by pebble/scifipony
Fandom: Psych
Characters: Shawn Spencer, Burton Guster, Juliet O'Hara, Carlton Lassiter, Buzz McNabb
Tags: AU, Angst, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery, Team As Family, Fluff
Story Warnings: Contains a character with a recent disability, and several discussions around that. Also contains many discussions and explorations into the topic of mental health and trauma.
Chapter Warnings: None
Words: 2,945
Author's Notes: n/a
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"Hey, we're here."
Shawn jerked awake, heart thudding painfully and breath rapid. The first thing he became aware of was the fact that his environment was wrong. He wasn't in his bed, or even on the living room couch. Based off the smell, it wasn't his house at all.
"Sorry for waking you," an unfamiliar voice came from nearby — too close. "We're at the address you gave me. Hey, you okay?"
That annoyingly perfect memory of his finally kicked into gear and reminded him that he'd taken a taxi from the police station.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." He nodded towards the driver, feeling a rush of embarrassment over his momentary panic. "Thanks."
Grabbing his cane and Remington's leash, he stepped out onto the sidewalk. Away from the stale air of the cab — with its lingering collection of odors from the many passengers it'd carried — he paused to take a deep breath. The sound of the taxi driving away faded as it left the area.
There was a nearby sound of someone mowing their lawn, and a few birds squawking in a tree to his left, but nothing out of the ordinary as far as he could tell. He wondered if that patrol car Warren had promised was already in the neighborhood. A moment later, he dismissed the thought. He was not going to let himself get paranoid about this.
All the tension drained out of his form as he stepped over the threshold into familiar territory. Inside, every scent and sound was home. Every bit of it catalogued many times in his eidetic brain. This was the one place where he didn’t have to be on full alert. There were no surprises here, beyond the occasional household items set out of place. Even that was uncommon, since he and Juliet had made it a habit to keep things in the same locations; from dishes in the cabinets to where the towels were hung, he always knew where to find everything.
Shawn hated the term ‘safe space’ — most likely some lingering influence of Henry’s — but that was the best way he had of describing their home. At least in his own mind. He’d never say it out loud.
Letting Remington into the backyard to run free for a while, Shawn headed toward the bathroom. He could still smell the musty odors from the cab on himself. He knew most people wouldn’t even notice it, but he didn’t like having unfamiliar smells on himself or in his environment. It set his nerves on edge. He supposed he owed Gus an apology for how he used to make fun of the super sniffer.
The shower was relaxing, soothing away the tension that had built inside him at the station. By the time he stepped out of the hot water, his fingers were pruning slightly but he felt immensely better.
He rubbed a hand over the bathroom mirror, the condensed moisture that had fogged over the glass causing it to squeak. His fingers skimmed over the surface, wondering about the invisible image it held.
Shawn had never seen his own face — at least, not the version he now wore. He could form a mental image from exploratory touches and the medical reports, but there was no way to confirm how accurate his imagination was. He’d never had it in him to ask anyone. It was the strangest feeling, not being sure how he appeared to other people. Shawn had never considered himself vain about his appearance (okay, fine, maybe a little vain, at least where his hair was concerned) but it did unsettle him somewhat to know that people would take one look at him and see the evidence of everything he’d gone through.
Well, not everything. Some scars run too deep to be visible. And he found those ones tend to hurt far more than the physical ones.
Shawn sighed and wiped the rest of the moisture off the mirror, trying and failing to force the memories away.
The most frightening experience of his life had been waking up in that hospital bed, opening his eyes... and seeing nothing. The second most frightening moment was having the doctor use the phrase "permanent condition" while giving him the prognosis.
The frustrating part was having to repeatedly hear how fortunate he was, and how much worse it could have been. As if that somehow made it any better.
He knew he should be grateful that he could walk again, despite the doctors being sure he wouldn't. Or that he'd mostly regained fine motor skills in his hands. Or the fact that he was still alive at all.
And most days he was beyond grateful for all of those things.
All in all, he thought he'd adjusted fairly well — after he’d finally stopped being stubborn about it and learned to accept his new reality. Enough good things had come out of this past year to help offset the tragedies. And, most days, he did feel as fortunate as everyone said he was supposed to be.
But some days...
Shawn's fingers tightened their grip on the sink's edge, his head ducking despite the fact he couldn't actually see the guilt reflecting back at him.
Because some days weren't that easy.
Some days, he thought about how he'd never be free of this dark prison, and it terrified him.
Some days, he hated the fact that his legs weren't strong enough to go for a run or grip onto his motorcycle; his fingers dextrous enough to pick a lock; his reaction time as fast as it used to be.
