Carlton settled into the hot leather seat of his Crown Vic with a sigh. It had been a slow Monday at the station and he was looking forward to a long lunch at one of his and O'Hara's favorite restaurants. He pulled out from the station and onto the streets of Santa Barbara, heading for the main road.

As O'Hara chattered to him about the case they had closed last week, Carlton smiled to himself. Today he didn't have to go the long way to avoid any sort of close proximity to the Psych office. Spencer and O'Hara's kid didn't go to daycare on Mondays, which meant the annoying ex-psychic was safely at their apartment on the other end of the city.

Carlton pulled onto State Street, and started grumbling about the tourist traffic just as O'Hara's phone rang. She glanced at the screen and the apology on her face when she looked up at him was enough to tell him who it was.

“Just answer,” he said, waving a long hand vaguely. “He'll just keep calling until you do.”

She smiled in thanks and brought the phone to her ear. “Hey, sweetheart.”

Carlton winced. And he had been hoping for an entire day without Spencer.

“Wait, when?” O'Hara said, sounding shocked.

As Carlton snagged the last remaining parking spot at the small cafe, he glanced over. He had no doubt Spencer had done something stupid again.

O'Hara continued. “As in, the Wednesday two days from now?”

Carlton turned the car off and sat back, thinking with longing of the meatballs that awaited him inside. O'Hara better wrap this up soon.

“Shawn, we can't take Owen with us.” She paused, listening. “Please tell me you're kidding. We can't let our three-year-old crowd surf.”

Carlton rolled his eyes, checking his watch in as obvious manner as possible.

O'Hara caught on. “Let's just talk about it when I get home, okay? We'll figure something out.” She listened for a moment, smiling. “I love you, too.”

Carlton pretended not to hear that last part and exited the car, his stomach growling. “What's that idiot done this time?” he asked as Juliet climbed out of the passenger side.

“Carlton, don't call him that,” she replied, as usual when Carlton insulted Spencer. “He just bought concert tickets for Simple Minds.”

Remembering the crowd-surfing comment, Carlton snorted. “And he wants to take your kid?”

“Well,” she replied, walking into the cafe with him. “The problem is that Gus is visiting his in-laws in Arizona and Henry's on a fishing trip with some of his old buddies from the force, so our regular babysitters are gone.”

Carlton grunted, pondering on Spencer's irresponsibility.

O'Hara sighed as they sank into their favorite booth. “And it's a concert. We really can't take Owen with us. And we won't be getting back from LA until late, so I don't want to leave him with the teenager down the street.”

Good idea, Carlton agreed internally. You just never know when someone will turn out to be a serial killer.

“I don't want Shawn to think that I don't want to go,” O'Hara continued. “But he just doesn't think these things through very well, and I don't know who to ask on such short notice.”

Carlton frowned as an interesting thought came to him. She looked pretty depressed about this, and it wasn't like he had plans. “I could babysit,” he blurted, trying to act casual and picking up a menu.

There was silence on the other side of the table and Carlton glanced up, over the edge of his plastic barrier. O'Hara was staring at him. “What?” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Do you think I can't do it?”

“No!” O'Hara said, her eyes widening. “I'm just . . . surprised you offered.”

Carlton returned his attention to the menu. “Just take it or leave it, O'Hara,” he grumbled.

“Carlton, are you sure? Because that would be perfect,” she replied, and he recognized the giddy tone in her voice. She might hug him any minute.

He leaned back against the plastic cushion, raising the menu a little higher. “I wouldn't have offered if I wasn't sure.”

She grinned widely at him, but then suddenly frowned. “Do you . . . have any experience? With little kids, I mean?”

He glared. “If Spencer hasn't managed to screw the kid up yet, I hardly think I will. Besides, I used to babysit my little sister all the time.”

She was staring at him again. “You did?”

“Yes,” Carlton answered as curtly as possible in an attempt to end this particular conversation.

O'Hara smiled at him and then glanced down at the menu still in his hands. “Why are you looking at that? We both know you're going to get the meatballs.”

When Carlton pulled up in front of O'Hara's apartment building (he refused to think of it as the Spencers' apartment) on Wednesday night, he was in a good mood. O'Hara had been excited all day, and so grateful to him she'd done his paperwork, leaving him with an extra long lunch and an hour on the shooting range.

He parked and walked up to the apartment door, raising his hand to the doorbell. Before he could press the button though, O'Hara's voice came from inside the house through the open front window.

“Shawn, have you seen my brown flats? You know, the ones with pink – Shawn! I told you not to give him those! Now he won't eat dinner for Carlton!”

Spencer's reply was too muffled to be heard; he must have been further inside the apartment.

“Yes, I know how much he loves the dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets.” O'Hara's voice faded then became stronger again as if she was walking back and forth across the room. “Can you help me find those flats? Carlton will probably be here any minute. He likes to be early.”

Carlton glanced at his watch noticing that he was indeed about ten minutes early. Shrugging, he pushed the doorbell.

It was Spencer who opened the door, a wide grin on his face. “Lassie! This is so awesome! I almost didn't believe Jules when she said you could babysit tonight, but here you are! It's like Three Men and a Baby except you're only one dude. Maybe it's more like Kindergarten Cop.”

Carlton stepped past him into the apartment. “It's nothing like either of those, Spencer. And just so we're clear, I'm doing this for O'Hara, not you.”

“You can admit you love me too, it's okay,” he replied, grinning cheekily. Then, turning toward the rest of the apartment he called, “Hey, Owen! Where'd you go, buddy? Uncle Lassie's here!”

Carlton rolled his eyes at the nickname as Owen came running out of the bedroom down the hall. “Unca Wassie!” the little boy cried, his grin matching his father's. The little boy hurtled into Carlton's legs and wrapped his his arms around his knees. Before Carlton could react to the exuberant greeting the little boy pulled back and opened his fist revealing several colorful, gooey blobs. “Wanna squishy?”

Carlton blinked down at him. “Um, no thank you,” he said, wondering how much of that stickiness had ended up on his pants just then.

