn decides to break the ice. “Can I offer anyone a macadamia nut?” 

Silence. Great. Tough crowd.

“Right… Should we get started?” Jules is eyeing Lassie, who’s staring at the wall. 

When did their TV fall, again? Shawn has no idea, and he has even less idea about when all those holes showed up.

“Guys!”

Shawn feels Lassie twitch in tandem with him. 

“Yeah, what’s up, Jules?”

Before she can explain, Gus kicks him, hard, and Henry jumps in. “Okay, what is going on with you two? First there was that god awful dinner—”

“Don’t you dare say that about the Lassirole!” Lassie yells, hitting the table before slumping, focusing back on the wall.

“...See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about, guys, you’re acting like you’ve lost your minds.”

“Maybe you’ve lost your mind,” Shawn asserts. “I know! You should go look for it at the ugly old-man shirt store.”

“Oh, yeah, you’re doing so well, Shawn. That was the lamest comeback you’ve ever come up with, and let me tell you, there have been a lot. Besides, look at your partner.”

Shawn does, tracing Lassie’s side profile with his eyes.

“The man is practically catatonic.”

“He’s right, Shawn.” Gus taps his leg again, this time gentler. “I’ve never seen Lassie so… defeated.”

“You do realize I can hear you, right?” Lassie’s voice sounds far away. He’s still staring at the wall.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Look, I’ll solve this thing right now, how about that?!” Shawn waves a hand over the evidence file, halfheartedly pretending to divine something he already knows. “It’s—it’s Paully.”

“You just want him to rot,” Lassie murmurs.

“Yes, I do. It’s him, though. And pretty much everyone else in the cul-de-sac. Well…Not Megan in the yellow house. And—and it’s not pool guy, either, dammit, but his wife, Jane? She’s totally in on it. The rich family? It wasn’t a promotion, at work. She’s the ringleader! Take her down, and you should be able to get everyone else. I don’t—I actually don’t know about weed basement dude. He might be clean. But—”

“Wait, you’re saying that the whole neighborhood is involved?” Juliet splays her hands, palm up. “That’s kinda hard to believe.”

Henry clears his throat. “Yeah, why, Shawn? Do you have any sort of proof? How about a motive?  Because the way I see it, this is just another ridiculous theory—”

“No, I—It’s the rich lady, alright? She’s probably a crime lord or something, and the other neighbors are just—they’re just in on it. I— Look, I don’t have all the facts, okay? But when do I ever have the facts?! I’m not the facts guy! I just interpret the psychic poptarts—”

“Portents,” Gus corrects.

“Potent? Gus, you should know virality is a touching subject with the elderly present—”

“ Portents, Shawn . It’s like an omen. A vision. A prophecy. A—”

“Right. Right. I interpret the psychic pumpernickles, and you, Jules, do all the boring fact-finding police work. Dad…I don’t know what it is you do, besides owning a thousand horrible shirts and torturing me, but…you keep it up, I guess.”

Gus snorts, reaching across the table for a fistbump that Shawn gladly provides.

“See, Gus? That’s how you make fun of an old man for his erectile dys—”

Lassie coughs, startling everyone, including Shawn, who sorta forgot the head detective was still alive. “Uh, Dennis, can I…talk to you. Privately? In the other room.”

He gets up before Shawn can say anything, drifting away down the hall. “Right. Well. I’m glad he managed to ask like a person this time.”

“You and me both,” Gus agrees.

“Lassie! What’s up, and why are you the ghost of a Victorian child who died of scarlet fever three days before her ninth birthday.”

“I—That’s…oddly specific.” 

Shawn’s trailed him all the way upstairs, and now they’re in Lassie’s disorganized chaos of a room, which is totally jarring, considering how Lassie is nothing if not anal. Ha!

Lassie sits on the bed, sighs, and then scoots up to the headboard, long, skinny, bare legs flopped out in front of him.

“Dude…Talk to me. What’s going on here?”

“I don’t know what to do,” Lassie says, staring into space again. 

Shawn’s thinking maybe Lassie should have put on pants for this. All of it. Any of it. Oh god, Jules and Gus and his dad have all seen Lassie in his boxers. 

Scratch that. Refocus. The bare, beautiful man legs aren’t the problem here. Not when Lassie might be actually losing his mind.

“What do you mean?” Shawn asks, closing the gap to sit on the edge of the bed, wrapping a hand around a bony ankle.

“All of it. What am I doing, Spencer? I—This isn’t me. ” Lassie gestures to himself, and then the room, and finally, Shawn. “This—this is insane. You do see that, right?”

“You call it insane, I call it just another day in the ‘burbs.”

Lassie looks up at him, eyes bluer than the fucking unused swimming pool. “I’m trying to be real with you here, Dennis.”

Shawn leans in, hand migrating from ankle to knee. His voice is a harsh whisper. “Then maybe you should use my real name.”

Lassie stares at him for a long, long moment. Finally, he chokes out, “ Shawn. ”

When Shawn vaults himself into that inviting, hairy lap, Lassie doesn’t even try to stop him.

“God, I was just about ready to kill you down there,” Shawn babbles, interrupting himself by kissing Lassie deeply, so deep he feels like he’s able to categorize the taste of every part of his tongue. “This goddamn house has me going insane, which isn’t good, because I was already so insane about you, Lassie. You have no fucking clue how insane I feel around you all the time.” 

“Trust me, I have a clue,” Lassie hisses through bared teeth, the sharp canines nicking Shawn’s sensitive lips as they dive back against him, their kisses turning into something untenably feral. 

Every nerve-ending in Shawn’s body is ten times more sensitive, deprived of sleep and stir crazy enough to tend a bar, which is maybe why he emits a loud, startled moan as Lassie’s lips drag over his neck, trailing feverishly down his throat like he’s never explored a damn neck before. 

Lassiter stops, gaze nervous as it meets Shawn’s. 

“You’re sure you wanna do this here?” he asks, lips parted as he tries to catch his breath, and damn it, it isn’t even fair. It’s not like they’ve gotten anywhere yet. “Your dad is downstairs.”

Shawn’s eyes screw shut and he pinches Lassie for that.

“Ow!”

“First of all,” Shawn grits out in reply, settling himself atop Lassie’s thighs more comfortably, to show just how unlikely it is he’ll be moving anywhere soon, “Don’t you ever bring up my dad during sex. That’s, like, my ultimate no-no. Right next to bringing up pineapple upside-down cake during sex. Don’t ask because that’s for a different reason entirely and Jesus, my mouth is watering man, and it’s not for your dick. And I really want your dick, I do, I promise, Lassie.” 

“Second of all?” Lassiter growls on his lips, catapulting him forward so he lands on his back. Bouncing a little on the creaky mattress, Shawn finds all the air has been knocked out of him. 

