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Rated T for some language.  And probably for other things coming up.  Spoilers for An Evening With Mr. Yang (I don't know if they qualify as 'major' or not)

 

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

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1987

 

            “Dad!  Guess what!  I know what I want to be when I grow up!”

            These were the first words out of Shawn’s mouth the moment that Henry came home that evening.  The kid should have been in bed by now but Madeleine often let him stay up on the days that Henry had to work late.  He sighed as he set down his bag and took off his jacket, already dreading whatever his son had settled on this time, probably connected to something he had watched on TV that night.  A few weeks ago he had his heart set on being a fireman just because somebody did a presentation at his school.  But before that he wanted to be a spy, a mercenary and a stuntman.  Not to mention MacGyver.

             “What is it this time, Shawn?” Henry asked as he headed into the kitchen to heat up leftovers for a late supper. 

            “I want to be a P.I.!”

            Henry rolled his eyes, knowing the source of that pipedream immediately.  “Oh?  Are you going to move to Hawaii and con some rich guy into letting you sleep in his guest house and drive his Ferrari?”  They should never have let him start watching that show.

            “Maybe,” Shawn said.  “Or maybe Gus and I could open a detective agency like Remington Steele.  Magnum and Remington are both gun names, right?  So I figure all we need are cool guns names for ourselves and we’re in business.”

            “If you think all you need to be a Private Investigator is a cool gun name, then you’d probably fit right in with those idiots.”  Henry pulled his tray from the microwave and sat down at the table to eat as Shawn continued, undeterred.

            “I could be Smith and Gus could be Wesson.  Or we could be the Winchester brothers!”

            “I hate to break this to you, but people might not believe that you and Gus are brothers.”

            “Adopted,” Shawn amended, grinning madly.  “It would be so awesome!”

            Henry just shook his head.  He wasn’t in the mood to argue tonight so he tried a different tactic.  “You know what would be even more awesome, Shawn?  Being a cop.  You and Gus could be just like Crockett and Tubbs on Miami Vice.  How about that?”

            His son’s eyes lit up for a moment and Henry thought he had nipped this little fantasy in the bud, but then Shawn shook his head.  “Nope, Private Eye still sounds way cooler.”   

            “There’s a reason that they’re called ‘dicks’, you know.”  Henry grumbled.

            But Shawn was giving his words some serious thought.  “Is it because they’re usually named Richard or something?” he asked.  “Because there’s a kid named Richard in my class but everybody calls him Dick.  Just like that old-time president guy.  Hey, I could be Dick Winchester!”

            “Richard Nixon isn’t ‘old-time’, Shawn.  And for your information...”  He hesitated, and then thought better of trying to explain the double, possibly triple, meaning of the word ‘dick’ to Shawn.  His classmate would surely suffer for it if ever Shawn found out, but Henry would not be the one to tell him.  “Never mind.  Just go to bed already.  And brush your teeth,” he called as Shawn darted up the stairs, far too energized to fall asleep any time soon.

            He couldn’t wait to hear what his boy’s career of choice would be next week.  Maybe he’d switch to astronaut, or to fire-eater, or to something equally as unlikely as being a P.I.  Shawn was going to be a cop, if Henry had anything to say about it.  And Henry had plenty to say about it. 

             

           

 

PRESENT

 

            Above the sound of the distant surf and seagulls flying overhead, he heard his father’s truck pull into the driveway, heard the engine cut, the door open and slam shut.  There was the distinctive rustle of brown paper bags, laden with groceries, being hefted from the truck bed.  Then the screen door and back door opened and closed in succession and he heard the much fainter sounds of Henry Spencer being all domestic in his kitchen as he put things away and made preparations for their dinner in a couple hours. 

            Shawn chose to ignore all of this, crank the volume on his ipod nano and resettle himself on the ancient hammock to enjoy the glorious late-afternoon California sun from behind sunglasses and a generous layer of Coppertone.   The longer it took Henry to figure out he was there, the less he would have to do to help with supper.

