He's hiding behind a wooden crate that does little to shield him from the bullets that are flying in every direction. Splinters shower the air at the edges of the crate and Shawn draws his knees closer. As though making himself smaller will make a difference if a bullet makes it through the crate and into him.
His sneakers were white and green when he had walked into the warehouse earlier. Now they're stained brown and Shawn tells himself that it's mud and not the blood and bodily matter he'd accidentally run through. He wishes he had a gun.
A knife. Heck, a fork at this point. There's shouting behind him, louder than before, and a piercing, feminine, scream that ends abruptly. His breath hitches and it pulls at the hole in his side. If they weren't above gunning her down, then they really aren't going to let him mouth his way out of the situation. Not that Shawn thought it was possible, but the brutal reality hurts as bad as the wound in his side.
An angry, desperate, war cry carries over the gunfire- how many clips do they have?!- and a moment later a body tumbles next to the crate Shawn is hiding behind. It's one of the gang members that were willing to work with Shawn. It's not that that catches his eyes, rather the cell skittering across the floor towards him. Better yet there's a Beretta still clutched in the man's cooling hand.
Shawn has them both snatched up and is running towards the bobtail semi before the Jets gang notice him. Jets and Sharks, real cute, like West Side Story. Except now Bernardo and Tony are dead and Chino swapped sides and is coming after him.
Shawn's old-school pop culture internal monologue is suddenly interrupted when a bullet catches his legs. It grazes across the top of his thigh and embeds itself into his right leg just above the knee. He goes down painfully, knees jarred by the unforgiving concrete, but thankfully he's mostly behind the semi. Crawling upright against the tire, Shawn lets off a shot as the gunman comes into view, ready to finish the job. Shawn is the faster draw and the bullet lodged in the man's throat. It's brutal and Shawn doesn't bother to watch the man fall and focuses instead on not throwing up.
The gunfire has become distant and those closest to him hesitate in relative silence. Shawn takes the moment to dial the only number he can think of right now.
"Hello?"
The voice is gruff and annoyed, conveying that the caller should have a good reason for calling. To Shawn, it sounds like the ice cream truck jingle.
"Eliot?" And Shawn doesn't mean for his voice to come out so scared and quiet, "I need your help."
"Shawn?" Eliot's voice raises in surprise, maybe some concern, "Where are you?"
Shawn doesn't remember right away where he is, a man is coming around the semi and he barely has time to raise the gun. He fires once, the man drops to his knee as the bullet pierces one. Shawn fires again and the man's head snaps back.
He looks away quickly, not wanting to see what he's done. It's not until the static in his ears dies down enough to hear Eliot yelling over the phone that Shawn realizes he's almost hyperventilating. He wants to tell Eliot where he is- he can remember now- and beg his cousin to come save him. Even if it's super unmanly and Juliet wouldn't be impressed. A small part of him rationally says she would understand. He's in deep trouble.
There are shoes scuffing and running across the floor, rushing the semi. A vile swear makes it past numb lips and Shawn is up whether he wants to be or not. The gunfire bursts to life once more right behind him as he half runs half drags his right leg towards a stack of crates.
He dives behind them and rolls over onto his back before the man behind him catches up. Once more Shawn is faster and a single bullet is enough to take the man down. The others camp out at various cover points and decide to needlessly fire at their unseen target.
Shawn sags back against the concrete, breathing heavily. The phone is still clutched in his hand and Eliot is still yelling.
"1919 Hicks Road, warehouse, dock three." Shawn rasps into the phone. He doesn't hear Eliot's reply or uncharacteristic plea for him to stay on the phone.
Shawn lets the cell slip from his hand, staring up at the rafters, wondering when he began to find them so fascinating. There's probably something wrong with him. He should get up. The rest of the gang will be after him.
His movements are slow, sluggish, as he lifts the gun and raises his head. Boots, like cowboy boots, but too much bedazzle, skid into view and Shawn pulls the trigger. The man goes down slowly and Shawn's finger twitches, another bullet hitting center mass.
