She's still staying with Spencer.

He knows because the psychic has dropped her off for work every day this week and taken her home promptly at end of shift-even if he comes back later to finish things up for her.

He doesn't know if they're sleeping together, doesn't look that closely at them, doesn't want to know.

He's just glad she's not alone.

She certainly hasn't had him to lean on, he thinks with a snort. Hell of a partner he's been.

He knows Spencer blames himself, thinks it's his fault this all happened.

He knows Spencer is dead wrong.

He was the lead on the case. He was the one in charge.

He was the one that wasn't there for his partner.

He can barely think that word in relation to himself now.

Partners didn't let their other half get set up as a target.

Partners didn't let that target get hit.

And partners sure as hell didn't hide behind procedure and paperwork when the fallout began to rain down.

Which is why he's drawn up the papers to have her transferred.

Mickely or Dobson, Brandowski... even Pritchard would be a better partner for her.

They wouldn't be there for her in the aftermath, but that's because there wouldn't be an aftermath.

He hates it, hates how it feels like admitting defeat, hates how it feels like his divorce all over again, even though he doesn't think of Juliet as being anywhere near the same side of the spectrum-relationship-wise or bitch-wise-as his ex.

But, like with Tori, it all came down to one fact: She deserved more than he could give her.

The difference is he isn't even going to try to fight it this time. He is going to concede defeat as gracefully as he can at this point because, even if he hasn't done anything else for her, he can do this.

Signing his name at the bottom of the page should have felt better, like closure, or an end or something. It just felt like another signature.

This is what convinces him this is the right step.

The next morning he comes in and scowls at his desk.

Spencer has been here obviously, though from the neatness of her desk and the fact that her computer is off-no sleek feline slide show indicating it has been only temporarily abandoned-he must have been alone at the time. Probably came in late last night to drop off paperwork for Juliet that she didn't finished before leaving.

There's a pile of shredded paper strips in the middle of the blotter and he sets down his briefcase and wonders if this is supposed to be some obscure indication of a psychic clue. It might just be a pile of shredded paper left to annoy him. He never can tell until he gives in and offers it the attention he doesn't want to spare.

It takes him a moment to realize what it is, what it used to be.

And when he does he exhales a sharp hiss of a curse.

It's the transfer request. And it's confetti.

What the hell does Spencer think he's doing? He scoops up the mess and dumps it in the trash, turning to his computer to type it up-AGAIN-and silently plotting a homicide he'll happily confess to.

But his computer is already on.

He wakes the sleeping monitor with a jiggle of the mouse and finds an open document.

It has only ten words and two letters, bolded, underlined, italicized, and blown up to a very large font.

IF YOU MAKE HER CRY AGAIN I WILL HURT YOU. - SS

"What the hell?" he asks aloud.

Then his eyes stray to the wastebasket.

He wasn't trying to hurt her, dammit. He was trying to save her the pain of having an insensitive, incompetent... inhuman partner like him.

Closing the document he reopens the transfer request and begins filling it out once more.

And sighs in weary defeat when signing it still feels like just another signature.

He walks into Interview A expecting to see his witness and instead finds Shawn, hands stuffed in his pockets, foot tapping out a frenetic rhythm that could make a coma patient twitchy.

Brow lowering into a Pavlovian scowl triggered by the sight of the young man, he double checks the note left on his desk.

Yup. It definitely says Interview A, Det. Lassiter.

"Spencer, what the hell are you-"

"Have a seat, Detective."

The quiet offer-couched as it is in a cool order-surprises Lassiter enough to have him tilting his head slightly. He is acutely aware that the foot has stilled.

"I don't have time to waste, Spencer, I'm waiting to do an interrogation of a suspect."

"No," Shawn corrects, "I'm here to do an interrogation of a suspect." He waits a beat, his gaze steady on Lassiter's. "That would be you, Detective." Walking over and pulling out a chair, he steps back, gesturing to it.

"Have a seat."

It's unsettling to realize that the very lack of emotion in the whole affair is having the exact opposite effect on him. It's not anger, however, that's billowed into life in his gut but... What? Nerves? Guilt?

