rispacooper (rispacooper) wrote,

Fic, Psych, Promiscuous, Shawn/male character, R, slash

Title: Promiscuous
Author: Rispacooper
Rating: R, definitely Adults Only
Warnings: drunkenness, sluttiness, and language
Summary: Um, set after the first season episode, “Cloudy, Chance of Murder”
Shawn’s at a bar, drinking, and totally off his game because of what happened in that episode.
Pairing: Um…it’s kind of Shawn/everybody in one sense. But technically it’s Shawn/Male Character (and in my head it’s always Shawn/Lassiter).
Disclaimer: not mine, blah blah. I could never write anything so funny. :)

AN: I knew I’d turn a cute, funny light show into dark angst. I can’t help it. Weird fic that possessed me yesterday, so, yeah...I just *have* to make everyone screwed up.





The music is too loud. Of course, all bars play their music too loud. Shawn could easily testify to this universal fact; from the bar at Club Med, to that saloony-pub thing with all the cowboys in Maine—which, by the way, weird—to Studio 55 on the Lower East Side; it didn’t matter how upscale or wannabe disco sleazy the place was trying to be, once the sun went down the music was always turned up just enough to make real conversation impossible. Saying this is like acknowledging that it was Paul’s ego that broke up the Beatles and not Yoko no matter how closely her singing voice resembles a starving cat’s, or that Gus will always be little girl scared of mummies and ghosts and Dracula, or that Shawn is never wrong, and that he will never, ever understand his father.

True, undeniable, and he likes it that way. Because if it’s universally true, than it’s also always there—just like Gus, just like his dad even, in a twisted and horrifying way that Shawn isn’t going to think about now or possibly ever if he can help it. And things that are always there are just…they are just always there, and Shawn likes his there to be there when he needs it, waiting for him whenever he came back from another trip and an old job.

Though of course he’s been at this place and this job for a while now, so maybe he’s there now too. Which is—yeah, also weird—and deserves to be shoved to back of his mind and stamped down with that little stamping, tamping thing in their new espresso machine for the office.

So he tries hard not to glare when the DJ, who is also a waiter and a bartender because Tom Blair’s wasn’t that big of a place, popped in the usual mix that he always put on around nine so he could go smoke in the alley behind the bar and grab something to eat before things start jumping.

Only because it was Friday and not a weeknight, he cranked up the volume a notch or two higher than usual, and it might not have been set to eleven, but Shawn feels the vibration echo through his chest cavity, bass pounding through him like an artificial heartbeat, drowning out the sound of his real one.

He turns his head to follow the DJ-slash-waiter—not Tom Blair, since, as it turns out, sadly, there is no Tom Blair, but some guy unfortunately named Chuck—as he leaves, his eyes tracking the bold blue flare of color on his shirt, some kind of Hawaiian nightmare, birds and flowers, tangled up in vines of fierce, penetrating blue.

Hibiscus maybe. If Shawn knew anything about flowers, he’d know that. He’d ask his father, but, yeah,no. He’s still unsettled from the courthouse that morning, his father offering to buy his bike back over his—okay, somewhat, partly legitimate—objections about his safety on a motorcycle. He settles for memorizing the pattern and watching the blue until it disappears around a corner. Then he swallows the last of his vodka and soda and sets down the glass, moving away from the college kid shouting about getting this party started.

Shawn thinks about correcting him, but when he takes a quick look, Chad over there is a six foot tall football playing frat boy with all the usual repressed frat boy issues and about three beers too many. Also he just cheated on his girlfriend and feels bad about it but he’s decided not to tell her.

In his younger days, Shawn would have looked for her, only too happy to pass the word along and be rebound-slash-revenge guy for a night. He thinks about hot, freaky monkey sex with a co-ed at least eight years younger than him, then thinks about the tears in her eyes and ends up just shaking his head, his vodka sitting heavy in his stomach. It’s somehow not as appealing as it might have been a few years ago, even six months ago. This could possibly be a sign of getting older, but that uncomfortable thought is something else to be tamped down and tamped down hard. When he takes a hot shower, all sorts of bad thoughts are going to be leaking down the drain, and for a second his brain is just busy following his bad thoughts-as-espresso metaphor through to the bitter and sort of gross end.

