Author: Daydreamer
Posted: 4 March 2003

Babysitting

Jim shakes my hand, crushes the kid in a hug and walks away. I'm not surprised when Blair just stands there and watches him fade into the distance, but we can't stand here all night. It's already after eleven, I've got to work tomorrow, and Sandburg has exams.

I clear my throat, but he doesn't react so I shake his arm gently. "Let's go, Sandburg," I say. I know I sound gruff, but that's just the way I sound. People who know me know what I mean.

He's still staring down the concourse and he looks so uncertain -- I want to give him some encouragement, so I squeeze his arm and he finally looks at me.

"C'mon," I say, "let's get back to the loft." It's not that I'm having second thoughts or anything, but I do wonder if the kid trusts me enough to want me around if things get a little hairy. Jim obviously does; that's why I've got the designated Blairwatch and not someone else. But Sandburg is the one who's going to have to risk sharing his demons with me, and he seems distinctly uncomfortable with the thought right now, and his discomfort is making me feel awkward and unsure.

I watch to make sure he's buckled up before I start the car and then I smile in approval when the automatic door locks engage. I really like automatic door locks. It was one of the many things Joan and I fought about; she could never remember to lock her car doors. I still don't know why we fought over it; I should have just bought her a car with automatic door locks, too.

I sigh and realize that the problems were too deep for a new car to fix, but I still wish I'd tried. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a cigar and stick it in my mouth, unlit in deference to my companion. My smoking was another thing Joan and I used to fight about. I know it's a bad habit, but, hey -- we all have our vices.

I'm jolted out of my reverie when Sandburg says, "I appreciate what you're trying to do here, Simon, but really, I'm okay."

His voice quavers, and his hand is clenched on the seat rest, so despite his outwardly calm words, he's not doing a good job of convincing me. I don't have to be a Sentinel to see he's upset at his partner's absence and worried about having me around. Worried about what I'll think of him if he has one of those nightmares Jim warned me about.

"You don't have to stay."

I try to keep my voice steady and nonchalant as I reply, "I know you're okay, Sandburg, and I don't mind staying." And oddly enough, I don't mind. Jim Ellison is a good friend and he rarely asks for anything, so I feel honored to have been entrusted with this mission. And Sandburg? Well, I actually like the kid, but he's cocky enough without me admitting that.

He makes this little sound of disbelief and half-threatens me with, "You haven't seen where you're gonna be sleeping, man. You may change your mind quick."

I'm really amazed at how hard the kid is working to maintain normal. A half dozen comebacks flit through my head, but I don't think he's up for witty banter at this point, so I just say, "Maybe I just think you could use some company right now."

He turns his head, avoiding me, and stares out the window. There's a hint of bitterness in his voice when he says, "Especially after what Jim told you, huh?"

I wonder what that's about, but I chalk it up to him still being uncomfortable with me staying over -- with me as babysitter. Oh, we've danced around it, but we both know that's what this is -- Jim doesn't want the kid alone, so the kid is not staying alone.

"It was a long time ago, Simon," he says softly, still staring out the window. "I'm really okay."

"I believe you, Blair." And I do. Sandburg's got a lot of strength in him. He's not a cop, and throwing himself in the line of fire is not his usual first course of action, but he never hesitates to move, to do the right thing when it is needed. And emotionally? He's tough. He's had to deal with some serious shit since he started working with us, and he always comes back. But he's a man now, stronger and more sure of his ability to handle himself. I can't begin to imagine what it must have been like for him when he was a child. I had a great childhood, and aside from being a little emotionally stunted from some of my father's teachings on what makes a man, I think I turned out okay.

But as I'm working through all this, it suddenly occurs to me that maybe Sandburg is tired of all the focus on him. Maybe just dealing with the stuff that's coming up is all he can handle, and he can't deal with me, too. So I shift gears a little and say, "And maybe my staying over isn't necessarily for you."

That surprises him, and he turns back from the window. I can feel his eyes on me in the dark.

