Author's Note: Thank you so much to everyone for the wonderful encouragement you've supplied me with throughout this story and writing process. I appreciate it more than I can express, so I hope you know how much everything means—the absolute happiness of my world. Thank you for reviewing, reading, and with any luck, enjoying. After this chapter, there will be a short epilogue/last chapter, and then onto the sequel.

Thanks for seeing this story through. :) Hope you enjoyed the ride. And thanks again to psychout89 for inventing this challenge.

Reviews, feedback, and constructive criticism are welcome.

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. Don't own references to Grimm or Grimm's Fairytales.

Minor references to Season One's Pilot, Scary Sherry: Bianca's Toast and Season Three's Disco Didn't Die, It Was Murdered!

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Chapter Twelve: Disarm Me With A Smile

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Was she . . . moments too late? Minutes, seconds, did it matter? Juliet had never—or had not yet—seen this much blood at the scene of a crime, and certainly not from a victim still alive. She squeezed his wrist and bent down to listen to his breathing. Still there, both still there.

She glanced up briefly after she'd returned her hands to stopping the flow of Lassiter's blood from his wounds, and caught Shawn's face, white and grim. He, too, was pressing against Lassiter's wounds, fighting Death which might be coming on to take Lassiter away. Juliet knew her partner was going into shock; she had alerted Vick of her position before they came upon the killer, before her single bullet ended his reign. Shawn had told her what Gus had planned since he was staying behind. These were good things, because Juliet found she could not, now that she had looked at him, take her attention off Lassiter.

She had never seen him in such dire straits, though there had been plenty of times through their years together as partners that she had seen him vulnerable, or scared, or even wounded, though never, not ever ever, like this. Juliet pressed harder, willing that he just hold on, keep holding on because her conscience would shatter if he didn't.

Juliet tasted salt in her mouth, tickling the back of her throat. She angrily fought it back; tears were for grieving, or release; the time for them wasn't now. Her partner needed her, needed her to be strong and to save his goddamn life. Again. She couldn't let him down.

Got lucky, Juliet thought, holding on to Lassiter tight. His eyes were shut, but he was alive. Can't forgive myself. After that, everything else she willed silently was demands for Lassiter's life, begging him to stay, promising not leave until he yelled at her to go away. Maybe not even then.

Shawn couldn't speak. He wondered when his jaw had locked; usually he couldn't stop himself from making jokes in the face of death, or of other horrific acts that resembled death. That's . . . what this is, he thought, though he was unable to nod, not even to himself. Maybe later Gus would tell him that his synapses were fried, that this whole day had overloaded his high powered senses, and that he'd burned out.

If Gus would still talk to him later, that was. Would talk at all. Shawn had a terrible feeling—as well as the sore stomach to illustrate it—that Gus had unfinished business with him. The air between them was charged up for a storm; the ozone thick, unwelcome.

Such a bad time; Shawn really wanted to talk—if not now, then soon—once his jaw was loosened. A heavy thing had dug into shoulders, was resting its weight on the back of his neck and it was hurting bad, and pulling him apart inside too. Whatever it was kept slamming into the cage of his ribs; the throbbing had started behind his ears the moment he'd arrived on scene, witnessing the killer confidently holding his murderous knife to Lassiter's throat . . . when he'd known with absolute certainly what his selfish inactions had cost someone else.

Shawn had little problem when his summations falsely accused relatively innocent suspects of murders, or when his powers of grand observation led to confessions or blackmail of real criminals—but he knew, even if he didn't have the words for it to admit it to himself, that he couldn't stand (or stand by) watching his friends—Lassiter and his father included—end up getting hurt. Even if they were guilty . . . which none of them had yet been . . . except me, Shawn thought. Except me. I'm guilty. Just me.

They waited in silence, for minutes, though for how many neither of them could count. Or count on. Both of them were wearing Lassiter's blood on their hands and clothes.

Footsteps mingled with familiar voices, of cries for actions, of orders. "Santa Barbara Police!" They were turning up dirt, up shadows. "Officer down! Officer down! What's the ETA on that ambulance?" As the SBPD headed by Chief Vick moved towards them, Juliet could smell the earth, and the faint male odor of her partner drowning in his own blood. She had forgotten, for a solitary second, who she was, where she was. But she wasn't ever going to forget again.

