ILLEGITIMATE

Chapter 12

Backs and Fronts

One of the main rules at the SRU is to keep home life and work life separate. Private and profession are different spheres entirely, but he can't seem to keep his from colliding. Maybe it's because Jules is a part of both. She stops by with Charlotte once a week to submit a small forest's worth of paper in neat files to the fourth floor. He insists on escorting them because he never knows when another disgruntled ex-employee might return. Plays dumb when Jules rolls her eyes at him. Wears the cool pants as he holds his daughter up and lets her press every button in the elevator twice.

Maybe it's because he sees them everywhere. They dress the inside of his locker. Pictures of Charlotte from the last thirteen months. Jules with her. With him. One of her pregnant with Charlotte. But he also witnesses them in obscurities. In every applicable case. Sometimes when he thinks he might not be able to pull the trigger, he imagines it's Jules or Charlotte down there with the maniac and finger muscles turn smooth as butter. Conscience squeaky clean.

Sometimes Team One has to deal with weird calls. Not the usual suicide or hostage situations. But things like protection detail or scheduled drug raids. They're infrequent but mess up his routine. This one is happening at two in the morning. It's nice because he gets to spend the day with his family. Slides a hand into the back pocket of Jules' jeans and nuzzles her neck while informing her he'll cook the eggs. Helps Charlotte on the playground equipment in the park. She can climb monkey bars because of him and squeals in delight, tiny legs kicking. Walks down the sidewalk with them, entwines his fingers with Jules' as they push the stroller together.

But he also has to go to sleep in the middle of the day. Light streaming through the window. Toddler daughter trying to be quiet and sneaking a peak through the closed bedroom door more than once. When he gets up to piss because he just can't hold it anymore and he still has a good three hours if he hurries and falls back asleep, it's time for Charlotte to go to bed. She wants to sleep in their bed, so he ends up napping with her curled up in his arm. One arm and one leg thrown onto his chest, his hand on her back to monitor her breathing. Before he leaves for the SRU, Jules kisses him goodbye, hesitates on letting go of his hand and tells him to come home safe.

The raid goes almost as planned. All their raids are almost fully successful. An informant, who happens to be a vice cop turned drug addict, rats out the time two minutes before the raid so they're forced to charge into the warehouse a little less than prepared. It's sort of like catching mice. Scared, running mice all hopped up on manmade drugs. This time it's coke.

On the second floor, he and Wordy are clearing out abandoned offices in what used to be a textile factory. Grabbing guys, giving the ones who fight back a good shake before slamming them into the wall and cuffing them. The upstairs is dark, the windows broken by vandals, then high school kids for fun. A cool November wind blows through the serrated edges of frosted glass.

He's stalking, rifle drawn and ready by some filing cabinets when the guy comes from behind him. It's not as bad as the CN Tower gift shop. He figured all the glass on the floor would lead to an obvious weapon, but no, the guy uses a pipe or something. He doesn't really know. Hits him twice in the back and then runs to the door where Wordy clotheslines him to the ground.

He was wearing his vest, which is bulletproof and probably did something to save something. He doesn't know what. Just knows the EMPs check out his bare back in the flashing red and blue lights of their rigs. Tell him nothing is broken but he'll be tender for a few days. From somewhere, the memory of Jules hitting the Eaton's Center creeps into his mind and he wonders if she felt like this. How did she lift her arms? How did he just let her?

Sarge checks with the paramedics who repeat that he's fine, but he gets a day off for recuperation anyway. He doesn't want it. Doesn't want to appear feeble. Went down after two hits with a pipe, but then again who wants a man on their team with poor mobility?

In the blue dawn he arrives home. Slams his car door and a painfully brings his bag upstairs. Charlotte is sleeping in her crib. Since she was born, every night he echoes the same action. Tenderly places a hand on her back to supervise her breathing, keeps it stationary for three or four repetitions until he knows she's healthy and just asleep. He's done this since she was in a bassinet three feet away from him.

An icy light engulfs the bedroom when he cracks open the door. Jules is sitting up in the bed, her back resting against a pillow, arm draped over her knee. Cotton sheet skirting around her angled legs in the waning moonlight. "You're home early."

