Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1996

Shawn stared out the window, watching the clouds gather in the sky.

A storm was coming.

It might even delay his escape.

Shawn descended the steps of the city bus and walked down the sidewalk.

Shards of recent memories flashed through his mind, and not for the first time, he cursed the fact that he knew he'd never forget them.

He never had the best relationship with his father, but tonight, things changed for good. Shawn couldn't stand to live with the man who drove his mother out of their family, the man who arrested his own son, the man who worked tirelessly to ruin his own son's life.

Shawn fought any emotion. He didn't want to feel, so he didn't. He felt nothing at all.

Nothing but a lingering desire to get the hell out of Santa Barbara.

"You can't run from your life, Shawn."

Henry's voice echoed in Shawn's head, but Shawn forced it away, determined to prove the man wrong. He clutched his drawstring bag tighter. Shawn walked into the airport and weaved through the crowd of people. 

Somewhere in the back of Shawn's mind, he had a fleeting realization that there were twenty-four hats in the airport terminal. Anger flashed through his eyes; eyes that were still young, yet always see far, far too much.

Approaching the ticket desk, Shawn handed the woman a handful of crumpled bills and asked for the next flight to Miami.

The woman's gaze flicked down at him and back to his eyes. Her eyebrow slowly hitched upward, however not unkindly.

"What?" snapped Shawn.

"Luggage?" the woman asked hesitantly.

"Don't need any." muttered Shawn as the woman handed him a ticket.

When he took it, she didn't let go.

He met her eyes.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you that running away doesn't fix anything?" Her gaze was genuine. Her kind, innocent eyes searched his.

Maybe under normal circumstances, he would have considered her words. Maybe he would have pushed aside his anger and flirted with her. Maybe he would have changed his mind about leaving.

Under normal circumstances, he would have done a lot of things differently.

Shawn tugged on the ticket and she let it go. He averted his eyes. "Maybe not," said Shawn quietly, but firm. "But there's just some things that can't be fixed."

Shawn left the desk, strung his bag over his shoulder and handed his ticket to the man waiting at the door, and boarded the plane without a single look back.

Shawn stared out the window, watching the rain hit the glass.

He reached a hand to his right shoulder, mindlessly massaging the stab wound from the last case.

"If I just didn't give you my jacket… then everything would still be okay."

"But you did, Shawn. You did."

Shawn sighed, pulling his gaze away from the window to look back at the darkening room.

The Psych Office had never felt so empty.

Shawn looked back at his computer screen at the photo of himself and Juliet at Lassiter's wedding.

Him.

Juliet.

And that damned jacket.

A rush of anger suddenly rose in Shawn's chest. He slammed the laptop shut, tired of looking at his greatest mistake.

He sank into his desk chair, hand scrubbing over his face.

"Shawn, I think—I know… I need space."

Space.

Shawn propped his elbows on the desk and held his head in his hands, feeling his headache from the concussion creep back.

But that pain was nothing compared to the one in his chest.

He sighed.

It's been only a day since she'd told him she wanted him to move out. He hadn't told anyone—not even Gus. Somehow saying the words aloud would make them feel... real.

He crashed on the Psych Office couch—not nearly as comfortable as it looked, though he knew that already from plenty of all-nighters—but hardly slept. The hollow feeling in his chest, the form that should have been curled into him wasn't there, and he couldn't handle it.

It definitely didn't help that his memory only decided to play her words through his mind.

Over.

And over.

And over.

Shawn groaned, shutting his eyes. Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, he hated his memory.

He was going to lose his mind if he sat here any longer.

Space.

Shawn lifted his head, blinking his exhausted eyes back open.

An idea forming, Shawn followed the impulse and pulled out his phone. He found a number, made a quick call and stood.

Juliet was right.

Space might not be such a bad idea after all.

But the last time Shawn needed space, he didn't come back for over ten years.

Nearly twenty minutes later, Shawn looked up as a horn sounded outside. A yellow cab waited in the street. He left the office and got into the cab. He slid across the backseat, buckling the seatbelt.

The driver, an Indian man a few years older than Shawn himself, gave Shawn a smile.

"Mr. Spencer?" asked the driver.

"Yeah," said Shawn absentmindedly. "Airport, please."

"My name's Juan," said the driver as he backed up the cab and pulled into the street.

Shawn didn't respond.

He just stared out the window and watched the rain.

"What you need the airport for?" asked Juan.

Shawn slowly shifted his gaze to the rearview mirror, seeing the eagerness in Juan's eyes staring back at him.

"I need some… space," said Shawn quietly, hating to be repeating the words Juliet spoke, the words that felt like a knife in his heart.

"I think you should move out."

It was as if the wind had been knocked out of him. Shawn's gaze fell back to the window of the cab, watching the rain pick up, the drops spilling in a mess of rivulets on the glass. He couldn't help noticing the appropriateness of the weather, considering his mood.

"Space from…?" prompted Juan, making a right down the next street.

Shawn shut his eyes, irritation growing.

Where was the cab driver from the night of the wedding who ignored him completely?

Under normal circumstances, Shawn would have indulged the driver. 

Under normal circumstances, he'd have done a lot of things differently.

"I appreciate the concern, Juan, I really do," said Shawn with a touch of forced calm. "But I've got a splitting headache, and I'd really rather we have a quiet trip."

"Yes, I understand, I understand," said Juan, nodding.

Shawn and Juan sat in silence for about thirty seconds before Juan said, "You know, I'm a big fan."

Shawn looked back at the rearview mirror. "I'm sorry?"

"Well, you're Shawn Spencer!" exclaimed Juan. "I read about you and that Gurton Buster in the paper. You're the psychic!"

Shawn winced a little at the mention of psychic, a painful image of the heartbreak in Juliet’s eyes flashing with far too much detail.

He tried to shake it away, however futile the attempt.

"Yeah," said Shawn, about to correct Gus' name, but instead just said, "Well, thanks, Juan." Shawn leaned his head against the window. It was either his mild, day-old concussion or the weather that was killing his head. A traitorous voice wondered if this was what heartbreak felt like. He sighed, letting the chilled glass sooth the dull throb.

Shawn shut his eyes, wondering what he was doing. Where was he going to go? Back to Miami? He sighed again. He didn't want to go to Miami. Jules is from Miami, his memory reminded him, and he fought the urge to groan.

Was he really going to leave? Make the same mistake he made years ago?

He just wanted to be with Juliet.

That's all he's wanted ever since she found out the truth.

Ever since he lost her.

Shawn kicked himself. How could he have been so stupid?

He should have just told her the truth himself before she ever had to find out. 

Lifting a hand, Shawn rubbed his tired eyes. He hadn't slept in nearly two days. Juliet hadn't been returning his calls. He only stopped trying after she came by the office to ask for space.

Shawn hadn't contacted anyone since the Elin case closed. Gus had tried calling Shawn a few times, but Shawn didn't want to talk to him. He didn't want to talk to anyone; there was nothing he wanted to say.

He just wanted Juliet back in his arms.

Shawn opened his eyes. The passing buildings and houses came back into focus and Shawn watched them slide in and out of his vision. He watched as Juan made a left—

"Hang on," said Shawn, lifting his head. "You made a wrong turn. The airport is back that way," said Shawn, pointing in the opposite direction.

Juan didn't reply. 

He kept driving. 

Shawn sat up. "Juan, you made a wrong turn," repeated Shawn slowly. "Turn the car around."

"I can't do that," said Juan in a quiet voice. 

Shawn's heart skipped a beat, spidey-sense tingling. There was all kinds of wrong in the tone of the man’s voice.

Shawn’s hand shot toward the door and he tried to open it, but it was locked. He looked at it, but the unlock button was busted. 

How hadn't he noticed that when he got in?

He notices everything.

Heart picking up more speed, Shawn looked at Juan. "Where are you taking me? Who are you?"

"Oh, my name really is Juan!" said Juan quickly. "But, see… I'm in a little trouble here, Shawn Spencer…"

"What kind of trouble?" demanded Shawn, removing his seatbelt, trying to think of the smartest way out. He glanced around the car, yanking on the door again.

"People are looking for me," said Juan, stepping on the gas suddenly. The car lurched forward, throwing Shawn backward.

"Who?" asked Shawn through clenched teeth as pain radiated from his stab wound.

"I lost his money—I didn't think he'd find me—!" exclaimed Juan, looking cautiously behind him. Shawn followed his gaze. The road behind them was clear.

"Stop the car!" yelled Shawn.

"You're a psychic," said Juan quickly. "You can find it, right?"

"Juan, stop the car!" repeated Shawn. Shawn pushed off the backseat and reached for the wheel and pulled it to the left, almost hitting the car passing by.

"I had the money at the taxi station—swear! Maybe it was someone at the station… Maybe they switched the cabs—" continued Juan, yanking the wheel back his way, making Shawn fall forward, narrowly avoiding smacking his head on the dashboard. He grabbed the wheel again, and tried to steady the car.

"You're going to crash it!" yelled Shawn, trying to pry off Juan's hand, but Juan held tight. They came dangerously close to another car beside them, and Shawn threw himself forward, grabbing the wheel and twisting it back to the right. The car blared its horn. 

But it was then that Shawn saw something out of the corner of his eye.

And suddenly he was paralyzed, watching the van, black as night, driving straight at them.

He didn't even feel it strike.

Chapter Text

Gus stared at his phone.

He was looking at the call log—all his unanswered calls to Shawn.

Gus knew Shawn was hurting from the break-up with Juliet, but he wished there was something he could do. Shawn was his best friend and seeing him like this…

It was painful.

Walking into the Santa Barbara Police Department, Gus approached the front desk and asked for his and Shawn's Psych check. As the officer searched for it, Gus' eyes wandered to Juliet's desk.

She was sitting behind it, her hair tucked into a messy bun, her fingers typing away at the keyboard.

The officer handed Gus the check and Gus thanked him. He folded it and started to leave, but stopped himself. He looked back at Juliet.

A moment later, Juliet looked up as Gus walked to her desk. Her eyes were suddenly guarded. "Gus, I really don't want to—"

"He's sorry, Juliet," whispered Gus. "Shawn's more sorry about this than anything he's ever done, and that's saying something—"

Juliet held up a hand, stopping him. "Gus, I can't do this right now. Nothing you say will make me forgive Shawn, so give it a rest."

"He loves you, Juliet." said Gus simply. "He never wanted to hurt you—"

"Gus," warned Juliet dangerously.

"O'Hara!"

Gus and Juliet turned as Lassiter walked into the room. He holstered his gun hastily. "There was a car accident about twenty minutes ago on State Street. Hit and run. Looks intentional."

"Anyone dead?" asked Juliet, her and Gus' conversation temporarily set aside.

"I don't know yet," said Lassiter. He pulled on his jacket. "Apparently the vehicle hit was a cab. They said it was a pretty nasty accident."

"Let's get down there," said Juliet. She grabbed her own jacket and the two detectives started to head out of the station.

"Wait!" called Gus, following them. "Can I come?"

"Sure," said Lassiter without breaking stride. "I was hoping you'd ask."

Gus hesitated, surprised. He smiled. "Wow, really?"

Lassiter scowled. "No, not really! Now get lost, Guster. O'Hara and I have a case to solve."

"Come on," tried Gus. "I can be helpful!"

"Even if I was considering hiring your little detective agency," said Lassiter as they descended the stairs, "your psychic team isn't very psychic without the psychic."

"It hardly is with the psychic," muttered Juliet in a low voice that Lassiter didn't catch, but Gus did.

"Get lost, Guster," called Lassiter as he and Juliet picked up their pace and got into Lassiter's Fusion.

Gus leaned against the railing, panting from the effort, and watched their engine start up. Quickly, Gus ran to his Echo and jumped into the driver's seat, following them.

Gus was prepared to get as much information as he could about this case; the best distraction for Shawn right now was this case.

Twenty minutes later, Gus watched Lassiter and Juliet pull up to the crime scene. Gus turned down a gravel road and parked his Echo. He got out and made his way to the crime scene walking through the backyards of a few houses along the side of the road. He crept up to the scene and peered from between two of the houses and Juliet and Lassiter approached the accident, weaving through the ambulances, police cars and professionals walking the scene.

The cab had spun off the road. Directly across from the cab was a street that ran perpendicular to the road the cab had been driving on—the vehicle that hit the cab had to have blown through the stop sign.

"So," said Lassiter, pointing up the road, "the attacking vehicle came from Yuler Road and struck the cab on the driver's side." Lassiter and Juliet approached the cab, footsteps crunching on gravel. Gus took a few careful steps forward, ducking behind a bush. He pushed the twigs aside.

The driver's side was severely dented inward. The windshield had cracked but didn't shatter. Gus watched as a mid-thirties-looking Indian man was carefully extracted from the cab. He was limp and unmoving; he looked dead. As the man was placed onto a gurney, Gus saw it.

A gunshot wound.

The man had been shot in the chest.

Lassiter and Juliet must have seen it at the same time Gus did. As Gus clamped a hand over his mouth at the sight of the blood on the man's chest, firmly telling his lunch to stay put, Gus heard Lassiter say, "Well, that definitely rules out accident." He turned to one of the EMTs. "Gunshot wound was the cause of death, correct?"

"Yes, Detective." replied the EMT, nodding. He moved so another officer could snap photos of the crime scene.

"Hang on," said Lassiter, examining the car closer, leaning in to get a better look at the windshield. He pointed to the crack. "This is where the driver hit the windshield?"

"No," said the EMT, looking up from the files he was reading. "The driver was wearing a seatbelt. He was lucky," he said, then looked at the dead body and shrugged. "Well, would have been lucky if not for the 9mm." 

Lassiter's stared at the windshield, brows narrowing a little. "Something hit the windshield." he mused aloud.

Juliet walked around the front of the car. "Or… someone."

"You think someone else had been in the car?" asked Lassiter. He nodded to himself, considering the theory.

"Actually, that would make sense," said the EMT. He pointed toward the upholstery and Juliet and Lassiter's gaze followed the EMT's. Gus couldn't see what they were all pointing at. He closed the gap he made in the twigs of the bush.

He had to get closer.

Gus started crawling, his hands and knees sinking into the soft ground, muddy from the rain, glad he hadn't worn his expensive pants. He found another bush, closer to the cab, and he peered through the leaves.

The EMT continued, "There's a severe amount of blood here, much more than should have come from the driver's gunshot wound. He wasn't bleeding anywhere else."

"He wasn't alone in the cab," said Juliet. "But if there was someone else…" Her brows kneaded. "What happened to them?"

Lassiter nodded. "Good work, O'Hara. Let's get back to the station and ID this guy. We'll contact the taxi station to find out who was in the car with him."

Gus shivered, looking at the hunk of twisted metal and blood-soaked seats.

He was never eating right before seeing a crime scene.

Never again.

Gus briefly glanced behind him; he almost felt as if he was waiting for Shawn to make a comment about Gus' weak stomach.

Gus sighed.

He pulled out his phone, dialing Shawn's number for what seemed like the twentieth time that day. 

"Come on, Shawn," whispered Gus. Shawn was worrying him now; it wasn't like him to screen Gus' calls to this extent.

Gus sighed when he got the voicemail again.

"You've reached Shawn Spencer, part-time detective, full-time psychic. I probably already sensed what you were going to say in your message but leave one anyway."

"Pick up your phone, Shawn," muttered Gus, hanging up. He was going to get back up and start for his Echo, when he felt a hand grab his shoulder.

Gus barely held in a squeal as he was whipped around.

Lassiter scowled. "What did I tell you, Guster? Stay away from my case!"

Gus sighed in relief. "Oh, thank god, it's just you."

Lassiter glared at him. "Do I need to define get lost, or can you figure it out?"

"Let me stay, I can help!"

Lassiter sighed. "Guster, don't make me arrest you for hindering a police case."

Gus laughed. "Like you'd ever actually do that."

Thirty minutes later.

"Lassie!" yelled Gus as Lassiter slid the bars shut in front of Gus' face. Gus grabbed the bars with both hands. "Are you kidding me right now? Get me out of here!"

"I told you that you had the right to remain silent," said Lassiter. "I suggest you do that."

"Lassie!" Gus rattled the bars on the cage doors. Lassiter had handcuffed him at the crime scene and brought him back to the SBPD and locked him in a holding cell.

Lassiter held back a smile as he turned and walked out.

"Lassie!" exclaimed Gus, rattling the bars. "Get back here! Lassiter!"

Gus sighed angrily and went to sit on the cot, when he realized just how grimy and unsanitary it was. He looked from the cot to the metal toilet, and back.

Gus' anger was quickly replaced by desperation.

He grabbed the bars again and shook them. "Lassie!"

When only silence met him--though Gus could still feel Lassiter's smirk from all the way upstairs--Gus gave up.

Well, there goes trying to get Shawn a case to distract himself.

Hands still clutching the bars, Gus waited impatiently for an officer to come down and give him his phone call, feeling the disappointment that this was a case neither he nor Shawn were going to be a part of.

This much radio silence from Shawn was concerning, so much so that it was more worrisome than the fact that Gus was currently standing in a prison cell (which, because it was Lassiter, felt more like a time out than an actual arrest).

Once Gus got out of here, he was going to find Shawn.

His best friend was hurting, and Gus needed to do something about it.

If he could find him, that was.

Chapter Text

Shawn’s eyes shot open, sharp agony thrusting him gracelessly into a world of pain. 

A groan caught somewhere in his throat as he blinked, but his vision was a blurred kaleidoscope of gray and black—concrete?—yet the daylight only made the pounding in his head more excruciating. He screwed his eyes shut, barely holding in another groan. Even with his eyes shut, the world was spinning, and Shawn desperately tried not to be sick.

“Wake up.”

The sudden voice from above him, male and unfamiliar, made Shawn’s eyes snap back open. And suddenly he realized what caused the fresh pain and the abrupt wakefulness—he’d been dropped or thrown to the ground.

Yes—this cold, hard, unforgiving thing was, in fact, the ground. 

That didn’t yet explain why the world was still spinning. (Other than the scientific fact that the world was spinning constantly that Gus would remind him of if he were here.) Was Gus here? Was this the Mexican border? Is this payback?

Better question: where was here?

Shawn shut his eyes again, cringing from the vicious headache. Upgrade that mild concussion from the Elin case to… whatever came after severe. 

When did he re-injure his head?

Possibly an even better question than that—

What the hell was going on?

Confusion was suddenly more pressing than the pain. 

"Get up."

Shawn felt a sharp kick to his back, sending bolts of pain through his midsection that made his hands jerk to grab at his side. He couldn’t help the yelp, his eyes flying open, his hands scrabbling to grab at what could only be broken ribs. He hissed. When the hell did he break his ribs?  

And…

Why the hell were his hands tied together?

Shawn felt himself freeze, eyes blinking open again as he looked at his hands, taped together tightly in front of him. 

What…?

Sharp pain throbbing from at least a dozen places screwed his eyes shut again with a groan, and suddenly the random handcuffs were the least of his worries. 

How hurt was he?

When he was thrown on the ground, was it from a seventh story window?

Shawn opened his eyes again, trying to quell the ever-present fear that accompanied an inability to recall memories. 

His blurry vision pieced together just enough to tell him he was lying in the middle of an empty parking lot, currently undergoing an earthquake.

No, wait. 

The earthquake part was most likely just taking place in his brain.

He screwed his eyes shut when the spinning grew only faster, sucking in a breath at the stab of pain behind his eyes as he forced himself to think, but clawing for thoughts felt like trying to run through mud. 

Really, really painful mud. 

"Were we followed?" 

Shawn flinched at the sudden voice, realizing—remembering?—a bit too delayed that he wasn’t alone. 

"No way to be sure," another man answered. "Could have been."

"We better do this fast, then."

Once he managed to get the spinning to calm a bit, Shawn looked cautiously up at the owners of the voices. Three men stood around him, arms crossed, eyes angry and impatient. None of them looked familiar. 

Turning his head, Shawn examined the parking lot, trying to find a glimpse of anything that made sense. But there was almost nothing in sight. The building in the parking lot was long-since abandoned and much too far away to be a safe haven. Civilization didn't seem to exist over here. 

Shawn’s eyes crawling back to the men surrounding him, he felt himself involuntarily examine them. He suddenly noticed that all three men were wearing ripped jeans and cheap, faded sneakers.

These men were broke.

The man who kicked him—the obvious leader of the three just by the way he held himself, with several imposing tattoos standing out against pale, muscled skin—was rearing back to kick him again, and Shawn quickly held up his tied hands to stop him, surprised when he saw his fingers shaking with pain or weakness or both. 

"I'm—I'm awake," he croaked, not exactly impressed with how weak his voice sounded, but really not wanting to deal with any more pain right now. “And jeez,” he huffed, “I think a gentle n-nudge woulda sufficed.” Shawn shut his eyes, trying to will away the strong pull to sleep, and trying to ignore the fact that almost every one of his words had slurred.

Shawn's head pounded, shooting knives through his skull. He reflexively pressed a hand to his head, awkwardly with the makeshift cuffs, only sucking in a breath when it hurt more then helped.

His eyes snapped back open.

Why was his head wet?

He pulled his hands back, blinking painfully at his back of his left hand, seeing red.

He was bleeding? 

Why was he bleeding?

Something told him that he knew what happened, but the memories were somewhere buried beneath the agony of a thousand bruises and a horrendous headache. 

"Who are you?" the third man demanded.

He wasn't the one who kicked him; this man was shorter, less built, had dark, tattoo-covered skin. None of which Shawn’s blurry vision could make out. This man was a heavier and less put-together Gus, Shawn decided. 

"I—uh," began Shawn, looking uneasily at the men. With quite literally nothing to go on, he tried: "I don't have much, but I have fifty bucks in my wallet. It's—it's actually not my fifty bucks—it's my partner's—but I'm sure he wouldn't mind—"

The sudden reveal and cock of a gun, in the leader’s hand, now aimed at Shawn dried up his words instantly. 

The man's voice dropped an octave, danger lacing his words. "Who. Are. You."

"Okay—okay—“ said Shawn quickly, chest hitching at the sight of the gun. “M-my name is… S—" began Shawn, but even through the concussion, something told him that giving these men his real name would only make matters worse. "—Sawyer," finished Shawn, using the first name he could think of.

"Your name is Sawyer?" asked the other man, gun still in hand. He seemed unconvinced. "Sawyer? Like the guy who painted the house?"

"That's Tom Sawyer," corrected Shawn weakly. "And I'm pretty sure he painted a fence—"

“Shut up!” snapped the leader. "What were you doing in the car?" the man demanded, snapping Shawn out of his thoughts. "How did you know Juan?"

Juan?

Suddenly it was all crashing back. 

The memories caught up to him in an instant, one after another in perfect detail, with such force Shawn desperately clung onto consciousness as his mind worked harder than the strength he had to give it.

Juan. 

Cab.

The van…

Shawn’s eyes snapped open.

The van that was heading straight for—

Well, that explained why he felt like hell. 

He was in a freaking car accident.

Or, rather, a car on-purpose, since it was clearly not an accident. 

That, however, didn’t explain why he was waking up here, handcuffed, in the middle of nowhere with three new friends. 

“Well?” demanded the man, bending to Shawn’s level, gun still aimed at his head. “How did you know Juan?” he repeated. “Were you working for him?”

What the hell was Juan into?

"No! I don't even know the guy!” exclaimed Shawn. “I—I was just getting a ride to the airport!"

The airport.

A pain much stronger than the concussion suddenly pulsed through Shawn's veins.

Lassiter's wedding.

His jacket.

Juliet.

For a moment, the pain of her rejection whited out everything else. 

The man with the gun raised an eyebrow. "Heading for the airport, huh? Sure you were. Trying to make off with our money."

"Money?" asked Shawn, his attention pulled away from Juliet and heartbreak, refocusing on the man and the gun. 

"I lost their money! I swear it was at the cab station… maybe someone switched the cabs..."

Juan.

Shawn hesitated. Juan somehow lost the money these men wanted. 

And somehow these people seemed to think he had something to do with it?

"Look," said Shawn, blinking his eyes open. "I don't know about this money, all right? I was just trying to get a ride, man! That's it!"

"He's lying," said the man with the tattoos. "He's got to be. Juan wasn't even a real driver."

Not a real driver? Shawn shut his eyes, kicking himself. This was the last time he was calling the first cab station he found on the Yellow Pages.

"Juan—he wasn't a real driver?" asked Shawn wearily. 

The men looked down at him. "Of course not,” said the man with the gun, eyes narrowing more. “But you know that. Don't try telling us that you 'didn't know' about the taxi scam.” Taxi scam? “Juan was a middle man, supposed to deliver us our money yesterday morning, and he never showed up. The rat bastard tried pulling a fast one, and you expect us to believe he was playing 'cab driver' all of a sudden?"

What the hell did I get myself into? Shawn asked himself.

"Where is my money?" demanded the man, pressing the muzzle of the gun to Shawn’s head, making his heart race.

"I—I don't know!" exclaimed Shawn, eyes scanning the empty parking lot for some sort of escape. But there was nothing in sight. And even if there was, the ground was still spinning and Shawn couldn’t even fathom the thought of lifting his head without throwing up. 

Vaguely, thoughts sifted through Shawn's mind: 

Juliet wasn't speaking to him. 

His father wasn’t happy with him, still concerned Shawn’s lie would interfere with Henry’s position at the SBPD.

Shawn hadn't returned a single phone call to Gus. 

No one knew Shawn was missing, and no one would until it was too late.

He was on his own.

"See, Javier? I told you we shouldn't have killed Juan," said the alternate-Gus, glaring at the man with the gun— Javier, apparently.

"Shut up, Trent," snapped Javier. "I was pissed. He deserved it."

Juan was dead? 

Shawn shut his eyes, trying to make sense of the new information coming at far too rapid of a pace. But he stopped his mind from trying, only making his head pound harder. Right now, the only thing that matter was getting the hell out of here. 

"I don't know anything, all right?" said Shawn genuinely, because hell, he didn’t. 

Javier suddenly cocked the weapon and aimed it at Shawn's head. "Then we're just about done with you." 

Shawn's eyes widened, pure fear nearly clearing his blurred vision. "Wait—wait!" exclaimed Shawn, his mind desperately searching for words. Anything to say. Anything at all. "The money's at the cab station!” Shawn blurted out. “In one of the other cabs!" he gasped, echoing Juan’s theory from earlier. 

The men exchanged glances with each other. 

Shawn held his breath.

Then, the leader grinned. 

"That's more like it." the man said, reaching down and grabbing Shawn's shirt, yanking him roughly upright.

Pain lit up everywhere.

Shawn felt himself cry out, his voice a ragged, strangled sound that sounded far too much like a wounded animal. Sharp, hot agony cut like knives as he was manhandled—abdomen, shoulder, headheadhead—Shawn’s teeth clamped shut, cutting off his own agonized yell, turning into a groan that only sheer will didn’t turn into losing what little he had in his stomach.

Dizziness was sickening, sounds were muffled, fading in and out—

Blearily he realized he was being dragged toward something, unable to get his feet under him as they jerked him too fast, pain alighting every nerve. Like an instinct, Shawn’s mind supplied run, the word for whatever reason sounding like his father’s voice, and he panicked, jerking against them, trying desperately to free himself. Through the blur of his vision--van.

The van.

He was being dragged toward the van.

"Look—" gasped Shawn, more fear racing through him as he tried to yank his arms out of their grip, but they were stronger than him, even despite the fact that his strength was more than compromised. His eyes screwed shut again as pain and vertigo clashed, a groan slipping out through clenched teeth as being dragged pulled on a several injuries at once. "That's all I know," he choked out. "Just let me go—" 

"You're not going anywhere." 

Despite his struggling, the men dragged Shawn toward the van, and threw him into the back. 

Unceremoniously, Shawn hit the wall, his back and head taking the brunt of the hit, and his vision whited out for a few precious seconds. He blinked to find himself slumped to the floor of the van, only to shut them again, the world spinning too fast to keep them open. The agony from before was only worse now, too sharp and too raw to even figure out what specific injuries he even sustained during the crash.

Note to self: next time he’s in a cab with a crazy person, wear a seatbelt.

He just tried to breathe, and fight the ever-growing blackness at the edges of his vision.

The van shifted with weight as Javier slid in with him, the unmistakable coldness of the muzzle of a gun pressing roughly to Shawn's temple, making his eyes snap open with a harsh cringe. 

"You'd better not be lying," muttered Javier. “Because if you are…” He cocked the gun, making Shawn flinch. “You’ll regret it.” 

“So you’re telling me this is all a lie?” echoed suddenly through his mind, stealing his breath. 

His eyes burned, suddenly remembering where this whole mess started. 

“Shawn, I think… I know I need space.” 

If Juan was wrong about those cabs, then there was about to be plenty of space between himself and Juliet. 

Permanently.

Flashes of Juliet, of smiles, of his jacket. 

Of the lie that started it all.

“You better not be lying. Because if you are, you’ll regret it.” 

He did.

Damn it, he did.

“Are you telling me this is all a lie?”

A single tear burned down Shawn’s cheek, for the simple fact that he may never get a chance to tell her it wasn’t. 

Chapter Text

"Arrested? Seriously?"

Henry heaved both a sigh of exasperation and relief as he stared at Gus through the bars of the holding cell. 

Gus sighed, with his own mix of exasperation and relief. "I didn't break any laws."

"Then why am I here?" asked Henry, gesturing around the holding cell. "And why did I post bail?"

"I wasn't going to call my own parents," said Gus, as if it were obvious.

Well, at least this time he didn’t have to fly to Canada to bail Shawn and Gus out of police holding.

However… 

Henry raised an eyebrow, looking behind Gus, into the other criminal's cell, then back to Gus. "Where's Shawn?"

"He's not here."

Gus had used his one phone call to call Henry, and Henry had only assumed that Shawn had made him call. 

Admittedly, Henry had seen the SBPD caller ID and immediately assumed the worst—

That Detective O’Hara had exposed Shawn’s secret to Karen, and he was being either fired or arrested or both. 

Hearing he needed to post bail for the two idiots never sounded so good.

Not only was it good in comparison to being implicated in Shawn’s crimes, it was a good… icebreaker.

The last time he’d seen Shawn was when Shawn had told him about his secret being blown. And Henry, dare he admit it even to himself, didn’t exactly handle it well. 

“Shawn,” he’d said after listening to Shawn’s way-too-easy question about the case with the Swedish girl. “You could have figured that out for yourself. You wanna tell me what’s really going on here?”

It wasn’t often that he’s seen his son so… unsure of himself. So… lost. 

