Shawn's journey to reality was slow.
His awareness crept back to him, as if he were rising from deep underwater.
Sounds were disjointed echoes.
Exhaustion was thick and heavy, threatening to pull him back down the more he rose.
But the more he began to wake, the more he noticed the pain.
It was seemingly everywhere.
At first it was somewhere at the edge of consciousness, a dull throb, an ache with each pulse of his heart.
But the more he woke, the worse it became.
Air was painful—no, breathing was—sharp, hitched, difficult.
Something burned fire in his midsection, hot knives with each uneven breath.
Too disoriented, too buried beneath the aching to find his eyes, he focused on the pain.
Midsection… he's felt this pain before.
Broken ribs.
When did he…?
But a sharp throb at his head accompanied the attempt to think, like a slap of punishment.
The pain seemed to build with the realization of it, and he felt himself cataloging—head, ribs, leg—and nothing short of an inferno in his shoulder.
And why did that pain feel so, terrifyingly familiar?
The sheer amount of pain with zero recollection of where it came from was beginning to feel more worrisome than whatever injuries he had.
The pain and the fear reaching more critical levels, Shawn convinced himself to open his eyes against the murky pull to stay beneath the surface.
Shawn opened his eyes, squinting at the too-bright light, wincing as it sliced pain through his head, forcing him to screw his eyes shut again.
Where…?
When he could again, he cracked his eyes back open, finding a white ceiling.
White… too white.
The air—stale, sterile. Familiar, and not in a good way.
An electronic sound—beeping. Unsteady, gaining speed.
Hospital.
He was in a hospital.
"Shawn? Shawn!"
The sound of something hitting the ground, a chair knocking over in haste.
Shawn's eyes opened.
That was a very familiar voice.
"Gus?" he croaked, wincing as the daylight clashed with the pain in his head.
It took a moment to blink away the pain and the blur in his vision to make out the familiar dark-skinned face leaning over him, a mix of concern and relief in his eyes.
"You're awake!" said Gus with a grin brighter than the sun.
Shawn blinked confusedly at his friend, fighting the exhaustion trying to pull him back under.
"What.. happened?" began Shawn hoarsely, shutting his eyes with another wince.
Gus' face fell.
Shawn swallowed.
Whatever it was, wasn't good.
Like he didn't want to be the one to remind him, Gus hesitated, but said, "Well… you were… kidnapped, from a cab—"
And just like that, it was all crashing back.
I read about you and that Gurton Buster in the—Juan, stop the cab!—I think—Sawyer? Like the guy that painted the fence?—I know—I need—some cop, Lassiter—space—this man, gentlemen, is our golden—
Shawn sucked in a breath, eyes screwing shut as the memories rushed back like water through a broken dam.
"Shawn…?!"
—a motorcycle—you drunk?—go faster—still up there, Dad—the hell were you doing at a sketchy cab station?—I think—doors—I know—stairs—I need—a way out—
His head killed, every memory jarring pain, making him gasp.
"Shawn!"
They kept coming, however, cascading like a disjointed, blurry flipbook.
—a fire escape—pain—more pain—running—falling—nothing—we'll stand together—I'm gonna kill her—he's going to shoot—
Shawn froze.
The memories were only more disjointed, flashes of color and light.
"He's going to shoot!"
Jules.
Jules.
He—he remembered running.
Trees.
Pain.
God, so much pain.
Randall.
The gun.
The parking lot.
A gunshot.
He couldn't remember anything after that.
Oh, god.
He couldn't remember anything after that.
Shawn shot upright, eyes flying open.
Only for fire to erupt in his shoulder.
With a bitten off cry Shawn fell back, hand clutching at his shoulder.
"Shawn—!" began Gus in alarm. His hand flinched toward the call button on the wall, but Shawn grabbed his wrist, terrified, wide eyes on his best friend. "Are you—"
"Jules," he gasped, still desperate to get up, despite the agony slicing through him.
He was going to shoot.
He was going to—
"Jules," he gasped out again, wide, terrified eyes on his best friend. "I—I remember—Jules, she was—he was going to—to—"
"She's okay, Shawn," said Gus, words quick and sure, making Shawn's panic grind to a halt. He froze, barely breathing as Gus repeated, "She's fine." He gave him a reassuring smile. "She's fine, Shawn. Juliet's okay."
Shawn felt the need to rip apart the hospital to find her suddenly begin to ease.
"She is?" he asked breathlessly. "But…" His brows kneaded, wincing as he tried to make sense of the disjointed memory from the parking lot. "I… he… the gun…"
With a bit of discomfort, Gus' eyes clouded and he shifted uncomfortably. "Well, um…" he began hesitantly. "That bullet didn't hit… her."
Shawn barely heaved the sigh of relief at that fact when he realized what Gus was… and wasn't saying.
He slowly followed his best friend's gaze to where his left arm rested in a sling.