Some days, the desire to actually see his wife’s beautiful smile ached in his chest. And the thought of the friends he’d lost along the way left him impossibly lonely.
Some days, he simply missed seeing the sunrise.
And there had been a few days, a few very bad days back at the beginning, when he'd almost wished he hadn't made it out of that warehouse.
Shawn's eyes squeezed shut and he took a steadying breath.
Anger bubbled inside. Anger at not being able to stop those thoughts from swirling through his mind. He knew he had no right to complain after how lucky he'd been to survive at all. And, given his "gift", he knew he was a lot better off than most people in his situation. In a way, he'd been prepared for this sort of scenario more thoroughly than anyone could have asked for.
He simultaneously had the best and worst luck of anyone he knew.
He'd survived against impossible odds, but let down everyone who mattered to him in the process. He was married to an amazing person, but left constantly feeling like the lesser half of that pairing. And he had a wonderful job, but it wasn't the one he'd lost.
It all sounded so ungrateful and self-centered when he ran over it in his head. He could easily imagine what his father would have to say about this sort of pity party.
"Suck it up and stop moping, Shawn. Luck has nothing to do with it. Spencers make their own luck."
Really? Shawn thought, a bitter taste rising in the back of his throat. Then what exactly did I do to create this mess?
Only the gentle hum of the air conditioning answered him back. He was secretly glad. He didn't need anyone to point out the obvious to him — he already knew what he'd done to deserve this.
Shaking his head, Shawn forced all of it into that dark corner of his mind where it could be ignored until the next bad day.
He had more important things to be worrying about at the moment.
And if he was an expert in anything, it was compartmentalizing his emotions. Or ignoring them altogether when they were too inconvenient. It got him through a childhood with Henry Spencer, his parents’ divorce, and those rough few years after he'd first left Santa Barbara.
Dealing with this should be a breeze in comparison.
The landline was ringing as Shawn reentered the living room. Assuming it to be someone from the station, he scooped up the handset and answered as he headed for the kitchen.
There was no response for a long minute. Shawn almost assumed he’d hit the wrong button when answering, but he was sure he could hear some noise from the other end. He was ready to hang up when a garbled voice grated over the line.
“Shawn. So good to hear your voice again.”
The voice was distorted — the part of his brain that refused to ever fully shut off dimly told him that it was being electronically altered — but he had no doubt in his mind who it was.
Hand gripping the phone tighter, he ground out, “What do you want?”
“Aw, what’s the matter, Shawn? You don’t sound happy to hear from me. And after all this time apart.”
“Oh, you know how it goes,” Shawn shot back, tone flippant despite the fire burning through his veins. “Once you run into enough psychopaths, it’s hard to keep in touch with all of them. Plus, I tend to take people off my Christmas card list after watching them die in a fiery explosion.”
There was an amused laugh, sounding bizarre and tinny under the distortion. “Now that’s more like the psychic I remember. Wasn’t sure you would still be your old self, after seeing how much has changed for you.”
“Well, thanks for checking in. Nice to know you care.”
“Of course. I couldn’t leave things the way they were between us. You still have something I want.” After a brief pause, the voice added, “You look tired, though. Maybe we should continue this conversation on a better day for you.”
The line disconnected, but Shawn didn’t move. Breath coming fast, he struggled against the rising anxiety. Adrenaline flooded his system, leaving him nauseated and warning of worse things to come if he didn’t get it under control. But he couldn’t think. Not with those last sentences echoing repeatedly through his head.
Trevor was here. Somewhere close by, if he was able to see him during the phone call. But how close? He couldn’t possibly be inside the house right now, could he?
Shawn strained his ears, but couldn’t hear anything past the rapid pounding of his own heart.
“Remy,” Shawn called out, ignoring the way his voice cracked. “C’mere, buddy.”
The sick feeling in his stomach doubled as he realized he’d left the dog in the backyard before his shower. He stumbled his way toward the sliding glass doors, hissing as his side slammed into the kitchen island. A toe throbbed angrily as it came into contact with what he assumed was a chair.
He was almost there, ready to unlock the door and throw it open, when his steps faltered. What if Trevor wasn’t inside, but waiting outside instead? It made a lot more sense for that to be the case. And unlocking the doors when a killer might be waiting outside seemed like an insanely bad idea.
Caught undecided, Shawn gripped the phone again in frustration. The idea that his enemy might be right there, possibly standing only a few feet away on the other side of the glass door, and he had no way of knowing for sure… Shawn had never felt so helpless.
Snap out of it, he ordered himself. Standing here, letting himself freak out, was accomplishing nothing. Worse, it was letting Trevor win. He couldn’t let him get inside his head. Not again.
His thumb rubbed over the buttons on the phone, seeking out the correct digits for the police station.
