When I started writing this, I didn't expect to write to completion. I expected to blow off some steam and move on. But, whether it was the three exams I should've been studying for instead, the seven papers I should've been writing, or the stress of planning two trips abroad in three months, the stress made me able to fly through this to the finish. I figured, hey, might as well post it, even if the fanfiction-dom is near its last legs. Enjoy, everyone :)

Important: I cut the original setting up of the AU because it was trash. I tried to explain it here anyway, but to make sure it's not confusing: rather than running up into the gas station in the ep, Shawn figures out the gas station is the homebase for the criminals and goes for the pay phone outside instead. He manages to call Lassie before he gets seen and runs back into the woods, but gets shot again in the process.

AU of Shawn Takes a Shot in the Dark. Lassiter ends up having to talk Shawn into doing something other than dying on the forest floor, and everything ends with a very uncomfortable and awkward heart to heart moment between them. Three-shot.

Lassiter stared at the phone in his hand, agape and in shock.

Of course, this was just the type of thing Spencer would do.

Vanish in the middle of the night leaving only blood and a shell casing behind, text them garbled garbage of text speak jargon as their only clue, then call out of the blue when he was supposed to be kidnapped and give them a set of bullshit instructions- then bolt and suddenly drop the call out of nowhere, leaving them dangling off a pay phone in god-knew-wheresville. All they were able to hear after the questionably psychic psychic had stopped talking were three gunshots.

One right after the other. Bang, bang, bang; an ear-splitting crack echoed thrice over static- and in the sky.

Whoever was shooting at Spencer was close enough that they could hear the shots.

(And, by the look on the Henry's face, whoever that person was was soon to get shot himself. From behind. In the head.)

"Shawn?! Shawn!" Henry shouted desperately into the phone, but it was no use; wherever his son was, he wasn't sitting there still on the phone to get shot at. Swearing, the man snapped the phone shut with another force to break it and jumped out of the car, turning in the direction of the shots in alarm. "SHAWN!"

Lassiter jumped out as well, leaving the door open and withdrawing his weapon. "Will you shut up?!" he hissed, reaching him just in time to stop him bursting out into a sprint down the road. "Whoever's chasing him could hear you!"

Henry whirled on him- and by the look on his face, angry papa bear was close to shooting him, as well. Anything that stood between angry papa bear and cub had to go- crazy, lunatic, man-child of a cub- and right now, Henry probably saw him as nothing more than an unnecessary nuisance. "Then you got any better ideas, Detective, because we're running out of options here! My son is out there, getting shot at! There's no time to call any damn backup; we have to move now!"

Swearing, Lassiter glanced back at the forest, then towards the direction of the gunshots. By the sound of it, Spencer was on the opposite side of the forest as they were. Of course, the most inconvenient location possible. "We're going to have to split up," he decided reluctantly, and turned himself towards the forest. As the only one with a weapon, he'd be the one to go hunting. "Spencer said he'd be headed in there- I'll start looking. You take the car; drive around after the gunshots. Once I find him I'll call you, try and meet up to get the hell out of this place." He cocked his weapon, grinding his teeth in rising adrenaline at the chase that was to come. "Call o'Hara in the meantime; explain to her what's going on and get some backup out here, but no sirens, got that?! If they realize cops are out here this could turn into an outright firefight."

Henry scowled, but it was evident whatever the fastest path to resolving this was the one he was going to take, risky as all hell or not. It took him all of three seconds to circle the car and jump into the driver's seat- reaching into the glove compartment as he did so.

"Hey, Spencer, what're you-"

"What?" the old man huffed, loading the spare gun in an instant and revving the engine. "You think I don't know where you keep your backups? Come on, let's go!"

"That gun wasn't for you, I can't let a civilian- Spencer!"

It was too late- the elder Spencer was gone.

Lassiter groaned.

That entire family existed only to drive him absolutely insane.

Shaking his head in the chaos, and with barely more than a deep breath to prepare himself, Lassiter took off into the forest. His gun was at the ready, and he was more than eager to shoot. The dammed psychic should've known better than to get himself shot; what, the spirits hadn't bothered to bestow that vision on him? And, holy hell was he angry at Spencer for stumbling into the barrel of a gun- but even that didn't stop him from being ready to take out the punk who'd shot him.

"If anyone gets to shoot Spencer," he growled under his breath, "it's me."

Lassiter moved through the shadowed woods, searching as fast as he could for any sign of the wayward psychic. Spencer was likely running his direction as fast as he could- if that phone call hadn't ended in him getting shot again. The thought sent a chill down his spine, and, gripping his weapon even tighter, he continued to search.

