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. I don't own/own references to David Boreanaz, James Marsters, Alex O'Loughlin, Stephen Moyer, Moonlight, Moonlighting, Twilight, Baywatch Nights, Vlad Dracul, Dracula, Scooby-Doo, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Minor references to Season One's "Scary Sherry: Bianca's Toast" and Season Three's "Tuesday the 17th".

Author's Note: Long time no update. Anyways, reviews, feedback, comments and constructive criticism are welcome and highly appreciated! Enjoy! Happy Halloween!

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Chapter Three: You Get Scared When We're Alone Like I Might Suck Your Blood

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Juliet realized, after Shawn was gone, that she hadn't seen him for five days. Not until now—when he came dressed as—a coincidence, that was all.

But where had he been? What had he been up to? Had he been lying in wait somewhere, hiding in the bushes outside her apartment, jimmying her window open—psychically—so he could prey on her in her dreams?

Juliet trembled, paralyzed with possibility. She didn't know the boundaries of Shawn's powers; or why—if—he would choose to clothe himself like a vampire, clamp down on her neck with his jagged teeth, and . . .

The dream pressed on her, had her pinned. She should have screamed, but she could only watch it advance her, in its disguise, in its sexy, altered form, as it leaned down, pressing its wide mouth onto her neck. This dream was now being led, in its sexy, altered form, out of the station by her very determined partner.

Kiss me like—like I'm dying, or if you are, or if you're going off to war, fought with spears or with knives fashioned out sharpened granite, out of iron touched only by fire.

Juliet bit her lips, closed her eyes tight.

A coincidence, that was all.

But—where had he been for five days? Wasn't he always hanging around, trying to "divine" out a case, sniffing at her hair? How busy had she been this past week—? A blur; only vivid were her nightly dreams—and today. Today held a pungent sharpness, like something sweetly rotten, too many details too clear, poking at her. Snapping at her. Biting.

Kiss me lightly, on the forehead, on the cheek. Kiss me with passion, one kiss to last, for when you're all cold in the grave, or for when I am—cold skin, pale, inhuman, sipping your blood like a strong drink.

She had to keep herself from screaming aloud when she felt a hand firmly grasp her shoulder; she knew, after a bend of fear and longing had passed her by that it was her partner, her "vampire hunter" returning from playing hero to her today. She got to her feet with her eyes only partially open, standing in front of the desk, waiting for him to release her.

She was overcome suddenly; what if he told her to go home—and something happened to him? Juliet's eyes snapped open, wondering what was becoming of her. But the thought twisted in her head: what if he was shot? Or something else mundane occurred but became still a risk? What if . . . he was somehow affected by the otherworldly-ness of this day, of this night? She could imagine, unwillingly, Lassiter going to check out a house alone, for suspicious activity within or without, where a mangy dog with rotting teeth could clamp down on his shoulder, infect him with disease. Rabies . . . the plague . . . werewolf poison. She shook her head forcefully at the image of Lassiter with yellow eyes, peering over her with doubled moons, a second set of teeth lining his own as he smiled raggedly. Impulsively, she asked, "Shawn didn't bite you, did he?"

Lassiter straightened, peering at her from his full height with a look of worry that betrayed any of his usual defensive anger (always, always, at the ready) that Juliet herself wondered if her own mind had been lost somewhere from the doors to the station to here, at her desk. She forced out laughter and another too bright smile. "I'm sorry, that was a terrible attempt at a joke," she said, holding her smile in place, worrying a little when Lassiter's look didn't change. Quickly, she shook her head gently, and thanked him again for escorting Shawn away.

"Did he—do something?" Lassiter asked, keeping his eyes fixed on hers even as he relaxed his stance, pulling his hand away from her shoulder to insert almost casually into one of his slacks' side pockets. "Do something to you?" He had reached for her again when she shook her head, as if she'd needed to banish something terrible, but had stopped midway when he understood, by a quick flicker of her eyes away from his, that the gesture was making her nervous. "Something stupider than usual?"

