musicalluna

Title: Shawn, You're No George Clooney: Part VI
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: I'm not dead and nor is this story. Writing has been giving me sass and I had to weep, whine, grovel, and berate it into submission. This isn't as easy as it looks, you know, especially since I'm fond of this fic and I would like to continue being such. It's probably making me excessively careful. But there you are.

In case you've forgotten, last time we left our heroes, they had just opened the hold in the deck of Henry's boat and discovered two gloriously red gas cans...

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.

“What are you waiting for?” Shawn demanded, waving a hand. “Let's get those suckers in the tank!”

Gus nodded vigorously, sending up a quick prayer in thanks as he grabbed for the nearest gas can and yanked it out. It was lighter than he expected though—much lighter—and all the momentum he'd used in preparation of countering the can's assumed weight worked against him along with the force of the little gas still left. He staggered backward, landing hard on his back, the breath rushing out of him and the gas can—the gas can slipping from his fingers and flying straight out into the water. A strangled gasp of horror caught in his throat as Shawn made the exact noise he'd meant to.

They both stared at the red plastic container now bobbing six feet away from the boat.

“I can make that,” Shawn said, standing and then wobbling drunkenly as the boat shifted. Gus' arm shot out, grabbing hold of him and dragging him back down.

“Are you out of your damn mind? You are not diving in the ocean after a gas can, Shawn! That's how people get killed! What's wrong with you?” He shook his head in disgust. Of all the idiotic things... “It was barely a quarter full anyway. That must have been the primary can. This one must be the back up.” He reached for the other one, carefully this time, just in case.

His caution was warranted.

This can was even emptier than the last.

“Well?” Shawn said. The look of anticipation on Shawn's face made Gus grimace. He shook the can, listening to the liquid slosh around.

“There's barely two gallons here. Maybe not even that much,” he told Shawn reluctantly.

The hope in Shawn's expression gave way to anger. “Are you serious? So not only is Dad's gas gauge broken, but he didn't even have an extra half a tank worth of gas on board? Really?”

Gus shrugged weakly.

Shawn started yelling, straight up at the sky. “YOU SEE, DAD? YOU SEE?! THIS IS WHY. THIS. RIGHT, FREAKING, HERE.”

Gus responded in the best way he knew how. “Shawn, you realize your dad isn't here, right?” He reached out to wave a hand in Shawn's face. “You're not hallucinating are you? I really don't think I can cope with you hallucinating AND being stranded on a boat in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.”

It worked and Shawn's attention came back down, his anger giving way to exasperation. “We are not in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, Gus. We're, like, ten miles off the coast of California.”

“You know what I mean, Shawn!”

Shawn sighed, the fight draining out of him, and used one hand to shove the sopping wet hair on his forehead back. “What do we do now?” he asked, weary, and, in his own way, asking Gus to fix his mess. It kind of irritated him, but at the same time it cemented his resolve. Shawn was counting on him, even if it was his fault they were in this situation in the first place; it wasn't the first and it wouldn't be the last. He would make sure of it.

All the muscles in Gus' body tensed up as the boat rocked hard to the side and he wrapped his free hand around the lip of the storage space in the deck. “We won't be able to get very far with this much gas,” he said, going through the options quickly in his head. “We probably shouldn't bother trying.”

“Then what do we do?” Shawn demanded.

There had to be something they could do with the gas. Even just a few gallons of it had to be enough for them to—

It dawned on him. “We call for help!”

Shawn's expression was part bewildered, part annoyed. “Don't you think I would have already called for help if I had reception, Gus?”

Gus rolled his eyes. “Not with your phone, Shawn. On the radio!”

Understanding rippled across Shawn's face. “Ohhh...”

As Gus was rolling his eyes again, the boat did a roll of it's own toward the prow. One of the doors to the hold in the deck flapped back and snapped shut—right on top of Gus' fingers.

He howled, immediately yanking them free and pulling them close to his chest. They throbbed with every beat of his heart, feeling as though they would burst any second and he felt his lower lip tremble. Shawn hissed sympathetically, but the ocean wasn't about to cut them a break now.

