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Lassiter Learns How to Bend	By : MsTeragram Category: M through R > Psych Views: 2237 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Psych, and I do not make any money from these writings.

Chapter List
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Shawn's doctor had told
him that he had a mild concussion as a result of the blows to the head Drimmer
had given him, and said that he might experience headaches, irritability and
lack of mental acuity. But the week since the Drimmer incident was turning out
to be one of his most perceptive ever. To begin with, head detective Lassiter,
who should have been basking in the glory of having taken down a dirty cop,
solved two murders, and saved the life of a valued police consultant, was
instead having a meltdown. And not the good kind.
Whenever he came into the
station lately, Lassie was watching him. It wasn't the kind of look that said
he knew Shawn had been stealing their pens (he had), or that he'd figured out
how his psychic powers worked. No, this look was different. It was slightly
fearful, which was completely out of character for Lassie.
The fear in Lassie's eyes
bothered Shawn. He genuinely liked Lassiter. Sure, the guy had been a pain in
the beginning, what with trying to arrest him, his territorial possessiveness
of the station, and his trying to get Shawn fired from every case. But he'd
solved a lot of cases for the department since then and he kind of thought
Lassiter liked him, at least a little. He'd certainly come to appreciate
Lassiter. Since that evening in Tom Blair's Pub where Lassie had admitted that
Shawn astounded him, he'd felt that they had reached an understanding. Lassie
recognized him as a real detective, even if he couldn't figure out how he did
it. For all his by-the-book attitude, inside he was a warm guy with a strong
character. Which was why Shawn knew that Lassie hadn't shot Chavez. That kind
of move wasn't in him. He was surprised that the Chief and O'Hara hadn't been
more certain since they worked with him every day. But then again he was used
to seeing more than other people did.
Sometimes his insight
extended even to himself. He accepted, for example, that he was attracted to
Lassiter. The detective had strong features, dreamy blue eyes and kept himself
in good physical condition. His ability with a gun wasn't exactly a turn-off
either. He was used to the odd unrequited man-crush, so it didn't bother him
that Lassiter wasn't feeling the love. When he'd returned his shirt, freshly
washed and folded, Shawn hadn't hung it with his other shirts. It smelled like
Lassiter's laundry detergent; he'd put it in his underwear drawer.
When Lassiter thought
Shawn wasn't looking at him his expression took on a distinctively guilty look.
Initially Shawn thought the detective was feeling bad that he hadn't prevented
Drimmer from hitting him with his gun and trying to kill him. Perhaps, he
thought, I haven't shown him how grateful I am that he saved
my life. Shawn brought him lunch, coffee and an almond
croissant, but the detective looked worse with each gift.
"So what's up with
Lassie," Shawn asked O'Hara over lunchtime Pad Thai. "He looks like
he's kidnapped the Lindberg baby."
"He's upset that
people would have believed the fake suicide note," O'Hara told him.
"But don't let on that I said anything."
"My lips are sealed.
Besides, I think you'd have figured it out, Jules." Shawn smiled
reassuringly at the junior detective.
"You do?"
"Sure. You know
Lassie couldn't have hidden our torrid affair from you. He's transparent
like...like...Wonder Woman's airplane."
"Thanks. I'd like to
think I'm perceptive, especially when it comes to my own partner. He's trying
not to show it, but he's pretty freaked out by Drimmer's idea to portray the
two of you as gay lovers."
"Really? I'd think
he'd be flattered. I mean, wouldn't it be more reasonable that I'd be with
someone like Buzz? He's young, he's friendly. He can carry heavy things."
Juliet laughed.
"You'd have no shot with McNab."
"You bitch!"
Shawn teased. "I totally would. Provided I could get him to understand
what I was suggesting. I admit, having to be that blunt is beneath my subtle
style of seduction, but I could sacrifice style in a pinch."
"You're many things,
Shawn, but subtle isn't one of them," O'Hara said as she led the way back
to the station.
