Where the Pineapple Is, Psych FanFic
Master Fic List
TITLE: Where the Pineapple Is
RATING: PGish
CHARACTERS: Shawn/Carlton, OC
WORD COUNT: 950ish
WARNINGS: Mild violence. Mild kissing.
SUMMARY: Shawn realizes he has communication issues of his own.
AO3 Link
Disclaimer: I made the words...but not the characters. None of this is really mine.
Author's Note: Companion to Wake Up and Smell the (Lack of) Pineapple; the events from Shawn's POV. Being from Shawn's POV, the events are wordier and slightly more detailed.
Thanks should go to kamashimi whose comment on the last one really got me thinking about writing more. I wrote this in about half an hour last night, then spent today proofreading it off and on...so apologies if it's not amazing (but I don't think it turned out bad at all).
Unbeta-ed and sincere apologies for the lame title...
-----------------------------
Shawn hadn’t wanted to leave, not really. He’d been enjoying the little life he’d grown in Santa Barbara. Business was good; his friends were good. He was even (almost) getting along with Henry. And, of course, there was Carlton.
Shawn thought Carlton had been perfectly illogical. Okay, so maybe three of Psych’s last four cases had ended with Shawn at knife and/or gunpoint. But telling Shawn he needed to quit because the job was too dangerous? Who did Carlton think he was? Henry?
There’d been a fight, but no one had shouted, and Shawn thought that might’ve been the problem. Lassie just didn’t seem to be nearly as passionate as Shawn about any of it.
Shawn figured it was time he hit the road before he was thrown out on it.
-----------------------------
He ended up in Seattle. His friend Simon was always good for a couch to crash on. Plus, he didn’t ask questions past ‘Wanna beer?’
The last thing Shawn had wanted to do was get involved with the police force (in any way). But there just had to be a news report on the kidnapping of a local girl. And of course they just had to show the press conference with the ‘distraught’ aunt. And of course Shawn just had to notice the dirt under her nails and the way she was very obviously lying.
By that point the fake psychic-ness was a piece of pineapple upside-down cake for him and Shawn Spencer found himself added as a freelance psychic consultant to the Seattle PD.
-----------------------------
The guy was insane, obviously. Shawn watched him pace the front of the store. If Shawn had been in his loafers, he would've taken the money and run immediately. But Crazy Gunmankins had mistaken the siren of a passing fire engine for the arrival of the police and now he seemed scared to go.
Shawn couldn’t help but look at the two women in the corner across from him. They were holding tightly to each other’s hands, one slightly in front of the other. The one in front was whispering softly, trying to comfort her companion. Shawn ached for someone to whisper to and to be whispered to in return.
Shawn had been through multiple near-death experiences in his thirty-odd years. The vast majority of them held one main theme:
Regret.
It would’ve been easier if this just took the form of one massive lump of Things-He’d-Wished-Had-Gone-Differently, but Shawn’s mind was cursed with the ability to be unerringly specific.
The single regret for Near Death Experience #59: he hadn’t spoken to Carlton in two weeks.
The detective had called his cell phone twice, on the third and fifth days Shawn had been gone. The messages had been simple and short, “Shawn…it’s Carlton. Where are you?”
Shawn had deleted them both and turned off his phone.
But now, Shawn would have given just about anything to have spoken to the other man. Would he die with Carlton thinking he was mad at him?
It was just a teenager coming in to grab a snack, but the paranoid robber panicked. Shawn was moving without thought. He didn’t think as he shoved the kid out of the way. He didn’t think as he felt the bullet burn through his body. He didn’t think as the floor rushed up to meet him.
-----------------------------
Shawn woke two hours after his surgery to find the wrong detective was at his bedside.
“We didn’t know who to contact,” Detective Lewis said. Shawn let his eyes slip closed.
“Detective Lassiter,” he managed to say, along with a phone number. He wasn’t even sure if he’d given home, office or cell.
“Anyone else?” Lewis asked. Shawn’s eyes snapped open.
