~oOo~

It could have been a scene from any American household – a child, asleep on his grandmother's lap, his head tucked under her chin and her cheek resting peacefully on the top of his head. The only sound to fill the night was the sweet sound of a lullaby and the gentle swooshing of a chair as it rocked back and forth.

The cup of coffee was his second; it was strong and fresh and just what he needed. Jim pushed through the screen door. Joel was sitting alone on the stairs, his eyes focused toward the road and the darkness beyond.

"I had no idea."

Jim moved to take a seat. The coffee cup was hot against his palms. "It's not your fault, Joel."

"No, but it's my responsibility. While that child is in this house it's my responsibility to make sure that he's happy, and that he's healthy and safe. He doesn't feel safe here, Jim, and I had absolutely no idea. I'm a cop and I didn't see the signs."

"You're not a cop, Joel. Not when Blair's concerned. You're not a cop and neither am I, and do you want to know why?"

Joel's gaze slid toward Jim, waiting for the answer.

"Because the parameters have changed."

"Parameters?"

"Do you want to know how I became so good at what I do?"

"The Army," Joel answered.

"Partly," Jim replied. "The army was where I honed my skills, but not where I learned them."

"What skills?"

"The skill of putting my emotions on lockdown. The day I left home was the first time I realised how easy it was not to feel. I walked straight out the door without any regret or remorse, and without any intention of ever going back."

"And the next time?"

Jim hesitated. He turned away, seeking reassurance in the darkness beyond the 'family' porch. "Are you sure you really want to hear? It might lead you to seeing me in a different light."

"No expectations, Jim. No expectations, no disappointments."

Jim shrugged as if to say, 'your choice buddy.' "The second time ... the second time was the very first time I killed a man." His coffee was cooling, but like everything in his life – until recently – it was easily replaceable. "I had a choice. I could have let him live, but letting him live meant that others would die in the future. So I killed him. Slit his throat from ear to ear. No remorse, no regret. I had a job to do and I completed my mission, no questions asked. It was no harder the next time, or the time after that. My job was to survive, and my job was to maximise those same survival percentages for every single man in my unit. Kill or be killed. It's not a saying just reserved for the movies."

This time, he didn't chance a glance toward Joel. He met his eyes head on. "How are those expectations working out for you now?"

"Without disappointment." There was no hesitation in Joel's words. "But I am curious about the parameters. What's changed?"

"Blair's broken my heart."

There was a pause. A space to think. A third cup of coffee, hot and strong, just how he liked it.

The stair creaked and Joel settled back down. "Of all the emotions in the world, which one do you think is the most painful, Jim?"

Jim shrugged. "Grief, I guess."

"Love," Joel answered. "Love is the most powerful, the most debilitating and the most painful emotion you will ever experience." Jessie's sweet song travelled from the parlor and spilled out to the porch. "And you, Jim Ellison, are madly in love."

Jim's gaze went back to the darkness, back to the night. "Tell me about it," he said, quietly.

~oOo~

Soap, shampoo and a smidge of baby powder. Those were the scents of childhood, fragrances that alluded to nothing more than washing away the remnants of a hard day's play. It was the aroma of innocence, of a child with no demons to purge.

As Jim carried Blair from the car to the loft and settled him in bed, his thoughts drifted toward just how much Blair had lost, and how on earth he was ever going to get it back. The answer, he knew, was simple; Blair would never regain what had been taken from him. The only hope was that time would grant Blair the luxury of fading memories. Time was the answer. Time, hope and – like Joel said, the most powerful of emotions – love. He pulled up the covers, bent down and placed a kiss on Blair's forehead. "Sleep tight, don't let the –" he stopped short, not daring to finish the sentence. He wasn't superstitious but the fewer bad omens voiced, the better.

He flicked on the night light, picked Big Bird up off the floor and placed him on the pillow. "I'm counting on you, bird," he said, before leaving the room. "I'm counting on you to make sure his dreams are filled with nothing more than chocolate-covered rainbows."

