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Greetings fellow Psychfic’ers!

Just wanted to take a quick minute to say “thank you” to mia for initiating this thread. What a fun idea!!

I’m a fan of commentaries and couldn’t resist the opportunity to do a little “meta-analysis” of this fic. I will completely date myself by saying that I’ve been involved with fandoms and fanfic for over 10 years now. (So old!) Over the years, I’ve become rather fascinated with the process of writing and how it differs for each individual writer. For those of you, who have sent me a PM or feedback in the past, you know that I can chat at length on the characters, their motivations, their interactions, and their nuances. (You poor, poor people.) 

 So, to make a long story short, when I spotted this thread, I just knew I had to join in!

Disclaimers—This is fan fiction. No profit is involved. All recognizable characters belong to Steve Franks and the USA Network (not me). Just taking the boys out for a little fun.

Spoilers—Everything prior to the Season 3 finale (“An Evening with Mr. Yang”) is fair game. References to several season 3 episodes including (but not limited to) “Lassie Did a Bad, Bad Thing”, “Truer Lies”, and “Tuesday the 17th”.

This fic was more or less inspired by the series of pretty hefty events in season 3 (Lassie Did a Bad, Bad Thing, Earth, Wind and Wait for it, Truer Lies, and Tuesday the 17th). Despite their bravado, I couldn’t see Shawn (or Gus), just shaking all of this off. I figured there had to be some consequences to being nearly blown-up, shot, and concussed.

Main Characters- Shawn and Lassiter. Gen fic. (No slash except for what you bring yourself)

Summary: Lassiter gains a new perspective on Shawn as the two share a (semi) civil conversation. Too bad it took a fall from a porch for him to see it. (Season 3-centric)

I wrote this little “season 3-centric” interlude fic while on vacation in February of 2009. I had a couple of days free, no obligations and whipped this fic together in nearly record time (for me).

“Shifting Paradigms”

Taken from the term “paradigm shifts,” denoting a fundamental change in one’s thinking, one’s perceptions, and potentially one’s behavior. Fear not, I’ll spare you the scientific and social behaviorist implications.

For the title of this story, I had about six “runners-up”; none of which I liked. I still find this title to be a bit... er… esoteric.  Actually, it’s probably the most “anti-Psych” title that I could have possibly used.  Clearly, I lack the gene to create witty and pun-filled titles for these fics.

Ah…. C’est la vie.

By: Miss Weather

 “Ow!” Damnit!

Carlton Lassiter groaned in frustration, forced to lie still once again, as a wave of pain radiated along his torso to his hip. Just a twinge, had worse. It’ll pass, he chided himself, firmly trying to convince his body to be more cooperative. Nothing more than an annoyance. The quick trip to the hospital yesterday had confirmed that. No fractures. Just some contusions. The on-call physician had recommended rest and ice, and ibuprofen. They were nothing more than handful of very colorful and very painful bruises. Non-injuries.

Fact: I know some of you have wondered over my tendency to maim and wound my characters. Beyond my undying love for whump and h/c, I’m a physical therapist by trade. I maintain this tendency toward “whump” is simply an occupational hazard, and nothing more sadistic in nature. I enjoy medical minutia and look to add it where I can.

Much to his growing irritation, these bruises had hindered his efforts to retrieve a glass from the coffee table for the past half-hour. Even more frustrating, these same non-injuries had left him on medical leave for the next two days. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t convince Captain Vick that he was more than capable of returning to work, or at the very least sitting at his desk. She effectively barred him from returning to the station until he received full clearance from the Department’s physician.

The emphasis on “non-injuries” was deliberately used to stress Lassiter’s frustration over his forced medical leave. The guy has his “I’m indestructible” image to maintain after all. I have no idea why I put “Captain” there. Hmm… Note to self, omit that.

