Fic! Psych: You may be right (Shawn may be crazy)
Okay, I'm embarrassed to post this, because I still have Help_Haiti fics I'm working on (I am! I swear!), but this... got written. So here it is: Silly, silly Shawn/Lassie fic. Betas by 
margarks and
cincodemaygirl, who went above and beyond in help. Remaining errors are mine, and there are a couple of extra notes at the end. :-)
You may be right (Shawn may be crazy)
Mafia hitmen searching the building? Check. Stuffed into a cleaning closet with Spencer? Check. Backup on the way? Check. Probably check. Really damn hopefully check.
The closet smelled like lemon Pine-Sol and dust, and was roughly the size of an upright coffin; shelves along the rear wall pressed into Lassiter's back, and Spencer, uncharacteristically quiet, pressed into his front. Lassiter shifted, easing away from Spencer and then back when the shelves behind him bit into his lumbar region.
"Good idea," Spencer whispered, and Lassiter tensed, wondering what the hell Spencer had thought to do. If only the gun hadn't been left behind in the scramble out of their last hiding place. If he had the gun, he could defend them. Or shoot Spencer. Very quietly.
There was suddenly a lot of... wriggling. Spencer turned around, pressing uncomfortably into... certain regions of Lassiter's anatomy. Spencer was grinning up at him. "Hi," he said, and then he was gone. He was - gone?
"Shit!" Lassiter yelped, and Spencer popped up again, looking mischievous and a little severe in the near-darkness.
"Lassie, you're going to need to be quiet while I do this," he said primly, and dropped to his knees again, fingers busy unbuckling, unzipping, yanking down Lassiter's pants.
"What the hell," Lassiter hissed, trying to remember to keep his voice down, but it was very difficult when Spencer already had his mouth - oh god, hot, wet suction, Lassiter's knees nearly buckled as he suddenly remembered blowjobs, and how long it'd been since he'd had one. Derailed, he thought wildly as Spencer's mouth slid lower, licking, nuzzling, sucking him to hardness in ten seconds. Possibly less. His counting skills seemed to be deserting him.
He knotted his hands in Spencer's hair, preparatory to yanking him back and off, and felt the hitch and nearly inaudible groan in Spencer's throat. Holy hell, that was hot - Lassiter thrust forward without really meaning to, then jerked his hips backward in a panic, banging into the shelves behind with a small clatter.
Spencer slid off and popped up again. He still looked mischievous and a little severe, but he was licking his lips, too, which was distracting. So was the fact that he was working Lassiter with one hand while he spoke: "Seriously, be quiet. If the bad guys hear you they're going to come in here and shoot you and me both, and then we'll be found by Jules and Gus with your pants down and my mouth attached, and that's just more embarrassment than you need, even after you're dead." He cocked an eyebrow at Lassiter and then slid out of sight again.
Lassiter knew he was right, and at this point he didn't have the willpower to resist, anyway - he just curled his hands into Spencer's hair and gave in, riding it out: Spencer's cunning mouth; the way he palmed Lassiter's balls, sliding a finger back into the sweaty, secret space behind them; the intent, impatient way he used teeth, tongue and lips to suck Lassiter right to the edge of orgasm. It would all be okay if they could just both keep quiet, Lassiter thought hazily, and then he had to clench his eyes and mouth shut as he came, hips stuttering forward into Spencer's mouth. The suction went soft and wet and Lassiter heard rather than actually felt Spencer swallow, his barely there hum of pleased satisfaction.
A moment later Spencer had him tucked gently back into his underwear and was standing again. Lassiter felt Spencer reach down to adjust his own pants. "Good man," Spencer said, then jostled him around until Lassiter was in front of the door, Spencer behind him. He could feel Spencer's erection against his ass, and thought maybe that should alarm him, but that alarm was almost immediately replaced by a new one: Spencer shoved open the door of the supply closet and pushed Lassiter out, still pressed tightly to his back.
"I got him!" Spencer shouted, and Lassiter went tense as a live wire, all the good of an unexpected orgasm torn away in an instant.
He felt Spencer's finger shoved into the small of his back. "Seriously?" Lassiter hissed out of the corner of his mouth. "A finger gun?"
"Shut up, I have a plan," Spencer hissed back, and just then three large Italian men crashed into the room, looking fierce.
~*~
Spencer's plan, like all his plans, was terrible, but with a timely intervention from O'Hara and Guster, plus - naturally - some quick thinking and faster moving from Lassiter, they all made it out alive. So did the mafia hitmen, although that wasn't Lassiter's fault. He supposed it was good that they were still alive to sell out others of their kind, but he wouldn't have lost any sleep if the one he shot hadn't made it - being a hairsbreadth from dead, killed by your own gun, was just too embarrassing to contemplate.
And speaking of too embarrassing to contemplate - no. Totally not speaking of it, thinking of it, admitting to it.
Ever.
~*~
"But I don't want to," Lassiter whined, hearing the whine, hating it and hating everyone else even more.
"Suck it up and deal, Carlton," was O'Hara's only reply, sharp in the dim light of the streetlight at the far corner. "Gus didn't see the perp, plus he's out of town, plus our guy can ID unmarked police cars, plus we don't even get to use one -" she cut herself short and checked that the .22's safety was on before stuffing it into her bra and zipping her shirt up after it. "Anyway, I've got other fish to fry." She bent to straighten her perilously short skirt. "Now, go sit in the car with Shawn and quit being such a baby."
She stalked away down the alley, three-inch heels clicking on the pavement. Lassiter watched her go before turning to the car. Spencer waved brightly at him from the driver's seat.
"Oh, no," Lassiter said, stalking to the driver's side window. "I am sitting there. You are sitting there," as he pointed to the empty passenger's seat.
"Gus said only I could drive his car while he was out of town," Spencer said.
"I seriously doubt that," Lassiter snapped. "He probably said you were absolutely forbidden to drive his car."
"I'm wounded, Lassie," Spencer chirped. "Wounded by your mistrust. Seriously, Gus said just me. Me. Not you, not Jules, not even my dad. Just me."
"Move. Over," Lassiter said, glaring down at him, hands on his hips.
"Nope. Anyway, you wouldn't want anyone to think this blue Lego car was yours, would you?" Spencer blinked up at him.
Lassiter sighed as the fight drained out of him, and stared over the bright blue roof of the car at the bricks opposite. How did Spencer always do this? "Fine," he said, and walked around the car to the passenger's side.
He got in and shoved the seat back as far as it would go. He still felt as if his knees were somewhere under his chin, but Spencer stopped laughing at him, so he guessed it was a little better.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, Spencer staring out the front windshield, Lassiter doing the same. He wished he had coffee. Or someone to talk to who didn't make him feel, suddenly, both uncomfortable and a little aroused. That the two feelings were related didn't help.
"So," Spencer said brightly, and Lassiter jumped, hitting his head on the roof of the car.
"Dammit," he spat, sinking low in his seat again and resisting the urge to rub the top of his skull.
"Jeez, Lassie, jumpy much? I know just the thing to relax you," Spencer said, twisting toward Lassiter in his seat.
"What? No! I'm fine! I don't need to be relaxed," Lassiter said in a rush, adrenaline nearly causing him to bang his head into the roof again.
"Calm down." Spencer finished his twist and reached into the backseat, pulling out a crackling plastic grocery bag. He put it in his lap and fished through it. "Aha," he said, and pulled out a bright pink rectangle. He returned the bag to the backseat by the expedient of throwing it there, and Lassiter winced as he heard a cascade of junk food slide onto the rear floorboard. Guster would have kittens.
"Gum!" Spencer said brightly, flourishing the rectangle. "Strawberry Hubba Bubba, to be exact. Very relaxing." He tore open the packet and offered it.
Lassiter sighed again, looking from Spencer's face to the gum. "Thank you," he said, and took a piece. He unwrapped it and disposed of the wrapper, shifting to stuff the paper deep into a pocket. Spencer looked happy and Lassiter stifled yet another sigh, staring back out the windshield at the nightclub's door and the street beyond.
In a little while O'Hara would undoubtedly achieve her goal and get their perp out the door and into the alley for a quick tryst - or so the perp would believe. If Spencer could ID the guy - and Lassiter was sure he'd be able to; he doubted millions of things about Spencer, but his powers of observation were certainly acute - then they'd make the arrest.
Pimps who took care of troublesome hookers by dumping their bodies off docks weren't exactly high on Lassiter's list of favorite people. Arresting them through shady means and without departmental blessing, though, sent Lassiter's blood pressure through the roof. He tried to settle into the wait and not think about O'Hara's suspension, his own likely disgrace should the whole plan backfire, or the 30-something-year-old man blowing large, strawberry-scented bubbles beside him in the vehicle.
It would be a wait, though. It was late already, but picking up hookers wasn't exactly an early-evening activity. At least they knew this guy liked to try before buying, always sampling the wares before taking a woman on as one of his own.
Spencer started tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel and Lassiter turned his head to give him a sharp look. Spencer was oblivious, tapping away, chewing his gum. Lassiter's own gum was a sticky cube in his hand, and he rolled down the window to toss it away.
"What're you doing?" Spencer yelped. "That's good gum, prime chew. And very relaxing." He peered at Lassiter, brow corrugated. "You look really tense. Are you worried about Jules?" He waved a hand. "Don't answer that. Chew your gum!" He stared so expectantly that Lassiter rolled his eyes and popped the gum into his mouth.
