JUSTWORLD FALLACY
A/N:Hey guys, long time no update. Just-World Fallacy Chapter 6 Humming Hymning Choir Clear "I can't believe you hit it." "I didn't hit anything." Globes of light arc in angles. Cut across his thighs. Slice through the seemingly clean leather seats. Crash at ninety degrees into and up the side of the backdoor. Escape through the opposite window before another globe starts on the same ingrained journey. With a stark laugh, he hides his mouth into the palm of his hand. Eyes flash out the window to the empty streets. The cab slows to a stop at a red light, and this globe rests in the tongue of the seat between them. Balances on the tip. A great bar trick. Too many frothy ones over the lips. "I can smell it on your breath." The radio hisses sparks of static and the cabby turns the station. Music with a distinctly carnal beat plays at a diminished level. Ed rests his forehead into his hand, fingers simultaneously working the tense muscles at both of his temples. "I needed a drink okay? So sue me." Light flicks green and the cab speeds off. Globes continue their preset passage. Their lemming crossing, hold hands and dive over the cliff. "You don't think it was a little inappropriate to just leave?" "Did you give Greg or Spike shit for leaving?" Eyes wrenched shut. It's been a long night, but those tears might be the side effect of whiskey. More whiskey than needed because Ed's usually edginess is enhanced. He's not inebriated, maybe two drinks away from being docile drunk, more irritable and dangerous now. "Greg and Spike needed to leave." Thinks about them. How this Team was a family, is a family slowly falling apart because vital mechanisms are being stripped for petty cash. The impact of Lew's death is fresh, shrouds them like the smell of chlorine lingers on skin when coming out of a public swimming pool. Spike's loss of his best friend, and now the defilement of his teammate. Sarge's inability to protect anyone crashing like the rising tide. "You know, I'm getting so tired of this coddling bullshit. We just let everyone do whatever the hell they want and look what—" In his front coat pocket, his phone vibrates. His internal clock reminds him of the time, and he figures it's Sarge updating him. He doesn't want to know. It's horrible and makes his innards shrink down to the size of a corn kernel. He can't handle it. Can't help but think of Shelly. How she hobbled, wobbled, and grew different colors as her personality leaked away through manmade holes. She flinched at movements, sudden and slow, at sounds, at flashes on the TV. Fed off emotions instead of food, emotions someone else was charging to her. Guilt, shame, fear. Ignores Ed's nostril flare and shoulder shuffle as he answers his cell. "Hey Kev." It's her. He's trying to remember how she is now. Safe at home in a cotton pajama set in their bedroom probably lying next to one of the girls. Blonde hair tumbling over her petit shoulders and eyebrows slanted a little in concern. "I know it's one of your boys' nights out and there's no wives allowed, but it's getting late and I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You guys can get kind of rowdy after a few." She chuckles nervously into the receiver. He grins, eyes twitch, feel lost in moisture from unregistered emotions and strain. Turns away from Ed and glances out the window. They're about a block from the jail. She has absolutely no idea how rowdy they can get. "No Shel, I'm—I'm glad you called." "Kev, are you okay?" Knows from a single stutter he's not himself. "Something happened." Pauses and rubs at his eyes because there is wetness. Not sure from what, too tired to function, too awake to sleep. "Another something." "Are you okay? The guys?" "I can't—" Has to sit her down, explain to her what happened and how Jules left them fine and two hours later would never be the same again. Has to explain to her how he was in a group of men who passively let it happen. How he let it happen again. "I can't tell you on the phone." "Okay?" It's drawn out, almost playful in concern. "I'm okay, Shel. I'll be home in an hour. Two tops." "I love you, Baby. Just come home safe okay?" "I promise." The phone starts shaking in his hand as they pull up in front of the police station. The cab rests underneath a lamppost, light growing heavy in his lap. "I have to go now. I love you." He ends the call before their conversation can evolve. Can't handle her voice anymore. It soothes him. Placates him. She's always been there for him. Been there almost his entire time on the force. He finds solace in returning to a house full of woman he loves more than life itself. Taking care of them and protecting them because he's seen what men can do. He doesn't deserve to be comforted right now. Not after everything. He pays the cabby, lets him keep the tip because he doesn't want the money tainted by the occasion, to return to his wallet where pictures of Shelly and the girls rest for gloating purposes. The streetlight showers over him as he steps from the cab onto the curb, a full body's worth of equilibrium better than Ed, who is still walking, but slowly. Almost an underwater march. Boot heels slamming into the ground. Climbs the few steps to where they all got their start. Well, almost all of them took their baby steps here. The gaping maw of the downtown precinct. While Ed struggles with the last slightly jagged, temporally crumbling concrete stair he's greeted by an old colleague pushing through the first set of doors. Than another. It's like a victory lap around the old pond, causes ripples in time. Doesn't mean a damn thing. "Wordy?" An officer glances up from the monumental desk which puts Winnie's to pure shame. "Ed? What are you guys doing—Do you know what time it is?" Ed opens his mouth to answer. Particles of whiskey burst and diffuse into the humid and ceiling fanned interior of the station. Placing a hand on his best friend's shoulder he shakes his head, hoping he can field this inquiry. "Lost and found. Think someone brought in somebody who's ours." "Oh." Middle-aged cop nods once. He retaught them the emergency medical course last year. His prematurely salt and peppered hair bounces in thick curls. "Okay, do you know the charges?" "Can do you better, know the name. Sam Braddock." Beside him Ed groans, shoe scuffs against the floor. Above them in the cathedral ceiling a fan seizes from its speed. "Okay." Agile fingers cruise over the keyboard, following a few clicks of the mouse. "Yep we got him. He hit a doctor." "What an asshole." Ed putters on the marbled lobby floors in circles like a fish with an injured fin. Does loose circles with his hand on his forehead while muttering expletives and unclear concepts. "He's a cop. He's actually on our Team. Is there any way you could release him into our custody? He won't go back to the hospital or do anything like this again, we can promise you—" "Let him stay." Ed stops his shuffle and glances up like he's had an epiphany before a statue of a Saint, which is really just blindfolded Themis. "Ed." "You said yourself, he's going to go crazy for this guy. So let him stay in prison. Then he's not our problem for a few hours." Shrugs and rubs at the back of his neck. Hint of a smile creeping at the corner of his mouth because he's actually pleased with this idea. "Who knows, maybe he'll cool off." "It's going to take him more than one night to cool off." It's stated simply because it is simple. If they hadn't locked up Shelly's ex-husband, he would have murdered him. Would have murdered him without a second thought, would have made it last and the thought of it scares him. The thought of anyone touching her or the girls. The rage underlies like the flame on a burner of a gas stove. "He'd be released at six this morning anyway." Emergency medical teacher informs him. Probably doesn't want to be responsible for the release paperwork. "Ed, someone's got to be with her. She can't just—" "You don't think Greg is going to go back there the first chance he gets?" Catches the sarcasm in his voice. Wonders why he doesn't understand why Greg tries to protect her after what he, they did during her first week with them. The same reason Spike doesn't fully trust them because of an overload of pepper spray in riot gear. The same reason Lew preferred the younger crowd because of Rolie. "Fine, but we're telling him in person." Shakes his head negating his choice because it's not fine. Knows if it was him in jail and Shelly in the hospital he'd be chewing at the bars trying to get out. Wonders if it's still like that for them. Has never been able to read Jules well, hasn't really gotten to know her at all in the seven years they've worked together. Only once have they really connected on a visceral level. A ring outside of the Team One atmosphere. It was when he was on paternity leave after Lilly was born. Shelly was still recovering from the c-section and Maddy had fallen sick from her playgroup. He needed to ask Commander Holleran for some more time off. Another week, maybe two while his family adjusted. Baby Lilly was ensconced in his arms, the only one in the family thriving as he struggled to keep things agreeable. It was hard, a vomiting toddler, an aching wife and a baby who woke every three hours to need something. Somehow he became her primary caregiver. He took care of Lilly more than her mother because Shelly needed to recover from the emergency scalpel diving into her abdomen. He and Lilly have always had a bond. He loves all his girls, but Lil and him just connect in a different way. "Pete." Empty hand slapped the bare dispatch desk. He wanted to be demanding, let Winnie's off-shift replacement know just how desperate he was to talk to Holleran. How Ed had called him and in two minutes he had Lilly strapped into her seat and was on the highway. "Is Holleran here?" "Yeah he's—I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to bring one of those up here." He forced a laugh, bared teeth clenched in the front. Glanced down to his sleeping daughter and reclaimed his serenity for her sake. Was here for her sake. "Her mom's asleep; I really need to talk to Holleran." "I think he's in the locker room." Roadblock. There is no way past, present or future he would ever take any of his daughters into the locker room. He doesn't particularly care for it half the time. The language, both body and verbal. The guys lose half their brain cells on passing through the door. "Pete, you don't think that—" Caught his nod to napping Lilly and pushed away from the desk. "Whoa. Sorry Wordy. I mean we're friends and I like you, but—man, not that much." "Yeah." Nodded eyes squinted a little in a recalibration of good old Pete. His hand adjusted the dress over his daughter's, plump, almost bow legs. Turned to reexamine the lobby. Hoped to find someone he knew, someone he wouldn't mind leaving Lilly with for a few minutes. The locker room door burst open, ricocheted off the wall, and groaned closed again. Rolie sauntered by him, gym bag casually slung over his shoulder, while his thumbs mechanically twirled over a cell phone. Remembered Team One was called in because Ed had called. "Rolie." "Wordy?" Twisted away from the elevator and released his lip from between two front teeth, it blanched and reddened. "Came to show off your catch?" Never really cared for Rolie. He used to be able to stand him, even understand him. But a few weeks after Jules transferred in, his fiancée cheated on him and left. Held a vendetta against the world from that moment on. An unbridled rage just underneath a calm lake surface. Like the sudden skip of a stone, his emotions flustered and blew in the draw of a breath. "I actually need to talk to Holleran, you don't think you could—" Rolie laughed at him, condescendingly. The kind of laughter that fills high school hallways. His hand actually touched his side; the force of humor gave him pain. "Wordy, it's the Friday starting Spring Break. I know you're not interested but the quality of ass at the bars is—" "God, just go." Forgot about the slang. The uncouthness he wasn't raised on. For people who uphold the law, cops can run their mouths along with the worst thugs. It's a barely known fact. A fact which doesn't involve him because he had a caring mother. Has the perfect wife and three perfect daughters. Can't say anything without thinking of them so why would he? Rolie chuckled and jumped into the elevator. Thumbs probably texting about the incident with a few extra expletives. He was near the brink, the break where he had to decide what was more important, being approved for more time, or finding someone to watch Lilly. Went to take a single step towards the locker room when he saw her. She was securing the 'Jules' door. It was only her room at the time. No Donna. Before the drama of trying to integrate everyone. She had a black sheer shirt with a black top underneath. Luckily her hair was up. "Jules." Called out to her and leapt across the lobby with a sleeping three-week-old in his arms. "Hey Wordy. Aren't you suppo— Is this your new daughter?" Yanked her purse up on her shoulder. Didn't have the average woman's reaction to babies. The clasped hands and euphoric expression. "Yeah, this is