Lassiter resigned himself to spending the next couple of days in forced convalescence at his apartment. All things considered, the timing of his mandatory pseudo-vacation was fairly decent. There were no open cases cluttering his desk, and he knew that he could count on O’Hara to act in his stead until he recovered. That is, as long as those two buffoons, Spencer and Guster were not involved. He felt himself grimace and quickly redirected his thoughts to something more positive. Two more days and he could return to his desk. Just two more days.

With a couple of measured breaths, the pain quickly receded and he was able to try again. Slowly reaching his arm over to the table, he was able to retrieve the glass of water and a couple of pain relievers. Fifth times a charm, he mused.

For those that have suffered similar injuries (and/or back injuries), I’m sure you feel Lassiter’s pain. Even the simplest of acts are challenging.

Once the glass was empty, he settled himself back onto the couch. With skill born from practice, he managed to roll onto his right side without disrupting the three ice packs, strategically, placed along the left side of his body. A deep, nagging ache flared from his left shoulder to his left hip. Damn. He shifted again, hoping that he’d be able to fall asleep for at least a short nap. So far, he hadn’t had much luck in the “rest” department. His assortment of contusions had kept him awake for most of the night. Awake and miserable.

In the early drafts of this story, Lassiter’s injuries weren’t as superficial. Instead of contusions, he had fractured ribs after taking a bullet to his Kevlar vest. Somehow, after several re-drafts, I ended here. I don’t regret it. The first version never worked.

And might I add, rolling without disrupting ice packs? Very impressive!

He took another slow breath to see if his newest adjustment had worked. Exhaling, he felt a dull twinge of pain in his ribs, but it was tolerable. There. Finally. Perfect spot. With a quiet sigh, he closed his eyes allowing his mind to drift. The solace of a quick nap would do his body wonders, or so he hoped.

Unfortunate for him, with mere moments of falling asleep, a loud chime echoed throughout his apartment. Bolting upright with agonizing gasp, Lassiter clutched his arms around his midsection. Door bell, he cursed. Damn instincts. He quickly leaned back against the couch, quietly panting as he waited for this latest wave of agony to dissipate.

Isn’t that always the way? You finally get comfortable and then the phone rings? Or in this case, the doorbell!

Who the hell? Lassiter had been clear upon his departure from the hospital. There were to be no visitors. He had used his no-nonsense, “I’m head detective” tone of voice, which left no room for misinterpretation.

After a quick deliberation, he settled for ignoring his unwanted visitor. Besides, killing the moron would be too much of a hassle, he concluded. Resolved to ignore all unsolicited visitors, he slowly laid back down on the couch.

Actually, this is pretty much what I would do. Sit there and ignore them until they went away.

However, this particular idiot wasn’t deterred. The door bell rang three times in quick succession followed by the shout of an all too familiar voice.

“Oh Lassie! Come out, come out wherever you are?!”

I truly love Shawn’s whimsical and flippant nature, especially when it’s not in his best interests. It’s such an endearing and completely self-destructive trait. This little moment was such a shout-out to a certain 50-60’s iconic troublemaker. “Oh, Mr. Wilson!!!”

Rolling his eyes, he felt the vein near his temple start to throb. Sweet, merciful justice! Spencer.

Using his right arm for momentum, he gingerly pushed himself off the couch into standing. Son of a bitch. The movement, as predicted, awakened an intense ache in his ribs and hip. The urge to inflict violence on the SBPD’s consultant was greatly overtaking all rational thought. Once upright, he slowly limped his way from the living couch to the front door, eager to shut that jackass up once and for all.

To quote Homer Simpson, “Urge to kill… Rising!”

“I know you’re home, your car is in the parking lot. Dude! If you don’t open up, I’ll just do my Lloyd Dobler impression from Say Anything. Come on!”

Added because all Psych-related fics require 80’s references; I believe it’s in the by-laws. Personally, I would love to see Shawn (James Roday) do a Lloyd Dobler  impersonation. Complete with the ginormous, mega boom box held over his head.

