#214 - To be great is to be misunderstood - (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
theatrical_muse)
Jan. 23rd, 2008 02:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
head_psychic"To be great is to be misunderstood."
- R.W. Emerson
"Can you tell me what happened?"
Shawn started tugging at his clothes. "Is that light? It should be earlier."
Again, he made this weird movement of his hand, almost like a circle, or conducting, or maybe slapping something, it was impossible to tell. But Lassiter had seen it three times now so he scribbled a note on the edge of the paper. hand
He sighed. "Spencer. This is telling me nothing."
"Because the rooftop didn't dance!"
Damn it all to hell.
---
"Were you able to gather the information you need?" the doctor asked. He looked young and arrogant and Lassiter was sure he hadn't seen him in there with Spencer before ever and he sounded just like those rookie cops who merely repeated stuff they had read in reports they had to file. Lassiter couldn't stand the guy. Couldn't stand the boredom that spoke of him, the see? I told you it wouldn't work, I mean, wasn't this guy supposed to be here to make Spencer better? What kind of work ethic could include boredom when it came to a person he had to take care for, had to protect?
"No, I wasn't," he said tightly. "I'll be back tomorrow."
The doctor sighed and Lassiter wanted to do something painful to him. "Detective, with all due respect, his state isn't going to change overnight."
"Well, it clearly could get this way overnight," the detective snapped.
"Well, when you break a vase you can't exactly glue it together the way it was, can you!" the guy shot back hotly. When Lassiter simply glared his cheeks reddened. "I'm, I'm sorry. But detective, let me assure you that we have tried absolutely everything." He took a deep breath and every word was so studied, so learned. "There's nothing more we can do. We don't think he's going to improve anytime soon and we have come to the conclusion that being like this he might end up hurting himself or others."
Silence.
"You're locking him away then?" Lassiter asked numbly. The doctor confirmed it with a short nod and he didn't know what to say. Sure, there were times where he couldn't have wished for anything less than having Spencer out of the way, something that would stop him from shamelessly roaming the department, his department where he was working hard. Hell, there had been times where Lassiter wanted to arrest and lock the guy away himself.
But not like this.
"This man is the victim of a crime," Lassiter growled, his voice once again thick with annoyance. "I will not let the ones responsible get away with this. My investigation is not over and until it is Mr. Spencer will stay right here."
The young doctor made an eye-twitch that clearly betrayed he was trying to keep from rolling them.
---
Shawn was on his back, staring at the ceiling, his face blank. Gus sat down next to him, studying his face and pupils, trying to determine what they had given him and how much.
"They say you got lost somewhere in that big head of yours but you're still with me, aren't you?"
Shawn looked at him but his eyes saw something that was probably on the other side of the universe right now. "Sure. You're here and didn't scratch the wall, so we don't have to listen to Tom Jones. This is why I always call you Derek Trafficlight Durban."
Gus almost smiled. "You never called me that."
But Shawn's eyes, who were always so very aware of his surrounding, followed something above Gus' head that wasn't there and Shawn laughed at it, whatever it was.
"Shawn. I don't know what's going on. I know you're this one big chaotic mess right now, more than ever which I never though possible but I know you can hear me. I don't know what you can make of what you hear but I know you can. So listen." He took in a shaky breath. "If you don't come back... I'm gonna tell them. I mean it, dude, this is no idle threat. If they know the truth there might be a different treatment to what's... what's happening to you. So you can either stop babbling about 'drowning pineapples in the desk because the clock wasn't listening' and get back here or I am going to tell them. It's your call, man."
"Alright, you win," Shawn sighed. "I got the information because... I'm psychic."
---
"No."
"They're just following protocol," Lassiter heard himself say but he had never felt so half-heartedly before.
"They're not following protocol!" Gus replied angrily. "They just don't know the answer so they stop looking!"
"Do not poke my chest, Guster."
"I wasn't even touching your damn chest!"
"That's why I told you not to."
"They can't lock him away!" Gus started pacing, the news he had just received too much for him to bear. He stopped, turning on his heels to face Lassiter again. "I can help you with the interview. Not everything he says is completely point- or senseless."
"Really." Lassiter's eyebrows shot up, unable to keep the frustration from taking over. "And how exactly can you determine that?"
"Because I get a lot of the things Shawn says. I know it sounds crazy but some of the things he's babbling, they actually make some weird sense, they're just... displaced. There's more normalcy going on in there than you probably see. But I do!"
The detective looked at him for a long moment. "Fine," he grinded out. "But they're not letting us talk to him before tomorrow. Go home and get some rest."
---
"I need a list of all he medication you gave to him."
The young doctor glared. Lassiter held his gaze with stoic rigidity, still not bothering to memorize the arrogant twat's name.
"What for?"
"Protocol," he snapped impatiently though it was more Guster's assurance that maybe he could understand some of Shawn's reactions and place it back into context when he knew what - in addition to the state he was already in - the tranquilizers might cause to the psychic.
You better be right about this, he thought but he couldn't keep himself from tapping his fingertips on his knee. It wasn't a lead but maybe it could become one and how long could it take to write down some names anyway?!