Shawn froze.
The hot pain in his shoulder.
Pain he didn't remember having before the parking lot.
The fragmented, blurry memories struggled to rise.
Juliet, on the ground.
Randall, finger on the trigger.
He had to get to her.
He remembered... running...
Shawn's eyes widened, putting the pieces together.
He swallowed.
Hard.
Just that realization seemed to bring on a whole new level of pain in his shoulder.
"I got... shot?" he asked, eyes widening a little.
Gus swallowed hard, and Shawn looked back at him to see that dark concern, that dark fear in his friend's eyes once more.
Shawn caught what he wasn't saying.
It was bad.
He'd been shot.
Again, he realized, remembering the ordeal with Garth Longmore last year.
"But you're gonna be okay, Shawn," said Gus. "Doc says you'll be good as new within a few months." He tried a smile.
"And Jules," said Shawn, needing to hear it again. "She's really okay?"
"She's fine," he repeated, smiling with a sort of sadness, and a sort of pride.
Shawn felt relief wash through him, so strongly it nearly wiped away all of the pain.
Juliet was okay.
She was okay.
And so was he.
The relief that he was finally safe, that he finally didn't have to keep running for his life was a relief of its own.
"How long have I been here?" asked Shawn hoarsely, trying to blink away the exhaustion.
"Almost two days," said Gus. "Your dad's gonna be pissed," he added. "He's been glued to that chair since you got here, and only got up once for a coffee a few minutes ago."
Shawn laughed a little, but stopped when it sliced pain through his ribs. He gasped, fingers fisting in the blanket over them, face screwing up in a wince.
Shit, that hurt.
This place ever heard of painkillers?
"You okay?" asked Gus worriedly.
Shawn opened his eyes, trying to wipe the pain from his features, however futile of an attempt it was. "Yeah," he lied. Shawn felt his tired eyes shift from his best friend to the room. "Is... is Jules... here?" he asked hesitantly.
But when Gus shifted uncomfortably, Shawn felt his heart sink low in his chest, and suddenly something hurt far more than the many fires of his injuries.
"She's... not here right now," said Gus unevenly. "But she was," he said quickly. "She was here last night, when you were admitted. She stayed almost the whole night before she went back to the station to help Lassie with the case," he said, brows kneading, trying a smile, an attempt to reassure him.
Shawn tried his best not to feel the break in his chest.
She wasn't here.
Shawn felt his heart sink a little lower.
"I'm sure she'll come back later," said Gus, sensing Shawn's plummeting hope. "Before she left, she asked me to tell her when you woke up." He reached for his phone. "I'll do it right now! I bet she'll be here within the hour."
Shawn lifted his tired gaze, a little hope jumping back into him.
Just then, the door opened, and Shawn's eyes snapped toward it, heart lurching, hoping it was Juliet.
It wasn't Juliet.
However, Shawn also wasn't disappointed.
"Shawn!" breathed Henry, nearly dropping the coffee in his hand. Gus quickly took it from him as Henry rushed toward the bed.
"Hey, Dad," he said tiredly, unable to help a smile even when it pulled at bruises.
"Hey, kid," said Henry with a smile, a soft look in the older man's eyes, like he could finally relax now that he saw his son awake and all right.
It felt like the final weight was lifted off Shawn's chest. The sheer amount of relief at seeing his father was unexpected, like he finally had every proof he was truly safe, that the nightmare was finally over.
The tiredness he'd been trying fight suddenly became heavier, and Shawn struggled to stay awake.
"Don't fight it, kid," came Henry's quiet voice, the kid gloves laced tight. "You're safe now. Rest, Shawn."
Shawn felt his eyes fall shut, feeling a reassuring hand settle on his uninjured shoulder like an anchor.
Distantly he heard Gus and Henry sitting back in the chairs beside his bed, the sense of protectiveness finally allowing him to let go, sleep taking him back under.
They were here.
Juliet was okay.
He was safe.
He could finally rest.
This has, quite possibly, been the worst honeymoon Lassiter could imagine.
Whatever happened between Spencer and O'Hara at his wedding led to the most eerie and uncomfortable days having to walk the minefield of emotions between them, and because it was Spencer, he had to get himself wrapped up in this ridiculous mess.
Oh, yeah. And manage to get himself shot and nearly killed.
So, Lassiter blamed Spencer for ruining the week following his wedding, and giving him hours more paperwork to do, and for ratcheting up his blood pressure to an unhealthy level the entire day they spent trying to find the psychic.
And if somewhere in the back of his mind, Lassiter knew he was clinging onto the familiar sense of irritation he usually felt with Spencer to keep from feeling what he truly felt.
Because damn it, he couldn't help but admit he felt bad for the kid.
They didn't have the whole story for what happened that day, but they knew enough—and had seen enough of the physical aftermath on the man—to know that for as bad of a week as Lassiter had, it was nothing compared to what Spencer had gone through.
