Chapter Text
“You’ve just got to trust your instincts.”
Shawn should’ve seen it coming but somehow the signs had passed him by. He was actually surprised when Lassie dove across the table to kiss him.
It wasn’t what he’d call romantic. Lassie was too drunk, his tie way too close to catching on the candle and, again, he was way too drunk. Shawn knew the straight laced - and unfortunately probably straight everything - detective would regret this in the morning. That’s if he remembered it at all.
A squeal broke through the weird moment and Shawn knew at least someone’s love life was back on track.
“I just got engaged!” She pulled him into a hug that was somehow even more awkward than the unexpected Lassie kiss.
“That’s great. Congratulations. I’ll never, ever see you again.”
Behind him he heard several unsettling thumps and when he turned around he saw exactly what he expected to find. Lassie flat out on the floor after losing an unfair fight against gravity, a wobbly stool and a mean looking table.
He thought about calling a cab and shoving Lassie in it but that seemed a little cold. Guess it was time to be grown-up, serious, impossibly chivalrous Shawn. The prospect of driving Lassie’s car when he would definitely, definitely not be allowed under normal circumstances was maybe an influencing factor in his decision. He’d have to seriously fight the temptation to turn on the siren because that would surely end up with pissed off Lassie and shot up Shawn.
But, hey, he was keeping the handcuffs. They were a gift, after all.
---
Two weeks after a drunken night he only vaguely remembered but just knew Shawn Spencer had had a hand in screwing up, Carlton Lassiter stared at a pad of yellow paper that had just been thrust into his hand. It was covered in geometric scribbles, supposedly psychically divined (yeah, right) or perhaps just beamed down from whatever mothership had dumped Spencer on Earth when his home planet got sick of him. There was also a note scrawled across the bottom.
“To Lassie. On the Alpine highway of life, you are my all weather tires. H&K’s, Shawn. What the hell is this?”
“H&K’s stands for hugs and kisses.” O’Hara’s goofy grin as she giddily explained this fact was not helping Lassiter hide how much the note flustered and flummoxed him.
He immediately added this to his mental casefile of proof that Spencer knew all about the embarrassing little crush he’d been carrying around and tried to move on.
“Not that part,” he snapped. “This part.”
Guster explained it was a tire tread pattern that Spencer had divined. Lassiter resolved to run it through the database himself to avoid the embarrassment of handing Spencer’s love note over to the boys in forensics. He’d also make damn sure it didn’t end up in the final report.
It turned out Spencer wanted the department to pay for him and Guster to attend some speed dating event that supposedly had some connection to the case. The Chief was skeptical at first but as Spencer had her wrapped around his little finger, he quickly persuaded her it was necessary. Not only that, Lassiter found that O’Hara and himself had suddenly been roped into this nonsense. To say he was less than thrilled at this prospect would be putting it mildly.
As if to wind him up even more, the Chief pointed out, “It’s just a date, Lassiter. You do know how to conduct yourself on a date, don’t you?”
What was that supposed to mean? He was still married. Technically.
He was also a busy man who had no time for dating. His last relationship had been with his former partner, for crying out loud! Their fling had earned her a transfer, himself a severe reprimand, and the department a new official policy banning any romantic contact between co workers. Before that incident such relationships had been tolerated but considered ill advised.
Said ill advised relationship had developed out of their being consistently in each other’s company compounded with a batch of home made chocolate and peppermint cookies causing a severe allergic reaction and minor breakdown during the station Christmas party. So maybe it could be argued that he didn’t know how to conduct himself himself on a date, never mind a bunch of them in quick succession. On an undercover mission that didn’t have any of the benefits of real undercover work, like creating a character and having time to grow a beard.
Not that anything he said would get him out of this event so Lassiter did what he’d learned to do when Spencer and the Chief ganged up on him. He shut the hell up and resolved to get on with doing his job.
—
As if this case wasn’t pissing him off already, their not-quite-undercover speed dating event was at a fake Irish bar. Worse than that, it was a tacky fake Irish bar with leprechauns and shamrocks and green… everything. This had to be a joke. Spencer surely had to be pulling some prank to once again ridicule Lassiter’s Irish heritage.
He approached the man dressed head to toe in green and was greeted in an offensively fake accent.
“Welcome to Shenanigans, home of the world famous- ”
“Yeah, don’t care. I’m…” Lassiter sighed, pulling out the hundred dollar entrance fee, slapping it down and continuing in a mumble, “… here for the speed dating event.”
This whole thing was Lassiter’s idea of hell, even without the ridiculous themed bar. Trying to compete with loud music to talk to several strangers in six minute intervals. At least this was for work so he didn’t have to worry too much about making a good impression. He’d reluctantly followed Spencer’s advice to ditch the tie and undo a button or two. The more relaxed look seemed to work, at least a little. Though now he had the phrase sternum bush permanently seared across his brain so he still had something to resent Spencer for.
