Word Count: 2,106
Dedications: This story was actually written for Yuletide Treasure and the recipient is a lovely lady named Loz. It was inspired by my dear friend CollaneR, whose life I (quite literally) stole in order to write this. Thanks so much for humoring me. :D
Author's Note: My very first foray in into the Psych fandom, I'm a little nervous, but I'm happy with how this story came out. I hope everyone enjoys it and has a little laugh at Gus' expense. Thanks everyone.
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"This is all your fault, Shawn!" Gus hissed, his head swiveling back and forth rather comically as he alternated between looking for a way out and glaring death rays at his ex-best friend. To his credit, he was trying to look menacing, but there's only so much a guy can do, crouched behind wooden box of frozen chickens and wearing an apron.
"Now, now, Gussypants," Shawn admonished, wagging his index fingers and doing a pretty good impression of Gus' mother at her most disapproving, "need I remind you that you were very much a part of the nefarious planning that landed us in this nigh inescapable predicament, as it were?"
Gus raised his hands and looked skyward, instantly regretting his decision as he found it hard to tear his eyes away from the swinging bodies of headless chickens. Surely, this had to be his punishment for getting drunk the night before; had to be, because he wasn't sure if he could take anymore of this madness without coming down with some type of terminal and painful disease. And, well, if he was going to die that way, then he couldn't do it without giving Shawn the Look and figuring out if it were plausible to strangle his best friend with chicken intestines. "And, by the way," Gus snapped, "Captain Jack dies in the second movie."
"That is true, my good man, but is this really the right time to be discussing cinema? Seriously Gus, I'd think that you, of all people, would understand the gravity of this situation," Gus' eyebrow twitched as Shawn continued, "Afterall, we have about, oh," Shawn made a show of looking at his wrist, "two minutes before dear Lassy-face comes and tries to channel Detective Stabler and get all Law and Order on us."
"Shawn..." Gus hissed warningly, snapping his head up as the door started to open.
"Huh," Shawn commented, lazing back on some sacks of flour as if he wasn't doing something illegal, "Lassy's getting quicker."
"Spencer?!"
Oh God, Gus felt sick.
-
All Gus wanted was a nice dinner out with two of his close friends; some tacos, fajitas, frilly drinks with Hawaiian umbrellas. He didn't think it was too much to ask, really, but just in case, he tucked a coupon for a free pineapple smoothie and a picture of Val Kilmer in his wallet. For the first couple of hours, it went really well. Gus' white suit wasn't stained, Jules was looking as radiant as ever, and Shawn had only flirted with two of the three waitresses that had served them. And, comparing this night with that night in a place and a time that Gus will never soberly recollect, this might just be the best night (out with Shawn) of his life.
But of course, the night turned sour as soon as Shawn started to get bored. It started off innocently enough, Shawn suggested going to O'Brian's for a drink that would keep his testosterone levels from plummeting, and Jules had agreed since the old one-eyed man in the corner had been winking at her all night. Gus went along with it, of course, because he still hadn't quite learned to say no to Shawn—and with Shawn and Juliet both agreeing, he really had no chance.
And so they went, hopping in Gus' car and looking for a good time, at that point, however, Gus couldn't have imagined that a good time would end with the three of them playing Truth or Dare on the floor of Shawn's apartment. Looking back on it, Gus figures that he can't really be at fault for it. Shawn knows that Gus has a relatively low tolerance for liquor, and honestly, for him to spike his drink with vodka was just plain wrong. Secretly, Gus thinks that Jules might have had something to do with it, but by the time he'd come to that conclusion he'd been puking up his intestines in the toilet and hadn't been up for making accusations... and she was hot when she was hungover and pissy.
Like anyone, the first thing Gus thought when he'd woken up in a puddle of Jack with spit crusted over his cheek like half a Glasglow smile was that he was dead. At the time he wasn't sure if one felt pain when dead, but as he was absolutely sure that he head was split open, he would assume that, yes, dead people do feel pain. And, apparently, they could also hear the voices of their had-better-be-dead best friends: "'ey, Spellmaster..." Gus felt fingers scrabbling at his elbow but just couldn't bring himself to remove his arm from over his eyes. "Gus, there's sooo a word for how I feel right now, and I think it rhymes with—" But Shawn fortunately (or unfortunately) didn't get to finish his sentence because Jules (cutely) threw up all over his sneakers.
The rest of the morning passed with similar happenings and, as it was bound to happen, Gus' white suit ended up stained with something that looked like that God-forsaken girly drink that he'd had the night before. To be frank, Gus was pissed; even more pissed than he had been after he'd spent the night in a Mexican jail because Shawn was convinced that he was fluent in Spanish. It was something he could get over, however; something he'd really, really, really, like to get over. But there are some downfalls to having a best friend with an eidetic memory. Namely that he remembered that he'd dared Gus to infiltrate Chik-Fil-A and figure out their secret chicken recipe—and that Gus had accepted.
