SONANT & SURD
A/N: Hey Guys. Here it is, the fabled sequel to 'Aphonous'. Like Aphonous I gather the title will be looked up many times. This is because I purposefully search through the dictionary until I find words I like. I'm just kidding. I'm an English major and as such had to do all the courses in phonetics and the great vowel shift, and diphthongs and the schwa (WHAT?) and all that useless crap you really don't need to know about. I figured why not put it to use. However, I will stay away from information from my other classes because no one likes a philosophical or feminist ranting Shiggity. Diclaimer: Don't own Flashpoint Sonant & Surd Chapter 1 Nothing But Circles She doesn't want to get up. The bed is finally comfortable after a night of rotating like a chicken on a skewer. Sleeping like sunbathing at the beach, trying to even out her tone. Some phantom bunch of sheets rests in the curve of her spine and her limbs have gone numb with the level of unconsciousness she's achieved. He's finally disappeared from the mattress indent beside her, which means it's nearing or past nine in the morning, which means she's behind schedule because the guys are coming to pick her up at eleven. She can't factor sleeping with him now, beside him, in the same bed as him. His body constantly seeks out hers as the shadows creep around the baseboards. She's already attached to another human being, she can't comfort and care for him too. He already made it perfectly clear he didn't want her too anyway. She rolls off the bed. Much like a full bottle of scotch off the kitchen counter, or the way lumberjacks kick dismembered trees into rivers, or how plump and whiskered walruses flop off of glaciers and into arctic waters. Revolves until chubby, piggy feet hit the ground. She always stumbles forward a bit like a drunk. Her center of gravity changes every day because her weight keeps increasing. If her weight was a stock, people would be cashing in on this pregnancy. Hand slaps the wall to stop the momentum she's gaining, another touches the grin of skin escaping between where the long-sleeved shirt she permanently borrowed from Sam doesn't quite reach his sweats, another piece of pilfered clothing. They still can't afford much more than the basics, food and shelter, although he did return from France with a nice little severance for being deep fried within the army base's walls. They also let him stay free in the apartment for the month he chose to remain behind. He told her to go shopping, told her he'd go with her assuming she was too nervous or chicken shit to go on her own. She communicated to keep the money for when they need it. Neither of them have jobs, and there's going to be something the baby needs or a mortgage payment they're eventually not going to be able to make. She ambles to the bathroom where she pees. Pees for an absurdly long time that could put racing horses and savannah animals to shame even though less than two hours ago she was up and in this bathroom peeing. Vomiting. It's so nice of the morning sickness to finally realize it was happening at night. Now because the jetlag has worn off, vomiting happens every morning, like clockwork, tick tick tick blargh. Chunks of whatever Sam picked up for dinner last night sticks to the inside of the bowl. Sometimes Sam hears her, jumps out of bed and does a move similar to a highly paid baseball player sliding into home base to sit beside her and barrage her with questions. Are you okay? Is it bad? Do you want some water? Is there anything I can do? Other times he just rubs her back while she leans exhausted against the rim of the seat, eyes barely open, arm stretched out beside her head. He tells her it'll be okay and strokes in continuous circles, never an 's' pattern or squares. Nothing but circles. This morning he slept right through her throwing up the Chinese food from last night. The noodles were still intact because she devoured a carton and a half of them. Inhaled noodles because she was that hungry. Actions like that don't bode well for their relationship, him sleeping through her inebriated early morning trudging to the bathroom followed by the violent impact of mounds of noodles firing into the toilet bowl. The fact she can't sleep while he's in the same bed as her doesn't bode well for their relationship. They're not circling the drain yet, but they're definitely in the water. She showers, manages to miss her reflection in all the mirrors. The fog helps; she just looks like some mythological beast, only glimpses of too much skin mid-strut, like Big Foot. She half dries her hair and twists it into a messy bun on the back of her head. She's only going to see Sarge, not the Pope. He'll understand why she doesn't look amazing for her own partial homecoming. Then she feels guilty about her lack of hair perfection and puts on her makeup the