This takes place in Season 3, but, uh, no spoilers that I can think of.
Disclaimer: *SNORT* Yeah, because USA would be allowed to air THIS storyline in their comedic lineup. *DIES LAUGHING*
Blame this one on Lu because she's the little vampire that wanted all the blood.
The fact that it's coherent is all because of DG who very patiently explained to me that logic is a friend, not food.
Dragonnan is my cohort in naming. We need to do that again some time and see what plot bunnehs are born! :D
And I didn't put any warnings on, but there is a LOT of blood and violence, so, uh, yeah. If you feel about the red stuff the way Gus does, best look elsewhere for your fic fix.
The smell of Thanksgiving was in the air, and Shawn was feeling sort of miserable.
It might have been because Gus' family had gone east this year for the holiday.
Or because Jules was at Lake Tahoe with her clan.
Even Karen had left town for the weekend. Which meant Lassie was in charge. And Shawn was banned from the station unless he was in handcuffs or bleeding.
Shawn was half tempted to handcuff himself and go to the station just to be annoying. But he didn't want to take the risk that Lassie's sense of humor had gone on vacation as well.
So he was hanging out in the Psych office doing . . . nothing actually.
Not a single freaking thing.
Apparently no one needed any psychic detectives running loose at their holiday gatherings.
He could go to his dad's house, of course. But the Iron Chef was busy preparing for tomorrow, and Shawn would either get a lecture or be put to work. He wasn't nearly bored enough for either of those.
His mom wasn't due in until later tonight. He had—he checked his watch—four hours until he needed to leave to pick her up.
He could go for a ride on his bike. But it had been an unusually chilly fall, so that wasn't as enticing a prospect as it would normally be.
Holy crap. He was going to have to commit a crime just for something to do at this rate.
The front door opened and closed, and Shawn leaned forward. Hello.
He stood and walked to the door leading to the front reception area as the footsteps moved toward him.
Was that . . . a client? Be still his beating-
He had a moment to meet a pair of blue eyes before they shifted to panic and then were blanked from his vision by the white-out effect that came from being punched in the nose.
He bent forward in reflex, hands coming up to cup his nose and feeling the warm gush of blood dripping down his face.
"Ow," he said. He started to straighten, scowling—and cursing in his head at the pain that caused—but he only got high enough to get a good look at the belt buckle of his assailant before his shoulder was grabbed. He was then yanked up and spun around in the same motion.
He had to work to keep his balance from the dizzying movement, but that was only necessary for the three steps it took to push him to his desk so he could be shoved forward again. He landed face down on his desk, wincing at the pain in his rib cage that came from landing on various pointy and sharp things that he kept there.
Note to self: Put pencils and paperweights in the drawers. Exchange for pillows and bags of fresh marshmallows.
He flattened his palms to push up, but his attacker had followed him and kept a hand on his shoulder, pressing down.
A new and terrifying element was added to the situation when he felt something sharp poke him in the back menacingly.
Until he realized what it was, brow furrowing.
"Dude, are you threatening me with a fork?"
There was a growl as his attacker leaned forward, crowding him in a most uncomfortable way, and hissed, "Shut the fuck up. You're a psychic, right?"
Shawn briefly wondered how he was supposed to both 'shut the fuck up' and answer questions. "Right?"
The fork jabbed in harder. Man. He was going to have little dotty bruises there. "Yes! Ow! Yes! That's what it says on the window. I'm a Psychic detective! Can you stop pok-OW!-ing me now?"
The fork pulled back a little, though it didn't retreat completely.
"Tell me where it is."
"Uh, okay," Shawn said, wincing when fork pressed in on his side once more. It wasn't a knife, but you know, it just might be an effective weapon.
If you could get past the ridiculousness of it.
"Where what is?" he asked, twisting his head to try and get a look at his attacker.
Who pulled back suddenly and punched him again.
"OW! Dammit!" Shawn blinked rapidly, waiting for his sight to come back. "Dude! What the hell?"
"Don't play games with me, Psychic. You know what I want, and you know where it is too."
Shawn let his eyes close and—barely—resisted the urge to sigh as his father's voice invaded his head.
I told you this would all come back to bite you in the ass someday, Shawn. I. Told. You. The smugness and superiority in the tone made Shawn roll his eyes.
Yeah, thanks, Dad, he shot back. Very helpful right now.
