by pebble/scifipony
Fandom: Psych
Characters: Carlton Lassiter, Shawn Spencer
Secondary Characters: Juliet O'Hara, Burton Guster, Buzz McNab, Karen Vick, Henry Spencer
Tags: Adventure, Action, Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Friendship
Story Warnings: Graphic Violence
Chapter Warnings: Drugging, Kidnapping
Author's Notes: Archived 08/01/23 from LiveJournal | Edited 12/05/23 - Spelling and grammar | Edited 05/03/24 - Minor rewrites and edits
Chief Karen Vick crossed her arms as she stared through the glass window into the interrogation room. Despite the late hour, she didn't need any coffee to keep her alert right now. She was too worried to sleep even if that was an option.
How could everything have gone so bad in only ten days? A little over a week ago, she'd congratulated her star investigative team for a job well done and sent them home for an extended weekend as a reward. Now, that team was hopelessly fractured, and it would take a miracle to get them out of this mess.
Her gaze landed on the figure in the interrogation room. Slumped in his seat at the table, Shawn looked awful. From his unhealthy gray pallor to the heavy bags under his eyes, it was obvious the past ten days hadn't been easy for their department's psychic. His right arm was in a sling and several fingers on his left hand were splinted. Cuts and bruises were scattered over his exposed skin. While he'd been allowed to wash the blood from his hands and face before entering the interrogation room, there was still a considerable amount of it soaked into his clothes and matted into his hair. He looked like a survivor from a zombie attack — or maybe one of the victims.
He should really be in a hospital. Unfortunately, that hadn't been her call to make. Apart from a quick roadside exam from the paramedics, and the application of the sling and finger splints, he'd refused any further treatment. She had tried repeatedly to convince him to seek medical attention, but he'd been insistent on giving them his statement before being checked into a hospital. It was a hard request to refuse; they had more than a few questions in urgent need of answering.
The door swung open and Detective Barrett entered the interrogation room. The sound of the door opening hadn't been any louder than typical, and yet Shawn flinched harshly. He'd been on edge ever since they'd first picked him up — on that lonely mountain road in the middle of nowhere — and Karen's years of experience on the force made it depressingly easy to recognize the signs of abuse. Whatever had happened to her consultant, someone must have mistreated him badly to induce this level of constant terror and distrust in him.
His eyes remained glued to the metal tabletop as Barrett took the seat opposite him.
"Okay," Barrett said, flipping open the manila folder he'd brought in with him. "Let's get started. First of all, we don't need your official statement just yet. That can wait until after you've received proper medical treatment. For now, we do have a few questions that you can hopefully clear up for us. You're not under arrest, but I'd strongly advise you to cooperate with the investigation into what happened. For both yours and Dectective Lassiter's sakes."
Shawn's gaze finally lifted so he could look at the young detective. He squinted against the bright overhead light. After a moment, he apparently decided it wasn't worth the effort and lowered his eyes again, angling his head so the light wouldn't bother him as much.
This sudden aversion to light had become obvious as soon as he walked through the station's front doors, but Karen wasn't sure if it was due to his concussion, dehydration, or something else entirely. Yet another reason why he should really be at the hospital right now.
Barrett pulled out a notepad and pen. He flipped the book open to a blank page and cleared his throat. "Let's start with the basics. Do you remember the phone call you made to Detective O'Hara ten days ago?"
Silence from the hunched figure across the table.
Trying a different tactic, Barrett asked, "What can you tell me about the night of that phone call?"
When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, dry, and cracked badly. Barely above a whisper, Karen had to strain to hear him correctly.
"Where's Detective Lassiter?"
Barrett frowned. "Mr Spencer—"
"No," Shawn forced out. He looked up at the detective, somehow managing to convey his level of anger despite nearly having to shut his eyes against the light. "No one will just answer the question! Where is Detective Lassiter? Did he make it to a hospital?"
In her periphery, Karen saw Juliet shift uncomfortably. The young detective had been standing silently beside her for long enough that Karen almost forgot she was there. At first, Juliet had demanded to be the one conducting this interview, but that would have been an unacceptable conflict of interests. They couldn't afford to give the Internal Affairs guys any more ammunition to use against them; not with them already breathing down the department's neck over this fiasco. Karen agreed to let Juliet watch with her in the observation room, but that was as far of a concession as she would allow.
"Calm down," Barrett ordered. "Now, how much do you remember of that first night? Did you voluntarily leave with Detective Lassiter, or were you taken against your will?"
"I'm not answering any questions until someone answers mine."