Spencer went on. "Of course you're worried about Jules, we're all worried. But she'll be fine. Even if she is dressed like a thirty-dollar whore and you're wearing your civilian shoes -" Lassiter started, glancing inadvertently down at his suede bucks, but they were stuffed too far under the dashboard for a visual - "you'll both be fine." He smiled. It was probably meant to be a comforting smile, but he just looked smug. "Yes, I noticed the shoes. Your 'casual gentlemen's shoes.'" He did air quotes. "Very nice, but not the spit-shined Lassie-on-duty shoes we all know and love."
Lassiter glared at Spencer, chewing furiously, silenced by Hubba Bubba.
"Oh, hey!" Spencer got a manic gleam in his eye. "We've got at least 25 minutes to kill, and we're not on duty! Cool." He turned and spat his gum out the open driver's side window, then twisted in his seat again, eyes on Lassiter.
Who nearly inhaled his gum as Spencer did something unlikely and extremely flexible, ending up with both legs and his ass in his seat while his hands and face landed in Lassiter's lap. Lassiter leaped again, scrabbling at Spencer's head and slapping at his hands.
"Stop that!" Spencer said, rather muffled, and a second later he'd somehow managed to get through belt, zipper and underwear and was going to town on very private portions of Lassiter's anatomy.
For the second time in two weeks! Lassiter got rid of his gum before he choked on it - by the simple expedient of spitting it out Spencer's open window - and slapped at Spencer's shoulders again. "Cut it out!" Lassiter hissed.
Up and off, and Spencer craned his neck to peer up at Lassiter, grinning. "You really don't mean it," he said, and went back to work. Lassiter waved his hands feebly in protest, but damn him, Spencer was right (He's right a lot, you know, whispered a treacherous voice deep in his brain), and Lassiter didn't really want him to stop. He wanted, in fact, to start shoving up into the slick movements of Spencer's bobbing mouth, but he resisted somehow, hands hovering in the air above Spencer's head - he refused to give in to that urge, too - as he waited.
And waited, and waited - Spencer slowed down and muscled one shoulder between Lassiter's thighs, spreading them as far as the confining pants and underwear would allow, and now he was just sucking, barely moving his head at all, occasionally pulling off to lick long, wet swathes up and down Lassiter's length, then going back to suck like a Hoover, with so little motion Lassiter thought he might kill him.
"Dammit, Spencer," Lassiter growled, unable to stifle it any longer.
"Hmm?" Spencer said, and Jesus, that felt sinful.
"I have my gun with me this time," Lassiter snapped, and he felt Spencer's laugh down to his balls, right before he went back to a fast and furious pace, pulling Lassiter closer and closer until he fell over the edge, gritting his teeth to keep from groaning as his hips surged up and through the rush and pulse of orgasm.
"Mmm," Spencer said, pulling off a moment later with a wet pop as Lassiter winced, still sensitive. "Very nice." Spencer sat up and back and tidied Lassiter's clothing again, tucking his softening cock down and to the left, just the way Lassiter preferred. He didn't look into Lassiter's face, but instead at his own hands, gentle and capable for those moments, at least.
Lassiter looked at Spencer's face; it was pink, lips red and maybe a little swollen. "What is wrong with you?" Lassiter asked weakly, heart still beating too fast.
Spencer tugged his belt into place and sat back, carefully easing his legs down from the seat and making a face as his knees popped. There was a conspicuous bulge in his jeans. "I really have to go back to yoga," he said. "Although my Guru says I can't come back until I cleanse my aura. And pay her." He grinned at Lassiter.
"Fine, whatever." Lassiter sat up straighter and ran his hands through his hair; it was slightly sweaty. "Don't expect me to thank you, though." He felt like an idiot as he said it, but he clamped his lips closed and stared out the windshield rather than say anything else. Anything stupider.
Spencer just shrugged - Lassiter caught the movement out of the corner of his eyes - and adjusted himself. "No need," he said. "I just like to... keep busy," he added a second later. "And it helps me think."
Silence settled over the car. Lassiter gazed at the club's door, willing it to open and reveal some actual police work. Spencer began fidgeting again, frowning as if to himself, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel again. Just as Lassiter was about to snap and go for his gun, Spencer jerked around to face him.
"We've got to go in," he said in a rush, reaching for his door's handle. "Jules is in danger." He was up and out of the car an instant later, leaving Lassiter to scramble after him. "Why didn't I see it before?" were the last audible words out of Spencer's mouth before he jerked open the door to the club and plunged into a maelstrom of terrible, thumping music and strobe-lit darkness.
~*~
O'Hara had been in danger, yes, but in true Juliet fashion, she'd already handled it and was perched casually on the pimp's desk with one high heel strategically placed on his sternum as she dialed Lassiter's cell. It rang as they walked through the door to the office. And yes again, the man under O'Hara's high heel was the same man Spencer had seen dumping a victim off the dock three nights before.
~*~
This time Lassiter couldn't help but think about what had happened. Did Spencer really just need to keep busy? Did it really help him think? He'd come to his realization about O'Hara's dangerous liaison immediately after, so... maybe. Of course, there was the stupid idea with the finger gun to consider, so maybe not. But what did it mean? Would Spencer blow anyone handy if he was bored or in need of inspiration? Oh god, did he and Gus...? No. Maybe? Probably not, although Lassiter was suddenly unsure about a lot of things, including that. And whether or not he wanted it to happen again. But if it really was those two things, why had Spencer just now started including Lassiter in his weird way of passing the time? They'd been alone together a hundred times, probably, and Spencer had never demonstrated any designs on Lassiter's virtue - tattered though it might be - before the supply closet.
He just couldn't figure it out. He shook his head and turned over under the sheet, trying to put it into the box in his brain labeled "Need more evidence;" it didn't want to stay there. He sighed and turned over again, hand straying into his underwear. Maybe he could get some sleep if he'd just...
Hopefully he could get some sleep.
~*~
The third time Lassiter was ready. Sort of. Almost.
Not that he knew when it was coming - or where - but he figured it must be coming. It had been two weeks since the incident in the alley (and subsequent reinstatement with full backpay for O'Hara, pat on the back for Lassiter, and pleasant pay-off for Spencer's half-assed company), and Spencer had been showing increasing signs of restlessness when he and Lassiter were in the same place at the same time.
Lassiter had tried sounding Guster out regarding Spencer's state of mind, but Gus had just given him an unreadable look.
"Seriously, is something wrong with him?" Lassiter asked, keeping his voice low. "I mean, more than usual." Spencer had been distracted by a cheerleading team whose bus had broken down outside the station; he was outside on the front walk learning how to cheer to the Cuesta Community College fight song.
"Are you kidding?" Guster asked. "You're just now asking me this?" He rolled his eyes and turned to watch Spencer attempt a half-split (results predictable).
"No, I am not kidding," Lassiter said irritably. "His inappropriate remarks to me have increased by nearly fourteen percent, his sense of personal boundaries seems to have vanished entirely, and - well - there've been. Other things." Lassiter felt his ears go hot and looked hastily away. Spencer was being helped up off the ground by three cheerleaders, two female, one male. His mouth never stopped moving, and all three laughed with him.
Guster's eyes were back on Lassiter. "You're a detective," he finally said. "You figure it out." He trotted away, no doubt to go tell Spencer to stop being an idiot - wasted breath - but before he hit the door, he glanced back at Lassiter. Guster's face wore a curious little smile, just one corner of his mouth quirked up, and he shook his head a little when he caught Lassiter looking at him, but he didn't stop smiling.
~*~
So. Third time - ready. Almost ready. Sort of ready. Maybe.
It happened in the observation room right off Interrogation Room 2. They had a suspect in custody, and Lassiter charged down to the basement, Spencer and Guster on his heels, ready to burst in and beat a confession out of the guy.
"Hold on," Guster said, grabbing for Lassiter's sleeve. "Calm down."
"Yeah, Lassie, relax," Spencer said, with a distinct leer. Then his face changed as he looked through the one-way glass at the suspect. "Look at him. He's on the edge anyway. Let's give him a few minutes to simmer."
The suspect did look nervous, fingers and feet tapping, sweat dampening the edges of his hair. He kept looking toward them, at the blank mirror, then - longingly - at the tiny window high in the opposite wall.
"Fine," Lassiter said. He turned and slapped one hand against the door with a bang. "Dammit."
Guster's eyes went wide. "I'm gonna go get you some coffee," he said. "Decaf." He pulled open the door Lassiter had just slapped and sidled out.
"Hey," Spencer said soothingly, "Buzz is gonna be fine. He's got his wife with him, plus Jules, plus the Chief's got everyone out looking for anything we might have missed when we brought in Mr. Twitchy here," as he indicated the interrogation room with a jerk of his head. "You really do need to relax a little, or you're just going to kill him when you go in there."
"How the hell am I supposed to relax when some sick creep is sending my men biological weapons in the mail?" Lassiter snapped. He whirled and stared at the suspect again. "He's in on it, I know it."
"Hey, me too," Spencer said. "And we got the antivirals to Buzz in time, plus they intercepted the packets sent to Sergeant Idlette and Woody." He moved closer to Lassiter. "So just... relax." He wasn't leering this time, but Lassiter wasn't all that surprised when he slid to his knees and pressed Lassiter back against the closed door.
"Are you freaking kidding me?" Lassiter said, but he'd been thinking about Spencer's mouth - his smart, cunning, talented mouth - for two weeks, pretty much nonstop, and his hands only pretended to push at Spencer's head as his pants were worked open and pushed down around his knees.
"You're gonna be so busted," Lassiter said, the anger he'd felt only seconds ago replaced in a rush by something different but no less dark, for all that, and no less intense. "Christ," he said, then bit his lip to keep quiet as Spencer slid all the way down, gagging a little before he slowly slipped back up Lassiter's length.