Shawn reached down and plucked one of the colorful blobs out of Owen's hand and popped it in his mouth. “How can you say no to Gushers, Lassie? These things are amazing. Red's the best, but blue definitely has its virtues.”

Owen shook his head, cramming the rest of his handful into his mouth, smearing brightly-colored goop all over his face. “Nuh-uh, Daddy. Gween is best.”

“C'mon, buddy. You're just saying that because Gus did and we both know his Gusher-sense is a little off. His popsicle-sense on the other hand--”

“I have a possicle? Owen asked, forgetting about the Gusher debate and grabbing Shawn's hand.

“How about you and Uncle Lassie have one after you eat your dinosaurs?” Shawn said, Owen ineffectually hauling on his hand.

Carlton frowned. “I don't -”

“Don't worry, Carlton,” Juliet said coming down the hall. He was so used to seeing her at work that he found himself surprised that she was wearing a t-shirt and shorts. “There are leftover pork chops in the fridge, or you can heat up some soup or make a sandwich, or whatever you want. Ooh,” she said, frowning in the direction of the fridge. “I think there's some yogurt in there that should probably be avoided, but everything else should be good.”

“Yeah, help yourself,” Shawn said, gesturing widely. “I'll even show you my secret Poptart stash if you promise not to show the little guy,” he said, leaning in for a conspiratorial whisper.

Carlton leaned away and looked toward Juliet, ignoring Spencer. “I already ate.”

“But not anything as delicious as poptarts!” Shawn chimed in.

Carlton frowned but before he could tell Spencer where could shove his poptarts, Juliet laid a hand on his arm. “I'll show you around real quick,” she said, turning to lead him into the apartment.

“My woom, my woom!” Owen shouted, grabbing Carlton's hand and dragging him toward the hallway. Carlton allowed himself to be pulled by the little boy, wincing at the stickiness still coating Owen's hand.

“We probably won't be home until after midnight, but he goes to bed around eight, ” O'Hara said, following them. “He's been pretty good about going to sleep lately so you'll just have to help him with his pajamas and tuck him in.”

“And don't forget Monkey Blanket,” Shawn said as Owen led them into the bedroom. “Monkey Blanket is really important. So is the Lighting McQueen sippy cup. But just put water in it because juice turns him into a crazed cappuccino monkey at night--”

“Capuchin, honey,” Juliet inserted.

“--And if he doesn't drink all the milk bad things happen in those cups.” He sighed dramatically. “I still miss that X-Men one.”

Owen pulled Carlton over to his little bed. “Dis a big boy bed,” the little boy announced, looking up at him.

“He just made the move from his crib,” Juliet explained. “He's pretty excited about it.”

Owen let go of Carlton's hand and scrambled onto the bed. “Wanna jump?” he offered, taking an experimental bounce himself.

“Whoa, little dude!” Shawn leaned over and lifted the little boy off the bed and into his arms. “If you jump on your bed you could get hurt. Remember when you fell off and bit your lip?”

Owen nodded, eyes wide. “It bweeded.”

“Yeah, it did bleed. We don't want that again, right?” Spencer said. Carlton had to admit he was surprised Spencer hadn't joined Owen in jumping on the bed.

The little boy shook his head. “Nuh-uh.” Owen turned from Spencer to look at Carlton. “No jumping, Unca Wassie,” he said sadly.

“Uncle Lassie's probably never jumped on a bed,” Spencer told the little boy. “It's hard to do that with a stick up--”

“C'mon, Shawn,” O'Hara interrupted, rolling her eyes. “Carlton, I'll put his pj's on top of the dresser, and his sippy cup is just over here,” she said, pointing at the little cup on the window sill. “Monkey Blanket is around here somewhere. Shawn wasn't kidding when he said it's important.”

Carlton nodded, the sudden image of his own beloved cowboy blanket coming to mind.

“Our AC is broken, so sorry it's so warm in here. You can turn on a fan if you want.” O'Hara looked around the room thoughtfully. “I think that's everything. Just heat up some chicken nuggets from the freezer for his dinner and if you can get him to eat some carrots or something that would be great.”

Shawn snorted. “Good luck with that one, Lassieface.”

Juliet wrinkled her nose. “Yeah, it's a long shot. Anyway, other than that, you can put a movie in for him or whatever you want. There's a little playground behind the apartments that he likes.”

To Carlton's surprise, Owen leaned out of Spencer's arms toward him. “Go to pawk wif you!” the little boy exclaimed, holding out his arms.

Carlton took him a little gingerly. “Uh, okay.”

Owen grinned at him happily. “Catch me onna swide so I don' get bweeded.”

Carlton had no idea what the little boy was trying to say which must have registered on his face because Spencer attempted to clarify.

“Last time we went to the playground he skinned his knee on the slide because Mommy forgot to catch him,” he said, shooting a teasing grin in O'Hara's direction.

“He usually does just fine by himself, and you were closer than I was anyway,” she said, eyebrows raised.

Deciding it was high time the two of them left – he still couldn't quite get used to the two of them acting all . . . married – Carlton cleared his throat. “Aren't you going to be late or something?”

Shawn looked at him in surprise. “Look at that, Jules. Lassie is tired of us already! It's almost like he wants to get rid of us.”

Carlton sighed. “If only I could get rid of you, Spencer.”

Shawn grinned at him. “Aw, I love you too. Hug?” he said, stepping forward and opening his arms.

Carlton shook his head and stepped past him out of the room. “That will never happen.”

O'Hara laughed as she followed him back into the living room, Owen still in Carlton's arms. “Thanks again, Carlton. Owen's been excited all day for you to come over.”

Carlton looked at the little boy who was busy sucking the remnants of his handful of Gushers off his fingers. “He barely even knows me, O'Hara,” he said sceptically.

Juliet smiled. “Your fault, not mine. He remembers you giving him ice cream at the department picnic in April. And he hears a lot about you.”

“Not from Spencer, I hope,” he said frowning as Shawn came into the living room carrying a pair of brown and pink shoes.

