~oOo~

As far as weeks went, this had been one to forget. Blair hadn't slept much, which meant Jim slept even less. As Friday dawned, he was praying that the day would quickly disappear off the radar. He closed the door to Blair's classroom, and moved down the hall toward the front door. It was the first time all week that Blair hadn't clung to him, so he took advantage of the opportunity and left without any fanfare. If Blair became overly distressed, they'd give him a call. He pushed through the first set of doors at the entrance and was just about to flip the lock on the gate when he heard the voice of the Centre's director directly behind him. "Jim, can I have a word?" she asked.

"Um, sure, I guess," he said, tentatively. "Blair's not already making a fuss over me leaving, is he?"

"Not that I'm aware," she answered. "My office," she said, indicating that Jim should move back through the door.

Busted,was the first thought to run through Jim's mind. He certainly wasn't inexperienced when it came to spending time in front of either the principal or his commanding officer's desks, and the discussion usually revolved around either busted furniture or busted heads.

The past slipped away and the present took its place. Blair, Jim thought, immediately wondering what Blair had broken. That thought, too, quickly slipped away. Blair wasn't that type of kid. The child wasn't like his father. The door closed behind him, and Nicole Dickson gestured for him to take a seat. "What's wrong?" he asked.

Nicole didn't answer until she was settled at her desk, facing him directly. "I was actually hoping that you could answer that for me."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"Well, for a start, have you looked in the mirror lately? From where I'm sitting, it looks as if you haven't slept in a week, and I'm betting that Blair's nightmares are the culprit."

"He's told you about them?"

"No, not really ... at least not in any detail. Are they happening every night?"

Jim settled back into the chair, his shoulders slumping. Sitting made him feel even more tired. At least when he was on the move, he didn't have the time to give in to it. "No, not every night. Only twice this week, which is an improvement."

"What's keeping you from sleeping then?" she asked.

"He's wetting the bed." Jim sighed. "Nightmare or no nightmare, nearly every night this week he's wet the bed."

"Jim, given Blair's history, it's not an unusual occurrence. While bedwetting can be caused by a number of different reasons, I'd put my money on it being an emotional response. Is there anything that happened lately that may have started it off? A trigger, if you like?"

"Yeah, me," Jim replied.

"Care to elaborate?"

He sighed and sank back even further into the chair. God, he was tired, and not just physically. He'd pushed that envelope before. Probably on too many occasions, but he'd learned how to cope with it. Emotional exhaustion, however, was a fairly new concept, one with which he didn't have a lot of experience. One advantage of keeping your emotions on lockdown, he thought. He sighed again, and then started to talk. He told Nicole what had happened at Joel's, and described Blair's response. He even told her about the advice Simon had given him. She sat patiently, her hands clasped together on her desk, and listened. Her face gave nothing away; it gave him no clue to work with.

He stopped and learned forward. "I did the wrong thing, didn't I?"

"No," she said. "What you did, was learn." Finally she settled back into her chair, her position similar to the one he'd just relinquished. "Your captain, however, was pretty much spot-on. Despite what Blair has been through, he still needs rules and guidelines."

"I'm not going to tell him you said that," Jim replied, once again leaning back.

"Jim you have to remember that while Blair is basically a pretty good kid and takes instruction well, he's still a child. You give him a big enough opening and he'll jump through it, feet first. He may be kind-hearted and gentle, but he's also not backward in speaking his mind. Believe me Jim, he's got spirit."

"I know," Jim answered. Blair's spirit is probably what kept him alive against the likes of Tom Walsh. "So, any answers on how to cure bedwetting?" he asked.

"No 'cure', because it's not a disease," Nicole answered. "However I do have a suggestion that will lessen the emotional trauma and shame that often goes hand-in-hand with bedwetting."

"Which is?"

"Pull-Ups."

"Diapers?" Jim shook his head. "No, I don't think so. Putting him in diapers is taking a step backwards. He's not a baby, Nicole, and I already know that he'll fight me if I try. The kid's got spirit, remember."

"They're not diapers, Jim. More like padded underpants. He probably won't even associate the two together, they're that discreet. All he'll know is that if he does have an accident, his pajamas will be dry and so will the sheets. Dry sheets go a very long way in lessening the shame that kids feel when it comes to bedwetting. Hopefully, once the emotional stress eases, so will the nightly occurrence." She looked directly at Jim as if studying him. "So what do you think? Worth giving it a try?"

