A/N: This idea was inspired by none other than my good, good friend Mrs-N-Uzumaki. She was a HUGE help throughout all of this and contributed some very, very hilarious lines! Check out our other story, Of Murder, Mistrust and Pineapple, here or on psych fic (dot) com. Look up my ginger-tea drinking buddy, Mrs-N-Uzumaki. She may or may not have a glorious one-shot of her own up on her account! ;)

For what it's worth, Henry at least expected a postcard.

Something short and simple like, "Hey, dad, guess where I am right now?" but Henry did not receive a postcard so he did not concern himself with the matter. He simply refused. When he walked by the one photograph of the two of them – which was so long ago, when he was smaller than a shoe box – he kept his gaze straight ahead.

He'd had other photographs laying around on tables and counters of course, but one by one, they were altogether too painful to see every morning –Shawn sulkily holding onto a fishing rod at five years old, Shawn and Gus sitting at their picnic table out back eating hot dogs and finally, Shawn and Madeline, their arms around each other. That one, Henry had just put face-down.

Henry Spencer was not a man of conflict – he did not wave his problems all around for everyone to see; he just wasn't that kind of person.

At the station, after word had gotten out about his broken family, other officers ducked out of his way when he passed. He heard his name float in through conversations at the water cooler and sat at his desk to eat his lunch. Words like "broken man" and "feel sorry for" swayed casually under their gossiping murmurs.

Henry couldn't say isolating himself was terrible; he got plenty of work done and even solved a case by himself within an hour. The emptiness drove him to preoccupy himself with as much work as he possibly could.

But then again, hours of silence sure did stretch.

And Henry could not stand the drawn-out hours of time where thoughts just swam through his mind like a current and it was all he could do not to pop an ibuprofen or four and call it a day.

He was an SBPD detective, though. He solved cases and arrested wrongdoers and accepted no praise because it was all in his job. He most certainly was not an SBPD detective, whiny, reclusive, dodging association with anyone else because of one simple thing, a flippant stroke of a paintbrush against a canvas, creating a different portrait.

His son had run away.

To be more accurate, he had filled his backpack with clothes and food, gotten on his motorcycle three days before graduation and left.

To be even more accurate, Shawn's disappearance did not even register with him until the day before his graduation. To be fair, he had worked three shifts back-to-back, subsisting on black coffee and slaps to the face until the chief had gently told him to go home, "go to your son".

What a mistake that was.

He had known Shawn had bought the damn bike – it was a death trap and an embarrassment and he refused to let himself believe that that would be his son's mode of transportation from then on.

He had always envisioned Shawn in a black-and-white; the navy-blue uniform, the shiny badge, flashing sirens, all of it. He'd trained the kid from Day One, integrating police business into his mind like a map, like setting the foundation for this big, beautiful product – a son to be proud of, a cop to protect Santa Barbara residents and finally, a detective who could take the smallest details and bring them to light.

But when he got home from work that day and trudged up the carpeted stairs to his son's bedroom and rapped lightly on the door with his knuckles, he was met with silence.

Confused, he'd opened the door to a perfectly-cleaned room, which immediately tipped him off that something was amiss; his son never cleaned his room.

The desk was bare, save for a lamp and a stack of Hardy Boys books he'd never once opened, he could actually see the carpet, no clothes littering the floor in a rainbow of colors and the bed…aside from the military-esque style of it, the way the comforter was stretched straight and taut and the pillows lined up like two loyal soldiers, there was a yellow Post-It just lying there, smack in the middle of it all.

And right then, Henry knew it. He fought the roiling in his stomach but it was persistent, knotting his stomach muscles into a pretzel, forming something similar to guilt.

He, master detective, one who saw through all the bullshit, should have seen this coming.

Mustn't he have? He and Shawn had never mixed well, despite their irreparable father-son bond. He'd been the gasoline and Shawn the match, always waiting to get a drop on him, set him aflame and watch him just burn, burn, burn. They were opposing forces that could never side, never agree. This must have had to happen somewhere down the line.

Yet it all hit Henry like a train – like full-force, head-on collision.

He lifted the Post-It to his face and read the vague, Shawn-esque handwriting.

Dad (it said in his slanted scrawl),

Had to bow out early.

Hope you don't mind.

Shawn

Henry read and re-read the note, somehow convinced this was another one of Shawn's condescending stunts.

He'd done this type of thing before.

But of course that had been his breaking point, where he shut down and cut off all fatherly ties with his son. Where their entire mold – unorthodox as it was – shifted and all the lines blurred until Henry was almost sure Shawn wasn't his biological son.

Dealing with everything Shawn had done as a child, he could deal with. He could at least be controlled to some extent – but then, all of a sudden he morphed into a boundless teenager.

Thus, the car stealing.

That, Henry could admit, was his inevitable snap. Even as part of him was carting his son through the station in handcuffs, alerting the attention of several officers, another part of him was already reminding him regret was another unavoidable obstacle down the road.

So maybe it was the car stealing or maybe it was the silence that followed afterward or maybe it was just everything before that but Shawn was gone now, the last tangible proof of him that note.

Which was how Henry landed himself in the mantra of 'if you ignore it, it didn't happen'.

He took the note and folded it, then put it in a drawer and ignored it. He grabbed himself dinner and then routinely watched the news, not able to stop the fleeting thoughts of his son's picture being plastered across the screen.

But he didn't show up – not physically or screen-wise.

He spent three days watching the history channel and eating cereal dry out of the box. He kept the shades closed and the lights off and wallowed.

Of course, he'd never admit that it was wallowing; Henry Spencer did not wallow.

He was merely taking a rest from work.

And that was what he told anyone who stopped by – he was taking a break. Yes, he was okay, no, he wasn't quitting, yes, Shawn was okay.

(At least, he hoped).

At the mere contemplation of his thoughts trailing back to Shawn, Henry's heart tightened with regret, so he quickly managed to avoid that sensitive train of thought and continued on as if the subject hadn't even crossed his mind.

Eventually he slid back into his normal routine because Shawn was technically legal to be on his own – even though to Henry, Shawn would always be that eight year old child who needed help reaching for that cookie jar - and he probably hadn't even left a trace behind.

Henry knew those were all excuses, reasons not to uncover it, examine it, realize every point he'd messed up.

So, yes, all of that made him isolate himself and pretend to ignore Shawn's empty room and the empty house while still urgently checking the mail.

Henry opened a manila case folder and rubbed a burning eye. He was not in the mood to make charts and track down witnesses; he'd stayed up late the other night, on a stakeout for a different case. Sometimes it felt like Santa Barbara was fuller of crime than Chicago.

His desk phone suddenly rang and after watching it for a few moments, debating on whether or not to even bother, he picked up.

"Henry Spencer," he said by way of greeting.

"Yes, hello, I'm calling from Cedars-Sinai Hospital on behalf of Shawn Spencer. Are you his father?"

Henry swore that suddenly, everything in the station dimmed and the only prominent noise was his heart pounding a steady metronome, Shawn. Hospital. Shawn. Hospital.

"Hello?" the voice on the other end asked. It sounded so tinny and far away.

Henry cleared his throat, snapping back into reality. "Yes, I'm his father. Where is he? Is he okay? What happened?"

Across from him, at a similar desk, Henry's partner, John Patterson, slowly looked up from his own work, alarmed by Henry's urgent tone.

"Sir, your son has been in a motor vehicle accident. Our hospital is located in Los Angeles."

For the moment, Henry ignored the location. "What happened to him?" he repeated, trying to keep a steady voice despite his anxiously racing heart.

"Sir, I don't know anything other than that, all I know is he is with us in the hospital and you are on his emergency contact list."

At that moment, the Chief walked in, having heard Henry's phone call from the open door of his office.

"I'll be there shortly." Henry quickly slammed the phone down and gathered his coat, turning to the Chief's direction, whom he was surprised to see standing there.

"Henry," the Chief said gently, his voice lingering with genuine curiosity. "What's going on?"

"I need to fly to Los Angeles," Henry said, his tone slower, still gripping his coat in his hands tightly.

"Why?" Chief asked in confusion as two other officers peered around the corner and took notice.

"It's my son," Henry said, plainly, simply.

The look that passed between both men communicated what couldn't be strung together with words. Go.

And Henry took off running.

Henry felt like everything around him was in slow motion and he was the only one with proper use of his legs. He dodged and ducked around people milling the streets of Santa Barbara, hopped into his car and flipped on the sirens. He didn't care if it wasn't official use; his son was in a goddamn hospital in Los Angeles. He was getting there by whatever means possible.

As he drove, his imagination ran wild with possibilities.

Shawn in some urban city, getting jumped, shot.

Shawn getting involved in some mess or other that he should have never been in the first place.

Shawn ending up with irreparable damages.

Shawn not coming home to Santa Barbara.

Henry shook his head, trying his hardest to erase those thoughts like an Etch-A-Sketch. It wasn't possible, he reprimanded himself. Shawn was fine.

But that didn't stop the barrage of moments pulsating through his mind.

Shawn, eight years old, trick-or-treating with Gus.

Shawn, twelve, trying to "fly" over a hill on his bicycle with cardboard wings attached to his shoulders.

Shawn, sixteen years old, refusing to cut his hair because "all the girls love it, dad", flipping it out of his face at the dinner table, petulantly avoiding his father's gaze.

Shawn, at eighteen, being led in handcuffs down the SBPD's halls.

Shawn, three months later, driving a Norton motorcycle into their driveway.

"What the hell is that?"

Shawn's infamous grin. "Why, dad, it's my new ride."

Henry kept his grip on the steering wheel, breathing in and out. How long would it take to get to Los Angeles? How many hours would he have to wait in suspense?

One hour and thirty minutes.

That's how long Henry sat in the plane's coach section, anxiously drumming his fingers on the armrest. He hadn't even brought a magazine or a newspaper – not like he'd be able to read it, but still. He couldn't stop fidgeting, couldn't just stay put; he was afraid that maybe if he stopped moving, stopping bouncing and plotting and concentrating (on Shawn and not on Shawn) then something would happen. As long as he was thinking of Shawn, nothing would ever happen to him again.

Except – thinking about Shawn slash not thinking about Shawn was proving difficult because of the plane's damn turbulence. He'd never liked planes; he went on them hardly ever – once, to go to a policeman's conference and he'd hated every second. He threw up in the bathroom.

"I've always hated flying," the woman next to Henry said airily, but with a smile. He blinked at her in surprise; he'd barely noticed her there before. She was an elderly woman, laugh lines visible, with graying hair and kind blue eyes. On her lap was a Good Housekeeping magazine, but it wasn't open. She blathered on, not even taking notice of Henry's lack of a response.

"It's always worth it, though, visiting your grandchildren," she continued, running a hand through her short curls.

Henry just stared at the woman; it was entirely too much effort concentrating on not vomiting, Shawn, Shawn not being dead and then talking to this unnecessarily bubbly woman.

"I've only got one." She pulled out her purse and fiddled through it, searching for a particular item. She pulled out a 4X10 photo and gently handed it to Henry, who examined it for about five seconds – kid around Shawn's age, tanned skin, brown eyes, wide smile. He looked like the epitome of a normal teenager.

Henry's heart clenched. He handed it back to her wordlessly.

"His name's Wyatt," she confided with an even wider smile. "He's on his school's track team. He does the high jump. He's very good, actually."

Shawn had refused to get involved with any type of sport, as far as Henry was concerned, except for that one ultimate Frisbee game he'd had in his sophomore year, which had resulted in a broken nose…ugh, what an emergency room visit that had been.

"He's a senior, now," the woman continued. "Straight A's and everything. Kid hardly ever studies though; don't know how he does it."

Shawn had never studied. At least, not any time Henry was there to yell at him for not studying. Somehow, like this mystery woman's grandchild, he floated through his high school career with above average scores. He would have even given the commencement speech at his graduation, if he'd been around to go; he was valedictorian, top of the class, right in front of Gus, who was only half a point away from being number one in their class, only because he had gotten a ninety-nine on an essay that Shawn had copied, verbatim and received a one-hundred.

"He's got a girlfriend, too, of course," the woman rhapsodized. "She's a little, uh, reckless." A twitch at the corner of her mouth proved her displeasure. "Ah, well. They're young."

Young, as far as Henry was concerned, was a euphemism for foolish.

"He's thinking of going to UCLA," the woman just kept talking, like Henry was one of her book club members at tea time or something. "But I really want him to go to someplace more…polished, like NYU. He ought to be challenged, but I doubt he'll do that." The lofty inflection of her voice insinuated that this didn't really bother her and Henry couldn't help but think differently. The kid probably needed some type of intervention. Hell, Shawn definitely had. Did.

The elderly woman stopped abruptly. "Oh, gosh, I'm sorry – I tend to ramble sometimes. I'm sure you must have something to say. Do you have any kids?"

Henry just stared, unsure what to say. If someone had asked him that very question in the past year, his answer simply would have been, no.

No. He has no son.

The elderly woman put a concerned hand on Henry's arm. "You're not very talkative, are you?" she asked.

Henry sighed, closing his eyes briefly for a few seconds and then opened them. "Shawn," he finally said, so quietly he almost didn't hear himself.

"I'm sorry?"

Apparently too quietly.

"His name…." Henry swallowed around the lump in his throat. "My son's name is Shawn." He ran that through in his mind three times before the words actually stuck. My son's name. My son's name. My. Son's. Name. I have a son. I have a son and he is in the hospital and I am going to see him.

"Oh, my brother's name is Shawn! He used to be a fireman! He's retired now, of course, but he still goes down to the station all the time-!"

