Psych Fic - The Inverse of This Relation (PG, Gen)
Title: The Inverse of This Relation
Fandom: Psych
Character(s): Shawn, Henry
Genre: Drama, angst, family
Pairing: Gen
Spoilers: Up to 2x16 (Shawn (and Gus) of the Dead)
Disclaimer: Psych doesn't belong to me, this is solely for fun. No copyright infringement is intended.
Word Count: 1,600
Summary: A look at Shawn and Henry's relationship through math.
-
x2 vs. ±√x
(the inverse of this relation is not a function)
-
-
When Shawn Spencer is thirteen, he knows his times tables through twenty.
He can also square two digit numbers in his head and factor three-digit numbers. Not that it's a contest or anything.
But he doesn't like math class (because it's boring) and he doesn't pay attention (because they're graphing) and he doesn't manage a passing grade (because he's not interested.)
"We can't keep him challenged," the teachers say. "He knows, but he doesn't understand."
Because Shawn remembers everything he's ever seen, but he can't make sense of it all - a hug that lingers too long after a double shift, case files Shawn isn't supposed to see, yelling that he's not supposed to hear (they're not as quiet as they think they are.)
The numbers make sense - he can string them together and they are resolute; absolute. Solving for the unknown is not a shot in the dark - there are orders to be respected and his answers can be checked.
His parents aren't so simple. He doesn't know how to solve an equation with two variables.
-
The week before Shawn's fourteenth birthday, Henry is leaning against his parked cruiser across the street from the school. He's in uniform, but off duty - the police scanner is switched off. That also means he's had a good day, for he isn't waiting on the next call and a chance to put things right.
"C'mon, kid."
His badge rests on his hip, the sunlight reflecting off it at just the right angle. Shawn shades his eyes with a hand, faltering only momentarily. Even now, the edge of rebellion tints their interactions - Shawn can't (Shawn won't) follow in his father's footsteps, and that wound runs deep.
Shawn throws his bag in the back seat, hauling his lanky form up into the cab. Henry sticks the keys in the ignition but doesn't start the car, turning to Shawn. He fiddles with his sunglasses for a second, wanting to make eye contact, but aware of the ever-present sun and its blinding capabilities.
"Shawn, you--."
Shawn stills, hand resting just above the radio controls. One day, they will be Henry-and-Shawn rather than father-and-son; Shawn solved this differential equation the day he decided he didn't want to be a cop.
-
"You're never home--."
"We had a case!"
"-there will always be a case, Henry!"
-
But Shawn respects the hell out of his father (he just doesn't know how to say it, everything gets lost in translation), and so he lets his hand fall back to his side.
When Shawn looks over at his father, he notices the man isn't wearing his wedding ring - the tan line stands out, a stark contrast on his finger. It isn't missing from the picture completely - it hangs from a silver chain around his neck where he wears it for safekeeping while on shift.
Henry never forgets to put it back on after shift. But he has today.
Shawn looks away. Henry sees what Shawn has seen (theirs is a game of catch-up, they have never been evenly paced), the hard lines of his posture stiffening abruptly.
He starts the car.
-
-
Shawn is fifteen when they stop being subtle. These arguments have built up over the years, but they have always been very careful in the past. Henry may play the part of hard-nosed bastard, but he understands the need for discretion. His words are not meant for Shawn's ears.
Madeline is fed up and Henry can't stop, can't fix the problem when the solution creates one in and of itself.
There are no dishes breaking, no insults flung. They are the definition of civil, but not the spirit. Shawn factors the common elements out and pares the equation down to its most basic elements.
He's passing math because he can solve the equation. He fails his tests because he doesn't know how to show his work, not when his steps are instinctual. Even now, he sees without understanding.
What he's left with is two people who are trying so desperately to make it work that they're tearing themselves apart in the process.
He knows why they're together when he first considers them apart.