There were no further gunshots, and Lassiter didn't know if that was good or bad. If it was good, it was only marginally so; it meant Spencer had managed to get far enough away from whoever was chasing him that firing after him was no longer possible. If it was bad...

If it's bad, then that means they caught up to Spencer, and he's either tied up in the back of a car somewhere, or he's dead.

It it was bad, then it was very bad.

Swallowing dryly, Lassiter continued to search.

He moved for at least an hour; he knew because he checked his phone at least every five minutes, in hope of a text, or a call, or- anything at all, giving him an update on the chaos. Never mind that he had about a snowball's chance in hell of getting a signal out here. Never mind that, in all likelihood, he was going to be the one to find Spencer. It made him uneasy to be cut off from his partner and dispatch like this; couldn't call for backup, Henry- by all rights, a civilian- going after armed whackjobs, his maniac of a son already having made the same mistake and now wandering around out here someone bleeding to death... this situation, by any way of looking at it, made him anxious. And Carlton Lassiter was not a man who felt anxious often. Anxious meant he had left something unchecked; anxious meant he had slipped up somewhere.

Slipped up the day I let a loose cannon civilian 'psychic' stumble into my investigations is more like it, he thought stubbornly. And never dammed mind that Spencer had solved this case before him.

It had been two hours since Lassiter had entered the forest, moving as fast as he dared to and not risk missing evidence, when he jogged breathlessly around yet another twisted in the corner in the path. What was waiting for him there was, simply put, not more dead leaves, wet moss, or slick mud.

It was closer to something that could've given him a heart attack, if he was the type of man to keel over at the unexpected.

Because the sight of Shawn Spencer, draped across the path like a wet blanket, slumped in a pool of his own blood, and pale enough to be dead was quite possibly the worst thing Lassiter had seen all day.

The only thing rivaling it was when the nonsense of Spencer's text message had been translated, and they'd realized he'd been shot.

Lassiter held his position for a moment, shock rooting him to the spot. It was only the sound of a gunshot cracking in an echo around the forest that jerked him out of paralyzed disbelief, and he burst into a dash that was perilously close to panic.

"Spencer- God-" He dropped to his knees (ruining his suit for the bastard), pulling the psychic onto his back through the alarm that rose like bile. "Spencer!" Still nothing; no twitch in slack lips, no flicker of closed eyes, not even a whimper of pain when Lassiter shook him again, struggling to rouse him. "Damn it!"

He sat back, breathing hard, then forced himself out of shock and instead began the search for bullet wounds. The psychic's shirt was dirty, blood stains a mess everywhere he looked; he'd never find the source this way, and without pause he ripped the thing off- barely more than a rag by this point anyway- and at last found the source of the damage.

There was an ugly wound in his shoulder, clearly hours old and obviously untreated. It had to have been the injury that had prompted the first text message. For once, he couldn't judge Spencer too harshly; the last thing on his mind when on the run from armed psychopaths was caring for flesh wounds like this. But even flesh wounds should be taken care of to some degree, especially when sprinting through a muddy forest like Spencer had been- infection was practically guaranteed by this point.

But it was barely bleeding. Blood loss, no matter how slow, over such an extended period of time, was definitely a concern, but there was no way this was the reason Spencer had passed out when he'd still been in so much danger.

That was when he saw the other wound.

Lower right abdomen. Below the ribcage; near the hip. A dark red, sticky mess of fresh blood- the definite source of most of it from the shirt. And by the looks of it, recent.

Very recent.

Those gunshots earlier...

Lassiter ripped his jacket off, pressing it against the wound with all of his weight. Most of it was saturated within seconds and he swallowed, alarm only increasing. The shot couldn't have hit anything vital; they'd heard the gunshots over two hours ago. Shawn would've been dead by now. Shawn. Shawn?! Spencer. But at this rate, there wasn't long before he bled out.

"Spencer!" he hissed again, shaking the psychic in another attempt to wake him up. "Spencer!"

But his frustration was in vain. Spencer was well and truly out.

Taking a breath, Lassiter glanced worriedly around them then pulled the psychic off the path, taking them both to the deep hollow at the base of a tree. It wouldn't do much but it would afford them at least a few seconds of preparation if the people after him passed by this area- possibly hide them altogether, if whoever this was didn't look to closely. A quick text in Henry's direction and then he turned to face Spencer again, resuming pressure on the wound. The material was ruined in less than a second, blood welling up in protest to blossom poisonously over his hands, and Spencer spasmed at the pressure, brow furrowing through a round of coughs. "Shit..." he breathed, a ragged and uncertain sort of croak, but he didn't rouse any more than that.

