When Gus entered the Psych office the lights were off, but with the sun coming through the blinds he could see the outline of Shawn, lying on the sofa. He crossed to his desk and turned on his laptop. Something was evidently wrong, but their long friendship had taught him that Shawn would talk when he was ready to. In the dim light he could hear the tell-tale crinkle of a chip bag followed by heavy crunching. Shawn was on a Doritos binge.

Things must have gone wrong with Lassiter, he thought. Given Shawn's relationship history, he supposed he should have known better, but he had thought things with Lassiter might be different. Shawn had always had it easy with women, which was why Gus figured he got bored so quickly. Lassiter was anything but easy. And unlike many of the women he dated, Shawn actually had things in common with Lassiter. True, most of those things were strange, like their shared interest in guns, their love of high speed pursuits, or their desire to watch Cops, but it was a step forward. Gus was sorry to see it end with Doritos in the dark.

"So," Shawn said after a few minutes, "did you hear that Lassie's going to apply for City Council?"

Gus opened an electronic article from the British Medical Journal on new uses for antihistamines. When Shawn was down like this, he only wanted as much attention as he asked for. Push him too hard and he'd wind up on his motorcycle, headed for Alaska or Maine.

"No, I didn't," Gus said. "Is he hoping to take Frank Mutti's seat?"

"Why does everybody know these people?" Shawn asked, exasperated. Gus heard the crunch of the bag as Shawn rolled onto his side.

Gus chuckled. "Uh, maybe because we live in Santa Barbara and have a reading level above the third grade? More to the point, how do you not know these people?"

"I don't pay attention to politics," Shawn said. "I'm busy solving crime and getting my heart crushed into powder."

"Do you even know our mayor's name?" Gus asked, genuinely curious how someone with Shawn's observation skills could go through life ignoring so much.

"Is it Mayor Lenny Hizzoner?" Shawn asked.

Gus frowned, searching his memory for the name. Finally it came to him. "Is that the mayor from Ghostbusters?"

"Ghostbusters the novel, actually," Shawn said. "See, I read."

They sat in silence, broken only by the crunching of chips. Gus reflected that he rarely saw Shawn this depressed, and never over a relationship. Shawn usually got over a break-up in a day or two, with the help of a fruit smoothie and a re-watching of High Fidelity.

Perhaps, Gus thought, Shawn's depression is a good thing. Maybe it's a sign that he's emotionally invested. Could this chip binge actually be a sign of increasing maturity?

Finally Shawn spoke. "Lassie dumped me."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Gus said. Although he'd said several times that their romance was doomed, he really hoped that he would be proven wrong. When the relationship had lasted into the third month he'd even started to think ahead to what he would do if called upon to be best man at their wedding. It was early days yet, but one could never be too prepared when it came to Shawn.

Shawn hugged the bag tightly, crushing the chips. "It was sudden and unexpected. Like Sam Jackson getting eaten by that shark in Deep Blue Sea."

"That wasn't unexpected," Gus argued. "They always kill the black man."

"LL Cool J lived," Shawn objected.

"True that." Gus closed his laptop and turned to face Shawn. "Do you want to talk about it? The break-up, I mean?"

Shawn had curled his body around the Doritos, like a baby. "I'm a liability," he said, his voice raw. "Lassiter's gone all political, like that scary bald dude from Midnight Oil."

"City Council is Municipal government, not Federal," Gus pointed out. "Peter Garrett has been in the Australian House of Representatives since 2004. That's the equivalent to our Congress. City Council is like, one level up from the school board."

"Great!" Shawn said. "He's dumped me for a job that's not even worthy of an episode of Schoolhouse Rock."

"I get that it hurts," Gus conceded, "but is a chip binge really the way to go?"

"Doritos understand my needs," Shawn said. "And they've never let me down. Except for that brief period in the 80s when they discontinued their sour cream and onion flavour. It took me a week to get over that."

Lassiter arrived at work, tired from a fitful night's sleep. Most of his restless night had been spent trying to convince himself that he'd made the right decision. His lack of rest had left him sore and grouchy and he lashed out at Menendez for taking the last of the coffee, snapped at a UPS man delivering office supplies, and accused McNab of hogging the photocopier.