“Second of all,” he continues eventually, once he’s recovered from the feeling of Lassie’s body pressed all along his own, “Second… fuck, Lassie, I don’t think there was a second part to that.” 

“Just as well.” 

Lassiter lays wet kiss after wet kiss down Shawn’s shirt, staining the fabric with saliva. Shawn doesn’t think before stripping himself down, revealing his chest scars. Normally, he’d have more tact and remember that he’s not always comfortable with bedmates seeing his scars right away. But this is Lassie and he, against all odds, would trust Lassie with his life—hell, and his heart. 

“I liked this much better when I had the upper hand,” Shawn blurts out, finding his wrists pinned to the mattress with one of Lassiter’s hands—those long, slender fingers—being put to good use. 

When I was in your lap and it was my game to throw, he doesn’t say. 

“Not that I don’t love this, I just feel like, well, the thing is…” 

Lassie’s other hand is trailing down the dusting of hair he has on his navel, heaving up and down to match his erratic heart rate. Then those fingers that have loaded and discharged so many guns wrap around his half-hard dick, over his trousers which is somehow more arousing than if he didn’t have pants on at all. Stiffening, both whole-body wise and manhood wise mind you, Shawn gasps, “Lassie, baby doll, babykins, pumpkin p— hah —ie.” Lassiter’s gone unusually quiet, doing nothing more than toying with the shape of his erection. “As much as I love what you’re doing down here, and am so down to let whatever unhinged horndog demon that crawled into our heads take the wheel here, I am not going to stay quiet if you keep on the way you are.” 

“How do you suppose we rectify that?” Lassie questions, fingers tightening around Shawn’s wrists, almost firm enough to leave a bruise. That would be awkward to explain to the gang. 

“You could keep my mouth busy,” Shawn murmurs swiftly, jutting his hips against Lassie’s feathery touch, chasing friction. “You should know by now that’s the only way to shut me up.” 

“Hmm.” Lassiter’s eyes scan him. “Up.”

Shawn scrambles up the second the lock on his wrists loosens. “Pants off,” Lassie adds, scooting back up to where he was positioned at the headboard earlier. Shawn doesn’t read too deeply into why. He’s good at taking orders when he needs to, so he begins shucking off his trousers efficiently. 

There’s a knowing smirk on Lassie’s face. 

He pats his own lap, beckoning Shawn back. 

“Right here.”

Shawn licks his lips, and it’s hard to think through the sex fog—his mind is full of crude imagery, mind-numbing ideas for sex that Lassie can have when they’re not pressed for time and in the company of others, just Lassie’s name over and over again, a steamy mantra he really can’t stop thinking about, but also can’t think at all—but he considers what Lassie is asking for here. 

Exposed, fully and more than he’s ever felt safe being, he comes closer on his knees. 

Lassie clicks his tongue, shaking his head .

“Other way around.”

Yeah, the sex fog is too thick. Shawn has no idea what he’s saying.

He’s still short-tempered from earlier, it’s not like his stir crazy just vanished, so he barks out, “I can’t read your mind, Lassie.” Shit. “Even though I can sometimes…because I’m…a psychic.” 

Lassiter ignores him and clarifies, in a low voice, “Like that time you sat on my lap in the Chief’s office. Surely you remember that position, or do I have to position you myself?”

Heat ripples through Shawn. 

“No, no. I remember.”

It was perhaps the sluttiest thing he’s ever done.

How could he forget?

Lassie pats his lap again and Shawn scrambles forward, carefully turning himself around on his lap so that his back presses up against Lassiter’s shirt. He frowns, because this isn’t quite right. 

Then, Lassie’s peeling off his shirt and Shawn feels the stern bush in all its glory press flush against his backside. He sighs, trying not to grin like a lunatic as he tosses a hand pack to pet Lassie’s mop of beadhead. Lassie nips at his ear for the gesture, drawing a sharp gasp from him. 

“I don’t see how this solves the volume problem,” Shawn mumbles airily, not really caring now if there isn’t a solution to that problem, because at least he’s naked in Lassie’s lap— finally!

Lassie doesn’t reply, opting instead to show Shawn why this is optimal. 

He slips three fingers into Shawn’s mouth, ignoring his muffled surprise, and whispering hotly in his ear, “Suck.” Shawn sucks; he’s actually pretty good at this, all his past partners can attest to that. He gets into a mindset and doesn’t stop until he’s told. Lassiter nuzzles him, and reaches down with his free hand to grasp Shawn’s cock, bringing him to full hardness in three strokes. 

Shawn lasts an embarrassing amount of time—that is, what may actually be considered medically average for any viable male of his age, damn it—which is about three or four minutes. 

Maybe closer to two, if Shawn has a gun to his head. 

Lassie slips a fourth finger into Shawn’s mouth the moment he gets a bit too noisy for comfort, when their guests downstairs may suspect something out of the ordinary if he doesn’t act quick. 

Shawn moans his name over his fingers, the sound just as embarrassing as his stamina, and he’s not even sure Lassiter hears it, distracted by Shawn’s neck like he’s a vampire on a bender. 

There’s suddenly a mess all over Shawn’s cock and Lassie’s fingers—and oh lord, the room smells like sex, and there are probably hickies on his neck, and wow, was this a mistake to do now, in the most graceless, though glorious, post-nut clarity hindsights—and his hips are jerking intensely one last time as a final shockwave erupts through his body, shutting his brain down.

He doesn’t even realize he’s biting down on Lassie’s fingers hard until they’re being tugged crudely from his mouth, and Lassiter’s grumpily shaking it off as if he’s in need of stitches. 

“Oh,” Shawn moans, exhausted. “Lassie, bad news. My legs won’t work.”

“Yes, they will.”

“No, I mean it. They’re done for. You’ll have to carry me downstairs.”

Lassiter actually laughs, and if it wasn’t for the absolute bonertown pressing into the crease of Shawn’s ass right now, Shawn might feel safe to start relaxing. Instead, he turns in his lap. 

Presses close, and kisses him deeply. 

“Now,” he murmurs. “Do you want me to help you with that?” He kisses him again, deriving too much joy from the way Lassie chases his lips as he pulls back again. Shawn places a thumb strategically on his bottom lip, pressing in. “Or do you wanna wait till we have alone time?” 

“You do realize it’ll take just as long for me to be decent either way, right?”

“Is that a—”

“ Shawn ,” Lassie says, fighting his thumb to kiss him one more time before pulling back, resting their heads together. “Are you going to be a good boy and suck my dick?”

If Shawn’s incredible mind had already been blank and full to bursting, now it’s going haywire. Lassie! Good boy! Dick! Dick! Dick!

He scrambles down the length of Lassie’s legs, rutting his struggling-to-resurrect boner against the bed as he tugs indignantly at the boxers coming between him and dick. Dick!

