Watching You [2/2]

[windscryer]

Title: Watching You
Rating: eT
Characters: Shawn, Henry, Gus, Lassiter, Juliet
Warnings: violence, gore, abuse of sound effects in a written story, almost a song!fic, misuse of artistic license in formatting
Genres: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Family, Drama
Chapters: 2
Completed: Yes
Word count: 9817
Disclaimer: See Part 1.
Notes: See Part 1.

Summary: Once upon a time Shawn Spencer wanted to be just like his father. Sometimes Henry wishes he hadn't.


Part 1

“I had invited Shawn over for dinner,” Henry said, his eyes focused in the general direction of Carlton's notepad, but it was unlikely he saw it, or what was being written.

“Gus usually comes with him. We were getting ready to barbecue. I'd forgotten a few things so I sent the boys out shopping and kept making dinner. I was making the coleslaw. Gus was getting the corn ready. Shawn was . . .” Henry's jaw clenched and when he spoke again his voice was almost cold with the effort to keep it steady.

“Shawn was setting the table.”

“Take a deep breath, Gus,” Juliet soothed. “Do you want something to drink?”

Gus was barely aware of her presence, let alone her question. He seemed to be talking on autopilot.

“I was just husking the corn, putting it in the pot. Shawn's dad and I were talking and then there were gunshots.”

“I thought it was the Simmons' kid. He got his license last week and his parents bought him a sports car.” Henry snorted. “Kid's spoiled rotten.”

He shook his head. “Anyway, he drives it recklessly through the neighborhood, loves to hear the tires squeal and the engine roar. I just figured he was trying to draw attention to his car again. And then I hear the table hit the deck. I was trying to figure out what Shawn was doing out there that he'd knocked the whole table over, and then . . . I hear gunfire.”

“I don't remember much right after the gunshots. But I remember Mr. Spencer went outside to check on Shawn. There wasn't any noise and there should have been noise. Shawn's never quiet, you know?” Gus didn't wait for an answer, just plowed right on through.

“I still can't believe it, I mean, we were just making dinner. Shawn's not even working any cases right now, kind of surprising considering how many we've had recently. Business is really picking up and this is the first night we've had off all week and then this happens and . . .”

He gulped and took a breath, closing his eyes and trying to calm down.

“Why would someone do this, Juliet?”

She couldn't do anything but shake her head and try to focus on the how instead of the why.

It was her job to know the first, but it was quite probable she'd never know the second.

“I checked on Shawn, confirmed he was still breathing, heart still pumping, and then told Gus to call the ambulance. That's when he passed out.” He shook his head again at the memory.

“So I went back inside, made sure he didn't need an ambulance, but he was already on the floor so I wasn't terribly worried about him.”

The way he trailed off and the distance that crept into his gaze said quite clearly that he had been very worried about someone else.

He shook it off after a second. “And then I called 911 and put pressure on the wound. The ambulance showed up, you guys were a couple of seconds later, you know the rest.”

“So you didn't see anything?” Lassiter asked.

“What?”

“I said, you didn't see anything?” Juliet repeated.

Gus shook his head. “My back was turned. I wasn't even facing that direction.”

“I was looking down,” Henry said. “Besides, with the trees and everything . . . When the firing started, I ducked out of pure instinct.”

“Okay. Why don't you stay here, I'll see what I can find out about Shawn's condition, okay, Gus?”

He nodded, but she knew he was already a million miles away.

She patted his shoulder, wished she could do more, then stood and headed over to where Carlton had just finished up with Henry.

“Did you get anything from Guster?” he asked.

She shook her head. “He was facing the wrong way and the shock of it all is so fresh he barely remembers most of it. Did-”

He cut her off with a shake of his head. “No. He was looking down and then took cover. By the time he got outside the car was long gone. And none of the neighbors saw anything either. Nothing they'll admit to anyway for fear of retaliation.”

She sighed. “So the only one who knows what happened-”

“-Is Shawn,” he finished.

“What's the first rule of gun safety?”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“Always assume the gun is loaded.”

Inhale. Exhale.

“Good. Both eyes open, Shawn.”

“He had a bad reaction to some of the medication we're giving him. I've prescribed something else, we shouldn't have that happen again.”

“I know.”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“Well if you know, why is your left eye shut? You can't sense depth with only one eye.”

Rise. Fall.

“I can do this, Dad.”

“He's been stable all night, over twelve hours now, which is a very good sign. I did go ahead and pull him off the respirator as you can see. I feel he's ready for it even though he had that little setback.”