Lilly." "And Shelly let you bring her here?" "Actually I need to go into the locker room to talk to Holleran and I was wondering if—" Stopped and smiled down at Lilly. Sort of nudged her so Jules got the idea. "Oh Wordy." Stepped back and hit the locker room door. Thought she might unlock it, dart inside and wait until he disappeared. "I don't think I'm the right person." "Please. I wouldn't ask unless it was really important. I won't even be five minutes." "I know Wordy, but I don't know anything about babies." "Look, it's really simple." Held out his daughter whose eyelashes fluttered and lips smacked in her sleep. Jules flicked her lower lip out. With her eyes closed, she reluctantly accepted Lilly like she was getting passed a football. "Just keep her in the crook of your arm. Or if she wakes up and starts to squirm, use two hands. She likes to be patted on the back, so you could lean her on your shoulder." "Just." She swiped blindly behind her to find the bench. Hand gripped the block exterior and she lowered her body slowly until she sat down. "Just be quick." "I will and thank you, Jules." Found Holleran in the matter of seconds and explained his situation at home. Begged for just one more week off so maybe Shelly could fully recover from her surgery and Maddy could get over her cold. Holleran nodded and took some notes, couldn't promise anything but said he'd look over the schedules and see if there wasn't room. He had to have been less than ten minutes. Shook Holleran's hand and jogged out of the locker room to find Lew standing beside Jules. A tall, skinny kid they'd adopted from Guns and Gangs two months earlier. His gangly appearance was offset by his massive head of hair. He had the back of his palm pressed into his smirking mouth. Jules was wiping the back of her hand on her shirt. "What happened?" Lew slapped his free hand onto his back. The other still trying to muffle the chuckles Jules didn't find so amusing. "Your daughter threw up on her." And Lilly sat in her arms. Eyes shut and content. Lips still smacked. Arms shuffled in sleep. Jules' black shirt had a huge, chunky white stain which ran from the shoulder down to her chest. "I'm so sorry." He didn't think it was funny. Didn't want her to be upset. Didn't really know how she would react since in a little over of two years working together they'd exchanged about a paragraph worth of outside intel. "It's alright Wordy." She nodded to Lilly and he retrieved his sleeping daughter. Lew pulled slightly at the material on her shirt and recoiled. "Man, it's clotting. What are you feeding that kid?" "I'm so sorry." "Wordy, it's fine." She almost laughed this time. Eyebrows a little arched at his instant apology. "I just wish I had something else to change into." "I got a shirt you can use." Lew reached into the opened gap of his gym bag and handed her a faded purple sweatshirt. They spoke but he didn't hear the words. Just felt a twinge of guilt because his daughter had chosen to empty her entire stomach onto Jules, the only person who agreed to help them. Jules returned from her locker room wearing an oversized, ancient Toronto Raptor's sweatshirt. With alterations it could have been a dress. Lew nodded, a long finger itched at the bottom of his chin. "See, you're working it." "What did I say?" She pointed at him. A direct warning though her face was void of the danger. "Jules, really. I'm so—" "Wordy." She placed a hand on his bicep. Eyes gentle, face calm. "I had more fun holding your daughter than I ever did with that stupid shirt. It's fine." He nodded, the cadence of her voice made him believe her. She grinned and touched Lilly's hand while she slept, "Goodnight Lilly." He may not know a lot about her, but she was there to watch Lilly for him after countless other people refused to. May not know a lot about her, but for some odd reason he knew he could trust her with his daughter. Not because she's a woman and there's some inherent mechanism buried within them dictating how to care for babies, but because he knew she would do a good job, knew if Lilly did spit up on her, she wouldn't care. The lockup is a moderately secured section of the building. Not designed to keep criminal masterminds out. Simple layers of brick painted and chipped. Repainted in a softer shade of white decaying into a sullied gray. The bars are basic lock and key. Nothing running on mechanical tracts with electricity or magnets. No serial killers reside here. No murders. No rapists. Just drunks and entry level thugs. Nonthreatening types of law breakers who stumble around intoxicated in the wrong place. Or shoplift from the Eaton's center during the wrong time of day. Or who urinate on the property outside of a bar. Or who have too many unpaid parking tickets. Or who can't afford to pay their child support. Or who just punched a doctor in the face after not being provoked. Footsteps echo in the emptiness of the corridor between cells. Thick rubber against the poured, smoothed cement. The guy from the desk, the one who gave him his CPR certificate nods and gestures to Sam in case he recognize his teammate. Ed sneers as the officer leaves, never liked him. The officer was removed from active duty due to medical issues. Ed said he should have just taken his pension and retired, having him on the force is dangerous to all of them. The lockup is quiet. Just drunks sleeping it off, blissed out thugs and one Team One member sitting on a rickety cot underneath barred lights. It circles over him, contrasts the shadows. Ages him years. Ten years. The last five hours has aged them all ten years. Back flat against the concrete, dress shoes flat on the floor. Dress shirt without a suit, ripples and wrinkles throughout but no blood. No evidence. He's thinking of a way to address the situation. He sympathizes and contemplates how he would react if he experienced prison time because of what happened to Shelly. His Shelly. Doesn't think anything anyone could say would mean a damn thing. Before he even utters a word, Ed is already half-cognitive in the game. "You did it this time Braddock." Hand braced where the smoothness of the concrete fades back into stacked bricks. Years and years of stacked bricks. Head shoots up and his body pops off the cot. Paces before the gate, the bars like an animal in a zoo exhibit. "You have to get me out. We have to go back to the hospital." "More medical staff you need to beat up?" Ed snorts. His voice is getting the run on tendency. He's tired and his brain is losing the battle with alcohol. Placing a hand on Ed's shoulder to steady and silence him, he adds, "We can only stay for a minute, Sam." "No." Lips straighten and his feet go back to pacing before the door, like this whole thing is a joke. Doesn't grasp the seriousness of it. Maybe knows exactly how serious everything is. "No. I need to get out. I need to get back. " Contemplates debating for Sam, representing him because the exact same thing has happened. Re-happened. A reoccurrence in the system. The algorithm. Repetition for emphasis. For meaningless. Use a word to much and what's the definition. Something happens to often and what's the use trying to fight it. Break apart like a glacier from the mainland. Float away until it melts. Watches the convulsions of Sam's fists. The pure agony extracted in each muscle movement. Knows if he did fight to release him, he'd be responsible for him and something would go wrong. He can't have that. Can't be that involved. It's selfish. So so selfish. But this Team, this Team is his secondary family. Shelley, Maddy, Lilly and Allie. Those are his main players, the ones he would sacrifice more than his life for. And since this doesn't concern them, and would if he became actively involved, he has to back step to the sidelines. "Sam, it's almost two. The morning shift starts at six, they'll—" "No." Thunder in the hall. Open palm smacks at the bar. Startles him back awake. Ed doesn't move, eyes half-lidded, unimpressed with being anywhere. "I promised her. I stood there and I promised her." "Well maybe, next time, don't go around hitting doctors." Ed shrugs off his hand, is almost leaning into the bars, trying to agitate. "Why did you?" "He was—" Sam stops, backs away from the bars until his shins hit the edge of the cot. Sits slowly as if contemplating something while remembering it. "I was just angry I guess." Change in personality is immediate. Passive. Quiet with his elbows balanced on his thighs. Not saying another word. Body hunched, almost double hunched to repress its height. Broken. He taps Ed's shoulder one last time and gestures for him to leave. His friend steadies on his feet and observes him through a quizzical expression lost in the drowning stench of whiskey. After a second he shuffles down the corridor and the clanging of bars echoes his exit. "Sam," voice is compassionate, something he couldn't be with Ed there. Says Sarge coddles the younger members because of his own personal problems. Because of the son ripped out of his life from the same bottled breath. "Even if they let you out now, you can't go back to that hospital. You assaulted a doctor on the premise. Commander Holleran and Greg will probably—" "I don't care." Sighs in defeat. Everyone's adopted a nihilistic attitude. Ready to crash and burn and turbine into anyone within the general area. They're all just six burning satellites plummeting towards the ground, just at different speeds. The question is who's going to land the closest to Lew's wreckage. "It's only four hours." As he turns to leave, Sam pops up again. Doesn't shift from the spot like his shoes are caught on a rivet, but his arm jerks in the false movement of reaching out. The false need to touch. "You didn't see her. You don't know what she looks like." "I know what she looks like, Sam." Footsteps tap over the ground as he rests against the bars. Hand scooping around the metal stripes. "If I can't get out of here, go be with her. Someone has to be with her." Watches a smile crack through his features, jagged like the shell of a dropped egg. Watches his left hand rub a row of red tinged knuckles against oxidized metal. Watches eyes grow glassy in the sectioned, segregated lights. "She might tell you to leave, but she needs someone there. She doesn't like hospitals." "Greg is going to be with her." The words fall out of his mouth like loose teeth as he turns and retreats to the vastness of the lobby. Stories of room, aesthetically pleasing tiles and robust armchairs. Ceiling fan ticks as he walks past the reception desk and waves to the man who reeducates in medical training because he's medically unwell. Ed reclines just out the main doors under the wall lamps. Stream of steam shooting from his nose as he takes deep breathes. The frigid, early morning air sobering him up. The collar of his coat pulled up around his neck. "What did you say to him?" Doesn't stop, keeps walking. There are times in the friendship where he has to be the aggressive one. Dealing with one too many criminals who all happen to be on his Team makes him a little fickle. Ed's steps stomp after him and his shadow stretches across the industrial illuminated building exterior to his feet. "I just told him Greg would be with her. Did you call him?" "I got his voicemail, I left a message." "So you didn't actually talk to him." "Wordy, it's two in the morning. What do you want me to do?" Heels dig into the ground with his halt. Stares at the ground, at the skewed shadows pinned to the curb by weighted light. Speaks through clouds of humid breath puffing from his mouth. "We can't just leave her there." "I'm telling you, Greg is probably already there which is why he's not answering. He's not going to leave her. Besides you really think she wants us there?" It's late and his conscience is weighted. But everything Ed says is completely true. Greg wouldn't abandon Jules of all people, especially not after the recent loss of Lew, especially not after what happened. It's also true he still doesn't know a thing about her. Not about the real her outside of work. Sure she's talked about her renovating her house. Sure every year at their family picnic she bakes the best Nanaimo bars. She's allergic to shellfish. She's the worse basketball player he's ever seen and is adamant in her belief that her shoes are a size nine. But it's only a percentage of Jules. Only a mere fraction of who she really is and on top of his amassing guilt is the fact he's never gotten to know her. Because he doesn't know her, he doesn't have the right to see her even if he was brave enough. It's part of the reason why he can't go into random bars and get drunk on whiskey. A cab arrives and Ed nods to the car. He raises his hand. "I'll get the next one." Really just wants a second to be alone. To deal with everything and how he's going to tell Shelly without her experiencing some sort of akin emotion. Some sort of predetermined PTSD. Ed's eyes squint in miscommunication and then when he doesn't move, maybe in a hint of offense. But he walks to the cab. "You need to stop getting involved with them." His hand is on the back passenger's door. Most people would address his meddling with their back turned, but Ed faces him. Unafraid, unabashed. "They're