He can't get her out of his brain.
It's been three days and Emily Hernandez has crawled into Shawn's psyche and taken up residence. He can't do anything without seeing her anguished expression, without hearing her asking why me and not her?
And every time he closes his eyes, he sees that little blond girl in the photograph.
The department psychologist had assessed her. Said that she wasn't psychotic, wasn't delusional. He diagnosed her. Post-traumatic stress disorder.
Bethany Abel - Tabitha Montgomery, Shawn corrects himself - has been shipped back to Boston for arraignment of that long-ago murder in Boston. Shawn asked the psychologist why Emily had befriended with her in the first place and the answer made him feel even worse. Emily had tried desperately to get Rebecca to believe her when they were children, and even though Rebecca had rejected her over and over, she still wanted Rebecca as a sister. Still wanted to be close to her. Tabitha was the best way she could find.
As Shawn suspected, pinning the evidence on Tabitha was a last-ditch effort to save herself. It's sick and twisted and wrong and it's all Xavier's fault, and now Emily is in jail and Rebecca is dead and it's all wrong, wrong, wrong.
He always feels good when he catches the killer and solves the case. But that was before he knew that sometimes the victim isn't the victim, and sometimes the killer is right.
He tried to visit Emily twice, but she refused to see him either time. Refused to see anyone, even her mother.
The phone rings.
Shawn rolls over on the couch and contemplates ignoring the call. He doesn't feel like talking to anyone, not even Gus.
But it could be Jules or Lassiter with an update on Emily, so he answers it.
It's Lassiter.
"Spencer," he says, and Shawn knows immediately that something is wrong.
"What happened?" he says, and he feels his heart in his throat.
There's a long pause and Shawn wants to scream at Lassiter to hurry up and tell him already. And then he wants Lassiter to take it back, because Lassiter says the words he's been dreading. The words he knew in his heart he would hear.
"Emily Hernandez is dead," Lassiter says.
Shawn drops the phone.
No. No no no, she can't be dead, she can't be. No.
He can hear Lassiter's voice, tinny and small from the phone speaker. "Spencer. Spencer!"
He kicks the phone under the couch. Then he reaches for his jacket and leaves.
He stops by Gus's house, but the apartment is still and dark. He wishes he'd brought his phone.
He turns his bike down a familiar street. Henry is home, as Shawn knew he would be.
"What's eating you, kid?" he wants to know, as soon as he opens the door.
"I'm..." Shawn stuffs his hands in his pockets and shuffles into the living room. "Emily Hernandez. Died." He has trouble getting the words out.
"Emily Hernandez." Henry frowns. "That's the girl who killed that developer?"
Shawn sees Henry's indifference and is appalled: Emily was more than that. "It wasn't her fault," he says.
Henry arches an eyebrow. "Not her fault? Didn't she stab the guy? And kill some girl in Boston?" he asks.
"She had a good reason!" Shawn feels a surge of annoyance. "And now she's dead. And I…" He stops.
Henry doesn't miss a beat. "And?" he says.
Shawn grits his teeth. "And I...just wanted...to..."
"To what?" Henry clips the words. "Talk about it? There's nothing to talk about, Shawn. She's a murderer and she's dead, that's it."
"How can you say that?" Shawn turns on his father. "Like it's nothing?"
"It's not nothing," Henry says, and Shawn sees that the lines around his eyes and mouth have deepened, that his face looks older, somehow. "But you can't change it. What happened to her was terrible, but it's over."
Over for Emily, maybe. Not over for Shawn.
"I don't know why I even bothered coming over here," Shawn says. He's shaking with anger and frustration. "It's not like it made me feel any better."
"Trust me," Henry says. His tone has lost much of its bite; now he just sounds sad. He turns away from Shawn. "You're better off letting it go."
"Yeah." Shawn says bitterly. He reaches for the door handle. "I'll work on that."
He drives around aimlessly for a while. Parks his bike and wanders around on foot. By the time he gets back, he's calmer; no more racing thoughts. And Lassiter is sitting on the bench outside his apartment.
"Hi," he says.
Lassiter nods at him. "Hi."
Shawn sits down beside him. "How did she do it?" he asks.
"She had a piece of glass in the sole of her shoe." Lassiter's voice is measured, careful, belying no emotion. "She cut her own throat."
Shawn feels the news as though it was glass in his own throat. He swallows hard. Runs a hand across his lips.
"Okay," he says.
Shawn doesn't look at him, but he can see, out of the corner of his eye, Lassiter's jaw working. He hears Lassiter take a breath. Then: "I'm sorry."
Shawn lets out a sharp exhale. "What do you have to be sorry about?" He stands up and kicks at the leg of the bench, hard enough to make his toe hurt. Then he goes inside. He doesn't wait for Lassiter, doesn't expect him to follow, but he hears his door open and close gently.
Shawn paces. "I should never have started on this case," he says. "I should have kept my mouth shut."
"Not the right answer," Lassiter says. He's standing by the door, hands in his pockets, watching Shawn.
"She'd be alive."
"We have no way of knowing that."
Shawn turns on Lassiter. "What kind of bullshit answer is that!" he demands, and when Lassiter doesn't answer, Shawn feels something in him break. He walks straight toward Lassiter.
"I said what kind of answer is that?" he says again, and when Lassiter still won't answer, Shawn puts both hands on Lassiter's chest and shoves him. Hard.
Lassiter's hands come out of his pockets as he stumbles. His back hits the wall.
"Spencer," Lassiter says, and is there a warning in his tone?
Shawn doesn't care. He is drowning in guilt.
He feels Lassiter's hand on his shoulder.
