005 Lonely - Blood in the Water (And Everywhere Else, Too)

[musicalluna]

Title: 005 Lonely - Blood in the Water (And Everywhere Else, Too)
Fandom: Psych
Author: MusicalLuna
Rating: T
Characters/Pairings: Shawn
Genre: Drama, Hurt/Comfort
Warnings: Nooone?
Complete: Yes
Summary: Shawn is forgotten.
A/N: For dragonnan. :D
Disclaimer: As much as I love making these guys bleed, I am sadly not their owner.

 

Shawn had been forgotten.

 

At least, he was pretty sure he'd been forgotten.

 

His kidnappers had been a little distracted even as they pulled him off of his bike.

 

~

 

“Oi, Darren! Keep an eye out!” a man shouted and Shawn rolled his head to the side, blinking to try and convince his eyes to stop going in and out of focus. They declined his offer, though they did give him a nice glimpse of a tall figure standing over him.

 

His head was throbbing in a sharp, painful rhythm from where one of these thugs had come up behind him and whacked him over the head.

 

“Hurry up, already! We shouldn't be doing this in the first place!” someone else snapped, anxiety crackling in his voice.

 

“Shut up, Chris! If we don't take care of him, he's going to lead the police straight to us,” the figure looming overhead growled.

 

Shawn swallowed. That didn't sound good.

 

He started struggling to pull his leg out from under his toppled motorcycle in earnest, stifling whimpers in his shoulder as it vehemently protested these actions. Calling for help wouldn't have done any good—the parking lot was understandably deserted at three o'clock in the morning.

 

“No way!” the anxious one squawked, “You never said anything about killing anyone!”

 

The closest figure, which had bent down to get a grip on the motorcycle, twisted around and snapped, “Don't be an idiot! We're not going to kill him. Didn't you hear anything I said? We're going to get rid of him.”

 

“What the hell's the difference?”

 

Turning around again, the man said, “The difference is if we get caught, we won't get charged for murder.”

 

Shawn stifled a moan as the motorcycle was pushed off of his leg. A pair of hands fisted in the material of his jacket and started dragging him along the asphalt. He hissed and managed to slur, “D'you mind? That kinna hurts.”

 

But he was ignored, the conversation continuing above him. “Look,” Dragger Guy said, “we only need him out of the way for the next few days. After that it won't matter what he knows. We're just gonna take him and keep him on the ranch until it's time to get out of here. Now will you shut up and help me already?”

 

~

 

That had been approximately twenty-four hours ago.

 

After a ride during which Shawn had been largely insensate from the shock, they had arrived at...somewhere and Shawn had been dragged out of the car and distributed rather carelessly into an old, rusting silo.

 

One of the men had flashed him a smile as he climbed back out. “See you later, psychic.”

 

Shawn had expected them to come back. Honestly, why bother kidnapping him if they didn't plan to do anything with him? If they wanted him out of the way they could have just thrown him in the ocean or tied him to a tree or something. Kidnapping seemed like a lot of extra work.

 

Not that common sense was something a lot of bad guys had, but still.

 

No one had come.

 

A single 24-ounce water bottle had been left in the silo with him, but otherwise the fifteen-foot-wide circle he now inhabited was empty.

 

It had been at least thirty hours since he'd eaten last and his stomach was making it's displeasure known. Food deprivation had never really gone over well with his body. Unfortunately, it hadn't occurred to him that the kidnappers might just leave him here for a few days without bothering to check on him and the water bottle was nearly empty already. Instead of the stale dust scent that had originally perfumed the silo's interior, it now smelled like a urinal, despite Shawn's attempts to take a page from cat hygiene and (sort of) bury his waste.

 

Fortunately (or maybe unfortunately considering the chills that kept sliding up his spine), it was chilly in the silo—probably around fifty degrees, so the smell wasn't being baked into his hair and skin. Unfortunately, fifty degrees was enough to have him shivering. And shivering definitely wasn't conducive to saving energy, which he had finally realized might be important. Nor was it particularly kind to his leg, which still hurt like a bitch after having his bike land on it.

 

All in all, it was one of the worst places he'd ever stayed.

 

Looking up at the pale light seeping in from the hatch at the top of the silo, Shawn rubbed his forehead with his knuckles. Not long ago his head had started aching and as the minutes crawled by, it was steadily growing worse. It felt like an ice pick slowly being driven in through his temple.

 

His stomach growled. A pineapple smoothie sounded fantastic right now. Chili cheese fries. Even thinking about the room temperature bottle of water next to his thigh had him salivating. He closed his eyes and then reopened them, focusing on the wall of the silo.

 

Eyes following the access ladder down to the last few rungs, nearest to the ground, which had been sawed or soldered off—probably to prevent him from escaping—Shawn estimated heights and distances he'd done so many times it wasn't even conscious any more. The sabotage hadn't been done cleanly; remnants of jagged metal remained, protruding. The closest intact rung was only two or three feet above his head. If he jumped...