Lassiter couldn't stand to watch - it was too intimate, and for the first time he could really see - but it was hard to look away, too. Spencer's eyes were closed, one fist wrapped around Lassiter as he sucked, sliding down and around in a relentless rhythm. A second later Spencer's eyes blinked open and he looked up at Lassiter, smiling around him as he pulled off. "I don't think I'm the only one who's gonna get busted," he said, then he closed his eyes again and began working Lassiter hard and fast.
Lassiter put his head back against the wall and let himself go, at least a little bit - he pushed forward, meeting Spencer's rhythm, rewarded by a vibrating hum that might have been a groan, and by Spencer's furiously working hand and wet, hot mouth. No time, Lassiter thought, urgency and need and nerves and why tightening his grip in Spencer's hair as he shoved forward, wanting to end this fast, now.
It did end, quicker than Lassiter expected - one minute he was nearly growling with want, the next tipped over the edge and gulping for air, sucking back a noisy exclamation, choking on it. "Christ," he gasped at last, trying to get his breath. "Jesus Christ."
Spencer tried - again - to put Lassiter's clothes back together, but this time Lassiter pushed his hands away and pulled everything into place himself, tugging his underwear up, pants and belt with it; tucking, zipping, buckling. His shirt was stuck to the small of his back under his blazer, and he pushed a hand through his hair, scowling at nothing. Why did it have to feel so good? And why, now that Spencer had done it to him in broad daylight, in the most inappropriate place possible, could Lassiter think of nothing except how ridiculous he must have looked?
"Shit," Lassiter said to himself. He couldn't even look at Spencer.
Spencer clicked his tongue. "Language, Lassie," he said. When Lassiter jerked his head up to glare, Spencer was grinning at him, eyes still dark. "Seriously, though, get away from the door - Gus should be back with your decaf right -" the door bumped Lassiter's heels - "now."
Lassiter bit back another curse and stepped forward to look through the glass at their suspect. "I don't drink decaf," he said as Guster walked in, carrying a paper cup of the station's weak, lukewarm coffee.
Guster looked hurt. "Would have been nice if you'd said something eight minutes ago," he said, and turned on one heel to put the cup onto a desk.
"I never saw the point of decaf myself," Spencer said. He crossed to look through the one-way mirror with Lassiter. "Ooh, I have an idea," he said, and before Lassiter could grab him - god, he tried - Spencer had swiped the coffee cup, pivoted around him and plunged into the interrogation room.
"Hey, dude," Spencer said, voice tinny through the intercom. "Have some coffee." He pulled the lid off the cup and spilled it across the table, a brown wave onto the suspect's lap. "Whoops!" Spencer put his hands up in dismay. "How clumsy of me."
The suspect leapt up, brushing at his pants and spitting curses.
"Oh," Spencer said, "I probably should have mentioned that I put some of that powder from McNab's care package into the coffee. My bad."
He walked out of the interrogation room.
~*~
The suspect confessed and named all his accomplices. Spencer was reprimanded by Chief Vick. McNab made a full recovery and no one else got any suspicious packages in the mail.
Lassiter was really, seriously, desperately confused. And he didn't like it much.
~*~
"Have you ever thought Spencer might be gay?" Lassiter blurted.
"What?" The sun was beating down on the boardwalk, but O'Hara took off her sunglasses to give him a measuring look.
"What?" Lassiter said, wishing the words back into his mouth. "You dated him."
"Yes I did, and no - I don't think he's gay. Highly annoying, yes; gay, no." She smiled privately for a moment, before her smile morphed into a frown. "Well - no. No." She was still frowning though, and she put her sunglasses back on. "Maybe bi, though."
Totally not helpful.
~*~
The drinks at the Crown & Anchor looked expensive, but they tasted cheap. Lassiter looked at the whiskey in his glass and frowned, wondering if it'd been watered. He'd call Food Safety tomorrow, send them over to check. The whiskey sure as hell wasn't doing anything for him - it must be watered.
Spencer strolled in around ten, hands in his pockets, looking ready for anything. Lassiter watched as he bellied up to the bar and started flirting his way into a free drink. God. Lassiter tossed back another slug of whiskey. Spencer was shameless. Any minute now he'd have to watch him and the bartender head for the kitchen, or a handy closet, or maybe just the alley behind the pub. Lassiter scowled down at his almost-empty glass.
Or maybe not. Spencer was coming toward him, two glasses in his hands. He put one, a whiskey tumbler, in front of Lassiter, and settled onto the high barstool across from him, the tiny table suddenly seeming an all-too-flimsy barrier between them.
"Hey, Lassie, what's up?" Spencer said, and, lifting his bright pink cocktail in Lassiter's direction, took a sip. "Mmmm. Grenadine," he said cheerily.
"That looks like cough syrup," Lassiter said.
Spencer took another sip and smacked his lips. "Tastes like cherries, though." He looked around. "What brings you here this evening? Wine, women and song?" The bar was half-empty, mostly male patrons sprawled comfortably in booths and laughing together. The only song to be heard was a Ford commercial on the TV over the bar. "Well... wine?"
"I think this stuff is watered," Lassiter said.
Spencer took it and sipped. "Blech," he said, making a face and sticking out his tongue as he handed the glass back. "Tastes strong enough to me. It tastes like Listerine. Fermented Listerine. Fermented Listerine making love to an old pair of socks."
Lassiter thought about protesting Spencer's mouth on his glass, but it seemed kind of... pointless. Instead he looked down at the whiskey again. "Well, that's what it's supposed to taste like. Maybe it's just me." Melancholy washed over him for one instant, gone the next.
"Maybe it is," Spencer said. "Do this." He sat up straight on his barstool and stretched his arms out to the sides, then brought one hand in, touching his index finger to the tip of his nose.
Lassiter straightened and tried it. He got his finger onto one nostril.
"Niiice," Spencer said. "Now do this." He repeated the movement with the opposite arm, but at the last minute, reached across and touched his index finger to Lassiter's chin.
Lassiter sat very still until the finger was gone. It was probably just a side effect of the whiskey, the desire to bend his head and take Spencer's finger into his mouth. He shook his head to clear it and tried to repeat Spencer's actions. This time his finger landed square on Spencer's mouth.
"Not bad," Spencer said, and the "b" in bad made a little kiss on Lassiter's finger.
He jerked it away and emptied his first - okay, second... third? - whiskey glass. "I'm barely even impaired," Lassiter said, slamming the tumbler onto the table. He reached for the new drink Spencer'd brought him.
"Do you have anyone to drive you home?" Spencer asked.
"I have the number for a cab company in my phone," Lassiter said hopefully.
Spencer nodded. "Good. Have another drink."
"I think I will," Lassiter said, radiating geniality, and he did.
They sat in silence for a minute or two, Spencer looking around the bar and hardly touching his cough syrup, Lassiter looking at Spencer and turning his glass in circles on the table's surface.
"So," Spencer said finally, and took another sip of his drink, looking back at Lassiter.
"Has anyone ever told you you suck cock like a fifty-dollar Tijuana hooker?" Lassiter asked conversationally.
Spencer choked and put the cocktail glass down quickly. "Uh, no. Is that a bad thing?" He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand.
Lassiter waved a hand. "No, no, it's a good thing. Most Tijuana hookers cost five dollars."
"Lassie, have you been re-asserting your masculinity with Tijuana hookers?" Spencer looked intrigued. And a little horrified.
"What?" Lassiter shook his head. "No, I do that with my gun," he explained. "But I worked in San Diego for six months once, and I arrested a lot of Tijuana hookers."
"Ah," Spencer said. "...Why don't you finish your drink and we'll get you that cab."
"Are you coming home with me?" Lassiter asked. He wasn't sure if he sounded hopeful or resigned.
Spencer was watching him. "Do you want me to?"
"I thought you might want to give me a blowjob in the back of the cab," Lassiter said.
"Keep your voice down, Lassie," Spencer said, and he got up and walked around the table toward Lassiter. "Let's talk about it outside, while we wait for the taxi."
"Okay," Lassiter said, and he let Spencer take his arm, stumbling a little as he gained his feet and the alcohol really hit him. "Wow, cool," he said, watching the way the room spun at the edges. Spencer fumbled with the back of Lassiter's pants, and he tried to turn and see what he was doing. "Right here?" Lassiter asked - he could hear how surprised he sounded, but it wasn't really a bad surprise. Just - surprising. A surprising surprise.
"No! Be still," Spencer said, sounding flustered for the first time Lassiter could ever remember. He finished messing with Lassiter's pants and led him to the bar. "He'd like to pay for our drinks now," Spencer said to the bartender, who smirked and removed a credit card from Lassiter's wallet, which was somehow in Spencer's hand.
"Neat," Lassiter said. "That was like magic. Did you do that with your, your psychic-ness?"
Spencer smiled up at him while he waited for the bartender to return with receipt and card. "Don't tell me you suddenly believe in my psychic-ness, Lassie."
"No," Lassiter said, thinking about it for a second. "I still think you're full of crap."
"Oh, good," Spencer said, signing the receipt and grabbing the card from the bartender as he led Lassiter toward the door. "For a minute there I thought my faith in you would be shaken to its foundations."
The air outside was cool and dark; Lassiter breathed in and out and stood on the curb next to Spencer, waiting for something to happen.
"Uh, Lassie?" Spencer said.
"Hm?" Lassiter looked down at Spencer.
"Give me your phone." Spencer held out one hand.
"Why?"
