The Middle

It was happening again.

This has to be some sort of sickness, Shawn lamented. He spun a magnetic top on his desk, watching as paperclips scattered and tacks rolled away from the force. A brief flitting smile crossed his face. Use the Force! Temporarily, his boredom was eliminated. But as the top fell to its side, the creeping feeling of ennui set in once more.

"Oh, c'mon, Gus!"

"No, Shawn!"

The sandy haired man groaned.

This was the third case in a row that, apparently, wasn't worth their efforts. And it was a vampire! Or, well – probably not. Probably just some psychotic freak who needed to be turned into the police with a note pinned to his thrift store cape saying he had an unnatural obsession with death ever since his mother died when he 'twas but a lad.

Shawn knew this. Really, he did. But, dammit, where was the excitement in life? The thrill of the chase? The adrenaline of solving an unsolvable case? Or, better yet, another mummy killing security guards and stealing guns? Where was the adventure? The closest he'd come was throwing darts at a picture of Lassie's ex-wife. True, he tended to miss, and it had caused a massive argument between the lovers but still.

For one brief, flitting moment Shawn wished he'd never quite his day job.

One year, six months, two weeks and five days ago Shawn Spencer had been a master criminal. The crème-de-la-crème of thieves; Aladdin's dad, but better. The shadow that haunted galleries and collection houses – the Spectre that everyone feared would strike them next. That gig had lasted him ten years – ten long, glorious, fun-filled years. But then one year, six months, two weeks, and four days ago Shawn had taken a break, tired of the life he'd built for himself. That was his mistake, he figured.

Never get too comfortable, Henry echoed. Shawn reluctantly found himself agreeing.

No. Bad Shawn, bad! He mentally berated himself. In this side of his life, comfortable was acceptable, damn Henry's advice. His life was good now, safe in such an unsafe way. He was at home in the Psych office, in the Police Station, in Lassie's bed. So why did he feel like he was in a rut?

Scowling, Shawn leaned further back in his chair, feet propped up on his desk at the Psych office.

It wasn't that Shawn didn't enjoy his new found work – much to the contrary. It felt almost… good to put away rapists and murderers and arsassins. Plus, it was amusing to be the one dispatching criminals, day after day, week after week. What was more amusing was the first case he'd taken had been his own.

Of course, no one knew that. Not even Lassie. Not even Gus. Speaking of…

"Fine," the not-Psychic grumbled, crossing his arms and most certainly not pouting in a way characteristic to most five year olds. Shawn sighed and popped a Sugar Baby into his mouth, sucking greedily on the caramel candy.

Gus looked at him suspiciously, waiting for the other shoe to drop – his best friend never gave up this quick, it just wasn't in him to let things go. After a moment of observation he was satisfied with the lack of acknowledgement from the other man and turned back to his laptop, intent on finishing the collating of this week's paperwork. Just because he wasn't in the office didn't mean he didn't have to work.

"So when are you and Jules leaving?"

Gus startled before quickly erasing 54 from his computer and writing in 5. "Our plane leaves tonight at 4.30, as you well know," the man huffed. "Which is why I'm trying to finish this up, Shawn."

The man in question arched a brow over at his pharmaceutical companion. "Shouldn't you have done that at work or something?"

"I would have, had you not pulled me out to discuss blood sucking anarchists," he growled in response, jabbing keys angrily. Shawn flipping his feet of the desk, idly knocking over the smoke alarm containing candies in the process. Gus winced but let it be.

"He wasn't an anarchist, Gus, jeez." Shawn rolled his eyes. "He was undead and it's perfectly logical that things like state laws have no impact on his night-to-night life," he shrugged, as if this explained everything.

"You mean day-to-day," Gus automatically corrected.

"No, I mean night-to-night," Shawn made a disparaging noise. "What kind of vampires go out in daylight? Suicidal ones? Think before you speak, Gus, otherwise you just make a fool out of yourself."

Gus, being the bigger of the two men, decided to forego commenting on the second part of that dialogue. And then he ruined it. "The vampires in Twilight go out in the day, Shawn," he said, voice blasé, as if this were common knowledge. And it was – you know, for teenage girls. Smelling blood, Shawn charged.

"Please, please, please tell me you did not just make a Twilight reference?" the man begged.

"Yeah, and?" Gus shrugged, keying in a few more numbers. Just three more pages…

"No! You are not all right with this – you can't be! What sort of self-respecting man goes around referring to silly, girly movies in their spare time?" Shawn raged.

