you can't hurry love, no, you'll just have to wait
Title: How to Ruin a Proposal: A Guide by Shawn Spencer (1/2)
Author:
veterization
Disclaimer: I do not own Psych.
Rating: R
Genre and/or Pairing: Shawn/Lassiter
Word Count: ~13,000
Warnings: Slight language and sexual content.
Summary: Despite all of the signs and omens warning Shawn that proposing to Lassiter is a bad idea, he's never put much stock into good ideas.
“My most brilliant achievement was my ability to be able to persuade my wife to marry me.” ―Winston S. Churchill
“So I’m thinking about asking Lassiter to marry me,” Shawn says on a Sunday evening through a mouthful of buttery corn kernels, and Henry promptly manages to spray the tablecloth with gravy as he attempts to swallow back his bite of steak and spit it out simultaneously.
The hacking into the tablecloth continues for the next few moments while Shawn watches with his eyebrows knitted together. When his father finally rises from his near death experience of choking on a slice of beef, face sporting an offensive shade of red and eyes watery from the abuse on his throat, Shawn feels slightly indignant and drops his fork on the table.
“What?” He asks crossly while Henry chugs back his beer to clear his throat, “Why is that something worth choking over?”
“You’re serious, kid?” Henry finally manages to rasp out, “Are you trying to tell me that this thing with you in Lassiter isn’t just a romp around the station whenever you get bored?”
“Dad, I’m offended. Why would you use the word romp? Don’t you know that we’re in the twenty-first century? I would have accepted both monkey tango and sexy time,” Shawn says casually around his second corncob. His father stares at him blankly, as if at a loss for words. It’s nothing if not disconcerting for a man such as Henry Spencer, who is notorious for his constant need to express his negativity and personal opinion on any endeavor Shawn is intrigued in pursuing, to fall silent when Shawn’s in need of a serious brainstorming session.
“You seriously want to marry Lassiter?” Henry parrots back at him slowly, as if slowing down his speech will help Shawn comprehend the ludicrousness of his idea, “Shawn, you do know that this isn’t second grade. You don’t just pick a couple dandelions, walk up someone’s driveway, and put Gus in his father’s dress shirt and make him marry you and the neighbor girl.”
“You’re right, I will need to divorce her first.”
“Shawn, focus!” Henry says, balling up his napkin and throwing it onto the table next to his beer bottle. “This is for life! Now, have you and Lassiter even talked about this?”
“No,” Shawn grumbles, setting down his half-eaten corncob and trying hard not to feel like his seventh year old self when he proclaimed his love for his algebra teacher around the house, scoured his bathroom for his two-year-old plastic purple cereal box prize ring, and Henry had to reel him back to reality with a firm lesson concerning marriage, divorce, and the mental instability of men who chase women.
“And you honestly think this is a good idea?”
“Yes,” Shawn says firmly, and points his fork straight at Henry for emphasis, “Yes, I do. Why can’t you believe that I’m serious about me and Lassiter?”
Henry huffs, as if merely considering the idea of taking his son seriously is cause for the basis of a hearty joke, Lassiter’s addition to the situation only increasing how laughable it truly is, and Shawn furrows his eyebrows once more, “Oh, I don’t know, Shawn, probably just because you’ve never been serious about a thing before in your life, and especially not Lassiter. Honestly, you can’t even say his first name.”
“Please,” Shawn scoffs, and then wavers when the C lands on his tongue and has trouble plucking the rest of the letters from Lassiter’s first name forth, “Carlton and I-no,” Shawn wrinkles his nose and Henry smugly smiles, “No, I can’t. I only call him that in the throes of passion.”
Henry’s smile is wiped from his lips as if washed instantly away, cheeks pallid, “Not funny, kid,” he says gruffly, “Now listen to me. You’re not going to marry Lassiter, run off into the sunset and adopt Argentinean children and make your own curtains.”
He gets up from the table, empty bottles of beer slotted in between his fingers and gravy-dotted plates marred with leftover chewy pieces of steak stacked on top of each other in his hand, ready to load the dishwasher and take a nap on the couch while reruns of Cops play in the background as white noise, and Shawn frowns as he feels his opportunity to have a rare, somber conversation with his father slip away. He’s not one to frequently rehash his father’s unsuccessful marriage, even less so his sticky divorce, but for once, Shawn needs fatherly advice that Gus can’t provide him.
