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When, at 02:36 in the morning on a Tuesday, Shawn Spencer revvs up his motorcycle for the first time in 2 months — not too loudly- he’s not that sloppy — the air has already simmered down into a coolness that breathes straight through him.
Shawn, relaxing, breathes too. There’s a snapshot of the crash that always lingers in his periphary: the turmoils of eidetic memory. He exhales. Remembers flying clean off his bike. Remembers the painful jostle of his head. Remembers countless other, frankly more concerning, incidents in his eccentric career, and sets foot on the gas. Big whoop.
Sailing through the streets is worth it, he surmises. There’s a heaviness lingering in his bones – deep in his mind, a stickiness that clings to him like tar — that only creeps out here, under the cover of the moon and nothing to occupy him. No one to bother. No one to pull a grin for.
Which also means — no faking. Shawn sits back, runs through a map of the city in his head, makes a right turn, and thinks vaguely of psychic premonitions dictating his driving.
He senses a Popeyes. It’s an itch in his fingers — if asked, he would describe it as a tingling, almost pulling sensation, but if he were to be more specific it would be in his nose and smelling strongly of oil.
It takes him 20 minutes longer than usual to get there. A crash on the street along the way as well as several mindless laps of the city add to the total, and by the time he pulls up Shawn’s mind is static.
The teenager at the counter doesn’t appreciate his ‘I was in one of those once ’ joke. She glances wordlessly at his helmet, pitched between his hip and arm, and asks if the order is eat-in or to-go. She looks vaguely awkward, if anything.
It’s to-go.
Shawn saunters out 7 minutes later with a strawberry milkshake in one hand and a bag of fries in the other. He sits on his bike and drinks, letting his mind latch onto the flavour and nothing else. He does not want to remember the girl’s hair — blonde, with a pink stripe running down her bangs — or the colour of the counter — brown, with white speckles — or the number of men with black hoodies — two — or —
He doesn’t. Shawn shakes his head, laughing a dry little wry laugh to himself, and looks at the sky. He’ll have to figure out a new place to stay soon, he muses. Rent’s running a little tight. Maybe a laundromat. What the hell, right? Storage and fresh jeans.
Throwing the cup into a nearby bin — score — Shawn shovels a mass of fries into his mouth before swinging a leg over the motorcycle, pocketing the bag into his jeans.
He doesn’t have a plan. Breathing in the night, humming Take On Me as he turns out, Shawn sets to doing laps until he can’t feel his feet in the shoddy sneakers anymore.
At 03:14 in the morning, a figure enters Shawn’s purview.
Well, enters is generous. The man, clad in a sweater and joggers, almost stumbles into a trashcan before righting himself.
This means that Shawn almost doesn’t recognise him — turning a corner, he glances before backtracking, mind alight with unwanted observations. With concern, even. Are those trainers?
‘Woaah- Heeyyy, Lassie!’ Is how Shawn announces himself, skidding to a careless stop in front of him. ‘Are you dying, what’s up?’
Lassie, when he blinks the scream of Shawn’s headlights out of his eyes, looks like he wants to go drown.
‘Oh, come on, that’s not fair.’
‘Spencer,’ Lassiter grits.
‘Hello to you too. What’s with the get-up? I’ve never seen you dressed in a decade past the 1940s.’
It's precisely at that moment Shawn clocks the red splotch seeping through Lassiter’s hairline, as well as the whiskey swinging lightly off his breath. His stance is crooked, and the irritation in his face almost slips past anger into lethargy. There's a delightful, unguarded ruffle to his hair that's ruined by the blood.
Before he can ask, Lassiter cuts in, ‘Don’t you have places to be? Go annoy some other poor person.’
‘Dude, you’ve got blood on your hair. Were you jumped?’
Lassie’s jaw clenches. Under the marigold streetlights, the swell under his eye is faint but noticeable.
‘Dude.’
‘Spencer, leave me the hell alone,’ Lassie laments, already setting off further down the street, ‘I don’t need you giving me a migraine. I beat the bastard before he got more than one hit in.’
‘You got your keys on you?’
‘Yes,’ Lassie bites. ‘Now go away.’
