Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Don't own references to: The Sixth Sense, Nirvana's "Smells like Team Spirit", The A-Team, Red Lobster, The Vampire Diaries, Friends, Cocca Puffs cereal or its Sonny the cuckoo bird, Sonny Bono, Pac-Man, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Ace Ventura: Pet Detective, Doritos, Skittles, Band-Aid, Men Without Hats' "The Safety Dance", Monopoly, and Rick Astor. Title of story is from lyrics to Ani DiFranco's "Fierce Flawless."
References made to: Season Three's "Gus Walks Into A Bank" and "An Evening With Mr. Yang", Season Four's "High Noon-ish", "Shawn Gets The Yips", "Shawn Takes A Shot In The Dark", "A Very Juliet Episode", "High Top Fade Out" and "Mr. Yin Presents", Season Five's "Chivalry Isn't Dead . . . But Someone Is", "In Plain Fright" and "Yang 3 in 2D" and Season Six's "Shawn Rescues Darth Vader".
Timeline: Season Six, set between episodes "Shawn Rescues Darth Vader" and "Last Night Gus". Sort of an episode tag/missing scene to "Shawn Rescues Darth Vader".
Main Characters: Shawn Spencer, Carlton Lassiter, Juliet O'Hara
Genres: Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Friendship
Summary: Amidst a disagreement between Lassiter and Juliet over her new relationship status, Lassiter finds himself begrudgingly partnered with Shawn at Vick's request for an inquiry into a case in Ventura. Events following might force Lassiter to discover that having Shawn around is sometimes good for his health—and that Shawn is possibly not such a bad match for O'Hara.
There will be whump.
Secret Santa request: "I'm in the mood for a fic featuring Lassie and Shawn as main characters. Whump's good or it can by a fun, light fic. I'd enjoy reading a story where you can tell that Lassie ends up respecting Shawn a little more in the end even though Shawn annoys him some . . . well all of the time. Extra bonus pineapples if you can include Gus in some way."
Author's Note: This has been edited and added to slightly since it was posted as a 2011 SSFE. Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome and highly appreciated. :) Enjoy!
Special thanks to ZedPM for her awesome brainstorming help and support. :)
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Joy Has Its Own Justice
A Psych Secret Santa Story for boomboomboommuffins
by silverluna
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In spite of having seen it with his own eyes through the science of two-way glass, Lassiter never wanted to believe his partner would truly end up bewitched by Shawn Spencer's charisma—at least, not enough to let him kiss her.
As he'd walked off, still using his coffee mug to occasionally scratch at his sideburns, Lassiter nearly succeeded in convincing himself what he'd seen was only a delusion brought on by the latest—and hopefully last—torturous ordeal of the Yin and Yang serial killer madness. But he was unable to forget that his partner had faced her own death more than once last year—and that this could be the underpinnings of her new twisted motivations to find a suitable mate before she faced it again.
Suitable, Lassiter scoffed. Her choices in romantic partners, in his opinion, were often short-sighted, based in some reality that Lassiter figured hadn't existed. Cameron Lutz; Scott Seaver; that officer on desk duty with the ears the size of car doors; now, Shawn Spencer. Carlton shook his head slowly.
This was . . . unforgivable.
"I thought she knew better," Lassiter muttered under his breath. Up until that moment he'd seen what he'd never be able to unsee, he'd considered his partner relatively intelligent, not quite as much as himself, but still, a decent match to his own wits.
Shortly after they wrapped up another murder case—with Shawn and Gus's help—Juliet approached him at his desk with a rather delicate subject. Rather than acknowledging her presence, Carlton kept at his paperwork, determined to be finished with it before he went to lunch. She seemed to be waiting, as if needing time to gather her thoughts, and didn't say a word until he'd gotten up for a file from a cabinet behind his desk.
"So, Carlton, is it too early to ask if I have your blessing?" Juliet asked, jumping back two feet when Lassiter spun on his heel. He looked murderous, his face turning purple.
Because he looked incapable of speech—Juliet guessed his tongue might be swollen in his mouth as if he'd accidentally ingested mint—she answered her own question with a sigh. "I wish I could say I was being facetious, but I wanted to know if you'd gotten over your pigheaded block about who I choose to date."
"I have no problems with who you date!" Lassiter sputtered. "I barely said boo about your disgusting stint with Lutz—and I actually had a sliver of hope when it came to that weirdo Seaver! But this! O'Hara, it's Shawn Spencer, for crying out loud!"
People were starting to stare, many stopping to stare. Juliet was the one to dismiss them, shaking her head firmly. They looked reluctant to leave. "Disgusting?" Juliet repeated in a low voice, barely blinking.
Lassiter scowled. "He was old enough to be your grandfather. Hell, he was old enough to be my grandfather!"
"So what?" Juliet cried, and huffed.
"You don't see how that's icky? O'Hara, you're a smart woman, but the men you choose—"
"So what is it about Shawn?" Juliet cut in angrily. "Is he disgusting? Too old for me? Is he a so-called weirdo—your words? Too devoted? For the record, Scott was not weird when we were college sweethearts," Juliet added.
Lassiter crossed his arms. "Fair enough. But if you want answers to your questions then you'll have to hook me up to a lie detector."
Juliet studied him with coals of sad disbelief. "So, that's all there is to it, then? Do you still want a new partner?"
"Why in the hell did it have to be him?" Lassiter demanded, though his voice had dropped to a whisper. He sank into a chair, deflated. It had been a lie—a deflection—to hide his tangled emotions, taking it to the Chief with a new partner request. Because the truth was, it had hurt him, finding out that way, entering blindly into their private moment when all he'd gone downstairs to do was have a few moments of silence to himself.
It was a secret he didn't want to keep.
In fact, he'd given her a week to come clean—mainly because he was still too shellshocked to put words to the picture of the two of them in his head—before he got the department's lie detector machine out and up and running. He was going to have to do this the hard way, but this time he relished little; the task was an empty threat.
Until he decided making Spencer take it for a spin would be a much better way to get revenge. On both of them.
"I'm glad Spencer directed Lutz to go take a bath in the sewer," Carlton said under his breath, a small grin twisting his mouth.
Juliet raised an eyebrow. "What was that?"
"Nothing," Lassiter lied. But this train of thought was novel—Spencer had found Scott Seaver, presumed dead and in witness protection, all because Juliet had asked. And then he'd nearly had a meltdown when version two of the Yin Yang serial killer had asked him to choose between his then girlfriend and O'Hara.