Lassiter threw the door open with as much force as his beleaguered body would allow. “What the hell could you possibly want, Spencer?!” he shouted.

As he expected, Spencer merely grinned, in his usual obnoxious way. “Lassie! How are you doing, pal?”

Lassiter scowled deeply. “I’m fine, Spencer. Now, get off my property,” he said as he moved to close the door.

“Wait,” Spencer shouted, flinging himself into the doorway threshold. With one hand on the door and his other poised near his forehead, he whispered, “My psychic senses are tingling.”

My little Peter Parker moment.

Rolling his eyes, Lassiter barked, “Perhaps I haven’t made myself clear. Go. Go now. Leave!”

Undeterred, Spencer continued, “I’m serious. My psychic senses are tingling, which can only mean one of two things. It’s going to rain on Thursday or that a certain cranky pants head detective could use some cheering up. I’m guessing it’s the latter.”

“I didn’t understand a word of what you just said, Spencer. Listen closely-- I’m not going to say this again, leave me alone.”

Lassiter glared darkly when the younger man didn’t budge from the doorway. He couldn’t believe the gall of the man standing before him. He was sorely tempted to slam the door closed, just to see the expression on Spencer’s face. However, the troublesome ache lingering along the left half of his body served as a strong reminder that such an action wouldn’t be prudent.

Honestly, I suspect Lassiter probably would have slammed the door on Shawn. Pain or no pain. However, seeing as that turn of events would have pretty much ended the story here, Lassiter needed a little reminder to behave.

“Come on Lassie, I brought homemade soup.” Spencer said as he pulled a small container from his jacket pocket.

Startled, Lassiter managed to catch the quickly tossed can of soup with only minimal fumbling. “It’s Campbell’s,” he replied with a quick glance of the can.

Spencer shrugged. “It’s chicken and stars, guaranteed to bring forth warmth, wellness and inner cheer.”

I know Shawn’s ‘gift for all occasions’ is pineapple, but I was unable to make the fruit work into the story to my liking. I wanted the “reveal”, the fumbling and the silly conversation that followed. So, soup it was.  

And besides, I’m really not a fan of pineapple. (Sacrilege!)

With a weary sigh, he shook his head in aggravation. “Spencer, I don’t have the energy for you today. As you can clearly see, I’m fine. So, get to the point or leave.”

To me, this is the epitome of who Lassiter is. “Get to the point or leave.” And when it comes to Shawn, it should probably be, “get to the point AND leave!”

“Can I come in?” The obnoxious smirk had disappeared from Spencer’s face.

His initial, knee-jerk reaction was to say no. And given who requested it, no one would fault him for such a response. Lassiter briefly scrutinized the other man, genuinely surprised by his sudden mood swing. Weariness and pain were warring forces in his body at the moment, but his curiosity won out.

Little side note--I sketch out the majority of my stories in spiral-bound notebooks. They tend to be an incomprehensible mess of fragmented sentences, snippets of conversations, doodles and a mass of arrows linking everything together.  

In the hand-written draft of this fic, there was an additional chapter from Shawn’s POV. It detailed the events that lead up to Shawn’s arrival in front of Lassiter’s door. However, it never made it beyond the “notebook phase”.

“Fine, you get 15 minutes.” Lassiter carefully shifted his weight to his right side, allowing the other man to enter. He purposefully ignored the concerned glance he received as he limped his way toward the kitchen.

“So, these are the new digs?” Spencer inquired nonchalantly.

“You have 15 minutes, Spencer. Get on with it,” he reminded. He grabbed a seat at the kitchen counter, watching the other man aimlessly wander around his living room.

“Can’t a guy stop by and see how a buddy’s doing without being interrogated?” Spencer spoke casually as he strolled across the room; occasionally stopping to peek into open boxes that cluttered the floor.

“I told you I’m fine,” Lassiter repeated, placing a strong emphasis on each word.

