Domino Theory

by Shiggity Shwa

With personal problems preoccupying each member of Team One none of them were ready for what happened that Friday afternoon. Concerns all main characters. Set AU during after 4x05 AU as in Wordy is still around .

4. Little Flicker

A/N: Hey Guys. This took so long to write and get through, so I'm going to start off by saying that I know that there are going to be some spelling/grammar issues. Go easy on me. I updated my profile every time I did anything with the chapter, so you could see how hard I was working for y'all to get the chapter done. Doing that plus OT plus packing makes Shiggity just short of Jack Nicholson circa The Shining. That said, thank you for the lovely reviews and favorites. They really make my day. I'm glad you're enjoying the story so much. I know that the chapters are getting rather lengthy and I was thinking about breaking them so that each chapter was a single character's, but that's boring and I didn't like the way it flowed. I will also like to inform you that this story will end in two to three chapters.

Domino Theory

Chapter 4

Little Flicker

His feet crunch across the broken glass and concrete on the road as he takes bounding steps over to the Boss, who's positioned himself at the back of their rig. Just far enough away from Jules and Spike so they can't hear the conversation. It's the perfect place to stand around, look casual and concerned while talking strategies on how to take down red truck driving psychos and how injured the two people they're sending cautious glimpses too really are.

"That was fun, right?" Spike's voice carries over the abandoned road. Just because he and Sarge are inaudible to them, doesn't mean the reverse is true. At least for Spike, who might as well be fitted with a loudspeaker.

Sarge is shifting on his feet, he can't keep still, almost like he's doing a dance. There's so much they have to do, but they're stuck because the pieces of the puzzle won't fall into place. It's making Sarge antsy.

Sam stands a few feet away from his boss and angles his body so he can see Jules sitting across the street. She crosses her arms over her knees while Spike continues to carry on a conversation with her like he's at the Roger's Center. She appears to be keeping up with the dialogue, but every few seconds her body sways slightly to the right. They've all been trained on what can happen during situations like this, even though Jules and Spike may be aware, they can't reverse ill-effects on their own bodies.

"EMS isn't coming anytime soon." Sarge copies his angles, taking up most of his view so that Jules and Spike are barely visible over Sarge's shoulder. The older man keeps unsteady feet and plants a hand firmly in his chin while he ruminates what they can do about the current situation. They need to contain the area, locate and dissect the device so that any tells can be cross-referenced with the database to help narrow down who manufactured it. Jules and Spike need to medical attention, and if it won't come to them, someone will have to take them to a hospital.

In all the hysteria, he and Sarge forgot to check the area for secondary explosives, an idea that enters his brain moments before the loud crack of thunder induces violent imagery of a second explosion consuming Keele Street. Sarge attempts to drag him behind the rig for protection, but Sam thrashes free of his grip and is halfway across the street when the downpour starts. He doesn't even flinch. The way this day is going; he sort of expects it by now.

"Sam," the Boss calls again through the torrential rains that are effortlessly destroying any chance forensics has of pulling evidence from the site. Any easy chance they had of identifying agents and chemicals if they're water soluble is now gone.

Sam shakes his head and waves for his boss to follow him. He's not like Ed. The most important thing isn't trying to reverse what this guy has already done; it's making sure that it's not going to get worse. "I'll take them to North York. It's only a few minutes from here."

The Boss contemplates this for a second as they stand in the middle of the road, completely permeated with rainwater. If the rain stayed contained in the atmosphere, Sarge would've taken his hat off by now in a deep deliberation. Sarge only nods in agreement, following Sam through the expanding lake in the middle of the scene. "We're going to have a talk later, Sam."

Sam shrugs. The threat of suspension or being reprimanded doesn't bother him that much. What does is his girlfriend, sitting on the curb watching the rain pelting the ground. Her arms hugging herself because he left her coat in the wreck, the loose-fitting fabric on the right arm got stuck between her chair and the rig's door when the car flipped. What bothers him is that for the next week or so, her face is going to be marred by a huge bruise and every time he sees her whether it's at work or in his bed, he's going to feel guilty.

"Come on, Jules." He gently touches her forearm to garner her attention. She glances up at him with glazy eyes that she hides by squinting them with question. "I'm going to take you guys to the hospital."

He's already helping her up with two warm hands on her icy arms when finally asks, "What about EMS?"

"EMS isn't coming." Sarge answers while placing an arm behind Spike's back to support him in his hobble.

Later on, maybe before they talk about ending their relationship, she'll tell him that her injuries aren't his fault. That there was nothing he could do, but she gives the same speech every time and he feels the same twinge of guilt in his gut.

The day they came back to his apartment after Natalie caught their impromptu makeout session wasn't only the renaissance of their relationship, but also the constant fear he feels when Jules is out in the field. He knows that she's accomplished and probably has more training than him, but he can't help it. It's probably the leftover psychosis of dealing with the death of Morgan. Everyone, his parents, the police, the doctors all said he couldn't have helped her. But maybe he could've. If he'd just pulled her back a second earlier. Walked a little slower so that she could keep up.

It's the same with Jules. She might not have been shot if he moved quicker with the shield. He took the shield. Why did he take the shield? He still lies awake at night sometimes. Even when Jules is safely nestled beside him in or in his arms. He'll run a reproduction of the day she got shot in his mind until the outcome is different. He has nightmares about it. He knows she does too, but she hides it from him. She still hides a lot of things.

The night they made it back to his place, after the Toth interviews, after Ed got shot and the double drop where he plunged ten stories down while he held her hands after he said there was no other place he'd rather be. He read Natalie's eloquent, not-so-appreciative note and was relieved that his little sister had flown the coop. After more than twelve hours at work, the last thing he wanted to do was share Jules with another person.

He wanted to make sure she felt the same way. He still has this lingering feeling that he only knows half of what she's really thinking. That he only knows half of the game plan and like the rooftop, it makes their relationship dangerous. It's not that he wants to have an escape plan ready; he just wants to be equals.

But there was no where she'd rather be. She'd stolen his words, his heart and his mind. When they feverishly kissed in his bedroom, one she hadn't seen in a few years, he mumbled against the smooth skin on her neck, "You need to think of your own lines."

She rolled her eyes and brought his mouth back to hers. "Shut up, Sam."

He wondered why they moved so fast. Why their actions were so fervent. It should've been something they enjoyed, savored. No one was going to call them back into work. Natalie wasn't going to burst back through the door. Maybe it was the persistent knowledge of doing something wrong. They were told only a few hours ago that exactly what they were doing was a little less than forbidden.

She dragged his shirt over his head, and they shuffled backwards towards his bed in some weird dance that they both remembered the steps to. He played with the hem on her shirt. He hesitated. Not to slow things down, but because he knew that underneath, on Jules' stomach and back, on the woman he loved, the woman he never stopped loving, is a huge scar that he caused.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and placed kisses on his neck and up his chin, but the backs of her knees hit the edge of his bed. He brought an arm across her back to steady her, and as she leaned back on the bed she exhaled in a painful hiss.

"What?" He took a seat next to her on the bed and noticed how the dip of his weight in the mattress pulled them closer together.

She shook her head, her hair was loose and it bounced around her shoulders. "It's nothing."

"Jules."

"Sam."

He rolled his eyes and moved to get off the bed, but she reached forward and placed a hand on his forearm. "I might have landed wrong in the double drop."

He knew it. He asked and he asked and he asked and he as—"Your knee?"

She nodded and cuffed up her blue jeans to reveal the purple and yellow hued bruise adorning her skin. Like he wouldn't have noticed that five or ten minutes from now.

He grunted disapprovingly and left the room. The living room was illuminated only by downtown Toronto's commercial lights, but Sam made it to his kitchen by memory. How many times had they practiced that technique during the drills and nine out of ten times she always landed sideways on her knees. He told her she needed to come down straight and let the subject take the force. That was the point. A point she couldn't get.

His freezer didn't have a light, but he knew where the icepacks were. He hadn't been having good luck at hockey lately and after a few heavy bruises he picked up a few pain numbing necessities including icepacks and an extra case of beer.

When he got back to the bedroom she was still perched on the edge on the bed, her good leg tucked underneath the exposed knee. She glanced up, saw the icepack and shook her head. "Sam, come on."

He laughed at her tenaciousness. If she was conscious after she was shot, she probably would've refused treatment from the hospital. "Just shut up for a second."

