Author's note: AHHH! So I FINALLY am posting the sequel to 'Can't Tell You Where I'll Be' (which is this story, haha). You don't technically have to read it to like this story but it would make more sense. I've already finished this story and I will post it in three chapters (this being part one). This story took forever and I'm excited. Okay, and if you want to know what CTYWIB is: Shawn gets struck by lightning and gets super powers. That's basically it. Thanks as always to Mrs-N-Uzuamki, who supports my ideas and is my BFF basically - Meg
Run.
Pound the pavement.
Beat the ground with your sneakers.
Turn a corner.
Look behind you, always look behind you.
Pause. Take a breath.
Continue to run.
Climb a fence.
Fall on the ground.
Get back up.
Sprint the last few feet to your apartment.
Wrench the door open.
Climb the staircase.
Flatten yourself against the wall at the slightest noise.
Only a next-door neighbor, Mrs. Gunderson, orthopedic-soled shoes clunking on the floor.
Jog to your door. Slam it behind you. Breathe.
Breathe until you have enough energy.
Fall into the kitchen. Whip open the refrigerator. Let the cool air spill over you.
This is your ritual.
Every day, you, Shawn Spencer, live in fear.
You aren't sure what or who you are scared of, only the why of it, you are certain.
You are essentially being hunted.
You are being hunted because you are a psychic.
Shawn Spencer knows that the irony is not lost on him.
He had spent six years traipsing around Santa Barbara, selling the SBPD and others on the lie that he was, yes, psychic. He popped in and out of crime scenes for years, throwing his body onto nearby surfaces and proclaiming 'the spirits' were plying him with information about the city's latest criminals.
Then he got struck by lightning. And then he actually became psychic.
Now he spends his days hiding in the cracks and corners of New York City. It's an area big enough to get lost in which is exactly what Shawn intends to do.
Shawn had had to leave Santa Barbara because soon after the discovery of his newfound psychic abilities, mysterious…people…started to appear in his line of sight. He would go to a coffee shop and crouch in front of the glass pastry case and see the reflection of someone hovering at his shoulder. Crossing a street, a shadow would loom overhead. It got to a point where he couldn't deny it anymore: he was being watched.
Someone must have picked up on the fact that Shawn had never actually been psychic all those years because if they had assumed that, he would have had these problems far earlier. It was only months after the discovery of his new abilities that the shadows were following him.
Of course, there were other details in the whole story. The psychic ability hadn't presented itself for a long time until after other odd things occurred, including him getting shot and then healing instantaneously, coughing out the bullet into his palm.
New York City wasn't symbolic of anything for Shawn and there were no comforting qualities he sought for there. When he walked up to the ticket counter at the airport, it was the first city that rolled off his tongue like something sweet.
Once in the city, he located a cramped apartment on the outskirts of Brooklyn and paid off the rent with cash he had been storing in an old cereal box on top of the fridge in the Psych office. He spent weeks hovering around the inner makings of the city, sliding in and out of bookstores and bakeries, never staying in an area long enough to be recognized or identified.
Gus and his father plagued him with phone calls, peppering his days with urgent voice mails and text messages, e-mails. His phone vibrated and pinged so often that he eventually switched it off and subsequently dropped it in a river, disappointed to be throwing up a wall between that life and this one. He had to do it, of course but it didn't stop it from being a pang in his chest or his stomach, a memory with a switch.
Moving to a bigger city helped Shawn blend in…for a little while. Weeks into his stay, he went to a no-name coffee shop and at the front of the line, felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
When Shawn had gotten struck by lightning, his body had responded in a peculiar way. He had been able to see and hear from far distances, jump high, heal fast and had abnormal strength. Those abilities had dissipated, making way for the psychic ability that hadn't yet wavered. However, some of the powers had harbored somewhere in his body, flaring up at odd intervals.
It was one of those times when Shawn felt the presence in the coffee shop. He might not have been able to pick the man out in a crowd but being that he and the stranger were some of the only people in the place; he could tell right away what this man was after.
To be perfectly honest, Shawn wasn't sure what 'they' were after. He had seen enough movies to have a general assumption but it wasn't as if he wanted to explore that any further. All he knew was that he felt a presence that hadn't been there before, right after the discovery of his psychic abilities.
Thankfully, the run-ins with these mysterious men in the city were sparse. Shawn's psychic abilities extended to hearing voices before they spoke, seeing actions before they were enacted and, at the foreboding times, talking with those who were already dead.
Most times, Shawn would not sleep as well as he used to. He would cocoon himself in cotton sheets until his limbs were immobile and lay awake, blinking. He began to dream less and less now, because when he slept, he saw visions. More often than not, they were ordinary things, simple little details: a pretzel cart guy stubbing his toe on a sewer grate, Shawn's neighbor knocking on his door to request an egg or even things of Shawn himself, unearthing an empty shampoo bottle in the shower.
