A/N: This story was based off of the episode "Fragile Balance" of Stargate SG-1, though I promise there aren't any aliens (maybe).

Disclaimer for entire story: I don't own Psych.


Brittle Balance

Chapter 1: I Hate Mondays


The first thing Shawn noticed was this was not where he fell asleep last night. This was not his cozy warm bed or even his mildly comfortable couch. It wasn't even his carpeted floor, which could only mean one thing – he wasn't at his apartment.

That scared him, because it made absolutely no sense.

The second thing he realized, which Shawn probably should've noticed before the first thing like a normal person would, was that he was really wet. Like, completely drenched, not damp-under-the-legs-I-had-an-accident wet. That didn't happen to him anymore; he wasn't five years old.

When Shawn tried to open his eyes, a strange weight pressed down on his lids, keeping them closed. When he attempted to move his arms and legs, the same thing happened, only there was just enough success to help him understand what was preventing him from moving. It was the weird wetness, although it was more like a strange gelatin that was moist but partially solid.

Have I been swallowed by a jello monster? Shawn wondered, trying to open his mouth to talk. He could feel something covering his face, a mask of some sort. An inhale brought clean, almost flawless air into his lungs, as well as something else – something a little heavier.

The grogginess from his sleep quickly evaporated, evolving into sheer panic. He was not meant to be here, wherever here was. He was supposed to be in bed, safe and sound and snoring, not covered in some sort of jelly - especially when there wasn't any peanut butter.

The air he breathed got heavier and heavier, until he could barely suck in a lungful. A horrible realization struck Shawn like lightning when he went to take another breath and nothing happened.

I'm suffocating!

Air. He needed air now!

His struggles proved useless at first, but desperation drove him into a mad frenzy, and his strength felt like it doubled within seconds. His arms stretched the weird moist goo around him as Shawn pushed them around, and his neck strained to make his head turn and seek out a new source of oxygen.

Can't … breathe… I can't…

As quickly as his strength came, it vanished, leaving him to weakly fight against this strange cocoon he was caged in. After a couple of moments, he stopped moving altogether, and though his eyes were closed, the edges of his vision started to go even blacker. Shawn tried one last time to get his breath back, just as he heard a low humming sound reverberate all around him. It was almost … mechanical.

It took him a confused, breathless moment to realize the wetness was draining away from him. Coldness that could only be described as dry air struck the top of his head first, then his closed eyelids, and finally his throat. As the chilling sensation, which was like pin-pricks of ice poking in every pore of his body, crept down lower, he felt the mask covering his face being removed, exposing his lips and nose to the same cold air.

Air!

Shawn gasped, and the result was a huge coughing fit that he was unable to control. Sweet, sweet oxygen filled his lungs, only to be expelled quickly by the forceful hacking.

A soft, comforting hand was on each shoulder, holding him upright as he coughed. He didn't know who was there with him, if they were friend or foe, but he was in no position to find out. He heard a quiet mumble, incoherent to his ears, before the hands vanished.

Another inhale brought something else to Shawn's nose – a rancid, oily smell that reminded him of burnt rubber. It made him gag reflexively, and a hand reached up to cover his mouth to prevent the vomit. It took him a moment to realize it was his own hand this time.

He was free from the jello.

And he didn't even feel that cold anymore. Okay, yes he was a little chilly, but he was getting used to the fresh air – which was much preferable to the claustrophobic feeling of the suffocating wetness. Its sting against his skin wasn't as strong as before, either.

After the coughing fit ended and his nose got used to the revolting scent, Shawn decided it was time to figure out what the hell was going on.

To do that, he had to open his eyes.

And thus he did.

A mere second into blinking them open, he screwed them shut again, trying to block out the unusually bright lights above his head. Why – why – would someone have supernova bright lights in … wherever he was? Did they wish they would go blind? Or were they already blind, so they didn't care?

Whatever. Shawn had to focus, had to find out what was happening. So, slowly and carefully – preparing himself for the burning flares against his retinas – he peeled back his eyelids one at a time. This time around it wasn't that bad, but his eyes still felt like the moisture was getting sucked out of them by a very small vacuum. They were incredibly dry, in other words, and that hurt like hell.

He didn't know how much time had passed since he opened them and waited for the fuzziness to clear, but when he could finally see his surroundings, he was confused beyond comprehension. And maybe a little bit scared, too.

Okay. A lot scared.

