Maybe He's No Romeo

by trixietru

After Shawn is roofied during an undercover assignment, Lassiter is tasked with taking him to the hospital. Hijinks – or at least some naughty touching – ensue.

Title: Maybe He's No Romeo

Pairing: Shawn/Lassiter

Summary: After Shawn is roofied during an undercover assignment, Lassiter is tasked with taking him to the hospital. Hijinks – or at least some naughty touching – ensue.

Disclaimer: I don't own Psych, and sadly, that means that I also don't own Lassiter and Shawn. No copyright infringement intended.

Rating: Somewhere between a PG13 and an R

Author's Note: S2-ish. Title is courtesy of "Let's Hear it for the Boy", sung by Deniece Williams on the Footloose soundtrack. This was mostly written as a goofy little amusement, so characterization is a bit thin on the ground.

Serious Author's Note: In real life, getting roofied at a club would be a terrifying and dangerous experience. This fic treats it with about as much seriousness as the Psych episode "Last Night Gus" does, which is to say, none at all. So consider this a trigger warning if this is something you might be sensitive to.

Lassiter leans closer to the security monitor in front of him, watching Shawn dance, and thinks once again about how much he hates this assignment. Someone has been dosing club goers with some sort of designer drug, then stealing their cars, wallets, jewelry, anything of value. When the victims came to the next morning, they remembered nothing of the night before. So now he was stuck in a tiny upstairs room of the club watching monitors and trying to spot anyone suspicious in the human chaos taking place on the dance floor. Meanwhile, Spencer was down in the action, wearing an ostentatiously expensive watch from evidence lock-up in hopes of catching the eyes of the assailant and dancing the night away, not doing any actual detective work that Lassiter could see.

Not that he would have wanted to trade places; while he was maybe a little jealous of the fact that Spencer was getting to indulge in undercover work, the thought of being in that writhing crowd of people was miserable, and he would undoubtedly have stood out like a sore thumb. Two days before it had been O'Hara on the dance floor, and somehow that had been more tolerable because she was actually a cop. But Spencer had wormed his way into the investigation by "divining" that the crimes were being committed by a man and woman working together, and O'Hara was pursuing another angle to the case along with Guster in finding out where the drug was manufactured in the first place.

Meanwhile, he was stuck in this hot, tiny security office, watching Spencer flirt with everyone he came into contact with. At the moment, he appeared to be dancing with a couple, a twentysomething man and woman that had been chatting him up at the bar before dragging him onto the dance floor. Lassiter was watching more closely than normal because maybe this was it, and they could wrap the case up and call it a night. Spencer had conspicuously been holding a drink when they approached, but Lassiter hadn't seen either of the suspects dose it with anything despite how Shawn had left it obviously unguarded. Instead, they had pulled him out to dance, and now he was sandwiched in between the two of them, and Lassiter tried to convince himself that he was absolutely not shocked at how Spencer was allowing the male half of the duo to grind into him from behind while the female half swayed in front of him, her back to him at the moment, Spencer's hands on her hips.

Lassiter frowns as the woman reaches up and covers her mouth for a moment – maybe she had coughed? Sneezed? Yawning seemed improbable, what with Spencer's groin pressed into her ass – then turns and kisses Shawn, full on the mouth. Even with the grainy security footage, Lassiter can see Spencer's eyes go wide for a moment, and he's already reaching for the radio to tell the officers stationed in the club to be on alert when Shawn looks straight into the security camera and gives him the signal he's been waiting for.

Lassiter tells the officers on the scene to hold the pair with Spencer, then hurries downstairs to the club floor.

"What happened?" he asks, as soon as he sees Spencer.

"She slipped it to me when she kissed me!" Shawn sounds indignant, as if he's insulted that anyone would want to kiss him with an ulterior motive.

Lassiter gestures to the officers holding the couple. "Read them their rights and take them down to the station," he orders, then holds out a hand to Spencer, who stares at it uncomprehendingly. "The evidence, Spencer! Where's the pill, or whatever it was?"

"Oh," Shawn says, looking embarrassed, "I don't know how to tell you this Lassie, but, um…"

Lassiter pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and his forefinger. "Please tell me you didn't swallow it."

