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Author's Chapter Notes:
Disclaimer: I don't own Psych, To Kill a Mockingbird, or Duck Dynasty.

Also, thank you so much to everyone who reviewed! I know I'm rubbish and replying, but I'm going to really make an effort to get caught up and tell everyone personally just how much your support and reviews mean to me - because they do!!! :)

First off, I realize the chapter title might be a little... well... callous. But then again, so was "Hang In There, Shawn (As If You Have a Choice)", so I'm sticking with it, lol. :) Sorry this is a little later on Tuesday than usual, but I spent all my free time at work on here reading Dragonnan's Fury series and subsequently bawling my eyes out! LOL, anyway... Enjoy, please read and review! XD
Henry sat next to the bed that his son lay on, a bandaged hand lying gently on Shawn's not-as-injured right arm. At the shoulder, bulging bandages showed through the thin hospital gown where they'd wrapped his shoulder after setting it back in place. I.V.s were attached in several places in the arm, so Henry had to be careful not to accidentally tug the lines that wound off the side of the bed and to the I.V. Bags. The nurse had given him a rundown on what was being pumped into his son's body, a cocktail of antibiotics and nutrients to combat dehydration, and a heck of a lot of painkillers. A steadily beeping machine showed Shawn's vitals, and his temperature had been holding at a steady 103.5 for the last three hours. It had dropped .2 degrees since Dr. Garfield had briefed him on his son's condition, but it was still extremely high and the infection was raging through his arm, and, according to a concerned looking doctor about forty-five minutes ago, it seemed to be spreading, which had sent Henry into a state of panic that had surprised even him. If this kept up, would he be forced to make a decision that could cost Shawn his arm? And if not his arm, then his life? The thought nauseated him.

His right arm was wrapped in a kind of temporary cast, the bones set and torn skin repaired. Surrounding the upper edge of the cast, Henry could see puffy red skin in stark contrast to the white cast. Shawn was covered up to his waist, but Henry could see the bulge of bandages through the covers where his right knee was supposed to be. To think of the damage that had been inflicted on that kneecap... Henry couldn't imagine the months of agonizing surgery recovery and therapy Shawn would have to endure. He'd have to hog-tie the kid and throw him in the back of the truck to get him to go to physical therapy, Henry thought wryly, then stopped himself short, feeling sick.

He'd gotten a call from Detective O'Hara about half an hour ago, asking if there'd been any change in Shawn, and letting him know that apparently while they'd been rescuing Shawn, the department had gotten a call from a terrified Blanche Raleigh, who was Herman O'Dell's current housekeeper, saying that her boss had been missing when she'd gotten to work that morning, and that there was blood on the floor.

Her call was a little too late, but she hadn't sounded terribly upset when she'd learned that her employer wasn't going to be in need of her services anymore, and now that he was dead, she could get on with her life. Apparently he wouldn't let her leave under threat of death since she knew too much about many of his underhanded business ventures. She could very well be charged as an accessory since she didn't tell anyone, but would probably receive leniency because of the threat to her life and because she had some evidence that might prove that Detective Jim Morton's car accident hadn't been all that accidental after all, not to mention all the other information she would be able to give about O'Dell.

Not that it mattered in the way of convicting the dead man, but it would offer closure and probably lead them to some of his associates. It was good news, but Henry had a hard time focusing on anything but the fact that his son was gravely ill in the ICU because of something that O'Dell had set into motion over twenty-five years ago with the murder of his housekeeper and lover Alicia Tyler. Too many people had had their lives ruined by the underhanded, dirty workings of the wealthy criminal. The girl who had originally been murdered, Alicia Tyler. One of Stephens's lead witnesses. Jim Morton. Yes, even Aaron Stephens, although his downward spiral on the crazy-mobile couldn't be totally blamed on O'Dell. And now Shawn. His son.

Getting shot in the head by the man he'd framed for a murder all those years ago might have seemed like a poetic kind of end to Herman O'Dell, but Henry wanted to see him punished, to finally go behind bars, to reap the punishment for his wrongs for a long time to come. A shot to the head almost seemed too kind. He probably hadn't even felt anything. But at least he couldn't hurt anyone anymore. Neither could Aaron Stephens, who would be facing several life sentences now for first-degree murder and attempted murder, along with a slew of other charges.