“That’s it,” Lassie groans, helping him, one hand deliciously scratching at Shawn’s hair as the other frees his erection. “Here. Make yourself useful for once.”

Shawn is all on board with being useful. Before he can vocalize just how on board he is, Lassie’s cock taps his cheek. He has other, way more pressing matters to attend to.

He fists a hand around Lassie’s beautiful cock, leaning down to lick at the tip. He’s rewarded with a groan, and a hand tightening in his hair, and a little dribble of precum that he laps up as it comes, savoring the salt on his tongue.

Opinion: giving a blowjob is just as fun as getting one.

Shawn stretches his lips around the head, licking, hollowing his cheeks. He moves his hand around the base, jerking lightly as the hand in his hair pushes him down. It’s gentle enough to ignore, if he had to, but he doesn’t want to ignore it. A part of him wishes Lassie would be rougher. Push him around a little more, shove his face down. Maybe spank him.  

Shawn moans around the dick in his mouth, meeting his fingers with his face and moving back up, sucking as he goes.

“God, Shawn. I love your mouth so much more like this.”

Okay. Loaded sentence.  

Shawn’s brain starts picking it apart as he sucks. He must be doing good, because Lassie loves his mouth more like this. Lassie loves his mouth more like this. Lassie loves his mouth normally? Lassie loves him?!

Shawn yelps as Lassie tugs, harsh, at his hair, and the yelp turns into a whine when Lassie drags him up off his dick.

“What?” Shawn asks, voice gravelly already. “Come on, man, I was just getting—”

“ Focus, ” Lassie says, apparently aware of Shawn’s brief mental detour. “When my dick is in your mouth.”

“What if I was solving our case so we could go home, huh?”

Lassie’s hand tightens in his hair. I swear to god, Shawn thinks. If I have a bald spot— “Were you?”

“What?”

“Solving the case. Were you?”

Shawn feels his face heat up, watching Lassie’s face shift into understanding.

“That’s what I thought.”

Shawn lets himself be dragged back down to Lassie’s lap, licking in apology all over his dick until his hands work again to grab it, flicking his thumb over the head.

“Now hurry up,” Lassie says, clearly as turned on by this as Shawn is. Another little bead of precum bubbles up for Shawn to swallow. “You don’t want to take so long that someone comes looking for us, do you?”

The thought of getting caught, in the abstract, is kinda hot. The actual idea of being caught by anyone downstairs, again, is worse than anything else Shawn can imagine.

In short, he hurries.

He gags a little when Lassie’s dick hits his throat, pulling off long enough to say, “Come on, Lassie. Fuck me. ”

Lassie does.

It’s just shallow thrusts, but quickly, brutally, with Shawn’s hand wrapped around to stop himself from choking to death on Lassie’s dick, even though that might be a badass way to go. 

He relaxes into it, licking and swallowing precum and keeping his teeth covered, until finally Lassie’s hand tightens so harshly that Shawn fears for his luscious locks, and spills down his throat.

Shawn pulls off, breathing hard, snapping the spit strand connecting him, still, to Lassie’s skin.

“Goddamn,” Shawn says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “That was hot.”

When he looks up, Lassie’s face is saying the same thing.

It was so hot, in fact, that Shawn’s a little bit hard again. Not fully—he’s not twenty-one anymore, unfortunately—but enough to be distracting. Enough for him to point obnoxiously at his crotch. “You know what they say, Lassie. A head for a head.”

“Nobody says that.” Lassie’s eyeing his dick like he’s considering it, really, with a hunger in his eyes that Shawn has only ever seen directed at unfortunate pests. Squirrels, criminals, and Shawn himself, all pinned beneath that sexy sexy intensity. Shawn wants in on that mouth, lips all twisted up. Until Lassie hums, and says, “Later.”

“Wh— What?! ” Shawn disregards the repeat performance guaranteed within later, and he focuses on the answer not being yes, Shawn, of course I’m not going to make you go back downstairs with a half-chub. “Dude, that’s totally unfair.”

“Using your own logic, an orgasm for an orgasm. I don’t owe you anything right now. As far as I can tell, we’ve both cum.”

“I gave you a blowjob, man, that’s way better than a handy—”

“Shawn,” Lassie says, leaning in, somehow menacing even with his soft dick poking out of his boxers and sweat dripping down the side of his face. “You’re going to wait.”

Shawn feels that through his entire body. “You know I’m not really good at the whole patience thing—”

“I don’t care,” Lassie says, picking up Shawns boxers and holding them out. “You’re going to get dressed, and meet me back downstairs.”

“Fine,” Shawn says, taking the boxers and shuffling toward the edge of the bed. “I’ll just take care of it myself—”

Lassie’s hand snags his wrist, so fast Shawn can’t remember seeing him move. “Absolutely not.”

Lassie looks down at his lap, covered, on instinct, by his free hand.

“Your next orgasm is going to be with me, tonight . Do you understand?” 

There’s something in Lassie’s face that tells Shawn he’s really asking. Giving him an option to back out or pull away or scream in his face, and that’ll stop everything. This controlling, wrist grabbing, domineering, utterly sexy Lassie. 

Shawn clears his throat, swallowing down some remaining bitter-salt. 

“Yeah. Yeah, man, I understand,” he says. 

“Good boy,” Lassie praises, half spitting it out, half crooning, and Shawn nearly melts back into the messy duvet. “Get dressed.”

He stands, letting Shawn go to collect new clothing to change into, presumably, in the bathroom, where he can wash his gross face.

When he’s almost at the door, Shawn huffs, looking down at his dick sadly.

“You do realize I’m even harder, now, right?”

He can only see Lassie’s back, but he’s pretty sure he can see him smiling. 

By the time they get back downstairs, Gus, Jules, and Henry have figured out how to prop the TV up, although, not very well.

All of them are watching with their heads tilted.

“Surely Midnight Madness can’t be any better at a 45 degree angle.”

“Shut up, Shawn,” Gus says, watching the screen intensely. “The marshmallow scene is coming up.”

Shawn jumps over the back of the couch, startling all three of them. “Gus, you know I love that part. Second only to the melon—”

“That’s gross,” Jules murmurs, transfixed.

“Well, not really,” Henry says, his voice also distant and weird. “It’s only natural—”

“Okay. No more talking.” Gus leans forward, no nonsense body language telling Shawn that he’d probably get slapped for speaking right now.

“Should we not be taking down the ringleader of the very potential crime ring overruling this cul-de-sac or are we just deciding eighties teen comedies are more important than our undercover operation?” Lassiter questions icily, sounding more coherent than he has in at least a few days.

His arms are crossed, looming over everyone on the couch. 

