Psych: Unhealthy Habits
Title: Unhealthy Habits
Author: Vescaus
Pairing: Shawn/Lassiter
Summary: I've done many things I'm not proud of, Spencer. But I won't be the one to destroy a relationship again.
Spoilers: Slight tiny ones for Bollywood Homicide and High Top Fade Out. A ficlet based on why Lassiter and Juliet were acting pissier than normal.
Rating: NC-17
Unhealthy Habits
By Vescaus
Lassiter decides in the spur of the moment - as he goes up to answer the door - that something had to change. Whilst booty calls are a relatively new phenomena to him, he has been growing quite accustomed to these visits. He sits and he waits with visceral patience for the bell ringing. The predictability of it shames him every time; he could have gone out after all, had a few beers after work or completed some much needed paperwork; he shouldn’t have been present at home. However, subconsciously, every Tuesday, he ensures he is there, waiting.
After the events of today, it was obvious that this arrangement was ridiculous.
“Spencer,” he greets, looking at the psychic with a hint of disdain. There he is in front of his door again, decked in his jeans, lose shirt and slightly battered sneakers, leaning against the doorframe with a slight smile on his face. In his wildest dreams, sometimes he imagined that Spencer was smiling at him genuinely; however, whenever he looks at the man all he could see the smugness which implies Spencer knew he had been waiting there all along. Carlton hopes if he greets him with as little expression in his tone as he could help, the younger man would never be able to read anything from him except some disgust at this arrangement.
Not that immediate shot of lust.
“Lassie,” Shawn greets more pleasantly, storming his way into the detective’s apartment. He pays no attention to the fact that he hasn’t really been invited in. Lassiter shakes his head tiredly at the man’s blatant disregard for his privacy and obvious unwelcome presence. Then again, he thinks to himself, it would be better to do this inside rather than in the corridor where all the neighbours would overhear. Spencer was unlikely to give up without a fight. So whilst Shawn re-familiarizes himself with the apartment again, Lassiter quietly shuts the door and turns round to face him.
In an almost cat-like manner, Shawn pounces on him a second later, before he can even begin his improvised speech. Lassiter feels the air be practically squashed out of his lungs as his back is slammed painfully into the door. Shawn’s mouth descends on his kissing him softly at first but then growing quickly in its intensity when their mouths open to greet desperate tongues. There is a rustling of clothing and Lassiter can feel Shawn’s explorative hands pawing up his sides to rest on his shoulders and then slink up into his hair as though he couldn’t get enough from just touching him in one place. It was instinctual, really; Lassiter’s own hands wind around the younger man’s waist, drawing him closer and resting on the enticing curve at the small of his back. He knows he has a weakness - the enticing feel of Shawn against him with his enthusiastic actions and high pitched keening moans will forever make him lose grip on reality temporarily.
“Fuck, you taste so good,” Shawn whispers against his lips, his hands sliding down the side of his face onto his neck.
He takes in a deep breath as Shawn’s talented lips and tongue trail across his jaw and his hips give an involuntary jerk. And at that moment, Lassiter remembers precisely what he had meant to say. For a moment, he considers balking, the sensation is far too good to contemplate giving up - Spencer is far too good - but he would be a hypocrite if he didn’t.
So he pulls away, cutting Shawn off from his delightful ministration, and holds him at arms length. “You already smell of sex,” he whispers breathlessly. He think can’t help the bitterness creeping into his tone. “Is she not good enough for you that you have to come here?”
There is no punch. Not even a punching retort. The kiss swollen lips and dark look in his eyes only make Shawn look more dangerous and far more enigmatic to Carlton than they should. He watches with slight trepidation as the psychic smirks. “And you stink of alcohol. Feeling dirty, Lassie?”
Lassiter pulls out of Shawn’s personal space, feeling the slight burn of where the younger man’s fingers had been resting against his neck. He stands by the couch for a few seconds desperately attempting to get his humming body under control, suddenly thinking that the scotch wasn’t a good idea. He could never restrain himself when his inhibitions were dulled from alcohol. “No. But you should be,” he finally growls out.
“You’re not playing? This isn’t a sex game where you tell me I’ve been bad and then strap me to the bed to do me over. Shame, I always expected you would be kinky dog when a little buzzed, Lassie.” When Lassiter didn’t argue straight away, he smirks even more and walks up to him in a swagger that just oozes appeal. His fingers creep daintily up Lassiter’s half undone shirt to the collar. “Unless you think you’re the one who’s being bad?”
Lassiter grabs Shawn’s wrist and pulls them away from his shirt collar to rest at their sides. “How can you come back here every time, Spencer? You have a girl in your life - which from everyone’s reactions, including yours, seems to be quite an impressive feat. She’s smart, she’s beautiful, and she seems to be able to put up with most of your crap…so why are you here?”
Shawn visibly hesitates. The lack of quick witty retort assures Lassiter that he has at least knocked him slightly sideways. “I thought we weren’t going to discuss this,” he responds in a way which attempts to be light hearted but a hint of trepidation underlies his tone.
“Well, we absolutely cannot discuss it at the station or anywhere else you decide to crop up in public. So that leaves here and now. And I’m taking a stand and saying we can’t do this anymore. It’s…unhealthy.”
