Title: Shot Through the Heart (and You're too Blame)
Pairing: Shawn/Lassiter
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Lassiter does something unexpected during a stressful moment, leading Shawn to re-evaluate their relationship.
Author's Note: This is a very, very belated birthday fic for Moondragon, who requested "what I'd really like to see is Shawn having to take care of Lassiter in some kind of situation. Like Lassie gets hurt and Shawn has to help him and keep him safe. Something where it is just the two of them having to rely on each other; no real contact with other people." This has some elements of that request but doesn't fit it exactly; I hope that's okay! Happy birthday, Moondragon!
Author's Note #2: The five minutes of research I did on the Internet suggested that the kind of injury Lassiter suffers in this story would bleed heavily and look terrifying, but that if treated properly would be recoverable in a relatively short amount of time. This may or may not be true! Like Shawn, I got my medical degree from Scrubs University.
Author's Note #Seriously? Can't we get on with this?: I apparently inadvertently swiped the title for this fic from tera_gram, who used here as an example during the case fic challenge. Tera Gram, if you're reading this, apologies for using a title you came up with originally. I had no idea that I had done so until it was pointed out to me!
"Run," Lassiter told him desperately, but as usual, Spencer ignored the direct order. He tried again.
"Spencer, what the hell are you doing? You have to go." He kept his voice as quiet as he could, trying to push back the pain throbbing in his abdomen, but unable to hide the desperation in his tone.
"And leave just when things are getting interesting?" Shawn asked, quickly pulling the button-up shirt he was wearing off, leaving him in a t-shirt. He balled up the shirt and pressed it against the place where Lassiter's own shirt had turned bright red. The pain that flared through him was sharp and bright hot, and he gasped, causing Shawn to put a hand over his mouth.
"I'm sorry, Lass," he whispered apologetically, "but you have to be quiet." He removed his hand, only to take Lassiter's hand in his own and press it against the bundle at Lassiter's side. "And you have to keep pressure on this, okay? Do you know what Jules will do to me if you die on me?"
Always with the stupid jokes, but even through his haze of pain, Lassiter could see Shawn's fear and worry written plainly in his expression. He knew as well as Lassiter did that there wasn't a way out of this warehouse without going past Franklin and his men, and in his wounded state Lassiter couldn't even stand, much less sneak around covertly. But without Lassiter slowing him down, Spencer might be able to make it. He could call for help, even though it would probably come too late for Lassiter.
Going out in a hail of bullets had always been how he imagined he might go, but this was only one bullet that had felled him, and bleeding out slowly on a cold concrete floor gave him far too much time to dwell on the things he regretted. He should have been a better husband to Victoria, a better son to his mother and Althea, a better brother to Lulu. O'Hara would be fine, better than fine, but it hurt to know that he wouldn't be around to see the kick-ass head detective that she would become.
He looked again at Shawn, who comprised maybe his biggest regret. What was it that he had been so afraid of? Rejection? The possibility (probability) that he would be laughed at? Or worse, pitied? Well, he didn't have to worry about any of that anymore. He felt numb all over, and cold. There wouldn't be any opportunity for Spencer to laugh at him or give him embarrassed, pitying looks.
He blinked slowly, looking up again at Shawn, who…had picked up his gun? He was a civilian, what the hell was he thinking?
"Sit tight, Lassie," he was saying, checking the cartridge in the gun with a proficiency that suggested Lassiter was hallucinating. "I'll have help on the way faster than you can say 'antidisestablishmentarianism'."
He started to stand, but paused, leaning over Lassiter worriedly, so close that Lassiter thought maybe he could count each individual eyelash given enough time. "Try not to lose consciousness, okay? I really will get us out of this, Lassie. Trust me."
No chance of being laughed at in the future, Lassiter reminded himself, and grabbed a fistful of Shawn's shirt in his hand, pulling him down and kissing him hard on the mouth. And oh, if he had to die today, this was the memory he wanted to take to his grave, Shawn's shocked intake of breath, and then his lips warm and yielding against Lassiter's as he kissed back. After a few seconds, Shawn pulled away, his eyes wide and stunned, his hand coming up to touch his mouth wonderingly.
"Holy incentives, Batman. We are definitely having a conversation about this later." He stood up, pointing at Lassiter's side. "Don't forget to keep pressure on that," he said, and disappeared from view. Lassiter closed his eyes and relived the kiss, and grieved the fact that it would never happen again. He licked his lips, imagining that he could still taste Shawn there.
"Antidisestablish—" he started to whisper, but passed out before he could finish the word. As he lost consciousness, he heard gunshots.
By some great miracle, he didn't die, which was going to make things very awkward.
**
He awoke to hear a persistent, steady beeping. It was extremely annoying. Am I in hell? he wondered. It made a certain amount of sense—when he was a kid, his grandmother had always assured him that he was headed straight for the devil. He forced his eyes open; everything was blurry at first, but slowly a vision of loveliness came into view. An angel, presumably. He smiled woozily, pleased to prove his grandmother wrong.
"Carlton, thank God," the angel said, and the last of the confusion in his head cleared away as he recognized O'Hara. She briefly disappeared from view and he heard her say something to someone outside of the room, and then she was back, clutching one of his hands tightly in her own.