A look of tightness peeled away from Juliet's face, with it, her smile, and she shook her head again, this time even more slowly. "It's not—um, no." She bit her lip, struggling for coherent thoughts. "It's me—not, um, sleeping well." She rolled her eyes, then closed them, uncomfortable that Lassiter wouldn't let their gaze drop; knowing he was still holding the channel between them open, waiting for her to come back. Why today did he have to pick to care about her well-being so much?

"We should—get going, shouldn't we?" Juliet said, opening her eyes, her tone soft and serious. "It's still early—we can head things off if we leave now."

"How do you know that?" Lassiter asked, raising an eyebrow. She saw that he was starting to shape a question about some of Shawn's "bullshit psychic mojo" rubbing off onto her—so she froze his words by grabbing his arm, by playing up to what she believed she needed to do to get him moving and back to his old self.

"Because I'm a good cop, and so are you, partner. Let's go save Halloween."

Lassiter raised the other eyebrow, but his mouth broke into a quick smile.

Juliet nodded, her stomach tight with the breath she was holding in. "You've got enough ammo? It might be rough out there." When the corners of his eyes pulled tight with annoyance, she relaxed.

"You're messing with me, aren't you?" he asked, retrieving his gun from his shoulder holster to check the clip in front of her.

Juliet rolled her eyes, hoping the moments of what was their normalcy would last. "Carlton, what would I have to gain from that? I still have to ride in the car with you all day." She raised an eyebrow for emphasis. Doing so made the back of her neck feel oddly exposed—her veins plump, ripe, ready to burst. It chagrined her to realize her partner had caught that private breath of nothingness at the back of her neck and the way she'd run her fingers around her throat without touching the skin.

Wordlessly, he reached out to her, ushering her towards the hallway with the lightest touch on her shoulder blades. Inwardly, Juliet sighed, knowing she would have to continue to accept whatever protective notion Lassiter had today—until it ran its course. Certainly it would, right?

Thankfully, Halloween wasn't every day.

# # # # #

"All I want to know is if you put something in her drink," Gus continued, ignoring Shawn's curled up lip, his sneer through plastic teeth. He was convinced Shawn was behind Juliet's strange episode back at the station.

"Sumving like vhat?" Shawn gripped. "Vhy vould I do vat?"

"Slipped her a tab of LSD?"

"Gust," Shawn began, shocked, "vere vould I get—"

"You got something out of my case of samples and gave it to her, didn't you? Hallucinations are for doctors' paying clients only."

"Vho sait she vas hallufinating?"

"That's a terrible excuse for a Transylvanian accent," Gus commented, mostly tired of seeing Shawn literally spit a majority of his words.

"How vould vou know?" Shawn's sneer widened, his cape fluttering behind him as he dropped into the passenger seat of Gus's Echo. "Gif me your hand," he told Gus once his friend was behind the wheel.

"Did you or didn't you?"

"Nooooooooooooo," Shawn moaned. "Vhy vould I? Now, gif! Gif! Gif!"

Before thinking it through, Gus complied, repulsed suddenly as his eyes—not his brain—watched Shawn spit out his fake vampire teeth directly into his open palm. "SHAWN!" Gus batted the the teeth back in Shawn's direction, finding himself only slightly satisfied to see the plastic bounce off of Shawn's lapel.

"What's the matter?" Shawn asked, a mischievous gleam in his eye. "It's not like it's covered in the blood of innocents."

Gus scowled, but managed to wipe his palm on Shawn's cape before Shawn could squeak his own disgust.

"First of all, I'm appalled you would think such terrible things of me when it comes to the lovely Detective O'Hara. You should be ashamed! Second, I'm craving pizza with a sweet sauce, ham and pineapple, you want to go halfsies?"

"I could eat," Gus said. "I want you to know that those drug questions were completely in character for my costume. I think whomever made this authentic shirt was high as a kite and wanted everyone else to be too."

