JUSTWORLD FALLACY

A/N:Hey Guys, Just-World update. You might be excited but it's Ed and Greg so quell your excitement. However, chapter 9 is already written and chapter 10 is started (up to chapter 15 is planned). Some people aren't going to like the way people act in this chapter. I don't like the way some people act in real life. Realism.
For the Team composition in this chapter (you'll see) I screwed around with canon characters. I guess it doesn't totally make sense with other characters' canon backstories and where they were at certain times, but I care not. For this is a grand old AU fiction. Emphasis placed on fiction. Those characters should be glad they're being used and keep their mouths shut.
I'll also state there's some obvious continuity errors. I don't want to pre-spoil anyone, but I had to change around the timeline a little bit. So in Ch. 5 Wordy says Ed tried to kill Jules on her first day. That's now invalid as the timeline shifted (Like The Sound of Thunder, eh?) It's now 3 months. This is just me being shit with numbers/planning.

Just-World Fallacy

Chapter 8

Pillars of Salt

Pounds them in. Fingers snap to the meter while his thumb forces in quarters. Quarter after quarter. Queen heads with sterile faces dropping into the slot, the hungry mouth of the machine, as the digital clock lurches forward in time. Doesn't pay attention. Spends a little too much time enjoying the force, switches his thumb for his palm and slaps the metal post leaving it shuddering.

Has an hour and a half to waste at the dive bar. Not really a dive bar. The incognito dive bar abducted from the Wild West and dungeoned to downtown Toronto. Three stairs to a red oak door. A sheriff's badge style star for a window. A black cast iron door handle.

Hesitates because it's a little after ten. Doesn't really know if a bar would be open this early. Contemplates coming back later. Maybe a little before happy hour to talk to the bartender from last night. The one with lotus fingertips and too many perfect teeth guarded by plump lips. Didn't take her number for proper reasons. Sophie snoring lightly next to him. Clark in the adjacent room, beams of neon light flickering from underneath his door at three in the morning.

Sophie reacted with the same brand of shock she used when he told her about Lew. Coffee sloshed around in her mug while her fingers curled to hide her mouth. Always hid her mouth. Like she wanted to say something, but never quite could. Spoon clanged off the cavity of his ceramic mug. Just waited for her to say something. Anything. Even change the subject. Put sugar in and nothing. Put cream in and nothing. Put the cream back in the fridge and she asked what they could do. There wasn't anything to do; they'd do something about it later.

Natural light illuminates the interior. Shines in golden rays splashing across the dark hardwood floors. Floors missing stray pieces of hay to complete the theme. Air is thick with ill movement, flakes of last night and the night before shimmering in the pools of light. Stools wrenched abstract and awkward, mathematical angles of who occupied and abandoned them hours before. Stained with spills, scars in the oak filled with sticky sediment. Chairs flopped belly-up on table tops. Cragged legs stiff against the ceiling like leafless desert trees.

The TV is on, muted, and hit with the solar flare from the windows. Catches the red scroll of ticker tape in the bottom right corner and knows it's the news. Always news. Always bad. A fire, a beating, a theft, a death. The repetition of his teammate getting blow into bite-sized bits on national television. So glad they could view it coast-to-coast. Wordy's level voice telling him Sam just punched a doctor. Doesn't know why, but was dragged cuffed and coat collared out of the hospital and they had to go bail him out.

Always fucking bailing someone out. It's how it was. Then wasn't. Now was for them and wasn't for him. Used to be a lot easier. A lot simpler to come to work. But things change, even when they stay the same, they change. Even when they change, parts of the past bleed in. Paints in water. Red clothes in whites. Toxic allergens to permeable skin.

If the crests fall and surge into the present he trails it back to when things got complicated. When the simple strings of his life, his family, his job, his friends, and his team became entwined in a knotted ball tight enough the ends of his fingers adopted a glaucous tinge. Seven years. Violent transition seven years ago. Seven years ago the first domino toppled.

A Team of six back then. Six men. Six men who knew how to do their jobs well. Beyond well. Damn near perfection as perfection got. Greg was Sergeant. He was a simple sniper, promoted to Team Leader when the man in the current position, Brian was shot during a negotiation. Left them down a man, down a sniper, out of work, and running trials.

The other team members, the other men, received two days off. The team was close back then. Bleeds into the present. Carpools with Wordy every single day. Has bimonthly bar visits with Rolie who enjoys being a leader instead of a follower. Team Two bitches that he's the new Fitzie. Never got to know Troy because the guy doesn't talk. It's disturbing and off putting. So they ignore each other unless the job demands interaction.

He and Greg ran the trials. Slowly knocked guys out they felt were dangerous. Unstable. Mentally unqualified. Physically unfit. Too close to retirement. The entire time he kept telling Greg not to string along the girl. The skinny, boney girl he assumed was fresh out of some shitty academy because, honesty, he didn't read her profile. Concentrated on the real applicants.

But they whittled the ten finalists down to five. Then to three. And the girl was still there. Flipped herself over the walls in the physical runs. Shot down the targets in half the time during the marksmanship sessions. During the psychological session she became avoidant, answered questions with questions. Became defensive with him, but responsive to Greg. Defused a hypothetical situation with emotional logic. Greg was impressed, he wasn't. It was a hypothetical situation and she was working off intuition not intelligence. Didn't even bat an eye at him, at the other men when the day was over. Just collected her bag and left.

"So who do you like for it?" The sun set over the Toronto skyline and left red bleeding through the bay windows. Only he and Greg remained in the briefing room. The day gave him a sense of authority. Judged candidates openly because he knew his opinion was valid. "I like Hudson. He's big for a sniper, but that means we can use him for close combat if we ever need it. Wordy and Rolie can always use another guy and it's not like Troy's ever going to come out of the damn truck now."

Greg didn't answer. Eyes squinted and scrolled over write-ups from psych exams. Lips pursed together, the corner cracked, released a small, "Huh."

"Well what about Kane?" Hands sprawled over the metal tabletop, hot in the low hanging industrial lights of the pre government imposed environmental redux. "He has lower scores, but so did Rolie when we brought him on and that worked out."

"Actually—" Greg removed his hat. Swooped a hand to survey the sparse hair still clinging to his head. Expression morphed from pensive to confident. Half smile slanted on his lips, he clarified, "I was thinking Callaghan."

"You're kidding."

The folders propelled down the table at him. Three, uneven and jagged. Stacked like bricks but fell like leaves. Pieces of paper, dog-eared and worn, protruded the sides like mocking tongues. "Her stats are better than both of the men combined and the team could benefit from becoming more diversified."

Opened the folders and a picture of each candidate greeted him. Found the jarring eyebrows of the men, the facial hair, thick faces even on Kane, the leaner of the two, normal. She was tiny, scrawny, a woman. She would get hurt. "You don't think hiring her on is bound to cause more problems? More paperwork by subjects mistreating her? Victims? Officers?"

"Think of the times when we could've used a female negotiator. The female suspects. The abuse cases. The rape cases. It can't hurt to have her around."