“Hey! You found them!” O'Hara exclaimed taking them from him and dropping them to the floor so she could slip them on.

“Ready now?” Spencer asked her, bouncing on the balls of his feet with a big grin on his face.

She smiled at him. “You look like Owen when we took him to the zoo last weekend.”

“This is gonna be so much more awesome than the zoo!” he said. “The last time I saw Simple Minds in concert was 2002! Do you know what that kind of deprivation does to a guy?”

Owen frowned and leaned away from Carlton toward O'Hara. “Go to zoo wif you?” he asked as she took him.

“We're not going to the zoo, Owen. Remember? You're going to stay with Uncle Carlton while Mommy and Daddy go listen to some music,” she said, attempting to wipe a sticky smudge off his cheek with her thumb.

Owen's bottom lip poked out. “I go wif you,” he insisted.

“Don't you want to show Uncle Lassie the slide?” Shawn chimed in. “I bet if you try you can even teach him how to push you on the swings,” he added, shooting Carlton a smirk.

“Just because you struggle with simple concepts doesn't mean everyone does, Spencer,” he said, glaring. “I know how to work playground equipment.”

Owen didn't seem convinced and he wrapped both arms around O'Hara's neck, burying his face in her shoulder. She walked over the couch and set him down on it, crouching down to his eye level. “We'll be back soon, sweetheart,” she said. “You'll have lots of fun with Carlton.” She kissed his forehead and stood and Owen's pout deepened.

Carlton watched as the little boy's eyes followed O'Hara as she stepped in the kitchen and grabbed the keys. When it became clear that they really were leaving, Owen looked at Spencer. “Daddy? Go wif you?”

Shawn groaned. “Not the pouty face, little dude! Jules, he's using the pouty face!”

O'Hara grinned at him. “He'll be okay. Just don't look.”

Spencer frowned, still watching Owen.

Carlton rolled his eyes, quickly losing patience. “For crying out loud, Spencer. Are you going to go or not?”

O'Hara laughed at the look of surprise on Shawn's face and grabbed his hand. “Carlton's right. We should get going.” She tugged him toward the door and Owen hopped off the couch, following them with a rather forlorn look.

O'Hara opened the door and Spencer turned back to look at Owen. “Make sure Lassie brushes his teeth before bed, okay?”

“O-tay,” the little boy said, sadly.

O'Hara paused.“Oh, Carlton! He's potty-trained but make sure you remind him once in a while. And watch him wash his hands because sometimes he forgets to use soap.” She smiled and waved at Owen. “I love you, sweetheart!” And with that and a cheeky salute from Spencer, they were out the door.

As the door shut, Owen ran over and scrambled up on the couch so he could see out the window as his parents got in the car and drove out of the parking lot. Then he turned and stared at Carlton, his bottom lip still poking out.

Carlton stared back, his mind rapidly trying to come up with the proper protocol for dealing with an upset three-year-old. “So . . .” he said, taking a hesitant step forward. “Are you hungry?”

Owen continued to watch him in silence and Carlton shifted awkwardly, desperate for something to do. “I'm going to go make some food. In the kitchen.”

Owen's face brightened. “Dinda-saws?”

Carlton nodded, fairly certain the little boy had said “dinosaurs” in reference to the alleged chicken nuggets.

Owen hopped off the couch and ran into the kitchen. Carlton followed him, relieved the crisis seemed to have passed. Owen headed for the small kitchen table and pulled a chair out, the legs scraping against the linoleum as he pushed it over to the microwave. “I do it!” he said, climbing up on the chair and looking at Carlton expectantly.

“You sit at the table. I'll do it,” Carlton commanded, doubting the little boy's microwave operating skills.

Owen frowned and crossed his arms over his small chest. “No, I do it.”

“Look, Spencer--” Carlton stopped, remembering that he was actually talking to a three-year-old, not a grown man who acted like a three-year-old. “Owen,” he began, taking a deep breath. “I need you to get out a plate. Can you do that?” He realized he was now using the voice he used to calm suspects and traumatized victims.

To his surprise, even though Owen was neither of those things, the little boy responded. “O-tay,” he said, hopping off the chair and scooting it over a few feet. He climbed back on the chair and then from there onto the counter. As he reached up for the cupboard before he had really gained his balance, he started tipping backward, teetering dangerously on the edge of the counter.

Carlton dashed forward, hand outstretched, and steadied the little boy with a hand on his back. “Careful!” he shouted.

Owen looked back at him in surprise as if Carlton had been the one about to fall off the counter top. “I do it!”

“You're going to fall on your head is what you're going to do,” Carlton muttered, keeping a hand on the little boy's back as Owen opened the cupboard and took out a plate.

“See?” Owen said, turning toward him and brandishing a plastic plate. “Has dinda-saws onnit!”

The plate had dinosaurs on it indeed. “Very nice,” Carlton said dryly.

Then, without warning, Owen held out his arms and leaped from the counter straight at Carlton. The detective managed to catch him with a slight oomph, the plate in Owen's hand whacking him in the shoulder.

Owen giggled. “I got you!” he said, grinning.

Carlton felt the corners of his own mouth twitch in response as he set the little boy down. “Stay off the counter while I get the chicken,” he said, walking to the freezer still keeping an eye on Owen.

Owen tossed his plate on the table with a loud clatter and went over to the microwave again. “O-tay. I he'p.” He noticed the chair he'd scooted over earlier and pushed it back to the microwave before climbing on.

Carlton sighed and opened the box, going over to the table to shake some of the nuggets onto the dinosaur plate before carrying the plate over to the microwave. “Well, open it,” he said.

Owen didn't seem to mind his apparent surliness, he just looked delighted to be given the command. He stabbed a small finger at the large button and the door popped open. “See?” he cried, beaming back at Carlton. “I do it!”

Again, faced with that grin, Carlton couldn't help smiling back a little. “Yes you did.” He placed the plate inside the microwave and shut the door. Owen eagerly stabbed at the buttons before Carlton could stop him, starting up the microwave for forty minutes and nine seconds.