"I don't know what's wrong with you this morning, Carlton," O'Hara said, warningly, "but put a lid on it. You are being a complete…" she paused, leaving Lassiter to complete the line himself with a variety of adjectives.

"I'm sorry if my less than perfect disposition offends you," he muttered sarcastically. "But we weren't all born with sunshine and unicorn horn up our…" he left her to fill in the blanks.

O'Hara let out an angry huff. "Honestly, Carlton, sometimes I don't know how Shawn puts up with you!"

"He doesn't," Lassiter said flatly, sitting at his desk and slapping open a report cover. "Not anymore."

O'Hara looked around furtively and then moved closer. "What's that supposed to mean? Did you two break up?"

"Yep." Lassiter stared at report, too upset to read, but wanting the familiarity of routine. He was pretty sure it was something about illegal refuse dumping.

"Oh Carlton," O'Hara said, all trace of annoyance gone from her tone now, "I'm so sorry. I didn't know." She patted his shoulder. "You know, you can call me, if you need to talk. We are partners, after all."

"Maybe not for long." He gave up on the report and leaned back in his chair, considering taking an hour to slip down to the gun range. He was in the mood to shoot things.

"What's that supposed to mean?" O'Hara asked.

Lassiter took a deep breath. She has to find out some time, he reasoned. Better that it come from me.

"It means, I've filled out that City Council application I've had sitting in my desk for months," he said. "It means I might actually start doing something with my life again."

O'Hara's expression was no longer one of compassion. "You're quitting your job? What is this, some kind of midlife crisis?"

"Look, I don't want to get into another argument about this," Lassiter said. "If I'm going to be in politics, I can't have any…" He paused, wondering how to describe Shawn, "…secrets."

"Oh my god!" O'Hara looked at him sharply. "You dumped Shawn so you could run for City Council?"

"It had to be done." Or that was what he was telling himself, anyway.

"You listen to me," O'Hara hissed, leaning over Lassiter's desk and pointing a manicured finger at him. "Maybe I haven't been a cop as long as you have, but I know a few things. Being a detective isn't just what I do, it's who I am. And I thought it was who you were too." She waved an arm. "But if you want to just dump everybody so you can go play politics, be my guest. I hope you at least vote for a descent police budget so those of us still here can do our jobs properly." She spun on her heel and stalked back to her desk, where she pointedly ignored him.

Lassiter sat, pondering her words. He imagined removing the cold case board from his apartment. He imagined reading about a crime in the morning paper and not looking through the report that afternoon. He imagined no more stakeouts with O'Hara or her incessant perky optimism and time-passing word games. And he imagined never working with Shawn again.

Lassiter weighed his badge in the palm of his hand. He pulled his gun from its holster and set it on his desk, then picked up the City Council application. He looked from the paper in his hand to the badge and gun on his desk, the back again. The City Council job was everything he'd wanted for himself: respect, authority, a strong sense of purpose, and the knowledge that every day he was working to make the world a better place. Of course being Head Detective came with those things too. And if O'Hara was right (and that had been known to happen) then maybe he had something better than a career. Maybe he had a calling. Maybe being a detective was just in his blood. And what if he only realized that after a few weeks of council meetings and bureaucracy, when it was too late to change his mind?

And then I'd be all alone, he thought.

Lassiter hated to admit it, but dating Shawn had expanded his ambition beyond the horizon of his employment. Shawn had made him want to have a personal life again. After one particularly perfect morning he'd even measured his apartment's square footage to see if it could possibly house two, or two and a half additional people on a full-time basis. And he hadn't thought about that kind of a future since…. Lassiter's eyes widened and he swallowed hard. He hadn't though about that kind of a future since he'd been married. He gripped the application in both hands, took a deep breath, and then swiftly tore it in half. He tore the halves in two a second time before letting the papers slide into his recycling bin.

If he wanted to improve his life he may as well start with preserving the things that actually made him happy.

The light from Shawn's phone shone in the dim light of the Psych office as it played his post-breakup Lassiter ringtone, Tainted Love. Shawn grabbed it and glanced at the caller ID, then dropped the Doritos bag. He looked at Gus with a panicked expression.

