The Vintage Crimes of Christopher Sly

Fandom: Psych (post-series; rather like "Season 8")
Characters/Pairings: Shawn x Carlton (nine weeks young); Gus x Juliet (married three months); also has a bunch of original characters, some which were in my other Psych story.
Rating: Good for people over the age of fifteen, for there are swear words. Just don't repeat them to your elders.
Notes and Things: Takes place two months after the end of my previous effort, Apply Liberally at Sunrise. (Except shorter than that one.) And you should probably read it before reading this one. I'd tell you the plot, but the title does a pretty good job of summing it up. Readers were so awesome to me about "ALAS" that I thought I'd keep writing Psych stories while it made me happy and pleased a bunch of people. Thanks for the support! There will likely be another "Reference list of references" to read at the end of the story.
Disclaimer: Psych is owned by NBC Universal Television and several other production companies, none of which I am affiliated with.

-x-

1991

A battered, spine-taped, library-bound copy of Shakespeare rests on the front porch handrail. The young hand, the sort that belongs neither to a boy nor a man—just that awkward stage between—tentatively pries it from its position. The pages are flipped and eagerly scanned. Eagerness turns to impatience, impatience turns to frustration.

"Gus," Shawn says, voice muffled in the book "I forget where we left off. What scene are we doing?" Abject horror rushes into Shawn's expressive face. "Please, not the kissing scene."

Gus denotes calculated thought—always does when he needs to reassure Shawn Spencer. They are nearly fifteen—fifteen!—and Gus thinks it's time that they stop pretending that kissing is such a bad duty for the male population to perform upon the nebulous amount of females just waiting for their charms.

All contemplation of sympathy is lost when the screen door opens, and out flies Henry Spencer, Shawn's helplessly helpful father. He is half-dressed for his detective duties, in a tan suit but no tie. His eyes, some days more benevolent than others, ensnare every noteworthy piece of information his son and his son's best friend provide. He sees two school-labeled copies of Romeo and Juliet. "Tryouts for the school play this week?"

"School play?" shrieks Gus. He had no trouble performing in front of a live student audience when he was younger, but at that point in his life he would much rather avoid humiliation. Being Shawn Spencer's friend, however, certainly accrues enough mortification. "No, no way, Mr. Spencer!" His voice croaks, his eyes dry, his bottom lip stiffens—all noteworthy signs of impending panic.

"This is just for English class," Shawn says, drawing attention away from Gus. "Mr. Evrington is making us learn some scenes off by rote. To do that, he's assigning a scene to our group." There. Explanation enough. Surely that would satisfy Dad and make him go away.

"Good, good," he starts, and Shawn knows what's coming. Dad has a way of doing that, grumbling words indifferently that lead to another thought, usually a statement that starts with a pronoun, like "I."

"I love Shakespeare," says Henry.

Shawn believes that Dad believes he's telling the truth. Dad really wants to think he loves Shakespeare. "You can't come to class and watch our scene, sorry."

"Did you know," Henry goes on, aware of Shawn's intrusion but ignoring it, "in Shakespeare's day, all the parts were played by men?"

This, Shawn thinks, is to get back at him for the snappy comment.

"Ew," Gus spurts, complete with disgusted intensity. "But there are people kissing! That's gross."

Shawn stares ambivalently into his copy of Romeo and Juliet. "There's really only one kiss. Unless the director decides to show affection of the characters between dialog, but somehow I don't think so. Goodbye, Dad, thanks for the tip. If Gus has to kiss anyone, I'll make sure he's wearing cherry lip balm. Ow!" Gus had stepped on his foot. "What? You like the cherry lip balm. It's better than the mint."

Henry inhales, deeply, soundlessly, amused by the boys' antics, as he'd been for almost ten years—and slightly alarmed as well. He tries to give Shawn a truce. "I'll have your mom bring you guys some lemonade." And, without waiting to hear if they wanted any, they would have some even if they didn't, Henry vanishes inside.

Gus is involved in a heavy scrutiny of the scene's text. He understands the nuances and the complexity of the piece, but underneath it all there's just an old-fashioned love story. Still… "I'm glad Mr. Evrington isn't making anyone do the kissing scene. I'm glad we didn't live in Shakespeare's time."

"Gus, don't be an overgrown ear hair," chides Shawn, tossing the damnable book to the grass, and then flops down beside it. "Shakespeare lived, like, eight hundred years ago."

Gus, exasperated, sits. Picking up Shawn's copy, their scene is already marked, in graphite, with various notes, and little marks between certain words that indicate a good place to take a breath. He couldn't believe—and then he grew a little smarter by coming to believe it—that Shawn had defaced school property. "Uh, Shawn, I'm pretty sure he was born in 1564."

"Yeah. Right. Eight hundred years ago. Isn't that what I said? Maybe guys did a lot more kissing back then."

