Epilogue: We're Burning A New Sunrise Into Yesterday's Skies

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Any and all usual disclaimers still apply.

Author's Note: You made it, this is the last chapter! Thanks so much to everyone for reading and for all the wonderful reviews! :)

Special thanks to egorstandish1 for a particular "evil plot bunny" inspiration. :)

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

* * *

They were paused outside out Lassiter's hospital room, talking over a few things before going into see him. Now that things were starting to look up, or similar to what they once were, both of them wondered if Lassiter would try to shoo them away, insisting he was fine. Juliet was resolved to be cheerful and not let her partner's possible sour temperament get to her; Vick, for her part, had resolved to be firm but friendly— though unyielding if necessary. This, the healing, it was going to be hard on him, both knew. Neither wanted to crowd him, but neither were ready to drop their concern, whether it manifested as kind words or a touch, or a flash or two of overprotectiveness.

"Chief, you're not really going to tell Carlton about the clippings and photographs we discovered in Notte's house?" Juliet asked.

Karen sighed, and pursed her lips. "I haven't decided. I think he deserves to know, possibly sooner than later, so he can work on getting passed it. Would you want to know?"

Juliet fidgeted, trying to put herself in both her partner's and Vick's positions. Would it be too much of a burden for Lassiter to hear? Or would he be pissed off and betrayed if it was kept from him? She sighed. "I can't answer that— I'm not sure if I would want to know, at least so soon. But for Carlton—" She sighed again. "I think it would be wise to tell him right away."

Vick studied her, then nodded. "A no more secrets policy."

Juliet half smiled. There would always be secrets, but at least, in this case, coming clean was for the best.

"Because, god knows, all he's been through—"

The two women nodded at each other, the burning, admirable look in both sets of eyes nearly identical.

* * *

"I'm going to get some coffee," Henry told Lassiter after they'd watched almost two full episodes of Cops.

Lassiter nodded. "You know, you don't have to hang around here if you don't want to," he told Henry, looking down at his bandaged hands.

Henry smiled. "I know that. You want some coffee?"

"S— sure," Lassiter said. "Black, four sugars."

"You got it."

After Henry left, Lassiter switched off the TV. He felt tired, but didn't want to close his eyes. The events that had transpired since his rescue— and Spencer's— almost seemed more unreal than past two weeks. He found himself studying his badge in a manner similar to when he had first earned it; as if, if he didn't keep a close eye on it, it might just vanish into thin air, as if it were only a figment to begin with. Lassiter was replaying Vick's words again, a little lost in yesterday's conversation to really register that the door to his room was opening.

The man who entered was unexpected, but smiled just as Lassiter let out a straggled cry— one loud enough to draw the attention of his colleagues outside. He was too shocked to be embarrassed by his outburst.

The older man continued his smile, telling Juliet and Vick, who had rushed in, Juliet with her gun drawn, that he and Lassiter were old friends. "It's okay," he said, nodding. He held up his hands to show he wasn't a threat, and didn't protest when Juliet patted him down. "Don't you remember me, kid?" he asked in a tone of feigned hurt, stepping closer to the bed.

"Carlton?" Karen's voice rang out. She found it a little unusual that Lassiter was allowing this man to address him so informally. Despite Lassiter's being younger than she, she would never consider calling him "a kid". The man, a little pudgy around the middle, was blocking her view of Lassiter's expression. Lassiter didn't answer her, his eyes widened, studying the face of the man before him. His throat constricted.

Lassiter worked hard to push himself upright, fumbling for the remote which also controlled the bed. He struggled, trying to ignore the cast and the brace so he could use his arms. He grunted at the mild ache felt through the steady flow of meds at his quick shifting. The breath was seeping out of him; the heart monitor spiked and his pulse raced. He couldn't believe what he was seeing, especially not after— "I killed him quickly. A shot to the throat. A mercy kill."

"I'm not a ghost, you know."

"He said— he said you were dead," Lassiter finally managed. His voice was steady but low, awed, disbelieving. "He said he'd killed you—"

Juliet exchanged a glance with Vick. Juliet finally lowered her gun and secured it back it its holster.

"Take it easy," Adam Marks said, the kind smile still on his lips and in his eyes. His brown hair had grayed over completely, as had the whiskers on his face, the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth deeper. He looked his former partner over with a low whistle. "It takes more than rumors to kill me." He raised an appraising eyebrow. "Apparently, for you as well."