 

Shawn sat for another few minutes, scrutinizing the rung and calculating his chances, dimly aware of the burning sensation in his stomach. Steak. His dad always had steak. Mmmm...

 

He shook his head. Right. Trying to escape. Action. Arnold Schwarzenegger. Time to man-up, Shawn. He pushed to his feet, grimacing at the answering wave of burning that lapped at his sternum and hissed at the steady throb that started in his leg.

 

He shook off thoughts of jerk chicken and looked up at the rung, gearing himself up to make the leap. “White men can jump,” he informed the silo, and then did just that.

 

His hands slapped against the wall, clanging noisily against the rusted metal. Flakes of rust scraped away beneath his palms as he dropped back toward the silo floor, missing the rung by a good ten inches. His hand slammed down over one of the jutting remains of a lower rung and he let out a strangled yell. His feet hit the floor and his injured leg buckled, throwing him onto his backside. He immediately rolled onto his side, hissing and clutching his now bleeding hand to his chest torn between the agony in his hand and the agony in his leg. “Dammit!”

 

When he had gritted out enough profanities through his teeth and beaten the corner of his forehead against the dirt floor enough times to tolerate the searing pain, Shawn eased onto his back, breathing through his nose, and took a second to look at what he'd done to his hand.

 

He grimaced.

 

That had been really stupid. Tetanus wasn't a concern, as Karen had ordered he and Gus to get physicals just over six months ago, which had included getting up to date on their (well, his) shots, but the gash in his hand was pretty nasty regardless—uneven edges and riddled with bits of rust and grime—and there were plenty of infections they didn't have vaccinations for.

 

Shawn jerked his head downward, annoyed with himself. This was not something he really needed to be dealing with when he was trying to escape captivity. There wasn't even any water he could clean the blood off with—without knowing when his captors might be back, he needed that last bit of water to last as long as possible.

 

“Awesome,” he said nastily to the silo and stared up at the faint light from the hatch, way overhead.

 

This couldn't possibly get worse.

 

~ * ~

 

But of course it could, and did.

 

Shawn slept (if it could be called that) restlessly in the dust on the second night, shivering so hard that he ached. The water bottle had run dry around noon (he did, for once, have his watch on) and by two o'clock real thirst had kicked in. Lying in the center of the silo floor curled up in a ball to try and fend off the cold had become his primary position, as moving around required more energy than he possessed. He didn't have to pee much anymore either, so it was easy to lie there and just think about water or what Lassiter, Gus, Juliet, his dad, Abby... might be eating.

 

At one point, on the third day, he thought he heard a car and scrambled to his feet, despite his body's protests, hoping, praying, that it was his kidnappers.

 

Stale bread— Warm water— Crackers— Gruel, for God's sake, anything.

 

The silo immediately began spinning around him and he crashed back down to his knees, then crumpled to his side, panting as the world continued to spin around him. His head felt like it had been stuffed with feathers and was ready to blow away, but all he could think about were the myriad of foods the kidnappers could be bringing him, until the tiny amount of saliva generated by that line of thinking was torturing him with the barest hint of what he wanted to feel more than anything sliding down the back of his throat.

 

His hands and feet numbed as the night darkened outside.

 

But no one came.

 

~ * ~

 

Briefly during the night, Shawn felt warm again and he drifted in and out until morning, mumbling to himself and thinking about hot turkey legs and mashed potatoes with gravy. He was tired. So tired, but sleep eluded him. His lips hurt where they had cracked, as dry as his dust-covered throat.

 

It was getting a little difficult to breathe because any hint of moisture stuck the tissues together like glue until he was coughing hard enough to feel like his throat was tearing into shreds.

 

Even then he was thinking about pineapples and mangoes and watermelon.

 

His stomach had stopped burning, though if he moved too much, it ached and the hollowness in his gut pressed outward like it was trying to eject his stomach through his throat so he could really be empty. So he didn't move. It was too exhausting anyway and staying curled up helped make it feel like there was still something inside him and not just an endless gaping maw.

 

It grew dark again.

 

He dreamed someone had come.

 

The metal door of the silo creaked open, light peeking in through the gap and then sweeping around the interior. An unfamiliar voice murmured, “What the hell?”

 

Footsteps across the dusty floor, something painfully hot brushing his shoulder. Mmm, like chicken soup.

 

“Oh my god.”

 

The footsteps retreated in a hurry. Shawn thought about begging them to come back, but he was tired and what was the point anyway? The voice, smaller now, muffled, shouting, “Detectives!”

 

Then the footsteps came back, followed by another pair and another pair and a more familiar sounding, “Oh, oh my god. Shawn?”

