Disclaimer: I don't own Psych or any of the recognizable characters.

This fic is pretty much patster223's fault, as she asked me to write it for her. Even though it was originally going to be a one-shot, and now is going to have five chapters (the last of which is a shorter epilogue). I hope she likes it. ;)

This is already finished and just needs to be edited so updates will happen somewhat frequently. This takes place probably right after In Plain Fright. And there's some spoilers for Shawn Takes a Shot in the Dark. Thanks to my friend Mia for the beta and generally being awesome.

Enjoy! :)

He couldn't stop staring at the gun. It seemed to follow him, distracting him from looking at Longmore (or whatever his name really was). He'd had a gun pointed at him plenty of times. Why was it making him so nervous now?

"Now just relax," Shawn started. "I mean, it's creepy enough out here without the whole gun and flashlight routine, don't you think?" The light went right into his eyes at that, and he had to squint to keep some form of his vision. "We can talk. We're just two guys talking, two rational men speaking. I mean, I know what's going on here, and I get it. And it's an ingenious plan, to be honest." He smiled a little, trying to pull back out the confidence that he knew he had locked up somewhere inside him. "Of course, if it was me, I'd just be happy stealing the ice cream, you know?"

Something he said had been wrong. It probably hadn't been his best idea to admit that he knew exactly what the plan was. Whatever the reason was, the trigger had been pulled, a loud bang hit his ears, and Shawn watched, almost in slow motion as the bullet came right for him.

Shawn wasn't quite sure what happened next. The bullet's trajectory was off. From where Longmore had been holding the gun, he should've been hit in the shoulder.

Instead, the bullet, a tiny silver blur that he saw far too clearly, went right into his stomach.

Shawn's eyes shot open, his mouth gasping for air. His hands were tight fists, gripping onto his bed sheets like a drowning man to a life preserver.

Not real. Not real. Just a nightmare. He was safe, fine, in his bed. Not real.

He moved his head to the side just a bit, searching for his clock. He eventually found the digital red numbers after a quick second of blinking his vision clear. 3:19 am. Wonderful.

It was odd, really, having that dream again. He'd had similar nightmares for weeks after he'd been shot, each detail perfectly clear, as if he was still there. They varied from actually being shot, to being in the trunk of the car, to being held in the gas station. But the dreams had eventually become less frequent, and they stopped altogether after his second little game with Yin and Yang. After that his nightmares had taken a twisted, darker turn…

And why had he been shot in the stomach, instead of the shoulder? Usually his unconscious (or was it subconscious? dream-conscious? he probably needed to watch Inception again and clear this all up) didn't improvise like that. Still wondering about this, Shawn tried to pull himself up, to rest his back against the headboard.

Sudden pain flared in his stomach and he hissed, letting his body fall back so it was flat against the mattress again, his abdomen aching from the movement.

Shawn lay still for a minute, and as his breathing eased back into a calm rhythm, the pain eased, almost going away completely.

What the heck was that?

It was probably a cramp, or a stomachache. He had eaten a lot for dinner. He and Gus had gotten a large pizza and split it, with Shawn also following up with a Frosty, the last five inches of Gus's Subway foot-long sandwich from lunch and a bag of Bugles. That, added on with all of his regular meals and snacks during the day, might just be enough to give him some problems. It was probably the pain he'd felt during the dream too, now that he thought about it.

Not a big deal. Might as well just try and go back to sleep. He closed his eyes, and after a few minutes, drifted into an empty sleep.

The next time he opened his eyes, there was a soft light coming in from his window.

Twisting his head ever so slightly, his clock read 6:31 am. At least he'd gotten some sleep after that nightmare.

His eyelids were starting to fall again, trying to hold on to the last remnants of sleep, when a shrill ringing interrupted his hopes of catching another five minutes. Gus must be calling me. Maybe it'll just go away…The second ring ruined that hope.

Sighing, he pulled his arms out from under the covers and started pushing himself up, while his legs twisted to the side so his feet would meet the floor. But a sudden, sharp pain attacked his side with that motion, ending the former plan. Shawn gasped, his arms moving to clutch at his stomach, which also turned out to be a bad idea. Instead of catching himself with his legs, as he had planned, Shawn was caught off guard by the pain, and ended up falling off the side of his bed. He managed to pull his chin up to avoid a full on face-plant, his head missing the corner of the end table by millimeters. His left arm and shoulder caught the brunt of the fall. There might be a bruise there later, but Shawn barely felt it. He was too preoccupied with the throb in his stomach.

He groaned. The rough carpet scratched at the side of his face. For a moment, Shawn just lay there, listening to the phone ring a few more times, an annoying and pointless chiming, mocking him for being unable to reach it and shut it up, before eventually stopping. Nobody left a message.

Something was wrong. Shawn was no doctor, but this kind of random pain didn't seem normal. When he'd woken up last night it had hurt, sure, but more like how it had hurt to see the new A-Team movie (sure it was okay, but really, nothing could compare to the original and the writers should've figured that out). It was surprising and irritating, but he could forget about it. Now, it was getting worse, feeling much more like a pro-boxer had socked him in the stomach around fifty times and had left a bruise that wrenched at his gut every time he moved.