His 'visions' are not nearly as elaborate as he previously claimed them to be. Sometimes, though, he would shut his eyes and a kaleidoscope of events would splay across them. He would wake up, panting and throw the sheets aside.
He would get flashes of men looming over him, cold metal and rattling noises. It never made sense to him but often he would see one of the men, jogging after him in a bookstore or on the sidewalk. He would shelter himself that day from society, certain that if he avoided the situation, it would never come to fruition.
It usually never did but…today is not one of those days.
Shawn decides to go to the library today because quite honestly, he doesn't have a TV in his new apartment yet and can't think of much else to do. He sifts through History and Autobiographies, Fiction and Adventure, finally succumbing to Science Fiction, which was the only genre of novel he had ever read as a child.
At a Maplewood table, he settles down with a dog-eared paperback and then surreptitiously glances around himself: one woman, browsing through the Mysteries section, a man at the front desk, chatting amicably with the older librarian and a mid-twenties man flanking Shawn's right, flicking through a newspaper with disgust and swigging an espresso.
Shawn inwardly sighs with relief. He has learned to appreciate when a space is sparsely occupied. A surplus of people contained the ability to camouflage and go undetected. Shawn is talented at picking out the minor details and exposing the necessary, but in a place like New York City, there sometimes are too many people for Shawn to really pay attention to.
He thumbs through the novel he chose, not exactly reading, but glancing at the words. He thinks that he needs to get a job. It doesn't have to be under the table and it wouldn't be possible, anyway. Jobs that require no ID or social security number only exist in movies.
Finally, he manages to read one page of the book and then two. Reading has always been a laborious project for Shawn, even in childhood. It is work that can be extended to things of far heavier interest, like stealing his father's car, for instance. At the memory, Shawn's smirk droops. He thinks of Henry and his disapproving gaze. Even though he and his father had been like fire and gasoline, like one of them was a match waiting to get a drop on the other, he still felt a certain longing for him. He can't go back, though. Not yet.
It is when Shawn scoots back from the table to exchange his current book for a different one or perhaps to get lunch, maybe, that it happens. He is standing, mid-thought, when a tall, Caucasian man with two day's growth of beard and virtually hairless head slips out of the Young Adult section, eyes directly on Shawn. The first thought Shawn has is, oh, he looks like Jason Statham and the second, of course, is: run.
Admittedly, Shawn hadn't been in the best shape in Santa Barbara. In the beginning, when he and Gus had first established Psych, he'd been lithe and limber, mostly due to malnourishment. He ate, but only when necessary or sometimes not even then. Once money came in from various cases and consultations, he ate all the time, even when he wasn't particularly hungry, just because he could. Now, however, exercise is a necessity. Running is something he rises every morning to do and his long and lithe body has slowly re-emerged.
So now, when Shawn has to run away from something or someone, he can, very efficiently. He does so now, nearly knocking over his chair and dropping his book onto the floor. He breaks through the double-doored entrance and pounds his way onto the sidewalk, bypassing a woman hawking fake Rolex watches. He looks behind him briefly, which is a mistake, but he does it anyway. The Jason Statham look-alike is gaining on him, shoving aside the knockoff Rolex vendor who tries to jump for his attention by thrusting a watch in his face. Shawn loses time by looking back but gains it again when two men carrying a large mattress across an intersection obstruct the look-alike from getting any closer to Shawn.
Shawn nearly whoops in delight but doesn't stop running, continuing on, passing between various types of people: businessmen on Bluetooth headsets, tourists in oversized 'I HEART NY' t-shirts and women in high heels so sharp they can cut ice. He can hear the startled cries and outraged shouts of various citizens as the look-alike storms after Shawn, shoving aside people with unabashed enthusiasm. He is even closer to Shawn, close enough to grab onto the collar of his shirt but Shawn ducks at the last second, skirting around an elderly couple posing for a caricature artist in front of an advertisement for Ray's Pizza.
Comically, Shawn realizes his mistake when he runs into a loading dock for a pharmacy. He is at a dead end and he glares at the red brick building in front of him, foreboding with darkened windows. "Damn it," he whispers. He swivels around, feeling the look-alike and faces him with a blank expression. If he has to do this, he won't give the man the satisfaction of showing him fear.
Silence sits between them and blankets the surrounding space. Finally, Shawn can't bear it any longer and he blurts, "What do you want?"
The look-alike doesn't say anything for a long moment, leaving Shawn to wonder if he should make a break for it. Finally, the man says, "I want to help you."
Shawn cocks his head, certain he has heard wrong. "You want to…what?"
"Help," Not-really-Jason-Statham says slowly.
Shawn doesn't know how to respond to this. "Uh…"
"You're being followed," the other man says.
