by pebble/scifipony
Fandom: Psych
Characters: Shawn Spencer, Juliet O'Hara
Pairings: Established Shawn/Juliet
Words: 1,718
Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Shawn Whump
Warnings: Implied past torture, Heavily implied conditioning/brainwashing, PTSD
Author's Notes: Originally posted to Tumblr in May 2020 as part of the Bad Things Happen Bingo challenge. Previously archived on FFN and SquidgeWorld. Archived here on Jan 9th, 2025.
His eyes flew open and immediately latched onto the dark figure hovering over him. The next thing he registered was the hand gripping his arm.
How had he let himself fall asleep?
He threw a punch at his attacker and felt his hand connect solidly with their face. There was a surprised cry of pain and they pulled back. Seizing the opening, he grabbed their wrists and rolled over to swap their positions. Now his opponent was the one pinned down. One of his arms came up to press against their throat. It would only take a bit of pressure...
"Shawn!"
The desperate cry finally cut through the haze. It registered in his brain as being completely wrong; something far removed from the scenario playing out in his mind. Then recognition slammed into him like a freight train.
He wasn't there at all. He was at home, in his own bed. And there wasn't anyone attacking him.
A completely different type of fear washed through him as he sprang away from the form lying helplessly underneath him. She pushed herself up into a sitting position, back against the headboard. Her hand held her cheek as she watched him warily.
He wanted to say something to reassure her that he was out of it now — that she didn't have to worry about him retaliating again if she came closer. He wanted to tell her he was okay. The words died before they made it past his vocal cords. How could he say something that was so obviously not true? He was far from okay.
The darkness of the room bled tension as the two figures sat on opposite ends of the bed, both struggling to calm their breathing.
Thanks to his annoyingly perfect memory, he was capable of replaying those last few minutes with complete accuracy. She'd been trying to help him. She was only trying to calm him down — talk him down from his nightmare — and he'd hurt her. He would have done far worse if she hadn't snapped him out of it in time.
How had everything in his life gone so wrong? A few months ago, he couldn't have been more happy or content. If only he'd known how much that would change, he never would have agreed to that last case.
The sad thing was that he had actually been eager to take on the assignment. He'd been excited at the prospect of going undercover. While it was far from the first time doing so, it was one of the few SBPD-sanctioned undercover operations. And it had been going so well. It only took a few days to integrate himself into the gang's inner circle. He'd always had a particular talent making people trust him; it was part of the reason he'd pulled off the psychic charade for so long.
The first sign that things were getting too heavy was when one of the gang members turned up dead under disturbing circumstances. Everyone realized that something more than typical gang activity was going on; whatever these people were involved in, it was bad. But he knew he could get some concrete answers if he just stuck with it a bit longer.
Then one rookie with a big mouth had ruined everything. His cover was blown before anyone knew what was happening. It took fifteen days for the SBPD to even locate him, let alone trying to get him out. When Lassiter half-carried him out of that building, almost three weeks after his cover was blown, he was completely convinced he was hallucinating the whole rescue.
He felt terrible for the two officers he'd hurt that day. They were trying to help him, but they didn't identify themselves quickly enough and had moved in exactly the wrong way. Thankfully, they were only superficial injuries. It was Lassiter who finally managed to talk him down and get him out of that place.
But that should have been the end of it, right? A short stint in the hospital and he should have been back to normal. He should have been limping through the front doors of the station with a pineapple in hand and a carefree smile on his face. He should have been bragging to the officers about how he still managed to gather enough intel against the gang to ensure they wouldn't see daylight ever again. It should have been over.
Only it could never really be over as long as that voice was still present in his mind. No one around him was safe.
"Shawn," Juliet's voice called to him. "Please talk to me. I need to know what's going on in there, okay?"
He almost laughed. How can I tell you what's going on inside when I don't have a freaking clue?
She moved closer and he shifted so that he was looking at the floor instead of her. He wasn't afraid of seeing judgement on her face, the silent accusation for his weakness. No, he was afraid of seeing that look of pity that everyone had been sending his way ever since... Seeing that look from her right now would definitely push him over the ledge he'd been balancing on for almost two months.