But here he was, covered in blood that wasn’t his own and a concerning bruise at his temple, afraid to look his father in the eyes. He searched for a pillow, and Henry’s brows rose at his son’s need for the comfort of the object. “Yeah…” said Shawn. “But… I’ve gotta warn you; I am especially fragile,” he said, words shaking a little, and Henry felt his concern for him only deepen. “And I’m gonna need you to put on the kid gloves.” 

Henry mimed the donning of the gloves, and it made Shawn laugh a little, but it was still too broken of a laugh to be enough to fix whatever was wrong.

“So…” began Shawn, bracing himself. “Jules found out.” Shawn averted his eyes, finding the floor. “And now she thinks that our whole relationship is a big lie.”

Henry couldn’t help himself. The gloves slipped off as he growled, “You idiot! I knew this would happen!”

Shawn, clearly having understated just how fragile he was, suddenly looked even more so. “I think you need to lace those gloves a little tighter–” he said in a small voice.

But the anger was rising before Henry could tamper it— “Do you understand that I’m going to be implicated in your little charade?” he demanded, Shawn shrinking back into the couch. “Did you ever stop and think for one second how this might affect me?” 

“Yeah,” huffed Shawn, hurt. “That was the first thought I had after she ended our relationship,” he hissed, the last words heavy and laced with pain. “All charades aside,” Shawn went on, “Juliet is obviously very hurt by this and I have no idea what to do about it.”

Shawn had left quickly afterward, getting a break in the case, and leaving before Henry had any actual advice for him.

Henry had kicked himself the moment he left.

If he’d learned anything in the past six years since he and Shawn reconnected, it was that sometimes, his need to be a father rose above his need to be a cop, and his son’s pain was more important than his.

He’d gone along with Shawn’s secret all these years, he’d played just as much a part in this as Shawn had. 

“Juliet is obviously very hurt by this and I have no idea what to do about it.”

Well, so was Shawn, and Henry had no idea what to do about it.

"Wait," said Henry suddenly, something not clicking. "You got yourself arrested? With no help from Shawn whatsoever?"

"Yes," said Gus exasperatedly, and it looked like he’d been giving himself that lecture for the past hour. "But—but I'm not even sure I was actually arrested! This is just Lassie trying to keep me out of his case. That bail money probably went straight into his pocket."

"Damn it!" whispered Henry, looking back out the doorway. "That was a hundred bucks, Gus!"

"I've been in here for over an hour!" Gus grabbed and rattled the bars. "Get me out of here!" 

As if on cue, an officer descended the stairs with a ring of keys in his hands. He opened the cell door and Gus rushed outside of it, embracing Henry in a tight hug that Henry had not been ready for.

"Thank you, thank you!" whispered Gus. He released him, shaking himself a little with what looked like disgust. “This place is nasty, I need to get outta here.” 

Gus practically bounded up the steps and Henry followed.

"Where is Shawn?" asked Henry, as he struggled to keep up with Gus' pace.

Gus shook his head, slowing down as they walked through the station. "To be honest, I don't know where Shawn is. I haven't talked to him since yesterday. He won’t answer any of my calls or texts," he said, nervousness building into the words. “On my way here this afternoon to get our check, I stopped by Psych, but he wasn’t there.” Gus sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face.

"Call him?" asked Henry.

"Straight to voicemail," said Gus, shoulders slumping. He stepped aside as two officers passed between them. "I mean… He's probably just blowing off steam with.. with everything."

Both men's eyes wandered to Juliet's desk, less than twenty feet away. She was reading something off the computer, eyes fixed to the screen. Her eyes looked tired. Restless.

Henry sighed. 

"He's just… empty," said Gus quietly, dropping his voice and leaning against the wall.  He shook his head. "The last time I remember him like this was when he—" began Gus, but quickly stopped himself before the words came out.

Henry crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow.

"When he what, Gus?" asked Henry, drawing out the words, sure he wasn't going to like them.

"When he…" Gus hesitated. "When he had a… falling out… with… you," he finished awkwardly. Gus bit his lip, like he wished he hadn't brought it up.

Henry remembered the days before Shawn disappeared.

The things he wished he could go back and change.

Well, he couldn't change the mistakes he made with his son back then.

But...

He could be here for him now.

So, Henry simply nodded, accepting it. "I was afraid you were going to say that," he said with a sigh. 

"You don't think he'd..." 

Henry looked up.

"You don't think he'd... leave, right?" asked Gus.

That was exactly what he was wondering himself. 

Shawn could handle a hell of a lot.

But one trait Henry unfortunately passed to him was an inability to handle heavy emotions. And… Shawn was a hell of a lot more impulsive than he was. It wasn’t a good mix.

"Are you sure we should just assume he's… fine?" asked Gus hesitantly.

"With Shawn?" said Henry, his eyes reflecting Gus' feelings. "Never."

"Guster!"

Gus and Henry turned as Lassiter entered the room, a scowl branded on his face. He glared at Gus. "I thought I arrested you," he said firmly. He walked straight up to Gus, danger emanating from his eyes.

"He posted bail!" countered Gus, gesturing to Henry.

Lassiter spared a look toward Juliet, ensuring she was out of earshot before turning back to Gus. Lowering his voice, he said, "Look, I tried to do this nicely, Guster."

"How is arresting me nice?"

Lassiter ignored him. "I don't want you or Spencer anywhere near this case, or this station," he said firmly. "If you didn't notice," he went on, "some sort of crap went on between Spencer and O'Hara--I don't give a rat's ass what did--" he said before Gus could speak. "All I know is that my partner doesn't want to see him or anyone associated with him right now, and I'm going to make sure it stays that way. Capisce?" 

Understanding blooming in Gus' eyes, the fight left him. He let out a defeated breath, nodding. "All right."

"Good," said Lassiter, a little bit of the sharpness leaving him, for he clearly was as unsure about the situation as the rest of them. "Now, please, leave." 

"Found the taxi station," came Juliet's voice suddenly, approaching Lassiter while reading off a paper-- "Alastor's Taxi Corporation. It's about six miles from here." She handed him a file. "And Woody got an ID on our victim. His name is Juan Matis--" Juliet suddenly looked up from the file, seeing Gus and Henry. Her eyes were suddenly guarded again. "What--" she began, eyes narrowing.

"We were just leaving," said Gus before she could say the same words.

"Let's go check out the station then," said Lassiter, grabbing his keys and jacket from his chair. He followed Juliet out, giving another look to Henry and Gus before following her out of the building.

Gus looked at Henry. "Can you give me a ride to my car?" he asked. "When Lassiter arrested me, he drove me here in the squad car and refused to get an officer to drive the Blueberry back here."

"Yeah," said Henry, starting to head outside, Gus following. "Let's go."

Juliet felt her fists tighten in her lap as Lassiter drove them to the taxi station.

She glared out the window. 

Foolish.

"So it was all a lie?"

"Falling in love with you was never part of the plan."

Juliet shut her eyes.

She was a detective, damn it. A detective. How could she have been so stupid? Every moment of their relationship, he was pretending to be a psychic. Pretending to know things that he fabricated out of thin air. Lying to her face at every turn.

And the part that made her angry most of all, was that it worked.

"I'm sensing… that your favorite dish is right on the other side of this wall."

Juliet had lifted her brows, following Shawn's gesture and walked into her own kitchen, to find lasagna laid out over her table, tablecloth and all, in a romantic setting.

"Shawn…" she said slowly, shaking her head. They were two dates in. She's never mentioned anything about Italian. "How did you know…?"

He tapped his head. "I had a little help."

She smiled, shaking her head a little at the awe that she always felt when he displayed his gift.

Juliet's fist tightened.

Lies.

All… lies.

He might have stalked her garbage for takeout containers.

"I'm sensing… that you've always wanted to come to this restaurant, but no one's ever had the guts to take you because they'd have to dress up."

Her favorite restaurant.

"Shawn, how could you have possibly known that I…" She shook her head, staring at the vintage version of her favorite book as a child. She gaped at him, openly awestruck.

Shawn just smiled. "I can't take all the credit. I just… had a feeling."

He smiled.

And she kissed him.

Foolish.

Stupid.

So completely stupid.

And she made it so easy for him.

He played her like a damn game and she let him.

"O'Hara?"

Juliet looked at Lassiter, snapping out of her daze. He out of the car—which had apparently parked a while ago—and he was bending back into it, giving her a quizzical look. A quick look behind him told her they made it to the taxi station.

"Oh," she said absentmindedly. "Sorry."

His gaze lingered a little, and she felt embarrassed. She knew she's been distracted.

Juliet shook herself.

If all of this-if she-had been a trivial game to Shawn, then this relationship didn't deserve mourning.

Juliet got out of the car and they walked with Lassiter to the little building, trying her best to shove him out of her mind.

A bell chimed when they walked through the door.

"Can I help you?"

Lassiter and Juliet turned. The station was very small and dimly-lit. It was a single room. It felt stuffy and smelled faintly of exhaust fumes. The walls were grimy and stained, the floors a cracked cement. A single desk stood behind them, papers scattered across the surface.

"Hi," said Juliet to the man who'd spoken. This man was short and scrawny, and didn't look much older than twenty. He wore dingy overalls, as if he were a mechanic. He fixed his glasses and returned Juliet's smile.

"I'm Hal," said the young man, running a dirty, grease-stained hand through his untidy hair.

"Hi, Hal," said Lassiter, trying to resist the urge to scowl at the unkept office. He pulled his badge out of his jacket and held it to Hal's eyes. "I'm Detective Carlton Lassiter and this is my partner, Detective O'hara. We're with the Santa Barbara Police Department."

Hal's eyebrows raised in innocence. "Police? Did… Did I do something, Officer?"

"Detective," corrected Lassiter flatly. "And I don't know, you tell me. Do you know anything about a driver here? Juan Matis?"

Hal grinned. "Juan! Yeah, gotta love Juan. He's a funny dude."

"He's dead." said Lassiter shortly.

Hal's mouth dropped open.

"Lassiter!" hissed Juliet disapprovingly. She looked at Hal sympathetically. "You were friends with him?"

"I—I worked with him, I mean—I guess you could say that…" stuttered Hal. "He's dead?"

"He was involved in a hit and run this morning," said Juliet softly. "Do you know of anyone who would have wanted to hurt Mr. Matis?"

Hal sank to the desk, leaning on the surface. It took him a moment to speak. "He—he took strange routes."

Lassiter cocked his head, his interest piqued. "Strange how?"

"Well, I mean, it's not done religiously, but when the drivers get calls and drive clients, they get recorded. But—and I thought I must have just been missing out on something, but his records weren't ever in line with the miles he drove. Not even close. I mean, I'm the only one who records anyone's routes—"

"What is it you do here?" asked Lassiter, cutting the young man off.

Hal didn't seem offended. "I help out, keep track of the books…" he hung his head sheepishly. "Like I said, it's not done every single time… I try my best, but… well, I try. This is my uncle's place. He hired me to help out with whatever he needed."

Lassiter looked around. "Where is your uncle?"

"He's out driving clients," said Hal, wringing his hands together nervously. "We don't have a whole lot of clients. A few months ago, Uncle Ian thought we were going to have to close up shop. But I put up fliers. Made a website. Business picked up and we were out of the hole."

Juliet and Lassiter resisted the urge to exchange glances.

Something was fishy.

"When does Uncle Ian get back?" asked Lassiter.

Hal scratched his chin. "I dunno. Maybe nine?"

Lassiter frowned. "Well, we're going to have to get a look at those books."

Hal stood to get the paperwork out of the desk. As he was rifling through the papers, Lassiter examined the room. His eyes scanned over the dusty, dinosaur of a computer, outdated calendars on the walls, and rested on the corner. It was piled with bags and other junk.

Lassiter pointed to the corner. "What's all this?"

Hal followed Lassiter's eyes. "Oh," said Hal, turning back to the drawer. "That's the leftover stuff. Clients forget bags and stuff all the time."

"What's inside them?" asked Lassiter.

"I don't really know," said Hal. "I don't look inside. I just find them in the cars and pile them over there for the clients to pick up, if they ever do. But they don't usually—most of them are just headed for the airport or home from a bar. Either they're too far away or too drunk to care about picking up their stuff."

Exchanging a look with each other again, Lassiter and Juliet approached the pile. Juliet watched as Lassiter bent down and sifted through a few of the bags.

Lassiter pulled out a duffle bag from the center, half-hidden under several others. He grasped the zipper on the bag and pulled.

Cash.

A lot of cash.

Lassiter held the bag, looking at the wads of cash staring back at him.

"Carlton!" whispered Juliet, looking over his shoulder. "That's got to be…"

"Four million?" guessed Lassiter, picking up a wad, sifting through the bills with his thumb. "Five?"

Hal shut the drawer. "Here's the paperwork."

Lassiter and Juliet turned as Hal held out the crumpled stack of messy stapled papers. Hal's eyes shifted to the bag of money.

He gasped aloud.

"That was in there?" he exclaimed. He dropped the papers on the ground and walked around the desk, gaping at the money. "No wonder Uncle Ian doesn't want me in his office!" He looked at Lassiter and Juliet, stunned.

Lassiter barked a laugh. "Yeah." He looked at Juliet. "Simple. Uncle Ian finds a fortune in the back of a cab and Matis finds out, threatens to call the cops. Gives Uncle Ian some motive."

"He wouldn't kill anybody!" protested Hal. "Uncle Ian's not like that!"

"Well, where was he this morning?" asked Juliet.

"I—he was on driving clients all day," said Hal hollowly, seeming to realize that his uncle's alibi wasn't quite crystal.

"Check those books," said Lassiter to Juliet. He looked at Hal. "You wrote down all clients today?"

"Today—?" said Hal, shaking himself, tearing his eyes away from the money. Juliet picked up the papers from the floor and Hal nodded. "Yeah, I wrote down all the clients from this morning. Addresses of the clients who called for transport. Uncle's clients will be in there."

Juliet scanned the list.

There weren't many drivers to this station—seemed to be only five. The three unfamiliar names had clients all morning from the addresses of three different bars. Ian had picked someone up from the Santa Barbara airport. Hal didn't lie about those two types of places being nearly the only pick up addresses.

Her eyes dropped down to Juan.

"Oh my god," breathed Juliet, her eyes freezing on the address directly across from Juan's name.

She read it over again.

And again.

And again.

"What?" asked Lassiter, moving next to her, scanning the page himself. "What are you—"

But he stopped talking.

Because just like Juliet, his eyes zeroed in on the address beside Juan's name.

It was an address that was all-too familiar.

"You've got to be kidding me," whispered Lassiter as Juliet's gaze slowly met his.

She swallowed hard, her heart dropping low in her chest, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Shawn."

Chapter Text

Shawn has spent a lot of the less glamorous parts of his life finding people to blame.

Often, during cases, it’s Gus. 

Blaming Gus is easy; proving Gus is to blame is hard. 

Then, there’s Henry, whom Shawn stands by is to blame for pretty much everything that goes wrong in his life, and ultimately, the world. 

But in this situation, however, Shawn is currently blaming Juan.

Shawn really, really hated that guy right about now.

Because if Juan simply hadn’t picked up the phone when Shawn called the cab station, he wouldn’t be in this mess.

So, here, tied up, his body and certainly his head thoroughly messed up from a fight with a car that he did not win, unable to get up without knives stabbing through his abdomen, his head, and pretty much everywhere else…

Yeah, Shawn was spending the unwilling ride trying to find someone to blame, and Juan was at the top of the list.

However, he did have other options. 

He was torn between choosing these three thugs chauffeuring him—one of whom was next to him in the back of the van, gun aimed vaguely in his direction—because without them thinking he was involved in this whole thing, he wouldn’t be here right now, either. They could have dropped him off at the nearest hospital, but nooo. 

Then, there was Henry, for being angry with him, because if he wasn’t, at least Shawn could have gotten a ride to the airport. 

Or he could pin the blame on Gus for being too good of a friend, wanting to talk about Feelings that Shawn didn’t want to talk about, and would have absolutely not helped him escape Santa Barbara. 

And Shawn even entertained blaming Lassiter. It was Lassiter’s wedding where this whole thing went to hell.

The one person who wasn’t on the table for blame, however, was Juliet.

Because though it was her rejection that sent him in the direction of the airport, she was the last person he’d assign blame to.

So, after a great deal of fragmented thinking, with little else to do as the van hit pothole after pothole, jarring his brain into flashes of white and caught groans between his teeth, he knew exactly who was to blame for all of this.

He just really hated that it was him.

He was broken in more ways than one at the moment, trapped in a situation he didn’t ask for, but absolutely deserved.

The van took a sharp turn, and Shawn felt his back hit the side of the van as he slid into it, his tied hands unable to hold onto anything to keep himself still, and he couldn’t help the grunt that escaped him as pain lit up like fire. He breathed hard through his teeth, trying to blink through the pounding in his head.

The brief thought ran through his mind to find a way to escape, but everything in his vision had gone double and blurry, and the two guns aimed in his direction—or was it one?-- discouraged the attempt to try to get up. Not that he even thought he could, because the idea of moving at all made him feel sick.

So he laid his head back down on the ground, fighting to stay conscious, unable to think about anything except the one thing that would have prevented all of this.

And, contrary to his previous belief, it had nothing to do with whether or not he gave Juliet his jacket.

The entire Elin case was a blur of shock and a mild concussion, and if he was being honest with himself, a fair bit of denial.

He really, really didn’t know how stupid he could have been to think Costanza-ing it would have worked.

He just… panicked.

Even though he and Juliet had been together a while… things had never really gotten… 

…real.

He’d never really been… honest with her.

And that really all started with the secret in the first place.

During the Elin case, he just kept reliving it, spiraling down what felt like a twisted daydream during that case, playing over how everything would have been fine if he just hadn’t given her his jacket.

But that wasn’t the problem, was it?

He blamed himself for getting caught.

But really…

…he should have been blaming himself for not coming clean.

Because the truth of it was that if he had just told her, none of this would have happened.

He wouldn’t have had to regret giving her his jacket—and how could he? She’d been cold—he wouldn’t have broken her heart, she wouldn’t have collaterally broken his, he wouldn’t have sought an escape, and he wouldn’t be here, broken, hostage, and probably not going to make it out of this alive.

This wasn’t Juliet’s fault, nor anyone else’s. Not even Juan’s. 

He was here because of his mistakes, and his alone.

(Okay—and maybe Juan’s.)

Shawn sighed, honesty raw and heavy.

He was here in this mess because he deserved to be.

Shawn’s eyes shut, this time not from the physical pain.

Why didn’t he just tell her?

But he knew the answer already.

Because she might leave him.

But if he really loved her, and hell, he did, he should have told her.

God, he hadn’t been honest with her about anything.

He was never good at that—opening up, being honest. He knew he hid behind a wall of humor, but that was because it was safe.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t wanted to.

All the times she’d been impressed with him after he’d had a vision, seeing the awe in her eyes every time he deduced something as if he was some superhuman, playing it up for her.

“Oh, my god, I feel so foolish.”

She was a detective, her whole life was seeing through lies, hell, her father was a liar, and still he couldn’t bring himself to tell her.

He watched Declan come clean to her, but he convinced himself that was different; they’d just met, it wasn’t as if he’d lied to her face for years and years and years—

Shawn had been letting Juliet in, little by little, and it had been so painful, watching her being so impressed by other detectives, even that vigilante-hero-who-was-actually-the-bad-guy. Shawn always imagined what it would be like for her to know the truth about him, that maybe she’d have fallen for him sooner, if she’d known he wasn’t just some guy with supernatural powers—

The van hit another pothole, jarring him and Shawn’s face screwed up in a grimace, a gasp escaping him as his hands attempted to alleviate the pain that was in too many places at once.

He breathed hard and shallow, feeling as if his physical being was finally representing his emotional.

He should have just told her.

That was the bottom line.

She shouldn’t have had to find out; he should have just told her.

His eyes cracked open, staring at the blurry, dirty ceiling of the deadbeat van.

He couldn’t let these people kill him; not before he made this right with Juliet.

He may not have told her, he may never win back her trust, or her at all.

But he needed to make it up to her. Somehow.

Even if…

Even if she never takes him back.

“So this was all a lie?”

A thread of determination crept into him.

He needed to get out of this. 

For her.

She needs to know the one thing that was never a lie.

She needed to know that he loved her.

The van suddenly took a sharp turn, sending Shawn back into the wall, making pain cut through his ribs once again, snapping his eyes open. His head only pounded more viscously and he desperately tried not to be sick. 

"We here, Randall?" came a voice from beside him.

"Yeah."

Shawn blinked his eyes open, his breath shuddering as the sick feeling quelled, but the pain did not. It took him a moment to register that the van had stopped moving. Yet with how much his heart was throbbing painfully in his head, making the world spin, the van could have been hurtling down a highway for all he knew. 

Shawn was teetering on the edge of consciousness, the pull to sleep thick and intoxicating. 

Damn it, he just wanted to sleep.

Why was he in a van again?

Shawn fought the urge to groan.

Focus.

The Henry-voice in his head snapped the word, and Shawn’s eyes opened obediently. 

Right. 

Focus.

He needed to get out of this.

For Jules.

For Jules.

He needed to focus. 

The van rattled with slamming doors and Shawn screwed his eyes shut, tied hands lifting to his head as an attempt to alleviate the shooting pain from the rough movement.

White spots danced at the edge of his vision.

No, no, no—stay awake.

He blinked rapidly, breathing in a sharp breath, trying to clear the haze. It began to recede a little, and he felt a tiny spurt of relief.

Focusing was going to be harder than he thought.

Staying awake was already a chore.

"Leave him here," said the voice Shawn recognized as the leader of the group—who also must be the owner of the name Randall. "Trent, come with me. We're heading into that station."

The cab station. 

They were at the cab station.

"If you scream," said Randall to Shawn, "you're dead." 

Shawn swallowed hard.

"Not that anyone here would even bother helping you," said Randall with a scoff, slamming the door.

Shawn laid his pounding head back on the ground, shutting his eyes, only wishing help was near.

Chapter Text

"O'Hara?"

Juliet gazed blankly at the paper, looking at the words but seeing straight through them.

Shawn.

The missing passenger was Shawn.

"O'Hara…?"

She must have read the address wrong.

Juliet refocused her eyes on the letters that Hal had scribed into the box in untidy handwriting. She's barely been sleeping all week since their breakup.

She's seeing things. 

She has to be.

But… there it was.

The address of the Psych Office.

Juliet stared at the letters, gaze drilling into the paper, willing them to shift. Form a new address. Anything.

"This is where the driver hit the windshield?"

"No," said the EMT, looking up from the files he was reading. "The driver was wearing a seatbelt." 

Lassiter stared at the cracked windshield of the cab. He turned to Juliet. "Something hit the windshield."

Juliet walked around the front of the car. "Or… someone."

There'd been a passenger.

Someone hit the windshield.

Shawn had been the passenger.

Shawn had hit that windshield.

"Actually, there being two people in the car would make sense," said the EMT. "There's a severe amount of blood here, much more than should have come from the driver's gunshot wound. He wasn't bleeding anywhere else."

The blood.

Shawn's blood.

Juliet felt her chest hitch, suddenly every bit of her anger and hurt gone and replaced with a horrible sense of fear, her imagination building its terrifying idea of his condition based on the state of the car. She'd seen the amount of blood—he was somewhere bleeding.

"Is she alright?"

"Shut up, Hal."

Could Shawn have even gotten out of that cab after a crash like that?

Was he somewhere bleeding out, running from a madman with a gun?

Or...

Or did the killer...

Her chest hurt.

She couldn't breathe.

She couldn't breathe.

How could this be happening?

It didn't make sense; it had to be a mistake.

Why would Shawn have even needed a cab?

Juliet's eyes quickly followed Shawn's address to the column that read Destination.

She felt herself go still at the next word.

Airport.

Her heart stopped.

"Shawn, I need space."

God, no.

He was in that cab because of her.

Suddenly, a hand was on Juliet's shoulder, and the papers clutched so tightly in her hand were slowly tugged out. She numbly let go of them, barely noticing the spider web of wrinkles her crushing grip left on them.

"Juliet?"

Her head snapped up.

Lassiter never used her name.

He was looking at her, the slightest concern in his eyes.

Juliet jumped at Lassiter's voice. "Yeah?" she asked, her voice small and quiet. She cleared her throat, shaking herself, straightening.

She was a cop. 

She needed to be a cop.

"Take him to the car, I'm not done with him." said Lassiter.

"I told you, I don't know anything, I swear!" exclaimed Hal.

Lassiter ignored him. "I'll grab the money, and see if they're hiding anything else here that they shouldn't be. Call this in, and..." He hesitated. "Put out an APB on Spencer."

Juliet felt a chill race down her spine.

But she nodded, cuffing and escorting Hal to the cruiser outside, trying to ignore the kid's constant rambling about how he didn't know anything.

She pulled out her phone with shaking fingers, finding her incoming call log.

Shawn Spencer.... (9)

Nine times.

Shawn had called her nine times.

He'd only stopped when she'd showed up at Psych and asked him for space.

Nine times, she let Shawn's calls go to voicemail.

What if one of those calls prevented all of this?

Juliet felt her eyes burn.

She clicked on his name, pressing the phone to her ear.

It went straight to voicemail.

It was either dead or off.

Fear prickled even sharper in her veins.

Flashes of the wreck of the cab, the blood, the windshield, Shawn—

Her breath hitched.

"Falling in love with you was never part of the plan."

It was never part of hers, either.

Juliet felt Shawn's arms wrap around her where she sat at her desk, half past two o'clock in the morning, still working on paperwork from a long case.

"Shawn," she said to him, where they were in the empty police station. "It's my fault I'm this backed up in paperwork; go home and I'll come when I'm done."

She felt his grin as he gently rested his chin over her shoulder. "I'm not going anywhere."

"You hate paperwork," she reminded him.

"True," he said. "But I love you." 

Another tear joined the first.

That night was the first time he'd ever said those three words to her for real.

Words she couldn't help but echo right back to him.

Destination: Airport.

"Shawn, I think—I know... I need space."

He might have died trying to give it to her.

"Are you saying this was all a lie?"

All she knew was that it wasn't for her.

Her chest ached, another tear burning down her cheek.

She couldn't lose him.

She could be mad at him forever, she could spend the rest of her life angry, never forgiving him.

The one thing she couldn't do was lose him.

The pain in her chest only emphasized that that was the only truth she knew for sure.

Lassiter tossed another useless duffle bag to the side as he rifled through the pile of them in the corner of the station.

With Juliet gone from the room, Lassiter felt his firm, steady cop demeanor slip, just for a moment.

Spencer.

Rare fear suddenly tightened his chest, recalling the image of the wrecked cab.

If Spencer was in that cab, where the hell was he now?

And how the hell did he get himself involved in every single mess in Santa Barbara?

Not to mention the one he was already in with O’Hara.

He didn’t know what happened between them. All he knew was that something went down at his wedding between them, and they were no longer together. And, it wasn’t mutual.

It didn’t take a detective to know that Spencer screwed something up, bad.

And it also didn’t take a detective, he thought as his gaze traveled toward the door Juliet left through, to know that though they weren’t together, it wasn’t because they didn’t care about each other.

Something happened, he didn’t know what, didn’t even attempt to pry, at least not yet, and for as much as he openly stated hating their relationship, there was something… eerie around the station the past few days left in the wake of that breakup.

His attempt to keep Guster—and therefore Spencer—off this case by locking him in holding was supposed to keep Spencer off of O'Hara's mind. 

Only now, Spencer was the case.

Lassiter grabbed the last bag, a backpack, pulling out useless items as his mind plowed on.

What was Spencer even doing in a cab? And what the hell did he need the airport for?

However...

Thinking about the mess he was in with O'Hara, it almost made sense. Lassiter himself had often thought about getting some distance during his separation.

Someone killed that driver, for some reason there was over a million dollars in a sketchy cab station that definitely didn’t come from cab business, and now the killer and the passenger from that wreck were missing.

There was little chance Spencer walked away from a crash like that, especially not wearing a seatbelt. His stomach turned a little, recalling the heavy crack in the windshield.

“Something hit the windshield.”

“Or someone.”

If Spencer didn’t walk away from that crash, then… 

Gravely, Lassiter had a feeling the missing killer and missing psychic would be found in the same place.

But why kill the driver and take Spencer?

Lassiter huffed as he threw the last bag to the side and stood, lifting the bag of cash with him.

They were going to have to get answers to those questions, and fast. 

Spencer’s life depended on it.

If he was even still—

“Oh—hello…”

Lassiter’s head snapped up.

Two men were suddenly in the doorway, walking in, but stopped short, obviously not having expected to find anyone in the office. 

One was on the taller side, looking like the exact type of guy Lassiter catches starting fights outside of bars. The man with him was shorter, dark-skinned and had tattoos galore.

"Hello," said the taller one, giving Lassiter a nod in greeting. "Can we help you?"

Lassiter raised an eyebrow. Employees, then? "I don't know. Do you work here?"

"Yeah," said the man, gesturing to his friend. "My buddy and I are drivers here. Need a ride?"

Lassiter held in a bark of laughter. "No," he practically scoffed. "I'm Detective Lassiter, I'm with the Santa Barbara Police Department. Have either of you seen Juan Matis today?" asked Lassiter.

The taller man squinted as if thinking back on the day. "Yeah!" he said slowly, drawing out the word as he nodded. "Yeah, saw him this morning. Why? He in some sort of trouble?"

"He was involved in a hit and run this morning." said Lassiter bluntly. "He's dead."

"Juan's dead?" said the taller one, both of them seemingly shocked by the news. He looked at his buddy. "Juan's dead?"

"Do you know any of his clientele?" asked Lassiter.

"Some," said the taller man. He scratched his head, letting some of his dark hair fall across his forehead. "You're saying he was killed?"

"Do you know who he drove this morning?" asked Lassiter, ignoring the question. 

"I think I remember him telling us he had a guy this morning." the taller man said. "Said he was going to stop back here, and we… we were supposed to meet him for our lunch break."

No one in this damn station was helpful.

Lassiter pulled out his wallet. He held up a crumpled business card that had been jammed behind old coupons and credit cards. A Psych business card. A photo of Spencer and Guster back-to-back was on the back. He pointed to Spencer. "Was this man with him?"

Both men looked at the photo. For maybe a half a second longer than Lassiter would have thought they'd need to. After a moment, the taller man and his friend both shook their heads. "Yeah, didn't see any of his clients." The taller man paused, then asked, "Why? That guy missing or something?"

"Something like that," said Lassiter. He put away his wallet and grasped the money again. Both men's eyes briefly scanned the bag, and Lassiter squinted at them, but they didn't seem to recognize its significance. He'll be getting warrants on all of these employees within the hour. "Excuse me."

"No problem, Officer," said the taller man as Lassiter walked between them. Lassiter swallowed a retort to the incorrect title. 

