Psych: The Italian Stallion (Gus/Shawn, PG-13, ~1,300w.)
Gus/Shawn, PG-13, ~1,300w.
The one where Gus keeps accidentally (and not-so-accidentally) beating Shawn up. "So I was thinking of signing up for some self-defense classes," Gus said, flipping through a pamphlet.
The Italian Stallion
"So I was thinking of signing up for some self-defense classes," Gus said, flipping through a pamphlet, "like the ones they offer every couple of months at the police department."
"Gonna ninja it up, huh?" Shawn said, carefully slipping another pencil onto the log cabin he was building.
"Well, you know. None of that fancy stuff. Just enough so I feel a little safer on all these murder cases we work."
"Lemme know how that goes," Shawn said, setting an eraser-chimney on the roof.
*
"Hey, Shawn, I've got my big certification test next week. Could I practice a few moves on you?" Gus was wearing sweatpants, a t-shirt with the arms cut off, a headband and wrist bands.
"Will you be disfiguring the valuable commodity of my face in any way?"
"Don't you mean your feet? That's the only body part you ever managed to sell. Not even for good money, I might add."
"I repeat: will you be disfiguring the utterly unparalleled beauty of my visage in any way?" He vastly overenuciated the word visage with something approximating a German accent.
Gus rolled his eyes. "No, Shawn, I will not."
"Are you going to do one of those joint-bendy moves where you pop my elbow out of its socket, leaving me with terminal and deadly case of Floppy Elbow Syndrome?" Shawn held up his arm, swinging it back and forth like he was doing the robot.
"Terminal and deadly mean the same thing."
"Will there be nunchucks?"
"No."
"One of those sweet sword boomerangs that Xena has?"
"No."
"Popcorn?"
"I could make a bag."
"Sweet, I'll be there."
*
"Gus," Shawn wheezed, flailing in Gus' grip. "You can stop choking me now, buddy. Anytime. Preferably sooner rather than deader."
Gus' eyes were wide and panicked, and he was flailing, jerking his joints in the chokehold. "My elbow's locked, Shawn! I can't unlock it!"
"ABORT," Shawn tried to scream, but it came out more as a gurgle.
A bone popped, loudly.
"Oh my God," Gus whimpered, fainting.
*
"No."
"Come on, Shawn. I had a random and masculine narcoleptic episode before I could kill you."
Shawn swung around on Gus, his eyes wild. "That is in no way comforting, Gus! That is anti-comforting!"
Gus considered. "Yeah, okay. But if I can't practice my flips with you, I'm gonna have to ask your dad."
Shawn's eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't."
Gus' smile was smug. "And then he's gonna tell me all about how he could neeever get you to learn all those fighting techniques he tried to teach you, and gee, isn't it terrible that you go out on dangerous cases so often without proper hand-to-hand training, and there just happens to be this course that Lassiter's teaching next month --"
"Fine!" Shawn said, shaking off shudders at the idea of being in a class where both Lassiter and his father would have a police-sanctioned reason to physically attack him. "But you're buying me a pair of nunchucks, the really expensive kind that shoot ninja stars out of the ends or no deal."
"Shawn, they don't make --"
Shawn held up his hand. "Ninja stars or no deal."
*
"So not worth it," Shawn croaked on the pad, Gus' upside-down face grinning down at him. "I'm pretty sure my liver just exploded."
"Please," Gus said, hauling Shawn up by the scruff of his neck. "We haven't even started the Triple Twist Kick Variation." His smile grew cheerfully wider. "Guaranteed to crack fifteen of your vertebrae or your money back."
"Kill me now," Shawn whispered, but the last word was muffled when his face slammed into the pad, which smelled like old socks, sweat, and the unique eau d'highschool gymnasium. It was the proverbial cherry on the sundae.
*
"All right, Apollo Creed," Shawn said, shuffling on his feet, crouched low, eyes narrowed. "You're going down."
"That was boxing, Shawn, not wrestling," Gus said, matching Shawn's movements so they were circling around each other. "But if you wanna be Sylvester Novocaine Mouth Stallone, you be my guest. It's not gonna help you win."
"Oh, yeah? Why's that?"
Gus stopped shuffling, and held up his arms, flexing them with a smug smile. His biceps stretched. "'Cause I brought the guns, Shawn."
Shawn's jaw-drop coincided with an eyebrow raise, lengthening his face by approximately two inches. "Guns? I mean, really? This from the guy who couldn't jog with five pound ankle weights because they were upsetting your center of gravity?" Shawn pointed at him. "Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?"
Gus crouched down again. "Prepare to be owned, Balboa."
Shawn clenched his hands into fists, raising one side of his upper lip. "Oh, it's on, Gus. It's on like flan."
*
Gus wiggled. "Uh, is that your knee poking into my ass?"
Shawn tried to crane his head to view the entirety of the human pretzel that they'd formed. He gave up, flopping his head back down onto a vaguely bony surface. "There's really no way to be sure."
"Would you stop moving?" Gus hissed, trying to locate his right arm.
"I assure you," Shawn said, "the last thing I'm capable of doing right now is moving."
"Maybe we can crab-walk to the desk and call for help."
