Lassiter was no stranger to guilt. He was familiar with the way it gnawed at his insides and gripped him at the back of his brain, taunting him with his inadequacies and regrets. He exited Chief Vick's office, where he had reported on the Maxwell case to Agents Hawley and Martinez from the FBI's San Diego office. They'd been friendly, but he was still left with the feeling that he hadn't been quick enough to label the case a kidnapping and request their help. They were probably right. His hesitation had cost Maxwell Harris his life.
He slapped the Maxwell file onto his desk and stared at it glumly. Until the body showed up, he hadn't been convinced that it was a kidnapping case. When grown men go missing, it's usually because they don't want to be found. When you added in his shady business practices and the FBI investigation, it had seemed reasonable that Maxwell had simply done a bunk. The phone message could have been designed to mislead his wife and the authorities.
Yet the fact remained that he'd been unable to bring Mrs. Harris' husband home alive, and now all he could do was make sure that the criminals responsible got what was coming to them. How he was going to accomplish that was another issue. They had no physical evidence tying anyone to the crime. They weren't even certain that the house was the scene of the abduction. Harris' phone call to his wife had been a dead end. The lab boys had been all over the pay phone and come up with nothing but innocent people too cheap to buy a cell phone. With the discovery of Harris' body they finally had something concrete to work on. Woody was making a mould of the stab wounds in case they found a weapon to match. He had officers with sniffer dogs canvassing the area where they'd found the body. Surely some piece of evidence would lead them to a vehicle, a holding point, or a suspect. Anything.
He leaned back in his chair and flipped through the coroner's report again. The drinking and cocaine use didn't fit with the image of Harris that his wife had given them. Had he been sneaking out at night, drinking and doing drugs? Could there have been other women? Other men? Was there a whole other side to Maxwell Harris—one his wife knew nothing about? His credit and debit card use was no help. If he'd been leading a double life, he'd been paying for it with cash. Large amounts of cash and interactions with drug dealers opened up new lines of inquiry. He put a call through to an officer he knew on the drug squad. Maybe someone had seen Maxwell and knew his dealers. At least now, with his body in the morgue, they had a picture to circulate.
As he watched the day tick by he realized that the biggest stumbling block to solving the Maxwell case was his own pride, which was preventing him from using the best weapon at his disposal. His attempt to break things off cleanly with Spencer had gone…not so cleanly. The man's feelings were obviously hurt, and Lassiter knew that the blame for that lay at his own door. But however uncomfortable it would be to go crawling to him for help, if it was the only way this case was going to get solved, he'd just have to swallow his pride. He grabbed his suit jacket, his car keys and the case file and drove to the Psych office. It took him twenty minutes to work up the nerve to step out of the car.
"It's open!" Shawn called in answer to the tentative knock.
Lassiter stepped inside, holding the case file in front of his chest like a shield. He glanced around the office.
"No Guster this evening?" Lassiter had hoped that he wouldn't be alone with Spencer. It wasn't that he felt like he needed a chaperone, but with Guster present he felt sure that their conversation would have remained work-related.
"Why?" Shawn asked. "Come to tell me how unappealing I am again and wanted an audience?" He picked up a rubber ball from his desk, threw it at the wall and then snagged it on the rebound.
"I know I'm the last person you want to see right now," Lassiter said, walking slowly to the edge of Shawn's desk, "But I really need your help on the Maxwell case."
Shawn rolled his eyes. "Dude! I'm already helping you on the Maxwell case. I've practically got it solved already. I'm just waiting for my evidence to arrive from Langley."
"The FBI lab?" Lassiter leaned forward expectantly.
"No, actually, it's being sent by a guy I met on Craigslist. But I assure you, that won't make it any less impressive."
Lassiter looked at Shawn with disbelief. "When you say you've practically got it solved, do you mean you know who did it?"
Shawn nodded. Lassiter sat down on the loveseat and collapsed back against the plush upholstery. His mind was reeling. How can Spencer possibly know who did it? They had no evidence, and he refused to believe that the man was being fed information by cats, fairies, spirits or the ghost of Christmas Past. That's not how the world worked.
"I've known for days," Shawn said, bouncing the ball again. "But proving it, uhhh…" He shook his head. "Not so easy."
