Full Circle (9/23)
Title: Full Circle (9/23)
Author: neensz
Word Count: ~23,700 total so far
Pairing: Eliot/Shawn pre-slash
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language, violence, kid!fic, SG:A cameo, un-beta’d
Disclaimer: Psych and Leverage (or SG:A) do not belong to me, nor do any of the characters or places or quotes I'm borrowing for my nefarious slashing purposes. I make no monetary profit from the aforesaid borrowing, or only in the currency of sqeeing fangirly joy.
A/N: I apologize for this one. I'm just sorry. Except, at the same time, not. And I seriously couldn't resist sticking Shep in it. So, yeah. Epic Crossover. Oh, gawd; I'm so sorry.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8
***
Six months later…
Eliot was finally thankful for the time he’d spent watching over Shawn Spencer back in Santa Barbara. A four year old was nothing compared to him, so the little orphaned Jesse was in good hands. He still didn’t know why he was always the one stuck with babysitting duty, but it wasn’t so bad. Especially since this one wasn’t old enough to drive.
Wyoming was glittering and peaceful under the blanket of fresh snow that had fallen last night. It was a bitch to drive through, though, and Eliot actually found himself missing the dirty slush of Boston streets some days. But while he missed the city occasionally, even the grungy snow and the paved streets, he missed his team more often, with an almost constant ache in his chest. Their takedown of Moreau had gone to shit, and they’d scattered to protect themselves. He didn’t even know where the others were. To protect themselves, they hadn’t told each other where they were going, so if one of them got caught, the others wouldn’t be in danger. They’d fucked up bad in Santa Barbara, so not only was Cruz after them, but the Italian bitch was gunning for them, not to mention Moreau.
Eliot had run to Wyoming. It was a rough trip, staying off the radar, stealing cars and switching plates and holing up at this little ranch in the middle of the Rockies. He didn’t know how long he was going to stay here, but the team had made plans to meet up exactly a year from the day they’d scattered, at McRory’s bar back in Boston. Eliot didn’t know how safe a plan that was, and had voiced his objection that the Italian bitch knew they’d worked from there, but he’d been overridden by most everyone else. Hardison had called him paranoid, and hadn’t listened when Eliot told him that being paranoid was the only reason Eliot was still alive.
Jesse grumbled in his sleep as Eliot turned off the highway onto the ranch exit, but a quick glance over let him know that the kid was sleeping safely in his car seat. Must have just been a dream, but Eliot turned up the heat in the old Dodge just in case it was because the kid was cold. Jesse’s dad had hired Eliot as a ranch hand when he’d shown up out of the blue, looking for work, and in the past five months, he’d made his way up to foreman when old Bill had his heart attack and the doctor told him he had to slow down or just buy a plot, because he was gonna be in the ground in a few weeks if he didn’t ease off. Jesse’s dad, John Sheppard, was a widower, had gotten the ranch when his dad died five or so years back, and had been running it in the black ever since.
Eliot supposed he shouldn’t call Jesse an orphan, not even in his head, because his dad wasn’t dead, and it’d be Eliot’s bad luck that someone was listening and made it true. John had been called back up and was over in Afghanistan, and had left Jesse with Eliot, since he said he trusted him and that they were practically family after five months of the kind of hard work it took to run a ranch. Eliot was shocked that John hadn’t sent Jesse to live with Laura’s parents, but he’d said okay when he found out that the kid didn’t really have any family other than his dad. Laura’s parents were estranged, blamed John for their daughter’s death, and didn’t want anything to do with Jesse, and both John’s parents were dead. Laura and John had both been only children (Eliot assumed, since John never really talked about his family to him), so there weren’t even any aunts or uncles to call on.
So now Eliot had a kid who called him Uncle Tommy. Eliot had nixed Uncle Tom the first time it’d come out of the kid’s mouth, not even daring to think of the shit he’d get from Hardison. Thomas Sawyer was who he was now, Hardison’s idea of a joke he supposed, the ‘in case of emergencies’ ID in the packet the hacker had given each of them a year or so back. John had left for Afghanistan last week, but Jesse had stopped asking for his dad after the first few days. It hurt Eliot a little that the kid was so adaptable, but at least he didn’t think his dad was dead.
Eliot pulled up in front of the house, put the truck in park, and leaned over to ruffle Jesse’s hair. “Hey, J.J.,” he said softly, “C’mon, wake up. We’re home.” Jesse squeezed his eyes shut and scrunched down in his seat. “Ok, buddy, you don’t have to get up,” Eliot laughed softly. He got out of the truck and went around to Jesse’s side, opening the door and unbuckling the kid from his car seat to carry the limp four year old into the house and up to his bedroom, leaving the groceries in the bed of the truck to get later. Checking the door and each of the rooms for signs of intruders as he walked through the house was still second nature, and not a thing he’d had to hide around John, because he was a fellow soldier. John hadn’t asked about Eliot’s past, for which he was grateful, but he was sure John had made a few informed guesses about why Eliot didn’t sleep well at night and why he picked fights at the bar and what made him always check every room when he entered the house. Because John did all those same things, though got in fewer bar fights now that he had Jesse. So did Eliot, now.
