May 1994

It hurts, somewhere in the region of your stomach, knowing that your parents are glaring at each other when they should be watching you.

It's the night of graduation and Shawn's smirk is huge. He's 18, ready to take on the world, and he's replaced the speaker's water with diluted vinegar. It's still up for debate whether Ms. Mulligan, high school vice principal, will gag and demand the perpetrator's head on a platter, or whether she'll just keep on truckin' when she finally takes a sip.

Shawn's money is on the latter, because Ms. Mulligan has more pride than is good for anybody, but either way he's in the clear because no one saw him do it. They may suspect him, but they'll never be able to prove it. He didn't even tell Gus, who may be his best friend but folds like a bad hand if a teacher so much as glances at him without smiling. He left no trail--no evidence, no case.

He learned that one from his dad.

The thought pulls his eyes back to his parents, who are sitting one foot apart but who are not sitting together. Together has nothing to do with the tense set of their shoulders, to the hard set of his mom's mouth or his dad's eyes as they look at the podium but don't see it. His parents have developed te ability to fight without speaking, without looking at each other even, and it is an ironic thought that Shawn has to shout to be heard in a deathly silent house.

He doesn't know which is worse. When they are fighting, or when they are not-fighting.

Shawn misses the moment of the gag, the spectacular, bulgy-eyed gasping choke Ms. Mulligan makes before moving on in a slightly strained voice. There are titters from the watching graduates and even from some of the parents, and Shawn is disappointed he missed it, though watching the vice principal choke her way through three more paragraphs before sitting down is pretty rewarding.

Shawn catches the looks some of his classmates are shooting him (because honestly, who else is dumb enough or gutsy enough to pull a prank during graduation?), but he’s more concerned when his eyes catch his dad's and they are saying, very clearly, that they are not impressed.

But the slight puckering of his mom's mouth as she expertly fights off a grin is so worth it, and Shawn grins and waves inconspicuously at both his parents, pretending he has no idea that anything just happened. The bland march across the stage starts a moment later, and it's almost worth it too when Gus ruins the photo of him shaking the principal's hand by glaring suspiciously at Shawn instead of smiling.

There is a long time between the G's and the S's, and Shawn is hard pressed not to do something stupid and ruin his chances at a high school diploma. There are enough people already who are surprised he made it this far. He spends the wait whispering inappropriate things to Kate Stein, who is a good girl and is trying very hard not to giggle.

His row is finally called, and there is more than one glare from the teachers as he approaches--there is some question as to why he even bothered hiding his role in the vinegar switch, considering that most everyone here assumes it is always Shawn Spencer (and there's no denying there's a lot of validity to the statement) and Ms. Mulligan's smile is very grim when she hands the diploma to him with a white-knuckled fist. He smiles widely in return, the expression charming, and her look softens just the slightest bit.

His smile widens for the camera, and no one has any idea that his gut is twisting because he can see his parents from this angle and they are not looking at him. Henry is whispering something, face contorted as Claire glares at him from the corners of her eyes, her own expression sour.

The smile feels as though it's going to crack his cheeks.

Graduation is suddenly too short, and when it is over Henry doesn't look proud as he marches up to his son. Claire beats him by a second.

"Oh, honey," she says as she hugs him. "I’m so proud of you."

"Thanks, mom," he answers, smiling, but she misses it because she’s already glaring at Dad.

Mrs. Guster suddenly waves and it’s obvious she’s torn between greeting her friend and refereeing the two Spencer men, the eldest of which is staring, his eyes very hard, at his son.

"Behave," she finally snaps. She walks away, cheerfully calling back to her friend, and Shawn knows he is doomed.

"Shawn--"

"Sir."

"What kind of stunt--"

"That wasn’t me," Shawn says quickly. Too quickly, probably, but he really doesn’t want his dad to get on a roll, here, of all places. So he lies, but he figure there’s justification in the fact that lying now will save his dad from the murder charges he’d be guilty of if he tells the truth and they find his bleeding, dead corpse on the front lawn in the morning. The thought isn’t quite as funny as he was hoping it would be.

"I saw it, sure," he explains as Henry’s hard look turns suspicious, "and I heartily applaud whoever did it, but I am very sad to admit that it wasn’t me."

Henry’s expression doesn’t change, and Shawn knows he’s not buying it.

"Come on, Dad," he wheedles, changing tack. "Aren’t you proud of your son? I graduated, I made it through high school, everyone is just so--"

"Surprised?" Henry cuts in. "Yeah," he snorts, anything but amused. "You managed to catch us all off guard with that one, kid."

Shawn’s stomach twists. It’s funny, because that’s exactly what he was going to say. Almost word for word, actually, as to what was in his head.

It wouldn’t have hurt like that.

Shawn pretends his father was joking and grins, putting his arms out in a large invitation of a hug.

"Manly hug?" he prompts. "Father-son bonding moment?" Henry looks unimpressed and Shawn pulls the diploma from where he has shoved it into the band of his pants, extricating it from the folds of his gown, waving it in the air even as the other arm remains flung out dramatically.

"Graduation?" he asks, waving it pointedly. "Diploma? High school diploma? Have I mentioned that I actually managed to finish high school with real, live proof?"

Henry crosses his arms. "You know that’s empty, right?" he asks, looking pointedly at the hard diploma cover. "It’s to make sure the graduates behave themselves. Very smart move, Shawn. I think I’m going to go have a word with Ms. Mulligan."

Shawn drops his arms (not that he’d been expecting anything, but it was fun seeing his dad squirm). Yes, he did know it was empty, thank you. Were they going to take away his actual diploma because he replaced the speaker’s water with vinegar? Were they even going to be able to prove it? No, on both accounts, even if the second ended up being a yes. They didn’t fail graduates for pulling something as harmless as a water-switch prank. Did his dad give a damn? No, again. But then Shawn had always been guilty until proven innocent.

He had made sure, for a long time now, that he actually was guilty. There was no point in being innocent if your dad was going to believe, beyond any doubt, that it was always you.

Shawn is pretty sure, as his eyes drop, that the smile on his face has disappeared.

"Can I borrow the truck?" he asks, and the question is so far out of left field that for a moment Henry’s scowl disappears as he blinks. It’s back in a second.

"No," he snaps. "There is no reason--"

"Please, Dad," Shawn begs, and he knows now is a bad time with Henry on the warpath, ready to prove his guilt, but he also knows that as soon as Henry figures out that it was him (because it always is and he always does) that he can forget about seeing the outside of the house for the next two weeks.

"I just--" he searches for a suitable explanation. "There’s a couple of graduation parties I want to go to, especially the big senior thing the school put together for us, and I just want to have a consistent ride. I know you came in the cruiser and mom’s probably going to want to visit with Mrs. Guster for awhile, so it’s not as if you really need--"

"No," Henry snaps again and Shawn curses himself because he overdid the explanation and he’s blown his chance. "You can’t be trusted with your own things--" here he gestures at Shawn’s dress shoes, which are scuffed beyond any recognition of said "dress" state, "--and I will not trust you with my truck."

"But, Dad--!"

Henry’s glare hardens. "Is that clear?"

Shawn’s tone is insolent, the phrase muttered, but it is clear. "Yes, sir."

"Good," he says. He starts to walk past Shawn, then pauses. "And I’m not sure you’re going to any graduation parties tonight." Shawn’s jaw drops. "It depends on what Ms. Mulligan will have to say to me."

"But--!"

Henry ignores him, brushing past his son without so much as a glance sideways, and it is then, angry, seeing red, but still pretending he doesn’t care, that Shawn gets the best (read: worst, worst ever) idea.

"Dad!" he cries, shooting out an arm to stop him. Henry pauses, turning to face his son, and in the commotion of the turn, when Shawn is pretending to fumble on his dad’s jacket, his other hand slips into Henry’s pocket and smoothly pulls out the keys to the truck.

He slips them into his own pocket. "I just--you know what?" He makes a frustrated face, but internally he is gleeful because he just picked Dad’s pockets and the always vigilant man didn’t so much as notice. The practice on Gus seems to be finally paying off. "Just forget it."

Henry turns away with a frustrated sigh (what had he been expecting? A confession?) and Shawn turns his own back to his father, a grin growing on his face as he jingles the keys in his pocket.

For the first time he feels like he has the entire world at his fingertips.

"Smooth," says a voice, and Shawn whirls. "Very smooth."

The words are suggestive, as is the girl who is watching him with half-hooded eyes. He stares.

Lacy Woods is not a gorgeous girl. She is, in all honesty, not even that pretty. Wide shoulders with bones that seem to jut out prominently, almost viciously, she has a high brow, large, slightly wide-set eyes, and semi-long hair. It is messy, and he can only assume that’s the style. But she is wearing a dress (she was probably the first to lose her graduation robe) with a neckline that appears to believe it was a waist line in another life and is trying, very valiantly, to go back to its rightful place. Lacy is sitting in a folding chair and she suddenly props a knee up, leaning over, presumably to fix the buckle on her shoe, and Shawn is hard pressed to realize that her buckle is fine, because more noteworthy is the fact that he can see all the way to her stomach.

She’s not wearing a bra.

To say that Lacy kind of has a reputation is like saying the sky is kind of blue. Even her makeup, red lipstick over large, plump lips and dark eye shadow smeared heavily above her eyes, is suggestive. It’s surprising she actually made it through graduation with her robe still on. She was the girl in high school who bullied the good girls into standing look-out while she smoked in the bathroom. And to say that half the football team knew her is not exaggeration.

Lacy Woods, to put it frankly, is a slut.

Shawn has absolutely no idea why she picked him tonight, but he is struck by the thought that she is looking at him like that, with that smile, and that she is actually impressed by what he has done. It feels good, and he is suddenly feeling very reckless. He pulls the keys out of his pocket and swings them around his index finger, a devil-may-care grin spreading across his face.

"Wanna’ go for a spin?"

"Are you nuts?" she demands. "Henry--" He is not surprised she knows who his dad is--there are very few people who don’t, "--is, like, the scariest guy in the world. If he catches us, he’ll kick our asses from here to the moon." He is disappointed, but there is something very freeing about the fact that, finally, someone has admitted to his face what he has had to live with his entire life.

She smiles, and her glossy lips pull wide. "Sounds like fun."

Shawn nearly trips over a folding chair in his haste to go "cover himself with the ‘rents" as he smoothly tells her (Lacy’s short attention span is almost as notorious as her reputation), and she laughs. He knows she is laughing at him, but it is still easier to ignore, to pretend not to notice than the way his dad’s expression darkens when he looks at him and the way his mom’s does when she looks at Dad.

Shawn kisses his mom’s cheek as he comes up behind her. She laughs and turns, surprised, from her conversation with Mrs. Neller.

"I’m borrowing the truck," he says and his mom’s eyebrows raise.

"He actually let you?" He feels guilty when her expression softens, her face almost smiling. "I’m glad. I was already planning on going home with the Gusters. Mrs. Guster and I want to drink coffee and cry over how proud we are of our boys."

Shawn is embarrassed when this pleases him. He ducks his head, momentarily hiding his almost shy smile.

Mrs. Spencer’s own smile disappears. She hates that he reacts to sincere compliments, to heartfelt sentiments of love like he should be ashamed someone could talk about him like that.

She doesn’t say anything about it, simply pats his cheek with her hand. "You boys have fun." Shawn nods but he is already running off. She shakes her head as she turns back to Mrs. Neller with an eye roll and a very pleased sort of, "Boys."

Gus catches Shawn’s arm as he’s rushing past, turning away from Kate and Josh, who are looking rather delightedly at their watches and declaring "Twenty-six minutes of freedom. Twenty-six minutes of freedom. Twenty-seven minutes of freedom!"

"Are we headed to Senior Swing?"

Shawn’s smirk is huge. "Nope. You might be though." He flips out his hand after a quick glance around for his dad (he has disappeared, which is both liberating and suspicious), revealing the keys in them. "I ‘borrowed’ my dad’s keys."

The suggestive way Shawn says "borrowed" is enough for Gus.

"You stole them?" he demands shrilly. Shawn shushes him immediately and Gus leans down, hissing, "This is such a bad idea. Your dad’s going to kill you."

Shawn smirks. "Ah, the threat of imminent death. Adds a certain amount of spice to life, don’t you think?"

Gus, however, isn’t smiling. But he doesn’t look angry either, just very, very worried. "This is a really bad idea, Shawn."

Shawn straightens. "Whatever. You don’t have to worry about it. I’ve already got someone riding shotgun in the getaway car."

Gus follows the sweep of his arm and his jaw drops when his eyes land on Lacy. She waves at him then crosses her arms, rubbing them. A person could almost believe she’s simply cold, but the position has somehow managed to squash her chest together, showing off more cleavage and breast than is really necessary. Ever.

Gus knows when he is being mocked. He scowls, but still manages to look embarrassed. "Lacy Woods? Seriously, Shawn. Don’t do this."

"Don’t do what?" he asks as though he doesn’t know.