not you and Shelly. They were barely even a couple." "I'll see you later, Ed." Voice is even, but doesn't say tomorrow. Tomorrow is too soon to see any of them. Feels like he needs another two weeks off on top of the Lew sabbatical. Now they're just going to get Lew's replacement and fire them out of the sky. Seven fiery satellites, tumbling towards the ground. Life is a series of repeating events. Repetition is meaningless. Humming. Industrial sized florescent lights buzz in the apiary of lockup. Secured in the gated light hive. Crisscrossed shadows thatching their way across the ground. Bars across the walls. Bars across the floors. Bars across the lights. The windows. The ground. His mind. Concrete is old and porous and pressing against his back. Reverse moles scooped into the milky gray wall. Hard, three inch thick mattress doing nothing to shield from the equally hard springs of the cot. Simple black frame with four black legs, the back left which wobbles, held together with random rusty screws. Ceiling hums as metal prods his bones. Stuck. Caged. Abandoned and secured because he's wild. A renegade for practicing the displacement law. Hitting one asshole, hoping another feels it. Punching one guy who harmed her because he can't find the other. Sits feeling the dips between his knuckles swell slightly from bones cracking against bones. Fingers indolently slide in the tender crevices between the ridges. Fingers stained with black ink. Skin cracks plugged with her blood. Bulky, sloppy lidded eyes close. Rims sticky in the innate call for sleep, with viscous sentimentality as the suction makes his lids suckle. Can't sleep. The choir above him hums. Angels in simple garbs as an ethereal background shimmers. They all have shoes. Left her. Just left her. Boxed her up on the side of the road. An old lamp. A dirty couch. A blown out TV. A fridge that uses too much energy to cool a few simple beers. Last week's recycling. Last night's garbage. Yesterday's newspaper. A renovated living room where Santorini skies meant the world to him and bare feet were welcoming as they dug under the edge of his thighs for warmth. A broken promise. A row of swelling knuckles, a doctor's broken nose, a wrist broken in two places among many other things. But a broken promise. Begged. Red pupil twisted and coiled in the agony of being a ruined plaything, the agony of reliance. The broken promise wrings around his heart, tighter than cuffs, heavier than his eyelids which open to view an exactly similar wall to the one he's leaning against. Hum. Humming. Hymns. Gospel. Harp. Lyre. Leer. Probably started with a leer. If he was there he could have reversed it. How? Somehow. Does it even fucking matter? With words. With fists. With an equally violent glare. Who cares if he has no stake in her? He has a stake in her. Even if she doesn't want it because if he didn't he wouldn't feel like this. Could have done something. Something more than this jail cell bee hive church choir hum hymn. Busts head against the wall a little too hard. A little too zealous. Overzealous. Over zealot. Quest for Camelot. Can't sleep won't sleep. Humming hymning choir clear. This bed is too goddamn hard; it's not even a real bed. It's something that passes for a bed in cheap universities. The military had better beds. Had better nights of sleep lying with sand depressing into his chest cavity. Life is too goddamn hard. Sit still. Sit still don't fidget. Sand in his shirt. In his pants. In his shoes. Pebbled to his skin. Asphalt digging into his knees, a pair of legs splayed at an awkward angle. Sit still Sam, don't fidget. Don't forget. Last time. Last time sign me out. Broken promise. But—but Sarge is with her. Wordy said. Best bet. Best bet. Best bed. Her bed was the best bed. She was there. Eventually she let him be there too. Arm would fall over the invisible divide in the mattress to her side and she wouldn't try to rip it off. Would sigh. More time passed and she would snuggle. More time passed and they would just start without a divide. Sleep in late on Sundays. Push him out onto the floor because she needed the sheets for laundry. One Sunday morning Jules purposely roused him, the only time she ever woke him with intention in the entirety of their relationship, including and especially after she was shot. Her right palm bit into muscle on his left shoulder. Jostled his body down to the sinew. Her forearm balanced bisecting his chest, elbow wobbled, threatened to dig into his ribs. "Sam, wake up." "Huh?" His eyes remained closed and he wetted his lips, cracked from the stagnant early air. Smacked them together and tried to flip over onto his side, but she extended across him diagonally. "Sam." Palm jolted his shoulder again. Both her thighs cradled his right leg. Voice sounded more serious, more critical. "Sam, wake up." "What?" The urgency entwined in her voice woke him. He rubbed a heavy palm at one of his lazy eyes and sat up without forethought. Ended up bringing her, supported her with a right hand curving around the small of her back before she fully tumbled over his legs. She wore her terrycloth housecoat. A symbolic quelling of all of his sexual desires. He hated that robe since it had first made an appearance. It was impossible to get her out of it once she put it on; it stuck and formed to her body like a synthetic skin. Cognitively aware of all his naughty advances. "Did I sleep in?" Nope, last night was a Saturday spent at the bar with the boys. Today was a slow Sunday, their day off. Half asleep, another thought struck him and his heart bounced, adrenaline already surging. His arm fell to her hip while he considered objects in the room he could use as a club. "Is there someone in the house?" Her lips pulled back, wide mouth laughed at him. White and perfect teeth on display as she ducked her head a moment. "Sam, there's no one in the house." "Then why did you wake me up?" She laughed again. But the smile morphed, employed slyness as she reached to the bedside table and retrieved something. A large, heavy white cupcake smothered in chocolate frosting. It exuded cocoa, vanilla and Jules. Upon his reexamination, there were smudges of flour on her cheek. She just baked it. "You thought I wouldn't find out." Collapsed back onto the bed with arm slung over his face. "How did you know?" The bulky cupcake came to rest on the center of his chest, bobbed with his breaths to entice him. "I don't steal your wallet to just pay for things." There was a single twisted white candle sprouting up from a sheath of thick frosting. A single match ignited it and he consciously steadied sniper breathing to avoid a birthday burn. She folded her arms and rested on the other side of the cupcake against his stomach. It wasn't helping his concentration at all. "Now make a wish." Her playfulness was a little different. Refreshing though, so he indulged her. Closed his eyes for a split second and whistled air directly at the hula dancing flame. The chocolate frosting liquefied, became runny with the addition of heat. She dragged her index finger around the periphery of the wrapper waistband on chocolate muffin top to collect the runoff. Her fingerprint disappeared underneath a chocolaty mess. "You have to try this sauce." Barely a second elapsed between her musing aloud and her finger shooting towards him. He didn't complain, willingly sucked her finger between his lips. The sweetness of sugar, the bitterness of cocoa and the punch of alcohol all mashed together on his taste buds as his tongue rolled against her finger. She didn't react, was more concerned with her creation. "It's good right?" Finger retracted from his mouth, lips shaved any remnants of frosting off. Eyes squinted for a brief moment as the alcohol burned a chemical trail to his stomach. Then he realized her playful mood might not be due to the festiveness of his birthday. "That's pretty strong, Jules." She shrugged, sitting up. Her legs disappeared beneath robe tails while her arms encircled his raised knee. Cheek fell against the cap and she spoke, "I had to get it right." "Yeah, I think we should get you a cup of coffee." He moved to get out of bed, but completely forgot about the massive cupcake on his chest. The top heavy baked good toppled with a thump. Covered the center of his chest with a medium sized smudge of alcoholic chocolate. He groaned, set the cupcake on the nightstand and reached for something to wipe the frosting off with. "I got it." Jules answered as she leaned forward. He assumed she was going to use that stupid robe to clean it up since Sunday was usually laundry day. Instead she straddled his lap, an action which woke up all the nerves the alcohol and sleep calmed and clubbed. Her hands pushed his shoulders back and in a swift and lithe movement, her tongue lapped up all chocolate residue from his chest. It was warm and wet and sticky and enough to make him semi-hard. Her tongue reappeared briefly to lick her bottom lip spotless and he wasted no time in capturing her mouth. Frantic and a little harsh, tongue invasive, sucking on her lips until he couldn't taste alcohol or chocolate. Just Jules. "Wait." She half-laughed sideways against his lips in an attempt to break the kiss. His one hand tangled in her knotted mess of a bun, his other hand dangerously close to entering forbidden robe territory as it rested on the inside of her thigh over a small purple scar. He barely pulled back. Allowed her to keep talking while he planted wet kisses onto her chin. "Don't you want to open your present first?" "Not really." He mumbled, lips motored against the underside of her jaw. Hand from the back of her head cupped the side of her neck. Felt her pulse race. Her hand slid down the side of his neck until it became a physical barrier between his mouth and the rest of her body. "Come on Sam." With a sigh he placed a more reserved kiss on the center of her palm. Restrained himself for her sake. He never even told her his birthday, because, well she didn't tell him hers. Still she had gone through the trouble of baking him somewhat of a cake. Ending up somewhat drunk while doing so, which in itself was enough of a present. He was up for this present, but his body was a little preoccupied at the moment. "Sure." "Okay, well before you open it, I only found out about your birthday a few days ago." She knelt on the bed beside him and he almost had to sit on his hands. "That's fine." "So I basically had to find stuff around the house to wrap up." She played with her housecoat tie and he wondered if she was purposefully prolonging this conversation. "It's the thought that counts." "That's refreshing." Angled belt end of her terrycloth robe lied flaccid in her hand. Fingernails brushed against the material one final time before handing him the end. "Happy Birthday." Precious seconds ticked by before he fully comprehended the significance in what she offered him. The curse of the robe was over. His body curved forward, inherited a wolfish grin as fingers tugged the knot loose. He expected to find pristine skin. Skin he would taste from delivering it freedom from that horrible blue terrycloth prison. Instead he was met with intricacies. Black and white and pink. Lace and frills. And dear God, little bows. Tiny pink bows ornamental like on a birthday cake. She was wearing lingerie. He'd never asked her to wear lingerie, never figured her the type to. Actually figured he might gain a fat lip or lose some teeth by asking. But there she was, all done up in a corset and boy shorts and he was the one who couldn't breathe. The mischievous expression caused from being half-hammered at eight on a Sunday morning drained from her face. Palms shoved down on her hips and she checked herself out with a glance over her shoulder. Lucidity brought reserve and insecurity. He wondered if the alcoholic frosting was a coincidence. "Does it look okay?" Didn't even answer her. Not verbally at least. Managed to tone down his tackle to a pounce so there were no major injuries. It was akin to when lions overpower gazelles. She laughed beneath him. So mirthful, it almost constituted a giggle. It only turned him on more. The bodice pressed into his bare chest, thick firm sides maintained its motionlessness. Lace tickled and itched. He buried his mouth against hers. Tongues coiled, looped, infinite. His hands simultaneously travelled up her smooth thigh, and over her ribs. Felt the compression of her diaphragm under his fingertips. She broke the kiss, needed a breath. He was engrossed, twisted wet hard kisses down her jaw line. Swooped to her neck. She sighed, slanted her neck to give him an advantage. Cold fingertips dipped into his hair, nonverbal encouragement. Five more splayed across his back. Lips toppled down, hailed from above. Haphazard. She shivered beneath him, arched upwards. He twitched in his boxer shorts. Mouth pursed against her pale skin ridged by a perfect collarbone. Created suction, tongue stroked in swift circles, teeth hinted at but never fully bit. "Sam." It was almost a moan. She almost moaned his name. It was so fucking hot. That coupled with the lingerie was causing the thin material of his boxer shorts to become agonizing. But ice fingers