Has it really been that long already?
Yes, the math added up when he ran through it in his head.
Two months since he'd last stepped foot in the station.
Two months since he last worked a case.
Two months since his last genuine smile.
Two months since he truly felt like himself — since he felt whole.
A hand rested on his arm. He wanted to pull away, but couldn't bear to lose that comforting presence.
"Hey, please look at me a minute." Her voice was so soft and patient. And it remained that way even when the plea became a more firm command in the next statement, "Shawn, look at me."
He tore his eyes from the floor and rested them on her face. There wasn't any of the pity he'd been afraid to find there. No accusation, either. Only concern and understanding. And somehow that was worse.
He wanted to drag himself away from her. He wanted to walk out the door and stay away. But he couldn't. Those concerned blue eyes were like a lifeline, pulling him away from the edge.
Then his eyes tracked down her face to the bruise beginning to form on her cheek. It was perfectly matched to the size and shape of his hand.
Fear and disgust roiled through him, pushing out everything else. He wrenched free of her grasp and slid further to the end of the bed, out of her reach.
"Stay away from me," he whispered angrily. "I'm a monster."
Anger flared in her own eyes as she snapped back, "No, you're not. You're funny and sweet and the most compassionate man I've ever met."
"Maybe before. But now—"
"But nothing," she cut him off. "You're still the same person I fell in love with."
"You know that's not true. I changed. They changed me."
She couldn't deny that statement. The visible scars were few in comparison to the way he'd been altered under the surface.
"Jules, we can't keep doing this. This is the third time this week. What if I really hurt you next time? I can't take that chance. I can't make you go through this anymore."
He slid one leg off the bed, ready to stand up and walk out of the room. Until her voice anchored him to the blankets.
"You're not making me do anything. I chose to be with you, and I haven't changed that decision. We'll figure this out. Understand? We will figure this out."
Once again his eyes sought out hers. A safe haven from the storm ravaging his mind.
"I don't know how to fix this, Jules." The words were whisper-soft in the darkness, carrying all the fear and uncertainty he'd been struggling to hold inside. "I've been trying. It won't stop."
Her hand reached for his, resting just out of reach on the bedspread. He stared at it. Pale light from the window illuminated it, showing off how delicate and perfect it looked.
His gaze drifted to his own roughened hand. The calluses were already fading, but the blood never would. The line between what he'd done and what had been done to him was so blurred it might as well be a kaleidoscope.
"I tried talking to the psychologist," he reminded her. "Talking about it doesn't help. It doesn't take away the things they put in here—" he motioned toward his head "—and I don't know how to make that go away. I keep hurting people."
"So we try something else," she replied without hesitation. "You might think you've changed — and to a certain extent, you have — but I know you're still the same person inside. If you weren't, you wouldn't be feeling this much guilt. And I'll prove it to you no matter what it takes. I'm not giving up on Shawn Spencer, even if you have."
Moisture sparkled in her blue eyes as she stared him down, chin tilted upward in a defiant lift. His breath hitched slightly and his vision became blurry. He loved her so much. He needed her so much.
His hand finally latched onto hers as he shifted away from the edge of the bed, leaning closer to her. Hot tears rolled down his cheeks, catching them both by surprise.
"Shawn," she whispered, a sad smile forming.
Her fingers brushed over his face, catching several tear drops. He closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. Neither of them verbalized what they were both thinking. This was the first time in two months he'd managed to cry. Maybe he wasn't completely gone after all.
He didn't fool himself into thinking everything could go back to the way it was. Some scars don't fade, no matter how much time they're given. And some things couldn't, and shouldn't, be forgotten. Or forgiven.
But maybe she was right about finding a way out of this.
It took them less than three weeks to teach him how to be this monster. Maybe, in time, he could teach himself how to be Shawn Spencer again. Maybe someday he'd even learn how to laugh again.
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