FIC: Five Conversations Carlton Lassiter Never Had

[luciazephyr]

Title: Five Conversations Carlton Lassiter Never Had
Author: Lucia Zephyr (lucia_tanaka)
Fandom: Psych
Genre: Character study
Rating: PG

Summary: A series of looks at the many sides of Carlton Lassiter.

Author Notes: HUGE kudos to the, like, five people who read this over and squeed and coo'ed over it and fixed my typos.

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1. "What happened to make you hate psychics?"

The break room at the Santa Barbara Police Department is tucked into the corner of the main work area. It has glass walls, dim lights, a bar against the far wall with coffee and snacks set out, a small fridge filled with caffeinated drinks for those all-nighters. It's a good room, Lassiter thinks, functional and efficient in its purpose. He's always valued jobs well done.

Lassiter sits in one of the tall barstool-style chairs, leaning back against the bar. He's balanced on two spokes of the seat and keeps perfect balance with one hand on the cool surface of the counter. He's watching.

Spencer's in the Chief's office again after the closing of another case and he walks out with a spring in his step, tucking a folded up check into his jacket pocket. McNab is the first to greet him, clapping the civilian on the back and starting up a conversation. Lassiter frowns as more people, people who should be working to save lives and livelihoods, abandon their work to congratulate Spencer. It makes Lassiter feel slightly ill.

O'Hara joins him in the break room quietly, examining the coffee pot and pouring herself a cup. "He's done it again."

Lassiter nods curtly. "So he says."

O'Hara sighs. "Not this again."

Lassiter glares at her over his coffee mug. "Not what again, Junior Detective?" Lassiter has never been above pulling rank. He earned his title; he's earned the right to use it.

"Your preoccupation with Shawn Spencer, Head Detective." She says back coolly. "This is, what, his eleventh successful consultation? He's won over even the most skeptical officers."

"Except me," Lassiter murmurs.

"Except you." O'Hara puts down her mug and makes that little squinched face she always makes when she asks a question she knows she has no business asking, but just can't help herself. Lassiter suppresses an eyeroll. They'll never be able to put her in an interrogation room. A solid poker face is something O'Hara seriously lacks. "Okay, is this some sort of personal agenda? I heard about him getting your last partner sent away."

"It's not about that." Lassiter hasn't looked at her yet, watching her in peripheral.

"Then what? We get tons of consults from other people, but a psychic walks on the scene and..."

"And?"

O'Hara ducks her head, whispering into her drink, "Well, it's taken months for you to not give the impression you were about to shoot him."

"Sounds accurate." Lassiter downs the rest of his coffee and tips forward, landing the chair back on the floor properly. "Break's over. Time to shut down the Fake Psychic Appreciation Parade."

O'Hara makes a strangled noise, but when Lassiter looks back she's picking at the edge of the bar. Lassiter squeezes his eyes shut and wonders why the hell everyone thinks he's a hardass. He backs up and sits down again.

O'Hara doesn't look at him, leaning with her arms crossed on the counter. "You have a personal vendetta, but it's degraded enough that it must have been far in the past," she says, matter of factly.

"If you're going to ask, then ask already." And now he has her attention, and she is having trouble meeting his eyes. Lassiter's baffled that the Powers That Be paired him up with a rookie like her.

"What happened to make you hate psychics?" She says, voice wobbling, and Lassiter almost doesn't tell her because he isn't sure she deserves to know.

Lassiter hands her his coffee mug and she instantly sets to refill it, giving him time to phrase his answer. She hands the cup back, cradling it like it's glass and probably scalding her hands. He gives her a look before taking it and she blushes.

After the first sip- she put hazelnut stuff in it, which is nice though it feels slightly like bribery- he starts slow. "I grew up with my brother Dylan and my father in New York. Got transferred here from there to clean up the police force on this coast." He sips his coffee again, just to think. "My mother divorced my father when I was... fourteen, I think."

O'Hara frowns. "What does that have to-" she tries to ask, but a sideways glance makes the words die on her lips.

