It's after nine by the time he's willing to go, and he's pissed off again that O'Hara won't tell him anything about her interview with the car thief, even though he knows that if she does, he probably won't be home until after midnight. He tries to wake Spencer by calling his name, but as that results only in some muttering about Thundercats, he becomes supremely annoyed and shakes him almost right out of the chair.

"Whoa, waves," Spencer says, throwing his arms out as he sits up.

Lassiter steps back. "You're not at sea, genius. Come on."

"Oh, you're finally done? Thank you, Santa Claus, I thought we were moving in here. The sleeping arrangements leave something to be desired, I gotta say."

"Want to sleep downstairs?"

Spencer shoves his hands into his pockets. "Nope. Ready to follow you home. Your mom says you can keep me—I'm completely housebroken, I swear."

"You better be," Lassiter grumbles, picking up his briefcase and heading for the door.

Spencer settles in the front seat of the car, now wide awake as they leave the station. "Can we stop at my place so I can get some stuff?" he asks.

Lassiter glances at him, annoyed. "What do you need now?"

Spencer spreads his hands. "If it's a problem, nothing. Won't be the first time my kit gets the forty-eight hour treatment. I figured on my toothbrush and maybe my iPod or something, though, unless you had your heart set on staying up late giggling and gossiping. I'll start: My stars, Lassie, did you see that cute new front desk officer? She's clearly been married for at least five years, but she's totally got the hots for the chief. Hang on, we'd better stop at my place after all—I need some pearls to clutch."

"Fine. Can't you ever just talk like a normal human being?"

"I tried, once, but it gave me the Hershey squirts." Spencer grins. "Calm down, buddy, I'm just making conversation. I know you weren't planning on company tonight, and I'm sorry to put you out, really. I promise to be a good little mousie—you won't even hear me squeak while you're going sleepy-bye." He pauses, considering Lassiter's stony face, and relents. "Which meeeeeeeans, I know you're super pissed at me, and I really am grateful you're not making me stay in jail—even though I was helping get solid evidence for that case—so I'll shut up and leave you alone if you want."

"You do that."

"Okay," he agrees, and turns to gaze out of the window. Lassiter is thankful for the the break in his inane chatter at once, but before long he finds himself glancing over at his passenger dubiously before they make it to the crappy apartment that Spencer calls home.

When the car is parked and turned off, Spencer unlatches his seat belt and raises his eyebrows. "What?" Lassiter says, trying not to make it what now.

"Do you need to come in with me, or can I just go grab some things?"

"Why, have you got a giraffe cocaine ring in there, or something?"

Spencer snorts. "Dude, if only. I'm afraid the most interesting thing I have right now is probably the broken Slushie machine. I was trying to get it to make a peanut butter one, but it got gummed up. I'm not saying you can't come with me, I just figured you wouldn't want to if you didn't have to."

"I don't," Lassiter says after a moment. "You have ten minutes."

"Are we on a schedule?"

"Yes, Spencer. If I'm not home in half an hour I'm going to start shooting things, and look how close you are. Not that you need to be—I'm an excellent marksman."

Spencer ticks a finger off his forehead in a salute. "Back in five."

Lassiter leans his head back onto the seat's neck support and sighs heavily, not looking forward to the rest of the night. Not only does he more than anything just want a few drinks and an hour or so of the history channel, but there's something nagging at him, something that he's sure he'd be able to figure out if he weren't so tired. Something about Spencer. The way he's acting? No, he seems mostly like his usual annoying self, if slightly less so without Guster's presence and his professed gratitude at getting to sleep on a couch instead of a cot. Something he said? No, he's always saying asinine things that don't make sense. Except...

The door opens again and Lassiter jerks upright as Spencer plops back into his seat, a backpack between his feet. "Four minutes and forty-three seconds," he says. "Remember that: I get seventeen extra seconds to run if you get mad at me later."

"I never agreed to that." Lassiter starts the car and points it toward his house. "You really think that'll make a difference?"

Spencer shrugs. "A few seconds can be all the time in the world."

"Yeah, I'll tell your next girlfriend to remember that."

Spencer looks startled, and Lassiter has a few seconds to savor that look, before he cracks a huge grin. "That was good!" he says. "I'm so proud of you, holding your own and actually bantering. See, it's not so horribly, awfully bad to talk to people sometimes."

"You're not 'people'."

Spencer scoffs, but Lassiter is suddenly sure that one hit closer to home than it really needed to. He could apologize, but he's one thousand percent sure Spencer would just make him regret it in less than five minutes.

