A/N: Well, I'm supposed to be editing things but I honestly couldn't get this idea out of my head. Too many unexpressed feels. Also, I will be switching over my updates to tumblr (where I'll have lots of things going on as well) so if you'd like to know where things are headed in the future then please check me out: .com.

Hot breath. Hot like the steam streaming from a fired rifle, spiraling out in sweet wisps of gundpowder. Anxious lips follow the trail and they're as soft as the bed Lassiter falls down into. Then there's a warm, wet tongue accompanied by the bite of bitter alcohol like wading out into the never ending ocean lapping up at tropical coasts. He senses inexperience from his partner, this younger boy with a thin frame and hair long enough to run fingers through although briefly. The dark and the beer swell around them and he welcomes the closeness it creates. His head swims as his lips dive into neck and collar bone. It all felt like some divine alternate reality, a closed off dimmension in space and time where graduation wasn't happening, where his outed lesbian mother had disappeared and where the eventuality of the future ceased to exist. All that is in this pocket of the universe is tongue and sweat and reckless abandon.

Lassiter shoots up straight from his bed with a deep gasp. The sweat that engulfs his body greedily sticks to his dark but graying hair and he shakes as he tries to brush it away. With a sense of panic and annoyance, he journeys through the dark of his bedroom to the bathroom where he shrugs off his boxers and ignores the obvious and leaking erection that's released from cotton and elastic. The forty year old tries to dismiss his reflection entirely but the hope is lost and he looks at the flushed and aroused version of his mirrored self with a painfulness. Why was this happening again?

The dream of the past and a make believe encounter plagued the detective for most of his life. It started in his early twenties and it seemed reoccuring. It would just play as if queued for his sleep. The first time it happened, he tried to shake it off but it kept coming back further disturbing him. It almost cost him his graduation from the police academy if he hadn't of course avoided sleep with constant training and studying.

After graduating though, the dream started to occur less. It never fully went away but it started pacing itself as if it was waiting for the most opportune times; anniversaries, big cases, and worst of all his wedding night. It even came for a few rounds when he was going through his divorce. However, the cop's life had taken a turn for the routine and there didn't seem to be any reason for his homoerotic nightmare to show up.

He hisses as he jumps into a cold shower. The high pressured droplets pinch at his skin, cold fingers that ease his erection away. It doesn't have to be this way. The full grown man shivering in the shower did have other options but neither of them were desirable. Waiting out his boner meant having to think about it's presence and he'd always figured that the less he thought about it the better. On the other hand there's also the more...pleasurable route but to even think of addressing the need the dream creates would be criminal to his sexuality. At least that's what he tells himself anyway.

He can feel his feet wet the carpet as he pads back to his bed. Now in the safety of a warm towel he glances at his digital clock. A triplet of fives gleam back to him in neon blue and he sighs. He could have had another five minutes of sleep but what's the point in trying?

The towel flurries around his body with efficiency as soft light leaks in through the blinds gating his square cut windows. Everything in his house is like that; modern, clean edges, and with little to no decorations. Here and there is a small family heirloom that had managed to plant itself in a corner or on a shelf but it looks out of place. Even Lassiter's civil war reinactment uniform appears foreign as it hides in the back of the line of suits and ties. The conservative republican eyes the costume in his closet as he selects his charcoal gray suit for the work day, the one with lighter buttons that shine a little. The muted, dark blue tie is already hanging around the neck. He has a habit of prearranging his suits and ties from top to bottom almost the way a military man would clean and present his gun. It simply makes mornings easier and it kills time on the nights when he does't have a big workload or a date (the latter occuring more than the former).

He's in the kitchen in a matter of minutes having traded his towel for a suit and his wet feet for the squeak of shined Bostonians. The shoes are darker than usual as they contrast against the white tile. He turns on Old Faithful, a coffee maker purchased in the late 90's, before sneaking out the front door and intercepting his daily newspaper. Then it's just the sound of russling newsprint and gurgling coffee to drown out the unbearable, underlying silence.