"We're doing fine without her now." Closed the folders and shot them back in an act of defiance. An act which caused him a deep paper cut along the middle finger of his right hand. He tried not to notice the dull sting. "Greg, you replace Brian with a woman and Troy's going to get even bitchier. They were best friends. And Rolie will—"

"Rolie needs to grow up."

Didn't muffle his scoff. Hidden within was the list of things they were sacrificing so equality could be met. He's all for woman in the workplace. Supported Sophie going back to work after Clark was born. But that was to catering. This is a dangerous job; he wouldn't want Sophie doing this.

"Do you want to add something?"

Shrugged and leaned back in his chair. Might as well be honest. A woman on the team meant serious changes. Meant watching what they say, a step up in professionalism, in attitude. Meant cleaning out the locker room they currently used to store their bags in when they had after work engagements like his hockey or Rolie's rugby. It was also used for their files. At least ten years of paper work sat in musty cardboard boxes. "You can't just add a woman to this team because it's what you want. This isn't like adopting a puppy."

"Fine." Greg nodded. Head and jaw sharp on his neck the action barely existed. Crossed his arms and continued to nod. Lips sealed together as his head bobbed. "We'll put it to a vote."

So they did. During the next pre-shift they collected in the secured briefing room. Metallic doors engaged, ribbed and rigged in place. Impenetrable. No other SRU employee was privilege to their discussion.

He offered a small introduction to Hudson, Sarge did the same for Jules. Working at the SRU kills the nerve endings in faces. Couldn't assess the reactions of his teammates. Only Rolie outwardly portrayed disgust at the prospect of working with a woman. Angled eyebrows. The way his nostril and upper lip twitched. How his index finger jabbed at Greg in disbelief.

Timeless method employed torn bits of copier paper and an overturned ball cap. Everyone wrote down their candidate, Greg included as if the vote came to an even draw; his vote would be the fifth and tiebreaker. After the very first answer it became obviously clear Greg was the only one who voted for the woman. Rolie's vote simply stated 'not the chick'.

Greg tore up the scrapes of paper into smaller fractions until he held confetti. "I'm so disappointed in all of you." Let the bits rain down onto the ground. Fury jittered in his eyes tucked under a low set brow. Took the democratic cap and lowered it back onto his head. "All because she's a woman?"

"It's not that." Wordy washed a hand over his bloodshot eyes. Six weeks ago he and Shelly welcomed their first baby. A daughter named Maddy. She'd been colicky since the day she arrived in the world. According to him, he slept less than two hours a night. "She'd need protecting out there. I'd worry about her."

She'd need protecting from all the things they didn't. She'd be inexperienced from a rookie's point-of-view. Inexperienced from a woman's point-of-view. They would be thrust into a constant state of caring for her and themselves in the field all because Greg wanted a new pet project to distract him from Brian's death. Leaned on his elbows, glanced directly at Greg and restated, "She'd change the team dynamics."

Troy didn't utter a word. Wasn't much of a conversationalist before. Sat in the truck, typed up stats on the computer while they did heavy duty stuff. Disarmed bombs while they all sat in the truck. Laughed with Brian like they all did. Just kept his harsh brows slanted as he smoldered holes into the tabletop.

"She's a chick." Rolie slammed both his hands to the table. Shocked Wordy's sleep slumped back straight and his eyes wide open. Troy didn't twitch a muscle. "She'll want my dick."

"Rolie." Greg's thumb and forefinger pinched the bridge of his nose. Voice became squeaky from nasal entrapment. Never did find the uncouth humor funny. Just uncouth. "You haven't even seen her yet."

"I don't have to, she'll want me."

Greg's arm craned to massage the back of his neck. Bad habit. Poker game tell. Bad hand. In a bad hot call, a tough negotiation. "Well it's times like these I'm glad this doesn't have to be a democracy."

"What are you talking about?" Fatigue still clutched Wordy's speech, but his eyes were open again. Russet eyes engaged because they'd both understood what Greg had done. Understood and felt the same sense of dread.

"I already approved her and told her she got the job earlier this morning."

Rolie's chair screeched with offense. He pushed back from the table. Stopped himself from wheeling too far and chucked his arms in the air. "Then what the fuck was this all for?"

"To see how you guys would handle it. You all failed by the way. You can't let personal problems whether historical, familial or narcissistic interfere with how you conduct yourself on the team."

"Really Greg," Muttered, sort of twisted in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. He was a Team Leader. This was supposed to be one of the first big decisions he had final decision in. Stolen from him for cathartic self purposes. "We're not the ones trying to build a substitute family."

"I'm glad to hear that. So you all won't mind helping me clear out the woman's locker room for the newest member of Team One." Voice burrowed to a dangerous octave. One seldom heard unless he was defending a teammate. Defending the use of lethal action in order to save the life of a teammate. Defending himself against those who blamed him for Brian's death. "And if I hear her complain about one thing you've done, I'll write you up on the spot."

"No warnings?"

"This." Greg leaned forward on the table. Index finger drilled into the table. Joints whitened as the pressure of his body turned his fingertip bright red. "This is your warning Rolie. No teasing, no harassing, no threats, and definitely no hazing."

The next Monday Jules officially joined the team. Christened the newly sanctioned woman's locker room which took a full Saturday to rid of files. Though she didn't fit into their preset conditions, her curves clashing with their angled locker room antics and frat boy regimes, she integrated better than any of them really expected.

During times of high duress, or in certain situations when they did become too rowdy, she acted indifferent. When Sarge cleared his throat, declaring they do something better with their time, the subtext was clearly to behave themselves, she'd glance up from files or from a workout machine and nonchalantly state, "It's fine. I have four brothers."

Her collected attitude around them was refreshing at first. They didn't have to change their protocol to adapt hers. Didn't have to let a rookie and to a lesser extent, a woman, teach them how to act. Her indifference was even unperturbed by Rolie's constant onslaught of pickup lines which rested on a creaky diving board over a pool of sexual harassment. She either pretended not to hear him, completely ignored him, or the times when he physically engaged her, shot him down with a scathingly intelligent answer.

Couldn't really approach Rolie about it. Didn't want to destroy a three year friendship over the slight mistreatment of a rookie, which wouldn't even be a factor if she was male. But one night when they were out drinking, Rolie made a poignant declaration in his state of half inebriation.

"Bitch thinks she's better than us."

"She does not, Rolie." Wordy shook his head. Eyes squinting in disgust. Never could put up with Rolie's attitude towards woman. As the new father of a daughter, his temper on the subject was now nonexistent.

Initially he agreed with Wordy. Jules had given no indication of arrogance. Didn't try to change any of the rules. Didn't complain whenever or with whatever position she was given in a hot call. Never argued about a better way of handling a hot call for a better outcome. As far as rookies went she was in the top percent.

But then Rolie took another swig of his beer. Most of it missed his mouth. Ran rampant down his chin, and drizzled onto the counter. "Does she ever talk? Does she ever say a goddamn thing? It's because she thinks she knows the answers already. I know her type. They're all bitches."

