DON'T ASK, DON'T TELL

A/N: Hey Guys. Thanks for the great reviews and favorites to the first chapter. I'm glad you're all enjoying the story so far. This story is definitely the harder of the two to write. Just ask SYuuri, who literally had to keep me on track haha. Jules' part in this is cut down, but I'm writing a oneshot pertaining to it so that should be out in a few days.
I'm still working on the idea that Jules living in a house that's apartments. Because that house is not hers, even in TV land. Plus I wrote Sam's part to this like a months ago before The Cost Of Doing Business aired and we found out she was Canadian Royalty.
Finally more than a few people mentioned to me that I was being a little harsh on Ed and perhaps "hatin'" on him. I will reiterate that while I find Ed's character the hardest to write because he is the most well explored character in the show, I'm not hating on him. I do have a plan. Also these stories pertain primarily to the characters personal lives. I'm trying to aid this concept by having the characters act as foils to each other. Bottom line, there is rhyme and reason to it.

Don't Ask, Don't Tell

Chapter 2

High School Habits

His eyes shoot open. There's a light sheen of sweat covering his skin. Jules' apartment may as well be a hothouse. Her apartment runs the whole third floor of a 1930s house restored to modern day glory. Factor in that she refuses to get air conditioning and that they're basically in the attic, the early mornings are impossible to sleep through. And he had the nightmare again.

It's not a nightmare. It's reliving the scene on the rooftop. Where he stands by and watches her get hit with armor piercing bullets. He can't fathom how much it hurt; he's seen the damage it's done. How long did it take for the bruising to go down? For ribs and muscles and tissue to heal? For her to be extubated? He knows the answer to these questions but she still has a toonie-sized mark on either side of her chest.

They don't talk about it. At all. Not even in vague analogies. She won't talk about it. He knows it's his fault. He took the shield, left her vulnerable. But he won't let that happen again. He can't. Toth asked him if he'd violate the priority of life code to save her. Of course he would. If she was in danger during his evaluation he would've ripped those electrodes off, leapt over the table, and been out of that room before Toth could have uttered a fractured breath. He hopes he gets to see Toth again. He hopes Toth asks the question again. Because the answer is a more emphatic yes. A yes with a punch. It's Jules times two, because she and that baby are the most important people in the world to him.

She's still sleeping despite the sauna. Despite her going to bed at nine. He stayed up a little later to catch sports highlights and muse about the future. When he finally made it to bed, all she did was toss and turn. She maybe slept for an hour at a time, and then stayed awake for two. He asked her what was wrong and she grunted about being uncomfortable. She also went to the bathroom at least seven times in just as many hours. He'll never tell her but he thinks it's endearing. It's a physical manifestation of the pregnancy since there really aren't any others yet.

She's lying in his arms, her face pressed against his bare chest and he can feel the even release of her breathes. He removes one of his arms from around her shoulders and consciously places it against her left side. His fingers fit perfectly over her ribs. He remembers the time when he drew back and his hand was covered in blood. Remembers when Sarge had to pull him away from her.

His fingertips must trigger a soft spot because she groans and shifts in his arms. "Sam?"

He withdraws his hand from her side, hoping that she's still in a deep enough sleep that she didn't notice it. "It's okay. Go back to sleep." Glancing around he tries to find her alarm clock but he has no idea where she's moved it to. Did she rearrange her entire bedroom in two days?

"Sam," she repeats with a little more hesitancy in her voice. She begins to struggle against him, her fists are on his chest and she's pushing backwards.

Maybe she's having a nightmare too. He's been with her a few times before when she's had them. He knows they're about the rooftop too, although she never talks about it. Sometimes if he pries too hard she withdraws completely, so he has to let the subject go. "I'm here. What's wrong?"

"Sam. Let go." Her voice is loud now, eyes open and she's awake. She thrusts her hand against his chest, pushing him away. As he recovers from the blow she leaps from the bed. He hears her pad heavily down the hall, then clunk of the toilet seat hitting the back of the tank and then—

"Oh man." He jumps out of bed and follows the short trail she took from the bedroom doorway to the bathroom doorway where she's on her knees in front of the toilet throwing up like there's no tomorrow.

He's only seen her vomit once before. It was the last time he got to pick where they ate supper because Jules got food poisoning with a vengeance. It was the last time they actually went out for dinner. He just remembers her pushing herself up off his couch and locking herself in the bathroom for most of the night. When she finally came out he helped her into bed and tried to apologize, but she was too irritated to hear it.

"It's okay." He tells her because really what are you supposed to say when someone is literally vomiting out their own body weight. He saw how much Jules ate last night. It almost scared him. If he knew this was going to happen, it would have scared him.

He grabs one of her hair ties from the ledge of the sink and pulls her hair back as her shoulders heave. He rubs her back, which is sweating through her tank top and he can see her stomach muscles contracting until they're almost concave.

Finally after what seems like hours she takes several heavy breaths and nods her head. "I think I'm done."