“Dad, listen to me,” Shawn says, leaning over the table and holding his plate captive when Henry tries to snatch it from him and shovel it into the dishwasher with the rest of the pots and pans, “I’m not sixteen and trying to piss you off anymore. I’m head over heels-that doesn’t sound right. How about head over tennis shoes?”
“Shawn.”
“I’m head over tennis shoes for Lassiter and I know I want to spend the rest of my life with him and his salt and pepper chest hair. I know like-like you knew with mom,” Shawn says, catching his father’s eyes as they soften for a flicker of a moment before his lips turn up into a bitter, hardly amused smile.
“I’m sorry, son,” he says with a shake of his head as he seizes Shawn’s dirty utensils from the table, “but the day you and Lassiter get married is the day I become a vegetarian.”
Shawn attempts to weigh the odds. According to Henry Spencer’s haughty predictions, he and Lassiter’s marriage is already doomed before it’s begun.
-
It occurs to Shawn only after the words slip from his tactless mouth that maybe three minutes after mind-boggling sex while both of them are still riding a post-orgasmic high of arousal and bliss is not the best time to casually pipe up with the idea of marriage.
“Do you ever want to get married again?” Shawn questions into the sweaty expanse of Lassiter’s chest, still rising and falling steadily as he attempts to regain his breath from when he mercilessly pinned Shawn onto the bed and pounded into him until he shook with a cry that was guaranteed to alarm the neighbors, attempting to channel an offhand nonchalance into his words that only comes out sounding uncertain and probingly inquisitive, like a young boy asking how babies are born when he knows he really doesn’t need the answer.
Lassiter tenses, fingertips lazily crawling up and down Shawn’s arm reaching a halt at his shoulder, “Marriage,” he says, as if he testing out the word on his tongue after years of treating it like a particularly nasty swear word, “Why?”
“Just asking,” Shawn says, and attempts to sway the conversation into comfortable grounds by letting the palm resting innocently on top of Lassiter’s stomach slide down to rub circles onto his hips, “I mean, you can’t expect a wandering, wild boy like me to stick around forever if you’re not going to make an honest man out of me at one point. I’m like Marlon Brando in The Wild One except I’m not in a motorcycle gang that wears cool leather jackets.”
Lassiter’s hips twitch responsively up into Shawn’s teasing touch, “Are you serious?” He asks incredulously.
“Well, you can’t expect a stud like me to not want to be tamed eventually,” Shawn explains, and feels his heartbeat pump against his ribcage until he feels as if it’s swiveling on an axis inside his body. Lassiter shifts, sweaty legs knocking against Shawn’s as he clears his throat and filters through his words for a response. Shawn can hear him filtering. He pokes him in the hip affectionately and then moves his slow rubbing to his inner thigh.
“I didn’t know you were thinking about marriage,” Lassiter admits, perhaps a bit nervously, and Shawn props himself up on his elbow to watch his face contort into blatant apprehension and maybe even a smidgen of curiosity at the idea of Shawn becoming the perfect cop’s wife to make him cookies and milk every evening and rub his feet.
“I’m not thinking. It’s more of a pondering. A musing. I would have to get an apron first, obviously, and Gus would have to get an orchiectomy online.”
“You mean ordained, unless Guster is planning on being castrated anytime soon,” Lassiter says, fingers picking up their gentle rhythm of stroking once more up and down the contours of Shawn’s back, still damp from their rather vigorous tussle in bed.
“I’ve heard it both ways,” Shawn says without missing a beat, smirking when he detects a smile on Lassiter’s lips through the shadows. Beside the bed, neon green lights blink 1:24am at him and the gray light of the ghastly hours of the night slides through the window blinds. He stretches his legs, ankles brushing Lassiter’s, and pillows his head on the soft skin of Lassiter’s shoulder once more, his reward being the gentle rubbing of Lassiter’s fingertips on his scalp as he combs through his hair.
“Shawn,” Lassiter finally whispers after a few moments in which Shawn idly listens to the chirping of the outdoor critters and lets himself consider what Lassiter would look like in his grandmother’s frilly abhorrence of lace she more fondly refers to as her wedding dress, “You know that for whatever reason, I actually like having you around. But after Victoria…” Lassiter trails off quietly into the night, feet readjusting under the sheets as Shawn curls himself around his side and kisses him languorously on the neck where his evening stubble begins to bristle on his lips.
“Don’t worry, Lassie,” Shawn murmurs, “Next time, you’ll clearly get to be the wife.”