Two female flight attendants suddenly materialized before them with a cart, carrying soda and some bags of potato chips and pretzels.

"Would you like a drink, sir?" the blonde flight attendant asked the mid-thirties man that was on the end of their aisle.

"It's about time!" the man said with a laugh. "I thought you were holding out on me."

"Oh, never, Jonathon." The blonde woman poured him a cup of Cola.

"Excuse me, do you have any Ginger Ale?" the elderly woman asked the brunette attendant. After her cup of soda was firmly placed into her hand, the brunette turned to Henry.

"Sir? Would you like anything?"

Sure, Henry thought scathingly. I'd like my son to be okay when I get to the hospital. I'd like to get off this plane right now, as a matter of fact and attend to real matters of importance, not worry about whether they have Fanta Grape or kettle chips.

"No," Henry said, louder this time. "No, I don't need anything."

The elderly woman and the Jonathon guy all of a sudden clicked, chattering about different sodas on different airlines and Henry gratefully leaned back in his seat and peered out the window, at the clouds above and below and thought of the plane being in limbo between them – of him being in limbo. Of him and Shawn and Shawn's condition and that damn woman who just wouldn't stop talking but secretly put him at ease.

Limbo.

Shawn.

Hospital.

Henry didn't know how long he stood outside his son's room in the hospital. But it felt like an eternity. His head was rushing with insurmountable thoughts that he hardly noticed his fingers were grazing over the knob.

Room 155.

"Your son is in room one fifty-five." The nurse had told him.

Just that morning he never thought that in a few simple hours, he'd be standing only a few feet away from his son.

His son whom he hadn't seen in an entire year.

He'd be lying to himself if he said that this whole deal – the phone call about his injured son, jetting off to Los Angeles to see him and now finally, hesitating, the polar opposite of the Henry Spencer he'd been mere hours before, outside the door – wasn't completely unnerving him.

What was he supposed to do? He rubbed the stubble on his cheek, the prickly feeling on his palm barely bringing him back from his frozen stupor.

What should he say? Barge into the room, shouting expletives about that damn motorcycle? Or, should he walk in gently, placating his son, his hurt, vulnerable son?

There were so many variables to consider that Henry just stood there, motionless. Nurses and doctors walked by, some with patients and Henry just stood.

How do you approach someone whose existence you denied for so long?

His fingers ghosted over the doorknob, hesitating and then retreating. He did this motion twice before a nurse in pink scrubs gave him a suspicious look.

Then, to prove to her, her, damn it, that he could conquer the silver handle and the thin door, Henry turned the handle.

The single click that it made as it was turned seemed to have the fantastical power of making every noise in the hospital melt away. Henry felt like he'd just become deaf; there were nurses nearby and bustling of doctors walking down hallways, but he couldn't hear, not one thing.

Maybe, in retrospect, if he had to say he'd heard something, it would have to be heart pounding straight into his ears.

Thud-thud. Thud-thud.

Shawn-Shawn. Shawn-Shawn.

His body and his mind seemed to want completely separate things, as his hand still clutched the doorknob like a safety net, as if that were his last resort, his ticket out, something he could let go of and run away from – like a certain dauntless, thick-minded kid he knew - while his mind seemed to be swimming in a mantra that went something like, your son! Your son is in that room! Go! See him! Now!

And before he knew it, the door was hanging open –when had that happened?– and there went one foot and then the other and he was looking right at –

A sleeping Shawn.

A battered, bruised, bandaged Shawn, but a sleeping Shawn nonetheless.

Henry exhaled a shaking, heavy sigh and fumbled with his hands, unsure where to place them.

Then finally, he decided to settle down in a seat available by his son's bedside. A week ago, Shawn was God knew where. Now, he was just a few inches away, looking like he'd just barely walked out of a civil war. Shawn hadn't changed at all since he'd last seen him. Well, if you excluded the extent of change his injuries had caused.

The sight of his son left an unsettling churn in his stomach. So much white, even his skin was as pale as a ghost. Henry shuddered and scratched that last analogy – too closely associated with death. Shawn's left arm on the opposite side was in a sling (Henry figured dislocated shoulder) while the other laid by his side gently with a small device connected in his index finger that lead to the heart monitor, and the right side of his face was grazed with bloody dry scratches and layered in an unflattering colour of purple and blue. A large cotton bandage was taped by the left side of his forehead, a few drops of dried blood coated against its pure white material. His son was really a vision of death.

But the EKG machine, mercifully, told him otherwise. A gentle beep echoed against the walls of room 155, leaving a sliver shining within the mist. He spent so long worrying about the image of him standing opposite a coroner with his covered son in between them that he hardly had left room for other normal thoughts. What time was it? How long would he be there?

While his mind wandered, a feeble voice broke through the silence.

"Dad?" The detective looked up and into his son's hazel eyes.

For a moment, Henry held his breath.

It was like his son's eyes held a map for his emotions – in those glassy, green-ish-brown eyes, confusion and shock reflected back at him.

And then those confused, shocked, bleary eyes blinked.

"Wha…" Shawn's eyes darted around the room, taking in his surroundings. "What's going on?" He looked at Henry again, as if perhaps the older man was a mirage. "What happened? What are you doing…" he couldn't seem to finish that sentence.

Here? Henry thought. What the hell am I doing here?

"What the hell am I doing here?" Henry repeated aloud.

Shawn just stared back at him, trapped in confusion.

The moment hovered between them like a brick wall, this illogical obstacle he couldn't scale, couldn't climb over and continue on running from. The fact – and the physicality of it, of Shawn lying there in front of him – made him clench his teeth.

"Dad?" Shawn asked fearfully, hoping his father would help him grasp what was going on, but yet, Henry stood.

Henry finally shook himself out of it. "Shawn," he said, carefully, "you don't remember anything?" He was a little disappointed by that, actually. He wasn't sure he could guide him through what was surely a scary experience, being in a motorcycle accident.

(That being said, none of this would have happened if the damn bike hadn't been bought in the first place).

The doctor was sure to make an appearance – at least, that was what the nurse had told him before he'd walked the long distance to his son's room – so Henry decided to wait on the specifics for now. Besides, he couldn't stop staring at the way Shawn kept one hand protectively on his ribs.

Shawn's eyes cast away for a moment and then immediately looked back at his. "I…I can't…" his voice seemed on the verge of something, Henry didn't know what. "It's all…blank."

Henry exhaled a heavy sigh. "Well, we're in the hospital, Shawn. In Los Angeles."

Shawn seemed to accept this fact but then recoiled – at that action he winced and both hands went protectively to his ribs. "Wait – Los Angeles…how did you get here? When did you get here? What day is it?" his voice was escalating and Henry quickly tried to reassure him, difficult as that was.

"I got on a plane, Shawn," Henry said evenly. "I got here about half an hour ago and it's about…" he looked down at his watch, "seven-thirty and it's Thursday night."

"Thursday?" Shawn echoed.

"You don't remember what day it is?" Henry couldn't help but feel a swell of panic inside him as well. He already hadn't known what to do with his son; he didn't know if he could handle one that had amnesia as well.

"I…" Shawn's shoulders slumped. "I guess not." His gaze flitted back up to his father's. "Seriously, though - why are you here?"

Henry couldn't help but bristle at the question. It sounded like he didn't want him to be there! Before he could dish out what was sure to be the best Henry Reprimand – to make up for all the months he'd wished he'd had room to make one – the white lab-coated doctor with the thin, frameless glasses walked in.

"Hello, Shawn," he greeted with a genuine smile. He took in the sight of Henry, still in his detective's suit, tie loosened, slumped forward from the weight of the evening.

"I take it you're Mr. Spencer, yes?" The doctor walked over to him and offered him a hand.

Henry shook it limply.

"I'm Dr. Tompkins." The gentle, mid-thirties man said as he pulled a clipboard out from under his shoulder. He was still looking at Henry, as if contemplating the man's state of health. "You okay, sir?" he asked. "Would you like a glass of water?"

Henry shook his head dismissively. "No, thank you, I'm fine."

Silence.

"So what can you tell me about my son?" Henry asked, as if Shawn was still sleeping, as if their voices were inaudible to the battered teen.

"You were in a motorcycle accident." The doctor flipped through a few pages, glancing at Shawn's condition while he did so.

"You suffered a severe concussion, which may cause some gaps in your memory. Do you recall anything from the incident?"

Shawn's arm shot out like a declaration. "I don't even know why I'm in L.A.!"

Dr. Tompkins said gently, "Okay, usually that comes back within time. You also dislocated your left shoulder, but we managed to place that bone back in nicely, no damage to the ligaments, two broken ribs but we managed to wrap those up pretty good…" he flipped the pages again. "All in all, I'd say you got off pretty lucky considering, Shawn." He formed a bittersweet smile. "You'll just need a few good weeks of rest and you'll be good to go. Any questions?"

Something like curiosity pulled at Shawn's features. "Yeah, what about my motorcycle?"

Henry's fists tightened. "You almost got killed and all you can think about is…that…that…DEATHRAP?" he could not believe, after all this, that he was concerned about that deathtrap.

Dr. Tompkins retrieved a beeping device from his heavy pocket and examined it quickly before saying, "Excuse me, I have to take this." He shot the two a cautious look before briskly walking out of the room.

As soon as the door clicked behind the doctor, Henry's nostrils flared with outrage. He couldn't even find the right words to form under his fury.

Shawn, meanwhile, was wearing an expression of wariness and maybe something else that Henry couldn't detect, but he had no time for that; he was too angry.

Henry suddenly took to pacing back and forth across the shined floor, taking deep breaths in and out, as if he were the eye of the hurricane and a storm was brewing around him.

He shook his head and then ran a hand through his hair. "I…I honestly don't know what to say to you right now, Shawn."

The corner of Shawn's mouth twitched. "I fail to see your problem. Just don't say anything."

Henry fixed him with a cold glare and pointed his finger at him fiercely. "Do you have ANY idea what-!" he paused suddenly, trying to gain his posture back. "I just…I just don't have anything to say to you right now." With everything that had coalesced together that day, Henry was stumped as to how to speak.

Shawn seemed to be mocking his father as he said, "Henry Spencer? No lecture?" The silence that passed made him continue. "Life lesson No. 103 - bike crashes take you to The Twilight Zone."

The snarky comment seemed to be a glaringly-obvious relationship between father and son that, to the untrained eye, seemed to be exactly where it had been – as if the huge, year-long gap had never existed.

Henry chuckled mirthlessly. "Even after all this time, hell, even after a near-fatal bike accident, you still refuse to grow up."

Shawn couldn't help the childish retort that followed, "And you're STILL Mr. Cranky-Pants." His mouth curved downward as he continued with, "Let's just stop having these hopeful assumptions about each other and accept the fact we'll be disappointed either way."

Henry placed his index finger and thumb at the bridge of his nose. "This was a mistake." He looked away and then added, more to himself, "What was I thinking?"

Shawn's chest rose as he snapped, "You figured that out now? At what point did it cross your mind that this was a thought out plan?" A beat. "And people tell me I don't think things through."

Henry whirled around. "You know what? I'm not the thick-headed idiot who bought a mode of transportation that would easily get me killed one day." The last word was spat with absolute venom and Shawn seemed to visibly flinch. "You're just lucky it wasn't today."

"You want to deny my very existence that badly?" Henry seemed to rear back, flinching at his son's choice of words. "Well you're just going to have to wait, because I'm not dead yet!" Shawn's arms splayed out to reveal himself, his declaration furious, but his demeanor still pale and weary.

"You sure as hell look like it!" Henry couldn't help but shout.

Shawn forced himself into a sitting position, which took breath out of him with a sharp gasp. "Yeah, well, maybe you wouldn't have to see me like this if you hadn't come at all!"

A vein in Henry's forehead seemed to throb. "I can't believe the words you are saying right now. Are you listening to yourself?"

"Are you listening to yourself? You flew all the way from Santa Barbara just to have a go at me and my stupidity about buying a vehicle!"

"THAT STUPIDITY ALMOST GOT YOU KILLED, SHAWN!"

"BUT IT DIDN'T. SO LAY OFF!"

"You know what Shawn? How about YOU lay off? I'm the one talking now; you've had your turn. You had all the time in the world to talk when…" he paused.

"When I what?" Shawn demanded, his question coming out like a gasp.

Henry didn't respond, his jaw clenched.

"When you LEFT, okay, Shawn? When you left for an entire year and didn't call or send a letter or anything! You could have talked then!" Henry's voice seemed to be getting louder and louder with each exclamation, their words being tossed at each other like a battle, words that had been left unsaid for so long.

"I left for a reason!" Shawn hissed defiantly. "And that was to avoid talking to YOU!"

Henry stared at his son. "We need to talk, Shawn, whether you like it or not!"

"Well I don't want to talk! Especially not with you!" Shawn's eyes blazed with the fury that only could be possible after years of harbored resentment.

"I'm your father, Shawn! You do not talk to me that way!" Henry shouted.

"You stopped being my father when you ARRESTED ME!" he finally blurted, arms gesticulating wildly. He stopped suddenly, bringing a hand to his mouth, a cough erupting out of him. Then another, lurching him even further forward, hunching over himself.

Henry stared for a few moments longer, and then asked, "That's what this is about?"

"That's-wha-what do you mean-OF COURSE THAT'S WHAT THIS IS ABOUT!" Shawn continued shouting, his words peppered with a round of heavy coughs that had Henry almost unconsciously leaning towards him.