He covers it with anger though, hoping that those sharp hazel eyes won't be able to see through his facade.

"I'm not going to-"

"Sit. Down."

Dammit, he silently curses as he takes a closer look at the man challenging him. This was like working a fucking negotiation with a suicidal boomer. Things were calm, now but that could change in a heartbeat, with no warning whatsoever, and get very, very messy.

He has a suspicion he knows what this is about and he does not feel like dealing with it-here, now, or with him.

He doesn't have the time to do this and he has even less desire.

As grateful as he is to Spencer for standing with his partner when he couldn't, he is not about to allow a hostile takeover of something that has abso-fucking-lutely nothing to do with a civilian consultant-and a dubiously credible one at that.

Sighing and rubbing at his eyes, behind which a migraine is beginning to form, he takes the seat. He's going to humor him and get this over with and later he'll talk to Chief about the policy on letting Spencer run loose in the station.

He opens his mouth but before he gets a chance to ask wearily what is going on, Shawn speaks.

"You fucking bastard."

That drops the hand and brings the eyes up.

"Excuse me?"

Shawn's not emotionless now, his Irish is up and he's tense as a bowstring and damn if those aren't sparks in his eyes.

Lassiter has never understood that saying... He does now.

"I've taken you for a lot of things since we first met. A first rate asshole. A dedicated defender of justice. A medical miracle the way you can walk normally with that stick so far up your ass it must give you headaches every time you sit down."

The first and last he expected-kind of-but it's the second that throws him off and has him continuing to listen without saying a word in response.

"But I never thought you could be as much of a son of a bitch as you are right now." He leans down so he's eye level with Lassiter, a look of righteous fury burning in his eyes and shining from his face that a tiny part of Lassiter notes would have made him one hell of a bad cop if he really had a badge.

There's a pause and after a chance to blink and swallow Lassiter tries to regain some semblance of footing in this conversation. "Spencer-"

"I'm not done." It's barely audible, but all the more potent for that.

Hell, Lassiter thinks, impressed despite himself. This really is Spencer's room right now and the very thought is disorienting enough to make his head spin a little. Now he's glad he took the seat. It would be embarrassing to fall on his ass now that he's been so effectively cut off at the knees.

Shawn continues, his voice level again, still tense, but not shouting and only rarely cursing.

And for his speechless, captive audience he lays it all out.

The fact that Juliet talked about changing careers. The way she's gone through Kleenex this week like it was a fucking chick flick marathon on Lifetime. Her fragile confidence in herself that has only survived because of the trust she's been given by her partner-not Shawn, because she expects him to tell her she's still good even if she isn't.

The way she's been holding it together and making it through each day because she doesn't want to let him down by proving him wrong. The fact that she's been trying so damn hard to be a better partner, to not chatter as much, to reign in her enthusiasm and act professionally. The talk she had with Shawn about proper decorum for a police consultant and how maybe he'd get a little less flack if he tried to follow the rules just a bit more.

Lassiter listens mutely, baffled as to what the hell Shawn is talking about.

Finally it stops and in the silence the words spoken ricochet inside the room, pinging him on the head and bouncing off his chest, making his legs numb as they batter him on every side.

He realizes Shawn is waiting for an answer and scrambles to gather some sort of response.

"Why?" he finally asks.

"Why what?" Shawn demands sharply.

"Why is she..." And that's the end of his question. He doesn't even know where to begin in finishing it.

Fortunately he doesn't have to. Shawn's 'gift' kicks in and answers it.

"She's afraid, Lassiter. She's fucking terrified that she's not good enough and that she screwed up and she's waiting for the ax to fall."

"But she's not-"

"Damn right she's not at fault. No one thinks she is. And neither are you. The guilty party has paid as much as we can demand of him right now. It's not nearly enough, but it'll have to do," Shawn adds.

"You're wrong, Spencer, I am at fault."

"Why?"

"Because I was the lead on the case. I was the one running the show and I fucked up. I'm ultimately responsible for what happens in an investigation and what happened was I let my partner get kidnapped and then tortured and nearly killed because I was too busy trying to follow a lead that was a dead fucking end." It's a bitter admission, but somehow he feels better for having vocalized it.

