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Fish are not the best authority on water.
-Jane Yolen, "The White Babe" (1987)
There were many things fifteen year old Shawn Spencer was interested in. His testosterone had just started to tell him that girls smelled really good and could give you this weird, fuzzy feeling when they smiled at you and then put their heads together to giggle with their friends. Oh yeah, his world had expanded enormously and there were a lot of highly important puberty things going on.
Fishing wasn't one of them.
Actually, fishing was on a totally different list altogether. The list that also contained school grades, 'make sure you'll be back before ten' and thinking about the future. The caption of this particular list wasn't a very positive one. So when his dad had knocked at his door (a shamelessly lame attempt to pretend he respected Shawn's privacy because he was already in the middle of his room) and had told him to get up because he had a surprise for him Shawn had told him to go to hell because that was the only place where he could imagine people being up at 4:30am.
Well, then it hadn't been a surprise anymore, rather the switch from energetic dad to annoyed dad who had told him to get his lazy ass out of bed. Shawn vaguely remembered some Whydon'tyouever's and Dadgetouttahere's and Thehelliswrongwithyou's and Ifyoujust's and then pulling his blanket all the way over his head and stubbornly going back to sleep.
Waking up in the middle of the ocean didn't improve his temper. "What the hell, Dad?!"
---
"This is for you."
Shawn took the fishing rod and examined it. It looked new and shiny and didn't interest him at all. "What for?"
"What for?" Henry echoed. "It's a fishing rod, Shawn. What do you think it's for?"
"Could be a fancy tool to steal Jill Sterington's underwear."
"Ingrate," Henry growled.
"Ingrate? Ingrate? You abducted me! Probably even carried me into this damn thing. On your arms! Please tell me it wasn't on your arms. Tell me that you at least dragged me along by my ankle, making it look cool and dramatic."
"You snuggled against my chest."
"Awesome. I think I'll just drown myself."
"Don't you dare, you'll scare away the fish."
Shawn stared. "That's so considerate of you, dad." He crossed his arms in front of his body and sulked, making it very obvious that he was sulking, with loud theatralic sighs and huffs and even some random comments like 'oh boy' and 'I really hate fishing'. "I can't believe you kidnapped me. They should totally get your badge for that."
"Stop making a scene. You were sleeping away your life anyway."
"Yeah, but the difference is that in any other given situation I could have a shower and breakfast now! It's five o'clock in the morning! On a Sunday! God will smite you for that."
"I'll tell him you said hi then." Henry looked over at his son and his eyes narrowed slightly. "Who's Jill Sterington?"
Shawn's cheek burned up. "No one."
Henry looked at him a little longer and then chuckled and Shawn hated him for it.
---
"Why were you and mom fighting last night?"
Henry didn't answer, eyes fixed on the wide, open water. Or his rod, it was hard to tell. And hard to care, at least for Shawn.
"What about the holidays? We're still going to Hawaii, right? Checking out the plantations there? See how they chop up the pineapples?"
"Probably not."
"Probably not?!" Shawn sat up abruptly. "Dad, that's not what I wanted to hear! You're supposed to lie to me now and make me feel all better and reassured so later on when it gets clear you did lie to me I can yell at you for lying to me. That's how it works!"
His rant continued until Henry simply said "Not gonna happen, Shawn" and Shawn leaned back and stared at the sky again, trapped between two layers of blue, sea and sky. "This fucking sucks."
"Shawn!" His father glared at him warningly. "Don't you ever use that word again!"
He rolled his eyes in the sophisticated, annoyed way only a fifteen year old boy can roll his eyes at his father. "Please, Dad, stop the parental control, you called our neighbour a son of a bitch when I was nine."
"... don't you ever use that word around your mother then."
---
"Smooooke on the water."
"Shawn, cut it out. You know I hate this song."
"No, Dad, smoke on the water. I think something's wrong with the engine."
Henry followed his gaze. "Son of a...!" He hurried over to the steaming bunch of metal, working his way through the problem and continued the violent cursing. "Shawn, get your ass over here and help me!"
Shawn watched him lazily, eyebrows furrowed in spiteful annoyance. "No. And you better not tell me we're trapped."
"Shawn!" The engine gave another long, whiny sound, one last thick, black cloud emerging before it died altogether. "Oh, this is great."
"This is karma, dad! Karma biting your grumpy ass right here and now. Karma telling you 'See what I do to you when you are mean to your son'."
"Fine! Ramble on with your bs, I don't care. Because I don't have a problem spending the whole, long day on this boat until the coastguard comes to get us."
"Oh please, just call them via radio."
Henry just looked at him.
"What. You don't have a radio?" The grin faded from Shawn's face when he sat up and started to look around wildly. "Dad! Why don't you have a radio? Every boat has a radio!"
"Well, this boat hasn't, Shawn!"
"Why not!"
"Because I like it peaceful and quiet, because that's what fishing is all about: Silence!"
"A radio is silent as long as you don't use it!"
"It has this static fuzz!"
"It has this static fuzz?!"
"You know exactly what I mean!"
"Static fuzz my ass, dad! I wanna go home!"
"Well, it ain't gonna happen, Shawn! So you can just as well lean back, shut up and enjoy."
Shawn stared at him for a moment, opened his mouth once, twice, not finding the right words, not finding any words in his context of speechless anger. He growled in defeat and let himself fall back. He closed his eyes, gathering strength for the next round of arguing and fighting that he knew would start any minute now.
He knew the engine was perfectly fine.