"We were so worried, Carlton. You lost a lot of blood."
He tried to ask what had happened, but his mouth was so dry that he couldn't speak. Juliet saw his problem immediately and reached for a cup of water sitting nearby. He had just managed to take a sip with her help when they were joined by two nurses and a doctor. The next few minutes were filled with poking and prodding and invasive questions, but at the end of it everyone seemed pleased, except for Lassiter himself, who was tired and confused and couldn't remember what had happened to put him in the hospital.
"Your prognosis is excellent, Detective Lassiter," the doctor, a serious-faced grey-haired woman, told him after they were done running their tests.
"What happened?" he managed to ask through his still-dry lips. He was sitting up now, and Juliet helped him drink more water as the doctor replied.
"The bullet went through your upper abdomen, nicking your spleen but fortunately not causing any permanent damage. The real danger was in how much blood you lost."
Lassiter looked over at Juliet, completely lost. "I was shot?"
"You don't remember?"
He shook his head. "It's not unusual for there to be some temporary memory loss surrounding the trauma," the doctor said reassuringly. "Detective O'Hara, maybe you can help him piece together the events of that day. Your memories should all return in time, Detective Lassiter."
After the doctor left, Lassiter looked to O'Hara for an explanation. "Do you remember Domino Franklin?"
"Drug runner," he replied raspily. "Scum."
She smiled a little, nodding. "That's right. Two days ago, Shawn had a vision telling him where the warehouse that Franklin was headquartered in was located."
"Spencer," Lassiter murmured, the fragment of a memory coming back to him. He and Shawn, in a dark corridor, the sound of gunfire…fear seized him. "Is Shawn all right?"
"Shawn's fine," Juliet said soothingly. "He saved your life."
"Why were we there alone?" Lassiter asked, as more images of the warehouse returned to him.
"Shawn called you when he had his vision, and you went to check it out. I would have gone with you, but I was questioning the witness in the Collins case, remember?" At his nod, she continued. "Neither of us believed Shawn anyway, because—"
"We had already checked that warehouse," he interrupted, "and it was clear."
"That's right," she said, pleased with the way he was filling in the gaps. "But you got there just in time to see Franklin and one of his associates dragging a young man into the warehouse. You and Shawn both thought that he was going to be killed. You went in to try to save him. You didn't even stop to put on a vest." She stopped, blinking away tears. "That was so stupid, Carlton. Promise me you'll never do anything like that again."
"He was just a kid," Lassiter said softly, not so much defending his actions as remembering the reasons for them. "Did he make it?"
"Shawn says he ran during the commotion. We're still looking for him."
"Spencer went in with me."
"He says that you tried to stop him, but that the, uh, spirits insisted he go with you. He said that when Franklin and his men spotted the two of you and the shooting started, you pushed him down. That's when you were shot. Apparently Franklin, from his vantage point, couldn't see you after you started to retreat, and Shawn was able to drag you into a storage room without being seen."
"I don't remember that."
"Shawn said that he knew he had to get help for you immediately, and his cellphone signal wasn't working in the warehouse. So he took your gun—"
"He WHAT?" Lassiter yelped, while at the same time an image floated up in his mind of Shawn handling his gun like a pro, checking the ammunition and the safety, his expression one of grim determination.
Juliet shrugged. "I didn't know he could shoot either. Apparently, his dad taught him to when he was a kid. He's good, Carlton. He wounded two of Franklin's associates and lured Franklin out of the warehouse just as back-up arrived on the scene. A passerby had heard the gunshots and called it in."
The pain medication was starting to pull him back under, and he leaned back against his pillows, closing his eyes. Juliet patted his hand gently. "Get some rest. I'll be here when you wake up to answer any other questions you have."
Even as he drifted off to sleep, he had the nagging feeling that he still wasn't remembering something important.
As promised, Juliet was still there the next time he woke up, but so were the Wonder Twins. Lassiter heard them before he saw them as consciousness slowly returned.
"…so then Gus tried to impress her with his perfect recall of the table of elements."
"I didn't TRY to impress her, Shawn, I DID impress her."
"Then why did she go home with that other guy?"
"Uh, because he told her that he was a bodyguard for Lady Gaga and that he could get her backstage passes."
"She didn't believe that story any more than I did. She just wanted to get away from the nerdy guy forcing her to listen to his impression of Bill Nye the Science Guy."
"Hey," Gus said fiercely, "don't you dare denigrate the name of Bill Nye!"
"I would never!" Shawn protested, "I'm just saying, as far as pick-up lines go—"
"I'm sure this is very interesting, guys," Juliet said, "but I don't understand what it has to do with the construction on the freeway near the mall. All I asked was which route would be fastest to take when I return the shoes I bought last week."
"Jules, it's completely relevant because—"
Lassiter couldn't take anymore. "Oh god," he groaned, "I really did die and go to hell."
When he opened his eyes, he saw O'Hara beaming at him. "You're awake! How are you feeling? Do you want me to get the nurse?"
