He didn't even knock anymore when he'd called ahead. He just walked right in.
"Hi, Shawn!" she greeted warmly. "Just let me get my shoes."
"Jules, wait," he stated, his voice low and even.
"Is something wrong?" She backtracked into the living room.
"We need to talk—I need to tell you something."
"Ok." She sat down on the couch while he paced in front of the coffee table. "Should I be worried? You're making me nervous."
He shook his head. "I'm the only one that should be nervous."
She watched him walk the length of the living room three times before he paused right in front of her. "You remember that day at the diner—the day we met?"
"Yeah."
"You didn't tell me who you were."
"I was undercover."
"Exactly. I've sort of been undercover."
"Shawn . . . are you . . . like CIA or something?"
"Sign over my life to the government? Of course not." He finally sat down in the recliner facing her. "I was a ne'er-do-well irresponsible kid who couldn't keep a job long enough to earn a real paycheck and didn't stay in any one place long enough to have any real friends.
"You gotta understand, Jules, my dad locked me in a trunk when I was eleven to teach me how to break out. He grilled me everywhere we went on my surroundings. I'm the only kid I know who got a lecture on how to 'pursue a suspect' while playing hide and seek. I'm a crack shot, Jules—ask Conforth—but you've never seen me shoot a gun. That doesn't come from a kid whose dad just let him mess him around. I couldn't watch TV until I hit all five cans off the fence at the shooting range—in a row."
"So your dad was hard on you and you're smart—what does this have to do with now?"
"Jules . . ." he paused and took her hands in his. "I . . . I'm not psychic."
"Oh."
His brow furrowed. "Oh?"
"Oh."
"That's it?"
"What else do you want me to say?"
He reassumed his high-pitched imitation of her from the first day they'd met, saying, "No, 'Shawn, I'm so angry! How could you have lied to me all these years?' or 'How can I ever trust you again?'"
"No."
"No?" Shawn was beyond bewildered.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Oh, Shawn," she stated, rolling her eyes and heading to her room to get her shoes. "I knew you weren't psychic."
He followed her. "You know? For how long?"
"A little over a year now, I guess."
"But . . . but . . ."
"Your dad told me, Shawn. The ice cream truck case? He was worried about you . . . we were all worried. He let it slip."
...
"We need to find my son," Henry bellowed, stampeding out of the SBPD.
Juliet trailed close behind him. "Don't you think he'll be all right? I mean, he can avert any danger by knowing it's coming, can't he? He's done stuff like that before, hasn't he?"
"He's lucky."
"Mr. Spencer—"
"Shawn's not a psychic, Detective O'Hara," Henry interrupted, his dwindling determination mingled with despair that Shawn would ever be found overcoming his better judgment. "He's a bright kid with a short attention span and no dedication."
...
"Wait, my dad said I was bright?" Shawn interrupted.
"Of course he did, Shawn. Nobody can deny that."
"So . . . why didn't you ever bring it up?"
Juliet shrugged. "I . . . I liked where we were going. I didn't want to upset the delicate balance we'd seem to have found—didn't want to spoil a potential future.
"I was mad at first and I was about to tell the chief, but then I realized just how brilliant you are. You've solved almost a hundred cases—not counting any private cases I don't know about—completely on your own."
"Well, Gus plays a part."
"Together, then, but either way . . . Shawn, you've found a way to use your skills in a way that not only works for you, but helps other people. I couldn't get in the way of that—even if it makes you do silly things like throw yourself down a flight of stairs or . . . channel a cat channeling an actress doing a ridiculous dance."
He couldn't help but grin. "So, you're not going to rat me out?"
She shook her head. "I decided that as long as you stuck with this Psych thing-and continued doing more good than harm-I'd keep your secret."
"It's the longest I've ever committed to anything," he stated seriously, "except now you and the baby."
She stood and took his hand, leading him out to the car. "So, tell me how you convinced Chief Vick and Carlton."
...
"Dad!" Shawn called, entering without knocking. "Dad, we're here!"
"In the kitchen, Shawn. Steaks are on and will be done in five minutes."
"Mmm, steak," Juliet gushed.
"Juliet," Henry stated, "you look absolutely beautiful."
"Thank you, Mr. Spencer."
"Henry, please. You've got a little belly, there, haven't you?"
"I don't get to wear tight shirts too often anymore," she stated sheepishly, "at least, not until we officially tell Chief Vick."
"How do you feel about all of this, Gus?" Henry asked.
"I wish Shawn would pay a little more attention at work—but why should things change now?"
...
Just before dessert, Henry requested his son's presence to 'help' him in the kitchen.
"So . . . ?"
