Yes, yes, I know; it's been forever. But what can I say, other than life happens?
But here it is nonetheless, chapter five!
As usual, I own nothing. Not Psych, not 82% Hawaiian pineapples, not USA Network. Nothing!
The Sun had gone down thirty minutes ago and Shawn had yet to show up at the Psych office, so Gus assumed that his best friend had, in fact, gone home with Gwen. That made two dates, now; one more and it would be a new record.
More likely than not, he would be receiving a phone call from aforementioned potential record-breaker, probably around three in the morning, undoubtedly to provide him with more details than he really needed. Or wanted. Best to get as much sleep as he could manage beforehand.
When Gus was halfway home, the office phone began to ring. It stopped after twenty-three seconds. No message was left.
Shawn's cell phone, forgotten and left in a desk drawer, started vibrating, loud in the now-silent office, just as Gus was opening the door to his apartment.
5,675 feet away from his ringing cell phone, Shawn was once again regaining consciousness.
After listening to the recording for the third time, Karen was convinced (mostly- 99.6% sure) that it was Shawn Spencer's voice (after all, she'd had plenty of experience listening to him go on…and on).
No answer at his office. She didn't bother leaving a message.
But, really, it didn't completely make sense. He must have witnessed (not seen- she knew better than that) the shooting. Why call dispatch? Why not Lassiter or O'Hara or even herself? He knew all of their home and cell numbers, even though none of them- except maybe O'Hara- had told him.
No answer on his home phone, either.
And why didn't he provide more information? If he had been there (and that was really the only explanation that made sense), he would've definitely caught much more than what he had told the officer (she knew this from prior experience, as well). So why hold back? Did he want them to figure it out on their own? Make Lassiter think he and his partner had solved it without Shawn's help?
"Spencer, my office, noon tomorrow." Short and to the point.
And just what the hell had he been doing out there in the middle of nowhere, anyway?
No answer on his cell. She left the exact same message on his voicemail.
He was probably out complicating somebody else's life (and this turned out to be all too true, just not in any way she might have imagined).
Someone had cleaned up the vomit from his stomach's earlier rebellion, and now it smelled like mothballs (definitely not the greatest thing; he could already feel the nausea rising again).
Somehow, even with all of his amazing and super awesome skills, Shawn couldn't get out of the cuffs (through his attempts, he discovered that moving his left arm even slightly was a very, very bad idea and that being handcuffed as he was for an extended period of time was absolute hell on one's shoulders).
He could still hear one of them moving around the house (Lizzie, unless Elliot was a whole lot lighter than he looked), and so decided that keeping quiet was probably the best course of action (not the simplest task for him under normal circumstances, but necessary and therefore easily possible here in this closet). He ended up almost completely on his stomach, thinking furiously.
His wrist was definitely broken (he'd heard the bone snap, and it wasn't nearly as cool as when it happened on television), and his shoulders were throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He most likely had a mild concussion (he couldn't be entirely certain- nobody had thought to provide him with a way to check his own pupils, the inconsiderate jerks). On the bright side, nothing in his leg felt broken or sprained, although he was sure that a spectacular bruise had already formed and that walking (standing, even) would be extremely painful. All in all, very uncool but survivable, assuming he got some sort of medical attention before too long (and there was absolutely no point in thinking about what might happen if he didn't). The most concerning issue was his wrist, and really, if it came to it, he would risk the pain of getting his arms in front of him so that he could set the bone himself (even though he so did not want to go there; he was content to wait awhile before considering it further).
Seeing as how he wasn't dead yet, Shawn assumed (hoped- desperately hoped) that they had decided not to kill him. While this was wonderful news (speculation), there was still the fact that he was handcuffed. And in pain. And in a closet.
Gus didn't start worrying until almost noon the next day.
He'd woken at three fifteen in the morning (without having set an alarm) to the sound of the phone ringing. Or, what he thought was his phone. His apartment was silent. Surely, Shawn would have called by now.
No messages on either his home phone or his cell.
He shrugged off the uneasy feeling in his stomach. Maybe Shawn had been tired (and if he'd gone to sleep without calling him, he'd likely be asleep until at least ten). And as much as Gus hated to think about Shawn having sex (he knew for a fact that it happened, and on a fairly regular basis), a lot of sex was bound to tire anyone out, including his overly hyperactive best friend.
