JUSTWORLD FALLACY

A/N: Hey Guys. Chapter 11 is being finished up at the moment. I'm trying to get up to 15 done but I think that's a dream. I restart school in September and it's probably going to be hard, which means all fanfiction stops. So, yeah. It really sucks because this thing probably had a good 50 chapters worth in it and there were some major things I wanted to do.

Just-World Fallacy

Chapter 9

The Feather and The Bowling Ball

Valleys. Gorges running between wood planks in the bench for artistic purposes. For the modernity of it all. For the lack of materials. For the lack of cost. For utilitarian reasons. The negative space forces against her bruised skin. Bashes it. Kneads swollen and settling veins and tissue. The smooth edge cuts her skin. It hurts but she can't do anything about it because she's on display.

"Greg was sorry he couldn't pick you up today. Something came up at HQ." Ed converses through her. An invisible barrier between them from pantomiming sentiments. Speaks to her without respect, care, or responsibility. A stark neutrality which borders on a discomfort which imposes itself as irritation.

Came to the door to get her, didn't do much else. Let her traverse slippery stairs. Let her climb into the rig. Left her to buckle her own belt when she can barely stand. Can barely sit from the pressure building between her thighs. Didn't offer to fix her sling though it's twisted and tampered again, matted hair infused with the strings, restricts the rotation of her neck. "So you've said."

Nods, a half smile on his face as he tosses a lazy wave at another cop who steers to close to what might be mistaken for a conversation. "It'll be simple. You just have to say which one he is."

"I know." Was a cop at this exact time last week. Had to work cases years before. Had to tell women she considered unfortunate the exact same set of words. She's going to see the exact same set of four men and Scott.

The building emits a relaxing superiority on him. Uniform neat and natural. Shoes sleek and shiny. Team One is having their first shift back. Second time she's watched the Team flourish around her, without her. Feels like mascot on the sidelines while everyone else advances in the SRU race. They all took off at the first sound of the starting pistol. She immediately fell and twisted her ankle. Lew got hit with the bullet. "He can't see you either, so you don't have to be scared."

Mind unbalanced. A seesaw pounding, bouncing up and down. One side full of pain in tides swallowing up her insides. The other at irritation stewing in the pit of an empty stomach. "I kn—"

"Hey Hank, how's it going? How's Carol?" Throws another loose wave to a stumpy man with pigeon feet.

"Going good, Ed."

"Good to hear. Good to hear." Friend waddles by them in a sea of scurrying ants. Survives until the double doors and disappears into the groaning sky flashing fits. Ed scratches the back of his head, leans forward so his elbows on his thighs support his body. "So you been watching the playoffs at all?"

Mouth, three days ago unhinged and pillaged and ravaged, falls slack his sheer aloofness. Uncomfortable, so he blossoms in defense. Grows thorns without awareness. Was reprimanded before for treating her differently for being a woman. Now in a time where the situation, if any ever, should call for it, he's desensitized to it.

Not attending to her. Or the crowd of cops any longer. His eyes engage beyond her battered body. Beyond the small mountain protruding out of the side of her face like an ocean birthing an island. At an extravagant archway where men flow in and out with the ebb of the station. Everything has a timed rhythm. But it's not the arch. Or the men. It's the woman, leaning in from the side trying to be inconspicuous in nature with a coquettish finger waggle and obvious gesture in the thick, low lap of her pumped lips.

"I'll be right back," announces as he levitates from the bench beside her.

"What? Ed—" But he's already fallen into the unsound beat. Disappears down the hallway. Doesn't matter. Not disappointed by him. No ties. No direct ties. Loyalty is a strange thing to have on a team. During working hours, a team is a complete organism and if one person dies the whole team falters. Off duty it's every man for himself. So she's left stranded on a bench cramping her innards, stapling her neck to her shoulder, napalming her chest, and disintegrating her belief in society.

Cops pass her, most she doesn't know. All men. Most pretend not to notice her, the battered doll like the ones they give kids in court to show where they've been abused. Can you show the court where the bad man touched you Honey? Is the whole doll an answer? Is her heart an answer? Her mind? Her confidence in herself and everyone she ever knew. Why are they all treating her so differently? She didn't do—or did—if they—and that—would it?

Short fingernails clip against the soft material of her slacks. A rip in the nail catches and pulls at a thread. She sits on pain. A bed of nails, an iron unmaiden. Bed unmade. Sits on unwanted attention, which is how it began in her living room. In a bar. In a living room. A twelve-year-old behind a Barcalounger. Knees to her chest, eyes closed but throat raised to God in a whispered threnodic mantra that he was drunk enough not to find her.

The front door slammed and the empties clicked together, glassy laughs at her expense. Impatient fingertips across a tabletop as a loner beckoned her to come forward and accept his fist. Laughter in the school hallways. Fingers pointing. Thick throats undulating in laughter because apparently she was the clumsiest bitch ever. Apparently she wanted attention since her mom died. Apparently the Callaghan boys just roughhoused with her too much. Apparently she was weird and don't talk to her.

Hid anywhere when the solitude and safety were extinguished from the dilapidated farmhouse. In a tree overnight, ensconced in bumpy bark and long trunk like boughs. Woke up with frost on her bare legs. The same cross pattern decorated the maple leaves. Unhinged the back gate, crept on the dirt path around to the back door over jagged, rotted teeth of gray stairs. Screen door squealed, but she stood in silence in the serene yellow light of a country kitchen at five in the morning. Turned to shut the door behind her and when she turned back he was there. Big as a grizzly bear, just as carnal in rage, but for no reason. She didn't threaten. The house was a trap. She was a victim.

Was more successful in the fields, wheat stalks caressed lovingly. The slender, long fingers of a maternal figure near forgotten and buried among the rubble of childhood trauma. At the age of fourteen she didn't remember her voice. In rhyme or chide, just didn't remember her voice. But remembered her touch wasn't like any she was getting in the house.

The house that sat slanted and small like a shack from the distance she observed it. A wind blew, billowed the reeds before her face and tranquility swirled in her exhales. Stayed in the exact spot for a sunrise, florescent pinks to blues, until the next sunset when the sky bled red.

At the house, two split-paned windows leered out. Khaki colored rooms glowered in the dusk, flickered when bodies moved before the lights. The sky faded, diffused from purple to the pure black which embraced the rural communities. Galaxies measured in sugar cubes and the wilting of wheat stalks. Clusters of stars speared brilliance in protective streaks. One had to be her. Even if she couldn't remember her voice.

But there were voices. In stereo, raked over the field. Stilled the wind and silenced the chirruping crickets who serenaded to her laments. Peeked through the carious slits in the wheat. Created a mirrored effect until she saw the house again. The group of people standing around at the back porch with its carnivorous teeth.

Townspeople with flashlights. Akin to torches. Pitchforks and lassoes. Off to find her or her body. Return her. Her father sat in solidarity on the double swing. Someone pointed out to the field and an acidic bubble congealed in her stomach. She dropped flat to her chest, flat to the earth, dry and barren from the withdraw of rain.

