A/N: I'm baaaaack! Supermassive thank you's to everyone, your reviews, encouragement, alerts, faves, and general awesomeness were… well, awesome! (I consider myself a writer. Isn't that sad?)

Oh, something I'm not sure is clear: I know the scene I jumped off of for this little tale was season one or something, but assume this is post-season five. Only Shawn and Juliet never got together. Alright then: keep in mind the rating, possible spoilers for all seasons, and only the plot (or lack thereof) belongs to me.

Lassiter stared at the sleeping man next to him as he sat on the edge of his bed. Spencer had fallen asleep in the car and refused to wake up, for which Lassiter was grateful. When they got to Guster's place, he'd snapped at Lassiter to wait, dashed up the stairs, and come back a moment later with a duffel bag full of Shawn's clothes. He'd then walked away in the middle of Lassiter's stumbled half-thanks, half-apology. After that, though, the ride had actually been kind of peaceful.

Peace. That was the word for this feeling, maybe. He couldn't stop himself stroking the hair back from Spencer's face, resting his hand a moment on the bandages which were the only thing covering his chest.

I need to be careful.

Now, Spencer was sprawled on top of the covers, chest rising with each soft snore. Lassiter couldn't look away from the lines of firm stomach muscles and long fingers twitching on the blanket. It wasn't often he got the chance to observe; it was dangerous to attract the attention of an alert Spencer. Alert Spencer picked up on sweaty palms and pounding hearts, and responded with heart-melting smiles and invasive physical contact. Like sitting on people's laps. Or falling against them just right so they slid down your front, trailing a hand down the buttons on your shirt…

Jesus. He's passed out from exhaustion and all I can think about is getting in his pants. Why the hell can't I control myself around him lately?

Because normally when you want to grab him and kiss him senseless, you yell and throw him into a wall.

What is wrong with me?

Spencer shifted slightly and mumbled.

Aren't people supposed to look younger when they sleep? Spencer looked every day of his thirty-some years, and not only due to the shadows under his eyes and the two days of stubble. The spastic energy that normally crackled around him was gone, leaving only calm. As quietly as he could, Lassiter backed out of the room, leaving the door open a crack.

He was heading to the kitchen to do paperwork, having no intention of leaving Spencer alone in his apartment, when his phone vibrated in his pocket. "Shit," he hissed when he saw who it was.

"Carlton, where are you? I have been trying to reach you all day, there's a body down at the marina and I had to tell the Chief you were out following leads on the Pastrone Bakery robberies, but I don't really think she believed me and now I have all these cannoli on my desk and– "

"O'Hara, shut up for a second!" Lassiter pinched the bridge of his nose. "Wait, what? Cannoli?"

There was a large sigh. "Yeah, Fred Pastrone sent them. Like, a hundred of them. To say thanks for finding whoever robbed him. Which we haven't done yet, because you haven't been here and I've been dealing with a murder all day! Now stop changing the subject, where are you? And where are Shawn and Gus, I would have thought they'd at least be all over the Pastrone robberies. Normally you can't even think about food without them knowing."

She'd seen him leave with Guster; he'd have to tell her some of the truth. "I'm… just at home. Spencer's bike broke down in the middle of nowhere, and those two somehow convinced me to go get his ass… anyway, I just got back, so I think I'm just going to do paperwork here for the rest of the day. Thanks for covering for me with the Chief by the way, I'll make sure to be convincing when I talk to her."

Silence on the other end of the line. Then another loud sigh. He smiled. That was her God-Carlton-is-so-annoying-but-I'm-a-nice-person-so-I'm-going-to-help sigh. "Fine. But you owe me. And I'm not promising to save any of these cannoli for you." With that, she hung up.

Well, that was much easier than expected.

With a relieved sigh, Lassiter sat down at his kitchen table and opened a file. Thank god for police work. At least one thing he knew he could do, and do well.

He was very productive that afternoon. And if he got up to check on Spencer every twenty minutes until he finally fell asleep on the couch, no one would ever know.