"Give me a minute, O'Hara," he grumbled, trying to get his bearings. Guster was sitting in a chair next to Juliet, but he didn't see Spencer at first, until he looked around the room and found him leaning against a wall with his arms crossed. When he saw that Lassiter was looking at him an apprehensive expression crossed his face, then disappeared so quickly in favor of a bright grin that Lassiter thought he might have imagined it. Again, the feeling that he was forgetting something important nagged at him, but he brushed it aside.
"Lassie, you're back!"
"It's not like he went out for coffee, Shawn," Gus said. "He's been here the whole time we've been here."
"Mmmm, I've seen no evidence of that," Shawn said. "There's no way Lassie would ever be so quiet during that discussion we had earlier of the best place in Santa Barbara to buy donuts."
Lassiter opened his mouth to say that Donnie's Donut Emporium was the only place that mattered, but Gus spoke before he could. "How are you feeling, Lassiter?" he asked, with a scolding look in Shawn's direction that clearly suggested that at least one of them knew how to talk to someone recovering in the hospital.
"Not bad," he said cautiously. Truthfully, he felt strange and off-kilter, like he was going to float away at any moment.
As if realizing what he was thinking, Juliet patted his arm consolingly. "You're still on some pretty strong medication, Carlton. The doctor said you might feel somewhat disoriented."
"If I had known Lassie was high, I would have brought my lava lamp," Shawn said.
"I'm not high, you imbecile, I'm just…" he floundered, looking to O'Hara for the right word.
"Medicated," she supplied, "and by tomorrow they'll have you on something less potent so you'll feel more like yourself." To Shawn and Gus she said, "There are some gaps in his memory about what happened that day. Shawn, I was hoping you could help him fill some of them in when he's feeling up to it."
"Sure thing," Shawn agreed, though he sounded less than enthusiastic, until he added "does that mean that you don't remember me taking on five guys in a bare-fisted brawl in order to save your life, Lassie?"
"No one's buying that, Shawn," Gus said.
"Would you believe that I raced in on my bike and carried Lassie out while doing wheelies and kicking drug dealers in the face?"
"No, we would not believe that either," Juliet informed him. She smiled gently at Lassiter, leaning forward to adjust his pillow. "It's okay if you want to go back to sleep, Carlton. The nurse told me you'd be in and out all day."
Lassiter nodded, his eyes already drooping closed as he started to nod off again, when a memory assailed him and his eyes flew open so he could glare at Shawn, whose eyes widened as he realized that Lassiter was staring at him.
"Spencer! I can't believe your nerve! Who the hell do you think you are?"
"What? No! You started it!" Shawn said, looking panicky.
"You touched my gun!" Lassiter continued, "Without my permission! Which I would never give you, by the way."
Shawn visibly relaxed, rolling his eyes in exasperation. "Gee, you're welcome for saving your life, Lass. Should I have not taken your gun and left you to bleed to death and me without a weapon? And your beloved phallic replacement is perfectly fine and is being safely held as evidence. Chief Vick says that if things go as they should, you should have it back before you return to duty."
Lassiter slumped back against his pillow and closed his eyes again, all of his energy used up. "Under the circumstances, I guess I can let it slide this time," he allowed, "but never again, Spencer, understand?"
"I wouldn't dream of it. Not even if we're facing off against a zombie horde," Shawn promised, amusement apparent in his tone even if Lassiter couldn't see his face. At the moment he couldn't bring himself to care that he was being laughed at as he drifted off to sleep again. He did, however, spare just a moment to wonder what Spencer had been so adamantly denying before he realized that Lassiter was asking about his gun.
It was 3 a.m. when he remembered, jerking awake at the memory of warm breath against his lips and hazel eyes wide with shock. Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit.
**
He was sent home after a few days and a promise from O'Hara to the doctor that she would check on him daily. The doctor would have preferred if there was someone staying with him for the next week, but Lassiter considered that suggestion absurd and unnecessary. It wasn't as if he was planning on doing anything strenuous for a while; he was on medical leave until the doctor cleared him to go back to work, and even then he'd probably be on desk duty for a couple of weeks, until he could convince Vick that he was fine.
Until then, he could recuperate at home on his own. He would probably sleep a lot at first—the pain medicine tended to knock him for a loop—maybe watch some movies, catch up on some reading, clean his guns if he got bored. One of the nurses showed him how to change his bandages himself, so he wouldn't have to embarrass himself or O'Hara by asking her to do it.
The thing that had happened with Spencer—he couldn't even bring himself to think of the word kiss—had never actually happened, he decided. Therapists and other assorted quacks might preach against the dangers of repression, but it had worked for him so far, and he was the most well-adjusted person that he knew. (O'Hara was deluded, too sunny to survive in the real world, Spencer was obviously a compulsive liar and narcissist, Spencer Senior was a hypercritical pain in the ass, and Guster was so co-dependent that even Lassiter was occasionally concerned about him. Vick might be well-adjusted, but he was just betting that she had secret idiosyncrasies that he wasn't privy to. And there was no point in even getting started on McNab.) Compared to them, he saw himself as an oasis of mental health. And the best course of action to remain mentally healthy was to pretend that certain events had never transpired.
