I'm actually surprised that I wrote Shawn in a more...mature light. But Shawn has his good points. Anyhoo - some Big Stuff happening here. I hope Lassiter doesn't seem OOC here, but I think everybody's got their breaking point. If you fail to get a little down over a bunch of dead teenaged girls, then there's really something wrong with you, right?

"Is it entirely unusual for a grown man to eat all the chocolate off a Three Musketeers bar first?"

Juliet stared at her partner for several seconds, unsure of how to answer that question. Finally, she started to clear her throat and give some kind of sane reply when Carlton opened the silver packaging around the chocolate bar and studied its contents carefully before extracting it.

"Um…I don't know…"

"Halfsies?"

She watched him break the bar in two and hand her part of it.

"Thank you. Carlton, are you okay?"

"Tired."

"Apparently."

"My mother might be in town. Either that, or the walls are oozing green slime, there's a rushing windy kind of sound outside, and dogs are forming into packs for no reason whatsoever."

"Has she called you?" she asked, watching in fascination as Carlton began nibbling the chocolate off the bar, consuming it with obvious relish, before going for the sticky whatever-that-stuff-was filling. He licked his fingers and sighed wearily.

"Twice."

"And what did she say?"

"She said she's got to talk to me about something. Somebody – who will be mysteriously vanish shortly – informed her that I'm involved with Marlowe, but I don't think that's the whole story. She's after something. She's always after something. Some…tiny…portion of my soul, for instance." He looked around the station as if he had never seen it before and suddenly shot to his feet. "I'm hungry."

"You just ate a stack of four pancakes, three sausages, three eggs, a cruller, and half a Three Musket-…"

"Donuts. I see donuts." He paced away, heading toward the donut cart, which was being wheeled by. She knew her partner ate a lot when he was depressed (and never gained weight, the bastard), but coupled with his exhaustion-driven weird today, she suspected she might be in for an interesting afternoon. To say the least.

He was not looking good at all. Frankly, Juliet was beginning to wonder if she should call Marlowe and tell her to take Carlton away for a few days, to a resort with no television, radio or phones. But that would mean trying to start a conversation with her partner's girlfriend, and that was still a little…uncomfortable. She wasn't sure how to talk to Marlowe at all. The woman had this air of command about her that matched Carlton's beautifully, and possibly even surpassed his. From the way Gus had described their disastrous encounter with her at Carlton's house, she was apparently not about to put up with any kind of crap from anybody.

A too-direct line of questioning from Juliet could result in more awkward. And…had Carlton said anything to Marlowe about Whitestone…? She swallowed. She doubted it – her partner was too trustworthy for gossip, and nothing had happened! Just that she kind of really sort of a little wished something had, and she knew that eventually she was going to have to explain a few things to Shawn. Something along the lines of 'I'm just so tired of all the childishness and narcissism' and 'Do you ever stop eating?' and 'stay out of my bank account or I swear to God I will sic Lassiter on you'.

"Carlton, put the donuts down and step away," she said, trying to sound commanding.

He looked at her, surprised, and took another bite of his glazed donut. Defiant as always, even while he looked so…oh God, she thought, tears stinging her eyes. Defeated.

"Now, Carlton. Come on. It's not good for you to eat so much," she finally said, as firmly and as gently as she could. When – not if, when – they found this monster, she was going to make that man pay for what he was doing to those girls first, and then he was going to pay for doing this to Carlton. She had never seen him so frazzled, so exhausted, so utterly worn down. He no longer had that bold, confident stride. He didn't put his sunglasses on and bark 'Let's roll!' when it was time to go chase somebody down. When he stepped outside, he winced in the sunlight and she could almost see his constant headache.

He was losing weight.

"I can eat anything I like and not gain an ounce," he told her flatly.

"And I really hate you for that, but you need to focus. We've got to meet with the task force leaders today, and the press will be there."

"Yeah." He frowned at the donuts now sitting on his desk, then looked at her, blue eyes faded. He was so exhausted. This entire case was consuming them all, in different ways. For Carlton, though, it was all on his head, in the end. He was the lead – the first one the press talked about in nightly coverage of the story. The first one the disgusting local rags mocked for having not solved the whole thing in a matter of a few minutes, as if they thought he had magic powers and could really fight city hall. They were back to calling him Detective Dipstick, which made Juliet reach for her gun every time she saw one of those vicious headlines. Didn't they know what this was doing to him? Didn't they know he was only human, and that he had been handed a Herculean task?

