If all the problems were as easy to fix as the kid's rash, Jim thought, he wouldn't have to walk into that office and ask for more time off.

"He's off the phone now, man," Blair whispered, sitting at his side.

Jim nodded. "Thanks. Listen, Chief. You stay out here. This will just take a minute, then we're gone. Okay?" Jim stood taking a step before turning around. He pointed at his own ear. "Don't, okay?"

Blair Sandburg, reluctant nineteen-year-old sentinel, rolled his eyes. "Whatever." He skooted his chair over until he could reach the computer on Jim's desk. "I'll just-"

"No," Jim said, leaning over to key in the sequence to lock the machine. Thank God for Microsoft Security. "This is not the time to surf the net."

Ignoring the low muttering behind his back, Jim headed for Simon's door and knocked. Simon bid him entrance and Jim steeled himself for the next five minutes.

And was shot down.

"I'm sorry, Jim." Simon leaned back in his chair. "I know it's a good cause. Hell, the four days you've had him shows incredible improvement, but my hands are tied. Do you realize how it would look if I grant your request for vacation when I've already turned down three other detectives?"

"Sir, Blair needs this."

Simon pushed his chair back and stood. He went to the shades to peer between the slats. "You know I support what you do. I watched you save Jack's life. Are you sure he's...?"

"Simon, he's more." Jim ran a hand over his buzzed hair in frustration. "He has incredible potential. But it comes with a higher risk for zones. And he's young. Way younger than Jack. He needs me. I need to take the time off. If you can't, then..." Jim reached for his badge.

"Hold it!" Simon stopped him before the shield was slipped off the belt. "Look, if I hear you correctly. You need to be with him, right?"

"That's what I'm saying."

"Okay, fine. We get the kid a ride-along. I can sign off for ninety days without going higher for approval."

Jim stepped back. "What? Simon! He's not a cop!"

"How'd it go?" Blair asked, looking up from the computer screen.

Jim leaned around to stare in disbelief at the computer monitor. The kid was on the Internet. "How did you get around my lock-out?"

Blair grinned. "It was so cool. When I realized your `J' key was more worn than the others, I just ran my fingertips over the others. The `g' was pretty much gone and you always spout the Jag stats. So all I had to do was figure out your unique keys. I started playing with your birth date. I, um, glanced at your driver's license the other day. Then-"

Jim had slapped a hand over his eyes. Across the room, Brown and Taggert were laughing aloud. Jim pointed at the keyboard. "Turn it off, Merlin."

The elevator was packed. Shift change was in full swing. Jim tugged Blair to the stairs, letting the young man take the lead. Blair struggled to don his coat as they descended.

"So, did you get the time?" Blair tossed over one shoulder.

"No, too many guys already off."

Halting mid-step, Blair turned back, fearfully. "What's that mean?"

Jim hated to see the uncertainty return. They had made strong ties toward trust over the last few days. The kid's true character had started to appear, offering glimpses into his unique personality. Jim liked what he saw, liked the sharp intelligence and deep sense of honor. This young man would grow into a great sentinel.

Right now he just needed confidence, someone to show him his potential... and a little help dressing.

Jim untangled the sleeve and pulled the coat all the way up onto Blair's shoulder, then gently urged him to keep moving. "I wanted to talk to you about that. Simon has a plan."

By the time inched through rush hour traffic and arrived at the loft, Blair was chewing his lower lip, shooting doubtful side-glances at Jim. Jim parked as close as he could. Shoulder to shoulder, they walked down the block. The night was wet and the streetlights glowed weakly against the fog. The mist swirled around their bodies, pressing light watery kisses on faces.

"Ride along." Blair made the word sound like `black plague'. "Hang out with cops all day?"

"News flash, Pal," Jim said as Blair held open the door for him. "You're already living with a cop."

"Temporarily." Blair trailed Jim to the elevator, the soles of his high-top tennis shoes leaving wet prints on the glossy wax tiles. "Just for a week."

"Sandburg." Jim punched the call button. Hands on his hips, he regarded his self-assigned responsibility. "Knock off the one week crap." The elevator door slid open. Blair covered his ears. His shoulders curled in as he grimaced, eyes squeezed shut. Jim herded him into the empty lift, rubbing between his shoulder blades. "Let's work on your hearing again, Sandburg."

"Ow, ow, ow," Blair whispered as the door slid closed again. "God, can't they do a little preventive maintenance in this building?"