Then he shakes his head again and decides to skip espresso for a week and have more vodka instead.

He looks over again, watching Chad lean against his bro in a way that neither of them would ever think twice about until they saw two other guys do it. Shawn’s eyes widen, and then he really does move, his hands digging through his pockets just for something to do.

Handsome, hammered Chad is referencing a Pink song. The song that is actually playing is a badly remixed version of a Nelly Furtado song that Shawn was already sick of last year, even though the title had seemed so promising at first. There really was nothing like dance music that encouraged good girls to act naughty for a night. Putting on Beyonce or Britney generally saves Shawn a lot of talking; all he has to do is play along and pretend to not notice the sensible work shoes or the cross pendant hanging between their breasts that screams Looking for More. Just like they’ll ignore the wrinkled shirt and sneakers, or the manicured nails, or, just not see them at all.

There are three good girls already at a table, Shawn would say—glasses, bland suits, hair loose but with waves from being up all day—that they’re secretaries, but first, how cliché is that? And second, the proper term is executive assistants. They were here before he even got here, which means it’s a girls night but they’ve been telling themselves they don’t want to be out all night, not wanting to seem too desperate. Which means they are, in fact, desperate for a bad boy. Probably quite desperate, and he knows the feeling.

It would take two minutes to get any one of them. Ten for more than one. Of course, they might not be able to look each other in the face afterward, but that was hardly Shawn’s problem.

But the beat of the music is pushing him forward, away from them too, his eyes darting around from the doors to the back, noting shoes and purses and lipsticks shades. He’s drunk enough to be obviously looking, even if he doesn’t need the information, but it doesn’t matter. He’s always obviously looking and no one ever seems to notice, and he used to think people were smarter than that, quicker than that—back when he was eight—but most never call him on his staring.

Another waiter is wearing the same blue shirt, the same Hawaiian offense to both eyesight and human dignity and Shawn slides past him, knowing blue will linger behind his eyes when he closes them, like an afterimage of lightening, or the flashbulbs in that old movie Gus had made him watch, with the guy in the wheelchair and the hot blonde chick in the nightgown staring out the rear window all the time.

That actually makes him smile again the way he had when he’d first walked in here an hour ago. He lifts his head and takes another, longer look around the room, flashing a grin at the table of executive assistants, watching three different, lovely faces turn three different, lovely shades of pink.

This was why he had come here early, not really interested in watching Gus go through his closet for the right shirt to wear in here, though he knew Gus would be wearing something pale violet even if Gus hadn’t accepted this fact yet, and also not really interested in hearing Gus go on –again— about his junior high accelerated program in pre-law that had helped them win Hornstock’s case. Yes, Gus had been very impressive and useful, and yes, maybe Shawn couldn’t sit through an entire episode of Law & Order but that is hardly his fault—the first twenty minutes were always big, angry cops in shoulder holsters and the last half was nothing but women who never took their tops off. Then there was all that law talk; if he’d wanted to sit through that he would have gotten his Masters in Criminology.

And anyway that was yesterday. This is today and Gus needs to get over it already. He needs to get there. Everyone had agreed to meet there, and if Shawn was alone much longer, he was going to go for drink number three and meet himself some secretaries.

He narrows his eyes, noting the copier ink and toner that stain one set of hands, imagines himself laughing through the story and gently commiserating with her jerk of a boss who clearly doesn’t understand that fixing copiers wasn’t in her job description. The one in the middle looks pale and reaches into her bag for a pill. She could be getting a mint, but her drinks looks like plain soda water. She’s ill, or has been, and looking for something positive in her life.

The last one has a white band around one finger. Divorced, or trying to be, and where the hell is Gus? Everyone in Santa Barbara is in this bar, except the one person who should be there with him. It’s getting hot.

Shawn’s hands fumble over his ID, his money, his keys, lingering on the key to his motorcycle that he won’t need. He’d left his bike at home and walked here. It’s only a few blocks, which is better if he’s drinking anyway.