"What?"
"You never told me how it went with Juliet? Did you propose? She's obviously keeping the baby. Where do you two stand? Have you even talked to her?"
"Of course I talked to her, Dad. She's here, isn't she? And, yes, I proposed."
"But you were too cheap to buy her a ring?"
Shawn scowled and abruptly set the jewelry box on the counter.
"She said no?" Henry asked, surprised.
"Not in those words."
"But she didn't say yes."
"'One step at a time.' That's what she always says. And she's calling the shots."
"But she's here with you . . . so she didn't turn you down flat."
"We're in this awkward gray area where I spend a couple of nights at her place—when she needs me—and we kind of kiss every once in a while, but we don't really know where it's going or what to call ourselves."
"So, you're not dating?"
"We went to dinner after shopping for maternity clothes. Does that count?"
"What did she tell her mother?"
"To call me her boyfriend," Shawn stated definitively.
"Well, that's something." Henry handed Shawn two plates of sliced pie while he carried the other two himself.
They'd reached the doorway to the dining room before Shawn interjected, "Oh, yeah. And she told me she loves me."
...
The New Year's party at the Psych office was mostly women. Juliet felt uncomfortable. Here she was, drinking apple juice, looking mildly pudgy, while a bunch of her peers were drinking and dancing. Shawn was an excellent entertainer—and an even better DJ—and it seemed as though everyone was having a good time. In the midst of telling a story to several pretty, eager listeners, Shawn couldn't tear his eyes away from the blonde standing awkwardly in the corner. At five minutes to midnight, he slipped away from a group of very disappointed females and sought the company of the only one he truly cared to be with.
"Wanna go for a walk?" he whispered, the back of his hand brushing hers ever so lightly.
"Ok," she agreed. He opened the door for her and they proceeded outside. Juliet crossed her arms against the chill, but couldn't help but drink in the beauty of the ocean—the security of having Shawn walking next to her.
"This is going to be an interesting year," he stated, his tone soft and low. "This time next year, we'll have a baby."
She nodded silently.
"Things are going to be different," he continued in that same soft tone.
"Everything's going to be different," she murmured, stopping and turning to him. "Can we do this, Shawn? Can we be someone's parents?"
"Hey," he soothed, rubbing his hands down her arms. "You're going to make a fantastic mom. And me . . . I'll learn as I go. Did I ever mention job number 17 was a nanny?"
"You were never a nanny, Shawn," she rejected, rolling her eyes and heading back toward the office.
"I was for six hours."
"Let me guess, there was a girl involved."
"Well . . . I thought I'd enjoy the challenge."
"Of the girl or the job?"
"Does it matter?"
She finally smiled. "Not particularly."
They walked in silence back to the office until Shawn caught her hand and spun her towards him. "The only girl ever worth the effort is right here in my arms."
"Tell me something . . . honestly, Shawn."
"Jules, you know all my secrets. Why would I be dishonest now?"
She took a deep breath. "Would it be worth the effort if it was just me?"
"What do you mean?"
Behind her, they could hear the party begin to count down from thirty seconds. She was momentarily distracted and almost didn't continue, but for an encouraging squeeze of the hand he still held.
"What if tomorrow I wake up and god forbid I'm in a pool of blood and we go to the hospital and I lose the baby. Would I still be worth it? Just me?"
"Oh, Jules," he moaned, resting his forehead on the top of her head. "I said it the day you told me and I'll say it every day for the rest of my life if that's what it takes." He cupped her cheek in his hand and met her eyes. "I want to spend my life with you, Juliet O'Hara. The baby . . . the baby's just like icing on a Ding Dong—something extra—a little flavor—on top of an already wonderful thing."
She giggled as chaos erupted from inside the office. Shawn wasted no time in bridging the small gap that existed between them and engulfing her lips in his for a passionate kiss that genuinely left her weak at the knees. When it was obvious the kiss was either over or one of them had to start taking off clothes, Juliet pulled her lips away, but wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder.
"Happy New Year, Jules," he whispered into her hair.
"May it be the first of many," she offered earnestly.
...
Shawn groaned and rolled over, blindly reaching for the ear-splitting noise that had interrupted his sleep at—what time was it?—five-thirty. He only half-registered the name before he answered the phone with a guttural grunt.
"Shawn?"
He felt his blood pressure skyrocket at the panic in her voice and was immediately more alert than he would have ever believed he could be that early in the morning.
"Jules, what's wrong?" he reached for the nearest t-shirt and slipped on a pair of flip flops.
"Shawn, I don't . . . feel very good."
"Is it the baby?" He threw several items off his coffee table in a frantic search for his keys.