“No,” he said firmly. “Only him.”
Carlton was the one he’d thought about before dying. Now he just needed to see him to live.
-----------------------------
Lewis conveniently arrived with the lunch tray. Shawn liked him in a sort-of-like-an-older-version-of-Buzz kind of way. Still, he carefully guarded the cup of surprisingly delicious pineapple Jell-O.
“Your detective’s on his way.” Shawn nearly dropped the Jell-O.
“What?” he croaked dumbly. Lewis frowned.
“Shouldn’t you know this stuff already?”
“Blood loss,” Shawn said simply. He chose to ignore the way Lewis rolled his eyes.
“His flight gets in at six,” Lewis went on, eyeing the now abandoned Jell-O. “You gonna eat that?”
-----------------------------
Shawn had been enjoying a nice, drug-assisted, nap. His eyes snapped open as he recognized the feeling of someone watching him.
Carlton stood across the room, his face in shadows as his back rested against the far wall. His arms were crossed over his chest as he kept watch.
The two men stared at each other for a long moment. Shawn, who’d never been very good at holding still, dropped his gaze first, staring down at his own hands.
“Is this the part where you’ve traveled 1100 miles to say ‘I told you so?’” Shawn asked. He didn’t mean most of the bitterness in his tone. He heard Carlton take a deep breath.
“This is the part where I’ve traveled 1100 miles to ask you how you’re feeling,” the older man said quietly. Shawn looked at him again in shock, feeling his own mouth drop open.
Carlton gave him a small smile as he walked to Shawn’s bed.
“I got your messages,” Shawn blurted out. Carlton’s smile grew just a little.
“No; you didn’t,” he argued.
Shawn thought, as Carlton’s lips pressed gently against his, maybe his own communication skills could use a refresher course. Carlton certainly seemed to be getting his point across.
“Come home with me?” Carlton whispered, his forehead resting against Shawn’s. It was the plea Shawn needed to hear.
“Only if the Jell-O can come too.”
/end
TITLE: Where the Pineapple Is
RATING: PGish
CHARACTERS: Shawn/Carlton, OC
WORD COUNT: 950ish
WARNINGS: Mild violence. Mild kissing.
SUMMARY: Shawn realizes he has communication issues of his own.
AO3 Link
Disclaimer: I made the words...but not the characters. None of this is really mine.
Author's Note: Companion to Wake Up and Smell the (Lack of) Pineapple; the events from Shawn's POV. Being from Shawn's POV, the events are wordier and slightly more detailed.
Thanks should go to kamashimi whose comment on the last one really got me thinking about writing more. I wrote this in about half an hour last night, then spent today proofreading it off and on...so apologies if it's not amazing (but I don't think it turned out bad at all).
Unbeta-ed and sincere apologies for the lame title...
-----------------------------
Shawn hadn’t wanted to leave, not really. He’d been enjoying the little life he’d grown in Santa Barbara. Business was good; his friends were good. He was even (almost) getting along with Henry. And, of course, there was Carlton.
Shawn thought Carlton had been perfectly illogical. Okay, so maybe three of Psych’s last four cases had ended with Shawn at knife and/or gunpoint. But telling Shawn he needed to quit because the job was too dangerous? Who did Carlton think he was? Henry?
There’d been a fight, but no one had shouted, and Shawn thought that might’ve been the problem. Lassie just didn’t seem to be nearly as passionate as Shawn about any of it.
Shawn figured it was time he hit the road before he was thrown out on it.
-----------------------------
He ended up in Seattle. His friend Simon was always good for a couch to crash on. Plus, he didn’t ask questions past ‘Wanna beer?’
The last thing Shawn had wanted to do was get involved with the police force (in any way). But there just had to be a news report on the kidnapping of a local girl. And of course they just had to show the press conference with the ‘distraught’ aunt. And of course Shawn just had to notice the dirt under her nails and the way she was very obviously lying.
