Author's Note: So sorry it took me so long to update, but here is the next chapter for your reading enjoyment. Thanks so much for the reviews. It makes it easier to write when I get feedback, so please, if you take the time to read please take a minute to tell me what you think. Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy this. It doesn't really further the plot much but it fills in some blanks between Henry and Shawn. Tell me what you guys think and, as always, thanks for reading!

Henry Spencer's relationship with his son had always been a strenuous one. Once, when he'd been browsing Barnes and Noble for something interesting to read he'd come across a book on one of the central displays that instantly intrigued him. It was the kind of book Henry normally steered clear of, but for reasons he could not understand he kept coming back to it, staring down at the title with bewilderment. He was sure it was written by some burned out hippie that had spent their early years smoking dope and sticking it to the felicific war machine that was 1960's America.

Still, despite the promise of an author with a PhD in bullshit and the general self-help genre, Henry snatched it up, hiding it behind his back as if someone he knew might be watching him. The book was titled "But, I Don't Wanna" and the back of the book jacket promised an in depth explanation of how to tell if a parent's relationship with their child was in danger of imploding. Or, in some cases, exploding…violently.

Henry realized that his son was not a child nor was he a teenager, but a full grown adult with the capability of slamming the door in Henry's face or, even worse, leaving without so much as a word like he had before. Shawn rarely wanted advice from his father and even when he did it was like pulling out teeth to get the kid to admit it. Of course, if Henry were honest, he hadn't always been very easy to talk to in the first place. There had always been a price to his wisdom, a hoop that Shawn had to jump through to get something other fathers doled out for free. By the time he'd realized this he'd spent so long not talking to his son that any attempts to do so then blew up in his face. This is what he wanted to change, this is what he hoped the book would teach him how to do. If there was even the slightest chance the hippie tome in his hands could help him salvage his relationship with Shawn then he'd buy a hundred copies to accomplish it.

When he'd opened the book for the first time he was safely at home with his door securely locked just in case Shawn chose that moment to show up with a question about some hair-brained case he'd gotten himself involved in. The younger Spencer was notorious for catching his father in awkward and sometimes downright humiliating situations, but Henry would be damned if the kid walked in on him reading a self-help book. There were some things that even a father and a son couldn't share.

He flipped through a few of the pages, snorting in derision at any hippy "love" propaganda he came across. As he had suspected most of the exercises in the book were utter bullshit, but one caught his eye. It asked the reader to think of an image that described the relationship between them and their child. Whatever the first image was that popped into the reader's mind was usually a correct summary of their circumstances. Henry didn't know why he chose to think about it, but he did and the image that came to mind shocked him. His relationship with Shawn was an egg precariously balanced on a thin wire above a giant cliff that fell into the ocean that was swimming with sharks.

At first he'd scoffed at the vision that came into his mind. It felt slightly dramatic to him, but the more he thought about it the more the vision made sense to him. His relationship with Shawn was a constant struggle to stay balanced and the slightest move could bring the whole thing toppling down into a destructive end. For years they had kept up a constant battle of tug-of-war, never gaining any ground but never really losing any either, but one day the rope would snap and any hope of bringing Shawn closer to him would be lost. That was an inacceptable casualty in Henry's mind and from that moment on he tried not to push as hard when it came to his son's decisions.

Sometimes this was easy. He'd long ago come to the terms with the fact that Shawn did things differently than Henry would and he recognized his son's lack of professionalism in almost anything he did as a part of Shawn's ability to handle the various stresses in his life. He could ignore the jokes, turn a blind eye to Shawn's chosen profession, and even help him if he could. Sometimes, despite his best efforts, their interactions together still ended with a fight, but he couldn't help but notice that as the years went by Shawn sought him out more than he ever had in his life. Henry no longer had to fight tooth and nail just to get Shawn to join him for dinner and the long awkward silences that had plagued them so often began to decrease. Henry knew they would never be perfect, knew that there was too much history for that, but at least they were at peace with one another and that was more than Henry had ever hoped for.

Still, despite their tenuous hold on harmony, there were moments that Henry found it extremely difficult if not impossible to keep his nose out of Shawn's business. All Henry had ever wanted was to keep Shawn safe. Everything he'd taught him, all the skills he'd painstakingly pounded into his son's brain had been to protect his kid in the only way he knew how and teach him the skills that could one day save his life. Maddy had once told him he was turning paranoid, but Henry thought that a little paranoia was a price worth paying if even one of his lessons saved Shawn's life. And they had. More than that they had given Shawn the first career that actually made him happy. As long as Shawn was safe and relatively content in life then Henry would be to.

