A/N: Hey guys. I'm back with the sequel to Domino Theory. Hopefully you've been waiting patiently for it. If you've been impatiently waiting for it, I hope you didn't do too much property damage. A few quick notes about the story. It takes place the Sunday-Monday after DT (which was a Friday). It's written in the shorter story format to again, save my mind. If there was anything you wanted expanded on more (either you didn't understand it, or you'd love to see a oneshot of it) please feel free to review about it or PM me about it. On a less author-notey like statement, congrats to all Americans for the official repeal of 'Don't Ask, Don't Tell'.
Disclaimer: If I owned anything, I wouldn't be in debt.
Don't Ask, Don't Tell
Chapter 1
The Long Weekend
His foot hangs over the arm of the leather couch. At least he'll be able to keep his couch. He likes this couch. He doesn't know why Jules hates it so much. It's modern and fits the style of his apartment. The style before his little sister moved in and started leaving tank tops and short shorts all over the place. He told her to keep her shit in her room. Not her room, his spare room. Somehow her inappropriate clothing has bled into his living room.
The couch fit his style before Jules semi-moved in and brought along a few of her essential things. Like a knitted blanket that smothers the back of his couch. It's supposed to be purple and white. The ends are frayed and it's ugly as hell. It's so old that even after washing it, the white parts of it are still gray. She says it's too cold all the time, but somehow her skin still sticks to his leather couch. He tells her to get air conditioning at her place. She says she didn't have it growing up and doesn't need it now and how the hell are they supposed to raise a kid together?
"Sammy, are you still moping?" Natalie stands behind the couch, scrawny arms digging into her hips as she stares at him with the General's stern eyebrows. He inherited the same pair. She shakes her head in disappointment and the blonde ringlets she has done up bob with the motion. "Just go tell her you're sorry already."
"Stay the hell out of it, Natalie." He keeps his arms over his chest and his foot over the arm of the couch. It's sore from playing hockey yesterday. He got a little too rough, broke his stick on the ice and well, the boys won't be asking him to play again anytime soon.
"Jeez." She pulls away from the hall mirror and fixes her bright pink lip gloss. Her thumb runs under her lower lip to clear away any extra liquid and she questions, "You're never going to tell me what this is about, are you?"
"No."
"Can I give you some womanly advice?"
Ew. "No."
"Sammy." She approaches the couch and perches on the arm, the action wrinkles Jules' ancient blanket. Natalie has on a new dress he hasn't seen before, which means that he probably paid for it. It's pink, strapless and has a bow around the middle. He wants to groan. "Just hear me out."
He groans and turns away from her. "I've seen the way you act around her, Sammy. At first, I didn't get it. I thought you were dating Jules because it was convenient. But I think you like that job because of her. If something happened with—"
"Our jobs are fine."
"Oh." Her fingers poke at the holes in the shoddy knit work on the blanket.
"Are you ready yet?" He sighs and stands from the couch to retrieve the keys. He's letting Natalie take his car out on her date tonight, but they have to drive to headquarters first so he can drive Jules' Jeep to her place.
His sister nods with a bright smile on her face. "How do I look?"
"Fine." He answers without even looking at her again. Natalie's been going on dates far before she should have been. Before that she used to get into their mom's closet and makeup bag. The sight of seeing her all dolled up has long lost all its shock value. "Just don't get pregnant."
"Sam." She scoffs angrily.
He doesn't listen as she rambles off her mouth from the front room. He doesn't really care what she's saying. All he knows is that eventually, as in nine months from now, he's going to need his spare room back for his baby. So if she gets knocked up, he's sending her straight back to the General and the gates of Hell.
He finds his gym bag, and the things he shoved in there Friday. He hasn't moved them because they remind him of what happened that day, what Jules did and his emotions begin to boil again. Reaching into the side pocket he pulls out her car keys, but there's something else wedged in the generally empty compartment.
He pulls out a piece of paper, about the size of a postcard but a little less thick. At first he can only see gray and black. Her name is written in computer font at the top of the page along with some random numbers and other things he can't understand. Then it clicks. Then he sees it. A gray blob inside a black hole. His baby. Their baby. And it's real. For the first time, it's really real.