Dust sucked up her nostrils while she crawled through the thin grooves between wheat. Elbows and knees propelled her forward as a cricket took offense at her movements, buzzed by her face grazing her nose. The farm rested next to a piece of unclaimed land, government property. Not a wildlife preserve, but undeveloped due to not being purchased. Thought she'd be free if she plunged from Callaghan land into government reserve. A juvenile thought, but it propelled her elbows and knees, torn, rashed, and bleeding from being gnawed on by the land. Land she felt so attune to a minute ago. Just like a house where she claimed sanctuary became a dungeon.

Pressure built from dirt caked under her nails. From not being able to wait another two years until she graduated to get out of the house. From needing to defend herself. From hoping someone would, and they just never did. Came home, saw her getting thrown down, kept their heads down, and kept walking upstairs.

The blue moonlight washed over the earth, powdered the barbed fence segregating land sections in a silvery paste. Was just a few yards. Just under a block away. She could make it. She was going to make it. She'd get out of the house. Out of the farm. Out of Medicine Hat. Out of Alberta and do something to make sure this never happened to her again.

Teeth embraced each other as she held in a shout. A joyous remark. Licked at her crusted lip tasting of smoke and tin, and mechanized her makeshift limbs to carry her to freedom.

The harking ethereal buzz of the fence disappeared suddenly. Illuminated fully in a daytime sunbeam which relinquished itself from a flashlight at the end of the row. Her eldest brother, Franklin stood body half built with muscles, half soldered in fat, and blocked out the entire entrance to the row. There was only one way to get out.

"I got her." Stock hand cupped to his invisible lips. Skin covered in grease and smeared with dirt.

Before his foot crunched into the parched earth, she bounced up from her stomach. Decided to fight back for once. Never did before because she witnessed what happened when she fought back. Hand-me-down sneakers kicked up dirt clods as she thrust herself at the barbed wire. Didn't care if it mangled her, masticated her, destroyed her. It was better than being here. Dying on this farm, in that house with that man.

Before she reached the fence. The two foot high separation leading her to freedom, Franklin tackled her. The kind of tackles he did in the football games which would give him a scholarship to the States. The kind that would take him away from this farm, that house and that man. The kind she was glad for, because she hated Franklin. Hated them all. Even when she liked them it was a façade. Oh you and Courtney had another baby? Fuck you.

Buried face down in the ground with an eighteen-year-old brother crushing her. Her wrist twisted and wrapped up in a bracelet of wire. When she steadied, he rolled off her. Felt the dirt patching over her front teeth. The blood seeping out of her tongue. The pebbles stuck into her gums like counterfeit teeth.

"The fuck you trying to do, Julie?" He dusted off the few licks of dirt bristled against his forearms. Then mimicked the actions with his legs, two thick slabs of muscle concentrated into a small area.

"Frank, let me go." Forehead rolled into the channel in the craggy ground created by the impact of her face.

"What?" Asked it with a laugh. Back of his hairy palm wiped at his forehead before he reached down to help her up.

Wrenched her body away from him. Kicked her legs against the ground to stand, but her hand was caught in the fence. Without forethought, she gave a yank, doesn't remember feeling a thing as the skin on her wrist ripped away like a corn husk.

"Julie, settle down." Fat, hot hand on the center of her back. Leaked his sweat through her shirt and she jerked away again. "Settle down."

"Just let me go." Fell back onto the heels tucked under her body. Tears cut like shards down her face. Cut clean streaks through the dirt on her face. That was the worst part. Everyone would know she cried and would assume it was from her wrist. "I don't want to be here."

He didn't say another word as he detangled her hand from the fence like a fawn's leg from a bear trap. Always the victim. So goddamn tired of being the victim. He recovered a once white, now gray rag from his pocket, and wrapped it around her wrist like a bandana. His expertise after all was causing injury, not assuaging it.

Her wrist needed twenty-three stitches. Created a scar that unlike most didn't fade. That like all of hers, bobbed to the surface like a Macintosh apple in an oak barrel and dared to picked at with bared teeth.

Franklin marched her back to the house like a correctional officer. Hand on her back, his sweat infusing her shirt as her blood permeated his gray cloth in some pseudo religious exercise. Lead her past the group of townspeople bored or nosy enough to come out to search for her. Maybe they just wanted to see her corpse.

Lead her up the back porch stairs, not even bothered to be covered with two by four planks of wood for the company. Foot and gaping sneaker fell through into hungry mouth waiting to suckle on, then gorge her body.

Lead her directly to her dad. A fat man sitting on the double swing. The paint chipping away with years of not being touched or repainted. Gray beard curling out to his midchest. Stopping just before his stomach exploded. Black eyes darted up at her from under wiry brows as he took a long drag from a cigarette. The end dissipated almost halfway down. Ember rotted under the pressure.

Ashed it at her feet, the gray flakes landed on the tops of the wrinkled and slashed fabric of her sneakers. Toes grew hot until she kicked away the mound. He blew the smoke through the crack in his front teeth at her. A funnel, a gift like making circles except it was a direct stream.

Set the wheezing cigarette on its side in a jam lid as an ashtray, then stiffly nodded to her. "Get inside."

And it's exactly how it is. The pain. Not physically. She can deal with physical pain. The balloon constantly filling and bursting within her body. The similar calendrical emptying that happens and then didn't happen for awhile but then happened and now won't stop. The mutation and mutilation of her face. Lumps of clay balling together, drying rough, thrown into a kiln uneven to add unneeded fragility.

Doesn't complain because she was conditioned not to. It's the pain she can't see. The second frailness of a warped mind. She's insane. Doesn't feel insane, but then again people who aren't fully sane never know they're not. Hasn't imbued the loss of mind upon herself. Gathered it through word of mouth like clusters of summer fresh berries from the people she once held dear.

She's unstable, mentally unbalanced because of what happened. Avoidant because of what happened. Feels detached from the public and men in general because of what happened and they should keep a respectful distance less the puddle of spaghetti her brain transformed into be batted around like worsted. Doesn't argue that all their experience in the field, under a gun, behind a gun, on a ledge, in a truck, off a bridge, on the couch doesn't account for shit.

Across the room, cops follow each other in succinct lines. Swerve around the flow of the immense desk she's forced to face. Ignore her in masses as their shined shoes click like black claws against the marbled floors. Someone, a dark blur among the bustling ants in the lobby colony, detaches from the trail. Grows bigger, blacker, carpenter, then queen in her vision.

"Jules?"

Recoils, body jumping like fireworks against the bench constructed out of solid wood. Constructed out of solid agony as her weight resettles and thighs inflame. Bruises boil like Technicolor water in a cauldron brought to purpose by malicious fingertips, calloused and untrimmed. By sharpened canines. Her skin became a birthday present.

"Sorry. Sorry." Voice skips around, as a body physically leans back, but dust spackled dress shoes don't shift from their spot. A hand lands gently on his own chest, flattens palm to collarbone in surrender. In a hopeful, gentle tone. "It's—it's just me."