"You stole a vehicle, Shawn, what was I supposed to do?" Henry threw up his arms. "You brought it upon yourself. You became a thief. It's safe to assume the feelings were mutual that day." The barely-audible crack at the end of his voice betrayed emotions he swore he'd never reveal. He watched Shawn for a moment, anticipating a response and watching him hack another rough round of coughs from his mouth. After a minute, he straightened.

"I borrowed, BORROWED!" Shawn insisted. "I was going to put it right back! And you were supposed to ha-have my…my…" Shawn's heavy breathing was becoming even more intense.

Henry's eyebrows furrowed in what may have been concern.

And then suddenly, as yet another cough fell from Shawn's lips with enough force to make him curl into himself again, blood seeped from his mouth and fell onto the white sheets covering him with a stark contrast.

Henry's heart tightened with panic. "Shawn!" he said urgently.

Shawn hesitantly reached up and wiped the crimson liquid from his mouth and rubbed it between his thumb and index finger with surprise. He looked back up at Henry with wide eyes before something overtook him, like a claw, grasping him. The smallest of whispers seemed to attempt to come out of his mouth, something strangled, before he fell back from his sitting position, his angry hazel orbs rolling back in his head.

Beside him, the EKG machine began beeping in a frenzy, whirring with the loudest noise Henry had ever heard. It was like he was back outside that damn door – looking in, helplessly, not sure what to do, how to react.

And then panic flooded his senses.

"SHAWN!" he shouted, rushing to his son.

And then…the whirring, beeping noises took a different turn. They stopped bleeping into a rhythm of systematic noises, now…they were just one.

One big, long flat…line.

Oh, God. Henry forced himself to speak past the bile threatening to rise up in his throat.

"HELP!" he shouted, running to the door and throwing it open like it would solve every problem he ever had, just hurry, just help him! His mind was working on overdrive and couldn't match up with the words he wanted to say.

Immediately, a nurse and a nearby doctor took notice of Henry's urgency and ran into the room. It only took seconds for the nurse to realize what was going on and run to get a defibrillator, but to Henry, it felt like living the entire year he and Shawn hadn't talked to each other all over again.

Two more nurses rushed into the room and they took to pulling the strings on the back of Shawn's gown loose and the one with the defibrillator placed the paddles into the doctor's hands.

The doctor positioned both paddles on Shawn's chest while Henry fought the urge to vomit.

"CLEAR!"

Shawn's body flew upwards, brown hair swinging away from his face, and then he landed back down, his eyes still shut, out of this world.

Please, please…Henry pleaded with whoever was listening. I've only just got him back.

The machine still emitted that one-syllabled whine.

"CLEAR!" the doctor yelled again.

Tears pricked at Henry's eyes as he realized the last words he'd said to his son were about their failed relationship – and what had been his son's fault.

The nurses all looked over at the machine. The flat line suddenly jerked spastically back into a rhythm and Henry swore he felt his heart drop down into his feet. His hands flew to his face in relief as the nurses helped assist to get a mask on Shawn's face and immediately they whisked him out of the room, shouting orders, the wheels on the bed squeaking as it was rushed down the hall, leaving Henry behind, still feeling like everything around him was muddled and the only clear picture was his son, barely breathing.

What seemed like hours later, Henry's son was finally returned to him. He had an oxygen mask strapped over his faces and his eyes were open as his bed was settled back into place. Henry immediately walked over to him, staring down at this tangible, living version of his son.

He couldn't help the way his eyes swept over the bed, examining every last fiber of the sheets – relieved to see they no longer contained the harsh colors of his son's blood.

Shawn eyed him warily, then slowly lifted the oxygen mask away from his mouth. "Why are you still here?" he asked, his voice raw with exhaustion.

Henry swallowed around what was obviously not a lump in his throat. "Shawn…" he started, but paused.

"Just leave me alone, dad."

Henry sucked in a breath, as if gathering strength. "No, I won't." His words held finality. "I'm not leaving you alone, Shawn, never again." A beat. "Whenever I do…this seems to happen."

"This being…?" Shawn asked, his mouth faintly attempting to curve into a smirk. Henry couldn't help but stare at this fragile being, wondering how to approach it, how to avoid cracking it into millions of impossible to repair back pieces.

"Shawn…" Henry rubbed his forehead with one hand. "You just…you could have…" his words started out fierce and sharp, his tone clipped and formal.

"I don't wanna fight, dad. I'm sick and tired of it…literally." Shawn attempted a laugh which made him wince.

"Put that back on," Henry advised, helping his son affix the mask back onto his face.

Shawn didn't put up a fight, gratefully closing his eyes as the mask was placed firmly back into place.

For a moment, it seemed like Shawn had fallen asleep and Henry, unaware, whispered, "All I needed was a postcard…" he stopped and then shook his head. "All this time…worrying, wondering where you were. I just needed a sign, something to tell me that you were okay. That you…" he stopped again. "That you could manage on your own."

Henry sagged back into a chair, the weight of the entire day finally registering with him. For a few moments, he put his head in his hands, attempting to knead the ever-present knot of stress in the center of his forehead.

"Post…card?" Shawn's voice suddenly filtered around the dimly-lit room, his breath fogging the mask.

Henry lifted his head in surprise.

"Wha…what are you talking about?" Shawn's voice seemed to be fading, falling into a delirious sleep.

Something like a sad smile pulled at Henry's mouth. "Don't worry about it, son," he said gently, rolling the last word around in his mouth like an experiment. It was foreign and strange but perhaps…perhaps it made sense right then.

And maybe right then that entire year he and his son hadn't talked didn't matter anymore because he was there now. He created an unfamiliar pattern at that moment, his hand hesitantly hovering over his son's head before finally, slowly, running a callused hand through his son's hair. Like the way 'son'fell out of his mouth like gospel, like it was absolutely right and true, this felt similar. This felt tangible. His son was there and so was he and all he needed was to just know that.

Henry watched, gratefully, as Shawn's eyes closed and his breathing – thankfully – settled into a normal pattern that Henry unconsciously matched with his own.

It would time – and a helluva lot of effort – to put all the pieces back together, even if they wouldn't fit the same as before, but Henry was willing to try. He had to.

This was his son.

The sounds of a very familiar intro song to a television show made Henry blearily open his eyes hours later. He stretched and then rubbed one eye before looking at the television, which was playing The A-Team. He looked back behind him in surprise at Shawn, who was sitting up, head tilted at the screen, the oxygen mask gone, replaced with a nasal cannula. To his left, on the stand beside the bed, was a plastic tray that must have contained breakfast because there was a piece of half-eaten toast, an empty plastic glass, and something that looked suspiciously like an empty Jell-O cup.

"You'd think that this would get old," Shawn gestured to the screen, unaware of his dad's gaping expression. "The whole 'we escaped another explosion' premise. But I gotta admit, very entertaining." He finally looked at Henry and regarded him with a condescending expression. "You snore. And when I say snore, I mean SNORE. Like a pig."

Henry continued to stare in astonishment.

Shawn continued on, "You should get that checked out." As an afterthought, he added, "I'll never know how mom slept through it."

Henry worked his way around the suspicious feeling pricking behind his eyes, something like a mixture of surprise and relief. "She didn't."

"I KNEW I heard noises from downstairs!" Shawn's eyes glittered with mischievousness. And just like that, Henry was watching Shawn's mind process this information in his mind like an examination. He laughed at his dad's expression. "And you kept telling me it was a raccoon. At least you didn't feed me about hydraulic lifts." He chortled at his expression. "Mom tried to get you to go to the doctor's right? And you refused?" He took Henry's lack of a response as a 'yes'. "And lemme guess – it's 'cause 'doctors are crocks of crap', huh?" He shook his head. "You know, I still blame you for that time I fell off the roof when I was seven."

"You climbed up there all on your own!" Henry finally pitched in.

"So? You made me fall!"

"I was trying to scare you back down!"

"At which point I dislocated my shoulder!"

"I set it back into place!" Henry defended himself.

"Without taking me to a hospital!" Shawn looked down gingerly at his shoulder. "Which I'm pretty sure is why it still clicks." His smirk betrayed his annoyed tone.

The room fell into silence and Henry looked down at the floor for a moment.

"You didn't leave…" Henry's head perked up as Shawn continued. "I thought…I didn't think you'd stick around after…"

Henry rubbed a hand over his face. "To be honest…I didn't know either."

Shawn's hand curled around the sheet. "Well, that sucks." His tone immediately shifted back to nonchalant, as if the whole conversation was casual and friendly. "I mean, I didn't almost die or anything. The least you could have done before hightailing it was get me a pineapple smoothie."

Henry eyed his son with an incredulous look. "They don't have smoothies in the cafeteria."

Shawn's eyes flitted downwards. "I'm sure they have a DQ somewhere around here."

Silence again.

Henry seemed to be working up the nerve to say something. Finally, he ground out, "YOU left, not me."

Shawn's expression turned and he opened his mouth to retort when the door opened and in walked Dr. Tompkins again. Just like last time, he carried a medical folder and smiled easily at Shawn.

"Well, seems we've had a few complications since I saw you a few hours ago." The man flipped through the pages on Shawn's history.

"A few complications?" Henry's voice was terse. "He was hacking blood! He stopped breathing!"

Dr. Tompkins sighed. "Yes, there was that."

Shawn looked uneasily from the doctor to his dad.

"Let's just start from the beginning – shall we?" the doctor began reading from the list. "Your heart failure arose from the blunt chest trauma you received as a result of the accident. The heart muscle can become weakened after a traumatic injury to the chest wall; this in turn caused this congestive heart failure. Your coughing blood was the body's way of clearing the airway and bronchial passages. The situation beforehand provoked your weakened heart by your dangerously rising blood pressure."

Henry gazed downward, adopting a look of guilt. Shawn just pursed his lips with realization.

"We took an echocardiogram to determine the problem and found some leaking in one of the heart valves."

Henry rubbed his forehead as the doctor continued.

"The aggression of the arrest caused irreparable damages, thus preventing me to repair it." The doctor awkwardly shifted.

"Wait – am I gonna die?" Shawn added casually. He didn't notice Henry's visible wincing.

"No," the doctor stated firmly. "The alternative is to replace it with a prosthetic valve."

"You're going to turn me into a robot?"

The doctor chuckled. Henry didn't share the amusement. "Maybe a small part of you, it depends what valve replacement you chose."

"What options do I have?"

"Biological or mechanical."

"Biological meaning…animals?" Shawn shook his head. "Nah, make me a robot."

"How does the surgery work?" Henry asked.

"The most complicated part of it is stopping the heart. During valve surgery, your heart must not beat. To keep your blood flowing, it is passed through a heart-lung machine. This gives oxygen to your blood and pumps the blood back through your body. Once the surgery is done, your heart and lungs take over again."

"So…technically I won't be alive?" Shawn couldn't help the slight crack in his tone, like maybe this all was going a little too fast for his liking.

Henry moved closer to his son.

The doctor hesitated. "I wouldn't say that exactly."

"Then what would you say?" Henry's voice took on a dangerous tone. Just what is his glitch with doctors, Shawn wondered, shooting his father a sidelong glance.

Dr. Tompkins seemed to shift back into his normal tone. "Your son will be in good hands, Mr. Spencer. I can assure you of that."

"So when are you going to, uh…" Shawn looked over at his dad when he asked. "Cut me open?"

Dr. Tompkins looked over at Henry. "It depends on your preference, honestly. We can do this later today or I have an opening tomorrow morning or early noon. Whichever you feel more comfortable with."

Shawn seemed to be hesitant.

"I have to warn you, though, you'll have to be very careful afterwards," the doctor continued. "You'll need to take anticoagulation medication – blood thinners – for the remainder of your lifetime to prevent blood clots."

"My lifetime?" Shawn echoed. "Like, forever?"

Dr. Tompkins nodded. "You might also need anticoagulation therapy if you choose to do so, which will entail you being regularly tested to make sure that the proper dosage is being taken."

"What if it's not?" Henry asked warily.

The doctor continued. "If it's too high, bleeding complications can arise – like bleeding into joints or internal organs. And if it's too low, the risk of stroke increases."

"Stroke?" Shawn parroted numbly.

"You'll need to take your anticoagulation medication daily." Dr. Tompkins flipped through the pages again. "And many patients like yourself also refrain from dangerous physical activities and keep up a healthy diet."

"No more Moon Pies, huh?" Shawn asked glumly.

Henry shot him a look.

"This is…a lot to take in so I'll leave you two alone." Dr. Tompkins placed the folder back under his arm and swiftly made an exit.

"Do I really have to do this?" Shawn asked as soon as the door was shut.

Henry raised an eyebrow. "You realize you have a heart condition, right? It's imperative to your survival." His airy tone gave way to a flurry of emotions he kept masked for his son's benefit.

A slight twitching at the side of Shawn's face betrayed a smile carving its way into his expression. "What if this is a Six Million Dollar Man scenario? And I turn into this machine that serves as a unique intelligence agent?" he says the last part with a mock-announcer voice of the old television show he used to watch when he was younger instead of doing homework.

"And why would they pick you, out all of people, to protect the country with your nuclear-powered limbs?" Henry asked with incredulity, humouring his son with the charade.

"Oh, I don't know dad, it could have to do with my expansive knowledge of all things technological?"

"Taking apart your cassette player and then leaving all the parts out on the kitchen counter for a week doesn't count."

"And who was the one that fixed the toaster?" Shawn tugged at the cannula in his nostrils in irritation.

"You didn't fix it; you just smacked it until something clicked back together!" Henry shot back.

Shawn continued tugging. "Well, you enjoyed your bagels for the next year thanks to me."