Lassiter returned to his Fusion, getting into the drivers seat, handing the money to Juliet to hold.

It took her a moment to react, and he watched her hastily swipe her cheeks before grabbing it.

"We'll find him," he promised quietly, putting the car in gear and giving her a firm, steady gaze.

She looked at him, and it was one of the rare times she didn't look like a cop. Just a frightened person.

The last time he'd seen her look like that, she'd been strapped to the clocktower.

Concern for her—and the moron who was on her mind—only growing, Lassiter gunned it for the SBPD.

Because if Shawn didn't make it out of this mess alive, he'd kill him.

No matter how Shawn thought about it, there was no way he was going to make it out of this alive.

He could see the van's door, at least three feet away, but he couldn't get it to before Javier could shoot him.

Not that he could even sit up at this point without throwing up.

Damn it, he needed help.

But with literally no one knowing he was even in trouble, help was as far away as it could get.

Trying to think past the haze of his mind, Shawn tried to remember the significance of the cab station.

Damn it, nothing was scarier than his memory being impaired.

His heart sped as his crippled mind vaguely—once again—pieced together what was happening, as if suddenly recalling a vivid dream after waking. 

He was taken from the cab. They thought he was working for the cab driver—Juan. 

What did Juan do again?

The money.

Javier was in the back with him, but the two up front—Trent, and Randall, was it?—were getting out.

Right, thought Shawn. He struggled against the tape he suddenly remembered was there. His father mentioned something about tape…

Shawn shut his eyes, willing the memories to come back, but his mind was too fragmented, distracted by pain and…and… 

What was he thinking about again?

If his head hadn’t already been so messed up, he’d have bashed it into a wall.

It was as if his thoughts were wrong puzzle pieces he was trying to jam together. 

All he knew was he needed to get out of here.

Juliet needed to know the truth.

Shawn tried pushing himself up, but didn't get an inch off the ground before a hand was around his throat, slamming him back to the floor of the vehicle. 

This may have been a good time to have remembered that he wasn’t alone. 

Shawn felt a groan slip out between his clenched teeth, pain radiating throughout his skull and somewhere quite angrily in his midsection that screamed broken ribs. 

Right—he’d already forgotten about that.

Cold metal was suddenly against Shawn's temple. Shawn's breath caught in his throat, eyes shooting open, fear freezing him.

"You stay put," hissed Javier, cocking the gun, "and you stay quiet. You scream, and I swear I'll kill you right now."

Shawn stared at Javier, the man who so literally held Shawn's life in his hands, fear sobering his messed up mind. 

Seeming satisfied Shawn was going to keep quiet, Javier removed it from his temple, but kept it aimed at him from where the man sat across from him. 

Suddenly, Shawn was grateful the gun just scared him. 

Fear seemed to finally wake him up and instill some focus into his concussed mind. 

Something else struck him, too—something about the man's gun was familiar looking. Shawn squinted at it, trying to place it, struggling with the broken pieces of his mind. The familiarity was dancing at the edge of his understanding, and he nearly growled with frustration as he tried to cling onto it. 

A military weapon, Shawn realized vaguely, victoriously, understanding blooming, however delayed. That wasn’t a traditional thug gun. 

Something was… he was able to deduce something about that.

Something…

Shawn blinked rapidly, trying to will his mind to focus. 

Javier held the weapon with a practiced hand. He had the air of a man who'd used the gun in the past plenty of times and was not afraid to do so again. 

Shawn was suddenly reminded of Juan’s death—

“I told you you shouldn’t have killed Juan.” 

“I was pissed; he deserved it.”

Great, trigger-happy and anger management issues. 

But that wasn’t helpful.

Shawn winced at the steady throb in his head, the dizziness that still hadn’t quelled.

Focus. 

A tattoo was showing under the sleeve of the man's t-shirt—a shape Shawn also thought he recognized, even blurry. Apparently his mind was only interested in telling him that he’s seen things before, but not what they were.  

The man had a rugged beard and mustache—that isn’t helpful either—and he favored his left arm. 

Though… 

Shawn blinked to clear more of the blur in his vision, and looked at Javier’s right hand. 

Blinked a few times, trying to clear his vision more. 

Between the double vision, Shawn managed to catch a few details thanks to the man being so close—

Calloused middle finger.

Knuckles were more pronounced.

This man was right handed, yet held the gun with his left.

And—

Shawn did recognize that tattoo.

It all suddenly clicked in Shawn's head.

"You fought for this country," said Shawn slowly, the words slipping out as he thought them. "You fought for it and now you're stealing from it." he murmured, mostly to himself, just working out the realization aloud. 

He really has to stop doing that. 

Something changed in Javier's eyes. Something very close to disbelief. 

The gun was suddenly back to his temple, pressing harder against Shawn's head, making him cringe. "We're not stealing anything," said Javier in a low voice. "That money is ours. Now shut it."

Shawn slowly raised an eyebrow, unable to help himself from saying, "Maybe not… But selling weaponry you took from the Forces is."

"I knew you were working with him," growled Javier. "So what if we stole them? They wronged us. All of us. They took me off duty because I got shot. They wouldn't let me fight; said I wasn’t worth keeping around.” he spat. “I gave up everything to fight for this country. We all did."

"So," said Shawn, slowly piecing together the story. "You… you and your friends stole weaponry and decided to make a pr-profit."

“Juan was a middle man.”

Juan was supposed to have traded the weapons for the money, and had lost it. 

“But, look—the money is there,” said Shawn, really only hoping it was. “You don't need me." His eyes met Javier's. "So… how ‘bout you… untie these and… and maybe help me up a little cause every side looks like up at the moment," managed Shawn, trying to keep his words from slurring. “And, y’know… maybe drop me off at—at a hospital?”

"Like hell I’d let you go before we get that money," said Javier darkly. But something glinted in his eyes suddenly, like a flash of an idea that only promised horrible things.

Shawn felt his blood run cold.

"Actually," said Javier, looking from his gun to Shawn. "You are right about one thing. Whether the money is there or not... we really don't need you anymore."

Fear shot down Shawn's spine.

Javier grinned. "Say hello to Juan for me." 

He raised the gun, aiming at Shawns head, cocking it.

Shawn screwed his eyes shut, fear consuming him—

"What the hell are you doing?!"

The van’s back door was suddenly open, and Javier and Shawn both jumped at the shout, startled.

Standing there were the two other thugs—Trent and Randall.

Randall, who looked just short of livid, even more so at the sight of Javier about to kill Shawn.

"What are you doing?" demanded Randall. "Did I tell you to kill him?" 

Relief spread through him with Javier's gun lowered.

But that didn't mean he was safe yet.

Far from it.

"We don't need him!" said Javier defensively. "You find the money?" 

If they didn’t find that money, or even if they did, he was dead.

Shawn felt fear race his heart.

"Oh, we found the money." said Randall in a low voice, his eyes not leaving Shawn. Something in the way he said it was a threat that promised pain.

Even more not good…

"Well?" Javier glanced from his boss to Trent, who was suddenly in the driver's seat, starting the engine of the van. The van lurched forward, and Shawn winced as the rough driving angered every injury. " Well ?" repeated Javier to Randall, who hadn’t yet stopped glaring at Shawn, and for once Shawn was scared shitless.

"Our money is now in the hands of the Santa Barbara Police Department." said Randall slowly, grounding out the last four words. 

What? 

"What?" exclaimed Javier. Trent took a sharp turn, nearly making Javier and the man lose their balance as they stood on their knees. Shawn tried to use the distraction to slide himself away, attempting to find the direction of the door, because hell, there was no way this ended well for him—

—but suddenly a gun jabbed into his shoulder, making him freeze with a cringe, vaguely hearing Javier demand, "How?!"

"The police beat us to it." said Randall, glare still on Shawn. "Some cop, Lassiter."

Lassie.

The man watched Shawn's eyes. He watched the recognition flash through them. 

With an angry growl, Randall grabbed Shawn by the shirt collar and lifted him off the floor of the van, throwing him roughly against the wall. 

Shawn cried out, fresh waves of pain erupting throughout his torso—knives—fire—

And his head—

Spots danced before his eyes, even as he was pinned to the wall with a heavy muscled arm. 

The gun came to rest once again on Shawn's chest, which was rising and falling with panted breaths. 

"Sawyer here hasn't been very truthful,” growled Randall. 

“So this was all a lie?”

Shawn felt his eyes burn, tears threatening as pain thrummed. God, he hurt. He hurt so much.

He blinked rapidly, trying to stay conscious.

They couldn't know anything. There would be no reason for them to know who he was. 

Before he could stop them, words flowed out of his mouth. 

"No," said Shawn, blinking his eyes open, his concussion speaking for him, "maybe I haven't. See… See, the story of Tom Sawyer was that he actually didn't paint a fence,” he slurred,“that wasn't th–the whole truth. He—he convinced some poor sap to do it for him—"

The sharp, hard pain suddenly striking his cheek whipped his head to the side, killing whatever nonsense Shawn would have finished his sentence with. Shawn cried out, coughing, tasting blood. Don’t be sick. Don’t be sick, don’t be sick—

"What are you talking about?" Javier asked Randall, somewhere beyond the drum of Shawn’s heart throbbing in his skull. "Who is this guy?" he demanded.

"His name is Shawn Spencer," said the man, making Shawn flinch at the sound of his own name. The man's gun-hand twitched, making Shawn sink involuntarily back into the wall of the van, because damn it, getting pistol-whipped was not fun the first time, and was even less fun the second time. 

"This man, gentlemen,” said Randall, “is our golden ticket to getting that money back. He works with the police department."

Shawn want to groan.

Not good, not good, not good…

"He's a cop?" asked Javier, anger elevating.

"Nah," said his boss, replacing the gun on Shawn's chest. Shawn's heart raced and he hoped the man couldn't feel it. His eyes darted around the van, trying to find something to save him. Anything. But the van floor was bare. His hands were tied. He couldn’t see straight.

There was nothing he could do.

"Nah," the boss repeated, and Shawn struggled to meet his eyes. "He's some sort of consultant."

"That's—" began Shawn, but the man cut him off with a harsh jab of the gun, making him gasp.

"The cop had your business card." Randall went on, "Turns out the department is looking for you. How touching." 

For half a second, Shawn felt himself surprised that Lassiter even kept that thing.

But it was gone at the sick smile on Randall’s face.

He grinned. "You're going to get us our money back."

Shawn cringed. “If—if you hadn’t noticed,” he said with difficulty, “not feelin’ too hot at the moment.” He winced again at the gun pressing into bruised or broken bones. “But if you want to go get it, I’ll… put in a good word.”

“I don’t need you to get it, moron,” said Randall with another jab of the gun that made Shawn lose his breath. “They’re going to trade it. For you.”

That was what Shawn was afraid he meant.

"I'm—" began Shawn, cringing from the pressure of the weapon. "I'm flattered that you'd think I'm worth all that money—really. I'd always—always priced myself out at around six million." Shawn considered. "How m-much money are we talki—"

"Shut up." snapped Randall, seeming ready to pistol-whip him again. Shawn reluctantly complied. "The police want you, we want our money. Seems like a fair trade."

Police don't negotiate with kidnappers, Shawn heard hopelessly somewhere in his head. 

Breathlessly, Shawn tried: "How—how about you let me go, and—and I'll have my friends at the Department mail you the money. I'll—I'll even throw in an Edible Arrangement." He looked from Randall to Javier. "You guys like pineapple?"

Shawn probably should have expected it when the pistol struck him again, hard enough to finally plunge him into darkness.

Chapter Text

"Follow me, Jules, just watch what I do."

Chapter Text

"Shawn?" asked Henry quickly.

Henry turned toward Gus, seeing relief wash over his son's best friend as well. "That's Shawn?" asked Gus immediately.

Henry nodded, listening to Shawn's answer—

—and all traces of Henry's concern from the moments before Shawn's call disappeared.

His son was cracking a joke.

All right, now he was mad.

"Shawn, you can't just drop off the face of the earth like you did," chastised Henry, falling into the much more familiar pattern of being angry. "Gus was worried sick," he said, ignoring the fact that so the hell was he.

Shawn paused before he answered.

Shawn hardly ever hesitated.

"You… you say something?" asked Shawn. 

Why did his voice sound so... weak?

"Shawn, where the hell are you?" asked Henry, that feeling of off prickling at him. "Gus has been calling you."

"I-I don't know... I don't know where I am..."

Henry's expression shifted.

Shawn never stuttered.

"Do you know where I am?" asked Shawn, voice even more hollow than before.

Henry's expression deepened in skepticism. Why was his son talking like that? It was almost as if—

Henry sighed, the frown returning on his face, finally understanding what was wrong with his son. "Are you drunk?"

Upon hearing Henry's question to Shawn, Gus massaged his temples, leaning against the wall in exasperation.

Great.

Just fantastic.

Shawn was wasted.

Shawn didn't deny it like Henry expected him to, as Shawn always had in his teenage years. Instead, Shawn repeated, "I… I don't know where I am."

Henry rubbed his face, all relief and guilt gone and traded for irritation and the rehearsal of a lecture. Now he was going to have to track down his son in one of the hundred bars around town. This was not how he was expecting to spend his afternoon.

Well, thought Henry, grabbing for the handle and opening the door, might as well find out how bad he is. "Shawn, how much have you had to drink—"

"Doors," said Shawn suddenly. Henry stopped halfway through the doorway, and Gus nearly walked into him again. Henry tried to swallow his annoyance. His son was incredibly wasted. Didn't that bartender know when to cut him off?

"Doors…?" repeated Henry, shaking his head, resuming his walk to the truck. "Shawn—"

"I think they're… moving." said Shawn. God, he better not be trying to leave the place and get to his bike, thought Henry suddenly. Shawn was delusional. He was in absolutely no state to be driving. Henry was about to command that Shawn sit down and wait patiently for him to pick him up, when Shawn continued, "But that could easily be the… the concussion talking."

Concussion?

Shawn had a concussion? 

Oh, no, Henry inwardly groaned. Please tell me he didn't get into a bar fight.

Before Henry could say anything, he heard something that made him freeze mid-walk to his truck.

There was suddenly a pained cry from the other side of the line.

A cry that sounded far too much like his son's voice.

"Dad," said Shawn quickly. Almost as if he'd sobered in the past two seconds.

Henry felt his chest tighten at the sheer panic in Shawn's voice.

"Dad, I… I need help," gasped Shawn. "Call Lassie. Call Jul—"

Some commotion sounded from Shawn's line.

Loud.

Fast.

Noises Henry couldn't make out.

Well, all except the shout of pain.

"Shawn!" exclaimed Henry, heart picking up, hand clutching the phone in a grip that hurt. "What's going on? Shawn!"

He could hear him, still—his voice breaking off into another pained cry.

"Shawn!" shouted Henry.

It took a long moment for Shawn to gasp hoarsely, "Dad—?"

Henry felt ice sink into his chest.

The last time he'd heard that voice, Shawn had been shot, ready to pass out next to Lassiter's car.

Quickly discarding the theory that Shawn was drunk, he thought back through the conversation.

Concussion.

Doors.

Dad, I need help.

"Shawn!" said Henry, hearing Shawn's faint groan of pain. He turned to Gus when Shawn didn't answer, who was staring at Henry wide-eyed.

"Is he okay?" asked Gus, picking up Henry's change in tone. "What's wrong?"

"What are you talking about?" asked Henry into the phone, louder, momentarily ignoring Gus.

"I… I don't remember all of it," said Shawn, his voice unable to mask his obvious struggle to form the words. "They don't like me very much. But I doubt I should care if my kidnappers like me—" Shawn's words were cut off by a thud and another pained grunt. "They said they want to use me as—as ransom—"

Henry's heart had frozen in his chest. "Shawn, please tell me you're kidding. This is another one of your jokes. It's a prank. And if it is, you need to stop it right—"

"It's not a joke!" hissed Shawn, biting off each word, making Henry's breath hitch in his chest. "I got out of the room, but… but he's not unconscious, Dad, he's still up there—"

"Get in the truck, Gus!" yelled Henry, throwing open his own door. Without question, Gus let himself into the passenger's side. Henry pulled himself into the driver's seat, fumbling with his keys.

This could not be happening.

Not again.

"Mr. Spencer, you're scaring me," said Gus, watching him warily. "Where's Shawn?"

"He's in trouble," muttered Henry, finally getting the keys in the ignition. "He's been kidnapped."

"He's been what?!"

"Shawn," said Henry, starting his truck, tearing out of the driveway and onto the street. "Gus and I are headed to the police station. Do not hang up this phone. We're going to get a trace on your call." He took a sharp right, nearly throwing Gus against the window as his heart slammed in his own chest. "Run."

Shawn paused, and Henry could hear his staggered breathing.

It terrified him.

But not as much as the next words Shawn spoke.

"I can't."

Henry's heart slipped into his stomach.

"Why not?" demanded Henry, his voice clipped, fear rising only sharper.

"I… can't really… see… straight…"

Henry stepped on the gas, hearing Shawn's strength draining through his voice. "Shawn! Stay with me, here, son! You need to get out of there—"

"Oh, my god," whispered Gus suddenly, making Henry's head whip toward him.

"Oh your god what?"

Without another word, Gus snatched the phone from Henry's hand and pressed it to his ear, ignoring the older man's protest, saying, "Shawn!"

Henry took another set of dangerously fast turns, ignoring the car horns that blared in his direction.

It was when Gus shouted that he nearly had a heart attack.

"I lost him!" exclaimed Gus suddenly. "The line went dead!"

"What?!" Henry whipped back toward him, barely keeping an eye on the road. "Call him back!"

"I'm trying!" stressed Gus, slamming the phone back to his ear, only to curse. "He must have lost service!"

"Damn it!" hissed Henry, stepping harder on the gas, the truck shuddering with effort.

"How far are we from the station?" asked Gus, pressing the phone back to his ear again, only to curse again.

"Five minutes," said Henry. "But I can get us there in two." He pushed the truck past sixty.

"God, I can't believe it was him," whispered Gus, cursing sharper as he dialed Shawn again.

"You can't believe what was him? What are you talking about?" demanded Henry.

"That case Lassiter and Juliet are working on," said Gus, dialing again even as he spoke, his fingers shaking. "There was a second person in the cab, but—"

"They didn't find him," breathed Henry, remembering the files Juliet had been holding.

Hit and run.

One dead.

One missing.

Shawn.

"…Gus?"

Shawn's hollow voice hung in the air alone, only silence responding.

Fear snuck into him, the silence suddenly feeling claustrophobic.

"Dad?" he said, trying to ignore just how desperate his voice sounded.

He didn't get an answer.

Did they hang up on him?

Irritation surged through him.

Of course his father hung up on him.

Henry was angry with him; what else was new? He far happier with the idea that Shawn was pulling a prank on him.

But Henry hated his pranks. 

The coldness from the wall was long gone and Shawn wished for it back. His head felt ready to explode. The pain stabbed behind his eyes and at his temples, jagged and raw. 

Shawn shifted on the wall, trying to find something—anything—to soothe the pain.

But he'd shifted too far, and was roughly meeting the ground once again.

"Agh—!" tore out of him as he landed hard on his side, the impact jarring broken bones into a burst of fire, knives stabbing somewhere through his head, gasoline on wicked, agonizing flames—

"Shit," he choked out, eyes flying open, and god, would the world stop spinning for even one second? 

But the sharpness of the pain welcomed reality back into his dazed, broken mind. Just like it had when he'd fallen down the stairs. He cracked his eyes back open, panting through clenched teeth as the pain burned steadily.

The phone connection broke.

Understanding—fragmented and slow as it was—dawned like a broken flickering lightbulb illuminating a dusty room.

No one hung up on him; the call dropped.

They were going to track his phone and find him.

Shawn nearly smiled, eyes fluttering shut again.

He could just rest here until they came for—

A thud, quickly followed by a bitten off curse suddenly came from the staircase.

Shawn’s eyes snapped open.

Trent.

Damn it, he’d forgotten about Trent.

“Come on,” whined Shawn, eyes screwing shut with nothing but petulance.

The desire to rest was nearly as painful the pain itself.

Shawn’s eyes opened, the world coming back into—

Nope, it was still as out of focus as a broken camera. Trying to make sense of the blur of the too many doors only made his headache worse.

Adrenaline racing his heart, Shawn blinked at the hallway that was still shifting back and forth, feeling a terrifying amount of doubt slide down his spine.

He could hardly even crawl; how was he supposed to outrun Trent?

Hide, whispered a voice in the back of his mind, barely heard over the clanging pain behind his eyes and the pounding of his own frantic heartbeat in his ears.

Help was coming; Henry and Gus were going to track his phone.

He didn't need to escape.

He had a chance against Trent if he hid.

And that...

He could probably do.

It would just be great if that plan didn't still require moving.

And even better if it didn't involve getting higher than just back to his knees.

Crawling got him practically nowhere before.

He needed to stand.

Just once, he told himself firmly. Just get up, one more time, and you can rest until help comes.

Briefly shutting his eyes to brace himself, he huffed out a breath.

Then, with all the strength he could muster back up, he began to make his way back upright.

"C'mon son," he hissed as, with the help of the wall at his side, he began to half-shove, half-drag himself to his feet.

As if having been waiting patiently for him to move again to attack, his broken ribs sliced hot pain through him with a vengeance, as if trying their best to keep him down.

He cursed, the vulgar word incomprehensible, his voice nothing more than a growl, a lilt to it at the end that carried a sort of hysteria he's never heard himself sound like before.

Each move upward was jagged and hot, his head like it weighed too much, eyes screwed shut as it pounded, making his rough ascent to his full height stutter and jerk, as if someone was slamming a hammer into head at every inch higher he rose, and he couldn't help the image of whack-a-mole, and god, he was never playing that ever again.

But even halfway up, gravity was still tilted, leaning him too much to the side. Shawn listed back into the wall, catching a low groan in his throat, biting his lip to keep from yelling as his ribs lit up more agony and whose idea was it to make ribs so breakable yet so crucial for practically every movement? Short, panted breaths escaped him, his entire body shaking as he struggled to his full height against the wall, his sense of gravity still somehow convinced he was lying on the ground, for up was now sideways, and that didn't make any sense at all--

But somehow, his eyes blinked open, bleary and exhausted, finding himself half-standing, half-slumped against the wall, leaning into it with nearly all of his weight to stay upright. Every panted breath only punished him sharply, his body trembling from effort and pain, and he briefly shut his eyes, trying to keep away the intense urge to pass out.

The stairs continued to creak with weight.

Shawn opened his eyes again with a tired, unfocused glare at the blurry view of the hallway.

Heart slamming in his chest and legs shaking with his weight, Shawn shoved himself down the hall, staggering the few feet to the first door his blurry vision could make out. His fumbling hand blindly reached for the doorknob, finding it on the fourth try. Desperately he twisted the door handle, and he opened the door. Keeping a desperate, firm hold on the door frame, Shawn staggered through the doorway, panting with every movement, kicking the door closed.

He did it.

He made it inside.

Shawn leaned against the closed door, shutting his eyes, trying to catch his breath.

Opening his eyes, Shawn blinked at his new surroundings. This apartment looked like the one he'd been tied up in upstairs, but less furnished. There was an identical window in the wall. The window wasn't just of sky, though. It showed a few more buildings, and a—

Thud.

Trent was in the hallway.

Pure fear shot adrenaline through him.

He needed a place to hide. 

He was a little safer behind the closed door of the apartment, but at some point, Trent would open it and see him here, a sitting duck.

Shawn slowly turned his head, blearily looking around for somewhere in here to hide. 

There. 

A closet.

Just a few feet away was a closet, the door to which standing half-open already.

Plenty of room to hide, and another door to hide behind.

He just had to make it to the closet. 

Then, he could finally--finally--relax, and never, ever move again.

Shawn took a shuddered breath in preparation, and still half-slumped against the wall, he began the slow, halting, agonizing journey to the closet. Curses and hisses slipped out with every step, his head spinning the room still too fast, but he kept going, driven by pure fear. 

Because if Trent found him, he would be in a world more of pain. 

Shawn painfully dragged himself across the wall to the closet, the desire to pass out intoxicating. But the closet was a beacon of hope, an oasis, somewhere to hide and to rest, somewhere that could feel safe, and the feeling of finally being able to relax offered him the last bit of reserve strength he needed to get there, like hanging a Snickers over a treadmill.

And finally, his vision having flickered several terrifying times along the way, he made it.

He did it.

He reached the closet.

Thank god.

Feeling weakness even heavier than before, he finally let gravity do its job, and he slid down the wall in the corner of the closet all the way to the ground into a crumpled sitting position. He kicked the doors of the closet closed, and heaved a breath of relief, his arms curling in around himself.

He hissed, eyes screwed shut as he pushed himself into safety of the corner of the small closet, his entire body thrumming with sharp fire, wishing there were coats hanging that he could hide himself with. Or wishing for a bed. Yes, a bed. God, he would kill for a bed. He's never, ever wanted a bed so badly.

But finally, loosening his hold on his muscles, easing the tension he's had the entire journey here, he felt the pain begin to lose its edge.

He was safe.

Well, as safe as he could get right now.

The relief was intoxicating, and he let the feeling flood him. He nearly smiled.

He settled back into the corner, gingerly resting his head.

It was cold in the closet.

Dark.

Quiet.

He could rest.

Finally, he could rest.

Phone.

Shawn opened his eyes to the darkness.

The phone was still clutched tightly in his hand like a lifeline, and he'd completely forgotten it was there. 

So that explained why his hand was killing him.

Gus and Henry.

He needed to call them back.

Crap, he'd completely forgotten they still didn't even know where he was.

Feeling as if it were made of lead, Shawn lifted the phone to his eyes, hitting the home button.

The screen flared to life, burning his eyes, sharp pain attacking his head. He squeezed his eyes shut instinctively, then cracked them open, trying to find the numbers again, all of them still blurry and moving.

But the bars of signal were unmistakable.

He fumbled, holding the phone as close to his eyes as he dared, the pain intensifying, making him cringe.

But finally, he managed to dial the number, and pressed the phone to his ear with shaking fingers as it rang.

He shut his eyes and waited.

Juliet numbly walked in tow of Lassiter as they strode into the SBPD.

Sound came as echoes to her ears, only hearing snippets and distant voices and conversations around her. Officers turned and stared as Lassiter led a handcuffed and yammering Hal, going on about wanting his phone call. Lassiter shoved him to an officer in front of him and Juliet.

Juliet, who was still paralyzed with shock, unable to process that this was actually happening.

Of all the people in Santa Barbara, of all the cab stations in the city, it had to happen to Shawn.

It had to be Shawn.

The Chief was standing in front of her desk when Juliet and Lassiter strode in. Vick watched the officer lead Hal away through her windows, lifting a brow to her two detectives. "What's going on?" she clipped, picking up on their tension immediately.

"We have good reason to believe we know who else was in that cab," said Lassiter, pulling out the cab station driving records Hal had given them. He held them for to read, both he and Juliet hesitating.

Juliet said it.

"It's Shawn," she said, barely choking out his name, her blood running only colder at the thought of him in danger.

Or worse. 

Karen Vick took the paper and found the address. Her eyes widened, and her head snapped back up, looking between her detectives. "How the hell…?"

"We don't know anything other than that Spencer was trying to get a ride to the airport," said Lassiter. "But nothing on why he needed a cab in the first place, least of all this sketchy as hell one."

"Shawn… I think—I know I need space."

Juliet bit her lip, guilt trailing hotly through her.

"We also found this."

Juliet looked up as Lassiter dropped the bag of money onto the table in the corner of the chief's office. He zipped it open and handed the chief a wad of cash. Vick's eyes narrowed in confusion.

"You found this at that station?" she asked incredulously.

"Hal—the kid in interrogation room A—" said Lassiter, "We found him in the office. Claims not to have known there was a bag of cash there with him. He's the nephew of the owner. All he told us was that there was money trouble and sketchy business transactions. We're in the process of locating the owner."

"And the missing person," said Vick, concern cracking her usual strong exterior. "We're assuming that it's... Shawn?"

Juliet nearly flinched.

Her eyes burned, and she felt the Chief's eyes shift to her.

"Yes." said Lassiter. "Somehow, Spencer, five million unmarked bills and a dead Mexican are related."

Juliet held in a correction that the driver was Indian.

She was too numb to speak.

"I need space."

Airport.

"This is officially top priority then," said Vick, and she rushed past them, calling the officers of the SBPD to attention and briefing them on the case.

"Oh, hell," muttered Lassiter suddenly.

"What?" asked Juliet, following his gaze.

Over by the main doors, Gus and Henry Spencer were running inside the building.

Her chest tightened.

Lassiter and Juliet left the Chief's office, meeting Gus and Henry halfway.

Lassiter held out a hand to stop them, and said, "Henry, Guster—"

"It's Shawn," panted Henry. "Shawn's in trouble—"

"Yeah, we know," said Lassiter. "We're already trying to—"

"You know?" exclaimed Henry suddenly, straightening, taking a step toward Lassiter. "You know my son has been kidnapped and you don't have the sense to contact me? Are you out of your damned mind?"

"Please," said Juliet quickly, taking a quick step forward, effectively standing between them. "We just found out, Mr. Spencer—"

"He was in the cab, Juliet!" said Gus, still out of breath, his eyes wide and scared.

"How did you two know?" asked Juliet breathlessly.

"Shawn called me." said Henry heavily.

"He said he was in the cab," Gus tumbled out, eyes wide and scared.

"He did?" breathed Juliet, unable to keep the desperation out of her voice. "When? Where is he? Is he hurt?"

He's alive.

He's alive.

Relief like none other raced through her.

"Maybe ten minutes ago." sighed Henry impatiently. "He doesn't know where he is. He said he was kidnapped."

"Kidnapped?" echoed Juliet.

"So the killer did take him from that cab?" murmured Lassiter. "What the hell does he want with Spencer?" 

"You said he called you," Juliet cut in, looking between Henry and Gus. "Where is he now?!"

"The call dropped," said Gus. "We haven't been able to reach Shawn since." Only now she could see the phone in his hand, and his fingers constantly dialing Shawn's number. He pressed the phone back to his ear, only to curse. "Damn it, it's not even ringing," he said, voice edging on hysteria. "He must be out of range—"

"What is going on here?"

Everyone turned to see Vick approaching them. The office had suddenly become busy with newfound purpose. She looked between Gus and Henry and her two detectives. "Henry, Mr. Guster—"

"Shawn called them," said Juliet quickly.

Called them.

Not her.

Because she'd already ignored him nine times.

Juliet shook herself.

"Is he alright?" asked the Chief, suddenly abandoning her entire professional demeanor, eyes hiding none of her own concern.

