"Can I play with it?"

"No."

"How come?"

"It's mine."

"...."

"Can I play with it in a while?"

"No."

Sitting on the park bench and using enhanced hearing and vision, Jim monitored his five-year old roommate. Blair's face wrinkled in concentration. Apparently his mini-guide had met his match in the shape of an obstinate seven year-old playing with a shiny new yellow Tonka truck.

After picking Blair up from daycare, they were enjoying a late afternoon sun break at their favorite park. A nice break from making dinner, bathing time and reading bedtime stories, Jim's new life while his adult roommate was in Shaman school.

Daycare was their latest change. Mini-Blair had wanted to follow Jim around all day, just like his adult version. Jim vividly recalled the argument that had followed when Jim first explained what a daycare meant. This was a nice one, run from a private home, behind a secure gated community. Jim got to use his `I'm the adult, that's why' answer and the disagreement ended in tears, with Blair stomping into his room. Jim's heart broke as he listened to the little guy cry himself to sleep that night.

But Blair had enjoyed his first short, one hour visit - that was Rhonda's idea. The next day's visit was a half day and by the end of the week Blair stayed all day and seemed to be having a good time when Jim arrived to pick him up each afternoon. The place cost a prince's ransom each week, but peace of mind had no price. Jim needed to know Blair was safe during the day.

Jim focused once more on the argument in the sandbox.

"You's supposed to share," Blair pointed out, his little hands forming dirty fists.

"It's mine," the truck owner repeated. Blair's adversary was small for his age, but appeared to hold his own.

Blair cast a furtive glance back at the park bench - as Jim expected him to. He'd come to recognize a few things about his mini-roommate. One was his habit of visually checking on Jim right before doing something he knew he wasn't supposed to do.

Jim raised a hand and crooked a finger at him.

Blair looked away.

Jim waited.

Blair glanced back - just to see how Jim was taking his rebellion, no doubt - and Jim firmly pointed down at the ground in front of his own feet, lifting an eyebrow.

Blair sighed, kicked the wooden railroad timber fencing in the sandbox and stomped over to Jim's bench. Stopping an inch beyond Jim's reach, Blair folded his arms and glared.

"What's going on, Chief?" Jim asked.

"He's not sharing. I asked nice and everything. He's mean," Blair answered with rightful indignation.

"It's his truck," Jim reasonably pointed out.

"I want to play with it, Jim," Blair whined.

Jim sniffed, looking heavenward at the white clouds floating by and searched for the correct thing to say.

Blair stomped his foot. "He's supposed to share!"

"Not everyone shares, Blair," Jim answered. "They should, but they don't sometimes."

"You make me share."

"It's the right thing to do."

Like a lawyer who had just caught the witness in a lie, Blair pointed a grimy finger at the oblivious seven year-old in the sandbox. "Then make him share!"

"It's my job to make you do the right thing. Not him."

Blair drew back his right foot seconds before pain exploded through Jim's shin.

"Sandburg!" Jim roared, standing, towering, leaning, red-faced and madder than hell.

Blair dissolved into tears. Jim scooped the child up and limped to the parking lot, letting the kid bury his face into his collar to muffle his sobs, tears and snot soaking through to his shoulder.

His anger played out, Jim was baffled at his normally peace-loving roomie's behavior. He unlocked his truck and wordlessly buckled his miserable kid into the car seat.

Blair sniffled all the way back to Prospect Street, up the stairs and while Jim fumbled with his key at the front door. Closing and locking the door behind him, Jim tossed his keys into the basket and hung Blair's daycare backpack on the coat rack. He carried Blair to the corner, where the wall of windows overlooking the city met brick, and pointed him into the corner.

Blair bellowed and fought to keep his fingers anchored in Jim's shirt, to stay in Jim's arms. Jim leaned over, captured both skinny wrists in one hand and lightly, but firmly smacked his rump. "Just stand here and think about what you did. Kicking and hitting when you're mad is not the answer, Chief." Jim took out his handkerchief and wiped the mucus running from both nostrils.

Eyes swollen and red, face flushed, Blair pleaded, "D-don't! Don't go!"

Jim pointed at the kitchen. "I'll be right there, making dinner. You stay. I'm serious, Blair. Do not move from this corner."

It seemed to work. The child stilled and Jim was able to get dinner started, Chicken and rice with snow peas while Blair softly sobbed, watching over his tiny shoulder.

