Disclaimers—This is fan fiction. No profit is involved. All recognizable characters belong to Steve Franks and the USA Network (not me). Just taking the boys out for a little fun.

Feedback—sure

Spoilers—Everything prior to the Season 3 finale ("An Evening with Mr. Yang") is fair game. References to several season 3 episodes including (but not limited to) "Lassie Did a Bad, Bad Thing", "Truer Lies", and "Tuesday the 17th".

Main Characters- Shawn and Lassiter. Gen fic. (No slash except for what you bring yourself)

A/N: Wow! Season 3 has certainly been heavy on the drama and angst. (Um… Show, why so dark? Why so serious?) And this fic is certainly embracing this new tendency! Anyway, this is less a specific episode tag and more of an "interlude" fic set somewhere before the S3 finale. It's a bit more introspective than my usual stories, which means no mayhem, mild owies and lots of conversation.

Special Thanks: Extra-special thank you to my beta, em! Please note-- I made some changes to this fic after her wonderful assistance. I double-checked it, but something might have slipped past me. If you find something, please feel free to email me.

Summary: Lassiter gains a new perspective on Shawn as the two share a (semi) civil conversation. Too bad it took a fall from a porch for him to see it. (Season 3-centric)

"Shifting Paradigms"

By: Miss Weather


"Ow!" Damnit!

Carlton Lassiter groaned in frustration, forced to lie still once again, as a wave of pain radiated along his torso to his hip. Just a twinge, had worse. It'll pass, he chided himself, firmly trying to convince his body to be more cooperative. Nothing more than an annoyance. The quick trip to the hospital yesterday had confirmed that. No fractures. Just some contusions. The on-call physician had recommended rest and ice, and ibuprofen. They were nothing more than handful of very colorful and very painful bruises. Non-injuries.

Much to his growing irritation, these bruises had hindered his efforts to retrieve a glass from the coffee table for the past half-hour. Even more frustrating, these same non-injuries had left him on medical leave for the next two days. Despite his best efforts, he couldn't convince Captain Vick that he was more than capable of returning to work, or at the very least sitting at his desk. She effectively barred him from returning to the station until he received full clearance from the Department's physician.

Lassiter resigned himself to spending the next couple of days in forced convalescence at his apartment. All things considered, the timing of his mandatory pseudo-vacation was fairly decent. There were no open cases cluttering his desk, and he knew that he could count on O'Hara to act in his stead until he recovered. That is, as long as those two buffoons, Spencer and Guster were not involved. He felt himself grimace and quickly redirected his thoughts to something more positive. Two more days and he could return to his desk. Just two more days.

With a couple of measured breaths, the pain quickly receded and he was able to try again. Slowly reaching his arm over to the table, he was able to retrieve the glass of water and a couple of pain relievers. Fifth times a charm, he mused.

Once the glass was empty, he settled himself back onto the couch. With skill born from practice, he managed to roll onto his right side without disrupting the three ice packs, strategically, placed along the left side of his body. A deep, nagging ache flared from his left shoulder to his left hip. Damn. He shifted again, hoping that he'd be able to fall asleep for at least a short nap. So far, he hadn't had much luck in the "rest" department. His assortment of contusions had kept him awake for most of the night. Awake and miserable.

He took another slow breath to see if his newest adjustment had worked. Exhaling, he felt a dull twinge of pain in his ribs, but it was tolerable. There. Finally. Perfect spot. With a quiet sigh, he closed his eyes allowing his mind to drift. The solace of a quick nap would do his body wonders, or so he hoped.

Unfortunate for him, with mere moments of falling asleep, a loud chime echoed throughout his apartment. Bolting upright with agonizing gasp, Lassiter clutched his arms around his midsection. Door bell, he cursed. Damn instincts. He quickly leaned back against the couch, quietly panting as he waited for this latest wave of agony to dissipate.

Who the hell? Lassiter had been clear upon his departure from the hospital. There were to be no visitors. He had used his no-nonsense, "I'm head detective" tone of voice, which left no room for misinterpretation.