From the mouth of a drunk man, things had never seemed clearer.

September marked the end of her three month probationary period. Also happened to be when the SRU held a competition between all five teams. Each team participated in an obstacle and marksmanship course. The team with the highest score received a free dinner courtesy of Commander Holleran. Jules' first year at the competition was the last year it ran.

For the last three years they'd won. Not only won, but enjoyed the dinner and racked up quite a healthy bar tab at Willy's Bar and Grille. They went to the same restaurant every year and it became an unopposed tradition. With shaded eyes and flat brows, he, Rolie, and even Troy observed each other. They didn't want to lose and dishonor Brian. They didn't want to lose because of a rookie. Didn't want to lose because of a woman.

But the hostility, the borderline fear was misplaced because they won. Not only did they win, but they set a new record. Forgot how well Jules did in her trials. How she could fling herself over walls with ease. How she was a better sniper than Brian. Not twitchy or rushed. Every shot received the proper respect, proper time.

The downfall came afterwards. After the general celebration when they'd all showered and changed. When they huddled around the empty dispatch desk deciding on a time to meet up at Willy's. She popped out of her locker room, now adorned with the nameplate they had especially made for her after her first day so Greg would know how serious they were about treating her right. Rolie said it made the locker room like her very own dog house.

"Jules," Greg beckoned her over with a lazily wave of his hand. His hat turned backwards on his head. Fell off in the locker room from all the festive head pats. "How does Willy's Bar and Grille sound? They're the fresh seafood place by the Lake."

"Umm actually, I don't really like seafood. I can't really stomach it." Gaze turned downwards, in subjects; in victims it indicates a lie. Should've know it was a lie. But she covered the expository action by hiking up her massive brown purse, reestablished eye contact. "Probably from growing up in the prairies."

"We always go to Willy's. He doesn't cut you off until he closes." Barely noticed Rolie's threatening growl. The way his feet pigeon toed on the ground, the stance he adopted before tackling a suspect. More relieved he didn't mention anything about prairie oysters.

"You guys go. I wouldn't want—"

"No." Greg stepped forward, asserted himself between Jules and Rolie. Narrowed his eyes into a warning as he intercepted the anger directed at her. "We won this was a team. We'll enjoy it as a team."

"Really Sarge." She smiled. Full, flashy, truthful. But her fingers dug and pried into the gleaming material on her purse strap. "It's fine. Really. I want to start the backdrop in my kitchen anyways."

Said goodnight and nothing more was said on the subject. By her. Greg lectured until his mouth went dry. The same old things about how they were a team and they needed to respect everyone on the team. How they all depended and defended each other. They ate at Willy's but the dinner wasn't in mirthful celebration. Their attitudes weren't jovial. They were dimmed with imposed guilt they didn't need to feel.

He and Rolie had enough. Agreed as a rookie she was silent and obedient, but somehow managed to fuck up their routine. Greg ended the night early, being the designated driver meant the majority of the Team would consent if they didn't want to spring for a cab. Wordy didn't complain, wanted to go home to the wife and daughter. Troy, as always, didn't utter a word.

Wordy examined him with a cautious eye when he announced he was staying behind with Rolie to make sure he got home safely. It was an obvious lie since they were far beyond the legal driving limit. After the Team left, they had a final drink, discussed their plans, and made one final purchase. Not alcoholic, but still on Holleran's tab. The thing which would save their jobs and abort any further competitions.

At five the next morning Jules was already in the workout room. Body swayed softly in the start of a jog as she listened to music on noise cancelling earphones. He and Rolie were in the men's locker room. Both fighting haranguing hangovers, but almost tickled with a level of excitement they hadn't experienced since before she joined the team.

Held a Styrofoam container with a single oyster on the half shell. Sophie asked what it was when he brought it home and he told her to leave it. It was for work.

"I don't think you guys should do this." Wordy's eyes were the color of deep wines in expensive restaurants. Puffy round the rims, leaked from the corners. He rubbed at one with his knuckles. "Sarge said not to haze her."

"It's a little friendly joking, Wordy." Carefully transferred the oyster, like an active explosive, from the bed of melting ice, to Rolie's cupped hand. "We do worse every day and she doesn't say a damn thing."

"I've got four brothers." Rolie voiced in falsettos and batted his lashes. Hand closed perfectly around the mollusk to hide it.

"But maybe we should—"

"And maybe if she wants to be on Team One she should learn how to play with the big boys." Left Wordy shaking his head in the locker room, while he trailed Rolie out to the lobby.

Forked from the path as Rolie took the back access to the workout room through the hallway from the briefing room. He stopped at the entrance and watched as her gait grew stronger in stride, but her footsteps never clomped on the machine. Always silent, always stealth.

Signaled her with a waggle of his index finger and she dismounted the machine, removed her earbuds. While she approached him, he sidestepped so the treadmill she'd been using would be obscured from her view by the wall. From his height, he could make out what he needed to see. Her water bottle.

"What's up?" She was a little out of breath; a light sheen of sweat poked its way across her forehead.

Rolie crept into the weight room. Used the same steps and technique they do on calls. Same precise footing to encroach on her machine and the black aluminum bottle left unsupervised.

"I don't know if Greg has told you yet, but in October they're introducing a new accuracy test." He spoke only half truths. The test wasn't really that new. Just a reinstatement of an older test they'd all been forced to retake because too many kill shots were beginning to miss. It really wouldn't be that hard for her, but the conversation ran long enough to distract her.

Used his peripherals to watch the flawless instatement of oyster. Nimble fingers circled the cap. The tipped gray shell. Imagined the silent splash. The recapping and agitation of her bottle. Rolie gave him the thumbs up and settled her bottle back in the cup holder.

"You should probably hit the range just to be sure." Turned away from at the end of his sentence. Rolie left the workout room and there was no need continuing to talk to her.

"Yeah." Agreement drew long in hesitation as her eyes slimmed. Suspected something but didn't know what. Maybe too distracted with the backhanded compliment. "Maybe. Thanks."

Ponytail slapped her back with her rotation, just as swift as his. The small victory of unnerving her made the day an achievement. She climbed back on the treadmill, replaced her earbuds, poked at a few buttons and in a minute had regained her speed.

Rejoined the Team five minutes later. Slowly filtered into the room and picked out their starter machines. He and Rolie ignored each other. Afraid if they shared a single knowing glance the entire operation would be ruined.

Finally her machine beeped and the tread stuttered until it stopped. She stepped off at the side, sneakers hit the floor, breathed heavy with one hand on her hip, the other on her water bottle. Unscrewed the top and brought the wrung to her mouth, tilted her head back and took a large gulp. Too this day he still sees this memory in slow motion, but not for the same reasons.

Figured she would spit it out. Thought at the very worse she would throw up. But it turned out worse. So much worse. Her skin blushed, flushed, cleared to splotches and blotches of red on a field of white ice. She coughed. Coughed and coughed. Thought she was going to throw it up. Tried to stay upright by holding onto the padded handlebars curving out of the treadmill, but her fingers slipped when she slapped them down. Whole body caved in.

