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?”