JUSTWORLD FALLACY

A/N: Hey Guys, hopefully we don't get a long ass wait, but if we do, I apologize for my part in it.
Don't think I have any review questions to answer because I'm pretty sure I answered them all ready (and then some). Just some general info: Up to chapter 11 has been planned (it is nowhere near the last chapter so don't worry) and chapter 8 will be the worst writing experience of my life.
Thanks to all to everyone who reviewed/alerted/favorited and of course, read. You know who you are and I'm sitting here slow hand applauding you. I'd stand up, but everything from below my waist has gone asleep from read-throughs.

Just-World Fallacy

Chapter 7

Six Fiery Satellites

Eight in the morning. The a pre-shift. The normal corralling of the seven—six—five members of Team One and delivering the agenda for the day. Today we're doing ride-a-longs. Groans. Today's slow so we're going to run some drills. Groans. Today we're going to start off in the workout room. Groans. He's made them clean before. A long time ago, he made them clean because of the backtalk. He's not afraid to do it again.

Twenty-four hours without sleep. A full routine complete in a diurnal blink. Two newspapers on his welcome mat. Neither with news commanding his attention, his actions, his emotions, or the preset basis of his being. Twenty-four hours and the sun rises and falls and rises again. Cyclical. Doesn't stop. Arrogant and ignorant to what's happened. A bystander who turns a deaf ear to a cry of help.

Twelve hours ago everything was fine. Not fine, they were adjusting. Not the same. Never would be the same. A little bit of hurt oozing out of a bullied wound. Scabbed over and picked at. Lew was gone. They woke up and it hit them a little later in the day, every day. Cyclical. Hit him yesterday when his feet hit the cold hardwood floors. Usually happened at the first glance at the clock. No work. Why no work. Incomplete team. Why incomplete team. Lew died. Why died? Because—

Twelve hours ago Jules was across from him at the table. Her thumb circled the lip of her beer bottle. She was quiet. Was she quiet? It was a bar. They were at a bar. So she must've been quiet. There's no doubt in his mind, on the Team, on the job, she can handle her own. She voices her opinion when necessary. Sometimes like all of them, lets emotions cloud her judgment and voices her opinion anyway. She repels the fastest because she weighs the least; she shoots with better accuracy than Sam. But in Team social functions she keeps to herself, unless the Team splits generationally.

He's never taken offence to her silence or her lack of conversation because she'll talk if he engages her. He knows the reasons why. Doesn't really, but has an idea. Uses job taught skills to formulate answers. A mutated hazing gone awry coupled with her obscure past. Last night he didn't pry. Didn't inveigle. Just watched the hurt pool behind barren eyes as she kept flicking her finger around the bottle mouth. She could have exploded, just like Lew, and no one else at the table would have noticed.

Only, she placed a reassuring hand on Spike's shoulder when she left. Gifted him a smile to match. He's not angry at the generational gaps within the Team. It's really their own fault for instigating hurtful hazing techniques resulting in injuries, antidotes and epipens. Knows Lew wasn't hazed because of her. Knows Sam wasn't hazed because of her. Knows once the older crowd retires, hazing will too. This is why he doesn't mind the gap.

"You did say eight right?" Ed's head hangs between his knees. His voice echoes through the locker room. Team Three is on shift and out on a call. The remains of other people's personalities litter the area like an unkempt mausoleum. A half-full Timmy's cup. A pair of unlaced Nikes.

To other people, the gap is a dangerous fissure. Spurts hot water and steam. Burns and maims and haunts with the intent of deformation. "Yeah Eddy, eight."

"Maybe they're just running a little late." Wordy's beside Ed. Two opposite forces who somehow became best friends. Two hues of the same color, just each a little more preoccupied with different shades. His voice is softer than usual, probably from not being able to sleep. He should have had the psychologist on call in case any of them wanted to talk. Always a heartbeat too late.

"They're always running a—"

"Eddy." Keeps a serene face. An unbroken face though the inside of his body is crossed wires and toothless cogs. "Just take it easy. Remember why we're here."

"Exactly, you'd think they'd have enough common decency to show up on time. That's if they show up at all. Like they have something more important to do today. "

Ed does have a point. A barely rational point. In times of need, the younger faction of Team One grows scarce. Become existent only through the abstract notions of acquaintances. Ed's idea of bringing tough love to the Team is circumvented because he always forgets the younger members haven't been on the SRU for as long. Haven't seen as many things they have, as many bodies pancaked against the pavement. As many bullets self-inflicted into brains.

Remembers how the Team deflected away from each other in first hours after Lew's death. How they all witnessed the same event, the same tragic disembodiment of their teammate, and yet the younger portion of the Team became immediately unavailable. Some for obvious reasons, others secretive. It's his place to know without asking as the Sergeant. It's his place to ask without forethought as a friend.

Sat beside Spike for twenty minutes in the seclusion of the locker room. Knew he had to say something. Eventually they both did. He would have to address the Team because he was the Boss. Spike would have to speak. Maybe he wouldn't. They'd deal with that issue when it did or didn't happen.

Until then silence consumed the room. His back slouched and his mouth disappeared into a sweaty, ungloved hand that smelled vaguely like metal. Spike sat straight. Ramrod straight. Sunday morning church pew straight. Eyes unwavered from Lew's locker even in tear crowded vision. Even when they became jumpers. He would go through the locker later.

"Spike." Placed a hand on his shoulder and received no indication the warming gesture was received. No indication he was still alive in the defensive shell his body became. Knows what it's like to lose someone, lose a teammate. Jules is the first to be injured. Really injured. Shot and beaten and—and still come out with a heartbeat.

"I'm going to go get the others." Doesn't like to say guys. Stopped saying guys when she joined because he's politically correct, or tries his hardest to be. Sure it's a colloquialism, a slang even, but over everything they're a Team. He pressured this when he overruled the 'against' vote to place her on Team One seven years ago. Patted catatonic Spike again for reassurance. His. His own. Just needed to care for them. All of them. Eddy and Wordy too. Because he lost one of them. On his duty he lost one of them.

Staggered out into the raucous hallway where Teams Two and Four waited for their active duty. Fourteen tall, muscular men watched the television screen as the CBC evening news aired and reaired different footage of the landmine explosion downtown. He didn't know there were cameras. Didn't even see them. Was too busy using his fingers to account for his Team.

Ed and Wordy were in uniform. He usurped the locker room to deal with Spike and shooed the others away. Lead sheep into a fenced pasture. Not a real pasture. Not a real shepherd. They camouflaged well. Wolves in sheep's wear.

Rolie, the Sergeant of Team Two for almost two years, stood beside them. All three faces held an equal amount of shocked stoicism while they watched the high definition flashes of Lew exploding and re-exploding in slow motion. The constant be kind, rewind of the footage desensitizing.

"Eddy." His voice was a little hoarse with emotion as he beckoned. A little dry from inhaling smoke particles and that's all. A little sore from trying to nudge Spike to talk. Spike, who normally doesn't stop.

"Sorry about your boy, Boss," Rolie spoke to the floor as he brushed by. Faded into the shifting pattern of the crowd to be with his Team. Maybe to count them on his fingers for security.

"I need to call a team meeting. We need to talk about what's going to happen next." Knew already mandatory time off would be given. Time that should be spent together because a lot of them live alone. Time spent trudging through memories and emotions packing around their feet and knees like wet snow. Holleran already approved at least a week while trial replacements ran.

"Greg." Eddy crossed his arms, mouth an unwavering river. Straight and set and ridged in its motions predetermined by the Earth. "You have to do something about the footage."

"What if Lew's parents don't know yet?" Wordy was more diffused. Emotions collided and waltzed. Eyes triangles of despair. Had it only been an hour? Traffic and then he sat with Spike for twenty minutes. Maybe just a little more than an hour. Maybe two. Maybe a whole other day happened and they just didn't notice. Just like the sun didn't notice them.

"I'll talk to Sidney about calling public relations." From the corner of his eye caught the fourth or fifth replay of Lew shrouded in smoke blasting upwards like a rocket into a concrete overpass. In slow motion. In slow motion felt every bone in his body break. Hoped his neck broke on impact. Hoped it was quick and merciful like a shot to the brainstem. Bitter sludge coated his tongue. "Right now I need you two to go back into the locker room and sit with Spike."

"How is he?"

"Quiet. Still. Catatonic. Hasn't said a single thing since he screamed." Took a good fifteen minutes to collect him off the ground. To build Michelangelo Scarlatti up enough so he could walk to a passenger's seat in a rig. He drove him back. Ed drove Jules and Wordy because Sam left with the third rig. "Have you seen Sam or Jules?"

Ed pointed to a concrete pillar. It's segregated from the rest of the bustling room. As the SRU watched repeatedly while one of their own fell, it created the same jam highways gained after a horrific traffic accident, Sam leaned with his back to them. Arms crossed in a gesture exuding an air of defiance, maybe even arrogance. A person, a teammate would notice how uncomfortable he was with the situation.

"Jules talked to him for a second and then disappeared. Check her locker room."

He nodded; too busy observing Sam to comprehend the unnoteworthy sentence. Watched Eddy and Wordy worm their way through the crowd and into the locker room. He cut around the edge of the group, saved time by not bumping into anyone else who offered their condolences when he didn't deserve them. He shouldn't have let Lew go out there. Lew wasn't the bomb expert, Spike was. Spike shouldn't have gone out there either. What could he have done? There had to have been something that—

"Sam—"

"Can we leave yet?" Eyes traced the carpet from above a flaring nose. Landed on the heels of shoes. On stray laces. On cuffed pant hems. Anywhere but the TV.

"Soon Buddy." Kept his voice calm. Understood the anger. Imagined Sam was the only one out of all of them who might understand. From Afghanistan. Lost friends. Lost teammates. Lost brothers. "I just want to get the Team together in the locker room for quick chat."

"Sarge." Shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. Blue eyes flitted up from the floor and darted away just as quick. "I can't be here much longer. Not with this. With them. I need to leave."

"Everyone copes in different ways. I get that." Didn't go as far to do the friendly shoulder pat with Sam. He wasn't the type. Spike needed recognition. Had a father who didn't appreciate his abilities to help other people, his prowess with computers, his genius with chemicals and bombs. Sam knew he was good at what he did. Sam had self-confidence. Sometimes too much of it, which is what got him in trouble. "It'll only be a few minutes more, but until then, remember that the way you act affects other people."

"Fine." Didn't nod. Not an agreement. Just pushed off the support column in a lumbering stomp. The army remnants clear in straight limbs. In the way his arms swung while he almost marched. In his stern, emotionless face.