"Maybe you could stop breathing on my eyeball, oh, say, sometime this month."
"I am not breathing on your --"
"You're doing it right now --"
"Yeah, well, if you'd just said uncle --"
"Auuuuuugh!" Shawn screamed, when Gus' indignant elbow hit a funny bone at the base of his spine, causing all of his limbs to shoot straight out and lock.
"Shawn?"
"Yes, Gus?"
"Is that your -- in my --"
"Do you really want to know the answer to that?"
"Oh, God," Gus mumbled. Shawn's left nipple was poking him in the eye.
*
"Shawn."
"Hmmm?"
"Please tell me that is not an erection poking into my shoulder blade."
"That is not an erection poking into your shoulder blade."
"Shawn!"
"What? You're all sweaty and manly, Gus, you know how I feel about that."
"Dude. Not only are we in impossibly close quarters, we couldn't even manage crabwalking five feet to certain rescue."
"Gus, the only good thing about the crustacean imitation plan is the fact that it gave birth to the phrase crustacean imitation, which I'm pretty sure I'm going to need to get on a t-shirt. Other than that, it sucks, and not in the way that I'd like to be bottom feeding on your ocean floor, if you know what I mean."
"I refuse to parse that sentence. Besides, even if I did want to engage in I'm-not-even-sure-which-orifice-I-can-reach sex -- which I don't -- I sure as hell can't get to the condoms in my wallet."
"Got you covered. Literally and figuratively."
Gus blinked. "What?"
"Yeah, I took care of that like a half hour ago. You didn't notice? Little Gus sure did." Shawn smiled. "He was most appreciative."
Gus closed his eyes, shaking his head like if he did it long enough he could make the current reality disappear. Little Gus twitched sympathetically.
*
Gus proudly hung the certificate on the wall.
"Some come loud?" Shawn read, snickering. "I didn't know you were doing adult films on the side, Gus."
"Summa cum laude, dumbass. It means I graduated with top honors. In other words, if I wanted to," Gus said, "I could kill a man with my thumb."
"And yet the special bonus magic orgasm button, that's a total mystery to you," Shawn muttered.
"Shawn, there is no such thing as a second prostate."
"And quitter talk like that is exactly why you'll never find it."
"I am not having this conversation right now. I have a date with a punching bag."
Shawn cringed away.
"At the gym. They've got these new boxing classes I want to check out."
"Will there be crouching tigers or hidden dragons?"
"That question is so stupid I'm not even going to pretend to answer it."
"A house full of flying daggers?"
"Not even a little."
"Muffins?"
Gus twirled his car keys around his index finger, grinning. "You know that's right."
"Sweet, count me in."
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The one where Gus keeps accidentally (and not-so-accidentally) beating Shawn up. "So I was thinking of signing up for some self-defense classes," Gus said, flipping through a pamphlet.
The Italian Stallion
"So I was thinking of signing up for some self-defense classes," Gus said, flipping through a pamphlet, "like the ones they offer every couple of months at the police department."
"Gonna ninja it up, huh?" Shawn said, carefully slipping another pencil onto the log cabin he was building.
"Well, you know. None of that fancy stuff. Just enough so I feel a little safer on all these murder cases we work."
"Lemme know how that goes," Shawn said, setting an eraser-chimney on the roof.
*
"Hey, Shawn, I've got my big certification test next week. Could I practice a few moves on you?" Gus was wearing sweatpants, a t-shirt with the arms cut off, a headband and wrist bands.
"Will you be disfiguring the valuable commodity of my face in any way?"
"Don't you mean your feet? That's the only body part you ever managed to sell. Not even for good money, I might add."
"I repeat: will you be disfiguring the utterly unparalleled beauty of my visage in any way?" He vastly overenuciated the word visage with something approximating a German accent.
Gus rolled his eyes. "No, Shawn, I will not."
"Are you going to do one of those joint-bendy moves where you pop my elbow out of its socket, leaving me with terminal and deadly case of Floppy Elbow Syndrome?" Shawn held up his arm, swinging it back and forth like he was doing the robot.
"Terminal and deadly mean the same thing."
"Will there be nunchucks?"
"No."
"One of those sweet sword boomerangs that Xena has?"
"No."
"Popcorn?"
"I could make a bag."
"Sweet, I'll be there."
*
"Gus," Shawn wheezed, flailing in Gus' grip. "You can stop choking me now, buddy. Anytime. Preferably sooner rather than deader."
Gus' eyes were wide and panicked, and he was flailing, jerking his joints in the chokehold. "My elbow's locked, Shawn! I can't unlock it!"
"ABORT," Shawn tried to scream, but it came out more as a gurgle.
A bone popped, loudly.
"Oh my God," Gus whimpered, fainting.
*
"No."
"Come on, Shawn. I had a random and masculine narcoleptic episode before I could kill you."
Shawn swung around on Gus, his eyes wild. "That is in no way comforting, Gus! That is anti-comforting!"
Gus considered. "Yeah, okay. But if I can't practice my flips with you, I'm gonna have to ask your dad."
Shawn's eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't."