While staring at the picture, the angry diffuses from is body in a single breath. He lets out a choppy laugh because his voice cuts out. Somewhere in that picture there are or are going to be two tiny arms, and two tiny hands with ten tiny fingers. Two legs, two feet, ten toes. A heart. A brain. And he and Jules created it. He has to sit on the edge of his bed because he thinks his legs stop working.
"Sammy," Natalie hollers from the other room. "Can we go? Some of us have plans, remember?"
"Yeah." His voice cracks and he doesn't want to take his eyes off the picture. Carefully he puts it in his back pocket so it doesn't wrinkle. Suddenly nothing else matters now, the ultimatum, the fighting, and the fact that Steve the freaking paramedic was the one who told him he was going to be a father. None of it means a thing. Because he's the one who gets to spend the rest of his life raising a baby with Jules.
Jules. Oh God. He left her alone for the entire weekend after she was in that accident; after she found out she was pregnant. God he's such an asshole. "Nat, let's go."
He drives like a psycho to headquarters, not really running red lights, but definitely going well over the speed limit. Natalie, who had more speeding tickets before leaving high school than most people get in their entire lifetime, tells him to slow down. He chucks his keys at his sister, doesn't tell her not to wreck his car or change the presets on his stereo, and runs to Jules' Jeep. He drives to her apartment without even adjusting the driver's seat.
He parks the Jeep crooked and across what he's sure is two, if not three spots. Then he runs to the front door of the renovated house that now consists of three apartments, the top floor being Jules'. As fate has it, Mrs. Furbish is leaving to walk her Maltese so he catches the front door. He's never really liked her; she always calls him Stan, but today he almost hugs the old bat.
He bangs on Jules' door and there's no answer. Bangs again, loud enough that it's reminiscent of an evasive entry. There's still there's no answer. She must be out on the balcony reading or out for a walk or something since the weather has decided to take a break from the rain.
The keys to her Jeep include a set to her apartment. The key fits fine, but when he starts to open the door, it sticks for a second. He presses a little harder with his shoulder, figuring the door is jammed on that rubber backed mat he's repeatedly told her to move. With a final shove the door springs open all the way.
Walking inside her apartment he realizes that it's not the mat, because she did move it. Instead it turns out that her door chain was pulled across and the force of him barreling into the door has broken it in two.
"Did you just break my lock?" Jules' stands behind him. Her voice muffled because the end of a pink toothbrush is sticking out of her mouth. Her hair is done up in a loose bun and the right side of her face is still badly swollen. She's wearing full length sweatpants and a white cotton tank top. He has to remind himself that it's only 6pm and still Mid-September.
He looks back at the door and sees the gold chain hanging flaccid in two pieces, one connected to the door, one to the wall. "I—"
"Every time you come here Sam, something ends up broken." She retreats back to the washroom probably to lose the toothbrush and spit.
He shuts the door and hopelessly tries to pull the two separated sides of the chain together. He could fix it tomorrow after work. No, what if she stays here by herself? She can't stay here by herself. Even if he fixes it someone can come through the window. He doesn't think he's going to be able to let her out of his sight for the next nine months.
"I'll fix your door tomorrow," he shouts over his shoulder to the bathroom.
"Don't worry about it." She reappears, sans toothbrush. Her right arm hooks round her torso and he wonders if she's doing it on purpose just so he can't see if she's showing. He didn't notice before in the locker room. He was too infuriated to notice.
"No, Jules you need—"
"Sam." She holds up a hand to stop his talking. Her voice isn't angry, but weary, weak even. "I'm really tired. Can we just talk so I can go lie down?"
"Are you okay?" His heart starts to beat a little faster and he immediately crosses the space between them. She rolls her eyes at him and turns to walk away, but he catches her wrist. Makes her stand in place.
"Sam."
"Jules, come on." He pulls her closer still and she doesn't resist whether she doesn't want to or whether she's too tired to. Their foreheads rest against each other. He breathes her in and she's never smelt more like home to him. "I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry too." She murmurs into his chest.
His cheek flattens against the top of her head and he kisses it. "Tell me what I can do."
She pulls back and places a cool hand on his cheek. "Go get burritos. Lots of burritos."
Spike waits patiently at the cozy table in the restaurant. He tries not to tap his fingers against the faux marble edge that's threatening to cut into his dress shirt. It's ten past six. That's not that bad. After all, Natalie is a woman; she's obligated to be late. He did tell her six. He pauses and thinks about the very brief phone conversation he had with her.
