"Follow me, Jules, just watch what I do."
Shawn swung a leg over his motorcycle, mounting it in the natural movements he'd become so accustomed to. He grasped the handles, revving the engine gently. He looked back at Juliet, standing in her driveway, her arms clasped behind her back, her sneakers digging absentmindedly in the dirt, biting her bottom lip. He almost smiled at her shyness.
She was nervous.
"Ju-les," he said, drawing out her name playfully. "Come on, Jules, you can do it. One foot in front of the other." He took one hand off the handle bars and patted the seat behind him. "Right here. Right behind me. You know you want to."
Shawn watched hesitation flash through Juliet's eyes. She was tempted, he could see it. He didn't need to be psychic to feel it; it was palpable.
It almost felt like watching her ever so slowly fall for him over the years.
"Shawn…" said Juliet, taking a step toward the bike, but still wavering on the edge of her driveway. Seeming to make a snap decision, she waved a hand, shutting her eyes and taking a step back. "I'm sorry, Shawn. I can't ride one of these things, I—"
"Juliet," said Shawn gently, reaching out and taking her arm gently. "I want you to ride with me. Just once. There's… there's something freeing about riding one of these. I want you to know what that's like. That feeling is almost as good as the feeling I get every time I look at you." Shawn watched Juliet melt just the smallest bit at his words and he smiled. He gazed up at her expectantly, giving her his best puppy-eyes. Juliet sighed, tugged her arm from his hand, and grabbed the helmet off the back of the bike.
"That's my girl," said Shawn, grinning, slipping on his own helmet. "Now just put your leg over—yeah, just like that." He waited, looking back as Juliet mounted the bike behind him, sliding up to sit right behind him. He felt her warmth against his back, sending chills down his spine. "Now," said Shawn, "you can put your arms around—"
"I know this part," she said with a grin, slipping her arms around his waist. Those same chills traveled through Shawn's veins. He felt a strong heat pulse through him. Smiling, he put his hands back on the handlebars.
"Hold on tight," he said to her, starting up the engine and kicking back the stand. He felt Juliet's arms tighten around him, making his heart speed up a little at the feeling of her so close. He hit the gas and smoothly pulled away from her house, driving down her street. He felt her press herself into his back, and rest her chin on his shoulder. Shawn turned down the next street, seeing the wind tousle Juliet's hair in the corner of his vision. He felt her tight hold on him relax a little.
He loved his strong detective, but he loved even more when he saw the real her, the girl always hiding beneath the badass exterior. When she let her guard down, just for him.
"Not that scary, is it?" asked Shawn, turning slightly toward her.
"No…" said Juliet after a moment, adjusting her grip on his waist, sliding herself closer to him, her knee brushing against his.
Shawn laughed, heading down a busier street. He gained speed and took the next turn a bit faster than before. He felt Juliet cling to him, her hands shifting, holding him tighter, and her fingers grabbed the front of his shirt. He turned back toward her, a hint of mischief in his eyes. "Are you ready for some real fun?"
Juliet seemed to read his mind. "Shawn—" she warned, but he'd already made the decision. He turned onto the ramp, heading up toward the thruway.
"Shawn!" exclaimed Juliet. He gained more speed, ready to merge into the traffic. The wind caught his shirt and it rippled in the breeze. He felt Juliet's quick heartbeat against his back.
"Trust me, Jules!" he shouted over the sound of the wind.
"I do," he heard her whisper, so close to his ear he felt her lips on his skin. Shawn reached the end of the ramp, and he shifted into the left lane, getting up to speed. He felt the bike vibrating with power beneath him, and Juliet's arms hugging him tightly. Shawn reached speed. Juliet's hair whipped in the wind. The bike glided seamlessly out of the lane to the next, as Shawn weaved through traffic, feeling weightless. He laughed, the pure freedom let loose in his chest. He turned slightly toward Juliet.
"How you doing, Jules?" he shouted.
She put her lips to his ear again, sending tingles down his skin, whispering only two words.
"Go faster."
Shawn laughed, giving the bike more gas, feeling her laughter vibrate through him—
A door slammed shut, jolting Shawn awake.
His eyes shot open.
Only to cringe sharply with a choked groan as pain lit up everywhere.
Jerking had also woken up just about every one of his injuries.
God, his head...
Attempting to open his eyes was a bad idea, because the world was spinning faster than Gus' office chair on a boring day, and Shawn bit back a choked cry as it stabbed somewhere at his temple like someone was actively bludgeoning him.
