azombiewrites: (Psych)
[personal profile] azombiewrites
Title: Doorknobs are People too
Rating: PG
Fandom: Psych
Genre: Hurt/Comfort
Summary: Some doors shouldn't be kicked ...
Main Characters: Lassiter, O’Hara, Spencer and Gus.
Disclaimers: All things Psych owned by Steve Franks and the USA network, although I am devising a secret plan to take over the network and Franks.
Beta: [ profile] strangevisitor7 who made this a better story and my wonderful comma wrangling-ninja-meh monkey-whacking-spyentist virtual spouse [ profile] winks7985 .
Notes: The title says it all.
Spoilers: Set in season 3 but with no spoilers.
Word Count: 3,029
Status: Complete

Doorknobs are People too .....

Detective Lassiter stood a few feet away from the apartment door with his gun raised in front of him, his left hand supporting the right. His focus on the area just below the doorknob, Lassiter braced himself on his left leg, took a deep breath and prepared himself for the strike. He brought his leg forward to kick the door.

“Lassie, stop!”

The unexpected shout from Spencer surprised Lassiter, causing his balance to shift and before he could stop his forward momentum, the ball of his foot slammed into the doorknob. The pain was immediate, sharp, as it tore through his ankle. He snapped his mouth shut, clenching his teeth against the curse he could feel on the tip of his tongue. Lassiter began to fall backward, his right leg automatically falling toward the ground to stop his fall. His body tensed in anticipation of the pain he knew was coming. It was worse than he imagined; he felt someone make contact with his arm attempting to pull him away from the door. His momentum set, he continued to fall back; his right leg hit the ground and buckled. He fell sideways, slamming his right shoulder into the wall.

That same someone adjusted their grip and pulled him away from the door. “Carlton! Move!”

Lassiter heard the command in O’Hara’s voice, and attempted to obey. He struggled to move – without question – as she had instructed. He pushed himself upward but as soon as he put weight back onto his ankle, it buckled a second time and this time, he fell to the floor.

“Help him!”

When Lassiter tried to get up, someone pushed him down, forced him onto his back and lifted his upper body off the ground. He wasn’t able to see who had manipulated him into his current position; it had happened so quickly. Before he could ask, arms wrapped around his chest and someone dragged him further down the hallway, the heel of his right shoe catching on the threadbare carpet, pulling at his injured ankle.

Things were moving so fast that he found it difficult to keep track of what was happening around him. He needed a moment to take a breath, to look at his surroundings, to ground his confusion, to locate his partner but most importantly to know what was happening. His lack of knowledge about the situation left him feeling disoriented.

All movement stopped when they reached the elevator at the end of the hall. Lassiter quickly found himself flat on the ground with someone lying on top of him, covering his upper body. He focused on the face hovering inches above his own. Spencer.

“Spencer! Get the hell off me!”

“The doorknob says no, Lassie.”

Realizing he still held the Glock in his right hand, Lassiter said, “Spencer, I’m holding a gun. If you don’t get off me, I will shoot you.”

Lassiter expected Spencer to react, to jump up onto his feet. He didn’t expect someone to try to pull the Glock from his fingers. Lassiter held onto his weapon with a death grip and turned his head to the side. He was greeted to the sight of Guster – with an expression of desperation and fear on his face – trying to pry his fingers from the gun. Confused, Lassiter hesitated long enough to allow Guster to succeed in removing the gun from his grip.

Did Guster believe he would actually shoot Spencer?

With both hands now free, Lassiter took advantage of the opportunity and with every ounce of strength he could muster, he pushed Spencer away. Lassiter pushed himself upright onto his good leg and the ball of his right foot, and reached out to Guster for his weapon. He felt his anger and frustration grow when Guster took a long backward step away from him. Lassiter knew if he wanted his gun, he was going to have to follow Guster, using his injured ankle.



Lassiter looked at his partner. O’Hara was pushing the elevator button with an urgency that confused Lassiter even more. He wanted to tell her that keeping her finger pressed on the button wouldn’t make it arrive any faster. Instead, he asked, “O’Hara? What in the name of sweet justice is going on?”