He was in his bedroom with a foot pressed against the bottom of door while his mom banged on the other side of it with a wooden spoon telling him the pasta was done. That it was getting cold. That he was being rude for not being at the table. That Jesus said he should respect her. That if he wasn't at the table in two minutes he was going to get it. Natalie just laughed on the other end of the phone and agreed that six would be fine.
Maybe he should call her. Just to remind her, let her know he's waiting. No. No that would be a bad idea. Women hate that, don't they? He wishes he knew how to act socially around them, but having an invisible tether to his mother that only seems to be growing tighter with age isn't doing him any favors.
When he asks his mom what he should do around women she smiles and says, "Oh Mikey, just be yourself." The one time he asked Carmen she laughed him out of the room. He was fifteen, but still damaged his machismo. It may be the reason why he has none.
Natalie's earring still pokes him. He's shifted it from his jeans into his fancy pants. He's going to give it back to her tonight, not that it wasn't a nice memento. But if she's anything like the women he grew up with, having a mismatching pair of earrings must be driving her mad.
"Spike." He glances up and Natalie's grinning brightly at him. She's wearing a pink dress that's two layers of ruffles brought together with a bow around her torso. It accentuates her long legs and the white pumps she's wearing. She's flawless.
"Hey Nat." He stands and greets her. Her thin arms wrap around his neck and she presses her plump lips into his cheek. His nose nuzzles into the space behind her ear. She smells sweet, delicious, and memorable. Her dress is silky soft when he lays a hand on her hip.
His touch lingers a few seconds longer than it should and he's afraid that it's getting awkward, so he releases her. She grins kindly at him and tucks a stray tendril behind her ear. "Oh my God Spike. Your face."
At first he doesn't understand, but then she brushes a finger over his swollen upper lip. His injuries aren't nearly as bad as they were on Friday. He's sure his mom puts something into the lasagnas that help speed the healing process. After over thirty years of eating that stuff, his immune system is impeccable.
"It's nothing." He gently lowers her hand from his face and guides her to the other side of the table. He pulls her chair out for her and notices the perfect curve of her spine when she tucks the tail of her dress beneath her thighs. "You should have seen it on Friday."
Her cheek touches the bare skin on her shoulder as she gazes at him through perfectly made up eyes. "I'm glad I didn't."
"Jules was in worse shape than I was." He shuffles back to his seat because though the stitches have taken to his skin and itch more than sting now, when his shin muscles flex a certain way, it still smarts.
"I actually haven't seen her." The waiter arrives and revives tipped over wine glasses with ice water. "Sam and her had some fi—" she pauses taking a small sip and catching herself in her mistake before it goes full circle.
"I know about them, Nat."
"Let's just talk about something else."
He shrugs. Fair enough, he wouldn't like it if she asked him all about Carmen and Gino, though there's not much to know. He's an engineer; she's a manager or CEO or something at a company. All he knows is that she's always on her cell phone and ignoring Gabriel, his nephew. "Hey, were you a dancer?"
Her eyes narrow at the question, but her lips break into a coy smile. "Yeah I did ballet almost until the end of high school. I wanted to do it professionally, but my dad said that hopping around wasn't a job."
"Apparently he's never watched basketball."
She laughs but downcasts her eyes and hunches her shoulders. It's body language that tells him she's ashamed at the revelation. Her fingertip traces the edge of the table where the faux marble meets wood. "Why'd you ask?"
"Just had a hunch is all."
They receive menus and he's so overdosed on Italian food that he wants to order the first thing that's not lasagna or pasta. Then everything that's not Italian food after that. He watches her read the menu, watches her slender fingers tangle in with the silver link necklace she's wearing. He wonders why she's so nervous.
The waiter comes back and they order. The waiter's not really rude, but he's not all that loving either. He snaps the menus away and then disappears into the bowels of the restaurant. Spike remains silent for a few moments and feels strange because Natalie isn't speaking either.
He figures now is as good a time as any to bring up awkward queries. "Nat, can I ask you a question?"
"Sure." She nods and folds her arms against the top of the table.
"Sam said you came out to Toronto to find a job, what do you want to do?" He doesn't want to feel like he's pressuring her. He doesn't want her to get a job. He just wants to get to know her a little bit better. Know a little bit more than the fact that she did ballet and was born in August.