"You're not exactly in any position to make demands. Do you even realize how serious this situation is?"
Shawn raised an eyebrow and shot the detective a look that clearly said 'Are you kidding me right now? I'm the one with the broken fingers.'
Ignoring the look, Barrett pulled a sheet from the file and dropped it in front of Shawn. "You and Detective Lassiter are persons of interest in a murder investigation. And that's not taking into account the additional charges of breaking and entering, assault, burglary, drug possession, and two separate counts of grand theft auto. If you don't cooperate with this investigation, you're only going to make this a lot harder for both of you."
"Do you think I'm trying to make this more difficult?" Shawn rasped. "Trust me, there's nothing I want more than to get this over with. Well, that's not completely true. I would kill for some pain meds and a week of uninterrupted sleep. And some food. Preferably anything that does not come out of a can. You wouldn't believe how hard it is to get pizza on a mountain." Shaking his head, he forced himself back on topic. "But, here's the thing. I can't answer your questions until you answer mine."
"Again, you're not really in a position to make demands."
"You don't get it." Shawn's voice turned pleading, anger being rapidly replaced with desperation. "I literally can't answer your questions until you tell me what's going on with Lassiter. This isn't an issue of my cooperation, I need an answer before I can talk about any of this. I'm not asking you to reveal confidential details about an ongoing investigation. I just need to know where he is."
Barrett paused, taking in the fear and despair on the young man's face. Behind the glass barrier, Karen was also shocked by the level of intensity in her psychic's eyes; it was an unsettling contrast to his usual easygoing demeanor.
Releasing a slow breath, Barrett finally nodded. "Detective Lassiter was taken to Cottage Hospital a couple of hours ago, around the same time we brought you here. He's currently in surgery."
Shawn nodded. He took a minute to absorb that information before asking, "And is he... is his condition..."
He couldn't seem to get the words out and Barrett chose to spare him. "His prognosis is good. But we don't have any definite information at the moment. Our last update from the hospital staff was forty minutes ago."
Shawn nodded again. He closed his eyes a moment, taking a deep breath. "Thanks," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you."
"Will you answer some questions now?"
"Ask away."
Returning to his notepad, Barrett asked again, "Do you remember that phone call you made to Detective O'Hara?"
"Yeah." Shawn reached for one of the many water bottles they'd provided for him. Karen guessed his dehydration must be making it painful for him to carry on the conversation. He took several careful swallows of the water before elaborating, "I called her cell phone sometime after midnight. Probably one or two in the morning?"
"That's correct," Barrett said. "What can you tell me about that night?"
"I thought you weren't looking for an official statement yet."
"We're not. But there are a lot of blanks we're trying to fill in. For instance, were you taken directly to the hunting cabin that night or—"
Shawn interrupted with a quick head shake. "Actually, we weren't taken to that cabin at all. That came much later." He ran a hand through his hair, exhaustion drooping his eyelids. "This is going to be really complicated to explain. To be honest, I have no idea where to begin."
"Let's keep it simple. Start with the night of the phone call."
"Okay," Shawn breathed tiredly. "Okay. Well, for starters, I wasn't actually supposed to be there that night. I was staying with Gus, but he was called out of town for some work thing at the last minute. It was pure luck that Marlowe was also out of town that night — visiting her cousin, I think — so Lassie agreed to let me crash at his place. Although, in hindsight, it doesn't feel very lucky anymore."
~~~~~
Ten days ago...
He'd known this was a bad idea. Pretty much the moment he'd said yes, he knew he'd live to regret that decision. Still, he was impressed with his own self restraint. Shawn Spencer had been in his apartment for almost two hours and didn't have any bullets lodged in his anatomy... yet.
"Lassie, where do you keep the marshmallows?"
Carlton closed his eyes and counted to twenty before responding. "I told you already, I don't have marshmallows."
Shawn's head peeked around the doorway from the kitchen. "Wait, you were serious about that? Dude, who doesn't eat marshmallows? How do you make turkey sandwiches without that layer of fluffy goodness?"
"That's disgusting. And didn't you eat a full bag of doritos an hour ago?"
But his annoying houseguest had already vanished into the kitchen again. Sighing, Carlton turned his attention to cleaning up the last of the debris from the coffee table. He wondered how someone as obsessively neat as Gus could stand being around Shawn nearly twenty-four hours a day. He'd never been a neat freak himself, but even he was getting irritated by the number of candy wrappers he'd picked up so far tonight.