"You want to know the true story?" Shawn asked, quickly continuing before Gus's raise of eyebrow could turn into phrasing stating that "true story" and anything Shawn said could not be on the level true in the same sentence. "The true story is that Jules was so overcome with my overt manly sexiness, the most natural response for her was to faint." Gus snorted, focusing on the drive. Shawn continued, "It's like I told you earlier: deep down, she really is a vampire groupie who wants to make out and do other super naughty things with her favorite vampire."

"David Boreanaz?"

"No."

"James Marsters?"

"No," Shawn spat. "Have you seen his hair?"

"Reminds me of Malibu you, Shawn."

"You're not funny, Gus. Malibu Shawn's hair is much sleeker than that British's guys hair will ever be."

"He's not British. The accent is fake. Fine, what about Stephen Moyer? I could see Jules wanting to do bad things with—"

Shawn growled.

Gus grinned. "What about that teenage vampire that sparkles?"

"Real vampires don't sparkle. Real vampires burst into flames at the smallest hint of sunlight." Shawn tapped his chest proudly, the sunlight glinting off his medallion.

"Like you, out in the sunlight just like—"

"Just like Alex O'Loughlin from Moonlighting. Or Moonlit? Moonlighted? Moonlight?"

"I think it was Baywatch Nights," Gus corrected. "You're thinking of the time that that dead serial killer's blood infected people via the traffic accident and made them do murderous things. Literally."

"No, I'm pretty sure it wasn't. And I'm pretty sure I wasn't."

"Alex O'Loughlin wasn't that kind of vampire, anyway. But he didn't sparkle either. Weird," Gus considered.

"It doesn't matter. You're wrong. I'm more like Vlad Dracul Dracula from season four of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Buffy swooned over him just because he was a big name. This is exactly what's going on here!" He sounded too excited.

"Uh, huh," Gus muttered.

"There's no question. I'm Jules' favorite vampire—and Santa Barbara's favorite Vampire Psychic Detective!"

"If that's your new title, you'll have to order new business cards. And we'll have to start booking more client meetings at night. But that means our cliental will likely be stranger than right now. And we've already had a werewolf."

Shawn thought about this, clasping and unclasping his white gloved hands. "Point taken."

"Are you really her type, Shawn?" Gus groused. "Maybe her blood type, only?"

Shawn looked offended. "Of course I'm her type. I'm her perfect vampire type. Tall, dark, and bloodsucking."

"Tall?" Gus asked, smirking.

"Two out of three isn't bad," Shawn shot back. "Where are you going?"

"The Psych office. Unless you wanted to start trick-or-treating right now."

Shawn scoffed. "What am I, five? It's not even dark yet."

"That's what I'm talking about. Even your dad let us go trick-or-treating after dark."

"Not like your parents," Shawn winked.

"At least my parents didn't make me take every piece of my candy to the police station to check to see if it was poisoned."

"My dad would say that was because they didn't care."

"Your dad did say that. Every year. Yet my parents still let me go every year after."

"They thought you were safer riding around in a police car to trick-or-treat."

The two of them looked at each other, both thinking the same thing. "Maybe that's why neither of were popular with the other kids," Gus offered.

"Speak for yourself," Shawn scoffed. "I was plenty enough cool." He ignored Gus laughing at his lie. To change the subject he asked, "You really think I would do something bad to Juliet? Scare her?"

Gus shrugged, his eyes still gleaming. "Not bad, per se. But wouldn't you like to scare her enough so she jumps right into your arms?" He winked.

