Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Shawn was seven years old, he snapped his fingers for the first time and everything changed.

Shawn was lounging, half asleep in the afternoon light, when he heard the words "robbery" and immediately perked up. He grabbed the remote, turning up the volume and watching as the lovely Ms. Katie Sanchez (professional, dark hair in a tight bun; always made sure to pronounce her vowels with extra crispness) motioned to the wrecked bank behind her, smoke pouring out the windows and fire trucks doing their best to contain the blaze, and told the world that the biggest heist in Santa Barbara history had just been committed.

He was already out the door and calling Gus before she got past the 'o'.

"Come on, Gus, it's a jewel heist. You love jewel heists!" Shawn followed Gus into his office, sun filtering through the blinds and giving everything that nice healthy California glow. Gus spun back around, face still firmly set at 'determined to not fall for this again'.

"No, Shawn, I love jewel heists on TV. Not when they involve three dead guards, millions of dollars in diamonds, and the police chief specifically telling you not to touch this one because it's too dangerous. These criminals are serious, Shawn, and I'd rather keep on living, thank you." Gus crossed his arms and tried to stare Shawn down.

It wasn't like it was that big of a heist. Okay, so it was. But Shawn was already fifty-seven percent sure he knew who it was. He just had to get a look at the secondary crime scene to be sure, which was proving to be a lot more difficult than he'd expected.

"Gus, it's the biggest heist in Santa Barbara history. We gotta take this one."

"We don't have to do anything." And with that Gus started for the door.

Snap.

"Gus, you're coming with me," Shawn called triumphantly, throwing the door open to Gus' office.

"Coming with you where?" Gus was weary, obviously he still hadn't gotten over their road trip. It had been fun and informative and seriously, he needed to move on.

"I'm taking you on a little vacation."

Gus narrowed his eyes. "Why is it I don't trust you? Oh, that's right, because the last vacation we took I ended up in Mexico with no pants."

"That was just the one time and it was completely by accident. Rosa seemed like a nice girl."

"She was a thief Shawn."

"Okay, a nice thief."

"She was a thief that stole my wallet by stealing my pants."

"Okay, fine, Rosa was a bad person, can we move on to the fact that I'm taking you on a vacation that does not involve crossing the border if that'll make you happy?"

"No Mexico?"

"No Mexico."

"Or Canada?"

"Gus, you know deep snow drifts scare me. And I get frostbite easily."

Gus hesitated, seeming to think about it. Shawn tapped a foot impatiently.

"All right. But I'm driving," he finally said, relenting. Shawn smiled brightly and threw an arm around Gus' shoulders.

"Sure thing."

Shawn directed Gus toward El Camino, the twisting road that snaked up most of the coastline and went everywhere. After a few miles, he got Gus to stop for fountain drinks and snack cake goodness ("I'm impulsive, I didn't think to bring food. Plus, snack cakes are the food of the gods. You can't say no to little Debbie's Gus.")

Gus woke up around mile marker one hundred twenty-seven.

"I can't believe you fell for it again."

Gus glared at him, sullen. "You are a horrible best friend."

Shawn frowned at him and threw a hand to his heart. "You wound me Gus."

"Well, you are. What kind of a person knocks their friend out, twice, and steals their car, twice?"

"I don't think it's technically stealing if you're still in it."

Gus sulked.

"C'mon Gus, you and I both know you're going to thank me for this in the end. It's not every day you get to see history in the making."

"We're not going on a vacation, are we?"

Shawn turned down the road to the bank, and a multitude of cop cars, news vans, and curious public came into view.

"Not exactly, no." He gave Gus a crooked smile, trying for charming but Gus knew all of his tricks and only grew more sullen.

"We're going to work another case, aren't we?"

"It's the biggest jewel heist in Santa Barbara history!" Shawn exclaimed.

Gus just looked at him.

"They have cool forensics gizmos!"

Gus remained unperturbed.

“Like a 3D gauging tool for taking trajectory measurements down to the micron,” Shawn continued.

"I’m not sure I believe you, but we’re here and there’s at least a forty percent change you’re not actually making that up. So I’m going to give you ten minutes and after that we’re leaving," Gus replied, still eyeing him suspiciously but his interest was totally piqued.

Shawn smiled to himself, it was totally made up but ten minutes was all he needed.

The next few weeks passed by in a rush. He was booked, working his own cases and those the police threw his way, mind whirling with five people's lying habits and the imprint of the O'Brian corporations layout stuck in his head for at least a week. It was one case after the other and relying on his “psychic” powers wasn't always enough, sometimes he had to help it along a bit, which is where the reset button came in.

It wasn’t like he was reckless or using it to look up the lotto numbers (he’d tried one time and the universe had a funny way of saying ‘fuck you Shawn that’s selfish’) and it wasn’t like he didn’t know his limits. They were little jumps, tiny bunny hops of time really that only left him a little dehydrated, maybe a little nauseous. Nothing worse than the time-travelling equivalent of a hangover.

But if Shawn were honest with himself, he'd say he was going a little crazy from having so many memories competing with each other.

But when had he ever mean honest with himself anyway, honesty was for chumps.

Ben Folds was playing on the radio and Shawn was lounging, enjoying the day off (he deserved it after all his hard work, three cases solved in as many weeks? Damn good showing if he did say so himself). He was comfortably settled, sprawled on the sofa, snack foods already gathered and remote within easy reach. A knock at the door interrupted his mid-air cheeto catching (a popular sport, he was reigning champ of course).

Shawn jerked, looking at the door curiously. Gus was working today.

The cheeto hit him in the head.

Another louder and much more incessant knock sounded. "Alright, I'm coming," he called, shoving the bowel onto the coffee table.

He took the easy way, hopping over the sofa and reaching the door in three seconds flat, swinging it open, grin already plastered on his face. "I didn't think they started selling girl scout cookies this early but-" he stopped and stared.