"Carlton, if you don't like any of my dating choices, then who the hell would you approve of?" Juliet asked snidely.
"That depends," Lassiter admitted. "It would be whoever managed to survive the intensive screening process I'd set up—a project tentatively titled 'O'Hara's Survivors'—with a minimum of six hours for interrogation—"
"Interrogation?" Juliet interrupted. But she found herself curious to hear more.
"The basics, O'Hara. Interview, interrogation," Lassiter said, waving it off. "He'd have to be of appropriate age, in good physical condition and health, no insanity in the family, no baldness—"
Juliet let out an odd chuckle.
"He'd have to have a likable personality, friendly with a good sense of humor, would have to like to laugh, because that crap is apparently more important to you than, say, shiny white teeth. I'd have to do an extensive background check for criminal and financial records, check his credit score, unseal any sealed juvenile records, and then get a medical report from his current doctor about his fertility—"
Juliet felt a blush creep across her face. "Please don't say anything more about fertility," she told him in a low voice.
"All right, I'll leave that and bedroom prowess up to your imagination," Lassiter said, oblivious to the fact that Juliet's face was now bright red. "Then there'd be the basic things, like common interests and hobbies and like or dislike of pets, blood type, how close he is with his family and friends, and how many children he'd like to have, and when,"—Juliet groaned, putting her hand over her eyes—"if he has any commitment fears, if he's single or was previously married—with or without resulting children—if he's a cheater—that's an immediate disqualification," Lassiter assured her. "I'd weed that type out within the first hour, along with any deadbeats or degenerates, including those with substance or physical abuse problems, chemical dependencies or histories of stalking, because they'd of course be subjected to a lie detector test. And then at the end of the process there would be a select few good men who would most likely to be a good to perfect match for you. And I might get to bust some of the lowlifes of the bunch, which would make my day."
Juliet's mood had brightened when Lassiter mentioned the lie detector test. "Carlton, that's all very sweet, and while I . . . um . . . appreciate that list and time you'd put into screening . . . um, the 'survivors', that's not how attraction works. And . . . well . . . Shawn already has many of those good qualities. And you must know that baldness is in the mother's genes. Plus, Shawn passed the lie detector test you administered."
"He cheated," Lassiter grumbled. "I don't know how he did it, but he fooled that machine."
Juliet's face fell. "He . . . he did not! He said he loves me!" Both her hands went to her mouth. She hadn't intended to say that aloud, hadn't been expecting her partner's extreme measures when it came to her finding just who it was—Mr. Right—that he thought she should be romantically involved with. She suddenly felt that her blouse, though open at her neck, was choking her, and hurried off without another word.
Lassiter shrugged, and it took several minutes for him to understand why O'Hara had become suddenly upset. By the time it was clear, it was much too late to get up and locate her and possibly explain himself. He sighed, and got back to work.
# # #
"I see dead people!" Shawn blurted out as he entered the Chief's office, Gus just a few steps behind. He paused, bringing both hands to his temples and closing his eyes. "No, wait! Dead person, singular! A dead man who's not even in dead in this township. I see muuurder!"
"Murrrrder!" Gus echoed, rolling his r's for dramatic effect.
Vick ignored their lateness, waving Shawn and Gus into the room with a sigh. "That's very impressive, Mr. Spencer," she said. Lassiter rolled his eyes. "You must have a nose for murder."
"No, that's Gus. He can smell fresh blood a mile away."
"And team spirit," Gus added. He held up his fist to bump it with Shawn's.
"I think she meant you have a big nose that you're always sticking into other people's business," Lassiter retorted.
"Detective!" Vick warned with a reproachful glance.
Lassiter shrugged and crossed his arms."What are they doing here?" he demanded snidely as if he hadn't already spoken out of turn.
"Lassie, I sensed you'd need my help on this one," Shawn informed him, smiling smugly at Lassiter who was sitting in the chair in front of Vick's desk. "In fact, my vision of your distress ruined a perfectly good A-Team marathon for me and Gus."
Lassiter glared at him and turned around to the front. "That's about as likely as hell freezing over," he muttered under his breath.
Without waiting for any apologies from her Head Detective she knew would never come, Karen launched into briefing the three of them about the case. "What it looks like is a body dump in Ventura—the victim's name is Michael Ealy, his driver's license puts his residence in Santa Barbara—"
Shawn raised a hand to his head. "—And he was an employee at the local Red Lobster," he finished.
Vick pursed her lips; she did not like being interrupted. "Yes, you're correct, Mr. Spencer."
Lassiter scowled. "How did you know that? Do you frequent that establishment?"
"No, I'm psychic, Lassie. Remember?" His smugness had returned, full force.
"You are not!"
"Gentlemen!" Vick's voice rose. "Please restrain your voices until I finish telling you what I know!"
Gus was the only one looking slightly impressed by the time she was done. She was one of two women in this police department who was able to wrest control from Shawn and Lassiter. Juliet was the other.
"Now Ealy was not the only Red Lobster employee killed recently. About two months prior, Detectives Lassiter and O'Hara were assigned a case involving the suspicious death of Bill Kingston there, but unfortunately the leads went cold." In the background, Shawn tsked, causing Lassiter to clench his fists. "At that time, the death was ruled an accident, but in light of this new discovery, that case may be reopened. Woody is prepared to perform a new set of tests—once we have confirmation from the VPD."
"Is that like VD?" Shawn asked suddenly. "Did he have VD?" In spite of himself, Lassiter smirked for a second.
"Maybe it stands for Vampire Police Diaries," Gus chimed in.
"You mean Vampire Diaries. VD."
"No, VPD," Gus clarified. "And you meant ven—"
Vick frowned, cutting Gus off, "No, it's the abbreviation for the Ventura Police Department. They've graciously opted for a joint investigation, given we might have a serial killer on our hands."
"Chief, I will not having these two idiots bumbling about when I'm trying to get the country bumpkin local police to cooperate!" Lassiter exploded.
"Ventura is hardly—" Vick began.
"That would be one idiot," Gus corrected, much to the surprise of the entire room.
"What?" Shawn asked, dumbfounded. "Gus, it's a paying case. I mean, it will be, once my dad gets here and says it is." He leaned in for a whisper aside. "Without you, I'm not going to have any buffer for Lassie!"
