Warnings: spoilers up through the end of season 7. Some imagery related to suicide/self-harm which might be triggering.
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She rolls over in the middle of the night, half-asleep, reaching for him, and finds only empty sheets.
She bolts upright in bed, fighting panic. He's just run off with Gus again, or remembered that there's some marathon of horrible movies on, or decided to go for take-out at two in the morning just because he can. He's Shawn. He's fine.
The window is open. Sighing, she gets up to close it.
". . . Shawn?"
He doesn't look at her. He's perched on the roof, elbows on his knees, not exactly awkward but not anywhere close to elegant. It would be a little poetic if he were looking at the stars, so of course he's not. His eyes are fixed on the ground, a story down. She evaluates. Ten feet, springy grass. A fall would be painful and difficult to explain, but not fatal. Probably.
"Do you ever think about jumping off a cliff?" Shawn asks abruptly, still staring down. "Not to die," he adds, and she breathes. "Just, y'know, to see what it feels like."
"Are you alright?" she asks, worry tugging at her stomach.
"Just imagine it," he continues as if he hasn't heard her. "You drive up this old back road, and then the road stops, so you get out and you, you jump the sign that says the trail it closed and you keep going, climbing up this mountain, and when the trail stops you go through the trees, get those little green things all over your pants, and then the trail ends and you're at the top of this gigantic cliff, and you look down and you can see them, all the jagged, razor-sharp rocks that will slice you into a million pieces, and . . . you don't care. You just – fall. Down, and down, and down . . . ."
Juliet shivers, an exchange from years ago springing to mind with startling clarity. Chief Vick, concerned, "Are you thinking about jumping off a cliff?" And Shawn, sullen and ridiculous from the depths of Gus' paper mache dinosaur head, "Maybe." A joke. Probably.
"Shawn, you're scaring me. Please come inside."
He startles, jerks enough to make her heart skip a beat, but he steadies himself again and at least he's looking at her now. His face looks pale, his eyes washed out. Moonlight doesn't suit him.
"I'm okay," he says. His eyes flicker like he's searching for a joke, but he doesn't find one. That doesn't suit him, either. "I'm not – I mean, I'd never hurt myself or anything."
But that's not exactly true, is it, Juliet thinks before she can stop herself. She's seen it, over and over again. Shawn, going after a murderer without backup, without a gun, without a vest. Shawn, springing to his feet with a black eye and cracked ribs. Shawn, seeing her off for her vacation with another man with a forced smile and good wishes. Shawn, scaling cliffs and jumping off of them, just to see what it feels like.
She used to think that he was reckless because he thought he was invincible, but she's beginning to realize that it's something else entirely.
"This whole thing, with you finding out I'm not psychic and everything," says Shawn, and it's the first time he's mentioned it since they got back together, and she wishes she were close enough to smell for alcohol on his breath. "I hated it. All of it. I hated what it was doing to you, hated what it was doing to me, hated what it was doing to us. I was completely miserable."
She nods, acknowledging, agreeing. She has no idea where this is going. Maybe it's not going anywhere.
"I don't regret it. I mean, I regret hurting you, of course I do, but everything that was happening inside me – you know that's the first time I had my heart broken?" He huffs out half a laugh, face twisted in a strained smile which doesn't reach his eyes.
"I really don't think it is," she says, and it's not an accusation. She doesn't think he's lying, but she thinks maybe he's forgotten, maybe that's how he functions. Or maybe it's just that nobody ever told him that heartbreak wasn't always about romance.
He shakes his head, looking away again.
"It sucked. It hurt, and it was all my fault. But now that it's all over . . . I'm kind of glad I felt all that." He chokes on another laugh, and this one sounds more like a sob. "How messed up is that?"
"It's not –" she begins, but the look he shoots her reminds her that while he's not actually a psychic, he has managed to fake being one for years. She concedes. "Alright, it is kind of messed up. But look, Shawn." She grips the window sill and hauls herself up, roughly suppressing the flip of her stomach as she slides out into the night air, bare feet scraping for a heart-stopping moment before they find purchase on the gentle incline. "We're all messed up. You might be sitting on our roof at two in the morning for no apparent reason, but hey, I'm sitting up here with you."
Shawn laughs again, more genuine this time, and offers her a hand. She takes it, edging her way over until she can slip behind him, feet braced against the gutter, arms wrapped around his middle, face pressed into his shoulder. They don't move for long minutes. She doesn't think she's ever seen him so quiet, ever felt him so still. She wonders if it's peace or paralysis. She wonders if he knows the difference.
She's the one who breaks the silence.
"This is . . . kind of '80s, don't you think?"
"That makes you Molly Ringwald."
"Nah." She smiles into his neck. "You're Molly Ringwald. I'm more Andrew McCarthy."
"Going the Pretty in Pink route, huh? In that case you should know that I am definitely Jon Cryer."
She laughs, the vibrations running through her ribcage and into his, warming them both. They quiet again, and once more she's the one who speaks first.
"You know, I've heard falling's not all it's cracked up to be."
She can feels his heartbeat quicken against her chest, hears the fragility of his levity when he responds.
"Once you've started, it's kind of hard to stop."
She pulls him closer, breathes slow and even until he matches her. In. Out. In. Out. In. Now words, gentle, soft. Don't break the rhythm.
"It's alright. I've got you."
He relaxes into her, and they breathe together.