Eliot put Jesse down gently in his bed, easing tiny shoes off tiny feet and wriggling limp arms out of the small jacket. That was probably good enough. Eliot knew by now that if he woke Jesse up to get him into his pajamas, the kid wouldn’t go back to sleep till at least midnight, and then be cranky as Nate without booze in the morning. The kid could sleep in his clothes. Eliot tucked the blanket up over Jesse, and left the room, leaving the door open a crack to let the hall light in.
Packing the groceries in from the truck, Eliot haphazardly stocked the fridge and the pantry and called it good. He crashed on the couch, feeling as tired as Jesse. It was a long drive to the city and back, and he’d made it worth the while by hitting up Costco and Wal-Mart and getting everything he thought they could possibly need for the next month. Tomorrow he’d go out to the barn and see if the tractor was still acting up and what he could do about it and maybe set Brad Heiner, John’s new ranch hand he’d gotten to replace Eliot, to checking the fence line and see if this new snow had pulled down any of the wire, and check on the snow fences to see if they were holding.
At least Eliot was staying in the house now, and not the bunk house, so he only had to go up the stairs to get to the bed in the spare room, as opposed to trekking down to the bunk house through this damned powder. John had moved him up here when he’d promoted him to foreman, leaving Bill in the foreman’s cottage attached to the bunkhouse. It was one thing to take a man’s job, quite another to take the house that he‘d lived in for the past thirty years. Luckily, John felt the same way, and Bill was staying in the foreman’s cottage till he croaked or moved to some ‘pansy-ass retirement village.’ Bill’s words, not John’s.
Eliot forced himself off the couch with a grunt and headed up the stairs to fall into bed and a well-earned sleep.
***
Still six months later…
Shawn fingered the scar on his forehead as he thought. After six months, it had faded to a little white line that he could only see in the mirror if he was actively looking for it, but his fingers always found it unerringly. “The killer hasn’t fled to Boston, Shawn, so don’t even say it,” Gus said flatly, eyeing him.
Shawn blinked at Gus, dropping his hand to his lap, pulled from his thoughts. “What? Why would he have fled to Boston?”
Gus sighed. “I said he didn’t flee to Boston, Shawn. No one flees to Boston from Santa Barbara. They flee to Mexico.”
“Stop saying flee.”
“Flee.”
Shawn rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t going to say he ran to Boston, Gus.”
“That’s what you always say when you start playing with that scar.” Gus rolled his eyes back at Shawn.
“I do not, Gus.”
“You do, Shawn. You touch the scar and then always come up with some wild and crazy reason why we should go to Boston so you can look him up because you’re in town on business. And I’m not so sure that you didn’t make that guy up in the first place,” Gus added, his eyes sliding away from Shawn’s as he accused him of lying.
“You talked to him on the phone,” Shawn pointed out, a little hurt at the accusation, but not enough to show.
“It could have been anyone that I talked to on the phone, Shawn. I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but, I don’t believe you. He disappeared off the face of the earth before I got back from my work retreat. Normal, real people don‘t disappear into thin air like that.” Gus leveled a look at Shawn like he was trying to see inside Shawn’s head. Shawn found it only slightly disconcerting when he did that. It’s not like Gus could actually read his mind.
“Whatever. I was gonna say, before you took the Tangent Train, are we sure this guy’s the killer? I mean, he still lives with his mom.” Shawn changed the subject. He was really tired of going over and over the same ground with Gus in regards to that week.
“He probably has a lot of rage bottled up inside because of that,” Gus argued.
“He collects stamps, Gus.”
“Philately doesn’t preclude murder, Shawn.”
It was for Gus’s own good. If Gus knew Shawn understood him perfectly when he used the big words, he’d never stop his friend from sounding like a walking dictionary. And friends don’t let friends speak Webster. “No one’s talking about fiddles here, Gus. Stop being such a double chocolate chip muffin-head. I’m just saying, maybe we should look at Steve the Pirate.”
“You mean Stephan, the deckhand who worked on the victim’s yacht?” Gus asked.
“That’s what I said.” Shawn looked at Gus blankly.
“One, Lassiter said that Stephan’s alibi checked out, and two, Harold was caught on camera running from the scene of the crime.” Gus ticked off his points on his fingers.
“Gus-Gus,” Shawn started.
“I’m never letting you watch Cinderella again,” Gus interrupted, glowering at him.
“Gus, when was the last time Lassy was right about who did it?” Shawn asked with a put-upon look.
“Last case, when he caught the guy you said was innocent disposing of the second body.” Gus said smugly.
“You’re never gonna drop that, are you?” Shawn sighed.
“Nope,” Gus smirked at him.
“I was technically right though, because he wasn’t the murderer, just a… thingy. What’s it called?” The word was on the tip of his tongue, and he waved his hand around like it would help him remember.
“Accomplice?” Gus supplied.
“That,” Shawn agreed.
“Whatever. Let’s go talk to Steve the- Stephan the deckhand, then.”
“I knew you’d see it my way, buddy,” Shawn grinned and followed Gus out the office door to the Blueberry.
***
Wyoming, six months and one day later…
Eliot was under the tractor, looking for the oil leak he knew was there. Jesse was sitting beside the toolbox and playing with a smaller version of the tractor Eliot was mentally cursing, making motor sounds. “Bbbbbbroawrbbb-” clunk “-brrrrbbrawrb.” It kinda sounded like the tractor on a bad day, including the clunk, but Eliot doubted that sound came from the kid.
