Hard To Believe It Will Be Okay

A Psych Story

By silverluna

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Summary: Carlton Lassiter is having a horribly bad day, and it's only going to get worse.

Main Character: Carlton Lassiter

Other Characters: Juliet O'Hara, Chief Karen Vick, Shawn Spencer, Burton Guster, possibly others

Pairings: None

Timeline: Season Three-ish.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. In other words, I own absolutely nothing having to do with Psych. This story is purely for fun and still, alas, no money is being made by me from it. I also do not own any of the songs from which I made name the chapters after. I also do not own Converse.

Author's Note: Written for psychout89's "Down the Well and Back Again" Challenge on Psychfic dot com. I got inspired and started writing, which is awesome, but I don't have a completely definite plan as to where this is going yet, so I'm going to do what I've done before, which is taking this slowly and "following the characters" to see where "they" want to go. As requested in the challenge, this will be a Lassiter centric story with whumpage. (And a plot too, I promise.) It's shaping up to be a Hurt/Comfort/ Whumpage story so far, likely also a Suspense. Rating for language, some suggestive material, and general whump. This is NOT a slash fic.

Here are psychout89's words on the challenge: "So there's tons of shameless Shawn whumpage all over the place. Well, what if it's Lassie? So basically Lassiter is having a terrible day and when he gets a lead on a case, he investigates it alone cause he doesn't think it'll pan out. Turns out, the lead was spot on... and now he's in big trouble. Will he make it out alive? Well that's up to you. Just make sure it's mostly Lassie's POV . . ."

There is a minor spoiler for the Pilot (Season One).

Reviews and feedback are appreciated. Happy reading!

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Prologue: I Want To See The Sun Blotted Out From The Sky

He was going down. Had he been alone, with no witnesses to his shame, Carlton Lassiter knew he would have just as chagrined, furious and unforgiving to this minor slip into clumsiness. But it was at least 64% worse he tripped here, in the middle of the Santa Barbara Police Station, over his own feet or own long legs, not completely certain of the culprit in his missteps as he lost his tentative balance with gravity.

Of course, he hadn't been empty-handed. His morning, even before setting foot through the double doors outside the station, had been filled with several annoyances and frowns, so much so that even O'Hara had commented at first sight of the deep creases on his forehead and the white half moons under his eyes. Lassiter had been sitting at his desk for nearly an hour and a half, gritting his teeth over paperwork he had to redo due to a some asinine rain leak. Chewing out the clerk hadn't, surprisingly, made him feel any better, but it hadn't stopped him. Only when he felt O'Hara's warning squeeze on his arm had he realized he'd reduced the clerk, a sixteen year old boy with a worker's permit and a very new driver's license, to blubbering, red faced apologies.

"Carlton, he didn't know the roof was going to leak in that exact place and ruin your morning," O'Hara had scolded, fixing him with narrowed eyes that seemed to demand where, exactly, his mind had been wandering when she'd spoken passionately about his need to become more personable a few days prior.

He'd grunted something unintelligible and she'd only sighed, not at all expecting a real apology.

After the monotony of these redoes, Carlton had felt a tension headache starting at the base of his neck. It had clawed its skeletal fingers up his scalp, beneath his hair line, and had just begun its tight squeeze on his temples. He'd held it off as long as possible, opting to not pop some aspirin and instead ducked out for a jolt of caffeine. He wished he could blame it on the flimsy Styrofoam; why couldn't he have foreseen that today, of all the days in this week sent straight up from Hell, that he should have taken those few extra seconds to grab a lid? Or maybe he had turned around too quickly, never before believing that skipping breakfast just this once could really make his head spin. (He had always recovered, even if he'd allowed himself those few seconds in a hungry darkness before he could stab it back, reminding himself of a lunch break in a couple of hours).

The hot, black liquid splashed over the lip, scalding his right hand first, then was propelled towards his cheek and nose during his stumble. Lassiter fell forward in the same moment the coffee was pulled up, out of the cup, towards his face. He couldn't stop his inappropriate curses, more so when some liquid hit his mouth, before his lost his grip on the cup and the remaining coffee spread out across the linoleum two or three seconds before his lanky, muscular 6'1" frame landed with a sickening thud. His chest took the brunt of the fall.

Activity paused; he suspected the three or four pairs of eyes he had gotten an angry look to just prior to his fall had tripled— it wasn't everyday that the Head Detective would be lying there on his face after making a fool of himself. The figures were either silent with stunned concern, or were laughing to themselves that Carlton Lassiter was not the infallible man that he presented himself as. Carlton bit back a groan, his cheeks coloring with both embarrassment and fury. His nose and forehead throbbed, and his already burned right hand was resting in a pool of scalding coffee. As he jerked the fingers on his right hand, pulling his arm towards his body and making a loose fist, the voices started asking if he was all right, did he need a hand getting up, should one of them bring out a first aid kit? It was hard for Lassiter to decide if this was more humiliating then the long stretch of silence— which, as he thought about it later, might have been less than ten seconds.

