DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN CSI:NY OR ANY OF ITS CHARACTERS. I ALSO DO NOT OWN JOHN SULLIVAN, WHO WAS A CHARACTER ON THE LONG DECEASED TELEVISION SHOW 'THIRD WATCH'
Let Them Be Little
"I can remember when you fit in the palm of my hand
Felt so good in it, no bigger than a minute
How it amazes me, you're changing with every blink
Faster than a flower blooms they grow up all too soon
So let them be little 'cause they're only that way for a while
Give them hope, give them praise, give them love every day
Let them cry, let them giggle, let them sleep in the middle
Oh just let them be little."
-Let Them Be Little, Lonestar (originally Billy Dean)
Breezy's POV
When we'd gotten onto the subway at the main terminal in Flushing, the train had been relatively empty. A few college kids listening to their Ipods with the volume cranked while squeezing in some last minute studying, an elderly couple -the husband reading the newspaper while the wife busied herself with knitting what appeared to be the start of a multicoloured baby blanket- and a young teenage mother chewing and snapping her gum noisily, chatting on her cell phone while her baby girl -she couldn't have been more than a year- tugged on her mommy's clothes in a vain attempt to get some attention.
Collin, despite all of the empty seats at our disposal, had insisted that we sit right next to the baby in the stroller. I don't know if it was just his fascination with other children -especially the females- or if maybe even at his tender age he'd found the young mother's negligence appalling and wanted to do something, anything, to make that little girl feel better, but he simply hadn't been willing to take no for an answer. Unless I'd wanted to run the risk of having to contend with a massive melt down on his part, I'd had no choice but to park his buggy alongside of the other child's. And while I'd never made eye contact with, let alone uttered a word to, the little girl's mother -she'd been too busy with her phone call- Collin had spent the entire twenty minutes from the time we sat down until his new friend and her mother got off, entertaining the baby with the toys attached to her stroller, and making goofy faces that had had her roaring with laughter.
I swear he's exactly like his father in more than just the looks department. He has Donnie's massive heart; for a big, bad homicide detective, he possesses an amount empathy that is honestly quite staggering and nearly impossible to believe. Collin has been the recipient of his father's desire to save the world. One person at a time.
As the train grew noisier and more crowded, so had my son's insistences that he was a big boy and didn't need to -or want to- sit in his stroller. And while he'd started out kneeling in the spot beside me -he'd been adamant that we park ourselves on the side seats so that he could look out the window, despite the fact there wasn't much to see in the dark tunnels- he'd soon willingly, and without a suggestion or request from me, coughed up his seat to an elderly woman with a walker. And had announced, before unceremoniously plopping himself onto my thighs:
"I'm sitting on your lap, mum-mum!"
Just a short few weeks ago, I wouldn't have complained about the weight of his body. He'd been petite since the day he was born and had always struggled to stay on the paediatrician's growth charts. But thanks to an apparently increasing appetite, he feels as if he's packing on the pounds. Even though he physically doesn't look any heavier.
Three stops from our destination, my son decides to make another new friend. He seems to have an uncanny ability to charm people regardless of gender or age. He just bats those long, dark eyelashes, widens those brilliant blue eyes or gives that dimply grin and successfully melts even the most frozen of hearts. And he also has a secret weapon; a dramatic pout that almost always secures everything and anything he wants. Unfortunately, in a place like New York City, Collin tends to be a little too friendly. He talks to everyone and either offers up some of the treats we bring along on our trips -today it's a baggy of little Ritz crackers made into tiny peanut butter sandwiches- or he accepts suckers and other forms of candy some old woman pulls out of her cluttered purse simply because she say he reminds her of her own grandson.
Right now however, as he sits on my lap with my arms securely around his waist while he munches on his crackers, he's engrossed in a staring contest with the man standing directly in front of us. A child's curiosity knows no bounds, and unfortunately, it often comes with a barrage of sometimes embarrassing questions. They don't mean to humiliate you; they're simply honest to a fault and don't know how to practice tact in order to spare the feelings of the person they're directing their queries at. They're not asking things to be mean or spiteful; their hearts are innocent and pure and their minds simply need thorough explanations for what they are seeing.