Lassiter was on his doorstep, dirt streaking his face in dark patches, his shirt ripped along the shoulder, tie gone and a button missing. There was blood on his collar and the edge of his sleeves, rolled up to the elbow but still not enough to conceal the dark crimson spatters. He didn't even have his jacket.

He stumbled forward, one hand fisting in Shawn's shirt for balance.

"Lassiter? What-what happened?" Lassiter's face was pale beneath the dark grey and black dirt-that-was-really-ash, his eyes impossibly round, the dark blue standing out and catching Shawn off guard.

He looked utterly lost.

"It's gone," he finally ground out, voice hollow and unbelieving.

Shawn herded Lassiter in, settling him on the couch, the giant sofa garish and disconcerting around the usually button-downed detective. He had always seemed ten times larger, taking up space and demanding attention, but now all that cop swagger and toughness was gone.

Shawn set on the coffee table across from him and asked, as gently as he could, fearing the answer, "What's gone?"

"The department. They blew up the whole damn building."

And Shawn didn't even think about it, he just closed his eyes and snapped his fingers, the sight of Lassiter sitting in front of him, unguarded and broken, burned against the inside of his eyelids.

There's the familiar bright white-hot sensation and his skin tingled, then pricked, finally heating up but not quite burning. Good. He still had plenty of time to work with.

Snap.

The last thing he heard was that echoing snap, hollow and distant, and it was already fading by the time the vertigo kicked in.

A knock at the door roused Shawn from his half doze, forcing him to abandon his rather comfortable position on the couch. It wasn't every day he got to watch bad horror films, gorge on Cheetos, and generally be dead to the world. He'd taken a self-imposed break, a hiatus from the hectic life of being Santa Barbara's top reigning psychic (beating out Wonderful Wanda and even Crazy Eddie, who carried a hip flask, had a lazy eye, and was prone to talking to walls and fire hydrants, but had somehow managed to hold onto the spot for years now. Shawn still couldn't understand that one.)

He'd been working too many cases lately, the department getting more and more crimes full of interesting clues and juicy leads. Shawn couldn't say no (not that anyone specifically asked him to help, well except that one time, but Jules only wanted to use him as bait, so that one so didn't count). Bank robberies, jewel heists, not-dead dead husbands, missing paintings, and Shawn's personal favorite, the Michael Manners embezzlement and counterfeit money scam. He still had the article (they even named him and everything).

All of which was of no consequence, because he was being interrupted from quality relaxation time here.

He flung the door open to see Lassiter, looking flushed, peeked, and a little wild around the eyes. There was dirt smudged along his cheek, his tie was loose, canted sharply like whoever'd put it on was either very drunk or a sailor on a very rough stormy day. There was blood on his collar and the edge of his sleeves, rolled up to the elbow but not enough to conceal the dark crimson spatters. He didn't even have his jacket.

For a split second, he sees Lassiter sitting on his sofa, his face cracking open with undisguised shock, but before he can even blink, it's gone.

"Lassie, what-" But Shawn didn't have time to finish his sentence before Lassiter grabbed his shoulder and tugged, hard.

"You're coming with me. Now." His eyes were hard edged, demanding, and Shawn couldn't protest. "There's a bomb in the department and the man holding the trigger wants to talk to you."

Trees and sidewalk blurred by, the police siren whirring cheerfully above him, making sure no one thought twice about getting in front of the car pushing eighty. Shawn looked out the window, mind racing.

"How can you take your phone off the hook and not even once check your cell. We've been trying to reach you for god knows how long and the time it took me to get out here and back-"

"I get it Lassiter. How was I supposed to know some nutjob would try to blow up the police department?"

Lassiter glared at him, making Shawn swallow nervously.

"You're the self-proclaimed psychic, Spencer." Lassiter spit the word 'psychic' out like a curse, visibly disgusted, his lip curling and eyes narrowing slightly…and Shawn realized, just like that, that Lassiter blamed him, irrationally but undeniable.

He didn't respond. There was nothing he could say.

The cool glass beneath his forehead wasn't much of a reassurance as they drove on, Shawn unable to stop himself from counting the seconds until they got there. He pulled his phone out again and tried to call Gus.

Still no answer.

It took them twenty-three minutes to get to the station. Usually it took forty-seven. Lassiter pulled up, slowly, parking a block down to avoid the panic.

The scene that greeted Shawn was utter chaos, the type of which he'd never seen before. News cameras and serious reporters littered the surrounding area; family and curious bystanders thronged the sidewalks, street, lawn, everywhere, pressing into the orange-bright barricades and demanding to know what was happening. The streetlights flickered overhead, not that they were needed, the camera flood lights casting sharp shadows and crisp harsh white light everywhere. Mostly, it hurt Shawn's eyes.

Shawn expected them to shove a headset and cell at him (it's what happens in the movies) but instead he got a microphone and the glaring lens of a camera for News Twelve. Katie, showing off too white teeth and dressed in the light brown suit (usually reserved for every third Wednesday) was in his face instantly.

"Excuse me, you're psychic Shawn Spencer, did you know this was going to happen? Did the criminal really call for you?" Shawn's surprised, eyes still glued to the orange-yellow flames trailing along the department's left wing, where the interrogation rooms were. The front is relatively unscathed, the broken glass twinkling like deranged fallen stars on the pavement the only sign of trouble.

Lassiter's at his side suddenly, though Shawn hadn't even noticed he'd left, shoving the camera away and yelling at the reporters that it’s a restricted zone for a reason, for the love of all that is holy, how did you even get in here, how can you call yourselves reporters.

It barely registered on Shawn's peripheral, he's too busy looking at the scene: tire marks next to the green Mazda in the parking lot, empty space surrounded by scattered debris, a mask and gloves…looks like the other guy took the getaway car. Which meant whoever's in there didn't plan on blowing themselves up, which meant there's a chance.

