Psych Fic: Disaster Button [4/4] (PG, Gen)
[Previous: Part 3]
-
Gus doesn't know what's so important about the moustache comb that Shawn found in Ken's room, but he recognizes all the signs of an epiphany-in-progress, watching idly when Shawn's eyes widen and his speech trails off as he stills, all the puzzle pieces falling into place. It's the closest thing to a true trance he's ever reached. He looks like a true psychic most when he's not trying, unreachable and unresponsive as facts rearrange themselves into a solid explanation before his very eyes.
"I need to see the schedule of events," he says when he's snapped out of it.
"Why?" Gus questions immediately. "Is something going to happen? Wait - is the killer going to strike again? Killers? Oh my God, somebody's going to die!"
Juliet and Lassiter turn to face them, hands on their holsters. Shawn waves them off. "Oh, Gus. This isn't the Murder on the Orient Express."
Gus frowns. "Only one person died in that book, Shawn."
"Physically, maybe," Shawn says. "But spiritually, it was a very brutal trip." Lassiter and Juliet have turned around by this point, so he takes this opportunity to smack Gus in the arm. "Dude," he hisses, "you're totally going to spoil the reveal. I just need to see when the next big gathering is."
Gus calms down abruptly, visions of his tragic but noble death slipping away in the face of his friend's reassurances. If Shawn's taking the time to plan his reveal now, they can't be in any real danger.
Oh, who is he kidding? Shawn often plans his reveals at gunpoint, claiming that the pressure translates to a captive audience and paints a picture of him as the dashingly brave hero to be admired.
"There's just one thing I need to get first," Shawn says, turning right at the next turn to the guest rooms rather than left to the main areas.
"Where are you guys going?" Juliet calls as soon as she notices the two oft-wayward consultants are no longer following her and her partner.
"Changing before dinner!"
Juliet stops to consider that. "Actually, that doesn't sound like a bad idea. I'll just meet you--."
Lassiter waves her off. "I'll keep an eye on those two. See you at dinner."
-
Shawn dawdles outside his door just long enough for Lassiter to reach his, waiting to turn the key in the lock until just the right moment so the three of them can enter their rooms in perfect synchronization. Gus can back him up on that one - synchronized team montages are always cool.
Well, his montage isn't the height of suave, but maybe theirs will be. He fishes his sling out from between his jeans (still damp after yesterday's swan dive) and the suit jacket he'd worn to last night's dinner. He's been pretty good about wearing it since the surgery, Henry's threats of gluing his arm into it empty but the underlying concern noted.
Nothing has really changed since he was shot, but things aren't quite the same, either. It's not easy realizing that you're ultimately expendable.
Shawn's grown accustomed to being able to talk himself out of any situation to the point where facing actual danger is something surreal. Occasionally being knocked out when he knows he's got gun-toting backup on the way is one thing, taking a bullet to the shoulder and stranded in a forest is something else entirely. He's not second-guessing his work at Psych; he doesn't know how he lucked into a steady job that consists of living out his childhood dreams with Gus and solving crime along the way, but it's the best idea he's ever had. Well, top five, at least. The two-story tree house with a hot tub and delivered take-out to the door still holds a special place in his heart, even if he hasn't been able to make that a reality yet.
Their work is valuable, but not absolutely essential; Juliet and Lassiter would have figured out the ice cream truck connection eventually - he loves teasing them, but they are actually two of the sharpest minds he's ever worked with - it just might have taken them a little longer. His own realization had come about while he was reading all about Patrick Jane's upcoming hijinks from thementalistspoilers.com.
He plays the protagonist, but it doesn't give him the magical ability to talk himself out of any situation without ruffling so much as a hair in the process. There's a lot more screaming (where pitch can be used to judge the severity of the situation) and yelling and crashing involved.
Wait, crashing? He's as much a fan of hyperbole as the next person, but the last time he checked, his life didn't come complete with a soundtrack to set the appropriate tone for his musings.
Actually, that sounded an awful lot like it came from next door. Next door being - Gus' room.
Shawn runs out of his room and into the next at twice the speed limit, positive that Gus will forgive him because they can't very well ticket the Echo (again) when he's on foot. Shawn's been meaning to pay those parking tickets before Gus' car gets towed, really he has. He's just been a little busy of late.
He should have made time, he should have known they'd come after Gus -- it's a big one, he's messed up, and he's - he's too late. His field of vision narrows to see just Gus, lying prone on the bed, a sight that steals the words from his lips and the coherency from his thoughts.
"Spencer! He's just been knocked out, look, he's breathing." Lassiter's tone cuts through his haze, and now that Shawn takes a closer look, he can see his best friend's chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He rubs a weary hand over his eyes, snapping out of it.
"I knew that," he says defensively, looking up at Lassiter for the first time to find the detective has his hands in the air, palms facing outward. Shawn turns to see Andrew Harris step out from behind Gus' door, gun pointed directly at them.
"Hello there!" Shawn says cheerfully, stepping forward with a hand held out for a handshake. Harris looks down at it, then back up at Shawn's earnest face before scoffing. Shawn returns his look innocently for a second before shrugging. "Well, I tried."
He brushes off Lassiter's hissed, "Spencer!" and steps back to position himself with his back to the wall and his face to everybody, just the way he likes it. One of Lassiter's guns is lying abandoned on the floor in front of him, so Shawn figures the detective had gotten here first and been disarmed. Or rather partially disarmed, as Shawn knows for a fact that Lassiter carries a backup and has a knife hidden in his belt buckle. It's not nearly as impressive as the gun he keeps in the peanuts, but it works in a pinch, he supposes.
Harris might have three of them cornered, but he's forgotten the fourth member of their team, and that mistake will be his downfall. Juliet O'Hara has a finely tuned sense for when the people she cares about are in danger... and a satellite phone, which Shawn glimpsed the number of when Lassiter turned it on to show off his superior reception. He surreptitiously pulls his iPhone out of his back pocket. "So, Andrew - can I call you Andy? If you're Andy, where's Woody? And Buzz? And Rex. Rex was always my favourite." He begins to make a circuit of the small room as he speaks, stumbling only momentarily when he trips over Lassiter's shoe.
"Why Lassie, what long legs you have," he professes dramatically, palming his phone and passing it off in a brief pat of Lassiter's arm, exchanging a meaningful look with the detective. He gets to his feet, pausing to fluff and replace the pillow underneath Gus' head.
"Where was I?" He pretends to shake off the momentary distraction, beginning to wander again. "Oh! Look at this!" He snags the brochure for this cruise off the side table, skimming the text as he flips through it.
"Become a detective and help us solve a murder mystery during a weekend on board the luxurious S.S. Mourir," he reads as he walks, keeping the attention and the weapon on him. "They left out the part where the cast invites you to play a hands-on role," he notes, closing the brochure and holding it out for Harris' inspection. "Personally, I think that'd be a big selling point."
