Bonjour! (I just took my French oral exam.)

I was going to update this last night, but as soon as I finished writing it my internet cut out. Of course.

So! Some things: This takes place in 2008, not 2009. For reasons. Also, like I promised, this is the chapter that explains what's going on with Shawn. And also, this is finals week, so… I won't be doing much writing tonight. I have to study and bake cupcakes.

Try to ignore my inordinate italics usage.

Enjoy Chapter 3!

Albuquerque, New Mexico, 2003

Shawn sat on the doctor's table, bouncing his knee.

There's nothing wrong, he told himself. I'm just out of shape. And the doctor is going to come back in here and that's exactly what she's going to say.

He had undergone a barrage of tests in the last two days. His favorite (to be said with a completely sarcastic air) was the stress test. Attached to a bunch of wires, he ran on a treadmill until either the doctor said to stop or until something bad happened.

And of course it had been the latter.

He shuddered at the memory.

Doctor James walked in then, holding a file that read Spencer, Shawn across the top. Her smile was sympathetic and her fingers twitched.

Bad news, then.

Ten minutes later, he picked up the phone at the nurse's station with shaking hands and dialed a familiar number.

"Gus?"

Shawn was fitted again with the oxygen mask, eyes closed in almost-peaceful sleep. Juliet and Lassiter had shown up just minutes after he had fallen under, on their way from the station, and they stood with Henry, Gus, and Doctor Barnum in the hallway outside the room.

Turning to Henry, the doctor said, "If you think he can't keep calm, I'm going to have to put him on a mild sedative." There was a slight warning in his tone that said if you can't hold your temper…

Shamed, the older man shook his head. "He'll be fine."

"What's wrong with Shawn?" Juliet asked. She had seen him lying on the pavement, face white, sounding like he couldn't breathe—and his wide eyes, staring blankly ahead. She had seen just a peek of him lying in the hospital bed minutes ago, weak and disheveled, dark circles under his eyes. To see him in so much distress, when he was usually grinning and bounding around like a little boy, broke her heart.

The doctor adjusted his glasses and said, "A normal aortic valve—the valve that lets blood out from the heart and into the aorta—is covered by three leaflets. Shawn was born with only two leaflets. Usually this causes very little issue. Some people with this defect have no symptoms whatsoever. But Shawn…"

"Can never do anything the easy way," Henry grumbled, rubbing the top of his head agitatedly.

Unfazed, the doctor continued on. "Sometimes this defect results in what we call regurgitation—leakage from the aortic valve. Shawn has apparently been experiencing this leakage from a young age. That's what caused his heart murmurs. Again, usually even leakage causes no adverse effects. However, a risk with this particular defect is aortic valve stenosis."

"What's that?" Juliet asked breathlessly.

"It's a narrowing of the valve. Even then, it's only when the valve becomes one-quarter of its original size that symptoms begin. In particularly bad cases, there can be severe chest pain, fainting… which results in the need for surgery. In adults, it's best to completely replace the valve."

He let this information sink in for a moment.

"Shawn came to me from a hospital in New Mexico in 2003. He had already been tested there, and the doctor told him about the surgery, but he wanted to come back to Santa Barbara to have it done."

"He stayed with me," Gus supplied quietly.

"Right. I told Shawn that the best way to go was to use a mechanical valve—it would have been very long-lasting, but he refused. He didn't want to take the blood thinners. He chose to have it replaced with biological tissue, with the understanding that he would likely have to get it replaced again down the road. Anyway… it looks like that time has come."

Gus stole a glance over his shoulder at his best friend. The image of him lying in the hospital bed brought back memories of Shawn looking oddly thin and frail when he showed up in Albuquerque to take him home, and of visiting hours in this same hospital during post-op treatment. He had sat in the uncomfortable chair next to the bed and held his friend's hand as he slept.

But if Shawn ever knew that... he'd never hear the end of it.

Doctor Barnum was there when he woke up, and they were alone, but he suspected his dad and best friend weren't too far away.

Feeling groggy (Christ, how many times in a day can a dude pass out?), he gestured at the mask, and in seconds, it was gone. He coughed lightly, choking a little on the new air, but it was gone as soon as it had come.

"Alright, Shawn, it's time to talk."

He knew what was coming. He needed another surgery. Doctor Barnum was fixing him with a look that was equal parts sympathetic and I-told-you-so.

"I know, you don't have to tell me," he said.

The doctor quirked an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Of course. I'm psychic, y'know." That earned a chuckle. "You're going to tell me that… I need surgery again."

Damn, he was already so sick of being tired—not just tired, exhausted. The weariness was settled into all corners of his body and he felt… like he was being weighed down, like there was sand filling him up.

"Yes, unfortunately, that's exactly what I'm going to tell you," Doctor Barnum said, then sighed. "Shawn… It's been five years. Your replacement valve degenerated fast. For whatever reason, your heart is very unhealthy."

Shawn did not like where this was going.

"It can't support the biological tissue for any substantial period of time."

He let out a long huff of air, lifting one heavy arm to hide his face. His nose fit into the crook of his elbow and he waited to hear what he knew the doctor was going to say.

"If you get the biological tissue replacement again, I'm afraid you're just going to have to keep coming back for more surgery, Shawn. You need to really consider the mechanical valve."

And there it was.

"No," he said, wishing that his voice wasn't as hoarse, didn't sound so weak. It probably didn't help him, either, that his face was buried in his arm like he was some kind of child. But he felt his eyes stinging and his throat contracting. And… he really didn't want to cry, not in front of Doctor Barnum, or Gus, and definitely not his dad.

"Shawn, is daily medication really worse than having to come back here every few years for surgery?"

If he took blood thinners, he'd have to be so careful, all the time, and he did not do careful. He did reckless, he did fun. He did the kinds of things that made him feel free.

He'd have to stop investigating cases. He'd have to stop riding his bike. The thought of giving up the feeling of zipping through open air on his Norton made him feel physically sick.

"No. I won't get the mechanical valve," he said, more firmly this time.

Doctor Barnum stood up, gripping his clipboard. "Okay," he said. "I'll give you a few minutes to yourself, then I'm sending your dad in. We'll talk again later, okay?"

Once Shawn was alone, it became impossible to hold himself together. His breath hitched, he rubbed his eyes, and suddenly he was crying hard. Tears ran down his face and his tired limbs shook.

What can I do? he asked, pleading to anyone, anything that could answer.

There was no response—just quiet, white walls.

Shawn angst!

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