100k words.
I repeat, one hundred thousand words.
I honestly don't even know what to say, so let's just get on with the chapter (brought to you by a recent spurt of reviews from bienvenu, Indigene Syke, and kendra—gave me the motivation to push through and actually finish the chapter).
Gus hangs back for the first couple minutes as Henry holds his son. He's placed himself second in line, and he's pretty sure by Juliet and Lassiter's mannerisms that they recognize this and are not going to argue with him. They've already seen him, they picked him up, they drove him here, they knew he was alive hours ago dammit, and they kept that from him. So yeah, he's planning on allowing himself a few minutes to be selfish.
Until Shawn's words "I can't believe you're okay," murmured but just about loud enough to echo in the otherwise silent room, hit the processing centers of their brains and freeze their thoughts simultaneously.
Mr. Spencer, of course, is immediately pulling away from him, clasping his free hand on his shoulder, looking him dead in the eyes. "Why do you say that? Why wouldn't I be okay?"
Shawn is blinking at him, obviously trying to reorient himself, and they all see him realize what he's just said. They see his eyes widen and a knot form between his eyebrows, and it's more than obvious that he has an answer to this question, and yet he pauses before divulging it. The silence stretches on for a few seconds while they all watch him unabashedly closely. Finally, he says, voice shaking, "Because you got shot. You went into the water, you almost drowned. You were comatose."
Lassiter draws in a sharp breath, and the potential significance of this confirmation is not lost on Gus or Juliet either. At the sound, Shawn's eyes dart up to the three of them standing in the back, and Gus unconsciously holds his breath; he almost forgot he's actually a participant in this scene, rather than just watching through a screen.
Shawn's eyes come to a rest on Gus.
Gus knows him well enough to know that the first word he would normally say under these extraordinary circumstances would be Gus's name. Which is probably not so unusual, but Shawn just seems to say names a lot more than most people. Fabricated or otherwise. A long time ago Gus formulated the theory that it stems from his loud, attention-seeking personality—saying someone's name is a good way to refocus that person's attention on you. It's just one of those little things that makes Shawn… Shawn.
Shawn's mouth opens, but nothing comes out of it.
Gus gives it about one second. After the doctor gave them the only news of note that he had—which Gus still isn't quite sure he understands—he briefly entertained the idea of just waiting to do or say anything until after Shawn produced his name, but right now, that feels unnatural and histrionic.
Shawn's arms start to reach out towards him, apparently without his realizing it, and Gus rushes forward to seize his best friend.
They never hugged much. Neither of them minded hugs, and Shawn actually rather enjoyed them, but they rarely sought them out. Now, though—now, nothing could be more natural. It's not enough just to see him or hear his voice—he has to hold him, he has to make sure that he's solid, that he's real. He has to show Shawn that he's real.
Shawn clings to him more desperately than he expects—though his chin placement is a bit awkward, almost like he's trying to avoid skin-on-skin contact—and he doesn't say a thing. Gus finds the silence a bit unnerving—anytime Shawn is engaging in any type of interaction with somebody and not completely filling the space between them with words, it's usually cause for alarm. He blathers on and on as a mechanism to keep himself out of his own head. If he's not talking, it usually means that he's gotten in too deep.
But Gus doesn't know what to say to prompt him to speak.
He realizes his eyes are prickling with manly tears, and he blinks them away to the best of his ability just as Shawn whispers, "Don't weep, buddy. All tears are an evil."
For a split second Gus vaguely wonders how Shawn knew, as they can't see each other's faces at all, but he dismisses it by reminding himself how well Shawn knows him. He hasn't had anybody like that around in so long he forgot what it felt like to be responded to so automatically. A smile blossoms over his face as he replies, "It's 'Not all tears are an evil,' Shawn. The exact opposite of that."
"I've heard it both ways."
Gus reaches his hand around Shawn's back to cover his own mouth, because what was about to escape it was probably joyous laughter, but it could just as easily have been a choked sob. Just as he feels it's safe to take his hand down again, and is beginning to realize that the hug has been going on almost as long as the one Mr. Spencer initiated, Lassiter's voice sounds behind him: "Spencer…"
Mr. Spencer's voice continues the thought seamlessly: "Who was keeping you, and how did you know about the shooting?"
