Juliet O'Hara

She's taking the gun apart again, sliding the edge of the faded Van Halen tee-shirt into and out of the chilly notches of the chamber in the cool, white light of the moon.

This is her kitchen. Hers, a heavy four-letter word; when she was a child she'd owned nothing but a doll and a china set, and the expectations of the entire O'Hara clan.

It was a burden she'd shared with Ewan - Growing up together, they learned thrift and loyalty at an early age. That football had lasted him for years, and her dolls had lost their eye-paint years before they met the attic. She had made due with what she owned. Had done so enthusiastically.

She does most things with enthusiasm, anyway.

Lassiter knows that. He finally respects her for it, too. Even Gus, who resents her presence sometimes, actually likes her.

And then there's Shawn, who thinks she's sexy when she's tough.

Don't worry, it was long before I knew you.

She closes her eyes very tightly, swallows twice. The branches crackle and drag across the split eye of the window. She slips the bullets back into their chamber, slowly. One by one.

It's been four hours since he and Gus left on that stakeout, the one he lied to her about just to spare her feelings. As much as she believes in him - as deep as her faith may run, and as much joy as she finds in her job - she lives with the worry that being twinned to his life provides.

I think you're swell.

Where is he?

She promised herself she wouldn't feel this much after Scott disappeared, that she wouldn't put her heart through the crucible of the possibility of loss. She knows how desperately Shawn loves her; she never understood how deeply until the Yin arrest. The reckless part of him, the childlike part that makes her laugh is the side that worries her the most.

Her phone vibrates. A message pops up in royal blue font.

I M Fine. Pizza @ My Place?

Juliet breathes. Her thumbs stab back at the buttons through a sheet of tears.

Okay.

The phone beeps as she turns it off. There's nothing here but the silence of the night, and the weight of what she's chosen for herself, and she wants to escape it and shed the fear that's tightened her torso to knots.

She re-assembles the gun slowly, hearing the click of the trigger as she slips on the safety, the metallic song of mechanized death held at bay.

Juliet is, predictably, punctual when she arrives at the door. She stuck Carlton with most of the paperwork after she finished her shift, and has a handful of supplies in a plastic sack, which she's toting under her arm; mostly DVDs and magazines to restock his stash.

They've been planning on a little friends-night-in for awhile, and Jules is looking forward to it after the unfortunate dressing-down she had to give Lassiter earlier this morning. The man needs to cool his jets and relax just a little, in her humble opinion.

Knocking on the door, she listens for movement, unsure if she should just open it - a dangerous prospect with a cop in the house and several guns. So she stands, waiting patiently.

She's bearing pineapple-coconut cupcakes from that new bakery on the boardwalk. Beware, boy, beware.