2.

Gus had a bad feeling about this. It was cute and all, but that didn't stop his Psych sense from malicious tingles.

"I've got a bad feeling about this, Shawn. Really bad." His fingers, as if holding their own in the show of displeasure, quivered a little as he tightened one of the last strings under Shawn's left forearm.

"What could be bad about it?" came from the hollow of—of whatever the heck Shawn had made this costume out of. "It's high noon. I'm not missing a thing, because I can't fit another morsel in here. I can hardly cram all of me in this thing. I know Lassie's inside, and I know my dad isn't. Total bonus. I've got everything squared away with that super-duper wife of yours. She's been way more supportive than you."

"I won't deny that Jules is a productive amoretto. She thinks you and Lassiter are—"

"Are?" prompted Shawn. "Go on. Say it."

Gus made a face, spat a mild hiss, made another face. He returned to his labor. "She thinks you're sweet together."

"See! That wasn't so bad! And I know you think we're not."

"I'm refraining from any opinion." Although it was nice to have a happier Lassie and a happier Shawn around. "But I don't know that I agree with this plan of yours. Are you sure about this?"

Shawn pretended he heard no antagonism at all in his best friend's very even tone. "Very sure. And I'm recording My Little Pony, so I know I won't miss anything pop-culturally. Maybe I'll have time to watch it later. I'm still catching up on episodes. I wonder, will we even have the time? So much going on today."

"Will you hold still? I'm not done yet. Did you—uh—"

"You really need to stop inserting all these hesitations into your speeches. My self-confidence often depends on your self-confidence. Did I what? Pee before I got in here? You bet I did. Is the status of my bladder troubling you?"

"Not even slightly," Gus answered, continuing to fumble with knots. "Did you talk to Lassie about—about you know what? And I know you know what I'm talking about."

Letting out a brief exhalation prepared Shawn for replying. He wanted to be succinct and aloof, just not too succinct and aloof. "Not yet. Not—not in so many words. I thought I would this morning but I lost my nerve. I don't know, Gus—maybe it's not a good time for us to talk about it."

"Are you ever going to be any more ready?"

Shawn's lips and eyelids clenched. Even if he wasn't really thinking, it'd look like he was thinking. He saw Gus's point, anyway. "Yeah, all right, you win. I'll take another stab at it later, maybe after I have some wine. A lot of wine. A lot."

"Don't you have to work later?"

"So, okay, one little bitty sip of wine."

"Make the effort to tell him something. You'll feel better if you do."

Shawn looked around, as much as he could acquire mobility in that awkward contraption. The sky over the core of downtown Santa Barbara was bright blue, a high contrast to the traditional architecture of the station, with its terra cotta roof and off-white stucco exterior. They were on the southern end of the building, away from the front door. Enough officers and civilians were coming and going out the side door that Shawn and Gus put up with a few gawks. Most, though, didn't notice them, too busy staring at their cell phones. Shawn's mind did what it was good at: meandering out loud.

"You know what I love most about My Little Pony, Gus?"

"The mostly pastel color palette? The simple, thematic yet catchy songs?"

"Yes, and yes, but that's not how I was going to answer. I like that there's not one cell phone in all of Equestria. No cell phones, computers—"

"But they have magical Alicorns."

"True fact, and in my opinion, Equestria is the better for it. Ponies don't have the opposable thumbs that are really required for everyday cell phone use."

Gus played along, he and Juliet having decided that Shawn's "MLP" fascination was just a phase he was going through. At least, they kind of hoped it was. Shawn had come to rely on the show as a means of transforming his negative feelings into something cheerier. Maddie had tried explaining it to Gus and Juliet recently, in a response to a concerned and startling email they'd sent her. "No cell phones. Sure, Shawn, I'm sure that's the reason you like My Little Pony. Whatever it is," he paused, remembering that Maddie had suggested they exhibit a better emotional interest in Shawn's overall health, "I'm glad you won't miss anything important from Equestria. Well, I think I got all of them." He looked at Shawn in his disguise, and couldn't help but marvel—and have his stomach slosh around again. "No matter how much I beg, you're not going to reconsider, are you?"

"Of course I am not. I've been planning this for months. I have backers—investors! I'd hate to disappoint them. And Carlton. Juliet, too. Thanks for your work, young Squire Guster." Shawn laid a heavy hand on Gus's shoulder, immediately lifting it when Gus winced in pain. "Yeah, maybe this wasn't such a good idea."

"Maybe not."

"Too late now! Into the fury—!" he gestured, indicating the station's front entrance, "I ride on my trusty steed!"