"By you!" Shawn exclaims, arm thrusting out in agitation.
Not-really-Jason-Statham shakes his head. "It is not me that you should worry about," he says solemnly and Shawn feels something within him tighten and constrict.
"What is that supposed to mean?" he demands, unable to stop himself. Asking the Big Questions, especially with people like this, usually never work out. He's spoken with enough criminals and convicts to know that information comes out in trickles, not in waves.
The look-alike stares at him and then steps away, making as if to run away.
"Wait," Shawn pleads.
"I'm not the one you're supposed to be running away from," the look-alike continues. "I can't even pose a threat."
Shawn's eyebrow arches, questioning the statement.
The Jason Statham look-alike tilts his head at Shawn and slowly, he shimmers away, body disappearing in a hazy glow that makes Shawn shield his eyes.
"What," Shawn says, "the hell." So Jason Statham was not in fact Jason Statham or a guy that liked to dress up as him. He is a spirit. Shawn has encountered a few spirits since his arrival to NYC and it's extremely unsettling. He used to lament about his conversations with 'the spirits' when he worked for the SBPD, about the agony and the misery but never had thought those things would actually be true.
Once Jason Statham is gone, Shawn feels unbelievably cold. This happens when he talks with the spirits, as if they leave a residual emptiness behind. He swivels around, hoping not to see anyone walking by and thankfully, there is no one. He starts walking forward, not intent on going anywhere but desperately wanting to stave off the impending sorrow, something that never fails to make him feel as if he is hollow.
So, Shawn figures, sidestepping a woman carrying a garbage bag overflowing with Beanie Babies, Jason Statham is a spirit. This means, obviously, that he never crossed over, as they say in Ghost Whisperer. This also means that Jason Statham relies on Shawn to help him. He had claimed to want to help Shawn but with what? Does he know about the men that have been following him?
Exhausted, Shawn slips into a nearby Starbucks, not vying for a caffeine fix but mainly just desperate for a public area, where no one can approach him without making a scene. He makes his order and then settles into a table, slipping on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Shawn had had the ability to see from extremely far distances but now it has waned significantly – so much so, that now and again he needs to use glasses to see properly. He spreads open a newspaper and grabs his coffee when it's called.
The spirit must have come to him about the situation he is currently in. If Shawn has to guess, he can assume that Jason Statham had some interaction with one of the men and then something horrible happened. At the thought, Shawn feels a knot in his stomach. He has never actually spoken to the men that follow him like shadows; he has never felt the inclination to ask, 'Oh, hey, did you want to murder me or take me out to dinner? Because I happen to know a great restaurant called Red Robin!'
He's never been good at summoning spirits – that's for the necromancers and Shawn isn't even sure that they exist. But the curiosity about the spirit that had loomed over him at the library is chipping away at his resolve. He has to find a way to contact him. Shawn knocks back the rest of his coffee and bolts out of the space, determined this time to chase after someone, instead of always being the one that is chased.
Shawn never said goodbye to anyone when he left Santa Barbara. He waved at Juliet when he drove by her in the SPBD parking lot but that doesn't really count, as he had told her he was making a quick smoothie run and would be back in twenty minutes.
He never even hinted to Gus that he was on his way out. He hopes that Gus can find some way to understand or maybe pick up the subtle clues that Shawn had spread along the way to New York. He'd had to ditch his Norton (he kept it safely ensconced in the Psych office, knowing Gus will take care of it) because he wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible.
Though Shawn had many ties in Santa Barbara, he feels guiltiest about never saying goodbye to his father. He had tried to, days before his departure; he'd been standing in his father's kitchen, about to eat hamburgers and onion rings, a classic Spencer meal. Shawn had opened his mouth, words threatening to spill over and pool around him like a river, but his mouth felt stopped up with cotton, his tongue weighed down by all that he had to say. He'd ended up making some cutting remark about the feminine-smelling hand soap in the bathroom and Henry had said something about Shawn not even owning hand soap at his own place, which had ultimately been true.
Though Henry and Shawn had always been opposing forces, their relationship had mended somewhat when Shawn was five years into his psychic detective work. He and Henry had found a way to work beside each other, instead of simply around each other. Shawn fears that his abrupt absence will send some signal to Henry that he had never meant any of it all and Santa Barbara had just been another pit stop to him. It hadn't been but Shawn can't go back and tell him now. He knows how these things work. The men will demand Shawn's energy, the extent of his abilities and his determination. They'll run him dry like a sponge and still want more. Then when he will try to squirm away, slip through the fissures and disappear, they'll go at the only thing he has: his family.
