Hello! So this story was originally written in 2015, but I have spent the past few months completely revising it, and here is the revision! You can find the original version on my fanfiction profile still, and also on my Ao3 under the same name: cosette141!
If you are returning to this story/have read this before, I kept most of the events the same, and only took out a few things that I didn't like/felt were unnecessary, and pretty much just packed this story with a lot more detail lol. This revision is 10k words longer than the original version, legit just from adding more description and fleshing out/lengthening the scenes :)
I hope you guys like it!
ALSO: I am currently writing a sequel to this story! :) Hopefully that will be out soon!
This story is a lot of Shawn whump and hurt/comfort, but there is no whump or violence that wouldn't have been shown in the actual show. This is my fix-it for the Shules breakup, because I feel like they went straight from their breakup to getting back together with zero conversations about anything in between, so this is all post-secret reveal fix-it stuff haha.
This story takes place right after the events of the episode "Right Turn, or Left for Dead"!
~cosette141
2001
Shawn stared out the window, watching the clouds gather in the sky.
A storm was coming.
It might even delay his escape.
Shawn descended the steps of the city bus and walked down the sidewalk .
Shards of recent memories flashed through his mind, and not for the first time, he cursed the fact that he knew he'd never forget them.
He never had the best relationship with his father, but tonight, things changed for good. Shawn couldn't stand to live with the man who drove his mother out of their family, the man who arrested his own son, the man who worked tirelessly to ruin his own son's life.
Shawn fought any emotion. He didn't want to feel, so he didn't. He felt nothing at all.
Nothing but a lingering desire to get the hell out of Santa Barbara.
"You can't run from your life, Shawn."
Henry's voice echoed in Shawn's head, but Shawn forced it away, determined to prove the man wrong. He clutched his drawstring bag tighter. Shawn walked into the airport and weaved through the crowd of people.
Somewhere in the back of Shawn's mind, he had a fleeting realization that there were twenty-four hats in the airport terminal. Anger flashed through his eyes; eyes that were still young, yet always see far, far too much.
Approaching the ticket desk, Shawn handed the woman a handful of crumpled bills and asked for the next flight to Miami.
The woman's gaze flicked down at him and back to his eyes. Her eyebrow slowly hitched upward, however not unkindly.
"What?" snapped Shawn.
"Luggage?" the woman asked hesitantly.
"Don't need any." muttered Shawn as the woman handed him a ticket.
When he took it, she didn't let go.
He met her eyes.
"Didn't anyone ever tell you that running away doesn't fix anything?" Her gaze was genuine. Her kind, innocent eyes searched his.
Maybe under normal circumstances, he would have considered her words. Maybe he would have pushed aside his anger and flirted with her. Maybe he would have changed his mind about leaving.
Under normal circumstances, he would have done a lot of things differently.
Shawn tugged on the ticket and she let it go. He averted his eyes. "Maybe not," said Shawn quietly, but firm. "But there's just some things that can't be fixed."
Shawn left the desk, strung his bag over his shoulder and handed his ticket to the man waiting at the door, and boarded the plane without a single look back.
Shawn stared out the window, watching the rain hit the glass.
He reached a hand to his right shoulder, mindlessly massaging the stab wound from the last case.
"If I just didn't give you my jacket… then everything would still be okay."
"But you did, Shawn. You did."
Shawn sighed, pulling his gaze away from the window to look back at the darkening room.
The Psych Office had never felt so empty.
Shawn looked back at his computer screen at the photo of himself and Juliet at Lassiter's wedding.
Him.
Juliet.
And that damned jacket.
A rush of anger suddenly rose in Shawn's chest. He slammed the laptop shut, tired of looking at his greatest mistake.
He sank into his desk chair, hand scrubbing over his face.
"Shawn, I think—I know… I need space."
Space.
Shawn propped his elbows on the desk and held his head in his hands, feeling his headache from the concussion creep back.
But that pain was nothing compared to the one in his chest.
He sighed.
It's been only a day since she'd told him she wanted him to move out. He hadn't told anyone—not even Gus. Somehow saying the words aloud would make them feel... real.
He crashed on the Psych Office couch—not nearly as comfortable as it looked, though he knew that already from plenty of all-nighters—but hardly slept. The hollow feeling in his chest, the form that should have been curled into him wasn't there, and he couldn't handle it.
It definitely didn't help that his memory only decided to play her words through his mind.
Over.
And over.
And over.
Shawn groaned, shutting his eyes. Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, he hated his memory.
He was going to lose his mind if he sat here any longer.
Space.
Shawn lifted his head, blinking his exhausted eyes back open.
An idea forming, Shawn followed the impulse and pulled out his phone. He found a number, made a quick call and stood.
Juliet was right.
Space might not be such a bad idea after all.
But the last time Shawn needed space, he didn't come back for over ten years.
Nearly twenty minutes later, Shawn looked up as a horn sounded outside. A yellow cab waited in the street. He left the office and got into the cab. He slid across the backseat, buckling the seatbelt.
The driver, an Indian man a few years older than Shawn himself, gave Shawn a smile.
"Mr. Spencer?" asked the driver.
"Yeah," said Shawn absentmindedly. "Airport, please."
