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Twenty-four hours ago, Carlton Lassiter would’ve bet his entire life savings that he’d never find himself suspended from work and living out of the Psych office while police officers he’s known for years look through every one of his worldly possessions.
…There’s a good reason why he’s never been a gambling man.
While Shawn and Gus are out trying to halt the raging rollercoaster of garbage that is his current situation, all Lassiter can do is look around the office and try to keep himself busy. Before he can even start opening random drawers and cupboards, though, a shirt catches his eye.
It's dark blue, in a plaid pattern, draped over the chair behind the desk. It looks too saturated for Gus’s usual attire, so… one of Shawn’s, most likely.
Lassiter lifts the shirt, rubbing the fabric between two fingers. It’s dry and soft, and still a little fuzzy from the dryer. Clean, he thinks. Perhaps it’s here as a backup, in case Shawn ever needs a spare shirt. Or maybe he and Gus showed up in the same colours and Shawn had to change. Either way, there are no tags on it, so it’s not new. Shawn has definitely worn this shirt at some point, and now it’s here, in Lassiter’s hands, with no one else around.
It’s probably the last thing in the world that should be on his mind right now. …No, it’s definitely the last thing that should be on his mind. He’s been falsely accused of murder, he’s suspended from work, and he’s living out of the damn Psych office. This is truly rock bottom for Carlton Lassiter, and what is he doing? Thinking about putting on Shawn Spencer’s shirt? It’s pathetic, but…
“Screw it,” he mutters. If he’s already at rock bottom, then he’s got nothing left to lose. Gingerly, he raises it to his face and, after looking both ways to double, triple, quadruple check that no one else is around, he inhales deeply.
Fuck. It smells like Shawn, and Lassiter is pissed at the shiver that runs down his back when he breathes in Shawn’s scent, pissed that he even knows what Shawn smells like in the first place.
Lassiter removes his suit jacket, draping it over the arm of the couch. He unbuttons his shirt and shrugs it off, then tugs Shawn’s shirt over his head. It’s a little loose around the torso, but short, too; when Lassiter raises his arms, it exposes a bit of his stomach and forearms. The fabric is a little scratchier than what he’s used to wearing as well, but not overstimulating.
Ill-fitting and scratchy, but somehow… comforting. Because it’s Shawn’s.
If he didn’t want to live to see his name cleared, Lassiter may have considered smashing his head into the wall. When the hell did I let this stupid crush consume me?
Oh, who was he kidding? It stopped being a crush months ago. As much as Lassiter would love to deny it, he’s head over heels for the stupid fake psychic, to the point that his mind is more consumed by how he can take this shirt home instead of the murder charges against him.
Surely Shawn would notice if his shirt went missing; Lassiter has personally seen him notice details far smaller than this. As far as he’s concerned, the only way to get the shirt out of the office is to wear it out. And the only way to wear the shirt out is, of course, if he has nothing else to wear.
Lassiter heads over to the kitchen and opens the fridge. Its contents look like a fraternity dorm room threw up inside, with items such as cans of soda, a container of half-eaten pizza, and an alarming pitcher of murky liquid labeled ‘Funny Juice’, which makes Lassiter shudder. Luckily, there’s also a container of what looks like pudding, dusted with cinnamon, something that he would conceivably eat. Perfect. Lassiter opens drawers at random until he finds a spoon, and returns to the container of pudding.
Out of curiosity, he takes a bite. The sweetness is good, but the layer of cinnamon is a bit dry for his taste. Doesn’t matter. Lassiter retrieves his shirt from the couch and lays it flat on the counter, then drops a dollop of pudding onto it. “Oh no,” he mutters to himself, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “That’s a shame. I guess I’ll have to wear this other shirt for the time being.”
Lassiter is fully aware of how unhinged he’s acting, how utterly pathetic he is. But his life is in shambles, and if he can find even a moment of comfort in whatever this insanity is, he’s gonna take it, damnit.
