AN: So, attempting to 'get back on the horse,' so to speak. This is the SEQUEL to Those Wise Little Monkeys.

WARNING: for angst, bad therapy, and mentions of previous domestic abuse.

And it's a bit like flying. With wings, of course. Like stepping over the edge of a cliff. You lift one foot, precariously balanced, and, as you lean forward, something inside you fights. Fights to hold on and keep your feet on solid ground. And the weight feels so heavy inside, gravity at its best, and it leaves you breathless.

Until that something breaks and you're tumbling head first into nothing. Technically, you're falling, but it feels like flying. With the air wrapped around and on every side of you, forcing the breath from your chest, and nothing else. Flying until...

Actually, let's make the wings optional.

000

The paramedics cleared him in ten minutes, "but let's get you to the hospital anyway, buddy."

The nurses said he was fine, "but we'll go get the doctor for you."

The doctor said he was just a little banged up, "but how about you stay the night for observation?" Just in case, she said.

Just in case there's something more wrong with your head than that concussion, he heard her think. Just in case that ligament in your wrist tears the rest of the way. Just in case those bruises on your chest aren't only superficial.

Just in case, he thought bitterly.

Shawn flipped through the mini-manual, idly, refusing to comprehend the words. Honestly, it's not like they applied to him. He had no idea why they gave this to him, he lied to himself. Maybe it was just hospital procedure? 'Finger shaped bruises? Here's a guide! Fell down the stairs again? Have a life-changing pamphlet!'

Just as he was ready to toss the little booklet, Gus walked in, dragging his feet. He pasted on his largest smile and sat up in the uncomfortable bed. "Gussy!"

His friend stopped at the end of the bed and stared. Probably at the long, purple marks around his neck, he was sure. "Shawn, what--"

"Thank god you're here! You can get me that holy grail of an AMA form, can't ya? All these people gave me to read was a damn self-help book." He tossed said book onto the bed and huffed like a child.

Shawn saw Gus' eyes linger on the title. "You can't just--"

"I know, I know," He cut Gus off. "But seriously, dude, I'm bored out of my mind. They want to keep me all night and I don't even get a TV!"

Gus took a deep, calming breath. "Shawn..."

"One of the paramedics came back to visit, once I was all settled in, and brought me a magazine. But I've already finished the damn thing. I wouldn't have minded if she stuck around though. Dude, you should have seen her. Absolutely gorgeous--French, too! Her name was Jeanne. Sounds like zhahn, but it's spelt like jean. Don't know why though, crazy French bastards."

"Shawn--"

The tightness in his chest got worse, but Shawn couldn't seem to control his mouth. Vaguely, he wondered if maybe he was hoping to talk long enough to pass out and wake up when the nightmare was over.

"It's true, she showed me her name tag. Did you know they actually have medics wear name tags? That's just weird if you ask me. Jeanne says it's to promote conversation or something, but that's kinda stupid. I mean, what better way to start a conversation than to ask someone their name? Well, except if you're a paramedic. I guess a better conversation starter would be 'am I dying?' And why would they want paramedics talking while they're on the job anyway? Isn't that a bit of a health hazard?"

"Shawn, please--"

"Anyway, it's not like those cool Walmart name tags or anything. They're just little laminated cards. The least they could do is spice it up a little, ya know? Like, 'Hello, my name is Shawn. If you can read this, you're not dead yet.' Or maybe, 'Hi, I'm Gus. If you call me Gus-Gus, you have a concussion.' It might be hard to fit it on the button, but in my opinion--"

"Shawn!"

There was a moment of silence as Gus fought to keep his breathing under control and gripped the guard rails of the hospital bed tightly. Shawn held his own breath for a few seconds, before slowly releasing it, willing his head to stop spinning. He fidgeted beneath the itchy cotton sheet and kept his eyes firmly off of his best friend. Eventually, Gus' breathing evened out and his knuckles lost their ashen color.

"So...you don't want my opinion Gus-Gus?"

His friend mumbled something along the lines of 'knew you had brain damage,' before giving a small, humorless laugh. "You talk too much as is, Shawn. Why would I encourage you?"

Another silence settled between the two decade old friendship, as Shawn tried not to curl into a ball under Gus' scrutiny. The majority of his body was left for all the world to see with only a hospital gown to cover him. The rainbow of colors and their varying shades painted a picture of pain on his pale skin. 'Funny,' He thought. 'Didn't I used to be tan?'

"There weren't any signs." Shawn wasn't quite sure where the sentence came from, but apparently his brain is still having some control issues with his mouth. "The book. It said there were warning signs that came first, but I swear I didn't see any damn signs, Gus."

