Disclaimers—This is fan fiction. No profit involved. Just taking the boys out for a little fun.

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Spoilers-- None that I can think of

Main Characters-- Shawn, Lassiter. Gen fic. No pairings. (No slash except for what you bring yourself)

A/N: This is more or less an exercise in h/c; anything resembling a plot is purely coincidence. I've taken some liberties when it comes to police procedure, medical tidbits and such. Special thanks to my wonderful beta, k.

Summary—Things don't go exactly as planned when Shawn helps Lassiter out on a case. (Mayhem, head trauma, unabashedly h/c).

Title : Disoriented

by: Miss Weather

OoOoChapter 1 oOoO

(Carlton POV)

"Of all the things I lost, I miss my mind the most." Mark Twain

Very few things in Carlton Lassiter's life came easily for him; not the Academy, not work, and not love. He understood and could accept that life brought with it a myriad of challenges. But waking up wasn't ordinarily one of them. Usually, he wouldn't have to put any extra effort into it. He'd just wake and go off on his not-quite merry way.

But not today. Today, there was darkness and pain. Lots of pain. Not just any pain, but an agonizing, searing pain that had taken root somewhere in his skull.

He groaned softly, as his skull seemed to thrum in time

THUMP THUMP THUMP

It was an incessant racket reverberating throughout his skull. One series followed by another.

THUMP THUMP THUMP

Paralyzed by pain in his head, he pondered the likely causes of the noise: jackhammers, herd of elephants, a Jamaican steel drum band, or perhaps someone hammering giant nails into his brain. All of them seemed possible, until the more logical side of his brain had slowly started to chime in and dismissed such notions. It gradually occurred to him that the noise was coming from within his head.

He tried to sift through his memories of the day, but was unable to recall why his head had imploded, leaving him in this ungodly state. This lapse of memory should have alarmed him more than it did, but alarm required energy and he didn't have enough of it at the moment.

Second nature and training started to kick in at a perversely slow speed. Come on, Carlton, time to ascertain your position and situation. Hoping that positive thinking and a little encouragement would help. However, nothing in his arsenal of training worked. The headache simply made it far too difficult for him to focus.

Okay, skip the position for now, onto the situation. Situation unknown, but so far doesn't look good.

The headache that greeted him upon his return to consciousness lingered strongly. He could tell that the skull-crushing pain had originated from somewhere at the front of his head. It throbbed intensely, radiating from his skull into his face and neck. Everything hurt. He couldn't concentrate, couldn't think.

Best to rest, Lassiter figured. Rest and recover, try again later.

Just as he started to drift off, he thought he heard something new, something other than the racket in his head. He knew it was close, but couldn't figure out where the sound was coming from.

No, not just a sound, a voice. Someone was near or here-- wherever here was.

Lassiter couldn't decide on whether to be relieved or wary about this newfound information. Choosing neither, he settled on being mildly curious, as any good "Head Detective" should be at all times.

He listened carefully, but the voice was too muffled to understand. Deciding to give it another try, he held his breath, trying to isolate the noise from the jackhammers pounding his skull. He was briefly reminded of a game that he and his cousin had played during childhood, an underwater version of the "telephone game" that entertained them for hours on end. He remembered the frequent dives down to the bottom of the pool and having brief, but animated conversations underwater. The ultimate goal was to guess what the other was saying, which was inevitably followed by uproarious laughter when the guesses were way off.

Lassiter quickly pushed the unexpected memory aside and listened as intently as he had as a child. But he found it to be just as useless, he still couldn't understand. Fatigue and frustration were taking their toll and Lassiter resigned himself to the fact that it simply took too much effort to listen. Content to ignore the voice for now, he focused on getting a little rest. With a deep breath, he allowed himself to be drift off, hoping that that it would bring a respite from the pain.

However, the soft, garbled voice had other ideas. He felt his aggravation grow as the voice rose in volume and clarity. Pain flared as something roughly jostled his head. Son of a bitch! There was another harsh movement, followed by a sharp poke to his head. He wasn't a patient man, by any means, and was not going to tolerate this kind of abuse. This needs to stop right now.

Whatever was touching his head was persistent. Another intense flash of pain erupted, as his head was buffeted by more jarring movements. With renewed determination, Lassiter decided that it was time to get the voice's attention.

"Stop."

He had hoped to shout the word, but instead it came out more like a harsh whisper. Not sure if the voice had heard him, he tried again with a little more force. "Stop."

The voice and contact stopped abruptly. Good, someone heard him.

"Sleeping beauty wakes. About time. I was beginning to think I would have to talk to myself all night long."

Before he could process what was said, he realized that he knew that voice.

