Title: I don't know what I'm to say (I'll say it anyway)
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: The shows or characters ain't mine, ok?
Characters: Gus, Shawn
Genre: friendship, humor, general
Word Count: 1,096
Summary: (I'll say it anyway.) Gus talks to Shawn about his behavior for that day, in typical Gus and Shawn fashion. Coda to 7x01/Santabarbaratown 2.
A/N: First Psych fic. I just got the idea in my head and I've been begging my muse to write me something so I had to just go through with it. Hope it's enjoyed by the readers! Feedback is very much appreciated.

Had Shawn not been so enthralled by Aha's Take On Me video that VH1 was airing, his psychic-non-psychic abilities might have warned him. He might've felt Gus shake the coffee table as he stomped over to the sofa, might've heard Gus take in a deep breath out of aggravation, might've seen him slightly raise right knee.

As it was, Shawn noticed none of these things. He did notice, however, the sharp pain that coursed through his shin when Gus's foot made contact with it.

"Ow!" Shawn yelped. "What the hell, man?"

Gus lifted his index finger, held it out straight in front of his friend. "Don't you be moaning and groaning, Shawn! You deserved that."

"Geez, Gus." He tenderly rubbed his shin, soothing the ache. "I'd ask what I did, but I'm afraid I'll end up in a wheelchair."

Ignoring him, Gus continued. "Don't ever do that to us – to me, your oldest and blackest friend – again. Understood?"

Shawn's only response was a slacked jaw and raised eyebrow.

"You acted way too recklessly today!"

Shawn glanced away from Gus's, his eyes dropping to the floor, his lips quirked downward on one side, and Gus's face softened.

"I mean …" Gus persisted, calmer and no longer shouting. "I get it. I do. Your dad was shot. We had no idea if he was even going to be okay. You saw a chance to do something and you took it. And I respect it. When I said I was in, I meant it."

"Dude!" Shawn opened his arms in a gesture of shock and disdain. "You tried calling an out like 53 times."

"It was more like three."

Shawn stared incredulously at him. "Okay! Maybe four." More staring. "Or five! Anyway, that's not the point. You know I would never abandon your sorry, idiotic, self in the midst of danger."

Eyebrows furrowed and Shawn said, "I literally cannot count all the times you've run away when we've faced danger. And not because I can't count… because I can… but because you've run away a whole bunch of times." Shawn paused and considered this for a second. "At least, I can count until a certain amount, because really, who doesn't get confused once you hit the thousands…"

To this, Gus stamped his foot to the ground. "Tsk! Will you stop interrupting and let me talk? I know you, Shawn. I know that there was nothing that anyone could've done to keep you from going after Jerry. And I know your methods aren't always the most prudent, but … look, man. You scared me today. The total lack of regard for safety, for caution. A gun was pointed in your face and you didn't even flinch!

Gus inhaled quietly and slowly. "It was your dad, I know. But getting yourself killed wouldn't have healed him any better or any quicker. Shawn, you got so many smarts in that brain of yours. Sometimes I wish you'd put them to a more salubrious use."

Shawn scrunched his nose. "Salubrious? Really? Who talks like that? And you sound like a parent. I already have two, you know."

"It means healthy, Shawn! And, well, maybe you need three. Or seven." Gus thought. "Or fifteen," he added, for good measure.

There was a moment of complete silence before Shawn spoke, loud and clear in his sincerity.

"I'm glad you didn't take that out, though. I need you, man. I need that big wary brain inside that chocolately Easter egg-head of yours! I need that baby smooth skin to sport half of my hobo beard to sneak into a shooting range. Not to mention that truly awful constipated and Jamaican accent. I need that Burton Guster package with me. Remember that."

Briefly biting on his lower lip, Gus replied, "I will. You remember that you're needed too. So please, when you let us help you, don't just drag us into the thick of it. Talk to us. Let us use our big and wary brains to keep your big and stupid behind safe. 'Cause I'm telling you right now, I don't tag along on these adventures because I love the thrill of almost getting shot, okay." He cleared his throat, a bit awkwardly. "Got all that?"

Shawn's mouth twitched upward a few times before it emerged into a full-fledged grin. "You heart me! I heart you too, Gussy Bear. C'mon," Shawn outstretched his arms toward Gus for a hug. "Give me some lovin', Gus. You know you're craving it too."

Gus looked longingly and shyly at the extended arms for a moment before he grimaced and sputtered, "Shut up, Shawn." He walked over to the sofa and attempted to sit down. "And move over."

Shawn grudgingly scooted over. "Think I'm gonna head home soon so you can have the whole couch to yourself soon enough. Today was an exhausting day and surprisingly," he mused, chuckling sadly to himself, "it wasn't even the chasing down Jerry that was the exhausting part. And I didn't use get to make as many '80s movie references as I wanted to."

"You got Lethal Weapon in a few times."

"True." Shawn nodded in agreement, but then sighed wistfully. "But still, I wasn't at the top of my game, y'know."

"Hey, it's understandable," Gus said, swatting Shawn's arm. "You were under a lot of stress. Though, I do regret that you didn't get to quote The Princess Bride."

Shawn chewed over this quickly. "The Princess Bride? There's no guns or blood or anything in there. How would I have done that?"

Gus was astonished. "Wow. Seriously?" His eyes widened in distress. "Hello, my name is Shawn Spencer. You shot my father. Prepare to face justice."

"Mmm," Shawn retorted, high-pitched and frowning. "Doesn't quite have the same ring to it as the original."

"Okay, okay. I hear ya," Gus agreed. "What about: My name is Shawnito Spencora."

Shawn's eyes brightened. "Now we're talking."

Turning back to the TV, Shawn held out his fist sideways. Without saying a word, Gus pounded it with his own as his friend started flipping through the channels with the remote.

"Dude, dude, dude! Look!" he absently pointed at the TV. On the screen, Inigo Montoya the Spaniard, Vizzini the Sicilian, and Fezzik the Giant were currently standing menacingly in the woods, about to kidnap Princess Buttercup.

"So … I should whip up another batch of jerk chicken nachos," Shawn stated, definitively.

Gus relaxed and settled into the cushions behind him and for the first time that day smiled a real wide smile and replied, "You know that's right."