He rolled out from under the tractor and had Jesse shielded behind him before he knew what he’d done, a ridiculously large monkey-wrench gripped like a weapon in his right hand. The clunk was from Brad, who was over by the work bench and looking for something in the mess. Jesse giggled at Eliot’s reaction, and he flushed at the sound, dropping the wrench back into the toolbox. Brad looked over at the sound. “Find the leak?”
“Not yet. What’cha lookin’ for?” He glanced down to watch Jesse roll around on the dirt floor in what he supposed was an imitation of himself.
“Staples. One of the wires on the west fence got pulled down by the snow,” Brad told him, continuing his search of the cluttered work bench.
“Me an the kid can go fix it, if you’ll take a look at the tractor; I don’t know how I keep missing the leak--maybe fresh eyes would help--and I’ve got some leftover wire staples in the Dodge,” Eliot volunteered.
“Fence, fence, fence,” Jesse started chanting, and Brad laughed.
“Sure,” Brad agreed easily, shucking his jacket now that he was going to be staying in the heated barn. Eliot forced his eyes off the broad flannel draped back and wondered what the hell was wrong with him. Flannel wasn’t sexy. Neither were farm hands who looked like an advertisement for rough trade. What the hell? Eliot hot-footed it out of the barn, away from those disturbing thoughts, with Jesse frisking at his heels.
***
California, still six months and one day later…
Shawn lounged on Jules’s desk in the bullpen as she worked around him resignedly, waiting for the giddy thrill of accomplishment that usually filled him when he’d solved a case and proved Lassy wrong all at the same time. But his glee was missing, and had been missing for a while. Baiting Lassy wasn’t even as much fun as it used to be. Maybe it was time to move on. Over six years at this job, after all. Maybe it was time to travel again. Mexico was always nice in the winter. Or he could go find some snow and see if he still remembered how to snowboard. It was definitely easier than skiing, from what he remembered of that Whistler trip with Gus. Why’d he let Gus talk him into skiing when he actually knew how to board, he still didn’t know.
***
Seven months after the Santa Barbara clusterfuck…
“How the hell did you find me?” Eliot had been astonished to find Hardison on the front porch of the ranch house that morning, but had let him in anyway, even though he looked like an extra who‘d escaped from the set of Hackers a few years too late, even though it was barely six in the morning and he had a lot to do that day, because the jump of his heart on seeing Hardison had spelled family.
“I put electronic trackers in the emergency IDs I gave you guys,” Hardison explained absentmindedly, setting up his laptop on the kitchen table. “Don’t worry, I’m the only one that can access them,” he cut over Eliot’s growl of how that wasn’t very goddamned safe if they’re trying to stay hidden. “I--dude.” He stopped talking, the bewilderment in his voice about equal to Eliot’s that morning when he found the hacker on the porch.
Jesse had skidded around the corner into the kitchen, still in his trains and rocket ships footie pajamas, and immediately clung to Eliot’s leg, peeking around Eliot at the stranger in the kitchen. “Uncle Tommy, Uncle Tommy,” he hissed in his version of a whisper--coincidentally, louder than his normal speaking voice--“Who’s that?”
“Uncle Tommy?” Hardison’s face struggled between amusement and surprise. “Since when have you had a nephew?”
“Since six months ago. What’s up, Hardison? I thought we weren’t meeting for another five months.” He leaned down to swing Jesse up into the air, surprising a squeal out of the kid. “That’s Hardison, we’ve known each other for forever. He’s my brother,” he explained to Jesse. Hardison stared at his computer for a moment, hiding the expression on his face. Whatever. Hardison was a part of his surrogate family, whether he liked it or not.
Jesse, God bless him, didn’t even glance between their wildly differing skin colors before busting out with, “Uncle Har-ison, you wan’ fruit loops for breffus?”
“Sure,” Hardison managed, obviously charmed by Jesse, and the kid wriggled out of Eliot’s arms to run over to the counter and start dumping the fruit loops into three of the plastic bowls he found in the bottom cabinets.
“So what’re you here for?” Eliot asked again, keeping a wary eye on Jesse as he fumbled with the milk carton.
“It’s about that Shawn Spencer guy. I flagged him when we worked with him, and a couple of days ago an APB went out on him--he’s listed as a missing person now. He’s just dropped off the radar. I think Cruz or Moreau or the bitch might have found out he was working with us and snagged him,” Hardison explained, starting to type something into his laptop.
Eliot froze. For a second, it felt like his heart stopped beating. “Motherfuck,” he breathed, then automatically glanced over to make sure Jesse was still safely humming to himself on the other side of the kitchen as he spilled milk into the three bowls, too occupied to have overheard Eliot swear. “How long’s he been missing for?”
“He disappeared just under a month ago, but he’s only been officially missing for the past two weeks. Either someone was dragging their ass on reporting him missing, or they thought they knew where he was. The person who first reported him missing was Burton Guster, and the person who filed the missing persons report was Henry Spencer,” Hardison said, reading names off his laptop. Eliot leaned over Hardison’s shoulder to see what he was looking at, and was startled by the sight of an FBI database.
“You hacked into the FBI from here?” he hissed angrily.
“Don’t worry, they can’t track it,” Hardison soothed. Hardison whipped the laptop out of the way as Jesse sloshed the bowls of cereal onto the table, just barely saving the computer from an inglorious death by drowning in milk and soggy fruit loops. He set it safely out of the way and dug into his cereal with a grin at Jesse.
