DOMINO THEORY
A/N: Hey Guys. Sorry for the long time no update. But moving and blah, blah, blah. There will be grammar mistakes and blah, blah, blah. Onto to the important things: ACTUALLY IMPORTANT AND YOU SHOULD READ: Okay so I didn't mention this last chapter because I thought it would give away the amazing-ness of Sam's piece in this chapter. But last chapter JULES' part happens BEFORE GREG'S chronologically. So what I'm saying is Jules finished at the hospital before EMS arrived at Keele Street. If this hasn't spoiled the story for you yet, read on. Domino Theory Chapter 5 Anger Management Water sprays up from the ambulance's wheels as the vehicle hydroplanes across the pooling puddles on Keele Street. It's easy to see why EMS took so long, the rain hasn't let up for a single second since it started pouring fifty minutes ago. The tires skitter to a stop; sliding the ambulance into a sideways spin almost into the overturned rig. Sam's glad he broke protocol and got Jules out of there. A collision is avoided only by a few feet and when Sam lets out a breath of relief his chest feels heavy due to the weight of the rain on his clothes. He matches the Boss's swift stride as they approach the idling vehicle. It's interesting why EMS arrived now, if they didn't get the cancellation, or if it's merely protocol. It's something to keep his mind off the fact that it's been almost half an hour since he dropped Jules off at the hospital and he still hasn't gotten a text from her. They're advancing on the ambulance from behind and when they're about five feet away, the passenger's door bursts open and Steve jumps out into the rain with no forethought or qualms. Sam grins because he's got nothing against Steve. A year ago, maybe he did. But now everything has worked out in Sam's favor so there's no reason to hold grudges, especially when they're in the business in they're in. "Steve." Sarge greets him with a handshake in the middle of the storm like they've just met up casually on their day off. "Fashionably late, huh?" "It's crazy today." Steve shakes his head and brown wet hair sticks to his forehead. He places his hands on his hips and narrows his eyes like he's staring into the sun. "It's the domino effect. One person does something crazy and everyone follows suit." "I hear that." Sarge agrees with a knowing smile. Sam doesn't know why, but these two have always gotten along. He wonders if it's because if Jules was involved with Steve, then she and Sam wouldn't be a possibility and probation would remain intact. "Well, we've—" Sarge's cell phone rings and the informal action makes him remember that his boss was supposed to go to his son's graduation today. Sam's been so preoccupied searching for propane tank chunks or waiting for his own cell phone to vibrate that it slipped his mind. There still might be time to catch the plane or a later one. "Spike." Sarge greets into the phone. Before retreating back to the safety and dryness of the rig, Sarge gives Sam a nod to tell him to disperse of the paramedic. Steve glances around him at the flipped vehicle. The rain streaming down his face and uniform apparently not bugging him nearly half as much as it was bugging Sam while he was doing a search and retrieve for propane tank pieces the size of peanuts. "I heard you guys took a few hits." Sam nods, not really sure how much information has already been given out, but he's not keen on being the guy to give out more. "We took a few. Nothing too serious." Steve chuckles ruefully and wears a tight smile. "So Jules did get caught up in that. She wouldn't tell me when I saw her." Sam doesn't miss a beat. "You saw her?" "Yeah at the hospital." Steve's expression turns quizzical and he crosses his arms. "Is she—" "She's fine. Just took a good hit to the head." Sam laughs the tension out and suddenly the rain is refreshing. "She was supposed to text me." "Oh. Her phone was broken." "I kept telling her to put it in her back pocket." "She'll never listen." "Well—" Sam's about to tell him, that since the area was clear of civilians before the explosion, there are no other injuries. So Steve can move on to his next call. But the paramedic interrupts him. "Oh, the baby's okay too." There was a baby injured? He doesn't remember that? "What baby?" Steve laughs and hits him lightly on the shoulder. "I know Jules told me you guys weren't telling anyone until three months, but I figured if she didn't call you yet, you might be going a little crazy." Wait. What? The rain must be coming down heavier than before, because it sounds like Steve is saying things that he has no reason to be saying. Things that he has no right to be saying. Sam has a rush of what he thinks are all the emotions he's ever felt in his life and they all get stuck in the back of his throat. Luckily the army and SRU training help him whittle down his response to an uneven, "the baby?" "It's fine. They gave her an ultrasound to be sure—" He's sure that Steve keeps talking, he's also sure that he doesn't hear a single syllable of what the paramedic says. All he can hear is the sound of his heart pound in his ears. Even the rain has become eerily silent. Steve didn't just say what Sam thinks he did. There's just no way. Sam could come out and point blank ask if Jules is pregnant with their firstborn child, but learning that from a rare acquaintance who also happens to be your current girlfriend's ex-boyfriend is a little more than embarrassing. She's been acting weird lately, more so than usual, and she said she wanted to talk tonight. He figured that was about the future of their relationship, and how it has an expiry date since it would either end with Sarge finding them out, which coincidentally happened an hour ago, or with them breaking up the team, or with them breaking up. "So how's impending fatherhood feel?" There's warmth on the inside of his mouth and a strange tingle at the back of his throat because he gets a flash forward of him in five years, taxiing a faceless, genderless child from Jules' Santorini Sky apartment answering its questions on why its parents don't live together. Because apparently their jobs are more important than most things. What if she doesn't even want the baby? They've never discussed it. What if— "Sam." Sarge is leaning half in, half out of the open driver's door. He's beckoning him back over to the rig. They're leaving. "I've got to go," he barely mumbles as he turns his head down as he walks in to the wind and the rain. "Sure." Steve nods, confused at Sam's unfriendly responses. "Congratulations," Steve calls out just before Sam is out of reach and it hits him like a rock to the back of the head. In a daze, Sam manages to climb into the passenger's seat and nod when Sarge tells him that they're going to the hospital to pick up Jules and Spike. He doesn't really hear the words. They're distorted and distant because he's so unfocused. He realizes how dangerous this is, especially out in the field on an active case, especially today. He tries to separate fact from fiction. What could Steve know anyway? Sam thinks that it's ridiculous. That this is his Jules and if she was pregnant, even if there was an inkling of a chance, she would've told him. He understands that there's a lot of stuff she's hesitant to share with him, a lot of memories sullying her past that makes it hard for her to be close with him. Not physically close, but close where it counts. But a baby. It's them, together. It's something that she can't hide and out of love and a baseline of respect she would've told him. Sarge pulls the rig to the curb and it remains silent in the cabin as the rain plinks against the metal roof. A few feet away underneath an awning, Jules and Spike wait patiently to be picked up and everything is as he left it. But then he notices it. Only for a second. Maybe even for a millisecond because he inadvertently blinks and it's gone. That expression of terror she gets before she starts rambling and he needs to talk her down. Wide, sunken eyes and that fidgeting thing she does with her hands. Her fingers pull and twist on the edge of his coat as Spike mutedly talks to her. She merely nods, and Sam knows she's not hearing a word. When she notices the rig, her face wipes clean, a new false expression replaces the fear he saw moments ago and he knows that the smile pulling on the corners of her mouth is fake. Sam's stomach does something odd. It feels weighty and empty. His head is light and the whole scene is surreal and humid. He reaches out a hand to touch the dashboard as an anchor and feels the usual bumpy cool plastic under his fingertips. Everything Steve said was true. Every single word Steve uttered