"Spencer?"

"No, Prince Charming," came a quick quip that seemed to echo in his head.

The man chattered on about something asinine, pineapple smoothies or something equally ridiculous. It was definitely Spencer. He couldn't follow Spencer's nonsense when he was well and in the right frame of mind, and at this moment, he was neither. He found that it was best to ignore the younger man whenever possible.

"Lassie. Lassie, Oh Lassie… Um. Carlton?"

It was Spencer's use of his first name that captured Lassiter's attention. It wasn't the typical cocky, obnoxious tone of voice that he had come to know and loathe. Instead, it was hesitant and a bit panicky, completely unlike the Shawn Spencer that Lassiter knew. He waited and listened, trying to figure out what would make Spencer hesitate.

"Come on, wakie-wakie," Spencer said in an annoying loud voice, gently tapping Lassiter's cheek.

That did it. He had tried his damnedest to ignore the idiot's incessant chatter, but now there was shouting and tapping. And if Lassiter couldn't get Spencer to stop, then he decided that he'd simply move somewhere else; preferably anywhere that was Spencer-free.

"Spencer," he mumbled as he opened his eyes and started to shift his body, "Will you SHUT UP!"

Before he could move himself he was struck by a massive wave of vertigo. His world tilted violently. Clenching his eyes tightly, he was overwhelmed by an entirely new level of pain and nausea.

I will not be sick in front of Spencer. I cannot be sick in front of Spencer. He repeated his mantra for what seemed like an eternity. Thankfully, his stomach seemed to settle on its own and the need to vomit all but disappeared.

Taking several shaky breaths, he decided to forego any movement for the moment and instead tried to get his bearings. He could tell from that cold, dull ache in his shoulder that he was lying on his side on a concrete floor. His head was supported by something soft, but not quite comfortable. He tried to catch his breath, as he felt a strong hand awkwardly pat his arm.

It took several tries for his eyelids to un-stick, but once open, Lassiter found a surprisingly subdued Shawn Spencer staring at him.

"You okay?"

Not sure of how to answer the question, Lassiter settled on small, "Yes."

"Yeah, right. Um… listen, you're hurt. Keep still. You can be a prickly porcupine and yell at me once we get out of here. For now, stay still."

Content with following the advice, Lassiter asked, "What happened?"

"Someone decided to use your head for target practice."

"Huh?" He blinked and slowly reached a hand to his head to inspect the damage.

Spencer frowned as he batted Lassiter's hand down. "Bullet grazed your head. Don't touch. I don't want you to ruin my handiwork."

Alarmed, Lassiter was immediately on guard. He tried to think back and found that he couldn't recall any of the events that led up to his current state. He gently rubbed his hand over his face, trying to break through the fog that he had settled around him.

"Huh? How? Who?" he asked, clearly dumbfounded.

"You zigged when you should have zagged," Spencer said in a matter of fact tone. "You can blame Brackett for this." He made a quick gesture towards Lassiter's head before he stood to pace.

Curious and undeterred, Lassiter reached for his bandaged head a second time. He lightly probed the makeshift bandage with his fingers, careful to avoid the wound. He rubbed his fingers together as he hit a large sticky patch. Blood. Disturbed, he continued to run his hand along the thick cloth, tracing the path from his hair to his face. A rather unpleasant realization hit him as he retraced the bandage with his fingers.

"Socks?" Lassiter choked out with an equal mixture of shock and disgust. "You bandaged my head with your socks?"

Spencer snorted, "How's that for gratitude? So very typical, Lassie. You should be grateful that you have a Boy Scout, like me, tending to you. My amazing skills and resourcefulness are all that's keeping your brains from leaking out of your head." He sighed dramatically, as he placed a hand over his chest. "And this is the thanks that I get."

"No way you were a Boy Scout."

"I was for six months before I was kicked out." Spencer chuckled at the admission and added, "Needed to use what we had available, my socks, your tie and handkerchief. Would you prefer I let you bleed?" He grumbled something softly to himself that Lassiter couldn't make out. He obviously hadn't expected an answer from the detective, as he continued to pace the tiny room.

"No. How long was I out?" Lassiter asked, though he wasn't sure that he wanted to know.

"Not too long."

"How long, Spencer?" he ordered. He felt more alert than he had before, even though the headache had remained.

"Couple of hours. Nothing to worry about," Spencer said quickly.

He knew that to be a lie, and a patently obvious lie. So unlike Spencer, he thought. It was just as he suspected, his situation was fairly serious: deep wound, loss of consciousness, nasty concussion. Not good at all.

Spencer's back was now to the detective, he was clearly searching for something outside of Lassiter's limited vantage point.

