Disclaimers et al-- See Chapter 1

Spoilers: very minor references to "Sixty Five Million Years Off"

A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews! They are greatly appreciated!! I fear this chapter may drift a tad into OOC-ness territory. Just chalk it up to Lassiter's head injury and not the author's desire for a little more angst.

Special thanks to my beta for her assistance. Without her, there would just be semicolons and adverbs. Lots and lots of adverbs.

Trapped, tensions build and tempers flare… Time for Chapter 3

Disoriented

by Miss Weather

OoOo Chapter 3 oOoO

I have heard there are troubles of more than one kind.
Some come from ahead and some come from behind.
But I've bought a big bat. I'm all ready you see.
Now my troubles are going to have troubles with me! -- Dr. Seuss

With a couple of well-placed nudges from Spencer, he had managed to stay awake for much of the recap. Silently, he fumed as he listened to how they ended up locked in this damn room. He was disgusted to hear that a fellow detective had set them up. The younger detective appeared to have potential. Such a waste.

By the time Spencer finished the story he was furious. Apparently, he had been not only deceived and assaulted, but one of his officers had been killed tonight.

"Son of a bitch!" he said, smacking a nearby box.

"Calm down," Spencer scolded. "Hitting things isn't going to help."

He agreed with a small nod, wearily rubbing his face. The pounding in his head was persisting without mercy. He could handle being injured, but the loss of several days was starting to take its toll. And to make matters worse, he was stuck here with Spencer. Being forced to rely on the other man to act like a responsible adult did not sit well with Lassiter.

It was obvious that he had made a serious mistake somewhere in the past 72 hours. Even though he couldn't remember, he was positive that he missed some important piece of evidence. He was the head detective for the Santa Barbara Police Department. He had over a decade of service established, training, resources, and deductive skills. He should have been able to easily recognize the trap. But obviously, I hadn't

He was responsible for the officers working under him and now one of them was dead. He wasn't going to be able to take much more of this.

From what Shawn said, he was fairly confident that they wouldn't be able to escape their prison without outside help. The metal door was locked from the outside. They had no tools and no supplies. The structure was too solid to forcefully kick or push open.

Nope, one exit and no way to open it. We're screwed.

"So, you think you can remember all of that for the next 15 minutes or so?" Spencer asked, obviously trying to lighten the mood in the room.

"Funny," he said, without the usual malice.

Another heavy silence fell over the room, as he considered one thing that bothered him about Spencer's rendition of this evening's events.

He turned to watch Spencer idly thumb through one of the boxes. He wasn't surprised to find that the boxes contained nothing useful. Papers and old invoices. Nothing but junk.

Scrutinizing the younger man, he asked, "Why are you here?"

Spencer's head popped up, clearly confused. "Um, I just told you, Lewis locked us in here."

"No." He shook his head as he pushed himself upright. "Why are you here, as in the warehouse? I can't imagine that I'd permit you to ride along on a case like this. So I'll ask again, why'd you come here?"

"No, you're right. You told me to go home," Spencer said mildly, dropping his gaze to continue his pointless search through the box.

That stupid, foolish, ass. "Spencer! Look at me," Lassiter barked, headache be damned. "What the hell were you thinking?"

Spencer jerked his head up from the piles of paper to stare back at him, the younger man's expression quickly shifting from disbelief to irritation. He'd seen that expression before, but it was usually reserved for the man's father. He's annoyed? Annoyed with me?!

"I had every intention of taking your advice and going to visit Jules, but, you see, I had this vision. It's not like I can control these things," Spencer responded with a shrug.

"Cut the crap," Lassiter interrupted. "You're not a psychic."

Spencer answered defiantly, ignoring his comments. "You said that you needed to chat with Lewis tonight, but neglected to say where. My vision provided the where, as well as the nasty 'trap' part. So, I rushed over here."

He couldn't believe what he was hearing. The fury that he had felt moments ago had returned. "You irresponsible idiot! What gives you the right to decide to do whatever the hell you please?!"

Not disturbed in the least by Spencer's shocked expression, he continued. "I was completely right about you. You are a self-centered, egotistical, immature pain in the ass. Do you ever think before you act?"

Had he been in the right frame of mine, he probably would have stopped there, but he wasn't. And he definitely wasn't in the mood to censor himself. His anger needed an outlet.

"So what was your big plan, Spencer? Swoop in and save the day? Are you trying to get yourself killed?! You're not a cop. Stop pretending to be one!" he shouted, feeling himself shake.

If he thought that the younger man would accept the verbal reprimand without comment, he was very wrong. Even in the poorly lit room, he saw the man's eyes darken. He briefly considered that he had never seen Spencer this upset before. Peeved, mildly annoyed, exasperated, but never truly angry.

Enraged, Spencer jumped to his feet, "Irresponsible? Idiot? I came here to warn you!"

Shaking his head in disbelief, Lassiter's anger grew. "And you couldn't have called? This isn't a game."

"You don't think I realize that?" he spat back.

"You should have just stayed home. Kept away like I had told you to. I don't need your help."

