Title: Pineapple of Hospitality, Chapter 1/4

Rating: PG for sexual references.

Pairings: Shawn/Lassiter.

Warning: Shassie slash. Spoilers for Psy vs. Psy.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. [Thank-you to for the disclaimer].

Summary: After three weeks of sex, Shawn wants to broach the possibility of dating. His plans are complicated by the arrival of Lassiter's brother.

Note: Inspired by Lassiter's blog entry at the USA network website where he mentions having a brother who surfs. I took that ball and ran with it. I really hope I haven't Gary Stued the thing. Much thanks to for the slang. Thank-you to Mr. Pugh, who betas all my stuff.

Lassiter blamed the scotch. It had been the end of a particularly annoying week, and he'd been in Tom Blair's pub, enjoying his third drink. If he'd been sober he might have had a comeback to Shawn Spencer's warning that drinking alone was like boarding the bus to Alcoholicville.

"Sure," Shawn had said, "They've got shrimp and sponge cake, but they also have liver failure and loneliness."

If it hadn't been for the reassuring glow from the booze he'd have rebuffed Spencer's offer to join him. Lassiter rarely saw Spencer drink, and had never seen him drunk, so he hadn't realized that Spencer had inhibitions until he'd seen them lowered.

Maybe the abolitionists were right when they argued that alcohol was a demonic influence. He'd certainly felt something close to possession that evening. First had come the close leaning, so they could hear each other speak over the din of the increasingly loud bar. Then there had been Spencer's disconcerting eye contact. He'd felt pinned down by those eyes, green in the light of the mock Tiffany fixture above their table. Trying to counter the discomfort with more scotch had not been an effective tactic. The leaning and the looking had led to touching. His hand rested amicably on Spencer's shoulder. Spencer's unshaven cheek rubbed accidentally against his own five o'clock shadow during a whispered conversation. When Spencer's hand settled itself tentatively on Lassiter's thigh he hadn't even felt surprised. It seemed inevitable by then.

The taxi back to his place had been awkward, as they'd both tried to pretend that Spencer was just coming in for a nightcap. But given the sexual tension between them at that point, Lassiter didn't think the cab driver had been fooled.

Once inside they hadn't bothered with the pretence, but had jumped right to the open mouthed kissing and the shedding of clothes. They'd had sex once that night and twice the next morning. Friday night he could blame on the booze, but by Saturday morning he'd been alarmingly sober. Afterwards, Spencer had mumbled something about meeting Gus for a standing lunch date and left. Lassiter had assumed the incident would be a one-time thing, but they'd been staging re-enactments every three or four days since. It had almost become part of his routine—a release he looked forward to, like his visits to the gun range.

All told, Lassiter probably spent about forty hours of the past three weeks naked with Spencer, but it was forty hours that he was determined to keep separate from the rest of his life. This was not as easy as he had expected it to be. Memories came to him at unexpected moments during his work day – the wetness of Spencer's insistent mouth as he pushed him down onto the couch, the way the muscles on Spencer's chest moved as he pulled off his t-shirt, the musky smell and salty taste of his skin, the way his lips had parted and he'd gasped when Lassiter had slipped a hand down past the waistband of his jeans.

His biggest worry was that someone at the station would sense a shift in their behaviour and put the clues together. To prevent this he'd tried to be less friendly to Spencer, making sure to call him Spencer, and not Shaun. He increased the number of jokes he made at his expense. He thought O'Hara had looked at him funny once or twice, but even she was falling into step now. Great sex and less tolerance of Spencer's interruptive buffoonery; it was a win-win situation.

Shawn Spencer paced back and forth in front of the Santa Barbara Police Station, working up his nerve to go inside. Normally this wasn't a problem, but there wasn't anything normal about today. Despite the cool temperature, his hands were sweating. He wiped his palms on his jeans and took a deep breath. His stomach was in knots.

He knew that asking someone out on a date shouldn't be so gut-wrenching, especially when he'd been sleeping with that person for three weeks now. Considering what they'd been doing together in Lassiter's apartment, asking him a simple question at work shouldn't be a big deal.