“I know you can, Shawn. Now remember your breathing. In while you aim. Hold while you steady it. Out with the bullet.”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“In and aim. Hold and steady . . .”

Up. Down.

“That's it, Shawn. Don't pull the trigger squeeze it. It should surprise you, scare the breath out of you.”

“He's responding well to all of the other treatments and during the last scan we saw that not only is he still doing well with not swelling or having an excess of fluid in his skull, he's also showing signs of coming back to us. Brain activity has picked up in several areas. We expect him to wake up soon.”

“But if I don't know when it's coming-”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“You won't try to compensate for the kick. Your aim will stay true.”

Breathe in. And out.

“How many shots do you have left?”

“Thank you, Doctor. Will he be able to answer a few questions for us about what happened to him?”

“Uhhh . . .”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“Don't check, think. You won't have time to pop the magazine, count the bullets, and reinsert it in a gunfight. You need to keep track of how many shots you've fired and therefore how many you have left.”

Match the rhythm.

“Five shots down so . . . ten left.”

“Inform the nurses when he wakes up and they'll do a few tests to ensure he has both gross and fine motor control. After that, Detective, you can ask him all the questions you can without over-stressing him and I hope he's able to answer them for you. It will be a good sign the more he remembers.”

“Good. Now do rapid fire shots until I tell you to stop.”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“As fast as I can?”

Keep it steady so he can follow along.

“As fast as you can. Remember to bring the gun back down after each shot, but not too far.”

“Thank you, Doctor, for all your help.”

“Cease fire! Okay now how many do you have left?”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“Four.”

It's supposed to be involuntary, but he can't quite convince himself of that.

“Good. I want you to shoot ten bullets rapid fire. That means you have to change magazines and keep going. You ready?”

“Henry? I'm going to go get some coffee. Do you want something?”

“I'm ready.”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“If you score at least a marksman I'll let you pick the movie tonight.”

He can't help but think that if he stops or falters Shawn will too and he won't be able to start again.

“What am I at now?”

Henry stared at the bed where his son lay. He just wanted them to all go away. He wanted Shawn to wake up.

“You'll have to get at least seven of the shots inside the center mass ring. Think you can do it?”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“I can do it.”

Inhale.

. . .

Hold it?

“Well then prove it.”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“Dad?”

Shawn opened his eyes to blinding whiteness.

It faded after a moment, his eyes slow to adjust after not needing to for so long.

Not that Shawn knew how long it had been. He wasn't even entirely sure where he was, but his body had the clumsy, weighted-yet insubstantial and floaty-feeling that said he'd been in the hospital for a few days at least and on the good drugs that whole time.

Once the white started to shade and fill out with colors and shapes and then resolved into a room and people, the mists of confusion dissipating as his suspicions of being in a hospital were confirmed by what he saw, he wondered what had landed him here.

His eyes weren't open very wide, and it didn't seem to have garnered any attention of the people he could see were present. Lassiter. Jules. Gus. His dad.

Whoa.

What had happened to him? He looked like crap on toast. Crap on toast with a side of death warmed over. And pulpy, bitter orange juice.

“Dad?”

Henry had been staring so intently that Shawn thought he knew he was awake.

He didn't expect the startled jump that nearly sent his father to the floor when he spoke.

A quick recovery and Henry was there, his hands on the rail of his bed, leaning forward. “Shawn?”

“What happened?” Shawn asked. It was followed by a rough cough and a grimace as the taste of whatever had nested in his mouth made itself manifest. Guh. That was naaaaa-sty.

He saw the movement behind Henry that indicated looks were being exchanged, wary and slightly disappointed. Crap. That meant that he was supposed to know already.

“You were shot, Shawn,” Henry said, not holding his gaze as he turned to get something to moisten Shawn's throat. Gus was there, a cup of ice water in his hands.

He handed it to Henry and then looked at his friend.

“Hey, Shawn.”

Finishing the sip of water through the straw Henry had helped him guide to his mouth, Shawn jerked his head at his best friend.

“Hey, Gus.”

“Shawn?”

“Jules,” he breathed and let his head fall the other way to look at her. It twinged at the movement and he wasn't expecting it so he winced. She imitated the action out of pure reflex.

“How do you feel, Shawn?” she asked quietly.

He let his eyes lose focus as he took stock. Overall he felt pretty good actually. Mostly just his head had any complaints, but unless he moved that it was muted and distant, a recognition of the fact that there should be pain more than actually feeling it. There was a distant niggling something from his leg, but all he knew for sure was that he didn't want to focus on it because then it would really hurt.

