The smell was unmistakable.

It hit Lassiter’s nose the moment he walked into the house.

He’d smelled it at least a thousand times before, more than a few of those times after long nights of his own.

The only question was…who the hell was puking all over his house?

And why?

He drew his gun and followed the stench up the stairs. He couldn’t actually see any evidence of the noxious deed yet, but it was there.

He knew it was there somewhere.

He kicked open the bathroom door, aiming his weapon as he stepped inside.

There, in the middle of the floor by the toilet, lying flat on his stomach and groaning piteously, was Ty. The seventeen year old slowly rolled over on his back when he heard the detective enter, blinking up into the blinding fluorescent lights as he continued to moan. By the toilet bowl, sitting in the noxious puddle, was an empty bottle of scotch.

“Carl,” the boy coughed, slowly forcing himself to sit up. “Why do you drink that stuff? It’s awful. It--”

He was forced to stop when another surge hit his stomach. He scrambled across the floor to the toilet, barely making it in time.

Lassiter stood in the doorway, watching silently as the scene unfolded. He slid his gun back into its holster, not quite sure what he was supposed to say.

The kid wasn’t 21.

Was he supposed to arrest him?

Shoot him for wasting his best scotch?

Yell at him?

Once again, as happened frequently with this little rat, Lassiter was in over his head.

When Ty finally gasped and fell back to the floor on his back, Lassiter decided he had to say something.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he demanded. “If you’re going to get drunk off your ass and spew all over my floor, at least use the beer in the fridge. It’s hell of a lot cheaper than my scotch.”

It seemed to be the right thing to say. It felt right, at least, so Lassiter nodded emphatically.

Ty just groaned again. “It can’t be any worse than that stuff,” he agreed. “Seriously, Carl. I think someone was trying to poison you.”

“No one tried to kill me,” Lassiter assured him. “At least, not this time. You’re just a lightweight. Good God, Ty, most of it ended up on the floor. How much did you even actually drink?”

“Enough.”

“I’d say.”

Lassiter leaned against the sink coolly as Ty sat up again, rubbing his surely throbbing head.

He still wasn’t sure where to go from there.

He had to do something, right?

Tell the kid he was an idiot?

Tell him drinking gets you nowhere except dead?

Show him some bloody driver’s ed. film?

Goddamn it, why didn’t they have a manual for this type of thing?

Ty seemed to know what the detective was thinking, because he looked up at him, his large, black eyes pleading. “You’re not gonna tell on me, are you? The Hendersons would kill me if they found out--”

“I’m not your dad, Ty,” Lassiter answered quietly, shrugging. “I’m not your legal guardian.”

Ty’s head dropped further, his complexion turning more pallid, if that was possible. “Yeah. I know.”

“Is that what you’re doing here?” Lassiter pressed on. “Is that why you’re puking on my floor? Because you know I’m not your father and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it?”

“No!” Ty insisted, shaking his head weakly. “That’s not it, Carl. I just--”

“What?” Lassiter spat. “Had an uncontrollable intellectual curiosity?”

Ty just shrugged, looking down at the floor.

There was nothing he could say.

“There’s not a damn thing I can do,” Lassiter pressed on. “We both know that. If you want to be a drunk idiot, I can’t stop you. Just don’t do it in my house. I damn near shot you.”

Ty moaned again, his head falling into his hands. “You don’t get it, Carl.”

“I don’t get what? You’re a kid. You wanted to get drunk and this was the only place you could do it without getting your ass handed to you. I understand, Ty. Believe me.”

“No!”

“Then, what?”

“I just…wanted to see what the big deal was,” Ty mumbled. “Apparently, the big deal is puke. Lots of puke.”

Lassiter actually laughed.

The little rat was going to learn that lesson the hard way, and probably more than once.

“I’m buying a lock for my liquor cabinet tomorrow morning,” he added, just in case the kid thought he was getting off scot-free. “And you’re cleaning up your mess. As soon as you stop puking your guts out.”

Ty nodded, not bothering to argue.

They both knew he deserved worse.

He ran his fingers through his thick, black hair, blinking a few times as he tried to clear his head and stop the next onslaught from overtaking his churning gut. “You gonna ground me?” he asked quietly.

“Ground you?” Lassiter looked confused. “How the hell could I going to do that?”

“I don’t know,” Ty shrugged. “It just seems like you should do something besides yell, doesn’t it?”

“What do you want me to do?” Lassiter demanded. “We just went over this, Ty. If you want someone to ground you, talk to the Hendersons.”

“I don’t want the Hendersons to ground me,” Ty argued. “I want you to ground me. Or at least threaten to ground me.”

“Why?”

Ty just shrugged again, looking down at the dirty tile floor. “It’s what my dad would do. Hell, my dad would probably kick my ass.”

Lassiter nodded slowly. “Mine would’ve, too. He had a belt…”

“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”

“I don’t know,” Lassiter sighed, running a hand over the back of his neck. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

“Ground me?”

“Sure. You’re grounded. No more drinking.”

“Sounds good to me. You can start by promising you’ll never buy scotch again,” Ty groaned, stumbling to the toilet again.

Lassiter rolled his eyes. “No one told you to drink it.”

“I’ll never do it again.”

“Damn straight.”

The conversation paused while Ty emptied the rest of the contents of his stomach into the toilet.

Lassiter rolled his eyes.

He still didn’t know what to do.

There was no manual for this.

But something told him he was getting it right…or, at least, mostly right.