Shawn is in that place, suspended between half-asleep and half-awake, thinking about Carlton Lassiter's favorite silk tie. Or, to be specific, ambushing and kidnapping said tie and maybe making it into another blindfold or maybe keeping Lassie tied to a bedpost (and here's the part where he hopes that Lassie's bed has posts because his is just a mattress on the floor of a former drycleaners, but hey, this is a sexual fantasy and if bedposts need to exist, bedposts are going to exist, thankyouverymuch.

The phone rings. Before the song reaches its third note, Shawn's hand pushes the stop-making-noise button.

He doesn't know who called. He doesn't care who called. He's in a happy place with his new top secret kind-of-boyfriend, and now he's thinking about the way they spent forty-five minutes last night in the backseat of Lassie's car, making out like teenagers, and that's the thing about Lassie: it's like he stores up his sexual energy and then pounces like some kind of wolfman and Shawn doesn't mind that in the least. Of course, he'd tried to go too far too fast: his fingers ghosting along the half-hard lines of cock on the outside of cotton trousers is fine, reaching for the zipper of said trousers leads Lassie to draw back and mumble something about how late it's getting, how he has a shift in the morning, and another kiss and goodnight Shawn.

Hmph. Goodnight Shawn, indeed.

So in his head he's playing out a better end for the evening when his phone rings, again, and it's the ringtone for Gus's work phone and that means very serious business indeed.

"Nghus?" He mutters, sleepily, into the wrong end of the phone, scowls at it, turns it right side round. "Gus?"

"Shawn. There's something going down at the cupcakery." Gus's voice is strained, tense, and Shawn picks up on the best word of the sentence: cupcake.

"Dude, is it time for the Saturday morning cupcake run already?" Shawn takes the phone away from his face, squints at the time, which turns out to be 11:42, which is just plain awesome because not only did he get, like, twelve hours of sleep, Gus is on his way with cupcakes.

"Past time, I'm here at Mayfair Cakes and…and it's bad, Shawn, it's bad." He can hear that kind of nervous swallow that comes every time Gus sees a dead body. "Chef Julian is dead and his assistant is convinced someone killed him and we haven't called the cops yet…I thought you might want to come before Lassie and Jules."

At any other time, Shawn might have been tempted to make a joke about coming before Lassie, but the thought of his favorite cupcake baker being dead is too much of a distraction. "Dude, man, calm down, I'm on my way. Has he been shot? Stabbed? Stampeded by wildebeasts?" Part of him, however improbable, is hoping for the third option.

"He's just, it looks like he's sleeping, Shawn: he's slumped over a table with his breakfast coffee and…just get down here, please?"

"Fine." He stretches, throws back the blankets (including the red knit one he's borrowed from Lassie), sits up. "I'll be there A-sap. Call the station. I'll call Lassie." He presses the circle button to end the call and pulls on yesterday's jeans, stashing his phone in his pocket, grabs a clean tee-shirt off of the wheel of laundry, searches for his sneakers and then remembers he's got to call Lassie and he'd better do that before getting on his motorcycle.

Helmet in one hand, phone in the other, he clicks to his favorites menu, dials Lassie's number.

"Spencer?" There's something almost pleased in Lassiter's tone, and that makes Shawn so happy for a moment that he forgets that his favorite baker is dead and he will never have one of chef Julian's cupcakes with the lemon curd in the middle and the swirly rainbow frosting EVER again.

"Lassie. Listen. Gus is calling the station, but he's stumbled into a homicide and I wanted to call you first. Also: I missed you. Did you miss me?"

"Of course. Homicide?"

"Mayfair Cakes, I'm on my way right now, but wanted to give you the inside knowledge." He pauses for a moment, thinks of Gus's description of the body. "The spirits are telling me he was poisoned."

"Jules and I are on my way. Wait. Wait wait, shit, wait…did you say Mayfair Cakes?"

"Mmm."

"Shit. Willi." Lassiter sighs, a heavy sigh. "I'm on my way."

"Miss you."

"You too," and there's a hint of a smile in Lassie's voice, and then the phone call is over: leaving Shawn to pull on his helmet and make his way to the cupcakery (and if part of his brain is wondering if there are any lemon rainbowcakes left over in the back, well, he's only human.)