And while I was initially taken aback when this monster of a man -at least six foot fie and well over 225 and built like a Sherman Tank- stepped onto the train in his clunky army boots, leather jacket and baggy fatigue pants and parked himself in front of us, I'd quickly found something else to occupy my idle mind. A lifelong New Yorker, I was used to obscure and strange. And this guy wasn't that shocking.
Even if he did have what appeared to be metal horns sticking out of the top of his head.
Collin however, has been wide eyed and extremely interested and intrigued since the man had gotten on the subway. He's not frightened in the slightest; his penetrating gaze is unwavering and the stranger looming over us is no slouch in the staring contest department either. And I silently beg and plead for my little son to just find something else to be interested in. Like the plastic baggy of treats I keep waving in front of his face and he shoves away repeatedly.
"What's up little man?" the horned stranger finally breaks the tension filled silence, and his deep voice is so intimidating it causes me to shudder.
"Hi!" my son happily chirps. "I'm Collin Alexander Truby. I'm almost tree," he holds up his left hand, three small fingers extended. "What's your name?"
"My name's Quentin Oswego," the man replies, a surprisingly warm and gentle smile curving his lips.
"How old are you?" Collin inquires, and then offers his bag of crackers. "Want some? I got lots. You can have some if you want."
Quentin looks at me, as if seeking permission and I give a nod and attempt a smile of my own.
"Don't mind if I do sport," he digs one of his massive hands into the plastic sandwich bag and helps himself to a several of the treats. "Thank you…you're a good kid. Your mom and dad are obviously bringing you up right. Lots of manners and everything."
"Grammie says there's no excuse to be a pooh head," Collin says, causing not only Quentin and myself to laugh, but several people around us as well. "She says that God likes good little boys the bestest and I don't want God to be mad at me. If he's mad then he might tell Santa and the Easter Bunny not to bring me anything."
"Something tells me you've got a permanent spot on the top of the good little boys list," Quentin assures him.
Collin cocks his head to the side. "How old are you?" he asks curiously, and I blush and quickly shush him.
"I'm thirty two," his new friend replies.
"Mommy's thirty-four," Collin announces. "But she doesn't look it! Papa says that she still looks like she isn't old enough to into da pub and order a pint. What does that mean?"
"Is this your mom here?" Quentin asks, and I'm thankful he changes the subject. I'm both embarrassed that he's divulged my age to a subway car full of strangers, and that he has the memory of an elephant and a bad habit of repeating everything he hears. "Is that who this pretty lady is? Or is it your girlfriend?"
"It's not my girlfriend!" Collin cries, apparently offended by the mere suggestion. "It's my mum-mum! Lucy's my girlfriend!"
"Is she cute?" Quentin inquires, and helps himself to some more Ritz crackers.
"Of course!" Collin gives a laugh as if to say, 'did you expect any different from a stud like me?' "You got a girlfriend?" he asks.
"Kid, I've got way too many to even count on both my hands. Let anyone remember all of their names," he replies. "Life of a player though."
"What's dat mean?" Collin asks.
"Just means that I've got no shortage of female companionship. That I've got some girlfriends I can spare."
"I just got Lucy," my son says, and gives a dreamy sigh. "Lucy's special."
"Special girls don't come around too often," Quentin says. "Make sure you hold onto her, a'right?"
"Okie dokie," Collin gives an energetic nod and pops a cracker into his mouth. "My daddy's a peas-man," he announces. "A special peas-man. He's a defective."
"Detective," I correct, pronouncing the word slowly and clearly. "De-tect-tive."
"He catches bad guys and puts them in jail," Collin continues. "So they can't hurt any more people. Do you know any peas-mans?"
"Oh I know quite a few," Quentin says with a smirk. "I'm on a first name basis with a whole lot of policemen."
"You gots lots of friends dat are peas-man?" Collin's eyes widen in awe, falling back against my chest as the subway grinds to a stop.
"Something like that. Listen little man, this is my stop. It was nice talking to you. Thanks for those crackers."
"No prob!' Collin declares, and then exchanges a high five with the man when Quentin holds out his left palm towards him. "Your head is really cool!" he calls out as an afterthought, as his new friend weaves through the crowd of people in order to get to the open door. "I wish I had a head like dat!"