But even when walking it was all he could think about, how he can’t even look it anymore, how he hadn’t felt comfortable even riding it home, seeing his face in chrome so shiny it must have been polished. Polished, gleaming like some kind of award, except Shawn Spencer does not win awards. He chooses not to. He doesn’t want them, and he doesn’t need them cluttering things up, all his thanks should come in monetary—or sweaty, filthy, and mindblowingly erotic—form. He thought he’d made that clear by checking the “I Will Accept Sex as Payment” box that he’d drawn in himself on the SBPD payroll form.

He hadn’t done anything to get his bike back for him like that. Not anything that he couldn’t have done at eight or nine, not anything his father couldn’t have done. It wasn’t even really hard, so he didn’t need any gifts, didn’t need anybody wondering how to pay him back for something he could have done drunk off his ass with his hands tied behind his back. He had only done it for fun, to be on the inside of a trial, it wasn’t like he was crusading for the sake of sweet justice. That would make him like, some kind of hero, or cop, or hero-cop or something. Something he wasn’t.

He needs another drink. He spins on his heels and moves silently to the bar, sliding up alongside his old buddy Chad as he does, feeling the body next to him tighten at the unfamiliar contact. Shawn ignores him, smiling blindly at everyone, getting the bartender’s attention in about thirty seconds and leaving a nice tip with the bartender gives him lime instead of lemon.

Chad’s watching him and so Shawn looks up for the first time over his drink. This close he can see that Chad’s eyes are brown, and Shawn gives him the same meaningless smile he gives everyone before stepping back.

He lands on a shoe and digs out a different smile and an apology before he turns and sees Hornstock standing behind him. He glances around him quickly and sees Gus, at a table, a stunning chocolate vision in pale violet; Gus is staring at Shawn’s table of secretaries, considering and a little bit frightened.

It’s truly a dilemma—warn Gus off before he was devoured alive or direct Gus to the sickly one and see if Gus can make her feel better. But Gus probably wouldn’t listen to him anyway even if Shawn broke their 8th Grade pact to never interfere in each other’s love lives again—even if Shawn broke their 8th Grade pact by not openly interfering in Gus’ love life again.

Hornstock is waiting when Shawn directs his eyes back to him, leaning just a little too close, but the music is too loud and if he wants to be heard he’ll have to shout. His hair is still slicked back into something slightly less rebellious and his eyes are light. He’s got on a new tie, something inspired and costly, Shawn can pick out the weave of shiny, smooth fabric, the bold royal hues of midnight and aquamarine. If he reaches out to touch it, it will be silk so fine it won’t catch on his fingers. Hornstock is treating himself for winning the case.

Shawn looks back up with a bigger smile.

“H -stock, my man!” he greets him and watches the startled flush come and go on Hornstock’s fresh face. He’s like a kid in that suit, trying on one of his dad’s and as mean as the thought is, and totally unnecessary for such a nice kid as Hornstock, Shawn can’t help thinking it. Or continuing to call him a kid. He’s not sure when he got old, somewhere between this morning and drink number two. “Do you want a drink?” he offers and gulps down his vodka and soda before leaning back for another one.

“What you’re having,” Hornstock answers after a pause, and Shawn’s eyebrow arches up just like it did when they were in court and Hornstock made that significantly gay slip. Hornstock won’t notice, no one ever does, and Shawn slides into Chad, into Chad’s bro, holding up two fingers and winking at the bartender.

“I’ve never been here before,” Hornstock offers the moment Shawn is facing him and handing over his drink. It’s about half an inch from “Come here often?” but Hornstock doesn’t seem to make that connection. He takes a sip of a drink he probably won’t like and quickly hides his disgust at the bitter taste, as though Shawn isn’t going to see the tightening around his eyes, the momentary stillness as he makes the conscious effort to lie.

Pretending, not the kind of lie Shawn can exactly object to.

He smiles wider, vodka in his blood making it warm, his eyes bright. He wore green today, knowing it makes his eyes stand out as much as they can, that it looks good against his tan—so does pink, but after what Jules said the other day he just can’t do pink anymore. That had been a carefully planned fashion statement and now Juliet has ruined it. She wasn’t even supposed to notice the pink, Shawn whines to himself and not for the first time, she was supposed to only to see the whole fantastic picture.

He runs a hand through his hair. Hornstock’s eyes go up to watch and Shawn lets his fingers trail through hair he’d conditioned to stay tangle free no matter what he does to it; he doesn’t care what Gus says, it was worth the extra money for a cream rinse this nice.

