Shawn nudged O'Hara. "What's the name of the dead ATF agent?" he asked.

Lassiter felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Shawn's questions were usually long, meandering, and filled with references to movies and television shows that Lassiter only vaguely remembered or hadn't seen. When Shawn dropped the act, it was usually because his brain had become engaged. He knew something. How he knew it, Lassiter had no idea, but he was pretty sure it didn't have anything to do with the supernatural.

"Clark," O'Hara answered Shawn, then noticing his excited demeanour, she added, "Why? Did you had a vision? Do you know who the killer is?"

"All in good time," Shawn said, and Lassiter could see a gleam in his eye. "A good reveal is like making cookies in an Easy-Bake Oven," he said. "It takes twelve minutes and if you try to rush it you just get warm dough." O'Hara's brow creased at the simile, and Lassiter rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "I'm going to go up there," Shawn smiled broadly and pointed to the stage, "and do my thing."

"Forget the stage," Lassiter said, frustrated at Shawn's childish desire to turn every arrest they made into an episode of Murder She Wrote performed by the cast of Whose Line Is It Anyway? "Just tell us what you have."

"Don't be so Noel Cowardly." Shawn ushered him away from the stage. "Stand next to Watkins and get your cuffs ready." He launched himself onto the stage, turned on the microphone and tapped it loudly, sending heavy booms throughout the room. "Ladies and Gentlemen of the pistol packing persuasion, may I have your attention please." A sea of faces turned toward the stage. "My name is Shawn Spencer. And I'm a psychic detective." He noted several faces turn back to the gun tables. "With the Santa Barbra Police Department," he added, gaining the attention of only a few more shoppers and vendors. "And," he paused dramatically, made a gun with his left hand and pretended to steady and aim it with his right, "I can put a dozen shots in the X-ring from 25 yards." Heads looked up and a few people clapped.

"Is that true?" Juliet asked Lassiter. They had posted uniforms at every exit and then stationed themselves close to Watkins.

Lassiter smiled and nodded proudly. He had discovered this by accident one day when he'd dragged Shawn to the gun range, trying to include him in more of his weekly activities. Shawn's shooting had been spectacular. Lassiter had never been so turned on. He pulled at his collar, which suddenly felt constrictive. Shawn probably wouldn't want to go to the range with him once they broke up.

He wished there were some way to split his life into two—one part where he spent his time with Shawn, doing things that were, if not stereotypically gay, certainly homosexual—and one where he was the Carlton Lassiter whose professional reputation he'd spent over ten years building. The Carlton Lassiter who had been married, to a woman, and who actually had a shot at being elected by the citizens of Santa Barbara. Still, he regretted having to nip this relationship in the bud. Being with Shawn made Lassiter feel smart, brave, and hot. And while he'd felt smart or brave before, feeling hot was a new experience—one he was rather enjoying. In fact, all other things being equal, he would have preferred to maintain the status quo. But realistically, he knew that Shawn would tire of him eventually. It wasn't personal; it was just what he did. It was better that Lassiter spare him the bother of having to break it off with him.

"But my impressive marksmanship aside," Shawn was saying, "I'm here today to talk about muuurder," He drew the word out dramatically. "Someone among you has sullied the innocent joy of the gun show…with violence." He put a hand to his head. "I'm seeing the murder now. I see a man in a black Harley Davidson t-shirt and jeans. He's an ATF agent looking for a lawbreaker." Several faces in the crowd looked nervous. "A lawbreaking gun vendor," Shawn added.

"I'm having a vision of a cartoon cow, a grouchy cartoonist, and his daughter's gay friend." Shawn opened his eyes to see only uncomprehending stares from the crowd. "Ted Knight and Jim J. Bullock?" Shawn offered. When few faces showed recognition he added, "Am I the only one who watched Too Close For Comfort?"

O'Hara and Lassiter nodded.

"He was on to you," Shawn said, pointing to Watkins, who looked alarmed. "He knew you were selling guns without a background check. But he checked into your background, and couldn't find any record for you at all. Because Monroe isn't your real name."

