A/N: First Psych! Woo! Also, my stories are not Beta'd. I probably will be looking for one soon, though. Any suggestions?
Disclaimer: If I owned Psych, I wouldn't be wasting my time writing fanfiction, would I? No, I'd be figuring out how to discreetly point in the directions of both Shassie and Shules(Because everyone loves the 'opposites attract' and 'sweetheart with the joker' relationships.).
This is what Carlton Lassiter wanted, wasn't it? He wanted that meddling, annoying, insane, bratty Shawn Spencer to admit it. Everything. Something. Nothing? No, no it was definitely something. He wanted him to admit to the fraud, the game he played with the entire precinct. He wanted Spencer to explain how he did it, no one could say they were a psychic and solve that many cases without once being wrong. What Spencer was doing was a felony. A fraud. It was against the law and a bend or break of the law was just as bad, in Lassiter's opinion, as murder. Murder, cases solved, psychic, fake, fraud, felony, law, cops. He was a cop. Right now he should be arresting Spencer, so why wasn't he?
Maybe it was the fact Shawn was on his front steps, crying, with one of Lassiter's guns in his hands. Maybe it was that all Shawn could say was 'you were right, I'm a fraud' and 'sorry, so sorry'. Maybe it was because suddenly Lassiter was considering Spencer as not Spencer, but Shawn. Maybe he really needed coffee. Yes, coffee sounded good. Yet he couldn't enter his home, Shawn was sitting there blubbering like the idiot Lassiter always thought he was. Oh, did he mention Shawn was holding a gun?
"Lassie, you were right," Shawn looked up slowly, blinking harshly at the tears invading his eyes. "I should never have called in the right guy that day, I shouldn't have said I was a psychic, and I should never, ever had gotten into that case."
Lassiter sighed, resigning himself to sit beside Shawn and try to pry away the gun, which Shawn had in a death grip. "What case? Chief hasn't given you one."
Shawn sniffed, pulling the gun away and tucking it into his waistband. "One I found in your apartment, locked in the safe. Copy of it, actually. See, it was five years old and all, and everything about it said you knew something was wrong. Very wrong, got the wrong person. The murder site being off, weapon never found, and yet they arrested and convicted the daughter."
"You were in my—what?"
Shawn sent him a look, "Yes, I was in your apartment. How do you think I got your gun? Hm?" Shawn gestured towards the bulge, sighing. "I thought the Despereoux case was it, you know? The one you were obsessed over, all cops are obsessed over at least one case, which, by the way, they totally cliché in the movies."
"Cut to the chase, Spencer." Lassiter growled, watching suspiciously when Shawn just nodded. Something happened, he realized. Something happened and now he's not acting like an idiot. ...Much...
"You were right, in your notes. Something was really off. Only, for once, even I couldn't find it out. It was the perfect crime, I mean, Dad always said there was no such thing, but this was...It just was. The kid was guilty, or so it seemed, but she wasn't." Shawn twitched, slumping his shoulders and bringing his knees closer to his chest in a mock of a fetal position. "And I wanted so much to solve it for you, Gus said I shouldn't. Said that it wouldn't help anything, but I had to try. Just for tryings sake, you know? I-it was easy, or so I thought. A little slight detective work behind you back, slowly leading you to the real murderer. Solving a cold case, only you'd get the credit."
"Why would you do that?" Lassiter glanced at him sideways as he stretched his legs out in front of him, leaning back on his hands casually. It was somewhat relaxing, sitting out in the warm night on the doorstep of the apartment building, watching the stars and talking with a hysterical Shawn Spencer. Er, that was, uh, you know, if talking to Shawn could be relaxing...ish.
"Because I couldn't take it," Shawn snapped, turning his head away so Lassiter couldn't see his expression. "Sure, I can take it when someone doesn't like or tolerates me. See, everyone does one of those. I grew up in it, so it's kind of easy to ignore, easy to say they were just hiding affection and jealousy. Easy to pretend that if," he took a deep breath, "if something happened to me they would be the first ones there. Comforting and all. But hate? I can't—what I mean is, I don't know how to deal with that. Hate. Pure hatred for me, it's something I thought I could ignore, but I can't. So I tried what I could, within the boundaries of being 'Shawn Spencer'. Being Shawn Spencer, harder than it looks. You gotta make sure nobody likes you yet ignore it at the same time.