Juliet barely registered who was speaking, unwilling to multitask unless it involved saving Lassiter's life, stopping the bleeding, and getting him back conscious. His head had tilted towards her, his jaw slack, but she knew it was hardly a peaceful rest. She had pulled off her jacket and balled it up beneath his head, leaving Shawn in charge of pressure on the opened wrist while she'd checked out the stab wound to his side. She had no idea how much blood he had lost—for a few seconds, after she'd secured the scene, her had mind reeled that there was no chance, no chance Lassiter would open his eyes to life again. Then, she remembered exactly who she was dealing with here, and set her face.

"Over here!" she managed without looking up. "It's bad!"

Shawn jumped up and waved his arms, feeling stupid after a few seconds because he wasn't sure if he could even be seen through the cover of the shadows. When they were through, he sank back down and reassumed his role.

"Holy god," Vick cried out, taking in what was before her with the surrealism reserved for strangers' crime scenes. She saw that Lassiter was still bound, and barked that her officers cut him free.

After his arms, then legs, were freed from the posts that the killer had bound him too, Juliet got in even closer, using her knees to keep pressure on the stab wound. She grabbed the unbloodied arm with the guise of checking his pulse again and pulled his arm down to rest on his chest. Juliet did feel his pulse—it was a small beat, but definitely there. Still there, still there.

"That's your serial killer," Shawn told her, pointing to the mess of Saul. "Lassiter caught him, but Juliet shot him."

"Team effort," Juliet said quickly, not even sure if the words she said were real.

"Lassiter caught him?" Vick repeated, looking over her battered and unconscious Head Detective with disbelief and growing horror. "Or did he catch Lassiter?"

"Logistics, logistics," Shawn muttered, feeling a stab of his old self return. It was hollow. He felt if Gus had come in his best friend might be correcting him—but Gus must still be outside. It was odd to be at the scene of a crime and not have Gus present, only there in spirit. Shawn flinched, realizing the implications of his thoughts. He was about to remind Vick that he'd already told her, all of them, that the killer had grabbed Lassiter, but was physically pulled out of the way as paramedics moved in. Gus. Gus must have flagged them down out there, told them to follow the trail of blood. Juliet was harder to move, Shawn noticed with awe. It took twice as many officers to pull her away than it had him.

"He's been stabbed, his wrist cut open," Juliet was yelling, struggling in their grasp. "That mother-fucking bastard was drinking from his wrist."

"Detective!" Vick said, her mouth open in shock at Juliet's language.

"It's true," Shawn confirmed, taking Vick's attention.

"Let go of me!" Juliet yelled fiercely, twisting in her fellow officers' grips. "He needs me!"

"Detective, what Lassiter needs is for the medics to take care of him," Vick told her, taking a hold of her arm. "They'll take good care of him." The young detective was shaking, but Vick wasn't sure if it was all nerves or anger too. On top of that, she had just killed someone—a monster, Vick thought, glancing over her shoulder at the man with the bullet hole in his forehead. True, this monster had committed unspeakable acts—but he still had to be a person, albeit a disturbed one. She had not forgotten what Shawn had said at the station, but she partially appreciated his going out of his way to make her detectives look heroic. Though she knew he would always be a bit theatrical, Karen couldn't help giving him points, even at a time like this, for having a good heart and wanting to support his friends.

Vick motioned for the uniforms to let go of Juliet, and then took charge of her by wrapping an arm around her shoulder and holding onto her tightly. To keep her from going back to Lassiter's side, Karen had Juliet brief her on what happened prior to their arrival. "You saved Lassiter's life, you need to think about that," Vick told her quietly, as if trying to reassure her that her shooting was justified. Beyond them, the CSU team was working and the coroner was readying a body bag for the killer's corpse. Vick watched for a few moments, swallowing hard. She turned back when she reminded herself that his latest victim was not dead; by some twist of fate, their roles had been reversed.

They watched the paramedics work in silence. Shawn came to stand on the other side of Juliet, shyly brushing his hand against hers. When she didn't resist, he took it, and felt her tight squeeze. "Jules, we got here in time. Lassie's safe. Look. He's just sleeping."