"Where are we?" Lassiter asked, deciding to take some interest in their current accommodations.

From his position on the floor, he could see that they were in a small, dimly lit room. There was a dusky grey wall, located not more than four feet from his head, but the rest of the room lay hidden beyond his view. Careful not to move his head, he glanced sideways to see a series of cardboard boxes and small crates scattered along the floor.

"Storage room."

"A storage room, where? Damn it! Where are we?" he barked out with a menacing tone or as menacing as the incredible ache in his head would allow. He was surprised that his question sparked such a response in the fake psychic. Spencer's eyes went a bit wide, as the younger man briskly walked to face him.

"You don't know?" Spencer asked. The hint of worry had seeped into his voice again.

Lassiter closed his eyes, trying to recall where he was and how he got here, but came up empty handed. No memories. Nothing This frustrated him more than he wanted to admit, but the sharp pounding in his skull kept his emotions in check.

He heard Spencer mutter something. "What?" Lassiter asked, belatedly, realizing that he was being spoken to.

"I said, what's the last thing you remember?" Spencer repeated slowly and with an unusual amount of emphasis placed on each word.

Lassiter groaned, as he tried to shift his body into a more comfortable position. An uncomfortable silence had filled the small storage space. Much to his disgust, his thoughts were more than a little fragmented. Everything felt jumbled, scrambled. Probably like my head, he mused.

"Preparing Detective Lewis for his undercover duties for the stolen arms case," he answered

Spencer nodded. "Do you remember what day that was?"

"Yeah. Wednesday, the 11th," Lassiter said, feeling uneasy about his situation and Spencer's demeanor. Unlike the previous lie, Spencer gave nothing away; his poker face was firmly in place. Lassiter knew it wasn't Wednesday, but for the life of him couldn't recall what day it was.

"Nothing else?"

Lassiter was tired of being prodded. He could feel exhaustion sink in again, as his vision grew hazy. Awareness started to leave him, and he would have dozed off had it not been for Spencer's snapping fingers.

He sighed. "I don't know. I'm tired. My head hurts."

He hated admitting any weakness to the man that was now seated before him. Carlton Lassiter did not tolerate weakness, especially his own. But above all else, he despised putting any amount of trust into this utter nuisance of a man.

"Enough already. Tell me." The ache in his head had intensified once more and he had no desire to play games with Spencer.

The answer was light and full of forced cheer as Spencer announced, "We've found ourselves in quite the pickle. It's Friday night and we're trapped in a self-storage facility, warehouse thingie."

Friday night. Couldn't be. Lassiter tried to wrap his mind around this, but found that he couldn't. The more that he tried to focus on the missing days, the more aggravated he felt.

"Trapped? Trapped, how? What the hell is going on Spencer?" he growled, taking his anger out on the only target in range.

"Easy there, Lassie. Don't get yourself into a tizzy. Nothing that I can't handle being the remarkable psychic that I am."

Typical, Lassiter thought. He knew that the younger man couldn't be trusted to take anything seriously. There was always a flippant remark, silly retort or quick comeback. Spencer lacked any sense of responsibility or duty. And he knew that it would be up to him if they were to escape their current situation.

"Oh, I see. And are we relying on one of your little visions to get us out of this mess?" Lassiter scoffed.

Rolling his eyes, Spencer retorted. "Ha-Ha. Funny Lassie. I get that you don't understand or appreciate my gift, but it is a gift nonetheless. Come on, dude, trust in the psychic."

He cringed at the other man's attempts at levity and decided that he needed to take charge of this situation. These pointless conversations weren't providing him with any useful information. Slowly shifting his legs and arms, Lassiter started to push himself up from his side-lying position.

"Whoa! What are you doing?" Spencer asked.

"Trying to sit up," Lassiter answered through clenched teeth.

"Um, come again? Have you lost your mind?"

"Shut up, Spencer. Just shut up."

Truth be told, it was probably a very bad idea. But he figured that it was unlikely that he'd feel worse in sitting than he did lying on floor. So, "up" was an option. He had secretly hoped that if he sat up, he'd be better able to focus in on the world around him. His desire to drift off again was just too great from his current position.

He moved slowly, but clearly wasn't going to make any progress without help. No amount of determination was going to change that. He was just too dizzy and too damn weak.

Seeing his predicament, Spencer had moved to his side, and carefully helped him sit upright. Unfortunately, as soon as he was up and seated, Lassiter felt his body sway. His head was too heavy to hold up, and he briefly wondered if someone had replaced it with a bowling ball. Once his head started to tilt to the side, so went the rest of his body. Unexpectedly, Spencer must have noticed the problem and moved some of the larger boxes over for Lassiter to use as back and side supports.