In the blurred edge picture frame of her working eye, Spike's face comes into view. Eyes wide with concern, but his mouth relaxing into a gentle smile. One she's always know. One they shared together during times of duress, during the older crowds rowdy cheers at a hockey game, during a trunked conversation at Lew's funeral. The smile has never been contagious, but the emotions behind it are, like the lighting of incense, the dimming of lights.

"Are you okay? You're not in danger right?" Eyes stray from hers, dizzy around the lobby for an explanation at her presence. Checks his cheek to his shoulder to glance behind him, but there's no obvious answer.

"No." Head bows slanted and heavy to her lap. Arm wrapped up in a twined sling. Scar on her arm covered in a parfait of cotton and plaster, vomited up and left to dry a death mask. Thighs mutely crackling like the fated extinction of a forest fire. Trees charcoal javelins weaving wreathes of smoke. "No, nothing like that."

"Good." Doesn't hide his fear, his relief, the way the others do. If he ever felt awkward about what happened to her it's blended into the same brand of awkward he's always held. Treats her as he always has. No different, no better, no more attention, no pity. Sits beside her on the bench like they're waiting for a rig in the garage at HQ, like he'll nudge her and point to the banana sticker stuck in perfection between Lew's shoulder blades.

Points a stable finger at the blue abomination strangling her arm. Vining itself up around her shoulder like creeping garden ivy, tangling into her knotted hair. Almost pokes it, a casual nudge at the blue sticker that stayed on a uniform for three days. "Your sling is twisted again."

"I know." Head flops into her lap, neck crescent in pain like the curved spine of a boated fish. Water spilling from gills along with frothy blood. Blood staining her pajamas in caveman handprints found in deep seeded studies of the past that reveal nothing of the present. Present on her body, pulling back her already pulled back hair, stripping her of clothing the way sadists pluck petals from the center of flowers. Present inside her body. "It's hard to lift my arm up high enough."

His forefinger and thumb pinch at the crest of her shoulder where a matted knot of hair weaved its way against the sling. Patterned by an invisible spider, cheeky in nature. "When I was little, I accidentally burned myself when I was mixing chemicals."

Peers at him from a slit eye. A gill. No pain from his fingers on her clothes, inadvertently transferring heat to her skin. Doesn't infuse her loose dress shirt with his sweat. Not really a discomfort. So careful not to harm a hair on her head because the rest of her as been charbroiled. Plucks at her hair with skill. A harpist. "I had to wear a sling for a few weeks until it healed. My dad, he, um—he wouldn't let my mom help me put it on because it was my fault, right? That I got burned." The lock line releases her. Inhales as deep as ribs dictate. Neck straightens, but still only views him by peripheries. "So I learned how."

"I will too."

"No. No." Smiles with a twitch in his lips. Small flash of teeth like the flash of lightening glaring across the window behind them. He stands, but keeps his knees bent as his body angles forward. "I mean, I learned to do it this way. I thought maybe it might help."

"Some of my ribs are broken" Voice removes as vision buries among the naturalized cloud in the marble floors. Appears so soft, like cotton, but rebuffs the bottom of her shoe when she pushes down for assurance. "Maybe when they're better I'll try."

"Yeah. Sure. Okay." Oscillates his legs, gives birth to movement. Dress shoe soles squeak over buffered floor tops. They're just two kids sent indefinitely to the principal's office. "Don't take this the wrong way, but what are you doing here Jules?"

"Huh?" Examines stationary design in the floor. A paused screen on a television. The flicker and flap of bouncing riffs almost visible if she stares long enough. Separates enough from reality. What she really is from what she really was. Wonders if it was ever mobile like she was. But now they're both leashed. Pets who disobey their owners and are abandoned, tied to posts.

Squeak. Squawk. Shoes graze the surface. Sound like the wipers on Sam's SUV. Bullets graze the surface, but never for her. Always burrow straight through. Lay eggs. Nails graze the surface, had someone else's skin under hers. Had someone else's lips on her body. "Well, this seems like the last place you'd want to be."

Foot. Down. Gravity. There. Feather and bowling ball theory upheld. Something nudges her. Last nudge was a bump at the end of her driveway rousing her from Sam's front seat. Last nudge was inadvertent and woke her up while a hand strangled her thigh and—He nudges her shoulder again. Feather light. Not bowling ball bashing. "Huh? Oh. They got him."

"They got him?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Are you okay?" Hand cradles the back of his head as his eyes flutter around the room. Like any of the uniformed cops could be Scott incognito. "Are they holding him here? What—"

"I—I don't know."Foot. Ground. Slips. Squeak. Reset. Foot. Ground. Solid. Shakes out a stuttering breath. Embers grow in the pit of her pelvis. Smoke tickles her chest. Bones pulverized to dust. "I'm just here to identify him in a lineup."

"And they left you alone?"

"Ed picked me up." Shrugs off his gaze. Interrogating, Sam's mollycoddling after a paper cut or a stubbed toe. Doesn't know why it disturbs her. The notion that she can't care for herself. The notion that others think she's worth caring for. The second vanishes, slips through cracks like fresh rainwater lapping the window. "He was with me, but he met up with a friend."

Hands enfold between his knees. Pack away nicely. Clean up without a mess. The gauze to her chest. The sterile materials used to clean her front room. The removal of an entire chair. Where's her gray sweater? "I'll stay with you until he comes back."

"Spike, I'm in a police station, what's going to—"

"Doesn't matter."

"Aren't you supposed to be doing something?"

"I'm here to give evidence against—"

"Not—" Knows exactly who he's speaking of. The only fixation with a strong enough magnetic force to attract him to the station. "Spike. Go."

Lips are tight. Eyes won't observe her. An officer brings in a cuffed man into the lobby. Rookie must be new. Doing everything backwards. Barely has control of the subject, but then regains the upper hand and recuffs him to the artistic gold bar married to the front of the desk. "I'm not leaving you alone."

"And what about Lew?" Wants to cross her arms. Only employs the stress in her voice to portray disagreement. Not showing up for a court meeting. Letting a sympathetic judge side with a bawling young woman who knew exactly what she was doing when she helped assemble bombs.

They both want it to be over. He wants to end all ties with Lew's existence or the end of it. Was the only thing to drag him from his house besides her or drinking. She only left so they'd get Scott behind bars and maybe she could sleep. Maybe lie down and every noise wouldn't be amplified. Wouldn't relive every footstep of that night.

"Lew's dead. Me testifying isn't—"

"His mom isn't dead. His dad isn't." The funeral. The funeral she ran from because she couldn't handle the loss. The footsteps. The kitchen. The water bottle. The mail pile fixed to perfection. Not dialing 9-1-1. Not running. Why didn't she run? Didn't run and is running in her head. Can't breathe and is running in her head. Woke up on the floor and hasn't woken up since because she hasn't been to sleep. "Don't they deserve a chance at peace?"

"Don't you?"

