last01standing: (Default)
[personal profile] last01standing
Title: Latent
Disclaimer: Psych is not mine.
Rating: R
Words : 11,900 (complete)
Summary: In Shawn Spencer's six-year tenure as SBPD's psychic detective, they've solved cases that wouldn't be closed anywhere else in the country. But in a missing persons case with no leads, it looks like their luck might have run out... with Gus.
Warnings: Major canon character death (Gus), violence
Notes: A Lassiter character study disguised as a Shawn character study disguised as a case fic. With angst on top. I'm serious about the angst.

1 | 2


Latent
PART TWO



"I didn't know," Shawn says before the door is even closed. "I've known you for almost six years. How could I have no idea?"

"That I had daddy issues? Spencer, everyone has daddy issues. Yourself included. Don't think I missed the mess when you mother was in town. He walked out us. It happens we got over it." The walls are plastered with faces, a few of them are old missing posters, but most of print outs from police files Lassiter knows he doesn't have access to. Roger Lassiter starts the chain, his face the same as he remembers it. On the opposite side is Gus smiling to the camera, his face squished against Shawn's as if they were two teenaged girls. "Did you get all this from police reports?"

"Some. Others from newspapers. A few from the internet. They're all local to Santa Barbara. The ones I circled in red I'm pretty sure about. Tracked down the contact info and everything."

"Spencer, this… impressive." And it is. This a Herculean feat of research. Funny how he'd never connected it before. If Spencer had no inside source and wasn't psychic, he and Guster did all their own footwork. He'd never expected to see Spencer involved in something so methodical.

"How else did you think I solved cases?"

"Not paperwork, that's for sure. I guess I assumed there was a certain amount of whacky antics and dumb luck."

"Only on Wednesday," Shawn mumbles. "They're not all in Santa Barbara, these cases, but they're all people who were seen in or around the area at least once."

"One of these reports was from Chicago."

"College student. Her ticket was used, but I talked to one of her friend who swore up and down she never boarded."

"And how drunk was this student?"

"My research is good." He clutches a stack of notes to his chest and glances back at the picture of him and Gus. "I just need to confirmation. What do you remember about the day your dad left?"

"He'd been fighting with my mom. It late, but it was loud. The door slammed and then I fell asleep. When I woke up the next morning, the car was gone. Lauren was eleven. He never came back."

"And you never thought that was weird? That he never tried to contact you?"

There were a lot of strange things about his father. He was old enough to hear the whispers, but the rumors had always been about his mother. About how the youngest of the Lassiters didn't quite look like his father. It was a family ripe for breaking. There'd been a cursory police investigation, but no one had seen the point.

Even now, Lassiter's not sure he sees the point. "My mother was cheating on him. I'm not sure with who, but it seems a safe bet."

Spencer nods, doesn't even have the good grace to look contrite. He turns back to his wall and pulls a red sharpie out from behind his ear, circling the picture of Roger Lassiter in red. He misses the paper, the marker squeaking as it skids onto the paint.

But how likely was it that this was all true? That Guster was the latest in a quarter century string of murders that started with Lassiter's own father. He would sooner believe that the notes were product of some bored frat boy trying to see if he could con a great detective.

"You need to stop," he says.

Spencer actually freezes at the tone of his voice, betrayal in his eyes. "My dad told me the same thing."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Lassiter takes a deep breath. "You need to stop for a second and consider something. It's one of the hardest lessons a detective ever has to learn. Sometimes there's too little evidence. Too much time. Sometimes you lose."

Sally Alzner taught that to Lassiter. Sometimes people disappear. Sometimes there are no leads. Spencer's six years into the job and it hasn't happened to him yet. That's nothing short of miraculous.

"I'm not giving up," Spencer says.

"People go mad when they don't let go. It doesn't matter if you find him and kill him with your own two hands. Gus isn't coming back. The way you're going is going to destroy you too."

"Lassie, it's really funny that you think I'm going to be all right after this." He stares at his wall of the missing. His wall of victims. "That's not going to happen. Now if you're not going to help me, you need to leave."

Lassiter leaves.

***


In the next week, Lassiter works half a dozen cases. A B&E. A suicide. A drowning by the pier. There's nothing out of the ordinary out of any of them. There's tool mark evidence and suspects and closure. He lead Juliet take lead on two of them and spends his extra time combing through the increasingly thin tips on the Guster case.