Which Shawn had had ample trouble figuring out. It was a good thing he, Gus, Dobson, McNab and Juliet had gone through a dry run a couple of weeks ago.

And, honestly, the amazing exhilaration that surged through Shawn as he entered the building and flew up the stairs was not something he wanted to miss. It was the biggest thrill he'd had in months! To see the astonishment on everyone's faces! Oh, he'd arrived! He'd arrived in style! If he'd walked into the station completely naked on a horse, like Lady Godiva, he doubt the gawkers would've been able to gawk a smidgen more.

Chief Vick, hearing the unusual noise—and then the silence that followed—sauntered from her office with a terrible pressure in her throat. The sight of someone astride a horse was enough to take her breath away. A horse! In the station!

Unafraid of equines, Vick strode forward and cut through the line of pedestrians and officers that'd gathered around the spectacle. Looking behind the streaks of metal through the knight's helmet, Karen no longer knew whether she should laugh or reprimand. She never did know what to do when Shawn was up to one of his tricks.

"I think you've gone a little too far this time. At least have the decency to explain this to me. Quickly." She eyeballed the pony's tail for any sign of it lifting prior to its bowel release. Thankfully, the tail was limp, and the pony appeared less fearful and more intrigued. "Shawn, really, what is this? I should have you arrested!"

Shawn thanked Octavia for her fine behavior with a few pats at her lower neck. He needed a moment to get the Scottish brogue just right. "I've come to rescue and woo yonder detective—one Lassiter by name! I believe you know him, my Lady Provost! Be a good wench and fetch him from thither and bring him thus hither I am!"

Karen's reaction was a slight roll of the eyes and a visible reparation of her soul. Was that all? Well, she admired Shawn's ability to keep his romance with Lassiter fresh. Fresh as a fruit stand—practically fresher than an orchard. She heard McNab whispering to her.

"It's their anniversary. Two years," he said, nodding and smiling at her, as if they should all be a little proud of this. They all were a little proud of this, actually.

Karen reset herself. "Mr. Spencer—"

"Sir Spencer, if you please!" said the knight.

And what the heck was he wearing? It looked like cylinders of paperboard covered in aluminum foil and tied up with plain old cotton string. Though elaborate, it was also comical. The basinet, though—it was certainly real. The closer she looked, the more she noticed that portions of his ensemble were as real as the helmet, and the paperboard-aluminum was to make up for the missing pieces. Shawn was always good for an afternoon mind-boggle.

"Sir Spencer, then," she cast a quick glance around in the hopes of finding Carlton, "you need a permit to have this animal—"

"Oh, I've got that," he said in his normal, less Scottish voice. Pulled from an aluminum foil cannon, a sheet of paper. He watched the chief read it, watched her face fall as she realized its stinging legitimacy.

"Still, a horse—"

"She isn't a horse, my Lady Provost! She's a pony!" His gauntleted hands covered the pony's upright ears. "Only, she's kind of sensitive, so you might not want to mention that to her, I mean, not right to her pony face. Ah! Bless the very ground of this place! My love has come!"

For Shawn had just spotted Lassiter in the crowd. The horde split to form a row, allowing Lassiter to wander through. Shawn was beyond pleased to see the shock Carlton displayed. It was times like these that he was thankful for his photographic memory; he'd never forget it as long as he lived.

"There is my one and only true love! I've come to rescue you from a day's worth of slave labor, oh lord worthy of my praises, keeper of my heart, herald of my soul!"

Carlton could feel his face reddening. "Shawn," he growled cautiously. "I have … work to do."

"Nay! Thine hath slave labor, my love! And I've arrived in time to slash thy pinions and ride with ye to far, far freedom—where we will drink mead and picnic on the finest cuisine!"

Carlton, agog, could say nothing. He could literally think of nothing to say. Was this really Shawn? Was Shawn really on a pony? In that outfit? In the police department? This was what Shawn had planned? His head was spinning. This is what Shawn had planned! He felt a very real tug at his elbow. Looking over, he saw O'Hara. Thank God. At least O'Hara tended to make sense.

"Chief," Juliet bobbed her head a little and cleared her throat, "I mean, Lady Provost, I've agreed to take the majority of Detective Lassiter's work for the remainder of the afternoon. What I am unable to do, Detective Arlette has agreed to help me with."

Arlette, a strong-jawed, blue-eyed forty-something, stuck his hands in his trouser pockets and looked both titillated and embarrassed to be part of this scheme. But what a scheme! He was glad to see Tyas not far off, video recorder in hand. Someone, at least, was preserving this. "I'll do what I can to help, Lady Provost, and for you, Sir Lassiter."