Moisture surged into Juliet's eyes and her torso began to shake. Lassiter was so pale and bloodied. He had been covered with blankets, and the trained experts were giving him oxygen and checking his vitals, working on putting pressure on his wounds, enough to stabilize them so he could be moved. Carlton certainly did not look like he was just sleeping; she knew Shawn had not meant to make her upset on purpose.

"It's hard to believe it'll be okay," Juliet whispered.

"I know, Juliet," Vick said. "But it will. You had his back—and he'll—" she broke off as Juliet pulled them forward, following the stretcher carrying her partner. Both Vick and Shawn were surprised by her force, neither protesting that she needed to follow. Vick should argue that she had to stay here, but in that moment she wasn't daring enough to cross O'Hara—Lassiter's partner.

Lassiter would, Vick knew, just hate what O'Hara had been driven to out of a protective instinct—and her duty—for him. Had the shoe been on the other foot, she knew he would have had no regrets shooting or killing anyone who laid a finger on Juliet. Karen shook her head to herself; though she was not a psychic detective, she could already foresee what a struggle it was going to be to force her top detectives into seeking psychological counseling—but, it had to be done. She resolved now to make it a requirement.

Somehow, they all got outside. Juliet let go of them, following the medics through the haze of dark cut through by the neons of red-blue spinning lights. For a moment, Vick was distracted by how youthful Detective O'Hara appeared, seeming to be a girl of Grimm, Red Riding Hood or Gretel, barely making her unscathed escape from the clutches of a fairy tale monster. Then the light changed, and she was a wolf or a witch, predatory and protective, daring in her eyes as she glanced back momentarily at them. Vick had forgotten that Red had actually been swallowed by the wolf's gullet, eaten and digested, that Gretel had acted in self-defense to get herself and Hansel free. Maybe Juliet was just a little of both—girl and sentinel—then.

Juliet was wondering if she should drive her car, or squeeze herself into the ambulance and wait, holding her breath until she passed out. Right. Juliet walked towards her SBPD issue Crown Vic.

She stopped, and turned slowly, addressing Vick. "Please, get someone reliable to take Carlton's car back to the station?" It was a squeaky request. She turned around, and Vick followed her.

Juliet no longer felt like a spirit, like an ethereal thing out to wage a war, and win. She felt old, tired, was shaking all over, though she wasn't actually aware of this.

# # #

They'd forgotten all about him, Shawn noticed with a mixture of relief and disappointment. Even Gus was nowhere to be seen; Shawn wondered if he'd have to hitch a ride back . . . home? to the Psych office? the station? with one of the other many SBPD officers on scene. He vaguely recalled his bike could be a can of sardines—if crushed by speeding police cars exiting the parking lot in a rush—at the station, but he wasn't exactly motivated to go and get it and get back on it. He let himself wander away and no one stopped him, no one told him to stay and give his statement. He thought he was maybe off the hook—at least, one of the many meat hooks he'd already been impaled upon (were those smaller ones fish hooks? Broken glass? The killer's hunting knife? He bit his lip, still firm in his distaste for pointy objects.)—until he made out the shape of Gus's company car, waiting crouched with its parking lights on. It was the first time Shawn had ever thought of the car as threatening, and had ever felt threatened by its owner as he opened the door.

"You're going to the hospital, Shawn," Gus spat out. He pointed to the passenger seat. "Seat belt on, let's go." Gus waited until Shawn was buckled in before he employed the childproof locks. "And just so you're not completely shocked when we get there, I called Henry."

Shawn groaned and reached for the door handle, but the car was already moving, pulling away from the scene of his near death. Shawn's ears were still ringing from the sound of the gunshot, though he was no stranger to guns or shooting. It took almost the entire ride for the thought to occur to Shawn that Gus had allowed him to get into the car—his precious Blueberry company car—so soaked with blood as he was. Maybe . . . he didn't see, because it was so dark, Shawn thought idly, staring at his blurred reflection in the window. Neither of them were speaking and Shawn found he was just fine with that. And later he'd be just as fine not speaking to Henry.

It hit him, all of it, what he'd managed to suppress before . . . or what he hadn't, after he'd broken out of the building the first time, spilling his guts all over the ground. What could be left in him, he didn't know, other than that pinball barb jamming him in the ribs. Shawn leaned forward and hurled on the floor of Gus's passenger seat. Finally, Shawn had his attention.

He almost had to laugh; now there was an even better reason for Gus not to forgive him.

