Safety in Numbers

Yeah, we know how it goes, right? No ownership in psych, not even a grain of sand in the playground. Just having a bit of fun, especially with the finale looming.

This one's mostly for cabot007, who's been requesting another Lassiter/Vick fic. This week's ep gave me a pretty good opening, so spoilers for "True Grits" and any and everything that came before.

Karen hated being away from the department. Not for things such as weekends or vacations, of course. No—those were well-deserved respites. But mandatory two-day late week seminars for police chiefs from across California where she had to drive three hours so she could listen to the chiefs from cities like Los Angeles and Oakland pontificate on the importance of real police work? Those sucked. A lot. Because implied within all the pontification that passed as cocktail party small talk, was that the chiefs from well-to-do areas, such as Carmel or La Jolla or, for example… Santa Barbara, were soft. Spoiled. Had no idea what real police work entailed.

Ha.

For one thing, they had no clue what went on in her town. The sheer number of cases they solved. Tough cases. Due to a staff that kicked absolute ass at doing the same kind of real police work they did in LA or Oakland. Maybe not on the same scale, but by the same token, they also had far fewer hands with which to do their work.

Also?

Also?

Those nimrods didn't have to put up with Shawn Spencer.

Of course, technically, neither did she. She had hired him in the first place, theoretically, she could just as easily fire him. Except that for all his posturing and public idiocy, the man had a way of helping to bring in cases—big cases, damn him—such that the mayor, overhearing Karen grumbling that she really and truly was going to shoot Spencer one of these days, had suggested, strongly, that she really and truly not.

Dammit.

Which was after two very long days away and a three-hour drive, she was heading toward her office instead of toward home and a well-deserved glass of wine because God only knew what sort of havoc Shawn Spencer could have wreaked in forty-eight hours. Because really, what was the likelihood he hadn't? It was more a matter of to what degree. She sighed. Seriously, mayor's request or not, was dealing with Spencer really worth it the migraines and the grays her hairdresser despaired over?

For what seemed like the thousandth time in the past six years, she forced herself to once more consider the cases he'd helped to close.

Dammit.

At least, it was Friday. With any luck, after she was done assessing what sort of potential mess she might have to clean up on Monday, she could go home, draw a ridiculously hot bath, douse it with scented oils, and crack open that bottle of Pinot Gris she'd been saving for a special occasion. Or just a random Friday night.

Hey—she might even break out the good dark chocolate. Because it was that kind of Friday night.

As she rounded the corner toward her office, her gaze was automatically drawn toward the pool of light coming from the otherwise dimly lit detective's bullpen. The lone figure illuminated by the light prompted another sigh.

God only knew what havoc Spencer had wreaked.

Dammit, dammit, dammit.

The sound of her bag dropping to the floor made the figure lift his head which in turn, made Karen gasp.

"Carlton, what in the hell—"

"Superficial," he broke in, clearly trying for his trademark bark—and failing, which revved her senses up to high alert.

"My ass," she replied mildly, her own exhaustion fading in the wake of the obvious pain dulling her head detective's normally sharp gaze. In the next instant, she noticed his wince and the telltale squint as he reached out to push the light aside.

"What the hell did Spencer do this time?"

"Much as I hate to say it, it wasn't Spencer's fault." The edges of his mouth twitched slightly before being overtaken by another wince. "This time." He shoved the file he'd been working on toward Karen before dropping his head into his hands, as if it simply weighed too damned much.

Dropping into the chair set alongside his desk, she skimmed the file, one brow rising as she read about the overturning of Thane Woodson's conviction, his subsequent release, and how it had resulted in the unimaginable scenario of O'Hara and Spencer pitted against one another as Psych attempted to prove the SBPD—specifically, O'Hara—had arrested the wrong man for the original crime. As was par for the course in any case in which Spencer was involved, shenanigans had ensued.

"Did they break up?" she asked without looking up.

"Sadly, no."

Surprising. While she was a firm advocate of staying out of her subordinates' personal lives, she had to admit as to a more than passing concern for O'Hara's sanity. She made a mental note to consider scheduling a psychiatric evaluation. She continued with her perusal of the report, and after a few more sentences, the source of Carlton's discomfort and the multiple abrasions on his face was revealed.

"Jesus," she breathed, studying the attached photos of the wrecked Crown Vic, the passenger side pretty much caved in.

Wait a minute…

Looking up from the report, she took in the small cuts peppering Lassiter's face—the right side of his face. She looked back at the report, rapidly skimming the details and there it was—O'Hara had been driving.

