Disclaimer: I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

Rating: M+

Spoilers: Through season six episode nine, "Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat"

WARNING: Shassie, meaning full-on homosexual Shawn/Lassiter angst and occasional explicitness.

A/N: Wow, eight chapters and an interlude, and we're only just now alluding to the fact that there might, actually, be a case in this story. If I seem slightly verbose, blame it on the wolves. They're not great conversationalists.

Chapter Eight: Twenty Questions

They drove back to Lassiter's house in complete silence. Lassiter's grip on the steering wheel was murderously tight, broken only when he needed to shift. He sat so rigidly upright in the seat that it looked like he could spontaneously eject from the vehicle at any moment. Shawn sat no easier in his own seat, and chewed his lip while shooting worried glances at the detective beside him at regular intervals. When Lassiter pulled the 'Vette into the garage and shut off the engine, Shawn finally dared a word.

"Buzz won't say anything about what he saw to anyone, except maybe Francie. And she won't talk."

Lassiter dropped his head onto the steering wheel between his white-knuckle fingers. "He doesn't need to say anything, Spencer. It's enough to know that he saw."

"But…but it's Buzz. Buzz is totally cool, right? I mean, for the last five years straight he's won the 'Sweetest Cop of the Year' Award. He won't bust your chops or blackmail you or even give you the stink-eye, not that I think he has one."

"Spencer, true as that may be, it doesn't really change the fact that he saw."

Now Shawn felt a faint surge of irritation. "And is that so goddamn terrible? I mean, Lassie, honestly, what did he see? Two colleagues - frenemies, pal-holes - having lunch together, like they've done at least a half a dozen times in the past. That's all."

"McNab isn't stupid, even if he seems a bit simple. He can put two and two together, Spencer, and there were frickin' flowers on the table."

"And I pretended to be a dancing cat and sat in your lap during one of the first cases we ever worked together! The SBPD is used to seeing me do weird, slightly gay things to you, Lassie. Do you really have to start worrying that they're going to throw you a sock party in the men's locker room? They wouldn't dare, even if they did decide you were gay, you know. You're too intimidating. And too quick on the draw."

"Are you really so dense that you can't understand or imagine why it would be bad to be outed on the job, Spencer? Twenty-first century or not, California or not, gay cops have it rough."

Shawn pouted. "I thought you liked it rough, Lassifras."

"Not like that, I don't. Look, try to absorb this, would you? Gay cops…have a hard time getting backup. Gay cops…sometimes do get sock parties in the men's locker room. Now if I was goddamned sure I was gay then I'd suck it up and deal with it but I'm not, Spencer. I'm just not fucking sure, do you get it?"

"I…do understand, Lassie," Shawn said. Then he shook his head vigorously. "Or maybe I don't. What the hell was that we did in your kitchen this morning if you aren't sure you're gay, or more accurately bi? What's with that shower and all the kissing?"

"I don't know, Spencer, okay? I don't know if I'm seriously attracted to you or if I've just been alone so goddamn long that I'll take a little fucking human contact wherever the hell I can get it."

It hurt, Shawn felt the sting all the way through the walls he'd built up around his own heart over the years, but there was a clear note of apology in the words and he decided that he could forgive Lassiter for saying it, and moreover that he could be sensitive enough to understand the detective's conflicted emotions.

"All right, Lassie, I can accept that," he said. "And I've probably been pushing you too far, too fast. It's that good old narcissistic 'Shawn gets what Shawn wants' attitude smacking me in the face again, and I'm sorry for that. I never meant to make you feel pressured." He chuckled ruefully and shook his head. "This is why it was foredoomed with Jules - she was too nice to really smack me down when I screwed up, she'd just suck up the disappointment and forgive me. I need someone who's not afraid to chew me out once in awhile, rather than just get snowed in under all my crap."

"And you're absolutely sure there's no woman who would do that for you? Because I could put you in touch with my ex-wife," Lassiter said.