"My name's Juan," said the driver as he backed up the cab and pulled into the street.
Shawn didn't respond.
He just stared out the window and watched the rain.
"What you need the airport for?" asked Juan.
Shawn slowly shifted his gaze to the rearview mirror, seeing the eagerness in Juan's eyes staring back at him.
"I need some… space," said Shawn quietly, hating to be repeating the words Juliet spoke, the words that felt like a knife in his heart.
"I think you should move out."
It was as if the wind had been knocked out of him. Shawn's gaze fell back to the window of the cab, watching the rain pick up, the drops spilling in a mess of rivulets on the glass. He couldn't help noticing the appropriateness of the weather, considering his mood.
"Space from…?" prompted Juan, making a right down the next street.
Shawn shut his eyes, irritation growing.
Where was the cab driver from the night of the wedding who ignored him completely?
Under normal circumstances, Shawn would have indulged the driver.
Under normal circumstances, he'd have done a lot of things differently.
"I appreciate the concern, Juan, I really do," said Shawn with a touch of forced calm. "But I've got a splitting headache, and I'd really rather we have a quiet trip."
"Yes, I understand, I understand," said Juan, nodding.
Shawn and Juan sat in silence for about thirty seconds before Juan said, "You know, I'm a big fan."
Shawn looked back at the rearview mirror. "I'm sorry?"
"Well, you're Shawn Spencer!" exclaimed Juan. "I read about you and that Gurton Buster in the paper. You're the psychic!"
Shawn winced a little at the mention of psychic, a painful image of the heartbreak in Juliet's eyes flashing with far too much detail.
He tried to shake it away, however futile the attempt.
"Yeah," said Shawn, about to correct Gus' name, but instead just said, "Well, thanks, Juan." Shawn leaned his head against the window. It was either his mild, day-old concussion or the weather that was killing his head. A traitorous voice wondered if this was what heartbreak felt like. He sighed, letting the chilled glass sooth the dull throb.
Shawn shut his eyes, wondering what he was doing. Where was he going to go? Back to Miami? He sighed again. He didn't want to go to Miami. Jules is from Miami, his memory reminded him, and he fought the urge to groan.
Was he really going to leave? Make the same mistake he made years ago?
He just wanted to be with Juliet.
That's all he's wanted ever since she found out the truth.
Ever since he lost her.
Shawn kicked himself. How could he have been so stupid?
He should have just told her the truth himself before she ever had to find out.
Lifting a hand, Shawn rubbed his tired eyes. He hadn't slept in nearly two days. Juliet hadn't been returning his calls. He only stopped trying after she came by the office to ask for space.
Shawn hadn't contacted anyone since the Elin case closed. Gus had tried calling Shawn a few times, but Shawn didn't want to talk to him. He didn't want to talk to anyone; there was nothing he wanted to say.
He just wanted Juliet back in his arms.
Shawn opened his eyes. The passing buildings and houses came back into focus and Shawn watched them slide in and out of his vision. He watched as Juan made a left—
"Hang on," said Shawn, lifting his head. "You made a wrong turn. The airport is back that way," said Shawn, pointing in the opposite direction.
Juan didn't reply.
He kept driving.
Shawn sat up. "Juan, you made a wrong turn," repeated Shawn slowly. "Turn the car around."
"I can't do that," said Juan in a quiet voice.
Shawn's heart skipped a beat, spidey-sense tingling. There was all kinds of wrong in the tone of the man's voice.
Shawn's hand shot toward the door and he tried to open it, but it was locked. He looked at it, but the unlock button was busted.
How hadn't he noticed that when he got in?
He notices everything.
Heart picking up more speed, Shawn looked at Juan. "Where are you taking me? Who are you?"
"Oh, my name really is Juan!" said Juan quickly. "But, see… I'm in a little trouble here, Shawn Spencer…"
"What kind of trouble?" demanded Shawn, removing his seatbelt, trying to think of the smartest way out. He glanced around the car, yanking on the door again.
"People are looking for me," said Juan, stepping on the gas suddenly. The car lurched forward, throwing Shawn backward.
"Who?" asked Shawn through clenched teeth as pain radiated from his stab wound.
"I lost his money—I didn't think he'd find me—!" exclaimed Juan, looking cautiously behind him. Shawn followed his gaze. The road behind them was clear.
"Stop the car!" yelled Shawn.
"You're a psychic," said Juan quickly. "You can find it, right?"
"Juan, stop the car!" repeated Shawn. Shawn pushed off the backseat and reached for the wheel and pulled it to the left, almost hitting the car passing by.
"I had the money at the taxi station—swear! Maybe it was someone at the station… Maybe they switched the cabs—" continued Juan, yanking the wheel back his way, making Shawn fall forward, narrowly avoiding smacking his head on the dashboard. He grabbed the wheel again, and tried to steady the car.
"You're going to crash it!" yelled Shawn, trying to pry off Juan's hand, but Juan held tight. They came dangerously close to another car beside them, and Shawn threw himself forward, grabbing the wheel and twisting it back to the right. The car blared its horn.
But it was then that Shawn saw something out of the corner of his eye.
And suddenly he was paralyzed, watching the van, black as night, driving straight at them.
He didn't even feel it strike.