Shawn can't think of anything better.
First, he's going on a vacation. Second, the vacation is free. And third-
"I'm going on a vacation with Lassie," Shawn crows.
Gus shakes his head. "Shawn, don't get any ideas."
"Oh, I've got a ton of ideas," Shawn says brightly. "Like, maybe the airplane is really cold and there's only one blanket and we have to share. Or maybe they accidentally mess up the hotel reservation and there's only one bed instead of two, like in Paul. Or maybe Lassie just-"
"Shut up, Shawn." Gus holds up a hand as though he's warding off Shawn's words. "I don't need to hear all your fantasies."
"I'm just saying," Shawn says. "This is a golden opportunity, Gus! Chances like this don't pop up every day!"
"I just-" Gus pauses. "I still think it's-" He purses his lips. "Inadvisable."
"Gus, Gus, Gus." Shawn drops a hand onto Gus's shoulder. "I appreciate your concern, I really do. But I got this."
Gus snorts. "Lassiter didn't seem too excited."
Shawn waves a dismissive hand. "Lassie's never excited about anything," he says. "Trust me, Gus. He'll never know what hit him."
"That's what I'm afraid of," Gus mutters.
Although, Shawn reflects later, after he's gone home for the night, Lassiter really did seem pretty upset about it. Like, more than his usual annoyance with Shawn. Like he was really, truly mad.
Shawn kicks off his shoes and wanders into his bedroom. Flops on his bed. Stares at the ceiling.
Does he have this?
He knows that Lassiter hated him when they'd met. Granted, they'd met under pretty unfortunate circumstances, and he'd definitely embarrassed Lassie in front of, like, ten of his co-workers, but that doesn't really justify the level of dislike Lassiter still demonstrates.
He would have given up on Lassiter long ago if it weren't for the manhandling.
That's the weird part. Lassiter grabs Shawn all the time. Shoves him into walls, yanks him away from crime scenes, leads him around the station by the back of the neck. If Lassiter hates Shawn, why does he take every available opportunity to touch him?
Shawn didn't realize he had a crush on Lassiter at first. It didn't hit him until maybe six months ago, when they were stumped by the death of that astronomer, and suddenly he realized why he'd wanted to solve that case for Lassie. Since then, Shawn's tried everything short of taking his pants off to get Lassiter's attention, but everything he does just seems to annoy Lassiter more. No matter what he says, Lassie gets mad at him, or worse, thinks Shawn is laughing at him. Which couldn't be further from the truth because Lassie is the bravest strongest coolest person Shawn has ever met, except for maybe Gus, and Gus isn't all that brave. And okay, maybe Shawn beats Lassie to the punch most of the time, case-wise, but that doesn't mean he respects him any less.
So why can't Lassiter see that?
So this, Shawn decides, is the perfect opportunity. If he can't show Lassie how he feels by the end of this trip, he's going to sit him down and just tell him, even though that's the conversation he wants to have least in the entire world.
He rolls off the bed and stands. "I should pack," he says aloud.
Shawn is lackadaisical about a lot of things, but packing isn't one of them. The idea of being in a strange place without dental floss or hair product makes him shudder. He takes a little extra time picking out each day's outfit-he's going to be spending a long weekend with Lassie, after all, and he wants his clothes to scream "hot and available." And, just because you never know, he packs his pineapple boxers, too.
After he finishes packing, he showers and tries to watch TV. Can't. Tries to read a book. Can't. Thoughts of Lassiter tumble over and over in his head like clothes in a dryer, and his brain refuses to shut off.
Eventually, he tucks his head under his pillow and square-roots prime numbers until at last he drifts into an uneasy sleep.
The sound of the car horn jolts Shawn awake. He's on his feet in an instant, peering out the window at Lassiter's cranberry Crown Vic outside.
Shit. He'd slept through his alarm.
Shawn struggles into a thermal shirt and jeans, finds his favorite canvas jacket crumpled on the floor of his closet, and jams his feet into his Chucks. Seizes his bag. Darts out the door and locks it behind him.
