JUSTWORLD FALLACY

A/N: Hey guys. Thanks so much for the reviews and the story/author favorites. I'm glad you're enjoying the story so far and that I'm hopefully still doing it justice. I'm not going to lie, writing Spike for this chapter was probably the most fun I've had writing in a while. Pure uninhibited stream of consciousness without going full Wolf makes me jolly, although I'm certain that he may come off a little more insane than he should. Of course if you have any questions as always feel free to send me a PM.

Just-World Fallacy

Chapter 3

Heterotopias of Deviation

His hands rub together. Calloused fingertips grind against each other, heated friction uprooting the dry skin on his knuckles. The dead flakes are the same color as the decaying and half-eaten fish that wash up on the lakeshore. The healthy skin grows a blushing red from the overexertion. The color of coy crimson that attractive girls wear on their cheeks during the relentless Toronto winters. In summer their cheeks are the same color, but it's fake, it's false, it doesn't mean a damn thing. In the summer his whole body turns three shades darker than the accosting tint on his knuckles. Lobster red. Heatstroke red. Canadian in Jamaica red. He still has a band, just a shade lighter than those dead fish, looping around his torso at his hips from his pre-Ocho Rios life.

The sole of his left shoe taps Morse code against the ground. He distinguishes each individual stitch in the seams slashed into the leather. Each individual depression in his hand where the skin folds to create a gorge. Each individual black fleck in the tawdry linoleum floors that are sectioned off into perfect squares like a troop of Toronto's finest are going to burst into the stagnant ER room with canine units and start a square-by-square search for some missing little girl.

"I understand that we all want to—"

The automated doors slide open. An older lady hobbles in. The automated doors slide closed. His foot captured within a dress shoe does three quick, consecutive taps against the floor. He's worn the same shoes every day since Lew's funeral. He only takes them off when he goes to sleep. Carefully unstrings the laces, lets them hang languidly at the sides and places the paired heels together just under the frame of the bed.

"I don't understand why it has to be you Greg?"

Three longer, consecutive taps. The automated doors slide open. Mother with a baby. Behind him a middle-aged fat guy who has about five years before his first major heart attack pounds coins into the vending machine. The automated doors slide close. The machine whirs out a candied or salted treat full of saturated fat. His thumbs rub against each other and sound like match heads striking off of sandpaper.

"Do you really think you're in the right state of mind to see her, Eddy?"

Three blunt, consecutive taps. Fat guy hits the machine and gurgles in the back of his throat. More change goes into the machine. Automated doors open, then close, then open. A pair of paramedics argue on the mechanical threshold. More change goes into the machine. Plunk, plunk, plunk. Sweaty thumbs mash keys.

"Wordy, do you want to talk—"

Three short taps. Ker-plunk. Coke shoots out of the machine like a grenade launcher. Doors open. Three long taps. Fat guy stops it with a sandaled foot and a raspy grunt. Doors close. Three short taps. Doors open. Pop can hisses a warning.

"I don't think I can."

Three short taps. Door opens. Pop foam splats against floor. Three long taps. Skin ripping skin. Doors close. Three short taps. Static on intercom. Three short taps. Doors open. Hacking mucus. Three long taps. Doors close. Three short taps. Heartbeat in his ears. Blood on his hands. Ginger beer. The ocean rocking you. Brings you full circle.

"Spike."

His vision jitters until the three men before him come into focus. Sarge stands two or three feet away, on a bisecting line in the floor. Concern cracking through his facial features like it's an ancient Roman amphora. Ed's akimbo a few feet further, arched eyebrow as if he's trying to gage actions, surroundings. Maybe he's looking for the sierra shot. Wordy sits in the seats perpendicular to his, the seats against the washroom wall. His fingers all bunched up at his mouth like his hands were a car crash that melded together.

"Spike, you alright buddy?"

Dot. Dot. Dot.

