"I'm sorry," Lassiter said awkwardly, "but I don't think this is going to work out. My job..."
It was the day after the Clayton case had been wrapped up, and Lassiter had asked Jonathan to meet him for coffee, knowing that it was time to end his latest ill-advised attempt at a relationship.
"Is this because I was kind of an ass when you called to cancel earlier?" Jonathan asked sheepishly. "I'm sorry, I really do understand that your work requires you to be on call all the time. At the college, I'm known as the mean professor who requires punctuality, and sometimes that bleeds over into my personal life without me meaning for it too."
"No," Lassiter said, "it's not really about that. I just realized that I'm not in a place right now where I'm ready to start a relationship." He extended his hand with the intention of shaking Jonathan's hand, wishing him luck, and leaving before this became any more uncomfortable than it already was, but Jonathan responded by crossing his arms and regarding him curiously.
"Is this about your little psychic friend?"
"He's not psychic. And he's not exactly my friend. Why would you ask that? Spencer has nothing to do with this."
"Right," Jonathan said doubtfully.
"Look," Lassiter said irritably, "we've barely been on three dates. It's just not going to work, okay? I don't owe you any explanations."
Jonathan laughed. "The fact that you're so annoyed over me asking about him answers all my questions. You're right, you don't owe me anything. You're a good guy, Carlton. I hope you figure things out with Mr. Spencer soon."
"There's nothing to figure out," Lassiter grumbled, and Jonathan shook his head in amusement.
"If you say so. If you change your mind, give me a call. I'd still be happy to help you relieve some of that tension," he said with a wink as he stood to leave, and was rewarded with Carlton's flustered look.
Outside, Jonathan started towards his car only to nearly run into someone wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses.
"Sorry," he started to apologize, then stopped as he realized who he had nearly run into. "Mr. Spencer?"
"Ahh," Shawn said, scrambling for words, "Doctor Spinderella, how nice to see you again."
"It's Professor Striker," Jonathan corrected. "Are you...were you following me and Carlton?"
"Shyeah, as if that wouldn't be a total yawn," Shawn said cagily, wondering if it would be suspicious if he were to turn and run the other way before Jonathan asked him anything else, or, worse, before Lassiter came out and saw him.
"Well," Jonathan said, "you might be interested to know that Carlton just ended things between us, so he's all yours."
"All mine? Right, like I would want...I mean, he doesn't match anything I have in my apartment. You're crazy if you think I would want anything to do with Lassie. He's all grumpy and...tall...and stuff."
"I'm beginning to think that you two deserve each other," Jonathan said. "Good luck with that."
With a little wave, he got into his car and left. Shawn glanced inside the cafe long enough to see Lassie tossing his coffee cup into the trash and coming towards the door, and made a hasty departure before he could be caught.
When Lassiter got the call from Hank about the troubles at Old Sonora, his first instinct was to investigate the case himself, but he was stymied by the fact that he had no jurisdiction outside of Santa Barbara. For the first time, he could see the advantage that Spencer and Guster had in working outside the system.
Once he realized that he wasn't going to be able to work on the case himself, there was really no question that he would call in Psych. While he would rather cut his tongue out than admit it, Shawn was the best detective he knew, and Hank deserved the best. Swallowing his pride, he called Spencer to ask for help.
"Lassie! To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I need for you to go somewhere with me tomorrow," Lassiter said without any preamble.
There was the tiniest pause before Shawn replied. "Sure! Should I bring the strawberry flavored lube, or do you have that covered?"
"That's not...I don't...bring Guster!"
"Aww, Lassie, I understand how you could be drawn to his chocolate velvety goodness, but as I've already explained, he wouldn't be interested. I, on the other hand..."
"Spencer!" he shouted in agitation, "just meet me at 9:00 in the morning at the Psych office. With Guster. I'll explain everything tomorrow."
"Okay," Shawn said, sounding amused. "You should know that tomorrow is usually my spa day, so you're obligated to give me a massage and a mani pedi to thank me for my time."
Lassiter scowled at the phone. "9:00. Don't be late," he said, and hung up.
It took Shawn and Gus a little longer to wrap up the case than Lassiter would have liked, but in the end they did solve it, just as they always did, and nearly got buried alive in a mine shaft for their trouble. Lassiter added it to his mental tally of Shawn's brushes with death over the past year. It was a disturbingly long list.
He should have felt happy once the case was over; Hank had not only been acquitted, he was going to be rich, Shawn and Gus were safe, and the perpetrator had been apprehended. But all he could think about was how he had arrested Hank, the man who had been like a father to him for most of his life.