Harris takes a step back, confused by the enthusiasm. "Who are you?" he mutters.
"Shawn Spencer, psychic detective," Shawn says brightly. A groan from the bed suggests Gus is now stirring. "And that would be my partner, Burton Guster. I would shake your hand, but you seemed rather opposed to that earlier. Do you have a buzzer in your hand? A button of some sort? I'm thinking something along the lines of Staples' Easy Button, but more along the lines of a Disaster Button, because wherever you turn up, disaster soon follows."
He grins, turning around to share a private smile with Lassiter. "See what I did there?"
Lassiter just rolls his eyes. "That wasn't nearly as witty as you think it was, Spencer."
Shawn frowns, turning back to Harris. "You see what I have to put up with? You don't see him coming up with anything, do you?"
"He's right," Harris notes. "You should really work on your puns. In all my years as an actor, I haven't heard one quite that bad in a long time."
"How long have you been an actor?"
"A year."
Shawn claps his hands and then spreads his arms wide, as if that proves his point. "Is that why you wanted to kill William Breese and Brian Lewis? You wanted to be an actor?"
"Acting is my calling," Harris says. "I wanted out."
"Then why did you attack Benson?" Lassiter asks. "Was he involved?"
Shawn waves that question off. "The only thing Benson was stealing was chocolate bars. You ever wonder why that particular pharmacy was always out of Cadbury? No, you tried to frame him," Shawn notes, pointing at Harris. "You left your prescription bottle of amobarbital, forgetting that it could be traced. Sloppy job."
"I didn't have much time," Harris protests. "You weren't supposed to be there. I had the character motivations already set up and just a little fine-tuning to do on the plot to smooth out the narrative when you ruined my plans."
"If it weren't for those meddling kids?" Shawn offers helpfully.
Harris sniffs. "I like to avoid the use of clichés in my writing."
"I thought you wanted to be an actor, not a writer," Lassiter says doubtfully. Shawn laughs with the knowledge that his go-to methods in tense standoffs are rubbing off on the older detective, as well.
"Actually," Harris puffing out his chest proudly, "I want to direct as well." His focus slips, and Lassiter takes advantage of the other man's distraction to draw his backup weapon from the holster at his ankle.
"Drop the weapon."
"You drop the weapon," Harris shoots back.
Shawn glances from Lassiter to Andrew and then back again. "Please tell me I don't sound like that," he whines, having been known to use similar comebacks. He feels Harris' arm slip around his neck and ducks out from underneath it, hitting the ground on all fours and rolling onto his back. He might not be able to play the hero as well as Lassie, but he's not going to let himself be used as a hostage.
"He's a pretty good shot," Shawn calls up to Harris. "I wouldn't test him." Harris puts a foot on Shawn's chest threateningly. "Or y'know, maybe you should test him. That could be fun, too."
"Step away from Spencer," Lassiter warns. Harris puts some pressure down and white-hot pain blossoms out from the weeks-old wound in his shoulder. So much for not being a hostage. "Now," Lassiter orders. Shawn would take a step back in fear if not for obvious reasons. He's only ever heard Lassiter use that tone on a handful of occasions, and he has been downright terrifying on every single one of them.
The pressure increases and he loses track of the situation. His breathing hitches and falters, his shoulder numb to any sensation but pain and his lungs burning with a need for oxygen that he cannot fulfill. Then he hears the door creak, and sees a pair of bright red heels that look oddly familiar. "I believe my partner asked you to drop your weapon," Juliet says calmly, gun pressed to the back of Harris' skull.
Harris does.
-
As soon as Shawn stands up, he feels all the blood rush to his head. At least, he thinks it's to his head; for all he knows, it's all pooling in his feet. It's the oddest feeling because he can't tell where it's going, just that it's moving. He wavers slightly, focusing on the feel of it coursing through his arteries and veins, trying not to notice how the world is blurring around him and his head is pounding.
"Shawn?" he hears Juliet saying. He grips the table, unbelievably grateful for its solid nature, just waiting for the world to right itself.
"Lassiter?" she calls out to her partner, her very tone a demand for answers. Shawn means to reassure her that he's just fine, but the pain and the vertigo are playing a zero-sum game with his attention that leaves him too distracted to answer.
"He might be in shock," Lassiter suggests, surveying the psychic.
"Shawn, we're going to sit you down on the bed," Juliet suggests, leading him towards the bed with a gentle hand on his arm. The world rights itself as he sits, clearing the spots from his vision. "Alright now?" she asks kindly.
"Just pineappley," he crows back. His shoulder hasn't settled down yet, but it's receded to a dull ache, and he can already tell it will be fine. "Gus!" he cries, spotting Gus enter the room with an ice pack pressed to the back of his head. He moves to stand up with the intention of walking over to his friend, but Lassiter shoves him back down onto the bed.
"Eat this first," he orders, pulling a juice box and a Snickers bar out of Gus' luggage.
"Oh, Snickers!"
"In the meantime," Juliet says, all good cheer and smiles. "You two are going to tell me all about how your five minute detour to get changed ended in a standoff."
Gus looks over at Shawn, who's sitting on the bed eating a chocolate bar, and then back to Lassiter, who is trying to figure out how to phrase things in a way that Juliet won't find ridiculous. He makes an executive decision. "Ohhh, my head!" he moans, rubbing circles into his temples. "I think I have a concussion."
Juliet guides him over to the bed as well, and Lassiter grumbles but scrounges up a second juice box and chocolate bar to tide him over.
"Why don't you two keep an eye on each other?" Juliet suggests after making sure they're settled. "Carlton and I will be right outside, just shout if you need anything."
Gus nods solemnly, nudging Shawn, who doesn't seem to notice the conversation taking place, thoroughly entranced with his candy.
-
"O'Hara, I know--," Lassiter begins pre-emptively as soon as his partner exits the room, leaving the door open a crack so they can keep tabs on the situation inside.
"Carlton," she cuts him off, quirking an eyebrow.
He's just preparing his defence when he notes that she's trying to hide a smile. "You're not actually mad, are you?"
"Not at all," she smiles. "Those two? They could find trouble on a kindergarten playground - and they have, actually, there was that one case--."
"-where Spencer didn't want to share his toys. Yeah, I remember." He can feel the twisted knot that was his stomach at one point loosening as he shares in the memory with Juliet, relaxing for the first time since he found Guster lying unconscious on the bed, his momentary fear for the consultant allowing Harris to get the drop on him.
"I'm just thankful they're okay," Juliet says after a minute because she knows he will not. It's easier to read between the lines with Lassiter than it used to be. His silence represents a lack of denial, which is equivalent to an outright admittance where it concerns the two consultants. "Are you?"
She pays attention to his body language more than his words when he responds with a confused, "Why wouldn't I be? I wasn't injured." They are partners and partners don't lie to each other, but they do have this odd habit of omitting key truths on occasion.
