Title: Parting Shot
Rating: M (For language. Three uses of the 'f' word. I think with the night Shawn had, they can be excused.)
Disclaimer: Not mine, not even a little bit.
Authors Note: Missing scene for "Shawn Takes a Shot in the Dark" – not betaed, so this might change at any time. I really didn't mean for this to go multi-chaptered – but Shawn is not known for shutting-up, so I guess it was to be expected.
"Dad, I have a clear shot," Shawn declared from his precarious place on the hood of Lassie's car. The adrenaline that had started flowing as soon as he saw Lassie and Gus' cars coming up behind the truck was surging wildly now. It had flooded his system like ice water, numbing the bullet wound and washing away his exhaustion. It was weird, how good he felt considering the shape he was in. "Give me the gun!"
He saw the hesitation in his father's eyes, but now was really not the time.
Henry Spencer responded to the tone and the logic, and passed the gun on. Shawn braced his hand between the door and the side mirror for stability – lord knew he lacked that even at the best of times, and this was clearly not the best of times.
He sighted and pulled the trigger.
His first shot went wide, the echo of the recoil thrumming up his arm and jarring torn flesh. The pain in his shoulder spiked to nova levels…and Shawn felt himself getting pissed off.
It was enough. He'd been chased and clubbed and confined and shot. He'd been scared, he'd been despairing, and he'd been panicked. And now they had finally managed to piss him off.
Everything narrowed. He felt no pain, he forgot about being on the car, he didn't even see his dad in front of him anymore. All he saw, all he cared about, was the gun in his hand, and the fucking truck.
This was ending. Now.
The next three shots went where he put them, through the front grill, blowing the truck's engine. Now, whatever happened, the bastard wouldn't be getting away.
The thought drained all the anger from him – and the adrenaline high he'd been riding started fading with it. The guy was caught, even if the chase wasn't over yet.
He saw the truck slowing, and he felt the car underneath him jerk.
With the last of his adrenaline born strength, Shawn clung to both the gun and the hood, knowing how Lassie liked to spin his car in dramatic stops. The idiot wouldn't think to restrain himself just because a wounded person was draped across his hood.
The car spun in a squeal of brakes and testosterone, ending up blocking the highway. The truck halted.
…And Shawn was officially done. He had nothing left. He was tired and he hurt and he really, really just wanted to sleep for awhile. He was aware that someone would need the gun, so he transferred it to his good hand and held it out – and laid his head down on the warm hood, closing his eyes.
He was relived when it was snatched away.
For half a second the hot sun felt so good on his back… he was pretty cold. It felt like he'd been cold for hours –
– Then there was a hand at his pants, and he was snatched clear of the car as quickly as the gun had been snagged from his fingers. The world spun as he fought to keep his feet under him, not really sure what had just happened, but knowing that a fall would wake his shoulder back up and he just couldn't deal with that level of pain again so soon.
He kept his feet. Somehow, he kept his feet. He was vaguely aware that Lassie was yelling behind him; that Lassie was, in fact, arresting the fucktard who had killed Mr. Pink in front of him; the fucktard who had been planning to kill him. And Shawn wanted to care, he really did – but it was hard to care about that when his shoulder was on fire and the world was freezing and he really couldn't say which way was the way back to the car.
He knew he was crashing. But he was helpless to stop it, lost in a swirl of pain and heat and exhaustion.
"Shawn. C'mere. C'mere."
His dad's voice. His dad's hands. Shawn felt them, and felt the world resolve back into solidity again. Because that's what his dad was – solid and strong and immovable. He was an anchor, something that tied Shawn down when he wanted to break free, but also a comforting weight when the world threatened to engulf him and wash him away.
"C'mere, son," he said, his voice full of concern and soft with a tone Shawn had almost never heard before.
"Dad," Shawn heard himself gasp, letting the hands – warm and calloused and familiar as anything – sweep him forward despite his disorientation.
"That's it," his dad almost whispered, guiding him. And then he leaned him against the car. Shawn's internal map resolved, and just like that he knew where he was again. He leaned against the car in relief. The heat of it felt extraordinary. Shawn slumped there, letting the warmth of the metal seep into his exhausted body. He watched dazedly, head down on the car, as his father stepped over to help control the rat-bastard.
Lassiter glanced up, meeting his eyes for a second.
"Nice shooting, detective."
Detective. The word revived him like a slap. He felt himself reconnect with the situation and nearly groaned. He raised his head. "Did you just call me detective?" he asked wearily.
There was a hesitation, then Lassiter snapped, "No." The look on his face was …discomfited.
The look on his dad's face….
Shawn just couldn't deal with that; definitely not now, and probably not ever.
As always when he was uncomfortable, when he couldn't handle something, his mouth took off without him.
"Shouldn't you wait for Diesel and Rodriguez before you slap on the cuffs on him?" Shawn asked. He pointed behind them to Gus' car, limping up the highway.
The odd comment had worked though. His dad sent him a vaguely irritated glance, then turned his back to watch the car approach.
Much better. Backs were safer than that look.
All the same, now that he was more aware of his surroundings it did not escape his attention that he was in almost the exactly same position as the creepy killer guy, slumped over the car.
Only Shawn was pretty sure he hurt more. And he knew that wasn't fair.
He was pretty sure he didn't deserve to be sprawled over the car like a perp, either; but he was unable to straighten up even if he wanted to. His body had the consistency of a wet noodle… and about the same tensile strength. He was lucky the car was there under him. Without it he would be on the ground.
