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 the Back to the Future movies, or the Lifetime TV network.

Author's Note:Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome and much appreciated! Many thanks to those who have reviewed so far—I'm so happy to hear your thoughts and feel blessed to have your wonderful encouragement—means the whole world! :) Enjoy!

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Chapter Three: Please, Can You Stay Awhile To Share My Grief?

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# # #

She could see it sometimes, even when she wasn't dreaming—twisting against her sheets, the blankets knotted in her fists. She could see it even during mundane activities: walking down the hall towards the vending machines; opening a desk drawer in search of a paperclip; closing the front door of her apartment, coming or going. It would always make her pause and she would watch it like a movie, the action in 3D: the roar and flash of the bullet leaving its chamber, the muted grunt of the killer as the bullet hit his flesh, charging in; the smell of gunpowder and blood, sweat and earth and fear ripe in her nostrils. Her partner lying on his back, bound to the earth like a cult sacrifice, sliced up and bloody.

She caught a glimpse of the man's dark eyes—already deadened—seeing the last of her as his body reeled back, away from Lassiter. This was her favorite part of the "movie", knowing that it was more than possible the killer's very last sight was of her fading form, knowing, even for a half second, that she had appeared to fulfill her partner's desperate proclamations of her inevitable rescue.

Or so she choose to believe. She liked to feel triumphant over the killer. She liked to ignore that the killer had likely mourned the sweets stolen from his lips as he went back for more.

One. Last. Taste.

Her breath always caught; she had, before this, realized that Lassiter had come to mean a lot to her as a partner, as a friend, and as a good man she respected, despite his continuing harshness, his uncouth mannerisms, and his general lack of of social adaptation. These were still works in progress, she told herself. She realized she had never been so committed to a partner or friend on the job as she was to him. But what she felt towards him now following . . . following . . .

She saw it again, felt the force of her fellow officers yanking her away from Lassiter's side as he lay on the ground, unconscious and blood soaked. Was it so wrong now to feel a special protective need when it came to him?

Juliet truly wanted to believe that she'd caught a flash of fear in the killer's eyes as he died, as he realized he was caught. She was as sure of herself with a gun in her hand as Lassiter was with his own favorite Glocks; but she had still fought off a moment's hesitation as she'd given the killer a chance to surrender.

The shot was quick; death. She had stupidly worried that her partner would be embarrassed by her actions, had worried he couldn't handle getting his ass saved by his female junior partner. But just the opposite had happened; he had confessed to her how much she meant.

There would be no trial; the legacy of a murderer had been ended with its last in line.

This way, the pressure was less. The audience less. (And shockingly, Shawn Spencer had no valueless two cents to add to the pot; he had remained, eerily, silent.)

Juliet ran her tongue across her teeth, frowning at the sour taste in her mouth. She wondered if it was irrational to hate a dead man as much as she hated Saul Grant—and if the reasons of her hate made any sense at all.

Hate—had this been the cause of her partner's outburst, or had it been caused by her own naivety—pushing him too hard in the beginning, barely two weeks after his release from the hospital, into telling her what happened? It shouldn't have happened; she knew she shouldn't have been that person—he had already been in a horrible situation where he'd been forced to fight for his life.

But the outburst—which had been more incoherent yelling at the furniture in his apartment than anything directed at her—had told her so much without words, so much more than, she guessed, Lassiter would offer a therapist; only Juliet could push his buttons because she knew he had been on the other side. She made a vow as she'd left, wordlessly, after his rage had fallen into quiet staring out his window, that she would tread more carefully, that she would be less confrontational, that she would try to give him the space he needed. She considered that it might be years before he could open up to her—this made her heart ache.

It was kind of peculiar; more often, it was Shawn Spencer pushing Lassiter's buttons—eliciting a response of rage, or exasperation, or dismay, making Lassiter feel—and Juliet feel in the after-wash of spent emotion—that he had no chance to win.

But Shawn hadn't come around in a long time; Juliet remembered she had filed away the thoughts to eventually check on him, but she had kept them on the back burner because she was still unsettled he hadn't just—Juliet clenched a fist. Why had he made her playing a guessing game about where Lassiter was? If he had just stated that the serial killer who had already killed five people in Santa Barbara had gotten the jump on her partner, was cutting him open as they spoke—and just where to find him— Her knuckles turned white.