"That doesn't mean you have to be okay," she points out. This job doesn't get any easier with time.
He nods, brushing it off, and she lets the topic drop; if he wants to talk, he knows where to find her. Lassiter thinks he's bad at this aspect of their partnership, more comfortable coaching her on her interrogation techniques than listening in the aftermath of a bad takedown, but he's not - she isn't expecting an eloquent speech from him so much as an understanding ear, just as he doesn't expect her to match his cynicism so much as her presence in his corner.
She had a partner in Miami, an optimistic young detective with a particular affection for undercover work. He wasn't the wrong partner for her, but he wasn't the right one either; she wondered about it at the time but now she knows it for sure, faced with one who she trusts with her friendship as well as her life.
-
"Gus?"
"Yes, Shawn."
"How's your head?"
"I have a bit of a headache, but I'm feeling a little better."
"Good, 'cause... well, you know... I thought we agreed - you'renotallowedtogethurtanymore. Evereverever."
"Really, Shawn? You're going to say that to me?"
"...I'm glad you're okay."
"Me too."
"Can I have a bite of your Snickers bar?"
"Only if I can have a sip of your apple juice. Lassiter gave me orange."
"Deal."
-
The library is dark but for a single lit sconce on the back wall when Shawn's voice breaks the silence, his dramatic appearance made when Gus flicks a flashlight on and passes it over for Shawn to hold under his chin in the traditional ghost story pose.
"My dear friends, we are gathered here today to solve a dastardly crime, perpetrated by one of the most notorious villains the fine city of Santa Barbara has ever seen...I am referring to, of course, who stole the cookie from the cookie jar?"
He waves the beam from the flashlight around on the ceiling in a loose figure-eight, resisting the temptation to shine it in anyone's eyes lest he be subjected to another of Gus' lectures on how he isn't willing to risk his sight for the slim possibility it will catapult his SuperSmeller into a truly superheroic category.
"Gus stole the cookie from the cookie jar!" he says, pointing the flashlight at a spot just over his friend's right shoulder.
"Who, me?"
"Yes, you!" he accuses, motioning for the crowd to join in.
"Couldn't be?"
"Then who?" The crowd yells as one, and Shawn claps his hands in joy.
"Alright, I admit it, it was me." He grins, just as Lassiter flicks on the main overheard light, illuminating the room. The library seemed like an appropriate place to make his final reveal; it's rather sparse on books, loose items a hazard rather than a comfort on a boat in constant motion, but it's the thought that counts. They've pulled in a few tables to seat the audience and gathered the cast to sit on the couch along the wall with the exception of Andrew, who Buzz has custody of.
Shawn notes the odd looks Harris is getting, the handcuffs out of sight but the nature of the situation unmistakeable. "Oh, don't worry about him. He's the guy who killed Brian Lewis and attempted to murder a few others. None of you, though, so that's something." Well, there's a reason the SBPD bars his presence at their press conferences lest he try his hand at reassuring the public.
"As we are now returning to shore so Andy over there can be processed, we'll have to wrap up our real mystery a little early." He winks at Penny, who ducks to hide her smile. The cast hadn't initially gone for his suggestion that he do the reveal, but with her help, he'd managed to convince them.
"Who killed Mr. Langley? Peter, the greedy soon to be son-in-law? Penny, the vindictive mistress? Or Viola, the spoiled child?" He points at each of them as he speaks, his wandering taking him in an arc around the couch for staging purposes. "Let's take a poll of the crowd," he says, counting the hands as he says each name. The audience finds that Penny is most likely, followed by Peter, with Viola coming in at last place.
"So we suspect Penny, is that it?" He rubs his imaginary goatee as he pretends to consider it. "She certainly had motive - what with the life insurance policy that names her sole beneficiary in the event of his death and all. Dun dun dun," he accuses, making the sound effects himself in lieu of a musical instrument to do it for him.
"He didn't have a life insurance policy," Viola points out.
"Not that you'd know of."
"No, he actually didn't," Penny admits.
"Details, details. He was about to take one out!" Shawn tries again.
"No, he was happy with his current insurance provider."
"He loved James as his agent," Peter agrees.
Shawn shakes off the rebuttal, brushing an imaginary piece of dirt off his shoulder to signify just how over it he is. "Therefore, Penny had no motive at all to kill the man she loved, and she is not a suspect!" He waits a beat, then adds, "And she's a paramedic. That's just counter-intuitive."
He moves onto Peter next, "But Petey here is a different story entirely. Marrying into money is always tricky - are you a gold digger or aren't you, do you have homicidal intentions towards my father or don't you; all of these are discussions you need to have with your significant other before you make a commitment such as marriage. Peter had the means and the motive, but not the disposition."
He spins on his heel, pointing a finger at Peter. "Is it or is it not true that you are heliophobic?"
Peter blinks. "I'm not afraid of the sun."
"Really? You're not?" Shawn says seriously. "There are some pretty worrying studies about skin cancer floating about, you know."
"I use SPF-45."
"Oh, good choice. See, my problem is that I never remember to reapply."
"Shawn!" Gus hisses. "I think you meant hemophobic!"
That sounds about right, so Shawn goes with it. "Peter Ratcliff is hemophobic - he's afraid of blood. Hates the stuff, which is rather worrisome considering the obvious. In a castle like Langley's, vampires are always a concern. But staying on topic, Peter could not have stabbed his ex-future father-in-law."
"So it was Viola!" Gus jumps in helpfully.
"What? No," Shawn dismisses immediately. "Come on, she didn't kill her father. I left out someone when I gave you the initial list." He whirls around to point a finger at Buzz.
"McbNab?" The Chief says doubtfully. "Highly doubtful, Mr. Spencer." Shawn rolls his eyes and shifts his finger a few inches to the left, emphasizing that he is pointing to the person Buzz is guarding.
"Andrew, the traitorous accountant!" he says darkly, then brightening momentarily. "Hey, isn't that convenient? He's the killer in both my cases. Sort of like a two birds with one stone sort of thing." He can see that Lassiter is starting to get annoyed, so he cans it. "No? Ah, well. Langley invited Andrew on board to discuss revisions to his will and how he could cut Peter out of it, when Andrew decided he wasn't getting a big enough cut and decided to kill Langley and profit from his death!"
"I was only getting 3%," Andrew says sadly, determined to play the part up until the last possible moment.
Mr. Langley re-enters the room and takes a bow to a round of applause, the prop knife still attached to his chest. The crowd cheers at the neat resolution to the case. Shawn holds up a hand to quiet them, gearing up for the next big twist.
"Officers, arrest that man!" he yells, pointing at Langley. "He was Harris' accomplice!" Two of the officers glance over at the Chief, who rubs her forehead tiredly but motions for them to do as Shawn says.
"I believe if you look closely, you'll find a moustache comb in the evidence bags from the attack on Kenneth Benson. And I believe that was your signature item this weekend," he notes with a smile.