In the small hours of the night, Big Bird fell down at his post. Blair's scream filled the loft. Jim was fully awake and alert before his feet even hit the floor. Sure, he slept, but not deeply. Never deep enough to not be aware of his surrounds. It was another habit learned in the army, and one he was sure he'd never break.

By the time he reached Blair's room, Blair was out from under the covers and had squeezed himself into the small space between the dresser and the wall. "No!" he screamed. "I sayed no!"

The urge to gather Blair up into his arms was killing him, but Jim kept his distance. Blair had no idea where he was, but the child knew full well who was stalking his dreams. "Blair, it's okay, baby." He edged a tiny bit closer and knelt down, hoping that when the hysteria of the dream released its grip, the first thing Blair would see would be his father's face.

"No no no, go away." Blair's voice was rough, fractured. "If you go away, I won't tell mama. I pwomise I won't. I won't, I won't, I won't!"

There and then, Jim Ellison prayed for there to be a hell, because if hell really did exist he'd have one more opportunity to meet up with Tom Walsh and exact nothing short of pure and satisfying revenge.

"Daddy," Blair cried, breaking Jim's train of thought. "Tom won't leave, Daddy. Make he go away ... make he go away!"

Finally contact, skin to skin as Jim's hand brushed across Blair's cheek. "It's just a bad, bad, dream, Kiddo. Tom's gone, remember, and he's never coming back."

Blair lifted his hands, curling his fists and then opening them. He palmed Jim's cheek, up and down, still frantic. "And he won't hurt me?" Blair sobbed. "You won't hurt me?"

Blair had broken his heart and was now tearing it apart. In his own home, in his own room, Blair still didn't feel safe. Blair still didn't trust him.

How many times do I need to say never, before you believe me? The question remained as a thought. It could be months, even years before Blair would be able to provide an answer, and there was still hope that, if time did its job correctly, the answer would never come. But now was not the time. Blair's bladder released and he began to shake. And Jim once again prayed for the existence of hell.

Jim ignored the puddle at Blair's feet, just as he ignored the soaking wet pajamas. He pulled Blair into his arms and drew him into his chest. "Never, ever, Chief. It's our promise, remember?"

Blair buried his face in the nape of Jim's neck. "I 'membeh," he said. "I 'membeh."

Jim took it as a sign that, for the moment at least, the demons where at bay. He got to his feet, taking Blair with him. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

A pair of clean pajamas, a fresh towel and hope. In the deep hours of the night, that's all they had going for them. He put Blair down on the tiles, prudent with his next move. "Munchkin, you need to have a quick cleanup, and to do that we're going to have to take off your wet pajamas. Is that okay with you?"

Blair's reaction was one he was half expecting. The lines between the past and present were, in Blair's mind, still blurred. "No, I don't want to take them off."

"It's okay," Jim assured. He ran his hands up and down the length of Blair's arms. "We won't do anything you don't want to do." And it was true. He wouldn't cross that line, if Blair said no. If they both had to stand in the bathroom all night long, they'd do exactly that, because Blair's pajamas would not be coming off until Blair gave his permission for it to happen.

Blair yawned, long and wide. He leaned in and wrapped one arm around Jim's neck.

"Hey, Kiddo." Long soothing strokes moved from Blair's arms to his back. "Do you remember your book? Remember all the fun things that daddies do with their sons?" Blair nodded and his other arm shot up to hook Jim's neck. "Remember how they go to the park, and how they go fishing and horse riding?"

"Ah-ha," Blair yawned.

"And do you remember what else they do, Chief?"

"Ah-ha," Blair said again. "They play in the mud."

"That's right, they play in the mud. And when they play in the mud the little boy gets all dirty so his daddy has to give him a bath." There was no coercion in Jim's voice, just a simple re-tell of a favourite story. "Do you remember the end of the story, Kiddo?"

"I 'membeh," Blair replied. The battle to stay awake was winning the war, forcing the bad memories to retreat into the background. Blair leaned more heavily into Jim's body.

"So do you think it might be okay for your daddy to give you a bath?"

Sleep broke through the battle lines. Blair yawned and then nodded his head.

Jim remained cautious. A nod wasn't a definitive answer – not tonight. "Blair is it okay for me to take you pajamas off?"

