A/N: I don't own the characters. I think I made up Anderson, but I can't guarantee that.

This is…by far the most explicit anything I've ever done. I had an idea and I went with it; let me know how it turned out.

Carlton Lassiter sat on a high stool, staring at the wall. It had been a rough, if rewarding, day at the station. He had brought in a serial rapist and two drug traffickers on one bust. Well, he'd brought in one of the drug traffickers. The two traffickers had brought the rapist into an abandoned warehouse to shoot him (apparently he'd victimized one's sister and the other's cousin), and Lassiter himself had taken out one of the traffickers. But bringing in one was better than none, and the other two were off the streets for good. Could it have gone better? Definitely. Was he sorry it had happened? Not overly.

And now he sat in Tom Blair's pub, drinking what he told himself would be his only beer of the night, staring at a wall and pretending he had left the look on the two dead men's faces in the morgue where they belonged. Lassiter let his mind wander, listening to the indistinct buzz of several conversations around him the way he did when he was trying not to focus. It was no good.

Leaving a few bills and an empty bottle on the table, Lassiter grabbed his jacket and walked outside. At first, he had thought he was on his way to the Crown Vic to drive home. But his feet had made other plans, it seemed. He was wandering around the back of the bar when it happened.

"I know what you are," Lassiter heard someone yell from the back of the lot. "You're a fake. You come in, and you do your little dance, and you make all us real cops look like we're sitting around with our thumbs up our asses. I wanna hear you say it, psychic! Tell me you're a fake!"

Well, that can only really mean one thing…. Lassiter rounded the corner to see an officer he recognized, Something Anderson (Mike, maybe?) standing with Shawn Spencer, who had allowed himself to be trapped by a corner of an alcove set into the building. "Anderson," Lassiter called out in a warning tone that the drunken officer mistook for a friendly greeting.

"Lassiter," the man called, clearly pleased to see a comrade in arms. "I was just having the best talk with your buddy the psychic, here," the man slurred. He was leaning over Spencer at a dangerous angle, his hand less than a foot from the young man's head.

The detective wanted to end the situation peacefully if at all possible. "I think it might be time for you to head home, Anderson," Lassiter told him, but the man was determined not to take the hint.

"Oh, come on, Lassiter! We're just having a little fun, right Spencer?" The man was practically shouting as he spun once more on Spencer. But then he was leering once more at Lassiter. "Come on, I've seen you with this clown. You want this more than I do." Anderson snapped as though he'd suddenly had an idea. "Say, detective, how about this? How about I let you pick? Do you want to hold him, or do you wanna do the hitting?"

"That's enough, Anderson," Lassiter warned, all subtlety gone from his tone. He could see true fear in Spencer's eyes, something he'd never seen there before, and he was hating every second of it. This wasn't how Spencer was supposed to be. He should have already talked his way out of the situation, and probably would have had Anderson been susceptible to any type of reason at the moment.

"You know, detective," Anderson started in a conspiratorial tone, cutting through Lassiter's thoughts, "we ain't on the clock right now. We may as well not even be cops right now, you and me."

Lassiter could feel his eyes light up, and he cast Shawn a look he hoped the younger man wouldn't misinterpret as he approached the pair. "You know something, Anderson? You're right. Thanks for reminding me." He came to a stop in front of Spencer, and if Lassiter had had any doubts about his chosen course of action, the lopsided, uncoordinated, ferocious grin Anderson gave him cleared them away.

The right hook was beautiful, and Anderson wouldn't have seen it coming if he had been sober, which was certainly not something anyone could have accused him of at the moment. Lassiter could feel the impact all the way up to his elbow, but he knew that was nothing compared to what was happening to Anderson's left eye right now.

Lassiter gathered the man up by the front of his shirt and leaned in to whisper darkly in the officer's ear, "Now you get the hell out of here before I follow your lead and forget that we're supposed to have ethics." As he released Anderson, Lassiter let one hand fall suggestively on the butt of the gun still resting in his shoulder holster.

As Anderson all but ran from the desolated area of the parking lot, Lassiter called after him, "And if I ever catch you harassing another civilian, you won't ever have to worry about being a cop again!" After assuring himself that Anderson wouldn't be coming back, Lassiter rounded on Spencer, who was now slumped against the brick wall of the bar.

