Archive of Our Own

Wednesday, March 3^rd Of 2010 

"I know if anything happened to Gus, I would, uh...I don't know..." (Shawn Spencer, Scary Sherry: Bianca's Toast).

March third of two thousand ten dawned much in the same way every day before it had. The sun rose over the water, the birds sang, and the city of Santa Barbara woke up languidly as coastal cities like it were wont to do. Sunlight crept in through his blinds stretching across the floor as Shawn groaned, rolling over to burrow his head deeper into his pillows and doze lightly for several more hours before he had to drag himself from the comfort of his bed.

It was a Wednesday or, as the more fun people liked to call it, hump day. Also known as the most annoying day for two reasons. One, everyone was running around incessantly saying, “It’s hump day!” like the camel from that commercial that was amusing the first three hundred twenty-six times Shawn saw it and annoying ever since the three hundred twenty-seventh. And, okay, maybe no one really said that anymore but Shawn could still hear the camel loud and clear when he thought about it, which he did every Wednesday because the association was forever branded in his brain. And two, it was directly in the middle of the week, hence the term hump day, and there were just as many days behind Shawn in the week as much as there were days ahead of him.

Not that Shawn worked a nine to five job that required him to actually be out of bed at any given time on any given day including Wednesday, but it was the principle of the thing. Weekends were good, Mondays through Wednesdays were bad, and Thursday was its own kind of sweet and wonderful because it preceded Friday. Shawn followed those principles even if his Mondays and Fridays were generally interchangeable in terms of work and sleeping. There were days he was out of bed by 5:00 am and there were days where he didn’t go to bed until 5:00 am. There were days where he slept most of the daylight hours away not leaving the comfort of his bed until after 3:00 pm and then there were days when he didn’t go to bed at all.

Tuesday March the second wasn’t one of those days, however. He had been in bed by 4:00 am and crawled out of bed under duress around 11:33 am when the sunlight was insistent enough to remind him there was a check waiting at the police department. One of the many things that would make this hump day more pleasurable than most.

Gus didn’t answer his calls as Shawn puttered about and made himself presentable, which, given that it was about noon on a Wednesday, wasn’t all that surprising. So Shawn stopped by his usual smoothie joint on his own to get a pick-me-up pineapple smoothie because nothing made the day’s outlook better than anything pineapplely. He was at the station by 12:26 pm, strolling in with his usual grace and charm much to the annoyance, though Shawn chose to see it as delight, of Lassiter and Jules. In Jules’ case it might actually tread into the lane of delight at times; she at least waved at him and said hello before heading off with a stack of files.

“Go away, Spencer,” Lassiter growled diligently avoiding even looking at Shawn lest he be forced to make eye contact. “We closed a case yesterday. You can’t possibly be back for more.”

“Au contraire, mon cher Lassie, I most definitely could,” Shawn said grinning. “But I’m not here for a case today. Just came to pick up my check.”

Lassiter grunted. “Where’s Thing Two?” he asked, surprising Shawn by actually making an effort at conversation.

“You mean Gus?” Shawn said fishing a bag of M&Ms out of Juliet’s desk as he perched on the edge and popping a few in his mouth. He flashed her an innocent smile as she returned and eyed him suspiciously. “No idea. He hasn't answered any of my calls today. Probably at work.” He paused cocking his head to the side and tried to remember if Gus had said anything yesterday about working at Central Coast. “I mean, I think he still works at Central Coast.”

“We talking about Gus? He still has that job?” Juliet said eyebrows pinched lightly in confusion.

Shawn nodded and swallowed his mouthful of chocolate. “Got it in one. He’s MIA. Or maybe AWOL since he certainly didn’t ask for my permission.”  

Lassiter just sniffed, apparently done pretending to be a real boy as he proceeded to ignore the pseudo-psychic. Shawn let the detective be as he spied Vick finally entering her office. He slid off Jules’ desk as she swatted at him and sauntered into Vick’s office to pick up his check. He managed to remember to get her signature on it and relished in the eye roll he garnered by giving the check a good kiss as he left her office.

“See you later, Jules!” he called as he passed by flashing the junior detective a gracious smile, he did steal her M&Ms after all, and giving Lassiter a solemn nod that probably came off entirely patronizing. "May the odds be in your favor, Sir Lassilot.”

He was all set to leave, he really was, but he couldn’t help overhearing Lassiter on the phone repeating an address. Really, who wouldn’t listen to that baritone? Especially when it was saying such sweet things like how a body was found over in the warehouse district. And what else could he do but come to a complete stop, raise a hand to his head, and say loudly, “I’m sensing a body’s been found!"

Lassiter groaned, hanging his head and dragging his hands over short-cropped hair as he returned his phone to its cradle. “No, Spencer,” he said preemptively, “you cannot come.”

“Oh, come on, Carlton,” Juliet said offering Shawn a soft smile that might not be so kind if she knew he was munching on her hard-earned candy. “Let him tag along. We might need him.”

“We never need him,” Lassiter groused and Shawn arranged his face into the perfect imitation of a puppy pout.

Juliet sighed. “Perhaps,” she conceded and Shawn let his features move from pouting to insulted in a flash. “But you have to admit he sometimes makes our jobs easier.”

“It’s what I strive for, Jules,” he said ignoring Lassiter’s snort of contempt.

“Fine. You can come, but I make no promises of hiring you and Guster,” the head detective said closing up his files. “In fact, I’ll say now that we most definitely won’t.”

“Sweet,” Shawn said tossing a green M&M into the air and catching it in his mouth with a grin. “Gonna call Gus again, see if I can get ahold of him. We’ll meet’cha there.”

“Wait, Shawn!” Juliet called after him as he strolled away. “You don’t know where you’re going!”

Shawn just raised a hand to his head and figured that was answer enough.

As soon as she stepped from the car at the scene Juliet could tell something was off. There was an element to the air, a feeling of unease that blanketed the lot and surrounded warehouses in a subdued sort of quiet found at the most gruesome of crime scenes. Juliet glanced around warily, feeling small and insignificant beneath the towering warehouses and trying to place the origin of her discomfort.

“Carlton,” she started, letting the question trail off after she realized she wasn’t sure what she was trying to ask.

“Yeah, O’Hara,” he replied and it was both an acknowledgment that he heard her and an answer to her unspoken question.

They crossed the lot together in silence heading towards the bustle of activity, and the uneasy sensation roiling in her gut increased tenfold as a grim faced McNab spotted them and headed over, intercepting them before they could reach the body.

“McNab,” Lassiter greeted. “What have we got?”

Buzz didn’t answer right away, which was odd in and of itself, but actually asked a question in return, glancing behind her and Lassiter anxiously. “Shawn’s not with you, is he?”

The fact that McNab asked a question while ignoring one of the detective’s must have shocked Lassiter into answering promptly. “He’s on his way. Why?”

There was a growing suspicion in Juliet’s mind, one she wanted to flee from and hoped earnestly was wrong as McNab stepped aside and gestured for them to follow. They walked the last few yards to the crime scene ducking under the yellow tape and rounding a large red dumpster.

The body was partially concealed behind the dumpster, feet coming into view first and Juliet wanted to ignore how she recognized the bloodstained white Pumas. She railed against everything in her mind up until the point that she saw the face, then railed against it some more, mind blanking over for a few seconds. She heard Lassiter swear beside her, but the roaring in her ears was drowning out pretty much everything else as she took in the scene and helplessly flashed back to Shawn saying Gus wasn’t answering his calls with that subtle hint of apprehension to his words.

And suddenly, glaringly and horrifyingly, the air of the crime scene made total sense in the worst way possible. Because it was one of their own, at least as far as Juliet and the others were concerned, and it was a gruesome scene.

Gus’ eyes were still open, staring sightlessly across the lot, tear tracks cutting through the dirt on his face. A piece of duct tape was pressed over his mouth and his hands were bound behind his back, tape cutting in deep enough to have caused lesions and swollen fingers. He was lying face down on the ground as if he’d been dropped carelessly, head twisted at an improbable angle—broken neck her mind filled in with clinical detachment—and body bent awkwardly with his hips off the ground, most of the weight born by his knees and chest. His clothes were torn and filthy; what remained was covered in mud and blood, the once lavender button up stained and shredded almost beyond recognition.

“O’Hara!” Lassiter snapped from where he was knelt by the body, voice hard and sharp, ringing loudly in Juliet’s ears despite the way he hissed his next words. “Don’t let Spencer see.”

Oh, god.

Juliet tore her gaze away from Gus with determined effort, collecting herself only to lose her breath again as she turned to see Shawn headed their way, tapping insistently at his phone as he crossed the lot. She swallowed roughly moving to intercept him with strides that felt shaky and uncoordinated.

Shawn had told her once, when Gus had been locked in a bank with a man and a gun, that his gift didn’t allow him to see the future. He saw the past, divined people’s thoughts and intentions in the present, read vibrations in the fabric of the cosmos, was sensitive to the micro-patterns of the universe in a way that others couldn’t possibly imagine.

She didn’t want to know what he would see or sense here.

“Jules!” he called sliding his vibrantly green phone in his pocket and there was something in his eyes that hinted to an uncertainty even as he kept talking. “Still nothing from Gus, which is beginning to enter seriously weird territory. Probably ducking my calls again, but I don’t know. I just can’t shake this feeling.” Shawn sniffed seemingly unaware of the impact of his words on her, swiping the cuff of his coat sleeve under his nose—a gesture of anxiety Juliet had noted on more than one occasion—while his keen eyes swept behind her taking in the lot in one smooth glance as Juliet tried to force words out of her throat. He shook himself a little, settling into the Shawn she more readily recognized. “Anyhoo, what have we got here?”

“Shawn,” she finally managed barely able to believe that was her voice, and his gaze snapped back to her in an instant, a serious note of alarm dancing in his eyes.

“Jules?” he said again, gaze sliding from her to the crime scene. Even though Juliet knew he couldn’t see anything from this distance, not with his eyes anyway, an irrational urge to protect him from anything he might glean psychically barreled through her.

“You should come with me,” Juliet insisted taking Shawn by the elbow gently and trying to guide him away even as Shawn continued to stare past her, lips moving silently as his eyes darted back and forth. “It’s best if you’re not here right now, so just wait in the car, please? I promise I’ll explain everything, I will—”

“Jules.”

And, god, she’d never heard Shawn make a sound like that. Plaintive and desperate. She never wanted to hear Shawn sound like that again. She should say something; she knew she should say something, but as many times as she’d found herself in this situation before, except it had never been like this before, words were failing her. And it didn’t matter anyway. Whether Shawn was fully aware or not, Juliet was sure he knew.

Shawn yanked his arm from her grip, forceful enough to knock her off balance, heading towards Lassiter and the others at a swift speed that belied the hesitation she could detect in his steps.

“Shawn,” she cried giving chase, heart thundering hard in her chest and voice hoarse like she’d been screaming for hours. “Shawn!”

She saw Carlton’s head jerk up from where he’d still been kneeling beside Gus, and he was moving to intercept Shawn before he could get too close, long strides carrying the detective towards Shawn quick enough that he was able to keep the psychic from getting fully past the dumpster.

For some reason Juliet didn’t think that mattered either.

“Spencer!” Lassiter barked and it wasn’t a tone Juliet would usually condone using right now, but she was also certain Shawn didn’t hear it. Carlton caught Shawn by the shoulders, spinning him around before he could see much for too long.

From the punched cry Shawn let out, Juliet figured he still saw enough.

Shawn rocketed back, tearing himself from Carlton’s grip even as the older man tried to keep his hold, stumbling just a few steps away before folding over in half. He braced his hands on his knees and for a moment Juliet thought he might vomit. He wouldn’t be the first to react in such a visceral manner and no one would fault him, but it quickly became clear that his problem was simply drawing in air.

“Ah, hell, Spencer,” Lassiter said giving a false start or two before grasping Shawn’s shoulders again and keeping the psychic from falling over while shooting Juliet a hard glare as she finally reached them. Shawn didn’t respond as she called his name, air sounding like it was wheezing in and out of his lungs through a small straw and shoulders trembling noticeably beneath Lassiter’s hands.

“Shawn,” Juliet repeated earnestly crouching to see his face. The pain and frantic fear in his eyes as he briefly met her gaze shook some part of her she usually prided herself for keeping strong. “Shawn, just try and take a deep breath, okay? Nice and easy.”

“I can’t,” Shawn gasped. “Can’t…I can’t…Jules…”

“I know, I know,” Juliet said even though the words felt like a lie because she didn’t know. She couldn’t possibly know what he was feeling. “Just breathe.”

She was vaguely aware of Lassiter moving away again, barking orders at the forensics guys, the only hint of anything amiss being the slight strain in his voice. There was a flash of white and some small part of her settled knowing that Gus was covered, that if Shawn looked over again he wouldn’t have to see Gus like that.

Shawn was still wheezing, knuckles going white as he clutched at his knees and eyes screwed shut. “I can’t…can’t…breathe.”

“I know,” Juliet repeated internally cursing how shaky her voice still sounded. “You’re having a panic attack. Have you ever had one before?”

To her surprise Shawn nodded, nearly falling over with the motion and Juliet shifted to take some of his weight and help lower him to a sitting position. She made sure to keep his back to the crime scene and gently guided his head between his knees. His skin was clammy beneath her fingers and she could feel the tremors wracking through him as he continued to gasp for air.

“You’re hyperventilating, Shawn,” she said trying to keep her tone steady and soothing. “I need you to slow your breathing. You said this isn’t your first attack, right? So, what, what do you usually do?”

Shawn shook his head, almost sounding like he was choking for a moment. “Gus…”

Juliet squeezed her eyes shut, hand reflexively tightening around Shawn’s arm. “I know,” she said.

“No,” Shawn huffed shaking his head. “He…he’s the one…”

Oh. Juliet blinked, eyes traitorously flooding with tears as she realized what Shawn was trying to say. She glanced back over to Lassiter and the others, gaze landing on the white sheet for a long moment before she forced it back to Shawn. “Okay,” she said. “Okay. I want you to breathe with me now. On my count. In with me and out with me, all right?”

Shawn nodded and Juliet took in a deep breath loud enough that Shawn could hear, holding it for a few seconds before releasing it slowly. It took several minutes before Shawn was able to follow her breaths entirely, and she kept them up until she felt the muscles beneath her hands unclench a little and relax. Once he was settled and breathing steadily again Juliet helped him to his feet and put him in the back of a black and white a little unnerved by how compliant Shawn was being.

He didn’t respond when she told him she’d be right back, just stared right ahead. Juliet tried to feel bad about the fact that she was effectively locking him up, but mostly she was worried what Shawn might do if she let him out of her sight so having him safely contained went a long way to settling her. She tried not to think about that as she made her way back to Carlton.

“Spencer?” he asked and Juliet jerked her chin back towards the car, Shawn just visible and unnaturally still as he stared at the seat before him. “O’Hara?”

Juliet swallowed, hearing the unspoken question and taking a moment to steel herself before facing Lassiter and giving him a forceful nod. “I’m good,” she said and if he picked up on the lie he didn’t mention it.

In spite of the frantic level of activity going on at the station it was almost unnervingly silent even by Carlton’s standards. Everyone was tiptoeing around the conference room and the occupant sitting at the table inside. He didn’t think he’d ever seen the pseudo-psychic so still; normally the manchild was a never-ending whirlwind of motion, never holding still for more than a few split seconds at any one time.

Carlton could recall clearly the time Guster had been taken hostage in the bank, how Spencer had tried to run in half-cocked and how, after Carlton and O’Hara had held him back, he’d stood by Carlton’s side all but vibrating out of his own skin with his constant fidgeting.

Now, though, Spencer sat slumped over the conference table, head cradled in one hand while the other rested motionlessly on the tabletop, the epitome of defeatism. Carlton hadn’t realized until this moment how used to Spencer’s constant movement he’d become. Nor had he realized how unnerved a motionless Spencer would make him. If Carlton didn’t know better he’d say Spencer went and died himself and somehow entered the final stage of rigor mortis with how statuesque he was appearing at the moment.

“Lassiter!”

Carlton shook himself from his thoughts at the sound of his name, barked with an amount of authority no one within the station managed except Vick. He wasn’t at all surprised to see the elder Spencer making his way towards him, cutting through the bustling station with ease born of years of experience and single-minded determination.

“Where is he?” Henry demanded and Carlton spent one second allowing that statement to have a double meaning before deciding that, in terms of Guster, Henry already knew the answer.

“Conference room,” Carlton said inclining his head to the still form visible through the windows.

There was a tortured expression on Henry’s face and he took two abortive steps towards his son before turning back and asking, “How bad?”

And once again Carlton considered the two questions in one then answered them both. “It looks like Guster was abducted, beat, then killed. Preliminary cause of death appears to be a broken neck. Spencer hasn’t,” Carlton paused to clear his throat, narrowing his eyes slightly as he studied the fake psychic once more. “He hasn’t said anything since he found out.”

Henry’s expression clouded, brow furrowing, and Carlton would almost say he looked angry if he didn’t look so damn sad at the same time. He resumed his earlier path, stepping right into the conference room as others skittered around. For a moment as Henry opened the door all sound in the station seemed to cease only swelling back once the door eased shut again.