"Spencer," Lassiter whispered, shaking him by the shoulder. "Spencer! Come on, wake up!"

The psychic shook again, body wracked with another set of tremors, but there was otherwise no response. Lassiter's anxiety hitched up another notch, and he shook the psychic again. They had to get him out of here, fast.

His phone buzzed next to him, and Lassiter strained his neck to see the message, too worried to remove the pressure from the wound.

Yeah, I'm in position. Suspect returned to the gas station few minutes after I got here, was armed, no Shawn. Accomplice arrived few minutes after and they went back into the forest together. You find Shawn?

Short, to the point, and Shawn-focused. To be expected, he supposed.

Lassiter grimaced again, returning his attention to Spencer. Two bad guys, now in this place with him- looking for Spencer. Spencer, who had managed to get himself shot twice in less than twelve hours and now was unconscious and bleeding in a hotbed of infection. This had just gone from bad, to worse, to absolute worst.

Come on, detective. Break it down into objectives; stay in control here. Two-pronged approach here; take out bad guys, and get Spencer to an ambulance. Objective two first. Objective two first!

After all, he could go hunting and shoot out these punks' skulls any day of the week. That ambulance, however- either it came in the next very few hours, or Spencer was leaving here in a body bag.

The thought made a chill go down his spine.

Then, just as swiftly as the gut-clenching horror came, anger followed.

"I am head detective of the SBPD," he muttered under his breath, resuming pressure with a renewed vengeance. "I am not going to be distracted by emotion. I am head detective of the SBPD... I am not going to let myself be distracted by emotion- for god's sakes, I'm not Spencer!"

He punctuated the statement with a particularly heavy shove against the psychic's bleeding wound, trying to expel all of that inordinately unhelpful emotion once and for all. The motion, however, did more than turn Spencer into a sponge for his anger and distress.

It woke him up.

At the push the psychic abruptly gasped, eyes flying open wildly and body spasming to escape his hands. Lassiter was so surprised he almost let up the pressure and Spencer's gaze, the epitome of unfocused and confused, danced over the misty forest, drinking in everything and landing on nothing. But something was wrong, Lassiter realized; it wasn't his usual, unbelievably fast scan of a room- this was more random, more unfocused. Lassiter would be surprised if Spencer had registered more than half of what'd he seen.

But he was conscious, and that had just doubled his chances of getting out of here alive.

"Spencer?" he tried in an attempt to get his attention, whispering the psychic's name. The response was less than favorable.

"Son of a muffin stick on a pineapple sunbeam pop..." Spencer breathed, head lolling on his shoulder and already ashen, muddy features seeming to pale just a little more. "There's a little wabbit in my stomach eating my... liver..."

Lassiter glanced over him worriedly, the usual nonsense even more ridiculous than usual. He was barely coherent on his best of days; he couldn't tell if the change for the worse, though, was because of some reaction to mental stress- or if the blood loss was to thank. "That's not your liver, Spencer, it's your spleen," he muttered, raising his free hand to snap his fingers in front of the psychic's face. "Hey!" He snapped again, loud and obtrusive. "Spencer!"

The psychic jerked at the call to attention, alarmed gaze flickering towards him at last. His eyes widened in momentary surprise, clarity at last returning to deathly pale features. "L-Lassieface!" he coughed, voice rough. He was bright-eyed and feverish, and the surprised gaze only held his for a moment before roaming away again. "You showed up after all! Awww, and your favorite jacket, too. You shouldn't have." His fingers fumbled weakly for the silk (silk! God damn it Spencer) pressed against his wound.

"Damn right I shouldn't have," Lassiter snapped under his breath. No matter the abrasive exterior that came as second nature to him, the fact the Spencer had at last managed to respond coherently to him had left him relieved. But he clung to his irritation still; he did have a reputation to uphold after all, and being relieved that Spencer had managed to answer a simple question wouldn't do the trick. "You know how foolish you were, wondering out doing police work in the middle of the night?!" he barked, resisting the sudden urge to whack him on the back of the head. "It's dangerous, Spencer! What, you think I carry a gun just because I like it?!"

The psychic raised an eyebrow, darting gaze landing on him at last. His eyes were hazy but managed to focus on him for a second, incredulity passing across pale features instead of pain. "Yes," he deadpanned. "What... that's not the only reason?"

It seemed even a bullet wound couldn't dampen Spencer's grating, childish sense of humor.