"I couldn't help it! She shoved it down my throat with her tongue!"

"Oh for god's sake," Lassiter says wearily. "Fine. Go make yourself throw up and we'll retrieve it that way."

Shawn stares at him in horror. "First of all, GROSS. Second of all, unless you can also see all of the colors that the music is making, then I think it's already too late."

"Great. Just great, Spencer. Okay, I'll take you to the hospital and we'll get blood and urine samples for evidence." He takes Shawn by the arm to lead him out of the club, then ends up practically dragging him out as Spencer keeps stopping to try and dance with all of the colors in the air. Once they're at the car, he pushes Spencer into the passenger seat, shuts the door and leans against the car, pulling out his phone to call O'Hara.

"Shawn got roofied?" she gasps when he tells her what happened. "Is he okay?"

Lassiter leans down and peers into the car, where Spencer is sitting staring at the palm of his hand, putting it close to his face and then drawing it back to look at it from a distance.

"He's…fine, I guess. Were you and Guster able to find out what this crap will do to him?"

"According to the guys in the lab who studied it, it's designed to be a fast-acting drug –"

"Yeah, I got that part," Lassiter says.

"He'll probably experience feelings of euphoria and an increase in sexual desire, along with some disorientation and confusion and maybe even some mild hallucinations. It shouldn't last more than a couple of hours, and tomorrow he probably won't remember anything. Fortunately, none of the victims so far have experienced anything more adverse than the memory loss and some hangover-like symptoms, so hopefully Shawn will be fine. Are you taking him to the hospital?"

"Yeah, I'll have them draw blood for evidence. Thibadeux and Ramirez should be down at the station any time now with the suspects."

"I'll take care of everything here, and I'll call Gus to have him meet you at the hospital," O'Hara says, "you just take care of Shawn, okay?"

"Yeah," Lassiter sighs into the phone, and hangs up.

When he gets into the car, Spencer looks up at him wide-eyed. "Lassie! My hand is AMAZING!"

"Put on your seatbelt, Spencer. We're going to the hospital now."

"Why? Oh my god Lassie, are you hurt?" He leans over and pats worriedly at Lassiter's chest. Lassiter bats his hands away in annoyance.

"I'M fine, you're the one who…never mind. Just put on your seatbelt."

Instead of complying, Shawn stares out the car window at a street light. "Wow, wowee, wow," he breathes out, and Lassiter takes a closer look at his flushed cheeks and dilated eyes and feels an unexpected surge of pity.

"Okay," he says gently, and leans across Shawn for the seatbelt to strap him in, and is startled when Shawn responds to his nearness by nuzzling at his throat.

"What the hell are you doing, Spencer?" he yelps, tugging at the seat belt with a little more force than necessary.

"You smell really, really, really, really, really, really, good, Lassie," Shawn sighs. "Wow, I feel kind of weird. Is it hot in here? I'm hot." He starts pulling at the buttons of his shirt restlessly.

"Spencer!" Lassiter barks, alarmed. "Stop that. I'll turn the air conditioner on, okay?"

"Thanks, Lassie. You're the best. The best of the West. The best of the rest. The best dressed. The best on a quest. The best at a test. The best –"

"Stop it!"

"I'm bored. We should do something. Let's go dancing!"

An image of Shawn looking energized and wanton on the dance floor appears behind Lassiter's eyes and he blinks it away irritably.

"No, no dancing."

"Don't be John Lithgow in Footloose, Lassie!"

"We're not going anywhere but to the hospital."

"How about the arcade?"

"No."

"Miniature golf?"

"No."

"The aquarium?"

"No."

"Vegas?"

"No! Oh crap, what the hell is this?" Traffic is at a standstill. Looking ahead, he can see blue lights flashing. He pulls out his phone and calls the station to have the desk sergeant find out what the problem is. While talking on the phone, he watches Spencer, who appears to be drawing patterns in the air with his finger.

