Hopeless

A/N: The story is just what it sounds like.

Summary: This is a response to a challenge on Psych Fic. What would Shawn do if Gus got hurt?

Last warning – grab a tissue. You're gonna need it.

"Shawn?"

Henry Spencer looked to see his son sitting beside him in the cab of this truck, staring at nothing.

"We're there," Henry said. Shawn nodded blankly and tried pulling his tie a little tighter, but didn't move.

"Shawn," Henry said. "I know this is tough…but come on. We're going to be late."

Shawn nodded without hearing again and started trying to tighten his tie…again.

"Stop that," Henry said. But his Shawn hadn't really heard anything around him in days, and just kept pulling and messing with it until Henry grabbed hold of his wrists before he could strangle himself, and Shawn settled for just getting out of the cab without a word.

In all the movies, the star would walk out at this point into a cloudy, gloomy day, or raining, but it was a perfectly, sunny day, but not too bright – just bright enough – and with a gentle breeze…the guest of honor's favorite kind. It was bright and green everywhere, contrasting Shawn's blacker-than-black suit. For once, he made his clothes neat – even if everything was black which made it easy.

But he could enjoy it no more…after all, the guest-of-honor was in a coffin inside the church they were walking to right now.

Shawn sat in the front row seat, listening to the priest ramble on about the greatness of the man he never met, but never said a word.

Henry sat next to him, and almost felt his son's shaking from where he was.

Henry turned slightly and saw so many people here…and a majority did actually know the man inside the open coffin.

Henry turned back to see Shawn getting up and walking to the podium…his turn for the eulogy.

"Hello," Shawn said quietly, almost unheard. "I wasn't sure what to say…until I remembered I already said it in seventh grade…something about him. I figured…well...he always liked it."

Shawn reached under the podium and pulled out a small teddy bear that belonged to his dead friend, along with a seventeen-year-old piece of paper.

"Uh…well…My best friend is a teddy bear," Shawn said. His eyes became suspiciously bright, but he blinked it away. "On the outside, he's a little shy and a bit dorky, and made fun of all the time, yet on the inside, he's soft and warm and cuddly. But also, what most kids don't ever see, is that when you feel sad or bad, he's the one that's always there, just like a teddy bear. You can count on him always to do a little more than expected, and you never have to worry about where he is, because you can always know where to find him. My best friend's a teddy bear, and I wouldn't trade him for the world."

Shawn looked up from the piece of paper with a twelve-year-old's writing and swallowed air.

"It's true," he said. He patted the head of the smaller teddy bear on the podium. "He's still here. He believed in ghosts, so I think he's here, watching us. He brought all the friends and family he lost and they're up in the ceiling right now, watching us and cracking jokes about how now I'm the crybaby." Shawn looked up to the center of the high ceiling and waved, and many people in the audience did the same.

"I will always have him right here," Shawn said, clutching the bear close to his body. "I…I'm gonna miss you, buddy. I really am."

With that, Shawn walked off and back to his seat.

"Good word choice," Henry said. But he knew Shawn couldn't hear him – he was too busy staring at the small teddy bear in his hands.

Henry sighed at the sight of his son sitting at the bar.

"Shawn?"

The fake psychic looked up from the bar, and Henry glimpsed all the beers and vodka Shawn had managed to consume in the hour and a half since Henry last saw him.

"Oh…hey dad. Wazzup?"

"Nothing…just came by…"

"Jules sent you, didn't she?" Shawn asked. Almost angrily, he called out "Cindy!" and the bartender came. "Another beer…can…make it a double…"

The gorgeous young woman looked at Henry who was hovering behind Shawn, and he nodded.

"He can take one more," Henry said. He just hoped it would be the one to knock Shawn out.

A moment later, Henry was on a stool beside Shawn and opening a beer…which he had no plan of drinking.

"Shawn…are you all right?" Stupid question, but it would work.

"Yeah, yeah…go home."