Panted breaths escaped him, pain spreading like wildfire, and god, just let him pass out again—
But the fact that he was in this much pain was concerning, even more so the fact that he didn't remember why.
He tried to open his eyes again.
Terrible idea.
A curse escaped him, keeping his eyes screwed shut as it felt like the room jerked and spun sideways, realizing vaguely that the curse didn't actually form a word—only a choked grunt. Something was in his mouth, muffling his voice.
A gag?
"Shut up."
Shawn flinched at the sudden voice—and why was the dude yelling?—but the fact that he also wasn't alone was even more concerning than the pain.
Shawn tried to open his eyes again, wincing harshly as daylight from a window blinded him.
A little more with it, he did notice it was, in fact, a gag in his mouth. Some old rag, making breathing even harder.
And damn it, that was not helpful when he felt as sick as he did.
Don't be sick, he thought desperately, taking hollow breaths until the nausea lessened.
It took a few blinks to make sense of his surroundings, though he couldn't manage to clear the blurriness or the spinning.
What he saw first was supposedly the man who'd just told him to shut up.
A dark-skinned man with a museum of tattoos was pacing in front of him, not paying him much mind.
Shawn blinked at him, confusion overwhelming him.
Where the hell was he?
And where was Jules?
He'd just been with her, hadn't he been?
He'd just been—
Understanding struck him like cold water.
Delayed, Shawn realized that was over a year ago.
It had been a dream.
Shawn shut his eyes. It had only been a dream. He'd only been dreaming about the day he went riding with Juliet.
Juliet.
Shawn felt his heart drop deep in his chest as memories staggered back to him, each one more painful than the last.
"Are telling me—"
God, this hurt worse more than any of the injuries.
"—that this was all a lie—?"
Why did his memory have to be so damned vivid?
He'd lost her.
"Shawn, I think... I know I need space."
Sharp pain.
This time, from somewhere deep in his chest.
"Where ya headed?"
"Airport."
His head snapped up.
He really has to stop doing that.
His eyes screwed shut with another involuntary groan at the pain as memories of Juan, the accident, the van, the cab station, and the—
Right.
"You're our golden ticket to getting that money back."
Fantastic.
That would explain the gag and the man pacing in front of him.
He was hostage of three thugs, and his only chance of survival was if the SBPD negotiated with said kidnappers, which is not something cops do.
Shawn sighed shortly against the gag.
If he wanted to get out of this alive, he needed to do it himself.
He was going to have to escape.
He shut his eyes in preparation to think—and god, thinking has never been this hard before.
Slowly, through cracked-open eyes, Shawn attempted to survey his surroundings.
They were moving, and blurry, and Shawn felt the headache only increase the more he tried to make sense of what he was seeing.
Focus.
Focus.
He was in an... apartment?
It took a moment for the blurry square in the corner of the room to click in his head—an old TV set, and a ratty couch across from it. Another doorway for a bedroom was beside him. Looking to his left—
Shit.
His eyes screwed shut, the room spinning ten times faster, his headache tripling.
He bit the gag hard, panting.
God, his head, his head.
After what felt like hours, Shawn felt his sense of gravity stumble back, the spinning slowing and he was finally able open his eyes again, breathing hard from the exertion.
Of moving his head.
How the hell was he supposed to get out of this mess on his own, like this?
Because you owe it to Jules, came a quiet voice in the back of his mind.
His eyes cracked open.
"Trust me, Jules."
"I do."
She'd trusted him.
And he needed her to know she still could.
At the very least, she needed to know he loved her.
He couldn't do that if he was dead.
With newfound determination, Shawn took a shuddering breath, forcing himself to—very slowly—turn his head.
The slower movement still made him cringe, but he'd gone slow enough it didn't make the world spin any faster.
He breathed out in relief, and attempted to focus on what he saw.
Shawn made out a sink, fridge and stove. He was in the kitchen, then. The only light came from the window the man was pacing in front of—the direction Shawn himself was facing. It was bright outside—late afternoon. He hadn't been unconscious for long, then.
Shawn assumed the door was behind him—the door he'd heard slam. Wait… did he hear a door slam? Was that what woke him? He couldn't remember.
God, thinking hurts, he mentally groaned, shutting his eyes again until the sharp throbbing dulled.