Shawn chuckles, a small rivulet of sound which Lassiter normally finds annoying anywhere outside of the bedroom. “Unhealthy things are always the ones that are so good, though. Pizza, chocolate, alcohol. Pineapples on sticks with pieces of cheddar as well. In your case the odd Lucky Strike?” He nuzzles Lassiter’s cheek, kissing around his ear, the heat from Shawn’s mouth making the detective shiver visibly. “You can’t tell me that this isn’t amazing...like a bad habit.”
Shawn’s tongue, combined with the low timbre of his voice elicits a low moan from Lassiter, who instinctively turns his head into the sensation. “Unhealthy things aren’t good for you. You are definitely not good for me, Spencer.”
He pulls away again and reaches for the scotch he had started before the psychic had arrived. Somehow, it had calmed his nerves thus far but he knew he would need regular refuelling if Shawn was going to continue standing there, looking slightly debauched and with a glint in his eye that hinted that he was ready to fight this out. He always assumes it was Spencer’s stubbornness and refusal to give up which made him indescribably annoying and yet attractive at the same time. The next thing he heard, though, was Spencer release a frustrated sigh and flops onto his couch. Lassiter knew it wasn’t fair - after all, coming here and getting riled up only to be informed that your lover was currently being stabbed by the morality knife had never been an issue for either of them until tonight.
“Urgh, what is your problem, Lassie? You’re acting like an overcooked marshmallow at a girl scout’s sleepover.”
“I’m the one with the problem? What do you think, Spencer? Or do you just not think at all?”
“I’m more of a ‘go with the flow,’ kind of guy.”
Lassiter sighs and leans his head back against the wall in despair staring straight ahead blandly, the alcohol still clouding his numb mind. He isn’t in the mood for a verbal lashing with the ferocity he normally exhibited. When he got up to answer to the door and tell Spencer this was over, he did it with determination. Now, he just wants peace. “It’s one thing you talking about Abigail and not ever seeing her. She’s just this phantom girlfriend of yours and I never had to care about whenever you turned up here because I couldn’t picture her. I could never imagine what she’d look like if she ever found out…” He turns to face Shawn with an almost hurt expression on his face. “But then you brought her to the station yesterday. And I didn’t even care that you were fucking mocking me with her, playing your stupid games and bringing me down so you could show yourself off…because I just felt guilty about what I’d done to her. And she doesn’t even know.” He pushes himself away from the wall, stumbling once again to his scotch glass, Abigail’s sweet innocent sweet face haunting him even whilst he was awake. He closes his eyes, attempting the blot out the image of what she would look like if she ever discovered them.
“She doesn’t deserve this. And you don’t deserve her.”
If Carlton hadn’t turned his back to make himself another drink, he would undoubtedly have revelled in Shawn’s speechless face. For a few blissful moments there is silence and Lassiter almost wishes that Spencer would just walk out of the door without argument. Looking at Spencer now kicks him in his hollow chest every time. It would save him from further rolling around in the misery of his mistakes.
But Shawn didn’t go. Instead, he says, “I didn’t realize you felt so strongly about this.” Lassiter shrugs apathetically. “I mean this coming from you, detective Lassiter, who spent his time having an affair with another woman whilst only separated from his wife.”
Lassiter whips his head round to give Shawn his iciest stare; that familiar sensation of frustration and anger coming to the boil through his veins, ready to lash out at Shawn only took milliseconds to appear. However, with the disdain and scorn in the other man’s voice so uncharacteristic of the young psychic, Lassiter can feel that anger shoot up on an exponential scale. It is only Shawn’s immediately contrite expression - the realization that he’d spoken without thinking - did Lassiter decide not to get up and punch the man in the face and yell, ‘how dare you?’ Instead, he downs his scotch in one last mouthful and places it loudly back on his glass table, an act of restraint he had perfected so well over the past few years.
“Spencer, do you know how I knew my marriage was technically over?” For once, Shawn has the decency not to make a comment of wit. “It wasn’t when she served me the divorce papers last year. It was when I told her about Lucinda…and she just didn’t care. It didn’t affect her.” He smiles mirthlessly at the memory - when, upon Lucinda’s departure he had gone to Victoria’s house and admitted on her doorstep his shameful act; to not be slapped or screamed at in the street as he deserved. But to have her smile sadly and explain that she expected it.
Lassiter looks up at Shawn, who has still not said a word. “I got off lightly on that front; but we were already beyond repair, it didn’t matter. Do you think Abigail will be so kind and forgiving to you?”
Shawn shifts slightly, the tell-tale sign that he knew his lover was correct. “You haven’t been much better,” he retorts, like a petulant child. “I may,” he concedes delicately, “have brought Abigail in and showed off in front of her that I could potentially do your job equally if not better than you.” Lassiter narrows his eyes at him. “But you took that bait and did the same back to me. You tried to humiliate me in front of my own girlfriend and turn it into a competition. And you enjoyed it. That’s pretty low. I understand our agreement of keeping up appearances but…you were just mean.”
