Disclaimer: I do not own Flashpoint or any of its characters, nor do I own this song.
A/N: There isn't a distinct timeline for this fic.
Bridge Over Troubled Water
Not one person in the dimly lit bar seemed to be fazed by his sudden presence. He appeared in the doorway, cheeks tinted red from the harsh January wind, eyes scanning the room. As soon as he found the bar, he rushed towards it, rubbing his hands together halfheartedly. He had forgotten his gloves in his work locker; his mind had been elsewhere.
Sam Braddock, dressed foolishly in a fairly light leather jacket, sat himself down on the bar stool and ordered a scotch. He was uncharacteristically eager to feel it burn a path down his throat. He hadn't made a habit of immediately seeking alcohol to calm his nerves after a particularly rough day at Toronto's Strategic Response Unit, and when he did, he was cautious of letting it become a regular occurrence.
Today, he didn't care. He was yearning to feel the burn down his throat just to feel something, so when the bartender obediently set the small glass in front of him, he grabbed it in his fingers quickly and knocked it down, shutting his eyes tensely. The bartender smirked in a sympathetic sort of way and didn't need to be asked for a refill.
"Rough day?" he friendly enquired, eyes on the amber liquid he was pouring. Sam licked his lips and stared at the glass, touching it gingerly, not bothering to look up at the man whose name he didn't really care to know.
Still, he didn't want to be rude, so he managed to utter, "You could say that."
She wouldn't want him to be rude, he realized. She was nice like that. She was polite.
Sam felt an uncomfortable knot form in his throat and his chest clenched tightly. Immediately, he brought the glass to his lips and drank, but only half. He suddenly decided he didn't want to feel anymore, because feeling was painful. He soon found that the more he wanted to be numb, the bigger the knot grew. He could almost feel the hot tears pricking his eyes, but he held them back, blinking a couple of times and drinking the rest of the scotch.
He didn't want to cry, not in that bar. Not in the near-empty bar he had picked on his way home from work that Tuesday night. He could cry in his apartment. Here, he would drink.
"You trying to get yourself drunk?"
Sam hadn't heard the tell-tale clicks of her heels against the bar floor, nor smelled her perfume as she sat down. He could almost laugh; it was too good to be true.
"Well, I hope you call a cab," Jules Callaghan went on fluidly, "We don't need another catastrophe on our hands."
He wanted to shake her, to yell at her. He wanted to scream that it wasn't alright to acknowledge the events like that. He wanted to throw his glass at the wall and let it break. He wanted to make her cry because he couldn't.
And suddenly, he wanted to reach out and pull her into a warm embrace because he was guilty for even entertaining that thought, because he didn't want to hurt her anymore. He wanted to bury his face in her hair and whisper comforting words into her ear. Instead, he stared forward, stared at his empty glass that was due for a refill, stared at faint blood stains on his fingers that hadn't been able to come out.
"Talk to me, Sam," Jules pleaded.
"And say what?" he snapped, his voice low and dangerously emotional.
"Tell me you're alright," she replied hoarsely after a pause, most likely after taken a drink of what he assumed to be beer. She liked beer, wasn't a big fan of hard liquor. Neither was he, but he didn't complain when the bartender returned to him and let the drink fill the glass.
He ran his hand over his face and rubbed his eyes.
"It shouldn't be this way, Jules. You shouldn't be the one checking up on me," he avoided her demand.
Sam sighed heavily when he felt her fingers entwine with his; he turned his head slightly to the other side and shut his eyes. Her hands were cold, almost as cold as his.
He didn't squeeze her hand back, but didn't pull away, either.
"I've got your back," she said quietly. Sam scoffed and shook his head.
"Like I had yours?" he sarcastically countered before taking another sip. He found himself needing the scotch. He wanted her to leave. He wanted to feel the burn alone.
"Jesus, Sam, you can't honestly blame yourself," Jules snapped, taking her hand back.
Sam swallowed hard, fingers gripping his shot glass tightly.
"This wasn't the first time," he mused, voice clear of emotion, "How could I have been so careless—"
He cut himself off abruptly, sharply intaking a breath. Images of Jules bleeding on a rooftop, choking for air, rushed through his mind. That day had been painfully sunny, a stark contrast to the grey gloom and red anger he'd been feeling.
Today had been white. The sky had been white; the clouds cruelly let snow fall over the city. He had held her, calling her name desperately, ignoring the worried comments his teammates were making over the communication link. He had held her tightly until someone rushed towards them. He believed it had been their team leader, Ed Lane, but he wasn't sure anymore. He had been staring at her lifeless eyes to avoid staring at the blood, the blood which was staining the snow.
He wondered if it was still there.
"Why are you here?" he asked, his voice cracking. "Why do you care?"
He imagined her rolling her eyes because he was still too afraid to look beside him.
"What kind of question is that?" she patronizingly responded. "I care because you were my friend, and you loved me."
Sam's head snapped to her direction, only to be met with an cold, empty bar stool. He snorted and bit his bottom lip, turning back to his drink.
"You're right, Jules," he muttered, downing what was left in the glass. "Yeah, I love you."
He sat for a few more moments, but didn't order another drink or say a word. He thought of Jules Callaghan, thought of the way her eyes fluttered when he kissed her jaw in the morning, thought of the taste of the protein mango breakfast smoothie she had served to him, and thought of the quiet, but comfortable car ride they shared to work.
He thought of ordinary things to distract him from the blood on the snow and the blood on his hands.
Sam supposed he would miss their friendship the most.
"When you're weary, feeling small, when tears are in your eyes, I will dry them all. I'm on your side when times get rough and friends just can't be found; like a bridge over troubled water, I will lay me down." —Simon & Garfunkel