"Maybe I know Jim's a little worried about you and I feel guilty sending him off right now. Maybe he knows you don't always eat when it's test time. Maybe he knows you don't sleep like you should in the middle of midterms. Maybe, just maybe, I'm staying at the loft so that Jim can relax and focus on a conference that he didn't particularly want to go to in the first place." I pull to a stop at a traffic light, and the streetlight illuminates the car enough that I can see his face, see his expression. He's surprised, and then thoughtful, and then slightly guilty as he contemplates my words. "Did you think about that, Sandburg?" I finish as the light changes and we move again.

It takes a few minutes for my words to sink in, and then he mumbles, almost under his breath, "Sorry, Simon."

Good. That seems to have distracted him somewhat and he's a little more relaxed. The grip on the armrest has lifted and he's leaning comfortably back in the deep leather seat. "It's all right," I say softly, keeping my eyes on the road to give him some sense of space in the confines of the car. "I know this is a tough time for you, Blair." His breath hitches, and I think I've just blown all the good work I did in getting his attention off himself. Damn! I'm just no good at this emotional crap. I don't know what else to do, so I just say, "Jim worries. So do I."

He clears his throat, then responds, "I just hate putting you out like this. I know you don't have bugs at your place."

I'm done. I think I have reached my emotional crap quotient for the drive. I shrug, a motion I suspect he can't see in the dark, and growl, "Let it rest, Sandburg. I'm staying at the loft till Jim gets back. Just a couple of days." And finally, we're there and I can get out of this car. I park next to Jim's truck and smile at my passenger. "Surely we can make it as roommates for two days, right?"

He climbs out of the car and I can hear a muffled, "Yeah," but I'm wondering what exactly has got him so uptight. I'm not that scary, am I?

We get inside and I head straight for Sandburg's room, but he gives this little cough and I stop. What now?

"Uh, Simon? That's my room, remember? Why don't you just take Jim's bed?"

Oh, great! Thank you, Jim Ellison. Tell me you're sleeping with your partner, but don't tell him you told me. Now I have to figure out what to say, and the kid is obviously right on the edge as it is.

"It's all right, Sandburg," I say, with a quick glance at the upper bedroom. "Jim told me you've been sleeping upstairs." I let my bag fall and walk over to him, thinking that maybe if I touch him, it will help calm him down. It seems to work for Jim. But when I get to him, he's wound so tight -- I'm afraid he'll shatter if I lay a finger on him, so I just look at my watch and drop my hands. "Look, it's late. Why don't we both just turn in and get some sleep?" Maybe the kid'll feel better about me being here in the morning.

He nods to my relief. I really don't want to talk about how I know where and with whom he's sleeping.

"I've got to study," he says in an undertone as he stumbles to the stairs, hauling his ever-present backpack. "I'll keep it down -- shouldn't bother you at all."

Great. I have three objectives: Make him eat; make him sleep; be there if he has a nightmare. At this rate, I'm going to strike out. "Not too late, Sandburg," I warn in the same tone I use with Daryl. It works -- sometimes. "You need to try to sleep."

He does this wave thing with his hand and says, "Not to worry." So of course, I immediately start to. He must be planning on not sleeping at all tonight. "I'll be in the land of Nod before you know it."

Well, hell. I've danced around it all night, so I guess it's time to be direct. I still don't want to make him any more uncomfortable than he already is, so I keep my back to him and stammer out, "If you wake up, or, uh, need anything ..." Why is this so hard? "If you need me, just call, okay?"

"I'm sure there's not going to be a problem, Simon, but thanks."

He makes such an effort to sound okay that I am convinced he's not going to sleep. He needs to sleep. He needs to know it's all right to let his guard down with me. I'm not going to hold it against him. I turn around and look up at him, holding him with my eyes. "It's all right, Blair," I say softly. "I don't mind."

That seems to break through his facade of cheeriness, and he rubs his face with both hands. He looks down at me, the fake smile replaced with serious acceptance of my words. "Yeah. All right, Simon. Thanks, man."

