Shawn walked the block to his apartment, his brow creased in confusion. He could understand why Lassiter was angry at Mrs. Montrsor and her son, but why was he angry at him? Was it the result of his last minute confession that he wasn't really psychic? Or did he regret their clinch in the coffin? Either one seemed odd to him. Lassiter had never really believed he was psychic in the first place, so finding out he'd been right on that score hardly seemed to justify being so pissed. And the two of them had been dancing around their attraction for years, so it seemed odd that it would be eliciting a heterosexual freakout now.

Shouldn't he have dealt with that before, Shawn wondered, like maybe when he first realized he was interested in me?

Shawn hadn't had a heterosexual freakout of his own for comparison. He'd figured out something unusual was up with his sexuality when he had watched an ABC Afterschool Special staring Val Kilmer as a young alcoholic. A few conversations with Gus and some time with the encyclopaedia had answered most of his questions. A university student he'd met the summer after graduation had answered the rest of them.

When Shawn entered his apartment that evening the lights were on and Gus was waiting for him. He embraced Shawn in a crushing hug.

"I'm so glad you're okay," Gus said, breathlessly. He stepped back, brushed the dirt from his clothes and gave Shawn his most serious look. "Juliet said that you and Lassiter almost died."

"We cut it pretty close." Shawn laughed, as if it had all just been a crazy adventure. A sprinkle of dust cascaded to the floor.

"If that woman had bothered to read her E.C. Comics," Gus said, "she would have known that the buried alive always come back for revenge." He smiled, glad to see his friend safe, even if he was filthy.

"Thanks, Gus. With your expansive knowledge of comics it's hard to believe you're still single."

"I'm just saying. They always come back." Gus was used to Shawn mocking his comic interest. He was relieved to see that hadn't changed. Although he wouldn't joke, Gus reflected, if he'd seen the women at the last Comicon. There had been two Wonder Womans, a Storm, a She-Hulk and a Princess Leia in the bikini from Jabba's palace in Return of the Jedi.

Shawn took a long hot shower, washing his hair several times to clear all the dirt out. His muscles were aching and he was covered in a dozen cuts and bruises. He pulled some nasty splinters from his knuckles. He emerged several minutes later, wearing his favourite pyjama bottoms and feeling physically exhausted but mentally wired.

"We should really go to the hospital and get you checked out," Gus said. "Too much carbon dioxide can cause damage to the heart and retinas." He held up a finger and waved it back and forth in front of Shawn. "Can you follow my finger with your eyes?"

"I'm fine, Gus. Really." Seeing the look of disbelief on his friend's face Shawn went on, "I mean, physically, I'm fine. I'm probably going to be a little crazy for a few days. If I suddenly scream for no reason it's just me realizing I almost suffocated on my own carbon monoxide."

"You mean carbon dioxide."

"Whatever." He waved a hand. "The screaming will be pretty much the same."

"I understand." Gus said. "You've had a shock. When Jules told me what happened I stopped at the 7-11 and picked up your comfort foods."

"Sweet." Shawn rummaged through the bag of snacks. "Gus, you're awesome." He noted that Gus had brought his overnight bag, clearly intending to crash at Shawn's place in case he needed support. Shawn smiled again.

"Don't mention it. As for the crazy, I think you should talk to a professional. Do you want me to call your mom?"

"No. No no no. The last thing I want her picturing is me trapped in a wooden box under the ground."

"You're right. Moms worry. But there are lots of other psychiatrists in the Santa Barbara area. I'm sure the station could arrange a session with Dr. Erlich for you. They'd probably pay for it too, since it was their missing persons case that got you almost killed in the first place."

"Yeah. I think I'm going to take some ribbing on not having seen that coming. No matter how many times I tell them that I don't see the future they always expect me to. I blame Nostradamus."

"Actually, James Randi has debunked the idea that Nostradamus predicted the future."

"Yet I'm still suffering under the weight of the expectations he set. I'll just have to tell people that following in the spiritual footsteps of the missing woman was the only way to find her. That sounds plausible, right?"