Before he took too many steps. Before Sam couldn't hear him, or before he was just far enough away to pretend not to hear him, he questioned, "Do you know where Jules is?"

"I don't care."

Had his back turned by the time the locker room door crashed off the wall. Knew Sam would wait patiently inside with the rest of the Team. Knew because he was good at listening and not questioning orders. Knew Jules wouldn't leave. Not without his approval. Not because she was good at taking orders, but because she respected him. Knew she wouldn't have woven herself into the sea of men. Knew that left one other place for her.

Told Sidney to call public relations. See if they couldn't do something about not showing Lew's death every two minutes on the national news. He died like a hero. He deserved to be treated with the value of a hero, not smeared like some late night reality show star. Sidney nodded solemnly, already connecting the call on his headset. He grabbed the spare set of keys. The dispatcher gave him a cocked eyebrow, but didn't say a word. He needed them in case she locked herself in. She was always so careful about locking doors.

"Jules?" Rapped softly on the door which no longer held her name. Remembered the time when officially sectioning the room as a women's locker room was an SRU hot topic debate issue. He disagreed and made them clear out all the boxes which rightfully belonged in third storey storage. It was ready by the time she arrived complete with the sarcastic 'Jules' sign. They could have been a little more welcoming.

"Jules?" Jiggled the doorknob and found it locked which meant she was sealed inside or she left. "I'm going to come in Jules, let me know if it's not okay."

The door opened silently from ill use. Offered up a cold, dark cavern because the lights are motion activated. The department installed them as a tax deduction while Jules was recovering from being shot. She complains about constantly having to wave her arms or the lights go out when she does her makeup. The guys joked with her about it being an improvement.

He thought she left. She had to be gone. The room was freezing. So dark. So unwelcoming. Qualities opposite to what she embodies. The dim light through high frosted windows allowed a gray stylization which added to the morose tone. Dust motes shimmered and shifted with his breaths. He couldn't imagine why she would want to be in here.

But then he noticed her purse on the ground beside the bench. It was half splayed open, it's entrails a hiccup away from shooting out. It was dropped and left. Just left on the tiles. In the dust. In the darkness. In the cold.

After three steps the first light flickered to life. Hummed in a pained moan above him. In the blinking spotlight he caught sight of her foot. Of the size eight police shoe. Heel flat on a tile. It was partnered with the opposite foot. Both folded together like praying hands. From what he could tell she was sitting on the floor against one of the vanities.

"Jules?"

Her feet jolted at the call of her name. Reeled back behind the security of the partition. The action had an innocence which almost brought a grin to his face. Almost like she was hiding. Remembered when Dean used to hide when he came home from work, and the giggles would give away his location. But he knew her childhood wasn't like that. Knew if she was hiding, it was for a different reason.

Stepped lightly over barely travelled tiles. Two more lights blinked on. Found her jammed between the wall and a garbage can. Her knees collapsed into her chest with her chin resting on top of them. Arms hugged them tightly. Her hair was still in a ponytail; she still had on the gray pants, but was down to a simple black t-shirt. Her pale arms shook a bit, probably from the temperature, maybe from shock.

"Hey Jules." Bowed a little before her and was surprised when her eyes cycled up to meet his. She was cognitive at least. Understood more than Spike. He didn't judge any of them, her, Spike, Sam. Even Wordy and Ed's lack of reaction because they all have different ways of dealing with death. "What are you doing in here?"

Didn't answer him. Dropped her chin further into her arms like an animal being scolded. He sighed. A passive sigh expressing the want to understand. The willingness too if she ever wanted to express anything to him.

His hand slid over the chrome exterior of the garbage can. Fingers hooked on the side and he lurched once to move it away from her, to take its place. But her hand shot out quickly, and rooted it to the ground. "I got sick."

"Oh." He let the can go and it rattled a bit on its rim until it settled. Instead he sat in front of her. Waited for her to add further commentary, but she didn't speak a single word. He couldn't even hear her breathe.

"Are you okay? I mean—" Huffed and pinched the bridge of his nose because none of them were okay factoring in the situation. Wanted to know if she was physically okay. Wanted to know if he even had the right to ask it. As a friend? As a boss?

She released a small exhalation. Voice gravelly and hushed in the empty room. "I just kept crying. And I couldn't catch my breath. Then my ribs hurt and I got sick."

"That's okay." Felt his heart fall a foot in his chest at the mention of her ribs. Still a soft topic for her. For him. For everyone because they were all present the day a bullet clear cut through her and her vest. "That's—That's okay."

"Is Spike okay?" Her knees started to unwind from her chin, her head elevated a bit at the question.

"Spike's fine." Dropped his hand to the cold tiles on the ground beside him. Fingers rested in the grimeless grout between. "He's with Ed, and Wordy, and Sam. Right now I'm more concerned about you."

Knees fully unscrewed, her legs stretched out before him. He glanced sideways at her face and found the first emotion since the team arrived back at headquarters. Her bottom lip lumped and shook, her nose twitched and her eyes gleamed. The lights flickered out from lack of mobility between them. "I don't understand Sarge."

"What don't you understand?"

"Lew was alive. And now he's not. And I saw him die. But I don't understand that he's not alive. I know he's not alive, but I don't understand it. Because he was alive and now he's not. And I saw it. I saw it and I don't get it. And there was supposed to be dancing."

The crevices of emotion, the wrinkles of sentiment, they divided; they matured on her face until she couldn't control them. Conquered her whole appearance as she gasped out a cry. Hand shot up to blackout her eyes. Tears danced and shimmered like dust motes in an underused locker room.

"Hey." Forgot about her. About the type of person she is, and what he thinks she experienced in her past. Just reacted the way he would have reacted around anyone he saw in her state shoved in an alcove beside a garbage can. Reached forward and brought her shuddering form towards him. Her body remained slack for a moment before accepting his embrace and slid across the floor. He felt her chest heave. The small gasps she cried almost silent. Just held her until she settled because the Team is a family and families comfort each other.

"I don't understand it either, Jules." He didn't. Still doesn't. Doesn't understand how they could all get up that morning. All six members of his team, well seven but he never included himself because he's a firm believer in the proverbial 'the Captain goes down with the ship'. But then in that locker room while he hugged her with a hand inadvertently over the patch of her back which blew away four months earlier, he only needed one hand to count his team. Now he can lose a digit and still count them.

But she collected herself. Eyes puffy and red as she swiped at them with the heel of her hand. Didn't laugh nervously, just lowered her head in embarrassment. Like shed tears were unnatural. Something to be shamed. She detached from him then. In more than just physical shifting. Boarded up emotions the rest of the Team couldn't appreciate in her body like it was a condemned house.

Before he could ask her, she answered, "I'm fine."

He stood. Wiped his hands on the sides of his pants, ironed seams indented with wrinkles. Offered her a hand up. "You know, if you're ever—" Paused when her cold hand touched his. That was what was unnatural. Not shed tears at a teammate— a friend's death. The need to keep it covert in a refrigerated locker room. "If you're ever not fine, you can tell me. Whether it's about this, or—"

"I know." She took the first step and the lights didn't flicker on. Not until he moved to follow. Halfway to the door when she stooped to grab the strap of her purse, she added, "Thank you."

So they gathered in the men's locker room. A team of six people scattered in such a small space. None really wanted to be around the others, but had to because of the situation. It's how the next week and a half played out until the booze, plagiarizing in joviality, bled away to actual camaraderie and communal enjoyment.

He explained he would contact them sometime tomorrow morning with further details and if anyone needed to talk for any reason they could call him. At dismissal, Sam was the first to leave, burst by Jules, who was situated at the mouth of the room as she moved in to talk to Spike. They didn't even acknowledge each other and he knew something happened, but if neither of them brought it up, it wasn't his business.

Ed told him Spike still hadn't said a single syllable. Hadn't replied to any questions or physical prodding. Had barely even blinked. Ed and Wordy shifted to gather their belongings and he turned back to Jules.

She sat beside Spike; her hand gently circled his wrist. Her head bowed very close to his, cheek almost rested on his shoulder. Her lips moved but he couldn't hear the words she spoke over the reverberations of lockers. Spike blinked once. Stiffly nodded and the corner of his mouth distorted into a fragment of a smile. They left separately afterwards.

He thinks moments like that, of serenity among the chaos, of rampant compassion, is one of the reasons he loves the younger part of the Team. Sure the Team is a family, but the older guys are friends. The younger members are proxies for Dean, for the other kids he'll never have. It's his job to help them out and offer them the support, respect, reassurance and the praise they don't receive elsewhere. Sometimes experience isn't a good thing.

No one should ever get used to it. To some things. To most things. Sometimes he just needed a little help forgetting. Forgetting things in Homicide. The lifeless body of a strangled toddler, heavy like a lead blanket and blue with lividity. Gang shootings like a loaded AK-47 spun around the dance floor at a club until it sizzled to a stop. Domestic abuse cases where the police arrived an hour too late. Thirty minutes too late. Fifteen. Five.

Guilt isn't something that crumbles at the refreshing words of a priest. Or from performing so many altruistic actions. Every life saved doesn't equal every life stolen. Not even close. It's why he started drinking and lost his family. Why he understands the way the Team copes and tries to keep them together as a whole organism. Drinking alone leads to negation. Leads to segregation and the Team is the only family he has now. It's why he doesn't want to see them ruin their personal lives.

It's why he let her go when she wanted to. Jules isn't much of a drinker, socially or alone for what he can discern are familial reasons. She doesn't talk about herself much. He's known her seven years, trusts her with his life. Knows she trusts him with hers, yet he barely knows anything about her before she joined the SRU. She doesn't drink socially with the boys, with Ed and Wordy or Rolie, when he was part of the Team. Sometimes Spike or Sam joined. Lew too. But Jules would politely excuse herself most of the time.

Whenever she did venture out for choir practice, the unloading of the day in the form of semi-heavy drinking and complaining about everything from the shift, to politics, to partners, she was always eerily quiet. Just sat in a chair, hand curled around a mug of frothy beer staring into the suds while Ed complained about Sophie's parents or Wordy about Shelly's. After awhile they just stopped inviting her. No one seemed to mind, including Jules.

It's why he drank alone last night. Grew deaf to Spike's incessant questions, and almost shoved him from the moving car. Drove to the SRU, where he first laid his eyes on the report. The report from Roy, with statements from her. The overly detailed medical reports. Medical reports complete with pictures to scale with a right angled ruler. Pictures that made him vomit. Something he hasn't done since Homicide.