"You know I don't believe in…" Lassiter waved a hand around the office, "…all of this malarkey…."
"I know, I know," Shawn cut in. "I'm a deceiving Deceptacon and you're a virtuous Autobot. I get it."
"What I was going to say," Lassiter said roughly, "was that I don't have to believe in psychic powers to know that you're usually right. Just tell me who did it and if there's proof to be had, we'll find it." At the very least, being able to concentrate on a suspect would make a huge difference.
"Where's the fun in that?" Shawn asked.
"Fun?" Lassiter swore under his breath. "Police work isn't supposed to be fun." He ran a hand down his face and growled his frustration. "I don't know why I bother." He stood and looked at the door, but made no effort to move toward it. Despite his words, he knew exactly why he bothered. He had hit a brick wall and saw no way around it.
"Let's play a game," Shawn suggested, turning his chair to face Lassiter. "You answer some questions for me, and then I'll answer some questions for you. Complete honesty. Squid pro cocoa."
"I think you mean quid pro quo," Lassiter said, trying to prevent his lips from breaking into a smile. He sat back onto the loveseat.
"I've heard it both ways, and mine sounds more delicious." Shawn jumped up and walked across the floor to the loveseat, perching himself on the arm. "Question one, why did you bother to show up for our date if you had no interest in me whatsoever?"
"I didn't say that." Lassiter hung his head and leaned forward, clenching his hands together.
"Oh but you did. You said," Shawn put on a stern voice that Lassiter assumed was meant to approximate his own, "I apologize if my actions led you to think I was interested in you sexually. You're a gross and hideous man, and you have a better chance of waking up in McDonaldland than you do of waking up in my bed again."
"I never said that second part!"
"You're right," Shawn admitted. "I must have been reading your thoughts. On the up side, those apple pie trees sound pretty sweet and I could probably eat for a month if I could catch Mayor McCheese."
"Just because I'm sorry you thought I was attracted to you doesn't mean…" Lassiter closed his eyes and rested his head in his hands. "…doesn't mean that it wasn't the case." Somehow it was easier to tell Spencer the truth if he couldn't see him.
He felt Spencer shift on the arm of the sofa. "So," Shawn's voice was light and curious, "you found me attractive, but you didn't want me to know. How exactly was going on a date with me part of that plan? Because that did lead me to suspect you liked me. As did the kissing and the boner."
"Oh God," Lassiter moaned into his hands. "Can't we just pretend it never happened?"
"No way," Shawn said, delight evident in his voice. He put an arm around Lassiter's shoulder. "It was like the part of Clue where you've got the suspect and the room figured out and you're just trying to narrow down the weapon. You were Colonel Mustard in the lounge, with the, uh, lead pipe."
"Thanks for comparing that evening to murder," Lassiter said sarcastically.
"Fine. It wasn't like murder," Shawn allowed. "It was more like a hit and run on my ego. As first dates go, I've had worse. I once got my arm caught in a revolving door on my way to the movies and would up with a dislocated shoulder. My date ditched me for one of the paramedics. Although in her defence he was totally hot. But I was kind of hoping that my first date with a guy would take a different path."
Lassiter raised his head and turned to look at Shawn. "I was your first date with a guy?"
"Are we on your questions already?" Shawn asked. "Because I still have a bunch left."
Lassiter moved to the other end of the loveseat and turned to face Shawn.
"Fine. Ask away." He crossed his arms, and pressed his lips together, determined to get the worst part over with. If he could withstand ten or fifteen minutes of humiliation he could solve the Maxwell case. It was a price any good detective would gladly pay.
Shawn slid down the arm of the loveseat to occupy the space vacated by Lassiter, who was suddenly aware of what close quarters Spencer's tiny sofa was for two adult men.
"Question two: If you're so attracted to me, why did you run away?"
"There's no way that's your second question," Lassiter said. "I feel like I've answered four or five already."
"Technically, I've asked two, and you only answered one," Shawn said. "So spill. Why the dine and dash?"
"You know why."
"I don't, actually. I thought we were headed for a rousing game of tug o'war, followed by some naked twister, or maybe sampling one another's milkshakes."