-
-
In the end, the root of the problem is Shawn himself. He doesn't come to this realization in a pit of melancholy; first, he talks through things with Gus. Real, defined, constant Gus. Gus, who takes physics and math and chemistry. Gus, who could rearrange and solve an equation in his sleep.
(The week before exams is very interesting. Shawn still has the pictures, though he will never carry out his corresponding threats. Gus knows this even as he yells.)
His parents won't stay together because their differences are too painful - because Madeline can't handle the double shifts and the silence, and Henry can't give up his passion to be what she needs.
But they won't split up, because they have a kid. Shawn is there and raising a teenager isn't easy, but raising a teenager with no clear ambitions and his skill set is even harder. Shawn is floundering and they won't let him fall, not without a fight.
"It's not about you, Shawn," Gus will promise, because Shawn can see how the equation is solved but Gus understands how they get there. "Sometimes, things just don't work out."
Shawn loves Gus' pep talks, but his parents are still together and his equation simplifies cleanly.
In the end, Shawn finds the root of the problem to be imaginary. This conclusion doesn't help him any.
-
-
"Shawn, do you have any idea what time--."
"Guster, this is Henry Spencer."
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Spencer - it's just that Shawn's normally the only one who calls at this time and - oh," he cuts himself off, because he doesn't need Shawn's skills to figure this one out.
"His Mom left," Henry imparts gruffly. It costs him something to voice this aloud, so if Gus has any comments about the news, he keeps them to himself. All Gus has is one question.
"ER or the station?" If Henry's calling, it's one of those two places. Gus is almost hoping for the first one - dealing with an injured Shawn is an acquired skill, but he has developed it out of self-preservation.
"He stole a car." Of course Shawn stole a car. It would be too easy for him to call Gus before he went off and dealt with his problems by doing stupid things. Like getting himself arrested. By his father. What Gus wants to know is why Shawn hasn't called him for bail money yet.
"I'm on my way."
"He hasn't said a word, Gus. And you won't say one to him about this phone call."
A quiet Shawn is cause for concern. Gus is halfway out the door when the last part of Henry's message registers. Here, he has concerns; serious doubts about whether or not the way these two interact is healthy.
But Henry is paying him a favour, taking the time out to call Gus where Shawn has not. So Gus will respect his wishes, just this once. It is not Gus' place to tell Shawn that his father loves him. That's something these two need to do for themselves.
-
Hey, Dad. Not dead yet. Caught a baseball at Yankee Stadium. Happy Birthday.
- Shawn
Shawn drops the package in, the signed baseball encased in a cocoon of bubble wrap.
It's about everything he doesn't say. The accusations he keeps to himself, because - well, what if?
So he picks up a job as a vendor at baseball games, as a mystery shopper, as a political campaigner. He sends postcards home and he mails signed baseballs as birthday presents.
He's trying here.
-
-
"She is not coming back," Henry says. The unspoken 'and whose fault is that?' hangs in the air between them. The bitter words are not suited to the decidedly amiable turn their relationship has taken.
There was a time when the filter between Shawn's brain and Shawn's mouth wouldn't have clamped down on any lingering viciousness, but though the two of them are on tentative ground, the efforts made by both parties are nothing less than whole-hearted.
"I hope she's happy - she deserves it. But my life is here, Shawn. And I don't want to have to sneak around trying to live it."
It's this - this right here - that mellows Shawn's desire to storm out. Henry has a point, loathe as he is to admit it. Mom's not coming back - nor should she, not to this relationship. They may have forgotten but he has not.
"Lose the turtleneck, okay? Let her admire her work." It's the most he can grit out, and he doesn't dare make eye contact - that thing on his Dad's neck does not need to be mentioned, ever again. Shawn is considering bleaching his brain to prevent further viewings, in fact.
"-and remember. You treat a woman like a person, then a princess, then a Greek goddess--."
"-and then a person again," Henry finishes.
"Right. Okay."
Shawn will give advice and time-honoured sayings and the impression that he has been faintly traumatized by the week's events.
