ILLEGITIMATE

Chapter 5

Served and Lifted

Ironically, he sees more of Jules now that she's transferred departments than he did when they were on the same team. On slow days sometimes he manages to sneak away from restock or working out in order to linger around her immobile desk. She hates being anchored, complains her muscles and bones are tense and she wants to go back upstairs to the workout room. Most of the time she does have a large bowl of salad somewhere within arms reach among skyscrapers of paper. She reclines in a chair steadily losing its structural integrity which it voices with a howl. She's beyond adorable.

The team transfers into a surrogate family. Dissimilar men who each contribute different and welcomed traits to her lack of domestic support. Jules' coworkers complain in open loudmouthed and sour comments about the constant and changing rotation of men coming down to visit her. Before he thinks up a proper reason to arrest the blonde woman encroaching on middle age, Jules laughs almost sarcastically and in a louder voice states, "You think they forgot that I know how to use a sniper rifle. And that I'm really good at it."

House trips happen once a week. He prefers them to huffing down three flights of stairs to visit her. They're more intimate. It's not like they've been intimate, haven't done anything even considered remotely intimate although she did let him feel the baby kick last week.

They were sitting on her couch watching a host of bad sitcoms all strung so closely together they became too similar to distinguish. Her body contorting, back bending against the arm of the couch because she's starting to get muscle spasms. The muscles on her left side are weak from a particular armor piercing bullet so they contract and seize more often. Sometimes her left arm hangs limply, swings like a broken tree branch in a stormy wind while she bites into her lower lip. He only watches with a passive expression of pity.

The laugh tracks and her Cirque Du Soleil movements halt when her hand flies to her stomach. Immediately his mind delves into an onslaught of the worst scenarios. He refuses to watch any of the birthing shows with her. Doesn't think he can handle the mixed reality of viewing a birth, with her sitting beside him in a state that predestines her eventually giving birth. He also doesn't want to see her reaction to the event. Doesn't want to know that there's nothing he can do for her while she's in such a state of extreme pain and fear. Secretly in the safety of his own apartment he sneaks an episode in at five minute intervals. Freezes because of complications and actualities.

He starts and the opposite arm of the couch digs into his ribs. When he turns to her his hands juggle invisible nothings in the air. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." She winces once, then stretches out her back. "It's just kicking hard."

"Oh."

"It's what I get for drinking juice."

"It's what you get for drinking that mango protein shit."

She laughs, fingers still caressing over the thin material on her white tank top. Her belly button sticks out like a hitchhiking thumb. "I can't have caffeine. I stopped drinking those shakes too. Just all natural stuff."

"Makes sense."

"Uh." She groans and rubs her fingertips in a circular motion. Her face washes off its pained expression and falls into a fat lipped pout as she examines her inanimate stomach.

"Still kicking?"

"Yeah." She balances her elbow on the arm of the couch, leans into the palm of her hand. "It keeps me up at night." In the same sentence she lunges forward for him, like it's a natural solution. "Give me your hand."

The whole moment is surreal. Her hand grasping his, cool fingers ringing around his, leading him to the thin cotton sheathing the bump. Immediately there's a flick from inside. Then a full out thump when his hand flattens to the curve of her stomach. He thinks the baby knows. Knows he's the wrong guy, that he doesn't belong. Doesn't have the right to be doing what he's doing. But Jules' hand is on top of his, and her face fills in the outlines of his, noses almost brushing and she's smiling while watching the interaction. It's almost enough to make him feel like he belongs, even under the bombardment protests coming from within her.

In the lightest of strokes, her thumb glides over the back of his hand. With a serene expression she enlightens, "I think it likes you. It never kicks this much."

After those words he starts to increase the frequency of his visits. Going down to the fourth floor once a day instead of once every few days. Trying to drop by her house more often in case she needs anything. In case she needs him. Just to be with her. Because she thinks it likes him.

She needs him. He stops by with a milkshake for her, in the July sun it perspires in his hand. Her house isn't much better. It's colossal, old and she doesn't have air conditioning. He wonders how the baby isn't slow roasting within her. He only means to stop by for a quick chat, just to make sure she's well rested, healthy, and her fridge is stocked. All those things he really shouldn't be doing but can't help. It's similar to after she was shot, no one else is stepping up. Also he kind of loves doing it.

