A/N: I haven't written a one-shot in so many forevers, I'm kind of excited about it. I'm currently working on something a little more substantial for Psych, so if you like what you see, stay tuned, but as it stands, this little ficlet is my first attempt at Psych. I wrote it in an attempt to put myself in a Christmas-y mood this year, and I hope it does the same for you.

As far as content warning, I will reluctantly label this pre-Shassie, even though there's not a lot extra going on. I've decided that these things are like abstract paintings; if you squint and tilt your head to the left, you'll pretty much see whatever you want. Happy holidays and please don't sue me, because I don't own any of it.

Detective Carlton Lassiter slammed the driver's side door shut on his Crown Vic and stared around his neighborhood, wondering exactly how many petitions he would have to file with the local realtor's association to get them to start putting such nuisances in their home listings. After all, a man had a right to know if he was going to be around such unabated idiocy every year. He glared around him, at every house he could see in the not-nearly-dark-enough night. Every house on his street was lit with bright, cheery, Christmas lights. Every house except his.

Lassiter didn't know quite why he hated Christmas lights so much. He knew the reasons he gave himself, that the lights coming through his windows kept him awake at night, that the constant blinking gave him a headache, and he'd be damned if every single one wasn't a massive fire hazard, especially when they were all left unattended for so long, but he also knew there was more to it.

He had actually liked Christmas lights when he was younger. Back then, he had looked forward to helping in whatever little way his father would let him. He had made games of comparing the different designs and patterns his neighbors used. Back then, they heralded the beginning of his favorite time of year, with the promise that something amazing was on its way. Back then, they had meant something. Now they were just a hollow, neon reminder.

He realized as he walked up the sidewalk to his door that he was muttering to himself, probably the exact behavior which had all the neighborhood children frightened of him, and for some reason that made him smile. But as he walked past the window which opened on to his living room, he also realized that his house wasn't nearly as dark as it should have been. Or as empty.

Lassiter could practically feel himself slipping back into "cop mode" as he approached the door, treating his own home like a potential crime scene. Testing the door, he found it was still locked. He unlocked it as quietly as he could, being sure to stop the deadbolt from making the clunk it always did. He slid the door open just enough to get himself through, avoiding the squeak of the hinges in the process.

Entering the living room, he could hear the hum of the microwave and see the light of the kitchen spilling in around the wall. Wrong house, punk. Putting his weight up on the balls of his feet, Lassiter crossed the living room slowly, making sure to side-step all the spots that he knew would make the floorboards creak. He held himself against the wall separating the two rooms for a moment, drawing his gun and trying to determine how many intruders he was dealing with.

Lassiter saw only one shadow, and all the noises he heard could be accounted for by the microwave. He grinned, knowing he would be getting the jump on a lone perp. He had been so quiet on his way across the living room that he hadn't even been able to hear himself, and there was no way anyone had heard him at the door from this distance.

Which all combined to make it that much more surprising when the voice on the other side of the wall addressed him. "You know, Lassie, you should have been home an hour ago."

Through the shock, his training took hold and, before he knew what he was doing, Lassiter swung around the corner to train his weapon on Shawn Spencer, holding a taco and leaning against the counter. His counter. In his kitchen. "Spencer!" The groan was half frustration, half rage. "What are—Why—In my house!"

Shawn looked up, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes playfully. "Was there a question in there?"

Carlton heard himself growl the low note that only this particular irritant could elicit from him. "What are you doing here?"

Spencer rolled his eyes. "Duh, eating a taco. You're late."

"I'm sorry?"

"You should be. Your dinner got cold." Just as he was beginning to wonder if this was what a stroke felt like, the ding of the microwave drew Lassiter's eye, and he saw a pair of tacos on a plate. "I went to your Tuesday taco place. It's Friday night, so I figure you haven't had them in long enough that they wouldn't be boring."

"How—?" Lassiter tried to ask, his eyes narrowing.

Spencer rolled his eyes again, putting a hand to his temple. "Remember? Psychic?"

Yeah, like Carlton hadn't seen him two cars back on that ridiculous bike of his, following him on his lunch break. He shook his head, turning to more important matters. Shawn had pulled the plate out of the microwave, putting his back to Lassiter, who looked once again at the gun in his hand, thinking of just how easy it would be. He shook his head again, holstering his sidearm. With his luck, Spencer would haunt him straight into the loony bin. "How did you get into my house?" His tone now was more curious than angry, something that seemed to encourage the would-be psychic.

"Back window."

"Was latched."

Spencer shrugged. "Yeah, but that means a lot less once the panes are removed."

Lassiter's eyes narrowed again. "You didn't."

"Believe what you want, but the only other explanation is that the spirits let me in."

Lassiter sighed, asking the last question on his mind. "Why are you here, Spencer?"

The man in question shook his head slowly and gave him an indulgent smile, the one that somehow always seemed to make him feel like the slowest kid in the class. "No one should be alone on Christmas Eve, Lassie. Not even you."

Lassiter crossed the kitchen, opened the fridge and pointedly ignored the large, gift-bowed pineapple on the top shelf. "You want a beer?" he asked without looking up.

"Boy, do I!" The light in Spencer's eyes was a little disconcerting, but Lassiter just sighed and tossed him a can. He grabbed his plate off the counter and walked back out into the living room, aware that Spencer was following his every move.

It was Friday, and that meant that the local True Crime channel would be having its weekly COPS marathon. As they watched (and later began to yell at) the brainless criminals engaged in various high- and low-speed chases, one beer became two, which somehow turned into five.

By midnight, Shawn was sleeping soundly through another episode, this one a rerun, curled firmly around Lassiter's shoulder, and Lassiter knew better than to try to send him home. The dishes, piled on the coffee table in front of them, could wait until tomorrow.

Lassiter turned the television off with a soft click, and, with its emanated light gone, the room was lit only by the Christmas lights outside. Lassiter sighed as he looked down at Spencer, sleeping peacefully and holding with an iron grip to Lassiter's arm. One night on the couch wouldn't kill him, he decided.

"Merry Christmas, Spencer," Lassiter whispered, settling back into the cushion of the couch. And as the merry red, green and blue lights danced and flashed their way across Shawn's face, Carlton decided that maybe they weren't so bad, after all.