Disclaimer: I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

Rating: T

Spoilers: Totally AU and completely ridiculous. I should be ashamed of myself even for writing it, but I'm not, so there. Too heinously complex for a one-shot, but I tried.

A/N: Forms of address are tough when your characters are physically one person and mentally another. Hopefully you're only excruciatingly confused by the end of this chapter, and haven't exploded.


Freaky Thursday

"Carlton, there are reporters waiting out front - Chief Vick wants you to give them a statement," Juliet said, clip-clopping back into the museum on her tottery heels. It was Shawn's head that turned, still wild-eyed, to answer her.

"I'll be right there."

"Shawn, the Chief wants Carlton to give the statement, not you," O'Hara answered patiently. "He was, after all, lead on this investigation."

Lassiter's eyes glared mad triumph at Shawn, and a crazy grin split his lips. "Yeah, Spencer, you're not invited. Go play with your Hot Wheels collection or something."

Shawn drew himself up as tall as possible, the corners of his mouth turned down in a hard scowl. "Don't even think - "

"The big boys have got grownup work to do, little man," Lassiter said, purposely towering over the smaller figure. And then over his shoulder he called out, "I'll be there in a minute, Jules."

Juliet gave him an odd look, spared another for the still-fuming Shawn, and walked out, shaking her head as though she'd seen or heard something she couldn't quite believe.

"You are not giving a statement to the press, Spencer," Shawn said, sticking a finger in his face.

"What, you'd rather everyone believe you've lost your mind and now think you're Shawn Spencer? It's not like anybody's going to believe we've actually traded bodies. God, I feel so Jamie Lee Curtis right now. Which I guess makes you Lindsay Lohan, neither of which I could accept under ordinary circumstances."

"I'm going to kill you, Spencer."

"At the moment, Lassie, that would be a form of suicide."

"Then I'll hit you where it hurts. I'll go home and shave your hair off."

"No! God, Lassie, no! Look, I promise you, I'll play it serious for the reporters, just like you would do. Nobody will be the wiser."

"I'll be watching," Lassiter said severely.

Shawn regarded him curiously for a moment. "Wow, I'm really not physically very intimidating, am I? That's kind of a bummer. Although come to think of it, I could probably, like, hold you down and tickle the piss out of you right now, and you wouldn't be able to do a thing to stop me."

"Try it and I promise you, Spencer, that I will take you on a guided tour of hitherto unexplored realms of pain."

Lassiter's face smiled sweetly down at him. "Sorry, Lass - it's just not working. For one thing, my eyebrows arch too softly and my jowls aren't nearly bulldog enough. Besides, just like the killing thing it would ultimately just be hurting yourself. And I can't help it, dude - I know all the places where I'm most ticklish."

"All right, Spencer, but consider this - you tickle the piss out of me and it'll be your pants that turn dark in the crotch. And I will ensure that everyone sees it, too - television cameras and newspaper photographers right outside that door, after all."

Shawn nodded thoughtfully, a look of newfound respect plastered across Lassiter's features. "Well played, Sir. Now, if you'll excuse me, my public awaits."

He turned and flounced out of the museum like a drab-colored, lanky butterfly, and with a strangled oath Lassiter followed on Shawn's unaccustomedly stubby legs.

TBC