unadrift: (psych)
[personal profile] unadrift
Part One here

Part Two

This hadn't been one of his better ideas, Shawn had to admit.

Lassiter was slowly and methodically pulling the bed along by the frame in an attempt to get at Shawn, and his glare was worth at least a hundred dollars right now. It was crazy weird and very impressive at the same time. Shawn was still safely on the other side of the room, but Lassiter was making progress.

"I'm going to kill you, Spencer," Lassiter growled and tugged viciously again. The bed made a screeching noise as it followed him another half-inch, throwing up the rug in folds under one of its legs as it went.

Shawn had never been more inclined to take Lassiter at his word. Lassiter was usually all bark and no bite where Shawn was concerned. Theoretically he was intimidating, but in reality he was far too cute to be feared. Like a Saint Bernard dog, but to the extreme. Only not so much when he said things like, "As soon as I get my hands on you, I'm going to strangle you," like he really, really meant it.

"Lassie, it's not that bad. I'll go pick up the key in the morning, and boom, you'll be free again, just like that," he offered. "No big deal. You can forget this tiny little mishap ever happened, and no one is ever going to know except me, and who am I gonna tell?"

Lassiter stopped and pointed a finger at him, murder in his eyes. "If you so much as breathe a word about this to anyone--"

"Lassie, chill. I get it. Not a word. Cross my heart. You think I want word to get out about this? I have a reputation to lose."

"Yeah right," Lassiter said and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He kept the glare up for another moment, then shook his head. "Whenever I think you can't get anymore--" His voice trailed off. "You get worse."

"I'm taking that as a compliment."

"I thought you would." Lassiter looked only a little defeated as he sat down on the edge of the bed. Even 'a little defeated' looked completely wrong on him.

"Hey, at least I don't have to call Gus again. That's an upside right there," Shawn offered, cautiously approaching.

Lassiter pulled at the cuffs once again, trying a different angle, like it would do any good. "Is that what you did last time?"

"He's good with locks and fiddly things," Shawn said. "But he gets ridiculously nervous around the scarcely clad body of his very best friend. I have no idea why. Maybe it's a trauma induced by overexposure to Baywatch? He had a worrying dedication to the show, back in the day."

Lassiter made a quiet sound that was a cross between reluctant interest and horror. "I'm sure I don't want to hear that story in detail."

Shawn was pretty sure about that as well.

Lassiter started examining the chain links between the cuffs. "Spencer, get me your metal saw," he demanded.

"My what? Oh, sure. I'll just go fetch my well-stocked toolbox," Shawn said and flopped down beside Lassiter on the edge of the bed. "Because I just live in the kind of anally organized household that would have such a thing. I think you're confusing me with my dad here."

"Spencer," Lassiter said warningly. "Either help, or shut the hell up."

That was number four. Five 'shut up's were almost in reach. "There's a piece of wire in the night stand," he said helpfully.

"What?" Lassiter turned to look at him, half irritated, half confused.

Shawn pointed. "The night stand. Steel wire. Good for picking locks, or so Gus keeps saying. I've been practicing."

"Have you?" Lassiter pointedly rattled the cuffs and raised his eyebrows.

"Let's just say that it's an art form I haven't quite mastered yet," Shawn said, only a little defensively.

"But I've seen you free yourself from--"

"I cheated," Shawn admitted. It was either that, or spend a really long time arguing with Lassiter over why he refused to lock-pick Lassiter out of this situation. "Feel free to give it a try. It's not as easy as it looks. Not even for me, and you know that's saying something."

Lassiter sent him a sideways look, then reached to open the drawer of the night stand. After some rummaging around and a bit of serious blushing, Lassiter found what he was looking for and quickly slammed the drawer shut again. Right. Maybe Shawn should have just gotten that wire from the drawer himself-- Nah. Watching Lassiter find the lube had been fun enough to outweigh the don't-let-Lassie-find-out-too-much-about-me angle of the whole thing.