She was a little awestruck at his shortness but didn't protest when he sat down beside her and placed the icepack on her knee to quell the swelling. They ended up falling asleep together on his bed; Jules curled at his side with her leg across his torso so that he could hold the icepack in place. The pack, which eventually turned into freezing water, ended up on his bare chest and woke him at four in the morning. That was how the spent their first night back together.

Jules is completely soaked, her hair lies in straight lines, bangs obscuring her eyes as he helps her into the backseat of the rig. The black police shirt she's wearing is soaked to the point where it's heavy with water and continues to leak in solid streaks across the backseat once she's safely inside his rig. The shirt material sticks to her pallid skin.

While still standing in the deluge, Sam takes off his coat, and manages to drape it around her shoulders. Their eyes connect and a ghost of a smile ticks at the corner of her lips. Then, Sarge yanks open the opposite door to help Spike in. Her mouth becomes unreadable and once again they're not supposed to care about each other.

He waits for Sarge to take the driver's seat, expecting him to tag along for the ride now that it's pissing down rain and obvious that the world of emergency services has forgotten about them. But the Boss shakes his head and gestures towards the driver's seat. "I'm going to stay here and wait for more officers. We need to section off the street and start locating anything that's evidence. "

Sam nods and climbs up into the car. His clothing has the same sticky and weighty consistency as Jules' and it reminds him of the day they made him go swimming in the harbor. How everyone made fun of him afterwards except Jules who softly questioned him about his inability to swim. When he glimpses at her in the rearview mirror, her eyes are downcast and her arms have disappeared into his jacket that swims on her.

"Sam?" The Sarge is questioning. Was he talking this entire time? The rain is pretty loud even over his commanding voice. "Just drop them off and get back here and help us catch this guy."

"You got it." Sam slams the door, flicks on the sirens and is halfway to the hospital before anyone even speaks again.

Spike's checking his phone and Sam wishes that he could get evidence of this to send to Sarge as proof that he isn't the only one who acts unprofessional while on duty. "My phone still works, so if you guys find the device, send me a picture I'll see if I can help."

Of course it has to do with work. He has no idea how the rest of the team, even Jules at times, can be so damned detached from everything but the job. The sooner they all realize that besides a team, they're all people, more so that they all used to be friends until restrictions were placed on them. He doesn't remember the last time they all hung out after work when it wasn't for a debriefing.

Sam pulls into the ambulance bay at North York so that the back of the rig is parallel with the emergency room doors.

"Sam, Buddy," Spike is still yelling from the blast impact. Every time he talks, Jules presses on her temple. He's swiveling in his seat and watching over his shoulder. "I don't think you can park here."

"Oh yeah?" Sam puts the rig in park and hops out. His boots land in a giant puddle of water that dances underneath the falling rain and Spike's already got his door open. "Spike, who's going to give me a ticket?"

"Getting a little cocky there, Braddock?" She's unfastening her seatbelt and he wants to roll his eyes.

"Jules stay here for a second."

"Why?"

"Because I'm taking Spike in first and I can't support both of you at the same time."

"We're not seniors, Sam—"

"No but you're injured. Stay put."

He hobbles with Spike who's yelling something about his leg not being that bad. But all Sam can think about is Jules and her dislike of hospitals. Her walking through those doors is going to set off a psychosis that she won't admit to. He wishes that he could stay with her, but for some odd reason, she would probably like that just as much as Sarge. He wonders why even though they love each other so much, it still feels like she's hiding from him.

---

Spike's good foot squeaks against the ground as he settles further into the chair that Sam dropped him in. Then the blonde moved to the triage nurse's desk and interrupted her phone call to tell her that there were two SRU officers with injuries, minor injuries, but injuries nonetheless. She sighed and told Sam she'd get to them as soon as possible. The hospital is busy, but not as busy as you'd expect when you can't get the EMS to come to you.

Before Sam left to get Jules, he slapped Spike in the arm and told him to feel better. He felt kind of bad for saying that he didn't want to ride with Sam today. It wasn't personal; well it was but it wasn't Sam's fault. After all, you can't decide who you're related to and who you're not. If less than twelve hours ago he didn't have a passionate night of Italian love making with Sam's baby sister, then maybe he wouldn't have protested to a day of riding around in a car with him. All the protesting did was get Spike blown up anyway.

Checking his phone again, Spike notices for the first time that he two missed calls, most likely from his mom who's caught whiff of the explosion via the news, or through some mother/son mind meld. Instead he does a double take because the cracked screen says that Natalie's tried to phone him. Twice. He rubs a thumb over the crack just to be sure that the circuit isn't completely fried and as if it were fate, the phone springs to life with an incoming call from the object of his confusion.

Maybe it's the need for closure or maybe it's the fact that he bashed his face off the steering wheel so hard he was seeing constellations, but he answers the phone. "Hello?"

"Oh my God, Spike? I've been trying to get through to you for the past fifteen minutes. I saw the explosion on the news and they said that officers were injured. Is everyone okay?" Her voice has that youthful rambling that it usually does, but it's accompanied by the fact that she's nervous which at least doubles the tempo.

He waits for her to finish talking because he's really only hearing every other word. His eardrums are pulsating and he's beginning to feel a restriction in his temple that will lead to one hell of a migraine of someone doesn't do something soon. "Natalie. Natalie. Slow down."

"I'm sorry." He can hear her take in a shaky breath on the other side of the phone and imagines slender fingers coming up to cover her plump lips coated in pink lip gloss that tastes like marshmallows. "It's just Sam didn't phone me and then I didn't know what was going on. And the news wasn't giving any names."

"It's okay. Jules and I were hurt, but not badly." He glances up and sees the triage nurse giving him a less than approving look. She must know that he's not supposed to be giving out information on active cases too. Then he notices a sign that she's beating on like a tribal drum and it clearly shows he's not supposed to be on his phone. "Listen I—"

"Sam must be going insane then. No wonder he didn't call me."

"Nat, I gotta-What do you mean?"

"Nothing," she answers quickly. Even too quickly for Natalie. "I'll let you go Spike. I was just worried. I'm glad you're all right. Call me when you get a chance, okay?" And then there's just dead air like there was on his comm. link a few minutes ago. He's constantly being left out of the communication by everyone. It reminds him of what they did to Lew.

His nose twitches at the thought and the skin is tight because of the drying blood. Instead of wallowing in the departure of his best friend he tries to wrap his addled mind around what Natalie said. What did she say about Sam? Does he know about their tryst last night? He thinks she used the word 'insane' which is one he just never wants to hear.

But then he catches an offhanded glimpse of Sam through the two sets of glass double doors that lead into emergency. The flood lights in the bay reflect off the raindrops on the windows and it creates a very ethereal scene. Sam holds Jules close, closer than he held Spike, closer than he needs to, and he adjusts his coat around her. He bows his head so that their faces rest inches apart and it looks like he's saying something to her. She smiles back at him, and it's a smile Spike hasn't seen before. Her expression so genuine and at peace.

"Son of a bitch," Spike mumbles as he watches his two teammates reluctantly part. Sam drags his hand down Jules' arm and lets his fingers linger on hers before running back towards the rig and speeding away. So that's why he gets to use the elevator.

Jules shuffles through the automatic doors and falls into the seat closest to Spike. She doesn't really collapse into it, but she's injured and starting to not hide it so well. She leans to her right side and there's dried blood underneath her fingertips. Spike contemplates if they're really going to be cleared for active duty today and how much help they're going to be. One of the rigs is down, so someone would have to drive all the way back to HQ to get a replacement and then teams would have to be shuffled around since neither Jules or himself can drive.

"So, you and Sam?" His eyes widen under tightened skin and he's not quite sure where the words or the gall to say them comes from. Part of him wants the team to know that he's not as hopeless as they think he is. He's not just Spike that they can trample during placement drills. Sometimes he can be Michelangelo too. Part of him wants to know about the personal lives of his teammates. He wants to have a barbeque with Wordy and Ed and their kids. He wants to go on a double date with Sam and Jules no matter how terrifying that idea might be. They should hangout after work like they used to. Part of him wants to use the damn elevator too.

"So you and Natalie?" Jules replies, unfazed and without missing a beat.

Spike gawks at her with an open mouth as she casually raises an eyebrow in silent triumph. He's about to ask her how the hell she knew, but she reaches forward and places that damn earring that may as well been a neon sign, right in his palm. He's about five seconds from hurling the piece of jewelry at the triage nurse.

But then she poses, "I won't say anything if you don't."