“Alive,” he settled on. It sounded like he wasn't grateful for that fact, but in truth he was very grateful for it. He wasn't sure yet how he'd gotten here, but from the reception waiting for him and using the fuzziness of his thoughts to gauge the level of drugs he was on he knew it had to have been bad.

Bad enough to have his father's poker face hanging around his neck, instead of covering his face. There was a rawness to Henry's expression that had Shawn's pulse speeding up-and everyone knew since he was still hooked up to a monitor that audibly betrayed the intensity of his emotions.

“Spencer-”

“What?”

It was broadcast in dichotomous stereo, Henry's rough growl polar opposite to Shawn's whispered inquiry.

“Lassie?” Shawn said after he shared a quickly aborted look with his father over their Doublemint twins' moment. “You came to visit me? I'm touched.”

Lassiter snorted. “I came to get your statement about what happened, if you can remember that is.”

“Of course I can,” Shawn said before he thought about it. He abruptly snapped his mouth shut and tried to corral his straying inhibitions. The drugs felt good but they could prove to be more dangerous than whatever had caused this.

“Shouldn't we get a nurse?” Gus asked, though no one paid him much attention, too eager to find out what happened. Besides, with all the talking he was doing Shawn was obviously not brain damaged. Or at least if he was it was limited to his ability to remember what had caused this, a kind of amnesia that was normal and even expected in cases of severe head injury like this.

“What do you remember, Shawn?” Henry asked. He needed to know what had happened, needed to know why this had happened, who was responsible for it.

“Uhhhhh,” Shawn said, brow furrowing. His eyes pinched shut as his jaw muscle jumped and the wrinkle between his eyebrows deepened. “Dinner?”

“That's right,” Henry said. “I invited you over for dinner.”

“What day is it?”

“It was Friday.”

“No, I mean, now.”

Henry hesitated and Juliet supplied the information. “It's Wednesday, Shawn.”

“I've been out almost a week?” Shawn asked, his head falling back against the pillow as he took that in. A week of his life, gone. Well, he thought grudgingly it could have been worse. A week wasn't so bad comparatively speaking.

“Do you remember what happened, Spencer?” Lassiter asked.

Shawn concentrated, thinking back.

“I was . . . What was I doing?”

“Setting the table,” Henry said.

Shawn nodded. “Right. I was putting the napkins out. Then I hear this engine roar as it comes around the corner with tires squealing.”

And then it all came back, a flash flood, a hurricane, a tsunami of memory.

The hospital room vanished, was replaced by his father's house, his yard, the table in front of him, his hands deftly folding the napkin into a tiny origami frog.

Just because he knew it would bother his father.

He was twisting the toes of the frog into little points but at the sound of the engine he looked up.

He only caught a glimpse of it, but that was enough. His brain immediately put the connection together and he reacted purely out of instinct, knowing why they were here and what they had come to do.

He hooked the table with one hand and upended it even as he dropped down behind the meager shelter it offered.

He just hoped it was enough.

His thoughts were shards of crystal glass after that. Separate each was perfectly clear, but only a fragment still. Together they would form a cohesive whole, a picture that would make more sense than a pile of slivers of time, chips of memory. If he could just put them back together, find the proper order, he'd have the whole thing, from start to finish.

But where to start on the puzzle from hell?

How did one take a handful of glass shards and recreate a glass or a magical slipper or even a friggin' mirror? Especially when you didn't know which it was.

Some were bigger than others and these he latched onto.

He found the process easier than expected, and set to work rebuilding the memory of how he ended up in the hospital-short one week of his life.

Gunshots. Twenty-three of them in rapid succession. That concerned him but he had no context yet for what they meant exactly so he made a pile of these shards and set them aside.

A car. Black. Low to the ground. A custom paint job. A bird on the hood, stylized. Flames on the sides. Another stylized symbol on the trunk-blood, dripping down the back end of the vehicle as if it might leave a trail behind them wherever they went.

Combined with the gunshots he was beginning to see the finished picture that he was assembling. He didn't need the photo on the box for guidance now.

A girl. Young, smiling. Red hair. Blue eyes. Hope bloomed in her them and joy lit up her smile. It was a picture of her. A picture in the hands of an elderly woman. She was missing. Had gone missing while walking home from school. Vanished into thin air, like Shawn's memory of what happened when was folding tiny frogs out of napkins.