was true. Jules is pregnant with their baby and didn't even bother to tell him. He fights the raw feeling of needing to plunge his hand through the dashboard. Instead he grinds his teeth together, clenches his fists, his toes, any muscles in his body to dull the rage. Why didn't he see this? Sarge is watches him with some interest from the corner of his eye. "Everything okay, Sam?" "Everything's great." It's so obvious now. So beyond obvious. How long as she been acting weird. Not just normal Jules weird, but extra weird. In his mind he's accumulating all of the things she's been doing lately that could've tipped him off to her pregnancy. Last night they lounged on his couch. The pizza box still lay half open, but mostly eaten. Jules wanted olives on it and then decided once he brought it home that olives were the most disgusting thing in the world. She also skipped the beer and drank water instead. He didn't care, more beer for him. It was a little after ten, and he started to feel the lull of the day, but for some odd reason, she was still wide awake. She laid with her back against him, so he could watch TV and she could read in peace. He rested on his arm, eyelids growing heavy as sports highlights scrolled by on the bottom of the screen. His left arm fell across Jules' stomach. It was a way they sat all the time but the irony is hitting him like a metal bat to the gut. "What do you think Sarge will do when he finds out?" Her question woke him from a half sleep and when he glanced down; she stared up at him alert and waited for an answer. Unconsciously, he tightened his grip on her while he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "When Sarge finds out what?" She turned over the book so the hardcover rested half against his arm; half against her sweatpant clad thighs. She sighed, and the action caused his arm to rise. "When Sarge finds out we're breaking probation." Then he woke up. Pushed himself off the arm of the couch and sat up straight. "Why? Did he say something?" "No." Jules placed her book on the coffee table. She still leaned with her back against him. She wore one of his shirts that landed a little above her hips. Her hands fidgeted with the bottom of the fabric and he knew that a ramble was coming. "It's just that either Sarge is going to find out, or we're going to break up. That's what's going to happen to us. I mean we could always switch teams, but then that would be a break up too right? This, the way things are right now, can't last forever." Usually he was all about the comfort. A reassurance here, a calming whisper there. But it seemed like Jules was flying off the deep end every other day now. He figured if they were going to have a fight about it, which they likely were, it would be better to do it when Natalie wasn't here. Plus as much as he wanted to talk about their relationship, he did not want to end it, and anything that could steer the conversation away from that direction was a help. "What's with you lately?" "What do you mean?" She craned her neck, but he refused move. He placed his right hand on her forehead and felt for a fever partially in jest. "Are you feeling okay?" She swatted his hand away and when she moved to leave the couch like he knew she would, he tightened his grip around her and kept her in place, then brought up his legs so she was practically lying on top of him. "Sam." Her voice held a warning. "Talk to me." He held both of her hands in his. He knew she could easily get out of the position and if she wanted out, he'd let her. Instead she sighed and straightened so she sat flat in his lap. "You're the one who won't talk to me." "You've just been having more freak-outs than usual." He reached up and tucked one of her longer bangs behind her ear and sighed. She was so beautiful, and she made one of his shirts, definitely something that had no feminine charm, one of the sexiest things in the world. Out of habit his hand rested on her thigh, the soft cloth of the sweatpants enticed him and he had not forgotten that it had been almost a week since they'd last had sex. Sharing a two bedroom apartment with your secret girlfriend and your sister had definite throwbacks to being in high school. "Sam." She leaned forward so her face was inches from his, and then rolled her hips against his. "I can feel you not listening to me." He placed his hands on her hips, partly to stop her from moving more, and partly so he could begin to fold up the edge of his shirt on her. "What do you want me to say other than, 'We'll deal with it when it happens?'" She didn't smile, but she didn't move off of him. Since neither was willing to say at the moment that they were willing to leave their job for the other, it was a concession they had to make. It was a problem they would have to deal with when it happened. Last time they dated, Sam was hesitant about leaving the team. He was still the rookie. Team One had prestige and anywhere else he went would've been a downgrade. He might have considered leaving if Jules considered it as well, but the thought didn't even occur to her. This time around, it didn't matter how she felt, if that's what they had to do to stay together, he would leave. He would move to a different team. He'd get a different job. Needless to say the shirt came off, and those pants and every other piece of clothing landed noiselessly over the back of the couch. Later the air conditioning kicked on and dried the layer of sweat on his skin and pasted Jules thighs to the leather couch that she hated so much. His fingers absently dragged through her hair and she questioned, "Are you happy?" Her voice was muffled because she rested against his bare chest. The intimacy they had made him feel lighthearted and childish. Even if she was stuck in a constant state of worry, he could have some fun with it. "Right now or in general?" She sighed and he felt her hot breath on his chest. The action wasn't from irritation or anger, but from exhaustion. When she didn't make a move to leave the room in a huff or a slam of the bedroom door, he bowed his head and kissed the crown of hers. "I love you Jules. You know that. As long as I'm with you, I'm happy." "I love you too." The back door of the rig clicks open and a cool gust of wind circulates through the stuffy interior. Outside the rain still hasn't let up and the sound of the droplets hitting the pavement is reminiscent of waves on a beach. He wanted to take Jules away for Christmas; it was going to be a surprise. He was thinking Sydney. He's never been and it would've been nice to go with her. Just lie on the beach someplace where the rules didn't apply. Now he doesn't want to think about tomorrow let alone three months from now. "You're leg isn't even that bad," she's protesting as Spike's taking his time crawling into the back seat. Sam watches the action from the rearview mirror, not really sure how to act, how to react around Jules. "I just had a rather hasty nurse basically stitch her initials into my leg," Spike answers as he collapses into the seat behind Sarge. Rivers of water flow down his shoulders and into the backseat of the rig as Jules climbs in. Her face is still swollen and freshly bruised purple and yellows that don't mix well together. It reminds him of the bruise the bullet hole left on her body; it was still there when she was released from the hospital. The blood is gone from her face, and her temple has a bandage on it where the gash has been sutured together. The thing is, what he should feel, what he usually feels, the intense need to comfort, the guilt, the fear that she isn't okay is missing when it should be intensified. He's too weary of dealing with her secrecy, especially when their supposed to be in a relationship together, especially when those secrets revolve around a life that they created together. It's disheartening; he can't even think about the situation that they're in anymore, because it's making him so enraged. He can't think about what he would like to happen, because he can't honestly see anything happening right now. The only thing he can think about is when would Jules have told him she was pregnant if he didn't find out on his own? She catches him watching her in the mirror and gives him a weak, fake smile. He doesn't smile back. Doesn't even try to hide it. Instead he directs his eyes out the windshield. He hears her slam to door, not hard, just a normal car door closing. Maybe she thinks he's being inconspicuous for Spike's sake, but they have little signals that they've adapted for situations like this one. Little signals that he's not using. "-And the nurse just kept pulling the thing through my leg." Sarge chuckles to