"It's Lassie. What do I do?"

"Do you want to answer it?" Gus asked.

Shawn stared at the phone. He knew he didn't always make good decisions. He'd known that since he'd read By Balloon to The Sahara and wound up being eaten by sharks. If Choose Your Own Adventure had taught him anything, it was that sometimes following your gut got you hurt. But Henry had always said that sometimes you have to play through the pain. And as much as he hated to admit it, sometimes Henry was right.

He answered the call. "Hello, you have reached the empty shell of a man formerly known as Shawn Spencer. To ridicule his emotional pain, please press one. To apologize and beg forgiveness, please press two. If you are calling to reclaim belonging left at the Psych office, please stay on the line and an operator will assist you."

He heard sighs and mutterings on Lassiter's end, followed by an electronic tone.

"Was that a one or a two you just pressed?" Shawn asked.

Lassiter's voice came through the connection, low and contrite. "That was a two." He said nervously. "I want us to get back together." Shawn could hear the hum of the stations' ancient fridge and he knew Lassiter was calling from the break room.

"What if I'm not available anymore?" Shawn asked, ignoring Gus's serious expression and frantic head shaking.

Lassiter didn't respond for a moment and Shawn listened to him breathe. Finally he said, "Then I guess I'd have to wait until you were available."

"You'd have to go to the back of the line," Shawn said. "Behind Gina Repach, the cast of the Vagina Monologues Gus's first year of college, and that girl from Summerland with the lazy eye."

"Are you seeing anyone?" Lassiter asked hesitantly.

"Dude, we broke up less than 24 hours ago. What kind of a guy do you take me for?" Shawn shot back. "Although if I did have messy rebound sex, I would have been well within my rights."

"But you didn't?" Shawn could hear something like fear in his voice.

"I barely had time," Shawn complained. "Although I did have a pretty intense makeout session with a bag of Nacho Cheese." He could hear Lassiter's sigh of relief through the phone. "So," he added quickly, "You and me. This is a thing?"

"Yes, this is a thing." Lassiter pulled the phone away and cleared his throat then spoke low, but clearly. "I'm pretty sure it's a loving-you kind of thing."

"Of course you love me, Lassie," Shawn said, his smile audible. "Who wouldn't?"

Gus turned back to his antihistamine article, grateful that he and Juliet had a very different relationship style.

Moments after hanging up with Shawn, Lassiter's phone rang again. It was Henry Spencer.

"Lassiter." Henry said his name as if it tasted slightly sour. "I need you to stop by the house tonight. Please. If you would."

"What's this about?" Lassiter asked, anxiety creeping into his voice. Has Shawn told Henry about us, he wondered.

"I'd rather not get into it on the telephone," Henry said meaningfully. "But it's important."

Lassiter looked at his watch. It was nearly five, and Shawn would expect him by six for that extremely belated birthday dinner he'd talked him into. It was their first post-break-up date, and he wanted it to go well. But he couldn't very well say 'no' to Henry Spencer. For one thing, Lassiter needed to know how much he knew.

"Okay. I'll stop in as soon as I'm done here."

"Fine," Henry said, sounding resigned. "See you then."

Lassiter pulled his Crown Vic up to Henry's walk and parked illegally. He strode up to the porch where Henry was sitting, surrounded by paint flakes.

"Lassiter," Henry said, his voice even and strong. "Glad you could make it. Shawn promised me you'd help scrape and repaint the house."

"He did?" Lassiter sighed. Was this some kind of payback for their break-up?

"There's some old clothes in Shawn's room," Henry said. He kept his eyes locked on Lassiter, and seemed to be measuring him up. Lassiter went upstairs to change, anxious to get away from Henry's watchful gaze. He unbuttoned his dress shirt, folded it, and set it on the bed, then started flipping through Shawn's closet. He briefly considered Tears For Fears's "Seeds of Love" World Tour before settling on a Robert Palmer shirt.

Is this a homophobia thing? He wondered. Had Henry invited him here to start something? Was he defending Shawn's honour? He removed his dress pants and pulled on a pair of Shawn's cut-off sweat pants, slightly too short on his longer legs. Had he not been so preoccupied, he might have wondered what Gus's abandoned suit was doing on Shawn's dresser.