Won't look at him. Can't. Because she doesn't. Had a chance. To stay at the bar. To call 9-1-1. To run. Didn't. Just didn't. Marble no longer comforts. The lazy cloud pattern not soft and volacious. Stains. Stains someone forgot to clean. Stains of blood on pajamas evidence and then burned. Blood on her floor wiped with sanitary cleaners which were then packaged and burned. Bruises in a fine syrup bathed on her body, bruises that don't fade like her scars. A paste sticking clothes to skin to hair. But her sweater—

"How about I go find Ed?" Pale blue shirt sleeve littered with rivers. The rendering of a map. Roads, streets, rivers, tributaries. All wrinkles in the fabric of his arm. Smile coaxes. Relaxes in the middle of a thunderstorm. In the middle of a police colony. In the middle of hell. "You won't be alone and I can still present the evidence."

"Yeah, sure." Acts out a weak grin. Frankenstein smile. The monster finally learning emotions. Doesn't need anyone to sit with her. Pain omnipresent like a vengeful God. Past unchangeable, written in script not sand. Finger slumps to curved archway created by wooden pillars. "He went that way."

"Okay. I'll be back in a few minutes."

His body darts around the corner. Unrhymed like the course of a fly. The mouth of the archway produces many specimen of the same officer. The exact same cop from the exact same colony with the exact same priorities of a wife and roughly two children, a house and a car payment. Lines of officers flood by like a black stream. Seamless and steady in motion like an army.

Behind her, lightning flashes like a camera. Like a box full of snapshots. Like a mind full of memories tainted by one night. Thunder gunshots and the lights in the building flicker out. One of the front bay windows cracks and crashes, a gust of wind snapping it. Creates monster jaws in the pane with gnarling teeth.

As if broadcast, the men rush to the window. Mutter in the same baritone manner resolute swears. Half remove their caps and scratch at bald, balding, or soon to be balding heads. Only company is the hunched man cuffed to the desk. The backup lights pop on, single bulbs encased in a wire mesh for security. Provide a jagged orange glow to the room, lit like a tomb.

Orange blankets over them. Over her shoulders, casts her blue sling a purple. Covers the hunched man's jacket, his jeans, his boots—his jeans. His jeans. His boots. His boots. Body seizes on the spot, breath stops. Thought she was reliving it before. Boots. Boots leaving dirt clods on her hardwood floors. Boots he left on. Jeans. The same jeans with a tear in the front pocket. Dark brown hair slicked down from the rain. Teeth bared as he struggles to free himself from the cuffs, jaw muscles skewing his wispy facial hair.

Scott stands less than ten feet away from her.

"Jules?"

Skin achromous in absolutes. Drains of all blood, all body, all being in a matter of seconds. Detection of humanity extinguished. Thumb and forefinger licked and snuffing out like the bitter wick of a storm candle. Not even gray, double barreled and splattered on the floor, with the sense of lingering life.

White. Whiteout. White over the pumpkin patch on the side of her face. White like beached fish carcasses during the summertime when girls paint their cheeks in unpalatable colors. Winked at him and Lew on the Lakeshore beat. Girls in bikinis, their skin shimmered glazen. Attractive at first, then grew almost comical. The same hue as the shards of broken beer bottles. Of home cooked 1950s meals served up with propaganda. Meatloaf, baked potato, candied carrots and anticommunist regimes.

"They're tanned, Man. Tanned is sexy."

"They're orange. Garfield is orange."

The white is an adaptation. Loss of color to blend into, or rather out of the situation. Hueless. Humorless. Body tight and tapered down in the spot. Eye hasn't winked or strayed from what it's staring at. So he follows the only color left in her body, the beacon of blood built up behind a single pupil.

The concentration point is a man hunched over about twelve feet away at the lobby desk. Thinks the guy's in trouble from the way he's standing, shoulder's forward, knees bent. Appears to be doubled over in pain, but then notices the cuffs around his wrists chaining him to the gold decorative bar running the front and lapsing at the sides.

And he knows. Just instantly know after one breath. Knows from the clothes. From his hair. From his skin. From his beard or whatever the hell that thing is called. From his work shoes. And he's huge. Taller than him. More muscular than anyone on the Team. Bites the inside of his mouth for wanting to help him a second ago.

Behind him, the material of her black dress pants shriek as she twists. Doesn't look at her. Not because he can't, but because—God he's a fucking bear, and Jules— spars with her. Knows she hits. Knows she hits him and knows she didn't stand a fucking chance because he just picked her up, threw her into the wall, punched her, he wants to throw up, threw her into the floor and—

Four tips touch his slack, hanging right hand. Doesn't jump though they're too cold to be viably human. A corpse on ice in the morgue—no, she's not. Closes his hand, encircles her fingers, four icicles cracked from the eavestrough and brought into the freezer to cherish until summer.

Understands. Understands like he understood her about Lew. The white wasn't a lame attempt at camouflage. It was the intense presence of fear, the physical presence of fear. The heartbeat collapsing in four fingertips. Might hold on tighter than her because the last time he turned and didn't give a second glance over his shoulder, a piece of his world exploded.

Is about to suggest they move to a different room. Go to the vending machines. He could use a Coke even though he's about to projectile vomit over the luxurious marbled floors. But before his head even creates a complete rotation, something twinkles. Senses tell the arid pit of his stomach to settle as his head recalibrates.

The guy has noticed them. The guy has noticed her. The guy has worked his cuffs over the infinitesimal amount of space between art deco golden bar and desk and left little pieces of woodchips on the floor. The guy is six feet away from them, if he had full use of his arms, he could lunge at her. But instead the guy is wearing a very disturbing grin, full cheeked but half-lidded and waving with undulating fingers at her.

Then her hand grips his tighter. Doesn't create a sound. Just crushes his hand in hers. Like she's drowning and doesn't want to be. Sinking, plummeting to one of those dark crevices scratched out in the core of the earth. But he can stop it.

She's stopped it before, for him. Without a second thought, she's stopped it. The only one who helped him as he wandered like a bedlam beggar down the abandoned hallways of the SRU, corneas violated by pepper spray. Saved his life once in a presumed to be abandoned warehouse during a citywide drug raid.

The team fractioned. A pie cut into seven pieces, then shoved into the maws of three different rigs. He and Jules were sanctioned a warehouse by the docks. The last known activity at the location was over two months ago. A small piece given to them because they were weak and adorable and don't climb to high on the monkey bars or you might fall off and hurt yourselves.

Sam made a stink. Sam was always making these big, gaseous, nauseating declarations about the safety of the team, particularly any team members who garnered a cherished double X in their chromosomes from the carnival midway water gun booth. It made her eyes roll to hide the mortified blush spreading across her cheeks like a rash before the plague. Like Sam was battling to protect her because wasn't good enough which was bullshit. She was better than most of them. That day only proved it more.

Warehouse was also a very poetic description of the decrepit building decomposing in the stomach acid of time. It wasn't very large, was more of a hangar. The outside brick had chipped away to mere mortar sealing cloned pieces of stone together. Teeth grated down to the roots. Two large square windows sat above a supposed boardwalk inside. The windows were bisected by panes cutting the glass into smaller portions.

"We just have to look for evidence." She repeated the instructions and released her rifle from the back of the rig. In his ear the greater portion of the team bickered back and forth no findings and disagreements. In the situation, their portion of delicious pie, she was the muscle and he was the brain. It was odd because neither of them liked being in that position.

