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rispacooper Apr. 24th, 2010 11:20 am)
rispacooper Apr. 24th, 2010 11:20 am)Title: Two Fingers of Scotch
Author: Rispacooper (with story idea credit todlasta)
For: Psych
Summary: AU Private Eye!Lassiter!!! AU Cop!Shawn! A meeting in a cramped, dusty office.
Warnings: Language and sex talk.
Pairing: Lassiter/Shawn UST
AN: The idea for this AU existed long before.dlasta's Amnesty AU challenge and of course went too long. But still, I consider this flashfic. Written in one afternoon, for shits and giggles and because I needed to try to get back in my writing groove.
The moment he walked in, I knew he meant trouble. Not the kind of trouble that wore short shorts and left you feeling used and dirty, or the kind that had a sob story about a man they met once and where that led them, with one hand on your dick and the other on your wallet. No, this was the kind of trouble that wasn't about money or a fuck in the dark. This was about five feet ten of straight-shouldered, cleaned up, straight and narrow Boy Scout that had no place walking up the creaking steps through the rowdiest leather bar south of San Francisco and stepping into my office, with wide, serious eyes that seemed to shift even as I studied them, from green to blue to grey and then back to green.
Without really knowing why, I wanted to reach for my piece. I'd spent a long time doing what I do, over a decade as a cop and a few more years as a private detective ever since they'd kicked me off the force for that minor...disagreement involving a bigoted killer in my custody, and this kid had alarm bells ringing in my head louder than the Depeche Mode pumping downstairs.
Maybe it was because I instantly knew who it was though I'd never laid eyes on the kid outside of the newspapers. Shawn Spencer, the Department's current hero. A detective with a flawless solve rate and a reputation as close to perfection as you could get outside of a Dick Tracy comic or Dudley DoRight. His father had been a cop too, Henry Spencer, I remembered him as kind of a perfectionist asshole, and I don't think my perception of him was that far off, considering the tension in his son.
But that could have been the atmosphere; it was Happy Hour downstairs and Ruby's clientele tended to get a bit frisky when drunk and the kid wasn't bad to look at if you disregarded the stick up his ass. He looked like he hadn't relaxed in years, like he hadn't gotten laid ever, but even as I had that thought I tossed it aside. He was too cute to be untouched. He probably had a beautiful and appropriate girlfriend—not a wife, no ring—but someone to impress at department functions.
The department had been big on that...its image... It had protected that even over justice, worshiped it when the blind lady was supposed to be our one concern as officers of the law and... It's still difficult to swallow the anger, but I'm happier now, I remind myself. I still work my cases and with a hell of a lot more freedom than I had as Santa Barbara's youngest Head Detective.
His eyes were sweeping over my cramped little office with the sort of efficiency I thought only existed in spy movies but I saw his gaze lingering on the handcuffs I'd left dangling over the top of my open laptop. Maybe he guessed from the leopard print fabric covering the metal that they weren't for work. Maybe he liked them; if I'd learned anything from having an office over a leather bar it was that a suit and tie could hide a lot of repression.
I fingered my own battered red silk tie with a deliberate smirk and made myself wait until the super cop in front of me spoke first. I told myself I was imagining the danger and leaned further back into my chair.
Then the kid swallowed and raised those eyes to mine and I realized that he was more dangerous than I could ever have dreamed. The department's new hero tightened his jaw like a knight in a storybook about to do battle and for a fleeting moment I thought he knew everything about me, what I'd done the night before, how much Glenlivet was left in the bottom drawer of my desk, who had last worn those cuffs, and where I'd gotten the coffee that I'd splashed onto my shirt this morning.
He didn't wear a holster, his gun was at his hip with his badge and I wondered if he had the same urge to go for it that I had to go for mine.
Fucking cops, I thought, grateful once again at no longer being one, though a long time ago I would never have imagined ever having a thought like that. But one divorce, one lawsuit, and a detective's license later and all I felt was annoyance that Shawn Spencer was in my office, looking like he was afraid he'd get cooties if he touched anything.
“Carlton Lassiter.” He wasn't asking.
“Shawn Spencer,” I offered in return without waiting for the introduction, and let my smirk grow into a sneer when he seemed momentarily taken aback. But he was quick, too quick, and nodded. When he took a small step forward the early evening light arrowing through the bent slats in my blinds hit him and all the effort he'd put into flattening his hair couldn't disguise its rich color. His skin was pale gold. His mouth was red, the lips swollen like he bit them to hold words back on a regular basis, and the image popped into my mind of this kid fighting not to let go, and me over him, fisting him, wrist deep, those leopard cuffs holding him to my bed, and me spreading him wide open. No suit. No tie. No slicked back hair. No goddamn badge. Just this kid with his mouth crimson and wet and open, calling me Daddy in the rough voice of a broken man.