"Maybe," he conceded. "Can't hurt, I suppose." He stretched the muscles in his back and rolled his shoulders before drawing himself to his feet. "But if he says no ... really says no, then I won't force him."

"I wouldn't expect you to." Nicole pushed back her chair, about to stand, but hesitated. "Jim, just one more thing. Has Blair ever seen you naked?"

"Excuse me!" And she thought Blair easily speaks his mind. "No, why would he?"

"Because it's normal, that's why. If you had a son who had never been abused, would you even think twice about getting changed in front of him, or leaving the bathroom door open when you showered?"

"I don't know," Jim replied. "Maybe, maybe not. I've never really thought about it."

"Perhaps you should."

The expression on Nicole's face didn't give him an ounce of leeway. She wanted an answer, there and then. "Okay, probably not. I most likely wouldn't even give it a second thought."

"That's exactly right, you wouldn't. Just like any other parent with children Blair's age. It would be perfectly normal."

"Nicole, where exactly is this going? Has Blair said something to you?"

"No, he hasn't. That's an entirely different concern, and one I'm working on. What I know is what I've garnished from a conversation I overheard between him and one of the other children."

"And?" Jim pushed.

"And, the child in question was telling Blair how she loved to take bubble baths with her mom. Blair quite bluntly told her that it's not right to see grownups without clothes. He also told her that they do bad things to you if you don't have clothes on. I stopped the conversation before it could go any further and got their minds on to other things, but later in the day I asked Blair about it."

"And?" Jim pushed again.

"And he changed the subject. Quite cleverly, I might add. He's got a good defensive mechanism worked out, and is exceptionally good at avoiding things he doesn't want to talk about."

Jim fell back into the chair. The emotional exhaustion was back with a vengeance. "I had no idea I was messing this up so badly," he said.

"You're not, and that wasn't what I was implying. What I was saying is basically reiterating what you've already been told. Blair needs 'normal'. He needs to be treated like a normal three-year-old, not a three-year-old whose baggage will be dragging after him for the rest of his life. And seeing your parents naked is a normal three-year-old experience. Blair needs to be able to look at you, under any circumstance, and know that it's okay. 'This guy is my dad and he won't do anything bad to me. He won't hurt me and I can trust him'."

"Nicole, do you have any idea how many times I've tried to tell him that?"

"Actions speak louder than words, Jim. Children like Blair learn pretty fast that words can be very hollow."

"Actions take time."

"They do, and there's nothing either of us can do about that. All I can suggest is that in the meantime, you just keep on loving him."

"That I can do." There were no more words; he was too tired for that. He got back to his feet and headed to the door. Loving Blair was the easy part. Gaining his trust – that's where the hard road began.

~oOo~

"Hey, Chief, are you excited about Holly's party tomorrow?"

"Ah-ha," Blair answered. He picked up his spoon and started to stir his ice cream. It tasted much, much better when it was mushed up into a soup.

In the basket by the front door was a package that Blair hadn't noticed yet. "Look what I bought when I was in the toy shop today."

Like any child with an unopened package, Blair discovered the contents in a matter of seconds. "It a dolphin. And it got key in its back."

"Yep."

"Why?"

"Because when you wind it up, like this, the dolphin swims under the water. I thought it might be fun at bath-time."

"Can I have a bath now?"

Jim looked at the soupy mix in the bowl that was still waiting to be eaten. "How about you finish your ice cream, or whatever you call it, while I go and fill the tub."

The ice cream was finished, the dishes were in the dishwasher and Blair was in the bath. Now was a good as time as any, Jim decided. He sat down on the closed toilet lid and scuffed off his shoes. The dolphin raced through the waves created by Blair's legs, buying him time. Blair didn't pay him any attention until he was stripped down to his boxers and reaching into the shower to turn on the faucet.

"What you doing?" Blair asked. The dolphin bobbed to the top of the water. Jim now had Blair's full attention.