He starts to move away, but Lassiter's fingers tighten. Spinning Shawn around to face him. Shawn can't meet his eyes - looks, instead, at his tie, at the buttons of his shirt, at the gun he always keeps holstered at his side. Then Lassiter's other hand comes up, fingers wrapping around each of Shawn's upper arms.
"C'mere," he says gruffly.
Lassiter's arms are around him and his forehead is on Lassiter's shoulder, and he realizes that he's shaking because he's crying. Crying and hating himself because how weak could he be, to break like this?
But Lassie's hand is light on his back, and Shawn realizes, dimly, that Lassiter doesn't mind.
He takes a deep breath, and then another. Over and over until he is in control once more. He starts to pull away, and Lassiter's hands drop.
He rubs both hands over his eyes. "Sorry," he says thickly.
"Don't be."
"I'm okay." Shawn lifts his head and forces himself to look at Lassiter.
Lassiter's blue eyes are worried, his forehead creased. As soon as Shawn's gaze locks with his, though, he clears his throat and looks away.
"Tell me you have beer in that fridge," he says.
The silence between them is heavy and awkward, and with each passing moment, Shawn feels more conflicted. A week ago, he was boarding a plane with Lassiter and was over the moon about it. He was Andie and Lassie was Blane and by God, Boston was going to be their senior prom.
So why, a week later, does he suddenly feel so tired and sad and different?
It isn't Lassiter. He's still curt and awkward and cranky, same old Lassie. It's Shawn that changed. Because of the case. Because of Emily.
He can't even enjoy the fact that Lassiter is sitting on his couch. And he really would have preferred that his first time in Lassiter's arms be in a slightly different context. Like, for example, one not involving hysterical sobbing.
"Lassie..."
"What?" Lassiter's response is too quick, as though he's been waiting for Shawn to speak.
Shawn realizes that he doesn't actually know what he intended to say. "Um." he says, "Did you know that Worf's favorite drink is prune juice?"
He hears Lassiter sigh and immediately feels terrible. But what can he say? Lassie, I totally had a thing for you, but now all I can think about is a sad blond girl and how dismayed I am with humanity and it's pretty much killed my libido.
It does pique his interest a little - just a little - that Lassiter seems to be interested in how Shawn is feeling. He thinks about nestling against Lassiter on the plane, about Lassiter's hand on his thigh in the car. About the night in the hotel and the crumpled tissues in the trash can.
What if - that - had been about Shawn?
The thought makes him shiver, and he discovers that his libido hasn't been completely killed after all.
But crossing the chasm between them - a chasm filled with work and sorrow and what he's certain are Lassiter's worst inhibitions - seems an insurmountable task. The three feet between them seems like a thousand miles.
"Omicron Theta has two moons," Shawn says.
Lassiter appears not to hear him. He tries again. "Tellarites probably make good lawyers."
Lassiter sets his beer on the coffee table. "Spencer. Enough Star Trek."
"Nerd," Shawn says.
Lassiter rolls his eyes. "Speak for yourself."
"I am."
"Shawn," Lassiter says, and Shawn focuses. Lassiter's eyes are even bluer than normal.
There's a long pause, then: "You know you don't have to keep making jokes for my benefit."
Shawn looks at his hands. "I was all out of trivia anyway," he says. Sighs. "Lassie, I don't know how to handle this."
"I know," Lassiter says quietly.
Shawn picks at the label of the Hefeweizen. "How do you do this?" he asks, and he's humiliated and ashamed when his voice cracks.
Lassiter is still and silent.
Shawn sets his beer next to Lassiter's and puts his face in his hands. "I'm okay," he says, more for himself than for Lassiter. He's just not used to having so many feelings - all this sadness and guilt about Emily tangled up with the very confusing matter of wanting Lassiter, and encompassing everything, a growing certainty that Lassiter will never be his.
"Spencer," Lassiter says.
Shawn grunts to acknowledge that he's heard.
He feels Lassiter shift on the couch. Feels him scoot closer...closer...until he is next to Shawn. Not quite touching, but Shawn can feel the heat from his body.
"Shawn," Lassiter says, and his tone is suddenly very, very different.
Shawn takes his face out of his hands. Turns his head, just a little, just enough to look at Lassiter.
Lassiter's expression is unreadable. His jaw is set and tense, his brow furrowed. His pupils are dilated, blue swallowed by black. He looks at Shawn. Opens his mouth as though he is going to say something, then closes it again.
Shawn runs through every possible scenario. Makes a split-second decision. And plants his mouth solidly on Lassie's.
Shawn feels Lassiter freeze, feels his every muscle tense. Lassiter's lips are taut and dry beneath his. Don't, he commands Lassiter silently. Don't panic now. When Lassiter starts to pull away, Shawn reaches up and clamps a hand firmly onto the back of Lassiter's neck.
As soon as he does, Lassiter kisses him back.
Shawn can't stop a low, desperate moan from escaping when Lassie leans into him, lips active, searching. He feels Lassiter's hand land on his back, light and uncertain, skimming over his shoulder. He kisses Lassiter harder and is rewarded: Lassiter kisses back just as hungrily.
And then Lassiter is pulling away. He rests his forehead against Shawn's, eyes closed. His pulse beats like a rabbit's against the heel of Shawn's hand.
"Ahh," he says, a half-groan. His breath is warm. "Spencer."
"You called me Shawn a second ago," Shawn points out breathlessly.
Lassiter sits back. Won't look at Shawn. "I can't do this with you."
The words hit Shawn like jabs to the gut: one two three four five six. He sucks air, fights the wave of fury that rises in his throat.
"Sorry," he says shortly. He stands up and walks back to his bedroom. "Lock the door behind you," he shouts back to Lassiter, and slams the door.