# # #

Shawn found his jaws still stuck together at the hospital, even in front of Henry, who was demanding a thousand answers. Only in the privacy of the examining room with the nurses or doctors or staff—the blur of faces—was Shawn able point to what hurt, to explain a little bit of what happened—in his fall off the bike.

They didn't want to hold him for observation, so he was free to go after they'd seen him, bandaged him accordingly. Walking down the hallway, Shawn wasn't sure whom he dreaded seeing—or going with—more. But to his great surprise, Gus was gone. Henry's face was drawn up tight. "You want to tell me what happened tonight, kid?"

"No," Shawn said.

Henry nodded. "You'll tell me tomorrow?"

Shawn cocked his gaze at his father, wondering why or how he was getting a free pass. He was tempted to tell Henry about throwing up in Gus's car, but he found it was hurting him, almost physically, to see his best friend gone. He knew Gus wasn't coming back tonight, that they'd had plenty of opportunities to speak but neither of them had taken it. Just as well; Shawn had no desire to talk about any of it with anyone. Not ever.

"What's dead is dead," he muttered, ignoring Henry's eyebrow raise. Something new—or very ancient—was forming across him, like a sheet of ice or a calloused skin. Shawn had a feeling, even this early, that new shell or wall was not one of shield, a thing to keep him safe from the outside world. Instead, it was a necessity, the price of silence. But some secrets were meant to be kept.

# # #

He had done something he had believed he would never do—he had willingly abandoned Shawn. Not that Gus hadn't before, but those times had been different; justifiable, even. Running away in the beginning, after Shawn's return to Santa Barbara had heralded the insane musings of working with the police in a fake psychic capacity—the blunderings of their first case as consulting private detectives. Then, from the sorority house, scared off by ghosts. That time barely counted; had Shawn been able to get the door open, they would have both been fleeing the scene of terror. And anyone could surely forgive Gus for choosing life—his own life—over death when Shawn had set off the bomb with the misguided certainty that its maker would disarm it in time.

Apparently, it hadn't been so misguided, but Gus did not feel remorseful for running.

But tonight, since the moment Shawn had appeared at the station all torn up, limping, blood covered, an innervation of—what? pain? anger? cleansing and blank disbelief? had twisted Gus's gut. He shook his head at the last one; he speculated that the sensation came out of irritated rage, with basic hints of disbelief: how had he let Shawn . . .

Gus closed his eyes on his walk to his front door. He didn't know the answer, didn't know how or why he always worried so much over his best friend, how he'd come to know that his worry was most often founded—it was a thing of experience, but that was all he knew for sure. And tonight . . . Gus found he was angry at himself for being right—that Shawn had been out there, getting himself into trouble; Gus huffed. He was not as certain as to why he was so angry that Shawn had decided to go off alone.

They were a team, damn it. Gus was furious because he should have been there, let in on the secret the first time around. But for some reason he didn't understand, Shawn had not trusted him with it.

He'd done the duty he'd been raised to do tonight, sticking by Shawn until the whole thing was over. He'd waited outside until the paramedics had brought Lassiter out, swallowing hard at the detective's appearance. Gus hadn't known if Lassiter were dead or alive, though he watched the paramedics' determination to get him to the ambulance, so he suspected Lassiter still had a chance.

More than Shawn had, he'd thought meanly at the time. He went to his Blueberry and selfishly called Henry, pondering over his reaction to Shawn's confession at the station. There had been numerous times before that that he'd wanted to hit Shawn much harder than he'd punched him tonight, yet they'd never actually fought like that before. Not hard enough to leave bruises, or doubts, days after. Gus suspected that Shawn was going to forgive him; that in a day or two he'd open up with sweet talk, with bribes, but Gus was resolved not to give in. Not this time. He felt like a sore loser, though he was often the bigger man, while Shawn treated every situation the way a twelve-year-old would.

Maybe, when the wounds weren't so fresh, or some fancy antiseptic had stopped their festering, Gus would be able to forgive Shawn. Maybe when he no longer tasted blood under his tongue, or wouldn't mind going a few rounds with a wall—another unfair fight—to redecorate with holes. He had . . . felt like this before, but it had never manifested, not to this degree. It seemed like a good night to be broken; he was, he thought sourly, among friends.