Gus' breath seemed to catch in his throat, before he walked around to the side of the bed and sat down in one of the visitor's chairs. He reached for Shawn's hand, and they both purposely ignored the flinch. "It's gonna be okay."

'Cliches, Gus. Really?' Like his mouth, he couldn't control the sarcasm. Defense mechanism, his subconscious provided in explanation, as he mentally cursed Freud. But outside his head, he's the friend welcoming the comfort. "But Mitch--"

"It's okay, Lassiter's taking care of things."

"...Lassiter?"

Gus hesitates, but bravely marches forward. "He is a homicide detective, Shawn."

'Subtle, Gus...real subtle.'

000

The nurses said he'd be fine, as they wheeled him out, "but here's the name of a specialist, sweetie. I'm sure he'd be able to help you."

Gus claimed everything would be all right, "but how about we give that doctor a shot? You know, just in case."

His dad didn't bother with platitudes as he slammed the door shut and started the truck.

Shawn doesn't remember much of last night, to be honest. Occasionally, his mind provides flashes of red and blue, and yellow evidence markers. He remembers a pain in his chest, that lingers even now, long after the burning in his lungs faded and the dizziness in his mind subsided.

He's still not even sure who made the call last night. Maybe one of his neighbors decided not to ignore the yells that time? Maybe the landlord just got tired of all the complaints about the noises coming from Shawn's apartment? Hell, maybe he had called the police to come and kick Shawn out of the building?

But, if he thinks hard enough, something that's he's been attempting to avoid really, Shawn does remember the blood.

"He's dead." It had sounded more like a question in his head, but out loud, it was a startlingly calm statement.

Henry takes a few deep, calming breaths as his fingers leave permanent imprints on the steering wheel at the ten and two o'clock positions. "Don't worry, Lassiter's working with your buddy Hornstock. It was self-defense, Shawn."

'Funny,' Shawn thought to himself. Gus had more or less confirmed what happened, but his friend seemed a bit squeamish about telling Shawn that he had killed his boyfriend of over six months. Really though, that was to be expected from Gus. His father, however...well, vagueness was not a term that matched Henry Spencer.

"He's dead?" Shawn tries again, forcing a verbal question mark at the end.

"Yes." And there's his dad's comforting bluntness. "He bled out. Head wounds..."

'Head wounds tend to do that,' Shawn finished numbly, but outside he was going through the proper stages of grief. While Henry seemed to try to copy Gus' lamaze techniques, he looked out the window and thought about the blood.

He learned that about head wounds while he was with Mitch. Actually, Shawn learned a lot of things when he was with Mitch, more than he learned in high school science. He learned that red blood and white toothpaste foam stained his sink pink. And if he forgot to wash it away, then rubbing alcohol is the best thing to get rid of the stains. He learned cold water works better when washing out dried in blood. He learned exactly how long he could go without air before his insides started burning.

Shawn learned that more furniture seemed to absorb the sound and keep Mitch's yells from echoing in the apartment. So, he bought extra chairs, random statues and knick knacks, and plants. Lots of plants. He learned that a stomping foot descended at a faster rate than his falling body. So, he remembered to curl his body protectively before he hit the ground. He learned that wood is really uncomfortable to lay on. So, he bought a carpet.

'He bled out,' Shawn thought. "All over my nice cream carpet."

"We'll get you a new carpet, Shawn."

Shawn blinked. He didn't think he had been speaking out loud. "I hated that carpet."

The truck stopped in front of his childhood home, and he stared in confusion. "Come on. Detective O'Hara already brought over a few changes of clothes for you."

He stayed in the passenger seat until Henry came around and opened the door. "Why're we here?"

His dad sighed and leaned against the door. "Because, Shawn, your apartment is a crime scene, Gus is dealing with the police, and you're in no condition to be alone." Shawn didn't put up a fight as his dad pulled him out of the truck and into his old home.

'Yup,' He thought as he fought to control his breathing. 'Vague is not a word in Henry Spencer's dictionary.'

000

Gus says he knows Shawn feels fine, "but let's just call the doctor and see what he says, okay?"

Henry says that he's not fine, god dammit, "and you're going to see the damn specialist!"

The specialist says he thinks Shawn's going to be just fine, "but we'll schedule an appointment for tomorrow, yes?"

Shawn stared at the business card in his hand in disgust. Dr. Ivan Chekhov, Ph.D., Domestic abuse specialist. 'Chekhov,' He had snickered mentally when they were first introduced. 'Did the away team kick you out?' Outside, however, he was the humble and grateful patient.