"Okay then. Let's go." There was none of his usual eagerness. Just a look of resignation. It broke Juliet's heart into a thousand pieces. "Can I take one donut?"

Shawn and Gus were seated in the row right behind Juliet and Carlton's chairs, and Whitestone was at Carlton's right arm, looking frazzled. He had been up most of the night, working on all the fine little details of his profile of the serial killer, and had admitted to Juliet that his theories were giving him nightmares.

Milos Stanish, who Juliet still wanted to call Miles Standish, was reading over something and only glanced up when the mayor called order to the meeting. To her, he looked like a ferret. Whitestone had referred to him, in a moment when they had been left alone, as 'Weasel Lips'. His nicknames for the mayor and other task force leaders had been far less flattering.

Cameras flashed, and video started rolling. Juliet remembered Carlton's wry comment about the 'lovely hissing sound of news anchors' egos inflating' and smiled as she could almost hear that sound herself. Every major news outlet in the country was there, and she saw a reporter from Croatia sitting in the press pool.

"Detective Lassiter," Stanish finally said, once the room was quiet. "I have a question for you, if you don't mind."

Carlton nodded, and Juliet glanced at her partner, sadly noting the bags under his eyes, his pale skin, and the extra gray in his hair. He looked awful, and totally unprepared for the press and for this.

"A few nights ago, you were heard saying that you 'would rather find two bodies than none at all', if that would help you solve this case. Do you stand behind that comment?"

He looked bewildered. Confused. "I…"

"You want to find more bodies, Detective?" Stanish said. He was leaning forward, cold blue eyes zeroing on her partner, her friend, who was falling apart right before her eyes. It was agonizing to watch, and she could do nothing. "More?"

"No…no, that's not what I meant. Not…"

"You said it, though, didn't you? You said you wanted to find more bodies!"

The deathly silence in the room chilled Juliet to the bone, and she wanted to reach out to Carlton, to try and support him, but he shook his head, eyes still on Stanish. She looked down and saw his hands shaking. Cameras were on him, and he was shaking, and she saw tears in his eyes then.

Tears.

"Listen, I don't think this is a reasonable line of questioning, Mr Stand…Stanish," Juliet started to interject, horrified for Carlton. Enraged for him. She was seriously glad no one was allowed to carry firearms into this room, because she wasn't sure she wouldn't have gone for her Glock right now. In her life, there were two people she didn't allow anyone to be cruel to: her mother and Carlton.

"You hush, you silly little girl!" Stanish snarled at her, and she was so startled that her mouth clapped shut. "Look at this man! Look!" He gestured to Carlton, who was struggled desperately to contain himself, but not succeeding at all. He had covered his eyes with his hand, and his shoulders were shaking as he withdrew into himself. Juliet glanced around the room and saw several reporters looking suitably uncomfortable and even sympathetic, but a few – namely from the 'newspaper' that enjoyed mocking him – were leaning forward, scribbling eagerly. "This man – this man who is supposed to be protecting the children of this city is crying! Crying!"

Shawn shot to his feet then, startling Juliet and everyone else in the room. "I don't see you crying over those dead girls, you weasel-lipped little creep!"

"Who is this man?" Stanish growled, looking at the mayor, who looked extremely uncomfortable, too. Finally, Gus stood up and put his hand on Lassiter's shoulder. He leaned down and whispered something in his ear, and Carlton finally got to his feet. "Who is this ridiculous man?"

"Does it matter? You're hardly doing anything to find the killer. You're sitting on your bureaucratic ass, yelling at people who are doing their friggin' jobs!" Shawn snapped. Juliet and Whitestone got up, and let Gus lead the way, Carlton letting himself be led out of the room. Most of the cameras had been turned off, and the mayor was murmuring quietly to one of his lackeys. Shawn finally turned and followed them out, casting one last disgusted look at the task force leaders.