... ... ... ... ... ...

The next morning, Lassiter woke with a start at precisely seven o-clock. For a minute, he had no idea why he was on his own couch, or why he was so relieved it was Saturday. Then, the events of the past couple days hit him again and he silently covered his face with his hands, grimacing. Shaking his head, he went to check on Spencer, who was now curled in a ball, free arm clutching a pillow to his stomach.

A shower and clean clothes did nothing to reduce the panic that welled up in Lassiter's stomach every time he thought about what he'd done. Several times, he nearly called Guster, or Woody, to beg them to take Spencer off his hands, but something stopped him every time. He wasn't sure if it was guilt or the infinitesimally small bit of hope that he hadn't ruined his chances entirely, but it was enough. To give himself something to do, he started on breakfast.

"Um… morning." Lassiter turned from the stove to see Spencer standing in the doorway, rubbing his eyes. His hair was stiff with dirt, and though the shadows under his eyes were diminished, he was still pale, letting the cuts on his face and torso blare guilt at Lassiter. He sat down at the table and looked around the kitchen, hand tapping the table in a rhythm Lassiter recognized but couldn't quite place.

Woody's voice was chattering in Lassiter's brain. Hairline fractures to the collarbone, some minor lacerations on the head, dangerous level of fatigue, emotional state extremely fragile if experience is anything to go by. Handle with care.

"Morning," Lassiter finally managed to say. "Um… did you sleep alright?"

He received a blank stare in response; the tapping lost its rhythm and became spasmodic. Spencer looked down at the table.

What had Guster said? Depression, mental overload, panic attacks. Handle with care.

"Why am I here?" Spencer whispered.

Say something, anything other than you're not all right and I can't stand it and I think I might be in love with you. "I… want to help. I know I screwed a lot of things up in the past couple days… I'm sorry."

With a loud groan, Spencer dropped his head onto the table and covered it with his free arm.

"Spencer? What's wrong?"

This prompted a muffled giggle. "Lassie. I don't even… you hit the nail on the head, buddy. I mean…" He started laughing again, and didn't stop. Completely at a loss, Lassiter just stared as the laughter got louder and his shoulders began to shake.

When the laughter roughened, tilting toward sobs, Lassiter put down his spatula and pulled a chair around the table to Spencer's side. Spencer's hand fisted in his own hair as the crying got louder and he curled in on himself. Lassiter couldn't take it anymore; he reached out and slowly pulled Spencer's arm away from his face, inwardly wincing at the sight of bloodshot hazel eyes and trembling lips.

"Sp- Shawn? Um… I'm sorry," Lassiter said, as Spencer's breath hitched and he pressed his lips together on another sob.

A shake of the head and a weak tug on the arm Lassiter was still holding were his only answer.

He sighed and released the arm, but didn't move away. "Listen, Spencer… I know this is weird… And I know you probably hate me, well, I'd hate me, but… I want you to know…"

"Stop." He barely heard the tiny whisper over the pounding of his own heart. "Stop, please …" Spencer's hand dragged over his eyes, scrubbing at the tears. "I shouldn't have… you shouldn't be anywhere near me, I know you don't want to be, just… the other night, I… oh, fuck it."

Unable to move, Lassiter tried to find words to stop the fresh wave of tears, to take away the dullness in Spencer's voice. Do something!

"Just forget it, Lassie. I'll go home; you don't need to worry about me." Hand now gripping the table, Spencer pushed himself out of the chair, wobbling and closing his eyes once he was upright. Finally, Lassiter knew what to do.

He caught Spencer as he wobbled again, wrapping an arm around his waist and guiding him into the living room. The feel of warm skin under his hand, however, he found much more difficult to ignore. He told himself he imagined the gasp and slight flush on Spencer's neck when his fingertips stroked a path down the hollow of a hip bone as he tightened his hold.

"Sit." He deposited Spencer on the couch and pulled a blanket over him, avoiding the hazel stare monitoring his movements.