Shawn jerked his body around, as if in pain. "I see a man…living under a false name," he said, doing what Lassiter recognized as a very bad James Mason impression.

"Is that Clint Eastwood?" A man near the stage asked. "Are you channelling him?"

"That doesn't make sense," the man's wife said. "Ain't Eastwood still alive?"

"Fine!" Shawn sighed. "I see preserves," he shouted. "Jars of preserves. And college kids who can't afford proper drinking glasses and have an underdeveloped sense of irony. I see…Mason jars." Shawn pointed at Watkins again, who was now sandwiched between Lassiter and O'Hara. "Your real name is Mason Watkins. But you couldn't use it because you'd never get a Federal Firearms License with two assault convictions on your record. So when Agent Clark of theATF came around asking questions about your sloppy background checks, you knew you had to kill him. You were facing your third strike, and a long prison term, so you lured Agent Clark into the kitchen and you shot him." He pointed dramatically to the rear of the room and closed his eyes. "I can see him, up against the tiled wall."

Every eye in the room was on Shawn now. Lassiter sighed. Shawn loved the spotlight. Keeping a secret must be hard for someone like him. Lassiter told himself that Shawn's difficulty—and maybe inevitable failure—at keeping their relationship secret just confirmed that he needed to end things, but part of him also appreciated the effort Shawn must be making.

"But then you realized that the kitchen was set up for baking that morning," Shawn added. "You panicked. You knew that people would be there any minute, baking sweet, sweet gingerbread cookies." He winked at the two women at the snack table, then turned back to Watkins. "So you dumped his body into your massive gun case, and wheeled him into the stage area." Shawn pointed offstage to where the body had been.

"Is that what you were doing back there?" the vendor with the blond mullet asked, turning to Watkins. "I saw him go in there with his gun case around 7:30 this morning."

Lassiter felt a rush of triumph. They could swab the gun case for blood, and maybe even match it to the victim, but having a witness clinched it. Juries loved witnesses. He could take Watkins for murder, and the ATF could kiss his…arrest warrant. He glanced up at Shawn, feeling grateful, impressed, and something else—something disturbingly reminiscent of how he felt after sex. If they hadn't been in a showroom filled with people he'd have hugged him.

"Mason James Watkins," Lassiter said, taking satisfaction in the familiarity of the wording, and the security of a solid case, "You're under arrest for murder." He clamped the cuffs on him, enjoying their metallic clicks. "And for violations of the Brady Act."

"Never cared for the Brady Bunch," Shawn said, still speaking into the mic, "Except for Sunshine Day. That's just too cute to hate. Am I right?"

Lassiter returned to the station to discover that the paperwork he'd left behind had been re-assigned by Chief Vick, a sign that he was definitely off light duty. Relief coursed through his body and he felt light as a feather. He danced a few happy tap moves as he pulled out his chair and seated himself. Things were finally turning around and going his way. He'd made a solid arrest, he'd had the pleasure of calling the ATF office to let them know they could turn their black Ford Explorers right around, because the case was solved. Finally, he'd bought a Smith & Wesson 629 with rosewood grips and a nickel finish before leaving the gun show, to replace the one that Goochberg had destroyed. He pulled open the left-hand drawer of his desk, took out the City Councillor application, and smiled at it.

Maybe I could run for office and still date Shawn, he thought, riding high on a cloud of optimism.

The plan came almost unbidden into his mind, and he realized that some part of him must have been working on it all along.

I could hire Shawn privately, he realized, as a consultant, so I'd have an excuse for seeing him.

And no one will find that suspicious? His rational mind shot back. Shawn's already staying over three nights a week. The two of you are practically living together.

We'd be discreet, he argued. Lots of couples do it. We'd just be careful.

Right! Because Shawn is the height of discretion.

It's workable. If we can make it through a few decades like that then we could retire and be as out as we want.

A few decades? Are you nuts? Shawn's having trouble making it through every week.

