Consider this story disclaimed.

He knew that she watched him as he slept. He was Shawn Spencer, renowned psychic detective for the Santa Barbara Police Department—how could he not know?

In the night, as he drifted between wakefulness and sleep, he could practically feel those gorgeous blue eyes of hers tracing his features, greedily soaking up every imaginary wrinkle, every hypothetical imperfection. He knew that she waited until he was heavy and motionless with sleep, all drained and warm after their fiery passion was banked for the night. He knew that she would lie silently in his arms until she thought he was asleep before gently disentangling their entwined limbs and extricating herself from his grasp. He knew that she studied him, dissected him, treated the lines and angles of his face like a case she couldn't quite solve. It struck him, perhaps inanely, that this metaphor was one that she would use, and he mentally shook himself for such presumption even while he congratulated himself for having the perception to glean even the smallest understanding of the inner workings of her fantastic and bewildering mind. Nonetheless, he knew she watched him, and he said nothing.

He was, after all, excellent at keeping secrets. Especially from her.

The first time he noticed her watching him had been an accident. He had awoken inexplicably one night, several weeks after they had first taken up the physical aspect of their relationship. Sex with Juliet was no longer a novelty at that point, and they had passed that phase in which intimacy was a stunning though (yes, occasionally) clumsy culmination of the years and years of mental foreplay. By this time, their unique bond had begun to morph into a brilliant, comfortable, and by no means dull or predictable, adult relationship. Shawn could admit to himself that it wasn't just the sex that had kept them so enthralled with each other even when the newness was gone—although the sex was pretty damn good. It was the discovery, the companionship, the passion and strangely the safety of the two of them together. He slept better than he ever had in his life with Juliet snuggled in his arms.

He couldn't quite say what it was that had awakened him that particular night—perhaps it was her tentative movements, so at odds with the lazy, heavy motions of a sleeping woman. Or maybe it was the sudden loss of her body heat, which he had come to appreciate and even bask in of a morning. Maybe it was a shift in the mystical jujumagumbo in the general vicinity of the bed. In the end, he suspected that it was a combination of his father's tutelage (which had made him a light sleeper, though by no means an indifferent one) and the simple fact that, subconsciously, he missed Juliet when she wasn't in his arms.

His inner child—the one who still ruled the majority of his waking actions and remarks—rolled its eyes at such a wussy statement. But the other side of Shawn, the secret one, the one manifested in the kind, gentle and increasingly (alarmingly?) reliable man who was beginning to emerge, was strangely at peace. This man, this Serious Shawn—who considered ditching his beloved motorcycle in favour of a car that he could use to take his girlfriend out for a night that did not include shocking cold, bug guards or frantic hair resuscitation (on both their parts) in the washroom of whichever restaurant, bowling alley, hell, even shooting range, that they had frequented on their ultra-hush-hush dates—this man was afforded a little more pull. Truth was, Serious Shawn Moments were becoming regular occurrences, and that scared him.

So he slumbered on, saying nothing about Juliet's propensity for nocturnal observations—as an homage to the immature Shawn he had shown the world for decades, and as an innate defence mechanism. He wasn't so certain of what it was that Juliet was thinking when her eyes caressed his features by the dim glow of the moon or by the harsher light of the streetlights streaming through the curtains. Until he was, he wasn't willing to risk voicing his thoughts. His inventive mind came up with all sorts of scenarios—regret, disappointment, devastation, a growing, as-yet-unnoticed-but-increasingly-disfiguring mole—but he couldn't bring himself to ask her. Not yet.

He couldn't even bring himself to talk to Gus about it. Gus, who was beginning to give him funny looks, clearly sensing that something was bothering Shawn. But this confusion regarding Juliet was yet another thing that Shawn chose to keep quiet. Gus was his best friend and lord knows Shawn would kill for him, die for him, and even help him hide any bodies necessary over the course of a long and neurotic life, but ingrained habits are hard to break, and Shawn had never been the type to share his feelings even when he could verbalize them without sounding like an pathetic love-sick idiot.

So he slumbered on—or so Juliet thought—seemingly unconcerned with the innocuous gaze of his girlfriend.

What she didn't know is that he watched her, too. While she gazed quietly at his (her beloved's?) face, he traced her features with his mind's eye, charting the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw, the impudent, upturned, pert little nose and the generous ridge of her soft and supple lips. But for him it was not a study, not a calm dissection. There was no analysis, no desire for knowledge or insight or understanding. He did not approach her face as a riddle or a puzzle.

For Shawn, whose life for the past several years had been dedicated to perception and deduction and yes, a hint of intuition, her face was a haven and a home. Hers was not a face for impersonal observation, but rather one for reverence.

So he slumbered on, watching her watching him. And though he still didn't know what she was thinking and likely never would, he gradually felt the warmth and affection and pure, unadulterated love of her gaze.

Suddenly, her secret was no longer a burden but a gift.

A/N: Almost as soon as I had posted Juliet's perspective, the line "He knew that she watched him as he slept" insinuated itself squarely into my mind and teased the corners of it until I could write it down. Shawn's perspective here is like nothing he would ever say, but who's to say how he thinks? I imagine his mind is full of asides and interruptions, but mostly, I imagine that he's a lot more serious and sensitive and insecure than we give him credit for under all of that drama. I wanted to show that serious, sensitive, insecure side a little bit, give us a glimpse of a Shawn who doesn't use his humour to mask vulnerability.

But mostly, I was just in the mood for a little more psychological cotton candy.

Thanks to everyone who took the time to tell me what they thought. I can't deny that it's uplifting to hear feedback from interested readers.

Thanks,

L'ilmissnitpick