The detective nods after pursing his lips and bobbing his head from side to side. “Yes, yes, I know. And that’s another reason this can’t work anymore.” He leans back with his glass, flapping a hand between himself and the younger man, who still stands a safe distance away. “You bring out the worst in me, Spencer, as a person and as an officer. You may press all the right buttons and I’m a complete fool for falling for it every time. But the man I’ve been over the last week is not me. It shouldn’t be me. I don’t have to prove myself to you, your girlfriend, or to anyone. I don’t want to act out of…jealousy, if that’s what that was. That’s why this has to end. Because I know I’ve become a better person and I don’t want to get dragged down to how I was before.” His voice becomes louder and louder as his train of thought develops, alcohol aiding those words in tumbling out his defensive rhetoric.
Shawn steps forward and sits at the other end of the couch. “Don’t you know me at all by now, Lassie? I mean, it’s been three years, how have you not got these kindergarten politics by now. I annoy you, you get all angry and try to annoy me. Then we come back here and apologize in the most important way. I’m not…here to degrade you.”
“Then why are you here now?” Carlton asks quietly, turning to face Shawn as well, noticing how he was mere inches away “It’s not as flattering as you think, you know, Spencer? You’ve abandoned your girlfriend, yes, but she’s asleep and she doesn’t know you’re here at one o’clock in the morning. And fair enough, we have a great time when you’re here and you stay the night; but in the morning it’s like the day’s reset and it’s never happened. You come into the station, make a mockery of me and my career, show me up…we’re in some god forsaken time loop, Spencer, and it has to stop.”
Lassiter tiredly rubs his face and leans his head back against the couch. “But this doesn’t mean anything to you. And I’m basically sleeping with the enemy for no reason other than getting my rocks off.”
Shawn is reminded of the last time he saw Lassiter drunk. Admittedly, the detective is not nearly as inebriated as that encounter three years ago - but his defences are still down, there is that same air of constant hopelessness he surrounds himself with magnified to an impressive scale and that negative rhetoric of his life not progressing anywhere. “Is satisfaction not enough? Lassie,” Shawn admonishes, sliding next to Carlton again, now centimetres away, a hint of desperation now lacing his tone. “We’re not enemies. We’re on the same side, we catch the bad guys! We’re a team. Your main problem is that you refuse to believe in my abilities.”
Lassiter chuckles. “And what’s your problem?”
Shawn reaches up and brushes some of the detective’s hair back from where it had fallen out of place. He smiles and picks up the glass from the limp hand and places it out of reach. “That I just can’t help myself around you, Lassie, you drive me crazy. Every time I’m near you I can’t help but react in some way. Whether it’s poking fun at you in the station or kissing your tonsils right here and now.” He leans closer, nuzzling the detective’s neck. “I can’t get enough of you. I love you.”
At that, Lassiter scoffs and pushes the psychic away. He can hear his grandmother shouting in the back of his head, drilling away seminary-style teachings. “That’s lust, Spencer, not love. You don’t love me. You can’t possibly love two people the same way.”
“They’re not mutually exclusive, Carlton,” Shawn says in earnest, desperately trying to find a way to convince the sceptical detective. “You may not have loved Lucinda as much as you loved your wife…ex-wife. But you loved, didn’t you? It didn’t stop you from acting on it. Two people who aren’t induced by alcohol or drugs or forced in anyway, but who keep coming back to each other like we do…must have some sort of feelings for each other.”
Lassiter obviously gave it some consideration. He thinks about whether Lucinda was love or lust. He attempts to decide the same about Shawn Spencer. He had been taught that lust was a sin yet right now, he was prepared to blur those lines again. And judging by Shawn’s expression, he could see his thoughts changing. Shawn crawls up onto Lassiter’s lap, sitting comfortably in the space he undoubtedly thinks was made for him.
“And O’Hara?” Lassiter suddenly asks. “Do you love her too?”
Shawn leans back and looks at Lassiter inquisitively. “Of course I do. You know I do. But with her, the tension is more obvious, especially when Abigail is involved. Jules holds a very special place in my heart. She’s…perfect.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Spencer.” Lassiter gets up, almost inconsiderately of Shawn’s position on his lap so that the psychic has to acrobatically fall sideways onto the sofa. The detective is once away turned away from him, one hand on his hip and the other running through his hair. The lack of respect the detective obviously holds by not even looking at him pains Shawn. The tension in the silence this time is almost palpable, Lassiter’s guilt blanketing them both.
“Does it feel less like cheating when you’re with me?” Lassiter finally explodes, turning around. Shawn can only frown in confusion. “Because with O’Hara, well, she’s another girl and it makes you feel guilty to cheat with another girl. And she’s pissed off enough at you as it is so you wouldn’t dare now. However, with me, another man, does it feel justified in your twisted mind to do what we do? And drag me down in this mess you’re creating for yourself? Reducing me to nothing more than a dirty little secret!”
Shawn jumps up off the sofa. “It’s not like that!” he cries. “Look, I can’t explain it, Lassie. I just gravitate towards some people. Jules is one. You’re one. I feel for you in different ways. It just builds up in me, I want to talk to you, to touch you and be with you. And I enjoy this, Lassie, I enjoy what we have here.”
Lassiter is quiet. He doesn’t agree but he can’t disagree either. And constantly in the forefront of this mind he wonders how a situation so simple as two men just having sex became blown into a complicated web of multilayered feelings. Maybe, he thinks to himself, he was better off just not knowing what Shawn thinks of this. And at the other end of his mind, Lassiter believes a parable could be made out of Shawn Spencer. Not the boy who cried wolf because the man was always had a good reason. But perhaps along the lines of a man who loved everyone and who everybody equally loved in return but was destined to spend his life unattached and alone due to his insatiable need to express it. And Carlton Lassiter had his fair share of lessons in learning that sometimes it was best to not express your affections. “I don’t think you were meant to be in a monogamous relationship, then, Spencer,” he says quietly, in an almost dangerous voice. “I accept what you’re saying but I don’t understand it.”