"I've met her, actually," Shawn confessed. "But my motivation was solely one of getting a little inside information on you. She waxes rather nostalgic after two glasses of white zinfandel. She also gets a little handsy, but I expect you knew that." He shook his head again. "God, I'm sorry. I have no brain filter. Every idiotic thing just comes flopping right off the end of my tongue."

"It's okay," Lassiter said mildly. "She does get handsy. With every guy in arm's reach."

Shawn peered into his face, which was difficult as he still had his head down on the steering wheel. "Did…you know she was cheating on you while you were still married?"

"I am a detective, Spencer."

"You knew…at the time?"

Lassiter nodded.

"And you still tried to make it work for more than two years after she kicked you out?"

"I believe from time to time I may have heard myself described as 'pig-headed stubborn.'"

"Man, that's dedication. Not that I'd expect anything else from you. I mean, after all, you're you."

"Some have described it as stupidity. Including both of my sisters and my former partner."

"Oh…you mean…Detective Berry."

"Yeah."

Shawn sighed. "Were you guys really…sleeping together?"

"You mean you popped out with that little comment and you had doubts?"

"Well…were you?"

It was Lassiter's turn to sigh. "No, Spencer. Oddly enough, your much-vaunted psychic abilities failed you on that one. She was my partner. And my friend. There…there was an attraction, of course there was, but neither of us had ever taken the slightest step toward acting on it."

"Then why did she transfer out?"

"Her mother actually did have an accident. The fact that people were looking at her as though she were the recipient of the Homewrecker of the Year Award probably helped the decision, too. At that point people thought Victoria and I were still together, after all."

"How did people look at you after that?" Shawn asked. He felt damnably guilty.

Lassiter grimaced at the memory. "I've never gotten so many 'atta-boys' in my life," he said in disgust. "Like Lucinda was some sort of trophy I'd won. We both tried to tell everyone that it just wasn't true, but nobody believed us because we didn't call you out on it right away. I guess we looked guilty."

They had, they'd even jumped away from each other a little bit. Shawn guessed the attraction had been both rather strong and perfectly mutual. He felt bad for ruining the friendship - eventually it probably would have evolved into more than that, and so much would have been different. Lassie would have been different, maybe better. Maybe worse. They'd never know, now.

"I know it doesn't mean much now, but, I'm really sorry I did that to you - to both of you. I was grasping at straws and angry with you to boot, but in hindsight it was incredibly uncalled for. Lucinda seemed like a really cool lady."

"She was. Is, I expect, though I haven't seen her in six years. What you did taught me to keep my friends at more than arm's length and my feelings better hidden, but it's not all bad. I was a little shocked and appalled that they would pair me up with another female officer after that, but O'Hara is everything any cop could ask for in a partner, and then some."

"She is awesome. Come on, let's go inside - I'll let you have another cup of coffee."

"I think I need it," Lassiter sighed. He grabbed the keys and climbed laboriously out of the low-slung car. He looked a trifle pale and tired but his breathing seemed normal so Shawn figured he hadn't over-extended himself either physically or emotionally. Still, he put an arm around Lassiter's back and helped him out of the garage and up the stairs to the porch.

There was a yellow Post-It note on the front door. Juliet's scratchy, distinctively miniscule handwriting revealed who it was from. Lassiter peeled it off and read it.

Carlton: Hope you're still alive, hope you haven't killed Shawn yet, though I suppose I could understand if not condone a murder. I'd rather you didn't have that black mark on your honor, though. I just dropped by because I wanted to talk to you about a case I'm working - I could really use your perspective, and perception. I know I should have called but I didn't expect you to be out, and it was kind of a whim that brought me by, anyway. I'll call you later and maybe we can set up a convenient time for a talk - and you're going to let me ride in that Sting Ray, dammit, sooner or later. Let's make it sooner, 'kay? Stay strong and remember your deep breathing exercises - Shawn means well, and he really cares about you. So do I. - Juliet.

Lassiter shook his head in amusement. "O'Hara, you are the only person in the world who can write a novel on a Post-It," he said aloud.

"What's Jules have to say?" Spencer asked, and craned for a look-see. Then he withdrew his head sheepishly. "Not that it's any of my business and I won't pry if you don't want to share."