The window showed nothing but sky, telling Shawn he was far too high up to think about escaping through the window. That is, if he could even managed to make it to the window.
The idea of escaping suddenly made him wonder if that would even be physically possible.
A little afraid to know, Shawn winced as he looked down at himself.
Delayed, he realized he was not only gagged, but also restrained to a chair. His arms were yanked behind him, wrists bound with something.
He fought with it for a moment, only to stop with a sharp grunt caught behind the gag in his mouth as knives shifted in his midsection.
Right.
Broken ribs.
He breathed hard through the gag, looking back down at himself, his eyes widening.
Blood.
Blood stained the left side of his shirt, all the way down to his jeans in a thin river that looked like it had dripped down steadily.
His chest was bleeding?
But as much as he felt as bruised as someone hit by a bus—or, well, a van—he guessed there were definitely broken bones, but there weren't any stings of open wounds.
It was only when he watched a drop of blood hit his shirt over his chest, adding to the stain already there, that he realized why the left side of his head felt wet.
All this blood came from his head?
Seeing the blood only seemed to make the pain only worse, and he shut his eyes, now all too aware of the blood dripping from where he lost the fight with what must have been the windshield.
Not to mention getting slapped with a gun.
Again.
Shawn let out a breath, shutting his eyes, letting himself rest—since when did thinking require rest afterward?—suddenly feeling even more scared at the sheer effort it took just to think.
When he could open his eyes again, he breathed out.
All right—he needed to figure out what he was working with here. He needed to know what part of his body he could use at the moment.
His head, his ribs, and his left shoulder killed, but testing moving the shoulder, besides his vision flickering at the sharp pain, it didn't feel dislocated.
Breathing hard again, he decided he was much luckier than he could have been, all things considered.
It didn't seem like his legs were injured at all.
That was good.
Because he was going to have to get himself out of this mess, or he wasn't getting out of it at all.
Police don't negotiate with kidnappers.
Shawn fidgeted with his wrists. It felt like tape binding them behind him.
Shawn looked cautiously at the man. He had a name… right? It was lost somewhere in the fragments of Shawn's broken mind.
The man was still pacing, staring at the floor, and every now and then out the window. What happened to his buddies?
Door slam.
They must have just left.
They'd have to get a hell of a lot ready, and quick, if they were going to attempt to trade Shawn for the money and get away clean.
That was good.
Shawn definitely couldn't have taken on all three of them.
But one?
One... was easier than three, at least.
But it was more like… one guy against one half-dead guy.
Not nearly as fair.
Or nearly as possible.
But Shawn didn't exactly have a choice.
He had to try.
Shawn reached with his fingers, trying to find something in reach to cut the tape. He only found his back pocket, but he didn't carry anything sharp with him. The only thing in his back pocket was—
Shawn froze, his fingers stopping at his back pocket.
His phone.
He had his phone.
Hope seared through his veins.
Apparently none of these thugs thought to check him for his phone.
He suddenly remembered shoving it in his pocket after calling for the cab, turning it off so Gus couldn't convince him to stay.
If he could just get free, he'd be able to call for help.
You know, after he took out the man pacing in front of him.
One thing at a time.
Glancing back in front of him, Shawn watched his captor pace.
Right step. Limp. Right step. Limp.
Shawn squinted. The man was limping. That was important… That was important to know. He could deduce something from that.
The attempt to think hurt again, and he huffed with irritation.
Right step.
Limp.
That meant something.
What?
Shawn cursed his concussion for what seemed like the millionth time that day.
But then—
"You were injured."
"They wouldn't let me fight. I gave up everything to fight for this country. We all did."
Shawn blinked. That's right… memories flooded back. Javier said that he and his buddies had been soldiers who'd gotten injured.
Shawn watched the man.
Right step.
Limp.
Right step.
Limp.
The man had hurt his left leg somehow.
Shawn saw it now: the man had a weakness.
That meant...
This man couldn't run.
So if Shawn could find a way to free himself…
This man couldn't chase him.
He also didn't have a gun.
Shawn blinked a few times, trying to clear the haze of his vision. He felt more awake now—more in the moment, yet at the same time felt it wavering, as if it could just slip away.
Escape, remembered Shawn, getting his mind back on track. What was this man's name? It had been mentioned… he remembered it earlier, hadn't he?
Trent.
Right—that was it.
Trent was what the other guy—Trigger Happy Guy—Javier, Shawn remembered—had called him.