This wasn't how Shawn operated, she relented. Maybe . . . maybe he had been working hard to tell them, but she had been having a hard time hearing him. Or listening to him. His methods instead had been to recreate pain—and to reach into the unknown bounds of the spirit world where the last known victim was apparently waiting for Lassiter to join her.

Juliet frowned severely. Remembering that day—some parts of it—put an incredible strain on her. She did feel bad for poking Shawn, for yelling in his face as if Lassiter's disappearance was somehow his fault. Way to kill the messenger, she'd scolded herself, but her anger had not been resolved towards the psychic. The address . . . the address must have been on the tip of his tongue, ready to roll off. He'd told her immediately when she asked—demanded—

She sighed. It was going to take time, she thought. Lots of things took time.

Shawn would come around, would come back, all on his own, she decided, shoving memories of him as far back into her head as they would go.

# # #

He was still having the same dream; every night for weeks now.

The smack was a hard thud, shocking Shawn from his overwhelmed surprise to see Lassiter on this feet—his eyes zoning in with breakneck speed every sign of abuse the detective had received since waking up that morning. The superficial scraps and cuts from shaving or falling on his face had been further assaulted; the smell of fresh blood was thick and wrinkled Shawn's nose.

He cried out as Lassiter's eyes rolled back at the same time the detective rocked forward, slamming into Shawn. He had the good reaction time to pull his arms from his sides—what he wouldn't have had the seconds to do if he'd been the one getting slapped—and caught the detective as best as he could. The dead weight of Lassiter's unconscious body chilled Shawn; any nervous jokes his mind conjured up to deal stammered away in his throat.

The killer nodded in their direction, standing above them. "As if I had my doubts," he said with a chuckle. Shawn flinched with the sharpness of the killer's humor but continued to help settle Lassiter on the floor. "'Course he's the right one to die for me."

The killer watched Shawn's frantic movements with mock interest, amused for a short time that Shawn was trying to help. It didn't last. The muscles in his arms, neck and jaw tightened fiercely as he spat out, "You ain't gonna save him, if that's what you think."

Shawn tried to ignore the man, to focus on Lassiter and the newly exposed open side wound. He felt a rush of breath leave him, then another, another, realizing what he was seeing.

"He's mine—he's stayin', and I'ma gonna have his heart." The words, the last of which he whispered loudly, hung in the air like thorns, pins, needles, broken glass.

As he had many nights before, Shawn woke with a start after these words, his armpits and forearms soaked with sweat. His teeth chattered together, and he fought to separate what had really happened from the trappings of dream. It was perfectly vivid—so much so that everything could have happened just that way—but the killer hadn't uttered much beyond "As if I had any doubts" and "He's mine—he's stayin'".

So . . . so, where had the rest come from? Shawn scrolled through his memories, hating to do so, wishing there was another way. He'd kill for a time-traveling DeLorean right about now. Hell, if he'd had one to begin with, he could have gone back and stopped himself from . . .

But Shawn suspected it might not have mattered. He would have just sabotaged himself another way—probably putting both Lassiter and Jules in danger instead, a scenario which left the killer alive . . . and likely quickly free to get out on bond. He had been the type to kill, to kill again, and again—Shawn couldn't forget the look in his eyes which had "communicated" this to him.

A memory stopped his search into the past."I would never wish this on you." Lassiter's hush, insisting that he run away. And after that, it was practically an hour of constant insisting—even after he'd been slapped, knocked unconscious, and had his stab wound exposed to Shawn. Even after it looked too dangerous to run—because the killer had guarded both of them with his enormous hunting knife.

Even though he'd rather not, Shawn made him focus on the killer, his pacing, his nervous anger at Shawn's presence. . . .

"Forget about helping me—you're just not capable." Damn it. His distant guilt still fouled up his plans find the words from the nightmare—because Shawn had more than a feeling that the killer had said them, just in another context.