himself and pulls the rig away from the curb and back out onto the street. The wipers squeak across the windshield because something is caught underneath the blade and Spike continues to tell every aspect about his abrupt hospital sojourn in detail. When Sam chances another glance up, Jules is looking out the side window and all he can think is he's never been so infuriated with someone in his life. Spike doesn't really realize that he's in the rig and okay until the vehicle hits a rather nasty dip in the road that makes him tense the muscles in his recently stitched leg. He still can't believe he made it out of that hospital alive. His injury isn't really that bad, he's sort of playing it up for laughs, but he can't get his mind off the nurse who willingly entered her number into his phone. Glancing down at his cell phone, still flaunting a garish crack halfway through the screen, he stares at the number she gave him. Seven digits that will let him contact her if he chooses to do so. The ball is in his court whether to pursue her. Or he can delete the number. Pretend it never happened and focus on Natalie. Is Natalie even worth focusing on? She's younger than him. Not frowned upon younger than him, but still young enough that she likes going out to loud noisy clubs like the one they frequented last night, while he would prefer higher class jazz type bars or places like the Goose. Man, it's been months since he's been there. He understands relationships are give and take, and he can't expect whoever he's with to automatically like his pastimes, but what are the odds of coming to a compromise with Natalie? "How many stitches did you actually get Spike?" He catches the Boss's eyes in the rearview mirror and can see mirth in them, which is good. It's what he was going for. It's what he's always going for. Everyone is too damn serious. They do have a serious job. There are times when beads of sweat the size of large marbles roll over his brow while he stares down the racing numbers on a clock that's going to detonate a city block. It's not all like that though. It doesn't all have to be serious all the time. "The nurse never told me, but I counted ten." Spike fumbles with his phone, figuring that he shouldn't be doing personal things on the job. The sides of the devices slip from his fingers and it tumbles to the floor landing atop the rubber grooves cut on the floor mat and just clear of the accumulating water. "Ten." The Boss chortles and shakes his head. Sam and Jules don't respond and Spike wonders if something happened with them. No. When could something have happened? Jules was complaining that her phone broke and that some of the keys were imbedded in her skin. They wouldn't have had a chance to talk yet. Is this them relieved? Because they're still intimidating. "It's double digits." Waves of red and yellow roll over the phone screen from his thumb pressing into the broken parts. He finally regains a steady hold on the thing, but in his blunders he's inadvertently opened a picture file. "Yeah well, lucky for you I've got someone bringing in the truck. You're both on intel until we catch this guy and then you're off until Monday." "That's fine, the Toronto nightlife loves me and I haven't had a Friday off in a long time." Turning his phone the right way around, the photo that he accidentally opened is of himself and Natalie last night. His stomach does a nervous flip because Sam is less than three feet away and has sniper's eyes. But really Spike can barely see the picture and if Sam can make it out, he deserves to go berserker in the rig. He tries to ignore the drunken eyes half closed, mouth half open expression he has and focuses on her face. Perfectly symmetrical, something the line on the screen helps him figure out. Eyes narrow, not drunk, but sultry. And those lips. God he loves her lips. Soft and full and they taste like things you buy in a bakery. A week ago he got a phone call; it was pretty late, nearing midnight. He laid on his bed, above the sheets because it was too damn hot to be under them and his parents were too old fashioned to understand the benefits of air conditioning. The TV flickered some infomercial when his cell phone sprang to life on the night stand. Spike's eyes were open and he had that jolt of panic before the first ring, a song that Lew put on his phone when they were in Ocho Rios, finished playing through. He sat up in the bed and was careful not to knock the end table. It had been his Poppy's and the back leg was still in place on a prayer. His hand shot out, grabbed his then undamaged phone, and answered it without a hint of fatigue. He assumed it was work. "Hello." He figured he'd hear the Boss's remorseful voice on the other end of the line telling him that they got called in because of some disaster. It's happened before more times than he can count. It'll happen again. "Hi, this is Spike. Right?" "Umm." He paused and rubbed at the back of his neck. "Yeah?" "It's Natalie." Natalie. Natalie? Who the hell is Natalie? He'd met a woman at a bar a few nights ago but she definitely wasn't a Natalie. She was a Kelsey or a Casey or even a Katie. Natalie he would've remembered. "Okay?" "Sam's sister?" "Oh." He laughed but stopped when he realized that Sam's baby sister was phoning him at close to midnight. "Sam's not here." "I don't care where Sam is." "Then why are you calling?" "Well, I've been thinking about you Spike." What? Why would she be thinking about him? He didn't do anything to her. Did Sam tell her something. Oh God, did Sam tell her the story of what he and Lew did when Sam first started and they took his clothes and- He didn't know what happened but all of that SRU coolness dissipated from his body and he blurted out, "Why?" She giggled into the other end of the phone and he just remembered meeting her about two weeks earlier. Sam's little sister who flirted with him in front of Sam. Sam who came up to him afterwards with furrowed eyebrows and a wagging index finger. "I don't know. You're interesting, I guess." "Oh." "Anyways, I was wondering if you'd want to go out sometime." "Out, like—" "On a date. You don't have a girlfriend right?" "No, not at the moment." He played it cool and kept his voice down so he didn't wake up his parents. "So do you want to go out sometime?" He thought about Sam and about the team and about the implications his actions could have if anything happened between him and Natalie. And then he thought of Lew, who told him that everything would be okay, and to go out and live life. "Yeah, I'd like that a lot." "Great. This week's no good for me, but I'll call you next week." Andy really has way more in common with him. They're both from religious Italian families as he found out by following her down the hallway in a zombie lurch and uttering incomprehensible syllables until she elaborated on her personal situation. They probably grew up doing the same things and eating the same meals. Hell, she can probably cook the lasagna that he's grown so disgusted with. Her mom probably does her laundry and pressures her to get married and her father, well, he's probably not sick. It's no contest to which girl his parents would approve of more. And he thinks that's why he likes Natalie. She doesn't come from the same type of family as him, but was immediately accepting of his situation. That's only happened a handful of times before in his entire life. She doesn't have a degree or a job and in a way he's jealous. She has all this freedom that he's never had. Even when he went to University it was in Toronto and he lived at the same house he lives in now, in the same room, with the same squeak in the hallway and the same lasagna. "So you both understand then that you're annexed to the truck?" The Boss reiterates probably for Jules' sake because if there's a way, she'll end up out of the truck and in the middle of the skirmish. Jules opens her mouth for a moment and Spike thinks that she's actually going to try and protest a direct order when they all know she was knocked out cold. It's going to be entertaining to see if Sarge will let her drive home tonight and how she and Sam will tiptoe around it. In a blatantly sarcastic tone she promises, "Under no circumstance will I leave the van." The boss laughs again because sometimes Jules' sharp tone can produce a note or two of humor. From the corner of his eye he catches the stern head shake that Sam gives when she speaks. Spike turns away, feeling semi-awkward because he can tell that something is off between the two of them, and when he looks down Natalie is staring back at him. He turns off his phone, blackening the screen. He doesn't want to exacerbate