A/N: This ended up very different from the rest of this little series of stream of consciousness ficlets. Mostly because it has dialogue in it. And I fought the whole concept of dialogue initially because of how the rest of the series went, but the muses want what they want. And so dialogue came into the mix, and the words just flowed. I love that there is this little family within the larger universe of Damien, this slice of normalcy in all of the darkness and chaos. And I must say that it's lovely to have a canon LGBT couple to write for that intrigues me as much as James and Patrick do. And I'm taking liberties with giving Patrick the same last name as James and Jacob. And yes, there is every chance that this will get completely Jossed at some point, but it's a risk I'm willing to take.

Dedication: Glen Mazzara, for creating the characters; David Meunier, Michael Therriault, and Brody Bover, for bringing the characters to life; and my muses, for always keeping me on my toes.

Series: Part 4 of the Adsum, Domine series

Please see profile for Disclaimers.

What's happened to my life these past few weeks?

All I was doing was my job. Following leads that all point to this Damien Thorn being at the center of some sort of weird death cult. There's something there; I just haven't found it yet. And if my captain stops breathing down my neck about it, I'll make all the connections. I just need a little time, that's all. And for everybody to get off my back about it.

That includes Patrick. I know he means well. I know he worries about me, especially since the incident in Philadelphia. But he shouldn't have to. He should be able to trust that I can handle the issues that may come up from time to time. I'm not as emotionally stunted as he sometimes likes to think.

"Daddy?"

That quiet voice pulls me from thoughts probably better left alone tonight. A smile tugs at my lips as my chair slides back to look at him. He's dressed in his favorite pajamas, the ones that match mine; a gift from Patrick this past Christmas. With just a nod, he scampers across the room to climb up into my lap. It doesn't matter that he's probably too old for this. I won't deny him anything that brings that contented smile to his face. Pressing a kiss to his head reveals still damp hair from his bath. Where has the night gone?

"Are you angry with me, Daddy?" he asks, looking down at his hands in his lap.

"Of course not, Jacob. Why would you think that?" When he doesn't readily answer, I curl a finger under his chin to lift his head. "Jacob? Is this because I was upset earlier?"

He nods, dark eyes filled with fear and worry. His reaction adds a whole new ache to my chest, one that fills me with regret and self-loathing. This was never supposed to be part of the deal when I got custody of my son after his mother's accident. There was a deal made with God that I would be a good father, keep my son safe like his mother couldn't. And now I've upset him because of my own issues and very possibly paranoia.

"Okay, that's just not true. I'm not angry with you at all, Jacob. I was upset about something else from work, and I took it out on you and your drawings. I'm sorry for doing that. It's not what daddies are supposed to do to their sons."

Jacob tilts his head to the side and studies my face. He's so much like Patrick when he does that, I sometimes forget that my partner's not his other biological parent. Nature and nurture have played such a strongly matched game with my son over the years. Shifting slightly, Jacob reaches up to touch my face, tracing the lines on my forehead with delicate fingers.

"Your face still feels angry, Daddy," he finally says. The next words out of his mouth are entirely Patrick's influence. "Do you want to talk about it? It might make you feel better."

I can't help the chuckle that bubbles up past my lips. "Shouldn't that be the other way around? Usually the parents ask the kids that question."

"Does that matter? Did I ask the wrong question?"

"No, buddy, you didn't ask the wrong question. I'm just not exactly sure what's got me feeling so angry, so it's hard to talk about it." His lips part, but I press a finger to them. "I'll tell you what, Jacob. I'll talk to Papa and see if I can figure out what's wrong. Once I know, I'll come talk to you. Do we have a deal?"

"You promise and cross your heart?"

Without hesitation, I cross a finger over my heart, then press it to my lips before resting my hand over his heart. "I promise and cross my heart, Jacob, and you know Daddy doesn't break his promises."

"Nope," he replies with a yawn.

"I think it's bedtime, buddy. Are your teeth brushed?" He nods and flashes me a bright smile to show his clean teeth. "Good job. Let's go find Papa and get you tucked into bed. You've got school and we've got work in the morning."

Once Jacob is settled in bed, I watch him sleep for a few moments, just remembering what he and Patrick mean to me. And when I head toward my own bedroom, I stand in the doorway for a moment and watch my partner reading his book. He glances up with a curious smile as I push off the doorframe and make my way across the room to him. Our kiss is brief, a gentle brush of lips, but it's all I need to begin to feel settled in my own skin again.

"Thank you for talking with Jacob tonight. He was worried, and frankly, so am I. I really think you should speak with someone, James. I know Dr. Gellman's gone, but I'm sure we can find someone else that you could trust enough with things."

I know what he's referring to, what he's asking of me. A part of me is willing, but another part… It was difficult enough speaking with Dr. Gellman in the first place. "I'm not sure I'm ready for that yet, Patrick, but I promise that I'll consider it. Will that be acceptable?"

He nods slowly as that soft smile that I cherish lights up his face. "It's an acceptable start. Will you shower first or are you coming to bed now?"

"Shower'll just take a few minutes, then I'll be back. Wait up for me?"

"Always. You know I hate falling asleep when you're not next to me."

Another brief kiss before I head for our bathroom. Stripping down as the shower heats up feels like a weight being lifted from my shoulders. And then I step under the hot spray, jets needling into my skin until my nerves are practically screaming from it. A quick scrub removes the last of the day's detritus, physical and emotional, until I'm left with a single realization once again.

I'm home, I'm with my family. This is what's important in the end, not some damned case that causes me more hassle than it's probably worth.