"Hey, Marlowe?" Shawn said, glancing nervously at Juliet, who was sitting beside Carlton at his desk, watching him eat a donut. That seemed to be the only thing that kept him quiet now. For a few minutes, he had gone into the mens' room alone and left four extremely nervous people standing there, wondering what he might do. He had returned, confessed to having lost his lunch of donuts and Three Musketeers bar, and had sat down and rubbed his eyes, still shaking. "Uh, this is Shawn Spencer. Right. The…uh…twit. Right. Gay Lestat – hey, you remembered! Anyway, we were wondering if you could come down to the station and pick up Lassie…er…Lassiter. He's…having a problem. No, he's okay, in a way. Just…really, really stressed out and tired. Exhausted, actually. You did? Oh. Well, that's just fab. The bastards. Can you come get him? Good. Yeah. Thanks."

He hung up and glanced at Lassiter, bewildered. He had never seen the detective fall apart like that. He was, in Spencer's privately held opinion, the strongest person he had ever known. Nothing beat Lassie down, but now the man looked broken. Frustrated, exhausted, drained. All he seemed able to do now was eat donuts and pretend he wasn't still shaking. Damn. Damn it all to hell.

"Hey, man, want something to drink? Like…some cold water?" Guster asked. Carlton nodded.

"Got any bourbon on you?"

"No bourbon," Juliet said gently. She touched Carlton's shoulder. "You need some rest, Carlton."

"Can't…"

"Yes you can," she said firmly. "Carlton, this is killing you. You need to go home, okay?"

"What if there's another body?" he asked her, his voice strangled. "They'll blame me even more…"

"If they do, there'll be several more bodies! All wearing press passes!" she snapped.

Marlowe arrived just ten minutes later, her expression strained, and she sat down in the chair beside Carlton, her hands enclosing his. "Sweetheart? Hey, look at me. We're going to go home, okay? Home."

He lifted his head and studied her for several moments before he finally nodded and stood up. She glanced at Spencer, who got up and patted Carlton's shoulder. "Hey, dude, it's gonna be okay. You're gonna catch this bastard. It's inevitable. He may not think so, but he's…in for it. He's in for the Carlton Lassiter Extra Large Can of Whup-Ass, and it's comin' hard and fast."

She drove slowly, with the radio playing, rather appropriately, the Beatles' In My Life, and he sat there in the passenger seat, eyes finally dry, expression blank as he stared out the window, taking nothing in. He was dull and silent and too weary to feel anything, from what she could see. When they got back to his condo, she had to speak rather sharply to him to get him to jerk back into reality and look at her. "We're home."

"Oh. Right."

"Carlton. Look at me."

He finally settled his gaze on her. "Yes?"

"It's going to be okay."

"No it's not. Not for a long time."

Convalescent home.

The very term gave Carlton the creeps, but Vick had pulled a few strings and suddenly he had two weeks to spend at a small but spa-like place in the hills, surrounded by trees and people very definitely not wearing white uniforms. In fact, the place was about as casual as a Grateful Dead concert, minus the drugs and crappy music. There were no drugs at all, actually, or shock therapy, unless specifically required (and shock therapy was not offered either way). Mainly, it was just lying around doing nothing, or playing cards with other fried-out people who had checked themselves out of the rat race for a while. He was under strict orders to not read newspapers, for one thing, and he had no television or phone.

It wasn't Bimini, but it was actually rather nice, he admitted. After a week he was pretty much calm and relaxed, even if he missed Marlowe horribly, but her parole officer had said that it was impossible for her to take any leave of absence from work unless it involved a death in the family. The only thing that still niggled at the back of his mind was that he had not called his mother back and that he felt just a little guilty about that (which he supposed was the point). He figured he should call her back when he returned to the station, and take the brunt of whatever invective she had to throw at him, just as he had done from earliest childhood.

He couldn't deny that it was good to get away from everything. Marlowe was back at his condo, doing a little 'decorating' that he seriously hoped didn't involve too much of Africa. Her taste was a little different from his own, but still involved yellows and blues and grays…with some light greens thrown in, which he didn't mind. She had also asked him if he would mind if she repainted the master bedroom and did some touching up in the living room, and what he thought about repainting the third bedroom a 'softer color'.

