musicalluna

Title: Hour of Need
Fandom: Psych
Author: MusicalLuna
Rating: T
Characters/Pairings: Primary Cast
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort
Warnings: None
Complete: Yes
Summary: Juliet trusts him, Shawn knows that. But it's not until she's at her most vulnerable that he finds out just how much.
A/N: I've been trying to finish this for ages. It's a response to TerpsichoreanCat's fantasy of Shawn watching Juliet sleep. Only there's not very much watching in this fic, so I think I may have to reanswer it...
Disclaimer: I don't own Psych or the characters. Yet. My lawyer and I are working on that... (J/K! Don't sue me!)

 

He's never seen her sleep before.

 

It's not surprising, considering the kind of person Juliet is.

 

Jules is, as in all things, a contradiction. Gaining her trust is easy because Juliet O'Hara trusts everyone to be who they are and what they are and treat her thusly. But by the same token, she's an extremely guarded person (as most cops are).

 

So while he's pretty sure Juliet trusts him implicitly, he also knows that she's very careful, and sleeping in front of other people is one of those things that's Just Not Done. Lassiter is an exception that he tries his best not to be jealous of because it's a hazard of the work relationship. But no matter how many times he feeds himself the, "They're partners, it's only natural that he'd know her better," line, he still feels that twinge in his chest whenever he thinks about all those things that she's shared with Lassiter and not him.

 

It's things like tonight's three a.m. phone call that quiet the ugly green-eyed creeper inside and remind him that Lassiter's not the only one she trusts.

 

He groans when his phone starts ringing, berating himself for forgetting to turn it off and then leaving it on the bedside table. Instead of rolling over and trying to ignore it, he gropes for it with one hand and presses it to his ear beneath the pillow.

 

"I hope you're attractive," he mumbles into the bed, not bothering to open his eyes.

 

"No one is attractive enough for a three a.m. call," she replies and his eyes open, a frown unrelated to being woken up in the middle of the night pulling at his mouth as a little surge of adrenaline rapidly forces his drowsiness back.

 

"Jules?"

 

"Hi, Shawn," she says, a weary, wry smile in her voice.

 

"Hey," he says, blinking and trying to get his thoughts to run in a more coherent manner. "What's up? Is everything okay?"

 

She's quiet for a second and the only way he manages to force down the urge to go running out of the house to find her, wherever she is, is the rational part of his brain registering that if she were in immediate danger, she wouldn't be so damn calm. At least he doesn't think so.

 

"Jules," he repeats, trying to keep the anxiety to a minimum. "What's up?"

 

She sighs and then with "I don't want to say this" pain and not "I'm bleeding out in a ditch" pain, says, "I need a ride."

 

"Oh," he says, the tension leaking out of him. "Okay, yeah, sure, Jules." He gets out of bed and starts searching for a pair of pants. "Car trouble?"

 

There's another one of those pauses that gets his heart going again and she says reluctantly, "...no. I'm...at the hospital."

 

He nearly staggers head-first into the door frame, bent over to grab a pair of jeans off the floor.

 

"What? Are you all right?" he's demanding even as she says firmly, "I'm fine."

 

"Jules," he says and lets her read his skepticism from the lingering tone of his voice.

 

"I'm fine," she repeats stubbornly and then with a weariness that brings to mind a crystal clear picture of her sitting with her head in her hands, adds, "Please. Just come pick me up. I'll explain when you're here."

 

"All right," he agrees and snatches his keys off of the dining room counter as he passes. "Where am I going?"

 

~ * ~

 

She tells him to go to Santa Barbara Cottage Emergency Room, which he expects, but it still gets his imagination going to all the worst places.

 

By the time he gets there, he half expects to find her in traction.

 

Instead, she's sitting in the waiting room with a copy of Elle, looking tired and bored out of her mind. There are only two other people in the room.

 

"Jules?" he calls.

 

She looks up and relief washes across her face. "Shawn!"

 

There's a bandage on her forehead and his eyes scan the rest of her body as she sets aside the magazine and gets to her feet. His eyebrows rise at the sight of the sky blue cast on her arm and he can't stop his eyes from doing another once over.

 

(His eyes rake over her body more than once, but she can't even begin to get mad at him, because the look in them is purely worried and she realizes he's making sure he's not missing anything. The anxiety lingering from her decision to call Shawn and not someone else melts away. This was the right decision.)

