subliminal_muse

14 Valentines Day 7 - Sexual Assault (Part 3)

Thu, 07 Feb 2008 23:12:27 GMT

Wake Up
By: subliminal_muse
Fandom: Psych
Summary: On a day like today he could never be sure if Fate hated him or adored him. He suspected it was both.
Categories: Season, Short
Characters: Juliet, Lassiter, Shawn
Genres: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Warnings: Sensitive Material
Chapters: 3 of 3
Completed: Yes
Word count: 3739

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

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~

14 Valentines Day 7 - Sexual Assault

14 Valentines Day 7 - Sexual Assault (Part 2)

Thu, 07 Feb 2008 22:44:17 GMT

Wake Up
By: subliminal_muse
Fandom: Psych
Summary: On a day like today he could never be sure if Fate hated him or adored him. He suspected it was both.
Categories: Season, Short
Characters: Juliet, Lassiter, Shawn
Genres: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Warnings: Sensitive Material
Chapters: 2 of 3
Completed: Yes
Word count: 3355

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

She slept surprisingly well that first night, on a pillow of Shawn, exhausted from recent events both traumatic and therapeutic.

Daylight brought a renewed sense of courage and sharing breakfast with Shawn, such a simple, normal thing to do with someone you felt so strongly about, bolstered her confidence further.

She was ready to take on the world again. Well, as much as the world was ready to take on her.

Until she'd attended some mandatory counseling about her experience she was on medical leave. That idea didn't thrill her, but there wasn't anything she could do about it besides jump through the hoops and pray there weren't that many.

Shawn seemed to be worried about her quick recovery, concerned that it wasn't quite right somehow, but she laughed and brushed away his concerns. She was a cop. It was understood, drilled into you at the Academy, that sometimes bad things happened and you picked up and moved on because criminals weren't going to take a holiday because of it.

And so once she'd shot down the idea of having Lassiter come to her, he said nothing more.

She went to take a shower, silently thanking Gus for being such a dear friend and fetching some things for her from her apartment, though she smiled in amusement at how much he'd packed. She wasn't moving in to Shawn's apartment for goodness' sakes. She'd be back home this afternoon after she finished giving her statement.

If she couldn't go back to work she could at least go home and clean up there.

The warm water cascaded over her and she slicked back her hair, rolling her eyes and chuckling when she realized that she'd left her shampoo in her bag.

She stepped out of the shower and bent to dig it out, then stood, her eyes skimming over the foggy mirror unintentionally.

And just like that she was back in the past, seeing the shadow in the mirror that didn't belong.

She spun around and recalled how he'd grabbed her, his hands sliding on her water-slick skin. She could feel them, pinching, grasping, trying to get a firm hold on her. She stumbled back, like she did then, and landed on the floor, cracking her head on the edge of the tub. She could feel the heavy weight of him as he pinned her down, gasping with fresh terror as the thought that he was going to rape her flashed through her brain. NO, she thought frantically, NO!

He wasn't here, he couldn't be here, he was dead and gone and- She screamed, eyes squeezed shut, hands desperately clenching handfuls of the bathrug and prayed she'd wake up to the reality she was so sure had come to pass.

It had to have come to pass.

If it didn't, if she was still there, still in that room, still in those hands-

Fingers wrapped around her wrists and she lashed out as she had so many times, her eyes popping open in shock when her leg actually rose up into the air, her knee hitting something that caused a whoosh of warm air to bloom over her face.

She stared up into the shocked eyes of Shawn, bulging slightly from having the wind knocked out of him.

He collapsed, just barely missing landing on her as he shoved to the left, landing on his side, one arm going to cover his abdomen, the other covering the first, as he gagged and wheezed trying to suck in air.

She gaped for a moment, then looked around and realized that she wasn't at home, wasn't in that filthy room. She was in Shawn's bathroom-safe-and Johnny Dunslow was dead.

"Shawn?" she said, kneeling and brushing her wet, trembling fingers over his cheeks, cupping his face with her hand. "Shawn, are you okay?"

He coughed and nodded, then pried his eyes open and looked up at her.

"I'll live," he croaked. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she reassured him, wincing as she helped him sit up and realized she was stark naked and still dripping wet.

He was, however, less concerned about that-a fact that did not go unnoticed-and more concerned with what had brought him in here at a dead run.

"I heard a thump and then a scream," he said, rubbing his stomach with one hand. Damn but that girl had some muscles on her. And hella good reflexes too. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," she repeated. "I slipped. It's nothing. I-"

He stopped her with a hand on her shoulder, his thumb unconsciously rubbing back and forth. "Jules. You don't have to tell me. But you know you can, right?"