That was what brought him here, walking through the doors to the hospital.
They needed the rest of that story to officially close this case.
Was this a secretly good excuse to scratch the itch of wanting to see proof that Spencer was well and truly alive, after the last glimpse Lassiter had was only a blur of a still chest and mess of blood?
...Perhaps.
And though Lassiter would have sympathy for anyone who had gone through what Spencer did, there was another piece to the story that made his sympathy shift dangerously into empathy.
Destination: Airport.
Whatever happened between him and O'Hara gave him the need to run. And even the kid's attempt at escaping the pain of that breakup only led to more.
He clearly didn't hurt Juliet on purpose, and his devotion to her—if the events of the last few days meant anything—had certainly never been called into question. Whatever happened was something else, something he couldn't help being curious about, but wouldn't dare pry. Yet as much as he'd told Guster he was firmly at O'Hara's side in protecting her need for distance from Spencer, it didn't mean he'd chosen sides.
And as much as he still, all these years later, clung onto denying it, Spencer was someone he cared about.
So when Lassiter got Guster's text this afternoon that Shawn was awake, it was a relief.
Finally making it to Spencer's room, Lassiter walked inside.
Guster looked up as Lassiter walked into the room. "Lassiter?" he asked, surprised, closing his magazine of something Lassiter read to be Safecracker's Monthly.
"Guster," nodded Lassiter, turning to look to the bed.
Sweet justice.
Lassiter hadn't seen Spencer since the parking lot, and even then, it wasn't much more than a glimpse of blood before the paramedics got to him.
Now that he saw him up close, Lassiter was momentarily stunned.
He looked terrible.
His eyes ran over the darkened bruising on Spencer's face, to the faint stitching on his forehead. The kid had definitely taken a punch. His gaze dropped down to Spencer's arm, resting in a navy sling. Spencer's eyes were closed, and he was pale, the only movement from him a slightly uneven pattern of breathing. Lassiter had heard the doctor's list of his injuries the other night; the ones he could see now were only the tip of the iceberg.
He felt himself wince a little, imagining how the hell Spencer must feel.
"Where's Henry?" asked Lassiter curiously, seeing the man's jacket on one of the other chairs.
"Looking for Shawn's doctor," said Guster. "Shawn's... he was in a lot of pain when he woke up," he said unevenly, brows kneading, and Lassiter couldn't help his gaze flicking back to the man in question. He couldn't even imagine. "Mr. Spencer is trying to see if they can up his pain meds. They only gave him the lowest dose because of the head injury."
Lassiter felt a flash of that sympathy rise again.
"What are you doing here?" asked Guster, raising a brow.
"I need his statement." said Lassiter simply, nodding to Spencer. He raised the notepad and file in his hand.
"Can't you do that after he's out of the hospital?" asked Guster, brows kneading, a little protective heat rising in the words.
"I'm doing him a favor," said Lassiter with a sigh. "I only have to make him relive this once, and the sooner I do, the sooner he can forget what happened."
Guster seemed surprised at the sentiment. But then, he looked over Lassiter's shoulder, as if waiting for someone to come in behind him. "Is Juliet coming too?" he asked.
Lassiter shifted his stance.
He had wanted to skip this part of the conversation.
"No." he said simply, hoping the man wouldn't push the issue.
Obviously, it wasn't going to be that easy.
Guster's face fell. "She's not going to visit him?" he asked, with a mix of disbelief and hurt.
Lassiter had point-blank asked O'Hara if she wanted to come to the hospital with him. But she'd just looked back down at whatever she was working on and mumbled something about having to finish it.
"Look, Guster," said Lassiter with a sigh. "I don't know what crap went on between Spencer and O'Hara, and I don't want to. But she's obviously still not over it." Gus sighed and Lassiter lifted his notepad. "Now, do you mind?"
Reluctantly, the younger man got up, giving Spencer what looked like an apologetic look before leaving.
The door clicked shut, and he and Spencer were alone.
Lassiter slowly took more steps toward the bed. The psychic's silence was unnerving. It was a welcome silence, of course, compared to the yammering he usually got from the kid. He took a seat in the chair Guster had vacated. Silence, yes.
But the stillness?
That... was a bit too eerie.
Lassiter sighed, realizing Shawn wasn't just going to wake up on his own. He cleared his throat. "Spencer."
Spencer didn't move.
Lassiter sighed again, and raised his voice a little, though not sharply. "Spencer."
Lassiter had expected him to wake.
He hadn't expected him to flinch.
Even before consciousness found him, Spencer recoiled away from the sound of Lassiter's voice, his eyes snapping open. He sucked in a breath, a very subtle note in the way he did that was almost panicked. He tensed immediately, in a way one would brace before being hit, and from the cringe, it clearly hurt to move so many injured muscles at once. His eyes—a little too dilated still—raced across the room like he'd need to run at a moment's notice.
