A New Perspective on an Old Theme
folder
M through R › Psych
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
27
Views:
4,924
Reviews:
9
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
M through R › Psych
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
27
Views:
4,924
Reviews:
9
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Psych, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Chapter 22 -- Lassie Smells a What?
Shawn shook his head as he let himself into the office and made a beeline straight for the change of clean clothes he kept in the bottom drawer of Gus’ desk. He would have kept it in his, but the remote control airplane that had a tendency to leak fuel would have ruined them, completely negating the fact they were clean clothes.
Humming, he went into the bathroom and changed.
He was happy to be in his own clothes, very happy, and gazed at himself in the mirror. Being able to see dead people hadn’t changed his appearance any, though he definitely was thinner, but then that was to be expected, and something he vowed to work on as soon as he could get to a smoothie stand and a fast food place. However, first, he had to convince some people he actually could see dead people.
How he was going to do that, he didn’t know. He just knew he had too, before he really went where people were convinced he was already -- absolutely certifiably insane. He sighed at his reflection, opened the door, and would have banged his head on the doorframe if it would have done him any good at all, other than to exacerbate the headache he already had.
“You are an idiot,” Lassiter said from where he sat on the edge of Gus’ desk, and scowled at Shawn .
“Very probably,” Shawn said as he looked for a way out and found none.
“I hope you enjoyed your brief sojourn, because I’m here to take you back to the hospital,” the head detective said, and Shawn sighed and held out his hands.
“Cuff me?” He asked, and Lassiter scowled.
“Do you really think that’s going to be necessary? The way you look I could hold you down with one hand.” He snorted, and Shawn sagged forward, utterly exhausted and defeated, and more depressed than he could remember being in a very long time.
“No,” he weakly shook head, and with his hands in his pockets, allowed Lassiter to lead him from the office to the car. He climbed in without a word, and Lassiter gazed at his unnaturally silent passenger.
“I never got a chance to say ‘thank you’ ,” he said gruffly after a while.
“Yes, you did,” Shawn corrected, and shrugged as he looked out the window of the car. “Maybe you never said the words, but what you did say was pretty nice.”
“What are you talking about?” Lassiter scowled. “I’ve never said a nice thing about you . . .”
“Yes, you did,” Shawn said, and grinned as he leaned forward and placed his hands on the seat. “I‘ll prove it,” he placed his hand to his temple, closed his eyes, and spoke. “You were standing by the wall, and you said, ‘Look. You’re talking about him like he’s already dead, and that has to stop! If there’s one thing I know about Shawn Spencer, he’s a fighter and he‘s not going to just give up and let go, certainly not without a fight. He’s strong and he loves life and living it more than anyone I’ve ever seen. He’s not going to give up and just let go, and neither should we.’”
Lassiter stomped on the car’s brake, and they squealed to a stop. He turned and glared at Shawn, who had fully regained his smug, self-satisfied look. “How the hell did you know that!?” He knew that Shawn hadn’t been anywhere near them in the room, as he had still been in the process of fighting for his life on an operating table, and Shawn’s grin widened.
“I’m psychic,” he said, and Lassiter’s scowl deepened.
Humming, he went into the bathroom and changed.
He was happy to be in his own clothes, very happy, and gazed at himself in the mirror. Being able to see dead people hadn’t changed his appearance any, though he definitely was thinner, but then that was to be expected, and something he vowed to work on as soon as he could get to a smoothie stand and a fast food place. However, first, he had to convince some people he actually could see dead people.
How he was going to do that, he didn’t know. He just knew he had too, before he really went where people were convinced he was already -- absolutely certifiably insane. He sighed at his reflection, opened the door, and would have banged his head on the doorframe if it would have done him any good at all, other than to exacerbate the headache he already had.
“You are an idiot,” Lassiter said from where he sat on the edge of Gus’ desk, and scowled at Shawn .
“Very probably,” Shawn said as he looked for a way out and found none.
“I hope you enjoyed your brief sojourn, because I’m here to take you back to the hospital,” the head detective said, and Shawn sighed and held out his hands.
“Cuff me?” He asked, and Lassiter scowled.
“Do you really think that’s going to be necessary? The way you look I could hold you down with one hand.” He snorted, and Shawn sagged forward, utterly exhausted and defeated, and more depressed than he could remember being in a very long time.
“No,” he weakly shook head, and with his hands in his pockets, allowed Lassiter to lead him from the office to the car. He climbed in without a word, and Lassiter gazed at his unnaturally silent passenger.
“I never got a chance to say ‘thank you’ ,” he said gruffly after a while.
“Yes, you did,” Shawn corrected, and shrugged as he looked out the window of the car. “Maybe you never said the words, but what you did say was pretty nice.”
“What are you talking about?” Lassiter scowled. “I’ve never said a nice thing about you . . .”
“Yes, you did,” Shawn said, and grinned as he leaned forward and placed his hands on the seat. “I‘ll prove it,” he placed his hand to his temple, closed his eyes, and spoke. “You were standing by the wall, and you said, ‘Look. You’re talking about him like he’s already dead, and that has to stop! If there’s one thing I know about Shawn Spencer, he’s a fighter and he‘s not going to just give up and let go, certainly not without a fight. He’s strong and he loves life and living it more than anyone I’ve ever seen. He’s not going to give up and just let go, and neither should we.’”
Lassiter stomped on the car’s brake, and they squealed to a stop. He turned and glared at Shawn, who had fully regained his smug, self-satisfied look. “How the hell did you know that!?” He knew that Shawn hadn’t been anywhere near them in the room, as he had still been in the process of fighting for his life on an operating table, and Shawn’s grin widened.
“I’m psychic,” he said, and Lassiter’s scowl deepened.