Disclaimer: I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

Rating: K+

Spoilers: Through current episodes, particularly strong from Heeeeere's Lassie and Shawn Rescues Darth Vader.

A/N: The events of this story take place sometime after, but in direct reaction to, the side-plot events of Shawn Rescues Darth Vader. Very vaguely inspired by the "I wouldn't say no to a sloppy joe" line from Heeeeere's Lassie, which either is or would be a great advertising slogan for Manwich or that sloppy joe restaurant chain, whatever the hell it's called. (Whatever, I just love any mention of sloppy joes because that's my cat's name - "Sloppy Joe the Very Slow.") Aside from the obvious or semi-obvious or will-be-obvious or completely obscured plot monkey of this piece, the basic premise is that each chapter will in some way relate to a favorite song, if I can manage it. Otherwise, disregard that last statement. (OH! MADE-RITE!)

Chapter One: Hard-Time Losin' Man

Lassiter had been in serious pain all day, though he gave little outward sign of it. The toothache he'd been foolishly ignoring for weeks had deepened into the hot, burning agony of abscess, which meant root canal, which meant a massive investment of money and time to allow some thick-fingered stranger to put hands in his mouth and dig around in the offending back molar until it was nothing but a dead, ground-down stump, which he would have to spend more time and money on covering with a shiny silver crown. At least it was a back tooth and not one that would show in a smile, because a porcelain crown was probably out of the question for awhile, given the fact that he'd recently sunk his life savings into a creeptacular new condo.

He'd have to get it taken care of, because one thing you could not ignore was an abscessed tooth. It killed Ramses the Great and it could kill Carlton Michael Lassiter, too. But it was the weekend, so it would have to wait a couple of days. And the pain would have to take a back seat, because today was Saturday, and that meant Prisoner Visitation at LOMPOC Women's Correctional.

Just walking through the doors of the grim bunker-like building lifted his spirits, and the pain faded into the background even though, as always, the glorified babysitter guards, doubtless jealous of a real cop, made him check his weapon and searched him. He stood at one of the viewing windows and waited.

As soon as she came in, as always remarkably beautiful despite the unflattering color of the orange jumpsuit, he knew something was seriously wrong. She looked…apprehensive. And apologetic. His heart fell into his size twelve-narrow shoes and the bright pain of his bad tooth flared back into consciousness.

He sat down in slow-motion and reached for the black plastic receiver on the wall. She sat down with obvious hesitation. "Hello, Marlowe," he said dully. "This is it, then, isn't it?"

"I'm so sorry, Carlton," she said, and she did sound truly sorry, but what difference did it really make whether she felt badly or not? It was still his heart in the dumpster, not hers. "It's just…Adam asked me to dinner, and…well, I guess I finally realized that since I don't have to take care of Adrian anymore, I'm free to…kind of…explore life a little."

"Adam. Adam Hornstock, your lawyer?" The lawyer he'd introduced her to. The lawyer he'd paid for. For a moment he considered planting evidence on the Bieber-haired barrister. He'd deserve it, him and his little ass-cheek chin and his rubbery lips. But even if he really were the type of cop who'd do such a thing, suddenly the whole idea of even the pettiest revenge just seemed like a colossal waste of time and effort. Not worth it.

"Yeah," Marlowe said. "He's not as handsome as you, or as strong, and I don't think he'd know a Clint Eastwood movie reference if I clubbed him over the head with one, but…well…he was very sweet to me, and he is awfully cute…"

Sweet and cute. Two adjectives he didn't even want to apply to him, and yet they were ruining his life again.

"…Carlton?" she ventured into the long silence. "Carlton, please talk to me. Tell me you're going to be okay."

He looked at her as though squirrels were swan diving out of her nostrils. Okay? Okay?

He swallowed. "I'll be all right, Marlowe, don't worry about me," he lied. Not the first time he'd told that lie, and doubtless it wouldn't be the last time, either, unless his tooth did a Ramses the Great on his ass. He stood up. Her eyes followed him, big and brown and beautiful and sad. "I, uh…I hope you're happy, Marlowe," he said. He shook the cobwebs out of his head and tried again. "That's not sarcastic or bitter or anything like that, I honestly hope you're happy. You deserve it."

She placed her hand flat to the glass, as had been their ritual since the first time he'd come to visit her. He ignored the gesture, hung up the phone, and walked away. He could barely be bothered to collect his Glock on the way out.

He climbed behind the wheel of the black Ford Fusion and just sat there for a long moment, keys hanging limp in his hand. He felt like his heart was abscessed, and he wished he could pay to have a thick-fingered someone reach in and sever the nerves, grind it down to a barely useful lump, and cover it in shiny, nerveless silver. Teflon, so nothing could stick. Adamantium, so it could never break again. He wouldn't mind a set of foot-long retractable claws, either, come to think of it.

He roused himself with a deep sigh and put the keys in the ignition. As the hybrid engine purred to life nearly silently, the stereo blared on, restored to the middle of a Jim Croce CD that Henry had loaned him.

"Woah, sometimes skies are cloudy, and sometimes skies are blue. Sometimes you see it and you eat the bear, but sometimes the bear eats you," Croce sang, blissfully unaware that the bear of his life would eat him before he really had a chance to get off the ground. "Sometimes I feel like I should go far, far away and hide, 'cause I keep a-waitin' for my ship to come in, and all that ever come is the tide. And you think you seen trouble? Well, you're lookin' at a man, uh huh, oh the world's own original hard-luck story and hard-time losin' man."

Lassiter could relate. He turned off the stereo and put the hybrid into gear. It was time to go home.