-
Stealing Lassiter’s address book, while Shawn had prepared a handful of both strategies of surefire thievery and watertight excuses should he be caught by Lassiter’s neuroticism concerning his personal desk space, is simpler than expected with Juliet’s help and Gus’ spectacular diversion techniques. Gus manages a clean and only slightly awkward maneuver in which he unceremoniously bumps into McNab from behind to cause him to stumble, struggle to stay upright, and then proceed to drop Lassiter’s carefully sugared coffee onto the police station floor in an ominous splatter. Lassiter’s rage, fueled by his lack of caffeine and routine aggression for McNab’s clumsy antics, stems into a one-sided argument that lasts a generous twenty minutes in which McNab promises to make another pot of coffee immediately and Lassiter roars out his temper bred from a morning in which Shawn’s idea to share a sleepy blowjob made him ultimately late for work without even a morsel of breakfast.
While Gus covertly slides from the scene as McNab is thoroughly chewed out by Lassiter and shuffles about the brown puddle of creamy coffee on the station floor, Juliet makes the discreet trip over to Lassiter’s desk to kneel out of sight and snatch his address book from his drawer and toss it to Shawn, who is casually concealed by the restrooms and vowing to make the ridicule McNab is enduring up to him later by delivering him a pineapple smoothie.
This time, Juliet manages to grab the right book, and instead of teeming with names of repeat offenders and petty crooks, it’s full of random post-its adhered here and there holding scribbled phone numbers. He finds Lassiter’s sister’s number, his brother’s e-mail address, and finally, near the end of the book, Shawn finds the name he was looking for and dials the number Lassiter scrawled beneath it in the safety of a bathroom cubicle at the station.
“Howdy,” a familiar gravelly voice says through the phone, and Shawn springs into action.
“Howdy, Sheriff Hank! How’s Miss Annie?” Shawn greets as the tinny feedback from the phone line stabilizing dissolves, “I had a quick question for you about your boy Lassie.”
“Binky’s all right, innit he?”
“No, he’s fine,” Shawn says, and makes a mental note to try out the nickname on Lassiter a few more times tonight before he puts it to bed, “I was actually calling because I know you’re pretty much the closest thing Lassiter had to a father when he was growing up and so I wanted to ask you if… if you would mind if I married him.”
There is a long, uncomfortable pregnant pause that has Shawn expecting either shock, instant disapproval, or a homophobic diatribe. He dances on the balls of his feet and hopes for none of the above, and when the phone remains eerily silent, Shawn’s dancing feet still once more.
“Sheriff?” He pipes up hesitantly.
There’s a gruff clearing of a throat across the line when Hank speaks up again, “I got two conditions,” he grumbles, and Shawn hopes dearly one of them isn’t a sex change or a suicide for the situation to be acceptable to Hank, “First, I get a front seat at the wedding. None of that in the back nonsense where everyone’s big heads are in the way.”
“Done,” Shawn agrees instantly.
“And you promise to me that you won’t break Binky’s heart like Vicki did,” Hank finishes, something quiet and unidentifiable in his voice until Shawn realizes it’s the residue of leftover sadness after a divorce that clearly shook Lassiter up more than he was ever willing to convey when not inebriated and murmuring into a scotch-heavy beverage.
“I promise, Sheriff,” Shawn says, and lets out a breath of relief he didn’t know he was holding captive when he realizes he has Hank’s acceptance of the idea of Lassiter being married to a young and scruffy hooligan, “The whole shebang, spleen in the eye and cross my heart.”
“I think it’s needle in the eye, son.”
“Eh, I’ve heard it both ways,” Shawn dismisses, and starts talking father-of-the-bride wedding traditions.
-
As much as Lassiter suffered through both what could only be a described a dull, humdrum marriage and an agonizing separation, Shawn knows that the man is surprisingly sentimental at heart and has kept the one memento Shawn needs in order to avoid asking suspicious inquiries about ring sizes or sneaking around after Lassiter's dozed off to discreetly take his finger’s measurement in a variety of ways Google could teach him: his old wedding ring.
Sneaking into his own bathroom isn’t nearly as intricate a feat as slipping Lassiter’s address book from his desk was; finding the only remaining piece of Lassiter’s old marriage amidst the clutter of hair products, toothpaste, and tie clips is the thorny part.