Figuring out what was wrong with him could wait. Falling off his bed had made Shawn feel slightly dizzy and nauseous. It was too early in the morning for this kind of thinking.

He needed some breakfast, some coffee, and some time for his senses to come up to full power before he could actually give it any serious thought. And before anything else, he had to try and get up off the floor. An action that would have to involve moving his stomach.

Enjoying a few last quick seconds of peace, Shawn inhaled deeply. He pulled his arms in front of him and started to push himself off the ground, in what must've looked like a very poor attempt at a push-up. The movement tore at his abdomen, making Shawn suck in another breath before biting his lower lip. Come on, this shouldn't be this hard. Using one hand to grab onto the side of his bed, he managed to pull himself into a standing position. He leaned his back against the wall and rubbed his hand across his midsection, hoping for some kind of relief.

His phone started ringing again. Gus usually wasn't this persistent. Either his father really needed something cleared out of the attic, or the Chief had a case for them that couldn't wait any longer. He really hoped it was the latter.

Shawn took a slow step forward, then another. It wasn't as bad as twisting his body around. If he kept his upper half straight enough, he could get away with feeling as little pain as possible. He almost grinned when he reached the phone with only a slight twinge in his gut. Shawn answered the phone just as it was about to go to his answering machine.

"Hel- "

"Shawn, good." Henry interrupted on the other end. "Why didn't you pick up the first time I called?"

"No 'good morning' for your son?" Shawn said quickly, evading the question. "Whatever happened to 'a cop can't be an informal idiot if he wants to get any respect'? Or was that just a lie?"

"Shawn."

"If this whole politeness and decency thing was just a ruse, am I allowed to walk into the police station wearing my The 88's t-shirt with the buffalo sauce stain on it and my smiley-face boxers on too?" Shawn knew that he had started rambling, but didn't have the energy to care. He had started rubbing a hand against his stomach again. It seemed to hurt more than help, but it was all he could think of to do for stomach pain, other than medication.

"Fine, Shawn, good morning," Henry said gruffly, and Shawn could easily imagine his father rolling his eyes and glaring at any rookie cops who were unlucky enough to pass by him. "Have a good sleep? No nightmares?"

The sarcasm was clear, but Shawn swallowed nervously, his hand pressing harder against his abdomen. "Now was that so hard?" There was a vague sound on the other end that was probably the same noise a lion made when he was about to pounce on a gazelle. He swiftly changed the subject. "So what's up?"

Henry cleared his throat. "I've got a case for you. I wouldn't bother calling you for this but the guy requested you specifically."

Shawn raised his eyebrows slightly. He hadn't been expecting business. He and Gus hadn't had a case in almost three weeks and Gus would only let Shawn mooch off of him for so long. Gus had practically glared at him two days ago when Shawn had asked him for money to buy the Halloween candy mega-pack he'd seen at the party store. As if Gus didn't love those mini Crackles. A decently-sized paycheck sounded pretty good.

"So what's the case?" Shawn asked.

"There's been a series of robberies at an apartment complex on State Street."

"Dad, State Street's not some little country lane with nothing but a creepy old lady running a rotten fruit stand. It's got to have some of the best real estate in the city. There's probably like a billion apartment complexes."

"The one that used to just be office space and then that guy, Patrick Price, bought it, cleaned it up and turned it into living space." As if that cleared things up.

Shawn began walking towards the kitchen, pushing the bottom of the phone away from his mouth as he groaned and using the other hand to steady his stomach. The slow pace aggravated him, but he didn't want to just stand there in his bedroom all day. "Who's Patrick Price? Isn't that a toy company or something?"

"That's Fisher Price, Shawn. Patrick Price- Oh, it doesn't matter. It's 212 State Street, Gus should be able to find it. Get down here as soon as you can," Henry said, and Shawn could hear the 'don't slack off and show up here at noon instead' that his father had meant by that last sentence.

Yeah, well, he wasn't exactly in the mood to rush around at the moment.

"Yeah, yeah, I got it, Dad. I'll see you down there in a couple hours," Shawn told him, and pulled the phone away from his ear.

"I said soon, Shaw- " he heard his father start, but Shawn ended the call before his father could get out the full reprimand that would probably still be waiting for him later.

Shawn tossed the phone towards his couch, wincing slightly when he heard it clatter to the floor instead, and moved gently over towards his refrigerator. Opening it, there were small groupings of food inside. Half a gallon of milk and a jello-cup sat in one corner, some leftover Mexican food, grape jelly, and chocolate syrup in the other. Nothing particularly appetizing, Shawn decided. He almost gagged at the thought of the Mexican food.

He let the refrigerator door swing shut and started opening cupboards, searching for anything good, and hopefully not expired. There were at least four different cereal boxes, most of a loaf of bread, peanut butter, popcorn, several candy bars, crackers, chips and various other junk foods.