He hands her tissues to wipe her mouth and wants to ask her to wait a few minutes, just in case this is an intermission. He gets a glass of water while she flushes the toilet and when he turns back she's covered in sweat and shaking from head to toe. With a trembling hand she takes the water and with sympathetic eyes she says, "Sorry."

"I'm sorry you have to go through that." He laughs while she sips the water, and then starts to prepare her toothbrush. His mind backtracks to when he arrived at the apartment yesterday and her brushing her teeth. He wonders if she went through all this before he got here.

"Well." She inhales deeply and tucks the longer bangs that he's missed behind her ears. "I think I'm getting used to it."

He hands her the toothbrush and takes the water, but gives her a gesture telling her to remain seated for awhile. How can she get used to that? It was like something out of a horror movie. That was three burritos and the entire kitchen of the Mexican restaurant. "How often has this happened?" He feels bad asking. He should know. He would know if he didn't overreact on Friday.

She pulls the toothbrush to the side of her cheek and answers with a muffled, "Every morning since Saturday." She moves from the toilet and stands beside him to spit into the sink. "At least it goes away right after I do it. But I can't eat for awhile."

"Yeah I wouldn't." He agrees and she chuckles at him while rinsing off her toothbrush and placing it back in the holder. He feels guilty about what she has to go through because of the pregnancy; guilty because there's no way he can help her. His arm slides around her waist and he kisses her temple. "I'm sorry you have to go through this."

"It's not that bad."

"Well, at least you don't have to worry about it happening on shift."

"Right," She kisses his chin and there's a hint of mint. She turns to leave the bathroom apparently fully recovered. "Because it's morning sickness."

"Whoa, Jules." He keeps hold of her arm and pulls her back to stand beside him. "You are telling Sarge that you're pregnant today, right?" She doesn't answer him and he drops her hand. "Are you kidding me? After what happened on Friday?"

"Sam I'll tell him at three months." He stares her down, until she rolls her eyes and explains in a lowered voice. "As much as I don't want to admit it, there's still a chance I could miscarry."

"And you want to add to it by remaining in active duty?"

"Look, Sam, I know you worry about me—"

"You have no idea how much I worry about you Jules." He turns away from her and places a hand on his forehead. "I mean, the worry is constant. It's there every time I breathe. There's no way I can handle you going back into the field pregnant."

She glances down at her stomach, still hidden by a pair of sweatpants and a tank top that's sticking to her body from the level of exertion her vomiting caused. "I just don't want to tell people and then have something go wrong."

He holds the hand that's pressing gently into her stomach. "You don't have to tell him by yourself. We can tell him together. Nothing will go wrong."

"Sam, it's just three more weeks."

"Jules, you tell him today or I will."

"Mikey." He pieces together his mother's face, his vision still fragmented by sleep. At first he thinks that he slept through his alarm. He has Vietnam flashbacks to high school. His mom waking him up with that calm smile, she's somehow in his room even though he knows he locked his door. He thinks if he squints he can still see the model airplanes spinning lazily and the pinup posters.

He swats her hand off of his cheek and sits up in the bed. "What, Ma?"

"Your father, he isn't doing good. I'm going to take him to the hospital." She's sitting on the edge of his bed and he has further memories of her taking his temperature with a cool hand on his forehead. He knows that one time she let him stay home when he didn't have a fever. Craig Jacobs was going to beat him up after school that day. Somehow she knew. "Mikey, he's coughing a lot."

"Ma, he's always coughing a lot." The hacking cough that's been his rooster for the last year and a half echoes from down the hall. He'd sleep with ear plugs in if he wasn't afraid of sleeping through his alarm.

She stands from the bed; plump, trained hands straighten out her dress. Her eyelids lower until they're dangerous slits. "One of these days, your jokes are going to get you into trouble."

He wants to get out of bed, but the bottom half of him is only wearing boxer shorts. Sure she's his mom, and sure she's seen him at worse, and sure she's the one who washes these boxers every single week but somehow he can't make himself move. "I've got to go to work."

"Of course you do." She turns on a cracked heel hidden by a knitted slipper and walks to his door with a waddled caused from not being able to sit down for the last forty years. "Maybe you'll come by the hospital when you have the time."

"Ma," he calls out, but she's already slammed the door.

It's a great start to the week. Being left with the moral dilemma of whether or not to follow his slightly neurotic mother to the hospital. The doctors will press their thick fingers into the bridges of their noses and tell Mrs. Scarlatti that Mr. Scarlatti was merely just coughing. There goes his whole morning at work. What if another bomb is called in? What if it's a real doozie this time?

Then there's the guilt. The guilt of leaving his mom to take care of his dad. It's the kids who grow up and take care of the parents, isn't it? He and Carmen are doing a bang up job at it. There's the guilt of leaving both his parents and going into work. The guilt of not even thinking of his father in a hospital bed because for the entire day he has to focus on what's before him, whether it's a ticking bomb or a paused computer screen.

