Series: De Facto

Chapter: Prologue: "Crash Into Me" 0/5

Disclaimer: All characters depicted in sexual situations in this post/fanfiction/fanart (including material in the comments) are fictional and are intended to be and considered to be by the author of said material of the legal age of consent in the United States, regardless of what age these characters may be in the material they are derived from.

Rating: M

Word Count: 1,436

Author's Note/Warnings: un-betaed; this Chapter covers prompt 01 "seconds" from table 04 "Time".

"All Officers in pursuit."

The radio crackled to life; although the driver of the Crown Vic heard it, he was more focused on spinning the steering wheel, sunflower seeds spilling out of the ashtray and over the gray suit pants Juliet O'Hara was wearing. She cringed and held fast to the door of her partner's vehicle. Sure, it wasn't exactly their case, but one sidelong look at Detective Lassiter and anyone would know that it would be him to make the arrest today. Blue eyes were glued to the fire-engine red Ford 4x4 truck they were chasing down—the eyes were cold, hard, but held the spark of life that told Juliet not to say anything about this. Let him make the arrest. Let him have a good day.

Her body's momentum rocked with the car, leaving her with the impression she was riding an unpredictable rollercoaster. The pursuit wasn't as bad as some, of course. This driver wasn't used to handling a truck, first of all, and second—her eyes skipped ahead as an intersection came up fast. The truck in front of them only accelerated as the traffic light turned yellow. Detective Lassiter swore under his breath and for once, she agreed. A car on the left started forward; the red truck kept going, accelerating even. Juliet gasped. The truck tagged the rear bumper of the Honda Civic, inertia causing the car and truck to spin. For a heartbeat Juliet thought everything would end alright. The truck kept spinning, the motorcycle behind the Honda getting caught in the crossfire. The bike slid sideways at the collision, the driver was tossed up onto the windshield of the perp's vehicle. Lassiter was already out of the car, even though Juliet didn't remember slowing down, let alone stopping. She watched as everything kept going, her hands working her seatbelt undone.

The bike was crunching against the pavement, flipped over the curb and ended up in an unceremonious lump in some poor sod's yard; the truck driver tried to get away, the unconscious motorcyclist smooshed against the hood of the truck at the sudden speed increase. Juliet was running, Lassiter was making sure the civilians in the Honda were okay. The black and whites sped past, lights flashing and sirens blaring. The wind caught up Juliet's bangs, her eyes still watching as the truck swerved and then veered back the other way, tossing the motorcyclist off. She watched as the body, helmet still on, smashed against a street sign pole and finally skidded to a stop in the middle of the road. Her feet stopped.

Juliet knew civilians could die—she knew motorcycles were dangerous as were the perps she chased after. But she had heard horror stories about heads exploding in biker's helmets and she wasn't so sure she was ready to face that. She was well aware of the fact that she was half gasping for air, half trying to stifle her sobs. Lassiter didn't spare her a glance as he sprinted down the street, dropping to the pavement and dirtying his relatively new suit as he checked for a pulse. He seemed to find what he was looking for and bellowed back at Juliet. She struggled with herself, but stumbled back to the Crown Vic, grasping the radio and gulping down lung fulls of salty air, tears streaming down her face. Her voice was steady, sounding relieved even though she wasn't.

"Civilians are injured, we need paramedics."

She gave all the information evenly and calmly, as she was trained. Everything would be alright; everything would be alright.

Carlton Lassiter's fingers pressed to a neck that should be broken. A pulse! Fluttering, racing and light—but there nonetheless! Eyes snapped to his partner: she was losing it; he gave her something to do. After he assured himself that she was doing what he asked, he returned to the motorcycle rider. Blue eyes looked over the body. He should be dead. Damn it Spenc—

Blue eyes flickered over the helmet, the shirt. Dirty, bloody—but Spencer's just the same.

"Shawn. Shawn can you hear me?"

He swore when he received no response. He was loathe to touch him when he didn't know the extent to his injuries. He carefully opened the helmet's visor, fully expecting brain matter to smack wetly into his face. He didn't realize he had closed his eyes until he found that the man's head was not on his face. Blue eyes searched the bruised and bloody face, already feeling a simmering anger burning. He curled a finger and tucked it under an obviously broken nose. He bent closer, feeling the whisper of hot air hitting his finger and hearing the whistling of air as the so-called psychic struggled to breathe.

Carlton didn't realize he was kneeling there, talking to Spencer until an EMT clasped a hand on his shoulder and told him that they would take it from there. Blue eyes, softened by this experience, turned to look at his partner. Juliet was crossing over to him, more composed now. Wordlessly, he handed her the keys to the Crown Vic. They buckled and she started the car. Carlton's eyes took in the sunflower seeds by his feet. He looked back up to O'Hara and he spoke.

"The Hospital."

He didn't tell her until after they had arrived. She was pissed and struggling not to cry again, but the way her face went starch white told Carlton all he needed to know.

Shawn blinked, eyes not liking that everything was hazy. The lights were out—what did he have to drink? His head pounded, his mouth was dry. Green eyes sought to focus on something. He looked to the nightstand... that wasn't his nightstand. Nor was the IV drip his. Well, clearly it was meant for him, but he didn't own anything like that. He ruled out that he had just conveniently forgotten arriving at the bar and drinking himself into a stupor. His head rolled to the side on the hospital pillow, feeling as heavy as lead. He smacked a cottony tongue against the roof of his mouth as he finally brought the slumped and rumpled figure into focus.

The lights were on in the hallway and slants of sunlight were creeping from behind the drawn shades. Daytime, but Gus was out cold. Shawn idly wondered how long he'd been here. The last day he remembered was Thursday, but knowing Shawn, it could well have been a Monday. He blinked and tried not to move himself too much. It wasn't long until a nurse peeked in the doorway, obviously checking on Gus, but her eyes flicked over him and his vitals as well. She straightened up when she saw him awake. She quietly tip-toed forward and stood to the side of his bed. She smiled softly and kept her voice low.

"Mr. Spencer, I'm glad to see you with your eyes open!"

Her hushed voice didn't disturb Gus, and Shawn opened his mouth to speak, and then cleared his throat—trying again. His voice was harsh, coarse from dryness and disuse.

"Uh yeah. Same to you."

His eyes darted to his best friend, and then back to the nurse. He searched his brain—every last detail up until... Westland Branch Road. He remembered the stop light, he remembered the green light—and then everything was gone. The nurse frowned, but remained steady.

"Mr. Spencer, you were in and out for a while, and after that kind of crash we're surprised you're alive, let alone awake. But short-term memory loss is certainly expected. Of course, there is the possibility that you will remember everything eventually—"

She stopped herself as she halted in double checking his vitals and IV drip. Her brown eyes looked back at him, looking him in the eyes.

"What I mean to say, Mr. Spencer, is that you should be grateful you're not dead or in a coma. I suggest you rest, Dr. Spriegle will stop in about an hour from now."

Shawn tried to take her advice—the pain killer was trying to pull him back under and his body was beyond tired of being even slightly active, but he couldn't help but try to figure out what went wrong to land him here. He decided, under the direction of the drug-haze he was in, that those few seconds in the intersection were vital. His last thought before he succumbed to sleep was that why did he have this weird feeling that Lassie had been there, talking to him when the accident happened?