things. "Go ahead, Eddy." The Boss suddenly says and for a minute Spike thinks he's got a little residual brain damage from cracking his face off the steering wheel like a coconut. But then he remembers that the Boss and Sam still have active comm. links. Above that, Ed and Wordy are active and in the field trying to find the guy who blew him up earlier. The Boss sighs and tries to bring his hand to his face. The action is stunted however, because he's still driving so it turns into a twitch. "You should have told me before, Eddy." Sam shakes his head again and presses his lips together like he's trying very hard not to say something he might regret. Spike leans forward in his seat, the movement makes the rainwater that's pooled in the ripples in his jacket flow over the side of the chair and onto the floor. His shoes still squeak and he can feel the seams coming apart. "What's going on?" "Ed and Wordy split up so they could evacuate both construction sites before the next bomb goes off at 10:30." "So what? Now we have to make two stops?" Jules joins the conversation and they all keep low voices so they don't disturb the Boss or his dialogue with Ed. "Well there's that, and the fact that Wordy is by himself now." "Is Wordy hurt?" Spike immediately feels stupid for asking the question because both Sam and Jules have this expression like he should know better. "Wordy's sick, remember?" Sam's voice is a little bit more forceful than a normal whisper. "So, Wordy is still a member of Team One. He has the same job responsibilities as the rest of us," Jules counters and Spike immediately knows that this is not going to be good. "Jules, he has Parkinson's. You don't give a shaky finger a trigger to pull." "He's also been showing no symptoms since he told us he was sick." "You think he's fine because you think you're fine to be in the field in your condition." "What condition? I have a mild concussion." "Okay you know what?" Spike waves his hands getting their attention because if he doesn't stop the altercation it will escalate until the sonic boom of their voices explode this rig too. "I liked it better when I couldn't hear." He sits back in his seat, on the cushion that's permeated with water. It's cold and it seeps back into the fabric on his pants but he feels a very familiar prick and can't help but grin. Natalie's earring is still in his back pocket after everything that's happened today. It's has the same type of shock value like when artifacts from the Titanic are recovered. Spike knows that there's tension between Wordy and Ed, the same as there is with Sam and Jules, but he doesn't understand why. Wordy can still do his job. He still does it well. Once when Spike was running late he saw Wordy in the locker room after the shift when he must've thought that he was alone. He looked tired, worn out, but not sick. Three kids will do that. It wasn't his place to say anything, so he made a bunch of noise and stumbled in like an idiot. Wordy smiled at him and they had a nice conversation. That's how Wordy is. "Wordy's fine. If he needed our help, he'd ask us for it. If he didn't feel safe doing the job, he wouldn't do it." Ed's sitting in the driver's seat of the rig, one hand holding the comm. link closer to his ear so he can hear Greg reel him out over the thunder crashing directly overhead. With his other hand his fingers rhythmically tap against the side of the steering wheel waiting for his penalty period to be over. "Look Greg, I know I should've said something, but it just happened." It didn't just happen. He and Wordy actually hit a boiling point after nineteen years. It was one final miniscule disagreement of 'Ed, let's wait' versus 'Wordy, we don't have the time' that broke the camel's back. Then like any good fight in any well rooted relationship, it regurgitated the countless other arguments they'd ever had from today and ended with the day Ed found out Wordy didn't take his Timmy's coffee as a double double. His voice started to rise and to his surprise, so did Wordy's. Finally when they arrived at the first active area on Jane Street, Wordy stepped out of the rig. The door slammed behind him. Ed lowered the window and his friend demanded, "Go Ed." "Wordy, you know no team divisions smaller than two people." "That's not why you're not leaving." And it was true. If he had been with Sam, or Spike, or Jules, then the rig would've already been in reverse. Of course it's because his friend is sick. It was because Wordy had Parkinson's and a holstered gun. Not to mention it was unsafe for him to be anywhere near explosives. Wordy no longer has the strong structure that he offered Team One a year ago. Ed knows this resentment is still the fallout from being left in the dark for so long. He hates to admit it, but he treated Sophie the same way for a few days after he found out that she was pregnant with Izzy. Couldn't she have just told him? Would that have been so hard? When she was pregnant with Clark they went to the doctor's office together to get the blood work done and then pretended not to notice when three days dragged by before they got the results. Wordy must have known that he was sick and kept it to himself. He told the Boss for concern for the team's safety or maybe even some shred of respect. But Ed was left in the dark to use their nineteen year friendship as kindle. Part of him thinks that he treats Wordy differently because the man should know better too. He's sick, he shouldn't be working. Hell, he was going to quit the team after taking two bullets in the arm, but that was more to be with Izzy. "I'm not leaving because it's against protocol." Wordy pursed his lips and shook his head. His gentle demeanor returned and above them lightning flashed in the sky. "That didn't stop you from leaving Spike and Jules earlier today." It's not really fighting dirty. Wordy has three daughters. He is incapable of fighting dirty. It's fighting truthfully. Ed realizes that he's starting to take advantage of his authority. It was just automatically returned with his team leader position when he came back after Izzy was born. He didn't have to earn again. He even challenged Sam to shootout, but Sam just grinned and waved him off, like that was how it was supposed to be. "Ed, just go. Tell them I was the one who left. I don't care anymore." Wordy turned his back towards the rig and in a few seconds the white 'police' scrawled across the back of his coat disappeared into the falling rain. "Ed, I don't know what to say to you." He knows that Greg is keeping his wits because the rest of the team is in the same vehicle, if not patched into the same link. Ed checks the clock in the dash and it reads 10:07. He has less than half an hour to clear out any construction workers who still at the site despite Winnie calling ahead and warning them. He also has to set up a post among the girders to watch for anyone approaching the area. If he's lucky he'll be able to stop them before they set up the device. "I don't know what to tell you Greg." His voice is verging on insolent and for the first time he's noticing it. He thinks about what he could be doing instead. Lying on the living room floor with Izzy on his chest. Running on the treadmill in her room while she takes a nap. Teaching Clark how to parallel park in a thunderstorm. "Later you're going to have to tell me in great detail what happened." Greg's tone is threatening and Ed knows that he's going to have to sit through one of those stupid meetings where Greg and the high ups go over his actions and how they can be improved by just being a team player. "Look Boss, I—" "I don't care. We're going to Wordy and then I'll send Sam over for your backup. Never do this again, Ed." "Understood." He slams the door to the rig and pretends that the rain doesn't bother him. So he's going to get written up, twice. He'll take the fall for Wordy, because that's what friends do, and it's probably his fault anyway for holding the attitude he did all morning. He just remembers that stupid truck driving past him this morning and he thinks that if Izzy wasn't in the backseat he could've stopped the explosion before it happened. Spike and Jules would be fine and Greg would be on a slightly delayed plane to Dallas. Then he feels guilty because once again he's putting his family second. It's not Izzy's fault that his job is so demanding or that Sophie sporadically decided to have a career change after giving birth. His family is the excuse he gives at work and work is the excuse he gives at home, but really he hasn't been giving his all to either. The more Ed thinks about it, he should relinquish the Team Leader position, at least until he can get