Dazed and Confused (and Disoriented and Bemused—Yeah, That's a Concuss

by DwaejiTokki

After taking on the case of a man brutalized and left for dead in the park, Lassiter and O'Hara are shocked to learn the victim is someone close to home. (Not a death fic. Takes place sometime in earlier seasons.)

Dazed and Confused (and Disoriented and Bemused—Yeah, That's a Concussion)

Summary: After taking on the case of a man brutalized and left for dead in the park, Lassiter and O'Hara are shocked to learn the victim is someone close to home. (Not a death fic. Takes place sometime in earlier seasons.)

Rating: M, for graphic violence, sexual violence, and graphic descriptions of injuries.

Note: This story has been rattling around in my head for literal years. Just goes to show how much of a procrastinator I am. It just kept growing longer as I wrote it…I'm counting it towards NaNoWriMo. No proofread. We die like warriors.

Dazed and Confused

(and Disoriented and Bemused—Yeah, That's a Concussion)

Now.

Detective Juliet O'Hara cursed under her breath as her heel sunk into a patch of mud hidden under the mulch of the forest floor. She was going to start keeping a gym bag with sneakers in her partner's trunk so she could change her shoes out when they were called out to deal with crime scenes out in nature. Usually it wasn't a problem, but this was apparently the one area in the entirety of Santa Barbara that wasn't dry as drought. Not bothering to scrape the mud from her shoe, since it would just get muddy again and Head Detective Carlton J. Lassiter wasn't waiting on her anyway, Juliet forged ahead through the thin copse of trees at the edge of the park.

Other officers were already on scene, including Buzz McNab, who was waiting anxiously to get the detectives up to speed. Before Lassiter could snap at him, Buzz started in, referencing the notes he had taken.

"A park ranger called it in," Buzz explained, "an injured hiker. The hiker was wandering about a quarter of a mile from here, disoriented and nonresponsive. Ranger says he had no shoes, his shirt and jeans were torn and dirty, and he was bleeding heavily from the head. The park is just past those trees—" he gestured behind the detectives back in the direction they had come—"so the ranger thinks after he was injured he was running from someone and ended up close to a hiking trail. We've already found some articles of clothing that probably belonged to the victim—shoes, a sock, boxer shorts—and some bloody twine and a pocketknife. Looks like he was attacked here."

Lassiter took his sunglasses off and tucked them into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, frowning thoughtfully and glancing in the directions Buzz gestured. He saw CSI photographers going about their jobs, and spotted numbered markers calling attention to the aftermath of violence—a blood-stained rock, a splatter of vomit, and the articles Buzz mentioned.

"Who's the victim?" Juliet asked.

"Unknown," Buzz replied. "He couldn't identify himself, didn't have any ID on him, and we haven't found anything in the vicinity. Seems he was robbed as well—except they left the pocketknife."

"That the ranger who called it in?" Lassiter asked, pointing towards the edge of the crime scene at a uniformed park ranger.

"Yes, that's Alan Maxwell," Buzz responded, even as the detective began to make his way over to him. Juliet followed, thanking Buzz over her shoulder.

As the detectives approached, the ranger took note and straightened up slightly. "Afternoon," he greeted them.

"Mr. Maxwell, I'm Head Detective Lassiter, SBPD," Lassiter replied, not bothering with pleasantries. "Can you tell us what happened here?"

"Well, this morning about eight o'clock or so," Maxwell replied, "I was walking along the park path—it's not one of the official hiking trails, it's a game trail, but a lot of visitors use it. Sometimes they run into wild animals, and that's all sorts of trouble, so once in a while us rangers like to hike it and make sure everything's fine.

"Anyway, this morning I was about quarter a mile from here, that way," he gestured towards the thicker trees, where the detectives could see officers milling around. "I could hear someone kind of struggling, grunting and groaning, you know. So I thought maybe it was an injured animal. I would've kept on walking if I hadn't noticed the shirt. It was pretty bright, and all covered in blood, especially around here." Maxwell waved his hand around his own shoulder, then gestured at the side of his head.

"He had a pretty bad head trauma. Almost couldn't see his face for all the blood. I asked him if he was all right and he kind of looked at me, but I don't think he was all there, if you know what I mean. Pretty out of it. At first I thought he might have been attacked and dragged off the trail by a bobcat or something, but it wasn't an animal attack. No bite or claw marks that I could see."

Juliet cut in: "Did he say anything at all?"

Maxwell shook his head. "Not a word. Just kind of stared at me the whole time I was getting him up on the trail and calling for an ambulance. Like he didn't understand English."

"No sign of anyone else?" Lassiter confirmed.

"No, sir," Maxwell replied. After the medics carted him off, I came back to the spot I found him and followed a bloody trail he left to here. The park is just back there, so I guess he might have been a visitor who got dragged into the trees here and beaten up pretty bad. His wrists were pretty bloody, too, I noticed. Maybe he ran and got lost. Maybe he was left for dead and he got up and picked a random direction and started walking."

Maxwell crossed his arms and shrugged.

"Anything else you can tell us?" Lassiter asked.

Juliet added, "Anything about the victim, the trail?"

"He was Hispanic, I think," Maxwell said, a little self-doubtfully. "The victim. He had short brown hair, a sort of white t-shirt and blue jeans. I didn't really get a good look at him, to be honest. I was more focused on the injuries and directing the medics to the area. As for the trail…It's pretty much what you would expect for an injured, disoriented man wandering around. I thought it was strange that some of his clothes are here, that he's wearing pants but not undershorts…but, you know. I guess that points more or less to what might have happened to him than anything really helpful here…"

"All right. Thank you," Lassiter nodded. He turned away and began to examine the scene with a critical eye.

After a while, having found nothing CSI officers hadn't already documented, the detectives stepped out of the trees and into the park, where visitors were already strolling and playing. It was a beautifully sunny Saturday morning, which meant it was busier than not. Any evidence in the area would probably have already been ruined, either by exposure to the weather or trampled underfoot, but they gave it a once over for clues as to where the victim had come from or where his attacker had gone. Of course, there was no such luck, given the attack had happened hours ago, likely in the early morning before dawn.

There wasn't much to do but go back to the precinct and wait for the hospital to call the detectives with the news that the victim was awake and coherent enough to give a statement.

…

Lassiter and Juliet focused on paperwork—what they often reminded Shawn Spencer was "real" police work—at their desks in the bullpen. It was a slow day, and Lassiter could almost even call it blissful—blissfully quiet, that was, as Shawn was nowhere to be seen. He and Juliet had passed several hours working on other cases, and even had time for a good lunch run before his day took a turn for the worse.

Where Gus was, Shawn was sure to follow—and vice-versa. Lassiter groaned as Guster made eye contact with him across the room, and then headed purposefully toward him. He ducked his head down and pretended be absorbed in his work.

"Hey, Gus," Juliet greeted cheerfully. Her blue eyes moved past him to the door expectantly.

"Have you seen Shawn?" Gus asked.