"Carlton, you know this man?" Vick cut in, leaning around Marks to catch his eye. Lassiter saw how worried she was; what if this person were another stalker who wanted his blood? He felt relieved at her concern, and let his muscles relax, dropping back against the raised pillows. He couldn't believe it— that bastard Notte had lied.

"Yes," Lassiter said. "Chief, O'Hara, this is Adam Marks—" Lassiter gave him a sideways look. "What's your rank now, sir?"

Marks smiled. "Sergeant. Retired."

"Marks?" Juliet repeated. "You were Carlton's partner when— the Cavaliere case?"

Marks nodded, letting out another low whistle. "Been a long time since I heard that name."

"Chief Karen Vick," Karen said, shaking his hand. "This is Detective Juliet O'Hara, Lassiter's partner," she said, introducing Juliet. As Marks shook her hand, giving her a warm look that reminded her the way Charlie had looked at her when he'd brought up Lassiter's old case file, Juliet apologized for pulling her gun on him.

"No apologies necessary for watching out for your partner. Especially one who's been through hell and lived to tell about it."

After the three of them exchanged introductions, he let his eyes rest on Lassiter for a minute. "You know, you could have called me if you were in trouble, son."

Lassiter, Vick and Juliet all flushed at the same time, Lassiter squirming a little under the sheets. Both Karen and Juliet briefly studied opposite walls. Marks gazed from one face to the next. "I see."

"We all make mistakes," Vick said finally. She gave Lassiter a pointed looked with an undercurrent of an apology. "How did you find out about this?" Karen asked Marks. When Marks said through the news, Karen swore. Juliet didn't look at all surprised, but Lassiter was.

"It's a pretty big thing to keep away from the media, even with precautions," Marks said. "Members of the Cavaliere family resurfacing after ten years— stalking a cop— fraud— drugs— abductions— attempted murder— murder." He stopped when he saw how white Lassiter's face had gone. "Sorry, kid."

Lassiter shook his head, trying clear the haunted look that had settled in his eyes.

"So Cavaliere's brother said he'd killed me? When was this?"

"When he had his Glock to my face," Lassiter said, and Marks winced visibly. "He'd broken my wrist, drugged me; I wasn't myself. I didn't want to believe it, but I knew he was capable." He noticed Juliet clenching her fists at her sides, her knuckles turning white.

Marks nodded slowly. "I heard all about that, kid. Coward used you as a shield." He sighed. "Please, Carlton, call me if there's a next time. I've still got your back." He guffawed. "Even at my old age."

Lassiter looked a little uncomfortable, turning his head away from them for some moments.

"He couldn't call you," Juliet piped up, "because they had warned him after drugging him that talking to the police was off limits."

Lassiter nodded imperceptibly, his head still turned from them. And because of the shame, he thought, wondering over his intensified paranoia that had made the consideration of contacting his old partner even worse that confiding in Spencer or trying to get a pissed off Vick to believe him.

"Really did a number on you, didn't they? Christ, you look like hell."

Lassiter turned back towards Marks' warm brown eyes. He cracked a smile at Marks' teasing. "I may look like hell, but I'm living, still."

"You had better be. You've got work to do." He squeezed Lassiter's shoulder once. "Justice to serve." Marks shook his head. "It's good that you've always been a fighter— titanium nerves and all. But, hell, I could shoot that dirtbag for messing with you."

"I did," Vick mumbled behind Marks. Marks threw a quick look at her, and she nodded.

"I did too," Juliet added. She offered her partner a smile. Lassiter actually smiled back, awed at his junior partner.

"Bastards will never get near you again," Marks continued, a determined edge to his voice, catching Vick's eyes. Juliet nodded. "You've got back-up now."

"That's absolutely correct," Vick agreed. They were silent for a few moments; Carlton wondered if they wished they could erase his pain with a magic swipe to the past. They couldn't; what they could do was act overly protective of him— which he tried not to mind, and then help him through the tough stuff.

Lassiter pressed his lips into another small smile. "Thanks. I'm— okay."

The door opened without a knock, and Shawn waltzed in, catching everyone's eye. He stopped. "Was I supposed to bring a gift?" He turned. "Gus, why didn't you tell me?"

"I've been a little busy," Gus said. "Will you move?" He shoved Shawn away from the door so he could actually get into the room. He sniffed. "Besides, I remembered." He handed the packet to Vick.

"What's this?" she asked. Juliet looked over her shoulder after throwing a pleasant smile in Shawn's and Gus's direction.

