AN: I haven't actually seen the episode because of the annoying fact that it hasn't aired in Ireland yet, but this fic came about by my accidental stumbling onto a psych fanvid which in turn led me to watch more fanvids related to the episode which then led to me writing this fic.
There was something to be said about being shot.
Shawn Spencer had watched in painfully slow motion as the bullet entered his shoulder, a searing pain accompanying it as it hit its target – him. His whole body had screamed in an agonizing torture as metal tore through flesh and into bone; as every motion set off the vibration of an anvil of pain tunnelling into his shoulder; as he slowly was subjected to the accompanying loss of hope.
He had watched his trigger-friendly captor being shot in front of his very eyes. What was worse was that there was a small part of him – just a tiny, almost insignificant portion of his very being that he would rarely acknowledging being a part of him at all – that relished in his death. It was a feeling he was ashamed of; that the mere notion of a twisted form of revenge had occurred because he had wished it so.
And once that small potion that had felt relief, was soon brought crashing down as reality asserted itself once again, and he was left with the realisation that he was still in the hands of a psychopath. He was still on the brink of death itself.
His body had been slammed against car – his own doing, of course, because he didn't want to spend even one more second at the mercy of a psychopath. He needed the safety that familiarity would bring, and if he had to jump on a car to achieve that feeling of relief then so be it. He didn't care, he just wanted the nightmare to end, and for once in his life a car was his salvation.
Holding on to a car that was going at 100mph was a difficult feat for a man who had an injured arm, but that had been the easier part. Once everything had been said and done, and Lassiter was slapping the cuffs on the bad guy, it was at that point where adrenaline could hold him no longer in its grip.
Everything felt heavy then.
Everything felt very, very far away.
And so he had grown lethargic, his grip on the car slipping as a haze of unconsciousness descended on him. And strong hands grasped at him, holding him upright as he succumbed to the desires of darkness.
He had woken up in the ambulance, albeit briefly, his hand reaching out to grasp at the rough familiar hand of his father's; almost cherishing in the lessons he had taught him as a child. If it hadn't been for him, he was pretty sure he would not be alive right now.
And for that fact he was grateful.
He had woken up a second time in the hospital two days later. Beside him was his bullet in a jar (who knew how mangled up a bullet could be?) and three people – his dad, Gus and Jules, all talking quietly amongst themselves, unaware that he had awoken. He was grateful for their prescience, and for a few moments, through slit eyelids, he watched them.
He saw how his dad was still wearing the same clothes, now crumpled through overuse. He saw how Gus' hand in a continuous motion of worry would not stop tapping against the railing of his bed. He saw how Juliet's brow was furrowed whenever she would chance a glance at him.
And so when he feigned in a dramatic motion his awakening to the world, he pushed away his worries and retreated to his light hearted manner for their sake.
He would be okay; he was safe now, no longer a victim but no longer the exact same. There would always be a part of him still trapped in a nightmare, an echo of himself stuck in the past, but it would diminish with time, he knew it would, and life would return to a slightly changed version of his reality.
He had been through five kinds of hell in single day and it was an experience he would never like to repeat again, but looking at the smiling faces in front of him, there was something to be said about being shot.
AN: Review if you enjoyed...