But like Shawn was doing now for himself, he'd pieced her story together too.

She was walking home from school, but she took a detour. She worked at a soup kitchen on the weekends. “It will look good on my college applications,” she'd told her grandmother. It was daylight. The neighborhood wasn't the best but it was only truly dangerous after dark.

Except for that day. That day there had been a disagreement between two rival gangs. That neighborhood was on the borderlands of two domains and it was contested territory. Both sides wanted it. Neither was willing to give it up.

She had wandered onto a battlefield without even knowing it until suddenly shots rang out.

She was caught in the crossfire.

And the two gangs united, if only for a short while.

The cops wouldn't come if they shot each other. No one would call them. No one would dare.

But the cops would be looking for the pretty little girl with the red hair and the wide blue eyes, glazing over and fading out as the ground beneath her was soaked with her red, red blood. It looked like her hair was melting, puddling underneath her.

Someone would call them for her.

So they worked together, they took the girl, the innocent, the collateral damage, and they made her go away. They thought no one would be able to find her. No one would be able to prove it was them. No body, no crime.

They've seen CSI and Forensic Files. They know some tricks.

But their tricks didn't mean jack in the face of a psychic-or a reasonable facsimile thereof.

He saw through their tricks. He found their unfindable hiding place.

And he brought a little girl with red hair and wide blue eyes home.

But he didn't stop there.

He led the police to the evidence that would convict members of the two gangs for direct participation in the shoot out and the attempt to hide the result.

They didn't lose a single man in the gunfight.

They lost twelve in the aftermath.

This led to an imbalance. One of the gangs no longer had sufficient numbers to maintain its previously claimed boundaries.

They were on the verge of being wiped out completely.

They could not stop this.

But before they went down they could repay a debt. They could make sure that the person who brought them down came along for the ride.

Shawn looked at the memory, complete, intact, and terrifying.

He'd been the victim of a drive-by shooting, retaliation for doing his job and helping the police.

He'd taken cover as soon as he saw the car because he knew in an instant what it meant for that car with those symbols painted on it in those colors to be in his father's neighborhood.

There was only one reason: Him.

And he'd ducked and he'd prayed and he'd received a miracle. Someone had listened.

He wasn't unscathed, but he wasn't dead either.

Despite his line of work it was the closest he, personally, had ever come to death.

With a violent shove he pushed away from the memory, hoping if he pushed on it hard enough it would shatter again and he could go back to the blissful ignorance of before.

There was a sound, rapid, high, but it wasn't something shattering.

He blinked, trying to figure out what the sound was, what it meant, and then when he reopened his eyes on the other side of that blink he was thrust back into reality, harsh, painful, glorious reality.

The heart monitor was going nuts, broadcasting his distress to everyone within a five or six room radius. A harsh, jagged sound like wind being forced through a clogged vent intermittently blocked his ears from hearing the voices that underlaid everything.

It took him a moment to realize that was him, gasping for air like one of his father's fish.

He looked around, eyes searching until the found his dad.

Why was he staring at him like that? Why couldn't he do the same thing he did to the fish and deliver a mercy stroke that would take him away from this pain?

Didn't he, as Henry's son, deserve more consideration than a freaking fish?

One voice rode above the others, a soft voice, one that piqued Shawn's ears and drew his attention away from silently pleading with his father.

He looked to his right and saw Juliet.

Sweet Juliet.

She was saying something, her hand on his arm, and he wanted to hear it, wanted to listen to her talk just to hear her voice, but he couldn't. His lungs were still performing an admirable mimicry of a bellows and he could only hear fragments of her words in between the inhalations and exhalations.

Movement to Shawn's left caught him off guard and his head whipped around to see what it was.

A nurse, armed with a small needle.

Shawn's muscles contracted, one hand grabbing Juliet's, but while his body was panicking his mind felt only relief.

He just hoped it was strong enough to knock him out.

Cool fire hit his veins and raced along, engulfing everything as it went, and Shawn didn't fight it. He surrendered willingly to it, his body relaxing in the wake as it swept over him.

He blinked once at Juliet, aware of her hand on his head.

Rest, Shawn.

He didn't hear it, but he saw her lips form the words and decided that doing what she said was not only a brilliant idea-it just might get him brownie points.

With that thought in mind he let his eyes close as the blackness swept over him completely.

“Are you still thinking of leaving?”

The question caught Gus by surprise in the quiet room and he jumped.