Part of Carlton felt like he shouldn’t watch, knew that whatever was going to take place within the conference room was something of a private matter between father and son, but he didn’t turn away. Instead he watched Henry walk up to Shawn, watched the way his hand clenched on the tabletop, watched as Henry faltered for a moment, one hand falling onto Shawn’s shoulder in an inadequate show of comfort.

He couldn’t hear what Henry said, could just make out the faint motion of his lips as he lowered himself into the chair beside Shawn. For a moment Shawn went rigid, then he crumpled forward, burrowing his head into his arms. Henry just moved his chair closer, one hand running up and down Shawn’s back soothingly.

“Carlton,” O’Hara called coming up beside him with quick purposeful strides. He saw her take in Henry and Shawn in his peripheral vision, expression pulling tight before clearing as she turned to him. “Woody’s done with the autopsy,” she said and he gave her a sharp nod not taking his eyes off the Spencers.

“Okay, tell him I’ll be right down,” he said and O’Hara inclined her head in acknowledgement before heading off but not before looking sadly at Shawn once more.

Carlton watched for a few more seconds after O’Hara left, then tore his gaze away to follow his partner to the morgue. Watching Shawn wouldn't do any good. They had a case to solve and a murderer to catch.

Woody sighed leaning against the table as he stared down at the familiar face. This wasn’t the first time a familiar face had made it to his autopsy table though this had been the hardest. He was finding it hard to keep things compartmentalized and suspected Detective O’Hara was having the same problem. He wasn’t sure about Detective Lassiter but assumed that somewhere deep inside the man was struggling as well even if it hadn’t been as obvious for him as it was for Woody and O’Hara.

“You know, Burton, this is not how I saw you going out of this world,” he commented. “I always thought you were going to slip in the tub. Guess I was mistaken. Perhaps I got you and Shawn mixed up though you are still in possession of your head.”

He heard the door open behind him and glanced over his shoulder before quickly pulling the sheet back up to cover Burton. “Shawn,” he said mildly surprised as he turned around fully, moving to stand between Shawn and the table.

A wan smile stretched across Shawn’s lips, a pale and lacking imitation of the delight that usually resided there. He shuffled uncomfortably, sinking his hands deep into his pockets and seeming about three sizes smaller then he usually appeared. Woody suspected it had to do with feeling like half of a whole at the moment. “Uh, hey, Woody,” he said, voice soft and muted, again so far removed from how he usually sounded.

“What, ah, what brings you down here to the morgue?” Woody asked before internally kicking himself at the narrowed eyed look that received. “Ah, and by that I just mean, uh, I didn’t expect you.”

“I need to see him,” Shawn murmured, no longer looking at Woody and instead staring at the sheet over the table and the body beneath.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Woody said watching Shawn intently as the psychic trailed closer to the table coming to stand next to Woody.

“I need to see him,” Shawn repeated, voice a little harder and insistent.

Woody sighed still questioning the wisdom of such a thing, but obligingly rounded the table and reached out to draw the sheet back exposing Burton’s face. He settled the sheet over Burton’s chest keeping the autopsy cuts covered. With Burton on the table it was harder to tell his neck had been broken and the sheet hid most of the other injuries. Burton had been beat, that was clear from the bruises on his face, but overall it wasn’t terrible. Woody thought the family would probably have a closed casket funeral anyway.

He glanced at Shawn, shocked by the raw expression of grief and tears clinging to the man’s lashes. Hastily he reached out drawing the sheet back up. The motion seemed to break the spell. Shawn blinked looking up to Woody, and for a moment he looked all of five years old.

“They broke his neck?” he asked.

Woody let his mouth hang open as he considered how to answer that with the correct amount of tact. It was something he’d never had to worry about with Shawn before, being tactful. Shawn was just as screwed in the head as him; their weirdness both complemented and reflected the other’s. Somehow, though, Woody was sure this situation was different. He couldn’t just rattle off Guster’s injuries and cause of death like a shopping list with added in puns and jokes. It needed tact. Shawn needed tact.

“Yes,” he settled on finally, “they did.”

Shawn swallowed roughly. “What else?” he rasped and Woody frowned.

“I don’t think—”

“Woody,” Shawn said. “Just tell me. What. Else.”

Woody sighed. Normally he’d show Shawn visually what he was talking about; this time though he left the sheet in place, describing everything as delicately as he could. “Bruising on his knees indicates he was made to kneel on something hard for some time. He was bound with duct tape. Lacerations on his wrists suggest he struggled against his bonds, likely in an attempt to escape or in the course of being beaten. He wasn’t tortured as far as I can figure; more likely the beating was revenge driven. Pointless in how it was delivered, really, with no indication of direction or attempt to elicit the sort of cooperation one would usually go for if the end goal was information. Damage to his shirt and bruising patterns show he may have been beat with an object, likely some sort of pipe or perhaps a crowbar. He has a cervical fracture at the fourth vertebra that caused severe trauma to the spinal cord impairing his breathing and ultimately resulting in asphyxiation.”

Shawn paled slightly through Woody’s explanation, bracing himself against the table though he was careful to only touch metal. He let out a carefully measured breath as Woody finished staring down at the table almost as if he could see through the sheet. “He suffocated?” Shawn asked. Woody presumed the question was mostly rhetorical since the psychic didn’t wait for an answer before saying, “That takes…that takes, like, four minutes, right?”

Again Woody wasn’t sure he really wanted an answer. “Shawn,” the coroner started but Shawn shook his head.

“Don’t, Woody,” he said pausing as if figuring out what to say before simply shaking his head again. “Just don’t.”

It would almost be insulting how long it took Gus to figure it out. He’d seen all the movies, read all the books, he was best friends with Shawn for heaven’s sake. His life’s middle name was strange, so he should have figured it out right off the bat.

But he didn’t. Oh no, he did not figure it out, not until it was staring at him right in the face and practically spelled out for him in sky writing.

It would almost be insulting how long it took Gus to figure it out.

Except he was dead, so that had to count for something. At least in so much as not realizing he was dead at first. Yeah, being dead was an excellent excuse for being dense.

He didn't realize at first. It didn't click, really click, until he followed Shawn down to the morgue and saw his face staring back at him from the autopsy table.

And then all he could hear was Seamus Finnigan's voice saying, "Bit of a nasty shock for him when he found out."

"Not that I don't appreciate this show of, uh, whatever this is," Gus said waving a hand towards Shawn careful to keep his fingers away from anything they could potentially flow through because the whole phasing through solid objects like Kitty Pryde was still freaking him out, "but maybe you should slow down a bit, buddy."

Predictably, because Gus was dead and he was still trying to wrap his poor dead head around that fact, Shawn didn't respond beyond knocking back another shot. Gus was sure that, were this a respectable establishment instead of a backwater hole in the ground, Shawn would have been cut off hours ago. Gus wasn't sure he'd ever seen Shawn quite this drunk. The other man generally shied away from mind-altering substances complaining about how they affected his memory. And since Shawn was more than capable of living life to the fullest without chemical assistance to lower his nonexistent inhibitions, getting drunk or high was never really considered.

To see him now, words slurred and all but collapsed against the bar, was more than a little concerning.

"I can't believe it took me dying to get you completely wasted again," Gus remarked masking worry under irritation even if it was just for himself. Shawn may have an embargo on getting himself drunk, but that rule had never extended to Gus. In fact, getting Gus drunk was one of Shawn's most amusing pastimes, and Gus had long ago stopped keeping track of how many blackmail videos Shawn had of him trying to say the ABCs backwards or singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star while balancing on one foot and intermittently declaring loudly that he was “totally sober.”

Knocking back one more shot, Shawn tossed some bills on the bar then lurched to his feet. The barkeep barely spared him a glance as he stumbled to the door, and Gus sent the man one last scathing glare as he was pulled from the bar after Shawn.

It was one of the first things Gus figured out for certain. He was stuck to Shawn. Where Shawn went, Gus went. Even if he tried to go elsewhere or not follow the fake psychic he was invariably drug along. The closer he was to Shawn the stronger he felt; if he strayed or tried to remain behind whenever Shawn left he felt himself fade away until he was back in that void of nothingness, unaware he wasn't aware until the world bled back into focus, Shawn coming into sharp relief followed by the surroundings. It was a little annoying, but actually not all that different from when he was alive.

"Shawn, where are you going?" he asked, frowning as Shawn stumbled down a dark alley clinging to the brick wall like it was the only thing holding him up. Although Gus was relieved Shawn wasn't driving, staggering around drunk in seedy back alleyways wasn't exactly the safest thing either. “Shawn!”

Perhaps the worst part about being dead, aside from the whole being dead thing in the first place, was the fact that no one could hear him. It didn't matter how much Gus yelled or how much he talked. Shawn wouldn't hear him. No one would.

March twentieth of nineteen ninety-three; it’s a Saturday. It’s also the first time Shawn gets really, really, really drunk. He thinks it might be Spring Break or something, and he sneaks into a college frat party. He goes and drinks, and for a while it’s actually pretty great.

But then his head kind of starts pounding, the room is swimming, and Shawn can’t figure out which way it is to the door let alone how many hats are in the room.

It’s frustrating. Beyond that it’s actually kind of scary. Shawn isn’t used to feeling so off kilter and out of control. It feels like every time he tries to focus on something his brain slithers away and his once perfect recall is a massive mess of colors and random details that make his head hurt. For a little while he finds that freeing high people talk about, but apparently him and being drunk do not get along all that well.

He finds a bathroom to hide in for a bit. Finds himself staring blankly at the mirror hating what he sees and it occurs to him that he might not be a happy drunk. That’s a little disappointing. He wants to be a fun drunk person. He likes fun drunk people. They do stupid shit and say stupid things and, whatever anyone else says, Shawn thinks a person’s adorability points get a boost when they’re drunk. Unless they puke on him. That’s a mood killer.

Eventually he figures out he should call someone. Eventually he decides that someone should be Gus. And after an embarrassing amount of time he eventually recalls Gus’ number. Afterwards he figures out he probably shouldn’t have called the Gusters’ house, but he’s lucky. He’s always lucky, and so it’s Gus who answers.

Also luckily Gus doesn’t hang up right away when Shawn shouts in his ear. He’s a good friend like that. The bestest of friends really.

Shawn makes sure to tell him so when he finally makes it down to the house party Shawn has crashed. Repeatedly.

Gus’ only answer when he does is to sigh dramatically, hoist Shawn’s arm higher around his shoulders, and say, “You’re an idiot, Shawn.”

To which Shawn nods his head sagely. “Yes. I am.”

He thinks Gus kind of frowns at that, craning his head to peer at Shawn while Shawn is just trying to stare at the stars. “What?” he says. “No arguments? I have to get you drunk more often.”

“Why argue when it’s true?” Shawn asks, a little perplexed staring intently at Gus’ ear. For some reason it’s startlingly intriguing. “I am an idiot. You’re a really good friend Gus. Why are you such a good friend to me? You have a beautiful ear.”

Gus bats Shawn’s wandering hand from his ear. “I really can’t say. God knows enough people ask me how I put up with you.”

“I’m a bad friend,” Shawn declares loudly. “A no good, rotten friend. A terrible influence.”

“Shawn, that’s…Shawn, were you eavesdropping on me and my mom?” Gus demands stopping quick enough that Shawn loses his balance. The ground seems to keep moving even as they stop, and Shawn stares intently at his feet. Somebody puked on his shoes at some point. The small bits of half chewed hotdog he can see suggests it may have been him. Ew.

“Shawn!”

Right. Gus is talking to him. “What?”

“Were you eavesdropping on my mom and I?” Gus repeats one hand clenched around Shawn’s elbow. Shawn drops his gaze to stare at Gus’ fingers.

“It’s not eves…evvs…eeaves…it’s not overlistening if you’re supposed to be there,” he protests.

“It’s overhearing, Shawn,” Gus says, a long practiced phrase when it comes to Shawn.

Shawn scoffs. Tries to anyway. It comes out as more of a snort. “I’ve heard it both ways,” he replies, his standard and long practiced answer.

Gus just sighs, drawn out and suffering. “What do you mean you were supposed to be there?”

“We had standing date, remember? To go to the movies,” Shawn reminds him. Odd, because usually it’s Gus who has to do the reminding.

“Yes,” Gus says patiently. “For seven. My mom had that talk with me at six.”

“So I was early for once,” Shawn says tilting his head back so far his neck actually hurts. There are a surprising amount of stars visible in the sky. In some back part of his brain he starts singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, and wonders for a moment what it would be like to launch himself out among the cosmos. He thinks it might be exhilarating up until the point where he would explode. Or would he implode? “Who cares.”

“You do, obviously. Look, Shawn, about my mom,” Gus starts and Shawn pats his arm. It’s a little awkward, but that’s probably because he misses and hits Gus low on the stomach the first two times he tries.

“It’s okay,” he says despondently. “She’s not wrong.”

“Yes, she is,” Gus says.

Shawn eyes him suspiciously, squinting at his friend like it will make it easier to tell if he’s just humoring Shawn. Usually it works and Shawn can read Gus like an open book, but tonight his mind is clouded with alcohol and the ringing chorus of a nursery rhyme. “You never disagree with your mother. It’s actually kind of pathetic. You should at least pretend to disagree once in a while, just to be a healthy teenager. Is that what you’re doing right now?”

“I don’t disagree with her because she’s usually right,” Gus says dragging Shawn’s arm back over his shoulders as they start walking again. “But she’s not right about you.”

Shawn licks his lips, tries to keep a speculative eye on his friend as they walk. Fails because it turns out he needs to keep a speculative eye on his feet to make sure they go where they’re supposed to. So he’s talking mostly to his own shoes when he says, “You think she’s wrong about me?”

“Yes, Shawn, I do.”

“Because I’m your bestest friend?” Shawn asks and Gus chuckles beside him.

“You know that’s right.”

“Christ, kid,” Henry said at the sight that greeted him. He had low standards for finding Shawn in his front yard, and yet somehow this clocked in at well under all of them. Shawn blinked up at him, bleary eyed and leaning against the railing for support. His clothes were disheveled and it looked like he was wearing the same thing Henry had seen him in yesterday before Shawn had sent Henry home citing a need to be alone.

The wind blew over the two of them gently carrying with it the pungent aroma of alcohol that actually made Henry wrinkle his nose a bit. He cast a quick glance over the driveway looking for Shawn's bike. “Are you drunk? Did you drive here?”

“I can’t get it outta my head, Dad,” Shawn said words only slightly slurred, either completely missing or ignoring Henry’s questions. He wasn’t looking at Henry, staring instead off over the yard though Henry got the sense he wasn’t really seeing the grass and trees. “I can’t get it out.”

“Shawn.” Henry shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose as he blew out a long and careful breath. It was far too late, or perhaps early, to be dealing with this. "Come on inside. You’re staying here a bit.”

Shawn wavered on his feet, adamantly shaking his head back and forth. He pressed a hand to his forehead, reminiscent of the tell he'd developed as a teenager when he'd been prone to migraines. “Nope. Need more. Somethin’ stronger.”

“Bud, you absolutely don’t need anything else to drink,” Henry said descending the stairs and reaching out to take his son’s arm. Shawn stumbled as Henry tugged, tripping over his own goddamn feet and having to clutch at Henry’s arm to avoid faceplanting into the porch, thrown completely off balance from even such a slight pull. “Yeah, you’re definitely cut off.”

“No,” Shawn stubbornly repeated shoving halfheartedly. “I need more.”

“No, you don’t,” Henry said, dragging the kid up the stairs and into the house. He dumped Shawn on the couch ignoring his plaintive requests for more alcohol and bringing him a glass of water instead. “Here, drink this.”

Shawn eyed the glass critically then glared up at Henry. “This is water.”

Always the astute one, his boy.

“Yes, it is,” Henry said crossing his arm and adopting his Do It Or Else tone. “You look like you drank your body weight in booze, so now you’re gonna drink some water.”

Shawn glowered at him then considered the water again. For a moment Henry thought the boy would actually listen to him, but the next thing he knew the water glass was sailing across the room and shattering against the far wall. Shawn stumbled up from the couch almost falling when Henry grabbed his arm.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Somewhere else,” Shawn growled. “Preferably with more alcohol.”

Henry scoffed. “Over my dead body, you’re drunk enough,” he snapped. It wasn’t until the words were out of his mouth that he really thought about them. Shawn froze, going utterly still in his grip. “Ah, hell, Shawn. I didn’t mean—”

“It won’t go away,” Shawn whispered, softly enough that Henry almost didn’t hear.

Ice dripped down Henry’s spine and he shifted so he could meet Shawn’s gaze a little easier. Surprisingly Shawn didn’t look away, but Henry wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. There was a look in his eyes, one Henry recognized from cops on the force that had seen the worst of the worst. One he recognized from the mirror. “What won’t go away?” he asked, tone gentler than he’d ever used with Shawn before.

“No matter how much I drink. No matter what I do,” Shawn said, barely above a whisper. “It won’t go away. I just keep seeing it. I keep seeing him.”

“Shawn.” There was a lump in his throat, one that squashed down any other words that tried to surface.

Shawn closed his eyes, shaking his head back and forth. “I just want it to stop. Just make it stop, please,” he pleaded. “I don’t want to see him anymore. I don’t want to remember.”

Carlton dug his fingertips a little deeper into his eyes, hoping to alleviate even a little bit of the pounding headache that had taken up residence at the forefront of his brain. It was a pulsating, stabbing pain that increased tenfold with the shrill ring of his cellphone from where it rested next to his elbow on his desk. He scowled, but reflexively snatched it up and flipped it open.