But when Spencer's cautious eyes found him, a relief passed through them.
And suddenly, his eyes changed again in the matter of a second, a mask slipping over him, hiding everything else as if it was never there, so quickly that Lassiter wondered if it ever had been.
"L'ssie?" said Spencer, slurred with fatigue and perhaps the recovering head injury. Spencer studied him for a moment, rubbing his eyes with the hand he could move. He seemed to wake up a little more, wincing a little as he did, like pain came with it.
And then, a flash in his eyes—and his gaze flicked around the room, and to the door, settling on it for a second's hesitation, like he expected it to move on its own.
When it didn't, the light seemed to fade from his eyes, and Lassiter had no trouble wondering what he'd been looking for.
Or, rather, who.
Unable to deny, now, the sympathy he felt for the man he would never admit was a friend but was perhaps one of his closest, he abandoned his earlier plan to simply start with the questions, and instead asked, "How are you feeling?"
The bedside manner came as a surprise to both of them, but much more so for Spencer.
It actually seemed to distract him from the thoughts in his head as he looked at the door, swiveling his gaze back to Lassiter. He looked at him for a moment, like he thought he'd imagined the man's out-of-character question. But then, sank back a little into the pillows, saying hoarsely, "Like I was hit by a car and shot."
"You look it."
"Thanks."
The exchange, though on the surface a bit bitter on both ends, left them both with a lilt, an almost-smile as they fell back into the familiar pattern.
And something told Lassiter that Spencer appreciated the lack of coddling he was most definitely getting from Guster and his father.
For as different as he had always believed he and Spencer were—and how grateful he'd always been of the fact—he often learned more and more that the annoying happy-go-lucky attitude was a front, and he and Spencer weren't quite as different as he once thought.
Lassiter, with a sigh, decided to dive right in.
"I'm going to need you to recount what happened to you the other day," said Lassiter, clicking his pen. "We need to ID—"
"Yeah, yeah," said Spencer, the tired levity that had been in his eyes fading. And damn, does he always look different when that's gone. "I know how a statement works, Lassie," he muttered. He sat up a little, wincing with a gasp, good hand flying to his shoulder. "Shit," he hissed. But before Lassiter could think to say anything, Spencer muttered, "Let's just get this over with."
For the first time in his life, Lassiter realized he preferred the version of Spencer that annoyed him.
Feeling that rare wash of sympathy for the man, Lassiter acquiesced. "All right, Spencer, tell me everything you remember."
For some reason, his phrasing made a humorless smile tilt Spencer's lips, like something was funny about it, but not in a ha-ha way.
"It's not a very clear picture," said Spencer seriously, laced with a mixture of exhaustion and pain. "I'll do my best, but between all the head-bashing, everything's..." he trailed off, wincing. "A little... out of order," he finished tiredly.
Lassiter couldn't figure out if he meant the order of events, or his mind in general.
Spencer cleared his throat, trying and failing to hide the uneasiness, "Maybe if you start with what you know, it could help fill in the gaps."
"Well," said Lassiter, "I spent five hours with the last kidnapper of yours in an interrogation room—"
"Last?" asked Spencer, brows kneading.
"The other two were killed."
"Killed?" asked Spencer, eyebrows shooting up.
He obviously didn't know anything about the other side of what happened.
"Yeah," said Lassiter slowly, "the last living man of the three who took you. Name was Javier Blitek. Sang like a bird when I told him we had him on the attempted murder charges of your father and Guster—"
"The what?!" exclaimed Spencer, eyes widening, jerking up a few inches, only to hiss, his hand flying to his shoulder.
"Easy, Spencer—" began Lassiter, concern sparking as the man fell back to the pillows, face drawn in a tight grimace, panting harsh breaths through clenched teeth, free hand grasping at the blanket between his ribs and his shoulder like he didn't know how to alleviate both at once.
"Attempted what?" managed Spencer, cracking his eyes back open, the words tiredly yet adamantly hissed between his teeth.
"They're fine," he said, as if it wasn't obvious, but there was that almost unhinged look in Spencer's eyes, and Lassiter sighed.
This meeting wasn't going to be as in-and-out as he'd hoped.
Lassiter—as quickly as he could—relayed everything from his side of the story, beginning with he and Juliet checking out the scene of the accident, to the cab station, and finally to the chase through the woods.
Spencer had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout Lassiter's monologue, attentive, intense eyes on him the whole way through.
"And then you… ran into the parking lot." finished Lassiter, feeling like leaving out the end of that story.
"The money," said Spencer. "Juan said someone took it. Who did?"
"We held this scrawny kid—Hal—in the station all night," said Lassiter. "He turned out to be the nephew of the owner—Ian Halling— of the cab station. When we caught up with Uncle Ian, we eventually got him to admit he'd found the black market money and took it for himself, hiding it in his office where he thought no one would find it." Clicking his pen again, Lassiter said, "Your turn."
