The talk with the chief done nothing but increased Shawn's need to speak to the detective. There were only three places Shawn could think of that the detective might have gone. Shawn sensed that Carlton wouldn't have gone home, so he stopped quickly by Tom Blair's Pub to check for the detective. He was relieved to find that the detective wasn't there, which left only one place...

Sure enough, he found the detective's car parked outside. This late in the day, he wasn't surprised to see that it was the only one in the lot. He went inside, the familiar smell he had secretly liked since he was a child filling his nose. It reminded him of sparklers and firecrackers on the Fourth of July. It also reminded him of going to the shooting range with his father as a kid, the only part about Henry's "police training" that Shawn had always enjoyed. How many other nine year olds had shot a 9mm Glock? It had made him a god during recess until Junior High, when Davey Michaels had been the first in their year to lose his virginity, and suddenly none of the other boys seemed to care about guns any more. He nodded a greeting toward the attendant he was on friendly terms with, rented out a gun and some ammo, and made his way toward the range.

Lassiter was the only one shooting. He had staked his post at the far end of the range, furthest away from the entrance. Shawn approached slowly, allowing himself time to appreciate the detective as he shot. Lassiter was just hot; there was no way around it. His body was lithe, tight lean muscle stretched over his tall frame. You might be tempted to call him lanky, except that when he moved he was actually quite graceful. He was definitely strong, but he had more of the body of a runner or someone who did yoga, not the blunt, stocky body of a lifter. The way he moved, confident and aware of his body, just added to the sex appeal. To top it all off, he was intelligent, and even funny (even when he wasn't trying to be). He could even keep up with Shawn in a verbal exchange, something few people were able to do. Most importantly, he was a good man. If there was one thing Shawn could be sure of, Lassiter would never become the dirty cop, everything he stood for was right, and good. He was always on the straight and narrow. In fact, Shawn had assumed that the detective was straight in every possible way, but now he wondered if he had read the man wrong all these years. Shawn needed to find out, because if the detective was not completely straight in this one specific way, Shawn could be the luckiest man in the world.

The detective finished off his current loaded round, wincing more than usual with every recoil. Obviously, his injured arm was still bothering him. Shawn waited for the man to start reloading to approach; sneaking up on a man holding a loaded gun was not exactly a smart move.

"Should you really be putting your shoulder through abuse like this, Carlie? I'm sure I remember the doc saying something about physical exertion for a week after surgery."

An exasperated sign was the only reply Shawn got.

"Besides-"

"What are you doing here?" Carlton had turned toward the psychic in annoyance, interrupting.

"I came to shoot, just like you, Lassy."

"Enough with the pet names, Spencer. I'm not your pet, and I'm not your ..." He turned to look away, not wanting to think about what the rest of that sentence would have been.

"Alright, Carlton" That was worse, hearing his name on the psychic's lips, spoken in a slightly breathy whisper. "I came here because I recently realised something kinda big, and I needed to go somewhere to think it through."

"Oh yeah, and what was that?" He raised his gun, following the line of his thumb to aim it, before checking his sights. His aim was spot on as always. He took a breath and was preparing to squeeze the trigger on his exhale when Shawn finally answered.

"That I'm gay."

Hearing this made the detective's shoulders jump almost imperceptibly. It might have even gone without notice except that he had been pulling a trigger at the time, and his shot went off course, hitting the wall five feet above the target he had been aiming at. He didn't even pay attention to his blatant misfiring, though, because of the surges of emotion that were washing over him. First he felt like the floor had fallen out beneath his feet, but in a good way. Then just as quickly, the weightless feeling was drowned in a wave of anger.

He finally turned to the other man, who seemed to be avoiding his eye contact on purpose.

"And you though a bit of time at the shooting range would help you sort that out?"

"It's helped me think in the past."

"Spencer, have you even shot a gun before?"

"Yes," the younger man finally looked up at the detective, "I'm an excellent shot, I'll have you know."

"Yeah, right." He raised his own gun again, hoping that he could just ignore the psychic until the range closed to the public. He could make it twenty more minutes. He lifted his gun again, shooting out five shots in quick succession, before a painful throb in his shoulder made him gasp. To cover, he went to reload, and Spencer let out a five shots beside him.