his head back into the game. Besides Sam doesn't have half of the responsibilities he has. Ed walks through the rain, a little calmer and more focused because he's sure that when he and Greg talk later he's going to request for a diminished role in the team. His boots begin to grow heavy from dragging clumps of mud and he shakes his feet as he passes by some generic signs warning of the upcoming construction. The dirt path changes to concrete covered in a thick layer of dust due to the construction. The path widens until it's completely open to what looks like the foundation for the basement of a future building. Rusted colored scaffolding stands four stories high. The girders and cement that make up the skeleton are only three stories high. There are two cranes and a cement mixer that appear frozen in the middle of movement. Bomb threats have that effect on machinery; people turn them off in mid function. The square expanse is empty and silent as it pools with water in the dim floodlights. Ed places an arm to his brow and gives the area another visual sweep. Nothing seems out of place and there are no footprints through the dirt that indicate that someone came from this direction to place a bomb. "Boss. The site is clear. Workers are evacuated." "Good. We're a minute out from Wordy. Sam should be there in five." "Copy that." He waits a few more seconds, keeping his breathing soft so that he can hear any movements over the water droplets hitting against the metal racking. He takes a precarious step out onto the untouched concrete and stalks slowly around the foundation. His hand rests on the handle of his glock because in his self ruminations he forgot to retrieve his rifle from the back of the rig. When he's sure the area is completely clear he turns his back. He needs to find cover, somewhere to hide that he has access to both the construction site and the parking area so that he can see if anyone approaches. The scaffolding might work if it was higher, but four stories in this kind of weather might not do him any favors. It's also a gamble because he'll not only be exposed to the weather but also the bomber. The machinery might work if he catches the bomber in the site, but he'll have to be blind in the parking lot. He picks up speed because it's 10:15 and he needs to get to the rig, get his rifle and a few necessary items and find his vantage point. The concrete quickly gives away to the mud again and just before he exits the tunneled passageway into the rain, an unidentified vehicle pulls into the parking lot. Wordy stands at the periphery line where the egress to the construction site ends and the rain begins. The Boss informed that he and the rest of the team, minus Ed, would be there in less than a minute. Singlehandedly Wordy had managed to clean the site of any civilians or workers and found no suspicious devices that looked anything like four propane tanks taped together. Pretty good for a guy that they won't let handle gun or a steering wheel or even a shield now. A small fraction of him was nervous because before Ed left, he didn't have the chance to retrieve any supplies from the back of the rig, including his assault rifle. That currently leaves him with only a glock for protection. When Wordy glances down to his hands, his right hand is bouncing on its own accord. Wordy takes in a deep breath of cool air and tries to calm down, tries to remember his therapy. All those relaxation techniques and mediation rituals that he's spent the last few months learning. But all that keeps coming up is that Ally has a doctor's appointment on Tuesday and he's going to have to see Lilly's principal and teacher Monday instead of today and poor Maggie never gets any attention. Since he was diagnosed it's become a lot harder to separate his home life from his work life. He loves Shel and the girls, but when he's trying to remember tactics and remembers Lilly's shoe size instead it's a little confusing. When he watches his right hand again, it's just his pinkie that's jumping now. It's always been his pinkie. It's how he knew that something was wrong. He stayed home with the girls a few months ago so that Shelley could have a night out with her friends. It was after supper and his daughters wanted to play something before bedtime. Lilly wanted to dress up, Ally wanted something to eat and Maggie clung to his pant leg with one hand and twirled her hair with the other. They ended up having a tea party with lemonade that ended up getting all over the hardwood floors in the living room that Shelley keeps spotless. He spent most of the time on his hands and knees mopping up sticky juice from the ground while Lilly insisted her siblings act more regal. Maggie looked worried and Ally wanted to be a chicken which of course erupted the living room into a royal rumble with more spilt lemonade and a few shed tears. After he got them all separated, Maggie clung to his side as he sat on the couch and Ally cried in his lap. "Lilly," He laughed and pulled the overturned tea cup from out of Ally's hair. "What happened?" His oldest daughter crossed her arms in a frump and the oversized hat she wore fell over her eyes. "They're not drinking the tea right." He reached forward and took her hat off. "Did you show them how?" "They won't watch. Maggie just sits there and Ally says she's a chicken." "I a chicken." Ally simply shrugged. "Okay." He sat Ally on one knee and with the other arm reached back and grabbed Maggie by the waist. She giggled as he flipped her around and sat her on his other knee. "Show me then." Lilly grinned brightly and pulled the sunhat back onto her head. "Okay, you have to hold the cup like this." She took her tiny hand and wrapped it around the handle of the cup and held it up so all three of them could view it. "See, but then if you're a lady you stick out your pinkie finger." "Oh," he exclaimed as if she'd enlightened him on the ways of the world. He reached forward and grabbed an empty cup for each of the daughters in his lap. They looked at the cup, looked at him and then imitated their sister. "There." Lilly clapped her hands together in delight and the large beaded bracelets she wore clacked together. "Now Daddy, you try." She handed him a cup that fit in the palm of his hand and he accepted it graciously. His forefinger and thumb barely met in the space between the handle and cup but he managed to hold it and even stuck his pinkie out to make the girls laugh. But then his pinkie started to twitch and then the twitch grew into a full blown spasm that he couldn't control and the lemonade was all over his pant leg and the floor. "Daddy." Lilly put her hands on her hips and shook her head at him in disappointment. "You spilt it." "Sorry," he mumbled as the cup swayed back and forth on the floor. His pinkie continued to dance for the next few days, but he wrote it off as too much caffeine. Two headlights appear suffocating under the weight of the rainfall. The light crawls across the ground towards his feet and then shines on him for a moment and he waves, using his right hand out of habit. Forcefully, he pulls it down by his side to hide it. While the rig is parking a few more vehicles begin to appear in the lot. There are a few cop cars, probably brought on to help contain the area. Then there's the truck from headquarters and he knows that Spike and Jules are going to have fun being stuck in there all day. He still feels the tickles running through his fingers. While the team exits the rig, he wonders if one day he'll even be able to do intel in the truck. "Wordy." The Boss runs through the rain to greet him. He's wearing a sympathetic smile. Either the Boss assumes that Ed and Wordy splitting up was purely Ed's idea, or that the pressure of being left alone to do his job is too much for Wordy in his current condition. "What do we have?" "Area is clear and contained. No one in or out since I did the last sweep two minutes ago." Just to be safe he checks over his shoulder and the same faintly lit tunnel into the site greets him. The action also lets him guard his right arm. Behind the Sarge, Jules appears in the rain. She juts a thumb back to the van, "Spike's already in the truck. Sam took a few things and left with one of the squad cars to go meet Ed." There's a large gust of wind that stirs up the rain, so she steps closer to the protection of the egress. That's when he really gets to see her injury. The skin on the right side of her face from her temple to her chin is swollen so much that her eye can hardly open anymore. "Oh Jules." He reaches a hand forward, but again it's his right hand. He cancels the gesture and hope that she takes it as not wanting