Gus gives himself two seconds to exhale slowly in an effort to compose himself, and then pulls away, brow furrowed, immediately meeting Shawn's wide eyes.
His own slide upwards to Shawn's forehead.
Jules remembered to warn him about the tattoo pretty much immediately before they stepped into the room, but it wasn't nearly enough time to prepare himself. Shawn's joked about getting tattoos before, and Gus wouldn't necessarily put it past him, but he's not the type to just do it on a whim. And this…
Gus swallows.
It's obvious to all of them by Shawn's expression that something is wrong, even more than they already knew. He's working through how to answer—of course he has to do that, heaven forbid it be straightforward.
Finally he says, voice low but steady, "I don't know his real name. He called himself the… 'the Master.'"
"Did you ever see him?" Lassiter asks immediately, withdrawing a notepad from his pocket.
Shawn nods, drawing in deep breaths, and Gus is again reminded how exhausted he must be. The dark shadows under his eyes are all they really need to know how much he has to sleep. He glances at Juliet in concern, and she immediately feels his gaze and turns to meet it, her own expression showing the same thought process.
"About five foot ten," Shawn replies. "Possibly at least part Indian, or something. I'm not really sure. Not white, anyway. Had an accent I was never able to pin down. Black hair, brown eyes. Super white teeth. Pretty average build. Somewhere in his thirties. But you're not going to be able to find him."
Lassiter's pen pauses on the paper. "Why do you say that?"
He shakes his head, answers hidden behind his eyes, but all he says is, "He's smart. Um… Okay, look, I'm honestly too tired to think straight, I haven't slept or eaten most of the day and I walked about seven miles to get here… So how about I answer the most important questions that you don't know to ask before I just pass out. Okay?"
Juliet rubs roughly at her eyes, though they remain completely dry. Gus does likewise, but there's more of a need on his end.
Lassiter nods slowly in acquiescence.
Shawn appears to collect his thoughts before he launches into it: "I was kept at a traveling carnival." A deep crease forms in Gus's brow, but Shawn doesn't pause. "If there are any of those in the area right now you need to investigate them immediately. I don't know the carnival's name either, but this guy, the Mas… um, he's the owner. And founder. I was not kept under constant watch, but I stayed because you were all under threat of death, and you—" He stops abruptly. Every eye in the room is trained on him. Gus is having immense amounts of trouble processing all of this. Finally Shawn continues, voice cracking, "You got hurt because of me. I'm sure you guessed at the connection, and you're right. The car exploded and you both," he turns his gaze towards his father and Lassiter, "went under because I screwed up, and I am so, so sorry."
There are tears in his voice but not his eyes, and Gus has never seen him so broken, and none of them has a clue what to say.
Under almost every circumstance, Shawn doesn't do guilt. He purposely rejects any notion of living in the past, to an unhealthy degree. But clearly whatever happened here goes beyond anything he knows how to wave away.
In the silence, Shawn's eyes turn again to his father, and he says haltingly, "I know—" He stops and gives a single weak cough in an apparent attempt to clear his throat, and starts again: "I know who shot you."
Gus turns his attention sharply to Mr. Spencer, who responds immediately and urgently, "Who?"
"Doesn't matter anymore," Shawn whispers. "I k…" He swallows. "I killed him."
Gus wishes he could revel in the dark satisfaction that bursts in the back of his mind upon hearing this. But knowing that it was Shawn who pulled the trigger—and very likely not literally, because he's been told how much blood that jacket is hiding, and guns are so much cleaner than whatever method he appears to have used—it makes it feel like a… What's the phrase? A pyrrhic victory. That's it. He allows himself a brief mental pat on the back for remembering that from last month's issue of the English magazine he subscribes to before refocusing on the matter at hand.
Silence has descended upon them, but Shawn doesn't let it go on too long. "So yeah, look for carnivals. However that's done. And keep up the guards, double them if you can, because this guy is crafty and I'm like eighty-nine—no, ninety-three percent sure he's after me, and therefore after you."
Gus's immediate question is Why? But Lassiter, always the one to effortlessly discern which questions are most pertinent, asks, "How many people is he working with?"
