Author's Note- Alright, I love Lassiter and the way he interacts with Shawn and I've read a couple other fics where he finds out the truth. I decided to try my hand at it.

This takes place anytime late third or early fourth. Up to you really.

Italics indicate a flashback to what happened.

Disclaimer- Psych does not belong to me, nor do any of the characters therein. I am making no profit. This story is purely for entertainment.

This story is also posted on psychfic.

Life, Detective Carlton Lassiter lamented, wasn't fair. Especially not now when everything had been turned upside down and inside out; it just wasn't fair.

"Damn it Spencer." Lassiter growled as he glared at his emptying mug of beer. After the last few years of forced interaction and grudging cooperation with the irritating man, Lassiter had come to the belief that he'd finally found a way of dealing effectively with him.

After that initial meeting in the interrogation room, he had been so sure that he would never have to see Spencer again. If, by some terrible chance of fate he did, it would be inside the same interrogation room.

But no, somehow the clown had solved the crime, which had gotten him onto the chief's speed dial. As a result, the headaches had begun. Over time Lassiter found himself wanting an excuse to shoot the self-absorbed, arrogant fraud. At the very least it would be suitable revenge for how Spencer had gotten his initial partner transferred.

Not that he could complain about who he was paired with now. O'Hara was a capable officer and eager to learn from those who have been around longer. He knew, for instance, that she watched him carefully. Her indulgence in Spencer's antics was annoying, but understandable. She was taken in by the charm.

Charm that Lassiter saw right through.

It had seemed clear that the self-proclaimed psychic had no sense of tact or subtlety, that he simply didn't have a filter between brain and mouth. It was annoying, aggravating, and frustrating beyond belief, but a fact he couldn't deny if he was to survive being around Spencer.

And he had accepted this.

Grimacing, Lassiter finished the last of his beer and signaled the bartender for another. Tom Blair's Pub was a last resort for the head detective. When the shooting range wasn't enough, the station too crowded, and his home too quiet, he came here and tried the bottle.

"Bad day at work?" The bartender, Steven, questioned as he placed the requested drink on the counter. Lassiter met the bartender's gaze, swiped his fresh drink and spoke through clenched teeth.

"Just bring the drinks."

Steven watched the officer take a deep swig and sighed. Most of his customers found him approachable and opened up after a few drinks, but clearly this patron would not be in need of his listening skills tonight. He turned his back to the counter and walked away.

Lassiter almost called him back. A part of the detective would like to discuss this with someone else, anyone else. He. Just. Couldn't.

"I envy you."

Damn it, what was Spencer thinking? Lassiter snarled to himself, knowing even as he thought about it that that was the problem. Spencer wasn't thinking. After all this time dealing with Spencer, each interaction proving beyond doubt that the man didn't possess an ounce of finesse, that whatever he thought just came out and to hell with anyone else, he had finally discovered how very wrong he'd been.

"You're a great cop Lassie, smart, determined, efficient…"

"Shut up Spencer." Lassiter ground out as he continued his efforts to stem the flow of blood coming from Spencer.

"No, really." Shawn continued, ignoring Lassiter's command. "And the best part is you chose this. It's what you wanted. I envy you." The detective blinked. This last part was nearly inaudible, but he caught it, and it stopped him cold.

After 20 minutes of the most random babble known to man, where had this come from?

Beer, he sighed, was just not going to be enough tonight. He finished the glass and ordered a double scotch. He knew that he would be switching to whiskey soon, but he wasn't worried. He had taken a taxi here; the whole point was to get too drunk to drive, or think.

The most depressing part of this situation was that he couldn't even blame Spencer for what happened.

Not this time.

The decision to enter the building without waiting for proper backup had been his. Spencer had told him that they should wait, at least for O'Hara. However, Lassiter was convinced that this was just another one of Spencer's wild goose chases, so he had charged into the situation unprepared. He had not even waited for Spencer to tell him what he had seen.

That Spencer followed him anyway really shouldn't have surprised him.

"You would have made him proud." Shawn's breathing was shallow and fast, but he seemed oblivious as he continued to speak. "All those lessons, you would have learned them right." What? Lassiter questioned silently as he finished bandaging the wound.

"He wanted some someone like you, ya know." Something like dread was swirling in the detective; he didn't like where this was going. "Someone to carry the tradition, carry the badge."

"Spencer…" He began and stopped. He had a terrible suspicion he knew whom Spencer was talking about, and he couldn't think of anything to say in response. Besides, with all the blood loss, keeping him awake and talking was the best idea until help arrived.

Everything had happened so fast; he just hadn't seen it coming. His throat burned as he finished his second scotch in one desperate gulp. His vision was swimming, but his memories were still as clear as ever, and they were what he was trying to blur.

Nature suddenly called to him, and he stumbled away from the bar and to the bathroom. Washing his hands, he couldn't avoid seeing his reflection and wished he hadn't.

Already he was looking like something left to mold, and he was nowhere near done drinking. Thank god Chief Vick had given him a few days off; he wasn't going to be hiding this with a few cups of coffee and dark sunglasses.

As he sunk back into the chair at the bar, the next drink already on the way, he rubbed roughly at his eyes. God, why couldn't he forget?