The only wrench in this plan, as far as he could tell, was that Spencer was a loose cannon who might decide at any moment to tell everyone he knew at the top of his lungs that Lassiter had ki—done that. Well, if that happened then Lassiter would just claim that he had been delirious from his injury, and hallucinated that Spencer was his ex-wife or Sophia Loren or something. He did not like deception, but sometimes a little white lie was necessary.
O'Hara drove him home and got him settled, even after he told her that he would be fine taking a taxi from the hospital, but as soon as he was through the door, he waved her off.
"I don't need you mother-henning over me all day, O'Hara. I promise to take it easy. Hell, my big plan for the afternoon is taking a nap. You have to go to the station and make sure that Dobson and Raymond aren't screwing up any of our cases."
"Okay," she agreed reluctantly, "but I'm coming back after work. I'll bring you something to eat and help you with your bandages."
"I can do that myself," he said, but recognizing the stubborn expression on her face added quickly, "but dinner would be nice. Maybe some soup from Rosa's Diner?"
She nodded, pleased that he wasn't going to fight her on this. "I don't know what time I'll be able to get away tonight, but I'll just let myself in with the key you gave me for emergencies."
After he finally shooed her out the door, he was free to stop pretending that he felt fine and shuffle slowly to his couch. He was sore, aching, and exhausted. He turned his TV on and fell asleep to the mindless chatter of an infomercial.
Chief Vick called a couple of hours later to check on him, waking him up. He had a feeling O'Hara had put her up to calling, but Vick didn't ask too many nosy questions about how he was doing, so he tolerated her with relative good grace. She did remind him that he would have to endure at least one session with the department psychologist before returning to duty, which pained him almost as much as his actual injury.
"It will be fine, Carlton," Karen said firmly. "Just don't bring up the squirrels again, okay?"
"I'll avoid the topic if he will," Lassiter agreed grudgingly.
After that, he cautiously made his way to the kitchen for a glass of juice. He prided himself on having a high pain threshold, so it was distressing to be laid so low by a single bullet. Everyone else—the doctors, nurses, O'Hara—seemed to think he was doing quite well by being able to return home after less than a week of hospital care, and the medical professionals assured him that if he continued to recover at this rate then he would be back at work in less than a month, but he wasn't accustomed to so much inactivity, and along with the dull persistent ache (a remnant as much of the surgery to remove the bullet and repair the spleen as of the gunshot itself) it was impossible not to be constantly reminded of his shortcomings.
He couldn't stop berating himself for the decisions that had led to his being in this situation. Why hadn't he called for back-up immediately when he realized that Spencer was right about the warehouse being Franklin's hide-out? Why hadn't he stopped to grab a vest out of the trunk of his car before rushing headlong into danger? Why had he allowed Spencer to accompany him into the warehouse in the first place?
And why in the name of Smith & Wesson had he kissed Spencer?
Repressing didn't work as well as he had hoped when he had so much godforsaken time in which to think. He had thought too much in the hospital, but now he almost wished himself back there, where at least there were near-constant interruptions to his self-recriminations. Here at home, there was only the television or the Internet, and neither was at all useful in keeping his thoughts at bay.
Why had he kissed Spencer? Because he had wanted to for a long time. It was as simple as that, no matter how much he hated himself for wanting someone whose favorite pastime was proving him wrong. In that space of time when he was certain that he was going to die, letting down his defenses enough to throw caution to the wind and share that one moment with Spencer had seemed not just desirable but necessary.
Of course, as with so many of his romantic decisions, it had been a horrible mistake. He wasn't safely dead, unable to regret giving in to his longing, and from what he could remember of that one somewhat awkward hospital visit that Spencer had made, it didn't appear that he had exactly been swept off his feet by the gesture.
Checking the clock, he saw that it was time for him to take another pain pill. He hated the way the medication dulled his thinking, but at the same time it would take the edge off the ache in his side and probably cause him to fall asleep again. Asleep, he didn't have to work at forgetting and couldn't wallow around in his bitter regrets. That sounded good.
It was, again, his phone that woke him up. He reached for it groggily, torn out of a vivid dream involving Clint Eastwood and Guster working in a fast food restaurant. "Lassiter," he snapped into the phone, temporarily forgetting that he wasn't on duty and that this was unlikely to be a call concerning a case.
"Hi, Carlton," O'Hara sounded brisk, busy. "How are you feeling?"
"I'm fine," he replied automatically, heartily sick of hearing those two words come out of his mouth.
"Were you sleeping? I'm sorry I woke you up. It's just that—thanks, Buzz, just put it on my desk please—I'm not going to be able to come by tonight after all. We got a break on the Jaworski case, and I'm probably going to be here all night."
Lassiter was hit by a series of emotions: unexpected disappointment that he was going to be alone with his own thoughts for the evening, curiosity over the resolution of a murder that he and O'Hara had been working on for a month, and most of all, intense, searing, jealousy that she was able to work on the case while he wasn't.
"Was it the brother-in-law? I suspected that bastard from day one, you know I did. Look, I can call a cab and be there in half an hour to help with the interrogation."
