Chapter Text
Franz is sitting quietly at his kitchen table, sipping on his cup of tea, while Shawn paces in front of him, hands motioning wildly as he explains his newest case—that he has already solved. Franz is a little fuzzy on the details, as his boyfriend firmly states that this ‘best work’ isn’t work at all—that it isn’t his best anything.
“I solved the crime I was supposed to solve,” he says, running a hand through his hair, “That’s why it was so easy.”
Whenever Shawn gets like this: thinking too much, brain running thousands of outcomes, unable to sit still, unable to stop fidgeting, Franz sits quietly and lets him run through all of his ideas. He will nod and offer up his opinions about the case—or his dad, or whatever Shawn thinking about—and Shawn will grasp onto the most logical thought and rush to the police station.
Right now, Franz is letting him pick between answers.
“You are saying that they—this— crime—“ Franz motions vaguely with his hand, “circle—”
“Ring,” corrects Shawn, helpfully.
“Ring,” Franz repeats. “You think that the crime ring let a low— worker?— take the blame for taking Lassiter’s car? I still don’t understand. Why would they take Lassiter’s car? It is very obvious that it is his car. He has a sign with his name on it that says ‘head detetcive’ in the police parking lot.”
Shawn takes a sip of Franz’ tea, then makes a face. “Why are you drinking raspberry tea? That’s—Oh that’s awful.”
Franz shrugs. “It’s raspberry lemon. It’s the only flavour we have left. I’m going to the grociery store tommorrow.”
“Where was I?”
“I just said why it made no sense that he would take Lassiter’s car,” Franz informs. He dips a biscuit into his cup.
“There’s got to be something there. I don’t care how bad of a crinimal you are; you aren’t taking a head detective’s car,” he says, stealing the half-eaten biscuit right out of Franz’s hand.
He takes another biscuit out of the crinkly, paper wrapping. “I would say that he annoyed the valet, but that would have been talked about,” he offers.
Shawn expression changes, like he’s figured something out. “I need to go to jail,” he says.
There’s chatter in the station as Franz walks in. He hangs up his duffle in his locker.
He isn’t going to go over to the crowd that’s formed around the fire truck, he doesn’t think it’s his business. If it’s that important, his captain will fill him in.
“Hey! Franz!” greets Beril. He pats Franz on the back, friendly.
Franz would never have been slapped on the back before he got a job at Saint Barbara. He is still trying to get used to having work friends and not just people at work.
He smiles softly. “How was your date last night?” he wonders, trying his best to shake off whatever shyness he’s feeling.
Beril puffs up his chest subconsciously, and Franz can already assume it went well. “We got to the restaurant and she liked when I pulled the seat out for her. Dude, she’s so hot. Like, smoking hot.”
He nods politely, and Beril keeps going on with his story.
“She was really into me being a firefighter, if you get what I mean,” he says.
“Yeah. I do,” Franz responds. He doesn’t understand why Beril would want to be in a relationship with somebody he saved. That has to unlock somekind of unhealthy dynamic, only being alive because of their boyfriend? It would be too much for Franz to handle—the admiration of it all.
“I was a proper gentleman about it, though. Drove her home; kissed her before she left the car. I felt like a teenager again, but it was good.”
Lacking the words, Franz nods again and says “that’s good.”
“Yeah it is,” he agrees, obviously pleased, “Oh, shit! Have you met Carter yet?”
Franz furrows his eyebrows. “No. Who is Carter?”
“He’s the new guy. Transferred from Edmonton,” he explains. He motions for Franz to follow him, and he pushes his way through the crowd.
Franz thinks, why would anybody care if you’re from Edmonton? but doesn’t say anything about it.
There’s a guy in the middle of the crowd, and he greets Beril warmly. He’s got brown hair and a sharp jawline and piercing green eyes.
“This is the German I was talking about. Franz say hi,” Beril exclaims, shaking Franz by the shoulders—or, as close as he can reach to his shoulders—and Franz tries to be okay with all of this physical contact.
He can’t even begin to process the fact that Beril has talked about him to other people. “Hi,” he says, a bit shy.
“Hey, how’s it going, man?” wonders Carter in this charming way that must make everybody like him.