Then, just short of three weeks after the Guster's body was found, Spencer made his move. Lassiter's woken up at six in the morning by the chief calling on her own phone. "Did you know anything about this?"

"What?"

"The paper, Lassiter! Spencer took everything he found and gave it to the newspaper. We're in for a media clusterfuck. How much of this did he bring to you first?"

"Why do you think he came to me?"

"Because your dad's on the list, Carlton. What did he say to you?"

"He tried to tell me my father was murdered. Asked me about the day he left. I told him to let it go."

He can hear the exasperated sigh. "You told Spencer to let it go? That's the most encouraging thing you could say to him in the circumstance. Get to the station. Now. We're going to have to do some damage control."

There's a whirlwind out of that. Spencer manages to be a pain in his side even when not at the station. He's made it so the police can't ignore this set of leads. There will be questions. A public outcry. A whole lot of families pulled back to the past, including Lassiter's own.

He almost admires the move. In the same subtle way he admires most of Spencer's methods. When he gets to the station, there's a crush of reporters. The chief's already scheduled a press conference but that doesn't stop the nagging questions. "Why didn't news of this new development come from the SBPD?"

"Do you believe Shawn Spencer is correct and Santa Barbara is facing a serial killer?"

"What do have to say about the death of your own father?"

The last one breaks his string of no comments and he pulls off his sunglasses to squint at the microphone. "I'm sorry."

"Roger Lassiter was the earliest name listed. Surely you've been advised of this, Detective Lassiter."

He's stopped so he has to say something. If he leaves with a sneer, he's just going to get another reprimand about his terrible PR skills. He licks his lips. "Nothing has been confirmed. I would appreciate it if you kept my family out of your speculation."

Inside, Juliet is beside herself at Spencer's audacity. Lassiter feels like he's in the eighteenth mile of a marathon, but they're moving. Yesterday, hope was waning. Today Spencer had shoved possibilities down their throats.

"Twenty-five names and only one body," O'Hara says. "He's going to be wrong about something."

"I don't think he cares about anything but getting results."

Their paperwork has quintupled again. They're both banned from the press conference for being too close to the case. They're both bitter about it, but it's better than being off the case completely. Juliet isn't looking at him when she says, "You never told me about your father."

"You never told me about yours."

"That's different."

"It's really not."

***


There's no sign of Spencer that day. They match up three of his names with bodies found in different counties and three other people come forward to get their own names removed from the list. It's one of the busiest periods Lassiter has ever had in the station and he blames that when he realizes it's been three days and Spencer still hasn't shown his face.

None of them think it's strange. Then Lassiter wakes up and finds the morning paper staring at him, headline bright, accusing and FRAUD. Spencer's picture is next to it. One of the times he'd jokingly struck a psyching pose for the press. Lassiter's in the background talking to Juliet. Gus's left arm is visible.

He skims the story thinking of Spencer's own admission, I'm not a psychic. At this point, Lassiter wouldn't be surprised to find that he'd confirmed it in print. The story has a lot of evidence laid out. Enough to suggest that someone had been following Shawn and Gus, had talked to their sources. There was even mention of a recording, but no quotes.

Not from Spencer. If Spencer was going to out himself as a non-psychic, he would do it himself, verbally.

He shoves the paper into the pocket of his jacket and drives the familiar route to the psych offices only to find them empty. The research has been cleared off the walls. All that remains are the stray marks from the Sharpies. There's a pineapple smoothie, half-finished in the fridge, one of Spencer's ridiculous ThunderCats dolls perched on his desk.

Spencer is not here. There are pictures everywhere. Shawn and Gus through the ages and it seems like the kind of thing Shawn would want to keep close to him. A pit drops in his stomach. He's never put much stock in hunches—hunches were Spencer's area—but he knows what they're like and he knows some people who swear by them.

Spencer's gone. He didn't leave. He's gone.

On a whim, he's back in his car and headed to Spencer's apartment. A place he's only been once, his fears crystallizing even before he notices that Spencer's motorcycle is still there. He knocks three times but there's no answer at all.

***


No one at the police station takes him seriously. Juliet rolls her eyes and says, "That's what he does when things get to real. I'm surprised it took this long."

Henry Spencer says, "Yeah, that sounds like Shawn."

Chief Vick says, "Honestly, Carlton, he's done us a favor by laying low."

But Spencer doesn't lay low, Spencer rushes into things when he has even half a lead. How is Lassiter the only person who remembers that? The only person left alive who still understands Shawn Spencer. Subtlety is not in his vocabulary.

