Chapter Text
The silence in the room was deafening, broken only by Shawn’s ragged, wet gasps. Carlton’s clarity hit him with the force of a physical blow. He looked down at the devastation he had caused: the blood mixed with fluids, the dark bruising forming on Shawn’s wrists and ankles from the restraints, and the angry red welt around his neck where the belt had been too tight.
Guilt, cold and nauseating, flooded Carlton’s stomach. He scrambled to find his pocket knife, cutting the tie from Shawn’s face and undoing the cuffs.
"Shawn..." Carlton’s voice trembled, his hand reaching out to touch the younger man’s shoulder.
The reaction was instantaneous and violent.
Shawn didn't just flinch; he scrambled backward, his limbs flailing with no coordination. His legs, numb from being pinned back for so long, gave way immediately. He crashed to the floor, dragging himself frantically toward the corner of the room until his back hit the wall.
But there was no apology this time. There was no witty remark. Shawn pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around his head as if expecting a blow. He was shaking so hard his teeth audibly chattered.
"Shawn, please, I—" Carlton took a step forward.
"Baseball," Shawn whispered.
Carlton froze.
"Baseball," Shawn said again, his voice cracking. He wasn't looking at Carlton; his eyes were wide, unseeing, fixed on a spot on the floor. "Baseball. Baseball. Baseball."
It was a broken loop. A frantic plea that had been ignored for the last hour, now the only word his mind could latch onto.
"Shawn, stop. It’s over. I’m sorry," Carlton pleaded, sick with horror. He tried to approach again to check the bleeding he had seen earlier.
As soon as Carlton’s shadow fell over him, Shawn let out a high-pitched, shattered scream, kicking his legs out blindly. "BASEBALL! BASEBALL! PLEASE, BASEBALL!"
He was hyperventilating, his chest heaving painfully. The eidetic memory that usually served him so well was now his enemy; he wasn't in the bedroom anymore. He was trapped in the last sixty minutes, reliving every second of the pain and the suffocation.
Carlton realized then that he couldn't touch him. He couldn't fix this. He had broken him.
With shaking hands, Carlton dialed 911.
---
The waiting room at Santa Barbara General was blindingly bright. Gus rushed through the sliding doors, his chest tight with panic. Carlton had called him, his voice sounding dead, saying only that Shawn was hurt and an ambulance was taking him in.
Gus found the Head Detective sitting in a plastic chair, head in his hands. He was still wearing his work shirt, but it was disheveled, and there was dried blood on his sleeve.
"Lassiter! Where is he?" Gus demanded.
"What happened? Was it a suspect?"
Carlton didn't look up. He looked gray. "I... I hurt him, Guster."
Before Gus could process that, Henry Spencer burst through the doors, his face a mask of terrified fury. He had been listed as next of kin. "Where’s my son? I heard on the scanner—assault? Severe trauma?"
A nurse stepped out of the triage doors. "Family of Shawn Spencer?"
"I'm his father," Henry barked, moving forward. Gus was right on his heels.
"He’s stable, but... he’s in a state of severe shock," the nurse said gently. "He has significant internal tearing, severe bruising on his wrists and ankles consistent with ligature marks, and trauma to his throat. We’ve had to sedate him slightly to stitch the wounds, but he’s waking up now. He... he isn’t communicating."
"What do you mean?" Henry demanded, pushing past her into the room.
Shawn was lying on the bed, looking small and broken. An IV line ran into his bruised arm. His neck was wrapped in gauze to cover the burns from the belt. He was staring at the ceiling, tears leaking silently from the corners of his eyes.
"Shawn?" Henry moved to the bedside, his voice dropping to a gentle rumble. "Kid? It’s Dad. You’re safe."
Shawn didn't blink. He didn't look at Henry. His lips barely moved.
"Baseball."
Henry frowned, leaning closer. "What? Shawn, look at me."
"Baseball," Shawn whispered, his voice raspy and ruined. "Baseball... baseball..."
"Is he... does he want to watch a game?" Henry looked at the doctor, confused and terrified. "Is it a concussion?"
