musicalluna

Title: Shawn, You're No George Clooney: Part IV
Fandom: Psych
Author: MusicalLuna
Rating: T
Characters/Pairings: Shawn, Gus
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Humor
Warnings:

SPOILER WARNING for High Top Fade Out as well as pretty much all of season four prior to that episode, just in case.

Set in the week following High Top Fade Out.

Complete: No
Summary: Shawn and Gus steal--pardon--borrow Henry's boat and soon discover the meager amount of boating experience between them just might land them at the bottom of the sea, sleeping with the fishes
A/N: Sorry sorry sorry about the delay! The last week of school threw me all off-kilter and I've been a bit of a writing mess since. The last eight hundred words took an excessive amount of time to get through. Don't worry though, I'm 90% sure the next chapter will be posted in a reasonable time frame.

Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Much as it pains me, I do not own Shawn or Gus, I only get to play with little dolls of them in the sandbox known as the internet. PLEASE DON'T PERSECUTE ME FOR LOVING THEM TOO MUCH.

When Shawn finally stopped heaving, he hunched over, sprawled on the deck on his hands and knees, panting like he'd just taken a sucker punch to the gut.

The waves hadn't gotten any larger, but now that the engine was off, it seemed like they were having a lot greater affect on the boat. Each dip between waves kept them bobbing unsteadily back and forth for nearly twice as long and the water was getting painfully close to joining them between the rails. That probably wasn't good.

“Okay,” Gus said aloud, even though he knew it was unlikely Shawn was paying any attention to him anymore. “We're out of gas. But your dad probably keeps an emergency back-up, right? I mean, we were always even better prepared than the Boy Scouts. Our Eagle Scout motto was 'Better Prepared Than Boy Scouts'. So of course your dad—”

“Dude,” Shawn said between breaths, “You're rambling. Calm down. No gas—” He covered his mouth with his wrist for a moment, stomach convulsing, and then, presumably when the urge to vomit was under control, continued, “—is not a death sentence. And yes, knowing Dad, he has a back up can for emergencies.”

“Where would he store it?” Gus asked, taking a good look at Shawn now that keeping an eye on the control panel was unnecessary. His face was a sickly color, sweat beading at his temples and along his hairline, dampening the strands there and making his normally springy coif droopy. He looked exhausted, which was understandable considering how hard his body was trying to expel everything inside it. He was miserable, yes, but by no means was he in danger. Maybe this would teach him to think twice before going off to do things he didn't really know how to do half-cocked.

Gus snorted to himself. Yeah, and Michael Jackson and Elvis were off laughing it up in Bora Bora. Right.

“What are you laughing about?” Shawn asked, voice colored with resentment.

“Nothing,” Gus told him and held out a hand to help him up.

Shawn reached up to take it and the boat dipped abruptly backward, one wave pushing them down in between two others. Gus staggered forward and fell, hitting his knees and Shawn let out a huffed cry of surprise and pain as one of those knees landed against the soft, vulnerable part of his side. An elbow caught Gus in the cheek and he jerked away, yelping, “Ow!”

They finally came to a stop at the far end of the boat, lying in a tangled heap.

“Ow, god,” Shawn choked out. “If you didn't want me to get up, Gus, you just had to say so.” He groaned and rubbed a hand gingerly over his wounded side. “Oh, my spleen.”

“That's not where your spleen is located, Shawn.” Gus sat up with one hand carefully brushing the now-tender skin of his cheek and immediately had to grab for a hand-hold on the side of the boat as they rolled over another wave.

Shawn groaned again. “You just tried to crush my internal organs with your kneecap, Gus, you're really going to argue anatomy with me right now?”

“You almost broke my cheekbone with your elbow!” Gus shot back, instantly ruffled. “It's not like I meant to fall on you!”

“Well,” Shawn grumbled, his voice slightly muffled because he was still lying face down on the bottom of the boat, “you're sitting on my hand, so if you don't mind—”

Gus' eyes widened as he realized that was why the deck felt so lumpy. “Oh, dang, Shawn, sorry!”

Shawn grimaced as he pulled his hand out from beneath Gus and shook his head. “No big.” He flexed his fingers and the grimace returned.

