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The moment Henry heard the crash from downstairs, he was on his feet, his covers pushed aside and completely forgotten.

His first thought, of course, was that Shawn was stopping by unannounced.

Again.

Of course, even Shawn was usually smart enough not to go smashing everything in sight when he was sneaking around.

The first crash was followed quickly by a second, then immediately by a muffled, slurred “Damn it!”

Henry groaned, rolling his eyes as he flicked on his light and headed for the door.

He knew that muffled, slurred voice.

And it didn’t belong to Shawn.

There were two more crashes as he went down the stairs, each of them making him cringe as he tried to imagine which of his possessions were now laying in pieces on the floor.

He wished it was actually a burglar down there.

At least then, he could shoot him.

He turned the corner into the living room. There, sprawled out on his stomach across the couch, two lamps and some crappy vase Henry couldn’t remember even buying scattered across the floor at his feet, was Carlton Lassiter.

Even from ten feet away, Henry could tell he was drunk off his ass.

“Lassiter!” he snarled, flicking the living room light on. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get the hell off my couch!”

Lassiter groaned, slowly rolling over on his back, blinking up into the bright light with red, bloodshot eyes. He stared up at Henry for a moment, alternating between squinting and opening his eyes wide as he tried to place his face.

“Oh, God,” he slurred, sitting up unsteadily as it finally dawned on him. “Old Spencer. What are you doing here? Are you going to criticize my pole technique…?...Crap. We’re not going fishing, are we?”

Henry scowled, rolling his eyes as he steadied Lassiter as he tried to stand up. “No, we’re not going fishing. You just broke into my house. What the hell did you think you were doing?”

Lassiter reached into his pocket, tossing Henry a small key, which landed ten feet away and not anywhere near it’s intended target. “I had a key,” Lassiter told him.

“Yeah,” Henry nodded, not making a move to get it. “I lent it to you a month ago when you stayed here for a few days. You were supposed to give it back, but you never did.”

“I’m not staying here anymore?” Lassiter blinked, looking confused. “…Then where the hell am I staying?”

Henry let go, and Lassiter fell back onto the couch, tilting his head against the back as he stared up at the ceiling.

“Your house,” Henry informed him sharply, his patience starting to wear thin.

“Oh, no,” Lassiter shook his head emphatically. “I don’t want to stay there.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because she’s probably going to get it, anyway,” Lassiter muttered, waving his hand through the air in a wobbly slicing motion. “They always say it’ll be amibacle…ami..bab..cle…” he paused, tripping over the word a few more times before finally settling on a different one.“…Nice…but it never is. I’ve seen it before. Step one: the papers. Step two: they call the lawyers.”

Henry nodded slowly, finally starting to get the picture.

He grasped Lassiter by the arm again, pulling him to his feet. “You’re going to need coffee,” he told him, leading him towards the kitchen, letting go once he was sure he wasn’t going to fall on his face. “…lots of it.”

Lassiter fell into a chair, slumping with his arms crossed over his chest. Henry started the coffee and came back to the table, taking the seat across from him.

Lassiter looked up at him. “She has more money than I do,” he muttered bitterly. “But I’m still going to get screwed…Damn it. I shouldn’t have signed anything without my lawyer…I don’t have a lawyer…I need to get a lawyer.”

Henry shrugged. “The lawyers are the worst part.”

“They’re scum.”

For a moment, they were both content to leave it at that.

Lawyers were scum.

Exes screwed you over.

Nothing else needed to be said.

Finally, the coffee was finished brewing. Henry stood up, coming back a moment later with a mug for the detective.

Lassiter sipped at it hesitantly, then dropped it on the table with a loud clatter, groaning as he dropped his head in his hands. “God, I’m such an ass.”

Henry ignored the puddle of brown liquid that was now pooling on his table, spilling over the rim of the discarded mug. “You’re not an ass.”

Lassiter laughed once, loudly and bitterly. “I thought she wanted to take another shot…I thought we could do it…we’d been talking again…not fighting…I even bought her--it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.”

His voice trailed off, none of his thoughts leading anywhere except the inevitable conclusion.

He was an ass.

Henry leaned forward. “You’re not an ass for trying to save your marriage,” he told him. “You’re only an ass if you give it up without a fight.”

Lassiter shook his head grimly, picking up the mug again and taking a gulp that Henry figured would probably leave his mouth burned once he was sober enough to realize it. “You’re an ass if you’re the only one fighting. She just wants out. She doesn’t want the damn house…she doesn’t want anything from me. She just wants…out. How the hell do you fight that?”

Henry sat back in his chair thoughtfully. “You can’t,” he said finally.

Lassiter’s eyes stared past him, his fingers absently turning the mug on the table. “I’ve pulled my gun in the line of duty 417 times,” he murmured. “They keep telling me not every situation requires a gun…but it’s all I have.”

“Shooting doesn’t help,” Henry told him. “Trust me. I went through 2,000 rounds in a week…it’s all still there when you get back from the range.”

“But at least you got to shoot stuff,” Lassiter reminded him.
“Yeah,” Henry nodded. “You got to shoot stuff…just nothing that actually fixes anything. Nothing that brings her back. Nothing that gives you back all those years you wasted…all those years you wish you could just forget. Nothing that makes you feel like less of an ass for losing the one fight you should have been able to win.”

Lassiter groaned again, resting his head on the table. “Oh, God. I’m not drunk enough for this.”

“There’s no such thing as drunk enough for this.”

“I told you I was an ass.”

“You’re not an ass.”

Lassiter stood up, griping the table with one hand to steady himself before he regained his balance. “What the hell am I supposed to do tomorrow?” he asked quietly. “I told her we both had tomorrow. What does that even mean? I sounded like a damn greeting card. A greeting card ass.”

Henry shrugged, standing up. “Well, first of all, you’re not driving home and I’m sure as hell not taking you. You can sleep it off on the couch. Worry about tomorrow when it gets here. Right now, I’d be more worried about the headache you’re going to have.”

Lassiter nodded, stumbling slightly as he made his way back to the couch. He collapsed onto it, draping his arm over his eyes. “What did you do?” he asked as Henry walked past the couch on his way back upstairs.

He paused on the bottom step. “Shot the hell out of every target I could find at the range,” he said finally, turning back around. “Went fishing…arrested my son…moved to Florida.”

Lassiter dropped his arm, looking up at him. “You did what?”

Henry shrugged, but didn’t say anything for a moment. “You’re not an ass, Lassiter,” he said finally. “At least, not yet. What will make you an ass is what you do tomorrow.”

“But what the hell am I supposed to do tomorrow?”

“I don’t know. But don’t move to Florida.”



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