After Hank went off to see about his lady, and Spencer and Guster disappeared to parts unknown, Lassiter ducked into the Old Sonora sheriff's office where he had spent so much time as a child, learning about the history of the West and hero-worshipping Hank. He sat down on the bunk in the tiny cell, tipping his head back against the wall and closing his eyes. He was going to miss this place. More than that, he was going to miss Hank. He couldn't imagine that their relationship would ever be the same after this.
When he heard the jingle of spurs as someone joined him in the cell, he assumed it was Hank, but when he opened his eyes Shawn was standing over him, once again wearing the sheriff's costume.
"Whatcha doin', Lassie?" he asked, concerned. He had been looking for Gus, but as he walked past the sheriff's office he had seen Lassiter sitting alone, looking far more depressed than he normally did after he discharged his weapon.
"Go away, Spencer," Lassiter said, but there was none of the usual heat behind it.
"What's wrong?" Shawn asked, confused. "You got to have a genuine Old West showdown - which you won, and which was also incredibly hot, by the way - and cleared Hank's good name in the process! Not bad for an afternoon's work."
Lassiter sighed. "For once, can't you just do what I ask and leave me in peace?"
"Nope," Shawn said cheerfully, leaning against the bars of the cell. "Not until you tell me what's bothering you."
"Right now, you're what's bothering me," Lassiter snapped, sounding aggrieved. "We're not buddies, so leave me the hell...why are you wearing that ridiculous outfit again?"
Offended, Shawn looked down at his supercool, not-at-all-ridiculous sheriff's costume. "My regular clothes were disgusting because of how Stinky Feet tried to bury me and Gus in the mine. I still had these clothes in Gus's car, so..."
"Bury you in a mine shaft," Lassiter muttered, shaking his head. "Good God."
Shawn sat down next to him on the bunk and gave him a friendly pat on the knee. "Come on pardner, tell Sheriff Shawn your troubles."
Lassiter didn't say anything, but Shawn could feel him practically vibrating with repressed unhappiness. Finally, he burst. "I arrested Hank! For murder! How could I do that, when he's been..." he trailed off miserably. "Forget it, Spencer. You wouldn't understand."
"Lassie, you were following the evidence," Shawn said gently. "There wasn't anything else you could do."
"I could have trusted him," Lassiter said bitterly.
"Hey, even I, with my super psychic senses, didn't know who the real culprit was until today."
"Would you have done it?" Lassiter asked. "Arrested him, I mean?"
"Uh, I'm not a cop Lassie, so it's not a decision I would ever have to make."
"No shit," Lassiter said, giving him an exasperated look. "Just answer the question."
Shawn shrugged. "I don't know, okay? The evidence compelled you to make the arrest, and if you hadn't done it, someone else would have. I knew he didn't do it, but I couldn't prove it yet. So I don't know what I would have done."
"How did you know that he didn't do it? And don't you dare try to tell me that you knew it psychically."
"Don't discount my amazing powers, Lassie! But if I were just an ordinary shmoe like you, I would say that it was instinct. Hank might kill to protect someone he loves, but he's not the type of guy to murder for money." He nudged Lassiter lightly with his shoulder. "You should trust your instincts more, instead of letting yourself be swayed by crap like circumstantial evidence."
Lassiter frowned, looking down at his hands. "I don't know if I trust my instincts at all anymore," he admitted, and Shawn sighed in frustration.
"You have perfectly good instincts, Lass. You just don't believe in them the way you should."
"Sometimes, instincts can be wrong," Lassiter argued. "Evidence is factual. Even in this case, the evidence eventually cleared Hank and pointed to the real culprit."
"Sure," Shawn agreed, "but if you had trusted your instincts over the evidence, you would never have believed for a second that Hank could have been guilty. Another example," Shawn continued blithely, "would be that if I only believed in evidence, I might think that you don't want to sleep with me again, but my instincts tell me differently."
Lassiter stood up, fast. "See, I would consider that to be proof that evidence is incontrovertible," he said stiffly.
Shawn followed him, noticing the way Lassiter's eyes moved over his Sheriff's uniform. Gotcha, he thought gleefully. He should have realized sooner that with his interest in historical reenactments and undercover work, Lassie would be a pushover for a little role-playing.
"Really?" Shawn asked, stepping closer, which forced Lassiter to retreat until his back was against the bars of the cell, "because my eighth sense is telling me that you think Sheriff Shawn is hot stuff."
Lassiter's brow furrowed in confusion. "Don't you mean your sixth sense?"
Shawn leaned forward, grabbing the bars on either side of Lassiter's head, effectively pinning him in. "I'm counting my fashion sense and my sense of direction."
"What the hell are you doing? I thought we had an agreement," Lassiter said, though Shawn couldn't help but notice that he made absolutely no move to get away.
