JUSTWORLD FALLACY
A/N: Hey Guys. Thanks for the lovely reviews to the last chapter. I'm glad so many of you were able to see past the rape as an act and to the effect it has on everyone. Thanks to those who favorited and alerted and all that. Disclaimer: F-shots and talks of doing it. Just-World Fallacy Chapter 2 Male Bonding The television suspended above the pine bar plays the latest sports game in segments like it's the framework to a stop motion animation. The owners really need to consider junking that TV. It's damaged goods. He's still nursing his second beer, which is a feat considering he and the guys have been at the pub for almost four hours. It's nearing 11:00pm and excuses will soon be fabricated. Wordy has to get home to a very understanding Shelley and three sleeping girls, Spike has to sneak back into his parents house and Greg has to drive them there. "You know." Wordy sets his tan bottle down on the table, and points to no one in particular. He's still on beer number one. He's not drunk. None of them are. After a week and a half of keeping this ritual, Ed suspects that the Boss's plan of getting them sick of the sauce is working. "Lew always ate the Dutchie." "Are you saying that you wanted the Dutchie?" Greg's question escapes as a burst of laughter. During Team One's fourteen day wake ritual, Greg's drink of choice has shuffled from water, ginger ale, and different types of pop. Today it is 7-Up. Ed wonders if there's any rhyme or reason to the way the Boss picks his poison. Or if he just thinks of the first drink that comes to his mind. The day Greg orders chocolate milk is the day they need to stop holding these meetings. "No." Wordy elongates the declaration, shakes his head, and leans back in the chair. No one ever wants the Dutchie and the damn things have been around since the beginning of time. Whenever Team One partakes in the delicacy of a twelve pack of doughnuts from Timmy's, the drive-thru girls stick a one in. Ed doesn't know if it was because poor Lew never made it to the cardboard box of doughnuts on time, but he always got the sticky leftover Dutchie. "That guy loved raisins," Spike mumbles, he's leaning against his hand, lips turned into his palm. "It's disgusting how much he liked raisins." Resentment is usually step two in Spike's pilgrimage into drunkenness, except that he's only on his second beer too. It took the team two days to master the art of cancelling the waitress from clearing the table of Spike's empty bottles. It took one more day to learn that four beers is a good place to stop him if you don't want the hassle of a sloppy possible violent SRU officer. Five beers is a good stop if you want a challenge. Ed grabs his bottle by the neck, fingers wringing around the russet glass. There's an inch and a half left of beer lining the bottom. After that, there's no reason why he can't go home to Sophie, who bless her, is running out of patience with these frat boy games. Just as he brings the lip of the bottle to his mouth, the front pocket of his jeans become musical with the generic ring of his cell phone. On cue, all three of his teammates begin to grumble boisterous reminders that there are no calls from wives when they're within the confines of the Goose. It's an unfair rule that they constructed on the first night when Shelley called Wordy three times in the first hour. It's unfair because only he and Wordy have wives. It's unfair because only he and Wordy can feel their wraith. "Hey, hey, hey." Wordy finishes off the beer in his first bottle and points at the phone. "You know the rules. No wives." "Yeah." Spike's voice is unenthusiastic and his arms are lazily crossed over his chest. "It's male bonding time." "Yeah, well it's my brother, Roy." Ed brandishes the caller I.D. because the guys will either challenge the phone call's validity or make qualms about it later. Roy hasn't phoned in the last six weeks, so getting a random call this late on a Wednesday night is a little surprising. "I think I'm going to get it." Greg shrugs and takes a sip of his 7-Up. Wordy turns his attention back to Spike, who is clearly not drunk, but in a vindictive mood. "Do you know what would happen to you if Jules was here? You can't call this 'male bonding'." "Hey Roy, what's going on?" Ed and Wordy break into raucous laughter, even Greg chuckles a bit before setting down his pop and regaining the stern glower on his face. With a single wag of his finger he warns, "Settle down, Spike." But he does it with a snigger. "Did you hear what I said Ed?" "No," Ed chuckles into the phone and shakes his head. His bent elbows bear down on the wooden table and above them the pendant light sways like a pendulum in the hazy atmosphere of the pub. "Sorry Roy, what do you want?" "I'm on shift; I shouldn't even be calling you-" He sighs loud enough so he's sure that Roy can hear it. Why is he constantly cleaning up Roy's messes? They both did the same training to become cops; he doesn't understand how his little brother can screw things up so badly sometimes. "Then don't call me Roy." "I'm just saying, he