He has let him stew for the last 15 minutes but it doesn’t seem to have made all that much difference. The ranting has stopped, but Carlton knows from experience that the second he walks back into the interrogation room it’s going to start again.

He doesn’t mind so much; you don’t become Head Detective without growing some calluses, including on your feelings. His thick skin goes all the way down. But, it doesn’t get them anywhere when every question asked is answered with a tirade on Canadian/American relationships, or the current lack of them in that room.

Doctor McKay. Not the healing kind of doctor, apparently. No, the “I’m smarter than you” kind of doctor. Lassiter would normally say put them in the Army and see how their smarts serve them then, but….

It doesn’t mean the guy is superior to him though. No, on this side of the table, the cop has the upper hand.

He takes a steeling breath before going back into the room.

From the resume of Carlton Lassiter:

Antique Mover (January '89 - July '89)
Olden Thingz Moving Co., Big Sur, CA
*Care and knowledge of really old furniture and dusty things.

Carlton was waiting for a chair; some old Renaissance thing with a high back and pointless curls in the woodwork. It always was. No one wanted a simple wooden chair, they wanted people to know that it cost them a fortune. No one ever had any respect for the basics of carpentry and a well made seat. Then, after the shop owner, who obviously believed he had all the time in the world, seeing as he virtually sold it anyway, had finally decided to bring it out, he had to drive the company van back to Santa Barbara, (it was a shame he couldn't stop by home for lunch, but they always kept one eye on the clock and one ear on the traffic report), to put the musty old chair in some musty old woman's musty old house. And he will smile at the well meaning and thoughtless comments about nice young men having better things to do on a sunny day than bring antiques to go in the homes of other living antiques. He will politely refuse the offer of a nice cool glass of lemonade. Hopefully, he won't have to pretend to ignore it when the randy old crow tries to pinch his butt. What is it with old women and his butt?

The sun was high and bright in a clear, dazzling blue sky outside. You'd never know it from inside the shop. Everything had a dull, hazy feel, the dust on the windows muting the light until everything seemed amber. The crowded antique shop seemed full of shadows, cast by tall wardrobes and chairs stacked on top of tables. Even the grandfather clock nearby seemed to be swallowed up in the thick gloom and was ticking slow, Carlton as sure of it. He felt sleepy, he could just sit in a chair and doze off. He drew a spiral in the dust of the table he was standing by and stared at the door, willing the shop keeper to hurry, so he could get back out into the sun again.

The old women were right; what was he doing at the age of 20, surrounded by things older than his grandparents?

/

He was dreaming about a woman with neatly styled dark hair and this bright, bright smile. He liked her, and though the surroundings of the room they were in looked old fashioned, he could have lived like this, with her bringing him dinner when he got home from work. There weren’t any cop shows on TV, but that was ok, because when she came to sit with him of the couch, she snuggled up automatically, resting her hand against his chest, and who does that anymore? Who does that to him? And the dog, at least he thinks it’s a dog, maybe a red setter cross, going by its fur, lay obediently at their feet, not bouncing or begging or biting.

It doesn’t belong to him. None of it is for him. That’s the thought that sticks with him as he wakes up. It’s frustrating because the memory of the dream is already fragmenting and shredding apart into wisps and vague snatches, simply a knowledge that it was a good dream. But it’s not meant for him, that’s the strong feeling that follows him into wakefulness, and it leaves him feeling sad and empty.

He lies for a minute, eyes determinedly shut, hoping that he can maybe fall back into the dream if he just pretends that he’s not waking up. He’s already aware of the light though. It’s still dark in the room, but the sun is definitely coming up, which makes it quite a “reasonable” time in the morning. He disagrees, but that’s because it’s not a reasonable morning. It’s Christmas morning and some wise power that be, namely Chief Vick, decreed that he wasn’t allowed to work this one. How she thinks that waking up alone on this of all mornings will be good for his spirit, he doesn’t know…

Of course, he’s not alone. If he shifts his feet, he can feel the dead weight of Firefox sleeping on the end of the bed. It’s not the same thing, though.

Squeezing the pillow with both hands, he pulls it further beneath his head. If he can just make himself sleep through until it’s time to go to his mo---

He’s not alone. There’s someone else in his room. He can hear them breathing.