Before he even understood something was wrong with her. That his hazing, the trick he and Rolie played on her had gone dangerously wrong, Greg was at her side. Cycle machine beeped, wailed in abandonment as he attempted to compose her swiftly bloating body.

They all have an unearned sense of superiority. Especially Sam. Figured out Sam before the second round of beers showed up at the table. From his leers and his sneers. His lips licks and quick eye darts when Jules glanced away. Told Greg he was bad. Told him to transfer him. Stick him on Rolie's team for God sake and let that bastard tear him apart. But Sarge said it was above his head.

Instead the obvious happened. The main reason he objected to Jules joining the Team bloomed to fruition. He was left with two star-crossed lovelorn snipers who turned aggressive when their love was snuffed out. When their love became dangerous and resulted in her removal for four months. Then she asked for Sam last night. Out of all of them, asked for Sam. After she was raped. All he could see was the collapse of the Team from the bulldozing selfishness they wrap themselves in while burying everyone else.

"Well howdy cowboy."

Behind the bar, stands the same girl, the same bartender from last night, her hand hidden under a white towel and forced into a series of identical glasses. Current does three repetitions before being removed and set, lip down, on the counter beside two others. "Don't tell me you showed up for 'Rope a Stag Night'? You're about twelve hours early but I love the energy."

Black tank top from last night exchanged for a black t-shirt. Sun stained and faded from too many laundry cycles. There's a hole in the left shoulder where stitching in the seams unfurls. A little black worm weaving in and out of the dark cotton. Her multicolored hair harnessed into a braid. Thick and rainbowed, it bounces at her mid back.

"Actually, I'm here on police business."

Hand rings around the lower half of a Pilsner glass as she dries it, then discards the towel. Skin on her palm blanches from the force of her grasp. Lotused fingernails drag along empty glassware. Thumb flicking up over the bottom rim in slow strokes. "You gonna bad cop me?"

Ignores her hands, what they're doing. Things he hasn't seen done in awhile. Instead finds her eyes. A light shade of blue buried beneath lashes gunked together. Liner tracks around the brims, too dark, too much, but somehow offsets the natural blue irises even in the wake of the pink shadow smothering her lids. "Is your manager in? Because I'm not here to—"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Overturned cup, clean and pleasured, is set beside its brothers. Plump pink lips pillow together and she digs her elbows onto the counter. The t-shirt modest enough to hide anything her chest might offer up. "I'll help anyway I can."

The picture of Scott adheres to the counter when he tries to slide it across. His face, dark eyes with dots of light reflecting from the camera flash stare up empty at him. Empty like the cups. Empty like he was when he came into the bar last night and Scott was holed up in the corner. Fresh scratches cut in the tattoos inked to his arms.

"Have you seen this man before?"

Raccooned eyes flick down to the stuck picture, then back up at him. She repeats the action once more before one of her hands lands palm down on a misshapen hip. "What Hooper?" When he offers her no response she scrolls her eyes left at an imaginary accomplice. "Yeah, he comes in here Tuesdays after his factory shift. I think he works construction too because you don't get a body like that by just—"

The picture screeches as he peels it from the bar top. Duct tape fresh off the roll. Paper in strips off the wall. A gluey residue purely fabricated from the establishment. "If you see him again, call the police. Don't try to keep him here. Just call the police and tell them he's here."

Wide mouth hangs agape, unhinges at the jaw like an asp. Two rows of absolutely perfect, flawless teeth, but the appearance of too many. Pink tongue flat and tempting. Rattling. "You're kidding me? The heat's on Hooper? What'd he do?"

"Just call the police if you see him."

"Maybe I will and maybe I won't." Fully folded into the counter now. Majority of her weight puddling on her chest and folded arms. Face expresses she isn't threatened by him, by his silence or what he thinks is a menacing enough glare. "I want to know how much danger I'm in here. Like did he murder someone?"

"He attacked a woman in her house." Completely against protocol, but then again so is everything that's happened since last night. The meeting this morning. Sam not being fired for assaulting a civilian. Spike's own attack on public property. Even Roy tipping them off. Maybe he tells her so that another woman doesn't get hurt. Maybe he tells her because it's his time to break the rules. "It would probably be in your best interest to call the police if you see him."

"He didn't—you know." Bobs her head forward in a juvenile action. Irises watching him through chunky lashes. He doesn't answer that because he doesn't feel comfortable. Didn't explaining it to Sophie this morning over his third cup of coffee. Rough hand circling over his oily eyelids, over time-stained corneas. She didn't hug him, didn't really do anything but hold her fingers to her lips for a few moments, then asked if Jules was going to leave the Team. He wondered the same thing.

"Oh my God he didn't. Did he? Because—I mean, I've been there. A few times. He was really overly sensitive. An asker. You know the type of guy who always asks, 'there?' 'Is there okay?' 'You like th—'"

"Just call the police if he comes into the bar again."

The back of the picture stains his hands. Like the past stains his eyes. Stains his personality. Creates him as a character he really isn't but has to be because he can't be who he was. People, the people in his life mold him. Force him. Can't joke around at work anymore because someone might get hurt. Because the rookies are so goddamn incompetent the Team gets hurt on and off shift. Can't joke around at home anymore because Sophie and him aren't on the same wavelength. Jokes are construed from a different point-of-view, her point-of-view and then he has to spend half the night explaining why he needs to be out drinking with the guys.

Shoes tap the hardwood as he turns to leave. Five pointed star motions him to the street. Foot bonds to the ground on the first step. The other slips on buffed down wood, dyed gray and white from overexertion.

"Wait." Her shoes clack. Obviously high heeled, she slides much like he did. Not using the trough he imagines is ploughed back there from the various shifts of bartenders. "You're not going to send extra police to stakeout the bar or something?"

Ten lotuses clasp at the counter as she rebuilds her stance. A work of art when immobile, but a clumsy retriever when in motion. Acts like she's wearing hockey skates. "We don't want to tip him off."

"The woman." Chained hair flips behind her back again. Left arm stretches out, bicep muscle unnoticeable under firm bouncy skin. Hand returns with the neck of the whiskey bottle. Caresses it like the Pilsner glass. Thumb licking sultrily at the lid. "Did you know her?"

Hypnotizes him. The coils appearing at the mouth of the bottle. The coupling of the metallic lid with the glass against her nail and skin. The way her thumb works tirelessly until it pops. "Yeah."

The lid exploding spills a bit of whiskey against her hand. Pours a tumbler half full of the liquid. No ice cubes. Likes it's straight up. Likes it's unadulterated. If he's going to drink, he's going to drink. "You fucking her?"

Attention still on her hand. Golden liquid like the sunshine bursting through the windows. No longer lazy, active in its achievements. Globes of whiskey decorate her flower, her thumb, dot random over her palm. Tiny drops of concentrated beams against the orange glow of her firm skin. "I said I had a wife, didn't I?"