She bit her lip, then looked down, feeling a hundred times and idiot and a fool, but the look in his eyes, the tone of his voice... She couldn't help it.

"I stepped out to get my shampoo that I'd forgotten and I saw my own shadow in the mirror," she confessed quietly. "I... I flashed back to when he took me. I was in the shower then and I saw his shadow in the mirror. It was just..." She trailed off.

"Scary."

She looked up.

"And perfectly normal," he added when he'd caught her eyes.

"I-"

"Jules," he said, taking her hand in his and the covering it with his other one. "I don't pretend to know what you're going through, but I'm pretty sure this isn't something you can just bounce back from. And that's okay. No one will think less of you if you have to take some time to get back up to speed. We just want you to get there, however long it takes."

With her free hand she brushed at the sudden tears that had sprung up, completely forgetting the fact that she was already wet.

"I don't want to take time," she said in a pained almost-whisper. "I just want my life back."

He pulled her into a hug, ignoring the way his shirt went damp almost immediately.

"And you can have it back. It's just going to take some time."

Her face buried against his shoulder, she mourned the loss of her innocence and wept for what had been taken from her. She knew he was right for the most part, she'd be able to go back to work and go out with her friends on the weekends and pay her bills and do all the normal things that she'd done two weeks ago without even a thought.

But there was a part of her that she'd never have back. And that would take some getting used to.

She wanted to go in, wanted to prove to herself that she wasn't so far from the person she'd been-or the person she thought she'd been-but after Shawn got her up and dressed-and checked her head, a goose egg, but nothing more serious than that it seemed-she discovered that he'd already called Lassiter and told him to come by and do the interview here.

It wasn't until she started to speak and found it was so damned hard to get the words out that she realized she was overwhelmingly grateful for these two men in her life.

The one, her partner, for knowing that she didn't need to push herself just yet and being willing to accommodate that.

The other, her... friend? Boyfriend? Lover? Whatever he was, she thought with a shake of her head, he'd recognized that she wasn't ready to push herself just yet and had taken steps to make sure she didn't, risking her wrath in the process but considering it a worthy price to pay if he achieved his goal.

She didn't deserve them, but neither would she give them up if she didn't have to.

It took her a few tries to tell everything, mostly because she kept trying to do so in a detached manner, but she couldn't stop the emotions from coming back, washing over her, and sending her plummeting back into the abyss of pain and fear.

Each time Shawn coaxed her back into the present moment while Carlton just waited patiently, making no comment on the way she responded to the psychic or whatever changes in their relationship he might have noticed. No lips curled in disgust or rolled eyes, not a single sound of revulsion escaped him. He just looked at his notepad and waited for her to uncurl or sit down or stop shaking and blubbering.

She saw the lines tighten around his eyes, even through her tears, the way his jaw clenched, and the undue pressure he put on his pen as he wrote down what she said, the detailed descriptions she gave of her journey through Hell and her tour guide on that expedition.

Juliet felt the same signs of tension in Shawn, could practically see the fury rising off of his skin in shuddering waves, but he said nothing except in a gentle voice to soothe her and give her the strength to go on.

She didn't consider herself a small or weak woman, but after that painful and private period of revelation, where they stood so valiantly in the face of her personal dragons she saw them both in a new light.

She had her very own knights in shining armor here. And, feminism be damned, it was pretty fucking nice.

The afternoon's fleeting plans to return home and start cleaning up were scuttled by Shawn. When she protested for form's sake-after the reaction she'd had in Shawn's bathroom, she didn't really want to go back to her own place just yet-and said that she'd have to go back eventually and the longer she waited the worse it would be to set right, he just shrugged and looked at his shoes as he informed her that she's only be in the way of the cleaning service he'd arranged. It was their job to do it and it would be rude to watch over their shoulders.

She'd had to look away herself, unaccountably embarrassed by the sweet gesture.

After last night's intimacy and the morning's setbacks and steps forward, it was odd to her that she should suddenly feel so shy.

What was left, after all, to hide from him? He already knew the details of her worst shame, had seen her naked and vulnerable in her terror, and had shared her body-something that less than a handful of men could boast.

She had no more secrets from him.

It must have been that the delay of trauma was just now allowing that fact to seep in.

A trail of inflamed bridges lay behind her, smoldering into ash and falling into the gorges below with every step she took away from them, and-though she might have rebuilt them in time-she found that she wasn't interested in revisiting those lands of uncertainty and inhibition.