I can hear Quentin Oswego laughing hysterically even as the doors close behind him. And before the subway pulls away from the stop, I hear a knocking on the window behind us and both Collin and I turn to look in time to see the big man giving a wave in farewell.
"Bye!" Collin cries, as twists and turns his body so that he's kneeling on my already aching thighs, and he continues to wave energetically until the Quentin disappears up the stairs leading to the street. "He was really nice, mum-mum," my son declares, and plops himself down on my lap once again. "I gots lots of friends. You think I can have a head like dat when I'm big?"
"How about we see if you still find it cool when you're about…I don't know…forty."
"You're silly mommy," he declares, then giggles as I nuzzle his ear with the tip of my nose and press a series of noisy kisses to his cheek.
"But you love me," I say, and squeeze him tightly.
"I love you forever, I like you for always. As long as I'm living, my mommy you'll be," Collin easily recites the words from our favourite book and tears immediately spring to my eyes. Overwhelmed not only by how smart he proves to be time and time again, but that the depth of love I have for him is so staggering and powerful.
"As long as I'm living, my baby you'll be," I whisper into his ear, and then kiss his temple. Not caring how many grumpy and hard core New Yorkers see the tears that trickle freely down my cheeks.
The reception area of the twelfth precinct is a hub of activity; phones ringing off the hook and a heavy set, weathered uniform officer behind the desk barking orders into a walkie talkie as the secretary I'd briefly met the day before attempts to field a barrage of questions by agitated and irate citizens demanding instant answers and results to complaints they'd filed or parking tickets they felt as if they'd been unjustly issued.
"We are not the parking authority!" the uniform office bellowed. "Got a problem with a ticket, take it up with by-law! We deal with legit issues here! Don't like it, take a hike! And while you're at it, take m badge number and file a complaint about what a miserable bastard I am!"
I can't help but smirk as half a dozen red faced people, parking tickets in their hand, nearly knock each other over to get to the exit; muttering profanities towards the officer, and issuing half assed apologizes to each other. And I steer the stroller towards a bank of chairs across from the main desk and taking a seat, turn my son to face me. His eyes are narrowed as he glares at me, and his tiny arms are crossed over his chest as he repeatedly slams his heels off the buggy's foot rest.
"Don't pout," I scold Collin gently, and straighten the Mets cap on the top of his head.
"I don't want to be in here!" he whines. "I don't want to be in da stroller! I'm not a baby!"
"No, you're not. But you're acting like one," I inform him. "And you have to be in there so you don't get lost. Did you want to get lost on the way from the subway station? Did you want to get separated from mommy? Have some bad person pick you up and take you away? Wouldn't you be sad if you didn't get to see mommy and daddy again? Or Luna?"
"Daddy would catch the bad guy and save me," Collin informs me. "And he wouldn't make me sit in da stroller!"
"Yes, he would," I calmly say. "Because he wouldn't want you to run away and get lost either. Once we get somewhere that's not so busy, you can come out. Simple as that. Now stop acting like a baby and be a good boy. If you want to be treated like a big boy, you have to prove to mommy that you are big. Okay?"
"Fine," he sighs heavily. "But I'm not happy mum-mum!"
"What's going on here? Who's this handsome little guy?" a deep voice asks, and as I glance up to see who it is, the uniformed officer from behind the desk is crouching down in front of the stroller, grimacing as it takes more effort than necessary and his knees crack noisily. "Hey there, squirt. What's your name?"
"Collin," my son answers.
"I'm John," he offers a hand. "John Sullivan. I'm a buddy of your dad's. He works for me."
"You're a special peas-man too?" Collin asks. "You're a defective like daddy?"
"Well I'm not a detective, but I get to boss your dad around day in and day out. And bossing him around makes my job a hundred times better than it already is. He's a cool guy, huh? Your old man? He's pretty cool."
"He's the bestest peas-man in da world!" Collin declares proudly, and shakes the large hand offered to him.
"And I bet you he's going to be the best daddy in the whole world too," Sullivan tells the toddler, then stands up and gives me a smile. "Just call me Sully," he says, and holds his hand out towards me.