“Got it, you’re fine.” He smiled slightly and said, “Glad to hear it. But dude, you have to admit that was one hell of a fall. Jules said that you’d be able to return to work by the end of the week.”

Lassiter felt his eyes go wide with that comment. The hell?! “Wait a minute. A fall? I didn’t fall, Spencer. You pushed me!”

In my mind, I visualize the incident as less a “push” and more a “running tackle.”

“Oh Lassie, I get the feeling that you’re still feeling a bit sore about yesterday. No pun intended,” Spencer said, turning his back to wander into the living room.

(Pun intended!!)

Lassiter turned as quick as his body would allow. He couldn’t believe the audacity of the man. “Sore? You pushed off the goddamn porch!”

My favorite line.

“I was trying to save your life!”

Second favorite line.

He was momentarily taken aback by the defensive tone. From his current vantage point, he wasn’t able to see the younger man’s face, but his posture was tense.

“Saving me from what a visually impaired, elderly woman wielding a power screwdriver? She wasn’t a threat.”

Okay! I couldn’t resist. I just loved the visual of a little old lady skulking in the shadows, brandishing a cordless power screwdriver. 

Spencer turned to face him. His eyes wide, hands fisted at his hips. “I thought she had a gun.”

Shaking his head in disbelief, Lassiter said, “It was a screwdriver and she was easily over 80.”

Why were they at her home? Hmm. No clue, but she made for an amusing prop.

“I didn’t know that at the time,” Spencer released a loud, irritated sigh. “And she was giving off strong creepy old lady vibes! I did what I had to do.”

“You did what you had to do? By pushing me off the porch?” Lassiter asked incredulously.

Spencer’s typical smirk vanished and was replaced with something he couldn’t discern. “How was I supposed to know that the porch rail was unstable?”

Originally, in the early drafts, there was no power-tool wielding geriatric. Instead, I dabbled in the idea of a dock and some stereotypical bad guys. But in the end, I preferred the idea that it was simply an unfortunate accident.  An error in judgment.

Elevated porch + unstable railing + overzealous fake psychic = SPLAT! for Lassiter. Pure happenstance. Pure bad luck!

“You’re a psychic, aren’t you?” Lassiter sneered. He immediately regretted the childish response when he saw the brief look of hurt flash across Spencer’s face.

“Yeah. It doesn’t work that way. I just reacted,” Spencer said, moving back into the living room.

“In the future, Spencer, don’t do me any favors!” He shouted and then winced. Bracing his arms around his torso, he came to the quick realization that shouting was not a wise idea with bruised ribs.

Lassiter is a bit of a slow learner, eh? He seems to need to make this realization quite a bit in my fics.

“That bad?” came the quiet question.

Lassiter snarled through clenched teeth. “You try being shoved off a porch, falling several feet onto concrete and tell me how you feel.”

So, let’s see… if Force= mass x acceleration, then a 6 foot plus frame falling four feet onto concrete would equal one serious OUCH!!

Spencer locked eyes with him before quickly looking away. “I’m sorry. Okay? I screwed up.”

I love exploring the antagonistic aspect of their relationship. They aren’t friends. No love lost here. But they have this wonderful “frienemy” thing going on that brings conflict to the story. It’s a work-place rivalry that is almost brotherly in spirit. And I completely adore it! 

If he didn’t know better, he would have said that Spencer looked almost contrite. Sitting on his couch, head tilted down, and hands folded. Practically ashamed. Admittedly, the more sadistic side of him was pleased to finally get the chance to hear an apology from the Shawn Spencer. It was nice to see the smug pain in the ass finally apologize for something.

Body language is such a critical part of communication and how we convey ourselves in day to day conversations. It speaks volumes on the person’s mental state and temperament. As such, I tend to place extra care in how I describe the character’s positioning in the scene. Should he be slouching in a chair, or pacing around the room? (and so forth)

Spencer went on, “It’s just that people have been shooting at me a lot lately. I don’t know what happened. I saw her lurking in the shadows. I reacted. I made a mistake and I’m sorry.