"Don't try to change the subject, Shawn. You should make an appointment with Dr. Erlich."

"First off, I don't even know if he's a real doctor. Chief Vick might just be blinded by his convincing pipe and sweater vest. And second, we were buried for less than an hour. It's no biggie. I'm just going to wing it for now. Watch a few classic zombie movies, and move on."

Gus crossed his arms and furrowed his brow at Shawn. "Let me just say that I'm against that plan. Your mental health is important. But if you insist." He went to Shawn's shelf of DVDs. "You have the George Romero Collection, but the only zombie movie in it is Dawn of the Dead."

"Great! That's his best one."

"I'll take your word for it. I'm sorry you ever talked me into watching it. I still have that recurring nightmare in which I haven't studied for my algebra test and Mrs. Cameron rips my intestines out and eats them. So, thank-you, Shawn."

"The thanks really belong to George."

Gus handed him the DVD and Shawn put it in the player. He grabbed the remote and threw himself onto his sofa.

"If we ever meet, I'll tell him," Gus said.

"I'm sure he gets that all the time." Shawn started Dawn of The Dead.

"Probably." Gus sat on the sofa and looked at Shawn rather than the television. "I'm no expert on psychological trauma, but if you need to talk I'm here for you."

"Thanks, Buddy," Shawn said, opening a bag of Doritos. "I knew I could count on you."

"For sure."

"That's what friends are for?" He raised an eyebrow and grinned. Gus smiled back, but Shawn could tell he was still feeling wary behind those friendly eyes.

Shawn watched as a helicopter pilot and his technician girlfriend planned to steal their news station's chopper. Gus pulled a book on pharmaceutical drug absorption out of his bag and began reading it. Several moments passed with only the sound of a heavily armed SWAT team looking for zombies breaking the silence.

Then Shawn spoke. "Listen, there is something I'd like to talk about. Related to the incident."

"You know you can tell me anything, Shawn." Gus looked up from his book.

"When we were in the coffin my flirtation with Lassie went to DEFCON one."

"DEFCON one?" Gus looked serious. "I know what I mean when I say that. Exactly what do you mean?" In Gus' world, DEFCON one was used strictly for describing relationships that progressed to the bedroom level. As far as he was concerned, Shawn's flirtatious teasing of detective Lassiter wasn't even a proper DEFCON 5, which would have been a prearranged meeting for coffee.

Shawn sat up and turned to face Gus, ignoring the television.

"I mean we went through PG right up into R, and I was pretty sure we were headed for triple X when I realized we actually had a shot at getting out of there alive. After going all Beatrix Kiddo we were going to go back to his place, but we got into an argument in the car and he just kicked me out. I had to walk, like, a whole block. With bad hair."

"What kind of an argument?" Gus had a gut feeling that Shawn was hiding something from him. After all these years, he had radar for that sort of thing.

"I have no idea." Shawn's tone told Gus that Shawn knew exactly why he and Lassiter had argued. Gus gave him his best sceptical look. Given enough time, exposure to it always broke Shawn down.

"Okay," he admitted, looking at the ceiling instead of at Gus. "I may have confessed that I wasn't psychic when I thought we were going to die. And I may have tried to take it back in the car ride here. So it's possible that he's mad about that."

Gus slammed his hand onto the arm of the sofa. "I knew this was coming. You can't keep a secret. You're always pushing boundaries to see how far you can go and how people will react. I knew you'd tell someone eventually, but I kind of hoped it wouldn't be someone who one: hates you, two: tried to have you arrested, and three: will ruin our business and send us to jail for fraud."

"Gus…."

"I knew it, that's all." Gus crossed his arms and refused to look at Shawn.

"First off, Lassiter doesn't hate me. I'm pretty sure that he really likes me. Deep down, beneath the cutting remarks and the latent homoerotic violence. Second of all, he only tried to arrest me that one time. All the other times were just his way of flirting. Maybe a desire to see me in handcuffs…." He shook his head, as if to dislodge the fantasy of him and Lassiter playing with handcuffs. "And third, what was your third objection again?"