"I'm Bree-Anne," I stand up, then curl my fingers around his and shake warmly. "Bree-Anne Tr…"
"I know who you are," he says. "That's one name that doesn't get mentioned around the department anymore. Not unless it involves all kinds of vile profanity. Guess you can understand why your ex bastard…sorry…husband…isn't well liked around here. Lots of guys would love to get a piece of him."
"Well they'd have to wait in line," I attempt to lighten the current mood. "Because I have a father and five older brothers that are just itching for the chance to have a go at him."
"Wasn't right what he did," Sully sighs and shakes his head. "Wasn't right at all. I'm not saying that you and Junior were in the rights with what was going down between ya either, but I at least get why you two felt the need to do what you were doing. Dean was…he was a real piece of work."
I nod slowly.
"And it wasn't right either what you got put through on the stand. It took huge balls on your part to testify against him and just air all your dirty laundry like that. The defence should have been shot and pissed off for playing so dirty. You never should have been put through all of that, especially considering you were with child at the time. Wasn't your fault that he was a lying, thieving murderer. You never forced him to do what he did."
"It wasn't Donnie's fault either," I say. "He never should have had to suffer for handing over that log book. I know what the people here put him through and it just wasn't right. He didn't deserve that. I personally think it's the single most brave and respectable thing he's ever done. No one stops to think how hard of a decision it was for him. Or how it messed up his entire life."
"Too many around here too loyal to the badge," Sully grumbles. "Too caught up in the whole 'old boys school' bullshit that exists in the NYPD. This is a different time, a different city. It's no longer honourable and acceptable to keep quiet when you know that a fellow boy in blue is screwing around. Whether he's doctoring his time card or stealing dope and selling it on the street or he's taking perps into back alleys and beating the crap out of him. It goes on, but it doesn't have go unpunished. There's too many dickheads out there without making the badges even bigger ones. Pull crap like that then wonder why no one in the NYPD gets respect? What Junior did…what he did was the right thing."
I nod in agreement.
"Took huge stones to do it," he continues. "Huge. And that kid did not deserve to be treated like he was. He's a helluva cop and he's surpassed daddy by leaps and bounds and he deserves more respect than we he got. Hell, more than what he still gets some days. I've tried telling him, you know. That giving Taylor that book was the right thing to do."
"And he either lets it go in one ear or out the other or he doesn't agree with you," I say.
"Pretty much. He nods a lot, pretends like he's listening or that it doesn't bother him. But…" Sullivan sighs. "But I know it does. I know it still eats at him. And that no matter how many times I pat him on the back and try and convince him that he did the right thing that he'll always see it his way. Junior's always been like that. When he thinks he's right…"
"God forbid you try to change his mind," I finish. "He's been that way since he was fourteen. I don't think anything will ever change that part of him."
"Stubborn as a goddamn mule," Sullivan laughs. "Your boy like that?" he nods down at Collin. "He taking after his old man?"
"In every possible way," I say. "Head to toe, inside and out."
"Quite a handsome little fart," he grins down at Collin. "All that black hair and them blue eyes. You know, I was friends with Senior for a long time. When I was a rookie working out of the three-five, I used to walk the beat with him and Stanton Gerrard. Those two were my mentors, the guys I learned everything off of and would have taken bullets for. We cleaned those streets up. Got rid of all the drug dealers, prostitutes, pimps. Made it a respectable place to live again. I used to go to Senior's place a lot. Dinners, card games, a few beers watching the Rangers or the Mets. And I remember Donnie when he was just knee high to a damn grasshopper. And he looked just like that. Your boy looks just like him. Put your wee one next to a picture of his old man and you'd swear they were the same kid."
"I'm very proud of him," I declare, and smile at my son.
"And daddy is too, trust me. Can't keep that damn smile off of his face and he's got that card you brought in yesterday front and center on his desk. And that picture went into his wallet the second you got it. He's damn proud. May have taken him a couple of years to find his boy, but he sure isn't letting anything slow him down now. And I hope that goes for the two of you, too."
"We're working on things," I admit. "I don't know how long it's going to take or how long the road is going to be, but we're making a legit effort."
"Life is nothing but a long, hard road," Sully declares. "But you know what? It's not how the journey begins of end, kiddo. It's what happens in between. And you and Junior? You and Junior got a whole lot of in between to fill up. Take time to enjoy the trip and appreciate where the two of you are taking each other, okay?"