It only took a few minutes for Lassiter's arms to get tired and for Lassiter himself to get increasingly irritated. Shawn spent the whole time observing the unsuccessful attempts closely over Lassiter's shoulder.

"Goddamn it. You stupid fucking miserable piece of--" Lassiter muttered at one point.

Shawn knew things were getting bad when Lassiter started with the colorful swearing. "You do realize those things are designed to keep bad guys from doing exactly what you are doing? It's no surprise that even you with your desperate manly determination can't--"

"Spencer!" Lassiter yelled, getting right up in his face.

Shawn leaned back reflexively. "I'm just saying, Lassie." He raised his hands in the international gesture for 'don't kill the messenger'. "Look. You're beat, I can see that, with your drooping shoulders, and your unhappy hair, and those little bags under your--" He realized he wasn't exactly helping his case and rerouted. "I'll get you the key, but I probably shouldn't be driving for another couple of hours. Just-- go ahead, make yourself comfortable."

Shawn wouldn't have expected those words to ever be able to make him uncomfortable. Maybe this had something to do with the fact that he hadn't been planning on forming the sentence the way it had come out. He hadn't been planning on forming that kind of sentence, period.

"On your bed?" Lassiter asked, powers of deduction sharp as ever. He sounded suspicious, like Shawn was likely to have an ulterior motive for this, which, yes, was usually the case whenever Shawn pulled off something outrageous and crazy. But not this time. Shawn wished he had an ulterior motive, because if he could identify his motive as an ulterior motive then he'd at least have a vague idea what exactly the motive was. He was drawing a blank right now.

"It doesn't look like you're going anywhere anytime soon," Shawn pointed out. "You might as well make the most of it, do things that usually aren't on your detectively agenda, like, say, relaxing for once. Lay back, put your feet up, get some rest, that sort of thing."

"I know how to relax," Lassiter said indignantly. He tried to gesture without factoring in the limited mobility of his left arm. The cuffs jingled in protest, and he made a face. "Why does everyone always think that I don't know how to enjoy myself? I have hobbies."

"Collecting ties is not a hobby. Neither is sorting ammunition. Or polishing your gun." Shawn tilted his head. "Although, in a euphemistic kind of way, that almost counts."

They both took a moment to mull that over.

"At least I don't cuff unsuspecting people to beds in my spare time," Lassiter said crossly.

"You should try it sometime. You're missing out on all the fun."

"I just might, Spencer," Lassiter said, eyeing Shawn in a way that was both measuring and dangerous. "I just might."

That look made Shawn feel cold all-over, then hot even all-overer, with an abruptness that was startling enough to have jump from the bed.

Lassiter averted his eyes again, staring at the cuff on his wrist instead.

Shawn watched color rise in Lassiter's cheeks again, fascinated. "What is this?" he asked, gesturing between them. "I don't know what this is." He was certain there was a 'this' to discuss. There had been a whole lot of a 'this' going on before, when he'd had one hand on Lassiter's tie. And no, he was not going to think about euphemisms right now.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Lassiter said and met Shawn's eyes squarely.

There was a moment of silence.

"I think I'll take you up on that offer now," Lassiter said, which confused the hell out of Shawn. Then Lassiter swung his legs up on the bed and shifted to get comfortable, his left arm bent awkwardly over his head.

"Oh, you mean sleep," Shawn said. Then he berated his subconscious inwardly, because, hey, what did it think they had been offering here?

"Of course sleep, Spencer. Now disappear, so I can get some," Lassiter said, then added hastily, "Sleep. So I can get some sleep."

Suddenly double meanings were everywhere. Shawn was intrigued by the way they suddenly popped up.

Lassiter shifted again and punched the pillow into a shape to his liking. "Wake me when you're sane. No, wait, like that's ever going to happen. Wake me when you're sober." He winced, spared the cuff around his hand and then Shawn another glare, and closed his eyes.