 

"It's just the arm and my head," Juliet tells him and he pulls his eyes up, reaching out to put a hand on her elbow.

 

"'Just the arm and head', she says," he mutters and rolls his eyes. He takes her purse without asking and slings it over his shoulder.

 

"Shawn, you don't have to—"

 

"Yadda yadda yadda, what? Which one of us broke their arm?" He points a finger at himself and it wavers for a second before snapping over to point at her. "Oh, that's right. You did." He raises a pointed eyebrow at her and Juliet sighs, rolling her eyes.

 

"I want a ride, Shawn, not to be babied."

 

He shoots a wounded look at her. "Jules, you called me at three o'clock in the morning and asked me to come get you at the Emergency Room. Forgive me if I'm determined to make sure you're actually okay before I start taking your word for it."

 

She stops four feet from the door, crossing her arms over her chest and then wincing. The wince only takes a little bit of the reprimand out of the movement.

 

He stops too, wrapping his hands around the straps of the purse hanging near his stomach and looking back at her plaintively. "Jules, gimme a break, okay?" he says quietly. "I've been entertaining daydreams of you bleeding from your ears and beaten black and blue the entire way here."

 

Her nose wrinkles; she's obviously not sure what to think of that. "I told you I was fine," she finally says.

 

Giving her a Look, he replies, "And if I called you at three in the morning and told you I was in the ER, but, no, don't worry, I'm fine, would you believe me?"

 

Juliet grimaces. "Point taken."

 

He gestures to the doors, which open obligingly. "Can we go now?"

 

With another disgruntled twist of her features, she gives in and they walk out into the cool night. It’s late and the hospital parking lot is nearly empty. A vast expanse of black painted with white grids and dotted with the occasional car stretches out before them.

 

Shawn hesitates on the curb and turns to look at her, his eyes flicking up to the bandage on her forehead. "I don't suppose you..."

 

Juliet's mouth curves in a wry smile and she moves forward, pulling her keys out of the purse at his hip. "I drove, yes," she says.

 

He shakes his head at her. "With a broken arm, Jules? Really?"

 

"I didn’t know it was broken. Besides, it didn't hurt that much."

 

Shawn snorts. "Just enough that you decided to go the ER."

 

She makes a face at him and punches him with the cast. Which hurts, yes, but it pulls a gasp out of her and she curls up, clutching her arm to his chest and he forgets.

 

"Jules?"

 

He's beside her in a second, a gentle hand curling around the back of the cast-covered wrist and the other going around her back. Her head touches his chest and he can feel her harsh breathing on his sternum.

 

"Ow," she chokes.

 

"Jeez, Jules," he says, rubbing her back carefully with his hand. "At least wait a few weeks before you start punching me with your cast."

 

"You're lucky this—hurts as much as it does," she grits, "or I'd punch you again."

 

He grins. "If it makes you feel better, I'm pretty sure I'm gonna get a bruise where you did hit me."

 

"Good. Jerk."

 

They stand there for another minute like that until, presumably, the pain in her arm finally fades back to a tolerable level. She straightens up and glares at him.

 

"Next time, hit me with your other hand," he suggests.

 

She huffs at him. "Let's go."

 

He follows her to her car, which is parked way out in the parking garage. Shawn shakes his head. Juliet would drive herself to the ER and then proceed to park as far away as possible, just to make sure she wasn’t hindering other, possibly needier, people. As they enter the garage, her footsteps slow and then, even more worrying, she sways a little. He catches up to her with a few strides, footsteps echoing off of the concrete around them, and slides an arm around her. Looking at the bandage on her forehead, he suddenly feels like an idiot.

 

"Shawn—" she protests and he frowns, refusing to let her slip out of his grasp.

 

"Jules, do you, by chance, have a concussion you failed to mention?"

 

She flushes and stops struggling, her eyes dropping to the concrete. "I..."

 

He snorts. "And you were mad at me for not taking your word that you were okay."

 

"I am okay," she protests, but her hand wraps around the fabric on the back of his shirt, pulling it taut. She slows even more, finally stopping and he stops with her, looking down at the top of her head. "I feel a little sick," she admits in a whisper.

 

He nods. "Okay. You wanna sit?" He gestures and her eyes follow the movement down.