Henry smacked his son's hand away. "You need that."

"Do you have any idea how annoying these things are?" Shawn asked.

Henry suddenly remembered a similar scenario to this one, except his father was in the bed. He was griping the same things as Shawn was, except that for his father…he eventually died. He shook his head. Despite the glaringly-obvious similarities, this was not the same. Children should bury their parents, not the other way around.

Shawn noticed the vacant stare on his father's face. "Oh, no!" he gasped. "They got you too, didn't they? Quick! Tell me! What are the things you've eaten in the last few hours?"

"Shawn!" Henry snapped back to reality.

Shawn grinned. "Come on, dad, out with it. They told you they were turning me into an American weapon, didn't they? Are they compensating you? You know, for the long sojourn I have ahead fighting the good fight."

Henry couldn't help the smile that slipped into his features. "Shawn, the only fight you're fighting is keeping your hair out of your eyes. When are you ever going to cut that mop?"

"When The Breakfast Club stops being cool. Which will be never, by the way."

Henry sat back down in his chair and regarded his son with his serious look. "Shawn, you're gonna have to do this surgery, you know."

Shawn exhaled a heavy sigh. The look on his face plainly said, do we have to do this? Couldn't they just banter, like they had been moments ago? Couldn't they just avoid anything with heavy tones and just float in this in-between state for infinity? Shawn wouldn't mind. Hell, he'd pay for it to be this way. Okay, so maybe he wouldn't pay. Maybe he would bargain. Not with his motorcycle, though. Maybe his old Furby…whatever happened to that thing? Wait – had he ever actually owned one? Come to think of it, he may have stolen it from Gus for blackmail purposes.

"I know," he finally ground out. "But…there's this marathon on today, if you can recall." He weakly gestured to the television, playing The A-Team on mute. "It's gonna last all day so…"

Henry rolled his eyes and scooted his chair a bit closer. The look on his face was resigned. It said, we'll have to do this eventually. "Well, clearly we can't miss B.A. refusing to get in the plane for the umpteenth time."

Shawn's smile reappeared. "I'm glad you see it my way, then."

The next morning was D-Day.

Decision-Day.

Dude, Getting Cut Open Day.

Shawn opened his eyes slowly and peered around the hospital room. It was still dark, which meant it must be pretty early. He looked over at his father, slumped in his chair, his detective's jacket over him, tie loosened, feet up on the bed. On impulse, Shawn pushed them away from him.

Henry's legs went sailing back down to the floor and the man jolted awake with a start.

"Shawn?" he asked, panic clouding his eyes. "Is something wrong?"

Shawn regarded him as if he were insane. "No, I'm fine. Your shoes are disgusting, though. What have you been walking through, a manure field?"

Henry visibly relaxed and then immediately was irritated. "I'm a detective, Shawn," he retorted. "Sometimes you have to go places no one's gone before."

Shawn clamped his hands over his ears. "Okay, dude, don't ever say that again. It is way too early."

"No one said you had to wake up at…" Henry glanced down at his watch. "Five-thirty in the morning. You know, I seem to recall trying to get you up this early before to go fishing and you weren't nearly as coherent as you are right now. "

"Well, no one said you couldn't have taken off those disgusting shoes." Shawn ignored the fishing remark. He fought to keep his eyelids from closing as he stared at Henry; he was so exhausted. He must have only slept about an hour, up all night just lying there and thinking.

Henry bent over with a frustrated grunt. "I'll take them off if it'll shut you up." He untied one and then the other before tossing them unceremoniously into the corner.

"There." He looked at Shawn again, noticing his son's rapid blinking. "Happy?"

"Not really. Your feet kind of smell."

"Well what do you expect? I've been in this hospital for two nights now without a shower. Things tend to get musty when…"

"Oh, ew, dad! Stop!" Shawn shook his head from side to side, his hair smacking him in the face.

"Well, that's what you get when you wake me up this early."

"I will gladly let you fall back asleep now."

"Too late, already up." Henry appraised his son, eyes sweeping from his head to his feet, a routine he had started doing now, since he'd been sleeping in the extremely uncomfortable hospital chair. Since he was in such close proximity, of course.

"You should probably get some sleep," Henry noted, watching Shawn as he struggled to remain sitting up. "You've got a big day ahead of you."

Shawn finally allowed himself to fall back. "Don't remind me."

Henry smiled wanly. "Shawn, just get some rest. You're not getting set up until noon."

There was silence for a moment and Henry thought he'd accomplished actually getting Shawn to listen to him for once until one word broke through.

"Robot."

"What?" Henry looked up.

"I'm getting turned into a robot," Shawn spoke muffled through his pillow. "I'm too young to give up my free will, dad. I haven't accomplished Bucket List Goal #3."

"Should I even bother to ask what that is?"

"It may involve a river raft and some very crunchy peanut butter."

"What?"

"It doesn't matter now, dad. It's all over," Shawn spoke with mock-defeat.

"Get your head out of that pillow; I can't understand a word you're saying."

Shawn turned his head to the side. "I said it's all over. Free will. Tennis. The enjoyment of pineapple pancakes."

"When have you ever played tennis?"

"It doesn't matter; I'll never get to now! You know what he said about 'physical activity'." Shawn put limp air quotes around 'physical activity'.

"Shawn," Henry sighed in annoyance. "When have you ever cared about sports?"

"That's not the point, dad," Shawn spoke the words with a venomous tone that Henry had never heard before.

Henry rubbed a hand over his neck. "Just because you'll have to be more careful doesn't mean you won't be able to do things, Shawn. You can still play tennis or…whatever it is that you do."

"Pickleball, once. It was when I was in Las Vegas." Shawn's eyes blinked heavily, revealing hazel eyes once, twice, three times.

"You went to Las Vegas?"

"And played pickeball, which is the point here. It could have been my calling. I could have…got the Olympic gold medal." Shawn's words were slowing, slurring together as he began to fall into slumber.

Henry snorted. "Bronze, maybe."

"Don't…diss…" Shawn seemed to whisper. "I…kicked ass."

Henry patted a hand against his son's arm gently. "I guess I'll have to take your word for it."

"You'd…better." And then Shawn's eyelids stopped blearily opening and closing and Henry just sat and watched him, until eventually, he fell back asleep too.

This time, Henry woke before Shawn.

He was very careful not to create noise as he got up out of the chair and stretched, making his way to the window to look at the view of the city. Being that it was L.A., people were bustling and traffic was backed up on the highway already. At a plaintive glancing at his watch, it was revealed that it was now eight-thirty-five AM and Henry…Henry was in a hospital room, with his son, who had run away a year ago and just now reunited with him, only to be served with the zinger that was heart surgery.

Henry couldn't help but wonder – though he didn't believe in it – if karma was kicking his ass. If this was some type of retribution for something he hadn't done right.

He'd left Shawn at school on accident once. The kid had called him at nine-thirty at night from Guster's house, asking why he hadn't come to see the talent show.

Another time he'd completely forgotten his birthday and when Shawn had asked, "Isn't there something you want to tell me?" he'd responded, "Yeah. Clean your room."

And of course, there was that time he arrested him.

He hadn't wanted to be a cop anyway. What was he ruining? Certainly not any career aspirations of his son.

Now it was like karma was roundhousing his ass in the worst possible way. Like it was condescendingly going, you see what happens when you screw up?

Karma could, very politely, eat shit and die.

His son was alive.

He spun around to face him, watching the comforting rise and fall of his son's chest. He couldn't help but revert back to when he'd first arrived. The blood propelling out of his son, the way he'd looked at Henry, the crimson on his fingers, pleading. And then the way he fell backwards, as his back hit the bed and his heart gave up.

The barrage of what-could-have-been images plagued his senses and he numbly shook himself out of it after a moment, reminding himself that was then and this was now.

His son was alive.

He wondered that if maybe if he repeated those four words a little more often, they might actually register with him.

Shawn's hesitation toward the surgery only made Henry feel worse. He felt so disconnected from it all. His son needed him, whether he would willingly admit it or not and Henry just…didn't know if he could handle it.

"Dad?" Shawn peered around the curtain that was halfway drawn around his bed. "What're ya doin'?" His voice was a little dazed and his eyes blinked repeatedly, trying to clear his vision.

"Nothing, Shawn."

Despite Shawn's attempts at delaying the inevitable, the time for the surgery preparation came.

Henry was flipping through the L.A. times, perusing the sports section when the nurse with the lilac scrubs came in and beamed her smile at Shawn, who was passing the time by creating an assortment of different paper airplanes out of the parts of the newspaper his dad had already read.

"Hello, Shawn, I'm here to bring you to the prep room." She made her way over to the bed to move it and Henry slowly stood up, setting down his paper.

"Uh, what happens in the prep room?" Shawn asked with a voice that wavered with such a small amount Henry almost missed it. He put a comforting hand on his son's hospital gown-encased shoulder.

"We'll get you ready for your surgery until we wheel you into the O.R., where you will be put under anesthesia," she said through a vacant smile.

Shawn nodded grimly.

Shawn kept a solemn face as he was wheeled into the prep room, not looking at his father, not looking at anything in particular.

It wasn't until the nurse finally left the two alone to tend to another patient that Shawn turned his apprehensive eyes on his father.

"Dad," he said nervously.

"Yeah?" Henry looked over.

"You're not going to watch anymore Magnum without me, are you?"

Henry's expression relaxed. "Depends, Shawn. You're going to be in surgery an awfully long time. What am I supposed to do while I wait?"

Henry's statement seemed to alert something in Shawn. "Dad…"

"Yeah?"

Shawn's eyes rolled around to look at him. "What…what if…"

Henry sat down next to his son and moved the chair close to the bed. "What if what, Shawn?" The evident worry in his son's voice concerned him. Shawn hadn't showed any signs of distress before…had he?

"What if I don't wake up from the anesthesia?" Shawn's voice cracked. He let his bangs fall into his eyes as he continued. "I mean…technically I'm…not going to be…alive…during the surgery." He let out a nervous laugh.

Henry just stared at him.

Shawn's face turned sober. "Do you think they have jerk chicken in heaven?"

Henry ignored the strange pull he felt at his son's question. "Shawn, don't be ridiculous; you're not going to die."

Shawn seemed to ignore him. "Oh, well, at least I'll leave behind a beautiful corpse." He said airily.

Henry shook his head in disbelief, shielding the wave of panic he felt at hearing the word 'corpse'.

Shawn continued on. "I'll die boyishly handsome…with gorgeous hair."

Henry rolled his eyes. "If there's anything wrong with that statement, it's the fact that you put the word 'gorgeous' and your hair in the same sentence."

"I least I have hair."

Henry self-consciously palmed the top of his thinning hair. "Not when you're going to raise a monkey for a son."

Shawn looked insulted. "I most certainly do not look like a monkey."

Henry snorted. "Oh, right, Jake Render, whatever."

"John Bender." Shawn said with exasperation.

Henry just shook his head again and the two fell into silence.

Shawn idly tapped his fingers against the bars lifted up on his bed, tapping out a beat that suddenly progressed into a tune involving his other hand slapping his thigh. It turned into a pretty awesome instrumental song, as far as Shawn thought so, when Henry uncrossed his arms.

"What? You don't like it?" Shawn's wry smile made Henry annoyed.

Just then, another nurse walked up to Shawn. "Okay, Mr. Spencer," she said breezily. "It's time."

Shawn's hand suddenly latched onto his father's arm like a lifeline, without warning. "Dad," his voice was thick.

Henry saw the look on his son's face. "Could you just give us a moment, miss?"

The nurse seemed hesitant but nodded and walked away.

Henry turned his attention back to his son, who was taking in breaths rapidly. "Shawn," he said gently, "look at me."

Shawn's eyes were bouncing around the room and landing on anything but his dad; the nurse's station, the ceiling, his feet.

"Shawn!" Henry scolded. "Look at me."

Shawn finally did so.

"When you get out of surgery…I'll have a pineapple smoothie waiting for you on the window."

Despite Shawn's panic, he said, "Don't put it on the windowsill." At Henry's expression, he continued, "Seriously, don't. It'll get all warm and sap the flavor right out of it."

Henry sighed, relenting. "Fine, I'll just hold it."

Shawn's anxiety showed through his smile.

The nurse reappeared. "Alright, Mr. Spencer, I have to take you now."

Shawn glanced back at his father again, the panic barely veiled.

"I'll be here," Henry assured his son as the bed was wheeled away, Shawn becoming smaller and smaller.

It wasn't until the doors were shut behind his son that Henry said, nearly inaudibly, so low he almost didn't hear it slip out of his mouth like a stolen promise,

"I'm not leaving you."

All-night stakeouts, hostage situations, canvassing a crime scene, all of it seemed pale in comparison to how long it was taking Shawn to come out of his surgery. Henry must have worn down the soles of his Italian detective's shoes to nothing; his heels throbbed like the time he'd sat crouched behind his cop car trying to get some poor woman's boyfriend to let go of the knife held up to her neck. They throbbed like he was thoroughly exhausted, like if he stood one more second he would just collapse and never open his eyes again. But he couldn't let himself, not yet. His son needed him. So Henry continued to pace. His furtive glances at the clock did nothing to move the time faster but he still urged it to, fruitlessly.

Unbeknownst to Henry, in the operating room, Shawn's supine body was being jolted into the air once, twice, three times.

"Damn it!" a surgeon cursed. "Come on, kid!"

"CLEAR!"

Henry looked down at his watch. Surely the clock on the wall had stopped. That was the only explanation. The doctor hadn't said anything about the procedure taking this long…

"Dr. Tompkins, sir-!"