With a sigh, and another attempt to adjust his position on the bed, though from Shawn's grimace, there was no adjustment that helped with the pain, Spencer said, "Well, I... called for a cab." He hesitated, as if thinking about his reasoning for doing so, and a sort of darkness clouded his eyes.
What he was thinking about, Lassiter didn't need to guess.
But seeming to mentally shake himself free from it, Spencer's brows kneaded, like thinking was difficult. He finally shut his eyes, and Lassiter didn't think he'd ever seen someone concentrate so hard.
"Cab came," said Spencer. His eyes still shut, he went on, "I realized he was going the wrong way."
Lassiter's brow quirked, following Spencer's words with the quiet scratch of his pen on paper.
"Told him he was," said Spencer, eyes still shut, "and... he said he knew me. From the paper. Said he wanted me to help him with some money he lost."
Lassiter's brow quirked higher.
"He wouldn't let me out," Spencer went on, grimacing still like concentration hurt. "And... realized we were being followed. I got out of my seat, tried to stop him..." His eyes opened, an almost haunted look passing through them. He swallowed. "There was a van."
Lassiter swallowed, too, now realizing why he hadn't been wearing a seatbelt.
With another sigh, he shut his eyes, grimacing only harder as he recounted waking to a parking lot to the three men who'd taken him, who had apparently thought he'd been working with the cab driver.
It was when he'd recounted getting knocked out again that the story became far more... fragmented.
"I... there was... a closet, and... a fire escape," said Spencer, eyes screwed shut, his story only becoming more halting and hard to follow. "They found me in—no." His eyes opened, a wince of pain and confusion. "No, that was... that wasn't real—" What? "—wait, I called my—no... but I... they..." His eyes shut with a slight groan. "I can't remember," slipped out under his breath, but with the tiniest lilt of what sounded like fear.
Lassiter stopped writing, watching him for a moment, wondering why he was being so hard on himself for an understandable lapse in memory.
But it suddenly struck him—
He's heard Spencer sound like this before.
The day of the retirement party—when the group of them were drugged, forced to retrace their steps of that ridiculous case.
"I've never lost control of my faculties in my life," commented Lassiter.
"Me neither," added Woody.
"What about me, fellas?" Spencer's outburst was sharp, startling all of them. "I'm not having any psychic visions, or flashbacks, or recreation flashbacks, or recreation flashbacks with new psychic visions—I mean… imagine you weren't just a bland, gangly average human, huh? I magine that you have a special gift, a sixth sense, and then someone or something comes along and rips it away from you—"
Lassiter had seen Spencer lose control before, and it was during the cases involving Yin and Yang.
But... that day, this was a different kind of losing control.
Something about Shawn Spencer losing his ability to remember something made him panic.
Lassiter didn't know why, and it surely added to the puzzle of figuring him out.
But he found himself saying, "You don't have to remember everything, Spencer."
Spencer opened his eyes, and from the slightly unhinged look in them, that was most definitely not what Spencer thought.
A puzzle to solve another day.
But after a moment, Spencer swallowed, continuing, "I just remember getting out of there... with the fire escape somehow. Then... there was a forest, and I... passed out, I think," he said, brows kneaded again. "And then—"
His eyes opened, and he swallowed a little harder.
This part of the story, Lassiter knew.
But it was from having gathered a statement from the other person who was there.
"...that's when that bastard found you in the forest, O'Hara?"
Juliet, who'd hesitated in the beginning of her stumbled explanation of what happened after they split up in the forest, did so again, an almost haunted look passing through her eyes. " He, um, he found... us," she corrected.
"'Us'?"
"I found Shawn first," she'd said, eyes still red from what looked like tears. "He was unconscious, but I woke him up and I... I tried to help him, but..." Her voice caught. "Carlton, he couldn't even get up. He was in so much pain, and I—" Her voice hitched. "I've never heard anyone sound like that in my life."
Apparently, Juliet had tried to get him out of the forest herself, but couldn't, and the bastard cornered them and took her.
What still, to all of them, didn't make sense, was...
With all those injuries, how the hell did Spencer make it back to that parking lot?
"I... I don't really remember what happened after that."
Lassiter blinked, looking at Spencer, whose eyes were averted.
It was a poor lie, especially for him.
Lassiter, however, didn't press.
He had enough, and he had the information they needed most—for Spencer to identify the names of his kidnappers, and fill in the gaps they hadn't known.
Lassiter unclicked his pen, fixing to stand. "Well, that's all we needed anyway."
He stood, heading for the door.
"Do you know if she's going to...?"
Lassiter paused, turning around, seeing Spencer's hesitant gaze on him, a broken sort of hope in his eyes that already seemed to know it lost the war.