"You're only saying that because you want me to forget what I saw you doing to Jamie Brothgate at his party last weekend."

Shawn remains perfectly placid, though, after a fleeting second, grabs his book back from Gus, thus impeding any vocalized reprimand regarding the pencil marks. "Yeah, well, he had something in his teeth. I can't help that you saw it from a different perspective."

"There's nothing wrong with my perspective."

"Do you even know what a perspective is?"

"There's nothing wrong with my eyes, Shawn. Just—"

"Just what?"

"Just promise me I'll never have to see you in a dress."

Something about the line strikes humor into Shawn. He smiles, takes up the book again, and imagines his dad trying to get him to answer one of those "how many" questions. "How many drag queens are in the room, Shawn?" Like that, you know, as a "for instance."

-x-

1.
BIANCA: The taming school? What, is there such a place?
TRANIO: Ay, mistress, and Petruchio is the master,
That teacheth tricks eleven and twenty long
To tame a shrew and charm her chattering tongue.
- Act IV.2 -

Burton Guster stood in a back yard that had, through the last year, become a lot more familiar than the playground of the Spencers' front yard of bygone youth. In his hand, a lightweight, white cardboard file box, not filled with files, but some of Shawn's socks, a couple of his shirts, and a little cactus plant named Jeanine. In front of him, Carlton Lassiter's house, the back patio and kitchen door area of it. A quaint 1950's bungalow with the California-staple terra cotta tile roof, stucco exterior, and lots of square windows accessorized by terra cotta colored shutters. The landscaping was lush and nice, many birds-of-paradise, and Shawn's favorite dwarf lemon tree, and his least favorite knurled arborvitae before the paling that hid the neighbor's yard. Though the place was firmly Lassiter's, through a screwy period of unrelated events—along with Lassiter's temper—Shawn had picked the place out.

"Never in all my life, Gus, and this is the honest truth," Shawn had said last night, when the two old best friends, now on "the long side" of their middle-thirties and cowardly staring "40" in the face, were up past midnight packing boxes, "never, ever did I think I'd actually live in that house when it and I first crossed each other's paths."

But there they were, the four of them—it always was the four of them, as Gus heard Juliet making a rustle of garbage bags by the Echo—moving Shawn into a house. A house. With four walls. A front door. A back door a bit arthritic on damp Santa Barbara mornings. A claw-foot bathtub. A dining room. Two bedrooms. One of them used as a guest room. Gus gulped—hard. It was there. Coming. A bit of fear. A dash of melancholy. And—oh, gosh—not yet.

"Gus?" Juliet had seen such an expression on him before, usually when he trying to keep his gag reflex in check. She took hold of his arm and pressed warmly. "Are you all right?" She heard a whine that transformed into babyish sobbing when he let his head fall on her shoulder, the box dropped between their feet. She held him close, allowing him to weep with dignity—for now. She was not entirely positive that some connubial teasing wouldn't come later.

"It's just that he's not my best friend any more…" Gus, to be fair, did hurt deep down inside. It was that sacred place where he shoved things that he didn't want to deal with immediately. Nine times out of ten, these things he didn't want to deal with involved Shawn: How to tell him that he had a secret girlfriend (half a superhero at that!) named Juliet, and how to tell him they were engaged—and now—now! Well, not much in the world that had come his way had really prepared him for the day Shawn Spencer would voluntarily move into someone else's house. "Houses aren't really his thing, Jules."

She thought this made sense. Didn't it? He'd talked about it before, while she filed her nails in bed and he read non-fiction books on personal finance, and all was cozy and nice. They did their best talking about Shawn—sometimes Carlton—sometimes Shawn and Carlton together—in the late night hours before sleep. "I know they aren't, baby, but, hey," she let him go, straightened, giving her optimistic look that sent a portion of his pain away, "it's a new and improved Shawn we're working with. See!" She pinched the cuff of his purple shirt and pointed to the view.

Framed in the screen door were Shawn and Carlton, the latter looking up into the face of the former. It was nice to see Shawn with his guard down, during those rare instances when he thought no one noticed, or just when Carlton happened to be the only person in the world right then. His appearance softened, and, to Juliet, he had allowed himself to become vulnerable. It was funny that she applied these thoughts to Shawn and not to Carlton, whose changes tended to be inward and unseen. Carlton adhered to his staunch professionalism, and only when it was the four of them together in a casual, non-office, non-work setting, did he ever exhibit any affection toward Shawn. Juliet still thought the whole situation so delightful that it brought her spasms of laughter. Carlton, who'd once said that all romantic entanglements end in despair, "but," he'd told her when she'd asked him about it, "what happens when it starts off with despair? Good things, right? It has to be good things." It was true that his relationship with Shawn had started off with a decent dollop of despair—and misery, and revulsion, and enmity.