Tongue toddles out of her mouth. Does a full swoop of her lower lip before falling to her hand and lapping up the beads. Swirling and twirling. Collecting Easter eggs. Tongue smacks against her upper lip before they purse together with the soft shock of alcohol. "Doesn't answer my question."

"No." Licks at his own bottom lip because he can taste it. The whiskey. The expected burn from throwing his head back and letting it plummet down his throat. The scent of coconut, probably from a tanning salon and the overuse of hairspray. "I work with her."

"Well, you seem pretty on edge about it." Doesn't wipe her hand to her pants. Her apron. Her top. Uses it to coax the tumbler towards him. The same liquid from the same bottle tempts him. Sloshes back and forth in a calm undulation like ocean waves. Like the waves from the past rippling into the present to stain him. The waves of the present rippling forth to stain him later. "Stay and talk with me."

"I can't."

"You on duty?"

"No."

"So why can't you?"

She blinks once, lashes almost melting together. Corners of her lips hook into a sly grin as her head arches just the slightest to accent the question. To leave a decision up to him. The expression is recognizable. Desire and the want to be desirable. He's seen it before. Recently in the workout room. Quick coquettish glances between Sam and Jules. An almost smile shared between them and then washed away like words scrawled into the surf as the tide comes in.

Didn't want Jules on the Team because as soon as a woman is dumped into an all male environment more than just gender politics begin. Emotions start to develop. Sexual desire, which is as dangerous as any rifle, develops. It never hit him. But he predicted and watched like a minor in a horror movie as it overtook Sam. He honestly thought she was smart enough to see through it, to deny it, to ignore it. Love is love. It's a great thing and in clichés it makes the world go round. It doesn't belong in the workplace especially when the Team's lives belong in each other's hands and those hands are too busy grabbing at each other's body parts.

Then she got shot which is a viable outcome when sniper eyes are clouded with sentiments. Greg, maybe to teach him a second lesson, brought on another woman. They replaced her with Donna. Replaced her with Donna and he watched Sam fume, because they replaced her. People, teammates, anyone on the Team was replaceable. Like a light bulb, like a tire, like any random piece of furniture. There was no inherent humanism in it.

But Donna. With Donna it hit him. It hit him again and again. One of the good things about not being a rookie is being more experienced. She'd been undercover, knew how to keep things quiet. He knew how not to look at her with stars in his eyes. It's why no one knew. Knows. Ever will know. It's why she doesn't define him and why he can still stand to be around her. Wanted to keep them apart and her around. Ripples from the now and into the future. Again and again.

"One drink."

The machine bleeped at him. Red button blinked as the path, which existed only within the stationary cycle, curved to a craggy mountain. Always did at eight minutes in. The same rugged path, cliff side gnarled away by millennia of winds and rains. Minute in occurrence, but in reoccurrences carry the force of a juggernaut.

A thump shook the well rooted workout room symphony. Clanging weights, squeal of shoes on rubber tread, his machine's whir of resistance as he plotted each pedal. Eyes darted, seeking the misplaced sound. Found her water bottle cringing on the floor. Rolled as it emptied itself in a dull semicircle.

Thought it was a misstep. A slip of the wrist. Sweaty fingers against the condensation on metallic surface. But then she coughed. Cheeks exploded, burst with air and deflated as quickly. Skin flushed, blotched. Adopted an autumn shadow. Like lounging in a park under a maple tree. The leaves left different shadowed hues on her skin.

Skin bumped and grew like a science experiment. Cracked at her waist. Bent completely straight. Arms embraced her midsection. Back angled. She wheezed in a deep inhalation, tremored her entire body as one arm blindly, falsely swiped for the handlebar on the treadmill in a grasp for stability.

His cycling slowed to below the acceptable RPM and the screen flashed a warning to him. Speed up or get off. Busy drivers honking on the highway. The ultimatum his wife—ex-wife spat three years ago. Her desperate hand relaxed against the bars. Tumbled face first into the floor.

"Jules?" Noodled legs descended the machine, left foot catching on a heightened pedal. Gave him a bit of the stumbles as he ran to her. Flipped her small, bloating frame onto her back and found her lips swollen open. Two invisible pieces of cotton holding them in place. The dips around her eyes began to bloom, slowly puckered the lids shut. "Jesus, someone call 9-1-1."

"Thurst."

"I don't think you can drink right now, Jules." Fixed her legs on the butterfly machine, up just a little over her head. Nothing to strenuous. Troy ran to tell dispatch. Ed, Rolie and Wordy didn't move. Worked with each for more than a year and have never seen them blank as bad on a call. Stalled like car engines beside their machines. Just stood. Eyes wide. Minds empty.

"Nnnn." Chubby, ballooning hand with fat cylindrical fingers slapped his ankle as her head rocked. "Phirst."

"You don't have any water left." Punted her water bottle out of the way, but a stench wafted from the puddle of spilled liquid on the floor. Some of it actually curdled against the tiles. Mounded in a clear creamy color. Bundled in blobs. Opened his nostrils and inhaled a familiar assaulting odor, realized it was so recognizable because of the dinner last night. The dinner she politely declined because—

Dropped to his knees beside her, both eyes now visibly swollen shut. Ears tried to assume his location. Wasn't successful, head slanted away from him as her wheezing increased. "Where's your Epipen?"

Didn't answer him, maybe preoccupied with pain, with breathing, with the sound of her blood pressure damming in her ears. His hand rested on her shoulder gently and she flinched with a yelp. The kind of yelp dissectible and discernible. The kind he can interpret things from and doesn't want to. The kind that told him more than seven years of psych consults ever could.

So he buried it with the thousands of other things he doesn't want to know. Locks it away in a chest. Throws it into the cavern in his own mind. Lets it sink to the bottom with a few air bubbles. Doesn't think about it, maybe on rare occasions, but then his mind jumps quickly to other things. The playoffs. What's for dinner. Even ordered shirts off the internet once.

"Sorry. It's me. It's Greg." Whispered it. Not condescending. She wasn't a child. Wasn't an animal. Hand flopped around, a ghost appendage. He caught it and held it because she let him. Clown like, large, rubbery. Like someone blew up a sterile glove for entertainment. "Jules. Jules listen. Do you have an Epipen?"

Head twitched. Could be a nod or a shake. Waited for elaboration and between twin wheezes she answered, "Perst." Slipped through as her grating teeth siphoned air.

Felt annoyance. Aggravation. Didn't know what she wanted. Why she wanted a drink. What she was trying to tell him by sayin—But then he understood perfectly. Mind stumbled over audible slurs from an exploded tongue. "Your purse. There's one in your purse?"

"Mmhm. Tah." Her head copied the prior twitch, fingers dropped until two tapped his palm. Two Epipens in her purse.

"Someone go get her purse." Her arm drooped. Fattened and ridged like it was replaced with a fallen branch of a tree. "Go."