It immediately throws Franz off balance, into deep dark waters, uncomfortable. He can immediately tell that something is a little bit different about this guy. He doesn’t know what it is, but he knows he doesn’t like it—doesn’t like him—and he doesn’t know why everybody seems to like him so much that they feel the need to crowd around him like he’s a celebrity.
Carter tries to dap him up but Franz doesn’t give him the same energy. He doesn’t want to be touched anymore.
He tries to rationalize it. Why does he feel this way? Is it because he’s somehow jealous of the attention the new guy is getting? Is it because he’s already more popular than Franz? He is supposed to put his life in this man’s hands when they go out on call, and yet he feels his stomach drop at just the thought of it.
Franz shuffles back through the crowd. He hears Beril say “he’s shy, ignore that,” on his behalf. He goes to his locker, grabs his phone and hovers his thumb over Shawn’s contact for a moment. He doesn’t feel well. He doesn’t feel right.
He puts his phone back and tries to swallow whatever’s eating at him. Deal with Carter, he tells himself. What can he do?
After his shift ends, he’s grabbing his stuff from his locker and talking with Smitty from “B” Shift about how his daughter’s recital went last weekend.
“Hey!” Carter’s walking over to him, trying to get his attention. He has half the mind to completely ignore him and keep talking to Smitty—or take his exit and go home, but he was raised to be nice to people he doesn’t like, so he takes a deep breath and looks up at Carter.
“Franz, right?” asks Carter, as if he didn’t spend an entire shift with him. It wasn’t that eventful, but they were in the fire truck together. (Franz volunteered to drive, just so he wouldn’t have to be stuck in a closed space with Carter, just so he didn’t have to look at him, or sit squished up next to him.)
“Yeah,” he answers, waving bye to Smitty as he starts his shift.
“Do you want to get a beer with me and some of the guys? I feel like we didn’t really get to know each other today, and I’d like to be friends with everybody here. We’re brothers, y’know?” Carter announces.
He shakes his head. “I don’t drink,” he states, and he doesn’t. Franz has had his fair share of drinking since he was 14, and he’s lost any taste for it that he may have gained. He’s had a few beers with Henry and shared a couple with Shawn before they moved, but alcohol isn’t really his thing.
Carter makes a noise. “Damn, that’s too bad. I’m sure the bartender could get you a club soda,” he suggests.
Franz shakes his head again. “No. No. I need to go.”
Carter gives him a look as he grabs his duffel and heads out of the station doors.
When Franz gets home, he takes a shower and listens to Johnny Cash in German and stares at himself in the mirror for a long time.
He looks at the way the blond dye in his hair dries and curls in thick loops, he looks at the way his nose has healed after it was broken at 9 years old, he looks at his eyes, at the tired blue of it all, like a lapping ocean tide. He looks awful.
His phone is playing Ballad Of A Teenage Queen, translated, and he feels like he’s buzzing underneath his skin, like his muscles and bones and soul are shivering, humming.
There You Go starts up softly. He grips the sides of the countertop. He almost feels like crying. Why?
Shawn knocks on the door. “Are you almost done in there? I ordered pizza from that place you like! It has pineapple on it.”
He swallows, hard, and then opens the door. Shawn is brilliant and beautiful and standing distracted, phone out, trying to find I Walk The Line in his playlist.
Shawn must know that something is wrong with Franz, because he plates a slice of pizza and sets it on the table for him. He even pours a glass of milk for him.
“Did you finish your case?” Franz asks, sitting at the table, watching Shawn cut the edge of a new bag of milk.
He puts the milk into the fridge and then takes out a soda. They don’t keep soda, so Shawn must have bought it with the pizza—or brought it over from the Psych office.
Shawn nods, taking a slice from the box. “It’s on the news, Channel 8, Psychic Detective Shawn Spencer arrests murderer! And uncovers a huge drug smuggling ring!” he says, dramatic, in his best news reporter voice.
“Are you doing your Ron Burgundy?” Franz questions. Shawn went through a phase of only watching the Anchorman movies for an entire week and Franz had set the TV to German that Sunday.
“Of course not. This is my Ron Burgundy,” he says, slipping into character.