"Yeah I'm fine." Except he's not. His foot is taping so fast that it sounds like a helicopter propeller. How are they supposed to make out the dashes if his foot is taping this fast? No wonder no one is coming.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm good." Dashes don't work on linoleum. Why couldn't the floor have more of a reverberation like a solid tin? His thumbs whittle against his forefingers as he contemplates a solution. Maybe shorter breaks? He could use a break.

Dash. Dash. Dash.

"Spike, you're rocking pretty hard there." Ed discharges his hands from his hips and crosses them over his chest.

"I'm fine."

Dot. Dot. Dot.

There. Done. Break time. Saunter over to Winnie's desk and pick from the doughnuts. He loves the festive ones, the ones with the sprinkles. The ones that remind him of holidays and childhood. The ones that crunch in his mouth and stick to the crowns of his molars. Dutchie for Lew. Boston cream for Jules.

"I have to pee." If anybody says anything he doesn't hear it. Not over the heterotopian symphony occurring in his head. A displacement of normal thoughts fusing together with the piercing feedback that overhanging speakers give at retirement parties. I wouldn't be here today if it weren't for all of you. It's hard to think, like the receptors in his brain have shut off. He's not creating proper data connections. It's hard to move, like metal has been soldered onto all his joints and his dress shoes and pockets are filled with stones. It's hard to feel.

The bathroom is just on the other side of Wordy's row of seats. He drives into the door with a shoulder. Shoves by the little white man, the door's solitary sentinel who shares his color with the dead fish and probably countless bodies in the morgue.

Lew never got to be one of those bodies. When the smoke settled there was barely anything left to identify him. A shoe and a leg from below the knee. It was the left foot. They could tell from the shoe, laces still double knotted. It was just pure luck that all of Team One was present to identify the cold cut remains of his best friend. The paramedics and other cops asked "Did you know him?" And what the fuck was he supposed to say? Not the shin part, I was more familiar with his face. The face which launched up into the concrete above and well, Gallagher and melons.

There's one stall and one urinal and no one else present in the room. Why aren't there more accommodations for the emergency room? Flu season is coming and this place is going to be packed, you'd think that there would be more than one—He doesn't even care. Button's undone, zipper's unzipped and then a steady stream of digested Molsons hits the porcelain backboard. He shakes, flushes and leans his forehead against the wall above the urinal. It's dangerous, it's a hospital bathroom and who knows what microscopic voodoo might be crawling around on these subway tiles. He might end up with pinkeye.

He, Jules and Lew used to be close. He wonders if anyone else on Team One remembers that time. Maybe it was a fabrication of his imagination, like one of their subjects. A high school student who sits in the dark patch at the back of class and sighs because he wants to be part of the cool crowd but instead just digs his pen head into the wooden desktop etching 'Zepplin Rules' into the grainy flesh.

He arrived bonneted and bundled on the SRU doorstep three years ago. On the same day Wordy put pepper spray on his gear and when he pulled the plastic face shield down on his helmet, well he couldn't see for the rest of the day. He acted nonchalant, like it was no big deal that his eyeballs swelled to the size of grapefruits, that tears sprayed out from his ducts like a showerhead. But it took a long time for him to start talking again. Talking about things other than bombs and chemicals.

Jules was the one who helped him find the locker room. He was pawing his way down unknown hallways, hand on the wall, and pressing on doors, just hoping he wasn't close to the dreaded 'Jules' room. As it happened he was and Jules exited just before he tumbled in. She brought him into the refuge of her locker room, sat him down on a bench and told him to keep blinking and not to touch his face.

He heard the door slam and called out, but the room was silent except for the sibilant whisper of an exhaust fan coming from behind him. His elbows dug into his thighs while eyes blinked rapidly until a dull headache grew behind them from the muscle exertion. He discerned the tile pattern on the floor. Jules' purse sat beside him, just lying out in the open, unprotected because she didn't share this room with a soul.

The door burst open again, and he constructed her fuzzy outline approaching him with something in her hand. There was a tearing sound, like a thick rapper being removed. In the blurriness, she grabbed his hand and placed a strong solvent smelling wet-nap in his palm. "Use this to wipe your eyes."