Good. Maybe I convinced him. I turn and go through the doors into his room and get ready for bed. The futon is too small for my frame, but I curl up a little and make it work. It's only for two nights. I'm tired and I fall asleep quickly, but it doesn't seem like I've been sleeping long before I hear movement in the apartment. In the kitchen, to be exact. I've been a cop too long not to investigate. I've got my gun in my hand as I creep out into the living room and scan the area. When I see it's just Sandburg, standing by the microwave, I tuck my weapon in the waistband of the sweatpants I'm sleeping in and walk over to him. My hand on his shoulder makes him jump and I feel guilty when he kicks out and stubs his toe on the cabinet.

"Jesus, Simon! Give a guy a heart attack!"

I have to work hard at suppressing a laugh because he looks ridiculous hopping up and down on one foot while he rubs the other one. Must have really hurt though, because there are unshed tears in his eyes .... Oh, shit! I hope they're from the bang on his toe. What if he's up because he had a nightmare and didn't want to wake me? I grab his shoulders and maneuver him to the table, gently but insistently pushing him into a chair. "Are you all right?"

He nods, still rubbing his foot. "Yeah, I'm all right. No permanent damage, but it's a good thing I've finished growing or I might have been stunted for life."

He must be all right if he can crack wise at this ungodly hour. "Uh, well, about that. I've got news for you, Sandburg ...."

He gives me this exaggerated look of horror and rolls his eyes dramatically, making me laugh. "Hey, not everyone took growth hormones as a child like you and Jim," he teases. "Some of us just grew up naturally."

I snort disbelievingly at him and go get his mug out of the microwave. It's just hot water so I hand it to him and look around. There must be a packet of hot chocolate or a teabag around here somewhere. He points to the counter and I nod. Tea. "Nature was kinder to some of us, obviously," I say as dryly as I can while I pass over the teabag.

He drops it in the water and mumbles, "Thanks, man," then goes back to rubbing his foot.

That gets me a little worried again, so I sit next to him and, all joking aside, ask, "You really okay, Blair?"

He seems to sense my shift to serious because he nods and says, "Yeah." At my raised eyebrow, he goes on. "I was just working on some school stuff and I thought I'd get a cup of tea. I didn't mean to wake you."

I don't know how to handle all this shit. I don't want to push and make him any more uncomfortable than he is, but I really want him to know he can talk to me. If he needs to. "You sure, uh, that is, it wasn't anything else, was it?"

He pats my hand, and I am reminded of the reassuring touches my grandmother used to give me before she died. Just a brief connection that somehow seemed to make things better. I'm supposed to be here to help him, so how did we get to him reassuring me?

"I'm fine, Simon," he says, and I almost snort again. This guy can sell ice to Eskimos. "I promise," he adds, and I have no choice but to accept it.

"And you'd tell me if you weren't?" I ask, still prodding a little.

"And I'd tell you if I weren't."

He parrots my words back to me and I just can't read him. I don't know if he's serious or mocking me. I watch him for a minute and finally decide he's serious, so I climb to my feet and get ready to go back to the futon. "Then get the hell in bed and go to sleep and stop wandering around," I order and am relieved when he smiles. "Some of us need our sleep."

I can't believe I've been up half the night and still haven't managed to pry one word of importance out of Mr. Tight Lips in there. Fat lot of good I'm doing being here. I imagine this will be the last time Jim gives me a mission -- I'm not succeeding too well on this one.

I reach Blair's room and crawl back onto the futon, only then realizing I've been muttering my thoughts out loud. I can only hope Sandburg didn't hear me. I don't suppose my bitching will make him feel he can trust me.

When I wake up the next morning, my back is stiff, my neck hurts, and I'm still tired. I force myself up, and a hot shower does help, as do the three Tylenol I dry swallow in the bathroom. I'm dressed and ready to go before I stop to wonder about Sandburg. What's the etiquette here? Does he have an alarm? Did he remember to set it? Does Jim get him up? Should I fix him breakfast, hang around to make sure he's okay?