After hanging up the phone, he sighs in frustration. "Sergeant Rodinsky says that the officers on the scene report that traffic should be moving again in about ten minutes, so our best option is probably just to wait." He looks over at Shawn, who seems oblivious to everything he has just said and is instead staring intently at the invisible patterns he had drawn in the air.

"Spencer! Don't zone out on me. Look, we'll still be at the hospital soon. Why don't you try and tell me when you started to suspect those two that we arrested back at the club?"

"Mmmm….she kept staring at my watch. And she was wearing the ring that was stolen from the second victim."

"And what about him?"

"He kept staring at my ass."

Lassiter shoots a quick glance over at Shawn, who continues, saying "Gus says that I have a flat ass, Lassie, but I don't think that's true. What do you think?"

"For god's sake Spencer, I don't think about your ass," Lassiter snaps, lying through his teeth.

"But you spend all that time looking at it, you must have an opinion!"

"I do not!" Lassiter yells, then forces himself to take a deep breath because for once, Spencer isn't trying to wind him up on purpose. Probably. He's stoned out of his mind. Valiantly, Lassiter tries to get the conversation back on track.

"So you knew it was them through observation? You didn't have a 'vision'?"

Instead of answering, Shawn reaches down and pulls off his shoes. Lassiter glares at him. "What are you doing?"

"My feet are hot. Lassie! My toes are gone! Where are my toes?" He sounds genuinely frantic, looking around the car as if to locate his missing toes. Lassiter looks down at his feet and tries very, very hard not to laugh.

"Spencer, you're wearing socks. Your toes are still there, I promise. Be glad you won't remember this tomorrow."

"I'll remember," Shawn says earnestly. "I have a really, really, really, really good memory. Ssshhhh," he adds after a pause, putting a finger to his lips and then reaching over and putting the finger against Lassiter's mouth. "It's a secret. Lassie can't know."

Lassiter stares at him. Shawn's finger is warm against his lips. It feels weird, but not in a bad way. He has the ridiculous, obscene desire to open his mouth and suck on it. Like every ridiculous, obscene desire he's ever had about Spencer, he immediately squashes it down and shoves it into a never-to-be-opened closet in his mind.

"What's a secret?" he asks, hardly daring to breathe. The finger against his lips tickles when he speaks, but he's afraid to move away, afraid of shattering Spencer's state of mind. Given the circumstances, nothing Spencer says here would be anything that Lassiter could use to have him banned from the station; he knows Vick would never allow that. But he would love to know whatever it is that Spencer thinks should be kept from him.

"You can't tell Lassie," Shawn says seriously, tapping his finger against Lassiter's lips as he speaks. "Promise."

"I promise," Lassiter says, mentally crossing his fingers.

Spencer looks down, like he's gearing himself up for a big confession. Lassiter's nerves are practically singing with anticipation. Finally, finally, maybe he's going to find out how Spencer does what he does.

"You can't tell," Shawn repeats, "but Lassie has the dreeeaaaaaamiest blue eyes."

Lassiter jerks back, away from the finger still at his lips. Shawn looks up at him, confusion written all over his face, then blinks and smiles.

"Lassie!" he says, sounding delighted. "When did you get here?"

Lassiter scrubs his hand across his face in frustration. "Are you screwing with me, Spencer?"

Shawn's brow furrows like he's thinking through a difficult problem. "Am I? I don't think so. We could, though."

"We could what?" Lassiter asks, hopelessly lost in this conversation.

"Screw," Shawn replies matter-of-factly, and reaches over to place his hand on Lassiter's thigh.

Wide-eyed, Lassiter stares at Shawn. He remembers O'Hara telling him that the drug would cause an increase in sexual desire, but it never really occurred to him that the desire might be aimed at him.

"Spencer," he says, carefully removing Shawn's hand from his thigh, "you're high as a kite right now and not yourself."

"Then who am I?" Shawn asks, puzzled, reaching back over to put his hand back on Lassiter's leg. "Wow, you feel so…alive right now, Lassie. You're so warm and it's like I can feel your essence flowing through me, man."

"Have you lost your mind, Spencer?" Lassiter starts to say, but one look at Spencer's face reminds him that yes, temporarily at least, he has lost his mind, so instead he sternly says "There will be no…flowing essences, or, or, anything else right now."