The audience looks on in shock as first Harris and then Langley are led out of the room by officers, not expecting the real life tie-in to the case. Shawn motions for the three remaining actors to carry on with the show.
"He was going to cut you off?" Viola asks quietly, tears welling up in her eyes.
"I expected that," Peter notes. "But it doesn't matter, because I didn't marry you for your money."
"Oh, Peter," Viola wails, throwing her arms around him.
Grinning, Shawn leans in, placing a hand on 'Peter's' shoulder and whispering in her ear, "Carl, this might be a good time to ask her that other question."
The actor looks confused for a second before he clues in, back straightening. "Oh!" He takes her by the hand and stands up, smiling nervously at her.
"Peter?" she asks, confused.
He shakes his head at his character's name and, after a moment's hesitation, goes down on one knee. "You are the Monica to my Chandler. In all my life, I never thought I would be so lucky as to fall in love with my best friend." At the quote from The One With the Proposal, Shawn feels his heart melt all over again imagining Monica and then Chandler on one knee proposing. "Emily, will you marry me?"
Her jaw drops and the crowd falls silent after a brief, shared wave of, "Awh!" Carl wavers slightly on his knee but doesn't move in what Shawn's sure is one of the longest moments of his life.
Thankfully enough, Emily recovers quickly. "Yes," she nods eagerly, now crying unashamedly. "Yes," she says again, pulling him into a kiss by her lapels.
The crowd repeats its earlier wave and starts to applaud as she pulls him onto her lap and dips him low for another kiss. They only come up for air long enough for him to slip the ring onto her finger.
Shawn claps his hands together happily and just beams. "Now who's ready to celebrate?"
-
Juliet passes the odd sight of Carlton giving Gus a concussion check without so much as a double take, making a beeline for the object of her recent concern.
"Julies!" He waves her over as soon as he sees her, so she pulls out a chair at his table.
"Hey, Shawn," she grins at him. "How are you feeling?"
He blinks once, taking the moment's hesitation to weigh his choices for a response before settling on his usual deflection. "I want to marry this pie and have little apples with it."
"That good?" she asks, snagging a fresh fork from the rolled-up cutlery at the table and taking a bite of his. "Mmm!"
He looks ready to protest her blatant theft of his food, but then thinks better of it. "I could get you a slice?" he offers as a compromise.
She could get her own cake (and often does as a matter of principle, determined to show she's just as self-sufficient as the next person), but Shawn is only offering as a friend. She accepts with a tilt of her head, taking advantage of the opportunity to watch how he moves. If he doesn't want to talk about how he's healing, that's perfectly fine. She investigates people for a living - she's made a career out of putting the clues together.
He's still moving a little more slowly, less throwing himself bodily after every lead and more thinking before he acts. After a few days on board the ship with him though, she's confident he'll heal fully with time. There's nothing lucky about one of her best friends being shot, but it could have been a lot worse.
Her plot to get Shawn back into the swing of things didn't turn out quite the way she planned - she thinks back to the call she'd received from Shawn's cell phone which had turned out to be a speakerphone distress call, and feels that same shiver of fear slide down her spine before being replaced with cool professionalism - but it looks to be successful. He'd solved the case and his personality doesn't seem to have suffered for it.
"How's he doing?" She hides a smile at Lassiter's sudden voice in her ear, having heard his quiet footsteps behind her.
She looks over to where Shawn is winding his way through a throng of people, holding her piece of pie above his head as he stops to chat with people along the way. Gus materializes suddenly at Shawn's left shoulder, murmuring something in his ear. Considering the way he cradles her dessert protectively to his chest in response, she assumes it's about food.
"You know Shawn," she shrugs. They glance over at the two friends, who are now bickering over who has ownership rights of her dessert.
"I want that pie!" she yells out to them. Gus startles, looking the picture of abashed as he realizes whose dessert he would be appropriating. Turning his back to Shawn, he gives her a small but determined thumbs-up. She winks at him and he grins, turning back to Shawn.
"...I think he'll be just fine," she says to Lassiter. He snorts, dropping down into a chair beside her.
By the time the two friends get to their table, the topic of conversation has changed from the law of who gets the second dessert to the official rules of shotgun to whether or not Shawn had ever really hit Jimmy Nickels with a slingshot like he'd always claimed to in grade three. Shawn presents her with her piece of apple pie with a solemn showmanship while Gus just rolls his eyes, pulling up a seat.
"Mr. Spencer." They turn as one to see William Breese walking towards them again. Now that Shawn's thinking clearly, he can recognize the tension between him and his two favourite members of the SBPD.
"Billy!" Shawn greets him cheerfully.
"I won't stay long," he says, pointedly eyeing the two detectives at Shawn's back. "I wanted to thank you for finding my associate's killer and take this opportunity to re-iterate my earlier offer. If there is anything you need now or in the future, please let me know."
"I--." Gus stomps on his foot just as soon as he opens his mouth and Shawn kicks him back. The resulting flinch causes the table to jump briefly, but Breese graciously appears not to notice. "Thank you for your offer, but I'm good," he says, giving Gus a serious side eye. He sweeps the table with a look before turning back to William. "I'm set for the future with everything I've got right here."
Breese gives a small, respectful nod and turns to leave, limping away.
"I could have had an island," he uses a dinner roll to point at Gus before taking a bite out of it.
"What would you with an island?"
"I'd figure something out."
-
Shawn waits until they're back on shore and walking off the dock to jog up to Juliet. "Hey Jules, I do believe I won our bet."
"Oh?" she says innocently.
He picks up speed to get in front of her, and then turns so he's facing her and walking backwards. "I had it solved before the final reveal."
"You made the reveal," she points out.
"And what a reveal it was!"
"You also didn't follow my directions. Any of you." She lists them off on her fingers. "Carlton, you arrested somebody."
"He was a murderer!" Lassiter squawks. She ignores him, continuing.
"You told everyone who the killer was," she addresses Shawn.
"That's the whole point of a reveal!"
"And me?" Gus says with a frown.
She thinks about it for a minute and then shrugs, conceding the point. "You were pretty good, Gus."
Lassiter and Shawn exchange dual wronged looks. "You know," Lassiter begins, "I believe you claimed this would be a relaxing weekend."
"It was!" she protests.
"Breese almost drowned, Lewis died, Benson was attacked, Spencer was poisoned, and then Guster was knocked unconscious and the three of us were held hostage," Lassiter counts the weekend's events on his fingertips just as she had.
"That doesn't sound relaxing to me," Shawn agrees.
"My head really does hurt," Gus chimes in.
Juliet laughs, watching as her three boys unite against her. "Alright, I'm buying then," she says with a smile.
Lassiter rolls his eyes. "I'll buy," he says gruffly, striding past them.
"Why, Lassie!" Shawn swoons.
"Just get in the car, Spencer."
-
"Gus?"
"Yeah, Shawn?"
"I really had fun this weekend. Thank Jules for planning this, alright?"