They slid back the other direction and Gus staggered, whimpering and curling protectively around his injured hand as he slipped toward the stern. Shawn yelped, grabbing hold of the boat's side and then letting out a sharper cry as the movement registered in his bruised ribs.

“This really sucks!” Gus yelled, ignoring the manful quiver in his voice.

Now curled up near the oars stored on the side, Shawn answered in a muffled yell, “You've got that right, buddy!”

As the pain finally began to ease, Gus realized with a rush of relief that he had somehow maintained his grip on the gas can. They needed to call for help before things got worse. Determination hooked itself into place.

“Are you all right?” he shouted at Shawn, flinching just a little at a booming thunderclap.

“Hunky dory,” Shawn called back. He looked up and Gus could see the strain on his face. Even in the poor lighting he could make out the off color of Shawn's skin and he guessed the seasickness was making itself known again.

“Where's the gas tank?” he demanded.

Shawn pointed vaguely at the opposite side of the boat.

After just a moment of deliberation, Gus pulled his injured hand in toward his chest and flung himself across the deck. His hands slipped a little on the rain-slicked side of the boat as he reached to drag himself up. He was met by the reflection of a fork of lightning off the water as he looked over the side to where the gas tank was, arm clutched tight around the side of the boat and his heart beat unsteadily against his chest.

“Be careful!” Shawn yelled at him and Gus just yelled back, “I am!”

He couldn't open the gas tank and hold the gas can at the same time, so he uncurled his throbbing fingers, hissing. He slid the handle of the gas can around them, wincing as he released its weight. It hurt to tighten his grip on the handle, but he wasn't about to lose it. It took just a few seconds to unscrew the cap to the gas tank and then he was clutching the side of the boat with both elbows, holding the shaking can over the side with two hands.

Gus swore under his breath as the gas splashed on the side of the boat almost as much as it made it into the tank and prayed that enough was making it in. It was too hard to hold it still with the waves.

Finally, the can was emptied of its last few drops and Gus closed it tight, tossing it back on the deck. He screwed the cap back on the tank and then shouted over his shoulder, “Okay, start it up, Shawn!”

Already waiting at the helm, Shawn twisted the key in the ignition. There was a second of heartbeat-skipping fear and then the boat rumbled to life. Shawn let out a whoop that was mangled into a string of curses halfway through—a fist pump probably didn't make his bruised ribs feel too great.

Gus was still giving himself a chance to catch his breath, grinning and relieved that there was finally something they could do, when lightning cracked overhead, perfectly in sync with the thunder.

A jagged, blinding bolt of lightning shot out of the sky and Gus just had time to feel the skin all over his body prickle before it struck the lightning rod on the canopy directly above Shawn's head. It disappeared as quickly as it had come, leaving Gus gaping.

“What the hell was that?!” Shawn demanded, voice shrill.

“Lightning,” Gus croaked. “It...it hit the lightning rod.”

“Holy crap!” Shawn exclaimed.

The prickled hair on the back of Gus neck slowly eased back down, sending a chill down his spine. He scrambled for the helm while the boat was somewhat level. One shin banged on the stairs and he hissed, but ignored it, grasping for handholds and pulling himself up next to Shawn. “Now,” he panted, “all we have to do is call for help. Then we can get the hell out of here.”

“You are so sexy right now,” Shawn said, but some of the fervency was lost as he moaned and sank down next to the captain's chair. The seasickness was definitely back.

Gus picked up the radio. He cleared his throat and then, in the calmest (but most urgent) voice he could muster, said, “Mayday, mayday. My name is Burton Guster and I am on a boat in distress. Can anyone hear me? Over.”

“Totally...my hero,” Shawn muttered from near Gus' knees and he rolled his eyes, listening hard for a response. Oh, please, please let there be a response.

The radio hissed and sputtered and then: “Vessel in distress, this is Coast Guard Cutter Aspen. What is your vessel's name, location, and cause of distress? Over."

Gus' knees went soft with relief and he let himself crumble down next to where Shawn had curled up.

“Oh, Coast Guard Cutter, I think I love you,” Shawn mumbled and then arced forward, grabbing hold of the chair and making a horrible gagging sound.

All Gus could think was, Thank God, we're getting out of here.

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