The next thing Lassiter knew, Shawn was holding out a hand for him to get on the pony. He could ride pillion for a while. They were used to that, thanks to Shawn's equine work at the country club and their extended vacations at Shawn's uncle's. Shawn, an adequate horseman, though not quite as good as Carlton, got the pony turned around and stopped again.

"Farewell, peasants! I thank the canaille for their labor to secure my love!" Shawn said, giving a wide, long wave of his arm to the gathered masses. "I thank each of you for your sup—or—ORT!"

Octavia had had enough, and decided to jump down the staircase and out the open doors as fast as her hooves could take her. Once in the free air, and standing right in the middle of the main thoroughfare, she gave an exorbitant and rude snort. Since no one stopped her, she sauntered over to a bit of green space, and began munching on succulent grass.

Lassiter was still having a difficult time kicking his brain into anything that wasn't "Shawn, pony, what the hell?" Any structure of linguistics outside of that was certainly beyond him. He wrung arms around Shawn's waist, fatter than usual thanks to the width of the cuirass. While it was pleasant being on a pony with Shawn, reminding them of their vacations the last couple of years, he wondered what the point of it was. Finally, some oil of the gods had dropped on his tongue, and he was able to speak again.

"Did you do that just to impress me?"

"Well, I am always trying to impress you."

"What happened to the brogue?"

"Dude, Lass, do you know how hard it is to do a Scottish accent? Do you know how much J.M. Barrie I had to read to keep that accent fresh in my mind? No, for real, I feel like a Scottish-made sponge that's then been soaked in usquebaugh that's then been soaked in the dirty, stinky, sexy laundry of Gerard Butler, then carried around by Alan Cumming for a week. Besides," he paused to click at Octavia and bump her flanks with his heels, "it's not like you ever wanted me to be Scottish. Unless you have some Gerard Butler or Highland duke fantasy you've never told me about, because I know Alan Cumming's not your type."

"There is something about a kilt," Carlton teased. Octavia had taken to the sidewalk, and Shawn seemed to be leading her to the next cross street north. "Where are you taking me, anyway? And how'd you get Octavia out here? This was one elaborate scheme, Shawn."

"Months of work, one very iffy and almost terrifying evening of dress rehearsals—Gus will never, ever agree to shovel manure again, you can count on it—and, yeah, all that for five minutes in the police station. But damn was it worth it! Did you see the looks on their faces? I hope Tyas caught the look on yours. I want you to see it. I've never seen you look so impressed and confused before. Except that one time when we were in bed."

It was one of Shawn's on-running gags. Shawn was the only person Carlton had ever met that had on-running gags with himself. Whenever Shawn couldn't think of a way to finish saying what he'd started to say, or if he'd said something uncomfortable, he'd end it with "Except for that one time when we were in bed." Often, it made everything better, both the phrasing and its saucy origin.

"As to where we're going," Shawn whipped his voice to Imperial Mode, "I cannot tell you that."

"You said something about a picnic."

"Oh," Shawn almost laughed at himself, "I did say that, didn't I? So only part of it's a secret. But we've got a few blocks yet." Shawn patted the hands lying over his belly. "Tell me about your day."

"Fairly banal, to my surprise."

"Full moon starts tomorrow," Shawn said. "You'll have way too much to do then. Although I think it's in your Rising house, so—so that'll be—challenging."

"I enjoyed today's reprieve, believe me. Just filed reports and mused over the details of some open cases."

Once upon a time, Shawn would've been happy to hear about these open cases, and would've encouraged Lassiter to tell him all the details, maybe even would've solved one or two. Those days were turning ancient, only fresh, in a sour kind of way, in Shawn's memory, in the regret he had over his last case, in the hopeful and maudlin stares of his friends, even his dad. That he'd failed to solve that case was just skimming the surface. It was what lurked below that Shawn avoided. He patted Lassie's hands a second time.

"You're the best detective they've got, so you'll get it. Don't stress over it, Pooch."