The two years Shawn had been gone from his life had been the worst two years of his life. He would never tell his son, but he'd almost gone insane with worry. Shawn had left without a word on a contraption that Henry was still convinced would be the death of him one day. That damn motorcycle had caused more fights between them than almost any other topic besides, maybe, his mother or Shawn's perceived disappointment Henry had in him. The memory of the kid's first accident on the bike still gave plagued him at night and the sight of Shawn lying battered and bruised in the hospital bed was not one he would easily forget. The doctors had told him that his son was extremely lucky to be alive and that if the good Samaritan that had found Shawn on the side of the road had come a mere five minutes later there was a good possibility his son would be coming home in a coffin.

In the end it was the accident that had broken them. Shawn had been forced to recuperate at his father's house. In those days putting the two of them in the same room together had been like putting two Beta fish in the same fish tank. Maybe if Shawn had been able to use his legs, to walk out and cool down, things would have ended differently. But, he couldn't walk away, couldn't do much of anything but listen to his father berate him for crashing the damn thing and for riding something as dangerous as a motorcycle without a helmet. Henry knew, even as the words spewed from his mouth, that he was being too hard. He could tell from the way Shawn's face arranged itself in a neutral mask that he was pushing his son away from him one sentence at a time. He knew this, but he couldn't seem to stop.

He wanted to tell Shawn of the terror he'd felt when the phone rang and the cool and annoyingly formal hospital operator informed him that his son had been in an accident. He wanted to describe the helplessness that threatened to drown him when he walked through the door to his room in the ICU to find him covered in wires and tubes, breathing only by the grace of the machine in the corner. How he had sat by his bedside and prayed to a God he had long ago lost faith in for his son to make it through the night, how relief had filled him when Shawn's eyes had finally flickered open, confused and full of pain, how he'd fought with the doctors when they refused to give Shawn ice chips even though he was restless with thirst, and how he'd cried in the tiny cubicle the hospital called a bathroom nearly every time Shawn went white with pain Henry could not banish. This was what he wanted to tell his son, but he couldn't find the words and by the time the agony of those memories faded away it was too late. Shawn was gone.

He remembered walking into the living room that morning, glancing over at the bundle of blankets Shawn would be sleeping under, and asking his son what he wanted for breakfast. Only silence greeted him, but that was not unusual. Shawn had never been an early riser and had been a deep sleeper even as an infant. Henry called his name again and when he received no answer walked over to the couch to shake his son's shoulder. Except there was no shoulder to shake, only a bunched up pile of discarded blankets that still held the heat of Shawn's body. Even then he wasn't worried. Shawn had been walking quite well recently and could easily manage his way around the house, or even around the block, if he moved carefully. Perhaps he was in the bathroom or outside on the patio, or even taking a stroll along the pier. But he hadn't been strolling or anything else. He'd been stuffing clothes from his small apartment into a duffel bag waiting for Gus to come and drive him to the body shop where his newly reformed motorcycle was waiting for him.

Henry had received a call two hours later from a frantic Gus informing him that Shawn had split. His son had offered no explanation to his best friend, no reason for leaving so suddenly, only a promise to call and to send a postcard when he could. Henry had tried to track him down, but he'd taught his son too well. Shawn had never been one for credit cards and he'd ditched his phone in a dingy diner in Chino. Henry had nothing, but the promise of post card. He knew, however, that if Shawn sent him a card it would only be after he'd moved on to a new place. The kid knew his father too well to make a rookie mistake like sending him a postcard with a return address he'd still be at.

Henry had tried to keep living his life the way he had been before Shawn had left, but it had been nearly impossible. He received updates from Gas periodically, but his kid never gave up too much information on his whereabouts because he knew that Guster broke far too easily when interrogated by Henry. The little Spencer had even gone so far as to make his number restricted so that Gus wouldn't have a phone number to give his father. To this day he had no idea what went on in those two years, but there was one thing he was certain of. His son had changed.

Henry could tell from the moment he opened his door to find Shawn staring at him appraisingly from across the threshold for the first time in almost 800 days. It was a subtle change and not one Henry would have noticed had he not been trained in the art of reading body language. There was a hardening to his son's eyes, a darkness that only grief could bring and a tension in his shoulders that had not been there before. His smile wasn't as bright and his tone held a level of bitterness that even Henry had never heard before. Something had happened to his kid, something bad, and Henry wanted to know what it was.