Lassiter straightened his back and clenched his jaw. He walked down stairs, feeling ridiculous, but ready to defend his relationship, physically if necessary.

Henry passed him a paint scraper and they worked in silence for five or ten minutes. Finally Henry spoke.

"Listen, Lassiter," he said, "I know what's going on between you and Shawn."

"You do?" Lassiter froze and glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.

"Yeah. I do," Henry said heavily. "And I don't like it."

"You don't." Of course, Lassiter thought bitterly. I should have known Henry would object. Henry was an old school cop, and they were not exactly known for their open-mindedness on sexual matters.

"I mean, I know Shawn was probably going to pull something like this eventually," Henry said. "But to be honest, I didn't think you were the kind of man who'd let himself be taken advantage of that way."

"What?" Lassiter's mind dwelt on the term 'taken advantage of.'

"But since it's happened, "Henry went on, "I want you to know that I'm on your side. What Shawn did is inexcusable, and if you want to press charges I'll back you up."

Lassiter felt his stomach plummet. Henry thought Shawn had taken advantage of him… sexually? Lassiter didn't know if he was more offended on his own behalf or on Shawn's. What kind of father was Henry, to be so wrong about Shawn? Lassiter went from being worried that Henry might want to sock him to thinking that he might like to take a swing at the old man himself.

"You think Shawn has been …" Lassiter couldn't bring himself to say the words. "That is, you think this is a section 261." He dropped his voice to a whisper and used the California Penal Code reference to sexual assault.

"What?" Henry's face flushed red. "What the hell made you think I was going there?" he asked. "I'm talking about section 518, the obtaining of an official act of a public officer, induced by a wrongful use of force or fear. I know Shawn's got something on you, and he's using it to strongarm you into helping him. Hell, I barely had to mention his name and it got you scraping paint."

It took a few seconds for all the pieces to fall into place, but when they did, Lassiter laughed. "Shawn hasn't been blackmailing me, Henry. We've been…dating."

"Dating? Dating-dating?" Henry squinted angrily at Lassiter. "Since when?"

"Since the Maxwell case," Lassiter thought back to their first date at Natalino's, and couldn't help but smile.

"The Maxwell case? Jesus, Lassiter that was even before you got shot."

Lassiter wanted to tell Henry how Shawn had saved his life and how he'd impressed him by arresting the shooter, Clare Sarano, instead of shooting her in the chest. He wanted to say how much he'd appreciated that Shawn hadn't tried to make him talk about the shooting, and had understood when he'd refused to take off this holster for a while. But all he managed to say was "Yes. It was."

"Is it serious?" Henry asked.

Lassiter swallowed. His throat felt dry and scratchy. "I just gave up my plans to run for City Council, so yeah, I think it's pretty serious."

"I see." Henry pulled out a bandana and wiped his forehead. "Well then. That's different." He extended a hand and offered him a metal tool. "Grab the scraper, Carlton, if you're dating Shawn that makes you family. And family pitches in."

It was eight-thirty when Lassiter, feeling grungy and sore, but wearing his own clothes again, let himself into his apartment. When he ate alone, he usually microwaved a frozen dinner, and when he and Shawn ate together they got take-out. Having dinner prepared for him was an experience he hadn't had since before his separation, and one which he was looking forward to. Yet the smell that greeted him as he entered the apartment had a distinctly charred odour.

Shawn leaped from the couch and rushed toward him.

"Dude! Where have you been?" he gestured at Lassiter's television, where Moon Over Parador was playing. "I've watched like, a third of Richard Dreyfus' 80s work. At least you got here before I had to see Always."

Lassiter threw his jacket onto a chair and scowled. "I've been scraping paint. Henry said you told him I'd help prep the house." He wrinkled his nose and opened a window. "What is that smell?"

Shawn laughed. "I can't believe you fell for that paint scraping line. Henry's lies are less convincing than Emilio Estavez's moustache in Stakeout."

"How could I refuse?" Lassiter stretched and rubbed his lower back. "I've been scraping paint while wearing your old Robert Palmer t-shirt."