Trent and Javier didn't seem like very badass, bad-guy names.
Shawn shook himself.
Focus.
He had to get free.
Free from what?
Shawn nearly growled as his mind slipped again, desperately trying to get it back on track.
Escape.
He needed to escape.
Focus.
He was tied to a chair, his hands tied behind him—right.
Tape.
He struggled with it, feeling the stickiness of the glue.
Tape was easy.
Henry had said something about tape…
But what?
Shawn shut his eyes, wincing as thinking hurt.
"Whenever it comes to zipties," Henry had said years ago, "all you have to rely on is lateral pressure. You lift your arms over your head, then snap the ziptie over your chest."
"What about ropes and stuff?" Shawn remembered asking.
Henry had laughed. "Son, if you get tied up with rope, you better hope you have something sharp lying around or your kidnappers suck at tying knots. You want to hope they'll go with Duct tape. All you have to do is wiggle right out of them."
Shawn's eyes snapped open.
Shawn tugged at the tape, attempting to be subtle enough Trent didn't notice. But the man wasn't paying attention to him.
Good.
The tape was tight. But Shawn had escaped from Duct tape before and he could do it again.
Shawn struggled with the tape, watching Trent stop his pacing to go look out the window.
He was waiting for something.
Shawn yanked harder on the tape with Trent's back turned, barely holding in a cry of pain as he jostled his ribs. His face contorted in pain, and his head throbbed hot and sharp. He bit the gag, clenching his teeth. He could do this. He twisted his wrists.
Trent chose that moment to turn back to Shawn, and Shawn ceased his movements, his breath halting in his chest. His heart hammered. Trent's eyes narrowed.
But then Trent simply looked back out the window, Shawn's struggles apparently having gone unnoticed by him. Shawn let out a heavy, inaudible sigh and tugged at the tape, harder this time.
He could do it.
It took several long minutes of struggling, having to stop twice as Trent turned back toward him, but the tape finally gave away. Shawn sighed in relief, feeling the tape slide off his right wrist. He looked back up at Trent, who had resumed his pacing. Floorboards creaked under the man's weight. Shawn hesitated.
He was free; they hadn't thought to restrain him to the chair any other way. Though, his whole body felt like a restraint at this point.
Shawn mentally shook himself—focus.
How was he supposed to take out Trent?
Well… Shawn considered, watching the man. Trent was injured—though still trained in combat—but he was unarmed. The odds didn't look great. And yet…
What other choice did he have?
Shawn took a breath.
Here goes nothing.
Grasping the side of the chair with his right hand, bracing himself for the pain that would inevitably come from this, Shawn lunged forward, swinging the chair around and, with as much force as he could muster, slammed it into Trent's left side.
Both Shawn and Trent crashed to the floor, Trent howled in pain as the chair struck his bad knee.
Shawn hit the ground hard, crying out through the gag as agony erupted.
SHIT—
His ribs were on fire like he'd dumped salt into an open wound, his shoulder exploding like he'd been shot there again, and his head—
White-hot pain at his temple—he felt sick—sick—a sound almost like a sob escaped his throat—
Something clattered to the ground beside his head and Shawn recoiled involuntarily, vaguely making out what it was.
A knife.
So Trent had been armed after all.
However, the knife was forgotten.
Trent writhed on the floor, clutching his leg, in clear agony.
Get up, get up, get UP—
Shawn pushed himself up, ripping the gag out of his mouth, letting loose a cry as his broken ribs suddenly shifted like Trent had gotten him with a knife.
With a growl that edged on a cry, Shawn got his legs under him, forcing himself up—
—only for the room to suddenly pitch sideways.
Halfway to his feet, Shawn fell into a row of cupboards in the kitchen, knocking over something on the counter and it shattered on the ground.
Shawn groaned, grasping the edge of the counter as gravity betrayed him, threatening to pull him back down. Which way was even down? Everything spun. His head pounded viciously, blood rushing in his ears as his ribs burned, new bruises forming from his collision with the ground and the cupboards—
Move.
Listening to the voice in his head that sounded an awful lot like his father, Shawn pushed himself away and stumbled to the door, just barely catching the frame.
Spinning.
So much spinning—
His eyes screwed shut, god he was so dizzy—
His shoulder ached sharply and his hand flew to it, trying to suppress the pain. He groaned at the unwelcome pressure and immediately let go, grasping the doorframe again, panting shallow breaths that hurt.