Shawn fought his guilt, determined this time to find the context. The killer, out of the shadows, stalking towards them, telling Shawn he had plans. He'd listened to the killer talk to Lassie as if Shawn wasn't there—despite answering some of Shawn's questions in the process.

"The Dee-tech-tive stays with me." There. Hadn't been that hard, to materialize the killer's voice into his head—when he was awake. It was no victory, he decided. Panicking, Shawn slammed the door he'd opened in his mind. The last thing he wanted was the killer talking to him now.

Now that he was awake again, Shawn went back to the questions—they were endeavors to banish the killer's voice, to bring him answers.

These questions were the immediate ones; they were months old. Surely, the killer had taken a chance on him because he wanted the potential of another victim . . . living, out there, after he'd finished with his current one.

Why . . . bring me back to life? Shawn wondered, a several times repeated question. Was it because . . . I had something left to do here? He got a reminder that his living had kept Lassiter from being murdered . . . had kept Juliet from losing . . . people she actually cared about. Juliet.

This was the almost perfect comforting word. Shawn could hold onto this word; it could calm him enough to still his thoughts; to bring him sleep.

His nightmares afterward . . . she had no say.

They should . . . be as they always had. All of them, not just he and Gus. Team Psych . . . they should still be this. He hadn't been around; couldn't be around; still, there was something keeping Shawn in Santa Barbara. He couldn't leave. More than ever, in the entirety of his life, Shawn was glued here. Not only couldn't he . . . he didn't want to run.

Was it solely . . . Gus? These things he couldn't sort out? That they should always be best friends . . . no matter how hard the other pulled at the reins; why . . . hadn't Gus come around by now? Why had . . . Gus . . .? Shawn's face scrunched up. He desperately wanted to lay blame; surely, this was in no way his fault. None of it. Not even Lassiter's near murder. Not even Juliet's strange widow-ship. Widow implied marriage of sorts; he couldn't be so reluctant to turn up his nose at the possibility of the two of them . . . in some sort of very future common-law situation. He guessed she was . . . in ways . . . married to her career and thus, married to . . . Lassiter. This was more a marriage of convenience than anything else, Shawn decided. He was definitely more than willing to be Juliet's pleasure on the side. If she would still have him after all this time. After what he had done. Would she still take him if she knew he had almost had a hand in killing her . . . "husband"?

If this were a movie on Lifetime, Shawn considered briefly, he would have already been nominated for an Oscar by now. This was the stuff extramarital affairs could only dream of on that channel. And that was saying way too much.

It was always the same; when he got close to sober again, he chided himself for his truly ridiculous musings—especially since he had no Gus there to either shut him down or stroke his ego—a feat Gus often accomplished with a simple look or a handful of words. Just by saying his name. "Shawn." This was a simple gesture that could rein him in. His own name in the mouth of his best friend.

In this space, he had remembered things just as they were. There was no detached twist, no spin. They just were. And they were staring him in the face. He knew he should quit thinking about all of it, at least for a week, just to see how it would really be. But those first few weeks he'd gone stone cold sober, and they'd been no picnic either. There was no happy medium.

No, no happy "medium" at all.

It wasn't that he had begun to lean on alcohol for problem solving; it was that his thoughts just would not turn off; even when he fell to sleep out of exhaustion from non-stop thinking. He often couldn't concentrate long enough to finish one beer—being sober for Shawn meant being devoid of frivolity, exaggeration, or speculative imagination—these things of which his very essence relied on. Sometimes he wished he could shed his skin, climb out of himself, start again, with less dirt on his face and less lies in his mouth. But he couldn't go back.

Feeling drained, Shawn sat down on the floor, staring up at the makeshift table where he'd left the quarter of pineapple smoothie he'd been uninterested in finishing. He stared at the cup for a while, eventually allowing himself to have the moment to reflect on leaving his apartment while it was still daylight. But he was so tired now. He made a quick mental note to make a sandwich when he woke, slumping fully to the floor now. He wished for blankness, no dreams.

# # #

Gus stared at his phone, his chest tight, his throat tight, his eyes tight. This ritual had become too familiar—and he'd taken to expecting the device to change his mind—bring him to call Shawn, or bring Shawn to call him. Just a few days ago, Gus had found out Shawn had not run away, but had made a ghostly effort to remain in Santa Barbara following . . .