"What are you still doing up?" Sets his gym bag on the ground, tries not to groan at the dull flame licking at his muscles and bones.

She holds up her cell phone, which was on the bed beside her. "I was worried."

"Jules, I'm fine."

"I wasn't there to watch your back, Braddock."

"Funny you put it that way."

"Huh?"

He shakes his head. Lips pursed because she's going to overreact. Overreacts to everything that happens to him or Charlotte. Paper cuts get antiseptic spray and a Band-Aid. His too. When they go outside in the summer, like last year to watch the Canada Day fireworks, she covered both him and Charlotte in bug repellant. But she doesn't pay any attention to herself.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he rolls the hem of his long-sleeved shirt until he successfully yanks it over his head. Tries to toss it to his bag, but his throw is weak and it ends up discarded on the ground.

"Oh my God, Sam." Her legs fling over the side of the bed, fingers trace empty shapes over what he assumes are bruises. Retreating a second, she clicks on the lamp. "Oh my God."

"It's fine."

"Have you seen it?"

"No but—"

"Tell me you got it checked out. "

Her voice ripples, the hidden effect of sympathy, compassion, understanding, love. "Paramedics checked it out on the scene."

"How did this happen?" Warm breath hits his back as cold fingers tickle down the periphery of the bruise. He can tell because they walk the line of pleasure and pain. Where the skin no longer aches.

"You're not—"

"How?" Another hot burst.

"A guy hit me in the back with a metal pipe."

"Oh my God." Fingers dabble lower down his sides until her arms slowly loop around his stomach. Her lips press against his ear as she softly embraces him. Feels the familiar and relaxing form of her body flush against him. "How does shit like this always happen to you?"

"It doesn't always happen."

"You got your face slashed, Sam." To prove a point pushes plump lips against the incorporeal scar. A white line on a white face. A simple laugh line.

"Bad things happen to the rest of the guys too. You just don't see it."

"I worry about you Sam, because I love you."

Ignoring the blazes in his shoulders, the bottom of his neck, his upper back, he faces her. Feels his knee push against the firm muscle of her inner thigh. His hand falls to her side where her ribs become scarce. Where four years earlier his life was literally ripped to shreds. Knows how she feels because it's how he did and does. They kiss, meet halfway because it's mutual, it's out of love, it's desired.

They haven't had sex in four months. Not from lack of desire or affection. But exhaustion and fatigue. When they did get a chance it would have been rushed and they both agreed there was no point when they couldn't enjoy each other. It wasn't worth being together if the whole act was timed. Finally they can take it slow. He doesn't know what made it difference. If the innate worry they have for each other had to unite, or if they had to be awake at 4:33am, but they can finally take their time.

He lowers her back slowly; hand around her waist, snaking underneath the nightshirt now riding a little high on her hips. Fingers running over cool, smooth skin he hasn't seen, let alone touched in ages. Her toes touch his ankles as she sinks into the bed. Lick up his calves through his jeans and hook at his waist. Her fingers dance over his back, careful of the bruises as his lips progress over her skin, eliciting a hushed moan when he reaches her neck. Her shirt is shucked like a corn husk, billows to the ground. He reveals in the memory turned current event of her body against his. The refreshing coolness of her skin mingling with his aflame.

Daylight pours through the window, when he reaches into a recognizable, yet underused drawer. The bedside table really having no use lately except for a stable entity to hold the lamp. He grabs a condom, which might actually have a fine layer of dust on it, and reads the expiry date before tearing it open.

Afterwards, when they're both coming down from the euphoric high, she reaches across the bed and teases a piece of his hair. Curls it around her forefinger. "God, I missed that."

"Me too."

"We should do it more often."

"I might need more convincing."

His lips part against the protruding bones in her chest and tongue flicks at the thin sheen of sticky sweat over pale skin. Her chest bumps his when she chuckles. When she moves an arm to flick his ear, he feels it coming through her collarbone.

They do have sex more often. Way more often. He doesn't exactly do the math because he's not a bragging guy and the only people he'd have to brag to would be the Team and that would be awkward. But it's nice. Not because it's sex and it's with Jules. But because he gets to be with her. Really be with her. He sneaks into the shower with her every so often. Rips back the curtain. The first time she yelled in surprise. The second time she gasped. The third time she gave him shit and said to get in already because it was getting cold. That's all the invitation he needs. Home is a paradise; it keeps his mind off work.