Fifteen minutes later, with rice bubbling on the stove and the chicken baking in the oven. Jim headed for the stairs. Blair made a move toward him.

"Stay!"

Blair froze.

Jim trotted upstairs, making sure his head and shoulders stayed visible to the child. He changed into loose jeans and a light t-shirt and slipped bare feet into loafers. Returning to the living room, Jim studied his kid. "Do you have something to say to me, Blair?"

Blair nodded, quieter now, but face still wet with fresh tears. "I'm sorry, Jim."

"Come here, Rambo." Jim picked him up. "Let's get you in the tub."

Sniffling softly, Blair endured the bath, letting Jim do the work. He didn't play or talk or do any of the kid things Jim was used to. When the water was cloudy and covered with a film of spent soap bubble, Jim used the new detachable sprayer to rinse Blair's hair before pulling the plug and wrapping the kid into a large white towel. He carried him to his small bedroom, sitting him on the edge of the futon. After a short ponder, Jim pulled out a set of pajamas.

The waterworks started up again. Blair's chin quivered. "Do I haffa go to bed now?"

"No, sport." Jim gently threaded knobby knees through a pair of white briefs. Blair threw his arm back to keep from falling over. "Dinner first."

Fat tears continued to roll down Blair's face. Fighting the urge to give in, Jim focused on the twinges of pain radiating through his shin as damaged tissue filled, throbbing with his pulse.

With a sniff, Jim knew the rice was ready. "Stay put." He left to turn off the burner. Opening the oven door he checked the chicken. Yeah, he had time to run a pick through the kid's hair.

Dinner was quiet. Blair pushed food around on his plate, only eating when Jim ordered. Finally the meal was finished.

"You can go to your room, Blair."

Alone at the table, Jim carefully laid his fork down and rested his face in his palms, fingertips pressing into his temples. What the heck was going on? Where was Blair's anger coming from? Their vacation on the Olympic Peninsula had been great. Once they'd cleared up the business with the sniper, that is. And having adult and mini-Blair together had been weirdness squared, but the rest had been okay. What had set Blair off?

"Incacha, what I wouldn't give for a direct line to you right now, you old trickster." Jim muttered. He extended his hearing, checking on Blair out of habit. The kid was quiet. Paper rustled. He was looking at one of his picture books.

Jim cleared the table. They had food left for a whole new dinner. He got out his Tupperware and broke down the leftovers into manageable single proportions, enough lunches to finish the week. Wiping down the table, it occurred to him he did have a resource he could call. He picked up his cordless and dialed.

"Banks."

"Simon? Can I ask you something?" Jim heard background noise: the delicate clinking of bone china, soft music playing, gentle conversations appropriate at fine restaurants.

Crap.

"I'm sorry, I'll call back-"

Simon cut him off. "No, Jim. It's fine." Jim could hear him talking to his dinner companion. "It's work. Please excuse me." A few seconds later Simon was talking to him again. "What's wrong?"

"Damn, dinner with the commissioner, right? I'm sorry," Jim said again.

"Ellison, would you relax? It's not a big deal. What's the problem? Is Sandburg okay?"

Dropping into the yellow chair, Jim leaned back. "He kicked me in the park today. He was all pissy about some kid that wouldn't share his toys. One minute we're talking about it, the next minute he's psycho-kid in tennis shoes."

Simon didn't laugh. "What did you do?"

Frowning, Jim admitted, "I yelled."

"What?"

"His name."

"Anything else?"

"Not at the park."

"Good for you," Simon praised. "You kept your head. Then what?"

Jim scraped a hand over his short hair. "I stood him in the corner. He was crying. He apologized. I gave him a quick bath. We ate. He's in his room. I figure we need to talk about it... but I'm clueless."

"Hmmmm." Jim could hear his boss tapping his foot, could picture him thinking it over, his forehead wrinkled in thought.

Jim waited.

"Didn't you tell me the daycare called today?"

Jim nodded. "Yeah."

"What was that about?"

"He was being bratty, not obeying Mrs. Portnal when she told him to wash up before lunch." Jim saw where Simon was going. "You think it's related?"

"You and I both know the kid isn't perfect, but this doesn't sound like him, Jim."

"I agree."

"Get him to talk to you about his day. Something happened there to start this."

Jim stood. "Thanks, Simon."