"Not a chance, kid," Henry said. He looked over Shawn. He hadn't changed since the funeral – his shirt was just un-tucked, but the tie was tightened almost beyond belief. Henry wondered if that was for a reason and decided that as long as Shawn stayed with him, it didn't matter.

"Shawn? How much have you had?"

But it didn't really need an answer, as all Shawn had to do was vaguely gesture around him on the counter. There was a glass he was holding, half filled with vodka, two martini glasses (which Henry was sure were mainly drinks that the recently deceased had loved) and several beer bottles and cans that barricaded Shawn into his own, self-induced isolation.

"God, Shawn…how wasted can you get?"

"As much as I can get," he slurred out, lifting the glass up to his lips and draining what was left.

"Cindy!" he cried out. "'Nother beer…"

The young bartender looked at Henry with an eyebrow raised, and he nodded, and she turned around and reached under a counter.

"Shawn, gimme your car keys."

"Would like to do that…but the red-headed bitch down the counter took it."

Henry glanced over Shawn's slumped form and there was a red-headed bartender, but Cindy heard them and reached under the counter, and pulled out Shawn's keys and handed them to Henry.

"Thanks," Henry said gratefully. She smiled, nodded, and went off to deal with other customers.

"Come on, Shawn – lets go home."

Shawn looked up at him blearily, and the storm of emotions raging through his eyes made Henry milk every ounce of courage he could find in himself not to look away.

"No thanks," he mumbled.

"Shawn, if you have anymore alcohol, you'll kill yourself."

"Good," was all he said as he tipped the beer into his mouth and down his throat. Henry grabbed the beer and set it down immediately, away from Shawn's grasp, who feebly tried to reach for it.

"We're going," Henry said as sternly as he possibly could. Without giving Shawn a chance to resist, he hooked his hands under Shawn's arms and pulled him off the bar stool, before using one hand to sling Shawn's arm over his shoulder's, and the other to hold Shawn up by the waist.

"Dad…lemme go…"

"Not a chance, kid," Henry said. "Even with you thirty, I still have to look after you."

Henry glanced over at Shawn's bike in the parking lot and decided that they could come back to get it tomorrow, and somehow managed to get Shawn into the cab of his truck, though how he managed that he did not know.

He slowly started driving back and had the common decency to become almost unnaturally focused on driving as Shawn started trying to control the hitching in his breathing patterns.

Shawn calmed himself down soon enough, and Henry soon arrived back at his home, and Shawn tried to get out on his own, but the moment he shut the door, he lost balance and the only reason why his face didn't become an imprint of the driveway was that he had taken so long to escape the seat-belt that Henry was by his side when the door shut.

He grabbed Shawn in midair and started dragging him inside the house, and pretty soon had laid the mumbling man on his old bed.

"Shawn…get some rest. Sleep, all right?"

"No!" he said in an almost fearful way. Then, more subdued, he said, "No…"

"Why not?" Henry knew perfectly well why, but he had to try and make Shawn talk about it.

"B'cuz…every time…can't close my eyes…even when I blink…or don't blink…"

"Why?"

"It's my fault!" Shawn finally cried out. "He didn't want to go but I made him…like I always make him…and now he's dead!"

Shawn's breath hitched again, and Henry just sat there, watching.

"He's gone…" Shawn mumbled. "And it's all my fault."

Shawn realized he was in his old bedroom, and there was a picture of him and his best friend at graduation, standing there, holding up their diplomas like wands and making bunny ears behind each other's heads.

Shawn picked it up gingerly and stared at the picture.

"All my fault…" he mumbled. Suddenly he slammed the picture down on the table, and Henry immediately jumped into action when Shawn's hand was embedded with glass and covered in cut, and then blood, but Shawn just hissed out, "Don't touch me!"

Then, in an almost apologetic tone, whispered, "Please just leave me alone."

"Sorry, kid," Henry said softly. Normally he was not one to show affection this much, but he was sure that this was an exception. "I can't do that."

