Lassiter spent all night thinking about Shawn Spencer. His feeling of disappointment was puzzling to him. Spencer had revealed himself to be what Lassiter had always suspected: a lying, manipulative charlatan. But why did it feel so bad to be proven right?
In the back of his mind a frightening possibility had begun to assert itself. What if he wanted more from Spencer than just sex? Since he'd first recognized his feelings toward Shawn as sexual, he'd entertained a myriad of fantasies about the fake psychic. They ranged from tender lovemaking scenarios to aggressive sex in the holding cells. He'd come to accept that aspect of himself and he could enjoy it, secure in the knowledge that sexual fantasies didn't need to be acted upon.
Yet over the past week his fantasies had taken on a more domestic bent. He'd pictured himself eating dinner with Shawn, discussing cases and solving crime together, and watching Dragnet before bed. It was one thing to jerk off to raunchy handcuff fantasies, but imagining holding hands with Spencer was a whole other ballgame. That was a relationship fantasy. That thought kept him up almost as much as the recurring fear that he would awaken in a wooden box did.
After a fitful night he took a bath and dressed for work. He had come to a decision of sorts. If he was seriously contemplating having a relationship with Shawn Spencer than something had gone very wrong. The trauma he'd suffered in the Montresor basement had obviously broken something inside his head. His feelings couldn't be trusted. He needed to prevent himself from doing anything he'd regret. And the only way to do that was to make sure Spencer would never want to have a relationship with him. He had to turn him in.
As soon as he arrived at the station he knocked on Chief Vick's office door.
"Good morning Carlton. I'm glad you're here." Vick raised her head, smiling in anticipation. "Dr. Erlich says you're fine to return to active duty. Congratulations, detective. O'Hara has a stack of cases on her desk for you." She looked so happy that Lassiter almost changed his mind. But it had to be done. Now, before he lost his nerve.
"I have some bad news." He took a deep breath and let it out with determination. "While we were trapped in Mrs. Montresor's basement," he still couldn't bring himself to say 'buried alive,' "Shawn Spencer confessed to me that he isn't psychic."
Chief Vick didn't stop smiling. If anything, he thought she smiled a little wider. "I think you must have misunderstood, detective."
"I didn't misunderstand."
"Oh, I think you did." Chief Vick's voice was cold and precise, despite her smile. It was actually kind of eerie. "Because if Shawn Spencer isn't psychic, he can't work for us. And if he can't work for us we can't use his gifts to solve cases. Do you see where I'm going with this?"
"Certainly. But what about our responsibility to…."
"—Carlton," Chief Vick cut in, "do you know how many female police chiefs there are in California?"
"No, I don't." He frowned, unsure what point she was trying to make.
"Nineteen. That's just five percent of all the police chiefs in this state. Do you think I could have possibly attained my position if I was stupid or gullible?"
"No." Now he saw where she was going, and he didn't think he was going to like it.
"And do I seem like the sort of person who believes in the supernatural? I mean, apart from working with Mr. Spencer, do you see any evidence of an interest in fortune-telling, tea leaves, crystals, tarot cards or lucky rabbits feet anywhere in my office?" She gestured around the room with her arm.
"No." Lassiter didn't even need to look.
"Right. I don't even read my horoscope. And just let me add that like you, I worked with Henry Spencer. I know what police work looks like when I see it."
"So you already know…" Lassiter was dumbfounded. Had she known all the time?
"—I know that there are nearly four dozen cases that we couldn't have solved without his help. And a significant percentage of those were homicides. Do you know how it feels for a police chief to have open homicides?"
"It feels bad?" His mind was reeling. Vick had just been letting Spencer do his psychic act in order to benefit from his detective work.
"Exactly. And closed cases feel good. I like closed cases. And if I have to pretend that I believe Shawn Spencer speaks to the dead or reads the vibes off of ashtrays or gets messages from aliens then that's what I'll do, as long as these cases get closed. Have I made myself clear?"
