Okay...so a while ago, I was an idiot and accidentally deleted this story (I think it was 5 chapters at the time). I didn't immediately repost it, as I didn't have it neatly assembled anywhere on my computer, so it involved some digging and effort. I wasn't going to worry about it at first, but I've had a few people ask me what happened to it, which finally motivated me to get off my butt and get started on it again...so, here it is...this is just the first 5 chapters, all in one super-chapter. Sorry it's so long. I will get back to this one and update it ASAP, once I finish up with Male Bonding and/or With a Dad Like This I Don't Need Enemies...both of which I am working on updating as we speak.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
Lassiter laughed bitterly, leaning back in the plush chair.
"Do I want to talk about it?" He repeated scornfully. "No, I don't want to talk about it."
The counselor made a note on her pad, nodding in supposed understanding.
God, I can't stand that nod…Lassiter thought spitefully.
I can hear the marbles rattling from here…
He stood up, pacing the length of her small, sterile office.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
He suddenly felt caged.
Confined.
The counselor just watched him, silently writing notes on that damn pad.
He stopped pacing and glared at her.
"I don't want to talk about it." He said again.
"I'm not making you say anything."
"Good."
He marched to the door, but stopped when he heard her voice again.
"I'm not making you say anything," she clarified quietly. "But I am going to make you stay here for the full hour. Department regulations."
Lassiter whirled around, his eyes burning with hatred.
"I'm walking out, and there's not a goddamn thing you can do to stop me!" He growled.
She stared up at him for a moment, calmly laying the pad down on the small end table next to her chair.
Her eyes were kind but unyielding.
"I could have your badge with one phone call, Detective." She informed him coolly. "You know it and I know it. Right now, I am the only reason you even have a badge. If you don't want to talk to me, I can't make you. You can pace until you wear my carpet out and not say a word. I don't care. But you will stay in this room for fifty minutes and not a minute less, or you will be suspended without pay and possibly even fired. Are we clear?"
His eyes narrowed, but he knew he was beaten.
He stomped back into the room, continuing to pace the same path.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
"You have 35 minutes left." She informed him a little while later.
He didn't answer.
He just kept pacing.
Silently.
Angrily.
"You might as well sit down. That's a long time to pace."
He paused for a moment, considering, but didn't take her up on her offer.
He knew it was a trap.
"You wouldn't have to say anything," she promised, reading his mind.
He looked over at the chair, still wary.
It did look more comfortable than standing…
"Fine," he snapped, collapsing into the seat. "I'll sit, but I'm not talking."
"Fine."
They regarded each other stubbornly; both determined not to be the first to cave.
"Do you know why you're here?" She said finally, picking the pad up again.
Lassiter didn't answer. He just clamped his mouth even tighter.
"Detective, answering my question doesn't qualify as 'talking about it'," she assured him. "It just lets me know you haven't had a complete psychotic break. Do you know why you're here?"
"I punched out an asshole." He muttered finally, digging his nails into the soft arms of the chair.
"That asshole was your superior officer." She reminded him.
"Only in rank." Lassiter snorted, his eyes narrowing again.
"Why did you punch him out?" She pried.
"That's talking about it."
"Okay, okay…" she put the pen down. "You don't have to talk about it."
He nodded victoriously, but for some reason his mouth didn't stop running.
Even when he tried to stop it, it just kept talking…
"He pulled me off the case."
"Which case?"
"You know what case."
"I know."
Lassiter stood up, pacing again. But it was slower this time. Each step was deliberate.
"He said I was too close to it…he wanted someone else on it."
"And what did you say?"
"I socked him."
"How did that feel?"
Lassiter looked at her, one eyebrow cocked in a bitter, satisfied grin.
"Damn good."
She smiled back.
"I bet."
Lassiter sighed. For a moment, she thought he was going to sit back down, but he didn't. He remained standing, trapped somewhere between the floor and the chair.
"Do you think he had a point?" She asked quietly.
"What?"
He was glaring at her again.
"Do you think he had a point? Are you too close?"
This time, he did sit down.
"No. Hell no."
"Are you sure?"
His fists were balled so tightly she could see the skin stretched taut over his knuckles.
"No."
"She was your Chief."
He nodded stiffly, his eyes drifting off.
"Yeah. She was. And now she's dead."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"No."
"Detective," she leaned forward, her hand resting on his knee. "I'm a grief counselor. I'm not here to talk about you punching out any assholes. I'm here to talk about Chief Vick's murder."
He stood up, checking his watch.