“You’re right. You made a mistake. What do you want me to say, it happens? Don’t do it again?” Lassiter said and rubbed a hand over his face.

“No. I don’t know. I just wanted to apologize.” Spencer’s voice was low with regret.

Okay. I’ll admit that I was (and still am) a bit uneasy with this portrayal of Shawn. Mind you, it was purposeful and I’ll discuss that soon. But still uneasy.  

The sincere look of remorse in Spencer’s eyes caught Lassiter momentarily off-guard. He quickly swallowed his retort, as he watched the other man fidget on the couch. For reasons that he couldn’t quite understand himself, Lassiter decided to take the high road.

“Okay,” he said as he stood and headed towards the fridge. “You want something to drink? Beer?”

Nodding his head, Spencer asked, “So, when did you manage to move?”

“About two weeks ago.”


Indeed. Why? Two reasons… The first being that I wanted Shawn and Lassiter to have this obligatory conversation without it feeling completely absurd. I’m not 100% sure I succeeded.

And second, I didn’t believe there was any impetus for Lassiter to keep his lease after the events of “Lassie did a Bad, Bad thing.” Despite his proclivity for firearms and his general attitude, I see Lassiter as someone who finds solace in the thought of returning to the sanctuary of his “home” after a long, awful day. And shooting a man in your living room would seem to taint that.   

But maybe it’s just me.  (shrugs)

Lassiter raised an eyebrow at this irreverent question. With slow steps back to the couch, he debated on the virtues of simply telling the other man to mind his own damn business. He handed the other man a beer, before gingerly lowering himself into a nearby armchair.

“Lease was up on the last place,” he replied.

Spencer took a large sip and asked, “Oh. Hmm. Wasn’t the last place bigger? Why not renew it?”

The not-so-innocent question was enough to ignite Lassiter’s barely contained temper. “Not that it’s any of your business, Spencer,” he seethed. “It was because there was never enough hot water. Oh, not to mention, I couldn’t get those pesky bloodstains out of the living room carpet, which came from the corrupt police officer that I shot. The very same man that took you hostage and tried to kill both of us.”

“Not exactly good times.” Spencer spoke with uncharacteristic somberness.

“No, not exactly,” Lassiter muttered, taking a drink from his beer.

Aw. Boys bonding over beer. It’s so clichéd, I couldn’t resist.

“This place will look better once you get unpacked. Hang Santa Barbara’s Most Wanted postings on this wall. A potted plant here. A floor lamp there.” Spencer said, gesturing to the far wall. “Just needs a little feng shui.”

He nodded. “Yeah. When I get the chance.”

“It’s been a really rough couple of weeks. Hasn’t it?” Spencer asked. Though, by the inflection in his voice, it wasn’t intended to be a question.

Lassiter hmmed, noncommittally.

“Drimmer. He really, really wanted us dead. Such a ridiculous plan, murder-suicide, please...” Spencer hesitated, his voice suddenly trailed off.

It’s still my favorite episode.


“It’s happened a lot lately. I’m starting to think that I must have some kind of target painted on my back or something.”

“What?” Lassiter glanced sharply at Spencer. However, the other man refused to make eye contact, simply sat, dissecting the beer bottle label with his hands.

“Lately, with every case Gus and I work on, there have been bullets, exploding buildings, knife welding psychopaths,” he said softly.

He opened his mouth to interrupt, but Spencer continued, undaunted. “It’s messing up our system. And it’s a good system! I get a vision, solve the case in a delightfully brilliant and handsome way, and that be it. Gus and I collect our check and maybe a donut on the way out. It works!”