Following what? Gus was in the dark. It had been months, an unheard of amount of time for them to go without communication. Even when he'd been traveling the world, Shawn had still found a way to keep in touch—even it was solely from his end, sending postcards, making middle of the night calls, whatever. But he'd always made the effort.

Following what? Gus had asked himself again, to delay his guilt. He was half of a successful private detective agency duo—he could unravel it, he could piece together the clues, get his bearings—and then, only then, go and make the dreaded confrontation.

Shawn had been silent for months, not calling once to scold, to whine, to pester, to plead, to taunt, to entice, to apologize. To beg, to trick, to test. To just . . . say hello. Say I miss you. Say where are you? Say dude, I need you. At first, Gus couldn't care less, when days stretched into weeks, when one month passed, then two. His anger had pushed him to keep thriving, and he burned with it until it brought him a soured relief. It told him he'd washed his hands of Shawn Spencer. Good riddance. No more wasted days, no more crazy adventures, no more constant worry, no more fear at losing his own freedom or life due to Shawn's harried, reckless antics.

No more . . . lifelong friendship.

Gus told himself he was okay with this. There were plenty of people he was sociable with at work. Plenty of women he'd flirted with on his routes. He had a great life outside of Shawn . . . outside of Psych.

Psych . . . Gus wondered if he should board up the windows; there was an uneasy evidence that Shawn had not been on the premises for weeks, in spite of rent still being due. Bitterly, Gus had paid both shares, unable to get past his jumbled emotions to jolt Shawn into getting it together.

A few different cashiers and patrons at one of their favorite breakfast spots had told him, when he'd asked, that Shawn had been frequenting the smoothie counter—had been for a sporadic time frame for a good few weeks. He came in at all hours, they had told him, his appearance everything from just out of bed to three am insomniac—and he never seemed like he could get his bearings. Hollow, in the eyes, they had said.

Gus's interest had been piqued one day when he'd seen what he was certain was the back of Shawn's form stumbling around a corner, out of sight. Up until then . . . he swallowed guiltily. Up until then, he'd assumed Shawn had taken off, patched up his motorcycle and ran away in shame. Maybe if he'd run away he'd come back.

But why . . . why no calls? Why no visits to the Psych office? Why no breaking into Gus's apartment, sitting in the dark with the lights off—waiting for his friend to get home so they could talk?

Gus looked around the office, unsettled by its stillness. The last time he and Shawn had been in the office together had been a little over two months ago, Shawn sitting at his desk, refusing to tell Gus something that might be important.

The anger had cooled, it sat inside him with the dullness of calloused skin. Gus, now sitting at his own desk, looked across at the vacant space. The chair was still pulled out, but long ago Gus had turned off the laptop which must have been running for days after Shawn's voluntary absence. He tried to focus. He was doing this, he reminded himself, because he needed to reconnect with his best friend. His stupid, stupid, stupid best friend.

And calling . . . it still wasn't an option. He'd tried, pressed the right buttons to dial . . . but he'd hung up quickly. Fear and the ash of anger bound his tongue—what would he say to Shawn? What would Shawn say to him?

Gus thought hard, reaching back to that day—he'd been waiting for Shawn to explain the details of how he knew that the SBPD—with Lassiter as lead—was soon to catch up to the murderer. He had put on a huge spectacle for the IAB agents present in Vick's office—making it cryptic enough so as not to make Vick and Juliet equally suspicious. But it had made Gus suspicious. Shawn had been evasive, uncharacteristically tight-lipped. Right up until Gus blew a gasket and punched him in the stomach a couple of times.

"I was there, Gus, with the killer."

Gus frowned. There was a huge disconnect of confusion, worry, and unease in between the being suspicious and the being furious.

But why . . . why had Shawn gone off to a remote location—no, scratch that, Gus thought, shaking his head. How had Shawn known where he was going—what he was going to find? Gus refused to believe that Shawn had gotten "lucky" in finding both the hideout of the killer and Lassiter, who had been, unbeknownst to Gus, unaccounted for for some time.