"It's nothing much - she hopes we haven't killed each other yet and wants a ride in my car. And she wants my take on a case she's working. I kind of doubt that last part, though - she's probably just using it as an excuse to wheedle me out of the keys to the Sting Ray."

"I could see her wanting a second pair of eyes," Shawn said. "You're her partner, after all, and the head detective. If she can't have you on scene then at least she's still got you for a sounding board."

Lassiter unlocked the door and stood aside for Shawn to enter first. "No use speculating until she calls, I guess."

The answering machine flashed one message. Lassiter hit the button apprehensively.

"…Carlton? Honey…call me back, please?"

Lassiter blinked - something he'd rarely done in his life but seemed to be doing a lot of lately. The plaintive, apologetic voice in the recording was almost unrecognizable, but he knew it just the same.

"Er…was that…?"

"My mother," Lassiter finished in wonderment. "Yeah, it was."

"Are you going to call her back?"

Lassiter thought about it. "You know, the women in my family have always done something I call the Seven Days of Silent Treatment whenever they decided an offense was unforgivable," he said. "I'm expecting calls from Lauren and Janie tomorrow, by the way. But whenever Lyle or I were angry with them we were expected to forgive and forget immediately. I don't think I'm ready to forgive and forget just now. I doubt I'll make her sit and stew for seven whole days, but seven hours or so seems like justice to me, somehow."

"She sounded…contrite. Are you sure you want to risk giving her a chance to snap out of it?"

"I want her to be goddamned certain that she is contrite," Lassiter said. "I'm not going through the usual rollercoaster ride of her emotions." He dropped onto the couch with a wince and a sigh.

"Will you please take it easy on the dropping and flopping?" Shawn said. "You're a wounded warrior, you know."

"Want to watch some TV?" Lassiter asked. "I have no clue what the hell is on Thursday afternoons, but I'll watch whatever."

"Actually, as tired as you look, I doubt you'll stay awake long enough to watch anything."

"Same difference. I really don't watch TV, I just turn it on once in awhile for the noise. Unless I happen to be on it, that is."

"You do like getting on TV, Lassie."

He shrugged. "It's another thing we have in common I guess, Spencer - recognition equals acceptance. Why else would we both go so far out of our way, in our own separate ways, to seek attention and praise?"

"Wow, you have done a lot of soul-searching, Lass."

"The quest for self-improvement has led me down some strange paths, Spencer. Reference tap class with Guster."

"You got really good, actually."

"Thank you."

"How about that coffee?"

"Jesus, yes."

"Could we have it in the fancy party room, in front of the fireplace? This room still kind of gives me the creeps, a little bit. I'd never been pistol whipped before."

"Yeah, but be careful - it took three days to get Guster's queso stain out of my carpet."

"I told him to canoe his pita."

Shawn helped him off of the couch and into the "fancy party room," which was actually the room Lassiter used as his office most of the time, meaning there were more Claridge boards in here, more gruesome pictures of murder victims. There was, however, also a nice flagstone fireplace and a relatively comfortable sofa, and while it was just the next room over from the main sitting area - and still directly connected to the kitchen - it was a world of difference in both comfort and style. It spoke volumes of the man who lived in this house, who kept most of the world shut out of his life just as he generally kept them shut out of this room.

"Ah ha, I wondered where the DVD collection was hiding," Spencer said. He walked over to the cabinet where a surprising number of movies stood lined up like sentinels in neat rows. "Where did you hide these during the party?"

"In the guest room, along with the Claridge boards and everything else I didn't want the world to see."

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised at the number of Clint Eastwood movies in here."

"I suppose you shouldn't."

"I notice you don't have The Bridges of Madison County, though."

Lassiter shuddered. "Heaven forefend. Victoria actually made me sit through that. I was crying by the end, but not for the same reason she was."

"Mourning the loss of that one hundred and thirty-five minutes you could never get back?" Shawn asked.

"You know that's right," Lassiter said, and laughed.

"Mystery Science Theater 3000: The Movie. Awesome. Airplane, double-awesome. Top…Top Secret? Dude, you rock! Carlton Lassiter: Closet Comedy Maven."