He ends up at work. In the elevators because he's over the fear and really he's forgotten to give search for Jules while thinking of his own personal debacle. As much as Toth would beg to differ, it's part of his job to hide his personal issues, so when he walks into the locker room he pretends it's any other day on the calendar. As much as he wants to know about the personal lives of his colleagues, he's not about to sprawl out on the bench and bare his heart like he's in a psychiatrists office again. He doesn't want or need their pity, although it would be nice to be able to bring up the fact that he has a terminal father when Ed and Wordy get into one of their squabbles. Just to remind them what's really worth fighting for.

He pushes through the locker room door and there's Ed and Wordy. They're all ready starting to get changed, but at least they have smiles on their faces. Maybe the fighting will come later in the day. Maybe they'll be paired separately so that the comm. link that sweats up his ear canal doesn't make it numb with remixes of the same argument.

"Spike, looking good," Ed greets as he walks along the other side of the bench. He's still a little stiff legged, but it's nothing that sitting in the truck all day won't help.

"Yeah your face healed really quickly." Wordy adds as he pulls a black t-shirt over his head. Neither of the two men is in full uniform so Spike guesses they're starting out with a workout. That's fine, just no cycle, or elliptical, or treadmill. Just focus on the upper body.

"It's the miracle of home cooked Italian cuisine," He responds and then stands before his locker. Satan's door. With a sigh he rubs at his temple and then let's his bag flop to the ground.

"Hey, how was your date?" Ed questions. He's pulling the laces of his shoes back and raises a suggestive eyebrow.

"Good." Spike's fingers make nimble work of the lock and he tosses it on top of his bag and then begins his daily struggle with the door. He's got to get it down to under five minutes. "It was—" His fingers burrow into the crevice in the door but the metal has fused and expanded over the weekend. It's not budging. "-really nice."

It was really nice. The food was good. The company was better. He left the restaurant with Natalie's hand in his. He walked with her as the streetlights lit up and then when they reached her car, Sam's car, they stopped. That was a bit unnerving. But they kissed, embraced underneath the warm glow and she said she'd call him this week. She makes him nervous. The good kind of nervous.

"So this, Nat." Wordy, donned in his workout apparel, shuts his locker door but stays stationary in the locker room. Maybe waiting for Ed. "Does she have potential?"

"Well—"

"Morning guys," Sam greets as he walks between their dialogue and to his locker with the perfectly opening door. Spike doesn't care, it takes the attention off of him and the messed up web of rejected soap opera storylines that comprises his life. "Workout first?"

"Yeah, and you're cutting it kinda close aren't you Braddock?" Ed questions in a teasing tone. A few years ago when Sam kept missing workouts and shooting practices it turned out that he was with Jules. Spike wonders if he should say something to get the attention off of his teammate.

Sam groans and shakes his head as he digs through his bag to find his workout gear. "It's my sister, Natalie. She borrowed my car yesterday and-"

Spike tears his head away from that conversation because he's sure Wordy and Ed are staring at him while covering their gaping maws with full fists. He rips his locker door open and it thumps off the neighboring compartment making Sam stop halfway through his story.

"Spike, you okay?"

"Yeah." He nods twenty or thirty times like a barnyard hen while trying to simultaneously change into his t-shirt and sweatpants. "I'm good."

"Oh Spike's real good." Ed agrees and Spike knows that his time is ticking down. "He had a date last night."

"Really?" Sam smiles and pulls on his new shirt. "How'd it go?"

"Yeah, Spike how'd it go?"

"All right." Wordy taps Ed on the shoulder and point to the door. "Come on."

Ed does one final eye shift between Spike and Sam, but then agrees. "All right."

As they leave, Wordy gives Spike a small nod. He's going to have to remember to buy Wordy a beer, or a coffee, or something. He slows down changing because it seems that he's made it out of the woods for now. His people hate the woods.

Beside him, Sam closes his locker door and it looks like he'll be out of the room in the next few seconds. But then his phone rings. He glances at the screen, groans and answers. He takes a deep breath in, but before he can talk a puzzled expression seizes his face. He pulls the phone back, looks at the screen again and then looks at Spike with the same type of expression he uses when shooting. Then Sam finally says, "Nat, this is Sam. Your brother. And why the hell are you calling me asking for Spike?"

"So what was that about?"

Wordy 's steps echo a few feet ahead as they make the trek down the spotless corridor to the workout room. The floors have been newly buffed and Ed images Sam giving Spike chase down this hall, the friction on the floor is already in the negatives. He's always wondered why the SRU was set up with such hospitable conditions as slippery floors and endless staircases.

"What was what about?" Wordy questions, he has the same innocent smile Ed's seen all three of his daughters wear. He knew instantly where they inherited it from. Izzy has her mom's smile, though he hasn't been seeing it much these days.