Shawn can’t help the furrow of his brows. ‘You live, like, 500 miles from here.’
‘Yes, and?’ Lassiter turns. ‘You think I can’t walk?’
‘No, I think you haven’t worn sneakers enough in your life to know how to operate them. And a sweater? Are you good?’
‘No— No , Spencer, I’m not good ,’ Lassiter boils, stumbling back over to Shawn. A finger presses itself firmly to his gear, the contact barely there between the leather. ‘I’ve just had some shitty kid ram me up the side of the head with a pipe , of all things, I had to chase them for my wallet, my case is dead, and— and,’ Lassie breathes, ‘I can’t even think straight , and before you chime in and make some— stupid , stubborn joke about—’
‘Alright, alright,’ Shawn sobers, grasping him by the shoulders. ‘Easy.’
‘I’m not your goddamn horse — Get your hands off me.’
‘You wanna fall over?’
‘Sure,’ Lassie drawls, teeth bared.
Shawn peers into his pupils. Swimming with pain, they engulf the whole of Lassie’s glass-blue irises, meaning Shawn can’t make a joke about him needing brown contact lenses, meaning he also doesn’t need to drive good ol’ Lassie to the hospital and risk having his hand bitten off.
He can’t walk, though. He’s not that much of an idiot. And neither is Lassie, not usually.
‘Do a cartwheel.’
Making an aggrieved sound, Lassiter rips away from him. ‘I don’t have time for this.’
‘Fine, fine— Lassie, come back.’ When he doesn’t, Shawn’s feet automatically start, catching him by the elbow just as Lassie starts to weave. ‘Lassie-frass, come on, man. You know as well as I do you won’t make it back to your house without ending up in a ditch somewhere. Some kid's gonna jump you again and they're gonna make fun of you.’
‘What are you gonna do, drive me home?’ Lassiter wheels.
Shawn beams at him. Lassiter stares back.
‘Oh, absolutely not.’
‘Why not? ’ Shawn whines. ‘You really wanna walk down the street and get jumped again street-fighter style?’
‘Right now? Yes.’
Decisively, Shawn tugs at him. Lassie falters. There’s almost no struggle, which tips Shawn’s slightly-amused concern into worry.
‘Lassie.’
‘To be honest, Spencer, I think my chances of survival are lower if I get on.’
‘Nawh, dude, only like 5% at the max.’
The look he gets is long and rigid. It’s impressive, given how unfocused the rest of his expression is. He really needs to get sunglasses, or something.
‘I’m kidding, get on.’
‘Are you?’
It takes little pushing and little shoving. Lassie’s nauseous sway as soon as Shawn starts to steer him towards the bike helps a bit.
‘Fries are in my pocket if you want some,' Shawn starts cheerfully.
‘I don’t want fries, Spencer,’ Lassie growls.
‘What? This is premium ride service—’
‘Crash us, then. I’ll give it 5 stars.’
‘Jeez, so morbid. Lighten up a bit— We'll boldly go forward 'cause we can't find reversee,’ Shawn sings, and Lassiter groans in agony.
He sets them off as smoothly as possible, Lassiter clinging reluctantly to Shawn as they fly through Santa Barbara’s poorly lit streets. Around them, the occasional car glides past, rumbling engines joining the faint music of shops to frame the quiet night. Lassiter’s breathing is steady and shallow against his ear, the press of his chest warm.
‘Are you sure you don’t want—’
‘Spencer, I will purposefully vomit on your motorcycle.’
‘Awh, Lassieee — that’s real sweet, thanks for opening up about your symptoms, bud.’
An aggrieved sigh answers him.
Lassiter’s grip tightens around a sharp bend, the two of them drifting ‘round the roundabout.
‘Come on, man. Hold on tighter than that — flying off is very unsexy, although you would make a juicy piece of roadkill.’
‘Spencer…’ Lassiter starts, before trailing off, not even bothering to finish.
Sobering again, Shawn listens.
Sharply, ‘Detective.’
‘What? ’ Lassie cries, slightly hysteric in his frustration.
‘I need you up and attem. No dying in my backseat — or I’ll take you to the hospital.’
