It was three more hours before Henry came back out to tell us what was going on. For most of that time, we just sat there, occasionally breaking the silence with a half-hearted assurance everything would be okay or a funny story about Shawn.

It was starting to feel disconcertingly like a wake.

Finally, Henry came out again. I stood up, my mouth opening to ask him what was going on, but I didn't have the will to voice it.

I just didn't have the stomach for the answer.

He saw the look on my face, however, and answered without me having to actually to say anything. "They won't know for sure for a few hours…but he came through surgery okay. He's still alive. He's still alive."

That had become our silent, internal chant…he's still alive.

He's still alive.

"Good," I nodded, relief flooding though my veins like warm salve.

He gestured over his shoulder, back in the direction he had come from. "I have to meet with the doctors…they don't usually let non-family members in the ICU, but I convinced them to let you sit with him until I get back. If he wakes up…"

"I'm there," I agreed quickly, not even having to think about it.

"How did you--?" Juliet started ask, but stopped when Henry flashed her a look that communicated everything she needed to know about his persuasion tactics.

She didn't know him well enough yet to know just how scary he could be, but I think she was starting to get the picture.

"Oh."

"They finally relented on Gus because he's known Shawn his whole life," Henry continued, his hard gaze softening ever so slightly as he looked at her. "But they won't bend on cop co-workers."

"That's okay," she smiled, brushing a strand of disheveled blonde hair behind her ear. "I understand. He's alive. That's enough for now."

She glanced down at her watch, as if realizing for the first time how long she had been there. "I have cases I have to work on, anyway…but, I'll be back later, Mr. Spencer. I promise. Call me if anything changes."

"I will," he nodded, his tone flat but sincere.

As she left, she waved good-bye with only her fingers, lifting her hand just above her waist before curling them into a fist and dropping them by her side again; almost as if she had thought about waving but changed her mind halfway through the gesture.

Henry didn't return the wave, but his eyes silently followed her until she disappeared from sight.

"Gus," he said finally once we were alone, turning back to me. "It's not good."

"I know," I returned quietly, surprised that I actually meant it. Despite his cool demeanor and even-tone, I had sensed something from the moment he had come back…something in his eyes, in the way each step was carefully measured and plodding.

The conversation he had just had with the doctors, that he was about to have again, hadn't been good news.

"Is he--?" I started to ask, the lump in my throat choking out the end of the question.

"I don't know," he shook his head. "The next few hours are critical…that's why I need you in there with Shawn. Damn doctors won't let me--" he paused, sighing. "Damn doctors don't know anything, Gus."

"They're morons," I agreed quietly. "I'll stay with him until you get back."

"Thanks," he mumbled, his slow steps once again drifting away from me back into the ICU.

"Try not to make them cry," I called after him in a lame, ill-advised attempt at humor.

He ignored it, thankfully…or maybe he just didn't hear it.

Either way, I was momentarily spared a Henry Spencer Glare of Contempt.

Shawn's room was completely dark.

Almost pitch black, in fact.

As I walked it, I wasn't even positive I had the right room. That is, until I saw him. Even in the dim half-light, I could see his figure lying perfectly still in the bed. His head was wrapped tightly in bandages, his face stark white against the darkness…almost like a ghost.

"Hey, Shawn," I whispered, approaching his bed. "It's me. Gus."

I felt like a complete and utter idiot. I knew I sounded like one, too…but I didn't know what else to say.

How was I supposed to talk to my dying best friend?

He probably couldn't even hear me, anyway.

I laughed to myself as I reached his bedside and looked down at him. Not because the sight was even remotely funny. The sight made me want to throw up and run away…but as I stood there in the dark, listening to the rhythmic beeping of the machines around me, I couldn't help but imagine what Shawn would say if he could hear me blathering like a moron.

"Dude…I know it's you. I'm psychic, remember?

Then he would grin and wiggle his eyebrows at me, bringing his fingers up to his temple in that stupid fake psychic pose he thought made him look so cool.

Of course, I would roll my eyes and probably punch him in the arm. "Shut up, Shawn."

"What?" he would laugh, shrugging off my attack like it hadn't hurt at all when we both knew he was going to be bruised for a week. "Like it's my fault you can't think of anything to say?"

"I have plenty to say!" I actually argued out loud, for a moment forgetting Shawn hadn't really said anything.

He was still unconscious, hovering precariously on this side of life.

After another long moment of painful silence, I could hear him laughing again.

"Oh, yeah, Gus!" he was snorting, his eyes sparkling with that intense pleasure he got from pissing me off. "You're just full of sparkling wit! Seriously…you could have at least brought a joke book…or those funny stories people send into Reader's Digest…something! I'm unconscious, here! You could at least make me laugh!"

"I'm sorry," I apologized numbly. His voice was so clear in my mind that I had to keep looking back down at him to make sure it wasn't real. "I don't have anything, Shawn."

He just shrugged lazily, cocking an eyebrow at me as he stretched out and put his arms behind his head.

"Dude…" he murmured tiredly. "Getting hit by a car sucks."

"I know."

"Please tell me you at least caught the little weasel. He left enough clues."

"Yeah…" I assured him, not sure anymore if either of use were talking out loud…not sure if either of us were even real. "We caught him."

He nodded, closing his eyes.

"I knew you would…"

"Shawn--"

He waved off whatever I was about to say.

Even my Subconscious-Shawn didn't want to have this conversation.

"I'm not dying, Gus."

"I know."

"I'm not," he insisted. "You know I'm too cool to die. Look at my hair, Gus! Look at the body! Do you really think people with body like this die in motorcycle accidents? Come on, now!"

I laughed out loud.

It was such a stupid thing to think…and yet, I knew it was exactly what Shawn would say. He had always secretly been convinced that his awesome hair was a free-pass for life. As long as he had his hair, nothing could bring him down.

"Right, Shawn," I agreed, closing my eyes so I could hear his voice in my mind for just a moment longer.

"Seriously, Dude…" he pressed on. "I'm not dying."

"I know."

"…But…" he added a moment later.

"What?" I asked, foolishly opening my eyes, as if I actually expected to see him sitting up talking to me.

"Do me a favor before I wake up."

"What?"

He laughed, returning my previous punch in the arm with one of his own.

I actually felt his fist smack my shoulder. I touched it delicately, convinced there would be a bruise there by morning.

Of course, it didn't feel like a bruise…

"Stop talking to yourself…you're starting to freak me out."