The younger man smiled weakly up at the detective as he tried to gather himself up. "Thanks, Lassie. That guy…I thought…." Spencer shook his head, and that was when Lassiter noticed his shaking knees.

Lassiter debated what he should say next. He had never been good at comforting people; that was what he had O'Hara for. Eventually, he decided it would be better to play to his strengths. "Where's Guster? You shouldn't be out here alone."

Spencer was starting to regain his annoying bluster, and he took a step forward, patting Lassiter on the shoulder. "Come on, Lassie-face! I'm a big boy now; I get to go out on my own all the time! I just have to be home before sun-up."

Lassiter blinked. "He left when Anderson got involved, didn't he?"

Shawn put his hands up. "In his defense, he was little-girl scared, and I've never seen anyone run like that."

Lassiter shook his head. "I can't believe he ran off without you."

Spencer looked down at his feet for a moment, then looked up sheepishly at Lassiter. "Okay, so maybe the spirits told me something was up with Anderson, and maybe I sent Gus home early so he wouldn't have to be involved." Lassiter was more willing to accept this version of events, even if it did involve the spirit mumbo jumbo Spencer was constantly trying to force down his throat. "And maybe I lied to him and told him I had a ride home."

Lassiter glared down at Spencer, taking a step closer to the younger man. "So you let that drunken idiot back you into a corner, knowing what he was up to. Did the spirits tell you that would be a good idea?"

Shawn's face reddened slightly, and Lassiter was glad he had the sense to be embarrassed. "I tried to talk to him but…well, let's say he wasn't having it."

Lassiter had expected as much. He took another step forward, backing Shawn once more into the corner. He was angry with Spencer for being so careless, for allowing, walking into, what had almost happened. He leaned into Spencer the way he had with Anderson, growling low in his throat. "Look, Spencer, not everyone around the station loves you as much as you seem to think. You've pissed off a lot of people, and you need to be more careful." Done with his lecture, Lassiter turned back to the larger area of the parking lot. "Now come on."

Spencer's face brightened, but his eyes remained suspicious. "Where we going, Lassiefrass?"

Lassiter sighed, looking the younger man over. He'd made a decision, and he would stand by it. "My car. I'm taking you home."

Spencer smiled, but tried to argue nonetheless. Lassiter wondered when the last time he had done anything without an argument had been. "Lassie, I can call a cab…."

Lassiter quirked an eyebrow at Shawn. "Yeah, because I'm going to leave you alone out here after that. I said come on." He made sure his tone allowed for no further disagreement, and he watched with a mix of surprise and relief as Spencer obeyed. It was a nice feeling, actually being listened to for once.

As they sat in the car, an awkward silence stretched between them. Lassiter wanted to ask Shawn why he had left himself open to such an obvious attack, but he didn't want to be accused of sounding like the elder Spencer. He wanted to offer to give Shawn lessons in self-defense, but he didn't know how to approach a kind offer. All he really wanted was for the long moment to end, for Spencer to stop fidgeting in his passenger seat, for someone to break the silence. But that was what he had O'Hara for.

As Lassiter was beginning to wonder if this had been a good idea, Shawn started speaking. "You, uh…you didn't have to do that, you know."

Lassiter glanced over at the younger man, then his eyes were glued once more to the road. "Do what?"

Shawn shrugged. "Help me out back there. You didn't have to."

"Yes, I did. If I hadn't, you'd be trying to breathe out of your ears right now. It's my job to keep people safe, remember?"

"No, I mean, stepping in for me like that…it was really…it was nice." Shawn was smiling again, the way it should have been. "Thanks, Lassiepants."

"Don't mention it," Lassiter said, suddenly embarrassed. He scowled through the windshield. "I just…can't stand when people who are supposed to be officers of the law feel like they can walk all over civilians like that. We're supposed to be held to a higher standard, but so many of them try to put themselves above the law. No one is above the law."

Shawn looked over at him, one eyebrow raised. "That's…that's really honorable, Lassie." He was smiling again. "Soooooo…how many cops have you busted for picking on the little guy?"

Lassiter looked over at Spencer again, and the grin was almost contagious. "Everybody makes mistakes. Every officer in the precinct gets one chance to decide they won't be pulling that crap again."

"So you've scared the shit out of other people like you did Anderson tonight?" Spencer whistled low, clearly impressed.