Gus' smile was smug. "And then he's gonna tell me all about how he could neeever get you to learn all those fighting techniques he tried to teach you, and gee, isn't it terrible that you go out on dangerous cases so often without proper hand-to-hand training, and there just happens to be this course that Lassiter's teaching next month --"
"Fine!" Shawn said, shaking off shudders at the idea of being in a class where both Lassiter and his father would have a police-sanctioned reason to physically attack him. "But you're buying me a pair of nunchucks, the really expensive kind that shoot ninja stars out of the ends or no deal."
"Shawn, they don't make --"
Shawn held up his hand. "Ninja stars or no deal."
*
"So not worth it," Shawn croaked on the pad, Gus' upside-down face grinning down at him. "I'm pretty sure my liver just exploded."
"Please," Gus said, hauling Shawn up by the scruff of his neck. "We haven't even started the Triple Twist Kick Variation." His smile grew cheerfully wider. "Guaranteed to crack fifteen of your vertebrae or your money back."
"Kill me now," Shawn whispered, but the last word was muffled when his face slammed into the pad, which smelled like old socks, sweat, and the unique eau d'highschool gymnasium. It was the proverbial cherry on the sundae.
*
"All right, Apollo Creed," Shawn said, shuffling on his feet, crouched low, eyes narrowed. "You're going down."
"That was boxing, Shawn, not wrestling," Gus said, matching Shawn's movements so they were circling around each other. "But if you wanna be Sylvester Novocaine Mouth Stallone, you be my guest. It's not gonna help you win."
"Oh, yeah? Why's that?"
Gus stopped shuffling, and held up his arms, flexing them with a smug smile. His biceps stretched. "'Cause I brought the guns, Shawn."
Shawn's jaw-drop coincided with an eyebrow raise, lengthening his face by approximately two inches. "Guns? I mean, really? This from the guy who couldn't jog with five pound ankle weights because they were upsetting your center of gravity?" Shawn pointed at him. "Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?"
Gus crouched down again. "Prepare to be owned, Balboa."
Shawn clenched his hands into fists, raising one side of his upper lip. "Oh, it's on, Gus. It's on like flan."
*
Gus wiggled. "Uh, is that your knee poking into my ass?"
Shawn tried to crane his head to view the entirety of the human pretzel that they'd formed. He gave up, flopping his head back down onto a vaguely bony surface. "There's really no way to be sure."
"Would you stop moving?" Gus hissed, trying to locate his right arm.
"I assure you," Shawn said, "the last thing I'm capable of doing right now is moving."
"Maybe we can crab-walk to the desk and call for help."
"Maybe you could stop breathing on my eyeball, oh, say, sometime this month."
"I am not breathing on your --"
"You're doing it right now --"
"Yeah, well, if you'd just said uncle --"
"Auuuuuugh!" Shawn screamed, when Gus' indignant elbow hit a funny bone at the base of his spine, causing all of his limbs to shoot straight out and lock.
"Shawn?"
"Yes, Gus?"
"Is that your -- in my --"
"Do you really want to know the answer to that?"
"Oh, God," Gus mumbled. Shawn's left nipple was poking him in the eye.
*
"Shawn."
"Hmmm?"
"Please tell me that is not an erection poking into my shoulder blade."
"That is not an erection poking into your shoulder blade."
"Shawn!"
"What? You're all sweaty and manly, Gus, you know how I feel about that."
"Dude. Not only are we in impossibly close quarters, we couldn't even manage crabwalking five feet to certain rescue."
"Gus, the only good thing about the crustacean imitation plan is the fact that it gave birth to the phrase crustacean imitation, which I'm pretty sure I'm going to need to get on a t-shirt. Other than that, it sucks, and not in the way that I'd like to be bottom feeding on your ocean floor, if you know what I mean."
"I refuse to parse that sentence. Besides, even if I did want to engage in I'm-not-even-sure-which-orifice-I-can-reach sex -- which I don't -- I sure as hell can't get to the condoms in my wallet."
"Got you covered. Literally and figuratively."
Gus blinked. "What?"
"Yeah, I took care of that like a half hour ago. You didn't notice? Little Gus sure did." Shawn smiled. "He was most appreciative."
Gus closed his eyes, shaking his head like if he did it long enough he could make the current reality disappear. Little Gus twitched sympathetically.
*
Gus proudly hung the certificate on the wall.
"Some come loud?" Shawn read, snickering. "I didn't know you were doing adult films on the side, Gus."
"Summa cum laude, dumbass. It means I graduated with top honors. In other words, if I wanted to," Gus said, "I could kill a man with my thumb."
"And yet the special bonus magic orgasm button, that's a total mystery to you," Shawn muttered.
"Shawn, there is no such thing as a second prostate."
"And quitter talk like that is exactly why you'll never find it."
"I am not having this conversation right now. I have a date with a punching bag."
Shawn cringed away.
"At the gym. They've got these new boxing classes I want to check out."
"Will there be crouching tigers or hidden dragons?"
"That question is so stupid I'm not even going to pretend to answer it."
"A house full of flying daggers?"
"Not even a little."
"Muffins?"
Gus twirled his car keys around his index finger, grinning. "You know that's right."
"Sweet, count me in."
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