"Don't be ridiculous, Carlton, you can't come to work. You're on medical leave. And no, it wasn't the brother-in-law, it was the…" she trailed off, and when she resumed speaking it was in a crisp, professional tone. "I'm sorry, I can't divulge the details of an ongoing investigation."
"O'Hara! What the hell?"
There was a long pause, and then she whispered frantically, "I'm so sorry, Carlton, Chief Vick walked up and she wants me to keep you out of the loop about what's going on while you're on leave. She doesn't want anything causing you stress while you recover. But I promise I'll tell you all about it tomorrow. What I really called to tell you is—and please don't be mad—but since I can't come, I gave my key to Shawn and he's going to bring you that soup you wanted."
"You did…O'Hara!" he spluttered, outraged, "Get it back from him right now! I don't need any damn soup."
"Yes, you do. I'm not letting you go a day without someone checking in on you, and Shawn volunteered, so just suck it up, mister." He glared uselessly at the phone, recognizing O'Hara's don't-fuck-with-me tone as being the final word on the matter.
"I'm confiscating that damn key," he snapped.
"You'll do no such thing. I wouldn't have given it to him in the first place, but I didn't know how you'd be feeling tonight, or if you'd be asleep when he got there. Shawn will give it back to me tomorrow, and…" she paused, and he could hear the low murmur of another voice speaking to her. "I'm sorry Carlton, I have to go. Shawn will be there soon with your soup. Be nice to him. He wanted to do something nice for you."
She hung up, and Lassiter resisted—barely—the urge to throw his phone against the wall.
Spencer wanted to do something nice for him, huh? More like, he probably wanted to come by and rub it in Carlton's face that Shawn had saved his life. Sure, he hadn't done anything of the sort during the hospital visit, but O'Hara had been present then, and maybe that had kept Spencer on his best behavior—not that her presence dissuaded him from being an ass most days. But Lassiter couldn't fathom any other reason for Spencer wanting to come, except…oh. Of course. Not to gloat about saving his life, but to mock him over the kiss. Or, best case scenario, to ask him what the hell that had been about.
You have a plan, Lassiter, he reminded himself. If he asks, say you thought he was Rene Russo or Lauren Bacall. Hell, tell him that you thought he was Harrison Ford. Anything but the truth. And if he doesn't ask, be grateful and keep your mouth shut.
He heard a tentative knock on the door, followed by the key turning in the lock. "Lassie? Don't shoot, it's me."
How is that incentive not to shoot, he wanted to ask, but he wasn't actually in the mood to joke about shooting people at the moment.
"I have soup," Shawn continued, still standing in the doorway, "that tomato bisque you like, with the little croutons. And I also got you a piece of chocolate cheesecake."
Lassiter's mouth watered in anticipation; after days of hospital food, chocolate cheesecake sounded damn near like heaven. "All right, you can come in. But you can't stay long."
"But I brought a movie too," Shawn said, waggling the bag he was carrying enticingly as he came in. "Jules seemed to think you might be lonely, stuck in your house all day all by yourself."
"I don't get lonely," Lassiter scoffed, frowning as Shawn stopped short, staring at him. "What?"
"Lassie, you're all scruffy," Shawn said wonderingly, "and casual," he added, waving a hand to indicate the pajama ensemble that Lassiter was sporting.
Lassiter touched his face self-consciously, jerking his hand away as he realized what he was doing. "I haven't shaved all week," he admitted, "and I didn't realize that you expected me to dress up for you."
"Oh no," Shawn said, setting down the bag on the table in front of Lassiter and pulling out containers of food and cans of soda, "don't get me wrong. I like the look. You should wear scruffy more often."
"It's unprofessional. And like I would take fashion advice from you, anyway," Lassiter sneered, grabbing the soup and a spoon like he was afraid Shawn might take it away from him. "You dress like a hobo."
"Ah, but a stylish hobo, with great hair," Shawn said, picking up the sandwich he had brought for himself. He had settled into the easy chair to the right of the couch, and he slouched there loose-limbed and easy, and Lassiter hated him a little for how goddamned attractive he was.
Lassiter watched him as he took a bite of the soup, unsettled and off-balance by the comfort Spencer exhibited sitting in his living room, like it was something they did all the time. It was, in fact, something they had never done, and it made Lassiter uneasy to have Spencer in his private space like this.
"Why are you here?" he asked abruptly, and Shawn paused mid-bite to look at him quizzically.
"Because Jules was tied up with a case and she—"
"Spare me," Lassiter interrupted, clutching his soup container and glaring at Spencer. "Even if you were just trying to get in O'Hara's good graces, you could have just dropped off the food and made sure I wasn't dead. But instead, you're…what? Hanging out with me?"
Spencer had the temerity to look mildly amused. "How is it that you can make a phrase like 'hanging out' sound like some kind of crazy hipster slang?"
"Don't change the subject," Lassiter growled. "If you're here to gloat over saving my ass, then get it over with and get out."
Now Shawn looked confused rather than amused. "Gloat? Over what? We're Even Steven, Lassie. Don't you…oh, that's right. Jules said you had some holes in your memory."