At half past noon when his mother calls, it's very nearly a welcome relief until she lowers her voice to almost a whisper and says, "Carlton is it possible that you can come over. I'm afraid the stories in the newspaper have things rather wrong."

"Mom, now's really not a good time."

"Make it a good time, Carlton," she snaps and hangs up.

He goes to the chief, pleads family emergency. She sighs and lets him leave. His conflict of interest is becoming something too big to ignore.

His mother's house is the same one he grew up in, right down the deteriorating paint job on the white picket fence. The garden in the back is overgrown, but still producing and the doghouse belonging to a pet long ago dead still stands proudly. He uses his spare key to open the door to find his mother sitting regally in her armchair, a stack of envelopes in front of her. She's stooped a little with age, but her ice blue eyes and her dark hair streaked with gray still made for an intimidating picture. A cigarette dangles loosely from her fingers. "I thought I was going to get a visit from you as soon as it came out."

"Mom, in case you haven't notice, I'm in the middle of one of the biggest cases of my life."

"Carlton, sit down and listen to your mother. That psychic kid of yours, the fraud. He beat you here. You really have no reason to be so damn stubborn."

"Shawn was here?"

"Phone call. Didn't sound nearly as much like a child as you make him out." She takes a long drag from her cigarette. Lassiter itches to snatch it from her lips. She's already had one cancer scare and he's not sure he's in a place where he could handle another. "Don't even think about saying a word, Carly, it's my damn house. I'll smoke if I like."

"What did Spencer ask you?"

"The same question you and Lauren failed to ask me for year. What happened between me and your father."

"You told him?" Lassiter breaths, terrified.

"Of course not. I told him that your father wasn't picked up by any serial killer because he's still alive."

"How do you know?"

She reaches to the coffee table, grabbing the stack of letters. "He's been sending me letters. Not on the anniversary or anything, but the first week or so of every August, I get a letter with his name on it. Haven't opened a single one."

Lassiter stares at the letters in his hands. Twenty-five years and he'd not had a single word about his father only to have it all placed in his hand. "You didn't open them?" His blood pressure is rising. It's the first time he's felt really properly angry in weeks. "Me and Lauren thought he forgot about us, mom!"

"Listen to me, Carlton. I know you think I'm the bad guy here. You think I slept around and Roger left in a huff. But you don't know the whole story and if I have it my way, you'll never know the whole story. Your daddy was not a nice man. We were better off not having him in our lives." Her cigarette smolders, hanging off her bottom lip. "He's not dead. I can tell you that much. My last letter was a day after all that mess with your psychic's friend. Don't waste any time on him." She folds her arm. "Burn the letters if you like. I should have done that years ago."

The tone of her voice makes him want to comply immediately, but instead he nods and slides them into his coat pocket. "Thank you," he says.

"Get back to work," she says, waving her hand. "I remember your speeches. Big case, important things to do. Just give your mother a kiss first."

Lassiter leans forward obligingly and gives her a peck on the cheek. She smells like her menthol cigarettes, smells like home. He tries to remember how his father smelled, how he looked, but the sight is long faded from his mind, an impossible figure he's never going to recover.

***


He doesn't go back to the station.

Psych's empty and Shawn's gone so he goes to the office, takes out the spare key Spencer had presented him at Christmas one year and lets himself inside. He can't think anymore. This is the kind of case where Spencer with his unconventional methods and quick thinking is invaluable.

He feels useless and hates feeling useless. Instead of dwelling on it, he takes out the letters his father had sent. They're in no particular order. Some of the envelopes are yellowed with age, other's crisp and white. They all smell like smoke. He reaches into the crease and opens the first one.

Reading it feels like an invasion. He's never had an overly romantic picture of his parent's relationship, but this is something he didn't expect. The notes is overly curt, a few perfunctory words.

Marie,
Eight years. Do you regret it?
Roger


He opens another.

Marie,
I'm starting to think you'll never understand.
Roger.


And another.

Marie,
Carlton looks good in blue.
Roger


There is a growing stack of shredded envelopes on the table. He spends less time one each individual letter as a picture starts to form in his head. He doesn't like the shape.

Marie,
Twenty-five.
I'm going to make sure you notice.
Roger.


Something clicks and he drops the letter's like he's been burned, his mother's voice echoing in his head, Your daddy was not a nice man. The handwriting. The distinct style of the fs. The upscale r even in the middle of a word. He checks the postmarks, all early August. He's willing to bet all the first week.