She was a new person, for better or for worse, and the only way to get used to it was to keep moving forward and see where the road she now walked took her.

This attitude firmly in mind, when Shawn suggested a trip to the Santa Barbara Zoo, she accepted readily.

Walking along the paths from exhibit to exhibit, her hand comfortably yet casually tucked in Shawn's, she learned a great deal about him.

They ate ice cream while he told stories of riding elephants and cuddling baby tigers in Thailand, serving as a perch for a three-toed sloth in Costa Rica, and why one should listen to New Orleans locals when they tell you NOT to taunt the alligators in the bayou.

They made up conversations for the monkeys jabbering away in their enclosure, and hand fed some seagulls the remains of their French fries after lunch. That precipitated a tale she didn't quite believe about a pier-side restaurant in Seattle where the seagulls would follow an endless race track pattern next door hoping to get a chance to show off their skills in catching tossed fries. Her skepticism got her a promise to show her one day.

She didn't let him pin down a date, but neither did she turn him down flat, a sign he took with obvious pleasure as a victory. She wondered if maybe he wasn't right to do so.

They finished the day on the beach in a secluded sandy cove that required a small climb to get to and from, watching the sun finish its journey across the sky in a blaze of color that seemed so much brighter and bolder today than it had in the past.

She was content.

"My pretty little girl... such little hands... such tiny fingers... they break so easily... must be careful because they break so easily..."

"No..." she murmured and pulled her hand down, tucking it against her chest, her fingers curled under, trying to preserve them from the rough hands that played with them, bending them back and forth until she wanted to scream, though they never bent so far that they broke. Just close enough to multiply the pain with fear. Just close enough...

"My pretty little girl... such blue eyes... such wide blue eyes... they see too much... must be careful they don't see too much..."

A whimper as she felt the scratchy cloth of the blindfold slip down over her head. The darkness, the not being able to see, that made the fear so much worse. Her imagination took over then and every sound, every sensation, was that much stronger. He was going to kill her, but first he was going to hurt her and she wouldn't even know how until she felt the pain...

"My pretty little girl... such sweet lips... such sweet, full lips... they should not scream... such sweet lips should not say such dirty, nasty things..."

She choked as the duct tape was applied to her mouth, the sticky, unyielding gag of the duct tape. She couldn't cry out, couldn't try to get help from the footsteps she heard walk past occasionally, even though it was obvious they didn't care what went on in here. Why didn't they care? She was in pain and she couldn't free herself and they could, they could help her, why wouldn't they help her...

"My pretty little girl... such soft skin... such soft, unmarked skin... but only innocent girls had such clean skin... bad girls, dirty girls, filthy rotten WHORISH girls didn't get such soft, unmarked skin..."

His hands were on her, pinching, poking, squeezing, bruising... He didn't stop, he wouldn't stop, he wanted to punish her but she didn't do anything wrong, she wasn't what he said, she was a good girl, she wasn't a filthy rotten whorish girl, she didn't deserve this, he wouldn't stop and he wasn't going to stop, he was going to punish her for things she didn't do until he killed her and she didn't want to die, why had this happened to her, why didn't anyone come for her, why did it hurt, why was she here, why, why why-

She shot up in bed with a gasp, the scream ripped from her throat as she scrambled from the bed and raced for the door, needing to get outside, to get away from the memories and the pain and the fear...

She tripped twice in the unfamiliar layout, going down hard, but just choking back a cry at the new pain, knowing that it would be much worse if he caught her and knowing that this time she'd fight to the death, she wouldn't go back, he'd have to kill her here and now because she wouldn't go back-

Arms wrapped around her from behind and she let out a feral roar, the sound of an animal in pain and enraged, her legs kicked, her body twisted, her head thrashed, she would not be trapped again shouted in every sound and action.

Her captor took her down, pinned her to the couch, held her in place with his own weight, his harsh panting breath blowing over her face, making the tears that tracked down her cheeks go cold and hot by turns.

She continued to fight, refused to go down, refused to be taken, kicked and screamed and sobbed and bucked, her words an unrecognizable babble of threat and promise, begging and pleading.

He didn't let her go and finally exhaustion forced her surrender, stole her will, and broke her spirit, reducing her to wordless weeping and silent prayers that it wouldn't hurt so much and please just let it end soon...

When even that died down to sniffling whimpers, the embarrassment as painful as the bruises, she realized that the voice speaking in her ear wasn't the one she had imagined.

It didn't speak of pain, of degradation, of torture, and of humiliation.