"Well…not exactly. I didn't handle Anderson that well. I got…something about him just…it could have gone better." Lassiter tried to pretend that he hadn't just admitted to giving Spencer any sort of preferential treatment, but the younger man wouldn't make it easy on him.

"Why, detective, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were protecting my honor!" Shawn put a hand to his chest in a dramatic show of a gasp.

Lassiter glared, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. "He works with you. He should know better. And so should you. You need to start watching after yourself a little better, Spencer. There's no such thing as a singular occurrence. If this happened once, it could happen again. And I might not be there to save your ass next time." Lassiter shuddered just a little at the thought of what could happen the next time, and he only hoped that Spencer hadn't seen it.

Shawn scoffed a little, shaking his head. "Lassie, statistic. Only one person out of a hundred can resist my charms, and Anderson is that one. And you're two, which means I have another hundred and ninety-eight people to meet before I come across another guy who wants to hit me. And even when I do, you know you'll always be there to stop the bad guys. You're my big, strong knight in shining, polyester armor."

"It's a poly-cotton blend," Lassiter snapped instinctively. He sighed. "Spencer, what you do…helps, but—."

Spencer grinned devilishly over at the detective. "Did you just admit that I help?"

"That's not the point, Spencer. You can't help anybody if you end up getting beaten to death in a parking lot!" Lassiter shouted as he slid into a parking space and eased the Crown Vic into park. "Next time just…call me, or…don't let it happen again."

"You don't have to worry about me," Spencer said as he leaned forward to look out the windshield. He grinned as he looked around. "Nice place you got here, Lassie. You know, when you said you were taking me home, I almost thought you meant my home."

Lassiter glanced out the window, realizing his error, and felt his face flush. "I just…I guess…I mean, we were talking and I…."

Spencer smiled, taking too much joy from Lassiter's situation. "Hey, autopilot. Don't worry; it happens to the best of us. Now, how will I get myself home?" Shawn mused aloud. He looked over at Lassiter appraisingly. "You're clearly too tired to drive anymore tonight." He shook his head. "I could call Gus." He frowned. "Ooh, but I left my phone in the Blueberry." Shawn snapped his fingers. "I saw a bus stop about six blocks back. But the buses stopped running at midnight." He stroked his chin in mock thought. "Hmm…I guess I could just walk home. It's about 15 miles to my place from here; probably get there sometime tomorrow afternoon. But by then I'd need to be at the Psych office, which is another 10 miles; I'd get there tomorrow night. Then I'd have to wait for Gus to come in the next day to get my phone and my bike…."

Lassiter just shook his head. "Just…shut up and come on," he said, climbing the steps that would lead to his apartment. In seconds, Spencer was out of the car and inches behind him, following, as usual, just a bit too close.

Lassiter unlocked the door to his apartment, but somehow Spencer managed to squirm his way in first. As the detective flipped on the lights, he could see that the younger man was already going through his kitchen. "Spencer, what the hell are you doing?" The question was asked with more exhaustion than anger.

Shawn poked his head around the corner, and Lassiter heard his refrigerator open. "Duh, fighting makes me hungry," Spencer told him, rolling his eyes and ducking his head back into the fridge.

"You didn't fight anything," Lassiter mumbled.

"What's that Lassie? I should help myself to anything in the fridge? You gotta speak up, buddy!"

Lassiter sighed, leaving to find a blanket for Spencer. When he returned to his living room, blanket and pillow in hand, it was to find Spencer eating a sandwich comprised of what must have been more than half the contents of his kitchen. Before he could say anything on the subject, however, Spencer was talking to him around a mouthful of turkey, apple slices and cheese puffs Lassiter didn't remember buying.

"Aw, Lassie, you don't have to sleep on the couch! I'm sure there's room in your bed for both of us." He lowered his voice and waggled his eyebrows suggestively as he said, "That is, if you think you can keep your hands to yourself."

"Spencer," Lassiter growled.

Shawn put his hands in the air, dropping the sandwich onto the low table. "Okay, okay, even if you can't." He grinned lasciviously up at Lassiter.

"I'm not sleeping on the couch, Spencer," the detective began, only to be interrupted.

"Ooooooh!" Spencer squealed in his ridiculously high, girly voice.

"You are," Lassiter told him pointedly.