Shawn grasps Lassiter’s shoulders and pushes him back so he’s up against the wall again. He strokes down the side of his face, tracing it as if to memorize it. “It’s not meant to be understood, Carlton. Please just…stop thinking for once.” He kisses Lassiter gently, testing, before suddenly deepening the kiss. And once again, because sometimes Carlton Lassiter is just weak and sometimes he just wants to indulge himself he lets Shawn do it. With Spencer there, willing, it was difficult to deny. With enthusiasm pouring from every action, Lassiter could lose himself in the sensation that if only for a few hours, he is the only one Spencer is thinking about. If for a few hours he could save himself from his own dark thoughts and be embraced by this guilty pleasure. He can deal with the repercussions tomorrow. So He kisses back; one hand cupping the back of Shawn’s hand, sinking into the over conditioned hair and the other resting on his side, strength hidden behind another shirt. Once again, the contented sounds Shawn releases shoot down his spine and he pulls the psychic closer, comforted by the feeling of this body and erection against his.
Shawn always moved fast, spurred on by impatience and the insatiable desire to elevate to the next level of happiness constantly. His hand finds its way between their bodies, fumbling, groping and squeezing lightly, forcing their bodies closer together and their breaths to synchronize with each movement. And at that moment, though, the waves come tumbling down again and despite Shawn’s best efforts to keep the detective as grounded as possible to the current situation, he once again feels that bubbling panic rising. He felt himself being mentally and physically pushed away.
“I can’t, Spencer, I can’t, I CAN’T!” Lassiter suddenly shouts, the scream ripping away all barriers he had previously protected himself with. The ferocity and desperation laced in his shout shocked even Shawn who had never heard the detective sound so emotionally raw. He looked at Carlton Lassiter and could see the shaking of his clenched fists, the slight glassiness of his eyes which hinted that tears as well as alcohol were now dulling them. Whether he meant to or not, Lassiter always managed to wear his heart on his sleeve. He knew Lassiter was more vulnerable than he let on.
And maybe, Shawn realizes as he watches the detective move to the other side of the room again away from temptation, he hadn’t fully comprehended how many people would get hurt. That the power he had over people could, in fact, have grave consequences. That with his charisma and charm, people were drawn towards his personality but could not fathom the thought that his attention could not be solely theirs. Shawn was a free spirit; someone somewhere down the line got left behind.
And Lassiter realizes Shawn understands. Because instead of trying for the umpteenth time to fix any sign of negativity with a kiss he simply stands by the wall, a good six feet away from where Lassiter had stumbled almost blindly away, fallen to sit on his steps. He doesn’t fidget impatiently; he doesn’t make a joke; he does nothing but stand in silence, with his arms by his sides.
When Shawn does finally speak, his voice is raspy and tinted with low sadness. “I-I’m sorry,” he admits to the detective for the first time probably in all the years they’d known each other. And for once, Carlton thinks hysterically to himself, Shawn can be sincere. “I didn’t realize you’d feel this way. I didn’t…think.”
Carlton shrugs. “Neither did I,” he agrees, fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt. “Because it’s good, Spencer. And God, I don’t want to give this up because I care more than I…And it’s nice to have someone who…But I can’t.” He looks over at Shawn, the fight having finally exhausted him. “I’ve done many things I’m not proud of, Spencer. But I won’t be the one to destroy a relationship again. Especially someone else’s. I would rather be alone.”
Shawn makes a sound of derision. “That’s a lie. No one would ever rather be alone.”
Lassiter closes his eyes. “Stop making this so hard, Spencer. I don’t have any energy left…for anything.”
Shawn nods after a few seconds and walks towards the door, all his willpower being conjured to not detour to Carlton and kiss him senseless again. If anything to at least wipe the pained look off his face. The detective, now more rumpled than ever with his dishevelled hair and askew shirt, sits dejectedly on the stairs opposite his front door, with one leg on the step below him and the other resting on the floor. And he would sit there and just watch Shawn go. And Shawn didn’t want to imagine, glancing back over to the only half empty scotch bottle, where Carlton Lassiter would end his night once he left. At the bottom in more ways than one.
“So this is really over?” Shawn says in the most neutral voice he can muster. Lassiter looks at him and says nothing. “If it’s any consolation, Carlton, I wish this could be different. It’s not my ideal world either - I just make the most of what I have or what I can have. It’s a lifestyle choice.” He lifts his jeans back up more comfortably and straightens down his shirt and hair in the mirror by the door before reaching for its handle.
And all the time Lassiter just watches the movements. Even strong men have their moments of weakness. And although this is Carlton Lassiter’s moment of painful sacrifice, he would be a fool if he thought his past depicted him as the most upstanding member of the ethical society.
Every man was selfish. He was no martyr
“Shawn,” he says and the psychic turns around, his hand still resting on the door handle. “I won’t be the one to destroy your relationship. But come back to me when you’ve destroyed it yourself. Promise me that.”