gets two weeks off to recover with us and he goes and hangs out with that Lexus girl instead? What kind of name is that anyway?" Spike re-crosses his arms and his nose starts twitching. He's staring at the beer bottles with distraction. His mouth is speaking words that his brain isn't hearing. "That's a car's name, not a girl's. Her parents obviously had high expectations." "Enough Spike." Greg shakes his head and uses his final warning tone. "I'm at Toronto General, Ed. One of your teammates is here." Ed chuckles and runs a hand over his face. God damn it, Sam. He probably took that Lexi-girl to a club and had an altercation with the local natives. It's because of Sam's mindset; he punched some guy expecting him not to punch back. This is why you go out drinking with the team when you'd rather be at home with your wife and son, because the team knows how to handle you. The team knows what you're going through. "Did he get into a fight?" "Ed" There's a pause and he listens to his brother clear his throat. "It's a woman. Her last name is Callaghan." Ed doesn't say a word as his brother babbles in his ear about what letter he thinks her first name starts with. How he took her statement, how she barely said a word. The phone slips from his hand and bounces off the faux wooden finish on the table. Greg glances at him a minute before motioning to Wordy and Spike to silence themselves. The three men watch him. Ed finds the phone using his peripheral vision and brings it back to his ear. "Ed, are you still there?" "Yeah." The word gets stuck behind the ball of congealed beer in his throat. "Like I said, I wouldn't have called, but she's beaten pretty badly and she won't let us call anyone. So if you know her next of kin—" "Roy." He shakes his head and washes a hand over his sticky, sweaty eyes. The Goose is hotter, it's growing smaller, there's no air inside of it. When his hand touches his forehead it comes back clammy. It can't be her. He's worked with her for six years. She can defend herself, he's sparred with her before and sometimes she's actually hurt him, though he'd never admit it. They always make the rookie practice with her as rite of passage, but Sam sparred with her in a different way, so Spike got stuck in sparring limbo. "There's no way that it's Jules." All three men watch him intently, not knowing the full extent of the conversation. Blissfully not knowing as much as he does. Instead they all watch him for tell signs. They watch him with straight lips and slanted eyebrows like a trio of Jack O'Lanterns. They listen intently over the needle scratching of the sports highlights. "Her first name is Julianna. J-U-L-I-A-N-N-A. Two 'N's. She has brown hair and brown eyes. She—" "Ed, right now I can't tell what color her eyes are." He swallows hard and the tennis ball of beer in the back of his throat bobs with the motion. "Okay. Thanks Roy." His brother tries to apologize, or speak further, or offer condolences but he doesn't hear them because he hangs up the phone and stares back at his dwindling team. "What's going on Eddy?" Greg asks. The Boss knows their bonded evening is violated; he's reaching into his wallet for a wad of bills to pay the tab. "Roy said that Jules is at Toronto General." "What?" Spike's eyes burst open, suddenly alert and awake. His fingers burrow into the edge of the table and the five beer bottles dance upon the tabletop. "Why?" "Roy said she was hit." Spike's eyes grow wider. "By a car?" Ed lowers the lids of his eyes and cocks his head to the side. In a voice that's deep and skeptical of Spike's question he responds, "By a person." Although for the last four years Spike's been Jules sparring partner. Ed's seen him limp out of the workout room more than once. "No." Wordy's teeth grind against each other, and in the warm light of the pub, his eyes glisten. He roots around in his pocket for something. Maybe a tip. Wordy and his tips. "Not Jules." Ed shrugs; he can feel his own eyes grow wet and itchy. This isn't happening. Jules is fine at home. Wordy won't have to go through the emotional trauma and in four days time Spike will have a new bruise from the hand-to-hand combat which they'll all likely push on Jules and not tell her why. "Roy is unreliable." "It's still better to be safe than sorry." Greg stands from the table and he follows suit, not sure of what to do. This doesn't seem real. It can't be real. They just lost Lew. The foggy ambiance, the cacophony of the pub makes it hard to understand anything. "I'll drop you guys off, but I'm going to swing by the hospital just to check." Wordy holds up his phone. Her number is highlighted on the screen along with a small symbol of a green phone. "Guys, she's not picking up." "Let's go." "Sam, you haven't touched your pasta." He looks down at the deep, hip curved dish. It's china, maybe bone china. Something his mom would have in the front cabinet and only bring out on special occasions. The pasta is bowtie, gentlemanly, thick, al dente, greasy with olive oil and mixed with a wide cornucopia of sea creatures. He hates seafood. Through