It's all Shawn has in him and his head hits the concrete enough to make him see stars. The gun clatters next to him, though, it doesn't matter because it's empty. He thinks he's keeping track of time, but then he hears a familiar voice. And he's either dreaming or time goes faster when you're dying.
There are more footsteps, they sound different. Another burst of gunfire and it all goes so quiet Shawn thinks they're all dead, him included. Everything floats around him and he wonders why he feels warm and why there's no pain. He was shot twice. There should be pain.
As if the universe heard him, the pain returns with full vengeance. It starts in his leg, just above where the bullet went in like someone is cinching wire around it. And then the weight of a thousand pineapples presses down on his side. It's not half as funny as he wishes it was.
It's enough to make him gasp and arch his back. The voice is back and dimly Shawn recognizes it as Eliot. A heavy hand presses against his shoulder, pinning him to the floor that has turned icy cold and the pressure on his side intensifies.
"It fucking hurts." Is what he wants to say. Instead, it comes out slurred, and he would rather say it's a whine, but it's really a whimper, "It fu'in 'urts"
"I know, I know, I know." Eliot mutters above him, voice strangely comforting and that concern is bleeding into all of it. Shawn would open his eyes- when did he close them?- to see, but they feel heavy and it's not entirely worth it right now.
Dimly, as he drifts further into darkness, he wonders again how the heck Eliot got there so quickly. Or maybe it's all in his head…?
"1919 Hicks Road, warehouse, dock three." Shawn's voice is faint to the point Eliot can barely hear it.
"Okay, okay," Eliot mostly says to himself. As much as he is loath to admit it, he's scared too. In all the years they've known each other, Shawn has never sounded so scared.
"Shawn?" Eliot raises his voice, listening to the stuttering breath on the other end of the line, "Don't hang up, alright? Stay-"
The loud crack of gunshots burst across the cell's speaker and Eliot jerks it away, heart picking up. They're not Siamese twins, but they're no stranger to the other and it's taking a lot for Eliot to breathe and not lose it.
"Shawn?" Eliot calls out again and swears. Shawn gave him an address without giving him a state, let alone a town… No, wait.
Shawn messaged him the night before harassing him about closing the blinds after dark. So, he is in town. Or had been. It's a start.
Keeping the line open, Eliot opens the map app and types in the given address. There is a match and Eliot wastes no time jumping into the nearest truck. The street, despite being midday, is practically empty and no one notices him hotwire the old red Ford.
They might have noticed it peeling away, leaving a short trail of black on the pavement, but Eliot doesn't care right now. His dumbass cousin needs a rescue (and in the back of his head, Eliot prays it is a rescue and not a recovery).
It is fortunate Eliot isn't needed on the team's current gig and more so that he and Shawn are in the same town. Though why Shawn hadn't recruited him or even brought Gus along makes Eliot wonder at the idiotic marvel that is Shawn.
The drive is short. The maps say fifteen, Eliot makes it in six and a half. Determining which is dock three- because the numbers have faded away due to the salty air- isn't hard as there were hoodlums with semi-automatics running about.
Eliot swings the truck into a wide arch and takes out three. The others scatter, some bailing the scene altogether, and the remaining clustering into groups. Four more bail by the time Eliot has made his way through five, pounding them into the ground as though their guns don't exist and he hasn't taken a bullet to the shoulder. He catches two more while they are creeping around a crate, closing in on whoever or whatever is behind it. Eliot drops low and sweeps the legs out from one, rises and sucker-punches the other. The man, kid really, goes down with a broken nose and Eliot mercifully kicks him only hard enough to knock him back. And ignores when the kid drops his gun and runs pell-mell out of there. The other one has a different idea, a presumably older and dumber gang member, brings his gun up.