"Will do."
-
fin
-
Gus doesn't know what's so important about the moustache comb that Shawn found in Ken's room, but he recognizes all the signs of an epiphany-in-progress, watching idly when Shawn's eyes widen and his speech trails off as he stills, all the puzzle pieces falling into place. It's the closest thing to a true trance he's ever reached. He looks like a true psychic most when he's not trying, unreachable and unresponsive as facts rearrange themselves into a solid explanation before his very eyes.
"I need to see the schedule of events," he says when he's snapped out of it.
"Why?" Gus questions immediately. "Is something going to happen? Wait - is the killer going to strike again? Killers? Oh my God, somebody's going to die!"
Juliet and Lassiter turn to face them, hands on their holsters. Shawn waves them off. "Oh, Gus. This isn't the Murder on the Orient Express."
Gus frowns. "Only one person died in that book, Shawn."
"Physically, maybe," Shawn says. "But spiritually, it was a very brutal trip." Lassiter and Juliet have turned around by this point, so he takes this opportunity to smack Gus in the arm. "Dude," he hisses, "you're totally going to spoil the reveal. I just need to see when the next big gathering is."
Gus calms down abruptly, visions of his tragic but noble death slipping away in the face of his friend's reassurances. If Shawn's taking the time to plan his reveal now, they can't be in any real danger.
Oh, who is he kidding? Shawn often plans his reveals at gunpoint, claiming that the pressure translates to a captive audience and paints a picture of him as the dashingly brave hero to be admired.
"There's just one thing I need to get first," Shawn says, turning right at the next turn to the guest rooms rather than left to the main areas.
"Where are you guys going?" Juliet calls as soon as she notices the two oft-wayward consultants are no longer following her and her partner.
"Changing before dinner!"
Juliet stops to consider that. "Actually, that doesn't sound like a bad idea. I'll just meet you--."
Lassiter waves her off. "I'll keep an eye on those two. See you at dinner."
-
Shawn dawdles outside his door just long enough for Lassiter to reach his, waiting to turn the key in the lock until just the right moment so the three of them can enter their rooms in perfect synchronization. Gus can back him up on that one - synchronized team montages are always cool.
Well, his montage isn't the height of suave, but maybe theirs will be. He fishes his sling out from between his jeans (still damp after yesterday's swan dive) and the suit jacket he'd worn to last night's dinner. He's been pretty good about wearing it since the surgery, Henry's threats of gluing his arm into it empty but the underlying concern noted.
Nothing has really changed since he was shot, but things aren't quite the same, either. It's not easy realizing that you're ultimately expendable.
Shawn's grown accustomed to being able to talk himself out of any situation to the point where facing actual danger is something surreal. Occasionally being knocked out when he knows he's got gun-toting backup on the way is one thing, taking a bullet to the shoulder and stranded in a forest is something else entirely. He's not second-guessing his work at Psych; he doesn't know how he lucked into a steady job that consists of living out his childhood dreams with Gus and solving crime along the way, but it's the best idea he's ever had. Well, top five, at least. The two-story tree house with a hot tub and delivered take-out to the door still holds a special place in his heart, even if he hasn't been able to make that a reality yet.
Their work is valuable, but not absolutely essential; Juliet and Lassiter would have figured out the ice cream truck connection eventually - he loves teasing them, but they are actually two of the sharpest minds he's ever worked with - it just might have taken them a little longer. His own realization had come about while he was reading all about Patrick Jane's upcoming hijinks from thementalistspoilers.com.
He plays the protagonist, but it doesn't give him the magical ability to talk himself out of any situation without ruffling so much as a hair in the process. There's a lot more screaming (where pitch can be used to judge the severity of the situation) and yelling and crashing involved.
Wait, crashing? He's as much a fan of hyperbole as the next person, but the last time he checked, his life didn't come complete with a soundtrack to set the appropriate tone for his musings.
Actually, that sounded an awful lot like it came from next door. Next door being - Gus' room.
Shawn runs out of his room and into the next at twice the speed limit, positive that Gus will forgive him because they can't very well ticket the Echo (again) when he's on foot. Shawn's been meaning to pay those parking tickets before Gus' car gets towed, really he has. He's just been a little busy of late.
He should have made time, he should have known they'd come after Gus -- it's a big one, he's messed up, and he's - he's too late. His field of vision narrows to see just Gus, lying prone on the bed, a sight that steals the words from his lips and the coherency from his thoughts.
"Spencer! He's just been knocked out, look, he's breathing." Lassiter's tone cuts through his haze, and now that Shawn takes a closer look, he can see his best friend's chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He rubs a weary hand over his eyes, snapping out of it.
"I knew that," he says defensively, looking up at Lassiter for the first time to find the detective has his hands in the air, palms facing outward. Shawn turns to see Andrew Harris step out from behind Gus' door, gun pointed directly at them.
"Hello there!" Shawn says cheerfully, stepping forward with a hand held out for a handshake. Harris looks down at it, then back up at Shawn's earnest face before scoffing. Shawn returns his look innocently for a second before shrugging. "Well, I tried."
He brushes off Lassiter's hissed, "Spencer!" and steps back to position himself with his back to the wall and his face to everybody, just the way he likes it. One of Lassiter's guns is lying abandoned on the floor in front of him, so Shawn figures the detective had gotten here first and been disarmed. Or rather partially disarmed, as Shawn knows for a fact that Lassiter carries a backup and has a knife hidden in his belt buckle. It's not nearly as impressive as the gun he keeps in the peanuts, but it works in a pinch, he supposes.
Harris might have three of them cornered, but he's forgotten the fourth member of their team, and that mistake will be his downfall. Juliet O'Hara has a finely tuned sense for when the people she cares about are in danger... and a satellite phone, which Shawn glimpsed the number of when Lassiter turned it on to show off his superior reception. He surreptitiously pulls his iPhone out of his back pocket. "So, Andrew - can I call you Andy? If you're Andy, where's Woody? And Buzz? And Rex. Rex was always my favourite." He begins to make a circuit of the small room as he speaks, stumbling only momentarily when he trips over Lassiter's shoe.
"Why Lassie, what long legs you have," he professes dramatically, palming his phone and passing it off in a brief pat of Lassiter's arm, exchanging a meaningful look with the detective. He gets to his feet, pausing to fluff and replace the pillow underneath Gus' head.
"Where was I?" He pretends to shake off the momentary distraction, beginning to wander again. "Oh! Look at this!" He snags the brochure for this cruise off the side table, skimming the text as he flips through it.
"Become a detective and help us solve a murder mystery during a weekend on board the luxurious S.S. Mourir," he reads as he walks, keeping the attention and the weapon on him. "They left out the part where the cast invites you to play a hands-on role," he notes, closing the brochure and holding it out for Harris' inspection. "Personally, I think that'd be a big selling point."
Harris takes a step back, confused by the enthusiasm. "Who are you?" he mutters.