half lids and lowered eyebrows he observes his date, Lexus. She's twenty-six though he doesn't trust her when she says that or much else. They met at a gym, he was just there to meet a friend but she was giving him the fuck-me eyes and sauntered like a roadside DUI right into him. She twirled a strand of her hair around her blinged-out finger while she spoke to him. She has a baby voice. It gets annoying quick. The dress she's wearing is obviously a size too small for her. It's supposed to have decorative ruffles in the pattern, but they're imaginary. The salmon color is offset by her forged orange tan, which clashes with her white nails decorated with pink lotus flowers. Her nails are talons, claws, hooks. They're weapons of mass destruction because they're unnatural and she's as awkward with them as a fawn taking its first steps. Only the first step is always right on his cornea. Her lips move with the velocity of a motor fan. It's been two weeks and he's already learned the art of tuning her out. Instead of the nasal impression of an auctioneer, he receives the slightly less infuriating pantomime of lips smacking off each other. With all the exercise her mouth gets during the day he thought she'd be talented when it came to using it for less traditional methods, he was wrong. She seizes an arm away from the table, where both of her elbows were previously mashing into the white tablecloth. Lexus has the table manners of a toddler; she never uses a knife and vouches instead to push food onto her fork with her thumb while her tongue sneaks out of the side of her mouth. Using her spaghetti sauce stained hand; she fixes her hair, dragging five fingers through the tangled mess. He hates her hair the most. It's black with streaks of brass and copper. When they have sex it's like sleeping with a blonde, brunette and red-head at once because she's all over the place. It's trashy beyond belief and the dye has seeped past her roots and into her brain. It's made her tripolar. Her hand starts to limp across the table, pulling at the cloth and worming it's way directly towards his hand. Casually, as if no forethought is involved, he folds his hands into his lap. All he can think is how much he hates her. She thinks this is a legitimate relationship when all he wanted was someone to go drinking with who he doesn't ache for physically. For someone to fuck away the pain with so it wouldn't mean a thing. Apparently this does mean something to Lexus. He doesn't know what he feels worse about. Sleeping with her or that she actually thinks their relationship will last longer than the milk in his fridge. His phone sings from the back pocket of his dress pants and he ignores it. It must be 11:00pm by now, but because she wanted to try this restaurant on the night of the grand opening, they had to wait to eat. He examines the tub full of invertebrates that have been stewing on the ocean floor and his lead stomach blossoms. Maybe over the ridges on a shrimps back. Maybe because it still has legs. Maybe because he hates the decisions he's made lately and there's no one to blame this time. Lexus made him order this dish so that she can periodically sneak a fork across the table and jam pieces into her useless mouth. When he was with Jules he ordered whatever he wanted and she didn't care, she kept her hands on her own food and they were fine. One time at work, she walked past him while he ate some fries and grabbed a stray one from the paper bag. When they got home that night he was insatiable. The thought of waking up next to Lexus makes him physically cringe. He wants to heave up what little pasta he's eaten. He longs to abandon her and go get a burrito. He's forbidden to be with a burrito. When she glances up at him, lips still undulating like mud flaps behind the wheels of a big rig, he pulls a tense smile. Her body is too lengthy, too gangly, too bony with too many sharp edges that he injures himself on, she's like the skeleton hanging in a doctor's office. He always uses protection too. She says she doesn't have anything. She says she's on the pill. He doesn't trust her at all. He vaguely remembers the typeset of girl she falls under. He knew a few of them in high school. She probably has something and he doesn't want to catch it, he doesn't want to touch her, he doesn't want to look at her. He aches for the past. A few months ago he was sitting in the Goose. He and the guys had gone out for a post-debriefing drink, Jules had prior plans. Her plans were him. They were supposed to grab some takeout and fix her stairs because the wood wouldn't stop squeaking. He told her they needed the whole weekend, but she argued that it could be done in a night. They didn't want to appear suspicious, so he went with the guys. Lew, Spike and him were in the booth while the others were having a philosophical debate at the bar. He glanced at his watch, did the fake gasp and got up to leave because it was nearing nine. If he left now, he could still make it to Jules house on time to help her make up the couch because she'd obviously destroyed the