"I wanted to get into fashion." Her blue eyes fall to the table top again, in the dim light the silverware reflects in them. "I even found some courses to take. I'm trying to find a part-time job to pay for it." Underneath the table her knees are bouncing like she's had too many cups of coffee and she touches her earlobe nervously. "My parents think that it's a stupid idea."
"Learning is never a stupid idea."
She smiles but there's a twinge in the corner of her mouth, like she's five seconds away from breaking down. Sam never mentioned his family much before, maybe this is the reason why. "It'd just be nice to be able to call them and have their support."
He reaches his hand across the table and holds her thin, shaking fingers in his own. "If you ever need someone to cheer you on. You can call me."
"Where's Izzy?" Ed uses a single hand to gently cover his six-month-old daughter's eyes. She chortles and slams her chubby little hands together. "Where's Izzy?" he questions again just to hear her sustain the single syllable giggle.
Quickly, he removes his hands and her blue eyes scan the room until they find his. Her eyes brighten and her smile makes her plump cheeks round with complete mirth. She squeals with glee and bounces on her diapered bottom at finding him. He leans across the carpet to pick her up, and she reaches one hand out to touch his cheek. The other hand is shoved almost wrist deep into her mouth. Ed laughs because he doesn't remember Clark doing any of these things. He was a very disinterested baby.
There's clomping footsteps down the front stairs and Ed grins as he adjusts his arm underneath Izzy's bare legs. She's wearing a dress that Wordy and Shelley gave to him through their hand-me-downs. Ed's never noticed before, but their girls were always dressed nice. "There's your brother."
Clark moves lead-footed to the front door and Ed intersects him from the front room. "Hey Buddy. I figured you and I could go practice parking with Izzy now before you mom gets home. What do you say?"
Clark shakes his head, sandy curls flopping about. "No. I have plans."
This is the first Ed's heard of them. Usually Clark doesn't go out on Sundays because of school the next day. He watches his son shove his feet into old sneakers with distended tongues and holey soles. Bouncing Izzy against his chest he questions, "Where you off to?"
"Just out." Clark answers. The door is open and slammed before Ed can even protest. When did this huge chasm open between him and his son? He remembers the geeky kid with the cello who used to phone him up at work and beg him to play hoops. Now it's Ed who has to schedule time with his own son. Ed's been trying all weekend to talk with him, but Clark's still upset about Friday.
About to walk to outside to yell after his son, the front door flings open and Sophie steps inside with her arms full of papers and folders. While trying to adjust the weight in her arms she accidentally drops her keys on the ground. They slide across the hardwood floor and hit his socked foot.
She grunts and places the armful of paper on the table nearest to the door. Then notices him after a few moments of deep breathing and preening. "Hi Sweetie."
"Hey Soph," he greets as he bends over with Izzy and picks up the keys, something she's immediately interested in. Her eyes glue to the metal dangling from his hand, and he sees no harm in letting her play with them for the next few minutes. He jingles them before her and she boldly grabs them with both hands. "How was your day?"
"Well, I had to work with the girls to try and figure out the menu. The goal was to get the whole thing figured out today but all we got done was desserts and appetizers." She continues to organize the papers and then kicks off her shoes with a sigh.
"At least you—"
"Ed." Her voice is tense and she takes two large steps forward pointing at their daughter. "Don't give her my keys. I don't need them lost, or broken."
He looks at Izzy, who is holding the key ring in a plump hand and shaking it. "She's just playing, Soph."
"Yeah and when I can't find my car key tomorrow I'll have to remember that Izzy was just playing." She holds out her hand expectantly.
Ed pries the keys away from his daughter who whimpers a bit. Then he gives them back to his wife. He tries to not notice it. The fact that if a stranger was doing this to his daughter he'd be going berserk, but it's wife. Izzy's own mother. He puts his forefinger in Izzy's tiny hand to replace the keys and she stops making noises. He tries to change the subject. "Since you're tired of food for today, why don't I fire up the barbeque?"
"Oh, that sounds nice." She's pulling out her earrings and maybe the attitude is just because of a long day at work.
"It's just the three of us tonight, Clark went out somewhere."
"He's seeing a movie with a group of friends."
Izzy's poking at his cheek with single finger and laughing at his odd faced responses. "Oh yeah, he tells you."
"Did you ask him, Ed?"