“I-” Gus looked at Shawn, hooked up to a multitude of machines, swathed in bandages, sleeping with chemical aid after his 'episode', and faltered.

A week ago he'd been sure. He had been, despite what he'd said about still waffling. His uncertainty lay mostly in how to tell Tom and how to tell Shawn. That was what had held him in limbo, unsure how to proceed.

But now . . . Now he wasn't so sure he wanted to go through with it.

His reasons for making Psych his full-time job were still valid.

Business was booming. They had enough cases that Shawn's pickiness in accepting cases had more to do with the sheer number of them than whether or not one caught his interest. They had actually talked about hiring a secretary for real to handle a lot of the paperwork and other sundry and menial office tasks that they were faced with more and more.

Shawn's stability was definitely another factor. Frankly the reason he hadn't taken Shawn seriously in the beginning, had fought against being sucked in, had protested his name on the lease and the other paperwork for the agency, was that he didn't believe it would last longer than a month. Maybe two based on the 'annoyance of Lassiter' factor, and then the 'hotness of Juliet' factor. That had been extended with Juliet's refusal to be charmed and the inherent challenge that presented, but really that could only keep Shawn here for so long.

Or so Gus had thought.

But it was five years they'd been in business now and Shawn still wasn't showing any signs of restlessness. He hadn't even mentioned a road trip any further away than L.A. in almost a year.

Not to mention they were gaining credibility with their incredible success record. The publicity from working with the police had really helped them with getting private cases. Shawn had had his share of screen time and print space so he didn't even always need to introduce himself anymore. He actually got fan-mail in fact.

Even Gus had been approached on the street just a few weeks ago by someone who recognized him as Shawn's partner.

Gus had stuck with Central Coast because he didn't want to commit himself to a job that wasn't going to be a viable means of support.

That wasn't really a reasonable argument anymore.

And it was fun.

Or it had been.

Until Shawn had been shot.

Gus didn't quite know how it connected, but he was sure that this had something to do with Psych and a case Shawn had solved.

His reasons for wanting to make Psych his full time job were still valid.

But this was one very good reason not to. An excellent reason to pull back and start talking about quitting while they were ahead.

Shawn enjoyed Psych-loved it even-but things had changed. This was a new and frightening development and Gus thought that this time he might actually be able to convince Shawn that they were in over their heads.

It had been five years of all kinds of fun but now it might be time to try something else.

Ha. Now there was a switch. He wanted to quit and he was willing to bet his entire raise that Shawn would argue to stay.

At least until his pain medication wore off and he was shown his physical therapy schedule and regimen.

Then he'd probably be more amenable to persuasion.

“Gus?” Henry said.

He shook his head. “I don't know.”

Henry looked at him for a very long moment, then turned back to Shawn.

“Yeah. I know what you mean, kid.”

Shawn's second return to consciousness was quite similar to the first, except of course, for the fact that he remembered now. There was no confusion, no wondering how he'd gotten here. He knew as soon as he was aware of anything that he had been a victim of gang retaliation in a drive by shooting, that his job had taken a turn that wasn't unexpected-he was a cop's son after all-but that he'd been hoping he might somehow avoid.

The distant ache in his leg and steady throb in his head were still muted by drugs, but he knew that he'd been shot twice.

It was with a surprising detachment that he recognized this fact. Especially since he also recalled his freak out from before.

He was pretty sure it was the drugs.

He knew that he had an audience again, that there were people waiting to hear from him about what had happened.

Might as well get it over with.

He cracked his eyelids and blinked a few times to bring things into focus. Everyone was back, but then he'd known that already between the medley of perfume and colognes and the muted voices.

He cleared his throat and all attention turned to him.

“Got a pen and notepad, Lassie?” he asked.

“Shawn? How do you feel?” Juliet asked.

“Better,” he said, mustering up a smile for her. She returned it, though it didn't quite clear the worry from her eyes or the lines of stress that framed them. “Lassie?” he said, shifting his attention. He kept his hold on her hand and squeezed it when she blinked rapidly and looked away.

Lassiter retrieved a legal pad and pen from his briefcase, but when he tried to hand them over Shawn lifted his free hand and waved them back.

“You're going to want to take notes,” he just said. He knew he could tell them what they needed without betraying how it had affected him, but he doubted he could keep his hand that steady.

“James Robertson. Ricky Harlin. Leonardo Gordon. Michael Dorian. Bobby Havetts.”