Anyone else would have sent him into a full-blown panic or explosion of temper about having his routine changed. Instead, when she had shown him the color cards (Behr) from Home Depot, he had actually said that he liked them fairly well. 'Spring Sunshine' yellow had been far less obtrusive than he had expected, and 'Happy Blues' had seemed oxymoronic, but neither color had made him want to gag. Victoria had liked pinks and purples, to the point that he thought he was living inside a high-end carwash. Marlowe didn't like pink much at all, and she hated orange.

Seven days in this place, with no news of the serial killer case, and he was getting a little bit cabin feverish. He was not required to talk to any therapists if he didn't want to, but he had stunned himself two days ago by actually voluntarily going downstairs and sitting in a quiet room with lots of wicker furniture, elephant ear plants and a bust of Jung on the bookshelf and talked to a dry little man named Paulsen for two hours. He had talked about his divorce, about his career, about Marlowe, his mother, his father, his siblings, and even his batting average for the SPBD softball team (which was quite good). He had come out of that session feeling better somehow. Like a bit of weight had been taken off his shoulders, and now, he was eager to go back to the real world. On Saturday morning, he asked if he could leave, and they told him he could, and that he could come back whenever he needed to.

All things being equal, he suspected he might come back some day, and he wondered if the place had a honeymoon suite.

"Detective Lassiter…you're back."

Karen Vick looked up at the head detective, startled to see him standing there, in his customary sharp suit and tie (dark gray jacket and pants, red tie, crisp white shirt, black shoes). The bags were gone from under his eyes. His dark hair was grayer than before, but she was pleased to see the light back in those incredible blue eyes, and he wasn't pale and shaky any more.

"Yes. Well, I took the week. Two weeks was just too much. What have I missed?"

"Did you rest?" she asked.

"Yes. I slept two days straight, actually. With the help of some nice drugs, actually." He grinned at her and sat down. "I'm on a prescription now. Just so you know."

"Okay."

"It's mild, Karen. A prescription…to help me sleep. Cope with depression…" He shrugged. He handed her the papers, and she read them over.

"Right. Good." Vick folded her hands on her desk and stared at him. "Are you sure you're all right, Carlton?"

"I'm okay. Really. What have I missed?" he repeated.

"We found another body," she said sadly. "Seventeen year old girl, originally from Split, Croatia. She and her family came to Santa Barbara two months ago. Raped, stabbed to death. Eyes gouged out." She shuddered and handed him the report. "Not news you wanted to hear, I'm sure."

"No." He opened the file and she watched him read it over. "Found less than a mile from the Mills Crossing Mall."

"Yes." She took a deep breath. "Stanish is now of the opinion that a cop might be the killer."

"A cop?"

"Yes."

"Jesus…" He looked up at her, and his astonishment faded to dismay. "No. You have to be kidding."

"He says that a cop would certainly know how to kill so many people and not be caught, and that a cop would have other cops covering for him."

"Well, that's charming, isn't it?" he said, but he didn't sound weary. In fact, he sounded ticked off, which was the Cartlon Lassiter that Karen Vick knew and understood best.

"Let me ask you this, Carlton – if you knew they were going to come get you tomorrow, would you do anything differently?"

"Of course not," he shook his head.

"Then get to work."

He was so glad to be home. Even if he didn't actually get there until almost midnight. The light was on in the kitchen, and he wasn't surprised to find Marlowe stirring something delicious-smelling in a pot. "What's that?" he asked her, slipping his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder.

"Chicken and dumplings."

"Yum."

"I was hoping you'd like that. It's good-old fashioned Southern comfort food. For someone who needs a bit of comfort." He let her go so she could get him a bowl – there was no point in arguing with her, at this point, about how she didn't have to do things for him, because she liked to do things for him – and ladle out a good portion of the thick, creamy soup for him. She then insisted on pouring him a glass of milk – milk! – and made him sit down at the table.

"You look tired," she finally said, as he tucked into his meal. "Another victim?"

"Yes. We worked the victim's info, talked with her parents, her friends. I never even glanced at a donut today."

She smiled, nodded, and sat down beside him at the table, watching him eat.

"Aren't you going to eat?"

"I already did. About four hours ago."

"Then you can go to bed."