Shawn nodded and Henry could basically see the knot forming in his throat, and Shawn's breathing became rapid and shallow, but soon

Henry started getting worried as the breaths become quieter and shallower.

"Breathe, kid," Henry murmured. "Come on…"

But Shawn's breath just became softer and softer, until Henry wasn't entirely sure if he was breathing.

Henry did something he, in the back of his head, wished he had done more as a father – he took Shawn and hugged him close, rubbing large, gentle circles into his back. Shawn finally broke down and tears streamed down his face. Henry knew that before today, Shawn hadn't cried at all – this was a damn being broken after a monsoon.

He ignored the shaking he felt from his trembling son and ignored the growing wet spot on his shoulder, and focused on comforting his son.

He rested his chin on Shawn's head, and after what may have been an eternity, though by his watch only about five minutes (though he wasn't sure and didn't care), Shawn finally calmed down.

Henry wasn't sure how long, after that, he sat there, holding Shawn in his arms and rocking him back and forth, but soon he realized that his son was asleep. Reminiscent of almost two decades ago, he lay Shawn down and gently pulled the blanket up until his chest.

Henry went to his own room and changed into some shorts and a night shirt, but it took hours of worrying for him to finally fall asleep.

Henry woke up the next morning to the smell coffee, and someone tip-toeing through the kitchen. Shawn must've woken up and was trying to be as quiet as possible.

He took a deep breath and got up to see Shawn idly spreading some Smucker's over toast, once again not seeing – just letting his body run on auto-pilot.

"Hey."

Shawn dropped the toast and knife onto the plate, his body tensing, before he eased up and grabbed them again.

"I'm sorry," Shawn said without looking up. "About last night. I won't do it again."

"It's okay, kid."

"You always said no crying."

"I did say the exceptions involved pain and death. This one was both."

"If you're going to worry about me, don't – I'll be fine."

"Then why did I have to wait until you were asleep to re-bandage your hand?"

Shawn looked down at his right hand and looked back at his toast. He only had one slice, but Henry knew that compared to the amount he must've been eating since last week, this was an entire banquet for him.

Henry grabbed some cereal and milk and threw it together before sitting across from Shawn at the table.

"Can I have the keys to my bike?"

"No."

"I'm not drunk anymore."

"I don't even trust you on that death trap in a hangover."

Shawn scowled.

"I'll be fine," Shawn said, but his voice was already sounding strained.

"Sure, you will."

"Dad-"

"No."

Shawn practically deflated before his eyes, and pushed away the toast with only two bites in it and let his head drop onto the table.

Henry quietly finished his own meal, his eyes boring a hole into Shawn's head, but set his bowl in the sink, before gently guiding the once-again-dazed Shawn up and to the couch.

"Shawn," Henry said. "Please – don't beat yourself up over this."

"I have every right to. I killed him."

"No, you didn't."

"I-"

"You didn't," Henry said, before sitting next to Shawn, who was now lying down on the couch.

"Dad…I told him to go with me."

"He always goes with you."

"But he never wanted to…and this time, he paid for my mistake."

Henry almost said that he'd has been doing that for ages, but decided it might not be the best choice of words.

"Look, you didn't kill him – that junkie did, all right?"

"Still…I left him alone…to go…'explore'!"

"Look, no one saw it coming. That kid was only fourteen…it was a mistake, and he just got in the way."

"Are you blaming him?"

"No," Henry said. "It was an accident and mistake by desperate, out-of-his-mind kid, all right?"

Shawn swallowed before Henry grabbed Shawn's shoulders to prevent him from turning away. He tried to make Shawn look him in the eye, but Shawn tilted his head and looked away.

"Shawn…listen, kiddo, I know you never listened to me before in your life and I suppose I can't really give you a good reason to start now. Listen anyway."

His son didn't respond at first, but after a moment he blearily nodded, still looking away.