"Funny, I was just thinking the same about you," Lassiter said loudly, glaring at the two of them—mostly at Shawn. Gus shrugged.
"Sorry, dude, Chief," Gus hastily added, moving his eyes from Shawn to Vick, "I have a prior engagement. My parents are in town and have already made plans—"
"Your parents are in town? That's the worst excuse I've ever heard," Shawn griped. "Especially when it's not your parents you're going to see specifically but the blind date they've set up for you!"
Gus flicked his nose and licked his lips, telling Shawn through gritted teeth, "Shawn, stop underestimating your abilities. You know perfectly well you can handle one case without me." He smiled as brightly as he could for Vick. "You understand me, right? Once in a lifetime opportunity."
Karen pursued her lips. It would be unusual, she considered, to have Mr. Guster lie to her, given that he was more often than not pressing the pair take all the cases they were offered, large and small. And, she had a secret weakness for those "once in a lifetime opportunities", as one of those many years ago had brought her to meet her husband. "All right," she said, noticing Shawn's chagrin. "Mr. Spencer, the case is still on the table if you want to take it solo—meaning that this time, you'd be partnered up with Detective Lassiter."
"Like hell!" Lassiter balked while Shawn balked his own "No way!"
"It's temporary," Vick assured them, rolling her eyes at their reactions. "Less than a day, if all goes well."
But then Shawn sat back, taking in Lassiter's discomfort, and grinned. "I'll take it, because Lassie can't do this without me." Then he noticed something lacking. "When is Jules joining us?"
"She's not," Lassiter growled. "She's on another assignment. Didn't she tell you?" he sneered.
She had, and it had entirely slipped his mind, Shawn recalled, remembering now the faint smell of her perfume lingering on his neck as she'd hugged him goodbye, after telling him she would likely be out of touch for the next day or so.
She'd hadn't mentioned it specifically, but Shawn had guessed that she and Lassie had had a little spat. After the threats the Head Detective had made to be excommunicated from her, Shawn got the idea that he should try to make nice, for Jules' sake. Because Lassiter wasn't going to find a better partner, or Juliet a better teacher (though Shawn would never admit this to either of them).
# # #
Shawn's ears were still ringing with nearly forty-five minutes of straight news radio when they arrived at the Ventura police station. In the stop and go traffic on the 101 of the early afternoon, he'd attempted to amuse both himself and Lassiter by singing some of the songs he'd made up for QuarterBlack, doing all of their parts to give the full effect. After threats of jail time for disturbing the peace failed to frighten Shawn, Lassiter blared the AM radio and kept his eyes focused solely on the road in front of them—in spite of the extra fifteen minutes they spent deadlocked in traffic.
They were supposed to meet with the Ventura detectives who had requested the assistance, due to the possibly connected murders, as that they had made the discovery.
"Now don't let them rub your nose in that," Shawn said loudly to Lassiter as they walked towards the doors. "That their PD might be more qualified," he clarified. Lassiter scowled at him, and Shawn shrugged. "You're the one who wrecked my eardrums," he scolded in an equally loud voice.
The interior of the station was much smaller than either were used to, and the air conditioning running much too slowly to keep up with the pulse of the heat outside. A uniformed officer behind a desk directed them to Detective O. Osbourne's office.
The detective they met with was grizzled up and down, from white hair to thick white whiskers. He had an obnoxious smoker's hack which made Shawn cringe, especially during introductions when he coughed what may have been mucous onto Shawn's hand. He addressed both Shawn and Lassiter as "sonny" as they went over the shared knowledge, leading Shawn to let him know that a numbering system would be better if they were both going to have the same name—or perhaps a tag of Junior and Senior would work. Eventually Shawn decided Lassie could be Sonny Bono and he could be Sonny the Cuckoo Bird, because he was often "cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs" anyway.
"Head Psychic?" Osbourne coughed, raising his bushy white eyebrows at Lassiter. "He's cuckoo?"
"It's better not to get into it," Lassiter said exasperatedly. "Let's get on with our cooperation. What is exactly about this murder that required the SBPD's assistance?"
Shawn formed his fingers into half circles which he at first used as binoculars or glasses. "I'm seeing something," he said ominously. He opened and closed his fingers as he held them in front of his eyes. "Pac-Man. No, wait! Pinking shears!"
"Spencer," Lassiter growled.
"Pinchers!" He opened and closed his fingers quicker. "I'm seeing . . . spiders!" Shawn now moved his fingers as if they were attached to a many-legged creepy crawly. "No . . . uh . . . not spiders! Spiders of the sea! Lobsters!" He made the screeching sound of a lobster dropped into boiling water tail first.
"Wouldn't that be crabs, sonny?" Osbourne threw in. "Spiders of the sea?"
Lassiter made a disgusted noise, then cleared his throat for emphasis. Shawn pantomimed the lobster drowning in the boiling water.
Osbourne took a few seconds to recover, looking from Lassiter's deepening scowl to Shawn's acting and back again. "Ealy's cause of death was drowning, but the salt content wasn't high enough to be from the ocean. Our M.E. found water in his lungs, but also concentrated bacteria consistent with . . . lobster excrement," Osbourne told them after a befuddled glance at Shawn, who was grinning. "It looks like Ealy's head was held down in a tank."
Lassiter shot a furtive glance at Shawn annoyed that his spectacle had not been an elaborate show of where the dead man had worked.
"We suspect the killer moved the body because he'd already killed one employee of the Santa Barbara Red Lobster. He got lucky once, since the death was ruled as an accidental drowning."
"It was," Lassiter admitted with a frown. "But there wasn't much to go on. Alcohol was found in the first victim's system but no other toxins of any kind; no defensive wounds. He had no family, and his job history was too sketchy to make a clearer picture of anything but an accident."
"But it never sat well with you, did it, Lassie?" Shawn pointed out.
Lassiter didn't answer Shawn, choosing instead to ask Detective Osbourne if they had uncovered a motive. "Nothing solid yet."
Osbourne gestured to a stack of case files; Lassiter and Osbourne sat down and got to work while Shawn hovered, checked his phone and occasionally looked out the window. Since they weren't paying him any mind, Shawn had the chance to scan the files for the "psychic" connections he could make aloud later.
"You have run the list of employees at Red Lobster in Santa Barbara and none of them were flagged?" Lassiter asked.
"Yes, sonny," Osbourne said tiredly, "as, I expect, have you. Did you find anything?"