So he rubbed at his eyes with it. The same way he'd seen his mom take off her makeup for years. After a few minutes the stinging actually decreased and he let out a genuine laugh that must have looked like a Christian revival with all the tears. He found out later that it was covered in a solution that actually dissolved the pepper spray. He found out much later that Jules gave the guys so much shit for his hazing that they all stepped lightly for the next few days.

He repaid her. Sort of. Later that week, he was collecting his things in the locker room after a shift. Still timid and untalkative with the guys, who'd all disappeared to prior engagements. He thought more pepper spray waited for him around every corner. When he stepped out into the hallway he heard guffaws echoing from the briefing room. Familiar throaty laughs that after one incident resulting in temporary blindness he remembered as Rolie's and Ed's.

Jules marched around the corner shortly after the intimidating sounds. She was wearing a white dress that gave the allusion of her having plans that night. Except than on the left side of her torso was a red splotch the size of a baseball. She explained that Rolie and Ed, who decided to stay late to finish up paperwork, became clumsy with their leftover chicken wings when they saw her attire. "I should be used to it," she sighed and gestured to her ruined dress. "I grew up with four brothers."

"Yeah, but I grew up with an Italian mother." He beckoned her to follow him and they moved to a small kitchenette that still hardly gets used. He reached in and pulled out the club soda that Sarge seemed to add to everything. Later Lew would explain about their boss's prior alcoholism. He would've used the vinegar and baking soda from the fridge ventilator, but he didn't think Jules wanted to go on her date smelling like a French fry cart. A tablespoon of the liquid melted away the stain and she smiled a genuine thank you.

He, Lew and Jules were the younger part of Team One. They grouped together at the meets and social functions. The retirement parties that always had a way of turning sour for the older guys. The Christmas party, which always injected a false euphoria in everyone. Lew always brought a different girl and grew weary of her halfway through the party. Then all three of them would see how long they could ditch her for. It was fun. It was like having the brother he never did and a sister who actually liked him.

Then one day when Jules was packing up the rig, after Ed and Sarge were corralled and driven off for questioning, he and the remainder of Team One drew their guns on an arrogant son of a bitch who would later be known to them as Sam. Things would change. Jules spent more time with Sam, for reasons boxing glove in the face obvious now, but at the time they weren't so apparent. Lew told him to let it go, that maybe she was just making him feel welcome. Well the less he thinks about that the better.

Jules got shot. He called it in to EMS, kept his voice calm when on the inside he was all dots and dashes. She was up there with Sam. It was Sam's stupid fault. They had a debriefing about it. Sam explained what happened, racked full of guilt that transferred into rage and obviously wanted to get back to the hospital. They all wanted to, but apparently because Sam was sleeping with her, he got priority.

Lew died. Stepped on a landmine in downtown Toronto. Sam does two tours in Afghanistan and lives to fuck up the team. Lew sits in an inner tube in the ocean sipping on homemade ginger beer and gets blown to literal pieces a week later. Everyone tried to comfort him. His parents, Lew's parents, which just made him feel worse. Sarge tried to placate him through vague mixed philosophies. Wordy told him to call at anytime if he needed anything. Ed tried to get him to talk with a nudging elbow. Sam just left, which was a comfort in its own right.

Jules came to his house. His parents were out getting groceries because he wasn't eating as much as his mother preferred. He didn't answer the door, but watched from the kitchen window as her ponytail bobbed away and disappeared into her Jeep. She probably saw him; she was a sniper before Sam took her place.

He opened the kitchen door a crack after she left, and saw what she'd abandoned on the side door stoop. A lavender shoebox and a note. In her cursive, that he still has trouble interpreting, she scrawled, 'I figured you didn't have any and could really use these. Call me if you want to talk. –J'. At least that's what he thinks it says. He wants to teach her binary, Morse code, something so that he'll know for sure.