I was grateful I was behind my desk, and that I sitting in the beam of light so the kid couldn't see my flush, though I felt heat rush under my skin. I barely knew this kid and I wanted to break him. I wanted this cop to want me. I wanted this cop to want only me. I wanted this cop. Fuck.
Dangerous didn't begin to cover it. I broke the silence.
“What?” I snapped. “I haven't got all night. What does the SBPD want with me?” I needed a drink. Maybe I was just tired. I'd been out following a cheating husband for three nights and lack of sleep—and spilling my coffee—tended to make me cranky. Crankier; I had a reputation of my own downstairs. One I was pleased to say I'd earned.
“I...” Spencer was at a loss for words for a moment, frowning slightly, and suddenly I realized—this wasn't official business. Mr. Perfect Detective didn't have permission to be here. My lips curled up on their own.
“What's the matter, Spencer? The PD's new hero need a little work done off the books?” I sneered and watched his chin come up, watched the guilty hint of pink over his cheekbones with more attention than it probably deserved.
Fuck it. I bent down and pulled out the bottle of scotch and poured myself a finger into my single glass.
“Yes,” Spencer answered like he'd never heard of sarcasm, or like he'd had all traces of humor shaken out of him a long time ago. I refused to smooth away my glare. Not even when Spencer followed that with a moment of indecision and a nervous glance behind him at the door.
Then he turned to me with a posture straight out of the Academy and opened that red, tempting mouth.
“There's...been a murder. It's not my case and...” He frowned, carefully, and I thought what a shame it was that everything about this kid was careful. Then I took a swig of scotch to chase the thought away. “I think it's being mishandled. When I requested it, when I...said I could solve it...I was told no. And I think...No...I know, that someone is keeping me from this case for a reason. And I thought, with what they say about you...”
“If you had it you could solve it, huh?” I didn't know why I was asking, but maybe I just didn't want to hear this kid's opinion of me. Not yet. The Department line was that I had an anger management problem. My line was that I thought protecting victims was more important than some bureaucrat's idea of justice.
“I've never not solved a case.” Spencer didn't even have the decency to sound smug. A part of me even thought he seemed sad. It was a part of me I planned on drowning in scotch before it got me into trouble again. I never had been able to resist riding in to the rescue.
“And modest too.” I kept my sneer in place but took my gaze from his face and those shifting eyes.
“Your success rate was nearly as high. And you have a reputation as...”
“That crazy queer cop?” I had to look back at him, and my gut tightened when I saw his surprise. He looked down, at his feet, or at my desk, or maybe at the handcuffs again, I couldn't tell. Then his lips quirked up in a smile that I swear to Christ looked shy.
“...As a man who doesn't let rules get in his way when a case needs solving,” he finished and then sucked in a breath as though just saying those words was enough to get him in trouble. He glanced backwards again, at my door, at some distant, disapproving figure and I didn't think I was in trouble, I knew I was in trouble.
This kid, this super detective, lived for the rules, was worried he'd be in trouble simply for coming to my office, and yet he was here anyway, to make sure a case he cared about was solved.
My gut went from tight to absolutely clenched, my heart pounded, and my dick got harder than it got for any of those little golden, smooth slaveboys downstairs. The knight needed help and I was going to go charging in to save him.
And for what? The kid couldn't get any straighter without wearing Axe body spray and jerking off to images of Pamela Anderson on a Ferrari. There was nothing in it for me but a paycheck.
And doing my job. Seeing justice done, I told myself. His eyes—green—I thought—his green eyes watched me and I could tell that he'd read this about me too in that glance about my office. I wanted to know what he'd heard about me down at the station. I wanted to know what in my office had confirmed the suspicion that had brought him to my door. I wanted to prove him right and impress him at the same time.
Mostly I wanted to know if I could finally manage to surprise him if I slapped those padded cuffs on him and dragged him to bed.
It must have been in my face. Spencer's eyes widened and for a moment we were both quiet, startled, staring at each other. Then he remembered himself, his reputation, his badge, his father, who knew? and cleared his throat. We spent another moment pretending that I hadn't been leering at him and that he had told me to fuck off for doing it when he hadn't, that he hadn't possibly liked it.
Not that I was going to go down that road. No way. Not at least until I was home and in bed with a bottle of Astroglide and lot of free time.
“I'll take it.” I announced huskily, studying his face for another long moment. I hadn't discussed payment. I didn't even know the damn details, but Shawn Spencer's oh so straight shoulders sagged the barest inch and his abused, bitten mouth slid upward into another quick, careful smile, and he was trouble all right.