After Drimmer’s arrest and everything that happened here in Lassiter’s living room, Vick let Lassiter take the night to unwind before the mountain of paperwork and statements he’d have to deal with the next day. When everyone left, Lassiter just sat down on the couch where Drimmer pistol-whipped Shawn, below the bullet hole in the ceiling meant for Shawn’s heart, in front of the table where the fake suicide note had been before Vick took it as evidence.
And after everything that happened, he’s still wearing Shawn’s shirt. The ‘former lovers’ story Drimmer cooked up would have worked like a charm when it came out that he was wearing Shawn’s fucking shirt.
Lassiter didn’t sleep much that night. To go down for one murder was bad enough, but to go down for killing Shawn might have actually broken him.
Whatever semblance of sleep he’d managed to fall into was ripped away from him at seven in the morning, when Vick called him into the station. And after twelve hours of interviews, statements, paperwork, and picking at whatever fast food Juliet brought him, Lassiter is finally able to return home. He takes a long shower and heads back downstairs. There’s a half-full bottle of scotch in the kitchen with his name on it.
But before he can pour even a single glass, there’s a knock at the door.
Lassiter peers through the peephole. There, standing on the doorstep, rocking back and forth on his heels, is Shawn fucking Spencer.
Goddamnit. Lassiter rests a hand on his chest as his heart starts to quicken. He takes a deep breath before opening the door, leaning casually on the doorframe as if he isn’t disgustingly close to having a heart attack over this man. “Hello, Spencer.”
“Hey, Lassie. How’s it going?”
“I’m fine,” says Lassiter. “How’s your head?”
Shawn absentmindedly rubs the back of his head, and for a second, all Lassiter can see is the butt of Drimmer’s gun slamming down on it. “Eh, I’ll live. I just came to drop off your shirt,” he says, pulling a messily folded bundle out of his messenger bag. “The one you spilled Gus’s pudding on, remember?”
“Oh.”
“And to pick up the shirt you borrowed from me.”
“…Oh. Right.” Lassiter hates how disappointed he feels. Of course he wants his shirt back, you idiot. “Come in, I suppose.”
Shawn steps inside, and Lassiter closes the door behind him. “Wait here, Spencer,” he says. “I’ll go get your shirt.”
“Thanks, Lassie.”
The shirt is folded on top of the dresser in his bedroom, untouched since it was washed. Lassiter would’ve kept wearing it until the smell of Shawn’s laundry detergent was gone, but he sweated through it in the ordeal with Drimmer. It went through the laundry before he went to bed that night, along with… well, anything Drimmer might have theoretically touched.
He picks it up and returns downstairs, where Shawn is sitting on the couch. “This place looks a lot different without a homicidal murderer in it,” he remarks.
Lassiter doesn’t justify that with a response. Instead, he holds out the shirt. “I washed it last night,” he says. “Thank you again for letting me borrow it.”
Shawn stands up and takes his shirt. “Don’t sweat it,” he replies, passing Lassiter’s shirt back and leaning against the wall. “Pudding stains happen. I’m just glad I had something there for you to wear; I don’t know if even you could pull off the ‘suit jacket with no shirt‘ combination, Lassifrass.”
Lassiter forces a thin smile. “You’re probably right, Spencer.”
Shawn nods. He doesn’t move a muscle, just maintains his oh-so-casual lean, something unreadable flitting through his eyes.
Why aren’t you leaving? Lassiter wants to scream. Instead, he clears his throat and asks, “Is there anything else?”
“Actually, yes. I wanted to show you something.” Shawn gestures to the shirt in Lassiter’s hands. “Can I see that for a second?”
Lassiter raises an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Just trust me,” says Shawn.
Trusting Shawn has never, ever been a good idea. Still, not giving him the shirt would only serve to make Lassiter look like he’s got something to hide… which he does, of course, but Shawn doesn’t need to know that. “Fine,” he says, and hands it over. “Make it quick, though. I want to get it in the wash as soon as possible.”
“To hide the evidence?” asks Shawn, the corner of his mouth curling into a cheeky smile.
“What are you talking about?”