The box was filled with photos of Lew and the team. Some with him. Some with her. Some with Sam, most without. Some were developed from film, some were Polaroids. Most were from the parties they'd frequented in the last years, but some he didn't even recognize. Lew with a slight afro. Jules without bangs. Wordy and Ed with, well hair. His favorite is the one of him, Lew and Jules sitting in a semi-circle around a table at a Christmas party. He's in the middle with his arms slung around both of them. Lew's date is in the background searching for him. Sam wouldn't arrive for another six months.

The faucet turns on and he waits for the hot water to kick in. And waits. And waits. Shouldn't a hospital be aware that hot water aids in the destruction of bacteria. Now he's definitely going to get pinkeye. He stuffs his hands under the stream of water, there's an immediate stinging from all the miniscule cuts in his skin from overworking his hands. They self immolate when he adds soap.

He remembers the last time he visited Jules in the hospital, after she got shot. It's easy to remember, it happened six months ago. How she sat in that bed and even when she could barely move, blushed whenever anyone from Team One came to visit. He sympathized, imagined how hard it must be for her to be the only female SRU officer and the only one on Team One to be shot. People were spreading word that it was quite a big coincidence and the rest of Team One practiced a fascist censorship and stomped out that word before it spread like wildfire.

His reflection stares at him. Big black bags hanging onto his lower eyelids. The outside of his nostrils beginning to grow crusty from breathing in the manufactured hospital air. The skin on his cheekbones loose and pallid like the flesh and scales on those lakeshore fish. He wonders how Jules will act now. Will he even be able to tell if she's blushing?

Why didn't a single one of them offer to walk her home? They all know where she lives; they know she's capable of taking care of herself. He's gotten accidental black eyes that prove it. But at a time like this, they should be cultivating camaraderie, not letting everyone go off and do whatever they want, which happens to include stupid girls with idiotic car names. He wants to ask Sam if Range Rover was worth it.

He stares at himself. He'll always remember statuesque Lew, confined to a single position for the remainder of his life. What time is it Mr. Wolf? Eyes interrogate eyes as he leans closer to the mirror. He'll remember the way that Lew called to him before ending his life. Pupils contract into pinholes of concentrated misery. Now he'll always remember the way Jules smiled at him and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder before she left the bar.

Without forethought his arm raises in a fluid movement, like an electric shock undulates through the limb. He smashes his lined knuckles into the mirror, a hairline fracture begin to appear and he pummels his doppelganger again, and a third time. He doesn't stop until the mirror above the sink resembles a tortoise shell; looks like chocolate topping on ice cream after cracking it with a spoon. Dark lines swerve over the fist-sized area like rivers on a map. Two solid streams of air shoot out of his nostrils and his lungs fully empty.

"Spike?" Ed and Wordy stand side-by-side behind him in the compact room. There's not enough space for all three of them in here. He's done now, he can leave. "You okay?"

"Yeah." He nods, confidant in his answer.

Wordy points to the mirror, each fractured piece reflects the industrial light in the wrong way. "Did you— Spike your hand."

It's not as bad as they think. Just a few bigger scratches. He honestly just needs to slap a Band-Aid over the bloody knuckles and they'll be good as new.

"Spike," Ed's voice takes a serious and low tone as he steps closer. "Did you do this on purpose?"

What kind of question is that? Even Wordy is shaking his head. "Of course I did. It's not like the mirror attacked me."


Spike was right. His hand wasn't as bad as they thought. He kept protesting while Ed forced his torn flesh underneath the coldwater in the bathroom sink. Water conducts the color of blood; it plays tricks on the mind because all this red liquid spills into the basin and all over the counter. He assumed Spike nicked a major artery.

Shelley cut herself once. She picked up the family portrait from Sears earlier that day and was trying to fit it into the frame when the glass slid out of position and ripped the skin on her ring finger. There was blood all over the kitchen table. He overreacted because he remembers when Shelley would show up at his apartment, bruised, bleeding, shaking and there wasn't a damn thing he could do until she wanted something to be done. Was he supposed to tell her she was stupid? She had someone to do that already.