Lassiter glared at him and said, "Those euphemisms make you sound like a 'tween." He chewed on his lower lip and added, "Would you really have gone that far on a first date?"
Shawn smiled. "You're jumping in with the questions again, Lassie. But thanks for bringing up the subject. Question three, how far would you have gone?"
"So help me Spencer, if you're just pretending to know who killed Maxwell so you can pump me for personal information I will have you charged with obstruction."
"Your body language is all stand-offish, but you keep saying things like 'pump me.' And I'd love to read the paperwork on that obstruction charge." Shawn cleared his throat and spoke in his gruff imitation of Lassiter again, "The subject made me answer questions about our curtailed sexual encounter before he would—"
"Fine." Lassiter cut in. Spencer was right. There was no way he wanted anyone at the station finding out about their date. "I saw it going to pretty much the same place. Which was why I left."
"Spoilsport." Shawn moved closer and put a hand on Lassiter's leg. "We could always pick up where we left off."
Lassiter could feel waves of heat coming off Spencer's body. Or maybe his own body was overheating from the proximity. He couldn't be sure. All he knew was that he was pinned against the arm of the loveseat and Spencer's lips were getting disturbingly, tantalisingly, close. He tried to lean further back and succeeded only in lowering himself horizontal enough for Shawn to lean over him, their legs hanging off the loveseat, their chests pressed together. It wasn't what he'd intended, but now that it was happening he didn't exactly mind.
"What about my questions?" he asked, taking in Shawn's intense gaze in quick, evasive glances. "Aren't we supposed to take turns?"
"Okay, shoot." Shawn didn't move, but licked his lips and smiled slightly.
"Did you mean those things you said to Gus about me?" He knew that Shawn had assumed that his questions would be about the Maxwell murder, but there were some personal things he'd like to get cleared up first, and that overheard conversation had been haunting him.
"About you being sexy and brave or about you having been the stunt double for David Niven in the original Casino Royale?" Shawn ran a hand slowly down Lassiter's chest, stopping just at his belt line and briefly grazing his badge before making his way up again.
"That first thing." Lassiter frowned. "I wasn't even alive when Casino Royale was made."
"Of course I meant it, Lassie. I didn't realize you were in the closet—figuratively speaking, of course—when I said that." Shawn sat up, then slowly unknotted Lassiter's tie and then loosed three buttons on his shirt.
Looking back, Lassiter figured it was probably when he removed his holster, that he made the decision to do something sexual with Shawn. His position on the tiny couch was causing the butt of his Glock to press painfully into his side, bruising his ribs. As soon as Shawn's weight lifted off him he could have bolted for the door. He could have pushed him aside and left. He could have, but he didn't. Instead, he'd slipped his arms out of his holster and set it on the floor within reach. Maybe he figured that if he was going to suffer through the guilt, he might as well get to enjoy the sin.
After all, he reasoned, It's not as if I'm signing on for some long-term commitment here. What was it Shawn said? He does something for a while and then loses interest. I'll just be another one of those things, like racquetball or collecting Pogs.
Lassiter ran his fingers through Shawn's hair, grabbed a handful at the nape of his neck, and pulled him within kissing distance. He opened his mouth and his tongue swiped against Shawn's. He tastes like candy, Lassiter thought. Red Vines, maybe. Kissing Shawn was unlike anything he'd ever done with women. It felt dangerous.
Lassiter paused and Shawn looked at him, his eyes wide with lust or panic. With the length of Shawn's lean body pressed against him there was no hiding the effect on either of them. Lassiter looked at the office door and then back at Shawn.
"You should lock the door," he said.
"But then I have to move," Shawn said.
"Do you really want Guster walking in here?"
"That depends." Shawn smiled. "Would that lead to an impromptu three-way or to you claiming I was trying to bite your face?"
"Lock the door, Spencer."
"Consider it locked." Shawn leaped from the couch, and within seconds had shut all the blinds and locked the door. The heavy click sounded ominous and final. Shawn laughed nervously. He turned on a lamp, switched off the overhead, and then turned on Gus' radio and stood there turning the knobs, looking for a station.
After a few minutes of radio stations alternating with static, Lassiter asked, "Are you coming back to this couch?" He'd been so preoccupied by his own anxieties that it hadn't occurred to him that Spencer might get an attack of nerves. But he was definitely looking nervous, chewing on his bottom lip and fiddling with the radio. He'd rejected three perfectly good stations.