"Oh," she said. "Um, no. Not today. Why?"

"He's not answering his phone."

From the desk across from Lassiter, Henry scoffed. He took off his reading glasses and set down the newspaper he was perusing to look at Gus, who frowned back at him. "What else is new?" Henry said. "He's probably at that laundromat he calls an apartment, nursing a hangover."

"I checked his apartment," Gus said. "I don't think he's there."

"Then he'll have slept at the Psych office or a motel," Henry shrugged, picking up the newspaper again. "He was at a bar last night. Called me up close to one in the morning, drunk and asking for a ride. I told him to get a cab. He'll turn up again soon."

Gus frowned. "But why would Shawn have been at a bar? He was the one who planned our breakfast galore today. He wouldn't have missed it."

"Wouldn't he?" Henry asked. "He's flaked on you again, Gus."

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "I stopped at Tom Blair's last night and saw him there, Guster. He got into a cab with someone else and left, so he's probably passed out at his date's place."

"He didn't have a date last night," Gus said. "He would have told me."

"Then he fell in love at first sight and they ran away together to elope," Lassiter retorted sarcastically. "If you're really that worried, you can file a missing person report. Now, if you don't mind, we do actually have a crime to solve."

Gus bristled and Juliet finally stepped in. "Okay, so it looks like Shawn might have maybe forgotten about breakfast, Gus. I'm sure he's fine, just sleeping off a hangover. He'll probably call sooner than later—"

Lassiter's cell phone rang shrilly, and he answered immediately, still meeting Gus' fiery glare. "Detective Lassiter," he said. "Okay. We're on our way now. Thank you." He looked at Juliet and jerked his head towards the door. "Victim's awake."

The detectives gathered up their things and headed out without another word, though Juliet did give Gus a parting look of sympathy. Once they were gone, Gus turned to Henry, who was studiously reading.

"Mr. Spencer," he said. "I've got a bad feeling."

Henry raised an eyebrow. "Gus, I think Shawn's 'psychicness' is rubbing off on you."

Gus shook his head, blowing out a frustrated sigh. He turned on his heel and left the bullpen without filing a report, visibly upset. As he descended the steps, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and called Shawn again. It rang five times and then went to voicemail.

"Shawn," Gus said, climbing into the Blueberry. "I'm coming to your apartment again, and this time if you don't open up—or call me back—I'm breaking and entering. Call me."

He made a six-point turn out of the SBPD parking lot and drove in nervous quiet towards Shawn's place. When he arrived, Shawn's Norton was still missing, and the windows were shuttered and dark. Gus parked and approached the door. When pulling proved it was locked, he cupped his hands against the glass to peer inside. No sign of Shawn.

Rather than breaking in as promised in his last voicemail, Gus reached into his pocket for his phone to call again—and nearly leapt out of his shoes as it rang with an incoming call. He wrestled with the phone, nearly dropping it, and was disappointed that caller ID did not say Shawn. He answered anyway: "Hello? Yes, this is he…" His heart dropped into his stomach at the news. "Oh, my god!"

Earlier.

It had been a long day for Detective Lassiter, and as he often did when he needed to wind down, he stopped off at Tom Blair's Pub for a quick glass of whiskey before heading home for a few hours' rest. To be fair, it usually worked out for him. He could go in, order a whiskey neat, savor it over about half an hour while enjoying the genial atmosphere, and then pay (with, of course, a tip—he wasn't a monster) and be home after about a ten-minute drive. Unfortunately, this night seemed to be an unusual one for the detective.

He nearly turned right around to get into his car and drive away, but he was spotted, and he felt his shoulders rise with tension at the sound of a very loud, overly cheerful, "Lazziiiiiiie!"

Gritting his teeth, Lassiter forged ahead. Maybe if he ignored Shawn, who was leaning heavily against the cigarette receptacle outside the pub doors, Shawn might think he had mistaken Lassiter for a stranger and leave him alone. Shawn grinned drunkenly, looking pleased to see his surly coworker, whom he clearly recognized. Lassiter wasn't going to get through the door unmolested.

As the detective approached, Shawn heaved himself upright with apparent effort, nearly toppling over. He succeeded in flinging his arms up and around Lassiter's shoulders. Lassiter was forced to hold him to keep him from falling to the ground. Even as he tried to manhandle Shawn back to a half-leaning, half-sitting position on the waist-high receptacle, Shawn clung tighter and rubbed his stubbly cheek against Lassiter's neck.

"Hi there, Lassie," Shawn slurred.

"Let go of me, Spencer," Lassiter grunted, pushing at his chest.

"Are you here to help?" Shawn asked. "I'm on a case…It's, uh, I came here and found out, uh…He's here, too! No, wait, he left earlier, I think."

"I'm not here to help with your lover's spat case," Lassiter growled. Scowling, he finally extricated himself from Shawn's drunken embrace. The younger man teetered, and Lassiter pushed him back upright and pressed firmly down on his shoulders so that Shawn would sit. "Do you need a—"

Before he could offer to call him a taxi, Shawn's glazed eyes slid past him to the yellow cab already waiting at the curb. "Hey, my cab's here!" he slurred pleasantly.

Lassiter bit his tongue, just managing to resist rolling his eyes. He stepped back and watched Shawn stagger to the car and climb in. The passenger already inside seemed to have been waiting for him, since as Shawn pulled the door shut the car pulled away.

He shook his head, straightened his tie, and went in for his drink. At least Shawn had ordered a cab instead of driving himself—or worse, bumming a ride off Lassiter.

Now.

After showing their badges to the nurses on duty—seeing civilians straighten up at the sight of the polished brass never ceased to satisfy them—the head nurse, an older woman named Sylvia, led them to the victim's room.

"We've just moved him into a private room," Sylvia said. "So he'll be ready for you. The surgeon performed an emergency procedure for a depressed cranial fracture, and his prognosis is good. When he woke up in recovery, he was able to tell us his name, but he attempted to leave, so we had to call his medical proxy. The proxy is on his way, but he gave us the go-ahead to inform the police of the assault. We did perform a rape kit. He didn't refuse one when he arrived, but I'm not sure he understood what we were doing. He's had a severe head trauma, so there's some confusion and mood swings, as well as short-term memory problems. That will probably improve on its own. For now, he's aware enough to answer questions, though whether he remembers what happened is a different issue.

"He's had a bit of a rough time," she continued. "Several broken ribs, a strained neck, dislocated shoulder, sprained wrist and knee. He's all scraped and bruised up. There's some pretty major anorectal trauma as well, from the assault."

As they reached the door, Juliet broke Sylvia's monolog listing his injuries and recent procedures. "You mentioned that the victim identified himself?"

"Oh, sorry," Sylvia said. "His name is Shawn Spencer."

The detectives stopped in their tracks and stared at her as she opened the door for them. Then two pairs of blue eyes moved past the nurse to the figure lying in the bed. He was awake, and waved weakly at them with a bandaged hand as they pushed into the room.

"Oh my god, Shawn," Juliet breathed, hurrying to his side. She didn't touch him, afraid of hurting him.

