Some translation for the Spanish that I use in this chapter. It's my second language, not too hard for me, but I know I have readers whose second language is English, so here's some help:

"Shawn, que paso?" = "Shawn, what's up?"
"Ya viene," = "Coming right up,"
"Vas a consequir eso?" = "Are you going to get that?"
"Alcohol en una parade de camiones? Crees que soy un idiota?" = "Alcohol at a truck stop? Do you think I'm an idiot?"
"No suerte, mi amigo." = "No luck, my friend."
"Problemas, Shawn?" = "Problems, Shawn?"
"Tu novio esta enfermo?" = "Your boyfriend's sick?"
"Lo siento por eso, pero…no crees que deberias estar alli?" = "I'm sorry for that, but...don't you think you should be there?"

Chapter 37

Spencer had stayed outside the doors until he couldn't stand it anymore, and then he'd just left. He felt as if he was waiting for a death sentence sitting outside that operating room, so now he was on his motorcycle driving out of Santa Barbara. Jules had yelled at him as he'd gone, but he'd ignored her and bolted.

It had been a long ass walk back to their apartment just to get his helmet, keys, and motorcycle (and he'd mentally complained the whole time, thinking about turning back around with every step that he took), but the feeling of the metal between his legs made it worth it.

The low rumble ran through his legs up to his back, and from his hands all the way to his shoulders, settling his nerves like a drug that nothing else could satisfy. And he needed it. Boy, did he need it.

He'd killed a man.

It had all been for Carlton, and so he had no regrets, but he knew that eventually they would have to go over what happened at the crime scene, and he would be questioned about it. There was nothing but solid evidence supporting that it had been self-defense…but still. Shawn knew that he'd have to answer for it.

However, that was only one of the many things that were running through his head. He was mad for not figuring it out sooner; he was mad at not getting there soon enough to stop Mark from shooting his boyfriend. Mostly, he was mad at himself.

He was furious, actually, that he hadn't figured it out.

Goddammit, that's what he was supposed to do! He was the one who was supposed to throw himself into dangerous positions, so all that Carlton had to do was sweep in and save the day with his badge and gun. When it was the other way around, however, Shawn felt completely helpless. And not only that, but he'd been next to useless all because he had gotten there too late.

Shawn's phone buzzed in the front pocket of his jacket, insistently. He knew it was either Gus or his father trying to call him, but he didn't want to deal with it. He ignored it, instead.

He was only vaguely aware of where he was going, as his body and hands were on autopilot as he sped down the familiar highway that had taken him away from so many other problems in his past. He saw a familiar exit sign, however, and the corner of his mouth reluctantly lifted into an almost grin.

He revved the engine and pulled off the highway towards a mostly unknown truck-stop diner that served the best jalapeño chili cheese fries that he'd ever tasted.

Gravel sprayed out from under the back wheel of his bike as he pulled into the parking lot, the dull green and pink neon light welcoming him. The last letter blinked on and off, as if saying hello, and he couldn't help but smile to himself as he took off his helmet and secured it to the handlebars.

The instant he walked through the door, the cook from behind the counter yelled at him, "Shawn, que paso?"

"Not much, Enrique," he answered in English as he sat down on one of the red, plastic stools. "I'll have my usual."

"Ya viene," the black-haired cook replied, pulling out the makings of cheese fries.

Spencer came to the truck-stop about once every couple of weeks. He hadn't been in a long time, however. Carlton didn't know about it, but the fake psychic hoped that he could show it to him sometime soon. Shit. Carlton. The one person that he wasn't trying to think about and it all came full circle back to him. He was lying on an operating table and, instead of being at the hospital like a good boyfriend, he had run away and was sitting on a split, fake leather diner stool while trying not to think about where the stickiness on the bottom of his shoes was coming from.

His phone buzzed again.

"Vas a consequir eso?" Enrique asked, and Shawn shook his head.

"Nope. I'm gonna let it ring."

The younger man shook his head and continued to cook. Enrique was from Mexico and understood English just fine, but couldn't really speak it. Shawn had grown up around a lot of friends who spoke Spanish, so he could understand it just fine, he just couldn't speak it. Hence, they could talk to each other without ever speaking the same language. It was nice. He briefly wondered if Lassiter knew any Spanish…shit. Not again. No matter how he tried, his mind went to him.

"Hey, Enrique, you got any liquor around here?"

"Alcohol en una parade de camiones? Crees que soy un idiota?"

Shawn smirked at that.

"No, not an idiot. I just figured you were the kind of guy with a little something extra behind the counter."

"No suerte, mi amigo."

The psychic shrugged. Oh, well. It had been worth a shot. He'd hoped to possibly drown his sorrows. A couple of regulars strolled in and sat down behind him at a table, both of them wearing trucking company hats. Shawn immediately noticed that one of them was married from the faint lighter marking on their left ring finger. He was stepping out on his wife, for sure. Kept it off while on the road to keep the other women from finding out.

He glanced at the other man, and was taken off guard by the wedding band he sported and then was even more startled when he muttered, "Sorry 'bout your ring, Dan. I'll get it fixed soon."

The man named Dan nodded and then said, "Yeah, jus' wan' it back on, Reid."