"You know what," Gus says angrily. "Lacy has slept with probably 25% of the student body. Why would you even--"

"Because right now she wants me," Shawn snaps, but a second later the expression has smoothed out into his usual easy humor, the smile huge and mischievous. "Just because," he finishes, like that’s a reason.

Gus has no idea what Shawn means. That when your parents seem more interested in hating each other, that he’ll take what he can get. And right now Lacy is looking at him like he’s worth it.

It’s a heady feeling.

What Gus does suddenly understand, however, is that Shawn is pissed at his dad. The stupidest decisions his best friend makes are usually preceded by some sort of fight with Henry.

Gus’s expression is anxious again. "Look, Shawn, just think this through. Your dad’s probably just mad at--" he can’t say it because Shawn’s face has darkened again. He refuses to see what everyone else has for years; that his parents are headed for a divorce. "He just..." Gus flounders. "He sort of transfers anger, you know? So he’s probably not actually mad at you, and if you give him a chance to cool down--"

Shawn’s grin is huge when he cuts him off. "Ah, don’t be jealous, Gus. I’m sure there are plenty of loose girls lying around for you to get one too. I’ll see ya’ buddy." He claps Gus on the shoulder and has left before he can protest.

Gus turns away. He can see the disaster that this is leading to and he really doesn’t want to have to watch. Not again.

"Ready to go?" Shawn asks as he offers Lacy his arm. She accepts it with a charmed smile, pulling herself to her feet. He wishes, as she stands, that she wasn’t wearing high heels. There is something emasculating about having to stare at a girl’s chin.

"I was about ready to give up on you. Are you taking that?"

Shawn looks down, surprised. The diploma is still in his hand, and he studies it for a second, thumb running along the smooth cover. He flips it open.

It’s empty. Just like Dad said.

"Nope," he says and drops it unceremoniously on the floor. She giggles and the hat follows a second later.

They race for the door, both laughing as Shawn struggles with his graduation robe, finally managing to pull it off when they reach the parking lot. He throws it dramatically across the windshield of a BMW Bug and she laughs again.

He knows it’s stupid, showing off when they’re this close to getting caught, but he is struck suddenly by the thought that he doesn’t care, that he has graduated, for crying out loud, that he’s free as a bird. He feels as though he can do anything he wants to right now. The world is his, and so, for the night, is his dad’s truck.

He smiles as he slides into the cab.

They fly down the highway.

Shawn knows Tim, who always covers this stretch, has already filled his quota for the month, and there's no one around to crash into anyways. Tim is pretty laid back, and he's not speeding that badly anyways.

Just enough to make Lacy gasp with excitement as she rolls down her window.

"You know," she says as she leans into him, away from the wind rushing at her through the open window. "I've always had my eyes on you."

This is a blatant lie and Shawn knows it. She has looked at him, with more than passing interest, a total of two times. Shawn knows he's short, a class clown, and is just a tad on the dorky side of doofus, so he hardly begrudges her the lack of interest. Not that his shift in attitude has anything to do with that extra couple of inches below her neck, of course. He jerks his eyes back to the road and pretends he didn't see her smirk as he tries to concentrate on driving. He may know exactly what to say to make people, especially girls, swoon, but he knows just as assuredly that he has nothing on the jocks, none of their athletic build or classic good looks (though, he will admit, he has great hair).

It's nice to hear her say so anyways.

He glances at her out of the corner of his eye and he can see down her dress again. She is practically licking her lips at him.

Shawn is filled with that reckless feeling again.

His hand jumps, just a little too quickly (okay, a lot too quickly) to be cool, to her thigh. She is helpful, however, grinning as she rearranges his hand on her leg, moving it up higher than he had dared, pulling the edge of her dress up with it. He tries a tentative squeeze and her ensuing laugh is throaty.

His confidence grows a notch.

"Take the wheel," he commands and she does. He loosens his tie (the tie was at his mother's insistence though he still can't figure out what the big deal is, considering he could've been naked under his robe and no one would have noticed), deftly unbuttoning the top button of his dress shirt.

He retakes the steering wheel and she uses the opportunity to scoot a little closer. Neither are buckled, and there is something satisfying in ignoring the voice in his head that tells him to do things for his own good. It sounds remarkably like his father.

Her hand snakes onto his thigh and the hair on the back of his neck raises. She squeezes and laughs, again, when the steering wheel jerks just the slightest bit to the right.

Shawn knows this is stupid. That Lacy barely knows who he is, that he doesn't even really like Lacy all that much. He wonders, rather distantly as her fingers start to play piano on the inside of his thigh, how much he's going to end up regretting this later. The thought is quickly banished. The sensations traveling out from her hand on his leg are intense, tingly, and he knows, right then, that he doesn't want them to stop. Because it's hard to think of his parents, of the way their fights make his insides twist, of how he's not sure Dad is proud of him, when her hand is doing that to his leg.

It doesn't hurt, and tonight, he's tired of hurting.

Shawn clears his throat. "Where do you want to--"

Her other hand reaches up, twining into his hair on the back of his head, and his words are cut off. By the time she starts kissing his jawline, sucking a line up and down his neck, he's forgotten what he was going to say.

He nearly wrenches them into a grove of trees when her mouth find the lobe of his ear and she pulls it with her teeth.

She laughs into his ear as he tries to get his breathing under control. "First time?" she asks throatily, and then goes back to work on his jaw.

"No," he says, but his voice breaks in the middle of the word and she laughs again.

"Don't worry," she whispers huskily into his ear, and now he knows she's playing with him. The knowledge does little to help him. "I'll guide you round the 'bends." Lacy raises her eyebrows at him suggestively, then leans in again.

"I'd suggest you pull over," she breathes, and he's inclined to agree with her. It's very hard to argue with a woman who currently has his earlobe back between her teeth.

He's slowing to pull over when he hears the sirens. He pulls away from Lacy's hard kisses and glances in the rear view window. The red and blue lights are unmistakeable.

He sighs, but simply keeps pulling over to the shoulder. Lacy glances behind her.

Her expression is frustrated. "Shit."

Shawn looks irritated but shakes his head. "Highway patrol. Don't worry, I know this guy. He'll have recognized the truck, and he'll just give us a warning for speeding."

Lacy nods and commandeers the rear view mirror, pulling it down so she can examine herself. She wipes at the red lipstick smeared around her mouth as Shawn props an elbow on the steering wheel, watching her absently. It's inconvenient, but he'll be able to easily talk himself out of this one.

He's looking at his lap, both elbows now on the steering wheel as he rubs the back of his neck, when Lacy's sharp voice lashes out. "Shawn," she says urgently. "Shawn."

"What?" he asks, glancing over at her, but he has only a second to take in the horrified expression on her face before Tim taps on the glass of the driver's side window.

Shawn's smile is cheerful as he turns to the highway patrolman. "Yeah, Tim--" He freezes, and his face drains of all color.

It isn't Tim. It's Henry, and his expression says he's pissed.

"Out," he snaps through the glass. "NOW."

Shawn's mouth has gone dry. He looks back at Lacy and his eyes are somehow more terrified than hers. "We are in such deep shit."

He doesn't wait to hear her reply, simply turns back to the driver's side door, already pushing it open. Time to face the music. He's going to be grounded until he dies of old age. And then his dad will probably keep the body around the house just to make sure he gets the point.

"Look, Dad--" he starts.

Henry grabs his son, roughly turning him and shoving him up against the vehicle. "Up against the car," he snaps. "Spread your legs."

Shawn's head is spinning with the sudden turn of events. "What? Dad, I--"

Henry forces him back against the truck, forcefully spreading his legs for him. He starts searching him for concealed weapons, patting down his legs.

Shawn is bewildered. "You're--are you frisking me? Why would--"

"Check his accomplice," Henry barks over his shoulder.

Shawn's face is white. "My--!"

"Henry..." says a female voice from behind them. Her voice is young, and unsure. "Are you sure this is nec--"

"Do it," he lashes.

Shawn's brain starts to catch up with him. "My accomplice? Who the--what? Dad--"

Henry ignores him, still checking him for...what, Shawn doesn’t know, as he begins to read him his rights. Shawn feels numb, the familiar words (Dad had made him memorize them ages ago) washing over him. He can hear them, but he can’t understand them, can’t comprehend what is happening.

"Dad..." he says weakly as the older man finishes.

"You stole a truck, Shawn," Henry snaps, and it's impossible to tell what is greater: the disappointment, or the anger.

"I, but--! It's your truck, I didn't--"

"Disrespecting me is one thing." Henry's voice is hard and bitter as acid. "So is disrespecting your teachers, even your classmates," here he gestures at the cruiser parked behind the truck and his partner, a blonde woman Shawn has only seen once before, gently pushing a very white Lacy into the back of the police car. Shawn's own cheeks go a little paler, but Henry isn't finished.

"Disrespecting the law is something else entirely. You want to know what it's like to be an adult? Here it is." His humorless smile is nasty, but Shawn is still startled when Henry tightens a pair of handcuffs around his wrists. "You want to try out crime, you get to enjoy the consequences."

Shawn feels numb as his dad grabs him roughly by the shoulder, his grip hard as he pushes him towards the car. He's never touched him like this before, or pushed him around in such a rough manner.

He hadn't realized his dad could get angrier than he ever had before.

It's ironic, because the first coherent thing the 18 year old can manage is about Lacy. Henry is still directing him severely towards the cruiser when he finds his voice.

"She's not my accomplice. She thought I borrowed the truck. Lacy didn't have a clue. She...she just didn't know." His explanation is desperate as Henry opens the back door of the cruiser and forces him in.

"She's not my accomplice!" he repeats loudly as Henry slams the door shut, but this is more for Lacy's benefit than Henry's. She chimes in immediately.

"I had no idea!" she shouts at the two officers outside the car. "He told me he'd borrowed it!"

Shawn doesn't appreciate her enthusiasm in the declaration.

"Henry..." starts his partner with a quick glance towards the cruiser.

"Take my truck," he orders. "The keys are still in the cab."

The blonde woman is finally irritated. "He's your son."

"I know who he is," Henry snaps, then gets control of himself. "Just do it, Karen."

Karen glances at the cruiser. Both teenagers are finally still, and the girl is starting to regain some of the color in her cheeks, obviously calming.

Shawn, on the other hand, is starting to look sick. His cheeks are nearly gray, eyes downcast, and she's honestly afraid he's going to barf.

"Just...please." Karen is not going to argue. She's new to the station, relatively fresh from the academy, and Henry is the scariest damn senior partner she's ever going to have. "He borrowed your truck without permission. He's--"

"He's guilty of auto theft and he will learn the consequences of that." Henry's voice is almost mild, and his reasoning is sound. Shawn's a delinquent that needs to learn his lesson.

But he's also his son, and the tight lines around Henry's face, the anger tightly coiled in his eyes, says he knows that.

She has nothing else to say. She nods in acceptance and jogs towards the truck. And Henry grimly marches towards his cruiser, and his son.

Shawn starts talking the second Henry slides into the cruiser, slamming the door shut with enough force to make both teenagers wince. "Look, Dad, she's not my accomplice, she didn't--"

The promiscuous young woman takes over. "--I didn't know he'd stolen your truck, I mean I would never have--"

Shawn jerks his head once, hard, and regains control as she falls silent. "I told her I'd borrowed it, that I had the truck for the night to get to graduation parties. I lied to her, Dad. Please don't--"

"That," breaks in Henry sharply as he switches lanes, checking to make sure Karen is still behind him, "is something you can explain to her parents when they arrive to take her home."

There is shrill squeak of indignation, then, "That’s not fair!"

Henry glances at the angry-faced girl in the rear view mirror. She glares, but he hardly feels sympathy towards her when everytime he looks at his son, all he can see his her lipstick all along his face and neck.

His tone is ice. "I would suggest you both shut up. You," here he glares pointedly at Shawn, who misses it, staring as he is at his hands, "are already in trouble for stealing a truck. You want to push me further tonight?"

The ride to the station is deathly silent after that.

Henry is still mad when they reach the station. He steps out of the cruiser, movements jerky as Karen pulls up. She parks on the side Shawn is sitting at, and very casually, her own movements brusque and efficient, beats him to his son.

"It’s alright," she says over the top of the police car. "I’ve got him. You get the girl."

There is no reason for Henry to argue against this and he complies with a slightly sour look, helping Lacy out of the car. Karen reaches down and pulls Shawn up by the elbow. "Wipe off your face," she mumbles into his ear as she’s helping him out.

Shawn looks startled, then turns abruptly to take in his reflection in the window of the cruiser. What he thought of as some sort of badge of success, or something similarly idiotic, is still on his face, that red lipstick obvious even in the poor mirror image. He immediately brings up both hands, still cuffed together, to scrub at it with his sleeve as Karen guides him, a step behind Henry and Lacy, to the front entrance of the police station.

Shawn scours harder the closer they get, and Karen is practically pushing him towards the doors by time they reach them. He’s almost resisting, his eyes anxious as she opens the door with one hand and directs him, her strong, gentle hand on his elbow, through and into the brightly lit building.