"Jules, look at the place." Sure he had a gun too, but he could barely do shit with it. Could take it apart and put it back together if they gave him enough time. Could shoot targets under pressure, but never a person. Never has shot a person. She has. From rafters. From roofs. From trees. From the ground. Must do the angles and know. Just know. Once she got shot and he went in to help, but still didn't have the shot. Sam shot the guy. For more than one reason, Sam shot the guy. "We're not going to find anything here but rats, and maybe a junkie to question."

Pursed her lips in a pensive smile. Still does it. An idiosyncrasy she often blends to her face. A little bit of forethought, of anxiety, mixed with excitement. Glanced up at him from under fifteen layers of gear as he opened the door for her. Looked like a kid playing dress up. They were all just playing dress up. "One junkie's all we need."

The smell inside was unbearable. His nose immediately determined the foreign chemicals pinned to the drug ring. To meth they were producing. Sodden cardboard covered most of the floor. Sullied with footprints mazing their way through filtration tentacles.

"Guys, I think we found it." Mumbled and held back an armful of the gangly plastic. Let her stalk into the meth lab first with her gun drawn. Two parallel rows of chemistry tables greeted them. All beakers and Bunsen burners. Loops and swirls of tubing connected colonies of boiling liquid. Ten feet above them a catwalk outlined the building's periphery just under the ocular windows.

"We've got at least four separate stations for meth."

And it's the last thing he remembers. Thought someone shut off the lights and flicked him in the side of the forehead. His sister used to torture him like that when they were little. But it was daytime and what happened on his temple was much greater than a wound up finger flick from Vinnie.

Woke up down. He was ice on fire. A slow drifting glacier set ablaze by global warming. Forehead a dirty dish. Crusty and oily and disconnected from his body. Cracks and crevices filled with grime and disease. Temple tempoed with a railroad spike and a sledge hammer. Kept the steady beat of Lew's skipping records. A concentrated immolation. Above him ceiling fans spun. Slow, he saw every blade's rotation. Fast, spiraled on the base and threatened to shoot out the window like a flying saucer.

The window. Couldn't see the window anymore. Something eclipsed and smothered his face. Something underneath the fire. A soothing coolness ran in rivers. Unpolluted in clear lapping mountain droplets. A thousand rivers and a thousand rains on the side of his face. Placated his ears to flutter open, heard the thunderclouds of centuries in decimals and percentages.

But it wasn't thunder. Not metallic skies but the push and pull of popping tin. A can rolling semi-cylindrical in the empty winded streets. A howl. Not the howl of an animal, or a person or a thing. Just a rusted veined howl. Blinked like twins. Blinked conjoined again. Just pepper spray in his cornea. Just a smudge on his badge. Just needed to bounce back.

Vision shattered clear. Defogged in a single flick. Found two dancing, shining irises. They were in the shadow of her bowed head. Hidden by a curtain of bangs and serpentine ponytail. But glowed despite the darkness. "Thank God." Words curled from her mouth and stuck to his forehead like darts.

Head rested on her lap like a ring pressed into a luscious pillow at expensive weddings. Her flat palmed hand smacked against his temple. Easter egg dipped and dyed with Pentecostal patterns. Dots, dips, dashes, dives. Zebra brayed and set to rest on the windowsill for the neighbors to coo at. Arm flung around his head. Thought it was Vinnie beating the shit out of him—Mikey commercial's on, come here— But the arm cradled his head to her torso. Coat material crunched until his cheek hit the resistance of her vest. Flinched at the hurt, at the bottle rocket in his brain. Angular facial muscles and bones relaxed just as she released him.

"I thought you were dead, Spike." Pressure in his head, but it was her hand. Hand crushed something like a beer can to his temple. Grinned down, bottom lip jitter bugged to prohibition rules. Blinked three times in succession to eradicate tears. "I thought you were dead."

"No." Hands and arms felt pinned. Buried. Removed. Robotic. Tickled. Tumbled. Fumbled. "No I'm good. I just—" Blank. Memory was blank. They were strolling by meth sets like it was a spring day in the unfriendly, un-Roman woods and now—now they were somewhere else. "I fell?"

"You got shot."

"What?" Mechanical arm applied technical difficulties halfway up his chest. Every action, every breath, every thought, every thought of a thought and then aborted halfway, hurt his temple. Maybe it was more than an elderly trip and fall. Thin incarnadine fingers squirmed around his gloved hand. Directed his fat, clumsy fingers to the gorge in his head. Depression in hole in his head.

"You were grazed; it's at your temple, there's a lot of blood." Blinks raw. Eyes skewed shut like lids forced too tightly on jars. Will leak. Will break. Will rot. Predestined. Hinged down on his hand stapled to his head. Face freed of contortion. "You need to keep pressure on it, okay?"

"What's going on?"

"We're uh—" Scooped her rifle from off the stained concrete next to her like a favorite pet. "We're kind of trapped."

Would remain trapped for almost an hour. Slowly he became more mobile. A newborn calf, big brown eyes with thick lashes as he tried his wobbly knees and hoped not to become veal. Did fall over because Jules shoved him down. Splayed back on his stomach as a bullet pounded into the brick wall behind him.

The second bullet hit her in the back. It was okay, wasn't the trained sniper picking them off for a vendetta. These were druggies strung out on meth who probably saw melting apple walls while hearing the first inaugural address. If they just sat here long enough they might start jumping because they were covered in scorpions.

She rolled over; eyes squinted, not in pain. Enraged, she managed to shoot one. Fell from the raised walk like nameless minions in numerous action movies. By then he'd dragged himself in the far corner of their fortress, created by two storage containers and the hanger wall.

A certain rhythm instructed itself. She'd shoot, then duck when they shot. Talked to the Team through the comm. link while waiting as the hail of bullets along the outside of the container subsided. Then rinse and repeat. Twice more she took a bullet to the vest. Two finger flicks in sequence. Fired on at the same time from two different guns.

Didn't stop shooting from that, but because she ran out of ammo. Fell slack against the container. Breath heavy from a waning adrenaline rush as she glanced at him for suggestions. He had absolutely no idea what to do. Just lie down and go to sleep until the others showed up? Seemed like a great plan.

"Just shut up for a minute." Ripped at her ear like a bug flew into the drum. Threw the comm. link on the ground. Rotten piece of meat. Outdated piece of technology. Extended family a dinnertime pestering about personal attachments. Didn't hear static or frantic voices of the pop and sizzle of three guns punching into the side of the shipping crate they sat behind.

The atmosphere grew dangerous. The dealers obviously didn't want them leaving alive. Bullets bouncing everywhere could hit a gas line. Create a smaller big bang. Jules was out of ammo. Left his gun with his comm. link and a Rorschach test splatter of his own blood on the ground.

Her body angled against his, left arm pinned to her chest with her right. Adrenaline sapped the ability to fight back. From being trapped. From probable death. Caused her to notice the slugs embedded in her vest.

