A.N. Once again, thank you for sticking with me and for the reviews!
I won't keep you with a long author's note, therefore without further ado...
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24 hours earlier...
He could hear voices in his ear, all yelling over each other, incoherent, but Ed's voice rose above the rest, screaming, "NO!"
Sam wasn't sure whether that was directed at himself or at Grayes, though he was fairly certain it was both.
When Sam had first joined the SRU, he'd quickly learned the number one rule: don't question Ed. Over the years, that line in the sand had blurred, as he'd become a valued and trusted member of the team, one that others—including Ed—would look to for input. And yet, when given a direct order, you were still expected to follow it. No question.
But as Sam watched the gun pull away from Spike's head and begin to shift to a new target, there was no way Sam could follow orders this time. With the possibility of Grayes shooting Spike in a muscle spasm no longer a concern, Sam had milliseconds to make his decision as the gun swung towards Ed.
So while the voice in his ear was screaming at him not to, the voice in his head and heart, his own voice, knew it was the only option.
His finger squeezed on the trigger, eye fixed on his target, as something new swung just into the crosshairs of his scope, jostled due to Grayes' jerking movement as he aimed at Ed: a gray clad shoulder… Spike's shoulder.
Sam's finger had not yet finished pulling the trigger, he could stop now, but he knew without a shadow of a doubt that if he did, Grayes would have his shot lined up in seconds and pull the trigger. At ten feet, the distraught man wasn't going to miss.
So Sam pulled the trigger first, despite the fact that he knew his shot would graze Spike, despite the fact he knew it would take a father from his children, despite the fact that his commanding officer was telling him not to, despite the fact that protocol told him he shouldn't… because he'd be damned if he was going to let a friend be taken from him when there was something he could do to stop it.
The shot echoed in his ears as he saw its effect ripple through the scene.
Grayes jerked and fell. Spike flinched and stumbled. Team One froze, then rushed forward.
Sam looked away, resting his head on his forearm for just a moment, eyes closed and encased in darkness, blocking out the images. He let out a breath as the adrenaline faded and had to bite his cheek in order to keep from gasping, as the consequences of his high flying leap suddenly made themselves known.
His ribs felt like a blunt object was being jabbed into his side repeatedly, and his knee already ached. He wondered if he would be able to make it down the stairs, but shook that thought off as ridiculous. It wasn't even that hard of a hit, he admonished himself. You're just in shock, take a few breaths and pull it together.
It took more than a few breaths, but eventually he was able to get to his feet, ready to pack away his gun, only to realize his gun case was still on the other roof. Which meant not only would he have to make it down the stairs with his knee and ribs shrieking at him the whole way, he would then have to go back up, only to then come back down. Because he wasn't stupid enough to try his luck jumping across the alley again.
He let out a frustrated groan. Can this day get any worse? he demanded, before mentally slapping himself for tempting fate. Because apparently with his luck that day, the answer was probably yes.
Limping to the fire escape and down, he was met at the base by an SIU Investigator.
"Sir, I need you to come with me," she stated, reaching for his arm, prepared to escort him to a waiting vehicle.
"Of course, but unless you want this evidence loose," he gestured to the gun slung over his shoulder, "I suggest you let me retrieve its case from up there," he pointed upward.
She frowned. "Didn't you just come from there? You left your case behind?"
Sam shook his head and explained patiently, "No, I left my case on the roof of the building behind you, not the one I just exited. I was originally set up on that building, but had to change locations quickly and chose not to transfer my case as well."
She still looked skeptical, but stepped aside and allowed him to lead the way back to the first roof, where he packed away his rifle. As soon as it was stowed, he gave it to her and followed her back to the ground, biting his tongue the whole way as each step jostled his knee and ribs. He knew nothing was broken, only badly bruised, but that did nothing to help ease the immediate pain.
When they'd reached the street once more, she led him towards the vehicle waiting to whisk him away to what was promising to be a brutal interview. Just as she opened the door and turned to usher him in, he saw her eyes widen and suddenly she was stepping towards him and shoving him behind her.
Sam stumbled and turned just in time to see her stop Ed in his tracks, just a foot away from Sam.
"What the hell did you do?!" the other man yelled, trying to get around the woman as she placed both hands on his tactical vest and shoved backwards.
"Hey!" she shouted, voice sharp. "Back off! You can't speak with him!"
Ed took a step backwards, still seething.
She turned back to Sam. "Officer Braddock, please get in the car."
Sam quickly obliged, but not before meeting Ed's gaze. He swallowed, taken aback by the amount of anger there, before he turned away as the woman shut the car door and walked around to the driver's side, started the car, and pulled away.
He didn't look back. He didn't need to in order to know that Ed was still standing there, watching him retreat, red on his clenched hands, the blood of a teammate, of a friend. Blood that Sam had spilled.
He looked out the window, face turned away from the person driving, grasping for the smallest shed of privacy as a single tear slipped down his face.
The Grayes family was not the only one that had shattered that day. He could feel his own team, the family he had built, fracturing, and he wasn't sure if it would ever be able to put itself back together.