The station goes quiet as he enters, the effect seeming to ripple out as more officers catch sight of first Henry, then Shawn, cuffed and led by his partner, behind him. Shawn drops his hands and his eyes.

Nearly all of these officers know him. A little less than half of them watched him grow up. There’s Mel at the desk to his left, Stacey just a little behind him. George is staring, wide-eyed, from his position at the front desk.

Shawn’s stomach twists. He opens his mouth, tries to tell a joke, say something stupid, diffuse the situation somehow, but he can’t even look up from the floor.

His mouth closes and he wishes, very desperately, that he was someone else’s kid.

Henry orders Lacy to sit on the bench in the hall and he is already marching towards George when Karen has Shawn sit next to the furiously glaring girl. The young officer quickly trots to catch up with her senior partner.

Lacy and Shawn are quiet as they sit on the bench. He is afraid to look at her, because he can’t take that expression anymore, that disbelieving, slightly horrified look he’s been getting from everyone who looks at him.

Lacy breaks the silence and he involuntarily glances at her. She is looking blankly at the wall in front of her, a hard look on her face.

"Your dad is one cruel son of a bitch."

Shawn’s answer is prompt as he looks away. "There’s no proof that you knew. You’ll be fine. How mad are your parents going to be?"

She turns her head to look at him. "That depends on how convincing you are. I’m not worried."

Shawn can’t bring himself to smile at the subtle compliment. He can convince all the people in the world except for the only one that matters.

Her expression suddenly turns fierce. "And I wasn’t talking about myself anyways. Your dad, is one cruel son of a bitch, Shawn."

He has nothing to say to this.

There’s no point in trying.

Karen’s voice is low as she catches up with Henry. "You’ve made your point. I doubt he’ll ever do anything like this again. Can’t you just let them go?"

"No," he says calmly, still angrily striding down the hall. "Maybe you missed my point. This isn’t just a kid disrespecting his father. Shawn broke the law, and he will pay the consequences for it. What am I telling him if I don’t follow through?"

Karen wants to say something about mercy, about justice being tempered with compassion, but she doesn’t push it. Henry’s voice might be reasonable, but he’s not calm. And she knows this is about a father hurt and disappointed by his son when he calls Lacy’s parents, because they both know a girl like that wouldn’t have been interested in a kid who just borrowed his dad’s keys.

He catches the look on her face as the phone is ringing in his ear. "It’s impossible to tell if they’re telling the truth or not. No proof, no case. I’m giving her the benefit of the doubt."

She wonders why he can’t do the same for his son.

"Book him," he snaps and then, in the phone, "Hello, Mr. Woods?"

Karen gestures to Shawn as she passes and he gets awkwardly to his feet. She takes him by the elbow and leads him down the hall.

"We’re booking you," she says quietly.

He whips his head around to look at her, his eyes wide. "What? I figured I’d learned my--I mean...I’m 18, I’m going to have a--" he suddenly turns his head away from her, face dark. "Whatever. Just...whatever."

She can’t miss the way he looks like someone punched him in the stomach.

He tries very desperately to look amused at everything when they take his picture. Bev shakes her head angrily. "I can’t believe..." She snorts derisively then says "To the side, please," in the microphone. Shawn complies, weak smirk still on his lips.

"Maybe I can," she continues to Karen, tone scathing. She sighs a second later. "He’s a good kid," she explains. "A little rambunctious, but his heart’s in the right place."

"So is Henry’s, I think," Karen defends her partner quietly. Bev’s disbelieving scoff says everything about her opinion on the subject.

"Tough-love," the older woman says. "Sure. Like that always works out so well." She gestures at Shawn in the other room. "Obviously."

Karen doesn’t reply, simply leaves to collect Shawn. She doesn’t want to back-talk Henry. She really doesn’t.

But this is making it very hard.

She leaves to start filling out the report after she hands him over to have his fingerprints taken. Karen is hard pressed not to tell the teen everything will be alright, but she’s really not sure how alright it will be and she doesn’t want to lie.

Stacey has no such qualms as he uncuffs Shawn and starts to dip his fingers in ink. The big man’s moves are gentle, unhurried.

"It’ll be fine, Shawn. Just watch. This’ll all blow over in the morning."

Shawn’s voice is angry. "This will all blow over in the morning? My criminal record will blow over in the morning? I’ll bet that’s what you tell all the criminals."

Stacey’s tone is still gentle as he presses Shawn’s fingers to the card. "You’ll survive a criminal record. Anyone who knows you won’t care. I meant that your dad--"

"I don’t want to talk about my dad," Shawn cuts in quickly. "He can take a long walk off a short pier as far as I’m concerned."

The officer doesn’t press. It’s heart breaking to watch Shawn act like he doesn’t care when his hands won’t stop shaking.

Stacey actually feels Shawn stiffen when his dad’s voice hits them. "Shawn? Mr. Woods is here. I think you have some explaining to do."

"I’m finished," Stacey says and Shawn nods jerkily, getting rigidly to his feet. His mouth has gone dry again.

"Okay," he manages to choke, then clears his throat. "Okay," he says more smoothly.

It’s a slow night in the station and everyone can hear, very clearly, Mr. Woods chew out Shawn for doing this to his "poor baby girl." The poor baby girl in question is less than impressed with her father’s word choice, and she is obviously torn between telling her father to take a chill pill and shooting indignant looks at the 18 year old who is supposed to have wronged her. Its anyone’s guess as to how the red-faced, screaming Mr. Woods can miss the lipstick still smeared across Shawn’s jaw.

Shawn doesn’t have to do much convincing. A couple of mumbled "I’m sorry, sir"s are the most he can fit in between the large man’s ranting.

It’s finally Lacy who manages to pull her father to his feet, placating hand on his arm. "I’m fine, Daddy," she wheedles. "Can we go please?"

The fact that she can pull off the innocent act in that dress while her father is looking directly at her is impressive. She isn’t fooling anyone else, but that’s hardly the point.

"I’m sorry, sir," Shawn calls out one last time. Mr. Woods turns to say something that Shawn can only assume will insult his family, his upbringing, and/or his hair, but Lacy pulls on him. The glare turns away from him and they both leave, Lacy still hanging on her father’s arm as they disappear outside.

She doesn’t look at him before the dark has swallowed her.

The station slowly regains the quiet murmur of noise that pervades the building at night. It is then, sitting there, staring out the door after the only person who had been in this with him, that Shawn is struck by how very alone he is. And the only thing he can think of is that she didn’t bother looking at him as she left.

Shawn’s eyes drop to his hands. The ink is black on his fingers.

"Shawn..." starts Henry as he walks up.

"I hate you."

The words aren’t angry, passion-filled as they usually are. Henry has lost track of the number of times his son has told him that he hates him (alright, 27, and he still hasn’t gotten used to it), but somehow this is different. The words are hollow, but not empty. Almost mild.

They are stated as fact.

"Listen here, you little punk," Henry snaps, grabbing Shawn by the chin, jerking his head up. The words die in his mouth.

Shawn’s eyes are red, tears pricking in the corners of them. They are betrayed, filled with loathing, and deep, deep hurt.

Henry hasn’t seen Shawn cry in ten years. He’d been eight and had fallen from his bike, skinning his knees. Henry had told him to pick himself up, wipe off the dirt, and try again. He’d sniffled and Henry had lost patience, told him there were more important things to cry about in this world, and this wasn’t one of them. "Stop crying," he’d said. "Tears won’t teach you to ride your bike and crying to Mom will never solve anything. Grow up, Shawn."

He still wonders, late at night, when Claire is sleeping next to him and his son is quiet in the other room, why Shawn always remembers the things Henry wants to forget.

Henry drops his hand from Shawn’s chin with a short exhale of air. Shawn’s eyes remain where they are, frankly looking into Henry’s own.

"Do you know why I’m doing this?"

Shawn doesn’t so much as blink and Henry pulls him to his feet, already leading him back down the hall, towards the holding cell.

"I want you to understand that crime has consequences. That you can’t get away with something because you know people. Who would I be if I didn’t uphold justice even in my own family?"

He opens the door to the cell and Shawn suddenly resists. He looks at his dad out of the corners of his eyes, and his face is terrified. "Dad, please--" his eyes dart to the two other men in the cell, one of which looks like he could crush Shawn’s head within his hands.

Henry’s voice is hard, but gentle. "You’ll be fine." He pushes Shawn in and closes the door to the jail cell behind him.

The teenager turns immediately, hands on the bars. His eyes are wide, pleading. "Dad, please, I swear I’ll--"

Henry cuts him off. "Consequences, Shawn. I can only hope you learn the lesson." And then he does the hardest thing he’s done the entire night.

He walks away.

"Dad!" Shawn calls desperately, but he doesn’t turn around, doesn’t even acknowledge that his son is calling to him. Shawn turns, mouth going dry as he drops onto a bench.

Head-crusher is looking at him in disbelief. "Your dad is Henry Spencer?" He looks pointedly at the lipstick still smeared on Shawn’s face. "Shit, kid, I hope she was worth it."

"She wasn’t," Shawn says, and his head drops into his hands.

He spends the night of graduation in jail.

Claire Spencer is a terrifying woman when she marches into the station ten minutes to eight the next morning. Her dark hair has been pulled into a severe pony tail but she's not wearing any makeup, and everyone's money is on the fact that she didn't find out until twenty minutes ago.

She doesn't respond to any of the good mornings sent her way, simply grits her teeth. Her movements are rigid as she pays bail, hand gestures savage. All her answers are curt, and George really wishes she could have waited the ten minutes until the end of his shift.

Shawn's head is bobbing towards his lap when they walk up. His eyes are closed but it's doubtful he got more than fifteen minutes of sleep all night.

His neck jerks up, eyes snapping open as the door to the holding cell creaks open. He scrubs at his face, rubbing his fingers around the smudges under his eyes, before realizing who's standing outside the bars.

"Mom!" he cries, scrambling to his feet, hand jumping to his jaw as he starts to scrub more vigorously at his skin.

"Hi, Shawn," she says quietly. Shawn nods at George as he leaves the cell, half waving at one of the men still in the detention area, who sleepily waves back. She wishes she could be surprised. "I thought you were at Senior Swing all night."

Shawn slows almost imperceptably as they walk down the hall, expression falling. "I'm sorry," he says quickly, not looking at her. "I shouldn't have lied to you, I didn't want you to stop me and I thought Dad--"

Her anger is back instantly. Shawn has to speed up to catch her long, furious strides.

"Look," he says desperately, "Will it help if I promise to do all the dishes, always make my bed? Please, just tell me what I need to do I promise I'll--"

"Henry has taken it too far this time," she snaps. She misses the intense look of relief that washes over her son's face as he realizes she's not mad at him. Shawn darts in front of her, holding the door open as she strides through.

"This is the last straw."

Shawn freezes at the door, mouth parting slightly. No. No she can't mean what he thinks she means.

"This," she hisses to herself, but Shawn can hear every word, "is the straw that broke the camel's back."

She can't do this. Shawn is still at the door, holding it open with a sort of horrified disbelief. She's going to leave. She's going to leave and he's going to have to pick, and he knows right now he's going to pick Mom. He's going to go with her and he's going to hope Dad starts to understand exactly what betrayal feels like.

And he knows, right now, that he hates Dad, but he doesn't want to have to choose.

"Ah, Mom," the eighteen year old says as he trips after her, voice suddenly nonchalant, amused even. "You mean all this? I've just been given the experience of a life time. Thrown in the slammer. In the big house. In the cooler, though that sounds more like something the mafia--"

"Shawn," she snaps. "Stop pretending, for once. Your father," she spits the word like it's a curse, "has gone too far. I will not stand for it." She jerks the driver's side of the car open. "Now get in the car. We're going home."

Shawn wonders how she can call it that.

The sick feeling is back in his stomach.

Henry is sitting in the kitchen, munching on a piece of toast when they arrive, Claire stalking grimly ahead of Shawn. She slams the keys on the table and Henry glances up, his eyes catching on those of the boy's behind her.

"Claire! I told you I was going to get--"

"When, Henry? When? After you were finished with your toast? How 'bout you go fishing first? Water's probably real nice in the morning."

"Claire--"

"Mom--"

"Go to your room," Henry snaps immediately at Shawn.

Claire's ire flares. "Don't you dare talk to my son like that. He doesn't have to--"

"Our son, and yes, he does, there's still the matter of grounding."

Shawn opens his mouth to say something to this, but Claire beats him to it.

"Grounding!" she shrieks. "Obviously throwing him in jail just won't cover it! How loveless--"

Henry throws the toast violently onto his plate. "Loveless," he snarls. "How hard do you think this was for me, having to put him in--"

"You didn't have to!" she cries, throwing her hands in th eair. "He borrowed the truck without permission! What--!"

"Mom," Shawn tries to break in. She ignores him.

"--did you even think--"

Henry's eyes blaze as he jerks to his feet, chair scraping back loudly. "Think. How much thought--"

"Dad, just--"

"--and where were you when all this was going on? How--"

"Where was I? How 'bout--"

"STOP!" Shawn shouts loudly.