He makes a sleepy moaning noise, trying to pretend that he hasn’t noticed as he slides his hand under the cool pillow next to him. His fingers curl around the handle of the glock he keeps hidden there. No one watches him sleep and gets away with it.

There's a new girl on the front desk. I realise there's a lot of ropes to learn, but I think that actually looking at the missing posters before putting them on the notice board is one of the most basic parts of the unwritten job description.



( How many of these are your handywork, Spencer? )

Spencer, it's your birthday, and it might surprise you to find out that I've not forgotten. It's pretty hard to forget when you booby trapped every officer's desk with canned fabric snakes that pop out when you open the drawer with a shower of confetti and "happy birthday" playing in the background. My birthday gift to you is a tip - stay away from the janitor, you are not his favorite person right now.

.... Okay, fine. I also want give you something because O'Hara blackmailed me.

You can chose from either this Toto album (on cassette tape), this keyring, or this festive hat.

If you don't like any of them, it's not my fault. Or if you like all three, take them all, I don't think anyone's going to claim them back from the Lost and Found box now, they're all looking a bit dusty.

The desk sergeant says there's also a half eaten stick of gum in the box if you want that as well.

Today is a good day! Look what I found out I'd won when I woke up this morning:



Thank you so much you guys who voted for me! I'm so very gleeful! Writing can be such a lonesome thing sometimes, not everyone who reads and enjoys a fic will let you know, (and I'm guilty of not giving enough feedback too), so it's hard to judge who is enjoying what you do. And then in RP feedback is even less common. I'm always surprised to find that someone other than dial_a_psychic is reading det_lassiter, especially when I learn that someone who's not visible as having Lassie friended does indeed take the time out to visit the journal and read it. It always flatters me so much to know that people enjoy reading him, so to be nominated by someone was a big enough, lovely, surprise, but winning... OMG!!! Such a great feeling! Thank you so much everyone who voted for me! It makes me so happy!

Also congrats to dial_a_psychic for winning choice comedy writer - without you, me and Lassie are nothing, baby ♥

Title: Dawning
Author: Lipstickcat
Pairing: Het (canon for Shawn/Abigail)
Rating: PG-13 for gore
Disclaimer: They aren’t mine. I promise to put them back when I’m done playing.
Note: 1,600 words. AU zombie!verse. This is angsty, involves character death, gore, and children. Its not a happy fic. Written for dial_a_psychic, because I give the nicest gifts to the people I love ;P

***

( Nobody wants to go to a crime scene at a school )

Can I requisition some boleadoras? Please?

(6WS)

Wow, I'm a little stunned. I woke up this morning to discover that Lassie has been nominated for "Choice Drama/Action Writer" in the Arpea Awards! I'm seriously surprised and gleeful over this. I want to thank whoever nominated me and give them the biggest hug ever for making my day!

THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!

Now, obviously, I expect you all to go and vote, because Lassie likes to win at things! ;D

When reports of the virus started filtering onto the news, he hadn’t taken it seriously. It was no crime, plenty of people didn’t take it seriously, and it all seemed like an elaborate hoax, hyped up by a media that was bored by the lack of people getting killed that day…

… Week…

… Month…

It took less than twenty days for the first case to be diagnosed in Santa Barbara. It had travelled from Chicago to the West Coast in less than a month and as the news reports followed its progress, he had been forced to sit up and pay attention. Everyone had.

Still, he didn’t really believe it until he saw the hooker, the one on the beach, sucking on entirely the wrong part of her John’s body… He’d shot them both and it was the first time the Chief commendated him on killing an innocent person. Not that he made a habit of shooting innocent people through the head. But, that had been a pretty spectacular shot – killing two birds with one bullet.

Once it was here though, there was no cure, no way of getting rid of it and it spread so fast. People were dumb, they made themselves vulnerable. Maybe they liked being brainless consumer sheep and just wanted to go that last step.

He was not going down without a fight, though, and he had enough weaponry to smear a few zombie brains over the department’s cheery Mediterranean décor before they got him.

They should call it The Sucks.

6WS

At least Sweet Lady Justice hadn't left him yet.