APHONOUS

A/N: The time has come in our relationship where we call what this really was and both go our separate ways. I hope you've enjoyed the love affair with Aphonous as much as I have. A sequel is in the works if there is enough popular demand for it, and by popular demand I mean if one person is like, "Do a sequel Shiggity" (which SYuuri has basically already held me too because she wants a happy ending) I'll do it. But it's not going to be completely happy. Life isn't completely happy or perfect. My proof of this is that I'm not Ke$ha.
A final thanks to everyone who took the time to review/favorite/alert and of course read. Thanks for all of your e-love and support. I'm glad I could entertain you for such a short span of time. Please enjoy this unsatisfying conclusion I offer to you and have a Happy New Year.

Aphonous

Chapter 10

Nesting

A week later it's November. The depressed sky looms over the city. It's the color of old metal, heavy with water retention because the first winter snow hasn't fallen yet. She spent the day figuring out the nursery. It's hard decorating for a baby whose gender she doesn't know. Didn't want to find out. A baby she hasn't met. Didn't plan for. Her baby, who apparently only has a single parent. One who can't talk.

Despite remaining voiceless she outfitted her nursery with a bassinet, a white wooden crib, and patchwork bedding in earth tones with accents of green, damask patterns and random tree frogs. It was the most neutral bedding she could find, and the frogs made her smile. She bought a stuffed one for the crib. Babies always have bears, why not a frog? The rest of the nursery is a combination of furniture she's accumulated over the years because she can't afford to buy more new stuff. An old distressed dresser she was using as a buffet in the living room, a rocking chair she found at a garage sale and stitched cushions for, a bookcase she put in the basement when she moved in because the staircase has one built in. In the future, all the mismatched furniture will need to be painted or stained a unifying color.

The nursery items won't arrive for two weeks. Ed volunteered not only his van, but Raf and Spike's help getting the baby's stuff into her house. They even offered to help her put the nursery together, told her it could be a Team One project. Told her to decide by the time they all go to visit Sarge next week. She will politely decline. The nursery is something sentimental, something she should only be setting up with one other person, and if not him, then by herself. She's already cleared the room of everything, including dismantling the guest bed and reassembling it in her study for Natalie's eventual return.

She stopped at a hardware store and matched paint colors to the bedding. Decided to go one shade lighter in green and leave the baseboards white. She brings home one bucket of paint and one bucket of primer and knows there's an abundance of leftover painting supplies in her basement. She's intent on getting the first coat done today and just prays her overalls still fit. She can't afford new clothes; even if she could her body is growing too rapidly now she'd have to buy new pants every week or two. Outfitting the nursery drained her chequing account. Next month her mortgage is coming from her savings.

Two days ago she had her first prenatal exam since being back in Toronto. The doctor, who her physician recommended her to, was as nice as could be expected. He spoke English and didn't get hung up on the fact that she didn't, or the fact she had been previously shot and chemically doused. After the ultrasound he told her everything looked fine, the baby was active and healthy, but suggested she immediately sign up for a birthing class if she insisted on a natural birth. She wrote on his clipboard, asking who she was supposed to go with, and he replied, "The baby of course."

The paint cans clank against the peeling wood on her porch and she rifles through her pockets for her keys. Puffs of warm breath freeze in the air as the temperature is starting to decline. It might snow tonight, and she inadvertently grins as she thinks of Toronto covered in a blanket of white. Thinks of happier winter memories. Walking in the park in the muted snowfall. Sharing a trashy Christmas tree with someone for the first time in almost twenty years. This year there won't be a second ornament. She doesn't even have the first; she left the angel with her rings and wedding bouquet on the kitchen table in France. She'll be alone again this year for Christmas. Well, almost alone.

She hugs her winter coat tighter to her body as a cruel gust of wind stirs up the sunburned carcasses of dehydrated leaves. The door finally opens and she sighs as the house proves a little warmer than outside. She wants to wait as long as possible to turn on the heat, less money on the monthly bills of an old house that hemorrhages electricity and gas. But another strong gust shoves at her back and tonight may be the night.

Her intention is to set the paint cans onto the hardwood floors with the upmost care. Full paint cans are heavy; they're precarious and are lined with metal ridges invented to scratch the shit out of her hardwood floors. Instead they tumble from her clenched fingers; bottom loaded and dent her beautiful floors. Because he is standing in her living room.

He's wearing a black long-sleeved shirt with half a dozen buttons at the top of it, a few left undone. His right arm, his right hand are fully rotational, swing from being coyly shoved in the pocket of his jeans, to wanting to cross over his chest, but cancel halfway through the action. The burn on his face is invisible, at least from the distance she holds. His eyebrows furrow with an intensity someone who doesn't know him would confuse with frustration. But she can tell by the way his brows teeter that he's feeling regretful.