to make her feel embarrassed. She's already waving him off anyway. "It's fine. You should see Spike's leg though." The Boss sighs and tips the front of his hat so he can see better. "Jules, I thought you said you weren't going to leave the truck?" "I didn't get there yet." "Go." Greg turns his back, but Wordy watches her leave through the rain and knows that something's wrong. "You were a little harsh don't you think?" "Wordy, Buddy." He adjusts his comm. link probably waiting for Ed or Sam to call in with more details from the second location. Then he begins to walk down the egress into the site. "If you only knew what I had to put up with today." "So let's talk about it. We haven't had a debriefing since—" Greg chuckles sardonically and over his shoulder explains, "The reason we don't have them is because they turn into cage matches." Wordy wants to say that it's because they're supposed to have an impartial mediator. But Greg's not impartial. Because he's part of the team, he has an opinion on what happened during the hot call and obvious sides are taken. It always ends up bad when Ed, Sam or Jules take opposing views. They end up staying after the shift, end up yelling and saying things that he thinks they regret. Wordy ends up missing the girls' bedtimes. Of course being Wordy, he doesn't say this. They've used an impartial mediator before and they all know how well that turned out. It's been absolute chaos. They're supposed to be perfect but Sarge keeps a member on the team with Parkinson's? That's definitely going to cost the team come review time. Ed actually told Wordy once when they were mid squabble that the Team voted whether he should stay or not. It was three to two. That kind of hurt because he knew what side Ed was on. He stops walking beside Sarge and they stand in silence as they peer out into the empty foundation. Four flood lights clearly illuminate the area and all the machines have been docked or driven further down the site to avoid giving the bomber a target. With the truck out front along with two police cruisers, it's beginning to look like they might scare away their bomber. "Maybe—" Wordy begins, but the comm. link hisses to life. "Boss." It's Ed and for once he sounds like he's out of breath. "Talk to me, Eddy." "I got visuals on the bomber." Greg turns on the spot while Ed feeds him and the others information through the comm. link. The heels of his boots scuff against the ground and kick up a small dust cloud as he moves in long strides down the egress. "I've got a red jeep in the parking lot. I can't get a clear visual of the license plate through the rain though." His pace slows a bit as he reaches the water cascading down over the mouth of the walkway. "But there's no proof that they're our bomber yet?" "It's 10:20 Boss and the site is clear. Who else is going to—" "News?" Wordy interrupts he's peering out into the rain probably looking for any unmarked vehicles at their site. But only two police cruisers with a few poncho clad officers patrolling the area remain besides the truck. "Maybe it's just another worker who didn't get the memo?" "I'll check the security cameras in the area." Spike suggests. "Maybe I can get a clear view of the license plate or driver." "Sam, tell your driver to turn off the siren and the lights so you don't spook them if they are the bomber." Greg demands with a swift exhalation as he once again, braves the heavy rain. He can hear Wordy's crunching footsteps right behind him. "Ed, how prepared are you to handle this?" There's a brief pause on the other side of the link and for a second Greg wonders if the communication went down because of the storm. But he knows Ed better than that and when he finally speaks his tone is hesitant with unease. "All my equipment is in the rig that they've parked beside. I just have my glock." Greg tries to ignore the fact that none of this would have happened if the team would've played by the rules that have been in place since day one. If Ed and Wordy didn't split up, if Sam didn't take the extra time to take Spike and Jules to the hospital, if Ed hadn't ignored the 'first to respond' rule. Maybe if everyone was actually on time that morning they could have done an actual pre-shift without the personal drama and no one would've been near The Junction when the bomb went off. Instead he doesn't hold personal grudges, or logical reasons as to why he's not at the airport right now. "Sam. ETA?" "I got them to drop me off at the corner so I could go in stealth." "Okay." Greg stops mid-step. Water leaks out of the soles of his shoes and he washes a hand over his face. "Until I'm at the scene I want to know every move. Do you both understand?" "Copy." "Copy." These four hours that they've been on duty seems like an eternity. This call should have been easy. It would have almost been routine if they received it six months ago before Toth. Instead now they scurry about in chaos because none of them can focus. The team argues constantly about everything, which is the reason he's stopped having in-depth debriefings at the end of shifts unless someone specifically requests it. They used to sit around the conference table, order take out and discuss in detail what happened, how they could better the entry times, or the responses from subjects. Whether lethal force was necessary or not. They would add in any details that the transcripts failed to pick up and that's what made them such a good team, because every corner was covered and it was covered well. It's been two weeks since they've had a genuine debriefing and it's because he's tired of dealing with the antics a simple roundtable entails. By the end of the shift everyone is exhausted and disinterested in each other that they become bitter and almost spiteful. It doesn't help that Team One is full of the most stubborn people he's met in his life and when they want to argue, they'll argue all night long if he doesn't stop it. It was two Thursdays ago, on balmy August night. The table was littered with file folders and copies of the transcript because this case was definitely one Toth was going to mention on his return. Greg remembered that their probation period was drawing dangerously close to an end. He sat at the empty table, waited for the rest of the team to arrive, and wondered if the team would be able to survive another round against Toth. Slowly team members began to filter in and the empty seats around the table filled up. Each one glanced with tired eyes at the transcript that they'd all just acted out. There were always different reactions, but the main problem this time was if lethal force was necessary. The subject was an eighteen-year-old kid. No one was happy about the outcome. "'8:03pm- Subject responding to negotiations.' His gun was down." Jules read from off the page. "Yeah," Ed glanced at Greg and almost rolled his eyes. "And then it was back up." "Wordy was there." She pointed to Wordy across the table. "He had the shield—" "And if Wordy twitches at the wrong time—" "Are you kidding me?" Wordy groaned into his hand. This was a common theme at all the regular debriefings. How Wordy could have screwed up the negotiations. Sam shook his head and downcast his eyes onto the table. "Shields are flawed, Jules." "So it's worth killing an eighteen-year-old kid, because shields are flawed?" "You won't let me use a gun. You won't let me drive a car. Now you won't let me hold the damn shield?" "I'm just saying that if you're using something that can potentially save a team member's life—" "He was schizophrenic. He could've started shooting at any second." "And we all know the job has inherent risks." "If you want me to quit Ed, just say it." "I shouldn't have to; you should have enough respect for your teammate's life that you do it yourself." "You've risked enough." "That was four years ago, let it go." "Hey. Hey." Greg slammed a balled fist down onto the table which gave it a permanent limp. Something he did not admit to any of the other teams. He waited until they were calm and quiet before he continued, "Arguing with each other isn't going to get us anywhere and in case you haven't noticed, you've all strayed off topic." He gave a cautious glance to Ed who had become l a bully to Wordy in the last few months since finding out about his illness. And then one to Sam and Jules, who he had an inkling were not quite sticking to their probation rules. "There's nothing else to talk about," Ed stated matter-of-factly as he crossed his arms and relaxed back in the chair. "We tried negotiations. They worked for awhile until the kid started having another psychotic episode. He escalated. We used lethal force." Greg sighed. They