"No, he's been taken and he's hurt," said Henry in a strained voice. "He said he didn't know where he was but there were doors," he said, his own face creasing like everyone else's at the confusingly unhelpful information. "He wanted me to call the SBPD," Henry went on "and that he'd been kidnapped. He said—"

Henry stopped speaking when his cell phone, still in Gus' hand, went off. All eyes darted to the device. Gus read the screen, gasping sharply as he answered the call on speaker phone. "Shawn!" he exclaimed.

The five of them waited in the tightest silence Juliet had ever experienced.

Until—

"…Hey, buddy."

Chapter Text

"…Hey, buddy." said Shawn, a relieved grin tiredly tugging at his lips.

It had never sounded so good to hear his best friend's voice.

Shawn leaned more of his weight back into the corner of the closet. Talking took a lot more effort now than it did ten minutes ago. And effort was tiring.

"Shawn!" Gus' voice was the epitome of the relief Shawn felt in his own chest. "Are you alright?"

That was a loaded question.

Shawn swallowed, attempting to think about that. But thinking hurt. He was going to need way more clarification to answer that question. "Define… alright," said Shawn honestly, brows wincing.

Gus' voice suddenly switched to Henry's, and Shawn barely took notice. "Shawn, where are you, son? Are you safe?"

Suddenly, someone with a voice very similar to the Chief's yelled, "Someone get a trace on this call! Now!"

"I'm… I'm in a closet," said Shawn, still not opening his eyes. His little safe haven was cold and quiet. He could rest.

"A closet?" asked Henry, utterly perplexed. "Shawn—"

What information was he supposed to give them? 

Kidnapped... ransom... money—

"Our money is now in the hands of the Santa Barabara Police Department. Some cop—Lassiter."

Shawn's eyes snapped open.

"Is—is Lassie with you?" asked Shawn quickly. Words felt even shallower now than they were a second ago. He blinked, but even those were slower. Actually, everything felt a great deal heavier. It felt kinda... good, actually. He started to give into it.

No—

Shawn's heart stuttered in his chest, and he snapped his eyes back open, panicked at how close he'd just come to slipping away.

"Spencer! What the hell were you doing at a sketchy cab station?"

That was Lassiter, no question about it.

"In my de-defense," said Shawn, his words beginning to slur again, "I di'n't know… it was sk-sketchy… at the time," said Shawn, trying to catch his breath. Words weighed too much. He felt his eyes drift shut again of their own accord. With effort, he cracked them back open. "Lassie," he rasped. "You—you met my kidnappers."

There was silence on the other line, followed by a hissed curse word that Shawn barely caught. A conversation was going on over there, but Shawn didn't have the energy to focus on it.

"Do you know why they took you, Shawn?" asked Vick suddenly.

"Something…" whispered Shawn, trying to think. But thinking hurt, and he winced as a stab of pain struck somewhere behind his temple. "Something," he said, shutting his eyes again, trying to find another cold spot on the wall. "Something... about money," he managed tiredly. "At the... station."

Shawn heard Lassiter and Vick talking to the others, but Shawn didn't have the strength, or the interest, to listen. The pain was finally giving him a break, the sharpness calming down the smallest bit, the littlest cooling of a fire. He sank further back into the wall, his head starting to fall to his shoulder. Rest. Finally.

"—Spencer!"

Shawn jolted upright, his eyes flying back open. A strangled sound tore from him, hand shooting for the ribs that were not ready for such a sharp movement. He breathed hard—no, damn it, breathing makes it hurt worse—

—when will he stop forgetting that—

Shawn's eyes, tightly shut, cracked open, the blurry closet coming back into fragmented view. 

"Shit," he hissed out, waiting for the pain to settle. He pressed his back into the wall, trying to stay absolutely still.

It finally began to calm, a tsunami to a rough current, and Shawn let out a shallow breath, determined not to drown.

The pain, though quite a bitch at the moment, did however wake him up.

With a little more panic, he realized how close he'd just been to passing out.

It was getting harder and harder not to do that.

"I'm here," he forced out, to cease the shouting of his name through the phone.

He heard several relieved breaths on the other line.

"We know what they're after," said Lassiter. "We—"

"Son, you said you were hurt," said Henry suddenly, interrupting Lassiter.

"Mhm," mumbled Shawn. Shawn's eyes were closed again. Not that he remembered closing them. He was too tired to care.

He could listen while he rested.

Maybe he could just nod off for a few seconds—

"Shawn!" Henry nearly shouted, making Shawn's eyes crack back open, jerking him above the surface of the murky pull to sleep. "Stay with us, kid!" demanded Henry. "Now, where are you hurt?"

"M'head," slurred Shawn, feeling his head tilt dangerously close to his shoulder again. Exhaustion's waves were stronger now; harder to fight. The heaviness was even more potent. He sank a bit more into the wall, eyes fluttering shut again as he mumbled, "I'm…. I'm really tired."

"No, Shawn! You have to stay awake!"

Shawn's eyes snapped opened.

That wasn't his dad's voice.

Not Gus'.

Not Lassiter's.

Not even the Chief's.

His breath hitched.

"J-Jules?" he breathed.

A pause, then: "Yeah, Shawn. It's me."

Her voice was small. Hesitant. Yet somehow just as broken as he felt.

A mix of emotions rushed through him, agony of its own.

"Are you telling me this is all a lie?"

"I think—I know... I need space."

He needed to tell her something. He needed to tell her...? What was it? 

He winced with the attempt to think; thoughts were dissolving faster than he could string them together.

Exhaustion was so heavy.

So heavy.

"Where are the people who took you?" asked the Chief.

Shawn answered without opening his eyes. "I dunno," he said, tiredness slurring his words even more.

"We've got a trace on him!" an unfamiliar voice shouted suddenly.

They tracked his phone?

Distant relief coursed through Shawn's veins, adding more water to douse the fire scorching every vein. Cold, beautiful relief. More words were said on the other line, and he thought he ought to say something. But words didn't come, too far away to reach. He felt himself slipping down the wall as his body felt very, very heavy.

"—hear that, Shawn?" asked Gus distantly. "We're coming for you, buddy!"

Relief from the words eased his hands from the reins of control. He could finally let go; they were coming. He'll be safe soon. He could rest.

"Shawn?"

Shawn's head slowly fell to his shoulder again but he didn't have the strength or desire to lift it. He could vaguely hear someone trying to get his attention, but his hand was pulling away, the phone no longer by his ear.

After what seemed like only a moment, Shawn jolted at a voice, eyes snapping open.

Voices were yelling.

They weren't the only things yelling, however.

Pain exploded.

Jolting angrily woke the fire in his ribs, and he lost his breath, grabbing at them to uselessly alleviate the pain.

He breathed harshly, waiting desperately for the pain to calm to a more manageable level.

When it finally did, Shawn's eyes cracked back open, trying to recount what just happened. He'd been on the phone, and then...

He must have passed out.

But how long was he out?

And what happened to the phone?

Dazed, Shawn fumbled with his hands along the closest floor, looking for where he dropped his practical lifeline.

Until he realized what it was that woke him up.

The door to the apartment he was hiding in burst open, and Shawn flinched, catching a groan in his throat as jerking shot pain through his ribs and shoulder and god, his head was going to—

"—hiding in one of these damned rooms, isn't he?"

Shawn froze.

The voices were perfectly clear now—feet away from him.

Panic seized his chest.

"I've already searched the others," answered another voice. "He's got to be in this one—"

Shawn couldn't breathe.

"This is why I shouldn't have left you in charge, Trent!" snapped the first voice. "Useless! Completely useless!"

Shawn felt the floor creak underneath their weight as they began to search the room.

They were walking toward the closet.

Shawn clamped a hand over his mouth, utter fear paralyzing him. He pushed as far as he could into the back of the closet as if he could disappear into it, pulling himself as tight as possible.

The footsteps stopped outside the closet door.

Shawn's heart hammered in his chest and thudded in his ears, making his head throb and spin viciously. He pressed harder into the wall, his eyes wide.

Another step closer.

"He's inside the closet."

Panic like ice struck him like a gunshot as the doors were shoved open, daylight streaming in and blinding him. Shawn threw up an arm to protect himself from the glare.

"You son of a bitch!" growled the man, grabbing Shawn by the arm, dragging him out of the closet, throwing him to the floor of the apartment. 

Shawn cried out as he landed on injuries, turning fires into infernos. 

"What's this?"

Shawn's eyes cracked open, still trying to get a handle on the explosion of pain when he realized the man he knew as Javier picked up his cell phone from the floor of the closet.

Oh, no.

Javier's face was contorted in rage.

But it was nothing compared to Randall.

A hand suddenly grabbed Shawn by the shirt collar. He was lifted sharply off the ground and roughly thrown against a wall with a speed his dazed mind could barely register. His back hit the wall, exploding light in his vision, jarring every broken bone like they were being broken all over again, and Shawn couldn't help the cry that nearly sounded like a sob--

A hand was at his collarbone, pinning him to the wall, and a blurry face dropped into his vision. Two eyes, black with fury, glared into his.

"You," spat Randall, shoving Shawn further into the wall with the force of the word. "What. Did. You. Do?"

It was too hard to process words.

Pain wracked his skull.

Thoughts were all wrong puzzle pieces.

He was too dazed—too... confused—

Dazed and confused.

That was familiar.

The name of the memoir he'll write if he ever gets out of this.

"WHAT DID YOU DO?"

The shout jerked him like yanking him from underwater, and suddenly Randall was in front of him, and he did not look happy.

"I di-didn't—" gasped Shawn, but the man pulled him abruptly from the wall and slammed him hard back against it. A strangled yell escaped him.

"Did you call them?" the man demanded, shaking Shawn when Shawn didn't know what to say. "The cops. Did you call them?"

Shawn took a shuddering breath, cringing through another wave of utter agony. It hurt. Everything hurt. He swallowed hard and forced out, "N-no."

"He's lying!" hissed Javier somewhere behind the man.

"N-no…signal," rasped Shawn, trying to keep his eyes open, hoping the man would buy his lie.

He just needed to buy the SBPD time to get here.

They tracked his location; they knew where he was.

He just needed to survive long enough for them to save him.

"Is there signal in here, Trent?" demanded Randall, his eyes never leaving Shawn's. 

Somewhere beyond Shawn's vision, there was some shuffling, and then Trent answered, "Well, no, his phone doesn't have signal here."

Randall glared at Shawn, seeming almost reluctant to release him. But he finally did, and Shawn fell back against the wall. 

They bought it.

Shawn nearly smiled.

Relief coursed through his veins.

Until—

"SBPD!"

Several distant voices were yelling out, somewhere in the lower floors of the apartment building.

Shawn felt relief hit him even stronger, ready to shut his eyes and relax.

The SBPD was there.

He was going to be fine.

It was over.

"Dammit!" hissed Randall. "You did call them, didn't you?!" he demanded.

Shawn's eyes snapped back open.

Uh oh.

"Get him up!" demanded Randall.

Javier and Trent suddenly yanked him sharply to his feet.

Pain—

—PAIN—

Shawn doubled over as agony struck like lightning, but he wasn't given time to recover. Shawn's voice broke off a yell as he was dragged across the room to the window.

"Come on, there's a fire escape," said Randall, and blearily through panted breaths and black spots in his vision, Shawn saw it through the window. Glass shattered as someone broke it. "Get him out of here, he's our only bargaining chip!" growled Randall.

Shawn was roughly shoved toward the window. 

No, no, Shawn felt himself beg. He dug his heels into the floor, jerking against the grips the men held on his body as they shoved him toward it.

Pain suddenly erupted in his abdomen.

Someone just—

—hit him—

The wind knocked out of him, his legs buckled—gave out—

Both men increased their strength, and Shawn could no longer stop them as they dragged him toward the window—

NO.

"No—!" screamed Shawn through his teeth, eyes snapping open, trying to yank his arms out of their grasp, but suddenly felt a sharp blow to the back of his head, sending his vision into sudden darkness.

When he blinked his eyes open again, he dazedly realized he was in front of the window.

Randall was on the other side of the window, standing on the rusting fire escape, reaching out. He grabbed Shawn's jacket and pulled, but Shawn threw out an arm against the wall of the apartment, holding onto it as the man continued trying to tear him out of the room.

He just needed—

—to hold out—

—a few minutes—

—longer...

Shawn groaned, his voice sounding unhinged as the muscles in his arms screamed.

"Stop fighting!" demanded Randall, yanking harder, making Shawn's arm buckle and he fell forward through the window, his back striking the metal railing of the fire escape.

Pain erupted and he thought he heard someone scream—was that him?—but a hand was suddenly clamped over his mouth, muffling his cry. He tried to push himself up, but was suddenly lifted by the back of his jacket and an arm was around his neck, forcing him to bend an agonizing angle, his voice breaking behind the hand over his mouth.

The men started down the narrow staircase, the man and Shawn behind them. His vision was little more than a mess of color no--he had no idea how high up they were. He saw a wash of gray below—the parking lot?—and flashing lights of the squad cars pulling up at the apartment building.

"Shawn!"

Shawn froze.

That voice was unmistakable.

Shawn blinked rapidly, trying to clear the blurriness from his vision and examined the ground.

There she was.

Juliet.

Juliet was running up the fire escape.

Newfound determination burst through him.

Shawn struggled against the grip on him, trying his best to get out of the chokehold. Randall abruptly stopped running down the stairs, tightened his hold on Shawn, eliciting a choked groan from him as the man yelled, "Back up! Get back up!"

Shawn tripped over the stairs behind him as the men retreated, running away from the cops ascending the stairs. Shawn desperately tried to get his feet underneath him, but the man was going too fast. He was dragging Shawn with him, the arm around his neck crushing him.

"Shawn!"

Everything was suddenly a blur. A gunshot went off, followed by an agonizing cry of pain. Shawn was thrown as the man holding him was attacked.

"We've got them!" exclaimed an officer.

Shawn hit the ground hard.

Everything was pain.

Yet suddenly, Juliet was at his side.

Jules.

"Shawn!" she cried, kneeling next to him, her hand traveling gently behind his head.

Shawn lifted his eyes, meeting hers. He tried to respond, but he was too tired. Too heavy.

He shut his eyes.

"Shawn!" exclaimed Juliet, gently shaking him.

He didn't open his eyes.

"Shawn!"

Shawn jolted upright. He blinked his eyes repeatedly but… he couldn't see anything. Darkness. Nothing.

He turned his head, looking for Juliet. She wasn't there. It was only darkness.

Pitch black.

Shawn tried to sit up when he realized something terrifying.

He was sitting up.

In the corner.

In the closet.

Heart threatening to rip out of his chest, Shawn whipped his head around, ignoring the stab of pain in his head.

Four walls.

Cool air.

He was still in the closet.

He'd been asleep.

It had all been a dream.

"Shawn! Shawn, answer me!"

The phone. The phone was still in his nearly-numb hand, still by his head.

"J-Jules—?" Shawn choked out.

"Shawn, thank god!" he heard the relief coat her words, in such contrast to the relief evaporating from he himself. "I've been trying to talk to you for the past fifteen minutes—"

Shawn shut his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall, eyes burning with frustration.

He'd been saved.

It felt so real.

"Shawn, what happened?"

He could mourn it later.

Right now, he needed to get out of here for real.

"I think I passed out," he admitted in a hoarse whisper, still trying to get his bearings again, half of him still caught in the events of his dream.

Shawn suddenly picked his head up off the wall, ignoring the stab of pain that came with the too-fast motion.

A sudden realization dawned on him.

That was it.

He may have missed that detail, but his subconscious hadn't.

The fire escape.

There was a fire escape.

Kicking himself for not noticing something so blatantly obvious, Shawn pushed off the back of the wall without bothering to brace himself--what good would that do anyway at this point-a growl escaping his clenched teeth as his his ribs sharply protesting at the movement. His face contorted in pain as he made it to his hands and knees, or hand and knees, keeping one on the phone to his ear, shutting his eyes as he waited for the word to stop tilting too far too the left.

Damn concussion.

"Shawn?" came Juliet's urgent voice.

"I… I think I know… a way out…" rasped Shawn. Just speaking those words alone deemed to be too much for him. God, he was so tired. Shawn took shallow breaths as he struggled to keep his balance as he reached for the closet door and roughly slid it open. Daylight blinded him, and he screwed his eyes shut, nearly dropping the phone as he squinted, eyes adjusting to the too-bright light.

Wasn't Jules mad at me? thought Shawn suddenly. He hadn't spoken to her since… since...

"I need space."

"We're on our way," said Juliet, interrupting Shawn's thoughts. "You're in a complex called Lennox Apartments. It's a rundown apartment building that got shut down a few years ago," said Juliet quickly. "No one's decided what to do with the building so it hasn't been touched."

Did she forget she was mad…? wondered Shawn blearily as he dragged himself slowly out of the closet, feeling a pull at his chest, hating the idea of leaving his safe haven. He crawled to the other side of the room, every jarred movement stabbing pain through his ribs, adrenaline his only cushion against it. His sense of gravity was still majorly messed up, pressing down too hard on him, flipping his sense of up and left—that doesn't even make sense—pure desperation forcing him across the room, a handful of jerky movements at a time. Finally across what felt like a mile but was only a handful of feet, Shawn leaned against the wall, panting hard through a grimace as fire raged in his torso, his ribs and shoulder competing for the Most Agonizing Pain award.

It's a tie, he decided, slumping even heavier into the wall. Trophies for everyone.

"Shawn, talk to me!" said Juliet suddenly.

His eyes opened at the sound of her voice, heart surging.

Damn it, he missed her.

He missed her so much.

Maybe she's forgiven me, thought Shawn.

But just as quickly as that thought came, the coherent half of his mind suddenly snapped, Don't be stupid. She's trying to save your life, moron.

He'd made the same mistake during the Elin case, after she'd saved him from being stabbed by the crazy Swedish girl.

"You saved me," he'd told her, hope having flared in his chest.

"I'm a cop, Shawn," was her only response.

She didn't forgive him.

She’s just doing her job.

Shawn suddenly couldn't tell if the pain in his chest was broken bones or his heart.

"J-Jules, I'm—" he began, her name making his eyes burn only hotter, but suddenly he froze before another apology could make it to his lips.

There was some sort of loud commotion down the hallway.

"—the hell is he?"

Oh, no.

Shawn felt a horrible sense of deja vu.

That was Randall's voice.

"Shit," he gasped.

"What is it?" asked Juliet desperately through the phone.

Terrified now, Shawn reluctantly pushed himself away from the wall, and using his free hand, pulled himself up by the window sill. It was a slow process, relying on adrenaline, sheer will, and a million curses slipping out between clenched teeth.

Damn it, when he got out of this mess he was never moving again.

He couldn't feel anything except pain now, clutching onto the window sill for dear life—because, hell, if he fell, he was not getting back up—wishing for once the world would just stay still.

Close to panting, his eyes cracked open, and he looked through the dirty glass.

Sure enough, there was a fire escape.

He'd noticed it when he first came into the apartment, but it didn't register in his screwed-up mind. At least his subconscious was paying attention.

"Talk to me!" exclaimed Juliet desperately, and Shawn realized he hadn't responded in... He couldn't remember. But talking was difficult—it used energy and air and Shawn was running low on both.

Shawn looked outside. He was about... four floors up? Three? Five? His eyes shut again as trying to count only made him feel sicker.

The best he could tell, he was in an apartment on the side of the building, and spread out below was a sea of gray, and a sea of dark green. The parking lot, and... a forest?

Shawn cautiously looked behind him, checking to make sure he was alone, cursing as the movement sharpened and splintered his headache. He grasped the window sill firmly to keep his wavering balance, seeing spots before his eyes. Don't pass out now, he begged himself.

When he could again, he opened his eyes.

He was still alone in the apartment.

He sighed with shallow relief and turned back to the window.

Shawn raised his free arm, feeling his balance tilt slightly.

He didn't want to do this. It was going to alert them.

But he didn't really have much of a choice.

Shawn broke the window with a jab of his elbow, just as the thugs had in his dream.

The glass shattered and rained down on the sill and the fire escape below.

And just as Shawn expected, he heard shouting and heavy footsteps in the distance.

They weren't on his floor.

But they soon would be.

Juliet yelled something through the phone, but Shawn didn't hear it. He'd pulled the phone away from his ear to use both hands to hoist himself onto the window, swaying dangerously, cursing. He carefully placed a hand over to the other side of the window, grasping at the brick of the building, and dragged himself forward. He felt a sharp pain in his knee, and with a gasp, realized he'd just scraped himself on a shard of broken glass.

Not letting it stop him, Shawn clenched his teeth against the new pain, lifting his legs over the glass with more caution, perching himself on the sill, and looked down.

The metal floor of the staircase seemed only three or so feet below him, but that was much more of a feat when it was moving.

Here goes nothing.

Taking a breath, Shawn pushed himself off the ledge, hoping the ground was where he thought it was.

Turned out he was wrong.

It was more like six feet, and Shawn fell fast, coming dangerously close to catching his head on the railing. He hit the ground in an explosion of pain, crying out, throwing his hands up to cushion the blow to his head…

Forgetting that he was holding the phone.

Out of the corner of his vision, Shawn saw the blur of the small device fall through the steps of the fire escape, and plummet to the ground.

"Damn it," he hissed, voice tight and rough as he gasped, the pain throbbing everywhere--sharp and hot and god, everything HURT--

You need to MOVE, he heard from somewhere in the back of his mind. 

Weak adrenaline coursed through, forcing his eyes open again. 

He had to keep moving.

Reaching out a shaking hand, Shawn grabbed the railing and yanked himself up, feeling twice as heavy as he did a few minutes ago. Back on his feet, he leaned against the rusting railing, panting. 

Holding the railing tightly, Shawn descended the stairs, shutting his eyes when the movement increased his nausea. His movements felt sluggish and uncoordinated. His warped sense of gravity shoved him to the side as he ran, knocking him into the rail every other step. His attempt to rush down the stairs felt like he was trying to run underwater, some outward force was determined to fight him. At his painfully slow pace, Shawn descended almost ten more steps, when…

"Hey!"

Shawn whipped around, pain spiking from the transition as he saw Javier's head poking out of the window Shawn had escaped from.

Tripling his speed, probably only moving from a snail's pace to a sloth's, Shawn stumbled down the staircase, holding onto the metal rail with so much force his knuckles were white.

He stumbled passing the third floor, his heel missing the next step, and Shawn fell forward, barely catching himself on the railing. Shawn let loose a cry. He stopped, trying to catch his breath. He held on for dear life, wanting to let go so, so badly, and just finally succumb to oblivion.

Shawn suddenly jerked as the entire fire escape jolted.

He reluctantly lifted his head and looked behind him.

Javier was running after him, his heavy footsteps shaking the entire staircase as Randall climbed out of the window to follow. 

Ignoring his pain, ignoring the fact that the world was spinning stupidly fast, Shawn sprinted down the steps, groaning through his teeth at every stab of his ribs, every throb of his head, keeping a hold on the rail, his vision nothing but a blur. He took step after step, stumbling his way down the rusty stairs.

Shawn blinked repeatedly, trying to clear the blur. His adrenaline was helping but it still wasn't easy to see.

He passed the second floor.

Halfway down to the first floor, Shawn felt the metal beneath him shudder. It took him a split second to realize what was happening, his eyes darting to where the metal was fixed to the wall. The pixels left of his vision pieced together just enough to show the rust that had eaten through the metal fixing the fire escape to the building.

Oh, no.

Pushing himself to go faster, Shawn tried to run down the steps, but didn't get far enough.

The metal snapped off, the staircase breaking off and pitching down, and Shawn fell the ten feet to the ground.

Pain exploded in his side and knee, ricocheting everywhere else, bursting light behind his eyes—

He cried out, barely recognizing the agonized voice as his own, throwing his hands up to protect his head, luckily cushioning the blow.

He hit the ground hard, rolling and skidding across the concrete. 

PAIN.

PAINPAINPAIN—

Every part of his body was screaming now, his teeth snapping shut to keep his voice from doing the same—

It hurt—it HURT—IT HURT—

He coughed with the dust torn up from the fall, tasting blood from a bitten tongue, his voice breaking as the coughs wracked his broken frame—

Tears sprung to his eyes. 

He heard the two men yelling behind him, both in pain and anger.

A broken sound escaped Shawn's clenched teeth, his eyes reluctantly snapping open.

Shawn's heart and mind somehow gained enough of a sense to get him to keep moving, and he was roughly pushing himself off the ground, coughing and dazed, unable to wait for the world to stop spinning with the sound of the thugs behind him.

He stumbled over his hands and knees, feeling sharp, fresh pain in his side and knee and an loud encore from every other injury that had already been there, but he growled through it, pushing himself to keep going.

If he stopped, he was dead.

He had to move.

Shawn ran forward, limping badly, blindly heading in whichever direction was right in front of him. His legs felt like lead; his knee bursting with hot pain with every step. His head was pounding so hard—too hard—

Shawn vaguely heard his own staggered breathing, the broken-off sounds of his voice with every new stab of pain as he staggered forward, trying to move fast but he could have been at a crawling-pace for all he knew.

His world was suddenly enveloped by different shades of green and brown, and a fragment of a memory suddenly came back to him. He'd seen a vast blur of dark green--there was a forest behind the apartment building. He must be inside it. Shawn sighed internally, blinking rapidly, feeling his vision start to slowly piece itself back together. He made out the trees around him, twisted roots and branches on the floor and Shawn only hoped he didn't trip.

Shawn suddenly heard the men shouting in the distance behind him. 

Oh, come on! thought Shawn angrily.

His eyes flicked around the forest, tiredly trying to pick a direction.

"Now, Shawn, what do you do when an assailant is chasing you?"

His last kidnapping.

Shawn's father's words echoed in his head.

That memory could help him now just as it did then, right?

"Zig-zag, Shawn! Never go in a straight line! A straight line is the shortest distance between two people!"

That was right. Shawn took a sharp turn, heading in a new direction.

But… wait a minute. His dad's lesson taught him what to do when an assailant was chasing him.

Not two.

Shawn sighed.

Did the zig-zag rule still apply?

But hot pain suddenly flared even sharper in his newly-injured knee, and his leg buckled and gave out, sending him crashing to the ground.

This time, he knew the scream was from him.

Every injury erupted with molten fire at the impact, his voice breaking off into what he'd never admit was a sob.

Get up, get up, get UP—

It hurt.

It hurt so much.

It hurt too much.

Fire sped through him, agony's fingers pinning him to the ground.

He...

He had to get up...

Blackness danced at the edge of his vision. 

"SBPD!"

Was that...?

The calls were faint. But they were there.

They were here.

Help was here.

Shawn almost smiled, so overjoyed. The cops were here. He was going to be rescued.

Relief rushed through him, cool and soothing, almost enough to take away all of the pain.

But the relief suddenly halted.

The thugs.

They were somewhere in here, too.

The SBPD might be here, but he wasn't saved yet.

Because if the thugs found him first—

Weak fear cracked his eyes open.

The world was a jumble of color and light.

He just had to get up and go back to the parking lot.

Sounds faded, in and out.

He just had to find help.

He blinked, eyes heavy.

He just had to get up.

He just... 

...had to...

...get...

His eyes drifted shut, the darkness of unconsciousness finally pulling him under.

Chapter Text

"…Hey, buddy."

The sound of Shawn's voice—however weary and worn it was—sent a ripple of relief through all five of them.

Chapter Text

It didn't feel real.

Not when the deep voice shattered the silence.

Nor when the man who'd kidnapped him stepped out from between the trees.

Not even when a gun was suddenly aimed at his head.

It didn't feel real at all.

It felt like a nightmare.

Shawn vaguely saw Juliet whip around, and reflexively shift herself in front of him.

Protecting him.

The surge of feeling he would have felt at her gesture was quickly lost in his fear.

And... the fact that he no longer had her help in keeping him upright.

With a jolt of fear, he felt himself lose the battle with gravity. Blindly, his fingers reached out, grabbing the back of Juliet's jacket, clinging onto it desperately to keep himself upright. Panted breaths slipped out between his clenched teeth at the shot of adrenaline and panic, holding onto her jacket—holding onto her—so hard his knuckles were white.

"Not looking too good there, Spencer," said Randall. He cocked the gun. "Perhaps I should put you out of your misery."

"Stay away from him," hissed Juliet, shifting herself only more in front of him.

But dammit it was his job to protect her.

But being as hurt as he was, he couldn't do a damn thing.

It didn't mean he wasn't going to try.

"Ah, ah, ah," tutted Randall, and Shawn froze his movements, having been ready to try shifting himself in front of Juliet. "I may have underestimated you before," sneered Randall, "but don't think it will happen again. Move, and I'll kill you both."

Shawn set his jaw, reluctantly staying put. He held himself back, fingers gripping Juliet's jacket only tighter, as if to both keep himself from falling, and to keep her close, safe. But damn it, this man has nothing to lose. They were the furthest thing from safe.

God, they had been so close to safety.

Shawn swallowed hard, desperately trying to get his mind under the semblance of control. But... he was afraid he was already far past that. The weak adrenaline that kicked into his veins cleared some of the ringing from his hearing, and he blinked fast, but his vision was still far too blurry, the trees still moving too much. He was still seeing double. He blinked, trying to get the two imposing men with guns to remain one.

"What do you want?" demanded Juliet, her voice strong and fearless, but Shawn could feel how rigid she was.

"I want my money," sneered Randall. He tilted the gun in his hand, shifting his weight, crushing leaves underneath his boots, the sound chilling the silence.

"Then..." said Shawn, resisting the urge to shut his eyes against his dizziness and exhaustion. "Then get it," he slurred. "Th-that was your... your plan this whole time," he gasped out. "The cops are h-here," said Shawn breathlessly. "Just take me and... trade me for it."

"Shawn—" began Juliet fearfully.

"J-Just leave her out of this," he said firmly, though there wasn't a trace of strength in his breathless words. "Take me."

"Shawn!" exclaimed Juliet, sparing a panicked look toward him, eyes begging him to stop talking. Turning her glare back to Randall, she said, "You are completely surrounded! Your partner is in custody—this doesn't end well for you," she said firmly. "They aren't going to negotiate with you for that money, so just let us go, turn yourself in, and we can lessen your senten—"

"There wasn't even supposed to be any negotiation!" Randall glared at Shawn, fury beyond anger. "You even realize how much you screwed this up?" he demanded, taking a step toward them, making both he and Juliet nearly flinch.

Shawn felt Juliet's back pressing into him, staying as close to him as possible. But, god, she was pressing hard into broken bones. Shawn fought the urge to gasp as his broken ribs sliced sharp pain through him, stealing his breath.