None of them waver, as they know Lassie too well by now to be afraid of his burly posturing. Jules cranes her neck back on the couch to meet his eyes so she can console him by saying,

“Vick’s on it. I called her while you guys were upstairs…” She exchanges a glance with Gus of all people who offers her a nearly imperceptible shrug (Shawn knows him better than anyone else, and he knows a Burton Guster shrug when he sees one), “…talking. Teams are on route.”   

“Did you expect us to march over there?” Henry asks. “We’re only a cop and a quarter right now. And if Shawn’s intuition turns out to be fool’s gold, then none of our covers will end up blown.” 

“A quarter? I’m more of a half,” Gus argues. 

“I think he was talking about himself,” Juliet whispers, trying—and unluckily failing as per usual—to appease everyone. “Since he’s the retired cop and all.”

“I’ve worked more days at the SBPD in the last two weeks than you’ve worked in the last ten years!” Gus exclaims, pointedly at Shawn’s father. Henry scoffs and says something along the lines of ‘please’ which can only mean bad things in Spencer-speak, so Shawn grasps his dad’s shoulders firmly, cooling him off with a calculated and infantilizing squeeze. 

“Kay, guys, we’re getting off track. If you want to stay until the rich lady is questioned or whatever Chief Dick is planning, then we’re going to have to choose a different movie, because I’ve decided that I’m not watching this.” 

“You were on board a second ago. Plus, you’ve seen it a hundred times, Shawn,” Gus mutters.

“Yeah, exactly.” With my memory, that’s like five hundred times, he doesn’t say because Lassie and Jules are in the room and he can’t afford a misstep about his psychic powers.

He just gave Lassie the best head of his life (debatably), so he thinks it’d be sacrilegious to give him any more satisfaction in the same hour, let alone the satisfaction of knowing he’s not a psychic. 

“I’ve never seen this,” Lassie notes, looking around the living room. 

Jules nods and says, “Well you don’t really like movies that don’t have Clint Eastwood, or Tom Cruise, or Tom Selleck—”

“You’ve made your point.” 

The gang is taking up the entire couch, and there’s only one available sofa chair next to the couch that Shawn is considering claiming. Then, he realizes Lassie would be left in the lurch. 

All his ideas are quashed when Lassie sits down in said chair. 

Maybe Shawn should try fixing the pool filter while everyone else enjoys down time, as he feels a little scorned by this. 

But Lassie is bending down, patting the floor, as if beckoning him to come sit? Like, what, their dog? Where is their dog, anyways? It’s an uneasy thought, not to be sure, but so is the idea of not obeying Lassie in this instant, so he walks over and sits on the rug, between his legs, on the floor. 

Gus shoots them a look, but no one else does. 

It’s a little too intimate, maybe a bit risky. 

The feeling of his cheek resting against Lassiter’s knee overpowers all of his concerns, however. And he knows if they were alone, Lassie’s fingers would be in his hair, and it would feel so nice.  

So, he stays there until the end of the film. 

Pool filter be damned. 

Mercy is rare in life, and so is not eating Lassirole for dinner. 

Henry offers to order everyone pizza straight to the door, to which he receives an almost full chorus of cheering. Lassie isn’t one to cheer, but he does ask for a pizza with green and red peppers almost immediately. The very thought makes Shawn’s mouth water like a fountain. 

The pizza, when it arrives, certainly tastes like what he imagines mercy tastes like. 

“Lassie, Lassie, c’mon man, you have to try the Hawaiian pizza. For me, okay?” Shawn holds out a slice of pineapple and ham dosed pizza slice. The cheese is drippy, oozing off the bottom. “I swear you’ll never go back.” Off Lassie’s skeptical face, Shawn divulges his trademark pout. 

Sighing, Lassie leans in and takes a bite. 

Right out of the pizza Shawn is holding for him. 

Shawn doesn’t register Jules looking at them like they’ve both grown two heads because he’s too busy enjoying the gradual flowering of pleasure in Lassie’s expression from the irresistible taste. 

So, he’s feeding Lassie. Who cares? 

He’d like to see the rest of them get trapped in a codependent suburban situation and not end up doing shit like this. Maybe he’ll lock Gus and Jules in a closet for a so-called game of seven minutes of heaven but make it seven days of heaven and instead lock them in a house with a broken pool filter, and TV, and fire detectors, and—

That’s cruel, actually. 

Maybe he’ll just buy them a fondue pot they can share.

It’ll have the same effect. 

Lassie takes another bite, moaning. 

Shawn giggles, waving the slice around. 

“Is that not mint?” 

“No, it’s pineapple-y,” Lassie deadpans, a smile cracking through despite himself. 

Shawn licks his lips, doing everything in his power not to give in to the urge to kiss this dork and taste the very pineapple-y taste he speaks of. 

“You guys are weird,” Gus voices. 

Juliet’s phone buzzes and she picks up, heading off towards the hall so she can hear the Chief better. Shawn tries not to eavesdrop yet can’t help himself, analyzing Juliet’s body language. 

There’s relief, a fine-tuned tension, anticipation. 

It seems his educated gander about the ring leader panned out. 

When he turns back to face Lassie, he gawks. The pizza slice that was in his hands is completely gone. Crust and all. The sicko . Lassiter is licking at his own thumb, a sheepish glint to his gaze. 

“Good news,” Juliet announces, after shutting off her phone. “Mrs. Slaughter let the officers inside her home for a brief questioning, and they were able to check around, find some probable cause to scrutinize the whole property. It’s fortunate her hubris was bigger than her brains today.” 

“She thought she’d seem less suspicious letting the officers inside,” Lassie scoffs. “What an idiot.” 

“Wait, hold the phone, literally Juliet keep holding the phone because I may need you to call Vick back and ask what the fuck her name was again. Slaughter? Are you kidding me?” Shawn whips his head around, shocked nobody else is backing him up on this. “That’s like Hannibal Lecter being a cannibal, like are you kidding me? Why didn’t we nail this lady from the get-go?”

“That’s a common surname in Essex,” Henry casually notes.

“I feel like I’m going insane.”

“What’d they find?” inquires Gus.

Juliet smirks. “Expensive items belonging to one of our uncovered victims. Looks like she and the others were going to pawn them off when they found a way to carry out the transaction undetected.” She can obviously see Shawn’s expression moving a mile a minute, so she adds for clarification. “She is apparently, surprisingly agreeable about receiving a lighter sentencing, so long as she exposes the rest of her syndicate. Looks like you were right about this one, Shawn.” 

“I’m always right,” Shawn poses.

Lassie smacks his shoulder gently for that. 

Shawn can feel Gus staring at them. In fact, he can feel it so hard that he can almost see the exact look on Gus’ face. Eye’s narrowed. Eyebrow quirked. Mouth slightly pouted.

(Okay, so maybe he can see Gus’ reflection in the TV screen.

Lassie’s drifted away from Shawn, lowly discussing something with Jules that Shawn recognizes as boring protocol speak.

