Preemptive Strikes (Psych, Shawn/Lassiter)
So I was getting ready for bed last night, but started writing this instead. Seriously, the muse was happily torturing me until 2:30 in the morning with this fic (I'm usually not so verbose in my fics or driven by inspiration), while I was missing out on my sleep and when I had to get up freakin' early the next day.
Title: Preemptive Strikes
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance, established relationship, angst, fluff
Fandom: Psych
Pairing: Shawn/Lassiter
Summary: Shawn and Lassie and rain.
Disclaimer: Psych belongs to Steve Franks and the USA Network
Warnings: some slight swearing, maybe teeny, tiny spoilers for some season three episodes, most notably the season finale, Lassie Did A Bad Bad Thing, and Gus Walks Into A Bank- but wouldn’t know them if you weren’t looking for them.
Notes: I have to apologize first for the angst that spans half of this fic and then for the uber schmoopness that follows. Written for psychflashfic challenge #7- "It was a dark and stormy night..."
Shawn stumbled around the Psych office looking for the flashlight he knew Gus must’ve stocked somewhere.
There was an occasional flash of lightening that illuminated the room for a second before all was dark again, but that was all Shawn needed to keep from hitting the furniture and injuring himself.
He had been re-watching The Breakfast Club when the power blew out and left him literally in the dark. It had been pouring heavily all day in Santa Barbara with strong winds and, for the time being, Shawn was stuck at the office, or what had become, somewhat unofficially, his hiding place.
He was hiding from a certain, easily irritable, highly stern Irish detective whom he had been having a secret, torrid affair with for the last two months. It had been a good two months, but things were starting to get serious. His sloppiness was starting to show; he should’ve broken it off after the first month, but he couldn’t. And as much as it disheartened him to break it off with Lassie, he had to do it; it was absolutely of the most imperative urgency that they stopped…well, whatever they were doing that involved dinner and games of trying to get each other’s clothes off the fastest.
Being with the same person for more than a month surely couldn’t have been healthy, so Shawn was doing himself a favor. Yet, why did he feel so lousy?
Why did he wake up that morning not looking forward to the day at all? Why did he feel compelled to do nothing but sit in his pajamas, eating double-fudge ice cream and watching eighties’ movies, imagining himself leaning against a chest, and rambling on about nothing important just because he could, just because there was another person there- Lassie- to respond to him and tell him he was insane.
It was most probably because he was in love.
Well…damn.
~*~*~*~*
He had no reason to mope or be suicidal just because he ruined the best thing to happen to him in thirty years (besides starting up his own psychic detective agency and somehow getting the Santa Barbara Police Department to believe he actually was psychic), except no matter how much the sane part of his brain- the one that spoke of fear, of mothers getting kidnapped, best friends getting held hostage, guns pulled on significant others, the one that he mostly ignored-told him it was the right thing to do, his heart just wouldn’t accept it. If it was the right thing to do, why did it feel so horribly wrong?
Still no flashlight anywhere, dammit, and he had looked everywhere- in both his and Gus’ desks, the lockers, the bathroom, even behind the potted ficus Gus insisted on keeping next to the window.
Anyway, back to his heartbreak: he was responsible and there was no way Lassiter was going to take him back now, not after he had acted all distant and cold, feigning disinterest in the detective. (And seriously, what was up with Lassiter believing all the crap Shawn had fed to him yesterday? Shawn was obviously lying through his teeth, yet Lassiter still looked hurt…and, oh he was such an asshole.)
He slumped down against the door, feeling utterly dejected. There was another clap of thunder and a flash of lightening before he felt the doorknob above his head turning, but before he could get up the door swung forward and knocked him face-first into the rug.
He rolled over and saw a dark figure standing above him. He started screaming, the figure started screaming, the wind whistled loudly outside, and for a second Shawn feared he wouldn’t have to worry about his heartache anymore, not when a psycho axe-murderer would probably chop him to death and take it out.
But then the voice said, “Freeze!” And Shawn felt like fainting again, but for an entirely different reason for, speak of the devil, it was Lassiter.
Conveniently, a flash of thunder decided to appear at that second and Lassiter lowered his gun when he saw Shawn on the floor, who was still breathing hard.
Shawn, for his part, saw that Lassiter was wearing his trench coat- his now drenched trench coat- and his hair was matted down by his rain-soaked hair. God, he hadn’t wanted anybody like he wanted Lassiter right at that moment.
However, he remained on the floor, tightening his fists into balls to stop himself from reaching out to the other man. He had some questions he wanted to ask the older man, starting off with what was he doing here at ten at night?