"Too bad for you, Doc. That's fifty minutes."
He walked to the door without so much as a glance back.
"I'm here if you decide to talk." She told him.
He paused, but didn't turn back around.
"I don't need to talk." He muttered. "I need to catch the son of a bitch that killed her."
"What are you doing here?" Juliet hissed, grabbing Lassiter's arm and dragging him back outside the moment he set foot in the precinct.
He wrenched his arm free of her grasp and tried to step around her, but she blocked his path again.
"What the hell are you talking about?" He grumbled.
"You gave Chief Brighton a black-eye! And you almost broke his nose!"
"So?" He sneered, unable to suppress his grin at the memory. When he closed his eyes, he could still feel the morbidly satisfying sensation of the bone crunching against his fist.
"So, he's still really pissed at you!"
Lassiter snorted, his eyes narrowing at the perceived challenge.
"I don't give a damn how pissed Brighton is." He growled, pointedly leaving the Chief of his title.
This omission did not escape Juliet's notice.
"Carlton—" she started, but he sensed her impending sympathy and silenced her with an angry wave of his hand.
"O'Hara," he snapped, finally managing to brush her aside and get in the door. "This is my damn precinct, and I'm sure as hell not going to let some incompetent moron with more connections than brains run me out."
"He's talking about assault charges," Juliet said quietly, stopping Lassiter in his tracks.
He turned around slowly.
"What?"
"I told you. He's pissed, Carlton."
"And I told you I don't give a damn."
"You'd better give a damn!" Juliet scolded, her eyes meeting his firmly. "Because he's serious. If you go in there and start something now, he's not just going to suspend you. He's not just going to fire you. He's going to take your badge and make sure you never get it back. He'll take you down, and he won' stop until you're down for good."
"He can't--"
"Yes, he can. You know he can. You said it yourself. He has connections, Carlton."
Lassiter blinked slowly.
"This is my precinct." He said again, his jaw setting.
"I know."
"It's my case."
She shook her head helplessly.
"I know. But it's not anymore. Giving Brighton another black eye and getting yourself arrested for assault isn't going to change that. Getting thrown off the force isn't going catch the creep who--"
One sharp glare from Lassiter was enough to stop her from completing the sentence…but it was too late. The thought hung in air between them, their minds filling in the unspoken blanks even though neither detective wanted them to.
"You shouldn't have pissed him off…" Juliet murmured finally.
"He shouldn't have pissed me off." Lassiter shot back.
"I know."
"It's my case, O'Hara."
"It's not a case, Carlton."
He stared at her, dumbfounded.
"What the hell does that mean?" He demanded, his voice almost inaudible with rage.
But Juliet didn't even blink at his rancor.
"It's not a case, Carlton. You know it's not a case. It's Chief Vick."
"So?"
"So, it's personal."
"Damn straight it's personal!" He yelled, louder than he'd actually meant to. "Some son of a bitch murdered a police chief!"
"I know."
"If you know, then why the hell are you standing here talking to me? Why aren't you out there catching the bastard?"
Juliet's eyes flashed defensively at the accusation. She spun on her heel and marched past Lassiter into the station.
"You're not the only one who wants to catch them, Carlton." She said over her shoulder. "You're not the only one."
He silently watched her walk away.
For a minute, he thought about following her…walking straight to his desk as if nothing had happened, Brighton be damned…
But he knew she was right.
He couldn't go back in there. Not if he wanted to be the one to catch the bastards.
He marched out of that station, his fingers gripping the badge that still hung on his belt. When he got in his car, he ripped it off and almost violently threw it into the glove compartment, certain he'd never need again.
For this one, all he needed was his gun.
I don't care what O'Hara says. This is my case…
"I'll see you tomorrow, Carlton."
The voice echoed through Lassiter's head as his eyes shot open.
He sat up, a cold sweat already breaking out across his back and forehead.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Carlton."
He fell back onto the bed, letting himself sink into the mattress as he draped his arm over his eyes, trying to block out the sun that was just beginning to peek through the window.
It was the same damn thing every night, ever since they found her body.
The same damn dream…
Even with his eyes open now, he could still hear her voice…still hear the gentle, rhythmic clicking of her shoes on the precinct floor as she walked by his desk on her way home.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Carlton."
He hadn't even looked up from his work.
"See you, Chief," he'd muttered, too absorbed in his papers to even fully realize he had said anything at all.
Ten seconds later, the station door had banged shut, and she was gone.
Gone…
He rolled over and buried his head under the pillow, trying to smother the rushing thoughts that were sweeping over him.