And then there had been
the Cruickshanks case. A woman had been bludgeoned with a big red shoe. The
crime scene was reminiscent of the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, if the
government warehouse had been devoted exclusively to groceries. Lassiter had
been doodling in his notebook. Shawn had been working up to his big reveal that
the neighbour had done the deed. The neighbour's window looked right onto the
storage room. The storage room window had recently been opened, and someone
wearing a men's size ten had stepped onto the sill. Yet it was closed and
locked from the inside. Based on the empty bottle of wine in the recycling bin,
the hand marks on the dusty shelving, and the used condom in the trash, someone
had been having a steamy affair in this little storage area. Neighbour sees affair,
neighbour recognizes husband. Neighbour storms into store, husband flees
through window, lover closes and locks window after boyfriend. Neighbour kills
rival.
Neither Lassiter nor
O'Hara was clueing in to his use of the Wizard of Oz imagery, even after he'd
led them to the murder weapon, a ruby slipper—well, a red platform wedge
heel, which was close enough. Shawn had backed up to let O'Hara by with the
evidence only to discover Carlton somehow pinned behind him. At this point
Shawn didn't really notice much of anything other than Lassiter's body flush
against him, particularly since part of that body was jabbing him in the lower
back. Shawn had looked at Lassiter, slightly confused at first.
Was that about
Juliet, or was that about me? And if it was about me, what was Lassiter willing
to do about it?
Shawn increased the
amount he touched Lassiter, hoping to spur him into starting the conversation
they seemed to be on the brink of having. Lassiter had kept up the usual bluff
litany of "get away" and "stay off my desk." But the way
his eyes kept following Shawn around the room was suggesting that he didn't
want Shawn to go very far away. When he spotted Lassiter hunched over his
paperwork, a little ball of tension and stress, he'd strolled up behind him and
put his hands on the detective's rigid shoulders.
"You are so tense,
Lassie," he said, and started some basic massage movements. Lassiter
didn't object, and was actually starting to relax when suddenly his muscles
tensed again and he spun his chair to face Spencer. He was jumpy. He was
constantly looking around him, as if he expected to catch his co-workers
talking about him. Hello Paranoia!
Lassiter grabbed him by
his shirt collar and pulled him into a nook by the stairs. Shawn didn't think
they were about to have that talk he'd wanted.
"You just don't get
the message, do you Spencer?" Lassiter backed Shawn up against the wall
and leaned in. His close proximity seemed to belie his statements. "This
is my workplace," he said through gritted teeth. "I'm in a position
of authority here." Does that mean I could massage
you if we weren't at work? Shawn wondered. He smiled at the
possibility.
Lassiter embraced him and
body slammed him against the wall. It hurt, but was also strangely sexual,
given the charged energy between them.
"Leave. Me.
Alone." Lassiter gave Shawn a look that seemed at once angry and
desperately pleading. "Stop following me. Stop touching me. Just
stay...away." Lassiter slammed him a second time, catching the nerve in his
elbow and making his arm go slightly numb for a moment. Lassiter walked back to
his desk without bothering to look back.
Shawn watched, intrigued
that something had pushed the detective to this show of force. What
was really going on behind those heavy lids, Shawn wondered. And did
any of it mean that his crush might not be so unrequited after all?

"The Chief wants to
see you," O'Hara said. The look on her face suggested that Lassiter was
about to be informed that he was terminally ill. Great, Lassiter
thought, Maybe Spencer ratted on me for slamming him into
the wall. Or maybe Detective Ocampo from Internal Affairs has written his
report on the Drimmer shooting.
Lassiter knocked on Chief
Karen Vick's door as he entered. She looked up from some paperwork she'd been
reading.
"Come in Carlton.
Have a seat." She was using his first name, telling him she
wasn't just his boss, but a friend too. That didn't bode well.
"I don't anticipate
any problems with Internal Affairs resulting from the Drimmer situation."
"I'm glad to hear
that." Lassiter felt confused. If everything was fine, why
the 'poor you' face on O'Hara?
"We all are.
Congratulations."
"It was a joint
effort. Spencer distracted him, I just happened to have a gun."
"Apparently you had
several guns that our search failed to find." Vick smiled wryly.
"Nice work, Detective."
"Thanks."
Vick took a deep breath
and let it out slowly. Clearly, she wasn't done yet.
"This is in no way a
reflection on you, but given recent events I think you should take a few days
off. Days off in which you actually leave the station and don't return. Now
before you object, studies have shown—"
"I couldn't agree
more," Lassiter cut in. "I could use some time off to process what's
happened." And I could use some time to get a lid on this
libido issue, he thought.
