Hey guys. Just a really quick one-shot. I finished my research for the night and was trying to wait out the rain in the library and decided to jot down this idea. In Between Heartbeats, when Sam is shown taking the shot the blood on his hands is really prominent. Same with when they wheel Jules out into the ambulance. And in Acceptable risk they focus on it again, with Sam not being able to stand having blood on his hands and constantly rubbing them and scraping at them to try and get them clean. It made me think that, perhaps, just like seeing the girl with no shoes on reminded him of his sister, the blood on his hands reminded him of being helpless to save Jules.
This is set during the aftermath of the incident at the Royal Ontario Museum in Acceptable Risk. Before the interview - when they're being photographed and evidence is being taken by the SIU officers.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy.
... ... ... ... ...
Thirty-eight minutes.
That's all it had taken. To end eleven lives. To change – to ruin – hundreds more.
Mothers would weep for their lost children, husbands for their wives. Children would mourn their dead parents in that simple and innocent way of people who don't truly understand the gravity of loss yet. But they would eventually. They would wonder why their father didn't walk through the door at six, laughing as he swept them up in a bone-crushing hug. They would wonder why their mother would come to sing to them at night. They would hear crying at night and wonder what was wrong. They would know soon enough what loss felt like.
The city would creep under that shadow of misery and loss. Nothing united the public like grief.
His hands itched. He fought hard against the urge to wipe them against his thighs, rubbing off that layer of dried blood, rusty red, that flecked his arms. There was a flash as evidence photos were taken. He winced against the bright light.
Soon. He told himself. Not too much longer now. He could wash it off. Scrape away that layer of death.
He forced his hands not to quake.
Blood on his hands.
It wasn't the first time. God knew you couldn't serve two tours if Afghanistan without getting a little dirty - in enemy territory men got shot. They got stabbed. They fell. They were in accidents. Bombs exploded. You couldn't survive and not get your hands bloody. And the SRU wasn't a whole lot better.
He glanced to his right, where Jules stood beside him. She was pale, dark circles ringing her eyes. Her sleeves were rolled up, blood splashed across them as it was on his own. She was steady as a rock. As steely as she'd need to be. She'd get through it. She could get through anything.
He was constantly amazed at how strong she was.
Glancing down he remembered when the blood on his hands had been hers. He'd been terrified, crouching over her. Trying to shield her body from the bullets, hand clenched down tightly over the wound. Blood spilled out from the fist-sized hole in her vest. Beneath his hand he could feel her struggling to breath, sucking in each breath. The rising and falling of her chest. The gasps of pain. The hiss of air. The shock. And the overwhelming flood of fear that had rushed through him. The burning helplesness, lodged in his gut. The desperation.
He'd have done anything to protect her then.
Damn it, he still would.
He clenched his jaw. Shelf the memories Braddock. He warned himself. Put it away.
But it was useless. He couldn't get the image out of his head. He never would.
His hands. Her blood.