This is interesting. It's against team rules for them to be dating, but they've already done it once before. Then he remembers they were all given specifics to follow probation and he's wondering exactly how long Jules and Sam have been creeping around. On the other hand, when it comes time to tell Sam that he's been seeing his little sister in a less than gentlemanly way it would be nice to have both the ladies on his side. "Deal."

The triage nurse ends any further continuation of the conversation as she is suddenly looming before them, hands on her wide hips and lightly sneakered shoes dangerously close to the rivers of water dripping off their uniforms. "You the SRU officers?" It's not so much a question as it is a demand.

"What gave it away?" He jokes with a smile and a relaxed demeanor. The nurse seems to miss this fact completely, or is unappreciative of his comic relief at this time.

"Follow me." Her voice is gruff and her walk is more of a waddle, the kind that Sophie and Shelley adopted late into their pregnancies. She leads them down into a bustling corridor, around orderlies steering gurneys at high speeds. It must be getting louder because when he glances back to Jules, she's holding her head. "Leg sutures right?"

"What?" His hearing is still a little hit and miss. All the added background noise must be stressing the miss.

They've stopped moving. The triage nurse flexes almost in half at her hips, or where her hips should be, to examine his wound. He tries to back up, but Jules is there and he prefers the awkward silence of the car pre-explosion.

"Yeah, you're in here." She guides him in with a thick hand on his shoulder. It's more like an eagle's talons digging a fish out of Lake Huron. With her other hand she's forcing a clipboard into his arms. "Fill this out."

"Jules?" He questions. His voice isn't really cracking, but he knows she hates hospitals; he's not a fan either since his father's been in and out of them for the last few months. The triage nurse still tires to push him in and he's clawing at the doorframe.

Jules seems to sense his discomfort and smiles, small and thoughtful with a hand still on her temple. "I'll meet you back out front when we're done."

He nods before the triage nurse succeeds in shoving him back into the room and shutting the door completely. She leaves to take Jules to her room and he's left in the sterile environment. A bed, rather a gurney with thin sheets, and a thinly knitted blanket. There's a window, but it's placed high on the wall and outside lightening flashes like someone is flicking on and off the lights to get some attention.

There's a metal tray on a stand that reflects the industrial lightening. It holds a lot of medical instruments. More than Spike thinks are needed to sew a couple of stitches into his supple skin. He gets what some of them are for. That could be for—no, because—well. Actually he doesn't. All of them look like they're meant to harm him further. They're all scissors and scalpels with the sharp blades and points.

He's sitting on the bed, keeping his injured leg straight and examining these devices of torture, when the door opens again and a younger nurse walks in. She's in her early thirties, has thick black hair tied back in a ponytail and light blue eyes. Her skin is an olive color, something accentuated by the carnation colored lipstick wears. Her entry startles him and he almost flips the table of sterilized instruments.

She smacks her jaws together, apparently chewing gum and rolls her sapphire eyes at him while pulling on cream colored latex gloves. "You the cop?"

"Yeah." He swallows harshly and watches as she wheels herself over on a footstool. "I'm the cop."

"Good. I'm the nurse. I'm doing your stitches. All right Officer—"she grabs his chart from the gurney beside him, but immediately tosses it back. "They get you to fill those out for a reason."

"Sorry." He apologizes and takes a pen as she hands it to him. He fills out the information as quickly as his mind remembers, though on the page it looks more like ancient scripture than any language he's familiar with. When he glances back up, the nurse is readying a syringe. "Wow."

"Oh, come on Tough Guy." She pops her gum as the needle sucks all the fluid from a container. "This isn't going to hurt anymore than it did getting the cut." She tosses the empty bottle in the garbage and flicks the needle point a few times. "How'd you get it anyway?"

He shrugs. He can't really divulge any details of the case, especially when it's still an active case. But then again the explosion is already all over the news and if she knows the pain he's already been through today, maybe she won't jam that needle, which he thinks is possibly growing bigger each minute, right into his open wound. "I was in an explosion."

"No shit." She puts down the syringe and has an almost mystified expression on her face. "That was you?"

Spike downcasts his eyes, feeling the blush creep into his cheeks. "Yeah that was m—" He holds the 'e' because she shoves the freezing solution in and for something that's supposed to numb, it sure as hell hurts.

"Sorry Officer—"She reaches forward again and takes the clipboard. "Scarlatti, but I needed you to relax."

"Yeah. Thanks," he mutters and tries not to notices while she gets the sutures prepared.

"That is freaking amazing though. I mean, you blew up today."

"Happens more than you think."

That's what he told Natalie when they met up for drinks last night. She walked from Sam's apartment; he drove and met her at a middle-class bar where they were just going to have one or two drinks to get to know each other. Well, the two drinks turned to four turned to taking a taxi to some almost underground club that played its music way to loud and sold its drinks for way too much.

But Natalie was all teeth and giggles and she dragged him out onto the dance floor until both of them felt like they were going to collapse. Even in the garbled remixes that today's youth classifies as music and the overused strobe light shocks she looked gorgeous. Thick full lips, gorgeous long blonde hair, long legs that disappeared in a dress that he was sure she wore to tease him. They ended up making out on the dance floor and stumbled into the coat check room even though neither of them had brought anything.

"I should take you home," he told her when he broke the kiss, the makeout session, the dream. But he held her, the smooth skin of her cheek soft under his calloused fingertips.

"Take me with you," She answered and glued them back together. Thin arms around his neck, strong legs almost around his hips. He wondered if she was a dancer.

He broke the kiss again. "I live with my parents." It was the universal turnoff.

She arched an eyebrow, but didn't remove her arms or legs. "I live with my brother."

That's how they ended up at the hotel. Room 618 and he did take the elevator up thank you very much. The whole time he felt like a teenager again. Like a collage freshman. Like this was the life he was supposed to have, but instead he got caught in family ties.

The next morning he woke first out of habit. Team One usually works out at 5am two days a week, which means a 4am wakeup call for Spike from his alarm clock. He woke up from his sleep in a daze, partially alcohol induced, but also with the persistent feeling he got after he knew that something was bizarre and wonderful at the same time.

Natalie stirred beside him, long dancer's legs curled around his as she moaned in her sleep. He detangled their lower limbs. He's sure she must be a dancer after last night, ballet probably. Her long manicured fingers splayed out on his chest and softly he returned her limp hand. He tried hard not to wake her, but he didn't want her to think that he was a jerk, that this happened all the time, because it didn't.

He managed to roll stealth out of the bed and get his pants, socks and had his shirt in his hand before she mumbled to life.

"Spike?"

"Morning Nat." He couldn't help but smile, the way she lay sprawled out on the bed reminded him of a house cat.

It took her a few seconds before she caught on to the fact that he was getting dressed, but once she did, her plump lower lip puckered in a pout. "You're leaving? What time is it?"

"It's early. I've got work." He bounced on the edge of the bed and pulled on his shoes.

The movement made her grin and she stalked forward on the mattress, hands snaked around him again, around his neck, around his chest, and into his back pocket. That is how the little memento that's been pricking him in the ass for the last two hours got there. "I'll call you okay?"

He kissed her goodbye, hands in her blonde hair that smelt like vanilla cupcakes and cherry Jello shots. Then all the way home he tried not to think about what happened and how it got out of his hands, or how he would explain it to Sam. Then he snuck back into his house at four thirty in the morning and heard his dad coughing up a lung. Then he fell asleep for half an hour too long and ended up almost being late for work.

"All right Tough Guy." The nurse pulls back on the thread while it's still in his leg and he feels his gut start to rumble and a familiar tickle at the back of his throat. She cuts the tread and places a piece of gauze over the sutures. "You're done."

"You're thorough."

She rolls her eyes at his compliment and snaps off her gloves that are spotted with his blood. "You're not my first."

The nurse appears like she's going to leave the room, but instead stops off at the sink just beside the door. The scrubs don't do much to show her figure, but she bends over to retrieve a small basin from under the sink and he'd be lying if he didn't say the view wasn't nice. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and the copper taste of blood welcomes him. Then he remembers what happened to his head during the impact of the explosion.

"Hey, what about my face?"

"Nothing we can do for that." She grins at her own joke, and returns to the stool with the water and places new gloves on her hands.

"Let me get a better look here." She adjusts the overhanging light so it's almost directly in his face and he tries not to complain as she pokes and prods his open cuts. Through the pain and the oozing of warm water on his face he watches the beauty mark by her lip twitch as she gives him directions.