Lassiter drew his lips into a thin line and ignored the question. "What about this one?" He pointed to a short list of five names on a single page.
"Preliminary suspect pool," Osbourne answered. Lassiter read over the names quickly, then asked why they were considered. Osbourne had vague answers for each. Shawn leaned in over his shoulder as he pointed to each name.
"Dude," Shawn began, tapping Osbourne on the shoulder to differentiate between the two detectives, "where's your partner? I thought we would meet him today too."
Osbourne made a snuffling noise. "Don't got one of those. Don't need one."
"Oh," Shawn said. He turned his head to look out the window again.
"This guy—Herman Delgado," Lassiter said, "he has priors, unlike the rest of your pool." He raised an eyebrow. "Have you questioned him yet?"
# # #
Death by lobster tank, it was a new one, even for Lassiter. Spencer, meanwhile, talked ceaselessly about how he was never going to Red Lobster again until Lassiter threatened to turn on the radio again. Lassiter had been surprised when Osbourne asked if they would accompany him to the residence of Herman Delgado—a lowlife who had been busted for selling exotic shellfish, among other things—because the older detective seemed reluctant to follow through. "Why are we going there again?" Shawn asked.
"He might know something," Lassiter said shortly, making a quick right to keep up with Osbourne's sedan. "That senile fool would rather look the other way than do any actual police work. No wonder the VPD agreed to a joint investigation."
Delgado had the shifty eyes of a man looking for his next score, Shawn noticed right away, along with a host of other details—nicotine stained fingers, yellow teeth, uncombed hair, yet he wore a crisp white button down, black slacks and a slanted smile. He was single, Shawn guessed, but had a relatively respectful job—possibly a cover—that he was on his way to when they knocked on his door. "Nah, that was a long time ago," Delgado said nonchalantly when Osbourne asked if he knew anything about new illegal seafood business.
"That sounds fishy to me," Shawn told him, point blank. Lassiter sighed with annoyance.
Delgado raised his eyebrows at Shawn, then glanced at Osbourne as if for an explanation.
"What about your partner, would he know anything?" Shawn asked.
"Don't got one of those," Delgado responded. "Don't need one. I fly solo."
Osbourne was giving Delgado a hard look that interested Shawn.
"Is it hard to be in your line of work with a seafood allergy?" Shawn asked. "Because wouldn't that make you Sea Food Differently?" He caught a muscle in Delgado's jaw clench.
"So, what is it? Shrimp? Crab? Lobster? What makes you break out in hives?"
"Spencer, stop asking irrelevant questions," Lassiter said irritably as Osbourne's eyes flashed at Shawn.
"Lassie, would you prefer I asked irreverent questions instead? How about this one: Wouldn't it be a perfect crime to sell lobsters bought for Red Lobster to any idle rich dude and then have your evidence eaten? After all, lobster season just ended, but there's still a market for it—so wouldn't criminals go where the most profit is?"
The three of them stared at Shawn, who smirked to himself for a few seconds before Lassiter regained his senses. He grabbed Shawn by the shoulder and dragged him from the door. "What the hell are you trying to pull, Spencer?" he hissed, out of earshot.
"Lassie, there's more to life than corpses. Well . . . not to Woody, but that's irrelevant."
"What?"
Before he could get an answer, Osbourne was returning from Delgado's door with an apology. "I was thinking he might know who could be stirring up trouble, but I don't like him for the murder at this time. No point in bringing him for questioning right now."
Lassiter looked like he wanted to argue, but he lost his train of thought when Shawn started humming one of his QuarterBlack songs. He stopped precisely when Osbourne was out of earshot again, heading back to his sedan. Lassiter had remained on the spot, staring at Delgado's house.
Delgado was still in the doorway, but his eyes weren't focused on any one of them specifically. "Dammit," Lassiter muttered with a frown. "That old fool just walked away." With a low growl, he headed back towards Delgado. Shawn followed, making a point to look back at Osbourne, already in his sedan, at the wheel.
"Excuse me, Mr. Delgado," Lassiter called out, "I have a few more questions for you."
Delgado crossed his arms. "I thought you guys were done hassling me. I need to get to work."
"You have a good two hours to spare," Shawn informed him. "I can tell that by your product free hair. From one hard to tame 'do to another." He winked.
Delgado raised an eyebrow. "You really are cuckoo."
"Just for Cocoa Puffs," Shawn clarified, amused.
"Look," Lassiter started, putting on a forced smile, "I just need a few more minutes of your time. Perhaps . . . if I could come in?"
Delgado's mouth twitched. "Don't you need a warrant to search my house?"
"He doesn't want to search your house," Shawn laughed. "Why, do you have something to hide?"
Lassiter gritted his teeth.
"Nah, I got nothing to hide," Delgado answered, keeping his eyes on Shawn.
"Swell," Lassiter muttered, stepping up to the threshold, practically forcing Delgado back into his own house. Again, Shawn followed, risking one more glance at the driveway.
# # #
How they had gotten to this place astounded Shawn nearly as much it did Lassiter, who was certain to show no mercy given the chance. In fact, when Shawn trailed the pair of them into Delgado's spacious living room complimenting Delgado's taste in high end electronics, leather furniture and bear skin rugs, he had been thinking nothing of being on the alert. He had even thought, for a few misguided seconds, that they might be safer inside the house instead of out of it.
If Jules were here . . . he thought fleetingly, suddenly desperate to see her, she would have seen the gun in Delgado's waistband. . . .
"Let go of him, you piece of garbage!" Lassiter growled, bracing his Glock .17 as he aimed it at the man's face. He cursed that this creep had been able to get the drop on them because of Spencer's constant, inane prattling. Shawn's mouth formed a wild O as the criminal grabbed onto him. Delgado tightened his fist around Shawn's hair, keeping his own handgun pressed to Shawn's side.
"Not the hair, dude!" Shawn whimpered. In response, the gunman jerked his head back further. Shawn's eyes watered.
"Spencer, shut it!"
"Don't come any closer!" His finger was on the trigger, and he looked too twitchy to Lassiter to be ignored.
"We know it was you, Delgado," Shawn got out. "Your partner tipped you off. The dead one, I mean."
"What?" Delgado said uneasily.