"Rude," he says. "I'm going to have Gus make you conversation cards and quiz you on the rules. It's not nice to Lassie all over the place after someone compliments you."

"Did you just turn my name into a verb?"

"There's no way to be sure. What's a verb?"

"... never mind." Lassiter rolls his eyes for what feels like the eighty-seventh time today and they fall into silence for several minutes. When he starts to see more sidewalk food vendors and cafes under the mellow glow of lights, he remembers the stolen M&Ms and consequent gripes about how unfulfilling they were. "What is it you want, Spencer?"

"Huh?" Spencer glances over at him, squinting slightly.

"Food. You said you were hungry." Lassiter stops at a red light and passes a hand quickly over his tired eyes again. "There isn't really anything at my place."

"Oh. Uh, right over there's good, I could go for a corn dog and a smoothie."

"Fine." When the light changes, he pulls the car into a slanted space and puts it into park. "Hurry up, you're not supposed to be out of my sight and I don't feel like coming along. But I swear to Lady Justice's garter belt, if you so much as wander off when I'm literally responsible for you—"

Spencer looks amused for a second, then his face changes. "Oh, shit. Ah... never mind."

"What?"

"There must be something in your kitchen I can steal. I know you're going for that natural lanky beanpole look, but surely you can't live off coffee and sugar when you're at home."

"What are you talking about?" Lassiter scowls at him. "No, there is literally almost nothing in my house because I'm hardly there anymore. I just eat in the car or at my desk, when I even get a chance to eat. Do you want to get something or not?"

"You took my wallet," Spencer reminds him. "'Evidence.' No tengo dinero. I could probably get someone to give me something for free, what with my good looks and charm, but that's not usually instantaneous. Then, I could steal something—"

"For crying out..." Lassiter digs for his wallet, locates a ten, and holds it out. Spencer hesitates, and Lassiter drops it into his lap. "Just hurry up."

"If you're sure..."

"You're okay with stealing candy directly from my desk—directly from under my nose, I might add—and you're okay with taking cupcakes from O'Hara's desk and leaving notes about them going to join 'the mother pound cake', but you're too good to take cash?" Lassiter is almost at the end of his rope; it's fraying, and he's trying to keep his cool, but for some reason the kid continuing to just sit there, looking at him, is pissing him off. "Just shut up and get your goddamn smoothie or we're leaving."

"But then there'll be a rumbly in my tumbly."

Lassiter snatches the bill from where it still sits on Spencer's faded jeans, accidentally grabbing a fold of denim along with the cash and yanking before releasing. He puts the car in reverse, turning to look over his shoulder.

"Jiminy Willikers, Lassie, you don't have to pants me." Spencer's tone is amused, but his face seems to be more watchful than he normally lets on. "If you're sure you don't mind, I'll pay you back."

Lassiter puts the car back into park and proffers the ten-spot again. "Sorry," he mutters. "Fucked up day."

"It's cool. Thanks." This time Spencer takes the ten bucks and exits, shoving his hands into his pockets as he walks up the sidewalk. Lassiter leans forward and parks his forehead on the steering wheel, telling himself he doesn't feel bad for almost biting Spencer's head off for barely anything. The tips of his fingers also do not feel at all strange for having grabbed for his money back with a little too much vehemence, or for touching Spencer's thigh. His head feels heavy and he's almost dozing ten minutes later when Spencer comes back, sliding into his seat with a foam cup in one hand and a pretzel the size of his head in the other.

"What the hell? You can't possibly eat all of that." Lassiter is almost shocked by the hail-sized globs of salt.

"Don't force your beliefs on me, Lassie." Keeping in theme with his normal Spencer-self, he takes a ginormous bite of one side.

Lassiter winces as he hears crunching, knowing that much salt would make him want to vomit, but hey, it's not his arteries. "What happened to your corn dog?"

"They weren't coated all the way and looked circumcised." Spencer shrugs and sips his drink. "To each his own, but they looked seriously weird with a cornmeal turtleneck, and I'm not at a place in my life right now where I can handle that."

Lassiter stares at him a moment, then abruptly decides this long, strange day needs to come to an end, and fast. They go the rest of the way to his house without speaking and in near silence; Lassiter's headache has forced him to switch off the radio the second they left the department, so the only sounds are the traffic and Spencer's munching, then the staccato slurping of his straw. He finishes the last of the smoothie as they enter Lassiter's dark kitchen, then crumples the paper sleeve from his pretzel, tucks it into the empty cup, and makes a perfect shot into the trash bin next to the counter.

"Mmm, that hit the spot, thanks a million. You can totally read my fanfiction if you want," he offers as he perches on a stool.