The younger man only smiles slightly before disappearing.
Author: Vescaus
Pairing: Shawn/Lassiter
Summary: I've done many things I'm not proud of, Spencer. But I won't be the one to destroy a relationship again.
Spoilers: Slight tiny ones for Bollywood Homicide and High Top Fade Out. A ficlet based on why Lassiter and Juliet were acting pissier than normal.
Rating: NC-17
Unhealthy Habits
By Vescaus
Lassiter decides in the spur of the moment - as he goes up to answer the door - that something had to change. Whilst booty calls are a relatively new phenomena to him, he has been growing quite accustomed to these visits. He sits and he waits with visceral patience for the bell ringing. The predictability of it shames him every time; he could have gone out after all, had a few beers after work or completed some much needed paperwork; he shouldn’t have been present at home. However, subconsciously, every Tuesday, he ensures he is there, waiting.
After the events of today, it was obvious that this arrangement was ridiculous.
“Spencer,” he greets, looking at the psychic with a hint of disdain. There he is in front of his door again, decked in his jeans, lose shirt and slightly battered sneakers, leaning against the doorframe with a slight smile on his face. In his wildest dreams, sometimes he imagined that Spencer was smiling at him genuinely; however, whenever he looks at the man all he could see the smugness which implies Spencer knew he had been waiting there all along. Carlton hopes if he greets him with as little expression in his tone as he could help, the younger man would never be able to read anything from him except some disgust at this arrangement.
Not that immediate shot of lust.
“Lassie,” Shawn greets more pleasantly, storming his way into the detective’s apartment. He pays no attention to the fact that he hasn’t really been invited in. Lassiter shakes his head tiredly at the man’s blatant disregard for his privacy and obvious unwelcome presence. Then again, he thinks to himself, it would be better to do this inside rather than in the corridor where all the neighbours would overhear. Spencer was unlikely to give up without a fight. So whilst Shawn re-familiarizes himself with the apartment again, Lassiter quietly shuts the door and turns round to face him.
In an almost cat-like manner, Shawn pounces on him a second later, before he can even begin his improvised speech. Lassiter feels the air be practically squashed out of his lungs as his back is slammed painfully into the door. Shawn’s mouth descends on his kissing him softly at first but then growing quickly in its intensity when their mouths open to greet desperate tongues. There is a rustling of clothing and Lassiter can feel Shawn’s explorative hands pawing up his sides to rest on his shoulders and then slink up into his hair as though he couldn’t get enough from just touching him in one place. It was instinctual, really; Lassiter’s own hands wind around the younger man’s waist, drawing him closer and resting on the enticing curve at the small of his back. He knows he has a weakness - the enticing feel of Shawn against him with his enthusiastic actions and high pitched keening moans will forever make him lose grip on reality temporarily.
“Fuck, you taste so good,” Shawn whispers against his lips, his hands sliding down the side of his face onto his neck.
He takes in a deep breath as Shawn’s talented lips and tongue trail across his jaw and his hips give an involuntary jerk. And at that moment, Lassiter remembers precisely what he had meant to say. For a moment, he considers balking, the sensation is far too good to contemplate giving up - Spencer is far too good - but he would be a hypocrite if he didn’t.
So he pulls away, cutting Shawn off from his delightful ministration, and holds him at arms length. “You already smell of sex,” he whispers breathlessly. He think can’t help the bitterness creeping into his tone. “Is she not good enough for you that you have to come here?”
There is no punch. Not even a punching retort. The kiss swollen lips and dark look in his eyes only make Shawn look more dangerous and far more enigmatic to Carlton than they should. He watches with slight trepidation as the psychic smirks. “And you stink of alcohol. Feeling dirty, Lassie?”
Lassiter pulls out of Shawn’s personal space, feeling the slight burn of where the younger man’s fingers had been resting against his neck. He stands by the couch for a few seconds desperately attempting to get his humming body under control, suddenly thinking that the scotch wasn’t a good idea. He could never restrain himself when his inhibitions were dulled from alcohol. “No. But you should be,” he finally growls out.
“You’re not playing? This isn’t a sex game where you tell me I’ve been bad and then strap me to the bed to do me over. Shame, I always expected you would be kinky dog when a little buzzed, Lassie.” When Lassiter didn’t argue straight away, he smirks even more and walks up to him in a swagger that just oozes appeal. His fingers creep daintily up Lassiter’s half undone shirt to the collar. “Unless you think you’re the one who’s being bad?”
Lassiter grabs Shawn’s wrist and pulls them away from his shirt collar to rest at their sides. “How can you come back here every time, Spencer? You have a girl in your life - which from everyone’s reactions, including yours, seems to be quite an impressive feat. She’s smart, she’s beautiful, and she seems to be able to put up with most of your crap…so why are you here?”
Shawn visibly hesitates. The lack of quick witty retort assures Lassiter that he has at least knocked him slightly sideways. “I thought we weren’t going to discuss this,” he responds in a way which attempts to be light hearted but a hint of trepidation underlies his tone.
“Well, we absolutely cannot discuss it at the station or anywhere else you decide to crop up in public. So that leaves here and now. And I’m taking a stand and saying we can’t do this anymore. It’s…unhealthy.”