Eliot steps to the side and narrowly avoids the bullet that zips through the air, taking a few strands of hair with it. Adrenaline coursing through him and concern involuntarily channeling into anger, Eliot stomps on the man's hand, satisfied with the crunch it makes. The man howls and Eliot swings a strong kick to his head, heedless of the wet snap it makes.
The warehouse falls quiet with only Eliot's harsh breathing to fill it. Gradually he becomes aware of another sound and it jolts him like a live wire when it clicks with him what it is. He's around the crate in a split second only to jerk to a stop, not quite comprehending what he's seeing.
Shawn is lying sprawled on his back with one arm bent awkwardly by his head where a cell phone has slipped from his grasp. There's a handgun by his hip, his fingers barely touching the grip and-
And there's blood everywhere. There's a trail that Eliot has accidentally stepped in that goes back to a semi-truck and beyond it to another stack of crates (there's a trail of bodies too and holy crap he knew Shawn could shoot, but like this?).
Eliot forces himself to move. Shawn is still alive, he's breathing, albeit in stuttering shallow breaths. There's blood staining his jeans and Eliot can see where a bullet has dug a groove into Shawn's left leg and gone into his right above the knee. Assuredly the bullet is still in there, but it will have to be dealt with later. Eliot can already hear the distant sirens.
Quickly, he undoes his belt and wraps it above the bullet wound in a makeshift tourniquet. It's painful pulling off his sleeveless hoodie, he manages and ignores his own blood seeping across his long sleeve shirt.
He presses the balled-up material against the sluggishly bleeding wound on Shawn's side. Fortunately, it is thorough and appears to be a flesh wound. Though, Eliot is afraid it's nicked an artery because there is so much blood pooled under Shawn. Or maybe, for once, he's actually panicking because this is Shawn, his kid cousin who absolutely is never supposed to do dangerous stuff.
A weak groan from Shawn at least assures Eliot he's somewhat there. He has to hold his cousin down with his bad arm as Shawn bucks against the pain he's undoubtedly feeling. And the feeling is mutual as Eliot grits his teeth against the pain in his arm.
Shawn mutters something that sounds suspiciously like a curse and Eliot wants to laugh at his kid cousin using big kid words, but now isn't the time and it isn't very funny right now. Instead, Eliot mutters in return, concern etched into his voice despite his intent to hide it.
The sirens are blaring, just outside and Eliot can hear a cop car skid to a stop. He debates for a split second about what to do. His blood and Shawn's are all over the place and he can't take either of them to a hospital. He hears the local Leo's announcing themselves and decides he'll ask Parker to ruin the blood samples taken. It's the best he can think of at the moment.
It takes a monumental effort on Eliot's part to simply grind his teeth and pull Shawn's dead weight up. His cousin is the same height and weighs a little less, but none of that is helpful with him unconscious.
Eliot settles for half dragging him towards the back exit, aware they're leaving a grotesque trail that the cops can easily follow. Despite the place crawling with law enforcement and paramedics, they make it to a Jeep that has seen better days. Eliot manages to get Shawn into the back seat and rips off the license plate (throwing it into the water) before getting into the driver's seat. There are keys in the ignition and Eliot doesn't bother to dwell on it.
They're halfway out of the lot before a cop spots them and they're halfway out of town before the cops scramble to give chase. Eliot decides to swap vehicles and pulls off the main strip onto a smaller road that eventually leads to a CVS weirdly placed on the outskirts of town.
Eliot checks to make sure Shawn is still breathing and hasn't completely bled out before pulling on a size too small jacket and digging up some cash. He keeps his head low and gives the cashier a sweet smile and partial story about a hurt dog before hightailing it back to the Jeep. There's a camera gap in the back where he pulls around and goes through the process of swapping cars.
Shawn is still completely out as Eliot pulls the maroon Buick Enclave out of the lot. The cameras and a sharp eye will catch the car swap, but it will buy them some time. Eliot elects to get far enough out of town, going North instead of South, before pulling over and patching up Shawn.
