musicalluna

Title: 017 Blood - One Hundred Reasons
Fandom: Psych
Author: MusicalLuna
Rating: T
Characters/Pairings: Shawn, Lassiter, Lassiter/Polly, Shawn/Juliet
Genre: Humor
Warnings: Some inappropriate language. *snickers*
Complete: Yes
Summary: One of my responses for my 100 themes collection revolving around Lassiter and Polly.
A/N: XDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD I can write again! *GLEE* Thanks to Maja for helping me figure out how to use this specific kind of blood without being totally disturbing.
Disclaimer: I don't own Psych or it's characters.

Slinking past the dreaded aisle for the seventh time, his disgust at himself finally breached the ridiculous point and he forced himself to swerve into it, choking down his trepidation and revulsion.

He would always loathe this particular trait of women.

He did, however, appreciate Polly’s particular version of the monthly hunt for red October. Unlike his ex-wife, who turned into the mother queen of all bitches for a week and a half, he simply had to cope with Polly consuming a larger quantity of chocolate than normal and feeling pangs of sympathy for her as she was laid out flat for the first three days. Occasionally she cried more easily too, but it was hard to tell the difference between “that time” tears and just plain old tears, as she was prone to fits of them for just about anything at any given time.

A grimace flitted across his face as he reached the section of the aisle reserved for the vast array of paraphernalia designed specifically for this disgustingly regular part of a woman’s life. He forced a weak smile as a woman with a basket and a barely-contained grin slipped past him.

Being in love sucked.

Polly had described for him the precise kind of pads she wanted, and he’d foolishly thought that finding them would be fairly quick and painless.

She’d said the packaging was green.

Now he was faced with pale green that a woman would probably call “sea foam” and a bit darker, richer green that could be some kind of teal but there was no way to be certain. There were also about a dozen different brands and sizes of packages in those two colors.

Fantastic.

Well, she’d also said she wanted a big package, so…that narrowed it down slightly.

With ‘wings’.

That cut out about half of those.

He vaguely remembered her saying the word “super” several times. That left…

Shit. There were two kinds of “super” ones. How the hell was he supposed to know which kind of—

“Lassie!”

He flinched noticeably.

Of all times, why now? Why did the one human person he would most rather NOT find him while stuck in this, of all situations have to show up now? Was it karma? Or a vengeful, spiteful god? What? What had he done to deserve this?

“Spencer,” he said wearily, turning to see the other man approaching with a grin on his face. “This is traumatic enough for me without you here making stupid little jokes at my expense, so would you mind just getting the hell away from me?”

Shawn rocked back on his heels, the basket slung over his arm swinging back and forth lazily as his eyes skimmed the various packages of toilet paper on the other side of the aisle. “Looking for cheese sticks?”

Lassiter made a face. “Could you not compare feminine products to food, Spencer? I still have to eat sometime tonight.”

The fake psychic smirked, amusement—and was that sympathy?—somewhere in the back of his gaze. “Arts and crafts week at Panty Camp for Polly, too?” he said and Lassiter snorted half in disgust and half in amusement. The phrase was a colorful and completely un-PC description of Polly’s current state.

And that was when he registered that Spencer had said “too” and was assiduously avoiding looking at the products opposite the toilet paper. “You’re here for… Oh, god, O’Hara is—”

No amount of bleach or scrubbing would ever be able to purge the indistinct but exceptionally disturbing slideshow that had just flashed through his mind.

He struggled to muffle the gagging noise bubbling up in the back of his throat.

“Yeeeah,” Shawn said, expression now distasteful as his eyes flitted just briefly to the shelves of enemy wares, “we’re trapped in the same exceptionally disturbing and embarrassing boat.”

There was an awkward silence as the two men came to terms with what they had been reduced to.

“So,” Shawn finally said cheerfully, “What are you here for?”

“Pads,” Lassiter muttered, glaring at the products that were making his life so difficult. “You?”

“The other ones. The cotton stick things. Jules’ gets anemic when she’s…you know…and she discovered this afternoon that she was out of supplies, but too knocked-out to get them herself, so. Being the awesome boyfriend that I am…here I am,” he explained, rambling. “With you. In the weirdest, creepiest situation quite possibly ever.”

Lassiter felt better, and couldn’t help agreeing. At least he wasn’t the only one who found this exceedingly uncomfortable. Even Spencer, who was completely and utterly unflappable, squirmed when faced with choosing feminine products for his very significant other. “Polly gets unholy cramps her first three days,” he said, for some reason feeling the bizarre urge to share his reason for being here as well. “Can’t do a damn thing she hurts so bad.”

Shawn grimaced sympathetically. “Yuck.” After a short pause he said, “I didn’t think this situation could get any more disturbing, but I think we’re bonding, Lassie.”

Lassiter made a face. “Horrifying as it is, I think you’re right.”

“What’s your dilemma?” he asked curiously, sidling over.

He pointed at the two packages of “super” pads. “There are Super Maxi and Super Maxi Fresh. How the hell am I supposed to know which one she wants?”

“Jules says the fresh ones are scented. She hates them.” A quick grin flashed onto his face, his cheeks flushing red. “Says they itch.”

Lassiter’s face contorted. “Oh for the love of— Fine. Super Maxi it is.” He grabbed a package and stuffed them into his basket, demanding gruffly, “What’s your problem?”

Shawn sighed. “She wasn’t specific enough. I mean, look at them. There’s like, a gazillion of them. How am I supposed to know if she wants plastic or cardboard?”

Lassiter squirmed. “Cardboard sounds…uncomfortable.”

“You’re not kidding. Even if I was a girl there’s no way you’d catch me sticking something—”

“Oh, lord, Spencer, please do not go there,” Lassiter moaned.

“Oh screw it,” Shawn said and closed his eyes, blindly reaching for a box. “They all do the same thing, right?”

“It’s your head,” Lassiter said cryptically.

“Yeah, well, maybe she’ll stay stocked up if I mess this up,” he said optimistically.

“Yeah, and maybe she’ll shoot you in the leg and send you back until you get it right,” Lassiter retorted.

Shawn strode after him out of the aisle with one last parting thought.

“You know, whoever said, ‘I don’t trust anything that bleeds for seven days and doesn’t die,’ was totally right.”