"Greg." Ed sighed before he even took a step forward. Laconic in a situation which begged for the opposite. Nodded his head at her. "We don't have the keys to her locker room."

Would've sent them to dispatch, but they were without an active officer until a replacement could be found. Just had a random set of rookie temps, who didn't arrive on time and even if they did they wouldn't know where the keys were.

Heaved in, a rattled wheeze and her hips twisted. Feet rocked on the butterfly's cushion. Clip glistened on her belt loop. Sets of keys. House, car, locker room. A snap. Just had to unhook it. "Jules. The keys— the guys—your purse."

"Mmhm."

Didn't know exactly what happened. Still doesn't know exactly what happened and he's been having coffee with her every second Tuesday for seven years. But he treats her the same way. Treats her like one of the guys, but with a little more respect because she deserves it. Whenever he has to do something like this, like after she was shot and he visited her in the hospital, he's meticulous on how he touches her. Because whether either of them is willing to admit it, something did happen.

A snap, a jingle and the keys sailed across the room into Ed's impatient hands. He disappeared just as Troy did. Removed from the situation, but for different reasons. Her eyes fully inflated, maybe closed, but her wheezing leveled. "Rolie go wait in the briefing room."

"What?" Glanced at Wordy and then over each of his shoulders with a small spin. Like a second Rolie was receiving punishment. "Why?"

"Because Commander Holleran will be in to deal with your suspension details."

"Boss, come on." Steps chewed up the ground. Plodded and shook lenient pulleys from weights.

Fixed a piece of her hair, mangled to her face and embedded into the engorged skin. Pried it away and gently replaced it behind her ear. Didn't move. Didn't say a word. Just was. "Was I in any way unclear about what I said would happen if you acted—"

"It was just hazing."

"I said no hazing."

"How the fuck was I supposed to know she was allergic to oysters?"

"This is why we don't haze."

Hallway overflowed with squeaks. Timed in loping pairs as Ed returned to the room, big brown purse clutched firmly between his two hands. "Got it, Boss."

"Good." Slipped the zipper open in silence and realized this might be a breach on her privacy. From the grinning maw his eyes darted up at Ed who observed like he was aiding with a surgery. "Go with Rolie to the briefing room."

"Wha—"

"He'll explain it."

"Greg, I need to know she's going to be okay."

"Then you shouldn't have poisoned her."

"I told you guys not to."

Wrenched his head towards Wordy who still hadn't budged from his machine. "You knew?"

"Yeah but—"

"Wordy," Shook his head as it fell to her bag again. To her stillness. Dropped a blind hand inside and prayed to find an Epipen with ease. It was a terrifying tactile experience. Hard corners. Soft threads. "I laid out the rules so simply. So specifically. Both of you go to the briefing room."

Ed muttered something, loud enough so he knew it was said, just not what was said. It's how it was in the earlier days. Wordy was the only one not to argue his position, only nodded in agreement and accepted his penance. They left the workout room. The teammate who helped them win. Stood beside them as an equal even though none of them seem to think she was. Their teammate who stopped making noise completely.

"Jules." Stopped his investigation of her purse. Observed her plump body, the quick pumps of her stomach. "Jules?" Slapped his hand to her shoulder and shook her. Shook her harder and harder to the response of no slurred words or twitchy reactions.

"Shit."

Ripped at the mouth of her purse, rifled through the innards. The sweater, the papers, the book, the package of gum, the wallet. The clasp of his watch latched on to an inner zipper. A compartment big enough for—Unzipped it and sure enough, there were her Epipens nestled in with two tampons. Taboo. Eviscerated the whole thing, might have actually ripped the inner pocket from the purse. Shoved the tampons and everything else back in and threw her bag to the side.

"Jules?" Beckoned her again, but she was a waterlogged corpse. Stiff, immobile, unconscious, unresponsive. The fear usurped. The fear of loss of life over the fear of prior life. Over what her father might have done. Could have done.

Ready pen jammed to her thigh. The hardness of her thigh. Received resistance from her body's responses. From the muscles she's spent the last three months building up every day. The inside of her thigh. Remembered too late was supposed to be the outside. With Dean it was always the outside. Had only ever done it once before with Dean. School kids and peanut butter attracts. It's hard to divide. Two times with Jules.

Waited ten minutes. Ten minutes is nothing. Ten minutes drips by in his life now. From the SRU to his car. From his car to the liquor store. From the car to his house. Then, then it was a lifetime. Could have been a life as he waited for something. Held her hand and waited for her to burst from the dead. From the shell of her engorged, hard body.

Paramedics arrived and swept her away, purse and all. Wired and tubed. Didn't want to abandon her. Not after what happened because he felt completely responsible. Figured the team could handle a woman on it and they almost intentionally killed her. Not after sensing her past. Didn't want her waking up to two male paramedics. Ended up staying at the SRU for almost three hours because things still needed sorting.

Holleran attempted to corral him. Tried to get him to calm down. Lower his intended punishments. Caught his arm on the way out of the building and for a moment the chain of command didn't exist. He expressed someone could have died for the old 'boys will be boys' method they've let slide for too long and perhaps it's time those boys grew up into men. His orders stayed. Wordy received a day's suspension without pay. Rolie and Ed a week.

Finally found her in the emergency room. Perched on the side of a gurney. Quaking hands yanked her running shoe onto a flexing foot. Thought she might topple forward into a somersault. Purse flopped masticated at the foot the bed. Her arms and her neck in the shadow of her ponytail still carried the hint of blotches. Beautiful animal patterns. Lips were resettling, jostled flakes in a snowglobe.

Eyes plummeted to original settings. Appeared painful, bruised. When he saw her yesterday he thought of her crescent body tugging on a pristine white running shoe. Huffing in exacerbation. Shoulders rising like the tide to protect her face, her body. A pre-flinch.

"Jules?" Offered it to her in his softest voice. Was ready to absorb all the fury she could throw at him. It was his fault. Leader of the Team who tried to martyr her. Thought he knew his teammates, his friends better than he did. It's not what hurt though, the lack of respect, not only to himself, but to her. It was dangerous, it was primeval.

Flinched. Shoulders engaged as her head ducked down, protected her face fully. Half shoe forgotten. Weaseled into while the sole of her foot flattened against the floor.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. I can wait outside."

"No." Lips apex, tips tapped into a makeshift squeeze. Eyes carved their way back into pleasant arches. Fingers tickled the air as she weaved the laces of her shoes up, torso compressed into her thighs. "No, there's just been random doctors bursting in and out of here. You're fine."

"Are they releasing you?"

"Yeah, um." Tucked chin length bangs behind her ears. Finger dashed across her face, passive penknife. Left white strokes in her blushed skin. "The shaking is from the medicine. I needed another dose and it's always—I'm sorry."

The apology was a physical shove. Wasn't the type of woman to apologize for weakness. Especially misconstrued weakness. "You're—You're sorry?"

"I should've told you about my allergy. I mean, it's in my personal file and everything but—" Shaking hand reached back to fix or find solace in her limp ponytail. Ended up tearing it out by the force of the jolts. "I should've told you."