Spencer's shoulders slumped, and Lassiter almost felt bad about taking the wind out of his sails, not that any of it had been real. He was getting close to sick of Shawn's playful flirting. Especially considering how often he was tempted to buy into it.

"Awwww," Spencer said, crestfallen. "Are you sure?" He blinked up at Lassiter innocently, lower lip jutting out at an impossible angle.

Lassiter sighed, running his hand over his face. When he opened his eyes again, the playful look was gone from Spencer's eyes, replaced by something deeper. Against his better judgment, Lassiter allowed himself to sink down into the couch next to Spencer, allowed himself to relax for a moment in the presence of the other man.

Shawn looked over at him, and Lassiter could feel the warmth in the hand on his knee through the thin fabric of his pants. "Seriously, Lassie, thanks for sticking up for me."

Lassiter sighed again. "Not this again."

But Spencer wouldn't let it go. He turned in place to face Lassiter, his eyes still free of the laughter which so often dominated them. "I mean it, man. You risked a lot for me tonight."

The detective chuckled lightly, trying to play off the seriousness in Spencer's voice. "Not really. I can take Anderson."

But Shawn shook his head. "No, I mean…tomorrow, at the station. What are you going to do?"

Lassiter smiled, shrugging slightly. "Nothing. If Anderson tries to take this to the Chief, or file assault charges, well, then, I'll have to tell my side of the story, and he'll end up in an even worse situation than he is now. He'll keep his mouth shut because he screwed up and he knows it. In the morning, he'll just be glad he got a warning."

Shawn tried to grin as he looked into Lassiter's eyes. "Y'know, there was a second there…I almost thought you were gonna let him kick the crap out of me. Hell, I thought you were going to help."

Lassiter jumped in his seat, putting some space between them. "What?"

"Well, let's face it, Lassie; you've never been my biggest fan." Shawn smiled, and all the laughter was back in his eyes.

Lassiter stood, gesturing to the couch, throwing the pillow and blanket down. "You can sleep here tonight, and I'll give you a ride home on my way in to the station tomorrow," he told Spencer brusquely.

"Okay," Shawn said slowly as the detective turned to leave. "G'night, Lassie."

Lassiter knew it had been stupid to expect a real moment with Spencer, but he still couldn't stop kicking himself as he walked down the hall to his room.

Lassiter stared at his reflection in the mirror, more annoyed with himself than he had been in some time. If I'd let Spencer call a cab, if I'd driven him to the right damned house, if I'd just given him the couch and left…. Dammit, how does he get under my skin like this? Why do I keep letting this happen? He stared himself in the eye and realized he had no answer.

As he'd walked into his room, he'd shed the suit jacket, tie and pressed shirt on his bed alongside his holster. He stood now in his bathroom, removing his belt and trying to wriggle out of his socks without breaking eye contact with the mirror. You, he thought, pointing to himself, need to get your act together. This only happens because you keep letting it. So shape up, dammit. This last, he thought as he stepped out of his pants, only to hear a rustling behind him.

Spinning in place, he just caught Spencer's back fleeing from the scene. He grabbed a towel as he ran out of the bathroom, securing it around his waist. He still wore the boxers he'd had on, but that was no reason to be running around the apartment in them.

"Spencer!" Lassiter fumed, stomping into the living room to find Spencer curled up under the blanket he'd given the younger man no more than ten minutes ago. The ball of Spencer on his couch was clearly trying to hide, or pretend to be asleep, or just avoid Lassiter entirely, but the detective wasn't about to let that happen. He stepped forward, ripping the blanket off the younger man, only to find him in the fetal position in the T-shirt he'd been wearing and his boxers. Lassiter spotted the man's jeans tossed across a chair on the other side of the room. "What the hell, Spencer?" They were the only words Lassiter was capable of forming.

Spencer rolled over, whatever act he had planned on abandoned. "Look, I'm sorry, okay! I was coming down there to apologize for what I said, because it was stupid, and you're a better guy than that, and it made you mad, and it kinda ruined whatever moment we were having on the couch for a second. But then you were totally having a thing with the mirror, and I didn't want to interrupt, and then you were taking off your pants, and I definitely didn't want to interrupt, and you—."

"Wait, what?" Lassiter sometimes had trouble following Spencer when he started to talk so fast he didn't breathe. He had been following something about an apology, then Spencer had gone to a very strange place, and Lassiter was sure he had misheard something.