Shawn shakes his head in disgust. "Yeah, you were. But you were also the one that led the way into that fire hazard of a shit hole and took down the bastard who would have killed her in another day or two. I'm the one that smeared Juliet with barbecue sauce and threw her to a rabid fucking wolf in the first place."

"You're also the one that came up with the clue we'd missed that led us to him," comes the counter-argument.

"No, Lassiter, I didn't."

He rolls his eyes, a bit of the fire coming back. "Sorry," he says sarcastically and leans back in the chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "The 'spirits' did that, I forgot."

Shawn just stares at him for a moment, some indecipherable thought process taking place behind those eyes, then rounds the table and with a well placed kick to the back legs of his chair sends him crashing to the floor.

He pushes back to his feet, blood pounding, vision going red, head ringing from the unexpected disagreement with the cement floor as to who had right of way, and he levels a Class One glare at the defiant face that is very quickly invading his personal space.

"You son of a bitch! That's assault on a fucking officer and if you think I won't arrest you right now because of what it might do to O'Hara-"

"Go ahead!" Shawn throws down in challenge, his arms flying out to the side. "Arrest me! I'm partially at fault for everything that's happened, here. Arrest me and charge me as an accessory. Do your job, Detective. But don't you dare prosecute the one innocent party in all this. Juliet deserves better than to be kicked like a fucking dog after being forced to play the bitch for that worthless excuse of a human. You do what you want to me, but don't you dare do this to Juliet or I really will 'assault a fucking officer'."

Tense silence passes, the room ever more crowded by the things said, trapped as they are by the four walls.

"She does deserve better," Lassiter says quietly. "Which is why I have to do it."

Another beat.

Shawn pulls back and paces away, his fingers tunneling into his hair as if they could find the solution to this buried in his skull and drag them out that way.

"Fuck, Lassie, you don't get it, do you?" He spins back, finger pointing like a rapier at the target for his verbal thrusts. "You just don't get it. It's not about you. It's not about me even. It's about Juliet and I don't care if you think she's better off with another partner because you suddenly went blind, deaf, and dumb. The only thing holding her together right now, the duct tape on her fucking soul, is you. You have the power. You can make her or break her with a single sheet of fucking paper right now and I'll be damned if I'll let you do that. That's why I shredded it, why I intercepted the one you tried to sneak in with your reports."

Lassiter's face shifts to reflect the surprise and anger at that revelation, but there's no space to interject his thoughts on the matter.

"Because if you try to get her reassigned to another partner you might as well put your fucking gun to her head and blow it off. Now that's the mark of a partner."

Lassiter scowled. "Don't be ridiculous, Spencer. She's not going to quit just because of this." She couldn't, he told himself. Because if she did, he probably wouldn't be too far behind.

Shawn barked out what was supposed to be a laugh.

"Oh she would. She's considered it already and the only reason she hasn't is because she doesn't want to let you down. That would be a fucking bale of straw on the camel's back and she'd have her badge and gun on the Chief's desk so fast you'd think she was psychic."

Shit.

He doubts a lot of things Shawn says, but right now he can't quite convince himself this is the case.

"But it's not her!" he protests, throwing his hands up in the air. "She didn't do anything wrong!"

"So you do trust her still?"

"Hell, yes. It's myself I don't trust."

Shawn's voice is low again, that combination of disgust and menace that worked so effectively before back. "Then prove it. To her and to everyone else."

"You want her to stay my partner? You really want her to be stuck with a detective so blind to what's going on that he doesn't recognize his partner is the next fucking target?"

"It doesn't matter what I want," Shawn retorts. Then, after a hesitant moment, adds, "But yes. Like I said before, you may be a lot of things... But one thing you definitely are is the one damn cop around here that I trust to watch out for her. Hell, I didn't even see that she'd become a target and I'm supposed to be psychic. But you didn't panic and you didn't abandon her. You stuck with it and you came through for her and you saved her life. She needs you.

"And you need her."

The sudden right turn the conversation has taken has him floored again.

