His hand emerged from the covers five seconds before the alarm went off, just like every morning. It was a habit he couldn't break. Actually, he didn't mind so much. It was a matter of discipline. And he knew, even if there was a complete blackout, he'd still get to work on time.

He was just pulling the hand back when the alarm clock exploded.

"Shit!"

Throwing himself to the side, he barely dodged as another strike from… something… whapped against the sheets of his bed.

Colliding with the floor in a twisted mass of cotton and heavy brocaded quilt, Lassiter wriggled free from the soft pile just as something crushing thwacked into his hip. "GAH-DAMMIT!"

More curses vied for attention when he remembered his revolver was on the opposite side of the bed. And that solid object was swinging for him again.

Rolling in a completely undignified James Bond sans gun and grace impersonation, feet skimming across the bureau, Carlton managed to avoid the blow aiming for his face. His bedside lamp, though, gave up its life to save him in a flashpop of sparked light and crunching glass. Not a huge distraction, but it earned him two seconds of bearing getting while he ascertained that a man wielding a bat probably wasn't packing heat or he'd simply have shot him when he was still in hibernation.

Offence not being his favorite side of the field, Lassiter immediately launched himself towards the shapeless form as it pulled the long shaft of wood from the pulverized shade of the thoroughly murdered lamp.

His shoulder struck center of mass, knocking both of them with a double thud to the carpet. Grunting, the other person fumbled with his weapon, bringing it up to shove against Lassiter's throat. Before he could be pushed away though, the detective unapologetically rammed his knee upward at a precise angle- and bat boy yelled before loosening his grip on his little toy in favor of curling on his side.

Not wasting a moment, Carlton followed up the blunt force neutering with two sharp punches to the face. That, though not completely disabling his opponent, was enough to stun him until the detective could toss the bat away and pull himself to the bed-side table where both his gun, and extra set of handcuffs, waited neatly to be made useful.

Now restrained, lying on his stomach, the assailant moaned into the short loops of Berber while Lassiter limped to the light switch. The sudden brightness made his eyes water as he blinked away dancing spots. Probably wouldn't be needing the extra sugar and cream today… black suddenly sounded very appealing.

Officer Jud Smart was on his floor.

Still blinking, mouth slightly open, Lassiter frowned in shock at the sight of another uniform dazed and bleary handcuffed on his carpet. Shaking his head slightly, he looked towards the mostly stripped surface of his bed where the bat had come to rest. His brows pulled together as he took in the marred length. Stepped forward, he leaned down to get a closer look, and felt something twist sickly. There was blood stained across the wood. And it was fresh.

Swallowing, he moved back to crouch in front of the heavier man, flicking his fingers against one sweated cheek.

"Hey, Babe Ruth, you think you'd like to explain yourself before I drag your miserable ass to my car?"

Gaze clearing, Smart turned his shoulders slightly for a better look at the looming figure above. Lassiter was prepared for the typical smarmy defense… maybe even a noxious gust of alcohol-laced breath. What he didn't anticipate was the sudden shuddering of dry laughter that issued past a bloodied lip.

"I figured you might be a slightly more adept target… glad I waited to do you last…"

What?

Bunched cloth fit nicely in his hands as the detective leaned into the hazy exhalations smelling distinctly of bad hygiene and poorly digested feta.

"What did you do!"

More chuckles, and Smart closed his eyes in satisfaction. "I knew that shield was just decoration."

Sleep had been banished the moment his clock crossed over to pay John Edwards a visit. Now the adrenaline started to seep away as well- and function returned to his jostled brain as realization slapped him in the back of the head.

Leaning down quickly, he released one of the meaty hands from a steel bracelet. Then, tugging the thick body, he got the man up to his knees and braced against the foot of his bed. With one hand still on Smart's shoulder, the other holding the unshackled hand, he leaned in tightly.

"Resist me."

The other man blinked, brow furrowed. "Wha…?"

"I said, resist me!" Barked Lassiter, practically brushing noses. Smart jerked back on reflex, and the detective grinned tightly.

"Good enough."

Swinging fast, he smashed his knuckles against the spongy jaw, hearing a deeply pleasurable crack followed by a pained yell. Pulling back his fist, he buried it a second time in the small space between the sternum and overhanging gut. Stolen of breath, the next yelp was all air as Smart began to slump forward.

Wrenching back on his arms, Lassiter weaved the empty cuff through the thickest part of baseboard on his bed's frame. The position looked like it strained.

Standing quickly, he pulled his shoulder holster from the coat rack and slipped it across T shirt covered and over-exerted muscles. Barely remembering to grab the wadded trousers from his floor, he opted for the Don Johnson preferred footwear and darted from the house with his cell crushed against his lips.

Dropping into his car, key slapping the steering column before managing to slide into the ignition, he probably deafened the poor girl manning dispatch as he ordered a patrol to his house and a bus to meet him at his destination.

Foot pressed flush to the floor, hip stinging like mad, he dropped the spent phone to the passenger seat and gunned for the freeway- his speed fueled by two overwhelming thoughts- the likelihood of what he'd find after putting his car in park, and the realization that Henry Spencer was going to kill him.

0o0o0o0o0

The sliding glass door was smashed.

Any possible illusions that he was jumping the gun evaporated at the sight of the curtains flowing out through the demolished opening.

Gravel kicking beneath his heels, Lassiter barreled across the short bit of yard, turning sideways as he avoided the few remaining shards of glass protruding from the cracked red molding.

He saw him immediately. Shawn Spencer, resident annoyance, was sprawled on the floor behind the couch, body haloed by a peppering of small dark drops. Kneeling quickly, Carlton pressed his fingers against the other man's throat.

Thready, weak, but still pumping.

