Lassiter stayed at work until Chief Vick ordered him to go home. It was absurd, really; being on desk duty ought to have meant that he could work as many hours as he wanted, but she insisted that he was still recovering, also mentioning something about how the rest of the officers could use a break from his bad mood.

As much as he hated typing reports and filing and sitting on his ass all day, it at least made him feel like he was doing something, and the steady flow of work kept him from dwelling on his personal life too much. Of course, with Spencer showing up at the station as he had that day, it was impossible to forget the things that he was trying to forget. He supposed he should be grateful; before Spencer's ill-fated visit to the station, Lassiter had been contemplating the idea of calling him up and apologizing.

He knew he had overreacted by kicking Shawn out That Day (he did not allow himself to think about what had happened That Day that led to him kicking Shawn out. Thoughts like that only ended with wasted time and self-recriminations and an empty feeling of loss after he inevitably jerked off to the memory.) It proved to be just as impossible to forget the expression of hurt and confusion Shawn had worn as he left That Day as it was to forget what had come before. Lassiter felt guilty. He knew he should apologize.

Clearly, he realized now, he had taken that memory and nursed it into some kind of delusion. He had even dared to hope that if he apologized, there might even be the opportunity for some kind of fresh start with Shawn. Luckily for him, before he could do something boneheaded, Spencer had come into the station and made it clear that he only saw Lassiter as a person to be mocked, a perpetual joke.

Now Lassiter was stuck trying to decide if he should disclose to Chief Vick that he and Spencer had shared an inappropriate interaction. He burned with humiliation at the prospect of telling her, but after Spencer's little show down at the station that day, it seemed like it might be safer to get ahead of the story and tell her himself before Spencer got the chance to do so in a way that would cause maximum embarrassment for Lassiter and maximum amusement for Shawn.

He was such an idiot. How had he allowed his dumb lust for Spencer to grow into actual feelings? Now he was paying the price for his weakness.

He had been home long enough to take off his jacket and tie and down one glass of whiskey with a second in his hand when his doorbell rang. Looking out the peephole, he saw Spencer fidgeting on his doorstep.

"I know you're on the other side of the door, Lassie. Let me in!"

"Like. Hell." Lassiter snapped.

"We have to talk," Shawn said, and he sounded serious enough that Lassiter found himself hesitating, reaching for the doorknob, before he yanked his hand away hastily and took a step back.

"We don't have anything to talk about," he said. "Now get the hell off my doorstep before I arrest you for trespassing."

"You're always threatening to have me arrested," Shawn said, and Lassiter cringed at the volume of his voice; the neighbors were going to start bitching if they continued to yell at each other through the door. "Is it because you harbor a secret fantasy of me in cuffs, or is it because you think I look good in prison orange? If that's the case, I can't agree Lassie. It's all wrong for my complexion."

Lassiter didn't reply, wondering if something as simple as the silent treatment might get Spencer to give up and leave. He resisted the urge to look through the peephole again. Maybe if he pretended that Spencer wasn't there…

"Lassie, you know we have to talk. If you don't let me in, I'm going to resort to singing showtunes on your doorstep. I don't actually know any showtunes, so I'll just have to make something up."

Lassiter pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly. What had he ever done to deserve being saddled with Shawn Spencer? "Go away!" he called back uselessly.

"Nope! Chief Vick told us to work out our problems and I'm here to do just that. Isn't there a Broadway show about cats? How does that song go?" There was a brief pause, and then the singing started. "Cats! Furry, purry, beautiful cats! Fluffy, smushy, sometimes flea-bitten cats!"

The neighbors were definitely going to complain. Lassiter pulled the door open with a scowl. "That's not how any song in that show goes."

Shawn stopped singing, his eyes glinting with amusement. "You know the songs from Cats? I can't believe I thought you were straight for so long."

"My little sister loved that damn soundtrack when she was a kid," Lassiter said, glaring as Shawn pushed past him, dropping into the same chair he'd sat in the night he'd brought over soup and cheesecake. "Spencer, I didn't invite you to stay. Say whatever you came here to say and get the hell out."

Shawn gestured between the two of them. "Gus told me that we should have a conversation, which implies that both of us will speak. Come on Lassie, take a load off. Enjoy your adult beverage. Relax."