“Hey!” Carlton cried, hitting “cancel.”

Owen looked up at him, his bottom lip sticking out. “I he'ping you,” he said, looking genuinely hurt.

“Okay, okay,” the detective said, trying not to let the little boy's expression make him feel guilty. He'd only been saving the house from burning down. “Push this one, this one, this one again . . . Now this one.”

Owen followed his instructions carefully then leaned forward to watch his chicken nuggets. “Dey going awound,” he observed seriously.

Carlton had no reply.

Owen quickly lost interest in watching the microwave and climbed off the chair. He marched over to Carlton, the toes of his little tennis shoes touching the toes of Carlton's loafers, and looked up at him. “What you doing?”

Carlton blinked. “Um, nothing?”

“Why you doing dat?”

The detective frowned. Was this kid interrogating him? “I'm just standing here.”

“Why?”

“Because I feel like it,” Carlton growled.

Owen was undeterred. “Why?”

“Because -” Carlton broke off in a huff, realizing this conversation could go nowhere. Luckily, the microwave dinged, distracting the little boy.

With one long step Carlton reached the microwave ahead of Owen and popped the door open. He reached in and grabbed the plate amid Owen's protests.

“I do it!” he whined.

“It's hot,” Carlton explained bluntly, setting the plate on the table. “You could burn your fingers. Now sit down.”

Owen pouted but complied, climbing onto the chair. He picked up a vaguely stegosaurus-shaped chicken nugget took a single bite, and put it back down. “My tummy's full.”

Carlton stared at him. “You haven't even eaten anything yet.”

Owen frowned up at him. “I full,” he insisted.

Carlton folded his arms. “If you don't eat those we're not going to the park.”

“I eat one,” the little boy bargained.

“No, you'll eat all five.”

Owen held up three fingers. “I onwy fwee.”

“I know how old you are. Now eat the chicken nuggets.”

“I eat fwee 'cause I fwee.”

“Five.”

“Fwee.”

Carlton grimaced. “Okay, fine. Four.”

“Nooooo! Fweeeeee!”

“FOUR!” Carlton roared, losing all patience.

Owen stared at him wide-eyed. Then his bottom lip crept out and his eyes filled with tears.

Now Carlton felt bad. “Okay, okay. If you stop crying you only have to eat three.”

Owen sniffed once for good measure. “Fwee 'cause I fwee.”

Carlton slumped into the chair opposite the little boy. “Yes. Three because you're three. You better eat them before I change my mind.”

Owen smiled brightly despite the tears lingering on his eyelashes. “O-tay.” He shoved half the stegosaurus in his mouth. “Unca Wassie?” His words were even more difficult to understand when they were coming from behind a mouthful of chicken.

“What?”

“What you doing?”

Carlton buried his face in his hands. This night was going to be much longer than he'd thought.

“Higho, higho!” Owen shouted, giggling. “Do a undo-dog!”

Carlton waited for the swing to come back to him and grabbed the blue plastic of the seat, suspending Owen. “Ready?” he asked the back of Owen's blond head. “Hold on tight,” he commanded making sure the little boy's chubby fingers were securely wrapped around the chains. Then he ran forward, pushing the swing ahead of him and ducking under, the toes of Owen's tennis shoes grazing the top of his head.

Owen giggled and shrieked and when Carlton turned back to look at him, he couldn't help smiling. “A-din, a-din!” Owen managed, out of breath with laughter.

Carlton began making his way around the swing's trajectory to give Owen another push when his phone began to ring.

“Detective Lassiter,” he answered, giving the swing another push.

“Carlton,” Chief Vick replied in her usual crisp manner. “I just wanted to let you know that the Jamie Davis trial has been moved up to tomorrow afternoon. You and O'Hara are still going to be able to testify, right?”

“Of course, chief,” he said readily. The sooner that murderer was sitting behind bars with a life sentence, the better.

“Do you know where O'Hara is? She didn't answer her phone.”

“At a concert. She probably didn't hear it,” Carlton said, pushing Owen.

“I left her a message so make sure she gets it.”

“I will.”

“Thank you, Detective. I'll see you tomorrow.”

Carlton hung up the phone and gave Owen another push absently. The Davis case had really been O'Hara's; they'd been so swamped that week that he and O'Hara had been working separate cases, but Carlton had been with her to make the arrest. They'd caught him at the airport trying to flee the country with his nephew, Nelson Davis. O'Hara and Spencer had already discovered the murder weapon in Jamie Davis' apartment and the man had confessed almost as soon as they got back to the station. He remembered O'Hara saying something about the nephew but he'd gotten a lead on his own case and hadn't payed much attention to the follow-up on the Davis case.

“Higho, higho!” Owen cried.

Carlton realized he had been forgetting to push the swing and used both hands to give Owen a good push, forgetting about the Davis case for the moment.

The swings held Owen's attention for a few more minutes and then Carlton was cajoled into a game of hide-and-seek, even though there were few places to hide his tall frame on the small playground.

As it began to grow dark, Carlton coaxed Owen inside with the promise of a movie and a popsicle. Carlton unlocked the door with the spare key he'd found before leaving the apartment and Owen dashed ahead, making for the freezer.

As was his habit, Carlton closed the door and stood listening for a moment, just to make sure everything was as it should be. He heard Owen crossing the linoleum in the kitchen, and the flap of plastic blinds. He frowned. There was a window open somewhere.

“Owen!” he called, stepping further into the apartment.

The little boy came scampering back. “I have a possicle!” he said, reaching for Carlton's hand.

“Stay right behind me,” the detective ordered.

Owen looked puzzled but obeyed the stern command and pressed against the back of Carlton's leg as they moved into the apartment. Carlton headed for Owen's room first, his hand never far from the gun holstered at the small of his back under his pale blue polo.

