A/N: This is a complimentary*/sequel to my fic "So, This is Dying? I'd Rather Be Eating Pineapple." I think it'll make more sense if you've read that one, but it's not strictly necessary because this chapter goes over the same events different points of view.

Summary:

So, This is Recovery? (Seriously. Bring the Pineapple.)

"Omen"

Lassiter's coffee only has three creams, two sugars.

It's going to be a bad day.

"Voicemail"

"Lassie, what have I told you about screening calls from a psychic? It doesn't work, man. I know you're there. Listen, when you're done impersonating John Wayne and the Jolly Green Giant's love child, meet us down at the Good Mornin' Inn, Room 112. Solved your little triple homicide case. Also, did you know that you can't use house paint to paint a car? Who knew, right? I just tried it out on your Crown Vic, and really, it's quite—Lassie, hey! See, Gus, I told you he was just ignor—"

"Shootout"

Four people knew that Victor was a murderer, and three of them were dead. Unfortunately, the dead weren't as silent as they were reputed to be, because that idiot was talking to them now. Worse, the cops were listening to him. The tall one had a hand near his gun.

But Victor had his own gun, and he wasn't going back to prison.

"Regret"

When you're best friends with Shawn Spencer, you come to expect a certain amount of absurdity in your everyday life. Sometimes, absurdity is completely skipped in favor of total and utter lunacy. In fact, it's a pretty atypical week if their lives haven't been threatened at least once, usually on a Friday, after Shawn has said or done something suicidally get used to it; Gus certainly has, and is often careful to interject his own ridiculousness, just every now and then, so as not to be outdone.

But right then, right when Victor Matheson pulls out his gun and starts shooting up the motel room, like the desperate, homicial maniac that he is . . . right as a bullet goes whizzing past Gus's left ear . . . Gus doesn't want to out do his best friend anymore and kind of wishes he didn't have one at all.

"Tremor"

Juliet's hands don't shake when she pulls her gun. She hasn't been a rookie in a long time. She knows what she's doing. She trusts herself. She is a good cop.

Juliet's hands don't shake when she shoots Matheson in the chest, but when Shawn stands back up, she stares at the blood pouring from his gut and almost drops her gun.

"Inflection"

Gus has yelled Shawn's name in at least forty-seven different ways. There's Shawn-what-are-you-doing and Shawn-you're-an-idiot and Shawn-if-you-even-think-of-doing-that-I-will-never-speak-to-you-again.

This time, when he yells, "Shawn," it means ohmygodyou'vebeenshotohymygod, and Shawn, he just says, "Hey," which probably means, Hey, look at that.

Then he falls forward.

"Three"

Shawn's unresponsive for three, long, horrible minutes. Then he shifts and mutters something unintelligible about candy.

Candy is Gus's new favorite word.

"Delay"

"Paramedics are en route. Be advised: there is a thirteen car pile up just south of Santa Barbara on the 101. Paramedics ETA: fifteen minutes."

Spencer doesn't have fifteen minutes.

"ADD"

Even bleeding out, Shawn won't focus. His eyes are roaming the motel room, searching it like he's looking for clues on what's happening to him. The only clue Juliet needs is the the amount of blood ruining her jacket. Shawn's dying. That's the situation.

She calls his name again desperately.

Shawn actually looks at her. "Jules?" That's a good sign. That means he's aware of his surroundings. She can work with that. If she can just keep his attention long enough for the paramedics to get here—

"Jules," Shawn whispers, "where's—"

And then he tries to get up. Because , even dying, Shawn's determined to do something stupid.

"Delirious"

Shawn's eyes are closed. He can't close his eyes. He can't. It's not allowed. Gus needs to wake him up. He needs Shawn to wake up and make some stupid joke, say he isn't going to die. "Shawn? Shawn?"

Shawn's lips part. "There are four hats," he whispers. He opens his eyes and stares blankly at his Gus's face.

Gus isn't sure Shawn can even see him.

He starts to cry, and Shawn just looks confused.

"Dispatch"

It's part of her job to listen to a lot of irate policemen, but as she informs him of yet another delay, Detective Lassiter uses the 'F' word in ways Betty has never heard and may be anatomically impossible.

"Fortune"

Lassiter isn't a psychic, doesn't believe in them, but when he looks down at Shawn Spencer, bleeding out on the motel carpet, muttering about swimming . . . Lassiter somehow knows he isn't going to make it.

"Porcelain"

"Gus," Shawn says, and he's so pale; he's shaking so hard; there's so much blood. He doesn't know what's happening, but he must be scared. He must be so scared, and Gus can't help him.

His best friend is dying.

"Help me out," Shawn whispers, staring, and Gus feels himself breaking, breaking, broken.

"Choke"

His eyes shut and don't open and Juliet doesn't think she can breathe.

"Humor"

First, it's Juliet: "Shawn!"

Then, it's Lassiter: "Spencer!"

"Shawn!"

"Spencer!"

"Shawn!"

"Spencer!"

Even Gus thinks it's a little funny.

"Grateful"

Trust Spencer to try and laugh through dying. He starts coughing hard, blood dripping out both sides of his mouth. Lassiter moves, but Guster's already there, sitting in his friend's blood, arms wrapped from behind him, rocking him back and forth like a child.

Lassiter thinks of Henry, then Victoria, and is suddenly, overwhelmingly thankful that he never had kids.

"Death"

This is it. This is it. He's been playing catch up to Shawn his whole life, but where Shawn's going, he can't follow.

It's not supposed to end like this.

"Don't play," Gus sobs. "Come on." And Shawn whispers that he's coming, but that's also when Shawn stops breathing.

"Life"

It was never supposed to end at all.

TBC

A/N: Swear I'll actually CONTINUE this story with the next chap instead of just providing different POV's.