"Hi, hello," he mumbled.

"Good god, Spencer," Lassiter said, eyes raking down the man's battered body. The nurse's brief catalog of injuries on the walk over from the front desk seemed an understatement:

Shawn's head was wrapped in thick layers of white gauze, which was spotted through with bright red blood and dull orange iodine. One swollen eye was nearly obscured by the bandages, but the cuts and bruises on his face were plain to see. The nurse had mentioned a depressed fracture in his skull that had required surgical intervention. Sylvia had also mentioned several other broken bones—his ribs had taken the brunt of the beating—as well as a dislocated shoulder, sprained wrist and knee, and a neck injury. He could see an ice pack nestled over Shawn's clavicle, and assumed the lumps he could see under the thin hospital-issued blankets were ice packs as well. Both wrists were wrapped in thick bandages, and his right arm was splinted and immobilized against his chest. An IV line snaked into the crook of his left arm, and the monitor's wires disappeared under the collar of his gown, which wasn't tied. Lassiter remembered that there was a rape kit, and that he himself had watched the man stagger into a waiting cab with another person, that he had sensed nothing amiss, and he suddenly wished he were anywhere else but there in that room with a battered Shawn Spencer.

"'M glad you're here," Shawn rasped. "Tell them…I need to go."

Juliet shook her head slightly. "Shawn, I think you should stay here for a little while."

Shawn huffed. "No. I have plans today. 'M very late…"

Lassiter frowned. "You don't have anywhere to be, Spencer."

"I do! I do. I have to go to…smoothies." Shawn's brow furrowed, tongue working behind his teeth.

"To breakfast with Gus?" Juliet supplied gently.

"Yeah," Shawn said. "Gonna get pancakes, and donuts…eggs…syrup…" He drew in a sharp, shuddering breath and attempted to sit up, dislodging the ice pack on his shoulder. The gown slipped down to reveal more bruising and the electrodes held in place with adhesive pads.

Both detectives immediately moved to push him back down, but he had already collapsed back with a pained groan. Juliet covered his chest with the gown and repositioned the ice pack.

"Ungh, 'm so late," Shawn whispered miserably. He grasped the blanket and tried to move it off of himself.

"It's okay," Juliet said, folding the cloth back. "I'll call Gus and tell him. He'll understand."

"Spencer," Lassiter broke in. "Who did this you?"

"Huh?"

"Can you tell us what happened?"

Shawn lifted his head off the pillow and looked down at his bandaged and splinted arms. "Accident?" he suggested.

Juliet and Lassiter exchanged a glance.

"Spencer, what do you remember from last night?"

Shawn made a noise in his chest, and both detectives winced. "Can't think right now," he said. "Head hurts…I need to go…They won't let me leave…"

"Please try to think," Juliet urged him. "What happened last night? Can you tell us anything? Where did you go? Who were you with? Can you ask the spirits to help you remember, maybe?"

He fell quiet and still for so long that Lassiter thought he might have drifted off to sleep. "Where's m' phone?" he said at last.

"Oh, of course," Juliet said. "We could track his phone!"

"Huh?"

Lassiter nodded and pulled out his own phone to have an officer get started on the trace. Juliet stayed with Shawn.

"Shawn, I'm going to call Gus now, okay?"

"'Kay."

She pressed the phone to her ear, checking over her shoulder that no nurses were watching, since phone calls weren't allowed. Gus picked up almost immediately, but before she could say anything, he was already talking.

"I can't talk now," he panted. "Shawn's in the hospital. I'm heading inside now. Call you later."

Without letting her get a word in edgewise, he hung up. Juliet turned and headed to the door to slow Gus down, as she could hear his quick steps approaching, his voice informing an indignant nurse that he was Shawn's proxy. In the hall, Lassiter also held up a hand to warn Gus, telling the person on the other end of the phone to hold for a minute, but Gus merely pushed past him and then past Juliet without really seeing them.

"Oh my god!" he exclaimed, stopping short of Shawn's bed.

Shawn opened his eyes. "Hi, buddy," he said. "'M on m'way. Tell them to…let me leave…We'll go…"

Gus merely stared at him, speechless at the state of his best friend. His breaths came hard and fast, but after a moment he pulled himself together. "Shawn," he said, moving to his side. "Dude, what happened?"

Shawn merely looked bewildered.

Gus spun around as though he'd just noticed Juliet and Lassiter, who were both standing outside the door, watching unhappily. "Why are you two here before me?" Gus demanded, eyes fearful. "What happened?"

"That's what we're trying to figure out, Guster," Lassiter said. "And we're going to."

Earlier.

Henry reached blindly for his cell phone, which was making a racket on the bedside stand. He squinted at the digital alarm clock, and croaked a curse as he saw it was 12:38 AM. He'd only been asleep for about an hour, but damned if it didn't make him cranky to be woken up like this. Seeing the caller ID was Shawn, he answered with: "What do you want, Shawn? It's one in the morning!"

There was background chatter—Shawn was in public, probably at a bar, which was confirmed when Shawn's answer finally came, words clumsy and heavy-tongued. "No, it's not. It's 12:30 in the morning."

Henry ignored the correction. "What do you want, Shawn?"

"I am a little—urp—a little tipsy, I think. I had two drinks-ish or so…"

"And?"

"And I think it's a little not legal to drive like this."

"You're an adult. You can take care of yourself. And if you can't, too bad. Sink or swim, Shawn. I'm going to sleep."

Henry hung up, fumbled the charger into its port, and set the phone face-down on the table. Then he laid back and crossed his arms, frowning. Shawn would probably call him again, and again, and again, until Henry gave in and picked him up from whatever rundown dive he'd patronized that evening. But Shawn didn't call again, and eventually Henry let himself relax into sleep.

Now.

Henry barreled into Shawn's room, where Gus and a nurse were trying to persuade an agitated and confused Shawn to stay in bed. Shawn was perched on the edge of the gurney, swaying unsteadily with his right arm strapped to his chest. Gus was gently grasping him under the left arm to support him while the nurse tried to push his legs back up onto the bed.

"Why did no one call me?" Henry demanded. "Someone explain to me why I found out about this from the detectives when they got back to the precinct! Shawn, would you just lie back?"

Gus shot him a glare. "Mr. Spencer, I don't think now is the time to be yelling."

Henry was about to retort, but the scene finally registered. Shawn clearly wasn't entirely present, if the slack, confused look on his battered face was any indication. He wasn't resisting getting back into bed, but he wasn't cooperating, either, which placed Gus and the nurse in the difficult position of maneuvering him carefully back. All Henry's anger evaporated when he noticed a shiny thread of drool hanging from his son's chin.

Concerned, he practically shoved the nurse out of the way and bent to get a better look at Shawn, cupping his wan face in his hands. He could practically feel the heat of his fever rolling off him in waves. This close, he could see that Shawn's pupils were different sizes, a sign of concussion—which made sense with the thick bandages wrapped around his brow—and he was trembling a little as he struggled to keep himself upright. He brushed the back of one hand across Shawn's stubbled, scraped chin to dry it. "Shawn, kid, can you hear me?"