Team One ends up getting called in on a domestic abuse case. It's the usual suspect of a big, hulking guy who hates his job, his frail wife and their two kids. The kids, a boy and a girl are hidden between where the family's two couches conjoin. They end up getting the guy without a kill shot which is always good. But the case upsets everyone. Ed whose son Clark is going through rough times with the cliques in high school. Spike who probably thinks of his nephew. Sarge because he knows what the other side could have looked like. Wordy who has Shelly and his three little girls. He thinks of Jules, what she would have gone through, possible did in The Hat while not living with her grandfather. Thinks of Charlotte. She hides between the couches when he and Jules argue.

The locker room is somber after the hot call. Spike doesn't crack any jokes. None of them speak very much. No one suggests going out to The Goose. They just want to get home to their lives and respective families. Confirm everything is domestic bliss.

He sits in his SUV for a few minutes. Stares in the rearview mirror at the brown and pink car seat fastened into the backseat. Almost all the important decisions in his life have been made in an instant. Joining the army, coming to Toronto, falling in love with Jules, when he first kissed her, becoming a dad. Today is one of those days and he doesn't drive home. Not directly home. First he stops at a jewelry store.

Then another. Then another. Then he starts to think maybe they're not supposed to be married, because he can't find a ring that would look suitable on Jules' finger. One she would actually wear. But then, on the forth store, which he almost doesn't go into because she's phoning him, he sees it. It's perfect, not flashy but not cheap in appearance. A diamond guarded by two smaller ones on a white gold band. In an instant he buys it. Hides it under the front seat of his SUV until he knows the right time.

The vehicle slows to a crawl outside the house. The garbage can is already on the curb and he groans. It's garbage day tomorrow and he forgot bring it out. It's the one thing he does to donate to the upkeep of the house. Parking his car in the puddle riddled driveway he scurries to the house, hands clasped over his head.

Opening the door, he finds Charlotte standing directly on the other side, holding Pink Puppy in her arms and watching him curiously.

"Hi Charlotte."

"Da." She squeezes her arms around his calf and he swings her up and into his arms. She kisses his wet cheek and contorts her face at the wet touch of it.

"Sam?" Jules calls from upstairs.

"Yeah, I'm here." Charlotte presses a hand to his cheek, grinning at him. He moves her hand to his lips and kisses it loudly. Her laughter turns into a squeal as she claps her hands, and hugs him. "Sorry I—"

"Where the hell were you?" Jules skids to a halt on the landing to glare at him. "I phoned you, I phoned everyone on the goddamn team."

"I just—" Wiggles out of his shoes and immediately steps into a puddle of rainwater which soaks through his soak. "I had to do something."

"And you couldn't even phone me back?"

"I'm sorry Jules, I didn't—"

"Whatever." She interrupts and stomps down the rest of the stairs returning to the kitchen and the disaster of pots and pans within. "I just started supper because I didn't know when you'd be back."

"Jules."

"Please," she groans at the sink while waiting for a pot to fill with water. "Just play with Charlotte, she's been asking for you all day."

"Yeah." He nods and sets his daughter down on one of the couch cushions. She grins up at him and holds out her arms to be picked up again. "In a second Sweetie, let Daddy take care of his smelly clothes."

He pecks her on the tip of her nose and she giggles. Then spies on him from over the back of the couch as he jumps the stairs two at the time for her. Doesn't stop his pace until he's in the washroom. Has to toss his work clothes into the hamper. The wet black sock, from his foot escapes the pile and drops on the ground. With his stride, he boots it between the toilet and the sink. With a groan, he bends down, knees digging into the tiled floor, and blindly fishes out the sock along with a piece of paper.

A pristine, new piece of paper which is still folded from the packaging it was in before. A piece of paper with factory written instructions on it in both English and French. A piece of paper with very simple steps for very simple results. Simple results which alter futures in an instant. His future, Jules future, Charlotte's future. There's no dust on the paper and it's not waterlogged. He wonders how long it's been back there. How long since it drifted off the counter and onto the floor when Jules was in a scramble.