He let his question hang, and Lassiter heard the end of it without needing the words.
Lassiter sighed, something a little weary.
"I don't know," said Lassiter honestly.
Lassiter watched the hope deflate in the younger man's eyes. His gaze fell back to the floor, looking like, despite the laundry list of injuries, the fact that she wasn't here was the sole reason he was miserable.
Unsure of what to say in wake of that, Lassiter turned to leave again.
Until Spencer spoke again, just as hesitantly.
"So... that whole... 'discharging your weapon into me' thing..."
Lassiter paused.
"If you do not treat O'Hara with the respect she deserves, I will discharge my weapon."
"You're saying you'll shoot me."
"Repeatedly."
Ah, yes.
He did say that.
And, as the lie detector he'd been hooked up to had proven, he did mean that.
Then.
It wasn't long after that that Lassiter had already seen the proof that there was nothing Spencer wouldn't do for her.
Only proven, even more so, in that parking lot.
With a humorless flick of a dead grin at his lips, Spencer said quietly, "Someone took care of that for you."
Lassiter's gaze flicked to the bandage over Spencer's shoulder.
"And I took care of him," he said, lifting his brow with a firmness, remembering the split-second satisfaction when his own shot took the man down, seconds after Spencer fell.
For a moment, Spencer looked surprised at the heat in Lassiter's words, the almost protective lilt to them, like he genuinely thought Lassiter would have been glad someone shot him.
Spencer lifted his gaze, meeting Lassiter's. "I didn't mean to hurt her," said Spencer quietly, and Lassiter wondered if the message was given to him, or for him to pass along.
Somehow it felt like both.
"I know," said Lassiter simply, and Spencer's brows lifted a little—in both surprise, and uncertainty. "I didn't have to be a detective to have figured that out, Spencer. Even before you nearly killed yourself to save her."
Spencer, though looking still a little stunned at that, and maybe a little relieved to know that Lassiter wasn't going to try to finish him off here and now, still looked nothing short of miserable.
And not just from the physical pain.
"For what it's worth, Shawn," said Lassiter, and Spencer lifted a cautious, broken gaze to his at Lassiter's rare use of his first name. "I do hope you two work things out."
And based on the look in the younger man's eyes, that certainly made two of them.
Visiting hours were still open for the next short while, but Shawn sent both Gus and his dad home early, pretending to fall asleep again.
Instead, he just wanted to be alone.
He knew they meant well, but they'd been fussing all over him every time he flinched at a sudden noise—damn his newfound paranoia—and when movement caused him pain he couldn't hide.
Pain that has not gotten any better, and if anything, only felt worse.
It was bad enough the other day when he'd been running for his life with the injuries, but he had something then that he didn't have now.
Adrenaline was quite the high, and quite the crash.
Throughout the day, Shawn had slipped in and out of sleep, but every time became more restless than the last, awareness making the pain louder. It also seemed to make the pain worse to know exactly what it was, when a doctor had come in at some point to give him the lowdown on exactly what injuries he'd sustained. Shawn remembered the head injury—hard to forget when it made it impossible to even turn his head without the world still spinning a bit on its axis, and feeling like it was twice as heavy as normal—as well as the broken ribs, which they speculated was from the accident. Every single breath was sharp pain in his midsection.
What Shawn still couldn't remember was how his leg was injured, and apparently needed four stitches and he'd somehow twisted it. He'd wracked his pounding head over it, but his memories were simply too much of a mess to remember which fall that day had caused it.
Apparently his shoulder had been through the wringer, because he'd suffered a hairline fracture and had a hole shot through it.
He remembered the last time he'd been shot; it was hell just healing from that.
He was not looking forward to having to heal from all of this combined.
He sighed.
The pain was just barely dulled by the drugs, which, in his opinion, weren't doing much of anything to help.
Apparently his father had tried to get him a stronger painkiller, but because of the head injury, the request was kindly denied.
Afterward, Gus told him that by the time Henry was done laying them out over it, several nurses looked like they might quit.
It also didn't help that the hospital didn't want to discharge him today, some nonsense about caution regarding both his head injury and gunshot wound, so he had to stay stuck in this place until at least tomorrow night.
Shawn let out a frustrated huff, trying to settle back into the bed, trying to get comfortable. But that was the problem; it was impossible to find a position that didn't put strain on either his shoulder or his ribs.
Shawn gave up, and shut his eyes to the semi-darkness, hating the silence.
Mostly because his memory wouldn't stop trying to fill it.
After relaying his statement to Lassiter, it was only more and more apparent to him how messed up his memory of that day was, for everything that happened in the apartment and the forest felt fragmented, like a broken puzzle; everything out of order, and some pieces just flat out missing.