“Which one of you idiots let him see the crime scene?” Henry demanded before Carlton could get out his standard greeting. He didn’t need to ask Henry to clarify who they were talking about.

He took a moment to gather his wits about himself then responded tersely. “We didn’t let him see anything, Mr. Spencer. He saw it for barely a second.”

“That’s long enough,” Henry snapped, sharp tone undoing any progress Carlton had managed on the headache. “What about the body? Did he see the body?”

“At the crime scene?” Carlton asked frowning as he rubbed at his temple. Half of him wanted to just hang up on the elder Spencer, he wasn’t obligated to deal with this sort of fall out, but another smaller part overruled the decision. “Of course, but again, it was only for a few—”

“No,” Henry said interrupting him. “I mean later. At the morgue.”

“No, we didn’t let him come to the autopsy report,” Carlton said after a moment of contemplation and his stomach soured at the thought. His headache receded a little as he recalled Guster’s autopsy. He and O’Hara had seen Woody themselves making sure Spencer wasn’t with them. Carlton was glad they had; Guster’s autopsy was more distressing than he’d thought it would have been.

Henry didn’t say anything, and the silence was almost deafening. Carlton sighed, letting his eyes fall shut, and pinching the bridge of his nose. Hard. “How…how is Shawn?” he forced himself to ask, the words falling thick and foreign from his tongue.

“He’s…” Henry cleared his throat gruffly. “He showed up on my porch about four this morning. Drunk as a skunk.”

Carlton furrowed his brow deeply. Spencer didn’t strike him as the kind to drink his problems away, but this was hardly a situation in which a person could be expected to act normally. “He didn’t drive there did he?”

“No,” Henry said dryly. “Looks like he walked.”

And that, Carlton decided, sounded exactly like Shawn.

He didn’t remember dying.

Didn’t remember who killed him or the beating. Didn’t remember being scared or in pain. Didn’t remember praying for rescue or trying to dredge up any will to live. Didn’t remember having his neck broken and suffocating for minutes. He didn’t remember anything from that day beyond the phone call to his mother that morning.

A part of him thought that should bother him—Gus was the sort of person who freaked out over minor injury let alone something as severe and permanent as death—but it didn’t.

It seemed to be a moot point now, and another part of him was actually grateful that the last horrific hours of his life were not seared in his brain. That same part hoped he never remembered, wanted to let it remain a blank spot for the rest of his existence.

The first thing he remembered from after his death was Shawn. Sitting still and subdued at the table in the conference room. In hindsight there were so many glaring signs, but he’d missed all of them. It had seemed normal then to sit in silence with Shawn, totally disconnected in every meaning of the word but not getting it.

Shawn hadn’t said anything, and Gus hadn’t said anything mindful of the raw distress his best friend was exhibiting. Sometimes when Shawn was pushed to his limits he needed some time to decompress, needed silence over words, needed a solid physical presence over superficial platitudes.

So they sat in silence and when Shawn wordlessly pushed himself to his feet and left the room Gus simply followed. And they went to the morgue. And Woody pulled back the sheet. And Gus had stared uncomprehendingly at his own face upon the table.

He didn’t remember dying.

“I’m fine,” Shawn said forcing an insincere smile.

Gus snorted, crossing his arms. “That’s a bold-faced lie,” he said blandly. The detectives couldn't hear him, but they seemed to echo the sentiment.

Shawn sighed scrubbing his hands over his face and turning towards Lassiter's desk. “Just…just tell me everything you guys know.”

Juliet glanced at Lassiter, clearly deliberating on whether or not they should tell Shawn anything. Gus himself was on the No train; Lassiter seemed to be on the same train.

“Spencer, the worst possible thing you can do right now is get involved with this case. Let it to the police.”

Shawn side-eyed him. “Somebody murdered my best friend. Abducted him, beat him, broke his neck so that he suffocated to death,” he said with blank evenness, oblivious it seemed, to the detectives’ reactions. “I am going to work this case, whether you want me to or not. Now I can do that with you or I can do it on my own. It’s your choice, Lassie.”

For a moment Gus thought Lassiter might cave, might give into Shawn’s ultimatum, but instead the detective sighed and said, “Go home, Spencer. And don’t get involved. If you do, I'll arrest you for obstruction of justice."

Shawn scowled, eyes flashing dangerously. Like he hadn’t expected that answer. “Seriously?”

Juliet placed a calming hand on his arm, a brief look of hurt flashing across her features as Shawn jerked away. “Shawn, you’re too emotionally invested in this—”

“They killed Gus! Of course I’m invested!” Shawn shouted stunning Juliet into silence. Even Lassiter seemed taken aback. A lull fell over the station, every cop turning at the sound of Shawn’s raised voice. Juliet swallowed, looking dangerously close to tears; Lassiter looked legitimately shocked. Shawn breathed heavily a moment into the stunned silence, glaring at everyone before stalking away. As he passed Lassiter’s desk he swept all the files from the desk to the floor, flinging them across the station in a whirlwind of loose paper.

“Shawn!” Gus yelled the same time Lassiter squawked, “Spencer!”

Shawn didn’t reply to either one, just continued on his way out of the station in spite of Lassiter sputtering behind him. Gus followed helplessly, glancing over his shoulder at the detectives.

“Have you lost your damn mind?” he hissed as they left the station. Once out of sight from the detectives Shawn slowed to a more reasonable and less angry pace, settling into himself in a way that let Gus know immediately the display had been nothing more than show. He drifted in front of Shawn, inspecting his friend’s face closely. “What did you do?” he asked warily.

Shawn glanced over his shoulder, quickly walking another block from the station before ducking into an alleyway and drawing a file from beneath his coat.

“Oh no,” Gus said throwing his hands in the air. “Shawn, tell me you didn’t steal my goddamn file. Lassie is gonna know it was you!”

His best friend just flipped through the papers, oblivious to any and all words Gus sent his way. Gus harrumphed then brought himself closer to peer at the file over Shawn’s shoulder. He might as well; after all it was about his murder and he was dead so the rules no longer applied.

There wasn’t much, Gus could tell that right away. Reports from the crime scene, photographs Gus barely looked at—even Shawn flipped by those rather quickly giving each one just a quick glance—because it was weird seeing pictures of your dead body, the autopsy report, the witness list which at the moment was comprised of the two people who’d found him and his mother, a persons of interest list with no defined suspect as of yet, and Lassiter’s hand written notes from the scene. Shawn scanned those with a more careful eye.

“Does that say two other body’s were found near mine?” Gus asked squinting at one line of Lassiter’s cramped penmanship. An older man and teenage boy, preliminary ruling a mugging gone wrong. “And they were killed around the same time? That’s fishy.”

Judging from the expression on Shawn’s face, he thought so too.

“Shawn,” Gus hisses knocking his elbow into Shawn’s side. “Have you lost your damn mind?”

“I will not be silenced!” Shawn shouts ignoring Gus for the moment. “Andy Warhol will not be silenced!”

“Her name was Angie Williams,” Gus snaps.

“Irregardless,” Shawn continues loudly, “she says it was a foul play. A foul play indeed!”

“It’s just regardless, Shawn,” Gus says reflexively. Shawn smoothly ignores him and the elbow to his kidney once more.

Lassie sighs heavily, more than used to Shawn’s shenanigans by now. He’ll have to step it up in the future to keep getting a good reaction. “Spencer, Guster is right. You’re out of your mind.”

“I am not!” Shawn protests placing a finger to his temple. He gasps, stumbling to the right with one hand pressed to his forehead. “Goodness, Angie, keep it down. I can’t hear anything over your yelling.”

He flails a little more knocking into the desk of the man they had just tried questioning. Slimy bastard, that one. Deflected all their questions without seeming to and most definitely guilty not that Lassie and Jules seem to think so. Shawn just needs some proof. He pats the desktop, locating the small envelop he’d spotted earlier and tucks it in his back pocket as he continues shouting for Angie to stop making such a racket. Lassiter is full on rolling his eyes now, Juliet is starting to look a little peeved, and even Gus has that annoyed crinkle growing between his eyes. Clearly what Shawn is doing is working.

As soon as Lassie and Jules leave the room ahead of him and Gus, Shawn drops his hand from his temple and furrows his brows drawing the envelop from his pocket. He opens it quickly, eyes darting over the damning contents as a slow smile stretches over his lips.

Gus halts beside him, expression clearing a bit of annoyance as he asks, “What’s that?”

Shawn flips the letter around raising his brows ever so slightly. “This, my dear Guston, is evidence of murder.”

None of this made any sense. The notes and crime scene photographs were swimming through his head, running on constant repeat in circles after circles and he still couldn’t make sense of anything.

Shawn poured himself another shot, alcohol sloshing over the edge of the glass and coating his fingers. He downed it scowling at the papers before him. “Doesn’t make any sense,” he muttered. “I’m missing somethin’. Missing part of the puzzle.”

The words on the pages blurred together, swirling until the letters settled into new words. New sentences.

This is all your fault.

Loser.

Can’t even solve your best friend’s murder?

And you call yourself a detective?

You’re nothing but a failure.

Shawn flung the papers away something hot and scorching curling in his chest as the pages fluttered innocuously through the air. He clenched his teeth snatching up the shot glass and hurling it against the wall. It shattered satisfyingly but did nothing to quell the emotions swelling through him. Shawn growled, throwing the bottle into the wall after the glass with enough force that it dented the drywall and broke on impact. Even before the pieces were completely to the floor he had swept all the contents of the coffee table to the floor, then shoved it away moving on to the end table, and after that the bookcase. He continued yelling, trying to force out every awful feeling in him with every object he broke.

Shawn!

The faint shout of his name echoed through the room but he paid it no heed, far more focused on destroying ever inch of his apartment. On getting this feeling of suffocating claustrophobia to ease up enough that he could breathe.

He didn’t stop once he’d cleaned off every flat surface and shelf. He tore clothes from his hangers, the cushions from the couch, knocked the television to the floor with an unearthly racket, yanked the phone cord from the wall, punctuating everything with shouts and yells until his chest was heaving and his throat was sore

Once he’d destroyed pretty much everything in his apartment, he paused in the center of the room taking deep, gulping breaths that shuddered through him agonizingly.

He was trembling from head to foot, shaking, vibrating with a terrible thrum of energy. But he didn’t feel any better.

“Oh my god!” Juliet said no trace of tact in her tone, obviously too surprised to cover it well. She tried to recover though so Gus had to give her some credit even if her wide eyes still spelled out shock. “Uh, I just, hi, Shawn. I didn’t…I didn’t expect to see you today.”

“I need you to run a name for me,” Shawn said blatantly ignoring Juliet’s discomfort and Gus winced at the sound of his voice. Haggard and rough like that time they’d spent the evening shouting at a Billy Lipps concert. The reason for it this time, however, was nowhere near as glamorous.

Juliet frowned, clearly thrown at Shawn’s abrupt request and probably his total lack of humor or flattery. “Uh, I don’t know, Shawn,” she started. “I really shouldn’t—”

“Anthony Johnson,” Shawn interrupted shoving a piece of crumpled paper at her. “Just…just tell me everything you can find.”

“Shawn, I really don’t know about this,” Juliet protested looking more than a little unsettled.

“Please,” Shawn said, brows drawn, shoulders slumped, and eyes so damn big. “Just…Jules, please.”

Gus sighed as Juliet worried at her lower lip glancing between the piece of paper and Shawn. It was a done deal now though, Gus knew. There was no resisting Shawn when he looked like that. Gus should know.

“Please.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“No, Shawn.”

Shawn whines, pushing his bottom lip out for maximum poutage and blinks, purposefully keeping his eyes wide in a way he knows makes him look like a sad puppy dog, as he stares down at Gus. “Pretty please?”

Gus sighs and says, “No,” while carefully keeping his eyes averted. They both know if he looks at Shawn for so much as two seconds he’ll cave. Shawn just needs to get him to look.

“Guuusss, puhlease.”

“No,” Gus repeats turning away and raising a magazine to hide his face

“Pretty, pretty please,” Shawn says sliding forward and pulling the magazine down, catching Gus by surprise and springing the entire power of the Shawn Puppy Pout on him. “With a cherry on top?”

Gus wavers, resolve crumbling with each second Shawn stares at him, and then he’s sighing again, dropping the magazine to the floor as a small smile tugs on the corners of his lips. “Fine,” he says trying and failing to hold on to his annoyed tone. “We’ll go.”

“Spencer,” Carlton barked, shocked and a little worried to see Shawn standing by his desk and flipping rapidly through a file. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Juliet looked up a name for me,” Spencer said dully, all trace of mirth and energy gone from his voice. It left him feeling oddly vacant which left Carlton feeling off kilter in the worst of ways. “This is everything she found.”

Biting back the obvious remark that O’Hara never should have done such a thing, Carlton sidled around to peer at the file himself noting the unfamiliar name. “Who is Anthony Johnson?”

Spencer huffed, air rushing out irately. “Nobody,” he spit finally showing some emotion as volatile as it seemed. He flipped the file shut and flung it away before digging his fingers into his eyes. Carlton watched the papers flutter to the floor, drifting through the air gently in spite of the near palpable tension, then looked back to Spencer’s exhausted form. “He’s nobody,” Spencer repeated back to sounding hopeless. “A ghost. An alias maybe. I don’t know. There’s something I’m missing.”

Carlton swallowed, weighing his next words. “Where’d you get the name?” He was expecting some asinine reason. Something like, “The wind whispered it in my ear.” Or maybe, “The spirits shouted it from the mountain tops.”

“Chad Rielly,” was the last thing he expected to come from Spencer’s mouth.

“Chad Rie…the criminal informant?” Carlton asked, words ticking up in surprise.

Spencer’s lips thinned into a hard line. “He heard the name through the grapevine in connection to a couple of murders. Including…including Gus.”

“Jesus, Spencer, what are you doing? Running around talking to these people without any backup. Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

Spencer stilled even more though Carlton hadn’t realized that was possible, shifting his glare from somewhere off in the distance to Carlton instead. It chilled the detective though he wouldn’t admit it; seeing that amount of distain and anger splayed across Spencer’s normally cheerful features was tantamount to disturbing.

“I’m trying to solve this case,” Spencer said eventually already storming off even as he spat, “I mean, since you guys obviously aren’t.”

Gus would admit to being frightened when Shawn pulled up in front of the Psych office, parking haphazardly out front and tearing the helmet off his head as he stalked inside. He halted just over the threshold staring impassively around the room for a moment. Gus stood before Shawn, heart clenching at the way Shawn just stared right through him, and waited with baited breath, able to feel the roiling mess of emotions in the undercurrent of the air.

Much like the other day the explosion was abrupt. One second Shawn was standing stock still, the next he wound his arm back and threw his helmet across the room, careening into Shawn’s desk and knocking most of things on it to the floor. He gave the office the same treatment as his apartment, tearing through the room like a hurricane and destroying everything in his wake. Gus didn’t have the heart to protest the destruction of his desk, just watched in silence and flinched when a picture frame careened through him, shattering as it hit the wall and fell to the floor. Gus stared down at it sadly, the cheek-to-cheek picture of him and Shawn smiling back up at him.

It pained Gus to see Shawn like this, torn apart and angry beyond anything Gus had seen before. He’d seen Shawn mad, seen him angry, seen him torn apart by grief and furious at his own inability to deal with it. But this was a whole other level, and Gus felt his own throat close and tears threaten because as much as he wanted to help Shawn he was stuck here, unseen and unheard by everyone.

Shawn shoved the desk away with a yell of frustration pulling on his hair before spinning around and slamming his fist into the wall. Gus gaped as Shawn punched the wall again and again and again and again. Like the wall was responsible for every bit of hurt he was feeling. Something hot and heavy clenched around Gus’ throat, and every part of him wanted to reach out and pull Shawn away.

There was a smear on the wall, blood red and dripping on the white paint, and it twisted Gus’ nonexistent stomach. “Shawn!” he cried. “Shawn, stop it!”

Shawn jerked then collapsed in on himself. Sliding down the wall until he was curled against it, knees tucked up to his chest and hands dangling free as he rested his head against his forearms. Gus knelt beside him tentatively just remembering to not physically reach out.

“Look at your hand, man,” he whispered instead. Shawn’s hand was mangled, knuckles bruised and bleeding, skin torn where the wall had bit into it. Gus wouldn’t put it past Shawn to have broken a few fingers too.

Shawn curled into himself tighter flexing his hand into a fist with a hiss of pain that was mostly lost among the muffled sobs minutely shaking his shoulders. Gus licked his lips, leaning back against the wall and blinking away his own tears as he stared up at the ceiling.

It was the worst kind of feeling to sit uselessly by while someone grieved his death, and Gus didn’t think he ever wanted something as much as he wanted to be able to talk with Shawn right then.

“And it’s not like they can really hide anything from me,” Shawn seethes pacing back and forth with enough vigor to maybe actually wear a path in Gus’ carpet. “I see and hear everything. Exactly what do they think they’re hiding by dancing around the truth? Like I don’t know they’re fighting? What’s the point in fucking denying it? All the signs are there. It’s not hard to pick up on, especially since half the time the thing they’re fighting over is me.”