"You better be reading someone's mind or something," his attacker said. "Because I am not playing games here."
"Neither am I," Shawn said, trying to remain calm. "But I have to say that this particular position isn't really conducive to using my gift." He started to push up again. "Maybe if- OOF!" he grunted as he was shoved back down harshly.
"No. No looking at me."
Shawn blinked. Well that would certainly complicate things.
"Can I ask why?"
"I don't want you to be able to ID me to the cops."
Shawn blinked again.
Wasn't he supposed to be reading a mind? What the hell was supposed to stop him from reading this yahoo's mind and learning everything he needed to know to tell the cops?
Hell, what was supposed to stop him from telepathically informing the cops of his current situation?
You know, besides the fact that he wasn't psychic.
Shawn had a feeling that the guy behind him wasn't the brightest crayon in the box.
But then, most criminals weren't.
First things first though. Rescuing his appendix before it was gouged out by his paperclip tray. "Okay, seriously, dude, if you want me to help you I will. But I cannot do so bent over my desk like this. It's uncomfortable and . . . you know . . . sort of creepy."
The guy leapt backward. Shawn exhaled and started to stand before he was barreled into again and shoved back down.
Okay, OW. DIY splenectomies were not a good idea.
Especially when your scalpel was a pencil cup.
Not to mention his attacker was now leaning on him and pressing him into the desk.
And the needle on his creep-o-meter was officially broken.
"What the hell?" Shawn demanded from where he was being crushed.
"Shut up," the other guy said and yanked open a desk drawer, rummaging around.
"Can I help you find something?" Shawn asked. "Uh, besides whatever it is you want me to find?"
"I need scissors."
Yeah, and that was a bad idea. Helping this whack-job upgrade his weaponry from fork to scissors was so not going to happen.
"Look," Shawn wheezed out, trying to inhale and maybe work his hand underneath himself to where that box of random doodads was poking into his pancreas. "I said I'd help you, okay? I'm sorry I insulted your fork. It's a very intimidating fork."
"Shut up!" creepy molester man said and smacked Shawn on the top of the head.
"I'm just saying-"
The pressure on Shawn was released and he tried one last time to stand up, but a hand on his back ruthlessly pinned him down.
"Come on, dude. I am being cooperative. Really, letting me up does nothing but help you since I will be able to actually concentrate on what you want from me and not the way I need to schedule a chiropractic appointment."
His answer was a cool breeze against his back as his shirt was lifted.
"Uh?" Shawn said, trying and failing to conceal his growing alarm. "Really, I don't- Hey!" His indignant protest was triggered by the sound of the scissors cutting through his shirt. "Dude! My shirt!"
He got a cuff upside the head before the hand returned to his back.
"Ow! Stop with the hitting!"
"Stop talking and I will."
"Dude, you're cutting through one of my favorite shirts. How the hell am I supposed to-" Shawn's words were abruptly cut off when the hand on his back moved to his hair, got a good firm—painfully so—grip. The hand then yanked and shoved, slamming his face into his desk, reigniting the pain in his poor nose and reopening the clots on the broken skin inside.
Great. Now he was bleeding all over his desk
"Owowowowow," he muttered under his breath, not daring to go any louder. Even he could eventually take a hint.
By this time the back of his shirt had been cut out, leaving a big missing square of fabric.
"Move and I'll stab you with the scissors," he was informed before the hand on his back disappeared.
Shawn stayed where he was.
More cutting and then the sound of fabric ripping followed, and Shawn winced at the fate of his poor shirt. He really liked this one too. It was a nice bright red, and it really looked good on him.
"Lift your head—just your head," he was ordered.
He did so and had a moment to look at his assailant in the reflection of the window between the rooms before a bright red line crossed his vision and then took it over. The blindfold was pulled tight and tied in the back, but Shawn was busy going over what he had seen.
Early to mid-fifties, shaggy beard and mustache, receding hairline, worn but mostly clean clothes. Maybe dirty from a hard day's work, but not, like, hasn't-seen-a-washer-in-a-month-or-more-filthy. His face was as worn as his clothes, rough and wrinkled from too much time in the sun, washed out blue eyes that were as tired as the rest of him, though with a patina of fear over the top of the exhaustion.
He wasn't a criminal. He was just doing what he thought had to be done. He saw no other way.
And Shawn absolutely did not know who he was.
That complicated things.