Except Shawn refused to talk about it. The transformation brought on by even mentioning his time away was something both unexpected and terrifying. His features went flat and his eyes became as lifeless as the once a planet, but no longer a planet Pluto. His tone was hard and unforgiving, something Henry was not used to hearing, even in their worst fights. Shawn had always used bitter sarcasm when it came to their arguments and his harsh words only made Henry worry more.

The first time he'd ever mentioned it to Shawn had been a month after his awkward return. Psych was just beginning to take off and for once Shawn seemed excited about the prospect of working. He wasn't sure where Shawn had gotten his gift for gab, but if the subject was right Shawn could talk for hours. They had spent a relatively pleasant dinner of steaks and beer chatting about the new detective Juliet and Shawn's general amusement over the hard-assed Carlton Lassiter. They had been clearing up the dishes when Henry asked him the question he had wanted to take back the moment the words had crossed his lips.

"What the hell happened to you when you were gone, kid?"

Shawn, who had been stacking their plates, froze and his fingers tightened reflexively on the porcelain. Henry watched the transformation of his kid from relatively jovial to cold and distant with alarm and he couldn't deny the chill that ran up his spine. Shawn didn't say anything for a long moment, getting control of himself and rearranging his features into a mask of unconvincing indifference.

"What do you mean?" he asked, looking up at Henry and smiling tightly.

"You've been different, Shawn. Even Gus has noticed a change," Henry replied softly.

"You and Gus talk? About me? Are there no father-friend boundaries anymore?"

"We're worried about you, Shawn."

"Well, that's a first."

"Damn it, kid. Talk to me!"

"About what, Dad?" Shawn snapped, his grip tightening so hard on the plates Henry was sure they would crack. "There is nothing to talk about. We have nothing to say to one another."

"Shawn, where did you go?"

"I went to a lot of places," Shawn said with an indifferent shrug. "None of them were particularly special."

"I don't believe that."

"Believe what you want," Shawn said wearily. "I, for one, choose to believe that there is an alternate dimension where the earth is made out of nacho cheese Doritos and the trees are licorice wands. Not the black kind, though. The black kind sucks."

"Shawn," Henry pleaded. "Don't do this, kid."

"Do what?"

"Shut me out," Henry said.

Shawn was quiet for a long moment, staring down at the table as if it had personally accosted him. Henry could see the inner struggle he was facing, the metaphorical ping-pong game going on in his kid's mind. On the one hand, he could tell his father the truth and potentially open himself up to pain and grief. On the other he could keep his secrets to himself and battle his demons without the aid of his father's wisdom. Henry could see the decision his son had made even before Shawn said it out loud and his heart plummeted. Perhaps if their relationship were different, perhaps if the perilous emotional chasm between them weren't so deep things would have ended the way Henry hoped they would, but as he learned long ago hopes were for fools.

"You really want to know what I did?" Shawn asked, finally glancing up at his father with the bitter sarcasm Henry was so used to in his eyes. "I went to Montana and spent a month wrangling cats. You know, like that old beer commercial with the cowboys herding a pack of stampeding felines? It was sort of like that, but instead of horses we rode on Mastiffs and smoked catnip…or it could have been Peyote…my memory is sort of foggy on that one."

"Shawn," Henry began.

"No, Dad. You wanted to know what I did and I'm telling you. Don't ask me a question if you're not interested in an answer. Isn't that what you've always told me?"

Henry didn't have anything to say to that. He had, in fact, spent years telling Shawn that exact phrase, but had never expected to have it bite him in the ass. His son must have taken his silence as permission to continue for a second later he'd began his story again.

"Let's see," he said thoughtfully. "After Montana I made my way down to Texas where I became an overnight arcade sensation after I beat the world record of Skee balls thrown in a single evening. Let me tell you, Dad, it was a lot of Skee balls and I made sure to thank you in the speech I gave for the news. I am sure you could find it on Youtube. Just type in 'the incredible Shawn Spencer' and you would be amazed at how many videos pop up. Just don't watch the one made by 'madeforyou22'. It will take years of therapy to scrub that one from the memory warehouse."

"Stop it, Shawn. I get the point."