It spoke of comfort, of safety, of love, of security.

It was Shawn-not Johnny-and he was afraid-not trying to cause fear.

She went limp and he stopped talking suddenly, the only sound his harsh breathing as he tried to reign in the panic of the last few minutes. He didn't know if he'd made the right choice, but he hadn't known what else to do and he couldn't just let her run out there into the night, scared and confused, scrabbling like an animal blinded and spooked into escaping the fear that chased it any way it could.

She craned her neck and he realized she was looking at him, the crazed look from before faded from her eyes. She blinked once, languidly, almost sleepily, and he let her go-not completely, just enough to be able to sit up and bring her with him.

Without words he settled back against the corner of the couch and she curled up in his lap, taking the time to sweep her hair out of the way so her ear could lay without a barrier against his chest, letting the sound of his heart as it slowed back down to a steady beat lull her.

"Juliet?" he finally asked. "What the hell was that?"

She sounded drugged when she responded, the adrenaline high crashing and taking her back down to sleep with it, aided by the sedative effect of knowing she was safe with her psychic pillow wrapped around her.

"Nightmare," she explained. "He was back. I was back there with him."

She heard his heart thump unsteadily, faltering and then picking up speed and power as understanding came to him.

"No," she said, her fingers coming up to drift over his skin, to pet him back into the calm rhythm that would take her into sleep without the shadows and the memories. "S'okay. He's not here. He's gone. And you came. You came and you brought help. Carlton shot him. Shhh," she soothed, trying to make his heart slow down again. "It's okay."

She murmured that for a while until it began to work, and then trailed off. He thought maybe she'd gone back to sleep.

Until she spoke once more, her voice clear and completely coherent.

"Shawn?"

"Yeah, Jules?"

"You keep him away. Will you stay and keep him away?"

His throat clogged for a few brief moments, his eyes blinking rapidly to quell the liquid welling up there. "Yeah," he whispered hoarsely. "I'll stay and keep him away."

She hummed in grateful agreement and then let sleep claim her once more, knowing that he'd be there when she was ready to wake up.

14 Valentines Day 7 - Sexual Assault

Thu, 07 Feb 2008 22:40:02 GMT

Wake Up
By: subliminal_muse
Fandom: Psych
Summary: On a day like today he could never be sure if Fate hated him or adored him. He suspected it was both.
Categories: Season, Short
Characters: Juliet, Lassiter, Shawn
Genres: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Warnings: Sensitive Material
Chapters: 1 of 3
Completed: Yes
Word count: 4506

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

He managed to make good time through the building, those dancing lessons from long ago serving him an unexpected but welcome advantage as he dodged and darted around cops, at least half of which tried to stop him.

He managed to evade them every last one of them without having to stop moving forward.

Until he heard her voice.

He stopped cold in the hallway, deliberately oblivious to the filthy floor and gouged and scarred walls. It smelled of piss and puke and had all the charm of a whore house in the ghetto. Plainly put, the place was a dump and, though he would be able to remember that later—unable to remember it really—he couldn't think of it right now.

Not when it was his fault she was here. Had been here—alone, he cursed, completely fucking alone—with a rapist/serial killer intent on adding her to his collection of pretty little girls.

He cursed again and then forced his leaden legs to move him forward to the door of the apartment.

He just prayed they'd found her in time.

Muscles tensing to the point where he'd probably have a cramp later he stepped through, his eyes doing an automatic and cursory sweep of the room. Habit had his brain starting a more detailed analysis in the background, but most of his attention was focused on her.

She stood by a filthy window that only let in weak, filtered sunlight, talking to her partner, her voice low and professional as she gave him a report.

In his chest his heart gave a double jerk, once for love, lust or—more likely—both, the same feeling he always got when he looked at/listened to/smelled/thought of her, and once for shame and fear, a reflection of what she was feeling right now. The latter was multiplied exponentially by the former.

He shouldn't be thinking that, feeling that, right now. After what she'd been through that should be the last damn thought in his head.

But, fuck he wanted her.

In his arms and in his bed.

Not because he was sick like the bastard that had held her here—tied her to that pathetic excuse of a mattress, his brain helpfully noted as his traitorous eyes flicked to that especially filthy corner of the room, sparking a wave of revulsion that he shied away from instinctively. He wanted her, needed her right now and not because he found all of—or any of—this a turn on.

He didn't want to make her remember, to think of what she'd survived here. He wanted to make her forget. Replace the terror and shame and helplessness with security and love and strength.