After a quick deliberation, he settled for ignoring his unwanted visitor. Besides, killing the moron would be too much of a hassle, he concluded. Resolved to ignore all unsolicited visitors, he slowly laid back down on the couch.

However, this particular idiot wasn't deterred. The door bell rang three times in quick succession followed by the shout of an all too familiar voice.

"Oh Lassie! Come out, come out wherever you are?!"

Rolling his eyes, he felt the vein near his temple start to throb. Sweet, merciful justice! Spencer.

Using his right arm for momentum, he gingerly pushed himself off the couch into standing. Son of a bitch. The movement, as predicted, awakened an intense ache in his ribs and hip. The urge to inflict violence on the SBPD's consultant was greatly overtaking all rational thought. Once upright, he slowly limped his way from the living couch to the front door, eager to shut that jackass up once and for all.

"I know you're home, your car is in the parking lot. Dude! If you don't open up, I'll just do my Lloyd Dobler impression from Say Anything. Come on!"

Lassiter threw the door open with as much force as his beleaguered body would allow. "What the hell could you possibly want, Spencer?!" he shouted.

As he expected, Spencer merely grinned, in his usual obnoxious way. "Lassie! How are you doing, pal?"

Lassiter scowled deeply. "I'm fine, Spencer. Now, get off my property," he said as he moved to close the door.

"Wait," Spencer shouted, flinging himself into the doorway threshold. With one hand on the door and his other poised near his forehead, he whispered, "My psychic senses are tingling."

Rolling his eyes, Lassiter barked, "Perhaps I haven't made myself clear. Go. Go now. Leave!"

Undeterred, Spencer continued, "I'm serious. My psychic senses are tingling, which can only mean one of two things. It's going to rain on Thursday or that a certain cranky pants head detective could use some cheering up. I'm guessing it's the latter."

"I didn't understand a word of what you just said, Spencer. Listen closely-- I'm not going to say this again, leave me alone."

Lassiter glared darkly when the younger man didn't budge from the doorway. He couldn't believe the gall of the man standing before him. He was sorely tempted to slam the door closed, just to see the expression on Spencer's face. However, the troublesome ache lingering along the left half of his body served as a strong reminder that such an action wouldn't be prudent.

"Come on Lassie, I brought homemade soup." Spencer said as he pulled a small container from his jacket pocket.

Startled, Lassiter managed to catch the quickly tossed can of soup with only minimal fumbling. "It's Campbell's," he replied with a quick glance of the can.

Spencer shrugged. "It's chicken and stars, guaranteed to bring forth warmth, wellness and inner cheer."

With a weary sigh, he shook his head in aggravation. "Spencer, I don't have the energy for you today. As you can clearly see, I'm fine. So, get to the point or leave."

"Can I come in?" The obnoxious smirk had disappeared from Spencer's face.

His initial, knee-jerk reaction was to say no. And given who requested it, no one would fault him for such a response. Lassiter briefly scrutinized the other man, genuinely surprised by his sudden mood swing. Weariness and pain were warring forces in his body at the moment, but his curiosity won out.

"Fine, you get 15 minutes." Lassiter carefully shifted his weight to his right side, allowing the other man to enter. He purposefully ignored the concerned glance he received as he limped his way toward the kitchen.

"So, these are the new digs?" Spencer inquired nonchalantly.

"You have 15 minutes, Spencer. Get on with it," he reminded. He grabbed a seat at the kitchen counter, watching the other man aimlessly wander around his living room.

"Can't a guy stop by and see how a buddy's doing without being interrogated?" Spencer spoke casually as he strolled across the room; occasionally stopping to peek into open boxes that cluttered the floor.

"I told you I'm fine," Lassiter repeated, placing a strong emphasis on each word.

"Got it, you're fine." He smiled slightly and said, "Glad to hear it. But dude, you have to admit that was one hell of a fall. Jules said that you'd be able to return to work by the end of the week."

Lassiter felt his eyes go wide with that comment. The hell?! "Wait a minute. A fall? I didn't fall, Spencer. You pushed me!"

"Oh Lassie, I get the feeling that you're still feeling a bit sore about yesterday. No pun intended," Spencer said, turning his back to wander into the living room.