"Absolutely." No wonder she had been so tolerant of his bizarre antics.
"Good. Now please, Carlton, get back to work and stop worrying about Shawn Spencer."
He wished it was that easy.
###
Shawn sat in the Psych office, watching My Boyfriend's Back and hugging a Snoopy and Woodstock throw pillow to his chest. It was his third time watching it today, and if he cried a little more than usual when Johnny and Missy danced together at the prom it wasn't because he was upset about being rejected by Lassiter or about having almost been murdered recently.
The closing credits were rolling when the door opened and Gus came in from his shift at Central Coast Pharmaceuticals. He put his briefcase down on his desk and looked critically at his business partner. It had been three days since Shawn's argument with Lassiter at the gun range. Gus hadn't seen Shawn mope this long over anyone. It was a little alarming.
"Stop watching that movie, Shawn. It's just upsetting you."
"Your concern is touching." Shawn was sullen.
Gus had tried concern. It hadn't worked. It was time for tough love.
"Concern nothing. I'm thinking about me here." Gus grimaced and began gathering up the crumpled tissues, empty Red Vines packages and Pixi Stix straws that surrounded Shawn. "You know I'm a sympathetic crier. I refuse to sit here blubbering because Lassiter won't sleep with you. It's preposterous. Besides, what if a potential client came in? Crying doesn't make a good first impression."
"I'm recovering from a trauma."
"This doesn't look like you're recovering. You're not sleeping. You're not eating." Gus frowned at the Pixi Stix straws in his fist. "Were these lunch or dinner?" Gus sniffed. "And did you even shower?"
"Recently?"
"Pull yourself together Shawn. You know what they say: Fake it 'til you make it."
"Who says that?"
"People. People who recognize a negative behaviour pattern when they see it. And I see one now."
"This isn't negative behaviour."
"Oh? Then what is it?"
"This is…it." He threw his hands up. "This is our life."
"Whatever you say, Laverne."
"Why am I Laverne? Why am I the cynical one and you're the perky one? I am so the perky one."
"Not lately you're not."
"That's not my fault."
"You can't lay all the blame for your emotional funk on Lassiter's door."
Shawn had to agree. If he was going to blame anyone, it was the fault of that awful woman and her creepy son. He'd been perfectly happy with his unrequited crush on Lassiter. Their underground encounter seemed to have ruined the hot sexual tension they'd had going on.
"You're right," Shawn said. "It's not his fault either."
"Are you saying that No One Is To Blame?" Gus asked. Shawn saw a playful spark in his eye and knew that the gauntlet of a song title challenge had been thrown down.
"Maybe I should give it One Last Try." Shawn smiled.
"Things Can Only Get Better." Gus raised an eyebrow, unimpressed with Shawn's early parry.
"You think I need An Everlasting Love?" he countered, bringing out the big guns.
"What Can I Say?" Gus sat in his chair and entwined his fingers behind his head, resting back. "He might Like to Get To Know You Well. I know you're still Learning How To Love, but it could be A Revolution of the Heart."
"Well played my friend. Well played." Shawn said, admitting defeat. He picked up a rubber stress ball and threw it against the wall, where it failed to bounce back.
"I had an edge," Gus admitted. "I just bought his greatest hits compilation."
"I don't see where I went wrong," Shawn said, switching gears. "I mean, one minute it's all kisses and groping and the next it's cold shoulders and cutting remarks."
"There's only one way to find out," Gus said.
"Maybe not. I did a marathon of Max headroom earlier. What we need is a Brice who can break into Lassiter's computer and read his emails. Maybe tap into the station's security cameras and tell us what he's doing. Why don't we hire a computer genius? Someone in high school, who won't know that we're underpaying him." Shawn clapped his hands together. "Hey! How about we call the position an internship, then we don't have to pay him at all."
"Great idea, Shawn. Then we can add cyberstalking to the list of crimes I'm getting an ulcer waiting for us to be charged with. And nothing says 'you can trust me' like breaking into a guy's email and spying on him without his knowledge. I hate to break it to you, but you may just have to man up and talk to Lassiter."