"My second set of copies," Gus told her, gesturing towards Lassiter. "The test results from the glass."

"What?" Vick said, opening the plastic bag. She and Juliet looked them over, open mouthed.

"I was always the smart one," Gus said, smiling at Shawn, who just smirked back.

Gus caught his first glimpse of Lassiter and tried to keep not to look too green. "Guster," Lassiter said, eyeing him. "You're a free man."

Gus nodded. "So are you, I've heard."

Lassiter smiled. "It's true." He paused. "You can say I look like hell— everyone else has."

Gus shook his head, feeling an odd relief that Shawn's determination had paid off— it hadn't really hit him until this moment— Shawn was really a hero. "I'm glad you're okay, Detective," he said politely.

Shawn eyed Marks in a similar manner to Vick's. He slid his eyes to Lassiter's, then took a determined step towards Adam. "Lassie, is this guy bothering you?"

Lassiter sighed. Marks laughed. "You got some pretty good friends here, kid. I apologize, Head Detective. You earned that title and I owe you my respect." Lassiter tried to shrug, trying to be nonchalant at his former partner's praise. Adam gave Lassiter an approving look with an attached smile and then introduced himself to Shawn and Gus.

"Kid?" Gus mouthed to Shawn.

"Right?" Shawn mouthed back, a quizzical expression raising his eyebrows.

"I know," Lassiter said to Marks. "I'm fortunate, to know these people. Even those two, over there," nodding at Shawn and Gus. He made sure he looked in everyone's eyes at least once. Vick looked a little mushy, but was keeping it together; O'Hara was dabbing her eyes with her fingertips. Shawn wore a look of mock surprise. It still astounded him how fearful they had been of losing him.

Shawn beamed. "That's right, Lassie, you're stuck with us." He draped an arm around Gus's shoulder. Gus swatted it off, playfully, a look of his old self gleaming in his brown eyes. Shawn just chuckled.

"Bet he doesn't feel so fortunate now," Gus whispered to Shawn. "Now that you pointed that out to him."

Shawn rolled his eyes at Gus but held his smile. "I think you'd be wrong about that, buddy." He flicked his head in Lassiter's direction. Despite all of Lassiter's injuries, the detective wore a small smile full of gratitude.

"Geez," Gus muttered. "Was I really gone that long?"

* * *

Lassiter parked his red sedan in his designated parking spot, shut off the engine and unbuckled his seat belt. He sighed under his breath, staring for a moment through the windshield at the Santa Barbara Police Station. It looked solid and sturdy; it looked the same as ever. He felt relieved; if the outside hadn't changed, then it was just as likely the inside was just as busy and flurried as— as always. He needed this— this was his life, his purpose.

He'd spent nearly two weeks in the hospital, and then another week and a half in his apartment on bed rest. It would take his right wrist several more weeks to heal, but for once in his life, he'd been very careful and had taken it easy when it came to his injuries. He felt he'd earned it; besides, not a single one of them was about to let him not take it easy. He'd grumbled and frowned about it— for their benefit, and was the tough Head Detective they'd known; as if they couldn't see his smile or the softened look in his eyes, his wordless gratitude. Even Shawn knew they didn't have to be psychic to "see" that.

He knew they were concerned, but they never once treated him like he was broken, or a child; they were there as support, as the friends they were to him— they respected and admired him for his strength, for positioning himself between the others and the threat— for facing his fears despite his lack of physical and emotional control. His apartment didn't take on a crowded feel; while he did value his private time and space, he hadn't wanted to admit he was, at least for a few days, haunted by the ghosts of his old fears. They had become shadow selves, simple worry or anxiety; the space was so empty in those first few minutes after they had all gone. He wouldn't let them say it aloud, but he knew they thought of him as heroic, a true leader. His ego swelled anyway.

After a few days, Vick had ordered him to start therapy sessions— with a psychiatrist other than Dr. Rhodes. Physical therapy was to follow, once his right arm was out of the cast, as well as for the left.

Lassiter set his face into his natural tight expression and got out of the car. His right wrist was still in its cast, but the left one had healed much faster. The bruises were almost all faded, and the cuts nearly entirely closed up. He sighed one more time, then started forward, chiding himself for nearly smoothing out his jacket. He knew he had no reason to be nervous; though it had been over a month since he'd been here. Already early September, though the air still smelled of late summer. It was still in Vick's hands should he sit on desk duty for the next couple weeks or return to active duty immediately. He'd done another session with a police psychologist; which he felt went well. Despite everything he had been through, he took extreme comfort in two factors: the Belldormita was gone forever from his blood, and he'd learned that he'd earned every single friendship and offer of protection— because of the person he was— not one of them would just let him go. He was not alone.