How could it have come to this? Henry looked at Shawn's face, so drawn and pale, his skin seeming to be stretched tight over his face. Eyes closed, dark bruising on his jaw. Bandage around his head, tufts of wild brown hair sticking out from between layers of bandaging. A dark ring of grotesque bruises around his neck where the noose had stopped him briefly before Detective Lassiter had shot him down. His eyes traveled back to his arms. Both wrists bandaged heavily from deep lacerations from the restraints.

"Shawn," said Henry softly in a voice he almost didn't recognize as his own, so full of emotion and regret as it was. He blinked several times, cleared his throat, and tried again. "I'm sorry, son. This was... I never would have thought, even for a second, that anything like this would ever happen, especially like this. To think that a case that I wasn't even investigating would turn into a nightmare over two decades after is unthinkable. I didn't..." He broke off with a sigh, not sure what he was hoping to accomplish with this monologue. Shawn was under pretty heavy sedation; he probably couldn't hear him. Even if he could, what good would his words do now? What was the point of his regret, his guilt? What had happened had happened, and Shawn had paid a terrible price.

Henry swallowed, slightly tightening his grip on Shawn's limp forearm, careful not to disturb the I.V. tubes. "I want you to know that I'm proud of you, son. You went through more than even I can comprehend. But you were strong. And in the end, you saved me. You saved us both." He thought about how he'd been pistol-whipped by Stephens and he'd fallen to the ground, unable to do anything to help himself or his son. And then, blearily, through blurred vision and hearing that seemed to be filtering through an old phonograph, he'd heard a thump, seen Stephens's body falling unconscious in front of him. Heard the swinging of the ropes and Shawn's heavy breathing. Put two and two together. Shawn had somehow managed to find the strength to knock Stephens out cold with a swift kick to the head.

He took a deep breath, wincing only slightly as it agitated a bruised rib from his fight with Stephens. "If your fever doesn't go down, Shawn, if the infection in your bones tries to keep spreading to other parts of your body, they might have to..." His voice broke. "It's not good, and it's not a decision I ever, ever want to make. But I might have to." His tongue felt thick in his mouth and his throat was tight, but he forced the words to keep coming. "I don't know if you can hear me, Shawn, but if you've never listened to me before a day in your life, you damn well better listen to me now. I know you, kid, and how darned stubborn you are. That despite your... shenanigans... you're a fighter. You need to muster up your strength, pal, and fight this infection with everything you've got. I—"

He was cut short as the door opened. He spun around, ready to chew out the nurse for not knocking before she entered, but he blinked in surprise at who was standing there.

"Gus? What are you doing back here? Did they—?

Gus shook his head, his eyes wide as he saw his best friend for the first time since he'd gone missing yesterday afternoon. As big of a shock as all of this was to Henry, he realized that it was even more so to Gus, because he hadn't seen anything of Shawn in between. While he had been there at the doctor's briefing, he didn't know what had happened, the hell that Shawn had gone through. "I, uh..." He had a poorly-masked guilty expression on his face, one that Henry had grown accustomed to seeing throughout the years. Gus was horrible at hiding his emotions and guilt. "The nurse was called away for a minute, some emergency," he said quickly. "I'm sorry, but Shawn's my best friend. They can't—"

Henry smiled as best he could despite the circumstances and glanced toward the window on the door to make sure no one was looking. "I won't tell if you don't," he said gruffly.

Gus smiled gratefully and sank into a chair on the other side of Shawn's bed. He watched his friend for a few long moments, then swiped at his eyes. "C'mon, Shawn," he said. "You can do this. You'll be back on your feet catching bad guys again in no time."

Shawn didn't respond, and the room fell to silence except for the steady beeping of the cacophony of machines around them.

The next day, Shawn's fever broke. Well, it didn't break completely, but it made a rapid decrease from 103.5 to 101.2 which the doctor said with no lack of relief on her face was very good news. The infection was still there, and still pretty strong, but their efforts to confine it to his arm until they could flush it out seemed to be proving effective. He'd been moved into a regular room. "In fact," Dr. Garfield said, "if he keeps this up, we'll probably be able to bring him in to surgery to get that knee fixed soon, hopefully within the next couple of days". He was still on a slew antibiotics and heavy painkillers, but they'd taken him out of sedation, so he was just sleeping now. He was doing about as well as could be hoped, but he still had a long recovery ahead of him. But he was going to be okay, and the doctor had assured his friends and family that his arm would stay where it belonged barring any highly unlikely complications.