He knew she could eventually, though he never would. The images—both real and imagined—were stuck in his head. Permanent fucking ink on his psyche.

Thanks, Dad. Thanks for the memories.

He pushed the thought aside, shoved it violently into the box in his head reserved for things like that, and tried to focus on what could be done now.

And his eyes went back to her.

The steadiness with which she delivered her report was belied by her posture, the way she shielded herself with her arms crossed over her chest, her nervous and ever busy fingers that picked and stroked and danced over the blanket the EMT's had given her, the defensive hunch of her shoulders.

She kept her head up, but her eyes were on Lassie's shoulder, not his face, certainly not his eyes.

Lassiter, for once, wasn't his usual abrasive asshole self.

His voice was pitched as low as hers and, though Shawn would never have imagined that he was capable of it, vaguely compassionate. He lifted a hand and rested it on her shoulder and she cringed, then flushed because it was her partner, not her tormentor that was touching her.

Shawn wanted to go over there and do something, anything, to make that look on her face go away, banish those tears from her eyes, but he couldn't. He felt dirty just thinking it because he was the one that had put those shadows there. Not literally, he knew, but he'd played a part in it.

His damn ego and reckless shithead attitude had redirected the focus of their suspect and turned a fucking spotlight on Juliet.

And that was because Shawn had been stupid enough to think that he was smarter than a psychotic maniac who'd already killed seventeen victims and eluded the police for almost six months.

And maybe he was smarter. But he wasn't crazier. And that gave his opponent a leg up in a mind game like this. Your opponent couldn't anticipate your next move if you didn't even know what the hell it was until you were doing it.

Because he couldn't bear to look at her, to see what he'd had a hand in doing to the woman he supposedly loved—had confessed to the same to his dad with very little alcohol in his system—he turned away.

And spotted his partner in crime.

Two shots to the head made precise little holes in the front of his skull. The still dripping décor on the wall behind him indicated that the exit hadn't been quite so neat.

Something Shawn couldn't have explained drew him over. He stared down at the lump of meat that had, until recently, served as the shell for a twisted mind and soul.

His face blank, his eyes critical, he lowered himself into a crouch, tilting his head as he examined the remains.

Once upon a time this had been a baby, an infant, as innocent as they came. Someone had loved him, Shawn knew, two parents and four siblings, all of whom had been shocked and bewildered by what their little Johnny had done.

He hadn't been beaten or abused. His family had been comfortably upper middle class. He'd had good grades and a few friends back in his adolescence. No criminal record to speak of, not even a parking ticket or youthful indiscretion tucked away in a juvie file.

But something had changed.

Shawn's brow furrowed, his head tilted, as he considered the conundrum.

What had skewed and distorted that, by all appearances, happy and fortunate in life young man into this? A monster, barely human, maybe not even that anymore, who preyed on pretty, innocent women.

Inside, deep down in his generous heart, he mourned for that young man, as much a victim as any of the girls who'd fallen to the creature before him.

But for that creature . . . he felt no regret. No remorse over the violent way he'd met his end.

Well, he thought as he stood. That wasn't entirely true.

He regretted that it had been swift and relatively painless. Probably hadn't even known what hit him. The barrel of Lassiter's gun in his face and then nothing.

After the hours of torture, abuse, and indignity he'd inflicted on his victims it wasn't fair that he'd had such an easy death.

Pain in his hand brought Shawn out of the dark, bubbling thoughts of what he'd have preferred for an end to this case, and he looked down to see his left hand so tightly fisted that there were marks in his palm from his fingernails.

He stared at it, gently waving his fingers and feeling the accompanying sting as it jarred the wounds, as though he had never seen a hand before and wasn't sure why it was bothering him now.

He dropped it suddenly when he sensed company approaching—not the CSU techs, they were background noise, there but not really worth acknowledging as they crawled over the scene like ants, plucking up the bits of evidence and carting them back to their nest to be picked over again in more detail.

It was Lassiter and he was still having an out of body experience it seemed.

“Spencer,” he said, his voice unnervingly gentle. “We got him. Go home. We can handle this from here.”

He spun, violently, his temper riding the wave of bile that surged up in his esophagus. He swallowed the bile, but the fury kept coming, propelled like a rocket into his brain and lodging there with a comforting fizz behind his eyes.

“Dammit, Lassiter, you are not shutting me out on this one. I can help you and you know it. This isn't done yet.”

