A/N: I do not own the characters, but I'm fairly proud of the plot, which is mine. Steve Franks and USA own Shawn, Gus, Lassiter, O'Hara, Henry, Vick, Santa Barbara, the Psych name, and, of course, the incomparable Buzz McNabb. I also don't own Mentos, Diet Coke, Lifetime or the Home and Garden Television network. I think those things are all owned by themselves. I know COPS belongs to Fox, and I think the Ninja Turtles currently go to the Cartoon Network.

Set immediately after (and a little bit during) 3x11 (like I have to tell you that it's "Lassie Did a Bad, Bad Thing). So, there're spoilers for that. Rated for some language and some content (especially in this chapter).

Hey, so, before we get started, quick apology for the lateness of the update. I was going to get this all hammered out two days ago so I could post early, but first I had to get caught up on my Mentalist, a priority of which we all know Shawn would approve, and then there was the Franklin and Bash marathon, and once you've seen that many guys in vests in one evening…well, work does not get done. Then of course, there was the Saturday night Psych marathon that I am incapable of resisting. That's how you end up with a late update. Hence the apology. Totally ruined a great streak, too.


Chapter 8: Grabbing Life (Among Other Things) by the Little Lassiters

Carlton Lassiter loved driving. Something about the feel of the steering wheel, having control over such a large piece of machinery, making eighty little decisions a minute, he found it all…life affirming. O'Hara liked to ask why it was he always drove, and usually he would just grunt or hedge. Once, he'd told her that it was his car, and that's just how it was. But Lassiter loved the control, something he would never admit aloud.

The only thing he loved more than driving his car was driving his car with a passenger. Most of the time. Spencer sat in the seat beside him, tapping his foot against the…. "Spencer, get your feet off the dashboard!"

Spencer huffed. "Can I at least go through the glove box? Maybe make some glove puppets?"

Lassiter had to fight to keep from squeezing his eyes shut at he led his car through an intersection. "I don't actually keep gloves in there, Spencer."

"What? And I'm just supposed to take your word for it?" Movement from the corner of Lassiter's vision coupled with the popping sound of the latch confirmed that Spencer was, in fact, digging through his glove box. "Dude," Spencer came back with moments later, "is this a Mars bar? I thought they stopped making these in, like…'86." Before Lassiter could answer, however, Spencer had found something else to capture his chipmunk-like interest. "Whoa, Lassie, insurance paperwork!"

"And that's exciting…why, exactly?" Lassiter sighed, hating himself just a little for playing into Spencer's insanity.

"Um, hello? Can you say origami?" Lassiter flinched as he heard Spencer start folding and, he cringed, crumpling his carefully organized insurance forms. "I'm gonna make you a registration seagull. No, a duck." Spencer looked over at Lassiter and raised his work for inspection, smiling expectantly. "Now, I know what you're thinking, but you just put that thought out of your pretty little head, Lassifrass; everybody makes swans."

"Just…just put it back in the glove compartment," Lassiter told him without glancing over, sighing again.

As Lassiter brought the car to a stop, Spencer leaned forward to gaze out the windshield at the motel. "Are you sure this is the place?"

"I've been staying here for days, Spencer. I'm pretty sure." He knew his tone was a bit sharper than the situation warranted, but Lassiter hated having to feel defensive about his living arrangements, especially when he had been the one to invite Spencer here in the younger man's hour of need. Above all, he wanted the Q and A phase over with as soon as possible. Somehow, Lassiter knew Spencer wouldn't approve of his motives.

But Spencer couldn't just let things be. It was for the best, Lassiter supposed. He wouldn't really be Shawn if he were capable of leaving well enough alone. "Well, it just…I've seen the kind of room you get yourself, the kind of living conditions you prefer…." Spencer was still gazing at the crumbling brickwork of the motel before them as he spoke.

Just as well, Lassiter thought. The detective wasn't quite ready for the "psychic" to turn his questioning gaze toward him. "Do you have a point coming up anytime soon? I'd like to know in advance so I can schedule my other obligations around it."

Lassiter just caught the flash of a grin across Spencer's face before he responded. "First of all, not bad, Carlito; we'll get you up to top notch banter any day now. Second, this place seems a little…low rent for you, Lassie." Shawn paused, turning in his seat to face the detective. Lassiter could see something he knew he wasn't going to like in the certainty on Spencer's face. "You're keeping an eye on someone, aren't you?"

Though phrased as a question, Lassiter heard only the accusation. He shifted in his seat, but his silence was apparently enough.

The happy-go-lucky façade Spencer kept so firmly in place during office hours had dropped, and he was now firmly on the offensive. "What happened to forced leave? There's no way the chief okayed this! Haven't you had your ass handed to you enough for signing off on your own stake-outs?"