 

Then there was heat, burning heat on his shoulder, his throat, touching his face, his hands and he tried to protest, but he wasn't sure they heard. He wanted cold water, icy cold water and pizza...

 

“Shawn?”

 

Talking to him, someone.

 

A pale, hazy face with blue eyes. Blue like the sky.

 

Like Jell-O.

 

Like water.

 

The tiniest bit of moisture in his mouth and he licked his lips. Tasting rust like the walls. Walls in his mouth.

 

“...freezing, hypothermia...”

 

Pressure everywhere, pain. So many different forms and kinds of pain all over.

 

“...no water, oh god...”

 

Heat, burning, like fire in his veins.

 

Fire-roasted chicken. Spinach and garlic and potatoes and eggs...

 

Maybe he was dying. Nobody had come and he was dying, where no-one would find him. Was any one even looking?

 

Not a pleasant dream.

 

“Shawn...answer...”

 

Juliet. He missed Juliet. Wanted to...

 

Chickened out. Left her alone standing there on the pier. Should have gone. Screwed everything up because...

 

“...een here...alone... Completely.”

 

Even Gus was gone this time.

 

Even Gus.

 

“Shawn, say...thing....”

 

Jerk chicken.

 

Doritos.

 

“...in pretty bad shape...but...keep an eye on him...pull through...”

 

Whispers. “...idiot, Shawn...don't...”

 

Two-minute noodles. Fried rice. Icy, icy cold water...

 

“...ome on, kid...ang on...”

 

His dad would feed him...kebabs and fried fish, grilled fish, roasted fish, lobster and butter, mmm, tempura and gyros stuffed with lamb and cold sauce.

 

Shawn's mouth was watering.

 

He swallowed and there was no sticking. No coughing. A little soreness, but no tearing. Corn on the cob...

 

He could smell macaroni and cheese.

 

Shawn opened his eyes despite the little voice in his head telling him that there wasn't anything to see and froze for a moment in shock.

 

Instead of rusted metal walls, there was taupe and bland pastel blues and greens. And people. And not only were his dad and Gus sitting near the bed, but Jules, Lassie, and Abby, too. Each of them with a plate of food in their laps.

 

Juliet was the first to look at him, her eyes going comically wide and her hand coming up to cover her half-full mouth. “Shawn!” she exclaimed and sounded so delighted to see him, he felt a blush creep into his ears.

 

“Just in time for lunch,” Henry said, looking pleased. “Feeling more lucid this time around?”

 

And then Shawn remembered seeing worried faces, hearing voices. All like a dream.

 

“Hey, hon,” Abby said gently, reaching out to take his hand. “How are you feeling?”

 

“Hungry,” Shawn said, eying their plates as though calculating how they might become his plates. Abby smiled at him and he smiled back, squeezing her hand.

 

Lassiter snorted in response to that.

 

Shawn's eyes drifted to Juliet.

 

She just gave him a small smile and said softly, “I'm glad you're okay, Shawn.”

 

Then the door to his room opened and a nurse entered carrying a tray, heaped with food.

 

Abby shuffled out of the way to allow her access and the nurse set the tray in front of Shawn, his mouth already watering at the sight of it. “Now,” she said swiping a hand in front of it to cut off a grabby hand. “You can eat while I give you the exam if you promise to take it easy.”

 

Shawn nodded without looking at her. “Sure, sure.” Oh, glorious, delicious, food.

 

“All right,” she said, moving her arm. “Go ahead.”

 

He dug in immediately, scooping a huge mouthful of macaroni and cheese onto a fork. His mouth erupted into a waterfall the second it hit his tongue and he let out a soft moan. Oh, god. He really was hungry if hospital mac and cheese tasted this good. It was like heaven, in his mouth.

 

When he opened his eyes, the entire group was watching him with smiles, apart from Lassiter who was rolling his eyes and sipping at a plastic coffee cup.

 

Shawn was mostly oblivious as the nurse did her exam, answering questions through mouthfuls of food and grimacing when she brought his attention to his wounded hand.

 

“How did you find me?” he asked, scooping mashed potatoes into his mouth.

 

Juliet's face took on a pained expression. “It was an accident.”

 

“They searched everywhere for you,” Abby told him gravely. “I don't think they slept for two days. But there was nothing to follow...”

 

“On the morning of the third day after you disappeared, four men tried to rob the Santa Barbara Trust,” Henry explained.

 

“Darren Brown,” Shawn murmured.

 

Varying degrees of surprise flittered across the group's faces.

 

“Yes,” Henry confirmed. “The detectives and a few other men were searching Brown's property just outside of town when they found you.”

 

“You were in pretty bad shape,” Abby said, “but that doesn't matter now. You're okay.”

 

He was better than okay.

 

This time, everyone had come.