A/N: First crossover fic, yikes! Hopefully you guys like it;) I'm trying something kinda new by switching up the POVs, just to get a look into everyone's view of the situation. Let me know if you like it in the reviews. Tips/comments/suggestions/rants/complaints welcome (obvi)

Almost forgot- this is NOT a deathfic- at ALL! Everything is not what it seems in the world of Wacky...

If I was a tv producer, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be writing fanfictions. So yeah, these wonderful works of art are not mine. I wish they were though.

Chapter 1: An Episode about Episodes

~Shawn's POV~

I shouldn't have been there. I knew I shouldn't, but I just couldn't help myself. Call it what you want - impulse, stupidity, fate- but I couldn't bear the fact that the Santa Barbara Police Department might actually solve a case without me; not if I could help it. So I found myself there, with Gus, in the parking lot of the SBPD. Kind of.

You see, Gus had kicked me out of the Blueberry after my "stinky food" had "distracted him from driving", to which I responded by "accidentally" tipping over Gus' pineapple smoothie, to which Gus responded with, "It's a company car, Shawn!".

What? Can you blame me? I get grumpy when I have a 20-some pound hammer tapping at every square inch of my face -eyes included- for over a week! Which leads me back to my first thought: I shouldn't have been there. If I had just stayed well enough away, maybe none of this would've happened. My life would still be relatively normal. Kind of. Probably not.

But that's not what happened. I guess I'll just have to deal with the consequences.

"Hey, Gus." I walked over tentatively, hoping that Gus had realized how overdramatic he was being. And this was coming from me. ME.

"Still not talkin' to you, Shawn." My best friend slammed his car door, making me wince as the hammer turned into a wrecking ball at the loud noise. He proceeded to cross his arms, looking just to my right, as if he actually believed he could succeed in ignoring me.

"Oh, come on, Gus! It happened, like, 10 minutes ago! Can we just drop it?" Why do I always have to be the mature one in these situations?

"Shawn, you ruined the driver's seat of my car, not to mention my pants, not to mention a perfectly good pineapple smoothie!" Gus ended with a sniffle (yeah, real tear-jerker, that last one).

"Don't mention it." I half-heartedly teased. I now stood in front of him, with a full view of his mad face. Which quickly morphed into a concerned face. Yeah, Gus, the shouting really isn't making the wrecking ball any happier.

I could've sworn I was on a boat right then, with how badly I was swaying. I just hope I don't swoon, I thought, because that would be embarrassing.

"I'm fine, Gus," I claimed, seeing my friend's worried expression. It sounded more like I was trying to reassure myself.

I wanted my hammer back. I held out a hand, looking for something- anything- to hold myself up with. When my hand hit the Blueberry, I barely had time to brace myself against the door before my legs gave out. I collapsed on my knees as the boat was suddenly hit with a giant wave- no, tsunami- and I suddenly felt seasick. Or, at least, what I thought seasickness would feel like. I hadn't really been on a boat with my dad long enough to test that, so I figured this was the closest I was gonna get..

My breath came in ragged gasps as I collapsed on the hard ground. I sounded kind of like Gus, when he got this really bad asthma attack back in 5th grade. Except for the fact that I don't have asthma. I think. Come to think of it, I really have no idea.

I heard someone shout something- a name?- yes, Shawn. Is that my name? For the first time in my life, I couldn't remember. Memories- my own, Gus', everyone's- flashed before my eyes, and I almost forgot who I was. I was everyone else, everything else, but nothing. Countless lives flashed before my eyes, and I could feel the years tick by with each passing second. I could see the lives of people I'd never even met, from their point of view. I could feel their happiness, disappoinent, surprise, sadness, anger- as if it were my own. And I could see how they were formed- a birthday party, a failed class, a funeral, a wedding, a stupid comment.

It was like a huge game. A huge, twisted, confusing, possibly-drug-induced game. Like Where's Waldo, but instead of Waldo, it was Shawn. Where am I? Who am I? Everything was all blended together, like someone had gotten hundreds of crayons and scribbled them all over everything.

Am I the guy standing next to a small blue car that looked like a blueberry? Or the man with thinning hair being scolded by a sternly blonde with even more thinning hair? Or am I the one writhing on his back in the middle of a parking lot next to said blueberry car?

My mind was fried. I couldn't think, much less decide who I was. Luckily, though, I didn't have to answer that- my vision soon condensed to a single point of view, which I assumed to be my own. Which, of course, was the only one that I didn't want to be me.

