Disclaimer: I do not own Psych or any of its characters.

A/N: Thanks for reading my last chapter and sharing your thoughts. Sorry for the long spell. I've alluded to spoilers through Santabarbaratown, there will be some references to that ending here. Also, I've taken some creative license with the High Noon-ish ending. You'll see…

Chapter Three: Just Deal with It

There were seventeen rounds per mag. Seventeen times that a bullet would slide into the chamber and jettison towards a target. There would be seventeen small claps of power and seventeen faint wisps of smoke. He would focus at least seventeen times and feel the world fall away as his target loomed before him. He would take seventeen steadying breaths and feel the satisfying recoil seventeen times.

There were four magazines on the seat beside him and none loaded into his gun. The Glock sat quietly at his side, waiting for the chance to be brought to life. Its steel was cold and inviting and Carlton's fingers itched to find their place around its surface. He brought the hungry hand to his face, opening and closing it into a fist, just in front of him.

He couldn't do it.

For the first time in his life, he didn't feel like firing his weapon. His hand fell over his face and messaged a tired brow.

Gone, Annie had said. Hank's gone.

Just like that?

Of all the words that Lassiter would ever use to describe Hank, Gone? Dead? The word was bitter in his head and turned his stomach. Beneath it all was a twinge of doubt that challenged him to deny it.

Annie is lying, he thought. She's a feeble know-nothing of a woman whose idea of the great outdoors is the patio seating at Olive Garden. What could she possibly know?

And Kayaking?

He scoffed.

That was her idea. Hank probably jumped out of his boat just to get away from her.

Lassiter snorted a bitter laugh and dropped his head back towards the wall, hitting it hard enough to regret his carelessness. He winced as he tried to decipher which hurt more, the sudden piercing ache or the sound of fragile bone colliding with unforgiving concrete.

Knocked some sense into you, came the voice in his head that, in his most humbling moments, always sounded like Hank's.

His hand rushed to sooth away the pain as a wry smile ghosted across his lips. "Dang it, Hank." He huffed a sigh and patted down his mussed hair.

Of course Hank was right—Err, he would have been right—Heck, the man was always right. In fact, Hank would have had more than a few words to say if he caught him sitting here, wallowing in self-pity when there was a job to be done.

He gently returned his head to the wall and stared at the paper targets until they blurred into a single white image. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt reality nagging at him. He couldn't recall how long it had been since he left the women upstairs. Of course, it had occurred to him to check his watch but each time he thought to do so, he found a reason not to—And even if that reason was just staring blankly into space, it was still reason enough.

Still, he knew that he couldn't hide from reality forever and as if to prove his point, the soft footfalls of reality padded quietly towards him, threatening to permeate his refuge with its vulgar presence. He thought briefly of chasing it away with the barrel of his gun but there was no place in reality for actions like that.

O_O

Shawn walked slowly into the room. He peaked his head inside first, spotting the lanky detective on a set of chairs just inside; sitting half slumped with his head reclined stiffly against the wall. His sidearm and a number of clips sat unused in the space beside him.

The detail caught Shawn's eye and caused him to turn a curious head towards the targets down range. They all sat perfectly untouched. Odd, since he himself had managed to make it through an hour of Temple Run, at least half that on Angry Birds Space and had casually downed a pack of Combos while playing Name that Tune with Buzz before he realized that something might have been even remotely wrong with his favorite irritable Irishman. Along with that revelation came the thought that Juliet and Annie's depressingly somber mood was brought on by more than the fact that Titanic was actually being rereleased in theaters. So when the women finally confessed that the reason for their demeanor was due to the fact that Hank was dead, Shawn half expected the shooting range to lay in a thick fog a gun smoke; looking all too much like a battlefield from Lassiter's Civil War era weekend projects.

Instead, the room looked as if it had closed three hours early. Lassiter had been doing nothing at all.

Something was definitely wrong.

Shawn returned his glance to Lassiter in time to catch the tail end of a sideways glare.