"I tried that. He gave me the cold shoulder, the brush off and the bum's rush." He jumped out of his chair and paced the office. "Lassiter hates me. And I didn't think I'd ever care about that this much." Shawn looked sadly at his friend. "I hurt, Gus. Inside, where my feelings live."
"Well," Gus looked thoughtful. "Lassiter's behaviour isn't completely inexplicable. He could have post traumatic stress. It's characterized by anger, irritability, depression…"
"—We're talking about Lassiter here." Shawn cut in. "He's always like that."
"As I was saying," Gus glared at Shawn. "PTSD could explain a lot. If he's having panic attacks, flashbacks, or nightmares, then exploring his sexuality may be low on his to-do list."
"That makes a kind of sense. How do I fix it?"
"Do you really want to pursue this Lassiter romance thing?" Gus stared critically at his partner. "Or is this just something you're doing to entertain yourself while you get past being buried alive?"
"I haven't wanted anything so much since my teenage fantasy of helping Brooke Shields shave her legs."
"I'm serious here, Shawn. I mean, if you're genuinely interested, I'll help. When it comes to unrequited love, believe me, I'm feeling you." He ran his thumb down the bridge of his nose. "I've had some experience in this area."
"Some experience? Dude, when have any of your crushes not been unrequited?"
"Oh, I get mine." Gus frowned. He was not going to tell Shawn about the Batgirl/Harley Quinn incident at the Comicon in '08. He'd promised both women he'd never mention it to another living soul. "But we're talking about you here."
"Face it. You can't relate. Lassiter and I have a risky love. A forbidden love. A John Hughes-style crossing social boundaries love. We're Claire and Bender, Andie and Blane, Samantha and Jake. You understand."
"Which one of you is Molly Ringwald?"
"I am, of course. You wouldn't get it. You always go for the safe love. You don't take risks."
"I take risks in love," Gus said defensively. "All the time."
"Oh yeah? When?"
"I talked to the cute clerk at the Apple store twice last week. There you go."
"Where's the risk in that?"
"There's the risk of rejection," Gus began to count off on his fingers, "the risk that I'll say something stupid, the risk that she'll see the psych office and think that I work with a junior high schooler. And of course every romance risks heartbreak, and a host of STIs like herpes, syphilis, chlamydia, gonorreah, AIDS."
"All STDs aside, there's no physical risk with the girl from the apple store."
"One of the reasons I enjoy flirting with the girl at the Apple store is that I never have to worry that she'll shoot me, or have me arrested." Gus paused for a minute, then added, "Do not tell Juliet I said that."
"Juliet would not shoot you."
"But she could. I doubt the apple store clerk—whose name is Rene, by the way—has ever fired a gun in her life."
"She could still kill you. She could stab you, or run you down with her car."
"You're missing my point. So you have the hots for Lassiter. So what? There's more to a relationship than just sexual attraction, Shawn. There's a myriad of factors that have to be taken into account. Like compatibility. Like shared goals and values. Like, what if they have the wrong kind of pillows?"
"Are you kidding me? The wrong kind of pillows? Gus, are you even listening to what you're saying?"
"Pillows aren't all the same, Shawn. And the wrong kind can seriously affect your sleep posture. There's polyester, goose down, latex, memory foam…"
"Don't forget hypoallergenic,"
"Actually, there's no industry standard for the use of that term." He shook his head. "Anyway, my point is, just having chemistry together isn't enough. If you want to date you need more than that. And you can't even talk to the guy, so I don't hold very high hopes for your romance prospects."
Shawn nodded his head. "You're right." He stood and grabbed the keys to his bike. "I'll stake out his place. He's got to go home some time."
"You should shower before you go," Gus said.
Shawn sniffed his armpit tentatively and looked back at Gus.
"You reek, dude. For real. I'm just saying."