I can't believe it, but there's a new chap of Hands Off! My very first Psych story, and the one I neglected the more. But guess what, I still find it funny as Hell to write. This one certainly was. I hope it'll give you too a bunch of good Psych-o minutes.

Hint of Gules, because. I apologize so deeply to Vikings as a whole.

Summary so far: Lassie has offered Shawn to live together, and he has managed to transform it in a bloodbath. Carlton sulks. Shawn temporizes. Furthermore, the Psych gang is facing a gruesome serial killer that kills mostly cops and leaves flourish letters on his crime scenes. A charming profiler comes to help, and guess what, he's no one else but Lassie's high school best friend. And not just best friend.

Oh Valhallalla!

-In which Lassie has a great idea, Shawn dresses as a Viking and Gus loses his pants-

The body was clean, neatly wrapped in twine cords. It had no shirt and no pants on, but the limbs had been collected in a matting like a sort of pea pod, hands entwined on the chest and cleared of any ring. The mortal wounds were nowhere in sight. The young male face, black-haired, forty-something, was too newly-shaven to have happened later than half-a day before.

It all rang wrong. It implied the murderer had killed the victim with the least amount of bruises possible, composed him with extra care, and shaved and cleaned a corpse. Murder shouldn't look cleaner than life.

Shawn leaned back and propped his fists against hips.

-Well, Gus, this is rather burlesque.-

-It's said grotesque, Shawn.-

-I heard it both ways.-

Gus sighed, inching away from the corpse. They'd all gathered on the nearest side of Northern Creek, down the pine-wooden dwelling stretched by the freeway. A sweet dusk was setting on the hills around; the air smelled a strange mix of resin and gasoline. PD's rookies roamed around the clearing with cameras and greenish faces, while Lassie and Jules happily ordered them around. The two of them were waiting to be acknowledged along with Adam.

It felt a bit of kindergarten treatment, but anyway.

-I agree with Shawn on this.-

Adam stepped in, crossing his arms. Shawn fought the urge to stuck his tongue out to Gus.

-Mr. Browsby, good to see ya. Survived the afternoon with cops?-

-Oh. Oh yeah, I think so.-

Adam grinned, but before Shawn could inquire further Juliet nodded to them to step in. The whole camp got stiller.

Lassie knelt beside the body, putting on his black rubber gloves, and Shawn stifled a moan. Lassie's hands were not sexy. At all. The black rubber didn't stretch over knuckles as they shifted, didn't outline slender, nimble fingers. Nah. Sure not. Nope. What was Jules saying?

-...so we're almost sure the victim's another cop. Sam Lopez, senior officer of traffic wardens. He went missing two days ago, the family report came only today. We just got identification from the PD.-

-Mh. Another cop. And the procedures too are very alike. It really looks like a pattern. Vengeance maybe?-

Adam arched an eyebrow, Lassie grumbled in agreement. There was a Dick Wolf feeling somewhere there.

-I don't think so.-

-How this, Shawn?-

-It's too clean. Here there's no emotion, no real care. It's well-done but freezing. It's...- He glared at Gus. -...grotesque.-

Juliet tilted her head. Her partner kept looking silently at the victim. -So what is your conclusion?-

-That we have a very cracked guy that is trying to tell us something. I'm still working on the something.-

-So are we.- Adam sighed. -And this aesthetic, is just puzzling. He prepared the bodies, so the matting is not for hiding them. It could be some sort of artistic attempt.-

-But, it's ugly.- Gus commented sheepishly.

-Exactly, Mr. Guster. And this is what puzzles me.-

It was then that Lassie let out a yelp.

-Oh. Oh.- He gasped. -Oh.-

They all turned to him. He was still crouched by the body, but now had his hands clutching his head, rocking back and forth over the corpse. They looked at each other with a hint of panic. Lassie however went on, too excited to note.

-Oh sure. It's so obvious. It's a ship. It's a ship.-

Shawn gave a sigh. -Perfect. He snapped. I knew it would happen.-

-Shut up you. It's so obvious. The coat, the cords, it's meant to be the shape of a ship.- The Head Detective grinned. -It's like a ritual. It's a Viking funeral.-

Adam's blondeness suddenly lighted up. -Oh, sure!-

-Wait, Vikings?-

-Vikings?- Juliet swirled to her partner. -Carlton?-

-Yes, Viking rituals, O'Hara.- Lassie jumped on his feet. –And the letter talking about …-

-Sure! "Tearing off their own eyes."Odin!-Adam breathed a laugh. –Carlton, you're great!-

-Wait, wait. I kinda got lost at the nerdy part.-

Lassie pointed at the wicker, delighted. He even forgot to be giving Shawn the Silence treatment.