“Carlton, get down!”

“I don’t--”

“Lassie! The doorknob says we have to get down.”

Lassiter turned on the heel of his left foot, saw Spencer reach toward him and he automatically responded by taking a few steps back – limping badly in the process – in the direction they had come. The weight on his right ankle elicited a sharp stab of pain but he managed to keep his balance by hopping on his left leg. He felt like an idiot.

“No, Carlton--”

A sudden explosion and a rush of hot air threw him against the elevator. The right side of his head bounced off the solid door, sending him into unconsciousness.


Lassiter sat on a gurney in the Santa Barbara Cottage Hospital emergency room. He wore a blank, almost bored expression as he stared – through slightly unfocused eyes – at the doorknob Spencer held in a gentle grip with his right hand. The small piece of gauze taped to the side of the doorknob came as no surprise to Lassiter.

“I’m telling you, Lassie,” Spencer continued the inane chatter he often referred to as conversation. “This doorknob saved our lives. It told me the door was going to explode.”

Lassiter slowly – he didn’t want his head to fall from his shoulders – turned his gaze to O’Hara, his eyes finding the bandaged cut on her left cheek. O’Hara stood close to him, her left hand resting on the gurney close to his thigh – too close as far as he was concerned, close enough to be almost touching. It was unprofessional. He would ask her to remove her hand but knew his tone would be too harsh, angry, and none of this was O’Hara’s fault so he kept his feeling of unease to himself.

That and he knew her proximity was because she was probably waiting for him to fall face first onto something: the gurney, the floor, her chest. He had woken up to a massive headache and a hot stabbing pain in his right ankle. The pain had eased thanks to the wonderful invention known as analgesics – very strong analgesics. He’d felt good enough to sit up, against everyone’s advice, including the doctor. Now he was floating, riding a fluffy white cloud he liked to call numbness. Even Spencer’s irritating voice sounded numb to his ears and that was a good thing.

“What was that?” Spencer held the doorknob close to his ear, listening to something Lassiter knew didn’t exist. “He says his name is Rasputain...”

Lassiter rolled his eyes resulting in a slight twinge of pain; only Spencer would think an inanimate object was alive and speaking to him.

“Shawn,” said Guster.

Lassiter turned his gaze to Guster who was standing next to his friend. A memory flashed through his mind, something about Guster stealing his gun. He pushed the memory away – thinking that it was false – because Guster would never take his weapon from him.

“It’s Rasputin.”

Spencer frowned and said, “He told you?”

“I don’t talk to doorknobs, Shawn.”

“Spencer, that doorknob isn’t talking to you,” added Lassiter but it came out as a thick slur, the words blending, the meaning lost in the effect of the painkillers.

“What was that, Rasputin?” Spencer turned back to the doorknob. “Road kill? Rasputin is talking about road kill.” Spencer frowned at O’Hara, Guster and then Lassiter. All three were looking at him with matching expressions of confusion.

“Shawn,” Guster said, “what do dead animals on the side of the road have to do with this?”

Lassiter thought the expression that crossed Spencer’s features said, please forgive my friend; he’s slow when it comes to understanding my visions.

Spencer took his friend’s arm and began to lead him away from Lassiter and O’Hara. “If you would excuse us, Gus and I are going to the corner of the room where we can turn our backs to you and argue in a less embarrassing manner.”

“Or, you could just leave the room and not come back.” Again, Lassiter’s words were slurred, but the tone of his voice was strong, hinting at what he wanted to happen. But the two men didn’t leave, just continued to the corner where they began to argue.


Lassiter clearly heard the admonishment in O’Hara’s voice; she always took the psychic’s side. He refused to look at her, instead his eyes narrowed at the sight of Spencer and Guster; their jaws clenched, voices coming out in rushed harsh whispers. He turned his head slightly, hoping that he could hear what they were saying. When he couldn’t, his curiosity grew. A few seconds later, the argument ended and the two friends returned to face him and O’Hara.