His hair is damp from the heat in here and he smoothes it away from his face. Hornstock watches that too.

Five minutes, Shawn thinks, and takes another sip from his glass. Maybe less.

Hornstock’s gaze is still fixed on him with the grateful puppy look, hero-worship obvious in everything from him suit choice to the drink in his hand. And even if Shawn were interested, he couldn’t, not with someone like Hornstock—and Shawn can’t even remember his first name and that’s reason enough.

Gus would know. Gus isn’t the only one who would remember things like first names and scowl at Shawn for forgetting.

“You want to go join Gus?” he asks, shrugging away the effort of asking it at all. He looks away and sees that Juliet has joined Gus at the table. The secretaries are scowling, but Jules is bobbing her head to the music, oblivious to them, playing with the gold chain around her neck in a way that she has to know is distracting.

If she’s not careful, Gus is going to reach out and smooth back the tendrils of blonde hair that have fallen loose around her ears, letting his fingers brush against the soft skin of her cheek as he does.

She’s going to order something ridiculous and fruity, and then Gus will too, to be polite. Shawn drops his gaze to the flat heels of her shoes. She’ll stop at two drinks.

There doesn’t seem to be anybody else with her, and the mix melts into another song as Shawn closes his eyes and tries not to frown. He only calls it the sweetness to annoy Gus.

“I can’t believe how you guys helped me. You really saved my ass, you know.” Hornstock sidesteps his question, suddenly a competent lawyer if just for the moment. He takes another drink from his glass and hides his distaste better this time.

“Yeah,” Shawn agrees, putting a hand out when the room tilts, except there’s nothing there for him to hold on to but Hornstock. “We are awesome, aren’t we?” His fingers close over Hornstock’s tie, and it’s smooth, like money and privilege and power, and no matter how much Hornstock rightly believed in his client’s innocence, he hasn’t worked hard enough to earn a tie like that.

“Nice tie.” Shawn wrinkles it with another twist and lets it go, patting down the flat front of Hornstock’s chest, feeling the equally smooth fabric of his shirt, the empty jacket pocket. Little Hornstock, the black sheep of his lawyer family, desperate and off his game from just the smallest hint of praise.

Shawn—yes, no, yes—Shawn needs more vodka. He nods his head in agreement with himself.

“You said…” Hornstock starts, but finishes with a long drink from his glass, the ice pressing against his lips. His gaze meets Shawn’s and then flicks away, confused, embarrassed.

Two minutes, Shawn corrects himself. Two minutes and he might get what he’s been waiting for.

“Gus said bold colors. The purple works on him,” Hornstock shouts to be heard and then flinches from the sound of his own statement as though anyone around can hear him, or even cares what he says.

“It’s actually pale violet,” Shawn corrects him absently and Hornstock makes that face, the face he made back in court when something he suspected turned out to be true. It makes Shawn want to tell him he knows all the colors in the rainbow, even fuchsia, and to another man he might have, warm inside at the chance to swoon lazily against a stiff, silent body, laughing too hard when he would get shoved away for his trouble.

It wasn’t something men were supposed to do, anymore than they were supposed to flop on the floor like fish, or channel cats, or dislike camping.

And cops and lawyers, the manliest of men, they worked together sometimes, isn’t that what Gus had said? They were kind of the same thing. Law and order.

His heart kicks against his ribs.

“You look good.” Shawn looks him up and down appreciatively, the kind of look straight men won’t even see. Hornstock swallows obviously and Shawn’s mouth curves up into a sideways grin.

He looks to the front doors and then around at the matching doors of the bathrooms. The crowd is growing thicker, faces becoming indistinct, shiny with countless martinis and beers. Chad and his bro haven’t moved, their bodies hot and restless at his back, and the music is loud, Justin added to the mix now, all yellow bottles and licking lips.

Shawn runs his tongue along with mouth until he can’t taste the vodka anymore. The room is alive with people and Shawn can’t see any of them but Hornstock, can’t even tell one from the other. It’s sweeter than a pineapple smoothie.

He tosses his head back dramatically and swallows the last of his drink. The glass ends up somewhere around Chad’s elbow; it will wind up shattered on the floor in minutes but Shawn isn’t going to stop it. He can’t save everything even if he was the save everything type.