            It took four whole songs, shuffling through the Hives, the Sonics, ZZTop and the Black Eyed Peas before he sensed a shadow looming over him.  A very grumpy shadow that oddly reminded him of the Smoke Monster, radiating menace.

            He pulled his ear-buds out and said, “Hey, Dad.  Time to put the steaks on already?”

            “Shawn, what the hell are you doing here?”

            Shawn spread his arms expansively, taking in his swim trunks, the hammock, and the open can within easy reach.  “Your observational skills need a serious reboot if you can’t tell, because I think it’s pretty obvious.”

            “That’s not what I mean and you know it.  Gus called me twice today looking for you, and Karen did, too.  You’re supposed to be at the station this afternoon.  They need you for a case.  And dinner’s not until seven.”

            “I’m still on vacation.  I already told Gus that.  Repeatedly,” Shawn replied.  Refusing to give up on the relaxation just yet, he crossed his legs and put his hands behind his head to punctuate his point.

            “You’ve been ‘on vacation’ for nearly four weeks now,” Henry pointed out, supplying the air-quotes with his fingers even though Shawn could clearly hear them in his tone without the added visual aid.

            Shawn sighed.  “Hey, I wanted to keep working.  Remember?  But noooooooo.  The Chief ordered me to take a break, and you and Gus were all too happy to enforce it.  Now you all want me back on the job again?  I’d like to see how you plan to enforce that one.”

            “So you’re quitting.”  Henry’s tone was flat, like he’d expected it all along.

            Shawn gave up on relaxing, sat up and swung his legs off the side of the hammock.  “No, I’m not quitting, Dad.  I’m. On. Vacation,” he repeated, emphasizing each word carefully.  Then he grabbed his Coke and chugged it even though by now it was barely colder than the eighty degree air temperature.  “So maybe it’s a little longer than your typical vacation.  More of a hiatus, really.  Or a sabbatical.”

            “Or you’re just moping,” said Henry as he turned away and stalked back to the house.  This was a clear manipulation.  It said - if you want to argue the point you’ve got to get up and follow me.  Shawn did want to argue the point.  He just didn’t want to get up to do it.  Lucky for him manipulation was a two-way street.

            He flopped back on the hammock and watched the sky sway back and forth above him in time to the faint squeak of the rusty springs.  “I’m not moping,” he said, just as Henry reached the porch.  “If anything I’m brooding, but only because that sounds much sexier.”

            “Moping is moping,” Henry shot back.  “Your mother’s been back to work for over a week now.  You should be at the station.  Not here.”

            “Gee, Dad.  I didn’t think you’d be so mad about me coming early to dinner for a change.”

            “You’re never early, kid.  Definitely never three hours early.”

            “I’m full of surprises.”

            “You’re full of something all right,” he heard his father mutter as he went inside and closed the door behind him. 

            Shawn shut his eyes and tried to recapture that mellow feeling that had fled from him like kicked puppy the moment his dad spoke.  But it was useless.  He wasn’t moping, not exactly.  But if he was being honest with himself, not the easiest thing to do sometimes, he’d have to admit he was...  hiding?  Maybe the real reason he decided to sun himself on the lawn of his childhood home - of all places, and today of all days - was because deep down he wanted to stop hiding and get on with his life.  Shawn just didn’t know how.

            He slowly rolled off the creaky hammock and stood, stretching broadly as he scrunched his toes into the cool greenness of the freshly mowed grass.  Then he hitched up his trunks and ambled toward the house, resigned.  Once inside the cool, dark kitchen, he ignored his father’s pointed glare and headed for the bathroom where he had dumped his clothes earlier.

            Shawn emerged a few minutes later dressed once more in jeans and a dark red polo.  The phone in his pocket had informed him of five missed calls in the last few hours, three of them from Gus.  And by the watch newly restored to his wrist, he discovered that it was earlier than he’d thought.  Just a few minutes after four o’clock.  The briefing would have started by now, provided they still needed one.  The whole thing was probably arranged just for his benefit, a gimme case purposely designed to get him ‘back in the game’, as Gus liked to put it.