"That's the best I can do for you, Bud." She clicks off the light and it takes a few seconds for his eyes to regulate. When he looks down the water in the basin is dyed red with his blood. "The rest is mother nature's fault."

The second pair of gloves is already in the trash by the time the black dots are out of his vision and she's almost out of the room. "Wait a minute. That's it?"

"What?" She asks from the door, the momentum of her stopping causing her ponytail to swing like a pendulum.

"Don't I get a lollipop or something?"

"Oh you want treat?" She shuts the door and arches an eyebrow, almost as a challenge. He doesn't have time to react before she's snatched his phone off he gurney beside him and is entering something into it. "That's my number."

"Oh. Umm." What?

"What's the matter? Do you have a girlfriend or something?"

"Umm." What?

"Okay. Well here is my number. If you decide you don't have a girlfriend, or you just want to hangout. Give me a call."

This is not happening. There is no way that he's got the numbers of two amazingly fine women in less than two days. He pulls out the classic heart stopper. "That might be a problem. See I live with my parents."

"So do I." Then she crosses her arms and narrows those blue eyes at him. "Are you making up excuses Michelangelo? It is Michelangelo right?"

"People call me Spike."

"I'm not going to call you that. That's stupid." She picks up the clipboard once again and returns to the doorway. "Well I'm Pandora. My friends call me Andy. And if you ever want to stop making excuses, give me a call Mikey."

What the hell just happened?

---

"What?" Wordy questions. His voice is a little strained, a little too impatient to be naturally considered Wordy, but it's still his old friend.

Ed releases his hand from his friend's coat and points to the truck. It waits immobile, lurching to one side because of a gimpy back tire. Something doesn't feel right. It shouldn't be this easy. When a bomb takes down the bomb expert, it's not this easy. "Something's off."

"You think they bobby trapped it?" Wordy shuts the passenger door and the dinging inside the rig stops because Ed hasn't removed the keys from the ignition yet. Sometimes they switch sides, it's something that sporadically happens after twenty years of friendship, when his partner adopts the fight tactic Ed picks the leftovers.

Without taking his eyes off the vehicle, Ed reaches a lithe arm into the back of the rig, fumbling around objects until he retrieves a pair of binoculars. "I'm thinking something."

"Ed. Wordy. Status," the Boss demands. No doubt the situation has made the all a little edgy, but usually Greg deals with his grievances after work, not by getting short with the already undersized team.

"We've got the truck, Boss." Ed informs. Through the binoculars he notices that the driver's door is ajar. Something confirmed by a blinking light on the dashboard that mimics a Christmas tree bulb. "Something doesn't feel right though. It's abandoned, but the door is open."

"All right. Proceed with caution and keep me updated."

"Hey Boss, how are Spike and Jules?"

The Boss's voice lightens a little with a short sigh. "They're okay. EMS never showed. Sam drove them to the hospital."

"They needed medical attention that bad?" Ed doesn't ask because he thinks that the unscheduled hospital excursion is a waste of time. He feels the first pang of guilt. Maybe he should've gone to the wreck instead of pursuing the subject.

"Sam took them to be safe. Only minor injuries. Nothing a nice quiet weekend won't cure."

"Good to hear, Boss." Wordy smiles and the comm. link falls dead.

Before Wordy can start in with the reassurances, the calming smiles and the friendly my-door-is-always-open lifetime move-of-the-week bullshit, Ed yanks the keys out the ignition. He might have failed Spike and Jules before. As far as being the Team Leader goes, no one is going to be making comparisons to him and the gallant white knight, but he can still catch the son of a bitch who did this.

"Let's go."

"Ed." Wordy's shaking his head. The distinct voice of reason. His eyebrows are slanted, caring and for now they're just friends. Not teammates, not cops, not the SRU Team One Leader and colleague. "Take a second."

It's an option they're not usually allowed. Much like their need for perfection, they also need to do it now. Not a minute from now, or a second from now or a millisecond from now. Now. Period. When a husband has his wife at gunpoint and Ed has to take the shot, he can't pull the trigger in a second. When a terminal cancer patient teeters over the edge of the eighth floor of a hospital the Boss can't start negotiations in a second. When the numbers scroll down on a clock face attached to a bomb, Spike can't take a second before deciding whether it's the left or right wire to cut.

"No. Now."

Sometimes he thinks about his own personal exchange with Dr. Toth, all the snarky comments aside. The good ol' Doc asked him where he retreated too when work became too much. Naturally he went to Sophie and Clark, who were somewhere else at the time. Nothing much has changed, except that now there's another tiny body to factor into the equation. Part of him is terrified that one day he's going to wake up and find that Sophie's left again. Part of him is more terrified that she'll take Clark and Izzy with her.

Things seemed so much simpler when Clark was Izzy's age. A pudgy little boy who always had the appearance of an old man. Ed would race home from work the first few months just to see the infant, who was always clothed in some ridiculous overall/sweater combination because he was born in the dead of winter.

"Sophie, for God's sake dress Clark like a baby." He laughed and rocked his son on his shoulder around the living room of their new home. They'd just moved in a month ago. Boxes were strewn all around the walls and mimicked the patterns of the fallen snow outside.

His wife glowered at him, but beamed when he turned his back to reveal their son. An action he caught with a swift glimpse over his shoulder. "I think it makes him look cute. He looks like your dad."

"Now there's a contradiction if I've ever heard one."

Sophie laughed once, too enamored with Clark to restart the argument of whose parents their son looked more like. With one of his tiny hands in hers, she stepped lightly on another more delicate topic. "Ed, you've got to think about taking more time off."

"Soph." He turned around, making her release their son's hand. "We've talked about this. I will once it slows down. I can't right now, but we're training a new guy."

"Yeah, okay."

In his arms, Clark started to stir from his limp three-month-old sleep. He made a sound similar to a croak and Ed gently tapped him on the back. "I swear we are, Soph."

"What's his name?"

"I don't know. There are a dozen recruits. There's a guy named Ollie or Rollie that Greg likes though." Clark's low cries grew in volume, and Ed shifted his arms trying to assuage his son.

Sophie crossed her arms in protest. "Ed, your family needs you."

"I—" Clark began screaming. Tiny balled fists knocked against Ed's arm as his son's face grew red and wet.

"I'm getting tired from doing midnight feedings all by myself—"

"It's all right, Buddy. It's okay"

"And we still have to get settled into the house—"

"Can you take him?"

"And the fireplace is still broken. It's freezing in here—"

"Soph, what's wrong with him?" He held his infant son out at arm's length while he writhed, still screaming, still red and wrinkled like a raisin.

She grasped Clark expertly, without forethought, without fear. Every time Ed held him, a small piece was still afraid that he wasn't doing it right. "Nothing's wrong with him, Ed." His son curled against her chest as she gave him her knuckle to suck on. "Maybe if you were around more often, you would just know what to do."

"Soph—"

"No Ed. He's never going to be this age again. Before you know it he's going to be in school. And if this is the way you treat your family, I'm not having any more of your kids." She waited a few seconds for his rebuttal, but the harshness of her words tore his tongue slack. She shook her head not quite in disgust and left the room cradling their only child for the next sixteen years.

He and Wordy move stealthy across the almost empty second floor of the parking garage. Water drips down from the ceiling in single droplets that echo through the empty cavern as they hold their guns in a prepared position in case anything changes with the truck. It's happened before. If this were any other situation, Ed probably wouldn't let his friend have a gun. But he figures if Wordy' having as bad a morning as he is, then he could use the confidence boost.

Ed holds up his hand and Wordy immediately stops. Pretty good for someone who's sick. They're both thinking it. Solitary, Ed approaches the ajar driver's door. When he's close enough to hear the steady warning of the 'ding', he brings out the mirror to scan the area making sure that they won't trip any wires when they inspect the car; that it's not rigged to explode.

Usually this is Wordy's part of the job, but when a feather light touch can set off a bomb, you don't want someone with careless hands in the general area. "It's clean."

Both men physically relax, drop their serious stance and lower their guns. Ed bends down to examine the undercarriage, and after several seconds, there is nothing that appears out of the ordinary. "Boss."

"What do you have, Eddy?"

"Truck wasn't a trap, our guy's just inexperienced." He and Wordy finally share a grin, because in their business inexperience is good. It means the perpetrator is sloppy, doesn't clean up evidence or loose ends and it makes them easier to find. He'll be home on time tonight.

"That fits with what Sam and I got."

"Which is?"

"The device is four propane canisters and your very basic timer. There are chunks of them floating around here."