“I’m seeing something,” he closes his eyes for his vision, knowing that Hornstock won’t frown in irritation at his bad acting, that Hornstock won’t push him away for making a fool of himself again. Hornstock doesn’t think this is stupid, or look to him for logic, Hornstock doesn’t expect anything from him but this.

He opens his eyes and leans in, putting his mouth to Hornstock’s ear. The music is loud, thumping between them with quick, impatient beats.

“The single bathroom in the back by the bar,” he breathes, his eyes on the frightened rate of Hornstock’s pulse as he pulls back, the wet circle of his mouth.

“I. I don’t…I’m not…” He’s struggling, giving it up as easily as a first-time offender under even a halfway serious interrogation and Shawn wants to look away for thinking that, for wanting to put a hand against the other man’s lips to stop him from talking, saying words he’s heard or imagined too many times now.

If he had ever said them, well, no one had ever noticed.

He puts his hand back into his pocket instead, feeling past his keys to the condom he doesn’t think they’ll end up using. Then he takes Hornstock’s drink from him and finishes it, letting Hornstock watch him swallow.

Loud music drowns out doubts and good decisions, but it doesn’t hide the nervous glance around, the hesitation before Hornstock finally gives in to what he should have seen was inevitable from the moment he’d agreed to come to bar with them. It possibly went back even further than that, to needy looks and careless slips in the courtroom, or later, to the offer to buy Shawn’s bike back for him. But he hadn’t, no one had to buy anything, and Shawn’s teeth are sour and sticky with lime when Hornstock nods his head.

Shawn’s moving without even a last look for Chad. Through the crowds, in the back and mostly for employees, is the single restroom, hidden away so that only regulars and freakily observant people with eidetic memories know it’s there.

People could be watching them, could be watching the SBPD’s head psychic and Henry Spencer’s son heading to the bathroom with another man breathing fast and unevenly behind him. But people never notice what they should and Shawn is laughing, laughing into the startled face of a waiter in bright blue as he leaves the bathroom, swinging around to grab Hornstock by his too-smooth shirt and pulling lightly to bring him in.

He sets the mostly-empty glass down on the sink ledge and the music dulled enough by the closed door that the sound of glass on porcelain echoes between them.

Hornstock is directly in front of him, his back to the door that he hasn’t locked yet. He’d be reflected in the mirror if Shawn turned around to look, wide-eyed, flushed and panicky, but not panicky enough to leave.

Shawn knows that feeling too. Hornstock wants it even if he won’t say it out loud. Shawn’s not going to make him, but he could.

“You’ve got to lock the door, dude,” Shawn reminds him softly, pulling back easy though his voice is thick and his mouth is unbelievably dry. He puts his hands on the sink and holds tight because they’re shaking and he can’t have that, even if no one else will see it.

Hornstock’s eyes are pale, outclassed by his winner of a tie, but Shawn’s not here for his eyes, and there’s no real color that bright, not for him. Everything is pale, even the mix outside, shivering through the floor but leaving his heart alone.

He licks his lips and sweeps his gaze up when he hears the lock click into place.

Booze and soda are churning in his stomach, the fluorescent bulbs humming in the ceiling above them flickering and too bright. The third bulb from the left will need to be replaced soon. The water is still running in the toilet, and someone’s phone number is scratched on the towel dispenser. It’s actually the number of a pizza place, Shawn ate there once and didn’t like their linguica. He could make a bad sausage joke from that, but Hornstock won’t get it.

He falls to his knees more than he kneels, ruining hundred dollar jeans that he’ll have to replace tomorrow.

Hornstock falls against the door, his thighs shaking when Shawn runs his palms over them. He’s supposed to make a joke, he’s supposed to say something sexy at least, but his mouth is dry and his palms are still damp and he looks up to see that Hornstock has closed his eyes. His eyes flutter behind the lids, as though he’s dreaming, or imagining something else.

Someone else.

Some part of Shawn wants to talk in his girl-voice just to startle him into looking, but his eyes will be open soon enough, wide and innocent and just as hero-worshiping as before.

Men’s clothes are so simple. Shawn lets his fingers find buttons without looking, staring at the fine stripes in the dark blue of Hornstock’s pants. He’s breathing hard when the pants fall down to the kid’s ankles, revealing pale, hairy legs, plain, white boxers.

