Disclaimer: I own nothing of Psych and its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

Rating: T+

Spoilers: Few, but possible at any point through entire series

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Juliet stood at the glass wall of the waiting room, looking out at the darkened parking lot with its old-fashioned yellowish mercury vapor lights. The sky was pitched black, night having fallen long ago, and still she knew nothing of her partner's condition, despite him having been brought to the ER long hours ago in the morning. She assumed it was relatively good news, this lack of word. If he were dead, someone would have come out and told them.

It wasn't great news, because if he were stable, someone would have come out and told them that, too.

She started crying again, sniffling into the wadded Kleenex she held in her left hand. Francie McNab came up to her and handed her a fresh one, with a comforting pat to the shoulders and a soft, meaningless word. The waiting room was crammed with officers and, in some cases, their families. Woody was there, still in his lab coat, Mrs. Lassiter and Althea, and Hank Mendel sat with his head down and his hands folded together and dangling between his knees while "Miss Annie" hugged his shoulders. Lincoln had his arm around Lauren and her head on his shoulder as they sat in the chairs over underneath the TV up high on the waiting room wall. Aunt Carolyn was off in a corner talking quietly to Henry Spencer. Shawn and Gus were having a heated argument about Chef Boyardee beef ravioli versus Kraft Easy Mac, which Juliet had to think was a lot like comparing apples and oranges. Really…cheap-tasting…apples and oranges, but that was just how they coped. Chief Vick was engaged in a quiet conversation with the "John" from Carlton's contacts list, who turned out to be her predecessor, Chief John Fenich. Dobson and Miller and Sergeant Allen, who was nervously turning a large rose quartz crystal over and over in her fingers while she, too, stared out the window at the dark outside, and Simmons and Fryberg and Jones and Franks and of course McNab. They'd all come to pay their respects or to alleviate their concerns. Juliet couldn't look at them. It made her feel good that Carlton had so much support, but she couldn't look at them. She would start crying again, and she wouldn't be able to stop.

"Um…You're all here for…Detective Lassiter?" a voice said, and there was a great noise of shuffling feet and chairs moving back and people standing up. Juliet turned around immediately and pushed her way to the front, where the scrub-wearing doctor looked somewhat amazed at the number of people waiting to hear what he had to say.

He raised his hands. "It was touch and go, and I'll be honest, he's still in critical condition," he said. "We lost him twice and we've had him in emergency surgery most of the day. The next few hours are critical: if he makes it that long…he'll probably pull through. But there are no guarantees, and I can't really give you his odds. I wouldn't put them real high: he took a lot of internal damage. He's in a recovery room in our ICU right now, and he's completely out of it. Not to mention, Visiting Hours are way past over. Family, close friends, are welcome to stay in the ICU waiting room overnight if you want to be there for news. There are couches you can sack out on."

Juliet had let out a strangled half-sob at the words "I wouldn't put them real high" and struggled now to keep herself under control long enough for the doctor to finish relaying his information.

"Um…is Detective Lassiter of any specific religion?" the doctor asked, and Mrs. Lassiter spoke up in her rusty, three-pack-a-day voice.

"He's Catholic," she said.

"We have a priest we call in on occasions like this, if you'd like," the doctor said. "He could come in, say a few prayers…and whatever's necessary."

Whatever's necessary. Like the Last Rites?

"I bet Father Wesley would come," Gus said, slapping Shawn on the arm.

"I don't want some random cassock-monkey praying over my boy," Myrna Lassiter said. "I want our priest to do it. Monsignor Luccio Vannoni."

"Dude, what's an Irish Catholic family doing with a Spanish priest?" Shawn whispered to Gus.

"I'm pretty sure that 'Luccio' and 'Vannoni' are both Italian names, Shawn," Gus whispered back. "'Monsignor' means he's head of their church, and maybe of another few smaller churches nearby, and reports directly to the bishop of the diocese."

"Burma!" Shawn said back in an abrupt whisper that was nearly a shout despite not being terribly loud, and they both broke up laughing.

"Shut up, guys," Juliet said over her shoulder.

"If you want to call your own priest, that's fine too," the doctor said, ignoring the noise. We just offer, in case there's a distance or time issue."

A priest, Juliet thought. To pray over him, the lapsed Catholic, who can't accept an adorable Pope. To pray over him, or give him Last Rites. Dear God, don't take him from me. Don't take him from me.

She couldn't take it anymore. She slumped to the ground, weeping openly. She didn't know at first who picked her up and held her, but wasn't overly surprised to discover she was crying into the western shirt of Hank Mendel. The old cowboy patted her on the shoulder and rubbed her back but didn't try to shush her.

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