"Us going to jail for fraud? Or misrepresentation? Or obstruction of justice? Or Lying to the police? They're all crimes, you know."

"Call me a romantic, but I don't think Lassie would do that. He wouldn't lock up a guy he's kissed, right? Isn't that against the Gentleman's Code?"

"What Gentlemen's Code?" Gus made a face that indicated Shawn was clearly playing Solitaire with only half a deck.

"You know," Shawn flailed his hands, searching for the right words. "The code that tells how to be a gentleman. Like putting your jacket over puddles or standing when a woman enters the room."

"And have you ever seen Lassiter do either of those things?"

"No." Shawn scrambled for some evidence that would assuage Gus's anxiety. "Maybe it's not the gentleman's code. Maybe it's a detective's code. Never shoot a man in cold blood and never arrest someone you've kissed. It's all there in the movies."

"I don't know, Shawn. In the Maltese Falcon Sam Spade hands Brigit O'Shaughnessy over to the cops to be hanged, even though he loves her."

"Yeah, but O'Shaughnessy killed Spade's partner. If I'd shot Jules then sure, he'd arrest me. But we're talking a teensy little lie."

"That you developed into a business and used to defraud the police for four years. I just hope I can get a reduced sentence since I wasn't the one claiming to be psychic. If this ever goes to court, I'm playing dumb. No one can prove I knew."

Shawn rolled his eyes.

"I may have also told him that you and Henry already know it's a sham."

"Great. You've already torpedoed my only defence." Gus looked at Shawn incredulously and threw his hands up. "I'm going to prison! I may as well start bulking up now."

"Nobody's going to prison. I figure, worst-case scenario, we have to move Psych to another city. In another state. Possibly on the east coast. I hear Boston is nice. How do you feel about delicious clam chowder?"

"I'm not talking to you right now, Shawn," Gus said, sinking down angrily into the sofa. "Except to say," he sat up straight again, "that you'd better use your newfound intimacy with Lassiter to fix this. I like living in Santa Barbara. I just renewed yearly memberships to the Granada Centre for the Performing Arts and the Museum of Natural History. They're restoring a blue whale skeleton this year."

"Okay, okay. I'll fix it. Trust me."

###

Lassiter's week had been the most awkward he'd had since his divorce. No one at the station seemed to know what to say. They just kept looking at him with wary sympathy, as if he might have a mental breakdown at any moment.

For what it was worth, he wasn't so sure he wasn't going to have a breakdown. He hadn't slept more than a few hours every night, and the exhaustion was getting to him. When he did sleep he was plagued with claustrophobic dreams that left him panicked and soaked in sweat. Even the close confines of his shower stall had freaked him out a few times.

He was pushing paper until Dr. Erlich cleared him for active duty. He still wore his gun to work but the only action it was seeing was at the range every evening, where he tapped into the anger that was still sloshing around inside of him. If he was honest about it, he probably did need some kind of mental help. But he was getting more out of the range than he was with the shrink. The range gave him time to think and express his feelings, and it enabled him to do it alone, with guns.

Few people ventured into the shooting range when Lassiter was there, and they seemed to be staying away completely this week, which suited him just fine.

He had kissed Spencer.

Bang! He squeezed the trigger on the Glock 17. The recoil pushed pleasantly up into his forearms and biceps. It felt real.

He had thought he was going to die.

Bang! Bang! He squeezed off two more shots into the target. His aim was good. At least something was still fully within his control.

Shawn was a fake.

Bang.

He'd known it all along and it still pissed him off to hear him admit it.

Bang. Bang, bang bang. The Glock spit out empty cartridges in rapid succession.

Lassiter drew in a breath, revelling in the smell of burnt gunpowder and brought the target back. Okay, so technically Shawn hadn't confessed. But he'd tacitly agreed when Lassiter had figured out it was all deduction.