way she used to do it, the way before her eyes got too puffy with pregnancy and sunken with no sleep. She could almost past for Last Year Jules. But her stomach is huge, bath towels don't fit around her body anymore. It was huge before, now it's on the verge of insanity. The contour of her body looks like a capital 'B'. All breasts and belly. All boobs and baby. All a strain on her near broken back and she's only seven months along. Old Faithful maternity jeans are starting to fail. It's a struggle to get them on over her thighs which are finally catching on to the rest of her body's fat content. But she likes conflict, used to deal with conflict for a living a million and one lifetimes ago. She parks the pants on her hips and sighs when they barely zip up. She might need to stitch in a new section to elongate the waist and the thought of it immediately makes her stomach upset. She pulls a large white tunic over her head; it bunches in the infinitesimal dip between breasts and belly. The shirt covers her jean mishap but only accentuates the bump. The stairs creak underneath her weight now, they squeal with her descent. They offer Sam a premature warning of her arrival and she hears him whisper curses underneath his breath as he struggles with the television remote clinging between the couch cushions. Wants to erases any evidence he might have been checking out hockey scores on TSN. As she reaches the landing she witnesses him toss the remote nonchalantly to the cushion furthest from him and open a baby book splayed across the arm of the couch. The action should annoy her. She's the one experiencing this pregnancy thing first hand. She's about three baby books ahead of him. Knows the baby can suck its thumb now, has an ultrasound picture that proves it. Knows her back is going to tense the hell up during labor, which is why she's started stretching and exercising more. Going for light morning jogs much to Sam's horror. Anything that involves her not lying on the couch he's immediately against. He doesn't like her walking down the stairs without adult supervision. He tries to be omnipresent like a crazy voice in her head. But this action is more endearing to her. Sets them up in a romantic long-lasting relationship. He cares enough about her to hide the fact that he really wants to watch a hockey game instead of reading his third 'pregnancy for the daddy' book which she can understand. They all say the same thing anyway. She should be terrified. He should just do whatever she tells him too. Well if that happened seven months ago she might be able to put on her own shoes right now. It's so embarrassing. As she begins the last leg of stairs, he glances casually over the edge of the couch, like he's just spotted her even though she's basically rampaging like a rhino through the house. Even though she knows for a fact he knew what room she was in, when she was in it, and for how long. He worries when she's behind closed doors for too long. Some prior injury is going to swallow her and the baby up whole from behind that door. She knows it's because she can't yell for help. "Morning Sweetheart." He grins at her. Smile wide and honest because he's that happy to see her. It reaches up and touches his eyes. His right eye only has the slightest red and orange puckering of skin where he was burned. He saw her the night before. Attempted to hold her all night long and now less than eight hours later he's this excited to see her. They meet in the neutral zone at the bottom of the stairs in the lip between the kitchen and the living room. He touches her cheek, well her chin, well both because her cheek, chin and jaw have puffed out and fused into the same body part. His lips brush gently against hers, open briefly and kiss again before pulling away. He kisses as a greeting every time he spots her now. Like a month separated by an ocean can be rinsed away by undulating lips. He's still smiling; thumb caressing over her bloated face. "You look gorgeous." It's absolute bullshit. She looks like shit. She's tired as hell. Has been sleeping less than three hours a night from pain, discomfort and a legal husband statically clinging to her. Everything in her body is swollen or puffy. Pallid and thick like a waterlogged decomposing body that just washes up on the shore of their bedroom every morning. But he doesn't flinch when he speaks the words, doesn't turn away from her as they leave his throat and travel to her ears. The words hold merit, at least to him, and she wonders to what extent they're really true. His hand rubs her stomach through the shirt and the baby awakens within her. It has a solid sleeping schedule. She likes to stick to it. Sam likes to disrupt it with belly rubs, stories, kisses; anything to wake up the baby who plays her internal organs like it's a heavy metal drummer. He fingers the moderate material