dragged across his neck, grounded him for a single second. "No hickeys." He didn't stop. Actually increased the pressure of his lips. The friction of his body. Her leg, the one not currently under his left hand, wrapped around his waist. Heel of her foot depressed the band of his boxers. She gave no real indication for him to stop, aside from the direct words. He pasted his lips to her skin and responded, "It's my birthday." "Fine." She nodded several times. Words a little breathless already as he continued. "Just one." He was already on the second when she told him. The first one shouldn't have to suffer in loneliness. Both perfectly formed, symmetrical, like twin cherries on a stem. He thought not to press his luck; concessions were made for his birthday he should be grateful for them. Mouth travelled lower, over the swell of one breast rigidly imprisoned by the corset. Braided wet kisses together until he met the dive between. Loves the dive. Felt safe at the dive. Cried at the dive. Placed his head at the dive and listened to her heart beat so many times he can't separate memories. His hand clasped her breast through the corset. Over the elaborate lace lining on the cup. Thought maybe her breast would escape over the fringe. There had been frantic times between them where her bra didn't even end up all the way off, but he got to them. The corset, however, was very protective. Barely lifting his head he questioned, "How does this come off?" She caught his lips, magnetically dragged him upwards. Her hands calmed and enticed on the sides of his face. The kiss fluctuated, lolled and raced, pecked and stretched. She pulled back, chest flushed from arousal. "Sam, you do remember it's your birthday? You're supposed to be—" She jerked beneath him. The leg hanging off his waist snapped with the sudden jolt as he moved the hand from her thigh to stroke her, just to garner her attention. Hand stationed, remained in place and his lips sucked on her ear lobe. "How do you know this isn't exactly what I want?" He made sure his breath was hot on her neck. Replaced his hand with his body, more preferential parts. Immediately her hips shot down, grinded into him. Nuclear reaction. She mimicked his position; earlobe between lips, hot raspy breaths raised him. "There are some clasps in the back." Some was the biggest understatement of his entire life. Saying there were some clasps was like saying there were some stars in the sky or some water in the ocean. The whole back was fucking clasps. And that was his Jules. Even shitfaced she managed to get the upper hand. Probably saw how the corset did up and bought it just for that reason. Probably had it specially made. "This entire thing is clasps." Jules sat upright in his lap, his chin rested against her shoulder as he tried to fathom how to get the fucking thing off. Part of him just wanted to cut it off, rip it off, but then he'd never see it on her again and that was a tragedy in itself. "Some of us never really leave high school." Plump lips grazed the skin just below his ear. Her arms curled around his neck and fingers spread into his hair. He forced together the sides of the corset like a bra and a few of the clasps undid. Kisses became more aggressive, hot and wet against his skin. Distracting in a fully appreciated way. Concentration divided because she still smelled like cupcake. Got him harder by the second. "This thing is impossible." Lips against her shoulder for retaliation. The top and the bottom third popped undone but the middle remained locked. "You should've seen me trying to get it on." She laughed and almost giggled again. Another twitch, he was more than uncomfortable. She tapped kisses down his jaw, under his chin over his Adam's apple. Hand detangled from his neck and fell to his lap, slithered into the slit in his boxers. Did some swift retaliation. His breath hitched in his throat. "Jules." "You must be getting really uncomfortable." "Maybe if you didn't pick the fucking Rubik's Cube of all lingerie." Words left his mouth too quickly because her hand stroked him, and her breasts, albeit covered in lace, pushed firmly into his chest and her warm thighs were split on either side of his legs. He just wanted the fucking corset off. It was a thing of beauty and only enhanced Jules' masterpiece level of attractiveness but right now: gone. He thought she'd be upset at his anger. She wasn't. Her hand lessened its grasp. Her tongue rattled in her mouth as she blew a raspberry. "You'd be done already if you stopped bitching." He kissed her, because he had to. She was perfect. And while his lips smacked against hers, and their tongues spiraled, he finished the final section. The corset became limp on her body. He whipped it across the room. He'd find it later and beg for forgiveness but right now his focus was on the prisoners of war. The dive welcomed him. Unmarred by protruding bones as seen on disgustingly skinny girls. Hands wandered uninhibited, cupping and kneading, had an all access pass. He nuzzled, lapped, kissed. Tongue swirled, flicked and circled. Hand stretched flat over her stomach, the entire expanse of it. Thumb strummed over her navel like a guitar chord. Mouths regrouped, discussed their recent activities. One arm gently edged her back while the other traced her leg. Shin to knee to thigh by scar up around her ass to find the ruffles on the back of her panties. "You got ruffles?" He moaned against her mouth. Hand undulated through the extra material copying the shape of her perfect ass. She grinned against his mouth. He kissed the corner as she rested on her back. Usually they had long winded debates about what position to use. She didn't like being on top because she's self-conscious but won't admit to it. Instead she used the veil of his laziness to shy away from that position. He didn't like being on top because he always felt like he was crushing her. She always said she was fine. He never believed her. Their preferred position was sitting, embracing with her in his lap. No one got crushed, no one got self-conscious. The workload was evenly distributed. This morning was different. "I thought you'd like them." Her thumbs hooked into the side of his boxers. Directed them down, stealthily over any protruding hurdles. His hands ran up the ruffles one final time before relieving her body fully of the lingerie. The sex was simultaneously momentous and casual. Since they no longer used condoms each sexual encounter with Jules grew more fervid. His face was buried in the side of her neck; a hand fastened him there, half in his hair half on his neck, his arm held one of her legs angled along his body when they climaxed. He set the fast pace. Whenever he set the pace they didn't climax together. She came first, which triggered him. With Jules' pace it was always synchronized. Afterward he collapsed on top of her. Head in the dive. Her chest powered excessive breathes, the rate and the force did not propel him an inch. Her hand brushed back his hair. His hand covered her exposed breast. Early morning post-sex addled mind told him she might be cold. Still on top of her. Still inside of her. Refused to get off, out until he had to. Lingered long kisses against her chest. Salty sweet skin. Pushed up and kissed her on the lips. Kiss evolved from a soft meeting, to a hard course of beating lips. Tongues tangled. Her hips bucked against his and he grew hard again. "Sam." She laughed, almost giggled again. Harder. He gathered her into an upright position. Her forearm rested against his cheek and his face was less than an inch away from hers. He darted his tongue out and licked her lower lip. "Did you take something?" "Did you drug the cupcake?" Thumbs rotated over her hips. Massaged. Felt her responding. Sucked on the inside of her forearm. "I put alcohol in it to slow you down." "And look how well that worked," he whispered to her lips and seized her mouth. Clanging. An alarm? His alarm? No his alarm is the early morning sports report. Hates the futuristic klaxon his clock radio spews if he adjusts it a setting too far. Her alarm clock was old school. Nostalgic. The kind found in East coast bed and breakfasts. Little hammer picking away between two bells. Got irritated with his early morning radio sports garble and started setting her bells two minutes earlier, so he set his sport show three minutes earlier, eventually they were getting up half an hour early for no reason other than spite and blind competition. The extra time together was hardly ever wasted. Metal retracts. His eyes open to the limitless industrial lighting. The guard stands in the opened cell door, a shadow leaking it's innards onto the white light of the incandescent hallway. "You can go now." Sits up on the edge of the stiff cot. Ignores the pain radiating in his lower back and down his side. Ignores the odd areas on his wrists where the skin is rubbed down to a gummy redness. "What?" "It's six." The guard juts a thumb telling him to move. Like some more important, more infamous criminal is waiting just around the corner to use the cell for illicit activities. He arches his neck when he stands; tries to pop layered vertebrae back into straight order but crooked muscles aren't cooperating. The guard stops him at the cells door. "You'll get a letter in a week with your court date." "Great." "Until then avoid Toronto General and Dr. Parsons." Doesn't answer, just brushes past the guard. Feels the cool metal bars briefly through his dress shirt. Doesn't even remember buying this shirt, putting on this shirt, where his jacket is. Memory a splatter of paints smudged with a clumsy hand. Doesn't think he even has his own emotions anymore except those she invokes in him. The rage and guilt from what happened to her. The relief he still gets from being around her even in her current state. The guilt from being grateful she's alive. From taking a moment in the back of a police car to let out a raspy laugh when he realized she really was alive. The guilt because she's in so much pain and he's just glad she's alive. Retrieves his personal effects from a replacement cop behind the sign-out desk. Wallet, keys and cell phone all neatly packed away in an evidence bag. Wonders for a single microsecond what The General would think if he found out his only son's clean record had been sullied because he beat up a misogynistic doctor? Wonders what the infinitesimal odds are that his own father would see his views. It has to be less than a decimal point; he doesn't even think The General loves his mom anymore. Hails a cab, which is hard to do coming out of a police station. The cabby eyes him nervously during the ride, unsure whether he's a cop or criminal. Not knowing he's both. Visiting hours at the hospital start in an hour and a half. He has enough time to go home, shower, collect a few things before getting her the fuck out of there. She needs him, she asked for him out of everyone. He fucked things up. Wishes he was smart about the whole thing, reported the doctor to a superior or board or something. Instead, he only did her more harm. Hospitals, they destroy Jules, they oppress her in every way possible. She asked him out of everyone for one thing. He failed. His car sits underneath a tall lamppost in the parking lot. Giant, square bulb still illuminated against the early gray sky like the world's biggest bug zapper. Acts like a beacon, an obelisk though he doesn't need it. His car is one of the only few remaining. Under the dewy sheen attached to the smooth skin of his SUV, there's a moist piece of paper. A citation left underneath a wiper blade because he should have vacated the empty lot three hours ago. It doesn't bother him, even if he didn't spend the morning in prison he would have forgotten about his car. A single red pupil erased it from his memory. The drive home is languid, tiring. Muscles and bones ache in the same fashion he hasn't felt in years. Not since spending nights asleep on exotic desert sands which lump, bump, stir and swirl. Choke in storms and suck the moisture away from any orifices. Lying on his stomach for days. Incognito. Camouflaged even though he was miles away. Finger curled around a trigger like an overdone piece of meat. He doesn't complain. Can't complain. Won't complain. Because he's seen her. His apartment building is empty. The lobby full of shimmering dust in the weak morning light splashing across the checkered floors. The elevator ride bumpy. A void. Just more time he has to waste. Constraints. There's always constraints. The past, the present, the Team, the job, his needs, her sacrifices, his inabilities. His stupidity. Half expects his apartment messy. Full of pizza boxes accumulating vermin of sorts. Of shed clothing in the living room. Of dishes piling in the sink and ravaging the counter. But it's not. It's perfectly clean. Down to a gleaming leather sofa with flawlessly positioned throw pillows. Down to the hockey sticks leaning straight behind his door. Down to unscuffed light oak floors. It's because he hasn't been here, hasn't spent time here at all in the last two weeks if he didn't have too. Shower and a change of clothes doesn't help. The grime, the guilt, the layer of residue from last night, the