Shawn rifles through enough toiletries of shampoo to last his hair for months and a spectacular collection of lubricants that he had neglected to notice were tucked away in the bathroom and is one empty bottle of toothpaste away from accepting the fact that Lassiter has either discarded of the ring or no longer keeps it secure in a bathroom drawer. Should the former be true, no matter how relieved Shawn might be that Lassiter’s found peace with the failure of his first marriage and managed to rid himself of his souvenir of a relationship better left alone after a grueling separation, he’s still peeved that he now has to resort to not-so-subtle techniques of wrapping string around Lassiter’s hand while he sleeps or coercing him into trying on his gargantuan ring-pop collection from the late eighties until he can determine which one fits best to accurately document Lassiter’s ring size.
His hand is digging around in what Shawn can only presume is a dusty bag of hair curlers that used to belong to Lassiter’s mother and somehow winded up in his possession when his finger happens to hit a smooth, cool band and his hand reaches the jackpot.
Shawn pulls it out from the pile of faded pink plastic rollers and blows the lint off the rim, holding it up in the light to examine it. He wonders if Lassiter and his wife picked their wedding ring together after he proposed, both of them heading to the jewelers to pick out a ring they believed symbolized their supposedly lifelong affection, and feels a twinge of envy in his gut as he turns the ring over in his palm. It’s gold, simple, and somehow is still resplendently shiny after years spent hiding in a dusty bag of hair curlers.
He’s in the middle of wondering how Lassiter’s engagement transpired and if he proposed in a classy restaurant on one knee or during a ski vacation with her family watching when he remembers the task at hand and proceeds to hastily measure the circumference of the ring while ignoring the cliché engraving scratched on the inside. Shawn’s still committing the numbers to memory when suddenly-
“What are you doing?” Lassiter’s sharp voice, a bit squeaky and a lot indignant when he zeroes in on the ring perched in Shawn’s fingers, undoubtedly his own, or rather, his horrifying trinket from his unsuccessful heterosexual years, breaks through Shawn’s concentration.
“Lassie,” Shawn says, and tries not to convey surprise in his expression since he knows perfectly well that wide eyes and a fumbling mouth equal guilt, and all he’s guilty of is attempting to plan a romantic candlelit proposal with a ring that won’t cut off the circulation in his boyfriend’s hand after ten minutes. He tries fruitlessly to stash the ring behind his back or stuff his hand in his pocket, but the gleam of gold is easily detectable from even several feet away.
“Is that my wedding ring?” Lassiter grits out. Shawn can see him gnashing his teeth. “What are you doing with my wedding ring?”
“Ohhh, you know,” Shawn says, and waves it about hither and thither, “I was actually looking for my watermelon-flavored ring-pop and found this, which I tried tasting and really only tastes like a hint of kiwi.”
“Spencer,” Lassiter thunders forward and snatches the ring from Shawn’s hand, catching sight of the offending bag of decoy rollers sitting on the floor by Shawn’s knee and stuffing it back inside. The outdated use of his surname should be a warning to Shawn, but he’s too busy covering up his tracks after suspiciously snooping about Lassiter’s wedding memorabilia to make sure Lassiter doesn’t start sniffing wedding roses at the end of the day to be concerned with Lassiter’s rage at Shawn’s inability to value the sanctity of keeping personal objects personal.
“It’s just a ring, Carly Davidson,” Shawn says, attempting to soothe, patting Lassiter on the shoulder and promptly being knocked away, “I’m not rehashing ceremony details and bringing out the wedding album.”
“Why do you even care so much about my wedding anyway?” Lassiter snaps, throwing the bag back into the bathroom cupboard under the sink and giving it one last agitated glance.
“I don’t,” Shawn defends, and it’s true. The last thing he wants to see is grainy pictures of Lassiter and his ex-wife cutting into their wedding cake or swaying during their first dance as husband and wife, especially when he’s certain that his wedding cake with Lassiter will be at least ten times taller and therefore, better. “I just care about my ring-pops. Like I said. But not the ones that are grape flavored. Why do they make those?”
“Shawn, just,” Lassiter breaks off and heaves a sigh, “I’ve left Victoria in the past, don’t bring her back up into my present.”
Shawn tries his hardest not to roll his eyes, grabbing onto Lassiter’s face with his hands and shaking his cheeks until his head bobbles on his neck and his eyebrows furrow into a countenance of clear exasperation, as if trying to jiggle the illogical thinking out of his skull. Shawn grabs him by the tuft of hair on the nape of his neck and gently kisses his bottom lip.
“We can leave her in the past,” Shawn agrees, pushing their noses together with a coy grin, "but if we somehow get trapped in a real life version of Back to the Future, we would technically be leaving her in the present, so if that happens, I won’t be able to help you.”
-
“Shawn, you do know that you passed the jerk chicken stand a few miles back, right?” Gus mentions from the passenger seat.
