AN: This is some end of the semester homework procrastination. I took a little trip through Lassie's brain. Just to repeat the warning. This fic deals with character death.
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Carlton Lassiter knew what people looked like. He knew what they looked like when they were happy, what they looked like when they were sad. He knew what they looked like in pictures and what they looked like in movies. He knew what they looked like with their heads bashed in or with bullet holes in their chest. But more importantly, he knew what they looked like when they were dead.
In his almost twenty-three years of service to the SBPD Carlton Lassiter had seen more bodies than the bothered to keep track of. He had seen men, women, children, he had seen them all. But they were just people. Sure, he knew their names and he sometimes met their relatives, but to him they were just people. He didn't know what made them tick or what their favorite color was. He didn't know what kind of cake they had on their birthday - unless someone died at their own birthday party. But more importantly, he didn't know and he didn't care.
He stood in the morgue staring at the table in front of him. He knew this body's name, he knew this body's relatives, both blood and adoptive. He knew that this body spent more money on hair products then on clothes. He knew this body laughed at the most inappropriate times. Hell, he even knew that this body liked all kinds of cake and never could settle on just one. And most importantly, he cared about this body.
He looked down to the floor when he couldn't look at the table any more. He wondered briefly how many times he'd stood in this exact same spot. He was surprised that there wasn't a hole in the floor from him standing there day after day. He always stood here when he was solving cases and putting away bad guys.
Today he wasn't solving a case and he wasn't locking up any bad body had no case and no bad guys. It had been an accident. That's what the official report said anyway, an accident.
Lassiter took in a deep breath, noticing for the first time the harsh chemical smell and the coldness of the room. Accident, his ass. Accidents were things like stepping on someone's foot while on the dance floor or buying chocolate instead of vanilla ice cream at the grocery store because you forgot to bring the list with you. Those were accidents. Accidents were not blowing through a red light at fifteen over, totaling your car and crashing directly into a motorcycle. They didn't let you leave this green Earth without having to deal with the consequences of the crash. Accidents didn't make your partner sob uncontrollably in your arms and accidents didn't leave people lying on Woody's table.
Lassiter let out the breath he'd taken in, releasing his hands from the iron grip they had on the side of the table. Spencer's body was covered with a sheet, but Lassiter knew what was under it. Woody had pulled the sheet back so Lassiter could ID the body a few hours before. It seemed ridiculous to ID Spencer's body. Everyone knew who he was, but protocol was protocol and Lassiter had volunteered. He knew deep down that out of the possibilities, Spencer would want him to be the one. To save Juliet, Guster and Henry from seeing that lasting image of what Shawn Spencer looked like dead.
Lassiter reached out with a shaky hand and pulled back the sheet. He uncovered Spencer's face and flinched, even though he knew what he was going to see. All the life was gone. All the joy and boyish charm that Spencer embodied and that usually annoyed Lassiter, was missing from this body on the table. Even Spencer's hair was flat and dead.
"I never wanted this game to end." Lassiter murmured, talking to himself. "This game we played of you being a psychic and me being mad at you about it. I knew you were a faker, but you always managed to convince everyone. I just- I just couldn't prove it. But you know, I was okay with that... most days." Lassiter gave a sad smirk. "You were a challenge for me. I always, always wanted to win, but I wanted you to have your fair shot at solving a case, too... even if I didn't always show it. We might not have agreed on the methods, but we always agreed on what should happen in the end. The guilty people should go to prison. I think I could have played this game until one of us retired, or I got shot." Lassiter swallowed thickly. "I never- never thought it would be you on this table first."
He realized he'd pulled a chair over from Woody's desk and was sitting in it, leaning forward on his knees. "I don't think any of us wanted things to end this way. Guster, he's just lost without you. I know it's probably shock more than anything." He ran a hand through his hair. "I never wanted to have to call him like that. He was on his route. I couldn't tell him over the phone." Lassiter's voice cracked. "I just told him to meet me at the station, but I swear he was the psychic one. The look on his face when he came through the doors and saw me, it was like he knew already. He didn't exactly keep himself together either." Lassiter rubbed at his jaw where Gus had thrown a punch when he thought he was being lied to. "I don't even know why I'm talking to you." Lassiter straightened his tie and almost stood up, but then relaxed back in the chair. He sat there, just staring at the table, not really focusing on anything.
Lassiter broke the silence after it started getting to him, "I felt horrible for leaving her upstairs, Juliet I mean. I held her for hours, but I had to... I had to let your dad take over." He cleared his throat. "She's never going to be the same. None of us are, with you gone. I might actually miss being called Lassie." He glanced quickly around the room. "Not that I told you that." He rubbed his hands over his face. "Am I going crazy?" He looked at the body on the table.
"Only if you expect them to talk back," Woody's voice answered and Lassiter nearly jumped out of the chair. "Sorry," Woody held out his hands apologetically. "I didn't mean to startle you, Detective."
"You not going to do an autopsy, are you?" Lassiter frowned.
"What? Me? No, no, just doing what you're doing; saying one last good-bye before his body is released to the funeral home." Woody gave Shawn's body an almost caring look.
"I'm going to miss him," Lassiter felt oddly connected to the coroner in this moment.
"Everyone is going to miss him."
"How do you deal with it?" Lassiter looked to where Woody was signing forms and going about his normal business. "How do you move on from the body?"
Woody gave him a sad smile, "Time," he said simply. "You let it hurt for a while, you get mad at people, but eventually it doesn't hurt so much when you think about them. It doesn't make you tear up to talk about them. It's just time."
"How much time?" Lassiter could still see the wet spot on his suit jacket where O'Hara's tears had fallen.
"Depends on the person,"
"You the person or the person you're missing?"
"Both," Woody glanced at his chart. "I'll go see if there's anything the funeral home needs from me before they get here in an hour." He said softly, gently reminding Lassiter that he couldn't stay down here forever. He left and Lassiter sat in the chair, staring at the table, just like before.
"Time," Lassiter murmured. "You would try my patience even after you're gone, wouldn't you." He gave a small smile and then let the tears that had been brimming in his eyes fall. "Damn it, Spencer," he said, his voice dry and raspy. Then he gently moved the sheet to cover him up again.