Saw a picture of the perpetrator, Scott, for the first time. A mug shot from a previous arrest for a drunk and disorderly six months ago. The first time he actually threw a chair in the briefing room. The first time he sobbed openly in years. The first time he bought alcohol in just as many. Needed something to dissolve the guilt. Bury it for a few hours so he could get a little sleep.

It's why he didn't get any sleep. The guilt was omnipresent, like the reincarnation of the need for alcohol. Existence without it was unsure and painful. Felt guilty because his pain was incomparable to hers, yet he was alone and suckling on a bottle while she remained in a hospital. He abandoned her for his own gain. Hasn't done something like that since Homicide. But everything in the last two weeks has been getting to him. He feels guilty she was the straw.

"Just start Greg." Scarlett-eyed and mumbling, Ed barely lifts his head to create their conversation. None of them want to be there. Under this circumstance or any other. The Team was doing well in the lapse of Lew, was beginning to stitch scars. But Jules—It came too quickly, they all know in hindsight there was so much more.

"I talked to Holleran last night. Trials for a seventh member are going to continue as planned and should be completed by the end of the week." Six candidates out of a dozen, six athletically viable psychologically trained candidates who could easily replace Lew in the blink of an eye. Who could be super imposed to walk away from a landmine as the debris and limbs settled. It's not meant to be like that, but the world has to keep its cycle. "But we agreed not to search for a replacement for Jules."

"So we're going to be a six man team?"

"Six person team, yeah." Nods, bare hands sweat around the folder. Doesn't want to be holding the folder any longer. Wants to burn it. Wants to hide it. Wants to do the opposite. Flaunt the contents so everyone is aware. Part of the reason he risked reprimand. "We can deal with the loss of power until Jules recovers. I didn't want the same thing that happened with Donna to happen again."

At her name, Ed shifts. Straightens out his back, clears his throat once. Wordy's eyes flicker to his friend. "What do you mean?"

"Jules has proven she belongs on this team. Twice now. She has a spot here waiting for her if she wants to come back to it." Remembered their conversation before. How Ed fought to keep Donna on the Team. How Jules did nothing wrong. Was and did sacrifice so much more to remain on the team. "No one is going to fill it. Not even temporarily."

"I just thought Donna was a better fit."

"And I don't think it was Jules' fault she got shot on duty."

"No, but other things were."

The door whispers open. The action, or the noiselessness of it, decapitates the potential argument. Maybe it's his appearance. He's the youngest, but he looks like hell. Looks like he's lived more years, more separate lives, than all of them combined in a single night. Face white, eyes clashing in russet, like metal prematurely oxidized. They're painful to look at. He already has visible stubble.

He glides into the room. Doesn't create a sound. Not the friction of his jeans. Not the soles of his shoes. A wide gait rests him in a niche, tired face hanging. "Sorry I'm late."

"Glad you could find the time to make it."

"I was busy doing something. I didn't check my phone until a couple of minutes ago and that's when I got the message."

"Well maybe if you weren't so busy beating—"

Wordy's hand falls to Ed's shoulder, settling him before another argument can erupt. Simple soundless actions preventing misplaced anger. Bleeding patience clotted by a simple gesture. "How is Jules doing?"

An easy question. A fallen teammate in which to bond. Over sorrow. Over regret. Over guilt of course. Over a glass. Or a pint. Or a bottle. But Wordy's question, his humane eyes are directed at him. Clearing his throat he finds a lump of congealed mucus rolling on the back of his tongue. It tastes vaguely like the scotch he drank last night. Everywhere a reminder of everything he's broken. He swallows it. "I don't know how she is. When I went to go see her this morning, the nurses told me she'd been signed out."

"Wait, you didn't stay with her?"

"Who signed her out?"

And his eyes drift from Wordy, looming tall with a wrecked expression. Crashing eyebrows and distressed triangles. To Ed, preoccupied with glaring at something. Someone. Following his line of sight he finds it's Sam.

"You signed her out?"

"She wanted to be."

"You signed her out of the hospital?"

"You guys abandoned her there after—"

"You hit a doctor and had to—"

"Shut up." Something in him finally snaps. Doesn't know if it's the building up of the last day. Or the last two weeks. Or the last seven years. Or the last ten years. Just slams the open palm of his hand into a locker. Listens to the clunk. Hears the echo, the noise answering itself. The repetition as the room empties itself of all other sounds. "Jesus Christ just shut up for a single second."

All three men are staring at him. Not so much in shock as in a respectful stillness waiting for him to say what needs to be said so they can get back to bickering about things they have no say in. Things they aren't the experts in. Things that their engagement in manufactures waves of offense.

The lips of his thumb and forefinger mask his brow. Offer a shadow to his face as he wrenches his eyes shut and turns away from them. He's never been good at disciplining. Not when sober. Home. Then kitchen table half lit in tinny morning light. Bottle of scotch still half full beside a stained glass with melted ice cubes. The simple wants in life.

"Something happened to one of us last night. Something I can't and don't even want to imagine and yet you just keep fighting about things that don't even matter anymore."

"What are we supposed to do?"

Cheap brown folder from the dollar store. He stole it out of the receptionist's desk when no one was watching. After he photocopied what he shouldn't have. After he saw and read what he shouldn't have. After a member of the closest thing he'll ever have to a family was violated and he had to read about it in complete sentences.

"She wants to be left alone, Sarge."

Complete sentences. Commas and periods in ghastly literary description. When he couldn't take Roy's cursive any longer, when he realized each of the long-handed swirls stroking down meant another thrashing on Jules' body he flipped the page. Found pictures. Found pictures and threw up in a garbage can. She threw up after Lew died. It was a normal reaction.

Doesn't have the original folder. Not the one with her photos and her statements completely complacent and lacking her voice. Those aren't her words. Those aren't her statements because that's not her. It will never be her again, because she may get better but she'll never be the same. The words she spoke, lipped, and repeated like a parrot or an answering machine message. There are statements from the nurses who said she didn't speak unless addressed. Answered curtly, in one or two words. Generally in the negative 'no'. But she was sure of one thing. Who it was.

It's not really against protocol, but it definitely isn't their jurisdiction. They're SRU; they deal with hostage situations or bombs. They don't deal with rapes, especially when it conflicts personally. It's why he doesn't have the original folder. Had the folder in his hands. The official folder in its laminated glory down at the proper division. Russ Grant, the Sergeant of the Sexual Assault Squad returned from a brief sojourn while he was left unsupervised with the folder.

Russ tapped his pudgy fingers nervously against his desk. Still not really sure he should see the contents of the folder. After a few minutes and a silhouette drifting by the door, he tried to snatch the folder, but the lamination poured out of his sweaty hands.

"Greg, I let you see it. It's been twenty minutes. You have to go now."

Took out a picture. A certain picture he wasn't ashamed to look at. A picture he wanted seared underneath is eyelids. "I need a copy of this."

"Greg—"

"Give me a copy of this and I'm gone."

That's how he got a pilfered photocopy of Scott's mug shot and statistics. His dark eyes, hiding under thick, looming eyebrows. His hair spiked up in knots. The thin line of hair trailing his jaw. Read he was six feet tall. Six feet tall and thought even if she shot him it would be like shooting a bear. Different angles mean different things. Could've shot him in the forehead and missed his brain by a solid inch of muscle and bone. Despite everything Jules is and is to him, she never stood an equal chance.

Opens the folder, four distinct fingerprints of sweat remain on the cover. "I'm showing you this for the same reason I wanted to see it. So we don't feel like we're not doing anything."

"You have a picture of—" Sam steps forward. Eyes clear and engaging as he nods to the folder. Squabble forgotten. Everything up until that point forgotten just for a few seconds.

"This isn't so we can go vigilante." Stares into the three separate pairs of blue eyes. To punctuate his statement. To gestate it. To make sure they know if they do enact homemade justice, he's not sticking up for them. Sam receives longer eye contact than the others. Knows he normally goes missing, chooses the avoidant method. But senses this might be the thing to switch his coping capabilities. "This is just so we can keep an eye open."

Hands the mug shot to Ed. Wordy and Sam sort of gather around him and for the briefest of moments there's a reappearance of cooperation. Of the alliance bonding them all before two weeks ago. The family he always assumed would stand the test of time, but becomes fragile when they need to rely on each other the most. Sparks and self immolates with a certain equation of words.

Knows all three of them are scanning the face, memorizing Scott the same way he did. Knows after they leave the locker room today if they ever encounter Scott on the street, they won't need a double take. Wordy doesn't say anything. Just shakes his head. Only shakes his head probably at the towering height or weight amassed purely in muscles.

Sam doesn't say a word. Doesn't react. Doesn't allow an emotion to cross his face. Except for his eyes. His eyes collapse. Blue irises tainted and discolored by barriers. A protective division perhaps on how much he's willing to let himself attribute to reality. Only let a little in because it's all he can handle. He'll have to make sure the file never finds its way to Sam. Will keep a tight restraint on it for Jules' sake. But knows what it did to him, can't imagine what it could do to Sam.

"Boss," Ed's eyes narrow as he observes the picture. Readjusts it. Sam turns away, paces before a row of lockers. Wordy watches the ground, or his shoe bouncing against the floor, or the abandoned Nikes. "I think I've seen this guy."

Heads shoot up simultaneously. Sam stops pacing. Wordy's foot stills.

"What do you mean Eddy?"

"Last night." Ed rubs at his eyes again and stares back at the picture like it might come alive and just turn itself in. Like that would solve any of their problems. Solve all of them. "He was at one of the back tables in a bar I went to."

"And you didn't do anything? He didn't look out of place or beaten up to you?"

"He just had a lot of tattoos. Look at his stats Sam, she—"

"Eddy," Raises his hands to stop the fight. Takes a step forward because this might be the one and only lead they have besides what Jules knew about the guy two years ago. "Can you go back to that place? Tell the owner to call the cops if he shows up?"

"Yeah. Yeah of course."

Wordy leans forward, elbows digging into his legs. Hands clasped together, foot tapping against the floor again. "What are we supposed to do?"

"I need to talk to Sam about what he did last night. Holleran wants to suspend you further once—"

"Do whatever."

"Sam, just take a breath. Let's just take a few minutes to talk about what happened and then you can go see—"

"She doesn't want to see me. She doesn't want to see anyone. She just wants to be alone in her house where—"

"She can't just be alone." Wordy hovers by the doorway. Ed is already gone. Little bursts of the past break through his calm exterior like sun through overcast skies. Each word punctuated with the burden of knowing exactly what's happening without reading the file. "As much as she wants to be, we can't let her be alone."