Those same eyes opened again very quickly when Shawn set a knee on the bed and started crawling his way across to Lassiter, waving a peace offering. It wasn't a white flag, but it was close. It was a soft blue washcloth of unknown origin that Shawn had been keeping in a drawer for ages, for equally unclear reasons.

"Spencer, what are you doing?" Lassiter sounded alarmed.

"Clearly I'm attacking you with this dangerous and deadly weapon," Shawn deadpanned, rolling his eyes. He half stretched out next to Lassiter, then leaned over him to reach the cuffed hand. "I'm just trying to make you more comfortable," he told the bed frame above Lassiter's head. "Would it kill you to show a little appreciation?" Lassiter's breath against Shawn's chest was warm and distracting, in a very-- distracting way.

"I'm not really in an appreciative mood right now," Lassiter snapped into Shawn's shirt. His breathing was fast and shallow. "Seeing how I've been cuffed to a bed against my will. That is not my idea of a fun time. It's the exact opposite to my idea of a fun time."

"I'm never going to hear the end of this, am I." Shawn carefully wound the dry cloth around Lassiter's wrist under the cuff and pulled at it until all the folds were straightened out and Lassie's wrist was nicely cushioned. Shawn's right arm kept brushing Lassie's left, goosebumps traveling all the way up to his shoulder. The knuckles of his left hand kept nudging Lassie's palm in a way that made Lassie's fingers twitch. It was action and equal and opposite reaction in spades; Newton would have been proud. "There," Shawn finally said. He let the cuff, and Lassie's hand, go. "Isn't that much better? Am I a genius or what?"

He slid down the bed a little, satisfied with his work, and turned his head to grin smugly at Lassiter.

It shouldn't have taken him by surprise how close Lassie's face was. Shawn was practically lying half on top of him, and at the upper end of a human body there was usually a head attached, which had generally, front and center, a face to show for itself. Still, it was almost a shock to find him this close. Like, really close. How had they gotten this close again?

"Spencer," Lassiter said. "What are you waiting for?"

Shawn wanted to ask Lassie to call him by his first name. But since turnabout was fair play, he'd probably have to call Lassie the c-word in return, and that was a no-can-do.

He thought about machetes and divorce papers.

"Did you know that life's too short?" he asked.

Lassiter blinked. Shawn could see it in detail, up close like that, with their noses almost touching. Lassiter cleared his throat. "That's just one of those things people say. It's a broad generalization. Life can stretch extremely long under the wrong circumstances."

For Lassiter, the glass was always half-empty.

For Shawn, just one glass had never been enough.

"You know, Lassie," he said conversationally. "We could kiss now. I mean, we're already in the perfect position; it's only practical. And thinking back now, things have kind of been leading up to this point the whole night. Maybe even since the day we met, and isn't that a slightly disturbing, yet very interesting thought."

He put a hand on Lassie's shoulder, on the place where it met Lassie's neck, where the collar of the shirt ended and skin began. The rational part of Shawn's brain kept insisting that this was probably not such a great idea. Shawn had never listened to that part of his brain before, and he had no intention of ever starting to do so. Rational Brain should have realized that by now and spared itself the effort.

"This is insane," Lassiter said and licked his lips. This was A Sign, Shawn was sure of it. He also noticed, a little belatedly, that Lassiter hadn't tried to back away. Not with any serious determination.

"I don't know about you, but I'm all for insane." Shawn leaned in. Rational Brain tried to explain to him one last time, in small words, what a colossally stupid idea this was. It was a futile attempt. Their lips had touched. It was too late. Shawn and Lassie were on the runway, speeding towards either a concrete wall or a spectacular take-off.

It turned out to be neither, at first. Lassiter moved back a little, without having done so much as move his lips against Shawn's. "You did not just do that," he said, with his eyes squeezed shut. "Why did you do that?"

