"Oh, god," Guster says, "seriously, I did not need to get in the middle of your--your weird--whatever you are--"
"Gus," Shawn says. He's still looking at Lassiter, eyebrows at his hairline, but now it's with that…focus. Lassiter hates when Shawn looks at him like that; inevitably, he ends up divining shit no one should ever know.
"Right," Gus says, "I'm out, then," and he slams the door behind him in his haste to escape.
"You actually missed me," Shawn says, still staring.
"I did nothing of the--"
"You're six hours early," Shawn says, stepping towards him. His eyes are wide, curious, more than a little shocked. "You didn't stop anywhere, you came straight here--if the conference had let out early you would have called, which means you skipped out before it was over. Lassie."
"I didn't miss you, Spencer," Lassiter snaps. "The conference was boring--"
"And you missed me--"
"And the presenter I wanted to see cancelled at the last minute--"
"And you missed me--"
"And it seemed silly to stay--"
"Because of how much you missed me--"
"Damn it, Spencer," Lassiter growls. He steps forward and kisses him, mostly just to shut him up.
Shawn leans into the kiss, because that's what Shawn is like--always hungry, always pushing, never, ever satisfied. He slides a hand up under the leather of Lassiter's shoulder holster, pressing the pads of his fingers down to shove him toward the wall.
Lassiter has never made a habit of taking Shawn's shit, though. He grabs Shawn by the wrist, twisting his other hand in the back of Shawn's shirt, and holds him still.
"I didn't miss you," he says, when Shawn breaks away, breathing heavily. Shawn just cocks his head, silent for once, smiling at him like he's not considering doing anything else.
"Did I say that?" he asks. And then, before Lassiter can respond, he's wrapping his free arm around his shoulders, resting his face in the crook of Lassiter's neck. "I don't remember saying that."
"Your memory is upsettingly selective," Lassiter sighs. Hesitantly, he lowers his head a little, lets his chin rest against the top of Shawn's head. Almost of its own accord, he finds the hand that was tangled in Shawn's shirt has drifted up to rest between his shoulder blades. Shawn's back is shaking, and he's making small sounds that Lassiter is more than experienced enough to know are the result of muffled laughter, but the fact that's he's trying to restrain himself is actually a courtesy.
"You don't have any proof," Lassiter mutters, finally, mostly out of habit.
"Welcome back, Lassie," Shawn says, tightening his grip a little, and maybe it's not so bad getting caught.
THE FACT THAT I AM WRITING FUCKING PSYCH FIC IS ALL YOUR FAULT [2/2]
"Gus," Shawn says. He's still looking at Lassiter, eyebrows at his hairline, but now it's with that…focus. Lassiter hates when Shawn looks at him like that; inevitably, he ends up divining shit no one should ever know.
"Right," Gus says, "I'm out, then," and he slams the door behind him in his haste to escape.
"You actually missed me," Shawn says, still staring.
"I did nothing of the--"
"You're six hours early," Shawn says, stepping towards him. His eyes are wide, curious, more than a little shocked. "You didn't stop anywhere, you came straight here--if the conference had let out early you would have called, which means you skipped out before it was over. Lassie."
"I didn't miss you, Spencer," Lassiter snaps. "The conference was boring--"
"And you missed me--"
"And the presenter I wanted to see cancelled at the last minute--"
"And you missed me--"
"And it seemed silly to stay--"
"Because of how much you missed me--"
"Damn it, Spencer," Lassiter growls. He steps forward and kisses him, mostly just to shut him up.
Shawn leans into the kiss, because that's what Shawn is like--always hungry, always pushing, never, ever satisfied. He slides a hand up under the leather of Lassiter's shoulder holster, pressing the pads of his fingers down to shove him toward the wall.
Lassiter has never made a habit of taking Shawn's shit, though. He grabs Shawn by the wrist, twisting his other hand in the back of Shawn's shirt, and holds him still.
"I didn't miss you," he says, when Shawn breaks away, breathing heavily. Shawn just cocks his head, silent for once, smiling at him like he's not considering doing anything else.
"Did I say that?" he asks. And then, before Lassiter can respond, he's wrapping his free arm around his shoulders, resting his face in the crook of Lassiter's neck. "I don't remember saying that."
"Your memory is upsettingly selective," Lassiter sighs. Hesitantly, he lowers his head a little, lets his chin rest against the top of Shawn's head. Almost of its own accord, he finds the hand that was tangled in Shawn's shirt has drifted up to rest between his shoulder blades. Shawn's back is shaking, and he's making small sounds that Lassiter is more than experienced enough to know are the result of muffled laughter, but the fact that's he's trying to restrain himself is actually a courtesy.
"You don't have any proof," Lassiter mutters, finally, mostly out of habit.
"Welcome back, Lassie," Shawn says, tightening his grip a little, and maybe it's not so bad getting caught.