Her face is sorrowful when she opens the door, phone glued to her ear. She beckons him in with a weak wave of her wrist and shuts the door silently behind him. He doesn't speak a word, and she hasn't said anything into the phone. He assumes she's listening to an important monologue from Shakespeare on the other end. Toeing off his shoes, he walks to put her milkshake in the fridge and finds the kitchen island a complete mess, the results of a hurricane which passed through her house, ripped up every book and stuck the pages to the counter. Envelopes and pieces of paper with professional looking type are strewn so wildly some overflow onto the stools.

Her fridge rests on near empty. A few bottles of water, a rapidly decaying bundle of spinach, an empty carton of milk and now a milkshake. He sighs because she's working herself to exhaustion. Knows she pulled double overtime on Monday and Tuesday because everyone in her department is going away on their summer vacations. Knows she's already started up a college fund. Knows that upon Steve's death she received shit for his baby, and didn't go seeking compensation.

"Yeah." She nods into the phone while he tosses the spinach and the phantom milk into a curiously empty garbage bag. "Yeah, okay. Thanks." Her gratitude is mocking and she slams a thumb into the off button. Taps the phone to her chin a few times.

"What's wrong?"

"Yesterday when I was walking to my car I was served." She shoves the phone back into its base and then runs a shaky hand through her loose hair.

"As in tennis?"

Eyebrow arches with doubt as her elbows dig into the counter. Her hands cup the back of her neck and she's attempting to stretch out her back, pop it, but she can't arch it well anymore. She's wearing jeans that are too long for her and cuffed up at the hem and a long black tank top which stops at her hips. Her stomach has outgrown its basketball qualifications, is slowly intruding on beach ball territory. It has a more even and defined slope. Along with the addition of her pronounced stomach comes the waddle. He watches her when she leaves the couch for frequent bathroom breaks. Her hips swing of their own accord.

"As in sued."

"What?" He stands beside her and reexamines the papers, for the first time noting the actual intent on the documents. The signatures. The Latin. "For what?"

"Steve's mom and sister are suing me for full custody."

Steve and his whole fucked up Medicine Hat family. The only thing good to come out of that town is Jules. She clawed her way out. Steve dragged her back down. The rage he feels for Steve, the happy-go-lucky paramedic who knocked up the only woman he's ever loved, probably on purpose, is insurmountable and immeasurable. It's incomparable to any anger he's ever felt. He wants to meet these woman who think they have any claim to this baby. "You're fucking kidding me."

"Is what I said." She sighs and leans her head against the palms of her hands. Bangs spread through her fingers like water from a sprinkler. "It's not like I wouldn't have let her see the baby. I told her that at the funeral. I said I would make trips back just so they could visit."

"Then why sue?"

"Because apparently I'm endangering the baby's life by working at the SRU."

He groans, trying to sort through the mess of papers. There's a list three pages long of things Jules did before being pregnant. One five pages long of things she's done while pregnant which can be construed as endangering the baby. They want to take away her baby because she's exhausting herself while working overtime to support it.

"I phoned a lawyer and apparently they do have a case. That the best thing to do would be to settle on joint custody."

"What? That's ridiculous."

"Is what I said." Her chest heaves with her rapid breathing. Her fingers tremble against her forehead, bangs lazily slip through.

"Hey, you can't take this seriously."

She shoves away from the counter, stands with her hands where her hips should be. An action alluding to anger, which is false. She's not angry, she's terrified. Her eyes are unfocused and lost behind tears. Face flushes with their imminent arrival. "I have to, Sam. I have to because there's no one else to—" There is a hiccup in her voice and the first two fat tears slide down her cheeks. Land on her stomach.

"Okay. Okay." Grasping her wrist he pulls her into a half hug. Intends for it to be slack, but she curls up into his arms and against his chest. Her arms loop around his neck forcing his head to bow, to relish in her scent and the soft exposed skin in the crook of her neck. Her body still racks with noiseless sobs and each motion juts her stomach into him like a constant reminder. One hand finds the unnatural tightness in the small of her back, jagged muscles and protruding bones. The other rests on the side of her stomach, thumb skimming over the material. "It's going to be okay."

In a deep inhalation she twists her head back, asking him the question directly, "How do you know that?"

"Because you've got four guys at the SRU with multiple connections." He's swaying them a little, trying to lighten the situation. Understands its gravity, understands the repercussion of court and Steve's seared fingerprint on Jules' life now. But she's not alone. "They're not going to let this baby go. I'm not going to let this baby go."