“Well, buddy, we’re not stopping at the jerk chicken stand,” Shawn says, and then adds, “First. Not first.”
Gus furrows his eyebrows, clearly ready for the free meal of vendor’s chicken he was dubiously promised earlier, and is two seconds away from starting a rant that accuses Shawn of his inability to charitably pick up the lunch bill when Shawn reaches across the console and opens the glove compartment, a furled pamphlet advertising pristinely cut diamonds and wedding bands sitting in its depths. Gus blinks, blinks again, and promptly snatches the pamphlet from its position in the glove compartment by the fortune cookies pilfered from the Chinese place down the street.
“Engagement rings?” He parrots dumbly from the catchy blurb printed on the inner flap of the pamphlet. He leafs through it furiously, as if looking for a hidden clue signaling to Shawn’s true intentions with the jeweler’s store across town. “What’s going on, Shawn?”
“Well, I’m sorry I didn’t run the idea by you first,” Shawn attempts to ease into his big reveal, but a quick glimpse at Gus’ far from amused expression as he accusatorily holds up the pamphlet as proof that Shawn’s keeping secrets from his best friend urges Shawn to hurry along in his confession, “but I’m proposing to Lassiter.”
Gus’ eyes widen to the size of tree trunks before his expression slowly dissolves into one lacking all amusement and his mouth curves into a cool, displeased line, “Shawn, if you are driving my company car while you’re drunk, I will not hesitate to remove your kneecaps while you’re asleep.”
“Gus!” Shawn cries, only mildly affronted, and leans over the car to exhale a huff of his breath, still tinged with the smell of fresh bacon and buttery waffles from breakfast, straight onto Gus’ cheek, “I am not drunk! Are you seriously not going to take this seriously?”
Gus swats Shawn’s face away and wrinkles his nose when he breathes in the waffle remnants on his face, “Does your dad know about this?”
“He’s in the middle of delicately folding wedding invitations and getting chummy with Grandma Lassiter,” Shawn deadpans while Gus stuffs the pamphlet back into the glove compartment, pointing out the window when the mall comes into view down the road, turning into the parking lot, “Ah, there it is! I’m gonna get me a ring.”
He’s in the middle of parking the car and unbuckling his seatbelt when he notices that Gus is still steadfastly sulking, arms crossed and jaw set when Shawn spares a glance to the passenger seat. “Oh, come on, Gus.”
“Secrets don’t make friends, Shawn.”
“If it makes you feel any better,” Shawn coaxes, pushing the button to release Gus’ seatbelt and grinning at his cross friend across the car, “…my dad isn’t actually at home folding wedding invitations. He doesn’t think I’ll go through with this whole proposal thing at all.”
“Hmm,” says Gus, rather passive-aggressively, and Shawn hopes he won’t have to pull out bribery or other nefarious tools at his disposal to coerce Gus into joining him in the ring store, “Maybe I should go join him.”
“But Gus, I brought you here because I wanted you to help me find a ring because your opinion matters to me, man,” Shawn insists with a few manly punches to Gus’ shoulder, “Don’t be the guy who filmed all of Rick Perry’s campaign commercials.”
“Rick Perry is a homophobic bigot, Shawn, and I don’t appreciate the implication, especially when I have been more than supportive during the entire time you decided to indulge in the death wish that is your and Lassiter’s bizarre relationship,” Gus reprimands, pouting resolutely at the dashboard to fume for an obligated number of seconds so Shawn can sit in the shame of his friend’s disappointment before he sighs heavily in resignation and opens the passenger door. “Fine. I’ll help. But I’m going to be best man if Lassiter is crazy enough to say yes.”
Shawn grins and tries his hardest to refrain from commencing a dance of victory while Gus might still consider retracting his reluctant agreement to help Shawn find a ring that perfectly epitomizes his and Lassiter’s inconceivable relationship that defies all laws of physics and romance alike.
“See, Gus, I knew you’d come around,” Shawn claps Gus on the back and weaves his way through the cars in the parking lot toward the front door.
“Now that I’m in on this, no more secrets, Shawn. When did you even decide this?” Gus demands, “Where are you proposing? Do you know if he’s even open into getting married again?”
“I’ll tell you this now, Gus: I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing,” Shawn admits, shrugging, pushing open the door to the jewelry store and squeezing inside after Gus, “I’m winging the whole thing on a whim. Lassiter will swoon.”