Gus nods sympathetically from the bed but he doesn’t say anything. Shawn kind of wishes he would, feels a bit like he’s watching from the sidelines of his own body as he paces and paces and paces, heart hammering away in his chest and air rushing in and out maddeningly from his lungs.

“I mean, it’s not like I can’t tell,” he continues feeling a little lightheaded but he keeps on pacing and pacing. “I just wish that for once they’d actually talk to me. Like a person. And tell me what’s going on, you know? Instead all they do is dance around and around. Mom’s always deflecting ‘cause she doesn’t want to upset me and Dad hasn’t ever treated me like I actually deserve to know what’s going on and I hate it.” He spits the final words out viciously, his next breath catching painfully.

The room tilts and Shawn’s feet seem to tangle up amongst themselves. He thinks he might fall, but instead he finds himself pressed against Gus’ chest. Gus doesn’t say anything, just wraps his arms around Shawn’s shoulders, and after a moment of pained confusion Shawn realizes they’re hugging.

Shawn tries to shove away, uncomfortable with the closeness, uncomfortable with the contact. He honestly can’t remember the last time someone has genuinely hugged him.

(Untrue, actually, it had been his mom the day she’d left for her conference. The last time his dad hugged him Shawn was five. For the past nine years it had been manly handshakes and backslaps and the occasional shoulder pat.)

Gus doesn’t let go though, just crushes Shawn against him harder, and, after a moment of mixed emotions Shawn can’t even begin to identify, it actually starts to feel nice. He sags a bit in Gus’ grasp, leans more fully against his friend, and maybe tentatively brings his hands around to clutch at Gus’ shoulders. Gus doesn’t protest though, so Shawn figures it’s okay.

Neither one of them says anything for the longest time—Gus simply standing quietly and Shawn finally starting to really breathe again—but eventually the silence starts to eat away at Shawn so he has to break it.

“You give really good hugs,” he says for lack of anything better hoping Gus won’t notice how thick his voice sounds. It’s true anyway, and Shawn’s all about honesty in a roundabout messed up way. Part of Shawn kind of feels like a little kid again. Safe. Secure. It’s nice.

Gus huffs, almost like a chuckle, and Shawn would feel a little offended if Gus didn’t follow up almost immediately with, “So do you. We should hug more often.”

Carlton didn’t spook easily.

He’d been a detective for years, seen all the crime scenes, seen every reaction to the death of a loved one. He liked to think that he rolled with the punches pretty easily by now; that despite feeling like he was floundering at times he was adept at dealing with any and all situations at this point.

There were few things in the world that rattled him, but he wouldn’t be remiss in saying Spencer’s redecoration of the Psych office did shake him at least a little.

“Sweet justice,” Carlton breathed raking his eyes over the destruction and absolute pandemonium of papers tacked to the walls. There were full sheets of paper filled with small printed words, diagrams, forms, photographs, note papers with scribbled writing, post-it notes of every color imaginable plastered over everything, and multiple colors of yarn threaded between papers and photos, some strands even leaping from one wall to the other. “Spencer, what the hell are you doing?”

Shawn jerked his head up appearing from behind his desk, hair disheveled in wild disarray and eyes bloodshot from too little sleep. He blinked, brow furrowed almost like he wasn’t certain who Carlton was at first before saying, “What’s that, Lassie?”

Carlton picked his way across the office carefully, ducking under a few strands of yarn and slowly trying to make sense of the mess on the walls. He picked out a few pieces of information, enough to determine Spencer was working on Guster’s case, but there was a disturbing amount of random information interspaced that seemed entirely unrelated. Hell, there was a disturbing amount of stuff Carlton couldn’t even begin to make heads or tails of.

Finally reaching Shawn, he rounded the desk sighing at the sight that greeted him. Spencer had a map spread out on the floor and was diligently penning in small X’s and notes. Squinting, Carlton realized the notes were names and dates. A few he recognized as currently unsolved muggings, a few he remembered as closed cases, and even more he didn’t even know about. The two murders that had occurred prior to Guster’s were marked in red. Guster’s X didn’t have a name or date attached.

“What are you doing?” he asked again and Spencer just frowned as if the question didn’t compute.

“What does it look like?”

Carlton scoffed and did his best to keep any concern out of his words. “It looks like you’re losing your goddamn mind.”

Shawn rocked back on his heels, scanning the walls of the office before cocking his head to the side. “Huh. I guess that’s one way of putting it.”

“Spenc—”

“It’s the case, Lassie,” Shawn explained pushing himself to his feet with more grace than a man hyped up on sixteen cups of coffee should possess.

“I can see that parts of it are,” Carlton said once again scanning the walls.

Shawn ducked under a piece of yarn after almost hanging himself on it and spun around to face the detective. “All of it is. Don’t you see, Lassie?”

“See what? Evidence of total insanity?”

Spencer didn’t even look insulted. Just waved his hands around to encompass the entirety of the room. “Everything is connected. It’s all part of a bigger puzzle, and I just can’t find the last piece. Look,” he said stumbling over to one section of the wall and almost tripping over a stack of folders on the floor. “Here. All of these are murders from the past ten years. Spaced out over time no one’s realized that they’re all connected.”

“Spencer,” Carlton said crossing the room to stand beside the pseudo-psychic and scanning the mangled mess of case summaries on the wall, “these are all muggings gone wrong or independent incidents.” Beyond that the majority of the victims had been involved in some sort of organized crime, making their untimely demises not all that concerning.

“No,” Shawn said quickly. Manically. “No, they’re not. See, they’re just made to look like they’re unrelated. Every one of the victims had a tie to organized crime. Every one of them was killed by a single shot to the head or heart. Every single one of them, Lassie, weren’t just murdered, they were executed. It’s, it’s all connected. I just can’t figure out the last piece.”

“The last piece?” Carlton repeated as he mulled over what Shawn had just said. It made a certain sort of sense, but there was no way all those random killings could be connected.

“Yeah. I mean, all these victims? They’re from all different crime circles, and when I talked to them they were just as clueless as I am,” Shawn said furrowing his brows. “I’m missing something.”

“Wait, you talked to known crime bosses?” Carlton asked. “Jesus, Spencer, did you completely disregard what I said earlier?”

“I’m trying to find the missing piece,” Shawn snapped. “I’m trying to figure out who killed these people. I'm trying to figure out who killed—” He cut himself off, shaking his head before striding away to another section of wall. “So, here’s the real kicker. All those people? They were involved in expansion projects. I mean, they were rolling in some serious dough. And then all of the sudden key players are taken out? Doesn’t add up. Who would even know about all them? Other crime rings, sure, but every ring suffered a hit, which means there’s someone else.”

“Like the police?” Carlton suggested not bothering to censor the sarcasm, because keeping track of crime families like that would be something Spencer deemed boring enough to never bother understanding. “Look, Spencer, a lot of people could have known. That doesn’t mean…what are you doing?”

Spencer didn’t bother answering, halfway across the room sliding over the floor on papers as he flipped rapidly through files. “Of course,” he breathed. “How did I miss that?”

“Shawn?”

Spencer just shoved a stack of files into Carlton’s chest hard enough the detective had to take a step back. His expression was dark, thunderous, and all around terrifying on a man who generally walked around like rainbows were shooting out of his ass. Carlton grabbed the files before the could fall to the floor scanning the top case report summary clueless as to what he was really looking at.

“They’re dirty cops,” Spencer said and Carlton’s stomach went cold. “Dirty fucking cops.”

“You’re kicking me off the case?” Shawn asked incredulously.

Juliet winced at the venom in his tone glancing between the psychic and the Chief warily. Vick, though, appeared unruffled, maintaining a composed façade even under Shawn’s scrutiny. It had been a delicate enough situation with Shawn working on Gus’ case at all. With the added revelation of dirty cops being involved, well, Juliet agreed wholeheartedly with Vick’s decision to distance Shawn from the case. Internal Affairs would be scrutinizing everything; Shawn would do more harm than good at this point. And it wasn’t good for the psychic to be working on Gus’ case in the first place. He needed to grieve and process, not obsess over the murderers.

“Mr. Spencer, I have given you a lot of leeway in this,” Vick said. “I understand how difficult this whole situation has been, and I thank you sincerely for the information you’ve managed to gather for us. Now, I’ll ask you not to challenge my decision with this and assure you that this will be handled. Go home, sleep, and we’ll call you when we find out more.”

Shawn scoffed, pressing the cuff of his coat over his mouth as he turned away but didn’t make any motion to leave. He wasn’t looking at the Chief anymore, so he didn’t see how her expression softened a bit around the edges as she said, “That’ll be all, Mr. Spencer.”

“Fine,” Shawn bit out spinning on his heel and stalking from the room. Juliet didn’t like the expression on his face, nor the history of Shawn going off-book that look usually preceded. Lassiter clearly didn’t like what he saw either, striding off after the psychic, long legs meaning he caught up quickly in spite of Shawn’s rapid pace. Juliet trailed after him once Vick gave a dismissing nod.

“Spencer,” the Head Detective snapped reaching out to grab Shawn’s arm and dragging the psychic to an abrupt halt. Shawn glared at him, tugging a little on his arm, but he didn’t yank himself away. Carlton swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing like he was considering his next words. “Do not get involved,” he warned in a low tone in deference to the other officers milling about and eyeing Shawn curiously. “Don’t do anything stupid. Let us do our job. People that go down this path you’re on? They don’t come out intact on the other side, and you know what? It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if you find this guy and strangle him with your own two hands. It won’t bring Gus back. All it’ll do is tear you apart.”

Lassiter’s speech actually surprised Juliet with the depth of understanding and concern. Shawn just stared at Lassiter silently for a long moment, and Juliet thought he might be listening to him. But then Shawn smiled, shaking his head with a short laugh.

“This isn’t funny, Spencer.”

“Sure it is,” Shawn replied sardonically as he extricated his arm from Carlton’s grip and glanced briefly towards her. “It’s hilarious. It’s really, really fucking hilarious that any of you think I’m actually going to be okay after this.”

“Spenc…Shawn,” Carlton started but the psychic cut him off.

“You don’t have any idea what Gus meant to me,” he said. “You don’t have any idea what I see every time I close my eyes. You don’t have any idea.”

And as he left her and Lassiter standing speechless Juliet thought he might be right.

Shawn took a deep breath watching the man exit his car and head into the warehouse. Kenneth was an unassuming man. Looked like any straight laced business man in Santa Barbara: a little on the short side with thinning brown hair stylishly tousled over what Shawn would normally term a kind countenance. But not for this man. On this man a kind face was only a mask to the brutality that broiled beneath. There was blood on this man’s hands, drenching his fingers and dripping no matter how many times he washed his hands. Blood from countless victims over the years. Blood from Gus.

He waited a few minutes after Kenneth was out of sight, once again checking the clip in his Taurus before stepping out of the car. He slipped soundlessly into the warehouse, sticking to the shadows of the crates and moving closer and closer towards the small circle of light and the sound of shuffling papers and muffled talking.

Pausing at the edge of light from the lamp, Shawn assessed Kenneth’s movements as the man ruffled through a file box, cell phone held tightly between his shoulder and ear.

“Of course I understand the situation. Don’t threaten me, Mitchell, I’m more than capable of handling it.” He paused, obviously listening to the other man. Mitchell—Greg Mitchell, a deputy in the Sheriff’s Department. “Because Johnson’s an idiot. How were we supposed to know he had links to the SBPD? Man saw something he shouldn’t have. He was a witness, nothing else.”

Shawn sank back, leaning his head against the crate and stamping down on his urge to reveal his position too soon. His blood boiled at the revelation that he was right. Gus had been killed simply because of something he saw, something random and unpredictable. There was nothing Shawn or anyone else could have done to prevent it, and the fault lay entirely with Kenneth and the others. Somehow that made it worse. The thought that the only people to blame were the one’s who would never feel guilty.

He peeked around the edge once more, watching Kenneth hang up and tuck his cell phone in his pocket before turning his full attention to the files. Shawn raised his Taurus, adjusting his grip and thumbing the safety off.

Stepping out into the light in one smooth motion, Shawn was somewhat surprised that the other man didn’t hear him right away and turn around. He crept forward. One step. Two. Three. He was close enough to shoot, could have shot the man without ever revealing himself. But there was a part of him that wanted to look Kenneth in the eye, see the fear when he realized Shawn was going to kill him.

Another step and something crunched under his shoe.

Kenneth whirled around, drawing a handgun from beneath his jacket. It was far from the first time a gun had been pointed at Shawn, and for once his pulse remained utterly steady. He saw a brief look of confusion flash across Kenneth’s face, he had no idea who Shawn was, another fact that angered Shawn. It was gone almost as soon as it registered, hidden under a suitably blank expression.

“Well this is interesting,” Kenneth said. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Mister…?”

“I’m here to kill you,” Shawn said ignoring the question and moving with Kenneth easily as the man tried to circle around.

“Are you?” he asked sounding faux surprised. “And you are a professional?”

Shawn kept his expression stoic. “No.”

“A personal vendetta then,” Kenneth concluded still stepping in a never-ending circle. “I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be,” Shawn said. “You’re not a hard person to find. Not for someone like me.”

“Someone like you?”

Shawn smiled. “A psychic.”

Kenneth blinked, actually lowered his gun slightly. “A psychic?” he repeated, and Shawn wondered if he grasped the significance.

“Do you have any idea who you killed?” Shawn asked.

“Buddy, I’ve killed a lot of people,” Kenneth said. “You’re gonna need to be a little more specific.”

“March third,” Shawn said and saw a quickly masked flicker of recognition. “It was a Wednesday. Sunny day, not a cloud in sight. Seventy-two degrees by noon. But you don’t care about that, it’s not important. What’s important is that at nine thirteen you were beating a man to death. A man in a lavender button down and khakis with ridiculously expensive white pumas. A man who drove a blue Echo, who saw you and your partners execute two people. That man was my partner.”

Now Kenneth just seemed angry. He finally stopped circling. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Not this time,” Shawn said. “You killed my best friend. Prepare to die.”

He saw the moment Kenneth made his decision, saw the tell and the tightening of his finger on the trigger. Thought he heard a faint cry of his name as he dropped to the left. Felt the bullet hiss past his head and impact the crate behind him. He fired once, as a distraction more than anything, then charged forward tackling Kenneth to the ground with a grunt. Clearly surprised by his abrupt change in tactic Kenneth was easy to take down.

It wasn’t a long fight. Kenneth may have been a trained hitman, but Shawn was fighting with the strength of someone who had nothing to lose, someone fueled by hate and rage all focused on this one man. And, in the end, it was that strength that prevailed.

“Well, well, well, how the turn tables,” Shawn says.

Gus, held securely with a knife to his throat by today’s creepy suspiciously not suspectful suspect turned desperate hostage-taker, scowls and snaps, “It’s how the tables turn, Shawn.”

Shawn waves a dismissive hand. “I’ve heard it both ways.”

“Shut up!” Chester shouts. “Both of you.”

Chester’s not a bad guy. His hand is wavering enough that it’s clear to everyone present that he wants to be holding a knife to Gus’ throat about as much as Gus wants to have a knife held to said throat. Chester is just suffering from a bad case of Wrong Time Wrong Place, and Shawn can sympathize, really. But he still doesn’t appreciate the blade pressing over Gus’ jugular.

“Hey,” he says holding his hands out in a placating manner. “Let’s not be irrational here.”

“It was an accident,” Chester says, knife wavering again and Shawn creeps forward more. “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

“I know,” Shawn says. “You didn’t want to hurt anyone. You still don’t. So why don’t—”

The knife firms up again, digging into the skin a little, and Shawn halts. “I don’t,” Chester says with a growl. “But I will. I am not going to jail.”

“Well, I hate to break it to you, buddy,” Shawn says watching the knife apprehensively. “But a dude’s dead so somebody’s gotta go to jail.”

“It was his fault!” Chester cries and a thin trickle of blood runs down Gus’ neck as he swallows heavily. “It was an accident, and it was his fault. I didn’t do nothing. I was just there.”

“If that’s true,” Shawn says slowly moving closer again, one small step at a time, “then why did you cover it up?”

Chester wavers, the knife drops down again. Down, down, down, and Shawn is seizing the opening. He lurches forward and Chester is startled, yanking the blade back up. Shawn’s hand closes around it just as Chester tries to drag it into Gus’ neck. It digs into Shawn’s fingers instead.

Gus is screaming, probably because of all the blood Shawn is dripping over his shirt, but Shawn pays it no heed. It stings like hell, but he rips the knife from Chester’s grip. He flings it off to the side, and punches Chester solidly in the nose. His hand smarts painfully, but Gus pulls free and darts behind him. Together they back away as Chester curses and holds his bleeding nose.

Predictably the boys and girls in blue show up after all the fun stuff has gone down.

It’s August twenty-second two thousand nine and Shawn’s hand will most likely scar, but he totally just saved Gus’ life and thinks he can probably get about two months of free pineapple smoothies in return. Of course that assumes Gus doesn’t blame him for being held hostage in the first place.

Shawn was standing over a man with a gun.

Shawn was standing over the man who killed Gus with a gun.

Shawn was standing over the man who killed Gus with a gun in an abandoned warehouse.

Shawn was standing over the man who killed Gus with a gun in an abandoned warehouse, and his finger was on the trigger.

“Shawn!” Gus yelled. “Don’t you do it. You hear me? Don’t you dare pull that trigger! It’s not you!”