It took Lassiter a moment to realize that he should be writing this down, then he began scribbling furiously. His brow furrowed-probably because he recognized the names but didn't know from where just yet, Shawn thought.

“Leo was driving. It's his brother's car, but since Darren is going to be in Chino for the next fifteen years . . .” He paused to swallow and then accepted the cup Gus provided and sipped.

“It was a black Firebird Trans Am, 1978, license plate 9BAK529. The hood has the Firebird-still orange, red and black, but stylized-and dripping blood on the trunk. Flames on the side. Ricky and Jimmy were the gunmen. Ricky had a .38, a Smith & Wesson I think. Jimmy had a Walther SP22. Both had modified magazines for size. I think Ricky had four rounds left when they were done. Jimmy used all of his.” He shifted, wincing, at the stray thought of whether it was Ricky or Jimmy who had hit him. Or if it was both.

Juliet was frowning, her hand still in Shawn's, the other over the top. The fingers of her upper hand were lightly stroking the back of his hand and he really hoped she didn't intend to stop anytime soon. He was pretty sure she didn't even know she was doing it which meant he did his best not to move his hand and possibly remind her.

“Leo Gordon . . .” she murmured. “Where do I know that name from?”

“Three months ago. Sharon Eastwind.”

Shawn regretted prodding her memory because he saw the regret and hurt flash through her eyes at the remembrance of a case that had been hard on her.

Plus it stopped her fingers. She didn't pull away, but the soothing repetition of her fingers brushing his hand was gone.

He missed it.

“This was retaliation,” Henry said, his voice low and clipped.

Shawn nodded. “For my part in bringing Sharon's killers-their fellow gang members-to justice.”

Lassiter stopped, his writing hand going lax, his eyes focused downward.

He was blaming himself, Shawn knew, for not sending them all to jail, and while that was unexpectedly touching, it was also not warranted.

“It wasn't your fault, Lassie,” he said. “There just wasn't anything to convict them beyond a reasonable doubt.” His words had brought Lassiter's head up. “There is now, though,” he finished. He saw the moment the light came on in Lassiter's brain and the small, cold smile that sparked. His own lips curved in response.

“You're sure it was them?”

“Positive,” Shawn said. “They'll either be at Leo's aunt's house on Santa Catalina Street or the former residence of their leader, Tyrone Johnson, on Del Oro Avenue. You should probably hurry because they won't be around much longer. Their attempt on my life was a last statement of defiance before they were taken out of the equation themselves.”

Lassiter stood. “O'Hara,” was all he said before heading out.

Juliet patted Shawn's hand and squeezed it one last time, then hurried out after her partner.

He hadn't been awake very long, but already exhaustion was creeping over him. Telling his story was more exhausting than he'd expected.

He didn't want to sleep again already, even if it was natural and not drug-induced this time.

He didn't seem to have much of a choice, however, his eyelids slipping shut against his will as he sank back into the darkness.

His chest rose and fell in regular rhythm, no aid needed.

“Dad, how old do you have to be to be a cop?”

His heart beat steadily, no beeping monitor required to measure the cadence.

“Well, you have to finish high school first. And it wouldn't hurt you to go to college, too.”

He would be released tomorrow, the doctors having satisfied themselves that he needed only physical therapy and time to return to his normal self, no permanent damage done.

“When will that be?”

He'd come home with Henry-in the beginning at least-and if he thought any amount of whining was going to change that then he had another think coming.

“If you went to college straight out of high school, you could apply to the police academy when you were twenty-two.”

There would be weeks of therapy and it would drive Henry nuts to have to deal with Shawn in one of his most annoying states, that being the inability to do things for himself.

“I'll be old then! Can't I go sooner?”

He would need to go to the store and stock up on food, both things Shawn would eat and just more food in general for all the visitors that were sure to parade through.

“You can't go until you've at least finished high school and are a legal adult, so eighteen is the youngest you can apply.”

Henry rubbed at his face, straightened in his chair, and gave his spine a gentle twist, though his eyes never once moved from the sleeping form in the bed.

“That's stupid.”

He knew that Lassiter, O'Hara, Gus, even Karen, blamed themselves for what had happened.

“Why does it matter, Shawn?”

They were wrong. All of them, they were wrong.

“Because I don't want to wait that long.”

There was only one person at fault for the current situation.

“Wait that long for what?”

And for once it wasn't Shawn.

“To be a cop like you.”

Henry's eyes closed and he rested his forehead on his folded fists, his elbows balanced on his knees . . .

. . . And listened to his son breathe.