"I'm just gonna take a quick shower. It's been a long day, Chief." He laid the bathmat on the tiles and dropped his boxers to the floor, then chanced a look at Blair. He intended not to, but couldn't stop himself. It was mistake. The look, the body language, the way Blair's eyes kept darting toward to the door ... they all screamed one thing: caution.

Normal. If thoughts had a voice, this one would have been deafening. You can do this, Jim told himself. You have to do this. He stepped into the shower. The glass door separated them physically, but visually Blair could see him perfectly. He moved under the spray, keeping his back toward Blair. Normal, he thought again. What do normal people do? Then inspiration hit. "They sing," he said aloud. Normal people sing. He picked up the shampoo bottle, squirted some into the palm of his hand and began to sing.

"Oh the grand old Count of Eden

He has six hundred chickens

He walked them up to the top of the barn

And he walked them down again."

It wasn't loud or boisterous. It was just normal – normal, like everything should be.

"And when they're up they're down

And when they're down they're up

And when they're only half way there, they're neither down nor up."

He couldn't see Blair, but he could clearly hear him. It started off with a giggle – just one – and then the sound of a key turning. He could hear water sloshing against the side of the tub, and the sound of gears as an internal spring gave life to the dolphin. And, as always when it came to Blair, the sound of a single laugh turned into another, then another. Success inched even closer a few seconds later. "They the wong wohds. You singing the wong wohds."

He took another chance and turned around. He was now facing Blair front-on. "What do you mean I'm singing the wrong words? Are you sure?"

"Ah-ha," Blair nodded. "You singing the wong wohds."

Blair was looking straight at him. There was no caution, no fear. All Blair was seeing was his dad, taking a shower. "Okay then, Pavarotti, what are the right words?"

Blair splashed the dolphin back through the water, pushed it under his leg and watched as it popped out the other side. His voice – a normal child's voice – filled the room.

"Oh the grand old Duke of Yohk,

He had ten thousand men.

He ma'ched them up to the top of the hill.

And he ma'ched them down again.

And when they up they up.

And when they down they down.

And when they only halfway up, they neitheh up oh down."

"Are you sure they're the right words? I think my words sound better."

"No, you wong," Blair stated with absolute confidence. "But don't be sad; I teach you."

Shampoo and soap trickled down the drain as Jim stepped under the spray. "You will?"

"Ah ha," Blair nodded confidently. "You just say what I sayed."

A lot more lot more singing, a lot more laughter and not a single sign of distrust. Blair was as happy and as content as any three-year-old should be. Jim shut off the shower, dried himself quickly and wrapped the towel around his waist. "Time to get out before you turn into a prune, Kiddo."

Blair stood without hesitation and lifted his arms. "Can I take my dolphin to bed?"

"It's a bath toy, Chief. It has to stay here."

There was no complaint, Blair just shrugged his shoulders, relayed the information to the dolphin and let Jim towel him dry. "Your PJs are laid out on your bed. Why don't you go get them on while I clean up in here."

Blair scooted out the door, nearly tripping over the towel, and Jim listened as Blair's bare feet slapped against the floorboard in the living room. He wiped the water off the floor and headed up to his room to get dressed. He didn't notice Blair at the top of the stairs a few minutes later, still wrapped in his towel, until he spoke. "What be these?" Blair had a pair of Pull-Ups in his hand. "Why they got Big Buhd on them?"

Jim threw his sweats onto the bed and pulled a pair of boxers from the dresser. Since normal was the theme of the night and seemed to be working, he dropped his towel and pulled his shorts on, casually answering Blair's question. "They, my main Munchkin, are nighttime pants."

"Why?" Blair asked.

Jim paused. He wasn't really all that good at answering the three-year-old 'why's. The wrong answer could have the evening taking a serious nose dive. "Because I saw them in the store, and when I saw Big Bird, I thought you might like them."

Blair looked at Jim and then looked at the pants. His brow creased in concentration.

Crap, Jim thought. The kid's smarter than that. No way he's buying it.

"They baby pants. I not wearing them." Blair threw the pants down on the ground. "I not!"

"Hey." Jim moved forward, a little too quickly. Blair flinched, moving back slightly. But he didn't run. He held his ground.

"Sink or swim time," Jim muttered. He sat down on the ground directly in front of Blair and picked up the pants. "Okay, so they may not be like regular, everyday kind of underpants, but lots of kids your age wear them. Even some older kids wear them to bed."