Ed jogs to catch up, even though there's less than four feet of space separating them, old habits make him bunch his fits and throw his arms up to his chest. He hasn't been able to jog much since Izzy came into his life. "You made us leave just when it was getting good."

"Spike dating Sam's sister is none of our business." They round the corner and find the workout room empty. The SRU has been strangely void of officers or personnel lately. Team Four must be out on call, Team Two is on the shift after Team One, and Team Three has this week off.

"You say 'our'," Ed gestures to the space between them, the space they share. "But what you really mean is 'my'." He points to himself with a grin, taking the situation in jest, because that's what it is, funny. Sam's going to destroy Spike whenever he finds out. There's nothing better than nervous Spike and angry Sam. It's just like being teleported back in time four years.

Wordy doesn't reply, just keeps his grin as he picks a treadmill out of the herd. He starts his gait at a normal pace. Not to slow. It's comforting when the normalcy weaves its wave back into their relationship. It reminds Ed of the countless times over the last twenty years he's come into this room and Wordy's been watching some tear-jerker or children's show just so he had something to talk to his girls about. The Boss forbade anything from the Disney Channel after the first fifteen minutes of a tween show Lilly liked.

"It becomes my problem if there's team conflict concerning it." Ed sits on a bench and starts to fiddle around with the weight amount on a barbell. Someone on Team Four is definitely overzealous.

Wordy releases a guttural laugh that's a hybrid of a cough and a huff. "I'm sure Sam and Spike can sort it out without your mediation."

"Wordy, I'm the second last person who wants to admit it." The first being Greg, which is why they're hurting so bad. If Greg would step up and do something about the wound while it's bleeding, they wouldn't be constantly hemorrhaging week after week. Ed's brought it up more than once, but when they discuss it, everyone gets on the defensive. "But the team dynamics haven't exactly been what they used to be."

Wordy nods his head in agreement, arms pumping as the speed of the machine accelerates. "We're all guilty of it. Things haven't been the same since Toth was called in."

The weights lock into place. "I think things have been off since before that." Maybe when Lew died the landmine sent a shockwave into the future, rippling their lives and how the team reacts around each other. But Ed thinks it was happened before that. Maybe Jules getting shot and being replaced by Donna. They had to learn how to deal with a new person for four months and then one day Donna was gone. The spot was rightfully Jules', but still there was a sense of injustice. Maybe it was Sam showing up one day and Rolie disappearing. Everyone started disappearing after that.

There's no media sound in the workout room because Wordy, who usually insists on being in charge of the radio or TV has forgotten to turn something on. Ed leans back and positions himself underneath the barbell. He lifts the weight and watches the luminous industrial lighting. The SRU is now all green and eco-friendly. The government replaced the lighting system last year and now when no one is using the workout room, or locker rooms, or hallways the lights just turn off. It's dangerous but they're saving the world.

He hears Wordy's sneakers pound against the plastic tread on the machine. Hears the metal clank as he raises the barbell and the edge of it smacks against the hooks hanging off the support rods. It shocks his balance but he regains his grip without much difficulty.

"How's Izzy doing?" Wordy asks in his mid-run pant. The machine is shaking with the pressure of his bounding footsteps.

Ed grins and stops his repetitions. Izzy, his little princess. Today he dressed her in a blue sundress that Sophie's mom bought for her during their last shopping trip. He put a clip in her hair because it's still a little bit short and the blue brought out her eyes. She threw her oatmeal all over that outfit and ended up wearing pajamas to grandma and grandpa's because no one did the laundry that weekend. "Izzy's doing really great. She's crawling everywhere. I'm thinking about sticking a mop on the bottom of her and maybe the house will get clean for once."

"I told you all that baby proofing we did would come in handy."

"Please, I only took you up on the offer because I had to help you do it the last three times."

They both share the same laugh and Wordy adjusts the speed on the treadmill. "How's Sophie doing?"

"Fine." Ed's answer is curt and final. He lies back on the bench that's already grown sticky with his sweat

"I don't think Shel and I have seen her since that Canada Day barbeque at your place." Both men chuckle as they remember that day. Spike spent too much time with the kids, then too much time with the Molsons, and then too much time in the sun. Sam wasn't looking too hot by the end of the afternoon. They all tested him mentally and physically, at first to see if he could safely make it home, when it became clear that he could it became some sort of sport. "She wasn't around much then either."

"Wordy, just let it go." He grunts as he presses the barbell up.

"Ed, it's obviously something. Maybe I can help."

"Fine." He drops the weight into place and sits up again. "Sophie won't touch Izzy. At first it started with little things and now it's feeding, dressing, sometimes even looking at her. She doesn't acknowledge her, Wordy."

Wordy stops his machine and grabs a towel draping over the handles on a neighboring treadmill. He approaches Ed; face clear of emotion, no pity, or concern, or the softness that Ed expected. "I could send Shel by with some cookies or something. Get her to talk to Sophie."