Shawn looks up at last, his hands moving on their own to push the ends of Hornstock’s shirt out of his way, to stare at the slight tent in the fabric. His cock is suddenly, painfully hard in a way it wasn’t at the thought of three hot, horny executive assistants and Shawn shifts without touching himself, easing back on his knees.

It’s easy again, it’s always easy. He could claim vodka-impairment but he knows he won’t until tomorrow, he just stretches his neck and opens his mouth giving the kid’s cock a brief suck through his boxers.

Something rough and shocked bursts out of the kid’s mouth, but Shawn’s not looking. The material is too dry against his tongue even if he can feel the twitch and swell of Hornstock’s dick against his lips.

He could make him come with his boxers still on. Shawn pictures it then shakes his head, his fingers following heat to slide open the boxers and pull his cock free.

Shawn shifts again, his jeans tight on his crotch. He doesn’t have a Super Smeller, but Hornstock’s aroused, they both are, and it’s hot and dirty and oh so wrong that Shawn wants this here.

Wrong to drag his fingernails across the kid’s balls, letting the fabric tease him while he ran a careful touch along the surprising length of his cock. He squeezes softly and runs his fingers along the thick vein, throbbing a frightened, turned on rhythm.

Shawn closes his eyes and licks the head. Hornstock gasps, squawking and pleading all at once. Shawn remembers that needy, desperate look in his eyes from the courtroom, magnifies it, grinning suddenly when he licks again, and the warm taste rushes inside him.

He puts one hand to the kid’s hip to steady him then pulls his other hand away, just for a moment to drag his mouth over smooth, hot skin, let it jerk against his tongue because Hornstock wasn’t expecting that but he liked it.

He brings his hand back to run his thumb along the head, underneath it, shuddering when that only makes him want to pop his thumb into his mouth to catch even that small drop of bitter flavor. It’s been over a year even if his mouth gets wet thinking about it.

His mouth is wet now, and he sucks Hornstock’s cock between his lips, his face hot to hear the sounds he is making, hungry little grunts that match in time with the hurried, eager bumps of Hornstock pushing against the door.

Anyone outside will know or guess what is happening in here, if they care to pay attention, if they are sharper than they should be. They shouldn’t, no one ever surprises Shawn, except for yesterday, for today, and he shouldn’t have. He shouldn’t have done it; Shawn didn’t need it, especially not from him.

He opens his eyes, catching the end of Hornstock’s tie as it sways back and forth, bold, pretty blue, soft as silk. He wants to wrap his fingers in it, tangled up like a blue vine, hot when it should be cold, at his shoulder, around his wrists. He can’t shake off the image even when he tries and squeezes his eyes closed again.

He wraps his hand around the shaft and goes briefly still when Hornstock’s fingers slide shyly into his hair. The touch is gentle, trembling with the effort of it, and Shawn wants to shake his head, shake them off. He kneels up instead, tightening his hold as he strokes, taking so much of Hornstock’s cock into his mouth he should be gagging.

Tears spring to his eyes, as salty as the taste swirling around his mouth, and Hornstock’s grip tightens, not nearly painful, but demanding Shawn continue in a way that even Hornstock’s little gasps can’t. His hands pull Shawn back, pumping in time to the dance music outside, and Shawn lets him, relaxing his lips, feeling them sore and full, slick with drool.

He knows what kind of picture he makes without looking and keeps his eyes closed when Hornstock’s hold grows more confident, the edge closer as he slides his fingers to the back of Shawn’s head. He’s the one moving now, crying out as he pushes into Shawn’s mouth, and Shawn drops a hand to his lap, grabbing hard at his dick, tearing buttons free to touch himself, his jeans soaked already.

Hornstock’s treating himself tonight, Shawn reminds himself, rubbing himself against his palm. Hornstock won the case and an innocent woman was freed. His hands aren’t shy anymore either, or gentle, but Shawn opens his mouth wider, stretching to take in more, letting his mouth be fucked.

“Please, yes,” Hornstock is talking to him, or to the ceiling. He doesn’t say his name, so Shawn can’t be sure. “Oh God, I’m gonna…” he doesn’t finish, doesn’t have to. Shawn open his eyes as Hornstock goes still, pulling back a little and then swallowing the sudden flood of heat.

