TITLE: Devious Stares
RATING: Teen, for the moment.
CHARACTERS: All, mostly
PAIRING: Shassiter
WARNINGS: Um, some sexual situation later on, will announce if there is a rating change… and possible narcotic usage.
SUMMARY: Shawn suffers a motorcycle accident that leaves him different for the rest of his life. Suddenly, his psychic fakeness isn't so fake, and it really does hurt.
Chapter Two: Double Cherry Pie
Shawn could hear the people around him long before he worked up the stones to open his eyes. He could smell the weird mango-tangerine moisturizer his dad was wearing that day, and the Ralph Lauren cologne that Gus was sporting. There was even a hint of a fading JLO perfume, Jules had been there, and a subtle, Irish Musk that signaled Lassiter was lurking nearby, which made Shawn smile inwardly.
All around him the noises were pushing him down. Pressure pouring into his ears and clambering for dominance in his head, his body weighed a thousand pounds and his toes were made of cement. The ache started near the base of his skull, throbbing low and hard, in and out, like a million little gnomes were hi-ho-ing inside of his brain.
The noise thrummed through Shawn's head like an iPod on shuffle, constant streams of conscious not his own filtered through his brain, which, to be quiet honest, was really fucking annoying. Time slid by, unknowingly, days and hours filed by, marching unobtrusively though his cycle, but Shawn only heard the voices. The non-stop stream of thoughts, the half-formed words, the images, smells, tastes, colors of other peoples thoughts invaded his every minute.
Forcing his throbbing eyes open, Shawn was greeted with the sight of a sleeping Carlton Lassiter, slumped down into the visitor's chair, jacket off, tie undone and mouth agape. 'Huh.' Even Shawn's inner thoughts sounded tired. 'Time really is screwed up when you're unconscious.'
Struggling, Shawn sat up, pain lacing down his side like fire. Sucking in a quiet gasp, Shawn twisted his neck, peering down at his elevated leg, the stark cast already had the scrawl of Gus' name on the kneecap, he could just barely see the pink mark of Jules' name and what looked to be the signatures of the entire Santa Barbara police department. Shifting his shoulders, the psychic glowered down at his sling, hands twitching to be let free, to roam, to shove something sharp down the side of his leg cast and go to town on that itch on his calf.
Shaking his head in annoyance, Shawn peered sideways at the detective. Carlton looked very uncomfortable, head lulling to the side, neck twisted at a bad angle. Smiling to himself, Shawn stretched out his un-slung arm and wrapped his fingers around the brunettes wrist. Air swirled past his ears, the world tipped on it's axis and spun around Shawn's eyes, which he clenched shut, blocking out the lights.
He found himself on the side of the highway. Cool asphalt burned against the bare soles of his feet., wind swept past his knees, making his hospital gown flutter around him. Blinking, Shawn raised a hand to his throbbing head, the murmur of voices stirred in the back of his skull but he managed to push it back, pound it into the depths of his subconscious for now, to focus on the now. Stumbling forward, Shawn lifted a heavy hand to his throbbing head, blissful silence greeting his thoughts for the first time in what felt like years.
Shaking away cobwebs, Shawn peered around him in the darkness, the world beyond the small stretch of road was blurred, out of focus, blackness in the far distance. Turning toward the shoulder of the road, Shawn's eyes widened at the sight of the body. Jumping forward, Shawn's gown fluttered back, cold, stale air biting at him as he ran toward the body in the middle of the road.
The man was sprawled out on his back, dark blue jeans scuffed and torn, a familiar suede jacket had Shawn confused, body falling down to his knees beside the prone doppelganger. Reaching out with a timid hand, the pseudo-psychic brushed shaking fingers down the side of face before him, his face, smeared with blood, slack with unconsciousness. Blinking, Shawn felt his jaw fall slack, thoughts jumbled with confusion.
"What the fuck is going on?" The night shimmered around him and the prone look-alike, stale air blowing harshly, vibrating in Shawn's ears, and just like that, Carlton was kneeling beside the unconscious figure. Strong hands carted through the other-Shawn's hair, stern features folded into a closed off mass of grief.
"What happened Spencer?" Lassiter's face was drawn tight, his voice graveled, tired. "Jesus, what'd you do to yourself this time?"
Blinking, confused, Shawn stretched an unsteady hand forward, fingers reaching to brush against the detective's cheek. Inches away from the Irish-man's face he could feel the sharp spike of cold air. Frowning, Shawn shuffled ahead, squatting further to look at Lassiter's face, hand growing bold as he stretched further to touch the man's face. The cold air brushed past his fingertips, sinking into the palm of his hand, a shimmer passed and Shawn's hand slid right though the skin on Carlton's face, sinking into the now flickering image of the detective.
Screeching, Shawn fell back, scrambling away, hands and bare legs scraping over the asphalt. "Holy shit!" Lifting his hand, Shawn examined the skin of is fingers, they looked pretty damn solid to him!
"Come on Spencer! Damnit!"