"In a minute," Shawn said. He tuned in a station where The Smithereens were halfway through Behind the Wall of Sleep. He walked up to the couch and stood, looking down at Lassiter. "What about the rest of your questions?" He put his hands in his pockets and then pulled them out again.
"They can wait a few minutes." Lassiter reached out for Shawn's arm and pulled him down to the tiny loveseat. He could feel Shawn's heart pounding against his chest and the hardness pressing against the fabric of his jeans.
"Relax, Spencer. I'm not going to hurt you."
"Of course not," Shawn said. His voice still held a tremor.
After all the years of Shawn's not-so subtle innuendos, comments on his appearance and inappropriate touches, it felt strange to suddenly find himself the sexual aggressor. He spoke low, almost a whisper, "We don't have to do anything if you don't want to, Shawn." The use of his first name seemed to have a calming effect.
"No really, I'm fine." Shawn smiled and put his hand on Lassiter's hip. "Just uh, sorry if I'm not very good at any of this." He laughed, less nervously this time. "I mean, I've been playing the home game long enough," he glanced down at his own crotch, "but I haven't…" He trailed off.
Lassiter combed his fingers though the side of Shawn's hair, and leaned forward, raking his cheek against his artfully stubbled jaw and inhaling the scent of his neck and hair. He was surprised how something so unavoidably masculine could still be so arousing. He could feel the pulse in Shawn's neck and Lassiter ran his tongue along it, experimentally. When Shawn responded he became more aggressive, and licked, sucked, and then gently bit the spot, eliciting a torrent of gasps and mumbled words.
Shawn turned his head and applied his mouth to Lassiter's own neck. The sensations were intense, from the sandpaper roughness of Shawn's jaw to the intense warm softness of his lips, to the sharp pressure of his teeth. And in the back of his mind Lassiter realized there was something symbolic about exposing his neck like this. It was trusting, and vulnerable. In the primal part of his brain, something about Shawn made Lassiter think of him as another predator, and surrendering to that was a heady mix of excitement and fear. He arched his back and whimpered, unable to express what he was feeling in words.
Shawn leaned back grasped Lassiter's loose tie ends in each hand. He pulled back and gripped them, like reins.
"This is one of my favourite ties on you," Shawn said.
Lassiter regained his composure and smiled, his teeth shiny in the dim light. "I know."
Shawn raked his fingers through Lassiter's exposed chest hair and then unbuttoned the remaining four buttons on his shirt and spread it open, revealing pale skin contrasting with dark hair. His hands explored the muscles and skin, feeling Lassiter's chest rise and lower with each breath. He stooped low again and kissed Lassiter's pecs, hesitantly, then made his tongue into a point and traced a circle around a nipple. A sharp intake of air whistled through Lassiter's teeth, followed by a low moaning exhale. Shawn repeated the action again and again, pulling moans from Lassiter's lips rapidly now, then moved to the other nipple and did the same. Lassiter pushed his hips forward and ground against Shawn, desperate for some release.
"Uffg," Shawn said, pausing to pull a few tiny hairs from his tongue. "I'm not used to encountering that problem," he tilted his head thoughtfully, "Not with nipples, anyway."
"Sorry," Lassiter gasped. His pupils were huge, half-hidden under his heavy lids.
"S'okay," Shawn said. "It's…interesting." He unbuttoned Lassiter's dress pants and slowly pulled the zipper down. Then he wended his hand through the fly of Lassiter's boxers and pulled his rigid cock free. Shawn grasped it firmly in his fist and pumped it slowly. Lassiter's head dropped back and he groaned loudly.
The skin of Shawn's hand felt slightly rough, and the new sensation was pushing Lassiter to the edge faster than he wanted. He breathed deeply and ran through the gun safety checklist he'd learned at the Police Academy until he'd regained control. It had been a long time since he'd had sex, and while expectations around stamina were a little different under the circumstances, it would still be embarrassing to lose himself after a few minutes of groping. There was nothing to complain about in Shawn's technique, and he could feel the promising heat of the man's breath on his cock. When several moments had passed with that promise unfulfilled Lassiter brought his head forward and looked down. Shawn was leaning over his cock, his lips wet and slightly parted.