"All we can do is deal with this one day at a time." Can't respond. Won't respond. Because his mind is just a montage of images at this point. A slideshow at some macabre retirement party for his sanity. The scotch on his table. The scotch his table ten years ago. Dean leaving. Lew exploding. Measured bruises. Roy's cursive. Scott's face. "Just go home and be with your family."

The door creaks shut behind Wordy. When only the two of them remain in the locker room Sam shakes his head. Takes a step forward. Uses his aggressive voice. "Sarge, her house. It's where—"

"I know." Interrupts because her house, her living room, which he's seen before, is somewhere in the montage. The walls are blue. She painted them herself. But the scotch is stronger. The color. The smell. Thought he was cured of it, but things run in cycles. "Go wait for me in the briefing room while I try to call Spike again."


"Jules." The gorgeous, handcrafted front door rests against his shoulders. The finely sanded edge slices between his blades, presses directly on his spinal cord through the crinkling material of his SRU windbreaker. "Jules."

Winds stirs up behind him, howls in his ears and shudders the door against his back. The sky is an interesting shade of swollen gray, starting cotton ball light and ending in melted metal swirls. The rain was touch and go all night long. Listened to it calm itself, and then suddenly breakout into distressing fits of downpours where the sky opened into laments. He wonders if that's how her night was. Can't even bring himself to think about it, about her, about how he just left because he was a little drunk and so angry. Just so fucking angry.

Knocks on the thick wooden door with his hand. With his knuckles. With his bruised, cut and flayed knuckles swimming in an ocean of irritated red skin already healing from thirty plus years of Italian home cooking. It doesn't stop the hurt though. Doesn't stop the nerves from playing telephone with each other and sending a flare up his arm. Rips his arm away from her door with a, "Fuck."

Switches the Tupperware to his right hand, right arm. Cradles it because it's a big, clunky thing straight from the seventies. He's almost positive his mother got it at an actual Tupperware party. It probably has all sorts of chemicals harmful to small animals and smaller humans. Maybe he shouldn't have brought this one. Left hand is already knocking. Then knocking louder. Then slamming into her door, flat palm down like he's trying to resuscitate someone. Who? Who the fuck does he even have left?

Realizes he's probably scaring her. Well, not scaring her because nothing scares her. Remembers how she looked when she admitted to getting hit. Remembers her perfectly. Remembers her from angles he's sure he didn't see her from. And she didn't even blink. But he doesn't want to unnerve her, doesn't want to remind her of what all guys, deep down, essentially are. Man's evolved sure, and his mother faints and fans herself with the bible every time he mentions this, but men have never fully evolved. There's still some troglodyte deep down in the ventricle walls. It's not in their souls; it's in their hearts because it actually exists. Every man biologically inherits one.

"Jules, it's Spike," yells sideways from the graying, dilapidated porch steps to what he assumes is her room. Has only ever been to her house once. Maybe twice. He doesn't like it. None of them liked each others' houses. It's usually why they went to bars and got shitfaced instead.

They're all stuck in different life stages. Jammed in a stage of metamorphosis. He's in his parents' house, where his mother cooks his meals and does his laundry, his father will drive him places to save on gas, and his sister still won't let him in her room even though she lives in a different country. He's stuck in grade school. Lew lived in a one bedroom apartment in a building the York kids used. He went to their parties, drank their beer, hit on their girls. He played video games and listened to his music way too loud, way too late at night. He liked slasher flicks and basketball. Lew was stuck as a college freshman.

Jules' house looks like a spinster's house. A woman with too many cats and when you knock on her door she's waiting on the other side with a shotgun. The porch has broken stairs to quell off any visitors and the driveway has a nasty bump at the end of it to ward off anyone with a low enough muffler. She went from university to middle-aged. Like she's jumpstarting her own death, and it creeps him out.

"Jules, come on let me in." Cell goes off in his pocket and he assumes it's her calling him. It's not. It's Sarge. It doesn't even register an eye roll with him. He knows they have a team meeting today to discuss what happened to her without her being present. Got the message. Doesn't give a fuck.

He abandoned her once already with selfish, freeloading thoughts gestating in a scorned heart resembling his torn up knuckles because she knew how he was feeling and she didn't want to see him. Felt the caveman in him want to smash more than a cheap industrial bathroom mirror and had to get out of there. Didn't even think about what that would mean to her. How it would feel to her. If she would even request his presence.

So when he went to the hospital this morning, Tupperware in hand, he mentally prepared himself for this image of his friend. His last remaining true friend, not a teammate, or someone he works with, a friend who would probably look like she was decomposing. He had to try to figure out ways not to treat her differently. Not to let her know this was affecting him too, because how it affected him mattered fuck all. She was the important one; she was the one they needed to help without directly helping her because she'd never allow it.

When he found out she wasn't there, he wasn't even surprised. Didn't even react, which he supposes is a good form of preparation leading up to seeing her. Figured Sam broke in sometime overnight to carry her away marauder style, but checked her house anyway.

"Okay Jules, now I'm going to the backdoor."

Slips down the angled, worn steps and onto the rocky walkway. Trudges over her front lawn which is more mud than grass, and unhinges the lock from behind the evergreen fence. Her backyard is more landscaped, trees placed with care, lawn edged, but the ground is still soft and his dress shoes sink heel deep into mud.

Her backdoor is covered by a lip of roof and as he steps up the new porch stairs, golden wood sturdy under his weight, the sky booms and the first drops of rain dot the cement patio. Opening the screen door he lets it rest against his side. Listens to the aluminum curve. Then he knocks on the door. "Jules, come on."

"Hey." A guy his age maybe a year or two younger stands in the adjacent backyard. The fences are pretty tall offering a lot of privacy. The only reason they can see each other is because he's up on the porch. "She's not home, okay Pal?"

"Her car is in her driveway," he states simply before pounding on the door again. Closed fist, open palm, side of his hand. He's becoming a regular found musician.

"Maybe she went for a walk then. Just get out of here."

"She didn't go for a walk."

"Look asshole, my kids are trying to sleep and if you don't stop I'm going to call the cops and—"

Then he's done something he's never done before. Not before when he was a regular cop, not during the SRU. Not until this point. He whips out his badge and takes a few steps off her back porch and into the drizzle, shoving the brass plate into the air. It reflects in the weak light. "I'm a cop okay? So if you don't want to be arrested for obstructing justice I suggest you shut up and go back inside your house to your kids."

"Yeah." The guys nods, hand already on the door to his house. "Sure. Okay."

He's covered in a fine layer of rain water, beads singled out and rolling over the lid of the Trudeau era Tupperware. He stomps back up the stairs, securing his badge back inside his jacket and washes a hand over his face to clear it of the droplets clinging to his eyelashes. Then opens the screen door and continues banging.

After a few minutes, probably from the adrenaline of verbally defeating her dumbass neighbor or maybe it's just another caveman moment, he announces, "Jules, I know you're home. You know I can take apart this door. And I—" But he doesn't finish, because his eyes still layered with crisscrossed veins thatched together from an inherent case of insomnia and the weakest buzz to ever bring him a hangover, finally notice the details.

The large footprints complete with a horse's stride leading up to her backdoor. How the handle to the door is limp and loose. How the paint is chipped away from the wall. And it happened. It happened right here. He's standing in the exact spot yesterday some guy stood and—

The door wheezes, clicks, clacks and shakes away from the frame. The inside of her house is dark. Dark because outside is dark. Dark because she hasn't turned any lights on. Her hand, the fingers curl around the edge of the door as she braces herself behind it. He can only see a fraction of her face. What looks like a star cluster of bruises over her eye, the pupil dyed with blood from abuse.

"What do you want Spike?" It's not Jules. Not the Jules he knows. He's never heard her speak like this. Even with Lew, during Lew, after Lew. The voice is so pained, because she is in pain, because none of them did anything to stop it.

"I just came to see you." Didn't say came to see how you were doing. If you were okay. She's not doing good. She's not okay. It's obvious. So obvious to all of them, yet they all have this mama bird technique of letting each other learn to fly on their own. All of them except Sam, who has his talons sunk way too far into her wings for her to possibly fly.

"I'm going to close the door now."

She starts to push it shut and he wants to physically stop her, but he doesn't want to reenact it. Wants her to feel safe in her own home, which apparently she does. At least a little. "Jules, please. I know I wasn't there for you yesterday, and I'm sorry." Stares down and finds indents in the metal runner. He closes his eyes, wonders if he really does want to go in there. If he can handle it. Then he answers himself with what the hell kind of bullshit question is that? "I was—" Drunk? Angry? Jealous she would rather rely on Sam, the only person to get her shot, than him? "I wasn't myself."

"But I'm me now." Weakly chuckles and when he stares into the darkness embedded in the walls of her house, all that stares back is a red eye buried among a galaxy. "I'm here now, and I'll be here as long as you need me."

Then there's just the rain. Spilling over the side of her gabled roof. Ribboning into her garden. Streaming out of her gutters. Hitting the metal with a ping. Her fingers bend, and he wonders if it's in rumination, or pain. Pale face almost disappears until just the corner of her eye and cheekbone are visible. It takes him a second to realize she's leaning her forehead against the door. "I don't look so great right now, Spike."

"What?" It's a soft and almost uneasy question. The bifurcation, the implication of him only caring what she looks like and not wanting to see her unattractive partnered with her innate need to always appear unburdened, unstressed, healthy and done up. He saves his breathless question by evolving it into a classic Spike joke. But she knows. Always knows. "You think I hang around with the rest of the team because they're so attractive?"

Fingers tap against the fern paint on the door. The chipped serrated edges breaking away like the auburn autumn leaves in her backyard. Weighted not by rain, but by the transference of pain, of thought. Underneath an austere white appears in globs of prehistoric primer thrown at the door and left to run in streaks until dry.

Doesn't speak. Doesn't say a single word and it's Lew's funeral all over again. The six of them crammed into the front pew. Ed with Sophie, Wordy with Shelly. Sam sitting on the aisle end, bathed in pure arrogance with his arms crossed. When the service was over he left. Just up and left, they didn't see him again until at the hospital.

Jules sat on the opposite end. Maybe it was planned to keep her away from Sam. Maybe it was politeness to let the lady go in first. Maybe it was so Sarge could be between them and try to juggle what he thought would be rampant emotions. Both of them were overly quiet. Sure afterwards he joked. Joked in blind rage because he felt like the Team abandoned Lew. Stood by while he blew. While Lew blew. His back was to. His back was to his best friend while he said his last words and—

Quiet. She was just quiet. Just didn't say a single word. Didn't even know if she was breathing. She hardly moved. Hardly breathed. Just a husk of her person, the strong woman who saved his ass countless times. Dragged him half blind through gun infested drug dens and saved his ass. Her hands folded simply in her lap and her head bowed in a constant prayer. Wonders if she's religious. Definitely not as religious as his family, or his mom. The Pope isn't as religious as his mom.