"Way to go, Spencer. You didn't even put a target up."

"I'm using your target."

Carlton looked up quickly as he reloaded. "Well, you missed."

"Did I?"

Carlton hit the button to pull the paper target in closer, it was only when it got within ten feet that he saw the bullet holes, each of Shawn's lined up with each of his, making it look as if he had been shooting with bullets shaped like figure eights. He tore the target down and put up a clean one, pressing the button to send it as far back as it would go.

"Do that again." He demanded, before shooting the target seven times, hitting the head, neck, heart, left shoulder, right shoulder, solar plexus, and groin of the black figure printed on the paper. He then turned to watch Shawn shoot.

The psychic picked up his gun, and assumed the correct stance. His technique was flawless, and the detective watched as he braced himself before letting off seven more shots. He watched as Shawn's chest, arm, and back muscles tightened against each recoil. The way they momentarily strained under the thin fabric of his polo shirt. He didn't even look at the target, transfixed as he was on the movement of Shawn's muscles. His anger rose even more. He had hoped to catch Shawn in a lie, but had found that the man actually could shoot. It made him even angrier that he found watching Shawn shoot to be one of the most erotic experiences of his life.

"Not buying it, Spencer."

"Enough with the pet names, Carlton. I'm not your pet, and I'm not your boyfriend."

It perturbed him that Shawn had completed his own sentence from earlier. "Spencer IS your name."

"My name is Shawn."

"Fine, I'm not buying it, SHAWN."

"Not buying what? I showed you I could shoot."

"You're not gay."

"Yes, I am."

"No, you're not."

"What are you, the expert on gay?"

"Maybe I am!" Shawn was flustering him, and he was making mistakes. He needed to stop speaking now. He turned back toward the counter in front of him, and began refilling his magazine.

"Do I have to give you a blow job to prove it to you?"

Carlton twitched again, dropping the half full magazine to the countertop and knocking the open box of bullets to the floor. He turned to glare at Shawn, but was shocked into silence when the man dropped to his knees at Carlton's feet. For a second he thought Shawn actually was actually going to give him a blow job, but then he realised Shawn was just picking up the bullets that had rolled everywhere. He put them all back in the box, then rose slowly back to his feet, his eyes tracing up Carlton's body as he did so. He placed the bullets back on the counter and took a step toward Carlton. Face only inches away from the taller man's. They were locked into each other's gaze.

"Carlton, I AM gay."

Carlton could only gulp, unable to speak, or even step away from the younger man. Finally he forced out a nod.

That seemed to be enough for Shawn, who moved back to his own counter and picked up the gun again.

The detective just stood there, not able to move or speak. What if what Shawn said was true? And what was that look he had given Carlton when he had been on his knees? Could that mean...? Did Shawn...? Was the risk worth what Carlton suddenly had the urge to do?

Finally able to move, he stepped forward and placed his hand on Shawn's wrist, pushing down gently until Shawn lowered the gun and placed it in the table. He didn't know where the daring suddenly came from; all he knew was that his heart was pounding as he gently pushed back on Shawn's shoulder, making him turn to face the detective. He only took a moment to take in the questioning and almost hopeful look in the other man's eyes before bending forward to kiss him.

It took only a moment for Shawn to respond, eagerly wrapping his arms around the detective's neck, pulling the taller man closer. This encouragement was all it took, and suddenly Carlton's tentative kiss deepened. He found himself pushing the younger man back into the partition behind him, pressing their bodies together at every point he possibly could. He wasn't even aware he had started making a slow, steady grinding motion until Shawn broke the kiss, head falling back against the wall as he let out a long, low moan. Carlton found the response so sexy, he didn't even consider stopping, instead letting his teeth graze Shawn's neck as he began to kiss him there instead.

That is, until a throat clearing behind them reminded them that they were technically in a public place. It was only after Carlton had pushed himself away from the wall, and Shawn's rumpled form, that the attendant realised that it was the psychic who the detective had been grinding into against the wall.

"Um, I'm sorry detective, and uh...Shawn. We're closing up now. I need to check Shawn's gun back in."

Shawn, still breathless, nodded.

The men packed up side by side, not saying anything to each other. Shawn returned his gun, and came back into the range to find the detective already gone.