I don't own Psych. Not yet. Mwahahahahahahahahaha! I wish.
p.s. check my poll. you won!
It was totally accidental.
He had simply been curious. Carlton Lassiter was, after all, a curious man. Now the tall gangly detective was reminded of the phrase 'curiosity killed the cat' and couldn't help wondering if it was true.
The hot California sun beating unremittingly down onto his head glared in his eyes, making the gold badge in his hand glint. Sweat gathered around the tight neck of his immaculate white shirt as heat spread unnoticed across his shoulders, bunched tight under his suit jacket. He did not notice the power of the sun in the cloudless cerulean sky. He was too distracted by the warming metal of the badge against his palm, wrapped in his long, pale fingers. His adept mind was used to looking at the facts, to assess threats and catch murderers, yet the meaning of the metal shield he gripped continued to allude him.
It was too much to accept, having fallen into a comfortable life out of years of daily routine, he knew the man. Spencer was... Spencer. He was loud, sarcastic, never-take life-seriously Spencer. He was the annoying psychic who flew into situations without back-up and broke every rule in the book. He was a friend, of sorts, the kind of friend who sometimes was impossible not to like and sometimes made Carlton want to shoot him in the head. He was Juliet's boyfriend, for God's sake.
Did she know? Did the Chief?
The hot pavement burned into Carlton Lassiter's knees as he knelt in front of the gleaming motorcycle, one hand braced against the Norton's smooth leather seat. He had just been curious. He had seen Spencer reach into the concealed pocket beneath the bike's seat and he had wondered what was there. He was expecting something ridiculous, perhaps a pineapple patterned bandanna, that stupid frog he always had or something equally pointless. But this...
The cool badge under his fingers made Carlton's throat catch as he stared uncomprehending at the name on the badge, the unchanging letters spelling 'Shawn Henry Spencer' immortalized in the unrelenting alloy of copper, bronze, and brass. His blue eyes stared openly under his dark, knitted brows.
He read the man's file! Moreover, they were friends, or at least Carlton liked to think so, sometimes when it was late at night and he sat, cleaning his various guns in the loneliness of his own house. He had called upon Spencer as a friend more than once when he felt trapped in the unbearable solitude after Victoria left.
How could he not have known? After so long, how could he not have figured it out somehow?
Were there any clues, he found himself wondering, examining the past with a magnifying glass, searching for any hint that the psychic had been more than he appeared to be. There had been plenty. The man could shoot a gun with pinpoint accuracy, he even hacked into Carlton's twitter and broke into Carlton's house more than once...
Carlton looked back at the signs, the various escapades he had ignored, Shawn's overly blaise air about everything, even kidnapping, the detective's exam results... It seemed impossible or, at the very least, improbable.
Yet the signs remained and the evidence that lay heavy in his palm was unrefutable.
Did Shawn hide it on purpose? Was Spencer even a psychic?
The badge held no answers, only more questions.