"I don't think so. I just feel . . . so sick. I think I have a fever."
"Tylenol," he stated definitively, finally victorious in obtaining his keys. "That's what you can take."
"I know. I don't have any."
"I'll grab some."
Even with the stop at the pharmacy, Shawn was over at Juliet's in record time. He found her wrapped in a blanket, shivering on the couch.
"Shawn," she whimpered.
"Hey," he soothed, handing her a Smart Water and a Tylenol before sitting down next to her and immediately taking her in his arms. She leaned her head against his shoulder pitifully.
"My head hurts and my whole body aches and I'm so cold."
"I'm here, Jules," he whispered. "The Tylenol should bring your fever down and I'll stay with you."
"It hurts to swallow."
"Shhh," he commanded. "Just sleep."
...
His neck was throbbing when he opened his eyes four hours later. Falling asleep sitting up was neither refreshing nor relaxing. But to wake up with her in his arms—that was something he'd almost forgotten the pleasure of. He smiled and brushed the hair away from her forehead, resting his hand on it to assess her temperature. She felt cooler than the night before, but he wasn't sure she was back to normal yet.
It wasn't too long before the pain in his neck outweighed the pleasure of her close proximity. He was about to attempt extrication when she slowly lifted her eyelids.
"Feel any better?"
"A bit," she whispered.
He squinted apologetically. "I don't want to make you move, but I've got the worst crick in my neck from sitting up all night and I really need to find another position."
"I have to pee anyway," she declared, yawning and heading to the bathroom. She got a bit light-headed when she stood and he had to steady her, but she quickly resumed her autonomy.
"Why don't you lie down in my bed. I'm going to call in sick and we can sleep for the rest of the day."
He gladly accepted her offer and relished the feeling of stretching out for the first time in several hours. He heard the toilet flush and was slightly surprised when she crawled into bed next to him—albeit facing the opposite wall. He rolled over and ever so subtly began snaking his arms around her, breathing in the scent of her hair as he did.
She rolled over and found her face surprisingly close to his. Her hands naturally set against his chest.
"Last night made me think, Shawn," she began.
She was nervous. He could feel it in the quickening of her pulse.
"I think . . . I think you should move in here."
He raised his eyebrows curiously but didn't say anything.
"I mean . . . what if . . . what if . . ." She couldn't bring herself to say it, so decided to move on to her next argument instead. "I mean, in June when the baby comes you should be here anyway so that you can drive me to the hospital. And if you really want to help raise this baby, you'll want to be here for at least its first couple of months."
"All very good reasons," he whispered, meeting her eyes.
She fought to swallow—not only because of her sore throat, but also because of the hazel eyes that were deeply probing what felt like her soul.
"And we could buy a bed for you and put it in the spare room," she whispered. He moved in to kiss her, but just before his lips touched hers, she warned, "You'll get sick."
"I have a very strong immune system."
"Not right now," she whispered. "Please?"
He sighed disappointedly. "Whatever you ask, Jules."
She rolled back over, but pressed her back against his chest, resting her hands on his around her belly. "Maybe you don't need a bed."
"What are you saying, Detective O'Hara?"
"I'm saying that I could get used to this."
...
The morning of the second day, Shawn awoke to a phone call from the chief. "Hi, Chief."
"I need you to go to San Diego."
He frowned and sat up. "But, Chief . . ."
"I need you to identify a body. And I need you and Gus to leave as soon as Lassiter gets to your office."
"But, Chief . . ."
"Mr. Spencer, this is nonnegotiable."
Shawn sighed and rubbed his face. "I'll be at the Psych office in an hour."
"Call me when you have something."
He hung up and glanced over at a sleeping Juliet. He sighed and stood up. He figured if he could find some sort of duffel bag he had enough clothes for what he hoped would only be a day trip.
"Will you be home for dinner?" she rasped as she rolled over, awakened by his rummaging.
"I like the sound of that," he whispered in spite of himself.
"Dinner?"
"'Home'."
She smiled back at him.
"I have bad news for you, Jules. The chief wants me to identify a body down in San Diego."
"San Diego? That's so far."
"I know." He paused his packing and sidled up next to her.
"Will you be gone for long?"
"I hope not."
"Well, call me tonight if you're not going to be back."
"I will." He kissed her cheek tenderly before grabbing his bag and walking out the door.
A/N: Thank you all for your wonderful reviews! It inspired me to post this chapter a little early. :) Sorry if the "I'm not a psychic" scene wasn't quite as dramatic as you were hoping for! I really wanted to do something different and the idea that Juliet had known for a while popped into my head, so I went with it. Hope no one's too terribly disappointed.