Lassiter frowned. His rational brain was right. Shawn could never keep a secret this significant for that long. He'd have to choose between love and work. As usual.

"Can we talk?"

Lassiter looked up to see Burton Guster standing in front of his desk. He sighed under his breath and put the City Councillor application back into his desk drawer. "Sure. What's up, Guster?" Wordlessly, Gus handed over the letter from the Bureau of Security and Investigative Services. Lassiter scanned it quickly, but the meaning was immediately clear.

"I see," Lassiter said. Shawn's business was finished if he didn't get this licence. And if he was sure about any aspect of Shawn's feelings, he knew that he loved running Psych. For whatever reason, after the dozens of odd jobs this short attention span had grown tired of, psychic detective had stuck. Hard. Lassiter sat up straight as his duty became clear. Here, at least was a way to show how much his time with Shawn had meant to him. He could save Psych. Lassiter nodded and gave Gus a brief smile.

"Don't worry about this, Guster. I'll take care of it. It's the least I can do."

"I appreciate you seeing it that way," Gus said, the relief evident in his voice. "I know you haven't always been such a fan of Psych."

"Psych is ridiculous," Lassiter admitted. "But Shawn…is not. Not entirely, anyway." He handed the letter back to Gus. "Just apply for the license. I'll handle the rest."

Their relationship might not be going anywhere, but he could assure that Shawn's career—if it could be called that—had a future. He rooted through his desk for a small black book and looked up a number he rarely had occasion to use.

Shawn arrived at the Psych office to find Gus in a cheerful mood.

"Let me guess," Shawn said. "You've found your true calling as an exterior house painter."

"No," Gus said, smiling his I'm-mad-at-you-but-my folks-taught-me-to-always-be civil-smile. "But I did save our business from being shut down by the government while you were off shopping for deadly weapons." He paused. "You're welcome."

"Dealing with paperwork is your gift," Shawn said. "You're Gus the Application Slayer. It could be worse. You could be in Tru Calling, running errands for dead people in a kind of Groundhog Day meets Dead Like Me. What's with Eliza Dushku, anyway? Every show she headlines gets axed. It's like she's cursed."

"I thought Dollhouse was underappreciated," Gus said. "But I'll take that as a thank-you," he added reluctantly.

Shawn leaned back across his desk and fiddled absently with his magic eight ball. "I'm thinking of telling Lassie the truth," he said.

"The truth about what?"

"You know. About me." Shawn flailed his arms wide. "About all this."

Gus shook his head slowly. "That's a bad plan, Shawn. You're riding high on love hormones and making poor decisions. Remember when you got all hopped up on bunny love and confessed to your dad that the smell in the guest room was the decaying vitamins you'd been tossing into the air vent?"

Shawn smiled. "That was half Henry's fault. Those vitamins looked like candy but they tasted like chocolate feet. This is different. I think Lassie and me are really bonding. I mean, this could be something serious. And I'm starting to feel bad about lying."

"Really?" Gus' forehead wrinkled. "Couldn't you at least wait until our license clears before you make your leap of faith?"

"Leap Of Faith," Shawn mused. "One of my least favourite Steve Martin movies. But it did have a great cast," Shawn said. "Debra Winger, Liam Neeson, Philip Seymour Hoffman… and Meatloaf."

"I've never cared for dramedy," Gus said.

Dinner, take-out from In-N-Out Burger, had been satisfying. Shawn, who had stayed behind at the gun show after the arrest had recounted the clash he'd witnessed between the activist from Women Against Guns and the redheaded cookie lady, which had involved brief nudity, threats of civil action, and stern words from Bret Thompson, the event manager.

"It got me thinking," Shawn said, leaning back on the couch, "there might be a sideline in psychic conflict mediation."

Lassiter grimaced. "It sounds like a cross between Jerry Springer and Miss Cleo."