Outside the wind howls, the air pressure bounces the external door catching her attention. He misinterprets her shift in interest as intent to flee. Stepping forward, his hand reaches towards her in the wide expanse of the room like he could touch her from where he's standing. "Please Jules, please don't leave. I just want to talk."

She nods. His presence and the quivery cadence in his voice unnerves her, but she shuts the door. He's going to apologize because he's Sam. And she's probably going to accept because he's Sam. They love each other and have been through too much shit not to get back together. But he hurt her; she supposes when she broke up with him back when they first dated she hurt him. Told him she loved him and then cast him off into a sea of nothingness. But he pushed her away, didn't even identify with her, didn't even care she left and automatically took their baby. Didn't even attempt to contact her.

"I'm sorry Jules. I'm so sorry. " Sam slouches back on the couch shaking his head and staring at his hands draping over his knees. He's only ever talked with this level of remorse when she's woken up in hospital beds. "You were just trying to help me. I was just in so much pain and that place fucked me up. I was worried about failing the goddamn General and I failed you. I failed you and you were all I had."

After a few minutes she toes off her boots. She can't wear socks with them. She can't afford new boots, so instead she mashes her swollen feet into the shallow casings.

"I was so angry when you left the hospital and I knew we had to head home the next day. And honestly—" He shakes his head, his hand rubbing up and down the back of his neck. Words inebriated and ambling out of his drunk tank mouth. He won't look at her. "I didn't want to see you the next day. Then when you didn't show up, I stopped being angry and started being terrified. I talked to Natalie and she told me you were on a plane."

She shrugs off her coat, tries to remember the state of mind she left France in. How terrifying it was to get on a plane by herself, pregnant, while she couldn't talk. How the abstract definition of the action was so much more horrifying than the physicality of it. How she moved back to the bathroom and cried for a few minutes. How she said it was just hormones.

"I was furious, but when I got back to the apartment and saw your rings—I, I knew it was my fault. You hated it there but stayed for me and I finally pushed you away."

Feet touch the floor and the cold hardwood creaks as she waddles over to the area carpet. The dying daylight reflects off the coffee table shrouding his face in a shadow. Part of her wants to comfort him, but the last time things didn't go so well. Instead she sits on the loveseat opposite to the couch, waiting for him to really tell her what he wants.

"I stayed longer so I could see a few specialists. A few optometrists who said there's a good chance I'll regain full vision in my eye within a few months. That the damage was just superficial. And a psychiatrist so I could figure out why I acted like that towards you so I could never do it again."

The baby must recognize his voice, even if it is muffled and directed at his lap instead of hers. It starts to shift inside of her, like it can't find a comfortable spot to rest. It has to be getting low on space in there.

"Jules, I know that—" He finally looks at her, watery eyes immediately draining and mouth hanging open for a few seconds. "You're huge."

This is not the way to win her back. Self consciously she crosses her arms over where her stomach starts to curve out. The action hides nothing. There's too much of her to hide. She's wearing a long-sleeved gray striped sweater which is pretty low cut for her, but it was on sale and it fit. However, the stripes only accentuate the baby she's packing underneath two extra cup sizes worth of breasts.

"You know I didn't mean it that way." He reaches forward gripping her hand and leads it away from blocking her stomach. His fingers are strong, but so gentle while they hold hers; his temperature is regulated, radiating around hers winter pricked from outside. "You're pregnant and you've never looked more gorgeous."

She knows he wants to touch her stomach. Wants to reach out and reconnect, but after what happened at the hospital they're both too skittish around each other. They can't afford to be skittish, can't afford to play minesweeper. They used to know each other better than any two people in the world, she thinks they still do, and they can't let one stupid mistake mess up their whole relationship. They're having a baby in less than three months.

He looks like he's on the verge of asking. He can't ask her. What happened to the days when she would just be sitting on the couch reading when suddenly his hand would infiltrate her shirt to rest on her stomach? She wasn't even showing then and he cradled her stomach.

Before he opens his mouth, she forces the hand holding hers to the bump. It's more than a bump now; it's an entity of its own. She feels like she's wearing a floatation device made out of stones. She lifts up her shirt to rest on top of her stomach, letting him see the vast expanse of pale skin accented by a dark line bisecting her now outie belly button down to the top of her maternity jeans. She never did get a new pair. They just ride her hips.

He doesn't say anything, doesn't look up at her, doesn't move his hand for a long moment until the baby kicks at him. His body startles back, but then he scurries to the empty seat beside her, hand immediately replacing the same area. "Was that—?"