Sighing, Lassiter shifted his pressure on the wound and began to fill the psychic in on the situation.

"I've got a hold off on backup as there's no safe vantage point to approach from, but in your condition we just may have to risk it. Two bad guys in here, looking for you, possibly more- can you give me a better number?"

Spencer's head rolled on the dirt, eyes glazing over in lack of focus and pain. Mud caked through his precious hair but even that was preferable to the blood stains on his face. "Def, definitely- one. One. I think... I saw..." He paused, squinting. "I was going to call you..."

Lassiter pursed his lips. "You did. Barely said anything, though. Almost the moment I picked up the gunshots started."

Spencer raised an eyebrow. "Gunshots?"

He... he doesn't remember? "Spencer," Lassiter said, frowning again, and loosened up on the pressure a fraction. "Spencer, you were shot twice. Remember?"

The confusion remained for a moment longer, blatant and undeniable against his white as paper face, and when it clarity shifted into place at last, it did nothing to put his worries at ease. "Of course, man, I'm just playing," he croaked out, adding a pathetic sort of grin on at the end as reassurance. It didn't come close to fooling him. God, that might've been just the worst lie he'd ever seen, and he'd seen some really bad ones.

"...Right," he muttered, letting it slide anyway. Nothing would come from his pressing the point. "It sounded like they saw you and you took off," he prodded, trying to get him to remember. "That what happened?"

Spencer nodded distractedly, shutting his eyes for a brief moment. "I was gonna try and call you... bring in the... calvary..."

Spencer's brief moment of rest was turning into something longer, and Lassiter snapped his fingers in front of his face again, trying to sound as impatient and annoyed as he could. "Spencer!"

The psychic jerked again, blinking rapidly. "Calvary!" he gasped breathlessly, shaking his head. "Calvary, black and white horses, save the day..."

Lassiter grimaced. "Well, backup's not coming. Not yet, at least. Got multiple teams on standby ready to come in silent- but we need some way to draw them out of the forest and quit looking for you. We're not about to risk taking you out of here with them still in here, Spencer. ...Though if you've got any brilliant plans bouncing around up there..." he began reluctantly, barely able to hold the psychic's gaze, "then- now would be the time, Spencer."

It was very quiet for a moment, the silence broken only by Spencer's ragged breathing. The weight of the psychic's shocked gaze on him was undeniable, and Lassiter swallowed, avoiding eye contact at all costs.

Then, Spencer's mouth twitched in barely restrained amusement.

"You asking me for help, Lassie?"

The grin was full force now, and Lassiter again resisted the urge to whack him on the back of the head.

"Could you take something seriously for once in your life?! Just once! That's all I'm asking!"

Spencer grinned a little, head lolling to the side. "You sound like my dad..."

Lassiter sighed, giving up. Spencer had either lost too much blood or was in too much pain to be of any help. He was on his own.

He resumed pressure over the wound, thinking hard and trying not to focus on the substance all over his hands. His hands were wet and dripping with hot blood and the feel of it was beginning to get too much for him to ignore; the reality that if the ambulance didn't get here soon, it would get here too late, was getting to be undeniable.

"We..." Spencer mumbled blearily. "We- you said we, before... you're not alone?"

"Of course I'm not alone, Spencer; real police don't go off tracking gunmen without a partner! But of course, you wouldn't know that, would you.. investigating crime scenes alone in the middle of the night; what is wrong with you, Spencer?!" Never mind that his so called partner here was actually a many years retired former detective who had stolen Lassiter's backup weapon and was currently keeping watch out by the gas station and not even in the forest.

But the psychic paid no attention to the jab. Instead he pointed vaguely, hand wavering unsteadily in the air but eyes bright. "Partner... get partner... to fire off some... some rounds..."

"What?!" he hissed, barely managing to keep his voice down. "Spencer, are you insane?!"

"Draw attention... get bad guys out of here... call in back... backu-"

A round of harsh coughs cut the psychic off that left him shaking in pain, and Lassiter's eyes widened in alarm. He opened his mouth to say something but had no idea what and found himself just sitting there, speechless, helpless to do anything- just staring in horror as Spencer's condition deteriorated.

When he finally managed to stop the internal revolt of hoarse coughs, Spencer's head dropped in exhaustion and he shut his eyes for a moment, breathing hard. "What... even is... not like m'liver's near... the old lungs..."

It took more effort than Lassiter wanted to admit to for him to reply in the manner he knew the psychic was expecting. Maintain normalcy, until- he couldn't. "Your spleen, Spencer," he corrected again, but frowned. The psychic's speech had sounded odd; mumbled and muffled, like there was something in his mouth-

The psychic turned his head to the side, squeezed his eyes shut in pain, and spat out a splatter of blood.