The thought of Henry or Gus or even Juliet suffering due to his own misfortunate is something he will never let happen. His mother suffered once from the trappings of his job and it had set something aflame in Shawn, a burning desire to not simply protect everyone, but shield them if he must, stand in the way of fate and disaster. If he had told Henry or Gus or yes, Juliet, about all that was happening, they would want to call in the cavalry and keep him sequestered in some safe house and it would never work. Shawn can feel that truth weighing down his stomach like a brick.
So he had had to leave. He'd left little clues in the corners that he could: a pineapple-patterned washcloth tucked in Henry's linen closet, all of Lassiter's favorite gum from his desk drawer chewed up and artfully splayed out on construction paper spelling 'LASSIE' and of course, the most damning, a photo Shawn had taken, meant to look like a 'selfie' of him in front of a Dippin' Dots ice cream cart in downtown Santa Barbara but actually captured one of the mysterious men that followed him, looking almost directly at the photo lens. That, Shawn had slipped inside a box of frozen waffles in the Psych office freezer. It was a long shot, but it was as close as Shawn could get to telling Gus about what was going on.
Henry and Gus had known about the mysterious abilities that Shawn had been dealing with – they knew that his vision and hearing suddenly grew impeccable and his strength increased tenfold. They had both watched when he coughed a bullet out of his mouth that had previously been lodged in his chest. They had even both accompanied him to Peter, a doctor that Shawn had met and offered to help with his situation. He had run every test he could think of and Shawn was seemingly fine. Then, however, after the situation with the robbery ring, Shawn's abilities seemed to lessen significantly. Peter had surmised that it was Shawn's body simply running out of the energy that had been zapped into him when he'd gotten struck by lightning. Shawn had been disappointed but only weeks later discovered a new ability: clairvoyance.
So Henry and Gus had known about his abilities and it would have been just as easy to say, 'Oh, hey, I just realized I'm psychic, actually' and then they would of course encourage him to go back to Peter and then…and then what, though? The men still would have come and he still would have been followed except that too many people would have been tied in as well, folding into the story in ways he didn't want. In the end, he never told anyone because, even now, he still isn't sure if he even really is psychic and if he is, he wants it to be his own secret.
He intends to go back to Santa Barbara. It may be years from now, but he'll go. That seems to be one of the only things he is sure of anymore.
The best way to contact a spirit is probably not standing in an alleyway, hollering, "HEY! Hello? Are you still there?" This is of course New York City, however, and a strange man standing around yelling at no one in particular is not an odd sight. People shuffle by wordlessly while Shawn attempts to resurrect a spirit that spoke to him three days ago. Spirits are always so damn vague, Shawn thinks bitterly. If he said anything of substance, maybe Shawn wouldn't be trying to get answers out of him in broad daylight, in the middle of a loading dock for a pharmacy.
The thing is, he is this desperate. He has no idea how to summon spirits and it isn't like he knows anyone who does. Shawn isn't the type of man to walk into an occult shop and ask a Wiccan for advice.
Shawn stares at the exposed brick of the building, wondering if he should retrace his steps and perhaps go back to the library where the spirit had been in the first place. Maybe the spirit was some kind of literary scholar and liked to read in between thinking about life and, well, death.
Just as he is about to head in the direction of the library, Jason Statham's voice floats in the space between them. "I only go there on Wednesdays," he says, making Shawn's shoulders hunch up to his ears in fear. He turns around and sees Jason Statham lounging on the loading dock, arms crossed behind his head like he'd been lying there the entire time.
Shawn doesn't say anything and Jason Statham laughs heartily before standing up. "Christ, you're no fun," he complains. "You know, I've seen you running around here the past few days trying to get a hold on me."
"And you never thought to just show up?" Shawn can't help but be annoyed. This spirit is a wise-ass. It reminds him of his days with the SBPD.
Jason Statham shrugs. "It was fun to watch you sweat."
Shawn agitatedly rubs a hand over his forehead. "Oh, thanks," he mutters dryly.
"Anyway," Jason Statham says. "I figured you'd want my advice because I've been noticing the men are around again."
"The men?" Shawn questions. "The ones that have been following me?"
Jason nods his head. "They're onto you; buddy and you're not all that good at hiding."
"I resent that," Shawn says. "I was raised by one of the best detectives I know." At this, he fights back a familiar tug in his throat.
"You must not know many detectives," Jason Statham walks closer to Shawn and crosses his arms. "Listen, you should probably go."
"I just got here!"
"No," Jason rolls his eyes. "Go out of New York. Go somewhere else."
"I came to New York to get away from where I was last," Shawn explains.
Jason shrugs. "Then move again. I lived in a few places before I had ended up here."
Shawn's lip twitches. He has to ask. "What happened to you?"
Jason's mouth sets in a firm line. "This isn't about me."
"It most certainly is," Shawn argues. "You chased me all the way down here the other day, only to spew some vague bullshit my way. I ran away from everything I had, to this place and I want to know what the fuck is going on!"