on her shirt. "Isn't this a little light for the weather?" Halfway through November it still hasn't snowed, the temperature is almost resting in the positive double digits because the weather is going through menopause. It's having hot flashes. She's going to wear her coat, which won't do up and somehow succeed in shoving her feet into boots that haven't fit for almost a month. "Are these the same jeans? Jules you need new pants. A pair of jeans cannot cost—" With a docile snort she waddles away from him, retrieving her purse from the loveseat and her boots and coat from the closet. "Okay, okay. I'm sorry." He surrenders way to easily now. Just rolls over, a turtle on his back in the middle of a slimy alley at the first chance of an argument. Maybe he's afraid if she gets too agitated she might pop out his kid right on their living room floor. "Just come sit down. I'll make you some breakfast." Nope. No time. She taps her naked wrist three times to indicate she's short on time and shrugs on her black winter coat which is stretching through the fabric of time. Soon, not today but very soon she's going to hear the back rip, because she can barely fight it on anymore. Her protruding belly doesn't allow it to close, not the zipper, not the buttons, not even the waist tie. "No, Jules you need to eat." Tapping her wrist two short times again, she purses her lips, points to the door and sits on the ottoman. She rolls back, the kinetics carrying her, ebbing her in an ocean of her own perpetual motion from being massive. Her feet need to end up in these boots and it needs to happen before the guys get here to pick her up. "Jules, just come have something quick. A piece of toast or—anything." She ignores him, ends up half on her back trying to pull on boots that look like they've been run over by a garbage truck. Her hands can barely reach the bottom of her legs and actually getting her foot through the portal of the boot is based purely on luck. "Take something with you at least." His voice grows distant. There's clinking and clanging in the kitchen and she wonders what he's doing, but finally her barefoot makes contact with faded felt. She yanks on the sides of the boot, feeling quite accomplished only to realize too late that the left boot is on her right foot. She wants to throw everything in the room out the front window, go back upstairs, close all the blinds and just eat chicken in bed. "Here." Sam returns, crouches before her like Prince Charming, except he removes the boot from her deformed foot. His arm scoops around the middle of her back, gathers her upwards, supports her contorted mess of a spine. If she had a voice she'd be bitching at him. Probably for a lot of things. About how neither of them have jobs. About how this isn't how she saw her life playing out. About how she's a big girl, in many senses, and how she can put on her own goddamn shoes. But she doesn't have a voice, doesn't have much but his arm holding up her thigh and his hand encircling her doughy foot and guiding it into the boot. She starts to roll backwards, a natural movement like the continental drift and her hand darts forward to rest against the wide expanse of muscles where his neck, shoulders and back convene. He's warm under her cold fingertips. He automatically holds her foot tighter, reaches forward to straighten her. Pulls her closer to the edge of the ottoman. Both boots go on without another hitch, without crinkled, pudgy toes rebelling and hooking on the edges. Without left being mistaken for right. Her hand rubs at the muscles in the back of his neck. She's surprised by the tightness she finds, the tenseness. He leans the side of his head against her stomach, forehead resting on what's left of her thigh. "I'll get a job by the end of the month." She was never pressuring him to get one. They have little piles of savings in random places, they'd be okay for maybe a year like this, but they'd have to tighten their belt a lot. No more take out, no more new clothes for anyone she didn't give birth to, no more new anything for anyone unless she gave birth to them. Her finger traces the untouched area behind his ear. Remembers when it was smudged with blue paint. She doesn't want him to fall into the traditional role of 'breadwinner', just like she doesn't want to be juggling five children, hand him a martini when he gets home and smile brightly while she rots away inside. "I just wanted a little time to be with you after being away from you for so long." She knows these words are genuine. She sort of hiccups and sobs back tears because her emotions are as varied as the peaks and dives on a heart monitor. Her stomach jiggles, rousing his attention and he notices her finger snap change in emotion. "Hey, hey." He leans forward, brushes his cheek against hers. Whispers inaudible words into her ear as she touches his