“Thanks, buddy,” Eliot ruffled Jesse’s hair absentmindedly and watched him clamber up to kneel on one of the chairs and start shoveling his fruit loops into his mouth. “So, what are we gonna do about it? What do you want me to do? Jesse’s dad’s overseas-”
“In Gan-stan,” Jesse interrupted him proudly.
“I can’t take a four year old on a manhunt,” Eliot hissed at Hardison.
“I know,” Hardison hissed back. Jesse was watching them intently with narrowed eyes. “Can’t you leave him with someone?”
Eliot knew the look growing on Jesse’s face--it was the prelude to a tantrum. “No, I can’t.” God, what a dilemma. Shawn taken, and Jesse with no one else to look after him. Bill was too old and sick to chase around after a four year old, and Brad was doing his job as well as most of Eliot’s now that Eliot had Jesse to keep track of. He had no clue how John had ever managed to get so much done. But Eliot was the retrieval expert--if anyone could find Shawn, it’d be him. “Hey, buddy,” he tried to distract Jesse from the coming tantrum, “Want to go get dressed? We can show Uncle Hardison the ranch.”
Jesse’s face cleared, and he jumped down from his chair to run up the stairs. Once the kid was safely out of earshot, Eliot turned back to Hardison. “I don’t know what I can do to help, man. I can’t put Jesse in danger, and there really is no one else to watch him.”
Hardison sighed, and pulled out a cheap burner phone. “I don’t know what to say, man. Can you at least call this Burton guy and find out what he knows? You’ve talked to him before, right?”
Eliot took the phone and shook his head. “I’ll try, man, but I can’t promise anything.” He dialed the number Hardison gave him, and thanked whoever was listening that the ranch had cell service. Harder to track a burn phone that Hardison had had his hands on than a landline, and Eliot didn’t want anyone showing up at the ranch looking for them.
After two rings, someone picked up with a cautious “Hello?”
“This is El- Spencer Chappell. I just found out about Shawn going missing--is there anything you can tell me?” He caught himself after the first syllable of his name, cursing internally about letting even that much slip.
“Honestly, I’d hoped he was with you, El Spencer Chappell,” Burton sighed, managing to sound both weary and suspicious simultaneously over the phone.
“Why would he be with me?” Eliot asked in bewilderment.
“Because he kept thinking about going to Boston and looking you up after you disappeared into thin air, that’s why,” Shawn’s friend snapped.
“Wait, what?” Eliot was confused, but knew he needed to focus, here. “Never mind. Seriously, what can you tell me? All I know is that he disappeared three weeks ago and was reported as a missing person two weeks ago. Was anyone following him before that? Did he seem paranoid? Did you see anything suspicious?”
“You sound like Detective Lassiter and Shawn’s dad,” Burton grumbled. “No, I didn’t see anyone or anything suspicious, and he wasn’t anymore paranoid than usual, what with the whole ‘marked for death by Yin’ thing.”
“Marked for death?” Eliot’s heart stuttered again. Dammit. Maybe he should get that looked at. He sank down onto the couch.
“Old news, don’t worry about it. It’s not Yin, there’s no clues, and he wouldn’t just grab Shawn without playing games. The only thing I noticed before he disappeared was that the usual things didn’t seem to be as fun for him anymore. He’d even stopped mocking Lassiter when we solved his cases for him. And on the day he left, the Psych office was locked and there was a magic 8-ball on the stoop with a note under it that said ‘closed for psychic repairs, please consult my little friend.’”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Eliot commented, sidetracked.
“Shawn rarely does.” Burton sighed. “Honestly? I think he ran again. I suppose six years at one job in one place was the limit,” Burton sounded resigned. “I’ll probably get a really ugly postcard in the mail from Mexico or Brazil or Taiwan in a few months, with a couple words on the back about how he knows I wish I was there. It’s pretty much par for the course.”
“What about his bike? Did he take his Norton?” Eliot asked, feeling like he was grasping at straws.
“Either that or he stashed it in storage somewhere I can‘t find. He probably headed down to Mexico first, that’s where he always fled to back in high school,” the man sounded like he’d recited this a lot already.
“Do the cops have any leads?”
“No.”
“Thanks, Burton,” Eliot said, resigned.
“Gus,” Shawn’s friend interrupted him.
“Thanks Gus,” Eliot repeated, almost amused at the correction.
“Wait!” Eliot put the phone back to his ear. “Just… You might not be who I think you are, and if you aren’t I’m sorry for sounding crazy, but if you are, just… Just make sure he’s not in trouble? Okay?”
“Okay,” Eliot agreed grimly and hung up. Apparently Google had trumped Hardison after all; or Gus was getting desperate.
He gave Hardison the Cliff’s Notes summary of the conversation back in the kitchen, giving over the phone for Hardison to dispose of. “So, he might have just gone walkabout or something,” Hardison muttered to himself, and Eliot made a mental note to mock Crocodile Dundee later.
“But we should still find him, just in case it was Moreau or Cruz behind it,” Eliot added after Hardison hadn’t said anything for a while.
“We?” Hardison looked up at him. “So you’re in now?”
“Yeah,” Eliot sighed. “I can keep Jesse safe. I just hope I’ve got on Kevlar when John finds out.”