"Listen to me," Jim ordered as the elevator lifted. Like clockwork, the kid always lost control toward the end of the day; when he grew tired. "Focus on your dial..."

By the time they reached the door to the loft, Blair had stopped rubbing his ears. The kid walked straight. No sign of pain. To the cop's horror, Blair stretched up. Fingers patted the edge of the doorframe until he pulled down the key Jim had given him a few days ago.

"What the hell is that?" Jim asked.

"What?"

Jim mimed reaching for the key. "That!"

Blushing, Blair finished unlocking the door and pushed it open. "Oh, that. Sorry, man. That's just the way I'm used to doing things."

"Okay," Jim said, tugging off his gun. "New rule, you carry the key on your person. You do not leave it where a senile grandmother could figure it out. Understand?"

In the kitchen, Jim opened a cabinet. A special gun locker, the size of a shoebox was bolted to the sturdy frame work. Jim pressed the five-digit combination with practiced ease. The lid popped up and he tucked the gun away, locking the box before closing the cabinet door again. Time to fix dinner.

"Yeah," Blair had dropped onto the sofa, corners of his mouth turned down. He fiddled with the remote for the television. "See, this is why one week is smart, Jim. I'm overstaying my welcome."

"No, Blair." Jim surveyed the contents of his icebox. Nothing looked good. The phone number for a local BBQ joint was posted by the phone. Swinging the fridge door shut, he finished his circuit around the table and picked up the cordless phone. "You're not thinking this through."

Blair snorted as Jim ordered two smoked chicken dinners and all the trimmings. When he was asked mild or spicy, Blair turned and mouthed the word `mild', as if Jim hadn't figured that out. Order taken, Jim returned to the fridge to pull out a beer and a Pepsi. He handed the can over and kept the bottle, twisting off the cap as he sat down cross corner on the second sofa.

"You have a lot of rules," Blair said.

"There's nothing wrong with rules," Jim answered. "They bring order."

"Huh." Blair winced as he popped open the pull-tab on the pop can.

"Where's your dial?"

Even at nineteen, Blair had not lost the ability to roll his eyes. "Jim, give it a rest."

"It doesn't work like that." Jim set the bottle down on the coaster. "Your control should be part of you. You shouldn't have to think about it. Let's practice on-"

"Do we have to?" Blair threw his head back, staring at the ceiling. "I've been dealing with Rainier all day long, man, trying to get my classes back in order for next semester. The red tape alone is a nightmare. I've got scholarship problems and-"

"Sandburg, we do these tests now or I'm kicking your ass down three flights of stairs and dragging it out into the night to make you practice down on the docks."

Blair snorted, piercing Jim with an amused look. "Somehow, I pictured a guide more... compassionate."

A row of half-filled water glasses stood in line on the table.

Blair could smell the chicken before it reached the third floor. Instantly his taste buds wanted action. His drool factory kicked in to high gear. God, he was hungry.

"Okay, salt. Right." Jim checked something off on a yellow legal pad. "Do the next."

"Time out, Jim." Holding up a hand to end the `smell and taste what I put in the glasses of water' test, he jogged into his room for his wallet. "Dinner's here, man."

Jim answered the door, taking the large white bag from the delivery boy and getting ready to count out green bills.

"Wait!" Blair waved his own twenty as he joined them. "I'm paying my share this time."

"Where did that come from?" Jim asked in surprise. The delivery guy made change.

Blair pushed two dollars back. "Keep it, thanks."

Jim closed the door, watching Blair carry the bag to the kitchen table and sort out their orders. "You didn't have two dimes to rub together yesterday."

"I went to the bank."

"You have a bank account?" Jim asked.

"Jeeze, Jim," Blair snapped. "I'm not a bum. I'm a college student. I have an income, sorta. It's complicated." Blair eased off the lid to his small container of sauce, hoping Jim would drop the subject. He did not need to know about the carefully controlled allowance or how the bulk of his money was out of his reach until he became of `age'.

Stupid rules.

"Sorry, Chief," Jim said. "Let's eat, we'll finish our tests afterwards."

Blair dug into his meal with relish. Why did everything taste so good now? Tangy sauce lit up his sense of taste, sending pleasant tingles down every limb. A hint of honey and a pinch of cayenne pepper. Perfect, it was all perfect. The smoked chicken was moist, dark meat falling off the bone.

Blair groaned. This was so damn good.

Jim laughed aloud. "I think I should leave you two alone."

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