A/N:This is a 'oneshot' I've had on my hard drive since October, but never had the time to finish. It takes place definitely before the finale, but I guess it incorporates elements of 5x08.
I made this a 'two-shot' because it was growing too big, there was space for a cliff hanger, and this will give me the time I need to finish off the second section, which is more than half written.
For queries about my other stories, please see my profile for details.
Disclaimer: Don't own Flashpoint.
Groceries and Linens
It was supposed to be simple.
Like her sojourn to The Hat. A weeklong blink spent with her father and brood of sweat stained dirt trailing brothers, except Allen who opted out of the farmer life to run a bed and breakfast in town. The main topic of course was the unexpected guest in her own bed and breakfast. The result of a slip up in protection, in too little objection.
Brothers bristled around her, an overprotective ring fourteen weeks too late. Was she okay? how did she feel? Who was the guy? Sam? Well, where the hell was he? Was he going to marry her? Did she want them to make him marry her? When they found out she flew in from Toronto, they got the vapors. Should she be flying? Did she want a ride back? Should she be drinking that? Washing the dishes? Standing? Go sit Jules, we got this.
Eyes trailed from under scowly brows. Mountain man whiskers worn prairie style hardened her father's gray eyes. Grandchildren river pebble common. Different shapes, colors and sizes. Left the peeling front door of her farmhouse youth and he patted her shoulder, then poked the gentle slope at her stomach. A new protrusion only one week old. A solid manifestation of their child Sam hadn't witnessed yet.
"Take care of them." Sam stroked her stomach at the airport. All of her carry-ons slung around his shoulder except for the one his fingers strummed. Refused to unlatch from her body.
"Take care of it," her father suggested in withered farmer years, bald tires gnawing gravel. Rounded fingertip jabbed into her navel.
Arrived back in Toronto a few hours ago to an empty house. The Team on shift. A slow April night spent patrolling or throwing weights in a skyline lit room. The house smelled of flowers, furniture polish, floor cleaner and empty garbage bins. He cleaned predicting her arrival and probable jetlag. He stocked the fridge predicting her need to eat for two.
Crystal ball crashed on cravings. Wanted cereal. Needed cereal. Loops of crispy fruit flavors soggy in a bowl of chocolate milk sounded like a description of culinary heaven. Could call Sam, tell him her qualm and beg him to pick up the only two things he didn't buy on his first grocery trip.
Or she could go herself.
Which was how she ended up walking down a grocery store aisle at ten o'clock at night. Cart lazily swaying with the groove of her ebbing hips. How much cereal to get? How much chocolate milk? She needed antacid tablets because everything she ate before noon gave her biting heartburn, just swells of acid corroding her stomach, chest and throat.
A chime rang from inside her purse plumped in the cart seat. In a year, whoever she grew would sit in the cart seats. She grinned, had to grin, Sam trying to control whoever sat there and failing madly. Grazed her shirt which seemed more form fitted than a mere week ago, the tip of her stomach practically strangled it. She was probably bloated. Was it even possible to be bloated and pregnant at the same time? She needed to look it up in the mountain of unread baby books at home.
"Hello?"
"Hey," Sam sighed relief. "You never called me when you landed."
"Oh God." He disconnected from her in a Medicine Hat airport with the promise of her calling the minute the plane landed on Toronto tarmac. "I'm so sorry. I completely forgot. I guess I just got pregnancy brain."
"Yeah?" A grin stretched his voice, and his phone jostled between proud hands. They still hadn't told the Team. Number one on the baby to-do list since she would need a new uniform at this rate. "How are you feeling?"
"Big." Traced her stomach again, the dramatic fall of skin. Just warming it up for him. A middle-aged man darted across the aisle, cut her off, but the verbal reunion created an untouchable calm.
"Bigger than three days ago?" When they last talked. Treated her Hat homecoming like a final vacation before the baby. His final taste of bachelorhood. Limited communications.
"Huge. I'm destroying this shirt." Did she want the name brand circle crunches of fruit, or the no name brand? They started budgeting for the baby. An immediate baby fund for a nursery and décor, a crib, car seat, bassinet, clothes, diapers. Then a college fund. Dr. Braddock had a nice ring to it.