He abandons the sock, leaves his work clothes scattered in the bathroom and walks in a trance down the stairs. Charlotte still watches him, hands gripping the back of the couch, eyes peering like an owl. She wears a sly smile. Her mother's smile.

"Jules, what's this?" He places the instructions down on the counter and slides them towards her, like he's written an illicit sum on the piece of paper and they're in negotiations. He doesn't know why he found it where he did, if she left it there on purpose or not. He's starting to second guess simple things now.

With a slight smile trying to erase her prior attitude, she rubs floured hands on her apron. Leaves phantom handprints on her thighs. Thighs he's been touching and tasting an awful lot these last five months. Condoms are only so effective, he's not sure the percentage, but he's sure they've surpassed the denominator. The paper crinkles when she drags it across the counter. When she views the same set of instructions he did, her face deletes any emotions she might have. It makes her reaction impossible to tell.

"Well?"

She replaces the instructions and turns her back to him. "Not now Sam."

"What?" He crumples the paper in his hand, feels the material become pulpy with his own sweat. He could understand if they were at the SRU, if they were grocery shopping, or even if they were in a restaurant. But they're in a house. Their house. Their home. With their daughter. His temper reaches a boiling point it hasn't felt in months, in years. Not since she wished him out of her hospital room when Charlotte gave her preterm labor pains. "Is this too public for you?"

Rolling her eyes at his reaction, she tosses a towel over her shoulder and plants her hands on her hips. Before she replies, there's a call from the living room. "Da?"

"In a minute Charlotte." Doesn't turn towards his daughter when he responds. His eyes burn into Jules', he's not backing down. "Did you take a pregnancy test?"

"Sam." She shakes her head, removes potatoes from a burner because they threaten to spit their starch all over the stovetop. "After supper okay? Go and play with Charlotte. She really—"

"No. Now Jules."

Groaning with aggravation, she sets the pot back on the burner and lowers the heat. "Fine. Yes, in the five minutes I had to myself I took a pregnancy test."

"When?"

"This morning." Her hands move to the back burner where gravy heats in a smaller pot. "I was going to tell you after supper so you could spend some time with—" As she turns towards him, her arm knocks the pot full of potatoes, overflowing a dash of near boiling water onto the back of her hand. In the same instant her hand retracts into a cradle against her chest. "Fuck."

He swings around the island, directing her towards him with a finger in the rung of her jeans. "Get it under cold water."

"I know what to—Ah." Her barefoot stamps repeatedly into the tiled floor as the icy water streams over her hand.

"Mama?" Charlotte balances her elbows on the arm of the couch, craning her neck to peer into the action enveloped kitchen.

"Stay there." His voice is harsh, demanding and he still forces Jules wrist under the water. It has to stay there for at least five minutes to reduce the swelling.

"Mama's fine, Sweetie." Jules uses the same craning method to speak to their daughter, which is probably how Charlotte deciphered and adopted it. She shoves his shoulder with hers and in a hushed voice she adds. "Don't yell at her Sam. She's been looking forward to seeing you all day and you've just been stomping around getting angry."

He rotates her hand under the tap ensuring the water falls over it in the opposite direction so the swelling dissolves to the highest degree. His fingers have long since gone numb. "Well you've been taking secret pregnancy tests and boiling your hand."

On the couch, Charlotte flops back down onto the seat and lets out the softest weep. They both watch their daughter faintly sob, whether from misunderstanding, or confusion, or from his harsh voice. Jules yanks her hand away from his, patting it dry with narrowing eyes. "And this is why I wanted to talk after dinner."

"Charlotte, Sweetheart, it's okay." He wipes his wet hands on his jeans, marching forward. In the living room his quiet baby girl has her hands folded in her lap. There are a few clicks in the kitchen as Jules turns off the stove.

Charlotte's green eyes shimmer. Her lower lip pouts and plumps in familiarity. She whispers a soft, "Sorry."

He lifts her off the couch, skinny, boney legs dangling. Thin arms instantly wrapping around his neck. Tiny chest hyperventilating against him in remorse. "No, it's not your fault."