Back to the kitchen to flip the omelet, thankfully, it hadn't burned. As he slid it onto a plate, he took a deep breath, mastering the urge of a moment ago to just tell Spencer everything.

Handle with care, you idiot. He doesn't need your baggage right now.

Walking back into the living room, Lassiter winced. The man sitting on his couch was barely recognizable as the person who'd lodged himself firmly under Lassiter's skin from the moment he sat down in an interrogation room and read everyone around him like an open book.

Spencer was pulling at a loose thread in the blanket, one foot jittering, and staring blankly into space. Spencer was never blank. He was irritating, obnoxious, brilliant… never blank.

No response when Lassiter sat down on the couch next to him. Nor when he set the plate down on Spencer's lap. Lassiter reached over and covered the twitching hand with his own.

"All I was going to say," he stopped when Spencer met his gaze, struck again by the awful dullness in his eyes. "I was just going to say that… I care about you. And I know this is weird, but I just want to help. That's all."

Finally, Spencer's face registered something other than blankness. His eyes widened, and he leaned closer, studying Lassiter's face the way he looked at crime scenes. After a moment, he seemed to come to some decision.

He closed his eyes and pressed his lips to a very shocked detective's.

They stayed frozen for a fraction of a second, then Spencer pressed closer, opening his mouth, as Lassiter cupped Spencer's face. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe, it was everything he'd been guiltily fantasizing about for years, Spencer – Shawn – tasted like citrus and he was stroking the roof of Lassiter's mouth with his tongue, drawing the softest of moans from the detective.

No. Wait. Wrong. He was in hysterics five minutes ago. Not like this. Inwardly screaming at himself to stop thinking so much about everything, Lassiter pulled away. The look of absolute devastation on Shawn's face almost made him burst into tears of his own. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard, then opened them again and reached for Shawn, desperate to mitigate the damage he was sure he'd just done.

As he wrapped his hand around the back of Shawn's neck, he said quietly, "Spencer?" No response. "Shawn? Please look at me." He rubbed his thumb over the soft hairs on the nape of Shawn's neck.

Sighing, Shawn leaned back into his hand, then pulled himself back upright with a visible effort. In a small voice, he said, "It's ok, Lassie. I already knew you hated me, I guess I just got… confused." He rubbed his chest and grimaced. When he spoke again his voice was raspy with suppressed tears. "Can we just stop, now? I don't think I can – "

"Sweet Lady Justice, Shawn, I don't hate you. You think I would have done any of this if I hated you? And it's not… not that I object, at all, to, well, what just happened, I just think, maybe, we should wait until you're feeling better, or…" Slowly, as he babbled, Shawn leaned back again, as his eyelids fluttered. Lassiter lowered the heavy head back onto the couch, and set the plate to the side.

Shawn's eyes never left his face, though he was having trouble keeping them open. "You don't hate me." Came the soft whisper.

Lassiter shook his head. "No."

"You said I ruined your life…"

"I was very, very drunk when I said that. And if you remember, I also… um…"

A smile so small it might have been imaginary twitched across Spencer's face. "Yeah, I remember. Didn't know if you… wanted to, I guess."

"No, as memories go, it's one of my better ones."

Something like the tranquility he'd felt watching Shawn sleep crept into the room as they sat searching each other's faces. Deciding the rest of the conversation could wait, Lassiter picked up the plate with the omelet and fork on it and held it out, receiving a definitely-real smile in return. When the hand that took hold of the plate began trembling not a second later, Lassiter took it back and set it on his own lap.

"Dude," said Shawn when he held out the fork with a piece of omelet on it. "You are not feeding me."

"Wasn't planning on it. Just trying to help," replied Lassiter, reversing the fork so the handle faced Spencer.

With a grateful smile, Shawn took the fork and slowly ate. "Mmph… thish ish actshually pretty good, Lashie," he said, handing the fork back.