He didn't. In hindsight he just expected Clark to mold to his version of the weekend, but the son he always knew didn't like leaving the house on the weekend. The son he knew has had the same friends since preschool. Since when did Clark start hanging around with a different group of them? They'll have to have a talk later. Not a drastic punishment talk, but a father to son talk so he can figure out what is going on with his son.
"Look, why don't you spend some time with Izzy." He bounces his daughter in his arms and she giggles. She at an age where everything he does amuses her. He's going to have to remember this when she's Clark's age and won't give him the time of day either. "I'll pop out to the grocery store to pick up a few things for supper."
"Ed." Sophie rolls her eyes and walks away from him and their daughter. "I've had a long day. I'm tired. I want to have a shower."
"So?" Now she won't even touch Izzy? He can't remember a time when she did anything for their daughter. Change her diaper, feed her, or even pick out her clothes in the morning,
"So take her to the store with you. It's good for her to be outside."
"Why don't I just wait until you're done in the shower and then go? That way you can relax with her on the couch."
"Then we'd have to wait for supper." Sophie's already halfway up the stairs when she yells back, "Just go Ed."
Maybe today was just a stressful day for her at work. Maybe all she needs is a little alone time and a good home cooked meal. "All right," he sighs and places a kiss on Izzy's cheek. "Let's go get some food for Mommy."
Wordy sits on his knees in his cool, musty basement. He's spent the summer repairing it from the concrete disaster it was, to a playroom for the girls. Partly because Shelley's getting tired of having her hardwood floors marred by paints and other sticky substances. Partly because he's still able too.
After weeks of fixing walls and faulty wiring he finally managed to get the large room to a painting stage. Shelley wants it done in olive green. He doesn't know what the color olive green will stimulate in three growing girls, but it's not his place to judge. She's the designer and the rest of the house looks so perfect sometimes he thinks he lives in a magazine.
He's spent most of the day taping along the white trim and now has the task of painting the walls. Except he can't. His right arm is stiff and won't move forward, like he slept on it wrong. But that's not the problem. There's a tremble in his right hand. Not a bad one, but bad enough that if he could press the brush to the wall it would dash all over the place. One row of tape isn't going to protect the trim.
The weekend was nice and stress free until yesterday night. After the girls were in bed, he was getting ready while Shelley was reading. She tried to casually mention the prospects of him leaving the SRU and while his responses were relaxed at first, they ended up having a heated argument. Their first in years.
He and Shelley don't fight nearly as often as all the other married couples he knows. It's just one of those relationships where he's known her too long that he picks his battles. Olive green in the basement playroom isn't a battle to him. The insinuation that his wife believes he's becoming a danger to the public is.
He's known Shelley since high school. Remembers her walking around their neighborhood during the torture of her first marriage. The sullen look in her eyes, the light removed from within them. The way he punched a hole in the basement when he found out what was happening to her. Sometimes he thinks of those things when they argue, and that whatever their disagreement is about isn't important. He ends up embracing her and she ends up laughing into his chest. This time thinking of those things didn't even work.
The paint brush clatters back into the tray and he rests on his knees for a moment. His left forearm swipes at his forehead to remove the beading sweat. Shelley left a few minutes ago to take the girls to the park. It's good that they're separated for the time being. It helps them both clear their heads.
But behind him there's a soft murmur. Lilly stands with her hands clasped behind her back. Skinny legs clad in jean capris, skinny arms poking out of a peasant top she got a few weeks ago for back to school shopping. Her boney ankles poke out of running shoes and can't help but grin at her because she's growing up beautifully. "Ladybug, what are you doing here?"
"Mom left without me." There's a sigh of tears in her voice, but she's holding the abandonment very well. She approaches him, chin to her chest and hands fidgeting with the loose material on the front of her shirt. "She said I was taking too long."
He kisses her cheek still wet from tears that she didn't want him to see. "She's not mad at you. Me and your mom had an argument last night. She's mad at that." Even on his knees, he still towers over her. He wraps an arm around her thin waist and pulls her closer to him to hug.
She rests her chin on his shoulder and whispers, "I heard you fight last night."
"You did?"
"Daddy, are you sick?" Her blue eyes stare into his and her eyebrows knit into a position of pain that someone so young shouldn't know. Her lips purse together and he thinks that this is her bracing herself for bad news.