Just as Shawn’s about to ask Gus if he wants to jump in the pool, fully prepared to guilt him into it— it’s our last day here, Gus!— Henry swoops in, taking Shawn’s arm and saying, “Walk with me.”

“What? Are you serious right now?” Shawn still lets himself be dragged down the hall, past Lassie and Jules, and into one of the many rooms he still doesn’t quite understand. This one’s like a garage, maybe? He’s just now noticing the giant door. 

Henry lets go of him as soon as the door closes, crossing his arms. “Spill.”

“Oh, come on, dad, you can’t just say that. You have to be more specific. Do you want me to spill the beans? Spill the tea? ‘Spill the wine’ by War? How about my guts, dad, would you like me to spill those—

“Shawn! Enough. You know exactly what I mean, and, frankly, I’m not lettin’ you leave until we talk about this.” 

Shawn glances at the way Henry’s blocking the door. Fuck. “I didn’t think you’d be so interested in my sex life, dad. Should we go back to the beginning, or do you want the abridged version? I’m thinking we go back. Ooh, we could make a whole day of it! I’ll get Gus to make a powerpoint—”

“No! That’s not—” Henry covers his face, and Shawn debates the chances of successfully pushing him out of the way, now that he can’t see. He takes too long. Henry looks back up. “Look, kid, getting involved with someone like Lassiter is—”

“Okay, I’m gonna stop you right there.” Shawn starts walking for the other wall, kicking some random detritus out of the way with his foot. “I’m not a child anymore. What I do and who I do it with is my business. And, honestly? I’d rather live in this godforsaken hellhole for the rest of my life than talk about my relationships with you. ”

He presses the button for the garage door, intending to make a dramatic exit.

The door groans, creaks, and very slowly begins rising.

Shawn doesn’t turn to look at his dad.

“That’s fair,” Henry says, as Shawn’s debating how small of a gap he can squeeze through. “I—”

Shawn’s already kneeling, reaching through the shuddering opening between door and concrete.

“I just want you to be happy, Shawn.”

Shawn freezes. 

The door keeps rattling open.

“No. You don’t.” Shawn squints into the sun as the door comes up enough for him to crab-walk through. “Really, dad, I thought you were better than this.” 

Shawn stands up once he’s outside, taking in the neighborhood flooded with sirens and lights. Ha. There goes nosey Paully in handcuffs. 

“You know, of all the shitty things you’ve ever done to me, at least you weren’t a fucking liar.”

When Shawn turns back, Henry’s gone.

Unfortunately, Shawn gets left behind in the general chaos of arresting almost an entire neighborhood. It’s just him, Gus, and Lassie Jr. sitting in the backyard, feet in the pool because goddammit, he’s not leaving here without that sweet sweet chlorine.  

After a long debate over the worst names to have if you’re planning on doing crime, Gus clears his throat, and says, “You know it’s weird that the dog is named after Lassie, right?”

“What’s weird about that?”

“You call him Jr, Shawn.”

“Okay, so? I don’t criticize your life choices—”

“You literally do. All the time.” Gus shoulder checks him, kicking him beneath the water. Shawn kinda wants to jump head first into the pool. Something stops him, though, the same way it’s been stopping him thise entire time, and he still isn’t sure what it is. “Anyway,” Gus continues. “I’m happy for you.”

“What, that I have a dog? We’re not gonna be able to keep him, man. My apartment doesn’t allow pets, and—”

“Your apartment is a laundromat.”

“Yes, and I have a strict no fur policy. I think Lassie works too much to take care of him.”

“You know that’s right. I mean it, though. I don’t get it, but I’m happy for you.”

It dawns on Shawn that neither Lassie nor himself has actually said anything to anyone, which reminds him of the way that goddamn beeping can be heard from anywhere in the house, especially in Lassie’s room, and—

Shit.

“Shit,” Shawn says, burying his face in his hands.

“Just figured it out?”

“It that why you guys were watching Midnight Madness at a wildly unacceptable volume? And why you were all being super weird?”

“Yes. Yes it is.” Gus pats him on the back, half comforting, half obviously uncomfortable. 

“I’m going to move to Arizona and open an imported leathers shop and never see any of you ever again. It’s gonna be turquoise and fringe from here on out.”

“Shawn, don’t be ridiculous.” Gus pats him one more time on the back. “There’s way too many imported leather shops in Arizona already. You wouldn’t last one week.”

Shawn watches Jr. yip at yet another squirrel. The resemblance truly is uncanny. “Goddammit.”

“You know I’m right.

“Yeah,” Shawn says. “You are.”

“Imported leathers,” Gus scoffs. “Never heard anything so ridiculous in my entire life.”

Shawn doesn’t know where Lassie is when he hands over his key to the house. The officer he gives it back to rolls her eyes when he asks her about the Head Detective, but that’s probably more to do with 1, how he handed her back the key covered in a pineapple pattern—thank you Home Depot—and 2, the way the house is absolutely trashed.

“I don’t know where Detective Lassiter is,” she tells him. “If you see him, tell him to return his key. And maybe ask him if he’s ever heard of a vacuum.”

Shawn does not like her.

He packs up as the last of the black-and-whites drives away. It’s so empty without Lassie around, and, somehow, without the sirens and general police chatter for background noise, the pool filter/smoke alarm combo is even more grating.

It seems Lassie may have driven off with O’Hara, or maybe Buzz. 

The first place he heads to after escaping the house and all its history is the Santa Barbara Police Department. Vick takes his final report, offers casually for him to come in for his check the next week, and sends him on his merry way.

The only problem is, Lassiter isn’t here either. 

He hops back on his motorbike (it is sweet to finally be back on the saddle rather than that stuffy car he never wants to spend another second in) and zooms away from the station. 

There’s an intersection by the station that he turns right on most days to get back home to the ol’ ball and chain (the laundromat) and then there’s a left turn that he never takes because there’s never a reason to. That left turn takes him down the road to Lassiter’s apartment, and he’s only been there a few times really, just to peep the really cool crime map he’s got of the most wanted criminals in the world. Lassie’s a big nerd and not many have the privilege of knowing that. 

Shawn finds his fingers flexing over the handles of his motorbike as he switches lanes, heading to the leftmost lane, because there is no way in hell he’s going home without at least checking. 

This doesn’t mean he neglects considering whipping the motorbike around, weaving through cars, and skipping a red light just to get home and crawl under his covers and delay the next meeting with the man he’s most certainly, definitely not, but totally kind of, very in love with. 

He doesn’t give in to cowardice. 

Which is uncharacteristic of him, really. He’s the best at wriggling out of uncomfortable situations, like a wiggly little worm in an apple. After he gets all the sweets, he unfailingly bolts. 