"Go to your room," they both snap. Shawn jerks, startled, as though he's just been slapped, and Claire immediately covers her mouth, eyes desperately apologetic.

"Oh, honey. I'm sorry, I just--"

"Go to your room," Henry repeats, breaking in, voice slightly calmer, though that anger is still there.

She turns on him, eyes flashing. "He can--"

"I'm going!" Shawn tries to get their attention. "I want to! I'm going! I--!"

The most reaction he gets is from Henry who, without breaking from his red-faced yelling, without looking at him even, jabs a finger down the hall. Claire takes offense at this and swiftly cuts in with, "He doesn't have to!" She doesn't look at Shawn when she says it.

The teenager turns, unhurriedly, and walks calmly down the hall to his bedroom. The door closes with a quiet click behind him and he sits on the edge of his bed, already working the laces on one of his shoes.

He wishes the door was doing something to stop his parents' voices.

"--your lenient attitude is exactly what's led to--"

"--so I've led our son to the brink of delinquency--"

"--well obviously someone's doing something wrong if this is the 'decent human being' we've raised, Claire."

Shawn winces at the rage in his mother's voice. "What, so now this is my fault? What did you think your tough-love methods were going to do to him? He thinks you hate him, and I'm not so sure he's wrong anymore!"

Shawn realizes that his hand is frozen on his shoe. He picks at the tough knot on his laces as his dad yells himself hoarse, wincing when a screamed "Shawn" is thrown into the fight, flinching again when it's repeated by his dad. He pulls off the shoe.

It hurts how his name has become a weapon, thrown back and forth between his parents, meant to slash and cut and sting. He's starting to hate the sound of his own name.

"Do you know what that is?" Shawn's head jerks up.

"Yes," Mom snaps, and her voice is very angrily trying to say "I'm not an idiot." "I recognize lipstick when I see it, thank you Henry."

Shawn's hand lifts to his jaw and, very lightly, he touches the skin. He gets swiftly to his feet a second later, then suddenly realizes that his shoe is still in his other hand. He looks at it, surprise written on his face, then drops it onto the floor of his bedroom. He makes his way to the bathroom, their voices louder in the hall, then closes the door on Henry's "...dangerous and stupid, because of course he didn't think..." Their voices are quieter again as he shuts the door, but he doesn't pause, simply walks to the sink.

The face in the mirror can't possibly belong to him. It's too normal looking, too calm, as though it hasn't realized what has happened yet. He doesn't study it, however, simply rolls up his sleeves and, unperturbed, reaches for a wash cloth. He turns on the water, soaks it, wrings it out, then slowly, methodically, starts to scrub at the red lipstick still on his face. It's well and truly stuck now, and by time he's moved on to his neck, it's impossible to tell if there's still makeup there, or if he's simply rubbed it red. He can't tell, so he moves back to his jaw and scrubs harder.

His dad's rough rumble of words catch his ears again.

"--to school and apologize for that stupid stunt--" Shawn freezes, eyes going wide at his reflection in the mirror. He can't be serious. But he is, and Shawn knows it. The expression smooths out and he's back to cleaning off his face.

"--Henry, you can't--"

Their voices are quickly growing louder and it strikes Shawn that they are coming down the hall. Claire is still speaking rapidly, obviously following Henry. "--not now, Shawn needs--"

Henry isn't listening. Shawn hears the door to his bedroom crash against the wall, then, furiously: "Where is that kid? He can't honestly be stupid enough to--"

The door to the bathroom bursts open and Shawn jumps, (and he's not sure why, he'd been expecting it, but he doesn't seem to be processing things properly right now so he just lets it go) wash cloth in his hand as his wide eyes meet Henry's. He's pulling on his earlobe, trying to get the lipstick off, face still a little too pale.

It's a jolt in the stomach to realize that Shawn has heard every word of their fight, that he always hears their fights, even if he knows these walls aren't made of steel and that Shawn would have to be deaf to miss them. Henry may know they're his own damn fault (and Claire's), but it's a lot harder to look your kid in the eye and tell him, convince him, really, that he has nothing to do with this. Shawn is unaware of Henry's direction of thought and simply starts scrubbing again, though his gaze doesn't move from his dad's.

Henry's tone is suddenly quiet. "We're going to the school. Ms. Mulligan will want an apology."

"Dad, please--"

Claire abruptly pops into view, peering over Henry's shoulder, and Shawn changes tacks immediately. "Alright, that's fine. It sounds good. Do you want to go right now? I'll--"

"No," Claire snaps. She is glaring at Henry. "No, he doesn't need to 'go right now.'"

"Yes," Henry snaps back. They are standing in the doorway of the bathroom and Shawn is struck suddenly by the feeling that he is trapped. "Now. Get it over now when it's still recent--"

Claire cuts him off. "Go to the kitchen and get yourself something to eat, okay Shawn?" She says it without looking at him, her eyes, angry and disgusted, fixed on Henry.

Henry is irate. "Don't--"

"I'm not hungry."

This is weird. Shawn has been hungry from the moment he hit puberty and hasn't stopped eating since. They both turn to look at him, matching expressions of concern on their faces. Claire breaks the silence first.

"You haven't eaten since supper last night. Are you--" and suddenly she gets it. Understanding hits her eyes--his stomach has probably been tied in knots since last night--and then her mouth sets, eyebrows falling dramatically as she turns on Henry.

"This," she hisses, "is exactly what it does to him, Hen--"

"You know what?" Shawn breaks in loudly, cutting off the re-start of the fight. "You're right. I'm starved. I think I'll get something to eat." He smiles as he pushes past both of them, his expression and voice completely sincere.

They exchange a look and follow their son down the hall as he enters the kitchen, already rooting through the cupboards, grabbing more food than he knows what to do with. He doesn't pause, just throws it on the counter and immediately starts to make a sandwich, slapping pieces of turkey on a piece of bread, followed with cheese, a handful of lettuce, and way too much mustard. He throws it on a plate and promptly starts to make another.

Henry watches Shawn's sharp movements, at the cheerful smile on his face that he catches glimpses of everytime he turns to grab something else, then glances at his son's feet. His eyebrows draw down in confusion.

"Shawn," he says quietly. "Why are you wearing one shoe?"

Shawn freezes in the middle of slapping a large glob of mayo on his sandwich. He looks at his feet and, sure enough, there's one scuffed dress shoe on one foot, still tied, and then just a black sock on the other.

He's dumbfounded, and it takes him a second to remember where the other one is. "Oh." He starts spreading the mayonnaise with the knife. "I started taking them off and I guess I got distracted." He turns abruptly, both sandwiches on the plate in his hand as he pulls out the chair with his foot. He drops the plate onto the table with a loud clunk as he flops into a chair.

He doesn't hesitate as he grabs one of the sandwiches and takes an enormous bite. His jaw chews hard, grinding, and he's already afraid that he's not going to be able to swallow it. His stomach twists unpleasantly and he nearly chokes while it's still in his mouth.

"Shawn..." Claire starts gently, voice anxious. He forces himself to swallow the bite, but it takes three hard gulps to get it to go down. He swiftly takes another bite, smaller this time.

"Shawn," she says again. That disquieted concern is still there. "You don't have to force it. If you're not hungry, that's fine."

"No," he replies after he swallows another bite. He looks sick, and Claire and Henry have no idea how he can still be smiling like that, so earnestly cheerful. "I am. Really hungry. I just, you know," he laughs and forces another bite, talking past the food in his mouth. "I had to hear someone say it before I thought about it and realized that I was hungry. It's funny how that works sometimes."

"Shawn," Henry says quietly, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Shawn ducks out of it, pretending he just needed to lean forward to grab the mustard. He's forced to put more on his sandwich to complete the farce, and it isn't until his mom takes the container from his hand that he realizes he's emptied over half the botttle onto his turkey. The sandwich makes an unpleasant squelching noise as he slaps the piece of bread back onto it.

Henry doesn't try to touch him again, but he exchanges another look with Claire before continuing on, voice still soft.

"Don't eat it if you don't want to. It's fi--"

"Oh," Shawn snaps. He takes a savage bite and can't stop the wince when it registers that his sandwich tastes like mustard, and only mustard. "So I'm not allowed to eat? You going to arrest me for that too?"

Shawn flinches at his own words, closing his eyes and waiting for the hammer to fall. That had been stupid.

"Suit yourself," Henry says, and it is a lot less angry than Shawn had been expecting. He ducks his head, almost in acceptance, then continues chewing and swallowing. "We're headed to the school as soon as you're done."

For a second Shawn freezes, but it is Claire's hissed, "Henry, don't--" that sends the sandwich back to his mouth.

His tone is mild. "Okay."

Claire makes a sound of disbelieving indignation but says nothing. Shawn keeps eating. He feels like he is choking, but he stubbornly finishes the sandwich, stubbornly pretends his parents believe he is hungry.

There's a certain amount of comforting familiarity in it.

He is reaching for the second sandwich when Claire speaks again. "Stop. Just...stop this, Shawn."

His hand falls on the sandwich. "I always have two," and then it is in his mouth.

He ignores them after that, eating it as fast as he can. He knows if he stops now he'll never be able to finish. He doesn't know exactly what he thinks he is stopping, or maybe preventing, by doing this, but it's a line he feels like he has a grasp on.

There is a quiet "ksh" behind him of a can of pop being opened and then a hand is in front of him, placing the coke next to his plate.

It is his dad. He looks up, cheeks filled with food as he doggedly chews, his eyes meeting Henry's. It's impossible to place the look on his face, and he turns abruptly back to his food. But he grabs the can, takes a large swallow to force down the sandwich, and it is enough.

The kitchen is quiet after that. Shawn finishes the last bite, nearly gags on the half-chewed wad of food, then promptly gets to his feet. He pushes in the chair with his foot, plate in hand, and goes to the counter that was behind him to rinse it off, already turning on the faucet.

He nearly loses it in the sink. His stomach heaves and for one terrifying second he's certain he can't stop it. The plate drops from his hand, bangs along the stainless steel, and he clutches the sides of the sink, leaning heavily over the basin.

His mom rushes up and he pretends he was getting a drink, putting his lips to the flow of the water. Claire moves her hand from his back as he straightens.

"I've got it," she says quietly as he starts to clean up the counter. He nods and drops the bag of bread he's holding.

"Alright," says Shawn, grin growing as he turns to his dad. "I'm ready to go."

Claire purses her lips but says nothing as both Spencer men leave the kitchen. The front door closes quietly and for a moment she looks defeated, eyes closing.

A second later she is twisting the cap on the mayonnaise. She will take care of what she can.

Shawn is buckling up when Henry suddenly pauses in the middle of climbing into the driver's seat and backs out of the car. He says nothing in explanation and Shawn doesn't ask. He looks out the window as though they're already going, scenery rushing past, and sort of wishes the driver's door was closed. Dad is planning on coming back, and he's not so sure he's ready for it.

Shawn is still staring pointedly out the window when Henry climbs back in. He slams the door and buckles up in one smooth motion.

"Here," he says, and Shawn's missing shoe is suddenly held in front of his face. Shawn looks startled.

"What?" he asks bewilderedly, then looks at his feet. "Oh," he says. Oh, right. He'd forgotten.

Shawn accepts the shoe without looking at his dad, leaning down to pull it on. Henry puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Look, Shawn--"

"Don't touch me," he snaps, tone acid, jerking out of Henry's hold. It is silent and Shawn tightens his laces ruthlessly, the ties digging into his hands as the tips of his fingers go white.

"Fine," Henry says, starting up the car, and all the gentleness is gone. Back to business as usual.

Shawn sees none of the houses that whiz by, or the cars. The food sits heavily in his stomach, his entire digestive system seeming to twist tighter and tighter the closer they get to school. The vinegar thing was really funny, right up until it got added to the list of grievances, directly under "arrested for auto theft." Ms. Mulligan is going to eat him alive, and then Dad is going to chew on the pieces.

He can only hope no one has heard yet.

Henry breaks the silence. "How far did you two get?"

It takes a second for Shawn to realize that his dad is talking about him and Lacy, but another second is all the time needed for his face to flush a dull red. He would hit him with this now, right now, when he thought it was done. Absently, he starts to rub at his neck with his fingers, pressure hard and desperate.

"The sex talk, Dad. Really. Now?" His tone is blase. "Is this when I get to find out how babies are made? Cause the stork story? Yeah, so not buying it--"

"How far did you two get?" he demands again, cutting off what had promised to be a distracting tangent on why the stork story wasn't cutting it anymore. He is unamused. "Now, Shawn."

Shawn flinches, the dull red creeping back onto his cheeks. He doesn't get embarrassed often, but if anyone knows which buttons to push, it's Henry. Dad can't give him a break--no, not can't. Won't. He knows, perfectly well, by his state of dress (his shirt is still tucked in, for crying out loud, which he quickly remedies), that they got six ways to nowhere. He's mortified to realize that he didn't even so much as kiss her back.

The anger follows immediately.