Of course Lassiter had been giving him the cold shoulder at the station. Sometimes the shoulder had merely been tepid, but on a few occasions it had dropped to sub-arctic. Shawn hadn't taken it personally. It was a transparent ruse designed to prevent anyone from guessing what they did in their off time. And it worked. Even Jules and Gus hadn't cottoned on to how they really felt.

Except Shawn wasn't sure how Lassiter really felt. When they were alone together, Lassie was affectionate even when they weren't naked. Shawn had begun to wonder what it would be like to transfer that dynamic outside Lassiter's apartment. He might have continued wondering, but the last two times they'd had sex Lassiter had moaned his name, which in Shawn's book suggested some kind of personal interest. That was why he had decided to see if their booty calls could be supersized into full-on dates. He just had to walk in there and ask.

Which he would do.

Any minute now.

Normally Shawn would have talked his anxieties out with Gus, but as per his agreement with Lassiter, he hadn't told anyone about their evening trysts. Shawn normally wouldn't have felt bound by a promise made when he was wearing only boxer briefs, but Lassiter knew him better than he'd expected. He made him pinky swear. At the time Shawn had figured that his one night stand with Lassie would be in the same category as what happened to Gus' pet rock – a story they could only share in their retirement home, when all parties involved were long since dead. But with each subsequent hook-up Shawn's guilt had multiplied, until he was now keeping far more from Gus than he was comfortable with. If Lassie agreed to dating that would mean he could be honest with Gus again. If you were dating someone, you definitely told your best friend. Lassie would get that. He just needed to have it put to him in such a way that he couldn't possibly refuse.

Baby steps up the stairs, Shawn said to himself as he walked up to the station entryway. Baby steps through the door, he entered the station and walked through the reception area, making his way unchallenged to the bullpen. There he stopped under an arch of Spanish-revival ceramic tile and watched Lassiter at his desk. He was wearing his dark blue suit and a red tie that reminded Shawn of Gordon Gekko. He was hunched tensely over his desk and frowning at some papers in a folder.

Baby steps ask Lassie for a date. He took a deep breath and walked purposefully toward the lanky detective.

"Lassie!" Shawn smiled and sat on the edge of Lassiter's desk. "Got a minute?"

"For you? No. I don't. And get off my desk!" What Lassiter really meant was Meet me in the downstairs bathroom in ten minutes. But Shawn couldn't wait ten minutes.

He jumped off the desk and stood, hands in his pockets, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, trying to burn off some of his nervous energy.

"We should really talk now. I've got a King Cone sitting in the car and if I don't get back to it soon it's going to melt all over Gus' upholstery." This was a lie. Gus had dropped him off before heading to what he insisted on calling his 'real job.' But only melting icecream could communicate the urgency Shawn felt.

"I'm really busy, Spencer. What's it about?"

"It's about eleven-thirty," Shawn said, glancing at his watch. "Which means the time has come to talk about manly things. About shoes and ships and sealing wax—"

And about whether or not you like me enough to hang out when we're not sweaty and naked.

"Fine." Lassiter cut him off. He closed the folder and stood up. "I was going to get a coffee anyway. You can walk with me if you—ooof!" Lassiter stopped mid-sentence as the wind was knocked out of him.

"Hola Booker!"

A tall man with shaggy dark hair had embraced Lassiter in a bear hug. Shawn's eyes widened and he felt as if time had ground to a halt. This man—this stranger—was hugging Lassiter. His Lassiter. And instead of pulling his Glock or judo-flipping him onto the desk, or delivering a sharp elbow to his solar plexus, Lassiter was smiling. Genuinely smiling. Shawn felt his stomach rise.

"Derek?" Lassiter twisted around and returned the hug. His usual look of irritation had disappeared. There was some hesitation though, somewhere behind the eyes. In a flash Shawn imagined the whole backstory—Derek would be Lassiter's first boyfriend, some crush from university who'd introduced him to the secret world of man-love and then broke his heart. Now he'd returned to sweep Lassiter off his feet just as Shawn had finally got up the nerve to speak his mind.

Damn you, Derek, Shawn thought. I hate you already.