There are clues on the steps to Lassie’s apartment that tell Shawn he’s not going to be there when he gets up to the door. It’s disappointing, especially when his keen eye observes there is no light present at the crack between the door and the floor—just darkness. Shit. Poo. All the Excrement. 

There is a note on the door, taped conspicuously to it, which seems unlike Lassie to let linger unless he’d just planted it. Shawn eagerly grabs the note, reading over the succinct two-line message. 

At your place. Bring anything but casserole. 

Shawn smirks, suddenly awash in adoration. 

It’s been too long since Shawn had Jamaican take out so he heads over to his and Gus’ favorite jerk chicken place, vows never to tell Gus that he came here without him, and orders up too much food for two people. It’s an easy ride home, knowing there’s someone waiting for him. 

He grins when he sees his curtain drawn, the glow illuminating through it indicating Lassiter is inside. For him. After parking, he pockets his keys and dramatically kicks the door down. 

Well, not really. 

But he does kick the door in which flings it open. It has one of the loosest latches in the world and he could pummel the plank of wood and it would never show signs of breaking, so it’s worth it to see the appalled expression on Lassie’s face when Shawn saturates his entrance with flair.  

“Honey, I’m home, and with me, I bring the worst chicken you will ever meet!” 

Lassiter is standing by his rack of shirts, specifically the section in need of ironing (which he miraculously never gets around to doing), now noticeably pretending he wasn’t examining them. 

“The worst?” he asks dryly. “You’re really treating me.”

“Yes, Lassie, the worst. Because he’s a jerk chicken,” Shawn says chipperly, clicking the door shut before waving around the boxes of steaming chicken under Lassie’s nose. “Get it? Jerk? Like, he’s mean?” He hides his face behind the boxes, clucking like a chicken before speaking in an annoying, squawking voice, “Hey, I heard that Detective Lassiter’s mother is a gopher, and his father is an estranged squirrel, no wonder he looks so—” Shawn gasps dramatically, glaring hard at the food before interrupting himself with, “You can’t say that, jerk chicken! That’s so rude!” 

Lassie viciously grabs the top box off the stack to stall his charade, lips curling despite the air of indifference he’s trying to display. Shawn smiles widely, wanting nothing more than to keep rambling until he sees that smile twitch up an inch more, bit by bit, until Lassie’s face gets stuck like that, like those old wives tales claim. 

“You gonna shut up and show me your place?” Lassie prods, setting aside the food for now. 

Shawn does the same before sliding his hands into his pockets. 

“You seemed to be showing yourself around just fine.”

“I thought you’d be here,” Lassie murmurs, voice softer and lined with a hint of something—it’s definitely affection, but it’s too loaded of a reality to accept for Shawn at this juncture—making him sound more tender than he’s honestly ever sounded in his life, “And the door was open…”

“Yeah, the damn thing doesn’t lock. Not many people want to break into a laundromat, though, open or not. Not much in the way of dough to steal. Now if someone had a penchant for quarters because of their crippling gumball machine addiction, then I’d have to start getting worried.” 

“It’s…quaint.”

“You can say shabby.”

“Considering the state we left our house in, I wouldn’t go as far as to say that.” Lassiter takes an imperceptible step closer. Shawn notices because he notices everything; it’s a gift and a curse. 

“Why weren’t you at the station?” Shawn questions.

“Someone had to see about our dog.” Shawn sighs, feeling like a complete fool. Before he can ask how that went, or to beg Lassie to spare him from the details of how Lassie Jr. must have whined and cried at the pearly gates of the pound, Lassie says, “Megan, that woman who lived alone, well, we got to talking outside when I was helping Buzz take statements. She asked about our dog and then she got really emotional about Brünnhilde. She started…crying, actually.” 

Lassie doesn’t seem particularly fond of that. He’s like the opposite of Gus, who is a sympathetic crier. He just rolls his eyes when people start crying, unless it’s Juliet, but c’mon. It’s Juliet.

“Jimmy the dog-murdering bastard,” Shawn grumbles.

Lassiter is bemused by this comment at best. 

“I told her I doubted we could hold onto Lassie Jr, seeing where our lives are at. And frankly, if I were to have a dog, Spencer, I would want the retired police dog type. I just don’t have the stamina for a puppy. Or two puppies, since you’re pretty much…the exact definition of one.”

Thank you, he doesn’t say. 

“I’ve seen that Carlton Lassiter stamina first hand,” Shawn reminds. “You do just fine for yourself, even if you’re a little…gatekeeper-y about who gets orgasms when, how many, and—”

“Spencer?” Lassie voices tightly. 

“Hm?”

“Let me finish.”

“Hm,” Shawn voices again, noncommittally, but instead of saying anything more, he takes a more deliberate step forward himself, plucking at the lapels of the suit jacket Lassie’s dressed in.

“She seemed the best candidate.”

“She was one of the only people in that circle to not be a shit-eating, lying, criminal mastermind,” Shawn acquiesces. 

“And she was more than glad, when I offered that she adopt Jr.”

“Pawned our kid off like a potted plant.”

“Our kid pissed on me, you, and our floor.”

“Remind me to never have kids with you,” Shawn deadpans. 

“I—” Lassiter is silenced by that, even though Shawn is being entirely facetious. It’s not like they’re even in the ‘boyfriend’ stage of whatever the fuck they’re doing. That doesn’t mean he isn’t pleased by how stumped Lassiter is by the comment. He smirks, watching him stammer. “So, that’s, um, what I was doing. I thought I’d come here after…thought you might…want me to.”

“Oh, Lassie.” Shawn stops messing with lapels and goes straight for Lassie’s head, dragging him down into a kiss. It feels more like coming home, this kiss, than any single day at that goddamn house, and Shawn feels himself fall a little more into place. The way he did that very first day at the station.

Psychic detective settling into his skin the same way kissing Lassie does, except this feels even better.

Lassie’s hands fit perfectly on his waist.

Shawn never got to experience the full body chlorine rush of jumping into their pool. The timing never worked out, or maybe the filter was too aggravating, or any number of problems he just didn’t resolve before driving away that final time.

This, though, feels an awful lot like diving in. Headfirst into the bluest water-color eyes.

They come together, hips grinding on thighs and hips grinding on stomachs, until Lassie pulls back, one hand under Shawn’s chin to keep him from following.

Shawn moans. What else is he supposed to do, when Lassie’s all hot and bothered and looming, holding his chin and tilting his head one way and then the other.

“I believe I was owed an orgasm,” Shawn breathes out.

“Hmm.” Lassie frowns, considering. “I’m not sure. You could probably earn one, though.”

Shawn grins.

They end up on the bed, which has never been made since Shawn first put the sheets on, a fact which makes it even easier for them to toss the duvet aside as they grapple their way over. 

Shawn rolls them so Lassie’s on top, hooking his ankles behind Lassie’s back.