“Rasputin apologizes,” said Spencer. “He was made in New Zealand. What he meant to say, was...”

Lassiter thought he saw Spencer shudder.

“...Joyride.” Spencer leaned closer to Guster and whispered – they were close enough for Lassiter to hear them this time – in a childish tone. “The New Zealand title of Roadkill was so much better. Joyride makes me think of Disneyland and cotton candy.” Spencer frowned and added. “Now we have to get cotton candy.”

“I hear that,” Guster agreed.

“Pink cotton candy, on a stick,” said Spencer. “It’s not the same when it comes in a bag. It sucks the light airy fluffiness out of the candy and--”

“Shawn,” O’Hara nodded toward Lassiter as she caught him tilting over onto his right side. She pushed him back to his original position.

“Right,” said Spencer and then he continued.

Lassiter felt O’Hara’s grip and was grateful when she hadn’t allowed him to fall over, especially in front of Spencer and Guster. His mind grew fuzzy at that moment, Spencer’s words coming and going-something about Leelee Sobieski and the door to the apartment being booby-trapped with explosives, the doorknob telling Spencer that it would explode when opened.


O’Hara’s voiced floated around him, he frowned as her features drifted in and out of focus. It was time he laid back down on the gurney. He lifted his right leg, struggling to get it up onto the gurney. Lassiter felt a touch beneath his thigh, flinched back from it and almost fell off the bed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Spencer and Guster rush toward him, each of them grabbing him, gently laying him back onto the gurney. His legs lifted – not of their own accord, he was sure – and something thick and soft placed under his right calf, elevating his injured ankle. Lassiter sighed and closed his eyes. The wonderful drugs in his system pulled him into a relaxed slumber and he slept, O’Hara by his side.


Lassiter woke a few hours later, the pain stronger than it had been, his head clearer; he was no longer on the fluffy white cloud called numbness. He raised his right arm, the fingers finding the small soft lump just above his right ear, grimacing when he pressed down on it too hard.

“Carlton, leave it alone.”

He opened his eyes and looked to his left to find O’Hara sitting in a chair, her face tired, and small lines of pain creasing her forehead. Lassiter raised an eyebrow and said, “O’Hara?”

“She won’t go home,” Spencer spoke up from a corner of their small space in the emergency room, Guster still by his side. “Not until she’s sure you’re alright.”

Lassiter lifted himself up onto his elbows and noticed that he was still dressed, although he was without his jacket. The right shoe and sock were also missing and there was a bandage wrapped around the ankle. When the room didn’t spin and the pain in his skull didn’t get any worse, he said, “O’Hara, I’m fine. Go home.”

“The Doctor said that when you woke, we could take you home. I wanted to wait.”

“They’re not going to try and force me to stay overnight?”

“No, Doctor Nair said your injuries weren’t serious and that you could go home but someone needs to stay with you tonight.”

Her words finally registered. We could take you home. Someone needs to stay with you tonight.

Lassiter narrowed his eyes, quickly glanced toward Spencer and saw the wide cocky smile on the Psychic’s face. He groaned, “No. No, no, no--”

In his peripheral vision, he noticed O’Hara shaking her head. He knew the body language was for his benefit. “Shawn isn’t taking you home, Carlton. I am and I’m going to stay with you.”

Lassiter wasn’t having any of it. He sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the gurney, and clenched his teeth against the pain when the blood flowed back into the right ankle. He took a deep breath, waited until he was sure he could speak in a normal voice. “O’Hara, you look like you’re going to fall off that chair at any moment. You’re in no condition to take me anywhere.” When he saw Spencer take a step forward he continued, “And I am not going to let Spencer drive me home. I’ll take a cab. I’ll be fine.”

“Carlton!” O’Hara stood up and moved into his personal space. He leaned back away from her. “Doctor Nair insisted that someone--”

“Do I have a concussion?”

O’Hara looked momentarily confused. “What? No, he said there was no concussion.”

“Is my ankle broken?”