Lassiter cursed himself for being the one to bring up the events of that day, but Spencer being in his space made him feel defensive, which automatically put him on the offensive. Regardless, maybe it was better to find out what was going through Spencer's twisted little mind sooner rather than later, and probably better as well to do it here, in privacy, not in front of every single one of his coworkers.
"I don't have to remember every second of that day to know that I owe you," he snapped, the taste of admitting that a bitter pill to swallow.
"It's your gratitude that really makes it all worthwhile," Shawn snarked. "But seriously Lassie, don't you remember what happened before I heroically and selflessly risked my own life to save yours?"
Lassiter certainly did remember; that was the problem. "I don't remember anything from the time we went inside the warehouse until the time I woke up in the hospital," he lied smoothly, looking up to meet Shawn's gaze head-on, only to be surprised by the way Shawn was avoiding his eyes.
"You took the bullet for me," Shawn said bluntly. "You shoved me out of the way and got shot for your trouble. It's too bad you can't remember it, because it was pretty fucking badass, Lassie. So yeah, maybe I ended up saving your life by getting us out of there, but that was only necessary because you saved my life first."
For just a moment, Lassiter forgot all about inappropriate kissing choices as he savored this piece of information. He vaguely remembered O'Hara saying something about him pushing Spencer out of the way when he had first woken up in the hospital, but it had been dismissed as unimportant among all the other information occupying his mind, like the fact that he had been shot, and the fact that he had kissed Spencer. Believing that he had been rescued like some damsel in distress by Spencer, of all people, had been galling, but this was much more acceptable. Getting shot protecting a civilian might even be considered heroic, unless you took into account the fact that he had allowed said civilian to walk into danger in the first place.
"So what is this?" Lassiter asked, waving his hand to indicate the food and Spencer himself. "Guilt?"
"I prefer to think of it as two compadres spending their down time together," Shawn said. He had, apparently, lost his appetite, and had wrapped his half-uneaten sandwich back up and put it back in the bag.
"We're not friends," Lassiter scoffed, going back to his soup.
"We're not not friends," Shawn countered, exasperated. "Come on Lassie, I know you like me at least a little bit. Maybe more than a little bit."
At that, Lassiter froze, then forced himself to swallow the soup on his spoon, resolutely making no attempt to respond and ignoring the way that he could feel Shawn watching him, gauging his reaction.
"So, you don't remember anything else from after we went into the warehouse?" Shawn asked carefully, after a few seconds of awkward silence.
"Nope. Not a thing."
"Huh." Shawn looked doubtful, but didn't inquire further. Instead, he reached for the bag he had brought in with him. "I didn't think to bring a movie until I stopped to get gas, so the only choices I had were the movies on the $5.99 rack at the Stop'n'Go. Do you want to watch Geena Davis as an amnesiac badass superspy or Ah-nold as a barbarian?"
Lassiter set his now empty soup container aside and leaned back against the sofa, closing his eyes wearily. "You don't have to stay and entertain me, Spencer. You can tell O'Hara that you did your good deed for the day with a clear conscience."
"Maybe you're entertaining me," Shawn said. "Gus is on a date, and I kind of forgot to pay the cable bill, and Jules kicked me out of the station and told me not to come back until tomorrow, so it's either this or go bug Henry."
Lassiter doubted that that was true; Spencer could certainly find companionship without much trouble if he wanted to, but he found that he didn't have the energy—or really the desire—to argue the point. Spencer wanted to hang around and watch a movie? Fine. He didn't seem inclined to press Lassiter about his memories of the day of the shooting, and he had brought cheesecake, which earned him a little leeway.
And you like having him here, a tiny voice in the back of his brain piped up, but he shoved that little voice back into a closet and slammed the door shut. Carefully, he stood up and attempted to sound disinterested as he said "Stay and watch a movie if you want. I have to go change my bandages."
"Do you, uh, need any help?" Shawn asked, sounding embarrassed that he was even asking the question.
"God, no. Just stay out here and don't touch anything."
"Not anything? Can I touch the TV remote control?"
Lassiter rolled his eyes. "Yes."
"What about this chair I'm sitting in?"
"Spencer…"
"Am I allowed to touch the pina colada cheesecake that I bought for myself?"
Lassiter gave up. "I'll be back in a few minutes."
"Was that a yes or a no?"
"Don't make me change my mind about letting you stay," Lassiter said, already halfway out of the room.
Spencer's mouth just kept running. "What about myself? Am I allowed to touch myself, Lassie?"
Lassiter paused, casting a disbelieving look over his shoulder. "Uh, never mind," Shawn said hastily, "I just heard how that sounded, and I'd like for you to pretend that I never said it."
"Just…shut up, Spencer," Lassiter muttered, and hurried on to the bathroom, hoping to banish the uninvited image that had sprung up in his mind.
"Goddamnit," Lassiter snarled as the roll of bandages hit the floor. He braced himself to pick them up, already dreading the pain that was sure to come from bending over, but before he could, he heard a rustle of noise outside the bathroom door.
"Lassie, are you okay?"
"I'm fine!" he snapped, but reconsidered the words immediately, weighing the embarrassment of allowing Spencer to see him vulnerable against the pain that would come from trying to dig the bandages out from behind the clothes hamper where they had rolled. He sighed, giving in to the inevitable.