Gus had been staying with Shawn as much as he could since he'd been moved to a regular room and had been allowed visitors, but he'd had to get some work done and had been stopping by the station to see how the case was going, but everything was pretty much cut and dry, although they were digging up more about O'Dell and learning more about Stephens in the process. There was no doubt that Aaron Stephens was going away for good, and rightfully earned this time.

Maddie's plane was supposed to land at eight that evening. Henry found that he was looking forward to seeing her again, even though the circumstances were grim. He'd finally gotten through to Abigail, and convinced her not to take an emergency flight back to the states, because Shawn was going to be fine.

Detective O'Hara finally had some free time from her caseload and had told Gus she'd be dropping by to personally check up on Shawn later that afternoon. Henry hoped Shawn would be awake by then. Even though Dr. Garfield said that he was going to be okay, he still needed to hear Shawn's voice, see his eyes open and aware, more than anything. You can't just watch something as traumatic as having your child brutally tortured before your eyes and just shake it off. Henry was well aware that he'd be having nightmares about this for years. Maybe forever. And Shawn... Well, it was safe to say that this freshly un-sedated half-drugged sleep was going to be about the best sleep that his son was going to have for a while.

Gus was gone at the moment, and a nurse had just come in to check on Shawn, so Henry figured that he'd be left in peace for a while. He stifled a yawn, dragging his hand over his jaw, which was dotted with stubble. He hadn't shaved, hadn't even showered, since before Shawn had gone missing the day before yesterday. He hadn't slept, either. Everyone kept telling him that he needed to go home now that he knew that Shawn's life and limbs weren't hanging in the balance anymore, get a few hours of sleep in a real bed instead of half-dozing in the hard-backed seat by Shawn's hospital bed. Take a shower, eat something.

But he wasn't going to leave this hospital – he'd hardly even left the room – until he saw for himself that Shawn was going to be okay.

He was so wrapped up in his worries, regrets and thoughts, fighting those foreign emotions that he refrained from associating himself with on a daily basis that he almost missed it when Shawn made a slight pained noise in his throat.

Almost.

Henry snapped to attention, leaning forward in his chair, literally at the edge of his seat as he watched for any other sign that Shawn was waking. When it didn't come, Henry reached out and put his hand gently on Shawn's forehead, avoiding any bruises and scratches. Gently, carefully, he ran his hand through his son's unkempt hair sticking out from the front of the bandage. "C'mon, kid," he said, and even though his voice was gruff, his tone was gentle. "Wake up."

***

He didn't know how long he had been floating (falling?) in the darkness, and he wasn't even sure if it was real. If he was real. Scattered, strange and confusing images flitted through his mind, but they were so elusive and quick, he couldn't seem to catch hold of them, let alone figure out what they meant or even what they were.

He didn't feel pain, which surprised him, although he didn't know why it surprised him. He thought he may have felt pain before, and from the dread that had seemed to lodge itself into his consciousness, it had probably been bad.

Every so often, voices would scratch at his awareness, making him think that maybe there was something more than this darkness. That maybe he could escape, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to escape, because escape could mean pain. In his brief moments of semi-lucidity in this strange black dream state, or whatever it was he had found himself in, a sense of terror would overtake him, so overwhelming that he wanted nothing more than to squirm back into the abyss and never come out.

But voices, noises, filtered through occasionally. Beeping, murmuring. He couldn't understand what they were saying. Everyone sounded glum, or angry, or concerned. No one was loud. Everyone was subdued. He vaguely recognized the voices, but he couldn't put a face or name to them.

Eventually – and it happened so gradually that at first he didn't even notice – he began to rise out of the fog, the pressure that had been weighing him down for so long. He didn't even realize that the muffler over his hearing had receded some until he realized he could actually understand what someone was saying, or at least he could make out the words, though his muddled mind was still having issues working out what they meant. He heard his dad's voice, he thought, but it couldn't be his dad's voice, because his dad didn't sound like that, ever. He didn't sound desperate or defeated. He didn't sound anxious. He sounded grumpy and crabby and angry and gruff. Often disappointed. Occasionally proud, but he always tried to hide it behind the aforementioned emotions.

"...you were strong... if the infection in your bones tries to keep spreading … they might have to … I don't know if you can hear me … you damn well better listen to me now … you're a fighter … muster up your strength … fight... Gus...?"