"You talk them." Kicked the comm. link towards him with her foot. A bullet barked off the corner of the crate across from them. Embedded into the wall just above her head. Pretended none of it bothered him. Just tugged her coat sleeve and shuffled more into the opposite corner.

Placed the link to his ear and the madness of being open fired on by three guns disappeared. Instead the insanity of Team One opened up. Voices overlapped. Remixed. All of Lew's records at once. Piled on top of each other in different dimensions and dialects. It was frantic and he couldn't understand a single word in the garbled static spewing from everyone's mouth.

Might have been the bullet. Piece of metal ripped out a receptor in his brain. Squinted his eyes and concentrated. Beside him Jules flinched as another bullet whizzed by the side of her face.

"Jules, come in."

"We enter from here. Use the windows—"

"Jules, I need an update."

"Sam, you're Sierra 2 there's no need for you to—"

"Are we going to try to—"

"Jules, we're outside. We need intel. If you—"

"They shouldn't have gone by themselves—"

"But when I said something—"

"When you said something—"

"Enough, I've lost contact with her for almost five—"

Back wall a secondary spine. Kept him straight because he slumped. Wanted to sleep, but Jules flinched beside him. Chest swallowed her knees. Didn't want to leave her alone. Saved him like she dragged Sarge. Didn't want to—too much noise. "Shut up for a second, Jesus."

"Spike?" Recognized Sarge and Ed who chimed in on different decibels. Imagined the construction of vast levels of eye coordination which he believed they used in the few seconds of silence that followed, because only Sarge continued, "Spike. Good to hear from you. What's—What's going on in there."

"You're too damn loud is what's going on. Three guys are shooting at us and you're—"

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. I got nicked in the head but—"

"Is Jules—"

"She's fine. She took a few in the vest. She's out of ammo and we're kind of in a tight spot so if we could save updates for—"

"Exactly, where are they Spike?"

"Three guys, all armed with rifles. All on the catwalk. You should be able to hit them from the windows."

Fuzzy again after that. Next thing he knew he was in the cab of an ambulance halfway down the dock. Could only see legs. Long legs covered in cool gray pants. Groaned and rubbed at his eyes and heard a familiar low chuckle.

"Welcome back to the land of the living."

Off screen, Lew's massive hand clamped and shook his shoulder. Restored the vitality he lost being kenneled in a shoot out. Just bounced back. Gurney squealed beneath him. Bleached vision bubbled away, crystallized clear and could see into corners. Saw Lew's grin, the relief behind dodging eyes.

"What happened?"

"Ed and Sam took out two of the guys. Were pegging down the third when me and Wordy moved in to get you guys." Sat on the stoop of the bus. Legs easily hit ground. Palms pressed into etched metal flooring. Cleaned with the same type sanitizers as her living room. "Well the guy decides he's going to take us all out. Tries to shoot a gas line. Misses twice. Ed shoots him on the third and Jules dragged your sorry ass out."

"Is she—"

"Oh she's fine." Almost laughed again with a brisk nod. Across the tarmac, there was another ambulance parked and angled in opposition. Back doors opened, and Jules sat on the back stoop. Legs dangled, alternated between lolling and pumping. One head tilt to the left and she'd notice them. "Sarge is making her stay there for a few minutes until an EMS guy can check her out. I think he just wants to set her up."

Intended to slur a wise crack about Sarge at her wedding and bet Lew twenty bucks right there that he'd cry like a baby before the music even queued, but a man approached her from the right. Not EMS, made her smile. Made her legs find an even medium in their exercise. She tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear and it immediately fell free while she gazed up at him.

He and Lew quieted as they watched the interaction. Didn't want to, but after it started, really couldn't look away. Sam spoke to her, without a gentle face. The conversation looked to be on the verge of a quarrel and to anyone else it might just be their normal exchange. She added something poignant. Something final. Went back to focusing on the twin pendulums her legs became.

Then he said something else. Something more poignant, less final and way more important. Her head jerked up and the twist of hair fell to her shoulder. In slow, precise actions, his fingers enveloped it. Slid down the length of it. Wound it like a ribbon through his fingers. Tucked it with care behind her ear, like he was wrapping a precious gift.

And he and Lew said nothing. Watched as Sam left without more conversation. Left with the same coarse brows he carried that were locked for arguing against any valid point. Like not sleeping with a teammate. Didn't say anything that time.

"Long time no—"

"Nope." Pounces. Pounces on the second word. The action causes him to drop her hand, but needs to be offensively defensive. Never played sports. Has no idea what the hell it means because the jocks just beat the shit out of him and left him on the field, and he never fought back. Wasn't a fighter because he had nothing to fight for. Now he does.

The guy laughs out of the side of his mouth. There's a small slit in his lip. Fresh. Four days fresh. She did some damage. Shoves him back by the shoulders, forces him to step backwards. But even in retreat the steps are stalking, intimidating.

"This the boyfriend, Jules?" Yells around him. Because, well he's taller. He's taller than ninety-nine percent of the fucking population. Gives another shove on his shoulders. Feels like he's pushing down on solid metal. On a solid counter or creation. "This Sam? The one you dumped me for? Or you done with that one already?"

"Do not talk to her."

"What are you gonna do?" Slides his tongue out over his front teeth, sucking air through the slit. An egging action because every single part of his body, he used to hurt her. "Hit me?"

Unconsciously, his right hand's already buckled into a fist. Fingers lined up and guarding the thumb. The caveman inside him ooking with absolute joviality and a raw degree of excitement at the chance to see freshly shed blood caused by him of all people. But over the flush tingling, the layer of sweat tracing his skin he still feels the lingering coolness of her fingers set in his fisted hand.

Pure selfishness usurps the Team. Five men caring nothing for anything but themselves. They do what they want to make themselves feel better despite her constant state of suffering. Hell, he's guilty of it too because if he's learned anything from his Ma it's not to be starting stone fights unless you're Jesus.

Chuckles. Must appear insane, but he chuckles at his fist and it disintegrates back into his normal, nonthreatening hand. "No." A shake of his head with a final chuckle. "I'm not Sam, which is unfortunate for you."

Elbow grinds into the top of the desk as he leans. Stance evoking a casual nature, but his voice is dark and threatening. Grumbles like the thunder currently in remission, but nowhere near done. "See Sam would've punched you already. Actually he probably would've killed you. Ripped your limbs off, beat you to death with them, torn your throat out with his teeth because of what you did. Would've killed you without a single forethought."

"But me, I know if I punch you it's assault because you're in cuffs and oh, I'm a cop too by the way. So it would lessen their case against you. No see my way, you go to prison, and while you're a whole bunch of other people will hurt you for me."

"If you think that I'm done with—"

"Nope." Hand clamps down on his shoulder. Muscles cultivated on a field of muscles. Hard as pearls. Like someone carved him in the image of a God, and then gave him the complex of one. "I'm done talking to you."

The butt of his palm becomes like the prong of an electric taser. Slaps it into the thick cut of meat in his shoulder until he's on the exact opposite side of the desk. The monumental piece of furniture buoys in the middle of the room, which brings them closer to a window where the rest of the cops have gathered.