"Okay," I promise, surprisingly touched by his words.
"But enough rambling from a grumpy old man with way too much snow on the roof. Junior told me you were going to stop by, said to tell you that he's up in the crime lab having a meeting with Taylor and Chief of Detectives Sinclair. Now there's a pompous SOB just between me and you. I swear, he ever becomes commissioner, I'm putting in for my retirement. Which I probably should have done already, but…"
"Do you know what the meeting is about?" I ask curiously, already fearing the worst. "I mean, I know there's a whole confidentiality thing around here and that it's really not any of my business, but I do have this tendency to be way too nosy for my own good and I worry about Donnie and I…"
"All I know is that that media jackass waltzed in here earlier like he owned the place," Sully responds. "You know, the one that has a huge God complex and whose bastard son got a cop killed last year."
I nod and chew on my bottom lip nervously; the mere mention of Robert Dunbrook causes my heart to speed up and my stomach to twist itself into agonizing knots.
"Sinclair was not impressed," Sinclair continues. "I don't know what was about to go down, but he doesn't take any crap from Mr High and Mighty. So whatever it is, trust me, the big cheese has Junior's back all the way."
"That's good," I give a small sigh of relief.
"I'll take you two back to the staff elevators," Sully tells me, then lays a hand on the small of my back and gestures towards the door that leads into the bullpen. "Think you can find your way up to the thirty-fifth floor?"
"I think I'll figure out how to work the elevators," I tease, and stepping behind the stroller, follow behind the grizzled vet.
He gives a chuckle, then pulls the door open and holds it, enabling Collin and I to pass through. "Cute and feisty," he muses. "No wonder Junior can't resist."
"I want to push it mommy!" Collin wails from the confines of his stroller, as he fights in vain against the restraints as I reach out to hit the button for the thirty-fifth floor. "Let me push it!"
The last word turns into a full out, unbearable shriek and almost immediately my son's cheeks and ears are turning scarlet red, a sure sign that he's about to enter 'devil child temper tantrum mode', and I quickly unbuckle his safety harness and scoop him out of the buggy. I'm still struggling to both cope and properly deal with the odd moments of lingering terrible twos that Collin is inflicted with; where he goes from adorable and well mannered to downright evil, spawn of Satan in the blink of an eye. And my inability to control him and stay firm and strict in the face of adversity is the main reason that I usually avoid taking him to crowded public places. Which in turn, renders grocery and Christmas shopping with Collin in tow totally impossible. My father says that I'm too soft, and I can't even try to deny it. But I do defend my sometimes lax parenting skills on my desire to make up for robbing my son of his father from the moment he'd been conceived.
"You have to promise to be good," I inform Collin, as I settle him on my hip and point to the correct button for him to push. "What do the numbers say?" I ask.
"Tree-five," my son proudly replies, and lays a finger against the button. "I know stuff like dat mum-mum."
"That's because you're very, very, very smart," I praise, and press a kiss to his temple. "You promise you'll be good?" I ask nervously. "Because daddy works here and we don't want him to get in trouble."
God, after two and a half years, it feels so surreal to be able to use the D word and have a smile on my face at the same time. When Collin was just a tiny baby, I'd often sit rocking him in the nursery for hours on end and tell him about his daddy. The real one; not the impostor that was named on the birth certificate. And I'd cry as I talked about how his dad was tall, dark and handsome and had always made me feel like a princess. And how he was strong and brave and that I wished that we could all be together.
"I pwomise," Collin answers my question. "I pwomise I be good."
I sigh, knowing full well that my version of good and Collin's are two totally different things.
We travel the remaining floors in silence, and the closer we get the more and more excited Collin becomes; his blue eyes sparkling and dancing as he watches the progress of the numbers above the elevator door, his tiny legs kicking impatiently against me. He's become less of a baby with each passing day, and it slightly saddens and unnerves me to realize just how quickly he's growing up right before my very eyes. That while it seems like just yesterday that the delivery room nurse was passing that tightly swaddled, tiny, black haired baby to me for the very first time, in a couple of years he'll be heading off to school.
And I'm just not prepared for the independence, and the attitude, that will accompany each birthday he'll celebrate.