There is a restriction on the variable to prevent the expression from becoming undefined.
fin
Fandom: Psych
Character(s): Shawn, Henry
Genre: Drama, angst, family
Pairing: Gen
Spoilers: Up to 2x16 (Shawn (and Gus) of the Dead)
Disclaimer: Psych doesn't belong to me, this is solely for fun. No copyright infringement is intended.
Word Count: 1,600
Summary: A look at Shawn and Henry's relationship through math.
-
x2 vs. ±√x
(the inverse of this relation is not a function)
-
-
When Shawn Spencer is thirteen, he knows his times tables through twenty.
He can also square two digit numbers in his head and factor three-digit numbers. Not that it's a contest or anything.
But he doesn't like math class (because it's boring) and he doesn't pay attention (because they're graphing) and he doesn't manage a passing grade (because he's not interested.)
"We can't keep him challenged," the teachers say. "He knows, but he doesn't understand."
Because Shawn remembers everything he's ever seen, but he can't make sense of it all - a hug that lingers too long after a double shift, case files Shawn isn't supposed to see, yelling that he's not supposed to hear (they're not as quiet as they think they are.)
The numbers make sense - he can string them together and they are resolute; absolute. Solving for the unknown is not a shot in the dark - there are orders to be respected and his answers can be checked.
His parents aren't so simple. He doesn't know how to solve an equation with two variables.
-
The week before Shawn's fourteenth birthday, Henry is leaning against his parked cruiser across the street from the school. He's in uniform, but off duty - the police scanner is switched off. That also means he's had a good day, for he isn't waiting on the next call and a chance to put things right.
"C'mon, kid."
His badge rests on his hip, the sunlight reflecting off it at just the right angle. Shawn shades his eyes with a hand, faltering only momentarily. Even now, the edge of rebellion tints their interactions - Shawn can't (Shawn won't) follow in his father's footsteps, and that wound runs deep.
Shawn throws his bag in the back seat, hauling his lanky form up into the cab. Henry sticks the keys in the ignition but doesn't start the car, turning to Shawn. He fiddles with his sunglasses for a second, wanting to make eye contact, but aware of the ever-present sun and its blinding capabilities.
"Shawn, you--."
Shawn stills, hand resting just above the radio controls. One day, they will be Henry-and-Shawn rather than father-and-son; Shawn solved this differential equation the day he decided he didn't want to be a cop.
-
"You're never home--."
"We had a case!"
"-there will always be a case, Henry!"
-
But Shawn respects the hell out of his father (he just doesn't know how to say it, everything gets lost in translation), and so he lets his hand fall back to his side.
When Shawn looks over at his father, he notices the man isn't wearing his wedding ring - the tan line stands out, a stark contrast on his finger. It isn't missing from the picture completely - it hangs from a silver chain around his neck where he wears it for safekeeping while on shift.
Henry never forgets to put it back on after shift. But he has today.
Shawn looks away. Henry sees what Shawn has seen (theirs is a game of catch-up, they have never been evenly paced), the hard lines of his posture stiffening abruptly.
He starts the car.
-
-
Shawn is fifteen when they stop being subtle. These arguments have built up over the years, but they have always been very careful in the past. Henry may play the part of hard-nosed bastard, but he understands the need for discretion. His words are not meant for Shawn's ears.
Madeline is fed up and Henry can't stop, can't fix the problem when the solution creates one in and of itself.
There are no dishes breaking, no insults flung. They are the definition of civil, but not the spirit. Shawn factors the common elements out and pares the equation down to its most basic elements.
He's passing math because he can solve the equation. He fails his tests because he doesn't know how to show his work, not when his steps are instinctual. Even now, he sees without understanding.
What he's left with is two people who are trying so desperately to make it work that they're tearing themselves apart in the process.
He knows why they're together when he first considers them apart.
-
-
In the end, the root of the problem is Shawn himself. He doesn't come to this realization in a pit of melancholy; first, he talks through things with Gus. Real, defined, constant Gus. Gus, who takes physics and math and chemistry. Gus, who could rearrange and solve an equation in his sleep.