"Hey Lassiter, are they going to give me a phone or what? Unless you want me to yell at the guy, though I don't think he could hear me too well from this distance. That's some thick concrete you guys got, strong foundation."

Lassiter turned, still hustling the reporters out, his brow furrowed in confusion. "I told you to go to the operations tent."

Shawn shrugged. "I got distracted." Taking a quick look around, he caught the sight of a beige monstrosity of a tent. It was pretty hard to miss. "Oh, look, there it is."

He pushed the tent flap open, feeling all of eight years old again and asking his father why he had to sleep in a tent when the camp had perfectly nice cabins for the other troupes, only to be told, gruffly, that he'd better learn to rough it now cause the world isn't peaches and sunshine, son. That he'd better suck it up and learn how to make a proper bedroll and cinch knot.

A table was set up in the center, piled high with files, photos, and enough coffee to keep an army on its toes for a week. Vick was at the front, motioning at a whiteboard with a grainy picture of a smallish man, hooded, no defining features besides sporting a crooked nose from the looks of it.

He'd barely been in there five seconds before the hot and stuffy air caught up to him, the heavy nylon of high-duty camping tents everywhere blocking out the cool California breeze and probably making everyone irritable and short-tempered. Not good if he's supposed to talk to this guy about not blowing up a building.

Jesus, he's going to talk to this guy about not blowing up a building.

"I think I need to sit down," he mumbled, making a grab for the nearest chair and missing.

Vick looked up at the sound of his voice, far too much hope in her eyes.

"Mr. Spencer," she said evenly, calm, motioning him over, "tell me you've been briefed. And you should know the only reason, the only one, that you're here is because he asked for you. I don't want you thinking this is going to be a season pass to anything close to this type of mayhem again." The other officers shuffled, not saying anything. Huh, Buzz wasn't here.

"Hey, where's Buzz?"

"Take a guess Spencer," Lassiter said behind him, having just entered, steathlike and far too quietly.

Shawn swallowed, hard, mouth suddenly too dry.

"That guy really has a bomb?"

"Strapped to his chest and everything," Vick replied, crossing her arms.

"Well, he's certainly not going to win any points for originality." Shawn surveyed the table, casually walking around it in slow measured steps. Subtlety was key.

"We're not sure why he wants-"

Wait, a crooked nose…

Shawn gripped the table, one hand flying to his head. He let out one cry of pain, like his head was about to split open, then fell to his knees, leaning his forehead against the table. It's not a big show, there's no time for it.

He lifted his head up, bright-eyed and trying to look like he'd had a revelation.

"It's Dorian Manners! I named his brother as the embezzler in the O'Brian case a month ago. And the jury convicted Michael last week. And he hasn't made any specific demands yet. Except for calling me here," he paused, taking a glance around, all eyes on him. Good. "Am I right?" A charming smile was all it took to get shuffles and a few murmurs of amazement from the guys in those stylish FBI windbreakers. Always fun to have a new audience.

Vick stood there in silent surprise for a moment, before ordering John and Sam, new to the force but good at research, to find everything on the Manners brothers that they could.

"I really should stop being surprised by this," Vick said, voice cutting through the low din that had followed his psychic act.

"So...when do I talk to him?"

"Before you get into this, there's some things you need to know. He has twelve officers in there and all the guns they have on them, plus those in lock up if he gets the keys-"

"Or just breaks the door open. I've been telling you, we need better security-" Lassiter interrupted, anger underlining his words and making Vick pause. Looked like Lassiter's policies weren't implemented very often. Interesting.

"Be that as it may," Vick continued, sending Lassiter a harsh glare, "Mr. Spencer, don't say anything to set this guy off. Listen to what the negotiators tell you, say what they tell you, and do not, under any circumstances, make him angry. You got that?"

Shawn saluted, he couldn't help himself. Vick rolled her eyes and pointed at two of the new people. The dark-haired man had a casual air about him, easy going, even if he kept glancing at the woman beside him side-long. She was a little uptight, hands twittering in rhythms along her leg subconsciously. "Spencer, I'd like you to meet the negotiators the FBI has ever so kindly lent us. Matt Flannery and Emily Lehman."

Neither of them offered their hands, Shawn didn't feel like handshaking himself at the moment. He'd never really been into the whole thing really, more of a high fiver.

Matt looked Shawn up and down, then glanced back to Vick. "Alright, now that the introductions are over, we'd better get on with the actual negotiating part." He started for the tent flap, one hand ghosting to Emily's lower back, gently guiding her in front of him. Shawn made a mental note, but didn't say anything. There was no need, at least not yet.

Shawn followed them out of the tent and to where they'd set up their own base camp just a few feet over, full of lots and lots of high tech equipment he'd never seen before.

"Oh, look, everything's so shiny." He reached for one of the headpieces, only to be swatted at by Emily.

"Touch the equipment and I'll kill you," she said, smiling sweetly and securing her own headset.

"Somebody hasn't been getting laid lately," Shawn threw back, smirking as her and Matt's eyes both darkened slightly. She opened her mouth to retort, glaring, but Matt cut her off.

"Alright, I want you to listen to me. This guy is going to try to manipulate you. He's going to try to get you do what he wants. If he asks for something, food, cash, a pony, whatever, you gotta clear it with us first before you go making any promises, or my partner really will kill ya," Matt said, holding out a black regular looking phone.

Shawn nodded and took the phone. Matt pulled up a seat across the table, leafing through the papers they had and checking on the...phone tap it looked like. Emily stood next to him, arms crossed and still glaring. Probably wasn't such a good idea to get on her bad side. Too late now.

She looked to Matt, who nodded once in response.

"Okay, you're on."

The dial tone buzzed in his ear once. Twice. Then he heard the sound of fabric rustling and the clearing of a throat before Dorian finally spoke.

"Took you long enough, psychic."

Shawn looked at Matt and Emily in surprise. Emily made a twirling gesture with her finger, telling him to keep the guy talking. So he did.