Given the events of Season 3, I felt that even Shawn, with his devil-may-care tendencies had to be feeling a little put out by constantly being under attack. Barring a couple of incidents in seasons 1 and 2, he and Gus had it pretty easy. Run around, solve the case, do a little “psychic song-and-dance” and collect a check. But Season 3… geez… poor guys!

Lassiter looked at him for a long moment, trying to decide what to say. He never had a sense for when Spencer was being honest or merely playing him. However, there was something in his tone that suggested that this was more than just a game.

Schooling his features, he replied in his most authoritative voice. “Police work has some inherent dangers associated with it. You know that, Spencer. Even for the consultants.”

“Psychic consultant,” Spencer corrected flippantly.

“It doesn’t matter what the hell you call yourself,” Lassiter said. “You’re hired to assist with on-going cases. Many of them homicides. There are risks associated with that.”

“And I know that. I’m fine with taking this on, when I just have to worry about myself, but…” Spencer’s voice trailed off for the second time. He was clearly flustered with his inability to find the right words.

It took him a moment to determine who Spencer was referring to. “This is about Guster.”

Here’s the crux of the situation for Shawn. When he can’t turn to Gus, who can he turn to? Despite his amiable nature, he doesn’t seem to have too many people in his life that he can confide in. Shawn simply doesn’t have the relationship with his father to discuss these fears and mention “knife wielding psychopaths.” At least, not without Henry freaking out. And I don’t believe that he and Juliet have a friendship that allows them to openly discuss these concerns. At least, not at this point. And this is pre-season finale, so… not going to mention Abigail. That leaves us with Lassiter. And from Shawn’s vantage point, it’s ideal. Lassiter already “dislikes” him and can’t think any less of him. Plus, there’s the strong probability that Lassiter would deny the entire conversation. It’s win-win for Shawn.   

Spencer simply looked up from his beer and nodded.

He wasn’t surprised. He figured it was simply a matter of time before Guster’s sense of self-preservation won out over his loyalty to Spencer. “He finally decide to leave Psych?”

Spencer shook his head sharply. “No. Nothing like that. Sure, he’s a bit pissed over the last couple of cases that we’ve worked on.”

“So what then?”

Whatever the answer Lassiter expected, it certainly wasn’t this one.

“I’m reckless,” the other man confessed, his shoulders slouched forward, head bowed. “I know that better than anyone. Hell, my father loves to tell me that. Sometimes, I think the only reason Gus stays is because he feels that he has to. Maybe I rely on him too much. I put him in danger.”

A serious Shawn? Discussing a sensitive topic?! GASP! But in my defense, look at the S3-finale. He’s capable of it.  And I firmly believe that Shawn’s self-aware enough to know that he seems to attract danger and dangerous people. I figure he should be feeling at least a little guilty for endangering his best friend. (Um… points to season 4 for more recent references.)

There was unmistakable click in his brain, as he listened to Spencer ramble. Unexpectedly, he knew that he found yet another piece to the proverbial puzzle that was Shawn Spencer. Very unexpected, Lassiter thought with a frown.

Granted, this was a subject that he had some background in; something that he understood far too well. He knew this fear. How many countless nights has he lost sleep over this particular subject? The fear of being inadequate, being unreliable, and of making a fatal mistake.

I strongly believe these are fears that these characters share. The fear of failing, of making an error that it endangers your partner, your friend, someone you care for…. 

Lassiter was never one to mince words, but couldn’t think of a response that didn’t sound sanctimonious or glib. He found it incredibly difficult to get past the bizarre experience that this was turning into. A troubled Spencer seeking his advice, it was a bit more than Lassiter could wrap his mind around.

The conversation lulled as he sought the right words. This wasn’t his forte. Everyone knew that he didn’t have the knack for situations that required empathy and tact. Everyone. O’Hara handled these situations. He silently fumed at Spencer for putting him in this situation. However, to his disgust, he found that he could no more yell at the dejected man-child sitting on his couch than he could kick a puppy.