"I'm glad to hear
you say that, Detective," Vick said, not bothering to hide the tone of
surprise in her voice.
"No problem."
Lassiter said. "I'll be back Monday morning with my head back in the
game."
"See you Monday
then. And not before. So help me, Carlton if you come in here before Monday I
will have you sent to Workaholics Anonymous."
"I won't even call
in for messages," Lassiter promised. Besides, he
reasoned, I can always check my email from home.
Lassiter didn't have many
friends, although he had a lot of acquaintances. Most of them were other cops.
Normally when he faced a serious dilemma he could count on John Fenich, former
chief of the SBPD, now retired. But while he could talk to Chief Fenich about
the job, his marriage, and his divorce, he didn't think the old man would be
particularly helpful on the subject of his homosexual attraction to an annoying
co-worker. He could almost hear him now, What the hell, Carlton? Are
you trying to flush your career down the shitter?
There were cops in the
department he'd heard were gay, but he couldn't just walk up to one of them and
start asking personal questions. What would he even say? I
hear you're gay. Can you reassure me that I'm not? He
was pretty sure that would get him a sexual harassment suit that would make
O'Hara's Muffingate debacle look like a walk in the park.
There was one person who
might understand, but he hadn't talked to him since his academy days. Lassiter
dug out his address book. Russell Santos had been out as gay in the academy and
now lived in San Francisco with his husband. Santos worked in the SFPD's
burglary unit. He knew what it was like to be a gay man in the force. More
importantly for Lassiter, their conversation was unlikely to get back to anyone
at the station in Santa Barbara. He punched in the numbers and took a deep
breath.
The next morning Lassiter
left his house at 10 a.m. and began winding his way along Garden St. to Highway
101. Six hours later, which had included a stop for lunch, he was pulling into
a parking lot across from the San Francisco Hilton, on O'Farrell Street. He
checked in and took a hot shower to relax his muscles, stiff from driving.
Dinner with Russell and his husband was at 7 p.m. He had time to kill. He lay
on the edge of the bed and turned on the television. The Sleuth channel was
playing NCIS.

"I can't believe you
talked me into this, Shawn." Gus pulled the blue Echo off Highway 101 and
onto Shoreline Boulevard.
"As I recall, you
were eager to go," Shawn said.
"You said it was for
a case." Gus was wearing his grey suit, pink shirt and maroon tie. He'd
chosen them to highlight his perfect skin, since he was prepared for a day of
promoting a new acne medication. Shawn, knowing they would both be sitting in a
car all day, had chosen a comfortable pair of jeans, cherry red shirt and a
black hoodie. The latter made the outfit a day-to-night look.
"It is for a case.
The Forty-Niners dolphin is missing and Lassiter has to find it."
"That's the plot to
Ace Ventura, Pet Detective."
"I don't think
so."
"Yes, it is. We
watched it just last week. And the Forty-Niners mascot isn't a dolphin, it's a
prospector named Sourdough Sam."
"It bothers me that
you know that," Shawn said.
"It's common
knowledge."
Shawn reflected, not for
the first time that Gus' idea of common knowledge was rather skewed. The Amish,
for example had likely never heard of Sourdough Sam.
"Okay, so it isn't a
missing dolphin. It's still a case."
"Really?"
"Sure. It's the case
of the vacationing workaholic. I don't think there's a fee in it, but think of
the personal satisfaction. Frank and Joe Hardy never got paid, you know."
"They were in high
school. They lived with their parents. I have rent to pay."
"Just enjoy the
drive."
"He's not even
taking the scenic route, Shawn." Gus settled into a silent funk from which
even Shawn's most enthusiastic prodding could not move him. True to his helpful
nature though, he didn't turn the car around.
They had tailed
Lassiter's Crown Vic for three hours before the detective stopped for lunch.
While Lassiter ate, Shawn and Gus remained in their car discretely parked at a
nearby gas station, dining on what they could buy from the gas bar's limited
snack selection. Shawn pulled a paper bag out of the glove compartment and
offered it to Gus.
"Gummy worm?"
"I'm not in the
mood." Gus turned his head and refused to look at him.
"They're not worm
favoured, you know," Shawn said, "They're gummy flavoured."
"Gummy isn't a
flavour."
When Lassiter pulled into
the parking lot across from the Hilton Gus circled the block.