"Bed to car, ninety-one seconds," he boasts as he slides into Lassiter's passenger seat.
"You look like a hobo," Lassiter says.
"Good morning to you, too." Shawn rubs his eyes and squints in Lassiter's direction. Lassiter looks as though he didn't sleep all night: dark circles under his eyes, hair disheveled, skin even paler than usual. His suit is immaculate, as usual, but his tie is uneven and his right shoe is untied. "You okay, man?"
"Fine," Lassiter says shortly.
After ten minutes of silence, Shawn finally admits that this is actually pretty awkward. No Gus, so there's no one to play straight man; no Jules, so he can't dissipate any sexual energy by flirting. Even Henry's presence would have made this feel less...well, weird.
He unbuckles his seatbelt.
"Hey!" Lassiter's tone is sharp, reprimanding. That's more like it.
He half-crawls into the backseat and rejoices silently when Lassiter shoves at him with one hand.
"Sit down," Lassiter growls.
"Just a second." Shawn digs in his bag and finds his iPod, then drops back into his seat. He looks at Lassiter, hoping for more, but Lassiter has turned his attention back to the road.
Silence.
Shawn hates awkwardness. So he does the only thing he can think to do.
"Lassie?"
"Hm."
"I'm sorry."
Lassiter's expressions flickers. It takes him a moment to reply. "Excuse me?"
Pleased that he's managed to throw Lassiter a little, Shawn shrugs and settles back into his seat. "I said I'm sorry. I know you didn't want me on this trip, so I just want you to know that I'm not going to try to make it worse."
He puts his headphones in his ears, turns the volume up as loud as it will go, and closes his eyes. The ball is in Lassiter's court. Now all Shawn has to do is listen to Poison and wait.
As it turns out, he doesn't have to wait all that long. Halfway through Body Talk, Lassiter reaches over and plucks at Shawn's left earbud. It dislodges and bounces into his lap.
Shawn looks at Lassiter. "Can I help you?"
Lassiter's brows are knitted together. "I didn't not want you on this trip," he says grudgingly.
"Double negatives aside, yes you did too not want me on this trip." Shawn gives him his best go-ahead-prove-me-wrong face.
Lassiter opens his mouth as though to argue, then closes it again. "I didn't want you on this trip," he acknowledges.
"Thank you," Shawn says, even though his heart has plummeted to his toes.
"But," Lassiter adds, "now that you're here, we may as well make the best of it."
Shawn's heart shoots back up into his chest, knocking his lungs around a little, and reestablishes itself in its usual location. "That makes me Sam to your Frodo." He tilts his head. "Although you're really more of a Gandalf."
Lassiter glares.
"Sorry, sorry." Shawn makes a face and puts his ear buds back in. There's just no winning with some people.
By the time they land in LA, Shawn is beginning to think that maybe he won't be sharing an airline-issued blanket with Lassiter after all. Lassiter's only said four words to him since the conversation in the car: "This way" and "Hurry up." Although he said "this way" twice, so maybe that counts as six.
Shawn follows Lassiter through the airport, hoisting his Transformers backpack a little higher on his shoulders. "Lassie!"
Without breaking stride: "Yeah."
Shawn veers toward a TCBY. "I'm starving." They have almost an hour until their next flight and they're almost to the gate, so he's startled when Lassiter grabs his arm.
"No you're not," he says.
"But...but..." Shawn tries to drag his feet, but that just makes Lassiter tighten his grip. Come to think of it, maybe he should keep getting sidetracked. Lassie's hand feels nice and strong.
"Maybe we could hold hands instead," he suggests, which makes Lassiter immediately release his arm.
"Fine," Lassiter says grumpily. "Go get your stupid yogurt."
Lassiter doesn't smile even when Shawn buys him a banana-vanilla swirl with sprinkles. It could be that Lassie's just tired. Shawn is feeling pretty beat and he slept a whole six hours. But at least Lassiter eats the yogurt.