"I put my hand on her thigh. You wanna arrest me for molestation? How 'bout attempted rape?"

"Only if she presses charges," Henry snaps. Shawn finally meets Henry's eyes, and his gaze is saying exactly what his mouth had last night. Hate is a very hard emotion to hide, and Shawn has never really bothered hiding his feelings. It's never been worth it.

The rest of the trip is silent.

When they reach the school, Henry is out of the car first, movements sharp. Shawn follows, looking far more sullen, kicking the door out with his foot, slumping low in the seat before he forces himself up. There is a moment where he fights with the seat belt to let him go, and the struggle is infuriating but short-lived. Henry nearly snaps at him when he slams the car door hard enough to shatter the glass (it doesn't, for which Shawn is both disgruntled and immensely relieved), instead opting to stalk inside ten feet ahead of his son.

Shawn remembers exactly why he's here five feet in front of the large double doors. His stomach, which had been settling (even appreciating the food now that it had stopped fighting to escape) squeezes, the sick feeling back in the base of his throat. He wants to hurl into the bushes, doesn't, and walks inside.

Henry is already sitting in one of the lobby chairs. "Ms. Mulligan is in a meeting," he explains testily. Shawn nods, half waves at the receptionist Doris, then sits down two chairs away from his father.

Doris won't look at him. But no, that isn't quite right, she's shooting him glances every five seconds. Linda is on the phone per usual, speaking with parenst and/or possibly truant students, and she turns, catches sight of Shawn, and just falters. Shawn's hand jumps to his jaw.

It's Lacy, of course. She didn't go home after the police station--why would she go home? She went to Senior Swing and it was all over from there. Teacher chaperones, parent chaperones, and seniors with texting capabilites and little brothers and sisters still in school for the next couple of weeks before summer.

Shawn wants to find a hole and live in it about the time the office aide, Helen, rolls by in her wheelchair (Helley, he calls her, or Heels, depending on his mood, short for "Hell on Wheels," and Gus may smack him and call it inappropriate, but that smile everytime says she loves it) actually blanches when she sees him.

Shawn can actually feel the blood drain from his face. So he does the one thing he knows best.

"Watch it, ladies. I'm a convicted felon now."

"Shawn," Henry snaps, but Doris' giggle is unmistakeable, and Linda has actually lost the thread of her phone conversation, turning to hide her grin. Helen keeps rolling, but she's smiling into her lap.

"Come on, Helley," he says suggestively. "Wanna see my prison tat'?"

The papers in her lap shoot to her face as her eyes twinkle merrily above them. "Maybe I--"

"This isn't a joke, Shawn," Henry barks, and the jovial mood is immediately broken. Doris ducks her eyes as Helen looks away, pretending she can't see. Linda is very stiffly standing with her back to them.

Shawn scowls. "Dad--"

"Tuck in your shirt, fix your tie," Henry orders, tone brooking no argument. Shawn obeys, shoving his shirt back into his pants and tightening what can only be a noose around his neck. He fixes his sleeves when Henry looks pointedly at them. Now is not the time or place to argue.

It's the most control he feels he has right now. Picking his fights.

"Ms. Mulligan's ready for you," Doris says quietly, her eyes still downward.

Henry stands up, thanks her, and Shawn just sort of wishes he could have the firing squad kill him now instead of later.

"Do I get a last smoke?" he asks, but Henry is already moving forward, ignoring him, and Shawn is pretty sure he wants to puke again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Marsha Mulligan is a strict woman. Vice principal, she is in charge of disciplinary matters in the school, and she has a tendency to get to know "the bad kids" and only "the bad kids," which can make her job rather depressing after awhile. She has seen Shawn Spencer in her office more times than she can count, but if she ever wanted to, it's all in his rather large file. He is a slacker, a class clown, and an all-around goof ball who, if he focused for more than ten minutes every school day, could more than likely have been the class valedictorian. She has never had any idea what to do with him--detentions are nearly as painful for the teacher as they are for him, more practical punishments, such as cleaning out an entire classroom for leading his classmates on a revolt, become a study in "how to make anything fun," and calling his father is something she did once and never again. He is the only student to have figured out that her closest friends call her Marshy (and heaven only knows how, no one else at school knew) and he calls her M 'n M, and she can only hope he means the candy and not the singer, whom she dislikes on principle. He is the most charming student she has ever had to discipline.

She is rather fond of him. Shawn is a horrible little snot, and he has never failed to make her smile when he has been called into her office. Secretly, of course, after he has left. Ms. Mulligan is aware of exactly how well he knows his charm works, and she hates encouraging him.

Henry Spencer is an entirely different matter.

There is no doubt that she respects Henry. Likes him, even. Shawn may have gotten his charm from his mother, but he got his charisma, and his smile, from his dad. Henry is perhaps one of the most involved parents at the school, and it's obvious he loves his son, though he has a harsh way of showing it. But Henry doesn't bend, or compromise, and that is not a good thing.

And the look on his face right now is frightening her.

"--whatever you have decided as punishment I will back up without quesiton," Henry is saying, voice tight. He is pointedly not looking at his son, who is sitting in the chair next to him, trying to look nonchalant. He is failing miserably.

Ms. Mulligan has heard, of course. She was chaperoning on first shift (11 to 2, which gave her enough time to get at least a couple of hours of sleep before school the next day) at Senior Swing when Lacy showed up. Teenagers are some of the dumbest people in the world when they feel they have gotten away with something, and Ms. Mulligan had been half following her, keeping an eye on the questionable young woman, when she had caught up with one of her friends.

"Holy shit, you won't believe what just happened," but of course Ashley Flinn had believed what had just happened, and it had been all over from there. The vice principal had felt sorry for Gus when he found out. He had no ride, no one else wanted to leave, and he spent most of the night, or at least the part of it she saw, looking anxiously towards the large front doors of the YMCA. It was painful to watch.

Ms. Mulligan looks down at her desk as Henry waits for her to pronounce judgment. Shawn is looking at the pictures on her walls, pretending he doesn't care, not even glancing at her.

She has his diploma within the folder in front of her. She had been planning on waving it in front of him, threatening him really, just to get that silly smirk off his face one last time (she has to give him props for pulling the switch off without any witnesses, but honestly, the kid is about ten times stupider than she thought if he didn't think she was going to nail him for it anyways). It wasn't that big of a deal, but the thought of Shawn getting the best of her one last time is not one she relishes.

Ms. Mulligan looks up again at Shawn. To sit here and realize that he's still wearing the clothes he was wearing last night, with that look on his face like he doesn't care when he can't even meet her eyes, is not what she ever wished to see. Her gaze drops back down to her desk, where she knows the diploma is hidden, and she comes to a decision.

"I'm so sorry, Henry," she says, frankly meeting his eyes. "I meant to call you to let you know there was no need for you to come down, but you beat me to it. Another student came forward and confessed. They figured--and no, I am not allowed to disclose his or her identity--that Shawn would be given the blame for it. His--or her--parents caught them rather delightedly telling a friend over the phone."

Shawn is finally looking at her, face thunderstruck, and she tries not to look at him. If Henry, who is frowning now, almost suspiciously, looks over at his son, the gig will be up.

"I'm so sorry for the inconvenience," she repeats. "The matter is already taken care of."

The entire story is laid out smoothly in her no-nonsense business tone, and she has repute on her side because she is known for her unfailing honesty. Henry frowns again but leans forward, shaking her hand with a gruff, "thank you."

He gets up and Shawn swiftly follows suit. He looks as though someone has thrown him a lifeline. Ms. Mulligan makes another decision.

"Hold on," she says, and they both pause, turning, Shawn slightly closer to the desk than his father. She pulls out his diploma. "I had this up here--before the student called and confessed--and I would like to give it to you now. No point in mailing it if you're here."

Shawn is frozen, staring at it. He shoots a furtive glance at her face, then back down at the paper held out in her hand. He glances at her again, and she realizes that he's afraid she's going to take it back as soon as he reaches for it. Her expression turns just slightly, almost unnoticeably, to dismay.

Henry ends the stalemate by reaching around his son and taking it from her grasp. "Thank you," he says, then surreptitiously thumps Shawn on the back shoulder.

"Thank you," the teenager says promptly, but that look is still there, like he thinks she's joking.

She smiles and puts out her hand. "I can honestly say it was a pleasure, Shawn." He takes it and she shakes his weak-handed grip firmly. "And I had better never see you in this office again."

Shawn's grip is suddenly stronger, smile dazzling, and the grin has to be hurting his cheeks it's so huge. "No promises," he says, and she laughs.

"Good bye, Shawn." She squeezes his hand once, reassuringly, then releases it.

"Let's go," Henry orders, jerking his head towards the door. He strides through a second later, holding it open.

Shawn turns, halfway through the door and still walking. "Thank you," he says, and he means it, so much, that for a second Ms. Mulligan's heart breaks.

The door closes. "You're welcome," and then, very softly: "Good luck."

Claire is sitting in the living room, very studiously not reading the newspaper she's holding in her hands, when they arrive.

"Mom!" Shawn says excitedly. She jerks back, startled, when a paper is thrust in front of her nose. She takes it, moving it back several inches so she can actually read it, and realizes immediately that it's his diploma.

"Shawn!" she cries. "What--!"

He fills in before she can finish her question. "Ms. Mulligan said it was a mistake! Some other student confessed to the dastardly deed, and yours truly is officially off the hook." He smiles smugly. "She gave me the diploma since we made the trip down. To save on postage, or something like that. Cheap-skates." He sounds very fond of the cheap-skates.

Shawn waits expectantly for his mom to jump up, do a jig and hug him, but her eyes slip past him. They are very angry.

"A mistake," she says, dangerously calm, and Shawn turns his head to see Henry placidly taking off his jacket, dropping the contents of his pockets in the bowl on the small stand in the entrance foyer.

"Mom," he says, eyes desperately trying to get her to look at him. "I got my diploma."

"Go to your room and get some sleep, alright honey?" she says gently, but she doesn't look at him. "You look exhausted."

"I'm not tired," he says, but she misses it, because she's never really been listening.

"You couldn't call," Claire snaps. "Of course you couldn't call. Had to rush over there and 'take care of it.' You sanctimonious ass--"

Henry thrusts the last handful of change into the bowl, which clang loudly, bouncing off one another. "I did what I thought best--"

"Best! You--"

"Mom!"

"--I can't believe this--"

"Of course you 'can't believe this,' you won't see what's in front of your face--"

"Dad!"

"--how about what's in front of your face? Huh? How 'bout--"

Shawn stands there as they snipe at each other. He's standing right in between them. How can they not see him? He's standing right here. He's right here.

Shawn slips out past his dad as Henry moves into the living room. His eyes close and he leans against the wall, head tilted back as he breathes, trying not to listen to the yelling in the other room. His eyes squeeze tighter, lines drawn tight on his forehead, and he thinks of something, anything he could do.

He doesn't know how to fix this.

A second later he's kneeling, pulling off his dress shoes as he puts on his sneakers. The front door opens, closes, and he's gone before he can hear his name, like a punch to the gut, one more time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gus is rudely awoken when something falls through his window and hits the floor with a grunt. He starts violently, scrubbing furiously at his eyes with one hand as he scrambles for his lamp with the other.

His hand falls on his radio alarm instead and he pulls it, sending his watch, several pens, and a collectable mug to the floor. "Back!" he shouts, blinded by the sunlight piercing through the newly opened window. "I'll kill you! I'll--!"

"--beat my head in with Sony's latest in alarm clocks," Shawn finishes as he takes the clock from Gus' hand. "Dude, I'm terrified." He throws the radio back onto the nightstand and it makes a crunch of plastic and parts smashing together that is not the best sound to hear when your warranty expired a week ago.

"Shawn!" Gus cries, throwing his covers off. He flips his legs over the side of the bed, already standing. "What are you doing here? Did you escape from jail? Why--"

"Yes, Gus," Shawn cuts in, tone patient as though explaining something to a child. "I'm an escaped felon. A fugitive from the law. Tommy Lee Jones is going to chase down my ass and then give it to my father to chew on. Now if I could only prove my innocence in time." He suddenly grabs Gus' hand, clutching it to his chest as he stares imploringly into his best friend's eyes. "Will you help me? Will you put your life on the line and--"

Gus pulls his hand free, scowling. "I regret ever seeing that movie with you. And Harrison Ford is way cooler. Harrison Ford I would help. You, not so much. You're never innocent."

"Gus!" he cries as the teen in question makes his way to his closet. He pulls out a shirt, glancing once, peevishly, at the 9:18 blinking on his clock. There's no way he's getting back to sleepnow. "That hurts! Right here," Shawn clutches his chest, "and here." He hugs himself, clutching his back, and Gus doesn't even want to know what that's about.

Gus pulls off his pajama top and starts to stretch the green t-shirt over his head. "Seriously, Shawn," he says, kicking off his pajama bottoms and pulling out a pair of jeans. He fixes his friend with a serious look. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." The answer is short, bland, and Gus doesn't like it, but he says nothing, just zips up his pants.