After a moment, Shawn's eyes came into focus, and he looked at Henry. His wet mouth made a short slurping noise as he sucked in a breath. Then he said, "'M sick," and promptly vomited bile. Gus made a gagging noise behind him, and the nurse calmly stepped outside and asked for help. Henry ignored the hot, smelly liquid dripping down his arm and kept supporting Shawn until a trio of nurses came to clean up and get him settled. Then he stepped into the adjoined restroom, where Gus was hiding as he tried to control his sympathetic gag reflex, and washed the bile off his arm.

Henry sighed heavily through his nose and leaned against the edge of the sink. He could hear the nurses chatting to Shawn as they cleaned him up, changed the soiled gown and bandages, and brought him some ginger ale to sip and settle his stomach. He couldn't hear Shawn's responses—if he responded at all, that was. Once all but one of the nurses was gone, Henry straightened up and stepped back out in the main room.

Shawn was reclined in the bed, dwarfed in a blanket. The color in his face was a little improved, and his bruised eyes were tracking the nurse as she moved around him. She tucked the blanket under his feet and showed him that the call button was in his lap, then took her leave.

Henry let himself sink into the chair at Shawn's bedside. The younger Spencer glanced at him, moving his eyes and not his head.

"How're you doing, kid?" Henry asked softly.

"'S hot," he whispered.

"You want the blanket off?"

"Yeah."

Henry obliged, leaning forward and folding the blanket down, taking care to avoid jostling Shawn's arm. A shudder ran through Shawn's body, as the chilly air pressed down on his skin, but he didn't complain. His eyes shut. Gus finally came back, gag reflex firmly under control, and crossed to the other side of the bed to take the chair there.

They sat in silence, watching over their sleeping charge.

…

"It should be around here somewhere," Lassiter said, scanning the area with his eyes.

"Do you think they might have buried it?" Juliet frowned, squinting at the grass for any telltale signs of recent digging.

He grunted noncommittally. "Did anyone check the garbage cans around here?"

"I'm not sure. Can't hurt to check again."

Lassiter agreed, then turned around. "McNab!" he barked.

Despite being several meters away with a metal detector, Buzz jumped to and hurried over to Lassiter. "Detective?"

"Get some gloves on and go search the trash receptacles." Lassiter gestured to the nearest one.

"Yes, sir!" Buzz tried to hand the metal detector off to Lassiter, but at the man's stare he simply carried it away with him, holding it awkwardly in the crook of his elbow as he pulled on a pair of fresh latex gloves.

Lassiter unfolded the map the precinct had provided with the estimated position of Shawn's phone. It was somewhere within a thirty-meter radius, which officers sectioned off with crime scene tape. A few people paced the area with metal detectors. So far, they had found odds and ends like keys and coins, but no cell phone. He checked their progress and marked it on the map with a pencil.

Before he could make a comment on the remainder of the search area, Buzz had called the detectives over to the trash can. Lassiter and Juliet went to him, and the lanky officer bagged a familiar lime green iPhone, and then a bifold leather wallet.

"The wallet is Shawn's," Buzz said. "I checked. Looks like everything's there, but there's no cash, if he had any."

"Great work, McNab," Lassiter said, taking the evidence. Buzz beamed at the rare compliment. "Finish up here. O'Hara and I will head back to the station and get started on printing."

"Yes, sir."

Earlier.

Shawn bent forward and vomited noisily into the grass. "Ugh," he coughed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. It definitely didn't taste as delicious coming up as it did going down.

One of his companions slapped him on the back. "That's it," he laughed. "Let it out, man." Shawn fondly named him Slappy.

The other kept walking impatiently. "We're almost there. It's just past the trees." He pointed, and Shawn squinted past him towards the forest.

"Looks dark," he slurred.

"That's what flashlights are for."

"Okay." Shawn reached for his phone and clumsily unlocked it. "Flashlight…flash…light…" After a futile search for the flashlight icon, he opened his camera app and hit record. The light automatically enabled, his smartphone detecting the darkness. The wonders of technology, he thought, pleased.

Slappy held out a thermos to Shawn. "Can I interest you in some drink?"

"Whazzit?"

"Water, my guy. You need it."

"Drink and walk," said the other. Shawn decided to call him Grumpy. "Let's go! I don't want anyone to see us."

He followed them, aiming the light at the ground in front of him. He felt pleasantly warm and tingly all over. Shawn didn't understand exactly why the cab driver was taking a walk with them, but he didn't mind. The more the merrier, he thought. Especially when it was a nice night, he felt good, and Slappy smelled like churros. The fresh air was doing him good, just as they'd suggested it would when he'd announced he was carsick.

Slappy unscrewed the thermos and handed it to him, and Shawn took a sip. He nearly dropped his phone, but managed to hold on, laughing.

Grumpy stopped at the edge of the trees, eyes scanning the area as he ushered Shawn and Slappy into the shadows. Shawn's foot caught on an upraised root, and this time he did drop his phone, though Slappy reached out and steadied him and the thermos. As Shawn started to bend down to pick up his phone, he suddenly found himself slamming face-down in the mulch, earthy leaves filling his mouth. He lifted his head and sputtered.

His first thought was one of surprise: Slappy dropped him!

Before his mind registered the fact that he had not fallen, but had in fact been shoved forward from behind, there were strong hands on his arms and a sharp knee in his back.

"Hey…" he mumbled, brow creasing.

A sense of danger penetrated the fog in his head when his arms were wrenched painfully backward and his wrists wound tightly with something thin and rough. Shawn finally began to struggle, but it was too little, too late. Slappy and Grumpy each grabbed one of his arms and dragged him farther into the woods.

"Leggo," Shawn demanded. He tried to make his voice loud and firm and sober, but failed. He was going to have to scream for help and hope there was a group of very late-night bodybuilders working out in the vicinity who were willing to come running into danger. Maybe if he screamed like a girl…

They dumped him on the ground, Grumpy delivering a swift kick to the ribs that knocked the wind out of Shawn. He tried to curl up, though it was nearly impossible with his hands bound so tightly behind his back. Coughing and gasping for air, Shawn decided he was going to try and talk his way out, as usual—as soon as he got his breath back, that was. Slappy stayed near him as Grumpy went back for Shawn's phone, as the light was shining like a beacon back towards the park. He picked it up, but didn't turn it off.

"It's recording," he noted as he trekked back, feet crunching over leaves and twigs.

"Yeah?" Slappy grinned. "That's fine. I can send the video to myself as a souvenir."

"Hey," Shawn said, shifting uncomfortably on the ground. His attempts to roll over and sit up weren't working. His movements were uncoordinated, and he belatedly realized that he couldn't have been that drunk—he had been drugged. "Hey, what are we doing, guys?"

Grumpy squatted down next to him and shone the light into his face. Shawn squeezed his eyes shut against the barrage of brightness. "Didn't your parents ever teach you not to go places with strangers, Shawnee?"