            Still ignoring his dad, he went to the fridge and retrieved another soda, a bottle of root beer this time, part of the stash Henry kept on hand for Gus’s visits.  He popped off the cap and sat down at the table.

            “So are you going to the station or not?”

            Shawn shrugged and took a swig of root beer.  “I’m sure it’s nothing they can’t handle without me.”

            “I don’t know about that.  Karen made it sound like an ideal cases, tailor-made for a psychic.”

            “Which I’m not,” Shawn countered.  It felt weird standing on this side of the argument.  Usually Henry wanted him off cases, not the other way around.  He cleared his throat and added.  “They don’t need me.”

            Henry leaned across the table, palms flat on the surface, and stared at him so hard that Shawn finally had to look away as he muttered, “Turn off the high-beams, Dad.  You’re blinding me.”

            His dad just snorted.  “Like I said.  Moping.”

            Shawn shook his head.  “That is not what this is.”

            “Then what the hell is it, Shawn?  Talk to me.  Is this still about Yang?  You beat her.  Get over it already and get back to work.”  Henry pushed away from the table and grabbed the beer he’d left on the kitchen counter while Shawn sat and stared at his own bottle, right let jiggling with nervous energy.

            “I didn’t beat Yang,” he said softly.  He hadn’t meant to say that out loud and half-hoped that his dad wouldn’t hear.  Foolish hope.

            “That psycho is in prison and she’s not getting out.  And your mother is still in one piece because of you.  So am I, for that matter.  That spells win to me, kid.”

            To Shawn it spelled luck – nothing but pure, dumb luck.  And he couldn’t shake the feeling that with Yang he had used up a lifetime supply of it.  No luck left for the next time.  And there would be a next time, once he went back to work.  A next killer with maybe a bomb or a knife to his throat or a gun to his head, or to Gus’s head.  Or Henry’s.

            His father seemed to be reading his thoughts because he continued. “You know, Vince Lombardi once said that winning isn’t everything.  It’s the only thing.  You won.  Yang’s arguably a criminal mastermind but you still beat her.  Doesn’t matter how, and sure it wasn’t pretty, but a win is a win.”

            Shawn snorted at the backhanded compliment.  “Maybe I did beat her, but she still would have killed you and Mom in the end.  She was crazy enough to do it.  I just got lucky.”

            “It’s not about luck, yours or theirs.  That’s the one thing nobody can predict or control, so stop trying.  If you want to be a private detective, and I’m assuming here that you still do, then go be one!  If you want to keep moping around, do it at somebody else’s house.  Try that new girlfriend of yours, if she’s not sick of you yet.”

            Shawn let out a huffed breath, more grunt than sigh.  “Fine,” he said as he headed out toward the yard where he had left his motorcycle parked just beyond the picket fence.  Still, he hesitated at the door. 

            Leaving was the only option Henry gave him, but where he went after he left was still undecided.  Did he still want to do this job?  Yang got to him, he had to admit.  She got in his head.  And his luck wasn’t the only thing he found missing.  It was the fun.  He didn’t know if Psych could be fun anymore or if Yang had killed the joy of crime-solving forever.  And he was more than a little bit afraid to find out. 

            Thus the hiding and/or moping, which needed to stop.  But quitting wasn’t an option either.  He owed to it to Gus, and probably to Lassiter and Juliet, too.  Maybe he could recapture that Psych vibe, get back what that whack-job had taken from him.  Or maybe not, but he had to try.

            There was only one option.  He cleared his throat and half-turned, not really wanting to meet his dad’s eyes.  “If Gus calls again, tell him I’m on my way.”

            “Dinner is still at seven.  How do you want your steak?” Henry asked before he could make his escape.  Shawn identified it as Henry-speak for You made the right decision, kid.

            “The same way I want it every time, Dad,” he answered.  “At the exact midpoint between still kicking and-”

            “And shoe leather, got it.  You could just say ‘medium’ like everybody else does, you know.”

            “Where’s the fun in that?” Shawn shot back as he turned around all the way and flashed his dad a grin.  It was as close to a thank you as he was willing to give.  Ready or not, his vacation was over.



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