Wordy sends him a concerned glance from the other side of the truck. "So we're thinking really inexperienced. Like a teenager?"

"I don't know yet, Wordy. You guys just turn that truck upside down and tell me what you find."

"Will do, Boss."

Ed doesn't hesitate to crack the door fully open and pull the keys from the ignition. There may be a miniscule sliver of his confidence that wants to bring up the criminal mastermind who would blow up a construction site with barbeque materials and then rig his car with some ingenious horror film level of a trap. The thought flashes away when the keys are in his hand and nothing happens except the trucks sputters dead and musical chimes cease.

"Definitely inexperienced." Ed shakes his head and runs a gloved hand along the side of the driver's seat to feel for any rivets that feel slack or objects that feel out of place.

Wordy shakes his head as he examines the floor of the passenger's side with a flashlight and stern set eyebrows. "I don't know, Ed. Something about this just doesn't add up."

"I said that already."

"You know what I mean." Wordy pushes the passenger's chair forward to inspect the backseat. "No one could this inexperienced."

"Well." He bends with his knees and now has his hand under the chair, then along the paneling in the door. "Maybe they're just stupid."

"I think you're right."

"What?" Ed glances up at Wordy who has his flashlight trained on the backseat of the car.

"Look in the back."

The cadence of Wordy's voice makes him scramble to his feet. He pushes the driver's chair out of the way and is more than surprised by what greets him. Papers cover almost all of the faux leather backseat, but they're schematic drawing of the device, and maps of Toronto.

He holds up a large map tarnished with red blotches and numbers scribbled in the margins. "Wordy, there are more locations marked on this."

---

Wordy covers his mouth with a gloved hand and contemplates if it's shaking because of the fear, or the adrenaline, or the Parkinson's, or some sordid combination. Without a further moment's hesitation, he taps his headset to life. "Boss, we got a problem."

"Talk to me, Wordy."

"Ed and I found maps and diagrams of the devices in the back of the truck. There's dozens of them, but one of the maps has more locations and times marked on it." Ed hands him the crumpled map. This is definitely not the work of someone with prior experience in any law breaking factions. The mess in the backseat and the shoddily folded map is true to this; usually bombers keep anything to do with their work in perfect order. Like an artist would with a portfolio.

There's a deep exhalation on the other end. "How many times and locations, Wordy."

"Including the one that's already happened, five. But two are crossed out."

"Keele Street and which one?"

Wordy shakes his head as he looks at the map of North York. "That's the thing, Boss. The explosion that hit Spike and Jules isn't one that's crossed out. All the locations are around The Junction too."

"You said there were times too?"

The map crinkles underneath the force of his hand as he drags a fingertip under the scribbled numbers. "Yeah a column down the side of the map. The first time is 8:00a.m."

"Which is when Keele exploded."

"Right. The next one is at 10:30a.m."

Greg sighs into the comm. link. "That only gives us about two hours."

"Ed and I can check out the crossed out locations, find out why they're off the list."

"Winnie can research the other two to see why they're still on," Greg agrees. "Take a picture of the map and send it to our PDAs, Wordy."

"You got it."

He stretches the map over the hood of the truck and takes a picture. The image sends to all of Team One including Winnie, Jules and Spike even though he's unsure how much the last two will be participating. Spike might have actually gotten lucky because propane tanks are pretty basic. Hell, even Wordy knows how they work. The girls love hot dogs and hamburgers in the summertime.

"Let's get this stuff back to the car." Ed's already collecting handfuls of the papers, not really crumpling them further, but definitely not sorting them in any system known to man.

That's how they've always been. Ed quick to shoot with Wordy working the less lethal angle. Sometimes he still questions whether lethal force is necessary. It's not his place, but sometimes he wishes it were. Even though this is the niche they've created for each other over nineteen years of friendship, Ed is always the one who negotiates. Wordy, his name forsaking him, rarely gets to talk people down. One time Ed said jokingly that it was because the team would be there hours later. That Wordy's just too nice of a guy.

"Give me those." He holds out his hands, sturdy as cinderblocks and accepts the mass amount of paper that crinkles into his arms. He'll sort through them while Ed drives.

The first address is another construction site, but this time situated on St. Clair Ave. It's a little after 8:30am, so the crews should already be there and they can get the information they need from the site manager or foreman. The next location is on Dundas Street a block away from the railroad tracks. Hopefully the facts come quick so they can narrow down their subject's motive and find the next spot by the allotted time.

The sirens are blaring and Ed has the same serious expression on his face that he gets whenever he turns on those damn things. He chronically overuses them. Wordy thinks that they make him feel important. The lights and the klaxons are a sign to all the civilians that Ed has authority over them in some way, so he uses them whenever he can. On one level it gives Ed a childlike endearment, an obsession with bright, loud objects is rarely something anyone grows out of. On another level it's dangerous. Replace the sirens with a gun and you've got the subjects they spend the shift hunting down.

Wordy separates the papers into two distinct piles. One pertaining to drawings of the bombs and another dedicated to the map, locations and planning issues. Every single piece of paper seems to have been kept, which is similar to regular bomber manifestos. None are crumpled into balls or ripped in half. But none are typed out on a computer, there are spelling mistakes and areas that have been crudely scribbled out.

As he shifts the papers, one of the pictures sticks out immediately. This is because it's neither a map, nor a drawing of the device. It appears to be a drawing done by a child, maybe Maggie's age, maybe a year older. It's a blue cow, though Wordy has to use his skills as a father of three young girls to recognize this. The picture makes him smile for a second, and he wonders how something like this got mixed in with bomb schematics.

The drawing makes him think of Maggie, his middle daughter. Lilly and Ally are active little hellions: climbing trees, running through the sprinkler in little bikinis, playing catch and make believe. Maggie is different. Maggie is quiet and polite and has the atmosphere of an old soul. Something unaided by her need for glasses at such a young age.

When Shelley was pregnant for the second time, Lilly was a reckless toddler with shoulder length brown pigtails and he didn't think he could be more in love with his child. They sat on the couch after he came home from work and watched Sesame Street or the Wiggles. Lilly never had to beg him to dance with her. She never will.

Shelley waddled around the house, with a bag of peanuts in tow, her favorite craving with Maggie. That was how Lilly learned about elephants. Every now and then his two-and-a-half-year-old would point at his wife and call her an elephant and Wordy would suck on his teeth to hold in his laughter.

After Lilly was in bed for the night, Shelley rubbed her stomach and questioned, "What do you think it'll be."

He looked up from the book he was reading. Something on preparing for the baby for fathers. He read it for Lilly, but it had been a few years so he figured it couldn't hurt to reread it. Besides Shelley was doing all the heavy lifting. "Hopefully a baby and not an elephant."

She laughed and grabbed his hand to move where the baby kicked and he smiled with pride. "What do you want it to be?"

"Healthy." It was the standard answer. He didn't want her to feel disappointed on the day the baby was born if it wasn't the gender he wanted. More importantly, he didn't want that child to feel like a failure, for being born the wrong gender.

Secretly though, he wanted another girl. When Shelley was pregnant with Lilly, he wanted a boy. He supposed that all dads want a boy because their easier to teach, easier to bond with. The thought of daughters are intimidating. But after Lilly, he knew how to change the diapers, knew how to paint the tiny finger nails, and knew how to put hair into pigtails, ponytails and braids.

"I'd kind of like a son." Shelley divulged as she popped another peanut into her mouth.

He rubbed her stomach in a circular motion and lied, "A son would be nice."

A month later, on one of the hottest days Toronto had ever seen, Maggie was born just after 12pm. She weighed a little over six pounds and remained very quiet during the whole process. A trait she still keeps to this day. Wordy tells his wife that Maggie's the watcher. She watches situations before engaging into them, where as their other two daughters run into anything blindly.

Shelley cradled their newborn daughter in her arms and adjusted the cap over Maggie's eyes so she could see, even though her blue eyes were closed. "She has my mother's hair."

She did. From the moment of birth Maggie had a tuff of rich auburn hair on her tiny head. Now at the age of five, her hair is beautiful and naturally curly.

Wordy sat on the side of the bed and admired his new daughter. A new little person that he could teach to tie her shoes and to skate in the wintertime. Shelley shook her head. "I thought for sure she was going to be a boy."

He supposed since she was finally here he could let Shelley in on the secret. "I knew it was a girl."

"How?" She handed his daughter to him, and she was so tiny in his arms, but so calm. Lilly was screaming from the moment she was born until he and Shelley left the house that morning to come to the hospital.