"Don't tell me what to do," Lassiter snarled, already regretting allowing Shawn back into his home. It wasn't fair that he could just waltz in and make himself comfortable, like just hours before he hadn't been making a scene down at the station with his insinuations. Lassiter was struck with the desire to do something he hadn't done in a long time—grab Spencer by his shirt and shove him around, push him into a wall and make him feel as threatened as Lassiter had behind his desk that afternoon. When he realized that his fingers were actually flexing into fists at the thought, at how good it would feel to have his hands on Shawn Spencer, he reached for his whiskey and took a big gulp. It was only then that he realized what Shawn had said.

"You talked to Guster about this?" he demanded, then shook his head. "Of course you did. You probably talked to O'Hara and McNab and Henry and your fucking mailman about it too. I don't know why I would think otherwise."

"I talked to Gus about it because I talk to Gus about everything," Shawn said evenly. "I haven't said anything to anyone else, especially my mailman. I know for a fact that he's stealing my neighbor's Soap Opera Digest magazines, so I don't trust him with anything. But Lassie, you can trust me."

He sounded sincere, and yet… "You were practically broadcasting it to the entire station today. And you ask me to trust you?"

"Gus said I was wearing my jerk pants today," Shawn said quietly, "and he's right. I'm sorry, Lassie."

Lassiter blinked at him, surprised. He had not actually expected an apology, much less one so easily and honestly given. He struggled to hang on to his anger though, because he worried that it was the only thing that would get him through this conversation without him giving in to whatever Shawn wanted. It was unnerving having him here in his personal space again, and he set his whiskey down because he needed to keep a clear head.

"Gus also said that you were kind of an asshole too, so feel free to apologize to me," Shawn said, destroying whatever goodwill he had started to build.

"Me? You were the one who waltzed into the station and got right in my face making suggestive remarks and being an obnoxious little twerp!"

"And you're the one who made such a big deal out of it that everyone in the station, including Vick, noticed," Shawn argued back.

"Which would never have happened if you hadn't started it!" Lassiter insisted hotly.

Shawn slouched back into his chair, crossing his arms and frowning at Lassiter. "But you're the one who actually started it. Why did you kiss me in the first place?"

Lassiter looked down at the glass in his hand with a sigh, because that was the one question he really didn't want to answer. The truth would mean making himself vulnerable to Shawn, and a lie would mean that he was only capable of being honest about what he wanted when he thought that he was about to die and wouldn't have to face the consequences of his desires. He didn't want to be that kind of man, always afraid, always hiding. So he took a deep breath, and told the truth.

"I kissed you because I wanted to."

"Oh," Shawn said softly. He sounded like all of the wind had just been knocked out of him. Very carefully, as if he thought that Lassiter might bolt if he made any sudden movements, he got up and moved to sit on the couch beside him, keeping enough space between them that they weren't touching.

"Okay," Shawn said, "that's good. That's, you know, a good reason to do things. Like kiss someone. So, uh, was it just some 'I'd like to kiss one more person in case I die, I don't care who it is' impulse, or was it, um, about me?"

Lassiter sighed again, already starting to regret that he'd given so much away. "Spencer, do we really have to do this? Why can't we just forget any of it ever happened?"

"Because I don't want to forget," Shawn said stubbornly, "and I think I deserve an explanation."

"Maybe I don't care what you think," Lassiter shot back.

"I know you care what Chief Vick thinks," Shawn said, "and she told us to work out our problems. I'm not going to consider them worked until you're honest with me."

Lassiter laughed at that. "I AM being honest with you. How much more honest do you think I can be? And, wait, who the hell are you to be mad because you think I'm not being honest with you? Jesus, Spencer, for all your faults I never thought of you as a hypocrite before."

Shawn gave him a considering look, and then, before Lassiter could really register what was happening, he suddenly vaulted into his lap, a leg on either side of him and a hand bracing against the back of the couch, near Lassiter's head.

Shocked, Lassiter pushed at Shawn's shoulder, though admittedly not as hard as he probably should. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Get off of me!"

Shawn didn't budge. He was sitting up on his knees so that he wasn't actually pressed against Lassiter, but it was still way too close, way too intimate. Lassiter knew that he should stand up, dump Spencer on the floor, put an end to this immediately.

But he didn't want to.

Shawn's face was set in an expression of resolve; he looked, at best, frustrated, and at worst, maybe even angry.