"Whose subject is this?"

About a dozen guys perch by the window. After he speaks, two of them bother glancing over their shoulders. The others carry on trying to place magazines over a hole in the glass, looks like a scream bubble from a comic panel.

"Whose subject is this?" Projects his voice louder. Over the wind wailing through the peaks of glass. Over the gruff conversations of how paper won't do any good.

"I brought him in." A young kid with sandy blond hair moans with an eye roll. He's sitting on the arm of a chair. A woman sits in the seat. "What's the deal?"

Thumb bullets towards the guy, whose name he never wants to know, his shoulders propped to his ears as he breathes heavy and in mumbles. Might have pushed the cuffs all the way to the end of the bar where it dips down. Might have done it on purpose. "Do you realize you left your subject unsupervised?"

"No, I was right here." Points at the spot, purposely gesturing to his crotch. The woman giggles. Hand covering her mouth.

"You know what you brought him in for?"

"Yeah, he—uh—"

"He attacked someone."

"Didn't he ra—"

"While you were chatting up a prostitute, you put the attacker within ten feet of the woman he attacked." Fingers skip along the desk, abandoned at post by an officer who also wanted to heal the broken window. Easily finds a pad of paper and a pen. "Give me your badge number."

"Wha—why?"

"Now."

"1-6-0-9"

"I'm reporting you. You'll be lucky to see active duty again in the next year. Now watch your goddamn subject." Rookie nods dejected returns to the guy who grumbles some type of threat he can't make out. One of the older cops tells him to shut the hell up. Papier-mâché is much more of an interesting subject anyway.

A false sense of pride swoops over him. Annihilated the threat without the use of violence though his fist wanted to work that guy's face like a rock 'em sock 'em robot. Wanted vengeance, but it isn't about what he wants, it's about what she needs. She needs the security of this guy going away with a quick, legal trial. She needs her friends available to her, not rotting in a jail cell for killing that asshole while she roils in guilt.

But the bench is void. Like her skin was of color. Like his ironed and pressed shirt wasn't of wrinkles even after two rounds in the washer. Like the Team was of empathy when it came to her, and instead they were now burdened with the responsibility of caring for her.

Thunder groans outside sloshing rain against the two storey windows like gyrating noodles in a carwash tunnel. He rushes by the bench, in emptiness it's nothing. It's nothing without her. It means nothing to him and offers him nothing. Just an object in his vision taking up space in the police station lobby.

Cuts around the corner to the closest corridor. The large archway offers two directional choices. To his right there's a double set of stairs leading to the second storey where sometimes rooms act as proxies to statement gathering on bigger court cases. It's where he's supposed to be now. Bomb blew Lew. He's to testify about the complexity level of the bombs and how they were never meant to be benign. No bombs are meant to be benign.

But Lew, Lew's already gone. Anything he does for Lew now is beside the matter. It's not going to enrich his life. Is him testifying today going to bring Lew's parents anymore solace than if he testifies tomorrow? The next day? A week? He can't help Lew. But he can help Jules. Jules who's not upstairs, because of the miniscule tells of pain in her body from just sitting on a bench. Feet constantly in motion, in tiny arcs like the needle to a polygraph. Thumb on her left hand bouncing. Frequent and pasting blinks. Despite her tenacity, in her condition she hasn't made it upstairs.

Might be in the bathroom. There's a men's and a women's. The only other choice is an evergreen door, label less with a silver handle. Mentally debates against going in. For. Against. For. Against. It's exactly like a banquet. A retirement party where she became the victim of an airborne shrimp and his hand had to go into private territory. Just knock on the door and explain. Knock on the door and call for her. Knock and the door and—

But as he veers left, there won't be a need for bathroom heroics. Because a sneakered foot bouncing in lying arches sticks out from between the jolly red bulge of the Coke machine and the solid black square of a generic vending machine. Grins despite her, himself, the situation, the world because he's never seen her do something like this, something so childish. Grins because she's safe.

"Jules?" Foot freezes and retracts on an instant as he creeps closer. Steps lightly across the floors, shoes tapping but not loud. Doesn't want to scare. Doesn't want to encroach. "It's me still."

Her body jumbles into the small space between the machines intended for the garbage can. Her left arm ensconces the can tightly to her body, stretches her loose shirt material. The heels of her sneakers fit snug against the backs of her thighs. Must be uncomfortable, all the weight resting on her torso, her ribs, her arm, but he can't tell because the operational part of her face is hidden in her shoulder.

Wants to tell her something supportive. That he's there. Will just sit there on the ground until she wants to unhinge herself from the side of the machine? It doesn't sound like much, there has to be something more he can offer, but can't reach out to her if—

"I couldn't do it."

Has been in these types of situations before. Only twice and not really involved. Truck involved. Intel involved. Thought she might reply with a shaky sob. Would fully respect the idea of tears. Tears are usually what they saw.

Jules, she doesn't cry. Holds the bulbous can to the front of her body, eye in a trance finding the fractals in the black plastic siding on the vending machine. Voice is dull, almost indifferent. If anything holds a sense of disappointment in herself. "I saw him. And I thought I'd be able to handle it and I couldn't. I remembered everything. Because I remember everything about it. Every single thing about it, Spike."

"No one's going to judge you." And he's the one shaking. He's the one who's trying to keep his voice level because he's going to fucking lose it. He's Spike, the nonviolent comical nerd they keep chained up in the back of the truck because he's too much of a fuck up to do anything in the actual field. Too much of a 'softie' as Ed put it to actually put a bullet in someone. Right now he could shoot a lot of people. A lot of them he knows.

"Yeah." Body crumples more around the can. Disappears in camouflage again. The iridescence of her skin not viable in the niche she created for herself. "Yeah, they will."

"I'm not. No one will say a word if you want to go home or—"

"I don't." Side of her foot slams into the mechanically emptied metal stomach of the vending machine. The sound is thunderous, drowns out the torrents of rain and true storms God's wishing to cleanse the earth with. Boxes his voice, tapes the cardboard sides down and mails it to some exotic destination.

All limbs, broken and bangled limbs. Limbs that don't add up properly. Limbs that are so strong but not strong enough. Limbs, the baseline to her greatest paradox. "I just want to sit here for a bit. Just sit here and be here, just for a little bit."

"Yeah." Nods, drawbridge arches of his feet finally collapsing. Rolls back a quick occurrence in slow motion. The hard marble floor shooting up at his ass as he falls flat on it. The pregnant belly of the Coke machine cutting her from his view. The swift, soft relief of a cool stream flowing through his legs as stiff muscles relax. "Sure. Okay."

Foot thumps in fatigue against the metal basin. Only sees the worn soles of her shoes, where the treads have been stepped on so much, so often, so hard, they're fading from the sides, slipping into a current and carried into the middle. A little layer of taupe colored dust speckles the bottom of them. "Do you want me to go? I can come back af—"

"No. No." Leg flexes all the way forward. Sole of her shoe flat on the ground by his hand. Substitute for a hand, her only working hand tucked away by her face hidden by a can. Limbs all messed up, mixing signals. The declining of a date which lead to a front room rape. "Stay. Please?"