“You know,” Lassie says, kissing up the side of Shawn’s neck in a way that makes him go totally boneless, melting into the bed. “You really should clean up around here.”

“Come on, Lassie,” Shawn breathes, clinging on, feeling up the stern bush as best he can. “What are you, my mother?”

Lassie pulls back, narrowing his eyes. “Never call me that when we’re about to fuck.”

“So I can call you that at other times then?”

“Absolutely not.”

Shawn wiggles his eyebrows. “Does that mean we’re always about to fuck?”

“ Shawn. ” 

“Right,” Shawn says, enthusiastically agreeing to a conversation he’s not sure he’s following, despite being a part of it. “Are we gonna do this, Sassy Lassie?”

“Would it kill you to call me Carlton?”

“I don’t know,” Shawn says, kissing along that strong jaw, nosing at stubble. “Maybe you could earn it.” And then, in a half-mocking, half-totally sexually serious tone, “Mon Capitaine.”

Lassie takes him seriously, dipping back down to kiss him with a fervor Shawn hasn’t felt since he was much younger. It’s almost too much, this being wanted. Shawn stamps down the urge to run, focusing instead on devouring the gorgeous man on top of him, hands clutching at his head.

“Lassie…” Shawn shoves a hand down Lassie’s pants, unceremoniously grabbing his dick. “I need you inside me yesterday. ”

“I was inside you,” Lassie says, unbuttoning his slacks and yanking them down to give Shawn more room to work. “Today, actually.”

“You know exactly what I want,” Shawn says, voice rough just from this. This, and remembering today, actually.  

“Then why don’t you take your pants off,” Lassie says, voice low and inflicting goosebumps upon him. “And tell me where to find some lube.”

“Bedside table,” Shawn says, way too fast, scrambling to undress. “Well, actually, it’s more of a bedside cardboard box, but you really shouldn’t judge me, Lassie. I only moved in a year ago. Plus, I like to be mobile, you know? Like, what if Curt Smith suddenly invites me to move in with him? I don’t have time for a nightstand in that situation, Lassie, I just don’t—”

“ Spencer, enough.”

“Yessir.” Shawn’s rambled his way into being totally naked, which is doing things for him, especially now, with Lassie mostly clothed and reaching for him with the lube.

Lassie’s face hardens, turning red, and Shawn remembers the conversation they’d had in their backyard. You can call me Sir. “Shawn,” he says, carefully, slicking up one hand. “Turn over.”

Shawn does, propping his ass up and arching his back until he knows he looks good.

Lassie’s fingers sink into him, just this side of rough, efficient pumping at odds with the gentle hand on the back of Shawn’s neck, holding him down.

Shawn reaches back until he finds Lassie’s hand, the one slowly demolishing his insides, yanking at him to go faster . “Faster,” he says, in case the point didn’t come across. “Lassie, please, I need—”

“Tell me something, Shawn.” Lassie fights his grip, continuing the infuriating pace. 

“What? Anything,” Shawn says, almost meaning it. He won’t say I’m not psychic, or anything else they both already know, but he’ll say most other things. “I could tell you how handsome you looked in your matching pajama sets.” He yelps when Lassie’s fingers nail him, one harsh push before the gentle finger-fucking resumes. “Or we could get weird with it, you know? I could tell you about 1967’s Journey to the Center of Time.”

He’s panting, desperately crushing Lassie’s hand in his, hips canting back on every thrust.

“It’s boring as hell, but the actress’s name is Poupee Gamin, so that has to count for something— ah— ”

Lassie’s twisting his hand, curling his fingers viciously.

“You get it? P—Poupee Gamin?”

“I get it,” Lassie says blandly. “That wasn’t remotely what I was going to ask about, though.”

“Well, shit, spit it out, man.”

Lassie leans down, reaching deeper inside him as he breathes into his ear. “Shawn…”

“...Yes?”

“Do you have handcuffs?”

Shawn’s whole body seizes. He loses his hold on Lassie’s hand. “Why, Detective,” he swallows, fucking himself down onto Lassie’s fingers. “Shouldn’t you be the one with the handcuffs?”

“That’s Head Detective to you.” Lassie crooks his fingers again, and Shawn sees stars, tastes blood, and hears a symphony; all the good cliches, all at the same time. “And don’t think I don’t know it’s you who’s been taking them. I’ve lost three pairs since I met you.”

“Maybe you should be more careful with your stuff,” Shawn moans, old habits dying hard. What good is sex without a little fight involved? “You’d think the Head Detective of the Santa Barbara Police Department would be— shit. Be more aware of his surroundings.”

“Oh, really? Maybe this Head Detective should teach a dirty little psychic exactly what happens to pickpockets. You know.” 

Shawn can hear Lassie’s mean smile creeping through.

“ In the eyes of the law. ”

“If this is what you do to pickpockets,” Shawn gasps, “I can’t believe crime isn’t skyrocketing. Unrelated, remind me to steal your wallet before you— oh. Go —Go-Go, like the lyrics—” 

“Handcuffs,” Lassie reiterates, a harsh edge to his tone. “Where?”

“Oh, now we’re down to caveman dialect, are we? And if I said Me-Dun-No-Where all ape-like, what would you say then?” Lassie remains silent. “Right, already leaping to the silent film era. Nice choice, Lassie. Fine, I’ll play ball you big, beastly, alpha male.” Shawn paws aimlessly for one of the few shoeboxes within arms reach. He has to be prepared, since he gets laid so much. 

When he grabs one of the pairs of handcuffs he stole from Lassie—not that he’ll ever admit that it was indeed him who stole them—he awkwardly blows the dust off. Lassie snatches the handcuffs up and gracefully neglects to acknowledge how it seems like they haven’t been used in years, let alone months. 

Shawn’s distracted by the motion inside of him to register that Lassie is unlatching the cuffs with one hand while he fingers Shawn with the other. And he’s got one hooked around one of Shawn’s wrists in the seconds following, before he can even think of anything smart or witty to say. 

It’s so unfair. 

“I shouldn’t be the one getting locked up here, Lassie,” Shawn argues lightly, tossing a smirk over his shoulder, “Since it should be illegal for someone to be as hot as you are right now.”

“Smooth, Spencer,” Lassie deadpans. “Other wrist.”

Shawn takes a beat to consider how fun it may be to resist.

It’s a beat too long, apparently. 

Lassie tugs his fingers out of Shawn, distracting him with the momentary burning friction before manhandling his other arm behind his back. Shawn laughs when he hears the click from the other cuff. “This is marking at least, like, forty of my boxes, dude. You have no fucking clue—ah!”

Lassiter’s slid three sticky fingers back inside him, pumping at a carnal pace now to rival the slower, luxuriating pace from before. Shawn moans, kicking his knees up to get a better angle. 