last two weeks, the last two years remains on him. In him. Pulls on jeans and runs a towel over his hair to shake out any clingy drops while staring into his closet. Staring at something particular. Something hidden away. In the corner. In a gray, wilting plastic bag. In the dark corners of oblivion. Almost in someone else's apartment. Like he can't smell the perfumes, even though he's washed and rewashed the clothes. Like he can't remember exactly how they came to be in his effect. Hotel. Door. Screaming. Kissing. Shower. Imprint of tiles. Cautiously, like the bag is really a figment of his imagination, he brings it down from the top shelf. Two hands on the bottom load of it, like he's offering it to royalty. Can already smell her. The old her. The true her. Can already smell her. A fragment of his imagination. The bag might snap. Crack. Break into a million tiny marbles and crash on the floor for him to live with for the rest of his life. He'll never be rid of her. He never wants to be rid of her. Hid the bag for so long because it's like an addict finding enough coke to cake under a fingernail. Sure he works with her, has to see her every day, but that's not the real her. He knows the real her. Has seen the real her. Officer Callaghan is not real. Jules is the woman who took a sledgehammer to her wall to fix the plumbing, who only paints her toenails for particular reasons, who made him homemade soup when he was sick. Opening the bag, he finds a photo on the top of a pile of clothes. He knows the contents well enough. Sweatpants. Black T-shirt. Panties. Has washed them four times in the last two months trying to get her out of his head. Out of his apartment. Trying not to make it a home. But the photo. Them, at some downtown parade. He grabbed her before she could dodge it. She was paranoid about pictures, about their relationship being detailed in concrete, unerasable actions. Arms around her waist. Chin on her shoulder. Lips pressed to her cheek. Her face squinting in the surprise of the action. He bought it. Kept it. Keeps it. Doesn't pocket it. It's not something he should keep in his wallet. Or a frame. Or on display. It's something internal. Something he can't rid himself of because he still feels this way. Even now. Continually just wants to be acting out the scene in the picture. They were happy. They were in love, though it would take her breaking up with him for her to admit. He never would. Never told her how he felt. Wonders why. It must have been so obvious what she meant. Means. Opens a drawer to his dresser to retrieve a pair of socks and slips the Polaroid down the side. Finds the socks he knows she likes. Grandpa socks. Gray and blue knitted. Meant for a week in Whitehorse. She took a liking to them. Used them in days spent in his cold hotel room. Used them when she eventually caught his cold after it mutated from running through the rest of the team. Flops the socks in his hand and wonders if she has shoes. Knows she owns shoes. Wonders if she had them with her. Never saw them. Did she bring them? Did they take them? Bounces the fingerprint dotted layer of forced forget off the bag, and steps into the hall. Finds black and white running shoes from a few months ago. She took them once. Used them to go for a morning run when she didn't have hers. You used my shoes? Would you rather I run in heels? Held her in the bed, her head tucked under his chin. It frightened him to wake up and not find her there. His hotel wasn't exactly in the safe part of town. But it reminded him she had a life outside of him, when his outside of her was starting to dissolve. Shoes. His life is compacted into a shoebox. Not even. A pair of shoes. Two singular pairs of shoes. Toppled and forgotten. Slain. Bagged and tagged. Blue floral sandals. Charbroiled faded green ballet flats. Both abandoned in the middle of the road. No toes. No heels. No pads. No soles. A nine-year-old boy's preoccupation with shoes still nestles within him. Still can't shake the fear. The streets are getting busy when he returns to his SUV. Showered so fast, the wetness still clings to the folds in his skin. Gives the phantom sensation of perspiration in the cool, gloomy October morning. Historic running shoes and a shopping bag of clothing with more importance than anything in his apartment sit in the front seat as he drives to the hospital. Is intent on being direct, but doesn't have any money for the meter. For parking. Doesn't need another ticket. Doesn't need a third x on his record in one night. The SRU might—who the hell cares. The SRU—the Team, they were supposed to take care of her. Were supposed to protect her. Should've bricked her up in the absence of Lew. He knows how she gets. He's the rookie; they must know how she gets and just ignored it. Bullets flying in the air. Him on his stomach in Afghanistan. One hitting her on a Toronto rooftop. On instinct he finds himself in a drive-thru. Coffee, the daytime equivalent of beer. Didn't drink much on Lew's death. Didn't really know him like the rest of them did. Sure two years of a friendly face and then watching that friendly face crash against two tons of concrete is disconcerting, but it's not like the other deaths he's witnessed. The other deaths he's caused. Nearly caused. Orders her a coffee and some sort of breakfast hybrid thing. Wonders if she'll actually eat if. If she was Jules she wouldn't. Liked to cook her food. Know what was in her food. Private and only go out on occasion. Probably won't. He can't eat. Crustaceans creeping around in his G.I. track. Sucking up his stomach acid like it's brackish goodness. Doesn't like shellfish. Pressed that he didn't like shellfish. Stared at a crimped shrimp leg and thought of Jules, engorged and leopard patterned at the retirement party. Gag reflex. He can't eat. A single red pupil is a stomach clamp. A stomach pump. An off button to the hunger receptor in his brain. Every second he eats is a second he's not doing something productive. He can't eat. She's buried. Buried underneath the swollen, contused mess growing on the side of her face. Under the layers of plaster on her arm. The ten lengths of rope holding her lip together. His Jules is buried alive in there. He can't eat. Because she is his Jules. Every part of her is. In whole. In sections. In a million marbles clacking around his apartment floor. He wants and accepts every single piece of her. Always has without contemplation and it drove them apart. That person, that woman he can't recognize, is his Jules. And he can't eat because some guy—some guy grabbed—unwanted and and—struggled and she— she fought. His Jules fought as he— Rips open his driver's door at the mouth of the road and vomits. The dashboard blinks a red light informing him his door is open as a frantic ding runs wildly within the cabin. It's water. Reduced water that burns like hell on the way up because he hasn't eaten anything since the shr—throws up again at the plate full of shellfish. Crusty, beady eyed shellfish with opposable legs. Shellfish which when flung at the woman he loves could kill her. Parks in the lot across from the hospital. The same lot. Almost the same spot underneath the all seeing lamppost. Holds his coffee in his hand. Singes his fingertips through crude plastic. Pretends it doesn't burn his acid corroded throat every time he takes a sip. Stares at the extra. Cream no sugar. How many times in the back of her jeep staring at the stars as he tells her he's afraid of water but not as much as he's afraid of abandoned shoes. How many? Sitting on her back porch, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders although she says she doesn't need one. A piece of her is missing. Left on a rooftop. The summer crickets begin to chirp in her back garden and he wants a beer instead of a coffee, but she can't drink alcohol with her medication. So cream no sugar. How many creams no sugars? Returning back to her house after a bad shift. The worst he can remember where everyone survived. A downtown drug fortress riddled with guns and a bomb. A bomb which sent the team spiraling. Pawns everywhere, protect the queen. In the settling rubble and dust he found Spike. Not the person he was looking for. Spike found Lew and they exchanged an all-knowing glance when he asked if they'd seen Jules. Jules was with Ed. Wordy with Sarge and they met up after nearly three hours of excavation. Three hours of breathing in ancient building dust and sitting with Lew and Spike as they discussed stupid movies and the prospect of travelling. He just wanted to hold her. Breathe her in. Then when they finally saw each other, all they could manage was a perceivable nod. He got corralled into choir practice and she went home. After two beers, one which he nursed, licked at like an open wound, he took a cab back to her place. Had a key by then. A sacred key which he almost imbued with the powers of a cross. Walked into her warmly lit house and heard sloshing from upstairs. Didn't get to see her much after the debrief. She went right home, not bothering to change or shower. Just left. He asked the guys why she didn't come to choir practice and Ed just gave Wordy a shared grin. They chuckled and pushed by him to the door. The wooden bathroom door was hot, musty under his fingertips as he lightly rapped. Didn't want to disturb her unwinding technique. Actually contemplated on just going to watch TV in the bedroom until she was done, but he needed to hear her voice. "Jules?" "Door's open." Didn't expect that. They'd been going out for about six weeks at the time. Were pretty comfortable around each, her shyness in lack of clothing around him slowly dissipating. But this was different. This was an after crisis ritual. They each had their own way to deal and he was being invited into hers. Cracked the door open to a thick vapor hung from the bathroom ceiling like exotic jungle vines. Mirrors clogged with steam until washed a dull gray. She reclined in the claw-footed tub. Legs crossed at the ankle and resting on the lip. Steam curled off her pink skin. Shoulders peaked out of the waterline which rested at the swell of her breasts. Her hair slowly dried in natural waves, the tips fell past her collarbone, lapped at the water. She blow dries her hair straight, but uses a curling iron. He still does not know why. He set cream no sugar on the counter and crossed his arms. Didn't want to openly admire her. She shied away from those sorts of actions. Clawed for the nearest blanket, sheet or robe to cover her body. Instead he tried not to notice the way the water slightly distorted the image of her body below the surface. "How long have you been in there?" "I don't know?" Her spine rolled up in the water to raise her an inch or two. She crossed her arms against the porcelain side of the tub. Dark eyes watched his movements as he got the towels out of the cupboard. She always forgot. Was always this frantic wet thing making a mess. "Does forever sound too long?" Smoothed out faultlessly folded towels and turned back to her. A length of her hair slithered in the dive between plumped up breasts and she rested her chin on her forearms. Chin dropped more and lower lip fattened, red from the heat, in a slight pout. "Just a bit." Ignored the massive amount of spilled water on the tiles and knelt before the tub. Kissed her like he wanted to kiss her when he found out she wasn't one of the causalities among the rubble. Lips were full and thick from over an hour in the bathroom's humidity, but her neck was still soft under his hand. Still flawless. Their foreheads met, noses filled the empty space in each other's profile and he breathed her into his lungs like concrete and mortar. In a whisper. A hiss almost drowned out by the sound of a stray drop from the tub's faucet, she spoke into his chin. "I was so afraid Sam." By then she was half in his arms. A sopping wet body against his. The smooth softness of her arms wrapped around his neck as she grasped him. The tickle of droplets as they plunged from her skin and down his back. The stickiness of her drying shoulder and the crook of her neck when he rested his mouth and cheek there. "I know." Knew because he felt the exact same way. Like he had the entire world and it was torn from his hands. From inside his body. From his bloodstream, brain and lungs in a single moment. Knows because the same thing happened on a rooftop in Downtown Toronto. Knows because the same thing happened last night. Opened his eyes and found a charcoal smudge midlevel across her back. Ran jagged, alone, perpendicular to the contour of her spine. Without even thinking he strummed a thumb across her skin. Vanished the dirt. "You had some soot." "Yeah." Hand dipped into the water and breached. Thumb pad caressed, fingers bent to the curve of his cheek. To this day still remembers the touch of her hand, the water on his cheek. The combination is how he defines love. "You do too. I don't know how you guys can shower and still stay so dirty." "Your water is getting cold." "So?" "So you either need to add more or get out." Her skin adopted goosebumps in the lapse of their embrace. In the lapse of the sauna induced atmosphere. "You're going to catch a cold." She pulled