The threat grants him nothing more than a grunt. Lassie’s arms link themselves around him, his weight sinking into him more than Lassie probably lets on. Okay.
‘You sure you don’t need a hospital?’
‘I’d rather stick my hand in a deep fryer.’
‘Ooohh, that’s a fry thought. Battered and roasted. You want some, don’t you?’
‘Spencer, so help me.’
Lassie’s voice is getting even weaker, Shawn realises. The humour saps out of him even more, water trickling down a cliffside. How hard did he hit his head?
He hits the revv.
Behind him, Lassie startles, gasping and hissing. ‘Stop that, you idiot.’
Bit loud. A woman nearby eyes him with distaste. Oops.
‘Keepin’ you awake, buddy. No need to thank me.’
A grumble. He can’t hear it over the harmony of the wind, overlapping with the whistle in his ears. He feels the warmth of it on his shoulder, the huff of Lassie’s breath just tickling his neck. Shawn holds back a shiver, dropping his speed — wouldn’t be great if he slipped off.
‘So, what were you doin’ out anyways? Perusin’ and cruisin’? Late night crime dine in’s and dives?’
‘I’m not talking about this with you,’ Lassie mutters, voice low and empty.
‘Oh, come on. It’s not like you to get bamboozled at two in the morning. Spill the deets.’
‘Three in the morning,’ Lassie still corrects. ‘And it’s none of your business.’
‘Well, it is now.’
‘It didn’t have to be.’
‘Nuh–uh. Killjoy. My cycle means my rules.’
For a long while, there’s quiet. Shawn puts one foot down as they sit at a red light, bright as a lighthouse waving on the small stream of traffic. Nearby, a man puffs at a cigarette on his porch, releasing a stream of smoke to waltz with the colours.
‘You barely even ride it anymore.’
‘Woww. Ding ding ding! Full prize, baby.’
‘Shut up.’
A group of kids rushes in front of them. One of them laughs, sharp and teasing, tugging the hand of another girl to reach the pavement. A boy with them sprays another with water. Another holds up a digital camera.
‘Any reason? Or is it your crash rate.’
‘Nope,’ Shawn says, simply. ‘No changing the subject, Lassie-frass. What’re you up to so late?’
‘Changing the-- You're the one- Why were you getting fries,’ Lassie shoots back.
Touché. He doesn’t particularly want to answer that either.
‘You see, my liege, cravings rule me. My psychic abilities and energy need something to feed off of.’
Shawn feels more than hears Lassie’s slightly dazed rumble of a laugh, vibrating in his chest to the tune of the Audi next to them. It’s disbelieving and almost hollow.
‘Your psychic abilities.’ It’s not a question. Lassie doesn’t elaborate.
Shawn hums.
Green light. He brings a foot up and floors it, taking in the wind again. He smiles to himself as he hears Lassie smother a yawn, audible over the speed.
‘Fries are still up for grabs, you know. Though I expect 5 cents back for every one. I already counted them, so don’t try anything.’
No reply.
‘Lassieeee,’ Shawn sings, whirring down a corner. ‘Lassie, oh Lassie —’
Slightly slurred, Lassie pipes, ‘God, for once in your life would you shut up? ’
‘Rude.’
‘Not even s’pposed to be out this late. What’re you doing? Why are you even here? Why’d you have to—’
‘Don’t worry your pretty little head—’
‘I’m not worried —’
‘--We’re here, baby.’
Coming to a stop, Shawn surveys the dark apartment complex before them, fences framed by hedges that obscure the doors from view. He had to move pronto after the Address Incident.
‘How’d you know where I live?’ Lassie mutters dejectedly. The information clearly exhausts him.
‘Oh, tomato, tomato,’ Shawn waves off, repeating the same pronunciation twice. His plan to help Lassie get off and avoid him face-planting into the sidewalk is thwarted when Lassie trips off the bike. Shawn grabs his arm and yanks him upright.
‘God—’ Lassie breathes, steadying himself, ‘I can walk .’
‘I dunno, that looked more like a crawl to me.’