"No thank you." Lassiter eases off his jacket and carefully lays it on the table, then considers the cupboard where he keeps moderately good scotch. Speaking of hitting the spot... He opens another cupboard for a rocks glass, and then hesitates. He glances over his shoulder and finds Spencer watching him, no surprise. "Do you like scotch?" he asks, thinking for some reason that he's asked him this before, but can't remember where or when. Or why, of all questions.

Spencer's eyebrows go up just a little, and he seems to consider. "Don't know," he says finally. "I've only tried it once or twice. I usually go for vodka or gin."

"I don't have either of those. Do you want a drink or not?"

"Sure."

Lassiter pours both of them a knock, then shrugs to himself and makes them doubles. What the hell, the day is almost over, and good riddance. He slides Spencer's glass towards him and downs half of his own right off, then leans against the counter next to the range and pokes at the mail he's brought in, hoping to see something interesting. Of course not. He looks over at the center island and sees Spencer studying his drink, head tilted slightly to one side. He takes a small sip, licks his lips, and stares into the glass some more.

Lassiter usually likes his peace and quiet, but right now it feels strange, much too quiet with the human chatterbox being still for once. "Well? What do you think?" he asks finally.

Spencer tastes his drink again, rolling it around in his mouth before his eyes finally flick over. "I think lots of things," he says lightly.

"I just bet. What do you think about the scotch?"

He gulps the rest in one swig, winces a little, and then holds up his empty glass. "I like it. Any more?"

Lassiter shrugs and motions to the cupboard. "It's right there, help yourself."

"Cool." Spencer gets up and adds more to his glass, then holds up the bottle questioningly. Lassiter looks at his nearly empty glass and holds it out with barely a consideration. Spencer plucks it from his hand and pours him another double before returning the bottle to the cupboard and getting back on his stool.

Lassiter notices that his leg is bouncing up and down on one of the rungs. "You're probably not ready to go to sleep, are you?" he asks, without much hope.

"Probably not for a while," he agrees, "since I already slept some at the station."

Before he knows he's going to say anything, Lassiter asks, "Do you always talk in your sleep?"

Spencer looks over at him quickly, then shrugs. "I dunno, I'm not usually listening. Why, what'd I say?"

"...nothing."

"That sounds about right—most of the time I'm talking when I'm awake I'm saying nothing."

"I noticed."

Lassiter realizes that he doesn't like that that Spencer is so quiet. It's entirely unlike him, as well as him sitting calmly and sipping his drink, staring off into space. It's pissing him off, actually, even more so than his normal behavior—at least that he knows how to handle. He doesn't like feeling put off-center, especially by someone whose number he'd thought he'd had down completely. "Why are you doing that?" he demands suddenly.

Spencer looks up from he scotch he'd been slowly swirling around. "What? I'm not doing anything. I'm just sitting here, being quiet."

"Exactly," Lassiter says, annoyed.

"So... that's what you asked me to do?"

"And now you're doing what I tell you?"

"...yes?"

He doesn't want to say, 'well, stop it', because it is what he's been saying he's wanted all day, but for some reason it's still putting his back up. "It's irritating."

"I'm irritating you by trying to not irritate you," Spencer says slowly. He raises one hand, palm up. "I don't really know what to do with that. Do you come with a handbook?"

Lassiter gives him a look. "Why don't you blow me, Spencer."

Silence. Spencer squints at him, just slightly, his entire body still.

"All out of smart ass comments, huh?" Lassiter asks after a moment. He would have expected just about anything except the studious look he's currently getting.

"Yeah," Spencer says softly. "Weird, huh?"

The quiet seems to build, because it's not just quiet; there's clearly something in it, but what?

"What would you do if I did?" Spencer asks, tilting his head.

Lassiter realizes there's some sort of game going on here and it's his turn, but he's hesitant to move before he's sure what sort of game it is, exactly. He could refuse to play, but he's never liked someone trying to psych him out before he can even ascertain the situation. Spencer is clearly playing with him, so maybe he'll compete. "Are you really asking that?"

"Are you?"

Well... now what? He's more than a little uncomfortable, and even more at a loss than he was five minutes ago. What the hell. What the hell is Spencer trying to pull? "So you don't know everything, huh? What, did the spirit world finally abandon you?"

Spencer lifts his shoulders a couple of inches and lets them drop. "I'm asking you, not them." His voice is quiet and measured, and Lassiter watches his eyes deliberately drop down his front, where the source of his discomfort is immediately obvious. "You keep a holster down there, too? Because it looks like there's maybe a gun in your pocket. Or..." he lets the world trail off, his gaze coming back up and holding eye contact.