“Lassiter doesn’t even like surprises, Shawn,” Gus points out, but Shawn conveniently forgets to listen to his advice as he walks through the doorway and waves at the nearest consultant.
“My good amigo!” Shawn calls out across the store jovially, a sales associate hastening over to the door to escort them inside and shush Shawn from shouting more greetings through the pristinely quiet shop, pierced with nothing but the murmuring of men bent over the displays and the soft sound of classical music wafting through the air. The entire store is tucked away in a corner lit by bright overhead lights and so free of dust, it’s almost as if every surface has been sterilized. The glass cases of rings are clear and shiny, missing the smears of pudgy children’s fingers on the glass.
“May I help you two gentlemen?” The salesman, swathed from head to toe in a wrinkle-free suit complete with a rich blue blazer that would fit seamlessly into the president’s closet, asks with a tight-lipped smile that already indicates his skepticism that Shawn and Gus have wandered into the right store for whatever shopping needs they are fulfilling today.
“You tell me, Suits. I’m looking for the best ring you have in this entire store!” Shawn proclaims, peering over the salesman’s shoulder to rake his gaze over the glass cases and begin evaluating the rings with Gus.
“What’s the occasion?” the salesman persists, skirting around the counter and rapping his knuckles against the glass.
“I’m about to make an honest man out of a strapping manly police officer,” Shawn says through a raunchy wink, Gus promptly elbowing him in the stomach, “and I need a ring with class. And color. And if we can somehow engrave our faces on the inside of the band, I’m willing to pay extra.”
The salesman processes the information and takes a moment to pause, as if considering if he should ask the two men in his shop to stop the shenanigans and take their business somewhere they aren’t pulling immature pranks on businessmen otherwise occupied in real work, and then returns to his default rigid smile.
“I’m sure I can find something that works for you,” he says as he leads them down the aisle to where a case of shimmering golden bands with diamonds and stones colored to all hues of the rainbow sit glimmering in pride. “But I do feel the need to warn you that we… don’t offer facial engravings on any of these rings.”
“Damn,” Shawn tells Gus with a shake of his head as he kneels by the case to take in the resplendent pieces of jewelry in front of him, “So what are we thinking, buddy?”
“Lassiter wouldn’t wear any of these unless he was six feet under and pushing up daisies,” Gus declares bluntly. Shawn pouts.
“Really? I’m digging the one in the back,” Shawn wiggles his finger at the ring propped up in the back corner of the display case.
The salesman clears his throat and speaks up, “That’s a yellow diamond set in a gold band.”
“Sweet! Now, can we perhaps add a few more colors to the diamond?”
Gus stands up from the display, yanking Shawn to his feet by his elbow and sending the salesman a polite smile, “I think we’re looking for something a bit more simplistic, sir. Can you show us any of your more popular choices?”
“Gus!” Shawn protests, “What about the purple one? It’ll bring out Lassie’s eyes!”
“Shawn, you know as well as I do that Lassiter isn’t going to advertise any colors of the rainbow on his finger,” Gus points out, grabbing Shawn by the forearm and bodily dragging him over to where the salesman is brandishing a case of basic silver bands and clear-cut diamonds shining in the light. “You need something pleasing to the eye. Something he won’t try to accidentally flush down the toilet.”
“I don’t like these,” Shawn whines, tugging on Gus’ sleeve while he and the salesman mirror eye rolls off of each other.
“Give them a chance!” Gus demands, “Can we look at one up close?”
The salesman unlocks the case and pulls the one in the front delicately out of the case, handing it to Shawn and placing it carefully on his palm, as if concerned that Shawn will manhandle the pricy piece of jewelry, and waits for a response. Gus nudges Shawn in the ribs until he plucks the ring from his palm and looks at it, the silver band and princess-cut diamond stunner sparkling up at him.
“I don’t-you’re actually right, Gus, this is quite exquisite,” Shawn admits, examining the ring from its sides and tossing it deftly into the air to catch in his left hand, the salesman watching in horror all the while. “I think you just made a sale, Suits!”
-
It only takes three hours after purchasing his engagement ring for said fresh, newly bought ring to be immersed in havoc.
Shawn looks at Gus’ finger, adorned with a familiar diamond ring stuck on his left hand that he was by no means authorized to wear, and tries to remember that these are the sorts of blunders and mishaps that best friends are supposed to get him into and that disposing of Gus' body in the bathtub would surely lead a suspicious trail back to him.
“Gus, you didn’t!”
