Author's Note: First Psych fanfic...and first story I've written in a long time. Hope I'm not too rusty! Obviously, I don't own Psych or these characters.

Running The Gauntlet

"You know what? Maybe now's not the time. I have a flight in an hour—"

"Wait a minute…I have a room!" Shawn panted. "A really nice one. Paid for by a convicted criminal."

"Why do you tell me these things?" Juliet laughed.

"Full disclosure!"

Well. Not quite.

Still, as he squealed out of the view area parking lot, Shawn had every reason to feel optimistic. Hadn't he been waiting for this chance for five years? It seemed to him he had screwed it up more times than he could count. Glancing over at Juliet's half-smile, her lip gloss worn away by his kisses, he wasn't about to risk this incredible moment for a poorly-timed confession of his less-than-supernatural abilities. He had finally told Jules how he felt—even if he had to use a motorcycle metaphor to do it. Wasn't that enough soul-baring for one day?

As for the rest…he would figure it out later. Much later. Hopefully amidst an amorous tangle of once-crisp hotel linens. She must be told, of course…sometime…in the future. For now, if he didn't get them both to a secluded spot, he wasn't going to answer for the consequences.

Just what constituted indecent exposure in Canada, anyway?

He picked up Jules' hand from where it rested in her lap and kissed the back of it, reveling in the freedom to touch her, to look across at her without shuttering the feelings he knew were obvious in his triumphant grin. God damn, she was beautiful. Beautiful and perfect and—

"Shawn! Stop the car!"

His foot obeyed her urgent tone automatically, bringing the car to a swerving halt across the one-lane road. An old beige BMW was parked haphazardly on a grassy verge that led into the woods. It looked…suspicious.

"Oh, no, Jules. We are not stopping for the car-at-the-edge-of-the-road-that-leads-to-a-murder-victim thing."

"But—"

"It's so cliché!" He overrode her protest. "The hero and heroine are finally about to satisfy their legions of hopelessly romantic fans, when a case pops out of nowhere, unnecessarily delaying the action. The psychic is OUT. Our Northern cousins will just have to do this one on their own."

"That's not what I—"

"We can come back later. The vic isn't going to get any deader."

"Shawn!"

"Besides, if he's a guy, he would totally sympathize with me—"

A loud HONK! interrupted his tirade, and he looked up to see a huge grey goose waddle into view in front of his left tire, followed by four mini-gooses (gooselets?).

Juliet leaned her head on his shoulder and said, very low, "I'm a dedicated cop, but even I don't want to stop for a case right now." She ran one fingernail down his thigh and he felt his heart rate triple. Cupping her cheek in his hand, he kissed her til they both were breathless.

"Drive," she exhaled, eyes closed.

Canadian courtesy earned its reputation on the fifteen-minute journey back to the hotel, where they were NOT honked at, even once, in spite of their delayed reaction to several traffic-light changes.

By the time they pulled up to the valet, Shawn's head buzzed with desire. He pitched the keys to the attendant with a total disregard for accuracy, and turned a deaf ear toward the man's importunate request to hand him a parking stub.

The desk clerk, however, was harder to ignore, as he practically ran out from behind his counter to accost him. "Mr. Spencer! Mr. Spencer!" he cried, as Shawn hustled Juliet over to the elevators. "I have a message for you!"

"Keep it, my good man!" Shawn begged, stabbing at the elevator button.

"But it's from Commissioner Dykstra, Sir. He says he'll meet you here in the lobby at 4:30."

"Excellent! In an hour, then? Should be plenty of time…"

Juliet checked her watch. "It's 4:30 right now!"

Sure enough, out of the corner of his eye, Shawn saw the Commissioner enter the lobby. He yanked a bill out of his pocket at random and thrust it into the clerk's hand.

"Take this—you never saw me—" he whispered, pulling Jules out of sight behind a potted palm. The clerk nodded nervously and retreated.

"Shawn. That was a fifty-dollar bill!" Jules said.

"Yeah, but a Canadian fifty. That's only worth, like, two bucks in American."

She sighed. "No—it's worth about fifty dollars American."

"Really? Dude—" He stopped as the Commissioner walked up to the counter. "Too late. Besides, Jules, you're worth it." He punched the "Up" button again.

"It was Gus' $50, wasn't it?"

"Hey, if he's gonna send me out to buy coffee like I'm his vall-et…"

"Shouldn't we see what the Commissioner wants?"

"No! I told you, we are not going to succumb to the slapstick obstacle course trope!" He pulled her through a door marked "Stairs." He left the door just slightly ajar, listening intently. Luckily, Dykstra's voice carried well.

"Room number?" demanded the Commissioner.

"I'm not authorized to give out that information?" the clerk said tentatively.

Dykstra pulled his badge. "This is official police business."

"But I don't think he's even in the room, Sir!" the clerk pleaded. You had to give the guy props for trying.

"Do you want to tell me the room number, or should I arrest you for obstructing an investigation?"

"732, Sir," the clerk muttered.