Shawn’s nostrils flared, hand shaking, and for a long tense moment there was nothing, just him and the man and the gun, then he wrenched himself away with an infuriated scream kicking the nearby crates several times before shoving his hands through his hair and taking a calming breath.

Gus didn’t fully relax until Shawn thumbed the safety back on and tucked the handgun into his waistband. Then he was flitting about the warehouse and Gus didn’t fully understand what he was doing until he returned with several lengths of rope.

Rolling Kenneth onto his stomach Shawn first bound his hands then his ankles, tying all the knots efficiently and savagely. Even Gus could tell the restraints were tighter than necessary, small rivets of blood running down the man’s arms where the ropes bit into the skin. After he was done with those Shawn yanked the man’s feet up and arms back, binding the two together and leaving the man hogtied. Finished, Shawn pushed himself to his feet, breathing hard and swiping a hand across his forehead.

Gus barely listened as Shawn pulled out Kenneth’s phone and called the SBPD, relaying an anonymous tip for where the police could find Kenneth and evidence of his crimes. Instead he crouched by the beaten man who’d killed him unsure how to even begin addressing the roiling mass of feelings swirling inside him. He thought he should be more emotional being confronted with his murderer, perhaps even more willing to support the revenge Shawn had seemed hell-bent on delivering, but instead there was an odd sort of numbness or detachment. It wasn’t that he didn’t care; somewhere there was a flicker of anger, a sense of disappointment, and sting of betrayal, but more than anything he didn’t want blood on Shawn’s hands.

“You can’t leave him like this,” he said noting how Kenneth’s breathing was already labored and hindered by the broken nose and pressure on his diaphragm. He glanced up at Shawn who was staring silently down at the man as well. “He’ll asphyxiate before the police arrive.”

Shawn sniffed, brows furrowing together in contemplation, and Gus breathed another sigh of relief as Shawn seemed to reach the same conclusion Gus had and shimmied a foot under Kenneth’s shoulder to shove him onto his side with a grunt of distaste. Shawn stared down at the man, hands falling limply by his sides, expression flattening out into something chilling and empty.

“Shawn,” Gus said. “You need to leave. You can’t be here when the police arrive.”

Shawn didn’t move, just kept on staring down at Kenneth until the sound of sirens cut through the still air. Gus prompted Shawn to leave again; this time with more success though that was likely due to the sirens and not him.

Shawn gathered the last few items that would implicate him and slipped out the back just as the cops were coming in the front. Gus stayed until he was tugged away, watching Juliet and Lassiter approach Kenneth and secure the area. As they hauled Kenneth to his feet, reciting his rights while they removed Shawn’s bonds and handcuffed him, Gus was certain the man would go to prison, possibly for the rest of his life.

And for a moment, just a moment, Gus wished Shawn had killed him.

“You know you didn’t have to do that,” Gus says. His voice is kind of muffled, thick, like Rudolph from that Christmas movie with his fake nose on. He’s got a wad of tissues mashed up against his nose; a faint spot of red is beginning to show through.

Shawn snorts ignoring the uncomfortable feeling the action prompts from within his own nose. He has a matching wad of tissues. “Course I did,” he says pleased to note he sounds nothing like Rudolph with a fake nose. He sounds more like Arnold Schwarzenegger. “What are best friends for?”

Gus rolls his eyes like he thinks Shawn is an idiot, but when Shawn holds his fist out for a fistbump Gus’ hand meets his halfway.

Juliet watched the interrogation with a trained eye, picking up on every miniscule detail as Lassiter slowly but surely got the man’s confession. All the evidence had been provided on a silver platter; it would have been crazy to not confess and try to plea down. Juliet only hoped the prosecution wouldn’t offer too sweet a deal. She doubted it, not with this man’s charges.

The door behind her eased open and she wasn’t surprised to see Shawn. Neither of them said anything as Shawn came to stand beside her, watching silently as Kenneth spoke. For several long minutes the only sounds were their breaths and the voices of the two men in the interrogation room.

“Do you want to talk to him?” Juliet asked softly. She wasn’t sure it was a good idea, wasn’t sure what made her offer.

There was a beat of silence, another, then Shawn slowly shook his head.

In all her years as an officer, detective, and chief of police Karen had never dealt with a situation quite like this. There were always cases that would hit close to home, always cases that would be personal, always cases that would try the morality and ethics that were meant to guide her profession. There would always be cases where the law’s idea of justice wouldn’t match what they thought it should.

It was during cases like these where they would all learn a little more about themselves.

“He’ll go to prison, Mr. Spencer,” Karen said offering the one piece of solace she had to give. Normally she wouldn’t make such a statement, wouldn’t make that sort of promise. But this wasn’t a normal case, and she’d be damned if anything happened to let this man go free. “I have no doubt the jury will convict. We’ve got everything we need.”

The suspect, evidence, even a goddamn confession practically, had been all but handed to them. With everything they’d found at the warehouse the man had held out for barely more than ten minutes with Lassiter before implicating not only himself for Guster’s murder but two others for the executions Guster had witnessed as well.

Shawn nodded, slow and deliberate, not moving his gaze from the two-way mirror and the lone man waiting beyond. There was an inkling of an idea gathering in Karen’s mind as she took in his steely-eyed gaze and stiff posture, the bruising on his hands and black eye, the way he hadn’t seemed at all surprised to see Kenneth.

“Mr. Spencer,” she began slowly, “can you tell me where you were this evening before coming down to the station?”

Shawn sniffed, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth for a moment before turning to face her. “I was home,” he said hoarsely not meeting her gaze even though he did a pretty good impression of doing so.

She pursed her lips. “Is there anyone that can corroborate that?”

Shawn paused then shook his head training his scrutiny back on Kenneth. “No,” he said, words quiet and hushed. “No. I was alone.”

Karen considered him silently, taking a long moment to weigh her options before making a decision. She turned her gaze away, focusing once more on the suspect in the interrogation room awaiting the return of her detectives. “All right, Mr. Spencer. That’s all I need.”

“Spencer!” Carlton shouted, gaining the psychic’s attention before he could leave the station. For a moment it looked like he was considering just bolting out the door anyway, but in the end he hung back, hovering by the door until Carlton made it over.

“What’s up, Lassie?” he asked and it all sounded right on the surface. The words were right, even the tone was right, but there was something missing.

Carlton sighed, firming up his jaw. “I know what you did.”

Shawn just blinked at him, one side of his face dark with bruises that rankled Carlton to no end mostly because he knew why they were there but also that Shawn would never admit it.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Las,” the pseudo detective answered, “but I can assure you that you are mistaken. Mostly because if you think you’re right, then I know you’re most definitely not. I’d stake my 401K on it.”

“You don’t have a 401K,” Carlton said letting himself be dragged into Shawn’s pointless verbal distraction.

“That’s true,” Shawn agreed easily, “but we do have a 601K, and it’s been very lucrative so far.” He trailed off, gaze going a bit distant and Carlton wondered if he’d noticed his slip up.

“I know what you did,” Carlton said again, lowering his voice and stepping in closer. Shawn blinked at him and leaned away. “I’m not going to say anything.”

Shawn stared at him silently for a long moment, bits of his mask falling away until nothing was left and he just shook his head. “I don’t care, Lassie. Tell whoever, tell everyone. I don’t care.”

“Shawn, I think you should stay with me for a few days,” Dad said.

Shawn shook his head. “For the millionth time, I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You might have yourself and everyone else fooled, but I’m not called the human lie detector for nothing,” Dad groused. “Not that I’d need to be able to read you like a book in order to know that you’re not okay. You lost your best friend, Shawn. In one of the worst ways possible. You saw the crime scene. They’ve just arrested the man responsible.”

Shawn scowled. “Yes, I’m aware, thank you,” he said bitterly. “What’s your point?”

“My point is that it’s okay for you to not be fine right now,” Dad said throwing his hands up in exasperation. “You have friends and…family that are really concerned about you. You’re allowed to drop your façade for awhile to, to deal with that.”

“Hold me, Dad, that was beautiful,” Shawn said ignoring the ache in his chest and desperate to establish a bit more distance between them. “But in case you didn’t notice, my apartment is kind of a wreck right now, so I think that instead of going to mope at your house I’ll mope in the mess of my own creation.”

Dad sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. “Fine. Just don’t get stuck up in here,” he said jabbing a finger into Shawn’s forehead; Shawn immediately smacked his hand away. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“And I’ll ignore you,” Shawn replied.

Dad rolled his eyes and sent Shawn a reprimanding glare. “You better not. Make sure you eat something and get some sleep tonight.”

Shawn waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah.” He paused as his father pulled open the door. “Dad?”

“Yeah?” Dad said turning back, door partially opened. It hit Shawn right then that if he asked Dad would probably come back in, sit in Shawn’s shitty apartment, and just exist with him. Listen if Shawn wanted to talk, talk if Shawn didn’t want to, or sit silently if there were no words to be spoken. Shawn only had to ask.

“Just, uh, drive safe,” Shawn said swallowing down on any other words he wanted to say.

There was a flicker of something on Dad’s face, almost like understanding, but he just nodded. “Sure. See you tomorrow.”

Shawn didn’t reply, stood silently in the center of his apartment long after his dad had left, until the shadows had lengthened and the sunlight had turned a golden orange. Then he dragged the ready packed duffle from under his bed, added his wallet and phone, snagged his jacket from the chair, and pulled the door open.

Sweeping his gaze over his apartment once more Shawn tugged the door closed, checking to make sure it was locked. He left it behind without another thought, swinging his leg over his bike and staring at the road before him. He considered his helmet for a moment before tucking it away; he didn’t want the confinement right now. What he wanted was to feel the wind in his hair and the absolute openness of riding unencumbered, the adrenaline that came from knowing there was nothing between him and the road.

Shawn makes the mistake of telling Gus he’s leaving before actually leaving. It’s a mistake because, while he expects Gus to be mad and upset, he doesn't expect Gus to be quite this mad.

He can count the number of times Gus has been legitimately mad, rather than exasperatedly annoyed, at him on less than one hand.

He can count the number of times Gus has yelled at him on less than less of one hand.

And he doesn’t need any fingers to count the number of times Gus has turned this particular shade of purple with a throbbing vein at his temple because it’s never happened before. Like at all.

“And this is so fucking like you, Shawn!” Gus yells. “You don’t give a damn what anyone thinks, all you’re thinking of is yourself!”

That’s another thing Shawn can count on one hand. Half a hand really. The number of times Gus has sworn at him. Though if he factors in this argument for later calculations he’ll need both hands and half a foot.

It’s not really an argument. Gus is yelling, and Shawn is just kind of standing there, awkwardly, in the living room of the Guster’s house. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, hands clasped on the straps of his backpack while Gus lays into him. He thinks, distantly, that it’s odd how Gus makes him feel like a child being lectured since he’s technically the older of the two. Chronologically that is. No one has ever accused Shawn of being the mature one.

He also thinks this sort of parental overtone that has colored their friendship since Gus decided, like actually decided decided, to go to college and Shawn sort of didn’t, is one of the reasons he’s leaving.

“You’re not even listening to me anymore, are you?” Gus demands throwing his hands up in frustration, assuming the answer before Shawn even opens his mouth.

It’s that preemptive disregard for his answer more than anything that has Shawn shaking his head and quipping, “No, not really.”

Gus scowls. Flings a hand towards the foyer and says, “Get out. I can’t do this with you right now.”

Shawn lets himself be shuffled out, stands with his back to the door as it slams shut behind him, and squints in the noonday sun. He thinks it was a mistake to tell Gus he was leaving before he actually left, and he thinks it’s probably mostly his fault since he did it the day before graduation. It’s also his fault for not explaining why he picked now of all days to go.

He sniffs and snaps on his helmet before straddling his motorcycle. It rumbles comfortingly beneath him, a promise of freedom Shawn finds absolutely intoxicating, something he knows Gus will never really understand.

He can count the number of times Gus has been really angry with him on less than one hand. He can count the number of times Gus has been angry with him for leaving on zero hands.

He creates a new column in his mind to track Number of Times Gus Has Been Mad At Me For Leaving and carefully ticks off one.

It’s okay, though, really, that he’s leaving without a proper goodbye. He’ll send Gus a postcard from the road.

It’s Tuesday, June seventh nineteen ninety-five, and Shawn is on the road heading anywhere.

Hi! You’ve reached the cellular device of Shawn Spencer, Psychic Detective Extraordinaire! I likely already know why you’re calling, but leave a message anyway just in case the spirits are being exceptionally temperamental.

“Hi, Shawn. It’s Juliet. Just calling to see if you wanted to get dinner or maybe see a movie sometime this week. You know, get out and do something. Some fresh air will do you good. Let me know.”

“Shawn. Come over for dinner tonight. I’ll make steak.”

“Shawn. Stop ignoring your calls, will ya? I could use your help cleaning out the garage this evening, and since most of the junk in there belongs to you I would say your help is required.”

“Mr. Spencer, this is Chief Vick. I…I have your check ready for you whenever you have a moment to stop by and pick it up. Hope to see you soon.”

“Shawn, this is Winnie Guster. I just wanted to get you the details of Burton’s funeral. We’re having a ceremony this Saturday at eleven at the chapel on Centre. Bill and I…we’d love it if you came.”

“Shawn, how are you? I haven’t seen you around the station at all and, well, I’m a little worried. Give me a call back, okay? Let me know you’re all right.”

“Shawn. Spoke with Bill and Winnie today. She says she called you about funeral details and hasn’t heard back from you. I do hope you plan on attending your best friend’s funeral. If you come by the house first we can ride over together.”

“Shawn. Where the hell are you? The funeral starts in ten minutes.”

“Hi Shawn. Uh, didn’t see you at the service and I’m actually kind of worried. Give me a call back when you get a chance, okay?”

“Mr. Spencer, Ms. Lawlory here. I'm just calling to remind you that rent is due on the first of each month. I know how you are about keeping track of important things so let me also remind you that you have until the fourth to pay or terminate your lease. Have a nice day.”

“Shawn. Call me back.”

“Mr. Spencer, this is Karen again. Just wanted to let you know I gave your check to your father. He said he’d make sure it got into your account for you. I also wanted to extend the offer again and remind you that if you need someone to talk to we have very qualified help available. Do let me know.”

“Hi Shawn. Gosh, I hope you’re all right. You gave us all a scare you know? Why didn’t you tell anyone you were leaving? I don’t blame you or anything, it’s perfectly understandable. Just…please call me back, okay?

“Mr. Spencer, I hope you realize when I said the fourth I meant the fourth. Call me back.”

“Do yourself a favor and return my calls, Mr. Spencer. Or we’ll have terms of your eviction to discuss.”

“Spencer. Lassiter here. O’Hara’s finally nagged me into giving you a call. I don’t know why because I have no idea what she expects me to say to you so…why don’t you just do all of us a favor and get your ass back here?”

“Shawn. Uh, your landlord called me yesterday. She’s been trying to reach you too apparently. I just wanted to let you know that I smoothed things over and covered the rent for this month and next. I, uh, I also cleaned up your place and the office so everything’s set for when you get back.”

“Hi Shawn, I hope you’re doing okay wherever you are. Um, I just, I don’t know if you know although I’m sure you do, but…today’s the first day of the trial. If you want I can keep you updated on everything. Just let me know.”

“Shawn. At least send me a post card and let me know where you are.”

“Spencer. Lassiter again. Look, I can’t begin to understand what you’re going through right now, but I thought you ought to know that your father and O'Hara are basically going mad here. And, for the record, I firmly believe the best place you could be right now is Santa Barbara. But, clearly, you don’t agree, so...just take care, Shawn. And know that I also firmly believe Kenneth is going down for this. They all will.”

“Hey, Shawn. It’s me again. Today’s the last day. I’ll, um, I’ll call you after. Let you know what happens.”

“Shawn. You’ll probably feel as awkward hearing this as I feel saying it but…come home. Please. I don’t like the idea of you out there on your own right now.”

“He got life, Shawn. Without parole.”

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The first week after Shawn left Santa Barbara he hit triple digits speeding down the interstate without a helmet, bungee jumped off three different bridges, went whitewater rafting on the Lochsa River, and leapt off a cliff thankfully with a parachute attached.

Each stunt was approached with a reckless sort of abandon that quite honestly scared Gus. He was drug along on every occurrence, somehow there even when he wasn’t. Gus didn’t know how to explain how he was next to Shawn hurtling down a highway at a speed he wasn’t comfortable with even though he was dead. He wasn’t behind Shawn or in front of him; it was more like he was around Shawn. But that was neither here nor there because the fact of the matter was Gus didn't really want to be around Shawn when he seemed intent on pushing the limits of his livelihood, and Gus wasn’t shy about telling him so.

He didn’t like the way Shawn seemed to surrender himself to fate every time. The way he grinned when a truck almost ran him down on the highway barely swerving out of the way as Gus yelled. The way he seemed almost disappointed every time the cord kept him from smashing into the hard and unforgiving ground far, far, far beneath the bridges. The way he let the river water wash him away and didn’t fight to keep his head above water, surviving it seemed only by sheer luck. The way that he laughed when he landed too hard and wrenched his knee again resulting in a hospital visit and brace he was supposed to wear for at least three weeks.