Carlton must have said something funny, since Shawn laughed and kissed him for it. Gus's eyes welled up again and he sniffled. Juliet stooped to gather the dropped box, and put little Jeanine back inside, as apparently she'd popped out at impact.

"I think it'll be okay this time, Gus," she said, trying to sound soothing more than hopeful.

Yet he stayed awfully despondent and non-responsive, until Shawn and Carlton returned to the yard for another round of boxes and garbage bags. Shawn had packed in a hurry, though his decision to move in with Carlton had been made weeks ago. He kept putting off the packing part, knowing it wouldn't take more than three hours to shove his scant amount of stuff into apparatuses to move them from Point A—Mee Mee's Fluff *n Fold (Santa Barbara's Cleanest)—to Point B—prosaically named "Lassie's." Shawn was considering another noun for that title: Lassie's Hole, Lassie's Well—or—or not. It was Lassie's, and that was enough. He rubbed his belly as though the happy thought sated him. Gus was discombobulated.

"Dude, I told you—like I always tell you—don't have the fire-roasted vegetable soup with lunch. It always gives you dyspepsia."

Gus made a whimpering sound, like a cat a bathtub. He grabbed the box from Juliet and stormed into the house. Shawn gaped at him.

"Is Gus allergic to the word 'dyspepsia' today, Jules?"

"He's just having a little difficulty adjusting to changes."

"Scorpios," scoffed Shawn, "you can't get them like change enough to change the channel, heh, or their underwear."

Juliet stared at him before reaching for a garbage bag to thrust into his arms. "Gus isn't a Scorpio."

Of course, Shawn knew that, as well as he knew that Carlton was "supposedly an Aries," but had so many other signs in him, he was like a ram that swam in the great blue sea, half-clinging to a big trusty piece of driftwood. Juliet was a lovely Libra—there was nothing more to say about her but that she was Everything Libra: sociable, just, Venusian. He knew all this only because his psychic friend, the real psychic, Lady Olga, had given him the rundown once, and he had gathered enough astrology skills to write the occasional essay about it. He could bullshit his way through an essay, sell them off to magazines and blogs, and there were extra dollars floating around in the Psych checking account. To be used to buy something completely frivolous, otherwise writing those essays would be, like, actual work.

He offered to take a bundle of garbage bags into the house. It was a good thing he'd lived two months at Uncle Fenz's farm. Taking care of horses, throwing around bales of hay, among other chores, had ripened his muscles. He could lift Lassie four whole inches off the ground now. Assuming that Lassie was interested in giving his back a massage afterward, because there had to be some painful compensation for what defied the laws of physics. Still—four inches! Mr. T had nothing on him.

Of course, since Lassiter had spent a month at Uncle Fenz's, sharing many of Shawn's chores, he could lift Shawn five whole inches off the ground. But—minor detail. Considering that Lassie got to be all buff and Shawn reaped the benefits, there wasn't much to complain about. Now Shawn got to reap those benefits in their bedroom without the shock of Carlton smelling like horse, or random straw bits tickling him between the sheets, or one of the barn cats creeping in and deciding their pre-orgasmic tumble was a fine time to take a nap (well, in truth, that had happened only once, but it about ruined Shawn's chances of Carlton ever letting him have a cat).

It was the sort of day that he loved to go in and out, that the temperature was unvaried between the house and the garden. He'd loved the house since he'd first set eyes on it. Occasionally love was that easy. There was nothing spectacular about it, except that it had cost less to own that little piece of Americana than it had to rent the laundromat. He didn't know much about buying a house, but Gus had given him the Cliff Notes version about down payment size and—and there was something about mortgage in there, too. It was just a small place—there was the dining room—oh, two steps—and now the living room. The hallway made for midgets and people not blessed with his broad shoulders. The bathroom—hello, little claw-foot tub that I adore!—for you have brought me many happy memories, and here's to many more! The guest room—its nautical theme unchanged from Juliet's decorating binge. Then, then, then—wait for it—the bedroom.

It had two double windows, one looking to the side yard, one to the front, draped in filmy curtains of a faded primrose color, then with wooden horizontal blinds often pulled up for the sunshine. The walls were painted one of those "spa green" tints, one of those emollient greens that tried to pretend it was neutral. The basics of furniture—Carlton was a stickler for the basics—that looked like it could've been from the days of his Civil War forefathers or built two weeks ago. The only piece of furniture Shawn owned in the bedroom was a candlestick stand his uncle had given them, from the old Humphrey homestead of southern Indiana. Uncle Fenz had "wanted them to have a branch of the lineage." It was the nicest piece of furniture Shawn had ever owned, and one of the few things—things he could count on one hand—that he was proud of.

The room did not usually hold a Burton Guster, though.