the plug chain with her toes and chuckled at him, incredulous and superior. "I don't catch colds." It was a lie. She caught a cold from him. It almost destroyed her. "I bought you a coffee." He held the towel open for her. Wrapped her up in it. Watched her get swallowed by a layer of gray cotton. "Can we drink them in bed? I don't think I can do much else." Asked him like it was his house. Asked him like he had equal part in her decisions. Asked him from under the shoulder hunch of the biggest towel he'd ever seen. She wore it like a fur coat. Grabbed her sideways, arms supported the thick fabric. The front of his jeans and t-shirt permeated with sweet smelling bath water. His lips pressed against her temple, nose stranded in her hair. She closed her eyes. Peaceful, ruminating. "I know." She answered to his unasked question. Because she did. He's strangling the coffee cup in his hand. It's empty. Done its job burning a track into the flesh of his throat. Sucker punched cup bows in his hand as his eyes scan over the dune of the empty parking lot. Then to the passenger's seat. Plastic bag crinkles in the silence. Tries to make conversation he doesn't want. Countless wasted hours spent sitting in a chair across from a complete stranger when they ask him what he wants out of life. Knows what he wants. Has been denied it. Someone else was denied it and they just took it. Coffee cup spits up what little remainder it has left on his hands. Cream no sugar. Cream no sugar and a bag of clothing he's imbued the universe into. Shoes. Floral blue shoes belonging to a hand holder. Faded ballet flats clattered and charred. A crying baby. A crying baby and cream no sugar. Decaf. Picture in a sock drawer and the universe is a billion marbles. Shoes. Running shoes. Is she even going to be able to walk? Glances around the deserted parking lot and shifts the gears of the SUV into drive. Coffee cup crumbles to the middle islet between the two front seats as he spins out of the lot and back on the street. Waits for a passing car and drives straight across the threshold into the emergency entrance ambulance bay. Parks his SUV at the side, ready to flash his badge if anyone even speaks a word to him. A ticket is a ticket. He can pay it and in a few years no one will know he had it. Jules is Jules. The same Jules parading underneath different skins and masks. The same Jules who shared her house, her bed, her love with him. Who he can only love openly in a picture. Whose red pupil is worth a million marbles. "Hey Jules." Sans a sweetheart. Pupil doesn't scroll to the door. Doesn't welcome him. No body cleansing gasp. No ramshackle smile constructed by occult energy. No open arms. Right is stapled to her chest cavity. Focuses on the wall without singular blemish. The same yellow walls. Never seen them before. The same one stalked all night. The same one hunted her all day. Body hasn't been mobile in years. Mind circulates rapid memories. Tributaries. All physically painful. Few bleed from last night. His shoes scuff across the ground. Lazy—no fatigued. Nervous. He's nervous around her now. Never used to be. Her actions used to make him nervous. Instilled him with a pronounced nervousness. An anxiety he has no right to but still claims. She'd do things. Job related things. Cop related things. Hand-to-hand combat with a perpetrator. Pounce a fleeing suspect. Result in a bruise or scratch. He'd dote. A small tear in her skin. Broken blood vessel. Disinfectant or a Band-Aid. Always ice. High quality ice. Excavated from undiscovered corners of her freezer. Ice to elbow or ankle or knee. Wherever the phantom swelling congregated. Could never see it. Never feel it. He always could. See it. Feel it. Chide for caution. It was part of the job. Swimmers get ear infections. Librarians get paper cuts. Cops get knocked around. Shot at. That's while on duty. The sunlight advances. Wall slashes. Flares. Yellow on yellow. The brilliance causes volcanic eye eruptions. Amaurosis from pain. Eye closes. Other eye sealed closed. Nose burns. Brimming. Force fed oxygen. Stops mid-step. Middle of the room. Children's game. Mid hunt. Afghanistan. Landmine. Momentum. A coast. Not symbiotic. Parasite from last life. Last night. Past strife. She feels everything. So much. She feels nothing. Everywhere. "I'm pretty sure that was more than a few minutes." Her words startle. Him. The wall. Herself. The cadence breathless. Exhausted. Nonexistent. Couldn't cause a flame to dance. "I know." His arms lifts. And falls. And lifts again. Windmill. Wind power. His movements mechanical. First step stutters. Ticks across the floor. He sighs loudly. The words don't mix right. Stunted by stunted actions. "I'm sorry Jules. I'm so—" "Doesn't matter." Stands beside her body. Guards. Stands like last night. Last night? Before they all disappeared. Alone. In a room. Watching the moon and sun topple over chipped paint. No sundial. No marked constellations. Kenneled. People go insane. "Do you still want to be signed out?" Doesn't answer. The question reprimands. Promises of ice cream to a belligerent child. Like blackmail. Reminds how much she needs him. Remember when I signed you out and we weren't even fucking? Keeps her in order. Smashed into a paneled living room in The Hat. Or a Santorini wall in Toronto. "Jules, I'm going to go sign you out." Deduces her answer. Practically inseparable for four months. Knew—knows well enough to solve for x. What she needs. Versus what he and Team One and the hospital staff and the rest of the world want. A gray plastic bag plops onto the gurney. Creates ripples in the starchy sheets. She doesn't react. To his statement. To his movement. To the hissing of the crinkling bag. Moods interchangeable. Globes in a lava lamp. Fatigue or loss of will? Upset or misinterpreted pain? Emotions swell. Stagnant in numb provoked pelvis. "I brought you a change of clothes. They're yours, they're clean. You left them at my place awhile ago." Long fingers straighten plastic pigtails. Unpack a pair of sweatpants. A black t-shirt. A pair of underwear. Offers pile of uneven folded clothes. "Can you get changed by yourself?" Should be yes or no. Yes. No. Hurts. Tired and it hurts. No. No. Gnarled zipper teeth on jeans unfurl. No. Staff won't let her go for no. Sam won't leave her the hell alone for no. "Yes." "Okay, I'm going to go do the paperwork. I'll be back in ten minutes." Click. Clack. Guardrail lowers. Trust. Aid. Thoughtfulness. Fury? Masquerading fury subsides. "I'll knock before I come back in." Door whispers shut. Knows. Knows like the chattering empties. Perpetual empties. No school pictures. The closed blinds clink against the wooden frame. Linens discarded. Later burned. Biohazard rubber gloves. Uncensored leg memories reconnaissance with pale realities. Small bruises scatter. Kitchen smudges. Map markers. Flesh gradation. Violence concentrated on the center of her body. Contusions frequent over the knee. Dots to groups. Groups to solid. Falling cherry blossoms. Underwear. Familiar. Unfamiliar. Cotton not lace. Singular hand guides feet. Ankle sling. No blood. Informed to expect sporadic blood. Swollen. Elastic bunches material. Shimmies up legs. Rollercoaster after knees. Fluid jump. All the way. Lungs burst. Ribs crackle. Back sears. Lopsided on hips. Cuffs pant legs. Light material. Follows preset route. Inhale. Grit teeth. Arch back. Hike waistband left side. Hike waistband right side. Sit down. Exhale. Repeat. Complete. Loose and low on hips. Can't knot with left hand. Raise waistband. Discover tender internal area. Lower waistband. Edge of the bed shuffle. Ache pool in lower back. Sharp pain in right thigh. Standing thwarted by oxygen tube. Hospital won't give her up. Hand pulls at the tube ingrained in her hair. Serpents behind her ears. Rubber rolls collecting hair. Ripping it. Hardwood floors. A hand buried in hair shackles head to the ground. Running slipping blood. Running for two decades. Still getting caught by her hair. Her hair was done up. It was done up. Floor is cold. Slick under the pads of her feet. Testing the water. Hardwood covered in blood. Slip and slide. Crouch and crawl. Grunt and bang. Flicks her lower lip out of habit. Quells the pain. Forgets about sweatshop stitching linking the continents. Torso pressure subsides. Ebbs as she idles. Each movement a new rapture. Clump of black material on the bed confuses her. Uncomprehending obstacles. Arm sling. Gown tie. Non-dominant arm predetermined to stop at collarbone. Light rap at the door. Blinds don't jiggle. "Jules, you decent?" Never answers. Hand raven-clawed. Gouging into the feeble mattress. He is a heavy sigh. The door closes behind him. Handle pre-engaged for silence. Shoes squeak over the cold probable slanted floor. "Are you—do you want help?" Of course not. Needs help. Doesn't want it. Chest convulses under cupped fingers. Ribs convex and concave. Player piano keys. "I—" jagged exhalation. Body creasing at the naval. "I can't." Four. Five squeaks. The current changes around her body. Swirls around her back. Charged. Uncharged. His hand hesitates at the splay of bare battered skin rolling between shoulders. He won't touch her. No one will. This room is a display case. Hazardous materials handle with care. Rubber gloves and cotton swabs. Hand sudden on her back. Straightens her out. Almost flinches it away. But it settles again like a napping cat. Stiff and warm. Too many hands. Too many hurtful single digits. Thick and piercing. Ten distinct penknives. A catcher's mitt full of stones. Other hands clamp. Control. Contain. Contuse. Crunch her wrist and stake her throat to the floor. This hand is different. Not all together welcome but not entirely unknown. Elicits domestic composure. "Okay." Calmness. Stoic calmness enflamed by fear and rage. It twangs vocal cords. Thumb metronomes. Collects evidence drywall and Santorini Sky and blood and hair and spit and sweat and semen. Bite marks and finger prints. Written recollections untainted by painkillers. What did you do after that? Are you sure? How tall was he? Are you sure? Was it him? Are you sure? Why the vendetta? Are you sure? "Okay Jules." Recollections of collections. Muggy spring recumbent in a half aborted bedroom. Bare legs angled, one knee peaked. Paperback cover distorted and circled. The intense need to finish. Waved toes. "Good book?" He consumed the doorway. Towel agitated freshly showered hair. Bare-chested. Sweatpant bottomed. Complained once about the lack of central air. Didn't complain again. Rolled her bottom lip within. Forefinger tapped page. No interruptions. "I'm almost done the chapter." "Oh." Hung the towel on the back of the door. Hated that. Hates that. Wet door. Wet paint. Wet floor. Wet wood. Rotten wood. Sensed this from an arched eyebrow over the folded spine. Hung the towel over the shower. Pointed to the inactive TV. Pointed at himself in the Claude glass."Can I check out the scores in here?" Quiet. Page corner under nail. Quiet. "Yeah, sure." Bed depressed with his weight. Room glowed ethereal colors from the TV. Focused on the black on white print before her. Almost done the chapter. But a body nudged her own. A big muscular body wiggled its way between the novel and her eyes. "Argh Sam." Both gave grunts. Expansive back rested against her chest. Strong arms wrapped around her legs. Head rested on the shelf of her breasts. Human Barcalounger. "That's better." He sighed. Content. Kissed the apex of her knee. Hand raked soft blond hair. "I swear Sam; you're like having a golden retriever." "You're fine with this?" Body sunk. Eyes circled up from under the book lip. "Yeah." Sighed heavy. Dip of stomach met the back of his head. Didn't jostle his body an inch. "Just don't distract me." Minutes passed. Seconds. Fractions of seconds. A hand stroked the outside of her bare thigh. Long tickling enticing trek. Infinitesimal hairs stood on end. Goosebumps flushed over skin. "Sam." A warning. Warm lips covered the inside of thigh. "Sam." A demand. "I can't help it." Words ghosted against skin. "You're so soft." Lips swayed higher. Mid-thigh high. Higher. Book spine about to greet his skull. A pause. "Where did you get this scar from?" "What scar?" Held novel level. Not a weapon at all. Leaned on thick shoulder sinews. Arms crossed over his chest. Examined the purple oblong. Dime-sized. Almost seven years old. Almost two years old. "Oh." Relaxed. Reopened book. "That's from the Epipens." Thumb stretched violet skin to white. Snapped back. Violet. Body widened to lie down. Nose nuzzled the purple print. "Sarge hit the same spot twice?" "Happenstance." Shrugged. Hand flattened against neck. Pulse danced. Emotional upset. Slow steady breaths. Hot exhalations on her skin. Fogged the scar. Finger prodded the chasm from bullied muscle. A pause. Cheek against thigh. Leg ensconced by arm. "It scares me." A sigh. Irritation. Divided book on nightstand. Caring but not caring. Not his problem. "What scares you?" Jaw undulated on thigh. Hand encircled ankle. "Shrimp can kill you so easy." Earlobe between fingertips. Repression of a sigh. Naivety maybe. "It's not just shrimp. It's shellfish. Ed used an oyster." "Don't even joke about it Jules." Fingers