It isn't just the fact that Lassiter's a high school senior again in his dream and it's not even the fact that it's a reoccuring gay wet dream. All of those factors seem a little less important as time goes on. The most bothersome thing about the dream is that Lassiter has no idea who this mystery boy is. He never recalled being friends with any underclassmen or even really talking to any underclassmen. Then again he didn't really have friends either. Regardless, the detective did earn some clues over the years as to who the stranger of his nightmare is. Younger or at least smaller, a somewhat thin frame, hair a little long for a boy but not quite hippie length and...that was it. Other than that the dream is comprised of sensations, tastes, smells, etc. All things that are useless in figuring out the central being of this dream. Not only that but Lassiter prefers not to recall the sensations. They are to be avoided at all costs actually.

The preoccupied cop blinks to see that he has seamlessly appeared in the Santa Barbara police department. That's not unusual really. Sometime after that first sip of coffee is a streamline of monotonous events that not even clean cut Lassiter can coerce himself into enjoying let alone paying attention to. There's still a cup of coffee in his hand too, still warm and blacker than the shine of his shoes. He either brings his own cup of joe or he drinks from the never ending fountain of bitter caffiene that is the department's Mr. Coffee. His name is called out to him in a friendly co working manner and he replies with a stern head nod, that slight bob signaling his acknowledgement and professionalism all at once. Not quite friendly just a form of social obligation really.

Like his home, his desk is clean and straighter than a ruler. The only odd outsider planted amongst stiffly stacked papers and neatly organized office supplies is a dirt filled ceramic pot. Within the cubed pot is the corpse of a poinsetta, a dried up stem and a few stray leaves that shriveled and wrinkled up like prunes. The flower was once been full, it's red layers splayed out like millions of excited hands. It was a gift from Shawn. Lassiter forgets the occasion though he assumes it was some half assed attempt at an apology. Any way it was, Lassiter is not the gardening sort. The pretty flower lasted about a week and while it had died some time ago Lassiter still can't muster up the effort to despose of it and thus it sits there useless, dead and severly out of place.

"Good morning, Lassiter!"

O'Hara floats past him as her heels ceremoniously clack against the hard floor ruining her airy walk. Her blonde hair is confined to a ponytail today, a bit high and a tight to suit her. Her smile is warm and her cheeks have a flush to them from the outdoor heat. July in Santa Barbara could be unbearable some days.

"Morning, O'hara" he gives her a borderline smile well endowed with his quiet affection for her.

They rummage through paperwork in their own comforting quiet. Every now and then his spunky, young partner would denote what she though was an interesting event or story. Her grin would play at her lips and she had that soft tinkle of a laugh, short and sweet like a little bell. Lassiter would nod in response. He doesn't like to talk much and the perky blonde had become accustomed to that. She nonetheless appreciates that he listens and sometimes, if she's earnest enough and her anecdote is truly amusing, she can get that serious visage to confess a smirk.

The drowsy and content morning slips into the afternoon and with it a change of pace. The deparment becomes a blur of movement and a buzz of noise as officers get down to their work but Lassiter hardly notices. He's in the middle of tying up the paperwork of last week's combination murder and theft. It would have been easier if the theft hadn't been of the murdered corpse. It didn't help that it all had to do with Monoply money and some kind of beer brewed only in Canada. How Spencer figured out that one was anyone's guess.

Brat. He ought to be doing this paperwork. Lassiter mentally grunted.

Lassiter couldn't help his resentment toward Shawn. Only someone with the good graces of Mother Teresea (or O'Hara) could manage to stomach the phony psychic for more than five minutes. Oddly enough it isn't Spencer's thunder stealing powress of observation and detective skills that makes the cop dislike him. If anything his talents spark awe in Lassiter. He's amazed and intrigued how this younger man can simply glance at a newspaper clipping, point his finger in the air and lead them to victory. Watching him deduce and map out things...it's almost beautiful.

In all reality the aversion stems from what an utter waste the little genius makes of his talents. For years he did nothing but the odds and ends of random jobs, calling in tips to the police as a hobby. A hobby! As if murders and theft and kidnappings were games of tertris that he could play out in his leisure. Then when he actually had the balls to put his skills to use he still couldn't do it properly. No, he has to give credit to the spirit world. He can't just claim his true gift. Either that or he feels it more entertaining to feign mysticism but either way Lassiter can't stand it.