"My mother was a very..." Lassiter makes a vague circular motion with his free hand, "New wave. Philosophical." He snorts into his mug. "Crazy at times." O'Hara's face grows a deeper frown and Lassiter cuts the personal history lesson. "When her marriage starting getting rocky, she consulted a psychic."

O'Hara's face goes through a slow process of realization.

"The psychic told my mother that her soul was being oppressed by my father and that if she ever wanted freedom and happiness, she'd get out as soon as possible." Lassiter drops his mug on the counter harder than he intended. "She sent my brother and I to bed before telling Father, but I had a habit of staying up late. I heard them talking- yelling- and when I woke up the next morning, she was gone."

Lassiter slides off his seat, pulling on his suit coat and dusting himself off. "Now, if you're curiosity is appeased, we've been in here long enough."

O'Hara takes a moment to school her expression before saying, "Be there in a minute."

Lassiter nods and leaves, voice already raising to it's normal yell again as he storms over to the so-called psychic.


2. "You should be a criminal."

Carlton only has a handful of places to go to relax in Santa Barbara, and the best one is a lounge-bar lying just on the line between the good side of town and the bad. It's dark, but not smoky or seedy like the movies stereotype bars to be. It's welcoming, like being enfolded in a tired-out suede jacket that has been worn so many times, it feels tailored especially for the owner.

As Carlton sips his scotch in the corner, he thinks idly on the first time he looked over Spencer's resume. The first thing he'd thought of was how it just couldn't be possible to live like that, without the comfort of having some kind of routine to the way you went about life. Carlton had always been told that insanity was doing the same things the exact same way and expecting different results. Carlton muses, "What is the opposite of that then?"

"This is." Carlton looks up as a woman, a stunning woman, slides into the stool next to him and waves her finger at the bartender.

"I'm sorry?" Carlton asks, clearing his throat.

"'This' is the opposite of 'that'." She has black haired, the kind of hair that shined unnaturally bright, with dark eyes and dark brown lipstick. In a form-fitting red dress and heels, the woman exudes sophistication and Carlton sits up straighter just on principle. She smiles as she received a tall, brightly colored glass from the bartender. She turns to Carlton and offers her hand. "Alexander Daniels. I'm assuming you're Detective Carlton."

Oh. Oh. "Oh." Carlton says lamely, hesitating before shaking the woman's hand. "Yes, that's me. I, ah." He closes his mouth and his eyes, trying to focus. "I apologize. I wasn't expecting-"

"A woman named Alexander, yeah, got that." She laughs a little. "My mother swore she'd use the name, no matter the gender, so..." She shrugs, then lowers her voice. "I heard from a little bird you were the man to talk to about a problem."

Carlton smirks against his glass. "You make me sound like a hit man."

"One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter and so on." Alexander waves her hand. "I have a deal for your people that will be mutually beneficial."

"Drug lord who screwed over one client of yours too many, I hear." Carlton replies smoothly, slipping right into the frame of mind needed for treading moral codes this cautiously. There's a reason the Chief sent him to do this. "What can you tell me?"

She turns the chair, playing with the cherry in her drink and eyeing him critically. "You really think you're hot stuff if you assume I'll spill with just your word of who you are."

"Well, you asked for a cop to met you here in plainclothes. I'm here. What more do you want?"

"A little reassurance." She answers coolly. "A woman of my profession has great value for reassurance."

"Tell me, I've always wondered, what does a con-artist skilled in blackmail put on her census form?" He sniped, smirk growing smugly.

"Psychiatrist." Alexander replies without missing a beat. "You think you're good at this."

"See, I am good at this." Carlton leans in to speak even more softly. "You play the superior being in this conversation, showing up in your finest attire and playing as much cat and mouse as you dare to risk, trying to hook me like one of the easy bastards you scam. You challenge me, subtly belittle me, and wait for me to feel competitive so you know I'll bite any offer you throw out that seems halfway good, just so I can walk back into the office and tell the other boys I got the information." He shakes his head. "But you forget the basic flaw in this mindgame of yours. You called us for help. You need the assistance, not the police. This is not you throwing us a bone, this is you risking your entire operation to get rid of one guy. That one guy must be a real pain in the ass then, so you can't afford to not make this deal, so..." Carlton sits back and knocks back his glass. "How about we don't play and you tell me what you're willing to offer?"