"I like anything that's a little bit twisted," Lassiter admitted.

"Ah ha! Now we know why you secretly like me."

Lassiter raised an eyebrow and regarded the man levelly. "…It could be possible."

Shawn turned his attention back to the walls. "You have a sword," he observed. He sounded surprised.

"I have a sword. I have several, in fact."

"That is somehow far more unnerving than the fact that you have guns hidden all over your house."

"I don't see why. If I'm coming at you with a sword, all you have to do is outrun me."

"I'll…bear that in mind."

"Just keep in mind that I can run faster than I usually do."

Shawn had seen Lassiter's second gear on one or two highly memorable occasions, and knew those words were true. "Thanks for the warning. Of course, running with a sword seems just about as well-advised as running with scissors, so…"

"I threw javelin at university," Lassiter said smugly.

"Okay, now you're really scaring me. You seem to be feeling more…er…energized. I haven't even gotten you that coffee, yet."

Lassiter shrugged. "I don't know, I like this room - kind of makes me feel relaxed, I guess. That's why I had the party in here, even though I really don't like letting people in. I think I'm going to miss it, actually."

"Miss it? What do you mean?"

"My lease is almost up, so I've decided to move. There's a condo I've got my eye on that's a lot closer to the station. It'll be nice to have neighbors that don't hate me. Yet."

"Oh. Is it a nice condo?"

Lassiter shrugged noncommittally. "It's not as large as this place, but how much room do I need? I'm just one guy, after all."

Shawn opted not to say what was on his mind to say - "Not anymore" - because he was fairly certain that might qualify as pushing. Instead he went into the kitchen and set the coffee maker to brew. He went back into the room and sat down on the couch next to Lassiter.

"It occurs to me somewhat belatedly that I've been drilling you for information about yourself for the past twenty-four hours. Maybe there's something you want to know about me?"

There were a lot of things Lassiter would have liked to know about Shawn Spencer, all of them pertaining to exactly how he managed to keep up his psychic schtick so convincingly for so long. "Not…in particular."

"Oh come on, Lassie - nothing? There must be something. What's my favorite color? Favorite food? How do I get my hair looking so indescribably awesome?"

"Your favorite color is green, your favorite food is freakin' pineapple - anything pineapple - and you used to use Bed Head styling gel on your hair until you made an online friendship with a lady in Perth who sends you Kangaroo Paste three times a year, although I still have no idea what the hell Kangaroo Paste is or why you think it does anything extraordinarily wonderful for you that justifies tricking that poor woman out of the postage it takes to send it, let alone the cost of the product itself."

Shawn blinked. "Wow. You've been…paying attention."

"Not really. But you yammer on and on and I am a detective, Spencer - I've been trained to remember details, even ones I'd much rather not know."

"So what don't you know about me? Maybe you want to hear about my childhood?"

"I think I know all about it that I'd care to."

Shawn crossed his arms across his chest. "Oh yeah? So lay it on me, Mister Holmes. Tell me the story of Young Shawn Spencer."

Lassiter nodded. "All right, if that's what you want." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "You were a smart kid. A very smart kid, possibly a genius, but for some reason you hid it from everyone but those few who could see it regardless - your mom and dad. I suspect you were either targeted by bullies for being one of the 'geeks' or afraid you would be, and as your best friend was both a black nerd and a tap dancer, you were bullied enough. You made yourself over into the 'class clown,' something a lot of insecure smart kids do, because it takes a lot of the pressure off, both from the mean kids and from teachers. Your mother left to pursue her career when you were a senior in high school, for which you blamed your father. You blamed your father for a lot of things, mainly for being there. Most of your childhood memories are of you spending time with your dad - and granted, I shudder to imagine just how…pushy…Henry must have been but hey, I have maybe a grand total of two memories of spending actual one-on-one time with my dad, and one of them involves a bottle of Jameson's and a belt. But you have relatively few memories of time spent with your mother, for which again you blame your father, for monopolizing your time, even though the truth may be closer to the fact that her career monopolized her time - between a psychiatrist and a cop, I'd have to say that the psychiatrist was the primary bread-winner in the family. You inherited Henry's eye for detail and your mother's phenomenal memory, and it doesn't surprise me at all that Henry is bald - if I'd had to keep track of a kid as dedicatedly destructive and occasionally self-destructive as you I'd have torn my hair out, too. Just dealing with the adult version of you for the last six years has put about twenty years worth of grey in it."

