Shawn has spent a lot of the less glamorous parts of his life finding people to blame.
Often, during cases, it's Gus.
Blaming Gus is easy; proving Gus is to blame is hard.
Then, there's Henry, whom Shawn stands by is to blame for pretty much everything that goes wrong in his life, and ultimately, the world.
But in this situation, however, Shawn is currently blaming Juan.
Shawn really, really hated that guy right about now.
Because if Juan simply hadn't picked up the phone when Shawn called the cab station, he wouldn't be in this mess.
So, here, tied up, his body and certainly his head thoroughly messed up from a fight with a car that he did not win, unable to get up without knives stabbing through his abdomen, his head, and pretty much everywhere else…
Yeah, Shawn was spending the unwilling ride trying to find someone to blame, and Juan was at the top of the list.
However, he did have other options.
He was torn between choosing these three thugs chauffeuring him—one of whom was next to him in the back of the van, gun aimed vaguely in his direction—because without them thinking he was involved in this whole thing, he wouldn't be here right now, either. They could have dropped him off at the nearest hospital, but nooo.
Then, there was Henry, for being angry with him, because if he wasn't , at least Shawn could have gotten a ride to the airport.
Or he could pin the blame on Gus for being too good of a friend, wanting to talk about Feelings that Shawn didn't want to talk about, and would have absolutely not helped him escape Santa Barbara.
And Shawn even entertained blaming Lassiter. It was Lassiter's wedding where this whole thing went to hell.
The one person who wasn't on the table for blame, however, was Juliet.
Because though it was her rejection that sent him in the direction of the airport, she was the last person he'd assign blame to.
So, after a great deal of fragmented thinking, with little else to do as the van hit pothole after pothole, jarring his brain into flashes of white and caught groans between his teeth, he knew exactly who was to blame for all of this.
He just really hated that it was him.
He was broken in more ways than one at the moment, trapped in a situation he didn't ask for, but absolutely deserved.
The van took a sharp turn, and Shawn felt his back hit the side of the van as he slid into it, his tied hands unable to hold onto anything to keep himself still, and he couldn't help the grunt that escaped him as pain lit up like fire. He breathed hard through his teeth, trying to blink through the pounding in his head.
The brief thought ran through his mind to find a way to escape, but everything in his vision had gone double and blurry, and the two guns aimed in his direction—or was it one?- discouraged the attempt to try to get up. Not that he even thought he could, because the idea of moving at all made him feels sick.
So he laid his head back down on the ground, fighting to stay conscious, unable to think about anything except the one thing that would have prevented all of this .
And, contrary to his previous belief, it had nothing to do with whether or not he gave Juliet his jacket.
The entire Elin case was a blur of shock and a mild concussion, and if he was being honest with himself, a fair bit of denial.
He really, really didn't know how stupid he could have been to think Costanza-ing it would have worked.
He just… panicked.
Even though he and Juliet had been together a while… things had never really gotten…
…real.
He'd never really been… honest with her.
And that really all started with the secret in the first place.
During the Elin case, he just kept reliving it, spiraling down what felt like a twisted daydream during that case, playing over how everything would have been fine if he just hadn't given her his jacket.
But that wasn't the problem, was it?
He blamed himself for getting caught.
But really…
…he should have been blaming himself for not coming clean.
Because the truth of it was that if he had just told her, none of this would have happened.
He wouldn't have had to regret giving her his jacket—and how could he? She'd been cold—he wouldn't have broken her heart, she wouldn't have collaterally broken his, he wouldn't have sought an escape, and he wouldn't be here, broken, hostage, and probably not going to make it out of this alive.
This wasn't Juliet's fault, nor anyone else's. Not even Juan's.
He was here because of his mistakes, and his alone.
(Okay—and maybe Juan's.)
Shawn sighed, honesty raw and heavy.
He was here in this mess because he deserved to be.
Shawn's eyes shut, this time not from the physical pain.
Why didn't he just tell her?
But he knew the answer already.
Because she might leave him.
But if he really loved her, and hell, he did, he should have told her.
God, he hadn't been honest with her about anything.
He was never good at that—opening up, being honest. He knew he hid behind a wall of humor, but that was because it was safe .
It wasn't as if he hadn't wanted to.
All the times she'd been impressed with him after he'd had a vision, seeing the awe in her eyes every time he deduced something like a mortal human being, playing it up for her.
"Oh, my god, I feel so foolish."
She was a detective, her whole life was seeing through lies, hell, her father was a liar, and still he couldn't bring himself to tell her.
He watched Declan come clean to her, but he convinced himself that was different; they'd just met, it wasn't as if he'd lied to her face for years and years and years—
Shawn had been letting Juliet in, little by little, and it had been so painful, watching her being so impressed by other detectives, the vigilante hero-who-was-actually-the-bad-guy—he always imagined what it would be like for her to know the truth about him, that maybe she'd have fallen for him sooner, if she'd known he wasn't just some guy with supernatural powers—
The van hit another pothole, jarring him and Shawn's face screwed up in a grimace, a gasp escaping him as his hands attempted to alleviate the pain that was in too many places at once.
He breathed hard and shallow, feeling as if his physical being was finally representing his emotional.
He should have just told her.
That was the bottom line.
She shouldn't have had to find out; he should have just told her.
His eyes cracked open, staring at the blurry, dirty ceiling of the deadbeat van.
He couldn't let these people kill him; not before he made this right with Juliet.
He may not have told her, he may never win back her trust, or her at all.
But he needed to make it up to her. Somehow.
Even if…
Even if she never takes him back.
"So this was all a lie?"
A thread of determination crept into him.
He needed to get out of this.
For her.
She needs to know the one thing that was never a lie.
She needed to know that he loved her.
The van suddenly took a sharp turn, sending Shawn back into the wall, making pain cut through his ribs once again, snapping his eyes open. His head only pounded more viscously and he desperately tried not to be sick.
"We here, Randall?" came a voice from beside him.
"Yeah."
Shawn blinked his eyes open, his breath shuddering as the sick feeling quelled, but the pain did not. It took him a moment to register that the van had stopped moving. Yet with how much his heart was throbbing painfully in his head, making the world spin, the van could have been hurtling down a highway for all he knew.
Shawn was teetering on the edge of consciousness, the pull to sleep thick and intoxicating.
Damn it, he just wanted to sleep.
Why was he in a van again?
Shawn fought the urge to groan.
Focus.
The Henry-voice in his head snapped the word, and Shawn's eyes opened obediently.
Right.
Focus.
He needed to get out of this.
For Jules.
For Jules.
He needed to focus.
The van rattled with slamming doors and Shawn screwed his eyes shut, tied hands lifting to his head as an attempt to alleviate the shooting pain from the rough movement.
White spots danced at the edge of his vision.
No, no, no—stay awake.
He blinked rapidly, breathing in a sharp breath, trying to clear the haze. It began to recede a little, and he felt a tiny spurt of relief.
Focusing was going to be harder than he thought.
Staying awake was already a chore.
"Leave him here," said the voice Shawn recognized as the leader of the group—who also must be the owner of the name Randall. "Trent, come with me. We're heading into that station."
The cab station.
They were at the cab station.
"If you scream," said Randall to Shawn, "you're dead."
Shawn swallowed hard.
"Not that anyone here would even bother helping you," said Randall with a scoff, slamming the door.
Shawn laid his pounding head back on the ground, shutting his eyes, only wishing help was near.