"But you're right about one thing," said Randall, snatching Shawn's attention away from the pain. "The cops are out there with my money and I'm going to make a trade for it. You think they won't negotiate, well... I'm willing to call that bluff." He glared at Shawn, but then, a smile cut through his anger, but it was no less twisted. "However... something tells me that the cops will be much more motivated to keep their detective alive than their consultant." 

Oh, no.

Panic suddenly raced Shawn's heart. "No," he breathed.

Juliet suddenly leaned her weight further back into Shawn. He barely caught a groan in his throat, his eyes screwing shut. She'd already been close enough that her back had been brushing his chest. Shawn cracked his eyes open, fighting the urge to cringe as she pressed sharply into his broken ribs.

What was she…?

Shawn's delayed mind suddenly caught up to the rest of him.

It wasn't Juliet that was pressing into his side.

It was her gun.

Her gun was in the waistband of the back of her pants, now mere inches from Shawn's hand.

Trying to breathe shallowly through the fire of his ribs, Shawn slowly nudged the small of her back to acknowledge that he understood what she meant.

He was going to have to grab the gun and shoot this man.

Shawn felt the back of her shirt with the hand that wasn't clinging to her to stay upright, deciding that relying on his screwed up vision wasn't going to do him any good. His fingers brushed her back. Juliet's muscles were tense as steel.

Shawn's hand met the cool metal of the gun, and he slowly started to pull it from her waistband.

"Now," the man said sharply, "I'm going to tell you how this will work. I am going to walk the detective out of this damned forest, put this gun to her head," he sneered, "and the cops are going to trade my money for her." He cocked his head. "And it works out better that you've taken care of my other colleague; no more two-way split." He grinned. "I was also planning on killing you," he told Shawn, making him swallow hard, and Juliet press into him only closer, this time out of pure protectiveness. "But instead," said Randall, "I think I'd rather you live with the fact that I'm going to kill your girlfriend the second I get that money."

Shawn's eyes widened.

No.

No.

"You—you touch her," gasped Shawn, fury and panic racing through him, only gripping onto her jacket harder, pulling her to him closer, "I'll kill you." Shawn's fingers curled around Juliet's gun. He slowly pulled it free from her waistband.

The weapon felt heavy in his weakened state. Shawn's hand shook and he hesitated.

He could barely sit up without lilting to the side, much less hold his focus on anything for too long.

How did Juliet expect him to shoot this man with any accuracy?

But suddenly, the man took a step toward Juliet and grabbed her by the arm, pulling her roughly to her feet.

"JULES!" cried Shawn.

Heart jumping into a frenzy, Shawn lifted the weapon in his hand to aim, fighting the gravity trying to pull him down, and the fact that the gun felt like it weighed twenty pounds.

But before he could even wrap his finger around the trigger, he felt something hard hit him across the face.

The hit was horrible and sharp, tearing pain through his skull, erupting fire behind his eyes, the force of it sending him straight back to the ground, slamming him into the dirt.

Pain.

PAIN.

—everywhere—

He felt sick, he felt so sick—

—god, he couldn't breathe—

The gun was ripped out of his limp hand, and before Shawn could attempt to recover from the molten pain clawing through his brain, something struck him in the side.

Agony exploded.

Someone screamed.

No—

That was him.

Miles away, he thought he heard someone cry his name.

But by the time he opened his eyes once more, Juliet and the man were gone.

"What do you mean there's a third kidnapper?!" exclaimed Henry, panic consuming him. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Lassiter shoved the man he'd shot to the ground, making him groan in pain. "Where is your other partner?" hissed Lassiter. 

"I don't know!" growled the man.

Lassiter pressed his knee into the man's back, pushing him even further into the dirt, eliciting a groan from him. "Tell me," demanded Lassiter, "and maybe I'll make prison less painful for you."

"We're—we're ex-military, man," gasped the man. "Just—just trying to make some extra cash. That's—"

"Where is your other partner?" demanded Lassiter.

"I don't know! W-we… split up!" the man choked out underneath Lassiter's pressure. "L-lookin' for that… kid—"

"That kid is my son, damn it!" raged Henry, and lunged forward only for Gus to grab him and hold him back. "You—"

"Weapons down!"

"Stand down! Everyone, stand down!"

Lassiter, Henry and Gus froze. Shouts were coming from officers not too far away.

"Shawn!" whispered Henry, hope searing through him. "That could be Shawn!"

He took off at a run, hearing Gus' pounding footsteps behind him, and Lassiter's hissed orders at the kidnapper to get up.

Henry strained his ears, thankful that he'd trained himself in observation using all five senses. The voices were coming from the southwest, and Henry had no trouble pinpointing where the parking lot was. He heard Gus' panting behind him, but Henry didn't slow down to let the younger man keep up.

Henry ignored the twigs whipping into his face, feeling the sting as the branches cut into his skin. The light continued getting brighter as he raced through the trees and out of the dense woodland. He heard the officers' voices louder, repeating the same two phrases he'd heard them first say.

His chest tightened with a sense of instinct that usually wasn't wrong.

This didn't this feel right.

The parking lot came into view, and Henry squinted through the branches, seeing the navy and black of the officer uniforms. Officers were lowering their weapons, all heads pointed in the same direction, wary gazes on each face.

Chest tightening only more with fear, Henry burst through the trees.

A few heads snapped toward him.

Including Chief Vick.

"Karen," huffed Henry, out of breath, as he ran to the Chief. He looked wildly around, following the gaze of each officer, "Did they find—"

His gaze landed about thirty feet away.

It wasn't Shawn.

Instead, a man had a vice-grip around—

"Oh, my god," breathed Henry, watching the man practically choke Juliet, and a gun pressed firmly to her head.

The young detective's hands were gripping the arm around her, but muscles rippled underneath the material of the man's shirt. Juliet struggled, but they were futile; he wasn't giving her enough air, draining her strength.

"—the money," the man was saying, as Henry's hearing broke through his shock. "Give it to me, or the detective dies." the man growled through his teeth. "My patience is running thin, so make your decision fast." The gun pressed harder against Juliet's temple, and she gasped, making every officer flinch.

Making her choice, Karen gestured at the officer to her right, and he slowly stood up, leaving his weapon on the ground. Henry watched Juliet's captor's eyes follow the man, ensuring that the officer wasn't going to make a move. The officer opened the door of a patrol car, and pulled out the bag of money Lassiter and Juliet had confiscated from the taxi station.

Henry knew the drill with exchanges. If it came to handing over the actual ransom, the police usually had a backup plan to ensure that the perpetrator wasn't getting away with it.

But this wasn't planned.

"Slowly, Dobson," said Karen in a low voice, as Dobson took measured steps toward the man. She shifted her gaze to the man and said, "The bag for my detective."

The man nodded stiffly, his eyes giving away nothing. "That's the deal."

The man's knuckles were white on his grip on the gun, pressed firmly against Juliet's head.

"Oh, god—O'Hara."

Henry and Vick turned sharply at the voice behind them. Gus and Lassiter were suddenly there, watching. Lassiter stared at his struggling partner, his hands tightly securing the other kidnapper, knocked out cold in his arms. Lassiter's face was ashen.

Henry turned back to the man, his eyes suddenly scanning the area around.

This man was supposedly the third kidnapper, who'd kidnapped Shawn.

If this man was using Juliet as a hostage, then...

Henry was suddenly terrified.

Dobson stopped ten feet away from the man and Juliet.

Henry couldn't contain himself.

"Where's Shawn?" he demanded. "What the hell did you do to my son?"

The man shifted his eyes from the bag to Henry, and Henry ignored the hisses he got from the three standing beside him.

"Your son,” said the man, low and even, "is dead."

This must be what dying feels like.

Reality had mostly slipped from Shawn’s grasp, frayed at the edges. Agony was a vapor, clawing at him from the inside, each breath a sword through his abdomen, each erratic heartbeat a knife in his head. 

His eyes were screwed shut, the agony paralyzing him. He was only half-aware he was still vocalizing his pain, broken sounds that were too close to what he dared admit was a whimper, something wounded and keening as he tried to breathe, but his lungs only knew pain.

He had to get up.

He knew he had to.

Juliet was in danger.

The man was a killer.

He was going to shoot her whether he got the money or not.

Shawn had to get up.

But the pain finally reached a level beyond what he could handle. Agony was ripping through him with every breath, like jolts of electricity from a cord in water, and—god—he suddenly wasn’t sure if this or dying would be worse. It was only pure, damn will and the sharp gift of adrenaline that kept him conscious, stubbornly determined to claw himself out of the call from oblivion.

He would not pass out.

He couldn't pass out.

Another hoarse, broken sound escaped his clenched teeth, his arms useless grasping at his middle as if he could alleviate the broken ribs that Randall just broke into smaller pieces. 

Somewhere in the distant back of his mind he realized he was near-writhing, like he’d imagine someone set on fire, but the fire was on the inside and he had no idea how to put it out but wished to god someone would.

Shawn didn't know how long it took for the fire to cool. But after what felt like years, he felt it begin to recede, the inferno settling into a mild wildfire. A hoarse breath of relief slipped from him at the pain decreasing its intensity, no matter how little the change was overall. The toxic pull to give in and let unconsciousness take him was still there, but less adamant now, and reality slowly filtered back in. He could hear the silence, the rustle of leaves in the wind, his own harsh breathing in the still air.

He was lying on the ground, his cheek pressed against the mud, the ground still damp from the thunderstorm that morning.

To think he'd been sitting in the Psych office watching the rain hitting the window less than ten hours ago.

Shawn mentally shook himself.

He needed to focus.

He needed to get off the ground.

But...

That was the last thing his body wanted to do.

Though the agony had calmed from unbearable, it wasn’t gone.

Shawn took a shuddered breath in preparation, hissing in pain as the simple breath shifted his rib cage. He gave himself a moment to let the pain subside. But, with a sinking feeling, Shawn realized that the pain wasn't going to subside. It burned steadily; it wasn’t getting better than this.

He needed to get to Juliet.

Shawn let the rush of his desperation force him to lift his hand, and plant it firmly on the ground in front of him to push himself up. His fingers sank into the damp dirt, and his muscles trembled to keep his arm from falling back down.

Damn it, just that simple movement felt exhausting.

How the hell was he supposed to save her if he can barely move?

Not even that—he had no idea where the hell he even was, or how to get out of this damned place. Even if he did manage to get up, how the hell was he supposed to find them?

Shawn cracked his eyes open, facing the faded sunlight casting lazy rays through the branches. Doubt spun his mind almost as much as the concussion did.

There.

Shawn blinked, his blurry gaze catching onto something near him.

There was an instinct, somewhere buried beneath his pain, sparking that feeling in him that always preceded finding a clue in a case.

Just like with the fire escape, Shawn's subconscious was apparently working overtime.

Shawn squinted, trying to focus his eyes on whatever it was that caught his eye a few feet away.

It took him a moment to make out what he was looking at: there were imprints in the dirt, not far from him. There were several, some close, some far. He blinked at them. 

He blinked a few times, unable to place why they seemed important.

His vision was still spinning slightly, and blurred at the edges. But… there was something there.

Something… important.

Imprints.

No, they were more than that. 

It suddenly clicked.

Footprints.

The thought flashed through Shawn's backwards thinking and he shut his eyes at his own slowness.

He couldn't even recognize footprints at first glance.

But there it was—some small, some large.

It was Juliet's and Randall's footprints.

Trying his best to focus on them again, he saw them lead away from him. 

Wait—that was it.

He could follow their footprints.

A sliver of hope cut through the doubt and the overwhelming ache of the pain.

However… those footprints only proved useful if he could actually get up.

Briefly shutting his eyes, Shawn took a moment to revel in the mild storm of agony before making it a hell of a lot worse.

But with one more thought of Juliet, his eyes were snapping back open, determination sparking back into his veins.

Shawn realized his arm had fallen back to his side. Without readying himself for it, Shawn lifted his arm again, pressing his shaking fingers back into the ground.

And then, with every ounce of strength he had, he sharply pushed himself up.

He screamed through his teeth as his ribs seared with molten fire, jerking himself up, his arm holding nearly all of his weight, shaking like he was hypothermic.

—holy—

Shawn breathed hard, leaning desperately on his forearm, his body shaking harder from merely trying to hold himself three inches off the ground.

God, he can't do this—

With a frustrated growl and the determination to prove that thought wrong, Shawn pressed his other hand into the dirt, pushing himself up further, his breath now coming in short gasps, each one a stab through his chest.

He quickly got his knees underneath him, ignoring his ribs' sharp protest, every movement jerky and uncoordinated, tearing only more broken sounds from his throat. 

He made it, though, gasping as he kneeled on his bad knee, somehow recalling the broken glass from the window he’d scraped it on. But it was more than just the sting of a cut; there was a heaviness to that pain. Something was wrong with the joint; he must have landed on it badly. He'd fallen so many times; it could have been anything.

But it didn't matter.

Screw the injuries he had.

The pain was only pissing him off now, and he used it, growling through his teeth and clawing into the dirt only more to keep purchase.

Shawn lifted his head, his vision still spinning, but not as much as before. 

But he could still make out the footprints beside him.

Shawn hesitated, his body trembling with his own weight. Crawling out of the forest would be agonizing. Moving his knees underneath him would jostle his abdomen far more than walking would, not to mention his knee aching sharply from the glass cut.

He was going to have to stand.

Shawn let out an exasperated breath, cringing as he straightened his arms, pushing himself up higher off the ground, getting his feet under him. His weight seemed to double, protesting his movement, like he was trying to move limbs that weren't his own. It was as if his body was going… how did Gus always describe it?

Boneless, thought Shawn.

His own body was threatening to go boneless on him.

Shawn clenched his teeth as he fought it, pushing himself up with everything he had, something between a groan and a growl escaping his teeth.

The bark in the tree beside him bit into his shoulder, telling him he was at least a foot or two higher off the ground. Shawn hissed a gasp as it jolted his injured shoulder, and shifted away from it—

No, that was it.

Shawn looked sluggishly back toward the tree, wavering with utter exhaustion, but an idea forming.

He could use the tree to keep his balance as he forced himself to his feet.

Shawn took a breath, and sharply pushed off the ground with everything he had, letting himself fall back against the tree.

His back hit the trunk, and Shawn bit his tongue hard as the impact ricocheted pain like lightning. Tasting blood, Shawn sank back against the tree, resting for a few seconds, glad to have his feet already underneath him. He breathed hard with the effort it took to stay semi-upright, trying to will away the rise of the feeling he was going to be sick.

But he was halfway up.

He could do this.

Shawn gave himself a moment longer to rest, fear hammering his heart for both Juliet and the prospect of needing to move more than he already has. He pressed his back hard against the tree, waiting for the pain to subside.

Oh, right, thought Shawn bitterly.

It doesn't.

He's wasting time.

His eyes shut, shoving down the fear of waking more pain.

There was no use trying to do this gently.

So, Shawn grasped a low branch on the tree, and he yanked himself up.

Shawn didn't know how to describe the sound that escaped him as white-hot pain ripped through his abdomen. Heart thudding painfully against his chest, Shawn held onto the branch for dear life, not giving himself the chance to rest as he forcing himself up to his full height. He pressed his back firmly against the tree as he slowly rose to his full height, the bark scraping his back, but he'd take that over the unbearable pain he knew would come if he fell.

Shawn breathed hard and fast, pain following his every jerked, uncoordinated movement.

The mixture of agony and motion was enough to send his vertigo into overdrive, pitching the world sideways and then down, and Shawn held an iron-clad grip on the branch, terrified of falling back to the ground.

It seemed to take years for the world to right itself, and Shawn cautiously opened his eyes, panting painful breaths.

He found himself standing, pressing firmly against the tree.

He'd done it.

He was standing.

Too bad that was only the first step in getting to Juliet.

Shawn shoved his doubt away.

He could do this.

He's gotten this far.

Cracking his eyes open, facing the ground, Shawn tried to find the footprints again.

Through the relentless pain throbbing behind his eyes, Shawn managed to find them. Holding tight to the branch he was clinging to, Shawn lifted his gaze, finding another thick branch of a tree that was closer to the footprints.

With a shuddered sigh, Shawn slowly reached his other hand to the branch.

Successfully grabbing a hold of it with trembling fingers, he paused, steadying himself between both trees. His eyes roamed the fuzzy ground, and he dimly found the footprints again, leading to the left.

Shawn swallowed hard, heart thudding, and took a hesitant step forward, shifting his weight carefully to his left foot, feeling his almost drunk-like coordination tilt his balance as he worked to shift from relying on this branch to the next tree. Once he felt his weight successfully transfer to it, he clung onto the new branch tightly, righting himself as his knee threatened to give out beneath him.

He did it.

He blinked a few times. 

He moved a few feet.

He could do this.

He could do this.

Encouraged, Shawn reached for a branch on a tree next to the one he was leaning on, following the path of the footprints. Securing his shaking grip on it, he took another step to his right foot, following the footprints. Thankfully, doing this wasn't nearly as painful as getting up had been. 

Now he just had to focus on keeping upright, or... he'd have to do it all over again.

Shawn swallowed hard at the very thought.

Focusing again, Shawn reached for another branch that was a few feet away.

However... his vision decided to play a trick on him, because the branch he was sure he'd grasped was nothing but air.

With nothing to hold onto, Shawn pitched forward, hitting the trunk of the tree chest-first.

A mix of a cry and a curse escaped him, pain jolting in his ribs and head. Shawn desperately threw his arms around the trunk of the tree, catching himself from falling. His ribs burned with the stab of a million knives, but damn it he was not falling down. "Shit," he croaked, desperately trying to get his feet back under him, only relaxing when he felt them cooperate.

He steadied himself, breathing hard, and planted his feet firmly on the ground.

When he could open his eyes again, Shawn struggled to find the footprint trail again.

Hurry. 

Being much, much more careful, Shawn reached for another branch, only releasing this one when he felt his fingers cling onto it.

And so began his journey, slow, halting, and less than elegant, but he was moving.

Adrenaline swam in his veins, but Shawn kept his pace slow—even slower than before—as he followed the trail. He took more steps forward, keeping his hold shifting from tree to tree. His movements fell into a painfully slow and slightly off-balance rhythm. It wasn't fast, but it was progress. The pain had mellowed out to a constant burn, buried beneath the desperate need to get Juliet to safety.

Shawn blinked away his fatigue. His exhaustion crept up on him, feeling like a thick, heavy vapor, threatening to pull him back down. Shawn fought it, growling every misstep. The adrenaline was still within him, driving him forward. He wasn't putting himself through this agony just for the hell of it.

Juliet needed him, and there was nothing in the world that could stop him from protecting her.

"Weapons down!"

"Stand down! Everybody, stand down!"

Shawn nearly lost his footing as the yells pierced the silence, competing with the deafening ringing in his ears.

He grasped the branch he was holding on to keep from losing his balance, and strained his ears.

Those yells were close.

Very close.

He was running out of time.

Shawn picked up his pace, praying his shaking fingers and blurred vision wouldn't betray him, eyes shifting from the footprints to what was ahead of him quickly, tripling the viscious pounding in his head, but he didn't care.

The exchange was happening now.

He had to hurry.

Shawn blearily looked up, seeing the parking lot looming ahead through the branches, maybe forty feet away.

He's almost there.

Shawn picked up his pace more, shifting his weight from foot to foot, hearing Randall's voice speaking somewhere in front of him.

Shawn's vision was twisting everything in sight, and Shawn blinked rapidly, trying to clear it as best as he could. Pain radiated from his abdomen, his heart thudding excruciatingly against his injured ribs, his knee still threatening to buckle beneath him.

He was ten feet away from the parking lot now.

He wasn't giving up now.

He was almost there.

"Your son," the man told Henry, "is dead."

A thick silence settled over the parking lot. No one spoke. No one moved.

Henry couldn't breathe.

Your son is dead.

He learned a lot as a detective. He learned how to control his emotions, to deal with shock.

But shock had never felt like this.

"I'm waiting."

Heads turned back toward the man. Vick recovered first, her face white. Dobson had frozen as well. "D-Dobson. Give it to him."

Henry felt himself shaking. Karen Vick had just stuttered.

Karen Vick never stuttered.

In silence, every officer watched as Dobson took three more steps toward the man.

The man watched him carefully, then said, "Stop."

Dobson stopped a few feet away. The man nudged Juliet with the gun, then he turned to Dobson. "Drop the bag and walk away."

Dobson complied. He put the bag on the ground and retreated back where the other officers stood. Henry watched everything as if from someone else's eyes.

Shawn was dead.

Dead.

"I'm going to release her," said the man to the officers. "I'm going to release your detective, pick up my money, and walk away. If you take a shot at me, I'll shoot her." He shifted his gaze between the officers, tightening his grip on the gun, eyeing the officers. "I promise I'm faster."

"He's—He's ex-military," said Lassiter in a quiet voice to Vick. "Don't shoot." His face was blank.

Dobson retreated and stood next to Vick. Everyone watched as the man slowly released his tight hold on Juliet. She fell to her knees, gasping for breath. The man kept his gun trained on her as he picked up the bag of money and started backing up. He continued walking backward, his gun glued to Juliet's back. She coughed hard, and seemed to be trying to tell them all something.

Henry took a step toward her.

"He's—He's—" she gasped, coughing again, rubbing where the man had held her around the throat. "Sh-Shawn's—not—" Juliet coughed again, out of breath.

The man took more steps backward, tightening his grip on the weapon, picking up his pace a bit, a hint of a grin slicing across his face.

"Chief," said Lassiter suddenly, eyes widening at the man. "He's going to shoot her. He—He's going to shoot!"

"He—He's going to shoot!"

Pure panic froze Shawn where he stood, hanging onto a tree mere feet away from the concrete of the parking lot.

Jules.

She'd fallen to her knees on the pavement.

And there, backing away from her, was Shawn's kidnapper.

With a gun trained on her.

His finger poised on the trigger.

Shawn felt something strong suddenly take him over, and suddenly all the pain was forgotten.

His fear was reduced to raw desperation.

He was suddenly running out through the trees, straight for Juliet.

Shawn watched as she turned her head toward him and her eyes widened in fear.

He threw himself forward toward her, straight into the line of fire.

Just as the man pulled the trigger.

Chapter Text

Two and a half hours.

He's been in surgery for two and a half hours, and still, there was no news.

Juliet was curled up in a chair in the far corner of the ER waiting room, alone and numb.

Somewhere beyond the blur of the tears still in her eyes, were the others.

Gus, sat with his head in his hands, leaning over his knees, looking like nothing more than a lost child.

Henry, pacing the room, red-rimmed eyes staring at the door to the ER, only stopping every so often to demand news from the nurses who had no news to give.

And Lassiter, seated stiffly in an empty row of chairs, shifting his glance between all three of them.

No one had spoken.

For over two hours, Juliet couldn't stop seeing it.

Over and over and over.

Everything that happened the moment the bullet left that gun.

It seemed to happen in slow motion.

Juliet turned, facing the man who was still backing away from her, step by step, money in his hand, gun held out, aimed at her.

A smile tugged at twisted lips, and she knew he was going to pull the trigger.

And she had nowhere to run.

And suddenly she was frozen, rooted to the ground in the most fear she’s ever felt, second only to finding the collapsed form of the man she loved lying in the dirt of a forgotten forest.

She screwed her eyes shut.

But then, she heard it: a collective intake of breath from the crowd of officers behind her, and…

…a rustle of leaves?

Juliet’s eyes cracked open.

And then widened.

A dark blur had shot out of the forest, half-running, half-staggering, but fully hellbent.

Shawn.

Juliet could only stare in frozen, frigid shock and awe, as Shawn ran toward her, his face nothing but determination—

She realized what he was doing a second too late.

Shawn launched himself forward between herself and his kidnapper, at the exact moment the gunshot cracked the air.

“SHAWN!” screamed Juliet, voice tearing out of her throat, heart lurching as he crashed to the ground.

Not even caring about the man with the gun, Juliet scrambled off the ground, heart in her throat as another cough wracked her, half-collapsing at his side. Gunshots sprayed above her as the bastard was taken down just before he made it around the corner of the building, in a shot that Juliet somehow knew only her partner could have successfully made.

But there was no satisfaction that the man was dead.

Because Shawn—bloody, broken, bruised—laid crumpled at her knees.

Eyes shut.

Unmoving.

The only thing that was moving, however, was the blood, slowly inching out from beneath him like black water.

“Oh, my—” breathed Juliet, lungs finally finding the semblance of breath only to lose it again, watching the blood spread too far, too fast.

The bullet that had been meant for her had found him.

No, not found him.

He'd taken it.

“No, no, no, no,” gasped Juliet, her shaking, trembling hand finding his shoulder, the one that hadn’t been injured, and she shook, hard. “Shawn!” 

But he didn’t move.

Somehow, he was even more still than he had been when she found him in that forest.

“Shawn, no,” she breathed, her voice half a sob, her trembling hands finding his shirt, drenched with the crimson that was spilling beneath her knees like water trying to drown her, and ripped the shirt apart, a true sob breaking out of her at the sheer black and blue of broken bones and mistreatment—

But above all, the hole in his shoulder, bleeding a river of his life onto the dirty pavement.

She quickly pressed both hands over the wound, pressing down hard, stemming the flow as best as she could, with no time to check to see if there was an exit wound—but if all the blood beneath her was any indication, she didn’t have to look to know there was one—pressed down with all her weight as crimson trickled through her fingers, like the life draining out of him.

He didn’t so much as flinch at the pressure.

It made a sob break out of her chest. 

“SHAWN!” she cried, shaking him even as she pressed her weight into him. Tears were falling freely, into his shirt, mixing into his blood.

He was so still.

He was too still.

Somewhere above the rush of blood and the pound of her own heart in her ears, she heard the chaos around, the yelling of orders, the pound of footsteps—three sets that she knew by heart.

It was when Henry approached and saw his son, that Juliet’s tears only fell faster.

The older man faltered to a stop, losing all the color in his face as he took in the sight. “Shawn—” the man breathed, voice stuttering, falling quickly to his own knees at Shawn’s other side. “SHAWN!” he cried, and the same fear in Juliet’s heart was in the man’s eyes as he took in the state of his only son.

He shook him, hard, but Shawn remained still. "Shawn," he choked out. "God, no—"

And another sob found its way out of Juliet’s chest.

“Get that bus over here NOW!” cried Vick, and Juliet had never once heard her sound less like a Chief of Police, and more like a simply terrified, desperate person.

“Sweet justice—” 

Lassiter stopped short at Juliet’s side, panting from running, face going white.

“Oh, my god—” breathed Gus over her shoulder, freezing there like a statue. “Shawn!” 

But it was Lassiter’s voice that felt like a shot to Juliet’s own heart.

“Is… is he…?”

Henry pressed two shaking fingers to Shawn’s neck, Vick standing over his shoulder with wide, terrified eyes.

Because Henry’s fingers were still pressed to Shawn’s neck.

And tears were brimming in the older man’s eyes.

“I can’t feel it, Karen,” he choked out, a tear falling down his own cheek, frantically moving his fingers on Shawn’s neck. “I can’t feel anything!” 

Another sob broke out of Juliet's chest. 

He was dying.

Shawn was dying.

And suddenly gentle but urgent hands were on her, pulling her backward, but she fought them, desperate, terrified, not wanting to let him go—

"O'Hara, they're paramedics," came Lassiter's voice from somewhere.

“Please, Detective, we need space to work.”

Space.

“Shawn, I think… I know—”

“O’Hara…”

“—I need—”

“O’Hara.”

A sob wracked her.

"Juliet."

This was not the space she asked for.

This was not at all the space she asked for.

“Juliet—they’re going to help him—you have to let go—”

Someone pulled her away, familiar hands.

And suddenly he was out of sight.

She fought the hands, feeling them tighten around her.

She couldn't lose him.

She only knew that she couldn't lose him.

And she couldn't face the blind panic that she might already have.

The sound of a door swinging open snapped Juliet out of the memory.

Juliet's eyes snapped to it, seeing another doctor walk through.

Just like she did, she saw Henry freeze mid-pace, Gus jerk to his feet, and Lassiter straighten in his chair.

A young doctor—Dr. Bauer, from the embroidery on the white coat—hesitated in the doorway to the surgical ward. He was holding a clipboard, and he looked down to read off of it. "Family and friends of Shawn Spencer?"

Cold panic spread like ice through her.

This was it.

Either Shawn was alive, or he was—

Hot tears burned her eyes as her heart dropped low to her stomach.

She stumbled off the chair.

All her years as a detective, and this was the scariest moment of her life.

"Sh-Shawn?" Juliet choked out, walking quickly on numb legs to the doctor. 

Please.

Please, just let him be okay.

Henry, Gus and Lassiter followed her, all eyes on the doctor, all ears fearing the same words.

"Is he okay?!" breathed Gus, voice choked.

"He pulled through," said the doctor, without hesitation, giving them a tired smile.

Juliet felt relief wash through her like a tidal wave, nearly enough to send her crashing to the floor.

He was alive.

He was alive.

He pulled through.

He was alive.

Fresh tears suddenly brimmed and fell, like rain on a desert.

"Thank god," breathed Henry. He sank back to the chair behind him, rubbing his face. 

Gus shut his eyes and mumbled a relieved laugh, more tears falling down his cheeks as well. 

Relief washed lines of stress from Lassiter's face, that Juliet was sure he’d never admit were there in the first place.

"How is he?" asked Juliet when she could find her voice again.

"Shawn was very lucky," said the man. "The bullet struck him in his right shoulder, rupturing his subclavian artery," he said, then seemed to realize none of them would know his doctor-talk and he amended, "an artery below his collarbone. It's not incredibly common for a gunshot wound to hit that specific artery, but it resulted in dramatic blood loss. He received medical assistance rather fast," said the doctor quickly, watching worry creep back into three sets of eyes at the heavy words, "and was given a blood transfusion to successfully restore the loss." 

Juliet shivered, thinking back to the clothes she'd thrown out, having balked at just how much blood had been on them.

And how much blood had been left behind in the parking lot.

The four were quiet, the words settling heavily, as the doctor shifted his eyes back down to the clipboard. "I was told that prior to the gunshot,” he said, lifting an incredulous look to the group, “he was also involved in a car accident?” He shook his head to himself, as if both stunned and sympathetic, as the group's silence confirmed that detail. "And then abducted and held hostage?" he added, even more bewildered. "I can't even imagine," the man said absently, shaking his head to himself.

And, once again, they each realized just how much Shawn had gone through in the span of a day.

That even after all of that, he'd jumped in front of a bullet.

To save her.

The young doctor adjusted his glasses as he flipped a page on the clipboard, continuing, "He has a severe concussion and skull fracture—"

Juliet felt her chest seize.

"Something hit the windshield."

"Or someone."

"M'head's... killing me."