"What," Lassiter sang, seemingly exasperated.

Shawn shoved a pair of nervous hands into his pockets. "Nothing, man. Just checking on you." He shuffled further into the room, one step at a time. "I thought you'd have made confetti by now."

Lassiter lifted his head from the wall, his face twisted in confusion. "Why would I be making confetti?"

Shawn pointed down range. "I meant with the…Never mind." He closed the distance between them and stared at an empty chair. "This seat free?"

"Spencer, what do you want?"

The older man was clearly aggravated, his voice making it apparent that he wanted nothing more than to be left alone. But Shawn couldn't resist. He dropped slowly into the space next to Lassiter and stared down range. "You've been down here for a couple of hours, Lassie. Everyone's starting to miss you."

Lassiter's expression shot a hole through that statement.

Shawn cleared his throat. "Okay, I miss you. Jules is busy with the Chipmunk dude, Gus is at work and I'm stuck here—Bored out of my mind."

"You could try going home," Lassiter muttered, clearly not out of venom from earlier in the day. He held his glare then let his head drop back towards the wall.

Shawn shifted nervously, bringing his hands from his pockets and wiping his palms on his knees. "I uh…I heard about what happened to Hank." He waited for Lassiter's non-response. The detective only blinked slowly and dropped his gaze to the floor. "He was a good guy, Lassie," Shawn continued, letting a confidently dry hand rest on the detective's shoulder. "I'm going to miss him too."

Lassiter breathed deeply before a noticeably softer voice pierced the air. "Spencer?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't touch me."

Shawn recoiled his hand faster than he thought possible and returned it to his pant leg. He fidgeted nervously, letting his sweaty palm ride his bouncing knee while he studied the detective skillfully. Lassiter sitting alone at a gun range and not firing his weapon was like going to a buffet and just ordering water. Something was morbidly wrong with the world and it had to be righted.

"So when's the funeral," Shawn asked softly.

Lassiter shrugged, shaking his head and returning his gaze to the ceiling.

"I hate funerals," Shawn mused but was instantly sorry the moment he said it. He felt Lassiter's eyes slide towards him and begin to warm with a rebuking heat. "I mean funerals only make it harder to say goodbye. Not easier. Everyone's all gloomy and dressed in black and crying nonstop for two hours—It sucks. I totally would've skipped Despereaux's if I wasn't the emcee."

He could still feel himself in Lassiter's crosshairs. He slowly brought his own gaze back until he locked eyes with the detective's.

Lassiter had turned completely towards him, his eyes narrowed and brows furrowed. "Spencer, I'm confused. Are you supposed to be helping?"

"Uh, yeah, that was the game plan."

"Well, stop," Lassiter said firmly. He sighed then dropped his head back towards the wall, only to pull it away just as quickly. "Crap-on-a-cracker," he hissed, gritting his teeth and cupping both hands on the back of his head.

"Watch out for that wall behind you."

"I said stop helping," Lassiter growled, dropping his elbows onto his knees and breathing heavily.

Shawn watched the man settle into the chair, hunched over, face hidden, probably staring at the floor. The sound of his breathing slowly dissipated and left them with the growing mechanical sounds of the room—the wall clock, the subtle whoosh of the AC. Even the ticking of Lassiter's wristwatch seemed to crescendo. It added to the uncomfortable cacophony and grew so loud that Shawn could barely think.

"I know how bad it feels to lose someone close to you." Shawn felt himself nearly shouting over the noise. "It twists your stomach in a knot. You can't eat. You can't sleep. Phineas and Ferb stops being funny. And all you can do is think to yourself, Man if I only had one more day."

He watched for a response from Lassiter but the man was unmoved from his self-made fortress.

"It's like one day, a man is adjusting himself on your class field trip and the next day he's shot in the chest, at point blank range." Shawn's attention dropped to the floor just as Lassiter peaked out from his refuge.

"But," Lassiter paused, his voice surprisingly meek. "Henry's in physical therapy."