At least this event was specifically geared towards forcing its participants into conversation. That meant the music was at a reasonable level even if the background noise was still distracting. Unwelcome and unnecessary noise was one of those things that set him on edge.
It was odd, he supposed because he could deal with sudden loud noises, though those tended to be in very specific circumstances. Like firing his gun because he was in control of the exact moment his finger squeezed the trigger, knew the exact sound his firearm would make, the amount of recoil to expect.
On the reenactment field, he knew when the canons were meant to go off and what moves all the people around him would make next. Part of the fun of reenactment was sticking to the script, knowing where to stand and what to say.
The same could be said of successful interrogation. You go into the room prepared. You know when to get mad and when to stay unsettlingly calm. You go in knowing just what to say to crack through to the suspect’s soft, guilty underbelly.
Not that any of that worked with someone like Shawn Spencer. Someone who would joke about committing the crime he was being interrogated over and then look baffled when you chose to believe him.
It was that attitude from Spencer that made him want to second guess everything the excitable charlatan said. Even the good advice, like losing the tie. He couldn’t even be sure this wasn’t some new way for Spencer to mess with him.
Sure, he’d appreciated some of the compliments he received from his supposed dates that made it more jarring when he returned to the investigation and the accompanying script. What kind of car do you drive? Where were you on the night of the 18th?
Once again, as always seemed to be the way with Spencer, the script went out the window.
All he’d intended was to check in with Spencer to see if he’d identified any strong suspects. Though Lassiter was loathe to admit it, Spencer’s method of charming the dating event participants seemed to be working better than his own attempt at professional interrogation. That old saying about catching more flies with honey than with vinegar came to mind but he dismissed it.
Everyone around them had already taken their seats for the final date and Lassiter was left standing at the same table as Spencer.
“Well, sit down Lassie. Times a-wasting. I don’t bite.” The psychic grinned at him and winked. Actually winked. “Not unless you ask me to.”
He considered Spencer’s irritating habit of getting too close, though it was a shared habit really. The difference being Lassiter crowded into the psychic’s personal space to keep him under control, to stop him running completely rampant through the police station and the cases they he was allegedly helping them on. Meanwhile Spencer invaded Lassiter’s personal space because he knew it drove him crazy. That might be the one area he was willing to suppose Spencer might actually be psychic. Carlton Lassiter liked to think he made himself difficult to read. It was part of the job really but somehow Spencer knew exactly how, when and how hard to push his buttons and get the reaction he wanted.
“I can’t deal with those kinds of jokes, Spencer.”
“What kind of jokes can you deal with?”
“Right now? None.”
“Okay. Then sit down. Talk to me. Like a real human person. Can you do that?”
The Chief’s words from earlier rang in his head. It’s just a date. You do know how to conduct yourself on a date, don’t you? Then there’d been O’Hara reassuring him as they drove over here that it was for work and the Chief had just been messing with him.
O’Hara’s pep talk hadn’t made excruciating time they’d spent on their ‘date’ any better. Sitting there, both lost for anything appropriate to say as he cracked his knuckles and tried to dig popcorn out of his teeth with just his tongue. He couldn’t cope with another six minutes of awkward silence.
Hopefully the annoying woman hosting the speed dating event would think better than to come over here nagging him to tell Spencer he looked pretty. That was what she’d tried to convince him to tell O’Hara. Doubtless Spencer would find that hilarious, both the incident with O’Hara and the possibility of Lassiter being forced to call him pretty.
“Okay, fine, I guess we can talk.” He sat cautiously on the stool across the table from Spencer.
“Look, Lassie, I know we got off on the wrongest of wrong foots when we met. Or is that feet?” Spencer looked at Lassiter as if he expected an actual answer and received a glare in response but barrelled on anyway. “So, why don’t we take this from the top? Hi, my name’s Shawn.”
Spencer held out his hand and Lassiter was confused for a second before he realised he was being invited to shake it. He cautiously extended his own hand. He was left a little bemused when it turned out to be a real handshake and not some prelude to a trick.
“Uh, Carlton Lassiter,” he mumbled.
Spencer looked at him for a moment and asked in a surprisingly serious tone, acting as if he was genuinely curious, “So, what do you do, Carlton?”
“You know damn well what I do, Spencer.”
“Wow, you are useless improvising. Did you already forget that we’re doing a bit?”
Spencer’s posture had changed. Lassiter was surprised to notice that he actually looked annoyed. He sounded annoyed too. Lassiter could not believe the man who never took anything seriously was berating him for not taking something seriously. Well, two could play at that game.
“I don’t want to do a ‘bit’, I don’t want to play any games. What I want is this evening to be over so I can get down to real police work.”
Spencer picked up an emerald green paper napkin from the table and started ripping pieces off it.
“That’s it? That’s all there is? Work? Work until you can’t deal with it and obsess over all the work you can’t do. Or just get drunk and open up to the last person in the world you think would ever listen. Then just push them away when they try to help so they have to sneak around behind your back to do it anyway.”