"Now you hold onto the stroller," I instruct Collin, as we finally arrive at our destination and I set him on the ground. "Do not let go. At all. Do you have to go pee?"
"You asked me dat five times already!" he cries in exasperation. "I tell you if I gots to go, okay?"
"Hey!" I glare down at him. "Don't be getting all Mister Smarty Pants with me, young man. You don't talk to mommy like that, got it?"
He looks up at me with this huge eyes and gives me the infamous pout, and I struggle to stand my ground. "I'm sorry, mum-mum…" he finally caves in when he realizes I'm not fooling around. "I be a good boy, 'kay?"
"Okay…" I say warily, as the elevator doors slide open and we step out into the hustle and bustle of the New York City crime lab. Techs in white lab coats rushing down the halls and weaving in and out of pedestrian traffic, detectives in suits and ties flipping through case folders and going over particulars with uniformed officers, the incessant ringing of both cell and desk phones. It's a three ring circus; although a well oiled machine at the same time.
"Whoa…." Collin's eyes widen as he surveys the excitement. "Cool, mum-mum! Is Lucy's daddy here?"
"I don't know if…" I don't even get the chance to finish my sentence, and I watch as Collin's hand slips off the side of his stroller and then reach for him just as he bolts; my fingers just brushing against the back of his t-shirt as he manages to elude capture. "Collin!" I bellow, as I watch his tiny body squeeze through the sea of humanity.
Every eye in the place turns to look at me; shaking their heads and whispering about the frazzled and irresponsible mother that just unleashed a thirty pound terror on the place. I remind myself not to panic as I hurriedly park the stroller against the nearest wall and chase after my son. After all, this is an NYPD building and there's cops from one end of the place to other. Collin isn't about to get scooped up by a stranger and whisked out of the building without anyone seeing it.
I catch site of him; the top of that Mets cap swerving in and out of bodies. He's a mini linebacker hell bent on destruction, and my main fear is that he'll manage to get himself into one of the labs and either completely destroy the place and cause an insurmountable amount of damage, or get into some kind of weird ass chemical that will dye his hair green or cause him to grow another head or even a tail.
His runners make a loud squeaking noise as he suddenly halts in his tracks, takes a sharp left and hurries towards one of the offices and commences slamming the palms of his hands against the glass door.
"DADDEEEE!" he yells, and continues to pound on the glass. "Hi, daddy!"
"Jesus Christ, Collin!" I exclaim, noticing through the glass as everyone inside of the office turns to look at the little boy that has put an abrupt halt on an obviously very important meeting.
Danny, as he sits on the arm of a brown vinyl couch, puts both of his hands over his face as he attempts -poorly- to hide his amusement. I also see a grin tugging at the corner of Donnie's mouth as he stands with his arms crossed over his chest at the front of a stern faced Mac Taylor's desk. I recognize Brigham Sinclair from a newspaper article about sexual harassment that had surfaced around the same time as Donnie's run in with the spies. And of course, I already know who Robert Dunbrook is; the furious glare that he shoots me chills me to the bone.
"Hi daddy!" Collin yells. "Hi Lucy's daddy! Hi Uncle Bobby!"
"Whoa there little man…" a lab tech , clad in a pair of baggy cargo pants, tan and black Vans sneakers, and a red, blue and white plaid short sleeved shirt un-tucked and unbuttoned over a Grateful Dead t-shirt effortlessly scoops Collin off of the ground. "You can't go in there…that's just a whole bunch of boring adult stuff going on in there."
"Oh my God…I am so sorry…" I lay my hands alongside of my flushed, humiliated face. "I didn't think that he'd do that…he's usually not that bad and I…"
"No worries," the young man assures me, and gives me a charming smile. "Just thought I'd cut him off at the pass. You know, before big, bad wolf Sinclair comes out here and eats him as an afternoon snack. You don't want to go in there, buddy," he says to Collin, as he places my son on his hip. "That's just a whole lot of crabby people in there. You want to stay out here with all of us nice, friendly guys, right?"
Collin nods and curls an arm around the tech's neck. "That's daddy!" he cries, and points towards the office.
"I know…but daddy's in the middle of some top secret police business and I'm in the middle of some cool science experiments. Wouldn't you rather see me blow up a toilet with dry ice than listen to a bunch of cops talk shop?"