Shawn shrugs helplessly. "As far as I know it's just him, but I really can't be sure. He definitely could have other cronies." He pauses, his eyes suddenly seeing something far away. "But if you see a young woman, late twenties or thereabouts, about five foot six with blonde hair and greyish eyes, and a very fit body like an acrobat… Don't arrest her, just… keep an eye on her."
Lassiter's scribbling furiously, and Gus can read another question on his face for when he's finished taking down these notes, but as he writes, Shawn reaches into his pocket, and after rooting around for a second, tries the other one. A knot forms quickly between his brows, and he looks up at them, panic lighting his eyes, asking in alarm, "Did someone take something from my pocket?"
Immediately Juliet reaches into the pocket of her suit jacket, and produces what appears to be a crumpled up napkin. Gus cocks his head, vaguely recalling her mentioning a napkin at some point on the phone or to Lassiter as he was arriving or during the confusion after Dr. Gianni told them about the damage Shawn's memory appeared to have taken, but he can't conjure up any details.
"You mean this?" she asks, certainty already showing in her eyes, as she holds it out to him.
Shawn visibly deflates in relief. "Yes."
She smooths it out, holding one side in each hand. "'Arthur Loriss,'" she reads. "'Livia Istok, Sebastian Jaeger, the Master, Arashk Ronaldo—me, Barnabas Thornton.'" Gus steps towards her, and she compliantly turns the napkin so that he can see it. He briefly scans all the unfamiliar names she's just read, but his eyes are immediately drawn to the skillfully created image of a face—also unfamiliar, in both visage and style. Shawn doesn't have artistic abilities nearly finely tuned enough to produce something like this. Who could have drawn it?
At the mention of "Arashk Ronaldo—me," Shawn went white as a sheet, and even now he only stares at Juliet, hanging on her every movement, waiting to see what she will say. The name means nothing to Gus, but something in the back of his mind tells him he should be very worried to hear it.
After several seconds Jules asks, gaze fixed on Shawn, "Shawn, to be clear, these are names?"
He gives a tiny nod, and then seems to remember himself. Color begins to return to his face, and he stumbles over the first few words, trying to get his foot in the door: "I… The n—the last n-name was… is who you need to worry about."
"Barnabas Thornton?" Juliet clarifies.
He nods.
"Who is he?"
Shawn visibly swallows. "I… I don't know. But I was told it's very important to find him."
"Is the picture of him?"
He replies promptly, "Yes," and immediately looks surprised, though the expression clears gradually, like he's confirming to himself that it makes sense.
"You were told. Who by?" Mr. Spencer interjects.
Shawn is obviously having a lot of trouble with the "who" questions, and Gus is beginning to wish they'd stop asking them. Even if he knows they're the most important ones right now. Even if he knows they can't just ignore this bizarre name problem that seems to be throwing up communication barriers between them and Shawn.
He's panting with what appears to be a mixture of mental exertion and physical exhaustion, pressing his hand against his forehead. "I don't… I don't remember their names."
"That's fine, Shawn," Mr. Spencer encourages. "Just tell us who they were."
He blinks at his father, and his eyes clear a little. "They were… other victims."
Lassiter's head snaps up. "Others? You weren't the only one?"
His gaze has fallen to his lap, and he shakes his head without looking up. His voice has gone very quiet. "But you don't have to worry about these particular people anymore."
The blood returns to the forefront of Gus's thoughts, and it occurs to him for the first time that Shawn might have not been the one to draw it. He doesn't know if that possibility is better or worse.
"What are the other names on the list?" asks Juliet gently.
Shawn sighs silently. "Well… the only ones really relevant are Livia and… and Sebastian. And they're… friends."
Friends? Gus blinks. There is still so much they don't know, so much they can't ask. He knows everyone is thinking along the same lines at this very second.
"Okay," says Mr. Spencer after a pause, "but the other one is most important." He looks over at Lassiter's notepad pointedly. "Barnabas Thornton, right?"
Lassiter gives him a glare that says Don't tell me how to do my job, and holds his pen still, implying he's already noted the name.
Shawn nods.
"And you think talking to him will help us nab the guy who…" Mr. Spencer trails off, but stubbornly finishes after a pause, "who took you?"
Shawn displays the barest trace of hesitation, but after a brief pause he says, "I think so, yes."