The outburst unsettles Jason. He steps back, building distance between himself and Shawn. "I can tell you," he says slowly. "But I'm still trying to make sense of it myself."
Shawn nods his assent.
"I was being followed, too," Jason begins, "but I wasn't like you. I mean, I was, but I wasn't psychic." He shoots his head out toward the loading dock and the various trash – soda cans and chip bags, etc – lift up and suspend into the air, hovering ten feet above the ground. He swings his arm down and the trash crashes onto the concrete.
Shawn opens his mouth and then closes it, surprised at what he saw. He hadn't thought there wasn't anyone else like him except that…he kind of had. He had been a victim of circumstance; he had gotten struck by lightning and then developed an entirely different life for himself. No one else seemed to have that story. He had to have been the only one. But he wasn't. Jealousy and fascination cross within him.
"I was an insurance salesman in Chicago," Statham says. "I was someone nobody paid much attention to, you know? That was how I knew I was being followed."
Shawn has a sinking feeling he knows where this is going.
"I made sure never to do any…" he waves his hand around, indicating his display of telekinetic abilities. "In public or even at home. My wife, she had no idea and I was afraid that if I told her she would run away screaming."
Shawn can empathize.
"So I went to work one day and this huge, hulking guy with like The Rock kind of muscles, he steps in front of me and asks, 'are you Wyatt Henderson?' and of course I say yes, because, I mean, I was."
Shawn flinches at the use of the past tense.
"Then he lunges at me, I mean really fucking goes for it. He gets ahold of my shirt collar and all I'm thinking is, this is it, you know? Here I die, right in front of the office, like I always wanted." Wyatt lets out a rueful laugh. "Somehow, I managed to slip out of his grasp. I got away. Barely." His eyes flit up to meet Shawn's. "And I kept getting away. Barely. From city to city, state to state. Until I got to New York."
Wyatt doesn't say anything and Shawn has to ask, "What happened when you got to New York?"
Wyatt shook his head. "You should get out of here, Shawn."
Shawn crosses his arms. "You know, it's funny hearing that coming from a man who, a few days earlier, told me that you 'didn't pose a threat'."
Wyatt clenches his jaw. "I am not threatening you. I'm warning you. Shawn, what other proof do you need that you can't stay in one place for this long?" his arms splay out, presenting himself.
Shawn hesitates. "Listen, I just…I just don't know what to believe anymore."
"Believe me," Wyatt insists, gesturing to himself. "Shouldn't I be enough proof for you? I'm fucking dead, Shawn, and you will be too, if you don't do something."
Shawn's teeth grind together in irritation. This is something that always annoys him about the spirits. "How is running away doing something? If I keep it up, I'll never stop."
Wyatt levels Shawn with a gaze that makes his stomach churn. "It's never going to stop…is it?" he asks wearily.
Wyatt shakes his head.
Shawn walks away wordlessly, not looking back at Wyatt, who opens his mouth, closes it and then finally evaporates away, smoke curling around the space he'd occupied.
Shawn googles crime rates in various cities for a baseline. Chicago isn't a great place – though he'd love to go. He has a strange passion for large cities – the lights and the bustle, the activities available in any space seem to entice him more than anything else.
He stays up well into the night researching a new city. He's not even sure he will go – he knows Wyatt is right; he can't stay in the city forever. He doesn't even want to go anywhere, he wants to be back in Santa Barbara, even wants his dad to kick his ass, bitch him out for leaving with no goodbye. It's not in the cards, it's unrealistic to want things like this, but Shawn wants it all the same.
Shawn thinks maybe Virginia will be a fresh start. He prints out a few ideas at a nearby shop and looks at the papers in his hands. More blueprints for more plans. Sighing, he opens the door of the printing shop and comes face to face with one of the men that has been following him since Santa Barbara.
Fuck.
"You got that right," the man opposite him says, Shawn not having realized he'd spoken aloud. The man delivers a sharp punch to his cheek and he wavers, grappling to hold onto something but the man kicks him in the gut and he wheezes, collapsing onto the pavement.
"Take him," the man says to someone from a few feet away.
Shawn scrambles backwards, hands scraping over rocks and rubble on the ground. He looks frantically around him, but the area's deserted; it's four-thirty in the morning. He tries his damndest to summon any of the abilities he used to possess like oxygen but nothing is happening. He shuts his eyes, not wanting to see it end this way.
At that moment, garbage cans fall over inexplicably and a street light crashes down nearby the men, sparks shooting off the pavement. One man is upended, his legs splayed out in front of him. He shouts, desperately trying to land back on the ground, but he twists higher and higher into the air.
"What are you doing!" one of the men aims a gun at Shawn. "Stop it!"