"Call me later."

"I will."

"And Jim," Simon's tone switched to `Captain-mode.' "When it comes to that little guy, there's no such thing as a bad time to call me. Get that?"

"Crystal, sir."

Jim filled the sink with hot water and slipped the dishes in to soak. He dried is hands and knocked on Blair's bedroom door. "Chief?"

Blair sat on the floor, legs straight out, staring glumly at the coloring book from the ocean in his lap. He looked up with adult-sized sadness that no child should carry.

Jim held out his hand. "Come here, buddy."

Again, tears.

Jim took Blair into his arms. "God, kid." Jim muttered. "You're alright."

"Imsorryjim," Blair mumbled tearfully into Jim's shoulder.

"Shhhhh." Jim took a seat on the sofa and held him. Letting several minutes pass before he settled Blair sideways onto his lap and watched him burrow into the crook of Jim's arm. Jim reached for the box of tissue he'd learned to keep in every room. He should buy stock. He mopped Blair's eyes and wiped his nose.

"Tell me about the time-out you had with Mrs. Portnal today."

Blair dodged his gaze.

"Blair?"

"Yeah?" he whispered.

"Talk to me. What happened at daycare?"

"Nuth'n."

Jim let that answer settle. He brushed a few damp locks back from Blair's eyes and waited.

Blair's mumbled something even a sentinel couldn't hear.

"Say that a little louder, please," Jim told him softly, dialing up to eight.

"Becca was... making fun of me," Blair whispered.

Rebecca: pretty six year-old with pigtails and freckles. "How?"

"Nuth'n," Blair answered with a weak shrug.

Jim caught the pointed little chin. "Chief, if it was nothing, then you wouldn't have mentioned it. So, tell me."

Turning inward to Jim's chest, Blair sprawled in his hold, little ear pressed against his arm as he started playing with an unraveling thread on the hem of the older man's sleeve. "She says... um... all the kids had a... mom and a dad... except me."

"I see," Jim answered. "Did you tell her you had a roommate?"

Blair nodded, the movement ticking as Blair's curls brushed his forearm. "She says it's not the same as having a real dad."

"Do all the kids have real dads?" Jim asked. The group was small, only six kids on a busy day. He had liked that, knowing they were all about the same age. But if the little monsters were out to make his kid's life miserable then Jim would find other arrangements.

Blair shook his head. "Justin don't. But he's got a real mom."

Jim caught a stray tear before it ran down Blair's nose. He stroked the small cheek with his thumb and struggled to find words that would make this child feel better. No book covered this...

A child separated from his adult self.

A guardian in place of a real parent.

A real parent that he had no memory of.

The sour tang of misery touched Jim's nose. He settled the child closer to his chest. "I wonder..."

Blair turned his head a fraction, listening.

"What does a real dad do?"

Blair shrugged. Jim waited him out and finally Blair answered with a dull tone. "Becca says he takes her places and stuff."

"Ah, I see. " Jim tried to sooth the wrinkles on the impossibly small brow. The baby blue eyes glistened with more tears, but they had stopped falling. "See, when I was little. My dad was too busy to take me places. But I remember sometimes my mom would take me places."

Blair's interest peaked and he pushed against Jim's chest until he was turned enough to see his face. "Where?"

"Oh, sometimes to the store, or the beach or to the park."

"But... we go places like that." Blair scratched at his pug nose in contemplation.

"But the best part was when my mom was home with me." Jim's throat grew tight. He paused to clear it, forced his mind to focus on Blair. "She'd take the cushions off all the couch and chairs and we'd build forts."

"Wow." Blair lifted his head, pivoting it as he surveyed the possibilities.

Jim cringed. Too late now. He pressed on. "And remember when you and I ate crackers and drank hot chocolate on the floor in front of the TV? My mom and I did that, a lot."

Smiling, Blair settled back into Jim's arms. "That was fun."

"I agree."

"Jim?"

"What."

"Am I your job?"

"Huh?"

Blair worried the thread on Jim's shirt again. "You said... in the park..."

Jim thought back to his words, when Blair had asked him to make the other kid share. It's my job to make you do the right thing. Not him.

Crap. He'd screwed up. He'd made Blair think it was a chore to keep him. Jim forced a smile, even though his chest was tight with failure. His brain gears spun madly to come up with something a five year-old could understand. "You know what? That's the very best part of having you live with me. I get to take care of you."