Spencer sighed. "Never mind. Be still." He went for Lassiter's pockets again. It was strangely pleasant, and beginning to be a familiar sensation: Spencer's hands seemed comfortable in Lassiter's pants, and Lassiter wasn't nearly as bothered by it as he thought he should be. Maybe it was the whiskey. Or the history of blowjobs, plus the possibility of future blowjobs.
Spencer surfaced with Lassiter's phone and began poking buttons until he found one he liked. He carried on a brief conversation with the person on the other end and hung up, then dropped the phone back into Lassiter's pocket. "Okay, cab's on the way." He peered up at Lassiter. "You okay to wait by yourself?"
Lassiter blinked. "Sure. Why not? I'm okay. Great. Fine. Awesome." He stuck his hands in his pockets and tried to rock back on his heels like a man who didn't have a blood alcohol level of .08 percent or higher.
"Whoa there, big fella," Spencer said, catching him. "I'll wait with you."
"Okey-dokey." Lassiter forgot he wasn't supposed to, and tried to rock back on his heels again casually.
"Let's just sit down here, shall we?" Spencer said, and got them both seated on the curb, feet in the street. "That's better." He glanced up and down the street, looking for something. Maybe the cab.
"I just don't get why you do it," Lassiter said.
"Do what?"
"Give me blowjobs."
Spencer pulled his knees up and put his head on them. His voice was muffled. "Oh, god."
"Well, you said you do it because you get bored. Or it helps you think. Or something. But you're always bored, or at least... twitchy. And you're always thinking - not that you act like it," Lassiter added. "But still. And you're not always giving people blowjobs. I don't think you and O'Hara were running off to supply closets to make like bunnies when you were dating. Were you?"
Spencer's head stayed down, and now he clasped his hands over his nape, too. "Nope," he said. "We weren't." He looked like he was waiting for a tornado drill to be over.
"So what do you get out of it?" Lassiter asked earnestly. "I mean, you don't even get to come, so - I don't get it."
Spencer finally lifted his head. His face was red, but he didn't look angry, so maybe it was just that he'd had it against his knees for too long. His voice didn't sound mad, either. "Okay, you really want to know?"
Lassiter nodded.
Spencer tipped his head to the side to measure Lassiter with his gaze. "I'll tell you, because the last time you were this drunk and told me things, you totally didn't remember it the next day. So." He sat up straight and looked at Lassiter dead-on. "The reason I did it is that I've been wanting to do it. That's it. That's the big secret. I have a big old hard-on for you and your bad haircuts and your stupid suits, and how clueless you are, and how you always call me on my bullshit, and how good you are with your gun - yes," he was talking loudly now, "I said it, it makes me hot and bothered every time I see you shoot your gun, and let's not even talk about the handcuffs, for Chrissakes." He threw his hands into the air. "All right? Is that enough? God." He began to laugh and lay backward across the sidewalk, hands folded on his belly, bouncing as he laughed.
Lassiter thought about it for a minute or two. "Yeah, I can see that."
Spencer covered his face with his hands and kept laughing.
The cab pulled up a minute later, and although Lassiter asked, Spencer didn't want to go home with him.
"Go sleep it off, Lassie," he said. "I'll see you at the station tomorrow."
~*~
The problem was, Lassiter didn't forget, this time.
~*~
He'd gotten home and fallen asleep - okay, passed out - as soon as he hit the bed, but when he woke up, Spencer's voice was sharp and distinct in his head, Dolby-surround-sound clear, echoing alongside the dregs of the whiskey.
Lassiter got up and treated the hangover the way he always did: gallons of water followed by grueling calisthenics followed by a shower hot enough to melt his skin off. When he emerged from the shower stall he felt hollowed out but human, but he still hadn't forgotten what Spencer'd said.
"Sweet baby James," Lassiter said out loud.
He had no idea what to do.
~*~
There was a case - of course there was a case. Spencer and Guster hung around the edges of things, irritating him, making O'Hara laugh and threaten them by turns, amusing and annoying Chief Vick. Lassiter could hardly look at Spencer, but he made himself do it anyway. It was like drinking the water, like doing the exercises, like turning the shower so hot it made him cringe. It had to be done.
Spencer looked back at him and grinned.
Lassiter rolled his eyes: Spencer thought he didn't remember. Lassiter had at least a little time to figure out what the hell to do.
~*~
Or maybe not.
"Can I help you?" Lassiter said, opening the door to Spencer. He ignored the fact that his sweaty hand nearly slid off the doorknob.
"Yep. Lemme in." Spencer held up a brown paper bag. "I brought you something."
Lassiter stepped reluctantly back. "What is it?"
Spencer pushed past him into the living room like he owned the place. "Forty-year-old single-malt scotch."
"What? Where did you get it?" Lassiter asked, distracted.
"Liquor store," Spencer said breezily. "Here you go." He swung the bag up and handed it to Lassiter.
"Spencer."
"Hmm?"
"This isn't forty-year-old single-malt scotch," Lassiter said an instant later, examining the bottle.
Spencer wandered to the Most-wanted wall and inspected it, hands clasped behind his back. "It's not?"
"No." Lassiter put the bottle on a side table. "It's a forty. Of malt liquor."
"I've heard it both ways," Spencer said, not looking at him.
"You have." Lassiter stood still, watching Spencer. He rocked on his heels a bit, staring at the wall.
"Sure... hey, I saw that lady at the 7-11 on Montecito last week," Spencer said.
Lassiter crossed to the kitchen bar and fumbled in the bread box for paper and pen. "When last week? What was she wearing?"
"Jeez, you keep your notepad by the gun?" Spencer said, smirking. He closed his eyes for a second, thinking. "It was Tuesday, because I had to go home to watch Glee. And she was wearing jeans and a pink t-shirt. I think it had one of those ribbon thingies on it - like for breast cancer or something." He opened his eyes and looked back up at the picture. "Her hair's longer now, though, and it was lighter, too - bleached."
"Awesome. Hold on." Lassiter loped past him to the computer in the living room and sat down. "Let me send a quick e-mail to Ybarra, she's working that case." He tapped intently and hit send, then closed the computer. "Thanks."
Spencer stayed where he was, looking at Lassiter. "No problem," he said. "How's your hangover?"
Lassiter leaned back on the couch and crossed his legs. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
Spencer grinned. "Sure you don't."
Lassiter raised an eyebrow. "I don't get hangovers."
"And I bet you don't have blackouts, either, do you?" Spencer asked.
Lassiter uncrossed his legs and jumped to his feet, pointing at Spencer. "Aha!" he said. "You thought I'd forget!"
"What?" Spencer squeaked. "I mean - forget what?"
"Why are you here?" Lassiter asked, circling the coffee table to approach Spencer, getting into his space. "Bullshit aside."
Spencer swallowed, gaze flicking to Lassiter's eyes and then down, then back up. Lassiter knew Spencer could see his hard-on, but Spencer didn't look any too relaxed either, and they were on Lassiter's territory - Spencer had come here, to him. "All bullshit aside?" Spencer said quietly.
"Yes," Lassiter insisted, crowding him.
Spencer didn't give an inch - not that Lassiter had expected him to. "All bullshit aside, I want to get an orgasm out of it, this time," Spencer said.
"I think," Lassiter said, and he saw Spencer's face close down at the pause, saw him get ready for a riposte, "that could be arranged."
"Oh," Spencer said. He grinned again suddenly. "Good."
~*~
"We can't have any of that Moonlighting crap," Spencer said, sitting up suddenly. Lassiter pulled him down and rolled them both over so he could glare down at him properly.
"What in the name of sweet merciful justice are you talking about?" Lassiter asked.
"As soon as David and Maddie slept with each other, the show went to hell," Spencer said. "If this whole thing is going to hell after this, I'm out of here right now." The thing he was doing with his hands between their bodies seemed to argue otherwise.
"Spencer?"
"What?"
Lassiter shook his head. "Shawn."
Spencer did something particularly pleasant, and Lassiter lost his train of thought for a second. "What?" Spencer asked again.
"Shut the hell up."
~*~
"What do you want?" Lassiter asked, holding himself over Spencer - Shawn. "Tell me."
"I don't know," Shawn said, half-laughing, half-sobbing. "I don't know." He turned his face away, bent his head so all Lassiter could see was his nape for a moment.
"I do," Lassiter said, and pressed inward an inch at a time, slow, wet and tight, both of them slick with sweat and half out of their minds. "I guess I'm the psychic."
Shawn laughed and bucked under him, hoarse and irrepressible. "Doesn't take a psychic, Lassie. Just a reasonably - reasonably competent - oh."
"You were saying?" Lassiter shoved himself the rest of the way in and felt Shawn shudder under him.
"Reasonably competent detective," Shawn managed, before he choked on another groaned laugh and began working himself back to meet the punishing pace Lassiter set for them both.
~*~
Clinging to life on one square foot of a king-sized mattress? Check. Smothered by a naked and lightly snoring fake psychic? Check. Coated with any number of man-made and factory-produced sticky substances? Check.
Relaxed in every bone, muscle and artery, and thinking about rolling over for round three? (Or was it four?) Really damn definitely check.
Lassiter squinted into the too-bright morning sunlight and turned over.
~ THE END ~
END NOTES:
1. You could think of this as follow up to Gus Has a Bad Feeling About This, or not. It could certainly stand alone, too. (Although all stories need more Gus, so if you think of them as a pair, you would get more Gus - a good thing.)