Not to mention the fact that he still couldn't remember which parts of the apartment were real, and which were a part of the hope-killing dream he'd had at some point that day. Normally he'd have been able to recount his steps down to every last speck of detail in every single door in that building, but with both the fact that his mind seemed to have failed to store half of those memories, the ones he had were also blurry as hell.
God, it felt like his mind was broken.
But that wasn't the only thing.
Out of all the injuries he'd sustained from that day, there was one agony that took the cake, and it was located deep inside his chest.
Because the sun was beginning to set, visiting hours were nearly over, and Juliet still wasn't here.
Shawn shut his eyes.
All day, he couldn't help his gaze wandering back to the door every few minutes, desperately hoping to see it open.
But every single time it did, it was either his father, Gus, or someone from the hospital.
And every single time, it only seemed to break his heart into smaller pieces.
Shawn felt his gaze wander back to the door now, but already knew it was useless.
If she was going to come, she would have already.
A very small voice in the back of his mind reminded him that she had been here, when he'd been admitted. Gus said she stayed all night.
That had to mean something.
It must, right?
She wouldn't have come if she didn't care.
He very, very vaguely, remembered waking to her in the forest.
It was blurry, it was a memory saturated in agony, but he remembered her.
Knelt next to him.
Eyes wide, scared.
Tears.
He'd been nearly out of it entirely when she'd woken him, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't remember more than a few snippets of dialogue between them, but not enough for any of it to make sense.
The only thing he remembered perfectly clear was her face, tears streaked down her cheeks, concern richening the color of her eyes.
Concern for him.
He remembered her trying to help him, a moment blurred with sheer agony, unable to even make it to his feet.
Just imagining her seeing him like that felt so, uncomfortably vulnerable. He'd been pathetically weak.
She'd been terrified.
It felt like she'd been as terrified of losing him as he was her.
That had to mean she still... cared, right?
Of course she cares, a voice in the back of his mind snapped. That's why what you did hurt her so badly.
Shawn shut his eyes again, drawing his good arm over them to block out the fading light from the window.
He kicked himself, for what seemed like the millionth time that week.
The last thing he'd ever wanted to do was hurt Juliet.
He fell in love with her five years ago, and he'd only ever wanted to be the one to protect her from anything that would hurt her.
And he'd failed, in the very worst way.
Juliet was the only one who'd believed him from the beginning. She had undying trust in him.
And he broke it.
He should have just told her.
Of course, he'd considered telling her the truth. But... he couldn't very well just take her to dinner and casually let her know that he's been lying to her for the past five years.
"Hey, Jules, are you enjoying that lasagna? Great! By the way, I'm actually not a psychic."
And what if she'd never found out? Was he seriously going to keep up the psychic charade forever?
He just wanted her back.
His desire to hold her was painful. He wanted her forgiveness so terribly he couldn't think of anything he wouldn't do to get it back.
Shawn's arm fell back to his side and he blinked his eyes open.
He couldn't stay here.
He couldn't lie in this place for another second while his thoughts tortured him.
Making up his mind, Shawn pressed his good hand into the stiff mattress of the bed, pushing himself a few inches off the bed.
The sharp increase in pain was so sudden he didn't expect it.
Shawn clamped his mouth shut to stop the groan of pain that threatened to escape him, not wanting to draw any attention from hospital staff.
Stubbornly, he held himself up, leaning heavily on his good arm, feeling himself tremble, breathing hard and cringing as it made the pain in his ribs dig only sharper.
A flash of green, brown.
Mud, footprints.
He had to get to her.
He had to get—
"Stop," he hissed to himself, to his traitorous mind, trying to shake off the flashes of that night.
Shawn took a breath, then pushed himself up higher.
"God—" the strangled word choked out. But clenching his teeth, he pushed himself up higher.
He had to shut his eyes tight as gravity shifted around, so dizzying he nearly felt sick.
His hand grabbed the bed rail, knuckles white as he held it until he could blink his eyes open, the room settling back down. His balance wasn't as bad as it was the other day, but any quick movement still pitched his sense of balance every wrong way. But as long as he moved slow, he should be all right.
Finally, he was sitting up, arm flexed rigid as he held the rail tight.
He's in a kitchen.
Tied to a chair.
Limp, step—
Shawn groaned, trying to shove the memory away.
He was panting by the time he shifted himself to sit at the edge of the bed, nearly having lost the battle to stay silent when he maneuvered his injured knee over the side of the bed.
Shawn swallowed, too many fires sharpening pain in too many places, his head only pounding harder, his shoulder an inferno.
A sliver of doubt crept into him, realizing that yes, he'd gotten himself through that forest with all these injuries, but that had been without the gunshot wound.
He opened his eyes, tiredly glaring at the wall.
It didn't matter.
No amount of pain was going to keep him here.
Being stuck here was the worst pain of all.
At least if he left, he didn't have to stare at a damn door that was never going to open.