"But then you meet someone who hates you and everything just stops, because hate is something terrible and new and plain insane. You want to escape it, but you can't if you do it within how you're supposed to act. Witty, charming, joking, casual, idiotic. So I—well, I did the only thing that I could think of. I had to do something for you on the sly, 'cause the jokes and the pranks and the hints weren't working. It was supposed to be easy, why is nothing ever easy, Lassie?"
Lassiter blinked, "You went into my apartment, broke into my safe to...make me like you?"
Shawn buried his face in his hands, shivering despite the warm climate. "No, no, no! I wanted you to get the closure, like Gus would say, on it. You never would have known it was me, but if I could have made your life the slightest bit easier you might've come to tolerate me and not hate me. Like the others." He sniffed. "B-but it wasn't right, the guy was too clever. He got me, he, well, he nearly killed me. I solved it, sorta, but I also nearly died and killed someone. It wasn't my fault!" Shawn added as Lassiter seemed about to interrupt. "I was too late, and she died."
"Who?"
"The kid that got out on bail, the daughter, the so-called murderer. I should have known, one little symbol was off and I should have caught it, but I just charged ahead. I was supposed to process it, like I normally do. I was supposed to get the facts straight, if not only slightly off. But I didn't do it this time, Lassie, I didn't process it and I didn't notice it."
Lassiter stiffened, reaching out to grasp Shawn's shoulder before thinking better of it and pulling back. "What happened, Shawn? What symbol?"
"There was this label, a label covered in grime and dirt, on the work bench in the shed. It wouldn't mean anything to anyone, but the thing was that it was put in there after the cops were done and thought they had the murderer." Shawn sniffed loudly, looking up at the faint stars twinkling above as his hand absently traced the bulge of the gun. "Nobody was let into that shed unless they had a key or a appointment with the Realtor trying to sell the house. And who'd want to go in there anyway? Somebody figured me out, Lassie, they figured me out real good. They knew I'd find it, and they knew I'd rush to the factory."
"Factory?" Lassiter prompted, leaning forward to look at Shawn, who'd dropped his head.
"Yeah, keyboard factory. Real special stuff, gotta order it online. Which is ironic, keyboards being ordered online. But the fact is that Gus just got one, won't let me touch it because I broke the other one, for his laptop. So I recalled the label, because I have photographic memory. That's how I do it, Lassie. You said you wanted to know, there it is. I'm a fraud and I do everything with photographic memory, and being extremely observant. You can blame my father. But someone figured that out, they figured it out and put that there knowing I would run to the spot. He was waiting for me, the murderer. And he had the kid, Jan. Never figured out why he killed the guy, never found out why he wanted me to come. But he told me to stay back, and I didn't. I had your gun, the third hidden one under the stairs, so I thought I would be fine. And I could shoot, I knew everything from watching and because Juliet took me to the shooting range one day. That was fun."
"What happened, Shawn?" Lassiter whispered, noting how the younger man had begun to fidget and seem to try and avoid telling what happened next.
Shawn blinked hard, shaking his head. "I didn't stay back, he pulled the trigger. She died. He escaped. He's probably half way to Tahiti by now."
"You witnessed a murder?" Lassiter shot up, beginning to pace the area in front of the steps. "You need to go the station, talk to Chief and-"
"Lassiter," Shawn stood up as well, the use of his full last name making Lassiter freeze in his steps. "I already did. They know everything, minus the fact I'm not a psychic. And that I had a gun." Shawn took a deep breath, removing the gun from his waistband and setting it on the ground before holding out his hands. "I thought you might want the pleasure of that. So, you have your victory and confession, arrest me."