I can't wait to get away this weekend, Gus thought, feeling the muscles in his back tense as their conversation progressed. Helga, you better work some magic on me.

"It's not a silly, girly movie, Shawn. It's an epic romance between two people who ought not to love each other and somehow stand the scrutiny of those around them and themselves to reach the other side," the oh-so manly man declared, hitting enter with satisfaction as he finished off his report. Hearing an odd thumping noise, Gus turned coffee brown eyes on his best friend. The sandy haired man was slouched in his chair, chest and shoulders sprawled across his littered desk, and repeatedly hitting his head on the wood.

"I cannot be friends with you," came a muffled reply as Shawn let his head fall with a thunk. "We cannot associate if you use words like 'epic romance' and 'Twilight' in the same thought pattern." Thunk. "You have two weeks to clear out your desk." Thunk. "Tell Jules I'm sorry her boyfriend is a flaming homosexual." Thunk.

Gus spluttered.

"What. The. Hell, Shawn?" he nearly roared. "You're the one sexing up Lassiter."

Green eyes turned to him with a baleful glare. "What Lassieface and I do is none of your business," he said primly, with all the poise of a (admittedly, rather masculine) Headmistress of an all girls Catholic school.

"None of my business?" Gus gaped. "You send out monthly newsletters with graphs on how often you do it, and which positions you like best!"

Shawn shrugged as if this were no big deal. "I was creating a statistical analysis so that should we get in a rut you could suggest something without having to say it out loud." He turned cool eyes to his best friend. "I was doing it to save you the embarrassment."

"Save me the – " Gus let out a breath before taking another deep one in. He put his hands on his desk and flipped his laptop closed before sliding it into his bag. "All right, I'm leaving. You have fun doing… whatever it is you do," he eyed his best friend. "Just try not to break any laws while I'm away?"

Shawn crossed his arms.

"Do I look like – "

"Yes," Gus responded immediately giving his friend the patented I-Ain't-Taking-That look. Shawn frowned.

"Fine."

"See you on Monday."

"Yeah… see you."

When's he gonna get here? It's been an hour already, Shawn whined internally as he shifted on the cotton sheets of Carlton's bed. After Gus had left for his weekend with Juliet, Shawn had gotten a brilliant idea to evaporate his boredom.

He was going to seduce Lassiter.

True, they were already 'dating' – or, at least, their version of dating – and so sex was a common enough thing. But it had gotten a bit stagnant as time went on and Shawn… well, Shawn didn't do repetitive well. It made him itch for movement, activity – something more than what they always did.

So Shawn did what he did best: plot. True, most times it was by the seat of his pants – in the moment manipulations that seemed to work just enough for his end game – but he could really think things out if he had to. Like now, for instance. He'd gotten rid of the plain blue comforter and sheets Carlton always used and put on more decadent red and black ones. He'd turned off the lights and arranged sandalwood candles around the room – masculine, not romantically pathetic, like that lilac and rose pedal thing. He was going for 'seductive' not 'romance novel,' after all. And, last but not least, he'd stolen a few of O'Hara's scarves and tied them to the bedposts before undressing and waiting for his lover to return to their Den of Passion.

Shawn snickered.

All right, so I might've stolen that from a Danielle Steele novel or something. But it's the thought that counts!

He couldn't wait for Lassie to get home. He was supposed to have this weekend off and Shawn was planning on keeping the man tied to the bed the whole time. Plus, every time Carlton saw Jules wear those scarves of hers Shawn was sure he'd be able to spot that adorable blush high atop his ears.

He really couldn't wait.

Urg, an hour and fifteen minutes!

Shawn grumbled slightly, wishing that Lassie had a television in his room, if only to pass the time away. His patience, as little of it as he had, was wearing thin. The Irishman should've been home at seven and it was already going on eight twenty. For a brief second, panic and an irresistible urge to phone the Chief to make sure everything was fine gripped him. But then it started to fade. He knew that Carlton was the best at what he did, an amazing police officer and gun enthusiast. He knew how to defend himself, knew how to talk a man down, knew how to duck, dammit.

Everything was fine. Yeah.

His fingers twitched and he started to eye the phone.

Just as he palmed the device, he heard the unmistakable sound of the downstairs door shutting. Grinning, Shawn sunk down into the sheets, putting on a defiant, come hither look that he knew Lassie couldn't resist. As feet made their way up the stairs, he tried not to bounce in excitement. The door opened and Carlton entered the bedroom, determined look on his face and shedding clothes as he went.