“Shawn,” Lassiter tried, putting a hand on his arm—not the expected rough grip that preceded being dragged out and dropped on his ass just beyond the crime scene tape either. It was . . . dammit, comforting and placating and, shit, he did not need this right now. Not from the lead detective on the case and the partner of the woman Shawn professed to love and yet had all but wrapped up in a bow and handed to a fucking serial killer.

He turned away, his anger going icy and cold as it came back on himself, this time riding a wave of guilt and disgust for his unwitting contribution to this crime spree.

“I need to do this,” he said quietly, eyes closed against the shame of being reduced to this pitiful begging. He hated it, but his pride was not the issue here. His sanity was the chunk of him in danger.

He needed to help on this, solve this, close it up.

If he didn't he'd never have peace.

The memories would never go completely away no matter what, but he could beat them back if he had memories of success for a bat. He needed closure here or he'd have to find it elsewhere and he couldn't even begin to imagine where he might find it.

Thoughts of the one time he'd tried drugs—out of curiosity more than anything—swam through his head and he shook them off. He didn't want to seek that kind of oblivion. It was false and the memories only hurt more when it cleared . . . but desperation made a person do things they didn't like.

He didn't want to be that desperate.

The silence, absolute silence, of the room penetrated his thoughts and his eyes flew open to look around.

They were alone.

Lassiter had dismissed the Ant Army.

It was just them and the cooling corpse of a killer.

“Shawn,” Lassiter said, his voice gentle still.

The use of his first name alone made the younger man blink and pay attention.

“I wasn't going to kick you off the case.” He hesitated, his eyes darting away as he ran a hand through his hair, fidgeting with the discomfort of his next words. “I'd like your help in fact. But we don't need you to bag evidence and dust for prints. Right now there's somewhere you need to be more.”

Confused, Shawn stared at Lassiter.

“Where . . .”

He trailed off when movement at the door caught his attention.

It was Juliet, her expression heartbreakingly vulnerable behind the thin veneer of stoicism and indifference she'd tried to paint over it.

He couldn't do it, couldn't face her right now.

“Shawn?” she said softly.

His eyes closed and his face collapsed in on itself, his nose wrinkling, as he tried to wrestle control back.

His personal space was invaded and his eyes flew open but it was just Lassiter.

“Take her to the hospital and then take her home, Spencer,” he ordered in a near whisper so she couldn't hear his words. “She's on the verge of breaking down completely and she'd be a hell of a lot more comfortable doing so with you than me.”

“Lassie, I-”

“We both have jobs to do right now. I need to bag a body and gather evidence. You need to go make sure my partner can come back and do her job. Tomorrow you can come in and tell me what the spirits have to say about Dunslow here.”

Shawn swallowed, wanting to take him up on his offer, wanting it so badly he had to consciously hold himself back from running to her and scaring the shit out of her again by tackling her.

But, hell, how was he supposed to touch her again? It was his fault she had finger shaped bruises on her arms and neck. His fault her lip was split and her eye blackened. A cut on her forehead had had a first aid patch applied but it would need a more thorough inspection and treatment. She favored her right ankle, though both, like her wrists, had the bruises and chafing caused by struggling against leather straps tied too tightly.

He didn't even know what else had been done because the rest was covered by a damn ambulance stock blanket for the shock and because what was left of the clothes she was wearing were not decent enough for a visit to the ER.

“Shawn,” she said again and it was the crack in her voice that decided it for him.

He was across the room and had her wrapped up carefully in his arms in a few scant heartbeats. She couldn't return the gesture since she was mummified in the blanket, but she managed to get her hands on fistfuls of his shirt and contented herself with that death grip. Nothing and no one was going to take him away from her until she was good and fucking ready to let him go.

That wouldn't be anytime soon.

They were both shaking, the two of them trembling like kittens in a snowstorm, as they stood there, both reveling in the feel of the other, the comfort of the familiar smells, and the safety their grasp on the other embodied.

“Jules, I am so sorry,” he breathed. “So sorry, I-”

She started to cry then, sobbing quietly into his shoulder and he gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut.

She was going to kill him if she kept it up.

“I knew you'd come,” she managed after a few moments, sniffing wetly and trying to reign in her emotions. She'd managed to hold onto them thus far and dammit she wasn't ready to let go. Not here. Not now.

Bad enough she'd been found where and with whom she had been, she didn't not want to lose any more respect from her coworkers.

She wanted to be home, safe and sound, cocooned in Shawn's arms and hidden from the world, free to break down in privacy where she wouldn't have to face the witnesses to it at work the next day.

This was close, but not enough.

And yet she couldn't stop. The dam had been broken and there was no going back now.