My kind of trouble, I decided faintly, and poured myself another finger of scotch.
Author: Rispacooper (with story idea credit to
dlasta)For: Psych
Summary: AU Private Eye!Lassiter!!! AU Cop!Shawn! A meeting in a cramped, dusty office.
Warnings: Language and sex talk.
Pairing: Lassiter/Shawn UST
AN: The idea for this AU existed long before.
dlasta's Amnesty AU challenge and of course went too long. But still, I consider this flashfic. Written in one afternoon, for shits and giggles and because I needed to try to get back in my writing groove. The moment he walked in, I knew he meant trouble. Not the kind of trouble that wore short shorts and left you feeling used and dirty, or the kind that had a sob story about a man they met once and where that led them, with one hand on your dick and the other on your wallet. No, this was the kind of trouble that wasn't about money or a fuck in the dark. This was about five feet ten of straight-shouldered, cleaned up, straight and narrow Boy Scout that had no place walking up the creaking steps through the rowdiest leather bar south of San Francisco and stepping into my office, with wide, serious eyes that seemed to shift even as I studied them, from green to blue to grey and then back to green.
Without really knowing why, I wanted to reach for my piece. I'd spent a long time doing what I do, over a decade as a cop and a few more years as a private detective ever since they'd kicked me off the force for that minor...disagreement involving a bigoted killer in my custody, and this kid had alarm bells ringing in my head louder than the Depeche Mode pumping downstairs.
Maybe it was because I instantly knew who it was though I'd never laid eyes on the kid outside of the newspapers. Shawn Spencer, the Department's current hero. A detective with a flawless solve rate and a reputation as close to perfection as you could get outside of a Dick Tracy comic or Dudley DoRight. His father had been a cop too, Henry Spencer, I remembered him as kind of a perfectionist asshole, and I don't think my perception of him was that far off, considering the tension in his son.
But that could have been the atmosphere; it was Happy Hour downstairs and Ruby's clientele tended to get a bit frisky when drunk and the kid wasn't bad to look at if you disregarded the stick up his ass. He looked like he hadn't relaxed in years, like he hadn't gotten laid ever, but even as I had that thought I tossed it aside. He was too cute to be untouched. He probably had a beautiful and appropriate girlfriend—not a wife, no ring—but someone to impress at department functions.
The department had been big on that...its image... It had protected that even over justice, worshiped it when the blind lady was supposed to be our one concern as officers of the law and... It's still difficult to swallow the anger, but I'm happier now, I remind myself. I still work my cases and with a hell of a lot more freedom than I had as Santa Barbara's youngest Head Detective.
His eyes were sweeping over my cramped little office with the sort of efficiency I thought only existed in spy movies but I saw his gaze lingering on the handcuffs I'd left dangling over the top of my open laptop. Maybe he guessed from the leopard print fabric covering the metal that they weren't for work. Maybe he liked them; if I'd learned anything from having an office over a leather bar it was that a suit and tie could hide a lot of repression.
I fingered my own battered red silk tie with a deliberate smirk and made myself wait until the super cop in front of me spoke first. I told myself I was imagining the danger and leaned further back into my chair.
Then the kid swallowed and raised those eyes to mine and I realized that he was more dangerous than I could ever have dreamed. The department's new hero tightened his jaw like a knight in a storybook about to do battle and for a fleeting moment I thought he knew everything about me, what I'd done the night before, how much Glenlivet was left in the bottom drawer of my desk, who had last worn those cuffs, and where I'd gotten the coffee that I'd splashed onto my shirt this morning.
He didn't wear a holster, his gun was at his hip with his badge and I wondered if he had the same urge to go for it that I had to go for mine.
Fucking cops, I thought, grateful once again at no longer being one, though a long time ago I would never have imagined ever having a thought like that. But one divorce, one lawsuit, and a detective's license later and all I felt was annoyance that Shawn Spencer was in my office, looking like he was afraid he'd get cooties if he touched anything.
“Carlton Lassiter.” He wasn't asking.
“Shawn Spencer,” I offered in return without waiting for the introduction, and let my smirk grow into a sneer when he seemed momentarily taken aback. But he was quick, too quick, and nodded. When he took a small step forward the early evening light arrowing through the bent slats in my blinds hit him and all the effort he'd put into flattening his hair couldn't disguise its rich color. His skin was pale gold. His mouth was red, the lips swollen like he bit them to hold words back on a regular basis, and the image popped into my mind of this kid fighting not to let go, and me over him, fisting him, wrist deep, those leopard cuffs holding him to my bed, and me spreading him wide open. No suit. No tie. No slicked back hair. No goddamn badge. Just this kid with his mouth crimson and wet and open, calling me Daddy in the rough voice of a broken man.