The door to Owen's room was half-closed and Carlton pushed it open slowly, his eyes going to the window. Through the gaps between the plastic slats he could see that the window stood open, a light breeze rattling the blinds. As he stepped forward to close it, he thought he saw movement outside, and he narrowed his eyes and stared out into the poorly-lit landscaping behind the apartment complex. He didn't see anything else, and assuming it must have been the breeze moving the trees, he started to close the window but Owen cried out.

“No! It hasta 'tay open!”

Carlton glanced at him. “Why on earth does it have to stay open?”

“'Cause Mommy sayed it's too hot,” Owen said, pulling at Carlton's leg.

Now that he thought about it, Carlton remembered O'Hara mentioning their AC was broken. “All right,” he conceded. He was still suspicious about that movement he'd seen outside, but he didn't think it was worth fighting the little boy on. “We'll leave it open.”

By the time Carlton was satisfied with the safety of the apartment, Owen was bouncing with excitement about the promised popsicle. “I have a owange one. You have a bwue one,” he said, running to the freezer. He squatted down and then leaped into the air, fingers outstretched for the handle on the freezer door. He was still several inches short so Carlton opened it.

“You want orange?” he asked, pulling the bag out.

Owen started to nod, but paused. “Actuawy, I wanna puwpo one.”

“Are you sure you don't want green?” Carlton said, not realizing that the sarcasm would be lost on a three-year-old.

“Yeah! I do wanna gween one!” he said, pointing enthusiastically.

Carlton sighed and reached in the bag for a green popsicle. “Sit down at the table so you don't make a mess,” he said, unwrapping it and handing it to the little boy.

Owen took the popsicle but shook his head. “Daddy sayed we can eat possicles in the fwont woom.”

“I'm sure he did,” Carlton muttered.

“You eat a gween one too, Unca Wassie!” Owen said, jumping up and down. “And den you can watch a movie wif me!”

The little boy looked up at him with a big, hopeful grin. Carlton reached into the bag and drew out a green popsicle before putting the bag back in the freezer. “Do not drip on the carpet. Or the couch. Or your clothes.”

Owen danced around happily before dashing into the front room. He skidded to a stop in front of the wire DVD rack next to the TV and looked over the titles critically, sucking on his popsicle. Carlton unwrapped his own popsicle and sat down on the couch, wincing at some of the choices the DVD rack offered. He really hoped he wasn't going to have to sit through The Brave Little Toaster or one of Spencer's stupid 80s movies.

“Dis one,” Owen announced, pulling one out.

Carlton looked at it. “What the – High School Musical?”

“Uh-huh.” Owen put his already dripping popsicle on the TV stand so he could use both hands to open the case and put the DVD in the player. Carlton winced but decided he was okay with letting O'Hara or Spencer clean that up.

“Are you sure you don't want to watch Die Hard or something?” he asked hopefully as the little boy pressed play.

Owen grabbed his popsicle and hopped up on the couch. “Nope! Dis is bestest.”

The little boy leaned into Carlton, his eyes already glued to the screen and the popsicle back in his mouth. Deciding to make the best of it, Carlton licked his own popsicle and settled in.

By the end of the movie, Carlton was pondering the consequences of discharging his weapon at the TV screen, and Owen was leaning heavily against Carlton's side, his eyelids drooping. As the credits rolled, the little boy climbed into his lap and wrapped both arms around Carlton's neck with a big yawn. The head detective stood carefully, wishing he'd thought to have Owen put on his pajamas before the movie.

As he carried the little boy down the hall, Owen pulled his head up off Carlton's shoulder. “Not sweepy,” he said.

Carlton snorted. “Yes, you are. You almost fell asleep during the movie.”

Owen shook his head, stifling another yawn. “I need stowies fiwst.”

They reached the bathroom and Carlton set the little boy down. “Use the bathroom while I go find your pajamas,” he said, flipping on the light.

After making sure Owen washed his hands, Carlton managed to get him into his pajamas, and they located Monkey Blanket under the couch cushions. Now, according to Owen, he needed “stowies” even though it was almost 9:30.

“You hafta sit inna wocking chair,” the little boy told Carlton, dropping to his knees by the little basket of books next to his bed, Monkey Blanket tucked under his arm.

Carlton frowned at the ancient-looking, floral print-covered chair tucked away in the corner of the small room. He was almost certain he'd never sat in a rocking chair before. He used to read books to Lauren but that had always been in the big easy chair in the living room. He smiled a little, remembering her big, adoring eyes as she asked him to read.

Gingerly, he settled into the chair just in time for Owen to rush over after obtaining several books and attempt to climb into Carlton's lap. The little boy's arms were full of books and Monkey Blanket, and though he dug his elbows into Carlton's knees and hopped, he couldn't quite get enough leverage to get into his lap. Carlton leaned over and lifted him, books, blanket and all, into his lap and Owen turned and leaned back into his chest with a happy sigh.

“Dis one fiwst,” Owen said, selecting a book out of the pile now haphazardly strewn over both their laps.

“Skippyjon Jones?” Carlton said, reading the cover skeptically.

Owen giggled. “Yeah! An' his eaws aw too big!”

“I'd say so,” the head detective said, shaking his head at the cartoon cat on the cover and opening the book. “Every morning, Skippyjon Jones woke up with the birds ...”

Owen made it through six books before finally falling asleep halfway through the seventh. Carlton finished reading the story about a pig and an elephant, Owen's snores accompanying him, before pushing the books to the side and standing with Owen in his arms. The little boy's head lolled and he let out a long sigh, clutching Monkey Blanket in both little fists.

Carlton squatted down and laid him on his low bed carefully before pulling the covers up around him. Then he stood and flipped off the light and took one last look around the room by the dim glow of Owen's nightlight.

Then, closing the bedroom door almost all the way behind him, he went to go see if O'Hara actually had any good movies.

************************************************************************

It was past midnight and Carlton was just starting his fourth episode of 24 and his second poptart when he thought he heard Owen's blinds rattle and then bang against the window frame, this time louder than when they had come in from the playground. He put Jack Bauer on pause and listened, his hand going toward his gun. It was silent again except for the hum of the refrigerator, and he allowed the DVD to resume but his eyes roamed the dim apartment uneasily.