A scowl. Lassie shrugs him away and walks slowly, deliberately, with an imagined swagger only perceptible to him. It’s almost painful to watch. He can see the dried blood on his brow, on his knuckles, the scuff of his shoes. Shawn doesn’t have it in him to laugh.
Sighing, he takes Lassie by the arm. A weak flinch. Miraculously, he gives up halfway through fighting, electing to just deflate and glare at Shawn’s hand. Yikes.
‘Give me your keys,’ Shawn says.
‘I’m not a child.’
‘No, but you’re operating like you're made of jell-o.’ He makes a grabbing motion. ‘Gimme gimme.’
Lassiter thumps the keys into his hand. There’s a keychain of a revolver on them. Of course.
‘Thaank you.’
Shawn babbles some nonsense into the buzzer. The door opens. Lassie sighs next to him.
Neither of them acknowledge the stairs. Lassiter spares them a single glance and pivots towards the beat-down elevator, whilst Shawn faintly cracks a joke about skipping leg day. Lassiter elbows him.
Lassie also misses the '5' button on the panel and proceeds to not look at Shawn. To his utmost credit, Shawn refrains from speaking and dials it for him. The silence is thick.
Jeez, his head also hurts. Shawn blinks against the lights and breathes in, quietly, right through his nose.
Drumming his fingers against his elbow, he watches as Lassie sinks against the railing, eyes fluttering. Under the seering light, the blood on his forehead is sticky, drying sluggishly as it stops, the palms of his hands littered with gravel and minor scrapes.
God, his outfit also sucks.
Shawn voices this. Lassie sends him one scorching glare and leans off, the elevator thunking as it slows.
He takes his arm. Lassie, for one, doesn't complain. It's weird enough to unsettle him.
When Shawn walks back into the living room, Lassiter takes one look at him and his face crumples.
‘Found your medicine cabinet.’
‘I thought you left.’
Also found the gun under your bathroom's trash can, he does not say.
‘No can do, Scooby Doo,’ Shawn says, setting down the antiseptic and plasters on the coffee table. There’s a suspiciously ibuprofen-box-shaped lump in his backpocket that he’s hoping Lassie is too conked out to notice. He had five boxes. ‘I’m meant to wake you every few hours to make sure you haven’t gone and died, so. Once again, you’re welcome, pre-payments can be made in cash–’
‘Spencer,’ Lassiter breathes. His voice is low and sharp at the edges. His eyes are hazy. ‘Get out.’
‘Right. Well, you’ll need to shimmy to the right a bit, since the lamp’s on that side.’
‘I can do it myself.’
Lassie’s sweater is off, Shawn realises. There’s an old Billy Joel t-shirt hanging off him. He went out in his pyjamas. No casual gentleman’s shoe of any kind, no nothing.
If he's completely honest, he half-expected Lassie's pyjamas to be a three-piece suit and a hankie square.
‘You could, and get TCP in your eyes.’
Lassie still stares at him. There’s a level of dejection in his eyes that makes his skin prickle. This isn’t getting a rise out of him; it’s something else.
Shawn makes a scooching motion with his hands. Lassie breathes, deep in his chest, and shuffles aside by a centimeter.
‘Alright, maybe a teeny bit more—’
‘Sit down.’
Shawn, to his own credit, stays relatively quiet whilst he works. He glances to see Lassiter’s eyes closed, although the rest of him is stiff and tense as a board.
He keeps his fingers gentle. Lassie is silent, too, moving with as much acquiescence as he can humanly produce whenever Shawn tilts his head this way or that. For a while, Shawn is so focused on the methodical cleaning of his wound that he spaces out, letting his mind fall away for a few of those blissful minutes. Lassie’s apartment is warm — it’s strange, amidst the relatively barren furniture, the lack of pictures on the wall, the aloof entity that is Carlton Lassiter, but his apartment is warm and his sofa dips under their weights, soft.
It feels too empty. Shawn wonders if this is what it’s about: the slight awkwardness of him in Lassie’s space, like this, where the couch doesn’t usually have two people on it. There’s a pre-determined dip where Lassie usually sits, between them.
For once in his life, he doesn’t ask. No use riling him up to a furious degree — Shawn isn’t that cruel. Or present, at the moment.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Lassie asks out of the blue.