Alexander's face is a blank slate for a few minutes after that before she sets her glass down and digs into her purse, pulling out an thickly packed envelope. "You should be a criminal." She says quietly, handing him the information.

"And why is that?" Carlton asks distractedly, looking discreetly in the envelope.

"You're far too smart. The SBPD doesn't deserve you."

Carlton nods. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"Take it as a job offer." Alexander adds.

Carlton grins. "Can't. I have a knack for this."


3. "So. Niece visiting. If you don't mind me asking, Detective, what're you still doing here?"

Lassiter has one brother, Dylan, who married early to his high school sweetheart while Lassiter was making a name as a cop on Long Island. Even after Lassiter moved to the other coast, they stayed in touch and he is always sure to sign up for vacation time for the winter holidays to fly back over. He didn't talk about family, but it's on his mind often.

Dylan and his wife Veronica travel around the nation for Veronica's work as a pianist. They try to go together as often as their schedules allow. Lassiter is quietly thrilled every time they come to California. They usually bring Emily along.

Emily is ten, knows everything about everything, and is Lassiter's niece. She hates going to her mother's concerts, so she stays in Santa Barbara. She's the reason Lassiter never misses a day of work unless absolutely necessary. He needs the sick days.

Except this time, he's running behind and has to finish a case report before taking Emily out and around the city. Emily is on his computer, beating someone in Florida at online chess. Her long hair is braided down her back, laying against her purple blouse over her black jean shorts. She swings her feet, wearing too-big sneakers, and hums constantly under her breath. She's studying dance now, apparently, and Lassiter couldn't be more proud of her if he tried.

He's almost done, just handing in his report when he spots Spencer's partner hovering around the file area. Guster's watching Emily and Lassiter's next to him in a flash.

Guster jumps a little. "Detective Lassiter." He coughs and forces a very painful surprise. "Nice day."

"It's California. Isn't that part of the brochure?" Lassiter replied, opening a file cabinet.

"True. The entire state feels like a tourist trap sometimes."

"Hm."

"So, ah..." Guster fidgets again. "That girl over there." Lassiter looks up, telling Guster with a single look that he'd to be careful what he says here. "I heard she was a relative of yours."

"My niece, Emily, and where is Spencer?" Lassiter smirks down at Guster. "You covering for him as he contacts whatever informant he has around here to feed him information?"

"Nah, nothing like that. I think he's trying to win a new case off the Chief with just charm and flirting. He doesn't seem to realize that his charisma doesn't work on severely pregnant women with guns."

Lassiter can't help it and chuckles, deciding that Guster isn't as bad as his accomplice. "I hope to be in the room when he does learn that."

"With a camera." Guster adds wistfully. "So. Niece visiting. If you don't mind me asking, Detective, what're you still doing here?"

"Emily won't move until she beats," Lassiter frowns, "I-Be-F-T-W-three thousand in some online chess thing. And finishing up paperwork."

"Chess, huh? Game of the geniuses."

Lassiter finally finds the folder he needed and slides his report in place. "Flattery will get you nowhere with me, Mr. Guster. Remind Mr. Spencer of that, as well."

Guster grins. "Not gonna stop him from trying." His smile softens and fades. "Never imagined you to be good with kids, sir."

"Like them better than adults," Lassiter admits without thinking.

"Really? Why's that?" Guster asks.

Lassiter pauses, drumming his fingers on the filing cabinet, thinking. "When you grew up, you were gradually exposed to the darker things in the world, right?"

"Not as gradually as you'd think," Guster murmurs. Lassiter frowns and he adds, "Shawn's dad was a cop."

"Ah." That cleared up a few things about why the two were so close. Childhood friendship. "Well, that loss of innocence is why I became a cop." Guster blinks at that, so Lassiter elaborates, "I like order and honesty. It'd always worked for me, so I didn't understand why others lied and cheated to get ahead. I accidentally got placed in a Sociology class in high school and decided I'd go to the police academy."

"Life's mission to make the world a more honest place. I must say, it is noble, if a bit..."