"I don't know if it would do anything." It's a nice gesture but Shelley's not a professional. She's a mother and a wife of an SRU officer but apart from that, her and Sophie barely have anything in common. "I mean—"

"Shel, went through some postpartum after Ally."

"I didn't know that." Wordy and his medical secrets. It's surprising, but then again it's not. Wordy is very overprotective of his family, Ed can understand why he wouldn't share something so personal. If it's anything like what he's experiencing with Sophie, then they're sharing the same basic feeling of failure.

Wordy turns away, it may be out of shame, it may be because he's on the prowl for his next machine. "It's not something I like to talk about."

Ed shakes his head, fingers wringing against the slick metal barbell. "We can talk a guy off a ledge, or get someone to drop a knife, or diffuse a bomb. But we can't deal with our wives or our kids?"

Wordy sighs and claps a hand onto his shoulder. "Family matters are a lot trickery than those things. Sometimes the best way to deal with them is to get some outside help."

Wordy drops his towel at the end of the machine and moves around back to adjust the level of weights. He shakes his head because someone on Team Four is definitely trying to kill themselves with that they have it set at. "How old is Izzy now?"

"She turned six months on the fourteenth." Ed's perched on the seat of a stationary cycle watching as he fights with the L-shaped pin that holds the weights in place.

Wordy can hardly believe that Ed's daughter is six months old, let alone everything that's happened in that time peroid. Six months ago the team was a team. Six months ago he was hardly taking aspirin, now he takes more medications than he does eat meals. The frightening thing is that six months means that their probationary period is coming to an end and Toth might be back soon. He has vague shameful memories of what transpired in that room last time. Sometimes he swears he can still hear the scratching of the polygraph needle. He doesn't know if he can handle the stress of Toth with the Parkinson's.

Finally the pin slips into place with a metal clink and he stands, stretching out his back. "I can't believe it's been six months already."

"Yeah." Ed's legs pump furiously on the cycle machine. He turns his head and with a slight smile states, "I think it's time for another SRU baby."

Wordy laughs. This morning before work he drove by Ed's house, just like he used to four years ago, and picked him up. They went to Timmy's and got their usual, even brought in a twelve pack of doughnuts for the rest of the team which will likely go to the moochers on Team Two. Neither apologized for the way they've been acting, but they've both come to an acceptance. Ed is Team Leader, and as such he does have decisions to make when regarding the team's safety. Wordy thinks that if his illness ever came to the point where it was debilitating, where he couldn't hold a gun, couldn't pull a trigger, couldn't drive a car, then he knows that for the safety of the team, he would back down. In a few guttural grunts both men got this across to each other.

"Don't look at me like that." He wags a finger in Ed's direction and sits on the battered cushion of the weight machine. "Three girls are enough, as much as Shel and I would like to add another we have other things to focus on."

He will never tell Shelley, but now that it's definitely not an option, he would love to have another child. He misses when his girls were small enough to fit in the crook of his arm. Now that they're growing independent, it makes his sickness all the more omniscient. One day Ally won't need her meat cut up for her, one day Maggie won't need him to reach to the top shelf for a cup, one day Lilly won't need him to go to her school to stomp out a bully. What's he supposed to do then?

"So who do you think will next?" Rhetorics is a game they often play. It's not so much a game as Ed throwing out random theories and him trying to be the voice of reason and in doing so disapproving them. The others call it gossip, but they've been doing it for the last twenty years and it isn't likely that they're going to stop soon. "Spike?"

"Well," the word stresses ad he pushes the butterfly pads together with his forearms. "He is seeing Sam's sister."

Ed chuckles with skepticism, leaning forward on the cycle. "And then Sam and Spike's mom kick his ass. I don't think Braddock is exactly an Italian last name."

"So what about Sam?"

"Hmm." Ed grins and leans back, cycling with no hands. "I could see him having a happy little accident."

Wordy chuckles because neither of them have any right to be judgmental about unplanned pregnancies. Izzy and Ally weren't exactly scheduled babies. More like drive home from work and the wife is standing in the doorway holding an ultrasound or a pregnancy test type of baby. "Of course that would put an end to his Samtastic phase."

"Hey what about—"

"Morning Jules." Wordy shouts as she quickly walks past the workout room entrance.

She takes a few steps backwards until she's standing in the doorway. Instead of a gym bag she's uses a large purse. Wordy always liked this, the solitary beacon of femininity in the pool of testosterone that is the SRU. The brown bag is dragging off her shoulder this morning.

"Hey guys." She grins; her face is still bruised, though the colors have shifted to hues of black and blue. "Ugh, we're doing work out?"

"What's the matter Jules?" Ed starts to purposely pedal harder to goad her. "Party all weekend?"

"Oh yeah, you know me."

"No rest for the weary." Wordy offers and they share a similar smile. He and Jules by no means have comparable personal lives but somehow there has always been an unspoken connection. The pain of her injury, knowing that it's a physical attribute that everyone can see; it's why he doesn't mention it. It's like his illness. Though no one can see it, they all know it's present.

