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The thing is, it’s exhausting to use his abilities at the level that he does on a day-to-day basis. It’s like just standing versus standing at attention–one is way more tiring and takes way more effort. Shawn operates at a pretty high level of attention anyway, thanks to his dad’s stupid training, but during a case? That dial of focus turns from maybe a six or a seven to an eleven. Over the years, he’s gotten pretty good at being able to maintain that level for a long time, but sometimes…
Sometimes there was a case like this one, a case that has lasted for two weeks, and still keeps on going, and Shawn was fucking tired, okay? He never slept well on a serious case because his brain can’t stop thinking and focusing and recalling, and after two weeks, it was starting to get pretty dire. His hands kept shaking, he couldn’t focus on a conversation because he was focused on everything else, and it was all starting to be too much.
“Shawn, I really think we should let the police handle it from here,” Gus hissed in his ear as they marched back into the station. “You’re exhausted.”
Shawn grimaced. “Gus, don’t be the—the—” he stumbled for a moment, trying to think of a comparison, before giving up. “I’m fine. The case is almost over. I’ll rest when this guy is behind bars, I promise.”
Gus looked even more worried now that Shawn couldn’t even keep up their usual level of banter, but stayed quiet for now. A surge of affection rushed through Shawn. His buddy really knew him better than anyone else in the world.
Now if only his raging headache would go away.
Shawn plopped himself into Lassie’s chair, carefully leaning his head back against the rest and closing his eyes. For a second, the lack of visual input gave him relief, and he felt the muscles in his body untense. Then his headache pounded once more, and he grimaced.
“Spencer, what the hell are you doing? Get out of my chair!” Lassie barked.
Shawn winced as the detective’s loud voice assaulted his ears. He opened his eyes and tried to think of something witty to say, but found that once again, his mind was blank. Instead, he noticed that Lassie was wearing the same clothes as yesterday, and that his hair was rumpled, and that there was a tiny drop of coffee on his shirt collar, and—
“Spencer?”
Shawn blinked, forcing himself to focus on Lassie’s face instead of the million other things about him. “Huh?” he said intelligently.
Lassie frowned. He almost looked…worried? “When did you last get a full night of sleep?”
Shawn snorted. “How long has this case lasted again?”
“Jesus–” Lassiter grumbled. “Spencer, that’s not healthy. We’ll catch the bastard eventually. You’re useless to us if you don’t sleep.”
He rubbed his hands across his face, holding back the urge to just scream in Lassie’s face. “I’m not doing it on purpose, Lassie. I just…” he paused, giving his brain a chance to think of a lie. “The spirits don’t let me sleep until the case is solved.”
“Oh my god, Shawn, really?” That was Jules, her voice sharp with horror. “I never knew that.”
Shawn shrugged, feeling more than a little helpless.
Juliet bit her lip. “Are there–are there other effects too?”
He should probably lie right now, to avoid letting them too close when he already felt so raw and vulnerable. But the thought of someone other than Gus (and his dad, when he wasn’t being an asshole) knowing how to help him was tantalizing. He couldn’t tell them the whole truth, but…
“My gifts…” he began unsteadily, letting his eyes slip shut once more. “...they never fully turn off. But during a case, I open myself up to it more. The visions are…loud. Distracting. Constant. And sometimes I wish I could just-just tear my own eyes out so I don’t have see them anymore and get some damn sleep, but I can’t.” Shawn’s mouth was trembling along with his hands now, and tears were burning behind his closed eyelids.
Silence. Then someone—Juliet, judging from the size and softness of the hand—grabbed his hand gently and squeezed it. He peeled his eyes open again. Jules looked sad, and maybe a little disturbed. Even Lassie looked uneasy. They had never even considered that what he did took a toll on him, he realized.
“I’m so sorry, Shawn,” Juliet whispered. “I never knew. Is there anything we can do to help?”
Shawn blinked at her. “What?”
“Well, we can’t help with the root cause, but we can try and help with your symptoms,” Jules said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world and not revolutionary for Shawn’s quality of life.
“I don’t—” his mouth felt very dry. “No one but Gus has ever—”
Lassie cleared his throat. “As much as I don’t like to admit it, Spencer, we’re a team, and teams look out for each other. We’ll help you, if you let us.”
Shawn stared around at his friends—at Lassie, arms crossed, awkward but determined; Jules, still holding his hand, eyes soft; and Gus, lingering behind them both, looking relieved that Shawn was opening up for once. They actually care about me, he realized.
At that moment, the thin mask he’d been using to hold himself crumbled, and he—quite embarrassingly—began to cry. Not a lot, thankfully. But enough to make them all cry out in alarm. “I’m fine,” he protested, waving them all off. “Just…thank you.”
“Any time,” Gus said. “That’s what friends are for.”
“Yeah,” Shawn sniffed, wiping his eyes. “I’m starting to get that.”