"Ugh." Shawn flops back on the bed. "Worst day and/or night of my life." He looks mock-excited as he throws his hands up towards the ceiling. "'Welcome to the real world, graduate!'" He snorts, hands dropping. "Seriously, this is the ultimate crap life can throw at me. At least I know the worst is behind me. Nothing but sunshine and puppies from here on out."

"Puppies," Gus says incredulously, eyebrow raised, and Shawn laughs.

"And cake, if I'm good. Or maybe just the frosting, that could work too."

"If you're good." Gus' voice is flat, and his face has that "you can't be serious" look on it. Shawn lets out a snort of laughter.

"No cake, then. But I get sunshine and puppies, so it's all good."

"Your life sucks," Gus says bluntly, and he's not really talking about sunshine and puppies anymore.

Shawn laughs and props himself up on his elbows. "Lemons, lemonade. That's how it goes, right?"

Gus nods. "Yeah, something like that."

Shawn laughs again. "Then, dude, I just made enough to supply every kid on a corner from here to San Francisco."

"We'll make a fortune," Gus agrees, but he frowns when, in the midst of snickering, Shawn turns his head and something catches his eye. "What happened to your face?"

Shawn blinks uncomprehendingly.

"On your jaw," Gus clarifies.

Shawn groans dramatically, falling back on the bed. "Dammit." He props himself up again, looking at Gus with an "I know best" sort of look in his eye. "Having a hot girl--"

"Lacy isn't hot."

"--a girl with a very low-cut dress make out with the side of your face may sound like fun," Shawn has to fight off a smirk at the look of disgust on Gus' face, "but it does nothing for the complexion. I'm not exactly sure who's making girls' makeup these days, but Elmer's really needs to go back to their regular franchise. Lacy's lipstick is like--"

"Okay!" Gus cuts in, realizing that Shawn isn't going to be stopping his increasingly disturbing speech on female makeup anytime soon. "Too much information. I get the point, you've still got some on your neck--"

"Her lips," Shawn breaks in, gazing off into the distance, index finger rubbing not quite absently on his neck, "were like two large sausages--"

"Shawn!"

"Like two piece of swelled balogna--"

"Now you're never going to be able to kiss a girl without thinking about processed meat."

Gus' face is disgruntled, irritated, because he knows he's right. "That was disgusting, Shawn." Shawn's smirk says he knows this. "And that's not what I was talking about. I meant this." He steps forward the couple of feet to the bed and touches Shawn's jaw, tilting his best friend's face upwards, into the light. "What, did you run into a wall or something?"

Shawn is startled and discomfited by having his face man-handled by his friend. "What? That's stupid."

Gus ignores him and peers closer at the skin along the bottom of his face, stretching out to the right of his chin. It is chafed and red, peeling, and ten bucks says it's stinging like the dickens. "It looks like someone rubbed the skin off your jaw with, well I don't know, something. You must've noticed."

Shawn is frozen. "O-oh," he finally manages. "It's nothing." He jerks himself out of Gus' loose grip, falling back onto the bed.

The look of surprise on Gus' face turns to an eye-roll as he walks back to his dresser. He starts rooting through his sock drawer, looking for the pair he wants. "Whatever," he snorts. "Don't tell me."

"See," Shawn says, still laying flat on the bed. "It's not that I won't tell you. It's that I can't. I would have to kill you."

"Or get your dad to," Gus adds, voice muffled. He emerges a moment later, a triumphant smile on his lips as he pulls out a pair of white socks. "Ah-ha!"

Shawn laughs. "Or get my dad to. Next time I get sticky fingers around his pockets I'm slipping the keys into your pants." His voice suddenly goes into an over-the-top excited version of his own, hand jumping girlishly to his chest. "'It was Gus, Dad! It was all his idea! I had no idea the kind of person my best friend was!'"

Gus looks at him seriously, but the corner of his mouth is tugging upwards. "Isn't that my line?"

Shawn laughs loudly at this, and Gus is struck by how very giddy his best friend is right now. Shawn's spirit is indomitable, as people are fond of saying. Gus isn't sure what he was expecting.

This isn't it.

Shawn sits up swiftly. "You know, it's already all over school. Man, the looks I was getting, it was pretty funny actually."

Gus looks confused, pausing in the middle of putting on his socks, the white material scrunched up to the middle of his foot and dangling off his toes. "Why were you at school? I'm no convict--" Shawn guffaws "--but that doesn't strike me as the smartest idea. Even from you."

The eighteen year old grabs a pillow and starts chucking it in the air. "Eh, my dad made me go. Ms. Mulligan--"

"He what? Why would--? I mean, that's just--" Gus is appalled.

"Whatever," Shawn says, now twirling the pillow in the air. He flops back on the bed so he can see Gus, head at an awkward angle as strains his neck back. "Lacy told everyone, huh?"

"Yeah." Gus looks sorry, and Shawn immediately starts throwing the pillow up in the air again, catching it on the down fall. "In her words, it was 'terrifying, horrible, and scary as hell.'" He doesn't mention that the "scary as hell" was in reference to Shawn's dad.

Shawn snorts. "Awesome. Tell me I got a good review on the gossip network."

Gus pauses. He'd been the most heavily talked about person at Senior Swing. About how he'd been arrested for borrowing his dad's truck without permission, about how he'd taken the fall for Lacy, about how his own father had actually frisked him, and it was anyone's guess as to why. The consensus was that Shawn had the worst dad ever; that he'd been given the short end of the stick when they were passing out parents. He'd even caught the teachers and the parent chaperones talking about it, exaggerated looks of horror on their faces.

They all pitied him.

Gus knew Shawn would hate this if he knew. He'd rather be talked down than pitied, painted as a villain rather than a victim.

He doesn't lie. "Let's just say you were a topic of interest."

Shawn laughs again, but his throw is a little too hard and the pillow ends up bouncing off of his knees and onto the floor. He sighs, rather dramatically, and sits up to retrieve it.

"Are you going to graduate?" Gus continues anxiously. "Did Ms. Mulligan--"

Shawn groans, again dramatically, as he realizes that he's going to have to get off the bed to reach the pillow.

"No, surprisingly," he says as he slides off the mattress and into the space between the bed and the wall. His head and shoulders bob out of view as he leans down. He straightens as he throws the pillow backwards onto the bed. "She actually gave me my diploma." Shawn glances back, surveying his shot. He catches the look Gus is giving him and smirks. "Slam, bam, thank you ma'am."

He turns his head away again, but makes no move to return to his position on the bed. Gus is forced to stare at the back of his head. "She just...I--" he shakes his head. "She lied for me, because...I mean, why? Why would she do that? I don't get it. People are just...they're so weird."

Gus raises an eyebrow at him. "No, Shawn. I'm pretty sure that's just you. Tell the rest of us, how is it on the other side of 'nuts'?"

Shawn laughs uproariously at this. Shoulders shaking he bows his head, weird gasping noises escaping his mouth. "How nuts is it," snicker, "on this side of the line? Gus, I..." gasps for laughter, "--she...I--" He breaks off, shoulders shaking again.

Gus has no idea when Shawn stopped laughing, but he suddenly realizes that he is not as okay as he is pretending to be, that he does not really find this as funny as he always does. Gus rushes forward, going around the side of the bed as he falls to one knee. He grabs his best friend's arm urgently, trying to see what's wrong.

Shawn is sobbing, mouth open but silent, crying so hard he can't breathe. His shoulders jerk sporadically, shudders tremoring across his back as his breath hitches.

Gus is terrified. "Shawn..." His eyes are wide, anxious.

Shawn shakes his head, trying to say something. He is clutching his knees, eyes screwed shut as the hard sobs wrack his body. He almost sounds like he's laughing, that weird, hysterical gasping noise, but he's not, he's not, and Gus doesn't know what to do.

He looks frantically behind him, eyes falling on his bedroom door, and the teenager immediately jerks to his feet, already running for it. The door slams against the wall as he yanks it open, but he doesn't care if the door knob has punched a hole in the plaster, he's already sprinting for the kitchen and the parents he knows are having breakfast in it.

Shawn is still sobbing when Mrs. Guster bursts through the door (those huge, frantic eyes and panicked body stance, she could only assume someone had died in her son's room when he came rushing into the kitchen like that), Gus a millisecond behind her. Mr. Guster is still in the kitchen, bewilderedly holding a cup of coffee in his hand. Bless the man, he doesn't fully wake up until about the second cup.

She looks once, bewilderedly, at her son, but he's no help, his petrified stare fixed on his best friend. She wonders, vaguely, exactly when she wandered into the twilight zone (because she's looking at him, and it looks like Shawn, but she has never seen the teenager, in all the years she's known him, show more than amusement towards the world at large; even his anger is tinged with a sort of dark humor), but she is already around the side of the bed, crouching next to her son's closest friend.

"Shawn?" she prompts, hand on his arm. "Sweetie? What's wrong? Tell me what's wrong, honey."

It's impossible to tell if he's trying to speak. His knees are drawn up to his chest, his mouth open as he gasps convulsively for breath, and he could be saying everything or nothing at all. It's more than Mrs. Guster can take and she falls purposefully to her rear, scooting over so her back is against the bed as well. Her arm goes around his shoulders, snaking its way up to his head as she presses him gently to her. Her other arm stretches around his front and over his knees, reaching around to his back to hold him closer.

His own arm goes up and for a second it looks like he's trying to pull her arm off him, but a moment later he's grabbed the front of her blouse like it's the only thing that's keeping him from drowning.

"Shhh," she hushes him, starting to rock him gently. "It's alright, baby, just let it all out. Did something happen to your parents?"

Shawn shakes his head into her shirt, still sobbing incoherently, and she has no idea what that means. She cranes her neck to the left, looking over the teenager's head and past the bed at her back.

"Burton," she says quietly, then, sharper: "Burton."

Gus starts, tearing his eyes from the back of Shawn's head. His mother's eyes meet his own and she's asking him, very pointedly, what is going on.

Gus looks back at Shawn's shaking, hitching form as he answers. "He stole his dad's keys. To his truck. Mr. Spencer arrested him."

Mrs. Guster's mouth has set into a hard line, but she nods and turns her head back to Shawn. "It's okay, baby," she says, still rocking him. She kisses the top of his head and starts rubbing a hand comfortingly up and down his back. Behind her she can hear her husband has finally caught up to the scene in his son's bedroom, and she hears Burton quietly shooing him back out again.

"It's okay, Dad," Gus says quietly as Mr. Guster takes in what he is seeing with an incredulous blink of his eyes, coffee mug still in hand. Gus ushers him out of the doorway to his room, closing the door behind him. Mr. Guster, looking suddenly at the wood of his son's bedroom door, simply shakes his head and heads back to the kitchen. He understands.

Gus turns around, leaning heavily against his door. He can barely see the top of Shawn's head as his mom runs her fingers through his dark hair, and he suddenly pushes away from the wood, walking quietly to the foot of his bed. He slides silently to the floor without looking at them, his back against the end of his bed, just around the corner from his mom and his best friend. He can't see either of them, and he stares blankly at his hands, resting on the knees of his jeans.

Gus listens to the sound of Shawn crying into his mother's shoulder, of Mrs. Guster shushing him soothingly, and in that moment he hates Henry more than Shawn ever has.

Shawn's sobs die gradually, and he take a shuddering breath. He snivels loudly.

"I got snot on your shirt," he says finally, sounding heavily congested, and Mrs. Guster laughs, still holding him to herself, fingers moving from the hair on his neck to his shoulder as she starts smoothing the shirt on his back with her hand.

"Shawn," she says, pulling a kleenex out of her pocket and handing it to him. "That, in a nutshell, is motherhood. Snot is the least of it. It's clean," she says, and he starts to wipe his eyes, eventually blowing his nose. "Someday I'll be doing it for my grandkids." She reaches around the corner of the bed and briefly squeezes her son's knee. Gus smiles, but it's hard, because there's still the matter of his best friend, who laughs off everything, bursting into tears in the middle of his room.

All three are silent.

"You can let go," Shawn says suddenly. The tenor in his voice Gus has heard only a few times, but the embarrassment is unmistakeable.

Mrs. Guster is resting her cheek against the top of his head, and he can feel it when she smiles. "Only when you want me to."

"I want you to," but he doesn't move, so neither does she.

Silence reigns again, and again, it is Shawn who breaks it.

"I don't care about getting arrested." Both Mrs. Guster and Gus know this is a lie, even if Shawn doesn't, but they're hardly going to call him on it now, of all times. "That's stupid. It sucks, but it doesn't matter." He is quiet again, but Mrs. Guster waits, knowing it will come.

"Mom's leaving and Dad doesn't know it yet."

Gus bows his head slightly as Mrs. Guster says "I'm so sorry, honey," but he's hardly surprised. Shawn, the most observant kid in the entire high school, in probably all of Santa Barbara, is the only one who didn't see it coming.

Gus can't blame him.

Mrs. Guster starts to work at Shawn's tie with her fingers, loosening the knot. She starts to slip it out of its band.