"Yeah, what about the dead?"

Ed laughs and wraps his towel around his neck again like a fashion statement. "That depends on where you're going."

Jules rolls her eyes at him. She adjusts the bag against her shoulder and her fingers play nervously off of each other. "Hey, do you know if Sarge is in yet?"

"I think he's in the briefing room."

"Thanks." She adjusts her bag a final time and as she takes her first step there's a clatter that reverberates down the hallway. "What's going on in your locker room?"

"Well—" Ed begins as his grin grows wide.

"Oh no." She waves her hand through the air to cut his sentence short. Before Ed can win her back she continues down the hallway shouting out, "You guys and your gossip. I swear you cross through the elevator doors and you're back in high school."

"So." Once Jules is a safe distance down the hall Ed leans forward on the bike, his fingers gripping the handles hard while his legs keep pumping. "What about Jules? She's seeing that Steve guy, right?"

Wordy does his final press and reaches forward for his towel. "Ed you gotta give this up."

"I just don't like being the newest dad at the SRU." Ed's legs start to lose their clockwork momentum and the machine beeps that its circuit is almost complete. It must be one hell of a conversation that Sam and Spike are involved in. "I'm too old to be the new dad."

"Do you know who the new dad was before you?" He sighs remembering three consecutive paternity leaves. Three consecutive baby showers held for Shelley. Always wondering whether to invite Jules. Spike always complained that he didn't get to go, always half serious. "Me. For eight years it was me. No one here has kids. Our jobs aren't exactly safe."

The mechanical whirring of the pedals as they slow echoes through the empty room and for the first time Wordy realizes that he forgot to turn on the TV or the radio. "Winnie's a dispatcher, her job's safe. Do you think—"

"It's not what you think." Spike chases after Sam as he briskly marches down the corridor, the remnants of his solder past leaking through.

Sam's entry into the workout room is flawless; it's so flawless it's rudimentary. Wordy and Ed exchange a glance because they know that everything is going to come clean now that the guys have had a chance to talk things out. Spike's entry, is less than perfect, his feet loose resistance on the newly waxed floor and give out underneath him. Both the archway and Sam offer him support.

"Spike, Buddy. Slow it down." Ed laughs sitting sideways on the bike as both men enter the room and pick their machine. "You're all jittery."

Spike points to Sam, almost jumping on the spot that he's so overemotional. It reminds Wordy of when he pranked Spike as a rookie. It took weeks for Spike to actually talk to him again. "He's got me all pegged wrong."

Sam pulls a straight smile and shrugs. "Spike slept with my sister."

Spike's mouth hangs agape. "I didn't sleep with anyone's sister."

"Well Spike." Ed leaves his machine and clamps a hand down on poor Spike's shoulder, locking him in place. "Since me, Wordy, Jules and Sarge don't have sisters, that leaves one guy."

"It's not like that."

Wordy shakes his head, because Jules is right. This place can transform into high school so quickly that he doesn't even see it happen half the time. It's the locker rooms. The locker rooms have this throwback that brings out the menacing mentality in all of them. "Come on guys, lighten up."

"Oh," Ed has Spike in a half hug now. Spike is paler than usual and Sam has his ear buds in and already doing heavy reps with weights that might make the Team Four hulk tremble. "You're saying that if you had a sister, you'd let Spike date her?"

"Yeah." He doesn't miss a beat. He smiles at Ed, Spike and Sam who probably can't hear his words but would definitely benefit from them. "You're all stand up guys, I don't see what's so bad about having one of you in the actual family."

The back of his neck starts to sweat as he sits solitary in the briefing room. The skies in Toronto have cleared and the early morning September sun is blaring through the windows. It's not the weather that's causing him to sweat, though the temperatures this week have been predicted to be at record highs. It's reading over the reports that benignly waited for him when he got to headquarters a little over an hour ago.

Winnie handed the folder to him with the same cookie cutter smile she wears every day like it's part of her uniform. She was called in early today because Pete went home sick. Greg didn't ask about specifics, gossip around here has a habit of spreading like wildfire. He carried the folder with him to the locker room while he changed into his uniform and then to the briefing room, it was beginning to feel like one of those high school projects where the students have to carry around a hardboiled egg as a surrogate child. Ed said when Clark was given the project; he left the egg in his locker for the week. He wonders if Dean ever had the project.

The folder contains four pieces of paper. Two of the pieces he's familiar with. They're recognizable because he's the author of them. They're the disciplinary reports that he created for Ed and Sam last Friday before he dashed out of the building and to the airport to catch his plane. It's the other two pieces of paper that have his heartbeat ticking like a high strung metronome.

Per protocol Commander Holleran analyzed the reports not only to learn what faults the constables commited on the field, but also to make sure that Greg was being fair in his formal punishment. The thick lines where signatures were required are signed and everything seems in place. Greg scans over Holleran's note that's attached via a paperclip. Basically, it states that even though Team One should know better, Friday was insane and everyone is allowed to slip up now and again, so he's not taking the reprimand any further.