“That’s terrible,” Franz responds.
Shawn leans in close, attempting to be overly, overtly sensual, and yet, still remarkably playful. “Do you want to have sex with me?” he says.
Franz frowns slightly. He puts his hand on Shawn’s hip. “Does he say that in the film?”
“Probably. It works like, 60% of the time.”
“That is about the perfume!” Franz states, and he smiles despite himself.
On Franz’ next shift, he hands Castello, Rick and Freya their coffees, opens his locker, puts his duffel and phone in, and closes it.
Carter is leaning against the other locker. He almost startles Franz.
“Hey, Franz,” greets Carter. “Beril’s sick with the flu, but I texted him and he said I should shadow you, see how this place works.”
He doesn’t know what the phrase ‘shadow you’ means, but he doesn’t say that to Carter. He shrugs and heads towards his assignment for the day.
“So, why’d you need to go home so early?” Carter asks, following him around like a lost puppy dog.
Franz has half the mind to tell him off, but he doesn’t. “I have priorities at home,” he explains, even though he doesn’t really want to. He shouldn’t need to explain.
“Oh,” Carter says, “you got a family then? Kids?”
How can he explain that he has a ‘psychic’ boyfriend who helps the police solve crimes? He almost feels as if telling Carter is sacrilegious of sorts, as if Carter will make something dirty and unclean and—
Maybe something is wrong with Franz. Carter hasn’t done anything remotely wrong. He’s nice. Too nice. He’s charming. Too charming.
On his lunch break, he steps outside and away from his coworkers, and calls Shawn—who is on the ferry going to Prince Rupert for a reason completely unknown to Franz—just to hear his voice, to try and get away from Carter, who sticks to him like a second skin, always trying to talk.
“Dude, you need to try these churros. They’re awesome. It’s like they were bathed in sugar,” Shawn declares once the phone connects.
“Aren’t churros save—sav— savoury?” asks Franz.
“What?! No! Dude! Have you ever had a churro before?”
“I let you eat mine,” Franz reminds.
“Oh yeah,” he says, with an air of thought in his voice, “and I thank you very much for that. Anyway, this is way better than the churro guy outside the office.”
“You should give him the recipe.”
“If I had the recipe I’d make them myself. Which actually means I’d let you make them for me. Oh— I got to go. Gus says hi!” Shawn says.
“Tell Gus I say hi back.”
“Okay. Bye, love you.”
“I love you too.”
The call drops dead, and Franz is just about to put his phone away when he hears a voice behind him.
“Who was that?”
Franz whips around and feels uncomfort already swirl and settle in his stomach. Carter is standing there, hands in his pockets. Why was he listening in on Franz’ private conversation? A lot of his coworkers step outside to speak with their loved ones, and it’s standard protocol—and just basic politeness—to not go up to them. Obviously, if it was important, the bell would have rung, or Carter would have said something before. He wouldn’t be here asking questions about Franz’ life.
“What does the Captain need?” wonders Franz, because he doesn’t want to answer that. He doesn’t want Carter knowing anything about his life, certainly not about his boyfriend, who’s almost angelic in comparison to his coworker.
Maybe the Captain does want him inside, maybe he did send Carter out there, and maybe Carter just doesn’t know what to say.
“Oh, he’s still eating. I’m just wondering why you didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend,” Carter explains, looking at Franz’ face and trying to gauge a reaction.
He thinks about denying it. He thinks about lying. In the end, he doesn’t say anything and goes back inside and ignores Carter.
A couple days later, Vinnie’s invited everyone to a birthday outing at the local pub. Beril—fully recovered from his cold and thoroughly telling Franz all about how gross it was— convinces him to come out ‘just for a little bit’.
Franz texts Shawn that he’ll be at the bar, and that he loves him.
“You finally got him to come!” exclaims Carter—why is he here? Why is Franz shocked that he’s here?—, raising his opened beer in the air.
“Hey, Franz likes me better than you,” says Vinnie, shuffling over in the booth to let Beril and Franz sit.
Franz doesn’t like how loud it is. He doesn’t like how sticky the table is, and how ripped up the seats are, and he doesn’t like the pale yellow, red and blue lighting. He tries to make himself smaller, tense.