Lassiter paled.

Internal bleed. He's got an internal bleed in there somewhere.

His time limit until that ambulance became an unnecessary slap to the face just got that much shorter.

"Spencer..."

The psychic shook his head again, not seeming to realize what had just happened or either he just didn't care. "Get your backup," he insisted again, fingers twitching, "to start firing. Outside the forest... it'll draw bad guy one and two's attention... get em out of here..."

It took Lassiter a few seconds to understand what Spencer was proposing- and when he did it was a very strong sense of discontent and outright annoyance.

That was actually a good plan.

Get Henry to unload a few rounds into the street out by the gas station... the two suspects out here would hear it and hightail it back, each thinking the other had found Spencer. When they got back to the gas station, have a silent team of backup waiting to take them out.

It was a good plan. A brilliant one, actually.

And god did it wrankle at his pride that Spencer was the one to come up with it- Spencer, who'd managed to be less coherent than a junkie high on crack and currently barely conscious.

God damn it, he really hated Spencer.

Spencer's bloodied mouth twitched into an arrogant smirk. "Well, Lassieface?" he prodded weakly, and Lassiter sent him a black glare.

"Hang on," he muttered, relinquishing pressure on the wound for a moment to lean back and grab his phone. Spencer let out a shuddering gasp and it took Lassiter a few seconds to get back next to him and reposition a bloody palm over the wound.

He never got the chance to start the text message.

The keening cry of agony that erupted in response to renewed pressure made sure of that.

Spencer screamed in the space of a single spasm, short burst of a shout ripping out to echo in a hearstoppingly loud cry, and Lassiter dived forward in alarm to cover his mouth- but it was too late. The scream echoed even now around the dark forest- ringing in his ears in a perpetual alarm bell that signaled their location to anybody in the nearby vicinity.

Spencer's eyes had widened in surprise the moment Lassiter had covered his mouth, pain brushed aside by shock, and, glaring at him, Lassiter sat back, holding a finger to his lips. "Those guys could be nearby! You've got to stay quiet... not that it matters now, they'll probably find us after that last outburst..."

"Well... excuse me... for not..." the psychic snapped back breathlessly once he could speak, trailing off to mouth the rest of the jab too weakly to be heard. Spencer was pale and struggling to breathe now, eyes still roving in alarm, and Lassiter bit his lip. He didn't know how much longer he would last out here like this.

Sighing, he leaned forward again, this time making sure to catch Spencer's eye and have his attention before he returned pressure to the wound. The psychic's mouth opened in a soundless gasp, entire body going rigid under the pressure save for his hands: trembling so hard, shaking so badly, it looked like he was in the throes of another one of his 'visions'.

He did keep silent, but it was a near thing, and Lassiter found himself looking away, shushing up the pity growing in his mind and telling the regret growing in him to go to hell. "Try to relax," he muttered. "Tensing makes it worse."

"Oh, d- does it now, L-aaassie," Spencer gasped, speech stilted and awkward through the pain, his eyes flashing in irritation. "Why don't y-you just... relax... when your stomach's swiss... cheese..."

Lassiter scowled. "Hardly swiss. One bullet hole doesn't make you bullet riddled, although you keep up with your nonsense and you may find yourself that way."

Spencer's eye twitched but he otherwise held silent, seeming too busy mastering pain to talk, and, grimacing, Lassiter glanced back around the forest, trying to come to a decision.

"Think you can walk?" he asked the winded psychic at last, grabbing for his phone.

Spencer grimaced at the very idea, and his already ashen features lost what little blood they had left. "Ah... little bit..." he ground out, then shook again as another set of spasms took him. "Not far... but some... Lassie?"

He's not far off from shock... not good. Lassiter nodded grimly, and at the gesture Spencer's eyes glinted in anticipation. He grabbed the psychic's good arm and brought his hand over to keep pressure on the wound, nodding at him. "Whatever you do, don't let up on this," he warned. "Texting for backup."

"You didn't bring- oh sweet mother of baby pineapple!" he gasped, jerking back at the renewed pressure over the wound. Lassiter quirked an eyebrow at the expression but otherwise didn't comment, already on his phone. He sent off the first set of instructions to Henry, then set about contacting o'Hara.

Found Spencer. 2 GSWs, EMTs needed STAT. Send in backup, ambulance, call Henry for location, COME IN SILENT. no sirens. Hurry.

