It had been a long day, even by Carlton Lassiter’s standards.

He’d blown a deadly case wide open, only to re-blow it open when he almost got shot in the head.

But that wasn’t even the worst part. The worst part was that he now actually owed Spencer.

Shawn Spencer.

The annoying pain in his ass had actually saved his life.

How could he ever forgive himself for letting that happen?

How could he forgive himself for any of it?

It was too much to process for one day. He couldn’t even think about it without cringing.

He’d almost been killed, and he couldn’t even hate the son of bitch who wanted to murder him.

Not really.

Not when he could only imagine what had driven him to it.

Dropping his suit jacket on the living room floor, he crossed to the mantle and poured himself a scotch. The best antidote for a crappy day.

After a slow sip, he turned around and crossed the room again, this time collapsing onto the couch, being careful not to spill a drop of scotch in the process. He closed his eyes wearily as he leaned his head against the wall behind him and took another drink. He listened to the echoing silence of the large, empty house around him, which was only punctuated occasionally by the sound of the ice tinking in his glass.

He didn’t have to stop with one drink, he realized dully as he polished off the first scotch.

He could have two.

Or three.

Who the hell would blame him?

Who the hell would even know?

He didn’t move right away, however, despite his defiant thoughts. He just sat still, listening for something that wasn’t there as he waited for the scotch to start taking effect. The dull, comforting numbness had just begun to settle over his head when he heard a small sound above him.

Normally, Carlton Lassiter would’ve pounced on whatever made that sound. Normally, he would’ve been vigilant about a potential assassin…but somehow, he just couldn’t bring himself to give a damn today.

What was the worst that could happen?

They’d actually shoot him in the head this time?

Would he really be any worse off?

He opened one eye lazily, deciding he should at least take a look. Ty was standing over him, his large black eyes open as wide as Lassiter had ever seen them.

"Are you okay?" Ty asked quietly.

Lassiter blinked.

He tried to remember the last time he’d been asked that question. He’d heard it a dozen times that day, of course. Everyone at the station had asked, not to mention paramedics and the DA and anyone else he happened to see in the precinct.

But this was different.

He’d never been asked if he was okay like this.

He sat up slowly, dropping the empty scotch glass onto the coffee table. "I’m fine," he grunted.

Ty didn’t move, didn’t even blink. He just stared at Lassiter like he was seeing a ghost.

"Carl," he pressed on, his voice still not rising above a whisper. "Are you okay?"

Lassiter returned the stare now.

Hadn’t the little rat heard him the first time?

"Ty, I’m fine," he insisted again, standing up, for a moment debating whether or not he should take that second scotch now or wait until Ty finally left.

Ty, however, didn’t seem even close to ready to leave. "Carl, some psycho tried to blow your brains out!" he informed him, as if Lassiter might have forgotten in the last few hours. "I saw it on the news. They said you screwed up his son’s murder case and he wanted revenge."

"I didn’t screw anything up," Lassiter snapped, his eyes narrowing at the teenager in front of him. Ty was fifteen now, and getting close to being as tall as him, but he was still just a kid. "I didn’t mess up his case."

"I didn’t mean--"

"Ty," Lassiter groaned, cutting him off before the conversation could get too carried away. "He didn’t blow my brains out. I’m fine. Go home. I don’t want to talk about it, and I sure as hell don’t want to talk to the Hendersons when they call looking for you. So just go home."

Ty blinked, looking somewhat hurt by the order. His jaw set stubbornly, however, as he dug his feet into the floor. "No."

Lassiter’s shoulders slumped. "What?"

"I don’t want to go home, Carl," Ty told him firmly. "And you can’t make me. The Hendersons know I’m here this time. They said they thought it was a good idea for me to check on you. So, I’m not leaving."

He crossed his arms and fell onto the couch, clearly not intending to move. "And don’t even think about trying to bribe me this time," he warned seriously. "It’s not going to work."

Lassiter sighed, coming back and perching on the arm of the couch on the opposite side from Ty.

He still couldn’t figure out what the hell was going on, but he was going to put a stop to it.

"Ty," he growled. "You’re not staying here tonight. You’re too old to sleep on the closet floor."

Ty stretched out on the couch, folding his arms behind his head, looking quite content. "I’ll sleep right here," he shrugged. "It’s more comfortable than the floor, anyway."

"Just sleep at the Hendersons!" Lassiter almost shouted in exasperation.

"I don’t want to!" Ty countered.

"Why the hell not?"

"Because you’re not okay!"

"Yes, I am!"

"You are not!"

"How the hell would you know?"

"Because I know!" Ty looked down at the floor, his fingers picking at the fibers in the couch. "I know you’re not okay, Carl. He said you messed up on the case. He tried to kill you. The dork saved your ass--"

"Don’t say ass."

"Butt," Ty amended quickly, rolling his eyes at the hypocritical correction. "You’re not okay," he concluded with finality, meeting Lassiter’s gaze again. His deep black eyes had clouded over with something Lassiter couldn’t identify until Ty spoke again.

"Do heads bleed as much as chests?" he asked quietly.

That’s when Lassiter understood everything.

Well, just about everything.

At least, he understood why the hell the little rat wouldn’t leave him alone.

Ty’s mom had been shot twice in the chest. He’d been in the closet the whole time, watching.

That wasn’t something you just walked away from, not even after five or so years.

"Ty," he sighed again, all remnants of the peaceful numbness fading into something else entirely; something that pricked under his skin like a thousand pins and needles. "I didn’t get shot. I’m fine."

"I know," Ty nodded. "But he still wants to kill you, right? He’s not just going to give up just because you arrested him. The guys who shot my mom didn’t even know her…they were just hired…what if he--?"

"He didn’t hire anyone," Lassiter assured the boy. "He’s not going to try again."

Ty’s dark eyes hardened as he sat up. "Damn straight he’s not," he snarled almost fiercely.

Lassiter blinked in surprise.

He didn’t even correct the cursing this time.

Ty was determined to protect him. He wasn’t going to leave until he knew Lassiter was safe.

That he wasn’t going to get shot.

He never wanted to know if heads bled as much as chests.

Lassiter had never experienced anything quite like this before.

Suddenly, he was re-thinking that second scotch.

And the third.

Someone would notice, after all.

Ty blinked up at him when he still hadn’t responded after a full three minutes. "Carl?" he asked, looking concerned. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Lassiter nodded slowly. "I’m fine."