"No Lilly, I'm fine." Now is not the time to tell her. He doesn't know if he'll ever be able to tell her. If he'll be able to sit her and Maggie and Ally down at the kitchen table and tell them that he can't play catch with them anymore, or board games, or dress up, or carry them, or drive them to the doctors, or properly dial 911. He can't stand to think of those three heartbroken faces. Which is why he's doing the therapy, why he's on all the different medications, and why he keeps his routines.
"Then why are you taking so long to paint the wall?" With one arm still wrapped around his neck, she uses her free arm to point to the primed, but untouched wall before them.
He could tell her that he's tired. He could tell her that he's taking his time because he wants to do it right. But instead he tells her something so that this will be a happy memory when she grows up, not the time she first figured out that her dad had Parkinson's. "It's because I can't do it all alone."
She tilts her head in interest. Her brown hair, tied back in a ponytail by Shelley, falls to the side. "You need help?"
"Yeah." He nods and picks up a brush, letting the excess paint flow off of it and holds it up for her to see. "Do you know where I can get some?"
"I'll help." She grips the brush around the handle and takes it from him with the outmost care and then moves to stand before the wall. She glances cautiously back at him. "Do I just paint it?"
He laughs at her precaution. "Yeah Ladybug, just paint it."
She begins in slow, dutiful strokes that turn into arches to cover more area. He directs her every now and again, but she pretty much has the hang of it from the start. After her fifth brush refill, he reaches down and grabs the roller to go over the area again in an even coat.
He tries not to notice that his muscles and hands are steady. That they don't tremble at all. That no part of him aches. He's just happy to be spending time with his daughter, who's giggling and already has paint on her nose. There will always be uneven areas on the wall, but at least they'll know where they came from.
The bay windows in Fort Worth's airport allows the thick sunbeams to shoot through and splash across the floor, the chairs, the wall and the back of his neck. He has his plane ticket balancing on his knee and he tries not to tap his fingers against the arm of the chair. He's sitting much like he was in Toronto two days ago; except the seat next to him isn't empty.
Dean sits quiet, tentative, pensive, with his long legs angled crooked at the knee. He's bent at the waist and resting his chin on steepled fingers. His sneakered feet tap rapidly against the ground and he bounces his fingers off of his lower lip. It obvious that Greg's son wants to tell him something, it's the reason that he offered to drive him to the airport, offered to wait with him while his flight arrived, but they just can't seem to make that conversation happen.
It's been the theme of the weekend. Greg managed to make it to the ceremony just on time. The only seats available were in the back, but he still took pictures. It's absurd the amount of pictures that he took, but it was his son's graduation after all. After the ceremony, he found Dean, his mother and stepfather. Kate was not impressed to see him to say the least, but before she could accuse anything, Dean explained that Greg was invited.
Saturday resulted in broken communication. It was obvious that Kate didn't want Dean spending time with him, something he can fully understand. But he and his son arranged to have supper anyway. Dean was unusually quiet. Quiet from the boy he'd been reintroduced to a year ago in Toronto. All the questions Greg asked casually went unanswered with a grunt or a shrug. At least he found out that his son could drive. That was one to cross off the list.
Today when the behavior continued, Greg started to get worried. Over the years he's seen teens act like this for various reasons. He's seen them end up out on the ledges of buildings for acting like this. His brain comes up with different situations, the run-of-the-mill depression that comes with graduating and impending adulthood, the confusion of not knowing what to do with life after high school. But then his mind delves deeper. Maybe things are unstable at home. Maybe Dean's moving again. Maybe Dean's relationship with Kate is stressed right now. Maybe Chris, his stepfather, isn't the great guy that he's made out to be. Greg stops himself. He has no proof and is in no place to be making judgments on this family.
There's only one way to figure out what's bothering Dean and he needs to do it now while he's sitting within an arm's reach of his son and not miles away in a different country. What kind of father is he if he can talk to complete strangers about their own darkest personal problems, but not his own son?
"Dean." He removes the plane ticket from his knee and shifts in his seat so he's facing his son. "My plane is going to be getting in soon."
Dean sits up straight, pulling his hands away from his face and replies, "That's okay. I'll wait with you."
"I appreciate that." Greg smiles and lets a few more seconds pass just in case Dean wants to bring up the subject himself. When it's clear that he won't, Greg restarts the conversation picking his words very carefully so that he doesn't scare Dean away. "If there's something you wanted to talk to me about, I'm only going to be here for a few more minutes."
