Title: Murder by Something Something
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Shawn/Lassiter
Summary: When Lassiter gets invited to a mysterious weekend retreat, Shawn suspects trouble and follows along.
Author's Note: Starts less than a week after the events of "Earth, Wind, and…Wait for it…". Title inspired by the very silly 1976 movie Murder by Death. On a different topic, let me add that since this site doesn't provide a very good format for replying to reviews, particularly Guest reviews, I would just like to take this opportunity to thank everyone who has commented on my previous fics. You guys are seriously the best.
The invitation came at an auspicious time, just as Lassiter was considering that he might need an actual vacation. He had thought after the situation with Drimmer that he was fine to go back to work immediately, particularly since there was nothing more pleasurable to him than arresting scumbags, but in the few weeks since then he had been forced to admit that he was off his game. That had become particularly apparent after the murder/arson case (he swiftly dismissed the word "furder" from his brain, no matter how concise it was). It wasn't just that Spencer had beaten him to the punch in figuring out the case – that had become increasingly, depressingly normal over the past few years – it was his own reactions to certain event.
He thought he had hidden it well at the scene; truthfully, everything had happened so fast that he barely had time to react at all, but seeing Guster's little blue car outside of that building, and then watching the explosion come from inside, knowing that Spencer and Guster were in there, had shaken him much more than he had let on at the time. It really wasn't until he was at home later that night, pouring himself a drink and loosening his tie, that his knees had felt suddenly wobbly and he had dropped into a chair thinking, oh god, he – they – could have died.
And that just wasn't right.
He wasn't supposed to worry over those two half-wits. They got themselves into danger on a nearly weekly basis, and if he started to lose it every time one of them ended up in a life or death situation, then he was going to be in real trouble. He didn't even LIKE them, so why seeing them emerge unscathed from a burning building should have sent such relief through him, he didn't know. Maybe it was just that he had gotten used to them. Yes, it was simply that he was accustomed to their presence, that they were, on occasion, even useful. Helpful.
Whatever the reason, he needed to squash it, because spending even a minute of concern over those two nincompoops was a waste of his valuable time. Even if Spencer had shown complete faith in him during the Drimmer incident and gotten kidnapped and pistol-whipped for his trouble. Lassiter had rescued him in the end, after all, so they were square.
The invitation had arrived via the mail at the police station, in an elegant, cream-colored envelope that stood out in the stack of paperwork on his desk. When he opened it, he found a note typed out on heavy cardstock, inviting him to a prestigious meeting of the finest minds in California law enforcement being held that weekend at a hotel a few hours up the coast.
It was a perfect opportunity to get away for a couple of days and clear his mind, and it wouldn't be a waste of time because he would be mingling with other investigators. Chief Vick granted him the time off without hesitation; she had wanted him to take more time after Drimmer anyway, so she was pleased to hear that he was going out of town for the weekend.
When he came out of the Chief's office, he was instantly irritated to see Spencer leaning against his desk, reading the invitation that he had stupidly left out in the open, where any nosy fake psychic might see it.
"This is a classy looking invite, Lassie!" Spencer said by way of greeting. "Are you going?"
Lassiter snatched the card out of his hand. "Not that it's any of your business, but yes."
"It's kind of weird, isn't it, that you only received it a few days before the event is scheduled? A lot of people might need more notice than that to schedule the time off."
Privately, Lassiter had thought that was a bit odd himself, but coming from Spencer, he ignored the question. "I have plenty of vacation days, and O'Hara and I don't have any outstanding cases, so it's not a problem. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some paperwork to finish."
There. That was, if not friendly, at least a polite and professional dismissal. Most people would have taken the hint and left, but as he liked to prove over and over again, Spencer was not most people. Instead of leaving, he leaned into Lassiter's personal space to pick the envelope the invitation had come in up off of his desk and examine it.
He smelled good, like a combination of expensive hair care products and baked goods. Lassiter had noticed this a while ago, and now he couldn't seem to stop noticing it. As usual, he was dressed in a rumpled button down shirt and faded jeans, and he looked, Lassiter thought unkindly, like an unmade bed. Yes, a traitorous part of his brain chimed in, a warm, inviting, unmade bed, the kind you might get up to all sorts of things in.
He shut that thought down immediately. He really, really needed a vacation.
"Lassie," Spencer proclaimed, holding his fingers to his head in that obnoxious way that had Lassiter longing to shake him, "I'm sensing that going on this trip would be a mistake. I'm getting bad vibes from this invitation."
"Fortunately," Lassiter said snidely, "I don't give a crap about your phony predictions. Now, go away Spencer. The grown-ups have to work." So much for the polite and professional dismissal. He had tried, after all.
"Mark my words," Spencer said dramatically, pointing a finger at him, "you'll regret not listening to me. Huh, what does that even mean, mark my words? Are you supposed to like, write them down? That would be good Lassie. Write this down: You, Carlton 'Lassie' Lassitarous will regret not listening to me, Shawn 'The Psychic Phenomenon' Spencer. Be sure to date and sign it. Maybe get it notarized."