Head snapping up, Shawn watched with a detached fascination as Carlton pumped at the chest of Road-kill Shawn, movements jerky with panic. "God Damnit Shawn!"
Shuffling forward timidly, Shawn peered down at the bloody face of is double, still as death as Carlton worked on him. "Come on Shawn! Shawn! Shawn Spencer! Spencer…"
Gasping, Shawn shot awake, body coming back to him with a deep, painful throb. Looking around the hospital room, dim light streamed in from the hallway, the squeak of aide shoes assaulted is ears. Carlton was standing beside his bed, Shawn's fingers still wrapped around the detectives' wrist.
"Spencer? You awake?" Carlton's voice was harsh with exhaustion, deep lines around his eyes showed his lack of sleep. "I called the nurse, she's getting the doctor."
Someone had filled his mouth with sand, his tongue was loaded with rocks, weighed down in his mouth. "Lass…" Smacking his lips together, Shawn tugged the wrist he was hanging on to. "Lassie."
Lassiter was looming forward, eyes tight with concern, his face was shadowed with stubble again, clothes shockingly down played in jeans and the wrinkled, white, long-sleeved dress shirt. "What's going on?" He had wanted to ask for a razor for the hair on his tongue, but Lassiter had this intense, serious look to him that staved off the psychic's normally insane requests.
The detective peered down at Shawn for another moment, a beat of muttering flowed through the younger man's head but no real words stuck, before plunking down into the guest chair. A pale hand came up to run through his dark hair, still, somehow, keeping it's odd neatness. "You were having a nightmare Spencer."
Blinking slowly, Shawn frowned thoughtfully, eyes watching Lassiter. "So were you Lassie." He ignored the surprised look he received, instead drawing his hand away to rub at his sore ribs. "How long was I out?"
Lassiter relaxed in his chair, legs stretching out in front of him. "Three days excluding the few hours during your surgery. Are you going to tell me what happened Spencer?"
Closing his eyes, Shawn sunk back into the stiff hospital pillow and let a deep, bone-weary sigh escape him, suddenly dead tired. "I took my bike out for a joy ride, I was on State, going around the bend right before the bridge by the lake, you know? It was, like, midnight and this black Ford 4X4 jumped lanes at me! I didn't even get time to swerve before I was an asphalt pancake."
Groaning, Shawn heard a whisper in the back of his mind, a voice growing steadily in clarity and volume as Shawn stared over at Lassiter's thoughtful figure. 'Black Ford 4X4.' A pause, like contemplation, Lassiter's voice rang smooth like whisky in Shawn's head, rumbling past his nerves. 'Wonder if he saw…' "Did you see the license plate?"
Shaking his head at the awkward echo, the psychic looked away, a slow throb coming to his skull, a deep squeeze in his mind. Clearing away all thoughts of pain, Shawn breathed deep, bringing back the image of the accident, focusing on the truck, the flash of light he saw before his bike had hit. "E-E-M-0-7-J-6" Shawn blinked back in time to see Carlton climb to his feet, tucking away his black notebook as he lifted his jacket off of the back of the chair.
A flair of pain lit up in Shawn's head, the throb returning with a vengeance, all followed by a rush of words, Carlton's thoughts as the detective prepared to leave. 'Shouldn't leave… Henry worried… Call Guster… black 4X4... O'Hara… Johnson… 4X4... Spencer's sick… How'd he know… nightmares…' "Spencer, I'm going to run these plates, do you… ah… need… anything?"
Grinning at Lassiter's awkwardness, Shawn pretended to think, eyes shifting sideways to inspect to the bushel of pineapples at his bedside. "Something to tear into the glorious pineapples with!" He saw the twitch of Carlton's mouth, the fought-back smile.
"I'll see what I can do."
"Thanks Lassie-face! I knew you cared!" Shawn watched as the detective left, eyes following the line of the older man's body. A fear crept up on him, he could hear the whisper of other people in his head, one growing louder as the on call nurse shuffled into the room. The fire behind his eyes shot down another nerve ending and the slow throb grew stronger. Pressure in his skull didn't keep the voices out, instead with them came flashes, pictures of the people thinking them. Little bits of their personalities came into his head. Small habits, like the taste for a certain cigarette brand or the fondness for country music, crept in. Habits not his own.
'Poor dear. Look at that handsome face all beat up. Serves him right though, tossing around that psychic devil-speak. Taught him god not to mess with The Lord's word.' The nurse, despite her dark thoughts, smiled cheerily at Shawn, shoes shuffling on the tile as she tended to his monitors, checking his vitals.
"Doctor Benson will be with you in a few minutes honey." 'Look at those eyes! Them the devils eyes.' She swept out the room pretty quick after that, the prayer verse running through her head, and in turn, Shawn's.
Shawn was not a religious man, a bit atheist actually, but he wasn't naïve, he knew some people thought he was a devil worshipper, hell, he'd had people curse at him before. He'd never felt the malevolence before though. The thick, cloying smog of hate had seeped like a disease into Shawn's mind, unguarded it left him sick, stomach heaving from the sheer anger, from the hate of the nurse. What the hell was happening to him?
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