"Are you sure you're okay with this?" Shawn asked. His eyes were glassy and his voice was breathless.
"Can I trust you to keep your mouth shut about this, Spencer?" Lassiter ignored the contrast between what he'd just said and what Shawn was about to do.
"Please," Shawn scoffed. "What happens in the Psych office stays in the Psych office."
"Not good enough," Lassiter shook his head. "Too many people come to this office."
"Fine. I'll tell Gus, but that's as far as it goes."
Lassiter shrugged. "I can live with that." He watched as Shawn's mouth surrounded him in hot, wet friction. He'd been right about Shawn's lips; they were incredibly soft. He wasn't attempting any deepthroating, but his tongue was swirling like mad, and Lassiter realized that no matter how much gun safety he reviewed, this wasn't going to last very long.
Shawn glanced up at him with eyes that looked green in the dim light. The reality of the situation—the who, and the what—pushed itself to the forefront of Lassiter's mind, only to be blocked out again by the overwhelming sensations.
"Shawn…." Lassiter felt he should give some kind of forewarning, but it was difficult just keeping it together enough to speak his name. He tried again, his voice tighter and his tone more desperate, "Shawn." Despite his inarticulation, Shawn seemed to understand. He mumbled "uh-huh," and the vibrations from his throat sent Lassiter arching off the loveseat and then collapsing, boneless, as he gave himself over to that amazing mouth. Lassiter clamped a hand onto Shawn's arm as Shawn swallowed, made a brief choking sound and then swallowed again.
Lassiter lay motionless while Shawn delicately removed his sensitive cock from his mouth. Shawn retrieved a can from the office mini fridge and took a drink. He walked back to the loveseat and held the can out to Lassiter.
"Would you like to be a Pepper too?"
Lassiter sat up, accepted the can and took a gulp of the carbonated drink. After what had just passed between them it seemed gauche to balk at sharing a can of soda. He passed it back and then tucked himself into his boxers and zipped up his pants. Without his pent-up lust driving him, Lassiter was unsure how to broach the subject of reciprocating. He stood, cupped Shawn's jaw in his hand and ran a thumb along his mouth. Then he took a deep breath, stepped in closer and kissed Shawn on the mouth. He glanced at the loveseat and then back at Shawn.
"You don't have to," Shawn said, answering his unspoken question.
"Shut up, Spencer." Lassiter turned Shawn around and pushed him into a sitting position on the loveseat. He grabbed a cushion from a nearby chair and kneeled on it in front of Shawn. He ran his hands up along Shawn's jeans and then hooked a finger under the neckband of his t-shirt, as blue as his eyes sometimes were. "Lose the shirt," he said. Somehow giving orders made what he was about to do feel more normal. Shawn hesitated only a moment before grabbing the hem of his shirt and pulling it up and off.
"Jesus Christ Spencer," Lassiter stroked his fingers down Shawn's chest, where a four inch scar ran vertically between his pectoral muscles, wide, puckered, and pale against his tan skin. "What the hell happened to you?" Lassiter wasn't sure if he felt protective, angry or impressed.
"Oh that?" Shawn waves a hand dismissively. "That's where I had all my feelings removed. It makes life much easier. I highly recommend it."
Lassiter ran his fingertips over the scar. It was definitely a few years old, and it looked medical rather than accidental. But if Spencer didn't want to discuss it, he wasn't going to push. It wasn't as if they were going to be dating, after all. They were just…this.
He leaned in and kissed Shawn again, exploring his mouth. He pinched his nipples to points and rolled them between his thumb and forefinger. Shawn gasped and murmured incoherently against his lips. Lassiter worked his mouth slowly down Shawn's torso, pausing to lick at each brown nipple, and lightly kiss the mysterious scar, finally finding himself at the waistband of Shawn's jeans. He twisted the button open and unzipped the fly.
"Up," he directed. Shawn shifted his weight against the back of the loveseat and lifted his hips enough for Lassiter pull both jeans and underwear firmly down to Shawn's knees, leaving him hard and exposed.
"Gus is going to make me Febreeze the hell out of this loveseat," Shawn muttered.