He desperately clung on, the only thing keeping him upright, barely noting the blood on his hands, staining the doorframe—
Shawn reached for the doorknob. He nearly missed it, fingers closing around air three times before finding it; things were much closer than they seemed in his confused mind.
Shawn grabbed the handle and yanked it open, hurrying unsteadily into the hallway, hearing an aggravated, pain-filled groan from the injured man behind him.
Shawn shut the door behind him, instantly overcome by more of gravity's betrayal, trying its best to knock him back to the ground. Shawn was suddenly falling against the door, accidentally crashing his head on the hardwood. Something close to a whimper escaped him as he dug his heels into the floor and pushed his weight against the door to keep himself from falling. If he fell now, he would never get himself back to his feet.
Blinking his eyes open again, battling the war of shooting pain in his head and the floor that felt like walking on a boat in a tsunami, Shawn shoved himself away from the door and stumbled a few steps down the hallway, trying to ignore how the very floor seemed to shift beneath him.
Identical doors stood out all around him. He stumbled more steps down the hallway, his sense of balance listing too far to the right.
Doors.
His heart hammered. They all looked the same. Was he actually moving? More doors. Same doors.
His world tilted suddenly, and Shawn threw an arm out before he struck the wall again, barely catching himself.
Phone.
Shawn stopped dead, his heart freezing in his chest. His phone.
He had a phone.
Shawn's abrupt stop seemed too much for his mind to understand, and he crashed into the wall with a yelp.
Keep moving, said a voice in the back of his mind. Shawn pushed himself off the wall, vaguely seeing a set of stairs at the end of the hallway.
As he did, he reached a for his phone, grabbing it from his back pocket, shaking fingers finding the button to turn it back on.
He staggered again into a wall, hesitating there as he watched his phone screen flicker to life, wincing at the too-bright light.
He blinked. The screen was blurry. And bright. Too bright. Shawn cringed. He lifted his phone closer to his eyes trying to see it clearer, angering his head only further, able to make out a few numbers on the keypad.
Without wasting a second, he dialed the first number he thought of.
Henry sighed.
"You're worried about him, too, huh?"
Gus' question tore Henry from where he'd been lost in his thoughts, staring at the road ahead as he drove. Realizing he'd been a few miles per hour under the speed limit, he gave the truck some more gas, traveling up to the speed limit.
"I don't think there was a time I wasn't worried about that kid." said Henry, shaking his head. "The day I tell him I don't want him riding a motorcycle, he goes out and gets that piece of crap he rides now. I tell him his curfew is at eleven and I catch him sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night for sno cones." He looked at Gus incredulously. "Sno cones! I don't even know what place sells sno cones at two o'clock in the morning." Henry shook his head.
"Do you think he'd leave Santa Barbara again?" asked Gus.
"I don't know." said Henry in response to his question. He gave Gus a glance. "I also haven't talked to him much before the past few years," he sighed. "There's a gap in his life that I don't know much about. You'd probably anticipate his moves in a situation like this better than I would."
Gus was about to reply when Henry took another turn, and Gus blinked at their surroundings.
"You missed the turn," said Gus, gesturing to the opposite direction with a jab of his thumb. "Like ten minutes ago."
"I know," said Henry absentmindedly, and instead of turning around, pulled swiftly into a parking space. Gus looked at Henry quizzically.
Henry had driven to the Psych office.
"Uh…" began Gus, but Henry was already out of the car and heading toward the office. Gus unbuckled his seatbelt and got out of the truck. He skipped up the steps. "What are you—?"
"You said you checked here for Shawn?" asked Henry, grabbing the door handle.
"Yeah—" said Gus, "I checked on my way to the SBPD to get our Psych check. Here, I have a key," said Gus, opening the door. "He hadn't answered this phone all day, either."
Henry waited for Gus to open the door, then walked in before Gus. Gus followed him. The lights were off, the daylight offering enough brightness for them to see. Henry walked through the empty reception area, through the doorway.
But it was empty.
The office was quiet. Calm. Two things Henry had never experienced standing in his son's office.
Henry walked to Shawn's desk, surveying it. A notepad on the corner of the desk with a doodle drawn on the page of a cartoon dinosaur stepping on a town, two and a half empty cups of yogurt, a half-drunk bottle of beer, and something sticking out underneath his laptop. Henry picked it up. It was—
"My debit card!" exclaimed Gus, snatching the MasterCard from Henry's fingers. Gus glared from the card to Shawn's desk. "I thought I lost this!"