Carlton had always prided himself on his instincts. Sometimes people called him paranoid or trigger-happy, among other things, but he had learned it was always better to trust himself. And now the fluttering in his stomach was telling him something was wrong.

Putting the DVD on pause again he stood and pulled his gun from its holster. His ears straining, he crept down the hall slowly, his body tensed, ready for—

“Mommy!”

Owen's sudden scream jolted Carlton forward, his long legs covering the short hallway to the little boy's room in three strides. He barreled through the door, pushing it open with his shoulder as he brought his gun up.

Carlton's heart pounded furiously at the scene lit by Owen's faint nightlight. A man stood in the room, one arm wrapped tightly around Owen, pinning the little boy's arms to his sides. His other hand held a knife against Owen's throat. “Put the gun down or I'll kill him!” he yelled.

Carlton immediately raised his hands and placed his gun on top of Owen's dresser just to his right, his eyes riveted on the switchblade against Owen's pale skin. He wasn't going to take any chances.

“I won't hurt him if you let me go,” the intruder said, his voice shaking.

Carlton glanced up, realizing he was no more than eighteen. And he looked familiar . . . Carlton's brain clicked. It was Jamie Davis' nephew, Nelson. “Put the boy down and we can talk,” he said, hoping to get the kid to back down.

“No,” he said. “I'm gonna take him away and you'll never see him again until you let my uncle go!”

Carlton had already guessed what Nelson was trying to do. “Put the boy down, Nelson. He has nothing to do with this,” Carlton said calmly, holding both hands palms out in a placating gesture.

The young man's hand shook, the knife edging closer to Owen's neck. “Let my uncle go,” he shouted, his voice cracking. Owen whimpered.

“I can't do that,” Carlton told him, taking a step toward them.

“Stay away!” Nelson screamed, backing up against the window. Owen let out a terrified sob, his wide hazel eyes locked on Carlton.

The detective froze. “Okay. I know you think you're helping Jamie, but you're just making things worse.”

“Shut up!” Nelson cried, the knife still far too close to Owen for Carlton's liking. “Just shut up! You don't know anything! I need – I just need to do this for him, okay?”

Owen started to sob, his small chest hitching. Carlton fought to keep his voice calm. “No, you don't need to this. Let the boy go, Nelson. We can work something out if you just put him down.”

Nelson shook his head, looking over his shoulder briefly at the open window behind him. Carlton watched him, realizing there was no way the kid could get back out the window while holding his knife and Owen.

Nelson realized the same thing, and now Carlton was blocking his only exit. “Sit on the bed!” he yelled, the knife shaking in his hand.

Carlton was loathe to give up his position in the doorway and his proximity to his firearm, but the knife was so close to Owen. “Fine,” he said, slowly making his way over to the little bed. “I'm going.”

Nelson moved toward the door. “I won't hurt the kid unless you try and stop me. J-just let me take him!” Suddenly, his foot caught in Owen's blanket and he stumbled.

Carlton jumped forward, ready to try and get the knife away from him, but Nelson regained his balance and control of the knife. Carlton was so close to the young man now, but he didn't dare attack him or try and get to his gun while that knife was against Owen's throat.

“I won't let you take him,” Carlton said, looking into Nelson's eyes. “I don't want anyone to get hurt, but I will kill you if you try and take him. I promise you that.”

Nelson paused and stared at him. Carlton recognized his wide-eyed expression. He knew Nelson was realizing he wasn't going to pull this off, and now he would either give up or try something crazy.

“Put the boy down,” Carlton commanded, hoping Nelson would choose to give up.

To his relief, the kid lowered the knife. But just as Carlton began reaching for his weapon, Nelson threw Owen at him. Carlton caught the little boy instinctively, stumbling back a step as Nelson dashed past him, taking a swipe at Carlton with the knife.

Carlton turned away, shielding Owen, and Nelson's knife bit into his left arm, Nelson escaping through the open door.

Owen was clinging to Carlton with all the strength in his small limbs, but Carlton forced him away and put him on his bed, giving him a quick once over to make sure he wasn't hurt.

“I will be right back,” he promised, trying not to let the scared and wounded expression on the little boy's face distract him from what he had to do.

Without looking back he grabbed his gun and ran from the room, shutting the door tightly behind him. As he raced down the hall, Carlton heard the front door open and he reached the living room just in time to see Nelson run out of the apartment.

“Stop or I will fire!” Carlton shouted, rushing after him. Nelson ignored him, running across the parking lot. Carlton cursed and took a shot but it was too dark and Nelson was moving too fast. “You are not getting away,” he growled, running after him.

Carlton's legs were longer but Nelson was younger and he was two blocks from the apartment before Carlton caught up with him and fired another shot. This time the bullet found its mark in the back of Nelson's calf and he went down hard onto the pavement. Carlton was on him in a second, holstering his gun and pulling Nelson's hands behind him, relieving him of his knife.

Carlton tossed the knife behind him, well out of Nelson's range and reached for his cuffs. His hand only met his belt and he realized with a lurch that he didn't have any cuffs on him. He cursed again, pinning Nelson, who was whimpering in pain, with one hand and his body weight while he dug his cell out of his pocket. “Hold still,” he growled at Nelson, dialing the station. He held the phone to his ear and glanced back over his shoulder toward the apartment, hoping Owen had stayed in the house.

But as the officer picked up on the other end, Carlton could make out a small figure running toward him down the sidewalk. “Owen! Stay there!” he shouted, not wanting the little boy anywhere near Nelson. He turned his attention back to the phone and rattled off the situation and location and hung up before looking back at Owen again, content that Nelson wasn't going anywhere.

The little boy had obeyed him and stopped, and there he stood, barefoot and sobbing on the sidewalk several yards away, the white baseballs decorating his pajamas standing out against the darkness, and Monkey Blanket clutched tightly to his chest. “It's okay, Owen,” he said gently, trying to smile at him. “Everything will be okay. Just stay right there, okay?” Owen cried harder.