2. Although the story is from Lassiter's point of view, I chose to continue referring to him as Lassiter, rather than switching to a personal POV use of his first name. In fact, I tried to write the story as if from "Carlton"'s perspective, but it wouldn't budge. Finally I decided that Lassiter is such a manly man's masculine macho man-candy man, it is entirely possible that he thinks of himself as Lassiter, rather than Carlton. Let's face it: gun in the bread box = so manly he thinks of himself by his surname.
margarks and
cincodemaygirl, who went above and beyond in help. Remaining errors are mine, and there are a couple of extra notes at the end. :-)
You may be right (Shawn may be crazy)
Mafia hitmen searching the building? Check. Stuffed into a cleaning closet with Spencer? Check. Backup on the way? Check. Probably check. Really damn hopefully check.
The closet smelled like lemon Pine-Sol and dust, and was roughly the size of an upright coffin; shelves along the rear wall pressed into Lassiter's back, and Spencer, uncharacteristically quiet, pressed into his front. Lassiter shifted, easing away from Spencer and then back when the shelves behind him bit into his lumbar region.
"Good idea," Spencer whispered, and Lassiter tensed, wondering what the hell Spencer had thought to do. If only the gun hadn't been left behind in the scramble out of their last hiding place. If he had the gun, he could defend them. Or shoot Spencer. Very quietly.
There was suddenly a lot of... wriggling. Spencer turned around, pressing uncomfortably into... certain regions of Lassiter's anatomy. Spencer was grinning up at him. "Hi," he said, and then he was gone. He was - gone?
"Shit!" Lassiter yelped, and Spencer popped up again, looking mischievous and a little severe in the near-darkness.
"Lassie, you're going to need to be quiet while I do this," he said primly, and dropped to his knees again, fingers busy unbuckling, unzipping, yanking down Lassiter's pants.
"What the hell," Lassiter hissed, trying to remember to keep his voice down, but it was very difficult when Spencer already had his mouth - oh god, hot, wet suction, Lassiter's knees nearly buckled as he suddenly remembered blowjobs, and how long it'd been since he'd had one. Derailed, he thought wildly as Spencer's mouth slid lower, licking, nuzzling, sucking him to hardness in ten seconds. Possibly less. His counting skills seemed to be deserting him.
He knotted his hands in Spencer's hair, preparatory to yanking him back and off, and felt the hitch and nearly inaudible groan in Spencer's throat. Holy hell, that was hot - Lassiter thrust forward without really meaning to, then jerked his hips backward in a panic, banging into the shelves behind with a small clatter.
Spencer slid off and popped up again. He still looked mischievous and a little severe, but he was licking his lips, too, which was distracting. So was the fact that he was working Lassiter with one hand while he spoke: "Seriously, be quiet. If the bad guys hear you they're going to come in here and shoot you and me both, and then we'll be found by Jules and Gus with your pants down and my mouth attached, and that's just more embarrassment than you need, even after you're dead." He cocked an eyebrow at Lassiter and then slid out of sight again.
Lassiter knew he was right, and at this point he didn't have the willpower to resist, anyway - he just curled his hands into Spencer's hair and gave in, riding it out: Spencer's cunning mouth; the way he palmed Lassiter's balls, sliding a finger back into the sweaty, secret space behind them; the intent, impatient way he used teeth, tongue and lips to suck Lassiter right to the edge of orgasm. It would all be okay if they could just both keep quiet, Lassiter thought hazily, and then he had to clench his eyes and mouth shut as he came, hips stuttering forward into Spencer's mouth. The suction went soft and wet and Lassiter heard rather than actually felt Spencer swallow, his barely there hum of pleased satisfaction.
A moment later Spencer had him tucked gently back into his underwear and was standing again. Lassiter felt Spencer reach down to adjust his own pants. "Good man," Spencer said, then jostled him around until Lassiter was in front of the door, Spencer behind him. He could feel Spencer's erection against his ass, and thought maybe that should alarm him, but that alarm was almost immediately replaced by a new one: Spencer shoved open the door of the supply closet and pushed Lassiter out, still pressed tightly to his back.
"I got him!" Spencer shouted, and Lassiter went tense as a live wire, all the good of an unexpected orgasm torn away in an instant.
He felt Spencer's finger shoved into the small of his back. "Seriously?" Lassiter hissed out of the corner of his mouth. "A finger gun?"
"Shut up, I have a plan," Spencer hissed back, and just then three large Italian men crashed into the room, looking fierce.
~*~
Spencer's plan, like all his plans, was terrible, but with a timely intervention from O'Hara and Guster, plus - naturally - some quick thinking and faster moving from Lassiter, they all made it out alive. So did the mafia hitmen, although that wasn't Lassiter's fault. He supposed it was good that they were still alive to sell out others of their kind, but he wouldn't have lost any sleep if the one he shot hadn't made it - being a hairsbreadth from dead, killed by your own gun, was just too embarrassing to contemplate.
And speaking of too embarrassing to contemplate - no. Totally not speaking of it, thinking of it, admitting to it.
Ever.
~*~
"But I don't want to," Lassiter whined, hearing the whine, hating it and hating everyone else even more.
"Suck it up and deal, Carlton," was O'Hara's only reply, sharp in the dim light of the streetlight at the far corner. "Gus didn't see the perp, plus he's out of town, plus our guy can ID unmarked police cars, plus we don't even get to use one -" she cut herself short and checked that the .22's safety was on before stuffing it into her bra and zipping her shirt up after it. "Anyway, I've got other fish to fry." She bent to straighten her perilously short skirt. "Now, go sit in the car with Shawn and quit being such a baby."
She stalked away down the alley, three-inch heels clicking on the pavement. Lassiter watched her go before turning to the car. Spencer waved brightly at him from the driver's seat.
"Oh, no," Lassiter said, stalking to the driver's side window. "I am sitting there. You are sitting there," as he pointed to the empty passenger's seat.
"Gus said only I could drive his car while he was out of town," Spencer said.
"I seriously doubt that," Lassiter snapped. "He probably said you were absolutely forbidden to drive his car."
"I'm wounded, Lassie," Spencer chirped. "Wounded by your mistrust. Seriously, Gus said just me. Me. Not you, not Jules, not even my dad. Just me."
"Move. Over," Lassiter said, glaring down at him, hands on his hips.
"Nope. Anyway, you wouldn't want anyone to think this blue Lego car was yours, would you?" Spencer blinked up at him.
Lassiter sighed as the fight drained out of him, and stared over the bright blue roof of the car at the bricks opposite. How did Spencer always do this? "Fine," he said, and walked around the car to the passenger's side.
He got in and shoved the seat back as far as it would go. He still felt as if his knees were somewhere under his chin, but Spencer stopped laughing at him, so he guessed it was a little better.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, Spencer staring out the front windshield, Lassiter doing the same. He wished he had coffee. Or someone to talk to who didn't make him feel, suddenly, both uncomfortable and a little aroused. That the two feelings were related didn't help.
"So," Spencer said brightly, and Lassiter jumped, hitting his head on the roof of the car.
"Dammit," he spat, sinking low in his seat again and resisting the urge to rub the top of his skull.
"Jeez, Lassie, jumpy much? I know just the thing to relax you," Spencer said, twisting toward Lassiter in his seat.
"What? No! I'm fine! I don't need to be relaxed," Lassiter said in a rush, adrenaline nearly causing him to bang his head into the roof again.
"Calm down." Spencer finished his twist and reached into the backseat, pulling out a crackling plastic grocery bag. He put it in his lap and fished through it. "Aha," he said, and pulled out a bright pink rectangle. He returned the bag to the backseat by the expedient of throwing it there, and Lassiter winced as he heard a cascade of junk food slide onto the rear floorboard. Guster would have kittens.
"Gum!" Spencer said brightly, flourishing the rectangle. "Strawberry Hubba Bubba, to be exact. Very relaxing." He tore open the packet and offered it.
Lassiter sighed again, looking from Spencer's face to the gum. "Thank you," he said, and took a piece. He unwrapped it and disposed of the wrapper, shifting to stuff the paper deep into a pocket. Spencer looked happy and Lassiter stifled yet another sigh, staring back out the windshield at the nightclub's door and the street beyond.
In a little while O'Hara would undoubtedly achieve her goal and get their perp out the door and into the alley for a quick tryst - or so the perp would believe. If Spencer could ID the guy - and Lassiter was sure he'd be able to; he doubted millions of things about Spencer, but his powers of observation were certainly acute - then they'd make the arrest.
Pimps who took care of troublesome hookers by dumping their bodies off docks weren't exactly high on Lassiter's list of favorite people. Arresting them through shady means and without departmental blessing, though, sent Lassiter's blood pressure through the roof. He tried to settle into the wait and not think about O'Hara's suspension, his own likely disgrace should the whole plan backfire, or the 30-something-year-old man blowing large, strawberry-scented bubbles beside him in the vehicle.
It would be a wait, though. It was late already, but picking up hookers wasn't exactly an early-evening activity. At least they knew this guy liked to try before buying, always sampling the wares before taking a woman on as one of his own.
Spencer started tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel and Lassiter turned his head to give him a sharp look. Spencer was oblivious, tapping away, chewing his gum. Lassiter's own gum was a sticky cube in his hand, and he rolled down the window to toss it away.
"What're you doing?" Spencer yelped. "That's good gum, prime chew. And very relaxing." He peered at Lassiter, brow corrugated. "You look really tense. Are you worried about Jules?" He waved a hand. "Don't answer that. Chew your gum!" He stared so expectantly that Lassiter rolled his eyes and popped the gum into his mouth.
Spencer went on. "Of course you're worried about Jules, we're all worried. But she'll be fine. Even if she is dressed like a thirty-dollar whore and you're wearing your civilian shoes -" Lassiter started, glancing inadvertently down at his suede bucks, but they were stuffed too far under the dashboard for a visual - "you'll both be fine." He smiled. It was probably meant to be a comforting smile, but he just looked smug. "Yes, I noticed the shoes. Your 'casual gentlemen's shoes.'" He did air quotes. "Very nice, but not the spit-shined Lassie-on-duty shoes we all know and love."
