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.

Chapter Twenty: My Lunch With Lyle

"So, did you tell your not-so-secret admirers that you're off the market?"

Lassiter looked at his little brother over the basket of nachos Lyle was eating. "I told O'Hara. She took it fairly well, although I don't think she's terribly happy about it."

"What about the SpenStar?"

Lassiter grimaced. "I can't believe he's got you calling him that," he said. "No, I haven't seen him since I got back. Kind of a blessing, actually. Man redefines the meaning of the word 'clingy.' I'm hoping he's moved on with his misplaced affections."

"I wouldn't count on it, big bro." Lyle stuffed a huge concretion of chip and cheese into his mouth and crunched reflectively for a few moments. "Ain't that his bike right there?"

Lassiter looked. "First of all, Lyle, the word is 'isn't,' and secondly…dammit, yes that is his bike. But I don't see him."

"Dude, I think he's stalking you," Lyle laughed.

"That's not remotely funny, Lyle," Lassiter said. His eyes scanned the crowded boardwalk and the other patrons of the little Mexican restaurant. Finally he spotted a familiarly over-gelled head hiding behind a potted fichus. "Spencer, would you care to join us?" he called out in resignation.

Shawn popped up like a jack-in-the-box. "Lassie! Lyle! Fancy meeting you here!"

"So this is purely an accidental meeting, then, Spencer?" Lassiter asked as the man approached their outdoor table. "You weren't following us?"

"Well…I might have seen your car in the lot and pulled in to have a chat, but when I saw you were here with Lyle I decided to lay low. Don't want to interrupt any brotherly bonding."

"And of course you weren't eavesdropping or anything."

"Lassie, please, what do you take me for?" Shawn said with some asperity.

"The biggest busybody I know."

Shawn cocked his head and considered that. "Okay, fair enough. But I wasn't eavesdropping just this once."

He stood there with puppy-dog eyes until Lassiter invited him to sit. "Thanks," he said. "Er…how was your vacation?"

"Revealing."

Shawn nodded as though he understood. "Good. Good. Uh, did you take lots of pictures?"

Lassiter shook his head. "Not really a camera person, Spencer, despite the fact that half of my family is deeply involved in some form of photography."

"Oh. Okay. You, uh…you let your beard grow, didn't you?"

Lassiter rubbed his chin. "Yeah, I didn't shave until the last leg back from the Grand Canyon. I figured a middle aged man on a motorcycle who doesn't look like a salt and pepper Wookie is a little too conspicuous. The tan line's still noticeable, eh? I tried to even it out."

"It's not bad. I wish you'd taken a picture, though."

Lyle was grinning like a maniac. Shawn looked at him curiously, then back to Lassiter. "I'm intruding," he said. "You guys haven't seen each other in years. I'm…just gonna go. Lassie, we'll talk later, okay? Call me."

He got up and disappeared, and in a moment his motorcycle roared to life and pulled out of the parking lot. Lassiter looked back at his brother, who was grinning if anything even wider than before.

"What?" he said crossly.

"You chickened out," Lyle sing-songed.

"I did not chicken out. I'm not going to talk to Spencer about…us…in front of you and all these people. I'll tell him in private. He's likely to make a scene otherwise, man lives for drama."

"You chickened out. You always chicken out when it comes to relationships, Carly. I'd bet dollars to donuts that your whole marriage to that Veronica woman was the direct result of you being too damn scared to tell her no."

"Victoria, and what would you know about it? You weren't even in the country when I met her."

"I know you, big brother. Oh, you've always been Clint Eastwood on the field or the force, but put you in a dating situation and you turn into Don Knotts."

"Gee, thanks. I suppose I'll have to have Chief Vick hold on to my ammunition for me from now on."

Lyle shrugged. "Given what I've learned of your incidence record over the past few years, might not be a bad idea - I'm kidding, I'm kidding."

"When are you leaving, again?" Lassiter asked.

"Ouch. Damn, and here I was starting to think you wanted me to stick around."

Lassiter shrugged. "I do."

Lyle's eyes widened. "Wow, wasn't expecting you to say that."

"How are you set for money?"

"Not bad. I've been giving surf lessons."

"People actually pay you to teach them how to stand on a piece of Styrofoam in the middle of the ocean."

Lyle grinned again. "Quite well, actually. I know, shocking isn't it?"

Lassiter shrugged again. "To each his own."

"Not the words I recall you saying when I first expressed my desire to be a professional surfer."

"You didn't have a dad to tell you that you were wasting your life, so I felt I had to do it. Seems to have worked out for you regardless."

It was Lyle's turn to shrug. "It has, at times, been difficult enough to give me a certain appreciation for what you tried to do for me, if not exactly how you went about it. I just kind of wish you'd spent a little less time back then being my dad and a little more time being my brother."

"I thought it was my duty."

"Probably why I've spent my entire life avoiding any semblance of duty. You were the only teenager I ever knew who had crow's feet and frown lines."

"There, see? My sterling example pushed you to succeed at doing absolutely nothing with your life and making a profit out of it."

Lyle laughed. "Yeah, I guess so." He sat forward. "Do you really want me to stick around Santa Barbara?"

"It would be kind of nice," Lassiter said, "but I don't expect it, nor would I ask it of you. All I ask is that no matter where you go from here, you don't just disappear again, okay? Eleven years is a hell of a long time to wonder whether my little brother is alive or dead."

"I think I could manage the occasional phone call."

"Fantastic."

Lyle smiled. "Can I see the scars?"

"What?"

"The scars, bro - I talked to Peter and he said they were pretty gnarly."

Lassiter shook his head. "I'm not opening my shirt in the middle of a crowded boardwalk restaurant so you can see my surgical scars, Lyle."

Lyle laughed. "Always so uptight. Come on, Carl - I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours." He pulled up the hem of his polo shirt to reveal a ragged semi-circle of knobbly scars on his stomach. "Great White, off the coast of South Africa."

Lassiter winced. "You're not making me feel any better about letting you run off to be a pro surfer, Lyle. And pull your freakin' shirt down, dickweed."

Lyle laughed again, but he pulled his shirt down. "Sharks, bullets - it all works out the same in the end. I might die in the shameless pursuit of self-gratification while you would be much more likely to meet your end making the world a better place for all the people you despise, but dead is dead, ain't it? In the end you either let the what-ifs push you down some other road or you kick them the hell to the curb and get on with your life. Lots of people get pushed, but you and me, bro, we're the type who push back. Which is why both of us continue to do exactly what we love to do despite the fact that we've both been bitten and we're both old enough by now to know better."