"Are you sure?" Shawn asked coldly. "Because I can go on and on if you like. There was the hotdog debacle in St. Louis and the alligator incident in Miami. There was the day I spent in a jail cell in a tiny Podunk town in Arkansas for giving beer to a possum. Don't worry, the possum was fine. We were bunk mates and he never once asked me to drop the soap. He was considerate that way. He sends me a postcard every once and awhile. I could even tell you about the clown punching incident in Ch-Chicago."

Henry's head snapped up at his son's stutter. It was clear from the expression on Shawn's face that he hadn't meant to bring up the Windy city at all. It was also clear from the heart wrenching pain in his eyes that Chicago was the key to everything. Chicago was where his son had been broken, Chicago was the place Henry needed to look to find answers, Chicago was—

"Leave this alone, Dad," Shawn whispered hoarsely. "Leave it alone or I swear to God I'll leave and this time I won't be back. There won't be any postcards, won't be any phone calls. Leave this alone."

"Shawn," Henry started. "If something happened to you then maybe I could help, maybe I could—"

"Haven't you learned yet, Dad? There is nothing you could ever do for me that would mean anything. I don't want your help and if you were really honest with yourself you would realize that you don't want to help. Helping me feel better has never been your thing."

Henry knew his son was being hurtful on purpose, knew that Shawn was hoping Henry would drop the subject if he could make his rebuttal as vicious as possible. This knowledge didn't stop the hurt from coming though and it certainly didn't stop him from asking what had happened over the years. At first, he would only spring the question on him in private, but as time went by and Henry's desperation grew, he began prying at inappropriate moments in the hopes that the awkwardness would force Shawn to open up. Mostly it had done the exact opposite and had led to some truly heinous fights between them. Henry's worst moment was when he, Shawn, and Juliet had gone to dinner together to celebrate Shawn's birthday. To this day he didn't know why he chose that moment to ask, but he had and he'd reaped the consequences.

Dinner had been going surprisingly well. They had ordered a few beers and the food was cooked to perfection. Shawn was always easier to talk to when Juliet was around and usually managed to keep his biting remarks to a minimum. They had been talking about Juliet's terror of clowns as a child and the words had slipped out before he'd had a chance to think about them.

"You should ask Shawn about the time he supposedly punched a clown in Chicago," he said, only half jokingly. "I'm still waiting for the details on that one."

In an instant he realized the mistake he'd made. It was like a bucket of ice had been dumped over Shawn's head and the young man stared at his father in shock. There was no anger in his expression yet, but Henry knew that it was only a matter of time before the ice cold disbelief turned into a raging inferno of fury.

"What's this about a clown?" Juliet laughed uncomfortably, feeling the sudden tension but not knowing the cause of it.

"I-uh-I…I don't think that story is appropriate for the dinner table," Shawn said, swallowing hard. "Especially with Juliet's fear of clowns, Dad. How could you be so insensitive?"

"It's fine," Juliet told him soothingly, rubbing his arm. "You punched the clown, right? Justice served."

"No," Shawn said, standing up and dumping his napkin to the floor. "No, Jules, I will not let this stand. This blatant disregard to your feelings, this outrageous and frankly blasphemous attack on your courage. Tyranny shall not live while Shawn Spencer has anything to say about it."

"Shawn," Henry hissed. "Sit down. You're making a scene."

"You should have thought of that before you brought up clowns, Dad."

The rebuke was clear and had absolutely nothing to do with clowns or Juliet's subsequent fear of them. Henry had brought up Chicago. Not only that but he'd brought it up in front of Juliet, advertising Shawn's pain for his first real girlfriend since Abigail. This wasn't going to end well.

"Shawn," Juliet said, tugging on his hand. "I appreciate your flare for the dramatic, but maybe this isn't the place to give into your more thespian urges. People are staring."

"Let them stare," Shawn said boldly. "Let them look at the man who would dare mention clowns in this fine family establishment that serves such delightful pigs-in-a-blanket and offers happy hour every Tuesday and Thursday from 4 to 6. Let them look and shake their heads in shame at the father who would—"

"Shawn," Henry hissed. "I get the point."

"Do you?" Shawn asked quietly, but this time his voice was different. It was cold and haunted and Juliet looked up at him in alarm and confusion.

"Shawn," Juliet began.

"Do you?" he asked Henry again, ignoring his girlfriend. "Because I can keep going. Hell, I would love to keep going."

"You've made your point, kid. Now sit down and finish your burger."

"No," Shawn said, shaking his head. "No, I think we're done here. Suddenly I'm not so hungry."