Lassiter glared at Spencer, chewing furiously, silenced by Hubba Bubba.
"Oh, hey!" Spencer got a manic gleam in his eye. "We've got at least 25 minutes to kill, and we're not on duty! Cool." He turned and spat his gum out the open driver's side window, then twisted in his seat again, eyes on Lassiter.
Who nearly inhaled his gum as Spencer did something unlikely and extremely flexible, ending up with both legs and his ass in his seat while his hands and face landed in Lassiter's lap. Lassiter leaped again, scrabbling at Spencer's head and slapping at his hands.
"Stop that!" Spencer said, rather muffled, and a second later he'd somehow managed to get through belt, zipper and underwear and was going to town on very private portions of Lassiter's anatomy.
For the second time in two weeks! Lassiter got rid of his gum before he choked on it - by the simple expedient of spitting it out Spencer's open window - and slapped at Spencer's shoulders again. "Cut it out!" Lassiter hissed.
Up and off, and Spencer craned his neck to peer up at Lassiter, grinning. "You really don't mean it," he said, and went back to work. Lassiter waved his hands feebly in protest, but damn him, Spencer was right (He's right a lot, you know, whispered a treacherous voice deep in his brain), and Lassiter didn't really want him to stop. He wanted, in fact, to start shoving up into the slick movements of Spencer's bobbing mouth, but he resisted somehow, hands hovering in the air above Spencer's head - he refused to give in to that urge, too - as he waited.
And waited, and waited - Spencer slowed down and muscled one shoulder between Lassiter's thighs, spreading them as far as the confining pants and underwear would allow, and now he was just sucking, barely moving his head at all, occasionally pulling off to lick long, wet swathes up and down Lassiter's length, then going back to suck like a Hoover, with so little motion Lassiter thought he might kill him.
"Dammit, Spencer," Lassiter growled, unable to stifle it any longer.
"Hmm?" Spencer said, and Jesus, that felt sinful.
"I have my gun with me this time," Lassiter snapped, and he felt Spencer's laugh down to his balls, right before he went back to a fast and furious pace, pulling Lassiter closer and closer until he fell over the edge, gritting his teeth to keep from groaning as his hips surged up and through the rush and pulse of orgasm.
"Mmm," Spencer said, pulling off a moment later with a wet pop as Lassiter winced, still sensitive. "Very nice." Spencer sat up and back and tidied Lassiter's clothing again, tucking his softening cock down and to the left, just the way Lassiter preferred. He didn't look into Lassiter's face, but instead at his own hands, gentle and capable for those moments, at least.
Lassiter looked at Spencer's face; it was pink, lips red and maybe a little swollen. "What is wrong with you?" Lassiter asked weakly, heart still beating too fast.
Spencer tugged his belt into place and sat back, carefully easing his legs down from the seat and making a face as his knees popped. There was a conspicuous bulge in his jeans. "I really have to go back to yoga," he said. "Although my Guru says I can't come back until I cleanse my aura. And pay her." He grinned at Lassiter.
"Fine, whatever." Lassiter sat up straighter and ran his hands through his hair; it was slightly sweaty. "Don't expect me to thank you, though." He felt like an idiot as he said it, but he clamped his lips closed and stared out the windshield rather than say anything else. Anything stupider.
Spencer just shrugged - Lassiter caught the movement out of the corner of his eyes - and adjusted himself. "No need," he said. "I just like to... keep busy," he added a second later. "And it helps me think."
Silence settled over the car. Lassiter gazed at the club's door, willing it to open and reveal some actual police work. Spencer began fidgeting again, frowning as if to himself, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel again. Just as Lassiter was about to snap and go for his gun, Spencer jerked around to face him.
"We've got to go in," he said in a rush, reaching for his door's handle. "Jules is in danger." He was up and out of the car an instant later, leaving Lassiter to scramble after him. "Why didn't I see it before?" were the last audible words out of Spencer's mouth before he jerked open the door to the club and plunged into a maelstrom of terrible, thumping music and strobe-lit darkness.
~*~
O'Hara had been in danger, yes, but in true Juliet fashion, she'd already handled it and was perched casually on the pimp's desk with one high heel strategically placed on his sternum as she dialed Lassiter's cell. It rang as they walked through the door to the office. And yes again, the man under O'Hara's high heel was the same man Spencer had seen dumping a victim off the dock three nights before.
~*~
This time Lassiter couldn't help but think about what had happened. Did Spencer really just need to keep busy? Did it really help him think? He'd come to his realization about O'Hara's dangerous liaison immediately after, so... maybe. Of course, there was the stupid idea with the finger gun to consider, so maybe not. But what did it mean? Would Spencer blow anyone handy if he was bored or in need of inspiration? Oh god, did he and Gus...? No. Maybe? Probably not, although Lassiter was suddenly unsure about a lot of things, including that. And whether or not he wanted it to happen again. But if it really was those two things, why had Spencer just now started including Lassiter in his weird way of passing the time? They'd been alone together a hundred times, probably, and Spencer had never demonstrated any designs on Lassiter's virtue - tattered though it might be - before the supply closet.
He just couldn't figure it out. He shook his head and turned over under the sheet, trying to put it into the box in his brain labeled "Need more evidence;" it didn't want to stay there. He sighed and turned over again, hand straying into his underwear. Maybe he could get some sleep if he'd just...
Hopefully he could get some sleep.
~*~
The third time Lassiter was ready. Sort of. Almost.
Not that he knew when it was coming - or where - but he figured it must be coming. It had been two weeks since the incident in the alley (and subsequent reinstatement with full backpay for O'Hara, pat on the back for Lassiter, and pleasant pay-off for Spencer's half-assed company), and Spencer had been showing increasing signs of restlessness when he and Lassiter were in the same place at the same time.
Lassiter had tried sounding Guster out regarding Spencer's state of mind, but Gus had just given him an unreadable look.
"Seriously, is something wrong with him?" Lassiter asked, keeping his voice low. "I mean, more than usual." Spencer had been distracted by a cheerleading team whose bus had broken down outside the station; he was outside on the front walk learning how to cheer to the Cuesta Community College fight song.
"Are you kidding?" Guster asked. "You're just now asking me this?" He rolled his eyes and turned to watch Spencer attempt a half-split (results predictable).
"No, I am not kidding," Lassiter said irritably. "His inappropriate remarks to me have increased by nearly fourteen percent, his sense of personal boundaries seems to have vanished entirely, and - well - there've been. Other things." Lassiter felt his ears go hot and looked hastily away. Spencer was being helped up off the ground by three cheerleaders, two female, one male. His mouth never stopped moving, and all three laughed with him.
Guster's eyes were back on Lassiter. "You're a detective," he finally said. "You figure it out." He trotted away, no doubt to go tell Spencer to stop being an idiot - wasted breath - but before he hit the door, he glanced back at Lassiter. Guster's face wore a curious little smile, just one corner of his mouth quirked up, and he shook his head a little when he caught Lassiter looking at him, but he didn't stop smiling.
~*~
So. Third time - ready. Almost ready. Sort of ready. Maybe.
It happened in the observation room right off Interrogation Room 2. They had a suspect in custody, and Lassiter charged down to the basement, Spencer and Guster on his heels, ready to burst in and beat a confession out of the guy.
"Hold on," Guster said, grabbing for Lassiter's sleeve. "Calm down."
"Yeah, Lassie, relax," Spencer said, with a distinct leer. Then his face changed as he looked through the one-way glass at the suspect. "Look at him. He's on the edge anyway. Let's give him a few minutes to simmer."
The suspect did look nervous, fingers and feet tapping, sweat dampening the edges of his hair. He kept looking toward them, at the blank mirror, then - longingly - at the tiny window high in the opposite wall.
"Fine," Lassiter said. He turned and slapped one hand against the door with a bang. "Dammit."
Guster's eyes went wide. "I'm gonna go get you some coffee," he said. "Decaf." He pulled open the door Lassiter had just slapped and sidled out.
"Hey," Spencer said soothingly, "Buzz is gonna be fine. He's got his wife with him, plus Jules, plus the Chief's got everyone out looking for anything we might have missed when we brought in Mr. Twitchy here," as he indicated the interrogation room with a jerk of his head. "You really do need to relax a little, or you're just going to kill him when you go in there."
"How the hell am I supposed to relax when some sick creep is sending my men biological weapons in the mail?" Lassiter snapped. He whirled and stared at the suspect again. "He's in on it, I know it."
"Hey, me too," Spencer said. "And we got the antivirals to Buzz in time, plus they intercepted the packets sent to Sergeant Idlette and Woody." He moved closer to Lassiter. "So just... relax." He wasn't leering this time, but Lassiter wasn't all that surprised when he slid to his knees and pressed Lassiter back against the closed door.
"Are you freaking kidding me?" Lassiter said, but he'd been thinking about Spencer's mouth - his smart, cunning, talented mouth - for two weeks, pretty much nonstop, and his hands only pretended to push at Spencer's head as his pants were worked open and pushed down around his knees.
"You're gonna be so busted," Lassiter said, the anger he'd felt only seconds ago replaced in a rush by something different but no less dark, for all that, and no less intense. "Christ," he said, then bit his lip to keep quiet as Spencer slid all the way down, gagging a little before he slowly slipped back up Lassiter's length.