“Broken?” Gus asked, eyeing him worriedly. This whole trip was already a mess; the last thing they needed were broken bones.

“Nah,” Shawn said, shaking his head in the negative. “Just a little squished, they'll be fine. My spleen on the other hand—”

And like a switch flipping, Gus' annoyance was back. He deliberately planted a hand on Shawn's ribs and pushed, using the momentum to lever himself to his feet.

Shawn grunted, making a whiny noise, which Gus ignored, and then muttered something under his breath that Gus didn't quite catch, but which earned him a dirty look nonetheless. Gus' irritation faded somewhat when he had to grab on to the side of the boat to keep from taking a header right into the water. As if to make sure he had gotten the point, a fork of lightning flashed down from a dark cloud, thunder rumbling close behind. Be angry at Shawn later; find the gas and get out of here now.

“Where does your dad keep the spare gas can?” he asked, eyes dropping to search the deck at his feet.

“Oh, now you're gonna play nice, now that you want my help,” Shawn muttered and Gus glowered at him.

“Really, Shawn? Right now, you're gonna act like that? We're drifting aimlessly at sea with a storm practically on top of our heads and you're going to withhold information?”

Shawn rolled his eyes. “Well, not when you put it like that.” The water bucked beneath them and Shawn sucked in a sharp breath, cheeks spreading out into another creepy grin. “Let's find that gas can, shall we?” he said.

Gus nodded and moved toward the helm, grabbing hold of one of the handrails to steady himself. “Lets.”

Keeping one hand firmly wrapped around the rail, Gus crouched, looking for any kind of containers that might contain the fuel they needed in the various nooks and crannies underneath the helm.

“It'll—be in a—red container probably,” Shawn said between carefully measured breaths. Gus could tell he was moving closer, though it was at a snail's pace.

The boat suddenly nosed upwards, making a heroic effort to get vertical and Gus' stomach leapt into his throat as he grabbed for another handhold. Shawn let out a gasped, breathy curse, shoes squeaking noisily on the deck as he scrabbled for purchase and then the boat dove forward as it crested the peak of the wave. There was a loud, hollow thud from the very back and a sharp cry that had Gus struggling to turn around, while trying to maintain his death grip on the metal bars. He caught a glimpse of Shawn's red jacket out of the corner of his eye, just before he tumbled down into the center of the deck as the angle of the boat dropped back down. Shawn lay there, fingers tightening into a fist as a groan pushed it's way out through his teeth. The sound dissolved into something that, if pressed, Gus might have described as a cross between a pant and a whimper.

“Shawn?!” he shouted, torn between staying where he had something to cling on to and going to make sure his stupid best friend was all right. After a few seconds when there were no further drastic movements, Gus finally gave in to the latter urge, scrambling out to Shawn's side on his hands and knees. “Shawn?” he said again, voice far louder than was necessary.

If the noises Shawn was making were any indication, touching wasn't such a great idea, so Gus opted for looking, though a little whimper might have snuck out of him when they dipped forward a few degrees, his fingers attempting to create handholds in the smooth surface of the deck. When Gus finally got back to looking, Shawn had slid a few inches toward the bow and there was a smear of bright red against the pure white of the boat.

His stomach lurched—hard.

Immediately, he tore his gaze away from the blood, focusing on the back of Shawn's head, because the red of his jacket was a little too close to the red of his blood for him to handle right now. A bolt of lightning crackled over head, thunder following mere seconds in its wake and a shudder crawled down his spine. When things went bad with Shawn, they really went bad. Stupid, stupid Shawn.

He reached out, trying to ignore the wind and the flicker of lightning in his peripheral vision, and touched Shawn's back. Voice shaking, he said, “Shawn?”

Shawn shied away from his touch, several whimper-like noises turning to pants behind his teeth and Gus snatched his hand away as though burned. “Shawn, what's wrong?” he demanded, trying to shuffle closer without touching him. That was made far more difficult as the boat rocked up against a wave, a faint spray of seawater clinging to his skin. He jerked forward, throwing out his hands to catch himself and wound up with hands and knees on either side of Shawn, trying very hard not to slip and smack into whatever injury Shawn had managed to sustain.