"But Lassie, I know you want to!" Shawn says desperately. He tries to move closer, but is stymied by the seat belt, which he seems to have forgotten exists.

Lassiter once again removes the hand from his leg. "Stay on your side of the car, Spencer."

Shawn crosses his arms sulkily, then starts to rub his hands up and down his arms and across his chest. "Ooooh, I feel amazing too. It's like…I can't even describe it, Lassie. It's like I can feel my soul."

Lassiter scowls at him. "That's the biggest load of crap I've ever heard. Also," he adds, watching in horror as one of Shawn's hands land on his crotch, "that's not your soul."

Shawn tips his head back and closes his eyes, stroking his hand across the front of his jeans. "…feels sooooo good."

"Spencer, if you don't stop that right now, I'm going to handcuff you!"

"Oh yeah," Shawn says breathlessly. "I've had that fantasy a bunch of times. Do it, Lassie."

Lassiter can feel a warm flush spreading across his skin, and he's honestly not sure if it's embarrassment or arousal or some unholy combination of the two. Frantically, he tries to think of something that will make Spencer listen and behave, when suddenly the answer comes to him.

"Shawn Spencer," he says in his most authoritative Head Detective voice, "if you don't stop that right now, I'm calling your father."

Shawn's hands immediately still. "Duuuude!" he groans in frustration. "That is not cool."

"Desperate times, desperate measures," Lassiter mutters under his breath, adding "Oh, thank god," as traffic finally starts to move.

"Come on Lassie," Shawn begs, "don't be the gum I stepped in last week. Touch me. I know you want to. I've seen the way you look at me."

"I told you before, I do not look at you!"

"Liar, liar, pants on fire," Shawn taunts.

Lassiter rolls his eyes. "Yeah, your second grade insults really wound me, Spencer."

"I know you are, but what am I?" Shawn asks.

"That doesn't even make sense, you nitwit."

"Whatever, Lassie. I know you like to check me out. Why wouldn't you? I am fiiiiine."

"Spencer, if you've ever seen me looking at you, it's because I don't trust you and I want to know what sort of shenanigans you're up to."

Shawn wrinkles his nose. "Shenanigans? Shenanigans, shenanigans, shenanigans…" he drifts off into a mumble, then shakes his head like he's trying to clear it. "What were we talking about?"

"The situation in the Middle East?" Lassiter suggests, in a hopeful attempt to change the subject.

"No," Shawn frowns, "that doesn't sound right. Were we talking about Footloose?"

"Yes! Sarah Jessica Parker was adorable, right?" He probably sounds like an idiot, but if he can get Spencer riffing on 80s pop culture, maybe he'll survive the rest of the trip without having an aneurism.

"She was a cutie," Shawn agrees. "Oh, I know! We should go dancing, Lassie!"

"NO!"

As the hospital finally comes into view, Lassiter feels almost like crying with relief. At last, this ridiculous night is coming to an end.

Parking in front of the emergency room, he says "Okay Spencer, let's go," as he gets out of the car.
Shawn opens his door, but instead of getting out he starts to struggle in his seat.

"I can't move!" he gasps, sounding panicked. Lassiter hurries over to the passenger side and reaches across Shawn again – manfully ignoring Spencer's obvious erection – and releases the seat belt. As soon as he's free, Shawn heaves a giant sigh of relief.

"Come on," Lassiter says, "let's get your blood drawn and find Guster."

"Wait," Shawn grabs at his jacket. "You saved my life! You rescued me!"

"From the seatbelt? No, I didn't. I think you would have survived without me."

"No, you did," Shawn insists. "I was trapped. Wanna give you a reward."

"Reward?" Lassiter starts to ask, but he's cut off by the press of Spencer's lips against his.

Lassiter doesn't know why he's so surprised; the drug had obviously made Spencer's libido overactive, and even when he's completely sober, he has little to no sense of personal boundaries, so it makes sense that when he's drugged out of his gourd, the boundaries disappear all together.