 

"Mhm," she murmurs and without bothering to warn him, she goes loose, slumping to the ground. His eyes widen, but he was prepared enough for this eventuality that he follows her smoothly down, dropping to his knees and making sure she doesn't hit harder than she needs to.

 

Her eyes close, her face pinching. "I hate this. I hate it."

 

Shawn pushes a stray strand of hair back and then puts his hand to her throat, his thumb curving up behind her ear. Her eyes are closed, her face pale. "Why don't you tell me what happened, huh?" he asks. "Did you trip over your cat or what?"

 

She groans and puts a hand to her face. From behind it, her voice muffled, she says, "It's almost as bad."

 

He smiles and guesses again. "Slip in spilled water from their dish?"

 

"Stepped on a toy at the top of the stairs."

 

Shawn winces, his brain conjuring up plenty of illustrations of how that had ended and how it could have ended much worse. "Jeez, Jules."

 

"I'm lucky I didn't break my neck," she says.

 

"No kidding." Jeez, he’s never seen her so pale.

 

She gestures to the car that's not far from where they sit. "I drove myself here at seven o'clock. Seven. They didn't see me until one."

 

"That sounds like the ER all right," Shawn says, sympathizing.

 

"I was ready to kill someone by then."

 

"I bet."

 

He watches her, a hand on her neck and a hand on her knee as she breathes in and out with great care, her eyes still closed. He realizes with a little thrill and a flood of warmth that in a rare moment of vulnerability, Juliet had called him. He determines that he's not going to let her trust in him be misplaced.

 

Finally, she takes a deep breath and says, "I think we can go to the car now."

 

"All right, let me help you up though, all right?"

 

Juliet nods and licks her lips, waiting as he gets to his feet. Then he leans down and reaches for her hand and her waist like they're going to do a little dancing and he helps pull her carefully to her feet. Holding her close with her breath heating the fabric over his shoulder, he asks gently, "Okay?"

 

She gives one small nod.

 

He puts his arm around her waist again, which she doesn't resist this time, even leaning into it a little, and they head for the car. "I just want to go to bed," she says, miserable.

 

"I'll get you there as fast as I can," he promises and opens the car door with one hand before helping her slide into the passenger's seat. As soon as her door is closed, he jogs around the other side and drops into the car.

 

As soon as the engine comes to life, Juliet’s blinking grows heavy. It's going on four now and the exhaustion has obviously caught up to her.

 

Valiantly though she fights, she slips away shortly after their stop at the pharmacy. Shawn knows he should be more focused on the road, but he can't help peeking over at her out of the corner of his eye every few seconds. She looks tiny and ridiculously young with her hair in a fraying braid over her shoulder and her cast-covered arm held close to her body, which is bent around it protectively.

 

When they finally pull into her driveway, he's reluctant to wake her. But sleeping in the car really isn't going to make her feel better, so he reaches over and puts a hand on her uninjured arm. "Jules. Jules, wake up. Time to go to bed."

 

She wakes with fluttering eyelashes and a drowsy squint, making a soft noise in her throat. "Mm, Shawn?"

 

He purses his lips, a smile pulling at his mouth. "Come on, sleepyhead. Thirty feet or so and you can crash."

 

"Mkay," she murmurs and blinks some more, reaching for her seatbelt.

 

Shawn grabs the bag from the pharmacy and gets out of the car, moving around her side and holding out his arm for her to support herself on. When she's free of the car, he closes the door and they start for the house.

 

"I'm going to stay with you tonight," he tells her, and despite being only half-awake, she starts to frown.

 

"I don't need you to watch me," she says, her voice gaining clarity in response to her annoyance.

 

"I know," he says breezily, "but I rode my motorcycle to the hospital and we drove your car here. I'm going to have to wait until morning to have Gus pick me up so I can go get my bike. That is unless you’re going to kick me out onto the street at four a.m."

 

This smooths out her features into an embarrassed expression and she says, "Oh. Okay. Sure."

 

"Plus, I want to keep an eye on you," he adds and she scowls again. He has to fight off a grin. She stubbornly pulls away from him, snatching the keys from his hand to open the door. A moment later she's hissing in pain and he reaches around her, taking the keys. "Let me get it."

 

"I don't need your help," she grits.