Shawn holds up his hands, as if to say that it is not his fault but then Wyatt materializes in front of him. "You get into these messes a lot, don't you?" he asks. He spins around before Shawn can respond to fight off the other man holding the gun. He roughly elbows him in the chest and slams a fist under his chin. Wyatt snatches the gun and fires a bullet straight up.
Shawn flinches from the noise but watches in amusement as the man spinning in the air gets disoriented and eventually drops onto the pavement. The other eventually sprints down the road, looking back in terror at Shawn.
Wyatt nudges at Shawn. "Hey, this is the part where we run."
So they do.
Wyatt spends ten minutes trying to convince Shawn not to go to Chicago in the line at Shake Shack. It definitely looks odd, considering Shawn doesn't appear to be talking to anyone, but to a New Yorker, he is just another oddball.
"Maybe I was wrong before," Wyatt says, jumping in front of Shawn before he can move ahead in the long line. "You probably shouldn't go."
Shawn moves ahead. "I'm not sure."
"You almost died," Wyatt protests.
Shawn shrugs. "But I didn't." He is, of course lying. He doesn't talk much to others anymore. As soon as Wyatt had stepped in, he had vowed not to leave the city, at least not for a few days. It's always fun to sharpen his deceptive skills, however.
"Shawn," Wyatt jumps at him again, as if he is trying to shake some sense into him.
Shawn approaches the order window and lists off what he wants. He turns to Wyatt and asks, "You need anything?"
Wyatt rolls his eyes. "So you're just going to ignore me, is that it?"
Shawn moves aside with his order receipt and looks Wyatt in the eyes. "Calm down," he says casually. "Of course I'm staying."
Wyatt's shoulders slump in relief.
"At least for a few days," Shawn amends.
Wyatt's shoulders hunch back up to meet his ears.
Shawn shrugs off his friend's concern. "Maybe if you actually told me what happened to you, I would be a little more concerned."
Wyatt's expression darkens. "I'm not talking about that."
"Then I guess I don't know what to tell you," Shawn accepts his food order and makes his way down the street, planning on walking the sixty or so blocks back to his apartment. He stops at a nearby stand and purchases a baseball cap and pulls his reading glasses out of his shirt pocket. If anybody is around, looking for him, at least he will look like a slight variation of himself.
"You can't expect me to tell you that," Wyatt huffs, trying to keep up with Shawn's hurried gait. At an intersection, he looks longingly at the French fries in Shawn's paper bag. Being a spirit has its pitfalls.
Shawn pivots to face him. "And why not?"
At first, Wyatt looks angry – his chest is rising and falling and his hands are clenches into tight fists. Then, he seems to falter. "Because…because I can barely remember it myself."
Shawn stops in his tracks, slamming into a man wearing a plastic coat and gold cowboy boots. "You mean you don't remember?"
Wyatt shakes his head. "I mean, a little bit. I think. But…a lot of it is just, not there, in a way? Some of it I know for sure happened and some of it I can't tell."
Shawn resists the urge to pull a French fry out of the bag he has in his hands. Speaking with spirits always works up his appetite. "I feel like I should be more concerned," he finally admits. "The people following me should always have an idea of where I am. And yet, here I am, out in the open." He takes out a fry and chews thoughtfully. "Kind of cavalier, isn't it?"
Wyatt cocks his head thoughtfully. "Yes and no," he finally says. "You picked a good place to be. There's a lot of area to cover in the city."
"Still," Shawn turns a corner and lifts his burger out of the paper bag. "I think I should consider where to go next." He turns to hear Wyatt's opinion but the spirit looks upset.
"What?" Shawn asks, wanting to stop but not able to due to the cluster of native New Yorkers pressing in on them from all sides.
Wyatt keeps his eyes straight ahead and then finally says, "See you around, Shawn," before shimmering out of sight.
"Hey!" Shawn shouts. "What the hell?"
The psychic walks home, confused and irritated. It's difficult to pick up on who Wyatt really is and Shawn is finding it even more difficult due to the area he is in. He moved to NYC for anonymity and he received it in spades. But being camouflaged in a sea of people has its downside: he feels like he can't see, hear or have visions with all of the voices colliding around him. Wyatt had wanted him to go before for his protection and maybe he should have.
He gets to his cramped apartment in Williamsburg and watches Judge Judy for three hours in shell-shocked silence.
On the way home, it hits him that he'd almost been captured today. He wasn't sure what would have happened to him, but due to Wyatt's spirit floating around, he's going to surmise it wouldn't have been good. Somehow, he had managed to push that fear and shock away for a few hours. Once the realization arrives to him, he does nothing but sits in front of the TV and possessively keeps his eyes on the door to his apartment. Every squeak of the movements of the tenants above him has him jumping until his eyes droop and he falls asleep into a bag of donut holes.