"I'll give you some honesty, if that's what you really want Lassie, but only if I get some back. Squid no go."

Lassiter's forehead furrowed in confusion as he thought this through. "What the...wait, do you mean 'quid pro quo'?"

"I've heard it both ways. But let's not change the subject: You wanted some truth? I'm mad at you, Lassie. I did something very, very nice for you the last time I was here, and you repaid me by saying mean, untrue things and kicking me out. I think you owe me an apology."

Lassiter scowled at him, his hands hovering in mid-air, forcing himself not to touch Shawn again. "I owe you the truth, I owe you an apology...is there anything you think I don't owe you, Spencer?"

Shawn shrugged. "Gus is the one who owes me twelve Twix bars, so you're off the hook for that."

Lassiter wasn't even listening. "And what do you mean, I said untrue things? I didn't say anything that wasn't true. I know it was just a joke to you."

"You're an idiot," Shawn said fiercely, poking Lassiter in the chest with his forefinger. "I throw myself at you in pretty much the most obvious way possible, and you think it's a joke? That it didn't mean anything to me? That I just go around giving blow jobs to every Tom, Dick, and Harry that looks my way." He paused, looking thoughtful. "That is to say, when I give a blow job, there is always a dick involved, but I just don't go giving them out to every dick. For one thing, Gus would freak—"

"Shut up for a minute," Lassiter ordered, and, miraculously, Shawn did as asked. Lassiter studied him carefully, looking for any sign of deception, or any hint that he was being laughed at, but Shawn's gaze was steady and earnest, and Lassiter felt a flutter of hope in his gut, the kind he usually crushed. "So, what are you saying Spencer? Are you...are you serious about this?"

"Well, yeah. How slutty do you think I am? I'm a people pleaser, yes, but that doesn't mean that I please all of the people all of the time. You can ask anybody down at the station, I've never had sex in any of their kitchens before. I mean, except for Gus's, but that wasn't with Gus, and you probably shouldn't tell him that I said that, he doesn't know and it was more than a year ago anyway, so disinfecting the table now would be pointless, but—"

He stopped talking abruptly as Lassiter reached up and put his hand against his face. "Spencer," he said gently, and Shawn blinked, his eyes wide and stunned.

"I wanted it to be the start of something between us," Shawn finally confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry I fucked it up."He cleared his throat, a warm glow of courage rising in him as Lassiter's eyes lit up at his words. "Okay Lassie, I told you the truth about something. Your turn. Or if you don't want to tell a truth, maybe you can do a dare."

Lassiter's head was reeling with the enormity of Shawn's words, so much so that it was almost too much to take it all in, especially with the heat and weight of Shawn still so close, his hand still against Shawn's face. He opened his mouth to speak, but he had no idea what the right words would be. So he opted for the dare instead, sliding his hand into Shawn's hair and pulling him down for a kiss.

Lassiter had always imagined that kissing Shawn—really kissing him, not near-death-scenario kissing him—would be like so many of their past encounters: aggressive, combative, competitive. He hadn't imagined this, Shawn's hands lightly touching his face, his shoulders, his chest, the sweet pressure of mouth against mouth, the way Shawn squirmed closer when Lassiter dared to lick into his mouth. When Lassiter finally broke the kiss, he pulled back to find Shawn watching him with dazed, lust-darkened eyes, his fists gripping the lapels of Lassiter's shirt tightly.

"Does that answer your question?" Lassiter asked, his voice low and hoarse.

"Did I ask a question?" Shawn wondered.

"I don't remember," Lassiter admitted, "I—"

Shawn kissed him again, pressing against him now so that Lassiter could feel how hard he was, and it occurred to him that there was one more thing he owed Shawn. He slipped his hands under the hem of Shawn's shirt, savoring the feeling of warm, firm skin and Shawn moaned softly into his mouth, his own hand tugging at the buttons of Lassiter's shirt. Before he had unbuttoned more than three buttons though, he drew back to look at Lassiter.

"We're on the same page here, right? We can slow down if you want to. I don't want you to think that I'm only after you for your body."

His tone was teasing, but Lassiter could sense the real anxiety behind the words, and he couldn't really blame Shawn for being wary, since the last time he had gotten this close it had ended so badly. In response, he reached for the waistband of Shawn's jeans, popping the button and toying with the zipper.

"I don't know, Spencer, is this the page you're on?"