Jeez, this whole out-of-body experience thing is really tiring.

~Gus' POV~

I was getting annoyed. Shawn was, of course, no help to me at all. He didn't even have an excuse this time- no cases to work on, no places to go, people to see. All the man could do was have a "vision", even if there was no one around to see it. He was faking a movie-status swoon just so he could see my concern. . . And he knows I'm a sympathetic crier!

"Shawn? Shawn! There's no one around, you don't have to fake a-" I stuttered to a stop as my friend rolled over on his back. His eyes were wide open, showing a feral sense of fear. The way he was breathing, I could've sworn he was having a terrible asthma attack. But Shawn didn't have asthma.

"Oh. My. God!" I got on my knees next to Shawn, trying to assure him that everything would be okay, that he would be fine. He started thrashing his head from side to side, groaning through his bared teeth. I finally turned around to shout in the direction of the police station for help.

~Lassie's POV~

I heard a commotion outside. Shouting. I quickly turned to my partner, who was looking up in concentration, trying to listen for the sound again.

"Did you hear that, too?" Juliet sounded curious.

"What? No. All I can hear right now is the blessed silence of this building without the presence of Spencer." I sounded worried, though, even to myself. The SBPD, without Spencer and his tap-dancing sidekick? It was almost too good to be true.

"You can't hear silence, Carlton. Let's go check it out."

"Yeah, let's do that," I was going to make some snarky comment about Simon and Garfunkel, but I instead decided to listen to the nagging voice in the back of my mind. "You lead the way."

We walked outside to see Guster kneeling over something next to his bright blue Echo, blocking whatever it was from my view.

"Gus, what's wrong? And where's Shawn?" Juliet asked. I, too, was now curious, and slightly worried. I had rarely seen the two more than an arm's length away from each other.

Gus shuffled to the side, letting the two detectives see what he was hovering over. O'Hara and I then saw Shawn lying on his back near Guster's car, shaking and twitching uncontrollably.

"What happened?!" Juliet demanded, her usually cheerful demeanor replaced with a strong sense of urgency as the group made their way over to Shawn.

"We- We were just talking. I think he might have had a headache, but he wouldn't take any painkillers. . .something about it clouding his senses. We got here, then he collapsed. He started having trouble breathing, and this- this just..."

"He's having a seizure!" All my years on the job, countless hours of training, and still there was no way I- or anyone, for that matter- could prepare for this. The best of circumstances- we were right outside of a police station chock-full of trained professionals. The worst of circumstances- none of our officers had taken extensive medical training. Except for Woody, of course. But that was different. That was for dead people. I crouched down next to Spencer, joining O'Hara and Guster.

"What? Shawn's never had a seizure in his life!" Gus' voice produced a manly squeak at the end of his sentence.

Juliet positioned herself at right angles to the psychic, cushioning his head from the hard pavement with her lap. Just in time, too.

I watched in horror as the seizure started to gradually get worse. His eyes rolled back in his head, showing only white. His hands started scrabbling at the asphalt of the parking lot, bloodying up his fingertips. My partner then grabbed his forearms, trying to keep Spencer from hurting himself. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw O'Hara grab Spencer's right hand, holding on for dear life. The psychic squeezed back just as hard. I raised an eyebrow, but decided not to comment. The psychic's other hand, the one not held by my partner, was clenched into a tight fist, his nails digging into his skin so deeply that droplets of blood began forming.

"Gus, how long would you say he's been like this?" Juliet had called the EMT's, dialing the number with her free hand. Apparently, it was of utter importance that they know when it had happened, not where or how. I growled in frustration.

"I don't know! Maybe a few minutes? 5 or 6, tops." Juliet relayed the information, hanging up after giving the EMT their location. Spencer started to turn a nice shade of blue, his ragged gasps quickly progressing into desperate gulps for air. The psychic's back arched, his breath (if you could call it that) hitching in his throat. The uneven rise and fall of his chest violently sped up, like he was hyperventilating; then, just as suddenly, it stopped. The man was silent, not a peep coming from his now-limp body. The seizures had finally stopped- along with his heart.

"O'Hara, since the EMT's are obviously taking their sweet time, we're gonna need to get him breathing again. Can you help me?" I already knew that O'Hara was CPR-certified: it was a mandatory requirement for officers out in the field.