By six thirty he had convinced himself that Shawn would be strolling into his office around eleven to drag him out on some crazy errand or other. He showered, dressed, and went to work, deciding to stop in at the Psych office on the way, if only to make sure that Shawn hadn't crashed on their new couch.
Shawn had fallen back asleep around two in the morning (not that he would know it) after cataloguing his various hurts, and had awoken around eight to discover that both Elliot and Elizabeth had left (that or they weren't moving around the place at all, as he didn't hear anything), and so concluded that now would be the time to take action.
Something really needed to be done about his wrist. Not looking forward to that part at all but knowing that it couldn't wait any longer, Shawn took a deep breath and moved.
As his kidnappers weren't present to smack him around for making noise, he didn't bother to hold in the scream. Maybe he'd get lucky and a neighbor would hear, but he wasn't counting on it (because while this was a townhouse, it was in a rather upscale neighborhood, which indicated careers, which indicated going to work early in the morning).
Now just to get his feet through the loop that his arms made, and his hands would be in front of him. Another deep breath, some desperate maneuvering, a miserable grunt, and his back was leaning heavily against the closet door, his hands limp on his left thigh, right leg stretched out before him awkwardly. His knee ached fiercely, dwarfed only by the fire radiating from his left wrist, which was terribly swollen (his brain hysterically supplied that it appeared to be about 77% larger than the right and that the bone had already begun knitting itself back together). Not good.
Now for the hard part.
Quickly, before he had any more time to think about it (and consequently talk himself out of it, no matter how necessary), he grabbed his left wrist as best he could while still handcuffed and pulled.
Breaking it had hurt like a bitch; re-breaking it was worse. And again before he could think too much, he pushed, much more careful this time (wouldn't do to overshoot; the bone needed to be correctly aligned). It took nearly a full minute for his arched spine to let him relax, and another two to come back to his senses (not quite unconscious, but definitely close). His breathing harsh, he settled more firmly against door, listening intently.
If anyone was within a ninety-three foot radius, the cops would most likely be there within half an hour.
Shawn hadn't crashed in the Psych office.
It was just after eleven, and Gus was on a lunch break (he'd eaten first-jerk chicken- because he had his priorities straight), and he had half an hour to kill (and between checking the place for Shawn and beating his high score for Tetris, his best friend had won out, but just barely- Shawn would understand).
But he wasn't there, apparently hadn't been since Gus had left last night; the door was still locked, there were no more paper basketballs in the waste basket, all of Gus' desk drawers and file stacks were still neat and organized, and there was still a whole pineapple on top of the fridge.
Grumbling about worrisome best friends and missed Tetris opportunities, Gus was halfway out the door when he heard it. He knew that sound, had heard it enough times over the years to recognize it; a phone vibrating against a metal surface. He moved further into the office and waited.
Not the lockers. More towards the window. The drawers to Shawn's desk were made of metal.
Shawn's phone was in the top drawer of his desk, nestled between a box of cupcake mix and a personalized snow globe (with a picture of Gus, standing next to a mannequin dressed exactly like him). It stopped vibrating but the screen was lit up, showing seventeen missed calls. Shawn must have left it here sometime yesterday.
Picking up the phone led to the discovery of eleven voicemail messages in addition to the missed calls, the first of which was from Henry:
"Why promise to do something if you know you aren't gonna do it? And don't ignore me!"
The second and third were also from Henry, and contained much the same message. The fourth was from Gwen, demanding that Shawn call her like he promised to. The fifth was from Tina at the shop down the road, saying that they had gotten a new shipment of 82% Hawaiian pineapples in two days ago, and that yes, she would love to share one with him. The sixth was from Henry. The seventh was from Henry on his neighbor's cell. The eighth was from Gwen. The ninth was from an unlisted number, and was only two seconds long, consisting of the click that indicated the person hanging up. The tenth was from Chief Vick:
"Spencer, my office, noon tomorrow."
And that was when Gus really started to worry, without knowing exactly why. Not bothering to listen to the final message, he pocketed the wayward cell phone and left in hurry. He could make it to the station by noon if he hurried.
Alright! I'm off to do...other things. Let me know what you think!