Archive of Our Own ^beta

Shawn isn't open about his sexuality. And he doesn't need to say anything about his gender. I mean, look at him! He certainly looks just like your typical hotter than average man. The times… Well, it's not exactly welcoming around here for someone like him. Why bring any of it up? It's safer for him this way.

Even still, Pride is coming to Santa Barbara, and the pull is hard to resist.

Hearing about it in passing on the radio gave him pause. He'd always been able to tell himself he couldn't go because of the distance. An hour plus by motorcycle?? You're joking. It can't be worth it. No matter how nice it sounds. The idea that he might not feel the need to hide... Well, he doesn't need to dwell on that.

He's so used to being seen as a man interested only in women that he's almost been able to trick himself into believing he was cis and straight. He's hardly ever gotten any questions either, and when he did, he could always brush it off. Lying was such a habit now that Shawn didn't always recognize he was doing it. It's been years and years since he was last misgendered. So long ago he can't hardly remember it.

(That's a lie. It was his dad, still struggling to figure out what was going on with his little girl. It had taken some time for the man to come around. Once Shawn impulsively had Gus buzz his hair all off and promptly tried to run away out of fear of telling his dad, he seemed to come more to terms with it. Being more of less missing for a few days can do that to a parent. "Shawn. That's what we were going to call you if you were born a boy. Shawn." (It stuck.))

It didn't get any easier. Not even when he looked the part he was trying to play. There was little to no medical anything for his 'condition., and school children were mean, but their parents could be downright cruel. He had had to switch school eventually.

Thank god for Gus being unable to lie about bullies to Shawn's father. Who knows how bad it could've gotten had nobody stepped in.

The fear of 'being found out' lingered over Shawn's head like a bad cloud for so long it became a part of him. He locked himself into the box that people needed him to be in, and he never left.

(Another lie. He made out with Jenna Lopez behind the bleachers in ninth grade even though he had a crush on Micah Johnson. He had felt sick when he realized he felt the same fluttery feelings about both of them. The guilt followed him until he crawled through Gus's window a little after midnight, sobbing about not knowing what was wrong with him. He confessed to liking girls and boys and didn't calm down until Gus made them hot chocolate.)

Gus knows just about everything about him, and what a relief that is. Without that beacon in his life, Shawn doesn't know where he'd be.

(He's got an idea. He's seen the statistics. It wouldn't have been pretty, and he doesn't like to think about it.)

Even still, the idea of a crowd of people who are all somewhat like him, who might understand…

Shawn wants it. He wants it so badly. Gus is an incredible, amazing friend, but there's some things he has trouble understanding.

When he tells Gus he’ll be out for a while, Gus just nods and ask him to take out the office trash before he goes since it's his turn. He’s used to Shawn needing time to himself. So long as he checks in every few hours so that Gus knows his brain isn’t getting to him, Gus doesn't mind where Shawn goes. True best friend behavior.

---

His apartment is nice. It's homey and cluttered, if a little loud. He likes having something of his own that nobody messes with. It's comforting. 

Despite that, he's been staring down his closet for the better half on an hour now, pacing about in front of it like a caged animal. He's got no idea what's so difficult! Get dressed, get on bike, leave. It all sounds simple enough. And yet, something so simple as what to wear creates another barrier between him and this plan he's made. He hates it.

Finally, he decides that there is no wrong or right answer, and he goes for casual. Comfortability over style. There's no need to go crazy. He does have to drive his motorcycle there, and safety isn’t a joke on that thing. He does opt to bring a pair of shorts in his bag. It's far too hot out for his full attire, despite how cool he looks in his biking gear.

Lacing up his heavy boots, he heaves a nervous breath, willing the fear away.

If it takes a moment of sitting and breathing before he can leave the building, then that's nobody's business but his.

---

All things considered, the drive is pleasant. The breeze is cool and the closer he gets, the lighter he feels. It's harder to try and make up excuses to turn around when he's almost there.

Arriving at the scene, the parade is in full swing. People are open and careless and free, waving flags and showing off. There's balloons and copious amounts of glitter just about everywhere, and there's so much color it almost burns to lay eyes on. 

It's wonderful.

He parks his bike and locks it up. He’s here now, why not throw caution to the wind? That was his usual style anyway, right? Something in the air must have affected him, given him new confidence. He eyes some folks in the crowd and decides to follow the lead they set. He takes off his jacket and shirt underneath, leaving him in just his binder. It's odd to him, but he gets some wayward cheers of encouragement and waves as he does. It bring a smile of his own to his face, being recognized but not hated.

He steps into a cafe to change into his shorts and debates over a sparse bag of makeup he brought along last minute. He wasn't confident with any of it, and ends up scrubbing his face with rough paper towels and water so many times he's over the idea of it. He leaves the bathroom feeling generally defeated, but hoping the parade can cheer him back up.