gripped ankle. Tips calloused. Dry. Scratched. Another knee kiss. Body straightened. Revolved. Hands cupped cheeks. Lips pressed to lips. Opened. Closed. Flexed. Tip of tongue dipped in. Smacking sound reverberated. Nose touched nose. Thumbs stroked cheeks. Dry. Scratched. Hands tucked hair behind ears. Serene. Peacefulness. Worth. Mattering. "Don't joke, I don't know what—" "Yeah, yeah, yeah." Downplayed. Rested against pillow with book. Same sentence from before the TV. Ten minutes passed. Body weighted against her. Inadvertent grin. Fingers drummed against neck. Lips pressed behind ear. Novel did the splits. Distant voice. Eyes closed. Scribbled eyebrows. Curved mouth. "I'm falling asleep." "I noticed." "Mmm, I should move over." Raced fingers over his temple. Brushed hair back. Head heavy on her chest. "I don't want to crush you." Scoffed. Repeated sex-based argument. "You're not going to crush me." Hands gripped at thighs for support. Arms shook. Body rose. Hands grabbed waist. Yanked before mind comprehended. Clawed at bedspread and pillows. Dragged and rolled on top. Reversed positions. Guarded between two mountainous knees. Supported by a sturdy chest. Hands unnecessarily kneaded hips. "Sam." Hands stopped. Hand splayed over naval. Hand protected sacred scar. "Isn't this better." "Both are nice." More comfortable. But better access to her neck. Lips pressed against neck. Uncontrollable shiver. Thumb ticked against thigh. "At least you don't feel buried this way." Nodded. Head fitted under chin. Perfection. Protection. Need and needed. Love and loved. Chapter never read. "I can't." No more words. Hidden vocabulary. Archaic language. Lip nostalgic with local anesthetic. "Okay." Hand stills. Deer eating foliage. "I'll go get a nurse and—" "No." Head shake. Bad decision. Immediately regrettable. Eye pinballs. Dizzy inside. "Jules, the nurse can—" "Sam." Hasn't experienced it. Floating pity death masks. Anonymous sheltered prods. The empties. The door. The nurses. Rivers of gossip flooding eardrums. "I'll do it." "You said you couldn't." "I can." Defiance. Solitary. Branch off the Team. Different change room. Lesser genetic makeup. Makeup at all. You use a curling iron? You wear high heels? Why do you have lip gloss? There are tampons in your purse? "Can I help you?" Tell. Tick. No infinity Jules. An interview. Twenty questions. Can I? Can I? Can I? Can I? Can't ask do you want. Knows the answer. Endearing. Annoying. Disturbing. Rolls clear shoulder. Toes fan. Wave on the floor. Apparitional moisture. Indoor monsoon. Crackle thunder. "I don't think anyone can." "Jules." Bantam sentence. Calmness cloaks. Anger swirling. Clogging the drain. Remorse. Anguish. Search and rescue. Hand shrouds hand. Warm cold. Dry clammy. Thick thin. Rounded nails freshly cut. Not painted not painted. "Jules, please." "Yeah." Voice a car over a cliff. Rubber bouncing rocks. Undercarriage flicking sparks. "Okay." Hint of a smile in her mind. Same stoic deep browed expression. Spears crumbled t-shirt. Stares at her. Abstract art. The Fountain. "How much do you like this shirt?" Multifaceted question. Implemental. Functional. Plain black. Hides stains. Smoothes curves. Workout shirt. Hasn't seen it in half a year. Locker room fight. After work rendezvous. Hotel room shower. Tiles digging into her back. "It's alright I guess." "No, would you get angry if I overstretched the collar?" Fingers climbing in hole. Fingers clinging out. Material bunched to an o. "I don't want it to press on your bruises." "Go ahead." Cramping maybe. Ebbs. Foot flexes. Cold water. Spilled water. Pooled blood. Base of skull pulses. Fabric stretches. Material rips. Material ripped? Pajamas solid. Spotless. Not spotless. Bloody. Bagged. Biohazard. Rubber. No rubber. Sweater. Missing sweater. No sweater. Was wearing a sweater. Bathroom back door. Silver hook. Gray sweater. Had a gray sweater. Woke up without a gray sweater. "Okay." Disappears behind her. Baby parlor tricks. Feels heat. Feels ionized. Feels indifferent. Still hurts. Gray sweater. "I'm going to undo the sling. Try to keep your arm in place with your left hand." Hard plaster. Bumpy paper. Thumb knocks. No one's home. Pressure releases. Comfortable. Releases. Uncomfortable. Arm heavy. Pain stalking. Vinyl screeches. Sling incapacitated. "Okay, I have to—" Pause. Long pause. Gown. Rudimentary physics. Gown must come off for shirt to go on. Waits. Nothing. A twitch. "For Christ's sake Sam, just undo it." "I'm going to stand back here—" "You do that." "If you start to feel uncomfortable or—" "I am pretty uncomfortable Sam, because I'm in a goddamn hospital. I just want to go home." "Okay." Legion of okays. Fingers thread. Air hits back. Shiver. Didn't know there are still shivers. Peels back tissue paper fabric. Feels free. Slides down to breasts. Gathers it. Doesn't matter. He wants her to. To have. Reservations. Modesty. Shame. "Stand really still." Lights out. Shaded. Tinted. Tiny bullet holes through fabric. Her old SRU uniform? Gray sweater. Thick collar glides. Safe from eye mass. Triangle nose. Harelip. Falls after her chin. Shirt transforms. Straightjacket. Pulled over. Captures arms. Neck wrenches. Chin to shoulder. Questions unasked answered. Reappears in front. Dignity kept. To him. "Let me hold your right arm." Weight shifted. Atlas coffee break. Firm underneath. Like Sarge's. Delicate. Left arm wiggles free of gown. T-shirt renaissance. Gown swings. One arm. Manipulation of arm hole. Gown slips off. Piles. Bulky cast punches through. Wearing a t-shirt. Grins. Weak. Wobbly. Precarious. Front porch steps. Thick hand still cradling casted wrist. Sling swallows cast. Fingers restring vinyl. Arm braced. A ship sail. Blue eyes. Blue eyes just staring. Realization. Dart away. Hand leaves her. Clears his throat. Flooded engine. Waves crash on floor. Skull bouncing on hardwood. Gray sweater. "Where are your shoes?" Wants to move immobile arm. Fix wisps of hair. Rub at existing eye. Toes curl. Retreat under sweatpant hems. "They took them." "Who took them?" "Evidence." No memories of lace tying. Of tongue depressing. Of soul meeting sole. But shoes were worn. Between 9-1-1 and paramedics. Shoes were worn. "Oh." Kicks gown. Shoots under gurney. Hurdle for uncertain feet. Bends away. Sideways. Under chair. Retrieves elephant sneakers. Bulky socks. "I didn't have a pair of your shoes. But I brought those socks you liked. I thought they might help you keep the shoes on." The socks. Old man socks. A wooly sweater condensed. Cold hotel room. Constant complaint. Gray and blue. Blue to gray. Knit and pearl. "You just have to wear them out of the hospital. You can take them off in the car." Set at her feet. Glass slippers. Not going to fit. Consume her feet. Can't put them on anyway. Catches this. Understands this. A glance conveys. Hand taps gurney. "Sit down." Left hand grasps waistband. Hips not stretching enough. Too much give. Tiptoed nudge to bed edge. Legs languid. Feet flaccid. Dangle. Pant legs cuff. Pallid skin re-exposed. Thick sock rolled over left foot. Partner bunched. Rolled over right. Toes warm within. Huge running shoe hung on right foot. Christmas tree ornament. Weighs her body down. Toddler in a shopping cart. Laces reset. Tight. Loose but sturdy. Might work. Left foot gains a shoe. Fixed. "There, that's the best we can do." Body tips forward. Lands on foreign soles. Unusual indents. Not her own. Not entirely unfamiliar either. Awkward. "Can I—?" Directed at dipping waistband. "Yeah." Needs to be knotted. Stationary as fingers encroach. The tug at the sides. Hefting pants to proper areas. Gentle but. There. Just there. Everything there. Was there. Is there. Pushing down. Boiling. Unwelcome surprise. A cry. Not her own. But hers. Recoils. Sneaker kicks his leg. Thighs hit bed. Absorb impact. Transfer pain. Gurney jostles. Good hand steadies. Knees knock. "Sorry. I—I'm so sorry." Hands fly up. Palms facing. Empty. Defenseless. Surrendering. Stands at a distance. Twitching. A broken plate. "I didn't mean—I mean. I just—" "It's okay." Back straightens. Chest immolates. Devours itself. Huff. Black smoke. "You just—" Pause. Breathes. Needed breaths. Fan the fire. Smoke signals. Approaching troops. "Surprised me." "It's my fault. I should have told you what I was going to do. I shouldn't just be doing things." Words spill. Alphabet soup on the floor. Lakes. Oceans. Salt water. Fresh water. Blood. Splatters. Splotches. "I—I shouldn't just be doing things." Record scratches. "I should've told you. I'm sorry." "It's fine." And it is. Not a bold faced bruised up stitched looped nose lopped lie. Anamnesis. Reliance. Asylum. Never once forced a bad touch. Got angry. Got furious. Sweaty red faced fist balled ready to pummel objects in innate testosterone driven rage. Never physical. Always removed. Genetically presupposed army boy AWOL. "No. I should be more—" "Can you just tie it?" "Jules." A pause. A nostril flare. Burst of air. Sinking ship. "I don't think—" Drifts away. Sheets peel back. Leave creases through pants. Red slashes on black flesh. Streaks and strokes. Windshield wiper blades smudge color pallets of abuse. "My pants are going to fall down." Idle. Without words. Hands drop to sides. "Okay." Keeps the distance. The same distance. Like disarming a bomb. Can't have two men down wind. Emotional. Not thinking clearly. And you are? Extends ties. He hesitates. Ice skating and global warming. But fingers lightly pull and knot. Breathing is extinct. Double knot. A deep breath. A sorrow imbued sigh. Fingers flex. "There." Nods. Swell at the base of skull. Debilitated. Mere movements and debilitated. "Do you need to sit down?" "I need to go home." "Okay." Grabs her purse. Slit. Dissected. The only thing they didn't think was evidence. Scrambled before paramedics arrived. Wallet. Keys. Cell phone. Cell phone evidence. Blood on it. Thumb pad blood. Door props. Waits for her shuffle. Hallway lighter. Yellower. Harsher. Three nurses watch. Debase. Judge. Missing popcorn. Chick flick. Hobbles, half folded. Arm encircling ribs. Shackled arm wanting equal rights. "Are you okay to walk?" Voice low. Wavering. Theatrics reappearing. Panda slippers united in a civil union. Low laps around the recovery floor. Nostalgia. Unnerving her too. "I'm fine." Shifts closer to him. Nurse parallels. Body half swallowed by counter and computers. "I could get a wheelchair or—" "I'm fine." "Excuse me." Nurse halts them. Stops at the end of the station. Nurse aquarium. Flushes and flashes paper. "Did you sign these?" Startles. Interrupts potential short lived argument. Sharp intake drills ribs to lungs. Punctures balloons. Pop. Hiss. High helium voice. Moan. Five-toed stumble. Back of head rests on side of thick bicep. Rapid breathing. "Yeah." Heart jack hammering. Rage. Primal protective rage. Human hurdles. "I signed them already." "So you're Sam Braddock?" Hand rescues ponytail. Trapped in shirt. Forgotten in dressing marathon. Flips it once. Idiosyncrasies. Placates. "Yes." "You can't be on hospital grounds." "I know. I just had to sign her out. We're leaving." "Well you can't be here. I have to phone the police." "Look." Regains legs. Muscles ache. Undiscovered by seven years of 5am workouts. Stretch. Stick. Snap. "They're just going to let me out. And I'm just going to come back." Tugs on his hand. Gives her a glance. "She just wants to go home." "That may be. But I'm still going to have to—" "We're leaving okay?" Bottled voice cracks. Yanks on hand again. Finally follows. "He can't be here, and we're leaving. We're remedying your own fucking problem." Cycle back. Adhere requests. Can't stop beaten body from shaking. Heavy panting. Surge of lost adrenaline. Targeted anger. Took her clothing. Treated anonymously. Imprisoned. Unsettled until elevator doors creep closed. Travel three floors. Radio silence. Main lobby. No words. Nonsense. Legs start to shake. Each step a tremor. Reverberates. Quakes. Internal. External. Emotional. Wreck. Lags. Drags. Putters near double doors. Retraces steps to find lost trinket. Doesn't know how to help. How touchy is personal. How impersonal is nothing. Abandoned. Accosted. Abused. And abandoned. We're all here Jules. Knew it was a lie. Just not how much. Sluggish step and a whoosh. Cold air stirs at cotton pants. At bare arms. Jacket drapes around her shoulders. Feather snowfall. Weighty but welcomed. Outside a black SUV. Familiar. Better than a bike. Slow to work indeed. "I don't think you can park here." Soles drag. Shave against pavement. Curve towards passenger's door. "I don't think it matters anymore, Jules." Motorized lock pops. Immobile shoulder joint. Door clicks. Chivalrous. Large seat. Wide range. Swallows her. Seatbelt slithers out of hand. Once. Twice. Fumble. "Can I—" Fingers branch. Boughs waver in the wind. Gray skies sully. Impregnated with rain. Full. Swollen. Tarnished rust by bullied sun. "Yeah." Relaxes head. Rest jabs smashed skull. Raises healthy arm. Halos. Body heat. Belt click. Adjusts coat. Folds collar. No tearing. No dragging. Hand lingers. Always lingers. Convenience store loiters. No smoking sign. Double double scented. Irises catch. Pause. Double lined. Everything pauses. Wiper ensconces ticket. Droopy