Groaned into the phone. Clattered against his skin, hissed with his harsh exhalation. "I can't wait to see you."
"You've got less than an hour, right?" The feeling mutual. Ducked her flushed cheek as a tall elderly man reached for oatmeal nearby. Tipped his cap and returned her grin.
"Two, we have to cover for—"
"Management to cashier two. Management to cashier two."
"Where are you?"
"The grocery store." Fingered the corner of a red box off the shelf. Single or family-sized. Were they a family yet? Was she a mobile family?
"I bought groceries."
"Not cereal."
"I bought cer—"
"Not the kind I wanted." A blackness darted by the end of the aisle. The quickness, the blur, a mislead blink. An irregular formation of colors in a jetlagged, pregnant mind.
His throaty chuckle dragged her back into the dampened phone conversation. Red box thumped into the cart stomach. "God I missed you."
"Come on, you must've enjoyed your bachelor life. That house all—" Feedback screeched above ceiling perched speakers, then mellowed to the sounds of a scuffle at the front of the store.
"Empty. It was empty without you two."
"Sam." Back straightened, tightened. Feet softened over linoleum surface in smooth, urgent steps. Flattened to the aisle edge, peered to no avail. "Something's—"
"I don't want to be a bachelor. I've been thinking about it and I think we should get m—"
Cold stalk of a barrel burrowed into the base of her skull. Leather gloved hand grasped the bottom of the phone; lips rippled a black cotton ski mask.
"Let go of the phone, Lady."
Two gunshots rang out from the store front. From the cashier area. From cashier two. Her elbow drilled into a lean stomach and the gun barrel tipped up. The man grunted into black cotton soaked with spittle.
"Sam?"
"Are you okay? What's going on?"
Jogged to the opposite aisle end. Glanced left for more masked men. Then right. "The store's being held up. There's—"
Never thought to double check behind.
Hot hand on her shoulder slammed her into the shelves. Oatmeal and cereal shuddered to the floor. Hand crashed to her face. More than a slap, not quite a closed fist. A hybrid. Herself a hybrid. A cop, a sexy sniper chick, a mother. A decision of a bare knuckle brawl with a man who had a foot of height and thirty pounds of muscle on her.
Lost all her years as a cop, lost her SRU officer instinct, because someone else relied on her. She couldn't be a cop and a mother, not right now. Not without padding and vests and sidearms and backup. Squeaked out a submission at a second raised fist. Shoulder hunched to her face, arms wrapped around her stomach. Phone clattered to linoleum, fingers liquefied.
"Jules? Jules? Sweetheart—" Sam refused to unlatch from her. But the man's boot heel mashed her phone into circuits and wires.
Her name a swan song.
It was supposed to be simple.
Red lights spun topsy-turvy through the grinning store windows. Red pooled at cashier two. A single bullet execution-style claimed the clerk and the assistant manager. Their bodies limp and heavy. Blood wrung fingertips whorled across register keys.
The phone rang for the twenty-third time.
Harsh steel dug into her skin. Unsupported, her back sagged, her muscles smoked, curved to the gaps between the shelves. Hand not hot in abuse but cool in self-assurance, rivered lines across her navel. Told whoever was in there to be patient—Sam would stroke her stomach, would marvel at the change, would talk to their child. Told whoever her body housed this was just a small clench in plans. Ride it out little one.
After he hit her, the sock-faced man shepherded her to the front of an aisle. He and his partner, the dominant of the pair, the one with the trigger finger, shared gruff words before the hot hands disappeared into the back warehouse.
To her left sat the oatmeal snatching old man. His long legs bent off the floor, bones aggravated by arthritis. He remained silent, face a weather worn boulder, but every fifteen minutes or so, he'd smile softly as her hand drifted.
A middle-aged, sweaty man hunched a few feet away from them. Detached from the group. His face smeared in a slimy glow as his tongue kept rewetting his lower lip. She pegged him as a business man, unmarried but probably with a younger girlfriend. Someone used to being in a power position, not being forced a subordinate. Yeah, join the club.