"Dorian-"

"You set my brother up."

Shawn blinked, baffled.

"What?"

"Don't play stupid, Shawn Spencer, yeah I know your name, you're a real big shot in town now for finding the jewel thief. But my brother didn't do it! You made it look like he did it then threw your fake psychic act just so you could get away with it yourself."

"Now wait a minute, if I had millions of dollars worth of diamonds stashed somewhere, would I still be hanging around here? No, I'd be in Baja."

Shawn noticed Matt writing something down in large bold letters. Emily went to him, leaning over his shoulder. She whispered something in his ear, but Shawn didn't catch it. He 'hmm-ed' in response, and held up the sign.

It read: Make him talk about his brother. Evidence? Shawn mouthed a 'duh' back at them.

"Maybe…maybe you're biding your time," Dorian said, voice strained and going a little high-pitched.

"For what? Christmas, Easter, the Rapture? My visions have helped solve cases for the police for months now. Face it, your brother was a criminal. And you holding the whole police department hostage? Not really helping your case."

"It got your attention didn't it?"

"So do hot dog stands, you could have just held one of those up. Or, dude, you could have talked to the police. Or me if they didn't listen. I have an agency, it's in the yellow pages. I mean, sometimes the cosmos can be a little vague in what it sends me."

"I talked to them, they said you'd never been wrong, why would you be now with so much evidence against him. Didn't matter that he had an alibi, they couldn't fact check it so they told me to just accept the fact that I didn't know my brother as well as I thought I did."

Shawn's palm was getting sweaty, the phone slippery in his grasp. His mouth felt too dry all of a sudden. There was no way Michael didn't do it. No possible way. Every single thing led back to him. The dog, the ripped jacket, the witnesses, everything. He couldn't have been wrong. He couldn't.

"It's easy to plant evidence, Shawn Spencer. It happens all the time."

"If the evidence was planted, I'd know," Shawn growled, defenses rising.

"Because you're a psychic," Dorian mocked back sharply, cruel.

"How else would I know your partner took off in your getaway car," Shawn countered. Emily's eyes widened in surprise, while Matt's eyebrow crept into a questioning arch, but neither said a word.

There was a moment's pause, nothing but Dorian's quick, heavy breathing on the other end of the line.

"Admit you set the whole thing up and escort my freed brother into the building or this place gets blown sky high. You have an hour," he finally said, low and full of dark promise.

Dorian hung up and static hissed like a death sentence in Shawn's ear.

"'Or this place gets blown sky high'? He really is unoriginal. I can think of at least five much more cooler ways to say that," Shawn mustered up weakly, trying for cheerful but it sounded flat and hollow even to him.

It didn't take long for the negotiators to come up with a plan. There was no way they were releasing Michael, that was out of the question. But they could reopen the case, and if they told Dorian that, he might be willing to let some of the hostages go. Or, worst case scenario, distract him enough to get the strike team into the building and pray it wasn't a pressure trigger.

"He's only going to be satisfied if I'm the one that gets arrested for it," Shawn said, sitting on the table, swinging his legs in long lazy circles.

"He wants his brother exonerated first and foremost. You getting caught for the crime is just petty revenge for being the one to put him behind bars in the first place. That's not what he's really after," Emily said, leaning on storage boxes stacked five high. She clutched a coffee cup, rotating it back and forth between her hands. Matt sat in his chair backwards between Shawn and her, tapping a pen to his chin.

Shawn stared at the floor, concentrating,

"I could go in there. Trade myself for-"

"No, not happening. He's not going to trade that many hostages just for you. And certainly not if his brother's still in jail," Emily replied, her face stern, determined.

Shawn shrugged. "So we get his brother out of jail, get him to walk out, and then arrest both of them."

Emily gapped at him. "You can not be that naïve?" She glanced at Matt, surprised and questioning. "He's not just going to walk out of there, Mr. Spencer. He's going to want a van and some reassurance that we won't follow him. He's not stupid."

"So, talk him out of it. Isn't that what you guys do?"

"Well, yeah, but-"

"Look, Shawn," Matt said pointedly, cutting Emily off. "We can't just send you in there. It's a powder keg, and I mean literally. There's no telling what could set this guy off, and you being there might just do the trick if he realizes we're not going to give him what he wants. He blows the bomb, he at least gets you along with everybody else. It's too big a risk."

Shawn sipped his coffee, having given in and swiped one from Vick's conference table. Emily and Matt were off talking to their boss, briefing her on the situation, probably tossing out all the scenarios they could think of and picking the one least likely to work. Because Shawn knew that guy wasn't going to give anything up before he got what he wanted. That's how he acted when Shawn talked to him about his brother, that's how he sounded on the phone. He was a determined bastard and Shawn could only think of two ways to get out of this.

One of them…it had to get a lot worse before he'd do that, his body still jangled from that morning. He'd been doing it too much, going back too far, too often. There was only so much his body could take before it started shutting down, rebelling, and-

His phone rang, playing In The Air Tonight in it's tiny buzzing voice. Shawn pulled it from his pocket, surprised and relieved.

"Jesus, Gus, I've been trying to call you for the last hour, what gives man-"

"Shawn-"

"Dude, get down to the police station right now. You remember Dorian, that guy with the bad breathe, he's holding the department hostage and I'm the negotiator-"

"Shawn, listen to me."

"I mean, sure, they didn't pick me, he'd only talk to me and it's crazy but still so totally awesome. I get one of those cool headsets and everything."

"I'm already there."

"What? No you're not, because I'd have seen you by now."

"I'm in the building Shawn."

Chapter Text

Shawn snapped his fingers and was halfway to eleven that morning before he knew what he was doing. His head spun, his stomach twisted in knots while the world was full to the brim with too much color and too many harsh edges.