Shawn sat in utter silence and chewed the inside of his lip. Finally he said, "You…see a whole hell of a lot more than I give you credit for."

"Well, you've never given me much credit for anything, Spencer."

Shawn actually looked ashamed. "That…that's going to change, Lassie. I'm…going to go check on the coffee."

He was back in a few minutes with two cups, one of which he handed to Lassiter. "Three creams, four sugars, right? Highly unhealthy, but since I'd guess it's been at least three months since you've eaten a cream horn or a cheese danish then you've earned yourself a little naughtiness."

"Actually I've been taking my coffee black for a couple of years now, but I don't mind."

"Really? I remember that now, but I would have guessed that resolution to last maybe two days, tops."

"I keep my resolutions, Spencer. And who are you to lecture me about healthy eating habits? When is the last time you went a full day without eating something deep fried, smothered in cheese, or composed predominately of refined sugar?"

"Well, I haven't eaten anything like that today."

"The day isn't over, Spencer. What do you think we should have for dinner?"

"I don't know, I was thinking maybe chili cheese dogs and onion rings, and fried ice cream for dessert."

"Game, set, match."

"Gaaa!" Shawn put his mug down on the coffee table. Lassiter glared at him briefly, then picked it up and slid a coaster under it. "Wanna play Twenty Questions?"

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather play Spin the Bottle or Truth or Dare?"

"Spin the Bottle sounds fun but a two-player game kind of takes the element of surprise out of it, Truth or Dare would work but you're not in condition to perform any major dares. I wouldn't say no to a rousing game of Mousetrap or Grape Escape if you've got them, though. Which is the better game, do you think? Sure, Mousetrap is a classic, but Grape Escape involves scented Play-Doh, so…"

"Spencer, what is your point, exactly?"

"That squashing, squishing, cutting, and gear-rolling clay Grape People has a profoundly cathartic effect and may trump the tension and excitement of trapping plastic mice in a brightly colored Rube Goldberg machine."

Lassiter closed his eyes and counted slowly to twenty-seven. "I mean why did you ask me to play Twenty Questions?" he said through his teeth.

"Well, not Twenty Questions, really," Shawn admitted. "More like Truth minus the Dare. Eye minus the Spy and plus a You."

"Just…tell me what the hell you want, Spencer."

"Peace in the Middle East. A steady girlfriend for Gus. A heaping bowlful of bananas foster. You, me, whipped cream and chocolate sauce. I'll leave the maraschino cherry decision up to you."

"Spencer, less than an hour ago you told me that you wanted to be mature…"

"No, Lhasa Apso, I said I wanted to be more mature. I think I've succeeded admirably over the past few hours, but I still need an occasional outlet for my inner child. And bananas foster - do you know how to make that? The original recipe, from Brennan's Restaurant in New Orleans."

"Actually, yes I do, but that's beside the point - and no, I won't make it. Just tell me why the hell you want to play Twenty Questions, or whatever permutation thereof. Seems to me like that's kind of what we've been doing all along."

"What we've been doing is, I've been grilling you for personal information and you have been reluctantly divulging it. Then when I try to give you the opportunity to grill me you decide you prefer your questions baked."

"What?"

"Never mind. What I'm proposing is, we each ask each other twenty questions, about anything as innocuous as favorite songs to deep dark dirty secrets. You have to answer truthfully and when it's done, it's done - I won't pry into your life for any more information you don't care to share on your own hook."

Lassiter fixed him with his best Interrogation Glare. "Ten questions."

"Thirty," Spencer countered.

"Spencer, why do you inevitably insist on going exactly the wrong direction in any negotiation? Just for that, five questions."

"Fifteen."