They're all thinking the same thing. What the doctor told them, how Shawn hasn't addressed any of them by name, the words "Arashk Ronaldo (me)" written clearly in Shawn's handwriting. That pain hidden behind his eyes.
But what can they say, or ask?
Finally Henry asks in as gentle a voice as they've ever heard him use, "Is there anything else we should know, son?"
He hesitates. It's immediately apparent to Gus that there is something more he wants to say, or maybe feels he should. But evidently deciding it's not necessary, or he's not ready or able to talk about it, he shakes his head, replying dryly, "Nope, that about covers things."
Mr. Spencer regards his son for a long moment, and by his face Gus thinks he sees even more than Gus does, but after several seconds he simply nods. "Okay," he says, and his tone hasn't changed. "Do you want us to leave you so you can rest?"
Shawn's eyes snap to Lassiter, and then around the rest of the room, taking on a sheen of alarm. "Here?"
Juliet takes a couple steps closer to him. "They were planning on keeping you overnight," she says softly.
Shawn's eyes are only getting wider, his brows crowding towards his glabella. His mouth keeps opening and closing as he searches for words.
"Shawn," she continues, a note of concern in her voice, mostly overwhelmed by gentleness, but before she can go on, Shawn manages to find words.
"I've been away for," and he abruptly stops. Gus realizes he might not even know how long he was gone. "Too long," he finishes, confirming this idea. "I… I don't want to spend the night here."
"Shawn," says Juliet again, "they haven't been able to conduct a full examination yet."
Gus knows what she means. They have indeed determined that, as he's said, he's in fine physical condition apart from the exhaustion and the blisters on his feet, which have been popped, disinfected, and bandaged.
But they want to do a psych eval.
"I'm fine, I told you I'm fine. I wasn't even unconscious, I was just asleep. And I just…" He swallows. "I just don't want to spend my first night back at a hospital. I mean, I think that's reasonable." He cracks a smile. "The only channels they ever seem to carry just play bad soap operas. Not to imply there's any other type of soap operas. Except that Spanish one I was on. Actually, never mind, I was that show's sole redeeming feature."
Gus finds a grin spreading across his face, even though he's not sure he really feels it.
After a brief pause, Mr. Spencer nods slowly. "Okay, Shawn. You can spend the night in your old room."
Shawn's smile becomes more genuine. "Muy bueno."
His pronunciation is abysmal, and Gus almost says so, until Shawn meets his eyes purposefully in an obvious communication that he's already aware of this.
Lassiter clearly wants to argue, though he doesn't appear to be sure why. Eventually he sighs quietly, and says, "I'll see if they'll release you on the condition that you return tomorrow for a complete examination."
He steps out of the room before any of them can muster a reply.
For a moment the only sound that reaches them is the muted din of nearby traffic through the window. Shawn is looking up at them, at first obviously consciously trying to smile, but the longer he looks at them, the more genuine it appears. He's blinking a lot, though, and rubbing his eyes, and Gus is starting to get more tired himself just from watching him.
Juliet is the first to approach him, reaching for one of his slightly trembling hands. Gus doesn't expect any problems to arise with this. He's already been hugged by at least two of them, and seems touch starved if anything, so a minor instance of hand holding shouldn't be any cause for concern.
But before she can reach him, in what appears to be an involuntary motion, he moves both hands to the other side of the bed, busying them by clutching the white sheet that still covers his lap. Juliet withdraws her hand, looking a little hurt despite herself, but primarily surprised.
"I'm sorry," Shawn says, his words carried on a forced exhalation, another sign of his physical exhaustion. He looks pained as he adds after a trace of hesitation, "I missed you. I missed you so much, but... Not yet."
Gus exchanges glances with Mr. Spencer, and he knows they're both thinking the same thing: Shawn formed those last two words a second or two before he decided to say them. He's not sure he's telling the truth. He's not sure anything will change anytime soon. He only said it to soften the blow.
It suddenly hits Gus how weak an understanding they still have of what actually happened to him. The most concrete information they've received from him is the description of his captor—he had to call somebody Master, he certainly couldn't have liked that—and the "carnival" setting, which still completely baffles Gus.