Then, without waiting for a response, he knocked Spencer's trembling hand away and again pushed against his side, already maneuvering himself to grip the psychic's arm. "All right, we're going to stand now," he warned, glancing darkly at Spencer. "Little sound as you can."

Spencer had blanched at the word stand, and now was gut-droppingly silent. Slowly, he nodded, apprehension gleaming in the form of pale sweat. With a nod back, Lassiter slowly pulled the man to his feet, supporting him all the while.

Spencer was barely to make it to his feet, and that was with almost all of his weight hanging off of Lassiter like an anchor. He didn't speak, and by the shallow, reedy gasps in his ear, couldn't even if he wanted to. Grimacing, Lassiter took what little more of his weight that he could and bit back the uncertain apology that rose. Sorry? For what? This entire disaster was Spencer's fault in the first place. If standing hurt him, well, Spencer was like a child. Children didn't learn not to touch the stove until they got burned. Maybe getting shot would finally teach him to follow orders and not involve himself to the point of standing in front of a psychopath with a weapon.

"Wait for it," he muttered under his breath when Spencer tugged a little at his arm, not seeming to understand why they weren't moving. "Wait for it..."

At last, first one, then a second gunshot split the air. Lassiter remained absolutely still, still holding Spencer upright. "That was Henry," he informed the psychic in a gruff whisper, already listening for the sound of their pursuers. "O'Hara's got orders to send backup in but silent and hidden; they'll both come out towards the gas station into the arms of the SBPD. When that happens, EMTs will have the all clear to come in after us. Until then, we're still on our own- so we're going to get moving the second those thugs pass us."

"Dude," Spencer gasped out, turning his head just enough to look at him with a slight grin. "This is unbelievably... badass..."

Lassiter stared at him incredulously. "You've been shot, and your reaction is that this is badass?!"

Spencer gestured vaguely, hand weakly fluttering in midair. "Not the getting shot part... the clandestine escape part... coulda done without the-"

"Shh!" Lassiter hushed, slapping a hand over his mouth again at the sound of branches breaking and leaves crumpling underfoot. He sank back as far as he could against the tree and brought Spencer behind him, one hand on the psychic's wrist, the other still over the psychic's mouth to keep him silent.

The motion made Spencer's gasps escalate into a fullblown whine of pain, the whimper growing in his throat and almost impossible to silence. Lassiter stiffened in alarm, bringing them both as close as he could get to the tree even though it meant forcing Spencer to double over, clasping his hand firmer over the man's mouth in preparation for the cry it would elicit. He managed to muffle it, but the thug wasn't anywhere near out of ear shot, and Lassiter grimaced again.

Come on, Spencer, make it...

The psychic shook in his contorted position, biting into Lassiter's hand now to stop himself from screaming. Lassiter gritted his teeth and bore it, no stranger to pain on this level, and forced himself to wait.

When Spencer's head buried itself in his arm, however- that was another matter entirely.

Lassiter shifted to stare at him in alarm, at first thinking the man had passed out. But, no; he was still shaking, and still biting his hand; he had definitely not lost consciousness. He was now just curled against him, sagging onto his shoulder and head hidden in the crook of his neck, barely with the strength to remain upright.

The change was minute. So minute it would have been not worth even noticing, to some.

To Lassiter, it was significant in a way that he could not ignore.

Spencer was now latched onto him just as Juliet had been, after midnight literal nightmares at nauseating heights and brushes with death too close to admit. He had never before seen his partner break down like that, and never again after it; just that momentary lapse of control that had ended in her shaking against him so hard he was the only thing there was to hold her upright.

And that was how Spencer was now.

Lassiter wasn't the kind of guy one thought when they needed a shoulder to lean on. Hell, he wasn't the one anyone turned to in search of anything resembling comfort, period- and Spencer sure as hell did not seem the type to need emotional support.

But now was not normal.

Spencer had just been through hell, and with a severe lack of anyone else present, that left just him.

Grimacing, Lassiter made a mental note to never mention this to anyone, ever, and resumed allowing his hand to be mangled and the psychic to weigh on his shoulder, and waited for the noise to pass.

When it finally did, he wasted no time in dragging Spencer out back into the open again, allowing him to finally release the stress on the wound. Even when he removed his bleeding, aching hand, Spencer did not make a sound. At first there was only silence; when the whimper that had been contained was released at last, it was more of a weak, pathetic little sound in his throat than anything else. Somehow, it only spurred his worry on.

"Come... come on," he managed at last, shaking his head to clear it. "We've got to get moving."

Breathlessly, Spencer turned his head enough to look at him, eyes narrowed. "...We're speaking of this... to no one."