"This job you have is a dangerous one, and he knew it – he's told you a million times before, and I told you a trillion times before that. He also knew it was a dangerous job, but he went anyway, okay? He knew there were some risks, including guns. If he really wanted to stay away from this job to preserve his life, he would've, okay? He can be just as stubborn as your and more when he wants…he went anyway, because it was also an exciting job."

"I don't know…sometimes I feel I forced him…" Shawn said. He then laughed coldly, a spine-chilling laugh. "God, I sound like a rapist, don't I?"

"Shawn, please, just listen. Everything in life has risks. A stove could leak gas and when you light it, and boom – you're dead or damn close. People know that, but they still use stoves every day, and usually multiple times in a day. He knew those risks going in – everyone did."

Shawn shut his eyes as if desperately trying to shut away his father's words, but he opened them almost just as quickly.

"Every time I close my eyes," Shawn whispered. "I keep seeing the kid pulling out the gun…pulling that trigger…and that bullet racing…towards…his heart…dead center. That kid either has really good aim or really good luck."

"He didn't want to kill anyone – bad aim and luck, Shawn."

"Either way, I dragged him there when he didn't want to go."

"If he really didn't want to go, he wouldn't have gone. Some people just refuse to do things to keep their pride or image up, even if it's obviously not true. You know I'm proud of what you do, even if you are a fake psychic – I just don't admit it, and I know I'll be kicking my self later for telling you this right now."

Shawn finally looked up at his dad, and it took all Henry's power as a man, a cop, and mostly, as a father, not to look away at the guilt, fear, anger, and grief plaguing his son's eyes. The look was just…unnatural. Unnatural on anyone, but even more on the fun loving, overgrown kid named Shawn Spencer.

"I'm sorry," was all he said.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Henry said.

Shawn's lower lip started quivering, and he grabbed onto the cloth of his father's shirt, and Henry, for the second time in twelve hours and still feeling no ill bearings, wrapped his arms around his son and let his son release all the emotions that had building up since the homicide, and gently rubbed his son's back. He felt that even though he was doing the comforting, he was letting go of quite a bit of grief and sadness, as well.

Finally, after a second eternity, Shawn's sobbing ceased to quiet crying, before the tears ceased all together.

But Shawn didn't let go, and neither did Henry. Long ago, he might've scoffed at two adult men still needing this kind of comfort, but right now, he could see the reasoning and feelings and guts behind it.

"He would've wanted you to move on," Henry said into his son's ear.

"I guess," Shawn said, almost sounding as if he were chocking.

"You know he would."

Shawn slowly released himself and backed away, before looking at his dad's shoulder.

"I got snot all over your shirt…"

"That's why they invented washing machines, Shawn," Henry said almost exasperatingly.

Shawn looked down and Henry followed his eyes to see the small bump in his shirt, and he lifted his jacket and pulled out the small teddy bear.

He bit his lip and continued staring at it, with its tiny college sweater and chocolate colored eyes.

Shawn set it down, before he picked it back up with a slightly baffled look, and Henry saw the zipped poking up from just under the neckline of the sweater. Shawn pulled up the sweater before pulling down the zipper, which was rusted, as if it hadn't been sued in years.

If Henry was right, it was ten years to be exact. That's when the sweater appeared.

Shawn pulled out sometime from inside the bear, before zipping the back up and pulled the sweater back down, then unfolding the picture.

It was him and his best friend, age ten. They were in identical Batman swimming trunks and were both soaking wet and hands covered in sand, standing behind an almost impossibly elaborate sand castle. They had crossed arms and stood back to back, smiling triumphantly at the camera.

"I'll miss you," was all Shawn said as he stared at the picture.

It was all that needed to be said.

A/N: Did I also mention that this was an entire one-shot about Gus's death, but I was going to try and not actually write Gus's name into it?

Oops, silly me. Well, if you do catch Gus's name in there, please tell me so I can fix it.

Review, please – I live off of them!