Henry sat down at Shawn's desk, the swivel chair squeaking softly under his weight. Henry opened Shawn's laptop. The screen flashed to light. The laptop seemed to take a moment to catch up with real time and then a photo materialized on the screen.
"What are you looking for?" asked Gus, safely depositing his card into his wallet. He looked over Henry's shoulder at the photo on the screen.
It was of Shawn and Juliet at Lassiter's wedding.
Henry heard Gus sigh behind him.
"I shouldn't have left him here alone," said Gus quietly, guilt creeping into his tone. "I just had to make up so much time from work because of the wedding and-" He looked around the desk. "I mean, look at this!" he exclaimed, picking up one of the yogurts. "He's gone on a yogurt binge. And it's pineapple. God, he's worse than I thought," said Gus worriedly. "This is intensive comfort food." Gus shook his head, setting the cup back on the desk, looking at the rest of the desk. He gasped. "And beer? Ugh, that combination sounds disgusting." Gus wrinkled his nose.
Unfortunately, there wasn't much here to indicate where Shawn was now.
Henry stood. "Well, let's get your car," he muttered.
Henry and Gus turned to leave, when Henry's cell phone rang. He didn't stop as he pulled it out of his pocket and flipped it open, muttering a greeting distractedly. But he heard a heavy pause on the other line, followed by a single word that made him stop and Gus run into his back.
"Dad."
"Dad," Shawn barely choked out the word in his relief to hear his father's voice. His brows kneaded, however, at how weak his voice sounded. When did it get so hard to breathe?
And when did that wall get so close?
Shawn grunted as he fell into the wall again. Pain nearly made his vision white-out, his eyes screwing shut as he breathed through it. He barely caught himself this time, pressing himself against the wall with bruising force because damn it, he could not fall right now—
"Shawn?" was Henry's curt reply through the phone.
"Unless—" said Shawn, managing to blink his eyes back open. He pressed against the wall, pushing himself toward the staircase with his back against the wood, seeming to find this a better idea than walking. Most of his weight was against the wall now, and Shawn felt a sudden relief that he didn't have to defy gravity anymore. "Unless you have an-another kid," continued Shawn, "then—then I'd hope you—you'd assume I'd be the one to call you—to call you Dad." Somewhere in the back of his mind, Shawn knew he should be concerned with the fact that that simple sentence was enough to make him breathless. He hesitated on the wall, trying to catch his breath through clenched teeth as pain burned steadily through him, barely registering Henry's next words.
"Shawn," came Henry's huff. He was annoyed. That was his I-don't-have-the-patience-for-your-antics-today tone. Which... was Henry's usual tone when speaking to Shawn. Except, of course, when Shawn had gotten shot.
"I can honestly say that, without a doubt, this is the most pain I've ever been in in my life."
Nope—he'd been wrong that day.
This was.
Henry had been much more patient that day, though. Riding with him in the ambulance, even spending an extra ten minutes looking for a pineapple yogurt in the hospital cafeteria. He wasn't usually a fan of those places, but right about now, Shawn would kill for a hospital.
Shawn blinked, stopping his train of thought, realizing Henry had just said something. Shawn swallowed.
"You—you say something?" asked Shawn, refocusing himself. Apartment building. Hallway. Staircase. Right.
He shoved himself again against the wall, grimacing as it only made his ribs and head pound sharper with every movement.
"Shawn," sighed Henry, his tone even more aggravated. "Where the hell are you? Gus has been calling you."
Shawn shut his eyes against the hot knives in his abdomen, stabbing him with every breath, continuing to push himself to the staircase. He was almost there. Maybe a few more feet. Shawn opened his eyes and blinked a few times, trying to rid himself of the blurriness. Maybe it was more than two feet. Or less.
Was the staircase moving?
"I—" said Shawn, breathing hard, realizing he was already out of breath. "I—I don't—don't know," he managed. "I don't know where—where I am." His head pounded sharply, and Shawn nearly dropped the phone in an effort to press the back of his hand hand to his temple in a failing attempt to alleviate the pain. "Do you know—where I am?" asked Shawn, delirium clear in his voice. Why was he delirious again?
"Are you drunk?" demanded Henry.
He wasn't worried. He was still annoyed.
Despite the panic that was driving him, Shawn felt his heart drop a little. Here he was, kidnapped and hurt, and his father was annoyed with him. He didn't even care.