Slipped inside the curtain with a heavy sigh. A head negotiator who didn't know how to talk to any member of his team. "You should have Jules, but for your own protection."

"I shouldn't be on this team." Shoulders hooked back as her neck and head dropped. A hint of emotion in her voice, but still void from her face. Maybe the last shred of her perseverance. Maybe unable to shed tears from the smothering of her eyes. "I'm a liability."

"You know that's not true." Steps seemed natural but were strategic. Determined how comfortable she was with his presence after what had happened. Today. In the past. "With you the Team won the competition. We set a new record. You have better accuracy and skill than any sniper I've seen in a long time. Your size gives you an advantage at rappelling—"

"Sarge, none of that means a thing if I go down because someone throws a shrimp at me." Eyes fallen, sunken back onto stark cheekbones. Pupils danced in despair.

"Then we'll put you in the truck anytime we even drive by Lakeshore. You can try your hand at doing intel."

"It's not that simp—"

"It's only as difficult as you make this Jules. If you want to treat this like some disability, then I can draw up transfer papers and have you out of here by the end of the week." Almost flinched again with the hurt bleeding from his honest answer. She shifted away from him, back a few inches on the bed as sat in the chair across. "But you've been doing this for three months now and the first time it became a major issue was at HQ."

"What about Troy?"

"If he ever wants to make it to Team Leader, he's going to need a lot more in the field action. He'll appreciate it whether he shows it or not."

That was the day everything changed for him. For the Team. The day their antics almost took the life of one of their own. The day he finally took the reins of the power imbued to him almost two years ago. The day the Team realized he wasn't just some pushover, that they could disobey direct orders, endanger lives and get away with it.

It also became the day he learned more about Jules. Grew to appreciate her in a different way he appreciates the rest of the Team. The day he drove her home after confiscating her cell phone so she couldn't call a cab. Promised to pick her up in the morning for work so she could retrieve her Jeep from the lot. The day they set up their coffee meets where he slowly worked at the million piece jigsaw puzzle of her back story. Still doesn't even have the border. The day he took one of her Epipens and stuck it in the pocket of his uniform. The day he decided that if he had a daughter, he'd like her to be like Jules. The day he knew he'd never have a daughter, so Jules would have to do.

And that's why it hurt him so much. Watched the woman he handpicked from trials. The one he secretly protected the best he could from the men on the Team but didn't have to, because she could protect herself. The one who always strived to do beyond her best to impress him. The one he praised more than any of the others. But he couldn't protect her. Her best wasn't good enough. He couldn't praise her for what she did because it didn't result in anything congratulatory. She survived. She fought and she survived, but now what? Now what?

Drove her home. Her modern gothic style manor snatched at a real estate auction and fixed by hand. Updated him every day on what she did the night before. Slowly drilled away at the screws in the window. Scratched away at glue from wall paper, until it started to get done too fast. That and blue paint and he knew. It was interesting and entertaining how much pride she took in her home. Even from the beginning. She pointed it out from the end of the street. Tollbooth arm wavering out the window.

"The one with the dark green fence. That's home."

It's home. Her home. Not so safe anymore. In the draw of a breath things changed. In a blink of an eye, her house, her home, her fortress became a jail. A jail he somehow has to be welcomed into. Doesn't want to be. Wants to be at his own apartment, his own home, own fortress where the rusted afternoon light blinks over a half full bottle of scotch on his kitchen table. A cup neighbors it, melted ice cube innards, with sultry refreshing residue.

Pinches between two doors. Two large doors which didn't do their job. Two wooden doors, sanded into perfect smooth angles. Above him the cotton sky lets out a dull bellow. Like the hollow grumble of a forever empty stomach calling for something it can't have. Like his since he's left a certain bottle on his kitchen table.

Knock again. Leave. Can't leave. She has to get the information somehow. Arteries of the Team are slowly clogging up. Found a weak optimism in her requesting Sam last night. Couldn't be a pillar, still can't and having the burden lifted from his back pre-collapse would have been a welcome change. Only it didn't help. Had to deal with a half drunk, squalling Spike. Expressed the infinite concern he couldn't. Indulged in the infinite release he couldn't. Had to root in appalling case files to find a solution which hardened and dug out his stomach to make a flask for the scotch.

Now he has limited channels to contact her through. Sam's been denied access, unforeseeable but not really surprising. The mentality of it, their history however complicated or uncomplicated it is simply reduces to the basics of their physicality. Sam's had sex with the subje—her. It may be the drive behind all his erratic emotions and outburst at the doctor, but it's definitely the reason for her not being able to keep his company.

Wordy refuses to even see her because of past strife. Going through the rape of a loved one once is enough for a life time. Has personal knowledge on the subject which could help, but keeps it bottled because stringy memories cement to it like cobwebs in rafters. Ed is more active than passive. Would rather catch who hurt her than actually deal with her personally. The same thing happened after she was shot indirectly by his means. A little too indirectly for coincidence to be considered. Sent him away so he didn't pine until it became uncomfortable.

Spike, well he has no idea where the hell Spike is. He's been trying to contact him all morning. Before, after, and during their makeshift meeting to discuss Scott, his appearance, his haunts, his need to physically force himself into Jules' home and then upon her. During Sam's write up for physically assaulting a physician which he never did get a reason for. During his grapple with wanting to go home and chug half a bottle of scotch and maybe needing to go home and chug half a bottle of scotch. After he received a call from downtown with important news. He's not a pillar. Can't be this time around. He's a pillar of salt.

A solid thump behind her door. Remembers things. Her bottle doing water aerobics on the workout room floor. Things he shouldn't. Kaleidoscopes of bruises. Bundled like grapes, some rolling free from the main mass. Tumbling down the slithering sinew of vines. Formed from being crushed, masticated, and popped in palettes. Even share the same general color.

The wooden door creaks open without even a slight hesitation. Cryptic. Didn't phone ahead to announce his arrival because he was call repeating Spike, who still hasn't answered. Spike who he's going to have to visit after this. Cages depressive feelings. Guilty feelings. And not listen to the Lew's of the situation as he nods, offering a kind word while day dreaming of the soft hum of the TV and a cool glass in his hand.

But it's not for that reason. It's because she doesn't give a goddamn anymore. The finale played before the premiere. Disrupted the natural flow of things and spoiled the remains. It's not Jules anymore. Never will be again. Not his Jules. Even bloated like a puffer fish she wasn't like this. Eye an electric red blanketing her pupil, scanning over him once.

"You didn't bring coffees. It was your turn." A drunk's slurred mumble. One he's sure he's adopted more than a handful of times, will adopt more than a few more. Her bottom lip looks similar to what it did when the allergen touched it. Distended, engorged. But this time there's black and blue similar to the hundreds of corpses he's seen. Thick white stitching linking down the middle reminiscent to how cadavers are sewn up after autopsies. Her back turns to him as she retreats into her home. Her fortress, but the door stays open its crack. Allows him amnesty.

