Six Months

Usual disclaimers. I own nothing psych. After the way this season took a header, I have no real wish to own psych as a whole, but I will happily abscond with Carlton and Karen. The rest of the lot of them can muddle through on their own.

I don't even know why I'm writing this, but the idea crawled into my brain and wouldn't let go so I figure I'll write it out and release it out into the wild to do what it will. Not sure where this is going or at what pace it will progress, so I apologize ahead of time.

But not for it being Karlton. That, I will never apologize for.

Six months.

She stared sightlessly through the windshield, squeezing the steering wheel until her knuckles whitened and the leather chafed her palms.

Honestly, she'd almost welcomed Trout's heavy-handed—and most-assuredly overkill—dictates, packing her personal effects with a speed that had startled even the eccentric consultant and Interim Police Chief. Ha. Interim. Let him see how much he liked that label.

He probably wouldn't give a damn.

It probably wouldn't be "Interim" for nearly two years, that was for damned sure. Whether it had anything to do with her return or not.

Not that she gave a damn.

Not right now.

Six months should have been a grace period, she thought. Should have given her ample time to repair so much of what had worn to the point of threadbare. Instead, six months had proven more than enough time to expose more weaknesses than even previously realized. Had strained the fabric of her life until it gave way and split, too fragile and tattered to be repaired or even support a patch.

"Ma'am, just stay calm, we'll get you out of here in no time. In the meantime, are you all ri— Karen?"

Karen blinked, her surroundings coming into focus. Cocking her head, she studied the fine network of cracks that formed a web across her windshield, the steam rising from the accordioned hood of her car, the crumpled mass of the airbag resting in her lap. Along with her dispassionate review of the visual cues, she registered physical cues: her arms aching with strain, a sharp, constricting pain across her chest, wet warmth trickling along her hairline and threatening her eye. Before she could do much more than blink in defense, a flash of white appeared in her peripheral vision accompanied by a reassuringly familiar scent of sandalwood accompanied by a faint whiff of the ocean.

She'd know that scent anywhere, although if asked before this moment, she would have claimed utter cluelessness. And believed it.

Pressure and a dull throb obliterated the warmth and made her hiss.

"I know it hurts," the low, familiar voice said, "but I need to see how bad this is. Not too bad," he continued, almost more to himself. An instant later he asked, "Can you hold it?"

Swallowing against the lump in her throat, she nodded, wincing slightly at the increased throbbing in her head.

"Are you in a lot of pain?"

Oh, she was. But not the way he meant. Still silent, she shook her head.

"Can you move your extremities?"

Always a cop, first and foremost. Never had she been more grateful for that. It gave them both something familiar to cling to in this most unfamiliar of situations.

Again, she nodded, keeping her gaze focused on the deflated remains of the airbag.

"Seatbelt's jammed—I'm going to cut you loose, so just stay completely still, okay?"

Once more she nodded, just a single, small inclination, but she knew it was enough. It had always served as more than enough between them.

Another flash, this time of silver, appeared at the edges of her peripheral vision, followed by a momentary intense pressure that caused pain to bloom across her chest and that forced a yelp that had him swearing softly under his breath. An instant later, the distinctive rip of fabric tearing resonated, immediately followed by the sheer relief of being able to draw a full, unrestricted breath, albeit not without more of the same pain in her chest that left her nearly crying out again. Closing her eyes tight, she attempted to suppress it, tried not to show any more weakness than she already had. A low groan nevertheless managed to escape.

Little victories. At this point, she'd take it. She had precious little left after all.

"Karen, what hurts? Come on, talk to me."

But she couldn't talk. There weren't enough words for her to explain everything that hurt and how much it hurt. She couldn't do anything more than push the folds of the airbag out of the way, turn in the seat, and fall into arms she instinctively knew would catch her.

Only then did she trust herself to speak.

And all she could manage was a single word.

"Carlton."