# # # # #

She'd been there immediately, the instant she knew, the instant the thought was fact and it was in her head. She'd aimed and fired and killed, and she'd fought tooth and nail to stay by his side until they literally had to drag her away. She'd driven white-knuckled to the hospital in her own car, her sirens blaring, nearly tailgating the ambulance, Vick a rock or a stone at her side in the passenger seat, racing through dark streets, cutting a sharp path of light to their destination. She'd been there, in the hospital, demanding the best, referring to her partner again and again as family, refusing to take no for an answer. She'd offered up her own blood—anyone's blood who was within reach (even when they shied away from her). And when it was time, she'd sat at his bedside but hadn't allowed herself to cry, not to shed one tear because her partner had, beyond all odds, survived.

But he slept through all of her visits, through all of her silences, her words shut up inside her as she watched him sleep, as she tried desperately to imagine him at rest, unharmed, before all of this. At first it made sense for him to remain heavily sedated; she hadn't realized until much later, one night, as she got into her bed, pulled the blankets to her chin in her own apartment, how much she'd come to depend on his unconsciousness. She had to be there, of course she did—but the forced silence between them was becoming much too familiar, too comfortable.

Juliet O'Hara realized, right before she closed her eyes that night, that she had no idea what she would say to her partner when he did wake. What should she say? Gush that he was alive, scold him for scaring her, condemn his actions that led him to danger, condone for not calling her sooner? Should she proclaim his captor dead, unable to hurt him ever again? She pressed her face to her pillow.

He looked to be in terrible pain already, the agony literally drawn down his body in long lines of blood—would scar tissue remain? She clutched her pillow and tried to imagine hugging him; she wanted to, just once—pull him close to her so she could feel his heart still at work. It was, she knew, a ridiculous thought; for one, she would never agree to it, even Lassiter would allow her to do it.

Lassiter had needed her—and she had not been there for him. How could she possibly . . . ever be forgiven? A set of shudders took her into sleep, allowing her to spill some tears for the first time since they'd found him.

Would he be ashamed? Angry at her, angry at the killer, the world? Would he rather not see her—would he want a new partner, one he could depend on, one who was there for him at all times?—she breathed deeply. No one else was going to want him as a partner. She was . . . the very best option. Stuck.

# # #

In one of those yesterdays when she'd been by, visiting on a lunch break or in between shifts, she had caught him with a tender smile on his lips, and had been frightened that he had come unglued from his drugged sleep. Juliet couldn't gather together enough thought for a proper greeting, let alone what she might say when he looked at her with whatever anger or pity or disappointment or sadness his eyes held. It frightened her out of the room; she was ashamed she did not feel happy that he could be closer to the surface, becoming, again, his old self. (Even though it was what she missed terribly.)

When she asked the professionals, they'd apologized: no, he was not yet awake. She guarded her relief, and went back in to his room. What, she had wondered, could bring him a smile through what must be intense, though also detached, pain, through unspeakable horrors etched into the limestone of memory? It was nothing she could fathom; she'd let herself cry then, convinced it could have been hours as she emptied her eyes, and gripped his hand until her knuckles turned white.

# # #

In his sedated, sanitized states of mind, Carlton dreamed, sometimes in a loop, of O'Hara saving him, then lying to him that it would just be all right. And he smiled for her, so as to be strong for her; he'd do anything for her. Not just because of one day's events . . . no, it was a culmination, their partnership, the years of trust, mutual trust. It was real, as real as the pain gutting him, as real as the hollowness left in his head from the killer's lies.

Lassiter had time; Juliet had given him time to make it up to her. She was expecting it, even if she'd never say so. This time he had to make it count, use his words. There was hardly a reason he should still be alive, he thought in dreams, or that he deserved it, but O'Hara had decided for him, spoken up for him when he could only gurgle, when he could only slip away. He didn't know what was waiting for him on the other side, but even drugged, he figured it was going to be tough. He hoped he could remember exactly what he wanted to say, and how he'd planned, long before he was safe, to say it.

And after he'd said it, it would be up to O'Hara, maybe to Vick too, to decide if she wanted to keep him around. If he were still fit—mentally first if not physically for a while—to still be her partner. Her friend. She had, long before all this, earned the right to decide. And no matter what she decided, Lassiter knew he wouldn't deny her.