"Aw, say you didn't," Shawn rolled his head dejectedly. "That shirt is never supposed to be worn outside of my room. That's my t-shirt for wearing when I'm alone and enjoying the guilty pleasure of Simply Irresistible."

Lassiter walked into the kitchen where a blackened chicken lay smouldering in the sink.

"Dinner?" he asked, tentatively.

"Burned," Shawn said, and sighed heavily. "Cooking is quite different when it doesn't involve a lightbulb."

Lassiter donned an oven mitt, picked up the smoking pan, carried it to the compost bin, and dumped it inside. He turned to Shawn.

"Natalinos?" he offered.

"I thought you'd never ask," Shawn said. "You're buying."

"It's my birthday," Lassiter objected.

"Your birthday was months ago," Shawn teased.

The Maitre d' at Natalino's greeted Lassiter with a wide smile and asked in he would like his usual table. Shawn asked for something more private, and they were led to a plush leather booth in a low-lit corner. They ordered roast chicken, which arrived perfectly cooked, with no off-putting charcoal odour. As the waiter cleared their dishes away, Shawn surprised him by presenting a credit card (his own, Lassiter hoped) and paying for dinner.

"I thought you said I was paying," Lassiter teased.

"As if!" Shawn scoffed. "Happy birthday. Now open your present." Shawn presented him with a wooden box, joints delicately dovetailed, darkly stained.

"You didn't have to get me a present," Lassiter objected. "Dinner was more than enough."

"Don't be such a Glock tease," Shawn said. "Open it."

Lassiter looked suspiciously at the box, glanced up at Shawn, and then at the box again. He opened it slowly, as if expecting springy snakes to fly out. The content surprised him far more. Inside, nestled against a grey velvet interior was an antique gun.

Lassiter lifted it from the case and examined it closely. It was a .44 calibre French pinfire revolver with a six and ¼ inch barrel and a lanyard ring on the butt of the wooden handle. Its metal had a dark brown patina and evidence of light pitting. He took out his magnifying glass and read the manufacturer's mark, C Lefaucheux Brevete. But it was the second engraving that made his breath stop. The engraving was lighter and cruder than the maker's mark, probably done with a knife. The text read, "William Clark Quantrill."

"Is this real?" Lassiter asked, despite knowing by sight and touch alone that it would be.

"No, I painstakingly forged it with my gunsmithing skills," Shawn said. "Of course it's real. At least, that's what the guy who sold it to me said."

Lassiter looked at the tiny engraving affixed to the inside top of the box: Taken from the body of Colonel William Clark Quadrille on his death, June 6, 1865. Quadrille, who had instigated the Lawrence Massacre in 1863, killing 180 men and boys before burning the city to the ground. Quadrille, who had been shot by Jenny Winslow at the Battle at Piper's Cove—a battle in which the Union side had been led by Lassiter's great-great grandfather, Muscum T. Lassiter.

"How much did you pay for this?" Lassiter suddenly wondered how long he had been staring, transfixed by the gun.

"Ah ah ah," Shawn chided. "That would be telling."

Lassiter shook his head and reluctantly placed the gun back into its box. "I can't accept this. It's too expensive." He looked pleadingly up at Shawn. "Let me buy it from you. Please."

"Don't sweat it, Lassie." Shawn waved a hand. "Let's just say that clearing a guy of the suspicion of murder comes with a great discount."

Lassiter pulled the box back toward him, not wanting to let it go, yet hesitant to accept it. There was no denying, it was a piece of American crime history. Frank and Jesse James had formed part of Quantrill's raiders. And given his personal connection, it would be a great heirloom; something he could pass on to his nephew Peter someday. Or, depending on how things went with Shawn, maybe to his own kids. And if this gun were any indication, things with Shawn could get pretty good. He couldn't think of a time when someone he was dating had gotten him a more appropriate present. It certainly made the golf clubs his wife had gotten him when he turned thirty pale in comparison.

Lassiter's mind pulled itself from his reverie. "Wait a minute," he said, "how did you buy a gun? I hadn't even called Judge Leland when you bought this. The background check should have rejected you."