stairs by now. It was also a work day tomorrow. "Hey, hey," Spike protested while Sam shimmied out of the booth. "Settle down, man." Lew put a large hand on Spike's shoulder, the contact immediately calming their friend. "Samtastic's obviously got a date lined up." Sam responded with a typical lopsided grin that bared more teeth than it should. "You got a bulletproof vest man?" "A what?" Spike and Lew chuckled to each other. Sure he was still the rookie to the team, but why would he need to take gear out on a date? "Nah." Lew shook his head and beckoned him closer. As he moved back towards the faux wooden table, Lew held out his hand and when Sam reached out his own, Lew slapped it in a casual handshake but also slipped a condom into his palm. "A bulletproof vest," he repeated with his head tilted forward and angled eyebrows. Spike watched with amusement. "Oh," he nodded, his face burst with redness. "Thanks." He'd never felt more mortified or insecure in his life. He left the bar and felt their searing eyes burning into the back of his head from the front window. He threw out the condom. He didn't need it. He and Jules—they didn't need it. The jingle of his phone echoes through the almost empty restaurant, and the lingering staff who already pull nasty faces at him, escalate their expressions further. He retrieves the phone from his back pocket and disengages the sound. "I wish you wouldn't answer your phone during dinner." Lexus is incorrectly using a salad fork to stab at the oysters or whatever disgusting things are crawling about in his pasta. She uses her thumb to slide the gelatinous blob of mucus onto the fork. He's done eating. "I didn't answer it. I turned off the sound." She shrugs and speaks with her mouth full, "I don't know why we can't just have a nice dinner." He wants to tell her that he didn't get to pick the restaurant, or his own meal, or his dinner guest because when he came home from a jog today she was waiting outside his apartment building. On the table his phone seizes with a new text message. "Sam," she warns. Thin eyebrows turn into two checkmarks. This, whatever this thing is, his sexual release and her delusion will be over by midnight. "Don't you get that phone." The phone is in his hand and he's already checking his messages because he honestly doesn't give a flying fuck about what she says anymore. He'll pay for supper, but then he never wants to see her again. "It's work," he lies. He hasn't even engaged the screen that tells him who called. She scoffs and probably rambles off that machine gun mouth some more but he's too focused to notice. It's a text from Wordy. It's just one line. Four words. 'Jules in Toronto General.' It's a little too drastic to be the excuse he was looking for. He would've taken a telemarketer as an opportunity to bolt out of there. He stares at the four words and tries to make heads or tails of their meaning. Jules. In. Toronto. General. Jules. He stands from the table and retrieves the suit jacket draped over the back of his chair. Toronto General. His pupils contract, glued to the four word novel. His heart is a punching bag, the beats are a bass line. Jules, she was just in the hospital six months ago. So much has changed in six months. She's in the hospital. Why is she in the hospital? She's in the hospital. "Sam, where are you going?" The hospital. He doesn't answer. He turns and ambles at an exceeding rate to the exit of the restaurant. The screen of the phone is still his main focus. The hospital. He needs to put the phone away before he starts to drive to Toronto General. He leaves Lexus with the bill. The automated door slides open, groaning to reveal the frenzied bowels of the Toronto General Emergency department. It's past 11:00pm, but there are still mothers cradling their children while rocking in the shackled waiting room chairs. The change in atmosphere is immediate; the air is humid, warm and sour like bad breath. It smells antibacterial and like metal. Ed checks him in the shoulder while making a beeline towards the triage nurse who is set up behind a thick layer of glass. She's like the pope on display. Like the guard to Oz. When he glances back, Wordy's face is mere sentences away from fragmenting and Spike's rubbing his hands together. The alcohol smell is so brutal because Spike took advantage of the copious amounts of disinfectant dispensers lining the entrance. Toronto is on the cusp of flu season. "What?" Spike's hands continue to make friction even after the sanitizer is gone; smoke will be produced and start to billow from between his fingers soon. They all have their quirky ways of dealing with this situation. "Greg." Ed's legs are spread out, his back hunched and his hand digging into his side of the triage station. Greg knows his team better than any other six people—five people on the planet. Ed's coping with the idea of Jules being hurt with denial which detonates his irritation easily. The triage nurse, who is young, looks in her early twenties, has black curly shoulder-length hair that balances with her dark skin appears to be