What felt like an eternity passed before his vision sharpened and he didn’t feel two seconds away from barfing. He lept up, letting the cheetos spill to the floor, already pulling out his phone and pressing two on speed dial.

"Please pick up, please pick up, come on Gus, pick up," he prayed, shrugging on his jacket and grabbing his keys off the hook.

"Hey Shawn, I was just about to stop at the station-"

Oh thank god.

"No Gus! Don't go there. Stop the car, turn around, get very very far away. A guy's about to go in there with a bomb-" Shawn pulled the door open, heading down the stairs two at a time.

"How do-I know you're not a real psychic Shawn."

"Trust me Gus, as your best friend, I'm begging you, don't go in there. I-" His mind raced, he needed something tangible, a reason Gus wouldn't go there, something he'd believe besides oh yeah, by the way, I'm a time traveler. Or a dimension hopper. Or whatever. "Dorian! His credit card charges! There was tons of stuff for making explosives and the police did just send his brother to jail…"

There was a pause, Shawn hoped Gus would buy it, hoped that he could make it over there in time to get everybody out of there if he didn't.

"You checked his credit card? That information's private. That's illegal Shawn," Gus said, reprimanding and getting entirely away from the point.

"Is that really the point right now Gus? No, no it’s not. Get away from the police department."

Another longer pause. "Alright, fine, but you owe me a smoothie. Juliet was going to lend me her mint condition-"

"Yeah, yeah, that's great. Listen, meet me at the bagel shop. I'll be there in ten minutes, fifteen tops."

"Okay, but you’re going to tell me this is some elaborate joke when I get there."

Shawn 'mm-hmmed' and hung up, letting Gus believe what he wanted. It was better if he didn't tell Gus his plan anyway.

He dialed Lassiter's number and kept hoping.

Unsurprisingly, Lassiter didn't believe him. After five minutes of trying to explain, Lassiter had bit out something about how him trying to pull this kind of stunt again could get Shawn thrown in jail before hanging up on him, saying he was busy solving actual cases that didn't involve false accusations or something as outlandish as someone trying to bomb the department.

Shawn got to the station by eleven thirteen, tires squeaking and leaving thick black lines on the road, criss-crossing the hundreds of faded sets already marking up the parking spaces from countless cop cars hastily backing out, squealing on the pavement and trying to make it just in the knick of time.

The sun beat down on his shoulders, harsh and unrelenting, as he raced across the sidewalk, the sweat already beaded along his neck from the helmet taking an opportunity to drip down his back. He jerked the door open, cold air hitting him like a punch, only to run face first into the barrel of a gun.

He stopped, inches from it.

"Really wasn't expecting that one," he said, mouth quirking while he backed up a few steps. Dorian was in front him, decked out in full robber regalia, complete with ski mask, his pale crooked nose standing out like the belly of a great white against all that black.

His smile was childishly joyful as he said, voice giddy, "Well, fancy meeting you here."

Dorian marched him over to the dozen or so officers gathered in a corner who were being guarded by his accomplice. Lassiter and Juliet were standing side by side, both calm (though Jules was biting her bottom lip nervously and Lassiter's hand was clenched in a tight fist by his side), staring at the hostager…hostage taker…person.

“Put these handcuffs on and don’t try any funny business,” the hostage taker barked, pointing a silver gun at everyone with calm hands.

"Hi guys," Shawn said, waving. Dorian shoved him against the wall, landing him beside Juliet who looked at him with wide blue eyes, while Dorian slapped a pair of handcuffs on Shawn as well. The metal was cold, biting into his wrists as Dorian locking him around a waterline. "Okay, ow," Shawn protested, but it didn't even phase Dorian who smirked back at him before going over to his partner in crime. Dorian pulled them to the side a moment, still keeping one eye on his hostages of course, speaking in low swift tones that Shawn couldn't catch.

"Shawn, what are you doing here?" Juliet whispered to him, both worried and surprised.

"Oh, you know me, can't resist a good hostage situation in the morning," he replied, smiling back rakishly.

Looking around her, he opened his mouth to tell Lassiter 'I told you so' when Lassiter growled, "Don't you dare say I told you so."

Shawn gave him his innocent I-have-no-idea-what-you're-talking about face instead.

He glanced back to their…hostagers. Was there a name for people who took hostages? Cause if not there really should be. Dorian was waving his gun around, obviously agitated, while the other one put a calming hand on his shoulder. Shawn couldn't get a good look at their face, only catching hazel eyes and pouting lips through the mask.

"You guys got a plan yet?" Shawn asked hopefully. Juliet and Lassiter shared a glance and Shawn knew they were in trouble. "You don't have a plan. You're detectives, you're always supposed to have a plan."

"We could rush them right now," Lassiter said, chin nodding towards the two who were now in a much more heated argument.

"Uh Lassie, they still have guns," Shawn replied evenly, like he was talking to a rather small child.

"And we don't," Juliet added, looking to the desk across the room where all the guns were piled haphazardly, the magazines stacked two fold next to them. Well, that was a problem.

Buzz coughed and shuffled his feet.

Shawn knew he could snap himself back out of this, but his body was already frazzled enough as it was, that last jump costing him a lot. He'd just have to deal with this the old-fashioned way.

"Go watch the door in case they try to send in a SWAT team," Dorian yelled in frustration, loud enough for everyone to hear. His partner huffed and stalked off, mumbling something that sounded a lot like, "fuck this." And suddenly, Shawn remembered the missing getaway car, and knew exactly what to do.

This was what was supposed to happen:

Shawn would fake a vision about Dorian's brother, claiming his innocence and getting Dorian to come closer. Then, he'd steal the gun and take their own captor captive in a nice poetic justice sorta way. And he didn't even have to worry about the partner showing up since they’d be booking in about five minutes at the most.

'I have a plan,' he mouthed to Lassiter across from him, but didn't elaborate.

“If you get yourself killed, it’s your own damn fault,” Lassiter growled back in a whisper.