Her arms unhook from his neck, slink down his arms until their fingers group. Arching forward she places the softest kiss on his cheek, right over the premature wrinkle in his face. The dried up riverbed of a depressed white scar. He remembers sluggish Sunday mornings when the same kiss used to wake him up. It should have been enough. But it wasn't. To dip his toe in the water and ripple it. To have only a sip of beer. He couldn't let her be this close and let her drift away again.

Her arms relax within his and as she starts to float away, he pulls her back. Lips crushing against hers. Not a violent or harsh action, just surprising and strong compared to the pebble of a peck left on his cheek. They're both surprised. In all honesty he didn't think he had the gall to risk their reconstructed relationship on such a gamble, but every cell in his body voted for the embrace. She lets out a small gasp against his lips, muffled by his own mouth. Not a disgusted response, but not an encouraging one either.

His lips pulse over hers, rigid and stationary. The rejection begins to bud in his gut, but then her lips respond. Open to his, mirror each movement with perfect artistic synchronization. His fingers rain down the side of her neck, hers mow through his hair and it's a perfect mixture of past and present.

He walks her backwards until the counter hinders her motion, pressing the small of her back forward, against him. They don't fit together quite as well as they used too. She gasps free of his mouth as he kisses the skin on her jaw, under her chin. It's encouraging now. Free hand clamps down on his bicep, fingers massaging in bursts as he starts to suck on her neck.

Moans muffle against his shoulder. Dipping his head is starting to lose its novelty and before he knows exactly what he's doing, both his hands are sliding over her ass. Strong thighs covert under oversized jeans, he cups and lifts her to the edge of the counter, still strewn with court documents.

Her hands grip his shoulders and hold him at a distance. "Did you just lift me?"

"Yeah?" A little breathless his hands try to rest on her hips, except he can't find them. He assumes she's irritated over the inadvertent paper crumpling. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's just—" She pauses and a shy smile graces her lips. A hand returns to the back of his neck, tickling skin. "I just didn't know I could be lifted anymore."

Despite appearances, she hasn't put on a lot of weight. He didn't notice a difference when he lifted her, not a comparable one anyways. It's still way easier than dragging Sarge across the floor. For a moment he's concerned, but her stomach is healthy enough to act as a makeshift barrier between them. He grins, lopsided. Not arrogant but suggestive. "You're very liftable."

Mirth drains from her face and the grip on his shoulder strengthens. "Sam, do you really want—"

His lips crash into hers seizing and splitting. Tongue darts into her mouth quickly circling with hers, dancing though there is no battle for dominance. She tugs at the bottom of his shirt and it's ripped over his head. Discarded among the court dates and rotting spinach. His hand tangles into her hair, softer and thicker than before.

When his lips start to roam over her neck, hers follow. Like a dance they invented and both remember the steps to. Her kisses are light and teasing along his jaw and neck down to the center of his chest. His hand leaves her hair and wanders over her shoulders. Kneads at a breast through her top, it's significantly larger and firmer than before.

"We can't do this here." It's a clumsy mumble against his lips.

He's already situated between her legs, one of her thighs in his hand. Knows even though her grinding against him is making him hard, it would be physically impossible to have sex on the counter in her current condition.

"Couch?" He half suggests more intent on finding the bottom of her shirt.

"Don't see that happening either. Upstairs."

They have sex in her bed. The act unfolds slowly because she's regained what can only be high school ideologies about her body image. He attempts several times to rid her of her tank top before he's actually successful. She apologizes for her bra not being nicer and he wants to tell her he's not offended she chose to wear something comfortable. She shouldn't be wearing clothes to please him. They continue kissing and groping for a long time because he's afraid to do anything else. Is still adjusting to just how big her breasts have grown within a lacey black bra. How big her pale stomach is even though she rests on her back beneath him. How there's a distorted red scar stretching with her skin. He tries not to stare at anything below her collarbone. Doesn't want to make her uncomfortable.

Finally, she reaches down and unzips his pants. He sighs loudly because the amount of friction between them downstairs started to get him hard. On her bed it's unbearable. Clothing is shucked at a faster pace. He unhooks her bra while she's straddling him, only after she gives an affirming moan into his neck. The first time is awkward and a little sloppy. Much like a second chance at a first time should be. They can't figure out the right positions, the right pacing. The second second time is perfect and satiating because there's nothing resting on it. It's unhurried and loving because all boundaries have already been crossed.