Still. It's a shock to feel that mouth on him, the bold probe of a tongue, Spencer's hands fisting in the material of his jacket to pull him closer. For a moment, Lassiter is too overcome by the sheer want that Spencer's kiss unleashes in him to protest, but then he remembers: drugged. Reluctantly, he pushes Shawn away.

"This is going to be so embarrassing if you remember any of it tomorrow," he mutters, and he doesn't even know which one of them he means it's going to be embarrassing for, as Spencer whines in protest and tries to kiss him again.

"Spencer!" he says firmly. "You do not want to do this. You do not want me. You're only feeling this way because you've been roofied."

Shawn looks up at him, his eyes wide and guileless as he lays a hand flat against Lassiter's chest and shakes his head seriously. "No Lassie, I always feel this way. I…" he trails off and cocks his head to the side.

"Do you hear that?" he asks excitedly. Faintly, Lassiter can hear the sounds of music coming from a nearby car radio. "It's 'Let's Hear it For the Boy!' It's a sign, Lassie! We must dance!"

He does indeed try to start to dance away, but Lassiter grabs the back of his shirt and hauls him into the Emergency Room entrance. "Sorry Dancing Queen, it's time for us to find a doctor."

He drags Spencer inside, ignoring his insistence that it's a crime against nature to not dance when anything from the Footloose soundtrack is playing and that Lassiter is endangering his entire career by stopping Shawn from properly appreciating classic Deniece Williams. Lassiter ignores him, a skill that has never been more useful.

Flashing his badge makes everything move pleasingly fast inside, and before long he and Spencer are in a room with a nurse drawing blood. Spencer is swaying back and forth to the music in his head, but at least he's not groping either the nurse or himself, so Lassiter leaves him alone. He texts Guster their location, then calls the station to check in.

Guster finds them while he's still on the phone, telling Chief Vick about Spencer's condition, carefully leaving out any kissing, groping, nuzzling, or other inappropriate behavior.

"Shawn! Are you okay?"

"Gus!" Shawn opens his eyes and smiles brightly. "There you are! Lassie made me come here, he's being sooo unfair tonight! You look handsome Gus, have I told you lately how hot you are? I had to pee in a cup, and Cecilia here stuck me with a needle and it hurt, but she's really sweet and she's also married, so don't try anything. Do you have any Skittles?"

Gus looks at Lassiter in consternation. "Is he going to be okay?"

"He should be fine. Hopefully, the effects will wear off in the next couple of hours. I need to get to the station and see where O'Hara is in getting this case wrapped up. When he's done here, you should probably take him home and make sure he doesn't hurt himself."

"Okay," Gus says, "is there anything else I should know?"

"He's easily confused right now and even more distractible than usual. Also, he uh…the drug has made him kind of…amorous," Lassiter says awkwardly.

Gus's eyes widen. Shawn frowns and says "Are you two talking about me? That's rude. I'm not ama… amor… whatever Lassie said. Gus, did you notice how blue Lassie's eyes are with that shirt? Aren't they pretty?"

"Please don't answer that," Lassiter says wearily. "I'm leaving now."

As he leaves, he hears Spencer talking again. "Don't go, Lassie! I'll miss you! Gus, are you sure you don't have any Skittles? What about Red Vines? Hey, am I Lori Singer because I have an overbearing father, or am I Kevin Bacon because I'm the cool guy who comes to town and makes all the townies loosen up?"

Hours later, he's finally at home, having questioned and booked the suspects (and also having yelled at them some as revenge for making him endure what he's gone through tonight). He climbs into bed almost immediately after getting home, pausing only to strip down to his boxers, too tired to even bother with pajamas.

When he closes his eyes, he sees Spencer dancing at the club again. The sway of his hips, the gleam of sweat at his throat…no. Lassiter rolls over, willing the images away. He should make a list of the things he needs to do tomorrow. He needs to file the paperwork for a case he finished earlier in the week. Call in the victims from this case and see if any of them remember the duo they've arrested. Pick up his suits from the dry cleaners.

The feel of Spencer's finger against his lips, the warmth of his hand on Lassiter's leg. The sight of him touching himself, his hands stroking across his chest, down to his…NO. Lassiter punches his pillow in frustration. He is not going to think about this anymore. He's going to think unsexy thoughts.