"Spencer, trust me, I'd sooner get shot myself then tell anyone what just happened."

"W-what are you t-alking about? Nothing... nothing just... happened," the psychic shot back weakly.

"Agreed."

"Yep-a-doodle. Nothing."

Lassiter groaned. Spencer did always have to have the last word. "Come on," he muttered again, shifting his grip on his arm and beginning to move forward. Spencer staggered at the sudden exertion and forced Lassiter to stop; even carrying almost all of the man's weight, the psychic would still have to walk on his own. He couldn't carry him, as embarrassing and terrible as that experience would be- they were too far away from the gas station. "Spencer, come on," he pressed again, just barely keeping the impatience out of his voice. "Unless you want to die out here, we have to hurry!"

"Y-you know, Carly, getting impatient at a man who's b-been shot? Real dick move."

Lassiter blinked, momentarily takenaback. He thought he'd been hiding it. Hell, if Spencer could pick up on it even in his condition, maybe he really did need to work on his bedside manner.

Then he scoffed at himself, shaking his head. Bedside manner? He was a cop; save that flowery shit for a doctor. Besides, if Spencer was anything, he was observant like a tack was sharp. That was all this was.

"You ready?" he asked gruffly, Spencer's ragged breathing still in his ear.

"Well, that's a loaded question, Lassie, with many-"

"Spencer!"

"Okay, okay, fine!" The psychic paused, evaluating his own condition or perhaps just fighting for enough breath to answer. When he did speak, the apprehension and nervousness- two words he didn't ever think he'd use to describe Spencer- was undeniable. "...about as ready as I can be. ...You know. With the whole being shot and all."

Rolling his eyes, Lassiter pulled the psychic with him and set onto the path. When he started moving and didn't give Spencer any way to argue against him, the man reluctantly just tried to go with him. He could barely walk, and for once Lassiter didn't think he was exaggerating. He was making the best effort he could give- it just so happened the effort was pathetic. They wouldn't get far at all, but any distance could be a literal lifesaver.

"Huh," Spencer gasped, struggling just to put one foot in front of the other. "Don't remember it being... this hard... when I was running... earlier..."

Lassiter grimaced. "Whatever adrenaline you were running on earlier is gone. ...And, you've lost too much blood." It was true. The hand in his was cold and sweaty, despite the infection that had almost certainly found its way into his open wound of a shoulder. Blood loss was a serious concern and he knew they didn't have very long until Spencer passed out. Sheer bluster could only carry him so far.

In going to find Spencer, Lassiter had gone at least nine miles in two hours, and that was only because he'd had to stay slow enough to check for signs the psychic. At the rate they were going now, they'd be lucky to cover a mile an hour. Lassiter ran through the math in his head quickly, measuring the size of the forest and the distance they still had left to go.

Three miles to go... and given how remote this area is, we'll have about half an hour until backup gets here. Three miles in half an hour... that's pretty rough even if I were going alone.

With Spencer bleeding all over his shoulder, of course, that just wasn't going to happen.

The direness of the situation was closing in on him, and Lassiter realized there was just no way this was going to happen. Hell, it was a miracle Spencer had managed to run this far into the forest at all- a miracle that had definitely prolonged his life, but there was no guarantee it had saved it. This final stretch was just too long, and in Spencer's condition, they weren't going to make it in time.

They weren't going to make it in time.

Suddenly, Lassiter felt cold, and the blood that wasn't his covering him had nothing to do with it.

"Spencer... I..."

"I- I know," the psychic gasped, staggering again. "You... you don't think I can make it... right...?"

Lassiter stared at him. He sounded- angry, somehow, and for once, this wasn't their typical needling argument. "...Spencer-"

"Get mad at me." Spencer stopped for a moment, clearly short of breath, and the shaking hand in his clenched. "Tell me you don't care. That you didn't think I c-could make it... anyway..." he trailed off into a violent cough; this one expelled blood as well and ended in an agonized whimper, but the psychic wasn't done yet. "Tell me... is what you expected..."

Lassiter swallowed back shock, wide-eyed and stunned. "What- what the hell are you going on about, Spen-"

"Just do it!"

With that exclamation the psychic's head jerked around to meet his stare eye to eye, wild desperation contorting ashen features into bloody panic. The weight of his gaze left him speechless, and Lassiter just stared back at him, mind utterly blank with shock. He had absolutely no idea what the psychic was getting at- no clue at all as to what he was trying to do. "Spencer-"

"Lassie, please!"