"Uh, yeah," Shawn nodded, squinting one eye open. He needed to see to gauge how their chat was going, but the light was blinding him, and he couldn't make out his companions-cum-attackers' faces in the shadows. "Yeah, but you aren't strangers—we're friends! You, him, and me…We go way back now. We shared a cab all the way over here and everything."

Slappy laughed again, but now that Shawn was slowly sobering up with the adrenaline rush, the laugh sounded cruel. "Yeah, we're friends," he said. "Friends take care of each other, don't they?" Shawn heard the sound of a fly being unzipped.

Talking clearly wasn't going well.

Heart hammering, Shawn decided now was the time to yell for help. "Fire!" he screamed, voice cracking as he rolled over in a bid to get to his feet and run. He made it up onto his knees, drawing in another breath to yell again before his captors reacted. A hand on the back of his head smashed his face into the ground and pressed down hard, suffocating him. He let out a muffled groan, trying to writhe out of the now vise-like grip in his hair.

Shawn heard rather than felt something in his neck crack as his head was wrenched up and back with enough strength to lift his torso up off the ground. A heavy boot made contact with his solar plexus, and he spasmed, unable to curl into the fetal position or draw in a breath. As he choked, Grumpy let him fall back down, but then placed a knee on his neck and leaned heavily on him. Shawn gasped like a fish out of water, tears streaming.

"Scream again and we'll fucking kill you," Grumpy snarled, spittle flying out onto Shawn's cheek. Then he got up, and Shawn sucked in his first full breath in what felt like a lifetime, and promptly choked on it. He was too busy hacking up his lungs to pay attention to Grumpy and Slappy until they were on him again.

They ignored his protests as they yanked his jeans and shorts down. Shawn flailed his legs, trying to kick his attackers where it hurt. He didn't have the leverage—and for his troubles, Slappy beat him across the face until he saw actual stars. Shawn twisted his face to one side, trying to avoid both the blows and find room to breathe.

"We still recording?" Slappy asked.

"Yep."

Rough hands flipped him onto his stomach, and Slappy straddled his legs, trapping him. "No-no-no-no-no-no-no-no," he uttered pleadingly. Panic clamored in his throat, and his stomach churned. He felt like he would pass out, and on second thought, Shawn prayed for unconsciousness.

"Wah-wah-wah," Slappy mocked him. One hand pushed Shawn's wrists higher up his back, bending his arms so far he thought his elbows would snap like dried spaghetti noodles. He had a split second to consider changing Slappy's name.

Shawn couldn't help the scream as he was penetrated violently. One man struck him in the ribs, the other clamped a hand over his mouth, and he couldn't be sure which was which because he'd squeezed his eyes closed and bitten his tongue.

"Shut the fuck up," Slappy hissed as Shawn moaned and whimpered. But Shawn couldn't control the noises he was making or the tears he was crying, even if in the back of his mind he felt ashamed of them, especially with the indignity of knowing he was being recorded with his own phone. Grumpy hit him and then squeezed his hand around his throat tight enough to silence him, but not cut off his air entirely. He wheezed. Behind him it felt like Slappy was sawing him in half. Sharp, unrelenting pain lanced from his rear and into his stomach, and he half-deliriously feared that Slappy's cock would burst out of his gut like the chestbursters in 'Alien.'

Shawn desperately tried to escape the situation, if not in body at least in mind. He needed to think of next steps. They weren't going to keep going like this for long. They would probably trade places, or move him into another position that was more convenient for them. He would have to take advantage of that moment, fight back, regain control. Shawn needed to run, or call the police—preferably both. But he needed his hands, which were becoming numb behind his back, and his phone, which was in Grumpy's hands.

He understood they were planning to kill him. He'd seen their faces, and gotten them both on film, but they were obviously unconcerned by this. Neither was wearing gloves or condoms, which meant they had plans to dispose of all the evidence—the evidence being Shawn, of course. If Shawn wanted to live, he was going to have to pull a live rabbit out of his hat. He was going to have to focus, pay attention to their movements and words, no matter how much it hurt. "How many hats, Shawn?"

Shawn forced his father's voice out of his head and realized his attackers were speaking at him.

"On your knees," they were saying.

Before he had registered that Slappy had finished and pulled out, and that the men were jerking him upright, the phone had exchanged hands and Slappy hand a firm handful of Shawn's hair. Shawn sucked in several breaths to clear his head. He ignored the hot slickness he could feel dripping between his thighs.

Grumpy smooshed Shawn's face in his hand, jamming his thumb and fingers into the hinges of his jaw to force his teeth apart. Slappy wrenched his head back and held him in place as his friend fed his engorged member into Shawn's mouth. Once it was in, Shawn took a bite at the cherry—literally. He widened his mouth, shifted his head as much as he could to dislodge Grumpy's fingers from his jaw, and then clenched his teeth together with as much strength as he could muster. He felt the flesh of his own cheek crunch, but he also had a solid clamp on the invading alien.

The man howled and recoiled, instinctively clutching at the pain. In the same moment, Shawn twisted and slammed his shoulder into Slappy's crotch behind him, sending him staggering back. The phone fell to the ground, flashlight down, plunging them into shadows.

Adrenaline coursing through his veins, Shawn managed to get to his feet without the help of his still-bound hands. It was only when his first step brought him crashing down again that he realized the flaw in his plan: his pants were still around his ankles. And he hadn't done enough damage to Slappy, who recovered quickly and found him easily in the dark.

And now he was really, surely dead.

His only hope was to stop resisting, to lie still and quiet enough that they thought he was dead—or as good as dead—and leave him there. If they would just leave him there, Shawn thought he could inchworm his way back to the park and wait for someone to find him, no matter how humiliating a position he was in. There had to be a jogger or two who liked to run in the park at the break of dawn on Saturdays. He'd heard of such mystical creatures.

But it was easier said than done.

It was the worst pain Shawn had ever experienced in his life. His second failed escape attempt had only enraged his captors. Shawn was sure he was going to die drowning in his own blood as they kicked and stomped whatever parts of him were in reach. His body screamed as he tried to roll away from impact, but they were unavoidable. He couldn't even get his knees up to protect himself, for all the good that would have done.

An eternity of relentless agony later, the beating stopped. It wasn't until Shawn came to with an involuntary groan that he realized he'd passed out, and his despair rose as he realized they were still there, the flashlight of his phone blinding him as they brought it closer to his stinging, heat-flushed face. He wanted his phone back, wanted to hit the stop record button, and turn out the light so he could curl up in the dark to cry himself to sleep. Their words were a jumble of phonemes, but he didn't need to understand them—their actions were loud and clear.

Shawn let out a soft, ragged sob as they grabbed his leg and maneuvered him so that he was lying on his side in a mockery of the recovery position. He felt his ribs shift unnaturally. There wasn't a single nerve in his body that wasn't screaming.