He opened his mouth to speak, but immediately clamped it shout. Lassiter was reaching out to him, his hands waving blindly in the dark before they hit his chest, and he brought Shawn up to a standing position, suddenly much closer and smelling of rain, and Shawn had to concentrate much more on keeping still.
“You’re an idiot,” Lassiter spat out angrily, and Shawn agreed with him silently. Yes, yes, he was an idiot, a big, big idiot, for how could he have tried to get rid of this wonderful man? This wonderful man who was still clutching at his shoulders like he wanted him back too; who was so serious most of the time it was as though nothing could penetrate that solid wall of no nonsense, but, once that wall was broken down, his face would light up with something so indescribable it had become Shawn’s favorite thing in the world because Lassiter would only be that way with him.
Swiftly, he was being pulled closer, Lassiter’s hands traveling up his neck. It had been 24 hours since they last touched, but it was all Shawn could think of at that moment.
Hesitantly, Lassiter touched Shawn’s cheek with his own, their foreheads touching and breath mingling together, both breathing in shallow gulps of air as though there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room.
Everything seemed so slow, and though Shawn wanted to crush their mouths together in a frenzy of heat, this slow approach- the slow momentum Lassiter seemed to be gathering to place a kiss on the corner of his mouth-seemed more intimate and satisfying in the long run than if they were to kiss as if it was a marathon.
This was being close to Lassiter, and getting it reaffirmed what he could have lost- what he had thought he had lost but somehow gotten back, at least for the moment. This was his desire for the other man simply brought up to the surface and contained in Lassiter’s hands. The hands of a lover that promised to never hurt him, that seemed to speak of unconditional love every time they were in close proximity, but Shawn was too deaf to hear. If he could’ve kicked himself he would have because he might have thought a preemptive strike was a good idea, but losing this, losing Lassiter forever, how could he have been so stupid as to believe that was a good idea?
He closed his eyes, face burning hotly, and brought his arms around Lassiter’s waist. Lassiter was delightfully wet all over, radiating a coolness that seemed to seep into Shawn.
“You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Shawn,” Lassiter spoke softly at last, his lips kissing Shawn’s skin with his words.
Shawn made a noise that seemed to be an agreement. His hands flew to Lassiter’s trench coat, trying to open the buttons, but his hands felt slippery and clumsy all at once. Lassiter’s own covered his and helped him.
“I know you’ll probably want to talk about this,” Shawn waved his hand back and forth between them before sliding off the coat and letting it fall to the floor, caressing the shoulders that were there, in front of him, all of a sudden.
“Later,” Lassiter replied, finally, finally kissing him, all tongue and teeth and him.
Title: Preemptive Strikes
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance, established relationship, angst, fluff
Fandom: Psych
Pairing: Shawn/Lassiter
Summary: Shawn and Lassie and rain.
Disclaimer: Psych belongs to Steve Franks and the USA Network
Warnings: some slight swearing, maybe teeny, tiny spoilers for some season three episodes, most notably the season finale, Lassie Did A Bad Bad Thing, and Gus Walks Into A Bank- but wouldn’t know them if you weren’t looking for them.
Notes: I have to apologize first for the angst that spans half of this fic and then for the uber schmoopness that follows. Written for psychflashfic challenge #7- "It was a dark and stormy night..."
Shawn stumbled around the Psych office looking for the flashlight he knew Gus must’ve stocked somewhere.
There was an occasional flash of lightening that illuminated the room for a second before all was dark again, but that was all Shawn needed to keep from hitting the furniture and injuring himself.
He had been re-watching The Breakfast Club when the power blew out and left him literally in the dark. It had been pouring heavily all day in Santa Barbara with strong winds and, for the time being, Shawn was stuck at the office, or what had become, somewhat unofficially, his hiding place.
He was hiding from a certain, easily irritable, highly stern Irish detective whom he had been having a secret, torrid affair with for the last two months. It had been a good two months, but things were starting to get serious. His sloppiness was starting to show; he should’ve broken it off after the first month, but he couldn’t. And as much as it disheartened him to break it off with Lassie, he had to do it; it was absolutely of the most imperative urgency that they stopped…well, whatever they were doing that involved dinner and games of trying to get each other’s clothes off the fastest.
Being with the same person for more than a month surely couldn’t have been healthy, so Shawn was doing himself a favor. Yet, why did he feel so lousy?
Why did he wake up that morning not looking forward to the day at all? Why did he feel compelled to do nothing but sit in his pajamas, eating double-fudge ice cream and watching eighties’ movies, imagining himself leaning against a chest, and rambling on about nothing important just because he could, just because there was another person there- Lassie- to respond to him and tell him he was insane.
It was most probably because he was in love.
Well…damn.