During the day Shawn seemed to be his usual self if a little manic. He came off as happy, as outgoing and exuberant. It was during the night that everything changed. When Shawn finally fell asleep, after far too many hours awake, he slept restlessly. Tossing and turning, startling himself awake more often than not. On several occasions he lost what little he’d managed to eat that day. Gus hated the nightmares almost more than he hated the extreme sports.

The second week was spent driving aimlessly down long stretches of asphalt as Shawn traveled from Nebraska down to Oklahoma before cutting through a small portion of Texas to land in New Orleans, Louisiana. He went home with three different strangers in as many nights and Gus had never wanted to unsee anything as much as he did those three nights. Shawn left New Orleans looking like a domestic abuse survivor, and part of Gus was actually glad Shawn couldn’t see the way his eyes lingered on the ring of bruises around Shawn’s neck and wrists from the last one-night stand or the way Shawn limped for several days afterwards. It was only after that Gus wondered for the first time if he was capable of leaving Shawn’s side or if he was doomed to invade the other man’s privacy for the rest of his ghostly existence.

The third week Shawn went to ground, holing himself up in a random motel room and sleeping for lengths of time that caused Gus’s stomach to roll uncomfortably as he flickered around the room, restless in a way he hadn’t felt since before his death. It was disturbing on some fundamental level to watch Shawn sleep like the dead for stretches of up to thirteen hours when he was personally familiar with Shawn’s usual inability to sleep more than a solid five or six hours at the best of times let alone after weeks of nightmare plagued rest. Although most people assumed Shawn was a lazy, late-sleeper Gus was more than aware that Shawn was usually asleep in the morning or early afternoon simply because he’d never gone to bed the night before. Shawn never did have what one would consider a regular sleep schedule, instead running and running and running until he was tired and then crashing for a few hours before starting the cycle all over again. It all culminated in a man that could feasibly be asleep at literally any point in time but never slept for long when he did.

Gus sighed once again resting his chin on his hand as he contemplated the slumbering form of his friend swaddled deep beneath a mound of blankets in spite of the almost stifling heat in the room. The curtains were drawn shut, only hazy sunlight filtering through the heavy fabric, keeping the room bathed in a muted glow. Gus almost couldn’t make out Shawn’s face in the dim light with the way he had himself half buried amongst blankets and pillows. He supposed it was telling then that he was able see the exhaustion and pinched brow that persisted even in sleep.

Shawn didn’t shift or fidget, didn’t roll over and sigh as he sank deeper into the bed, didn’t murmur along with his dreams. He didn’t do any of the classically Shawn things Gus associated with him sleeping, and that was probably the most concerning thing. Shawn wasn’t just sleeping more than usual; he was dramatically oversleeping waking up for only a few hours at a time to drink and eat too little and use the bathroom before crawling back into the bed. He repeated the cycle for days, Gus watching silently from the corner.

As week four came to a close Shawn didn’t crawl back in bed. He took a shower instead.

There was a feeling he got when he stood on the edge of something very high and looked at the ground below. A sense of dizziness and freedom and the sudden urge to jump. He craved that feeling, standing on the precipice and peering out over the edge, air ruffling through his hair bringing with it the sharp smell of saltwater. Waves crashed into the cliff below him and he couldn’t help the slow smile that stretched across his lips.

Don’t even think about it.

He faltered, taking half a step back as the words seemed to float up on the wind, echoing oddly in his mind. Shaking his head Shawn resolutely ignored the way his heart sped up at the familiar voice. After several days of silence, part of him had hoped his brief stint of insanity was over. Apparently not. Pity.

Shawn peered over the edge again, watching the water froth up and recede in time with the thrum of anticipation running through him. He’d never been one for extreme sports, not to the extent of things that were legitimately life-threatening, but he couldn’t deny having a certain partiality for the rush of adrenaline that came with flying down the highway on his bike or freefalling through the air. Recently he’d developed a craving for it, and maybe, although he’d never admit it to anyone including himself, a craving for the voice that seemed to accompany his more dangerous endeavors lately.

I’m serious.

Don’t be a limp trout out of water, Shawn thought then forcefully pushed it out of his mind focusing on wiping his mind blank. He closed his eyes, took two running steps forward, and shoved off from the edge, the dirt crumbling a bit beneath his feet. He kept his eyes closed, relishing in the sudden feeling of free-fall and weightlessness. The air rushed by him, almost roaring and drowning out the sudden shout that seemed to reverberate in the very air around him.

Shawn!

Then he was slamming into the water hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs. Reflexively he tried to take a breath, succeeding only in drawing in freezing water. He let himself sink for a moment, making no motions to fight for the surface.

He’d gone cliff diving once before. He’d met a girl, a girl a lot like Ruby, and they’d jumped off a cliff together. It was thrilling, she was thrilling, but he’d never jumped off a cliff sans parachute again. Until today. He’d forgotten how it felt.

When his lungs really started protesting, he kicked his feet and struggled towards what he hoped was the surface, contorting his body almost painfully. He gagged as his head broke through the surface, coughing up disgusting seawater and trying not to swallow any more as he bobbed in the rolling waves.

Shawn tossed his head back squinting into the sun as the water beat on him, threatening to pull him under or push him towards the cliff behind him. He let it tug at his clothing without fighting for several long moments before beginning to swim towards shore. His feet hit ground soon than he expected, and he stumbled to his feet twisting around as he realized how close he probably came to hitting rock when he jumped. He shivered, whether from the realization or the cold air buffeting his wet clothes he wasn’t sure.

You’re such a fucking idiot. A crazy fucking idiot.

The words were barely audible, floating faintly on the air, and Shawn silently agreed.

If Gus had been excited and hopeful that Shawn leaving the motel meant he was recovering it was a quickly dashed excitement and hopefulness when Shawn pulled off the road along a cliff next to the Atlantic and proceeded to jump into the ocean. It was just the start of another couple weeks of suicidal stunts that would have given Gus a few different heart attacks had his heart still been beating.

With each stunt Shawn seemed to draw further into himself, and Gus had a feeling he was spiraling back down into the pit he’d only just clawed his way out of. It was like watching a car crash in slow motion, like he could see the cracks and fissures running through Shawn widening with each day. He was going to crash again; it was inevitable.

But it was different this time. Rather than slowing down, Shawn kept speeding up until he was running at a nearly manic pace. He stayed in Charleston for two days, then moved to Myrtle Beach for a day, then to Florence for three days. After that he drove nearly thirteen hours straight to Boston, where he stayed for a week flitting from person to person, making new “friends” in a flash and then dropping them almost as fast. He fell in with the party crowd, moving across the city with a carelessness that had never before defined his actions despite what others seemed to think. Gus knew that although Shawn’s antics often seemed reckless to others he actually had a fairly high self-preservation instinct. It seemed to be on vacation at the moment however, while Shawn fucked and partied his way across the city with Gus watching disapprovingly from the sidelines.

No one else seemed to notice Shawn was falling apart in reality. To them Shawn was just a happy-go-lucky stranger that drank too much, slept too little, and was up for pretty much any crazy idea someone threw at him. Get high in the parking lot? Sure. Have a threesome with Katelyn and her boyfriend? Sounds fun. Shots, shots, and more shots? Keep ‘em coming. Want some Molly? Why not.

Gus wanted to scream at Shawn, so he did. He wanted to shake his friend by the shoulders and tell him to man the fuck up and just deal. To pull himself together and stop being so reckless before he got himself killed. To stop being a self-pitying asshole because at least he was still alive.

He wanted to throttle all the strangers too; all the people touching and laughing with Shawn, all the people using him and then tossing him away, all the people taking what Shawn didn’t have to offer anymore regardless of what it seemed, all the people putting the tools of Shawn’s devastation into his hands. Wanted to scream and yell at them to stop helping Shawn self-destruct, to stop taking and giving and destroying without even realizing what they were doing.

It wasn’t fair to blame them. They didn’t know. Couldn’t see past the masks Shawn had in place to fool everyone.

But if Gus couldn’t blame them and couldn’t blame Shawn then the only person left to blame was himself.

The voice followed him everywhere now.

He heard it in the morning. He heard it throughout the day. He heard it at night.

When he was awake. When he was asleep.

The voice nagged him to go to bed and get up. Criticized his choice of breakfast or dinner or lack thereof. Reprimanded him for hanging out with the people he did or for not sleeping or not eating. It kept up a running commentary, sometimes faint and sometimes not, buzzing in Shawn’s head until he was desperate to quiet it.

So he laughed louder, drank more, distracted himself with long legs and strong hands, took everything and anything offered to him.

And for the most part it worked.

When he forced himself to laugh a pressure eased off his chest even if the sound rang false. When he was drunk he could drown out the voice with the roaring in his ears. When he was focused on kissing his way up legs that rivaled Daisy Duke’s or flexing against strong hands holding him down everything went quiet except the sensation of touch. When he was high it was so much easier to pretend that the world didn’t exist, that the voice didn’t exist, that he didn’t exist.

But on the nights he actually slept, right in that sweet spot where he was just starting to drift off, it would be so clear that Shawn could just let his eyes fall shut and imagine Gus was beside him talking softly about a thousand different inane things.

He hated it.

He loved it.

He hated that he loved it.

June eleventh nineteen ninety-nine is a sunny Friday. Gus is obsessed with this new book series. Harry Potter and the Something of Someone. Shawn deliberately forgets the title just to piss his best friend off. He’s pretty sure Gus knows it too. Gus also knows that there’s a snowball’s chance of going to hell in a handbasket that Shawn will ever read the books so he’s taken it upon himself to tell Shawn the story.

Which is how Shawn finds himself laying in the park with his head in Gus’ lap pretending to sleep while Gus reads chapter twelve out loud. Shawn won’t admit it, especially to Gus now after all this time, but he actually kind of likes the story. He thinks his favorite character might be the Longbottom kid though he’s tied pretty solidly with the head of Gryffindor house. Ron is pretty badass too.

Gus has a nice voice, especially when reading; it kind of mellows out into something soothing and amusingly variable as he switches through characters. Shawn doesn’t much care for reading himself. If it's a book he really likes he can usually get through a good-sized novel in a couple hours, give or take for length. If he doesn’t care for the subject or story there’s a good chance he’ll stick a bookmark in by page three and forget he ever even started reading it in the first place. Harry Potter and the Something of Something falls somewhere between the two; Shawn doesn’t think he’d ever make it though the books himself if he tried to read them, but he’ll listen to Gus. Typically, as far as books go, he tends to stick with audiobooks anyway because they let him do something else while listening to the story in the background. Gus is the only person he’ll actually sit down and do nothing with while Gus reads. Usually. It depends on the day.

Today is one of those days.

“Are you even listening anymore?” Gus asks suddenly breaking free from his Soothing Story Voice.

Sunlight glares brightly beyond Shawn’s closed eyelids, a sure sign that Gus has shifted the book that had been shielding Shawn from the sun, and is intently inspecting his face to see if he’s still awake. Shawn cracks open one eye grinning up at Gus’ mock serious expression.

“I always listen to you,” he says and Gus harrumphs because he knows Shawn knows that’s not true. But he pulls the book back anyway, clearing his throat before starting to read again. He doesn’t pick up where he left off, instead going back to the beginning of the paragraph, and Shawn smiles wider as he whispers, “You already read that part.”

Gus doesn’t miss a beat, just reaches down and flicks Shawn in the ear. Shawn closes his eyes again, relishing in the heat of the sun and the lilting cadence of Gus’ voice as he regales Shawn with Harry’s nightly excursions to the Mirror of Desire and Dumbledore’s weird sock fetish. He decides then that he’ll stay in Claremont for a few more days unlike his last visit, which had lasted less than a day. Because he wants to hear how Harry defeats Quirrell, not because Gus had asked him to.

If someone were to look at the two of them now Gus was pretty sure they would say Shawn was the dead one. Gus himself looked pretty normal, and, if there was someone capable of seeing the dead, he was pretty sure they could mistake him as another living, breathing person. He was actually quite glad about that fact. Having seen many movies where murder victims retained their injuries even in the spirit state, Gus had been straight up relieved to find that wasn’t the case for him. His face was smooth and unbeaten, his neck unbroken, his arms and chest unmarked.

Shawn was a different story. He wasn’t beaten or bloody, no one would be mistaking him as a murder victim anytime soon, but he didn’t look all that lively either. If Gus had to choose what sort of dead person Shawn looked like he’d probably land somewhere between a drug addict and war refugee. Shawn’s skin was pale, almost greyish, and drawn tight around eyes that looked sunken and were ringed with dark circles attesting to his lack of restful sleep. His shoulders were slumped like the weight of the world was crushing down on him, and his clothes hung off his form in a way that clearly showed the distressing amount of weight he’d lost recently.

“You know,” Gus said deciding to share his thoughts as Shawn stared at himself in the mirror above the sink of the public restroom. They were in Rochester now, finally having left Boston in the rearview mirror, and Shawn had been quiet since they’d arrived so Gus had taken to filling the silences himself even more than he had before. “If someone could see us right now they’d think you were the one that was dead, not me. If someone could see me maybe I could get them to get you to take care of yourself.”

Shawn closed his eyes, hands clenching reflexively around the sink he was clutching.

“You look terrible,” Gus continued. “I keep telling you to eat more. And get some real sleep. Maybe shower.”

Shawn shook his head and for a moment Gus could pretend he was actually responding; but, although Gus got the impression sometimes that Shawn could hear him, he was realistic enough to realize that wasn’t possible. As much as he claimed otherwise Shawn wasn’t psychic. He didn’t even believe in things like psychics or ghosts, believed in the preternatural less than Gus did. And Gus was trapped in some sort of purgatorial Hell, unseen and unheard by everyone while he watched his best friend crumble apart.

Their friendship was never what most people would call balanced. What Shawn brought to the table was so different that most people, even Henry, often failed to recognize it. In a weird sort of way Shawn was still holding up his end, dragging Gus on the saddest of road trips across the United States and pushing him beyond his comfort zone even if he was already dead. It was Gus who could no longer provide what he usually did—familiarity, stability, sensibility, and, above all else, acting as Shawn’s sounding board. Shawn was not someone who worked through things on his own; left alone he was far more likely to ruminate and let his fervent thought process run away with him.

“I miss talking to you, you know,” Gus admitted leaning against the wall and raising his gaze to the ceiling finding it somehow easier to talk to the tiles even though Shawn wouldn’t hear him. His chest ached with the admission, an odd sort of clawing emptiness. “I’m right here, right now, standing right next to you, but I can’t do anything to help. And I just, I just miss you. Which is a crazy thing to say because I am standing right next to you, but it’s not the same, man, and I’d give anything to have that back.”

Shawn let out a strangled gasp and Gus snapped his gaze back to his friend instantly noting the white knuckled grip on the porcelain. “It’s not real,” Shawn murmured shaking his head back and forth minutely. “’s not real. Not real. Not real. Not real.”

Gus blinked, stomach swooping alarmingly as he moved forward coming to stand next to Shawn so he could see the other man’s face. “Shawn?”

Something flickered over Shawn’s face, a faint crease of distress as he stumbled over his words for a moment then picked back up, determinedly repeating over and over, “Not real, not real, not real.”

“Oh my god,” Gus breathed barely daring to believe. A tiny flame of ill placed hope flared in his chest, too strong to snuff out. He seized it instead, barreling on and crowding as close as Shawn as possible. “You can hear me. You can actually hear me, can’t you? Shawn. Shawn, listen to me. It’s real. I’m real.”

Shawn just kept on repeating his words like a mantra louder and louder as Gus continued to try and talk to him.

“No, I'm real. I’m really talking to you. You’re really hearing me,” Gus pleaded. “Please believe me.”

Shawn shook his head, eyes clenched closed and saying desperately, “It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real.”

“Shawn!” Gus yelled finally cutting Shawn off, and the word seemed to hold more volume than Gus could usually muster.

Shawn breathed out shakily eyes flying open to stare at himself in the mirror. The bathroom was blanketed in silence for a few minutes, Shawn staring blankly into the mirror and Gus a little shocked at his own outburst, then Shawn laughed. Gus would have found it a relief except for the fact that it wasn’t a nice sounding laugh at all. Not loose and airy, but sharp and hysterical. The sound of it would have raised the hairs on the back of Gus’ neck if such a thing still happened.

“Oh my god, Spencer,” Shawn said to himself and Gus hated the note of despair in the words and the look of pain in his eyes. “You really are loosing it, aren’t you?”

Shawn closed his eyes, dragging a hand down over his face and waved his hand at the bartender. “’Nother shot,” he said roughly.

The bartender gave him a disproving glance but poured another shot regardless sliding it to Shawn with a look that clearly judged his life choices. Gus might agree with the man but he still glared at the bartender all the same because the only one who was allowed to judge Shawn right now was him. Shawn downed the shot with a wince, scrunching his eyes shut and shaking himself like a wet dog. The latest shot glass joined the others with muffled clink, and Shawn waved a hand for another.

“Shawn, that’s enough,” Gus stated crossing his arms and arranging his face into his patented expression of disapproval though Shawn wouldn’t see it.

“I think you’ve had enough, buddy,” the bartender said wiping down the counter with quick efficient strokes.

Shawn glowered at him, leaning heavily against the bar and pointing one stern finger at the man. “Another shot,” he said making sure to enunciate clearly. “Please and thank you.”

The bartender rolled his eyes but obligingly tossed the towel over his shoulder and poured Shawn another shot before passing it over. Shawn knocked it back, twisting his face around as the alcohol slid down his throat and sat the glass down with a solid thunk.