Carlton swallowed, suddenly feeling lightheaded. His stomach twisted as he remembered Nelson's knife slashing at him and he looked down at his left bicep. A ragged hole was torn in his sleeve and blood was oozing out of a long gash in his arm. Blood had soaked through the entire sleeve of his shirt and now that he'd remembered the injury, it began to throb painfully. He ignored it and focused on keeping Nelson detained until backup could arrive as Owen cried behind him.

By the time the police car arrived, Carlton's injured arm was aching and his other arm was getting shaky from holding Nelson in place even though the kid was in too much pain to struggle much. And Owen was still crying behind him in the dark. Carlton kept thinking that O'Hara would never let him babysit again.

Two officers jumped out of the car, running towards the head detective. “Cuff him!” Carlton ordered shortly. “And watch his leg; I shot him.”

“Detective?” one of them said, getting close enough to recognize him.

“Yes, you idiot. Now do your job!” The command came out even harsher than normal. For once, Carlton wasn't particularly interested in cuffing the perp and hauling him to the station.

“Sir, you're hurt!” one officer exclaimed just as the other one said, “Who's the little boy?”

Carlton took a deep breath, trying not to scream in frustration. “Detain this man,” he growled before pushing himself off of Nelson, trusting the two officers to take care of him on their own. Amid their protests, he turned and walked to Owen.

The little boy raced toward him and Carlton squatted down and caught him with a wince. Owen wrapped both arms around his neck and hung on tightly, shaking. Carlton hugged his small body against his chest, letting out a long, unsteady breath.

As he stood with Owen in his arms, pain flared in his wounded bicep and he discovered he couldn't support the little boy's weight with his injured arm. He shifted a little so his right arm could take all of Owen's weight, swaying a little and willing himself not to topple over.

Sirens behind them signaled the arrival of an ambulance and he turned and made his way over, noting with satisfaction that Nelson was cuffed and sitting on the sidewalk with officers on either side, one of them applying pressure to the kid's bullet wound.

The EMTs got out of the ambulance and one headed for Carlton while another went to Nelson. “Where are you hurt, sir?” the young man asked Carlton, his hands gloved and ready to help.

“My arm,” Carlton said, turning a little to present the injury.

“Okay, let's come over here and I'll get that bandaged for you. What about the little guy?” he asked, leading Carlton to the back of the ambulance.

“He's not hurt, just scared,” Carlton confirmed sitting on the rear step. Owen had stopped crying but his arms were wrapped so tightly around Carlton's neck that it was almost difficult to speak.

The EMT nodded, grabbing a black bag from inside the vehicle. “I'm Mark, by the way.” He peered at Carlton's arm. “This looks like it'll need stitches so I'll bandage it and then we'll take you to the hospital. Feeling lightheaded at all? Looks like you've lost quite a bit of blood,” he said, taking in the saturated state of Carlton's shirt and now Owen's pajamas.

“A little,” Carlton muttered.

As the man bandaged his arm, he watched as the other EMT and the two officers bandage Nelson and get him into the squad car. As the car pulled away, another pair of headlights pulled up to the curb and Carlton squinted, unable to use either hand to shield his eyes. Two car doors slammed and he heard O'Hara's voice in a half-scream, half-gasp. “Owen!”

The little boy's head came up off Carlton's shoulder as his parents came running toward the ambulance. Carlton had seen fear on their faces before but the stricken terror in their eyes as they looked at Carlton and Owen both covered in blood, was painful to see.

“He's not hurt,” he quickly assured them as they dashed over, O'Hara practically shoving the EMT who had been bandaging Nelson over.

Owen turned toward her and held out his arms and she grabbed him, holding him to her tightly. Spencer, his hand on Juliet's back, looked back and forth between his family and Lassiter, his eyes narrowed in confusion. “Lassie?” he asked looking like he'd just been punched in the stomach.

Carlton grimaced. “It was the Davis case,” he began.

“He's in prison,” O'Hara said, her head snapping up from making sure Owen was unharmed.

Carlton shook his head wearily. “Not Jamie. It was his nephew. That kid, Nelson.”

O'Hara frowned but Spencer's eyes widened and his mouth fell open. His hand went to the back of Owen's head as he said, “He was going to take Owen. Remember the Chief's message, Jules? Jamie's trial got moved to tomorrow, and Nelson got desperate. He wanted to cut a deal, get him out before then . . .” He stared down at the little boy. “He was going to take Owen.”

O'Hara looked up at him in horror, her grip on the little boy tightening.

“He's right,” Carlton admitted wearily. “Nelson thought if he could kidnap Owen he could get us to let Jamie go.” He looked away from the fear in O'Hara's eyes, certain she was about to berate him for failing to keep her son safe.

“Carlton,” she said, and it was all he could do not to wince. “Thank you. Thank you so much. If you hadn't—”

“I'm sorry, O'Hara,” Carlton interrupted without really hearing her. “I wasn't paying enough attention. I—wait, what?”

He looked up to find all three of them staring at him. “You can't possibly think this is your fault, Carlton,” O'Hara said, eyes wide. “You–you got hurt keeping my son safe.”

He forced himself to meet her gaze. “If I had been paying better attention, Nelson would never have gotten that close to Owen.” His eyes flicked to the little boy. “And then I left him alone to chase Nelson. I-I . . .” Suddenly he felt lightheaded and the world started to tip. Hands grabbed his good arm and he blinked, sucking in a deep breath in an attempt to banish the darkness from the edges of his vision.

“I'm sorry, but we need to get him to the hospital right now,” Mark said, stepping back up to them.

Carlton realized the hands steadying him belonged to Spencer and that the annoying ex-psychic was trying to talk to him. “Hang in there, Lassie. We'll be right behind you, man.”

More hands grabbed him, lifting him to his feet and pressing him down on the stretcher. One of the EMTs was saying something to him but he was having trouble processing the man's words. He was just so tired all of a sudden. He blinked and realized he was staring at the ceiling of the ambulance and that the vehicle was moving. He felt better now that he was lying down, except that the EMT who had been trying to talk to him a few minutes ago was trying to shove an oxygen mask in his face.