"Don't you know I'm invincible?" Shawn replied with his most charming smile.

In reality, it went a little bit more like this:

"Oh, boy!" Shawn cried out in excruciatingly fake pain as he slammed himself backwards into the wall (a little too hard actually, that one was going to sting in the morning). "Michael! Something's happened to him!" He clenched his eyes closed, twisting his head this way and that.

He heard footsteps, loudly stomping before stopping right in front of him. "What the hell are you talking about?" Dorian demanded.

"I'm having a vision…about your brother," Shawn gasped out, letting his voice waver.

"Stop play-acting and shut the fuck up."

"He's…he's going to be released. It was declared a mistrial-"

"I said shut up!" Dorian yelled, overriding him, and the cold sting of a gun barrel jabbed against his temple. Shawn’s eyes flew open to see Dorian gazing back at him furiously, mouth set in a firm line.

Shawn smirked. "You bad guys are so easy," he said, then kicked out with his foot, tripping the man, his gun landing at Shawn's feet. Shawn quickly bent down, cuffs rattling, able to grab the gun in sweaty palms.

"I wouldn't make any sudden movements if I were you," Shawn said, pointing the gun at Dorian, still sprawled on the floor. To Dorian's credit, he didn't let any surprise show and kept up his cool visage.

"I'm still the one with the bomb, Spencer," he replied, caressing the trigger handle.

Shawn's grin hardened, going brutal. "You're not going to do it, you can't. You still have something to live for, your brother-"

A loud noise interrupted Shawn.

It’s a second or five or forever before Shawn realized it was the sound of gunshot.

The bullet hit him in the gut, tearing flesh in one sick frozen moment before he screams, once, a terrified jagged sound ripping up from his gut, a sound he didn’t know he could make.

Somehow he was on the ground now, looking up at the ceiling, little perforated dots marching two by two going dim and fuzzy above him. A tangy acrid taste like battery acid filled his mouth, liquid hot and spilling down his lips. His gut burned.

He heard the sound of his name and a shadow leaned over him. If he squinted it almost looked human.

He'd been wrong about the getaway car after all.

He snapped shaky fingers, a clomping hailstorm of bells ringing in his ears and sounding a whole lot like death furiously trying to gets its claws into him while it still had the chance.

He felt the remote in his hand first, then the cheeto bowl, then the couch, the banging sound of the gun still thick in his ears. His eyes stung, his throat clenched and raw, giving him dry heaves as he slumped forward, the hard press of plastic digging into his ribs. His skin prickled and spots were dancing across his vision as the remote slipped from his fingers. It hit the carpet but all Shawn could hear was the familiar high-pitched ringing noise of time and space bending itself to his will.

He closed his eyes again, the world too painful, and tried to sync back into the timeline.

His gut still burned.

Everything from before started to fade, dim in his memory, the words jumbling and conversations slipping away like spider silk. He held on to the word bomb and something about the-the-

There's a knock at his door five seconds too late.

He kicked the remote under the table, slammed the popcorn bowl on top, before he got up, skirting the edge of the couch, and flung the door wide open.

Lassiter was on his doorstep, tie canted, hair ruffled from the wind, his jacket pulled tight around his shoulders.

"Spencer, come with me," was all he said before gripping Shawn's shirt and hauling him bodily down the stairs to a dark green Mazda. He shoved Shawn into the passenger seat, slamming the door, and ignoring all the half-formed protests and questions Shawn asked.

Sliding into the leather seat beside him, Lassiter started the car, blue eyes blazing and brow still furrowed, creasing his forehead into deep grooves.

"This isn't your car," Shawn finally said, settling on an observation since his attempts at getting answers were being routinely ignored.

"It's a rental," Lassiter replied gruffly, taking a right at Palmino, passing the good bagel store and that horrible fish and chips place Shawn had vowed never to go to again.

"We're heading east," Shawn said, again going for observational.

Lassiter didn't comment, just stepped on the gas a little more, only to be slowed down not a block later by a red light at Cadman and Strauss. Lassiter glared at it. He was probably hoping to intimidate it into changing.

"Since you're a detective, you know kidnapping's illegal. And if you just wanted some quality bonding time with me, all you had to do was ask, Carly." Shawn glanced over, but Lassiter's demeanor didn't change. He was still tense, his knuckles whitened from their grip on the wheel, his jaw clenched. He kept checking the rearview mirror…and the side mirrors…and the people on the street.

"Is someone-" Shawn started to say before Lassiter cut him off.

"Someone's out to get you."

Shawn waited, but Lassiter didn't elaborate.

"Okay, unless you want me to use my divine powers to figure out what's going on and probably end up having an episode in your car, which I'm pretty sure you don't want, you should just tell me what's going on."

The car sped forward abruptly, Lassiter obviously eager to be clear of the light and beyond the city limits.

"That case you 'solved', and I use that term loosely, last week with the Manners family? Turns out Dorian had ties to the mafia. And he really didn't like his brother going to jail."

"Wait, wait, wait, hold up. The mob put a hit out on me?" Shawn couldn't help the surprised laughter that crept into his voice, because, dude, the mob put a hit out on him. After all the bombs and gun shots, he had to deal with the California mafia now?

Lassiter glared at him, obviously not getting the joke. Shawn wasn't even sure it was a joke. Maybe he was hysterical.

"This is no laughing matter. They've put up fifty thousand for your head on a platter."

"Not literally, right? Cause, ew." Somehow, Lassiter managed to both sigh and growl at the same time. It was really pretty impressive.

"Spencer, this is not the time-"

"Wait." And Shawn felt this sinking feeling, like he'd just eaten too much cotton candy and gotten on the tilt-a-whirl for the third time in a row. "What about Gus? They'd know to come after him too-"

"O'Hara's taking him to a safe house as we speak."

Shawn let out a breath and smiled in relief.

"The same safe house we're heading to right now, then?"