Gus would likely attempt murder-suicide if Eliot were to let Shawn die. And honestly, Eliot would be inclined to do the same. His cousin acted like an idiot. Strangely though, he wasn't. Shawn was just afraid of his skills being utilized for things he didn't want to have to take responsibility for, I.e. killing people in the name of justice. Eliot can understand that. It's part of what happened to him after all. (And some days it's still happening, but it's of his own volition, which may be worse.)
As he drives Eliot wonders how Shawn is going to handle today. Briefly, he even wonders if this isn't the first time Shawn has killed someone. Those weren't easy shots, let alone for someone partially incapacitated.
Eliot doesn't much care for where his thoughts are going and focuses on the road and the rearview mirror he'd adjusted to see Shawn. Another twenty miles and Eliot feels it relatively safe to pull over. Moreover, he feels it would be unwise to wait any longer to patch either of them up.
The cell he thought he'd lost back in the old Ford rings in his pocket as he slides out of the Buick. The caller ID states Nate is calling. Eliot answers with a weary 'hello'.
"We're heading back-" Eliot can hear Nate pause, picking up that something is up.
"What's wrong?"
Eliot opts for half-truth and mysteriously vague for his answer.
"I need a favor," Eliot pushes on before Nate can say anything, "I need a couple of blood samples and camera recordings erased."
"Okay… Are you alright?" Eliot's lips quirk into a tired smirk as Nate asks hesitantly.
"Yeah…" Eliot rattles off additional information and assures Sophie that yes he is fine and no he hasn't gone AWOL.
"Just had a family emergency." Eliot ends the call with that, confident the team will take care of the mess and amused at their confusion. Great, he's turning into Shawn. Or, maybe Eliot is where his cousin gets his stupid sense of humor.
Digging the bullet out of Shawn's leg is officially on Eliot's list of least favorite things he's had to do. Miraculously, the bullet missed the major arteries and bone, though it had come dangerously close to Shawn's femur. He had given Shawn the max dose of acetaminophen and made him drink lukewarm ginger tea with it.
It is fortunate that Shawn has been mostly out of it during the whole process, though it has done little to prevent him from deliriously cussing out Eliot and smacking him in the face. To which Eliot is willing to let slide along with not picking a later date to harass Shawn about crying. Pain is pain no matter how much of a man you are, Eliot learned that long ago.
The wound in Shawn's side hadn't bled through the hoodie and from the stain has stopped bleeding some time before switching cars. Shawn is fully unconscious again as Eliot cleans and stitches the bullet hole close. By the time Eliot has Shawn moved from the floor, where he'd stowed the middle seats earlier, to the far back, he's just about hit his limit.
His grey long sleeve is crusty with dried blood from the left side collar down to his elbow and streaked down the left side to the hem. Cutting it would have been the better idea, he still has the scissors from cutting Shawn's jeans, but the effort it will take to sterilize them changes Eliot's mind. Instead, he pulls his right arm free, yanks it over his head, and then tugs it painfully down his left arm.
The wound isn't that bad, he has definitely had worse. It had hit him at fairly close range and burrowed into the skin under the collar bone and lodged there. With all the movement and lack of care, blood has sealed the entry and the bullet has shifted enough to graze the bone. Eliot bumps his head against the headrest before taking a breath and diving into his own procedure.
He doesn't even remember falling asleep, or more accurately, falling unconscious. Inhaling as deeply as his shoulder would allow, Eliot straightens from where his face has been plastered to the steering wheel. Rubbing his eyes vigorously, Eliot slowly becomes aware of the wet hacking sounds behind him and the open side door. Turning in his seat slightly he can see Shawn sitting at the edge dispelling anything and everything he has left in his stomach. Side wounds tend to do that.