-Vikings used to entomb their remarkable dead in wood-carved ships, that were then either buried or burned across a river. I've always wanted to be buried like that.-

Adam sighed at their risen eyebrows. –Yeah, he has.-

-Anyway, look at the matting, its shape, the tips at the head and the feet of the body. The wrapping of the corpses is not a form of camouflage. It's a ship. A Viking ship.-

Jules frowned. – So you think the killer has tried, I don't know, to give the victims a Viking funeral?-

-Yes, but it's not only that O'Hara. The letter, all that jazz about the circles of flame and the quest for truth. They are all main connotation of Odin, the Father of Northern Gods. We supposed an historical link, but now it's fairly clear.-

Shawn's eyebrows arched again. –How do you know all this stuff, Lassie?-

He got fully up, taking off the gloves with a shrug. –Integrative seminary in seventh grade.-

-Before the Dark phase.- Adam offered to Jules.

-Dark pha-?-

-Nothing.- She cleared her throat. –Well, it's surely weird, even for our standards. But it seems a valuable hypothesis to me. I trust Carlton. I think it's worth a try.-

-Sure.- Lassie nodded. –We should wait for the autopsy, though. And someone should go investigating at Santa Barbara Viking Society, of course.-

-Santa Barbara Viking Society?- Shawn squinted his eyes. –It actually exists something like that?-

-Sure, Shawn. The seat is just in front of the SB Koala Supporters' Club.-

-That doesn't help your case a bit, Gus.-

Adam nodded. -It's a good move. I suppose there aren't lots of Middle Age enthusiasts around here, it's highly probable we got some kind of connection. Our man should be very precise, obsessive, cultured too. Someone undercover would be more advisable.-

The magic word rang in the air. Shawn didn't even have to watch Gus.

-We go!-

-We didn't doubt it.-

Lassie actually made it sound like a curse, but it didn't matter. Shawn was too cheery. Undercover work combined two of his greatest talents, charming people and not giving a damn about what they think.

-I know it's a bad idea, but okay, go with it.- Juliet conceded with a huff. –We can't spare men for that anyway. You think you could manage to get there this evening?-

-Of course. A stop at the Psych for some arrangements, and we'll be right there.-

A grunt rose from the detective's back behind her. -So why don't you get lost now?-

-Carlton!-

-Pardon. So why don't you nicely get lost now?-

She sighed, giving them a shrug. It was the "I can't do more about it" shrug you give in front of sudden rainstorms and sprained ankles, every inexorable annoyance of the world. Shawn held up a hand and tried a smile. Let's just hope the rainstorm is not a bitchy one.

-I think it's actually a great idea. It looks like you got everything pretty wrapped up here. We'll fill you tomorrow with the catch.-

-Okay. Be careful, guys.-

-Always. Bye bye Jules. Lassie, I.- He stopped. Two seconds, three.

-Bye, Lassie.-

-Spencer.-

Neither of them turned to greet properly the other. Their best friends and good half of the cops stood watching them, Shawn stumbling down the parking slope, Carlton looking pointedly at the same nondescriptive square of mud for the whole time. Idiots.

Gus's eyes slipped to her before he could stop it.

Idiot me.

-Jules.-

She turned, shifting to a smile. She put back a lock of hair behind the ear. -Gus.-

-So. How long do you think it'll go on?- He hinted at his back.

-The two of them? Or the case?-

-The most annoying one, so the two of them.-

-I don't know, honestly. 'Think this time they'd have to really talk about it. Carlton was a wreck this morning. I must confess you I'm pretty pissed with Shawn, Gus, and yeah, I'm blatantly taking parts. I hope it wouldn't mess our friendship though.-

-Sure not.-

There was a moment of silence. Gus shuffled on his feet, back and forth, back and forth. Maybe that was a good moment. Maybe he should do it now. Maybe. Oh damn.

-Jules, I, uh, I have something, something to. To say you.-

-Uh, right. I have something to say too. Something big.- She swirled around, seizing him, eyes twinkling. -I'm not sure I should do it, not now, but I just have to...- She licked her lips. -...to say it to a true friend.-

-Oh.-

Her hand was on Gus's arm. A true friend. It was not necessary a bad thing. It could be good. It could be horrible. Her hand, on his arm.