That was odd. His dad wanted him to fight Gus? Or maybe he was only hearing some of the conversation. He wasn't sure what the random words and phrases he was hearing meant, after all, and there was no way that he could lift himself from this oppressive blackness.

After the noises came more blackness, then he realized that he could feel again. Not sensations, like pain, but he could feel something soft under his back and head. Something on his head and arms and legs. He suddenly panicked at the thought of not being able to move his limbs. He tried to shift slightly, but all that happened was a wave of pain that shot through his arm. A soft, barely audible whine made its way through his throat, the first sound he could remember making in... well, as long as he could remember, at the moment.

And with that noise, the real world came crashing back as he was thrust brutally from the dark and into reality, with the sounds and sensations coming into clearer focus. The pain returned too, but it was much duller than he had expected. He stopped trying to move, kept his eyes shut and tried to stop the barrage of memories that were suddenly assaulting him. Dead mockingbirds and murdered environmentalists, the fight in his apartment, Aaron Stephens and his insane revenge plot, his dad, bones breaking and guns being fired and...

Then there was a hand in his hair, the touch gentle. "C'mon, kid," it said. "Wake up."

That was his dad again, the dad that couldn't be his dad, and suddenly, despite the horror of remembering the hell that he had been through, despite the dull pain and the confusion and chaos, Shawn needed one thing more than anything – his dad.

With enormous effort, a lot of blinking and groaning with pain and effort, he finally managed to unstick his gorilla-glued eyelids and pry his eyes opened to see the blurry image of his father hovering over him.

***

Doctor Angel Garfield hurried down the hall, her white coat flapping behind her. She'd just found out that one of her patients had woken up, and although a nurse had already started checking on him, she wanted to see for herself.

She'd been a doctor for nine years now, and she'd seen many things, terrible accidents, terrible non-accidents – there was a surprising amount of violence in Santa Barbara, she'd realized – but the level of brutality and violence in this case disturbed her perhaps more than anything she'd seen in a while. She'd become a bit jaded in her years as a doctor, maybe, because she'd seen a lot more about humanity than she would have ever imagined through her experiences in the ER, but it still appalled and even shocked her to a certain extent that one human being could do something like this to another.

Shawn Spencer was lucky to have survived with all his limbs intact.

She didn't know everything that had conspired, only what she had needed to know in order to best treat her patient, but what she had been told bothered her more than her professionalism and pride cared to admit.

One thing she had figured out was that Mr. Spencer was a fighter. She hadn't told his father how terrifyingly close he had come to having to make the choice about amputating his arm; it had been that bad. But he had started responding to the medicines, and now that he was awake, she was eager to meet this resilient young man – she'd read about him in the paper before, and although she wasn't really sure she believed in psychics, she was still impressed.

She reached the room, took a moment to steel herself as she always did before entering a patient's room, carefully arranging her face into the schooled expression of understanding, control and calmness that she had long ago mastered. She knocked on the door and slipped inside.

The room looked like an exotic rainforest populated by a tribe of pineapples. She'd been in here before but the forest had expanded since early this morning. Flowers, balloons, cards and lots and lots of pineapples covered almost every available surface, gifts and messages from well-wishers, friends and family. She wasn't sure what was with the pineapples, but they had overtaken the room.

Shawn's father, Henry, a balding, gruff man who hadn't slept in days (or showered, her nose detected), whom she had noticed cared deeply about his son but had a very hard time expressing it and Burton Guster, her patient's best friend who had snuck into the ICU room several times (she knew, she understood, and, at her best judgment, she had overlooked, though she wouldn't let anyone else know that) were sitting on either side of the bed. Lacey Carter, one of this floor's morning nurses, was taking Shawn's vitals while he lay on the bed, eyes closed but body tensed slightly, and she knew he was awake. There was a cup of ice chips and a spoon on the table by the bed.

"Knock knock," she said as she entered, a standard greeting she used when she was "intruding" on her patients and their family.

To her absolute surprise, her patient, the one with a dislocated shoulder, cracked shoulder, busted kneecap and infected compound arm fracture, not to mention more trauma than even Nicholas Sparks would know how to write in a 300-page novel weighing on his mind if he remembered, cracked open eyes with dark circles beneath them and answered in a raspy, exhausted and pain-filled voice, "Who's there?"

Mr. Spencer, Sr. snorted, shaking his head. Mr. Guster said seriously, "It's the doctor, Shawn. Remember, we told you we'd called her since you woke up?" He thrust three dark brown fingers into his friend's face and demanded, "How many fingers am I holding up?"