“Santa Barbara Police Department,” the desk sergeant’s voice greeted him.
“This is Shawn Spencer. I need to speak with Detective Thomas Warren,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound as breathless as he felt.
Seconds crawled by as he waited for the call to be transferred. Finally, a new voice came on the line.
“Mr Spencer? What can I do for you?”
Shawn frowned. He was sure that wasn’t Warren on the other end. It took him a moment to place the voice. “Padilla?”
“Yes,” the young detective responded. “Detective Warren is out of the station right now. I can tell him you called, though. Is this about the break in?”
“Sort of,” Shawn muttered, mulling over the situation. Padilla had been relatively new on the force when they were first investigating the Trevor case, but at least he knew the important details. “I just got a phone call from the guy.”
“A threatening call?”
“You could say that.” He paused a brief moment before deciding he’d might as well say it. “It was Stephen Trevor.”
A much longer pause answered him back. “You’re sure?” Padilla finally asked, doubt heavy in his tone. “You recognized his voice?”
“Well, the voice was distorted. But it was definitely him.” Maybe this hadn’t been such a great idea after all. “Look, can I talk to Chief Lassiter?”
“The chief is busy,” came the curt response. “Look, Spencer, you know as well as we do that Trevor is dead. And I’d be careful about trying to drag that case back out of storage. You don’t want to be stirring back up that kind of bad blood so soon after it settled. Just let us find your burglar and stay out of it. As long as you’re not in any immediate danger, I’ll pass word along to the patrol officer stationed at your house. Warren will be getting in touch with you later for your statement. Okay?”
Shawn deflated slightly, feeling the previous fear and anger leak out of him, replaced with a familiar hollowness. “Yeah, got it. Have him call my cell when he does. I can come in when he’s ready for that statement.”
To his credit, Padilla managed a polite goodbye before hanging up.
Shawn lowered the phone. That… could have gone better.
He couldn’t honestly say he was surprised, though. Over a year after that investigation had closed, there was still plenty of ill will between him and the department. It was one of the reasons he tended to steer clear of the place when he wasn’t there specifically to visit Juliet. Despite his best attempts at rebuilding bridges, there were some wounds that even time couldn’t fully heal.
He lifted the phone again, intending to call Lassiter instead, but hesitated. He tossed it onto the counter instead.
This wasn’t him.
He didn’t go running to the authorities every time something bad happened to him. Only a few years ago, he would have laughed at someone suggesting that he simply hand the case over to the police and sit back to wait for them to solve it. So why was he so comfortable with that idea now? Why was he letting Detective Warren plow through his old case files for a lead when he already knew who was responsible for this? And it was the one suspect the police weren’t willing to even consider.
He knew he’d still need to make a full report to the police about this. They might want to monitor or trace any more calls he received. And he wasn’t opposed to the idea of a squad car keeping watch outside the house for a while.
But that didn’t mean he had to sit this out. Not when he knew Trevor better than anyone.
A hard lump stuck in his throat at what he was considering.
Sixteen months. It’d been over sixteen months since he last worked a case.
He’d promised himself he would never do it again. And not only himself — that promise had been made for everyone he’d let down last time he went up against Stephen Trevor and lost. Could he really break that promise now?
A scratching at the glass nearly had him jumping out of his skin.
“A warning bark would’ve been appreciated,” he commented as he opened the sliding door and knelt down to ruffle Remington’s fur. The warm tongue in his face helped ease some of the anxiety prickling under his skin.
“Remy,” he said, burying his face in the thick fur. “I’m about to do something incredibly stupid, and you’re going to help me.” The dog whined, tail swishing as he pushed in closer, allowing his human friend to cling tight for as long as he needed. Shawn appreciated the warm presence, and the fact that Remington hugs came entirely judgement-free.
Taking a deep breath, he pushed back to his feet, wishing he hadn’t left his cane near the door. “Congratulations, buddy, you’ve now been promoted to Assistant Investigator. But don’t you dare tell your mom about this.”
He reached over to the counter, avoiding slamming any body parts this time, and retrieved the phone.
“As good as I’m sure you’ll be at catching bad guys, I am going to have to call in some backup. Sorry, Remy. This case requires an experienced sleuth.”
He punched in the phone number, hoping it was still current.
Rubbing at his sore leg, Shawn mentally reminded himself to breathe as he listened to the phone ringing. He couldn’t believe he was actually going to do this. But past experience had taught him that it was often better to dive into these things before he had a chance to talk himself out of it.
The line finally connected. “Hello, Burton Guster speaking. How can I help you?”
“Gus,” Shawn greeted, an achingly familiar excitement starting to take root. “Any chance your afternoon is free? I’ve got a little field trip for us.”
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