"Huh," Shawn said, reflecting on the tingling in his lips and his racing pulse. "That was nice. I think I want to do it again."

Lassiter's eyes opened. "This is a bad idea," he said, sounding a little panicked. "A really, really bad idea."

"You think that going on the roller coaster is a bad idea. You think that having three scoops of cookie dough triple chocolate ice cream at once is a bad idea. No offense, Lassie, but when it comes to the fun things in life, your opinion is not to be trusted."

"Once again, Spencer: I do know how to have fun," Lassiter said indignantly.

"Yeah, whatever," Shawn said and kissed him again.

Lassiter didn't protest. It was worse. He went and proved Shawn wrong. Shawn, as a rule, did not like being proved wrong. He generously made an exception in this case, because Lassiter reciprocated like it was the last thing he'd ever get to do.

They made out on the bed, kissing with lots of tongue and tousling of hair and pornographic noises and everything, and it was fun. It was slow and easy and fantastic, even with Lassie restricted to using only one hand to explore the skin under Shawn's shirt.

People needed oxygen once in a while, even psychics, so Shawn rolled onto his back at one point, breathing deeply, in and out. He felt stunned, and weirdly accomplished, and exhausted. "Huh," he said. "I usually see these things coming."

"Don't even start," Lassiter said warningly, but his voice seemed to come from far away.

In the space of Shawn's next blink, three hours passed.

He woke with his nose in Lassie's shirt, almost nudging his shoulder. They really should stop falling asleep on one another before it became a habit-- Okay, scratch that. They should start taking the expression literally. As soon as possible.

Lassiter-- No, Carlton-- No.

Shawn sighed. This first-name thing didn't even work in his head.

Harry was asleep, face tucked against his awkwardly bent left arm.

That didn't sound right either.

Lassie grunted in his sleep, something that sounded suspiciously like, "Freeze!" Of course Lassie would go hunting bad guys even in dreamland, where crime was theoretical and only as difficult to solve as your powers of imagination were vivid. It couldn't be much of a challenge for Lassiter, then.

Shawn climbed from the bed as silently as he could, plucked a random pair of shoes from the clothes rack, collected the keys from the fridge and went out.


When Carlton woke up, both his hands were free. The cuffs were lying on the night stand. Spencer was talking on the phone in the next room, not exactly a model of consideration. Carlton, who could technically still be fast asleep, understood almost every word.

Almost. He rose soundlessly and snuck closer to the door.

"--Gus, no," Spencer hissed into the phone. "Under no circumstances are you to lay a hand on Lucille!-- What?-- Oh, please. Everyone names their bowling balls-- Yes, they do!-- Gus-- You're not going to-- No-- You-- Gus-- Gus! It's my office as well. I can put on my desk whatever I-- What? Yes, I know." There was a pause. "Three days, maybe four? Come on, it can't be that bad. The way I see it you got two choices: You can dial down your super smeller-- What do I know? Just picture a lever or something, that always worked for the Sentinel. Or you pack up your laptop and find somewhere else to do that boring stuff you think is so important-- I feel sad for you, Gus. Money is extremely overrated-- No-- Gus! You touch Lucille only on pain of--" He fell silent, then muttered, "No respect for other people's property," and put the phone back in his jeans pocket.

"And that includes four-day-old egg-salad sandwiches?" Carlton asked without thinking. If he had thought about it, he would have kept his mouth shut and high-tailed it out of there through the bedroom window. Shawn turned around, and yes, okay, that was the guy who'd kissed the living daylights out of him just a few hours ago. Shawn Spencer, self-proclaimed psychic and pain in Carlton's ass-- Carlton might have to think of a new personal honorific title for Shawn, because the old one now led to distracting images appearing before his inside eye.

"Of course," Shawn said without missing a beat. "R. E. S. P. E. C. T. all the way. Gus lectures me on this twice a week, like clockwork. It's only fair he should reciprocate."