She nods shifting closer to him. His one hand covers her thigh while the other remains stationary on her stomach. It's warm and it must rouse the baby, because it kicks at him again. He laughs softly, rubs the point of impact. "That was so powerful."

He leans in, face an inch above her skin and chastises, "Bump, stop kicking your mother. Although, I guess I can't call you Bump anymore because you've almost outgrown your mother."

She sighs in exhaustion, in contentment and touches the back of his head, hair feather soft and tickling her fingertips while he begins to explain to the baby his absence over the last month. He adds in ridiculous details about supernatural things and she fears slightly for the future. For their child, who's afraid of everything because of Sam's ridiculous imagination and never wants to leave the safety of their parents' queen-size bed.

The daylight drains from the room as he finishes his adventures and stands to turn on the light. The baby actually stopped kicking halfway through; the Braddock gift of gab put it to sleep. When she tries to lean forward, an ache flourishes from her lower back to the area where a phantom bullet is still lodged just below her left lung. A staggered exhalation escapes her lips.

"Are you okay?" Sam reclaims his seat, hands skimming down her arms to stop beside where her fingers press into her back.

She nods through a pain painted face and a swift stream of air blowing from her mouth.

"Your back?"

Another nod.

Thumbs dig in without another word, kneading and relieving coiled muscles at the base of her back. One hand travels upward, stretching her skin. Despite being back in Toronto, despite having decaf Tim Horton's coffee like it was a delicacy, for the first time since this whole mess began, she starts to relax. She leans back into his hands to create more pressure.

His chin rests on her shoulder, and he places a kiss where her jaw connects with her neck. "I missed you so much Jules."

She nods, turns her head and kisses his cheek. Feels his facial muscles contract into a grin because he knows she feels the same way.

"I brought your rings back for you." His voice is quieter, cautious and it should be. She had hesitations about cementing the relationship to begin with, and after taking concrete steps forward everything went to hell. But as his hands work their way down her back again, she feels the slickness of his wedding band against her skin.

Hers reflect on the table next to the terracotta potted plant. Her bouquet.

She doesn't honestly know if she wants to continue the marriage. Doesn't necessarily want to get divorced, but doesn't want to change all of her documents right away, or wear the rings to let everyone know. They wouldn't fit now anyway. With a marriage there's too much pressure and honestly part of her, no matter how small and infinitesimal that part is, still has reservations as to the real reason Sam came back. He did after all leave something at her place. The last thing she wants is continue on in a relationship with a changed Sam. She wants the man who was there waiting for her when she woke up in the hospital, the one she grew to love over four years at the SRU and one year in France. She doesn't know if this is him anymore.

"You don't have to wear them right now, we can talk about—"

Both his thumbs press on the constriction of muscles surrounding her spinal column near the center of her back. It's an area that always aches, no matter how much she stretches, no matter how long she lets scalding water from the shower burn against it, no matter how she lies with how many pillows in which position. But his thumbs trigger something and the knot in her back finally untwists. It feels so damn good her toes curls, feels so damn good she grins and arches out her back.

"Ah."

Feels so good she lets out a small groan.

Fingers stop their prodding and simultaneously she stiffens, turning to examine him with a questioning expression asking if he heard it too.

"Did you just groan?" Yep, he did.

She nods slowly. It sounded more like a draft of wind blowing sideways through a trumpet. It sounded horrible.

Sam's laughing now. Really laughing. Pregnancy test laughing. He holds both her cheeks and kisses her quickly pausing to add words in between. "I. Told. You. Not. To. Give. Up."

Another nod against his shoulder as he crushes her and the baby to his chest. She's unable to really grasp the importance of a guttural sound hogs create when they roll in their own crap.

"Jules, how can you not be excited about this?"

Because a groan is not a word. A groan takes no talent to manufacture, and realizing this only causes more depression because she still can't do it. She's trying in the back of her throat to orchestrate a variety of animal noises, but nothing seems to take.

"I promise you're going to speak again." His hand touches her stomach and she hopes the baby stays asleep. She doesn't need the added onslaught to her back right now. "You'll teach them how to talk."

The gesture in the right place, but the stress only sets her up for failure. In a year from now when they have a babbling infant crawling through an overly childproofed house, she's going to remember he promised she'd be talking by then. When she's not, she's going to become even more self conscious, more withdrawn. And hold the quietest of grudges.


Sneak Peek at the Sequel - More of the team, more of the families (on both Braddock and Callaghan sides), Sarge makes his first actual appearance since the first chapter, all the fun stuff that comes with the 3rd trimester of a baby and of course it's all held together with angst, angst, angst and the base of a light roux made from vegetable oil and flour and then more angst.

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