"Good morning, Lassie!"

Think of the devil and he shall come striding in wearing a stupid t-shirt.

Shawn sat on Lassiter's desk, his jeans smoothing over the fake wood as he leaned over and greeted O'Hara. It had taken time for the two to reconcile back to a pace of normalcy after their break up. Shawn was truly heart broken for the longest time but then it was hard to be in a negative mood around O'Hara. She was so sweet that the anger and the hurt seemed to disipate and, after all, they didn't end on terrible terms. The blonde had simply woken up and realized that it wasn't going to work and as much as Shawn wanted her to be mistaken, somwhere he felt she was right.

"So," Spencer says as he turns back to face the head detective, "what say you and I go grab a bite of Chinese today? My treat."

Lassiter looks at Shawn from the side. He swears he just heard the little pest offer him lunch but that can't be right.


"Don't give me that face, Lassiecakes," he leans closer into him, "I'm just trying to be nice. I figure you and I could use some bonding time."

Lassiter's glance tumbles back into his paperwork but it's all signed and ready to go. He feigns reading it over despite the fact that it's absolutely correct in every way. His blues glide over the words as his mouth seems to dip into more disdain.

"Why in God's name would I ever want to bond with you?"

"Because secretly you're longing to know me better?"

That earned a glare however the ever helpful blonde swoops into the conversation, her voice piping up before Lassiter can respond.

"Maybe that's not such a bad idea," she offers.

Lassiter looks at his partner increduously. Did she suddenly not know Lassiter and Shawn or their dynamic? Having lunch together, simple as it may sound, would be a battleground in a matter of minutes.

"You're on board with this- insanity?"

"Hear me out, Carlton." she pleaded with that sweet little look in her pretty green eyes, "Shawn seems sincere about this and who knows, this might be the chance you two get to finally see eye to eye."

"Who knows? I know. There's no way Spencer's actually extending a free meal to me without some kind of ulterior motive."

Shawn raises his arms in that overdramatic fashion as if he's cornered and attempting to reason. Sometimes it just made Lassiter want to punch him in the face. As if to say 'calm this, you little shit!' However, years of hard training advises his body against the urge.

"I am completely genuine, Carly," Shawn does that thing where his eyes widen a bit and the urge to hit him increases, "I sincerely want to take you out to some Chinese food, with all of my eager little heart."

He brings his index finger over his chest and draws an 'x' over his left pec. He still has his right hand in the air too. An oaf's oath, how charming.

"Your treat, right?"

Where'd that come from? Surely Lassiter misheard himself.

"Absolutely," still an air of stupidity but what more can the hard egded cop ask for?

"Fine," he ignores it as the buffoon does a victory dance and the blonde's smile further brightens, "but I'm driving."

This seems to bring Shawn down a little and Lassiter smirks finding some satisfaction in it. He grabs his keys with a swiftness and begins heading out, determined to keep control of this situation.

"Ah, I wanted to drive!" Shawn whines.

"You're treating me not taking me out on a date, now let's get this over with," he walks and talks at the same time, his words like his steps; quick and commanding.

Lassiter hears the definitive sound of the slap of a high five. It's small in attempts to go unnoticed but the little clap takes a straight shot into the detective's ear and it makes him question everything. The blonde and the buffoon are up to something; Lassiter can sense it. However, as the experienced cop walks out into near blinding Santa Barbara sunlight (Spencer trailing behind him) he decides that it might be more succesful to let it play out a bit. Then he could interrogate Shawn to his heart's content but first-

"Hu Wong's or Little Dragon?"

A/N: I'll be honest, I don't know where I'm going with this but with all the super planned things I'm doing right now I need something with some flexibility. I can't promise any amount of chapters or anything like that. This is kind of like that child you find living out in the jungle and you start trying to raise it. Y'all don't know what you're going to get. XD Review and such, until next time. :)