Shawn chuckles, a small rivulet of sound which Lassiter normally finds annoying anywhere outside of the bedroom. “Unhealthy things are always the ones that are so good, though. Pizza, chocolate, alcohol. Pineapples on sticks with pieces of cheddar as well. In your case the odd Lucky Strike?” He nuzzles Lassiter’s cheek, kissing around his ear, the heat from Shawn’s mouth making the detective shiver visibly. “You can’t tell me that this isn’t amazing...like a bad habit.”
Shawn’s tongue, combined with the low timbre of his voice elicits a low moan from Lassiter, who instinctively turns his head into the sensation. “Unhealthy things aren’t good for you. You are definitely not good for me, Spencer.”
He pulls away again and reaches for the scotch he had started before the psychic had arrived. Somehow, it had calmed his nerves thus far but he knew he would need regular refuelling if Shawn was going to continue standing there, looking slightly debauched and with a glint in his eye that hinted that he was ready to fight this out. He always assumes it was Spencer’s stubbornness and refusal to give up which made him indescribably annoying and yet attractive at the same time. The next thing he heard, though, was Spencer release a frustrated sigh and flops onto his couch. Lassiter knew it wasn’t fair - after all, coming here and getting riled up only to be informed that your lover was currently being stabbed by the morality knife had never been an issue for either of them until tonight.
“Urgh, what is your problem, Lassie? You’re acting like an overcooked marshmallow at a girl scout’s sleepover.”
“I’m the one with the problem? What do you think, Spencer? Or do you just not think at all?”
“I’m more of a ‘go with the flow,’ kind of guy.”
Lassiter sighs and leans his head back against the wall in despair staring straight ahead blandly, the alcohol still clouding his numb mind. He isn’t in the mood for a verbal lashing with the ferocity he normally exhibited. When he got up to answer to the door and tell Spencer this was over, he did it with determination. Now, he just wants peace. “It’s one thing you talking about Abigail and not ever seeing her. She’s just this phantom girlfriend of yours and I never had to care about whenever you turned up here because I couldn’t picture her. I could never imagine what she’d look like if she ever found out…” He turns to face Shawn with an almost hurt expression on his face. “But then you brought her to the station yesterday. And I didn’t even care that you were fucking mocking me with her, playing your stupid games and bringing me down so you could show yourself off…because I just felt guilty about what I’d done to her. And she doesn’t even know.” He pushes himself away from the wall, stumbling once again to his scotch glass, Abigail’s sweet innocent sweet face haunting him even whilst he was awake. He closes his eyes, attempting the blot out the image of what she would look like if she ever discovered them.
“She doesn’t deserve this. And you don’t deserve her.”
If Carlton hadn’t turned his back to make himself another drink, he would undoubtedly have revelled in Shawn’s speechless face. For a few blissful moments there is silence and Lassiter almost wishes that Spencer would just walk out of the door without argument. Looking at Spencer now kicks him in his hollow chest every time. It would save him from further rolling around in the misery of his mistakes.
But Shawn didn’t go. Instead, he says, “I didn’t realize you felt so strongly about this.” Lassiter shrugs apathetically. “I mean this coming from you, detective Lassiter, who spent his time having an affair with another woman whilst only separated from his wife.”
Lassiter whips his head round to give Shawn his iciest stare; that familiar sensation of frustration and anger coming to the boil through his veins, ready to lash out at Shawn only took milliseconds to appear. However, with the disdain and scorn in the other man’s voice so uncharacteristic of the young psychic, Lassiter can feel that anger shoot up on an exponential scale. It is only Shawn’s immediately contrite expression - the realization that he’d spoken without thinking - did Lassiter decide not to get up and punch the man in the face and yell, ‘how dare you?’ Instead, he downs his scotch in one last mouthful and places it loudly back on his glass table, an act of restraint he had perfected so well over the past few years.
“Spencer, do you know how I knew my marriage was technically over?” For once, Shawn has the decency not to make a comment of wit. “It wasn’t when she served me the divorce papers last year. It was when I told her about Lucinda…and she just didn’t care. It didn’t affect her.” He smiles mirthlessly at the memory - when, upon Lucinda’s departure he had gone to Victoria’s house and admitted on her doorstep his shameful act; to not be slapped or screamed at in the street as he deserved. But to have her smile sadly and explain that she expected it.
Lassiter looks up at Shawn, who has still not said a word. “I got off lightly on that front; but we were already beyond repair, it didn’t matter. Do you think Abigail will be so kind and forgiving to you?”
Shawn shifts slightly, the tell-tale sign that he knew his lover was correct. “You haven’t been much better,” he retorts, like a petulant child. “I may,” he concedes delicately, “have brought Abigail in and showed off in front of her that I could potentially do your job equally if not better than you.” Lassiter narrows his eyes at him. “But you took that bait and did the same back to me. You tried to humiliate me in front of my own girlfriend and turn it into a competition. And you enjoyed it. That’s pretty low. I understand our agreement of keeping up appearances but…you were just mean.”
The detective nods after pursing his lips and bobbing his head from side to side. “Yes, yes, I know. And that’s another reason this can’t work anymore.” He leans back with his glass, flapping a hand between himself and the younger man, who still stands a safe distance away. “You bring out the worst in me, Spencer, as a person and as an officer. You may press all the right buttons and I’m a complete fool for falling for it every time. But the man I’ve been over the last week is not me. It shouldn’t be me. I don’t have to prove myself to you, your girlfriend, or to anyone. I don’t want to act out of…jealousy, if that’s what that was. That’s why this has to end. Because I know I’ve become a better person and I don’t want to get dragged down to how I was before.” His voice becomes louder and louder as his train of thought develops, alcohol aiding those words in tumbling out his defensive rhetoric.
