I'm on a roll, guys. Couldn't wait the standard amount of time to share this one with you, so here you go.
To answer some questions that have been asked—yes, there shall be plenty of Shawn whump, though (hopefully) much of it will be rather different from the kind you may have seen before. And seeing as Shawn and Juliet are together in this story, yes, you could say that there will be Shules. It won't be a focus, so if you don't like them as a couple or don't enjoy reading romance you needn't fear, but they will definitely have some moments. Don't worry, silverlining. :)
Also, since I haven't said it before, I would like to thank each and every one of you for reviewing, following, favoriting, and just reading—and a special shout out to those who have been reviewing regularly since the beginning. I'd list you off but there are actually a lot of you and I don't want to accidentally miss anyone, but you know who you are. :) Rest assured though, all reviews have been read and reread and brought me much happiness.
One more thing... I said in the beginning that this is set between seasons 7 and 8. I am amending that now—basically all you need to know about the timeline is that Shawn and Gus were working cases like normal at the time of the kidnapping, Vick's still the chief, Lassiter's still Head Detective, and Juliet knows that Shawn's not psychic.
All right, I'll shut up. Enjoy chapter 7!
As he waits, Shawn scratches at his scalp and straightens the leftmost candle on his table, both for the umpteenth time. He's sitting in his dimly lit tent, waiting for his captor to come in and evaluate his work. An hour ago, right after the tent itself was set up, he was given two full chests and the task to decorate the interior of his workstation himself. Upon examination of the chests' contents, he found bags full of gold and silver glitter, a collection of ornate candleholders with simple white candles, a lighter, a couple of legit crystal balls, some antique bowls and other valuable-looking knickknacks, an impressive assortment of packs of cards, even small boxes of tea leaves and delicate animal bones. Anything and everything a fortuneteller might require. In addition to the chests, he was given any number of pieces of furniture: two ornate chairs with a matching table, a few other smaller tables, blankets, pillows, bean bag chairs.
Shawn enjoyed the task of decorating the tent, despite himself. He laid out all the blankets he could fit on the floor, but also set up the table and chairs in the middle. He used three candles on the table and left the rest in the chests. He promptly chucked the cards, leaves, and bones back into the chests from whence they came; he's not used to using props, and he doesn't know what his captor will do if he messes up.
He's also waiting to be critiqued on his clothing choice. He went as simple as he could; he'd known only that his captor wanted him to wear a headpiece. So he chose a matching green robe and turban. No jewelry, no face makeup—though that was an option.
The dark-skinned man finally walks in. Shawn stays seated in his chair, feeling ridiculous that he's actually a bit nervous about what his captor will think. But after walking around for a minute or two, the man puts on a big smile and says, "I love what you've done with the place, Mr. Ronaldo! Now, let me see your choice of attire…"
Clearly his captor has no conceptions on the idea of personal space. He gets as close as he likes, but Shawn doesn't move; just makes faces at the back of the man's head when he sees it.
When the man withdraws, he's already shaking his head. "I had wished you would be more daring, Mr. Ronaldo. Not even one ring?" He tuts. "That is all right for now, though. As long as you are comfortable." Another wide smile. "Your customers will begin coming in any minute now. I suggest you prepare yourself." And then he's gone.
Shawn lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. He knows he's being ridiculous, getting nervous… or maybe he isn't. Who's to say a poor choice of clothing wouldn't tick this lunatic off enough to hurt someone he cares about?
He sits down at the table and waits for several minutes. And then, in walks his first customer: a youngish, scrawny man who's already balding but has a baseball cap on to cover it up.
He wonders how he knew about the balding at all.
His first day is basically made entirely of stress. It's difficult trying to find information that would be included in a real psychic reading, but God knows he tries. Every time someone new walks in he immediately scans them head to toe, hoping that they don't notice. Hoping he can please his captor. Hoping no one gets hurt.
He does well enough, apparently, because at the end of the day the "Master" comes into the tent, claps him on the shoulder, and exclaims, "Your customers were impressed with your readings, Mr. Ronaldo!"
A wave of relief washes over Shawn. Then, "Based on their feedback on the atmosphere you presented, however, I have one stipulation to add, starting tomorrow: you will always speak with an accent."
Shawn stares in disbelief. A moment of silence passes between them. And he bursts out laughing.
For once, the man looks annoyed. "What is so funny? No one was ever impressed by an American fortuneteller."
"That's racist," Shawn manages to get out. After a few seconds more of laughter (which, if he's honest with himself, started out genuine but turned a little forced towards the end), he calms down, and wipes a stray tear from his eye.
The man still seems irritated. But, as if reminding himself of something, he smooths out his expression and smiles calmly. "See it done," he says, and somehow Shawn can read the threat in his eyes. He sobers immediately, and nods, silently hating the man in front of him.
But he knows there's nothing he can do about it.
Not yet.
The second day is one of travel, and Shawn spends it practicing his accent and getting a tattoo.
He's contemplated getting ink before, but never like this. The "Master" appears delighted and gives Shawn a sheet of strange symbols to choose from. He tells him, "You have complete creative freedom—well, within reason, of course. These symbols are from a variety of different cultures, and they all have something to do with destiny, or the future, or sight. Things like that. You can also choose where you want them." He smiles. "The only choice you do not have is whether or not you want one."
It's enough to make Shawn choose one without question. But he gets the smallest one he can, in the spot of least visibility that the Master will allow—his ankle. He figures it'll be covered with robes or freaky slippers at any given time.
He senses his captor's disappointment at his simple choice, and it frightens him. But the man doesn't utter any outright threat.
The third day is his second show, and he puts his new accent to use—so constantly that his mouth starts to feel weird. He's basically mimicking the one he hears from the Master, figuring it will please his captor. And it certainly seems to do so.
It's a bit easier to do readings this time around.
He's also answering much more readily to the name "Arashk."
The fourth day is another show in the same location, and many of the same people from the day before arrive with friends who are interested to visit a psychic.
Several customers in, one says while leaving, "Thank you, Mr. Ronaldo," and the fortuneteller feels strange for a long moment after that. Finally he figures out why: usually he'd be mentally correcting them right about now.
But with what?
It takes him about ten seconds of full concentration to come up with "Shawn Spencer." He's panting by the end of it. And he's utterly terrified.
As soon as he can get to a piece of paper, he scribbles down the words "Shawn Spencer," looks over it about eight times, and stashes it in a drawer in his trailer. He stands there staring into the polished wood of his dresser—the closest thing to a mirror he has access to—clutching its sides so hard his knuckles turn white. He's starting to get a little scruffier than he'd like, but he hasn't seen a razor since he woke up in that truck.
"C'mon, what's wrong with you?" he whispers to his dim, warped reflection after several seconds. "You can't let this guy get into your head. He's crazy. Well, you are too, but at least your craziness is contained and doesn't hurt anyone. He's freakin' nuts. He won't win and you can't let him. Your name is Shawn Spencer. Your name is Shawn Spencer. Your name is Shawn Spencer."
He feels a little bit better by the end of his intense staring contest with his own image in the wood, but—though he would never admit it to anyone—he's still trembling.