(The week before exams is very interesting. Shawn still has the pictures, though he will never carry out his corresponding threats. Gus knows this even as he yells.)
His parents won't stay together because their differences are too painful - because Madeline can't handle the double shifts and the silence, and Henry can't give up his passion to be what she needs.
But they won't split up, because they have a kid. Shawn is there and raising a teenager isn't easy, but raising a teenager with no clear ambitions and his skill set is even harder. Shawn is floundering and they won't let him fall, not without a fight.
"It's not about you, Shawn," Gus will promise, because Shawn can see how the equation is solved but Gus understands how they get there. "Sometimes, things just don't work out."
Shawn loves Gus' pep talks, but his parents are still together and his equation simplifies cleanly.
In the end, Shawn finds the root of the problem to be imaginary. This conclusion doesn't help him any.
-
-
"Shawn, do you have any idea what time--."
"Guster, this is Henry Spencer."
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Spencer - it's just that Shawn's normally the only one who calls at this time and - oh," he cuts himself off, because he doesn't need Shawn's skills to figure this one out.
"His Mom left," Henry imparts gruffly. It costs him something to voice this aloud, so if Gus has any comments about the news, he keeps them to himself. All Gus has is one question.
"ER or the station?" If Henry's calling, it's one of those two places. Gus is almost hoping for the first one - dealing with an injured Shawn is an acquired skill, but he has developed it out of self-preservation.
"He stole a car." Of course Shawn stole a car. It would be too easy for him to call Gus before he went off and dealt with his problems by doing stupid things. Like getting himself arrested. By his father. What Gus wants to know is why Shawn hasn't called him for bail money yet.
"I'm on my way."
"He hasn't said a word, Gus. And you won't say one to him about this phone call."
A quiet Shawn is cause for concern. Gus is halfway out the door when the last part of Henry's message registers. Here, he has concerns; serious doubts about whether or not the way these two interact is healthy.
But Henry is paying him a favour, taking the time out to call Gus where Shawn has not. So Gus will respect his wishes, just this once. It is not Gus' place to tell Shawn that his father loves him. That's something these two need to do for themselves.
-
Hey, Dad. Not dead yet. Caught a baseball at Yankee Stadium. Happy Birthday.
- Shawn
Shawn drops the package in, the signed baseball encased in a cocoon of bubble wrap.
It's about everything he doesn't say. The accusations he keeps to himself, because - well, what if?
So he picks up a job as a vendor at baseball games, as a mystery shopper, as a political campaigner. He sends postcards home and he mails signed baseballs as birthday presents.
He's trying here.
-
-
"She is not coming back," Henry says. The unspoken 'and whose fault is that?' hangs in the air between them. The bitter words are not suited to the decidedly amiable turn their relationship has taken.
There was a time when the filter between Shawn's brain and Shawn's mouth wouldn't have clamped down on any lingering viciousness, but though the two of them are on tentative ground, the efforts made by both parties are nothing less than whole-hearted.
"I hope she's happy - she deserves it. But my life is here, Shawn. And I don't want to have to sneak around trying to live it."
It's this - this right here - that mellows Shawn's desire to storm out. Henry has a point, loathe as he is to admit it. Mom's not coming back - nor should she, not to this relationship. They may have forgotten but he has not.
"Lose the turtleneck, okay? Let her admire her work." It's the most he can grit out, and he doesn't dare make eye contact - that thing on his Dad's neck does not need to be mentioned, ever again. Shawn is considering bleaching his brain to prevent further viewings, in fact.
"-and remember. You treat a woman like a person, then a princess, then a Greek goddess--."
"-and then a person again," Henry finishes.
"Right. Okay."
Shawn will give advice and time-honoured sayings and the impression that he has been faintly traumatized by the week's events.
There is a restriction on the variable to prevent the expression from becoming undefined.
fin