He tries to recover, tries to play it off with gruffness, but it comes out sounding bewildered and questioning.

"I need her?"

"Good cop and bad cop, Lassie. Interrogation 101, but it's not just for interrogation. You believe the worst of people and she believes the best. You're a relentless hard ass who refuses to call it quits until you've beaten the answers out of a case and she knows when to reign you in and use a gentle touch to win confidence that coaxes the answers out. It's a damn good formula for a successful partnership and it's part-a large part-of the reason you two are the top team on the force. Your record is the proof that this works."

"I thought that was all because of you," Lassiter shoots back, but it's lacking in the proper degree of sarcasm.

"I help you over bumps, but we both know that my nudges in the right direction wouldn't mean shit in court if it didn't have all the evidence and procedure and everything else you two do to back it up. And even if it took you a little longer to do so, you two could still solve every last one of these cases, not something that can be said about all the other partnerships here. You don't need me."

A few moments pass before Shawn realizes what he's just said and puts in, "Although you are smart enough to realize that I make a valuable contribution. Something else that the other detectives can't take credit for."

Lassiter's lips twitch, just the barest flicker, as he considers where he now stands.

"That's a debatable point." He stuffs his hands in his pockets. "But one that can be saved for another day, I think."

Shawn smiles a little himself, his stiff and tense posture relaxing into a more familiar and comfortable slouch. "Yeah. We've yelled enough for one day."

Another moment of contemplation, then, "You really think she'd quit?"

Shawn nods, uncharacteristically serious. "She almost has. I barely talked her out of it. And the only thing that worked was when I told her that you still trusted her. I don't know if she believed me or if she just wanted to, but it's worked so far and I'll take what I can get."

Lassiter nods and looks down at the floor. "I never doubted her. Well, not recently. Not about this. At first of course, I did, but... There aren't many cops I'd say this about, but I'd rather go through a door with her-and I'd sure as hell rather have her assigned to investigate if I was ever accused of something-than any other cop on the force."

"Trust me, Lassie, she feels the same way about you."

A weighty exhalation, then Lassiter peers up from under his lowered head.

"She makes a mean cup of coffee."

Shawn's smile widens. "That she does."

"Her notes are meticulous and I can actually read them."

"She should get an Oscar for her handwriting and transcription skills."

Lassiter snorts at that, but mostly smothers it because he knows that's what Shawn wants.

"I never have to worry about falling asleep on a stake out."

Shawn pouts thoughtfully, considering, then nods. "I'll give you that since I know for a fact that you see her more like a little sister than anything romantic or sexual."

Lassiter rolls his eyes.

"Mostly I don't want to have to train another damn partner. And paperwork is a bitch."

Shawn's grin is full and sincere.

"You big softy."

It vanishes when he gets a stern look and a pointed finger.

"We will never discuss any of this again."

"As long as you suffer no more bouts of delusion where you think that you'd make a good martyr, I can agree to that."

"I'm also willing to forgive the assault because-and I will never repeat this again either-you may have been right that I needed some sense knocked into me. But if you try that again I'll have you booked and caged before you can blink. Are we clear?"

"Like butter," Shawn says, his smile going lopsided.

Lassiter snorts and grabs the door handle, twisting it and half stepping out. He pauses there and looks back.

"And, for the record, if you break her heart I won't stop at breaking your legs."

He leaves then, aware of-and resolutely ignoring-Shawn chuckling and gleefully rocking on his heels at the unexpectedly happy resolution.

It's by no means over, he knows that.

He still has no idea how to handle O'Hara right now, even more so since he's been made aware of just how fragile she is at the moment. But then he didn't know how to handle her chipper, perky self when she first showed up at his desk, transfer papers in hand and a smile on her face.

All he can do is take it one day at a time.

But a lot of the stress of the week is gone, burned out of his muscles with the cathartic fight, and he's ready to move on.

Ever since that day when he got the call that she'd been taken, things have felt like a dream, a nightmare, a nebulous half reality that he could never predict the movement of.

And today? An air horn in his ear in the dark of the night.

He's never been so happy to get a call to wake up.

~fin~