Damn you, Jim Ellison! You've sent me out in the field with an inadequate briefing and you will pay for this!

I mutter under my breath as I climb the stairs. Sandburg is curled in a ball in the middle of the bed, and for some reason I am reluctant to touch him. I remember the way he startled at my touch last night, and I don't want a repeat of it.

"Wake up, kid," I say, tugging at the blankets. His grip tightens and he groans, mumbling something unintelligible.

"C'mon, kid, time to get up."

" 'im?" he asks in a still-asleep voice.

"No, Simon. Time to get up. You hear me, Sandburg?"

He uncurls and rolls over, gazing up at me with sleep encrusted eyes. "What's that, Simon?"

"I'm leaving for work," I tell him, wondering if I should ask about breakfast. Nah -- he's a grown man; I'll trust him to feed himself. And if he doesn't? Well, I can make sure he eats tonight. And Jim will be home tomorrow. But I should at least make sure he gets where he's supposed to be. "What time is your class?" I ask.

"Uh, eight. Why?"

Oh, shit! I point at the clock, noting he has less than 45 minutes to get himself up, dressed and over to the university.

"Shit!" Sandburg leaps out of the bed, shoving past me and almost falling down the stairs. He's stripping off as he goes and I start laughing, even as I pick up the clothes he's left strewn in his wake. "I'm gonna be late!" he cries as he disappears into the bathroom. I chuck the clothes over to land just outside the bathroom door, hoping he'll get the message.

"Bye, Sandburg," I holler as I leave. "See you tonight."

I'm still chuckling when I get in the car and drive away.

Well, working last night until it was time to go to the airport had its rewards. I actually left early today and I'm at the loft, relaxing on the couch with the news on, when Sandburg walks in. He looks surprised to see me, but then this great big grin spreads across his face, and for the first time since Jim left, I feel really welcome. I think he's glad not to be walking into an empty apartment.

The phone rings and he sprints for it, and if I thought he was smiling before, the look on his face now is blinding. "Jim!" he cries into the phone, and I feel sorry for Sentinel ears.

They chat for a while about nothing in particular, just two people who care about each other catching up. I imagine Jim is making up things about the conference he isn't attending and I chuckle a couple of times at Sandburg's story of what a kid will go through to cheat on an exam.

When he finally passes me the phone, he looks really good. Happy, comfortable, relaxed. I watch him wander into the kitchen and pull out a beer, and then he begins to unload the fridge. I smile again, then turn my attention to my detective in North Carolina.

My face falls at once as his words begin to sink in. Had a talk with Stanley. Followed him home. Heard him beating his son. Stopped him. Said stoppage involved something that could possibly be considered assault. Oh, shit! Damn, Jim, didn't I tell you not to let it come to this? Hasn't been charged yet. Fuck! What the hell am I going to say to Sandburg? I glance over at him and see that he's watching me avidly, all traces of relaxation gone. "Just -- keep me informed, Jim," I say to him. "Call as soon as you know something."

He tells me he's sorry and promises to call and I hang up, but my feet feel riveted to the floor. I can't move. And Sandburg is beside me now, demanding to know what just transpired.

"What?" he asks, his voice concerned.

I take one of those deep breaths that seem to work for Jim and force myself to relax and then smile. "Nothing, kid," I tell him, but he calls me on it immediately, and I know I better come up with something quick.

"Don't do this, Simon," he says. "What's happened? What does Jim need to keep you informed about?"

Something occurs to me and I smile again, genuinely pleased with my creativity. I shake my head and tell him, "It's really nothing, Sandburg. There were some press people there and they waylaid Jim about the case. He was -- annoyed."

Sandburg snorts and then smiles back at me. I can just see him processing that. No one knows better than he that Jim and the press are like oil and water. Never going to mesh. "He wanted to give me a heads up -- just in case."