Two bursts and his mouth is full, and he pulls back and lets some hit his cheek. He leaves it there while he finishes himself off, jerking off on the floor of a bathroom, come on his face. Hornstock is a trembling mess next to him, oblivious to how Shawn bites his lip as he comes.

He’s up and washing his hands before Hornstock moves. Shawn wipes his face with a paper towel before he looks up in the mirror and digs out another grin.

“Go Team Hornstock!” he teases, making a little “woo hoo!” the way Chad and his bro probably had after their first illicit blowjob, laughing off the sick fear and then shivering when the cold seeped in to replace the flush of booze and happiness.

The look Hornstock finally focuses enough to give him holds more terror than an experienced lawyer should ever show to anyone. Shawn lifts his eyebrows in what is really a fabulous—if underappreciated—show of innocence and acts like he doesn’t see it.

The downside of picking someone up in the span of only a few minutes is that it takes the exact same amount of time for their brains to start working again and send them running from the room. He wonders if Hornstock expects him to start making plans for them to see each other again.

“So…tomorrow night I’ve got ballet tickets…” he chirps out in a sing-song voice just to see the last traces of arousal leave Hornstock’s face. If he wants to keep him as a friend, he has to reassure him now, but for a moment he imagines something else, making a joke about moving in together, going up to Canada to get married, just to send Hornstock running for the hills too, never to return. It would be easier that way. There’s no need to act around someone who is never there.

It takes Shawn a second longer to realize that he didn’t consider leaving himself and that would stump him if he wasn’t so close to being smashed.

Shawn stops cleaning up to give Hornstock the most serious, adoring look he can manage only to burst out laughing a second later when Hornstock’s mouth opens in what would probably be the most awkward “let’s just be friends” speech ever, and that’s already a really, really, really, really awkward speech.

“Relax, dude,” Shawn waves his hand when Hornstock’s mouth closes, and bends over, keeping his face away from the mirror as he straightens his jeans. If he stopped laughing a little too abruptly, well…even Shawn’s heard it too many times by now.

“I’ve…”

“Got to go?” Shawn finishes for him, arching an eyebrow and then curving his mouth up when Hornstock forgets to blink. “Psychic, remember?” He points to his head and winks, not thinking about the uneasy mix in his stomach, the stains on his jeans, the way Hornstock’s breathing still hasn’t calmed down.

He just nods, letting him off the hook, keeping his gaze to the side when Hornstock remembers his pants are still around his ankles and bends down to get them. He tucks his shirt in as though that’s going to hide the wide-open, sexed up, anxious expression on his face.

The world is spinning and Shawn bends over the sink, putting his hands against the cold porcelain. He’s still too hot on the surface, dotted with sweat, his mouth thick and sticky in a way that would have him red-faced if he wasn’t already flushed from the vodka.

Adam. Hornstock’s first name is Adam.

“I’m fine,” he says when Hornstock moves, and Shawn could say everything Hornstock’s going to say before Hornstock could get the first word out. The effort is in not snapping at him that he doesn’t need to hear it. He makes the swirly psychic gesture at his head again and shrugs. “See you around.”

He waits until the door swings open and closed again before picking up the glass, swallowing everything in it but the fruit, letting vodka and soda and little bits of melted ice clear his throat.

He sets the glass back down right as the door swings open again and Lassiter freezes with his hand still on the door, blue eyes reflecting surprise in a mirror as bright as polished chrome. Shawn holds still, holds his breath for one solid moment, then turns around.

“Spencer?” the question is shocked, careful, before bold, sharp blue pours over him. Shawn looked in the mirror; he knows his exact appearance right now, from his dirty pants and the wet splashes on the bottom of his shirt, to his bruised mouth and wobbly stance. But he laughs softly, because at least if Hornstock messed up his hair, Lassiter won’t be able to tell the difference.

But Lassiter’s gaze travels slowly up and then goes once to the side, to the door, to where he had probably just seen Hornstock dash out. His eyes narrow and he gets that cute little line between his eyebrows that usually means he’s about to snap on some poor almost-unsuspecting psychic.