Forgetting again about O'Hara's mini-lecture to him, he growled from his crumpled position that he was fine and they had better, if they all knew what was good for them, be out of his sight by the time he got up. Carlton moved gingerly but worked his jaw until his expression was neutral in case anyone should happen to be watching him; he didn't want to admit how much pain such a stupid accident had bought on.

Maybe this wasn't so bad; even though he was certain the coffee had likely given him first degree burns and had probably soaked through his clothes in the most embarrassing places; did it mean he couldn't salvage today? (He had been warned though, already, while buttoning up this white dress shirt earlier that morning, after he'd nicked himself shaving four times, the third cut a thin rivulet of blood slipping down his neck, that perhaps this day would not be a lucky one.)

Lassiter was pushing back on his knees, inching his long arms towards his body in order to get himself to his feet when he heard a snicker. He lifted his head enough so that he was looking down on the dirty toe of a blue Converse shoe. "Clean up on aisle six!" Spencer bellowed out, unable to contain a hysterical giggle. Lassiter's mouth stretched tight across his face in a frown; it seemed official, this day was screwed. He could only hope to survive each agonizing second of it and tomorrow, when he opened his eyes up to new light, it would be a better one.

Lassiter barely registered Guster's white tennis shoes; he was standing further back from the mess, obviously having just a smidgen more of sense than Spencer. He hadn't uttered a word, not a laugh or even an offer to help, but Lassiter still assumed that Guster was staring at him in this moment of weakness and wondered if he were among that smirking brand of officer and their silent laughter.

Spencer had the nerve to squat down and actually offer his hand in gesture of mocked concern— Carlton saw immediately the condescending look in Spencer's eyes. "You okay, Lassie?" Spencer asked, reaching out, only infuriating him more.

"Get the hell away from me!" Lassiter barked. He winced internally as both wrists slid and bent awkwardly in the puddle of semi-hot semi-lukewarm coffee still on the floor. He wiped absentmindedly at some stray liquid dripping off his nose with the knuckles of his burned first.

"Lassie, your hand is—" Shawn began, the condescending look dipping low in his eyes for a moment as he looked over Lassiter's burn.

"It's nothing," Lassiter snapped. After untangling his legs from each other, he pushed to his feet, ignoring any minor shaking he experienced in his limbs. He was starting to head towards a bathroom when Chief Vick's voice stopped him dead.

"Detective Lassiter, did you forget about our ten o'clock meeting with Internal Affairs?"

Lassiter cursed under his breath, and swallowed some other angry grunts, and then turned towards her, hoping to keep the embarrassment at the condition of his appearance under wraps. "No, Chief," he called out tightly, taking steps back down the hall towards her. She gasped. He ignored it, skirting around the puddle and Spencer, who was still squatting on the floor.

"Detective, you're bleeding," Vick muttered as Lassiter got close. Carlton paused, his right hand going up to his face; he heard Vick gasp again, and then dropped his burned appendage, after getting a quick glimpse of his reddened skin, to his side.

"It's nothing," he repeated, though much softer. At that moment, Spencer sprung off of the floor, insinuating himself between the two of them, his fingers pressed against his forehead in typical fashion. Though he didn't show it, Lassiter was mildly surprised when Spencer claimed responsibility for coffee spill and Lassiter's embarrassing fall. Goddammit, if she hadn't seen it, she didn't need to know about it, but here Spencer was, telling her every detail as if he'd been standing there, watching it literally go down. Carlton grumbled, rolling his eyes and gritting his teeth so hard he was reminded that his headache was only getting worse. He took the opportunity of the distraction to back away, carefully, in case his feet were still against him, to at least get some paper towels from his desk to wipe his face.

A few seconds passed tranquilly; he should have known that couldn't last.

"Carlton?"

Lassiter tensed; he had had his back to the door and had not heard his partner's approach over the rumbling of his angry thoughts. His face turned scarlet, not because of his now muddled appearance, but because he had suddenly remembered the reason he had startled awake twenty minutes before his alarm. He had bolted upright, the sheets sliding part way to the floor; the muscles in his shoulders and upper back as knotted as if he hadn't slept at all. The way dreams go sometimes upon waking, it had faded instantly as if it had never been there, but Carlton had still felt the bad mood like an ache at the base of his skull, and wondered, though not too much, why his jaw was so tight as if he had clenched his teeth all night long.

He remembered now.