Spencer's scream of his name echoed in the deserted forest as an earsplitting cry, leaving Lassiter even more lost than before and his heart pounding. Every fiber of his being screamed that Spencer had just lost his mind and he needed to just shut him up and keep going- but that look in his eye stopped him.

It screamed sincerity. It screamed desperation.

Lassiter swallowed.

So help him, Spencer may be an immature man-child that lacked any semblance of adulthood or the ability to take anything seriously- but he was smart. Possibly one of the smartest people Lassiter knew.

Spencer was serious about this. This was not just because he was in pain or in severe need of more than one transfusion. This was something he believed he needed. This was what Specner believed was his best shot out of here.

And when Spencer came up with a plan, they damn near always worked.

"Tell me I'm going to die out here, Lassie!"

The desperate need in his eyes was all he had to see.

"You're going to die, Spencer." He paused, searching Spencer's eyes for any sign that this wasn't what he wanted- all he found was absolute, sincere need. "You're not going to make it. You're going to die here, because you're not strong enough to get yourself back alive, Spencer."

Spencer stared at him still, chest heaving, hand in his shaking. "Get mad at me," he growled, less desperate than before but no less sincere. "Do it, Lassie."

With no choice left but to trust him, Lassiter did.

It took him about five seconds to find the anger at the psychic that he had dropped at the sight of him unconscious and almost dead. And when it came back to him, it came back with a vengeance.

"Spencer, I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, you keep your ass out of police business. This isn't a playground for you and Guster to have fun in; this is where people can get shot and killed. Not that I'm surprised; you probably goaded him into shooting you! And then what do you do?! You walk right in front of him to get shot again! Brilliantly done, Spencer, brilliantly done!" Lassiter cut himself off before he wound himself up, the habitual irritation at Spencer too easy to fall back into even now and instead turned to watch the psychic closely. Surely, this could not be helping him.

At the silence, however, Spencer just nodded, then weakly gestured for him to go on.

Steeling himself, Lassiter did.

"But that's not enough! First you get yourself shot, then you can't even get yourself out of it. Typical. You cause your own mess, then have to wait to the real men to come and clean up. Not even your dad was surprised you finally managed to fuck up; been sheer luck that you haven't until now. You're just lucky you didn't manage to get Guster killed in the process."

Spencer took an uneasy step forward, then another after that. He was panting now but there was some sort of strength in him that hadn't been there before, and his eyes flickered to glare at Lassiter for a half second before he managed another step- and there was no doubt about it, he was moving faster than before. "You don't think I can make it out of here," he wheezed, fingernails digging into Lassiter's already bleeding hand for support, "do you, Lassie?"

And at last, Lassiter understood.

Spencer was a creature of expectations. Whatever expectations were set for him, he'd do his damn best not to meet them. Henry expect him to become a cop? He'd become just about the closest thing to it- but no way, no how, would that kid ever go for a badge. Expect him to stay in the car while real detectives went and did real police work? Not a chance. Expect him to do just about anything, and he'd struggle to do just the opposite.

And, Spencer was self-aware. He knew that about himself.

He knew that his best chance out of here was to believe that his father, Gus, the police- none of them believed he was strong enough to survive two gunshot wounds and the hike ahead of them still. Because he was stubborn, stubborn like a child; he'd do it to prove them wrong, because that was what Spencer did, he proved people wrong and took a perverse sort of pleasure from it. To know that the odds and expectations of everyone were against him, and that he had succeeded over them- that was the kind of feeling Spencer lived for.

Lassiter smiled grimly.

He knew cops like Spencer. Hell, he had a little streak like that himself. That it wasn't people believing in him that gave him the strength to persevere, but lack of confidence that gave him the endurance to prove others wrong.

It made sense, in a way.

And, now that he understood, Lassiter had no problem continuing to push him.

"No, Spencer." He paused for a moment to give the words impact. "I don't think you're going to get out of here alive. Hell, at the rate you're going?" Lassiter swallowed, reminding himself the purpose for this was to get the psychic the strength to keep moving. "You'll bleed out and die before we've even gone a mile. There's three to go, by the way."

Spencer released a shaking breath, remaining still for a moment, his ashen features unreadable. Whether he was gathering strength, mastering pain, or something else entirely, Lassiter didn't know, and when the psychic spoke again, he was still left in the dark. "Hey, Lassie?"

"...Spencer?"

The psychic's mouth twitched into a stubborn, minuscule grin, and expression previously contorted in pain shifted into one that glowed with determination. "Fuck off."

Then he started walking again, and this time, it was at a pace that would get them somewhere.

Lassiter grinned.