Somewhere over the memories, Juliet heard the doctor go on, "—but it was a fairly minor fracture, and he suffered no brain damage. He'll probably struggle with headaches for a few months while it heals.” Flipping another page: “Four broken ribs, a hairline fracture in his shoulder, and a twisted knee.” He shook his head to himself, as if the list of injuries should have belonged to multiple patients rather than only one.

"Sweet justice," muttered Lassiter under his breath.

Another tear fell down Gus' cheek.

Henry blinked a few times, as if fighting emotion.

Juliet felt hollow.

"Can we see him?" asked Gus, eagerly standing. 

"They're just finishing up his surgery," said Bauer. "He'll be taken to a room within the next half an hour. You can see him then." Bauer gave the four a kind smile. "I'll send a nurse out when Shawn's been moved."

It was palpable, the relief spreading through them, and Juliet sank back to the chair behind her, feeling exhausted and hollow.

But Juliet felt the vice-grip loosen in her chest and she heaved another sigh of relief.

Shawn was fine.

He was going to be okay.

Chapter Text

"Jules, c'mon, what are you waiting for?"

Juliet gave Shawn an uncertain glance.

Shawn had driven her—she was still getting used to his Norton, trying to decide if the chills it gave her were from excitement or mortal fear—an hour from her apartment to somewhere on the outskirts of town. He'd pulled over to the side of the deserted road and parked, practically hopping off the bike with anticipation to show her whatever it was he brought her here to see. To one side of the road was a clear stretch of grass. To the other was a slightly wooded area, with trees lining the road, the setting sun shining lazily through the scattered branches.

Shawn had headed straight into the hollow forest, but Juliet stopped short.

When Shawn noticed she was no longer following him, he waved her toward him like one would a puppy. When she still didn't follow, Shawn cocked his head in confusion.

Juliet pointed to the sign in front of her. "It says 'No Trespassing'," she said, feeling the cop in her rise to the surface. "Shawn, I don't think we're supposed to be here."

The old wooden sign had fading black ink. It looked years old. The wood has splintered and eroded but the words were clear.

Shawn' confusion morphed into amusement. With an amused laugh, Shawn said, "Of course we're allowed to be here, silly." He grinned. "I put that sign there."

Juliet's jaw dropped.

It looked so real.

"Shawn—?" she began, even more bewildered now than she had been.

But Shawn had already turned and headed through the trees.

"C'mon, Jules!" he called.

With a sigh for whatever it was she was walking into, Juliet did, feeling a slightly cool breeze shift the hair around her face as she followed him. She rubbed her bare arms and walked past the sign, following Shawn down the sloping land, glad she'd swapped her heels for sneakers before she left her apartment.

Shawn was waiting for her not too far away. He was leaning against a tree, a thin twig in his mouth like a toothpick. He raised an eyebrow at her in a seductive manner. "Sexy, right?"

Juliet hummed a laugh, walking up to him, pressing her hand to his chest, pushing him against the tree. The look disappeared from Shawn's face in surprise. Juliet took the twig out of his mouth and traced it lightly down his cheek. She leaned close to him, raising her eyes to his, her lips close to his skin, and whispered, "I'm better."

"Not going to argue with that," whispered Shawn, his eyes alight, and she somehow knew she'd never grow tired of the way he looked at her.

Rays of orange and yellow shadowed around them. It was a beautiful sunset and the end of a gorgeous day. "Okay, Shawn, you told me you wanted to show me something," she said. "What is it?"

An almost childlike excitement jumped into Shawn's eyes and he pushed off the tree and took Juliet's hand in his. "This way."

Shawn bounded through the trees, and Juliet let him tug her through the forest, her interest piqued. After only a few minutes of walking, Shawn pulling Juliet along behind him, the trees thinned and opened up.

Juliet gasped.

They were standing on almost cliff-like ground. The ground came to a stop a few yards from where Juliet stood, and dropped off into one of the most incredible views she'd ever seen.

The ocean was spread out in front of her. The sun was setting directly before her, shining deeply, reflecting the rich colors over the calm waves of the water. There were no boats, people, landmarks, anything in sight. Just water for as far as she could see.

Juliet shook her head, awed. "Shawn…" she whispered. "Shawn, this is beautiful." She tore her gaze from the horizon and looked at him.

The sunset shadowed part of his face, giving him a soft look. He'd been following her gaze, staring out toward the horizon, but he looked at her and smiled.

Juliet shook her head, saying, "How did you find this place?"

It  felt so rare to see something so untouched by people, as if the entire area had been left undiscovered. The road that brought them here and the forest that hid this place were less than picturesque.

Perhaps there were simply some things that weren't what they seemed, hidden behind an exterior that would fool most into believing they were nothing more than what they hid behind.

Shawn looked back toward the horizon. "A long time ago," he said, though not quite answering her question.

He strode up to the very edge of the cliff, and Juliet's breath caught.

"Shawn, be careful—!" she said quickly, but he just winked, and jumped off the edge.

"Shawn!" gasped Juliet, running up to the edge.

She looked down, terrified, but Shawn was standing five feet beneath her, laughing. The beach wasn't far beneath the ground she was standing on.

Juliet glared at Shawn as he pulled himself back onto the little ledge and perched himself on the edge, his legs dangling over the ground below. He laughed at her expression. "Oh, come on, Jules, I was only kidding."

Unable to hold onto it, the glare slipped from Juliet's face and she sighed, sitting next to Shawn, close enough that their shoulders touched.

Even after all the weeks they've been together, being so close to him was enough to skip her heart.

Another breeze shifted the air, sifting through her hair and ruffling Shawn's. Juliet shivered at the coolness, and Shawn felt it.

"Aw, babe," he said, concern clouding in his eyes. He quickly shrugged out of his hoodie and draped it around her shoulders. She smiled as the warmth hit her bare skin. "Better?" he asked, and Juliet smiled. The jacket smelled like him. She pulled it tight around her.

"Almost," she said, and Shawn leaned close to her and kissed her on the cheek. 

"Now, better?" he asked, voice as soft as the warmth of his hoodie.

"Much." She smiled.

Shawn straightened and they both turned back toward the sun. Juliet shook her head, feeling as if she were looking at a painting. "God, Shawn... Honestly, how did you find this place?"

"By accident," he said with a shrug. "I found it when I was fifteen. I used to sneak out of my dad's house a lot. I always went at night, right after he fell asleep. I'd climb through my window and get on my bike—bicycle-bike, didn't have the Norton yet—" he clarified, "and just take off. Of course, my dad was a cop, so he figured it out soon enough." Another sigh. But with a touch of his own brand of mischief, "I'd always come home with a sno cone from 7/11 just to throw him off." Shawn laughed softly, and his hand found Juliet's. He intertwined his fingers with hers. "I fell off my bike one night up there," said Shawn, gesturing to where he parked the Norton. "And… voila." he said, gesturing to the sun.

"So, you come here a lot?" asked Juliet, surprised to see Shawn so… sober. She'd known him to be a romantic, something that had surprised her when they first started dating. But this was different.

It felt like a part of him she'd never seen before.

Shawn shrugged, and again, it was weird to see him without humor or musing. "Less now than I used to." Juliet watched another breeze ruffle Shawn's hair. He kept his gaze fixed on the horizon and said distantly, "I come here to… clear my head."

Juliet cocked her head. "From cases?" she asked.

Shawn hesitated. "Not exactly. I…" he hesitated again, seeming to have trouble choosing his words. Juliet hardly ever saw Shawn struggle with words. But, eventually, he seemed to find them. "Well," he said slowly, "my... psychic brain gets a little haywire sometimes."

Juliet blinked.

Shawn had never talked about his psychic abilities with her before.

Sure, he'd mentioned feeling vibrations from cases and visions of victims and criminals, but she'd never heard him actually talk about how it works. She remembered the last time she'd asked, but he'd simply brushed it off with a joke, and she figured it wasn't something he either could describe or liked describing.

"What do you mean?" she asked gently.

Shawn must have realized that he was starting this conversation, and he hesitated again, giving her a sheepish expression. "It's… it's nothing," he said, with that smile that seemed more like the Shawn she was used to seeing. He continued backtracking, rubbing the back of his neck as he said,"It's… complicated."

Juliet tilted her head. He wasn't getting out of this that easily. "Try me."

Shawn dropped his gaze to their intertwined fingers. He paused for a while, then raised his head, and said, "I get a lot of… vibrations. Feelings. Sometimes more than one at a time." Shawn shook his head. "Half of them don't even mean anything to me. It's just enough to give me a headache." He looked back at the water, watching the calm waves. "Sometimes it's just nice to be alone, you know? Where I'm not around anything that could trigger a vision."

"Oh." said Juliet.

Definitely not a Shawn she was used to.

With Shawn being so animated with his visions for the SBPD, she never would have thought there were downsides to his ability.

Turns out she knew a lot less about her boyfriend than she thought.

Shawn gave her a smile, as if reading her mind.

Which, Juliet realized, could very well have been the case.

"Don't worry, Jules," he said quickly, like he regretted saying anything. "I didn't even want to mention that. I just wanted to show you this place. I thought you'd like it." He gave her a hopeful little smile that melted her just a little bit.

Juliet smiled looking at the sun. "Shawn," she asked suddenly. "What do these… feelings… feel like?"

Shawn was quiet for a moment. He was quiet long enough for Juliet to turn away from the ocean to look at him, wondering if she'd pushed too far.

He was looking at her, his hand to his head in his trademark I'm-having-a-vision pose.

Her heart skipped, as it always did when she witnessed his gift.

"That's… That's funny that you mention that," he said in a strained voice, one that Juliet had been accustomed to while listening to him relay his visions. Shawn released his hand with a soft grunt of effort. "Well, that's strange."

Juliet's heart picked up a little more. She never ceased to be amazed with Shawn's ability. "What is it?" she asked eagerly.

His eyebrows creased. "I'm sensing…" he said, giving her a quizzical look. "That you really want to kiss me right now."

Juliet gave Shawn a mock-glare, almost positive that he just made that up to get her to kiss him.

But she couldn't help thinking how damned right he was.

"Ha ha," she said. "Very funny."

"Well, am I wrong?" asked Shawn, eyebrow raising.

Juliet met his eyes, trying to fight the fact that he was right, but already feeling herself leaning toward him until their lips were inches apart.

"I'll let you know," whispered Juliet, feeling Shawn's hand gently brush the hair away from her face, and his arm wrap around her waist. Juliet met his lips and kissed him, letting herself melt into the warmth of his skin and the passion in his kiss.

Juliet woke slowly.

The dream had left a slight smile at her lips, and for a moment, she was lost in the past, in one of the warmest moments of her life.

But as she woke more, and the sounds of a heart monitor beeping a little too slowly filtered in, she was torn from the memory and brought sharply back to reality.

Her eyes shot open, and she winced, met immediately with discomfort in a million places.

Sleeping crumpled up on a hard plastic chair could never be a comfortable feat.

She stiffly worked to adjust herself back to a regular position, hissing a little at the ache in her neck, but ignoring it, not having intended to fall asleep.

The last thing she remembered was sitting at his bedside with Gus and Henry. She'd only meant to close her eyes for a moment. 

Henry was still sitting in the chair on the other side of the bed, though he was also asleep. Gus' chair was empty, and for a moment, Juliet wondered where he'd gone.

It was dim in the room, only lit by a small lamp on a table somewhere behind her. The cool air made her shiver, and she felt the ghost of Shawn's hoodie wrap around her, though it only served to make her feel more cold.

Shawn.

At the thought of him, her eyes immediately snapped to the bed.

She felt herself relax slightly, seeing him there, alive, his chest rising, the monitor by his head continuing to play the rhythm to his life.

Shawn lay on the bed, eyes shut, his chest slowly rising and falling, but there was a hitched quality to the rhythm, as if even in unconsciousness, it hurt to breathe.

His right arm lay in a sling across his chest, slightly shifting with his every breath. 

Seeing him without the mess of blood and dirt should have made him look better, but somehow, he only looked worse than when she had found him in that forest.

There was a thick bandage at his temple where the gash had been—the skull fracture, she remembered, an icy chill sweeping down her spine—and even beneath it was dark, blackish-blue bruising.

The bruises on him were darker now, having set in like untreated stains. Bruises that were too clearly from being hit with a gun stood out on his cheek, heavy and painful-looking. Cuts from broken glass and branches scraped his face and arms.

Shawn's blankets were pulled up to his chest, but the doctor's words kept flashing through her mind, broken ribs, fractured shoulder, twisted knee—

Her eyes, though should have run dry by now, pricked hotly at her.

He'd been so hurt.

He was so hurt.

Her gaze traveled across the bruises on his face, the doctor's list of Shawn's suffering echoing over and over in her mind.

She had seen Shawn in the forest.

He'd been in agony.

Agony.

He was in agony simply having been lying on the ground, completely still.

Even helping him sit up was like she'd been lighting him on fire.

Shawn had barely been able to sit up on his own, the concussion and the pain preventing him from even seeing straight.

Even when she had been helping him, he barely made it to his feet, and couldn't even rise to his full height.

She could still remember it like a nightmare, feeling his weakness, catching him from falling, only managing to cause him more pain, and god was that a metaphor?

Even with her help, he couldn't even stand.

So...

How the hell did he get to her?

And how did he do it alone?

She couldn't fathom it.

She had heard the sound he made when that bastard had grabbed her, when he'd kicked Shawn back to the ground.

The sound that tore out of him didn't even sound human.

She'd been dragged away, fighting the hold on her, tears burning her eyes, desperate to get back to Shawn, who was just short of writhing, broken sounds slipping out of him that shattered her heart into pieces.

How could he possibly have gotten himself up?

And it wasn't only that.

To have gotten to her, he'd had to have gotten up, and walked.

Even more, he'd had to know how to find her.

He'd gotten through that forest, somehow, by himself, with four broken ribs, broken shoulder a fractured skull and concussion, and a twisted knee.

How the hell did he find the strength when he'd already had none left?

But he hadn't just gotten to her, either.

He'd gone through hell to get to her, and he took a bullet to save her.

He sacrificed his life for her.

Another tear slid down her cheek.

"Are you telling me this was all a lie?"

It had felt like it, this past week.

God, it felt like she'd been played, been nothing but a joke to him.

It felt like all the times her father promised to come home for her and didn't.

It felt like staring her brother in the eye as he betrayed his country, betrayed her.

It felt like she'd fallen for yet another lie from yet another person she loved.

Another person she had been so afraid to love in the first place, so afraid to let herself believe in love again at all.

But for as much of a lie as it's felt all week, all she could think about now was everything that hadn't been a lie.

Because, clearly, his love for her never was.

And maybe that's what scared her the most.

She didn't trust easy, and she blamed her father for that.

The one person she trusted the most in the world had been her brother.

And yet, he'd lied to her, too.

Was she that gullible?

What kind of a detective was she?

The urge to slam the door on trust, to lock herself away behind walls of steel like she has for so much of her life rose within her and felt so intoxicating to follow it.

Shawn had lied to her for five years, straight to her face.

And the worst part?

He did it so easily.

Why does she always fall in love with the best liars?

From day one, she'd never doubted Shawn's psychic abilities. Juliet wasn't sure if Lassiter had ever been on board with the idea that Shawn was actually psychic, and she was sure Vick was at least on the fence.

Juliet had never given much thought to psychics, to supernatural abilities, but with the things Shawn seemed to know out of thin air? Things that their best detectives couldn't find even after searching for weeks, months, years?

It, to her, was astounding.

And had to be some sort of supernatural gift.

"Oh, my god, I feel so foolish."

Her own words echoed through her mind, and she dropped her face to her hands, unable to shake the feeling of stupidity.

Shawn had paraded around his visions for years and Juliet felt so, utterly stupid for believing them. She was a detective for goodness sake, and she couldn't even catch one of the hundreds of lies Shawn's told over the years.

But foolishness was one thing.

Fear was another.

The fact that he was so damned good at it was the worst of it.

He could tell her any number of lies and she'd probably believe him.

How was she supposed to trust him after this?

How was she supposed to trust anyone after this?

Juliet's eyes dropped to the bandages over Shawn's shoulder, showing from underneath his hospital gown.

He hadn't just been shot.

He'd taken that bullet for her.

He'd saved her life, and sacrificed his to do it.

And she's sitting here, telling herself that she can't trust him.

Juliet dropped her face back to her hands, feeling a headache pulse behind her eyes, her conflicting emotions too much to handle.

She couldn't deal with it.

She didn't know how.

All she knew was the one person who could make her feel better was lying two feet away from her, and it felt like two million.

Hearing the door creak open to Shawn's room, Juliet lifted her head from her hands.

Gus walked through the doorway, holding two coffees in his hands. He gave her a concerned glance when he saw her. "Juliet, everything okay?" he asked quickly.

Juliet straightened, rubbing her eyes again. "Yeah, I just... woke up." She looked around the room, forgetting that she hadn't even looked for a clock. The sky was still dark outside. "What time is it?" she asked.

"Almost five in the morning." Gus shut the door carefully with his foot, balancing the coffees in his hands. "Lassiter went back to the station around one o'clock to finish interrogating that… bad guy," said Gus quietly, turning back to Juliet. "You fell asleep around twelve-thirty." Sheepishly, he added, "We didn't want to wake you."

Juliet nodded absently, and Gus handed her a cup of the steaming coffee. She took it gratefully. She had barely eaten the day before.

"Thanks," she said softly, taking a sip. It was a little bitter for her taste, but she wasn't about to be picky.

Gus took a seat in the empty chair beside Juliet, his gaze falling to Shawn's still form. Pain clouded Gus' eyes. "It's hard to see him like this." But, his eyes traveling over to her, he added, "It's not easy for you, either, is it?"

Juliet didn't say anything, but her eyes, falling to Shawn, said plenty.

"I just..." she trailed off.

Gus looked at her, his brows kneaded.

"I just feel so... guilty," she whispered, eyes prickling with heat again. "Gus, he took a bullet for me," she said, and she saw him flinch the smallest bit, his own concerned gaze finding Shawn's shoulder before her gaze again. "I'm sitting here thinking I can't trust him, and he took a bullet for me." She sniffed, a sob threatening to break free from her chest. Gus' brows kneaded with sympathy, but also a touch of fear, his gaze finding the bandage over Shawn's shoulder.

Juliet held her face in her hands. "I just don't know, Gus." she said, shaking her head. "I don't know what to think."

"Do you still love him?"

The leap her heart made in her chest answered the question for her.

"I do," she said softly, her eyes tracing Shawn's features as he breathed quietly, yet still unevenly, beside the two of them. She still felt the relief in just knowing he was here, alive, all right.

She did still love him.

It was just...

She apparently didn't really know him.

"It's just…" she began unsteadily. "I've only ever known Shawn-the-psychic, you know?" she said, looking at Gus. "I feel like I don't know who he is anymore."

"He's still the same Shawn, Jules." He set his coffee down on the table. "He's a bonehead. You knew that already." he said with a smile.

Juliet tried to reciprocate his smile, but it didn't come.

"If it helps..."

Juliet looked at him. Gus looked again from Shawn to her. "He almost told you," he said. "A lot of times. And... he didn't, because..." He looked at her. "More than he was afraid of any backlash from the SBPD," he said, "he was afraid of losing you."

Juliet's brows lifted.

"You're not going to tell the Chief about...?"

"Is that all you care about?"

Juliet remembered Shawn's comment during the Elin case.

That felt like the proof that Shawn simply hadn't told her to preserve his job.

He hadn't told her because he'd been afraid to lose her?

But already, she knew it was true.

He'd jumped in front of a bullet for her.

He'd nearly died for her.

And—

"You touch her, I'll kill you."

Shawn's voice, angry and scared, suddenly echoed through her mind. She could feel the ghost of his shaking fingers still at her back, tethering her to him as hard as he could.

Still, even in all of the pain he was in, he was trying to protect her.

Juliet's eyes found him again, her brows crinkling.

His love for her wasn't a lie.

All of the evidence pointed to it.

Juliet sighed, conflicting emotions still raging, and for once she wished the richest things did come easily.

Chapter Text

Shawn's journey to reality was slow.

His awareness crept back to him, as if he were rising from deep underwater.

Sounds were disjointed echoes.

Exhaustion was thick and heavy, threatening to pull him back down the more he rose.

But the more he began to wake, the more he noticed the pain.

It was seemingly everywhere.

At first it was somewhere at the edge of consciousness, a dull throb, an ache with each pulse of his heart.

But the more he woke, the worse it became.

Air was painful—no, breathing was—sharp, hitched, difficult. 

Something burned fire in his midsection, hot knives with each uneven breath.

Too disoriented, too buried beneath the aching to find his eyes, he focused on the pain.

Midsection… he’s felt this pain before.

Broken ribs.

When did he…?

But a sharp throb at his head accompanied the attempt to think, like a slap of punishment.

The pain seemed to build with the realization of it, and he felt himself cataloging—head, ribs, leg—and nothing short of an inferno in his shoulder.

And why did that pain feel so, terrifyingly familiar?

The sheer amount of pain with zero recollection of where it came from was beginning to feel more worrisome than whatever injuries he had.

The pain and the fear reaching more critical levels, Shawn convinced himself to open his eyes against the murky pull to stay beneath the surface.

Shawn opened his eyes, squinting at the too-bright light, wincing as it sliced pain through his head, forcing him to screw his eyes shut again. 

Where…?

When he could again, he cracked his eyes back open, finding a white ceiling.

White… too white.

The air—stale, sterile. Familiar, and not in a good way.

An electronic sound—beeping. Unsteady, gaining speed.

Hospital.

He was in a hospital.

“Shawn? Shawn!”

The sound of something hitting the ground, a chair knocking over in haste.

Shawn’s eyes opened.

That was a very familiar voice.

“Gus?” he croaked, wincing as the daylight clashed with the pain in his head.

It took a moment to blink away the pain and the blur in his vision to make out the familiar dark-skinned face leaning over him, a mix of concern and relief in his eyes.

“You’re awake!” said Gus with a grin brighter than the sun.

Shawn blinked confusedly at his friend, fighting the exhaustion trying to pull him back under.

“What.. happened?” began Shawn hoarsely, shutting his eyes with another wince.

Gus’ face fell.

Shawn swallowed.

Whatever it was, wasn’t good.

Like he didn’t want to be the one to remind him, Gus hesitated, but said, “Well… you were… kidnapped, from a cab—”

And just like that, it was all crashing back. 

I read about you and that Gurton Buster in the—Juan, stop the cab!—I think—Sawyer? Like the guy that painted the fence?—I know—I need—some cop, Lassiter—space—this man, gentlemen, is our golden—

Shawn sucked in a breath, eyes screwing shut as the memories rushed back like water through a broken dam.

“Shawn…?!”

—a motorcycle—you drunk?—go faster—still up there, Dad—the hell were you doing at a sketchy cab station?—I think—doors—I know—stairs—I need—a way out—

His head killed, every memory jarring pain, making him gasp. 

"Shawn!"

They kept coming, however, cascading like a disjointed, blurry flipbook.

—a fire escape—pain—more pain—running—falling—nothing—we’ll stand together—I'm gonna kill her—he's going to shoot—

Shawn froze.

The memories were only more disjointed, flashes of color and light.

“He's going to shoot!”

Jules.

Jules.

He—he remembered running. 

Trees.

Pain.

God, so much pain.

Randall.

The gun.

The parking lot.

A gunshot.

He couldn't remember anything after that.

Oh, god.

He couldn't remember anything after that.

Shawn shot upright, eyes flying open.

Only for fire to erupt in his shoulder.

With a bitten off cry Shawn fell back, hand clutching at his shoulder.

"Shawn—!" began Gus in alarm. His hand flinched toward the call button on the wall, but Shawn grabbed his wrist.

"Jules," he gasped, still desperate to get up, despite the agony slicing through him. 

He was going to shoot.

He was going to—

“Jules,” he gasped out again, wide, terrified eyes on his best friend. “I—I remember—Jules, she was—he was going to—to—”

"She's okay, Shawn,” said Gus, words quick and sure, making Shawn’s panic grind to a halt. He froze, barely breathing as Gus repeated, "She's fine." He gave him a reassuring smile. "She's fine, Shawn. Juliet's okay." 

Shawn felt the need to rip apart the hospital to find her suddenly begin to ease.

"She is?" he asked breathlessly. “But…” His brows kneaded, wincing as he tried to make sense of the disjointed memory from the parking lot. “I… he… the gun…” 

With a bit of discomfort, Gus’ eyes clouded and he shifted uncomfortably. “Well, um…” he began hesitantly. “That bullet didn’t hit… her.”

Shawn barely heaved the sigh of relief at that fact when he realized what Gus was… and wasn’t saying.

He slowly followed his best friend’s gaze to where his left arm rested in a sling.

Shawn froze.

The hot pain in his shoulder.

Pain he didn't remember having before the parking lot.

The fragmented, blurry memories struggled to rise.

Juliet, on the ground.

Randall, finger on the trigger.

He had to get to her.

He remembered... running...

Shawn’s eyes widened, putting the pieces together.

He swallowed.

Hard.

Just that realization seemed to bring on a whole new level of pain in his shoulder.

"I got... shot?" he asked, eyes widening a little.

Gus swallowed hard, and Shawn looked back at him to see that dark concern, that dark fear in his friend's eyes once more. 

Shawn caught what he wasn't saying.

It was bad.

He'd been shot.

Again, he realized, remembering the ordeal with Garth Longmore last year.

"But you're gonna be okay, Shawn," said Gus. "Doc says you'll be good as new within a few months." He tried a smile.

"And Jules," said Shawn, needing to hear it again. "She's really okay?"

"She's fine," he repeated, smiling with a sort of sadness, and a sort of pride.

Shawn felt relief wash through him, so strongly it nearly wiped away all of the pain. 

Juliet was okay.

She was okay.

And so was he.

The relief that he was finally safe, that he finally didn't have to keep running for his life was a relief of its own.

"How long have I been here?" asked Shawn hoarsely, trying to blink away the exhaustion.

"Almost two days," said Gus. "Your dad's gonna be pissed," he added. "He's been glued to that chair since you got here, and only got up once for a coffee a few minutes ago."

Shawn laughed a little, but stopped when it sliced pain through his ribs. He gasped, fingers fisting in the blanket over them, face screwing up in a wince.

Shit, that hurt.

This place ever heard of painkillers? 

"You okay?" asked Gus worriedly.

Shawn opened his eyes, trying to wipe the pain from his features, however futile of an attempt it was. "Yeah," he lied. Shawn felt his tired eyes shift from his best friend to the room. "Is... is Jules... here?" he asked hesitantly.

But when Gus shifted uncomfortably, Shawn felt his heart sink low in his chest, and suddenly something hurt far more than the many fires of his injuries.

"She's... not here right now," said Gus unevenly. "But she was," he said quickly. "She was here last night, when you were admitted. She stayed almost the whole night before she went back to the station to help Lassie with the case," he said, brows kneading, trying a smile, an attempt to reassure him.

Shawn tried his best not to feel the break in his chest.

She wasn't here.

Shawn felt his heart sink a little lower.

"I'm sure she'll come back later," said Gus, sensing Shawn’s plummeting hope. "Before she left, she asked me to tell her when you woke up." He reached for his phone. "I'll do it right now! I bet she'll be here within the hour."

Shawn lifted his tired gaze, a little hope jumping back into him.

Just then, the door opened, and Shawn's eyes snapped toward it, heart lurching, hoping it was Juliet.

It wasn’t Juliet.

However, Shawn also wasn’t disappointed.

”Shawn!” breathed Henry, nearly dropping the coffee in his hand. Gus quickly took it from him as Henry rushed toward the bed. 

“Hey, Dad,” he said tiredly, unable to help a smile even when it pulled at bruises.

”Hey, kid,” said Henry with a smile, a soft look in the older man's eyes, like he could finally relax now that he saw his son awake and all right. 

It felt like the final weight was lifted off Shawn's chest. The sheer amount of relief at seeing his father was unexpected, like he finally had every proof he was truly safe, that the nightmare was finally over.

The tiredness he’d been trying fight suddenly became heavier, and Shawn struggled to stay awake.

"Don't fight it, kid," came Henry's quiet voice, the kid gloves laced tight. "You're safe now. Rest, Shawn."

Shawn felt his eyes fall shut, feeling a reassuring hand settle on his uninjured shoulder like an anchor.

Distantly he heard Gus and Henry sitting back in the chairs beside his bed, the sense of protectiveness finally allowing him to let go, sleep taking him back under.

They were here.

Juliet was okay.

He was safe.

He could finally rest.

This has, quite possibly, been the worst honeymoon Lassiter could imagine.

Whatever happened between Spencer and O'Hara at his wedding led to the most eerie and uncomfortable days having to walk the minefield of emotions between them, and because it was Spencer, he had to get himself wrapped up in this ridiculous mess.

Oh, yeah. And manage to get himself shot and nearly killed.

So, Lassiter blamed Spencer for ruining the week following his wedding, and giving him hours more paperwork to do, and for ratcheting up his blood pressure to an unhealthy level the entire day they spent trying to find the psychic.

And if somewhere in the back of his mind, Lassiter knew he was clinging onto the familiar sense of irritation he usually felt with Spencer to keep from feeling what he truly felt.

Because damn it, he couldn't help but admit he felt bad for the kid.

They didn't have the whole story for what happened that day, but they knew enough—and had seen enough of the physical aftermath on the man—to know that for as bad of a week as Lassiter had, it was nothing compared to what Spencer had gone through.

That was what brought him here, walking through the doors to the hospital.

They needed the rest of that story to officially close this case.

Was this a secretly good excuse to scratch the itch of wanting to see proof that Spencer was well and truly alive, after the last glimpse Lassiter had was only a blur of a still chest and mess of blood?

...Perhaps.

And though Lassiter would have sympathy for anyone who had gone through what Spencer did, there was another piece to the story that made his sympathy shift dangerously into empathy.

Destination: Airport.

Whatever happened between him and O'Hara gave him the need to run. And even the kid's attempt at escaping the pain of that breakup only led to more.

He clearly didn't hurt Juliet on purpose, and his devotion to her—if the events of the last few days meant anything—had certainly never been called into question. Whatever happened was something else, something he couldn't help being curious about, but wouldn't dare pry. Yet as much as he'd told Guster he was firmly at O'Hara's side in protecting her need for distance from Spencer, it didn't mean he'd chosen sides.

And as much as he still, all these years later, clung onto denying it, Spencer was someone he cared about. 

So when Lassiter got Guster's text this afternoon that Shawn was awake, it was a relief.

Finally making it to Spencer's room, Lassiter walked inside.

Guster looked up as Lassiter walked into the room. "Lassiter?" he asked, surprised, closing his magazine of something Lassiter read to be Safecracker's Monthly.