Eliot paws around in the CVS sacks in the passenger seat and finds a water bottle, handing it back to Shawn. The latter takes it with an uttered thanks and leans back against the door frame as he rinses out his mouth. Eliot, meanwhile, finds the meds and debates if either of them can take them again. It was close to eight, sunlight still lingering in the sky, meaning he has been out for around three hours. So, no more meds yet. Hooray.
Shawn shuts the door and crawls back to the back seat. Staying upright is not an option and he stretches out as much as he can on the bench seat.
"The cops after us yet?" Shawn asks, slurs really, after a moment.
"Probably." Eliot answers shortly, checking the gas gauge and then their surroundings.
"Sorry, you got shot." Shawn yawns, tucking his good arm behind his head.
Eliot huffs a laugh at how ridiculous it is Shawn is apologizing.
"It's fine. Nothing new."
Shawn hums in response and Eliot tries not to think about how bad his words sound.
"Would like to know why though," Eliot said, switching the conversation away from himself as he pulls on a t-shirt, "You join a gang or something?"
It is a joke, he even laughs a little, and then it dies abruptly when Shawn's only response is 'um'.
"Shawn." Eliot bites out, mentally taking back that his cousin isn't stupid.
"S'not like that," Shawn protests weakly, raising his hand tiredly, "Was for a case. Went bad, like West Side."
It takes a moment for Eliot to catch the reference.
"West Side Story? As in that musical Mrs. Teed made us watch in high school?" Eliot asks incredulously. The high school art/theater teacher had had the fantastic idea of having Seniors team up with the Juniors for their theater projects. Eliot was lucky and unlucky enough to have been stuck with his cousin.
"Uh-huh. 'cept this story had a psychic and Chino betrayed me." Shawn rattles off, his voice becoming more slurred. He hasn't bothered to open his eyes since lying down and Eliot figures he'll be asleep sooner rather than later.
"So, you thought you had an inside man, got stabbed in the back, and then caught in the middle of a gang war?" Eliot summarized, starting the car. He's fairly certain that's not how the musical went.
"Bingo." Shawn mumbles affirmatively.
"That's a really dumbass thing to go and do." Eliot grouses as he pulls onto the road. Annoyingly, Shawn laughs wearily and agrees with a 'yeah'.
A week later Eliot is beginning to wish he had dumped Shawn on the side of the road and left him. Aside from the gang names, the whole thing has little in comparison to West Side Story. His 'psychic' wonder cousin had launched an unsanctioned investigation into the death of one Julio Jonesboro, a high-ranked member of the Sharks gang operating in L.A. His body had been found on a trail in Santa Barbara.
The SBPD had labeled it a gang hit and shuffled it off to another department. Shawn, because Shawn was apparently stupid and stupidly chivalrous when he wanted to be, decided to solve the case because Jonesboro's very pregnant wife had pleaded for someone to bring her husband's killer to justice.
As it were, the head of the Sharks was Bernardo Perez, Richard Perez' cousin, head of the Jets. And Jonesboro's wife was having an affair with a member of the Jets- Anthony Ramirez.
Jonesboro confronted Tony, another Jets member shot Jonesboro. Benardo declared war, the cousin didn't like it. A peace meeting was arranged with the help of Shawn, Jonesboro's wife, and a member of the Sharks and Jets respectively. The Sharks member Shawn had called 'Chino' was actually José Ramos who backstabbed the Sharks and subsequently Shawn.
Jonesboro's wife was shot, but miraculously she and her baby were fine, though she is looking at seven years probation. Tony is dead along with Bernardo, José, and the majority of each gang.
Eliot pulls a hand down his face as he sits back in his chair. How Shawn manages to get into these kinds of convoluted messes that escalate faster than an oil slick, he'll never know. The TV cuts the soap opera short to run old people's commercials and Eliot flips it to the cartoon channel.
At least the mystery is solved, his team came through and physical evidence of either him or Shawn have been dealt with. And he gets some downtime with his cousin, which is yet to be determined if it is a blessing or a curse.