Okay. The First Battle of Bull Run was fought on July 21, 1861. Union Forces were led by Irvin McDowell and Confederate forces by…Shawn had tasted like the fruity cocktail he had been nursing all night. Lassiter had been so shocked by the kiss that even now, hours later, he can hardly believe that it happened, but he can't deny the memory of Shawn's hands gripping his jacket and pulling him closer, the tang of alcohol in his mouth, the warmth of his body pressed up close.

He was drugged, Lassiter reminds himself, trying to apply logic to get rid of his hard-on. It didn't mean anything. He would have kissed anyone. He probably won't even remember that it happened. Wouldn't remember saying that he knew Lassiter watched him, or claiming that he had fantasized about Lassiter and his handcuffs. Jesus. Impossible to know if that was true, or just the product of hormones on overload, Spencer saying anything he could to try and get the touch he was craving. Whatever his reason for saying it, now Lassiter can't get the image of Shawn stretched out beneath him out of his mind's eye.

Groaning in defeat, he reaches down and wraps a hand around his cock, promising himself that this will be quick and that afterwards, he's going to forget everything about this night, just like Spencer will.

Lassiter really does have a lot of work to do the next day, so he's able to push the events of the night before to the back of his mind. It's not until he's driving home from work and sees Spencer's shoes still sitting on the passenger side floorboard of his car that he allows himself to think about it.

He should take Spencer his shoes, check to see how he's feeling. Find out if he remembers anything.

He knocks on the door apprehensively, and after a few agonizingly long minutes Spencer opens it. He's wearing a pair of flannel pajama pants and a t-shirt, and with his bloodshot eyes and pale skin, looks like he's suffering from the world's worst hangover.

"Lassie," he says without enthusiasm, "I didn't expect to see you today."

He turns and walks into the living room, leaving the door open, which Lassiter figures is apparently as much of an invitation as he's going to get.

"Is Guster here with you?"

"He was here this morning. After lunch, he had to go to his other job."

"How are you feeling?"

Shawn laughs mirthlessly. "How do you think? If you're here to yell at me for screwing everything up last night, let me assure you, my dad already has that covered."

Lassiter starts a little at the word "screwing", thinking of the night before, but as he realizes the rest of what Shawn said, he stares at him in bewilderment.

"What are you talking about? You didn't screw up. We caught them."

Shawn throws himself into a chair in front of the TV, and Lassiter perches uncomfortably on the love seat nearby.

"A real cop wouldn't have let himself get roofied like that," he says bitterly, and Lassiter can recognize Henry Spencer's tone, even if he didn't hear the man say the words himself.

"You're not a cop," Lassiter says automatically, then adds "honestly, it happened so fast that I don't know how you could have avoided it without blowing the whole operation. How did Henry even know about it, anyway?"

Shawn waves a hand carelessly. "Oh, he has a network of spies down at the station He knows everything that happens down there before you do. So, if you're not here to yell at me, then why are you here? Not that I'm not always happy to see you, Lass, but you don't usually drop by, and today I feel like Matthew McConaghey is playing the bongos inside my head."

Lassiter hands him the bag he was carrying the shoes in. "I came to bring you these."

Shawn opens the bag and frowns. "Why do you have my shoes?"

"You took them off in my car. Do you not remember anything about last night?"

He shakes his head. "It's all a blur. Actually, since you're here, I was hoping you could fill in some blanks for me."

"Sure," Lassiter says uncertainly, thinking to himself that he can always make something up if he has to.

"I remember talking to the suspects at the bar. Did they slip the drug into my drink?"

"No. You were dancing with them, do you remember that?"

Shawn's forehead scrunches as he thinks. "Not really…wait. She kissed me."

"Right. That's how she administered the drug."

"Oh." Shawn raises his eyebrows, considering this. "Hot."

Lassiter rolls his eyes. "You gave me the signal, we arrested them, and I took you to the hospital to have you looked over and to get a blood sample for evidence. Guster met us at the emergency room and brought you home."