Shawn emerged from the kitchen a minute later with a bag of pretzels and a can of soda. "There's a channel that's playing a marathon of old westerns tonight. What do you say?"
"You can watch whatever you want, Spencer. I'm going to bed. Some of us actually have real jobs that require waking up before noon."
"Aw, come on, Lassie. Westerns! That's right up your alley, right? You can critique their peacekeeping skills."
Pausing on his way to check the front door, it suddenly struck Carlton that maybe there was a secondary reason for Shawn's request to stay here tonight. After all, he could have simply crashed on the couch at the Psych office, or stayed with his dad. Ever since his break up with Juliet, Shawn had been more clingy towards Gus, and now with the pharmaceutical salesman out of town he really didn't have anyone to hang out with.
Shaking off the thought, he proceeded to lock up and head towards his bedroom. Lonely or not, Shawn could fend for himself tonight. Carlton had already offered the psychic nuisance a shelter for the night. That was more than generous.
He was stepping from the living room to the hall when he heard a soft voice speak up, barely audible over the sound of the TV, "Hey, Lassie?"
Sighing, he halted his progress again. "What is it, Spencer?"
"Thanks. You know, for letting me stay here tonight."
Ignoring the unwelcome warmth building in his chest, Carlton cleared his throat. "Remember, it's only for tonight, Spencer. And don't get crumbs all over the couch."
As he finally reached the sanctuary of his bedroom, Carlton couldn't help thinking — for probably the only time in his life — that he would be relieved when Shawn and Juliet finally worked through their issues and got back together. It was inevitable to happen, anyway, and he was tired of feeling sympathy for this kicked-puppy version of Shawn. Sympathy made him do stupid things. Like agreeing to let the menace stay in his home.
He changed clothes and checked his window one last time. Setting his beloved service weapon on the nightstand, he slid under the blankets. Right on time, his cell phone began vibrating.
Without even bothering to check the caller ID, he answered on the first ring. Immediately firing off a series of questions, almost slipping into interrogation mode in his need to know that she'd arrived in one piece.
"Carlton, calm down," came the answering voice, her tone amused. "I'm fine. Got my cousin to her doctor without any problems, too. I was just getting ready for bed."
Feeling a lot of his tension melt away at being able to hear her voice, he settled back into his pillows. "Are you still coming home tomorrow?"
"As of right now, yes. Sandy's brother should be arriving to take over caretaker duties by lunchtime tomorrow. Then I'll drive back and should make it to Santa Barbara by dinner."
"That's good to hear."
"Miss me already? It's only been one day."
Not wanting to admit aloud that he was, in fact, already missing her, he deflected gruffly, "Having you come home means I'll have a good excuse to kick Spencer out of here tomorrow. That little moron is even more of a terror in close-quarters."
Marlowe laughed, the sound filling him with warmth. There was something about her laugh that always made him want to laugh along with her every time he heard it. As much as he had truly cared about Victoria, she had never made him feel that way. No one had. It was different with Marlowe. He was different with Marlowe. She brought something out in him that he hadn't even realized had been buried inside.
"I'm sure it can't be that bad. If you can face down serial killers and mob bosses, I think you can handle Shawn for one night."
"At least I can shoot the serial killers when they get out of line," he joked back. "O'Hara would kill me if I put a bullet in Spencer's kneecap. I'm not sure I can resist the temptation much longer."
"Well, stay strong for me, Sweetheart. I should get to sleep now; I have a long drive tomorrow. See you at dinner. Love you."
"Love you, too. Drive safe."
He hung up and stared at his phone for a minute. In the few weeks since their wedding, this was the longest they'd ever been away from each other. Part of him was disgusted with how much of a romantic sap he'd turned into — unable to be away from his wife for thirty-six hours without moping — but the other part of him didn't care.
After Victoria, he'd been so sure he would spend the rest of his life a bitter, jaded man whose entire life revolved around his job. Now, he could see the potential for a much brighter future; one which he would share with the woman who could make him smile and laugh again after everything he'd been through.
He took one last glance at the wedding photo on his nightstand before turning out the light and closing his eyes.
~~~~~
The closed and locked window in the guestroom did little to block out the city noises outside. Dogs barking... cars driving... the distant sound of a police siren. Even inside the building could be heard the gentle roar of the central air conditioning, the refrigerator motor, and the faint murmur from a neighbor's television set.
These noises shouldn't be enough to keep him awake long past midnight. Shawn had always prided himself on being the world's least picky sleeper. He could fall asleep pretty much anywhere and under any conditions. More than one night had passed with him snoring away in his office chair, his laptop's keyboard as a pillow. Why was tonight so different? Why had every night for the past few weeks been different?