Shawn laughed. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

Lassiter weighed his options. Shawn was in a good mood. He'd solved the case, and seemed to have enjoyed the gun show. This might be the perfect time to tell him about the City Council job. But still, he thought, a little extra groundwork never hurt.

"Speaking of Psych," he said, "I took care of that licensing problem for you."

Shawn smiled. "Yeah, Gus told me. What'd you do?" he asked. "Twist some arms? Pull some strings with City Hall? Do you have dirt on that guy with the glasses and the John Waters moustache who handles all the paperwork down there? I always suspected he was a superfreak. Please tell me you have photos? A video we could upload to Youtube?"

"No, but I do have a thorough knowledge of the law." Lassiter smiled. "Penal Code section 1203.4 allows people convicted of a crime to petition the court to re-open the case, and change a guilty verdict to a dismissal. I talked to Judge Horace Leland. It's all taken care of. He says 'hi' by the way, and wanted you to know that his kidney stone problem is all cleared up."

"My Grand Theft Auto charge?" Shawn moaned theatrically. "But it was so cool! And, it was a total babe magnet. I should sue you for the loss of all that future sex I won't be getting." He leaned forward and ran a hand along Lassiter's thigh. "Or at least, hold you responsible for damages."

"Be serious, Shawn. This conviction would have sunk your business." As much as he would have loved to have sex instead of uncomfortable conversation, Lassiter knew there wouldn't be a better time, and the deadline was fast approaching.

Shawn sighed and leaned back again, his face serious and determined. "You're right. I do appreciate it. And to show you how much, there's something I've been meaning to tell you."

"There's something I've been meaning to tell you too," Lassiter said. He stood, went to the kitchen, and poured himself a drink. He wanted Shawn to know about the council job, but the thought of actually telling him made his throat close up.

"Is it that you're pregnant?" Shawn asked, "Because I swear, I've been careful." He noticed the serious expression on Lassiter's face. "Fine," he acquiesced. "You go first. Mine's more of a build-up-to-it reveal anyway, and I'd rather tell you once you've finished your drink. In fact, have several."

Lassiter gulped the scotch and set the glass on the island. Then, standing rigidly, he forced himself to speak the words he'd been putting off for so long. "Councilman Frank Mutti just got elected to the State Assembly," he said. "And City Council is looking for someone to replace him for the remainder of his term." He took a deep breath. "I'm thinking of applying."

"Really?" Shawn's smiled lasciviously. "So you'd be councilman Carlton Lassiter? That's kinda hot. Is this a Tommy Carcetti scenario, where councilman is just the first step on the road to governor? Will there be back room deals and cut-throat political shenanigans? Can I play Wilson, your trusted advisor?"

"I'm serious about this, Shawn." Lassiter bit his lip. "Being on City Council would mean life in the public eye." He took a deep breath and spoke, his words falling over one another. "It would mean that you…that is, that you and I…that we couldn't do this any more."

For a few moments Shawn didn't respond. Then all the expression drained from his face and Lassiter felt slightly sick. He knew the conversation wouldn't be easy, but he hadn't expected Shawn to look so hurt. It wasn't as if they had thought this relationship was permanent. It was a fling, a brief sexual detour, not something with a future. But Shawn looked as if he'd just been served with divorce papers.

"Oh, I get it," Shawn said, his voice deadpan. "You helping out with our licence is a dumping-me present. I totally get it. Thanks."

"No, it's not." Lassiter fumbled for words that would make the situation less disastrous. "It's just a present to show how grateful I am. For the case today, and the last few months, and…" Lassiter thought back to the shooting, and to how Shawn's first aid had stabilized his punctured lung. "…and for saving my life."

Shawn huffed and stood, gathering his things. "I wondered if you remembered that or not," he said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

"Of course I remember." Lassiter reached out to touch Shawn's arm but Shawn pulled away.

"Come, on Shawn," Lassiter pleaded. "This isn't my fault. We both knew this didn't have a chance."

Shawn nodded, and glared at him with angry wet eyes. "You're right," he said. "The only difference was, I was willing to give us one anyway."