-Gus?-

-Ah, ah yeah. You, can count on me, Jules 'f course. What, what is it?-

She leant further. Gave a look around. She licked her lips.

-Carlton and Adam. Time ago, at school. They were friends.-

-Yes, I know it.-

-No, not friends Gus, friends friends.-

-I still…-

-Gus.-

-…Oh. You mean. Oh. Oh, damn.-

-Yep.-

-I didn't know…but after all he hugged him. Spontaneously. I'm surprised Shawn didn't figure it already.-

-You know how it is. In private life they both had the sharpness of a toaster.-

Gus looked past her shoulder. Adam was standing in front of Lassiter, talking softly. -You think it's a bad thing?-

-What? No.-

-So why you told me it?-

-Because I, I'm a girl Gus. I need to gossip. And I know you can listen and still keep your mouth shut enough.-

-Why, thanks, Jules.-

-Of course. Now, what was your thing to say?-

-Oh, my thing. Oh. I. It's.- It's that I've died behind you for a year, Jules, that you're the most incredible, beautiful woman I've ever known and that every time I look at you I just want to throw up and burst in flames and put a ring on your finger. That's it. -It's nothing.-

Shawn's voice prattled from down the slope.

-Gus, come here. I need your magic vibes to work. And your car, but mainly the magic vibes.-

He babbled something, smiled. She slowly took off her hand. For a moment it seemed something was amiss.

-Gu-us, come here!-

-Quit it, Shawn.-

Gus cast a glare at his back, and waved goodbye at her. Jules chuckled. She hushed him to go, and Gus scampered down the hill, nearly tripping on a bulging root. He turned. All he saw was her golden hair glowing in the sun.

Dorothy McGoran knew that the public of an History Public was composed mainly by three categories of people: nerds, nerds gotten famous, and idiots. More than twenty years as secretary at SB Vikings Society had granted her a radar that was almost infallible. So it took her less than five seconds to label the duo smiling widely in front of her desk.

They were men, of course, thirty-something and looking like kids told to play serious at Christmas. The black one could have fallen in the Nerd category, but the horned helmet and the fur vest took away any doubt. The white one, well, it was almost too obvious.

She put down her nail file. -How can I help you, sirs?-

-Hullo, ma'am.- The white one grinned, talking like a bad mix of Santa Claus and a pirate.

–I'm Erik Rufus Valhallalla the Third, and this is my raid-buddy, Thorki the Slasher.-

-I see.- Dorothy articulated.

-We're her for, uh, the conference. Party. Whatever.- He paused for a moment. –Apple Mead!-

-I see. You're actually members of the Society, sirs?-

-Ah, oh, no, not yet. But we're fans. Valkyries, heavy metal, all that stuff. We have horns too.-

-Indeed.-

-We are here for some, uh, college things. We just had to stop for such a priceless place. I'm sure you could leave us take a peek inside, mh?- He gave her a wink. –History guy to History girl?-

-Sirs, let me be blunt. This is a old, venerable Cultural Institution which had been built on grounds of decency and temperance. We do not accept puerile shenanigans, and so I ought to ask you to leave.-

-It's because my friend is black, right?-

-It's because you're two idiots, sir. And however real Vikings didn't have horned helmets.-

-I told you!- the black one hissed.

-Uh. Can you give us a moment, ma'am? Thanks so much.- The white guy bowed in a rain of silvered plastic and dragged his friend towards the opposite wall, talking in what they believed were quiet whispers. They were not.

-I told you the horns were too much, Shawn!-

-Well, I haven't had a lot of time for costumes. You don't want to know what I promised to have the wooden shields.-

-You always overdo.-

-I thought they were a nice touch. Asterix wears it all the time!-

-That's your standard of historical accuracy? Shawn!-

-Sirs?-

They turned in sync. Clanging the helmets together.

-I'm awfully sorry for being even blunter, but I have to ask you to clear the area. We expect Mr. Walinor for a personal conference at eight o'clock.-

-Who?-

The desk lady cast them an appalled look, pink-framed glasses shaking on her nose. -The author of "Legal Procedures in Early Vikings Settlements", of course. A worldwide authority on tribal justice. His has been the most important work on Northern Prehistory presented in the last years.-

Shawn turned to Gus.

-Don't look at me, Shawn. I'm not the History Nerd of the group.-

There was still plenty of time for more awkward moments, but in that moment the glass doors of the Hall opened behind them. A middle-aged man, grey suit, short, balding head, strolled in, crowded by a flock of people with blocknotes and unhappy faces. The secretary lady shot up with a sudden smile. It was not difficult guessing it was the Viking author.