Shawn, for his part, reacted the only way he knew how, though it was far from adequate in his opinion. Shushing her and rocking back and forth gently, he did his best to ride out the storm, internally cursing himself up one side and down the other for allowing this to happen. Any of it and all of it.

Over her head he met Lassiter's apologetic and more than a little embarrassed eyes and grimaced in agreement.

They really needed to let the forensics techs back in to finish processing the scene. The body needed to be moved—not out of respect for him, but because leaving it here was likely to garner it some posthumous abuse from the people who worked with his last victim. And Juliet need to go to the hospital and be checked over and treated more thoroughly.

She had no major injuries that they could see but they'd check again and with better equipment just to be sure. Shawn was not averse to a second opinion on her medical condition. He didn't want any lingering physical reminders of her ordeal to go with the psychological scars that she'd carry for the rest of her life.

But Shawn would be damned if he'd make her walk the gauntlet of people she knew that stood between her and the exit while she was sobbing her shattered heart out.

There was no emergency now. Everyone could wait two damn minutes for her to let out some of the pain and then gather the shreds of her composure.

The flash flood died down to a trickle and she sniffed and wiped at her face with the corner of the blanket.

“Sorry,” she whispered, pulling back a little, her eyes firmly cast down, her cheeks flushed from the emotion of her release as much as the embarrassment of it happening here and now.

Shawn slid his hands up to her upper arms and gave her a gentle shake.

“Hey,” he said, letting go to put a finger under her chin and tip it up until she was forced to meet his eyes. “You have nothing to apologize for. Nothing.”

She sniffed and nodded, but it didn't take his pseudo-psychic skills to see that she didn't believe him.

Yet. She would, he vowed, and pulled her in for another hug.

This was all his damn fault—well, his and Dunslow's. He never had been good at sharing and he wasn't about to start now with this and her.

Lassiter cleared his throat and Shawn reluctantly released his tight hold in her, toning it down to a single arm around the shoulders.

“Go get checked out, O'Hara,” he ordered, his voice mostly back to normal strident non-nonsense tones. “When they release you go home. I'll get your official statement tomorrow.”

She hesitated—out of duty, not desire—but he read her face easily.

“I'll call you if I need something,” he added, his voice softening briefly once more.

They both knew he wouldn't, but the verbal facade had been erected and now she could hide behind it without feeling guilty.

She nodded and let Shawn guide her to the door, shifting her grip on the blanket so she could sneak a hand down and tangle her fingers with his.

He gave her hand a quick squeeze, managed a bolstering smile of encouragement, and then, when she nodded, opened the door.

It was almost midnight. The day of horror and hell was finally coming to an end.

Shawn lay on his couch, stretched out the length of it, and covered in a blanket of Juliet with a topcoat of fleece because she was still a bit shocky and therefore perpetually cold.

One hand ran up and down the length of her back, gently, absently tracing her spine.

At the hospital she'd been cherry red with embarrassment, but quietly insistent that he stay with her throughout the examination. Her hand had gripped his the entire time, through the indignity of having her rags—formerly clothes—cut off so they could be properly processed by forensics, the mortifying examination of every last inch of her skin and the collection of more evidence, the quiet tears that had accompanied the recounting of what she could remember of what had been done to her so it could be treated.

Listening to it had sickened him, but he'd kept it together for her. He'd always have the memory of her shaky, barely audible voice telling of the torture she'd endured, the vivid full color mental snapshots of the bruises, cuts, burns, and other desecrations to her body, the feelings of impotent rage and heartbroken despair she'd radiated as she'd been forced to think time and time again about things she just wanted to forget.

He'd always remember those things and what they'd done to her, but he hadn't experienced them. He could imagine what she'd gone through—and would in excruciating detail in his dreams for the rest of his life, he knew—but he'd never truly know what it had been like.

And so he put himself aside, shoved his damn ego and fucking guilt into a deep dark hole in his head, and focused on doing whatever he could for her.

Staying with her, holding her hand, reminding her that it was over, she had survived, and it would never happen again . . . it still didn't feel like it was enough to him, but he could see that it had helped some.

When it was finally over he'd bundled her up in clothes that Gus, bless his unquestioning loyalty and willingness to act as gopher without a word of explanation, had fetched for her. He'd brought her home—his, not hers because hers was yet to be cleaned up after being trashed in her abduction and then processed by the CSU guys—and they'd curled up on the couch with a stack of comedies and chick flicks, a collective gallon of Ben and Jerry's, and a veritable feast of fast food.