So moving anymore, for any reason, was out of the question at this point. Even to distance himself from creepy killer guy.
He slumped down further, letting his shoulder almost press into the warm metal. Nothing, and he really did mean nothing, had ever felt as good as that steady heat.
And he would continue to mean it, until someone gave him some pain killers.
Anytime would be nice. Sooner would be better. Because his shoulder really did stin…
The rat-bastard kicked out at Lassie, who was turned away, watching Gus' car. It didn't do anything except tick Lassie off, and Lassiter expressed that anger by slamming him back down into the hood so hard he rocked the car. Shawn's body jerked with the movement.
It was like somebody scraping fingernails across his raw nerves.
The world came unmade. Cold black blossomed across his vision; white-hot agony blotted out his thoughts – reality went grey in the mix…
His body was red and cold and raw. Everything swirled sickeningly, endlessly….
"Breathe, Shawn," his dad said, suddenly much too close, and Shawn forced his eyes open. He found himself sitting on the ground, leaning back against the car. He had no memory of falling, but from the worried look on his dad's face, he must have. His dad was on his knees in front of him, one hand on his cheek. "That's it," he said in that same strange, calm voice. "Keep your eyes open, Shawny. Okay? Keep your eyes open for me, son."
His dad hadn't called him 'Shawny' since he was four and fell off the back porch. He'd needed five stitches to close the gash. His father had held his hand the whole time.
Then yelled at him all the way home.
He'd known he wasn't supposed to go outside alone, but it had been a really bright day, and he'd only wanted to see the way the sun turned so brilliant at the edges of the clouds. So bright it was dazzling, so beautiful that it had made his eyes sting…
His eyes snapped back open, his head jerking up. The movement sparked pain, and he found himself arching against it, his jaw clenching to keep the shout back.
"Easy, son. Just breathe through it. Breathe with me, Shawn. In, out." His dad demonstrated, pulling long steady breaths in, and letting them out slowly. Shawn consciously tried to mimic his father, slowing his panting breaths and forcing himself to breathe through his nose.
It helped. He felt more awake as the black flowers at the edge of his vision retreated a bit. The world expanded.
He was shivering.
That was weird.
Shawn glanced up, frowning. It was Gus, looking worried… which was not all that different from his normal expression, really. But when had Gus gotten here? Hadn't he just been driving the car up? How had Shawn missed it? Just how long had he been…grayed out?
"He'll be okay," His dad replied, sounding comfortingly sure. "You got that ready for me yet?"
Gus handed his dad a piece of cloth… it was a chunk of shirt. From the color and size, it was approximately half of one of Lassiter's shirts. Shawn chuckled, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. He got to ruin one of Lassie's shirts and there was no way he'd be blamed for it. He hoped it had been one of his favorites.
"Take a breath, Shawn," his dad advised. "This is gonna hurt."
His dad slipped one part of the shirt behind his back, and the other he pressed against the entry point in his shoulder. He pushed with what Shawn was sure was unnecessary pressure.
Shawn gasped against the acidic burn, his feet automatically digging into the dirt as his body attempted to flinch away. "Breathe, Shawn," his father reminded, again softly, calmly. "Don't pant. Breathe. How far is that ambulance?" he said, in an entirely different tone to someone else. Shawn didn't bother to open his eyes to find out who. It was kind of nice to be on this side of his dad's tones for once.
"They just radioed. They're about two minutes out."
Lassiter's voice. Lassiter's car. Lassiter's shirt. Did he owe Lassie for the rescue, as lame as it had been?
"Is that my shirt?" Lassie suddenly demanded, and Shawn found himself grinning despite the pain.
No. He didn't owe Lassie…. It was way worse.
He owed his dad.
This was going to be about as pleasant as getting shot.
He raised his head, opening his eyes. He reached up to catch his dad's arm. His dad looked up from the wound instantly – though the steady pressure never wavered, pushing the burning sensation of the wound ever deeper into his body.
"What, Shawn? What is it? Something wrong?"
He swallowed past a throat so dry that it clicked. "Thank you, Dad," he said, and was shocked at how rough he sounded. He cleared his throat and tried again. "What you taught me, worked. What you gave me, it kept me alive."
His father's face spasmed. He swallowed this time. The pressure on his shoulder wavered, just the slightest amount. "You kept you alive, Shawn. That's all that's important. We'll talk about it later. Right now, you need to stay still."
Stay still? Hadn't he just jumped from a moving truck onto a moving car, fired a gun, and ridden the car through a ridiculously unnecessary spinning stop? Now his dad wanted him to stay still?
Well, that was… irksome.
And a blatant lie.
But, whatever. If that was the way his dad wanted to play it, then that was fine. Shawn didn't have any plans to call him on it. Mostly because still felt better. Moving accompanied ouchies.
"Shawn, open your eyes."
So moving was definitely out. He was tired of hurting. But that didn't make his dad right. It just didn't.
And he'd tell him so.
When he felt better.
"C'mon, kid. Wake up."
Because he really felt like crap right now.
A new wave of vertigo swept through him; he felt light, airy… vaguely motion sick. He almost felt like he was floating, just an inch above the ground. Just a shade outside his body. The heavy burn of the bullet was pushing him up like smoke, filling his vision with grey again.
And then the smoke went black.