The intensity of the lights wasn't as bad as before, making him wonder why they were so unbelievably bright before. Shawn was lying down on a cold tile floor, and the smell of antiseptic was everywhere. It blended nastily with the strange overcooked rubber stench, making him gag a second time. He had even more trouble keeping down the bile once again, not really wanting a return taste of his beef burrito he ate for dinner last night. From his perspective on the floor, Shawn could see the underside of a small silver table on his left, as well as the glaring light above him. He turned his head slowly to the right, feeling a stiffness that wasn't there before fight against him. Another table's bottom met his vision, but there was something on top of it … something that resembled…

A bathtub? What the…

Shawn was alone now. Whoever was with him before had either never existed – he had imagined stranger things when half-asleep – or they had abandoned him.

The instinct to run was slowly beginning to overpower him, and the only way to comply was to stand up. But when he looked down at himself, a slight flush of embarrassment and anger bloomed across his cheeks.

He was completely naked.

Now, this was cause for a lot of alarm. The panic, which had dulled a little bit in the last couple of minutes, flared back up with double the intensity.

What the HELL was going on!?

This was so not normal. He needed to get out of here now.

Pushing himself to a shaky stand, Shawn spotted a white towel on the silver table and snatched it up, only to stagger back with it in his hands. Several tools that looked a bit like a doctor's play kit were hidden underneath the towel, each one as sharp and threatening as a kitchen knife. They gleamed up at him, and Shawn wondered if inanimate objects could smile evilly.

A few of them were bloody.

Quickly wrapping the towel around his hips and holding it in place with one hand, he stumbled forward, his pace quickening with each passing second. Shawn didn't bother to look around him again, to examine his surrounding prison any longer. He could remember any details later when he was safe with Gus at Psych. It didn't have to be Psych – it could be the police station. Actually, that was preferable; heck, his father's house was preferable to this doctor's den from hell. That's what it was starting to feel like here – a queer, invasive hell that he had no right or reason to be trapped in.

There was a staircase. He didn't know where it led, but it was a start.

Shawn ran.

He almost reached the bottom step, too, before he happened to glance at his reflection in the silver table and froze in place, his eyes wide…

-:-:-:-

Lassiter did not like Mondays.

It wasn't that work was too much to handle – he could handle anything on the job. It wasn't the agony of coming to work after a nice weekend break, considering he never took weekends off and work was only agony when Spencer was there.

And there's the reason he hated Mondays: Spencer.

Unlike Lassiter, Spencer took little vacations on the weekends and ran off to do whatever the hell kind of "fun" he did with Guster by his side. It didn't matter to Lassiter what they did, because it gave the SBPD station, as well as Lassiter personally, a peaceful rest from their idiotic antics.

And then Monday comes around, and torture-by-Spencer starts up all over again.

Lassiter sighed in frustration at the thought and looked up from his paperwork, glancing towards the station's lobby as if expecting to spot the annoying prick and his sidekick standing there, plotting their next move against him. But nobody was there except for a couple of policemen he didn't know by name and the receptionist for the day – Officer Parkinson, he thought it was.

Huh. That was a little weird. Lassiter glanced at the clock: ten thirty-three in the morning… Spencer and Guster were usually here by now, either bugging him, talking with the chief, or laughing with O'Hara for God knows what reason.

It was wrong to get his hopes up, but maybe he'd actually have a Spencer-free morning?

Shrugging in mild relief, Lassiter was about to return to his work in peace when a six-foot-tall shadow suddenly loomed over him. Setting his scowl of irritation into place, the detective looked up slowly to see the nervous face of Buzz McNab staring down at him.

"What, McNab?" he spat out. "Can't you see I'm busy?"

"Sorry, sir," the officer apologized. "But someone down in lock-up is asking for you."

Lassiter raised his eyebrow. "The guard? What, does he want some pointers on how to do his job right?"

Buzz shook his head. "No, sir, it's one of the prisoners. He … claims to know you personally."

"Personally?" Lassiter looked appalled. "Why the hell would any criminal on the streets know me 'personally'?" Only he could know them personally, not the other way around.

Buzz shrugged his massive shoulders before returning to his unsure state again. "That's … not all he's claiming," the big guy added, drawing out his statement with some sort of reluctance. "You'd better come see for yourself, sir."

Lassiter growled, but he stood nonetheless and marched after the giant officer. "What's this all about, McNab?" he demanded, not willing to go into this situation barehanded.