The rest of the day passed quietly. Shawn took a shower, then whined enough to reassure Lassiter that he was feeling better while the bandages around his still massively-swollen shoulder were re-wrapped. Despite all the whining, he flatly refused to take anything for his shoulder, and the way he looked at the pills when Lassiter offered them, like they were about to jump out of Lassiter's hand and bite him, was hard to argue with. Lassiter didn't even bring up the other medications in the little bag.

So Lassiter parked him back on the couch, where he alternated between napping and watching TV, and eating with gusto any food placed in front of him. "Lassie, I had no idea you could cook! What other signs of life are you hiding? Do you paint? Ooh, no, I got it. Theater! You're clearly a theater fan. Probably musical theater."

Lassiter caught himself grinning like an idiot several times as he cooked, but he told himself it was simply because he didn't often get the chance to show off his culinary prowess.

As afternoon wore into evening, however, Lassiter began to worry. The constant, random commentary on whatever was on the TV ceased, and Shawn didn't even seem to be watching. Head bowed, knees pulled up to his chest, he sat on the couch in the wavering light of the TV and stared at a point on the wall. Every now and then, he would tug on the arm trapped by the bandages on his chest, and look down at it like he'd forgotten it was there. As Lassiter passed through the room, he glanced at Shawn, taking in the crease between his eyebrows and the tight line of his mouth.

He opened his mouth, to say what he had no idea, just to get Shawn talking again, but was cut off by a low monotone.

"M'not hungry anymore, Lassie."

"That's ok," said Lassiter, slowly sitting down on the other end of the couch. "How's the shoulder?"

A shrug, followed by a wince. "Hurts when I move. Wish I could take this off though…" He wiggled the arm taped across his chest, shooting it an irritated glance.

Finding the right words had never been one of Lassiter's strengths. He wasn't good at delicate, that was what he had O'Hara for. "How… are you feeling?"

"Umm…" There was a definite hint of fear in the look Shawn shot him from the corner of his eye. "I'm, um. My head's kind of funny… Hey, Lassie, how about we go to the station, see how Jules is doing?"

"Wh- no, I don't think that's a good idea right now. What do you mean your head's kind of funny?"

More fear. Where was this coming from? Shawn wouldn't even meet his eyes, just shook his head emphatically and went back to staring at the wall. "Nothing, it's fine, just a little bored, hey! Are you working on a case? Can I help?" he babbled, pushing himself off the couch.

Lassiter jumped up in time to steady Shawn's shoulders as he listed to the side, but was shrugged off. "I'm not working on anything at the moment, why don't you sit back down? You're bored? I have books, or, um…" Shawn wasn't listening.

How do I entertain a genius? He'd had time to think as he cared for Shawn all day, and he'd realized that was exactly what Shawn was: a genius, able to see things and make connections no one else was capable of. He'd also realized, with a start that nearly made him drop the carton of milk he'd been holding, that Guster had essentially given away Shawn's secret. He sees everything.

A few years ago, he would have taken this straight to the Chief. He would have shouted it to the whole department; Spencer's not a psychic, he's just got an eidetic memory and he's smarter than the rest of us combined! Good news!

Now, as he hovered, watching warily for signs of collapse, all he could think was how out of his depth he was. And how badly he wanted to kiss this ridiculous genius, again, without all this context hovering around.

First you have to stop him running into the street.

Shawn was practically vibrating. "Books, Lassie? Really? Maybe when we're done reading, we can play bridge! Or do some knitting! God, could you be any more stuffy?" He started pacing, not in circles, a rapid wander all over the room.

Stuffy. Old. Boring. Repressed. Victoria had liked to call him that when she got really upset, knowing how much it hurt him. Most of the time he was able to pretend he didn't have feelings, just focus on the job at hand. Hearing the old insult come out of Shawn's mouth, and after he thought they understood each other… He clenched his jaw and swallowed the urge to lash out. "Fine. What would you like to do?"