Kind of worked herself into a corner at the reception. Then when someone tried to engage her, she disengaged. Excused herself and left the room. Behind him, someone he didn't know was complaining about the lack of shrimp. Sarge didn't notice her leave. Ed and Wordy, who were catching up with Rolie, didn't notice her leave.

He found her in the hatch of her jeep. Legs swung wildly in the summery wind. Hair blew haphazard around her face. Hands still folded mid-prayer. Stood to the side with his hands in his suit pockets. Kicked at pebbles. Didn't want to intrude, but something made him. "You okay?"

"It's stuffy in there." Posture didn't change, but she caught a ribboning strand of hair and trapped it behind her ear. Leg stopped, stretched straight. One of those ridiculous high heels stapled to the bottom of her foot.

The wind composed to a serene caress as he approached her jeep. Hand on the back of the tailgate. "The conversation isn't that bad. I mean it's a little over my head but—"

She laughed at him and he took it as an invitation to sit beside her. Behind her Jeep in the lot sat Ed's SUV, beside it was Wordy's Minivan. Camaraderie extended through vehicles. Her forehead rested against a pale forearm and she shook her head. "What are we supposed to do?"

"Hmm?" Glanced away from the cars and noticed her pained expression for the first time. The way her eyes wrenched closed against her arm. How her lips were crooked and wired. The light smudge of her makeup.

"What are we supposed to do now Spike?" And she looked at him with blameless eyes. Glassy, innocent eyes crushed by mere existence. Like the idea of waking up tomorrow was enough pain to rival a certain bullet. He knows. Thinks he knows. Because he feels the same way.

"Well, eventually we'll have to go back inside. And then we'll go home. You to your house and me to my mom who won't leave me alone and my dad who won't acknowledge me. And tomorrow we'll do a slightly different order of things, but we'll do it again. And again. Until we die." Contemplated for the millionth time that second if he didn't make a mistake by not staying downwind. Two birds, one landmine. It would have been easier, simpler, less painful that way.

But her bare eyes sank. Buried treasure underneath thousands of hours of injury. Years of turmoil growing up through God knows what, while he just had to deal with a wooden spoon across the knuckles when he reached for cannoli that were too hot. "Or," he added it quickly in a stumbling fashion so she might think he was being comedic. "Or we go out tonight and tomorrow and everyday for the next two weeks to drink until we can't feel the pain."

Dropped her head back to her lap, but a hint of a smile graced her emotionally ravaged lips. "That doesn't sound too healthy."

"It's an old family remedy for heartache."

"There's something like that in my family too." Legs swung as the wind whirled the beginnings of fall leaves around the cracked tar parking lot.

"Yeah?"

"It's called alcoholism." And he didn't know what to say because all he could think of was the bell tolling in his head from her allergic declaration. It was like a supporting argument. Like a positive biopsy. In a tiny voice distorted from a quivering lip she added, "But God, I could use a drink."

Didn't say a thing. Just placed a hand on her back. Was careful. Didn't really touch her much before and now had the underlying feeling if he touched her the wrong way she would break. Crack. Crumble. The back, it supports the body. Lew supported the Team. Straddled the gap between older group and younger. Got along with everyone. At his funeral they could already feel the tectonic shift.

Disappears from the mouth of the door and he steps inside her house. The temperature is the same, but the mugginess from the rain is gone. The cool wind fall rains bring dissipates upon his crossing the threshold. The whole time she remains behind the door. Pushes it shut with the weight of her entire body. There's a click and a clack as the lock engages.

He can only establish a few details from the dim light leaking through the kitchen curtains. Her hair is damp, half done up, but escaping from the bun. The back of her neck is airbrushed dark. She's wearing a faded lilac colored sweatshirt way too big to be her own; it falls almost to her knees which are covered by sweatpants.

But then she turns. Then she turns and he sees everything. Everything past, present and future. Everything down to the color of chipped polish she's wearing on her trimmed-too-close toenails. Everything in the salty ocean swells crashing on the side of her face where her eye, nose and the corner of her lips meet to become one. The drape of her fat lip and the etch-a-sketch dashes holding it together. The rings of Saturn around her neck. The dappling of bruises on her chest like the coloring of a finch's wings. The sling holding her arm precariously because she fumbled restringing it, all crooked and burrowing. Her iris is a cranberry. Plucked, removed and processed.

Sarge reacted openly, treated her differently. Dropped him off without answering his questions on how she was and basically kicked him out of the vehicle. Sam must have reacted differently, sad, furious, lamenting. Probably tried to hide it for her, but his selfishness exceeds his willpower. He feels all those things. Feels the death of everything he knew inside of him. Just like after Lew died. But he knows Jules isn't dead, she does too, but everyone else will need convincing. Feels all the egotistic emotions because it's a fifth his fault, probably more because he knows how she was, knows her a little better, knew something was up by a single hand on his shoulder when she left the bar. Feels the burden of everything amassing within him. Of functions primordially reacting, heart beating faster, fingers striking matches, eyes unblinking, body temperature rising.

"Your sling is twisted." Is how he reacts. Manages to quell the caveman because his dry eyes stare into the cranberry which can't seem to meet him and he sees the innocent pair from the back of a Jeep in a funeral parking lot. With swinging legs and too high of heeled shoes. Where hair whipped chaotically and she was afraid of drinking too much because it ran in the family.

She observes a moment. Maybe a little startled from his lack of physical reaction. From his lack of hand to mouth gasp, while stepping back and creating a cross with his fingers. What the hell did the others do to make her think like this? "Yeah." Opened eye tips down to the braiding and entwined blue fabric strangling her right arm. "It's hard to put on with one arm."

Thinks about her trying to throw her good arm around her back. Trying to monkey her way into stringing up her bad arm with her not so efficient arm. Sets the Tupperware on the table. A few raindrops drip to her white kitchen floor, which is incandescent in the darkness. Luminous in its pristine quality. Wants to help her, but doesn't want to impose. Touching her after she was shot is one thing, touching her after she was raped in the place it happened seems like—"Should I fix it?"

Left shoulder lurches forward, a stiff and jerky occurrence. Remains heightened for a few seconds before tiredly collapsing and he doesn't know if it's her subtracted version of a shrug or just a muscle spasm. A twitch of her body trying to recalibrate itself back to its origin, before everything became misplaced and lapsed. "Will it really make a difference?"

It won't. Really it won't. Her appearance in the near film noir lighting of her modern country kitchen won't be aided by a simple restringing of a sling the same way the broken neck of a Stradivarius won't be aided by a simple restringing. Her discomfort level won't diminish. Untwisting twine won't reduce swelling, or cause bones to heal faster, or salve the mental burns. But it's the only thing he can offer her. Can't extract a swift justice because they both know he's not the type. Can't openly comfort her because they both know he's not the type. But he can restring a sling. Like hockey skates or roller blades, which he never owned. But he did burn his arm on sulfuric acid when he was little and had to wear a sling.

"Might do something." When he speaks his molars don't move from being glued together. It's because he's a little afraid. Not at her appearance, but at her denial. A little ashamed because if Lew was here, Lew would know exactly what to do. Feels like there's an ice cube caught in his caveman ventricle. Like he can't feel anything from the inside out because he's been forced to feel everything at once. But he looks at her and he knows it's not true.

Knows for everything he's had to deal with, pepper spray included, she's had it ten times worse. It wasn't always clear to him, because he wasn't always enlightened. It took a certain teammate to explain the ways of the world contained within Team One.

It was after his first week on the job. After all the preliminary tests. After all the hours on the gun range, the days spent in endless drills, the weeks in the briefing room going over tactics. After his first real week on the job, after Wordy pepper sprayed the inside of his riot gear helmet during a simulation and made his eyeballs the size and shade of ruby reds, when Lew approached him in the locker room.

"Yo Man."

His body towered against the lockers in a relaxed position. He was intimidated. Intimidated by them all. They were all taller than him, well except Sarge whose knowledge and authority were imitation enough. He was imitated by Jules, because even though she helped him, he saw the way the other guys treated her and he was confused. Unsure of whether to treat her like one of the guys. Didn't really feel right. Instead he stuck to the back to the truck like a wad of spitty gum and just did intel. Intelligence gathering, system hacking, nothing to do with chemicals since it had only been a week.

"You busy?"

Expected Lew wanted him to do restock, or wanted to show him how to do restock so he could bolt. Sure he's a nervous guy who talks way too much in awkward situations and cracks jokes at inappropriate times, but he's always listening to what other people say. About him, about each other. It's how he gathered most of his preliminary intel on the team. Learned Ed and Wordy were old friends. Learned Lew was quite a ladies' man. Learned Rolie had bad anger management problems. It's amazing how much people talk when they think he's not listening.

"I'll do restock." He answered, not tipping his head up from tying his running shoes. Restock is one of the first skills taught. Not even integral to the job, but no one likes doing it, so it becomes the responsibility of the rookie among other things. "I don't mind."

"No man." Lew laughed, showed off flawless gleaming teeth as he shook his head. "Ed and Rolie got restock. They've got it covered unless you want to listen to an hour of angry bitching. Maybe an hour and a half if they get off on a good subject."

"Oh, then what?"

"Thought you'd want to go out to celebrate your first week on the finest team in the finest city." Grinned wide and crossed his long arms over his chest. Hadn't heard much intel about Lew, mostly because the older guys only talked to each other about each other or their families. Didn't know which division he transferred in from, what his pastimes were, if this offer could be taken seriously, or if he would be pepper sprayed when he agreed.

Also didn't want the guys to know about his living situation. He'd come to terms with the fact that there's some sort of invisible umbilical cord choking him. Living with his parents at his age isn't just relationship suicide, its social suicide. Modern day society doesn't understand the constraints of having a traditional Italian Family. "I'm kinda busy."

A long finger pointed at him, the shadow of it dragged over the few feet between them, over the then cracked tile of the men's locker room. Eerie, like the elongated finger of death beckoned him. "But you just said you'd do restock."

"I was being polite." He mumbled back, grabbed his gym bag from the floor next to him and stood. He inhaled deeply, sort of to puff out his chest, maybe appear a little intimidating. Lew had almost a foot on him, so he didn't know why he thought it would work.