As Greg thinks about the irony of his boss not caring what the team did in the field, but some military psychiatrist who's not even connected to the SRU in any faction does, he flips to the last page, which might as well be a death certificate. It's a statement from Holleran declaring that he's sent copies of the reports to Toth, and that Toth has read the reports and wants to meet with the team again in exactly one month. One month.

So Greg sits at the table staring down the note that means going through literal hell again, thinking that if he glares hard enough, the letters will rearrange themselves and he won't have to tell the team about the review. How is he supposed to tell the team about the impending review? That they'll have to sit in that room again, attached to that machine like prisoners of war when they've done nothing wrong. Hardly anything wrong. When is he supposed to tell them about the review? Today and let them worry about it for an entire month?

"Sarge?" Jules gives a tentative knock on the door to garner his attention, but remains outside of the room in case he's finishing classified paperwork.

"Morning Jules." He greets with a weary smile and tucks the pages back into the folder.

She takes a few steps into the room, the way the light falls over her face shadows the bruises and he can almost forget what happened on Friday. "I was wondering if I could talk to you?"

"Of course." He relaxes in his chair and gestures for her to sit down. He vaguely remembers Sam mentioning to him that Jules would be coming to talk to him. He hopes this isn't concerning their relationship. He knows that it's something they'll have to discuss but he cannot deal with it now.

"Oh, it won't take long." She waves her hands and continues to stand, her large purse bounces off the table and it shakes precariously. "I was just wondering if I could take off for an hour at noon?"

He sighs and rubs a hand over his forehead. "I guess—"

"It's a doctor's appointment, a follow up for—" she points to the bandage over her temple. "I should be able to get in and out pretty quick."

"Yeah." His fingers line together as an empty feeling of remorse grows in his stomach. "I think that'll be fine."

Great she smiles and hikes the purse up on her shoulder. "Just call me if something happens."

Her shoes echo down the hall and then there's the distant thump of a door hitting a wall and hissing closed. There's also a muffled din that he can only guess is the guys in their locker room. Most of the days, it's just like high school. He wonders what they would do if he came in with five hard boiled eggs. How many would be eaten by the end of the day.

The guilt boils within him again, it shifts in his stomach like a private tempest. He feels like he's constantly failing everyone he knows. The team by being unable to guide them out of strenuous and dangerous situations. Instead he seems to direct them right through the warning signs and into the belly of the beast.

He failed his son. He didn't want to leave Dean. Confessing his sexuality to someone, especially an estranged father that he don't even share citizenship with let alone any common interests takes courage. He wishes that his priorities weren't so skewed that he could've stayed in Texas, that he and Dean could've gone out for coffee or barbeque and talked about whatever he wanted to talk about because it's obvious no one is listening to him at his house.

He fears for his son. Not because the lifestyle choice he's made is wrong, or unnatural, or sinful, or sacrilegious. But with all the bullying and negativity concerning homosexuality today he needs a family system as a support structure. Nothing has changed, at least not to Greg, he still loves his son just as he always did and always will. For the person Dean is. His son.

He wants to write him a letter saying everything he didn't get to say in the sticky airport seats, but then Kate might find it and throw around accusations and he doesn't want to accidentally 'out' his own son. He wants to write an email, but discussing these things through online correspondence seems so crass. He wants to send Dean a ticket to come visit him one weekend, but he doesn't want to seem like he's trying to pry apart the family Kate's created for him. Maybe a phone call would be the best bet? Just to check up see how he's handling life as a post-graduate of high school?

There's another knock at the door, heavier, angrier. When he looks up Sam is standing in the doorway jaw set and face clearing itself of a flush. Something went down in the locker room and because the last situation Greg was involved in resulted in a Toth response, he's glad he doesn't know what it is. "Sarge, can we talk?"

"Yeah." He nods but moves away from the table that remains upright only on the prayers of all the SRU officers. By the looks of Sam, he shouldn't be let anywhere near this table. "We should be getting to the workout room."

The lady across from her keeps giving her the bitch eye. All of the women in this waiting room keep giving her equal amounts of the bitch eye. Maybe it's because they're all further along in their pregnancies and they're fully showing like fat guys at water parks and she's still perfectly skinny. Maybe it's because her face still looks like someone used it as a punching bag. Maybe it's because they all have doting husbands by their sides, holding their hands, patting their plump bellies, and handing them bottles of mineral water and both the seats next to her are empty.

It's not his fault, she knows. She booked the appointment Friday when she was wading knee deep through denial. If a car didn't blow up, she still wouldn't have uttered a word about the pregnancy to Sam. This time was the only slot the doctor had available, because her doctor happens to be one of those jugglers who is a physician and an obstetrician, something she didn't care about after she moved to Toronto years ago and just needed to cross 'find doctor' off her list. She usually gets bumped by mentioning to the receptionist that she's on lunch and that she's a cop. All those ladies and their twitching eyes have to wait and glee warms the inside of her.