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "It's not like there's an overabundance of safe houses in Santa Barbara, Spencer. And I wouldn't dream of splitting you two up. Don't want you pining all the way to Nevada."

"We're going to Nevada?" Shawn asked hopefully, he'd always been fond of the place.

"No-I was-that was just an example," Lassiter replied huffily.

"Can we go to Nevada? It's nice there. Lots of…desert. And Vegas!"

"Spencer, we're not going to Nevada. We're going to the safe house, and then you and Guster are being handed over to witness protection until we can figure something out."

Shawn blinked, and sat up straighter.

"Wait, you mean I'm going to have to be dogged twenty-four seven until you find a way to…what? Put the entire mafia behind jail?"

"Something like that."

Shawn slouched back down into his seat, the slick leather making him slide just an inch more than he wanted.

Looked like all those years of odd jobs was finally going to pay off after all.

He called Gus every few hours. From the sound of it, he was both having a blast reminiscing about childhood comics with Juliet and freaking out because Shawn had brought the mafia down on their heads.

Miles and miles of road passed by, the city falling away soon enough, melting into scruffy desert scrub and wide open plains along that invisible line between civilization and wilderness. Hills started to rise, then steepened into worn orange-brown cliffs. Shawn didn't get this far out often, preferring the beach with its obvious perks. Not many sunbathers in the arid semi-desert. Cacti dotted the landscape in twisting shapes that Shawn was sure secretly spelled out their nefarious plans to take over the world. He didn't like cacti, never had, not since falling on one in third grade and spending an hour digging needle sharp barbs out of his skin.

By sunset, they were so far beyond the city that the descending night time was the darkest Shawn had seen since his camping days, the stars bright pinpricks in the sky.

"Twinkle, twinkle little star-" Shawn sang under his breath.

"Why are you singing?" Lassie asked, glaring.

"You're the one who wouldn't let me turn on the radio."

"Yes, because that way if anyone radios us, like say, the Chief, about the fact that the mafia's been spotted on our tails, we'll actually be able to hear it."

"It doesn't have to be that loud."

"I don't trust you with the volume control. Plus, it's distracting."

"Fine then." Shawn started singing again, loud and off-key on purpose.

Lassiter clenched his jaw, but didn't say a word. He had that determined look. Shawn smirked and just sang louder, this time with air guitar and everything.

"She's a lover, baby and a fighter, should've seen her coming when it got a little brighter. With a name like Dani California-"

Lassiter cracked after two minutes.

"All right, fine, you win," he finally said, and turned the radio on.

Shawn smiled, pleased, and started flipping through the stations.

"You better not put on any of that head banging crap," Lassiter added when he paused momentarily on one of the rock stations.

"I'd never dream of it," Shawn replied, hitting ninety-three seven and leaning back in his seat, satisfied. The quiet sound of Beethoven's Fifth (or Bach or something from P. Diddy's classical phase for all Shawn knew) surrounded them. A harp struck a soft thrumming rhythm, flowing and persistent, like a calm sea rising and falling, gently meeting nothing but clear blue skies and empty shores.

The look from Lassiter was equal parts confusion and surprise. Shawn shrugged in response, closed his eyes, and let the music lull him into something that passed for sleep.

His chest ached, burned like white hot fire, pain screaming across his gut. The impact as he hit the ground knocked the breath out of him. Sticky warm blood trickled from his mouth, everything hurting-

"Spencer. Spencer, wake up!" Shawn bolted upright, snuffling and wide-eyed. He scrabbled at his seat belt, breathing heavy and panicked. "Whoa." Lassiter gripped his shoulder, hard, and just like that Shawn was back. Shawn was safe.

Shawn looked around, seeing the car dash in front of him and Lassiter looking at him curiously. He scrunched in his seat, sheepish. "I'm okay."

"If you define having delusions of being a psychic 'okay', then by all means, continue thinking that. We're here, in case you were wondering."

A house loomed in front of them, improbably huge and imposing. It was silhouetted in the darkness with clear cut corners, all flat planes and well-defined angles. It looked exactly like Shawn thought a safe house would look: boring, drab, and unnoticeable. The type of house that just slides right off your memory even while you're looking at it, because it is just that unremarkable. He was pretty sure it was brown…or maybe white…or some weird orange pink color. It was hard to tell, his mind still sleep-addled and beyond caring at this point. He just wanted to meet Gus, crash on a nice soft bed, and forget about everything for awhile.

They got out of the car, the tiny thing's doors creaking in protest (it wasn't a very good rental). A brisk wind blew, whipping Shawn's jacket and making him shiver in surprise. The hard-packed dirt swirled up around them, gritty, stinging his eyes and making him cough. An actual tumbleweed, small but still tumbleweedy, blew by his feet with a soft crinkle like tin wrap. He watched it drift by and suddenly felt like he was in Loony Tunes. He wondered if that made him Roadrunner and Lassie the Coyote. Maybe he'd learn how to run off a cliff and not fall.

"Hey," Lassiter's voice called, snapping him out of it. Lassiter was standing in front of the door, outlined in black ink and pale white against the shades of the gray-brown-pink house, his shoes catching the moonlight and shining just enough to be noticeable. He was looking back at him expectantly and…maybe a little worried?

"I was just admiring the…dirt."

"Whatever Spencer, just come get in the damn safe house." Lassiter scrubbed at his face, looking tired, and Shawn remembered that he had no idea how long they’d been on the road. He checked his watch, only to realize he hadn't had it on when Lassiter had shown up and took him on this little field trip.

Frowning, he walked up to the door while Lassiter fiddled with the lock, the keys pinging in staccato beats as he tried one after the other.

Shawn watched, amused, as Lassiter's mouth dipped down into a frustrated line, and one after another the keys failed.

"What, the safehouse key isn't labeled with bright red sharpie that says 'In case of emergencies'? What do you need so many keys anyway?"