Instead of the malice or haranguing he assumed would greet him, in the trademark calm voice Lew offered, "Look Man—Spike. It's hard to adjust here, so a week is an achievement." Speech petered off and his lips ticked wistfully. His head snapped down, and his body adjusted straighter, taller, sky scraper. "Plus, what do I know about you? Nothing Man. What do you know about us? Nothing. It'll be a learning process."

Considered it, didn't want to call his Ma and explain he was going out drinking with cops. Two things she disapproves of even though he's well over the legal drinking age. "Who's coming?"

Lew's neck contorted, angled around his body without being conspicuous as he spied on Ed and Rolie stuck in lock-up doing restock. Their grumbled complaints slowly grew louder. "None of the older crowd. Wordy's already at home because of the new baby and The Boss—" He paused, narrowed his eyes and turned his back, broad shoulders blocked out the low hanging saucer lights. "Well I'll explain that later."

So he agreed. Agreed because beside the basics of negotiations and everything he learned prior to his joining the Team, he didn't know anything. Didn't know anything about them or their hot button issues. He can't spend the rest of eternity in the back of a truck digging up intel on the rest of the world and not know anything about the people he spends eight to twelve hours a day with.

Jules stood at the elevator, her coat draped over her hooped arms. It was early May, the weather just started to keep its warmth when the sun went down.

"Yo Jules."

She glanced over her shoulder, ponytail created a perfect brushstroke across her back. "Lew." Pursed lips budded into the start of a playful grin. When she noticed him, the smile softened, "Spike, congratulations on your first week."

"Thanks," he mumbled back. Struggled to get his coat on. Arm ended up entangled with the strap of his gym bag and inside of his coat.

Lew leaned sideways, his arm on the brass frame of the elevator beside her. He thought it was really intimidating, well must have been for her. But after he and Lew became best friends it became his tell. Lew only leaned around people he cared about, people he didn't want to intimidate with his homegrown height. "Me and Spike are going out for drinks. You in?"

"Oh." She sucked her lower lip into her mouth, pierced it with her front teeth and her eyebrows dropped in a sorry expression. "You know I would, But I have plans."

"Oh yeah?" Lew's eyebrow arched, as his thumb pressed the down arrow for her again. "Charity work?"

"Maybe, but I don't think there's much potential."

"And you wouldn't even blow it off for your boys?"

"Spent all day with my boys, Lew."

The ding from the elevator interrupted his response. He picked up her purse from the floor and handed it to her. "Good luck then."

"Yeah, he's the one who needs the luck." Before the doors closed she stopped them, pushed them back with a single hand. "Don't take him to The Goose. He's going to go to The Goose so much with the other guys. Take him somewhere—"

"Where there's no choir practice."

Immediately her expression flipped. Eyebrows slanted forward, shrouded her eyes. Lips hooked with anger. Recognized the same expression from his mom, and his sister, and numerous other female relatives. Expected Jules to stomp off the elevator, chuck her purse at the wall and go off on a rant. Only she didn't. Just pressed the ground floor with reserve. "Take him somewhere where you might get good charity."

"I don't need charity." Lew waved as the doors closed.

That night became the first of hundreds spent with Lew. Literal hundreds. Sometimes they went to clubs, respectable yet still entertaining clubs where the drinks were amazingly fair priced. They'd sit at a side booth and drink until last call, knitted bonds between them by sharing memories, good, bad, amazing, embarrassing. Sometimes he'd actually scrounge up some charity. Those nights were rare and usually not as memorable. Other nights they'd drive around in Lew's SUV and listen to bad 90s rap which he mocked.

Lew always set his jaw, a little smarted, and shook his head. "Yeah, poke fun all you want, you Sinatra-loving Freak."

It wasn't the rap which was funny, or the fact that Lew, the world's most personable, open, accepting, happy guy listened to it. It was the fact that usually the rap was antiestablishment and therefore antipolice. He'd laugh, drink his coffee in the wintertime, eat his ice cream cone in the summer. Lew would shrug, "Cut off all your roots Man, and you die."

Now from time to time he listens to the songs. The songs he remembers clear enough. The ones Lew would rap back to him when he complained enough about the lyrics. Has them on his iPod, listens to them while he works out, which is one of the only things he's done since Lew died. Hasn't done it since—

Asked Lew about her once. After he'd been on the Team for almost three years. Finally got the courage to ask Lew about her. Asked if there was anything ever between them. Kept the tiniest flack of jealousy from his voice. Lew was his friend, his best friend, his brother. Jules was his friend, a close friend.

They were at a bar. Not a club as the club scene had waned for them. Somehow they'd both agreed at the same time that finding random charity was wanton when compared to settling down. Lew leaned against the counter; chin touched the lip of his newly birthed fourth beer. They were going to need a cab tonight. Maybe call Jules.

Lew chuckled at the idea, sucked on the beer and chuckled.

"What?" He answered, hands clammy around the equally perspiring beer. The neck of it wet and cold in his slick, hot hand.

Lew threw back his head, took a long swig of the beer which traveled almost transparently through the bob in his throat. Soon the adoption of his street slang would occur. Whenever Lew got shitfaced, his old vernacular trickled back in. He rested more against the counter, elbow bent, eyes half lidded with inebriation, and he burped once. "I respect that woman too goddamn much to ever make a move on her."

He nodded and leaned against the counter too. "Wait. What?"

"Think about it man, she has to deal with the exact same shit we do." Gulped down another mouthful of beer while shaking his head. "The exact same shit, plus the pressure that ninety-nine percent of the police force doesn't think she should be on the Team."

"Yeah but—" Paused, had to organize his thoughts. What was his point? There was a rainbow right? There had to be a rainbow. Wait, when the fuck did he become the one defending the existence of the rainbow, to Lew of all people. There had to—"We don't though. We treat her well."

"Yeah." Lew's voice softened, he grinned, lips flexed against the bottle. "We do, but we're only two men."

"What? No, I meant the Team."

"What? No fuck that noise, Man."

"Use." Took another drink. Didn't know why. Maybe the subject matter, maybe the age old threat of masculine competition. "Use real words."

"The Team." Paused. Rubbed the corners of his mouth where flecks of beer froth gathered. "They're better now I guess. Wasn't—weren't so good. Rolie. Rolie fucking hates her."

"Rolie?" Scrolled through the faces of everyone on the Team. The older guys, they all tend to blur together, are pretty interchangeable when he's buzzed on his way to shitfaced.

"Spike, don't tell me you never noticed."

Hasn't really. Her and Rolie had never been partnered up from what he remembered which is weird considering he's been there almost three years. They'd never shared a rig, or an operation or goal. In fact they were usually on opposite ends of the spectrum. Her and Ed were snipers, Lew and Wordy were close combat, and Rolie the entry expert. He's still in the truck.

"Why—"

"I dunno. Some shit happened when I was learning repelling though."

Lew said it was raining that day. Not just raining but pouring. Pissing down rain. Thick like walking through Jamaican waterfalls. Like diving into the salty ocean and letting it rock you full circle. Pushing down hard, hands holding shoulders under the water. Sarge hesitated, arms crossed in pensive inner debate as he watched the dark gray sky. There was no lightning, but learning how to repel in a rainstorm isn't exactly ideal.

Ed contradicted the concern and pushed Lew up out of his chair. "If this happens on a hot call are we all going to stay inside due to inclement weather?"

So the Team marched to the roof. Where winds aided by the extreme height became more violent. Stirred up the stagnant puddles of water and whipped raindrops at random. Everyone was quiet. Lew stressed how only Ed talked, dictated, while the rest of them remained silent in a weak semicircle around the equipment. The harnesses and the ropes. The locks and pulleys.

The rain fell heavier, harsher. Plopped in the puddles, until the rooftop was a solid lake. New drops jumped against the surface like popcorn. Ed tipped the brim of his hat, twin streams of water flowed over the edges in equal force. "Who wants to demonstrate?"

"Guess I will." Rolie stepped forward. One foot full of bravado, the other full of arrogance. "I am the entry expert with the repelling record."

"Actually Jules has it." Sarge corrected him, clipboard in hand. The paper was a checklist to ensure Lew did the proper actions before thrusting himself off the side of the building, but the rain pulverized the paper, slobbered all over it.

Rolie wrenched his neck to glare at her for a moment. The movement so quick water flew off of him like a shaking dog. "No I do."

"No, Jules does. It makes sense, she's lighter—"

"That's bullshit." Rolie's hands and arms yanked up in angry jerks as he strapped himself into the repel line. "We'll settle this now."

"You want to race?" Her voice was incredulous and buried underneath a sopping hat. Lew stood beside her and from the angle, the top of her hat was completely drenched black from rainwater. "In the rain?"

Instead of answering, their teammate chucked the other set of repel gear at her. She caught the thick, bound rope as it thunked against her chest. Lew remembered the force of the throw sent her body back a step and he inadvertently found his fists bunched.

They raced and Jules won. Partly because she's lighter, smarter, and understands the physics of repelling. And partly because Rolie didn't secure himself properly, so he ended up suspended at the eighth floor in the middle of the rainstorm. Jules volunteered to help him, but he refused to have her near him. Ed, instead of focusing on what was clearly an interpersonal problem and the borderline misogynist his friend was, said it was a good learning experience for Lew.

Lew said he almost shit himself at that moment. Rolie literally hung by a string off the side of their building, thrashed back and forth in a throe of rage and a high windshield. He said he must have appeared terrified because Jules placed a gentle hand on his arm and told him it was really simple. Showed him on her gear what was wrong with Rolie's and the simple way in which to reverse the kink in the rope. He repelled precariously down the side of the building, slammed against it with inexperience in the strong winds. He saved Rolie who bitched at him the whole time. Afterwards the whole Team congratulated him as Rolie silently fumed, and clomped off into the building.

Later Lew caught Jules before she left and told her with mild embarrassment he had no idea what he did. Said she smiled gently at him and agreed to go over techniques with him at the briefing table until he had a semblance of understanding.

"Happened an hour after that." He and Lew reclined against the brick wall outside of the bar. The rock music vaguely audible from a few steps above the basement pub. They both wavered on their feet, broke into random fits of giggles, tears and unfueled rage.

"Rolie, the asshole, comes stompin back into the briefin room. Just runnin his mouth off to her." Lew's head started to shake, but then the movement evolved more into a circular roll due to loss of equilibrium. "Shootin shit about how she planned it. How she made him look like an idiot. Called her a lot of bad things."

"Whadid she do?" He held his breath, the anticipation. Like she wasn't okay then. Wanted to phone her to ensure she was okay then.