had been on shift over twelve hours by the time they deployed lethal force. Jules wanted to continue with the negotiation. Wordy agreed that it was plausible, but Ed said the gun was in the air which Sam seconded. The subject began to pace and Sam, Sierra 1 lost the shot at which point Ed became the kill shot. Less than a minute after that the boy was dead. While Jules was saying that she could get the boy back, and as he waved the gun in the air Greg gave the order. Ed didn't hesitate. "Spike what do you think?" He leaned on his hand and turned to Spike who remained beside him in the truck for the majority of the afternoon. They had both been fed information via cameras and audio. Neither had a firsthand account of the situation or death. Spike drew his hand away from his mouth. To someone who didn't know him that well it may seem as if he were daydreaming or on the verge of falling asleep, but Greg knew he would have something important to say. "I think that an eighteen-year-old kid is dead. I think that he had no hostages and a history of mental illness and that we could've helped him." Greg nodded. He clasped his hands together and placed them on the table. "I think you're right." At the entrance to the parking lot Greg greets the two officers who patrol the construction site. They stand wearing navy plastic ponchos that don't reflect the light and it can't be safe for them to be immobile in the dark. "My team is heading over to Runnymede. Keep the area locked down and report in any suspicious activity." They nod and he smiles because that's how it should be. He asks them to do something and they do it. That's what having authority is supposed to give him. Instead he has to deal with back talk and questioning and Ed doing what he wants and Sam worrying about Jules and Jules not being in the truck and Wordy having a spasm. Walking back to Wordy standing stationary outside the truck, Greg notices the disappointed look on the man's face and realizes that during his small trek to the end of the lot, Ed and Sam have been arguing about placement and the best area to do the negotiation in. "Yeah, let's do it in construction site. That way if the bomb goes off, we can have another Keele Street." "We can't do it in the lot because I have zero visibility out here. Not to mention the wind—" "Calculate for the wind." "Enough," Greg demands and there's radio silence. "Just set up where you can until we get there. Wordy's taking the rig. I'm taking the truck we'll be there in—" "Are you sure that's a goo—" He doesn't give Ed a chance to finish, because he's tired of hearing the different reason that Wordy shouldn't be on this team anymore. He's one of the few people that are actually doing their job right today. "Yes I am, Ed. That's why I said we're doing it." Greg holds the comm. link in place and turns to Wordy to get his attention. "Wordy, you feel okay to drive?" "Of course." He smiles and Greg remembers the friend part of him that's buried underneath the rubble of this job. "Good. Take Spike." "Boss we got a problem." "What is it now Sam?" "I have visual on the driver of the jeep. It's a woman, she's young. I'd say early twenties." "Okay?" He holds his ear piece in place and waits for the problem. The way the day is going their might as well be two or three jeeps in that lot with two or three bombs a piece. "Boss, she's pregnant." What the hell is up with Sam? She sits quietly in one of the swiveling chairs beside Spike who's typing like a fiend trying to find any images of a red Jeep but it's Toronto in the Summer and without narrowing down with a specific license plate they might as well not even have the car make. She swivels left. Then right. A weak squeak escapes the chair with each turn. Is he honestly that pissed at her because she didn't text him from the hospital? Her phone is broken. And then Sarge just randomly yells at her? It is definitely not Jules Day today. Squeak. He sees her for the first time since softly embracing her in front of the emergency entrance at North York and doesn't say a thing. Doesn't respond. Doesn't at least smile in relief that she's okay and only had to get a few pieces of duct tape to pull her skin together. All because she didn't text? Squeak. No it can't be that. Something has to have happened between when he dropped her off and when they picked her up. What could've taken place in that twenty minutes to make him that flat-out pissed? Squeak. She thinks he said something to her about the Sarge earlier after getting her out of the wreck. Was she supposed to do something and forgot? Well, other than text and she didn't forget. She glances down at her stomach, now covered by a brand new bullet proof vest. The other thing she forgot to do nine weeks ago isn't her fault. That was Sam's responsibility. That's going to be another fun fight in a growing series. Squeak. Whatever. She'll deal with him after work when the pain in her face is ten times what it is now, which is just on the cusp of unbearable. He'll yell at her for not calling or whatever she did and she'll say that her face hurts and that surprise she's pregnant and then throw her broken cell phone at the back of his big stupid head. She plants her feet on the floor and questions why she's so upset. Maybe part of her, part because that's all she's willing to admit to, misses the fact that he's always doting on her. After growing up in a household with five men who didn't give a shit about her from the time of birth until she left, it's nice to have one who cares about every single molecule of her life like it's his own. It's nice until he notices a bruise or a cut and goes insane with questions. It's part of their job. Everyone gets them, but for some reason if she is even slightly battered the world will come to an end. At least his world will. This concern is not even close to being equally distributed among them. Mainly because Sam never gets hurt because he's usually in a Sierra position. But he did procure an injury three months into their re-relationship and she did not respond in a near appropriate manner. "What?" The keys to his apartment jingled in his hand and he gave her a nervous kind of smirk because she kept stealing glimpses of him the entire ride home. She set her jaw to keep from breaking out into laughter again. "Nothing." Then she reached a hand forward and delicately touched the puffy skin underneath his right eye. "I still can't believe that guy hit you." Sam shook his head and unlocked the door. "I still can't believe that Spike had the reflexes to dodge it." He let her into the apartment first and the cool burst of air conditioning was refreshing after spending all day in the horrid June weather. "You got punched today," she repeated chuckling a little. "It's actually not that funny, Jules." This made her laugh aloud and when she turned around Sam appeared less than amused. He rolled his eyes as he threw his gym bag onto the kitchen island. Then, like counting the seconds between a flash of lightening and a roll of thunder, in her mind she counted how long it would take before Sam checked himself out in a mirror again. When he saw that she was still on the verge of laughter he continued, "This is going to take at least a week to go away." "It won't take that long." When she ricocheted off the side of the Eaton's Center, the bruise on her back went away in less than a week. When she didn't do the double drop properly, her bruised knee went away in less than a week. The only thing that's ever taken her more than a week to heal from is the gun shot. He moved from the kitchen to the hall and began to examine the purple skin by prodding a fingertip into it. Thirty-seven seconds. "When we go out in public, people are going to think you did this." She laughed at him as she opened the freezer and retrieved an icepack, the same one he held to her knee all night long three months ago. "Better than telling them the truth." "Oh my God, Sammy." Natalie rounded the corner with her overnight luggage and Jules felt a mixture of amusement and annoyance. Natalie was supposed to be out of the apartment by the time they returned from work, something not hard to do when you have no job or prior responsibilities, but it would give her a chance to hear the story. She was pulling on his face, French manicured nails sliding dangerously close to unprotected corneas. Jules leaned her back against the counter and watched. "What happened?" "Yeah Sam," She goaded with raised eyebrows. "What happened?" He gave her a sideways glare because Natalie still had him trapped in her talons. "I got punched at work." "Oh my God." She released his face and covered her mouth with her hands