Shawn sat on the edge of the bed, collecting his strength before the inevitable need to stand, and he suddenly felt better than he had in a long time. Freer. He'd been confined to the van, confined to the apartment, and now confined here. The impersonal atmosphere of the hospital was suffocating.
He just wanted out.
He needed out.
With one slow sweep of the room, Shawn located the clothes that Gus brought for him peeking out of the drawer in the nightstand by his bed.
And slowly, cautiously, Shawn pulled himself to his feet.
He winced sharply, quickly grabbing the bed rail to keep himself from falling as his balance swayed. His left arm instinctively moved toward the sharp pinch in his ribs, which only tore at the gunshot wound, and Shawn couldn't help the curse that slipped out through clenched teeth. His weakness was heavy, almost as much as the exhaustion.
He stood still for a moment, breathing hard, blinking his eyes back open, trying to gather what little strength he had. He hissed as he put weight on his injured leg, his good arm releasing the rail to curl around himself as if he could hold his broken pieces together.
Testing out his knee, he gasped as pain shot through it. But he could limp on it, however gingerly, which he tested, a shaky grin at his lips for the fact that he was mobile.
Determination moved him painfully, yet surely, to his clothes.
He was getting out of this place tonight.
Juliet stood in front of the doors to the hospital.
She was hesitating. Stalling, really, if she were being honest with herself.
It was almost nine o'clock at night now, and the sunlight was fading. There weren't many people outside, but visiting hours were almost up, and the last thing Juliet wanted was a dozen strangers asking her why she was frozen solid, standing in front of a hospital.
Gus had called her just after eight in the morning. She'd been sitting at her desk in the station, filling out the last of the paperwork as she and Lassiter finished up the cases Shawn had ended up solving. The day beforehand, she'd been swamped at the station, the interrogations and statements required to close the cases seemed countless. She'd kept her phone next to her in case Gus texted her with an update, but none came.
Not until this morning.
The relief to know he was awake and okay was overwhelming.
After hearing it from Gus, her hand had twitched toward her purse and keys, but... she'd hesitated.
She hasn't talked to Shawn—like, talked to him—since... since a few days ago, when she'd told him... she needed...
Flashes of the wrecked cab, of airport, of blood-soaked seats and of his weary voice over the phone flashed through her mind.
She'd talked to Shawn when she found him in the forest, but... that was different. That was an emergency; their breakup was the last thing on her mind at that point.
But now, with him safe, okay, awake...
She asked for space to collect her thoughts, to process everything so that she could have this conversation with a clear head.
But even before he'd been taken, she knew that the space didn't help anything.
Nothing would help until they talked, but she didn't even know what to say.
She could have left the station the minute Gus gave her the news and visited him. She could have gone with Lassiter, even under the guise of getting Shawn's statement. Easily. So very, very easily.
And yet here she was, her feet teetering on the sidewalk in front of two very simple doors.
She was still upset with him, still confused out of her mind about what their relationship even was at this point, but Shawn just sacrificed his life for her. He went through hell, he suffered, and he was still suffering from it.
Her heart, though still broken, couldn't stand not seeing him.
She was upset with him, she was mad at him, but damn it she loved him.
More than anything, she needed to see the proof that he was okay, and despite it all, she couldn't stand the idea that her distance from him was only hurting him more.
The clock on the hospital sign ticked away another minute of visiting hours, and Juliet sighed audibly, making a decision and pushed through the doors to the hospital. She walked numbly through the lobby and rode the elevator to the second floor—Shawn's floor.
Juliet had just stepped off the elevator when she heard a familiar voice.
"—is that? You just let him walk out?"
Juliet turned the corner, finding herself in the reception area of the second floor. Henry and Gus were with a male doctor about a foot taller than each of them, who looked a bit exasperated. Henry's face was red with a mix of frustration and concern, and Gus looked like the lost kid he seemed in the waiting room two days ago.
Juliet hurried over. "Henry?" she asked, and the three turned to look at her. Her heart picked up, fear building. "What's wrong? Is Shawn okay?" she asked breathlessly.
"Shawn left," said Gus worriedly. "His room is empty!"
"We let him leave," said the doctor quickly, as if trying to make sure Juliet knew he wasn't losing track of patients.
"He was supposed to be discharged tomorrow!" said Henry, glaring at the doctor again.
"Yes, sir," said the doctor, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "But, legally, we can't force any patient to stay here if they don't—"
"So you just let him leave?!"
"We contacted you as a courtesy," said the doctor, wincing at Henry's rage. "Please—"
"He left an hour ago," said Gus to Juliet, cutting off the argument. "He didn't say anything, he's not at Psych—"
"With traumatized patients, some need some time alone," said the doctor in exasperation. "You know, to clear their heads after everything they've gone through."
Clear their heads.
"Oh," said Juliet, revelation dawning on her. The three looked at her, and Juliet cleared her throat. "I think I know where he is."