I was still there…
I should have heard something…
I should have known…
Sometimes in his nightly dream, he did know.
Sometimes in his dream, he heard her scream before they grabbed her…heard her calling his name…
Sometimes in his dream, he ran outside…gun blazing…just in time…
…Just in time…
But his dreams always ended the same way.
He woke up, and she was still dead.
I should have known…
I should have heard something…
But he hadn't known.
How could he have known?
The first clue he had that anything was wrong was when he left two hours later and her car was still in the parking lot.
She never even made it to her car…
The moment he'd seen that car, sitting untouched in her space, he knew she was dead. Even if she was alive at that moment, she was dead.
The next two days were a blur.
No ransom note.
No demands.
Nothing.
Just a body washed up on the shore, two days later.
He threw the pillow off his head and sat up, knowing it was pointless trying to go back to sleep.
I was there…
I should have known…
He stood at the window, blinking into the blinding pink morning sun.
He knew had no reason to be up.
He had no reason to get dressed, to go outside.
He had no where to go.
Today, I'm not a cop…
I'm not anything…
What the hell am I supposed to do?
"Detective?"
The counselor blinked in surprise, stepping aside to let Lassiter stalk into her office.
For a moment, she was too stunned to speak, but she found her voice after he had angrily plopped down into the plush chair.
"What are you doing here?" She finally managed to ask.
"Sitting for fifty minutes…not talking." He snapped, clicking the timer on his watch.
She resisted the impulse to grab her pad and start jotting notes as she quickly sat in the chair across from him.
"I'm a bit surprised to see you…" she admitted. "They told me you were suspended."
He scowled.
"Officially, I'm not. Officially, they can't touch me…yet. Unofficially, I have to lay low for a while."
"I see," she nodded. "So, unofficially-officially, why are you here?"
"Because if I don't come like they told me to, they'll have cause to officially suspend me. And I'm sure as hell not going to give that bastard the satisfaction."
"Which bastard is that?"
"Brighton."
"I see."
"Stop saying that!" Lassiter growled.
"Okay."
They sat in silence for what felt like an eternity, but according to Lassiter's stopwatch it was only a minute and a half.
Finally, the counselor spoke again.
"So, to be clear…we're going to sit here for another 46 minutes and not talk?"
Lassiter nodded stiffly, refusing to fall into her subtle web of conversation.
"Just checking."
She sat back in her chair, her eyes meeting his gently.
"Can I ask you a question?" She asked after another decade-long minute of silence. "It's completely unrelated to anything involving talking about it, I promise."
He glared at her, but finally shrugged, which she chose to interpret as assent.
"Where's your badge?"
His eyes narrowed dangerously at the question and his fists curled up tighter, but he didn't open his mouth.
"I'm just curious," she continued, eyeing him carefully. "You were wearing it on your belt last time you were here. If you weren't officially suspended, you still have it. Why aren't you wearing it?"
His nails dug into the soft fabric that covered the arm of the chair as he fought the secret, inexplicable desire to answer the question.
Finally, he lost the internal battle.
"I don't need it," he muttered quietly, barely loud enough for her to hear.
"But you're officially still on the force, right?"
"Yes."
"Then why--"
"I. Just. Don't."
"Okay."
She let the matter drop, but now the question was really starting to bug Lassiter. She could almost see it festering under his skin.
He stood up and started to pace.
"I don't need it." He said again, louder this time.
"You said that."
"It's in my car."
"So, you still have it."
"Of course I still have it!" He snapped. "I just don't need it until after."
"After what?"
He stopped pacing.
For a long moment, he didn't say anything…almost like he was trying to figure out the answer himself.
"After I catch the son of bitch."
"The one who killed Chief Vick?"
His jaw tightened.
"I'm sorry. That's talking about it." The counselor whispered.
Lassiter nodded.
"Yeah. It is."
"They'll get him. The paper said they have some promising leads…"
"The paper." Lassiter snorted. "The papers print whatever the hell we tell them to. They don't know anything. We never tell them anything."
"What didn't you tell them?"
"You really want to know?" Lassiter growled, collapsing back into the chair. "We didn't tell them how she died. We just said she was found two days after she disappeared, washed up on the beach."
"That wasn't the truth?"
Lassiter's eyes closed as he leaned back in the chair.
"Not all of it."
"What is all of it?"
"You don't want to know."
"You can tell me."
His eyes opened again, staring vacantly up at the ceiling. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and distant-sounding.