"It isn't a stake-out," Lassiter said, quickly jumping to his own defense. He paused for a beat, trying not to grin. It had been a long time since someone had cared enough to ream him like that, and it was weird how much he had missed it. "At most, this is passive surveillance." He knew the distinction was thin, but it had been enough to convince himself; hopefully, it would do to convince Spencer, as well. "I'm not sitting out in my car with a pair of binoculars or anything, but if I happen to see a certain ex-con recently paroled on his assault and drug charges, then fine. Great, even. And if I happen to catch sight of any violations of said parole when and if I see such an ex-con, well…." Lassiter let the sentence hang, hoping Spencer would see his point.

He wasn't disappointed. Though skepticism still hung in the younger man's eyes, Spencer finished his thought all the same. "Then it would be your civic duty to report this…hypothetical criminal to someone not on leave from the department. Fun little loop-hole you found yourself, there, Lassie. If I didn't know any better, I'd say I was rubbing off on you." Shawn smiled over at the detective. "I'll make a dishonest man of you yet." And just like that, Spencer was smiling again. He clapped, rubbing his hands together vigorously. "So, where does our completely hypothetical drug dealing people puncher live? You know, just in case the spirits want to kick something my way?"

Lassiter nodded at a small, unassuming building across the street. It was a single-level duplex in almost as awful a condition as the motel before which they sat. Pieces of the walkway leading to the shared front porch were missing, weeds had long ago overgrown the yard, and the brickwork which made up the outer walls was worn and, in some places, falling apart entirely.

Spencer whistled. "Now that's a charming piece of real estate. A fixer upper if I ever saw one, perfect for couples just starting out, or any career criminal. Whether you plan on flipping it for a profit or starting a meth lab in the shed out back, this property just screams potential!" Shawn looked askance at the expression on Lassiter's face. "HGTV and COPS: a combination more deadly than Mentos and Diet Coke," Shawn informed him ominously.

"Be that as it may," Lassiter said, eyeing Spencer warily, "I already told you I'm not keeping a real watch on this guy, just an eye out when it's convenient. So unless you want the couple renting the room we're parked in front of to start talking," and here Lassiter grinned as they both looked toward the window of the room in front of them, watching the curtains swing shut as though two noses hadn't just been pressed up against the glass, "I suggest we get out of my car."


"It's not much," Lassiter said as he opened the door to the small room, flipping on the lights, "but it's just until my place has been cleared as a crime scene. You can stay with me there until your pipes get fixed."

Shawn could see from the look in Lassie's eyes exactly how much the detective hated the thought of going back to his own home, and he wasn't nearly dense enough not to know why. Of course, he also knew the look on his own face would communicate a similar reluctance, not that either of them would give voice to their worries.

We're guys, Shawn told himself. Guys don't talk about stuff; they bottle stuff up until it turns into cancer. Shawn thought about that for a second, then wondered if talking wouldn't be the wiser course of action. But when he thought of the gun Drimmer had held to his head, he knew he wouldn't have the option. He shook the thought away, trying to think of something, literally anything, else.

Shawn looked down at the small twin beds, sitting on either side of a small table. The lamp sitting on the table cast a feeble light, giving rise to shadows on the walls around them. Somehow, it was appropriate. The bed on his left was rumpled slightly, and Shawn could just make out the barest impression of ass prints left behind by previous guests. The one on his right had been made recently, with what could only be described as military precision; clearly the bed on the right had been Lassie's for the duration of his stay.

Shawn dropped his bag on the bed to his left, then settled easily onto the right-hand bed, ruining the beautiful job Lassie had done of making it. As Shawn grabbed the remote from the side table and started flipping mindlessly through the channels the television did receive, Shawn considered their situation.

Staying in the same room would certainly make things easier, Shawn reflected. No more arguing about whose place they would stay at, no late night calls to come over once all the lights had finally gone out in Lassie's neighborhood, no more waking up before dawn to make the trip back home before any of the neighbors woke up. For the next few days, Shawn would get to pretend that he and Lassie had a normal, people relationship.

Shawn smiled as Lassie settled down on the bed next to him, draping an arm over his shoulders. Shawn loved the protective feel of that arm, wished he could feel like this all the time. He shook his head, refocusing on the television. He was currently on some made-for-TV movie about four girls on vacation in Mexico. Going by the Lifetime logo in the bottom corner of the screen, the girls would have some montage-y fun and yell "Mexico!" until one of them got raped. No, thank you. Not quite the ambiance Shawn had in mind.

Shawn surfed until he saw something with guns. He watched exactly eight seconds of last year's biggest summer action movie, tempted, before moving on. While Lassie would undoubtedly love all the guns and explosions, Shawn wasn't really feeling the whole "death screams in the background" thing for this.

Next up to bat, after skirting through the sports channels, was a laughable TV mystery movie. Less than a minute in, Shawn looked up at Lassie; Lassie looked down at Shawn. They rolled their eyes simultaneously and pronounced, "The butler did it." Predictable, bland, and totally not on the menu today. Next.

