A/N: So I'm having trouble with my current fic "Lassie Hates Ramen Noodles" mainly because I had this plot bunny running amuck in my head. The idea just wouldn't leave me alone so I decided to put it to a vote.

Please, please PLEASE give this prologue a read, and then review telling me if I should make it into a full blown fic. Keep in mind I do intend on fishing my other fic but for some reason this one just won't leave me alone.

Thanks!

~Matilda

Dream Ring

Five years ago, if anyone had looked Carlton Lassiter in the eye and told him that he'd one day grow to love Shawn Spencer – Carlton Lassiter would've laughed. Carlton Lassiter would've laughed exceptionally hard. Lassiter would laugh and the poor bastard who made the accusation would've been admitted to an institution.

As it stands, that was five years ago. Today if someone dared to look Carlton Lassiter in the face and say 'you love Shawn Spencer' then Carlton Lassiter would've become baffled, and defensive, but he couldn't deny it. He couldn't.

Every cased they've ever solved, every odd impression, and every 80's reference ever made by Shawn Spencer, had all somehow engraved themselves into Lassiter's mind. Lassiter's stress level had risen considerably in the last five years but the detective always assumed it was because his distaste for Spencer was developing into murderous hate. He was convinced of this undeniable fact right up until the night he started dreaming of the psychic.

The dream was always the same; the station would be empty and for some reason filled with fog. Lassiter would be at his desk, working on a report. The doors would open with a large amount of noise. Shawn would then waltz in like he owned the place; ina a beeline straight for Lassiter's desk. Sometimes he did the polka, but usually while doing the foxtrot.

"Spencer I'm busy."

"I need you."

"Go away Spencer."

"Lassie, help me."

"You're perfectly fine Spencer, now out."

The whole time they conversed, Lassiter would fail to lift his head from his paper – he couldn't look at Spencer. Wouldn't look at Spencer, I mean -why would he? Spencer was annoying.

At this point in the dream, warm hands would reach over Lassiter's desk and cup his face. Lassiter's eyes would slip closed and soft lips were pressed together. Spencer was kissing him. Oh god Spencer was kissing him! Oh god he was kissing back! For those few seconds, everything around Lassiter went unnoticed; the paper work, the station, the fog – none of it existed. Just Spencer existed.

That part of the dream was always blissful, and over the two month time the dream re-occurred at night; detective Lassiter had came to accept that he was indeed in love with the psychic. Which is why the last couple of nights when the dream suddenly turned – Lassiter could hardly stand it.

The dream would start the same, with Shawn coming to him in the station and stealing a kiss, but after the long kiss – Lassiter had begun to open his eyes, to look at Spencer when they were done. He never liked what he saw.

Spencer looked scared, and lonely. He was always sporting a fat lip, and a black eye. When did he get hurt like that? Who hurt him? Lassiter would gently run his fingers over Shawn's face, wanting to ask those questions but as he tried – Shawn would start to disappear.

"Shawn!"

"Save me Lassie."

It was a horrid dream, and Lassiter had lost a considerable amount of sleep over it. However no matter how horrible the dream got – it was nothing compared to what was happening now.

Shawn Spencer was declared missing, the Psych office having been broken into and tossed around. Gus had been the first to arrive, and when he saw the state of the office and no sign of his best friend he called the police immediately. Dejavu.

"He's not answering his phone." O'Hara confirmed that much when she tried the psychic's cell.

Lassiter had to keep calm. This had happened before when Shawn was shot, and Shawn was fine when they found him then. So Shawn would be fine again. He had to be.

Lassiter took a long breathe, and while O'Hara and Guster searched for clues in the psych building, Lassiter and Henry made for Shawn's apartment to try and re-trace his steps.

"I'll look around the kitchen." Henry said "You check the bedroom."

Normally Lassiter didn't enjoy taking orders from the older Spencer, but arguing wouldn't help the situation at all. Shawn was gone. With the way Lassiter's heart clenched at the thought – Lassiter couldn't forget that. Who had him this time? Why?

They were questions Lassiter hoped would be answered with a happy ending, and answers he hoped to get closer to with every bit of searching he did. So as Henry ordered, Lassiter made his way into Shawn's bed room.

It was messy, Shawn needed to do laundry – there was no doubt. However there was still nothing incredibly dirty or off about the space. Lassiter sighed and started his search, unsurprised when every drawer he opened brought up nothing but clothes. It wasn't until Lassiter checked the night stand did he find something relevant. His stomach dropped as he scooped the velvet box into his palm, the gold band inside glinting off the light in mockery as it blatantly told Lassiter something Lassiter didn't want to know.

Shawn Spencer was or had been at some point in his life – married.