Shawn narrows his eyes, studying Lassiter in a way that makes him feel like a bug under a magnifying glass. "Why do I feel like that's a heavily edited version of the facts?"

Lassiter sighs in annoyance. "You were stoned, Spencer. You tried to dance with the colors in the air. You couldn't figure out how to work the seat belt. You didn't do anything that you would want to remember, so you shouldn't waste your energy trying."

"You're not telling me everything. I can sense it," Shawn says, spinning a finger near his head.

"Oh for god's sake," Lassiter says, "if you're going to pull out the psychic bullshit, then I'm leaving."

He stands to do exactly that, but stops when Shawn says "Gus said that I was, uh, really frisky last night. Like, frisky with a side of horny and a dash of inappropriate. He also said that I kept talking about you. So I just wanted to make sure that I didn't, you know, do anything –-"

Lassiter interrupts him before he can go any further. "Look, Spencer, you annoy me plenty, but I'm not going to hold anything against you that you did while you were drugged. You don't even remember what happened, and personally, I would just as soon forget it all myself. So don't worry about it."

"Okay," Shawn says in a smaller than normal voice. "Thanks for bringing my shoes."

He isn't sure what Spencer's problem is – hasn't he just given him a get out of jail free card, letting him off the hook for anything he had done the night before? Whatever the problem, he's not going to worry about it. He's spent too much time this week thinking about Shawn Spencer.

It's several days later and Lassiter's at his desk typing up reports when he hears O'Hara say "Shawn! How are you feeling?"

"Never better, Jules! Especially since the Chief called and said she had a check for me today. And how's my favorite detective?"

Lassiter looks up to see Spencer smiling winningly at O'Hara, who quirks her lips up slightly as she replies that she's fine. Before he can look away, Spencer has turned towards his desk and spotted him.

"Awww, don't be jealous because I said that Jules is my favorite detective, Lassie! After our special night together, I think of you as more than a detective."

"Special night together?" Juliet asks, amused. "Is there something you haven't told me, Carlton?"

"Don't be ridiculous!" he snaps.

She turns back to Shawn. "Do you even remember anything from the other night, Shawn? None of the other victims did."

"Ah, but none of the other victims are psychic, now are they Jules?"

"Neither are you," Lassiter mutters under his breath, but the other two ignore him.

"While I remember very little, I've gotten some interesting vibes regarding that night," Shawn continues, putting his fingers to his head. "I'm seeing lights, colors, and an illicit kiss."

Juliet raises an eyebrow in interest, but Lassiter just scowls, trying to tamp down the feeling of impending panic. "You're 'seeing' an illicit kiss because I told you that the perp kissed you. Amazing work, Spencer."

Shawn gives him a pitying look. "Oh, Lassie. You're playing so cool. Obeying every rule. But deep way down in your heart, you're burning, yearning -"

"Shawn," Juliet interrupts, while Lassiter looks at him in utter confusion, "Aren't those the lyrics to 'Footloose'?"

"Are they, Jules?" Shawn asks innocently, while Lassiter pales with the realization that Spencer must remember something. "All I know is that my senses have been telling me all day that those words are vitally important somehow."

"Maybe that song was playing at the club that night?" Juliet asks doubtfully.

"I don't know Jules, it's an old song. Not really the cool club music the kids are listening to these days. What do you think, Lassie?"

Lassiter stands up and gathers up the files on his desk. "I think that I have work to do and that it's time for you to leave," he says sharply. "I'm going to go file these, and when I come back, I want you gone."

He doesn't stick around to see the expressions on Spencer or O'Hara's faces, just stalks off to the file room and slams the door behind him, dropping the files on top of a cabinet and sagging against it as he tries to think. Whatever he might remember, Spencer hasn't got anything to gain by telling anyone else; he had been the one flirting and touching and kissing, not Lassiter.

His introspection is interrupted by the sound of the door behind him opening and closing, followed by the unmistakable click of the lock. He turns to see Spencer leaning against the door watching him.

"Spencer, what are you still doing here? Didn't I tell you to leave?"

"Yeah, I always do what you tell me," Shawn says agreeably. "You know, you had me worried when you came by my place the other day."