Shawn's eyes were comically wide. "Chapter and verse," he assured Lassiter, reaching again for the buttons of his shirt with shaking hands. "You need to wear simpler clothes," he grumbled.

"Buttons are too complicated for you now?" Lassiter asked, as his heart thud thud thudded at the way Shawn's eyes were raking over the skin being exposed as he pushed the white dress shirt open. Not fair, he decided, and yanked Shawn's own shirt up over his head, and now he had a half-naked Shawn in his lap, disheveled and flushed with arousal. Lassiter's mouth went dry at the sight.

"I always knew you wanted to rip my clothes off," Shawn smirked. Lassiter didn't answer, just ran a hand up Shawn's chest and and tweaked one flat brown nipple, making Shawn draw in a sharp breath. Shawn leaned forward and kissed him again, more insistently than before, and Lassiter returned to the zipper he had abandoned earlier, pushing it down. Shawn's mouth moved to his jaw, then to the soft skin beneath his ear, and Lassiter bit back a groan because even his wildest fantasies (and he'd had some pretty wild fantasies) were no match for a living, breathing, eager Shawn Spencer who wanted him.

"Maybe we should move this to the bedroom," Shawn said in his ear, before dropping his mouth to suck at Lassiter's neck.

"Later," Lassiter promised, as he finally got his hand in Shawn's pants, pushing his shorts aside so that he could rub his palm across the head of Shawn's cock.

"Fffffuck," Shawn hissed, thrusting up in hopes of more contact. Lassiter didn't disappoint, wrapping a hand around him, using slow, even strokes to drive him crazy. He kept his eyes on Shawn's face while he worked, watching how Shawn bit his lip when Lassiter gently squeezed, how his eyelashes fluttered shut when he concentrated on the head, how he squirmed with pleasure when Lassiter used the pre-come spilling out of him to slick his hand up and down again and again.

When Shawn did open his eyes again, they were wild with desperation. "Lassie," he whispered, and Lassiter felt a surge of emotions so complex that he couldn't possibly parse them all run through him—desire and frustration and affection and power and protectiveness—all of it so overwhelming that he almost thought he might come too, just from bringing Shawn to the edge.

"Come on, Spencer," he urged softly, digging his thumb under the ridge at the top of the shaft, and that, along with the sound of Lassiter's voice saying his name, seemed to be what Shawn needed to tip him over into orgasm. Afterwards, he sagged against Lassiter, watching through half-lidded eyes as Lassiter wiped them both clean with Shawn's discarded shirt.

"Now what am I going to wear home?" he asked, not sounding particularly concerned.

Lassiter shrugged; he felt strangely content despite the fact that he was so hard that he was aching. "We can throw it in the wash before you leave," he said, before it occurred to him that maybe Shawn wanted to leave now, or as soon as he got past his post-orgasm blissed-out phase. "Or you can wear one of mine if you're in a hurry," he added in a rush.

"I'm in no hurry," Shawn said through a yawn.

Lassiter barely noticed. "I guess we're even now," he said, and felt Shawn stiffen against him.

"Is that what this is?" Shawn asked, moving carefully off of Lassiter's lap to sit down beside him, straightening his boxers as he did, then zipping his jeans back up.

"No!" Lassiter protested immediately. "Not to me, anyway." He sighed. "I'm sorry. I should never have said that. I'm terrible at this."

Shawn relaxed enough to laugh. "Yeah, well, me too, in case you hadn't noticed."

"If we do this for real, it's going to be a lot of work," Lassiter warned him. "I'm not the easiest person to be with, as my ex-wife will attest. She would tell you that I'm closed-off and overprotective and bad-tempered and a workaholic and—"

Shawn cut him off by leaning over and putting a hand over his mouth. "And cranky before your morning sugar-and-coffee infusion, and suspicious, and ridiculously competitive…you think I don't know all your faults already, Lassie? I've spent the last few years making a comprehensive study of you. If there were a Jeopardy! category about you, I would sweep the category and get both of the Daily Doubles."

Lassiter removed Shawn's hand from his mouth. "Both Daily Doubles would never be in the same category, Spencer," he said, but a reluctant smile was tugging at his lips, and some of the tension eased out of him.

"Anyway," Shawn continued, "if this thing falls apart, it will probably be my fault, not yours. I've been accused by some of being sliiiiightly immature."