All the first Monday.

And if Shawn talked to his mother, there's every chance that Spencer made the same conclusion. The letters are only half open, but he doesn't need to see anymore. Doesn't want to see anymore. He turns to the envelopes instead. A few of them have generic addresses, PO boxes, but some of the newer ones have a home listed.

Outside the city. A rural street Lassiter doesn't recognize. He's been using the address for at least seven letters. There's every chance he's still there.

His GPS tells him it's a thirty minute ride and he starts driving before he realizes he should call for back-up.

But he can't because there's a chance he's wrong.

He hopes to God he is wrong.

Santa Barbara is sunny and warm, clouds spiraling up into the heavens. One of his friends was murdered almost four weeks ago. Another could be dead soon. May be dead already. His knuckles are white against the steering wheel. The chatter on his police scanner is mostly inanities about traffic stops.

He's at the address in no time at all. It's off a dirt road, held together with nothing but spit and a prayer. It looks abandoned, the window next to the door is shattered. He doubts it has functioning water or electricity. The fact that the ramshackle mailbox is still here is nothing short of a miracle.

It looks like a dead end.

Pulling out his phone, he texts O'Hara. Investigating lead @ 261 Cedar Way. If no word in 30, send everyone. She won't wait thirty minutes. Lassiter knows she won't. But it still gives him a buffer in case he's made a mistake. He draws his gun, tugs the safety off and knocks twice on the door.

There's no sound from inside. Lassiter takes a deep breath and tries to door handle. He has no probably cause and he could well be risking the entire investigation, but they lose Spencer when he could have prevented it, he doesn't think he'd be able to live with that.

The door is unlocked and the knob squeaks when he turns it. He's done this a thousand times. Usually with back-up but the principals are the same. His pulse is pointing in his throat, his finger is on the trigger.

He kicks the door in.

The first thing he sees is Spencer, sitting on a chair in the middle of the room, hands bound behind him in duct tape. His head lolls backwards. Lassiter reaches out to take his pulse he jerks into awareness, gasping around a filthy gag. He tugs it out and the Spencer's voice explodes into the still air, "It's a trap Lassiter, a fucking trap! Please tell me you're not alone."

"O'Hara will be here soon." He glances down. "Why didn't you try to run?"

"Gee, Lassie, I'd loved to but the mean old serial killer decided to start by breaking both my legs."

Lassiter fought back a flinch. "Where is he?"

"I dunno. I think he suspected someone was going to be looking for me well before this. Tried to tell him that Gus was the only one who cared, but that didn't work so well. I think he's got a razor by the table."

Spencer's hands are bound behind his back. A formality, a way to keep him from lashing out. The straight razor on the counter isn't clean in the slightest, stained red around the edges. He tries not to think about that.

When he turns around, standing over Spencer, casually pointing a gun to the back of his head is Roger Lassiter.

"Hello, Carlton."

"Dad," he breathes.

Twenty five years since he last saw the man. His memories are wispy things, a dark haired giant smiling down at him. The dark hair has faded to salt and pepper, lines etched themselves into his cheeks and he seems smaller than Lassiter's memory.

But last time he was thirteen and his dad was still the biggest thing in his universe.

We were better off not having him in our lives.

"Now, real slow, Carlton I need you to put your gun on the floor and slide it over to me."

"Why would I ever do that?"

"Because if you don't I'll blow a nice hole in the back of the fraud's head."

"Is that all?" Spencer says from the chair, his voice squeaking. "Seriously? That's the best you can do? Go ahead and shoot him Lassie. I don't care if he gets me first. He killed Gus, he should die."

Roger kicks the side of his chair and the motion is enough to jar Spencer's broken legs and send him howling in pain.

Lassiter bends down and slides the gun across the dusty wood floors. It stops just inches from Spencer's feet and he stares down at it, breath coming in shattered gasps as he regains his composure.

"It's nice to see you again, Carlton. I always hoped you would be the one who found me."

"You don't have to do this." Lassiter schools the tremor out of his voice. "If you stop now, it's still going to better than going in for murder."

Roger laughs. "Playing dumb. Interesting tactic. But, you're right you know. Your whore of a mother didn't give those letters any thought at all. If she'd talked to someone, I may have been stopped years ago. And you. You wouldn't be here unless you saw through them."

"Murder convictions need physical evidence. Even in cases as sick as yours. What happened to the cars?"

"Sold them. Amazing what people are willing to overlook for a deal."