His mind flashes to Jules. How Jules must feel, what Jules must've gone through and he knows the horrors. He knows because of Shelley. It makes his stomach hard, the acidity raised by a single beer. It makes his lips tremble because of the pain; he's witnessed it enough to experience it vicariously. It makes him feel disenchanted and he grasps back onto his greed. He has to stop thinking of Jules because if he breaks down now, he won't be able to be there for her later.

They've reclaimed their original seats in the waiting room. The triage nurse along with a security guard eyes them suspiciously from behind the great wall of glass. Ed told the nurse what Spike did in exchange for a few Band-Aids. However, he administered them, reliving the countless times he's stuck a Dora Band-Aid on Lilly's knee. He knows his friend, if Ed placed the bandages on Spike's dominant hand, he would have slapped them into place. Partly as a reprimand and partly to bring Spike down to Earth.

At least using the mirror as a punching bag has ceased Spike's foot tapping routine. Instead he slouches to the side in his seat like he's watching TV at home. Ed paces before them, obviously unhappy about not being able to do more. If Spike hadn't injured himself, Ed probably would have gone off on the triage nurse again just for relief. They all deal with bad news in different ways. After Lew died he drove home and clutched Shelley and his girls close, breathing in their scent until the girls started to feel awkward and wriggle away.

The thick plaster wall is cool against the back of his head. Above him is a cased bulletin board that the hospital decorated in honor of October's medical observances, 'know your months, know your health'. Half of the corkboard speaks out against breast cancer, gives stats and pictures. The other half is dedicated to domestic abuse awareness. It looms over him. He can't escape it.

"I don't understand what's taking so long." Ed plants a hand on his chin, while the other massages his elbow. He's been walking a straight line within their area of seats for the past fifteen minutes, black scuffs marring the floor.

"Ed, we're not going to get to see her tonight," He states, his words blunt as he stares at the rectangles tiles in the ceiling. A few are out of place by inches, a few are missing, a few have coffee colored water stains.

"Yeah?" Ed glances up from watching his feet. It's like he's practicing for a DUI roadside test. "What makes you say that?"

"After what happened, do you really think that she wants all four of us in the room with her?" He remembers how Shelley shrank away from him for weeks afterwards, months even. He'd come over to visit her at the hospital, or at her mom's house and she should be a husk. Empty of emotion, empty of personality, the spirit literally beaten out of her. She wasn't the same woman for a long time.

"We're her friends, Wordy."

"We're men, Ed." His head rolls against the wall so he can look his best friend in the eye. "It doesn't matter how we feel about her, right now we need to respect her priv—would you sit down already, you're making me dizzy."

"Oh, I'm making you dizzy?" Ed questions while sill pacing his preset route.

"Yeah, I'm with Wordy." Spike speaks for the first time since exiting the bathroom. He's still slumping in the chair, arm supporting his head. "You're blocking the view."

"The view?" Ed turns his head so that he can see what exactly he's standing in the way of. The muscles in his neck are ridged and stand out with the action. He wears a smirk and a skeptical expression when he glances back at Spike. "You want to see the doors?"

"Don't make fun." Spike's voice is level, calm and indifferent. Something happened in that bathroom and it broke him. They all lost Lew, but Spike lost his best friend. Now with Jules, it feels too soon. It will always be too soon.

"Spike, who is going to come through that door that could—"

"Maybe I just like looking at the people? Maybe my pattern set brain likes trying to figure out if more males than females come in. Maybe I look at them and try to imagine if Jules is worse off than they are. Maybe—Hey is that Sam?"

He and Ed turn to view their surrogate teammate rush through the double doors and twist his neck at awkward angles until he spots the triage nurse. He's wearing a white dress shirt, a suit jacket and fancy pants which suggests that the text caught Sam in the middle of a date. This is by no means the end to a perfect evening.

Ed's feet glue themselves right over two of the lines that make an exact grid on the floor. He crosses his hands over his chest, watching Sam's frantic movements as their teammate tries to explain himself to the triage nurse. "What the hell is he doing here?"