Turning his attention to the multitude of injuries, he cringed at the right arm that seemed to have gained an additional joint in the last twenty four hours. Gingerly lifting the ruin of the other man's T shirt, he bit back a moan at the mottled flesh- torn in places from repeated blows. Probing carefully, he figured the guy must have at least two broken ribs, if not more. Lowering the shirt again, he finally made himself take in the man's face. The nose was the least of Spencer's worries at this point. At least one hit had collided with the side of his head. The cheek was badly swollen, dried blood painted across his skin in a blackish-red swath. There was very little hope that the man didn't have a concussion; not that it would make any difference if the ambulance driver didn't start running red lights.

He turned his face anxiously towards the broken window, hoping to see strobing reflections in the fading dark, when he heard a weak groan.

His eyes pivoted downward in disbelief as Spencer's lips pulled back from his teeth.

"Huuuunnnnnnnnhhh…" he breathed achingly as the fingers of his left hand twitched against the floor.

"Woah… don't move… just keep still…"

"Sma… Smaaaart…" the name rasping over broken lips.

"Currently adding to the ambiance of my bedroom. Just relax Spencer, the ambulance will be here any second."

"…d-didn't… want to…"

Okay, not like he expected the other man to listen, but talking really had to hurt. "Tell me later, just shut up and keep playing dead before you really do cross over to the great beyond."

He may as well have been lambasting a toaster.

"…tried…to figh… didn't… w-wan…to…die…"

He realized in seconds the level of meaning behind what the man was saying, and over the wailing cry of the 'finally' approaching emergency vehicle, stepping down on the unexpected dart of emotion, he leaned forward and placed a hesitant hand on a battered shoulder.

"You won't."

0o0o0o0o0

Henry crawled towards consciousness with a certain determined reluctance. His medication may be keeping the pain at a comfortable minimum, but that didn't mean he enjoyed the loopy rolling kayak sensation side effects.

Still, alertness wasn't really debatable as his lids made a steady upwards track- bringing a bleary and smudged form into focus at the side of his nicely padded prison cell.

"Henry…"

"Carton…" he frowned as he took in the more than disheveled- normally impeccably clean cut head detective. "You get hit by a bus?"

Lassiter dragged slender fingers through his lightly grey speckled short hair, eyes roaming to a point somewhere down and to the left.

"Henry… uh…mm…"

"You're dragging your feet detective, and my patience is at a premium so why not quit the bluster and spill it."

His voice may have been weak, his badge gathering dust in a locked cabinet next to his service weapon and signed certificate of discharge, but he could still intimidate when called for. And head detective or not, even Lassiter wasn't immune under his firm gaze.

The other man didn't shift his feet- didn't clear his throat, break into a sweat, or get- God help us- misty eyed; but reluctant discomfort marked his every word as he raised his head and spoke.

"It's about your son…"

0o0o0o0o0

He couldn't think… couldn't even see as insane trolls ran wild and rabid through the field of grey that used to be his brain- stopping now and then to jab small pickaxes into the soft, yielding landscape. Apparently these trolls also possessed a fierce attraction to other parts of his body as well as they crawled through the tenderized steak coating his pulverized skeleton, digging in their untrimmed toenails as they explored the torn shreds of throbbing tissue.

Movement was a pipedream as the straps locking him to the moving bed kept him bagged and tagged under the swiftly passing patches of white fluorescent. Each sucked in breath shifted the clattering fragments of bone in his sides. Each barely contained sob pounded behind his eyes, radiating licks of fire down his jaw. He noted the unfairness of continued consciousness. Weren't head injuries a get out of awake free card? Apparently his physiology had never played Monopoly.

Something brushed across his right arm, and keeping back the scream made the pickaxes stabbing his chest dig in with sudden ferocity. Please God, just a few seconds of not having to be here for this…

Grace was in short supply however as the rolling surface jerked to a stop under patterned tiles- overlapped by faces as his lids were pried open- then inundated with flashes of bright light.

"Uneven dilation, delayed response…"

Hands pressed his sides, prodded his belly, traced over his legs. Every touch was agony, and he shivered as he held himself tightly coiled, crushing verbal response…

Until fingers glided across his arm.

The scream must have made his tormentors aware that, yes, he was still very much present for their recreation of Mel Gibson's final moments in Braveheart; and he realized the cry for 'freedom' would work just as well in this situation as it did in the film.

The blurred voices overhead became more urgent, words no longer in English… or any other identifiable language as finally, mercifully, the creeping shroud of fading to black slipped cold fingers around his vision and dragged him down.

0o0o0o0o0

Tongue lashing didn't even touch the scalding abuse hurled at him from the enraged man nearly vaulting from the tousled sheets. Nor were scurrying medical personnel immune either as the old man all but tossed them aside in his efforts to drop his feet to the linoleum. Strong arm tactics might have been required had not the man's doctor appeared with an update and a wheelchair. The over handed toss of "You can explain this to Gus" was not lost on him either as a final punishment.

It was about then, of course, that he remembered his phone was still resting in disgrace amidst the stakeout litter of his front seat. And unlike the mangled young man that the call was regarding, he didn't have the sidekick's number recorded into memory. Sacrificing haste for common sense, he placed a hand on his battered hip and made his way out of the room.

Did he say he didn't get paid enough? There wasn't a rate scale created that could justify this sort of day. Hell, the hazard pay alone would allow him to retire before his next birthday.

Then he groaned. Did he think Henry was bad? Once the Chief and O'Hara got through with him, he'd be lucky if there were enough fragments remaining to put in the ground. A matchbox coffin would probably be generous.

Of course, that was entirely dependent on whether or not Guster was the type to exact vengeance. Stepping into the parking garage, he couldn't erase the image of his body delicately tumbling up the sloping hood and windshield of a small blue car.