"Damn it, again!"

"CLEAR!"

He would ask a nurse right now. No, he would demand on Shawn's current condition.

"We're back."

Henry was resigning himself to the what-ifs.

If Shawn was dead, he would have to call Madeline.

He'd have to choke out the words he wasn't sure he could pull out of himself.

He'd have to be strong.

Finding control of his shaking legs, Henry walked over to the nurses' station and said, "Yes, I have a son, Shawn Spencer, in surgery?"

At that moment, Dr. Tompkins walked out of the double doors, peeling off his gloves and looking frazzled.

Henry held his breath.

"Mr. Spencer," he ran a hand through his hair.

Henry took notice of the familiar crimson-colored liquid that created an unforgiving pattern on the older man's scrubs. "What happened?" he asked in a steely voice.

Doctor Tompkins hesitated. "I…have good news and bad news."

Henry's voice was heavy. "What happened to my son?" he couldn't handle this, not now. He wasn't ready. Wait – he had said good news. That must mean…

"Your son's alive," the doctor confirmed. Despite the news that sent a chill of relief down Henry's spine, the look on his face said there was much more to all this.

Henry looked at the other man, silently demanding he go on.

"He did go into cardiac arrest again," the man went on. "A few times actually. And this indicates that his heart isn't physically ready for the surgery. Not yet at least."

Henry felt something inside him shift. This week was one hell of a roller-coaster. The image of his son more vulnerable than he'd been hours ago sent him into a pit of anger so intense he saw spots appearing in his eyes. "So, what…?" Henry couldn't finish the sentence, afraid of what may come out.

"We placed a pacemaker for a temporary fix, until we can know for sure that his heart will be up for a repeat of the surgery."

A repeat? Henry rubbed the back of his neck. The doctor said something about needing to attend to something rather quickly and that he would talk to him later but all Henry heard was this strange buzzing in his ears that remained even after he finally sat down on steady ground.

Shawn was wheeled into the room later on and Henry watched protectively as his bed was situated by two nurses that he hadn't seen before.

After a while, he sat back down in that damn plastic chair and rubbed his tired features. This was starting to fall into an unlikeable pattern.

Shawn's eyelids suddenly snapped open. He immediately shut them, protecting his eyes from the harsh florescent lighting of his hospital room.

Henry slowly put down the fishing magazine a kind nurse had dropped off for him and eyed his son.

"What…happened?" Shawn asked, opening and shutting his eyes. "Am I a robot?"

At the mention of their previous conversation, when Henry had thought maybe everything would just fall into place without any damaged pieces getting lost along the way, he stiffened. "No, Shawn, you're not a robot."

Shawn huffed in frustration. "Would it kill you to play along?" Then, he paused. "Where's my smoothie?"

Henry fought the surge of anger that was becoming all too familiar. "You wake up from a six hour surgery and all you have to say is 'where's my smoothie'?" his voice was incredulous. Did his son not know what he had gone through? Of the hours spent sitting in those damn plastic chairs, flipping through outdated magazines and just hoping, hoping, hoping? Did he not feel the desperation Henry felt?

Shawn blinked earnestly. "Well…you did promise," he mumbled. Then, he was animated again. "Unless I AM dead. But then…how could you see me?" A grin flickered across his features. "Unless you're also dead!" At Henry's lack of response, Shawn continued. "Great…stuck with you for all eternity now."

Henry fought the rage threatening to permeate his words with poison. "Shawn…!"

Shawn smirked.

"You're not dead," Henry finally said. "However…there were some complications and the doctors weren't able to do the surgery."

Suddenly, the mysterious lump on Shawn's body distracted him. He ignored his dad. "Wait…" He palmed the spot with curiosity, his fingers jutting out and exploring the contours. "What is this?" He pulled down the collar of his gown. He looked into his dad's piercing blue eyes. "Dad?"

Henry reached up and smacked his son's hand away. "Shawn – calm down. It's a pacemaker. They had to pack it in to make sure you were okay before your next surgery."

A word registered in Shawn's mind and his head snapped up with urgency. "NEXT surgery? What happened to this one?"

"Like I said, there were some complications and they weren't able to do the surgery. You may have had…a repeat of your earlier incident." Henry wasn't so comfortable voicing the incident of Shawn's body falling back lifelessly onto his bed.

Shawn raised an eyebrow. "Repeat? What're you talking about?" He rubbed an eye again. "Why am I not 1/16 robot yet?"

Henry exhaled a heavy sigh. "Shawn, you went into cardiac arrest. Again."

Shawn looked down at his hospital gown, eyes vacant as he tried to find the answers in his mind. "I don't understand…they gave me a PACEMAKER? But…I…I'm barely twenty!" His eyes clouded over with panic.

"Shawn, I don't really know how to explain it all to you, the doctors will be here soon." Henry tried to placate his son from a distance.

The EKG monitor beside his bed began to beep loudly in a spastic whir.

"Shawn!" Henry got up from his chair, resting a hand on his son's shoulder with urgency.

His son's hazel eyes met with his in such a striking fashion Henry felt himself holding his breath, once again. "I have to live with a pacemaker the rest of my life now?" his voice held finality, like the decision held a death sentence.

Henry blanched. He was all for consoling his son in the best fashion he could but this…he knew how he felt about this whole situation. "Look, kid, maybe you should have thought of all this before you bought that damn bike…"

Shawn's eyes darkened with disbelief. "You think I brought this upon myself?"

Henry reared back, out of the vicinity of Shawn's emotional stare. "You damn well did! You knowingly bought that bike without even considering the repercussions of an accident!" All the anger he'd been holding back was spilling out in these small increments against his son and he knew that it was wrong. Knew that it was unfair but it was all stacking up like that game Jenga Shawn played as a kid – and the one part that could make it all fall had been pulled out, leaving the scattered pieces to fall where they may.

"What do I look like to you?" Shawn clasped a hand against his chest, forgetting the unfamiliarity of the pacemaker. His expression changed for a moment and then he recovered, plunging back into the argument. "A damn psychic? You think I had this coming?"

"Of course you did! That bike is a death trap, Shawn!" The words left Henry's mouth in a rage, some type of blackout panic where words were unbidden and forgotten as quickly as they were spoken.

Shawn's eyes glittered with the intensity Henry had only ever seen in moments like these, when the two were raw and true, spitting their most venomous words at each other. "Have you even stopped to think about HOW this accident took place?"

In exasperation, Henry let out something like a laugh and a cry of indignation. "YOU can't even remember it!"

Shawn's mask slipped, for one moment, and in that moment, Henry knew he'd done it again. Broken the calm, brought that storm, whirling it all around like this big, beautiful streamer made of hope and regret and the thing in between that they always reached and fell out of just as quickly. "I know one thing for sure – it wasn't my fault!"

Henry shot back with, "Oh, right. I forgot. YOU didn't take your own money and go off to buy that motorcycle. YOU didn't take off and leave on that thing!"

Shawn shook his head in disbelief. "So we're going back to THAT?"

"Of course we're going back to THAT!" Henry's arms flew up in an exclamation. "It's what started this whole THING!"

"No, YOU started this whole thing!" Shawn pointed an accusatory finger at his father. "I wouldn't have"-he took a heavy inhale, losing his grip on normal breathing-"if you didn't" -again, another inhalation, this one deeper than the first-"push me so much!" and again.

At the sound of their argument seeping out into the hallway and alerting other patients, a nurse came in and reprimanded Henry, checking on Shawn's vitals and calming him down with reassuring pats and hissing in Henry's direction, "You have to stop doing this! You either get along or I will escort you out of the room! Shawn is in no condition to strain himself!"

It also didn't hurt that the nurse was Kathy and she shot a sympathetic look at his kid as she walked out of the room.

After the door was – begrudgingly – left open, so that the nurse could hear them again if the argument became more heated, Henry spoke through gritted teeth, "I was only trying to encourage you, Shawn!" Which, wasn't that the case? Hadn't he merely been encouraging his son to be a better person? Say no to the wrong things, speak when spoken to, set the table, take out the trash, go to the academy…the formula hadn't been so strenuous, in Henry's mind. It was only out of good intentions.

Shawn snapped icily, "I think you're mixing 'encouraging' with 'pressuring'."

And there it was again. Shawn had been complaining about his parenting style for years and he'd always made it out like the hand that was dealt to him was all because of his father. Granted, he had made mistakes, like every good detective – and father – did, but he was not the only one to be placed with blame. "I was not pressuring!" Henry retaliated, but it was weak and the words hung stale in the air like a white flag of surrender.

Shawn just stared back, the fight gone out of him.

Henry stared back and then finally he sat back down again, crossing his arms, not totally willing to give the fight up just yet.

Shawn's voice seemed to echo around the small room as he asked, "If they're not doing the surgery now…when will they?"

Henry looked at his son carefully, reading his face like a map. He was worried again, just like him. He was scared, not exactly like him. And he needed an ally, not an enemy. Henry was reluctant to admit that maybe he could benefit from a little companionship, too. He'd been by himself for a long time, maybe even before Shawn left.

"I don't know," Henry admitted. "We'll just have to wait it out." Somewhere down the line, they would have to each respectively call a truce, he knew. They couldn't just be this Battle Royale forever. But it couldn't be now, not in this enclosed space with hardly enough room to breathe. Not when time stretched ahead of them like an endless road. It was better to lay it all out now, say everything now, because when they both had to get out of the hospital and live their normal lives again, they could escape each other like they had before.

Shawn was falling into slumber once again, head dropping to his side on the pillow, when he said, in the tiniest of whispers, "You think you can call me…Hawkeye?"

Henry leaned closer.

"That nurse…Hot Lips." Shawn laughed in his delirium. "I can dig it."

"Alright, Hawkeye," Henry conceded. "Get some rest."

Shawn opened his eyes to his father leaning against the window, a pineapple smoothie on his right, dripping with condensation. His hat was cast off to the side, on his chair and he was in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt he didn't recognize. He'd gotten some clothes the other day which was a little relieving because waking up to him in the detective's uniform every day was a little disconcerting.

Shawn worked his way around the gravelly feeling in his throat. "Thought I told you…not to put it by the window." Everything was still a little blurry and he rubbed an eye, the shapes around him blurring and shifting back to a clear view.

Henry turned around in surprise, caught in his reminiscent stare out at the bustling street below. "Shawn," he said by way of a 'good morning'. "How are you feeling?" The way he spoke had him thinking he'd caught his father in a weak spot.

Shawn's hand instinctively flew up to the device in his chest. During the night, while Henry had snored away like a fighter pilot from WWII, he'd reached beneath his gown and felt the pacemaker beneath him. It was…strange. It was so very…odd. It was something he would just have to get used to, like Gus suddenly deciding wearing ties to school made him look handsome, but he didn't want to. It wasn't like being a robot, not at all. But what he said was, "Could you please get that out of the sunlight? It's going to get all gross." He gestured to the beloved smoothie.

Henry obliged and sat down beside his son. They both just stared for a moment and Shawn rolled his eyes around to face him. Shawn slowly pushed himself upright with his right arm, steadying himself against the bed and then accepted the smoothie from Henry.

A moment shifted between them, one that Shawn knew couldn't be dodged without some kind of acknowledgement so he stared down at the fruity drink in his hands and said quietly, trying to ignore the weird throbbing at the back of his head. "Look, dad, you don't have to stay…if you don't want to. I'm not forcing you."

Henry, caught in what he could or didn't want to say, just stared at his son, who, in response to his un-responsiveness, tugged at his nasal cannula. "This thing is so annoying," he hissed, tugging at it.

Henry ignored the painfully obvious relief that tugged at his insides. "You already mentioned that a few dozen times."

"Well, it is," Shawn insisted. "You try having this thing tickle at your nose twenty-four seven."

Unaware that the words had even fallen out of his mouth, Henry said, "Your grandfather hated them too…"

The look on Shawn's face, a mix of surprise and something melancholy, registered with Henry.

Whoops.

At the mention of his grandfather, Shawn's eyes lit up. "Hey, remember when we all went to that Christmas craft thing that mom dragged us all to?"

"How could I not?" Henry grumbled. "Your grandfather set the place on fire!"

"Oh, only the microwave," Shawn said dismissively.

"You think a sixty-seven year old man would know whether or not putting an entire, closed can of baked beans would explode after heating it on high for three minutes," Henry said, recalling the situation's details almost verbatim.

"Don't forget the glitter," Shawn said with a devious smirk. "Lots and lots of glitter."

"I still don't know how the hell you managed that."

"Grandpa had a good time when he wanted to."

Henry rolled his eyes. "It got us kicked out of the YMCA for life, Shawn."

"Oh, and I'm sure you totally missed those Wednesday morning Pilates classes."

Henry shot him a withering glare.

"Dad," Shawn said after a moment, blinking rapidly. "Did grandpa…was he…himself…when he died?"

At the sudden catapult of the conversation, Henry's eyes widened. That was something he and Shawn had never discussed. Death was something they both knew, both acknowledged to an extent, but talking about it, expressing emotions…Spencers' didn't do that. But the question propelled an answer and Henry had to give something. "Shawn, do you remember your grandfather's outlook on life?"

Shawn smiled. How could he forget? It was all thanks to his grandfather he somehow discovered living his life to the fullest. Camping outside with Gus in the pitch black with nothing but Cheetos and lukewarm cans of root beer? Check. Pole vaulting over his father's truck with nothing but a broomstick and some flimsy coach pillows on the ground on the opposite side? Check. Buying the one mode of transportation to make that very noticeable vein in Henry's forehead pop out like an angry zit? Check.

