By: Oldach's Dream
Disclaimer: Think if I sacrifice enough pineapples I'll get them? Yeah, I doubt it, too.
Summary: Nothing good can come of Gus going out of town. And nothing did. At least, Gus doesn't think so. He's really not sure yet. So he settles in for over the phone story time with his best friend. Shassie slash.
"If you've heard this story before, don't stop me, because I'd like to hear it again." -Groucho Marx
"Shawn!" Gus shouted into the phone, "Where the hell are you?"
Shawn Spencer closed his eyes, stretched out an arm and sighed a weary sigh that he believed – if done enough times – would actually start to take years off his life. That's why Santa Barbara's resident psychic didn't sigh unless it was done in a mocking manner – because those didn't count. Deep, heavy sighs like the one he'd just let out weren't supposed to be a part of his demeanor. His childish ways did not include those grown-up, Henry-Spencer-reminiscent sighs.
Today, however, was an exception.
"It's kind of a long story." He told his best friend, raising his hand from where it'd fallen on his thigh, to his face and rubbing his stubble tiredly.
"Shawn!" Gus shouted again. He wondered briefly if his friend thought the increased volume would gain him something other than worsening Shawn's already pounding head. "I got back from my conference yesterday morning and you were no where to be found! There were messages on the Psych answering machine from so many people-"
"Any new cases?" Shawn perked up a little. He knew that wasn't what his friend had meant to imply, but he couldn't help but be a little hopeful.
If there was one thing in this world that Shawn Spencer lacked, it was a certain type of foresight. A certain type, mind you. Because he could predict the actions of murderers, thieves, kidnappers, bank robbers, muggers, criminal masterminds, wanna-be criminal masterminds and idiotic, drunken teenagers as well, if not better, than any real psychic could ever hope to.
It was the basic, common sense foresight that he always seemed to be lacking. For example, he should have known that when Burton 'Worry-Pants' Guster wanted an answer of this nature and his reckless, foresight-lacking best friend was deflecting, only one thing ever really happened.
His voice got even higher. "Shawn!"
"Alright, alright." He snapped in a way that would have been hostile and almost mean had the words come from anyone else. But somehow from him, they managed to just sound like part of the plot.
"Your dad called. The Chief called. Juliet called. Buzz called. Some guy named Mitch called." Gus was ranting, Shawn was holding his breath. "Lassiter called more than any of them-" Shawn simultaneously released his breath and felt an icy cold dagger of guilt penetrate his stomach. "-I'm thinking about starting a pool about what the hell really happened to you. The running theories so far seem to be Mexico, Canada, really angry stripper, dead in a ditch, Crandall- and you will explain that one later – and, my personal favorite, San Francisco."
"Dude…" Shawn exhaled slowly, "Did you take a breath during any of that? Cause seriously, that was some impressive nut-shelling."
"What nut-shelling?" His voice wasn't quite as high-pitched, but Shawn knew he was in trouble when Gus used his terminology. They'd been friends for long enough that one might think a few common phrases would rub off on the more professional man. But no, Gus went to great lengths to keep his vocabulary on that 'I should have won the damn spelling bee and it's your fault I didn't' level. Only when he was truly upset or distracted did Gus fold and stoop to Shawn's level. "I have no idea what's going on."
The fake psychic was tempted to sigh again, but retrained himself by sheer force of will. "Gus…"
"No," the black man started talking when he didn't go on. Which was good, because he hadn't been lying when he'd said this was a long story – and he really didn't have a clue as to where to start. "No, Shawn, I leave for a week on a required job conference with the specific requests that you not get into any trouble, you call your dad at least once, don't take any cases and you don't turn our office into a crapshoot while I'm gone."
"Well…" Shawn remembered that conversation very well indeed. "The office looks good."
"There's half a rotting pineapple on top of the fridge," Gus sneered.
Shawn cringed. "Whoops. Forgot about that."
"The whole place smells like pineapple, burnt carpet and smoke."
"Oh yeah," Shawn cringed again. "I forgot about that, too."
Gus was the one that sighed this time. Though, in his best friend's defense, Gus had always been the more grown-up of the two. It would make sense that he would have the grown-up sigh down pat by now.
"Shawn," he could practically see his friend's long fingers massaging his temple, and then going back to cover the Super Smeller if he was still in the Psych office. Which Shawn knew he was. "You've got to tell me what happened. Before Juliet reports you as a missing person and the cops find you and then kill you because, oh yeah, you're not a missing person."
"Well," Shawn began, "Like I said, it's really long story."
"I just got off an airplane, where I sat next to a little old lady who did nothing but talk about her cats. For five hours." He pressed that last part, just to make sure Shawn got it. The careless young man was glad his friend wasn't there to see his wide grin. "I could use an interesting story."
Shawn rubbed his eye with the side of his knuckle and fought back the sudden and out of place urge to laugh hysterically. God, he was tired. "Alright, fine. I'll tell you."
Gus put up with his friend's accompanying silence for all of three seconds before he snapped, "I'm waiting."
"Relax," Shawn soothed. "I'm just trying to think of the best way to start this."
"The beginning's always a valid option."
"I know." Shawn did not sigh again. "This story just has a very indefinable starting point."
"The beginning is where the relevance of the plot is first discovered." Gus said.
"You just quoted our tenth grade English teacher." Shawn shook his head back and forth in disbelief.
"What?" Gus demanded. "I always liked Mr. Meluch, and he had a point with that one."
The fake psychic muttered something incomprehensible before giving in, rolling his eyes and talking. "Fine, the beginning. Well…I guess the beginning goes a little something like this…" he took a deep breath, "Hey Gus, guess what?"
Shawn could practically hear the grinding teeth. "What?"
A/N: Well, this is my first attempt a Psych Fanfiction, so your reviews are greatly needed and appreciated. Any guesses you have as to where this plot is going…well, let's just say your guess is almost as good as mine. But hey, do I at least have you interested?