Juliet sighed, repeating his name with a more formal undercurrent of exasperation, but Lassiter remained unmoving, more quickly blotting the sweat from his forehead and cheeks than he had previously given care to moping up the coffee. The scent wafting from her was the unmistakable fragrance of peaches, just light enough to be pleasant when the two were in close proximity— while, now, he feared, the scent may haunt him for a while. Lassiter worked hard to concoct a plan— the reason he was blushing? The reason why he couldn't stop? It was— the spilled coffee, and the embarrassing fall— yes, yes, he reasoned, this was completely plausible.

Lassiter turned towards her slowly, cursing himself for the semi-idiotic grin he had plastered on his mouth— involuntarily. He fought with his lips until they skewed, in a compromise, into a nearly amused frown. Of course, this memory had to resurface now, when he was already flustered and had already made enough of an ass of himself in front of her. What are you doing? he chided himself harshly. It was just a stupid dream. It was not a prophecy that you and O'Hara—

"Are you all right?" Juliet asked, a mild concern replacing the frustration that he was the reason they were late for the meeting in Vick's office. "Is that blood on your face?" Was he imaging it, or did she ask her questions in a smoky voice? Get a grip! he screamed at himself. She's your partner— she's not— it's not like with Lucinda— just a dream— a very bad, inappropriate dream—

"What was an inappropriate dream?" O'Hara repeated, her eyebrows raising in question.

Lassiter could only thank a number of unknown sources that there was no amusement in her tone, and cursed himself again for letting his idiocy show. "Nothing," he finally stammered. "We should get on to that meeting?" Lassiter took a step forward, inadvertently brushing his arm against hers. He squeezed his eyes shut and then quickened his pace. It wasn't fair; she had waited for him, but he called over his shoulder, "Meet you in there!"

"What about your hand?" Juliet called back. "It doesn't look so good—"

At her words, the burn throbbed, but he ignored it, and clenched his fist. "It's fine," he grumbled, hearing her step behind him. He bit his lip hard to keep from barking out why she thought she had to walk so close? It was her usual way and if he challenged it so suddenly into their partnership, she was going to ask questions— and he'd only have embarrassing answers to give. He tensed further and lessened his speed walk so she could catch up and pretended her presence wasn't bothering him. He wiped away another layer of sweat that had beaded on his upper lip as they made it to Vick's door.

* * *

Carlton flung Vick's door open hard enough to rattle the glass in the frame. He was, at the back of his mind, surprised that the glass didn't crack or shatter— from the way this day was going—

"Detective Lassiter! Where do you think you're going?"

Lassiter gritted his teeth hard, and hunched his shoulders as if against a cold wind at his back, but he didn't pause. Thirty five minutes of inner-departmental harassment— that's what he should have braced himself for, going into this meeting. If only he had known. He should have— thirty five minutes of near stunned silence from himself, his partner, and even the Chief while two Internal Affairs officers chastised and threatened him— him, about his recent "excessive use" of his firearms, among other things. Of course, he had tried, on several occasions during this witch hunt to protest and defend himself, but they had continued their obviously prepared speech without letting him get a single word in edgewise. He had had no choice but to stand there and take it, but when they started in on the petty— the mussed up appearance of his clothes, he had about lost it.

"Detective, we are not finished!"

Perhaps storming out this way made him look like a spoiled child who had, up until this point, been used to getting his way, but Lassiter didn't, in that moment, care. He headed for a restroom, the visit long overdue, and ran his still throbbing burn under a cold stream of water. He didn't dare look at his expression in the mirror because he figured the murderous rage he felt to his core may even unnerve himself a little. Instead, he looked down at the sink and forced himself to take in deep, steadying breaths. He couldn't quite force the word "calm" in between "deep" and "steadying" yet, so he decided he would take what he could get. If they chose, at least one of the Internal Affairs agents could come in here, but for a few seconds, Lassiter wallowed in the fact that Vick, O'Hara and other Internal Affairs officer would likely not check in on him in the men's bathroom.

He hated to admit it, even to himself, but O'Hara had been very good these past years about reigning him in with her no nonsense attitude. He speculated that he had rubbed off on her because her demeanor had lost some of its sweetness for the respectable edge she now possessed. But he couldn't, not during this horrible day, lean on her or vent his frustrations because he was still too hung up on that stupid dream that was making him feel a little too close to her. Stop acting like an ass, Lassiter chided himself. He figured if he expressed these silly insecurities to O'Hara, she might just wrinkle up her nose and remind him that their relationship was platonic and professional. Carlton found himself slightly relieved at this imagined repulsion of O'Hara's. He sighed, turned off the faucet, and straightened, catching a glimpse of his sea-blue eyes, which seemed awash with a coming storm. He noticed, for the first time, a small cut on his jaw line close to his right ear. That was new— he hadn't gotten that one from shaving. It must have happened earlier, during the fall. Funny, because he couldn't remember how he could have cut himself. The wound had dried, but the blemish was obvious. He fingered it; it didn't hurt.