***
Chapter 10
Author: neensz
Word Count: ~23,700 total so far
Pairing: Eliot/Shawn pre-slash
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language, violence, kid!fic, SG:A cameo, un-beta’d
Disclaimer: Psych and Leverage (or SG:A) do not belong to me, nor do any of the characters or places or quotes I'm borrowing for my nefarious slashing purposes. I make no monetary profit from the aforesaid borrowing, or only in the currency of sqeeing fangirly joy.
A/N: I apologize for this one. I'm just sorry. Except, at the same time, not. And I seriously couldn't resist sticking Shep in it. So, yeah. Epic Crossover. Oh, gawd; I'm so sorry.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8
***
Six months later…
Eliot was finally thankful for the time he’d spent watching over Shawn Spencer back in Santa Barbara. A four year old was nothing compared to him, so the little orphaned Jesse was in good hands. He still didn’t know why he was always the one stuck with babysitting duty, but it wasn’t so bad. Especially since this one wasn’t old enough to drive.
Wyoming was glittering and peaceful under the blanket of fresh snow that had fallen last night. It was a bitch to drive through, though, and Eliot actually found himself missing the dirty slush of Boston streets some days. But while he missed the city occasionally, even the grungy snow and the paved streets, he missed his team more often, with an almost constant ache in his chest. Their takedown of Moreau had gone to shit, and they’d scattered to protect themselves. He didn’t even know where the others were. To protect themselves, they hadn’t told each other where they were going, so if one of them got caught, the others wouldn’t be in danger. They’d fucked up bad in Santa Barbara, so not only was Cruz after them, but the Italian bitch was gunning for them, not to mention Moreau.
Eliot had run to Wyoming. It was a rough trip, staying off the radar, stealing cars and switching plates and holing up at this little ranch in the middle of the Rockies. He didn’t know how long he was going to stay here, but the team had made plans to meet up exactly a year from the day they’d scattered, at McRory’s bar back in Boston. Eliot didn’t know how safe a plan that was, and had voiced his objection that the Italian bitch knew they’d worked from there, but he’d been overridden by most everyone else. Hardison had called him paranoid, and hadn’t listened when Eliot told him that being paranoid was the only reason Eliot was still alive.
Jesse grumbled in his sleep as Eliot turned off the highway onto the ranch exit, but a quick glance over let him know that the kid was sleeping safely in his car seat. Must have just been a dream, but Eliot turned up the heat in the old Dodge just in case it was because the kid was cold. Jesse’s dad had hired Eliot as a ranch hand when he’d shown up out of the blue, looking for work, and in the past five months, he’d made his way up to foreman when old Bill had his heart attack and the doctor told him he had to slow down or just buy a plot, because he was gonna be in the ground in a few weeks if he didn’t ease off. Jesse’s dad, John Sheppard, was a widower, had gotten the ranch when his dad died five or so years back, and had been running it in the black ever since.
Eliot supposed he shouldn’t call Jesse an orphan, not even in his head, because his dad wasn’t dead, and it’d be Eliot’s bad luck that someone was listening and made it true. John had been called back up and was over in Afghanistan, and had left Jesse with Eliot, since he said he trusted him and that they were practically family after five months of the kind of hard work it took to run a ranch. Eliot was shocked that John hadn’t sent Jesse to live with Laura’s parents, but he’d said okay when he found out that the kid didn’t really have any family other than his dad. Laura’s parents were estranged, blamed John for their daughter’s death, and didn’t want anything to do with Jesse, and both John’s parents were dead. Laura and John had both been only children (Eliot assumed, since John never really talked about his family to him), so there weren’t even any aunts or uncles to call on.
So now Eliot had a kid who called him Uncle Tommy. Eliot had nixed Uncle Tom the first time it’d come out of the kid’s mouth, not even daring to think of the shit he’d get from Hardison. Thomas Sawyer was who he was now, Hardison’s idea of a joke he supposed, the ‘in case of emergencies’ ID in the packet the hacker had given each of them a year or so back. John had left for Afghanistan last week, but Jesse had stopped asking for his dad after the first few days. It hurt Eliot a little that the kid was so adaptable, but at least he didn’t think his dad was dead.
Eliot pulled up in front of the house, put the truck in park, and leaned over to ruffle Jesse’s hair. “Hey, J.J.,” he said softly, “C’mon, wake up. We’re home.” Jesse squeezed his eyes shut and scrunched down in his seat. “Ok, buddy, you don’t have to get up,” Eliot laughed softly. He got out of the truck and went around to Jesse’s side, opening the door and unbuckling the kid from his car seat to carry the limp four year old into the house and up to his bedroom, leaving the groceries in the bed of the truck to get later. Checking the door and each of the rooms for signs of intruders as he walked through the house was still second nature, and not a thing he’d had to hide around John, because he was a fellow soldier. John hadn’t asked about Eliot’s past, for which he was grateful, but he was sure John had made a few informed guesses about why Eliot didn’t sleep well at night and why he picked fights at the bar and what made him always check every room when he entered the house. Because John did all those same things, though got in fewer bar fights now that he had Jesse. So did Eliot, now.