far cheek, holds him to her. She nuzzles her cheek to his, burrows her nose in his neck and lets him comfort her for the first time since he's returned. Part of it feels natural, like they've always belonged together, like she's complete with him telling her how much he loves her. That's how it always was. But now there's a lingering stench, like a cigarette smoke sullies the relationship for her. Telling her this is what they had before he turned on her and she left. Before he lashed out because he couldn't be the helpless one and she retreated because she was exhausted of always being the helpless one. He has no idea what the fuck he's doing. He knew coming back to Jules would be a dangerous, if not a life threatening feat. But the alternative was unbearable. He lived for one month. Four weeks, a little shy of thirty days without her in France and everyday he went a little more insane with concern. A little more forlorn because every single inch of that apartment reminded him of her. He lay awake in the bed because she wasn't there next to him, he had macabre flashbacks to when she was in the hospital, her fate left unknown and he was forced to continue on with his life in the real world like everything was fine. Then his fatigued mind began connecting dots and he wondered, still wonders, if he's the cause of her silence. If she's not talking purely because of his presence, or of the decisions he made as her emergency contact. Jules never talks about her family. Didn't before and doesn't now for more obvious reasons. But she feels betrayed by them, and what he did at the hospital, well if it wasn't a direct homage to something her dad has done, well it certainly brought up memories. Even though she's welcomed him back, allowed him to stay at her house, their relationship changed. She's entirely receptive of him when he wants to interact with the baby, and he knows it's because she's already a good mom. She wanted to be a mom for a long time, but he thinks she would have liked it better if they'd planned for the baby. Despite her preferences, she lets him touch her stomach, rub it, talk to it, listen to it, kiss it because this baby is theirs and they only have one chance not to screw it up. But if he wants to be intimate with her, she's a completely different person. She doesn't respond the way she used to when he's near her. When he wants to hold her hand, or kiss her or cuddle with her. She shifts away, almost uneasy with the whole action. He understands the whole physicality of the pregnancy and how uncomfortable she must constantly feel. But he doesn't think the lack of contact stems from her pregnancy, he thinks it was born in a hospital room in France when he took out all the anger he's been dealing with his entire life on her. She refuses to wear her rings, refuses to change her driver's license and any other personal identification even though he volunteered to do the paperwork for her. Refuses to acknowledge anything to do with the wedding. The plant he bought as her bouquet sits on a windowsill in the hardly used downstairs bathroom. He waters it, keeps it alive, but it's starting to wilt. He's starting to worry he was only accepted back into her life for the sake of their baby. Maybe she thinks he only returned for the sake of their baby. Nothing could be further from the truth. When he talked to the psychiatrist in France, the doctor asked him why he wanted to continue on in a relationship with Jules. Why she was so important to have in his life. It wasn't meant to be a negative question, merely one out of curiosity. He flipped out. She is his life. She gave up everything for him, her job, her home, her future. There wasn't anything he wouldn't give up for her. Maybe being away from her for the month in a semi-blurred world made him too needy. Every time he sees her he wants to kiss her. Not in a sexual way, in a way where he just wants to be with her, just wants to hold her. Just wants to make sure she's still here with him, because he's starting to think one day he'll wake up and she won't be. She's his wife whether she'll admit to it or not. He shouldn't force it upon her, he won't but in the deep, dark crevices of his brain he fanaticizes about one day calling her that again, this time in English. Now he stands in the middle of a boutique. Perhaps the creepiest boutique ever constructed because all of the mannequins are forever impregnated. Frozen in plastic with fake plastic babies in their stomachs. Then his mind resets to its second, but equally popular daydream after a happy reconciliation with Jules. Their baby. Regardless of the shitstorm, he's still going to be a daddy. The baby is going to call him that at one point, and he won't know what to do with the rapture of emotions. He thinks about their baby all the time. What it will be like, who it will look like, whether it