in an overdramatic gesture. Jules crossed her arms over her chest. "Tell her the whole story, Sam." "Nah." He shook his head and moved away from his still shocked sister. "She's got places to be and we've got a movie to catch." "Sammy, tell me." He sighed and sent Jules another glare, then turned his attention back to his sister. "We were called to a bomb scare downtown so we were evacuating some of the buildings around the hotspot." "Sam and Spike were sent to evacuate a retirement home," she added to speed up the punch line. "Basically there was this one old guy who refused to leave. And he punched me in the face." "Aww Sammy." She touched his cheek again but her smile broke into laughter and then Jules started to laugh again. "Yeah, yeah." He swatted her hand away and moved towards the bathroom, probably to jab and examine his injury in peace. When the bathroom door closed Jules shook her head at Natalie, who was still recovering from learning the truth. She wiped at the dark makeup drawn underneath her eyes and then turned to Jules. "We shouldn't laugh at him you know." "Oh?" She placed the icepack back into the freezer because apparently it wasn't going to be used, and then supposed that Sam's gym bag was left for her to deal with. When she complained about it later he said that he was injured. "Anna and I got picked on a lot on the base." Natalie tried to adjust her shirt strap, but remembered to late that she was wearing a strapless summer dress. "Sam used to get into a lot of fights with the guys who said mean things about us." "Really?" She stopped rifling around in the smelly gym bag and turned her full attention to Natalie "Yeah he'd just come home with a black eye or split lip." She reached down and picked up her overnight bag. Then reached for a bowl on coffee table to retrieve her keys. "Our dad would scream at him, but the teasing stopped." When Sam came back from the bathroom, probably waiting for more ridicule she hugged him, shoved the icepack into his hand and told him to sit down on the couch. They ordered pizza and watched some stupid movie about robots that she still doesn't understand. He ended up falling asleep with his head in her lap, while she held the pack to his eye and smoothed out his blonde hair. "You okay?" Spike questions. He's holding the microphone to the comm. link away from his mouth and observing her with a raised eyebrow. His nose and lips are beginning to swell and she wonders if they're sharing the same amount of pain. "Fine. Why?" She turns her attention back to the monitors, pretending that she's been following everything that he's been doing for the last however many minutes they've been in the truck. Time stands still here. She doesn't know how Spike can do it most shifts. Spike shrugs and moves back to typing faster than any human being should be able to. "You stopped squeaking." Over her comm. link the white noise that's been filtering through slowly becomes more distinct and she starts to recognize the Team's voices. There's just bickering. A lot of bickering going on between Sam and Ed and she hopes he gets it out of his system now, because she's starting to feel tired and she doesn't know if she has a good fight left in her. "Guess I'm going with Wordy." Spike doesn't sound hesitant or bothered to be riding with Wordy driving. He seems more upset that he has to move after just getting to sit down. He reaches down to touch his leg but his fingers curl because he knows he shouldn't. His hands end up tapping against the console to hide his pain. "It's starting to sting again." Jules raises her eyebrows and smiles sympathetically. She's not one to complain about injuries, she'd rather hear about other people being hurt than tell people how much she's hurt. She watches as Spike tries to keep his leg straight and move through the confined space of the truck and if the whole scene wasn't so sad it would almost be funny. "Did they even give you anything?" "What?" She swivels in the chair because he's almost at the back door. He chuckles and asks, "Did you even ask for anything?" "For what?" "Your face." She could take offense and pretend like he was playing it as a joke, but they're both too tired for that. Instead she shakes her head, "No." Sam's tense voice interrupts over the comm. link and he states physical attributes about the bomber and ends with, "She's pregnant." Jules and Spike share a look because that eliminates all use of lethal force. Basically eliminates everything except a successful negotiation, which she wonders if any of them have in them. And pregnancy today, what is it a freaking epidemic? Sarge opens the door and Spike almost stumbles over the back lip of the truck and face first into the rain. Lucky, Wordy, the man that no one thinks has any stability, catches him and helps him out of the vehicle. Sarge closes his eyes and shakes his head as Wordy and Spike hobble past him. "Jules, front seat." Before she can stop it, the pressure of everything she's had to deal with today from learning she's pregnant to not being able to finish her stupid decaf-because-she's-pregnant coffee spills out of her mouth in the form of pure, unbridled sarcasm. "I thought I wasn't supposed to leave the truck." Thankfully, Sarge seems to be having the same kind of day she is and volleys back her serve. "You're not leaving the truck, you're just moving to the front seat." She doesn't scramble out of the back of the truck. Doesn't rush through the rain because she's still wet from the last time she moved from the rig to the truck or was it the hospital to the rig? This whole day that's amounted to less than four hours is staring to melt together. The truck is silent and she wonders if this is what Sam had to deal with the entire morning. The windshield wipers have the same squeak and the thumping of the rain against the roof is almost soothing enough to let her fall asleep. But then Sarge clears his throat. She glances over at him and his hands are hitting against the steering wheel. "I'm, um—I'm sorry if I snapped at you earlier." Well that's new. "It's okay." She waves it off and stares at the wipers trying to find the piece of debris that's making them squeal but they're moving too fast and she's afraid the repetitive motion is going to make her sick. "We're all having one of those days." "Yeah," Sarge agrees in a tone that expresses so much more than words ever could. His fingers twitch against the wheel again and he questions, "How are you feeling?" "Fine." She hopes the answer is curt enough that it does warrant any more on the subject. It's not. "I didn't put you in the truck because I question your ability or—" He pauses and his eyes narrow as he tries to think of the right words without upsetting her. Something about the whole attempt is endearing and she smiles. "Sarge it's fine. Believe me; right now I'd rather be benched." She sighs and thinks about the research and the typing and the luminescent screens and the hours of security footage while her ass goes numb on the squeaky chair. "I just hate this truck so much." He chuckles, "It's just for today." "Yeah." She smiles again, but it's fake. It's not just for today. She doesn't know when she's going to tell Sarge or Ed that she's pregnant. Not now, Sam deserves to know first. But when she does, if she even gets to stay on active duty, the truck will become her new home. Who knows, maybe on the odd days she'll get to leave and actually go to a scene to do an interview. "So what's the plan?" Sarge sighs. "Me on negotiation. Wordy gets Ed to safety. You and Spike looking up the subject. And Sam as Sierra 1." Next Chapter - Will be up after I get the feeling back in my butt. Seriously I'm on like two pillows and I can't feel a thing. All I will say is there will be a fight, a shot and a flight.
1)There is only going to be one more chapter. And then I retire to Bermuda. Just kidding-I hate hot weather. Continuation is available in the format of a second story if preferred, but for the love of all that is holy, the chapters will be shorter.
2)Chapters will probably be shorter do to the cutting of flashback scenes because I'm blanking on ideas for them. Unless there are scenes you'd really like to see. Then review with them or PM me.
3)For those of you who are as obsessed with this story as I am, I created a twitter account for just FP fanfics so if you want to see the constant updates or my constant questions (like whether the heat can shoot a pregnant lady) feel free to stop by.
As always thank you for your patience, support and wonderful reviews and favorites. I feel blessed that you all enjoy the story so much.
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