"All right," the kid says, lifting his beer in mock salute. "You want one of these while I make dinner?" he offers.

Hmmm -- so he's making dinner. Guess that solves the dilemma of what to order. I follow him to the kitchen and grab a beer. "What are you making?"

"I'm just gonna throw something together," he says with a shrug.

To be honest, that's a little frightening, and I seriously reconsider ordering in. But the routine of making dinner seems to keep him calm, so I try to swallow my qualms and fervently hope I'll be able to swallow my dinner. In the meantime, I busy myself with chatting inanely while he 'throws things together.'

It's surprisingly good, though I'm not quite sure what it is, and I'm not sure I want to know. There are lots of vegetables in it, and I don't think I recognize all of them, but it tastes good enough. I clear the table and wash the dishes while he dries and puts them away.

We settle on the couch, me with another beer and my eye on the game, Sandburg with notebooks and papers in his lap, red pencil in his hand. It's comfortable, and I realize I've missed this in my life. Having someone to come home to, someone to talk about the day with. Someone to share things like dinner and dishes and a little time on opposite ends of the couch. Wonder how I'd do with a roommate? I give the matter a moment's thought and dismiss it. Nah. What're the chances I'd get someone like Sandburg, someone who could put up with my bullshit and idiosyncrasies the way he puts up with Jim's? About nil. Still -- tonight was nice. I yawn and pull myself to my feet. "I'm done in," I tell him as I head off for his room. "You going to bed?"

He's still working, splitting his attention between the papers in his lap and the TV. "In a while," he responds with a vague wave in my direction.

This isn't going to cut it. I stop and look at him, waiting until he glances up. "You need to sleep, Sandburg," I remind him. "Don't think I don't know you tried to stay up all night last night. You can't do it again tonight."

He flushes, embarrassed to have been caught, so I walk back over and drop my hand to his shoulder. I'm still not sure what is bothering him. Maybe he worries that I'll talk? That if he has a nightmare, I'll spread it around? Surely he knows I'd never do that .... Or maybe ... a thought suddenly occurs to me. Maybe he's worried that while Simon might be understanding of anything he sees and hears, Captain Banks might feel obligated to take some sort of official action -- especially if the nightmares are as bad as Jim has led me to believe. Time for a little reassuring damage control. "Look kid," I say softly, "I meant it when I said it would be all right. If anything happens here, it stays here. You got that?"

He looks up and I see hope flit briefly across his face. I think I've finally -- duh! -- figured it out. "I'm your friend, Blair."

He drops his head and hides behind his mane. "You're my captain, too," he whispers.

I like that. God knows, I remind him often enough that he's not a cop, but I'm strangely warmed that he considers me his captain. But -- not now.

"Not tonight," I tell him, squeezing his arm. "So stop worrying and get to bed, okay?"

I step back and wait until he's dragged himself up from the sofa. His head is still down, but I can see him grinning even as he grumbles, "Yeah. I'm going, I'm going." I'm still waiting, something inside me wanting to make sure he really is going to bed, he really did hear me. "Thanks, Simon," he whispers and I smile.

Mission accomplished. "Anytime, kid. Anytime."

I settle onto the futon, once again having to curl my long body to fit. It's not comfortable by a long shot, but barring arrests and convictions, this should be the last night. I shudder and refuse to let myself think of what will happen if Jim is arrested. He couldn't survive in jail. Never mind the fact that he's a cop and he'd have a big, freaking target on his back. Just the little things like clothing and sheets that weren't washed right, causing rashes to his sensitive skin, the food that he'd never be able to stomach, the constant sounds and lights and odors that would all combine to drive him insane -- he'd never make it.

And Sandburg wouldn't be any better. If Jim ends up in jail over this prick Stanley, Blair will never forgive himself. I'll have to take on fulltime babysitting duties because I can't imagine the self-flagellation the kid would put himself through, thinking Jim's incarceration was all his fault.

Fuck, Jim! You just couldn't let it rest, could you?