“Guster’s sensible, which is more than I can say for you. He’s capable of making his own decisions.” He paused to clear his throat. “I don’t know what to tell you, Spencer. You need to trust him, as much as you ask for his trust in you.”

A little callback to “Truer Lies” with Shawn asking… needing Gus to trust him. I felt that the need to address this further from a slightly different angle.

Spencer glanced over, looking far more young and innocent than he had any right to. “I just don’t want to see anyone get hurt because of me.”

Lassiter snorted. “That’s ridiculously naïve, even for you.”


This was just too surreal. Despite his best efforts, he wasn’t able to stop himself from asking, “Why are you here, Spencer?”

From Lassiter perspective, conversing with Shawn has to be a bit like the “Mad Libs” game. He simply has no idea what Shawn will say next. I would imagine that it would be extraordinarily irritating and disconcerting for someone, like Lassiter, who prides himself on his deductive and interrogative skills.

“I don’t know,” Spencer said, almost inaudibly, before finishing his beer.

Lassiter watched the man slumped on his couch stare aimlessly at the empty bottle in his hands, looking sad and lost. The absurdity of this situation and of the past few weeks had finally caught up with him. He tried to squelch the irrational fit of laughter that threatened to spill forth, but failed miserably.

Because… really… sometimes you just have to laugh at the absurdity of life.

Spencer cocked his head up from his drink in surprise and mouthed a “what”

“This.” Lassiter said with another laugh, gesturing to the two of them. “It’s so strange.”

“Huh?” he asked confused.

“This conversation. Here. It’s so completely un-Spencer-like. No inane 80s references. No hijinks. No crass jokes. It’s disturbing.”

“That’s one way to describe it” Spencer rolled his eyes, looking mildly peeved by his remark.

“Perceptions” is the underlying theme of this little one-shot. The goal of this story was to delve into these misconceptions and false perceptions through some rather “serious” subject matter. In life, it’s so easy to establish erroneous snap judgments of one another, Lassiter is no exception. But when we’re given an opportunity to see “underneath the underneath”, (to shamelessly abuse the phrase), sometimes we find that what we thought was true, wasn’t at all.  

Lassiter was unapologetic. The unintentional fit of laughter was exactly what they needed. A diversion. “You sure you didn’t fall off your bike on your way over here? Hit your head?” he asked etching his words with a light sarcasm.

Spencer’s brash smirk returned full force. “Positive. Though, I’m beginning to think you might have taken too many pain killers. Hmm? Or maybe one too many beers with those happy pills?”

I love the reciprocity in their insults. Each of them gives as good as they get. Or in Lassiter’s case, to the best of his ability. But still, the trading of insults isn’t one-sided… and for the most part, rather benign in nature.

Lassiter scowled at the obvious jab. “No. I’m good.”

“Good. I think my 15 minutes are up,” Spencer said, stretching as he stood.

Crossing his arms, Lassiter called out to the other man as he exited. “Oh Spencer, I know how you can repay me for yesterday.”

Because you know I couldn’t just leave it at that.

Caught off guard, Spencer had stopped and quickly spun around. “Say again?!” he demanded incredulously. “I thought we were good.”

Lassiter gave him a disapproving glare and added, “4 feet onto concrete, Spencer. I think you owe me more than an apology.”

(Hee!) Payback is such a ….

“Lassie, I...” Spencer started, but he interrupted him with a shake of his head, effectively quelling the excuse.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “O’Hara won’t let me shoot you. However, I thought of an alternative that would work. Saturday, be here by 11:00.”

Spencer blinked, confused. “Dude. Saturday? What for?”

He smiled. “I need a couple of larger items moved here and there. A bureau, a gun safe. Nothing major.”