The flight from LA to Boston isn't full. There are a lot of empty aisles, which kind of makes Shawn nervous, because what if Lassiter decides he would rather sit by himself instead of next to Shawn?
Although Lassiter is in the middle seat, he doesn't show any sign of wanting to move. He puts his carry-on in the overhead bin and his briefcase under the seat in front of him and slides in next to Shawn. The armrest between them is up and out of the way, and Shawn is delighted to find that his left thigh brushes Lassiter's right when Lassiter sits down.
Lassiter leaves the armrest where it is, and Shawn does a tiny victory dance in his head.
"'Scuse me, C-Lass." Shawn reaches across Lassiter for the plastic-wrapped blanket that's on the aisle seat. "Do you need one?"
Lassiter looks at him for a long moment. "No," he says finally.
Although Shawn snuggles up to Lassiter on a regular basis, he doesn't get to spend extended periods of time this close to him, and he can't help feeling all stomach-fluttery and twitterpated. He unfolds the blanket. "Wanna share?" he says, hoping his grin hides the fact that he actually is kind of serious.
Lassiter's reply is quick this time. "No!"
"You're a grumpy Hobbit." Shawn wraps the blanket around himself, puts his head against the window, and closes his eyes.
When he wakes up, they're in the air.
Shawn blinks. The blanket has fallen into his lap, and he's tickled to see that Lassiter, also asleep, has pulled part of it over himself.
He looks at Lassiter.
Lassie wouldn't stand for Shawn staring at him for more than a second or two if he were awake, so Shawn indulges himself. Lets his gaze travel from Lassiter's hairline - just a little asymmetric, but oh so strong with not a hint of thinning - across his forehead, smoother in sleep; over his cheekbones and nose and that cute little chin. He only wishes he could see Lassiter's blue eyes, because he thinks that up close they would probably be extremely interesting.
Shawn closes his eyes for a moment, memorizes the feeling of Lassiter beside him: warm and solid, his breathing even and slow. His hands on his lap are open, palm-up. Shawn realizes that he almost never sees Lassiter's hands relaxed and still.
He tries to think about the case, but it's difficult. It's difficult because he feels so peaceful and calm and all he wants is to be present, here with Lassie.
He drifts.
"Spencer."
Lassiter is looking at him. His eyes look like the sky.
"Lassie." Shawn's neck feels stiff and sore; he must have fallen asleep again.
"Would you like something to drink, sir?" The flight attendant is peering at him over Lassiter's shoulder.
"Um." Shawn shakes his head to clear the cobwebs. "No. Thanks."
The flight attendant nods and moves on.
"Sleep well?" Lassiter drains his ginger ale.
"You're going to give yourself a brain freeze," Shawn says. He stretches, rolling his neck, and leans against Lassiter. "Mm, Lassie, you're warm."
"You have personal space issues, Spencer," Lassiter says, but he doesn't move away.
"Only with you, Lassieface," Shawn replies. He scoots a little closer and taps the little TV screens on the seats in front of them, Lassie's with his left hand, his own with his right. "Now come on. Let's watch a movie."
The first thing Shawn notices about the Boston police station is that everyone looks mean. He starts to tell Lassie that, but Lassie elbows him in the ribs because someone is approaching. It's a slender dark-haired woman with a detective's badge clipped to her belt.
"Can I help you?" the woman says, and not in a friendly way.
"Detective Carlton Lassiter, SBPD," Lassiter says. "We're looking for Detective Rizzoli."
"That's me." The woman loses a little of her defensive posture and sticks out her hand. "We've been expecting you."
Lassiter takes it. "Nice to meet you," he says, and jerks his chin in Shawn's direction. "This is-"
"Shawn Spencer, head psychic, SBPD," Shawn interrupts, shaking Rizzoli's hand and offering his best and brightest grin.
"Yeahhh," Rizzoli says, drawing out the word and arching an eyebrow. "Anyway. Detective Lassiter. I'm afraid we've got some bad news about your girl."
