Author's Notes:

Warning—Course language in this chapter. Shawn in severe pain here, guys. You'd be swearing in your head, too by now.

All publicly recognizable overalls, bandannas, riverboats, and failing psychics are sadly marked as property. Not my property, to be sure, but property nonetheless. The lattest of these items shall hopefully be the subject of a grassroots human rights negotiations campaign, but I will leave that up to you, the responsible reader. Bedding dreams are mine and Shawn's, but mostly mine. I do love beds. I do not make the beds of the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. Hell, I don't even make my own. No copyright infringement is intended.

The Whipped Pineapple stand looked sad and empty at night. Maybe it was the lack of delicious flavor. Or perhaps it was the ominous... ominousness... ominosity (?) of the nearby totem poles, their faces crimped by moon shadows, which fell and lingered on time-worn wood grain, all but erased by tiptoed children as they passed in peripheral drones.

Shawn's damp socks continued to tug and bite at his toes as he and Gus padded back through the Adventureland paddocks into unmarked territory. They were headed toward The Golden Horseshoe Saloon, dry clothes, and an idiotic plan that might get them both killed. The genius of Gus's plan had come to a stupored fall off the bar stool as they'd discussed in hushed voices the logistics of getting a coded message to the SBPD via a hopefully park-networked walkie-talkie. This was dreadfully dependent on one of them climbing a roller coaster mountain to see a goat about some dynamite, while the other acquired the communication device off an armed psycho who was, in all likelihood, not alone, judging by "Jafar's" presence in the bathroom, and stalking them from somewhere nearby.

Shawn's stomach tightened at the thought, which brought with it a new level of pain that seared through his insides like a branding iron for a moment before dulling back to a painful steady throb. He caught a sincerely worried look from Gus and realized he was limping badly. Actually, he thought, he was limping very well. Straightening, his jaw clenched in an ironic sleeper hold of his consciousness, Shawn concentrated his waning energy on a new goal of withholding and hiding his distress from Gus. Gus had a tough task at hand as well. One of them had to be unfettered by pity, self- or empathetic self-. And by stab wounds, if Shawn had anything to say about the situation. He was not going to let anything happen to his best friend.

Fuck, it hurt.

The pavement was well-lit, but an unpleasant calm hung over the familiar rickety wood frontier storefronts. It draped itself unabashedly over the shooting gallery whose constant barrage of noise had been silenced... silencered... at some point. It bothered Shawn that he hadn't noticed the moment of the racket's demise. He usually noticed things like that. He usually noticed everything. All he noticed right now was a constant attack on his pain receptors. Maybe it would kill them. He knew that was a lot to hope for. Hello futility. Goodbye observational Shawn.

Hello Saloon. Hell, no. Steps. Note to self: Also thank Disney for railings. They're not just for old people and setting pies on to cool. Or were those windowsills? A pie would be nice. Like, a whole one. Although narcotics would help a lot more than comfort food. Not a thought he'd entertained before. Pineapple-flavored narcotics...

Shawn grabbed the rail and eased himself up both shallow steps. Did Percocet come in chewables? His toe caught on the stoop. His whole body screamed, and he fell back a few inches into Gus. Carefully, his serendipitously-placed sidekick helped him over the god-damned trippy step and onto the wooden porch. Screw Percocet... I.V. of Death Spores, please. Damn it! He coughed, holding his stomach, until tears pulled at the back of his throat. So much for holding it in.

Okay, hold in starting... now. Clutching, grabbing for the pain to become tangible so he could choke it with his hands. So he could do anything! Okay. Starting now.

"You need to rest. I know you know-" Shawn held up his hand, motioning for Gus to stop yammering.

"I will do no such thing. It is I who have perfected these particular backstage door jiggle-to-open fine movements." Locks were kind of Gus's thing. The fancy ones were anyway. But this one was a matter of whispering proper entreaties to the bolt and catch gods. With a delicate flair. Shawn obviously had the most flair.

And the best hair. He was starting to lose it.

"I was going to say I know you know how to jiggle our way in, but you should sit on this bench while I go check out the door. See if anyone is around before you come tamper."

Shawn didn't argue, instead leaning against the building in a shadow, obfuscated from the eyes of any passersby. They had seen quite a few on their trek through the Lands. They'd stepped into hiding places each time anyone had come close enough to see them. Gus was rather conspicuous without a shirt. They were fairly centrally located here, close to the Rivers of America, of which the Jungle Cruise River was one. Shawn could see the silhouette of The Mark Twain Riverboat hulking in the far distance. He never wanted to see, hear, or feel water again. Or taste. God.

"Shawn! Hey! Shawn, it's totally unlocked!" Gus's whispered enthusiasm struggled over the long porch as he plodded quickly back to the main entrance. "This is either really awesome or really, really not good." He looked back toward the door. Shawn knew what he had in mind.

"Go for it, Gus. I have faith in you, buddy." Shawn sank down slowly. He started to shiver violently. The bench was long. It was all he could do not to lie down, but he knew he'd never be able to get back up. He leaned his head against the building and drifted back into his bed-in-the-middle-of-Disneyland fantasy. A comfy bed. A mattress covering the entirety of the park. No shoes allowed. Down comforter. Millions of down comforters all piled on top of him, swaddling him in warmth and safety. Pillows tossed everywhere... No more smelly duck water. No more cold.He was so cold. Shaking hurt him to the core.

Nope. Doesn't have to be pineapple flavored. Don't even want pineapple. Shawn would refuse a pineapple if Val Kilmer himself offered it up right now. He just wanted a blanket. A blanket and a coma. So. Cold. The door inched open a crack a couple of feet away, but he refused to open his eyes. He knew it was Gus. Gus Gus Gus. Fun. To. Say... Go. A. Way. He would just stay here and die.

He coughed, his body wracked by painful spasms that just seemed to lead to more coughing.

Warm hands reaching around his shoulders. Body heat sidling in next to him. He would take anything right now. Why not? He took everything else Gus owned. Friend thing, right?

Gus...

He knew there was a reason he had to stay awake.

Oh, Hell. Then some comforting words from his left side:

"Overalls, Shawn. Warm, dry overalls. And dude. Shoes too! Shoes andsocks. Whaat!" Shawn finally opened his eyes and peered sideways at his source of body heat. Gus was wearing a pink long-sleeved thermal shirt, denim overalls, and a red bandana around his neck.

"You..." Shawn inched away and opened his eyes more. "You had pants on."

"We can't fulfill our hillbilly fantasies together if only you are wearing overalls, Shawn." He looked pleased with himself.

"And the, uh..." Shawn touched his own neckline, raising an eyebrow.

"How many hats, Shawn?" Gus asked in a gruff, serious voice.

"That is so not funny." Shawn actually missed his dad.

"You know it is." It was then that Shawn realized that they needed to get a message out to Lassiter that would also bring his dad. His dad would be sneaky, and he and Lassie would find that son of a bitch.

"Help me change."

Additional A/N: Please R&R? Thanks!