She noticed with concern but not surprise that Shawn flinched at the sudden movement and close proximity of his friend, but before she could say anything, he responded to Mr. Guster in a voice that was still weak but obviously amused, "Gus, don't be as useless as a razor in the Duck Dynasty household. She said 'knock knock,' I said, 'Who's there?' It was a joke."

Dr. Garfield wasn't quite able to cover up her snort-laugh with a cough like she'd hoped, but she managed to put her doctor-face back on. She moved forward, amazed at his quick wit this soon after waking up, at his seeming nonchalance about the whole situation. But then she got closer and she met his eyes, and she saw in those hazel depths a pain and stark terror that could not be hidden behind a mask of humor. His eyes told the true story, and she knew he remembered what had happened to him. He was playing at being funny, shrugging off the traumatic experience, but inside his head, all hell was breaking loose.

Fresh sympathy filled her, but then she reminded herself that she was a doctor, this was her patient, she was a professional, and that from what she'd seen of this guy, he wasn't the kind that would want pity anyway. "Hi, Mr. Spencer," she said, putting her hands in her coat pockets. Normally she would go for a handshake, but in this case, with two dysfunctional arms, she was kind of out of options. She didn't think it would go well to try to shake his left foot in greeting, even if it was the only limb that wasn't significantly injured. "I'm Dr. Angel Garfield. I've been taking care of you, but we haven't officially met. How are you feeling?"

He grunted noncommittally, his eyes sliding between his father and best friend. "Fine."

"Uh-huh," she said, not really believing him in the slightest. "Are you in pain?"

He looked like he was going to shake his head, but then he grimaced and said, "Little bit."

"We'll get you some pain medicine soon now that you're awake and can take pills. Sound good?"

"Sure," he said. "So... when do I get out of here?"

She checked herself right before she rolled her eyes, not exactly a picture of professionalism. So he was going to be one of those patients. She should have known, just from everything she'd heard about him and the sheer stubbornness she'd witnessed firsthand in his miraculous survival, that he wouldn't want to stick around the hospital any longer than he absolutely had to.

Well, hell if she was going to let him check out of the hospital AMA anytime before she was absolutely positive he was ready to be out of the hospital! He'd just have to put his big boy pants on and deal with it; he'd been lucky to survive, let alone survive with his arm attached, and she wasn't about to let her cantankerous patient do anything to further harm himself because he didn't want to be confined in a hospital bed!

She didn't say any of this out loud though (professionalism, after all). Instead, she just gave her weary patient a grim smile and said, "I hope you don't miknd the decor, Mr. Spencer. Because I may not be psychic, but I don't need spirits to tell me that you're probably going to be with us for quite some time."

He looked none too pleased with this information.

Well, tough luck, as far as Dr. Angel Garfield was concerned.
Chapter End Notes:
First of all, do y'all like Dr. Garfield as much as I do? I had so much fun creating her character, and introducing Shawn to her in her POV... cuz you know that even after being beaten almost to death and nearly losing an arm to infection, he's still going to be a problem patient. :D

Also, I know I haven't replied to reviews quite yet! I'm going to do so, I promise, probably after I get this up... I've just been a bit busy (reading fan-fiction, cough cough)...

I know we didn't get our big Henry and Shawn father/son talk/bonding closure thing in this chapter... because Dr. Garfield barged in before they could have it. But don't worry. It's coming, in a big, big way! SOOOOON....... *cackles*

As much as I would LOVE to lay claim to the hilarious razor in the Duck Dynasty household joke, I can't. My brilliant boyfriend came up with it. Thanks, Jake! :)

So next chapter, we get more angst, more hurt!scared!determined!whumped!Shawn (I really have no idea what these exclamation points mean; I'm just inserting them randomly between adjectives describing Shawn because I've seen people do it before.), as well as some Lassie and Jules and Shawn bonding time over Shawn's statement, maybe a hint or two of Shules, and, and... I'm so excited about it I wish I could just post it now but I can't well I could but I'm not going to because I need to wait...

CHEESE!

No idea what that was about. I need to lay off the coffee. 'Cept I don't drink coffee. Hmmm...

Anyway, thank you all sooooo much for reading; hope you enjoyed, and please, please, please REVIEW! XD

~Emachinescat ^..^


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