Chapter Text
Lassiter decided to turn the hot water on for the shower. A choice born out of a desire to shower well for that peculiar day. It wasn't cold around him as it has been so ages ago. It felt warm and nice as if life was lit up. As if someone had lit a match up in the dark and the heat thawed out all the ice including humor and eccentric parts of his life coming back out of its frozen positions.
He showered on the warmth that had to be shared to believe. His life was still a bit chilly but things were looking up. Marlowe had a chance of waking up to him and their child that had health issues. A child that didn't have great health after birth but at least they had each other. A nice soapy wash with a pine apple smelling hand soap favoring over the peaches container.
Combed his hair, did some shaving, dried off, then dressed for the job, it felt different, softer, gentler, more colorful.
He was excited to tell Marlowe what happened today after the events transpired and he generally expected them to be chaotic.
For the first time in three years things were different. Exciting more than it had been and things were in motion.
For the first time in three years he was excited for what was going to happen on the job.
O'Hara sat on the side of the bed rubbing where Shawn had once rested looking over toward the direction of that familiar face greeting her with a smile and a kiss leaning forward.
If she had known how many of these fleeting moments were dwindling... She had unknowingly... if she knew... if she only knew how much time that she had left with him then she wouldn't have broke up with him and shunned him so hard. Welding the scorn of being lied to. Welding the scorn of someone who had so much more time to spend around him and hate it with every fiber of her being. The pain and rage of her idiocy inflicted harm to her mind over the last three years of such little time they had together as a couple that could've been more if she accepted that he was a psychic and learned to bend.
She felt nothing seated there on the edge of the bed compared to three years ago where she grabbed his pillow after the first month and wept. A simple parchment of wet soggy paper that was old and simply falling apart holding no real value since the incident was over, she knew what happened to him, she knew how it happened, she knew him for being the master of chaos, she had read the skeleton.
There was only silence and a void that Shawn would be best suited for leaning forward whispering sweet nothings in her ear and some of it laced in popular culture references.
The complete and utter devastation of losing the sun that was so animated and chaotic that acted as a moon with the differing personas that he had, the chaos, the immature nerd, and then the straight man.
It's like she had lost several slices of him in one night knowing now it was over.
If she only bugged him about his current case work and been there in the first place.
She clenched her hand on the sheet then looked aside thinking it over discarding the aching regret.
A big hug sigh was dropped as she set up then adjusted her suit, went to the closet, withdrew shoes that didn't have heels, remembering Shawn's sharp remarks, 'really, running in high heels?'
She closed her eyes remembering the tirade that he had about them whenever he saw those heels.
"After how many years? Why do you want to hurt yourself that badly, Jules? Do you know how many crime scenes there are where the victim never made it because of those high heels?"
His words were sharp as thorns yet full of amusement and affection knowing it was a fight that was never going to done with, a endless battle, between a concerned partner, and her desire to be pretty on the job, he had made fair points, as had Lassiter, taking one look at her shoes and going 'Why do you want to lose a suspect on the run?'
She wiped a tear off with the edge of her sleeve at the old comment the former head detective had made over nine years ago. If the reveal was made on the tenth anniversary of his disappearance... A simple explosion in her soul and mind as she realized she was getting older without him at the mere idea projecting in her mind. She was thirty-six. And for some reason it felt right learning now he was gone only three years later. Her heart was willing and capable of dealing with it.
If she could make five years without him, as she had the last three years, mourning him, yearning for him, being the strong and capable woman that she was, she could make it a lifetime, her head held high, a better detective, a better woman, and a better friend than she was before.
She got up from the bed then went to the same diner where she first met Shawn for breakfast.
Ordering pancakes, eggs, and bacon, alongside the stool where he once sat beside her.
Visiting old stomping grounds nostalgically.
Hope is a powerful thing in the world of Harris Trout. It helped him move forward in his career and rebuilding police departments making them better, more efficient, more capable, less of a clown show, but a different kind of eccentric clown show that was able to be swallowed whole by the city with the flaws that were left behind. He was the one called a money maker when it came to saving them money and making a lot of it that left the police department raking in the benefits of his relationships in the entertainment business even when it came to those who support the various department.