"He always wanted me to be a cop, like him, like grandpa. Never gave me any other choice." Lassiter stared at him, unable to make him stop talking and not liking either the weakness in his voice or the paleness of his skin.

"When I told him about being a psychic detective, he nearly disowned me right then and there."

"What are you talking about Spencer?" Lassiter blurted before he could stop himself. Shawn started to laugh only to have it turn into a coughing fit. It was some time before the fit faded. Shawn lay still as he concentrated on breathing.

Carefully checking to make sure that all that coughing hadn't reopened the wound, Lassiter prodded and poked, but the bleeding was, for the moment, stopped. Shawn's eyes were open but unfocused, and Lassiter decided that silent and conscious was good enough for now.

Then Shawn started talking again.

"I think you've had enough." Steven tried once more. Even sitting on the bar stool, it was clear that the man was unbalanced. Lassiter blinked up at him and growled.

"I'm not driving. Now bring me my drink."

"Really." Steven pressed. Too many drunks thought they could lie to him. The act of rolling his eyes nearly caused Lassiter to end up on the floor, so he gave it up and silently reached into each of his pockets, displaying the lack of keys. Knowing when to admit defeat, Steven poured the drink and moved away with a shake of his head. Lassiter downed half straight off, partly to spite the well-intentioned bartender.

He was actually surprised by how much leeway the chief had given him in regards to his blunder. She'd listened patiently to his explanation. Then, instead of the suspension he expected, she'd told him to go home.

Following their meeting, she had left with McNab to visit Spencer in the hospital. Lassiter stayed behind, with nothing but his own thoughts, the ones that led him to where he was now, analyzing what had happened in an attempt to forget.

Lassiter was, of course, the first to enter the building. He was ashamed to admit that he had not even drawn his weapon, so sure was he that Spencer was pulling his chain. Barely into the second room, Spencer caught back up to him. Looking back now, Lassiter could remember him being nervous, agitated, on edge.

So busy had he been thinking of ways to make to make Spencer pay for this massive waste of time, he had not noticed the danger lurking around them.

Spencer had not been so distracted.

Just as it had registered with him that Spencer was shouting, he was falling to the ground, the younger man ramming into him. He heard several guns going off. Natural instincts kicked in. He'd whipped out his own gun and begun returning fire. Movement in the corner of his eye, and he'd been off, chasing down the suspects.

He had routed them out, but was unable to catch any of them. When he headed back to where he had left Spencer, he had contacted dispatch and informed them of the events. Finishing up with dispatch, he had walked back into the room to meet back up with Spencer.

"Sweet justice, how did I miss it?" He murmured, nursing yet another drink that still failed to erase the memories.

"He taught me, everything." Lassiter sighed, he didn't want to be here listening to Spencer breaking down, but he couldn't go anywhere. Help was at least 15 more minutes away; an accident had stopped traffic ahead of the ambulance.

"My 'gifts' certainly came in handy." It must have been his imagination, but the detective could swear he heard resentment in Spencer's voice when he said this.

"According to Henry you didn't receive your 'gifts' until after high school." Lassiter prompted, trying to keep the other man awake. Shawn snorted, winced, and blinked until he could focus again.

"Dude, I am what he made me. Every day, every moment, all of it was just one long lesson on m making me a c cop."

"You, a cop?" Lassiter couldn't help himself; he laughed and couldn't even stop when Shawn's expression turned… Was it regretful? Depressed?

"Yeah, hard to picture right? Dad can see it though." Shawn was whispering now, and the tone in his voice pulled Lassiter back from whatever hysteria he'd been experiencing. He was trying to formulate a response, to say something to remove that despondent sound from Shawn's voice.

"Sometimes it's all he sees."

Good lord, what was he supposed to say? He just didn't do comfort.

"He hates PI's and psychics, you know that? But he didn't turn me in. I still don't know what to make of that." Lassiter stared wide-eyed as the implications of that statement sunk in. By all that's holy, was this really happening?

Lassiter looked down at his empty glass, tempted to order another but aware that he would have to be able to stand on his own power if he wanted to go home. Steven came back over, settled the tab, and came close to asking the bouncer to assist Lassiter out.

Somehow, though, the detective made it outside, into a cab, and into his house. Along the way he kept seeking that pleasant alcoholic fog to descend and take away the events of the day.

He didn't want to remember Spencer's condition when he had finally returned. He wished he could forget the frantic voice on the radio demanding to know what had changed as he'd dropped to his knees next to Spencer

Spencer hadn't responded to him at first, and there had been so much blood. It was not until he'd started removing the younger man's shirt that he'd gotten a response, a mumbled protest that soon transformed into the random babbling that grated on Lassiter's nerves, but meant Spencer was still alive.

Of course, Lassiter figured that this one time he shouldn't complain about the babbling, since Spencer had just saved his life.

Stumbling through his house, he made it into the bedroom and began the arduous task of removing his shoes. He didn't bother trying to change; sleeping in his clothes was the least of his worries.

He collapsed on his bed, eyes unfocused on the ceiling and the alcohol making a presence as a pressure in his stomach and head. He groaned and flung one arm over his eyes, wishing that motion could sweep the images away, make the memory disappear. What did he do now?

Now that he knew?

"All it took was pretending to be psychic to make him look at me again, how sad is that?"