Author's Note: This is my first Psych fic, my first slash fic, and, let's be honest, my first real relationship fic at all. I never say no to flames, but what I'd most prefer is real comments. Hope you enjoy, and please review!

Clang!

Carlton Lassiter sat up immediately, instinctively reaching below his left arm where his shoulder holster usually hung. He grabbed for a moment, feeling nothing but bare flesh, then relaxed. Muttering, he fell back onto the pillow and pulled the blankets over his head, trying to ignore the noises coming from outside the room.

Carlton tried to fall back asleep; it was a Saturday, one of his few days off, and by God he was going to enjoy it! He took a deep breath and choked as his nose hit a patch of cloth that smelled strongly of pineapples. Coughing, he gave up on sleep and sat up, leaning against the headboard.

"Damn it, Spencer!" He muttered. It had been at least four days since the fake psychic had spilled the pineapple smoothie and he still hadn't gotten around to washing it. Carlton didn't even know what Shawn had been doing drinking a smoothie in bed in the first place. But that was Shawn: spontaneous to a fault.

It was that spontaneous air that most frustrated the detective. In the field, it was the most annoying thing he'd ever witnessed. Shawn would go gallivanting around, scaring witnesses, charming victims, taunting hardened criminals, basically shattering the police code as Carlton knew and respected it. In the bedroom, that impulsiveness was a Godsend and Carlton was never more excited than when he pulled some random thing out of one of the drawers. But the worst part was the mornings.

On ideal mornings Carlton would set his alarm to go off promptly at 6:45. Then he would take a quick shower, get dressed, eat breakfast, grab some coffee and be out the door in time to make it to the station right on time. What usually happened was that he'd spend an extra ten minutes trying to pry Shawn off him so he could get out of bed.

Mornings like these, Carlton would curse the younger man's random decisions with a passion. It was Saturday and he'd gotten to bed last night at 1 am due to a last minute bust. And now here he was, at seven in the morning on the day he should be able to sleep in, woken by the clanging of dishes in the kitchen.

Carlton sighed. Shawn was probably making one of his infinite pineapple recipes that no one but him (and occasionally Gus) could ever choke down. Sometimes Carlton didn't know why he stayed over at the fake psychic's apartment when his own home was neat and organized, quiet, clean, and above all didn't smell like four-day-old pineapple smoothie.

The sound of dishes being slammed and shattered in the kitchen ceased, and Carlton heard scuffling in the hallway. A moment later, the door to Shawn's bedroom opened quietly (Carlton had greased the hinges so he wouldn't be woken by the younger man's midnight snack runs) and Shawn shuffled in.

When he turned around, Carlton's eyes widened. Shawn was wearing one of the detective's shirts (he insisted that he liked the smell) and it was smeared with a gooey substance, stained with light red liquid and covered in pale powder. But Carlton was most surprised by what the fake psychic was carrying.

Shawn smiled. "Good morning, Lassie-face," he said quietly (for once). "I made your favorites."

Carlton adjusted himself on the uncomfortable mattress (he'd been pestering Shawn about getting a new one, to no avail) and Shawn gently rested the tray on his legs. The tray was heaped with blueberry pancakes covered in rich maple syrup, puffy scrambled eggs, still-sizzling strips of bacon, neatly cut orange slices and a mug of the coffee Carlton had hidden in the back a cupboard so Shawn wouldn't steal it.

Carlton smiled at his lover and pulled Shawn in for a quick kiss before digging into his breakfast. Sometimes, he decided, spontaneity isn't that bad.