It would be foolish to provoke him. Shawn can barely breathe.

“Lassi-face!” Shawn greets him in a voice high enough to make himself wince, lifting one hand up and deciding a second later to suffer from the worst case of Broken Wrist Syndrome ever.

It’s unmistakable, as unmistakable as the flash of comprehension in Lassiter’s eyes, and the sudden twist to his lips, a disgust that Lassiter could hide, but won’t. Not from Shawn; he knows enough not to bother, or maybe he just doesn’t care.

He’s barely breathing either, standing frozen and awkward in the doorway, gangly limbs that would look ridiculous on the dance floor. He could never take Lassi to a wedding; he would look too silly doing the Chicken Dance, though Shawn’s almost willing to bet that Carlton Lassiter does a mean Electric Slide.

It’s not something he would ever ask in any case. He doesn’t need to dance with Lassiter, or press close and put his fingers over his mouth to keep him from talking, to feel every bitter, unsaid word vibrating against his hand. What he does need he is finally going to get after three days of something almost like respect.

Lassiter frowns, his fingers in a stranglehold on the door as he debates simply leaving or staying to yell at Shawn. The only part Shawn doesn’t know for sure would be whether Lassiter will yell about the two men screwing thing before he’ll yell about the public indecency, but Lassiter’s mouth tightens and he moves to the side with one hand still keeping the door open an inch or so as he averts his gaze.

Chuck must be busy, Shawn notices distantly, because the mix has started over.

He hears the song again, frowning, but Lassiter doesn’t speak, doesn’t even say one tiny little “Get out of my sight, Spencer,” or “What in the name of all that’s holy were you thinking, Spencer?” He’s just wasting his glare on the door. And Shawn’s left frowning, his skin itchy as his sweat dries. He puts a hand to his forehead, replaying the past few days moment by moment and still not seeing what’s changed that Lassiter would do it, why he’s so surprised now when he’s never wrong.

Lassi should be storming at him, he should have grabbed Shawn by his arm and shoved him from the room, or twisted it behind his back to whisper sweet threats into his ear. But Lassi’s trying to surprise him again, trying to pretend for his sake that he doesn’t know that Shawn has just fucked—been fucked by—another man in the bathroom of a bar.

He can’t think of words to form any. Not the right words, maybe not words at all, when none ever seem to upset Lassi as much as an invasion of his personal space.

Shawn stumbles forward before he can think about it, frowning when he splays his hand out over Lassiter’s chest and feels the hard lump of his holster and gun, the slight brown stain from spilled coffee—three creams, four sugars—that morning, the cheap, flat fabric of his tie catching on Shawn’s fingertips like it always does. Shawn wraps his hands in it and means to flutter his eyes, lets them drift closed too long when the tie seems to wrap itself around his wrist, pulling him closer.

“See you on Monday, Lassi,” he promises to be there without question, his voice rising in a drunken melody, his face burning with the heat so close to him. He wonders what Lassiter sees now that they are this close and his breath catches at the snarl that Lassiter gives him, how his eyes travel up and down and don’t miss a thing.

“Let go of me, Spencer,” Lassi warns him quietly and shuts his mouth hard when it looks like he might say something else. He breathes out then tries again, his voice incredibly soft. “I think your friends are waiting for you.”

His tie is blue, not even royal blue, but ordinary blue, and thin, a plain, thin line of blue too cheap for dye rich enough to match the incredible fury in the eyes suddenly on him again when he doesn’t move. And There, Shawn thinks, mesmerized, there it is, right where it’s supposed to be. It’s hatred, Shawn thinks with the same certainty, and Shawn is never wrong, not even when drunk, but the music sneaking inside isn’t loud enough to account for the heavy beat that echoes through his chest, pounding in his wrist against the fabric before he pulls himself free.

“You’d better be more careful around men’s rooms if you don’t want to end up like that cop who arrested George Michael,” Shawn blurts out, cracking a pleased smile when his words suddenly return, sliding out in easy rhythm. He’s got his hand on the door before Lassiter’s eyes turn that especially icy shade of glacial blue. “Too Nineties?” he wonders thoughtfully, pursing his lips, and feels Lassiter’s warm, strong hand pushing him away.

Tags: fic, psych, shassie, slash
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