Lassiter nodded, taking Shawn's hand because he could now and running his fingers across the palm, feeling Shawn shiver in response to the light touch. "Yes, I believe I'm the one who said that, only I used the word 'completely,' not the word 'slightly'."

"And you, at least, have done the whole serious relationship thing before. I have trouble committing to an entire season of a TV show.

Lassiter paused, turning to look fully at Shawn. "Is that what we're talking about here? A serious relationship?"

Shawn squirmed at the question, clearly uncomfortable. "I'm not a big fan of the 'r' word. It makes me itchy. Maybe we could call it something else? Like…Fred."

"Fred?" Lassiter echoed, confused, his heart sinking. He thinks this is a joke, the persistently negative voice in the back of his mind whispered.

"Yeah, Fred," Shawn said, nodding vigorously. "It's a friendly, open name. See, it even starts the same way the word 'friend' does! You want to hang out with Fred, spend time with him. Fred's a good guy, lots of fun, someone you can trust, someone you can believe in. Surprisingly sexy and adventurous, but also dependable."

Lassiter sighed and pulled his hand away from Shawn's so that he could rub at his suddenly aching head. "Spencer, are you seeing someone named Fred?"

"What? No! Noooooo. Lassie, if this Fred is going to work, you're going to have to trust me a little bit," Shawn said earnestly. "And you also have to laugh at my jokes sometimes."

Some of the tension in Lassiter's gut eased; Spencer was right, and the thing was, he did trust him in a lot of ways already. Believing that Shawn actually wanted to be with him, in a way that wasn't just about sex or pity or a misplaced sense of gratitude…that was what he had a hard time trusting. But it meant something that Shawn was still there, even attempting to have this conversation, when Lassiter had some idea of how hard it was for him to reveal anything beyond his usual glibness.

"But only sometimes, right?" he asked, and was rewarded with an appreciative grin from Shawn.

"Hey, I am hilarious," Shawn said. "I made Gus laugh so hard at lunch that he shot milk out of his nose, and that wasn't just in third grade, that was yesterday."

Lassiter wrinkled his own nose in disgust. "Thanks for that image. I think you just killed whatever mood was left."

"I can bring it back to life," Shawn said, pulling Lassiter down to kiss him again. After a few minutes, Lassiter put a hand to gently push him away. It wasn't that he wanted to stop, but…

"I know you're still lying to me about being psychic," he said quietly, and Shawn immediately shut down, backing off so that they weren't touching anymore, which wasn't what Lassiter wanted at all, so he went after him, reaching out to pull him close again. "Look, I'm just saying that if this…Fred…is going to actually be something, then you're going to have to tell me about it sometime soon. It doesn't have to be tonight."

Shawn seemed to consider this before nodding and looking up at Lassiter with a wobbly smile. "Yeah, okay, that's fair. Maybe there's another game of truth or dare in our future."

There had been a time, not long ago at all, that this kind of tacit confession from Shawn would have made Lassiter feel both furious and triumphant, but now that it's happened, he finds that he's mostly just relieved that Shawn isn't trying to deny the truth. He would like to think that he's not being swayed by his feelings, and he'd like even more to believe that the memory of Shawn's dick twitching in his hand or the fact that even now, when he's been so intent of having a serious discussion the fact that his eyes keep darting to Shawn's bare chest and broad shoulders has no influence on him, but he knows he's probably kidding himself.

Speaking of…he finds himself staring at Shawn's chest again, unconsciously licking his lips, and raises his eyes to see that Shawn is watching him, his own gaze hazy with want.

"Lassie, if we're done with the serious conversation part of the night, will you please take me to bed now?"

"Yeah," Lassiter said, nearly falling over himself in his eagerness to get to his feet, "I can do that."

They crashed into the bedroom together, Shawn reveling in how he could finally touch Lassiter as much as he wanted, pulling the remainder of their clothes off and sinking into the mattress with Lassie on top of him. It was better than pineapple upside down cake with whipped cream and extra cherries on top, a claim that Shawn did not make lightly.

And after that…somehow, even Lassiter having to disentangle himself long enough to hunt down condoms and lube in the bathroom cabinet had been sexy. Maybe it was the anticipation, Shawn waiting on the bed, trying to calm himself down enough that he wouldn't come the instant Lassie touched him again. Normally, that wouldn't have been a problem given the fact that he'd already come once within the past hour, but being with Lassie made him feel like an overexcited fifteen year old.