There was silence for a while and Jim didn't push. Then Blair nodded his head. "Ah-ha," he said. The answer was sleepy, but it gave Jim the confirmation he was seeking.

Knowing his chance of removing Blair's arms from around his neck was practically next to none, he worked around the problem, one step at a time, and while it was more time consuming, Blair eventually was stripped down, ready for a quick clean up.

The loft wasn't cold, but as the night air hit his skin, Blair shuddered. Jim instinctively pulled him in close.

"Okay, buddy, here we go." Lifting Blair up and over the rim of the tub was no effort at all. Getting him to stay upright however required a little more finesse. Once Blair's knees finally locked, Jim turned on the faucet and ran the washcloth under the warming water. The only touch to Blair was a trickle of water running down from the washcloth as Jim squeezed it out over Blair's skin. It was rudimentary but he repeated the procedure several times until Blair was basically clean. A more thorough soak in the tub could wait until tomorrow. It could wait until his son's world was back in balance.

Blair's arms were still wrapped tightly around his neck, so Jim squeezed his hand in between Blair's body and his chest, wiping his skin with the same cloth. He let it fall back into the tub. "Up we go, tough stuff,' he said, pulling himself to his feet and taking Blair with him.

The towel was large and, by the time Jim finished wrapping Blair up in it, the only inch of the child to be seen was his head, resting sleepily against his father's shoulder. "I sleep in your bed." It wasn't a question, but a statement, and one Jim couldn't ignore. He swooped down and picked Blair's pajamas up off the tiles and flicked off the bathroom light. By the time they reached the top of the stairs, Blair would be fast asleep. He would never have thought it possible, but sometimes it was a damn sight easier to dress a sleeping child than one who was wide awake, with more important things to do than get changed. And on a night like tonight, it was a damn sight easier not to look into his son's eyes and wonder if all Blair could see was Tom Walsh staring back.

As he put Blair's pajamas on and tucked him under the covers on the far side of the bed, Jim said a silent prayer for the damnation of Tom Walsh's miserable soul.

~oOo~

Jim was aware there was movement outside the front door and, while he didn't know how, he also knew it was Simon. Although he didn't believe in the power of premonitions, he did believe in intuition and, when it came to intuition, his was finely tuned.

He untangled himself from his miniature human blanket and reached for his robe. If he were quick, he could make it down the stairs and to the door before the first knock.

"I hope they're buttermilk," he said, swinging the door wide open.

"You know how much I hate it when you do that."

"I know." Jim didn't hesitate in reaching for the box of doughnuts. "You keep this up and I could very well marry you."

"Now there's a good enough reason for me to put a gun to my head," Simon muttered. He moved into the loft, shucked off his coat and draped it over the sofa. "I heard you had a tough night."

"News travels fast."

"So, how's the squirt?"

Jim dumped the box on the table. The contents had become a lot less appealing. "Well, thanks to dear old Dad, he had a pretty rough time of it." Jim scrubbed his hand roughly over his face, hoping the action would at least take away some of the bone-deep weariness he felt.

"Thanks to you, how?"

"So the newsflash left out the part about me yelling at Blair and scaring him to the point where took flight."

"Joel told me that you raised your voice, just like any other parent would have done in the same situation."

"Simon, Blair is not like every other child; you know that."

"So, basically what you're saying is that he's entitled to special privileges? That you're going to walk on eggshells around him for the rest of his life and let him do exactly what he wants?"

"Not quite," Jim responded, a hint of hostility creeping into his voice. "But yeah, he does need to be treated differently. Allowances need to be made."

"Ellison, did bugs eat your brain? Are you even listening to what you just said?" Simon moved into the kitchen. He needed coffee. "Look, I agree that, in some ways Blair is special and that there's a chance he may need specialised help for him to deal with what he's been through, but at the end of the day he's still a child. Children need rules and they need guidelines. Ah!" Simon held up his hand. "I haven't finished yet." Jim was never good at receiving lectures but he was damn well going to sit there and listen to this one. "Jim, I understand your need to protect Blair – hell we all do – but the bottom line is that if you don't set up some basic rights and wrongs now, you're going to have one very out-of-control little person living with you, and you'll be setting yourself up for years of struggle and years of grief."