"Just ignored it." Lew shrugged, arched uncomfortably against the wall. "But he wouldn't. I gotta piss. "

"I gotta piss too." Not really. Sort of. Maybe anticipation. He could. "Whadid he do?"

"Shoulda pissed before we called." Nostrils flared at the inconvenience. But they glanced at each other for a split second, broke out into juvenile laughter and spun so they faced the wall. Zippers dropped in synchronization. "Charged her."

"Huh?"

"Rolie. Charged her."

His mind went back to the briefing room scene. New Lew with a mighty afro, and Jules getting attacked by Rolie. It distracted him from pissing. Lew was winning. "What happened?"

"She jumped outta her chair. He shoved it over. Piss man or you gonna be pissing in the car."

"Okay. Okay." Swift stream of urine blasted the brick next to Lew's still powering away. Mental note to use the urinals next time. Always did this, always forgot and ended up pissing on graffitied and masticated brick. "What then?"

"Stood in front of her. I was mad, Man. I told him shit. Shit I haven't said since I was a teenager." Knew Lew's history extensively by that point, got the allusion to his gang days. "I said, 'I was from Guns 'n Gangs. Before that I was in a gang with guns' 'n if he ever raised his voice to her, I'd lay the smack down. She saved his fucking life."

"You did."

"I did 'cause of her."

"He leave?" Stream ran to a trickle; spread his legs a little wider not to get any on his running shoes. Lost a good pair last time.

"Yeah. Reported it to Sarge. Sarge worked the promotion to get him out." Lew shook, belt buckle clanked.

"Never knew." Any of it. The 'false' promotion. The shit Jules has to deal with. The new rookie, Sam couldn't be any better. They all saw the way he looked at her. Like a lion at a gazelle. In his opinion someone just needed to hit the guy. Hard. Super hard. Maybe each team member could just get one good punch. It's enough.

"What'd I say man? Much respect."

Stream finished and he shook spat urine onto decaying brick. "Yeah I—"

"Jesus Christ." Her voice rang out from the mouth of the alley ten feet away where her Jeep idled. "Are you guys seriously pissing on the wall again?"

He and Lew zipped quickly, giggled all the while. Motored out saliva in bursts of laughter. Shoulders hid their amused lips.

"I swear to God, I'm not sweet talking the bar owner for you again."

"We only did it so we wouldn't piss in your Jeep."

"Yeah," Lew added with a stiff nod. "We pissed because we care about you."

She sighed angrily, hands on her hips. The streetlight glowed from behind her, left only her contour. "Conceal your weapons, Boys."

"We're good." Both answered, raised their hands, and turned around from the urine soaked wall.

"Do not touch me or get into my Jeep until you use the hand sanitizer." Last time Jules picked them up and found them violating the public urination law, she would not let them into her car until she returned with hand sanitizer. The sanitizer stayed in her glove compartment, which only encouraged them.

"Okay Mom. Jesus."

"How much did you guys drink? Why? Who the fuck died? Do you even realize that I have a life? That I could have been doing something on Friday night?"And he noticed her attire for the first time. A low cut black top, a skirt which fell just above her knees, and knee high boots. Wondered if they had interrupted something because she'd never bitched at them before.

Lew blew a raspberry, large tongue rolled and shot spit sloppily clear across the alley. Glob landed at the back tire of her Jeep. "Please you ain't been giving charity since that Scott guy."

"Yeah, Scott couldn't make a donation even if he was in the Millionaires' Club." She opened the driver's door; hand rested on the seat as she leaned over, pale thighs peeked out from under her skirt. "Can you pass me the sanitizer?"

A muffled voice asked something about pissing, caused her to press her knee harder into the faux leather front seat of the running car. "Would you just give me the goddamn sanitizer?"

She ripped her hand away from the person in the front seat, and adjusted the skirt back over her legs as she approached them. "Hands."

When they held out their hands, she squirted a healthy amount of the sour smelling liquid into their palms. He and Lew nodded once, he pursed his lips to keep the premature laughter from escaping. "Who you with?"

"What?"

Lew gestured to the Jeep; his hands glistened in the streetlight from being coated in sanitizer. "Who you giving charity to J?"

"Okay, that's Sam. We had to work late on reports at the SRU. I was there when I got your giggly call for a ride and since that idiot doesn't have a car either I somehow became the fucked up soccer mom in this situation."

Reached forward hand cupped a hand, still a little sticky, around her boney shoulder. "But you're our fucked up soccer mom."

She tore his hand away and looked like she might vomit. "What did I say about touching me?"

"I used the sanitizer and urine is sterile," he yelled as she walked to the driver's seat, tucked her skirt under her thighs as she sat down, and shut the door.

When he and Lew piled in the back, she retorted, "God, I hope you're sterile."

For the whole ride all three of them ignored Sam. Lew repeatedly asked her to find a station which played rap music and when she finally did, he complained and emphasized 'good' rap music. She said it was impossible because it didn't exist. She dropped Lew and him off first despite the fact they were closer to Sam's apartment.

He doesn't know why he remembers that night so clearly regardless of the fact he was so shitfaced he fell asleep on the floor of his bedroom instead of his bed. It might be because it was one of the last times, he, Jules and Lew were together before Lew died. Together outside of work because she kept making excuses to not get immaturely shitfaced with them. Maybe because he learned so much about Jules that night despite knowing her for almost three years. Jules will talk to him about his problems, talk to complete strangers who need help, but refuses to talk about herself. Or maybe it's because that was the night he and Lew realized, but couldn't admit, she was fucking Sam.

There's a pause. A moment where everything happening between them translates into a log, and then a short novel. Phrases into the comm. link scrolled up as notes because her cranberry fixates on him. Doesn't leave his face, his eyes, his sewn jaw. He doesn't dare look away, doesn't dare acknowledge the authority which existed in her house twelve hours ago. Respects her too damn much.

Finally she blinks. Her distended lip bumbles like the wings of a hardworking bee. "Sure."

"Okay." Unzips his SRU jacket to hang off the back of one of the four wooden chairs surrounding the small, circular table. There's a small plant centered in a white and blue ornate pot which is beginning to wilt from lack of sunlight.

Eyes land on her fridge. The metallic sheen refracting all angles and algebra in the negative light. Familiar faces familiar. Faces of kin and countrymen. Of brethren bred by different blood decorate the door in a collage akin to the type of artsy billboards teen girls devote to their idols. It makes him feel guilty because he has a shoebox of her pictures sleeping beside where his shoes sleep when they're not on his feet. Causes the caveman to slap a cudgel into his cupped palm twice because it's something so unlike her. Something so youthful, and intimate and loving. So goddamn full of love for all of them.

There are so many pictures, and in the stillness, in the caliginosity he constructs a few of the scenes all hung with multicolored neon magnets, or broad flat ones with advertisements. There's Wordy and Ed with their hands around each other's shoulders. It's from last year's Christmas party. There's one of him and Lew. They're in the front of a rig, he remembers her surprising them. Didn't get his hand up to block the flash on time. One of Wordy and Lew playing basketball. One of her hugging Sarge at the awards banquet they attended last spring before she was shot. One of Ed and Sarge lost in bickering. One of Sarge patting him on the back casually at the family picnic. Lew's obituary from the paper cut perfectly straight without a single deterioration in two weeks.

The last picture is sort of segregated. Shoved almost into the bottom corner of her fridge with inches separating it from the others. Like it's infected and had to be quarantined. It's a photo of her and Sam. He's asleep on her couch. She has one hand holding the camera, the other splayed across his jaw. Her eyes are closed as she presses a kiss into his cheek. Eyes won't leave the diseased picture. He bites the inside of his mouth and drops his coat to the back of a chair. Only his hand gets stuck in the rungs and the chair chokes across one square tile. The felt pad on the bottom of the back leg laughs half off.

Trying so hard not to be intimidating because he's not. He's Spike, the punch line to life's joke. Trying so hard to not treat her differently that he inadvertently is and he doesn't want her to pick up on it because he doesn't want things to be different even though he inherently thinks they will be though he prays they're not. Reaches to flick on the row of lights centered in the ceiling.

"No." Her foot actually steps forward. She's actually a whole footstep closer to him with her left elbow hinged to her side, but her fingers stretch out, flip like the tree branches in her backyard under the onslaught of rain. "No light. It hurts my eye."

"Yeah." Nods in agreement like she has a gun. Like her plea is a deadly weapon. Cocked and loaded aiming at both of them. The pellets hitting him, the kickback smarting her. Steps away from the switch. Hinders the action of raising his empty hands. "Sure. Okay."

"Spike." And the way her voice orchestrates it, just like he could close his eyes and be back in her locker room. Eyes a wild fury of blinks while trying to clear the pepper spray from his corneas. The stark juxtaposition of a gentle harshness. All embracing when it comes to anyone but herself. "My arm is fine the way—"

"It might help." Is all he can say. It's not much of an argument. More of a repetition of his earlier musings. It might do shit. But the needle on his gramophoned speech center skips and he repeats. Records scratches and he wrenches his eyes because it sounds like Lew's awful music. But it is all he can do besides keep her eye contact.

Doesn't speak. Not a single word as he slips his arm underneath the denticulated surface of dried plaster. How wet strips of whatever were thrown on without care or skill and made to dry unnaturally. Captured a sea in a tumultuous storm. Frozen ocean whirls in mid-wave. Right fingers slowly unravel the coiled strap and the sling releases her arm into his waiting hand.

It's heavy. So heavy. A synthetic casing in rose petals and thorns. The perverted ideas of severed limbs. The length and weight. Lew's size fourteen work shoe still doubled knotted from the knee down. There's a lighter weight, a ripple, a pinch on his right elbow. Her left hand bunches his freshly washed dark plaid dress shirt. Hand ironed by a loving mother. Her fingers arching in weakness, creating ingrained wrinkles, playing dead.

He swallows down unwanted emotions. Unwanted fears. Loud as water smashing against mountain crags. As the rain pounding against her gutter. As the silent cranberry, a pupil drowning in a half glass of blood, staring only inches away from him. His fingers tremble against a strained strap like a snare drum beat.

"I—" Doesn't—won't let himself stutter. "Just have to fix it at the back." Almost twirls around her in a poetic ballet. Breaks away from her contact, from her clutch against his arm. It's the pain. Just the pain. Pain is a narcotic, creates fantasy worlds and false personas.

His one hand sort of cradles her arm to her body, with her good hand weakly aiding him. All for show. His other hand strings up the sling. Tight vinyl strap unwound in his palm. Crane construction downtown. Figures behind her would be easier. No castigating cranberry. No denouncing pieces of fruit. But it's no easier behind her.