“I did!” Gus wails, hand already flailing as he tries to send the ring flying off his finger to no avail, Shawn grabbing Gus’ hand and attempting to forcibly pull the piece of priceless jewelry off of Gus' ring finger. “I didn’t think it would get stuck!”
“Why did you put it on in the first place?” Shawn asks, still trying to wrench the ring off of Gus’ finger with all of the strength in both of his arms combined. “Did you learn nothing from A Christmas Story?! Never put your body parts anywhere when you don't know if they'll be coming back!"
“Flick gets his tongue stuck to a pole, Shawn!” Gus says sharply, finally yanking his hand out of Shawn’s reach when his knuckle starts swelling, "This is nothing like that!"
Shawn groans as Gus starts panicking, hand flapping helplessly by his side as he tries to shake off the jewelry and dig his fingernails underneath it. Shawn pushes him bodily toward the sink and seizes the dishwashing soap.
“Stop freaking out!” Shawn tells him, pouring generous globs of green dishwashing liquid over Gus’ hand and into the sink, furiously working the soap up to a lather around his knuckles to loosen the hold the ring has on his friend's finger. He sees the image of Gus howling in the emergency room while the doctor gravely tells Shawn that he has to cut through Lassiter's costly, brand new engagement ring before he ever had the chance to gift it to Lassiter and tries not to start panicking himself. Gus continues flailing his hand hysterically when the ring stays put.
“Shawn! Shawn, it’s cutting off my circulation! Shawn, I’m going to lose this finger!”
Shawn’s one second away from joining the freak out session Gus has successfully begun as he starts reciting reasons as to why he desperately needs to keep his ring finger for future endeavors when the sink echoes with a resounding metallic clink and the ring slips through the suds on Gus' knuckle and lands directly into the sink.
And then into the drain.
The scrambling continues, two pairs of hands simultaneously attempting to stuff themselves down the sink drain to catch the ring before it lands out of reach and starts drifting into the sewage canal. Their wrists bump, the drain too miniscule to accommodate twenty fingers, and they both pull away from the drain to exchange mortified glances. Shawn whimpers, aghast, and is about to dive into the drain once more when Gus firmly wrenches his hand out.
“What did you just tell me, Shawn? Never put your body parts anywhere when you don't know if they'll be coming back. Didn't you see the plumber lose his arm by sticking his hand down the sink in Supernatural?"
“Gus, are you seriously trying to tell me you watch Supernatural for the plot, and not for Jensen Cankles' face? Because I might not believe you if you do."
“It’s Jensen Ackles, Shawn.”
“I’ve heard it-”
“No, you haven’t, Shawn!” Gus snaps, nursing his abused finger and massaging at his knuckle through the soap suds, "Now open the pipes under the sink before you lose that ring for good!"
-
It takes one hour to find tools lying about the Psych office that are sufficient in unhinging sink pipes, two failed attempts at pulling the ring from the pipes with their bare hands, one plan to wade into the nearest gutter and locate the ring, and one Henry-recommended plumber before the Shawn once more sees his future with Lassiter twinkle in front of his face in the form of a wet, sudsy piece of jewelry that had quite the adventure amid the pipes.
-
Three hours past his reservation and two plates of undersized appetizers later at the elegant restaurant a few miles down from the station that will serve as the location for Lassiter and Shawn's epic engagement, Shawn realizes that nerves are not his biggest concern when it comes to performing memorably during this proposal.
Shawn’s munching on his third delivery of complimentary Italian slices of bread and readjusting the bowtie that he artfully stole from his father’s closet when he ignores the pit of consternation bubbling in his stomach and chances a look at the clock. Lassiter, a man who functions on punctuality and order, is more than three hours late.
It’s more than a bit unsettling, especially during what is supposed to be the most important evening of Shawn’s collective life, including the time Gus was sloshed enough to throw up on the prom queen during senior homecoming because Shawn had innocently spiked his punch, and Lassiter is not here. His palms are damp with an accumulation of sweat that started when he was first shimmying into his ironed dress pants, there’s a bulge in his dress jacket from the protrusion of a ring box Shawn’s fingers keep compulsively grabbing and tracing to assure himself of its existence in his pocket, and across the table and the frilly tablecloth and the fancy wicker basket of bread crumbs next to the shimmering candles, Lassiter’s chair sits empty.
