True Story
By Simply Shelby
Retired Police Officer Henry Spencer of the SBPD wasn't entirely prepared for the sight that greeted him as he entered his kitchen.
His son was doing the dishes.
Shawn Spencer was standing in front of the sink, slowly scrubbing a plate with a sudsy sponge. In less than a minuscule moment, Henry took in the clean dishes laid out on dishtowels on the counter and the empty open cupboards and realised that Shawn had taken all the dishes and silverware from all the cupboards and drawers. And was cleaning them.
He also took in, with a glance, the newly swept and mopped floors, the shining surfaces, and the awful smell of ammonia and bleach.
"What the hell are you doing?" His tone isn't quite angry, more bewildered with a touch of annoyance.
It scares him more than he's prepared to admit when his son doesn't move. The kid simply keeps moving the sponge in circles around the plate. The plate is then rinsed and placed beside the cluster of other dinner plates.
Henry steps forward carefully and places a hand on Shawn's shoulder. "Shawn..." And he's never seen his son so still, so devoid of effervescence. Except, he thinks, except for that one time. The image of his son slumping dejectedly in a holding cell the night he'd been arrested flickers in his memory and he represses it, guiltily. "What are you doing?"
His son blinks a few times, but doesn't take his eyes off the plate. "I'm... not sure."
"C'mon, kid," he guides his son to the kitchen table and pushes him into a chair. For once, Shawn doesn't protest. "Sit down before you fall down. It's almost midnight." Henry busies himself by putting on a pot of coffee. "What are you doing here? Why are you cleaning?" He is vaguely reminded of a ten-year-old Shawn doing the dishes after he'd thrown a ball through a neighbor's window.
Shawn lays his head on the surface of the table with a soft thunk and doesn't answer.
"You're all about family, aren't you?"
Shawn feels like a disappointment. Not a new feeling, to be sure, but it felt odd to be disappointed in himself. He should have seen it. He knows his parents love him--even if it was the I-only-love-you-because-you're-my-son sort of tough love. But it was his father who had visited his bedroom after his parents' fighting had forced him to retreat. It was his father who had made sure he'd understood right from wrong and good from bad. It was his father who had spent time with his son. It was his father who had taught him about life. It was his father who had taught him how to use his observational skills and how to connect the dots and spew them out in hard, logical facts. Sure, his mother loves him like any mother loves her son, but his father cares.
And, despite what he's been led to believe for the longest time, his father hadn't left.
The words tumble out from Shawn's mouth before he can stop them. "I'm sorry." Sorry for hating you. Words he never thought he'd ever voice.
There is a gentle clatter of coffee mugs hitting the counter as his father jerks in surprise.
"It doesn't take a psychic to see how much people love you."
And it doesn't take a detective to see that Shawn puts his mother on a pedestal or to understand that his father loves him enough to ensure that his son keeps that childlike love of his mother. And Shawn can't help but feel like he should've known, should've seen how much his father loved him. He feels so guilty. His father had given him plenty of reasons to hate him, but the knowledge that he'd abandoned his family had been all the reason Shawn needed to despise him. Finding out that his father had been the one trying to keep everything together, to fix everything, to make everything right, to ensure that Shawn could love both his parents... it was too much for him to comprehend at the time.
But he can't ignore that gnawing feeling in his gut any longer. He takes a deep breath.
He sure as hell doesn't feel loved at the moment.
Henry sets a cuppa coffee within his reach. His son was rather quick when it came to logic, problem solving, and crimes; but his mind had a difficult time with emotions and Henry knows that it was mostly his fault. You couldn't teach a kid to become a cop without teaching him to distance himself from emotions--it was invaluable during cases that frayed your nerves or broke your heart or scared you half to death.
It was worthless when it came to family matters.
Henry knows both from experience.
Right now, Shawn is just catching up to his mother's revelation. And Henry understands. "You don't need to be sorry, kid."
"Your son hired me... to keep you alive... all he wants in the world is to be more like you."