Lassiter presses his lips together, one hand gripping his glass too hard. "Don't flatter yourself," he snaps, turning his body away slightly. "If you must know, it's been a while since I've been with anyone. And it's been a long day! Excuse me if the—if the topic raises certain memories," he adds, realizing that he sounds much too defensive. He still doesn't know what the game is, and it's getting weird, so perhaps to immediately concede is the best bet after all. He hesitates, willing himself to tear his eyes away from Spencer's face and to try to remember civil war generals. "Look, I'm sorry I said that," he says slowly.

Spencer raises his eyebrows. "Are you?"

"Yes," he says firmly. Spencer continues to just sit and watch him, so he tosses back the rest of his drink. "It's been a long day for you too."

Silence again. Lassiter is just about to suggest he show Spencer where he'll be sleeping when he speaks up again, his voice low and musing.

"Maybe I would."

Would what? Oh. What? Lassiter can only gape. Chicken, he decides after another moment. The game is Chicken. It has to be. "Really," he says dryly.

It must be the lighting that makes Spencer's eyes appear darker and his pupils dilated. He doesn't seem to be breathing, but then the corners of his mouth turn up a little. "Sure," he says.

If this is Chicken, it's dangerous, because he can't really mean it—and it's probably more dangerous if he does.

"Okay," Lassiter says finally, a note of challenge in his voice. "Then do it." Spencer doesn't move, and he can't help his triumphant smirk, though it's just a little one. "Shy?" he goads.

"Are you going to shoot me?" Spencer asks softly.

Lassiter suddenly realizes that the intensity of Spencer's gaze, the stillness of his eyes, and the lack of wiseass grin on his face all point toward sincerity, not game-playing. This effectively slaps any sort of amusement from him, and he's back to wary and more than slightly confused. "Do you honestly think that I ever would?" he asks.

The tip of Spencer's tongue darts out quickly, and then his top front teeth pull at his lower lip. "Guess not."

Lassiter finally drags his eyes away, staring down into the few drops of scotch left in his glass. "Well, good," he says gruffly. "I won't." Pause. "Besides, you still have an extra seventeen seconds."

"True. I earned them."

More silence. Lassiter looks up, his face asking a question he can't bring himself to vocalize.

"I'm just trying to figure out how serious you are," Spencer explains. He glances down again, and Lassiter can feel his ears warming at the realization of how incredibly hard he is. "Looks like very."

He tries to clear his throat, but only manages a croak. He tries again and makes it. "Spencer, I... I didn't mean you have to—to—you don't—"

"I know. Maybe I feel like it." He pauses, considering. "Maybe you do too."

Lassiter has nothing in the entire world to say to this. Spencer stays where he is for another moment, and then he finally moves, setting his glass down on the counter and getting to his feet. Lassiter thinks he's going to leave, to go into the living room or something, but instead he takes one step towards him, two steps, three steps and sinks down to his knees. Lassiter tries to back up, but the edge of the counter stops him and he just looks down helplessly. His heart has started taking crazy jumps and leaps and he's having a hard time breathing, especially when Spencer raises his hands, his fingers hovering just above the belt buckle.

"Don't kill me," he breathes.

It's like watching a movie, a surreal alternate reality where Shawn Spencer undoes his fly and tentatively grips his dick through his shorts. He's still looking up when he slips his fingers into the waistband and pulls them down, wrapping his fingers around the cock and squeezing gently, testing. His eyes are solemn as he parts his lips again and licks them, taking in a slow breath. Lassiter doesn't move, he can't move, he doesn't dare. Spencer blinks and focuses his attention to his eye level, his quick eyes taking in everything. His left hand rests on Lassiter's thigh and his right hand curls loosely around his dick, and he can feel him move his fingers just a little, and then back and forth, stroking. There's a breath caught in his chest that can't get out, and he grips the edge of the counter he's leaning against when Spencer's head dips forward and he licks him, tasting him.

"Breathe, Lassie," Spencer mumbles, and then makes the instruction worthless by swallowing almost all of his cock.