"Actually, Spencer, could you give me a hand?" he asked, pushing the bathroom door open to allow Shawn entrance.
"Sure," Shawn said, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "Did I ever tell you that I'm a trained medical professional? I mean, I've seen every episode of Scrubs, and that's almost like going to medical school, right?"
"I'm not asking you to perform surgery, dumbass. I just need you to pick up the bandages I dropped," Lassiter said, gesturing to where they lay. Shawn bent over easily to retrieve them, and not for the first time, Lassiter reminded himself not to take for granted all the simple things he could do when he wasn't injured. He held out his hand to take the bandages back, and Spencer hesitantly handed them over.
"Thanks. I'll just be a few minutes if you want to go ahead and start the movie," Lassiter said in dismissal, but Shawn didn't leave. Instead, his gaze zeroed in on the wound and the stitches from where the surgeons had opened him up to remove the bullet. Somehow, he hadn't thought about the fact that he was half-naked in the small bathroom with Shawn, but now with those hazel eyes on him he was self-conscious. He should tell Spencer to get out, but somehow felt that doing so would make him seem weak in some way, so instead he resolved to slap the bandage on as quickly as possible, button his shirt up, and pretend that this wasn't weirding him out at all.
Shawn, though, wasn't going to make that easy. "Oh, Lassie," he breathed out softly, "that looks really bad."
For a second, Lassiter thought he was making another dumb joke—oh, Lassie, no one wants to see you without a shirt, it's terrible—but on the heels of that thought came the realization that Shawn was talking about the evidence of the bullet and the surgery. If it were anyone else, Lassiter might even have thought that he looked and sounded upset.
"It's not that bad," he said gruffly, dabbing on the antibiotic cream. "The doctors seem to think that I'll be able to go back to work within a month."
"I'm sorry," Shawn said quietly, and Lassiter looked up at him, shocked by the seriousness in his voice. "It's my fault it happened."
He had always thought that it would be satisfying to hear Spencer admit that he had been wrong about something, but it turned out that it just made him uncomfortable.
"Don't be an idiot, Spencer. I'm the one who went in without a vest, and I should never have allowed you to go in with me. What the hell was I thinking? It was my own damn fault that this happened. I'm lucky that Vick's not talking about suspending me."
Shawn shook his head. "I was the one who wanted to rush in all balls-to-the-wall. If I had given you a second to think, you would at least have grabbed a vest."
His attempt to claim culpability just made Lassiter testy. "I'm the cop, it's my job to think about these things. Stop trying to take credit for fucking things up when I'm the one responsible." Having Spencer in the small space with him was too distracting; he had forgotten to tear off pieces of adhesive tape to secure the gauze with, and when he reached for the tape to do so, he knocked over the roll of gauze again. Shawn bent over to pick it up, but instead of handing it back he held on to it and glared at Lassiter.
"Don't try and stop me from taking credit for fucking things up when that's exactly what I did. And would you give your stupid pride a rest for the night and let me help you with this? It's gonna be midnight before you get this stupid bandage on at this rate."
Lassiter opened his mouth to protest that he would already be done if Spencer hadn't interrupted him, but the words caught in his throat when Shawn grabbed the adhesive tape from him, deftly tearing off a strip as with his other hand he pressed the gauze gently into place. Lassiter stared down at the top of Spencer's head, bent over as he worked, and willed himself not to think about how this was Shawn touching him.
"You should sue," Shawn said, and Lassiter blinked down at him, confused.
"Who? You?"
He laughed, pressing a second piece of tape into place. "Only if you're after my vintage collection of Tiger Beat magazines. No, I meant the hospital. They shaved your magnificent pelt."
Lassiter was finding it difficult to keep track of the conversation, what with the distraction of Shawn's warm breath against his chest and the light strokes of his fingertips as he secured the bandage. That was okay though, because Shawn kept talking. Babbling, really.
"I mean, I understand, I guess, why they had to. You wouldn't want to be ripping out hair every time you changed your bandage, even a manly man like you wouldn't want that, but it still seems like a crime against nature, and you're a crime fighter and all, and now there's this bald spot right here, it's like a miniature Patrick Stewart took up residence..." his fingers trailed down, away from the bandage, a surely accidental caress that was quickly snatched away as Shawn stepped back hurriedly, Lassiter only catching a glimpse of flushed cheeks and bright eyes as he turned to go back into the hallway.
"I'm gonna go put on a movie now Lassie, okay?" he disappeared down the hall. Lassiter sighed, pulling his shirt closed and buttoning it slowly. Even Spencer had been embarrassed by the brief, impersonal intimacy, and he had long harbored the belief that Spencer couldn't be embarrassed by anything. The exception, apparently, was Lassiter being useless and vulnerable. Part of him wished that Spencer would just leave him alone to his misery, while another part of him wanted the exact opposite.
He went back out to the living room, pausing only to get the bottle holding the painkillers he was supposed to take before bed, which the doctor had told him was stronger than the pills he took during the day. He figured he would take a couple before the movie was over and fall asleep immediately after Spencer left, the better not to think back on the evening's awkwardness.