will be a boy or a girl. Whatever its gender or its genetic makeup, he's going to love it unconditionally, do everything the opposite of what The General did. Definitely steer them away from the army, the navy, the air force, the police force, the SRU and anything where there's a death rate. Wouldn't they rather be a librarian? He thinks so. "Umm, can I help you?" A young girl, younger than Natalie and something tells him a lot less polite blindsides him. She's leggy; her long dark hair clipped back and pushed up to make it look high on her head. She also has one of those orange tans girls seem to think work for them. She's the exact kind of girl he would have gone for five years ago until he saw Jules cleaning a sniper rifle. "Yeah, my wife is pregnant and she needs a new pair of maternity jeans." He doesn't even think twice about calling her his wife. It's what she is to him. She's the mother and sanctuary to his baby and no matter how furious this might make her later on; she deserves to be as comfortable as he can afford to make her. "Okay?" The girl swerves her head around him, obviously looking for the pregnant party, but Jules is hanging out with the boys today. It's ironic. "She's not here." He almost sighs. Feels like washing a hand over his face because Jules might have a better chance at explaining the situation without any words than he will with full use of his vocal cords. "It's really better if she's here, that way we can measure her to make sure we have the right size." "I know what size she has now. She needs at least two sizes up, maybe more because she still has a few months to go." "We could work from that." The girl nods and retreats back to the counter to check sizes apparently aspiring to the challenge. "It's still better if she comes in." He leans against the counter and mutters under his breath, "She doesn't want anything for herself, but she needs these jeans. She deserves to be comfortable." And that does it for him. The girl's face cracks into an admirable smile and she leads him around the boutique on his journey for the perfect pair of maternity jeans. Less than half an hour later he's leaving the store with jeans which should comfortably fit Jules until their baby is born. No more tight red line bisecting the vertical dark line already present on her stomach. It makes it look like there's a crosshair on her stomach right at her pokey belly button. He's only been out for an hour, but he has to paint all the furniture for the nursery because if he doesn't today, Jules will want to help. He understands she isn't going to remain stationary for the next few months, but she doesn't need to surround herself with chemicals from the paint. It's bad enough she's pregnant, but her history with chemicals leaves her reaction unknown. It could trigger something in her lungs and he doesn't want to have to rush her to the hospital, have her go into an early labor and then spend the next two months visiting her and their baby simultaneously at the hospital. Of course everyone else thinks he's completely overreacting. She rolls her eyes at him when he tells her it's cold outside, or to be careful on the stairs because there's a harsh ninety degree turn and she's packing a good twenty pounds on the front of her. Or when he tells her to eat something because she's pregnant. But instead she rebels. Does the opposite of what his voice, shaky from the force of his thumping heart, is merely suggesting she do. While she was struggling with her boots today he shoved all the food he could into her purse. Three granola bars, a bottle of water, crackers, an orange. If she gets hungry she gets tired. If she gets tired she needs to rest. If she's with the guys she won't because she'll appear weak even though she's the only one creating a baby. Jules still cares about being strong. Lost her voice, lost the opportunity to return to her job, lost her life as a single woman, lost the freedom of having a slim body all to herself. She obviously doesn't care what he thinks. Doesn't care what strangers on the street think when they see a crescent of skin peeking from the stomach she failed to cover because all of her longer shirts are in the laundry. Doesn't care what the doctor thinks when she sighs at his recommendations for keeping a healthy body and a healthy baby. But she still cares what four men from Team One think. Earlier that day she became fully receptive of him, allowed him to finally help her. She tries to be as independent as she can because asking for help is a form of weakness. It's always been that way with Jules. But part of him is starting to think she's lost faith in him. It took her a week to let him help with her shoes. She won't let him cook for her, won't let him do the laundry, and even though he knows her back is always aching, she won't let him touch her. She walks with a pronounced