~*~*~*~*
He had no reason to mope or be suicidal just because he ruined the best thing to happen to him in thirty years (besides starting up his own psychic detective agency and somehow getting the Santa Barbara Police Department to believe he actually was psychic), except no matter how much the sane part of his brain- the one that spoke of fear, of mothers getting kidnapped, best friends getting held hostage, guns pulled on significant others, the one that he mostly ignored-told him it was the right thing to do, his heart just wouldn’t accept it. If it was the right thing to do, why did it feel so horribly wrong?
Still no flashlight anywhere, dammit, and he had looked everywhere- in both his and Gus’ desks, the lockers, the bathroom, even behind the potted ficus Gus insisted on keeping next to the window.
Anyway, back to his heartbreak: he was responsible and there was no way Lassiter was going to take him back now, not after he had acted all distant and cold, feigning disinterest in the detective. (And seriously, what was up with Lassiter believing all the crap Shawn had fed to him yesterday? Shawn was obviously lying through his teeth, yet Lassiter still looked hurt…and, oh he was such an asshole.)
He slumped down against the door, feeling utterly dejected. There was another clap of thunder and a flash of lightening before he felt the doorknob above his head turning, but before he could get up the door swung forward and knocked him face-first into the rug.
He rolled over and saw a dark figure standing above him. He started screaming, the figure started screaming, the wind whistled loudly outside, and for a second Shawn feared he wouldn’t have to worry about his heartache anymore, not when a psycho axe-murderer would probably chop him to death and take it out.
But then the voice said, “Freeze!” And Shawn felt like fainting again, but for an entirely different reason for, speak of the devil, it was Lassiter.
Conveniently, a flash of thunder decided to appear at that second and Lassiter lowered his gun when he saw Shawn on the floor, who was still breathing hard.
Shawn, for his part, saw that Lassiter was wearing his trench coat- his now drenched trench coat- and his hair was matted down by his rain-soaked hair. God, he hadn’t wanted anybody like he wanted Lassiter right at that moment.
However, he remained on the floor, tightening his fists into balls to stop himself from reaching out to the other man. He had some questions he wanted to ask the older man, starting off with what was he doing here at ten at night?
He opened his mouth to speak, but immediately clamped it shout. Lassiter was reaching out to him, his hands waving blindly in the dark before they hit his chest, and he brought Shawn up to a standing position, suddenly much closer and smelling of rain, and Shawn had to concentrate much more on keeping still.
“You’re an idiot,” Lassiter spat out angrily, and Shawn agreed with him silently. Yes, yes, he was an idiot, a big, big idiot, for how could he have tried to get rid of this wonderful man? This wonderful man who was still clutching at his shoulders like he wanted him back too; who was so serious most of the time it was as though nothing could penetrate that solid wall of no nonsense, but, once that wall was broken down, his face would light up with something so indescribable it had become Shawn’s favorite thing in the world because Lassiter would only be that way with him.
Swiftly, he was being pulled closer, Lassiter’s hands traveling up his neck. It had been 24 hours since they last touched, but it was all Shawn could think of at that moment.
Hesitantly, Lassiter touched Shawn’s cheek with his own, their foreheads touching and breath mingling together, both breathing in shallow gulps of air as though there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room.
Everything seemed so slow, and though Shawn wanted to crush their mouths together in a frenzy of heat, this slow approach- the slow momentum Lassiter seemed to be gathering to place a kiss on the corner of his mouth-seemed more intimate and satisfying in the long run than if they were to kiss as if it was a marathon.
This was being close to Lassiter, and getting it reaffirmed what he could have lost- what he had thought he had lost but somehow gotten back, at least for the moment. This was his desire for the other man simply brought up to the surface and contained in Lassiter’s hands. The hands of a lover that promised to never hurt him, that seemed to speak of unconditional love every time they were in close proximity, but Shawn was too deaf to hear. If he could’ve kicked himself he would have because he might have thought a preemptive strike was a good idea, but losing this, losing Lassiter forever, how could he have been so stupid as to believe that was a good idea?
He closed his eyes, face burning hotly, and brought his arms around Lassiter’s waist. Lassiter was delightfully wet all over, radiating a coolness that seemed to seep into Shawn.
“You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Shawn,” Lassiter spoke softly at last, his lips kissing Shawn’s skin with his words.
Shawn made a noise that seemed to be an agreement. His hands flew to Lassiter’s trench coat, trying to open the buttons, but his hands felt slippery and clumsy all at once. Lassiter’s own covered his and helped him.
“I know you’ll probably want to talk about this,” Shawn waved his hand back and forth between them before sliding off the coat and letting it fall to the floor, caressing the shoulders that were there, in front of him, all of a sudden.
“Later,” Lassiter replied, finally, finally kissing him, all tongue and teeth and him.