Basically, Lassiter thought grimly, Shawn confessed to being the best detective alive whereas I confessed to having a sexual attraction to him. It hardly seemed like a fair trade. He pulled down the target.

"Nice shooting, Tex. You really killed that nine ring."

Lassiter turned and removed his goggles and ear protection.

"What are you doing down here, Spencer?" Lassiter ran his eyes over Shawn. He looked well-rested and energetic. He probably hadn't lost a moment of sleep.

"Just checking in," he shrugged and leaned casually against the wall. "Seeing how you are. The usual."

"I'm fine." If the definition of fine includes insomnia, rage, and panic attacks.

"Yeah. I can tell." Shawn picked absently at a nailhole in the wall, not looking at Lassiter. His shirt rode up slightly, revealing a flash of skin along his waistline. "I'm fine too. In case you were wondering."

"I wasn't." That was harsh, Lassiter berated himself. The added, "I mean, I'm glad that you're fine."

"I'm fine, you're fine. We're both….fine."

"Listen, Spencer, did you have any particular reason for coming down here? I'm kind of busy."

With everything else on his plate the last thing he needed was Shawn pressuring him to hook up. Being attracted to someone didn't mean he had to sleep with them, especially given the potential repercussions. The double standard on sex annoyed him. He could sleep with dozens of women and no one expected that should entail awkward conversations with his Catholic mother, or his boss, or marching in parades. He had attended a pride parade once, as a rookie cop assigned to crowd control. As far as he could tell, the homosexuals of Santa Barbara were a peaceful people, but that didn't mean he suddenly wanted to be one.

"Actually, I'm here on Gus' behalf."

Oh. Lassiter actually felt disappointed. What the hell did that mean?

"What about Guster?" Lassiter loaded his Glock and holstered it.

Shawn sighed. "He's all paranoid. I told him you'd figured out the whole psychic angle and now he thinks," Shawn laughed, "he thinks that you're going to arrest us."

Lassiter didn't respond.

"I know, That's silly, isn't it?" Shawn said, smiling. 'But you know Gus, always the worrywart. Mayor McFret."

"What makes you think I won't arrest you?" He didn't see how Shawn could be so sure. He hadn't made up his mind what he was going to do yet.

Shawn looked up at Lassiter, his hazel eyes heavy with sexual invitation, and stepped into the firing booth and into his personal space.

"I just don't think you will." Shawn was barely inches away now, leaning in. Lassiter could feel the heat of his breath and smell his hair. It sent a rush through his body, but being this close to Shawn in a small space also brought up the uncomfortably familiar sensations of fear and panic. He wondered if Shawn had showered as much as he had, trying to wash off the gritty reminder of their underground captivity. Shawn's hand ran along his belt line and grazed down the fly of his pants. Lassiter's breath caught in his throat and he heard a moan that might have been his own.

Suddenly Lassiter's thought processes kicked in. He was being manipulated. This gun range seduction wasn't about Shawn wanting him, it was about not getting charged. He felt his stomach plummet, immediately followed by a hot rush of anger.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!" Lassiter pushed Shawn backwards, hard. "Back away, Spencer."

"What?" Shawn raised his hands, as if to protest his innocence.

Lassiter pushed Shawn hard on the chest, sending him stumbling back, out of the booth, and causing him to collide against the wall.

"You are a manipulative lying sleazebag," Lassiter said, advancing menacingly. "I must have been crazy to think…"

"To think what?" Shawn raised his head defiantly and licked his lips. The whole effect was incredibly hot. Lassiter knew he had to look away. He turned back to the firing booth and put on his visor.

"To think I could ever be friends with you." His voice was low now, but he knew Shawn heard it anyway.

"What about being more than friends?"

"That," he said, attaching a new target to the zipline and sending it down the range, "is never going to happen." He put his ear muffs on and pulled the Glock from its holster. "I don't even think I like you." Lassiter fired until his clip was empty. When he turned around again Spencer was gone.