Shawn himself curled up further, apparently no longer perturbed by the rough water. He breathed out shallowly a few times and then puffed, voice taut with pain, “Hit—hit my side. Bruised. I th—think.” He laughed weakly, but that was abruptly strangled and subdued, Shawn breathing through his nose as low whines slipped from his throat.

Okay. Okay. Bruised ribs were annoying, painful, sure, but not life-threatening. They could deal with bruised ribs. But there was blood...

“You're bleeding,” Gus informed him and decided it was probably safe to put a hand on his hip.

Shawn snorted out another laugh, though this one stayed strictly in his upper airway. “Of course I am.” A sharp dip to the left and Shawn yelped, both of them slipping several inches toward the side of the craft.

“Come on,” Gus prodded, worriedly. “We've gotta get somewhere we can hold onto something.”

"Can't I just hold on to you? It seems easier than the whole...moving thing.”

Protesting was a good sign. If Shawn was talking instead of whining incoherently, the pain was probably ebbing. “Shawn, if w—”

The boat tipped dangerously over toward one side and Gus' words turned into a strangled cry, which Shawn echoed even more loudly when Gus dropped forward onto his back. They slid across the deck, coming mere inches away from the railing. Gus' stomach caught in his throat at the sight of water, just over the boat railing, far too close. Shawn whimpered and croaked, “I see your point.”

They weaved back the other direction and slid back toward the other side of the boat. Gus grimaced at the sight of Shawn's blood, now smeared in streaks across the center of the deck, tracking their progress as they rolled through the waves. “Hang on!” he shouted and got to his knees, using one hand to pull Shawn up with him. Shawn hissed. As he straightened up, Gus finally saw where the blood was coming from.

There was a long cut along the line of his jaw, blood smeared onto his cheek and now oozing down his throat. Gus shuddered.

Shawn looked at him. “It's just a scratch, isn't it?”

Gus pursed his lips and glared. “Shut up, Shawn, or I'll make sure you bleed out.”

The idiot's mouth started to curl into a grin, but the boat dipped forward over another wave and they tensed together, Shawn breathing out a curse, fingers digging into Gus' shoulder. They shuffled forward toward the helm with the help of the angle of the boat and they were almost there when, finally, it started to rain.

It began as a few light drops on Gus' head, but within seconds the tiny drops had transformed into huge fat droplets that soaked through the fabric of his clothing almost instantaneously. Shawn groaned, hair already starting to go flat under the weight of the liquid.

“OH, COME ON!” he shouted. “Really, ocean gods? Did my dad put you up to this? Is this my pennant?”

“It's penance, Shawn,” Gus snapped, dragging him under the meager protection of the helm.

Shawn turned a wet-dog glare on him, fringe sticking to his forehead. “Really, Gus? Really?”

“I know you know the word, Shawn,” he said peevishly, and felt himself starting to shiver already. “You're just trying to get on my nerves. Say the right damn word and I won't correct you while you're ranting at the ocean gods!”

“Well, excuse me for ranting at the ocean gods the way I want to, Gus!”

“Maybe they're mad because you refuse to use proper English, Shawn.”

“Maybe they're mad at you for being so anal retentive, Gus. Maybe I'm just an unfortunate victim!”

“HA! Unfortunate victim my ass!”

“Your ass is an unfortunate victim of your...pants." Shawn trailed off as his head of righteously angered steam petered out. Gus frowned and Shawn's brow dipped down a moment later as they both tried to puzzle out what exactly he had just said. "Because your pants...um..." Shawn wagged a finger to try and indicate some kind of answer that went on the end there.

Gus shook his head. "Whatever, Shawn. You know I'm right."

Shawn snorted. “As if.” He was starting to shiver, too, though, and a wince skittered across his face. The boat pitched backwards and they both tightened their grip on the helm hand rails, flinching as rain poured in through the front of the helm.

Shawn leaned into Gus' side, his skin pale again beneath the wet sheen of the rainwater, thunder crackling overhead. “Gus,” he croaked, “I think we might be in trouble.”

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI