A/N: Wow! That was an incredibly awesome response, and thanks to everyone who reviewed or favorited this story! I am awed by how much you like it. Anyway, I'll keep this short. Here's the next chapter, as promised. Third chapter might take a little longer because its not quite finished yet. And this was meant to be out like four hours ago, but I went to see He's Just Not That Into You, which was adorable, hopefully romantic, and (sadly) ultimately unrealistic, as all romance movies tend to be. As always, forgive any errors in characterization, spelling, or grammar; review if you so desire; and enjoy!

Disclaimer: GAH! I hate these things. I always forget them. How many times must I admit the painful truth that I don't own anything?

Part Two

Carlton Lassiter doesn't really believe in psychics and things that go bump in the night and all that jazz. He smiles and nods when his superstitious old grandmother goes on about fairies and leprechauns and spirits. He scowls and glares when Shawn goes off about it. But he doesn't believe any of it. He's a detective; logic is his full time companion and very rarely leaves him.

His logic seems to depart whenever Shawn Spencer enters the room though. There's something about the fake psychic—and make no mistake, Carlton knows that he's a fake, he just isn't all that concerned about proving it anymore—that gives him a temporary leave of his senses. When Shawn Spencer is around Carlton can believe in anything.

Which is why, when he stirs from his uneasy dozing in a chair next to Shawn's hospital bed and finds a translucent Shawn Spencer standing next to him, he only blinks. His eyes dart towards the hospital bed, just to check and make sure that he's not going crazy. Shawn Spencer is laying in the hospital bed, sporting bruises and cuts, stitches and a black eye, bandages and tubes, and completely comatose.

The Shawn standing next to him, the transparent one, stares at his own body with a peculiar expression.

Carlton stares at him; stares through him. It's disconcerting, to be able to see through someone. Then he stands, swaying for a moment as his legs adjust to the sudden flow of blood, unused to his sudden weight after having been seated for so long.

"I look like crap."

"That's what happens when you take on a serial killer without backup." Carlton shoots at him, arms folded.

Shawn's eyes dart towards him, a kind of guilty half-smile on his lips. "Hey, Lassi." He says quietly and Carlton's eyes narrow.

"No, Spencer." Shawn blinks, surprise on his face. Carlton isn't used to seeing that emotion on Shawn's face, because, normally, Shawn either knows everything or he quickly hides the fact that he doesn't.

"What?"

Carlton points to the comatose body. "You get back in that body, Spencer. You aren't going anywhere."

Shawn half-smiles again. "Would if I could, Lassi." His voice is higher than normal, as if he's forcing his light tone, and there's a strange echoing quality to it.

Carlton folds his arms. He's not buying it. This is Shawn Spencer he's talking to, and in his experience Shawn Spencer can do whatever the hell he wants. "Don't you dare, Shawn." He's said those words before, in the hotel, when Shawn was bleeding and fading in his arms. The memory makes his every hair stand on end, as chilling as a physical cold draft in the room.

He stares at the young man before him. The specter of Shawn bears none of the marks that his body does, shows no sign that he took on a psychotic killer in hand-to-hand combat.

"I don't think I have long, Lassi."

He sets his jaw and glares at the man, his hands balled into fists. More than anything he wants to grab him and shake him, wants to grab him and never let him go, wants to push him against a wall and keep him there forever, where he can protect him. "You aren't going anywhere." He growls.

Shawn shakes his head, his eyes dark and sad. They are the same green eyes that gleamed with mischief so many times, the eyes that had been darting around for the past week or so, the same eyes that had been so frightened; they are the eyes that he knows by heart, the eyes that had gone dark and lifeless and had terrified Carlton more than anything had ever terrified him before.

"I knew it, Lassi. You know? I don't know how I did. It's only happened once before, but this was so much worse. I could feel it coming, smell it in the air the way you can smell rain. I saw him, you know. The killer. His eyes." Shawn shudders. His eyes aren't looking at Carlton; they're looking through him, as if he is as much a specter as Shawn is. "I knew, Lassi."

Carlton finds that he's shaking and his legs won't support him anymore. He collapses back into the chair. "Shawn, don't you dare do this to me again. Don't you dare leave." He can hear the neediness in his voice and he hates it, but the thought of Shawn leaving again scares him so much. "You don't tell someone you love them, Shawn, and then go try and get yourself killed. I don't care what the hell you knew, Shawn."

Shawn looks down. "I'm sorry, Lassi." For a moment he seems to solidify; he seems brighter and closer and more there, but in the next moment he seems farther away, thinner, paler, as if he's fading. Carlton lurches to his feet and stretches out a hand, reaching for Shawn.

His hand goes right through the other man's body and he feels nothing but air. Shawn has an odd look on his face, something that Carlton can't identify or explain. He pulls his hand back and stares at it, then down into Shawn's face.

"I knew I was going to die. I had to die. I knew that I had to die to save you. I had to be his next victim, or he would have detonated the bomb."

"You don't know that! You didn't know that!"

Shawn smiles sadly, looking up into his eyes. "But I did, Lassi. I do."

Carlton finds himself at a loss for words. He shakes his head.

"No, Shawn. No."

Shawn reaches up and runs a finger across Carlton's cheek; his hand goes right through and Carlton feels nothing. "I had to." There is a kind of pleading in his eyes that Carlton has never seen before. "I wasn't lying when I said I loved you, Carlton."

Carlton thinks that it's the first time he's ever heard Shawn say his first name, or, at least, it's the first time that it ever really mattered. "I know. And I wasn't lying when I said it back." He watches as Shawn's eyes widen.

"You did say it, then?" He breathes, his eyes taking a faraway look. "I thought I was hallucinating. It was the last thing I heard before…."

"Before your heart stopped." Carlton shakes his head. "But they got it to start again. You are alive, Shawn. Just in a coma."

Shawn looks away, towards his body. "Not for long, Lassi."

He flickers, his form disappearing for a moment and then reappearing. Carlton sucks in a breath, trying to swallow around the lump in his throat. "You are not going to do this, Shawn. You are not."

Shawn smiles sadly. "I'm so sorry, Carlton. Tell Gus…tell Gus that he's the best friend anyone could have. Tell him to remember Mexico and have a pineapple smoothie for me." His lips are quivering, barely holding onto the smile. "And tell my dad that I don't hate him. He already knows it, but he needs to hear it again. Tell him I love him. Tell Chief Vick that it's not her fault, and thanks for taking a chance on me. And tell Jules that she can't give it up because of me, and that she has to stick with it, has to remember why she does it."

Carlton stares. "And what about me? What do you have to tell me? I don't want to hear any of it!" He is suddenly violently angry; angry and powerfully sad at the same time. "Just wake up."

"I love you, Carlton Lassiter. There's nothing else I can say. I would kiss you if I wouldn't just go straight through you. And I would stay if I could. You have to know that." He turns his head, as if he is hearing something that Carlton cannot hear. "I have to go."

"Shawn, don't you dare!" He reaches out, knowing that it's futile, that his hand will just pass right through Shawn's non-corporal body. But he has to try. He missed Shawn by a fraction of a second with the elevator; he was a second too late to stop the knife from entering Shawn's body, and he was incapable of doing anything but holding him when he died the first time. He will not, under any circumstances, tolerate doing nothing now.

He closes his eyes and thinks of Shawn, of every moment, of every second, of every word, every single time. And he reaches.

His hand meets solid, warm flesh.

His eyes snap open and he stares at Shawn, who stares back in just as much shock. Carlton's hand is firmly wrapped around Shawn's wrist. "How—?" He whispers. Shawn stares at him and then his eyes fixate on something behind him.

"No." He says.

Carlton turns and it is suddenly clear. He realizes why he can touch Shawn.

The body of Carlton Lassiter lies on the floor, motionless, lifeless, abandoned.

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