It took a few moments before Shawn's brain began to work again. Then he looked past the stranger's freckly tan, blazing white teeth and confident posture, and he saw the blue eyes, the dark hair, and the echo of familiarity around the mouth and jaw. Relief washed over him like a bite of King Cone down a sore throat.

"I'm sensing the two of you have a strong familial bond," Shawn said. But what he really meant was, Please tell me this is your brother. Or close cousin. I'd settle for cousin.

Lassiter stood there immobile, staring at Derek with wide eyes, as if he expected him to disappear any moment. Shawn's smile went past its natural expiration point and remained frozen on his face.

Lassie's not going to introduce me, Shawn realized. I'm not someone he'd bother introducing to his family.

"Good guess," Derek said, smiling warmly. "I'm Derek Lassiter. Carlton's brother." He extended an arm and grasped Shawn's hand in the thumb clasp handshake. Shawn's eyes quickly took in Derek's details: about six foot, tight swimmers build, knee-length navy blue jams, and a grey sweatshirt that said World Core.

Lassiter's brother was a surfer.

"His brother. Wow." Shawn smiled. "I didn't realize any of Lassie's people could tan. It's nice to meet you. I'm Shawn Spencer. I'm—"

"He's the department psychic," Lassiter cut in, as if to prevent Shawn from claiming some other, more intimate title. Lassiter looked at Derek and his usual concentrated scowl returned. "Why are you here?"

"Relax, man. It's cool. Nobody's dead." Derek laughed, but it seemed forced to Shawn.

"He's here for the Rincon Classic," Shawn said. It was an educated guess. The annual surf contest was happening that weekend at Rincon del Mar on the Ventura-Santa Barbara County line.

"Right again," Derek grinned widely and nodded his head. "I don't believe in psychics, but you're good. It's cold reading, right?"

"Maybe,' Shawn said slyly. "Or maybe your aura is all full of sand and jellyfish."

"So bro," Derek asked Lassiter, "Can you take a break and grab a bite to eat with me?"

"No bro, I can't. This isn't Dairy Queen," Lassiter said, using what Shawn easily recognized as his annoyed voice. "I can't just take off whenever I feel like it."

"Actually," Shawn cut in. "I worked at a Dairy Queen, and you can't just take off in mid-shift there either." Both men turned to look at him. "In case you were wondering," he added.

"Okay," Derek said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "I don't need the responsibility lecture. How about dinner tonight? I've got my cell. Give me a call." He leaned down and wrote his phone number on a notepad on Lassiter's desk. Shawn checked out his ass, just for scientific interest.

"Okay." Lassiter looked mollified. "That'd be nice."

"Just don't tell Mother I'm in town," Derek said. "I don't want to have to visit her."

"No problem," Lassiter said. "I try not to tell her much of anything."

Then it occurred to Shawn that before he threw his heart under the love train he could pump Derek for insight into Lassiter. He had questioned O'Hara discreetly on numerous occasions, and concluded that she didn't know much about her partner at all. His brother, on the other hand, would have stories of childhood incidents that had formed Lassiter's psyche. Grilling Derek would require a deft interweaving of his dad's investigative skills and his mom's psychological insight. And he was pretty eye candy, so the interrogation process wouldn't be boring or painful.

"I'm free for lunch," Shawn offered. "And I can divine which places would give you indigestion or food poisoning and steer you away."

"Okay," Derek said, surprised. "Do you like Indian food?"

"Do I? I'm coo-coo for curry puffs."

"Curry puffs are Malaysian," Derek said.

"I've heard it both ways. There's a great Indian food place on State Street."

"Okay. Let's grind."

"He'll meet you out front," Lassiter said, grabbing Shawn firmly by the forearm. "We need to finish something work-related first."

"See you out front then," Derek waved his goodbye and strolled slowly out.

"I like your brother" Shawn said, once Derek was out of earshot.

"Of course you like him." Lassiter's jaw tightened and his mouth turned down at the edges. "Listen Spencer, under no circumstances will you to tell him anything about my sex life. Are we clear on that?"

"Crystal." Shawn smiled. His lunch with Derek was intended to be more of a one-way conversation anyway, with Derek spilling his guts about Lassiter and Shawn memorizing every helpful detail.