Henry continued, his eyes slightly shimmering as he spoke, "Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did. So throw off the bowlines. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover. Your grandpa was a huge fan of Mark Twain – owned every collection of his novels."

Something about it all made Shawn forget the insistent annoyance in his nostrils and, moreover, the rigid feeling of being stuck in a room that had four walls and a helluva lot of unresolved issues. "Made me listen to him when I was a kid…"

"And it's a good thing, too," Henry snorted. "The only thing you ever listened to willingly was Tears for Fears."

"'Everybody Wants to Rule the World' was an anthem, dad." Shawn said with a petulant cross of his arms, which made him wince.

"A nonstop anthem. You must have broken the record playing it."

Shawn smiled thinly. "You're a broken record. 'Shawn, turn down that music, 'Shawn, that's just noise'."

Henry's smile was unmistakable. "Do you know how many hours of my time were spent yelling at you to quit playing Whitesnake so that I could solve a case?"

Shawn dropped back onto his pillow, keeping his position tiring him. "I…gave ya some free time," he mumbled, closing his eyes. "Y'had a whole year."

Henry looked at his son in astonishment, though his eyes were closed. "I had a helluva lot of free time," he said to himself.

Shawn, still clutching the pineapple smoothie, yet to take a sip, mumbled something incoherent.

"What?" Henry asked, leaning closer.

They were interrupted by the creaking open of the door and Dr. Tompkins walked in, yet again with his clipboard and glasses pushed firmly up onto his nose. He smiled easily at Shawn.

"Hello," he nodded at Henry, who nodded back at him, a simple greeting.

"Well, Shawn," Dr. Tompkins looked at the battered teenager. "Things didn't go as planned yesterday, huh?"

Shawn, who had opened his eyes long enough to roll them, muttered, "Oh, really?"

The doctor ignored Shawn's sarcasm. "As your father may have told you, we'd like to perform the surgery once more. But not until we believe you are ready physically. For the time being, we put a pacemaker inside you to strengthen your heart."

Shawn's hand absently traced the outline of the device over his hospital gown.

"When do you think he'll be ready?" Henry asked, an edge to his voice. His gaze shot over to his son, who looked feeble, barely holding the smoothie cup in his hand. He gently pulled it away from him and set it on the bedside table.

"Maybe in a few days' time, two weeks tops." Shawn's face scrunched up in pain.

"You okay, Shawn? Are you in any pain?" Shawn, looking over at his father, who hovered like a human shield, reluctantly nodded.

"Alright, I'll send in a nurse to give you some pain medication. They will tire you and may make you a little…loopy," Doctor Tompkins said, smiling a bit.

"Great," Henry muttered, his eyes never leaving his son. He would need some medication of his own for the inevitable drugged-Shawn tirades. He'd had to sit through it many times before, when he'd broken his arm, when he'd gotten his tonsils out, when he suddenly decided that he and Gus were daredevils and the only true way to express their newfound love was to jump off the top of Gus's bunk bed…

Dr. Tompkins watched as a nurse walked in and administered the medication to Shawn, who gratefully exhaled a deep breath over sitting stiffly for a few moments.

After the doctor left, Henry turned to his son. "You know, I woke up at seven to go out and find you a smoothie shop for that." He gestured to the frothy drink.

Shawn blinked, the medication settling over him in a blissful wave. "In that shirt?" he asked, pointing to the dizzying haze of palm trees and Hawaiian flowers on his button-up. Henry looked down at it in confusion.

"What?" he asked, annoyed by his son's giggling. "What's wrong with it?"

Shawn let one cheek rest easily on his pillow, still smiling. "It's like…a rainbow puked." He let out another round of giggles. His face suddenly turned sober in contemplation. "What would rainbows puke? Gold?"

Henry sighed, still miffed about the shirt comment. "I take it the medication has kicked in for you."

Shawn completely ignored his father. "Guess it's one of life's greatest mysteries…who will ever know what rainbow puke looks like?" His voice had a lofty lilt to it that made the corner of his mouth curve up in something like a smirk and a delirium-induced laugh. He looked at his dad and gestured with limp hands for him to get closer. Henry obliged wearily.

"Unless…THAT'S what it looks like." Shawn leaned closer and squinted at Henry's shirt, pulling the dizzying triptych closer to his face for further examination. Shawn's hands suddenly drifted upwards, patting his father's neck and then his cheeks with a muffled giggle. "Dad, you should…you should invest in some Olay. It'll do wonders for your skin."

Henry shoved his son's hands away in irritation. When he thought Shawn wasn't looking a curious hand explored the contours of his face, feeling for dry spots.

Shawn's glazed-over eyes landed on him again and chuckled at his dad's self-conscious display. "You grew oooldddd, man. Last time I checked you only had half of those wrinkles on your forehead." His expression shifted, like he was trying to concentrate but the medication was clouding some important thought. "Was that only a year ago?" At Henry's unresponsive glare, Shawn continued. "It feels like…more. 'Cause…it feels realllyy long when you're stuck in Las Vegas with a magician and a Ziploc bag full of pennies." He let out a loud, bellowing laugh. "That guy could gamble. Seriously. I'm pretty sure I qualified to be an Olympic runner that day." As an afterthought he added, "Damn those Russian fly dancers."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I spent a week camping outside," Shawn continued. "Do you know what happens…when you don't buy any bug spray?" he chuckled. "There were mosquito bites in some unmentionable places…"

"You?" Henry asked in skepticism. "You went camping?"

Shawn looked offended. "When there are dire consequences placed upon you, dad…or, well, when there are about thirteen angry Russian women and a Batman impersonator after you…you've gotta do what you've gotta do."

"Which is camp outside for a week? With all those pesky raccoons lurking around?" Henry teased.

Shawn looked at his dad. "There were no raccoons. There was an unfortunate tousle with a pesky squirrel, though."

"How the hell do you manage to get yourself into these situations?" Henry asked in astonishment, not believing for a second that he was having this conversation. He was pretty sure half of this stuff was embellished in Shawn's delirium but no doubt some of his incoherent ramblings were true. And he really wanted to know what Shawn meant when he said 'fly dancers'.

"I didn't ask the guy to gamble all of our money and the donkey!" Shawn said defensively. "I needed that thing."

Henry couldn't help but snort. "You were running around Las Vegas…you…a magician…and a donkey?"

Shawn shrugged limply.

"Three jackasses causing a stir," Henry mused. "You didn't stay for long, did you?"

"Well, I didn't," Shawn sniffed self-righteously. "Why do you think I was camping outside for a week in Reno?"

"You were camping outside in Reno?"

"Of course, dad," Shawn said, like his father was mentally incapable of comprehending his sentences. "You really think you can camp outside in Las Vegas?"

"Oh, and I'm sure Reno is so much better."

"Their ground is a bit softer when you lay on it."

"You didn't even have a tent?"

"Why would I have a tent?"

"To protect you from the outside elements – Shawn, did you learn nothing in Boy Scouts?"

Shawn giggled for a good fifteen seconds. "I learned that if you scare Gus well enough he wets himself."

Henry shook his head. "You're both lucky I was chaperone."

"Right, so you could continue scaring us with your horror stories of being the 'night shift' cop." Shawn settled further into his pillow with a childlike grin on his face. "Did you really arrest someone for littering?"

"Of course not, Shawn, that was to teach you a lesson about not leaving your Fruit Roll-Up wrappers all over our campsite."

"I was trying to attract animals with the silvery wrappers!" Shawn defended himself. "I was hoping to put one in your tent."

"You did," Henry said flatly.

"Oh, those were just centipedes."

"How about you call them 'just centipedes' when they're in your pillowcase."

Shawn laughed. "You know they were rubber, right?"

"Of course I knew that." Henry crossed his arms.

"It didn't sound like it at two AM." Shawn snort-laughed, which turned into a much harder laugh. It shook his core and he coughed, roughly, into his fist.

"Shawn!" Henry put a hand on his shoulder.

The coughing subsided, though, with enough room for Shawn to continue. "You were really pissed about that…didn't talk to me for like…three days." Then, his delirious smile curved downward a fraction. "You really hurt me, you know." Laughter filled an empty silence Henry wasn't sure how to fill. "I sound like a sappy character from one of those cheesy rom-coms."

"Hurt you? About that stupid camping trip?" Henry asked in disbelief.

Shawn fought to sound lucid. "Not…what I meant."

Henry's expression faltered. "What did you mean?" he asked, surprised by the tender cadence of his voice. He knew exactly what he meant, knew it like the Detective's Pledge, like he'd memorized every line and could recite it from front to back. But somewhere in his mind, he was hoping it was something else, that Shawn's delirium was pulling up a different memory, something not quite as dusty and untouched as what he knew it to be.

Shawn's lip twitched. "When you…when you arrested me." He laughed again, the reverberation unnerving his father, like it was not just from the drugs, but from this spot in Shawn that refused to let the void be filled with anything else, like laughter was his only vice. And silence was Henry's. "I still can't believe I cried like a pansy in front of Gus," Shawn commiserated, his sentence peppered with snorts and giggles, like it was a memory worthy of fond reminiscence.

Henry could still hear the way the handcuffs snapped around Shawn's wrists with a click that held finality, the way he'd roughly forced him into the car, how his facial expression was part mask, part disappointment. How Shawn had jerked around in his arms, like maybe just his touch set them at odds. The solemn look on his son's face as the bars closed in front of him, this metaphorical meaning he hadn't thought about until now, that wall drawn between them made of steel and buried memories.

Suddenly, a word registered in Henry's mind and he looked at his son in surprise. "Wait…cried?" he asked. "What are you…what are you talking about, Shawn?"

Shawn looked at him blearily, a smile making an appearance. "I'm not talking about anything, dad," he said, reaching for his dad's face again. With both hands on his dad's face he said in a deep, mock-like voice, "Spencer men don't cry." He chuckled again, slapping his dad lightly on the face. "That was my Sean Connery. You like?" He let himself fall back again, a smile on his face. "But Gus swore on his Billy Ocean record he would never, ever, ever mention my little coo-coo moment to anyone!" He giggled, remembering sitting there with Gus, knees held tightly against his chest on his carpet, rubbing his stinging eyes and then looking up into Gus's with panic. "Crap…you have to pinky swear you won't tell my dad!"

"You had Gus swear on a Billy Ocean record?" Henry asked, not able to help himself. "He could have at least gone more contemporary."

"Because if my dad finds out," Shawn said, ignoring Henry once more, quoting verbatim from that night within the drug-induced fog, "he'll be like…like 'you're not only a disappointment, you're a pansy disappointment!' Wait. Does that make sense? Pansy disappoint? Disappointment pansy? Pansying disappointing…" Shawn fought the sentence structure.

Henry stared at his son, who didn't even seem to be aware of his surroundings, much less who he was talking to.

"You wouldn't tell anyone, right blue unicorn?" Shawn asked earnestly.

"Of course not, Shawnie, your secret's safe with me," he responded to himself, this time with a voice sounding suspiciously like Christopher Walken.

"Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Michael Douglas?"

"I get that a lot."

Henry shook his head at the unfolding madness before him. "Okay, I think it's time for you to go to bed." He reached for Shawn's blanket, drawing it up to his chin.

"No, blue unicorn that looks like Michael Douglas; we can't save Princess Peach without the pineapple smoothie!"

"Shawn, stop being ridiculous."

"Don't listen to Val Kilmer! Grab the banana ssssssssssssled! USE YOUR HOOVES!" Shawn's eyes were closed as his words slowed and slurred together.

"Shawn!"

"Run! They're cccccoming, Blue Unicornnn! We don't have much…time."

"Seriously, Shawn!"

"No…" Shawn whispered. "They've got me. It's too late. You can make it! Remember…Alcatraz!" he waved his arm, hitting his dad in the face who reeled back. "My left arm…feels heavier." He giggled. "They got my arm!"

Henry looked in exasperation down at his son, not able to believe it but still marveling at the wonder that was his son refusing to listen to him, even drugged.

"Don't…touch…those Oreos. They're mine!" Shawn's head slowly drifted down until it was at a comfortable spot in the pillow. When he seemed like he'd finally fallen asleep – or gone wherever the hell he was – Henry allowed himself to drift, thinking about what Shawn said earlier. He'd really…cried over the arrest? Henry couldn't fathom that. Shawn had acted like a complete idiot that night – per usual. Nothing had ever crossed his mind that the whole debacle even registered with his son. A tsunami of something like regret, guilt, sympathy, frustration and dejection whirled through Henry until he wasn't sure his legs had much use anymore and he collapsed into his chair, reaching for his hat to pull over his eyes and block the view of his son in front of him.

Shawn jolted awake the next morning to his dad, walking out of the rooms' bathroom, in a different shirt than yesterday's, which Shawn was positive was good for his stomach because he was pretty positive the Hawaiian nightmare would have caused some unwanted bouts of nausea.

"Oh, look, you're awake," Henry said casually, reclining in a seat that was no longer plastic, but soft-backed. He must have mustered up the nerve to flirt with a nurse for one.

Shawn did his now-usual routine of rubbing his eyes, stretchingand then said, slowly, "I had this…strange dream about blue unicorns and Michael Douglas."

A look passed over on Henry's face like a shadow blocking the sun. "Really?" Henry asked evenly.

"Yeah." Shawn tilted his head at his father, who seemed to know more than he did. "Did I say anything in my sleep?"

Henry reached for his newspaper. "Not a word."