Her fingers pull at the side seam of her jeans. Jeans that still hug her curves perfectly, jeans that she's been able to fit into for the last two year, including this morning because she's not nine weeks along. She changed back into her clothes before coming here, no sense in walking around in a bulletproof vest and uniform. Instead she wears a charcoal colored top, it's billowy, and it covers her stomach. All the other woman have tight fitting clothing that looks like it came out of a maternity catalogue from the 80s. She will never look like that.

She has to pee. Does she have to pee? She thinks she has to pee. It might be the nerves. She's not good with doctors. She's not good with medicine. She's not good with the smell and the white and the metal. But the nurse who phoned this morning to confirm her appointment told her that she needed a full bladder in order to do the ultrasound. She doesn't think she has to pee now.

In her peripheral, someone enters the office through the lazy swinging door that squeaks several times after it's been used. They're a grayish blur that falls to the seat beside her. She smells him before she sees him, the sweat from the workout room still lingering on his skin, and a knowing grin graces her face.

"Sorry I'm late." He leans over pressing his lips to her good cheek. It's an action they're usually denied, especially in such a public place. But here in an obstetrician's office it's somehow acceptable. "The guys wouldn't stop interrogating me about where I was going."

She doesn't care how late he is. He showed up. He said he would and he did and she might cry. She definitely has to pee. He's still wearing his cool pants, but has abandoned the uniform top in place of a plain black t-shirt. His hand falls to her stomach, something she's going to have to get used to over the next however many months, just like she got used to his hand on her left side after she got shot. When they got back together, he also rekindled the action of caressing her ribs. He doesn't know she knows, but she does. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine, Sam."

"Did you talk to Sarge?"

"Actually I'm kinda hungry."

He retracts his hand and shakes his head in disappointment at her, "Jules—"

"He was busy." Her voice is a harsh whisper because the women who were judging her before are now leaning forward trying to get details on their conversation.

"He wasn't busy when I talked to him."

Her hands clamps down on the arm of the chair. "You didn't tell him did you?"

"No, because I thought that you would have enough sense to want to protect our baby."

"Julianna." The plump nurse calls from behind the front desk.

She journeys into the interior of the office trying not to react to all the women who were there before her and still have to wait. Sam follows her and the nurse gives her a cautious look before giving him the once over. She has to be weighed, it's something she's used to at weigh-in with the guys around, it doesn't matter, she's always the lightest anyways.

"119." The nurse marks down the weight on her chart.

"What?" She steps off the scale with a loud clank. "No. Do it again."

The nurse rolls her eyes at what apparently is her childish behavior. But harshly gestures for her to get back on the scale. She climbs back on and watches as the nurse taps the weight over with her pen until it rests over the '19'. "You're 119."

"I've always been 115."

"Well you're not now." The nurse makes some final sketches on the clipboard and leaves the room.

She steps off the scale, resets the weights, and then steps back on. When she hears Sam sigh she rambles, "I'm 115. I'm 125 with equipment. I've weighed that much since high school."

"Jules it's four pounds." Sam laughs at her from where he's seated on the edge of a chair, hands draping over his knees.

"That's easy for you to say, it's not your four pounds." The weights clink into place and the metal mechanism starts to tumble to the side at '19'. She slaps the weights back to their original position and steps off the scale.

"Four pounds isn't that big of a deal. No one's going to notice it."

"I'm not tall, people will notice it."

"It's all going to go to your stomach, you're pregnant."

"I'd better be nine weeks pregnant." She sighs and uses a step stool so that she can sit on the side of the examination table. Her feet dangle off the ground and the soles of her shoes keep getting stuck on the pole running the length of the table. Her fingers poke around at the waist of her pants that are still loose. The legs fit fine, her shirt fits fine.

"Jules." Sam groans and pushes himself up from the chair. He stops before her; he's still taller even when she's aided by the table's added height. "You. Are. Pregnant. Things are going to happen and you're not going to like most of them."

She lets him pull her forward so her arms hang lazily around his neck and her face rests against his chest. He still smells like workouts and locker room antics. "That's why I'm here, you have—"

He pulls back from the embrace and stares at her with squinting eyes and a single raised eyebrow. She tilts her head away from his suspicious expression. "What?"

"Did you get a new bra?"

"What?" She glances down to her chest, to the white skin that greets her. Her top was modestly cut, but is showcasing a little more skin than she remembers it did a few weeks ago. "No."

"Those are new."

"The bra isn't new."

"Not the bra."

He stretches a hand towards her to touch the objects in question. She swats his hand away. "Sam."

"Jules." He replies showing with his hands how big he managed to measure her in that short amount of time. He always was army boy stealth. "There's your four pounds."

Next Chapter - I have no clue. I have point A and Point B but no line. But there's a oneshot that'll be up in a few days.

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