Shawn looked at him, and there it was, the awkward moment Carlton had been expecting since he woke up. They were going to stare at each other, and neither of them was going to say anything, and the silence was going to be extremely uncomfortable, and it was going to go on forev--

"I had to take your car back here," Shawn said and walked past Carlton into the kitchen. "I ran out of gas in your driveway. It was very convenient, almost like fate. Your car was right there."

"My car?" Carlton repeated and followed him. "You better be kidding--"

"Chill, Lassie. Your car is fine. I treated it with R.E.S.P.E.C.T., just like a law enforcement vehicle deserves. Gus would have been proud," Shawn said. He waved a paper bag at Carlton and added, "And I brought you breakfast."

Carlton processed this. "You what? Tell me you didn't eat in my car."

"Uh, I didn't? Donuts don't count. They're not part of any food group, so they don't count." Shawn produced a plate from a cupboard and started pulling donuts from the bag and arranging them.

"So god help me, if I find chocolate on the upholstery--"

"You want coffee?" Shawn interrupted him, ignoring the warning tone. It was one of Shawn's most annoying qualities that he was never intimidated by anything Carlton said or did. No matter how menacing Carlton tried to be, or with how much conviction he uttered a threat, Shawn was never impressed.

"Spencer, you--" Carlton said, then reconsidered. "I'm leaving."

That got Shawn's attention. He turned and faced Carlton, his expression an unreadable mask of innocence. "Why?"

"What do you mean, why? It's morning. My car is here in the driveway. I'm leaving."

Shawn leaned back against the kitchen counter, eyes intent on Carlton's. "I mean, why do you want to leave when I could decide any moment that I want to kiss you again? I could have my mouth on yours in, like, four seconds flat. I'm pretty sure I'd even grab your ass this time. I really want to, and maybe run my hands over your chest--"

Carlton swallowed. "No," he said. "We're not doing this. I'm not doing this. This is a stupid idea, and it's insane, and-- and stupid. And I don't really want this, anyway. I mean, why would I? You're all-- and I'm not-- I really don't see why I should even lose any sleep over this."

Shawn pushed off the counter. "I could be licking your neck," he continued in a low voice and took one step in Carlton's direction. "I could be biting down gently on your earlobe. I could be running my hands through your hair-- Ooh, that reminds me." He veered off course, making a beeline for the fridge.

It left Carlton standing with sweaty palms and with his heart thumping a little faster than absolutely necessary. It left him confused. It left him curious. Curiosity won over the need to get out of there, and it won hands down. He went to peek over Shawn's shoulder at whatever it was he was doing.

Shawn was writing something on a piece of paper pinned to the fridge by an evil-looking cartoon magnet with black space for a face. He leaned closer. It was a list, with Pineapples at the top. Shawn was currently squeezing in a few words between The Uncertainty Principle, and Boxers that say 'Eat my shorts'. Carlton watched as the pen formed the words Lassie's bed head.

"This holds some strange significance, doesn't it?" Carlton said into Shawn's ear. He realized too late just how close he had moved in. There was a sharp intake of breath, maybe Shawn's, maybe his own, he wasn't sure. Shawn leaned back a little, and they were front to back, suddenly touching in a lot of places. Carlton's lips were almost brushing Shawn's ear.

The pen cluttered to the floor.

"That is for me to know and for you to find out," Shawn said and turned his head sideways, just enough for his lips to meet Carlton's.

This was still a really stupid idea. But it felt amazingly good for a really stupid idea. It felt even better when Shawn turned them around and pushed him back against the fridge, kissing him with recklessness and intent, like he wanted to make up for three years' worth of half-truths all at once.

Carlton wasn't well-versed in the secret language of kissing. He didn't know whether he was kissing reassuringly, in an I-knew-all-along way, or whether he was just kissing like he really would like to get more, and closer, and soon. It was entirely possible. Because this was hot. This was making him cling and grind and gasp in embarrassing ways. This was making him wish the bedroom was closer. This was making him almost forget who he was doing it with.

