As he was being dragged, he woke momentarily—long enough to register that he was still outside and may have a chance to leave a clue. Without drawing any attention to himself, he managed to slip off his right shoe and leave it behind in the dust before falling back into unconsciousness.
...
"He would have left something," Juliet stated desperately, wishing more than being certain of Shawn's ability to lead them. Over by an outhouse, something caught her attention. "Henry!" she screamed. "Over here!" Carlton, Gus, and Henry all ran after her as she ran for everything she was worth. "His shoe."
...
Underground again. He didn't know where he was, how long he'd been out, or how long he could stay conscious, but he knew he was underground again. And he was cold. His clothes were still soaked from the rude awakening he'd received in the tunnel. "You've been out too long," Prescott stated. "We're going to have to skip a few rounds."
"My apologies," Shawn groaned, trying to conceal a shiver.
"Wait . . . what's this?"
Shawn tucked his socked foot behind the other, vainly hoping to hide his 'disobedience'.
"Damn you, Spencer!" Prescott hissed, pistol whipping him yet again. "Now I have to go clean up your mess!"
Shawn's muddled, aching head sprang into acute focus as he found what could possibly be his only chance at escape. Standing in spite of the overwhelming pain in his ankle, he realized with a bit of relief that, in his anger, Prescott had left him untied. Climbing the ladder—the only way out—was excruciating on the ankle that Shawn was pretty sure was broken. He found himself inside a building, beneath a trap door. Prescott was sitting behind a window, watching warily the activity that surrounded the building. Shawn snuck up behind him and grabbed a loose floorboard, but hit a creak in the old floor, catching Prescott's attention. He whirled around and cocked his gun. Shawn brought the plank down on his hand, causing the gun to slide across the room. Shawn crawled to the corner and quickly grabbed the gun, turning it on Prescott who was taking deliberate steps toward Shawn—huddled in the corner.
"You stop right there, Prescott," Shawn hissed. When the man didn't do as he was told, Shawn fired at his left leg. Prescott cried out in pain and fell backwards into a mirror, knocking himself unconscious. Keeping the gun trained on his now unconscious captor, Shawn scrambled to his side, searching every pocket for his missing phone. He sighed with relief and turned it on, dialing Juliet's number immediately.
"Prescott?"
"Hi, Jules," he greeted weakly.
"Shawn, oh my god! Are you all right? Where are you?"
"I don't know where I am. I h-have him . . . but I d-don't know . . . how much longer . . . I can s-s-stay awake." He was starting to shiver uncontrollably.
"Shawn, we're tracking your phone now. Stay on the line."
"It looks like . . ." he blinked his eyes, trying to clear his vision. "A b-barber shop. It's a barber . . . sh-shop, Jules."
Juliet spun around, trying to read all the worn-out signs. "I see it. I'll be there in thirty seconds."
"I know something you don't," Prescott whispered, obviously having regained consciousness.
"You s-stay where you are, you son of a . . . b-b-bitch," Shawn growled, shaking his head in an attempt to rid his vision of the blurriness acquired by his multiple skull blows.
"First, that pistol only had one bullet in it," Prescott stated.
Shawn eyed the gun, giving Prescott a split second to pull his second sidearm from his belt.
"And second, I have another gun." He cocked the pistol and moved it toward Shawn's head. Shawn closed his eyes and heard several shots. He opened his eyes slowly, greeted with Juliet standing over Prescott who had three bullet holes in his chest. Quickly following Juliet were his dad, Gus, Lassiter, and the chief, along with several other officers to take Prescott into custody.
"Jules," Shawn whispered, suddenly not feeling the need so keenly to fight for consciousness, as his body was wracked with violent shivering.
"Shawn," she uttered, the word coming out in broken sobs as she eyed the various bruises and cuts all over his body. He reached up and felt the trickle of blood from his most recent pistol whipping. He looked at the blood on his fingers, only to be greeted with the muddy, bloody mess that was the hole in his palm where the thorn had punctured it so much earlier.
"I don't f-feel very good," he whispered.
"The paramedics are on their way, Shawn. They'll be here."
"Keep him awake, Juliet," Henry instructed.
"Did you get my texts?" she asked quickly, holding his left hand.
He squeezed back with what little strength he could muster. "A girl. Can we . . . name her . . . after you?"
She laughed through her tears. "We have plenty of time to talk about names."
"I hope . . . sh-she doesn't get . . . m-m-my nose."
"Me too."
"You know that's right," Gus interjected.
"Harsh," Shawn stated, laughing slightly and wincing at the pain it brought to his chest.
The paramedics quickly rushed in with a gurney, pushing everyone—including Juliet away. "Jules, you look awful," Shawn commented as the paramedics lifted him onto the bed. "You need to . . . t-take care of yourself and . . . our b-baby . . . girl. Gus, look after them," he instructed as he was wheeled out the door.