Shawn passed by several sitcoms and cartoons, stopping next on what appeared to be an attempt at a comedy set at a ski resort. Despite the calls of "righteous!", "tubular!" and other pseudo-hipisms Shawn hadn't heard since his middle school ninja turtles phase, the film seemed to be his best bet on Saturday afternoon television.

Shawn sighed as he heard one of the characters actually yell "Kowabunga, dude!", but set the remote on the small table next to the bed all the same. As he settled back against the headboard of the somewhat questionable bed, Shawn allowed his hand to fall carelessly onto Lassie's thigh, fingers trailing lightly down to the inseam of the detective's pants. And, just like that, neither of them was paying any attention to the idiots shouting "bodacious" on the television. Perfect.

Shawn shifted his hand lazily up and down Lassie's thigh, earning a subtle gasp from the detective sprawled beneath him. Shawn smiled his most wicked smile as his hand worked its way further up Lassie's leg, finding its way to a sizable lump. Shawn tilted his head back, aligning his lips with Lassie's ear. "Is that your sidearm, Detective, or are you just happy to see me?"

Shawn was never happier for his quick fingers than when he wanted what was on the other side of Lassie's shirt, which was, admittedly, pretty much always. One hand made short work of Lassie's buttons, while the other rid him of his belt. He was paused in his progress only for a moment as Lassie pulled his shirt off and threw it across the room.

A few seconds and some strategic wiggling later, Shawn had Lassie's pants down around his ankles, and his shirt and tie were a thing of the past. Not to be outdone, Lassie had somehow gotten Shawn's jeans onto the other bed. You never cease to amaze, Shawn thought, looking down on Lassie with pride.

Shawn straddled Lassie's hips, running his hand along the detective's pectorals. Shawn claimed Lassiter's mouth, tearing a moan from the tall, lithe man, and loving every second of it. He loved it when he was able to make the detective moan, make him lose just a little of his control in any given moment. Shawn loved looking into Carlton's eyes when the detective lost himself in an experience.

Shawn moved down Lassiter's neck, finally trailing open-mouthed kisses across his collarbone, stopping only to enjoy the sternum bush of which he was so very, very fond. Lassie shivered as Shawn worked his way back up his neck, finding just the right spot to stop on, half way between his shoulder and his ear. Lassie loved that spot.

While Shawn's mouth was busy, his hands were finding their way down Lassie's sides, over his strong abs, and down, down, to dip playfully below the waistband of the detective's boxers. Lassiter growled, the vibrations carrying up into Shawn's chest, as the younger man pulled his hands away. "Well," Shawn mumbled into Lassie's shoulder, "if you insist."


Carlton Lassiter lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He was floating in the beautiful, blissful haze that was becoming more and more familiar the more time he spent with Spencer. He loved this feeling, this warm, happy feeling that Spencer always left him with. Lassiter wasn't entirely sure where he was, what time it was, or what he was supposed to be doing, but he knew he was happy, another feeling of growing frequency lately.

Over the sound of the television, Carlton heard a door creak open, and for a moment, he almost considered lifting his head to look around. Almost. After a few moments, during which he could barely make out footsteps growing ever-closer, Spencer's face filled his vision. Carlton grinned up at him until he realized Shawn was wearing his robe.

"Hey, Lassie," Shawn purred as the mattress dipped and the disgusting motel bedspread shifted. Lassiter moaned slightly as a warm presence joined him on the bed, and he curled instinctively around it. They stayed that way for a time; the only motion that of Spencer taking off the robe he had stolen from the bathroom. Just as Lassiter was beginning to settle back into the barely conscious haze, Shawn's breath ghosted across his face. "I have a present for you."

Finally giving up on the idea of actually drifting off to sleep with Spencer in the room, Carlton pushed himself up against the bedpost, dragging Shawn up with him. He groaned as the light from the window hit his eyes, lifting a hand to shield himself.

"Look what I have," Shawn sang loudly, right in Carlton's ear. "Look, look, look!"

Shawn was waving his phone in front of Carlton's eyes. The detective had to put a hand up to steady the phone, looking at the image displayed. As his eyes adjusted to the bright light cast by the phone's display, Lassiter felt a grin spread across his face.

Carlton could hear the smile in the younger man's voice as he spoke. "That, my dear, dear detective, is a gun toting drug dealing people puncher. And this, right here, sticking out of his waistband, is one great, big parole violation."

"Did you—?" Carlton asked, stopped by a yawn.

"Sent it to Buzz's phone three minutes ago. Traceable back to me, not you, and that guy is going back to the place where the bad guys go. I think I can hear the sirens now," Shawn said, cupping a hand around one ear. "It's a beautiful sound, Lassie."

But Carlton was too distracted by the beautiful sight in front of him, Shawn Spencer bare to the waist and beaming with pride, to notice. Life was good.


Awww…Lassie and Shawn. I can never get enough of those two.

A bit more to come, but we're winding it on down. See you back here for the rest next time.