"Guster," nodded Lassiter, turning to look to the bed.

Sweet justice.

Lassiter hadn't seen Spencer since the parking lot, and even then, it wasn't much more than a glimpse of blood before the paramedics got to him.

Now that he saw him up close, Lassiter was momentarily stunned.

He looked terrible.

His eyes ran over the darkened bruising on Spencer's face, to the faint stitching on his forehead. The kid had definitely taken a punch. His gaze dropped down to Spencer's arm, resting in a navy sling. Spencer's eyes were closed, and he was pale, the only movement from him a slightly uneven pattern of breathing. Lassiter had heard the doctor's list of his injuries the other night; the ones he could see now were only the tip of the iceberg.

He felt himself wince a little, imagining how the hell Spencer must feel.

"Where's Henry?" asked Lassiter curiously, seeing the man's jacket on one of the other chairs.

"Looking for Shawn's doctor," said Guster. "Shawn's... he was in a lot of pain when he woke up," he said unevenly, brows kneading, and Lassiter couldn't help his gaze flicking back to the man in question. He couldn't even imagine. "Mr. Spencer is trying to see if they can up his pain meds. They only gave him the lowest dose because of the head injury." 

Lassiter felt a flash of that sympathy rise again.

"What are you doing here?" asked Guster, raising a brow.

"I need his statement." said Lassiter simply, nodding to Spencer. He raised the notepad and file in his hand.

"Can't you do that after he's out of the hospital?" asked Guster, brows kneading, a little protective heat rising in the words.

"I'm doing him a favor," said Lassiter with a sigh. "I only have to make him relive this once, and the sooner I do, the sooner he can forget what happened."

Guster seemed surprised at the sentiment. But then, he looked over Lassiter's shoulder, as if waiting for someone to come in behind him. "Is Juliet coming too?" he asked.

Lassiter shifted his stance.

He had wanted to skip this part of the conversation.

"No." he said simply, hoping the man wouldn't push the issue.

Obviously, it wasn't going to be that easy.

Guster's face fell. "She's not going to visit him?" he asked, with a mix of disbelief and hurt.

Lassiter had point-blank asked O'Hara if she wanted to come to the hospital with him. But she'd just looked back down at whatever she was working on and mumbled something about having to finish it.

"Look, Guster," said Lassiter with a sigh. "I don't know what crap went on between Spencer and O'Hara, and I don't want to. But she's obviously still not over it." Gus sighed and Lassiter lifted his notepad. "Now, do you mind?"

Reluctantly, the younger man got up, giving Spencer what looked like an apologetic look before leaving.

The door clicked shut, and he and Spencer were alone.

Lassiter slowly took more steps toward the bed. The psychic's silence was unnerving. It was a welcome silence, of course, compared to the yammering he usually got from the kid. He took a seat in the chair Guster had vacated. Silence, yes.

But the stillness?

That... was a bit too eerie.

Lassiter sighed, realizing Shawn wasn't just going to wake up on his own. He cleared his throat. "Spencer."

Spencer didn't move.

Lassiter sighed again, and raised his voice a little, though not sharply. "Spencer."

Lassiter had expected him to wake.

He hadn't expected him to flinch.

Even before consciousness found him, Spencer recoiled away from the sound of Lassiter's voice, his eyes snapping open. He sucked in a breath, a very subtle note in the way he did that was almost panicked. He tensed immediately, in a way one would brace before being hit, and from the cringe, it clearly hurt to move so many injured muscles at once. His eyes—a little too dilated still—raced across the room like he’d need to run at a moment’s notice.

But when Spencer's cautious eyes found him, a relief passed through them. 

And suddenly, his eyes changed again in the matter of a second, a mask slipping over him, hiding everything else as if it was never there, so quickly that Lassiter wondered if it ever had been.

"L'ssie?" said Spencer, slurred with fatigue and perhaps the recovering head injury. Spencer studied him for a moment, rubbing his eyes with the hand he could move. He seemed to wake up a little more, wincing a little as he did, like pain came with it.

And then, a flash in his eyes—and his gaze flicked around the room, and to the door, settling on it for a second’s hesitation, like he expected it to move on its own. 

When it didn’t, the light seemed to fade from his eyes, and Lassiter had no trouble wondering what he’d been looking for.

Or, rather, who.

Unable to deny, now, the sympathy he felt for the man he would never admit was a friend but was perhaps one of his closest, he abandoned his earlier plan to simply start with the questions, and instead asked, “How are you feeling?”

The bedside manner came as a surprise to both of them, but much more so for Spencer. 

It actually seemed to distract him from the thoughts in his head as he looked at the door, swiveling his gaze back to Lassiter. He looked at him for a moment, like he thought he’d imagined the man’s out-of-character question. But then, sank back a little into the pillows, saying hoarsely, “Like I was hit by a car and shot.”

”You look it.” 

“Thanks.” 

The exchange, though on the surface a bit bitter on both ends, left them both with a lilt, an almost-smile as they fell back into the familiar pattern.

And something told Lassiter that Spencer appreciated the lack of coddling he was most definitely getting from Guster and his father. 

For as different as he had always believed he and Spencer were—and how grateful he’d always been of the fact—he often learned more and more that the annoying happy-go-lucky attitude was a front, and he and Spencer weren’t quite as different as he once thought. 

Lassiter, with a sigh, decided to dive right in.

“I’m going to need you to recount what happened to you the other day,” said Lassiter, clicking his pen. “We need to ID—“

"Yeah, yeah," said Spencer, the tired levity that had been in his eyes fading. And damn, does he always look different when that's gone. "I know how a statement works, Lassie," he muttered. He sat up a little, wincing with a gasp, good hand flying to his shoulder. "Shit," he hissed. But before Lassiter could think to say anything, Spencer muttered, "Let's just get this over with."

For the first time in his life, Lassiter realized he preferred the version of Spencer that annoyed him.

Feeling that rare wash of sympathy for the man, Lassiter acquiesced. "All right, Spencer, tell me everything you remember."

For some reason, his phrasing made a humorless smile tilt Spencer's lips, like something was funny about it, but not in a ha-ha way.

"It's not a very clear picture," said Spencer seriously, laced with a mixture of exhaustion and pain. "I'll do my best, but between all the head-bashing, everything's..." he trailed off, wincing. "A little... out of order," he finished tiredly.

Lassiter couldn't figure out if he meant the order of events, or his mind in general.

Spencer cleared his throat, trying and failing to hide the uneasiness, "Maybe if you start with what you know, it could help fill in the gaps."

"Well," said Lassiter, "I spent five hours with the last kidnapper of yours in an interrogation room—"

"Last?" asked Spencer, brows kneading.

"The other two were killed."

"Killed?" asked Spencer, eyebrows shooting up.

He obviously didn't know anything about the other side of what happened. 

"Yeah," said Lassiter slowly, "the last living man of the three who took you. Name was Javier Blitek. Sang like a bird when I told him we had him on the attempted murder charges of your father and Guster—"

"The what?!" exclaimed Spencer, eyes widening, jerking up a few inches, only to hiss, his hand flying to his shoulder.

"Easy, Spencer—" began Lassiter, concern sparking as the man fell back to the pillows, face drawn in a tight grimace, panting harsh breaths through clenched teeth, free hand grasping at the blanket between his ribs and his shoulder like he didn't know how to alleviate both at once.

“Attempted what?” managed Spencer, cracking his eyes back open, the words tiredly yet adamantly hissed between his teeth.

"They're fine," he said, as if it wasn't obvious, but there was that almost unhinged look in Spencer's eyes, and Lassiter sighed.

This meeting wasn't going to be as in-and-out as he'd hoped.

Lassiter—as quickly as he could—relayed everything from his side of the story, beginning with he and Juliet checking out the scene of the accident, to the cab station, and finally to the chase through the woods.

Spencer had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout Lassiter's monologue, attentive, intense eyes on him the whole way through.

"And then you… ran into the parking lot." finished Lassiter, feeling like leaving out the end of that story.

"The money," said Spencer. "Juan said someone took it. Who did?"

"We held this scrawny kid—Hal—in the station all night," said Lassiter. "He turned out to be the nephew of the owner—Ian Halling— of the cab station. When we caught up with Uncle Ian, we eventually got him to admit he'd found the black market money and took it for himself, hiding it in his office where he thought no one would find it." Clicking his pen again, Lassiter said, "Your turn."

With a sigh, and another attempt to adjust his position on the bed, though from Shawn's grimace, there was no adjustment that helped with the pain, Spencer said, "Well, I... called for a cab." He hesitated, as if thinking about his reasoning for doing so, and a sort of darkness clouded his eyes. 

What he was thinking about, Lassiter didn't need to guess.

But seeming to mentally shake himself free from it, Spencer's brows kneaded, like thinking was difficult. He finally shut his eyes, and Lassiter didn’t think he’d ever seen someone concentrate so hard. 

"Cab came," said Spencer. His eyes still shut, he went on, "I realized he was going the wrong way." 

Lassiter's brow quirked, following Spencer's words with the quiet scratch of his pen on paper.

"Told him he was," said Spencer, eyes still shut, "and... he said he knew me. From the paper. Said he wanted me to help him with some money he lost."

Lassiter's brow quirked higher. 

"He wouldn't let me out," Spencer went on, grimacing still like concentration hurt. "And... realized we were being followed. I got out of my seat, tried to stop him..." His eyes opened, an almost haunted look passing through them. He swallowed. "There was a van." 

Lassiter swallowed, too, now realizing why he hadn't been wearing a seatbelt.

With another sigh, he shut his eyes, grimacing only harder as he recounted waking to a parking lot to the three men who'd taken him, who had apparently thought he'd been working with the cab driver.

It was when he'd recounted getting knocked out again that the story became far more... fragmented.

"I... there was... a closet, and... a fire escape," said Spencer, eyes screwed shut, his story only becoming more halting and hard to follow. "They found me in—no." His eyes opened, a wince of pain and confusion. "No, that was... that wasn't real—" What? "—wait, I called my—no... but I... they..." His eyes shut with a slight groan. "I can't remember," slipped out under his breath, but with the tiniest lilt of what sounded like fear.

Lassiter stopped writing, watching him for a moment, wondering why he was being so hard on himself for an understandable lapse in memory.

But it suddenly struck him—

He's heard Spencer sound like this before.

The day of the retirement party—when the group of them were drugged, forced to retrace their steps of that ridiculous case.

"I've never lost control of my faculties in my life," commented Lassiter.

"Me neither," added Woody.

"What about me, fellas?" Spencer's outburst was sharp, startling all of them. "I'm not having any psychic visions, or flashbacks, or recreation flashbacks, or recreation flashbacks with new psychic visions—I mean… imagine you weren’t just a bland, gangly average human, huh? Imagine that you have a special gift, a sixth sense, and then someone or something comes along and rips it away from you—"

Lassiter had seen Spencer lose control before, and it was during the cases involving Yin and Yang.

But... that day, this was a different kind of losing control.

Something about Shawn Spencer losing his ability to remember something made him panic.

Lassiter didn't know why, and it surely added to the puzzle of figuring him out.

But he found himself saying, "You don't have to remember everything, Spencer."

Spencer opened his eyes, and from the slightly unhinged look in them, that was most definitely not what Spencer thought.

A puzzle to solve another day.

But after a moment, Spencer swallowed, continuing, "I just remember getting out of there... with the fire escape somehow. Then... there was a forest, and I... passed out, I think," he said, brows kneaded again. "And then—" 

His eyes opened, and he swallowed a little harder.

This part of the story, Lassiter knew.

But it was from having gathered a statement from the other person who was there.

"...that's when that bastard found you in the forest, O'Hara?" 

Juliet, who'd hesitated in the beginning of her stumbled explanation of what happened after they split up in the forest, did so again, an almost haunted look passing through her eyes. " He, um, he found... us," she corrected.

"'Us'?"

"I found Shawn first," she'd said, eyes still red from what looked like tears. "He was unconscious, but I woke him up and I... I tried to help him, but..." Her voice caught. "Carlton, he couldn't even get up. He was in so much pain, and I—" Her voice hitched. "I've never heard anyone sound like that in my life." 

Apparently, Juliet had tried to get him out of the forest herself, but couldn't, and the bastard cornered them and took her.

What still, to all of them, didn't make sense, was... 

With all those injuries, how the hell did Spencer make it back to that parking lot?

"I... I don't really remember what happened after that."

Lassiter blinked, looking at Spencer, whose eyes were averted. 

It was a poor lie, even for him.

Lassiter, however, didn't press.

He had enough, and he had the information they needed most—for Spencer to identify the names of his kidnappers, and fill in the gaps they hadn't known.

Lassiter unclicked his pen, fixing to stand. "Well, that's all we needed anyway."

He stood, heading for the door.

"Do you know if she's going to...?"

Lassiter paused, turning around, seeing Spencer's hesitant gaze on him, a broken sort of hope in his eyes that already seemed to know it lost the war.

He let his question hang, and Lassiter heard the end of it without needing the words.

Lassiter sighed, something a little weary.

"I don't know," said Lassiter honestly.

Lassiter watched the hope deflate in the younger man's eyes. His gaze fell back to the floor, looking like, despite the laundry list of injuries, the fact that she wasn't here was the sole reason he was miserable.

Unsure of what to say in wake of that, Lassiter turned to leave again.

Until Spencer spoke again, just as hesitantly.

"So... that whole... 'discharging your weapon into me' thing..."

Lassiter paused.

"If you do not treat O'Hara with the respect she deserves, I will discharge my weapon."

"You're saying you'll shoot me."

"Repeatedly."

Ah, yes.

He did say that.

And, as the lie detector he'd been hooked up to had proven, he did mean that.

Then.

It wasn't long after that that Lassiter had already seen the proof that there was nothing Spencer wouldn't do for her.

Only proven, even more so, in that parking lot.

With a humorless flick of a dead grin at his lips, Spencer said quietly, "Someone took care of that for you."

Lassiter's gaze flicked to the bandage over Spencer's shoulder.

"And I took care of him," he said, lifting his brow with a firmness, remembering the split-second satisfaction when his own shot took the man down, seconds after Spencer fell. 

For a moment, Spencer looked surprised at the heat in Lassiter's words, the almost protective lilt to them, like he genuinely thought Lassiter would have been glad someone shot him.

Spencer lifted his gaze, meeting Lassiter's. "I didn't mean to hurt her," said Spencer quietly, and Lassiter wondered if the message was given to him, or for him to pass along.

Somehow it felt like both.

"I know," said Lassiter simply, and Spencer's brows lifted a little—in both surprise, and uncertainty. "I didn't have to be a detective to have figured that out, Spencer. Even before you nearly killed yourself to save her."

Spencer, though looking still a little stunned at that, and maybe a little relieved to know that Lassiter wasn't going to try to finish him off here and now, still looked nothing short of miserable.

And not just from the physical pain.

"For what it's worth, Shawn," said Lassiter, and Spencer lifted a cautious, broken gaze to his at Lassiter's rare use of his first name. "I do hope you two work things out."

And based on the look in the younger man's eyes, that certainly made two of them.

Visiting hours were still open for the next short while, but Shawn sent both Gus and his dad home early, pretending to fall asleep again.

Instead, he just wanted to be alone.

He knew they meant well, but they’d been fussing all over him every time he flinched at a sudden noise—damn his newfound paranoia—and when movement caused him pain he couldn't hide.

Pain that has not gotten any better, and if anything, only felt worse. 

It was bad enough the other day when he'd been running for his life with the injuries, but he had something then that he didn't have now. 

Adrenaline was quite the high, and quite the crash.

Throughout the day, Shawn had slipped in and out of sleep, but every time became more restless than the last, awareness making the pain louder. It also seemed to make the pain worse to know exactly what it was, when a doctor had come in at some point to give him the lowdown on exactly what injuries he'd sustained. Shawn remembered the head injury—hard to forget when it made it impossible to even turn his head without the world still spinning a bit on its axis, and feeling like it was twice as heavy as normal—as well as the broken ribs, which they speculated was from the accident. Every single breath was sharp pain in his midsection.

What Shawn still couldn't remember was how his leg was injured, and apparently needed four stitches and he'd somehow twisted it. He'd wracked his pounding head over it, but his memories were simply too much of a mess to remember which fall that day had caused it.

Apparently his shoulder had been through the wringer, because he'd suffered a hairline fracture and had a hole shot through it.

He remembered the last time he'd been shot; it was hell just healing from that.

He was not looking forward to having to heal from all of this combined.

He sighed.

The pain was just barely dulled by the drugs, which, in his opinion, weren't doing much of anything to help. 

Apparently his father had tried to get him a stronger painkiller, but because of the head injury, the request was kindly denied.

Afterward, Gus told him that by the time Henry was done laying them out over it, several nurses looked like they might quit.

It also didn’t help that the hospital didn’t want to discharge him today, some nonsense about caution regarding both his head injury and gunshot wound, so he had to stay stuck in this place until at least tomorrow night.

Shawn let out a frustrated huff, trying to settle back into the bed, trying to get comfortable. But that was the problem; it was impossible to find a position that didn't put strain on either his shoulder or his ribs.

Shawn gave up, and shut his eyes to the semi-darkness, hating the silence.

Mostly because his memory wouldn’t stop trying to fill it. 

After relaying his statement to Lassiter, it was only more and more apparent to him how messed up his memory of that day was, for everything that happened in the apartment and the forest felt fragmented, like a broken puzzle; everything out of order, and some pieces just flat out missing.

Not to mention the fact that he still couldn’t remember which parts of the apartment were real, and which were a part of the hope-killing dream he’d had at some point that day. Normally he’d have been able to recount his steps down to every last speck of detail in every single door in that building, but with both the fact that his mind seemed to have failed to store half of those memories, the ones he had were also blurry as hell.

God, it felt like his mind was broken.

But that wasn’t the only thing.

Out of all the injuries he’d sustained from that day, there was one agony that took the cake, and it was located deep inside his chest.

Because the sun was beginning to set, visiting hours were nearly over, and Juliet still wasn’t here.

Shawn shut his eyes.

All day, he couldn’t help his gaze wandering back to the door every few minutes, desperately hoping to see it open.

But every single time it did, it was either his father, Gus, or someone from the hospital.

And every single time, it only seemed to break his heart into smaller pieces.

Shawn felt his gaze wander back to the door now, but already knew it was useless. 

If she was going to come, she would have already. 

A very small voice in the back of his mind reminded him that she had been here, when he'd been admitted. Gus said she stayed all night.

That had to mean something.

It must, right?

She wouldn't have come if she didn't care.

He very, very vaguely, remembered waking to her in the forest.

It was blurry, it was a memory saturated in agony, but he remembered her.

Knelt next to him.

Eyes wide, scared.

Tears.

He'd been nearly out of it entirely when she'd woken him, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't remember more than a few snippets of dialogue between them, but not enough for any of it to make sense.

The only thing he remembered perfectly clear was her face, tears streaked down her cheeks, concern richening the color of her eyes.

Concern for him.

He remembered her trying to help him, a moment blurred with sheer agony, unable to even make it to his feet.

Just imagining her seeing him like that felt so, uncomfortably vulnerable. He'd been pathetically weak.

She'd been terrified.

It felt like she'd been as terrified of losing him as he was her.

That had to mean she still... cared, right?

Of course she cares, a voice in the back of his mind snapped. That's why what you did hurt her so badly.

Shawn shut his eyes again, drawing his good arm over them to block out the fading light from the window.

He kicked himself, for what seemed like the millionth time that week.

The last thing he'd ever wanted to do was hurt Juliet.

He fell in love with her five years ago, and he'd only ever wanted to be the one to protect her from anything that would hurt her.

And he'd failed, in the very worst way.

Juliet was the only one who'd believed him from the beginning. She had undying trust in him.

And he broke it.

He should have just told her.

Of course, he'd considered telling her the truth. But... he couldn't very well just take her to dinner and casually let her know that he's been lying to her for the past five years.

"Hey, Jules, are you enjoying that lasagna? Great! By the way, I'm actually not a psychic."

And what if she'd never found out? Was he seriously going to keep up the psychic charade forever?

He just wanted her back.

His desire to hold her was painful. He wanted her forgiveness so terribly he couldn't think of anything he wouldn't do to get it back.

Shawn's arm fell back to his side and he blinked his eyes open.

He couldn't stay here.

He couldn't lie in this place for another second while his thoughts tortured him.

Making up his mind, Shawn pressed his good hand into the stiff mattress of the bed, pushing himself a few inches off the bed.

The sharp increase in pain was so sudden he didn't expect it.

Shawn clamped his mouth shut to stop the groan of pain that threatened to escape him, not wanting to draw any attention from hospital staff.

Stubbornly, he held himself up, leaning heavily on his good arm, feeling himself tremble, breathing hard and cringing as it made the pain in his ribs dig only sharper.

A flash of green, brown.

Mud, footprints.

He had to get to her.

He had to get—

"Stop," he hissed to himself, to his traitorous mind, trying to shake off the flashes of that night.

Shawn took a breath, then pushed himself up higher.

"God—" the strangled word choked out. But clenching his teeth, he pushed himself up higher.

He had to shut his eyes tight as gravity shifted around, so dizzying he nearly felt sick.

His hand grabbed the bed rail, knuckles white as he held it until he could blink his eyes open, the room settling back down. His balance wasn't as bad as it was the other day, but any quick movement still pitched his sense of balance every wrong way. But as long as he moved slow, he should be all right.

Finally, he was sitting up, arm flexed rigid as he held the rail tight.

He's in a kitchen.

Tied to a chair.

Limp, step—

Shawn groaned, trying to shove the memory away.

He was panting by the time he shifted himself to sit at the edge of the bed, nearly having lost the battle to stay silent when he maneuvered his injured knee over the side of the bed.

Shawn swallowed, too many fires sharpening pain in too many places, his head only pounding harder, his shoulder an inferno.

A sliver of doubt crept into him, realizing that yes, he'd gotten himself through that forest with all these injuries, but that had been without the gunshot wound.

He opened his eyes, tiredly glaring at the wall.

It didn't matter.

No amount of pain was going to keep him here.

Being stuck here was the worst pain of all.

At least if he left, he didn't have to stare at a damn door that was never going to open.

Shawn sat on the edge of the bed, collecting his strength before the inevitable need to stand, and he suddenly felt better than he had in a long time. Freer. He'd been confined to the van, confined to the apartment, and now confined here. The impersonal atmosphere of the hospital was suffocating.

He just wanted out.

He needed out.

With one slow sweep of the room, Shawn located the clothes that Gus brought for him peeking out of the drawer in the nightstand by his bed.

And slowly, cautiously, Shawn pulled himself to his feet.

He winced sharply, quickly grabbing the bed rail to keep himself from falling as his balance swayed. His left arm instinctively moved toward the sharp pinch in his ribs, which only tore at the gunshot wound, and Shawn couldn't help the curse that slipped out through clenched teeth. His weakness was heavy, almost as much as the exhaustion. 

He stood still for a moment, breathing hard, blinking his eyes back open, trying to gather what little strength he had. He hissed as he put weight on his injured leg, his good arm releasing the rail to curl around himself as if he could hold his broken pieces together. 

Testing out his knee, he gasped as pain shot through it. But he could limp on it, however gingerly, which he tested, a shaky grin at his lips for the fact that he was mobile.

Determination moved him painfully, yet surely, to his clothes.

He was getting out of this place tonight.

Juliet stood in front of the doors to the hospital.

She was hesitating. Stalling, really, if she were being honest with herself.

It was almost nine o'clock at night now, and the sunlight was fading. There weren't many people outside, but visiting hours were almost up, and the last thing Juliet wanted was a dozen strangers asking her why she was frozen solid, standing in front of a hospital.

Gus had called her just after eight in the morning. She'd been sitting at her desk in the station, filling out the last of the paperwork as she and Lassiter finished up the cases Shawn had ended up solving. The day beforehand, she'd been swamped at the station, the interrogations and statements required to close the cases seemed countless. She'd kept her phone next to her in case Gus texted her with an update, but none came.

Not until this morning.

The relief to know he was awake and okay was overwhelming.

After hearing it from Gus, her hand had twitched toward her purse and keys, but... she'd hesitated.

She hasn't talked to Shawn—like, talked to him—since... since a few days ago, when she'd told him... she needed...

Flashes of the wrecked cab, of airport, of blood-soaked seats and of his weary voice over the phone flashed through her mind.

She'd talked to Shawn when she found him in the forest, but... that was different. That was an emergency; their breakup was the last thing on her mind at that point.

But now, with him safe, okay, awake...

She asked for space to collect her thoughts, to process everything so that she could have this conversation with a clear head.

But even before he'd been taken, she knew that the space didn't help anything.

Nothing would help until they talked, but she didn't even know what to say.

She could have left the station the minute Gus gave her the news and visited him. She could have gone with Lassiter, even under the guise of getting Shawn's statement. Easily. So very, very easily.

And yet here she was, her feet teetering on the sidewalk in front of two very simple doors.

She was still upset with him, still confused out of her mind about what their relationship even was at this point, but Shawn just sacrificed his life for her. He went through hell, he suffered, and he was still suffering from it. 

Her heart, though still broken, couldn't stand not seeing him.

She was upset with him, she was mad at him, but damn it she loved him. 

More than anything, she needed to see the proof that he was okay, and despite it all, she couldn't stand the idea that her distance from him was only hurting him more.

The clock on the hospital sign ticked away another minute of visiting hours, and Juliet sighed audibly, making a decision and pushed through the doors to the hospital. She walked numbly through the lobby and rode the elevator to the second floor—Shawn's floor.

Juliet had just stepped off the elevator when she heard a familiar voice.

"—is that? You just let him walk out?"

Juliet turned the corner, finding herself in the reception area of the second floor. Henry and Gus were with a male doctor about a foot taller than each of them, who looked a bit exasperated. Henry's face was red with a mix of frustration and concern, and Gus looked like the lost kid he seemed in the waiting room two days ago.

Juliet hurried over. "Henry?" she asked, and the three turned to look at her. Her heart picked up, fear building. "What's wrong? Is Shawn okay?" she asked breathlessly.

"Shawn left," said Gus worriedly. "His room is empty!"

"We let him leave," said the doctor quickly, as if trying to make sure Juliet knew he wasn't losing track of patients.

"He was supposed to be discharged tomorrow!" said Henry, glaring at the doctor again.

"Yes, sir," said the doctor, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "But, legally, we can't force any patient to stay here if they don't—"

"So you just let him leave?!"

"We contacted you as a courtesy," said the doctor, wincing at Henry's rage. "Please—"

"He left an hour ago," said Gus to Juliet, cutting off the argument. "He didn't say anything, he's not at Psych—"

"With traumatized patients, some need some time alone," said the doctor in exasperation. "You know, to clear their heads after everything they've gone through."

Clear their heads.

"Oh," said Juliet, revelation dawning on her. The three looked at her, and Juliet cleared her throat. "I think I know where he is."

Chapter Text

Juliet parked her car, the engine cutting quietly, enveloping her in the silence of the nearing dusk. She slowly got out, hoping she'd remembered the way correctly. It looked the same as it had last time.

She shut her door with a small snap and winced at the sound, feeling as if breaking the silence was somehow wrong. She knew why Shawn'd chosen this place to come to clear his head.

It really was the perfect getaway.

Juliet left her car, and walked off the road, down into the shallow forest. A few feet over, she caught the familiar No Trespassing sign.

She was in the right place.

Continuing her walk through the forest, Juliet felt herself reliving the events of the other night.

The apartment building's woodland, her panicked search for Shawn within the trees, her heart slamming against her chest.

She shook her head, discarding the memories. She didn't even know for sure if Shawn had come here tonight, but... it would make sense.

If he'd ever needed to clear his head, it would be after everything he's just gone through.

His motorcycle wasn't anywhere nearby but, Juliet reasoned, broken ribs, a twisted knee and only one arm (not to mention a fractured skull, god, what was he doing out of the hospital?!) made it a bit challenging to ride a motorcycle.

Though… knowing Shawn, that could easily be a challenge Shawn would accept.

Juliet walked further through the forest, not even sure she was following the correct way. The sunlight was just about gone and the moon was making its appearance. The air was getting a bit chillier and she fought a shiver, realizing that, just like last time, she'd forgotten to bring a jacket.

Her nervousness from back at the hospital suddenly rose again.

If she found him here, was she supposed to say to him?

Juliet sighed, her mind flashing back to the moment she found that brochure in his jacket pocket, the realization that felt like ice in her heart. Like she'd fallen in love with a stranger.

Well, she knew one thing for sure.

She wasn't angry anymore.

For the days that followed Lassiter's wedding, she'd been furious. It was nearly impossible to sleep in her bed; she could still smell Shawn's cologne in her sheets, and she'd ended up deciding to crash on her couch instead. All of those jagged emotions, all of the hurt, all of the anger had been haunting her.

But now?

She didn't feel angry anymore. Everything that happened after he was taken changed that. Yes, he lied.

But he also just put his very life on the line.

For her.

Even so, she couldn't shake the horrible feeling that everything they were, everything she loved about him, was somehow just as fabricated as his psychic abilities.

She felt like she didn't even know who he was anymore.

Juliet's brows kneaded, feeling even more at a loss for words. She took a deep breath.

If she found him here, the words would come.

She hoped.

And suddenly the trees opened up, and that breathtaking ocean took over the view. Juliet felt a pull in her chest at the sight. It truly was something. The sun was almost beneath the horizon now, casting soft, faded rays across the water. The moon was high in the sky. A full moon. The sheen moonlight reflected off the gentle waves, and something about it felt like a chance to start over.

Or at least try.

Taking another step forward, Juliet dropped her gaze.

And there he was.

Shawn's back was to her. He was sitting just as he had those weeks ago, when he'd brought her here. He was wearing the sling, the navy strap almost blending into his dark t-shirt. His posture was slightly hunched forward, as if his position was painful.

Juliet felt a wash of pity.

It probably was.

Taking a breath, hear heart picking up a little in speed, Juliet walked up behind him.

Shawn didn't notice her until she was only a few feet away.

He turned quickly, whipping his head around, but seemed to forget his condition. He winced sharply, eyes shutting and teeth clenching, hissing a pained grunt. His balance shifted with the too-quick movement, and he had to shoot out his good hand to catch himself on the grass to keep himself from falling. He barely did, panting as he rode the pain.

Juliet's face fell, chest clenching. "Oh—I'm sorry," she mumbled, realizing that after everything he'd just gone through, he'd probably become a bit paranoid. "I didn't mean to startle you." She stopped, her hands clasped nervously behind her.

The pain slowly left Shawn's features with a few slightly panted breaths. The bruises hadn't begun to fade yet, and he still looked fragile. He didn't look like the fun-loving Shawn she was used to seeing.