"I'm sorry, but I can't help it, Lassie! It's who I am! I see something I want, and I go after it. I know you're all about thinking and consequences and all the stupid, pain in the ass 'what ifs' that—."

"Something you want?" Carlton interrupted again, suspecting more and more that he was having some form of stroke. Either that or Spencer wasn't making any sense, which seemed just as likely.

Spencer's mouth just hung open for a moment. "Seriously? You're-you're serious right now? Am I not obvious enough? Have I-have I been too subtle? That's seriously not something I ever considered. Lassie, do you have any idea what I'm talking about right now?"

The detective was dumbstruck. "You-you want me?" Either Lassiter had been shot, and he was laying in a hospital bed somewhere in a medically-induced coma, or this had the potential to be the best night of his life. Honestly, as long as he didn't recover for a while, he didn't really care which it was.

Spencer was staring at him, shocked and a little amused. "Did you not know?"

"I thought…I thought that was just…flirting."

Shawn grinned, shaking his head. "Oh, Carly. What I do with Jules is just flirting. But you never see me groping her on the station floor, do you?"

Lassiter couldn't help the stupid grin he felt spreading across his face. "So…you're saying…."

"I'm saying I really don't want to sleep on this couch tonight. And I won't even ask you to keep your hands to yourself." Shawn winked, but the grin he shot Lassiter was all hunger and lust.

Lassiter dropped the hand that still held the towel and approached Spencer and his position on the couch. He thought for just a moment, because Spencer was right, and he could never not think about consequences, but he decided that this time, no matter what they might be, he just didn't care. After a brief moment, he dropped onto the couch, straddling Spencer. The look in the younger man's eye was pure desire, and Lassiter could feel himself responding to it, leaning in to finally claim Shawn as his own.

The next thing Lassiter knew, the hot breath on his face had been replaced by the soft lips on his own and the strong tongue probing his mouth. The kiss was deep and slow and passionate, and everything the detective had never allowed himself to want from the younger man. He could feel almost immediately how excited Shawn was getting, and before long Lassiter's hands were exploring the psychic's body.

Carlton's hands had slipped below Shawn's shirt and were now pushing it up. They separated briefly, Shawn giving a low moan at the loss of contact that only made Lassiter want him more. They panted, breathing deep while the shirt was removed, only to come crashing together again the instant it hit the floor.

Lassiter felt Shawn's hands running up and down his back, then one hand was buried in his hair. As Shawn dexterous fingers worked over every vertebrae in Lassiter's spine, Lassiter's hands dipped into the warm space beneath the waistband of Shawn's boxers. The skin his hands grazed was hot and soft and inviting, and, grabbing a firm hold on Shawn's ass, Lassiter stood.

Shawn whined again as he followed the detective up, losing the delicious friction in his lap, but Lassiter growled at him. "Bedroom," was all he could manage around the hot, fierce kisses he was sharing with Shawn.

The two almost fell walking down the hallway as Shawn wrapped one leg around Lassiter's waist, trying to regain some of the friction erection he'd had only moments ago against his throbbing, but Lassiter supported their weight as they made it through the door to his room.

Knowing the safety was on, Lassiter kicked the holster still holding his gun to the floor, pulling Shawn down onto the bed with him. With a second of effort, Shawn's boxers were a thing of the past, and Lassiter looked at him there, straining with the need and desire. The desire for Lassiter. It was more fantastic than he'd ever let himself imagine. With his mouth pressed against Shawn's ear, Lassiter whispered in a rough voice, "You're fucking gorgeous."

Lassiter felt Shawn kissing down his neck and moaned as Shawn's teeth sunk into the soft flesh of his shoulder. "Not fair," Shawn whispered, tugging at the waistband of Carlton's boxers. Lassiter captured Shawn's mouth in a fierce, searing kiss, pushing up into Shawn as he felt the other man tug once more on the thin, cotton undergarment. In a moment, Lassiter's sensitive skin was exposed.

Carlton found his hands roving further and further down Shawn's body, starting at his shoulders, gliding down his back, finding a comfortable space in the hollow of Shawn's hips, then eventually moving down over the flat, muscular plane of the younger man's stomach. He felt the tufts of short, soft hair trailing down from Shawn's bellybutton and followed them down, down to the base of Shawn's hard, straining member. Lassiter gripped it in one hand, stroking gently, earning a hiss from the lips near his ear.