I was grateful I was behind my desk, and that I sitting in the beam of light so the kid couldn't see my flush, though I felt heat rush under my skin. I barely knew this kid and I wanted to break him. I wanted this cop to want me. I wanted this cop to want only me. I wanted this cop. Fuck.
Dangerous didn't begin to cover it. I broke the silence.
“What?” I snapped. “I haven't got all night. What does the SBPD want with me?” I needed a drink. Maybe I was just tired. I'd been out following a cheating husband for three nights and lack of sleep—and spilling my coffee—tended to make me cranky. Crankier; I had a reputation of my own downstairs. One I was pleased to say I'd earned.
“I...” Spencer was at a loss for words for a moment, frowning slightly, and suddenly I realized—this wasn't official business. Mr. Perfect Detective didn't have permission to be here. My lips curled up on their own.
“What's the matter, Spencer? The PD's new hero need a little work done off the books?” I sneered and watched his chin come up, watched the guilty hint of pink over his cheekbones with more attention than it probably deserved.
Fuck it. I bent down and pulled out the bottle of scotch and poured myself a finger into my single glass.
“Yes,” Spencer answered like he'd never heard of sarcasm, or like he'd had all traces of humor shaken out of him a long time ago. I refused to smooth away my glare. Not even when Spencer followed that with a moment of indecision and a nervous glance behind him at the door.
Then he turned to me with a posture straight out of the Academy and opened that red, tempting mouth.
“There's...been a murder. It's not my case and...” He frowned, carefully, and I thought what a shame it was that everything about this kid was careful. Then I took a swig of scotch to chase the thought away. “I think it's being mishandled. When I requested it, when I...said I could solve it...I was told no. And I think...No...I know, that someone is keeping me from this case for a reason. And I thought, with what they say about you...”
“If you had it you could solve it, huh?” I didn't know why I was asking, but maybe I just didn't want to hear this kid's opinion of me. Not yet. The Department line was that I had an anger management problem. My line was that I thought protecting victims was more important than some bureaucrat's idea of justice.
“I've never not solved a case.” Spencer didn't even have the decency to sound smug. A part of me even thought he seemed sad. It was a part of me I planned on drowning in scotch before it got me into trouble again. I never had been able to resist riding in to the rescue.
“And modest too.” I kept my sneer in place but took my gaze from his face and those shifting eyes.
“Your success rate was nearly as high. And you have a reputation as...”
“That crazy queer cop?” I had to look back at him, and my gut tightened when I saw his surprise. He looked down, at his feet, or at my desk, or maybe at the handcuffs again, I couldn't tell. Then his lips quirked up in a smile that I swear to Christ looked shy.
“...As a man who doesn't let rules get in his way when a case needs solving,” he finished and then sucked in a breath as though just saying those words was enough to get him in trouble. He glanced backwards again, at my door, at some distant, disapproving figure and I didn't think I was in trouble, I knew I was in trouble.
This kid, this super detective, lived for the rules, was worried he'd be in trouble simply for coming to my office, and yet he was here anyway, to make sure a case he cared about was solved.
My gut went from tight to absolutely clenched, my heart pounded, and my dick got harder than it got for any of those little golden, smooth slaveboys downstairs. The knight needed help and I was going to go charging in to save him.
And for what? The kid couldn't get any straighter without wearing Axe body spray and jerking off to images of Pamela Anderson on a Ferrari. There was nothing in it for me but a paycheck.
And doing my job. Seeing justice done, I told myself. His eyes—green—I thought—his green eyes watched me and I could tell that he'd read this about me too in that glance about my office. I wanted to know what he'd heard about me down at the station. I wanted to know what in my office had confirmed the suspicion that had brought him to my door. I wanted to prove him right and impress him at the same time.
Mostly I wanted to know if I could finally manage to surprise him if I slapped those padded cuffs on him and dragged him to bed.
It must have been in my face. Spencer's eyes widened and for a moment we were both quiet, startled, staring at each other. Then he remembered himself, his reputation, his badge, his father, who knew? and cleared his throat. We spent another moment pretending that I hadn't been leering at him and that he had told me to fuck off for doing it when he hadn't, that he hadn't possibly liked it.
Not that I was going to go down that road. No way. Not at least until I was home and in bed with a bottle of Astroglide and lot of free time.
“I'll take it.” I announced huskily, studying his face for another long moment. I hadn't discussed payment. I didn't even know the damn details, but Shawn Spencer's oh so straight shoulders sagged the barest inch and his abused, bitten mouth slid upward into another quick, careful smile, and he was trouble all right.
My kind of trouble, I decided faintly, and poured myself another finger of scotch.