Eventually, he had to come up for air. "You don't actually own boxers that say 'Eat my shorts', do you?"

"You might get lucky and see them one day," Shawn said and brushed his fingertips across the back of Carlton's neck. "Who else should have the privilege, if not the good boyfriend?"

And Shawn had claimed that Carlton was the bucket of cold water.

Carlton carefully slid away and out of Shawn's grasp. "I'm not your boyfriend," he said.

Shawn just looked at him for a moment, assessing. "Okay," he said.

"I'll never be your boyfriend," Carlton said, because it was the truth. This was a ridiculous idea. This would never work. How was this supposed to work? They'd be a disaster, a train wreck waiting to happen. What had Carlton been thinking, falling for one of Shawn's games like that?

"Of course," Shawn said agreeably and, god, licked his lips. The same lips Carlton had kissed a few moments ago, and whoa, he really needed to get out of there.

"I mean it."

"I know."

"I'll go now."

"You do that."

"Don't think that I won't."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Shawn said earnestly.

Carlton eyed Shawn suspiciously, then grabbed his car keys from the kitchen counter where Shawn had put them.

"Bye, Lassie," Shawn said. He gave a short wave.

Carlton left, and the manner in which he did could absolutely in no way be described as 'fleeing'.


Lassiter was fleeing.

Shawn watched the front door fall shut behind him. Then he took some time to collect his things; wallet, keys, jacket, a different pair of shoes, a certain item from the kitchen. He stepped outside and carefully locked the front door behind him.

Lassiter was waiting in the car, looking tense.

"You forgot your sprinkles," Shawn said and let himself sink into the passenger seat. "I knew you couldn't leave without your sprinkles."

"Your motorcycle is still in my driveway," Lassiter said by way of an explanation.

"It's very considerate of you to think of my poor little vehicle all alone in a strange place," Shawn said and put the bag of sprinkles in the glove compartment. "The way you never lose sight of the little things-- it warms my heart."

Lassiter snorted unattractively but didn't say anything.

Shawn was usually the communicator in any conversation. In fact, he was famous for barely ever stopping to communicate. This called for a strategic silence, though, if only to see what Lassie would come up with to fill the conversational void.

For a long time the only sound was that of Lassie's fingers tapping on the steering wheel.

Finally, in a move that made Shawn in his capacity as the master of non-sequiturs proud, Lassiter asked, "The Uncertainty Principle?"

Shawn straightened in his seat. "You even have to ask?" he said. "For a deeply complicated and horribly confusing science theory, the concept of this is spectacularly cool. Wouldn't you just hate for everything to be predetermined? To know what's going to happen an hour from now, a week, a year? Wouldn't that just suck the fun out of everything?"

Lassiter looked like he wanted to point out that he enjoyed a little predictability in his life, thank you very much. He didn't actually do it. Not quick enough, anyway.

"You're thinking about how you'd never have predicted this, aren't you?" Shawn continued and gestured between them. "Isn't that half the fun? I think it's half the fun."

Lassiter turned his head to glare at him, and that was when Shawn knew things were going to turn out okay. The glare aside – another two dollars he was never actually going to get to collect – Lassie was clearly barely able to restrain himself from leaning in closer. "Spencer--" he said warningly, but Shawn cut in again.

"I hear this whole driving thing generally works best when you start the car first. They say that it moves then, all on its own, almost like magic."

"Shawn," Lassiter said, still looking at him with the expression he usually used on weekdays to make the perps crumble. "Shut up."

"Oh, hey," Shawn said, smirking and also trying really hard not to lean himself into a compromising position. Trying not to just grab Lassie by the collar and have his wicked way with him. Again. "That makes five," he said.

"Five what?"