Slappy kneeled next to Shawn's face and ran thick fingers through his bloody hair as Shawn flinched. Grumpy zoomed in on the scene as Slappy spoke conversationally to his victim. "Hey, man. You're not going to tell anyone about this, are you? It's just between us, right?" When he didn't respond, Slappy grabbed his chin and turned his face up, none too gently. "Look at me! You said we're friends, remember? Shawn, you're not going to tell anyone about this, right?"

Shawn squinted his bruised lids against the light, looking in Slappy's general direction. "…No…"

"See? That's a good friend," Slappy said. "Because if you tell anyone, we'll fucking kill you." To add further insult to injury, he spat a glob of saliva into Shawn's mouth before letting go of him.

Slappy turned to Grumpy. "You sure you don't want a turn before we head out?"

"Yeah. I owe him one."

Shawn let his burning eyes slip closed and tried to swallow his despair as Grumpy handed Slappy the phone, then booted him in the back to roll him onto his stomach. When the man forced his legs apart, Shawn realized that he was naked from the waist down, and his ears burned even though he knew, logically, he had nothing to be embarrassed about. He grunted as Grumpy entered him, then bit his tongue and stayed quiet, praying for it to be over quickly.

This was much rougher than Slappy's turn. Whereas the former had simply gotten himself off, pinning Shawn into one place while he rutted into him, Grumpy seemed determined to make Shawn cry out, only to punish him for such noises. While his hips snapped with an irregular, merciless rhythm, he pulled Shawn's hair or grasped him by the throat, and sometimes squeezed fistfuls of Shawn's flesh, digging his nails into battered skin and leaving long scratches along his back, buttocks, and thighs. When it was finally, finally over, Grumpy cleaned himself up with Shawn's shirt and tucked himself back into his pants. Shawn lay motionless, wishing he could melt into the ground and disappear so that they would just stop hurting him.

With his eyes closed, he didn't see Grumpy pick up a fist-sized rock and bring it down on his head with a cheerful, "Nighty-night!"

Now.

Lassiter had the computer forensics specialist erase the video footage from Shawn's phone after the file had been transferred to and backed up on the police's evidence database. The cell phone had already been fingerprinted and photographed, and it—along with the wallet—was ready to be released back to its owner.

He still felt deeply disturbed by the video. Even if the victim hadn't been Shawn Spencer, the fact that the criminals got a thrill out of recording the assault and attempted murder and did not even try to dispose of the evidence verged on either sheer stupidity or clinical psychopathy. Perhaps they really were stupid enough to think the crime would go undiscovered, or maybe they either had wanted to get caught, or they didn't care if they did get caught.

But the fact that the victim was Shawn bothered him more than he cared to admit. His ego had taken a blow as well—Lassiter hadn't sensed anything wrong when he'd run into him at Tom Blair's. He should have at least checked that he didn't climb into a cab with a dangerous criminal.

Lassiter and Juliet had not confirmed whether Shawn's attackers were connected to the case Shawn was investigating. Gus had informed them that when he stopped by the Psych office, he'd listened to a voicemail from Shawn's client asking if he had succeeded in finding evidence of her husband cheating on her. The police had spoken with her and ascertained that she had been working with Mr. Spencer for several weeks, as she suspected her husband was involved with another woman. She had called him the day before the attack happened and told him that she had seen her husband's text messages to an unknown number, and of their plan to meet at Tom Blair's Pub. The woman had asked Shawn to follow her husband and see whom he met there. The photos in Shawn's camera roll confirmed he had been to Tom Blair's on official business, and the husband was indeed cheating on his wife. She was devastated to learn that Shawn had been injured, and promised to follow up with Mr. Guster to pay the agreed-upon PPI fees, since Shawn had done his job.

As for the men who attacked Shawn that night, both sets of prints from the phone had gotten hits in the police database, and both criminals were arrested at their workplaces and brought to the precinct for booking. Martin Bradley was a taxi driver, and his partner in crime was Thomas Reyes, general manager of a local convenience store. A little digging showed they had graduated high school together, and were both arrested and charged for multiple misdemeanors. Bradley had served time for robbing a convenience store (not the one his friend managed, of course).

Chief Karen Vick herself had insisted on taking the lead in the investigation. She argued that Lassiter and O'Hara were both too close to the case to keep a clear head, and the detectives had wisely not pointed out that she could also be considered too close to the case. But she had allowed them to observe the interrogations from the viewing room.

Lassiter still couldn't decide whether the men were stupid or psychopathic. Neither opted to demand a lawyer, and both admitted to having drugged, abducted, and assaulted Shawn Spencer. Bradley and Reyes insisted, though, that they had been blackmailed into committing the crime. They claimed that their lives were in danger, and demanded police protection and reduced sentences in exchange for information on one of the most powerful diamond-smuggling ringleaders in Santa Barbara.

Chief Vick scoffed at their audacity. "Do you realize that not only do we have your face and voice on film committing the crime, but that you also have already confessed to attempted murder? We can put you away for a long, long time, whether you have information on any kind of kingpins."

"We weren't going to kill him!" Reyes had said indignantly. "Our boss told us to get rid of him. He didn't specify we had to kill him. So we just roughed him up a bit."

"A bit?" Vick repeated. She flipped open the manila folder on the table between them and turned it to show him the hospital's photos of Shawn's wounds. "This is 'roughed up a bit' to you? Shawn Spencer very nearly died."

Reyes shrugged. "Admittedly Marty got a little carried away."

"Well, that's an understatement," Vick replied drily. "And which of you drugged him at Tom Blair's Pub?"

"Uh, me. Marty drove the cab around until I called and said we were ready for pickup."

"How did you drug him?"

"Crushed up some E and mixed it in his drink."

"You mean ecstasy?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Don't call me ma'am. That's Chief Vick to you."

"Okay."

She glared at him.

"Okay, Chief Vick."

She rolled her shoulders. "Your boss told you to get rid of Shawn Spencer. Why?"

"Because he's psychic."

"And your boss is a diamond smuggler."

"Yeah."

Vick sat back in her chair and stared at Reyes as though judging his sincerity. "Your boss must be psychic, too, if he knew where to send you to find Mr. Spencer."

"Boss knew he would be there because Shawn was following him. He set up an appointment with his secretary over text, because he knew that his wife was talking to Shawn about his cheating tendencies. He figured it was only a matter of time before Shawn realized who he really was. So he told us to meet him there and get rid of Shawn while he was distracted."

Unphased by the information that undeniably connected Shawn's case with the attackers, Vick pressed on. "So, while Mr. Spencer was watching your boss, you snuck up and mixed ecstasy into his drink."

"No, he mostly kept his hand over his glass," Reyes said. "I went up to him and said I noticed he was watching the guy. I asked if he was a cop, to get him talking and see what he knew. He just knew about the cheating, nothing about smuggling. I told him that I worked with the guy and felt bad for his wife, and that I could give him more information on him. I offered to buy him a drink. I mixed the ecstasy in on the way back from the bar."

"And then what?" Vick prompted.