"Lassie!" In spite of himself, Lassiter's eye twitched with mild annoyance. He stopped with a sigh, and turned towards the voice. "You're back!"

Lassiter nodded. He winced internally, wondering again if this was another sign that told him things were going to be weird, once he went inside. He tried for his old gruffness. "What are you doing here?" But Spencer just laughed.

"Got a potential case, Lassie," Shawn said, rolling his eyes. "Not that Gus and I wouldn't just come here to chair race or borrow office supplies." Shawn snickered as Lassiter rolled his eyes, and tried to feign disinterest. He figured the gears were turning in Lassiter's head; it was his first day back and it probably ate at him that Shawn had shown up to taunt him with some case.

Carlton sighed, and squinted ahead. The station loomed, leering, but only for a half second. He felt the slightest flutter of worry or nervousness— but that was all there was to the small feelings; almost a dot or a speck compared to the vivid three dimensional fears that had completely taken over him. Both emotional reactions and memories had mostly returned to what they were in the state of his pre-kidnapping. Lassiter was beyond words relieved that even the smallest fear no longer sent him into a tailspin to crash and then burn or explode. He was grateful to be able to retrieve memories, even the ones of his troubles, with the fading colors or grainy blacks and whites of past events. Over time, he hoped, the specific memories of his ordeal would take on a gray, washed-out quality, so faded in places they might be too hard to make out (what was that event? Did it really frighten me so?), (though they would likely always bite at him with the smallest tint of red).

Lassiter hated to admit that therapy was helping as well. He knew there would always be a dividing line— the state in which he existed pre-kidnapping, and then that of after. He had to cope— he couldn't just swept it all under the rug as if had never happened. Sometimes, he still had dreams; but no more unwanted memories returned. The dreams, lately, were reruns of Notte holding him at gunpoint on the pier while the SBPD advanced. He would sometimes awaken ashen and scared, and would have to pat himself down to for reassurance that he was really okay— that he had been rescued. Still, of these dreams and thoughts of them, the fear remained minor; he was usually able to settle back down to sleep quickly. It also helped he had his locks changed— all those little material details that had before unnerved him— those were all things his friends had helped him fix. Before, he never fully appreciated a rush of fear— then its quick descent. He marveled at how the panic no longer lingered, how it was easier and easier to talk himself out of paranoia.

Especially since, just yesterday, he'd received a letter. It had come to him mixed in with his other mail, an ordinary envelope, gray, with a stamp. The return address was CIW, the California Institution for Women.

He might have just tossed it on his coffee table, just another envelope among junk mail, bills, gun interest catalogs— had it not reeked, its heady scent wafting up as he sorted through his daily haul, of vanilla.

Carlton was relieved, for the first time in weeks, that he was alone in the apartment. He had dropped everything as if they were much too slippery to hold. Was it a trigger, was it reaching back, back, into him, twisting in him, making him tremble with pain the same way, the demanding lust? Near death? Lassiter calmed down relatively quickly, taking a few deep breaths, squatting easily without red thoughts or shaking fingers to retrieve the scattered pile. He dumped the rest of the ordinary mail on the table, and stared at her letter.

It was only paper. He knew it couldn't hurt him. Especially if he never opened it.

Lassiter had toyed with many ways of disposing of it— crumpling, tearing, burning, even shooting it to confetti on the range. Instead, he'd slipped into his jacket, not because he wanted to keep it close to heart, but because he was resolved to let someone know he'd received it. This was progress; the demanding Spencers— who had both slapped him for keeping secrets— they might agree. After duty, or on a break, Lassiter made plans to drop by the post office and take care of this— he hoped this was the last letter he would ever get from Donia Notte.

He had to let Vick see it— this may be used as evidence, if not for this case then at least for a restraining order. There was a chance she would say he was making something out of nothing— Carlton shook his head. No, that was the old Vick. She would help him, if he asked. But he hoped she wouldn't fret over this too much. Looking over the envelope gave him the echoes of an ache— but the fear his body been forced into no longer existed inside his mind.