"Yeah, of course." Doesn't want to spend the next lapse of time talking to the neon red plastic of a pop machine. Wants to talk to her, face-to-face or side to side. For her because she needs to know she is still the same person despite what happened at her house four days ago or in the lobby ten minutes ago. For him because she's still the same person and she'd do the same thing for him. "Just a sec."

Bones crack, bursts of air trapped in aging joints. Pop. Sizz. Stands using his knees and feels the pressure build behind them. Not being on the active force for two weeks after six days a week for the last three years dismantled the basic plumbing route in his body. No workouts, no exercise, binge drinking and bar food, emotional turmoil and that fucking therapist. Screws are popping left and right.

But he grabs the Coke machine in a bear hug. Arms pinching around its aerodynamic design while his teeth clench in his mouth. Feels its toes skid across the ground as he slides it away from the wall, from beside her and the cavern she created.

"Spike, what are you doing?"

Doesn't answer as it maneuvers a full machine length away. The ground where it stood covered in a brown coat of syrupy dust and abandoned bottle lids. Without a pinched nerve or a slipped disk he backs up against the wall next to her. His dress pants land in years of accumulated stickiness. Runoff from the machine. "Oh yeah, that's the stuff."

When he turns towards her, she doesn't answer him. She doesn't smile, or laugh, or roll her eyes, or call him an idiot. But her face retracts from the corner, expression completely neutral in composition.

The machines purr enchanting and enamoring. Understands why she hid here. It's dark, tall, safe, warm, and the humming elicits sense of home. His mom at the stove with eight pots at boiling point. Understands why she hid here because it's probably a latent childhood action she developed while living on a farm in Medicine Hat where he hopes everything was okay but knows it wasn't.

"What do you think Lew would've been like?" Neutral simmers to pre-positive. Nostalgia, in the wistful prolonging of words. In the half lapse of her eye. In the relaxation of strained and bungled muscles as the can totters away from her chest and onto its bottom.

"Like as an old man?" Exhales in a tuneless whistle through circled lips. Hands cup behind his head, leaning against toffee teared walls. "The same with less hair and more wrinkles, I guess."

And she laughs. Laughs twice. A repeated action, so it's not an accident. It sounds like a cough, but there's a grin on her lips. And she laughed. She laughed. She laughed at something he said. He made her laugh. He wants to take a picture and put it in a scrap book and suddenly he understands why her fridge is a collaboration of the Team. Understands why she gave him a shoebox full of photographs in Lew's demise.

"I mean how do you think Lew would have reacted?"

Doesn't need her to clarify if she's referring to Lew reacting to his own death, or to her—well it's obvious. Catches a whiff of that batch of nostalgia hot from the oven. The burning behind his eyes, the tightness in his chest. "Lew would've been the best. He would've been there for you ever single minute. And when you finally sent him home, he would've acted like it was no big deal. And then he would've waited by the phone until you needed him again."

"If—" Pause deliberate. Glancing ahead, single tremor runs in her limp lower lip. Contemplates something. Eye narrowing in wisdom, in a debate he can't even imagine. "If I asked you a question." Head angles up, eye meeting his. The illusion of being clear. No emotion in an entirely emotional situation. But the complete opposite is true. Behind her eyes she's tied down by the reins, by the act, by the repercussions. Trying to outrun something she's on the leash of. "Would you answer honestly?"

"Of course."

"I mean it." Body unwrapping from the stable post she created against the machine. Her back curls away from the wall. Good palm on the floor, white and red with the pressure of supporting a rebooting body. "An honest answer. Don't think that because of what happened—"

"Jules." Smiles at her. Small and reassuring. Wishes he could offer her something concrete. All he can do is watch the battle within her eye. Answer questions the best he can about hypothetical situations. It's not going to be enough. Nothing is. "I can only answer the question if you want to ask it."

"Do the guys think—"

Sits straight. Hands falling from draping over his knees. Eyes center on her face and don't move. If there was an earthquake, they won't move. If that stupid rookie cop came back he'd grab the loose gun from his holster and shoot him without taking his eyes from hers. "No."

"You don't even know what—"

"Yes I do." His voice is calm. Too calm. Eerily calm. The kind of calm that sociopaths use before they unleash pent up violence. Blinks. Finally blinks. Somebody put these ideas in her head. Something's been tampering with her. "You asked me before."

"Why are you angry?" Furious inside without showing it to the same effect, she's struggling. Has to feel like this, like she provoked this, like she's alone in this. What would Lew have done? He would've cried. He would've done everything he said, and then he would've gone home and cried like a fucking baby, because that's what he did.

"I'm not—I'm not angry at you." Hand shields his face. The headache roaming behind his eyes. Chewing on nerve ends and slumbering in sinuses. Doesn't remember the last time he slept. It was definitely before Lew. Maybe sometime in Ocho Rios. On the ocean. In the waterfall. Face down in the sand because he travels like shit. "Something made you feel this way. You shouldn't. You didn't do anything wrong."

"How am I supposed to feel?" Shrugs, it's nonchalant but the wall she's created behind her eyes is crumbling. Tears are welling. There's another shudder in her lower lip and he wonders if she can even feel it. If her lip has that function anymore. If she can feel it over the pain in the rest of her face, the rest of her body. Head drops to her lap as the first tear drops down. "Everyone treats me differently, Spike."

Touches her shoulder before he realizes what he's doing. But she doesn't flinch. Doesn't react in any way indicating the trauma she endured. Just lifts her head slowly. A tear trekking over the curve of her cheek. They only bloom from her left eye. Right closed up and under construction. "What do you mean?"

"They don't want anything to do with me. Wordy hasn't said a single word to me. Ed treated me—well he left. Sarge. Sarge won't even look at me. Oh God, and Sam is the exact opposite. He thinks I can't take care of myself now. Like I had a chance and failed. I told him to go away, but—but —but—"

"Jules—"

"No." Lips try to purse together, but bottom one is stuck in concrete. Sleeps with the fishes. Shakes her head and a new tear falls free. "No. I can't—" But she's already calming down. Chest punches regulate to sighs before him. Dirt dyed nose sniffling on repeat. Holds her good arm up. Over. Awkward angled like a bird's wing, bent back in a dead repose.

Phantoms the action of embracing her. The space is too small for his arms to reach towards her. But she mellows in the crook of his elbow. Head facing away from the hallway, towards the Coke slobbered wall tiles. "I can't tell you what the other guys are thinking, all I can tell you is we all handle things differently."

That's when a young woman exits the men's washroom. Clawed fingertips ripping at the bottom of her blue jean skirt, stretching it over scarlet, plump thighs. The bottom of her tight leopard halter top follows. She then runs a taloned thumbnail around the periphery of her round lips. Dark circled eyes dart down each side of the hallway before she clomps away in her heels.

A minute passes and the door to the washroom swings open again. Ed stretches in the doorway before reaching down and zipping up his fly. Doesn't bother scanning either direction before returning to the lobby.

"Some people better than others."

Back                         Home                              Flashpoint Main Page                              Next