Maybe I wasn't as sly as I thought I was…? Shawn thought, eyeing the policeman's undershirt. But then a shocked look overtook the head detective's eyes and Shawn just knew something bad was about to happen.

"Shawn," Carlton blinked at him, blue eyes roving over the vast expanses of skin that the sheet really didn't cover.

"Hey, Lassie," Shawn smirked. It faded when a look of apology came over Carlton's face and the man ran a large hand through salt and pepper hair.

"Shit," he cursed. His eyes darted over to the closet. "Look, Shawn, I'm really sorry but – "

As it clicked into place, Shawn's eyes narrowed. "No! No, no, c'mon, Carlton, you've worked the last three weekends in a row!" He sat up in bed, hands clenched at his sides.

"I really am sorry, Shawn, but I can't – not this weekend," Lassiter explained, moving over to the closet and pulling out one of the few pairs of jeans he owned and a couple of shirts. "I've been pulled in on this drug ring we've been trying to bust and I'm going undercover. I just – "

But Shawn didn't want to hear it.

"Fine," he spat, turning his head away from his lover. "Your job's important, I get it." He crossed his arms over his chest, silently adding, Aren't I important, too? Lassiter finished grabbing the set of clothes and took a step towards the sandy haired man. But when his lover tensed at the proximity he just sighed and turned out the door, letting it close with a click behind him.

As Shawn sat in bed, candles finally beginning to burn out, he suddenly felt very foolish.

The first thing Shawn did was disarm the alarm.

He shouldn't be doing this, and he knew as much, but he just couldn't seem to stop. This was the third heist in as many weeks and he felt more and more numb each time he finished one round of the game. The game – right. It's what Shawn had always called his 'day job,' having found fun and thrill in it where nothing else could excite him. Especially not lately.

He and Lassie had been on the outs ever since their fight a few weeks back. They'd see each other at work, but it was awkward for both of them. Shawn didn't know what to make of it, even with his rather ridiculously illogical intellect. Were they still together? Were they on a break? …Did Lassie still love him?

Had Carlton ever loved him?

Shawn had guessed – he'd seen the looks he'd gotten from the other man. Not just aroused ones, but soft gazes filled with concern and affection. It was a look Henry had given his mom when he was younger – when he still had a parental unit, instead of just Mom and Henry, and he still conversed with the man he deemed father. But then, nothing was as simple as it used to be.

Flicking his gaze to the side, Shawn quickly discovered that, no, the security team hadn't rearranged anything since he set up his surveillance last week. He was clear and they were unsuspecting, just the way it ought to be. Spotting a shadow from around the corner, Shawn ducked into an alcove and sunk down to the floor, one of the very first maneuvers he'd ever been taught.

Stay below eye level, they won't expect you there.

At least Henry's advice was proving to have practicality.

He let out a low breath he'd been holding; the security personnel had gone down a different corridor than the one the Shawn was on. Slipping up and around the corner proved to be easy, landing him right on the edge of the Gentry Exhibit. On the opposite side of the room he could see his prize: a stunning set of affects that had once belonged to a southern slaver. The crisp white gloves were adorned with gold fastenings and the long cane looked to have silver molded into patterns along the handle joint. The uniqueness of the items alone would fetch a pretty penny, but Shawn already had a connection whose client would pay much more than that.

67,844,925 rupees sounds about right, Shawn calculated quickly. He'd studied up on the exchange rates of major countries; it was useful knowledge to keep from getting gypped, and, besides, he'd had the time ever since he and Lassie – Not going there. He shook his head and palmed the spray bottle from his pack. Sure, he could've gone with the 200 dollar anti-matter laser-showing spray, or even some aerosol hairspray, but over the years Shawn had found that simplicity was best.

He squirted the water into the air. The tiny droplets formed clouds of moisture in the air, alerting him to the presence of red beams that darted from one wall to another. To anyone else, they would be seen as chaos – disorder in such an innocuous place as a museum. Shawn saw things differently: he could make out the rhythmic patterns of movement, could calculate the angles, and could even tell which algebraic law the laser alarm utilized as a base of measure.

So he got to work. It wasn't hard after you knew what to look for. He shimmied along the wall three paces to the right and ducked under a gap that made room for a tapestry. Then he stepped lightly over the three foot tall beam as it protected a stationary set of cufflinks and a beautifully done up wristwatch. Next was a complicated waltz between connecting beams and a hasty duck under for a light he hadn't seen. Frowning, he spritzed the air in front of him, just before his prey. The air was deceptively lacking in any flashy red lights and as he hurtled the last beam (careful to avoid the one just millimeters from his foot as he landed), he thought about giving himself a pat on the back.

