I do not own, nor am I affiliated with, Psych or any of its characters or concepts. Not even the events of the following fic. All I have are my words.
"Shawn, I need to ask you something."
This is just… ridiculous. Isn't it? Even as the words come out of my mouth I can't believe I'm saying them. Shawn has always been trustworthy, a constant. Doubting him is the last thing I ever thought I'd do. And I'm not actually doing that, not really, I just… I don't know. I don't even know what to think and it's driving me insane. "And I'm sure this is just me… overthinking things, but, um, yesterday you were at the hotel. You saw the hallways, you know the layout."
"Guilty as charged," Shawn says, and it's evident that he doesn't yet know where I'm going with this. And I don't want to continue; I don't want him to know because I don't want to see how he'll react. Because I'm afraid that that reaction will include nervousness. And I never want to see that; I want to keep this image of him in my mind—fun Shawn, goofy Shawn, the man who has a very special gift, who sees so much more than most and doesn't let it weigh him down. Who keeps the jokes coming and never lets anything get to him. Who loves me.
But I have to continue. There's no going back now. I have to know. "Well, you said that you had this spectacular vision that Marlowe was covered in garbage. But couldn't you have just remembered that there was a trash chute on every floor, and then taken a guess?"
"Uh... yeah. Yeah, I suppose so. But that would have been a pretty wild guess, don't you think?"
He seems sincere. Relief wells up inside me—stupid me, of course he wouldn't lie to me, he's Shawn, he loves me and he wouldn't lie—but I push it down. Because I'm not finished yet.
"Absolutely, and, you know, I probably wouldn't have given it a second thought, but then there was this." I pull out the receipt from Shawn's coat pocket. I'm not sure what that is behind his eyes, but I think he's still just a little confused. I can hear his voice saying Where are you going with this, Jules? "And I am sure there is an explanation," I continue, "but you know me, I won't be able to stop thinking about it, and I certainly won't be able to wang chung until we clear it up."
That's it. My smile has faded, and so has his, and I'm all business, only how can I be, when I'm accusing my boyfriend of… of what? I refuse to finish that sentence. He will have an explanation, a perfectly logical one. "Lassiter said you had a vision," I say, enunciating clearly, because I need to get this right, I need him to know how serious this is, "of Herb with Michael Damien, but you had this receipt. So you knew Herb would be there, right?"
As I'm finishing the cold, hard reality is crashing down on me. And that reality is that… there is no possible logical explanation. He knew. There is a reason this receipt was in his coat pocket. He's looking at me with total shock, and I'm praying to the powers that be that it's because he's offended that I would doubt him. That wouldn't be a happy situation, but it's preferable to the alternative—that he's been lying to me since I met him six years ago, that it was all just a charade. And I'm holding onto the thin sliver of weak hope that I still have, hope that my fears are unfounded and Shawn is truly the man that I've always believed him to be.
He looks over, and I follow his gaze to our friends on the dance floor. Why? What is he doing? If he's a liar he's not a very good one, getting distracted like this, and if he's not, can't he see how important it is for me to know?
His eyes are just a bit clouded over, and I wish more than anything that I were psychic so I could see what he's thinking. "Shawn, are you listening to me?"
He turns back towards me, suddenly, and when he speaks his voice has changed. It's… sad, but at the same time… defensive. I might even say hard. "Falling in love with you was never part of the plan, okay," he says, and though I don't even fully understand what he means by that, my heart promptly drops out of my chest. His tone of voice says enough. "This whole thing started because my ass was on the line. Self-preservation, Jules, you gotta understand that. I didn't have a choice."
What is he talking about? Oh my God, what is he talking about?
"And then, we sort of found a groove. And by the time you showed up, it was so much fun." He's smiling. But it's not quite a happy expression.
Fun. Fun? I'm realizing what this is—he's standing before me, exposed. This is the man who's been there all along but who I've never met. This isn't the Shawn Spencer I fell in love with. That Shawn Spencer wasn't real.
Oh God… I don't know this man. This man has never channeled a spirit or had a vision; this man has just lied.
"We put away like over a hundred criminals. Most of them were murderers. I'm good at what I do, and what I do… is good." He looks me straight in the eyes, and in his I see naked desperation. "Isn't it?"
I've never seen this expression on his face before. Who is this man? What even is he saying to me? I just… I need to hear it straight. It's almost like he's trying to put me off the subject. "What are you talking about?" I ask sharply, in a whisper, because I don't trust myself to really talk; I know if I did my voice would break. Tears tremble in my eyes. I try not to blink; I'd do anything to keep them from falling. "Are you telling me this is all a lie?"
Shawn looks at me desperately, imploringly. He sounds so broken when he speaks. "Please don't make me answer that."
That's when it all well and truly comes crashing down.
"Oh my God," and nothing, no betrayal that I've ever faced, no knife that's ever been plunged into my back, compares to this. The tears start to fall and I bow my head, not wanting him to see them, and certainly not wanting to see him. "Oh my God I feel so stupid."
"No, sweetheart," Shawn says, seemingly devastated, but his apparent sincerity can mean nothing to me after this. Even as he speaks I search for some way to end the conversation. I have got to get out of here. I can't look at him again.
I turn slightly, and I see the glass of wine that I was enjoying with my cake mere minutes ago. Perfect. It'll do.
He's continuing—"No, this… this is all me. This…"
I don't even look at him as I empty the glass into his face—something I've never done before, though I find that it doesn't provide the amount of satisfaction I wish it would—and storm past him.