Gus still didn't know what Shawn had kept from him that day in Vick's office. Crazy with anger, he'd punched Shawn in hopes his best friend would confess, but the only thing that had managed to get Gus's full attention was when Shawn hissed that the killer had Detective Lassiter. It was a solid fact which explained the Head Detective's absence, as well as the tension exuded from Chief Vick and Juliet regarding his whereabouts. Because Shawn had walked into the station of his own violation—albeit still a bloodied mess—Gus knew he had push his anger for Shawn to the side so that Vick and Juliet could get the information.

Shawn knew the killer had Lassiter because he'd been in the same building with—perhaps right under the watchful eye of—of the killer. He knew that Lassiter had been cut and stabbed and mangled because . . . Gus let out a breath slowly through his mouth. Because he must have been near in vicinity to both of them. Close enough to smell the blood, to see it ooze out of Lassiter's many wounds. Gus closed his eyes.

It had taken both women a good five minutes to wrap their heads around Shawn's convoluted story. He himself had had a difficult time following, but had remained silent, unable to join in. Unable to help. He braced himself for the moments when everything clicked—when orders were cast out and action caused them to move en masse, out the door, on the way to follow the breadcrumb trail Shawn had left.

Gus remembered, Juliet had been the first to come around—and she'd snapped just as easily as he had, but for different reasons.

He leaned back in his chair to look at the ceiling. He tried to focus on what Shawn looked like when he limped into the station. Shawn's jeans had been torn up to his knees, and his flannel shirt's arms were shredded, with redness soaked into its sides. Blood pressed out from the legs of his jeans too. It had looked like a look of blood, so even the faint paleness of Shawn's skin and his frantic alertness hadn't dissuaded Gus from considering it wasn't all his.

Gus grimaced; he didn't like thinking about Shawn like that. He felt sicker knowing he'd inflicted further injury on his friend—out of impulse, in betrayal.

How hard would it be for him to take the first step, be the bigger man? Call Shawn and tell him to come down to the Psych office—neutral ground—so they could have a talk? He sighed. Sooner or later, he guessed he would break. Now that Shawn come back from his world traveling and they'd become partners in crime—fighting—it was too hard to pretend that something hadn't been missing from the way he'd led his old life.

# # #

The King of Hearts. Killer. King of Hearts Killer. Lassiter turned the words over in his head slowly, like a piece of meat roasting on a spit. The moniker was, Lassiter decided just as slowly, the wrong name for him. It made the killer seem "cutesy" or cartoonish to anyone who didn't know him or what he had done. He almost wanted to tell this to someone, to say that the "nickname" on the killer's file should be changed. But . . . the appropriate name for Saul, the sum up name, the one that would go into the press, the one the public would learn, even briefly . . . Lassiter stared blankly ahead. This was why these abhorrent killers ended up with quick take names like "Unabomber"; "Zodiac Killer"; "Son of Sam"; "The Green River Killer"—handles for reference until they were caught—even when some first and last names were horrible enough without nicknames: "Ted Bundy"; "Lee Harvey Oswald"; "Charles Manson"; "Lizzie Borden".

"Saul Grant".

"Saul Grant", "The King of Hearts Killer".

Saul Grant.

Didn't . . . didn't have the same ring to it, did it? "Name's Saul." The same burn entered his mind even hearing through the filter of memory—the careless casualness of the proper noun, a first name—real or not. Lassiter had decided, from the second he'd heard the killer say it, that it was real. This man owned his name—might have even been disgusted to learn the moniker Santa Barbara's media had dubbed him.

Where there . . . other monikers, elsewhere? he wondered, typing in "King", "Hearts" and "Murder" into his search engine. The most recent news popped up, everything leading back to Santa Barbara. "King of Hearts Murderer Dead, Police Intervene." Vick had fought as much as she could to keep his name, and then the details of his torture, from the press and public. In the end, she had prepared a vague cluster of sentences which focused more on Saul than on him. He'd taken pains not to learn what went into the papers about him, and had declined to comment on several occasions to several different reporters.