Hope is a strange thing to talk about in a world that had it's darkness but wore the brightness clear with humor and bleakness, there were eccentric characters that made up murders in his field of work. Hope is a thing that isn't subject or a item but a thing clasped to the mind of those who weld it like a weapon as did survivors of assault in the various forms that came with bruises, scratches, clenching their teeth clenching them they were fangs showing their intent to stand, hands raised high, locked into position, messy, torn articles of clothing, and the weapon itself that was in their hands was hope that made of iron in the face of uncertainty. Hope is a shield for the mind against despair and keep it thriving.
Hope is a thing that keeps all things living until they couldn't, when in the warm arms of hope, secure, relaxing, it happened, letting go, knowing they were safe.
Trout had it happen once when he walked into a house in the middle of a case, it was bloody, gruesome, kidnapping victim, drugged, psychologically harmed, beaten, tormented, clinging to the sliver lining of hope that light would cast upon her face and he wouldn't be there.
Responding detective on the scene that was delegated by another detective who was consulting with the department at the time.
He remembered how it felt the victim taking her final breath wrapped in a blanket pressed against his chest and then the murderer was set for jail for more than one lifetime.
He wished some days that murderer got slain by his bullet, that he rose up, aimed the gun, and put the sorry bastard out of his misery, but he was better than that. He loved to brag about taking charge in how things went down perhaps exaggerating how things went. Incidents that fed his ego in the bitterness of the justice system acting as the iron thing that kept the law in working order.
The last two departments that he oversaw had egos that needed smacked and destroyed then rebuilt to a level where their heads were level and realistic. Messy affair in all.
He loved firing people, demoting them, it was his favorite thing to do, the perk of being chief, but the worst part about being chief is the part where his decisions came back and impaled him in the head metaphorically. How could he continue his previous activities knowing a man was suffering because of his decisions? In the meatball of crime that grinding and crushed and harmed the body and soul. He couldn't save them and even if he was still alive, would his soul be still the same? The carefree young man who lived in a dramedy?
"Detective O'Hara."
O'Hara turned her attention toward the chief.
"Who managed the tip line?"
"The FBI."
"No, the other tip line."
'We don't use that anymore."
"Since when?" Trout asked, leaning against the desk.
His eyes were scrutinizing her to the very atom.
"Shawn came aboard." She remembered the familiar sight of someone in a small office waiting for a call that became less seen as time wore on then it was seemingly phased put. "We stopped using it around that time."
His eyes shot aside for a moment then faced her.
"That's very informative." Trout replied.
She furrowed her eyebrows for a moment turning toward him.
"We don't need that," was her reply.
"And maybe we do now."
"Finding a block of skeleton and faded clothing."
"Have to hope that this Bobbins character has one or more people around him who have good hearts." was the reply.
"We got crime stoppers who run this thing," O'Hara changed her tune quite fast from there at the idea. "it's fairly recent."
"How recent are we talking about that hasn't been told me in the last three years."
"they do that," stumbling over her words trying to think off the top of her head looking up. "it's," thinking long and hard. "been," tapping her fingers on the desk. "what," looking over toward the expression of intent on his face. "a few years,"
"Define a few years, Detective O'Hara." Trout replied.
"Five years, six, I guess." She had another shrug. "The local news station," She had a sigh then sip from her mug of coffee and set it down onto the desk. "it's a whole thing," she held up her hands swaying them from side to side. "and trust me.."
"I do trust you on this matter, detective." Trout replied.
O'Hara rested her hands on the desk facing the captain.
"No one is calling us about that," then grimaced before adding, reminding him, almost exasperated. "it's the FBI's thing. No, if you excuse me, I have to run some calls on a case..."
He thought it over thoughtfully looking aside as her trail of words mattered little then leaned back as a idea burned into his mind proving once and or all whether or not the fake psychic was dead that made it all undoubtful for Jared to get him continue to be in the office. He didn't see any form of redemption headed his way in the world of consequences, the halls were dark, broken, gothic, and decorations hidden in the shadows that were fancy and elegant.