The phone rang for the thirtieth time.
Wondered if her team swayed beyond the scattered lights. If Sam rooted himself to the damp asphalt and stared into the store with a set jaw. Sometimes his jaw set so hard the muscles twitched.
The night before she left, he crawled into bed after a brief bar excursion with the guys. She excused herself, had to pack, actually had to pack but carried pure exhaustion on her shoulders from sitting in the back of the truck all day. Almost fell asleep in the shower. Blared music on the way home and cracked windows to let in invigorating April air. Fell asleep on the stairs while she took her shoes off.
The night should've been romantic and passionate. A week apart was a week apart. Stretches of land separated them as her skin stretched to incorporate pieces of them. Meant to enjoy the final night before their brief split. But all she could manage was an angled reciprocation as he dropped his body next to her. He kissed her shoulder, then her cheek before his hand curled around her navel. Cushioned her whole stomach, baby and all.
The phone rang for the forty-first time.
"You need to answer the phone."
Handgun clicked and aimed in response. The sweaty man stopped his fidgets. The older man shifted closer. Warned, an hour ago-maybe two, to be silent. Be still. Sniper breathing tummy rubs.
But if the phone remained unanswered, both parties unmet, then they remained in this stalemate. These men already killed twice. Nothing, including the cops outside, would stop them if a plan formulated around killing. "If you don't answer the phone, they'll find another way to communicate."
"Really?" Sock cotton rolled over a mouth. Voice muffled and hoarse. Bald tires and a gravel road. Take care of it. The gun never faltered as he approached her. Only grew more stabilized, directly in line with her forehead. A sudden sound, a muscle spasm and belly rubs wouldn't mean a thing. "And how would you know this?"
The insinuated stench stronger than gun smoke. The idea she might be a cop. The truth she is a cop. The reality of what would happen if she spoke honest words. Instead answered with half-truths. "My boyfriend's a cop."
Her family is cops.
Outside feedback hissed.
"This is Sergeant Gregory Parker with the strategic response unit—"
It was supposed to be simple.
The whole hostage situation could've been diffused with the simple use of a smoke grenade. Separated, the subjects become weakened. The agitated man on the phone who pumped his gun in the air would've tasted linoleum before smoke bled through the vents. But no smoke happened, because the bump under her shirt happened. It rested so perfectly against the palm of her hand she couldn't really give blame.
"No. You listen. I want all of your shit—" Muffled screams filtered through the black cotton and into the mouthpiece of the phone. Gun waved unnaturally, like a traffic light caught in a strong gust. "your cars and your vans— gone."
The old man nudged her shoulder with his. Her hands stilled on her stomach, but he greeted her with a grin. "Your boyfriend must be worried."
"Yeah," she nodded, stole his grin. No one knew her job, her experience, her role as cement shoes. But the old man was right about Sam. Must be in constant view of the building, in the truck with Spike's eyes in, inside the unsmokey air vents. "He's never going to let me grocery shop again."
"You have ten minutes."
"Some women would consider that a victory."
"Some women don't enjoy their freedom as much as me." She spoke with a palm full of baby belly, essentially the death of her freedom. Shackled lifelong career change. A different kind of freedom, a different kind of liberty. She'd still be a good cop; she was just on protection duty for the next six months.
"Ten minutes or someone dies."
"Is this your first?"
First what? Hostage situation? No been in hundreds, maybe even thousands. Her pregnancy was the surreal aspect of this day. Sat in the window seat of a plane as tuffs of clouds streamed by and positioned earphones around her stomach. Wanted to see if they would fit, bubble burst as they fell slack pumping a playlist Sam created to keep her company. They probably couldn't hear yet anyway.
"Yeah, this is our—"
Wetness splattered across her face. Beside her the old man fell slack, crumbled against the shelves. Eyes glossed open, vacant, rolled. Mouth hooked and gaped.
The subject's eyes more lifeless. Never dallied from the new corpse. He cocked his gun, smoke wisped from the barrel as he shot at the landline. "They're not going to move."