A Psych Story || Season 1 (Shawn Spencer x Fem!Reader)

S1 E2: Spellingg Bee, Part 3

There's something off with the whole dream. I trust Las, but I don't think he knows the complete story. I'm not sure who does.

Now that I've successfully placated Anne's need to milk every dramatic moment, we can move on and regroup.

I caught up with Shawn and Gus as they left. They were already planning on going back to the bee. I'm taking my 'car' back home because I need time to think about the case. Specifically, the voices/premonitions.

The first one said: It's buzzing. Something's wrong with the inhaler. Bandon Dunes.

Okay, well, my first question; What's buzzing, cousin? Sorry, I had to. It's like an impulse to be as teenage boy annoying as possible.

I mean, specifically, what was buzzing? I mean, is it my phone, Brandon, my vibrator, what? And can we get more specific with the inhaler thing? 'Something's wrong,' really Anne? That's just lazy writing. Okay, I remember that Shawn misspoke, calling the kid Bandon Dunes instead of Brendan Vu, but what does that have to do with this?

Numero dos: 1, 2, 3. 1, 2, 3. Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk...wait...skip ahead. Ah, ha, ha, ha stayin' alive, stayin' alive. Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive.

Okay, this one makes no sense. It's obviously the Bee Gee's 'Stayin' Alive.' Why is this necessary? Am I simply so bored I'm singing 'Stayin' Alive' to stay alive? Wait, CPR, stupid! The song is 100 beats per minute. When I was taught primary life support, we were instructed to maintain the patient's heart rate at 100 bpm.

Why would the voices tell me to do CPR? Fuck, this is creating more questions than it's answering.

Third: What the heck just happened?

This could literally mean anything. Really, Anne?

God, I need a smoke.

At least I'm home, where I can smoke in front of the building.

I pull a kretek out of my ratty drawstring sack. I've had the damn bag for 8 years, and it just won't break for some reason. I don't want a reminder of my stupid high school. No, don't think about that. The last thing I need is to finish this pack.

Stepping out of the car, I fumble for a lighter. I finally grab the smooth plastic surface. Finally, some relief.

Yes, I know smoking is bad. I know I could succumb to lung cancer or live a life where every breath is painful. I've read every warning, tried every therapy. I would love to immaturely blame my rambunctious self. In fact, I do blame my high school self. She was a demonic bitch who needed some ketamine. Or sex.

I don't like traditional cigarettes. They taste like lung cancer. At least with kreteks, you can taste orange, vanilla, cloves, and cinnamon. It tastes more like a pastry than a stick of tobacco that's bad for you.

Once again, I would like to clarify one point. I'm not an addict, just a 90s housewife. Except I don't cook, and I don't clean.'

Rob joins me in what might be the only moment of tranquility between us. He smokes one of his prized Cuban cigars, a supposed rarity or some shit.

The formidable blue car pulls up just in time. Perfect, now I have a reason to leave. I hastily shove the kretek into Roberto's ashtray and feign a coughing face.

"YN? You smoke?" Gus asks.

"No. Robert over here smokes when my windows are open. I was coming out to ask him to put it out."

"Bugiarda," Roberto calls out. At least he didn't call me a liar in English. I'm comforted because I know Shawn doesn't have the follow-through to fully master a language, and Gus took...I wanna say Spanish.