"Oh god…oh, oh Lassie…oh Carlton…." The moans were delicious, and Lassiter savored them, taking things as slowly as possible, wanting to remember every instant.

For one moment, for this moment, Lassiter didn't care about the noise, or his neighbors, or the retaliatory noise complaints they were sure to file. All he wanted was to hear that moan, that whimper, that growl again. He wanted to hear Shawn shout his name again, and he wanted to look into Shawn's eyes as the younger man lost control and spiraled over the edge. He wanted Shawn more than he'd ever wanted anything, in his life, and he knew from the look in Shawn's eye that Shawn wanted him. And it was a beautiful feeling, being wanted for once.

The next morning, Lassiter entered the station with a smile on his face. It wasn't often he was this pleased in the morning, and, of course, someone had to notice. He just wished it hadn't been her.

"You're happy today," O'Hara said, catching up to him from an adjoining hallway.

Lassiter raised an eyebrow at her, almost positive he knew how to diffuse the situation. "Are you saying I'm not usually happy?"

"Uh…," the junior detective started, her eyes widening. "Well, what I meant was…it's not that you're not…usually when you…I…. Can you help me with the Hudson file?" she asked, changing topics.

The Hudson robberies had been solved last week. Lassiter tried not to grin as he thought of the consultant who had helped them with the case. The smile finally broke free as he thought of the same consultant curled up in his bed sheets in the early morning light, complaining that the sun rose too damned early these days. "You need help working through the case reports?"

O'Hara looked down at her shoes. "No, I have to finish the paperwork, and the file…I need help getting it to my desk," she admitted sheepishly. When he grinned down at her, she got defensive. "It was twelve robberies, Carlton. The thing has its own drawer in the records room!"

After he finally agreed to assist O'Hara in the admittedly daunting task of moving the Hudson file, they were off down the hall, walking briskly side by side. Lassiter almost smiled as he saw Anderson walking down the hall toward them. His eye was a dark purple and swollen nearly shut. "Anderson," Lassiter said in his usual, almost amiable tone.

"D-d-detectives," Anderson sputtered out, keeping his eyes glued to the floor.

"Mark, what happened?" O'Hara asked, stepping toward the man.

Matt, Mark. Eh, close enough. "Yes, Anderson, what happened to the eye?" Lassiter frowned in a surprisingly close approximation of concern, if he did say so himself.

Anderson's eyes widened and he made to continue walking. "Slipped in the bathroom, hit my head against a doorknob. It was nothing; it's fine," he said, his voice getting quiet as he moved further down the hall.

As they entered Records, O'Hara turned to Lassiter, her face concerned. "I know you don't believe that anymore than I do. What do you think really happened?"

Lassiter nodded thoughtfully. "From the smell of him, I'd say it was a bar fight."

They retrieved the file, and O'Hara looked up at him, confused, as they left the room and continued to walk. After a moment, she nodded, but she wasn't quite ready to let it go. "But still, who would hit a cop?"

"Obviously someone who thought he had it coming." Lassiter watched from the corner of his eye as O'Hara's gaze fell on his almost imperceptibly swollen hand. He tried to hide it behind his back, but the way her eyes lit up with comprehension told him she'd already put it together for herself. Sometimes he hated spending all his time around detectives.

O'Hara stopped, turning to him with her hands on her hips, and lowered her voice. "Did he deserve it?" Lassiter was almost positive he'd heard an accusatory edge to her voice, but her eyes betrayed nothing.

Lassiter thought for a moment about answering, but, in the end, O'Hara was his partner and he had to trust her. "Yes."

The smaller detective nodded. "Good enough for me," she said, taking her seat at her desk and gathering up the paperwork to busy herself.

Lassiter smiled to himself as he returned to his own desk, whistling a tune he'd heard on the radio on the way in to work, which earned him another suspicious glance from O'Hara. She decided better of commenting, though, and returned to her paperwork.

Today had started well. Spencer had decided that tomorrow would be soon enough to retrieve his bike, mostly, Lassiter suspected, because he hadn't wanted to wake up to go this morning. He had a big night, Lassiter thought with a smirk. But also, a little, the detective hoped, because he still wanted to be there when Lassiter got home. And with Shawn to go home to, Lassiter considered himself a lucky man.