the catalyst for Ed's emotions. She sits on the office chair with her legs crossed and an eyebrow raised at whatever Ed has just said. "I cannot give out information on patients," she apparently repeats, her voice dripping with attitude. "I understand that." Ed's voice is turning choppy. Each word is its own sentence as he tries to articulate his point to this girl. "But she's our friend." The nurse writes something on a chart and without glancing up informs, "It doesn't matter how well you know her. Because of the circumstances, I can't let you in." "What circumstances?" Wordy sneaks into the space between Ed and himself. Now all of them crowd the triage station. It reminds Greg of the time they went to see the Leaf's game together. They weren't this close to rink side, but it was a good time. "We know her better than anyone else you could call. Like she takes cream and no sugar in her coffee." Ed crosses his arms and pauses for a moment before adding. "Which is just sacrilegious." "Her shoe size is eight, but she'll argue with you until you agree it's a nine." "She's right-handed, but she's started hitting me in the face with her left hand during sparring sessions to liven things up." Greg wants to add that every year on her birthday since she first started at the SRU, he's slipped a card between the metal slots in her locker. None of the guys know when her birthday is, she made it completely clear that she does not want a celebration of any sort. Two years ago he contemplated stopping the cards, but she caught him on the way out of headquarters, almost in tears. He didn't ask what was wrong, but she hugged him and left just as quickly. So every year before she arrives for her shift, he sneaks into the woman's locker room and slips the card in. This year will be the seventh year. Instead of mentioning this, he gives a weak smile, pencil line thin, not even reaching the corners of his mouth. The guys retreat to give him room to talk down the unresponsive triage nurse. "We'd just really like to make sure our friend is okay." "And it's really commendable but—" "You can't let us in. I get it." He chuckles and reaches back into his pocket. "You're doing your job extremely well. The case is flagged, but we're cops." He slides the badge towards the glass until it stands on end, thunking against the inch thick glass. "We're all cops. Jules is a cop. We just want to see her." The nurse sighs and rolls her eyes. "I might be able to let one of you through." A statement she expresses by holding up her index finger. "But the Nurse Manager will have to approve it. He handled the case." She stands from the chair, letting it roll back into the hysteria of the ER. Her arms hug half a dozen charts to her chest and before she turns to leave, she halts and leans close to the glass. The hole cut within it is their only method of communication like a prison visitation room. "Just to let you know, there was already a cop here to take her statement about the rape. And he was in uniform. And he didn't smell like booze." Greg is a human statue. The others might be too. He's not sure, he doesn't notice them. He just watches the nurse as her pink scrubs disappear into a sea containing all the hospital personnel. His badge clunks as it falls over. In his chest his heart sinks until it's under his shoes on the floor. An acrid taste rises in the back of his throat, something he remembers from his years as a drunk. With a spit-filled mouth, he swallows and it plummets to his stomach. The palms of his hands sweat against the counter, his fingers slide. Jules is somewhere through that glass. He'd like to borrow some of Eddy's denial right now. Behind him, he barely hears Spike breathe, "Whoa." Next Chapter - Someone gets to see Jules and someone else is injured. Feel free to guess, wager or hope.
Three things:
First off, I'm very sick right now, so if there are mistakes in the piece (I even read it over a fourth time) please don't bite my head off. I'm literally alive right now because of Vic's and ginger ale.
Secondly, without spoiling too much, the middle section of this piece gets very adult, meaning f-shots and talks of doing it. So if that's not your thing, skip the middle part (story is still M-rated and I'm taking advantage of that by being as lurid as I can possibly be and purposely using words and subject matter I don't like and that Flashpoint fanfic hasn't touched on yet).
Lastly I didn't do this properly last time, but a big thanks to SYuuri who is always there for me to bounce my ideas off of, help me with reactions and such, and there to push me when I won't write. You guys are probably gonna get a chapter of DA, DT by Monday because of her, so buy her a drink. Thanks again SYuuri!
"Yeah?" Spike sits up in his chair and slides his two empty beers forward. They jitter across the uneven tabletop. He doesn't appear anxious to get his hands on a third as the waitress saunters by him and he shakes his head at her. "By that logic we couldn't call it male bonding if Sam was here either."
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