"We're not in Santa Barbara right now," he pointed out. "And as Sheriff, it's my job to question a suspicious varmint in my jail," he said in his old-timey Western accent.
"Spencer..." Lassiter said threateningly, but Shawn didn't miss the way his eyes had dilated or the way he was breathing a little faster.
"I been noticing the way you've been watching me since you came into town," Shawn said in his twangy accent. "It makes me think you're up to no good. You understand that as Sheriff of this here town, I have to be clear about your intentions."
"Shawn..." Lassiter tried, and this time his tone was slightly pleading. Shawn was pressed up against him now, and he could feel Lassiter getting hard.
"Hey, look at that," he said softly, so close that his lips brushed against Lassiter's mouth as he spoke. "Evidence."
At the same time as he felt Lassiter's hand light on the back of his neck to pull him the fraction of an inch in for a kiss, he heard Juliet say "Carlton? Are you in here?"
Shawn hastily let go of the bars and stepped away from Lassiter. "Yeah Jules, Binky's in here," he called out, since Lassiter seemed momentarily incapable of speech.
"Oh," Juliet said, as she came into the jail, "what are you two doing in there?"
"We were playing a naughty game of Sheriff and outlaw," Shawn said honestly, and was grateful that the room was dim enough that Juliet couldn't see that Lassiter was blushing. "You wanna join us, Jules? You can be my lusty deputy."
"Shawn!" Juliet scolded, her tone somewhere between amused and scandalized, while at the same time Lassiter snapped "Spencer!"
"Your loss. You both know you're totally going to regret not taking me up on it later." He strolled past Juliet, as she told Lassiter that Chief Vick wanted them back in Santa Barbara to give their statements about the shooting.
He needed to find Gus, but he paused outside around the corner from the jail to give his heart rate a chance to get back to normal. Oh god, what had he just done? That was beyond Impulsiveville and straight into Recklesstown. Only…he had been able to erase the sad, forlorn look off of Lassie's face, and it had felt so fucking good.
Henry had told him that he was too emotionally invested in this case because of Lassiter's involvement, a remark so insightful that he had briefly wondered if his dad knew who the object of his interest was after all, but it wasn't until he had seen Lassie sitting alone in that jail cell, looking like he had just lost everything in the world that mattered to him, that he realized just how far gone he really was. What the hell was wrong with him?
***
Lassiter tapped his fingers furiously on the steering wheel, frustration radiating from every pore. He wasn't sure how things had gotten so out of control with Spencer; one minute they seemed to be having a perfectly civil, even friendly, conversation, and the next Shawn had him trapped and turned on and right on the verge of doing something that he promised himself he wouldn't do again.
"Carlton, is something wrong? Are you worried about justifying the shooting? Because he was about to pull on you, I'll testify to that. And he's going to be fine, you just winged his shoulder."
"Thanks, O'Hara," he said. He felt a little guilty for letting her assume that he was worried about the consequences of shooting a suspect, but it was better than telling her the truth.
Would it be so wrong to give in to what Spencer was offering? He had a divorce under his belt, a series of dates that ultimately led nowhere, and a career that demanded a great deal of his time and attention. Maybe a friends-with-benefits situation was the way to go (not that he would characterize Shawn as a friend). He and Lucinda had shared a relationship of that type, though they had never had any of the antagonism between them that characterized so much of his interaction with Spencer. Lucinda was someone he could see himself sharing a future with, even as he'd been hoping the whole time to get Victoria back.
He could see now how unfair to Lucinda he'd been, sleeping with her while still thinking he and Victoria would reconcile, keeping her as a sort of back-up in case things with his wife didn't work out. No wonder she'd taken off as soon as the relationship was outed. Which was Spencer's fault, he reminded himself.
Clearly, he was terrible at relationships. He was too weird, too paranoid, too much of a workaholic. What civilians like Victoria and Jonathan didn't understand was that he WAS his work. He didn't clock out at the end of the day and stop thinking about cases. One of Spencer's better qualities was that in his own way, he was as much about the work as Lassiter was. Sure, Shawn's way included lots of diversions, but Lassiter had figured out a long time ago that whatever ridiculousness he was up to, Shawn's brain was always working.
Maybe if Spencer tried to instigate something again, he would do exactly what he wanted to do and give in. He could burn off a little frustration, and since Spencer would be even more determined than Lassiter to keep it discreet, it shouldn't affect their professional relationship (assuming anything Spencer did could be considered "discreet" or "professional").
He could do that. He could be a free-wheeling casual sex kind of guy. Spencer apparently could be that way, and anything Spencer could do, Lassiter could do too, right?