That's it. That's all. And if they don't know what happened to him, what was done to him, how are they supposed to know how to behave around him? What changes to make? What they can do to help? They can't, but if one thing is clear, it's that Shawn is not yet ready to talk about it. And they can at least respect that and give him some space.
But the one question, the biggest question, which still dances in all the empty corners of Gus's mind, is why?
He guesses they can worry about motive later. It's not nearly as important to Shawn's safety now that he's returned, though it might come later when they're actively trying to help him put himself back together.
"They'll allow it," Lassiter announces as he strides into the room, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "Come on, Spencers, let's move. The sooner Shawn gets to sleep, the sooner he can be brought back in tomorrow."
"It's past midnight," Shawn murmurs. "I think you mean 'today.'"
It's a testament to how much this has put all of them out of sorts and out of character that Lassiter doesn't even bother shooting him an annoyed look. He strides to Shawn's bedside and offers him his arm. "Come on," he says again.
Shawn accepts the help, grasping Lassiter's forearm near his elbow, apparently being careful not to touch anything but his sleeve. He blinks at the limb, and murmurs, "Your arm's better."
Lassiter is clearly about to reply with a sharp question, but Shawn doesn't pause between the observation and his attempt to stand. Fortunately that attempt goes pretty well, and joy once again floods Gus at the simple sight of him standing upright. Somehow it makes him look so much more whole, even if he's depending a smidge on Lassiter for support.
"Shawn," Lassiter says seriously, "what did you just say about my arm?"
Shawn's eyes are wide. "It's… it's better," he replies meekly.
There are still a million questions about the injuries they've all sustained in the time Shawn's been gone, but Gus knows they all have the same one in mind right now—just how much did this "Master" lunatic tell Shawn about those injuries? How much detail did he get?
"Why do you say that?" asks Lassiter, his tone a touch more severe than he probably intended—well, maybe not. "What happened to my arm, Shawn?"
Shawn stares at him for a long moment, and rubs his eye with one hand. "I'm sorry, I'm getting to the point where words aren't making much sense anymore."
He might be telling the truth, and at least in part he probably is, but Gus strongly suspects that this is one of many things he's just not ready to discuss.
Lassiter's patience is clearly starting to run thin, and he's obviously aware of this, because after a sharp exhale of annoyance he abruptly drops the issue, saying, "Fine. Just lean on me. Actually, do you need a wheelchair?"
Shawn shakes his head blearily. "No… no, I can walk. Thanks."
Every time he addresses one of them without tacking the appropriate nickname on at the beginning or end, Gus gets a little more worried. He racks his brain for anything he might know about a disorder that would cause somebody to forget names and only names, and how such a thing might be caused, but he comes up dry. Shawn might just be setting a precedent. Maybe they'll name it Spencer Disorder.
Or maybe if Gus just lets it be now, by the time he sees him again tomorrow he'll be using their names like normal. Maybe the issue will resolve itself.
Like it's ever that easy.
He and Juliet trail somewhat awkwardly after the other three men as they make their way at a steady pace to the elevator, descend to the ground floor, stop briefly at the front desk, and step outside into the warm night air. Shawn seems to be limping slightly due to the blisters on his feet but he's doing all right with the support. As they continue into the parking lot, Juliet hangs back, and before she can say anything, even in his barely-waking state, Shawn notices. "Wait," he protests vaguely, reaching after her with the arm that isn't grasping Lassiter's.
She puts on a smile. "I'll come see you in the morning, Shawn. Don't worry. But for now, I'm gonna follow up on the lead you gave us. We'll find Barnabas Thornton and see what he knows. We'll find answers. That's our job. Your job is to get better."
It takes a long moment of thought, but Shawn comes up with a response: "My job is also to find answers."
"Not now, it isn't. When you're not dead on your feet, sure. I'll see you in the morning. I promise."
Shawn stares at her, seeming to struggle with something for a moment, before relinquishing his hold on Lassiter's arm and reaching towards her with both hands. She runs into his arms, burying her face into his chest, and he at once wraps himself protectively around her and draws support from her. Gus, feeling like an intruder, looks away.
When he looks back they've separated, and Juliet is practically glowing. "Tomorrow morning," she promises one more time. "Goodnight, Shawn."
The pain is back in Shawn's eyes, but after a very long pause he responds, "Goodnight, Juliet."