Despite both doctors and nurses telling Henry he could get a hotel and sleep there, Shawn would be fine for the night, Henry refused. A sympathetic nurse gave him a cot and he set up camp there with a hospital-issued pillow and blanket, a stack of fishing magazines and all the latest newspapers. He hardly ever left Shawn's room except to go get lunch and dinner and even then he brought it back up with him. During the week that they waited for the re-scheduling of the surgery, Shawn and Henry blew through the entire first season of Magnum: PI and then after that, The A-Team. Henry wouldn't say that their relationship had progressed to the kind you read about in Hallmark cards – but then again, he wouldn't answer any questions about his and Shawn's relationship; it was private.

If you did get a glimpse, however, you could see the way Henry kept his chair very close to Shawn's bed and the way his eyes scanned over him every morning and every night, checking for visible injuries. A shoulder pat here, a reassuring pat on the head there. There may have been one night that Henry's hand absently reached for Shawn's head, to ruffle through his brunette tresses but then reared back like he'd touched a hot stove.

Of course, that only may have happened. There were no witnesses.

"Shawn!" Henry nudged his son, who was still sleeping, even though it was one in the afternoon.

"Mmmphhhh," Shawn groaned into his pillow.

"Shawn!" Henry shook his good shoulder. "Come on, Shawn, you've been sleeping all day."

"Da-aaaaad," Shawn whined, one eye cracking open to see the familiar swirled mess that was a Hawaiian-patterned shirt. The vertigo of just the stare at the horrid thing bought about a bout of nausea that had him curl deeper into the pale blue knit blanket that had been draped over him during the night.

"You need to get up and exercise, Shawn, you've gotta do what the doctor said. Build your strength." Henry threw aside the blanket, which made Shawn protectively cover himself from the cold air.

"Can't I build my strength from the bed?" he pleaded, closing his eyes again.

"And how are you supposed to do that?"

"You'd be surprised by my many talents, dad," Shawn retorted weakly.

"Get up." Henry slapped one of his legs.

"Unless you're going to go out and buy me some pants, I am not leaving this bed!" Shawn protested.

"Fine." There was the sound of Italian-soled shoes padding away and Shawn opened his eyes in surprise.

"Dad?" Shawn asked his father's retreating back. "Where are you going? Are you serious! Dad!"

Ten minutes later, a pair of jeans smacked Shawn in the face. He looked down and scrutinized the material, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. "Polyester, really?" he asked.

"You have five minutes to get your ass into those jeans."

Exactly five minutes and thirty-two seconds later, Shawn, with pants on under his hospital gown, was walking alongside his father out in the courtyard. The air was fresh and humid, which was a welcome change for the both of them, having been cooped up in the dimly-lit room for days on end. Despite the nice weather, however, Shawn couldn't help but complain at the bright atmosphere.

"It's so hot," he complained.

"We're in Los Angeles," Henry retorted simply.

"So? An injured man shouldn't have to walk in these conditions."

Henry almost corrected his son on calling himself a 'man' but snorted and instead said, "How about you run, then, smartass?"

Shawn rolled his eyes.

They continued like that for about ten minutes, just strolling around, Henry not knowing what to say so he invariably didn't say anything and Shawn absentmindedly humming the tune to an old song that played on CHiPS.

Henry periodically looked over at Shawn, making sure he was moving along easily, and stopped when he saw Shawn dragging his sneaker-clad foot behind him like a horse at the starting gates.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked in bewilderment.

Shawn looked over at him and cracked a grin. "Taking your earlier advice. C'mon! Let's do this: a race! Whoever makes it to the bench buys the pineapple smoothies."

Henry crossed his arms in amusement. "You don't have any money, Shawn."

Another grin. "How do you know that? I could be filthy rich. I did some gambling in Las Vegas."

"So you mentioned. But it also ended in you camping outside, didn't it?"

"GO!" Shawn avoided him and took off in a lopsided, half-run, half-walk that made Henry almost pity the kid for even trying. Then again, he wasn't supposed to be going to the extreme.

"Shawn!" Henry shouted, yet making no effort to move from his spot on the sidewalk.

"You're…losing!" Shawn shouted from up ahead, slowing down.

Henry noticed the way his son's spastic movements were slowing like he was wading in syrup. Concern crossed his features like a shadow. "Shawn!" He began to walk towards him.

Shawn, exhausted, panting, heart racing, leaned against a nearby tree. Black spots danced across his eyes and his palm rested met the rough oak as he tried to grasp regular breathing. His heart felt like a hummingbirds' – fluttering seventy times per second. There was a hand on his shoulder and another one propping him upright. It was all a hazy collage of blurred shapes and faded colors until his eyes finally focused and he was staring at his father.

"You…lose." Shawn coughed.

Henry's eyes were unwavering as he took in every spot on Shawn, examining all the key locations, checking for injuries that he could see. There were none but Henry knew from experience that wasn't always a good sign.

"C'mon." He supported his son as he turned them both around. "That's enough exercise for today."

"P-pity…" Shawn coughed again. "I was hoping to get some time in on the high jump."

Henry just shook his head, hoping that because his face was turned, Shawn wouldn't see the smile threatening to take over.

"Attempt number two…" Shawn grumbled to his father the next day as they entered the hospital's physical therapy section.

Henry squeezed his shoulder gently. "Let's give it a try, eh?"

Shawn looked warily around at the exercise equipment in the room. "I don't know, dad…"

A pretty brunette-haired woman wearing pink scrubs walked up to them. "Shawn Spencer? I'm here to help you with your physical therapy today." She gestured he follow her and Shawn shot his father a devilish smirk. "I think I'm gonna like physical therapy," he whispered.

As the days went by, Shawn got less and less reluctant to exercise (and it had a little bit more to do with the fact that it was being instructed by a very attractive brunette woman) and was even a little restless if Henry didn't get him down there at noon.

He rode the stationary bike on Monday, jumped rope, to Henry's amusement, on Tuesday, took a walk around the hospital again, no races, tried yoga on Wednesday, (Henry definitely caught Shawn looking at a few curvy places on the brunette woman stretching in front of him) and, an even bigger surprise, on Thursday he rounded up a bunch of kids from Pediatrics to play hide-and-seek on the ground floor.

On Friday, Shawn was a little tired and instead stayed in his room and turned on the TV in guys. He and Henry went through every Jon Hughes movie that was out, having a running commentary on Pretty In Pink with surprising insight from Henry on the way the leading man should have styled his hair. At some point, Henry fell asleep, or at least, started to, and Shawn hefted his extra blanket over onto his father, whose legs rested easily on the end of Shawn's bed.

"Night, old man," Shawn whispered.

The surgery was scheduled a week and a half after the first failed attempt.

Henry could see it in Shawn's actions that once again, it was making him nervous. The way he skirted around questions about death and people that got injured on the job. How his hand was always feeling where the pacemaker had been put and then snapping down when he saw Henry looking at him. The smirk that never really reached its limit of stretching all the way across his face.

Henry was nervous too.

The second time around, both Henry and Shawn were more relaxed and nervous at the same time. Henry was more obliging to go out and buy Shawn anything he requested, lest he have to be in the room for longer than an hour at a time and it was a perfect opportunity for Shawn, who could spend that alone time pulling down and pulling back up the neck of his hospital gown to look at the pacemaker nestled beneath his skin.

And it was all too soon as Henry was watching his son get wheeled away for a second time, looking back at his dad with a pitiful look in his eyes, like he was sad for the both of them and the fears they couldn't voice.

"Mr. Spencer?" the fair-skinned doctor suddenly materialized in front of the detective, his scrubs slightly askew, his surgical mask hanging from his neck.

Henry opened his eyes and looked up. When had he fallen asleep?

"Dr. Tompkins," Henry greeted the man before rising to meet him. Sitting down seemed too contained at this point.

The doctor's face, however, was unreadable. Panic spread like a virus through Henry's system.

"How was the surgery?"

The doctor parted his lips to speak, preparing to share the news, but halted in his delivery.

"Would you like to sit down?" he suggested.

Henry, eager for the information, reluctantly obliged. He couldn't stop the onslaught of questions that he threw at the doctor. "Oh, God…what happened? Did his heart arrest again? Will he be stuck with the pacemaker?" The doctor wasn't answering back at the same rapid-fire speed and Henry felt his leg start to jiggle with all the nervous energy coursing through his veins.

The doctor shook his head. "His heart…his heart did go into an arrest." His tone, soft-spoken and well-mannered made Henry want to throttle him for quicker, sharper answers.

But he blinked slowly, telling himself to listen carefully and waited for the doctor to continue.

"However, this time…"

Henry's eyebrows rose in concern.

"This time…we couldn't get his heart to start back up."

There was the sensation of being stone-cold, rock-solid and unmoving – a numbness that Henry wasn't accustomed to. Then, there was a wave of anxiety, red-hot, like he was sitting in front of a fireplace. It was then doused with the ice that could only be thrust forth when all hope was lost, when he demanded results that could not be given.

"We did everything we could," the doctor sounded genuinely apologetic. "I'm truly sorry."

But everything was buzzing in Henry's mind like a wasp, its irritating sting the only sound that filled him, until everything melted away and he thought for sure he would be impaired for life. There didn't need to be sound – not after what he'd just heard.

Words began and died at his lips, each of them too weak to make it past a syllable. He felt himself dipping forward, hoping the floor would cave open so that he could just fall right through it.

"Mr. Spencer?"

Henry couldn't speak.

"Mr. Spencer?" the doctor called again, his voice slowly fading away.

His eyes snapped open.

"Mr. Spencer?" Henry found himself staring into the concerned eyes of his son's doctor. He blinked rapidly, adjusting to the harsh lighting of the hospital's waiting room. In front of him on the floor was an old Time magazine that he'd skimmed through, apparently before falling asleep.

Oh…it was just a dream. Henry thought in relief. But then he remembered the doctor was in front of him and panic twisted at his system once again.

"How did…" Henry cleared his throat. "How did the surgery go?" he felt animated by something else, in that moment. The dream, while not real, left some very heavy emotions running through him and he couldn't help but revert back to it.

Dr. Tompkins's expression shifted from solemn to a small smile. "Actually, Mr. Spencer, the surgery went quite well. There were no complications – it went smoothly."

Henry let out a sigh of relief. "So the pacemaker won't be a problem anymore?"

"No," Dr. Tompkins continued. "The only thing I'd recommend for Shawn is of course to be careful so he doesn't overexert himself in any type of physical activity, eating a healthy diet…"

Henry snorted at that one.

"I'd say about seven or eight days for his recovery and he'll be all set." He looked at Henry expectantly, who had been anxiously crossing and uncrossing his arms across his Hawaiian-printed shirt.

"That's good, then?" Henry couldn't help but want to squeeze every bit of good information out of the man like a sponge. This gave him more relief than when he used to sit down in his armchair in front of the television with a beer. It was like that turbulence on the airplane – all bumpy and jostled until the end, when there was a smooth, straight path.

"It's very good. Shawn will be put into recovery soon and he won't be awake for a few hours but he will be okay."

Henry rolled the word around in his mouth like it was foreign. 'Okay' hadn't been an adjective to describe anything for him in the past few weeks and when it finally landed it felt too rich, like there had to be a catch in all this. "Okay." He said, sounding out the syllables. Okay. Okay was good. Okay was great. He could work with okay. Shawn could work with okay.

Henry sat by Shawn, back in his old room, back to familiar surroundings. He would never admit it but after all the moving around it was pretty nice to just stay in one place.

He looked over at his son, his chest blissfully rising and falling. Shawn at rest, not awake and blathering on about whatever slight notion he had in his head, should have been relieving.

It was, a little.

But Henry couldn't sleep, not before Shawn would wake up. He needed to hear a vocal confirmation. Physicality was fine for those who hadn't been so separated from their loved ones that it felt like a barrier with a gate he didn't have the keys to.

But at least his son looked…calm. His skin had a brighter color, almost. Like he'd finally gotten his normal sheen back.

He didn't realize he'd been about to nod off until he felt his body falling forwards from the chair. With a shake of his head, he got himself upright again and insistently told his body, stay awake. He was waiting for Shawn.

He always had been.

Four hours later, Henry looked up from a two-day old newspaper to Shawn, stirring weakly in his sleep. He made an odd noise with his throat and Henry realized he was trying to talk.

"Shawn?" he slowly got up out of his chair, walking over to the bed.

Shawn's eyes blinked and then slowly opened. Henry had luckily turned off the light – using the dim glow from the muted television to see the words on the newspaper that he hadn't really read – so his eyes didn't immediately snap shut.

Shawn's lips parted, into something like a grimace. Henry didn't have to guess that he was feeling the pain in his chest. His hand briefly grazed his own, wondering if he could feel it too by osmosis.

"Did…did…they do it?" Shawn asked feebly.

"Yep," Henry said, not able to stop the happy lilt to his tone. "No more pacemaker for you."

Shawn forced out something between a laugh and a cough. "A-awesome."

"Yeah…" Henry saw Shawn squint again and said quietly, "I'm going to get a nurse for you, okay? Shawn?" A hot flash crossed over him in the three seconds that it took his son to respond.

"Prob…ably a good…idea." Henry didn't want to stare into the hazel eyes, with their pain so prominent and glaring in the darkened room, so he quickly jogged into the hallway for help.

Once someone came back with him, Henry immediately quickened his pace to be by Shawn's side. His hand seemed to float in indecision between the bars that were on the hospital bed and his son, who needed consolation. Finally, he just let it fall and watched as the nurse tended to Shawn. As the medicine slowly seeped into Shawn's system, Henry thought he felt a flutter at the fabric of his shirt, like maybe someone had latched onto it, for only a moment, but he must have imagined it. He was pretty tired, after all, and Shawn hadn't even moved his head.

