Are they mine? HA, I wish…
Psych
Shawn hated confessions. No matter the intentions-good or bad-there was always ramifications. Like the time when he was twelve and was coaxed into admitting, to his father, that he had convinced the neighbor kids that he could read their minds. That went about as well as a vampire eating garlic pizza. Or the time when he was seventeen, his rebellious side coming in gallons, and he had informed his dad that he was in fact getting his tongue pierced; Shawn was pretty sure Henry contemplated locking him in the windowless bathroom for the rest of his senior year. Or, his thoughts started bitterly, the time you told the three closest people in your life about how a criminal informed you about how another criminal wants you dead. Good times, good times.
Their reactions were mostly how he expected them to be. Gus and Jules, simultaneously, gasped and exclaimed, "What?" Shawn was pretty sure the waitresses were arguing over who should throw them out. Two blow ups from the same party; better send in the National Guard, Shawn thought, instantly wondering where that came from.
"Why didn't you tell anyone?" Gus tacked on, lowering his voice. "We would have wanted to hear this."
Shawn wanted to tell them it wasn't their problem, wanted to tell them he could deal, wanted to scream for them to back off. Hell, he would have said anything if his headache didn't spike. He bit the inside of his cheek, waited out the pain, and finally, wearily said, "I know."
"No, you don't know." And Henry was off on another rant. Shawn was ready for the disapproving glare, the lecture to end all lectures, even the demand for him to go to the cops right now. What he wasn't ready for, save for the array emotions flitting across his father's face, was for Henry to say, "I wish you'd talk to us, any of us. I mean, since…" a brief hesitation followed, Henry knowing that using Her name was a hot button issue for Shawn, before he continued, "…that night you've been distant, moody and its scaring me. And I…I don't really know how to fix it."
Honestly, if Shawn hadn't seen and heard the words escape his father's lips he never would have believed they were even said by him. Henry Spencer was many things-controlling, obsessive, determined, a hard-ass-but openly emotional he was not. The raw emotion in his voice, the pure fact that it was the first time in forever Shawn had actually heard something other than chastising or a lesson, hit the faux-psychic harder than any physical blow so far.
"I'm sorry," he whispered after clearing his throat, his eyes downcast. The only response he got was a grunt.
The words were still circling Shawn's head ten minutes later. After some arm twisting, major convincing, and a dash of begging he managed to coax his father and friends into keeping quiet. They didn't want to, but it had to be done. Now, Shawn was seeing his father and Jules into a cab. Both were heading back to the hospital to check on the progress of the parking lot, see how Lassiter was doing, and let the others know Juliet was okay. Once their taxi turned the corner Shawn was aware that it was just him, his headache and…
"You could have at least told me." Gus sounded worried, hurt, and a little angry. It was the same voice he used to use when Shawn neglected to mention one of his schemes until they were halfway through it-or being hauled off in a cop car.
"I know," Shawn said quietly. "It's just…" Half truths are better than outright lies, he thought as he continued, "I didn't want to see you get hurt. Which turned out to be a big mistake."
"Yes, it did." Shawn couldn't suppress a shiver, just thinking about the trap that had awaited the first person to open the door to the psych office. Mahoney was making him really, really consider saying 'yes' to Harrison. "But that wasn't the only reason Shawn."
Damn, he knows too well, Shawn thought as his mouth, deciding to play dumb, said, "What does that mean?"
"You managed to convince yourself that you could do it on your own. That you didn't need help. And don't tell me I'm wrong. Because I know I'm not."
Shawn sighed, glancing down at the sidewalk. His headache was starting to remind him of a little kid, seeking attention he didn't have the energy to give it. But that didn't stop him from saying, "You're right."
"Damn straight I'm right," Gus replied as he dug in his coat pocket. Shawn raised his head, cocking an eyebrow at his friend's action. Finally, the pharmaceutical rep extracted his hand, a sample packet of Tylenol held between his fingers.
"Stealing from the company, again?" Shawn asked curiously.
"It's not stealing if your boss knows. These samples were lying around. He gives them out sometimes," Gus mumbled holding the packet out to Shawn. Hesitantly, he took it. His pain wasn't something he liked sharing, or showing, but Gus always knew. Always.
"Thanks," he murmured ripping the packet open and taking the pills dry.
"We'd better go," Gus said glancing around the street. Like Shawn, Gus was getting paranoid. And the faux-psychic didn't blame him. Anyone could be working for Samson Mahoney; anyone could want him dead, anyone…
"Yeah," Shawn agreed.
Both began walking from the café, neither one glancing behind them. Shawn buried his hands in his jeans pocket, wishing the Tylenol would begin working already. He stole a glance at Gus, who was-in turn-looking at him.
"Some month, huh," he commented kicking a rock.
"You can say that again."
They elapsed into an uncomfortable silence, neither sure what to say to the other. They came to the end of the sidewalk, seconds away from turning the corner, when they heard a pair of tires squealing from behind them.
Shawn turned first, wondering if Lurch was ordered to pick him again. But reasoning quickly caught up with him. Lurch didn't drive that fast, on the contrary, he'd probably wait for Gus to go away before even revealing himself. That and the fact that the vehicle was a gray van indicated that he was not dealing with Harrison.
"We have to go. Now." Shawn grabbed Gus's arm, pulling him away from the van. He couldn't be sure, he was too busy running to actually pay attention, but he thought he heard Gus say, "Again with the running."
Shawn spotted an alleyway a few feet from them; one that he knew, for a fact, opened up to a busy street and headed that way. Gus was right behind him, his feet hitting the pavement with each step. They were mere inches from the alleyway when someone stepped in front of them. Shawn skidded to a halt, Gus running into him.
The person in front of him was five-nine at the most, his graying brown hair slicked back in a classic movie mob boss style. His green eyes were unreadable, along with his dark face. He was wearing a very expensive suit, something the faux-psychic would never be able to afford no matter how many cases he solved. On his right middle finger was a gold ring, an emerald smack dab in the middle. The thing could do damage, no doubt about that. He had his ear pierced, a diamond stud sticking through the lobe. His nails were perfectly manicured, his hands overlapping across his stomach. There was no way he walked there, Shawn couldn't see someone like that walking, but there was no car in sight-save for the gray van that had just pulled up behind him and Gus.
"Mr. Spencer," the man said in a clipped, American accent. "Mr. Guster," he added almost like an afterthought.
"Who are you," Shawn asked warily. The vibes that rolled from this guy, vibes that were so familiar it made him want to run the other way, were not unlike the vibes he got from Harrison. Except, unlike Harrison, this man held an aura of danger that Shawn didn't like. Nor, apparently, did Gus who was tugging Shawn's sleeve silently begging to leave.
"All in good time." It was the same words Harrison had said to him, said in almost the same tone. Shawn's first guess was that Harrison had a boss, that Harrison was the messenger. But that thought was stamped out right away. He said neither 'yes' nor 'no' to Harrison, which means there was no point in the higher ups getting involved. No, this man was someone else. And Shawn had a shrewd idea who that was; he just had to be 100 percent sure.
"We need to talk, Mr. Spencer."