Gus loved the man. His father thought the doctor was a crackpot, but adequate. Shawn didn't get to have an opinion in the matter. "Either you live with me," Henry had said over dinner the night before last. "Or, you can go back to your apartment and visit the good doctor twice a week."

And here he sat, like a good little boy, in an over stuffed leather chair, in front of a freshly polished oak desk, wondering how the hell Henry can afford these sessions, because he sure as fuck can't. The good doctor had been going on about something or another for at least fifteen minutes. 'What you're feeling is natural' and 'it'll be a difficult time, but with the proper drugs you'll be good as new' seemed to about sum it up. Shawn knew off the bat that the man liked to talk and expected to be listened to, but this man had also obviously not met Henry Spencer. Shawn had long since mastered the art of actively ignoring people.

It took Shawn a moment to notice the silence, before looking up again. Dr. Chekhov stared at him, looking over the pair of expensive glasses that had slid to the end of his pointed nose. Suddenly, Shawn felt a bit like a child, being scolded by his principal for pantsing that Stevenson boy again.

"Look doc, I appreciate the effort," Look mom, no sarcasm. "But you can't help me."

"You are absolutely right Shawn," Dr. Chekhov said with a heavy accent and leaned forward to rest his elbows on the victorian style desk. "I can not help you, if you do not speak with me."

"No, you can't help me period, because there's nothing you can tell me that I can't read in the same books you have. I know about Post Traumatic Stress disorder. The victim experiences intense flashbacks, insomnia, night terrors, impairment in social and daily life situations, and shit like that, right? Or Dissociative disorder. That's where people depersonalize themselves and the situation, and refuse to accept and come to terms with their experience, yeah? Sound familiar?"

Dr. Chekhov blinked, stared at Shawn's fake cheeky smile, and leaned back in his chair. "Yes, those are often the types of disorders that result from domestic abuse."

"And of course they're all treatable, they can be managed. And you'll tell me that talking to a complete stranger about things in my head that I don't understand, while you spout facts that I already know, will help." Shawn sighed, rubbing at his bruised face and bloodshot eyes, before standing. "Yeah, thanks for the cure doc."

By that night, Shawn was wondering if he should be packing his clothes or not, while purposely ignoring the dark stain on his carpet-less wood floor. His father was sure to have heard about his walkout by morning at the latest, doctor-patient confidentiality be damned. And dad will be pissed off, because Shawn'll never be fixed until he's GI Drone, and he'll give one of his infamous speeches, featuring 'damn it, can't you just do what you're told for once, kid!' And Gus will be pissed off, because Dr. Chekhov is the second coming--

And god damn it, don't they have cleanup crews to take care of the blood at crime scenes? Because every time he glances at that dark reddish brown stain, he swears there's a vacuum in the room sucking out all the air, and he swears there are fingers wrapped tight around his throat, and he swears this is it. Mitch is going to kill him this time.

Shawn slid down his wall until he was crouched on the floor, gaze fixed on the stain, and he ignored the sounds coming from outside his door. As he heard the bangs getting louder, though, his thoughts whirled. 'He's home,' was the only thing running through his mind. And the carpet's gone, Mitch will see the stain, he needed to get rid of that stain, are there any dishes in the sink, are the sheets clean, did he make the bed, did he buy beer today--

And he couldn't breathe. His mind grew hazy as black dots danced in his vision. Shawn clawed at his throat, trying desperately to get those hands to unwrap themselves until-- The black dots were still there, but two bright blues had joined in, staring straight into Shawn's eyes.

"Shawn!"

He let out a painful keening noise because he couldn't breathe and someone was here. Someone that...that didn't sound like Mitch...? Strong arms gently pulled him from the corner and wrapped around his middle, not around his neck, and there was a voice whispering in his ear.

"It's okay Shawn, you're going to be all right. But you need to breathe!"

Shawn gasped and tried to force his lungs to work. It didn't seem to be helping. He knew, if only those arms would let his go, he'd be able to get those fingers off of him and air into his body. But they held him tightly, as he was pressed against a firm body.

"That's it. Feel my chest, Shawn, breathe with me. Just keep breathing."

Carlton said he was going to be fine. No 'but's about it.

000

And it's a bit like flying. With wings, of course. Like stepping over the edge of a cliff. You lift one foot, precariously balanced, and, as you lean forward, something inside you fights. Fights to hold on and keep your feet on solid ground. And the weight feels so heavy inside, gravity at its best, and it leaves you breathless.

Until that something breaks and you're tumbling head first into nothing. Technically, you're falling, but it feels like flying. With the air wrapped around and on every side of you, forcing the breath from your chest, and nothing else. Flying until...

Actually, let's make the wings optional.