Dean sighs and reaches one of his lanky arms back to scratch behind his neck. He leans forward, but then leans back very quickly and it's obvious that he's either undecided on telling Greg, or doesn't know how to tell Greg. "Umm."
"We don't have to talk if you don't want to." Greg returns to sitting straight in the chair, so his son knows that there's no pressure. Just that he's here for him. Even if he can't always be in Dallas, it's only a plane ride away. He's only a phone call away.
"No, it's just that it's not easy to talk about."
The stewardesses start to crowd around the desk near the passageway to the plane. Greg's going to have to leave soon and the problem, like most of the affairs concerning Dean will likely be unsolved. "Well if you ever want to talk, I'm always just a phone call—"
"I'm gay."
Well, that definitely wasn't one of the 'what if' scenarios. It's surprising, but at the same time, Greg hardly knows anything about his own son. Like his shoe size or his favorite movie. However, after years of working at the SRU, Greg knows how crucial this moment is, not only for Dean, but also for him. His reaction needs to reflect his own opinion, while at the same time not undermining Dean's lifestyle choice.
When he turns back to Dean, his son is hanging his head, staring intently at his shoes. His eyes are closed and his face is slack. He appears lost, ashamed and it's no wonder he's withdrawn from his entire family for the weekend even though they should have been celebrating.
Greg puts a calming hand on his back, feels the fast rise and fall of his chest, feels the heat radiating off of him. "Dean, there's nothing wrong with that."
"You're the first person I've told." His voice is barely above a whisper in the din of the airport.
Greg smiles, obviously touched by the gesture, but he knows there's hidden meaning behind it. "Because I'm leaving?"
"Well, kinda." Dean rests his head on his hands and stares out at the people rushing past them in the airport. "When I was in Toronto, I saw the way that you helped other people. You're not all judgmental."
"Who's going to be judgmental?"
"Chris, he's all religious. And because he won't like it, Mom won't like it."
"Dean, your mom loves you very much. She always has and she always will. She's always done what's best for you. Even if Chris reacts differently, then I'm sure she'll take care of it." Kate and him may have their differences, but she has always done what's in the best interest for Dean. As much as it pains Greg to admit it, he doesn't think any of them would be living the lives that they are had they all remained a family.
One of the stewardesses makes an announcement for the pre-boarding of flight 276 Dallas to Toronto. Dean sits beside him, rocking a bit in the chair and Greg wishes that he didn't have to leave on this note. Wishes that they could've talked for as long as his son wanted.
"Dad, what if they don't accept me?"
He doesn't know what hits him harder, the tortured, terrified expression on his son's face that he can vaguely remember from inside a drunken stupor. Or the fact that his son just called him 'dad' for the first time in over ten years. He places a hand on his son's shaky shoulder and gives him a small reassuring smile. "Then phone me and I'll send you a ticket."
"I can help you know." She watches Sam from over the edge of her secondhand salvaged couch and scuttles back into the corner already feeling the sleep creeping back into her eyes. That's what her weekend has been an accumulation of: eating vast amounts, like the three burritos she inhaled at supper, sleeping and throwing up. She guesses since the baby's been discovered it's seeking vengeance. She wonders how she can talk it down.
She hears the clatter of dishes into the sink and she knows that they'll be there tomorrow morning when she gets up. For an army brat, Sam has a bad habit of letting things clutter around his apartment. Dishes stay in the sick for days, laundry gathers for weeks. She's not any better, but at least she has a conscience about it. To her surprise the sound of water splashing over the dishes echoes through her apartment. "Jules, for the next nine months you've got to take care of the baby."
"And what, you've got to take care of me?" It's sickly sweet but patronizing and if she wasn't so tired, she'd put a little more bitterness into her voice.
Dishes slam off each other and Sam's obviously gotten her hidden tone. "I mean, I can do stupid things like clean up the dishes when you're tired." Then there's the dull thump of the freezer door opening and she knows what he's doing. It's unnecessary; her face barely hurts anymore because she's so exhausted. It's hard to explain; the waves of fatigue just come from nowhere and drain her completely. But when she lies down at night she can't sleep.