The idea of candy and sweets this early in the morning made him feel queasy. In fact, all the food was making him feel sick. The idea of swallowing any of that, the sugary taste on his tongue…Shawn scrunched up his face in his disgust. He shut all the cupboards.

Nothing in the house to eat. He really needed to get a paycheck and buy some decent food. Walking over towards where he'd dropped the phone, his hand jumped to his stomach again with the renewed motion. Leaning over to pick up the phone was another problem entirely, making Shawn groan and stop every few seconds before moving again.

Once he had the phone in his hand he leaned back against the couch and rubbed at his stomach. The pain obviously wasn't going away. Maybe he had some ibuprofen somewhere…

Oh well. He'd look for it later. Shawn had a call to make first.

It was Sunday. A day of rest and quiet time. If Burton Guster had it his way, he would have slept in until eight o'clock (any later than that would be downright sluggish) before pulling himself out of bed and making a nice late breakfast before lounging around for the entire day. Gus usually wasn't the lazy type, but work had been killer this week. There had been two new drugs he'd had to write up reports on, three client complaints to have to deal with (none of them based off his service, of course; his record was spotless on that front and he planned on keeping it that way) and several meetings that would have put the most studious person to sleep. He was almost thankful that Psych hadn't had any cases lately. It would have just made things ten times more difficult if he was running around chasing their crazy murderer of the week. Now he had a day off and planned on enjoying it to the fullest.

So of course he knew it had to be Shawn who was calling him at a quarter to 7 in the morning. He half-opened his eyes and stared at the phone. If it was Shawn and he didn't answer, he might get a few more minutes at least before Shawn tried again. But if he didn't answer, and it was a client….

Gus sighed and reached over to pick up the phone. "Hello, this is Burton Guster," he said, his voice drowsy.

"Hey buddy! So I know it's early and you're probably still in your fireman paja- "

Gus hung up the phone and slid it back into the receiver. He rolled over onto his side and hoped that he was still tired enough to fall asleep again.

The ringing that started up again a second later seemed to discourage that. Gus groaned and grabbed the phone again. This wasn't looking well for his Sunday relaxation time.

He was tempted to just let the phone ring, but he also knew that if he did, Shawn wouldn't stop calling him and the phone would ring every five minutes.

Or worse, Shawn would just show up at his apartment and drag him out to do whatever it was anyway.

He answered the phone. "What, Shawn?"

"Dude, you did not just hang up on me! The nerve! Why is everybody being so rude today over the phone?"

"What? Look Shawn, whatever it is, I'm not interested," Gus said quickly. "I don't want to hear about whatever it is you want us to do today. No escapades out at sea. No wild car races. No shenanigans, Shawn."

"First of all, I only perform shenanigans on Wednesdays, and you know it. Second of all, who uses the word escapades? It sounds like a card game for drunk people. And third of all, we've got a case!"

Gus groaned, careful to pull the phone away so Shawn wouldn't hear. So much for relaxation time. But it would be nice to be able to pay off some of his bills, though he had a feeling Shawn would end up needing most of the money. "Alright, when and where?"

"Some apartment complex on State Street. I'll give you the details when you get here. Come by in….I don't know, an hour?"

An hour? Wow, Shawn usually wanted to get right down to crime scenes, before Lassiter could get a head start on solving the crime. Shawn must be as lazy as Gus was this morning.

"Alright, sure. You want to stop somewhere and get some breakfast before we go down? I hear Mama Josie's place has pancakes that make your taste buds do jumping jacks and I want in on that deliciousness."

There was a long pause on the other end before Shawn's voice came back, faster than before, like he was nervous about something. "Ah, no thanks buddy, I already ate before I called you."

Gus's eyebrows pinched together. "So…what, do you want to get something smaller? Like pick up a smoothie or something?"

"No, I'm…I'm good. Not really hungry, right now," Shawn said, his voice getting calmer now, but Gus could still hear the slight edge to it.

"You're…not hungry," he repeated.

"Not really, no."

"You. Who ate, what, seven jerk chicken sandwiches in two hours just because I bet you couldn't? And then had two sodas and half of my basket of fries? And you're not hungry."

"I said no, Gus!" Shawn snapped suddenly. "I don't want to eat anything!" There was an awkward pause, with both Shawn and Gus at an unusual loss for words.

"Maybe we can pick up some lunch or something later," Shawn mumbled.

"Yeah, sure. Sounds good," Gus agreed. "I'll see you in an hour then."

"Yeah. See you."

There was a click on the other end and Gus spent a few moments staring at the phone. Gus may not have been a psychic, or a fake one, but he knew when something was up.

Shawn wasn't a touchy person, rarely showing it if he got truly angry with someone, and even then, there was usually something that had provoked him. Asking too many questions might annoy him a little, but not to the point of snapping at Gus. And why did he need a whole hour to get ready?

Gus sighed and put the phone back on the receiver. He spent another few minutes lying in bed, wistfully hoping he'd gotten at least a few hours to himself.

He was getting the feeling that it was going to be a long day.

Please review! :D