A/N: Thank you to my reviewers and I'm sorry I haven't reply to you yet. Enjoy this chapter, and Chapter Three is already finished and should be up soon. I just have to edit it. I'm sorry if any of the information pertaining to Santa Barbara is wrong; I looked everything up and did my best to make sure it was accurate, but, having never been to Santa Barbara, I have no personal experience to go on.

Reviews make wonderful presents, all bright and shiny and wrapped up with pretty bows!

Disclaimer: If I didn't own it in the last chapter then I still don't own it.

Chapter Two

Gus was just stepping out of the shower when his phone rang. He'd scrubbed his skin raw trying to wash away the blood—Lassiter's blood, Shawn's blood, blood on his clothes, blood on the carpet, Shawn's face pale, Lassiter's face even paler, and the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach—and had tossed his clothes into his hamper, never wanting to see them again. When he heard the phone ring he wrapped a towel around himself and ran for it.

"Hello?"

"Is this Burton Guster?"

"Yes." Gus said.

"This is the Santa Barbara Cottage Hospital." Gus felt dizzy and had to sit on his bed. What could be wrong now? Had Lassiter…Gus couldn't even bear to think it. Or had something gone wrong with Shawn? Was his wound infected? Had his crack rib punctured some vital organ? "You are listed as one of Shawn Spencer's emergency contacts."

"Yes. What's wrong with him? His injuries weren't serious when I left—," he was starting to babble the way he did when he was nervous.

"As far as we know nothing serious is wrong with Mr. Spencer." Gus heaved a sigh of relief and then stopped. There was something wrong with that statement….

"As far as you know?"

There was a pause and then a cough. "We seem to have, ah, misplaced Mr. Spencer."

"What, precisely, do you mean, misplaced?"

"A nurse went in to check on him and Mr. Spencer was missing. We checked the security tapes; he walked right out of the hospital."

"And no one bothered to stop him?"

"Well…apparently one of the nurses stopped him and he said his friend had been hurt while putting up Christmas decorations and he was just going home to change."

Gus closed his eyes. Dammit Shawn. "Thank you. I'll find him."

"Mr. Guster? Please make sure that he doesn't harm himself. It wouldn't be hard for him to rip his stitches or further injure his ribs." Gus knew. Oh how he knew. Shawn couldn't take care of himself; that job had always fallen to Gus except on those occasions when Shawn was off in who-knows-where.

"I understand. Good bye." Gus hung up the phone and pounded his fists on the bed. "God dammit Shawn!" He shook his head. "Not this time. You aren't running again."

After more than twenty years of friendship—and everything else that their relationship was—Gus knew how Shawn operated. There was a chance, just a chance mind you, that Shawn was collapsed in his living room or passed out in the Psych office. It was a slim chance, but Gus needed to know for certain that Shawn was gone before he sprang into action.

He didn't even bother to check Shawn's apartment. Shawn slept there—when he wasn't invading Gus' apartment—ate there, showered there, and spent as little time there as he could manage. The only reason he kept it rather than just moving in with Gus was because he liked his privacy and he liked being able to run. Instead he headed straight for Psych.

The moment Gus pulled into the parking lot he knew. Shawn's prized, jet black motorcycle, which had been sitting proudly in the parking lot this morning, was gone. Gus opened the office. A faint waft of Shawn's cologne hit him the moment he stepped in and it was still fresh. The bottom drawer of Shawn's desk was partially open and Gus felt all his hopes slip away. When he opened it there was no black backpack—and Gus was suddenly struck by Shawn's affinity for black things when he was running away—and Gus knew that he was gone.

Shawn had stopped for a bathroom and burger break—realizing that the banana he'd eaten for breakfast had long since been dissolved by his stomach acid and the bottle of water he'd chugged was pressing urgently on his bladder—and had just slid painstakingly into a hard plastic booth, a red tray in hand, when his phone rang. He looked at the Caller I.D.—Gussie-pants—and hesitated. Gus wouldn't be calling if he didn't already know.

Realizing that he'd be in more trouble if he didn't answer the phone Shawn clicked the green button on his phone. "Hey Gus."

"Hello Shawn," Gus' voice said in an agonizingly calm way. Old Shawn and New Shawn were at war within Shawn's head; one wanted to roll over and beg for forgiveness, the other seethed with anger and resentment and guilt. "Having a nice day? You mind telling me why you're at a rest stop on the way to San Fransisco?"

Shawn swallowed, feeling panic well up within him. No, no, no. It was his fault and he couldn't go back, he hated too much there, he feared too much, he screwed up too many lives. There was too much there, too fucking much. He wasn't going back, not any time soon.

"How—?"

"GPS locator in your phone." Shawn resolved to dump the phone at the next available opportunity. "And Shawn, I swear to god if you throw away that phone I will throttle you." Too bad Gus, thought New Shawn, 'cuz I'm not keeping it. "Shawn, come home."

"No can do, Gussie. It's time for a change. I'll send you a postcard." I always do, Old Gus chimed in. Shawn, just plain old Shawn, began to wonder if he had Multiple-Personality Disorder, a demon on one shoulder and an angel on the other, or was just seriously fucked up in the head.

"You're hurt. You ran away from the hospital. The doctors didn't even discharge you! You aren't even out AMA! You have a cracked rib, if you don't remember." Oh, he remembered. It hurt like a bitch with every breath he took, with every bite he swallowed, with every word he spoke, with every bump on the road, with every single movement he made. God, he wanted nothing more than to lie down in a soft bed, preferably Gus' bed. But no.

"I remember Gus. I'm fine. It's just a crack, just a little break."

"And I guess that laceration on your arm is just a scratch?"

"There you go Gus. You've got it now."

Shawn heard Gus' fist impact whatever surface he was near, something hard. He heard a muffled curse and smiled despite himself.

"Shawn. Come home, please." He'd said the dreaded P-word. Old Shawn would have caved. New Shawn would have told him to fuck off. Shawn who was straddling the middle of Old and New had no idea what to do.

"I can't."

"What happened to make you run?"

Shawn shut down completely. "I'll see you in a couple of weeks Gus."

"Shawn, don't you dare hang up on me!" Shawn hesitated for a second longer.

"Bye Gus." There was a wealth of unspoken meaning behind those two words: Fuck you, love you, and everything in between.

Shawn hung up the phone and placed it on the table. He flipped it open and pressed the power button, turning it off. He was fairly certain that the signal couldn't be tracked if the phone wasn't on, but he should dump it anyway. His hand tightened around the phone. Gus had given it to him—probably for the specific reason of being able to track him but Shawn ignored that little fact—and Shawn wanted to keep a phone in case of emergency. With a sigh he tucked it in his pocket and pushed away his half-eaten burger, knowing that the food would taste like ash in mouth.

Wiping his hands on his jeans he stood with a wince and dumped his trash. Then he headed back out to his bike, cramming his head into his helmet and starting it up. He straddled the bike, hands on the handle bars, staring at the road. Then he turned out the way he had come. He followed it back a few miles before taking an exit. San Fransisco was a no go, so it would have to be somewhere else. Somewhere that he could disappear, somwhere where he had connections. He didn't really care where, just so long as it was a long way away from Santa Barbara.

Gus stared at the phone in his hand and cursed. "Damn you Shawn Spencer." He whispered, not for the first time, not for the last time in the span of twenty four hours. He rested his head on his desk, forehead pressed against the cool wood. In the past he'd always let Shawn run, but…Gus stood up, knocking his chair over in the process.

"No." He announced. "No."

Gus turned for the door. It was time to take drastic measures.