Unlike the exhaustion, the nausea hits her hard in the morning. As soon as she opens her eyes it's like someone kicks her right in the stomach. It's like being shot again. Just the feeling of knowing something is wrong, without the problem being justifiable. Saturday she woke up to this feeling and didn't understand what it was at first, she just knew she needed to get to the bathroom before she threw up in the hallway.
"You have no icepacks." Well she could have told him that. She takes a peek at Sam from between the couch cushions. His head is shoved so far into the freezer that he might as well be cleaning it out. Is that a stupid thing that she can get him to do?
"I don't play hockey, Sam." Her back rests against the thick, red striped couch arm. She bends her legs until she finds a position she's comfortable with, in which she ends up taking up a good two thirds of the couch. "Unless you want me to start?"
"Don't even joke about that." He crosses the short distance from her kitchen to her living room. Like Sam's apartment, her apartment has an open concept. It didn't when she bought the place, but she wanted to take a hammer to a wall, and figured it would be good for entertaining. In hindsight she found out that she didn't entertain all that often. "We need to make a list of everything off limits for the next nine months."
"If I can't do it, I don't think you should be able to do it," she mumbles and snatches a bag of frozen peas that Sam hands her. She thinks they're from the late nineties. She thinks that they were actually in the apartment when she moved in. "And seven months."
"Hmm?" He questions while straightening out the things on her coffee table. Misplaced coasters, his half-empty beer bottle, a pregnancy book that she started to read but got upset with because it was basically just a big list of everything she couldn't do. She wonders if Sam has ever ghostwritten anything.
"I'm nine weeks along. That means we have six months and some odd weeks." He stares at her and she feels awkward so she presses the bag of peas, which has a greater ratio of ice than peas, to her face.
Sam sighs loudly through his nose and takes a seat next to her on the couch. His right hand cups over one of her knees and gently rocks it back and forth while he thinks. There's a raw reassurance in the action. "I guess we'll just have to do everything a little quicker then."
"Well I have another doctor's appointment tomorrow to confirm it." She lets her legs fall into his lap, an action that he doesn't protest. "You can come if you want."
His right hand is on her shin now, his left arm thrown casually over the back of the couch like they're talking about politics or the playoffs. "Of course I'll be there."
"It's going to be hard for you to get out of work though. It's at noon and—"
"Jules," he interrupts her by mildly squeezing her shin muscle. She sits up, glancing into his eyes and he repeats. "I'll be there."
"Good." She relaxes again, but lets the bag of peas slide from the side of her face between the couch cushions as her fingers begin to benignly prod at her stomach. "Be there to help me argue with the doctor, because there's no way I'm nine weeks along."
He reaches forward prying the bag of peas out from the depths of the couch. "Didn't it take you three weeks to actually take the pregnancy test?"
She folds up the hem of her tank top until her belly button shows, then pokes a finger into the flat, soft skin. She's not nine weeks pregnant. That nurse must've been having a rough day and misread the sonogram. "Yeah."
"What are you doing?" He's laughing at her now, his chest thumps against her legs.
"Do I look nine weeks pregnant to you?" God help him if he replies with anything other than 'no'. She's so tired, but she's sure she can still kick him pretty hard.
"Jules, you look—"
His hand falls to her bare stomach and her muscles contract because for the last two minutes he's been holding a bag of peas that's been in the freezer so long it can probably vote. "Sam." She grabs his hand in hers and laughs, "Your hand is freezing."
"Sorry." He tries to retract his hand, but she returns it to her stomach. His hand is large and covers the majority of her exposed stomach. It's cold for a few seconds but then the temperature melts away. Then it's just them, sitting in the silence of her apartment staring at their hands connected on her stomach. He chuckles and shakes his head at her. "This is pretty amazing."
She wants to tell him that there's basically nothing in there right now. That the baby is the size of a lima bean and it's slowly sucking the energy out of her while making her constantly graze like a cow and then vomit like something out of a horror movie. But it is pretty amazing, that after Friday both her and the baby are okay, that for the next nine months she'll grow this thing inside her and then actually be responsible for raising it, and that her and Sam get to do it together.
"Yeah." She smiles and holds his hand a little bit tighter. "It is."
Next Chapter - We still won't be into the police-y action. That will happen in the 3rd chapter. Next chapter will have someone being outed (not in the traditional sense), locker room antics, vomiting and reference to a Canada Day barbeque that will be so epic I will probably end up having to write a oneshot about it.