I'm still tossing restlessly, worrying over what will happen, when I reluctantly fall asleep.

It's the crash that wakes me. Once again, I'm out of my bed, gun in hand and racing into the living room. I'm never going to tease Ellison again when he comes to work looking like something the cat dragged in. No wonder he's sleeping with kid. I'm ready to crawl in bed with him too, if it means I'll actually get to sleep.

The living room and kitchen are clear and I hear crying from upstairs. I climb the stairs, letting my eyes adjust to the dark and don't see Sandburg anywhere. There's no sign of an intruder though, so I stick my weapon in the waistband of my pants and turn on the lamp. I check the room again and this time I see feet just disappearing into the closet under the eaves.

"Sandburg?" I call. "Hey, Blair -- it's me, Simon."

He screams, and I move over there, totally unprepared for this and not at all sure what to do. I reach out and touch his hair, whispering, "Blair?" but he screams once more and scuttles away from me. I'm down on my knees now, leaning into the closet and trying to get a grip on him to pull him out. "C'mon, Blair," I say gently, "let's get you out of the closet, okay?" I get my hands on his arms and he goes ballistic, swinging at me, kicking his feet, and then he cries, "Mommy!"

My heart crumbles; he sounds so lost and alone. I force myself to pull him out as he continues to cry, "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy."

He's crying feebly, weeping, and I feel tears on my own face, but ignore them to keep hold of him, pulling him inexorably forward and out of the closet. I need to get through to him, so I raise my voice and yell, "SANDBURG!"

It seems to work. I can almost see the shift from small boy to grown man, but he still doesn't seem to know who I am. He fights me and screams again, but this time it's not for a mother who never responds, but for a friend who always does. "Jim!" he cries. "Help me, Jim! Please!"

I let him go, step back, and call to him again. "Sandburg! It's me! Simon!"

"Simon?" he rasps, his hand coming up to wipe at his tear- stained face.

Thank God. "Yeah," I say, "it's me, kid." I reach out to pull him to me, thinking maybe I can calm him with a hug the way I used to calm Daryl when he had a bad dream, but he stops me with a word.

"Don't," he says brokenly. "Just don't touch me yet, okay?"

I've had too much experience with people who say 'don't touch me,' and I know what it usually foreshadows. I close my eyes for a moment and pray again, 'Please, not that,' then nod to let him know I heard him. "What can I do?" I ask, maintaining my distance.

He pulls himself up and his eyes dart frantically around the room, searching, no doubt, for the one person who could really help but isn't here. He sways on his feet, then his eyes light on me and I can see the minute it becomes okay for me to touch him. He starts to list but I'm there, and he leans against my chest, letting me hold him. I rub his back and pat his hair, and try to still the tremors that course through him. He seems to soak up my touch for a bit, but then he pulls away and heads for the stairs.

"I'm sorry," he mutters under his breath as he makes his way down.

I trail after him, asking, "What happened, Blair? What were you dreaming?"

"I can't talk about it," he mumbles with a full body shiver as he hugs himself tightly. He's in the kitchen now, pacing back and forth, and I haven't a clue what to do next. Do I give him space? Give him a hug? Make him talk? Be silent? Maybe I should call Jim? I'm just so out of my depth here, and feeling mighty unprepared.

Maybe I can feed him. It'll give me something to do, and it might help him settle. "Then how about I fix you something to eat?" I suggest as I move toward the kitchen.

Panic flashes across his face and he begins to back toward a corner.

I come to a complete stop. "Or I can stay over here. You can have the kitchen for now, and I'll just stay over here. How's that?" I offer.

"Th-thanks, Simon," he stammers, adding yet another, "I'm sorry."

Wish he'd quit apologizing. " 's all right, kid," I tell him. "Whatever you need."

"Just a little space," he says, almost whimpering. He's still crying, but I don't think he realizes it.