Wordy forces himself to stand. Tired legs ache at the movement, but accept the weight of his body. He stretches his arms above his head waiting for the crack in his bum shoulder. "I texted him while Sarge drove us here."

His best friend sighs and places a thumb and fingertip at the bridge of his nose. The action means annoyance not pain. "Why would you do that?"

"Because even though Sam has a different way of dealing with things, he's still part of this team." That's not true at all. He called Sam because he knows about his aborted relationship with Jules. He's seen the cold attitude they hold towards each other now. But he remembers the way Sam acted when Donna replaced Jules. Sam is him, just ten years ago and with a few more hurdles in the way. He called Sam because someone who's experienced it from this side needs to explain what happened.

The triage nurse shakes her head and points to their diminishing team. For the first time Sam notices them, but the distress doesn't drain from his face. He adopts a fast gait across the ER, Wordy and Ed watch almost entertained, like he's running a drill. Spike still watches the door.

When he's close enough, Ed begins in a warning tone, "Sam—"

"Where is she?" His hand flies to the back of his neck and he rubs at his muscles. Pained blue eyes flicker between him and Ed as words spill out of his mouth. "What happened? How bad is it? Why aren't you guys in there?"

Ed attempts again to calm Sam down before he breaks into Romeo inspired hysterics in the waiting room. "Just take a few deep breaths and—"

"No, how did this happen? How did—"

"Maybe if you were with us you'd know?" Spike yells from the chair. His injured hand lying against the side of his face as he retains his reclined pose.

During Sam's heated rebuttal and the slow movement of the security guard from behind the glass wall, Wordy nods to Ed. It's a gesture for him to go calm down Spike, while he talks to Sam. It's part of their job, talking down the new guys who get overemotional in public places. Most of the time it's not granted, this may be one of the rare exceptions when it's okay to punch a mirror or scream at your teammate.

"Come with me, we need to talk." He contemplates placing a hand on Sam's shoulder to guide him, but he might not be in the mood to be chummy.

Lew was never like this. Overemotional, hormonal, however it's described. The man was just happy. Simply happy. He was content with what he had; he worked on the weekends with an inner city program to help underprivileged kids play basketball. He was one of those stories you read about on the news that could've gone south, but didn't. And then did.

He and Lew spent a lot of time by the basketball hoop in the parking lot. Sarge didn't like that they had, not so legally, installed it. After all an SRU building probably shouldn't have a basketball hoop sticking of the side of it like a cancerous mole. Lew just chuckled and asked if Sarge was mad because he was bad at basketball. Their boss shook his head and they got to keep the orange rim drilled into the bricks. Lew always beat him, usually doubling his points, but it was nice to have someone not go easy on him for being a family man.

Lew exploded. It's a memory that haunts all of their dreams he's sure of it. It's a memory that's made them all go for PTSD therapy. A memory that makes them sit on a monumental leather couch and reluctantly refuse to talk about their family life, their personal life, their work life, what they watched on TV the night before, what they ate for breakfast that morning, or if they've ever wanted to be a florist. It's a memory that's made them all mute.

They all stood safely behind the barricade of cars and rigs, watching their friend get torn piece from piece, bones from bowels, heart from hand like they were spectators at the Kentucky Derby. He didn't cry until later, too shocked, maybe too desensitized. Spike broke down on the spot. He thinks he would too if Ed were detonated before his eyes. Sam left and sat in a rig, waiting to drive whoever wanted a ride back to headquarters. Ed, stood solitary, watched the smoke clear while his eyes grew cloudy. Sarge did his best to comfort all of them, when they were all inconsolable.

Jules. Jules hid her tears. She does things like that. Anything she assumes will be translated as a sign of weakness immediately gets hidden or denied. Her hands came up to her face, teepeed at her nose and worked double time to block her view of the debris and innards. But something cracked in her that day, allowed her to breakdown within full view of the team and she latched onto him. To this day he doesn't know why. Maybe because he's Wordy, he has Shelley and his three girls and he's a comforting guy. Maybe because he was closest. He'll probably never know why, but he's glad she chose him.