"We didn't tell them that whoever killed her tortured her for two days first, then slit her throat and let her bleed to death before they dumped her body in the ocean. We didn't tell them that whatever the hell they tied her up with was so tight it left inch-deep gashes in both her wrists…that there wasn't a single goddamn call or ransom demand…they just wanted her dead. They just wanted her dead."
He blinked slowly and looked up at the counselor, as if realizing for the first time that she was there.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"I don't want to talk about it."
"I know."
His watch beeped. He turned it off and slowly stood up, crossing to the door without another word.
"It's okay to want to kill the bastard who did that to her, you know." She said as he reached the threshold.
He paused, turning around again.
"What?"
"It's okay to want to kill the bastard. It's natural."
"Good."
"You're not listening. It's okay to want to kill the bastard."
Their eyes locked, both of them reading the other perfectly.
"I'm not going to kill him." Lassiter said finally.
It sounded unconvincing even to him.
"Then why don't you need your badge to find him?"
He thought for a moment, then finally shrugged.
"Because I'm going to kill the bastard."
Lassiter sat at the restaurant bar, quietly nursing his second scotch.
Somehow, after admitting to a grief counselor that he intended to commit a cold-blooded murder, getting drunk seemed to be the only thing to do.
The sights and sounds of the busy restaurant around him quickly faded into oblivion as his dull mind began to numbly fixate on the task at hand.
I have to find him first…
How the hell am I going to find him…?
Suddenly, a sharp tap on the shoulder jolted him out of his own head and back into reality.
"Hey, Lassie!" An all-too familiar voice quipped.
He turned around slowly as Shawn slid onto the stool next to him.
"Spencer." He growled, hoping the psychic detective would just leave. But Shawn never knew when to leave…
"I was supposed to meet my dad here for lunch," Shawn sighed, apparently oblivious to Lassiter's desire for solitude. "But he stood me up. Can you believe that? Stood up by my own father! There must've been an urgent fishing derby on TV…anyway, what are you doing here?"
"Drinking." Lassiter grunted.
"Ah."
"Alone."
"Right."
Shawn pointedly ignored the hint and remained firmly planted on the stool, watching as Lassiter drained his glass and ordered another.
"Kind of early for that kind of drinking, isn't it?" He asked quietly.
"Nope."
"Okay."
For a moment, they sat silently side-by-side, both knowing what the other was thinking though neither of them would come out and say it.
"Don't you have someone else to harass?" Lassiter growled finally.
"Don't you have another cop to punch out?" Shawn shot back gently.
Lassiter scowled at him out of the corner of his eye.
"How the hell—"
Shawn just grinned, tapping his temple knowingly. Lassiter rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, yeah." He muttered with a dismissive wave of his hand.
"Hey," Shawn shrugged. "I'd have knocked him one, too."
"Spencer. Shut up."
"Okay."
Shawn, for once, shut up and just watched quietly as Lassiter sipped at his third scotch.
After a few minutes of hostile silence, he sighed in resignation and stood up to leave.
"Well, I'll see you around, Lassie."
"Yeah," Lassiter muttered into his glass. "Just walk away, Spencer."
Shawn stopped and slowly turned back around.
"Excuse me?"
Lassiter looked up at him, his eyes narrowing angrily.
"You heard me, Psychic!" He snapped. "Just walk away and leave the hard cases to the real cops!"
"What the hell are you talking about?" Shawn demanded through clenched teeth, sitting back down again.
Lassiter took the last gulp of his scotch and flipped the glass over on the bar, bringing it down with enough force that Shawn was surprised it didn't shatter in his tightly-wound fingers.
"Where the hell are your damn psychic visions now, Spencer?" He spat disdainfully. "Where the hell is your little pull-a-rabbit-out-of-your-ass routine now?"
"Me and my ass-rabbit were told to get the hell out of the precinct!" Shawn returned bitterly, jabbing an accusing finger into Lassiter's chest with each new point. "Your new Chief told me that the real cops didn't need my psychic visions! Your new Chief said if I ever showed up at a crime scene again, he'd have me and my ass-rabbit arrested for interfering with a police investigation! And that's a hell of a lot nicer than the way he put, too!"
"He's not my new Chief." Lassiter grimaced. "And since when does the threat of prison stop you from interfering with a police investigation?"
Shawn didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
They both knew the answer already.
"She pulled my butt out of the fire a few times." He said finally, smiling palely.
Lassiter's scowl only deepened.
"I know."
"I tried, Lassie. I was there when they found--"
"I know."