“Fine, I know, okay. I know what you did with the astronomer case and I appreciate it. I really do. That case was bugging me for like a month before it seemed to magically solve itself.”
“Yeah, I know it was bugging you.”
“I told you about it, didn’t I? That night in the bar.”
“Maybe.” Spencer licked his lips, growing even more uncharacteristically small and nervous as he continued destroying the napkin.
Now Lassiter was struggling to remember any details from the night Spencer had stumbled upon him celebrating the second anniversary of his separation in another bar, one almost as tacky as this one.
No matter how hard he tried, he was too distracted at the moment by the thought of how easy it would be to lean across the table and kiss Spencer in front of everyone.
If only he were braver, maybe a little drunk and… aw crap, a memory suddenly dropped into place and his ears and cheeks grew unbearably warm. He shifted in his seat, trying to sit up straighter, fiddling with his shirt collar as he felt the heat of embarrassment travelling all the way down to his chest.
Great, now he drawing attention to the missing tie and showing Spencer his chest hair after explicitly rejecting the notion in connection to his dates with the women at the event. Yeah, he’d removed his tie much earlier in the evening but doubted Spencer would have noticed that while busy with his own dates.
What kind of message would it look like he was trying to send? That he was giving Spencer exactly what he’d asked for? That he’d maybe planned for them to be stuck on a table together for the last date of the evening?
“Is everything okay there, Lassie?” Spencer asked him.
It was almost as if he was actually psychic and reading exactly what had just bobbed to the surface of Lassiter’s memory and the runaway train of thoughts that followed. Except the truth was the so called psychic had a functioning memory that wasn’t addled by overindulgence in scotch and melancholy.
Spencer dropped the shreds of green paper from his hands and reached across the table for another napkin. Lassiter caught Spencer’s hand under his, pinning it to the table perhaps a little too firmly as he met the other man’s eyes.
“I thought you didn’t want me to know you helped.”
He was trying not to go into interrogation mode but he wasn’t entirely succeeding. At least he’d kept the hard edge out of his voice.
“I didn’t or I thought I didn’t. I dunno. You seemed so happy when you hinted about knowing it was Jules that helped you. I thought it would spoil it if you knew it was my plan. I will point out, she was very eager to join when I explained it to her. She’s got your back, you know.”
“I know.”
It wasn’t exactly the first time that they’d sort of held hands. Spencer was notoriously hands on during his crazy visions and Lassiter was more often than not directly in the line of fire.
Spencer had legitimately grabbed his hand and called him a hero in what felt like a surprisingly genuine moment when they’d swapped stories of Lassiter assisting in the birth of the Chief’s daughter while Spencer was off solving some crazy comic book crime caper. Luckily the their ‘moment’ hadn’t lasted long enough for him to need to question what kind of moment they were having.
This had been in the wake of O’Hara’s affectionate jibe about him fainting. Yeah, so what if he’d been slightly lightheaded at the sight of an entire human coming out of his boss’s body along with unexpected amounts of gore that rivalled some of the more grisly crime scenes he’d worked in his career.
Still, his partner’s teasing had left the floor open for him to challenge Spencer to use his supposed psychic powers to tell them which was the right baby. Predictably, he dropped Lassiter’s hand to wiggle his fingers vaguely near his head even as joked about his powers being blocked by a potentially evil baby. He’d found it very hard to hold back a grin because his guard was already down and Spencer amused him more than he cared to admit.
Hell, the man had sat on his lap under the guise of being exhausted from a psychic vision channelled through a cat. In any other relationship they’d be well past awkward, not quite hand holding by now but somehow the two of them always seemed to have things backwards, sideways or upside down.
“Is any of it real?”
Spencer looked puzzled again. “Any of what?”
The annoying woman rang her infernal bell right in his ear as she announced the end of the night’s festivities. Oh blessed relief. Lassiter snatched his hand away from its resting place on top of Spencer’s, feeling as though he was wrenching it free from some invisible force field.
Lassiter stalked off from their shared table and towards the bar. He glared at the overabundance of Irish whiskey in relation to scotch. Not that he would be ordering himself a drink as the department was paying for him to be here and investigate the clientele. There was a significant likelihood their perp would strike again, he needed to stay sober. Nothing to do with the memory that had just slotted into place of the last time he’d been drunk in Spencer’s presence.
As if psychically summoned, Spencer caught up to him at that moment.
“Hey, look, Lassie. I don’t know what you need to hear from me right now but I trust you and I hope you trust me.” Spencer took Lassiter’s hand in his. “We had a good run there. Two, maybe three minutes where we were okay. We should do it again sometime.”
Once again just as Lassiter was trying to gather his confused thoughts, the annoying woman started up again with that damn bell. Before he knew it, Spencer was snatched away from him and Lassiter was forced to listen to him being heralded as O’Hara’s perfect match with much rejoicing and bell ringing.
It was, apparently, a Shenanigans speed dating first. Well, once again he decided that speed dating and the offensive dive that hosted it could both go to hell.