He almost runs directly into a party of drag queens picking up drinks and apologizes. One of the ladies stops him in his tracks.

“Oh honey.” She coos, eyeing his rubbed red face and the bag in his hand. Somehow it doesn’t feel condescending when she says it. “Need some help with your make-up?”

When will he get a chance like this again? 'Live in the moment!' He tells himself.

Giving her his typically charming grin, he holds the bag of makeup out to her. “If you're offering.”

She watches him eye her makeup warily- heavy as it was- and grins widely. “Don’t worry. We'll go easy on you.” Shawn can’t help the laugh that bursts forth from him.

---

He steps away from the party with a wave and a couple new friends, numbers and show dates tucked into his pockets. They've certainly done a number on him.

His eyelashes are curled and heavy with mascara, eyeshadow and blush and all that on. They did something called contour? He thinks? It felt… good. It certainly looks good. Somehow, he doesn't feel less masculine. One of the ladies had even helped him paint two flags, one on each cheek. A trans flag and a bisexual flag, he's told.

He felt light as air as he stepped back into the street to join the parade. The festivities hadn’t dimmed or slowed in the slightest in the half hour he’d been gone. If anything, the mood had risen.

He more or less strutted into the crowd, taking everything in.

People brushed by, some laughing, some dancing. Music played from somewhere, and it swirled in the air almost playfully. Someone dressed in eye-blinding neons offers Shawn stickers which he accepts gladly, letting them plaster little hearts and stars and rainbows on his arms and face. Someone else wearing a binder like him holds their hands out and Shawn takes them, spinning and dancing with this stranger who was so alike to him. A laugh bubbles out of Shawn's throat, and he doesn't stop it, nearly doubling over with the force of it.

He drifts through the crowd, high fiving and spinning and smiling with people of all types. He’s helping a young man somewhere near his age paint a rainbow on his cheek when he catches a glimpse of blue-black in the crowd. He finishes the last line of color with a smile and a fist bump and turns to scan the area. And again, a flash of a familiar color in the crowd.

Some people shift and prance by, giving Shawn a sudden clear view of a policeman. Of course there would be police here. Weren't there always a few at events like this? But this was different.

They were in Santa Barbara.

These would be Santa Barbara police, which Shawn was very familiar with.

The sudden fear is sharp, sliding down his spine like the cold blade of a knife. It's been so long since he felt this particular fear that it's almost foreign to him. Even worse, as Shawn squints against the sunlight, he recognizes that specific cop.

It's Lassiter.

Lassie’s impassive sunglasses cover his bright blue eyes, arms crossed over his chest like always, but Shawn knows he's surveying the parade, cataloging people. If he faces just a bit more to his left he'll see Shawn, as they're hardly fifteen feet from each other.

God, that's a terrifying prospect.

He's frozen still in the crowd as he sees Lassiter's head start to turn. He knows Lassie, and he knows the man would never hurt him. Well, now he knows. When they first met, maybe not. But even so, for some reason his heart beats rabbit-quick and his blood feels cold and sluggish in his veins.

What is he afraid of? Maybe it's because they have to work together, or that nobody but Gus and his dad know about this piece of him.

...

Maybe it's the fact that Lassie’s in uniform, that he's here as a cop and not a parade attender.

Either way, Shawn turns on his heel, intending to speed walk in the opposite direction and avoid whatever potential conflict could arise. He doesn't get far before he hears an incredulous, “Spencer??”

Damn his stupidly recognizable hair and dashing good looks. He tries for his usual wide smile as he whirls around.

“Lassie!” He calls, aiming for surprised as he reluctantly crosses the distance between them, trying not run into too many people while he does.

Lassiter's eyes roam Shawn's figure, eyes wide, mouth open just a tiny bit. He uncrosses his arms to tuck his hands into his pockets. “I- Spencer. You- uhm. You look… good?” He tries awkwardly, looking anywhere but Shawn's eyes.

Shawn blinks, brow furrowed for a second before his cheeky grin returns. “Aww- you truly know how to flatter a guy, Lassie!” Shawn crows, eyes locking on the pin tacked to Lassiter's vest, revealed by the shift of Lassiter's arms.

It's a little rainbow flag. That's good. That could be very good, even. Best case scenario, it's a declaration of his identity, not-best-but-pretty-good case scenario, Lassie's an ally. At the very least, Lassiter probably won't hate crime Shawn, and that's good enough for him.

“I like your pin.” He says with a grin, poking the maybe innocuous piece of metal on Lassiter's vest and jostling it a bit..

Lassiter jolts slightly, startled from whatever thoughts that beautiful brain was struggling over.