Muse: Shawn Spencer
Fandom: Psych
Words: 1,077
-Jane Yolen, "The White Babe" (1987)
There were many things fifteen year old Shawn Spencer was interested in. His testosterone had just started to tell him that girls smelled really good and could give you this weird, fuzzy feeling when they smiled at you and then put their heads together to giggle with their friends. Oh yeah, his world had expanded enormously and there were a lot of highly important puberty things going on.
Fishing wasn't one of them.
Actually, fishing was on a totally different list altogether. The list that also contained school grades, 'make sure you'll be back before ten' and thinking about the future. The caption of this particular list wasn't a very positive one. So when his dad had knocked at his door (a shamelessly lame attempt to pretend he respected Shawn's privacy because he was already in the middle of his room) and had told him to get up because he had a surprise for him Shawn had told him to go to hell because that was the only place where he could imagine people being up at 4:30am.
Well, then it hadn't been a surprise anymore, rather the switch from energetic dad to annoyed dad who had told him to get his lazy ass out of bed. Shawn vaguely remembered some Whydon'tyouever's and Dadgetouttahere's and Thehelliswrongwithyou's and Ifyoujust's and then pulling his blanket all the way over his head and stubbornly going back to sleep.
Waking up in the middle of the ocean didn't improve his temper. "What the hell, Dad?!"
---
"This is for you."
Shawn took the fishing rod and examined it. It looked new and shiny and didn't interest him at all. "What for?"
"What for?" Henry echoed. "It's a fishing rod, Shawn. What do you think it's for?"
"Could be a fancy tool to steal Jill Sterington's underwear."
"Ingrate," Henry growled.
"Ingrate? Ingrate? You abducted me! Probably even carried me into this damn thing. On your arms! Please tell me it wasn't on your arms. Tell me that you at least dragged me along by my ankle, making it look cool and dramatic."
"You snuggled against my chest."
"Awesome. I think I'll just drown myself."
"Don't you dare, you'll scare away the fish."
Shawn stared. "That's so considerate of you, dad." He crossed his arms in front of his body and sulked, making it very obvious that he was sulking, with loud theatralic sighs and huffs and even some random comments like 'oh boy' and 'I really hate fishing'. "I can't believe you kidnapped me. They should totally get your badge for that."
"Stop making a scene. You were sleeping away your life anyway."
"Yeah, but the difference is that in any other given situation I could have a shower and breakfast now! It's five o'clock in the morning! On a Sunday! God will smite you for that."
"I'll tell him you said hi then." Henry looked over at his son and his eyes narrowed slightly. "Who's Jill Sterington?"
Shawn's cheek burned up. "No one."
Henry looked at him a little longer and then chuckled and Shawn hated him for it.
---
"Why were you and mom fighting last night?"
Henry didn't answer, eyes fixed on the wide, open water. Or his rod, it was hard to tell. And hard to care, at least for Shawn.
"What about the holidays? We're still going to Hawaii, right? Checking out the plantations there? See how they chop up the pineapples?"
"Probably not."
"Probably not?!" Shawn sat up abruptly. "Dad, that's not what I wanted to hear! You're supposed to lie to me now and make me feel all better and reassured so later on when it gets clear you did lie to me I can yell at you for lying to me. That's how it works!"
His rant continued until Henry simply said "Not gonna happen, Shawn" and Shawn leaned back and stared at the sky again, trapped between two layers of blue, sea and sky. "This fucking sucks."
"Shawn!" His father glared at him warningly. "Don't you ever use that word again!"
He rolled his eyes in the sophisticated, annoyed way only a fifteen year old boy can roll his eyes at his father. "Please, Dad, stop the parental control, you called our neighbour a son of a bitch when I was nine."
"... don't you ever use that word around your mother then."
---
"Smooooke on the water."
"Shawn, cut it out. You know I hate this song."
"No, Dad, smoke on the water. I think something's wrong with the engine."
Henry followed his gaze. "Son of a...!" He hurried over to the steaming bunch of metal, working his way through the problem and continued the violent cursing. "Shawn, get your ass over here and help me!"
Shawn watched him lazily, eyebrows furrowed in spiteful annoyance. "No. And you better not tell me we're trapped."
"Shawn!" The engine gave another long, whiny sound, one last thick, black cloud emerging before it died altogether. "Oh, this is great."
"This is karma, dad! Karma biting your grumpy ass right here and now. Karma telling you 'See what I do to you when you are mean to your son'."
"Fine! Ramble on with your bs, I don't care. Because I don't have a problem spending the whole, long day on this boat until the coastguard comes to get us."
"Oh please, just call them via radio."
Henry just looked at him.
"What. You don't have a radio?" The grin faded from Shawn's face when he sat up and started to look around wildly. "Dad! Why don't you have a radio? Every boat has a radio!"
"Well, this boat hasn't, Shawn!"
"Why not!"
"Because I like it peaceful and quiet, because that's what fishing is all about: Silence!"
"A radio is silent as long as you don't use it!"
"It has this static fuzz!"
"It has this static fuzz?!"
"You know exactly what I mean!"
"Static fuzz my ass, dad! I wanna go home!"
"Well, it ain't gonna happen, Shawn! So you can just as well lean back, shut up and enjoy."
Shawn stared at him for a moment, opened his mouth once, twice, not finding the right words, not finding any words in his context of speechless anger. He growled in defeat and let himself fall back. He closed his eyes, gathering strength for the next round of arguing and fighting that he knew would start any minute now.
He knew the engine was perfectly fine.
Muse: Shawn Spencer
Fandom: Psych
Words: 1,077