Lassiter turned as quick as his body would allow. He couldn't believe the audacity of the man. "Sore? You pushed off the goddamn porch!"

"I was trying to save your life!"

He was momentarily taken aback by the defensive tone. From his current vantage point, he wasn't able to see the younger man's face, but his posture was tense.

"Saving me from what a visually impaired, elderly woman wielding a power screwdriver? She wasn't a threat."

Spencer turned to face him. His eyes wide, hands fisted at his hips. "I thought she had a gun."

Shaking his head in disbelief, Lassiter said, "It was a screwdriver and she was easily over 80."

"I didn't know that at the time," Spencer released a loud, irritated sigh. "And she was giving off strong creepy old lady vibes! I did what I had to do."

"You did what you had to do? By pushing me off the porch?" Lassiter asked incredulously.

Spencer's typical smirk vanished and was replaced with something he couldn't discern. "How was I supposed to know that the porch rail was unstable?"

"You're a psychic, aren't you?" Lassiter sneered. He immediately regretted the childish response when he saw the brief look of hurt flash across Spencer's face.

"Yeah. It doesn't work that way. I just reacted," Spencer said, moving back into the living room.

"In the future, Spencer, don't do me any favors!" He shouted and then winced. Bracing his arms around his torso, he came to the quick realization that shouting was not a wise idea with bruised ribs.

"That bad?" came the quiet question.

Lassiter snarled through clenched teeth. "You try being shoved off a porch, falling several feet onto concrete and tell me how you feel."

Spencer locked eyes with him before quickly looking away. "I'm sorry. Okay? I screwed up."

If he didn't know better, he would have said that Spencer looked almost contrite. Sitting on his couch, head tilted down, and hands folded. Practically ashamed. Admittedly, the more sadistic side of him was pleased to finally get the chance to hear an apology from the Shawn Spencer. It was nice to see the smug pain in the ass finally apologize for something.

Spencer went on, "It's just that people have been shooting at me a lot lately. I don't know what happened. I saw her lurking in the shadows. I reacted. I made a mistake and I'm sorry.

"You're right. You made a mistake. What do you want me to say, it happens? Don't do it again?" Lassiter said and rubbed a hand over his face.

"No. I don't know. I just wanted to apologize." Spencer's voice was low with regret.

The sincere look of remorse in Spencer's eyes caught Lassiter momentarily off-guard. He quickly swallowed his retort, as he watched the other man fidget on the couch. For reasons that he couldn't quite understand himself, Lassiter decided to take the high road.

"Okay," he said as he stood and headed towards the fridge. "You want something to drink? Beer?"

Nodding his head, Spencer asked, "So, when did you manage to move?"

"About two weeks ago."

"Why?"

Lassiter raised an eyebrow at this irreverent question. With slow steps back to the couch, he debated on the virtues of simply telling the other man to mind his own damn business. He handed the other man a beer, before gingerly lowering himself into a nearby armchair.

"Lease was up on the last place," he replied.

Spencer took a large sip and asked, "Oh. Hmm. Wasn't the last place bigger? Why not renew it?"

The not-so-innocent question was enough to ignite Lassiter's barely contained temper. "Not that it's any of your business, Spencer," he seethed. "It was because there was never enough hot water. Oh, not to mention, I couldn't get those pesky bloodstains out of the living room carpet, which came from the corrupt police officer that I shot. The very same man that took you hostage and tried to kill both of us."

"Not exactly good times." Spencer spoke with uncharacteristic somberness.

"No, not exactly," Lassiter muttered, taking a drink from his beer.

"This place will look better once you get unpacked. Hang Santa Barbara's Most Wanted postings on this wall. A potted plant here. A floor lamp there." Spencer said, gesturing to the far wall. "Just needs a little feng shui."

He nodded. "Yeah. When I get the chance."

"It's been a really rough couple of weeks. Hasn't it?" Spencer asked. Though, by the inflection in his voice, it wasn't intended to be a question.

Lassiter hmmed, noncommittally.