 

"I know you don't," he replies. "Of anybody I've ever known, you are the one person who doesn't need any help. But I'm here, so I may as well try to make myself useful." He pushes open the door and brushes a hand over her shoulder, returning the keys.

 

She sighs, but moves in through the door, dropping them on a table in the entry way. Shawn locks the door and follows her back as she makes a beeline for the back of the house. "There's a bed in the spare room," she says wearily. “You can find it, right?”

 

"Sure," he says and follows her into her room.

 

She pulls the ponytail holder out of her hair, letting the braid unravel on its own and kicks off her shoes, shuffling to the bed. Her pajamas are lying on top of the comforter. "What are you doing?" she asks as he slips into the bathroom, aggravation in her voice.

 

"Getting you a glass of water," he tells her and emerges with said glass in hand. The pajamas have been pushed aside and the comforter pulled down. Clearly she intends to sleep in the sweats she’s wearing. He gives her the glass and then deposits a pill in one hand, holding it out for her. "Painkillers. They'll make it easier to sleep."

 

She wrinkles her nose, but takes the pill and swallows it down, chasing it with a swallow from the glass of water. "Thank you," she says softly.

 

"No problem."

 

He retreats toward the door and she pulls the cover over her body, wrapping her arms around a pillow.

 

"Sleep well, Jules," he tells her quietly.

 

“Thank you,” she whispers.

 

Shawn goes into the spare bedroom across the hall and lies down on the bed.

 

He can't sleep. The adrenaline from earlier is still coursing around through his system and he can't stop thinking so he just listens to the sounds of Juliet's house—so much different than the sounds of the bakery he's currently living in. He can hear the faint hum of her refrigerator even from here, but other than that, it's quiet. Much quieter than his apartment. In the bakery he can always hear the sound of the traffic passing by on the street outside. Here it's nothing but the low, distant hum of the refrigerator, the rustle of cloth in Juliet's room, and—

 

His brow furrows as another sound makes itself known.

 

What is that?

 

It's soft, but then as he listens the noise rises abruptly and he realizes with a feeling like a knife to the gut that it's the sound of crying.

 

He pushes himself up on one elbow and listens, his heart drumming against his sternum.

 

What is someone supposed to do when they hear something like that?

 

He drops back onto the pillow, pushing his hands into his hair. She's made it pretty clear that she doesn't need or want his help, but how can he just lay here and— The sounds of Juliet's sniffles have gone quiet again, but he can still just make them out, muffled, probably by the comforter or a pillow. The sound makes him a little bit sick and he closes his eyes.

 

He can't. He can't do it.

 

“Please don't shoot me,” he mutters and rolls out of the bed, creeping quietly across the hall and easing the door of Juliet's room open.

 

The only light in the bedroom is from the alarm clock on the bedside table and pale moonlight from between the blinds and Shawn can just see her curled up on the bed around a pillow, tremors rippling through her.

 

Shawn eases himself down on the mattress beside her, brushing a hand over her shoulder. She stiffened, pushing herself into a sitting position, wiping at her eyes. “Shawn,” she says, her voice thick and hoarse, “What are you doing?”

 

He wraps his arm around her, drawing her up against him. He expects a fight, but Juliet gives in, leaning against his side a lot more easily than he expected. “Just because you can handle it by yourself,” he murmurs, “doesn't mean you should have to.”

 

Juliet sniffles wetly and then begins to shake, small, hitched noises that kill him to hear muffled against his shoulder. He rubs a hand along her back and holds her, watching the shifting shadows against the wall.

 

It feels like hours before Juliet finally stops crying, her shoulders falling still and her breathing evening out, hot breaths washing over a damp spot on his shirt. She sniffles and makes a noise of displeasure, snaking out an arm to grab a tissue from the bedside table.

 

“Sorry,” she mutters and blows her nose without pulling too far away. The used tissue gets tossed on the bedside table and, much to his surprise, she lays her head down on his shoulder again gingerly.

 

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” he replies. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Juliet look up at him, eyes a little puffy and surprised. Then she settles into place, relaxing even further.

 

She's quiet for a long time and he thinks she's fallen asleep until she says softly, “Thank you.”

 

“Any time, Jules,” he murmurs into her hair.

 

Not long after that, Juliet's breathing grows slow and even. Shawn smiles, letting his head rest on the crown of Juliet's, his eyes growing heavy.

 

It looks like he doesn't have anything to be jealous of after all.