“I guess,” says Carter, already drunk. He takes another swig of his beer, almost spilling it on his dark grey band t-shirt.
Beril catches the bartender’s eye and orders a beer. Franz says he doesn’t want anything.
“He’ll— he’ll have a club soda,” Vinnie slurs, pointing to Franz.
“C’mon man, lighten up!” says Beril.
“Yeah, lighten up,” echos Carter. “Tell us about that girlfriend of yours. Is she hot?”
Vinnie bursts into drunken fits of laughter.
“What? What?” Carter asks, voice loud enough that the bachelorette party in the booth beside them shushes him.
“He doesn’t have a girlfriend,” repiles Beril, who thanks the bartender and immediately starts chugging his beer. Franz tips the bartender a twenty and doesn’t touch his club soda.
“Dude, you were saying I love you to your mom? Aren’t you a little old for that?” inquires Carter.
“No— no—, man,” says Vinnie. “His boyfriend. That’s who you heard him talking too. Unless he started batting for the other team.” Vinnie starts up in giggles again.
Beril scoffs. “Franz is as gay as I am straight. One hundred percent,” explains Beril, slapping Franz on the shoulder.
“More like ninety-eight precent,” jokes Vinnie.
“He’s what?” Carter asks, suddenly looking more sober than he had a minute ago.
“He’s gay,” Beril repeats, even though Franz wants him to shut up, “G-A-Y. Gay. Homosexual. Batting for the same team.”
Franz is okay with being gay. He really, truly is. It took him a while to be okay, but he is. He has a beautiful boyfriend who he loves so, so much, and Henry—who’s basically his father-in-law—who shows him how to fish, and he’s doing okay. Franz has never been too open with it, though, not like Shawn has. He doesn’t want to tell people, because he doesn’t really think it should matter if he’s gay or not. It’s nobody’s business but his own, he supposes.
“He sucks dick!” says Vinnie, louder than Carter’s “what?’’s.
Franz wants a hole to swallow him up. Franz wants to go home.
“You’re gay?” Carter asks, and there’s this look on his face that Franz has seen too many times. “You don’t look gay.”
He feels vulnerable. He feels vulnerable. He feels vulnerable. He needs to leave. He needs to leave. He needs to leave.
“I— I’m sorry. I need to leave,” Franz says, stepping out of the booth. He ignores Vinnie and Beril’s complaints, makes sure Beril has a ride home, hopes Vinnie has a good birthday and drives home.
The music is blasting so loud he can barely think. His hands are gripping the steering wheel, knuckles white, and he has the sinking, disgusting feeling that he did something wrong.
When Franz gets home, he showers off the bar stench, and his hands shake too much for him to grab onto the TV’s remote control.
“Hey,” Shawn says, so, so soft; so, so gentle and Franz wants to cry.
Shawn sits down close to him, shoulder-to-shoulder, thighs touching. Franz curls into him, wrapping his arms around him, burying his face in the crook of his neck, trembling.
Shawn pauses for a moment, before he puts his hands on Franz back. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, uncharacteristically comforting. Shawn isn’t good at emotions—not like this. Franz has always tried to be solid, tried to be okay. He knew that Shawn was going through a lot and he knew he needed somebody.
Now, he’s more settled. He has friends everywhere and he has Gus and his dad and maybe he doesn’t need Franz anymore.
Maybe Franz should go— maybe he needs to leave, maybe—
“Do you want to watch MASH? I’ll— I’ll even put it on in German. And we can see Hawkeye and Trapper. What’s your favourite episode— Deal Me Out? We can watch Deal Me Out. I won’t even say anything about how much I hate Frank— even though he is a weasel. Why does he look like that? How do you make yourself so pathetic?” Shawn rambles, tone low and calm.
Franz sniffles. “I wish Alan Alda spoke German,” he says, voice breaking.
“Of course you do,” he says.
Shawn leans over and snatches the remote off of the coffee table.
When Franz gets to work the next day, he closes the door to his truck, enters through the station doors, walks into the locker room, and pauses.
There, clear as day, painted in huge, pink lettering across his locker is FAG.
What?