Lassiter couldn't stand to watch - it was too intimate, and for the first time he could really see - but it was hard to look away, too. Spencer's eyes were closed, one fist wrapped around Lassiter as he sucked, sliding down and around in a relentless rhythm. A second later Spencer's eyes blinked open and he looked up at Lassiter, smiling around him as he pulled off. "I don't think I'm the only one who's gonna get busted," he said, then he closed his eyes again and began working Lassiter hard and fast.
Lassiter put his head back against the wall and let himself go, at least a little bit - he pushed forward, meeting Spencer's rhythm, rewarded by a vibrating hum that might have been a groan, and by Spencer's furiously working hand and wet, hot mouth. No time, Lassiter thought, urgency and need and nerves and why tightening his grip in Spencer's hair as he shoved forward, wanting to end this fast, now.
It did end, quicker than Lassiter expected - one minute he was nearly growling with want, the next tipped over the edge and gulping for air, sucking back a noisy exclamation, choking on it. "Christ," he gasped at last, trying to get his breath. "Jesus Christ."
Spencer tried - again - to put Lassiter's clothes back together, but this time Lassiter pushed his hands away and pulled everything into place himself, tugging his underwear up, pants and belt with it; tucking, zipping, buckling. His shirt was stuck to the small of his back under his blazer, and he pushed a hand through his hair, scowling at nothing. Why did it have to feel so good? And why, now that Spencer had done it to him in broad daylight, in the most inappropriate place possible, could Lassiter think of nothing except how ridiculous he must have looked?
"Shit," Lassiter said to himself. He couldn't even look at Spencer.
Spencer clicked his tongue. "Language, Lassie," he said. When Lassiter jerked his head up to glare, Spencer was grinning at him, eyes still dark. "Seriously, though, get away from the door - Gus should be back with your decaf right -" the door bumped Lassiter's heels - "now."
Lassiter bit back another curse and stepped forward to look through the glass at their suspect. "I don't drink decaf," he said as Guster walked in, carrying a paper cup of the station's weak, lukewarm coffee.
Guster looked hurt. "Would have been nice if you'd said something eight minutes ago," he said, and turned on one heel to put the cup onto a desk.
"I never saw the point of decaf myself," Spencer said. He crossed to look through the one-way mirror with Lassiter. "Ooh, I have an idea," he said, and before Lassiter could grab him - god, he tried - Spencer had swiped the coffee cup, pivoted around him and plunged into the interrogation room.
"Hey, dude," Spencer said, voice tinny through the intercom. "Have some coffee." He pulled the lid off the cup and spilled it across the table, a brown wave onto the suspect's lap. "Whoops!" Spencer put his hands up in dismay. "How clumsy of me."
The suspect leapt up, brushing at his pants and spitting curses.
"Oh," Spencer said, "I probably should have mentioned that I put some of that powder from McNab's care package into the coffee. My bad."
He walked out of the interrogation room.
~*~
The suspect confessed and named all his accomplices. Spencer was reprimanded by Chief Vick. McNab made a full recovery and no one else got any suspicious packages in the mail.
Lassiter was really, seriously, desperately confused. And he didn't like it much.
~*~
"Have you ever thought Spencer might be gay?" Lassiter blurted.
"What?" The sun was beating down on the boardwalk, but O'Hara took off her sunglasses to give him a measuring look.
"What?" Lassiter said, wishing the words back into his mouth. "You dated him."
"Yes I did, and no - I don't think he's gay. Highly annoying, yes; gay, no." She smiled privately for a moment, before her smile morphed into a frown. "Well - no. No." She was still frowning though, and she put her sunglasses back on. "Maybe bi, though."
Totally not helpful.
~*~
The drinks at the Crown & Anchor looked expensive, but they tasted cheap. Lassiter looked at the whiskey in his glass and frowned, wondering if it'd been watered. He'd call Food Safety tomorrow, send them over to check. The whiskey sure as hell wasn't doing anything for him - it must be watered.
Spencer strolled in around ten, hands in his pockets, looking ready for anything. Lassiter watched as he bellied up to the bar and started flirting his way into a free drink. God. Lassiter tossed back another slug of whiskey. Spencer was shameless. Any minute now he'd have to watch him and the bartender head for the kitchen, or a handy closet, or maybe just the alley behind the pub. Lassiter scowled down at his almost-empty glass.
Or maybe not. Spencer was coming toward him, two glasses in his hands. He put one, a whiskey tumbler, in front of Lassiter, and settled onto the high barstool across from him, the tiny table suddenly seeming an all-too-flimsy barrier between them.
"Hey, Lassie, what's up?" Spencer said, and, lifting his bright pink cocktail in Lassiter's direction, took a sip. "Mmmm. Grenadine," he said cheerily.
"That looks like cough syrup," Lassiter said.
Spencer took another sip and smacked his lips. "Tastes like cherries, though." He looked around. "What brings you here this evening? Wine, women and song?" The bar was half-empty, mostly male patrons sprawled comfortably in booths and laughing together. The only song to be heard was a Ford commercial on the TV over the bar. "Well... wine?"
"I think this stuff is watered," Lassiter said.
Spencer took it and sipped. "Blech," he said, making a face and sticking out his tongue as he handed the glass back. "Tastes strong enough to me. It tastes like Listerine. Fermented Listerine. Fermented Listerine making love to an old pair of socks."
Lassiter thought about protesting Spencer's mouth on his glass, but it seemed kind of... pointless. Instead he looked down at the whiskey again. "Well, that's what it's supposed to taste like. Maybe it's just me." Melancholy washed over him for one instant, gone the next.
"Maybe it is," Spencer said. "Do this." He sat up straight on his barstool and stretched his arms out to the sides, then brought one hand in, touching his index finger to the tip of his nose.
Lassiter straightened and tried it. He got his finger onto one nostril.
"Niiice," Spencer said. "Now do this." He repeated the movement with the opposite arm, but at the last minute, reached across and touched his index finger to Lassiter's chin.
Lassiter sat very still until the finger was gone. It was probably just a side effect of the whiskey, the desire to bend his head and take Spencer's finger into his mouth. He shook his head to clear it and tried to repeat Spencer's actions. This time his finger landed square on Spencer's mouth.
"Not bad," Spencer said, and the "b" in bad made a little kiss on Lassiter's finger.
He jerked it away and emptied his first - okay, second... third? - whiskey glass. "I'm barely even impaired," Lassiter said, slamming the tumbler onto the table. He reached for the new drink Spencer'd brought him.
"Do you have anyone to drive you home?" Spencer asked.
"I have the number for a cab company in my phone," Lassiter said hopefully.
Spencer nodded. "Good. Have another drink."
"I think I will," Lassiter said, radiating geniality, and he did.
They sat in silence for a minute or two, Spencer looking around the bar and hardly touching his cough syrup, Lassiter looking at Spencer and turning his glass in circles on the table's surface.
"So," Spencer said finally, and took another sip of his drink, looking back at Lassiter.
"Has anyone ever told you you suck cock like a fifty-dollar Tijuana hooker?" Lassiter asked conversationally.
Spencer choked and put the cocktail glass down quickly. "Uh, no. Is that a bad thing?" He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand.
Lassiter waved a hand. "No, no, it's a good thing. Most Tijuana hookers cost five dollars."
"Lassie, have you been re-asserting your masculinity with Tijuana hookers?" Spencer looked intrigued. And a little horrified.
"What?" Lassiter shook his head. "No, I do that with my gun," he explained. "But I worked in San Diego for six months once, and I arrested a lot of Tijuana hookers."
"Ah," Spencer said. "...Why don't you finish your drink and we'll get you that cab."
"Are you coming home with me?" Lassiter asked. He wasn't sure if he sounded hopeful or resigned.
Spencer was watching him. "Do you want me to?"
"I thought you might want to give me a blowjob in the back of the cab," Lassiter said.
"Keep your voice down, Lassie," Spencer said, and he got up and walked around the table toward Lassiter. "Let's talk about it outside, while we wait for the taxi."
"Okay," Lassiter said, and he let Spencer take his arm, stumbling a little as he gained his feet and the alcohol really hit him. "Wow, cool," he said, watching the way the room spun at the edges. Spencer fumbled with the back of Lassiter's pants, and he tried to turn and see what he was doing. "Right here?" Lassiter asked - he could hear how surprised he sounded, but it wasn't really a bad surprise. Just - surprising. A surprising surprise.
"No! Be still," Spencer said, sounding flustered for the first time Lassiter could ever remember. He finished messing with Lassiter's pants and led him to the bar. "He'd like to pay for our drinks now," Spencer said to the bartender, who smirked and removed a credit card from Lassiter's wallet, which was somehow in Spencer's hand.
"Neat," Lassiter said. "That was like magic. Did you do that with your, your psychic-ness?"
Spencer smiled up at him while he waited for the bartender to return with receipt and card. "Don't tell me you suddenly believe in my psychic-ness, Lassie."
"No," Lassiter said, thinking about it for a second. "I still think you're full of crap."
"Oh, good," Spencer said, signing the receipt and grabbing the card from the bartender as he led Lassiter toward the door. "For a minute there I thought my faith in you would be shaken to its foundations."
The air outside was cool and dark; Lassiter breathed in and out and stood on the curb next to Spencer, waiting for something to happen.
"Uh, Lassie?" Spencer said.
"Hm?" Lassiter looked down at Spencer.
"Give me your phone." Spencer held out one hand.
"Why?"
Spencer sighed. "Never mind. Be still." He went for Lassiter's pockets again. It was strangely pleasant, and beginning to be a familiar sensation: Spencer's hands seemed comfortable in Lassiter's pants, and Lassiter wasn't nearly as bothered by it as he thought he should be. Maybe it was the whiskey. Or the history of blowjobs, plus the possibility of future blowjobs.
