"…that sound, you know, in horror movies, where it makes that really nasty sounding crack? Yeah. That's exactly what it sounded like. Then everything went black." The crowd around Shawn gasped sympathetically and he shrugged in faux-modesty. "When I woke up, I couldn't remember what had happened. All I knew was that my head and neck were killing me, and when I pushed the buttons on my phone, I could look up at my kneecaps..."
The fake psychic leaned against one of the desks in the Santa Barbara police station, surrounded by ten or fifteen various officers of the law, all listening avidly as he recounted his harrowing experience in the ventilation shaft, evidenced by the bandaging both on his head and inside the brightly colored sling supporting his left arm.
Across the room, Juliet, Lassiter, and Gus watched on with part exasperated, part annoyed, and part amused looks, the emotions taking up varying percentages of each of their persons.
"So I see he's got his memory back," Lassiter said dryly, leaning against a nearby pillar.
Gus rolled his eyes, arms crossed casually in front of his chest. "You know, I'm not honestly sure. Whether he has or not, he'd still be making it out to be the most traumatic thing he's ever been through."
Juliet laughed. "Drama king." Her voice was warm with affection.
"I still can't believe he didn't break his neck," Lassiter said, shaking his head. "By all rights, he should be dead."
"You'd be surprised what you can live through," Gus replied.
"Sounds like you have a lot of interesting stories to tell," Juliet said, voice colored with amusement.
Gus rolled his eyes again. "Enough to fill a novel or two. There are three rules you have to obey when operating as Shawn's friend: Never let him lead you blindly, never take a dare from him, and if he says it's a flawless plan, that nothing could go wrong—everything will. Trust me, I have the scars to prove it. I've always had trouble with the rules."
Both detectives' eyebrows rose and they turned to look at the psychic still animatedly describing his ordeal. "Idiot," Lassiter muttered.
Shawn's exuberant storytelling had dragged his injured arm into the mix and the three of them didn't miss the almost imperceptible winces every time he jerked it a little too far. "…by then, my legs are going numb and I…"
With a dramatic sigh, Lassiter said loudly, "All of that could have been avoided if you hadn't gone wandering off on your own without any light in the ventilation shafts, Spencer."
Shawn grinned and looked up, cocking his head slightly to the side. "Yeah, but then you wouldn't have gotten that awesome rescue scene, Lassie."
"I also wouldn't have had to write a five page report detailing the reasons for calling off a search just to get the fire department, paramedics, city records, and my men involved in 'rescuing' you from the very building you're supposed to be helping us search," he retorted.
Shawn glanced around at his audience and said, "Let's have a round for the detective who saved me from paralysis and death, yeah! You go, Lassie!"
Lassiter rolled his eyes at the applause that followed at Shawn's bidding and said, "Shut up you idiot."
Gus stepped forward and held out a hand, two pills cupped in his palm. "Here. Take these."
Shawn sighed, but held out his hand obediently, accepting the pills. "Now I can be like House, in the non-limp phase." He grinned and tossed his head back, tipping the pills into his mouth.
Gus held out a water bottle. "Here."
Shawn pouted. "House doesn't take them with water."
"Drink the water, Shawn," Gus said irritably and again, Shawn accepted what was held out for him.
"Jeez, I can't do a thing for myself apparently."
"You can't, Spencer," Lassiter said. "You proved that the other day by falling on your head."
"You're like a walking accident—no, a walking incident waiting to happen," Juliet said.
Shawn made a sound of protest as his listeners began to drift away and he cried, "Wait, guys! I'm getting to the best part!"
"Give it a rest, Spencer," Lassiter said. "Speaking of which, shouldn't you be doing that somewhere?"
"Rest, shmest. I'm fine," he said off-handedly.
"Get up," Gus ordered, "You're going home."
"Gus—" Shawn started and was cut off with a glare from all three.
"Go home, Shawn," Juliet said. "You're still recovering from the concussion."
Shawn made a fuss, whining and protesting, but allowed himself to be forced to his feet and led in the direction of the station entrance. "I'll come back!" he called, "I'll come back with the rest of my story!"
"Yeah, yeah," Lassiter called.
"Take it easy!" Juliet instructed.
He stifled a yawn as he and Gus cut through the lobby and smiled to himself as he shifted just a little more of his weight on to Gus' shoulder. "I'm thinking Smirnoff," he announced, and as Gus snorted, behind them, Lassiter and Juliet shook their heads.
Funny how a (fake) psychic could make even police work more interesting.
Chapter End Notes:
weeps It's over. Well, guys...it was a fun ride. XD I hope you all enjoyed the shameless Shawn whumpage. :D
I have a couple of one-shots coming up (just for those of you who are curious) which I'm hoping will serve as time-taker-uppers until I have one of the stories I'm working on completed and ready for postage. Hopefully that will be soon. :)
Anyway. Thanks for all your fantastic reviews and POST STUFF GUYS! I want to read stuff! cries, whines, grovels