Correctly interpreting her shocked glance he responded, "It was her case—her arrest. Seemed right she should drive." He shrugged and once again winced. Karen quickly read through the rest of the report, noting the arrest of the actual perpetrator and the fact that they'd apprehended a second perp and closed a case from '81 in the process. As usual, exceptional work from her people. Work worthy of cops from any municipality—however—

There was one glaring omission within the report.

"Carlton—"

"We didn't have time, Karen. We had to follow the lead or risk losing both of them."

How did he do that?

Because he was a damned good detective. Something she sometimes forgot.

"Detective Lassiter, you were on the receiving end of a high impact crash."

As he once again shrugged and winced, his hand coming up to rub at his shoulder, Karen felt a multilayered flash of anger shoot through her.

"Where's O'Hara?"

"Off with Spencer and Guster, in all likelihood celebrating the successful completion of the case and the inexplicable survival of their relationship."

Which relationship?

Karen shook off the automatic snarky retort in favor of clarifying her initial question.

"And I repeat, where's O'Hara? Why isn't she here, finishing the report while you get the medical attention you so obviously need? Better still, if she was acting as point, why didn't she insist you get medical attention as soon as the case was wrapped?"

"I'm head detective, Karen."

Very deliberately, she closed the report and placed it in his Out box. Just as deliberately, she leaned back in the chair, crossed her arms, and fixed him with a steady gaze. Normally, Carlton would meet it head on, just as steadily, not flinching, hell, not even blinking. Reassuringly, he did meet her gaze, but it was a sign of just how much pain he was in that all he did was prop his chin in his hand and slowly and very wearily… blink.

"I told her to go on—that I'd finish the report. Figured I'd go to the doctor afterward."

"Uh-huh." She took a deep breath, not certain at this point who she was more angry with. "And how, exactly, were you planning on getting there?"

When he remained stubbornly silent, she shook her head in disgust. "For God's sake, Carlton—have you forgotten I was on the line? I've suffered my share of concussions and you, my friend, clearly have a lulu. There's no way you can drive."

"I was going to have a uniform drive me to the hospital," he admitted, "and then call a cab to get home."

As he spoke, Karen felt her ire rising. Never mind that not only should it have been O'Hara filling out the damned report, she should have made certain her partner got to a doctor. When she considered how often Carlton had put O'Hara first—

A psychiatric evaluation was definitely in order.

Heaving an exasperated sigh, she stood. "Come on."

He gazed blearily up at her, squinting as the light hit his eyes, illuminating the grayish circles beneath and throwing the dozens of small cuts into sharp relief.

"If, as Head Detective, you choose to take O'Hara's responsibilities as your own, then as Chief of Police, I choose to take yours."

"Karen—"

"Shut up, Carlton, or I swear to God, I will handcuff you and drag your ass to my car and don't think my years as Chief have eradicated my ability to do so."

The corners of his mouth twitched again. "No doubt at all, ma'am." He pushed himself to a standing position and almost immediately swayed, his pupils dilating alarmingly, almost obliterating the normally brilliant blue.

Instinctively, Karen stepped forward and grasped his elbows with both hands, holding him steady. This close, she could see the beads of sweat along his hairline; could feel the slight clamminess of his skin beneath her palms. The stubborn son of a bitch. He should have been at the hospital hours ago.

Angry as she was, she nevertheless felt compelled to ask, "Is O'Hara okay?"

"Slight sprain to one wrist. In between some astoundingly tasteless jibes regarding my supposed demise in the crash, Spencer expressed considerable relief all her widdle fingers remained intact."

Beneath the typical dry sarcasm, Karen clearly heard a note of something more. At one time, she'd suspected Carlton's feelings for O'Hara ran far deeper than even he might have wanted to admit, but these days, they had more the feel of a strong partnership coupled with an equally strong friendship. Except, perhaps that friendship didn't run quite so powerfully any longer and there was one damned good reason for that.

"Right now, I don't give a crap what Mr. Spencer thinks."

He muttered something about that made two of them as she guided him from the bullpen, her hold firm on one arm, keeping him on course, when he would have swayed into the wall. As she paused to retrieve her overnight bag, she was shocked to feel his free hand briefly cover hers.

"Thanks."

Karen swallowed hard as she looked up into his eyes, still a dull blue with pain, but otherwise, clear. Carlton Lassiter didn't often reveal himself, verbally or otherwise.

"You'd do the same for me."

"Of course I would. But I wouldn't need to." The implication clear that she had someone to look after her and he… well, didn't.

The resumed their journey down the hall, their footsteps echoing hollowly along the tiled expanse and hopefully masking the very quiet, "You'd be surprised," she couldn't prevent from escaping.

Maybe, too, it would mask the sigh of relief that it had finally escaped.