She hissed through gritted teeth. -Guys, get the Hell out of here right now.-

-Sure thing. If we can have a look around before.-

-You won't screw this.-

-I walked across half Santa Barbara with a horned helmet, ma'am. Try me.-

She watched Shawn with undying hatred. He grinned back.

-Okay. Be quick.-

They had slipped across the club door before Mr. Walinor had hit the desk.

-That was close, Shawn.- Gus grumbled, as they rushed through the parlor. -Did you catch anything about the guy?-

-Yes, he has the same taste in ties Lassie has. My eyes are bleeding.-

Shawn stopped by the main room corner, just back enough to sneak without being sneaked. Gus peered over his shoulder.

The room was large, maroon wallpaper and burgundy furniture scattered among polished tables. Chunks of Archeological-ish stuff rested in glass cases along the walls, tweed-clad men bending over them or talking in soft tones. The little dais on the left was draped in green velvet. Shawn half-expected Sherlock Holmes to get out of the restroom with a smoking pipe.

-What are we looking for exactly?-

-The usual Gus. Anything fancy, or suspect, or both.- He said. -We have to hook someone. We should mingle with the crowd.-

Gus didn't even waste a look on him. He pointed to the heads crowded in front of the dais.

-Which one?-

-What about Winnie de Pooh in tweed?-

-Got it.-

They nodded, starting to slide through the crowd. The set prey was a middle-aged, spectacled man standing on the side, and he did look like the prep uncle of a teddy bear. Pressed waves of dark hair hovered over buttery cheeks and at least three chins. The deep green waistcoat stretched around the girth, cradled by little pale hands.

-Excuse me, sir.- Shawn muttered when he got in hearing range.

Winnie turned to them, wrinkling his plumpy red lips. The eyes behind the glasses sparkled. He had a deep, clear voice that screamed Fancy Faculty from miles around.

-Ah! Don't tell me.-

They wouldn't, mainly because they had no idea what to say.

-You're Professor Morrison and Stevens. The experimental archeologists from Berkeley.- -Coming here dressed like this, with a true celebrity expected for the same evening. And during Summer nonetheless.- He nodded in a flush of double chins. –Devoted.-

It was not the word his Dad would have probably used, but anyway.

-I suppose you're here for Mister Walinor's speech, right?-

-Uh, yeah. That's exactly what we're about to say. We've just got here from the airport. We are deeply- what was that expression in Lassie's History Channel? – impressed by your work so far. We look forward to work with your colleagues.-

Winnie bowed with unexpected grace. -Aloysius Notthingam, at your service. Head of History department at Santa Barbara college.- He straightened with a grin. -Ah! Anyway, you shall not fear over this: whoever you choose for a collaboration, you would have not a worry in the world, I promise.-

He paused.

-Except with Mr. Hyde, of course.-

-There's someone here called ?-

-Ah, Mr. Hyde. The devilish barber of Fleet Street.-

-That's Sweeney Todd, Shawn.-

-So who I played in fifth grade recital?- Shawn shrugged it off. -Anyway, what were you saying Mr. Notthingam?-

-Mr. Robert Hyde. I really should not speak ill of an absent colleague, but…surely he's an original, if you catch my meaning.-

Oh they did.

-Don't get me wrong, now. He's clever, and even sharp. But he's more, more of a treasure hunter than anything. He's not exactly good for the image of our club. Especially considering the kind of background he came from.-

-What kind of background?-

Notthingam's chins trembled with excitement. –Murder, gentlemen. Of his own wife.-

Mh. That was unexpected.

-Officially he had been cleared of all charges, of course, but. He still doesn't feel like the most recommendable of fellows. Vikings knew it. When a man is touched by guilt and murder, it is forever. I wouldn't let him come too close my daughters, for sure.-

-You have children?- Shawn squeaked, and Gus was too baffled himself to react in time.

-Of course yes. Why should I not…-

Gus got a glimpse of the parlor. The flock of followers was pressing to pass, the special guest somewhere among them. Dorothy was glaring right at them from the corner.