They settle into a corner of the room. It's behind a small alcove in the wall that allows for a certain level of silence and privacy. He directs Sam into the corner, so there are just his words to concentrate on. His hand comes to his lips and he considers how he's going to tell Sam. How he would have wanted to have been told about Shelley.

"Wordy what the hell is—"

"Sam, just listen to me okay?" He raises a hand to hush his teammate and sighs loudly. Ed would just tell him and get it over with. Like pulling off a Band-aid. Spike would probably just scream it at him and then go back to watching the doors.

"I'm going to tell you what we know." He pauses, he wants to tell Sam not to overreact, but he has every right to. When he found out about Shelley, he punched a hole in a wall, which is just a step up from a mirror. "Just remember that Jules is going to need you, and you being furious isn't going to help her."

Sam quiets verbally and physically. His body stops swaying in the pre-rage movement that it tends to acquire before he storms off and they don't see him for an hour, or day, or week. "What happened?"

"Someone beat her up, Sam." He can't make eye contact because his vision is going blurry through congregating tears. He's taken punches before, in grade school scuffles, in high school fights, on police patrols. He knows how one well placed fist to the jaw inflicts a world of agony. His eyes focus on the shadows in the corner of the wall and he tries not to think about Shelley at her worst. About how bad Jules could be. "Sam someone—"

"No." Sam shakes his head and backs up into the corner because there's no place else for him to go. He's already made the jump to the logical conclusion in his head, and his voice is at half the momentum it was in the waiting room as the first tear sneaks down his cheek. "No, she—" his voice cuts out and he gasps in a breath.

He has to say it. Words he doesn't want to speak and words that Sam doesn't want to hear, but he needs to say it just so that there's no confusion. Just so that it's concrete to both of them.

"Sam, someone raped Jules."


Knuckles rumble against sticky glass to garner attention from the triage nurse. She gives a little jump when she notices him almost pressed flat against division like a child at a zoo exhibit. Her eyes stop mid-roll, as if the action is programmed, but she's attempting to grow out of it, and she gives him an index finger to tell him to wait one moment. The pen twists slowly between her fingertips while she finishes writing notes out on a chart. He checks over his shoulder on Eddy and Wordy, but they've disappeared, hopefully into the bathroom to find Spike.

"Hey Cole." The triage nurse in all of her exuding politeness screams across the busy ER like she's calling out to her child in a grocery store. A man in blue scrubs who has his body contorted over a rolling cart while he too fills out a chart, raises his blond head. "Got a visitor for your patient."

She slams her open palm under the desk, activating a button which in turn activates the door; it's designed the same style as bank alarm systems. The glass door hisses open like an homage to a seventies science fiction movie. She gesticulates with her head that he should step through it and met with the nurse on the other side. Her hand buries into the back of her dark curls and she doesn't glance up from the clipboard again.

He crosses the threshold with a mixture of eagerness and trepidation. The actual functioning ER carries a pungent smell of alcohol-based sanitizers and over five dozen people that collide against each other like platelets in a blood stream. The male nurse is already approaching him, his large mouth pulled into a wide grin. He has the exact physique of a basketball player, tall, lean and a humongous hand hanging in the air for Greg to shake. "I'm the Nurse Manager Cole. You might want to excuse Lauren; it's been a long shift."

"I'm Sergeant Greg Parker, I—"

Cole points a long finger and is quick in his interruption. "You're here to see Miss Callaghan?"

It's weird to hear her called that. It's disconcerting. She's Jules. Julianna at formal functions, but she's always been Jules since the first day she arrived at the SRU and corrected him the first time he called her Julianna. Everyone else had a nickname, why not her. But Miss Callaghan, it's serious, it's more than formal, it's borderline dangerous. "Yes, I'm a friend."

