"So," Nancy asked, glancing down at her watch. "I just have to check in with my editor real quick. Then we can go for the ride-along."

She pulled out her cell phone and started scanning the station for a private spot to make her call. "I'll be right back," she added over her shoulder, glancing at Shawn. "You can tell me more about your…uh…antique wooden spoon collection."

As soon as she was gone, Lassiter glared at him. "Antique wooden spoon collection?" he growled, his eyes narrowing bitterly.

"Sure," Shawn shrugged, adjusting Lassiter's too-large jacket around his frame. "You also have an odd obsession with handcuffs. I was thinking about giving you a facial tick, too. What do you think of this?"

He rapidly jerked his head towards his shoulder several times, crossing his eyes as they bulged out in a truly insane-looking manner.

"Spencer…" Lassiter warned him, his voice dangerously quiet. "Just because I don't want to waste my day babysitting the damn press doesn't mean you get to make me look like a jackass!"

"Fine…" Shawn agreed, grinning as he extended his hand expectantly. "I won't make you look like a jackass. You'll be the best cop Santa Barbara ever saw…I can pull off fiction. But an operation this delicate will require the use your car for the ride-along. I don't think she'll buy that I'm a motorcycle cop."

"You're not using my car, Spencer!"

"Well, I have to use something," Shawn told him, rolling his eyes impatiently. "Unless we should ask the Chief what she thinks about this…"

Lassiter scowled, once again beaten. "Fine…" he groaned, pulling his keys out of his pocket. "We can use my car."

"'We?'" Shawn snorted, reaching for them. "Who invited you? You're just the pain-in-the-ass psychic, remember?"

"Yeah, well," Lassiter muttered bitterly as he pulled the keys out of Shawn's reach, somehow trapped into doing the one thing he had been trying to avoid all day. "This pain-in-the-ass psychic is driving. So, you'd better come up with something to tell the reporter, Spencer. Because there is no way in hell I am letting you behind the wheel of my car! You're lucky I haven't had your license revoked!"

"Lassie," Shawn laughed, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Licenses are like side mirrors…you don't really need them to drive…and no one ever uses them, anyway."

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "And that's why I'm doing the driving, Spencer."

Nancy came back from her phone call at that moment, smiling and waving at them as she crossed the precinct. "I'm ready," she told Shawn. "Which way to your car, Detective Lassiter?"

Shawn glanced at Lassiter, who just grunted and crossed his arms.

"Uh…it's out front," Shawn told her, gently guiding her towards the precinct door. "In fact, Spencer here just got it washed and waxed. Right, Spencer?"

Lassiter didn't respond. He just remained standing perfectly still in the middle of the precinct, glaring as the two of them walked away.

"Uh…he narcoleptic," Shawn explained as they reached the door and stepped outside. "Did I ever tell you about the time I got beat up by a girl…?"

They waited by Lassiter's car for five minutes before the real Lassiter finally showed up.

"Why aren't we going?" Nancy had asked Shawn, sounding mildly irritated as she checked her watch again.

"We're waiting for Spencer." Shawn growled, scowling just like Lassiter. "Damn idiot took my keys when he got her washed and waxed and locked me out."

She had opened her mouth to respond, but before she could Lassiter had appeared at the other end of the parking lot.

For a stunned, silent moment, Nancy and Shawn just stared at him as he crossed the parking lot.

He was still wearing his gray slacks and white dress shirt, but the tie had been removed and he had slipped a green plaid shirt over his dress shirt, letting it hang open to give himself the layered look just like Shawn usually did. His hands were jammed casually into his pockets and as he approached them, he slouched like a slacker surfer-boy.

"You…changed…" Nancy mumbled when he finally reached them, at a loss for what to say to the ridiculous outfit.

For a moment, Shawn was grateful that Lassiter's suit jacket didn't clash quite so much with his jeans and sneakers.

Lassiter just shrugged, obviously trying to appear nonchalant and carefree like a psychic detective. "What can I say?" he drawled, his eyes flashing victoriously at Shawn. "I'm just a marginally-employed slack-ass who's too cool to wear just one layer of clothes. They make me wear the stuffy white shirt crap in the station….but out here, I can wear layers to show everyone what a free-spirit I am. Everyone knows that cool free-spirits wear plaid."

"Oh…kay…" the reporter blinked, completely baffled.

Shawn was still dumbstruck by the sight of Lassiter in the shirt he had accidentally left at the station a few weeks ago after it got wet during a particularly rousing game of Bathroom Sink Water Polo.

Finally, he scowled. "Spencer! We don't need a fashion commentary! Just unlock the car so we can get going!"

Lassiter opened the back door, holding it for Nancy, who quickly got in and buckled up.

After he shut the door, Shawn burst out laughing. "Dude! Cool people totally wear plaid!"

Lassiter grunted, crossing around the front of the car to the driver's seat. "If you're going to make me look like a spoon-collecting jackass who gets beat up by girls, Spencer, I can do the same to you."