As Shawn was wheeled out into the ambulance, Juliet felt her adrenaline rush slip away and she began to feel light headed. She faltered and would have fallen if Lassiter hadn't caught her.
"You need to eat something," Carlton stated gravely.
"And get some rest," Henry chimed in.
"I'll take you home, Juliet," Gus offered.
"I should go to the hospital," she argued weakly.
"I'll be at the hospital. Shawn wouldn't want you there at the risk of your baby," Henry stated, offering his arm as support.
"O'Hara," the chief stated sternly.
"Chief . . . I . . ."
"We'll talk about this in the morning," Chief Vick said decidedly, walking out.
...
After forcing herself to eat at least some of the chicken salad Gus had purchased for her, she reluctantly went to bed. Gus was under strict orders from Henry to not let Juliet leave for the hospital until she'd gotten at least three hours of sleep. After tossing and turning, she fell asleep and awoke to find that dusk had fallen.
"Gus," she stated, touching his shoulder. "Gus, can we go? Please?"
Gus—who had been sleeping soundly on the couch in front of a rerun of Family Ties—awoke with a start and looked up at Juliet.
"What time is it?"
"It's seven. Please? Can we go?"
"Of course." Gus grabbed his keys and opened the door for Juliet.
"He's all right, isn't he Gus? I mean . . . he didn't need surgery or anything."
"Henry would have called if anything dramatic happened. He was conscious when we found him, Juliet. I don't think we'll be losing our fake psychic anytime in the near future."
Gus had barely put the car in park before Juliet opened the door and went charging into the hospital. "Shawn Spencer," she stated to the receptionist.
"Are you family?"
"My baby is," she stated convincingly.
The nurse eyed her up and down. "I'll have to call."
"His dad is with him—Henry Spencer. He'll let us in," she begged, annoyed with the delay.
Hanging up the phone, the nurse handed Juliet and Gus—who had walked up behind her a few minutes earlier—guest passes and gave them directions. Juliet walked through the door before Gus could even reach for the handle. Henry stood as soon as she entered the room.
"He's sleeping," Henry whispered.
Juliet was obviously crestfallen, but she walked to his side, intent on waiting there until he awoke. She surveyed his appearance with pain in her eyes. He had a splint on his left leg, bandages around both arms and in various places on his face, and a large wad of gauze wrapped around his right hand. "Oh, Shawn," she whispered brokenly. "This is all my fault."
"Jules," he whispered, turning his head towards her.
Henry and Gus immediately left to give them some time, offering some excuse about getting coffee.
"Shawn," she repeated, reaching for his left hand and holding with all the affection she could muster. Impulsively, she leaned down and kissed his lips, her tears falling on his cheeks.
He opened his eyes slowly as she broke the connection. "Well, if that isn't incentive to get better, I don't know what is," he stated choppily, his voice ragged and labored.
She ran her hand through his hair tenderly. "So, what's the damage, Psychic?"
"Broken ankle, couple of broken ribs, a few stitches. I'll be here for a couple days while they rehydrate me and make sure my concussion's not going to kill me . . . warm me up a bit. That's all."
"That's all? You have a concussion?"
"Have you ever been pistol whipped repeatedly?"
"How many stitches?" she pressed.
"Eighteen, nineteen . . . I don't know; I couldn't feel 'em."
"I'm so sorry, Shawn," she whispered.
"Hey," he commanded, gripping her hand, "absolutely none of this was your fault. And I'm still here, Jules. You're not getting rid of me that easily."
She grinned at him. "Thank god, 'cause, you know, we don't have a name for our daughter."
"That's right . . . we haven't talked about that, have we?"
"Mm-mm," she stated, shaking her head and moving to pull up a chair.
"No, sit here with me," he stated, patting the side of his bed. "I'm thinking . . . Pineapple."
"To eat?"
"For a name."
"You want to name our daughter after fruit?"
"If Gwyneth and Chris can do it . . ."
Her face made it obvious he shouldn't continue that line of reasoning.
"Roseanne?" he offered as a second choice.
"That's ridiculous."
"Michaela . . . but only if her middle name's Quinn and she becomes a doctor. And moves to the wild west. We can call her Mike."
"Shawn!" Juliet giggled. "What about family names? How about Maddie?"
"Maddie, Jules? Really? You're pulling that one out?"
"Well, my mom always hated her name and made me promise I'd never name my children after her."
"If you're set on family names, there's always Shawn."
"Really?" she stated incredulously.
"Ten percent of people named Shawn are girls, Jules."
"You really want our daughter to have to walk through life being the only one of ten Shawns who is female?"