Eliot put Jesse down gently in his bed, easing tiny shoes off tiny feet and wriggling limp arms out of the small jacket. That was probably good enough. Eliot knew by now that if he woke Jesse up to get him into his pajamas, the kid wouldn’t go back to sleep till at least midnight, and then be cranky as Nate without booze in the morning. The kid could sleep in his clothes. Eliot tucked the blanket up over Jesse, and left the room, leaving the door open a crack to let the hall light in.
Packing the groceries in from the truck, Eliot haphazardly stocked the fridge and the pantry and called it good. He crashed on the couch, feeling as tired as Jesse. It was a long drive to the city and back, and he’d made it worth the while by hitting up Costco and Wal-Mart and getting everything he thought they could possibly need for the next month. Tomorrow he’d go out to the barn and see if the tractor was still acting up and what he could do about it and maybe set Brad Heiner, John’s new ranch hand he’d gotten to replace Eliot, to checking the fence line and see if this new snow had pulled down any of the wire, and check on the snow fences to see if they were holding.
At least Eliot was staying in the house now, and not the bunk house, so he only had to go up the stairs to get to the bed in the spare room, as opposed to trekking down to the bunk house through this damned powder. John had moved him up here when he’d promoted him to foreman, leaving Bill in the foreman’s cottage attached to the bunkhouse. It was one thing to take a man’s job, quite another to take the house that he‘d lived in for the past thirty years. Luckily, John felt the same way, and Bill was staying in the foreman’s cottage till he croaked or moved to some ‘pansy-ass retirement village.’ Bill’s words, not John’s.
Eliot forced himself off the couch with a grunt and headed up the stairs to fall into bed and a well-earned sleep.
***
Still six months later…
Shawn fingered the scar on his forehead as he thought. After six months, it had faded to a little white line that he could only see in the mirror if he was actively looking for it, but his fingers always found it unerringly. “The killer hasn’t fled to Boston, Shawn, so don’t even say it,” Gus said flatly, eyeing him.
Shawn blinked at Gus, dropping his hand to his lap, pulled from his thoughts. “What? Why would he have fled to Boston?”
Gus sighed. “I said he didn’t flee to Boston, Shawn. No one flees to Boston from Santa Barbara. They flee to Mexico.”
“Stop saying flee.”
“Flee.”
Shawn rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t going to say he ran to Boston, Gus.”
“That’s what you always say when you start playing with that scar.” Gus rolled his eyes back at Shawn.
“I do not, Gus.”
“You do, Shawn. You touch the scar and then always come up with some wild and crazy reason why we should go to Boston so you can look him up because you’re in town on business. And I’m not so sure that you didn’t make that guy up in the first place,” Gus added, his eyes sliding away from Shawn’s as he accused him of lying.
“You talked to him on the phone,” Shawn pointed out, a little hurt at the accusation, but not enough to show.
“It could have been anyone that I talked to on the phone, Shawn. I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but, I don’t believe you. He disappeared off the face of the earth before I got back from my work retreat. Normal, real people don‘t disappear into thin air like that.” Gus leveled a look at Shawn like he was trying to see inside Shawn’s head. Shawn found it only slightly disconcerting when he did that. It’s not like Gus could actually read his mind.
“Whatever. I was gonna say, before you took the Tangent Train, are we sure this guy’s the killer? I mean, he still lives with his mom.” Shawn changed the subject. He was really tired of going over and over the same ground with Gus in regards to that week.
“He probably has a lot of rage bottled up inside because of that,” Gus argued.
“He collects stamps, Gus.”
“Philately doesn’t preclude murder, Shawn.”
It was for Gus’s own good. If Gus knew Shawn understood him perfectly when he used the big words, he’d never stop his friend from sounding like a walking dictionary. And friends don’t let friends speak Webster. “No one’s talking about fiddles here, Gus. Stop being such a double chocolate chip muffin-head. I’m just saying, maybe we should look at Steve the Pirate.”
“You mean Stephan, the deckhand who worked on the victim’s yacht?” Gus asked.
“That’s what I said.” Shawn looked at Gus blankly.
“One, Lassiter said that Stephan’s alibi checked out, and two, Harold was caught on camera running from the scene of the crime.” Gus ticked off his points on his fingers.
“Gus-Gus,” Shawn started.
“I’m never letting you watch Cinderella again,” Gus interrupted, glowering at him.
“Gus, when was the last time Lassy was right about who did it?” Shawn asked with a put-upon look.
“Last case, when he caught the guy you said was innocent disposing of the second body.” Gus said smugly.
“You’re never gonna drop that, are you?” Shawn sighed.
“Nope,” Gus smirked at him.
“I was technically right though, because he wasn’t the murderer, just a… thingy. What’s it called?” The word was on the tip of his tongue, and he waved his hand around like it would help him remember.
“Accomplice?” Gus supplied.
“That,” Shawn agreed.
“Whatever. Let’s go talk to Steve the- Stephan the deckhand, then.”
“I knew you’d see it my way, buddy,” Shawn grinned and followed Gus out the office door to the Blueberry.
***
Wyoming, six months and one day later…
Eliot was under the tractor, looking for the oil leak he knew was there. Jesse was sitting beside the toolbox and playing with a smaller version of the tractor Eliot was mentally cursing, making motor sounds. “Bbbbbbroawrbbb-” clunk “-brrrrbbrawrb.” It kinda sounded like the tractor on a bad day, including the clunk, but Eliot doubted that sound came from the kid.