-Ah, nothing, absolutely nothing. Our faults. We better go now however. Thanks so much, Mister Notthingam. It has been all very, enlightening.-

-My greatest pleasure, young men. We see at Solstice Dinner then.-

Shawn waved wildly, keeping an eye to the door. –Sure. Whatever. Bye bye.-

Shawn swirled around from Mr. Notthingam's smiling face, and fled across the room as fast as metal-clad boots allowed him. They plunged in the exit corridor at record time. The conference was about to begin, they'd attract really too much attention. And then they already got some good things. . The wife's murder. It had possibilities.

Gus's glove suddenly clutched his shirt.

-Shawn. Can we stop at the bathroom?-

- Look Gus, it's five minutes to the Psych. We better get off, or Dorothy would do it for us.-

-Please. I drank five sodas at lunch.-

-Gus…-

-Please.-

Gus's voice took an edge of plea. The toilet was not five steps down them. They were practically finished. Shawn sighed.

-Ah. Fine. A bathroom is a safe enough place, right?-

As it turned out, no, it was not a safe enough place.

-Gus. Tell me it has not happened what I think has happened.-

-It hasn't happened.-

-Liar.-

Shawn had heard all his life people complaining about the absurd calamities he had collected since five; and for as much as time he'd tried to explain that he was rarely the director behind them. He wouldn't ever say things happen despite him, but surely they took damn creative twists around him. For example, yeah, trying to rip your best friend's pants off a toilet door while being dressed as a Viking.

-How is it Shawn?- Gus asked from somewhere by his knees, while he leaned over to reach the rear of his pants. No comments.

-Not well. How the Hell did you manage it however? You had to walk across a door, dammit.-

He grimaced.

-Gus. I fear we have to do a choice. The pants, or the freedom.-

-You're kidding.-

He was not joking at all. It seemed suede pants twisted with door bolts in mysterious ways.

-Man, I'm serious. It's not a big deal. Home is two blocks away. C'mon, a good trust and we're done.-

-I'm not walking out of a fancy club in boxers, Shawn. I'm not.-

-Gus-

-You're not. Period.-

Shawn made a non-compromising sound.

–Sorry buddy.-

Strap.

Carlton Lassiter ended cleaning his bathroom little after ten p.m. He didn't have neighbors to scream at because he wasn't his mother, and he didn't want to drink because he was not his father, so he cleaned. The day after he'd found Victoria's card left on her empty side of the bed he had shot at the garage's door and then cleaned it to the last spot. When Dad had fled for the last time he had reorganized his entire collection of soldier miniatures and brushed his frog's basin until his hand got bright red. For Carlton Lassiter, pain smelled of floor detergent.

He got up, cringing at the clack in his knees. He took off the rubber gloves and discharged the apron as well. He stood there in the silence.

Damn he didn't have another bathroom to clean.

Kitchen and bathroom were his favorite. Pure surfaces, no tricky angles, everything easy to polish and shiny afterwards. Not like rugs. He hated to clean rugs. Twisted surfaces, Spencer-like surfaces. Full of corners and pointy things, and layers on layers on layers that a good sandpaper couldn't even scratch. He was a rug, that is.

He turned to the mirror to change in his pjs and his eyes registered it. The wicked thing, the Personal cell. It had scarcely four numbers on the address. The screen was blinking.

He wouldn't check it. He was not a teen. Don't pick it up Carlton.

He picked it up. Shawn's texts were rare and for the most part unintelligible. He took a pride in cutting words and banning apostrophes just to piss him off. But right now there were none.

Carlton checked the calls too. Nothing. Of course. It was wise. He was too angry to talk anyway. Too angry. Talking with that smoothie-sucker banana-smelling idiot wouldn't do a thing. He didn't want to talk, he wanted to clean, and shot at the range for four hours, and clean another damn bathroom.

It had started all so well, the night before. They had eaten Chinese, Spencer had actually gone to throw the plastic plates on his own. Asking the question had felt so right. Instead it had ended exactly the Clown Case: bloodily, noisily and with the distinct feeling someone had punched Carlton in the guts. It had been so stupid. Too soon. He should have known better. He could practically hear his Mother's voice telling him he should have known better. It had been about the Volcano experiment at Science fair, but anyway.

Well, today had not been totally terrible, at least. There had been another corpse, the Vikings' intuition. And Adam, too. Carlton leaned against the doorway, remembering another night, a stupid boy waiting under the gym's air pipes with a rucksack full of sandwiches and a ticket for San Fran. It had been stupid that too.

He looked at the cell again, but just for a moment. Nothing. Not a problem. He was too angry anyway. Angry angry angry.

Carlton pulled himself up, left the cellular on the drawer. He turned off the light on his spotless bathroom.