Currently, Shawn is wheeling his way through Eliot's kitchen, making the most of being confined to a wheelchair (that Eliot may or may not have lifted from a clinic). He's on the phone with Gus, both babbling about nothing. It's not until the conversation turns to him that Eliot tunes into it.
"He's not going to kill me, Gus," Shawn assures his friend. He sounds better than he had two days ago, but Eliot can hear he's wearing down. It is mostly pretense keeping him up.
"Eliot isn't going to kill me, Gus." Shawn repeats, "He has better things to do."
Gus says something on the other end and Shawn grins for a moment.
"Yeah, he kind of does… no, he can hear." Shawn's voice muffles as he rolls into the other room. A minute later he comes back still chatting on the phone and one of Eliot's hunting knives in his lap. It doesn't take Eliot very long to realize Shawn has been going around and moving all of Eliot's hidden weapons. A curse- it's definitely a curse having Shawn around.
Despite the annoyance of having to rediscover all his weapons, Eliot can't be bothered to be mad. It's one of the odd things about their relationship. Eliot can count on one hand all the times that Shawn has successfully pissed him off. Luckily, for his little cousin, they've all been far enough between that Eliot doesn't hold too much of a grudge. Too much. There's still that Valentine's debacle.
Shawn wheels in front of the TV, ignoring the dirty look Eliot sends him. Without even patting it down, Shawn pulls out the hatchet Eliot had tucked into the couch cushions. He holds it up, looks at it, makes a face, and sets it on his lap with the hunting knife before rolling back to the kitchen.
Eliot doesn't even stop him. At this point, it's sort of amusing. Turning slightly, Eliot watches Shawn tuck the hatchet underneath the sink where there had been a handgun (for dire circumstances). Eliot smirks, but it fades when Shawn wheels back out and the hunting knife is gone too. Shawn shoots him an irritating grin as he catches his eye and stations his wheelchair next to the couch.
He frowns at something Gus says and rolls his eyes dramatically. A tired, but a decidedly wicked smirk pulls at the corners of his mouth and Shawn puts the phone on speaker.
"I don't know why you hang around him, Shawn," Gus' voice blares over the speaker. Eliot helpfully puts the TV on mute.
"He's a criminal! In fact, I'm pretty sure I've seen him on the FBI's most-wanted list," Gus rattles on, "You're probably next on his list, Shawn. And I won't go to your funeral because I told you so!"
Eliot taps a finger against his mouth, trying hard not to smile. Guster always freaked whenever Eliot came over when they were kids. Eliot never could figure out why. It's not like he tossed Shawn off a dock once and threatened to do the same with Gus or head-locked Shawn until he passed out (that was an accident, a happy accident).
"He's not a serial killer, Gus," Shawn replies, almost laughing. His side prevents it though. "Serial killers have a type."
"How do you know you're not the type he kills?" Gus demands.
"Because I've helped him bury the bodies." Shawn's punchline is broken up by his half-laugh, half cough as he holds his side and grins.
Eliot breaks when Gus starts sputtering on the line, sounding like a leaking beach ball. The two cousins sit there laughing until Gus threatens to call Henry and Shawn makes peace with his best friend.
After Gus has been appeased and Shawn has been moved to the couch, Eliot turns back to the TV. Daffy Duck narrowly avoids a shotgun blast and it reminds Eliot he'll be in the same predicament if Shawn doesn't tell him where all his weapons are.
"Not a chance." Shawn says before Eliot can voice his thoughts. His mouth snaps shut and he glares at his cousin, annoyed at how Shawn can really pull off the whole psychic thing. Shawn merely flashes him that irritating grin and Eliot throws the remote at him. Gus' fears may be realized before the week is over.
I wrote this instead of my Literary Analysis, oops. Please R and R. Thank you for reading!:).
P.S. I highly recommend watching the old West Side Story movie. It's pretty good.
-Insert obligatory disclaimer here-