 “Nothing major? A gun safe?” Spencer complained. “Come on, Lassie. My chiropractor says that I can’t lift…”

Every gun collector needs a gun safe. And I believe that in California, gun owners can be held liable in the event that their firearm(s) is/are stolen (if they weren’t locked in a safe).And Shawn’s right, gun safes weigh a LOT. We’re talking 500 lbs and up for the larger ones. Let’s just say for the sake of realism, that Lassiter rented a pallet jack for them to use.

Lassiter raised his voice, easily talking over the other man. “Spencer, I don’t care and you were right. Your 15 minutes are up. Be here at 11:00.”

Spencer turned towards the door, grumbling something unintelligible under his breath.

“What was that?” He called out, his question directed at the other man’s back.

“This isn’t fair. You know that, right?” Spencer replied petulantly.

He merely shrugged. “You pushed me off a porch.”

The younger man looked back, displeasure clear on his face. “Fine. I give. You win.” Spencer said waving his hands in surrender. “See if I bring you soup next time.”

Writing a silly, petulant Shawn is WAY easier than writing a serious, morose Shawn.  Note to self—stick to the first.

“Don’t forget.”

“Yeah, yeah, but I’m bringing Gus and Jules. I’m not going to suffer alone.”

Aw! They are so the ‘Fantastic Four!’ The fortune cookie scene at the end of the season one finale solidified for me the potential of this show. The interaction! The banter!  Love it!

“Whatever. Just be here.” Lassiter said hastily, getting the last word in before he heard the front door snap shut.

A moment later, his apartment was quiet again. With a long sigh, he settled himself back into the chair to watch television. Despite finding an episode of “COPS” to watch, he felt his attention drift back to Spencer’s little visit. As much as he hated to admit it, the conversation left him unsettled. He thought he had finally established an accurate profile of Shawn Spencer, but now, there was a new piece of information to add.

A little introspective to further play on the notions of perceptions and established “paradigms.” Given that Lassiter’s a detective, I’m sure he would have profiled Spencer at some point.

Lassiter suddenly found himself understanding the other man a bit better. He scowled at the thought. He didn’t want to understand Spencer. The man was an immature, irresponsible, obnoxious pain in the ass. That said he might also be one of the most gifted investigators that Lassiter had ever worked with. The man’s record was testament of his talent. It was exasperating to watch him make such quick deductions with remarkable skill. Spencer was good and it both annoyed and impressed the hell out of him.

Lassiter groaned irritably. He wasn’t in the mood for any of this, especially while on forced medical leave. Reaching across the table for his ice packs, he caught sight of the soup on his counter. He felt his lips twist into a small smile into spite of himself. The smile instantly fell as a sharp, stabbing sensation pulsed through his hip. Teeth clenched, he cursed Spencer for the 105th time since his fall yesterday.

Love this moment. To me, it screams Lassiter.

With a long sigh of relief, his world suddenly felt right once again. For the first time in a day, Lassiter felt grateful for the reprieve from work. It gave him a perfect opportunity to plot his revenge. Lassiter smiled brightly. He had two whole days to devise delightful new ways to torture and abuse the SBPD’s psychic consultant.

Because sometimes one’s first opinions of a person are spot on. And it’s best to not question these things further. And look, a smiling Lassiter!

Perhaps having some time off wasn’t so bad after all.

The end?? Actually… no… well, maybe. As I mentioned, there’s another chapter outlined for this fic, but it hadn’t developed into anything more than an outline. A little flashback, some Gus and Shawn banter. At the moment, I don’t think it adds anything more to the plot, but I may eventually add it as a “bonus feature.”   

Chapter End Notes:

Ending comments:

So, there you have it, my sophomore attempt in the Psych fandom. Thank you for reading this commentary on “Shifting Paradigms.” I hope it wasn’t completely dull.

Also, a very special “shout out” and thank you to my beta, em, for her help on this story. Despite not watching “Psych”, she offered to review my work. An amazing friend and beta. This commentary has not beta’ed. All mistakes are mine. I apologize for any and all errors that occurred.  

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