Shawn slipped against the wall, barely catching himself.
"I—I don't know where I am," repeated Shawn, the world spinning faster as he shoved himself further down the hallway, wondering if the stairs were actually getting closer or if he was moving toward them. He couldn't remember.
"Shawn, how much have you had to drink—?"
"Doors," said Shawn suddenly. He passed more identical doors. Shawn gazed at them, shifting himself painfully across the wall. He was slipping again, and he pressed himself harder, breathing hard as he barely caught himself for the second time.
But Shawn froze, suddenly hearing a thud from somewhere not too far from him.
Trent was getting up.
"Doors…? Shawn—"
"I think they're—m-moving," said Shawn suddenly, watching them waver in his messed-up vision. "But—that could easily be the—the concussion talking." What question was he supposed to answer again?
The thought dissolved as Shawn blinked, realizing he made it to the staircase.
Finally.
Shawn felt for the first stair. He couldn't tell if it was there or not. And the last thing he wanted to do was fall down a flight of stairs. He took a shaking breath. Ready to step down, hoping that he was right.
He was.
But he also wasn't ready for the stair to give away underneath his weight.
Shawn's hand lashed out as the rush of falling claimed him, crying out from the shock and the pain even as his free hand grabbed the railing. His heart lodged somewhere in his throat but Shawn didn't fall; he'd caught the rail. Grasping the thing like a drowning man a hand, Shawn fought to balance himself, blinking rapidly, the adrenaline clearing some of the delusion from his mind like he'd been shocked awake.
He was kidnapped.
He was being chased.
He was in the middle of a phone call.
"Dad," gasped Shawn, mentally berating himself. His entire walk down the hallway had been surreal. "Dad, I need—I need help," he gasped out. He started carefully down the staircase, stepping down with a grunt, his vision still blurry and vertigo still trying to drag him down. "Call Lassie. Call Jul—"
Shawn stopped mid-sentence, unable to form her name. Something stung in his chest, and at the same moment, his footing suddenly betrayed him.
His heel missed the next step down, and suddenly he was falling.
His back hit the stairs, pain like an explosion.
Shawn cried out.
He half-slid, half-fell down the rest of the stairs, every reacquaintment to the ground striking lightning through every broken bone, and for the love of god, his HEAD—
Shawn barely registered the wounded cry came from between his clenched teeth as he hit the floor at the bottom hard, ricocheting agony like he'd been hit by the van all over again-
Shawn breathed hard—no, breathing hurt, breathing HURT—
He felt sick-he felt so sick—
He lay on the ground, arms instinctively wrapping around his midsection, gasping breaths that felt like being shot all over again.
God, he hurt so much, it hurt, it HURT—
Some sound like a kicked animal escaped him, his eyes burning as he kept them screwed shut, attempting to get a handle on the pain felt like he'd been lit on fire—
"—AWN?"
The familiar voice cut in through the rushing blood in his ears.
Was that his dad?
Did he become psychic for real all of a sudden?
But no—
The sound wasn't coming from inside his head.
Delayed, Shawn realized his phone was on the floor next to him. He must have dropped it.
He forced his eyes open, finding himself a tangle of limbs at the foot of the staircase, still lying half on the stairs.
"Shit," he breathed, huffing out the curse, trying to free an arm out from underneath him to grab the phone.
With fumbling fingers, it took him four tries to find which of the three phones he saw was the real one.
He picked up the device, his arm shaking like he was hypothermic, trying to drag himself off the rest of the stairs.
"…Da—ad?" croaked Shawn, pressing the phone back to his ear, exhaustion and pain shaping the word. He lifted his eyes, squinting through the blurriness that was worse than ever before.
He was facing another hallway—one that looked exactly like the one he'd just left.
Great.
Shawn suddenly remembered Trent.
Damn it, he needed to move.
That was quite literally the last thing he wanted to do.
Giving him half a second to brace himself, Shawn used his free hand to press into the floor, forcing himself back up. And it only scared him more just how much effort it took to get up.
A broken sound choked out of his throat as his ribs fought the movement in protest, and he faltered, falling into a wall.
But he made it upright, at least to his hands and knees—
That was good.
But with the world spinning this fast, he didn't think he could get back to his feet. He barely had any balance to do this.
"Shawn!" Henry's voice was concerned now.
About time, thought Shawn irritably.
