Paint it Black

Chapter 4: Call Me Mr. Glass

Dad was upstairs, finally. The old man was one step away from setting up a bunk in Shawn's bedroom as it was, so getting him to take a shower during the middle of his guard duty shift had taken some creative urging. A whole two weeks since the “incident” and Grumbles still wouldn't loosen the collar. Shawn had pointed out that his other senses were a lot stronger now in compensation for the one that was dragging behind the rest of the class. He didn't need to see how dirty his father was when the lining of his nose had just caught on fire. This, of course, had led to the observation that that comment had sounded way less perverted in his head. And about then was when his father had muttered something that even Shawn's “Superman” hearing hadn't been able to pick up and had stomped upstairs. Minutes later he'd heard the shower kick on and he'd taken that opportunity to flee.

After two banged shins, a stubbed toe, and an unexpected tounging by a Shetland pony, Shawn was feeling his way along the fence in front of the neighbor's house. He could hear waves crashing to his left and could feel the heat of the sun on the top of his head – putting it between noon and six. Yeah, so he'd yet to perfect telling time by the length of shadows on the ground. Not that it was really helpful now anyway...

He stopped by eighth picket, holding on with his right hand. His legs were already feeling wobbly and with his equilibrium still untrustworthy he was questioning his choice to bolt.

The phone in his pocket played its five note chime so he braced himself against the fence while digging it out. And instantly he was hit with that same frustration all over again. It could be Gus, calling to tell him he was ready to “pick up the package” and that the “eagle had flown” along with an exaggerated wink. Or, it could be Abby checking in on him for the sixth time that day; she'd been extremely girlfriendy since his release from the hospital – not that he minded back rubs and hand holding and being spoon fed all of his meals... Okay, so that wasn't entirely truthful. In fact, there were only a couple of times where she'd needed to help him. Mostly she'd been trying to teach him how to get a forkful of mashed potatoes to his mouth without stabbing himself in the eye. It was only a little humiliating. Yeah, no worse than, say, watching his father do an all day hook-up with a sexy fish scientist.

Well that, at least, he wouldn't have to experience for the unseeable future.

The phone chimed a forth time and Shawn finally gave in and thumbed the corner before putting it to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Shawn,”

“Jules...” Of the six possibilities he'd had lined up on the other end of that call, Juliet was somewhere around number seven – behind Buzz and just before a very drunk Lassy.

“How are you doing?”

He went for casual, trying to press his butt against the fence so he could cross his ankles. He got as far as twisting his hips when the wobbles struck again. Instinct caused him to swing his arms out – one obeyed and nearly threw his phone away while the other, trapped in its sling, lit on fire at the sudden jerk. Juliet must have heard the hiss of pain when he braced himself enough to bring the phone back because she immediately repeated her question, this time with a lot more urgency.

“I'm fine-” He pushed out between his teeth, barely sparing the oxygen for the tight assurance. So leaning was out but he knew there was a bench about fifteen feet from the end of the neighbor's property.

Cramming the phone between his cheek and shoulder – feeling a sharp pull from his wound – he grabbed the fence again and started for his next resting place.

“Well just try to take it easy.” Jules – one of the few people he could take such cliched advice from. Well, and Abby. Did that count as two-timing?