His partner let out a loud sigh of frustration and said, “Fine. You take yourself home. Deal with your pain and discomfort like a real man. On your own.”

He was about to say that he would when he remembered something important. “What happened?”

“The door,” O’Hara sat down, “to the apartment was--”

“Henderson’s apartment,” Lassiter nodded.

“--rigged with C4 so it would explode when it was opened, or kicked open.”

Spencer quickly came toward him, Guster moving with him. “Rasputin--”

Lassiter frowned in confusion. “Rasputin?”

“The doorknob, his name was Rasputin.” Spencer explained. “We went through all of this before, Lassie. Don’t you remember?”

“No,” said Lassiter.

“Rasputin told me the door was rigged. That’s why I tried to stop you.”

“Doorknobs don’t talk, Spencer. You must have seen something that I--” Lassiter snapped his mouth shut. He wasn’t going to admit to Spencer that he hadn’t seen anything that indicated Henderson rigged the door to explode.

When Spencer frowned at him, Lassiter waved to him to continue. “O’Hara pulled you into the hallway. I dragged you toward the elevator, even though I wanted to head toward the stairs. Jules thought the elevator was closer. I didn’t but--”

“Shawn,” said O’Hara.

“Right, anyway, the C4 exploded and you got knocked out. Rasputin was injured during the explosion, he seemed okay for a while but when you were asleep...” Spencer’s breathing hitched in his chest. He waved his hand quickly in front of his face. “Rasputin didn’t make it. He died a couple of hours ago.”

Lassiter rolled his eyes, turning his head away at the same time. He watched as the images began to flash through his mind: dragged down the hallway, his foot catching on the carpet, Spencer lying on top of him, Guster taking his weapon, standing ... Guster taking his weapon. He pushed himself off the gurney, landing on his left foot. When O’Hara began to stand up, he raised a hand to stop her. Lassiter tested his injured ankle, placing a small amount of weight on it and when it didn’t collapse beneath him, he took a step toward Guster. Even though he could walk on it, the ankle hurt like a bitch and the limp was extreme.

“Guster, where is my weapon?”

“I...” Guster’s eyes widened and he stepped back. “I thought you--”

“I can remember you taking my weapon. Give it back ... now, before I arrest you for theft.”

“Carlton, I have your gun, don’t worry about it.”

He narrowed his eyes at his partner and said, “Where is it?”

“I’ll give it back to you when you calm down.”

“O’Hara, I am calm,” Lassiter said through a clenched jaw.

She glared back at him.

He turned his head away, saw Guster and smiled. He walked – limped – up to him, placed an arm around Guster’s shoulders and began to lead him to the door. “Spencer, please take O’Hara home.”

“Carlton, where are you going?”

Lassiter tightened his grip on Guster so the man couldn’t run away. “Guster and I are going to pay a visit to the morgue ... it’ll be easier to clean up any mess that I make.”

“Carlton,” O’Hara stepped toward him.

“O’Hara, he stole my weapon. No one steals my--”

“Carlton! You can’t...” O’Hara started. “You know what, never mind.”


“It’s been nice knowing you, Gus.”

Guster, his fear of dead bodies pushing him to the extreme, kicked out with his foot, hitting Lassiter’s injured ankle.

“Damn it!”

Lassiter let Guster go, lifted his right leg and gripped the shin within his hands, hoping that his own touch would take the pain away. When it didn’t, he decided that another dose of painkillers was required. If he hadn’t been in so much pain, he would have smiled at the sight of Guster running down the hospital hallway.

A gentle grip on his arm had Lassiter dropping his leg back to the ground, only the tips of the toes touching the floor. He turned, saw O’Hara, his jacket in her right hand and let out a breath of defeat.

“Come on, we’ll drop you off; make sure you get home okay.”

Lassiter nodded and with O’Hara’s help, he began to limp toward the nurse’s station. He couldn’t help regret his decision to go with them when Spencer started talking about funeral arrangements for a doorknob.

If only he had his weapon.

--The End--

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