Carlton's shoulders drooped, but he kept in the sigh, afraid that Shawn would notice. He'd been trying to get Shawn involved in a case for the last five months. Nothing worked. Not even the case of a murdered nudist at a swingers party had enticed Shawn from the placidity of his new everyday life. Most of that revolved around freelance writing, articles on astrology and, a new thing for him, the development of intuition; he'd delved into writing for a gay culture site, including the occasional pop-culture piece, and he'd recently become their weekly horoscope author. The morphing from psychic detective to comedic and lighthearted writer wasn't so enormous for Shawn. Carlton continued to feel like something was missing in Shawn. The last month had brought them to a point that Carlton swore he'd never repeat: couple's counseling. But there was a roughness and hollowness in Shawn, so far irreparable by love and hope. Carlton let Shawn carry on his affair with his Macbook Pro, usually early in the morning or late at night, and hoped everything turned out the way it was supposed to. Shawn had found a painting by a local artist that he'd hung in the house, a mixed media canvas carrying words from the Desiderata, "No doubt the universe is unfolding as it should."

No doubt it was. Carlton just wanted it to unfold a little faster.

Then again, maybe not. Two years had already swung right by, and he didn't know how he'd get through the first day let alone the first month, the first year—and he didn't have to wonder about it anymore.

"I hope it's not far," grumbled Carlton. "You're a lot nicer to hold when you're not made of metal."

"In a kilt?"

"Don't tease me. How'd you get Octavia?"

"I borrowed her. Don't worry," Shawn almost laughed, "she's a good pony, and Morrissey is picking her up when we reach our destination. I told you, I have this planned out down to the smallest detail."

"It's pretty amazing, you know." Carlton was tickled and amused that Shawn had done something so elaborate.

"Well, I'm a pretty amazing guy. I was going to change my middle name to Amazing, but I find it's much too difficult to write out Z's in a signature."

"I can't wait to see what you come up for our tenth or twentieth anniversary."

"I might have notebooks filling up on the premise of those maneuverings too, but, h'mm, perhaps I shouldn't spoil the surprise."

"Yeah, don't. I like your surprises."

They were honked at several times by passing vehicles, and were followed by an SBPD patrol car. The big head and shoulders of McNab were recognizable behind the glare of the windshield. Officer Kennedy, only in her second year on the Force, told them that they were there as an escort. "Chief Vick's idea," she concluded. Carlton was astonished that Shawn had no humorous retort, but quietly kept Octavia on her steady pace.

Carlton knew they'd neared their destination when the round edges of a horse trailer caught his eye. He didn't really know where they were, and had been enjoying the ride—how many times in his life was he going to ride a pony through the city?—without giving a thought as to their location. Now, whipping out calculations and remembering which turns they'd taken, and by the look of the building he passed often but rarely entered, Carlton made his assessment known.

"You're bringing us to the library?"

It was true. Young Atlanta Morrissey waited at the foot of the open horse trailer in the library parking lot. She took Octavia's reins as the pony neared, and kicked the stool within Shawn's reach. He would've shunned the use of it if he hadn't been wearing such a cumbersome costume. Lassie slid off first, and spotted Shawn's graceful descent. Morrissey was in a fit of giggles. Shawn had had a hand in getting the high school senior hired at the country club, specifically for the stables. She'd been around horses all her life, did dressage shows, some jumping, and had more ribbons for her achievements than Shawn cared to count. She knew more about horses than he did, but he knew what the horses were thinking. They considered themselves symbiotic coworkers. Plus, Shawn had an innate affection for anyone he could call Morrissey, after the former lead singer of The Smiths and popular soloist. She got Octavia in the trailer and Shawn closed the doors.

"Must've gone all right," Morrissey said in a clandestine whisper while she and Shawn had a second away from Lassiter. She was a little terrified of Shawn's significant other, and didn't know what the two of them saw in each other. "He's here, anyway."

"Nothing happened. I don't even think Octavia took a dump the whole way."

"I'll drive back that way just in case you were in too amorous a mood to notice." She laughed again, whipped out here phone and snapped a photo of the two of them. "This is definitely going on my next status update. Don't forget the game tonight. You have to be there at six o' clock. Want me to message you at five-thirty so you don't forget?"

Shawn pressed his two hands against his hard chest. "If I could feel my heart right now through this metal, Morrissey, it would be warmer and ten times its normal size. What would I do without you?"

"Be late a lot and probably get fired. Duh. Okay, boss, have fun." She tried to say something to Lassiter, but failed miserably. Trying to talk to Carlton Lassiter was like trying to talk to a man who combined the shame brought on by the Pope and the fear brought on by Simon Cowell. Turning magenta, far more pink than her curly red hair, Morrissey hurried into the truck, the country club's stylish logo painted on the door.

"Bye, Octavia. I'll give you an extra treat when I see you later!" Shawn called after the horse in the trailer. He heard Octavia's distinct baritone whinny and returned to Lassie in front of the library doors.