Silently, as Jules explains her good health and the burn on her hand to their toddler, he agrees to keep the major issue closed until after supper. Witnesses Charlotte dip a homemade chicken finger into mashed potatoes and then corn and then laugh at her own creation. Watch her legs swing pleasantly from her booster seat. Doesn't wonder about Jules, or what happened in their bathroom earlier that morning, what showed up on that test and how much easier it would be just to go out to the can on the curb and search through it for the damn stick.

Charlotte taps her full tummy with a grin and Jules laughs while collecting the dishes. He releases the satiated toddler from her seat. She's four wiggling limbs and a big smile of tiny teeth. "Book?"

"Yeah Sweetie, just let me help Mom for one second. Go and get one." The lower level of Jules bookshelves are now dedicated to Dr. Seuss and likenesses in his field. Charlotte nods and scampers off to probably go pick out the lost dog story he can recite from memory.

With the intention of helping her clear the table, but of course with ulterior motives, he brings dishes over to where Jules stands at the sink. "It's after supper." She doesn't answer him, only continues soundlessly washing dishes. "Jules, just tell me if it's positive. Don't I deserve to know that much?"

The dishes plunge into the brown-gray water. She shakes her head, hands scrubbing at the caked on mess Charlotte's made of her plate. "I knew this was going to happen, Sam. I knew it."

"Knew what was going to happen?"

There's a solid clunk as the dish wavers to the bottom of the sink within the cloudy water. Jules rubs her hands on her pants, forgetting she's no longer wearing an apron. Wet handprints leak onto her jeans. She swipes at her bangs with the back of a glistening hand, voice uneven. "This baby is going to ruin everything."

He arches an eyebrow. "What baby?"

And click.

"This baby?" He points to her stomach and laughs aloud. "This baby? Oh my God, Jules—" Gathers up her resistant body and spins her in the kitchen.

"Sam." She shoves him back, and the smile dances off his face at one glance at hers. "This isn't a good thing."

"What? How could this not be the greatest thing in the world?" When he reaches out to touch her stomach she steps back so his fingers graze through empty air instead. "Jules?"

"We can't afford it, Sam." She sighs, one hand on her hip, the other pressing on her forehead. "Even with me doing piles of paperwork, we're barely staying afloat with Charlotte. It's not going to get any easier with another mouth to feed. I mean last time I did overtime, but—"

"So I'll do it this time." He steps forward, wanting drastically to close the space between them. "I'll work the overtime, do extra shifts, teach drills, whatever. Let me do it this time."

"Sam."

"We still have money left over from when I sold my apartment." He saved some actually. Put some away for Charlotte, put some away for the ring, and put some away for any future 'surprises'. Just didn't think they'd be creating them this quickly.

"Money is a stupid reason not to have a baby Jules, especially when there's one already waiting for you." He smiles weakly, there's less than a foot between them. Between him, Jules and their baby. Their baby. No one else's. This one is legitimate. "You have to do better than that."

Glancing over her shoulder, Jules points to Charlotte sitting on edge of the couch. The heels of her feet bouncing against the cushions. She has a large picture book of a lost dog sitting in her lap and an elated grin on her face as she examines the room patiently waiting for him. Her hair is done in little pigtails that make her look like a teddy bear. "How about her?"

"What do you mean?"

"Sam, without realizing it, you're going to treat her differently. "

"What?" And click. "What? I would never—"

"You will, because this one—" Her fingers splay over a striped shirt powdered with flower and doused in water despite her earlier apron. "This one is yours. All yours."

Reaching out, he grabs her hand, ensuring it's her unburned hand, and tugs her towards him. He points at his daughter, still waiting on the couch for him. The one without his hair, or his eyes, or his lopsided grin, or his last name. "She is all mine."

He doesn't say another thing to Jules. Leaves her in the kitchen to clean and contemplate. Spends the night beside his daughter, his firstborn, on the couch. She giggles and climbs into his lap, pink puppy situated in hers as he retells the story of how the lost dog made its way home for the umpteenth time. He tries to change the plot, but she corrects him.