The sweater she's wearing, a bleeded purple with a Toronto Raptor's logo on the front, is too big for her. Too loose and the stretched neckline falls at the back. The smiling, tire-tracked collar reveals bruises. Fractions of bruises. Stars scattered across the sky. Scars in clusters. Gravitating around two nebulas pinwheeling on her shoulder blades. A watercolor abomination of blue, black, yellow and purple. Abstract impressionism.

He can't look. Catches the bruises once and can't look back. The sun in an eclipse. Blinded him for life. An expository statement in an allergic trance. Deafened him for life. Church bells and the sliver of the sun escaping from behind the moon.

He encourages the sweater over her right shoulder. It covers what he assumes to be a hand-sized bruise. Then continues to straighten the strap. The vinyl chitters. It laughs like polished glass.

"What's in the container?" Feels her lungs flutter with the question. Her back twitches against his palm as he unfurls the last coil. Wonders about her lungs. Her ribs. Wonders about the bullet in the evidence lock-up somewhere.

"Ma was making some cannoli for the church group this morning. I thought you might want some." It's a stupid answer for a stupid idea. He cannot imagine what has happened to her, because he won't let himself. Eventually, somehow through happenstance, some asshole will feed him the report. He knows that's going to happen because things don't stay quiet. They don't stay confidential. The Team may be some sort of makeshift abusive familial unit, but in order for anyone to help anyone else, all privacy becomes void. He can't, and for now, won't know what happened to her. And his physical solution to this is pastries.

"Oh." Her voice adopts so many emotional contexts he doesn't know which to follow. So he doesn't read into it. Takes the 'oh' as confused, tried and breathless from pain as he snaps the strap straight and into place.

"Don't you remember that one year at the family picnic?"

Doesn't speak. Just shakes her head. Wisps of damp hair unravel from her bun like yarn from a wound ball. They lick across her back, from the water lillies into the crimp of the massive sweater. It might even be too big to be Sam's. Did Sam ever like basketball?

"Well the family picnic, the year before Sam came, Shelly was really pregnant and couldn't make her dessert so I got my Ma to make some cannoli." Doesn't speak. Doesn't move. Doesn't sway or breathe before him. All he can do is continue on. Continue his story. Continue ignoring the universe on her back. Continue becoming immersed in the absence of fabric between failing machine vomited stitches in her sweater. "There were only enough for everyone to have one, but you know the guys. You never got one so I gave you mine because I can get them whenever I want, right? But then Lew said he didn't get one either, so you broke yours in half. It turned out Lew was the one that—"

Her body trembles once. Then again. Then continuous. Like one of the autumn leaves still clinging for life against a violent bough. Watches her muscles flex. Cause a tide to vacillate the constellations of her back. Left shoulder blade summits and creates a cascading shadow. Two pinnacles half under a sweater, the collar's smile distorted like a mouth missing teeth.

"Jules?"

He steps away from her. Actually sidesteps her. Sweeps by her like she's a mine buried beneath decorative sand. Circles around her from the safe distance of a few inches. She sobs. An open mouth sobs that breaks the barrier of her palm. It sounds like a threnody. Pure agony tumbles out of her mouth, gutting her body with racks as she struggles to muffle her own distress. Eyes skewed shut underneath the tines of her fingers.

"What do I do Jules?" Doesn't know what to do. It's pathetic. He's asking her and it's so goddamn pathetic. But she's never cried in front of him before. Sure when Lew exploded, but he cried too. Cried worse. Barely noticed her tears buried in his screams. Doesn't know what to do. She's shaking and sobbing and her face, the part that's not bruised, is turning red and her cheeks are wet and her breath keeps hitching in these little gasps. And he doesn't know what to do because he doesn't want to treat her any differently. Lew would know exactly what to do. He's so goddamn furious at Lew for leaving him. Them. So fucking rage filled because Lew would be so calm and know exactly what to say to her. Instead she just has him. Awkward, chickenshit him. He's so frightened because he doesn't know what to do and he's going to let her down like he let Lew down. Turned his back once and gone.

She hasn't stopped. Didn't hear, or acknowledge his question. Her breathing sounds like the defenseless mewls of a kitten and her hand thatches over her face, half of which he can't recognize. It must hurt her so much to cry, her chest, her ribs, her back, her eyes. The movement quakes her body, jostles her right arm. That must hurt too, but she keeps crying and he doesn't know why. Or what to do. What would Lew do? What would he want her to do if the situation was reversed?

"Okay." It's an assurance for him. Not for her, because none of this is okay. None of it is alright. Not until she tells him, will he tell her it's okay or alright. "I'm going to try to comfort you now." His fingertips touch the clammy, cold skin on her wrist to gently direct her hand away. Feels the cords of her wrist jump at the contact. "Let me know if I'm making you feel—"

Expected her to hit him. Fully expected it. Part of him was welcoming it. Like being back in the workout room in the SRU. Spinning around on mats like kids in a schoolyard. Spent so much time worrying about her right hand he forgot about her left which she integrated into the routine. Right. Block. Right. Block. Right. Block. Right Blo—Left fist in his temple. Bounces around him on the balls of her feet with that superior smile, lower lip bisected by front teeth. Hits her back but doesn't. Did once and he threw up.

Doesn't hit him. Her good hand is load bearing. When he pries it away from her face her body crumbles. Acid fingertips on marble statues. The temporal climax from years of touching. Her left fist does swing up. He flinches from habit, but her arm hooks around his neck. The left side of her face, the clear side, except for the stardust over her eye, presses into his chest.

His arms are in the air because he doesn't know what to do with them. Was uncomfortable two weeks ago patting her back at Lew's funeral. Was uncomfortable almost two years ago retrieving a deadly shrimp from her silken thigh. Is uncomfortable with her sobbing against him. Not sure whether it's the direct contact or the direct need. It's only him and her. He's the only one who can do something about this.

Inhales so deeply she rises with his chest. Drops one arm to the middle of her back where he knows no bruises go. Elbows are angled uncomfortably. Unnatural. But his fingers spread open and start to rub her back. Careful not to touch tenderized areas. Not to touch ribs. Doesn't stray from her spine. Doesn't ask her what's wrong. It's obvious in the arm stuck in a sling poking him in the torso.

But it's not. After a few seconds. Maybe a minute or even two, she doesn't say a word and he doesn't think he can keep on holding her because the initial awkwardness is leaking away with each watch tick, rain drip and he's getting used to it. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I don't understand." The crown of her head touches his chest. Hand sleeping back in the crook of his elbow. The layers of wrinkles running like highways and tributaries on maps.

Watches her fingernails, cut down to the cuticle, shaved to the bone, flick at the material. "If you want to talk about—"

"No not that. I understand that." Her left eyebrow twitches because her right can't. Voice is steady in its assurance. To him. To herself. But then her iris glances up at him. A cranberry vodka half empty through sticky, sorrowful lashes. "I don't understand what happened."

"What d—"

"And things keep changing and I don't understand. I got shot and it hurt like hell and I thought things couldn't get worse and they just keep getting worse. I said I wanted to go dancing. They just keep getting worse. I went to bed one day and I woke up the next and Lew was dead. He said he would take me dancing if I wanted. He was just dead. I know what happened to him. I was there and I don't know what happened. I don't understand because things keep changing."

Her voice over its normal bravado, well into rambling, precarious territory. A full exposure of the emotion her face can't convey. Pitchy, loud, and angry in resentment and confusion for things she should understand but can't. "Jules—"

She pulls away from him. The left side of her lower lip twitching. The vodka cranberry diluting with salt water. Roaming kitchen shadows swallow most of her body along with the stench of memories leaking from the fridge. But he can still make out a single glistening eye.

"And one time I closed my eyes and when I woke up I woke up on my back on my living room floor. And I don't know what happened to my sweater. And I had no idea what happened but I knew exactly what happened. I know exactly what happened. And I don't understand Spike. I don't understand why I was on my living room floor and what happened to Lew because I know."

And he understands her perfectly. In a tragic, ironic, bow-at-the-end-of-the-play laughable way, he understands her. Understands why he came here today. What Lew would have done. What he did and has to do.

Outside thunder rumbles and the rain blows sideways tapping against the kitchen window and speckles the remaining light. Her good arm snakes around her heaving chest. The distinguishable corner of her lip falls in a frown at his failure to answer.

He offers her his empty palm. It's sweaty as hell, but after darting her cranberry to it, she unravels her arm and places her hand in his. He hugs her again. Really hugs her. Not hard because he still doesn't want to hurt her, but this time he realizes what was at stake. What he could've lost again because he forgets so easily. With his back turned he forgets.

"Things. Things happen Jules." His cheek squishes against the top of her head, depresses against the still shower wet hair. Her arm rings his neck again, though not so tight. His rest around her shoulders and her back. Feels like their dancing. Lew didn't take her dancing. "Sometimes good things. Sometimes bad. I don't know why. Things build up. People grow. And then everything always falls apart."

She nods lightly, an echo of a motion. Can feel her eye close against his collarbone, lashes tickle his skin. "He said he'd take me dancing. And then he found out about me and Sam, and still said he'd take me dancing."

"Hey." Nudges her back a bit. Fully accepting the cranberry because it's not. It's her eye. It's her pupil filled with blood because some guy hit her so hard veins behind it ruptured. It doesn't intimidate him. It doesn't scare him. It just jostles his caveman a bit. "He was supposed to take me dancing too."

She smiles, but it falters fast. A shooting star. The flash from a camera. The blooming of a flower which overextends and then quickly withers. Something lurks behind her eye, behind the functioning corner of her mouth.

"Is it my fault?"

"Is what your fault?" The question is so absurd he doesn't even comprehend it at first. Can't fathom her thinking it, let alone asking it. But Jules is human and she's having human reactions to a very inhuman violation. While his brain explodes with expletives, with 'how the fuck can you think that' and 'who the fuck told you that' and their many distant cousins, he holds her hand again. Aside from short fingernails, it's the same hand that punches at the side of his face every now and again. The same row of five knuckles. Just slightly contused. "Jules, nothing that happened last night is remotely your fault."

"It's my house Spike. I'm a co—"

"Nothing that happened last night is your fault. No matter which way you build it up, it will never be your fault."


Next Chapter - Is the chapter of death. No one dies. Not yet. No one except me because Chapter 8 has to be the most shit chapter of anything ever meaning I'm not going to enjoy writing it. Hopefully you have more fun reading than I do writing.

Back                         Home                              Flashpoint Main Page                              Next

Your Name or Alias:      Your E-mail (optional):

Please type your review below. Only positive reviews and constructive criticism will be posted!