That went well, he thought bitterly, as he glanced down at the boxes that propped his back and the side.

The process of moving had taken more out of Lassiter than he'd care to admit. His vision continued to grey at the edges, as the pounding in his head maintained its tempo. He closed his eyes, trying not worry over how winded that little move left him.

"You know that was stupid," Spencer said quietly from his seated position. "Very stupid."

Forcing his eyes open, Lassiter decided to scope out their situation. He slowly scanned the room for any exits. There was a windowless metal door situated along the one wall. He guessed it was locked from Spencer's earlier comments. No windows, no vents, no way out.

As he glanced down to his lap, his attention was captured by the state of his suit. Much to his dismay, his shirt and pants were completely ruined. He knew nothing would get out the various brown and red stains that covered them. Turning his gaze to Spencer, he noticed similar dark stains on the man's knees and splotches of red coating the younger man's hands.

"You hurt?" he asked gruffly, annoyed with himself for not inquiring earlier.

Startled, Spencer looked down at his hands, then wiped them vigorously on his pants. "Me? What? No, I'm good. How are you doing?" The younger man turned fully to inspect the bloodied bandage wrapped around his head.

Lassiter sighed and closed his eyes, avoiding the other man's scrutiny. He didn't want to answer that question. He wanted to go home, perhaps stop off first to get his head stitched. But after, he figured he'd go home and sleep the weekend away in his warm, comfortable bed.

"So, what now?" he asked, trying to subtly to change the subject.

"EHH- UHHH!"

Ignoring the Detective's startled expression, Spencer continued on, "Nope. Sorry, that's not how the game is played. See, I ask you a question and then you answer. You didn't answer the question, and therefore cannot ask another question. I'm sorry to say that you have forfeited all of your prizes. Would you like to try again?"

Despite the whimsical tone of his voice, Lassiter could tell that other man was anxious. There was a different kind of intensity in Spencer's gaze, one that he hadn't seen before, something clearly troubled him. It slowly dawned on him that despite the jokes and attitude, theShawn Spencer was worried. Lassiter was intrigued by this new development.

The obnoxious pain in the ass that he had come to loathe was actually unsettled by their situation. Lassiter couldn't blame the kid; Spencer was trapped with a badly concussed man who couldn't recall the last two days. Not to mention, that said injured person hated his guts.

It wasn't looking too good for SBPD's resident psychic. Not looking good for either of us.

Lassiter couldn't help but chuckle. He wasn't sure why he found the idea of Spencer being worried so amusing, but he did. His chuckling turned into a muted laugh, as the younger man's eyes went wide in surprise.

With a cocky smirk, he said, "How sweet, Spencer. You're worried about me."

Spencer grinned widely. "Of course not. But, I don't want to tell Jules that her partner kicked off because he's a stubborn jackass, now do I? Besides, I have taken it as my solemn duty, as psychic extraordinaire and resident Boy Scout, to get us out of here."

"Oh, is that all?"

Spencer's mood sobered quickly as he shook his head. "You look like shit."

Surprised by the other man's candor, he turned his chin slightly to make better eye contact. Once more, he found a very serious Spencer seated to his side.

Sighing deeply, slouching against the one of his support boxes, Lassiter offered, "Yeah, I feel like it too."

"How's your head feeling?"

"Like someone shot me."

Spencer laughed slightly. "Yeah, I'm sure. But you know what I mean."

"My head is killing me. I'm dizzy, nauseous, and I can't remember how I got here."

He had no idea why he was telling all of this to the man seated next to him. Though, that wasn't true; logically, Lassiter knew why. Much as he hated to admit it, he would need to rely on Spencer, so it was probably best not lie to the younger man.

Somewhat satisfied, Spencer nodded. "I can't help with the first three, but I can help with the last."

Lassiter tried to listen to the events that lead up to their predicament, but found himself zoning out. He hadn't realized that he had stopped listening to the other man until Spencer hit his shoulder.

"Lassie, come on. Stay awake for a while. Have you even heard a word that I said?"

The exhaustion that he felt earlier had returned, more compelling than before. He knew he wouldn't be able to resist the call of sleep this time. His body below his neck felt numb, but not unpleasantly so. His felt his eyelids close on their own accord.

"Tired," he slurred, allowing himself to drift into unconsciousness.

Before the pain-free darkness greeted him, he heard Spencer sigh and say, "Ok. Get some sleep. I'll wake you again in an hour."

TBC

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Let me know what you think! This is my first fic in this fandom. Critiques, comments, feedback are welcome. Thanks!