"Clever," Lassiter comments absently. It's the same way he would have done it. When he was finishing his criminal justice degree, he used to sit in his room and think about the perfect crime, his father's voice echoing in his ears. There's no use to doing something if you're not thorough. "Except, you're clearly not. Because no matter what happens here, you're done."

"That's where you're wrong. Whatever happens here, I'm immortal. Do you know how many people out there who will remember me? Not as Roger Lassiter who's wife cheated on him and still lost everything but as one of the worlds most successful serial killers."

"Then you killed them all."

Lassiter's hand clenches around the razor on the table. He makes eye contact with Shawn who is frantically working his hands behind the chair. Lassiter doesn't doubt that escape and evade was one of the Henry Spencer childhood training lessons.

"Twenty five people. A good solid number. Multiples of five always seem so much neater. Wanted to do something special for this one." The gun kisses the back of Spencer's head. "Shame you didn't call for backup. Would have thought a by the book kind of guy like yourself would use better police work." He cocks the gun. "I would have loved to go out in a blaze of glory."

Lassiter throws the razor. It catches Roger in the shoulder, just enough to change the line of the gun. Instead of Shawn's head exploding into a cloud of red, the bullet glances of the side of his scalp and he topples to the ground. Lassiter hears his muffled cry of pain, but knows he has no prayer but to move and move now. He covers the space between them just fast enough to force the gun into the air before Roger squeezes off three more shots. They blast a hole in the ceiling, showering them with bits of drywall. Lassiter has the methodical arrest down to a science, but this isn't that kind of fight. His gun holster is empty, he's outweighed by about fifty pounds and he's not used to this kind of scuffle.

And there's a little part of him that still thinks his father is the strongest man in the world.

He grasps for leverage but his hands keep sliding off the cotton shirt, nails scraping against skin as there's another crack of a gun and then white hot pain in his stomach and a blossoming sea of red on his stomach. He gets a hand up and presses a thumb into an eye.

And then all of a sudden, the weight of the body against him goes slack, landing heavily on his chest. He glances sideways to see Shawn Spencer lying on his side holding Lassiter's gun in his hand. Ripped duct tape hands off of wrists rubbed red. He dimly remembers Lucinda and a shooting range. I tell you, Carlton. Kid's a crack shot. "You all right?" he asks. "Because I think I might pass out."

Stomach wounds bleed a lot but they kill you slow. He'll get to a hospital in time. "Juliet will be here soon."

The world gets a little hazy after that.

***


He wakes up in the hospital to Chief Vick's face. Her arms are crossed, her face stern. "I expected better from you. There's a reasons we have protocols in place. It's a miracle you didn't get yourself killed."

"I had to be sure," he mumbles.

"You still keep us in the loop, Carlton. You know how this works."

"It was my dad," he says, closing his eyes. "I wanted to be wrong."

***


Lassiter has more friends than he thought if the parade of people through his hotel room is any indication. Buzz McNab brings him a stuffed dog. Henry Spencer claps him warmly on the shoulder and calls him a good man. Juliet spends almost four hours in his room making fun of crap daytime television. He doesn't see Spencer for two days until he wakes up in the middle of the night to find Spencer sitting next to him in a wheelchair, both legs encased in white plaster. "Don't you have your own room?"

Spencer gives him a ghost of a smile. "Jailbreak. Wanted to come say hi. I don't sit still well."

"It's the middle of the night."

"Couldn't sleep."

"So you decided to wake me up?"

"I killed a guy," he says flatly. "I've never done that before. I killed a guy and Gus is dead and everyone keeps asking me if I'm okay. Are they stupid?"

Lassiter laughs, the stitches pulling tight in his side.

Spencer folds his hands in his lap. "I've never killed anyone before. I mean dad always made sure I could handle a gun, but I never thought I'd have to—" He lets out a long shaky breath. "I just wanted to ask. Does it get easier?"

He's killed four people in the line of duty and slept well that night. It had never struck him as out of the normal. Now he thinks of his father and feels sick. "Yes. It gets easier. It shouldn't, but it does."

"Are you all right, Lassie?"

"Few new scars, but I'll survive."

Neither of them go back to sleep.

***


They let a reporter into his room the day before discharge. He gets through the interview without raising his voice, but that's only thanks to the sedatives still present in his IV drip. Only one question really takes him by surprise.

"What do you have to say about the accusations that Shawn Spencer is a fraud? You always were one of his most vocal doubters in the police force."