Lassiter didn't bother responding.

The wind started to pick up, maybe they were in a valley, and Shawn was really very tired.

He hummed, studying the doorknob and the bright clinking keys, Lassiter's fingers combing through them in swift movements. "I bet it's the gold one," he finally said, rocking back on his heels with a smirk.

"There are five gold ones," Lassiter grumbled in response, not looking up.

"Yeah, but you've already tried two of them and the other two are entirely the wrong make for this thing. It's the one with the three holes at the top."

Lassiter glanced at him a moment, then flipped through to the key in question. He slid it in and tried the handle. The door opened with a soft click and swung open easily, revealing dark rooms and the musty smell of disuse, like moths and stale bread.

Shawn smiled at Lassiter, whose mouth opened and closed, before he finally settled on, "I'm not even going to bother asking how you knew right now."

The inside was just as boring as the outside, if not more so. Flicking on the light, the sheeted furniture sat in hulking shapes around the room, a chair here, a sofa there. Everything was covered with a thin layer of dust and the pendulum clock on the wall, strong mahogany and gold inlay, had stopped at eleven fifty-two.

Shawn whistled, taking in the entire room. "I take it this is one of those places you guys don't get out to very often. Could it be any more deserted and spooky house looking? Seriously, it's just like…oh, the one with the murders and the butler-"

"Clue?"

"Wow, I'm surprised Lassie. You actually watch movies?"

"I do have a life outside my work," Lassiter replied, going to the furniture and throwing off the white cloth, causing dust to fly up in thick clouds around him.

"You had me fooled," Shawn muttered, following Lassiter's lead and taking on the chair looking ones. The thin cloth was grimy, eaten through in some places. He tossed it aside to reveal a high backed chair, wooden claw feet and green-grey diamond-patterned cushions. The chair looked extremely uncomfortable. "Dude, this furniture is horrible." Shawn poked at the cushion experimentally, meeting rough scratchy cloth. "I mean, this has to be a torture chair from the dark ages."

"We like to spend our funding on more important things, like guns and bullet proof vests. You'd be amazed at how handy those things are when you're taking down criminals," Lassiter replied, sarcasm edging his words while he threw off another sheet. The monstrous sofa underneath was even worse than the Torture Chair, pink and green striped with square faux-wood handles. Just looking at it made Shawn wince in sympathy for his back and long for his feather-soft sink-into-it-like-a-dream sofa.

"This must be where furniture goes to die," Shawn declared, frowning at the sofa and hoping the bedrooms would be better. He looked in their direction, seeming miles and miles away down an unlit hallway, and decided to risk the sofa, already too tired to stand.

He flopped down on it, shoulders getting poked by broken springs and quarter sized inlaid buttons that somebody must have thought would make the thing festive. Mostly, the buttons just hurt. Shifting, he tried to make it more comfortable, but it was a lost cause. The sofa was beyond redemption.

He sighed, scooting to the right side and cornering himself against the armrest before propping his feet up on the still covered coffee table. "This sofa sucks, Lassie," Shawn said, letting his eyelids drop closed, so heavy with exhaustion it wasn't worth the battle.

Lassiter walked behind him, footsteps loud, jacket sleeve brushing the back of his head. Shawn's feet were suddenly tugged sideways and he cracked an eye open to see Lassiter pulling at the sheet on the coffee table. Lassiter glared back at him, knocking at Shawn's shoes.

"Move your feet, you heathen." Shawn grinned, all cat who got the cream and the canary, and didn't budge.

Lassiter shoved Shawn's feet off anyway, twisting him slantways and awkward.

"That wasn't very nice," Shawn reprimanded, letting a pout creep into his voice.

"Tables aren't made for your feet, that's why there's a floor. And, in case you were wondering, O'Hara called while you were taking your little cat nap. They'll be here within the hour." The sheet billowed in front of Lassiter’s face, obscuring him in opaque whiteness. He folded it in perfectly neat squares, all cop precision.

A breaking crack, loud as thunder, loud as the blare of a car horn split the air; there was the tinker of glass hitting wood, and, much quieter, Lassiter letting out a hissing breath, a soft groan directly on its heels. Something warm and wet splashed across Shawn's face in tiny flecks as the sheet fell from Lassiter's hands, the edges soaked rust red.

Shawn jumped up, but Lassiter was already slipping, falling to his knees, one hand landing on the table with a loud slap, the other clutching his chest. His face was sickly pale, lines of confusion etched sharply along his brow.

Time felt oddly suspended, elastic like it never had before. Shawn saw every dip and imperfection of Lassiter's face, the curving slope of his cheekbones, the way the stain bloomed across his chest like a crimson egg cracked open and spilling, like a sun going supernova, liquid flames expanding outwards, violent, unstoppable. The wood floor struck Shawn’s knees smartly as he landed in front of Lassiter, pressing a hand to the bullet wound over Lassiter's own, his skin and blood feverishly hot beneath Shawn’s fingers. His other hand fisted against Lassiter's side, holding tightly to his coat, keeping them both upright.

Distantly, Shawn heard the sound of tires, the rumble of a car engine; saw the fading movement of bright headlights shifting across the back wall.

Lassiter gripped at Shawn's jacket, smearing blood on his chin. His mouth opened and closed, on the verge of sound, but a wet cough racked him instead, crimson drops collecting at the corners of his lips, his frame shaking violently under Shawn's hands. A death rattle, and Shawn's mind flashed to every movie he'd ever seen where there were always meaningful last words, poetic and memorable. But Lassiter simply pulled Shawn closer, head falling against his shoulder heavily, drawing in labored breaths that sounded like goodbye.

Lassiter was going to die.

Shawn whispered into Lassiter’s ear, unsteady, voice hitching, "I can fix this, I can fix this. Oh god, please let me fix this."

He let go of Lassiter's hand and snapped blood slick fingers, a sob and a prayer stuck in his throat.