I nod my agreement, but I'm oddly disappointed that he won't let me do something. Still -- whatever he needs. "I can do space," I promise him. "But how about you take a shower? You'll feel better, you know. I can fix you a snack, and when you get out, you can have the kitchen to yourself." And I'll feel better because I will have actually done something other than stand here without a clue as to what to say. If this goes on too much longer, I'm going to have to call Jim.

"N-not now, Simon," he pleads, shaking his head. "Please?"

What can I say? I grunt my agreement and stand here helplessly while he paces around and around the small kitchen area. I try to wait patiently, to give him some time and space, but I'm over my head here, out of my league. And the whole business is starting to scare me. When I can't stand it a minute longer, I break down and ask, "Do you want me to call Jim?"

For a moment I'm sure he's going to say yes, but he doesn't. "No, that's okay. Just give me a little longer. I'll be okay."

I don't think I can bear to see him like this for any longer. I may have doubted Jim's decision to go see that bastard in Carolina before, but I don't doubt it now. I'm just amazed Ellison managed to live with Blair and these memories for the last few months without having taken off sooner. But Jim's not here now, so it's up to me to do something. "You sure you won't reconsider that shower?"

He shakes his head again, but the pacing begins to slow and, at last, he is standing still in the kitchen. His arms are still around his chest, as if he is holding himself together, but he's still, and that's progress, isn't it? I mean, that's got to be progress.

"Better?" I ask.

The phone rings and my eyes dart toward it, then back to him. He's pacing again and it makes me sigh. I want to say something -- I need to say something -- to calm him, but my words are all repeats.

"Banks," I growl into the phone, but at an almost subvocal mew from the kitchen, I look up and say, "Sandburg, it's all right."

"Simon!" Jim's voice rings in my ear. "Is Blair all right?"

This is too weird. Did he somehow know something was going on with the kid and call? Or -- and my heart seizes up at this next thought -- has he been arrested? "Oh, Jim, it's you," I say, straining for what I hope sounds like normal. "I hope this isn't bad news." He, of course, completely blows past my sentiment.

"Sandburg," he says again, "is he okay?"

"Nightmare," I sigh. "He doesn't want to talk to me, but he's pacing all over the place, his T-shirt's soaked, and he looks like he's about to fall apart." And then there are the things I don't say. I'm blowing it big time, Jim. I don't know what to do, don't know what to say. What on earth made you think I could take your place here?

"Let me talk to him," Jim demands, but I've got some rights, too, and I want answers.

"What's going on, Jim?" I shoot back at him.

He must have picked up on my 'I'm not taking no for an answer' tone because he sighs and says, "Just let me talk to him, okay? Then I'll explain."

Well, hell. I debate pushing the issue for all of three-tenths of a second, but one look at the misery on the face of the man in the kitchen and any thought of dominance pissing contests flies out the window. "Sandburg," I say gently, holding out the phone, "it's Jim. He wants to talk to you."

He nods, so I know he heard me, but he doesn't move. I wait, but still nothing. "Can you come over here?" I prod.

He nods again, but he's rooted to the floor in the kitchen. Fuck! I am so out of my depth here. I just wish I could do something ....

"You want me to put the phone down? And move away?"

He looks up at me then, really seeing me, and shakes his head. I watch as he forces one step after another, and I am very careful not to move; I hardly even breathe. He reaches my side and I pass him the phone, feeling like I should be cheering for this accomplishment. Newspapers should announce, 'Sandburg walks to the living room; takes phone in hand. Credit given to Simon Banks!' I snort and wonder if I'm losing my mind.

I hear Blair say "Jim?" as if he can't really believe the other man has called, then I move over to stare out the window and try to give him some privacy. I'm feeling pretty outraged right now. I don't want to think about it, but all I can see in my mind is the image of Blair, tucked as far back into that damned closet as he could possibly get, terrified out of his mind and crying helplessly for a mother who never did anything for him. This guy Stanley is not the only one Jim should be talking to. Or maybe I should take on Naomi and let Jim keep his hands clean on this one since she is Sandburg's mother and all.