"Hopeless, yes, probably, but it's the principle of the act that matters, I hope," Lassiter notes.

"So, children are better because they don't cause you any trouble?" Guster grins.

"And because the potential they have, yeah, I guess, if you want to simplify it like that," Lassiter concedes.

Guster is quiet for a moment. "I think we have an understanding, Detective." Then, a loud call comes from the front of the room, Spencer waving his arms at Guster. Guster sighs deeply. "And I'll try to pass it on."

Lassiter nods. "Goodbye, Mr. Guster."

Guster pushes off the wall he was leaning against and walks away. "See you around. Have a good day with your niece."


4. "I was certain you were dead."

Carlton unlocks the house door, moving mechanically, stepping inside with heavy steps, exhausted. He drops his suitcase on the floor and sags backward against the door, palms flat against the cool wood. His head drops down, chin against his breastbone, and he breathes for the first time in coming on three days.

The two worst crimes Carlton can think of, work-wise, are bomb threats and kidnappings. Kidnappings are panicked parents, ransoms, horrifying threats, and little girls with curls just like Carlton's Emily. Long waits and the kind of cases that lead weaker cops than Carlton to anti-depressants.

Explosives are pretty much opposite: the rushing and frenzy and the lies and...

Carlton thumps his head back against the door. And two offices blown to pieces too small for an open casket. The case wouldn't even be solved if not for an anonymous tip that actually panned out to lead them to the ballistics-obsessed criminals' warehouse lab. All his work, connections and notes spanning across three different whiteboards, all to be overthrown and rendered useless by one woman who took a wrong turn. He'd feel affronted if he wasn't so damn grateful.

Carlton hangs up his coat and unbuckles his holsters, catching the pistols' safeties. Putting them away, he decides the greatest thing in the world right now would be a few hours' worth of sleep. Or a few days' worth.

That plan gets dragged to a halt when he walks past the living room. Charlotte's still awake, sitting in front of the television in the dark with the news on. She looks up and her eyes are wide and wet. Carlton sees a tissue box in her lap and he's instantly aware of how badly he's screwed up this time.

"You're alive." Charlotte says, sounding surprised. Her voice is raspy and this is very bad.

He nods weakly. "Yeah."

Charlotte stares at him for a few more seconds before setting the tissue box aside and standing. "The news was talking about the bombs. They said two officers had been killed, but wouldn't release any names. I called the PD and the receptionist just told me the information was still unreleased." She laughs and it may be the worst sound Carlton's ever heard. "I was certain you were dead."

"I'm sorry. I didn't think to-"

Charlotte slaps him, hard enough to make him stumble and he lands on the floor. He's been running on caffeine and adrenaline for a long time now, too long to have prepared for that. He glances up at her and sees the horror of what she did morph seamlessly into righteous indignation.

"You need to resign, Carlton," she says, stern and angry.

Carlton slowly pushes himself up again, swaying heavily. He's not up for this conversation right now- not sure he ever would be. "No," he replies, heading for the bedroom, having fantasies about being able to just sleep after so long.

"It's killing you! Have you looked in a mirror lately? You can't go on like this." She grabs his arm. "We can't go on like this."

"Charlotte, I cannot do this right now. I haven't slept in days, I'm not up to this conversation." He explains, peeling her hand off his arm. "Tomorrow."

Charlotte watched his back and he shuffles away, and the last thing he hears is "Always tomorrow."

More and more lately, Carlton's begun to agree with that.


5. "How is it done?"

Lassiter sees it this time and he's certain he caught it. It was subtle, but not so much that he shouldn't have seen it months ago. He flips through his memories of the last few cases and, yes, there's the pattern. He should be handing in his badge for not seeing this, even when he was looking for it.

Shawn messed up. It was small, but when he saw the new crime scene photos, something calculating showed up in his eyes. Not the eyes of a professional slacker. Shawn had excused himself right after, leaving out a side door.

Lassiter waits about five seconds to cut himself out of the discussion before following.

Shawn is leaning against a wall, secluded and out of view of most of the windows of the building. He's standing with the tips of his fingers against his temples, eyes closed in thought, mouth drawn into a frown. Lassiter walks up as quietly as he can, years of experience on his side.