Lassiter blubbered a noise, a squeak or a muted sob, that was sure to draw attention. He pressed a palm against his lips, a blush creeping to the tips of his ears. He stared down, hoping to avoid anyone's wandering eye.

He was aware, as if out of the blue, that nearly everyone in this building must know some of the details of what had happened to him. Or if not specific details than at least that he had been caught and cut up by the city's latest menace. Him, Head Detective Carlton Lassiter. Under his desk, Lassiter clenched a fist in shame, humiliation, and annoyance of these weaknesses, that he was thinking about showing them, or was showing them, or that it didn't matter either way—

because everyone knew.

It made him . . . want to die.

And this thought alone made him flinch, partially because it had almost happened—his dying—and partially because O'Hara would be very opinionated—to the point of violence—if he spoke it aloud. It was a peculiar thing, having to censor himself in front of her . . . because of what she'd become. What he'd . . . become.

These thoughts made him feel sickest of all. He had an inexplicable yearning to put his head down on his desk, to just stay there, but he resisted the urge, choosing instead to remain stock still. He turned his eyes back to the computer screen, resuming his search.

He still felt the discomfort of blowing up in front of her a few months ago—acting like a child, kicking his own furniture, pulling mug shots of criminals he actually had a plan to catch from his walls as if these acts were supposed to help either of them. During the entire thing, he felt her standing there, watching him, and at any moment he could have easily turned on her—but he couldn't. It wasn't so easy, and anyway, there was nothing in the world that could make him do such a thing. These weren't the old days anymore; she was not his enemy, not his "emotional punching bag"—and he just didn't want to see her get hurt.

But somehow, the incident had helped further communication between them; an eerie turn, he considered. Neither had ventured to speak of it again—possibly because both of them harbored needs to apologize to the other but hadn't the faintest idea of where to start. So shutting up about it worked—but other doors opened.

The two had come to develop an odd—and getting odder—dynamic; for some reason that made little sense to either, it worked. At least, Lassiter thought it did. Or at least, he conceded, it worked for now. The two of them seemed to be living for the moments—moment to moment to moment. It . . . was what it was.

He didn't know what to do with all of his rampant doubts. He was glad he could still reach for his gun, point and shoot and hit the target—like riding a bike. He was glad also that O'Hara was stuck to his side with a special glue—the formula unknown to him, he might never know. His badge still his, his career intact, his rank as it was. The constants—the facts—were easiest to grip, but they were cold truths, and they still came with strings attached. He was afraid to cut any of the strings but he just didn't know where he stood after . . . after Saul. "Lawman," the killer hissed with a smile. "I'd like to use this now, not while you're getting shut eye." Lassiter stirred, getting a chill, and wondered if Saul had cut him . . . tasted more blood . . . in the times he'd been out like a light. His stomach lurched. There was no definite way of knowing; he told himself it was better if he never knew.

# # #

She had seen Lassiter flinch, hoping no one was looking—he looked around, hoping no one had seen his moment of weakness. These moments were random to her, when she caught them, but she suspected just about anything could act as a trigger to the past, throwing him back. She wished, in those seconds, she had a rope she could throw out, or a life jacket, or the one right word that would salvage that second and bring him round. But he was suffering before her, and there was nothing she could do.

He didn't know she wanted to do something. Or rather, he didn't know the extent of what she wanted to do. (Straight out asking had failed her—and had made Lassiter into livid mess.) Had he known, he would have done something to dissuade her. He was very persuasive; strangers did his bidding without question, except that she had become almost immune to his subtleties; she could read the little things much too well for his liking. He had given in, partially, accepting that she knew so much about him, given to her part in comfort, part in stress. Still, he could have offered a look, a scowl, harsh words—an easy insult to put her off, make her angry, make her walk away. But Juliet understood, on a level that was barely conscious, that she would still have to turn on her heel, go back, and stay close to his side, no matter what. This was the time he needed her most, even if he wasn't yet aware. She was . . . all he had, whether he liked it or not. Whether she liked it or not. And she did . . . care for him, in ways. She did feel a fierceness towards, feeling razed should anyone . . . get in his way. Was it unhealthy, behaving this way?

Still, she had no one to tell her no. No one with that much guts.