‘Whaat? ’ Shawn complains. His hands thunk down. ‘You want me to pour lemonade on your head, what?’
‘No. You’re—’ Lassie gestures emptily. ‘Forget it.’
He should light the space up with more corny jokes, he knows.
He actually can’t think of anything bizarre.
‘Hey, Lassie.’
‘....What?’
‘Did you know—’
‘-Oh, for God’s sake, Spencer—’
‘--That Norway puts barcodes on its ships?’
Lassie stares at him.
‘Don’t you dare finish that joke.’
‘Or what?’
‘Or— Ow ,’ Lassie hisses, flinching away from him.
‘Sorry, man,’ Shawn murmurs. He doesn’t get any other comment, Lassie leaning cautiously back into his space. By now, he’s moved onto his knuckles, swiping at the nicks littering his hands. There’s gunpowder on them even now, along with dirt and hints of gravel.
His hands are surprisingly soft, Shawn muses. Paperwork doesn’t tend to wear things down that much.
The lamplight is low but enough, bathing the room in warm tones and making Shawn’s own eyes flutter in high-strung tiredness as he gingerly picks out the specks. Something in him shifts uncomfortably at the rawness to Lassie’s hands, not tainted by the roughness of a fence as he clambered over it during a chase, or the grime of wrestling a perp, but the grazing scrape of being shoved onto an alleyway floor whilst out on a midnight walk.
‘It’s so they can scan-the-navy-in,’ Shawn finishes quietly.
Lassie exhales roughly through his nose and turns away. Shawn pauses.
‘I’m sorry, what was that?’
‘What?’ Lassie asks flatly, not meeting his eye.
Shawn grins, cheerfully smug, and takes in the own stretch of his grin with something like surprise. Lassie takes one look at him and turns back around.
‘No. Absolutely not.’
‘Awhh, Lassie –’
‘I’m tipsy and that’s all there is to it,’ Lassie insists sharply. At Shawn’s delighted laugh, loud in the quiet room, the edge of his jaw shifts before setting. ‘I– Goddammit.’
‘Ha! Ladies and gentlemen, there it is, somewhere in there, a little—’
Lassie flashes his teeth. ‘No, there isn't—’
‘A little, little little sense of humour—’
‘I’m hard as a rock, Spencer—’ Lassie cuts in heatedly, before hissing, ‘Fuck.’
Shawn’s guffaw is sudden and shameless. He leans back, his arm lightly shoving Lassie in the process.
‘You gotta stop doing that, man—’
‘Just get on with it,’ Lassie bites, and Shawn swears the dusk hue to his ears isn’t a trick of the light. It’s too yellow for that.
His decor is strangely warm, Shawn thinks again.
He also thinks, setting to wrapping plasters on Lassie’s hands — which are plain, not Hello Kitty themed like he wanted, because even though Lassie is being strangely complacent he isn’t about to push his luck — that his shoulders don’t seem as tense.
A trick of the lighting, maybe. A psychic influence.
'Should've brought my pink tape — Jules would've loved it. You'd kill it on an 80s gym commercial.'
When Lassie sniffs primly, no bark and, stranger, no bite, there's a hint of something in his tone. Like the ghost of the dryer on warm clothes.
'Don't push it,' Lassie murmurs.
It's barely there. Shawn hears it and stifles down a smile anyways.
An hour later, Lassiter still hasn’t succeeded in kicking him out.
Mostly because he’s asleep. Shawn walked into the kitchen to wash his hands and get rid of the myriad of plaster bits — and steal a pack of Oreos from his cupboard — and came back to a Lassie crumpled against the couch, hair askew and shirt crinkled. His lips are ever so slightly parted, soft breaths escaping in slow intervals. Shawn totally doesn't just watch him sleep for a few minutes, taking in the odd peacefulness, because that's weird.
‘On his guard’ his ass.
Snapping a quick photo, he hauls a nearby woolen blanket over him and sets to rifling through the room for a TV remote.
Halfway through an episode of Family Fued, he remembers the fries in his pocket. He contents himself with stacking them on Lassiter’s nose.
‘Lassie.’