"What's that?" Spencer asked, peering at an envelope in Lassiter's hand. Lassiter gasped under his breath; he hadn't realized he had taken it out of his jacket's pocket. "CIW? That's the state's only all-women prison, right?" Lassiter nodded tightly. It was Shawn's turn to gasp. Now that he thought it, he had overheard some cops mention Donia being the first to crack— and confess. "Seriously?"

Lassiter sighed; he didn't see any point of keeping it from Spencer. "It came in with yesterday's mail."

"Dude," Shawn breathed, eyeing the envelope as if he could see inside. He broke into a small grin. "You're sharing? Lassie, that's great."

Lassiter grumbled.

"You know, if Vick sees that, there will be yelling," Shawn told him.

Lassiter nodded. "Yeah, I figure that. I thought about just throwing it away, pretending I never got it—"

"It's unopened."

"I couldn't," Lassiter mumbled.

Shawn nodded. "Dude, you don't have to tell me— she's—"

"I know." Lassiter narrowed his eyes for a moment, studying Shawn. "Spencer, did you really go for her throat?"

Shawn sucked in a quick breath. He wasn't sure how much he should admit— except he'd already done it in a roomful of cops. "Uh, yeah. Kind of."

Lassiter dropped his voice, just in case anyone could be listening. He scolded himself for this minor fumble of paranoia, but continued. "Don't tell the Chief I said this, but thanks for that." Lassiter took in a deep breath. Despite receiving the letter, and his decision to bring it in, he hadn't really wanted to dwell on Donia or any of the Nottes— Cavalieres. But he knew that, just because the Belladormita had fled his system with the detox, the other unlearning of the upsetting responses at any mention or thought of them was going take longer. "She'd probably make mention of it to my therapist."

"We can be therapy buddies, Lassie," Shawn said a little too cheerfully. Lassiter offered him a dubious look. "Chief Vick and my dad told me I was barred from cases until I agreed to see someone on a weekly basis until things, you know—"

Lassiter nodded, failing to mention he'd already discussed this mandatory therapy for Shawn with Henry. "It's annoying, but it— it can't really hurt," he admitted.

Shawn kicked at the ground.

"You could— uh— I'd listen," Lassiter heard himself saying to Shawn. He winced, and looked away when he caught a slightly amused look breaking out on Shawn's face. He wanted to tell Spencer to forget it, but he knew he couldn't. "I mean, we both went through similar—"

Shawn grinned. He didn't say anything, just nodding instead.

"There's— I—" Lassiter paused, looking once at the station doors, watching the uniforms open the doors to go in. He hadn't said it before, but he owed Shawn thanks. He couldn't put it off any longer. "Spencer— you saved my life," Lassiter told him, ignoring the smugness on the Shawn's face. "More than once—"

"Lassie, you're making me blush," Shawn smirked.

Lassiter ground a foot into the pavement, pressed his lips into a hard line for a moment, but then continued. "Can't you just accept this, Spencer?" Lassiter snapped, looking Shawn in the eye. "I'm trying to say—"

Shawn crossed his arms, feigning mild anger. "My dad told me what you did."

Lassiter's brow knitted. "What are you talking about?"

"How you made him take you out of the hospital despite your injuries—" Lassiter started to protest, but Shawn cut him off. "How you put yourself in danger to protect us— even though you probably knew that psycho wanted to kill you."

"I was only returning the favor," Lassiter said, offering Shawn a meaningful look.

"So, I saved your life and you saved mine— I guess that means we're even, then, Lassie," Shawn said with a smile and a gleam in his eye.

"Even?" Lassiter repeated. Any other time he may have argued that it wasn't possible for them to be even— he was a cop with training and experience, a determined hard worker, and Shawn was a— he shook his head slowly. Any of the negative or unwholesome adjectives he could usually find to describe Spencer weren't there. All he could see was the brave— albeit a little crazy, always putting himself in dangerous situations— kid who'd managed to save his life. There was that extra understanding— knowing— since they'd both been in the hands of same criminals, and they both been hurt, terrorized. Lassiter wondered if this should unnerve him, serve to unhinge him, but instead, he felt a strange but not unwelcome affinity for Spencer— they'd both endured— and survived. They were standing outside of the Santa Barbara Police Station as if it were any ordinary day— and it was. This younger man standing here had made it so, and it was true, Lassiter had returned the favor by making an offering of himself for danger. Shawn was a decent friend, he decided. Though, he wasn't going to say it aloud. Maybe next time, if there was one. Lassiter nodded to Shawn, with a genuine smile. "Even it is, Spencer."

The End