Shawn looked up from the magazines he was flipping through and throwing on the floor. "Do? I don't know, leave your ridiculously un-decorated apartment? What am I, a prisoner? Did Gus tell you to keep me here until I go crazy to punish me?" By the time he finished, he was picking at the edge of a bandage, ripping pieces off with increasing desperation.

"What? No, Spencer, stop," Lassiter grabbed Shawn's hand, pulling it away from the bandages. Up close, he could see how wide his eyes were, how fast his breathing was, and the hand he was holding was shaking slightly.

He doesn't mean it. He's having a breakdown.

Of course he means it.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Lassiter told his inner monologue to shut the hell up. "No, you are not a prisoner," Lassiter said slowly, looking into Shawn's eyes. "But you're still very tired, and I don't want to… um. How about," he said quickly, when a spark of anger flashed in Shawn's face, "I call Woody? We'll see what he suggests, ok?"

"Fine," Shawn snapped, wriggling out of Lassiter's grasp and resuming his wander. "Tell him it feels like I'm wearing a straightjacket! I thought he was cool!"

Reluctantly, Lassiter went to the kitchen to get his phone. As he waited for Woody to pick up, he heard a soft gasp. Taking the phone away from his ear, he listened.

Again. A gasp, followed by a quiet whimper. He tossed the phone away and dashed back into the living room.

Shawn was leaning against the wall, ripping desperately at the bandages pinning his arm to his chest. His whole body was shaking, and Lassiter could hear his wheezing breath from across the room. In seconds, he was at Shawn's side, wrapping his arms around the hunched shoulders, trying to stop the violent tremors running through Shawn's body.

"Lassie – help – can't get out –" He shot a look of pure terror and pleading at Lassiter, who did the only thing he could – he held Shawn tighter as Shawn's knees gave out, and they slid to the floor together.

Still muttering, Shawn kept tearing at the bandages. Lassiter grabbed his hand, and Shawn gripped it hard. His chest was heaving as he hyperventilated, gasping in rapid, shallow breaths. Tears poured from his wide eyes, and he stared up at Lassiter like he was waiting for the detective to don a cape and slay the monster.

"Please – can't breathe – " With a loud moan, he grabbed his chest and curled into a tight ball, spasms wracking his body. He turned his head so his face was buried in Lassiter's chest, whimpering between gritted teeth. "Lassie – hurts – make it – stop – "

"Ssh, it's ok, I've got you, just try to relax," Lassiter whispered as he rubbed Shawn's back. He had never felt so helpless in his life. Tears dripped onto his collarbone and soaked into his shirt as the man huddled in his arms continued to shake violently.

"Hurts – it hurts – please – m'sorry – "

Lassiter bit his lip, then just started talking, unable to do anything else. "I'm here, it's ok, it'll be over soon," he breathed into the thick auburn hair.

But it wasn't. Shawn's breathing wouldn't calm down, kept getting faster and faster, he was desperate for air. His mouth kept forming the words I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but no sound except high-pitched wheezing was coming out anymore.

"It's ok, it's ok, I promise," soothed Lassiter, squeezing the back of Shawn's neck. "Just breathe."

His breath caught, and didn't start again, so Lassiter quickly lowered him to lie on the floor. The panic in his face started to slip away as his eyes fluttered and weak, shaking hands gripped Lassiter's arms, the meaning in the action clear: Don't leave me.

"I'm not going anywhere, I'm right here. Just breathe, it's ok."

As his back arched, he squeezed his eyes shut, hands falling away from Lassiter. His desperate gasps for air kept catching in his throat, and after a few more seconds of struggle, he passed out with a long sigh, head lolling back on Lassiter's arm.

Lassiter sat in his now-silent apartment, staring around at what he had to admit were extremely bare walls. Grey walls, cream carpet, navy furniture… Shawn's bright yellow sweatpants were the only bit of color in the room. He stood slowly, and carried Shawn back to the couch, then went to find his phone. It was definitely time to ask for some advice.

... ... ... ... ...