Shawn tries not to feel betrayed above all else. It was not the first time Lassiter had been stuck with dull paperwork he hadn’t been able to relegate down to McNab or a rookie and didn’t clock out and come home until well past midnight so Shawn and him could do little but exchange sleepy kisses and the occasional rambunctious late-night blowjob if either of them weren’t too enamored with thoughts of slumber. However, it was the first time that Lassiter had conveniently forgotten to call his boyfriend and inform him of his tardiness, and as Shawn watches the minute hand on the wall clock tick incessantly by and stare at him in what can only be described as the cosmic universe being reduced to peals of laughter at the sight of Shawn Spencer attempting honest to goodness romance, he feels slightly hoodwinked.
He wonders if what truly happened was not an absent mind overlooking the need to give Shawn a ring and inform him of a delay in dinner plans, but rather an early rejection by result of Gus or Henry leaking information by accident-or potentially on purpose if Henry is still convinced that the entire idea of Shawn marrying someone as irate as Detective Carlton Lassiter is grounds for mental institutionalizing and decided to blow the whole operation by blabbing. Shawn imagines Lassiter, sitting at his desk at the station or holed up in the bathroom at home and staring wide-eyed at the wall while trying to process the horror of attempting another marriage, not with a dainty, run of the mill girl with pretty brown eyes, but with none other than Shawn Spencer. Shawn plays with the prongs of his fork, finishes the last slice of the loaf of bread left in the basket, and avoids the imploring gaze from the maître d’ expectantly awaiting the rest of Shawn’s party.
To lower his own inhibitions and calm his nerves, Shawn downs the glass of exorbitant wine that Gus encouraged him to purchase for the evening to impress Lassiter with faux classiness. He dabs at the gathering of sweat dotted on the back of his neck with the delicately folded napkin on the table as his mind begins imagining the worst and creating a storm of pessimism that does nothing to decrease his nerves as he starts to factor in a variable he hadn’t considered before outside of losing the ring or securing Henry's approval-Lassiter not wanting to give marriage another try with Shawn.
The wine doesn’t dull the sting of that thought nearly enough as a shot of tequila might, and suddenly, Shawn resents the fancy restaurant with its linen napkins and customers all dressed as if in company of royalty. He attempts to drown out the sound of prudish laughter and the clinking of silverware, and when unsuccessful in reaching his inner peace and channeling the Zen qualities of yoga instructors, Shawn is about to call the waiter forth to order a drink heavier on the alcohol when his phone buzzes in his pocket. Lassiter’s name blinks up at him from the screen.
“Shawn,” Lassiter’s voice grinds out before Shawn can squeeze in a greeting, “Where are you.”
The way Lassiter grits out the words erases all question marks and instead makes it into a commanding order the Shawn feels almost obligated to answer. For a moment, he remembers that he’s the one who’s supposed to be feeling dejected and rather upset after being stood up by Lassiter to the most important date either of them have ever had, including all dates involving tandem sky-diving, but leaves that fact to be addressed after he quells Lassiter’s sudden distress.
“What do you mean, where am I? I’m at the restaurant! You were supposed to be here three hours ago! And unless the Winchesters showed up to ghostbust everyone at the station, you have no excuse.”
“No, you were supposed to be here three hours ago,” Lassiter grumbles, and even across the phone Shawn can make out the unmistakable sound of gnashing of teeth, “I’ve been at this damn restaurant for hours. You could’ve called me!”
Shawn whirls around in his seat, scanning the restaurant. He sees a clan of elders undoubtedly celebrating another ancient birthday, a fashionable pair cozying up as they feed each other bites of cheesecake at the table in the corner, and a prissy group of gentlemen in tailored suits talking business near the front of the restaurant. Lassiter remains seemingly invisible from the throng of customers.
“I don’t see you anywhere!” Shawn says into the phone, dialing his voice down to a whisper when the neighboring tables send him reproachful glowers at his lack of decorum regarding noisiness in an upscale restaurant, “I told you to come to the fancy European restaurant with the bushes shaped like dolphins two miles north of the station.”
“Spencer, you said two miles east of the station.”
“Are you seriously trying to tell me that there’s another restaurant two miles from the station with shrubs shaped like dolphins that isn’t the one I’m at?”
“I don’t know! I wasn’t exactly paying attention to the bushes, Shawn!”
“You should have, they were my key descriptor in getting you to the right place!”
Lassiter growls in exasperation on the other end of the line, a sound that on any other occasion would spark a hint of arousal in Shawn’s chest and lace up his spine. Right now, he feels nothing but a nervous tick in his foot as the remainder of his nerves slowly untwist themselves from his muscles and the disheartening realization that tonight is not the night Lassiter agrees to become Mrs. Shawn Spencer.
Part II.