The thought of throttling the beautiful redhead is oddly calming, and I relax for a minute, but then I flash on Blair again, huddled on the floor, screaming, and the rage bubbles back up. I lift my hands and place them on the door to the balcony, fighting the urge to pound right through the glass.

There's a sound behind me and I turn. Sandburg is holding the phone out to me. I move slowly toward him, no large movements, nothing that could be considered threatening other than the fact that I'm six four and weigh 240 pounds. But I can't help that. I just make sure I stop far enough away that he knows I can't reach him, then hold out my hand. He takes a step forward and passes me the phone, then disappears into the bedroom "Jim?" I say distractedly, watching as the kid reappears with clothes in hand and then vanishes into the bathroom. Damn! "How'd you get him to agree to the shower? I've been trying to convince him for thirty minutes."

"I promised him you'd make him some tea," Jim says with a laugh.

I'm moving to the kitchen. "Great," I say as I start the water. "Where does he keep that stuff he drinks?"

"Canister on the counter," Jim says and his voice is relaxed. "Just put the water on to heat while you change the sheets."

Well, I'm one step ahead. The water's already on, but I give a huge sigh and mumble, "You owe me, Ellison." I retrieve the clean sheets from the closet and head up the stairs, then strip the linens with ease. They're soaked. I've gotta hand it to Jim -- I don't think it would have occurred to me to do this. A shower? Yes. Tea? Probably. Clean sheets on the bed? I doubt it. Ellison's good, but then, he's had a lot more practice than I have.

The silence stretches while I work on the bed, and then Jim speaks. "Stanley killed himself," he says.

Well -- fuck. I finish with the sheets, draw the comforter up, and then say, "Shit."

"Yeah," Jim says, and I can hear total agreement in his tone. "But I'm not being charged. I can leave tomorrow."

I've got the phone pressed between my ear and shoulder, trying to wriggle a clean case onto a pillow. "You gonna tell the kid what's been going on?"

"Yeah, but not now," Jim sighs. "For now, I'm gonna work on getting him to sleep. I'll call him again tonight and tell him everything."

Probably a good decision, I think. "Bed's done," I tell Jim as I move down the stairs to intercept the kettle before the whistle goes full blast. I pour hot water into a cup and drop a tea bag in, then add several spoonfuls of sugar. I bet Sandburg is a honey user, but, the sugar's on the counter, so tonight, he gets sugar.

"Did I tell you thank you, Simon?" Jim asks, and it makes me frown and smile at the same time. "Because, you know, thank you."

I'm not good at this stuff -- I keep telling him that. So, I give him one of my multi-purpose grunts and look up to see Sandburg standing in the living room. Clean clothes, still a little damp, and with a towel around his neck. "Get over here, Sandburg, and talk to your partner," I order, passing him the phone and the cup of tea I've made.

"Thanks, Simon," he says, sounding much improved and more like the kid who makes me crazy in a good way, not the kid who worries me shitless. "Hey, Jim," he says into the phone.

He takes the cup and the phone upstairs, waving at me from the top step, then disappears from my sight. I collapse on the couch, incredibly wrung out, and I wonder how Jim has held it together these past few months. I hear the soft murmur of unintelligible but relaxed sounds drifting down to me, and I am counting my lucky stars that Jim will be home tomorrow and back here with his partner. I don't mind trying to help; I'm flattered to have been asked. But I sure as shit don't think I've done much good, and that kid upstairs needs someone who can actually help him. He needs Jim Ellison.

I must have fallen asleep, 'cause the sun is just coming up when I awake, still on the couch, with a sore back and a stiff neck. I glance over at the phone rest and see the phone is missing but the light is on. The light that indicates the phone is in use. I listen for a minute, but all I hear is silence, and then it hits me. Ellison, that crazy fool, has kept the line open all night long, maintaining the connection with his partner from three thousand miles away.

I chuckle as I head for the shower. Why the hell didn't I think of that?