He rolled out from under the tractor and had Jesse shielded behind him before he knew what he’d done, a ridiculously large monkey-wrench gripped like a weapon in his right hand. The clunk was from Brad, who was over by the work bench and looking for something in the mess. Jesse giggled at Eliot’s reaction, and he flushed at the sound, dropping the wrench back into the toolbox. Brad looked over at the sound. “Find the leak?”
“Not yet. What’cha lookin’ for?” He glanced down to watch Jesse roll around on the dirt floor in what he supposed was an imitation of himself.
“Staples. One of the wires on the west fence got pulled down by the snow,” Brad told him, continuing his search of the cluttered work bench.
“Me an the kid can go fix it, if you’ll take a look at the tractor; I don’t know how I keep missing the leak--maybe fresh eyes would help--and I’ve got some leftover wire staples in the Dodge,” Eliot volunteered.
“Fence, fence, fence,” Jesse started chanting, and Brad laughed.
“Sure,” Brad agreed easily, shucking his jacket now that he was going to be staying in the heated barn. Eliot forced his eyes off the broad flannel draped back and wondered what the hell was wrong with him. Flannel wasn’t sexy. Neither were farm hands who looked like an advertisement for rough trade. What the hell? Eliot hot-footed it out of the barn, away from those disturbing thoughts, with Jesse frisking at his heels.
***
California, still six months and one day later…
Shawn lounged on Jules’s desk in the bullpen as she worked around him resignedly, waiting for the giddy thrill of accomplishment that usually filled him when he’d solved a case and proved Lassy wrong all at the same time. But his glee was missing, and had been missing for a while. Baiting Lassy wasn’t even as much fun as it used to be. Maybe it was time to move on. Over six years at this job, after all. Maybe it was time to travel again. Mexico was always nice in the winter. Or he could go find some snow and see if he still remembered how to snowboard. It was definitely easier than skiing, from what he remembered of that Whistler trip with Gus. Why’d he let Gus talk him into skiing when he actually knew how to board, he still didn’t know.
***
Seven months after the Santa Barbara clusterfuck…
“How the hell did you find me?” Eliot had been astonished to find Hardison on the front porch of the ranch house that morning, but had let him in anyway, even though he looked like an extra who‘d escaped from the set of Hackers a few years too late, even though it was barely six in the morning and he had a lot to do that day, because the jump of his heart on seeing Hardison had spelled family.
“I put electronic trackers in the emergency IDs I gave you guys,” Hardison explained absentmindedly, setting up his laptop on the kitchen table. “Don’t worry, I’m the only one that can access them,” he cut over Eliot’s growl of how that wasn’t very goddamned safe if they’re trying to stay hidden. “I--dude.” He stopped talking, the bewilderment in his voice about equal to Eliot’s that morning when he found the hacker on the porch.
Jesse had skidded around the corner into the kitchen, still in his trains and rocket ships footie pajamas, and immediately clung to Eliot’s leg, peeking around Eliot at the stranger in the kitchen. “Uncle Tommy, Uncle Tommy,” he hissed in his version of a whisper--coincidentally, louder than his normal speaking voice--“Who’s that?”
“Uncle Tommy?” Hardison’s face struggled between amusement and surprise. “Since when have you had a nephew?”
“Since six months ago. What’s up, Hardison? I thought we weren’t meeting for another five months.” He leaned down to swing Jesse up into the air, surprising a squeal out of the kid. “That’s Hardison, we’ve known each other for forever. He’s my brother,” he explained to Jesse. Hardison stared at his computer for a moment, hiding the expression on his face. Whatever. Hardison was a part of his surrogate family, whether he liked it or not.
Jesse, God bless him, didn’t even glance between their wildly differing skin colors before busting out with, “Uncle Har-ison, you wan’ fruit loops for breffus?”
“Sure,” Hardison managed, obviously charmed by Jesse, and the kid wriggled out of Eliot’s arms to run over to the counter and start dumping the fruit loops into three of the plastic bowls he found in the bottom cabinets.
“So what’re you here for?” Eliot asked again, keeping a wary eye on Jesse as he fumbled with the milk carton.
“It’s about that Shawn Spencer guy. I flagged him when we worked with him, and a couple of days ago an APB went out on him--he’s listed as a missing person now. He’s just dropped off the radar. I think Cruz or Moreau or the bitch might have found out he was working with us and snagged him,” Hardison explained, starting to type something into his laptop.
Eliot froze. For a second, it felt like his heart stopped beating. “Motherfuck,” he breathed, then automatically glanced over to make sure Jesse was still safely humming to himself on the other side of the kitchen as he spilled milk into the three bowls, too occupied to have overheard Eliot swear. “How long’s he been missing for?”
“He disappeared just under a month ago, but he’s only been officially missing for the past two weeks. Either someone was dragging their ass on reporting him missing, or they thought they knew where he was. The person who first reported him missing was Burton Guster, and the person who filed the missing persons report was Henry Spencer,” Hardison said, reading names off his laptop. Eliot leaned over Hardison’s shoulder to see what he was looking at, and was startled by the sight of an FBI database.
“You hacked into the FBI from here?” he hissed angrily.
“Don’t worry, they can’t track it,” Hardison soothed. Hardison whipped the laptop out of the way as Jesse sloshed the bowls of cereal onto the table, just barely saving the computer from an inglorious death by drowning in milk and soggy fruit loops. He set it safely out of the way and dug into his cereal with a grin at Jesse.