Afterwards he gets her ready for bed. They're just beginning the wondrous journey into potty training. It's a little early, but Charlotte is smart enough to grasp the concept. She's afraid of the toilet. Thinks it's a monster, but he promises to never let the monster swallow her. A promise always well observed. She's put to sleep with another story, another retelling of a lost dog. He's starting to relate to that dog. He feels kind of lost himself. Transfers her limp weight from his chest to her crib and drops another kiss to her soft cheek. Wonders what it would be like with two kids. Wonders if he could get them both hyper before work and leave. Wonders if he'll even get the chance.

He meets Jules again later in bed. He's unsure whether he should sleep in the guest bedroom or take his usual spot beside her in the queen size. Hopes the last guest bedroom was predestined for someone currently residing in another, smaller guest room. He's in their bed, muscles stiff with anxiety when she sits on the edge of her side. Pauses for a moment. Sleek, gorgeous legs arching from underneath a nightshirt.

At first he thinks she's debating whether or not to spend the night with him. Seems ironic they can conceive a baby together, but can't talk about said baby. Instead she hands him a book, about being a father for a second time. Inside the front cover is a receipt which has today's date on it.

"I just don't want there to be any resentment." Her voice is soft, the kind of soft she used when Charlotte was a newborn. Something about it relaxes him and excites him at the same time. "If you treat her differently, she'll treat you differently, and then I'll treat you differently."

"Jules, I love her. I would never do that."

"I know that." She nods, legs folding underneath her, nightshirt falling mid thigh. "I just think I needed to hear it from you."

"So?"

"So." She purses her lips. "Two kids?"

He laughs. In relief. In excitement. In ecstasy. Hooks one arm around her torso, the other around one of her legs before she scrambles away. He envelopes her, rests sideways with his arms around her. Kisses her shoulder, her cheek, her lips. Finally drags his fingers across her stomach and her muscles twitch from his light touch.

He maneuvers so his face is even with her uncovered naval which is showing no visible changes from two nights ago when they last had sex. He speaks. Talks to it, to the life within. Introduces himself and then starts a repertoire like they've always known each other. Jules' hand rests on the back of his head, quiet encouragement, and he presses his cheek against her stomach.

An hour passes as he asks it questions. Discusses how under no circumstances they will name it Steve, or anything to do with his or her father. Speaks of its potential to break the sixteen-year-long male baby dry spell on Team One. Or how it could surprise everyone and be a watermelon.

When Jules falls asleep, her hand stationary and heavy against his head, he tells it the story of how they first met. How female snipers were a rare breed and the way she packed away her rifle, he knew she was bad ass. Admits that his first intentions weren't the purest, but then all he wanted was to be with her. How her and four other guys pulled guns on him and he knew he was going to end up with her or die trying.

The clock tells him he has to be at work in three hours. It doesn't matter, it was a night well spent in his opinion. He kisses her stomach gently and folds down her shirt. Covers her with the comforter and kisses her cheek. Before going to sleep, he checks on Charlotte. Places a broad hand on her tiny back and, as always, is relieved to feel the regular compressions of her chest.

Climbing back into bed beside Jules, he finds he's not tired. His brain is firing too many questions for him to focus or relax. He wonders if he could convince Jules to move. Get a bigger house with a big backyard for outdoor shenanigans and maybe a dog. With a first floor laundry and at least a fourth bedroom for growing prospects. Wonders if he should tell his parents. If they'll want to be a part of this baby's life. If they even deserve to be after snubbing Charlotte for almost a year and a half. Then again, this might ignite a connection.

Wonders if he should even bother to propose to her now. If it would seem forced when it's been planned for years. A tightrope walk from jewelry store to jewelry store. Odds are they wouldn't get married before the baby was born anyway. Don't want to rush it, can't really afford it, and he really doesn't want Jules only marriage to have a slightly shotgun twang. Wonders if the baby will have his surname. It's not fair to Charlotte. The best thing to do would be to equalize and just give everyone the same surname. Then they'll have to discuss hyphen or no hyphen. Would she even want to use his last name?

In her sleep, Jules sighs and turns onto her side, embracing him. He returns the sentiment, respiration and all. Hugs her hazy form in the darkness, arm around her shoulders, hand sliding to her covered stomach just to double check.

Next Chapter - Familial shit of all proportions goes down.

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