Shawn dropped the garbage bags on a bed already heaped. A hodgepodge of clothing, his and Carlton's, some bibelots, some movies, and, well, so on. Moving was an act Shawn was used to. He'd lived his life like a nomad for years and years. It had taken a return to his hometown to find an actual home.

Every few seconds, Gus sniffled and breathed through his mouth. He was bent over, taking items from the file box, putting Shawn's shirts in Shawn's dresser drawer. A drawer. Shawn has a drawer of clothes at Lassiter's house. It was all very strange. "I feel like I'm on a carnival ride," he grumbled, aware of Shawn standing there. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"You've asked me that, like, a million times already." He fiddled with a—what the hell was this?—and let it fall to the bedlam of clothes. "Yes, I'm sure. Second happiest day of my life."

"The first is the day you two met, I suppose."

"Gus, don't be the rotten artichoke in the back of the fridge."

"Fine, but then I'm asking Lassiter why he has an artichoke."

"That's more than fair. The happiest day of my life happens to be the day that I first thought of starting Psych."

Gus glared and used a wimpy gesture to stretch his point. "That's also the day you and Lassiter first met."

"Is it?" Shawn did that thing—you know, that thing—a tilt of the head, a wince, a hint of speculation and doubt mixing together. "So it was… So it was… Well, what a lucky happenstance for us all!"

"Yeah, right. Who'd have thought that all these years later, I'd be married to Juliet and you'd be making out with Lassiter in the A.V. room."

"That—that never happens." Shawn folded his arms and set his jaw. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Then the two of you must be watching a lot of soap operas at five-minute intervals. Come on," he slapped Shawn on the shoulder—all forgiven, and friendship so loved—"there are only a few bags left."

"I told you this wouldn't take very long," Shawn said, following him. "We'd finish in time to hold our yearly Trivial Pursuit—80's Edition—contest and marathon—while we watch all seven seasons of MacGyver—"

"And drink Kool-aid."

"And eat pretzel sticks."

"Dipped in the Kool-aid," they said at the same time, and pointed at each other swiftly.

Outside, Shawn noticed Carlton had his game-face on and a phone to his ear, and Juliet was rushing, hard to do in flip-flops, graceful Libra or not, with the bags. He and Gus shared a look. "I'll go help Jules," Gus said, "and you find out what's going on."

Shawn knew he got the better end of that deal. Lassiter hung up just as Shawn approached him. "I'm sensing that we're going to have to put off our annual marathon," he held his hand beside his head and emoted mysteriousness. "Unless there's a Trivial Pursuit—Murderer's Edition."

Carlton smiled and pretended that the play of words impressed him. "It's just a good thing that you only own a milk-carton full of stuff. We'll start our investigation and come back home as soon as possible. Why do people have to go and get themselves killed on Sunday?"

"You really want to get your butt whooped at Trivial Pursuit. That's it, isn't it." He liked it when Carlton dropped a hand at his neck and moved them along. The fingers flexed delicately. They bumped into one another—in tune, in unison.

"Not really," Carlton replied, sounding mellow as the day. "I just want to get to the third season of MacGyver. It has some of my favorite episodes."

Shawn stopped and wrapped a fist in the front of Lassie's shirt. "I love you so much right now—as long as you say your favorite episode is not 'Rock the Cradle'. Because, seriously, babies in television shows that don't belong to the weekly cast really freak me out. They always have that fake cry that never, ever sounds real. And, plus, the title's lyrics to a Billy Idol song. So wrong—on so many levels." The blather and mayhem of his speech was rewarded by a lovely brief kiss and a pat at the cheek. Whenever it happened, Shawn was stunned for a second, then skipped away on top of clouds. It was like he'd won the biggest battle of his life now that Lassiter kissed him of his own free will.

Carlton rounded up Juliet and Gus. Shawn oozed into the role of castellan, locking the tricky back door with a key he'd had a lot longer than he'd been Lassiter's committed footsie partner.

"I call shotgun!" he cried, running down the sidewalk through the blooming botanicals to the carport. He knew the four of them would take Lassiter's car. The days when they used to arrive separately at crime scenes were long gone.

"Too late," Juliet said, smirking, and opened the passenger's door. "I already called it! Ha, ha!"

"What? Jules, come on! Well, fine, but if Lassiter wants a little thigh-squeezing, I'm not going to rally to your defense!"

"Will you get in here, Shawn?" demanded Gus. "I want to get this dead body investigated soon so we can still have burgers on the grill. I'm starving."

Shawn pulled his mouth in. "Really?"

"I know what you mean," Gus said, nodding. "Never thought I'd say that. Please make sure I never use food and dead bodies in a sentence together again."

"You got it, buddy. We're all in, Lassie," Shawn patted his shoulders from behind. Lassiter acknowledged it with a rev of the engine, and on went the unmarked car's blinky lights.

"Let's ride."

.

.