"I like to sit here with you." She crossed her knees and dropped her chin into the heel of her palm, elbow on the table, watching him as he consumed the warm meal. Quiet conversation made his meal even better, and when he was finished (after insisting he wash his own dishes, over her protests), they settled on the couch, Marlowe snuggling against his chest and listening for a while to his heartbeat.

"I'm so glad you got some time off," she said softly. "I was worried about you." She looked up at him. "I still worry."

"I was getting a little worried, too," he admitted. "Worried and anxious and…well, a bit emotional."

"And that horrible little man doing that to you. Even trying to accuse you of not caring about those girls."

"I'm still trying to work out what to do. How to catch the killer…there has to be a strategy. I call the plays in this damned mess and now that little twerp is trying to take over. He wants to run the whole operation."

She pondered a moment. "But if you and Juliet solve the case, it will reflect…happily on him, right, if he lets you keep running things. He's just a bureaucrat. What would he know about running a murder investigation?"

"Almost as he much as he would know about holding down a steady job, which is why he went into politics, I suspect." He snickered and turned the TV on. For a while, they just sat, watching her DVR'd episode of Jeopardy!, with both them getting most of the questions right. It was only after he dozed off during final Jeopardy that she nudged him awake and suggested they head off to bed. Just as his head hit the pillow, the phone started ringing. Grimacing, and bracing himself, he answered. The voice was not Woody's, however: it was his mother.

"Carlton McTiernan Lassiter, why haven't you called me back?"

He sat up straight, something he still did even now, years after having been tied into his chair while eating and reading, to make his back ramrod straight. "I forgot how to operate a phone."

"Don't you sass me, young man!"

Young man? He was forty-three. He had arthritis in his shoulder and gray hair and wrinkles and corn was becoming his enemy.

"What is it, Mother?" he finally asked, glancing at Marlowe, who had changed into her soft cotton cloud-pattern pajamas and was climbing into bed. She raised one eyebrow.

"Your father died."

"Oh. Well, good night, then…"

"I want you to attend to all the required business. I have his ashes and I want you to spread them someplace appropriate."

"Well, as he's likely already in hell, I don't know how I'd get his ashes down there, too…" He felt a cement block land on his shoulder. The arthritic one. Another weight. Another cause of stress.

"You will come here tomorrow, collect the ashes and talk to the lawyers, then take the ashes away."

"I have work to do, Mother."

"I saw that. I saw you fall apart last week during that press conference!"

"And it's so nice to know I have my mother's undying support and sympathy. I'll come by tomorrow and collect the ashes. Goodbye." He hung up before she could squawk any more and waited a moment for the phone to ring again. It didn't, however, and he sighed, rubbing his eyes. "My father died. I guess it was last week some time."

"Oh." Marlowe looked at him cautiously, not sure how to behave. He didn't look grief-stricken or angry or really, anything. Maybe just resigned.

"Don't get overly concerned there. I'm not. The son of a bitch took off when I was twelve. I haven't seen him since. And now he's dead."

"I'm sorry," she finally said, settling on something somewhat appropriate.

He shrugged. He thought about his father – same dark hair, same blue eyes, same straight spine, same crack shot. Full head of hair, typical of the Lassiter men, with full Irish hairline (he remembered Lauren's documentary, with Henry saying that Shawn would eventually go bald, and that still made him laugh). Seamus Muscum Lassiter had possessed charm, though. Tons of it, which Carlton had not inherited at all. His younger brother had charm (and the same name) and his sisters had enough fair-skinned, red-headed beauty to launch ships to all directions, but Carlton…no he had just gotten his father's eyes and hair and his mother's grumpy temper and single-minded determination.

"Don't apologize. Angina killed him, not you."

She smiled softly and kissed him before resting her head on his chest. "I'm still sorry, Carlton," she said. "He missed out on knowing you."

"Eh…"

She gave his chest a gentle slap. "What did we talk about? You and your low self-esteem…enough of that! He missed out. His loss."

He smiled at her. He had to admit, it was nice to have at least one person on his side, at all times, no matter what. He kissed her temple, turned off the light, and stretched out, Marlowe curled against his side. She was soon sound asleep, head on his chest, and he stared up at the ceiling until he fell asleep. He dreamed about ashes in a cigarette tray and Ireland and his father telling him he would pick him up from school at three o'clock on Thursday.

He had never come.

TBC