“The oxygen will help you, sir,” he said, easily holding Carlton's good arm down.

“I don't need . . .” Carlton realized that the oxygen was helping clear his head. It didn't do anything for the ache in his arm or the disturbing weakness in his limbs, though.

When they reached the hospital and wheeled his stretcher into the ER, he heard the EMTs tell the ER doctor all about blood loss and stitches, but he was finding it difficult to focus. O'Hara got there just as an intern was giving him an IV and he looked at the empty space behind her.

“Owen's okay, right?”

She nodded, reaching out to give his hand a squeeze. “We didn't think the emergency room would be the best place to bring him. He's with Shawn in the waiting room.”

Carlton nodded, willing his heavy eyelids not to close just yet. The intern finished his IV and moved to the other side of the bed to stitch his arm up. “Just a couple of pinches, okay?” the young woman said, pulling off the bandage the EMTs had put on.

Carlton winced and O'Hara squeezed his hand again. “Carlton, I meant what I said earlier. If it hadn't been for you -” She broke off abruptly and he looked up at her.

One hand was over her mouth and her eyes were shut tightly. He could tell she was still scared, still worried about Owen and maybe even him, too. “It's over, Juliet,” he said, his gruff tone made softer by exhaustion. “We got the guy and he can't hurt Owen anymore.”

Juliet swallowed hard and looked at him, tears making her eyes bright in the fluorescent lighting. “I know. I know.” She sniffed. “Thank you, Carlton.”

Carlton rolled his eyes. “It's part of the job, O'Hara. I would have done it for anyone.”

She chuckled, grinning at him. “No, I mean thank you for being such a great babysitter. Owen was going on and on in the car about how you pushed him on the swing and read him four stories at bedtime.”

The head detective felt the corner of his mouth raise and he looked away, embarrassed. “He's a pretty good kid,” he said, lowering his voice and making it as growly as possible.

He could tell without looking at her that O'Hara was fighting the urge to laugh at him. “Yeah, we like him.”

The sat in companionable silence as the intern finished stitching him up and bandaging his arm. Then the doctor came by to tell him he could go as soon as he finished the IV that was compensating for his blood loss. Carlton nodded at that information and when the doctor handed him a clipboard of information to fill out, he passed it immediately to Juliet and closed his eyes. As he drifted of into a comfortable sleep, something he'd been meaning to ask popped into his mind.

“O'Hara, why, in the name of all that is good and holy, do you own High School Musical?”

Carlton was back at work the next day for Jaime Davis' trial, but when he tried to go back to his desk, Chief Vick told him he was only allowed to fill out a report form for the night before and then he had to go home and rest.

Being at home for the rest of the week had been annoying. Wednesday night kept repeating over and over in his mind, and he couldn't help but think he'd failed Owen. The kid would probably never trust him again. He'd be surprised if O'Hara did.

By Monday though, he was back at work and a new case had pushed his doubts to the back of his mind. He was walking down the steps to the interrogation rooms with O'Hara when he heard the station doors bang open and a familiar voice call him.

“Unca Wassie!”

Carlton turned and Owen ran across the bullpen to crash into Carlton's legs. Spencer followed him at a slightly more leisurely place. “Don't know how you did it, Lassie,” he said, grinning. “But the squirt loves you. He's been begging for days to visit you.”

Owen reached up and tugged on the bottom of Carlton's suit coat. “You got huwted?”

Carlton blinked in surprise. “Um ...”

“An' you bweeded?”

Carlton nodded, feeling a little awkward. It was one thing to interact with the little boy when it was just the two of them, completely another with the entire station watching. Especially since Spencer had told everyone the story of Carlton's injury.

“I see?” Owen asked, looking up at him.

“Owen,” O'Hara said, stepping toward the little boy.

Owen dashed behind Carlton's leg. “I 'tay, Mommy,” he said, frowning.

“Shawn, we're on our way down to interrogate someone,” O'Hara said pointedly.

Spencer sighed heavily and reached out for Owen's hand. “Okay, little dude. Say goodbye to Uncle Lassie and we'll go get ice cream.”

Owen just shook his head. “I see a owie,” the little boy insisted.

Carlton clenched his jaw. He had a feeling that the only way Owen was going to go peacefully was if he just let him see the bandage. He slipped his arm out of his suit coat and pulled his shirtsleeve tight so the bulge of the bandage covering his stitches was visible. “Owen,” he said, getting the little boy's attention from pouting at his parents.

Owen looked up. “Dat yo owie?”

“It's an injury, yes,” Carlton answered, slipping his arm back into his sleeve.

Owen frowned. “It huwted?”

Carlton shrugged. “Not much.”

Owen grabbed his hand and tugged on it. “Come down,” he said. Carlton reluctantly crouched down and the little boy stared at his arm. Then he leaned over and kissed Carlton's bicep lightly. “Dere!” he said, grinning. “All betto!”

Carlton smiled, he couldn't help it. “Thank you,” he said. Because it really did feel a little better.

“O-tay, Daddy,” Owen said, turning away. “Now ice cweam.”

Spencer laughed and took Owen's hand. “You got it, buddy. Say bye to Mommy.”

“Bye, Mommy!”

O'Hara chuckled. “See you later, sweetheart.”

Carlton turned away and headed down the stairs, O'Hara close on his heels. “Hey, Carlton,” she said. “This might be a weird time to ask, but Shawn and I were thinking of going to a movie this weekend. Would you be free to—”

He looked at her sharply. “Really?”

She bit her lip. “If you don't want to, that's fine.”

He shook his head, the second smile of the day escaping him. “I guess I can,” he said, turning away so she wouldn't see that he was excited about the prospect of babysitting Owen again. “Since last time ended in disaster I'm just surprised you would ask.”

She laughed and nudged him. “Oh, you should hear about the first time Gus babysat.”