Shawn blushed and ran a hand across the back of his neck. "Yeah. See, those background check rules only apply to vendors with federal licenses. An unlicensed dealer doesn't have to do a background check at all." Lassiter's mind immediately went over a dozen possible scenarios, from Shawn stealing the gun, to his buying it from from the trunk of a car from some crack dealer.

Lassiter glared at him. Trust Shawn to know that loophole.

"Relax," Shawn said. "I'm trustworthy. I haven't even used the cache of semi-automatic weapons I bought yesterday."

"I take it you're joking," Lassiter said.

"Maybe." Shawn's voice was light and playful. "Do you want to search the Psych office for a secret underground lair?"

Lassiter wouldn't put it past him to have a secret lair under the Psych office. Of course, knowing Shawn, he thought, it's probably filled with video games and candy. Or, given what he sometimes wanted to do with my handcuffs, it could be some kind of kinky dungeon.

The waiter came with dessert. Shawn had ordered a slice of chocolate truffle cake and Lassiter had ordered apple pie.

"You could still run for Council, you know," Shawn said, digging into his cake. "I'd help you. I'd hand out flyers and buttons and signs. I'd make a great first lady. But I refuse to wear pearls."

"If anyone knew about us," Lassiter said, "I've have no chance of getting picked, and even if by some miracle I did get picked, I'd never get elected once my term ended." He cut his pie with his fork, creating a tiny shower of flaky pasty onto his plate.

"Oh please!" Shawn leaned back against the leather booth and licked the chocolate from his fork lasciviously. "Gay people run for office all the time."

"Really?" Lassiter asked around a mouthful of pie. "Who?" He didn't even stop to remark that Shawn had just casually referred to him as gay.

Shawn rolled his eyes. "Uh hello? Ever hear of a guy named Harvey Milk?"

Lassiter swallowed. "Of course I have." His face took on a grim expression. "They shot him dead you know."

Of course if I'd been the first openly gay man elected to public office, Lassiter thought, I'd have had a conceal carry permit and have been armed to the teeth.

Shawn looked confused. "Really? The trailer made the movie look so happy." He took another bite of cake. "What about Santa Barbara County? You'd make a great Sheriff."

"You think so?" Lassiter smiled. He'd always imagined himself as a sheriff, ever since his youthful days at Old Sonora.

"Sure," Shawn said. "You'd be like Matt Dillon. Gunsmoke Matt Dillon, not the Matt Dillon whose heavy-browed acting is showcased in Rumblefish and There's Something About Mary."

"Sheriff could be…interesting." Lassiter mulled it over and took another bite of pie. At the very least it as a career path that wouldn't require him to abandon two of his primary interests-guns and crime.

"And I could be Miss Kitty, the lovable whorehouse madam." Shawn tilted his head and fluttered his eyelashes at him playfully.

"Miss Kitty wasn't a prostitute," Lassiter said. "She ran the saloon."

"Sure. Keep telling yourself that."

"It might be a little dull," Lassiter suggested. Somehow he couldn't picture Shawn living happily in some remote area where he couldn't get a slurpy at two in the morning.

"Interesting things happen all the time on Gunsmoke," Shawn objected. "Come on, hands up everyone who cried during the episode where Festus learned to read." He raised his hand and looked expectantly at Lassiter.

"I don't actually remember any episodes," Lassiter admitted. "I didn't see a lot of television as a kid. My mother was a big believer in the value of fresh air." His mother had been a big believer in a lot of things Lassiter hadn't particularly enjoyed, such as Catholic school. He wasn't looking forward to telling her about Shawn.

Maybe I'll wait until we've had an anniversary, he thought. Or two.

"Well what about Deadwood?" Shawn asked. "Lots of stuff happened on that show."

Lassiter shook his head. "Never saw it."

"Seriously?" Shawn shook his head, reached out, speared a forkful of Lassiter's apple pie, and popped it into his mouth. "Damn, Lassie," he said finally. "We have got some serious HBO to catch you up on."

Lassiter gazed at Shawn across the candlelit table and watched him eat his cake. It was unexpectedly arousing. Lassiter mentally kicked himself for thinking he could give this feeling up for a job in politics. He flagged the waiter and asked to take the remainder of their dessert to go. Television wasn't the only thing he needed to catch up on.