"I just knew."

"Well, do you have a name?"

He did. "I was kind of hoping we could name her after my mom."

A few months after Lilly's birth his mother succumbed to cancer so quickly, it was still hard to believe at times. His dad wasn't doing so well, and Wordy didn't expect this baby to completely reverse everything, but at the same time, she could be named in honor.

"Margaret?"

"Maggie for short."

Shelley pursed her lips in thought, but then nodded her head. "I like it."

Now when he comes home from work, he searches in the backyard for Lilly, who is off climbing trees, or fighting pirates, or riding unicorns. Then he moves into the kitchen where Shelley is creating dinner, each night the concoction smells more delicious than the night before. In the corner of the room is Ally in her play pen, who raises skinny arms up to him. He airplanes her around the room for a bit and then puts her in booster seat for supper.

He travels to the front room where little Maggie, with her red hair and tiny glasses is an amalgamation of her grandmothers. She sits with her knees bent at the coffee table drawing, or making puppets, or paper snowflakes. Sometimes she leans forward so close to the paper she's coloring on that she's immersed into a whole world of her own.

He doesn't make a sound and she inherently knows he's there. "Daddy?"

"Magpie." And as they embrace, she'll give him a drawing of whatever she was thinking up that day. Onetime it was what she thinks he does all day, which is eat doughnuts and ride roller coasters. That one is at work so that all of Team One can enjoy it.

"Ed," he calls his partner's attention to the crayon drawn picture, holding it up for him to view.

"That is definitely not a bomb." Ed shakes his head because they're thinking the same thing. The reason the subject is so inexperienced is because they're planning these explosions for domestic reasons. "We need to get an angle soon, because this day can't get any worse."

They roll up unto a gravel clearing that in the future will be a parking lot for some corporation. A thick man wearing a hard hat and an orange safety vest waits for them under a makeshift awning between where the employee cars are parked and the descent to where the construction begins. Winnie must have phoned ahead to the foreman and told him to meet them outside. Although Wordy was sad to see Keira leave Team One as a dispatcher a few years back, Winnie is phenomenal at the job. He'll have to make sure to tell her how much she helped out today.

He's only managed to sort through about half of the pile of paper, but the rest can wait for the trip to Dundas Street. He places the papers in neat piles on the dashboard and before he or Ed can exit the rig, the foreman is already taking two big steps forward into the downpour. "You guys the cops?"

"That would be us." Ed answers for them as he shuts the door and moves briskly around the rig to greet the man. "You the foreman?"

"That's me." The man removes a work glove and offers his hand to Ed and Wordy. "Can we do this fast, I've got a tight schedule to keep?"

"Not a problem Sir, we'll keep this short and sweet." Ed begins asking questions about the building going up. How long the construction has been going on. If there's been any threats or suspicious activity around the site. The normal things. Wordy inspects the site from afar. It, like Keele Street, is nothing more than a few stories of girders, but there are a lot of men at work around the base of it.

"I think that'll do it for us then." They re-shake the foreman's hand and Wordy wears a smile in appreciation.

"Well thanks for making this quick. The city's got us on a tight contract to finish the development?"

"The city?" Wordy questions. The data that Winnie gave them said that the building going up was going to house the location chapter of a national bank.

The foreman nods. The movement shoots speckles of rain off his hard hat and through the air. "Yeah, it's an apartment building that's going to be low rental housing."

"We thought it was going to be a bank." Ed answers.

"It was. Until about a week ago. The deal fell through and the city bought up the land."

Wordy turns to Ed, raising an eyebrow in interest. "That's definitely an angle."

---

Lightning streaks throughout the sky causing flashes of bright light to flicker and illuminate the otherwise darkened street. The explosion took out six of the streetlights, and the only other light source they have comes from the rig's headlights that Sam left on when he returned from the hospital.

Greg doesn't talk to him as they search for pieces of propane tank, or dials or wires or anything that can be remotely linked back to the rudimentary bomb that blew up the site earlier. They've accumulated quite a bit of debris, but every piece they miss might be an integral part of the mechanics that they can link back to previous bombing. Or a piece that Spike can find out of place, like a signature.

The rain hasn't let up since the sky broke apart twenty minute ago, it's getting so the pieces of fragmented metal and frayed wire are actually floating away. Greg's had to chase down more than a couple. It reminded him of when Dean was little and he would chase him around the living room. When he was a good dad.

"Hey Boss." His comm. link booms to life over the torrential rain.

Greg takes a moment to stand, placing his hands on his lower back where the pain of getting older dully aches. Then he wipes the rainwater from his brow and the edge of his hat. "What do you have, Eddy?"

"We've been to both crossed out locations and can confirm that both were originally going to be corporate buildings. The deals fell through and the city bought out property for low-rental housing."

"So we're thinking that the subject is sticking it to the big guys then?" Rain drips down the side of his hat and over his ears. It's refreshingly cold for September. The steady pelting soon turns his skin numb and he barely notices that even his shoes are soaked through.

"Not so much. Wordy found a kid's drawing mixed in with the bomb schematics. We think it's domestic."

"Which could explain the inexperience." Greg nods; he knows the implications of a domestic bomber. They're easier to catch because they don't know what they're doing, but more people get injured for the same reason.

"We're waiting on Winnie for info on the other two building sites."

"Good work guys. Sam and I are done here. We're going to go pick up Spike and Jules and meet you at your next location." The comm. link falls silent.

Greg examines the street a final time, trying to search for any remaining pieces of the propane tanks, but in the dim light and with the rain, everything is reflecting the same color making the task a very difficult one. He contemplates how he'll negotiate with the bomber if it comes to that. They obviously have a family, which is a good angle. If he can get them talking about their kids they might back down.

In the distance, he can see the dark outline of Sam as he picks up something from the ground and places it in the evidence bag. He's going to have to deal with Sam and Ed's behavior today as well. He barely remembers how to reprimand anymore since the team has become more like a family. Everyone was so efficient at their job before Toth arrived that he didn't need formal reports that travelled through the upper channels, but now after the shift he's going to have to sit down and fill out the paper work and inform both men.

The part of Greg that Toth told to be boss is already thinking of lines to write in the given boxes. Both disobeyed rules, Greg will have to word it lightly so that no further reprimand comes to either of his friends. It's ironic that both Ed and Sam are punished for doing the opposite of each other. Ed for endangering the lives of his teammates and Sam for ignoring orders to save them. He wonders what would've happened if he had to give a formal reprimand to Spike during the time of Lew's death. This job is slowly becoming unfair to all of them.

Toth treats them like some radical science experiment, like Team One is feral and he needs to rehabilitate them back into society. Ever since Toth told Greg that Team One was on probation, there has only been negative conditioning. They haven't been rewarded for the hours of overtime they put in, for how many lives they save, or disasters they advert, or for repeatedly being perfect. Only their foibles are noticed.

It makes Greg feel a mixture of feelings. He's angry that he can't help out his team more. That he can't stand up for them and be the Boss and the Sarge that he used to be. He's angry at the changes that are being made and most importantly that he's responsible for them. He's tired every day when he gets up and every night when he goes to bed. It's more of an emotional and mental fatigue than it is physical, though some days he feels like he can barely function anymore. He feels helpless that he can't do anything to change the series of events that he's set in play. All he can do is sit back and watch.

There's only once in his life that Greg's ever felt like this before and then he started drinking and it went away. Being a homicide detective, it just felt so fruitless. He would arrive at the scene and every call would be the same. There would be needless deaths that he knew he could've prevented if given half a chance.

He started to dwell on cases to long. Started to remember faces he had no reason to. Started to fabricate ghosts of people who were happily laid to rest. Instead of taking the guilt and coming up with a permanent solution so more people wouldn't end up a washable chalk outline or a Polaroid photo locked away in an evidence box, he turned to the quick result.

Of course the quick result didn't work for long. Mainly because being a drunk doesn't really work when you have a family. He had a beautiful wife who put up with his long hours at work and a six-year-old son who wanted to be a racecar driver. He had Sundays off to go picnicking in High Park and explore the playground with his racecar driver turned astronaut. He had his future to teach his son how to actually drive.

He expected to fall back on a substance that would numb the horrifying things he'd seen from the world. That it would make him immobile, tired and most importantly carefree. He wouldn't have to worry about his wife and son going shopping downtown because of a drive-by shooting. Or going into a certain part of North York that was notorious for brutal gangs.