That thought went away when he saw his face in the glass casing.

He'd had to take a second look, to make sure he knew what he was seeing. It was the same as any other time – black spandex suit clinging to his skin, the best and easiest way to keep from leaving a trail behind – evidence he didn't want the police to have. But his eyes were sunken, no longer snarkily playful, just like any other dull green gaze. His breathing echoed loudly in his ears, reverberating in the quiet room, forming words. Words that scolded him, words that mocked him.

Why are you doing this – what would Carlton think?

Not that he matters, not anymore.

Shawn's breath hitched and he took a frantic look around, careful not to jostle too much, lest he give himself away to the guards and the lasers. No, no Lassie standing behind him, gun in hand, words like, "You're under arrest," on his lips and smirk to accompany it. Or, even worse yet, disappointed frown, pain laced gaze that said, Why? Why'd you do it, Shawn?

He twitched, the greatest movement he would allow himself, the only way to shake off the feeling of regret, of sadness, of pain. His gaze fixed on the gloves and the cane and Shawn Spencer was no more, Spectre had taken over.

No one would think to ask a homeless man if he'd seen anyone suspicious. No one would ask him how he'd gotten a fifty dollar bill or why he'd relocated from his regular alley. No one would ask and that's why Spectre preferred taking care of business this way.

His backpack contained only the wrapped up artifacts, now. He'd had tossed the black spandex garment and all his other thief paraphernalia into the metal barrel he'd 'rented' from the hobo, matches in his fingers and gas can empty at his feet. He swiped one of the wooden wicks against its packaging and then tossed the flame into the pile. Spandex was a bitch to burn, but with the amount of starter he'd put in there it wouldn't take long for all evidence to disintegrate.

As the smoke rose up into the night, Shawn breathed deeply and came back to himself. Green eyes glanced down each end of the alleyway before darting back around the darkened buildings, creeping along the unlit passages that made up Santa Barbara's downtown. He'd have to walk the several blocks back to his apartment, but it would be worth it to keep his identity from being suspect. Sometimes being in the paper every week had its disadvantages.

Twenty minutes later found the psychic letting himself into his apartment building and shedding off the clothes he'd planted outside the museum – a trick he'd learned a lifetime ago, after a streaking incident in the north of Ireland. He lazily let the backpack slide from his shoulder into a beat up old chair before walking over to the answering machine. The red light blinked furiously and, briefly, Shawn was reminded of the neon lights of the lasers he'd fouled not long ago.

He rolled his eyes, then his shoulders, before smacking the playback button with more force than necessary. He needed to loosen up. There was something off about this robbery, something that wasn't usual, that didn't go to plan. He couldn't tell what it was (or didn't want to – wasn't going to think about how Lassiter had made a guest appearance inside his head, as he had been for the last few weeks), but it made him tense and he didn't feel like himself.

He wanted to shake it off like a dog just out of a bath. He resisted the urge, only barely, before plopping down into an unmatched, yet just as haggard, brother of the chair he'd set his cargo on.

"Three messages," the electronic voice said. "First message: Shawn, it's your dad – " the man in question hit the delete button before Henry could make it any further. Just because the man had moved back in town didn't mean he wanted anything to do with him. "Second message: Hey, man, listen, I'm sorry about the other night, but Juliet thought we weren't spending enough time together. Rain check for next weekend?" The thief sighed, reluctantly hitting the keep button. He couldn't blame Gus from wanting to spend time with Jules – especially not when he knew the man was thinking about popping the question. "Third message: Spencer – Shawn." He blinked; that was the Chief's voice. "Listen, there's been an incident down at the precinct. An armed gunman came in and shots were fired." His gut clenched and he sat ramrod in his chair, wide eyed, fearful gaze locked onto the recorder. "Carlton's been hit. We're on our way to St. Peter's Hospital downtown." A pause. "I know you two had some sort of falling out, but, Shawn, he just keeps saying your name."

Shawn was up and out of his chair before the message could finish. He had his jacket back on and stuffed his wallet into his pocket and grabbed his keys. Only when Karen said those last few words did he stop – did everything stop. He couldn't feel the beat of his heart, couldn't feel air in his lungs, couldn't process what he was doing. He just knew one thing: Carlton needed him and he wasn't there.