Shawn jolts awake at 5:30AM, his stomach roiling. He makes a cup of instant coffee and then heads outside to the main lobby. He fumbles in his hunter-green jacket and produces a pack of Camel cigarettes. Shawn doesn't smoke – or at least, not anymore. He certainly partook in the activity in high school, when smoking in the bathrooms was considered a hobby. He hasn't since then but he bought the pack a few months before he'd left Santa Barbara. Shawn had thought they might come in handy.
He quickly flicks the pink Bic lighter, which then emits the flame. He sucks in a deep breath and thinks of Gus, who had once found the lighter laying around the Psych office. He'd questioned Shawn but the psychic had only said he had it 'for reasons.'
Shawn is only outside for a few minutes before Wyatt suddenly jumps in his line of shit.
"Shit!" Shawn shouts, dropping his cigarette in surprise.
"You smoke?" Wyatt seems disappointed. "Are you trying to kill yourself?" he runs a hand over his neck in annoyance.
Shawn flicks the cigarette into a nearby garbage can and lights up another. He blows the smoke in Wyatt's face, smirking.
"Oh, that's nice," Wyatt huffs, "treat the man who saved your life this way, I see how it is."
At the mention, Shawn's expression darkens. The cigarette smolders between his fingers, untouched for several moments. Finally, he takes two quick drags off of it before stomping that out with his loafer. "I'm just thinking of what to do," Shawn admits. "Obviously what I had planned before is out of the question."
Wyatt raises an eyebrow, as if asking Shawn to elaborate.
"I dropped my papers on the ground when the two guys showed up," Shawn explains. "One of them had a map to Virginia. They're going to suspect that's where I'm headed."
Wyatt shifts his weight from foot to foot and then finally blurts, "I don't think you should go."
Shawn stops staring at a beer bottle cap on the ground and looks up. "Why did you change your mind?" he asks. Wyatt had been insistent that he leave before and suddenly leaving was the worst thing he could do?
"Ugh," Wyatt groans. "Don't make me say it, Shawn."
Slowly, a grin emerges on Shawn's face. "Wait," he begins, enjoying the moment. "Don't tell me…"
"Shawn!" Wyatt warns, hands flying to cover his ears.
"You want me around!" Shawn says gleefully. "You like me, don't you, Wyatt?"
Wyatt levels Shawn with a stern glare. "Stop."
Shawn can't stop grinning as he walks back into his apartment, Wyatt on his heels. "What are you doing up so early?" Wyatt demands.
"Can't sleep," Shawn heads for the staircase, suddenly remembering the lone breakfast burrito he still has in his freezer.
Wyatt slides in front of him before he ascends the staircase. "Were you going to leave without telling me?"
Shawn steps around Wyatt. "I would have said goodbye."
Wyatt follows him up the stairs. "So you're still leaving?"
Shawn opens the door to his apartment. "I don't know." He sits down at his ramshackle kitchen table and puts his feet up. "It doesn't matter where I am; eventually I'll run out of money."
Wyatt sits down next to him. "Oh."
"Yep," Shawn says, "and I don't know about you, but I don't know of a place that would hire a runaway psychic with no personal identification or permanent address."
"You can do freelance work," Wyatt suggests. "Are you a good writer?"
Shawn's expression distorts, like he has sucked on a lemon. "Uh, no." Suddenly, he sits up straighter in his chair. "I could do what I did before…and who knows…maybe…"
Wyatt raises his eyebrows. "What?"
"Before I worked as a psychic for the SBPD, I called in hints about crimes to the hotline. I could usually tell what outcome a crime would have by looking at expressions or what their voices sounded like, basically." Shawn finds himself getting animated. "I made enough to get by."
Wyatt scratches at his ear. "Do you think that's a good idea? Won't that make you stand out?"
Shawn shrugs. "I'll call from a pay phone."
"I don't know…" Wyatt says uneasily. "You had a close call yesterday. Why would you want to risk that again?"
"They're going to tap public phones?" Shawn asks. "All public phones?"
Wyatt shrugs. "They always knew where I was."
Shawn shudders involuntarily.
"See?" Wyatt points at him. "You're already scared."
"Wyatt," Shawn says teasingly. "Are you worried about me?"
Wyatt huffs out a sigh and then shimmers out of view.
"Aw, come on!" Shawn complains.
Wyatt jumps back in his line of sight and crosses his arms. "You gotta stop," he says.
Shawn walks over to the television and flicks it on. "All I have to do is watch some news reports, read the guilt off of the people interviewed and call in the hints." He plops down on the couch and unearths a stale Pop-Tart from behind a cushion. "Ugh," he sniffs. "Blueberry." He shoves the entire thing in his mouth.
Wyatt goes to sit next to him. "Yeah, this won't end poorly at all."
Shawn winks. "It never does."
So, Shawn goes along with his plan. He watches the news for six hours as Wyatt appears and disappears in various spots in his apartment.