(…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…)
Now…
"After that," Sam continued, "I had one of the most brutal SIU interviews I've ever had in my life. SIU investigates all lethal action," he explained upon seeing her confused look, "to make sure that proper action was taken. Sometimes it's pretty routine, more of a formality, but yesterday…" he trailed off. "Yesterday wasn't. Since I broke protocol, they really had to dig in and go at me. One of them was convinced I'd done it just for the heck of it since I wasn't given authorization by the commanding officer on scene. They finally let me go when my lawyer forced them to watch a tape of when Grayes was holding Spike hostage—a civilian captured it—but they're still looking into it.
"When I got back to the Barn, the end of shift briefing was just as bad as the SIU interview."
Libby hummed her sympathy, and though she didn't say anything, she wanted to. Wanted to say that she knew in reality that it was probably worse than the SIU, because at the Barn, it was people he loved and respected that were tearing him apart.
"When it was finally over, before I left, I tried to talk to Ed, to apologize to him," Sam admitted quietly. "I don't even know what I was trying to apologize for, I just wanted to fix things. I didn't want him to be mad anymore."
He met her gaze and grimaced. "It didn't matter, because he wouldn't let me. And that's when you swooped in to save me."
Libby grinned half-heartedly. "About time I got to return the favor and save you for once."
He didn't manage to return her smile, and in fact as Libby looked at him, she was growing more and more concerned at how pale he was beneath the skin flushed from heat, and at how utterly lost he seemed.
She'd told herself her motivation for asking him about the hot call had been to help him process it, to help him, but now she was wondering if it had been entirely selfish of her, that she had only wanted to satiate her own curiosity, for Sam looked no better having shared the story.
She was about to apologize, or say something to recognize the trauma he'd been through, when all of a sudden a voice off to her left hissed, "Hey, how are you two doing over there?"
Libby turned to find the source of the voice was the man with the child, whom she had asked if he'd had a phone (or rather, she had mimed it, as they had not yet exchanged words, irrationally worried that breaking the silence of the square, raising one's voice too loudly, would draw the shooter's gaze).
"Uh, we're not doing so hot," she admitted, confused why this man was suddenly reaching out, and definitely a little annoyed that he was interrupting her heart to heart with Sam.
The man nodded, expecting such an answer, then continued, "That was a heck of a brave thing you did back there," he gestured towards the spot her bag had formerly been before she had bolted and grabbed it.
"Thaaaanks," she said slowly, still a little miffed. She had no need of this man's praise.
"I couldn't help but overhear that he's a cop? That you called the people working on this situation? Is there any update on that?" he asked hopefully.
Libby softened a little. She could understand the man's fear, his desire to get out of this situation with his daughter, alive and as soon as possible.
"There's no update I'm afraid," she informed the man quietly, "But I'm sure that they're working as fast as they can." They'd better be, she growled internally.
The man looked crestfallen, but nodded, before looking hopeful again. "Could I perhaps borrow your phone? Mine fell out on the pavement in my scramble to get here. I'd really like to call my brother and let him know I'm okay."
Libby grimaced. As much as she wanted to grant such a comfort, she also did not want to risk losing the phone—both to battery and to a bad throw; her broken arm was her dominant side, and there was no way she would be able to accurately throw it the twenty or so feet that stood between them with her non-dominant hand. Not to mention her hand was currently keeping Sam from bleeding out—or at least, that's what she told herself, though the reality she knew was probably that it was doing very little—and that was a heck of a lot more important to her than giving someone else the opportunity to speak with a loved one.
She tried to share a look with Sam, but he simply stared down into his lap, drained.
"I'm sorry," she replied finally, "but I don't think I can make it that far, and we need it in case the SRU need to get back in touch with us."
"Okay," the man replied, obviously trying to hide his disappointment and holding his daughter a little tighter.
Libby finally turned her attention back to Sam. Speaking his name didn't get his attention however and she couldn't remove her hand from his chest to tap his cheek as she might usually, therefore she settled for resting her forehead on his and trying again. "Sam, Sam are you there?"
He shifted slightly beneath her touch, such that when she sat back on her heels, his eyes were finally meeting hers. "I'm here."
"Thank you for telling me. You're probably not going to believe me, but you did the right thing."
He didn't reply, just kept his gaze on her, unconvinced.
"And your team mates will realize that too and come around."
He shook his head almost imperceptibly. "You didn't hear Ed when I called in. A night to think about it hasn't changed his mind."
"True, but he was definitely concerned about you last night when he couldn't get ahold of you," she reminded.
Once again, he didn't reply and this time started to let his gaze fall again, back to the ground in front of him, already starting to withdraw.
Desperate to keep him engaged, to keep him awake and talking, Libby finally asked what his friends should have asked yesterday the moment he walked in late. "Sam, what happened yesterday morning?"
He frowned in confusion. "I just told you—"
She shook her head. "No, I mean before that. Why were you late? Or rather, why were you not-late-but-late-by-Ed-and-Greg's-standards?"