Gennish Lassiter/Shawn
Title: Coping Mechanisms
Rating: PG
Word Count: 500
Shawn sped up a little faster, revving the engine on his bike and leaned into the turn. He should have slowed down, he should have been paying more attention. But he pressed on and made the turn too fast, nearly spinning out on the lonely road with no one around to see him kill himself spectacularly.
He stopped as soon as he was clear of the bend in the road and practically jumped off his bike; panting, he peeled off his helmet and stared blankly at his motorcycle as though he had never seen it before.
"Damn it!" he swore, waving his helmet in the air before bending down and placing his hands on his knees, attempting to breathe without hyperventilating.
Minutes later, he was sitting on the side of the road, phone pressed to his ear.
"Lassiter?" he said quietly, voice caught in his throat. The voice on the other line was cranky and sleep-laden.
"Spencer? What in the name of all that is good and holy are you doing, calling me at-" the was a brief pause, and Shawn imagined him blearily staring at the clock on his bedside table, trying to figure out the time so that he could properly berate the insomniac psychic- "two in the morning? Are you drunk?" he hissed, automatically jumping to conclusions.
Shawn wanted to smile at that. It was a strange experience to have this level of paranoia seem endearing to him.
"Never mind," he murmured quietly, letting out the barest of sighs pass through his lips.
"You call me in the middle of the night, wake me up, and then just tell me to 'never mind' it?" growled Lassiter, obviously quick to waken.
"Sorry for bothering you." A truck passed him on the road, the rumble of the tires accompanied by a worried press of the horn at the sight of a motorist sitting by the side of the road.
"Where are you, Spencer?" Lassiter asked wearily, having obviously heard the semi.
"Sitting on the shoulder of the 154," he answered truthfully, leaning back to stare at the night sky. There was a heavy silence for a few moments, but it bled out into a more comfortable quiet, the two of them breathing gently into their receivers. Shawn was comforted by the sound of another soul.
"Hey," he said at last, hoping that Lassiter hadn't already fallen back asleep, "why don't I pop on by and bring waffles?"
"It's two in the morning, Spencer." That wasn't, strictly speaking, a 'no'.
"It'll take me a while to get back to Santa Barbara. Go back to sleep. Three creams, four sugars, yeah?"
There was a silence that seemed to stretch on forever, and Shawn was wondering if he had overstepped some sort of Carlton Lassiter Boundary, and then he heard a barely audible sigh on the other end.
"Yeah, Spencer. And make sure there's no pineapple on my waffles," he admonished, trying to sound gruff.
"Yeah?" Shawn said with a smile.
"I like blueberries."
Rating: PG
Word Count: 500
Shawn sped up a little faster, revving the engine on his bike and leaned into the turn. He should have slowed down, he should have been paying more attention. But he pressed on and made the turn too fast, nearly spinning out on the lonely road with no one around to see him kill himself spectacularly.
He stopped as soon as he was clear of the bend in the road and practically jumped off his bike; panting, he peeled off his helmet and stared blankly at his motorcycle as though he had never seen it before.
"Damn it!" he swore, waving his helmet in the air before bending down and placing his hands on his knees, attempting to breathe without hyperventilating.
Minutes later, he was sitting on the side of the road, phone pressed to his ear.
"Lassiter?" he said quietly, voice caught in his throat. The voice on the other line was cranky and sleep-laden.
"Spencer? What in the name of all that is good and holy are you doing, calling me at-" the was a brief pause, and Shawn imagined him blearily staring at the clock on his bedside table, trying to figure out the time so that he could properly berate the insomniac psychic- "two in the morning? Are you drunk?" he hissed, automatically jumping to conclusions.
Shawn wanted to smile at that. It was a strange experience to have this level of paranoia seem endearing to him.
"Never mind," he murmured quietly, letting out the barest of sighs pass through his lips.
"You call me in the middle of the night, wake me up, and then just tell me to 'never mind' it?" growled Lassiter, obviously quick to waken.
"Sorry for bothering you." A truck passed him on the road, the rumble of the tires accompanied by a worried press of the horn at the sight of a motorist sitting by the side of the road.
"Where are you, Spencer?" Lassiter asked wearily, having obviously heard the semi.
"Sitting on the shoulder of the 154," he answered truthfully, leaning back to stare at the night sky. There was a heavy silence for a few moments, but it bled out into a more comfortable quiet, the two of them breathing gently into their receivers. Shawn was comforted by the sound of another soul.
"Hey," he said at last, hoping that Lassiter hadn't already fallen back asleep, "why don't I pop on by and bring waffles?"
"It's two in the morning, Spencer." That wasn't, strictly speaking, a 'no'.
"It'll take me a while to get back to Santa Barbara. Go back to sleep. Three creams, four sugars, yeah?"
There was a silence that seemed to stretch on forever, and Shawn was wondering if he had overstepped some sort of Carlton Lassiter Boundary, and then he heard a barely audible sigh on the other end.
"Yeah, Spencer. And make sure there's no pineapple on my waffles," he admonished, trying to sound gruff.
"Yeah?" Shawn said with a smile.
"I like blueberries."