"Then what the hell do you want from me?" He sighed. "I can't do anything if they don't want my help. And, believe me, they don't want my help."
Lassiter turned his glass over again, his finger absently tracing the rim.
"But I do, Spencer." He mumbled, his eyes fixed on the bar in front of him.
Shawn blinked, unable to hide his surprise.
"What?"
"I'm not going to say it again."
"Lassie--"
Lassiter stood up, still not looking directly at Shawn.
"Never mind, Spencer. I'll take care of it myself. You just walk away."
He dumped some crumpled-up bills on the bar and turned to leave.
"Lassie, wait." Shawn called after him.
"What?"
"I'm not walking away from anything."
Shawn slid into the driver's seat of Lassiter's car, holding his hand out for the keys.
"What the hell are you doing, Spencer?" Lassiter demanded.
"Not spending my entire afternoon drinking, for one." Shawn replied, not missing a beat.
Lassiter scowled, but eventually handed the keys over and got into the passenger seat.
"Where are we going?" Shawn asked quietly as he pulled out of the parking lot. "I assume you're about as welcome around the station now as I am."
"Great," Lassiter muttered, fully realizing for the first time how far he'd fallen. "I'm no better than a damn psychic."
"Hey," Shawn quipped. "Some people would consider a psychic a step up."
"Who, exactly, considers a psychic a step up from a cop?" Lassiter snorted.
Shawn shrugged.
"Mostly me."
"Shut up, Spencer."
"Okay…but I still need to know where we're going."
Lassiter groaned, closing his eyes as he finally began to feel the scotch taking its toll.
"I don't know," he mumbled, his mind growing cloudier by the moment. "I don't have a damn clue."
"Maybe we should get one of those," Shawn suggested.
"One what?"
"A clue…"
Lassiter shot him a scornful look out of the corner of his eye.
"I know, I know." Shawn said, waving him off before he had a chance to form a syllable. "'Shut up, Spencer.' Right?"
Lassiter just grunted his assent, too lightheaded from the alcohol to actually say anything else.
They rode in silence until Shawn finally brought the car to a slow stop outside Psych. He turned it off and jumped out breezily, but Lassiter didn't move.
"No way!" He shook his head vehemently.
"What?" Shawn asked, turning back around and looking somewhat offended. "You have a better place to start?"
"I'm not going anywhere near your sordid little voodoo shack!"
"You know," Shawn sighed irritably. "You're a bit of a mean drunk. And for someone who claims they want my help, you're sure not acting like you want my help."
"Maybe I don't." Lassiter grumbled, crossing his arms stubbornly.
Shawn just shrugged and slowly made his way to the door.
"Okay. Then you can just sit there," he agreed. After a few steps, he added over his shoulder, "And you might as well get comfortable, because you're not getting your car keys back until you sleep it off."
"Maybe I don't want my damn car keys, either." Lassiter muttered under his breath as he watched Shawn unlock the Psych office and step inside. He settled back into his seat, prepared to sit there all night if he had to.
Damn Spencer...
Who the hell needs him, anyway?
I'll catch this son of a bitch on my own…
After a few minutes of sulking, he finally opened his eyes again.
Damn it…he groaned, kicking the dashboard.
Spencer still has my car keys…
And the copy of the case file I gave him before Brighton kicked him off…
I don't have a choice…
He got out of the car, slamming the door loudly behind him as he marched into the building.
Shawn was sitting behind his desk when Lassiter walked in, watching the door expectantly.
"Welcome to my sordid little voodoo shack." He grinned.
Lassiter scowled at him, still lingering hesitantly in the doorway.
"Where's you little sidekick?" He asked, not really caring.
"He went back to work for a while. We don't exactly have a heavy caseload since Chief Brighton kicked us out."
Shawn leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up on the desk and clasping his hands behind his head like a Private Eye in some film noir.
Lassiter noticed the file on the Chief's murder was lying open by Shawn's heel. He reached over and grabbed it, glancing through the already well-worn pages, though he had already memorized most of them, anyway.
Shawn watched him silently for a few minutes, then dropped his feet back to the floor and leaned across the desk.
"Where do we start?" He asked.
Lassiter shrugged, tossing the file back to him.
"There's no where to start, Spencer. At least, there's no where to start that won't involve somehow pissing of Brighton. We can't investigate without interfering with the cops."
Shawn grinned, and Lassiter could already see his wheels beginning to turn.
"Oh, Lassie." He clucked, shaking his head. "There's always a way to avoid cops."