"Blow up a toilet?" Collin's eyes grow wide.
"Yeah…I'm going to blow it up real good…KA-BLAM…just like in the comic books…if your mom says it's okay, you can stand outside and watch through the window while I do it. Does that sound like fun?"
"Can I, mum-mum?" my son asks. "Can I go watch? I want to go see the potty blow up. I want to…daddy!" he squeals and reaches his arms out as a familiar face pokes his head out of the office door.
"I am so sorry…" I shake my head in disbelief. "I didn't think that he'd do that, Donnie. I didn't think he'd take off like he did and cause so much hell."
"It's alright," he assures me, although his ashen face and his furious eyes tell a different story. That whatever has been going on behind closed doors is anything but alright. "Ross, you mind taking them down to the lunch room?"
"We're actually going to go and blow up a toilet," the lab tech says. Then gives a sheepish smile as Donnie glares at him. "It's in the name of science," he quickly adds. "Just shove a little dry ice and there and flush and…never mind…"
"Potty go KA-BLAM!" Collin cries excitedly. "You come too, daddy? You come watch?"
"I'll come and watch in a little bit," Donnie promises. "Right now I just have a couple of things I need to do. You go with the mad scientist here and he'll keep you entertained until I'm done, okay? Then you and your mommy and I can go to lunch."
"Chicken 'uggets!" our son exclaims.
"Mmmm…." the tech rubs his stomach. "Chicken 'uggets are my favourite. I get lots of sweet and sour sauce with mine. So I can dip the fries in it."
"Me too!" Collin breathes, in complete awe of his new buddy.
"You know, if you really want to meet a mad scientist I could take you downstairs to meet Sid and he could show you…"
"Ross!" Donnie barks, and shake his head. "No showing my kid any DB's, okay?"
"Okay…we'll have to wait until you're at least five," the young man says to Collin. "I'm joking…" he assures Donnie. "I'm seriously just joking,"
"Just…" my boyfriend sighs heavily. "Just entertain him. Without blood and guts."
"Gotcha. Without the gross stuff. No problem."
"Is it really going that bad in there?" I ask, as I capture Donnie by the wrist as he attempts to shut the door.
"Nothing you need to worry about," he replies, presses a kiss to my cheek and then steps back into the office.
"Why is it when they tell you not to worry, it only makes you worry even more?" I muse out loud.
"Because men are cryptic like that," the lab tech replies, then gives me an apologetic smile. "I'm Adam…" he offers a hand. "Adam Ross. You're Bree-Anne, right?"
I nod and shake his hand.
"I remember seeing you on the news and in the paper a few years back," he explains. "You know, when the whole trial was on and you testified against Dean and then it all came out that you and Flack were…well, you know…you don't need a play by play from me…anyway…this is the famous Little Flack, huh?" he bounces Collin against his hip. "You look just like your dad, you know that? Exactly like him. You going to be a policeman when you grow up?"
Collin shakes his head.
"No?" Adam frowns. "What do you want to be when you grow up?"
"You!" my son cries. "So I can blow up potties!"
"My own protégé!" Adam cries. "About time I get some respect around here. How about we go and get a snack first though? How does a snack sound? You like apple juice and celery sticks with peanut butter on them?"
"Me loves them!" Collin shrieks.
"A mini me!" Adam gives a dramatic, maniacal laugh. "Is that okay, mom? A little apple juice? Some celery sticks with peanut butter?" he asks hopefully. I don't know who has the better pleading, puppy dog eyes. Him or my son.
"I'll catch up," I reply, and give a warm smile. "You two be good."
"Now what fun is there in that?" Adam asks, then gives me a playful wink before he turns on his heel and heads off with my son clasped tightly in his embrace. "You're a chick magnet kid!" he exclaims gleefully, when every female he passes on his way to the break room stops to ask who the 'adorable little boy is'.
Laughing, I turn to journey back to where I'd abandoned Collin's stroller.
And try desperately to ward off the feeling of dread at the sound of raised voices and profanities that are spilling out of Mac Taylor's office.
Massive thanks to everyone that is reading, reviewing and even just lurking! I appreciate all of the amazing support!!
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