"But Shawn," Juliet said, looking from Henry to her boyfriend in confusion. "They haven't even brought out desert yet and you know how much you love desert. Why don't we stay and—"

"No," Shawn hissed, clearly harsher than he meant to. He softened when he saw the hurt that flashed across Juliet's face. "I'm sorry, Jules. I really don't feel so well. Can we just go to your place? Maybe watch a movie? I've been hankering for a Karate Kid marathon ever since I saw the Tai-Chi people on the beach the other day. We can get some ice cream and I can tell you about my theory that Mr. Myagi is actually a Terminator."

"Shawn," Juliet said. "Your father worked really hard to make tonight special. I don't understand…its just clowns. No big deal."

"Please," Shawn whispered in a tone Henry had never heard him use before. It was a tired plea, a hopeless request and one that held the tone of a pain so deep and so cold that the dark chasms of the ocean would seem warm and pleasant in comparison. "Please, Jules."

"Alright," Juliet said softly, clearly at a loss for her boyfriend's sudden change in demeanor. "Alright, let me just grab my coat."

"Shawn," Henry started, rising from his chair. "I'm sorry, kid. I shouldn't have—"

"Don't," Shawn said coldly. "You and I have nothing to say to each other, Dad."

Juliet looked up at him in alarm. It was clear she knew that there was more to the sudden change of emotion than clowns, but it was also clear that she would not rise to Henry's defense. Nor would she push Shawn because she, unlike Henry, knew when to leave something alone and would never corner her child at his birthday dinner with his girlfriend. Henry wanted to punch himself but settled for taking a long swig of his beer, watching as his son wound between the tables, holding Juliet's hand tightly in his own, his shoulders rigid with unexpressed emotion. They hadn't spoken for over a week after that little display of fatherly failings and when they had there was no warmth to his son's greeting. No, the awkwardness of that night did not disappear until weeks later, but Henry learned a valuable lesson that day. Shawn hadn't been joking when he said that if Henry continued to push it would effectively end things between them. The weeks of awkward silences and tense conversations told him that and Henry vowed to leave the secrets and pain of Chicago buried in the dark prisons of Shawn's heart from that moment on.

Except Chicago didn't want to be buried. The Windy City would not be denied its fifteen minutes of fame and had reared its ugly head in the form of a serial killer that carved numbers into the heads of teenagers. A murderer that had taken something from Shawn that he could never regain, a disciple of the reaper that had killed his son as effectively as his other victims without touching him with blade, bullet, or hand.

Watching Shawn being interrogated by Lassiter was one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do. It took all of the strength he had not to rush in the tiny room and punch Carlton in the face for simply doing his job. To the elder detectives credit, once he'd learned of the pretty girl's death his entire demeanor had changed. Carlton was not known around the department for his bedside manner, but it was clear to Henry that the detective was questioning his kid with all the gentleness he could muster. It was disconcerting to watch him tiptoe around Shawn as if walking on eggshells and he knew it must be frustrating for him, but Henry appreciated the efforts all the same.

"Clowns," Juliet whispered, suddenly appearing beside him.

"What?"

"Clowns," Juliet repeated. "That night at the restaurant you mentioned clowns in Chicago and Shawn freaked. You weren't talking about clowns, were you?"

"No," Henry said softly. "We were talking about this…or at least what happened to him in Chicago. You didn't know him before he left, Juliet, but my son changed when he went away. I guess now we know why."

"He never told me, Henry. He never once mentioned her or…or anything. Doesn't that seem like something you would tell a person?"

"Shawn has always handled pain differently from other people," Henry sighed. "Hell, he handles just about everything differently. I've never been able to figure out the way his mind works. He's my own damn son and I have no idea which direction he might be going. He always arrives at his destination just as I recognize the signs. I'm always one step behind."

Juliet didn't say anything and Henry could feel her eyes on his face, but he stared straight ahead, watching as Shawn buried his head in his hands through the mirrored glass. He could see the grief etched upon his face as he told Lassiter of his meeting with Amy. It was a grief that no father ever wanted to see upon their child, a grief that no amount of Band-Aids or kisses could fix. It was Shawn's and Shawn's alone. Henry hated it.

"He doesn't look good," Juliet whispered after a minute, turning back to watch her boyfriend through the glass. "Maybe we should tell Carlton to give him a break. I don't think he's eaten anything since breakfast this morning."

"If you think that's for the best."

"You don't?"

"Juliet," Henry whispered, heart breaking at the expression on his son's face. "I don't know what to think anymore."