...

Did Shawn say beautiful?

...

Never mind.

“Thank you.” Lassiter says primly. “A parade-goer gifted it to me.” He adjusts the pin, righting it in it's place. 

Shawn tries not to deflate at that. It's not all bad. At least he's supportive? “Glad you're embracing the culture! Not everyone's that… welcoming?” Shawn hates how uncertain his voice is. It's very out of character for him.

“Of course.” Lassiter nods.

The air is awkward, and the silence stretches uncomfortably. People continue to laugh and sing and march on behind them.

“So!” Shawn claps his hands. “Nice chat! I- uh… I trust this stays between us?” He gestures at the flags painted across his cheeks.

Lassiter gives a jerky sort of nod. “It was… nice to see you.” Lassiter murmurs, eyes flicking over Shawn's face again.

Shawn wishes Lassiter would take off those sunglasses so he could see those blue eyes better. Regardless, he smiles. It's weak, so he winks at Lassie to make up for it. “Anytime! I like talking with you.” It's more truthful than Shawn had intended on being, and he winces at himself. “Catch you later?” Lassiter opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but he closes it quickly, looking frustrated. Shawn just turns and starts to split back into the crowd, the urge to flee near overwhelming.

He doesn't quite catch the squeaky sort of sound that escapes Lassiter but he does hears the detective clear his throat to cover it up.

He finds himself stepping slowly, fighting with himself to not turn around, to not look back at Lassiter. It's a struggle. Words balance on the tip of his tongue, but he diligently moves forward. Again, he doesn't get far.

“Shawn, wait!” Lassiter calls.

Shawn lets out a breath of air and turns about. Something like relief passes over him. Lassiter is jogging over to him. “I-” Lassiter's cheeks are tinged pink, and he’s fidgeting with his vest in a very un-Lassie like way.

The show of vulnerability puts Shawn on edge, makes him unbalanced. Lassiter looks just as much like a fish out of water as Shawn.

“Look, Shawn. Im-" He winces. "Would you- I-” He huffs frustratedly, glaring at the ground. He takes one of those centering breaths they teach you about in the cop training videos about focus, and Shawn has a feeling it's about to get serious.

I get off this shift in an hour or so.” He settles on, looking up at Shawn. Shawn locks eyes with him, being more patient than he's probably ever been. The blush grows on Lassiter's face, and Shawn traces it all the way up to Lassie's ears.

It's surprisingly endearing.

“If you're free- for lunch that is- there's a restaurant nearby I've been meaning to try?” He stumbles on his words, turning from Shawn's gaze. This means he doesn't see the grin growing on Shawn's face. A bright, goofy, joy-filled grin.

“Lassifras!” Shawn's gasps. “Are you… asking me out??” Shawn presses the back of his hand to his forehead, swooning exaggeratedly.

Lassiter huffs a breath, mouth twisting into a grimace. “Don't patronize me, Spencer.” He hisses, ducking his head.

Shawn recognizes his defensive posture and straightens up. He doesn't want Lassie to run, and the man looks far too close to darting off for Shawn's liking.

“I'm not!” Shawn's voice nearly cracks in his rush to correct Lassiter. “I'm not patronizing you, Lassie, I swear.”

He reaches forward and snatches Lassiter's hands, tugging them away from his vest. He clutches Lassie's hands tight, pulling them to his chest. Anything to keep him here. The man looks startled, but at least he's looking at Shawn now. It helps that they're mostly the same height.

“I'm sorry, really. Seriousness isn't my best suit, you know that.”

Lassiter grumbles under his breath at that, rolling his eyes.

“But Lassiter, Carlton, I'd love to. Truly.” He pushes all the sincerity he can into his voice. His bare honesty seems to do it for Lassiter. The smile that breaks out on Lassiter's face is small, but it is so much softer than anything he's seen from the man. 

All at once, the detective seems to realize himself and he coughs and reluctantly draws his hands away from Shawn's, clearing his throat again. It's too late though. Shawn got a glimpse of something he really wanted, and now he just needs a taste of it again. That happiness, the domesticity of simply holding hands... Later.

“Well then.” Lassiter stands straighter, chest puffed out a bit. Shawn wants to giggle, but he holds himself back. “I'll call in a reservation.”

“Put it under Shawn!”

“No way, Spencer. I picked the restaurant; the reservations under my name.”

“Wha-? But you called me Shawn earlier??”

Lassiter tilts his head almost mockingly, an eyebrow cocked. “Did I? I don't seem to recall.”

And yeah, there's his detective.

Shawn wants to kiss that stupid, taunting smirk off Lassie's face. Instead, he just laughs so hard his stomach hurts.

Maybe coming out today, (pun totally intended), was a good idea.