Spencer surfaced with Lassiter's phone and began poking buttons until he found one he liked. He carried on a brief conversation with the person on the other end and hung up, then dropped the phone back into Lassiter's pocket. "Okay, cab's on the way." He peered up at Lassiter. "You okay to wait by yourself?"
Lassiter blinked. "Sure. Why not? I'm okay. Great. Fine. Awesome." He stuck his hands in his pockets and tried to rock back on his heels like a man who didn't have a blood alcohol level of .08 percent or higher.
"Whoa there, big fella," Spencer said, catching him. "I'll wait with you."
"Okey-dokey." Lassiter forgot he wasn't supposed to, and tried to rock back on his heels again casually.
"Let's just sit down here, shall we?" Spencer said, and got them both seated on the curb, feet in the street. "That's better." He glanced up and down the street, looking for something. Maybe the cab.
"I just don't get why you do it," Lassiter said.
"Do what?"
"Give me blowjobs."
Spencer pulled his knees up and put his head on them. His voice was muffled. "Oh, god."
"Well, you said you do it because you get bored. Or it helps you think. Or something. But you're always bored, or at least... twitchy. And you're always thinking - not that you act like it," Lassiter added. "But still. And you're not always giving people blowjobs. I don't think you and O'Hara were running off to supply closets to make like bunnies when you were dating. Were you?"
Spencer's head stayed down, and now he clasped his hands over his nape, too. "Nope," he said. "We weren't." He looked like he was waiting for a tornado drill to be over.
"So what do you get out of it?" Lassiter asked earnestly. "I mean, you don't even get to come, so - I don't get it."
Spencer finally lifted his head. His face was red, but he didn't look angry, so maybe it was just that he'd had it against his knees for too long. His voice didn't sound mad, either. "Okay, you really want to know?"
Lassiter nodded.
Spencer tipped his head to the side to measure Lassiter with his gaze. "I'll tell you, because the last time you were this drunk and told me things, you totally didn't remember it the next day. So." He sat up straight and looked at Lassiter dead-on. "The reason I did it is that I've been wanting to do it. That's it. That's the big secret. I have a big old hard-on for you and your bad haircuts and your stupid suits, and how clueless you are, and how you always call me on my bullshit, and how good you are with your gun - yes," he was talking loudly now, "I said it, it makes me hot and bothered every time I see you shoot your gun, and let's not even talk about the handcuffs, for Chrissakes." He threw his hands into the air. "All right? Is that enough? God." He began to laugh and lay backward across the sidewalk, hands folded on his belly, bouncing as he laughed.
Lassiter thought about it for a minute or two. "Yeah, I can see that."
Spencer covered his face with his hands and kept laughing.
The cab pulled up a minute later, and although Lassiter asked, Spencer didn't want to go home with him.
"Go sleep it off, Lassie," he said. "I'll see you at the station tomorrow."
~*~
The problem was, Lassiter didn't forget, this time.
~*~
He'd gotten home and fallen asleep - okay, passed out - as soon as he hit the bed, but when he woke up, Spencer's voice was sharp and distinct in his head, Dolby-surround-sound clear, echoing alongside the dregs of the whiskey.
Lassiter got up and treated the hangover the way he always did: gallons of water followed by grueling calisthenics followed by a shower hot enough to melt his skin off. When he emerged from the shower stall he felt hollowed out but human, but he still hadn't forgotten what Spencer'd said.
"Sweet baby James," Lassiter said out loud.
He had no idea what to do.
~*~
There was a case - of course there was a case. Spencer and Guster hung around the edges of things, irritating him, making O'Hara laugh and threaten them by turns, amusing and annoying Chief Vick. Lassiter could hardly look at Spencer, but he made himself do it anyway. It was like drinking the water, like doing the exercises, like turning the shower so hot it made him cringe. It had to be done.
Spencer looked back at him and grinned.
Lassiter rolled his eyes: Spencer thought he didn't remember. Lassiter had at least a little time to figure out what the hell to do.
~*~
Or maybe not.
"Can I help you?" Lassiter said, opening the door to Spencer. He ignored the fact that his sweaty hand nearly slid off the doorknob.
"Yep. Lemme in." Spencer held up a brown paper bag. "I brought you something."
Lassiter stepped reluctantly back. "What is it?"
Spencer pushed past him into the living room like he owned the place. "Forty-year-old single-malt scotch."
"What? Where did you get it?" Lassiter asked, distracted.
"Liquor store," Spencer said breezily. "Here you go." He swung the bag up and handed it to Lassiter.
"Spencer."
"Hmm?"
"This isn't forty-year-old single-malt scotch," Lassiter said an instant later, examining the bottle.
Spencer wandered to the Most-wanted wall and inspected it, hands clasped behind his back. "It's not?"
"No." Lassiter put the bottle on a side table. "It's a forty. Of malt liquor."
"I've heard it both ways," Spencer said, not looking at him.
"You have." Lassiter stood still, watching Spencer. He rocked on his heels a bit, staring at the wall.
"Sure... hey, I saw that lady at the 7-11 on Montecito last week," Spencer said.
Lassiter crossed to the kitchen bar and fumbled in the bread box for paper and pen. "When last week? What was she wearing?"
"Jeez, you keep your notepad by the gun?" Spencer said, smirking. He closed his eyes for a second, thinking. "It was Tuesday, because I had to go home to watch Glee. And she was wearing jeans and a pink t-shirt. I think it had one of those ribbon thingies on it - like for breast cancer or something." He opened his eyes and looked back up at the picture. "Her hair's longer now, though, and it was lighter, too - bleached."
"Awesome. Hold on." Lassiter loped past him to the computer in the living room and sat down. "Let me send a quick e-mail to Ybarra, she's working that case." He tapped intently and hit send, then closed the computer. "Thanks."
Spencer stayed where he was, looking at Lassiter. "No problem," he said. "How's your hangover?"
Lassiter leaned back on the couch and crossed his legs. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
Spencer grinned. "Sure you don't."
Lassiter raised an eyebrow. "I don't get hangovers."
"And I bet you don't have blackouts, either, do you?" Spencer asked.
Lassiter uncrossed his legs and jumped to his feet, pointing at Spencer. "Aha!" he said. "You thought I'd forget!"
"What?" Spencer squeaked. "I mean - forget what?"
"Why are you here?" Lassiter asked, circling the coffee table to approach Spencer, getting into his space. "Bullshit aside."
Spencer swallowed, gaze flicking to Lassiter's eyes and then down, then back up. Lassiter knew Spencer could see his hard-on, but Spencer didn't look any too relaxed either, and they were on Lassiter's territory - Spencer had come here, to him. "All bullshit aside?" Spencer said quietly.
"Yes," Lassiter insisted, crowding him.
Spencer didn't give an inch - not that Lassiter had expected him to. "All bullshit aside, I want to get an orgasm out of it, this time," Spencer said.
"I think," Lassiter said, and he saw Spencer's face close down at the pause, saw him get ready for a riposte, "that could be arranged."
"Oh," Spencer said. He grinned again suddenly. "Good."
~*~
"We can't have any of that Moonlighting crap," Spencer said, sitting up suddenly. Lassiter pulled him down and rolled them both over so he could glare down at him properly.
"What in the name of sweet merciful justice are you talking about?" Lassiter asked.
"As soon as David and Maddie slept with each other, the show went to hell," Spencer said. "If this whole thing is going to hell after this, I'm out of here right now." The thing he was doing with his hands between their bodies seemed to argue otherwise.
"Spencer?"
"What?"
Lassiter shook his head. "Shawn."
Spencer did something particularly pleasant, and Lassiter lost his train of thought for a second. "What?" Spencer asked again.
"Shut the hell up."
~*~
"What do you want?" Lassiter asked, holding himself over Spencer - Shawn. "Tell me."
"I don't know," Shawn said, half-laughing, half-sobbing. "I don't know." He turned his face away, bent his head so all Lassiter could see was his nape for a moment.
"I do," Lassiter said, and pressed inward an inch at a time, slow, wet and tight, both of them slick with sweat and half out of their minds. "I guess I'm the psychic."
Shawn laughed and bucked under him, hoarse and irrepressible. "Doesn't take a psychic, Lassie. Just a reasonably - reasonably competent - oh."
"You were saying?" Lassiter shoved himself the rest of the way in and felt Shawn shudder under him.
"Reasonably competent detective," Shawn managed, before he choked on another groaned laugh and began working himself back to meet the punishing pace Lassiter set for them both.
~*~
Clinging to life on one square foot of a king-sized mattress? Check. Smothered by a naked and lightly snoring fake psychic? Check. Coated with any number of man-made and factory-produced sticky substances? Check.
Relaxed in every bone, muscle and artery, and thinking about rolling over for round three? (Or was it four?) Really damn definitely check.
Lassiter squinted into the too-bright morning sunlight and turned over.
~ THE END ~
END NOTES:
1. You could think of this as follow up to Gus Has a Bad Feeling About This, or not. It could certainly stand alone, too. (Although all stories need more Gus, so if you think of them as a pair, you would get more Gus - a good thing.)
2. Although the story is from Lassiter's point of view, I chose to continue referring to him as Lassiter, rather than switching to a personal POV use of his first name. In fact, I tried to write the story as if from "Carlton"'s perspective, but it wouldn't budge. Finally I decided that Lassiter is such a manly man's masculine macho man-candy man, it is entirely possible that he thinks of himself as Lassiter, rather than Carlton. Let's face it: gun in the bread box = so manly he thinks of himself by his surname.