"He’s been saying it since he arrived," the doctor noted. "We think it’s a verbal tic brought on by the trauma. Shell shock."
Gus stood at the foot of the bed, his hand covering his mouth. He watched his best friend, the most verbal person he knew, reduced to a single, nonsensical word. He watched the terror in Shawn’s eyes every time a male nurse walked by.
Baseball.
Gus’s mind raced. Why baseball? Shawn didn't even like baseball that much. He liked basketball. He liked tennis. Wait.
The realization hit Gus like a physical slap. The air left his lungs. He remembered a conversation from months ago, Shawn making a joke about how he and Lassie had to have ground rules because Lassie played rough.
“I told him if things get too intense, I’m calling a time-out. Baseball, Gus. Because nothing kills the mood faster than baseball stats.”
Gus looked from Shawn’s trembling form to the door where Lassiter was hovering like a ghost.
"It’s not a game," Gus whispered. The horror made his voice shake.
Henry turned to him. "What?"
"It’s not a game," Gus said louder, tears filling his eyes. He looked at Shawn, who was still chanting the word softly, rocking his head against the pillow. "He’s not asking for sports, Henry. It’s his safeword."
The room went dead silent.
Henry froze. He looked down at his son—the bruises on his wrists, the terror, the repetition of the word meant to make everything stop.
"He’s begging him to stop," Gus choked out. "He’s still... in his head, he’s still begging him to stop."
Henry turned slowly toward the door. The look on his face was murderous. He didn't see a Head Detective anymore. He saw the man who had ignored his son’s plea for mercy.
Lassiter stood in the doorway; his face pale. He didn't deny it. He couldn't.
"You ignored it," Henry’s voice was a low, dangerous growl. "He said the word, and you didn't stop."
"I..." Lassiter’s voice broke. "I lost control."
"Get him out of here," Henry roared, lunging forward. Security and Gus had to grab him to keep him from tearing Lassiter apart. "GET HIM AWAY FROM MY SON! IF I SEE YOU AGAIN I WILL KILL YOU!"
---
It took three days for Shawn to stop saying it.
Even after the physical bleeding stopped and the stitches began to heal, the psychological wound was gaping. He wouldn't let anyone touch him. When the doctors had to change his dressings, he dissociated, staring at the wall, his perfect memory forcing him to replay the hour of torture over and over again.
He remembered the belt tightening. He remembered begging. He remembered Lassiter jamming his forearm into the back of his skull to silence him. He couldn't turn the memories off.
Lassiter had given a statement. He admitted to the assault. He admitted to ignoring the safeword. He was on immediate suspension, pending a criminal investigation. But Shawn didn't care about the legalities.
He just wanted the fear to stop.
A week later, Shawn was discharged to Henry’s house. He refused to go back to his own apartment; it was too close to him.
Gus sat on the edge of the couch while Shawn stared blankly at the TV. Shawn flinched every time a car drove past, terrified it was the Crown Vic.
"Shawn," Gus said softly. "Lassiter is... he’s being charged. He’s not coming near you. Henry made sure the restraining order was bulletproof."
Shawn didn't look away from the TV, but his hand trembled where it rested on his knee. He rubbed at his wrist, where the skin was still discolored from the cuffs.
"I trusted him, Gus," Shawn whispered. It was the first full sentence he had spoken in days. "I wanted to make him mad. I was... I was being a brat. But I said it. I said baseball."
"I know, Shawn. I know."
"He heard me," Shawn’s voice cracked, tears spilling over again. "He heard me, and he just... he shoved the gag back in. He looked at me and he didn't care."
Shawn pulled his knees up to his chest, the same defensive position he’d held since that night.
"I can't go back, Gus. I can't be a psychic. I can't walk into that station. I can't see him."
"You don't have to," Gus promised, terrified by how small his best friend looked. "We’ll figure it out. But you’re never going near him again."
Shawn closed his eyes, a fresh wave of tremors taking over his body. The "happy ending" was a lie. There was no forgiveness this time. There was only the memory of the man he loved turning into a monster, and the word "baseball" echoing uselessly in an empty room.