Shawn steps forward and sits at the other end of the couch. “Don’t you know me at all by now, Lassie? I mean, it’s been three years, how have you not got these kindergarten politics by now. I annoy you, you get all angry and try to annoy me. Then we come back here and apologize in the most important way. I’m not…here to degrade you.”
“Then why are you here now?” Carlton asks quietly, turning to face Shawn as well, noticing how he was mere inches away “It’s not as flattering as you think, you know, Spencer? You’ve abandoned your girlfriend, yes, but she’s asleep and she doesn’t know you’re here at one o’clock in the morning. And fair enough, we have a great time when you’re here and you stay the night; but in the morning it’s like the day’s reset and it’s never happened. You come into the station, make a mockery of me and my career, show me up…we’re in some god forsaken time loop, Spencer, and it has to stop.”
Lassiter tiredly rubs his face and leans his head back against the couch. “But this doesn’t mean anything to you. And I’m basically sleeping with the enemy for no reason other than getting my rocks off.”
Shawn is reminded of the last time he saw Lassiter drunk. Admittedly, the detective is not nearly as inebriated as that encounter three years ago - but his defences are still down, there is that same air of constant hopelessness he surrounds himself with magnified to an impressive scale and that negative rhetoric of his life not progressing anywhere. “Is satisfaction not enough? Lassie,” Shawn admonishes, sliding next to Carlton again, now centimetres away, a hint of desperation now lacing his tone. “We’re not enemies. We’re on the same side, we catch the bad guys! We’re a team. Your main problem is that you refuse to believe in my abilities.”
Lassiter chuckles. “And what’s your problem?”
Shawn reaches up and brushes some of the detective’s hair back from where it had fallen out of place. He smiles and picks up the glass from the limp hand and places it out of reach. “That I just can’t help myself around you, Lassie, you drive me crazy. Every time I’m near you I can’t help but react in some way. Whether it’s poking fun at you in the station or kissing your tonsils right here and now.” He leans closer, nuzzling the detective’s neck. “I can’t get enough of you. I love you.”
At that, Lassiter scoffs and pushes the psychic away. He can hear his grandmother shouting in the back of his head, drilling away seminary-style teachings. “That’s lust, Spencer, not love. You don’t love me. You can’t possibly love two people the same way.”
“They’re not mutually exclusive, Carlton,” Shawn says in earnest, desperately trying to find a way to convince the sceptical detective. “You may not have loved Lucinda as much as you loved your wife…ex-wife. But you loved, didn’t you? It didn’t stop you from acting on it. Two people who aren’t induced by alcohol or drugs or forced in anyway, but who keep coming back to each other like we do…must have some sort of feelings for each other.”
Lassiter obviously gave it some consideration. He thinks about whether Lucinda was love or lust. He attempts to decide the same about Shawn Spencer. He had been taught that lust was a sin yet right now, he was prepared to blur those lines again. And judging by Shawn’s expression, he could see his thoughts changing. Shawn crawls up onto Lassiter’s lap, sitting comfortably in the space he undoubtedly thinks was made for him.
“And O’Hara?” Lassiter suddenly asks. “Do you love her too?”
Shawn leans back and looks at Lassiter inquisitively. “Of course I do. You know I do. But with her, the tension is more obvious, especially when Abigail is involved. Jules holds a very special place in my heart. She’s…perfect.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Spencer.” Lassiter gets up, almost inconsiderately of Shawn’s position on his lap so that the psychic has to acrobatically fall sideways onto the sofa. The detective is once away turned away from him, one hand on his hip and the other running through his hair. The lack of respect the detective obviously holds by not even looking at him pains Shawn. The tension in the silence this time is almost palpable, Lassiter’s guilt blanketing them both.
“Does it feel less like cheating when you’re with me?” Lassiter finally explodes, turning around. Shawn can only frown in confusion. “Because with O’Hara, well, she’s another girl and it makes you feel guilty to cheat with another girl. And she’s pissed off enough at you as it is so you wouldn’t dare now. However, with me, another man, does it feel justified in your twisted mind to do what we do? And drag me down in this mess you’re creating for yourself? Reducing me to nothing more than a dirty little secret!”
Shawn jumps up off the sofa. “It’s not like that!” he cries. “Look, I can’t explain it, Lassie. I just gravitate towards some people. Jules is one. You’re one. I feel for you in different ways. It just builds up in me, I want to talk to you, to touch you and be with you. And I enjoy this, Lassie, I enjoy what we have here.”
Lassiter is quiet. He doesn’t agree but he can’t disagree either. And constantly in the forefront of this mind he wonders how a situation so simple as two men just having sex became blown into a complicated web of multilayered feelings. Maybe, he thinks to himself, he was better off just not knowing what Shawn thinks of this. And at the other end of his mind, Lassiter believes a parable could be made out of Shawn Spencer. Not the boy who cried wolf because the man was always had a good reason. But perhaps along the lines of a man who loved everyone and who everybody equally loved in return but was destined to spend his life unattached and alone due to his insatiable need to express it. And Carlton Lassiter had his fair share of lessons in learning that sometimes it was best to not express your affections. “I don’t think you were meant to be in a monogamous relationship, then, Spencer,” he says quietly, in an almost dangerous voice. “I accept what you’re saying but I don’t understand it.”