He's about to reach out and tap Shawn on the shoulder, but Shawn moves first. One hand grabs Lassiter's wrist and tries to pull him off balance, but Lassiter is much stronger than he looks and one quick pivot later, Shawn's body hits the wall and he gasps, recognition finally in his eyes.

"Dude, Lassiter, are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

"Where did you learn to do that?" Lassiter asks, ignoring the question.

"Learn to do what?" Shawn snaps, glaring. Lassiter has his wrists pinned against the brick wall and Shawn tries to shake him off. "Wanna let go now?"

Lassiter's grip loosens and Shawn practically rips his hands away, rubbing where Lassiter had held him. Lassiter stared at him hard. "Where'd you learn to do a pin?"

"My dad. Cop." Shawn's composure comes back to him slowly. "So, what, is there a new lead?"

Lassiter shakes his head. "You're not a psychic."

Shawn sighs. "Lassie-"

"But it's not being fed information either. And you're not an inside man." Lassiter's calm, cold, and composed, just looking Shawn straight in the eye as he speaks softly. It makes Shawn still, just staring back at him. "You're doing it somehow." Lassiter frowns. "What else did your father teach you, Spencer?"

And Lassiter's been a cop for years and he knows he's got it. The muscles in Shawn's jaw tense and he stops breathing. He's frozen for a moment before he croaks out, "He taught me a lot of things."

Lassiter nods again and walks to the wall, leaning his back against it. Shawn tenses, but Lassiter just slides his hands in his pockets and stands next to him.

"You hate your father." Lassiter murmurs, deep in thought.

Shawn blows out a long breath. "You remember me telling you that? That was almost a year ago."

"First impressions, Spencer. You've got a knack for them." Lassiter turns his head enough to look at Shawn out of the corner of his eyes. "Why do you hate him?"

Shawn shrugs. "He took away my chance at a normal life. He wanted me to be a cop. A detective."

"I'll try not to be insulted," Lassiter snorts. He can't believe he's not dragging Shawn inside and making him confess to the Chief about this- whatever this is- but for some reason, this feels off-limits. Private, just between them. "How is it done? You look at evidence and figure it out. How?"

And this is the moment, what feels like the climax to the dance they've been doing, circling each other constantly since their rocky start back in that interrogation room. This is what's kept Lassiter up at night more often than not, this is what he's been looking for.

He almost doesn't want Shawn to answer. Luckily, it's not up to him.

"Trained from birth." Shawn says, and his voice is barely audible. "Detective skills plus total recall. Photographic memory."

Lassiter turns fully to stare. "He trained you to have eidetic memory?"

Shawn's staring at the ground and he gives a shallow nod. "Not psychic. Just a memory trick."

Lassiter gapes openly at him, trying to fit this into everything he knows about Shawn. It's very difficult to grasp and not exactly what he'd been expecting. Not that he'd known what to expect.

Lassiter slums back against the wall and rubs his face. Shawn turns to him this time, eyes boring into Lassiter so fiercely, he can almost feel the gaze.

"Anything you want, I'll do it. I mean it, Lassiter, anything," Shawn nearly begs, voice strained, eyes wide and earnest.

Lassiter meets his eyes. "What are you..."

"Don't tell them. I'll pay whatever price, just please..." Shawn's voice breaks and Lassiter's never seen him vulnerable. Watching him now is like watching someone completely different. "I can't handle a normal life, you know that from my record. Let me have this, please. I can't-" Shawn steps away, his hands going up to tug at his hair. "I can't do anything else." His shoulders slump and he looks utterly defeated. "I'm begging you, Lassiter."

Lassiter is quiet for a long time, just absorbing the information and mulling it over.

"Spencer." Shawn whirled to look at his. "If you ever, ever lie to me about this again, you'll be behind bars faster than you can say 'idiot savant'." Lassiter smiles, making Shawn's face turn an interesting shade of red. He moves off the wall and walks back to the door. "Coming, psychic?"

Shawn's face splits into one of the brightest smiles Lassiter's ever seen and for once, Lassiter's glad.

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Read, enjoy. Reviews are love.

-Luce