They are moving, fast and erratic and desperate.
Shawn had already been on the road, breaking speed laws and blowing through red lights when Guster had flung open the doors to Chief Vick's office, screaming about Shawn and Henry and oh my god. Everyone had jumped. None of them had ever jumped higher.
When they'd gotten there, to Jerry Carp's house it had all been too late. Shawn was inconsolable and Henry was nowhere to be seen. They'd picked their way down to the beach, carefully, so very carefully, with the suspect sat down quietly, back against the bank behind his house, and Shawn pacing, no, prowling back and forth across the stones.
His eyes kept drifting back to the blood splatter, glaring red in the sundown. Still too red. And the gun heavy and glinting in his hand. Probably the murder weapon. Most definitely the murder weapon, actually, but Shawn didn't have his finger on the trigger, and it wasn't really pointed at Carp, so no one knew if they had to talk Shawn down or not. Or even really, how to start.
It was Guster, of course, who crept forward, soundless, his hands feeling forward. He'd barely even touched his friend before Shawn had jumped into his arms, silent. While O'Hara and Lassiter ground their suspect into the rocks, far harder than necessary and read him his Miranda rights and slapped the cuffs on too tight, Vick covertly snatched the gun out of Shawn's hand. He didn't fight it.
Shawn just remained silent and let himself be lead to one of the cars, ignoring the sympathetic stares and blocking out all the murmurs. Gus didn't let go of him even once.
Shawn didn't show up at the station for three days, and nobody dared to call him. For someone who always seemed too happy and uppity, he made a shockingly imposing figure when he wasn't. There were supposed to be interviews that hadn't happened yet, because they couldn't even get Buzz to call. After the second time Buzz's face had pinched up tight in pain and his eyes had drifted to the floor, they'd all agreed that Shawn would probably remember when he was feeling better. It wasn't after all, something you easily forgot.
Henry hadn't been found yet, either.
Two days later, Lassiter didn't want to go home, but he'd been awake for thirty-six hours and it was getting hard to tolerate him. Grumbling, and snatching his copy of the case file, he reluctantly made his way out of the station (not before trying to convince Vick to let him stay a few more nights) and hovered around his car. He wanted… well, he didn't know what he wanted. He wanted to do for Shawn what he'd wanted someone to do for him after his last and finalizing date with Victoria.
Instead, Lassiter drove home, casting furtive glances at his cell phone, laying on top of the manila folders in the passenger's seat.
So imagine his surprise when he pulled into the driveway, only to find Shawn Spencer standing on his porch. They didn't say anything, Lassiter nervous and Shawn staring intently. No matter the circumstances, Lassiter just couldn't bring himself to shoo Shawn away. Maybe holding the door open hadn't helped the situation much. The screen door screeched shut and then so did the wooden one and then Shawn was on top of him.
Laying on the foyer floor with Shawn attached to him at the mouth, Lassiter didn't really know what he had been expecting, but he realized that he wasn't actually that surprised. He recognized the behavior. The aching need to distract yourself. Shawn was just… indulging in a very bad idea. And it was even a worse idea for Lassiter not to push Shawn off and chalk it all up to him trying to cope with his loss in a very physical way. But Lassiter was known for his worse ideas and he didn't have anything against physical ways, either.
It only takes Lassiter a few minutes to pull himself together enough to get them into the bedroom. Lassiter grabbing for his lotion is unnecessary. Shawn reaches behind him when he notices Lassiter not working on getting them naked and impatiently slaps down a tube of lube and a condom onto the bedside table. So Lassiter can focus entirely on Shawn's shirt and pants and underwear. He does.
When they're naked, there is no foreplay. No tender kisses. There's just enough to get Lassiter hard and Shawn's rolling the condom on and it's strawberry flavored, but he doubts they're going to be tasting it. Lassiter winces when Shawn sits himself down on to his dick, because he didn't even prepare himself and the whimper he lets out is all pain and no pleasure.
And, yeah, Lassiter wants to say something, but Shawn really does look like he'd deck him if he suggests they slow down. So he does the best he can and grips Shawn's hips, trying to steady him.
With all this going on, with Shawn's head tilted back and him moaning and Lassiter groaning and both of them slick with sweat, Lassiter doesn't even notice at first that Shawn is crying. There are just little hints that make Lassiter's ears prick up, the way Shawn's shoulders hitched or a watery gasp that didn't match up with a thrust. But he notices, really notices when he sees little drops of water dropping onto the fuzz on his belly.
That's the final straw and Lassiter stops abruptly. Shawn glowers at him and keeps moving, but his heart isn't into it. His eyes are rimmed red and snot's collecting on his top lip. It only takes one small tug on both his wrists, and Shawn flops forward onto Lassiter. The head detective wraps his arms around the psychic, holding him impossibly close while Shawn opens up and completely loses it.
Shawn is utterly enveloped in Lassiter's arms, torn between sobbing and having sex. The detective starts to move again, slow and steady this time, but even then, they can't reach that pitch anymore. They keep moving until they're exhausted and limp, but neither of them come.
"It's…" Shawn swallows loudly, more than just spit, "my dad." Of course. Anyone would figure as much.
The fake psychic pushes himself up on shaky arms, stemmed against Lassiter's chest and fails utterly to look the older man in the eye.
"He's just… gonna be some…c-corpse that gets found in a bush or washed up on shore." Lassiter watches Shawn's face twist up in pain.
"That can't happen," he continues. A small pat to the back of the neck isn't really much comfort. Shawn seems to take it the wrong way and Lassiter finds himself suddenly with a rather irritated fake psychic staring him down.
"I mean it! He can't just be found! We have to find him!"
There shouldn't be a difference, but there is. It's worlds of difference. Eons and galaxies of difference.
Lassiter wants to, but he knows, it's one of the first rules of being a cop, of being a detective: don't make promises you can't keep. A bad thing to have so deeply engraved into you that it carries over into your marriage. It makes for really piss-poor comforts.
"Sure." Lassiter says, and it comes out tasting like old tires, "we'll find him." Shawn stares at him, scrutinizing him, not looking fooled for one minute, before his arms just stop holding him up and he's crushing all the air out of Lassiter's chest. Both of the grunt.
Shawn spends the rest of the evening laying on top of the older detective with his face scrunched up tight, trying not to cry and Lassiter spends the rest of the evening pretending not to notice.