Spencer shook his head. "I think that bullet knocked something loose. Don't need my help? What are you talking about?"

"Don't you get it Spencer? I don't need you help. I didn't need it during the Franzen and Deacon Murder cases and certainly not now!"

"Is that was this is about? You're jealous?"

"Jealous?" Lassiter repeated, amazed at the man's audacity.

"Yes, jealous of me and my abilities. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I solved all of those cases. And for the last week, you've been running around like chickens with your heads cut off and if it weren't for me, you'd be nowhere."

"No one's jealous, you egomaniac! And I hate to break it to you, but we are nowhere, Spencer. No stolen guns, no arrests. Fat lot of good that fake psychic crap did us. DeSantos is still dead. Brackett and Lewis are gone, presumably with the money and goods."

"I can't believe you're blaming me for this! This isn't my fault. You walked into the trap, not me."

"You have no business being here. I've said it before and I'll say it again, you are a waste of space."

"Yeah, well, I don't like you either!"

Lassiter sighed, as their argument ended abruptly. There wasn't anything more to add after that weak retort. Tensions were high and too much had been said out of agitation. Damn it! Lassiter cursed to himself. This was neither the time nor place for this. He felt completely out of sorts.

He turned to see that the younger man had moved to the other side of the room to rifle through more boxes. Spencer had created as much distance away from Lassiter as he could. Just great, he thought sullenly. Not that he could blame him; he would have moved if he could, too.

He knew that he shouldn't have yelled at Spencer. At least, not here, not now. Yelling recriminations wasn't going to fix things. DeSantos was still dead, he was still injured, and they were still trapped. It hadn't helped their situation and in fact, made things worse. Way to make a mess of things, Carlton, he thought miserably. Bridges were burnt to a crisp for sure.

Now, a heavy silence had filled the room. One filled with mistrust, resentment and anger. Ordinarily, silence would have been a welcome relief, but not now. Still, if Spencer felt fit to ignore him for the time being, then he could do the same.

Lassiter stifled a groan as he tried to shift his position. Not only did his tirade serve to alienate the other man, it also left him drained and in more pain. He felt awful. The ever-present headache had strengthened with all of the shouting. Pressure had built up behind his eyes and was boring into his skull, giving his head the sensation of being squeezed in a vise. He felt his heart race, as he tried to focus on breathing. It was an unsettling feeling. Breathe, he reminded himself.

Breathe slowly. In and out. It'll subside.

He forced himself to lie back (as much as the boxes would allow) and try to relax. He had hoped that a little rest might restore his energy. Moreover, he figured that it might give him a little time to think about how he could mend things with Spencer. Unable to find a more comfortable position for his body, he shifted to stretch his limbs. As he slowly moved his head away from the boxes, he realized that he made another colossal mistake.

Without warning, the room spun sharply. He flung his hands out to grab onto whatever stable objects he could find. Gasping, he felt a wave of nausea crash into him. He tried his mantra again, but it was no use. His stomach rebelled and he retched violently, emptying its contents onto the concrete floor.

Lassiter was in agony. His world tunneled and for a few moments, he wished for death. The pressure in his head increased exponentially as he coughed and gagged. And as the last meager remnants of his dinner were expelled, he felt an overwhelming sense of weakness. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to collapse to the floor.

In the darkness, he heard frantic footsteps as the other man raced over. He could hear Spencer's shout, panicked and afraid. Shivering as pain continued to wrack his body, he felt hands supporting head.

He listened to Spencer's uncharacteristically soft voice. "Easy, man. It's okay. Just be still. It'll be over soon." The younger man swore, as Lassiter coughed roughly.

It took what felt like an entirety for the nausea to abate. The steady throb in his head pulsed, as he tried to get control of his body. Spencer continued his steady stream of softly spoken words as he lifted and propped Lassiter's head onto something softer.

Lassiter groaned loudly, shifting his legs as he felt them grow stiff in their current position.

"You with me?" Spencer asked tentatively, squeezing his arm.

He had no desire to acknowledge the younger man. As the fog in his brain started to lift, he could feel the all-too-familiar stirrings of embarrassment settle into his weary body. He was disgusted with himself for losing his temper with Spencer, and now he had lost control over his stomach. He was too embarrassed to speak.

"I know you're awake. Just open your eyes for a minute. Please?"

Hearing the concern in the other man's tone, Lassiter changed his mind and decided to open his eyes, tentatively, hoping to avoid any repeat performances. It took a while for things to come into focus for him, but once settled, he found himself staring at a worried Spencer once again. There was something in the other man's expression that he recognized with a flash of irritation. Pity. Lassiter didn't want Spencer's pity. He tried to turn his body away, but the pain effectively trapped him.

Hissing, he clenched his eyes shut, hoping to shut everything out.

"I know it hurts, but I need you to open your eyes again." Spencer sounded very young and very tired.

Taking Spencer's advice, he slowly reopened his eyes and looked at the man hunched in front of him. He looks scared. It was a weird look for the normally egotistical man. Lassiter wanted to say something reassuring to the younger man, but he couldn't find the words.

"Spencer," he rasped.