"I just started talking about all the women I'd seen my boss with over the years. He couldn't tell I was lying or anything, since I really was telling the truth. He didn't take any notes or anything, just listened to me while he watched my boss across the room with his hook—uh, woman of the night. I got him another drink but he didn't touch the second one."

"But he was affected by the ecstasy you mixed into his first drink?" Vick confirmed.

"Yeah. It was a pretty big dose, actually. I wasn't sure he would drink it all. He started feeling hot, so we went outside for a few minutes. I called Marty to come pick us up."

"Around what time was this?"

"12:30. I remember because he called someone and said that."

"Who did he call?"

"I don't know. I thought it was maybe the guy who showed up a minute later while we were waiting for Marty, but I guess not. That guy clearly didn't want to be near Shawn. He pushed him off and Shawn followed me into the cab."

On the other side of the glass, Lassiter winced a little.

"And how did you convince him to take a walk in the park?" Vick asked.

"He was feeling nauseous, so we let him out for some fresh air. We said the park was closed and that we would be arrested for loitering if anyone saw us, so we could hide in the trees. He got out his phone for the flashlight and started recording by accident, I guess."

"And you decided to keep recording."

Reyes shrugged.

"Since you already admitted to being one of the assailants in the video, I don't suppose there's any use in going over what you did during it. Why don't you tell me about what happened after the video ended and you left Mr. Spencer for dead?"

"I already told you, we didn't leave him for dead!"

"Did you provide any medical care?" Vick asked pointedly. "Did you call an ambulance for him? You left him out of sight, unconscious, and bound. Do you honestly expect me to believe you didn't intend him to die there?"

"We left his pants right within reach. They had his pocketknife. We left that for him, so he could cut himself free and walk—or crawl, or whatever—right out into the park. He was barely in the woods at all!"

Chief Vick remained unmoved. "Just one last question, Mr. Reyes: Can you confirm for me that your diamond-smuggler boss' name is Joshua Morrison?"

Reyes' jaw dropped at the mention of the name, then he looked betrayed. "You already knew about Morrison?"

"No, but thank you for confirming my suspicions. We're done here."

As Reyes sputtered, Chief Vick gathered up her files and stepped out of the room. Lassiter gave a low whistle at the clean confession extraction. Juliet said, "And that's why she's Chief."

Obligatory montage.

Every morning, as he spent extra time at the mirror to fix his hair in place to hide the still-fading scar along his hairline, Shawn was reminded of the hospital.

His memory of the day of the attack were hazy at best. He could remember being at the Psych office, Gus confirming their breakfast meeting the next morning before he left for his non-Psych job, and then he'd taken a phone call with a client who let him know her husband would be at a bar, which she knew because she'd snooped through his texts. Shawn had promised to follow her husband there and see what he got up to.

He could remember driving to the bar that evening, but somewhere along the way his brain malfunctioned—it skipped over moments and replayed others, and some things and people were there one moment and gone the next. In his memory, he never made it to the bar. He was driving through an intersection one moment and then the very next second he was lying flat on his back in the hospital, limbs heavy and toes cold. He remembered his mother come in bearing a cup of green Jell-O, saying "I'm back," though he didn't remember her having been there at all before that moment.

He'd panicked a little, searching for the information that should have been there, that he shouldn't have been able to forget in the first place. Shawn put a jigsaw with missing pieces together and inferred that he'd been in an accident of some kind, that he had suffered a head trauma that affected his memory. It was bad enough that his mother had had to fly out to Santa Barbara and feed him green Jell-O. He so did not need to be Drew Barrymore in '50 First Dates.'

Shawn had tried to turn to her, only for his neck to twinge warningly. He stopped immediately, not daring to push a neck injury.

"What's wrong, goose?" Maddie had noticed the flash of panic cross his face as he thought his neck might have been broken. He wiggled his toes and relaxed a little. His spine was probably fine.

"Is my bike okay?" he'd asked—well, croaked.

She'd picked up a small cup from the wheely table and spooned some melting ice chips into his mouth. He sucked them with relish, not having realized how thirsty he had been.

Maddie had explained to him patiently that he hadn't been in an accident, that he'd actually been attacked and beaten really badly. Shawn had gotten the sense that she had explained it before, and that he'd forgotten it. He worried that he would forget it again, but it seemed whatever wires in his brain had been loosened reconnected themselves.

Shawn didn't miss the hospital. He'd been kept under observation for ten days, not even allowed to get out of bed to use the toilet. No, he'd had to use bedpans. After a week, the surgeon who had sliced his head open to pick bone shards out of his brain tissue came to remove the staples in his scalp. She had considerately brought a handheld mirror so he could see the healing incision. He was relieved to see that his hair had been left untouched, and Dr. Gbeho had promised minimal scarring.

The only enjoyable part of the experience—if it could be called that—was a steady stream of visitors and well-wishers, all of them—okay, most of them—extra nice to poor Shawn. Of course, his parents and Gus hovered near constantly. The nurses had brought extra bedding to the room so they could sleep over when it was too late to drive home. Henry was prone to sitting in the chair at Shawn's bedside, perusing his fishing magazines while Shawn watched YouTube videos on his phone. Gus brought Shawn's laptop and a stack of DVDs, which they marathoned together.

If Shawn were honest with himself, though, he preferred his mother to stay with him. When the nurses came to turn him over like a sausage on the griddle, relieving pressure on one set of ribs by putting pressure on the other, his mother would move the chair to whichever side of the room he was facing. She sat by him and stroked him gently—depending on which side he was lying on, she would rub his arm, or lay her cool hand lightly on his head and caress his cheek and temple with her thumb. Maddie's gentle touch distracted him the aches and pains and helped him to relax much more quickly than sitting in stoic silence with his father or with Gus trying to get him to focus on whatever video clip he'd pulled up on YouTube. They meant well. Shawn wasn't about to ask his surlier-than-usual father to pet him back to sleep, anyway.

For a while, Henry had been frownier than was typical, even for spending a lot of time with his son. Juliet had reluctantly told him that Chief Vick had banned Henry from the precinct indefinitely, but hadn't wanted to share the why. Shawn took advantage of the pain in his ribs and let his face pinch up miserably. He'd hoped she would feel bad enough to spill the beans to distract him, but instead she brought something out of her pocket and held it out to him. Interest piqued, he opened his left hand and took it.

"Pineapple," he said.

"Squeeze it," Juliet nodded.

Shawn slowly closed his fingers around the palm-sized toy, and it squished, soft and rubbery. He unclenched his hand, and the deformed pineapple slowly recovered its original shape. The corner of his mouth quirked up as he thought of the fun he could have with it.

Then Juliet had had to go back to work, and Shawn was left wondering what Henry had done to get himself kicked out of the precinct.

It was Lassiter, later that day, who'd offered the information. Shawn was always surprised to see him in his hospital room, but he was more surprised when Lassiter asked him—not for the first time—whether he was absolutely sure that he didn't remember anything.

"Blank as a sheet of paper, Lassie," he'd responded.