With Lassie’s other hand, he grabs the chain between the handcuffs and pulls it taut, so Shawn feels the metallic pressure of them on his wrists. 

“You have the right to remain silent, but seeing as you’re Shawn Spencer, I doubt you’ll heed that right for very long,” Lassie chastises playfully. “How does it feel? Something you can handle?”

“I can definitely handle,” Shawn breathes, groaning as Lassie starts to scissor his fingers around, really managing to open him all the way. “I can more than handle, Lassie-face. Now hop inside this oven and cook up a damn Lassirole for the love of all things that are both holy and unholy!” 

There are still things Shawn says that can manage to stop Lassie in his tracks, and this is one of them. Everything comes to a halt, and Shawn can practically hear him shaking his head, tired. 

Then, his fingers are gone. Shawn whimpers.

He tugs at the handcuffs, feeling restless. 

The sign of desperation must be what kicks Lassie back into gear, because Shawn feels the blunt press of his cock up against his stretched hole in that next moment—it’s perfect, it’s literally everything, it makes all these years of sexual frustration and unmet flirtation worth it—and then Lassie’s inside him. Fully, right down to the hilt, hips pressed to ass. The whole nine yards. 

Shawn jerks against the restraint of the cuffs again, not on his own volition this time, but because his body is bubbling up with so much new, electric energy, he can’t help but twitch and respond. 

“Shh,” Lassie is murmuring, a hand stroking through Shawn’s sweat-damp hair and, really, there’s no reason he should be shushing him. Shawn may be whimpering like an injured animal, but it’s not that dramatic. Until it is, when Lassie knocks a loud sob out of him on his first thrust. 

Tears may also be working their way up to his eyes. 

The handcuffs are dusty, for Pete’s sake. 

God, there’s a dick inside him and it’s the size of a cannon. 

“Holy red rocket, Batman, you’re huge,” Shawn utters softly. 

“You knew this, Shawn.”

“Hnn.”

It takes a minute for the initial friction to dissipate, then as Shawn starts to get accustomed to the slow, almost lethargic thrusting, Lassie tightens his grip on the chain between both hand cuffs, and uses that as the leverage needed to drag Shawn’s ass back and forth onto his cock.

Shawn jolts, face pressing harder into the sheets as he loses even more autonomy of his upper body. 

“Shit, this is so hot,” he gasps, melting completely. 

Lassie’s hips start to punch into him, the chain jangling on every thrust. Shawn is sure the noises he’s making are liable to start overpowering the sounds from the rest of it; Lassie is right about one thing, he may have a right to remain silent, but he never has and never will respect that right. 

“I think we’ve been leading up to this,” Lassiter starts to say from behind gritted teeth, voice sounding all the more gravelly (sexy) for it, “For a very, very long time.”

“You think?!” 

Shawn groans as the thrusts start to ramp up, Lassie’s cock plunging in and out of him in a way that he couldn’t ignore even if he tried. It’s too much all at once and somehow still not enough. 

“Lassie, fuck. That’s so fucking— fuck.” 

“So what, Shawn?” 

“Hnng.”

“Use your words,” Lassie growls, folding the hand not holding onto the chain like it’s horse reins over Shawn’s shoulder, shoving him back even harder into the razor-sharp pistoning of his hips. 

“So good,” Shawn swears, hissing through a particularly rough jab forward. “It’s so fucking good, Lassie. Not sure—oh god, right fucking there, fuck, I—I’m not sure I’ve ever had better.” 

“Sounds like you’re trying to butter me up. I’m supposed to be the one earning it, aren’t I?”

Shawn’s brain has turned to sludge. He has no clue what he’s talking about.

“Huh?” the response curtails into a long moan. Shawn balls his hands into fists to resist the urge to jerk against the cuffs again. It’ll look pathetic, besides, he doesn’t need bright red bruises after.

“C’mon, Shawn,” Lassie taunts lightly. “You said I could earn the use of my name. So use it. Unless you don’t think I’m giving it as good as I can.” He bends closer, rising up on one knee to make his thrusts deeper, more pointed. Shawn whimpers. “Which I can definitely change…” 

“It’s such a dumb name, though,” he whines.

“You’re stalling.”

“Oh!” Shawn’s prostate is grazed so intensely, so directly, that he feels every muscle in his body buckle under the sizzling pleasure. “Fine, fine, god— Carlton, thank you for your humongous, fat, monstercock—!” 

Lassiter drops the chain and grabs his hips with both hands, jerking him to and fro as he rushes to the finish line. Shawn is right behind him, totally on board with this plan, because the pleasure is suddenly ricocheting so high, he can’t see the correct colors anymore. Or, he may be passing out. 

Everything abruptly feels wet, sticky. 

Come is fucked into him, the slick sound between Shawn’s legs telling him everything he needs to know. And, oh God, Lassie just came inside him and it’s the hottest thing Shawn’s ever felt. 

“Shawn,” Lassie groans, head falling to his back as he crumples inward. Shawn gasps, because he’s right at the precipice too, and a hand reaching underneath him to jerk him off is all he needs. 

Lassie’s fingers fly over his shaft, and it’s over. 

He shakes apart, biting through the skin of his lip to prevent himself from making pornographic sounds that might send anyone in a ten mile radius to them right to a landline to call the police. 

The last thing he needs is Juliet busting the door down as he’s busting. 

Hah.

“God,” Lassie exhales, kissing his spine through panting breaths. “You…are…”

“Can we save the ooey-gooey-mush for tomorrow, Lass?” Shawn asks, exhausted. He hiccups as Lassiter’s cock slips from his body, a wave of emptiness washing solemnly over him. “I’m literally about to sleep for at least seven years, which I know, it’s a tall order to hold your thought for that long, but I need to catch up on so much sleep after staying in that damn money pit of a suburban dreamscape.” Nightmarescape, if that’s even a word. Nightscape maybe.

“Is it still a money pit if we didn’t even put a deposit down on it?” Lassiter asks, amused. 

Shawn turns to face him, stunned to find Lassie red from head to toe, looking more worn out than he expected. Lassiter fucked like a champ; Shawn had no idea he could wreck him like this. 

He smiles wonkily, stroking fingers over Lassie’s burning cheek. 

“We’ll have to look into that,” Shawn suggests fondly. He runs his tongue over his teeth. “One day. Y’know, for the philosophical question of it all.”

Lassiter blinks at the idea. The two of them moving into another shithole, when they’re ready. It should be nightmarish after all they went through, but maybe when they’re ready—like, really ready, for a dog, to fix the broken pool, to align the TV the right way—it doesn’t have to be. 

To top all prior surprises, Lassiter smiles. 

He smiles at the most ridiculous idea Shawn’s ever had. 

And so, he replies without a care in the world. 

“Maybe so.”