Shawn crawled forward on his hands and knees, grunting as even this hurt, his sense of balance even more unsteady as he held the phone to his ear with his right hand.
Shawn heard Henry repeat himself, louder: "What are you talking about?"
"I—I don't remember all—all of it," managed Shawn, words still shallow and breathless. What were they talking about again? Shawn mentally shook himself. Kidnapped. Right. "They don't s-seem to like me very much," he gasped out. "Though I doubt I should care if my—if my kidnappers like me," he rambled, at the same time his arm gave out beneath him and he fell forward. He grunted, hitting the ground hard.
PainpainpainPAINPAIN—
He laid there for a second, breathing harshly through his teeth, truly very much wanting to weep.
But unless he wanted Trent to catch him, he needed to move.
With a growl, Shawn forced himself back up to his knees, screwing his eyes shut with a low groan as pain and spinning made him list into the wall again. He needed help. He needed to focus. "Th-they said—" managed Shawn with even more delirium, but the train of thought left as quickly as it came. What did they say again?
This time, he groaned from pure frustration.
What information did he need to give his father again?
Right—
"Th-they want to use me as—as ransom—" Shawn forced out, dragging himself along the hallway again, his slow pace utterly pathetic.
"Shawn, please tell me you're kidding." said Henry suddenly, his voice low. "This is another one of your jokes. It's a prank. And if it is, you need to stop it right—"
"It's not a joke!" hissed Shawn through clenched teeth. God, he was getting nowhere on his knees, he needed to stand. But his body was barely even allowing him to do this. He attempted to get his feet under him, trying to lift his body off the ground. Sharp, blinding pain cut into him from his ribs, and another groan caught in his throat, falling back to his knees, breathing harshly.
He felt so heavy. So heavy.
So...
Tired.
Shawn blinked, his eyes feeling ten times harder to open.
"I—I got out of the room," said Shawn, trying his best to keep his eyes open, "but he's not—he's not unconscious, Dad, he's still up there—"
Shawn heard Henry talking to someone. Finally, Shawn had leveled himself back on his hand and knees, but the swimming in his head was overpowering. And the tiredness. When did he get so tired?
Maybe... he could just rest.
For a moment.
He leaned against the wall beside him. It was cold. He pressed his head against the wood, letting it soothe the ache, relief coursing through him like cool water. He knew he shouldn't stay here. He needed to get out.
But the cold felt so good...
"Shawn," interrupted Henry, and Shawn reluctantly opened his eyes. "Gus and I are on our way to the police station. Do not hang up this phone. We're going to get a trace on your call. Run."
Henry wanted him to run?
Damn it, he couldn't even stand anymore.
It took Shawn a moment to reply, feeling the relief from the coldness of the wall turn into even more tiredness. "I can't," he said, blinking heavy again.
Henry was dead silent. It took a moment for him to ask, voice clipped: "Why not?"
Shawn finally gave up on trying to make sense of the blurry moving hallway. "I... can't really... see... straight," whispered Shawn, voice struggling with tiredness, letting his eyes shut.
"Shawn—" Henry's voice was urgent. Shawn almost thought he sounded angry. But what did he do wrong this time? He never intended to get himself into trouble. He didn't want to deal with this. He had enough to deal with.
"Shawn!"
Shawn blinked his eyes open. Henry was calling his name again.
No-wait that wasn't Henry. That was someone else he knew…
"…Gus?" whispered Shawn in confusion.
He hadn't called Gus.
"Yes, Shawn!" said Gus. "Shawn—"
"I called my—my dad," said Shawn absently, rolling his head across the wall, trying to find the coldness again. "Was I—was I talking to you th-the whole time?" he slurred.
"No, I'm with your dad," said Gus quickly. "Shawn—"
"With my—my dad?" asked Shawn, puzzled. "D'you guys hang—hang out often?"
"Shawn," said Gus exasperatedly.
Almost fuzzy.
What was fuzzy?
So distracted by it, Shawn almost missed Gus' next words.
"Please tell me you weren't in a car accident this morning."
Shawn opened his eyes.
Gus definitely sounded fuzzy.
And suddenly, Shawn realized it wasn't Gus that sounded off.
It was the phone connection.
Shawn took a shuddering breath, thinking back to Gus' question, hearing the connection stutter with static.
"No," he told Gus tiredly.
Gus heaved a sigh on the other line.
"It was a cab."
And then the line went dead.