This was what Carlton Lassiter wanted, wasn't it? So why did it feel so wrong? Why, in God's name, did he hesitate? Why did he feel his stomach turn at the thought of bringing Shawn in when this was what he'd been waiting for? Lassiter shivered, shaking his head slowly. "No." The word had slipped before he could stop it, and so did every single one after that.
"N-no?" Shawn stuttered, lowering his hands slightly and staring in confusion before nodding to himself. "Oh, yeah, you probably don't have your cuffs. Well, I kinda stole your spare so," Shawn pulled a pair of handcuffs out of his back pocket and, with some difficulty, managed to cuff himself. "There you go, take me in."
Lassiter groan, stepping forward with the keys. "No, Spencer. I'm not arresting you." He undid the cuffs, stuffing them into his pocket and crossing his arms.
"What? Why? I-I thought that-"
"You thought wrong." Lassiter snarled, "Besides, I'm not on duty." He looked at Shawn meaningfully, inclining his head ever so slightly and praying the message got across clear.
And, apparently, it did.
"Oh," Shawn nodded to himself, quietly rubbing his wrists and staring at his feet in thought. "I-I see."
Lassiter nodded, even though Shawn wasn't looking at him, and lowered his arms. "Good." He made a movement to go into the building, yet turned about and gazed at Shawn who still stared at the ground. "And by the way?" Shawn looked to him. "I don't hate you."
"Y-you don't? But you always-"
"That's because of what you did." He paused at the confused look Shawn sent him. "When you came in, immediately I knew it wouldn't bode well for me. I thought you were a charlatan who would mess the case up, and in ways I was right. But you also ended up solving forty-some-odd cases that wouldn't have been without your help. You were never wrong, and that was...well, it was me before you came along. You were everything I was, only better. And, loathe as I am to say it, I was jealous. Probably still am, but the fact is that you're a great detective. With or without psychic abilities. You believe people when no one else will, you go with your gut feeling, which is something I can't do because I'm a cop."
Before Lassiter knew or understood what was happening, Shawn was in front of, on him, against him. He was pressing their lips together in a sweet, chaste kiss that Lassiter didn't quite understand. "Thank you, Lassiter." Shawn breathed as he pulled away and took several steps back, almost as though he were afraid Lassiter would pull out his gun and shoot him.
Lassiter stood for a moment, nearly reaching up to touch his lips in awe, before snapping out of it and nodding shortly. He turned to enter the building, only to pause again as he felt Shawn's eyes bore into his back. "Do you need a ride home?"
Shawn blinked, looking confused for a moment. "Oh, uh, no. I locked the keys inside."
"How did you get here without your bike, then?"
"I walked."
"Right," Lassiter nodded, glancing at the building before turning back to Shawn. "I have a futon that pulls out."
Shawn smiled slightly, walking in after Lassiter.
The next morning, Lassiter awoke to silence. He quietly slipped out of bed and pulled on a robe, wondering if perhaps Shawn was still asleep. As he stepped into the living room, he found that wasn't the case. The futon was put back, and the Cheetos they had shared in a bowl during Ghostbusters had disappeared. He changed directions, entering the kitchen in a strange hope of finding the younger man. Nothing.
Sighing, he shook his head. Typical Spencer. Something caught the corner of his eyes, a note was attached to the microwave.
Heat 2 mins. Sprinkle on sugar.
S.S.
Opening the microwave, Carlton Lassiter couldn't help the slowly creeping smile. Pineapple upside down cake.
He'd made the right choice.
A/N: Just a short something I thought of recently, lately I've been missing a lot of the awesome show known as Psych. About an entire season. Yes, I know, bad Lushy. But I am getting back into it, probably will ask for the DVD's come my birthday this October, and have begun filling in the pieces with Wikipedia, Youtube and fanfics. I never realized there was such a large fandom of both Shules and Shassie. I love you all, really. I adore both sets of pairings. Now I gotta figure out who the hell 'Abigail' is. Shawn?
Shawn: Eh, don't ask me. I'm just part of your subconcious, I know only what you do.
Don't be a spoil-sport!
Shawn: Me? Never! That's Lassie's job.
Oh, yeah...
I remain your obedient Authoress,
Lushy