"That's right. I've got a strong connection with the spirit world, dude. You know what the spirits told me? You and Michael Ealy were partners in crime. Sick of your pithy salaries and tips at Red Lobster, you both came up with the harebrained scheme to intercept some of the lobsters imported to the restaurant and sell them on the black market. It worked for a few months but then Bill Kingston, a fellow employee, caught you. So he had to go."
"I didn't kill no one!" Delgado cried. "He's lying! Ealy was always a liar!"
"It was not an accidental death," Lassiter ground out, his gun steady.
"Maybe it wasn't you," Shawn coaxed. "Maybe it was Ealy. But then Ealy started to grow a conscience—"
"Christ!" Delgado yelled in Shawn's ear. "I should have grabbed you by the mouth instead."
"Like in Ace Ventura? The fight scene between Jim Carrey and Sean Young? I know it was acting, but it still looked like it might of hurt. But your nails aren't nearly as nicely manicured as hers—"
Delgado let go of Shawn's hair abruptly and brought his gun quickly towards Shawn's face. "Eww! I don't want your fingers in my mouth!" Shawn griped. He flailed and knocked Delgado's hands out of the way, managing to raise an elbow that caught Delgado on the chin. Momentarily stunned, he shoved Shawn at Lassiter. Shawn tripped over his own feet, narrowly missing a low glass table. He yelped, throwing his arms out to break his fall.
He heard gunshots on his way down but was mostly blinded by his fear of falling. He wasn't balanced as he fell, his legs crossed around each other, and had little hope of a smooth landing. His wrists and elbows jarred as he hit, then gave way as his knees slammed into the hard tile floor. His head exploded into black and yellow—just like those old cartoon stars around a character's head following a hit with an anvil—and he cried out, rolling as soon as was feasible onto his back. In his panting silence that followed, he wondered how likely it was to break a kneecap. Luckily enough, the right knee had hit harder than the left, allowing the chance that he might still be able to stand on one good leg. Tears leaked out of the side of his eyes.
Several seconds passed where he was unaware of anything besides the lack of color on the ceiling. When his eyes came back into focus, he realized high above them was a rectangular skylight.
"Spencer, get up!" Lassiter snarled, grabbing Shawn's arm just above the elbow and tugging to try to get him back to his feet. "This isn't funny! Delgado's still here."
"Go save yourself," Shawn moaned.
"Come on!" Lassiter exclaimed through his teeth. "I'll never hear the end of it from O'Hara if you get hurt!"
Shawn, attempting to roll back onto his side, stopped moving, snapping his eyes open wide. "Really, Lassie?" he said quietly, a slow grin spreading through his face. Then he winced. "But I'm already hurt. You were supposed to catch me."
Lassiter's annoyed look froze on his downward sloping eyebrows; he was sure he'd been had—and he gritted his teeth again considering how many years this idiot had spent teasing his partner, brainwashing her— But then he watched Spencer wince again and again as he attempted the simple movements of sitting up. Spencer looked too pale, was breathing too hard—even for a man whose major food groups consisted of nacho cheese fries, Doritos, pineapple smoothies and Skittles.
"For the love of Mike, what the hell did you do?" Lassiter demanded. He let go of Shawn's arm and did a quick sweep of the room. He didn't know where that door led; it could go to the outside.
"I think I jammed my knee," Shawn answered, squirming. "Or broke it. I don't know," he moaned. It was a mistake to put weight on his wrist; again he went down for the count, sprawling onto his stomach. "Did he get you?"
"No," Lassiter hissed. "I ducked, returned fire and he tore off through a door he locked behind himself."
"Bummer," Shawn mumbled. He reached out in front of him as if he were trying to swim through the air, then slowly walked his arms under him. His wrist was still throbbing, but it was little compared to the sharp twinge in his knee every time he considered getting upright.
"Bummer he didn't get me?" Lassiter snapped.
"Bummer you didn't get him," Shawn explained.
"Oh, I will," Lassiter promised.
A flicker of movement from the door Delgado had run inside of got his attention. His hand slipped deftly into his jacket and retrieved his Glock .17, which he'd put away to help Shawn off the floor. There wasn't any place to take cover on this side of the room, not for either of them. "Stay down," he hissed to Shawn, bracing his weapon again. The door flew open. He didn't wait for questions, or for the other man to take the first shot; once Delgado was in view, Lassiter fired.
Shawn yelped at the shot—and its inevitable return fire—falling back onto his stomach and pulling his arms over his head. He heard an exchange of fire now, loud pops and dings that seemed to ricochet off the walls, then made out grunts through the noise. When the gunshots stopped for more than a clip, Shawn risked a look up, at the now thicker smoke hanging in the air. He could see legs sprawled out ahead of him, the torso and head hidden by an edge of wall. "Lassie, remember what you said about Jules—how she'll kill you if I get hurt."
There was another grunt, then, "Shut it, Spencer!"
Gingerly, Shawn rolled back onto his side, wincing as his muscles—having tightened with the stress of the brief gunfight—worked against him. "What, are you going to tell me if I get shot again I just have to man up?" Shawn looked behind him and was startled to not see Lassiter right there. "Because I'm telling you, once was pretty much too much for me."
Shawn fought himself upright, teetering on his knees, his eyes sweeping the room for the detective. He saw Lassiter's long legs heading towards the legs that were on the floor at the far end of the room. But he saw something curious too, little red droplets hitting the floor behind the detective's footsteps.
Lassiter checked over Delgado, noticing immediately that a few of his better shots had hit the man's chest. He felt for a pulse, and heard the man's wheezing. He cuffed the man and put his firearm well out of reach, and called over his shoulder, "Spencer, you all right?"
"Like you care!" came the sulky reply.
Lassiter rolled his eyes, getting out his cell to call the local yokels and an ambulance. "You're not shot, are you?" Lassiter asked disinterestedly, walking back towards Shawn after he got confirmation that both were on the way.
Carefully, Shawn checked himself over, including his hair; it seemed unnecessary, considering he had experience being shot and knew the excruciating pain with familiarity. Though, from the sound of some of the bullets on the walls and floor and ceiling he wouldn't be surprised if one of them had bounced against him. The only persistent pain he came across again was the strain on the back of his knee. "No," he answered finally, his eyes following the little droplets still falling as Lassiter returned. "I'm glad you tricked me into putting on that bulletproof vest at the station."
"Sure, whatever," Lassiter grumbled. He holstered his gun and trekked the short distance to the wall to lean against it.