By that point the fake psychic-ness was a piece of pineapple upside-down cake for him and Shawn Spencer found himself added as a freelance psychic consultant to the Seattle PD.
-----------------------------
The guy was insane, obviously. Shawn watched him pace the front of the store. If Shawn had been in his loafers, he would've taken the money and run immediately. But Crazy Gunmankins had mistaken the siren of a passing fire engine for the arrival of the police and now he seemed scared to go.
Shawn couldn’t help but look at the two women in the corner across from him. They were holding tightly to each other’s hands, one slightly in front of the other. The one in front was whispering softly, trying to comfort her companion. Shawn ached for someone to whisper to and to be whispered to in return.
Shawn had been through multiple near-death experiences in his thirty-odd years. The vast majority of them held one main theme:
Regret.
It would’ve been easier if this just took the form of one massive lump of Things-He’d-Wished-Had-Gone-Differently, but Shawn’s mind was cursed with the ability to be unerringly specific.
The single regret for Near Death Experience #59: he hadn’t spoken to Carlton in two weeks.
The detective had called his cell phone twice, on the third and fifth days Shawn had been gone. The messages had been simple and short, “Shawn…it’s Carlton. Where are you?”
Shawn had deleted them both and turned off his phone.
But now, Shawn would have given just about anything to have spoken to the other man. Would he die with Carlton thinking he was mad at him?
It was just a teenager coming in to grab a snack, but the paranoid robber panicked. Shawn was moving without thought. He didn’t think as he shoved the kid out of the way. He didn’t think as he felt the bullet burn through his body. He didn’t think as the floor rushed up to meet him.
-----------------------------
Shawn woke two hours after his surgery to find the wrong detective was at his bedside.
“We didn’t know who to contact,” Detective Lewis said. Shawn let his eyes slip closed.
“Detective Lassiter,” he managed to say, along with a phone number. He wasn’t even sure if he’d given home, office or cell.
“Anyone else?” Lewis asked. Shawn’s eyes snapped open.
“No,” he said firmly. “Only him.”
Carlton was the one he’d thought about before dying. Now he just needed to see him to live.
-----------------------------
Lewis conveniently arrived with the lunch tray. Shawn liked him in a sort-of-like-an-older-version-of-Buzz kind of way. Still, he carefully guarded the cup of surprisingly delicious pineapple Jell-O.
“Your detective’s on his way.” Shawn nearly dropped the Jell-O.
“What?” he croaked dumbly. Lewis frowned.
“Shouldn’t you know this stuff already?”
“Blood loss,” Shawn said simply. He chose to ignore the way Lewis rolled his eyes.
“His flight gets in at six,” Lewis went on, eyeing the now abandoned Jell-O. “You gonna eat that?”
-----------------------------
Shawn had been enjoying a nice, drug-assisted, nap. His eyes snapped open as he recognized the feeling of someone watching him.
Carlton stood across the room, his face in shadows as his back rested against the far wall. His arms were crossed over his chest as he kept watch.
The two men stared at each other for a long moment. Shawn, who’d never been very good at holding still, dropped his gaze first, staring down at his own hands.
“Is this the part where you’ve traveled 1100 miles to say ‘I told you so?’” Shawn asked. He didn’t mean most of the bitterness in his tone. He heard Carlton take a deep breath.
“This is the part where I’ve traveled 1100 miles to ask you how you’re feeling,” the older man said quietly. Shawn looked at him again in shock, feeling his own mouth drop open.
Carlton gave him a small smile as he walked to Shawn’s bed.
“I got your messages,” Shawn blurted out. Carlton’s smile grew just a little.
“No; you didn’t,” he argued.
Shawn thought, as Carlton’s lips pressed gently against his, maybe his own communication skills could use a refresher course. Carlton certainly seemed to be getting his point across.
“Come home with me?” Carlton whispered, his forehead resting against Shawn’s. It was the plea Shawn needed to hear.
“Only if the Jell-O can come too.”
/end