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Story Notes:

So, this is my Psych/MacGyver crossover!

It's amazing to think that this entire story began when I saw Murdoc eating something weird out of a random stranger's fridge in "Strictly Business." But I guess insanity is a small price to pay for having such great imaginary friends.

Thanks to Dragonnan for our awesome Psych/MacGyver conversation on the forums. Without you, none of this would be possible.
Thanks also to Murdoc, my extremely fickle muse. I appreciate you lending your voice and sharing with me your preference in healthy treats.
Shawn, don't even go there.

UPDATE: I realized, after having this stupid thing on the site for a full year, that the time-skipping causes more confusion than it does good. I don't regret the formatting experiment because it was a lot of fun, but there's no point in having a cool experimental structure if nobody understands the actual story. So, from now on, the chapters *should* be in chronological order. If you'd like a copy of the original story with the time skips, just let me know & I'll be happy to send it to you. Let me know if you catch any mistakes. Thanks!

The chapters are NOT in chronological order, so please pay very close attention to the dates for each one. ...also, I didn't write them all in order, either, so let me know if there's anything that doesn't make sense.

Story title comes from Fozzy's new single, "Judas." Four of the chapter titles are taken from that song as well. Seven chapter titles come from the Fozzy song "Sin and Bones," and six come from "Spider In My Mouth." The titles of two chapters come from two Michael Des Barres songs.

Speaking of which, just take a good long look at MDB's Instagram feed if you want to know what Murdoc looks like in 2017. You won't be disappointed.

Disclaimer: I do not own Psych or MacGyver, nor do I own any of the characters, settings, trademarks, or related material. Psych, MacGyver, and all related materials are the property of their respective owners. The plot and original characters of this story are my intellectual property. I am not associated with Psych, its creators, or any involved parties, nor am I associated with any other media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Oh, and before I forget, here's the bibliography for this story. Because yes, I am just that obsessive and lame:

http://www.rusted-crush.com/macgyver/index.html
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Murdoc#Murdoc_chronology
http://episodeguides.blogspot.com/2011/02/yang-3-in-2d-psych-transcript-516.html
http://themacgyverproject.blogspot.com/2015/01/48-halloween-knights.html
http://psychusa.wikia.com/wiki/Psych_Wiki
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Psych:_The_Musical
http://nicegirlstv.com/2013/12/19/psych-murder-theatre-and-yang-in-the-musical-episode/
http://www.psychfic.com/community/showthread.php?t=4293

1995

For the first time in his life, Shawn Spencer was staring at iron bars.
Okay, well, maybe not iron; they could easily have been steel, or maybe nickel or titanium, or some kind of cool alloy. Or, knowing the SBPD and Henry’s complaints about budget cuts, they were probably made out of whatever substance was the cheapest.
But the chemical makeup of the bars didn’t matter to eighteen-year-old Shawn.

What mattered was that they were the bars of a jail cell, the holding area of the police station, right next to the drunk tank and some nameless faceless guard’s desk---Mr. Beanpole, or something else stupid that his dad had called the poor guy during his tirade of self-righteousness.
What mattered was that those jail cell bars were here to enclose Shawn, to lock him in, to rob away his freedom and his basic human dignity.

Because Shawn had been arrested.
Because Shawn had been arrested for stealing a car.
Because Shawn had been arrested for stealing a car to impress a girl.
Because Shawn had been arrested for stealing a car to impress a girl---by his own father.

“Gee, thanks, Dad,” Shawn scoffed bitterly. “I don’t care that I’ll never be able to be a cop now, but going to college might have been nice.” In spite of himself, he started to feel his eyes welling up. He blinked rapidly, flustered, trying to squelch the feeling away.

Shawn had known for a long time now that his relationship with his dad would never be the same as it used to be, would always be strained, always be tense. But never had he expected that his own father would do this to him.

Grand theft auto? He was going to bring the car back! He borrowed it, just for the night! The owner wasn’t even going to use it. What kind of father could do this to his own son? And just days after his high school graduation?

Shawn’s hands pounded into his eyes as if he could push back the sticky heat encircling the rims of his eyelids and burning into the corners, and he was swallowing hard to stop the hiccuping convulsions of his throat. There was no way he was going to cry. Not here, not now, not ever. He was a man, an adult, as Henry had pointed out, and he wasn’t going to give anyone the satisfaction.

He sensed the shadow, felt rather than saw it, when the shadow fell over his form huddled in the little iron cage. He uncovered his face and looked up.

The shadow’s owner wasn’t the nameless faceless guard. Instead, it was a man in a black leather jacket, around 5’8” with a slightly-outdated/slightly-timeless Euromullet, a dull silver death’s-head ring on his finger. “What are you in for?” the man asked.
British. Very English.

Shawn was confused. “I borrowed a car to impress a girl. Who are you?”
“That’s not too important at the moment, Shawn. May I call you Shawn?”
Shawn shrugged. “Sure.”
The man smiled, but his face looked cold. “You have a very impressive record, you know. Top of your class---could’ve been valedictorian, if you’d tried. You possess a remarkable set of skills for someone so young, and it shows. You should be proud.”
“Try telling that to my father,” Shawn spat.
“Perhaps I will,” the man mused. “Or perhaps we could do it together.”
Shawn scoffed. “Yeah, right. You’d have to get me out of these bars first.”
“My dear boy, that’s exactly what I plan to do.” The man’s smile never wavered.

Shawn eyed him. “Did my dad put you up to this? Is he trying to get something out of me?”
“Absolutely not. I’ve never met your father and I have no desire to. Quite frankly, he seems rather boring, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I do, actually.” Shawn laughed mirthlessly for almost a full second. “So how do you plan on getting me out, and what's the catch? Do you want me to confess or something?”

“No, nothing like that,” said the man. “I’ve got much bigger plans in mind. I want you to come work with me.”
“Work for you? Doing what?”
“I said work with me, not for me. My agency has requested ever so politely that I find a new recruit...and you’re the perfect young man for the job. We can discuss the particulars of it later, but trust me, the skillset required would be right up your alley. With a bit of polishing up and some on-the-job training, you could end up becoming the very brightest star that my employing organization has ever seen.”

Shawn thought about the man’s offer for a long moment. “Would it get me away from my dad?”
“Of course,” the man replied. “You’ll be travelling all over the world, seeing and doing and experiencing things that most people could only ever dream of.”
Shawn nodded and stuck his hand through the bars. “I’m in.”
As the man’s black-gloved hand shook his, Shawn said, “Would you mind telling me your name, so I can call you something other than ‘Mysterious Shadowy Figure?’”

“Why, certainly,” replied the man with a self-satisfied smirk. “You may call me Murdoc.”

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