…
‘Hey, Carlytown.’
A snuffle.
‘Lassie. Lassie, listen to me.'
‘Why the hell ar— Oh. Great.’
‘What’s the fifth line to Wham!’s hit single, ‘Wake Me Up Before you Go Go?’’
A rustle of blankets.
‘Spencer, I don’t care. Go away.’
‘Wrong. Do you remember what happened?’
‘Kidnapped me and br’ke into my house.’
‘Wow, wrong again. You’re really bad at this.’
…
...
...
‘Something’s buggin’ me.’
‘What? What, what’s up?’
‘No— Shawn.’
A faint, poorly-hidden snicker. Lassie sighs, long and drawn out.
‘Well, it’s actually ‘You put the boom-boom into my heart’, if you count the—’
‘Shawn.’
‘Sorry. Go to sleep, Lassie. I’ll allow it,’ Shawn says sagely.
A grumbled retort, and silence.
He doesn’t realise until 20 minutes later, when Lassie is deep in dream-land again (probably counting landmines or something), that he called him Shawn.
He doesn’t know what to make of it.
Well, he does.
Shawn wakes Lassie up once more two hours later, when TV has grown stale and his mind is restless in the silence. Even so, hearing Lassie's breathing, slow and ocean-deep, chest rising and falling with that rare, strange calmness, puts him at ease. He’s not willing to think too deeply on why that is.
Unfortunately, Lassiter doesn’t snore. It would’ve made excellent blackmail material.
When Shawn nudges him awake and asks, ‘Hey, you wanna see me do a psychic trick? I can steal a rabbit from someone’s backyard, ’ Lassiter groans so hard he turns around and puts his back to Shawn.
That’s lucid enough, he figures. He’s fine.
Lassiter survives the night. One of them seems much happier about this than the other, and it’s not Lassiter.
‘You’re still here?’ Are the first words out of his mouth, groggy and rough. It's charming, amongst many other less-than-appropriate things.
‘Duh.’
Lassiter clearly has nothing to say to that. He blinks at Shawn, gaze clearer yet still slightly clouded, the bruise around his eye now puffy and purple-yellow. It reminds him vaguely of a fruit-shoot. In the morning light, the baby blue of his irises is strong and soft. The blank stare continues until Lassiter starts with a curse, hauling himself up.
‘Already called up the station,’ Shawn says.
‘You did what?’
‘What, you were gonna waltz in with a black eye and a concussion and go interrogate some guy? Is that intimidating?’ Shawn asks, gesturing with the TV remote. ‘Actually, don’t even answer that.’
A quick-silver flash of a smile, all teeth. ‘Fine, I’ll just call—’
‘Oh, I told Jules too. And Chief-o.’
Lassiter deflates, smile falling. His brows are furrowed with pain and irritation.
Shawn tries for a matching look, but ends up stifling a yawn instead. Something in Lassiter’s face shifts.
‘Did you even sleep?’ Lassiter asks, quieter than before.
‘Nah. Couldn’t anyway. The psychic gods were testing me on my endurance, lest they take my visions away.’ Shawn stands up. ‘I also have a bet with Gus on who can do the most donuts in the blueberry. He doesn’t know about it yet. So,’
‘Right,’ Lassiter furrows. ‘Spencer…’
‘Hmm?’
Silence.
Lassie’s mouth works for a moment. Inside, Shawn bites down a smile.
‘See you tomorrow?’ Shawn fills in airily.
‘...Right. See you. Drive home safe, Spencer.’
Turned away, Shawn grins, already spinning the keys to his motorcycle on one finger. He pops a stale fry into his mouth.
As he makes it through the doorframe, he turns and shouts, ‘Oh, one more thing! You called me Shawn in your sleep, Lassie! What’s that about, huh?’
Before he can decipher Lassie’s startled shouting, he closes the door.
The corridor air is cold. There’s a weight to his eyelids, still, and his legs are tired.
Shawn does remember the red, pillow-creased wrinkles of Lassie’s face, though. And the curl of him under the thick blanket, illuminated by the faint glow of a TV. And the stupidly fancy coffee maker in his kitchen.
He doesn’t mind.