Maybe Lassie felt the same way, because when he came to the bed he dropped the tube of lubricant on the pillow next to him and reached for Shawn, kissing him frantically as he rubbed against him, his cock leaving a sticky trail on Shawn's hip. He felt something being pressed into his hand and looked to see that Lassiter had given him the condom.

"That's for you to use," Lassiter said, and Shawn's expectations of the night flipped. It didn't actually matter to him—he wanted to do everything with Lassie, and possibly invent some new things as well, but he had assumed that Lassiter's trust issues meant that Shawn would be on the receiving end of things. Well, you know what they say about assuming, he thought giddily. It means me get some ass.

"Are you sure?" Shawn asked. He still hadn't figured out Lassie's dude-on-dude experience level; he seemed comfortable enough with Shawn's man parts, but there was a difference between a hand job and, well, giving it all up. "Have you done this before?"

Lassiter frowned at him. "Don't patronize me, Spencer. And besides," he said, his expression softening, "I trust you. I do."

Shawn pushed him back onto the bed and clambered on top of him, needing to be touching him as much as possible, and tasting him too. He licked at the long column of Lassie's throat, bit at his stiff pink nipples, drawing a hoarse, shocked sound from Lassiter, then leaned down to suck at his hard, heavy cock, wanting it, him, so much that he almost passed the condom back to Lassie.

But no, Lassiter wanted Shawn to fuck him, and Shawn was fully on board with that plan.

"Roll over," he said, his voice so throaty and low that he barely recognized it as his own, and Lassiter stilled, looking at him through wide, unblinking blue eyes. There was an internal battle brewing there, and Shawn knew it had to do with trust and with Lassiter's unwillingness to make himself vulnerable to anyone, no matter what he might offer in the heat of the moment. Shawn's first inclination was to babble, reassure, give Lassiter the option of changing his mind, but some deeper instinct told him to remain silent, to let Lassiter come to this decision on his own. After what was probably only a few seconds, but felt like eons to Shawn, Lassiter gave a little nod of acquiescence and rolled over onto his stomach, and Shawn thought he might start hyperventilating with lust. But alongside the lust bloomed a scary feeling of responsibility: if Lassiter was going to trust him, then it meant that Shawn had to prove himself worthy of that trust.

He pushed that realization aside for later and leaned down to press his mouth against the nape of Lassiter's neck, licking the sweat that had gathered at the base of the hairline before turning his head slightly to whisper in Lassie's ear. "This is going to be so, so good, Lassie, I promise. You're not going to regret it."

Lassiter's only response was a soft sigh, but some of the tension in his shoulders relaxed as Shawn dotted kisses there, spreading his hands against the smooth, pale expanse of skin before licking down his spine, drawing a raspy moan from Lassie.

"Your ass is a masterpiece," Shawn said reverently, not caring how ridiculous it might sound, and Lassiter made a scoffing sound of disbelief. It was true, though; he jogged regularly, Shawn knew, and probably swam also, and it showed off in the muscles of his glutes and thighs.

"Seriously Lass, you could build a whole religion around it." To prove his devotion Shawn ran his tongue up the cleft once and then again and again in quick succession, not deeply, but even so Lassiter's hips jerked like he had been electrocuted.

"Shaaawn!" It came out a strangled, scandalized groan, and a feral grin spread across Shawn's face at how satisfying, how powerful, it felt to make Lassie lose control. He nipped hard at the fleshiest part of the ass, wanting to leave a mark that only he could see, and Lassiter groaned again, grinding against the sheets.

"Spencer," Lassiter snarled, his voice rough with need, "if you don't fuck me right the fuck now, I'm going to arrest you."

"On what charges?" Shawn wondered, as he reached for the lube with hands that were shaking, not so much with nerves anymore as with want.

"Uhh, Section 186.9 of the penal code," Lassie said.

"That's money laundering," Shawn pointed out, rubbing the ointment between his fingers so it would be warm.

"How do you know…oh god," he gasped, as Shawn invaded him with one blunt finger, slicking him down, fighting for his own control at how tight and hot and perfect Lassiter felt around him. He knew when he had found exactly the right spot when Lassie suddenly gasped, his whole body quaking with pleasure.