"Lassie, are you okay?" Shawn asked with worry. "Were you—"
"It's nothing," Lassiter said testily. "Just a flesh wound."
Shawn's eyes widened. "You can't get hurt! Jules will kill me if she finds out I got her partner into a dangerous situation that got you shot!"
Lassiter sighed with annoyance. "Spencer, I'm a cop. Ten to one, I'll end up in a dangerous situation, like it or not. O'Hara knows that as I well as I do."
"How can you sound so calm?"
"I'm barely shot. It's no big deal, besides that it tore up a good pair of trousers."
"I saw blood!" Shawn protested.
"Are you sure it was mine?" Lassiter asked, tilting his head in the direction of the man on the floor.
Shawn looked up at him slowly; he'd noticed a slight quaver in the detective's voice that wasn't there a few seconds before. "Lassie, why don't you just . . . relax for a minute?"
Lassiter craned his neck to the floor by his leg; more than a few drops of blood were there. He sighed, letting his back slide down the wall so he could get a closer look at his wound. It stung as much as wasp bite, which he took as a good sign. He bent over his calf, sweeping his fingers against the tear in his pants. It irked him because he'd just paid through the nose to have these trousers pressed. "Last time I use any cleaner McNab suggests," he muttered.
"Before you go and get yourself shot again, you mean," Shawn said, pushing himself to stand in spite of the biting pain. He huffed like he was going into labor, trying to will the ache away.
"What's going on in here?" The two of them looked up at Osbourne who had slinked in, unnoticed. "I heard shots."
"Delgado pulled a gun on us," Lassiter explained. He got up and ambled towards Delgado's prone form to explain further. Shawn focused on the trail of blood Lassiter left while covertly guessing Osbourne's way in. He hated to be standing but he felt he had no choice, now. His stomach churned. He hadn't trusted Osbourne from the beginning, and didn't like that Lassiter was standing so close to him when the Head Detective was entirely unawares.
"That's the gun he used?" Osbourne asked, leaning down to get a closer look.
"Yeah, he had it on him—"
Osbourne picked up Delgado's gun and raised it at Lassiter's head. "Sorry, sonny, but you know too much." He shook his head when Lassiter's hand twitched as if to go for his Glock.
"Incoming psychic vision!" Shawn yelled, catching Osbourne's attention for a second. That was all Lassiter needed—he retrieved his Glock and slammed Osbourne square in the nose with it. Osbourne staggered back a few steps, his gun hand falling at his side. Before he could recover Lassiter had him covered. "Put it down!" he yelled.
Osbourne raised his head, blood trickling from his nose.
Shawn limped towards them quietly, doing his best to ignore the bright flares of pain he felt each time he put weight on his knee.
"I already called for backup," Lassiter snarled, "and paramedics, so you better not try anything else. Now drop your weapon, dirtbag!"
Osbourne, expressionless, lazily rose and pointed the gun at Lassiter's wounded leg without aiming. In the seconds before he squeezed the trigger, Shawn jumped forward clumsily and knocked Lassiter to the floor by tripping over his own feet again. The bullet missed them by inches, embedding itself in the floor behind Shawn's leg. Lassiter cursed but managed to get off a good shot from the floor a few seconds later as Osbourne raised the gun again. "How do you like it?" Shawn yelled at Osbourne who was now bleeding from a much more substantial leg wound than Lassiter's. He dropped Delgado's gun with a howl.
His heart racing, Lassiter scrambled to get Osbourne in cuffs. His mind wasn't processing what had just happened. "How did you know?" Lassiter demanded breathlessly over his shoulder.
"He said he didn't have a partner, but that's exactly what Delgado said," Shawn explained, deciding to stay on the floor for now. The tears were back in his eyes from the jerky movements and hard landing. "Osbourne didn't make it a priority to question Delgado; he wanted to leave after just a few minutes. Delgado said I was cuckoo—which is the same word Osbourne used at the station. I sensed Osbourne called him to alert him of our visit—meaning Osbourne has something to hide. I sense it's serious if he was willing to kill you with even your limited information."
Lassiter sputtered a noise somewhere between irritation and disbelief.
"Lassie, think about this. What if, when Osbourne busted Delgado for selling exotic fish, Delgado managed to bribe him with the promise of extra income? And Osbourne had no qualms about committing murder if it was necessary," Shawn continued. He wasn't sure if he had it completely right, but it sounded like enough of an off-the-wall theory that it could be true. Besides, at this moment all he wanted to do was close his eyes and sleep off the pain, not consider more twisted ways Osbourne could have for murdering Lassiter in cold blood.
"So why suggest a joint investigation?" Lassiter's voice was a bit shakier than before. He swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat, annoyed at both himself and Spencer for a mixture of reasons.
"Because it was your case. He thought you'd take his information at face value and go home—and come up with the same results as before. But he didn't count on you bringing the SBPD's secret psychic weapon."
Lassiter laughed, startling Shawn. Maybe he'd imagined it, the sound; his ears had started ringing. Secret psychic weapon. Even to him it sounded peculiar, unlike a just a few seconds ago. He stared blearily at the blood on the floor next to Lassiter; it traveled with him like shadow. It was peculiar enough that Lassiter had taken his explanation; Shawn's eyes strayed to the red-brown splotch on the side of the Lassiter's leg. It could just be mud, he thought, or clay. Yeah, sure. Clay.
"Spencer! Spencer!" Lassiter yelled. The detective had reached him, put his hand on Shawn's shoulder. All that blood, across the floor, Shawn though distantly. His eyes were closing. "Spencer, wake up!"
Shawn yelped, his hand flying to his face after a slap to his cheek. His opened his eyes to find Lassiter regarding him with eyes of livid blue. "Man up, you're fine!" he insisted. "Now sit up and wait for the ambulance. I refuse to worry O'Hara with a trip to the hospital just because you want to go to sleep on this cold floor!"
Shawn's thoughts were much clearer and sharper than a few seconds before. "You old softie," he said with a thin smile.
"Call me that again and I'll knock you out myself," Lassiter growled.
# # #
"Does this mean I've got a 'get out of jail free' card when it comes to my next lie detector test?" Shawn asked as he and Lassiter made their way to the station early the next morning. They'd spent only a few hours in the hospital in Ventura, then considerable more at the police station, doing briefing and giving statements and filling out reports. Then Lassiter insisted on driving back to Santa Barbara. "You know, since I saved your life and all," Shawn reminded smugly.