Afterwards, his hand falls across the hidden jut of her hip, the expanse of her stomach, and she physically stiffens. She doesn't say a word to him. Doesn't need to. He understands their actions, having sex; it doesn't immediately reignite the relationship. It doesn't necessarily mean a thing. It means he got careless and caught up in emotions and she was blinded by hormones and let him.

Without a single misplaced movement, a deeper exhalation or any tick that could support his regret at her denial, he disengages from her. Reclaims his draped arm and entwined legs to search for his clothing. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he finds his boxers on the floor. Twilight leaks in through the open window, shadowing over the trees and houses outside.

"Sam?" She half sits up in the bed. The floral sheet bunches at her breasts, sweeping down around her stomach. In the light it looks like the robe of a Greek Goddess.

He points to the door while zipping up his jeans. "I'm going to go."

"You don't have to. I mean—"

"No, it's fine."

But she's already redressing. Wriggling under the sheets while shimmying on her underwear, then glancing around the room for further pieces of clothing. He's almost fully dressed except for his shirt which is in the kitchen.

"Sam. Please?"

Now he sighs and rubs at the back of his neck. Her voice, the tremor in it. The emotion he's only ever heard from her few times before. He bends over, retrieving her shirt and stretches the opening in his hands. He wishes knew more about her, could feel free to ask her about her life, about what made her so afraid to love, to accept love. Made her afraid to let him see her in what she thinks are inferior positions. The physical weakness after she was shot. The physical changes in her body due to pregnancy. Maybe she values him, loves him and that's why she can't handle the idea of him giving her a negative response. He loves her. That's why he would never give her a negative anything.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he guides the material of her shirt over her head. Watches her arms pop out of the sides and how black fabric replaces the thin cotton of the bed sheets. Rolls over her breasts and stomach. Her face is half lit, blossoming in the same post sex blush he remembers. The muscles in her jaw contract into a smile when he cups her cheek. The smile reverberates in their kiss. Slow and meaningful. He rests his forehead against hers, nose against nose and tucks her hair behind her ear.

One hand lands on his thigh as she shifts closer to him. A thumb brushes over his cheek, over his scar and he sighs again. Not out of frustration or desperation anymore. Contentment in her fingers and her hands and her breath on his lips.

"I don't want to sound clingy." She moves closer still. Chin resting on his bare shoulder, cheek against his neck. Firm breasts and stomach pressing into his chest. "But what exactly are we?"

"We're whatever you want us to be."

"What do you want us to be?"

He collects the hair cascading over her shoulder and places a chaste kiss on her skin glowing in the fading light. "You know how I feel."

"Sam." The tremor returns to her speech. She withdraws, eyes intent on his thigh, then the sheets, then her stomach where her hand falls. "You can't honestly tell me that you want to—"

He kisses her again, more powerful this time. It's imbued with all his adoration so she knows when he speaks, he speaks the truth. So she knows she's all he's ever wanted. So she knows raising a child with her, even if it isn't biologically his own, would be the most exciting and rewarding experience of his life. "I want to Jules. I love you and I will fall in love with this baby the moment I see it."

"But." She hesitates. Always hesitates at the most pivotal moments between them. Before their first kiss, before the first time they had sex, when he first saw her bullet scar, when she told him about Steve, when she told him about the pregnancy. Always afraid of him judging her. Instead she plays with his free hand. Thumbs masking over his knuckles. "It will never be yours Sam."

It's a completely logical conclusion, which is completely bullshit because she doesn't know how he feels. His hand rubs over her stomach, feels the weight of it. "In a way that doesn't matter, no it won't."

Her hands move his to the opposite side of her stomach. It's static within, but the gesture speaks when she can't.

"Steve will always be its biological father. I'm not saying deny it that information. But I could be there to do stuff that dads do." She stifles a yawn, her eyes suddenly cloudy and half lidded in the darkened room. He gestures for her to lie back and leans to rest beside her. "It doesn't even have to call me Dad. It can call me something else like—"

"Uncle Sam?"

He groans and kisses her shoulder again, draping an arm around her stomach and adjusting his body to lie directly behind her. "There are a few months to work on names."

A few minutes pass and her breathing regulates. He thinks she's asleep and he contemplates running out and getting a few quick groceries so when she wakes there will be a decent meal in the house. Before he can move she mutters half out of sleep, "I wouldn't mind if it called you Dad."

Nodding into her shoulder, he holds her tighter. "Neither would I."

Next Chapter - Shit goes up. And then down. I will just say a BIG change happens.

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