Shawn met eyes with the man and smiled warmly. "But the idea's the same, Lassie. My dad being shot rocked my world. It made me realize that you think you'll always have someone but you never know when Vincent Price is going to call their name and make them dance in the street to that sweet, sweet beat."

He watched the confusion grow on Lassiter's face as he tried to place the reference.

"All we have is time," Shawn continued amidst Lassiter's befuddlement. "And the one thing you have in common with everyone upstairs is that yours isn't up yet." He shifted back into his chair and stared at the ceiling as if he could see the bullpen. "Annie's up there making a tissue-snowman and I'm pretty sure I saw Jules crying." He turned towards Lassiter and studied the man carefully. "You miss Hank, Lassie. I get it. But so does Annie. And honestly, I think Hank really would have wanted you to help her get through this too." He let a hand drop onto the detective's shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.

Lassiter slowly retreated from his barricade, resuming his full height in the chair. He looked at the ceiling, nodding to himself then slid two blue eyes in Shawn's direction. "Spencer."

"Lassie."

"I was serious when I said don't touch me."

"Right." Shawn quickly pulled his hand away and crossed his arms.

Lassiter dropped his attention back to the range. His eyes seemed to search for something that they would never find. After a long moment and a heavy sigh, he gathered his clips and stood slowly, busying his hands with his shoulder holster as if trying to avoid eye contact.

Shawn stood as well, a sense of accomplishment washing over him. He watched the detective take too long to secure his weapon then look, almost reluctantly, at him.

"Um…thanks," he said, his voice uncharacteristically hoarse.

Shawn felt a proud smile grow on his face. "You're welcome, buddy." He allowed the sincerity to pass then felt compelled to bring the levity back into the room. He hated it when things became too serious. He searched for an out. "So…You wanna butt-slap it out? A little NFL action? C'mon son, give me those cheeks."

Lassiter's look hardened. "I'd rather audition for The Nutcracker." He moved past without another word.

Shawn smiled to himself. "Aaaaand he's back."

O_O

Annie's house smelled like dryer sheets. Technically it was Hank's and Annie's house but there was so little of Hank's presence in the home that Carlton was perfectly comfortable thinking of the place as Annie's only.

It had the typical woman's touch. There were small picture frames cluttering her glass coffee table. Most of them were photos of Annie and Hank but there were nearly a dozen or so of him, from over the years. They were those dreaded school photos that his mother never really had the money to buy but yet always purchased, as if she as a parent was obligated to further humiliate him by documenting his awkward life as a child. Then for spite, she would have him mail a letter and a picture to his grandparents, godparents and of course, Hank. Though he actually liked delivering the photos to Hank. The old codger seemed to genuinely enjoy getting them and would spend a good minute praising the passage of time.

"Who's this young man," Hank would say. He would turn the picture over in his hand, pretending not to notice Carlton's beaming and blushing face. "Binky, you're getting so big there aint enough room for you in the frame no more." He'd give him a wink and a heavy-handed pat on the head.

Carlton beamed at the distant memory. There wasn't much about his childhood that was worth remembering but the summers and weekends with Hank were priceless.

"I hope it's not too strong." Annie's voice broke into his thoughts. She sauntered slowly into the room, balancing two steaming cups of coffee. "Hank took it black and pretty strong," she said, placing a cup gently into Carlton's hands then taking a seat on the rocking chair next to him. "It was practically whole coffee beans boiled in water, the way he used to drink it." She handled her own cup in her palms and stared off into the distance.

Carlton took a whiff of his coffee and savored the memories that came with it. A dozen summers at Old Sonora rushed through his head. Each morning began almost religiously with Hank and his sacred brew. The cup was always taken leisurely along side a hearty breakfast and good conversation. When it was done, it was away with the dishes and off to complete the day's chores before lunch.