And there is a part of Shawn that wants to be angry. It is difficult to find out that your father is a better liar than you, especially when you've lived on lies for more than half your life. But, after all, he has learned from the best.
He's learned everything from his father. How to cook, how to drive, how to live. How to become the last thing on earth he'd ever wanted to be. There was definitely a time when Henry had been Shawn's hero; when he'd been everything Shawn had wanted to be. As he got older, though, his father pushed harder and Shawn didn't get a choice and his father didn't give a damn what his son wanted to be when he was an adult. He was going to be a cop or he was going to be a disappointment.
There was no middle ground.
"Close your eyes, Shawn."
He hates how his dad treats him like he is still seven and still in training. And he hates how it always works. When he is stuck on a case, a visit to his dad, a demeaning lesson, and a short session of close-your-eyes is enough to jolt his mind. And he hates it, really. Maybe not as much anymore because half the reason he goes to visit his dad is just to see him. But he hates it.
"How many hats?"
He hates how he hasn't missed once on that test since the first time it was given. Sometimes he is tempted to lie, to leave a few hats out, but Shawn knows that his dad will always know. Because every time he walks into a room, the first detail to jump into his mind is how many hats there are and his father knows this. Because Henry knows Shawn, sometimes better than Shawn knows himself, and unlike others Henry understands. Because ten to one it was something he'd taught his son.
"You go to your son, or your wife... ask them which they'd rather have: six more months with you... or a million dollars?
"It was the best thing to do at the time." Henry's voice is quiet and explanatory.
"You couldn't have given me a choice?" the kid wants to know, "Shawn, would you like mom or me to leave? Shawn, do you want the truth or do you want me to lie to you for the rest of your life?" And he knows how stupid that sounds because when did his dad ever give him a choice?
"Shawn... I know how much you love your mother..."
His frustration rears its head and he bangs his fists against the table top. Because, dammit, loves his father! And he doesn't understand why he can't see that! "What kid doesn't like the parent who gives him candy and sweets more than the parent who makes him do his homework and chores?" Coffee has spilled from the mugs and is dripping off the table, but neither Spencer moves to clean it up.
"That doesn't mean I..." he swallows, nervously because a declaration of love in front of his dad isn't the thing he expected to say tonight, "That doesn't mean I love you or need you any less," but he never expected to say any of the things he's said tonight, "and it doesn't give you some go-ahead to lie to me!"
"You know damn well what they'll answer and they won't have to think about it for a second."
He wishes his parents had told him the truth in the first place because he's already lost so much and this is just one more loss, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. It hurts to know he's punished the wrong parent for the wrong crime for so long. And he's punished himself, as well, because really, truly hating your father kills something inside of you; it kills the part of you that has always wanted to be like him. And Shawn has resolved never to be like him.
"I'm sorry, Shawn." And those are the last words the younger Spencer has ever expected to hear from his father. "I just didn't think you could handle hating both of us." They are steady words, calm words, tragic words.
Shawn's voice is tight, he feels like he can barely breath, barely speak. His next words are so terribly important, so he opens his mouth anyways. "I didn't hate you." And he didn't. Not really. "I don't hate you, Dad."
He understands better now. His father is all about family, too. And if getting blamed for a catastrophic, life-devastating divorce would help save his family, he doesn't mind sacrificing himself. And Shawn understands. And he wants his father to know he understands, but he can't think of how to convey this information. Instead, he looks helplessly at his father.
And Henry understands because Henry knows Shawn. "Tell me," he prompts. And, actually, there is a sort of middle ground. He's everything his father wants him to be without really being it. One reason Shawn has stayed at Psych for so long is because he craves that slight glow of pride on his father's face when he solves a case and likes to know those secretly collected newspapers articles in the shoebox are on the second shelf on the left of his father's closet.
So, in true Shawn Spencer style, he tells his father about his latest case-- about the motorcycles, about the awesome stunts, about the father who loved his family enough to die for them-- and his father catches the words behind his words.
And Shawn realises something else.
His father loves him.
"True story."