They follow Rizzoli deeper through the bullpen. "What bad news is that?" Lassiter says.
Rizzoli glances back at them. "She's dead."
"What? How?" Lassiter looks stunned.
"Shot. Stabbed. Not sure in what order," Rizzoli says. "I'm about to see what our medical examiner found on the body. You can come if you want."
Rizzoli catches them up in the time it takes to walk downstairs to the morgue. Rebecca Xavier had been found the previous night in the foyer of her townhouse by her next door neighbor, with whom she regularly went running. The door was unlocked and the house was a mess, things broken everywhere.
"Maura," Rizzoli calls as they enter the morgue.
Shawn looks around, thinking of Woody's little workspace. "It's big in here."
Sharp footfalls precede the appearance of an attractive blond in a tailored dress and extremely high heels. "Wow, quite a crowd," she remarks, removing her gloves.
This is their medical examiner? Shawn thinks, slightly regretfully, about Woody unwrapping a burrito mid-autopsy.
"Dr. Maura Isles. She's our chief medical examiner," Rizzoli says.
Another round of introductions, and then Isles puts on a new pair of gloves and reaches for the sheet covering the body.
"Don't tell me she does autopsies in that getup," Shawn whispers to Rizzoli.
Rizzoli's eyes crinkle, but her mouth stays serious. "She does everything in that getup," she whispers back.
Shawn turns his attention back to Isles. "The bullet entered on the right side of the neck, just lateral to the trachea," she's saying to Lassiter. "It nicked the internal carotid. Exit wound was at the right occipital skull."
"And the stab wounds?" Rizzoli says.
"Mostly centered on the chest and shoulders," Isles says. She touches a wound directly over Rebecca Xavier's heart. "The left ventricle was pierced, the lungs lacerated in several places, the aortic arch almost completely transected." Her voice gets quieter. "She didn't have a chance."
Lassiter's been silent this whole time, but now he speaks up. "Any sign of poison, drugs, anything?" he asks.
Isles looks at him as though seeing him for the first time. "None so far," she says. "Why do you ask?"
Shawn sees Lassiter's darting glance in his direction. "No reason," Lassiter says.
"Any idea which injury came first?" Rizzoli asks.
"It's not typical to see two weapons used," Isles says. "Any of the injuries would have been immediately disabling. It's difficult to say."
Rizzoli frowns. "Guess," she says.
Isles draws herself up, her brow furrowing. "I don't guess," she replies primly.
Rizzoli makes a frustrated noise. "Honestly, Maura-"
"The bullet came first," Shawn says, and every gaze in the room swings toward him.
He puts a hand to his temple, ignoring Rizzoli's look of disbelief. "I'm sensing-" he starts. "I'm sensing that the killer was small."
"Small." Lassiter snorts. "That's helpful, Spencer."
"She was shot by someone who wasn't good with a gun," Shawn says, eyes closed. Isles may not guess, but he does. Because it doesn't make much sense to stab someone and then shoot them, does it? Rebecca was found in her foyer, so probably the killer shot her on sight. But the neck is a pretty narrow target, so Shawn is willing to bet that the killer was actually aiming for the heart and the kick of the gun threw off his or her aim.
The stab wounds on her chest - they look like they're all different depths. Some are quite shallow, Shawn can see. So the killer probably wasn't strong. And they're not slices, they're punctures: they were likely incurred after Rebecca was already on the ground. He studies the pattern. They're clustered on the left side of Rebecca's body more than the right, angled inward.
"The killer was little," Shawn reiterates. "Not all that strong. I'm sensing he or she weighed the same or less than Rebecca." He pauses. "The killer shot with the left hand. Stabbed with the right."
"How can you possibly-" Rizzoli turns toward Isles. "Is there anything to any of this?" she demands.
Isles is watching Shawn, her eyes narrowed. She looks at the body, then back at Shawn.
"There's no such thing as psychics," she says.
"I need to see the crime scene," Shawn replies.
Rizzoli frowns.
"Tomorrow," she says.