“Thanks, buddy,” Eliot ruffled Jesse’s hair absentmindedly and watched him clamber up to kneel on one of the chairs and start shoveling his fruit loops into his mouth. “So, what are we gonna do about it? What do you want me to do? Jesse’s dad’s overseas-”
“In Gan-stan,” Jesse interrupted him proudly.
“I can’t take a four year old on a manhunt,” Eliot hissed at Hardison.
“I know,” Hardison hissed back. Jesse was watching them intently with narrowed eyes. “Can’t you leave him with someone?”
Eliot knew the look growing on Jesse’s face--it was the prelude to a tantrum. “No, I can’t.” God, what a dilemma. Shawn taken, and Jesse with no one else to look after him. Bill was too old and sick to chase around after a four year old, and Brad was doing his job as well as most of Eliot’s now that Eliot had Jesse to keep track of. He had no clue how John had ever managed to get so much done. But Eliot was the retrieval expert--if anyone could find Shawn, it’d be him. “Hey, buddy,” he tried to distract Jesse from the coming tantrum, “Want to go get dressed? We can show Uncle Hardison the ranch.”
Jesse’s face cleared, and he jumped down from his chair to run up the stairs. Once the kid was safely out of earshot, Eliot turned back to Hardison. “I don’t know what I can do to help, man. I can’t put Jesse in danger, and there really is no one else to watch him.”
Hardison sighed, and pulled out a cheap burner phone. “I don’t know what to say, man. Can you at least call this Burton guy and find out what he knows? You’ve talked to him before, right?”
Eliot took the phone and shook his head. “I’ll try, man, but I can’t promise anything.” He dialed the number Hardison gave him, and thanked whoever was listening that the ranch had cell service. Harder to track a burn phone that Hardison had had his hands on than a landline, and Eliot didn’t want anyone showing up at the ranch looking for them.
After two rings, someone picked up with a cautious “Hello?”
“This is El- Spencer Chappell. I just found out about Shawn going missing--is there anything you can tell me?” He caught himself after the first syllable of his name, cursing internally about letting even that much slip.
“Honestly, I’d hoped he was with you, El Spencer Chappell,” Burton sighed, managing to sound both weary and suspicious simultaneously over the phone.
“Why would he be with me?” Eliot asked in bewilderment.
“Because he kept thinking about going to Boston and looking you up after you disappeared into thin air, that’s why,” Shawn’s friend snapped.
“Wait, what?” Eliot was confused, but knew he needed to focus, here. “Never mind. Seriously, what can you tell me? All I know is that he disappeared three weeks ago and was reported as a missing person two weeks ago. Was anyone following him before that? Did he seem paranoid? Did you see anything suspicious?”
“You sound like Detective Lassiter and Shawn’s dad,” Burton grumbled. “No, I didn’t see anyone or anything suspicious, and he wasn’t anymore paranoid than usual, what with the whole ‘marked for death by Yin’ thing.”
“Marked for death?” Eliot’s heart stuttered again. Dammit. Maybe he should get that looked at. He sank down onto the couch.
“Old news, don’t worry about it. It’s not Yin, there’s no clues, and he wouldn’t just grab Shawn without playing games. The only thing I noticed before he disappeared was that the usual things didn’t seem to be as fun for him anymore. He’d even stopped mocking Lassiter when we solved his cases for him. And on the day he left, the Psych office was locked and there was a magic 8-ball on the stoop with a note under it that said ‘closed for psychic repairs, please consult my little friend.’”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Eliot commented, sidetracked.
“Shawn rarely does.” Burton sighed. “Honestly? I think he ran again. I suppose six years at one job in one place was the limit,” Burton sounded resigned. “I’ll probably get a really ugly postcard in the mail from Mexico or Brazil or Taiwan in a few months, with a couple words on the back about how he knows I wish I was there. It’s pretty much par for the course.”
“What about his bike? Did he take his Norton?” Eliot asked, feeling like he was grasping at straws.
“Either that or he stashed it in storage somewhere I can‘t find. He probably headed down to Mexico first, that’s where he always fled to back in high school,” the man sounded like he’d recited this a lot already.
“Do the cops have any leads?”
“No.”
“Thanks, Burton,” Eliot said, resigned.
“Gus,” Shawn’s friend interrupted him.
“Thanks Gus,” Eliot repeated, almost amused at the correction.
“Wait!” Eliot put the phone back to his ear. “Just… You might not be who I think you are, and if you aren’t I’m sorry for sounding crazy, but if you are, just… Just make sure he’s not in trouble? Okay?”
“Okay,” Eliot agreed grimly and hung up. Apparently Google had trumped Hardison after all; or Gus was getting desperate.
He gave Hardison the Cliff’s Notes summary of the conversation back in the kitchen, giving over the phone for Hardison to dispose of. “So, he might have just gone walkabout or something,” Hardison muttered to himself, and Eliot made a mental note to mock Crocodile Dundee later.
“But we should still find him, just in case it was Moreau or Cruz behind it,” Eliot added after Hardison hadn’t said anything for a while.
“We?” Hardison looked up at him. “So you’re in now?”
“Yeah,” Eliot sighed. “I can keep Jesse safe. I just hope I’ve got on Kevlar when John finds out.”
***
Chapter 10