Lassie (and Shawn's) Great Adventure

d. Are You Sure it's Over? Cause My Head Still Hurts

He needed a spoon.

Not a large one, the kind he preferred for eating ice cream straight from the carton, but a little one – a skinny and delicate number. A feminine spoon. A long handled feminine spoon. Possibly with some feminine tines at the end.

He needed a spork.

A feminine spork.

With a long, feminine handle.

Or maybe just a hand saw because this damn leg was coming off right damn now!

Regret was something Shawn had built relationships around. He knew how one action could trigger the opposite and far worse reaction. He knew how to avoid those things most likely to cause him grief in favor of keeping civility for all involved. It was a level of training that far surpassed counting off a roomful of hats. However, he could still ignore the warnings if blinding outrage overcame fear of retribution. Like now, for instance.

Groan throbbing from his chest, Shawn dug his nails into the heavy bandaging covering his calf and scratched.

“Hey, stop that!”

Startled swivel, “Lass-WOAH!” Butt perched on the extreme edge of the chair, the sudden, unexpected blast of that commanding voice unbalanced his seat and dropped him to a crumple eighteen inches straight down. Hard floor, say hello to broken body. “Let's do lunch” whip-snapped through his head and while he was still whimpering in his curled up heap, Lassiter held out a hand all eye-rolly to help him back up.

“No.” Pathetic and grumpy, he'd already made up his mind he was going to die there. The dust bunnies inhabiting his side of the office could officiate at his funeral.

“Quit being a little bitch.” Snagging the owchie part of his elbow, the only one not occupying a sling, Lassiter dragged him back towards the cushy office chair.

“Did you just call me a bitch? Meow.” Once settled he snagged the melting cup of Heath Blizzard and sucked down a thick strawful. The temple searing ache that followed the frosty swallow was worth the sugar rush but he whined just the same and pushed his palm against his forehead.

“Idiot...” Disgruntled muttering from Lassiter was nothing new so he ignored the unflattering descriptive and focused all his will on rubbing away the blinding sensation of skull fracture.

Like all headaches of that sort, the sharp pain didn't last long. A more conservative sip of ice cream and he draped his body back into his chair. Meanwhile, apparently not enthralled with the floor show, Lassie had wandered into the other room. And it was right around then that Shawn took the time to wonder what the hell the detective was doing there.

“Dude, what the hell are you doing here anyhow? My dad send you out on a search and rescue? You know you're supposed to be off the job – does Chief Vick know you're here? Maybe Vick sent you. Did Vick send you? You could have brought donuts. You know, donuts are a great welcome back to work gestu...”

Lips bowed down in a tight curve, Lassiter slapped the door frame as he pulled himself into Shawn's eyeline. “Spencer, I'm not afraid to tase you.” Then his frown moseyed down further as he moved back into the office area. “What do you mean 'back to work'?”

“I could parrot that back at you Mr. suit and tie. In fact, I will. What do you mea...”

“For the love of Bill O'Reilly, shut it!”

“Shutting it. Actually, no, I'm not. And for your information, I'm not working per séance but merely allowing my aura to be gently washed by the tidepools of these tranquil surroundings.”