"Don't tempt me," Lassiter growled, ignoring Shawn's last statement, "or I might suggest you take a second one as a safety test."
"Is that like The Safety Dance?"
"No," Lassiter spat, "and there's no Monopoly involved either."
Shawn smiled. "I'm impressed, Lassie, that you even know what Monopoly is. But you do know it's a board game, right?"
"Yes. I'm always the cannon."
"Ha!" Shawn said, still smiling. "I like to be whatever piece Gus wants to be, because it's hilarious when he knows the whole game that I'm playing with the piece he wanted. I get what I want since I'm an ace at Rock, Paper, Scissors," he explained. Shawn pursued his lips. "Somehow though, he almost always wins. I think it's because he's a cheater, cheater, pumpkin eater!"
"I'm always the cannon," Lassiter said, "because I have a gun."
"Next time, I'm going to try that one out on Gus." Shawn wriggled his eyebrows. "Or I'll just tell him you have a gun and you will shoot—" He shrugged at Lassiter's glare. "Face it, Lassie, you like to shoot. Gus was pretty convinced you were going to kill us both and dump our bodies by the side of the road the day you took us to Old Sonora."
Lassiter made a face. It was the first time he considered Guster might need more psychiatric care than Spencer. "Listen, Spencer . . . there's something I need to know. About O'Hara."
"Shoot," Shawn said, then grinned awkwardly, and shrugged. "I mean—ask away."
"Do you really love her?" Lassiter asked, focusing his steely blue eyes on Spencer.
Shawn stared at the Head Detective, a smile tugging at his lips. He'd heard the resigned tone, the sigh in Lassiter's pause. "Lassie, come on. You have the test that proves I do."
Lassiter frowned. "That test also says you're a psychic."
"Lassie, don't split your salt and peppery hair," Shawn said, "you might not have too much left that will actually grow back."
"Do you mean 'don't split hairs'?" Lassiter corrected with a sigh.
Shawn shrugged. "I've heard it both ways."
"Answer the question, Spencer."
Shawn strolled the hallway of his thoughts; Juliet was behind nearly every closed door, and those half open too. "Love," he mumbled to himself, recalling, honestly, that the words had tumbled freely from him, as they were the easiest to say in casual conversation. Well . . . weren't they? "Yes. Yes, I really love her. I have for . . . like, five years." Saying it now gave Shawn a floaty feeling, and he grinned again with a shrug. "I'm a late bloomer."
Lassiter watched him, as if for a tell that he wasn't being truthful. But Spencer just looked like a fool . . . maybe a fool in love. And he'd just said it hadn't been so new, this discovery. Sighing, he asked, "So, when did you . . . ?"
Shawn raised his eyebrows. "When did I know?" This was harder to pinpoint, but in a way, Shawn thought he had always known it, from the first day they met. He couldn't believe he was having a conversation like this with Lassiter. "I don't know. I mean—at first, all I really wanted was to flirt with her and get her to flirt back." But he remembered the night at the drive-in, following the capture of Mr. Yang, Juliet's confession . . . and his jealously over her affection for Scott Seaver. "But I never wanted to see her with anyone else. Never."
"Right," Lassiter mumbled. He'd still much prefer his own methods of finding his partner a suitable romantic match, but he knew he couldn't force his choices on her. No matter how much respect O'Hara had for him as her partner, she could easily put him back in his place when he got out of line—and he knew might not have the business of telling her she couldn't be with Spencer if that's what made her . . . happy. But he didn't have to like it.
"No, Lassie, I mean it. She's . . . way too good for me—"
"You've got that right."
Shawn furrowed his brow. "Stop sounding like Gus. You're wigging me out."
Lassiter raised an eyebrow. "How did Guster take the news?"
"With a couple bags full of caramel," Shawn said, explaining, "that's his go-to stress food. But eventually he said he was happy for us." He gave Lassiter a sidelong look. "I don't suppose you'd—"
"Shut it," Lassiter warned, striking off ahead through the station's doors.
# # #
"Jules! Did you miss me?" Shawn called out as he walked down the hallway of the SBPD, smiling at his girlfriend. He tried to hide his limp. Juliet, watching Shawn approach her, had heard little, though enough, of Shawn and Lassiter's trip to Ventura, from the Chief. "They'll be back in the morning," she was assured, "because your partner refuses to take even half of a sick day."
Juliet knocked Shawn in the arm when he got close.
"Hey! What was that for?" Shawn protested, grabbing his arm. "I swear I didn't get Lassiter shot! He got himself shot!"
Juliet's jaw dropped and she sputtered for a few seconds, unable to find real words that weren't solely made of air. She shook her head to rid herself of shock. "Shawn, I was cross at you because I heard you fell down and messed up your knee. But now I think I might have to kill you! What happened to my partner?"
"Nothing!" Shawn squeaked. "I mean, he said himself he was barely shot! His words, Jules!"
Juliet huffed. "Of course Carlton would say he was fine, admitting pain is like admitting defeat—his ridiculous logic!"
"Seriously, Jules!" Shawn persuaded, taking a step away from her just in case she tried to flick his ear. "He got a Band-Aid."
"And a clean bill of health from the doctor," Lassiter added, walking—perhaps limping, slightly—down the hall towards them. He stiffened as his partner careened towards him, throwing her arms around him for a second before pulling back and knocking him in the chest.
"What was that for?" Carlton demanded, an amused twinkle in his eye belying his tone. She was talking to him, in spite of how they'd left things.
"You got shot? What happened?"
Lassiter shrugged. "Exchanged fire with a scumbag, he clipped me in the leg—ruined perfectly good trousers—but I got him twice in the chest." He smiled.
"Carlton, why don't you walk me through every single second of your 'routine questioning gone awry'," Juliet suggested.
"I'd rather have all my eyelashes pulled out," Lassiter retorted. "I see you've already spoken to the Chief. It was just . . . " Lassiter looked over Shawn, choosing his words. He sighed. "You weren't available, so the Chief offered Spencer and tried to make it look like an accident."
"That's not true!" Shawn gripped. "I graciously offered my services . . . because I had a vision of a bullet with your name on it."
Both detectives stared at him, but it was Juliet that spoke first. "What are you saying, Shawn?" she asked, her voice low.
"That's a load of crap!" Lassiter exclaimed, but he sounded as if he couldn't quite believe his own statement. "Isn't it?"