grin. "You got tagged." Groans. Door shut. Ticket ripped from wiper. No pause in steps. Muted. Softened. Driver's door opens. Wind marauds through cabin. Shoulder shrug. World rolls off. Lost in an ashtray full of lint and pennies. One expired roll-up-the-rim. Dust motes shimmer. Convene on black dashboard. "Are you going to contest it?" Reaches into jeans. Jingle. Keys. Groan. Guttural. Not glottal. Unevolved. SUV rouses. Engine voiceless. New. Youthful. "Not really a reason to." "I'll pay it." "It's fine." "I'm the reason you were parked—" "Jules." Too harsh. For her. For him. Tongue softens. Reverts to marshmallow. Never meant to spit acid. Hands wring wheel. Loops through emergency entrance. Exit. "It's fine." Flecks. Thump thump thump. Wipers screech up. Release voweled wails. "I got you a coffee, cream no sugar." Eyes straight. Narrow. Maybe tired. Tongue licks bottom lip. Wrenches turn signal. "And some bagel egg thing." Light drizzle. No radio. Bumpless ride. Rocking. Mollifying. Eyes hooded. Road a pinpoint. "I'm not hungry." "You have to eat something." A rare glance. Another turn signal. Click click click. Incessant. Refocus. Traffic lights. Red. Blood on floor. Exploded veins. Stained skin. Cotton underwear. Cavernous living room. Looming. Prowling. Hunting. Stalking. Waiting. "I'll eat at home." "I can pick you up something else if you want." "I just want to go home." "Okay." Light flashes. Arrow. Arrow. Arrow. Advanced green. Coat bunches at shoulder. Conceptualized pillow. Provocative. Soft material caresses cheek. Unknown tactility. Vision blurs to refreshing darkness. Sounds mellow stagnant. A bump. Dark green and familiar fence. Ache. Pouring and constant ache. Verbal reflex. "Sorry." Shift to park. Key off. SUV slumber. "You still haven't fixed your driveway?" Jealous. Confused. Pained. Can't breathe. Breathes. Can't breathe. Aimed at torso. Rib constriction. Organ contusion. Flashbomb memories. "It was—" Straws air between miniscule slots in teeth. Air flow. Current. Pain ebbs. Pain returns. Pain ebbs. Pant. "On the list." "Did they give you anything? Like a prescription?" "Didn't want one." Expects her name. A well-worded debate. The pros of narcotics during physical injury. Doesn't mean a Goddamn thing. A bullet never punctured his body. Tore through skin and veins, sinew and muscle, bones and organs only to fire out and bounce off the roof. Pennies off the CN Tower. He's never been physically restrained. Never been punched into oblivion. Never woken up knowing exactly what happened. Purses his lips, and nods once. Exits the SUV without further conversation. Remembers the same expression from bars. From the odd guy approaching her. Harassing her. How his aggression actually became concrete one night. How she should have left him with the black eye and bar bill but didn't. The wind is gentle by her house. Brushes. Consoles. The belt zips from the lock and he collects her purse. She stands, grows on bent legs. Uses the lip of the door for stability. Unknown shoed feet crunch on her driveway. Streams of rain slalom to the curb. Her thighs burn from within. Three layers of skin, into the muscles deep. He walks at her pace. Arm slightly angled in case she needs a lifeline. Panda slippers. Sam's huge sneakers. Six months and all that's different is their sleeping arrangements. The rain sheens them. Enough to varnish their skin. Enough to just establish sticky clothing. "Jules?" "Yeah?" Gray stairs creak, weakened by water, as they compute two bodies worth of weight. He steps up first, offers her a sturdy hand. Her left hand ghosts over the rickety railing. She regrets not fixing up her porch, injury be damned. They stop at the ornamental door. He pries her purse open, assuming she'll go blindly fishing for the keys with one hand. She gestures for him to just retrieve the keys himself. Head is expanding, growing nauseous on itself. One hand in her purse with a finger hooked around the keyring, he glances up over deeply furrowed brows. Hiding emotional riots. The bipolar dips between lamenting regret and burrowing wrath. His torment. His anguish. His shame. "You know who did it, don't you?" Mouth runs dry. No moisture, no words. Remembers Sarge in the first hospital room. How her presence distilled him. Self-aware again of how the physicality of her presence changed him. Changes Sam now. Will change the rest of them. She doesn't want to answer. It's a gamble. A game of Russian roulette. Say the wrong thing and watch a bullet blast through his head. Watch as he explodes to one end of the emotional spectrum. But he deserves something. He returned to retrieve her from the bowels of the hospital. No one else did. No one else even ventured in to see her. She put the brunt of psychological turmoil caused by repeatedly fucked up relationships with men on his shoulders and he carried it. And her. And didn't complain. And stopped for coffee. "Yeah." Wants to roll her lips together. Give him some expression she could have made a day ago. But the muscles pull slack. "Yeah." Doesn't say anything. Loss of moisture, of words maybe. Key jams into the door and the extras jingle jangle like a gospel. Grouped together. Protecting. Grieving the loss of the house key. It's how teams should be. The door sticks on the kickboard, but he shoves it. Anger diffusing. Keys, a reunited family, plop back into the open gulf of her purse. "Jules, I—" mouth closes from his own hand. Gallops over his chin, the one day's growth growing there. She doesn't really approve of it. It makes him appear harsher than he is. "What?" "I think what I have to say, it goes without saying." "Yeah." Attempts a smile, but the middle of her lip is an old tire swing on an elm tree. "It does." And it does. She knows he'll be preoccupied with her wellbeing, just like he was after she was shot. She thinks it has something to do with buried family roots. Covert Braddock secrets carried in a leather-bound book. Secrets she wasn't privileged too when they were in love. Maybe he means he'll be there for her. Maybe he thinks he always was. He wasn't. Not after Lew's death when another chunk of her chest was shot out. Not when— "What's that smell?" The front door is closed. Bolted, chained. Like it will do much. But somehow she's inside her house. The mail pyramided on the distressed end table. The flawless, squeakless stairs. The kitchen archway where a black fly in her vision led to her not being able to see out of one eye. Sealed the other partway with blood. "What smell?" The gaping hole in the wall bashed by her head. She thinks it was her head. Did she duck once? It's half hidden by filtering tropical canopy light through linen curtains. Wonders if the back of her head is as bad as the dry wall appears. "It smells like chemicals in here. It's really strong. You can't smell that?" Sam hasn't noticed yet. Hasn't noticed how one part of the floor is a little duller than the others. How none of the pictures are on the wall. How vacant rectangles outline where they should be. How the massive armchair she never sat in once is gone. "I don't have that much of a nose to work with, Sam." "Your nose looks fine." He places her purse in its rightful home under the end table. Then slaps the wall light. Everything is altered under bright beams from spotlights. The variations are miniscule. Monumental enough for her to notice because she lives here, because she lived through it. Monumental enough for him to notice because for a brief time, he sort of lived here too. "No." "Sam." "It happened here." "Sam." Awkward left arm reaches for him, to settle him. In some fucked up role reversal, she's about to comfort him. "No. It happened here. You knew and you let me bring you here anyway." His chest begins to puff, bloating with emotion. Face is flushing, pupils unfocused. An unusual instance of panic. Left hand finally hooks around his wrist. Anchors him in one spot. Voice calm, slow, concise. "Sam, this is my house." He shakes his head, but his breathing regulates. No longer shooting streams like a hot air balloon. "Jules, you can not stay here." "This is my house." "It's not just the psychological aspect of it. You need someone to help you." Captures her hand within his. Spilt in two. Part of her needs to embrace the regularity of having him around. Of having a sound body to support hers when she cannot. The other half remembers what she lost last time she gave into domestic desires. "Can you even walk up the stairs by yourself? Get undressed? Have a shower? Lift a hand above your head?" "I'll survive." "There's more to it than that." "Like?" He exhales loudly. Like she's forcing him, gun to temple, to say what he's about to. "I know you want to be independent, but this guy did this to you when you were healthy. You can't take him on now." "Sam, I'm not leaving." "You can't stay here." "So you've said." "You can get a hotel room. At least for a few days. Or you can stay with me. I have an extra room." He's moving fast again, gravitating with her towards the stairs. "You should pack while I'm here, just for a—" Reclaims her hand. Not really a wrench. Doesn't have the energy for a wrench. Swirls of pain generate themselves all over her body. Concentrating themselves until different paced pulses thread against each other, trying to knock out the leader. Recognizes Sam's familiar behaviors like they have faces she can pick out in a crowd. Demanding something for her, when it's really for him. Parasitic benefits. "I think you should leave now." "What?" Stops on the second stair. Eyebrows sliding in confusion, fear, hopeful miscommunication. "No, you need help." Shuffles to the door. To where he returned her purse. To how he knows her perfectly. Tries not to get distracted by false sentiments. Instead remembers when she shakily asked him to just sit and talk with her. Because she needed a familiar face. Because she just saw Lew's head smash into a concrete overpass. Because she needed to feel safe and Sam was the only person who ever left her feeling protected. Instead he sneered her away. Like all the other men in her life, biologically linked and others alike. So she shook alone. And threw up in the 'Jules' locker room alone. And sat on the cold tiles alone until Sarge noticed she was missing. Remembers when she phoned him just after they broke up. Phoned him repeatedly like an invalid because something happened and she couldn't go through it alone. How she thought he loved her. How he was always there for her before. It was her greatest moment of need. Fuck getting shot, or beaten, or raped. How he didn't answer her calls or her messages. How she went through it alone. "You've done enough." Slowly he marches off the stairs. Head bowed, disengaged from his body. Giving in immediately because of what happened. Two days ago if this same conversation occurred, there would have been an argument outlasting any major political debate. He stops just before the door, before the dilapidated porch, before the light October drizzle. "Please Jules; you shouldn't be alone, especially here." "Goodbye Sam." His back hunches into the soft weather doming around her porch. "Don't come back here until you start caring about things other than yourself." Next Chapter - Shit goes-wrong story. Only two POVs. A meeting is held and Jules gets a visitor. Plus the first ever flashback within a flashback. Flashception.
The following is a longer long ass author's note: This chapter is even more massive than the last. So take it with ease. And I only mentioned the massiveness of the last chapter because when I was writing Domino Theory a few people complained about the length. I thought I'd be proactive and nip it in the bud before there were any moans.
Clean up (AKA answering random review inquiries):
-There are different types of love. So you tell me if Spike is in love with Jules. Was he in love with Lew?
-As to Jules injuries, none of them are life threatening and in doing extensive research and asking mama Shiggity an ex-nurse, rape victims are only held in the hospital if their injuries are life threatening or extensive enough to need more treatment. Of course this is not a first hand account so it may be false.
-Yes that was Lexus with Ed.
-Just a few writing classes under my belt. Mostly taught myself.
-Never seen G.I. Jane. Not for movies or TV or anything really.
Stuff about this chapter: It is M-RATED FOR M-RATED SHENANIGANS. I realize the whole story is but some people just aren't desensitized yet so again for them M-RATED THINGS AND THE LIKE WILL HAPPEN IN THIS CHAPTER. You'd think that would do it, but someone will still PM me and complain so, once more with feeling as Paula Deen M-RATED SHIT HAPPENS Y'ALL.
Also the majority of it might be hard to understand. Different POVs and mindsets equals differential styles which equals sometimes hard to understand. As always feel free to PM me with questions about anything.
Lastly thank you to those who read religiously and reviewed. Thanks to those who favorited and alerted. Thanks to everyone who thinks I'm doing a good job. The subject matter is still nostril flaring in some, so I appreciate your loud or quiet support as always.
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