Blair looked confused. "But you and Simon talk about jobs and you don't like `em."

Note to self: little pitchers have big ears.

"We get frustrated, but we like our jobs at the police station. You - however - are not the same thing. You're my responsibility and Captain Simon is the only one I trust to share that with. You're not just a job, sport. I love taking care of you. All the time."

"Am I..." Blair squinted at the short thread unraveling from Jim's sleeve as he whispered the next part. "Am I yours?"

Lifting the child higher until he was kissing the freshly washed neck, Jim growled. "Mine. All mine. If anyone tries to take you, I'd eat them up!"

Blair giggled, wiggling and worming an arm around Jim's neck to hold him closer.

Jim stretched out the collar of the pajama top and blew a raspberry against the bony shoulder before lowering him to his lap again. After a little silence, Blair squirreled about until he had pulled out of Jim's hold and straddled the older man's lap, his perfect little face set in a fierce scowl. "Know what?"

"What."

"I'm gonna tell Becca that you do everything her dad does."

"You are?"

"Yep. A Jim is better than a dad." He flopped forward, knocking Jim's breath out with a whoosh.

Jim closed his eyes and squeezed. "I'm glad you think so. I love you, Blair."

"Love you, Jim."

"Love you more."

"Love you mo- Hey!" Blair suddenly reared back, a familiar glint in his eye. "Can we build a fort?"

Jim stilled Blair's bounce and carefully framed the small faced with his hands. "We still need to talk about what happened in the park."

Joy collapsed as the memory returned. Blair's lower lip quivered.

"Hey, enough of that," Jim told him. "I know you're sorry, but you still have consequences to deal with."

"What's that mean?"

"It means that your actions cause more actions. Because you lost your temper instead of telling me you were upset, you're looking at punishment tonight."

"You gonna kick me?"

Jim caught the laugh before it bubbled up his throat. "No, pal. I'm not gonna kick you. But no TV or video. You can spend an hour reading or coloring in your room, then it's lights out."

"Aww, maaan."

"What should you do whenever you feel like kicking or hitting?"

"What?"

"You come talk to me about it," Jim answered. Unbelievable, Jim was having to order Blair Sandburg to come and talk to him. "Sharing your problems is better than acting out your anger. Understand?"

Blair pouted, but nodded.

"Good." Jim lifted Blair off, setting him back on the floor. "Tomorrow we'll build a fort, complete with a drawbridge."

Wondrously, Blair sucked in his breath, eyes wide. "Really?"

"Really."

"KEWL!"

Two weeks later, Jim walked down the marble and wood panelled hallway toward his roommate's office at Hargrove. With adult Blair back, Jim's life was certainly less complicated. He missed the little tyke, but not the constant shuttles to daycare and invites to pizza birthday parties. The kid was popular.

Although, when Jim considered he was having to pick up his adult roommate after work because the Corvair was in the shop - again - it wasn't much different.

Nearing the closed door, Jim overheard Blair talking. It sounded like his office hours were running a little late.

"... know it sounds harsh right now, man. But you brought this on yourself."

"Please, Mr. Sandburg. I only need a few more days and I'll have the assignment finished, I swear!"

"Walt, you had a full month. That's longer than I've given anyone else. You could have done three papers in that time. Admit it; you blew this off figuring I'd give you more time. Sorry. I'm not. You're getting an incomplete."

"I'll have to retake the class!"

"Hey, man. Didn't you ever learn your actions have consequences? I'm sorry, but I'm not going to support shoddy work ethics."

Jim stepped aside as a tall, skinny freshman-looking guy stormed out of the office. A second later, Blair appeared in the doorway, his expression worried. He saw Jim and gave a weak smile. "Hey."

"Sounded serious." Jim nodded back at the departing youth.

"Nah," Blair answered, leaning down to pick up his backpack from the floor and turning off the light. "He's just young and not used to being held up to a standard. He'll get with the program. So, anyway, thanks for the ride."

"No problem." Jim waited until the door was locked. They walked shoulder to shoulder toward the main door. "So, you gave him the `consequences' speech, huh?"

Blair shrugged. "Yeah, it's important man. Actions cause more actions. Someone might as well explain that to him. Guess this time it's me."

Jim smiled and dropped an arm around Blair's shoulders. "Guess so, Chief."

end

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