Shawn grasps Lassiter’s shoulders and pushes him back so he’s up against the wall again. He strokes down the side of his face, tracing it as if to memorize it. “It’s not meant to be understood, Carlton. Please just…stop thinking for once.” He kisses Lassiter gently, testing, before suddenly deepening the kiss. And once again, because sometimes Carlton Lassiter is just weak and sometimes he just wants to indulge himself he lets Shawn do it. With Spencer there, willing, it was difficult to deny. With enthusiasm pouring from every action, Lassiter could lose himself in the sensation that if only for a few hours, he is the only one Spencer is thinking about. If for a few hours he could save himself from his own dark thoughts and be embraced by this guilty pleasure. He can deal with the repercussions tomorrow. So He kisses back; one hand cupping the back of Shawn’s hand, sinking into the over conditioned hair and the other resting on his side, strength hidden behind another shirt. Once again, the contented sounds Shawn releases shoot down his spine and he pulls the psychic closer, comforted by the feeling of this body and erection against his.
Shawn always moved fast, spurred on by impatience and the insatiable desire to elevate to the next level of happiness constantly. His hand finds its way between their bodies, fumbling, groping and squeezing lightly, forcing their bodies closer together and their breaths to synchronize with each movement. And at that moment, though, the waves come tumbling down again and despite Shawn’s best efforts to keep the detective as grounded as possible to the current situation, he once again feels that bubbling panic rising. He felt himself being mentally and physically pushed away.
“I can’t, Spencer, I can’t, I CAN’T!” Lassiter suddenly shouts, the scream ripping away all barriers he had previously protected himself with. The ferocity and desperation laced in his shout shocked even Shawn who had never heard the detective sound so emotionally raw. He looked at Carlton Lassiter and could see the shaking of his clenched fists, the slight glassiness of his eyes which hinted that tears as well as alcohol were now dulling them. Whether he meant to or not, Lassiter always managed to wear his heart on his sleeve. He knew Lassiter was more vulnerable than he let on.
And maybe, Shawn realizes as he watches the detective move to the other side of the room again away from temptation, he hadn’t fully comprehended how many people would get hurt. That the power he had over people could, in fact, have grave consequences. That with his charisma and charm, people were drawn towards his personality but could not fathom the thought that his attention could not be solely theirs. Shawn was a free spirit; someone somewhere down the line got left behind.
And Lassiter realizes Shawn understands. Because instead of trying for the umpteenth time to fix any sign of negativity with a kiss he simply stands by the wall, a good six feet away from where Lassiter had stumbled almost blindly away, fallen to sit on his steps. He doesn’t fidget impatiently; he doesn’t make a joke; he does nothing but stand in silence, with his arms by his sides.
When Shawn does finally speak, his voice is raspy and tinted with low sadness. “I-I’m sorry,” he admits to the detective for the first time probably in all the years they’d known each other. And for once, Carlton thinks hysterically to himself, Shawn can be sincere. “I didn’t realize you’d feel this way. I didn’t…think.”
Carlton shrugs. “Neither did I,” he agrees, fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt. “Because it’s good, Spencer. And God, I don’t want to give this up because I care more than I…And it’s nice to have someone who…But I can’t.” He looks over at Shawn, the fight having finally exhausted him. “I’ve done many things I’m not proud of, Spencer. But I won’t be the one to destroy a relationship again. Especially someone else’s. I would rather be alone.”
Shawn makes a sound of derision. “That’s a lie. No one would ever rather be alone.”
Lassiter closes his eyes. “Stop making this so hard, Spencer. I don’t have any energy left…for anything.”
Shawn nods after a few seconds and walks towards the door, all his willpower being conjured to not detour to Carlton and kiss him senseless again. If anything to at least wipe the pained look off his face. The detective, now more rumpled than ever with his dishevelled hair and askew shirt, sits dejectedly on the stairs opposite his front door, with one leg on the step below him and the other resting on the floor. And he would sit there and just watch Shawn go. And Shawn didn’t want to imagine, glancing back over to the only half empty scotch bottle, where Carlton Lassiter would end his night once he left. At the bottom in more ways than one.
“So this is really over?” Shawn says in the most neutral voice he can muster. Lassiter looks at him and says nothing. “If it’s any consolation, Carlton, I wish this could be different. It’s not my ideal world either - I just make the most of what I have or what I can have. It’s a lifestyle choice.” He lifts his jeans back up more comfortably and straightens down his shirt and hair in the mirror by the door before reaching for its handle.
And all the time Lassiter just watches the movements. Even strong men have their moments of weakness. And although this is Carlton Lassiter’s moment of painful sacrifice, he would be a fool if he thought his past depicted him as the most upstanding member of the ethical society.
Every man was selfish. He was no martyr
“Shawn,” he says and the psychic turns around, his hand still resting on the door handle. “I won’t be the one to destroy your relationship. But come back to me when you’ve destroyed it yourself. Promise me that.”
The younger man only smiles slightly before disappearing.