They touched hands across the table and shared a soft smile, and Shawn pulled his eyes away. Of course, he'd deduced wrong. His mind was a mess. The clinking of a plate being placed in front of him broke him from his internal depression, and he grabbed the fork and dug right into it.

Yes, he ate the fries with a fork. It was the only way to make sure that the delicious cheesiness didn't end up all over his shirt and pants. As he ate, his mind wandered once more to his boyfriend.

His phone buzzed again.

He glared at it and took another bite, but then looked at the name of who was calling. It wasn't Gus. It wasn't Henry. It was Jules. He could ignore Gus easily enough, he'd been doing it for years, and ignoring his dad was old habit by this point…but ignoring Juliet? Yeah, that was a little bit harder for him, though he'd never admit it out loud. She was his second best-friend and she would take him ignoring her very personally, unlike Gus or his father, who were used to it.

Swallowing his mouthful, he reluctantly put down his fork and picked up his phone.

"Hey, Jules," he started, but she cut him off with, "Where the hell are you Shawn? Gus has been trying to reach you for the last hour! Your dad, too! If you went out on your bike in the state that you're in, so help me, I just might shoot you!"

Well, that was a first. Lassi was usually the only one to threaten him in such a manner.

He let out a frustrated sigh and leaned forward on the counter and said softly into the phone, "Jules…I needed to get out. I just…I'm not like you guys. I can't just sit there doing nothing…" "Oh, but you can sit somewhere else doing nothing, instead?" She had a point. Spencer quickly countered with, "It's not the same thing, Jules! When I'm sitting in the hospital, I can't think of anything besides the fact that I'm sitting there because Lassi got shot. And I…I just can't deal with that!"

She was quiet.

After a second she said, "Okay, I get that, but Shawn…he needs you."

At that, he drew in a sharp breath. He didn't like being emotionally manipulated. His father and mother, both, had been doing it to him for years. Gus had tried once or twice, but had soon learned that trying to manipulate Shawn Spencer was a Bad Idea, capital B, capital I. To have Jules try and do it to him, especially during this kind of traumatic event, meant that he was more than slightly pissed off. He tightened his jaw and kept his voice low so as not to draw attention to himself in the diner.

"Jules…Juliet," he corrected, trying to convey just how upset he was. "Right now, he's on the operating table. I can't do anything. Until he is out, I will do what I have to in order to stay sane. If that means not being there while his chest is being cut open, then you, Gus, and Henry are just gonna have to deal with it."

He hung up.

Yes, it was harsh, but she would understand. He just couldn't deal with the emotional weight that came with having a real, grown-up relationship, along with the terrifying fact that it was very possible that it might not exist in a few hours all because of one little measly bullet.

And one jab of his hand.

God, that still barely registered, but he was going to have to deal with it sooner or later. He had killed Mark. He still didn't know the man's last name (not that he cared, or anything), but he knew that Vick and the SBPD weren't going to let it go so easy. Yes, it was self-defense, but he'd still killed someone.

Shawn stabbed at his food a few times, taking a couple of bites, his appetite practically gone. The short, heated conversation he'd had with Juliet (it was not a fight), left him feeling sick to his stomach, and he wasn't sure how long he could take it. He glanced in the reflection of the napkin holder and saw Dan and Reid's hands still intertwined and he bit back the sarcastic and biting comment that he wanted to fling out in self defensive posturing. It wasn't fair that they had each other while he waited to know if his own boyfriend was even going to be alive in the next two hours.

After about ten quiet minutes, Enrique came over to the counter, a towel tossed over his shoulder in a cliched manner. He glanced at the fake psychic's barely touched food.

"Problemas, Shawn?"

He shrugged.

"My boyfriend's in the hospital."

"Tu novio esta enfermo?"

"No, not sick. He…he was shot. He's a cop," he quickly explained, and Enrique's brow rose in understanding, and he replied with, "Lo siento por eso, pero…no crees que deberias estar alli?"

Spencer let out another sigh and pushed his food around on his plate with his fork and then answered, "No, Enrique. I shouldn't be there. Not now. I'm too…unstable." At this, the cook nodded, as if understanding, and Shawn added, "I did something to save his life, but…I don't know if he'll look at me the same way."

Out of nowhere, Enrique threw down the towel and leaned forward onto his hands on the counter and said in perfect, barely accented English, "You are an absolute ass, Shawn Spencer. Get back to that hospital and be uncomfortable. Everybody goes through it, you don't get to get out of it."

And with that, he pulled the barely eaten plate of jalapeño chili cheese fries away from him, and glared at him over his shoulder as he took them back to the kitchen.

Well…shit.

"Gee, you wanna sugar coat it some more, Enrique?" he shot back, and only heard laughter in reply. Shawn rolled his eyes, slapped a ten on the counter, and then turned to leave. Just as he was about to leave, one hand on the door, he yelled back to the cook, "By the way man, totally not cool pretending to not be able to speak English! I had to pull out some of my old Spanish books because of you!"

More laughter.

Feeling like a total ass, just as Enrique had implied, he went back to his bike and reluctantly slid a leg over it, pulling his helmet back on. Just before he started the engine, he shot Juliet and Gus a group text.

Coming home. You were right, he sent.

Gus sent back a thumbs up and Jules sent him a smiley face.

Yeah…time to be a grown up. No more running away.

Part 37/?