Shawn unfolds the shirt. “There’s the stain from the pudding,” he says, pointing at the front of the shirt. “But… look.” He undoes the first couple of buttons so that the inside of the shirt is visible, and gestures to a spot a few inches down from the tag on the back. “There’s pudding on the inside, too.”
Oh shit. Lassiter knows exactly where he’s going with this.
Shawn has the same look on his face as he does when he sums up a crime. “It’s weird, isn’t it?”
Stop.
“If you had been wearing this shirt when you spilled on it, your body would have prevented it from seeping through the front and getting onto the back.“
Please stop.
“You had already taken this shirt off when you spilled on it.”
Lassiter swallows hard. His mouth feels dry as a desert. His brain is working a mile a minute, trying to think of an excuse. Like a criminal. A guilty goddamn criminal.
“I… why in the world would I have done that?” he asks finally.
“Maybe because you already had my shirt on,” suggests Shawn. “And you were looking for an excuse not to take it off.”
“Th-That… That’s ridiculous,” stammers Lassiter. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. I-I mean… why… Why the hell…”
Shawn smirks. “You’re blushing, Lassie.”
“I— I am not— “
His words die in his throat as Shawn takes a slow step toward him. And then another.
Is this really happening? It feels like Lassiter’s brain is short-circuiting. All he can focus on is the erratic thrashing of his heart and Shawn, inches away, looking up at him with that stupid flirty grin of his, and then Shawn is leaning in, and he can’t even think .
“Feel free to stop me if I’m wrong about all this,” whispers Shawn, so close that Lassiter can feel his warm breath on his face. “Then again… I am a psychic.”
Their lips meet, and all of the tension and fear of the past couple days drains away so fast it almost makes Lassiter dizzy. Shawn’s stubble is rough, but his lips are soft, and he moves with practiced ease. He tastes sweet, like some kind of tropical fruit. As they kiss, his hands slide slowly up Lassiter’s back and come to rest on the sides of his neck. Lassiter moves his hands up as well, grabbing onto Shawn’s lower back.
Fuck, how long has he wanted to do this?
After a minute, Shawn pulls back. There’s a warm flush to his cheeks. “Wow,” he breathes. “I didn’t expect you to be such a good kisser, Lassie.”
“I don’t know whether to be offended or not,” says Lassiter.
Shawn sits back down on the couch. “It’s a compliment,” he says. “Hey, was that line about being a psychic too corny? I mean, I thought it was cool, but maybe I’m biased.”
“Whatever movie taught you that you need to say a one-liner before kissing someone deserves to be banned.”
“Heh. Maybe,” laughs Shawn. “Oh, by the way… I was right, wasn’t I? About the shirt, and the pudding.”
Lassiter flops down beside him on the couch with a sigh. “Of course you were, Spencer. You were spot-on with everything, as usual.”
Shawn grins. “The spirits have never failed me. For example…” He pulls a yellow pack of gum out of his pocket. “I usually like mint gum, but today, something spoke to me and told me to buy the pineapple mango flavour instead.”
Lassiter’s jaw drops. “…Because I’m allergic to mint,” he says. “You anticipated kissing me, you cocky bastard!”
“The spirits are very considerate sometimes,” says Shawn. “Wouldn’t want you keeling over in the middle of our makeout session, after all. In fact…” He leans over, resting a hand on Lassiter’s thigh. “The spirits foresee me giving up mint gum completely in the near future.”
“Enough of the psychic bullshit,” says Lassiter, and does what he’s been dreaming about doing for months: he shuts Shawn Spencer up with a kiss.
As he pulls Shawn closer, Lassiter can’t help but marvel at how different his life is right now than it was a couple of days ago. From rock bottom to the happiest he’s been in years, all in a matter of days. Maybe getting accused of murder wasn’t so bad, after all , he muses.
It’s an insane thing to think, and Lassiter knows it. But then again, he’s kissing Shawn on the same couch that was almost a crime scene twenty-four hours ago. Life is a goddamn roller coaster, and Lassiter intends to enjoy it for all it’s worth.