The air finally comes out in a harsh whoosh. He wants to stop this—his heart is going too hard and it's happening too quickly and too suddenly, how did they even get here, how can Spencer really be on his knees in front of him, sucking his dick?—but he can't, and he feels like he might pass out if he tries. He's looking right at it and can't credit his eyes, or the way he's shaking, or the soft, slippery feel of Spencer's tongue as he sucks him up and down. He wasn't lying when he'd said it'd been a while, but his brain seems to have short-circuited and he honestly can't remember a blowjob ever feeling so good. He still should stop this, or do anything, but then Spencer's fingers tighten on his leg, and he's making little hungry noises as his head goes back and forth, and Lassiter just breathes, panting, thankful he's still holding on. Spencer slows his pace almost excruciatingly and looks up as he continues, his lips tight as his tongue caresses, still tasting. His eyes are so deep and clear, and Lassiter can feel his thoughts breaking up and dissolving as he stares down at them, what feels like the biggest orgasm of his life looming.

An instant before he can propel over the edge, the suction is broken and Spencer releases him, breathing a little hard and licking his lips. Lassiter lets his breath out harshly again, both hands shaking on the counter and his legs trembling. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, to thank him maybe, or to stop this any way he can, even if it requires shouting and being an asshole, but there's not enough air for that, or anything else, only for holding on.

"Is this all you want?" Spencer asks softly. He seems to read the unbroken series of question marks in Lassiter's head, and grins a little. "Because that's fine if it is. You..." He lets out a breath that's partly a small laugh. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this for you, and I aim to finish what I started either way. But you know what I mean."

No. No, he can't possibly mean... "I... I don't know what you..."

"Yes you do." His voice is barely more than a whisper now. "I'm thinking you've wanted this for a while too." He squeezes Lassiter's dick again. "And I don't even need the spirits to tell me that. Lassie... I'm asking you if you want to fuck me."

Lassiter can't help it when his mouth drops open and his breath stops again.

"'Cause I've got to say," Spencer continues, "I really wouldn't mind that. In fact..." He licks his lips again. "I kind of wish you would. Don't try telling me you haven't ever wanted to stick it to me real good."

Spencer, Lassiter tries to say, but he can't push the name out, so he tries something else. "Shawn..." He's glad that his voice is only slightly shaky. Spencer's eyes widen at the use of his first name, and he licks his lips again. "I—I wasn't serious," Lassiter pleads.

There's another long pause. "Kay," Spencer says at last. "Don't mind me if I think you're a lying liar who's lying. Anyway, you're serious now, and so am I." His hand twitches, and so does Lassiter's dick, still throbbing in time to his heartbeat. "So? What do you say? Want to fuck me?"

There's simply no accounting for how they got here, and he tries one last thing, at the very end of his will, to establish some control, because he feels like he's hanging from the edge of the world by his fingernails. He can climb back up, but it's going to hurt, and maybe one free-fall—one—won't be the end of everything. Wondering what he might soon be causing to flicker in those knowing eyes... that might be, but...

"Yes," he says quietly. "I do. But," he goes on quickly as Spencer grins, "on one condition. You—we have to understand something first."

Spencer's look is now a little suspicious, and Lassiter wishes he'd simply shut up after agreeing. But this is for the best, if this is going to happen. "Sure. What?"

"This... this whatever," Lassiter says, gesturing between them weakly, "is just for tonight. You—" He pauses, knowing the phrase isn't an exact fit, but not having time to dwell on a better one. "You get your itch scratched, and tomorrow you go back to being the most annoying little twerp I've ever met, so I know what the hell is going on and how to handle you."

"Harsh."

"Maybe," Lassiter says quietly. "I'm sorry. But it's necessary. Or." He swallows, not wanting this anymore, but needing to say it. "Or you have to stop, and we don't go any further. I—I'm grateful, Spencer, but—you—"

Spencer smiles. "Chill, Lassie, it's a deal. We'll spit-shake on it later. But I'm not done here yet." Before Lassiter can say or do anything else, his lips part again and Lassiter's dick, which has slowly been wilting due to lack of attention, is engulfed once more. He can't help but moan, and Spencer sucks him harder, encouraged and eager. It's good, so good he almost lets himself slip into the fall right away, but he manages to let go of the counter with one hand and cup Spencer's cheek, slowing him.

"If you don't stop now, I'm going to be finished before we can get started."

Spencer's eyelids flutter closed for a moment, and Lassiter needlessly files away the information that he likes being held like this. "Okay," he agrees, leaning back. "Bedroom?"

"Yes." Lassiter lets go of his face and holds his hand open to help him up. Spencer bounces to his feet and quickly diverts to his backpack, turning around a second later with a couple of things in his hands. Lassiter isn't sure whether to be exasperated or amused, but as it turns out, he's both. "Have to stop at your place," he says. "To get a few things."

Spencer shrugs nonchalantly and begins to juggle two small packets of condoms and a tube of lube. "To be fair, I was hopeful, but these were already packed for any occasion. I was a Boy Scout, you know."