"If history has taught us anything, Gus, it's likely to be the other way around." Shawn couldn't help remembering himself hiding in the closet in broad daylight at Camp Tikihama when Juliet arrived. Juliet was never scared, and though he liked to pretend she'd bought his tall tale about needing dark space sometimes because the spirits voices' were often too loud, he guessed uneasily that she had let him have his lies because she actually believed he was psychic. "It'd be like Shaggy cradling Scooby-Doo who was shaking his ass off at a man under sheet pretending to be a ghost. But hopefully ten times sexier than that. Scratch that, that wasn't sexy. But it means Shaggy is freakishly strong. Scooby-Doo is a great dane. I bet Juliet is freakishly strong, and I'm a great—"

Gus shook his head. The shiny metallic colors of his shirt bounced light around the car. "Please stopping painting this picture in my head."

"I will if you turn your shirt off until nighttime."

"Dusk," Gus countered.

Shawn considered it. "Deal."

At a light, Gus retrieved his windbreaker from the backseat and shrugged it on.

Shawn's eyes gleamed, spotting a sign that held his eye. "Let's not go to the Psych office yet. You up for a slight detour?" He gestured where to go.

"As long as we get something to eat. A man cannot live on Halloween on candy alone."

# # # # #

Even in the safe metal boundaries of Lassiter's car, Juliet hugged her arms around herself. Since sitting down, a feeling had gathered about her throat like a too tight scarf; there was a little bit of the dream still tickling her heels, using its tiny, ghostly fingers to reach up her legs. And there was the pounding of fear from earlier, a stupid thing she couldn't shake: What if something terrible happened to her partner?

When he got in the car, she almost blurted out that she wanted to drive, though she knew she was hardly in the shape to. She felt like a little girl with a homemade Halloween costume, knowing it was homemade, not store bought; the feelings coming to her were boarding on ridiculous now. Continuing down this strange road, she wondered if Shawn hadn't, somehow, opened a door to her mind on the very last day of the Celtic year, as if he knew that this was the day when veils between the two worlds were the thinnest.

Juliet shivered as Lassiter started the engine. "You know," she began to break what she considered uncomfortable silence, "the really crazy people don't need a special holiday as an excuse. To be lunatics."

Lassiter turned his head towards her, raising an eyebrow with confusion and a dare, before pulling his eyes back to the rearview mirror so he could get them safely out of the parking lot. He bit his lip, forcing himself to offer a tight nod because he did agree with her statement, though he also believed that the really crazy people thrived for these special holidays. But it felt good, warm inside his chest—a feeling usually reserved for only when he'd made an arrest or got a confession—to feel like he was being protective of her. He couldn't explain why, but it felt necessary.

# # # # #

The feeling passed, as they trolled the mostly quiet roads, and Juliet's fears lessened, as did the tight knot in her throat, as did the blood pulsing loudly in her ears, that her partner was in any danger. He could easily be a brick of ice in a nice suit, she decided, his usual self, checking his mirrors obsessively, on constant guard for those starting any "parties" early. But instead of a brick of ice, Juliet felt he was a solid source, there for her even in her unusual hysterics. Almost compassionate. It made her shiver.

The dream's formlessness was still attached to her; caught in her passenger side door, it writhed and moaned at her feet, demanding release. It told her it wanted to curl around her shoulders—annoyed it had to settle for tickling her legs—whisper some sweet nothingness into her ear, want her to fall back into a deep sleep.

A deep sleep where he was waiting for her, where his dream self and her dream self played out the same scenes, where he would sink his teeth in, pierce her, bleed her, drain her, bring her skin to a consistency of parchment paper. She was his perfect type—his desired blood type, the sweetest blood he'd ever had. It told her all of this silently. She was glad Lassiter couldn't hear the "whine" of its needing.

Had Shawn really been floating towards her while the Chief's office filled up with fog? Why the plastic teeth? What was he hiding just beyond them?

He'd seemed concerned enough, had even offered to take her home . . . so he could stay. Take really good care of her. Romance her. Seduce . . . comfort . . . kiss . . . Her breath caught. There were other words but she turned towards the window, blushing. He was leaning over her, his red eyes bright, not a hair on his head out of place. How could she be certain this wasn't Shawn's true face? She couldn't . . . ever invite him in. But what if . . . what if she somehow already had?