With a grunt of frustration, he rolled over and glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. 1:27. It was almost two hours since he'd collapsed into bed — too tired to even bother changing clothes — and sleep was still proving to be an elusive little jerk. He wondered if Lassiter kept any tranquilizer guns in his arsenal.
Of course, if he really let himself think about it, he could easily guess at the reason behind his sudden insomnia.
"Are you telling me this has all been a lie?"
He closed his eyes and rolled over again. Stupid eidetic memory. No matter how hard he tried, he was literally incapable of forgetting the look on her face that night.
"I think I need some time."
A huff of frustration escaped. Well, he'd given it quite a fair amount of time. Time and space. It was a tough balancing act, trying to be the caring and attentive boyfriend while also giving her some space to work out her feelings. No, tough wasn't the right word. It was a freaking magic feat, trying to balance several opposing weights while walking a tightrope... over a tank of water... full of hungry sharks.
If he could know that there was an end in sight, it would be easier to get through this. No matter how far off that finish line was — days, weeks, months — he just needed to know that there was an end. Any chance to get out of this personal limbo.
A few years ago, he wouldn't have hesitated to escape by cutting his losses, jumping on his motorcycle, and leaving town. But that option had died around the same time he realized he no longer minded having dinner at his dad's house.
There was a reason he used to avoid relationships of any kind. With the single exception of Gus, he never used to let himself get close to other people. He loved meeting people, but didn't encourage or desire deeper connections with them. It was better that way. People inevitably let you down; a lesson he'd learned the hard way as a teenager. A parent you believed loved you unconditionally could suddenly abandon you to pursue her career. A man who was your hero and mentor would decide that your success at his chosen career would determine how much love you deserved from him. A beloved uncle might promise to visit on your birthday, only to run off to South America at the last minute.
When he'd settled back down in Santa Barbara, he hadn't intended it to be any more permanent than his many other visits before that. Then Psych happened. Suddenly, he had a job that he truly enjoyed, and an excuse to hang out with his best friend every day. He had the beginnings of a real relationship with his father. He had friends. And he'd walked into a diner and fell in love with a gorgeous cop.
That was why he was trapped in this endless torment. He couldn't leave. The past seven years had taught him exactly what he'd been missing out on by clinging to his independence. He let himself put down roots for the first time in his life, and he couldn't lose them. Couldn't lose everything he'd finally built here.
Giving up on sleep, Shawn pushed back the covers and stumbled toward the door. He needed to use the restroom. And then maybe catch the horror movie marathon that was supposed to be running for the next few hours. Anything that didn't involve lying in bed pondering all the ways he'd ruined his own life.
A sharp sound from the other side of the door stopped him in his tracks. It was too quick and too soft for him to tell what it was. But every one of his instincts told him it wasn't right.
Listening carefully for a minute, he was fully prepared to shrug it off as his imagination when he heard another sound. A heavy thump of metal against wood. His mind easily pulled up an image of the 9mm Lassiter always kept on his nightstand while he slept.
This was followed by several muted sounds that couldn't possibly be anything other than a scuffle. It lasted only a moment, and then several heavy footsteps were retreating towards the living room.
Heart hammering wildly, Shawn counted an extra few seconds before easing the bedroom door open. The first thing he noticed upon stepping into the hallway was the open door across from him. Lassiter always slept with his door shut. The next thing he became aware of was the cool draft from that direction; a window had been opened in the bedroom.
The truth wasn't hard to guess: Someone had broken into the apartment. And apparently dealt with the surly homeowner already.
Great, we're under siege with no wagons to circle.
The sounds of the intruders' footsteps were now clearly out in the living room. A quick peek into the bedroom doorway revealed that Lassiter must be with them. There was no further sound of struggle, though, and the implication from that was enough to prompt Shawn into action.
Okay, think. Where does Lassie keep his guns stashed?
He'd only been here a few times since Lassiter first moved in, and the paranoid detective certainly hadn't volunteered any information about his home security measures. Still, he remembered exactly where all of the detective's weapons had been hidden in his old house. Henry was such a creature of habit, maybe that was something cops had in common?
Worth a shot, anyway. He almost snorted at the unintended pun. Bathroom shower it is.
He crept quietly down the hall, walking on the balls of his feet the way his father had taught him so many years ago. Reaching the bathroom, Shawn left the light off and had to rely on his mental map of the room to figure out the best possible hiding place for a weapon. Three tries later, he was triumphantly reentering the hallway with a loaded Glock in his hand.