"Right." Lassiter thinks he's probably juggling because he's nervous, so he snatches out of the air the next thing that goes flying up—the tube—and walks past him, heading for the hall.

Five minutes later he has Spencer in his bed, on his back, naked with his legs spread and Lassiter between them, making him let loose those breathy little noises as he strokes the soft, smooth skin of his dick. "I think this is obvious, but I need to ask," he murmurs, finally letting his eyes crawl everywhere he's never allowed them to before. "You've done this before, right?"

"Sure." Spencer thrusts his hips upwards for more. "As much as I'd like to give you my flower, Lassie, I lost track of that just after high school. It's been a while, though. Have you?"

"Once, with Victoria," Lassiter says hesitantly. "She didn't like it."

"Oh. Well, I do." Spencer grins again. "You done anything with a guy?" He raises his eyebrows when Lassiter looks at him guiltily. "Really? I'm honored. You know what to do, right?"

"It's not that I never had an opportunity. And yes, Spencer, I live in southern California, not under a rock. It's come up. I just... haven't."

"But you wanted to."

"What do you think, psychic?" He squeezes Spencer's dick again, but not too hard, liking the way the tip of his tongue comes out and his eyes close. He returns his attention to the dick in his hands, stroking and rubbing his thumb over the slit. Spencer moans and squeezes Lassiter's hips with his thighs. "You really do want it, huh?"

"Yeah, way to go, Detective Obvious." Spencer smirks. "That only took three years of me sitting in your lap and calling you sexy."

"Couldn't have just said that." Lassiter squeezes his dick again, this time intentionally too hard, and Spencer hisses in air. "Maybe if you didn't act like such a goddamn clown all of the time I wouldn't have to just assume you're mentally defective. I know you're not."

"Sorry buddy, the spirit of Bozo knows how to overwhelm my psychic senses. Can I help it if the squeaky nose makes me tingly inside?"

"Shut up."

"Fuck me and I will."

Lassiter looks up at his face and sees again that he wants it, bad. Of course, two eyes full of wanting are just as good as a rock hard cock in the hands. "Okay," he says. "Turn over, smart ass."

Spencer sits up, and then, without warning, he leans forward and kisses him, putting a hand on the back of Lassiter's neck and sliding his tongue in. Lassiter is almost shocked by the intimacy of this and he freezes; after a second Spencer backs off, gives him a quick, searching look, and turns over, grabbing a pillow and sticking it underneath his hips. He grabs the tube of lube that's been sitting on the sheet and hands it back, then spreads his legs, dips his back, and settles down. Lassiter uncaps the tube and squeezes cool, clear gel onto his fingers.

"Start with one?" he asks, pretty sure that's standard operating procedure, but wanting to get rid of the awkwardness he now feels from that unexpected kiss, and focus them both back onto the sex.

"Yep. I would say two's enough, but since it's been a while, and you're not exactly packing Pixy Stix... you don't need to spend forever doing it, though, I kind of like it rou—ohholyshitthat'scold!"

Lassiter smirks, having dabbed a biggish glob of the stuff directly onto him. He puts his left hand on the outside of Spencer's thigh and carefully pushes in one finger, watching for a reaction. Spencer makes an "mmmm" sound and turns his face to the mattress. There's next to no resistance, but when he tries a second finger, Lassiter feels him tense up quickly before making an obvious effort to relax. By the time he gets the first two fingers all the way inside him, Spencer is breathing harder and is still tensed, tight on the inside.

"You okay?" Lassiter asks, realizing that he can feel his pulse, and it's fast.

"Yeah, fine, never better," he breathes, his voice an octave higher than before.

"How long?"

"You can stop now if you want, I'll adjust."

"No, I mean... how long since you've done this?"

"Oh. Like... I don't know, a year? Why?"

"No reason." He moves his fingers slowly, surprised a minute later when Spencer moans loudly and pushes back. Not as tight as before... "Is this good?"

"Yes, so good," Spencer says, muffled. When he moves back more eagerly, Lassiter adds his third finger, and he squeaks in surprise. "That's good, that's good," he pants. "Stop for a sec, I want to turn around."

Lassiter withdraws and leans back, wiping his fingers on the edge of the sheet while Spencer flips over, nestling the pillow under the small of his back. He lays back with his knees bent and his heels dug into the bed. Lassiter reaches for one of the condoms and rips it open, rolling it on and starting to move forward.