He looked broken.

When he managed to get a handle on the pain, Shawn looked at her in confusion. "Jules?" His brows furrowed in honest shock.

"I…" began Juliet, hesitating. Shawn waited, his soft gaze burning into her eyes.

Hadn't she convinced herself that the words would come naturally?

"I thought I'd find you here," she said quietly, feeling the slight breeze tug at the hair around her face, and she brushed it away.

Shawn gave her a small smile, giving some life to his bruised features.

Juliet hadn't seen that smile in ages.

She bit her lip. "Do you… mind if I join you?" she asked hesitantly.

Shawn looked at her, brows only lifting in more surprise. And if Juliet wasn't mistaken, it was more than just surprise in his eyes.

It was hope.

"Y-Yeah," he said quickly, stumbling over his words. "By all means, Jules. Please."

Juliet took a few steps closer and lowered herself to the ground a few feet away from him. She let her legs hang over the edge of the small ledge. She looked around, feeling the breeze tickle her face again. She suddenly felt Shawn's gaze on her, and her eyes slowly turned back to him. He was almost studying her, and his face quickly fell. "Jules—are you okay?"

It took her a moment to understand what he meant.

The bruises around her neck.

Juliet felt her hand instinctively move up to her throat and absently massage the tender skin. She cleared her throat, self-conscious under his attentive gaze. "Um, yeah. It's fine now. Doesn't hurt too much," she said, dropping her hand, lamely dismissing his concern. Looking at him, taking in his weakened state, the tension in his muscles, the way he still trembled slightly, almost involuntarily, leaning a touch too far to the left like he had to keep correcting his sense of balance, Juliet felt like her minor injury was the last thing he should be worried about.

"How are you feeling?" asked Juliet, her own concern etching into her features. He didn't look like someone who should be out of a hospital yet. He looked tired. Not just tired, thought Juliet.

Exhausted.

He was still pale, and the weakness he was clearly feeling was palpable. The bruises on his face seemed even darker now, a cut over her cheek where the bastard's gun had hit him still looked raw. The bruising was worst at his temple, where Juliet could see the stitches at just under his hairline. 

There was an unevenness to his breaths, like every breath hurt, and it looked like he was actively trying his best to keep a wince out of his features.

He looked like he was ready to collapse.

Shawn didn't answer right away, and Juliet saw his arm relax slightly, as if he realized he hadn't been hiding his pain as well as he thought. "I'm fine," he said simply, though his arm quickly tensed again and he couldn't hide a cringe.

"You don't look fine," said Juliet in a quiet voice.

Shawn turned his head, casting his gaze away from her. "It doesn't matter. I… deserve it."

Juliet's jaw nearly dropped at his words. "Shawn—" she said, shaking her head, speechless. "No one deserves what you went through," she whispered.

Did he really believe that?

Shawn didn't reply. He just kept staring at the water, his expression as empty as the night sky.

She and Shawn were quiet for another moment, the air only filled by the sound of the gentle waves rhythmically hitting the shore below them and the breeze shifting the leaves on the trees behind them, as if the very nature was uncomfortable with the quiet.

Juliet took a tentative breath, and broke the silence.

"Shawn," she said softly. "What you did—"

"I know." Shawn's eyes were shut. His muscles tensed again, but this time, it wasn't out of physical pain. "I know, Jules, I messed up. Bad. I lied to you, a lot, and I—"

"No, Shawn," said Juliet quickly, stopping him. He opened his eyes and looked cautiously at her, puzzlement cutting into his self-loathing. "That's not what I meant." clarified Juliet. "I meant… you saved my life that night."

The words he seemed to have rehearsed evaporated at the change in topic. And if she wasn't mistaken, he suddenly looked… uncomfortable.

"Shawn," she said, her voice trembling a little. "When I found you in that forest, you... you were so..." she trailed off, still hearing the echo of his pain in her mind.

She saw him tense, unable to meet her gaze, like the idea of her seeing him like that was his own nightmare.

And it broke her heart.

"Shawn," she said, eyes hot. "You couldn't even stand—" His eyes shut. "How did you even get to me?" she whispered.

She still couldn't understand it.

He was in so much pain.

Even with her help, he couldn't stand.

How the hell did he get to her?

She could still hear the echo of his scream in her head, something that she knew would haunt her for the rest of her days. 

He'd been through hell that day, running for his life with a skull fracture and half a dozen other broken bones, not to mention the fact that she'd felt how off his balance had been that day. She could still feel him in her arms, fighting his own broken sense of gravity, his own weakness of a body that had been pushed far outside its limits.

How the hell did he do it?

Shawn was quiet for a moment, like he was reliving it himself, a haunted look in his eyes, like he was remembering the pain with far too much clarity.

He took a breath, and when he spoke, his voice was barely louder than the waves below.

"Losing you wasn't an option." 

Juliet looked at him, his words stilling her heart.

He finally brought himself to meet her gaze, his somehow more vibrant, more clear than she's ever seen it. "I'd have pushed myself through a hell of a lot more pain than that to make sure you'd be okay, Jules."

The weight in his words and his gaze left her speechless.

He put himself through hell to get to her.

He couldn’t even stand when she’d been with him, but that had been when he’d only been motivated to save himself.

He got himself up, and through that entire forest, with broken bones and the worst concussion she’d ever seen, because he was motivated to save her.

It took her a moment to find her voice, buried beneath emotion. "Thank you," she said softly, a little smile at her lips, however broken it was. "For saving me." 

Shawn looked at her, the ghost of a smile at the corners of his lips, but the warmth never came to the expression. His fell back to the water, like he couldn’t hold her gaze. Like he felt he didn't deserve the gratitude.

Juliet felt her heart hurt.

A silence spread between them for a moment, filled with only tension and the quiet lapping waves below. 

It was Shawn who broke it.

He sighed, shutting his eyes with what looked like an attempt to gather strength. "Jules, I'm... God, Jules, I'm so sorry about how you found out." 

Juliet felt her breath skip, remembering the moment that's been torturing her all week. The wedding. The brochure. The only time his jacket around her had ever made her feel more cold.

"At the wedding," Shawn went on, the words uneven and guilt-ridden, "you caught me off guard, and I... I handled it badly, I handled everything badly. I-I panicked during the Elin case, I... I didn't know what to do." He looked at her, eyes red. "You asked me if everything was a lie, and it wasn't." The look in his eyes only more tortured, he said, "The cases... on our dates, times you asked me how I knew things about you—" Guilt flashed painfully through him. "I lied about how I did them," he said, the honesty raw, torturing them both. "But, Jules, I never, ever, lied about why I did everything I did." he said heavily. "I said I was psychic to help people. And I pursued you, and am—was," he amended, voice stuttering over the past tense, "with you, because I love you." The words were weighted with something only the truth could weigh. "I do, Jules," he stressed, brows crumpling. "I love you," he repeated, "I've always loved you." A broken smile touched his lips. "That has never, ever been a lie. I swear."

She held his gaze, her eyes burning.

The sheer devotion in his words pulled at her heart.

The sound of the ocean filled the silence after his words, his eyes searching hers, so hesitant, so unsure, so afraid.

Of losing her.

Yet somehow, knowing that only made it feel more confusing.

Juliet shut her eyes and took another breath. "I've… I've given everything a lot of thought."

Shawn's face fell the smallest bit.

So small that she almost missed it.

Juliet sighed, deciding to just dive right in.

"It was a shock, Shawn," she said. "A huge, huge shock. And… it... hurt," she said softly, brokenly. Juliet hesitated, trying to choose her words. "It's not something that I can just… bounce back from." Juliet watched the hope disintegrate from Shawn's eyes. They looked at each other for a long time, and even in the pale moonlight, Juliet could read the pain in his eyes. Not from the gunshot wound, not from the broken bones. A much deeper kind of hurt.

She'd never seen Shawn so… raw.

Ever since Juliet had met him, he was the carefree, borderline childish spirit who lived with no regrets. But what she saw in his eyes now, what seemed to darken his very gaze, was just that: pure, unadulterated regret.

"I just don't understand," she said finally, looking at him openly. Wanting so badly to answer the question she'd wracked her brain on all week. "Why did you pretend to be psychic? Why have you been lying to us this whole time?"

Shawn shut his eyes. "It… I kind of… fell into it."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

Shawn shifted his grip on his shirt, like the words were as hard to deal with as the pain still making him wince. "It was before you came to Santa Barbara," he said. "I used to call in tips to the Department when I'd notice things they missed on the news." Juliet's brows lifted. "One of the tips I gave them led them to catching the guy, but Lassiter couldn't figure out how I figured it out. He didn't believe that I could have deduced it just from watching the news. So he brought me in for questioning; he thought I was involved with the guy." A rare note of irritation flitted through his eyes. "No matter how many times I told him the truth, he didn't believe me," he muttered half-heartedly. "So he threatened to throw me in prison for the night unless I gave him a reason he'd believe, and…" He swallowed. "I panicked." With a sigh, he said, "So I thought fast and told them I was—"

"Psychic," finished Juliet in a whisper.

Shawn nodded, still not meeting her eyes.

All week, Juliet had been under the impression that Shawn had waltzed into the SBPD, claiming he was a psychic to work on cases without bothering to go through the schooling and training like the rest of them. Her version of him was so immature and eccentric.

But this…

"When I left that day," continued Shawn, "the Chief asked me if I wanted to help them catch a kidnapper." He smiled faintly. "It just… it seemed so exciting. And it was just one case. As long as I was right, no one would know I wasn't actually psychic. But one case turned into two, and then more… And I was helping people, and doing what I do best. I didn't… see the harm…" He finally, slowly, met her eyes. "I didn't see it until I fell in love with you."

Juliet felt a sudden warmth slip down her spine, at the anguish in his words and the look in his eyes.

She shut her eyes, trying to process it all. Opening them, she found herself asking, "Why did you never tell me?"

Shawn sighed. "When I closed my first case, the Chief promised me that if she ever found out I was lying, I'd be going to prison. I didn't tell anyone because I was..." He didn't seem able to say the word scared, but that's what was in his eyes. "But then I met you, and... I didn't know how. I mean, I… of course I always knew I should tell you, and I wanted to so many times, but… it'd been so long, and I always knew it was crazy for you to like me before you knew I was a liar, and I couldn't figure out how to… I mean, especially after everything with your dad... I just... I was afraid you'd…" He trailed off, but by the pain in his eyes and the way he gripped his shirt even tighter, Juliet could see just how many times he's asked himself the same question she just asked him.

And just how much it killed him to think he'd lose her.

And not that she exactly condoned keeping the secret from her, but she could at least… understand his uncertainty. She knew already that whether she found out by accident or on purpose, it wouldn't have made much difference in feeling like she fell in love with a complete stranger.

Because that's exactly how it felt.

"Shawn, it's just…" Juliet hesitated again, clawing through her thoughts, searching for the words. "I feel like I don't really… know you anymore."

"I'm still the same person, Jules," whispered Shawn, looking at her with a brokenness that hit her straight in the chest. "I'm the same person you met in that diner. I'm the same person whose seat you stole five years ago. That hasn't changed." he stressed, like he'd never wanted someone to believe him more in his life. "I know I lied. I know it was wrong." He shut his eyes. "But I'm still the same person." His eyes opened, a thin layer of tears in them, reflecting the moonlight. "I'm still me, Jules. I'm just not… psychic."

"Then how do you do it?" asked Juliet quietly.

Shawn looked at her, puzzled. "Do… what?"

"If you're not psychic," she said, looking at him. "How do you do it?" The question had been floating around in her thoughts for days. So many memories cascaded through Juliet's mind in an instant. All the times Shawn had just seemed to know everything about everything, how he could know things about her as if by… magic.

Shawn's eyebrows lifted, obviously not expecting that question.

He straightened, wincing as he did, lines of pain creasing his face. He turned his gaze toward the water, the moonlight shining silver light over his face. He took a moment, as if he were trying to dig up something he didn't usually say. When he found the words, he said, "You've met my dad, right?"

Juliet's brows kneaded a little at the clear rhetorical question, wondering where he could possibly be going with this. "Yeah…"

Shawn let out a breath. "Well, normal dads probably take their four-year-old sons to Chuck E. Cheese for their birthday." Juliet's brows kneaded further as Shawn smiled, though the smile held no humor. "Mine gave me a forensics kit—not even one for children—and told me I could have my birthday cake only if I solved the expert-level case he made up first." His smile faded. "That was during my birthday party." Juliet's brows lifted, imagining the scenario. That humorless smile was back on Shawn's face. "Every Christmas, he made me deduce how Santa broke in and out of the house before I could open my presents." Juliet felt her heart twist at the look in his eyes. "My whole life," said Shawn, "my dad practically groomed me into the cop he always wanted me to be."

Juliet had gone through so many instances where Shawn had simply known incredible things during cases, things that, dare she admit, neither she nor Lassiter would have ever seen.

It really had always seemed like Shawn was some sort of superhuman detective. But to find out he truly wasn't "super" anything… made it, in a way, even more captivating.

Juliet felt herself frown, seeing the almost haunted look in Shawn's eyes. "So, you're saying he… trained you? When you were that young?"

Shawn's empty gaze reflected the water before them. "Whether I wanted him to or not." He laughed shortly, then winced. "You know, I have more memories of my father's lessons than I do of actually just being a kid."

Juliet felt as if her entire memory of Shawn—every moment—the antics in a serious situation, the lack of taking responsibility, the childlike pranks and handling of situations…

Suddenly, everything about Shawn made… sense.

He wasn't allowed to be a kid when he was a kid.

A wash of understanding and pity hit her at once.

Shawn's gaze fell.

It continued to shock her how… how different he seemed, underneath it all.

She also understood, finally, just where the tension between Shawn and his father stemmed from.

"Why did you never become a cop?" asked Juliet suddenly. "If you're not psychic… Shawn, you're one of the best detectives I've ever seen. You could have easily become a detective. Why…?"

Shawn's eyes found the water again, and he—painfully—shrugged, but offered no other answer.

"It's just…" She shook her head, still not able to wrap her mind around it. "I keep trying to go back and see what you saw in all those cases. It was as if you were able to see so much more than Carlton and me. There were things that were so absolutely minuscule that you were able to find and…" She looked at him. "It's really… something."

"Well..." He hesitated, and Juliet wondered why he looked even more uncomfortable now. But it occurred to her that this Shawn—this sober, truthful, open Shawn—wasn't used to saying these things out loud.

And it meant something, something deep and warm, to know that he was trying his damn hardest to open up for her.

"It's not just my dad's training, that helps me solve cases," said Shawn slowly. "It was… I…" He hesitated, seeming to be trying to collect his thoughts. But he was silent for another moment, wrestling with whatever it was, and Juliet realized he wasn't sure he wanted to say them. But, finally, he opened his eyes, letting out a breath. "Full disclosure." His lips twitched. "I have an… eidetic memory."

Juliet looked at him in surprise. "What… like a photographic memory?" she asked.

"Yeah."

Her brows lifted.

That was one of the last things she'd expected.

"So… you remember, like, everything?" asked Juliet incredulously.

"In a nutshell." he said. Shawn hesitated, letting the foliage behind them fill the temporary silence again. After a moment, he said, "I can remember every single case file I've ever read, from my first case with the SBPD to the first case I'd swiped from my dad's stuff when I was seven. I can remember them in perfect detail. Down to the number of commas on each page. Every case. Every client. Every conversation I've ever had." Shawn kept his gaze fixed on the ocean. "I never studied. Didn't have to. I memorized textbooks at first glance."

Lassiter is just being childish about his detective exam score.

Wait, the D.E.T.? I took that when I was fifteen. Got a hundred.

Juliet blinked. Shawn had mentioned that he'd gotten a perfect score on the detective's exam. At the time, she never questioned it. She just assumed it was a… psychic thing.

Shawn's intense gaze was suddenly back on her, and he said, "I can remember the day we met. You were wearing that sweater—the coral-colored one with the little white buttons—that you like to wear on dates."

"Shawn…" breathed Juliet. She couldn't remember a single detail about her clothes from that day. Or his. Or anyone else's, for that matter. "That's…" She shook her head, unable to find a word.

"You had long hair then," he said quietly. "You were sitting four stools in. There were seven people seated at that diner. Two waitresses. You accused me of being one of those 'weirdos who go to the same restaurants, sit in the same seats and order the same things.' You had that leather-band watch that you wear only on stakeouts or stings, so I always assumed you wore it for good luck." He faintly smiled to himself. "You wore it on our first real date."

Juliet shook her head, incredulous. Nearly speechless. She had no idea he'd ever paid that much attention to her. "And you remember it all?" she whispered. "Every single moment?"

"Can't forget it." said Shawn simply, lifting his good hand to lightly massage his shoulder. "Well," he muttered, "unless I smash my head on a windshield. Then apparently I can't remember anything." 

There was a touch of anxiety in his voice, making Juliet's brows knead.

She suddenly remembered something he'd said in the forest.

Shawn, what happened to your knee?

Can't remember. Which is new for me.

"Sometimes," said Shawn, pulling Juliet out of her own memory. "I'll just start recalling memories for no reason, and I can't control re-watching them. It's like those stupid ads on YouTube that don't let you skip them after five seconds." He sighed. "Half the time it's more than one at a time and it's just… overwhelming."

I come here to clear my head. I get all of these visions, sometimes more than one at a time, and it's just enough to give me a headache.

Juliet shook her head, thinking back to the day he'd brought her here. He hadn't been talking about his visions, he'd been talking about his memory.

"Shawn…" she breathed. "That sounds… exhausting," whispered Juliet.

Shawn shrugged again, and Juliet watched him cringe and lower his hand back to his side. A wave of annoyance flitted through his eyes as if he was tired of forgetting that it hurt to move. "That's why I started coming here." he said, his gaze tracing the darkened horizon. "There isn't much to… memorize." said Shawn quietly. "No people to catalogue. No hats to count."

"But… why did you bring me here, then?" asked Juliet.

He gave her a soft look. "I don't mind memorizing you."

Juliet felt her cheeks heat up. She met Shawn's gaze, and he looked at her with pure sincerity in his eyes. "Jules… I miss you." He started to instinctively reach for her hand with his good arm, but stopped halfway, seeming to second-guess his decision. He pulled it back to his side. "I'll… understand if you…" he hesitated, seeming to not want to say the words. "If you want us to… end." He whispered the last word so quietly that Juliet barely heard him. He looked at her again. "But… I can't lose you, Juliet. Please, at least let us stay… friends." He swallowed hard, and Juliet saw the tears in his eyes. "I… I don't know what I'd do without you."

Juliet looked at him for a long moment. "I still love you, Shawn."

Shawn couldn't hide his surprise. "You do?" he whispered.

"I do," she said. "It's just… I just need—"

"Space," said Shawn quietly, his gaze falling back to the water.

"No, Shawn," she said, shaking her head as he met her eyes. "Not… anymore." She shifted uncomfortably, feeling the slightest remnant of guilt hit her. "I'm just going to need some time. To... get to know you. The real you." He looked at her then, and she looked back. Hope was a tiny firelight in his eyes. It was such a different Shawn than she was used to. But the warmth in his gaze as he looked at her was the same Shawn she fell in love with.

Time.

It will definitely just... take some time.

She turned her gaze back to the water. "I guess things between us just don't come… easily."

"Maybe," said Shawn softly, "the best things in life, the richest things... aren't supposed to come easily."

Her words. The exact words she'd said to him that day at the drive-in, after the fiasco with Yang, when she first told Shawn how she felt about him. Juliet turned to Shawn, looking at him in wonder as he continued, "And the moments that make the most sense—"

"—happen when everything else doesn't," whispered Juliet, shaking her head, feeling that warmth in her chest—the warmth she felt only when it came to Shawn—for the first time in days.

Juliet shifted soundlessly across the grass, closing the inches between them. And slowly, gently, she rested her head gently on his good shoulder. She felt him tense the slightest bit, surprised by her touch. But after a moment's hesitation, he slowly wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close, and they watched the moonlit waves gently strike the shore. Juliet fell into Shawn's warmth, listened to the sound of his breathing, the familiar thrum of his heart beating through their touch, feeling his thumb caress the back of her hand the way he always did. And it seemed to be the last puzzle piece sliding back into place, reminding her that he was the same Shawn she's always known. She intertwined her fingers with his and shut her eyes, melting back into him, erasing every last breath of lingering space between them.

Chapter Text

**This chapter is just an author’s note!**

Hi everyone!! I am posting this chapter as the ping/notification that this revision is now finished!! (Also there are spoilers for the story below, so if you haven't read this story yet, don't read this chapter haha.)

I did a huge revision on this story (in July 2024), polishing up my writing after 9 years (I originally wrote and posted this story in 2015). It was also the 2nd fanfic I ever wrote, so it was very rough. When I found it again a few months ago, I couldn’t stop cringing, and I really didn’t want to have a story with cringe on here lol, so I decided to give it a makeover! 

But this extra chapter is also a note for anyone who may be coming back to this story who has read it before- the events in this story are almost completely the same as the original, but just with a facelift lol. Almost every scene is the same, but I did delete some sections that I found weren’t important or that I just didn’t like, and I did rewrite some sections from scratch. The original version of this story is still up on my FanFiction.net profile if you ended up preferring that version for any reason haha. Link: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11253468/1/Space

Also, I’ll add here that I am writing a sequel to this story! It’s going to take place immediately where this story ends, and it’s going to follow Shawn and Juliet’s relationship as she gets to know Shawn-not-the-psychic, with plenty of recovery from his kidnapping and more whump & h/c for my whump & h/c friends xD I will start working on this soon and hopefully start posting it soon as well!

But what I really made this extra chapter for is that I wanted to put a few snippets of my before & afters of a few sections from this story here, side-by-side, so that I can always have this here for nostalgia’s sake :) I feel like it’s kinda like seeing before & after photos of a new paint job on something haha. :D I'm mostly putting these here for me to look back on one day, but maybe they'll be interesting to other people? Idk. haha

The main thing I was polishing up in my writing was that 9 years ago, I used to do a lot more “telling” versus “showing” in writing. I more just listed the events that were happening, but I didn’t really add a ton of descriptiveness, or really flesh out what Shawn was feeling as much as I do with characters these days, and to me it felt like it was missing a lot of emotional impact. So that’s mostly what I tried to do with this revision. I also had to change a lot of character perspectives that just didn’t fit (9 years ago I used to want to try to give every character in the story a perspective so it felt balanced or something, but I later learned that the best perspective to take is the character who experiences the most/learns the most/whose feelings are the most important for the scene.) So, if you are coming back to this story, you might notice that a few perspectives are switched around. 

So without further ado, here are some of those before & afters! 

Chapter 3

Before (2015 version): 

"Get him up." 

Shawn woke with a start. He winced as his head erupted in pain and his eyes cracked open. Someone had just dropped him onto solid concrete. Shawn shut his eyes, cringing from the throbbing headache. What happened? Everything was a painful blur. 

"Get up." 

Shawn felt a sharp kick to his back and he opened his eyes again. He was lying in the middle of an empty parking lot, the cold concrete almost soothing his pain. Everything hurt. The world was spinning.

After (2024 Revision): 

Shawn’s eyes shot open, sharp agony thrusting him gracelessly into a world of pain. 

A groan caught somewhere in his throat as he blinked, but his vision was a blurred kaleidoscope of gray and black—concrete?—yet the daylight only made the his pounding head more excruciating. He screwed his eyes shut, barely holding in another groan. Even with his eyes shut, the world was spinning, and Shawn desperately tried not to be sick.

“Wake up.” 

The sudden voice from above him, male and unfamiliar, made Shawn’s eyes snap back open. And suddenly he realized what caused the fresh pain and the abrupt wakefulness—he’d been dropped or thrown to the ground. Yes—this cold, hard, unforgiving thing was, in fact, the ground. 

That didn’t yet explain why the world was still spinning. (Other than the scientific fact that the world was spinning constantly that Gus would remind him of if he were here.) Was Gus here? Was this the Mexican border? Is this payback? 

Better question: where was here? 

Shawn shut his eyes again, cringing from the vicious headache. Upgrade that mild concussion from the Elin case to… whatever came after severe.

Chapter 9

Before (2015 version): 

"SBPD!"

The calls were faint. Somewhere far behind him. But they were there. Shawn almost smiled, so overjoyed. The cops were there. He was going to be rescued.

They were there.

As he stumbled to a stop, ready to turn back and follow the voices of the officers, Shawn realized his stop was far too abrupt for his mind to register. An intense wave of vertigo struck him, sending him falling to the side, narrowly missing another tree trunk. He hit the ground, crying out, his head spinning so violently he couldn't move. Shawn took short, fast breaths, and tried to push himself up, but his arms wouldn't respond.

"Help," he whispered, feeling strength drain out of him. He leaned his head back on the ground, his eyes falling shut without his consent, and he was suddenly falling into black, silent nothingness.

After (2024 Revision): 

But hot pain suddenly flared even sharper in his newly-injured knee, and his leg buckled and gave out, sending him crashing to the ground.

This time, he knew the scream was from him.

Every injury erupted with molten fire at the impact, his voice breaking off into what he'd never admit was a sob.

Get up, get up, get UP—

It hurt.

It hurt so much.

It hurt too much.

Fire sped through him, agony's fingers pinning him to the ground.

He...

He had to get up...

Blackness danced at the edge of his vision. 

"SBPD!"

Was that...?

The calls were faint. But they were there.

They were here.

Help was here.

Shawn almost smiled, so overjoyed. The cops were here. He was going to be rescued.

Relief rushed through him, cool and soothing, almost enough to take away all of the pain.

But the relief suddenly halted.

The thugs.

They were somewhere in here, too.

The SBPD might be here, but he wasn't saved yet.

Because if the thugs found him first—

Weak fear cracked his eyes open.

The world was a jumble of color and light.

He just had to get up and go back to the parking lot.

Sounds faded, in and out.

He just had to find help.

He blinked, eyes heavy.

He just had to get up.

He just... 

...had to...

...get...

His eyes drifted shut, the darkness of unconsciousness finally pulling him under.

Chapter 11

Before (2015 version): 

He vaguely saw the man take a step toward Juliet and grab her by the arm, pulling her roughly away from Shawn.

Heart jumping into a frenzy, Shawn lifted the weapon in his hand. But before he could even wrap his finger around the trigger, he felt something strong hit him across the face, sending him straight back to the ground, his face hitting the dirt. The gun was ripped out of his hand. The man suddenly lashed out with his foot, and Shawn felt agony explode in his side. It took him far too long to realize his hearing had been torn down to mere ringing and fresh blood was dripping down his skin from the wound in his side.

And Juliet and the man were gone.

After (2024 Revision): 

But suddenly, the man took a step toward Juliet and grabbed her by the arm, pulling her roughly to her feet.

"JULES!" cried Shawn.

Heart jumping into a frenzy, Shawn lifted the weapon in his hand to aim, fighting the gravity trying to pull him down, and the fact that the gun felt like it weighed twenty pounds.

But before he could even wrap his finger around the trigger, he felt something hard hit him across the face.

The hit was horrible and sharp, tearing pain through his skull, erupting fire behind his eyes, the force of it sending him straight back to the ground, slamming him into the dirt.

Pain.

PAIN.

—everywhere—

He felt sick, he felt so sick—

—god, he couldn't breathe—

The gun was ripped out of his limp hand, and before Shawn could attempt to recover from the molten pain clawing through his brain, something struck him in the side.

Agony exploded.

Someone screamed.

No—

That was him.

Miles away, he thought he heard someone cry his name.

But by the time he opened his eyes once more, Juliet and the man were gone.

Chapter 11

Before (2015 version): 

This must be what dying feels like.

Shawn felt paralyzed. The sheer agony piercing into his skull and emanating from the wound in his side singed through his veins, as if his very blood was on fire. His eyes were screwed shut. 

He had to get up. He knew he had to. Juliet was in danger. The man was a killer. He was going to shoot her whether he got the money or not. 

He had to get up. 

After (2024 Revision): 

This must be what dying feels like. 

Reality had mostly slipped from Shawn’s grasp, frayed at the edges. Agony was a vapor, clawing at him from the inside, each breath a sword through his abdomen, each erratic heartbeat a knife in his head. 

His eyes were screwed shut, the agony paralyzing him. He was only half-aware he was still vocalizing his pain, broken sounds that were too close to what he dared admit was a whimper, something wounded and keening as he tried to breathe, but his lungs only knew pain. 

He had to get up. 

Chapter 14

Before (2015 version): 

Pain.

That was the first thing he knew. It was faint and vague, and couple that with the exhaustion that felt like he'd been asleep for the majority of a decade, it was uncomfortable to the max.

Shawn's journey to reality was slow. His awareness crept back to him, as if he were rising from deep underneath water. Sounds were disjointed echoes. Breathing was suddenly a chore, requiring more effort than usual. Everything felt heavy and sore. Nothing made sense. Especially the fact that the closer he came to waking, the more it seemed to hurt.

After (2024 Revision): 

Shawn's journey to reality was slow.

His awareness crept back to him, as if he were rising from deep underwater.

Sounds were disjointed echoes.

Exhaustion was thick and heavy, threatening to pull him back down the more he rose.

But the more he began to wake, the more he noticed the pain.

It was seemingly everywhere.

At first it was somewhere at the edge of consciousness, a dull throb, an ache with each pulse of his heart.

But the more he woke, the worse it became.

Air was painful—no, breathing was—sharp, hitched, difficult. 

Something burned fire in his midsection, hot knives with each uneven breath.

Too disoriented, too buried beneath the aching to find his eyes, he focused on the pain.

Midsection… he’s felt this pain before.

Broken ribs.

When did he…?

But a sharp throb at his head accompanied the attempt to think, like a slap of punishment.

The pain seemed to build with the realization of it, and he felt himself cataloging— head, ribs, leg —and nothing short of an inferno in his shoulder.

And why did that pain feel so, terrifyingly familiar?

There’s still a fair bit of this story I know I’d have done differently if I were writing it all from scratch, but I really wanted to keep its 2015-essence, because this one is really nostalgic for me. I’m much happier with how it turned out now haha, but by no means is perfect, I kept a lot the same to pay homage to 2015-me haha. 

Thanks for reading, and if you read this far, I hope you enjoyed the before & afters, haha. Hopefully see you in the sequel!

~cosette141

Chapter Text

This is just a temporary new chapter for those who wanted the ping for when the sequel story was posted! You can find the link at the bottom, the sequel is called "Time"! Hope you enjoy! :)

(I was planning to delete this chapter since it was just the sequel announcement but i didn't want any of the comments on it to get deleted so it shall stay haha :D)

thanks again for reading! <3