"Shawn Spencer, psychic detective," Shawn says brightly. A groan from the bed suggests Gus is now stirring. "And that would be my partner, Burton Guster. I would shake your hand, but you seemed rather opposed to that earlier. Do you have a buzzer in your hand? A button of some sort? I'm thinking something along the lines of Staples' Easy Button, but more along the lines of a Disaster Button, because wherever you turn up, disaster soon follows."
He grins, turning around to share a private smile with Lassiter. "See what I did there?"
Lassiter just rolls his eyes. "That wasn't nearly as witty as you think it was, Spencer."
Shawn frowns, turning back to Harris. "You see what I have to put up with? You don't see him coming up with anything, do you?"
"He's right," Harris notes. "You should really work on your puns. In all my years as an actor, I haven't heard one quite that bad in a long time."
"How long have you been an actor?"
"A year."
Shawn claps his hands and then spreads his arms wide, as if that proves his point. "Is that why you wanted to kill William Breese and Brian Lewis? You wanted to be an actor?"
"Acting is my calling," Harris says. "I wanted out."
"Then why did you attack Benson?" Lassiter asks. "Was he involved?"
Shawn waves that question off. "The only thing Benson was stealing was chocolate bars. You ever wonder why that particular pharmacy was always out of Cadbury? No, you tried to frame him," Shawn notes, pointing at Harris. "You left your prescription bottle of amobarbital, forgetting that it could be traced. Sloppy job."
"I didn't have much time," Harris protests. "You weren't supposed to be there. I had the character motivations already set up and just a little fine-tuning to do on the plot to smooth out the narrative when you ruined my plans."
"If it weren't for those meddling kids?" Shawn offers helpfully.
Harris sniffs. "I like to avoid the use of clichés in my writing."
"I thought you wanted to be an actor, not a writer," Lassiter says doubtfully. Shawn laughs with the knowledge that his go-to methods in tense standoffs are rubbing off on the older detective, as well.
"Actually," Harris puffing out his chest proudly, "I want to direct as well." His focus slips, and Lassiter takes advantage of the other man's distraction to draw his backup weapon from the holster at his ankle.
"Drop the weapon."
"You drop the weapon," Harris shoots back.
Shawn glances from Lassiter to Andrew and then back again. "Please tell me I don't sound like that," he whines, having been known to use similar comebacks. He feels Harris' arm slip around his neck and ducks out from underneath it, hitting the ground on all fours and rolling onto his back. He might not be able to play the hero as well as Lassie, but he's not going to let himself be used as a hostage.
"He's a pretty good shot," Shawn calls up to Harris. "I wouldn't test him." Harris puts a foot on Shawn's chest threateningly. "Or y'know, maybe you should test him. That could be fun, too."
"Step away from Spencer," Lassiter warns. Harris puts some pressure down and white-hot pain blossoms out from the weeks-old wound in his shoulder. So much for not being a hostage. "Now," Lassiter orders. Shawn would take a step back in fear if not for obvious reasons. He's only ever heard Lassiter use that tone on a handful of occasions, and he has been downright terrifying on every single one of them.
The pressure increases and he loses track of the situation. His breathing hitches and falters, his shoulder numb to any sensation but pain and his lungs burning with a need for oxygen that he cannot fulfill. Then he hears the door creak, and sees a pair of bright red heels that look oddly familiar. "I believe my partner asked you to drop your weapon," Juliet says calmly, gun pressed to the back of Harris' skull.
Harris does.
-
As soon as Shawn stands up, he feels all the blood rush to his head. At least, he thinks it's to his head; for all he knows, it's all pooling in his feet. It's the oddest feeling because he can't tell where it's going, just that it's moving. He wavers slightly, focusing on the feel of it coursing through his arteries and veins, trying not to notice how the world is blurring around him and his head is pounding.
"Shawn?" he hears Juliet saying. He grips the table, unbelievably grateful for its solid nature, just waiting for the world to right itself.
"Lassiter?" she calls out to her partner, her very tone a demand for answers. Shawn means to reassure her that he's just fine, but the pain and the vertigo are playing a zero-sum game with his attention that leaves him too distracted to answer.
"He might be in shock," Lassiter suggests, surveying the psychic.
"Shawn, we're going to sit you down on the bed," Juliet suggests, leading him towards the bed with a gentle hand on his arm. The world rights itself as he sits, clearing the spots from his vision. "Alright now?" she asks kindly.
"Just pineappley," he crows back. His shoulder hasn't settled down yet, but it's receded to a dull ache, and he can already tell it will be fine. "Gus!" he cries, spotting Gus enter the room with an ice pack pressed to the back of his head. He moves to stand up with the intention of walking over to his friend, but Lassiter shoves him back down onto the bed.
"Eat this first," he orders, pulling a juice box and a Snickers bar out of Gus' luggage.
"Oh, Snickers!"
"In the meantime," Juliet says, all good cheer and smiles. "You two are going to tell me all about how your five minute detour to get changed ended in a standoff."
Gus looks over at Shawn, who's sitting on the bed eating a chocolate bar, and then back to Lassiter, who is trying to figure out how to phrase things in a way that Juliet won't find ridiculous. He makes an executive decision. "Ohhh, my head!" he moans, rubbing circles into his temples. "I think I have a concussion."
Juliet guides him over to the bed as well, and Lassiter grumbles but scrounges up a second juice box and chocolate bar to tide him over.
"Why don't you two keep an eye on each other?" Juliet suggests after making sure they're settled. "Carlton and I will be right outside, just shout if you need anything."
Gus nods solemnly, nudging Shawn, who doesn't seem to notice the conversation taking place, thoroughly entranced with his candy.
-
"O'Hara, I know--," Lassiter begins pre-emptively as soon as his partner exits the room, leaving the door open a crack so they can keep tabs on the situation inside.
"Carlton," she cuts him off, quirking an eyebrow.
He's just preparing his defence when he notes that she's trying to hide a smile. "You're not actually mad, are you?"
"Not at all," she smiles. "Those two? They could find trouble on a kindergarten playground - and they have, actually, there was that one case--."
"-where Spencer didn't want to share his toys. Yeah, I remember." He can feel the twisted knot that was his stomach at one point loosening as he shares in the memory with Juliet, relaxing for the first time since he found Guster lying unconscious on the bed, his momentary fear for the consultant allowing Harris to get the drop on him.
"I'm just thankful they're okay," Juliet says after a minute because she knows he will not. It's easier to read between the lines with Lassiter than it used to be. His silence represents a lack of denial, which is equivalent to an outright admittance where it concerns the two consultants. "Are you?"
She pays attention to his body language more than his words when he responds with a confused, "Why wouldn't I be? I wasn't injured." They are partners and partners don't lie to each other, but they do have this odd habit of omitting key truths on occasion.
"That doesn't mean you have to be okay," she points out. This job doesn't get any easier with time.