"Wait!" Spencer feels around for something and comes up with tube of lube again. "More. Here." He sits up again, then unscrews the cap, applies some gel to his fingers, and reaches forward to thoroughly slick up Lassiter's dick. Lassiter closes his eyes at the renewed touch, and when he opens them again he sees Spencer biting at his lower lip again and glancing at his face. His cock throbs painfully in anticipation, but when Spencer lets go and wipes his hand on the sheet unconcernedly, Lassiter hesitates, the enormity—and inappropriateness—of what he's doing striking back at him.

Spencer sees this—of course, the motherfucker sees everything—and his eyes flash with something Lassiter can't discern, because it's gone almost instantly and his look is annoyed but amused. "No thinking," he says. "Bad Lassie. If you back out now, I might have to hit you with a rolled-up paper."

Lassiter scowls, knowing he doesn't honestly mean it, but that doesn't mean he gets away with saying it. "Threatening a police officer?"

"Yeah." Spencer's mouth quirks up toward a grin, though his eyes are serious. "What are you going to do about it?"

Lassiter puts both hands on his shoulders and shoves him down on his back hard, moving between his legs again and pressing his cock on top of the smaller one. "Nothing," he says simply. "I'll back off if I feel like it. What are you going to do about that?"

"Um... exactly what you say?"

"You must be a genius."

Lassiter pushes his dick inside him very slowly, holding still at the halfway point to give him more time to adjust. Spencer starts to shake as he pushes harder, and Lassiter watches his face carefully, seeing pain there, but seeing no sign of him wanting to stop, nor hearing anything except him breathing shallowly. He finally sinks in all the way and then stops completely, having to gather himself by breathing very slowly.

"Are you okay?" he asks softly. Spencer nods but doesn't speak, and neither moves for several minutes, until Lassiter can feel him relax, bit by bit. He squeezes down on his dick and Lassiter hisses in air, hoping that the tightness isn't going to send him over the edge, and just manages to push his control back in place. Spencer sees this and smirks. "Don't move," Lassiter tells him.

"But that's the point." Spencer wiggles a little more on his cock, closing his eyes and moaning softly. "Ungh... you're so hard, it kind of hurts," he mumbles, and then— "No, don't even think about it!" As Lassiter tries to pull back a little, Spencer grabs his elbows in a vice grip. "It's fine," he says. "Just stay there, don't stop." He licks his lips. "Gimme a minute to let me feel you. I'll be okay in just a sec."

Lassiter frowns a little, definitely not wanting to stop, but thinking he shouldn't be in so far if he's causing someone else pain—Victoria and the few other women he'd been with had occasionally had the same problem. He tries to pull back a little anyway, and Spencer glares at him and thrusts himself forward while gripping his arms tighter with another flare of pain.

Lassiter grunts, feeling his dick twitch. "I told you not to move."

"Yeah, well, that's what I told you, and I don't see you listening."

"I'm trying not to hurt you!" Lassiter snarls, a little pissed off that he actually gives a shit about being gentle with this smart ass.

"I told you to just hold still and give me a minute—"

"Fine." Lassiter yanks his arms out of Spencer's hands, and then grips his forearms, pinning him hard into the mattress with his hands near his hips. Spencer looks up at him in surprise, and Lassiter wonders if he's gone too far, but then he feels Spencer squeezing down on his dick again, trying to wiggle and not getting much. Spencer closes his eyes and breathes slowly, biting at his lip and making soft noises. It feels amazing, like a hot, intense massage, and Lassiter concentrates on holding on.

Just before he feels like the squeezing alone is going to make him come, Spencer stops, relaxes, and grins. "Okay," he breathes. "I'm ready. Fuck me."

He's ready, Lassiter thinks sourly, still treading the edge.

Spencer squeezes down on him again and tries to buck his hips, but he can't get much more than a twitch with how he's being held. "I said I'm ready," he repeats. "Move, Lassie!"

"No."

"What the fuck?" he pleads.

God, he wants to, but he's almost positive that one move in any direction will finish everything; Spencer's body is too tight and too warm, and it's been so long. "I will when I'm damn good and ready," he says, gripping Spencer's forearms tighter. "Take what I give you and shut up."

Spencer rolls his eyes back, his lips parting so he can pant and moan. "Okay," he whispers. "Jesus, that's fucking hot." He's still squirming on Lassiter's cock, but he doesn't feel quite so tight—and then he flexes again.

"Quit that!" Lassiter thinks he's going to come before he's able to actually fuck him if he doesn't.

"Make me," Spencer breathes. He does it again, though not so hard, and moans. "You're so fucking big, Lassie, god. Feels so good, I can't stop." His entire body shudders, and when he makes eye contact again, his desperation is perfectly clear. "Please fuck me," he says. "I can't stand it any more, please, fuck me hard, I need it, I need you."