"What's your plan
now, Columbo?" Gus asked. "Check into the room next door and drill a
hole so you can spy on him? Or maybe spend all night with your ear to a
drinking glass against the wall, listening to him watch pay per view?"
"I was thinking of
installing a listening device and a two-way mirror, maybe delivering some room
service while wearing a prosthetic face. But it's more a job for the Impossible
Mission Force than Columbo. I'll be Jim Phelps, you can be Barney
Collier."
"Barney's a
mechanical engineer. He's too damn smart to get sucked into your plan, as am I.
I have work to do, Shawn. Paid employment. Plus, I have a very long drive home,
which I have to do all by myself."
"I offered to take
turns driving,"
"I am not letting
you drive my car, Shawn."
"I'm an excellent
driver."
"Which one of us has
crashed his motorcycle twice in the past three years?" Shawn reluctantly
raised his hand. "I rest my case."
"You're right, Gus.
Let me out here and I'll tail Lassiter all by my lonesome."
"Fine by me. If I
leave now I can get back in time for bed. Thank-you for this lovely day,"
Gus said sarcastically. "The next time you want to tail someone for three
hundred miles you can take the bus."
"Okay, but I'm
keeping the gummy worms." Shawn stuffed the bag into his backpack, then
stepped out of the car. As the Echo drove away Shawn crossed the street and
entered the hotel.
"Hello, and welcome
to the Hilton." The clerk was a tall blonde woman in a dark blue suit
wearing a small gold nametag that said Marie.
"Thanks, Marie. I'm
Cassidy Stevens, staying at the Four Seasons for the model railroad convention.
I'm supposed to be setting up a Z scale model with Carlton Lassiter this
evening. Can you tell me if he's checked in yet?"
She checked her computer
registration system.
"Yes, he's already
arrived. Did you want me to call up to his room?"
"No no no. That's
not necessary. I've already started on the village and he can come by later to
set up the little people. He's more of a fan of the H0 scale trains, but I
think I'm winning him over to Z scale. I mean, H0 is so large, you may as well
own a real train, am I right?" Shawn smiled his most charming smile and
threw his arms wide, welcoming the clerk's trust and goodwill.
Marie laughed, whether at
or with him, Shawn wasn't sure. "Did you want to leave a message?"
"No, but I would
like to leave something for him if I may." Shawn handed her his small
black backpack. "Please be very careful with this, Marie. It contains our
entry for the Casey Jones 384 model contest. I think we have a good chance of winning
this year. Last year's winner is home with the Chattanooga flu. Just hold it
here until Lassiter calls for it."
"No problem,"
the clerk took the bag. "Good luck with your contest."
"Thanks. In the
meantime I'll take advantage of your lovely bar."
When Lassiter left the
hotel an hour later, wearing his charcoal suit, white shirt and blue spotted
tie, Shawn was behind him, tailing at a discrete distance and wishing he'd
thought to bring a disguise.

Russell Santos lived with
his husband, Eric in a two-storey pseudo-Victorian on Douglas Street, just west
of the Castro. Russ welcomed him in and accepted the Australian Cabernet-Merlot
that Lassiter had picked up on the way from the hotel. He looked pretty much as
he had at the academy; tall, fit and tanned, but his wavy dark hair now had
some streaks of grey coming in at the sides.
"Carlton, you
remember my husband, Eric." Coming from Russell it could be either a
statement or a question.
"Yes, of course.
Thanks for having me over." Eric was slightly shorter than Russell, with
close-cropped grey hair and glasses. He was an accountant, and he looked like
one.
Half way through the
pasta arrabbiata Russell decided to cut to the chase.
"You're not the only
cop in the room Carlton. What's up? Why are you here? And before you launch
into some lie, I know it's not just to touch base with an old friend."
"You are an old
friend. What's wrong with touching base?" Lassiter took a sip of wine. He
had thought about what he would say all the way up in the car, but none of it was
going as he'd hoped.
"We exchange cards
at Christmas. I have closer friends on Facebook." Russell looked at
Carlton with the unwavering stare he used on burglary suspects. "What
gives with your sudden interest in getting together?"
Carlton crammed a forkful
of pasta into his mouth to give himself time to think. The idea of visiting
Russ, which had seemed so logical in Santa Barbara suddenly felt completely
dim-witted and intrusive. Still, since he had made a fool of himself already,
he may as well reap whatever benefits there were to be had.