"What're you doing?" he mutters, eyes closed.

"Taking off your tie," she explains. He doesn't answer, breaths slow and steady, and she hands the tie to Gus, who hangs it on the end of one of the bed posts.

"Come on," she says, shaking herself form his loosening grip. She pushes herself up on groaning knees, then sits on the edge of the bed, patting it, business-like, a couple of times. "Up you get. Burton, would you please close the curtain?"

Shawn blinks blearily, scrubbing roughly at his eyes as he pulls himself up on the bed, sitting next to her. Gus does as ordered, pulling the curtain down and cutting off the sunlight streaming into the room. The bedroom is plunged into a dim sort of darkness, light still filtering through the gaps between the curtains and the windows.

Mrs. Guster bends over the bed, pulling off first one shoe, then the other without untying them. Shawn blinks but doesn't protest.

"I can do that," he mumbles.

"That's not the point. Lay down."

Shawn does as he's told, curling onto his side, already pulling a pillow to his chest. It ends up half under his head and half in his arms, and it takes both Gusters to jerk the comforter out from under his body. He shifts, but does little else to help them. His eyes are closed, breathing slow.

Mrs. Guster tucks the comforter around him. "I'll call your parents."

"Okay," he breathes, and she kisses him on the side of his forehead before leaving the room.

Gus stays a moment longer. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I'm so sorry. I wish there was something I could do." He watches his best friend breathe for a moment, then turns to leave.

"You're already doing it." Shawn's voice is soft, eyes still closed. "Thanks, man."

Gus pauses in the doorway. "What else would I do for my brother?" and then he is gone.

Shawn wishes that people would stop doing things that made his eyes sting somewhere far in the back of them. But he doesn't really, because he's realized that he's going to survive. That when people say "everything will be alright," it's true. He doesn't know how to react to that.

He sleeps.

Gus catches the tail end of the phone conversation his mom is having with either Claire or Henry as he enters the kitchen. It's doubtful that it matter which.

"It's none of my business..." Gus rolls his eyes. It never is, and it's never stopped her before. The difference now is that he's not embarrassed about it this time. "...but you've done a number on your kid. Yes, I do realize it's none of my business, I said that already. He's exactly what you've made him--no, hear me out. He's charming, good-hearted, rambunctious is the nice way to put it, and, most important to me, he's unfailingly loyal to my own son. And right now he's tied into so many knots he doesn't know which way is up. He's sleeping now. I'll talk to you later."

She hangs up, eyes closing momentarily. When she opens them she catches sight of her son, peering at her intently.

"It's none of my business," she says again. "None of my business and I had no right to do that."

Gus moves toward the cereal cupboard, pulling out the first box his hand comes into contact with. He rethinks his decision when he realizes, with a quick look of disgust, that he's grabbed the All-Bran cereal. He pulls out the Fruit Loops.

"I would've been a lot ruder," he says bluntly as he grabs a bowl. "You would've grounded me for it."

"Probably," she says and leans against the counter, arms crossing. "Maybe not. I was a lot less rude that I wanted to be."

"Good." Gus scowls as he pours the milk. He sits down grumpily. "I hate what they do to Shawn."

"I don't think they know they're doing it," she says, trying to be fair.

He bites fiercely into a spoonful of Fruit Loops. "That's no excuse."

"No," she says with a sigh, looking towards the hall she knows Shawn is down. "No it's not."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shawn emerges nearly five hours later, with a headful of bed hair and a dress shirt that has seen better days and will probably never see those days again. He stands in the entrance to the kitchen, watching Gus and Mrs. Guster play scrabble, and he can only assume Mr. Guster has gone to work, or he'd be in on the action-packed fun. They both look like they're enjoying it, and Shawn can't imagine why. No wonder Gus is such a nerd.

He clears his throat and they both turn, noticing him for the first time. "Afternoon," Mrs. Guster says with a smile. Gus is looking pointedly at his hair and smirking.

Shawn looks at his feet, expression slipping towards mortified, and Gus' expression falls hurriedly. "Shawn--"

"I'm sorry," he bursts, "for...you know, the whole--" he clears his throat, "--snot and crying thing. That's usually not my scene."

"A mother never cares. Neither do friends," says Mrs. Guster kindly. She gestures at an empty chair. "Join us. What do you want to eat?"

"Thanks," he says, arms still crossed uncomfortably as he rubs his arms, "but I've gotta get back home."

Gus whips his head around to look at Mrs. Guster, expression pointed. She nods and he whips it back.

"You can stay the night. Mom will bulldoze any protests."

Mrs. Guster looks disapprovingly at her son, but he doesn't care because he's finally gotten a smile out of Shawn.

"Tempting," he says, smirk small but impossible to miss. "Especially the bulldozing part," Mrs. Guster smiles despite herself, "but I can't. It's time to go home." He looks troubled again, but tries to hide it by leaning more nonchalantly against the door jamb, smiling cheerfully.

Mrs. Guster gets to her feet and Gus follows suit. "Come here," she says, and he looks dubious but does as she's asked. She folds him in a hug. "You'll be fine. I promise."

Shawn pulls back, nodding, but doesn't meet either of their eyes. Gus punches him lightly on the shoulder. "We're always here. You know that."

Shawn whimpers in mock-pain, holding his arm as he walks for the door. "That's my cue to leave, when you start punching your guests."

Gus snorts. "You're not a guest, moron."

"Burton," Mrs. Guster snaps.

"Sorry," he amends, then, under his breath, "for nothing."

Shawn is smirking again, standing on their side porch as he squints in the bright afternoon light. "Apology accepted, Burton."

Mrs. Guster rolls her eyes. "I don't want to hear it," she says, turning back to the kitchen. "That is my cue to leave. Good bye, Shawn," she finishes pointedly, but she's smiling. "You know the door is always open."

"Or the window," Gus mutters. Shawn is grinning as he waves into the kitchen.

The boys are suddenly alone, and Gus' expression turns fretful. "You don't have to. You can stay here at least until tomorrow."

The smile Shawn gives to Gus is reassuring. "Time for me to go home, dude."

Gus' eyebrow goes up, but he still looks worried, torn between confusion. "Not to be a jerk or anything, but don't you usually, you know..."

"Avoid stuff?" Shawn fills in. "Yeah." His smile falls. "I guess...I don't know, I've been avoiding it for years, but I finally get it. I can't, because it's me at the center of it. Today I've decided to stop pretending it isn't. One-day only deal."

Gus is trying to frown angrily, but really he just looks sort of afraid. "Don't be stupid, Shawn. It's not your fault. You don't have anything to do with it. I hate to break it to you, but you're not the center of the universe."

The eighteen year old's smile is wry. "I wish I wasn't," and Gus has no idea how to take that. Shawn looks toward the sidewalk. "No," he says. "It's time to face the music. I've always liked dancing. Lemons, lemonade, Gus."

"Lemonade," Gus repeats, letting it go. "And puppies."

"And puppies," Shawn agrees. He is quiet for a moment. "They're going to have something they want to tell me."

Gus' expression darkens. "That they're sorry? It had better be 'they're sorry.'"

Shawn smiles, and the expression behind it is not hidden for once. It is hurt and it is sadness, a loneliness that twists in the pit of your stomach when no one else is looking. But on the edge of it is that never-failing cheer, because in the end, Shawn has never faked his belief that if the world is going to suck, it's going to amuse the hell out of him first.

"Please say they're going to tell you they're sorry," Gus begs.

Shawn rubs the back of his neck as he looks towards the sky. "I wonder what would happen if they were," he says.

He walks with his hands in his pockets, tie slung over his shoulder as he makes his way down the sidewalk towards his house. His back is is straight and he's whistling a nameless tune as he watches the clouds drift lazily overhead.

And Gus, for the first time in his life, realizes that he can't follow.

11 Years, 1 Hour, and 47 Minutes later

The rain falls hard on the windowpane.

Henry rinses his glass in the sink, reaching over with a hand to flick on the light over the counter.  It's not quite 4:00 yet, but the day is prematurely dark.  The storm clouds have created a gray-sort of gloom that's making it hard for the older man to see in the dim lighting.  He dries off his hands and absently turns on the coffee pot.  It's the type of day for coffee.

Henry is closing the curtains in the living room when he realizes there's someone sitting on his porch.  The world weary sigh that escapes his lips as the blinds close with a quiet clack has nothing to do with trying to figure out who it is, because there's only one person dumb enough to be out in this weather.

The door hits the wall when he opens it, but he ignores it, leaning against the door jam as he squints, arms crossed and trying to see past the screen.

"What are you doing here, Shawn?"

Shawn is sitting on the top step, back to his father and leaning against the side railing.  Henry may as well not have said anything for the amount of reaction he's getting.

"Shawn," he says, tone tending towards annoyed.  He knows he's heard him.  "What do you want?"

The rain is a loud clattering on the porch roof and he has to speak louder to be heard.  But Shawn hasn't so much as moved, and it's starting to worry Henry.  It's not like him to stay silent, or still, for so long.

He pushes the screen door open, the smell of the rain hitting him full force.  "Shawn...?"

“It’s raining today,” he says, as though Henry could have possible missed it.  “How delightfully melodramatic.”

Henry is relieved as he lets the door go and it swings back, closing with a snap.  “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

Shawn is silent for a moment.  "Mom called me today," he says without turning around.  "Wanted to see how I was doing."

Henry leans against the screen, arms crossing again.  "How's she doing?"

The answer is short, but Henry wasn't really asking anyways.  "Fine."

"That's good," he says, but the truth is he can't forget exactly who gave up on their marriage first, and he hardly cares if she's been doing well or not.  Mostly.  And right now, he cannot, for the life of him, figure out what's up with Shawn.  "What is--"  “What is this all about?” he was going to say, but Shawn beats him to it.

“I’m sorry,” his son says, and Henry’s elbow hits the walls as he jerks.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t—” he breaks off, shivering as a wind suddenly blows by, but he’s already talking again by time Henry begins walking towards him.  “—didn’t mean to be the straw.”

There is only a slight hesitation in Henry’s stride to indicate his confusion, but he’s already reached Shawn’s side, and Shawn always makes sense eventually.  He crouches, takes Shawn’s chin with a gentle hand, and turns his head to look at him.

His gaze is bleary, and his eyes track a little too slow.  He is soaked, miserable, and just the slightest bit drunk.

“I’m sorry I broke the camel’s back,” he says.

Henry snorts, releasing Shawn’s chin as he gets swiftly to his feet.  “You’re drunk.”  Drinking has never been an answer for anything, and Henry is already turning back to the house.

“A little.”  Shawn’s voice is nearly inaudible in the loud rain, but the quiet admission makes Henry pause.  “Not drunk enough to be having this conversation.”

Henry turns, but there’s still nothing more to see than the back of his son’s head.  Water is dripping from the ends of his hair.  “What conversation, Shawn?  What can we possible be talking about?”

Shawn is silent, but Henry’s been pulled in at this point and he wants an answer.  He waits.  Impatiently.

“Shawn—”

“I’m sorry I ruined everything.  I was the ‘straw that broke the camel’s back.’” He snorts.  “Hell.  I was the entire load.”  He laughs, but the 29-year-old’s face is half turned to his father, and his expression is raw, like he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do.

Henry is appalled.  “Shawn, what--?”

His weak laugh cuts him off.  “You and mom.  I’m sorry it was me.”

Henry has no idea how to take this.  He doesn’t even know where it’s come from.  Claire called Shawn today, he’s told him that much, so there’s a connecter there, there has to be, but he doesn’t have a clue what it could be.

“Did your mom say something—?”

Shawn groans loudly, cutting him off as he begins beating his head dramatically against the side railing.  “No, Dad.  Mom didn’t say anything.  She asked me how I was doing.  End of conversation.”

Shawn isn’t lying, and Claire, as angry as Henry is at her, would never say anything to hurt her son.  But there’s more to this, that much he knows.  What day is it?  Has he missed something significant?  Henry wracks his brain for anything that can tell him just what is going through his son’s head.

Henry rubs his arms suddenly.  It’s cold in the rainy weather, especially when the wind blows, and he’s wearing a t-shirt.  “I still don’t understand what you’re sorry for.”

Shawn shivers and Henry eyes him appraisingly.  Now that he’s standing this close to him, he can see that his clothes are soaked, his shirt clinging to his skin.  Shawn just sighs.

“This seemed like a much better idea half an hour ago, in the bar.”  He closes his eyes and leans into the wood railing.  It’s cold, and the rain slides down into his collar.  “I was drunker half an hour ago.  Rain sobered me.”

Henry speaks up from behind him.  “Where is Gus—” he breaks off, and Shawn can hear the ferocity in his voice as he changes tacks.  “You didn’t drive here, did you?”

Shawn snorts.  “I’m not dumb enough, thank you very much, to drive around when I’ve been drinking.  Besides,” he continues, “Gus took my keys.”  He sounds disgruntled, and Henry will have to remember to thank Gus later.

“Where is Gus?” he asks with a nod that Shawn doesn’t see towards the street.