"It makes her unique."
"Having us for parents makes her unique enough."
"You know that's right," Shawn stated after thinking a moment. "More me than you," he added, trailing the back of his index finger down her jawline. "Jules, you're even more beautiful than all the dreams I had while I was unconscious."
She smiled and pressed his hand to her cheek, relishing the feeling of his skin against hers. "I couldn't sleep without you there last night."
"Worried, huh?"
"No . . . Prescott sent me texts as you saying you wouldn't be home. I wasn't worried yet. I just . . ." She paused, unsure of what exactly she wanted to say. She swallowed and met the earnest hazel eyes that were patiently waiting for her to convey what was obviously a weighty message. She bit her lip. "Shawn, I refuse to be a pregnant bride."
"That's all right . . . one step at a time, right?"
"Wrong."
His face clouded in confusion.
"I don't ever want to sleep alone again, Shawn."
"You . . . you mean . . ."
"After the baby's born," she stated warningly.
He searched her eyes earnestly.
"Y-you said the offer would stay open," she stated uncomfortably, his silence unnerving her.
"I have a bag of stuff," he stated, moving his head back and forth, looking around the room, only to find that so much movement made him dizzy. He placed his hand over his eyes.
"Lie back," Juliet stated. "I'll find it." She held up a plastic bag. "Is this it?"
He reached out for it and pulled out the desired object—the jewelry box he'd kept in his pocket for so long. "Juliet O'Hara," he whispered, tightening his grip on her hand, "will you marry me?"
Her eyes filled up with tears and she nodded once, unable to speak. He slipped the ring on her finger and she kissed him gently, quickly. Resting her face just inches from his in a position that had become all too familiar to them both, she whispered, "I never want to be without you, Shawn Spencer."
"I love you, Juliet. I love you both. And even if this is the only thing I stick to—the only thing I do right—for my whole life, I promise you, I'll be here."
She finally took a look at the ring on her finger. "What, do you just carry this around with you wherever you go?"
"Yes," he answered simply.
"Shawn, how long have you had this?" she asked in disbelief.
"Since that first day . . . the day you told me."
She ran the back of her hand down his cheek. "You're so good to me."
He closed his eyes, savoring her soft skin on his beaten face. "I'm sorry about the appointment."
She rolled her eyes. "Don't, Shawn. But that reminds me . . ." She unfolded the sonogram picture that had been stuffed in her pocket and handed it to him. Pointing, she instructed, "See . . . right there is our little girl."
"It's amazing," he whispered. "Jules . . ." He trailed off, too choked up to speak, just as Gus and Henry reentered the room.
"Do you see what I told you, Gus?" Henry teased. "She's got him all weepy now."
...
The chief generously gave Juliet four days off—the two that Shawn was in the hospital and two following to get settled. Shawn would be in a wheelchair for a week and on crutches for five while his ankle healed. She brought him meals in bed, helped him to the bathroom, and changed his bandages. After only three days, he was begging her for a shave, but he had too many scrapes and cuts on his face to even make it worth trying. He had a couple of stitches in his left cheek from the glass of the car window, road rash on the other side of his forehead from throwing himself from the car, and various bruises and cuts from being pistol whipped.
She was in the middle of changing his bandages the second day he was home when her phone rang.
"You should probably get that."
"I'm off, Shawn; it can wait." He winced as she pulled his arm away from his body to change a bandage around his elbow. She washed her hands when she was done and picked up her phone to check her voicemail. Her face paled.
"Jules?"
She held up her hand to keep him from asking questions. She closed her phone a few seconds later, a blank look in her eyes.
"Jules? Who was it?"
"Chief Vick." She looked him in the eye. "She wants to see me first thing in the morning."
"Wait . . . does she know?"
Juliet rolled her eyes. "Of course she knows, Shawn. She was standing right there in the barber shop when we were talking about it."
"I gave it away, didn't I?" he stated with a grimace.
"I didn't stop you," she contributed reluctantly. "I was far more worried about keeping you conscious and alive than I was about what the Chief heard or didn't hear. Now I guess it's time to face the music."
"Shouldn't I be there?"
She gave him a sort of lopsided grin. "Shawn, you're in no position to be anywhere. Bedrest means just that—in bed."
"But I have the wheelchair. I should be there too. It's just as much my baby as it is yours."
"But it's my job."
"It could be mine too," he returned seriously.
Juliet sighed. "She didn't ask to see us, Shawn. She asked to see me."
He pursed his lips, thinking, but couldn't come up with a further argument. "Well, I wish you didn't have to do it alone."
"I have you with me for everything else," she stated, sidling up next to him in bed. "I can do this one little thing."
"You know that's right," he growled as he moved in to kiss her.