Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: Thank yous go to zookitty and DragonLadie for the beta. My thanks also go to my friend Sydney and MusicalLuna1 for their support as well as everyone else who has helped me out through this long and drawn out process.
Warning: Character death.
He's dead.
But that makes no sense.
Shawn Spencer cannot be dead.
Staring down at the lifeless body on the ground he knows it's true.
Shawn Spencer is dead.
A distant echo of police sirens ring true to the beating of his heart: chaotic and maelstrom.
Because Shawn Spencer is dead.
But that isn't possible.
He sees it with his own eyes, and all he can do to keep himself upright is deny the sight burning itself onto his retina.
The clash of red on black asphalt; the bloody, grotesque, unnatural wound that tore through the man's throat in one deadly strike; the deep green eyes frozen forever between shock and doubt. His mouth is open slightly to draw in unneeded air. No more quick-witted jives will leave that once bottomless treasure-trove of replies.
One leg is arched outwards trying to escape the swamp of red liquid wiggling its way near. The other leg turns inwards, letting the blood seep into the tough navy fabric of his jeans now stained beyond recognition, the scarlet covering its true self with a newer, lesser, messier one. His green shirt is speckled with red, crumpled and disarranged. One hand is splayed across his chest, slathered in the sickly liquid continuing to pour from the unforgiving puncture in the man's throat. The opposite hand stays at his side, sitting there; his fingers curled ever so slightly as if holding onto air would have kept him grounded.
He can't turn away. It wasn't right. If this was how he was going to remember Spencer for the rest of his life there was no reason, no reason, not to remember him in this instance, even if it means tarnishing the image of the man he knew and accepted. He has to give him that. He can't turn away from him. Not now, not after Shawn pushed him out of the way.
"Spence…" His voice is lost to him, caught up in the wave of breath stalling at the opening of his mouth, unwilling to leave him.
The siren's approach and static mumblings from his radio are gaining on his senses.
"…Det… Las… …ort…" Snippets of the message make their way across the air, entering his muddled mind.
Shawn Spencer is dead! He tries to scream out while every other part of his body stalls.
Until he feels his body release and he begins to fall to his knees, crashing into the dusty, unforgiving soil. He scatters particles with a thack as his knees hit dry earth. He doesn't wince at the small and sharp pain. He can't let his eyes leave Shawn's face. Not even for a split second.
He crawls forward, not noticing the small trace of blood he's leaving on the ground from where he'd checked the younger man's pulse earlier. He wants to touch him again just to be sure, just in case… but he already knows. No amount of thinking otherwise can change what has happened. If he touches him now all he will be doing is disrupting a crime scene. That's all he is now, a crime scene waiting to be examined. He realizes wistfully before a rough, insensible laugh is able to escape his dry lips. A crime scene… my God, that's all he is now: a crime scene. More heinous laughter comes from deep within him, breaking out of him with a ravenous, unimaginable force. His laughter subsides and all that's left is a man bent over himself in despair, one corner of his eye staying with the victim of today's horrific act.
"Carlton." Someone is speaking to him. She enters part of his vision. Chief. When… Her hand is on his shoulder. She never… he thinks vaguely.
"We just got here." Her voice is stoic as she grips his shoulder harder, pinching tightly. A far away part of his mind notices.
There is a swarm surrounding the psychic detective now. He's dead… don't they get it? All they have done is obscure his view of Shawn. Why are they checking that he's dead? There's nothing more he can do; Shawn is gone from him now. He allows his eyes to wander into the Chief's, reading her own despair and the question trapped there.
"He wa– he shouldn– he pushed me to the side– he– he… the bullet was meant for– it's all my fault." The words fall from his mouth, leaving nothing more than a broken man in their wake.