For the first time, Shawn looks significantly more amused.  “He’s going to be surprised when he comes out of the bathroom and I’m not there anymore.”

Henry rolls his eyes towards the porch roof.  The fact that Gus hadn’t called him yet to try and figure out where he was, probably meant that Gus already knew.  Henry wouldn’t put it past his son’s best friend to follow him.  Shawn would know that if he had been firing on all cylinders.

“Right,” he says, speaking up from behind him.  There’s still the matter of why they were in the bar, because as far as he can tell, Claire just called Shawn today with nothing more in mind than to see how he was doing.  “What happened?”

Shawn opens his eyes.  “You know what happened.  I got arrested and Mom decided to leave.  I’m sorry, I just…I…” he chokes on his words for a second.  “I’m sorry.  I don’t know how else to say it.”

“Shawn,” Henry says.  He sounds aghast, and just a little dismayed.  “You can’t possible blame yourself for—that’s just…” but he tapers off because he’s just realized what day it is, or was, almost exactly eleven years ago.  Claire had been sitting on the edge of their bed, head in her hands after Mrs. Guster had called to tell them that Shawn was at her house, thank you very much and I think he’ll be staying here for a bit, because the fact was, they hadn’t even noticed he’d left.

“He’s sleeping,” he’d said, placing the phone back in the cradle.  Claire had looked up then, and though her eyes were dry, there was something gaunt to the set of her cheeks.

“I never want to see my son force-feed himself again.  Because of me.  Because of us.”  She’d put here head back in her hands, forehead tight.  “He nearly barfed in the sink.  Tried to pretend he was just getting a drink of water.”

Henry recalls sitting next to her then, and it is the fact that their legs almost touched, but didn’t, that he remembers most clearly.  “Stubborn kid.  Gets that from both of us.”

She’d moved her hands from her face, gaze meeting his.  “You know why he did it, right?”

Henry had met her eyes squarely.  “You were about to blame me for ruining his appetite.”  Her eyes had blazed and he’d put up his hands hastily.  “—which I did.  He couldn’t take anymore.”

Here answering laugh had been short and humorless.  “Neither can I.”  She’d closed her eyes for a second, hands limp in her lap.  “There’s so much blame to go around, I don’t think it matters anymore who owns which part.  I’m so tired of fighting.”

Henry had taken her hand, and her eyes had opened, though she hadn’t look at him.  “We’ll work through this.  We have in the past, we can do it again.”

Claire had pulled her hand out of his grasp, but it was her refusal to meet his eyes that he will never forget.

“It’s over, Henry.”

It is this, eleven years later, that he cannot forgive her for.  For quitting, for running away, and he’s never questioned where Shawn got that particular tendency.  But he suddenly understands why Shawn had looked so expectant that day, and why he hadn’t looked surprised when they’d told him they were getting a divorce four days later.  Henry shouldn’t be surprised Shawn had already seen it coming, but he is, and he doesn’t know why.

He has figured out, however, why Shawn is bothered by it now, and why he showed up on his doorstep to apologize.  Shawn never keeps track of the date, but if Claire had called him, today, he would have remembered exactly what day it was.

It is the first time Henry thinks remembering everything, with perfect clarity, is not just a good thing.

Henry sighs, loudly, and Shawn turns his head back to look at him out of the corner of his eye.

“Shawn,” he starts.  “You had nothing to do with your mother and I—”

“Don’t, Dad,” Shawn snaps, turning away.  “Evidence doesn’t lie, you taught me that.  I was always the reason you fought.  Every time you guys had a fight, it was my name you screamed.”

Henry is silent, and Shawn is trying hard to control that odd hitching in his chest.  He hasn’t had this feeling in years, and he hates it even more now than he did back then.  A moment later he’s fought it down.

Henry’s voice is quiet when he finally speaks.  “I also taught you that evidence is nothing without perspective.”  Shawn hears the creak of wood as Henry walks forward, then stops.  He doesn’t know if he’s relieved, or disappointed.  “Our fights had everything to do with you, and nothing at all.”

Shawn closes his eyes and wishes he would shut up.

“We were angry at each other for a long time,” he continues.  “We were both stubborn, and there are a lot or reasons your mom and I failed, but most of it had to do with the fact that neither of us could believe we were in the wrong.  You were so easy to fight ab9out, because we were both sure we knew best.  And you were the best thing in our life.”

Shawn is staring at his hands.  “That’s just…” he trails off.

“Stupid?” Henry fills in.  He snorts, and the porch creaks as he starts to pace.  “Yeah,” he says.  “It was all stupid.  And I’m sorry, Shawn.  I’m so sorry, because we never thought you’d blame yourself, and that was the stupidest idea of all.”

Shawn can’t believe he’s hearing this.  He doesn’t know what he expected.  Nothing, probably, maybe a grunt of agreement.  He doesn’t know what to do with this.

Henry makes it easy for him.  “Come inside, kiddo.  You look like you’re freezing.”

It’s still an easy decision to make.  He pulls on his sopping wet sleeves, hugs his arms to himself, and shakes his head “no.”

“Go away,” he whispers.  “Just…leave me alone.”  He sounds childish, but he doesn’t care, because his head is starting to pound and he doesn’t know what to think.

Henry is silent for a long second behind him.  Then the porch flooring creaks, the hinges on the screen door squawk as it swings open, and he’s gone before Shawn can realize that Henry has left.

It feels like betrayal again.  Shawn wants to say he didn’t mean it, but even more he wants his dad to know he didn’t mean it, or even if he did, to stay anyways.  He feels empty, and, as he snivels loudly, he’s pretty sure he’s getting a cold.

Shawn is still sitting on the porch, rain drizzling miserably into the bands of his clothes, sniffling the mucus back into his nose and feeling altogether sorry for himself, when the screen door swings back open.  There is the sound of heavy thumping, and the 29-year-old looks up just in time to have a large Police Department coffee mug thrust in front of his face.  He stares at it.

“Well go on,” Henry says, sounding annoyed.  There’s a folded umbrella hanging on his arm and another coffee mug in his other hand.  “Take it.  I’ve only got two hands.”

Shawn accepts it unthinkingly, nearly dropping the hot mug, but the warm glow is already heating his hands.  Henry gets creakily to his knees, grunting as he joins his son on the top step, a disgusted look crossing his face as he’s forced to seat himself in a mini-puddle.  He hands the other mug to Shawn, glares distastefully at the sky, then pulls out the umbrella, shaking it open and pushing it wide with a hand.  He holds it up over both of them.

“What’re you doing?” Shawn asks bewilderedly as Henry takes the coffee back with a free hand.

Henry sips the hot liquid, shifting the umbrella to cover himself more effectively.  He doesn’t look at Shawn.  “Waiting for my son to come in the house.”

“Waiting…” Shawn starts, still staring at the older man.

Henry shoots him a peeved look out of the corner of his eye.  “Yes.  Now drink up,” he orders, tipping his head towards the mug clasped between Shawn’s hands.  “You’re probably going to get a cold anyways, but it won’t hurt.  You’re an idiot, Shawn, but you’re a particular kind of idiot when you’ve been drinking.”

“You want…” he simply adds, like he’s still not sure what’s going on.

“Yes,” Henry says, tone exasperated.  “I want you to come in the house.  I always want you to come in the house.”

Shawn turns his head towards the street.  “Okay,” he says, but he doesn’t move.

“Good,” Henry replies, turning his own gaze on the gray ocean, but he doesn’t move either.

And Shawn, who’s been trained to notice everything, doesn’t miss the upturn of Henry’s mouth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Afternoon, Mrs. Cartwright,” Samantha says from the front desk.  She gives her a friendly nod, but her older office staff are suppressing giggles, which is never a good sign.  “You have a visitor in your office.”

“In my office?” she says.  “Sam, you know that’s off-limits until I arrive.  I don’t like people in my office when I’m not there.”

Samantha shrugs amiably, popping the gum she is not supposed to be chewing, and turning back to the computer.  “He wouldn’t have it any other way.  And they—” she gestures backwards at the two office ladies snorting into their hands as they pretend to work, “said it would be alright.”

Mrs. Cartwright gives them a very hard look, but they pretend they haven’t seen.  They’re hardly intimidated after working with her as long as they have.  “Fine,” she says.  “Samantha, spit it out,” Sam sighs loudly, but gets rid of her gum, “and I’m watching you two,” she finishes as she strides for her office.

“I’m sure you are,” Linda says, and Doris giggles loudly.

She kind of misses the days when the office ladies feared her.

He’s sitting on her desk, when she enters, an upper twenties, maybe lower thirties young man with dark, gelled hair gleefully inspecting the pictures on her walls.  She clears her throat loudly, and when he turns she looks pointedly at where he is sitting out of habit.  He jumps off her desk and just grins, and there is something remarkably familiar in that smile.

“M n’ M,” he says, almost sadly.  “I can’t believe you got married.  How could you do such a thing to me?”

She is flabbergasted for just a moment, then her mouth closes and she’s going to kill Doris and Linda for not warning her.  “Shawn Spencer, you’ve as little respect for authority as you did the day you graduated.”

“Oh good,” he said, arms crossing as his smile quirks at her.  “You do remember me.”

“I could hardly forget,” and now her own smile is fighting its way onto her face.  “Come here,” she says, putting out her arms.  “You owe this old lady a hug.”

Shawn complies, hugging her briefly.  “You’re hardly old.  Marshy, really, I was counting on you to be waiting for me.”  His puppy dog look has to be one of the most pathetic things she’s ever seen and she laughs.  “When did you marry this Mr.…” he glances at the nameplate on her desk, “Cartwright?”

“Three years ago,” she says.  “It took a long time to meet him, but he was worth the wait.  He’s a very kind gentleman who knows how to treat me properly.  How have you been?”

“Good,” he says, then his smirk grows.  She’s honestly missed that look.  “I’m a psychic now.”

She snorts.  “I’m hardly surprised.  Quite frankly, I don’t want to know why everyone seems to believe you.”  She catches the quizzical look he’s giving her.  “You’ve been in the paper.  I should have recognized you immediately when I saw you in here.”

“Yes,” he says.  “And I’m hurt.  I don’t look that different, do I?  I mean, I haven’t gotten much taller,” which is true, she’s always been a tall woman and his eyes are still a little lower than hers, “but look at these manly shoulders!”  He indicates his slightly broader shoulders and she has to laugh.  He was scrawny all through high school.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.  She may like having old students of hers visit, but he’s not the type to simply hang around his old stomping grounds for the nostalgia of it.

“I saw your car in the parking lot and it made me think.  Seniors graduated?”

She has no idea how he can have seen her car in the school parking lot because it’s not the same car it was over ten years ago.  Though she can say she “doesn’t understand why everyone believes he’s psychic,” but she knows perfectly well exactly how he’s so convincing.  She ignores the admission, however—he’s always liked showing off.  “Not yet.  They moved graduation to the following week in May.”

“Poor buggers,” he says, and he doesn’t mean it at all.  He’s suddenly serious, and she knows he’s finally ready to say whatever it is he came to tell her.  “I don’t think I ever thanked you for that day.  You saved my life.”

The vice principal walks to her desk.  There’s some work that needs doing.  “You’re still as dramatic as always.  You didn’t really need me to do that.  You just looked like you needed a friend.”

Shawn’s smile is wry.  “I did.  Thank you.”

“You’re always welcome,” she says, looking up from her desk with a smile.  Her expression softens.  “How are you and your dad?”

He knows what she’s asking.  He’s fine, and his dad is fine, and that is not what Marshy wants to know.  She was always remarkably perceptive, and he’s never really thought of why he respects her as much as he does until now.

“We’re…okay,” he says.  She smiles, because he means it.  “We talked yesterday about…stuff.”

“Stuff,” she says with a curt nod.  “Always a good subject.  I’m very glad to hear that, Shawn.”

Shawn leans against her desk, hands sliding into his pockets.  “Funny thing is, so am I.”

“Growing up is never as overnight as we’d like it to be,” she simply assures him.  Shawn laughs.

“Reassuring,” he says.  “I’ve gotta' go.  Save the world with my special abilities and all.  I simply just remembered I hadn’t promised to never see you in this office again.  Had to pay up on that threat, Marshy.  He does call you Marshy, right?”

“Goodbye, Shawn,” she says pointedly, still smiling.  She is not going to rise to his bait.  That was always the key to staying on top, or at least keeping up, with her conversations with the young man.

Shawn looks like he’s trying to pout, but he’s failing miserably.  “You’re still trying to keep me out of trouble.  It will never work.”  He gets up, pushing the door open.

“Everyone needs a lost cause,” she says.

“I’ll see you in another ten years,” he promises, and he’s pushed his way out into the hall before she can wave goodbye.

“Hello, ladies,” she hears, followed by the sound of Doris giggling, and then that’s all as the door swings shut.

And Mrs. Cartwright smiles, because it turns out this job was worth it.  She rifles through her desk for her old files, shifting a pen and a box of paperclips.

Shawn Spencer is proof of that.