Instead the booze made him bitter and spiteful. It turned him into his old man. He became easily confrontational. He recalls one night Dean came into the Berber carpeted den, clad in footed pajamas with his Teddy after a bad dream. The room was dark and only flickered as scenes from the muted television danced across the walls until his then seven-year-old son turned on the lights.

The sudden blaze of light made Greg erupt; he stood quickly, flipped the coffee table and the empty beer bottles upon it and screamed at Dean. His wife woke up, their marriage already aflame on the rocks, and began to console Dean who cowered in the corner holding his Teddy. He and his wife shouted at each other the same words they did every day. How he supported the family and how he was tired. She told him to look at himself, how he failed all of them.

Finally while he was still in mid-shout, she shook her head at him and stated that she was done. She walked a shaken Dean out of the room with a comforting hand on his back. The next day when Greg got home from work, Dean's room was completely empty and his wife's clothes were missing. They were gone and there wasn't as much as a note. He stayed drunk for the next three days.

In the headlights of the rig, he can see Sam's eyebrows still knit with worry. Greg represses a smile because he knows that Jules must find this fussing annoying. She's not one to want to be taken care of. Even after she was shot she didn't want any special treatment, she still doesn't.

"Sam," he calls out in the rain so he doesn't startle the sniper. "I think we're done here."

Backup showed up ten minutes ago and has been dealing with the actual construction site, while Sam and himself wadded around in the streets. Among the two of them, they've used over three dozen plastic evidence baggies, which is verging on insanity. There has to be an end to how many miniscule pieces they think they can find.

Above thunder rolls as the wind picks up and blows the rain sideways. Sam's face scrunches against the onslaught of water. "We going to meet Wordy and Ed?"

Greg nods and places a hand on Sam's shoulder to direct him back to the rig. "We have to go get Spike and Jules first. Ed and Wordy are figuring out the next target, and hopefully we can all meet up."

Sam's quiet for a moment, his head cast downwards to keep the rain out of his eyes and his blonde hair plastered every which way a crossed his forehead. "Listen Sarge, about before-"

"We'll have to talk about it later, Sam." Greg's voice is stern and he doesn't recognize it as his own. He thinks that the part of him that's the caring boss, the friendly boss is slowly disintegrating. He tries to remember what it was like to have someone to care about. Someone to go home to. Someone who waits up for you. Someone to make breakfast for on Sunday mornings. Then he adds, "But I understand."

Just before they reach the rig, in the distance familiar blue and red lights flash with a screeching sound. His team is all accounted for, no other teams have been assigned to this case and they already have their backup finishing the search of the area. The sirens grow closer and Greg discovers to what vehicle they belong to. "You've got to be kidding me."

EMS has finally arrived.

---

Her phone is broken. Completely broken. Broken beyond the point of a warranty, broken. She's sitting on the edge of the gurney, her heavily booted legs dangling like a toddler's in a shopping cart. She told Sam she'd text him. Well, when he pulled her into the semi-embrace that made their relationship for Spike, he asked her to text him when she got out. She can't, her phone is broken. Seven of the keys are missing. There's probably also a nice cell phone shaped bruise on her upper thigh that she or Sam will find later.

Her heart is beating so rapidly, she can hear it in her ears, or thinks she can. Either one might be a symptom of the concussion. She really doesn't remember her emergency training that well right now. Hitting your head tends to leave you blank on a lot of key facts. All she knows is that her can't even Google pregnancies and car accidents on her cell phone to see what the odds are that this baby is still a baby.

Just breathe Jules. She takes a deep inhalation and tries to relax as much as she can. She's in the right place. She'll just tell the nurse the exact situation when she gets here and maybe she can fix it or something. The back of her heels kick the metal rods that holds up the gurney and shoot a spray of muddy water across the ground. Even she isn't that naïve, this is either going to end very well or very badly.

She wishes Sam was here. Even if he is still completely clueless because, well, he's a guy and basically has even less of an idea of how these things work than she does. In rare situations where she can't manage to keep it together, he's her rock. He'll listen to what he calls her chicken squawk ramblings and then coolly reply with a coherent answer.

After they got back together, about a month into their relationship they had their first argument. She can't even recall what it was about now, but at the time it seemed monumental. They argued around Sam's living room for a good half an hour. Natalie actually made an appearance, but quickly ducked out. Later Jules would learn that the Braddock siblings get nervous around fighting couples because of their rough childhood.

She grabbed her jacket from the back of Sam's couch because they were getting nowhere fast. They were both so stubborn that they were going to lose their voices before they came to an agreement. "Maybe we should spend the rest of the weekend apart. That way we can cool off by Monday and actually work together."

"Fine by me." Sam grumbled and watched as she left his apartment. He had his arms crossed over his chest in what she liked to call his 'soldier stance'. It basically meant he was impenetrable, that he wasn't moving or changing his mind. After dating him before and now dating him again, she still has not found a way around that stance and it's not from lack of trying.

So she slept alone that Saturday night and it reminded her of the last two pathetic years. Of how aside from saving countless lives, she's really accomplished nothing on a personal level. The queen-sized bed was way too big and the apartment way too empty. Even the weekend traffic wasn't enough to keep her company.

Then just as she started to fall into a pity induced sleep her phone rang. The luminous red numbers on her clock radio read out 1:53am and she knew it had to be Sam. He felt the exact same way she did and wanted to reconcile. She let the phone ring twice more before she picked it up. But it wasn't Sam.

Long distance, all the way from Medicine Hat her dad had called her. This had happened before and would happen again. Usually the machine got it because she'd been staying at Sam's more often. When the frequency of the calls increased, she would turn off her landline ringer.

He was drunk of course and spewed out sour words as always. Still placing blame for things that she's never had control over. For things that made him drink for the past thirty-six years, soon to be thirty-seven years. She willed the tears in her eyes not to fall. She'd told herself over and over again that he wasn't worth it. That she knew the words he said weren't true, but that didn't mean they didn't hurt any less. In less than a minute she hung up.

In her room, only brightened by a streetlight outside, she contemplated going back to bed and dealing with the lingering thoughts of her drunken, emotionally abusive father. Instead she stood, slipped on her sneakers and grabbed her car keys.

She drove through an early morning drizzle, halfway across town to get back to his apartment. Seven hours after she left Sam's in a huff, after they'd screamed at each other until they were red in the face over something she can't even remember, she drove back. Fate smiled on her because someone just happened to be exiting the main doors as she scrambled in, clad only in a tank top and cotton striped pajama pants, which was definitely not fashionable for early spring.

She stood outside his apartment and waited. Undecided if waking him was a sign of defeat or weakness. If needing someone who loves you just as you are is a sign of imperfection. She didn't want to knock and have Natalie open the door. So she took out her now broken cell phone and typed out a text that told him she was outside the door. Then she waited another five minutes while she determined if the phrasing was all right and if she wanted to send the message.

She hit the enter button and her stomach did a nervous flip. The kind it hasn't done since she went on her first date with Doug Fischer when she was fifteen. She waited for a minute and then another and then her stomach started to hurt. In her inappropriate for the weather attire she started to sweat.

Rejected, she turned away from Sam's door and began to walk back towards the elevator. But then she heard a click behind her. Sam, with his hair all messy from tossing and turning was rubbing at his eyes with the palm of one hand while holding the door open with the other. "Jules, what are you doing?"

Then she realized how absolutely ridiculous she must look, and the fight with Sam and the phone call from her dad all bubbled emotions that she still keeps prisoner to the surface and before she could help it her lower lip started to tremble. "I—"

Sniper trained eyes caught the half twitch of her lip even when freshly roused from sleep. He pushed open the door. "Come inside."

Then they're back in his living room and in the dark. She felt her face and chest flush because she knew that her admission is a sign of weakness. It meant losing. She moved away from him towards the window as he sluggishly leaned against the counter, obviously waiting for an answer.

And it all came out in her patented ramble. "I'm sorry I know that it's late and I know that we were angry at each other but I really don't care anymore. I got a call from my dad and—"

He grabbed her before she could add anymore sentences to a single exhalation. Her arms folded against his chest and he rested his chin on the top of her head and they stood there in his kitchen while she caught her breath and began to relax.

Finally he spoke, "I'll get you a key. So if this happens again, you can get in."

"Sam—"

"Natalie has a key and I don't even like her."

She shook her head and laughed at him. He touched the bottom of her chin lightly and kissed her and she wondered what exactly she did to deserve him. "I'm sor—"

"You're worth it."