"My God," said Woody. "This is one of the most severe episodes I believe he's ever had. Why, the last time the panic attacks were this frequent was just after that madman Yang was caught."

"What? He was having panic attacks after Yang? I… I had no idea…" said Lassiter. He sat down at the table, where he could keep an eye on the figure on the couch.

"Well, of course you didn't, my good detective. Mr. Guster and I have always expended the utmost effort to help Shawn keep his psychological difficulties a secret, as per his wishes. Which brings me to another point – how exactly did you become involved? I always expected Detective O'Hara would be the one to crack the vault of secrets."

"Vault of – ? Nevermind. Um, well, I was… in a position to overhear Guster trying to get Sh-Spencer to take his meds, and I guess Spencer was… very upset about that, and I offered my services to Guster to try and help in, um, whatever… capacity I could."

Woody hummed, and Shawn kicked a foot off the bed. "Well, that does explain why Mr. Guster was so upset. It's always been very important to Shawn that no one know the extent of his issues; I believe he felt it would alienate people, make them think he was a freak."

"But… I mean, he acts crazy half the time anyway!" Lassiter said as he got up to check Shawn was still asleep. As he sat back down, he continued, "He takes insane risks, he has no regard for rules, and the psychic thing… I mean, if he's trying to appear normal, I think he's missed the mark a bit."

Woody sighed, and said, with the air of someone who's tired of repeating themselves, "Normal is a continuum, detective, not a binary. Someone with Shawn's… extreme mental capacity will never be able to act exactly like the rest of us, nor, in fact, would it be healthy for them to try."

So very out of my depth.

Lassiter sighed. "Ok, I guess... Look, I really called because I don't know what to do here. I don't know what sets him off, I don't know how to help him… I think I might be making it worse."

This received a chuckle, "Detective, I know you've had your differences, but I highly doubt that your mere presence is exacerbating things unduly. However, if you're feeling overwhelmed, of course I want to help. Shawn can be rather overwhelming even at his most stable. One question, have you administered any of the medication I sent with you?

Lassiter grimaced. "No, I haven't. I didn't know…"

"Well, quite right you didn't. And, while this is only my personal opinion, I'm not sure that medication is really the best option for his psychological state. I know Mr. Guster puts a great deal of faith in it, due no doubt to his occupation, be we're not dealing with a dangerous personality or anything so straightforward. It is possible for Shawn to achieve a sort of balance on his own, given the right conditions. Hm…" he paused, and then continued, "I wonder if Mr. Guster has had time to calm down a bit. I've never known those two to stay angry with each other for very long, and I'm quite certain it would help Shawn to talk to him. I will see if he wouldn't mind dropping in on you two in the next day or so, as he's really your most valuable resource when it comes to the day-to-day management of the situation. Does that sound acceptable?"

Lassiter could hear Shawn shifting on the couch. "Sure, yeah, sounds good. Thanks, Woody." He hung up and went to the living room.

Shawn was sitting up and blinking, slowly, looking around the room like he'd never seen it before. He rubbed his eyes and scrubbed a hand through his hair, stopping when Lassiter walked over.

"Um. Hey." He muttered.

"Hey," said Lassiter, sitting down beside Shawn. "So… want to talk about it… or something?"

A/N: God, I'm a terrible person. I'm so sorry. I promise they'll do more than kiss briefly and then freak out about it eventually! Also, I saw someone said in a review that the change in perspective was confusing at times – would anyone like me to specify whose perspective it is when it changes? Not telling my audience things because I forget you don't know everything I do is kind of a chronic problem for me. So if you're confused, by this or anything else, let me know! I really appreciate it.

Anyways, it's still a bit crazy in my little corner of the world, but in a totally cool way now! So hopefully no more months-long waits between updates, but they probably (definitely) won't be every other day, either. The good part about that is I'll probably edit more, which means this story will kick twice as much ass! Hopefully. Ok, that's all from me. Remember to tell me what you think, please!