“Okay. That’s it,” Gus said, “you’re done.”

Shawn pinched the bridge of his nose, resting his elbows against the bar. He furrowed his brow almost like he was in pain or the middle of a particularly unpleasant brain-freeze, settling in against the bar as if it was the only thing holding him up at this point.

“Time to go. Chop, chop,” Gus said snapping his fingers. “And no driving for you. Walk or call a cab.”

Shawn’s fingers slid from his nose to his eyes, kneading in deep enough that Gus actually winced in sympathy. He’d been figuring it out, the whole Shawn could hear him from beyond the grave thing. It was all about emotion.

He was certain now that Shawn had been hearing him from the very beginning. Then it had only been in times of distress—when he’d been trashing the Psych office and when he’d almost killed Kenneth. Now, since he’d been practicing, Gus was relatively sure that, although Shawn was insistently ignoring him most of the time, Shawn could always hear him.

“I won’t stop nagging until you leave,” Gus said. “I’ll go Ghost on your ass and sing I’m Henry The Eighth I Am until you leave. You know me, I’m persistent. And I’ve only got more time now that I’m dead so do not test me.”

Gus didn’t know if it was the threat of serenading or the bartender’s glaring, but Shawn did leave and he did walk.

Shawn slowly shook his head, kneading at his temples.

If you have a headache, Shawn, take some Tylenol or something.

Shawn shuddered, moved his hands from his temples to his ears, covering them briefly before dragging fingers through his hair. He let out a shaky breath, swallowing down the growing lump in his throat. Contemplating the bottle of whiskey on the floor in front of him, Shawn sighed and took another gulp wincing slightly as the alcohol burned down his throat.

It wasn’t working today though. Nothing was working anymore.

You really should stop drinking so much. You’re gonna ruin your liver if you keep this up.

Loud and clear and unmistakably the voice of the one person Shawn shouldn’t be hearing anymore. He tried to drown it out. Tried to ignore it. Tried to make himself forget and move on. But no matter what he did, the voice always came back, always kept talking to him. Echoing through the air, reverberating in his head, resonating off some deep spot inside his chest.

It dripped through his mind like an insidious disease, taunting him through all hours of day and night, until it was all he could hear. The rest of world receded, nothing felt real. Like he was going through the motions of life underwater, disconnected from every other living thing on the planet. It was suffocating, crushed his chest until he could scarcely breathe.

You know what you do need? A shower. You reek, man.

Shawn just wanted it to stop.

“Shawn?”

There’s a soft knocking on the door. Shawn registers it on a distant level, far more focused on the cool porcelain beneath his fingers and the harsh drag of overly scented air through his nose to his aching lungs.

“Shawn, man, you okay?”

Yes, Shawn’s mind says though he can’t quite get the word out of his mouth. Yes, his mind says even though he’s clearly not because somehow Shawn has to be okay. He always has to be okay. That’s how the world works. Shit happens, but Shawn is okay.

If Shawn isn’t okay, he’s not sure what might happen.

“Shawn?”

Gus is still knocking. He’s starting to sound more than a little concerned. Shawn tries again to talk. Fails and finds himself sitting on the floor instead, ass aching from where hit the tile and cold seeping in though Shawn thinks he may have been shaking before.

He wants Gus in here with him. He hasn’t had an attack this bad in years, isn’t all surprised that he’s having one now after the day they had, and there’s literally nothing in the world he wants more at the present moment then Gus’ soothing voice counting out his breaths in between repeated reassurances that the world isn’t falling to shit around them.

“Shawn? Shawn, if you don’t answer in the next three seconds I’m coming in.”

Come in, Shawn thinks desperately, fingers buried in his hair and eyes squeezed tightly shut. Come in. Come in. Come in.

The door eases open, and Shawn thinks Gus is far from surprised at what he finds. He says nothing, just shuts the door and slides down to sit on the filthy floor next to Shawn close enough that their shoulders brush. After a moment one hand lands softly on the top of Shawn’s head, pushing down gently until Shawn’s resting his head against his knees still pulling in shaky breaths that leave him feeling winded.

“You got her,” Gus says, voice quiet but sure. “You got her, and everyone is okay. Even you. Breathe in.”

Something was wrong with Shawn.

Really wrong.

It left a sour sense of fear in Gus’ gut, a cloying sense of dread that seeped through his being. Something was wrong with Shawn. He’d gone listless, lifeless, and empty in a way that chilled Gus to his core. Moving through each day with methodical apathy, doing the bare minimum. It was the most un-Shawn like thing ever.

Shawn was still and quiet, two words Gus had never used to describe his friend before. Two words he never wanted to use again if he could help it, but the fact remained regardless.

Something was terribly wrong with Shawn.

“You’re not real!” Shawn yelled as thunder crashed overhead. It tore Gus up to hear how desperate his friend sounded. To hear the note of terror and misery in Shawn’s voice. To know that he was, at least in part, the cause of it.

Shawn backed up several more steps towards the edge of the roof, breaths going short and shallow as they always did when he was on the precipice of a panic attack. “You’re not real! Just leave me alone!”

“Shawn, whatever you need to believe, that’s fine, all right? I’m not real, okay? I’m not,” Gus said. “Just please get off this roof. Please, go back inside.”

Shawn shook his head, clapping his hands over his ears, shifting even closer to the edge. “Go away,” he said pleadingly, “go away, go away, go away, go away.”

Gus’ heart lurched, something panicky and desperate clenching low in his gut. “Shawn, get back from—”

“You’re not real!” Shawn screamed and took one fateful step back. His worn sneaker slipped on the slick metal and he didn’t have time to correct his balance.

“Shawn!” Gus cried reaching out instinctively yet unable to grab Shawn’s arm, hand passing through uselessly as his best friend fell.

Shawn didn’t scream. Didn’t really have time too before he hit the ground several stories below.

“Mr. Spencer!” Gus screams and Shawn thinks he might be a little biased right now but his best friend is being unnecessarily shrill.

“Gus, Gus, Gus,” he says flapping a hand because he thinks it might hurt too much to bobble his head. “Don’t be a shrieking mermaid siren. Take it down a notch.”

Gus promptly ignores him calling again. “Mr. Spencer!”

“Gus,” Shawn whines, and the other boy finally looks sympathetic. “If you want my dad so bad go get him yourself.”

Gus frowns. “Shawn, you’re bleeding out of your head,” he says with such a note of seriousness Shawn feels a little like he’s aged ten years in the last five minutes.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Shawn says and Gus scowls at him, scandalized.

“It is a bad thing, Shawn. You probably have a concussion.” Gus takes a deep breath and that’s Shawn’s only warning before he’s screeching again. “Mr. Spencer, Shawn fell out of the tree!”

There’s the sound of the screen door slamming, heavy footsteps across the porch, and Shawn sighs leaning back against the tree. He resigns himself to a torturous next few hours and slugs Gus in the arm with a muttered, “Tattletale.”

Gus just sniffs and rubs his arm.

It’s July twenty-seventh nineteen eighty-nine and Gus goes with him to the ER for the first time.

Shawn blinked through the water falling gently on his face. He shivered, wincing at the pain even such innocent movement caused. Shivered again and grimaced through it.

Brick walls soared up on either side of him, the black bars of a fire escape crowding the building on the right, and between the two a small strip of storm grey night sky. He was puzzled a long moment before he remembered falling. The slip of his shoe on the fire escape, the sudden sense of weightlessness, and the reverberating cry of his name. A flash of pain and then nothing.

The alley where he’d fallen was dark, cloaked in shadow, and smelled heavily of refuse. The stench of it turned his stomach. He swallowed thickly praying he wouldn’t vomit.

Shawn…

It was still there, he thought absurdly. Echoing on the faint breeze. He closed his eyes and shuddered again.

Shawn, no, don’t close your eyes. You need to stay awake.

No, he didn’t. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. A dark and cold alleyway was a good a place as any to die. He kept his eyes shut, focused on the slip of raindrops over his skin and the coarse grime beneath his fingertips.

Shawn, you just fell two stories. I’m pretty sure you have a concussion. So, do not go to sleep. Shawn!

The voice was starting to make his head pound. Shawn opened his eyes, blinking against the rain that speckled his face. Or maybe the pounding was from cracking his skull off the ground. On second thought it probably was from cracking his skull on the ground.

You’re not supposed to move if you could have spine injury, but…

Not moving sounded like a great idea. It also sounded a lot like sleeping. He let his eyes drift shut again. The rain was actually kind of soothing with his eyes closed.

Hey, no sleeping, remember? Can you get your phone? Call for help?

His phone. His phone was in his pocket. His phone was in his back pocket.

Moving slowly, Shawn inched his fingers underneath his butt, scraping across rough asphalt. He dragged in a harsh breath, whimpering as shifting seemed to tighten something terrible in his chest. His fingers slid across something slick, the edge of his phone case. He drew it out with a trembling hand, falling back against the ground and dropping his phone twice before managing to grasp it enough to bring it up to his face.

Uh oh.

Shawn agreed with the voice; couldn’t help the bubble of laughter that sputtered up from his chest in spite of the sharp sparks of agony it elicited. The sentiment was exactly right. The screen of his iPhone was shattered and there was no light of life when he thumbed the home button. So much for that plan. He dropped the phone, tossing it to the side with a grunt of discomfort at how the motion jostled his arm.

Okay, okay. New plan. Can you move at all?

Shawn thought he’d really just rather not move. Even the slight movement from his breathing was beginning to ache, and the pounding in his head hadn’t lessened any nor had the shivers wracking his body. He was in a ripe little pickle. Had gotten himself well and truly down the rabbit hole into something that was more Between A Rock And A Hard Place than Wonderland.

He laughed again, more a pitiful wheezing huff of air than anything. Gus and Henry had been telling him he’d end up here since they both accepted that no amount of lecturing was going to get him to curb his reckless behavior. Privately Shawn had agreed with them, more than aware that his usual activities had a high probability of landing him injured and alone. But he never thought he’d end up here over an argument with his own mind.

Shawn, can you move? Tell me what hurts.

Everything. Everything hurt. But the sharp pains in his chest and the pounding in his head were probably the worst. He forced his eyes open, unaware he’d even closed them again. Taking several deep breaths, or as deep as he could manage, Shawn rolled over. The action stole his breath away, fire racing along his lungs and stomach lurching threateningly. He buried his face in his arm, dry heaving, shaking, trying to breathe through the pain.

“Fuck,” he whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut and wondering once more if he could just lie down and die. Surely it wouldn’t be that bad.

It took him a few minutes to realize the voice was talking again, echoing around the alley in a never-ending inquisition of if he was okay tinged with a familiar note of panic. He laughed, spitting out what he thought might be bile and hoped wasn’t blood. Gritting his teeth he slid a hand tentatively over the back of his head. The tips of his fingers were coated in red when he pulled them away. He dropped his head to his arm, blocking out the tilt-a-whirl world around him.

Oh my god, Shawn, you’re bleeding.

No shit, Sherlock. No, not Sherlock. Watson. Watson to his Sherlock. No shit, Watson.

The world was still swimming when he opened his eyes again, blurry beyond the rainwater dripping steadily over his face. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and the change in position meant he could feel rain and blood trickling down his neck beneath the collar of his coat and shirt.

It was a good thing he was already pointed towards the opening of the alleyway; if he’d had to turn around he’d probably have given up before even starting. As it was the distance looked insurmountable stretching ahead of him endlessly, only the tiniest glimmer of light at the end.

Okay, okay. You’re doing good, Shawn. You just need to get to the street.

Sucking in a shallow breath Shawn inched himself forward, digging in with his fingers and pushing with his feet. He cried out, only just now aware of a burning agony in his left leg, radiating down from his knee to his foot, pulsating now in tandem with the beating of his heart. Pushing himself a few more desperate inches forward, Shawn tried to keep going, tried to focus on the voice instead of the pain. He collapsed as much as a man already prone on the ground could, grabbing the sleeve of his jacket between his teeth and screaming as the pain rolled through him. Hot tears coursed over his face with the rain, shoulders straining with the effort of moving, and for a moment he was terrified he’d vomit again.

His stomach rolled threateningly as Shawn sobbed into his elbow, painful and wrenching moans that pulled at his aching ribs. He pounded his hand into the asphalt almost welcoming of the sharp bite of pain from the small stones pricking at his skin.

Shawn. Shawn, you’re okay. You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay.

He wanted to laugh again, thankfully didn’t. Settled for shaking his head a little before realizing that was almost as bad as laughing. The notion of being okay was so foreign at this point he wasn't sure he could even fathom it.

After what seemed like an eternity the world settled again, enough that Shawn no longer felt like fire was marching through his veins though he was sure any movement, no matter how slight, would set the agonizing little fire ants off again. The voice shifted its mantra to words of encouragement instead, prompting him to move once more.

The end of the alley didn’t seem any closer, actually seemed farther somehow. He shoved himself forward again, driven by sheer desperation and the chanting voice in his head telling him to live, damnit, live. Shoes scraped along the ground, nails bit into the ground, raked over the asphalt. Each push of his foot brought agony through his body until he was shaking with it and burning from the inside out.

Just a little farther, Shawn, just a little farther. I think I hear people. You’re almost there.

He pressed forward again, twice in quick succession, reached out as the strength seemed to bleed from his muscles with the rain pouring over him. He tried to push once more, scrabbled with his shoe against the pavement, dug his fingers into the grime of the alley. Air fled his lungs, abandoning him in his most dire time of need, washed away by the agony coursing through his veins and leaving him gasping into the ground.

As the world faded he could hear a faint voice echoing against the walls of the alley, frantic as they spoke hurriedly to their companion. “Mare, I think that’s a person,” the woman said. “Oh my god, Mare, call an ambulance.”

But the only voice he focused on was wrapped around him saying, Hang on, Shawn, just hang on.

It turned out there were a lot of ghosts in hospitals. And it turned out that some ghosts were capable of seeing other ghosts while others were not. It also turned out that most ghosts were not concerned with other ghosts, as everyone seemed to have someone living to focus on. Gus certainly wasn’t any different. Even if there was a ghost willing to sit down and have a long chat with him about the afterlife, Gus wouldn’t have left Shawn’s side long enough to do so.

It did turn out, though, that being dead made the waiting process much easier. There was no sitting in the waiting room, no delay in information. As soon as the doctors around Shawn knew something, Gus knew it too. And the waiting for Shawn to wake up after was easier too, his patience having long been tried by being friends with the man in the hospital bed and having only increased since his transition to spectral form.

He let himself fade to half awareness, marking time by the steady beep of Shawn’s heart monitor, existing in a partial state until he felt a shift in the room. Redirecting his attention to Shawn, Gus cast his gaze over the monitors noting nothing of alarm, just a slight increase in heart rate.

“Shawn,” Gus said as the other man groaned and scrunched up his eyes clearly fighting the call of consciousness. “Shawn, you idiot, open your eyes. You’re not dead yet so wake up.”

Shawn moaned again, blinking owlishly and wincing at the bright light. Gus winced with him wishing he could close the blinds. He settled for seating himself in the chair by Shawn’s bed, resting his elbows on his knees. “Welcome back to the land of the living,” he said. “Good to see you awake.”

Shawn slowly blinked again, sweeping his gaze around the room lingering a moment on the chair before continuing on.

“Shawn,” Gus said softly. “Can you hear me?”

Again, Shawn’s gaze flicked to the chair, so quickly Gus almost missed it. He shifted, hand inching towards the call button, fumbling for a moment before pressing it.

“Shawn. Shawn, I’m sorry.”

Shawn turned his head, and when the nurse came in she probably thought he was staring out the window. But Gus knew, hoped, Shawn was looking at him.

His leg still ached, ribs twinged when he twisted wrong, but his head was clear today though he was occasionally plagued by dizzy spells. He’d traveled, slowly in deference to Gus’ mother henning, from Rochester to Maine settling in the costal town of Boothbay Harbor. Gus had protested eighty percent of the way, telling Shawn constantly that he just needed to rest. His friend should be happy Shawn hadn’t just skipped out of the hospital AMA as soon as he could walk without falling over because he’d certainly thought about it. In the end he’d stayed until the doctor’s cleared him to leave then decided to hit the East Coast before heading back west.

You know, I always did want to see the East Coast. Ever since you sent me that letter from Nantucket. Not much different than back home. Maybe a bit different terrain, less sand. It’s nice though.

Shawn let his eyes fall closed feeling the air wash over him carrying with it the distinct smell of ocean. The wind was cool as it tugged gently on his hair and clothes, calming as it wrapped around him. Although the water stretched far beneath and before him the thrumming in his veins was quiet. He was content to simply sit on the edge of the footbridge and watch the waves with no urge to join them.

He twirled the stray blade of grass he snagged on his walk to the bridge between his fingers twisting it this way and that, smoothing his fingertips over the thick blade, still a little damp from the morning dew. The sun was a brilliant yellow on the horizon, bathing the world in a golden glow. There was something about watching a sunrise that settled something deep in his soul, and there was something different about this sunrise. Something special, like a new beginning or maybe, against all traditions, it was an end.

Better yet, maybe it was both. An end and a beginning all in one.

You know you can’t hide away forever, Shawn, right? You have to go home.

Shawn let out a careful breath that misted slightly in the chill morning air, and for the first time he replied, “I know.”