"Just get some rest, Shawn," Henry advised him, feeling relief course through him like cool water. "I'll be here."

Shawn blinked slowly at him and Henry thought that he hadn't comprehended what he'd said until Shawn responded, with a raspy whisper that had Henry feel a quick zip of something – akin to when the doctor had told him everything was fine. It was something like glee – if he'd ever use the word to describe something – and relief and even a little…disbelief. He wouldn't say that he hadn't come to some realizations in these past weeks. Ones he couldn't necessarily name or explain but that felt good just the same.

Once he was sure Shawn was asleep – once he'd watched the gift of his son's chest rising and falling a few more times just to be secure – he settled back into his chair and allowed the drowsiness he'd been feeling for the past few hours to claim him like a secret. If Shawn was fine, then so was he. Sleeping was nearly a distant memory for the man – he couldn't remember a time when he wasn't at least semi-tired. But today, unlike the others, a lack of sleep could be considered a badge of honor. A type of reward, a remnant of things he'd charged through and things he'd been forced to confront. Henry was perfectly fine with yawning for the rest of his life, if that meant other things could just fall into the state of being perfectly fine.

Just before he felt himself slowly fall into a slumber he knew he'd awaken from momentarily, he looked over at his son, starting with his facial features – how relaxed, how easy they seemed to be like a sculpture, curves and ridges and bumps like any normal teenager – and stopping at his chest, the area where most of his attention now honed in on, like a coordinate on a map. Henry knew that it hadn't always been his focal point – and to be perfectly honest, it wouldn't always be – but it was at that moment and he let it lull him to sleep like a lullaby, pulling him into a trance he wouldn't set himself free from, its rhythmic beating creating a pattern that danced in his head like song lyrics – ones he kept to himself, for himself, that to anyone else would just be silence.

Three days later, Henry, balancing a to-go box of smoothies, smiled his greetings at passing nurses.

"Hey, Kathy, how's it going?" he asked.

The brunette nurse that had become a close friend to him and Shawn smiled. "It's great, Henry, and yourself?"

"Great." He said easily. Despite the cloying scent of the hospital air, the dimly-lit rooms, the sometimes stuffy atmosphere…Henry was actually beginning to…maybe not warm to the place, like enjoy it, but become familiar enough with it to generally accept it. He'd admittedly not had a very good start at this whole father-son reconciliation thing – and he still wasn't good at it – but he and Shawn were at least generally okay to be around each other. They even managed to break out of their usual conversational mold: sports, weather, schoolwork. Henry could comfortably say that, with quite a bit of coaxing, he could get Shawn to go back to Santa Barbara with him and, with some sheer brilliance on his part, maybe even get to enroll him in some community college courses. He knew the latter was a very charitable wish at best, but Henry himself was feeling pretty charitable today.

He smiled at the thought of Shawn sitting at their kitchen table grumbling about having to write term papers, pushed open the ajar door with his hip, and held the to-go box out in front of him.

"Hey, Shawn-!" Henry turned from the door, let it swing shut, not even hearing the resounding click it made as it closed.

He was staring at an empty room.

He stood there, frozen for a few moments, and then quickly covered, like the snap of a rubber band. Don't jump to conclusions, he reminded himself, setting the box down slowly. The gears working overtime in Henry's head were spitting out completely illogical thoughts and he fought them, mentally insisting, Shawn's just in the bathroom. He has to be.

But his eyes unwillingly canvassed the room like a crime scene, like he was trained to do, and couldn't help but notice the absence of clothes that had been in a haphazard pile, the set of motorcycle keys that had been resting on the bedside table like a taunt and the way the hospital sheets were so crisply folded over. Shawn wouldn't do that just because he was going to use the bathroom. He would never do that, besides.

With trepidation, Henry slowly stepped towards the small alcove that led to the bathroom.

The door was wide open – why hadn't he seen that when he'd walked in?

Inside was a toilet, a sink, a light overhead – but no toothbrush that a kind nurse had given Shawn and no hairdryer that Henry had ever so gracefully bought Shawn because he'd adamantly refused to towel-dry.

Henry spun around so fast he almost lost his footing. He quickly walked into the hall, craning his neck to see if a doctor was nearby. Hope settled over him like a blanket when he realized Dr. Tompkins was five feet away with another patient.

With urgency, Henry speed-walked over to the doctor.

The elder doctor's eyes widened when he saw Henry's demeanor. "Excuse me," he dismissed the woman he'd been talking to.

Henry wasted no time with pleasantries. "Has my son been moved to another room?" he asked.

Dr. Tompkins seemed to be thinking.

"Shawn Spencer," Henry fumed, about to berate the doctor for his incompetence. "My son. He's not in his room. Has he been moved?"

"Shawn…" Dr. Tompkins almost looked sympathetic with the distraught detective. "He signed out AMA."

The all-too familiar drop that felt like an anchor in Henry's stomach returned, one that had happened only once before, in the same instance. There had to be some mistake. Shawn wouldn't leave. He'd just had a major surgery.

Henry spent an hour running around the hospital, checking with every nurse that had tended to Shawn, but they all said the same answer as Dr. Tompkins – apparently he was a hospital favorite. He checked with information, he even asked a shifty-eyed janitor that had mopped his way past Shawn's room a few times in the past weeks they'd been there.

But none of them could say where he'd gone and Henry, looking for something to cling onto, something to spit back an explanation at him, returned to his son's room but all he found were the two pineapple smoothies, sitting there on the windowsill.

Henry turned and walked out of the room.

Henry stayed in Los Angeles another three whole days. He desperately wanted to issue a BOLO on Shawn's motorcycle but he only had loose information: that it was a Norton. He knew the license plate – hell, he'd memorized the damn thing in case an accident ever occurred – but even in all his panic, he couldn't push himself to put it out because he knew that that would only drive Shawn further away. And Henry didn't want to know how far that was.

He'd called other hospitals, all in Los Angeles and then in the next three cities over. He'd even tried Santa Barbara General, with something like hope and desperation churning in his stomach, but they didn't have any patients under Shawn's name or a John Doe. Henry even tried a few fake names that Shawn had given himself as a child but those also weren't registered at any hospital or private practice.

Henry didn't believe in fate or destiny (he had the firm belief that he could take charge of his own life, thank you very much) but he felt that this was some second chance he'd been gifted with, unlike the first time. Shawn had fallen so loosely from his grasp – if that could have even been classified as a grasp – and it was not happening again. Henry wasn't stupid enough to race to the nearest armchair for a good recline and a new episode of his fishing show. In the throes of his panic, he didn't think about it, but he and Shawn were very much similar in that avoiding, hiding, running – all seemed much more preferable than crashing, plunging, digging. He left all that to his brother, Jack. All the exploring and deep meanings and nonsense were left for those that had time and Henry chose not to waste any on such frivolous things.

But eventually the determination and adrenaline that pushed Henry not to give up waned and he was left staring at empty answers. Shawn didn't want to found. He'd trained the kid how to damn well do it. How to camouflage yourself into surroundings, how to appear as if you never really were there.

At some point, Henry admitted defeat, but he didn't exactly know when that was, only that he got a plane ticket somehow and was on his way back to Santa Barbara with a crumpled detective's suit, a missing son and an aching heart.

Settling back into a routine that had been carved out for him for so many years should have been easily permeable, Henry thought as he lifted a mug of black coffee to his lips. It should have been easy to re-enter and adjust accordingly.

But it wasn't.

Routine was worrying about Shawn, wondering where that metal deathtrap was taking him. Wondering if he had enough money, enough food. If he needed someone to talk to or if he was hurting.

Routine was becoming immune to whispers and jabs that circled about him like a slow-building tornado. They enveloped him, made him feel entrapped in a deep sea of water. "Spencer's kid" and "wonder what happened" were the two most spoken. No one would ever dare to bring these questions to Henry. Henry was impenetrable.

If you asked Henry, he might say that being detective was the only thing he knew how to do in his life. The only thing that "made sense". But right about now, the things that made sense weren't rules and regulations, facts and codes and laws. Those were all fine for a man whose heart was into it, but Henry could feel the usual enthusiasm he had reserved for his job ebbing away, until the only reason he was really walking into the prescient every morning was because it might be the day that his son's memory would fade like a forgotten memory, like all the sharp lines and contrasts could be blurred like a watercolor painting.

Henry was feeling none too enthusiastic while he drank his coffee and stared at paperwork on his desk that should (and could have) been done yesterday. But yesterday Shark Week had been on and there was a still a pack of buttered popcorn left in his cupboard and he'd never eaten it but Shawn had and he wasn't around anymore,

His partner had transferred a week after Henry returned, apparently sensing from his wordless actions and stiff gait that what they had wasn't going to go anywhere.

A new cop had taken over John's old desk, a woman named Karen. She was fierce with determination and inserted herself into cases with frightening simplicity. And the best part was that she never, ever spoke to Henry, not even while they both waited for the new pot of coffee to finish.

But Karen wasn't around today, off on a scene or something, so Henry made his new companion a thick stack of files.

Finally, the day came to a close and Henry found himself on the not-so-worn path to the grocery store. He may as well get a couple beers to end his joyous Wednesday.

As he was bending over in the drinks section, about to heft up a pack, he heard a voice behind him say, "Mr. Spencer?"

Henry straightened, spun around and was looking at Burton Guster, holding a bag of tortilla chips in his hand and looking the same as ever. His hair was grown out a little, but the same physical appearance.

"Gus, hey!" The way his smile stretched hurt his cheeks; those muscles hadn't been exercised in quite a while. He clasped the kid's free hand in a good shake. "Are you in town?"

"Oh, yeah, visiting." Gus had done the route of going to college and Henry wasn't surprised.

"Oh, how are your parents?" Henry asked conversationally. Truth be told, his back was kind of killing him and he was more than eager to go home and just drink but he couldn't brush off the poor kid. He was his son's best friend and that left Henry feeling like there was a necessary obligation to fill with those types of things.

"They're good." Gus didn't seem to want to do the casual banter which had Henry relieved.

"Oh, well, that's great." Henry reopened the door and let the cool air spill over his legs as he reached for the beers again. He swung it around with one arm and said, "Well, I'd better be off. Stuff to do at home."

Gus pointedly looked at the case of beer. "Goodbye," he said, like maybe there was something else he wanted to get at.

Henry spun around to walk out of the aisle a different way when a hesitant, "Mr. Spencer?" echoed at him.

Henry turned around. "I heard from him," Gus blurted. "From Shawn."

Henry could have dropped the beer. He walked back over to Gus, his whole position reanimated. For the moment being, his back problems were completely gone. He couldn't feel anything other than a strange soaring that seemed to take his heart to new heights.

"He…called me. Somewhere from…Texas, I think?" Gus shook his head, trying to think. "It was all static-y and stuff, but it was him. He said something about he went horseback riding with some girl named Ruby…" his voice trailed off and then he recovered, noticing the earnest look on Henry's face. "Anyway, he sounded okay and said he would call me again when he could."

Henry ran it all through his mind, his heart dropping and beginning like a valley. Shawn was safe, that was all that mattered. He hadn't called Henry, though. But had he really expected Shawn to? After all, who did Shawn always go to when he and Henry were in an argument? Gus was his new information outlet and even that small window, even with the faintest glimmer of Shawn – that he'd been in Texas, was enough for Henry to drop the beer onto the ground and give Gus a quick five-second hug. He pulled away and ignored the prickling sensation in his eyes.

"Thank, you, Gus," he said quietly.

Gus looked so hopeful and wide-eyed and confused yet relieved and Henry tipped the brim of his hat at him before scooping his beer back up and walking away, the tightness that had taken over his body evaporating, unspinning itself from its web-like position, until it seemed maybe that not everything was align, there were still knots and tangles where there would always be, but it wasn't quite so tightly spun.

Four and a half weeks since Henry' had discovered the empty hospital bed, he was walking back from an SBPD baseball game that he'd actually participated in and enjoyed. Karen had been on his team and they'd both stayed after for a little while, talking about their worst cases, the most ridiculous, the best remedies to staying up all night for stakeouts.

Henry was feeling pretty liberated from a stressful week that he'd actually put more than his usual effort into. He even waved at the neighbors.

When the hell did he get neighbors?

With the tiniest jaunt in his step, he opened the mailbox, the hesitation toward its contents long evaporated. He flipped through a cable bill, an electric bill, a credit card bill, a flyer for an ice cream social down at the local park and- something then dropped from the stack of envelopes onto the ground…

A postcard.

Slowly reaching for the item, he flipped it over so that the image was the first thing he saw and looked at some snow-capped mountains. Over them, written in bold cursive, it said, Silverton, CO, US.

Henry gave himself the briefest moment to hope…and then flipped the card over to the other side.

In Shawn's slanted, messy print it said,

Dad,

Actually climbed on that mountain. Although, how I got back down is a much more complicated tale.

- Shawn

P.S. I may have the South American Uru tribe on my trail…

Henry read it over again, then twice more and then a seventh time before he finally let himself believe that it was from Shawn and not just a hopeful hallucination. He read every word, every contour of every letter, imagining the way Shawn always wrote, hunched over, his pen firmly in his hand, gripping it tightly and oftentimes creating ink blotches.

It was something like – no, it definitely was – a relief to have this tangible proof, there in his hand, delivered from Shawn, to him.

And for the first time in four and a half weeks, Henry allowed himself to feel the pull at the corners of his mouth, the way they carved a shape he had refused to be known onto his features – a smile.