Lassiter had nodded, though Shawn got the sense that he still doubted him a little. "If you don't remember it yourself," he'd said, watching him carefully, "you'll probably find out sooner or later. The men who attacked you recorded the incident. They threatened you to keep silent."

Shawn raised his eyebrows. "Well, that's a little counterintuitive," he commented. "If you don't want anyone to find out, why record it?"

Lassiter lifted his shoulders slightly and tilted his head in agreement. "And," he said, "I thought you should know that your father saw the video. He snuck into evidence to take a look at the progress of your case. It was lucky McNab was on duty downstairs and subdued him before he got into the cells and killed Martin Bradley. Chief Vick banned him from the premises until the Morrison trial is over."

"Morrison?"

"The Morrison from your case, yes," Lassiter said. "He's cheating on his wife and runs a diamond smuggling ring. He was afraid you'd figure that out, so he hired two men to kill you—which, obviously, failed. Morrison denies everything, of course. It's going to be a long trial."

Shawn nodded thoughtfully. "Hey, Lassie. Will you do me a favor?"

"What is it?"

Shawn reached under his blanket and pulled out the stress toy pineapple. "Help me smoosh this under my splint. It's a surprise for Tom when he comes to give me a sponge bath later."

"I'd rather…" Lassiter cut himself off, pursing his lips in annoyance. Then he sighed. "…Fine."

Now.

Shawn grabbed the squishy pineapple off his bedside table and stretched it between his hands so it became a long noodle. Then he stuffed it into his front jeans pocket, where it would slowly regain its glorious crown. His phone went in the other pocket, in easy reach of his left hand, which was still stronger than his right after weeks of infrequent use. He'd be in trouble for not keeping up with his physical therapy, but what were they going to do—tie the elastic bands around his fingers and move them for him? He wished.

The familiar rumble of his dad's truck approached, and Shawn stepped into his shoes on his way out the door. Henry made a wide turn as he pulled in, parking parallel to the curb in front of the laundromat-cum-apartment.

Things were tense between Henry and Shawn, particularly since Maddie had gone back to work. Shawn had withstood three days of it before he announced he was moving back into his own apartment to recuperate there. Today was only the second time in eight weeks Shawn and Henry were having dinner together, and somehow Shawn had convinced his father to not only cook, but to pack up the food and bring it over to his place, where there wasn't actually a dining table. Since Shawn wasn't supposed to drive his Norton until his doctor cleared him for it, he had agreed to let his father pick him up for the first dinner, only to realize that Henry would also be driving him back home. No need for so many trips in one day, Shawn had insisted. The Lorax spoke for the trees, so Shawn would speak for the ozone layer. In any case, Henry had grumbled about it but acquiesced.

Shawn stepped up to the passenger side and peered inside. "You realize there's just two of us, right?"

"Leftovers," Henry grunted. "You've got a fridge full of crap, I assume. You can't live off junk and food trucks, Shawn."

"How dare you."

Henry swung the door open and started lading Shawn's arms with tinfoiled dishes.

"I'll have you know I've got a pineapple in my fridge. That's healthy." He didn't mention that he wasn't able to slice it because his right arm was too weak and his left hand too clumsy.

"Hmm."

His dad grabbed the last of the food, slammed the truck door shut, and stepped past Shawn and into his home.

"Yeah," Shawn said. "Just go right in."

He followed with the rest of the goods.

Shawn set the Tupperware containers and baking dish on the counter next to the ones his dad had already placed. Henry was already rummaging in Shawn's cabinets for plates and cups. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, thinking better of it. Better to wait until they were both settled and tucked into their meals, or even as Henry was going out the door.

"What is it, Shawn?" Henry asked, exasperatedly, as he turned around.

"Huh? Nothing," he said defensively.

"You look like you've got something to say," Henry said. "So spit it out, kid."

Shawn scowled. He'd wanted to say it on his own time, not be forced into it. But of course, as usual, Henry not only marched to his own beat but demanded Shawn keep time as well. Henry braced his hands against the edge of the counter and leaned against it, looking at Shawn expectantly.

He groaned with frustration. "Fine. I'm sorry, okay? Whatever it was I did or said that night, I'm sorry. Can we just, like, forget it or something?"

Henry seemed taken aback. "What are you talking about?"

"This," Shawn gestured at the space between them. "There's usually a little bit of healthy tension between us, yeah, but this—" He waved his hands in large circles—"is ridiculous. So whatever I said on that phone call, I'm sorry. I take it back. I didn't mean it."

Henry stared at him, shaking his head. "Kid, I've got no idea what phone call you're talking about."

Shawn blew out a sigh. He dug his phone out of his pocket and pulled up the call history, scrolling until he found the log he was looking for. "This one," he said, turning the screen towards Henry, who tilted his head back to read down his nose.

"Oh," he said, seeing the two-minute call dated a certain unmentionable night.

"I don't remember it, obviously," Shawn said, darkening the screen and stuffing the phone back into his pocket. "But things have been different between us. A lot more than they should be, I think. So I said something on that call that made you mad but you couldn't yell at me while I was in the hospital, and then you've just been holding onto it since then."

Henry shook his head. "No, Shawn," he said softly, "it wasn't you. You didn't say anything."

"Then I don't know how to fix this."

"It's not up to you to fix anything. It's up to me, since I'm the one who—"

"Who what?"

Henry busied himself with unwrapping the food. "It's going to get cold," he muttered.

"I have a microwave."

"Yeah."

Shawn shook his head unhappily. "Fine."

He started helping, peeling off lids and tucking them underneath their containers like special plastic coasters. The terse silence stretched out between them like the pineapple stress toy in his pocket. Shawn licked some gravy off his thumb, and glanced up in surprise as Henry finally broke the quiet.

"You asked me to pick you up," he said.

"What?"

"That phone call. You asked me to come get you. I said no."

"Oh."

"I told you to take care of yourself. Sink or swim."

Shawn nodded, pinching a slice of roast beef and chewing it slowly as he mulled over his father's words. "So you're feeling guilty."

"Yeah."

The admittance was surprisingly touching.

"Well," Shawn said amenably. "I am an adult."

"You're my son. I should have been there."

"You're here now."

Henry sighed tiredly. "But I wasn't when you needed me."

"At the risk of sounding like a Hallmark movie…I kind of always need you. Sometimes. More or less."

The elder Spencer scoffed. "You know, this wouldn't have happened anyway if you'd remembered stranger danger."

"Oh, here we go. I supposed being drugged doesn't make a difference here?"

"Why were you drinking on the job?"

"I was at a bar. I had to blend in, Dad."

"You blended in, all right. It's definitely not conspicuous at all when a guy with a lime green phone that says Psych is pointing his camera at you."

"If you didn't want me to photograph cheating husbands and diamond smugglers with that iPhone skin you shouldn't have gotten it for me."

"You got that for yourself."

"Well, it would have been yours if you'd had an iPhone."

Henry shook his head. "Shut up and eat, Shawn."

"Don't mind if I do."

End.