She's right. It was his turn for the coffees. But he didn't even think of it. Didn't even think of it because he wasn't craving coffee. Won't be until someone force feeds it to him through a straw or a sippy cup to sober him up. Besides isn't the idea of bringing food as an offering a little tastele—She's not much for receiving gifts.

Learned that after she was shot. She hates flowers. Learned that from her birthday and how no one can know when the sacred day actually is. Even Spike doesn't have permission to hack her file. Educated him on a few things over the years but there's still so much he doesn't know. So many banned subjects. Sam for one. He's thankful for that. Her family, particularly her parents. Knows she has four brothers. Knows the one she gets along with the most is Albert. Allen? Alfred? Something with Al.

Knows enough when he steps into her foyer he picks out the missing black armchair. Might be because he read the file. Might be because there's a reenactment that's been playing in his head like how enthusiasts reenact the Civil War. No pictures of farmscapes. Of wheels and tools and roads. Hardwood flows from shiny to a chemical dull.

Tapestry billows on the back wall. Off white sheet stained with age like the falcate left on a wooden table by the rim of a bottle of fine wine. Dalmatian speckled and dabbed with technicolors. Nothing extravagant. Nothing in the full body crimson reds of blushing lips or the ravishing pinks of provoked skin. Natural colors. Earthen colors. Grays, greens, browns, tans, taupes, a light yellow like the center of a daisy. But the blue punches. The blue overpowers in the handprints maybe because of the two definitive sets. Five fingers and a palm stamped down linking back to Jules. Then a much larger companion. The same blue from behind a certain ear. Blue and he knew. Then she was shot. Then Lew blew.

"Spike put it up." Still in the threshold of her foyer. Just past the cusp of her front door, but he's been staring at that sheet for two minutes in silence. It embodies so much of the past in accidents. Accidents like a sniper shot through a bulletproof vest. Or the click of a foot on a bunch of spikes. "I wanted to take the sledgehammer to the wall because it got bashed in. That's what I get for using drywall right? But if I used concrete I'd be dead right now."

A bunch of spikes, bullet just another spike. Spike? Spike. "You've seen Spike?"

Mechanical pupil narrows to a slit in a movement that might not even happen. Might be the lapse of her muscles in pain. "Yeah." Turns away from him, hair escaping from a stretched holder and slops over her back like garbage thrown from a second storey window. "Stopped by this morning. Left a couple of hours ago."

"How was he?"

Feigns sitting on the stairs. Hobbles slowly like an elderly person with a cane and leans into the curling spindle at the end of her banister. "He was fine. He seemed completely normal. I mean kind of upset but normal." Exhales heavily into the foot of her newel post, breath grays the rich brown. "Treated me normal. Which probably means he's tearing apart inside."

Exhales deeply again and the neck of her sweater shifts, tumbles softly like the bundled, excess of a blanket over her shoulder. Bruises oxidize against the air, the art deco colors of fancy restaurants. The colors of all her memories in paints on a sheet. A sheet hung in her front room to cover where her head smashed into the wall. Colors of photos he's seen in nightmares. Living nightmares in an office downtown where he threw up, then drove home and got drunk. Like on the sheets, not just in hues, but in shape. In perfect shape. Bigger and harsher than Sam's on the sheet.

"I know you didn't come here to see me, Sarge. I mean you came here, but it wasn't to check on me."

"Jules—"

"No. No." So dulcet in tone, a laugh chafing on the border of a wheeze. Polished corner of her mouth angles up, caught on some invisible lure while the remainder of her face is absolutely motionless. A stagnant lake on a searing summer day. Not a waft of air. Not a ripple of wind. Not a gasp of air. Just a rueful chuckle in realization. "No. Don't feel bad. Don't feel bad."

Hand flutters intoxicated. Path of intent seems to be her hair. Wisps of it drying wavy around her face. Streamers like at the retirement parties without shrimp cocktails. But the butterfly dies. Dust on its wings blows away because it becomes grounded, ironclad, one ton concrete shoes. Doesn't even wobble by her shoulder. Her hands never used to shake. Sniper steady with silent breathing and unvoiced thoughts. His shook last night, clinked ice cubes in melodic presence. Created a new instrument until he couldn't hear the beat anymore.

Scanner winks at him once, registers his non response and winks away. Another flutter. More of a buzz. An aggravation because that eye doesn't belong to her. It's not soft, inquiring and welcoming. It's harsh, jagged and inhuman. He wouldn't want to stare at it on any other person and definitely doesn't want to look at it on her.

"You guys." Fingertips waltz in absence along the vinyl sling. Don't play at the edges, aren't strong enough to pick or pluck or pry. Just land, flap their wings and rest for a moment before sensing danger and gasping off. "You guys have no real stake in me."

Plodding before front windows. Hands in his pocket. Casual slacks he hardly gets to wear because he's always at work. Now he's never at work. Always at the bar and can never drink. Always at the hospital but never for him. Always at the funeral home but never for him. Always at a retirement party but never for him. "You're our—"

"I mean, I'm not your daughter. I'm not Spike's sister. I'm not Sam's girlfriend. We don't have any real bonds. That's—that's not your fault either." Head tilts down so the tip of her chin smacks her chest. Caresses the worn lilac fabric on her sweater. The sun tickles over the upper half of her face. Redness melts away as her eye closes against warmth. But accentuates the growth on her right side. Plump black folds devouring her eye. Clumped and slumped, can't even tell where it is. Dangerous as the disruption swirls like a hurricane to her nose, and lips. Wants to jab her with an Epipen. See if that'll help. "But I know you. And I know you came here for something. To ask, maybe to tell me something and you can't do it. Maybe because I look like this and this happened to me and it makes you feel like that."

Doesn't say a thing, because the guilt, the guilt he thought he drown in scotch, is back. Worse. Needs scotch. Before he wanted it. Now he needs it. Needs it more than he needs to be here. Just needs the blame, concentrating like a screwdriver in his spine, to stop. Needs to leave this house because it's going to be hit. Rocky comets with fiery tails streaming down from the skies. "Sarge, I don't mean to be rude, but I really can't play polite hostess right now. As bad as you think I look, it feels a thousand times worse. So do what you came to do and leave so we can both be more comfortable."

"They got him Jules." Stares into her eye. Pool of red. Pool of blood. Pools of blood on her floor. Right there. Right in her front room. Right under that sheet where the back of her skull smashed into the wall. On the hardwood. Footprints in it. Shoes. Soles of shoes. Toes. Pads of feet. Knees. Elbows. Hands. Pajamas swirled around in it like cotton candy round a stick.

Stares into her eye because he knows he won't be seeing it for while. Will see it every second. Every single time he closes his eyes because he let her go. Watched her stand, reach into her purse for her wallet and he told her no. No. That he'd pay. Should've asked her what was wrong. Knew she wasn't right from Lew but none of them—no one would talk to him. They never talk to him. Didn't want to embarrass her in front of the guys so he let her go and—and—and—"They got him."

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