The detective breathed deeply and forced himself to lean back, watching the doctor write, the ups and downs of the pen almost like a circle, the bigger twitch when it came to capital letters or conducting, the fierce way he slammed the dot of the i maybe slapping something.
Slowly, slowly the frown left his face when his eyes widened with realization, his gaze still fixed on the ups and downs of the pen.
"He was trying to write..."
The doctor looked up. "What?"
Lassiter didn't answer. He was on his feet immediately, dashing out of the office doors, grabbing a pen next to a clipboard.
"Hey! Hey, where are you, get back here, you can't...!"
Oh, but he could. He was in there in no time, pulling Spencer to his feet who gave him a dazed look and then tried to unbutton his sleeve.
Lassiter freed his arm impatiently and handed Spencer the pen, watching him expectantly.
Shawn looked at the pen, confused. Then his face lit up and he bit right into it.
Lassiter stared for a moment, then groaned and rand his hands over his face. So much for his great plan. What had he expected? Some freaking miracle?
But somehow Shawn noticed he was doing something wrong. He continued to chew for a moment, then looked at the pen again, his hand twitching, hesitantly, watching the air with disappointment on his face when nothing happened.
The detective watched him for another good minute, trying to figure out what was going on. He grabbed the psychic, maybe a little more careful than he usually did, a little - and pushed him in front of the wall so the pen connected with something.
Shawn stumbled and accidentally drew a line.
He looked at the line. Looked. Beamed.
And then hell broke loose.
Figures, numbers, letters appeared out of nowhere, words, arrows that connected things, circles, squares, drawings, too fast, too much, Carlton was getting dizzy just looking at it. The pen was flying, the arm almost blurry with pace and in no time one whole side was covered in black scribblings. Grocery lists, a sketching of the crime scene, buy Gus taco, headlines from various newspapers, the victim's name, make fun of Lassy's briefcase incident (he scowled briefly at that but there would be enough time to kill Spencer when he was sane again and how the hell did he know about the briefcase anyway!). More numbers, a smiley, a clef, movie quotes, more movie quotes, charts and tables of at least four different companies, a list of completely unrelated dates and how the weather was, some weird symbols he had never seen before ever, abbreviations that didn't make sense and it was getting more and more and more without the pen stopping once, already moving on to the next wall. Was all of this in Spencer's head? It couldn't be, this was completely...
He chose not to think it.
"Mr. Spencer-"
"Don't," Lassiter warned, holding the doctor back. "You go and phone Mr. Guster," he ordered, unable to do anything but watch. "Tell him we got a lot of things to sort out."
Muse: Shawn Spencer
Fandom: Psych
Words: 1,586
- R.W. Emerson
"Can you tell me what happened?"
Shawn started tugging at his clothes. "Is that light? It should be earlier."
Again, he made this weird movement of his hand, almost like a circle, or conducting, or maybe slapping something, it was impossible to tell. But Lassiter had seen it three times now so he scribbled a note on the edge of the paper. hand
He sighed. "Spencer. This is telling me nothing."
"Because the rooftop didn't dance!"
Damn it all to hell.
---
"Were you able to gather the information you need?" the doctor asked. He looked young and arrogant and Lassiter was sure he hadn't seen him in there with Spencer before ever and he sounded just like those rookie cops who merely repeated stuff they had read in reports they had to file. Lassiter couldn't stand the guy. Couldn't stand the boredom that spoke of him, the see? I told you it wouldn't work, I mean, wasn't this guy supposed to be here to make Spencer better? What kind of work ethic could include boredom when it came to a person he had to take care for, had to protect?
"No, I wasn't," he said tightly. "I'll be back tomorrow."
The doctor sighed and Lassiter wanted to do something painful to him. "Detective, with all due respect, his state isn't going to change overnight."
"Well, it clearly could get this way overnight," the detective snapped.
"Well, when you break a vase you can't exactly glue it together the way it was, can you!" the guy shot back hotly. When Lassiter simply glared his cheeks reddened. "I'm, I'm sorry. But detective, let me assure you that we have tried absolutely everything." He took a deep breath and every word was so studied, so learned. "There's nothing more we can do. We don't think he's going to improve anytime soon and we have come to the conclusion that being like this he might end up hurting himself or others."
Silence.
"You're locking him away then?" Lassiter asked numbly. The doctor confirmed it with a short nod and he didn't know what to say. Sure, there were times where he couldn't have wished for anything less than having Spencer out of the way, something that would stop him from shamelessly roaming the department, his department where he was working hard. Hell, there had been times where Lassiter wanted to arrest and lock the guy away himself.
But not like this.
"This man is the victim of a crime," Lassiter growled, his voice once again thick with annoyance. "I will not let the ones responsible get away with this. My investigation is not over and until it is Mr. Spencer will stay right here."
The young doctor made an eye-twitch that clearly betrayed he was trying to keep from rolling them.
---
Shawn was on his back, staring at the ceiling, his face blank. Gus sat down next to him, studying his face and pupils, trying to determine what they had given him and how much.
"They say you got lost somewhere in that big head of yours but you're still with me, aren't you?"