"Please don't take this the wrong way Sergeant Parker." The grin fades from the nurse's face and his expressive eyebrows fall into slants. "But after what's happened, I think it's best that only family sees her."

It's an understandable insinuation, the buried meaning being that he's a man and a man put her in that hospital bed. It's just that, Jules doesn't have any women in her life. She never mentions her mom, from the very brief conversations they've held; she's either dead or left when Jules was very young. He supposes the lack of female friends is partly the team's fault. Jules goes out drinking in bars with them, or out on the shooting range with them, or to barbeques with them. He honestly doesn't even know if she likes shopping or cooking or other traditional woman things. He's never bothered asking.

"I'm her emergency contact." It's true. He is. Six months ago when she was shot, he found out. It seems a bit redundant because if Jules was likely to get hurt, it would be on the job. But now he's in the ER and it doesn't seem that stupid. He called her father when she was shot. Whether it was out of duty because she got hurt on his watch, or because he too is an estranged father, and would still want to know if his son was hurt, he's unsure. Her father grunted into the phone, and hung up.

The nurse shifts on what must be weary legs and rubs at the stubble growing on his chin. "Sergeant, so you're a cop, right?"

"I'm an SRU officer, so is Jule—Julianna."

"So you know the proper psychology when dealing with a rape victim."

He doesn't know what word bothers him more. He knows Jules, and she will not like being called a victim, not by the police reports, not by the prosecution, especially no by anyone who knows her. He knows that she fought back with tooth and nail until it was physically impossible, and that's what makes his chest feel tight. "Yeah." His voice is a decibel above a whisper. "Yeah I do."

Cole sighs and runs a hand through his short blond hair. "Sergeant Parker, I'm going to let you see her. It's against basic protocol, but she doesn't have anyone else. She's not talking, she's in shock and she's refusing pain medication. I'm thinking you're our best chance of helping her right now."

When Jules got shot, it was obvious she was uncomfortable in the hospital; she became physically uncomfortable when he or anyone from Team One visited her. At first he thought it was the bullet wound, ribs and muscles ripped apart. Even lying perfectly straight must've been excruciating. But as she healed, she'd duck her head; let her hair mask her face, anything to seem elsewhere. The shock of the assault, jumbled with the intense need to leave the building is probably causing her to refuse the drugs. "How bad is she?"

Cole swallows and nods his head. His eyes lose their shine and his lips fall slack. "She's one of the worse I've seen."

He shares in the nervous nod. His hands tremble. They walk past a few rooms, some with the doors open, some closed. Each step feels like he's wearing steel toed shoes. Each step raises his heartbeat until it's a bass drum in his ear and he can't hear the din of the ER around him. His mouth starts to salivate more and he swallows through the thick tickle at the back of his throat.

In the middle of a wall there's a single wooden door, blinds drawn but the industrial light filters through them. There's nothing around this door, no people, no chairs, no pieces of machinery, and no medical supplies. He knows it's Jules' room.

Cole wraps his fingers around the metal door handle, but pauses and releases it at the last moment. His expressive eyebrows fall into place and he crosses his arms. "Don't show too much emotion. If you're too happy, it seems out of place. If you're angry or sad, she's going to start to blame herself."

"Just be myself."

"Just be yourself." Cole places a comforting hand on his shoulder for a split second and offers a smile that should be reassuring but the situation at hand is a little more pressing. The nurse steps back from the door, convinced that Greg knows what he's doing and merges in with the rest of the ER traffic.

The metal door handle is warm under his fingertips when Greg takes his moment to pause. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, sitting with concrete shoes in a sea of saliva that won't cease production. He thinks he can feel each individual tooth, even the ones with the crowns. Toes wiggle in his weighty shoes. His shin muscle twitches and he imagines Jules on the other side of that door, what condition she's in mentally, physically, emotionally. What she looks like now, what he remembers her looking like in the warm light of the bar and the door screeches as he pushes it open.

"Hey Jules."


Next Chapter - Vomiting x 3. Because apparently I only write about vomiting. Again feel free to wager on who tosses their Fosters.

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