"Drimmer. He really, really wanted us dead. Such a ridiculous plan, murder-suicide, please..." Spencer hesitated, his voice suddenly trailed off.

"Spencer?"

"It's happened a lot lately. I'm starting to think that I must have some kind of target painted on my back or something."

"What?" Lassiter glanced sharply at Spencer. However, the other man refused to make eye contact, simply sat, dissecting the beer bottle label with his hands.

"Lately, with every case Gus and I work on, there have been bullets, exploding buildings, knife welding psychopaths," he said softly.

He opened his mouth to interrupt, but Spencer continued, undaunted. "It's messing up our system. And it's a good system! I get a vision, solve the case in a delightfully brilliant and handsome way, and that be it. Gus and I collect our check and maybe a donut on the way out. It works!"

Lassiter looked at him for a long moment, trying to decide what to say. He never had a sense for when Spencer was being honest or merely playing him. However, there was something in his tone that suggested that this was more than just a game.

Schooling his features, he replied in his most authoritative voice. "Police work has some inherent dangers associated with it. You know that, Spencer. Even for the consultants."

"Psychic consultant," Spencer corrected flippantly.

"It doesn't matter what the hell you call yourself," Lassiter said. "You're hired to assist with on-going cases. Many of them homicides. There are risks associated with that."

"And I know that. I'm fine with taking this on, when I just have to worry about myself, but…" Spencer's voice trailed off for the second time. He was clearly flustered with his inability to find the right words.

It took him a moment to determine who Spencer was referring to. "This is about Guster."

Spencer simply looked up from his beer and nodded.

He wasn't surprised. He figured it was simply a matter of time before Guster's sense of self-preservation won out over his loyalty to Spencer. "He finally decide to leave Psych?"

Spencer shook his head sharply. "No. Nothing like that. Sure, he's a bit pissed over the last couple of cases that we've worked on."

"So what then?"

Whatever the answer Lassiter expected, it certainly wasn't this one.

"I'm reckless," the other man confessed, his shoulders slouched forward, head bowed. "I know that better than anyone. Hell, my father loves to tell me that. Sometimes, I think the only reason Gus stays is because he feels that he has to. Maybe I rely on him too much. I put him in danger."

There was unmistakable click in his brain, as he listened to Spencer ramble. Unexpectedly, he knew that he found yet another piece to the proverbial puzzle that was Shawn Spencer. Very unexpected, Lassiter thought with a frown.

Granted, this was a subject that he had some background in; something that he understood far too well. He knew this fear. How many countless nights has he lost sleep over this particular subject? The fear of being inadequate, being unreliable, and of making a fatal mistake.

Lassiter was never one to mince words, but couldn't think of a response that didn't sound sanctimonious or glib. He found it incredibly difficult to get past the bizarre experience that this was turning into. A troubled Spencer seeking his advice, it was a bit more than Lassiter could wrap his mind around.

The conversation lulled as he sought the right words. This wasn't his forte. Everyone knew that he didn't have the knack for situations that required empathy and tact. Everyone. O'Hara handled these situations. He silently fumed at Spencer for putting him in this situation. However, to his disgust, he found that he could no more yell at the dejected man-child sitting on his couch than he could kick a puppy.

"Guster's sensible, which is more than I can say for you. He's capable of making his own decisions." He paused to clear his throat. "I don't know what to tell you, Spencer. You need to trust him, as much as you ask for his trust in you."

Spencer glanced over, looking far more young and innocent than he had any right to. "I just don't want to see anyone get hurt because of me."

Lassiter snorted. "That's ridiculously naïve, even for you."

"Yeah."

This was just too surreal. Despite his best efforts, he wasn't able to stop himself from asking, "Why are you here, Spencer?"

"I don't know," Spencer said, almost inaudibly, before finishing his beer.

Lassiter watched the man slumped on his couch stare aimlessly at the empty bottle in his hands, looking sad and lost. The absurdity of this situation and of the past few weeks had finally caught up with him. He tried to squelch the irrational fit of laughter that threatened to spill forth, but failed miserably.

Spencer cocked his head up from his drink in surprise and mouthed a "what"

"This." Lassiter said with another laugh, gesturing to the two of them. "It's so strange."