Shawn looked at him but his eyes saw something that was probably on the other side of the universe right now. "Sure. You're here and didn't scratch the wall, so we don't have to listen to Tom Jones. This is why I always call you Derek Trafficlight Durban."
Gus almost smiled. "You never called me that."
But Shawn's eyes, who were always so very aware of his surrounding, followed something above Gus' head that wasn't there and Shawn laughed at it, whatever it was.
"Shawn. I don't know what's going on. I know you're this one big chaotic mess right now, more than ever which I never though possible but I know you can hear me. I don't know what you can make of what you hear but I know you can. So listen." He took in a shaky breath. "If you don't come back... I'm gonna tell them. I mean it, dude, this is no idle threat. If they know the truth there might be a different treatment to what's... what's happening to you. So you can either stop babbling about 'drowning pineapples in the desk because the clock wasn't listening' and get back here or I am going to tell them. It's your call, man."
"Alright, you win," Shawn sighed. "I got the information because... I'm psychic."
---
"No."
"They're just following protocol," Lassiter heard himself say but he had never felt so half-heartedly before.
"They're not following protocol!" Gus replied angrily. "They just don't know the answer so they stop looking!"
"Do not poke my chest, Guster."
"I wasn't even touching your damn chest!"
"That's why I told you not to."
"They can't lock him away!" Gus started pacing, the news he had just received too much for him to bear. He stopped, turning on his heels to face Lassiter again. "I can help you with the interview. Not everything he says is completely point- or senseless."
"Really." Lassiter's eyebrows shot up, unable to keep the frustration from taking over. "And how exactly can you determine that?"
"Because I get a lot of the things Shawn says. I know it sounds crazy but some of the things he's babbling, they actually make some weird sense, they're just... displaced. There's more normalcy going on in there than you probably see. But I do!"
The detective looked at him for a long moment. "Fine," he grinded out. "But they're not letting us talk to him before tomorrow. Go home and get some rest."
---
"I need a list of all he medication you gave to him."
The young doctor glared. Lassiter held his gaze with stoic rigidity, still not bothering to memorize the arrogant twat's name.
"What for?"
"Protocol," he snapped impatiently though it was more Guster's assurance that maybe he could understand some of Shawn's reactions and place it back into context when he knew what - in addition to the state he was already in - the tranquilizers might cause to the psychic.
You better be right about this, he thought but he couldn't keep himself from tapping his fingertips on his knee. It wasn't a lead but maybe it could become one and how long could it take to write down some names anyway?!
The detective breathed deeply and forced himself to lean back, watching the doctor write, the ups and downs of the pen almost like a circle, the bigger twitch when it came to capital letters or conducting, the fierce way he slammed the dot of the i maybe slapping something.
Slowly, slowly the frown left his face when his eyes widened with realization, his gaze still fixed on the ups and downs of the pen.
"He was trying to write..."
The doctor looked up. "What?"
Lassiter didn't answer. He was on his feet immediately, dashing out of the office doors, grabbing a pen next to a clipboard.
"Hey! Hey, where are you, get back here, you can't...!"
Oh, but he could. He was in there in no time, pulling Spencer to his feet who gave him a dazed look and then tried to unbutton his sleeve.
Lassiter freed his arm impatiently and handed Spencer the pen, watching him expectantly.
Shawn looked at the pen, confused. Then his face lit up and he bit right into it.
Lassiter stared for a moment, then groaned and rand his hands over his face. So much for his great plan. What had he expected? Some freaking miracle?
But somehow Shawn noticed he was doing something wrong. He continued to chew for a moment, then looked at the pen again, his hand twitching, hesitantly, watching the air with disappointment on his face when nothing happened.
The detective watched him for another good minute, trying to figure out what was going on. He grabbed the psychic, maybe a little more careful than he usually did, a little - and pushed him in front of the wall so the pen connected with something.
Shawn stumbled and accidentally drew a line.
He looked at the line. Looked. Beamed.
And then hell broke loose.
Figures, numbers, letters appeared out of nowhere, words, arrows that connected things, circles, squares, drawings, too fast, too much, Carlton was getting dizzy just looking at it. The pen was flying, the arm almost blurry with pace and in no time one whole side was covered in black scribblings. Grocery lists, a sketching of the crime scene, buy Gus taco, headlines from various newspapers, the victim's name, make fun of Lassy's briefcase incident (he scowled briefly at that but there would be enough time to kill Spencer when he was sane again and how the hell did he know about the briefcase anyway!). More numbers, a smiley, a clef, movie quotes, more movie quotes, charts and tables of at least four different companies, a list of completely unrelated dates and how the weather was, some weird symbols he had never seen before ever, abbreviations that didn't make sense and it was getting more and more and more without the pen stopping once, already moving on to the next wall. Was all of this in Spencer's head? It couldn't be, this was completely...
He chose not to think it.
"Mr. Spencer-"
"Don't," Lassiter warned, holding the doctor back. "You go and phone Mr. Guster," he ordered, unable to do anything but watch. "Tell him we got a lot of things to sort out."
Muse: Shawn Spencer
Fandom: Psych
Words: 1,586