He tried to go slow, to take his time and be careful and do it right, but Lassiter's hips were rising to meet every thrust of his fingers, and Shawn was frantic to get inside of him. He tore the condom packet open and rolled it on, taking the opportunity to squeeze his own cock tight around the base, hoping that he wouldn't come too fast and disappoint Lassie.

He took Lassiter inch by careful inch, pausing whenever he felt Lassie tensing up at the invasion, coaxing him with flowery compliments and soft kisses along his spine, trying not to get so absorbed in how goddamn amazing it felt to be inside him that he lost track of how Lassie was feeling, until finally he was as deep as he could possibly be. He pressed his face against Lassiter's sweat-soaked back for a moment, hearing his own panting breaths and Lassie's heartbeat.

"Shawn? Are you…is everything okay?" Lassiter asked, sounding ragged and wobbly but somehow still concerned.

Shawn choked back a laugh. "Okay? Sweet Mary Kate and Ashley, everything is perfect, Lass." He pulled Lassiter's hips up so that he could get a hand around Lassie's cock, stroking him back to hardness. "What about you? How are you doing?"

Lassiter's only response was a moan, probably because Shawn was rubbing his palm over the head of his dick.

After that, Shawn fucked him slowly, or as slowly as he could, listening as Lassie's harsh little "uh uh uh"s at each thrust turned into him gasping "fuck, fuck, fuck, Shawn," when he found exactly the right angle. He let himself speed up then, starbursts of pleasure radiating along his nerves at the push and pull of their bodies until he felt the spill of hot liquid over the hand squeezing Lassie's cock. He gave up on the tiny amount of control he was still clinging to, collapsing on to Lassie's back after he came, his mind blissfully, perfectly clear.

Shawn woke up to the unfamiliar feeling of an arm draped around his middle and Lassiter's forehead pressed against his shoulder. He couldn't quite see the clock, but judging from the grayish light coming in through the blinds, it was right before dawn. He kind of needed to pee, but he didn't want to disturb Lassie, who, judging from the deep, even breaths he was taking, was still sound asleep.

Well, to be fair, Shawn had done his best to exhaust him.

He closed his eyes again, because he had exhausted himself, too. In the quiet of the morning, he was able to replay his memories of the night before, to make note of the things that he knew now that he hadn't known ten hours earlier, when he had knocked on Lassie's door. Like the way Lassiter's big hand had felt wrapped around his cock, or the sounds Lassie made when he was being fucked hard, or the way that being with him made Shawn feel like the best possible version of himself.

Warm and content, he drifted. When he opened his eyes again, he found that Lassiter was watching him.

"I was starting to wonder if you were ever going to wake up," Lassiter said. "I have to start getting ready for work soon."

It seemed impossible that Lassie was going to leave this bed and go back to the mundane reality of filing paperwork and typing reports until he was allowed out into the field again. That thought reminded him of the reason that Lassie was stuck working behind a desk in the first place, and he reached over and pushed the sheet away so that he could see the place where Lassie had been shot. It looked much better than it had the night that he had helped bandage it, but there was always going to be a scar. A lifelong reminder of how they had both screwed up that day.

"Does it still hurt?" he asked curiously.

Lassiter gave a little shrug. "Not so much. It still aches a bit sometimes. A twinge every now and then."

Shawn bent his head to kiss the scar gently, feeling Lassiter ruffle his hair as he did. "I'm not sorry it happened," Lassiter said.

"No?" Shawn asked, looking back up at him.

"Would we be here if it hadn't?"

Shawn had to agree with that, but he still deeply regretted that he had played any part in Lassiter being hurt. Looking back into the fathomless blue of Lassie's eyes, he did his best to shake off the fear that always crept over him when he thought about Lassiter getting shot.

As if sensing his mood, Lassiter shoved the bedclothes off of him and stood up, immediately distracting Shawn with all that glorious nudity.

"Come on, get up," Lassiter said. "I'm in the mood for waffles, and I think I have a fresh pineapple in the kitchen. I need to take a shower first, though. You're welcome to join me if you like."

He turned purposefully towards the bathroom, and Shawn paused long enough to get an eyeful of his new favorite body part, marred only by the love bite Shawn had left there, before bounding out of bed to follow Lassie.

"You know," he said as he caught up to him, smirking at Lassie's startled yelp as he grabbed a handful of that perfect ass and gave it a friendly squeeze, "I think this Fred is going to work out just fine."