"You'll come back though, right?" Gus asks. They're sitting at the end of the pier, feet dangling out over the water as they watch the sunrise, and Shawn's bus is leaving in hour. "After you finish whatever this is," Gus continues. "You're coming home to stay?"

Shawn purses his lips and squints into the budding sunlight glaring off the water. He thinks about trying to explain the itchy sense of restlessness that builds up under his skin whenever he stays in one place for too long. How his mind starts going faster and faster, the pressure building and building, until he finally caves and takes to the road to relieve it. Thinks about explaining the sense of freedom and joy that flow so easily through him when he's on the road with no clear idea of where he is or where he's going. How he finds the truest meaning of happiness for himself when he's in a random bar at two in the morning trading stories with other people struck like him with wanderlust. Thinks about explaining that, to him, the road is home and Santa Barbara is just Gus.

He doesn't explain though, because Gus won't understand. Gus can't understand. The wanderlust burning through Shawn's veins is absent in Gus, so he doesn't get it.

"Of course," Shawn says knocking his shoulder into Gus' with an easy grin. "You know I'll come back for you."

It's not the truth, but it's also not a whole lie. Because if anyone could get him to stay in one place for more than a few weeks, it'd be Gus.

Winnie Guster was bustling about her kitchen making tea as she did every morning when she heard a tentative knock on the door. She frowned wondering who it could be at this still fairly early hour before setting the tea kettle aside and heading for the foyer. As she approached she could hear hushed talking, as if those on the other side of the door were arguing, that fell silent when she turned the knob. She was surprised, then, to only see one person as she swung the door open.

Specifically, one man.

Even more specifically, that man was Shawn Spencer.

She was struck speechless for a moment, had a feeling Shawn felt the same as neither of them said anything at first. She hadn’t seen Shawn since Burton had passed. Actually she hadn’t seen Shawn since a week or so before Burton had passed—not since that last somewhat disastrous dinner Burton had brought Shawn too—because the other boy hadn’t deigned to attend the funeral. At one point that thought had caused a bitter wave of resentment to roll over her; she could well remember the hot flash of fury that had coursed through her veins along with stinging grief when it had been apparent the Spencer boy wasn’t going to show. Remembered also the pinched expression of anger and worry Henry had worn for the remainder of the service, the chair he’d saved next to him remaining empty.

Time had lessened the hurt she’d felt at Shawn’s absence though it hadn’t been easy and it certainly wasn’t gone. Looking at Shawn now though, meekly standing in her doorway with an anxious expression and fidgeting hands nearly hidden under the too long sleeves of his baggy coat, it was obvious that wherever he’d gone the time hadn’t exactly been kind to him either.

“Hi,” he finally said twisting his hands together and shifting his weight from foot to foot. Winnie opened her mouth to return the greeting—if he was making the effort then she should as well—but Shawn continued talking, blurting out his words like it was physically painful to try and hold them in. “I’m sorry.”

Reflexively Winnie almost asked what he was sorry for, but bit her tongue at the last moment. A dismissal of his apology rose next, but she pushed that down too because she couldn’t tell him it was all right or okay when it wasn’t.

“I’m sorry,” Shawn repeated, blinking and letting his gaze skitter away, never focusing on anything for more than a few seconds. “Sorry for…for Gus.” His voice caught, eyes falling shut as he ducked his head a little, sucking in a deep breath and speaking once more before Winnie could gather an appropriate response to that. “For getting him involved in all this. I’m sorry that I never returned your call and that I missed the funeral. I'm sorry for showing up now out of the blue. And I’m sorry for what I’m going to say next because I know that it’s going to be hard, really hard, for you to believe, and I told him I didn’t think this was the best idea. But he’s apparently decided to channel Sam Wheat, and he’s just so goddamn persistent. And even I can’t stand to listen to eight thousand renditions of I’m Henry The Eighth I Am although his smooth tenor does make it quite enjoyable.”

Winnie eased back a bit as Shawn rambled through his speech, looking more and more anxious as he spoke. The words were falling out of his mouth almost faster than he could say them, gaze landing on her with a desperate sort of apprehension. She thought, for one crazy second, that she understood what he was saying, a small voice speaking up from the back of her mind telling her to listen to him. But reality came rushing back and as soon as the next words were out of Shawn’s mouth Winnie was pushing the door closed.

“Gus wants to talk to you.”

The last glimpse she got of Shawn’s face was a look of surprise and bitter resignation. Her heart was pounding hard in her chest and despite her efforts to be a good woman, a good mother to her dead son, somewhere inside her heart something broke at the thought that Shawn could play such a cruel joke on her.

“Mrs. Guster, please,” Shawn said, not speaking overly loud like he knew she was still standing on the other side of the door. There was a whisper in her mind, a voice reminding her that the boy was supposed to be psychic, and if there was even a chance then she should take it. But a larger, more rational part, told her it had to be a farce.

“I know how this sounds, okay? I know it sounds crazy. Completely crazy, and believe me when I say I did my fair share of questioning my own sanity these last couple months because I…it’s never been like this before. But I’m not crazy, at least no more than usual, and Gus really, really wants to talk to you.”

Winnie pressed a hand to her mouth closing her eyes against the desire and fervent wish for Shawn’s words to be true. She leaned against the door, feeling it shift a little as Shawn did the same. He was speaking quieter now, words meant to be heard just between the two of them.

“He says you were the last person he talked to,” Shawn said. “That he was on the phone with you right before Kenneth abducted him. He says you had a fight.”

She blinked the tears away, reminding herself that all this was what she’d told the police. It wasn’t farfetched to believe Shawn had been told about it before he left and it certainly wasn’t proof of anything.

“He says you were arguing and that before he hung up on you, which he apologizes for by the way, you asked him a question. He says he didn’t answer the question then, but the answer is yes. Irrevocably and unequivocally yes, and he doesn’t regret a thing because…I am who I am,” Shawn sounded faintly confused as he said that, as if he didn’t quite understand the impact of the words, trailing off a little before finishing. “Gus just wishes you were for him as well.”

Tears were rolling down her cheeks unbidden now. It was a loosing battle; one she didn’t care to fight anymore. Her heart ached, almost painfully so, a mass of swirling emotions too complex to contemplate rushing through her. She hadn’t specified that in her statement. There’d been no point to tell the police what they’d been fighting about, certainly no point to mention the question that she’d resigned herself to never knowing the answer to.

Shawn was quiet behind her, having said what he came to say apparently. She’d almost think he’d left if she couldn’t feel his presence still, like a warm energy seeping through her. Hardly able to believe what she was doing, Winnie slowly turned around and opened the door. Gradually at first, just enough to see Shawn’s face. His eyes were wet with unshed tears too, and there was a deeper hint of pain and understanding that spoke volumes to how much he had changed in the last few months.

Why this boy, she thought as she considered him. And that had always been the question when it came to Shawn. Why did Burton choose him all those years ago? Why did Burton stick by his side through all the stunts he pulled and trouble he got them in? Why was he the one with the ability to bear such a message? Why did he get to live when her son did not?

Why this boy?

She’d asked Burton that very question so many times over the years. Why this boy? Burton’s answer had never once changed. Because he’s Shawn, her son would say as if it was the simplest explanation in the world. And to him, perhaps, it had been that simple.

Shawn smiled, hesitant but genuine. “What…what was the question?” he asked softly.

Winnie laughed, swiping once more at her eyes before clasping the door and leaning against it as she answered, smiling through the tears. “I asked him…I asked him if he was happy.”

Juliet sighed kneading at her temples and wishing it would actually help alleviate the building headache. Her and Lassiter, hell the whole department really, had been up for the last seventy-two hours working on the missing person case and for good reason. A kidnapped child was no light matter. The little boy—Michael Jacobson—had gone missing at a family wedding and the father was positively distraught.

“We have to be missing something,” Juliet said refocusing tired eyes on the board of information before her. Lassiter just grunted; he was due for another cup of coffee soon. Come to think of it so was she, although she questioned whether or not it would be beneficial for her headache. Probably not. Then again, maybe the caffeine would help.

She scanned the information before her once more, not for the first time wishing they had a pair of fresh eyes around to look at it from a different perspective. Each minute that ticked by on the clock was another minute a child was lost, and Juliet was ready to grasp at any and all straws to figure it out and get the boy back home.

“It’s the mother,” a voice said from behind them.

It was unbecoming of detectives to jump, especially in their own police department, but both Juliet and Lassiter did just that. Twisting around Juliet was speechless at the sight of Shawn leaning against her desk while casually flipping through a case file.

“Shawn!” Juliet gasped.

Unsurprisingly, Lassiter didn’t even greet the psychic. Just said bluntly, “Don’t you think we would have checked the mother thoroughly?"

“Most child abductions, especially when the parents are separated, are perpetrated by the parent that does not have custody,” Shawn said and Juliet hadn’t imagined the way he sounded just a little bit off. She didn’t want to describe it as calm because Shawn had always been a buzzing and vibrant ball of vigor, but it fit. Shawn was still in every sense of the word; even the underlying thrum of energy that had always been present before was gone. He took several steps towards them, limping slightly. Juliet glanced towards her partner wondering if he’d noticed; the faint crease between his eyebrows told her he had.

Shawn flipped the case file shut and dropped it on Lassiter’ desk with a loud slap, fixing the Head Detective with a pointed look that lacked all usual melodramatic flare. “The reason you didn’t find anything when you checked the mom is because the aunt helped. The boy’s in Oregon.”

“Is he okay?” Juliet asked a wave of relief barreling through her.

Shawn shrugged. “Yeah, probably.”

“The spirits not telling you that part?” Lassiter asked, crossing his arms with a glare.

Shawn sighed, ducking his head a moment before looking back up and offering Juliet and Lassiter a faint smile. “The spirits say he’s fine. The mom doesn’t want to hurt him. In fact, the spirits say he’s probably been spoiled.”

“Detectives, need I remind you that—” Chief Vick started crossing the room towards them. She swept her gaze over the three of them, cutting her own sentence off when she spotted Shawn. “Mr. Spencer, I wasn’t aware you were back in town.”

“Well, I am,” Shawn said shrugging, a slow and gentle roll of his shoulders coupled with the faintest of winces. “And now you’re aware.”

“I’m sure Henry is pleased,” Vick said after a moment before turning back to Juliet and Lassiter. “Now, where are you two on the case? Any progress?”

“Actually, Chief,” Juliet said sending Shawn an appreciative look. “I think Shawn’s solved it.”

“Did he now?” Chief asked running a calculating gaze over the psychic. “Well?”

“Spencer believes it was the mother,” Lassiter explained somewhat grudgingly. “And that we missed her initially because she had help from the estranged aunt. The boy is, apparently, in Oregon.”

Chief Vick nodded. “Okay, let’s check it out,” she said then turned to Shawn, offering him a slightly fond smile. “Good to have you back, Mr. Spencer.”

Henry sighed leaning against the kitchen counter as he watched his steaks sizzle in the pan before him. There were two, a habit he’d started in the weeks following Gus’ death and hadn’t yet broken himself of on the off chance that one day he might need both of them. He’d just turned the steaks over, reducing the heat beneath the skillet to just barely cooking to get them nice and tender, when he heard it—the telltale and throaty rumble of a motorcycle pulling up outside his house and cutting off.

Ever practical, he stamped down on ridiculously soaring hopes even as he headed towards the front door. He was only a few steps away when a tentative knock sounded, and he yanked the door open after the second rap of knuckles on wood.

His son stood on the other side, one hand still raised as if to knock again and eyes wide in surprise. He looked good. A little thinner, a lot more worn, but alive and whole and, most importantly, standing on Henry’s porch.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Shawn,” he said, shocked and relieved, staring for a moment that probably wasn’t as long as it seemed before pushing himself into motion. He wasn’t a particularly tactile person, never had been, but this was one occasion where he allowed himself to reach out and embrace his son. Shawn hesitated then returned the hug, wrapping his arms around Henry’s back and tucking his face against his father’s shoulder, seeming almost to deflate a bit in Henry’s grip.

Henry gave him one last squeeze, running a hand through his hair and pressing a quick kiss to his temple before he could overthink it. Shawn seemed astonished at that, but quickly masked it with an oddly self-conscious grin as he stepped back. He shifted his weight, clearly deliberating on what to say next.

“So, is that offer for steak still on the table? Or was that a limited time only thing?”

There was a flash of relief in his eyes when Henry wordlessly stepped aside opening the door wider for Shawn to come in, and it yanked on something painfully deep within Henry’s chest.

As if his answer could have ever been anything other than yes.

On October fourteenth Shawn commented absently, “A phase three trial is a double blind trial, meaning there has to be at least two administrators. That way the test group can have a different administrator than the placebo group.”

Carlton frowned, both at the unexpected insight and the straightforward way the information was delivered. Shawn had been overall more subdued since returning to work though at times it seemed like nothing had changed, but every now and again it was as if they were talking to a different person.

“How’d you know that?” O’Hara asked curiously.

Shawn blinked, almost like he was coming back to himself before murmuring, “Gus told me.”

“So you’re saying she lied?” Carlton said sharing a glance with O’Hara and letting the odd answer to her question pass without remark.

Shawn nodded peeking at the papers that were spread out over the tables. “There has to be another research technician,” he confirmed still infuriatingly passive.

Carlton pursed his lips and simply gave a sharp nod of his own. “Nice insight, Spencer.”

On November eighth Henry outwardly rolled his eyes and scowled, but internally a weight was lifting off him and he had to hide a smile as Shawn awed the police department’s most gullible rookies and even some of the more seasoned skeptics with a rapid fire game of How Many Fingers Am I Holding Up.

“Four,” Shawn said, signature hand to his head and eyes seemingly closed for a more complete psychic effect. Another wave of surprise and disbelief rippled through the crowd gathered behind McNab as the officer once again switched the number of fingers.

“Five. One. Three,” Shawn rattled off sounding almost bored. “Three. Still three. Two. Four.”

If pressed Henry would admit to being mildly impressed himself as he wasn’t entirely sure how the kid was doing it. He assumed Shawn had some way to watch a reflection and his eyes weren’t fully closed however it appeared, but Henry was at a loss as to where exactly Shawn was looking. Whatever his method, though, it was startlingly effective.

“Four again. One. Seven. Hey, who said you could add a second hand? We disprove.” A slight pause, a faint grin, eyes still closed, then softly, “I’ve heard it both ways.”

On December twenty-second Juliet was doubled over with laughter, clutching at her stomach as Shawn grinned inanely from where he was perched on top of her desk, still as averse to sitting in the chair Gus used to claim as ever.

“You can’t be serious,” she gasped just barely managing to not drop her chopsticks or container of sweet and sour chicken. “That’s not how you figured it out.”

Shawn quieted, grin fading but still very much present as he shook his head. “Naw, that’s not how.”

“So tell me the truth,” Juliet prompted. “How did you know?”

Shawn paused, expression going somber and for a moment Juliet regretted pushing the issue. Then he ducked his head smiling ruefully, and something eased in her chest. “Gus told me,” he said poking at his own food.

Juliet blinked for the first time considering exactly what he meant by that. He’d been saying things like that off and on throughout cases since he came back, and Juliet had always assumed he meant Gus had told him sometime before. But this time was different because there was no way Gus could have told him before. “Wait,” she said mind struggling just for a moment to grasp the idea, “do you mean…”

Shawn arched an eyebrow, raising a hand to his head. “Gus says to stop being an undercooked pineapple upside-down cake.”

“He did not!” Juliet exclaimed and perhaps that wasn’t the best way to respond, but it seemed to work because Shawn just chuckled.

“No, he didn’t,” the psychic admitted. “But he does say hi and would like me to tell you that he thinks your haircut looks nice.”

Juliet set her food aside, running a hand through her hair and glancing around surreptitiously even though she knew there was nothing to see. “He’s here right now? You can see him?” she asked.

Again Shawn shook his head looking pensive. “I can’t see him. I just hear him. Feel him. It’s the…strongest connection I’ve ever had,” he said with a hint of wryness. “He’s the Sam Wheat to my Oda Mae Brown.”

Juliet smiled, a rush of warmth flowing through her on behalf of her friend. “That’s amazing.”

“Yeah,” Shawn said faintly. “It really is.”

On March third two thousand eleven Shawn stood outside the First National bank on Fifth Street, hand to his head while Karen, O’Hara, and Lassiter waited beside him. Commander Luntz stood nearby as well, arms crossed and expression sour, not at all happy to have been sidelined for the moment in exchange for the SBPD’s “Head Psychic.”

Shawn blinked, lowering his hand slightly and reciting off, “Fourteen hostages, nine women and five men. Two armed suspects, both men. One’s about six feet, broad shouldered, has an accent. It’s…Eastern, from Maine or Massachusetts. The other’s slighter, about five-five, shoulder length blonde hair. His name is Kevin. They’re after something valuable in one of the safety deposit boxes. Definitely pros, they’ve done this before. They’re not going to negotiate, they have plan to get out.” He paused, eyes falling shut again for a moment before opening. “The bank has a shared wall with the travel agency behind it. They’ll bust through that, access the basement, and make their escape through the sewers.”

Karen smirked glancing at Luntz and appropriately smug at the look of stunned disbelief on his face. She turned back to her resident psychic offering him an approving nod. “Nice work, Mr. Spencer.”

Shawn slid his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels as he offered her a small smile and said, “Well, we do what we can.”