Food had not been on her captor's agenda and the combination of starvation and a desire for innocent normalcy had ended with trips to almost every fast food place they'd passed on the way home, as well as a grocery store for the ice cream and some drinks—nothing alcoholic that would steal her control like the drugs in the little water she'd been given.

And then she'd had a hankering for moo goo gai pan and fortune cookies so they'd had Chinese delivered.

Six hours into the marathon, pizza and a bouquet of beautiful flowers had been delivered with a message that it was courtesy of her coworkers. Accompanying it was a card that had been filled with the scribbles of her fellow flatfeet—along with a sealed note from Lassiter that said that he could swing by and do her interview there if she didn't want to come in, she just needed to call and let him know.

She'd cried again after that, disbelief at the support and yet gratitude for the camaraderie bred in a job where trust in your coworkers meant the difference between coming home at night and a shiny medal for your spouse or parents.

Shawn had held her again, saying a prayer of thanks himself for the dedicated badges working this town that had found her in time.

Guilt demanded he not include himself in that group but that kind of thinking wasn't useful to Juliet so he packed it away with the rest and refocused his attention.

They hadn't finished the movies or touched the pizza.

Her second breakdown had led to her confession that she hadn't wasted her time between the sessions of pain and abuse. She'd thought of him, she said, reaffirming her assertion that she'd known he would lead the charge of the cavalry to her rescue—or at least act as their guide and point them in the right direction. Carlton would have never let him actually lead the charge.

Shame washed over him at the fact that he wouldn't have had to act as guide if he hadn't gotten her into a position of needing to be rescued in the first place.

She'd read his guilt that time and refused to let him sweep it under the rug again.

That had led to a lively discussion-bordering-on-argument that had, inexplicably, ended with Shawn's earlier wish being fulfilled.

Initially a primal clash of wills, it took only one gasp of pain from Juliet to have him retreating so fast he almost cracked his head on the coffee table when he fell off the couch.

He'd tried to apologize and nearly drowned in the shame, but she'd just come after him, disarming him with a kiss so sweet he was pretty sure that his internal organs had all turned to liquid and settled in a thick pool in his abdomen. It would explain why he'd had such a hard time breathing, not having lungs and all.

After that came irrefutable forgiveness, achingly tender passion, and some desperately needed healing for both of them.

Her injuries had forced them to be careful and take it slowly and that had damn near killed him with how right and perfect it had been.

After that she'd slept, boneless and exhausted, but not plagued by nightmares.

He hadn't.

He'd been spinning his wheels in the muck of confusion, trying to figure out how the hell he'd gotten so lucky.

He didn't deserve her, couldn't believe her when she said she didn't want to fight it anymore, and couldn't let her go now if his life depended on it.

She stirred and he abruptly refocused on the world outside of his head, his eyes on the messy tumble of her hair as she sighed contentedly.

Her head on his bare chest allowed him to feel the butterfly kisses of her eyes fluttering open. His own eyes drifted closed at the sensation.

How had he lived without her?

She lifted her head and must have been trying to decide if he was asleep, because she didn't say anything at first. Then there was a soft, “Shawn?” and his eyes popped open like they had been rigged with springs.

A smile curved her lips.

“Hey,” she murmured.

He couldn't help it, couldn't stop the urge to bring a hand up to her face. Brushing his knuckles gently along her cheekbone, just skimming the edge under the black eye and then sliding back to thread his fingers in her hair, he marveled at the perverse sense of humor fate had.

She leaned into the caress, her lids sliding down as she tilted her head to slip into the cradle of his palm.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“For what?” he asked, only half paying attention, distracted as he was by the feel of her hair trapping his fingers, as if it couldn't bear to let him go either.

She laid her head back down on his chest, her muscles taking on the consistency of warm butter as his heart thumped steadily, if quickly, under her ear.

“For everything,” she breathed on a sigh, her eyes closing as sleep washed over her again.

She mumbled a soft, “Love you,” then was gone, a willing submissive to blissful oblivion once more.

Shawn's hand froze mid-stroke of her hair. He blinked, once, twice.

Then yawned.

Blinking again he tried to shake off the sudden exhaustion flooding over him, trying to drag him down into sleep.

But the fight was futile and eventually he succumbed, his last conscious thought that every nightmare should end this way.

And if this was a dream, he never wanted to wake up.

14 Valentines Day 7 - Sexual Assault

14 Valentines - Day 3 - Health

Sun, 03 Feb 2008 23:36:39 GMT

Find out more about 14 Valentines here.

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