"Get. Out."
"Mark 'em!" Shawn said again, wagging his finger at Lassiter before turning and leaving.
An hour later Shawn was in the Psych office bent over his laptop, researching the name of the organization that had sent Lassiter the invitation when Gus came in.
"Did you have fun at your boring job for boring people today?" Shawn asked, as Gus sat down at his desk.
"Yes Shawn, I did. I picked up a new doctor on my route and got the number of the pretty physical therapist who works in Dr. Grossman's office."
Shawn looked at him in disbelief. "Seriously? A doctor named Dr. Grossman? That can't be real."
Gus nodded towards Shawn's computer. "What are you doing? Working on your A-Team fanfiction?"
"You wish. You know you're dying to find out what happens next. No, I'm trying to save Lassiter from himself again."
"What's going on with Lassiter?"
"He got an invitation from an organization that doesn't appear to exist to some sort of elite cop getaway. Of course, he wouldn't listen to me when I told him that he shouldn't go, so we're going to follow him this weekend and keep him out of trouble."
Gus sat down at his desk before speaking, opening up his laptop and making a show of not looking at Shawn. "Um, I'm not spending my weekend following Lassiter, Shawn. I'm going to San Francisco."
"What?" Shawn looked up at him, startled. "When did this happen?"
"Joy called me a few weeks ago and asked if I wanted to meet her there for a weekend."
Shawn spun around in his desk chair, gathering his thoughts. "So many things to unpack here, buddy. First of all, you're spending a weekend in one of the most romantic cities in the world with your sister? Weird."
"It's not weird, Shawn! I never get to see Joy without our parents around, and she's going to be there on business. We're going to visit Fisherman's Wharf and ride the streetcars."
"Second point," Shawn continued, as if he hadn't been interrupted, "Why didn't you invite me to come along? I love San Francisco! The seafood and the hills and the atmospheric fog and the seafood."
"Gee Shawn, I don't know. Why didn't I invite you to spend the weekend in a romantic location with my sister, whom you SLEPT with? Good question."
"I thought you were over that! You're still so mad that you just ended a sentence with a preposition."
"Most modern day grammarians agree that it's not improper to end a sentence with a preposition. And I'll never be over it, Shawn! You defiled my sister!"
"I didn't defile her," Shawn said, aghast. "It was very respectful boot-knocking."
Gus put his hands over his ears. "I don't want to hear anymore! The point, Shawn, is that you are not invited to go to San Francisco with me and Joy, because I don't want to have to watch the two of you make googly eyes at each other all weekend."
"I've never made googly eyes at anyone in my life! I play it cool, man. You know that."
Gus looked back down at his laptop with studied concentration. "Sometimes I think you're making googly eyes at Lassiter," he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Shawn to hear him.
Shawn stared at him in disbelief. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Didn't we just help Lassiter a few weeks ago? And in return all we got was a coupon?"
"It was TWO coupons, and the Chief paid us for our work on that case!"
"Yeah, I know she did, but Lassiter could barely bring himself to thank us."
"Lassie just has a hard time showing affection. He doesn't like anyone to see behind that gruff exterior, but deep down he's got a gooey marshmallow center."
Gus looked at him doubtfully. "He keeps it well-hidden. What I'm trying to say is that Lassiter doesn't want your help, and he probably doesn't need it either. He's a grown man. A very well-armed grown man, at that. If this invitation does turn out to be something weird or dangerous, he can take care of himself."
"Can he? If it weren't for us, Gus, he might be in prison right now thanks to Drimmer. He needs someone to watch out for him."
"Yeah, I'm still only 85% certain he didn't kill that guy, but either way, I don't think he needs your help."
"He didn't kill that guy. I solved that case, remember? I'm the one who got a concussion, if anyone should be forgetting things, it should be me! Come on Gus, what's your problem with Lassie?"
"He's mean, Shawn! No matter how many cases you solve or how many times you help him, he's still always an asshole to you. I don't understand why you like him."
"I don't like him," Shawn scoffed, "but I get him. He's got his macho loner Clint Eastwood thing going on, and he doesn't want to let anyone see past that. I'm wearing him down though Gus, I can tell."
"The question is, why do you want to wear him down?"
Shawn shrugged. "You know how I like a challenge."
"No you don't. Just yesterday I watched you throw away a new jar of pickles because you couldn't get the lid off."
"That jar was clearly defective, Gus. And anyway, I didn't mean a physical challenge, I meant an intellectual one, which is what breaking down the walls of the mighty detective is."
Gus shook his head. "I don't get it. This is what comes of having too much time on your hands, Shawn. You need a girlfriend."
"Oh, is that a debate you really want to get into with me, Burton Guster? When was the last time a girl lasted past one date with you?"
Gus thumbed his nose in that way that made him look adorably dorky, not cool, in Shawn's opinion, and grinned. "I'm a player, Shawn. You can't tie a player down."
"Whatever, dude. I'm hungry, let's go get some tacos."