Lassiter sighed. He knew he had to suck this up, and go back out there, and likely listen to another hour of his character assassination— but he had no choice. He tried to concoct a polite, non smart ass apology on his way back towards Vick's office. What if they take your badge for this? a nasty voice stabbed at the back of his brain. Then how will you take out your frustrations on the range?

The fear of losing control gave him pause, long enough for him to see Shawn Spencer and Burton Guster exiting Vick's office, Spencer wearing a huge grin on his stubbled face.

"Spencer, what the hell are you doing?" Lassiter demanded, his mouth pulling tight into a frown. He didn't have time to form the thoughts as to what, exactly, Spencer may have been doing before Spencer caught him off guard with a slap to the stomach. Lassiter jumped, his eyebrows knitting together with a rage that manifested as a tic on the left side of his face, at his jaw and above his eyebrow.

He was ready to yank his gun from its holster and read Spencer his rights for "assaulting" a police office when Spencer mumbled, "Don't worry, Lassie-Face, I've got your back."

Lassiter was more than ready to wipe that smug grin off of Spencer's face with the barrel of his weapon, and even had his fingers wrapped around the base and trigger when he remembered why Internal Affairs was here. Begrudgingly, Lassiter released the weapon and tugged his jacket around his holster just to give his hands something to do other than make a fist or encircle Spencer's neck.

Guster inhaled, then shot a look at Shawn. He was keeping tabs on Lassiter through the corner of his eye, more able to pick up that Lassiter's mood was little more than fury under a thin veil. Shawn didn't seem to get Gus's hint to move this along, so Gus cleared his throat.

"Buddy," Shawn said with a lopsided grin. He dug around in his pocket and then handed Gus a small yellow and green wrapped object. "It's pineapple flavor."

Lassiter saw what it was and growled, muttering something nearly inaudible under his breath, something about murder.

Guster sighed, rolled his eyes, and pocketed the cough drop. He worked very hard to keep his eyes from Lassiter's face, focusing instead on his hair line before nodding towards an area in back of Lassiter's right shoulder. "I'll be over there, Shawn."

Shawn reached out, trying to halt Gus's leave by ensnaring his elbow. Gus wriggled out and smacked Shawn's hand, shooting him a look Lassiter had observed Guster give Spencer a hundred times or more. A thousand? Lassiter shook his head hard; whenever Spencer was around, it seemed that any rational thought processes automatically took a nose dive. He was even more furious for letting himself get sucked in.

"Spencer?" Lassiter repeated through clenched teeth, worried that if he opened his mouth all the way, the faker's name would be a loud bark certain to attract the attention of anyone still in Vick's office.

"It's fine, Lassie," Shawn continued pleasantly, easily ignoring Lassiter's anger. "I just told them what the spirits told me." His smile faltered slightly at Lassiter's expression, which was quickly changing the detective's face a light shade of maroon. "They told me—"

"I do not need you to fight my battles for me," Lassiter snapped. "Stay out of my business."

"I can't do that," Shawn said, still managing to hang onto his smile. Shawn could make out Gus gesticulating frantically as if he were the psychic one now. Shawn shook his head as if this wasn't any big deal. "Lassie—"

"What kind of lies did you tell them?" Lassiter demanded, extending his long pointer finger to jab at Shawn's chest. Spencer fumbled backwards a little, his mouth flattening out.

"Lass—"

Before he was fully aware of what he was doing, Lassiter had his right hand closing around Spencer's shoulder, squeezing so hard that his earlier burn screamed as if he had torn skin. He released Shawn's shoulder just as quickly, but not before Spencer yelped, all amusement gone from his voice. A look of hurt crossed Spencer's eyes; Lassiter knew immediately it wasn't because of any physical pain. It flashed and disappeared, and then Shawn said flatly, "The spirits gave you a pass." He took two large side steps that got him out of range should Lassiter try to manhandle him again and then walked towards Gus without another word.

Lassiter sighed; usually any Spencer sendoffs left him filled with an unnatural glee; of course, not today. There was the smallest twinge of remorse in place of the glee; he almost turned, not sure for what, because he wasn't about to apologize for Spencer's own daily idiocy, but he managed to steel himself in place. There wasn't anything to say.

Instead, he took in half a breath and went towards Vick's office, the door still open. As soon as he was in the door frame, he caught the stony faces of the four people he had stormed out on a few minutes before. Lassiter wondered how much of the exchange with Spencer they may have overheard. He sighed under his breath, and started to part his lips when Vick spoke. "Detective, come in and close the door," she said icily.