"Hey," Spencer interrupted quickly. He grinned slightly and said, "Take it slow. You doing okay? Sorry. Of course you're not."

He struggled to reply, unable to generate enough moisture to rid his mouth of the foul taste. "Thirsty."

"Huh? Oh, you're thirsty." Spencer sighed, shaking his head in frustration. "We don't have anything to drink. Remember?"

Lassiter nodded.

"Oh good." Spencer looked extremely relieved. "I thought for a moment.--well, never mind that. Dare I ask? Do you feel as crappy as you look?"

"That bad?"

"Yeah. Sorry. Not going to win any beauty pageants tonight."

Lassiter groaned at the obvious joke and slowly rolled onto his back.

"You okay? Gonna puke again?" Spencer asked, concerned.

He whispered a "no," before allowing his eyes to drift around the room. He quickly spotted the mess on the floor near his legs. He grimaced sharply at the sight.

Spencer followed his gaze and asked, "Think you're up for a little change in scenery?

"Huh?" Lassiter blinked wearily.

"How about we move over there," Spencer said, pointing a hand towards the opposite wall.

Lassiter nodded. He wanted to move, struggled to push himself off the ground, but found that his limbs wouldn't cooperate.

"Easy!" Spencer said as he wrapped his arms around Lassiter's torso. "Let me help you."

Much to Lassiter's growing embarrassment, he couldn't stand, and certainly wasn't going to be able to walk. Spencer had to practically drag him to the wall, as he lay helpless. Even with all of the pain and weakness, he felt a deep sense of humiliation. Pathetic! He cursed himself.

"You good?" Spencer asked as he helped Lassiter settle into a more comfortable position.

"Yeah," he answered, quietly. Not good, but tolerable. He was stretched out on his left side with his back to the wall. And with Spencer's sweatshirt underneath his head, he felt somewhat better.

Once Spencer was satisfied that Lassiter would be fine for the next couple of minutes, he stood. "Hmm. I'll just pile the boxes over that. Should help with the smell a bit," he said as he gestured a hand at the puddle.

Lassiter winced at the reminder and turned his head away from the younger man.

"Did I ever tell you the story of when Gus and I went to Cabo San Lucas for Spring Break?" Not waiting for an answering, Spencer continued. "We had been having a good time, hanging out at some bar with some fine-looking college co-eds. We were following the 'Spring Break' code and ordered only tequila and beer. And no joke, within an hour we were puking our guts out." He laughed at the memory, shifting some of the boxes around to cover the mess.

Spencer went on. "Gus swears that the beer was tainted. Who knows, but we were forced to stay in the motel for the rest of the weekend, praying to the porcelain god and all. Anyways, it was a mess; nothing like this."

Lassiter understood the not-so-subtle moral of the story and appreciated the other man's efforts.

"Hey, Lassie, next time if you feel like you're gonna puke, try to use this," Spencer said, placing an empty crate in front of Lassiter.

"No," he said with a small shake of his head. He wasn't going to allow himself to get sick again. Nope, not going to humiliate myself further.

"What?" Spencer asked perplexed.

"Won't need it," Lassiter said softly.

"Fine. Whatever. Suit yourself. I'll leave it nearby, just in case." Spencer sighed heavily, as he sat down next to Lassiter's head. "So, now what?"

Good question, he thought. Now what, indeed.

Much to Lassiter's annoyance, they had no other recourse, but to wait for help to arrive. The thought made him cringe. Trying to push aside his doubts and fears, he closed his eyes to rest.

"Hey, Lassie, you going to sleep already?" Spencer asked, sharply poking Lassiter's back.

"Resting my eyes," he mumbled. He felt unnaturally fatigued. The pervasive weakness and headache made him feel thick and slow.

He heard the other man mutter something in response, but the words were distorted by a rustling noise. Curious, he slowly pried his eyes open. His viewpoint was limited and his fuzzy eyes couldn't locate the source of the sound.

"What's that noise?" he asked, assuming that Spencer was the cause.

"Oh. Just passing the time," Spencer said, reaching over to show the recumbent man a small paper airplane.

Spencer smiled, as he launched the plane across the room. "Gus and I spent hours making these things as kids. We'd have Air Shows and competitions. Challenge each other to see whose plane could go the furthest, do the most loops. Things like that."

The man sighed and continued with his narrative. "Sadly, I would've been the undefeated champion, if my dad hadn't put a stop to our last match. We borrowed the paper from his desk without his permission."

Lassiter watched as the second paper plane sailed effortlessly across the room, landing somewhere behind a stack of boxes.

"As I'm sure you can guess, Dad was furious," Spencer told him. "I guess we had used some tax forms for our fleet. It wasn't our fault, but he didn't see it that way."

Lassiter pressed a hand against his chest, as he half-listened to Spencer grumble. An intense feeling of cold had taken root in his chest. It was a sharp, biting cold that quickly spread from his chest into his arms and legs.

Spencer asked sharply, "What's wrong?"

"I feel odd," Lassiter mumbled, slipping off into the darkness.

To be continued!

Thanks for reading! Feedback, comments and critiques are welcome!