Carlton brought the drink to his lips and sipped slowly, the dark liquid overwhelming his senses with one memory after another. He tried to swallow but his throat was impassable. It was too full of longing and grief to simply function as an orifice. He gagged, fighting for both dignity and control before spitting most of the liquid into his awaiting hand.

Annie set her cup onto the table and rushed to his side. "It's too strong isn't it?" She whipped a kerchief from her bosom dabbed at his face.

"I'm fine," he said in a choked whisper, meeting her hand with his own.

"I'm so sorry," she fussed, fighting through his hand to continue dabbing.

He jerked his head from one side to the other, in an attempt to dodge her doting. Finally he went on the offensive, grabbing her hand and staring intently at her. "Annie!"

His sharp tone cut through her and froze her in place. A lip quivered as she stared into his eyes.

"It's okay," he whispered, still regaining the strength in his own voice.

"I can't do this," she said, just as quietly, pulling away from him and wondering back to her chair. "Three years." She dropped like a dead weight into her chair, making the poor thing squeak in protest. "It's only been three years, Binky. Seems like longer doesn't it?"

Lassiter nodded as he slowly ran his finger along the coffee cup.

"We both knew we were late to the game but we should have had more than this."

He fingered a groove at the base of the cup, following its swirling feature from the mug to the handle and back. He didn't notice that Annie had stopped talking until he felt the seat give, next to him. She had crossed the room and was sitting just inches from his side. She reached a slender hand in his direction and let it rest on his knee.

"I can't even imagine what you must be feeling. You've known him your whole life…Well most of it. You were like a son to him. And boy was he proud of you. Binky this and Binky that. All day he'd just go on and on about you." She gave his knee the squeeze that summoned his attention from his cup. "He was so very proud."

There was a gleam in her eye. He tried to recall what he could have done in his life to make anyone remember him so fondly. Making Head Detective at such an early age was nothing to sneeze at but he hadn't been promoted to any higher distinction since then. He was affectionately known in the city papers as "Deputy Dipstick" and any other accolade that he might lay claim to was constantly soured by the same blithering idiot who treated Due Process with less care than he did his home TiVo.

"You don't believe me?" Annie read his thoughts.

Cursed woman's intuition.

Annie rose slowly and left the room, only to return with a familiar wooden box embroidered in aged metal and kissed with a faded engraving. She placed the box in Carlton's lap and waited for his reaction.

Carlton brushed a hand over the lid of the box. He'd seen Hank handle it over a hundred times and he knew what was inside. Countless times he longed to steal a glimpse of Hank and the Peacemaker but he dared not look at it now.

It was sacred.

It couldn't be his.

Not this way.

Annie sensed his hesitation. "It's yours you know." She crossed back to her chair and sat, scooping her coffee back into her hands and rocking slowly. "Hank said it always belonged to you. Ever since the summer you graduated from high school, he'd been keeping it for you. He said he would have given it to you long ago but there was something about having it around your father that he didn't like."

Carlton's eyes rose slowly to the woman. Another memory stirred.

"Everything's inside," she continued amidst his vacant stare. "Hank put it all together for you when we sold off the property. The deed's in there and the check."

Carlton blinked away the fog and rejoined the conversation. "What?"

"We didn't sell it all off. Just a piece here and there to the miners when they came knocking. He put some of our first proceeds in trust for you and swore that he'd leave you with a piece of the property—Though it can't look much like you remember, what with the mining and all."

The box suddenly grew heavy in his hands. His chest began to swell. "He…" The single word was all Lassiter could manage. With a trembling hand, he opened the lid and peered in.

Just as Annie had promised, sitting folded, faded and worn, on top of the silver Peacemaker was the deed to Old Sonora. He tried to reach for the paper but the images before him began to blur as hot stinging tears started to drip from his eyes.

"I…" He began before being cut off by an immense dryness in his throat. "I…" he tried again but to no avail.

Annie nodded knowingly from her chair, a sympathetic frown growing on her face. "I miss him too, Hun." Her eyes searched the room. "I miss him too."