"Simon, you weren't there. You didn't see the way he looked at me, and you didn't see what I saw. He had a hiding place, for Christ sakes. He had food and water, and he had enough foresight to scope out a place where only he could gain access. Normal kids don't do that."

"You sure about that? I seem to remember a place not too dissimilar to that myself, and I can assure you, Jim, I had nothing to run from."

"There's a difference between a cubbyhole and a bunker, Simon."

"Okay," Simon conceded. "I accept that, but maybe instead of making special allowances for Blair, you should make considerations. Consider each situation on its own merits. Consider what he's done, consider your reaction and then consider the appropriate reprimand. But don't fold and make allowances on the last point, Ellison, or I can assure you, no sooner than night turns to day, Blair will know he rules the roost; he'll think he's entitled to get away with anything he wants."

"So, Doctor Spock, what is an appropriate reprimand for a boy like Blair?"

"Sending his father to Siberia would be my first suggestion," Simon muttered, "but since you asked so nicely, my suggestion is time out."

"So what, I make him stand in the corner facing the wall. Does a dunce's hat come with the deal?"

"You know what? I think Siberia would be well worth the paperwork." Simon flipped open the box on table and pulled out a doughnut. It was the only buttermilk in the box and he took a huge bite. "Time out, smart ass, is making him spend a few minutes alone in his room to think about what he's done."

Jim watched as Simon swallowed down the remainder of his breakfast. "Works around the same principle as the doughnut, I'm gathering."

"Now there's my best detective." Simon smiled. "I knew you'd get there, with a little help." He picked out another doughnut, Jim's second-favourite. "Why don't you go hit the shower and when Blair's awake, I'll take you both out for breakfast."

Jim closed the lid on the doughnut box. All the good ones were already gone. "Sounds like a plan," he said, "'cause there sure ain't nothing to eat around here."

"Jim!" Simon pulled Ellison up before he reached the bathroom. "On a more serious note, make sure you have a talk with Blair first, okay? Make sure he completely understands what is acceptable and what is unacceptable. The kid's probably received so many mixed messages over the years that he doesn't know the difference. Chances are he didn't even know that drinking beer was wrong. Who knows how many times he's been allowed to drink the stuff, or what else he's been allowed to do?"

Jim stood and thought for a very short moment. He nodded his head and started once again toward the bathroom. "You know what? Despite the fact that you ate my favourite doughnut, while knowing full well that I have a gun, you're smarter than you look, Uncle Simon."

Simon smiled. 'Uncle Simon'. He could get used to that!

~oOo~

Simon didn't notice that Blair was awake until a pair of small arms wrapped around his legs. "Hey Squirt, I didn't hear you. He ruffled Blair's hair. The mop of curls was already a tangled mess. "I was just unpacking the dishwasher for your dad." He knelt down to Blair's eye level. "You still sleepy?"

"Ah-ha," Blair nodded. "I had a bad dream."

"You did, huh? Do you want to tell me about it?"

"Nope." Blair leaned in for a hug and Simon immediately accommodated. The level of affection Blair displayed toward him still blew him away. In Blair's view, he should be just another guy to float through the kid's life. But deep down, in the place where all his fatherly instincts were stored, Simon felt that Blair actually trusted him. Despite Jim's reservations about how much Blair did trust, he had a very strong feeling that Blair would get there. All the kid needed was to be shown the way. He got to his feet, taking Blair with him. "You know, Squirt, sometimes it helps to talk about what makes us scared. If you don't want to talk to your dad, you could always talk to me, or Jessie, or even Ms. Dickson. We all care about you very much and only want you to be happy."

There was no answer, or even any real indication that Blair was listening. The child's eyes were slowly closing and, as Blair turned his head and nuzzled his face into the crook of Simon's neck, Simon knew the game was up. "Looks like breakfast just turned into brunch," he said, quietly. Blair's breathing began to even out, and Simon made his way to the sofa. "You'll get there, Kiddo," he said. "I can promise you that."

~oOo~