He nods, brushing it off, and she lets the topic drop; if he wants to talk, he knows where to find her. Lassiter thinks he's bad at this aspect of their partnership, more comfortable coaching her on her interrogation techniques than listening in the aftermath of a bad takedown, but he's not - she isn't expecting an eloquent speech from him so much as an understanding ear, just as he doesn't expect her to match his cynicism so much as her presence in his corner.
She had a partner in Miami, an optimistic young detective with a particular affection for undercover work. He wasn't the wrong partner for her, but he wasn't the right one either; she wondered about it at the time but now she knows it for sure, faced with one who she trusts with her friendship as well as her life.
-
"Gus?"
"Yes, Shawn."
"How's your head?"
"I have a bit of a headache, but I'm feeling a little better."
"Good, 'cause... well, you know... I thought we agreed - you'renotallowedtogethurtanymore. Evereverever."
"Really, Shawn? You're going to say that to me?"
"...I'm glad you're okay."
"Me too."
"Can I have a bite of your Snickers bar?"
"Only if I can have a sip of your apple juice. Lassiter gave me orange."
"Deal."
-
The library is dark but for a single lit sconce on the back wall when Shawn's voice breaks the silence, his dramatic appearance made when Gus flicks a flashlight on and passes it over for Shawn to hold under his chin in the traditional ghost story pose.
"My dear friends, we are gathered here today to solve a dastardly crime, perpetrated by one of the most notorious villains the fine city of Santa Barbara has ever seen...I am referring to, of course, who stole the cookie from the cookie jar?"
He waves the beam from the flashlight around on the ceiling in a loose figure-eight, resisting the temptation to shine it in anyone's eyes lest he be subjected to another of Gus' lectures on how he isn't willing to risk his sight for the slim possibility it will catapult his SuperSmeller into a truly superheroic category.
"Gus stole the cookie from the cookie jar!" he says, pointing the flashlight at a spot just over his friend's right shoulder.
"Who, me?"
"Yes, you!" he accuses, motioning for the crowd to join in.
"Couldn't be?"
"Then who?" The crowd yells as one, and Shawn claps his hands in joy.
"Alright, I admit it, it was me." He grins, just as Lassiter flicks on the main overheard light, illuminating the room. The library seemed like an appropriate place to make his final reveal; it's rather sparse on books, loose items a hazard rather than a comfort on a boat in constant motion, but it's the thought that counts. They've pulled in a few tables to seat the audience and gathered the cast to sit on the couch along the wall with the exception of Andrew, who Buzz has custody of.
Shawn notes the odd looks Harris is getting, the handcuffs out of sight but the nature of the situation unmistakeable. "Oh, don't worry about him. He's the guy who killed Brian Lewis and attempted to murder a few others. None of you, though, so that's something." Well, there's a reason the SBPD bars his presence at their press conferences lest he try his hand at reassuring the public.
"As we are now returning to shore so Andy over there can be processed, we'll have to wrap up our real mystery a little early." He winks at Penny, who ducks to hide her smile. The cast hadn't initially gone for his suggestion that he do the reveal, but with her help, he'd managed to convince them.
"Who killed Mr. Langley? Peter, the greedy soon to be son-in-law? Penny, the vindictive mistress? Or Viola, the spoiled child?" He points at each of them as he speaks, his wandering taking him in an arc around the couch for staging purposes. "Let's take a poll of the crowd," he says, counting the hands as he says each name. The audience finds that Penny is most likely, followed by Peter, with Viola coming in at last place.
"So we suspect Penny, is that it?" He rubs his imaginary goatee as he pretends to consider it. "She certainly had motive - what with the life insurance policy that names her sole beneficiary in the event of his death and all. Dun dun dun," he accuses, making the sound effects himself in lieu of a musical instrument to do it for him.
"He didn't have a life insurance policy," Viola points out.
"Not that you'd know of."
"No, he actually didn't," Penny admits.
"Details, details. He was about to take one out!" Shawn tries again.
"No, he was happy with his current insurance provider."
"He loved James as his agent," Peter agrees.
Shawn shakes off the rebuttal, brushing an imaginary piece of dirt off his shoulder to signify just how over it he is. "Therefore, Penny had no motive at all to kill the man she loved, and she is not a suspect!" He waits a beat, then adds, "And she's a paramedic. That's just counter-intuitive."
He moves onto Peter next, "But Petey here is a different story entirely. Marrying into money is always tricky - are you a gold digger or aren't you, do you have homicidal intentions towards my father or don't you; all of these are discussions you need to have with your significant other before you make a commitment such as marriage. Peter had the means and the motive, but not the disposition."
He spins on his heel, pointing a finger at Peter. "Is it or is it not true that you are heliophobic?"
Peter blinks. "I'm not afraid of the sun."
"Really? You're not?" Shawn says seriously. "There are some pretty worrying studies about skin cancer floating about, you know."
"I use SPF-45."
"Oh, good choice. See, my problem is that I never remember to reapply."
"Shawn!" Gus hisses. "I think you meant hemophobic!"
That sounds about right, so Shawn goes with it. "Peter Ratcliff is hemophobic - he's afraid of blood. Hates the stuff, which is rather worrisome considering the obvious. In a castle like Langley's, vampires are always a concern. But staying on topic, Peter could not have stabbed his ex-future father-in-law."
"So it was Viola!" Gus jumps in helpfully.
"What? No," Shawn dismisses immediately. "Come on, she didn't kill her father. I left out someone when I gave you the initial list." He whirls around to point a finger at Buzz.
"McbNab?" The Chief says doubtfully. "Highly doubtful, Mr. Spencer." Shawn rolls his eyes and shifts his finger a few inches to the left, emphasizing that he is pointing to the person Buzz is guarding.
"Andrew, the traitorous accountant!" he says darkly, then brightening momentarily. "Hey, isn't that convenient? He's the killer in both my cases. Sort of like a two birds with one stone sort of thing." He can see that Lassiter is starting to get annoyed, so he cans it. "No? Ah, well. Langley invited Andrew on board to discuss revisions to his will and how he could cut Peter out of it, when Andrew decided he wasn't getting a big enough cut and decided to kill Langley and profit from his death!"
"I was only getting 3%," Andrew says sadly, determined to play the part up until the last possible moment.
Mr. Langley re-enters the room and takes a bow to a round of applause, the prop knife still attached to his chest. The crowd cheers at the neat resolution to the case. Shawn holds up a hand to quiet them, gearing up for the next big twist.
"Officers, arrest that man!" he yells, pointing at Langley. "He was Harris' accomplice!" Two of the officers glance over at the Chief, who rubs her forehead tiredly but motions for them to do as Shawn says.
"I believe if you look closely, you'll find a moustache comb in the evidence bags from the attack on Kenneth Benson. And I believe that was your signature item this weekend," he notes with a smile.