Shawn shut the door firmly as the Dykstra and his two companions strode to the bank of elevators. Seconds later, there was a Ding! and a shuffle of feet. Shawn grinned. "OK, we've lost them for now."

Juliet smiled wryly. "You do realize that he'll make it up to your room long before we will."

"Yeah, but he'll never think to look for us in here."

"What's to stop him from waiting for you up there?" she pointed. "Wouldn't it have been quicker to see what he wants and send him on his way?"

"We will not give in, Jules! Unless you'd care to…" he slid an arm around her waist, nodding toward the space under the first flight of stairs.

She looked around the grey concrete stairwell with distaste. "I would not care to."

"Not exactly an auspicious beginning, I agree." He sneezed. "Also, very dusty." Grabbing her hand, he pulled open the door. "C'mon, you've given me an idea."

This time, when he pushed the button, the elevator came quickly. (More than I can say for myself, he thought. But did not say.)

They kept their distance on the ride up—Shawn couldn't take any more fooling aroundus interruptus. Once out of the elevator, they turned down the hallway. He peered around the corner.

"What do you see?" Juliet whispered.

"His two goons…but no Commissioner."

"He must be inside."

"Let's hope so." Shawn pulled out his phone and dialed.

"Hotel Vancouver, at your service," a pleasant voice answered.

"Room 732, s'il vous please," Shawn said in a French accent.

"What are you doing?"

"Just go with it," he pressed. "Ah, oui…I am looking for Zee Commissioner…Bien. C'est Ranger Richard. We have an—how you say—urgent matter requiring your attention. Zere ees an auto—a Beh-Em-Double-U—oui, oui—abandoned on zee Bridge Road. Eeet ees possibly a murder, non?" There was a pause. "Oui, better zafe than zorry, as the Americans say…I am een your debt, Commissioner." He pushed the "end call" and held up a finger. The sound of a door opening, and the Commissioner grumbing, came clearly down the hallway. Shawn tugged Jules behind a laundry cart as the three men headed for the elevator.

"Coast is clear…let's go!"

They ran down the hall hand-in-hand. At the door, Shawn paused to find the key. "And now, " he said, as pushed the door open, "The object is to get you out of that sweater as soon as—GUS!"

"Shawn!" said his partner. "Where have you been?"

"Oh—I just—had to say goodbye to Despereaux," Shawn stumbled.

"Uh-huh." Gus looked from him to Juliet suspiciously. "Well, you just missed Dykstra. He wanted to give us this." He held out a piece of paper.

Shawn perused it. "'For Exceptional Service to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.' Cool! What kind of swag did this come with?"

"No swag, Shawn!" Gus protested. "It's an honor just to be recognized!"

"What—not even one of those cool hats? Or a Dudley Do-Right DVD?"

Gus rolled his eyes. "Look—are you ready to go or not?"

"Ohhh…no. Actually, I changed my flight til…tomorrow." Juliet raised a brow at him. "Turns out there was a Pomeranian on our original flight—you know how allergic I am. Hives everywhere," he said in aside to Jules. "Not pretty."

"Whatever, Shawn. I have to get back—I have tickets for the Santa Barbara Rep's performance of Mummenschanz."

"Right! The puppet show!"

Gus assumed an injured air. "It's not a puppet show. It's Swiss masked theater!"

"Well, looks like you better get going. Hey, if you hurry, you can check out the bakery in the lobby—I think they have Cronuts!"

"What! Really?" Rubbing his hands together, Gus grabbed his suitcase and practically ran out the door. "I think I can smell them from here—"

His words were cut off as Shawn slammed the door behind him. He turned to Juliet. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"That we should triple-lock the door and check the room to make sure it's empty?"

He vaulted over the easy chair in his haste to reach the bedroom. "You get the bathroom—I'll look under the bed! At this rate, my dad or Chief Vick is probably hiding in the shower…"

He stood up again just as Jules ran out of the bathroom. "Clear!" they said simultaneously, and laughed. He hooked one finger in the beltloop of her jeans and pulled her against him, covering her mouth with his.

It was good…so good…they moved in concert over to one of the vast beds—

RING! RING!

Juliet's pocket vibrated under his hand. "No—oh no—do NOT answer that, Jules!"

She sighed into his neck, but reached back anyway. "I have to, Shawn. It could be—" she looked at the screen—"Carlton? What's up?"

Shawn groaned silently (well, almost silently). "I am in serious danger of frustrational diabetes, here!" he whispered urgently.

Juliet just smirked at him and turned around. "Yes—OK—no, I had a few things to wrap up…"

"You need to wrap me up," Shawn muttered, pulling her hair to one side and nibbling just below her ear. He had the satisfaction of hearing her breath sharpen.

"Probably…tomorrow…oh God—no, nothing! Carlton, I've gotta—" The phone slipped from her grasp as Shawn slid the brown sweater down her back, baring her shoulders to his soft kisses…

"O'hara! O'hara! Damn Canuck cell networks!" Lassie's voice came through clearly from the vicinity of the carpet, before the call clicked off.

FINIS

Thanks for reading-comments and suggestions very much appreciated!