"Why?" Blair asked again.

"Because they help keep the bed nice and dry ... just in case you have an accident while you're sleeping."

Resolve and determination turned to distress in less than a heartbeat – the shame of a bed wetter. "I sowwy." Blair was folding. "I sowwy, I sowwy. I promise not to do it again. I promise ... I really, really promise I won't."

Jim took Blair's hands within his own. He could feel them shaking with tension. "It's okay. It's not a problem. It happens to lots of kids, and it's nothing to be ashamed about." He secured the towel around Blair's shoulders and drew him into a hug. "You don't have to wear the pants if you don't want to. The choice is yours. You can say yes or you can say no. It's up to you, okay?"

They sat on the floor, Blair wrapped in the towel, pressed against Jim's chest.

"You won't tell?" Blair moved, seeking a lap, seeking more comfort. He picked the pants up from the floor. "You won't tell?"

"Tell what, Kiddo?"

"About the pants?" Blair wiggled closer as if trying to get right inside of Jim's skin. "Tell about my accident."

Jim knew he could, and probably should, be totally honest. He could tell Blair that Ms. Dickson already knew, but what purpose would it serve, except to strip away Blair's confidence? Instead, he chose his words carefully. "Our secret, Kiddo." He lifted Blair's hand, pressed their palms together and entwined their fingers. "From this night on it will be completely our secret."

"Our secwet," Blair whispered into Jim's neck.

"Our secret," Jim confirmed, pressing a kiss against the top of Blair's head.

They sat, not talking, until Blair finally broke the silence. "Daddy?"

"Yeah, Munchkin?"

"Will Big Buhd get wet?"

"Maybe."

Blair thought about this for a while and, when he didn't answer, Jim assumed that he hadn't yet reached a decision.

"Daddy?"

"Yeah?"

"Will you read me a story tonight?"

"Sure thing, buddy." Jim groaned as he lifted them both off the ground. "You, my boy, are getting heavy."

"Daddy?"

"Yeah?" Jim said again.

"How comed you not smack me?"

Jim craned his neck back in an effort to read the look on Blair's face. "Because we have a promise, remember?" He continued down the stairs and moved toward Blair's room.

"But when you be naughty, you have to get smacked."

"Who told you that?" Jim lowered Blair down onto his bed. The towel fell away and he scooped up Blair's pajamas.

"Tom," Blair answered. He jumped down off the bed. He still had the Pull-Ups in his hand. "When you be naughty or be loud when the telebision is on, you get smacked. Them's the rules."

"Those aren't the rules in this house, Blair. In this house, nobody gets a smack." Jim latched onto Blair's elbow, keeping Blair steady as he threaded his feet through the pants. They obviously now had the seal of approval. "Did Tom smack you a lot?" he asked.

"Ah-ha," Blair answered without hesitation. "But I needed a smack. I was naughty."

Jim closed his eyes, briefly. He wasn't sure if he should continue or shut the conversation down. This was the first time Blair had really spoken about Walsh and he didn't appear to be distraught or upset talking about it. In fact, he seemed pretty unemotional about it. He decided to take Blair's lead. "What else did Tom do?" he pushed.

Blair unconsciously rubbed his cheek. "I went to the doctoh once. My arm got bended and the doctoh put on a cast. It was blue." He grabbed his pajama top and started pulling his arm through the sleeve.

Jim did up the buttons. "Blair, did Tom break your arm?"

The subject closed just as abruptly as it had opened. Blair didn't say a word, just jiggled around, trying to reach for a book on the bedside table, while Jim attempted to pull his pajama pants up. "If I be really, really, really naughty, then you smack me?"

"No," Jim shook his head. "I won't. I won't ever smack you."

Blair's face took on an expression that made Jim intensely curious. What's going on in that head of yours, Kiddo? he wondered.

A finger stabbed at the first page of the book. "Wead," Blair said and, although Jim obliged, his voice was monotone and his mind elsewhere. It had been an eventful evening. They'd taken some steps forward without much of a hiccup, but Blair's willingness to so easily divulge information which he had thought was off limits, had him confused. Maybe time was starting to do its job, or maybe, he thought more reservedly, Blair was about to put him to the test.

~oOo~