"Well, as you know,
Victoria and I aren't together anymore. And I've been working a lot, and lately
I've been having a�problem that I thought you could help me with."
"A work
problem?"
"Kind of. There's
this guy I work with—"
"Another cop?"
Russell cut in.
"No! No no no. He's
a consultant. He's annoying. He's an immature attention-seeking slacker. But
the chief thinks the sun shines out of his butt, and he's around a lot."
"And you want me to
tell you how to get rid of him?" Russell asked, confused.
"Can we let the man
finish a thought?" Eric asked his husband. Russell grunted an affirmative
and dug into his pasta, eyes still on Carlton.
"The problem isn't
just him," Lassiter explained. "It's me. Well, it's him too. He's
always grabbing me and calling me 'Lassie' and sitting on my desk and getting
in my personal space. One time he even sat in my lap." He was pretty sure
he sounded as ridiculous as he felt. He spoke faster, trying to get all the
words out before he changed his mind. "And now I think I'm attracted to
him."
Russell looked at
Lassiter with an expression somewhere between disbelief and horror. When he
didn't respond Lassiter continued.
"And I hoped that
you could help me figure out why I'm suddenly gay before I'm outed to the whole
station."
"Well, this isn't
what I expected," Eric said. He glanced from Russell to Lassiter and back
again, riveted. "We thought you wanted to borrow money or sell us Amway
products."
"You're not gay,
Carlton," Russell said. "Trust me, I ought to know."
"But how can you be
sure? I mean, this feels pretty real. I'm hyperaware of his presence in the
station, and a couple of times lately when he's initiated these physical
interactions, I've, uh, had to think about baseball."
"Being gay isn't
something that sneaks up on you, Carlton. You either are or you aren't. And
you're definitely not."
"That's a
relief." Lassiter leaned back in his chair and let out a breath he hadn't
realized he'd been holding in. "No offence, Russ, or to you Eric."
"None taken. I'm
relieved you're not gay too," Russell said.
"So what's going on
with Spenc—with this guy at work?" Lassiter asked. "If I'm not
gay why am I fixated on another man?"
"I don't know."
Russell ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "If I had to guess, you're
probably not ready to have a relationship with a woman so soon after the
divorce, but you're still a man with a sex drive, and this is your brain's way
of killing time until you're ready. It's a crush, just to keep your libido in
practice. You subconsciously chose someone you know is impossible. Hell, it
sounds like you don't even like the guy."
"Right."
Lassiter ran the idea over in his mind. What Russ said sounded logical, and it
did have the advantage of not turning the world as he knew it completely inside
out. "So I'm not just...turning gay?" He asked.
"You want to know
for sure how not gay you are, Carlton?"
Russell began, "Go to any gay bar in town."
"And what? Pick up
some guy?"
"Hell no,"
Russell laughed. "You'll know how ungay you are before anyone even talks
to you. Tell you what—if you actually dance with a guy, I'll give you
twenty bucks. Tell me all about it in this year's Christmas card and I'll mail
it to you."
"I don't really do dancing."
"Okay then...first
kiss. If you kiss a guy I owe you...$50. Seriously, it's not going to happen.
You'll know that you're not a friend of Dorothy within two minutes of entering
the bar."
Russell's words reminded
Lassiter of Spencer's Wizard of Oz routine, which he quickly pushed to the back
of his mind. I don't need the Wizard to give me a heart.
What exactly was Spencer implying?
"Don't walk into
just any bar," Eric said, bringing him out of his reverie. "They're
not all the same."
"That's for sure. Don't
go to Daddy's Bar," Russell said. "Unless you're in uniform, of
course. That might blend."
"Well don't go to
Lucky 13 or The Mix," said Eric. "They're dives. Go somewhere like
Twin Peaks."
"What's Twin Peaks
like?" Lassiter asked.
"It's like Cheers,
but filled with gay people over 50."
"The plus side is
there's no dancing." Russell said. "You can just sit and
observe."
"The upstairs is
nice," Eric said. "The women's washroom smells like cookies!"
"I won't be going in the women's washroom,"
Lassiter assured them. But I might go to the bar, he
added to himself.
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Lassiter Learns How to Bend