"Well, sir, around nine thirty this morning Officers Dobbins and Randall pulled over a green Sedan for speeding on I-59," Buzz explained as they headed downstairs. "They apprehended a boy for driving without a license, and when they ran the plates they found out the car was stolen this morning."

Lassiter nodded along, vaguely remembering hearing that report from somewhere nearby while he did his paperwork. "Wasn't there something weirder about this than you're letting on?" he asked, remembering something else from the report.

"Yes, sir. The boy was wearing clothes that were three sizes too big for him, which Randall thinks were stolen, too. And … he was soaking wet."

"Wet?" Lassiter hid his confusion well, transforming it into a look of disbelief. "There's not a cloud in the sky… How did he get wet?"

"He refused to explain that, sir, and insisted upon seeing you first. Here he is…"

Buzz opened the door to lock-up and walked in, Lassiter right on his heels. They approached the first holding cell, which had only one occupant lying sprawled out on the cot as if he owned it. Lassiter cleared his throat with an air of command, narrowing his eyes at the boy.

The kid pulled tired eyes away from the ceiling and looked at the detective for merely a split-second before practically jumping to his feet. "Finally!" he exclaimed. "Lassie, I've been waiting for over an hour for you. What took so long?"

Lassiter's left eyebrow shot up at that. Only one person called him that wretched nickname…

"Who are you?" he demanded, crossing his arms. He examined the boy's hazel eyes and short brown hair, the bangs hanging limply over his forehead. Some parts were still clumped together, so he was obviously still a little damp … for whatever reason.

The boy rolled his eyes. "Oh, please. Not this again," he sighed. Then he turned his head towards Buzz. "Hey, Nabby, think you could get me that coffee I asked for about half an hour ago? I know I'm not normally this particular, but I've got a screaming headache."

Lassiter glanced at Buzz from the corner of his vision and saw the officer staring back at him expectantly, waiting for confirmation or denial. With a motion of his finger, he brought Buzz leaning down to his height so he could whisper something to him. The officer nodded and walked briskly out of lock-up, the sound of his footsteps echoing around them as he left.

"Thanks, buddy!" the boy shouted after him, grinning a very familiar sideways grin. It didn't quite meet his eyes, though, suggesting to Lassiter that something else was running through this kid's mind.

"Care to tell me who you are now?" he asked, his face expressionless. "And why on earth would you ask for me? I don't even know you."

"Oh, come on, Lassieface," the boy drawled, walking forward towards the bars. His too large jeans fell down a bit as he did so, and he took a moment to hike them back up his waist. His eyes flashed with annoyance for barely a second. "It's me! Don't you recognize me? My voice? My handsome young features? Anything?"

Lassiter just shook his head. "You're just a kid," he said, the only thing he could think of at the moment as he tried to place this kid's familiarity.

He rolled his eyes again. "You've been saying that for the last five years. Hey, guess what? You spoke and so it came to be! Maybe you've got magic mind powers, too."

Lassiter stepped forward at that. "Too?"

"Yeah, you know…" But the boy paused again to pull his pants up once more, giving Lassiter time to interrupt.

"Do you understand how much trouble you're in right now?" he said loudly. "Grand theft auto, robbery, and driving without a license. Who knows what kind of drugs are in your system as we speak, kid. Now, I did not need to deal with this bullshit this morning. So how about you tell me who the hell you are before I send you to juvie and be done with it!"

"Jeez, Lassiter. Lower your blood pressure, will you? It's not like I murdered anybody."

"Is that a confession?"

"Uh… no. Is that a coffee stain on your tie?"

Lassiter shot a quick peek down, and when he saw nothing wrong with his apparel, he looked back at the kid in exasperation.

"Made you look," the boy teased smugly. Before Lassiter could shoot a comeback, he stepped forward so his face was right between the bars. "Lassiter, I need you to believe what I tell you next. I am so done kidding around, it's not even funny." He snickered quietly at that. "Okay, it's a little funny, but what I've been through this morning is completely lacking in humor. Trust me."

Lassiter waited, staring curiously as this boy continued to speak. Something … very familiar … something is…

"It was me who peanut buttered your phone the other day. Gus double-dog-dared me to do it, and I can't break that kind of dare. Its bonds are too strong."

Gus? Peanut buttered phone? What the hell…?

"Spencer?"

The boy grinned.

And there went his peaceful morning.