Lassiter grasped Shawn's erection and stroked him firmly, feeling the veins beneath his fingers and the soft skin sliding over the hard tissue. Shawn had been right about masturbation being a type of training. Touching Shawn like this didn't feel as strange as he'd expected. There was nothing he'd done, however, that was akin to going down on a man.
He filled his lungs and then slowly lowered his mouth over the head of Shawn's cock. Lassiter could smell the heavy musk of Shawn's public hair—a scent that was warm and arousing. In his mouth, Shawn felt huge. He kept his jaw slack and moved slowly, doing most of the work with his hand. His spit-slicked palm slid slowly along the shaft and he could hear Shawn gasping and panting above him.
Lassiter slid his free hand over Shawn's tense stomach muscles and up, across his chest, which was now slightly wet with sweat. He grasped a nipple and gently pulled and twisted, eliciting a deep cry and a slow, desperate pelvic thrust from Shawn. He ran his hand back down Shawn's body and then cupped his balls, which were high and tight. He drew a finger down, along the cleft of his ass and Shawn's legs parted as if the touch had asked a question. When Lassiter explored further he could feel his thighs tense and quiver and he withdrew his hand. Shawn's breathing had become ragged and harsh, and he had his hands raised, gripping the back of the loveseat. Each time Lassiter's mouth descended, his hips pushed forward to meet him.
As an activity, giving head was more exciting than he'd anticipated. There was something powerfully arousing about seeing Shawn writhe in response to his movements. After spending so much time wondering how the damn psychic managed to stay one step ahead of him on so many cases, it was nice to see him whimpering desperately and losing control. Lassiter was already half hard again.
"Lassie…" Shawn gasped and clamped a hand onto Lassiter's shoulder and went still and rigid. Lassiter felt Shawn's cock expand and contract, and then his mouth was flooded with liquid, sharp and sweet. It seemed to fill every available space and flow over into his throat and nose. His eyes watered and swallowed a few times then pulled back, coughing.
"Are you okay?" Shawn asked between gasps. He'd covered himself with his hand.
"I'm fine," Lassiter said curtly. He hadn't expected to be perfect his first time out, but he found himself more than a little embarrassed at having gagged. He stood, grabbed the Dr. Pepper from the table where Shawn had left it and took a gulp of the harsh drink to clear his palate. He didn't think he'd ever be able to taste that soda again without making the association. Whether that association was going to be a pleasant or a negative one, he wasn't yet sure.
"That was great," Shawn said. He still sounded winded, and his eyes were nearly closed.
"Thanks," Lassiter suddenly felt awkward and he looked at the desk, the lamp, and the floor—anywhere but at Shawn. He buttoned his shirt, picked up his holster from the floor and slid into it, then put his suit jacket on. It was silly, but it made him feel more protected.
He wandered over to a wall and stared at a poster, not really seeing it. He glanced quickly at the door. What he really wanted to do was go to his own apartment and process what had just happened. He touched his mouth with his fingertips. His lips tingled and he could smell Shawn on his hands.
He felt a hand on his hip and turned. Shawn was dressed, smiling, and leaning close. Lassiter let Shawn lean against his chest and wrap his arms around his waist. For several moments they just stood there, holding each other without speaking. Of all the things Lassiter had done this evening, this felt the most awkward. He wasn't sure if the show of affection was meant to communicate gratitude or something else.
"So…" he said finally, "you were going to tell me about the Maxwell case."
"You really want to talk about that now?" Shawn asked, not bothering to hide his surprise.
"It's why I came here, Spencer."
"Is it?" Shawn asked rhetorically. When Lassiter didn't reply he removed his arms from the embrace and went to sit at his desk. "Don't worry, Lassie. I'll keep my promise. I'll tell you all about it. But you have to let me have my big wrap-up where I explain whodunnit for the guys at the station."
"Is that really necessary?" Lassiter asked. He sat in a chair on the other side of the desk, where he supposed clients must sit.
"It's kind of how I get paid," Shawn said, "so, yes, it's necessary."
"Fine. Spill it."
Shawn began to talk. The whole story, including Lassiter's follow-up questions, took half an hour, during which time they both steadfastly avoided looking at the loveseat.