waddle due to her weight, but when her back hurts, she slouches to the side. At a few minutes past eleven, Ed came to the door to get her. Probably would have phoned from the driveway if she could still talk. Probably would have phoned from the driveway if they knew he was back. His old team leader looked the same, a little surprised to see him or maybe to see just how big Jules could grow in a week. Ed looked a little blurry from his right eye. He pretended not to notice. Managed to hand snack filled purse to Jules, rested a gentle hand on her stomach and placed a light kiss on her cheek. "Tell Sarge I say 'Hi'." Her face flushed with the actions. Maybe public displays of affection weren't big in the Callaghan household. He wonders how he's ever going to find out about her past. Used to think she'd tell him one day, talk to him about the trials and tribulations of growing up in The Hat. But now he's not so sure. He thought she'd be talking by now. All he's gotten was a pleasurable grunt a week ago. He detected her discomfort, recovered for her so she didn't turn to Ed embarrassed. "Sit in the backseat, behind the driver." She rolled her eyes, nodded, hiked her purse up higher on her arm, and shooed him off without a second glance. He watched her waddle over the walkway, she slouched slightly to the right side, coat open because it won't close. Spike hopped out of the van, briefly connected eyes with him, added confused eyebrows before his old teammate helped her into the backseat where she pointed. "So you decided to come back, huh?" Ed leaned in the door frame. Arms crossed over his chest, jaw set and eyes narrowed. "I wasn't really the one who decided to leave," he replied with a light laugh. "Really?" The muscles in Ed's arms twitched a little tighter around his chest. His body shifted forward with the inclination in his voice. "Because the way I see it, you took her to another country when she couldn't talk, knocked her up and then left her." "I took her there to recover." It seemed like such an obvious decision at the time. Such a positive decision at the time. Like the whole thing would have been one big long honeymoon except she got depressed, and then every time he tried to help, she got a little better, but eventually just more depressed. Then she got pregnant. His hand was on the doorframe. He knew it showcased the ring, knew Ed saw it. "We actually got married if that means anything." "Hmmm." Ed mulled over this new information. Adjusted arms and glanced to the van where Spike attempted to shut the passenger door while shouting something about the seatbelt going under. "All I know is you didn't get to see her while you were still on vacation. How tired and sick and distraught she was. You got to stay in France while she didn't get a break from being pregnant and trying to scrape things back together." "I needed to deal with a few things." Ed didn't need to know the extent of his prolonged stay in France. In fact he's surprised Jules was able to convey that much to the guys. Grateful she didn't tell them about his run in with a bomb and faulty vision. "I'm sorry I had to stay. I came back as soon as I could. I'm here now. I'm here for good." The van honked three times, headlights flashed. Spike leaned over Raf and Jules, pounded the steering wheel then scrolled down the driver's window. "Ed this place closes at five." "You'd better take care of her." "I love her." "And the baby." "That goes without saying." Ed seemed to accept this, or the fact that Spike's raucous calls from the car were only growing in volume and bawdy nature. "She may not have any real family to tell you this, but she has five guys from Team One who will kick your ass if you hurt her again." "I know." Ed paused on the walk, called over his shoulder, "You can come with us you know." "Nah, you guys have had this planned." Stomach a little coiled, a little nervous about the idea of her driving somewhere, anywhere with anyone who wasn't him. He didn't want to intrude on Jules' independence no matter how much he'd be wringing his hands, or checking his phone for texts over the next few hours. Plus the guys were her friends before he came along, he didn't want to tread on any plans they made while he was absent. "I've got furniture to paint anyway." Next Chapter - Reunions galore. Jules deals with a Team One reunion. Sam deals with a girl who bears foreboding news.
Now then the title as you may have guessed if you've skimmed over the author's note (and good for you, I would have too) is Sonant & Surd. Or if you're SYuuri, Sonant & Turd. Personally, I like her title more.
I'll put up a brief warning and say that like in all my stories and my real life, this story will involve a fair amount of swearing. However, unlike my real life, it sadly will not be as creative.
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