Fic: Holes
Title: Holes
Fandom: Psych
Pairing: Shawn/Lassiter
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: Holes, that's what it's really about. That's the way people die. It's not the bullets that kill you it's the holes they leave in you.
AN: Written for beggar_always
Holes, that's what it's really about. That's the way people die. It's not the bullets that kill you it's the holes they leave in you.
But there are no holes in Shawn today. No holes because Lassie always makes damn sure there are no bullets close enough to make them. Nothing carved through him, though he'd been close enough to smell them, close enough to end up with tiny red drops across his skin.
Though no one has any holes in them today, just a few bullet scratches. Got too close, winged in the line of duty.
Such a weird expression, why the hell do they call it that, winged? Why do people say winged?
But Lassie, he's always there between Shawn and the bullets, and Shawn's observant enough - oh how his brain laughs at the understatement of that - he's observant enough to know it's not all 'protect and serve,' not just that. Not any more, though Lassie would deny it to anyone close enough to listen.
Serve and protect, that's really a more dramatic phrase Shawn's ever given it credit for, to serve and protect.
Who protects Lassiter, does he have to protect himself too? That seems a little unfair.
Because Shawn's fairly sure Lassiter has holes of his own inside, not bullet-y ones, but they're there just the same. Only he knows how to stuff them full of things so you can't tell.
No one should have to live with holes inside them.
Lassiter is still working, even though he's winged - still a weird expression, somewhere between 'nearly-shot' and 'shot' and Shawn would be happier if Lassiter was always closer to 'nearly-shot' than 'shot' but there's still that worrying 'shot' word in the sentence. That suggestion that, given the odds -
Shawn remembers some of the odds, but, for once, he doesn't think about them.
Lassiter doesn't look like he worries about the prospect, sat at his desk like he's manning some sort of important fort, smear of red on the side of his neck where he rubbed his hand there earlier, bright evidence of how close 'nearly-shot' was to 'shot.'
One day, given the vast probabilities there will be another 'shot' in there somewhere and that's unacceptable in a way that grates over Shawn's skin. Unacceptable. Because Lassiter, though he would protest, strongly, and with harsh words, belongs to Shawn in a way that matters.
"Ask me," Shawn says, before he realises that's what he's going to say, voice strange and vibrating like it might snap in the middle. He doesn't sound like himself at all. He wonders if that's still him or someone he's trying to be, someone familiar.
Lassiter looks up at him, irritation and curiosity and taut expectation to find Shawn impossible and unfathomable.
But whatever he sees on Shawn's face changes that expression into something new, something surprised.
Those two words feel lonely and confusing out there, floating in a silent conversational ocean all on their own.
Shawn nods once, as if he's deciding something.
"Ask me, whatever you want. No jokes, no mockery, no lies, ask and I'll tell you the truth." His voice sounds flat but strangely fragile, like he's poking at somewhere that's too raw, that will come apart under pressure. Will come apart and start unravelling and he thinks maybe - maybe Lassiter is worth it.
Lassiter opens his mouth, and Shawn can feel the thud of his own pulse in his neck, clawing its way up to choke him, because he thinks maybe there are questions that even he doesn't want to know the answers to, and Lassiter is clever, so very clever. He'll know the right questions to ask if he gives himself a moment to think.
But Lassiter says nothing at all.
He sighs and smacks his folders into a tidier stack.
"Go home Spencer," he says at last.
Shawn breathes again, raw little edge of pain where he was holding it too long.
He packs that fragile place away, slides off the desk, and leaves Lassiter to serve and protect.
Fandom: Psych
Pairing: Shawn/Lassiter
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: Holes, that's what it's really about. That's the way people die. It's not the bullets that kill you it's the holes they leave in you.
AN: Written for beggar_always
Holes, that's what it's really about. That's the way people die. It's not the bullets that kill you it's the holes they leave in you.
But there are no holes in Shawn today. No holes because Lassie always makes damn sure there are no bullets close enough to make them. Nothing carved through him, though he'd been close enough to smell them, close enough to end up with tiny red drops across his skin.
Though no one has any holes in them today, just a few bullet scratches. Got too close, winged in the line of duty.
Such a weird expression, why the hell do they call it that, winged? Why do people say winged?
But Lassie, he's always there between Shawn and the bullets, and Shawn's observant enough - oh how his brain laughs at the understatement of that - he's observant enough to know it's not all 'protect and serve,' not just that. Not any more, though Lassie would deny it to anyone close enough to listen.
Serve and protect, that's really a more dramatic phrase Shawn's ever given it credit for, to serve and protect.
Who protects Lassiter, does he have to protect himself too? That seems a little unfair.
Because Shawn's fairly sure Lassiter has holes of his own inside, not bullet-y ones, but they're there just the same. Only he knows how to stuff them full of things so you can't tell.
No one should have to live with holes inside them.
Lassiter is still working, even though he's winged - still a weird expression, somewhere between 'nearly-shot' and 'shot' and Shawn would be happier if Lassiter was always closer to 'nearly-shot' than 'shot' but there's still that worrying 'shot' word in the sentence. That suggestion that, given the odds -
Shawn remembers some of the odds, but, for once, he doesn't think about them.
Lassiter doesn't look like he worries about the prospect, sat at his desk like he's manning some sort of important fort, smear of red on the side of his neck where he rubbed his hand there earlier, bright evidence of how close 'nearly-shot' was to 'shot.'
One day, given the vast probabilities there will be another 'shot' in there somewhere and that's unacceptable in a way that grates over Shawn's skin. Unacceptable. Because Lassiter, though he would protest, strongly, and with harsh words, belongs to Shawn in a way that matters.
"Ask me," Shawn says, before he realises that's what he's going to say, voice strange and vibrating like it might snap in the middle. He doesn't sound like himself at all. He wonders if that's still him or someone he's trying to be, someone familiar.
Lassiter looks up at him, irritation and curiosity and taut expectation to find Shawn impossible and unfathomable.
But whatever he sees on Shawn's face changes that expression into something new, something surprised.
Those two words feel lonely and confusing out there, floating in a silent conversational ocean all on their own.
Shawn nods once, as if he's deciding something.
"Ask me, whatever you want. No jokes, no mockery, no lies, ask and I'll tell you the truth." His voice sounds flat but strangely fragile, like he's poking at somewhere that's too raw, that will come apart under pressure. Will come apart and start unravelling and he thinks maybe - maybe Lassiter is worth it.
Lassiter opens his mouth, and Shawn can feel the thud of his own pulse in his neck, clawing its way up to choke him, because he thinks maybe there are questions that even he doesn't want to know the answers to, and Lassiter is clever, so very clever. He'll know the right questions to ask if he gives himself a moment to think.
But Lassiter says nothing at all.
He sighs and smacks his folders into a tidier stack.
"Go home Spencer," he says at last.
Shawn breathes again, raw little edge of pain where he was holding it too long.
He packs that fragile place away, slides off the desk, and leaves Lassiter to serve and protect.