Despite the fear coursing through him, childhood training kicked in and forced his firing hand to remain steady. Safety off, finger resting along the trigger guard, gun pointed at the ground, arm extended downward, opposite hand bracing firing hand. His brain and body worked on instinct while his mind stayed fully focused on the direction of the living room.
A noise at the front door indicated that the intruders were wrapping it up and heading out. Whatever was happening, he was going to arrive too late if he didn't pick up his pace. If only he could get that message to transmit down to his feet.
Creeping into the living room at last, Shawn surveyed the scene in the limited light from the windows. It wasn't a very promising image.
One massive guy was standing at the front door, in the process of removing the door chain. Two more guys were directly behind him, almost as big and definitely packing weapons. Their hands were currently occupied holding onto an unconscious Lassiter.
Shawn wasn't entirely sure what his first course of action should be. The only thing really registering in his sleep-deprived brain was the obvious fact that these guys were about to walk out of here with the head detective of the SBPD in their clutches.
"Okay, freeze!" he called out, raising his gun and hoping beyond hope that these guys would simply throw in the towel. "Drop the lanky, Irish squirrel-hater and we can all go our separate ways. Nobody needs to get hurt. Especially me."
After a moment of initial surprise, all three intruders sprang into action. The big guy continued undoing the locks on the door, one of his cohorts dragged Lassiter behind the cover of the dining room table, and the third guy pulled out a semiautomatic pistol.
One bullet lodged in the wall near his head as Shawn sprang for the nearest shelter. That shelter happened to be behind the coffee table. It wasn't exactly a steel wall, but he'd take whatever he could get.
Listening for a moment to determine that none of the men had moved in the seconds it took him to hide, Shawn drew in a steadying breath and sprang up into a kneeling position. Raising the gun, he fired off one round into the darkened room. A resulting cry of pain from the gunman, followed by the thud of a large body hitting the floor, let Shawn know that he'd successfully hit his target. It was a short-lived victory.
The front door swung open and the second intruder began dragging Lassiter toward it. Shawn aimed at the man's leg and squeezed off a round before diving over the coffee table.
Ow! Ow ow ow! That did not go as planned!
His tumble into the space between the coffee table and couch was a far cry from the graceful maneuver he'd envisioned, but at least he was still free of bullet holes. And a few feet closer to the front door. Not bad.
After a sharp gasp of pain, Scary Henchman #2 let go of Lassiter to grab at his bleeding leg. The big guy — whom Shawn surmised to be the group leader in this little detective-napping scheme — stepped in to take over the job of lugging Lassiter outside. Scary Henchman #1 must have already recovered from the initial shock of his own injury, because he was back on his feet already. He retrieved his pistol from the floor and fired at Shawn's position. The bullet pierced the back of the couch and embedded into the TV. Shawn winced. That would be an expensive repair bill.
His eyes dropped from the TV to the coffee table and he felt a rush of relief at the sight of his cell phone lying there.
Snatching the device off the table, Shawn pulled up his contacts and hit the all too familiar listing. His blood pounding in his ears made it hard to distinguish individual sounds in the room, but he could definitely hear the grunt-with-a-gun rapidly approaching the couch. Ducking lower, he waited out the ringing on the other end of the phone line.
"Hello?" a sleepy voice finally picked up. "Shawn is that you? Do you have any idea what time it is?"
Bypassing the urge to make a Rehearsal for Murder reference, Shawn shouted out what he hoped was the most pertinent information. Terror was making it hard to pay attention to the actual words coming out. With any luck, it'd be sufficient.
"Jules! Lassie's place, three gunmen, need backup!"
"Shawn? What's happening? What's wrong?"
He didn't have a chance to respond to the panicked voice of his technically-ex-girlfriend as pain exploded in the side of his head. The phone slipped from his fingers as he pitched forward. His scrambled brain didn't have a chance to make sense of what happened before a large arm wrapped across his throat and yanked him back against the gunman's chest. His own gun went flying. His fingers clawed desperately at the arm cutting off his oxygen supply.
The henchman's other hand disappeared for a moment before reappearing with a syringe. Shawn's eyes widened as he renewed his efforts to free himself. No way! Absolutely no pointy things! Unfortunately, his fear-induced adrenaline was no match for The Hulk's vice-like grip. The arm across his throat was proving more immovable than his dad's fashion sense.
A sharp jab in the side of his neck brought the struggle to an end. He distantly felt himself being dragged toward the door before he was enveloped in darkness.
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