"Huh?" he asked confused.

"This conversation. Here. It's so completely un-Spencer-like. No inane 80s references. No hijinks. No crass jokes. It's disturbing."

"That's one way to describe it" Spencer rolled his eyes, looking mildly peeved by his remark.

Lassiter was unapologetic. The unintentional fit of laughter was exactly what they needed. A diversion. "You sure you didn't fall off your bike on your way over here? Hit your head?" he asked etching his words with a light sarcasm.

Spencer's brash smirk returned full force. "Positive. Though, I'm beginning to think you might have taken too many pain killers. Hmm? Or maybe one too many beers with those happy pills?"

Lassiter scowled at the obvious jab. "No. I'm good."

"Good. I think my 15 minutes are up," Spencer said, stretching as he stood.

Crossing his arms, Lassiter called out to the other man as he exited. "Oh Spencer, I know how you can repay me for yesterday."

Caught off guard, Spencer had stopped and quickly spun around. "Say again?!" he demanded incredulously. "I thought we were good."

Lassiter gave him a disapproving glare and added, "4 feet onto concrete, Spencer. I think you owe me more than an apology."

"Lassie, I..." Spencer started, but he interrupted him with a shake of his head, effectively quelling the excuse.

"Don't worry," he said. "O'Hara won't let me shoot you. However, I thought of an alternative that would work. Saturday, be here by 11:00."

Spencer blinked, confused. "Dude. Saturday? What for?"

He smiled. "I need a couple of larger items moved here and there. A bureau, a gun safe. Nothing major."

"Nothing major? A gun safe?" Spencer complained. "Come on, Lassie. My chiropractor says that I can't lift…"

Lassiter raised his voice, easily talking over the other man. "Spencer, I don't care and you were right. Your 15 minutes are up. Be here at 11:00."

Spencer turned towards the door, grumbling something unintelligible under his breath.

"What was that?" He called out, his question directed at the other man's back.

"This isn't fair. You know that, right?" Spencer replied petulantly.

He merely shrugged. "You pushed me off a porch."

The younger man looked back, displeasure clear on his face. "Fine. I give. You win." Spencer said waving his hands in surrender. "See if I bring you soup next time."

"Don't forget."

"Yeah, yeah, but I'm bringing Gus and Jules. I'm not going to suffer alone."

"Whatever. Just be here." Lassiter said hastily, getting the last word in before he heard the front door snap shut.

A moment later, his apartment was quiet again. With a long sigh, he settled himself back into the chair to watch television. Despite finding an episode of "COPS" to watch, he felt his attention drift back to Spencer's little visit. As much as he hated to admit it, the conversation left him unsettled. He thought he had finally established an accurate profile of Shawn Spencer, but now, there was a new piece of information to add.

Lassiter suddenly found himself understanding the other man a bit better. He scowled at the thought. He didn't want to understand Spencer. The man was an immature, irresponsible, obnoxious pain in the ass. That said he might also be one of the most gifted investigators that Lassiter had ever worked with. The man's record was testament of his talent. It was exasperating to watch him make such quick deductions with remarkable skill. Spencer was good and it both annoyed and impressed the hell out of him.

Lassiter groaned irritably. He wasn't in the mood for any of this, especially while on forced medical leave. Reaching across the table for his ice packs, he caught sight of the soup on his counter. He felt his lips twist into a small smile into spite of himself. The smile instantly fell as a sharp, stabbing sensation pulsed through his hip. Teeth clenched, he cursed Spencer for the 105th time since his fall yesterday.

With a long sigh of relief, his world suddenly felt right once again. For the first time in a day, Lassiter felt grateful for the reprieve from work. It gave him a perfect opportunity to plot his revenge. Lassiter smiled brightly. He had two whole days to devise delightful new ways to torture and abuse the SBPD's psychic consultant.

Perhaps having some time off wasn't so bad after all.


A/N: Thanks for reading! So, what do you think? Too OOC? Follow-up? Feedback is definitely appreciated with this one. As always, reviews, comments, and critiques are welcome.