"Don't you have anything to do?" Shawn asks in irritation as Wyatt blocks the television screen.
"In case you haven't forgotten," Wyatt says, obnoxiously moving his arms up and down to block Shawn's view, "I'm dead, so no."
"Well," Shawn reaches for his coat. "I saw something a couple minutes back. I called it in while you were messing around in my bathroom. What were you doing, anyway?"
Wyatt hides his guilty expression. "Nothing."
"Sure," Shawn reaches for his keys and opens the door. "Come on, we have to go bust a guy for selling drugs. He has 'no idea' how they got dropped on his doorstep." Shawn rolls his eyes.
Wyatt smirks. "How do you even know how to do this shit?"
Shawn pauses at the threshold of the door. "I had a good teacher," he says faintly.
Wyatt seems to recognize the expression Shawn has and he steps out ahead of Shawn, looking solemn. "C'mon," he finally says. "Let's go."
As Wyatt suspected, everything goes to shit.
But first:
Shawn makes it to the nearby prescient. Wyatt follows him up the steps and through the doors and Shawn stops him suddenly. "Wait, you can't go with me," he says.
Wyatt raises an eyebrow.
"OH, right," Shawn laughs. He almost forgot that one else could see the man.
So Shawn goes inside, tells his name, waits to be called, delivers the information and receives the check. The amount of money is barely enough to cover the cost of groceries, but Shawn figures if done a few times, eventually it will pay for rent.
Shawn and Wyatt walk out of the prescient, Wyatt running at Shawn's heels like an excitable puppy. "I can't believe it's that easy," he exclaims. "How do they even know to trust you? Why do you get paid? Where are we going?"
Shawn groans in frustration and Wyatt grins. He had to get him back for Shawn teasing him this morning about being concerned.
"I will answer your questions when we make it to IHOP," Shawn says, stepping around a man selling illegally-downloaded DVDs on a card table.
"Ugh, I hate pancakes," Wyatt complains as they take a shortcut through an alleyway between a drugstore and a used clothing store.
Suddenly, Shawn stops in his tracks. "Shit," he whispers.
Wyatt looks up and sees one of the men they had encountered the previous day. He is standing, arms crossed, looking directly at Shawn.
"Shawn," Wyatt says urgently, "let's go!" they turn around and the other man is blocking their way.
"Don't worry," Wyatt says, rolling up his sleeves. "I can help."
"Probably gonna need it," Shawn mumbles.
Right then, a third man steps into view, taller and more angry-looking than the other two. He leers at Shawn and the psychic turns to face his friend but he suddenly isn't there.
"Wyatt!" Shawn hisses.
One of the men steps forward and grabs Shawn by the shirt collar.
"Alright, c'mon guys, do we really have to…" Shawn's voice trails off when he realizes the man is holding up a syringe.
Fuck. Shawn scrambles to escape, throwing himself backwards onto the concrete. "Wyatt!" he shouts again. Nothing. He starts running, despite the other man standing at the end of the path, blocking his way. He knocks over a row of garbage cans but it does nothing to faze the two men sprinting after him.
Shawn's shoulder gets jerked back and he fights the strong grip. "It would be really cool if you could help me out, Wyatt," he shouts. In a fit of desperation, Shawn attempts to channel one of his abilities, perhaps strength or agility or anything. Unfortunately, Shawn feels helpless, even more so than he had the previous day.
The man gripping the syringe pushes him back and Shawn slams into the exposed brick siding of the building. "C'mon, man," Shawn hisses, attempting to wriggle his way out of the grip of the other man, who is now holding both of his shoulders.
"Alright, that's it," Shawn warns the two men, who look at him perplexed. Shawn opens his mouth and lets out a loud scream. "HELP, SOMEBODY!"
"Shit, shut him up," the man at the end of the path shouts over to them.
The man not gripping Shawn yanks his shirt sleeve back, the syringe getting dangerously close to his skin.
"God damn it, what do you want from me?" Shawn shouts. He thinks himself lame for doing it, but he delivers a kick to the other man's groin. He drops onto the ground and Shawn inches his way to the right, attempting to get himself away from the needle. The man from the end of the path runs up to the one on the ground. "Finish it," he shouts.
The man grabs at Shawn's hair and Shawn hisses, stumbling and falling onto the ground. He rolls his body sideways, escaping from under the man in his crouched position. He is about to get up off his knees and run to the other end when the man runs after him and tackles him.
Shawn lands on the ground and huffs out a breath. The other man quickly sits on top of him and while Shawn wildly attempts to dislodge himself from the position, the man injects the contents of the syringe into Shawn's arm. Shawn's other arm slowly stops swinging frantically. His body relaxes into the pavement. Eyes wide, he mutters, "Fucking Wyatt," before finally passing out.