"Yes." She stripped off her grey jacket, bundling it up under Shawn's head as she scooted her way opposite me, on the other side of Spencer. I started the compressions, surprised at how well-built the man was. Pushing the thought aside, I motioned for O'Hara to start the rescue breathing. She did, pinching Spencer's nose closed and breathing steadily into his mouth. Nothing happened.

~Juliet's POV~

I kept up the routine long after my partner had given up: 2 minutes of compressions, then mouth to mouth, back and forth, back and forth. I held Shawn's hand even during compressions, making me a bit more clumsy and slow. I just knew that I couldn't let go. My wrists had started to hurt after the first five minutes, but I ignored it.

"O'Hara. . .Juliet?" Carlton's use of my first name brought me out of my repetitive process. I looked up at him to see him looking at me with a mixture of sympathy, grief, and concern, all emotions that I knew meant disaster. I heard sirens off in the distance, coming closer and closer by the minute. I ignored whatever my partner was saying- something about "doing my best", whatever that meant- and continued the process, up, down, in, out. I was just doing what I needed to do. I guess the shock of the whole situation kept me from thinking straight.

I hadn't even noticed when Shawn's hand had slipped out of my grip, and I grabbed it with my free hand again, almost dropping it at the touch. His skin was cold- too cold for Shawn's warm and energetic body. How long had it been? Only a few minutes, right? So why was he already so cold? It was mid-July in California! So was he?. . .no, he wasn't dead. This was the relentlessly stubborn Shawn Spencer, and he wouldn't just give up now! He would wake up, make some movie reference that only he and Gus would understand, annoy the living daylights out of Carlton, give me a reassuring hand-squeeze and one of his trademark smirks. His eyes would pop open and he would reveal this to all be some stupid trick about a recent case we took on. How dare he be so selfish and just stop trying- for me, Gus, his family, Carlton, the SBPD, even the churro vendor near his office? My grief suddenly turned to anger.

"Shawn! C'mon, you have to wake up. You- we have cases to solve, criminals to catch! You can't just give up on that... on us." It sounded kind of like a morbid version of my normal morning charade to get Shawn out of bed.

"Shawn, I swear, if you don't wake up right now, I will kill you!" By now I would have picked up a pillow and started playfully wacking him with it. I don't think that would have accomplished much in this situation, so instead I put as much force in my voice as I could, trying to break through to him.

"Shawn!" I screeched. I felt hands on my shoulders, pulling me back. I fought against them viciously, not caring when I backhanded what felt like a face. "Shawn!" I started smacking his chest to wake him up. I didn't care about anything else in that moment. I broke down, sobbing over Shawn's still form. I didn't care about the hot tears rolling down my cheeks, my eyes turning into miniature Niagra Falls. I tried to convince myself that I was overreacting, that it wasn't nearly as bad as I knew it was. Then I remembered the stages of grief. Denial was the first.

I felt hands on my arms and shoulders, pulling me back, and I fought viciously before being hopelessly overwhelmed in a matter of seconds. I only heard snippets of rushed and panicked conversation:

"Ma'am, we need- "

"Calm down, sir! Let us help him- "

"-us do our job!"

My sluggish mind tried to process the information: these were the EMT's, and they were here to help Shawn. I stepped back, watching as they strapped him down into a stretcher and loaded him up into the ambulance. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw officers lined up around the scene, identifiable among the few civilians on a midday stroll. Chief Vick was there, lecturing a pale, terrified and slightly green EMT who stood there shaking and bobbing his head up and down, swallowing heavily every few seconds. My gaze travelled to Buzz, who had stepped up to help in any way he could. He was helping the EMT's load Shawn into the ambulance. I jumped when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

"You should go with him." A voice said. It was Carlton, my partner. I turned to thank him, the words dying in my throat when I saw his face.

"Oh, Carlton. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to-" Whoops. Guess I had smacked a face.

"Good Lord, Juliet! Did you even hear what I just said? Go after him! I'll meet you there." My partner sounded annoyed, but his use of my first name told me otherwise. He winced as his split lip formed the last words, and looked at me expectantly, shooing me off. I muttered one last apology before hopping onto the back of the ambulance, sitting next to Gus and watching Shawn's still form as the truck sped off. The doors were pulled shut behind us, and I lurched backwards into Gus as the ambulance sped out of the parking lot. I watched helplessly as the EMT's bustled around Shawn, hope wearing thin after several failed attempts to get him breathing again.