The audience looks on in shock as first Harris and then Langley are led out of the room by officers, not expecting the real life tie-in to the case. Shawn motions for the three remaining actors to carry on with the show.
"He was going to cut you off?" Viola asks quietly, tears welling up in her eyes.
"I expected that," Peter notes. "But it doesn't matter, because I didn't marry you for your money."
"Oh, Peter," Viola wails, throwing her arms around him.
Grinning, Shawn leans in, placing a hand on 'Peter's' shoulder and whispering in her ear, "Carl, this might be a good time to ask her that other question."
The actor looks confused for a second before he clues in, back straightening. "Oh!" He takes her by the hand and stands up, smiling nervously at her.
"Peter?" she asks, confused.
He shakes his head at his character's name and, after a moment's hesitation, goes down on one knee. "You are the Monica to my Chandler. In all my life, I never thought I would be so lucky as to fall in love with my best friend." At the quote from The One With the Proposal, Shawn feels his heart melt all over again imagining Monica and then Chandler on one knee proposing. "Emily, will you marry me?"
Her jaw drops and the crowd falls silent after a brief, shared wave of, "Awh!" Carl wavers slightly on his knee but doesn't move in what Shawn's sure is one of the longest moments of his life.
Thankfully enough, Emily recovers quickly. "Yes," she nods eagerly, now crying unashamedly. "Yes," she says again, pulling him into a kiss by her lapels.
The crowd repeats its earlier wave and starts to applaud as she pulls him onto her lap and dips him low for another kiss. They only come up for air long enough for him to slip the ring onto her finger.
Shawn claps his hands together happily and just beams. "Now who's ready to celebrate?"
-
Juliet passes the odd sight of Carlton giving Gus a concussion check without so much as a double take, making a beeline for the object of her recent concern.
"Julies!" He waves her over as soon as he sees her, so she pulls out a chair at his table.
"Hey, Shawn," she grins at him. "How are you feeling?"
He blinks once, taking the moment's hesitation to weigh his choices for a response before settling on his usual deflection. "I want to marry this pie and have little apples with it."
"That good?" she asks, snagging a fresh fork from the rolled-up cutlery at the table and taking a bite of his. "Mmm!"
He looks ready to protest her blatant theft of his food, but then thinks better of it. "I could get you a slice?" he offers as a compromise.
She could get her own cake (and often does as a matter of principle, determined to show she's just as self-sufficient as the next person), but Shawn is only offering as a friend. She accepts with a tilt of her head, taking advantage of the opportunity to watch how he moves. If he doesn't want to talk about how he's healing, that's perfectly fine. She investigates people for a living - she's made a career out of putting the clues together.
He's still moving a little more slowly, less throwing himself bodily after every lead and more thinking before he acts. After a few days on board the ship with him though, she's confident he'll heal fully with time. There's nothing lucky about one of her best friends being shot, but it could have been a lot worse.
Her plot to get Shawn back into the swing of things didn't turn out quite the way she planned - she thinks back to the call she'd received from Shawn's cell phone which had turned out to be a speakerphone distress call, and feels that same shiver of fear slide down her spine before being replaced with cool professionalism - but it looks to be successful. He'd solved the case and his personality doesn't seem to have suffered for it.
"How's he doing?" She hides a smile at Lassiter's sudden voice in her ear, having heard his quiet footsteps behind her.
She looks over to where Shawn is winding his way through a throng of people, holding her piece of pie above his head as he stops to chat with people along the way. Gus materializes suddenly at Shawn's left shoulder, murmuring something in his ear. Considering the way he cradles her dessert protectively to his chest in response, she assumes it's about food.
"You know Shawn," she shrugs. They glance over at the two friends, who are now bickering over who has ownership rights of her dessert.
"I want that pie!" she yells out to them. Gus startles, looking the picture of abashed as he realizes whose dessert he would be appropriating. Turning his back to Shawn, he gives her a small but determined thumbs-up. She winks at him and he grins, turning back to Shawn.
"...I think he'll be just fine," she says to Lassiter. He snorts, dropping down into a chair beside her.
By the time the two friends get to their table, the topic of conversation has changed from the law of who gets the second dessert to the official rules of shotgun to whether or not Shawn had ever really hit Jimmy Nickels with a slingshot like he'd always claimed to in grade three. Shawn presents her with her piece of apple pie with a solemn showmanship while Gus just rolls his eyes, pulling up a seat.
"Mr. Spencer." They turn as one to see William Breese walking towards them again. Now that Shawn's thinking clearly, he can recognize the tension between him and his two favourite members of the SBPD.
"Billy!" Shawn greets him cheerfully.
"I won't stay long," he says, pointedly eyeing the two detectives at Shawn's back. "I wanted to thank you for finding my associate's killer and take this opportunity to re-iterate my earlier offer. If there is anything you need now or in the future, please let me know."
"I--." Gus stomps on his foot just as soon as he opens his mouth and Shawn kicks him back. The resulting flinch causes the table to jump briefly, but Breese graciously appears not to notice. "Thank you for your offer, but I'm good," he says, giving Gus a serious side eye. He sweeps the table with a look before turning back to William. "I'm set for the future with everything I've got right here."
Breese gives a small, respectful nod and turns to leave, limping away.
"I could have had an island," he uses a dinner roll to point at Gus before taking a bite out of it.
"What would you with an island?"
"I'd figure something out."
-
Shawn waits until they're back on shore and walking off the dock to jog up to Juliet. "Hey Jules, I do believe I won our bet."
"Oh?" she says innocently.
He picks up speed to get in front of her, and then turns so he's facing her and walking backwards. "I had it solved before the final reveal."
"You made the reveal," she points out.
"And what a reveal it was!"
"You also didn't follow my directions. Any of you." She lists them off on her fingers. "Carlton, you arrested somebody."
"He was a murderer!" Lassiter squawks. She ignores him, continuing.
"You told everyone who the killer was," she addresses Shawn.
"That's the whole point of a reveal!"
"And me?" Gus says with a frown.
She thinks about it for a minute and then shrugs, conceding the point. "You were pretty good, Gus."
Lassiter and Shawn exchange dual wronged looks. "You know," Lassiter begins, "I believe you claimed this would be a relaxing weekend."
"It was!" she protests.
"Breese almost drowned, Lewis died, Benson was attacked, Spencer was poisoned, and then Guster was knocked unconscious and the three of us were held hostage," Lassiter counts the weekend's events on his fingertips just as she had.
"That doesn't sound relaxing to me," Shawn agrees.
"My head really does hurt," Gus chimes in.
Juliet laughs, watching as her three boys unite against her. "Alright, I'm buying then," she says with a smile.
Lassiter rolls his eyes. "I'll buy," he says gruffly, striding past them.
"Why, Lassie!" Shawn swoons.
"Just get in the car, Spencer."
-
"Gus?"
"Yeah, Shawn?"
"I really had fun this weekend. Thank Jules for planning this, alright?"
"Will do."
-
fin