When Shawn saw the horrified look on Gus' face (though, it could have been gas) he cheerily offered to join Gus in his quest to unveil the "secret that surpasses all secrets". To Shawn, it sounded to like a barrel of monkeys and fun; to Gus, it sounded very much like the end of the world.
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And so, instead of being tucked in bed and boning up on his spelling, or even solving murders and pissing off Lassy, Gus was currently being hired at Chick-Fil-A for reasons that apparently include his terminal illness and love for chicken. Shawn was standing beside him looking very humble and understanding as the interviewer was on the verge of tears. Yeah, they were going to hell.
Not more than an hour later, they were being trained in the art of all things chicken by Angie, a older Greek woman with a thick accent and even thicker eyebrows. Shawn insisted on calling her a babushka, and when Gus deigned to mention that she wasn't even Russian, they'd nearly gotten into a slap fight that ended with Gus doubling over to gain sympathy from the manager and Shawn snagging some French fries while everyone was fussing over the Gus-meister.
In the moments after the manager was finally assured that he wasn't going to die on the kitchen floor, Gus wondered if this was all his life was going to amount to—being dragged around by Shawn and getting into things that, quite frankly, usually don't even sound possible. And after the quickest soul-searching known to man, Gus had his answer; he was doomed to his fate. But, he figured that if he hadn't died in the past twenty-odd years because of Shawn, then he'd done pretty good for himself.
Shawn, however—while Gus was having an existential moment on the dirty floor of a minimum-wage establishment—was too busy hitting on the redhead working the salad bar to even notice poor Burton's plight. It was with a scowl that Gus dragged himself up and snatched Shawn by his elbow, ignoring his cries—"Dude! What are you doing?! She's hot!"—as he marched up to the babushka lady and asked her where they kept all of the ingredients.
Gus stood tall, puffing out his chest as Shawn gaped. Gus was going to find the secret recipe and get out of there even if it killed him, and no Greek-Russian babushka lady was going to stop him! Heck, right now, Gus felt even harder than Steven Gerrard! Sadly, though, his bravado was for naught, for Angie neither turned towards him or seemed to hear him.
"Why does this only happen to me, Shawn?"
"Well—"
"—nevermind."
Everything seemed to go downhill from that moment.
-
That day, in between sneaking around to find the room that kept all of the good, Gus found that dead bodies were nothing compared to the horrors of the fast food industry. Instead of his nightmares containing dirty and clawing hands or the town being overrun by the damned; they would now consist of a dirty meat slicer, a slave-driving babushka, baked on soup, and a bucket of week-old grease.
It was as Gus was painstakingly trying to scrape off the inch of dried rice and noodles stuck to the bottom of a pot the size of his torso that Shawn ran excitedly into the wash room, gesturing wildly and telling Gus that he'd found the room. Despite himself, Gus couldn't help but be a little excited himself, after they found the recipe he would be able to go home to the relative safety of his room (relative because Shawn knows where he lives) and forget all about the past two days.
"Closing time, boys!" Angie's voice bellowed through the darkened restaurant. She appeared at the doorway and motioned for them to follow her. She quickly showed them how to close up and, quite literally, pushed them out the side door and into the alley. "Be here tomorrow, seven sharp," and Angie walked out of the alley without giving them a backwards glance.
"Fantastic, Shawn, this is just great!" Gus' voice started to go shrill as he was fully prepared to blame Shawn for all the bad things that had ever happened to him in life. "First you lie to a stranger and tell her that I'm dying so that she'll hire us, and then we get kicked out before we can even do what was came here for!"
Gus started pacing and rubbing his head, ignoring Shawn as he tried to interject, "I don't know what I keep letting you talk me into these things! I was voted most likely to succeed in high school, you know!" Gus stopped in front of Shawn and stuck his finger in his face, steeling his resolve as he watch Shawn go cross-eyed, "Everytime, Shawn, everytime!" Gus threw up his hands and started to stalk down the alleyway, "I'm done Shawn, completely done! No more of your shenanigans for me! I'm putting my foot down! I'm—" Gus stopped short.
"...Shawn, where'd you get that from?"
Shawn grinned like he'd just shown up Lassy on a high-profile murder case. "The spirits took pity on us today, my frazzled little friend. I was receptive to their wishes and they provided me with the means to carry out our sacred mission."
"But—" Gus cut himself off, "—forget it, just use the key and open the door."
"It'd be my pleasure, my best friend. The one who makes me live," Shawn clasped his hands in front of him and looked positively miserable, "You're my only one, you're my best friend."
"Dammit, Shawn! You know that song's going to be stuck in my head now!"
Shawn unlocked the door and skipped down the hall to the room, throwing open the door with flourish and dragging Gus in along with him. Of course, Shawn, in all his excitement, didn't account for the door slamming shut behind them, or even for the door slamming shut to trigger an alarm. Gus had no idea that the secret room was in fact a freezer, and that the freezer door could only be opened from the outside.
"This is all your fault, Shawn!"
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