"Nope. Five or none."

"Okay, Grumpy McGee, five questions," Shawn pouted. "But I hope you realize you just cut out all of my innocuous questions so I'm going to have to jump right to the deep dark dirty secrets. You go first."

"Okay then, Mr. Spencer, tell me: Were you the one who ran up my room service bill at the Hotel de la Plaza?"

Shawn immediately wished he hadn't started this game. "Y…yes…" he admitted.

"I knew it. You owe me sixteen hundred bucks, Spencer."

"Do I still get to ask a question?" Shawn asked in a small voice.

Lassiter leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. "Yeah, go ahead."

"How did you break your collarbone?"

Lassiter blinked. "That's your deep dark dirty secret?" he asked.

"Well, you never told anyone - and I mean anyone - and I never did manage to suss out the truth myself, so…yeah."

"I fell off my horse."

"You have a horse."

"I have a horse, and if that was your second question then you've only got three more."

"Did my voice go up at the end?"

"That was your second question."

"You didn't answer it, so it doesn't count. It was rhetorical, anyway. Okay, your turn."

"Okay…how exactly did you learn…or rather, how did Henry teach you…to see everything there is to see in a crime scene in a matter of seconds and come to some sort of working conclusion about what you see, regardless of whether that conclusion seems like a wild ass guess?"

"Are you sure that's only one question? Because it feels like three or four."

"It's one question, but it's the only one I want answered so we'll count it for four if you like."

"Aw man, way to suck all the fun out of this. Okay, but if I let you get away with that then there's going to have to be some other kind of sucking, later. To answer your…questions, then…he drilled me. Endlessly. Throughout my entire childhood. Every day, every minute, every second. Every game of hide and seek had to be played like a police training exercise, every little freaking childhood game I played with Gus had to be imbued with some intensive lesson. He was…freaking…omnipotent. He somehow managed to hold down a full-time job as a police officer and then a police detective while at the same time completely running every aspect of my young life. He came to school on every single Career Day, made it to every single Science Fair and school play, led my eagle scout troupe, he coached my Little League team…he was there. Endlessly, painfully there, and I was…counting freaking hats the whole time."

"…Counting hats?"

"It was one of his favorite exercises. He'd take me out to eat somewhere and if I wanted dessert I had to earn it. Close my eyes and tell him exactly how many hats were in the restaurant, and describe them."

"I see."

"Now I get my four questions sequentially."

Lassiter sighed. "Fire away."

"Okay, question number one of four: Are you jealous of my relationship with my father?"

"Specifically your relationship with your father? Not in the least. Father-son relationships in general? Maybe a little. Maybe a lot, actually. But I shouldn't, because I was actually fairly lucky. I may not have had a decent father but there always seemed to be a father figure around when I really needed it."

"Okay then, question two of four: What is your other memory of one-on-one time with your father?"

Lassiter blinked. "What are you talking about?"

"You said that you had 'maybe two memories.' You shared more than enough of the disturbing one. What was the other?"

"Oh. Well. It's not actually a specific moment per se…"

"Spill, Lassidophilus."

"He played the banjo. Well, plays, probably, but I haven't heard it since I was eight or nine, maybe."

"That may be more disturbing than the whiskey and leather memory."

"Hey, he was good. I just remember that the very few times he was home and sober…he'd sit in the living room and bring out his banjo and sing."

"What would he sing?"

"Is that question three of four?"

"Come on, Lassie."

"He'd sing the kind of songs you would expect of a banjo player, Spencer. Old stuff, Stephen Foster stuff. Country songs, bluegrass."

"Okay, here's question three of four: Which was your favorite?"

"'The Battle of New Orleans.'"

"Wow, didn't even have to stop and think about it. Question four of four and we're done: Josey Wales or Rooster Cogburn?"

"The movies, or the characters?"

"Characters."

"John Wayne or Jeff Bridges?"

"Wayne."

"Don't make me make that choice, Spencer."

"Fair enough. Well. I believe you promised to make me some bananas foster."

"I believe I didn't."

"I've heard it both ways."

"You most certainly have not."