Lassiter frowns at him in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

Shawn shrugs and inches a little closer. Lassiter resolves not to move away, because he's not going to be intimidated by a mouthy conman.

"You were all 'I want to forget that night ever happened', and 'I find you repulsive, Spencer'," Shawn says, deepening his voice in a terrible imitation of Lassiter's.

"I never said that!" Lassiter protests, then hastily adds, "but it's true. Repulsive."

"I was feeling hung over and a little sorry for myself, so I was off my game," Shawn continues, as if Lassiter hadn't interrupted him, as he edges closer still. "But then, last night I was listening to my Dance Hits of the '80s CD – which is awesome, by the way – and I remembered something. We kissed."

"No! You kissed me," Lassiter says furiously. "That drug was some kind of aphrodisiac, and I don't even know why you're bringing it up, Spencer! I told you that I wasn't going to hold anything you did that night against you."

"What if I want you to?" Shawn asks, and somehow he's moved far too close. "And by the way, while maybe it's true that I kissed you, I seem to remember you kissing me back."

"How do you know what you remember? You were smashed."

Shawn nods in agreement. "You're right, I was. Which is why I was thinking that I would attempt a little experiment."

"What kind of experiment?" Lassiter asks warily, realizing as he does that Shawn has him backed up against a filing cabinet.

Shawn lays a hand on Lassiter's shoulder and says earnestly, "I'm going to kiss you, and we'll see what happens from there."

"Don't," Lassiter says, panic rising up in him like birds taking flight. "Spencer, don't."

"You know you can stop me," Shawn says softly, "but I think you're just as curious as I am."

Lassiter opens his mouth to deny it, only to feel Shawn's lips light on his in the most delicate kiss imaginable. He should shove Spencer away, say something, stop this, but instead he finds that he can't pull away from the soft, teasing brush of Shawn's lips against his. When he feels the tantalizing flicker of Shawn's tongue against his mouth, he can't hold back any longer, reaching up to cup the back of Shawn's head and pull him closer. Shawn moans in approval at the deepening of the kiss, clutching at Lassiter's shoulders as Lassiter slips a hand underneath the hem of Shawn's shirt to touch warm, soft skin.

Juliet's voice is like a bucket of cold water. "Carlton? Are you in there?"

Lassiter pushes Shawn away hastily as the doorknob rattles, but doesn't say anything, hoping O'Hara will give up and leave. After a few minutes she does, her heels clicking down the hallway.

"I have to go back to work," he says awkwardly, trying not to look at Spencer, because oh god, he's never going to live this down.

"Wait," Shawn says, touching Lassiter's chest with one hand while putting the other dramatically against the side of his head. "I'm having a vision!"

"Spencer…" he says tiredly, but Shawn keeps talking like he hasn't been interrupted.

"I see you coming to my place tonight, around 8:00 maybe? And you get lucky. Very, very, lucky."

Lassiter hesitates before replying, finally looking at Shawn, at his touseled hair and swollen lips and the uncommonly anxious expression behind his eyes. He looks, for once, almost vulnerable.

Lassiter would really, really like to kiss him again.

He's waited too long though, because Shawn is starting to back away, looking embarrassed. "Um, look, don't worry about it. I'll get out of here. Later, man."

He's almost made it to the door before Lassiter regains the power of speech. "Spencer," he says again. "Wait."

Shawn turns to look at him, his arms crossed over his chest like he's anticipating getting yelled at.

Lassiter clears his throat nervously. "In this vision of yours, do I bring dinner with me?"

Shawn's face lights up as he grins. "I'm sensing the presence of Kung Pao Chicken. If there are extra egg rolls, your luck will be damn near mind-blowing."

"Well," Lassiter says, feeling a curious fluttering in his stomach, "I'll keep that in mind. I should…" he gestures at the door wordlessly.

"Yeah," Shawn unlocks the door and moves aside so that Lassiter can leave. As he walks down the hall in search of O'Hara, he realizes that he's humming a certain Kenny Loggins song, and he wonders where he can find a copy of Footloose to bring to Shawn tonight.

The End.