"EMT 27 coming in – "

" – Medical personnel needed. I repeat, medical personnel – "

"Room 405, ma'am. You're welcome."

Flustered green eyes darted around the emergency room, as if expecting to see blood dripping from the walls or bullet-ridden bodies lying on the floor. Shawn'd broken several traffic laws in order to get to the hospital as fast as possible and now that he was here his mind couldn't decide what to do. His line of sight landed on the blond behind the counter and he rushed past several people and cut in front of the line. Those waiting grumbled loudly but he blocked them out and pressed sweaty palms flat on the laminated surface before him.

"I'm looking for a Detective Carlton Lassiter; he was shot at the Police Station," he said in a hurried breath.

She blinked at him before typing a few things on her slowly processing computer. Shawn tapped his fingers agitatedly on the counter, frustrated and anxious. Taking too long, taking too long.

"He's in the Intensive Care Unit," she looked back at him. He rolled his eyes humorlessly.

"All right, now where's that?" he asked, eyes already darting for a wall map.

"Only family is allowed up there, sir," she responded briskly.

"Look, I don't have time for your bureaucratic bullshit or nonsense hospital rules. Just tell me where Carlton is," he nearly shouted, clenching his hands so hard his fingers turned white. Her eyes widened and she reached a hand for the buzzer next to the mouse.

"Sir, if you don't calm down, I'm going to have to call security," she warned.

"Calm down?" Shawn forced out a harsh laugh that was more hysteria than anything. "How original, tell the angry man to calm down when he doesn't cooperate with your version of societal maneuvering," he spat. "Just tell me where – "

"Shawn!"

He brought his eyes up and there – there was the blood he was expecting. But it was Jules's pink blouse and ponytail that was covered in it. Jules, who was Gus's, and God had no mercy should both Gus and him lose their other halves on the same day, at the same time, due to the same maniac. Shawn couldn't register that the blood wasn't hers, that she would've been taken care of already, seen to, uninjured and walking around the hospital.

"Jules, Jules, Jules – how did you? – are you? – is he?" Shawn babbled, incomprehensible. But Juliet just nodded as if she knew exactly what he was saying and grabbed him, hurrying him out of the waiting room and toward an elevator.

"He's – he's fine," she said. Her voice was going for strong, supportive, but it quivered not unlike the way his soul was shuddering. "They went off to surgery and stopped the bleeding, but there's no guarantee that he'll – he'll make it through." She closed her eyes, took shallow, quick breathes, before cracking them open. "He's strong, Shawn, real strong."

"Yeah, that's my Lassie, strong," Shawn agreed nervously, rubbing his hands along his jeans, fidgeting.

The elevator finally dinged at Level 5 and Juliet grabbed him again, less forceful this time, more like a scared little sister who'd seen her brother hurt. Down the hall he could see Karen and a few of the other officers gathered in the waiting room just outside a large window. Above it a sign said ICU and Shawn knew that Carlton was on the other side. He ran the rest of the way down the hall, barely hearing Chief Vick's warning that it looked worse than it was, her platitudes and comforts just background noise compared to the loud thumping of his heart.

He stopped and gazed into the room beyond, forsaking everyone else. The first person he saw was Buzz; honorable, loyal Buzz who'd probably made an attempt to stop the mad man and had gotten shot for it. Selfishly, guiltily, Shawn moved by him quickly and to the next bed over.

And there he was. Lassie. Carlton. His Carlton, all wrapped up with tubes coming out of his body and a monitor that graphed his life out with a thin, green line. Shawn felt his body tremble, felt his knees go weak, felt the salt and water behind his eyes for the first time since he got the news. He let the tears slip out and pressed his forehead against the glass, breathing harsh and fogging it up. He wiped away the condensation brusquely, needing to keep Carlton in his line of sight. When he looked through the glass again, green eyes met slivers of blue as they peered out of a drug-filled body.

Shawn felt something in him break, knowing how close he'd come to losing the one he loved more than anything – how close he'd been to losing him, without him ever knowing. His fingers scrabbled at the glass in an attempt to hold onto Carlton, hold him close and never let go.

Never let go, he thought. Never gonna let you go again.

A/N: At last, here it is! Part Two of the Spectre Universe I have created. If, by this point, you've not read The Beginning, then I strongly suggest you do so. This fic will then make a lot of sense. Just sayin'. As always, thanks to my Beta, Miss Meh. I hope you all have enjoyed Part Two! Reviews are most welcome.