"Poorly veiled declarations of undying love, also known as the heartfelt 'shut up's that travel from your lips to my ears. I knew we'd make it to five tonight. Although, technically, the night's been over for a while, so it probably doesn't--"

"Shawn?" Lassie asked, and he was so leaning right now.


"Shut up."

Shawn grinned. Not because they'd made it to six now, even though that was awesome, but because Lassie looked a little flushed, and a little like he might be grinding his teeth, and very much like a man thinking himself to be caught between a rock and a hard place. Not that Shawn would have put quite that negative a spin on the situation, or one quite that dirty. It depended. Oh, who was he kidding? He would have gone with dirty in a heartbeat.

"You want to come in?" Shawn asked. He figured Lassie had to say yes to that, since it was the literal opposite to the last thing Lassie apparently wanted to be doing. For now. "There's donuts," he added, in case another incentive was needed.

"Well, if there's donuts," Lassiter said with biting sarcasm, "how could I refuse such a tempting offer?"

Shawn sighed and rested a hand on Lassie's shoulder. When that didn't lead to any negative reaction, like yelling, or more intensive glaring, or people being shoved out of cars unheroically at zero miles per hour, he lifted his hand to cup Lassie's cheek. "For once in your life, stop thinking with your head," he said, then focused his mind really hard and added, "Carlton," without making a face.


Carlton was staring. He couldn't help it. Shawn had a hand on his cheek, and he was looking serious for once, but neither of those was the strangest thing about this. The strangest thing was: Carlton didn't much feel like shaking the hand off. It felt warm on his skin, if a bit sweaty, but not weird enough to merit drastic measures. And his body seemed to be of the opinion that this was the good kind of weird, anyway.

"You may think with your other head, though," Shawn informed him generously. "You know, the one that's not on your shoulders." He frowned in concentration and added, "Carlton," again.

"For god's sake," Carlton snapped. "Call me Lassie. The way you say my name-- It sounds like you're mocking me. "

"Okay, Lassie," Shawn said, grinning like the Cheshire cat. "Fine by me, Lassie. Can we go inside now, Lassie?"

"Why am I doing this to myself again?" Carlton muttered.

"Oh, but that's easy," Shawn said and kissed him, right there in the car out on the street in front of Shawn's house, like he had just taken Shawn home at the end of a date, which Carlton supposed he had, in a way. An unconventional and spontaneous thank-god-we're-alive-and-kicking date, maybe, but still kind of a date. With coffee and sprinkles and premature bondage and really hot kissing.

Carlton blindly reached to open the car door. "Let's take this inside," he said, but when he tried to do so, the car wouldn't let him.

Shawn huffed out a laugh against Carlton's neck. "Somehow I knew you'd practice safe sex," he said and demonstratively tugged at the seatbelt Carlton was still wearing. Carlton told himself he was finding this funny rather than embarrassing.

Shawn opened the seatbelt and practically shoved him out the door before climbing from the car on the other side. His enthusiasm was obvious when he reached for Carlton's sleeve in passing and pulled him along all the way to the front door. He didn't have to pull very hard. Or at all, really.

It wasn't until Shawn had unlocked the front door that he remembered. "Oh, wait, I forgot the--"

Carlton put an arm around his waist, pulled him inside and closed the door behind them.


Shawn was pushed roughly against the door, Lassie's forearm pressed firmly across his chest.

"Leave the damn sprinkles," Lassie said, his breath hot against Shawn's lips.

It was close to blasphemy, saying such a thing, but under the circumstances Shawn was totally willing to let it slide.

The Road to Tikihama

Date: 2010-12-10 12:36 pm (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
Yay! Please write more Psych slash. This one is a delight. You did a great job with both characters and with the dialogue.

Re: The Road to Tikihama

Date: 2010-12-15 05:15 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] unadrift.livejournal.com
Thank you so much! I do love Psych (more the Psych I remember from two years ago than the one that's actually on at the moment, but that's neither here nor there). Chances are good that I will write some more Psych in the future. It's always so much fun.
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