It takes him a minute to collect his thoughts and peace them together in the right order. "In the past six years, do you know how many unsolved cases we've had in the SBPD? None. Six years and we've closed everything that came across our desks. A lot of that was thanks to Spencer. I know the papers want to label him as a fraud, but I don't care if that's true. Shawn Spencer is effective. He could pretend to be a peacock and I wouldn't care if we kept clearing cases."

"In light of recent accusations, it's entirely possible there will be some cases reopened."

"They won't find anything," Lassiter promises.

***


He goes to Guster's grave when he gets the chance. Spencer's there too, dripping sweat from pushing the wheelchair through grass. He looks up to Lassiter. "I can't wait to get out of this thing. Not nearly as good of a pick up line for chicks as I would have thought."

There's a pineapple perched on top of Gus's grave, standing out amidst the sea of flowers.

"I saw the story. Never thought you'd end up being on my side. Jules is still pissed beyond all belief."

"Jules should have gotten over it a long time ago. Of course you're not a psychic."

Spencer's smile is weak but genuine. "Don't know if I can still keep doing this. Psychic Detective's kind of lost its shine. Thinking about burrito sales. I feel like there's a budding burrito market."

"Running away then?"

"As soon as I get the medical all clear, I'm off for parts unknown. You could come with me if you want. I know for a fact you've probably got more than a year's vacation saved up."

For a moment Lassiter considers it. Even before this mess, half of the department treated him like he was a loose cannon. It would be nice to have a break.

But Lassiter doesn't know how to be anything but a cop and he's never considered running from a fight. "Thanks for the offer, but not on your life."

"Figured as much." He straightens, and offers Lassiter a hand. "I guess this is goodbye then. Thanks, you know. For saving my life."

Lassiter reaches out and shakes his hand. "Think we're about even."

"Yeah, I guess so." Spencer turns and starts to make his way back to the road.

"Spencer!" Lassiter calls after him. Only the pause in motion lets him know that he's still heard. "I'll see you when you get back."

There's no reply, but the sun is shining, breathing hurts just a little less and he knows the world owes them both some brighter days.

(end)

(no subject)

3/4/12 07:32 (UTC)
Posted by [identity profile] meli-64.livejournal.com
This was great! Really heart breaking but perfect.

(no subject)

23/4/12 21:09 (UTC)
Posted by [identity profile] trolllogicfics.livejournal.com
(I'm horribly behind on replies but...)

Thank you so much for reading!

(no subject)

6/4/12 22:19 (UTC)
Posted by [identity profile] turquoisetumult.livejournal.com
Wow, this was brilliantly written. I'm not usually one for case fics, but this was felt so dramatic and surreal, I couldn't tear my eyes away. You weren't kidding about the character studies and the angst. Both were very much present in the fic. (I just LOVED how once Lassiter found out Shawn wasn't a psychic, he backtracked and thought about how much effort Shawn and Gus actually put into solving a case. Interesting how the revelation made Lassiter admire Shawn while it made Juliet have only disdain for him, which kind of made me sad, but all part of the angst, I suppose. Alongside killing Gus! GAH! Heartbreaking.)

Anyway, let me get off my tangent here and praise you on a job well done. Truly, you did an excellent job with this fic! ♥
Edited 6/4/12 22:20 (UTC)

(no subject)

23/4/12 21:13 (UTC)
Posted by [identity profile] trolllogicfics.livejournal.com
I'm so glad you enjoyed this even if case fics aren't your cup of tea. My friend and I got into a conversation waaay back when about why Lassiter was such an awesome character and it boiled down to this: Psych, from Lassiter's point of view, is a completely different show. It's a serious police drama where there are dead bodies, big nasty issues and occasionally they get help solving crimes from two buffoons who triple the required paperwork. I kind of wanted Shawn to be forced to live in that world for a while.

(Apologies for being so horrendously late on the reply. RL, it eats things.)

(no subject)

3/10/12 15:28 (UTC)
Posted by [identity profile] redrikki.livejournal.com
I just discovered this story and, as with all your stuff, I loved it. Except, of course, for the part where you killed Gus. I think you really nailed each of the characters.

(no subject)

23/10/12 17:55 (UTC)
Posted by [identity profile] trolllogicfics.livejournal.com
...yeah I honestly didn't mean to kill Gus when I set about plotting this story. It was supposed to just be a Lassie finds out story, but it kind of bloomed. And it kind of fits because you know Psych from Lassiter's POV is a completely different show that what you see.