They were both expecting him to continue, to explain himself more fully. Shawn liked it that both of them held bated breaths, that they both, at the moment, believed in his great powers of divination. But he didn't like to scare Juliet unnecessarily; she looked, quite unexpectedly, on the verge of crying. He was suddenly glad he hadn't said he'd had a vision of Lassiter's demise, which he'd been toying with saying instead. "Lassie, it doesn't matter now—I got you out of trouble, after all."
"Got me out of trouble?" Lassiter repeated, incredulous. "Because of you, I—"
"Shawn," Juliet began, holding a hand up to halt Lassiter's oncoming tirade. "What did you see?" Her face was pinched; there was a lump in her throat as she pictured the fractured way she'd left things with her partner—a trite misunderstanding between them, perhaps, no matter how important to her. What if they hadn't had a chance sort things out?
"I saw the barrel of a gun aimed at Lassie's face," Shawn said quietly. It wasn't a lie, after all. "And guess what happened—"
"At your face?" Juliet cried, turning towards her partner.
"Yes, but . . ." Lassiter sighed with resignation, and threw up his hands. "How was I supposed to know that detective was a dirty cop?"
"You weren't, Lassie, that's why I was there."
Juliet made a choked sound. Lassiter huffed in response, repeating, "O'Hara—I was barely shot."
"Jules, no, no," Shawn soothed, going towards her. "It's fine. I saved Lassie's life, again."
"Oh, please," Lassiter muttered under his breath. "O'Hara, I got nicked in the leg. That's all. It was kind of like when Spencer was barely poisoned—"
"Hey! That was more than barely!"
"It was just barely, Shawn," Juliet agreed.
"Hey, you two! Stop ganging up on me!" Shawn protested.
"Anyway," Lassiter continued after a long glare at Shawn, "the cowards shooting back didn't even get close to my vest. Why are so you upset? Spencer escaped without any bullet holes this time around." He decided to omit that Spencer's stupid act of tackling him to the ground had nearly cost Spencer a bullet to the leg.
"My knee got a big boo-boo, though," Shawn reminded weakly. "I tore my ACL, Jules. And shattered my kneecap."
"You did not! And that was not even my fault," Lassiter said with a deepening scowl before Juliet could collect her words. "For the love of Mike, Spencer, I've never seen a grown man more uncoordinated. You tripped over your own feet! Four times! It's a wonder you're not in a full body cast by now."
"It was not four," Shawn scoffed. "And that second one was a life saving one, so that barely counts."
Lassiter sighed. "Fine, three, then. Way to go knocking me down with your stumbling feet."
"You're welcome."
"Why couldn't you have told me about Osbourne while we were still at the station?" Lassiter grumbled, ignoring Shawn's smug grin.
"Because I wasn't getting the right vibes until I saw him with Delgado—"
Suddenly irate, Lassiter growled, "Then why not signal me so we stayed the hell out?"
Shawn rolled his eyes at Lassiter, still grinning. "Duh, Lassie, if you didn't go in you wouldn't have caught them in the act. And I know you wouldn't have gone on the word of the SBPD's Head Psychic Detective, even if I am world renowned—"
"What do you—" Juliet tried to ask.
"And my got hair pulled!" Shawn interrupted her. "That guy was a monster!" Shawn reflexively touched his hair as if to check its current condition. "Pulling my defenseless hair!"
"Yeah, yeah, that's what made him a monster," Lassiter said sarcastically. Against his will, he found himself secretly impressed at Spencer's logic for gathering evidence and exposing the right criminals, though his methods for doing so were terrible and dangerous. But then again, Spencer must be doing something right.
Juliet felt the last dregs of anger and anxiety dissolving into a smile. Her partner did look fine, after all—even if he was limping a little. And Shawn was no more worse for the wear; his knee ache could be little more than a cramp that he could walk off. Maybe, if she put another note on his water bottle, and hinted that he just do ten minutes on the elliptical . . .
Sighing, she asked, "Carlton, are you supposed to use crutches?"
"No."
"Shawn, are you?" Juliet raised her eyebrows.
"I didn't hear that word while the doctor was talking," Shawn said, "but I wasn't listening much after the doctor said his name. But you know, I wouldn't mind getting a cane with the head of Rick Astor as the handle. Just temporarily, of course, to show off my war wound with honor."
"War wound?" Lassiter repeated, incredulous again. "You mean the mild, non-life threatening injury you got after you tripped over your own leg?"
"Shh, no one else needs to know that." Shawn smiled and waved hi to a couple of passing officers.
Juliet looked from one to the other, trying to determine which one might be lying about the crutches. She seemed unconvinced.
"O'Hara, it was a flesh wound," Lassiter cajoled with forced patience. He thumbed at Spencer, "Your boyfriend will live. They didn't even make him leave with a knee brace or painkillers. He's just being a baby about it. And so lucky for you, now you get to listen to him whine." He actually smiled watching her jaw drop.
But then Juliet's features uplifted, her mouth forming a big grin. "Carlton!" She clasped her hands together, looking very happy. She cast a glance at Shawn, still beaming, and then turned back to her partner.
Lassiter's smile faltered. He wasn't quite sure the reason of O'Hara's attitude change. And he was a little afraid to ask. "What?" he eventually choked out.
"You said—you referred to Shawn as my boyfriend!" She was grinning so widely it looked like it hurt.
Shawn chuckled, amused at how horrified Lassiter was looking now, how sickly.
"I—I did not," Lassiter muttered grimly.
But Juliet was still smiling. "Yes you did!" Her eyes twinkled. "You—you approve."
Realization dawned on him suddenly—and against his own wishes, he offered her a quick smile. "But no more hugs," he warned when she looked more than ready to embrace him.
"Approve of what?" Shawn asked curiously.
Juliet rolled her eyes at him. "It's nothing you have to worry about." When her desk phone rang, she excused herself to answer it.
"That's right," Lassiter said, pinning Shawn with a dark look, and dropping his voice. "We have an agreement, Spencer. You remember?"
Shawn did remember; with a gulp, he replayed the detective's results of his self-given lie detector test—as well as the promises Lassiter made to bring physical harm to Shawn if he broke Juliet's heart. He nodded, then smiled when Juliet returned. "You approve of me," he said quietly to Lassiter—who, he noticed, was making an effort not to scowl in front of Jules.
"Just this once," Lassiter said, twisting his mouth into a smirk.
######################################
The End