It takes almost everything, but Lassiter is able to slowly let go of one of his arms and bring a hand toward his face, fighting an urge to clamp his hand over his ever-lasting mouth, to stop his begging before it gets to be entirely too much for both of them. Instead, he holds one finger up, and when Spencer's eyes focus on it, he lightly touches his lower lip. "Shhhh," he says, so quiet that it's more breath than sound. Spencer licks his finger, then takes the tip of it in and sucks on it, and Lassiter closes his eyes briefly before taking it back.

When he releases Spencer's other arm, he sees that his fingers have left red marks, and he hopes that there won't be bruises. It's too late to do anything about it if there are, but he actually seemed to enjoy being held down like that, so Lassiter dismisses it. He's still trying not to move inside him too much yet, hoping he'll be able to last just a few more minutes, but Spencer's trying to ruin that by squeezing down on him again, writhing and whimpering. When Lassiter loosely closes his hand around Spencer's dick, his entire body shudders and his heels dig into Lassiter's kidneys, urging him forward.

"Ow, fuck, watch it," he admonishes, squeezing his dick harder.

"Lassie," Spencer moans, his hands fisted in the sheet. His entire body is now very tight and he's breathing in quick, shallow gasps. "Ohmygod, that feels so good." He tries to jerk his hips up into Lassiter's hand, which results in driving his dick further inside him again.

"Stop moving if you want me to do this," Lassiter orders. "I move, not you."

"Are you going to?"

"Nope."

"Dick!" Spencer tries to glare again, but his eyes close and he moans when Lassiter starts jerking his cock again.

"Right," he agrees, and sets up a rhythm, determined to make Spencer come before he does. He can tell Spencer's trying to obey and keep still, but at this angle it's almost like getting himself off, except that it's curving away instead of toward him, and it's far too easy to stroke and squeeze, moving his hand faster.

Spencer's breathing gets louder and his hips jerk up again, causing Lassiter's dick to move inside him just a little. "Lassie, please, please... "

It's already going to be over soon, and he can't hold back any more: he pulls back about halfway and slams forward, barely hearing Spencer's continued cries of, "Ohgod" and "Lassie, fuck!" He can only rock his hips back and forth maybe three times before Spencer comes, his body tensing so hard that Lassiter can hardly move inside him any more, and then he loses all control and can't breathe with the intensity of it. He falls forward on both hands, shoving his dick all of the way inside him one last time and feeling Spencer's legs wrapping around him again. They're still for what feels like forever, just looking at each other and catching their breaths.

"Holy shit," Spencer says weakly. He lays on the bed bonelessly as Lassiter pushes himself up and goes to the bathroom to dispose of the condom and wet a cloth to wipe himself off. He hears Spencer say something about 'being all gooey', so after he slips his robe on, he brings back a second cloth and holds it out silently. "Thanks," he says, taking it and wiping off his stomach. "I'll totally let you do me in the shower tomorrow morning, but this is good for now." Lassiter doesn't speak, and after a second Spencer's eyes flick up to him again. "What's up, pup? You... kind of look mad?"

"I'm not."

There's another long silence, Lassiter frowning at the coverlet of his bed that had been thrown back and Spencer searching his face. "Okay... do you want to talk?"

About what? The stupid thing they just did? That he did? "Not really." He finally looks at him to see a completely uncharacteristic look of uncertainty on Spencer's face, and quashes an urge to reassure him that everything's okay, because it's not. "Look, I just want to get some sleep," he says. "It was a stressful day and I need to take you back to the station at eight tomorrow."

"Okay." Spencer glances down at the floor, where his clothes landed earlier. "I guess you want me to get out of your bed?"

Lassiter doesn't reply, because the answer is both you don't have to and who do you think you are, my boyfriend?

Spencer moves to the side of the bed and stands up, pulling his pants on. "That's cool," he says to his shirt, pulling the sleeves inside-right and sticking his arms into them. "Can I get a blanket?"

Without speaking, Lassiter gets up and opens the closet. When he turns around with a spare comforter, Spencer is completely dressed, and it's hard to miss the hurt look in his eyes he's trying to hide as he takes the blanket. Lassiter wants to say something to him but can't think of anything... and besides, what would be the point? In either case, Spencer doesn't give him much of a chance: he says his thanks for the comforter and heads out of the room, and Lassiter can see the dim light from one of the lamps in the living room go on. He sighs and lies down, very thankful that he really is quite sleepy and probably won't be awake long enough to spend time dwelling on this. Not much, anyway.