His brilliant sapphire blue eyes were full of thought considering the stunt that had to be pulled that day that would require calling the local news station. All it took was going to be a call from Robbins Bobbins Slobbins himself clearing up the matter that the man was dead... or very alive. An ide athat held so much power that was handed off to him by a dear friend that lit up he entire world.
Trout started to smile then began to laugh unnerving the detective.
"Sir?" O'Hara asked.
It was brilliant enough to give him some closure.
"Nothing, nothing of importance." Trout laughed shaking his hand.
He went back inside the office then withdrew the phone and sat down into the chair proceeding to make the first call setting jump his secured and well intentionded downfall.
If redemption was this in response to a life being gone then all men who had hands in murder should do this without a argument doing the right thing in outing the truth, courtesy of Harris Trout. A quote that didn't really exist by famous people but by a man with a ego.
Making things right was the best way to walk into the hallways of redemption with the biggest ego.
Gus felt young again.
Deliriously and absurdly young again lacking the tethers that held him back and the weight of not knowing was freed from him as if the chains were unlocked and the chains fell off his soup.
Young and full of life with his entire future ahead of him on a wonderful career and charming girlfriend who was winning her way into his heart.
He felt like that kid who's old life was interrupted by Shawn again and made him miss hours worth of routes on investigations. A kid who slowly became confident that nothing awful was going to fall if he skipped out of work and went to a crime scene immediately after clocking in. A welcome breath of fresh air in the dreariness of life that had constricted around him in the cold and darkness in his personal life. He felt like an entirely different man opting to shave his facial hair until he looked like he was trying to grow a nice beard but it looked like a goatee.
He looked older that made his once youthful eyes look older. Rubbing his face and stared at it seeing the man that was able to step into the now growing older without Shawn. Shawn could've come around to growing a beard by this point, but the idea was a flickering flame that died out as Shawn was barely interested in growing a beard. If he let his facial hair grow out then he could possibly have a nice goatee by the next month that rolled around. He rubbed his face until deciding on the nice and thin stylish goatee that looked rather fine on him.
Gus looked at the man that was sharp contrast to the man that he once was, not young, but older, he looked the age, but he wore the eyes of someone who had youth on their mind and side.
He had a decent breakfast that consisted of cereal and a pill that helped in being lactose intolerant.
He deserved a nice rib at the end of the day investigating something was potentially related to Shawn's murder. He honestly didn't have to go to the scene of the shooting, even though it was expected of him to.
(now, he had closure, Shawn was dead, the body was stolen, Shawn had been the victim of a crime).
But he owed it to himself to go and see the end of the case that was close to his chest. Lassiter was the tether that had lead Shawn directly to his doom and the thing that had recently been part of a shooting, a last link to the person who provided Shawn so much fun, dealt with him, suffered the company of the annoying man, and went through Hell compared to everyone, and still was in it unable to talk about it fully.
Gus drove out of the garage then drove down the street rapping his fingers on the steering wheel heading on toward the general scene where the shooting had happened. He came to pause at a house that was blazing and the firemen were in attendance taking care of it. He came to pause recognizing the faces of the neighborhood. He recognized the house through the fire as someone from work. He worked his jaw spotting the camera crew were there in attendance recording the event considering it a breaking news.
He parked the car along the sidewalk then sped toward the house and weaseled his way through the crowd.
"Excuse me!" Hailey Desiree, a reporter, replied.
"You are excused." Gus answered.
"What are you doing and who are you?" Hailey asked.
Gus turned around and faced the camera sporting a glare.
"Burton Guster, representative of Pacific Nutraceutical Products."
"You used to work with the psychic who consulted for the Santa Barbara Police Department awhile back, whatever happened to him?"
Gus sucked in a breath facing her, his face long and hard, clenching his teeth, jaw locked, unable to say it publically, facing her, all so tense and angry before approaching the subject, hard to relax, to ease up, looking so offended that someone cared before he appeared. Where was this caring when he stopped showing up on the news? Where was this caring for the last three years while he lived in Hell not knowing?
"He went missing." Gus replied.
"He went missing?" Hailey was caught by surprise.
"For the last three years." Gus replied, calmly. "I haven't heard a wink from him. Annoyingly."