Spencer was sitting with a pillow in his lap hugged against his chest, his eyes on the TV. "I went Geena Davis, but if you want the Barbarianator, I'll switch DVDs."
"This is fine," Lassiter said, settling on to the couch, where he spent the next little while trying to force himself to watch the movie instead of Spencer, but he found it hard to concentrate when there was so much swirling around in his mind.
"What happened after I passed out?" he asked abruptly, reaching for the remote control to pause the movie.
"Dude, this is the best part! She's gonna smoke that guy for torturing her."
"Spencer, I want to know what happened. You took my gun?"
Shawn sighed and hugged the pillow even tighter. "Yeah, Lassie, I did. I promise I didn't damage it, okay? Jules checked it afterward and everything."
Lassiter scowled. "That's not what I was asking. Although, if I find even the tiniest dent in it…but what I want to know is what happened. You…what? Shot your way out of there?"
Shaking his head, Shawn said, "That makes it sound a lot more Rambo than what actually happened. I mostly snuck my way out of there."
"O'Hara said that you shot someone," Lassiter said. It seemed insane to him when she had said it, and it still did now as he watched Shawn fidget uncomfortably in his seat, plucking restlessly at his jeans with nervous fingers.
"I did, yeah. Two guys, actually. One of them was going towards the storage closet where I left you, and…look, it's boring. They're both gonna be fine, they were just wounded. Not nearly as badly as you were. I'll bring you the police report if you really want to know what happened, but seriously Lassie, talking about it is going to put me to sleep, and I don't even have my blankie and Mr. Fluffypants with me."
"Mr. Fluffypants?" Lassiter echoed, unable to stop himself from asking.
"To the untrained eye he's merely a plush bunny rabbit, but in reality he's a conduit to the spirits who whispers secrets in my ear in the middle of the night."
Lassiter raised an eyebrow, ignoring the psychic bullshit in favor of the more important revelation. "You sleep with a stuffed rabbit?"
"Only when I don't have someone else to cuddle up to," Shawn replied matter-of-factly, reaching for the remote control to restart the movie. Which was just as well, because Lassiter certainly had nothing remotely useful to say after that. He reached for the pills he had brought in earlier and swallowed two; hopefully they would help him get a decent night's sleep after the confusing night he was having.
He wasn't sure how much had time had passed when he felt someone shaking his shoulder gently, and Shawn's voice when he spoke seemed to come from a great distance. "Come on Lassie, you'll be more comfortable if you sleep in your bed. Just get up and...okay, I can help you up." A warm hand clasped his wrist, and with Spencer's help he heaved himself to his feet, swaying perilously until Shawn's arm went around him for support.
"Great googly moogly, Lassie, you're so skinny, how are you so heavy? Do you snack on lead weights?"
It was nice to be pressed this close against Spencer, Lassiter thought absently as they made their way to the bedroom. Nice to have the other man's warmth seeping into him, nice to feel the way Shawn fit against him.
"One foot in front of the other," Shawn was saying encouragingly, "you can do it Lassie, I've seen you walk plenty of times!"
He wanted to tell Spencer to shut it, but it would have taken too much energy. As it was, he managed to make it to the bed, dropping onto it so quickly that he accidentally pulled Shawn down with him.
"If I had known this is where buying you dinner would get me, I would have done it ages ago," Shawn joked, and it was probably Lassiter's imagination that he sounded nervous. Lassiter looked blearily down at him, not quite remembering how Spencer had ended up on the bed, but definitely not complaining about it. It was probably a dream, anyway, he figured, a remnant of Spencer being in his home. Although, for a dream he felt surprisingly solid. Hesitantly he reached over and poked at Shawn's forehead, checking for realness.
Shawn blinked at him, opening his mouth like he was going to say something, but nothing came out. Well, it was definitely a dream if Spencer didn't have anything to say, which meant that it was safe to trace his finger down to the tip of Shawn's nose, where he paused. Shawn's eyes crossed as he followed the progress of Lassiter's finger, but he still didn't say anything, so Lassiter dropped his finger down onto Shawn's mouth, lightly tracing the outline of his lips, marveling at how vivid this dream was. It was like he could actually feel Spencer squirm beneath him, even feel him hardening as he stroked his finger across those soft, full lips.
He wanted, very much, to taste those lips again, so he leaned forward to do exactly that.
"Oh, fuck," Shawn finally whispered, He pushed Lassiter off of him and sat up, breathing hard and babbling. "You are so stoned right now, Lassie, and this is so wrong, and I'm a bad person for not stopping it sooner and I'm going to go now and hope you don't remember this either."
Lassiter closed his eyes, disappointed that this dream was ending like so many others. It wasn't fair that even his subconscious version of Shawn didn't want him. He felt the blanket being pulled over him, and he opened his eyes to see that Dream!Shawn was still standing there, tucking the blanket around him, but not, apparently, climbing back into the bed with him, so he gave into the lure of unconsciousness and shut his eyes again.
"G'night, Lassie," Dream!Shawn whispered, and Lassiter felt something soft and warm brush against his forehead before he finally fell asleep.