Author: Aria-wolfstar PM
Sam reflects on his relationship with Jules. Just after "Between Heartbeats." One shot.Rated: Fiction T - English - Romance/Hurt/Comfort - Words: 1,498 - Reviews: 15 - Favs: 19 - Follows: 4 - Published: 02-15-09 - Status: Complete - id: 4864995
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Disclaimer: I do not own Flashpoint or any of its characters.
Spoiler warning: Episode 13, Between Heartbeats
Sam Braddock looked down at the object in his hand and could feel the tears prick at his eyes along with the rush of memories. He took a deep breath in. Held it. Let it out. He looked back down at the can of thinner, and with a determined set to his jaw, his lips pressed tight, pried the lid open and set it down on the ground. He then moved to the other jar, picking it up and rotating it in his hands until he found what he was looking for.
He blinked his eyes closed and exhaled forcefully through his nose. She was right, it was sky, not blue. Not like he ever doubted her.
Clenching his jaw, he pried open this lid as well and set about mixing the thinner with the paint. That done, he poured some of the Santorini Sky into the tray and grabbed the roller from the ground in front of him. He dipped it into the paint, coated the brush, held it up to the wall and hesitated.
He shouldn't be doing this alone, not without her. This was her project, her house, her baby, so to speak, and he felt like he was intruding by doing this. But he needed something to do. He wanted it to be a surprise, for when she woke up. After getting kicked out of the hospital around midnight, he needed somewhere to go, somewhere to turn to in order to keep his mind occupied. And this had been it. It was either that or the bar, and the drink.
Well, he thought, looking down at the bottle by his foot on the floor, picking it up and taking a small sip, still the drink.
Sam took another breath and pressed the roller against the wall—only four more, and then this room, this house (the painting at least) was done. Slowly, methodically, he began to work the roller up and down the wall in smooth, practiced motions. As he worked, he thought.
He thought back first to the roof, replaying the scene in his head for the millionth time. Could he have done better? Could he have protected her? Yes, he finally decided. He could have had them both move to check the decoy body, had her stay behind the shield. But at the same time no, because of the angle of the shot—it wouldn't have mattered either way.
Up. Down. Up. Down. He paused to recoat the roller with a fresh layer of paint.
He thought back to when he had to let her hand go, watch her be taken away without knowing what was going to happen to her. The only words that had registered were "sierra shot," and he was off, determined, set, resolute. He remembered the way his heart had seemed to stop when he saw he had the shot, giving him the unfailing opportunity to take it and not miss, and the grim satisfaction watching the man drop in his sights. He had his revenge.
Up. Down. Up. Down. Recoat. Swig of beer.
His mind flashed back farther, to the first time he had met Jules, and a small smile tugged at his lips, remembering how she had reacted when his hand had gone to his pocket, and the entire team's reaction too. They had had a bad start, he knew.
But it had gotten better, even though he had asked her out and she refused, telling about not wanting to jeopardize her place on the team. He had understood. He had hoped he could change her mind, but he had understood.
Recoat. Up. Down. Swig of beer. Up. Down.
He thought about that time at the mall, where she had gone over the side to catch the girl. The longest two seconds of his life, until he found out she was okay. Until now, at least. He remembered how his heart had skipped a beat, and then picked up speed double time when he had seen her dangling over the side, alive and safe. He remembered barging into her locker room to find her with only a towel wrapped around her, and how she had first reacted, but then slowly adjusted to his presence. He remembered the way goose bumps had raised on her arms when he brushed his knuckle against her bruised shoulder. He remembered that she had brushed off her then-boyfriend to go drinking with him, with their family.
Pause. Deep breath in. Hold it. Hold it. Let it out. Recoat.
Sam blinked back tears and clenched his jaw as he remembered to a time not that long ago, the first time he had kissed her. She hadn't been listening to him, she had been taking everything he had been saying and making it wrong. So he had kissed her. Kissed her to shut her up. Kissed her to make her understand. Kissed her because he needed to kiss her. He felt his bottom lip twitch and waver as he found himself wondering if he would get to do that again.
Yes. Yes he would. She was stable, he reminded himself. She was going to be okay.
Up. Down. Up. Down. Breathe. Recoat.
He thought about what else had happened that night. What had happened in the nights since. He remembered the reason why there had been Santorini Sky on his ear, how what had turned into an innocent paint-flicking session had turned into them making-love, there against an unfinished wall, and then down to the floor, amongst the paint speckled tarps.
Making-love. He snorted. He usually hated those words, considered them a Hollywood-coined phrase, cheap, unreal, girly. But that's what it had been. It hadn't been just sex. In the beginning, it might have been, he knew, a passionate moment made all the better by the feeling of sneaking around. But it was more intimate than that. He knew it was by the way she had called out his name, and he had whispered hers in her ear. She had let him in, in more ways than one—that she allowed him to help with her renovations, that she had let him into her home and help make it better instead of merely letting them through the door and to her bedroom had shown that—just as he had let her down in more ways than one.
Sam squeezed his eyes closed and let the paint brush dangle from his finger tips as he pressed his head against the last unpainted corner of the room. The sharp ringing of his phone cut through the air, and he jumped, his nerves frazzled from the long, exhausting day.
He dropped the brush and stole a quick look out the window, surprised to see the sun beginning to rise, surprised to find that this room was nearly completed. And then the phone rang again, and his heart thumped in his chest, reminding him how important this phone call could be.
He fumbled for his phone so fast that he almost dropped it, and he had just enough time to see a number he didn't recognize—a landline, not a cell phone—on the caller ID before he flipped it open and pressed it to his ear.
"Hello?" he asked, his voice breathless, his heart pounding as his mind ran through hundreds of scenarios of what the voice on the other end would say.
"Good morning, Braddock, I hope I didn't wake you."
"Sarge?" he replied, confused. The pounding was sounding in his ears now as he feared the worst. "No…no you didn't. What…"
"I didn't think so. Listen, I have someone here who wants to talk to you."
"But…" he started, but the sarge was already passing the phone off, and didn't hear him. He pressed his back against the clean wall and slid down it while he was waiting, using it to support him.
With that single word, his heart stopped. Tears pooled in his eyes and leaked down his face as he drooped his head and let out a long deep breath. Pulling his head back up, he leaned it against the wall, tilting it back, casting his eyes upward. A teary, relieved smile tugged at his lips.
She was waiting for him to say something, and he realized that now. He breathed deeply. "Hey, Jules," he said, his voice shaking as he spoke. He sniffed back some tears, and the smile on his face grew. "I'm here, sweetheart, I'm here."
Two Flashpoint fics in one day. Wow. I think I'm done now though, but it was fun! Haven't written anything for fanfic in a long time.
Anyway, hope you liked it! Thanks for reading :)