"That's news to this station!" Hailey exclaimed.
"There's a family in the basement," Gus proceeded to lay it out for the cameras changing the subject. "they got a stupid fire escape plan," He tapped on the palm of his hand in such anger and resentment for the not well thought out plan. "they're not inside the house."
"They are in the house," Hailey retorted, plainly. "it's the basement. Built inside the house."
"It's outside of the house." Gus argued back.
"It is not outside the house, though." Hailey replied.
"I heard it both ways, once." Gus remembered.
"You most certainly did not." one of the neighbors, Blankston, remarked. "What kind of idiot said that? That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard!"
"And by the time the firefighters find them once the blaze has settled, they will be very dead!"
Gus made a mad bolt around the house then came to the side of the house, grabbed a hammer, struck down the lock, repeatedly, until it cracked open, then he lifted the doors open, smoke brewing of the attic, then descended down into the pit of smoke and carbon dioxide using his jacket as his mask. Gus heard screaming and banging from below at the second set of doors. Like he said, it was a stupid fire escape plan.
"HELP!"
Gus could hear the wailing of a baby in the air and children crying ranging in age.
"HELP! HELP! HELP!"
"PLEASE, HELP US!"
"HEEELP! HEEEEEELP!
"WE'RE RIGHT HERE!"
The father, naturally, was the dumbass of the bunch, who didn't think of his extra precautions, never really, actually, thought of this happening, error forgiven in the stupidity.
"HEEEEELP!" Scared and distraught. All of them were scared. All 13 of them.
The high pitch wailing of a infant hit a nerve.
Gus raised the hammer then banged it against he door knocking it down over and over, over the sound of their screaming and pleading, the sight of a red growing blaze through the orange tinted hue, over, and over, over. Thinking about his childhood dream with Shawn about being a real firefighter, they were once, they tried, during a case, it just wasn't for them. And just this once, he got to be a firefighter without the yellow suit, the oxygen mask, the gloves.
He raced on banging the door until he struck the knob leaving a big gaping hole. The knob flinging on into the distance with a loud clatter. He finished the great heroic effort lowering the hammer then with his free hand grabbing the door then hauling it open and threw it aside in the wide corridor that was perfect for a filming crew to be resting alongside him catching view of the figures in the smoke with faces covered in shoot very scared.
"Go!"
"Mr Guster?" Came the incredulous comment.
"This way! What are you doing?" Gus barked back, glaringly. "UP!"
"He's no firefighter," was spoken between coughs. "but he'll do!"
"Right this way, got his way, now! NOW! NOW!"Gus beckoned the children up the stairs then looked on searching for his ex-worker.
Rark was no where to be seen that caused him a moment of great pause standing there waiting for his figure to appear. His face faltered as his hope diminished for him but not for the kids as he looked over and closed his eyes hanging his head for a moment.
Damn. He didn't make it.
Gus turned away then went after the family carrying the hammer in his hand launching on after them and hacked once he met sweet delightful air facing the bright light of the outside world.
Gus staggered out away from the back heading to the sidewalk. Running through the grass lowering his head in the fit of coughing. His steps were woozy, opening and closing his eyes, his eyes stung by tears, as if he was a fawn reborn through disaster, wobbly, arriving to the fleet of firefighters and paramedics that had so recently arrived there. Heavy weighted blankets offered abound to all thirteen of the kids who had their parents strangely absent.
Gus was joined by a familiar firefighter beckoning him over glaring at him so harshly.
"What are you doing here?" A harsh comment.
"I live down the road." Gus shrugged.
"Are you nuts?" a reasonable comment as two firefighters sped down the stairs into the basement.
"Maybe a little." Gus admitted.
Gus was handed an oxygen mask then he breathed into it.
"You could have died down there!"
Gus leaned against the fence then looked up where he smiled.
"I died a long time ago." was his admission.
a comment that gave the firefighter a long moment of pause staring, gaping, floored, stunned, slack jawed, then horrified, and finally, sympathetic.
"Shawn Spencer was in that forest...." came the question, bitterly. "Wasn't he?"
The camera man caught the sight of the firefighters resting hand on the salesman's shoulder who nodded.