Her smile lights up even further, surprise now a feature as well, and she seems unable to turn it off as she finally turns and heads for her car.
And yet Shawn is standing there looking extremely tormented, so Gus steps in, desperate to distract him from something that cannot possibly be his fault, though he now has even more unanswered questions about Shawn's condition. But they can wait. "I'll come by tomorrow too," he assures his friend. "Your dad'll take care of you till then."
"Damn straight," grunts Mr. Spencer.
Shawn nods, appreciation coloring his face.
Gus turns towards Lassiter, and as a final thought, says, "Drive safe, Lassie."
He almost misses Lassiter's grumbled reply of "Always do" what with the distraction provided by Shawn's expression at his use of the moniker—a sudden clarity just short of ecstasy.
He leaves them with that image burned into his mind, fully intending to treasure it as a sign that things are looking up, that Shawn will get better, that Shawn will always get better.
Under normal circumstances this would be way too many Spencers to allow in his car, but just this once he'll make an exception.
Lassiter has consciously reminded himself that this is really happening at least three times now. He keeps glancing into his rearview mirror to check on Shawn's condition, and he seems to be allowing his head to drop intermittently to his father's shoulder. Henry has made sure he's sitting close enough to his son to facilitate this.
A short drive later, they pull up in front of Henry's house. Per some calls Lassiter put in, there are now two police cars situated on the curb directly in front of the house. All the officers involved are men and women for whose characters and abilities Lassiter would personally vouch.
Henry slides out of the car pretty quickly. As he stands on the driveway next to the door which still hangs open, searching through his pockets for his keys, Lassiter starts to unbuckle, but in the middle of the process he feels eyes on him.
He looks up to his rearview mirror, and there Shawn still sits, utterly still, eyes fixed on him from the backseat. As Shawn's eyes meet his, his expression becomes more serious than Lassiter has ever seen it, and immediately after registering this he's ready to be worried, but the words that come out of Shawn's mouth, accompanied by the tiniest motion of his head bobbing forward and spoken with the utmost care and candidness, are "Thank you for saving him."
Lassiter blinks, and his eyes flicker downward as a smile curves the corner of his mouth despite himself. He's hunting for a way to respond as he looks back to Shawn, but finds, to his immediate puzzlement, that the man's eyes have completely lost their focus. They still at least carry the appearance of holding his gaze, but it's like he's not actually seeing him. His expression has gone slack, and he leans forward, hand grasping the back of Lassiter's seat.
"One hundred fourteen minutes," he whispers. "That's how long you'll have."
Yet again Lassiter can only blink, dumbfounded, and as he opens his mouth to ask a question, any question, Henry shouts in triumph, "Hah-hah! Thought you could get away from me, eh?" accompanied by the jangling of multiple keys on a ring. Shawn's eyes snap back into focus and turn towards his father, a smile gracing his features as he scoots over and out through the door.
Lassiter hastens to disentangle himself from his buckle and exit the car, immediately demanding, "Spencer"—and both men turn towards him—"what the hell does that mean?"
Shawn blinks profusely, apparently having forgotten he spoke, and crinkles his brow. He's swaying slightly as he stands, and he huffs lightly, "I don't know, I just—it just felt important for you to know…"
Lassiter has to suppress a groan of frustration, but he withdraws his notepad and jots down the number 114. "Fine. Don't worry about it. Let's just get you to bed, you look drunk."
"Ah, to be drunk," Shawn sighs. "Drunk me is the me I wanna be. Well, drunk and well-rested."
Lassiter rolls his eyes. Either the man is saying extremely concerning things or he's being some blend of smartass and flippant. There is no in between, it seems. Not that there ever really was, it's just that the scale has severely tipped in the opposite direction.
He accompanies them to Henry's front door, reminds them of the officers that will be watching the house and available at all times to address concerns, and, seeing that Henry is already sick of his presence preventing him from putting Shawn to bed, bids them farewell.
He doesn't remember the last time he wanted so much to sleep but couldn't. He's got to clock on at least a little bit of time helping O'Hara look into this "lead."
It feels so good to be able to be useful again. Even if he's acting on directions provided by Spencer.
Especially since he's acting on directions provided by Spencer.