The exam room door swings open and older female nurse strides in. Her gray hair is done up neatly in a librarian style bun. She's about Jules' height but twice the weight and on her upturned nose sits a very thick pair of glasses.

"Hello. I'm Sandra." When she notices the state of Jules' face she exclaims, "Oh my goodness, look at you."

Jules nods politely, because it's taking all of her self-control not to blurt out the whole pregnancy thing right now.

"What happened?" Sandra picks up the filled out chart and lowers the glasses on her nose as she begins to read it. Jules doesn't get a chance to answer. The nurse must see that Jules is an officer from her chart because she blurts out, "My Lord. You were in that explosion I saw on the news?"

"Yeah, I hit my head off the inside of a car." She points to the general area of pain. She still hasn't seen a mirror. She really isn't that concerned about her looks.

The nurse frowns with her full face. "You poor, Dear. Well let's get that fixed up for you, okay?"

"Actually, I'm more concerned with something else." She doesn't know why this is so awkward. She has no idea who this woman is. She'll more than likely never see her again, but she targets her attention on the wall as she admits what she did that morning. "I took a pregnancy test this morning and it was positive."

Sandra grasps the chart to her chest. "Oh my, you must be going crazy."

"A little, yeah."

"Would you feel better if we did a quick ultrasound?" Sandra gestures to a white machine in the corner of the room. As she rolls it closer she clarifies, "Usually we do a blood or urine test to confirm a pregnancy, but we can use the ultrasound to rule out any other injuries."

Jules only nods. This too is not going how she imagined it. She pictured her and Sam waiting in a sterile room by themselves. Both so nervous and jittery that of course they would start fighting. He would bring up the fact that he knows she hates hospital gowns; she would bring up the fact that she hates him for getting her pregnant. Sam is going to be upset he missed this.

It's all happening so fast. Too fast. She's on her back on the gurney, the sheets wrinkling underneath her and her boots staining the end of the bed a lurid brown color. She lifts her shirt when Sandra tells her too. It's still untucked from Sam. So unprofessional. There's the jolt of cold gel on her stomach and the boom of her own heartbeat in her ears. She wishes Sam was here. She can't breathe she's so scared.

The wand presses into her stomach and she can't feel any immediate pain. She just hopes that the pressure doesn't set off any delayed injuries. Then along with the thump in her ears there's a weird noise that sounds like something from a radar or sonar. Sandra smiles softly at her and turns the screen so she can see it.

"Do you see that little flicker right there?"

Jules leans upright on her elbows and squints her eyes to get a better look. The screen is colored mostly gray that holds a ring of black that holds another grey oblong shape. But there is a definite flicker, like the flame on a candle wick. "Yeah I see it."

"That's your baby's heart beating. You're hearing it right now too."

The thump in her ear stops and all she can hear is the whoop of her baby's heartbeat as she watches the monitor. She's got tears again, but damn it, she's earned them this time. "It's okay?"

"It's perfectly healthy and happy." Sandra pauses screen and seems to be doing some measurements. "I'd say you're eight to nine weeks along, Dear."

The baby is fine and—wait. What. What. What? "What?"

"Yeah from the size of your little one, I'd say more towards nine."

"No, I had my period last month and—"

Sandra wears a knowing grin and shakes her head. "Breakthrough bleeding, Honey. It was lighter than usual right?"

Well they're always lighter than usual. It's not like she has the easiest job in the world. Or the easiest family. Or the easiest boyfriend. Stress comes to her easier than sleep does. "But—"

"That would put your due date at approximately sometime in March, but I can't give you a specific date." Oh my God. She only has seven months. She has less than seven months. She has six months and three weeks, if Sandra is right, to prepare for a baby. A baby she knows absolutely nothing about how to take care of. God, if she kept ignoring the symptoms she might be having this baby in a toilet bowl.

Sandra hands her a tissue to wipe her stomach off, and fiddles with the machine a little more. Then tells her to keep lying down so she can clean up her head wound, which apparently needs butterfly stitches. As Sandra cleans and stitches with adhesive strips she talks about how Jules will need to get some prenatal vitamins immediately. Then Sandra rambles about her first child and how he has two kids of his own and how they grow up so fast and asks if this is her first. Jules can only manage yes and no answers. How is she going to explain to Sam that not only is she pregnant with their firstborn, but she's nine weeks along? That's going to be one good fight.

Sandra places a bandage over the false sutures and grins down at her. "All done."

Jules sits up and tentatively places a fingertip near her temple where she can feel the adhesive strips straining to pull her skin together. She guesses that's where all the blood was coming from then.

"Your face will be pretty swollen for the next few days, but I can't offer you anything because of the little one." Sandra is making some notes on her chart and this whole moment seems ridiculously surreal. In an uncharacteristic fashion, Jules wishes that the day was over, that this bomber was dealt with and she and Sam could go home so they can talk. They desperately need to talk. "You can use Tylenol; just take it when you really need it because it can be harmful in large quantities."

"Thanks." She grins at Sandra like nothing's wrong. Because she's going to have to grin at every other person that she sees. This is still just her secret.

"Congratulations Sweetie."

She leaves the room wearing Sam's jacket again. It's her only form of protection. She doesn't have a bullet proof vest. She contemplates stealing Spike's. She wonders where the hell Sam put hers and banks this knowledge to bring up when he wants to name the baby something stupid or critiques her parenting methods.

Back at the chair she was sitting in only twenty minutes before, she wonders where the hell Spike is. She saw his leg wound. It wasn't anything to write home about, but knowing him he'll probably come out in a wheelchair just for the kicks. Her face stings, she still has a headache and she has an odd mixture of feeling really hungry and sick to her stomach at the same time.

"Jules?"

It's about fucking ti—"Steve?"

Her old time friend, ex-boyfriend, one time hostage situation partner and paramedic is standing just behind her. He's soaked from top to bottom; the hair that he usually has gelled up now hangs limply over his forehead. "I was going to ask how you are, but I can see that would be a stupid question."

Instinctively she crosses her arms over stomach, but with Sam's big coat, it just looks like she's crossing her arms. "I've had worse."

He reaches forward, long warm fingers touch the side of her face for only a brief moment to inspect the damage. "Looks like you took quite a conk."

She purses her lips and shrugs and with a nervous laugh, repeats, "I've had worse."

"Wait a minute; you weren't one of the cops injured on Keele, were you?"

Before she can answer, Sandra calls out to her from the hallway. Good old Sandra. Always there to save her from an awkward situation. The nurse is waving something in the air and as she approaches she's out of breath, but still as jolly as ever.

"Dear, you forgot your cell phone." Great the one that doesn't work, only has three numbers intact, and will be remembered by a welt on her thigh for the next week.

"Thanks." She forces a smile and takes the phone.

"Also you left before I could give you this." Sandra holds out a photo of exactly what they witnessed on the ultrasound monitor fifteen minutes ago. Different shades of gray that make up her baby.

Jules snatches the picture very quickly with chagrin, knowing that without a doubt Steve has seen it. She manages to force out a thanks between grinding teeth. Sandra grins again, completely oblivious to what she's done and leaves without saying another word.

Now she only hopes that Steve will just politely blow off the sit-"Jules, is that an ultrasound picture?"

What happened to being polite? They were never this close. "Umm."

"Congratulations." He grins and pulls her in for a bear hug in front of everyone in the waiting room. The only thing she can hope is that Spike is not watching. "You and Sam?"

"Yeah." Her response is drawn out and hesitant as she sends darting glances around the room making sure it's clear of anyone who knows anyone she knows.

"Wow." Steve shakes his head, his hand coming up to his chin in amazement as he examines her in a new light. "Sam must be over the moon."

He might be if he knew anything about it. "Yeah. The thing is we're trying to keep it quiet—"

"Oh," He nods like he's catching on and she knows that there's no way he is. "Waiting until the three month point, right?"

"Sure."

"Well, your secret's safe with me."

"Great. Thanks."

Steve checks his watch and pulls his face into a grimace. "Listen I've got to go. But congratulations."

"Thanks," she murmurs as Steve races out the door and back into the rain. She wonders how many more people will find out about Sam's baby before him.

---

There will not be chapter next week as I'm moving back to University, which is a 3 hour drive alone. However the week after there should be a chapter. And oh to the boy, is it a chapter you don't want to miss. If you only read one chapter of one of my fanfictions this year, make it the next chapter. Makes it feel like you just wasted your time right? But it's worth it just for Sam's part alone. That's all you get, but feel free to speculate.