The Price of Having Too Much Fun

[musicalluna]

Title: The Price of Having Too Much Fun
Fandom: Psych
Author: MusicalLuna
Rating: T
Characters/Pairings: Shawn
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Warnings: None
Complete: Yes
Summary: Shawn's had one too many concussions, and his brain periodically likes getting revenge.
A/N: I initially started writing this for the 100 Themes prompt, got stuck about two paragraphs in, abandoned it, wrote the other idea I had for the pain prompt, and then was forced to come back to this by Maja and finished it. And I liked it. Plus, she demanded that I post it so... :D
Disclaimer:  Still do not own them. SHHHhhuuuuuunnNNnnn.

 

Shawn rarely gets headaches. He’s been blessed with a brain that doesn’t randomly feel like inflicting severe and foundless pain upon him. The concussions (yes, in the plural…) have taken their toll however, and every great once in a while, he’s inflicted with the mother of all headaches, complete with symptoms to rival those of a migraine. And they always strike when he least expects it and at some of the worst possible times.

Like now.

The pain swells and grows rapidly until he’s screwing his eyes shut, his fingers pressed against his temples before he even realizes he’s moved them. He’s never going to get on the Robinson case if he’s like this, but suddenly the lights in the room are too bright—so bright—blindingly bright even with his eyes closed, and he doesn’t give a damn anymore whether or not he gets the stupid case. The station is too loud, much too loud, and he wants to scream at them all to shut the hell up, but knows that will only hurt more.

He’s on his knees before he realizes they’ve even given out and he barely registers a small hand on his back. It’s Juliet’s voice, much, much, too loud and painfully shrill in his ears that has all of his attention. Oh, god, it hurts—

“Shawn? Shawn, are you okay? What’s the matter? Gus, what’s happening? This isn’t right—”

He groans and mutters, “Jules, please, take it down a notch. Or ten.”

Gus’ voice moves closer and he thinks it must be because he’s knelt down beside him. “I think he has a migraine,” he says, and his voice is pitched low and quiet. Shawn is thankful that someone knows the agony he’s in and is trying to make it better.

“Oh my gosh,” Juliet whispers and she sounds vaguely horrified. “I didn’t know—”

“Don’t get them often,” Shawn grunts. “Not your fault. One too many hits to the head.”

“What the hell is—” Shawn flinches, his hands moving to cover his ears as the head detective’s booming voice thrusts the pain level in his head to a new high, nausea rising so fast alongside it that he nearly loses his lunch on Juliet’s knees.

“Shhh!” Juliet and Gus’ voices hiss, quiet and intense all at once.

“He has a migraine,” Juliet whispers in explanation and Shawn is surprised to hear the head detective make a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat.

“My sister gets those sometimes,” he says, and his voice too is now low and soft. “They can incapacitate her for days. What the hell are you even doing here if you have a migraine, Spencer?”

“Didn’t have it five minutes ago. Nerghh… Feel sick. Gonna puke. Now. Now. NOW.”

Lassiter’s voice curses, and two pairs of hands grab at his shoulders, pulling him upright just in time to solidify his notion that his stomach’s revolting is no longer going to be denied. He finds himself purging into a small trash can, the movement akin to striking his head over and over again with a sledgehammer, or maybe repeatedly dropping an anvil on it, and his eyelashes begin to collect dew in response to the unbearable pain.

He spits feebly when his stomach settles enough that it stops clenching. It hurts to spit, it hurts to breathe, it hurts to think, and the noise, the noise and the lights are still too much… These realizations nearly make him heave again, until something cool and wet brushes his face.

“Put it over his eyes,” Gus is murmuring. “Yeah, just like that—”

It feels like sweet relief in the form of a damp paper towel. The pain wanes just enough to be almost bearable. He mumbles something incoherent that’s supposed to be thankful, and the message must get through because Juliet’s voice is smiling faintly when she says softly, “You’re welcome. We’re going to help you up now, okay?”

Shawn doesn’t bother nodding because he knows that just that movement alone will make his stomach pitch, and he’s not sure he can handle that. And if he can avoid vomiting in the middle of the Santa Barbara Police Station, that would be a bonus.

The figures that slip beneath his arms are distinctly masculine, Lassiter on his left and Gus on his right, and Juliet must be in front of him, because there are two small warm hands on either side of his face holding the rapidly warming paper towel to his eyes. If it didn’t help so much, he’d hate the fact that he can’t see a thing.

“All right, one, two, three,” Lassiter says, and they move slowly upward. Just slow enough that Shawn’s stomach grumbles a little, but remains still. “Where are we taking him? Your car?”

Shawn groans at the mere idea of being in a moving, rocking vehicle in the blinding Santa Barbara sunshine.

“I think that’s a no,” Gus says. “He’s not going to be up for a car ride for a while.”

There’s a moment of silence between the three, the sounds of the station instead pounding against Shawn’s eardrums before Juliet finally says, “The Overtime Room should be empty. I don’t think there have been any cases worthy of its use.”

“Perfect,” Lassiter murmurs and they start forward.

The journey is not a fun one. The paper towel has warmed over and lost its soothing properties, and despite the best efforts of the two detectives and his best friend, their jostling and the mere effort it takes to remain upright makes the nausea insufferable, his head throbbing with every step.

He knows as soon as they’ve moved into the Overtime Room because beautiful, wondrous, darkness settles around them as the door closes with a painfully loud click. “Let’s put him near the back,” Juliet whispers, her voice just barely audible. Even that makes his head pound.

They move further into the room and then Gus is shifting and whispering, “Okay, Shawn. We’re sitting you down.”

He nods just slightly and the pair eases him down onto a bunk, the mattress sinking slightly beneath his weight. The pain is still excruciating, but in the darkened, sound-proofed Overtime Room, it’s much more bearable.

“Why don’t you lie down?” Juliet suggests softly, and then as he turns to do so, her hand brushes the back of his head. “Be careful.” That gentle, feather-light touch guides his head to the small pillow at the head of the bunk and he sighs.

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

Juliet’s voice is smiling again. “Of course. I’m going to get you a damp cloth and some ice to keep it cool. Just try to get some rest, okay?”

“Mmhm…”

The last thing he’ll really remember before he slips into blissful oblivion is the feeling of the cold cloth settling over his eyes.