Ace Bullets' Flashpoint Fun

A/N: As was stated in the summary, there are spoilers within for the series finale, Keep the Peace; pts. I & II. If you don't wish to be spoiled, you have my permission to skip this one until you've seen both parts. (Special thanks to Andorian for giving "Tom" a surname I could use.)

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Outside Man

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Sam Braddock rolled over in the bed he shared with his wife, Julianna, and switched off the alarm before it could sound its shrill voice. In the pre-dawn darkness, the clock's digital numbers were stark, cutting uncomfortably into his sleepy eyes like laser beams. He blinked away the after-image of the red glow, and then noiselessly slipped out from beneath the sheets. Jules did not stir, which was Sam's intent. She'd been up all night with a cranky Sadie, and the last thing he wanted to do was disturb her with his movements.

Seven months, Sam thought to himself in wonder, as he stumbled into the en suite master bathroom and flipped on the light. He turned on the faucet to a quiet trickle and pulled up the knob of the stopper to begin his usual morning shave. I can't believe it's already been that long. We're parents to a beautiful, seven-month-old baby girl. Sam shook his head and sighed contentedly. How did I get to be so lucky?

His courtship of Jules—if it could really be called that—had been filled with more than its share of bumps, bruises, and roadblocks, but in the end, the two had prevailed and had wed just over a year prior. It had been Jules' extreme pleasure to announce to their wedding guests their good news, which they'd kept under wraps until the right moment.

"We would have told you earlier, but we didn't want to jinx anything," Jules, all smiles, had said to their family, friends, and colleagues. "We're three months along. We're having a baby!"

We didn't want to jinx anything…

"Sam, we will not lose each other today!"

"Sam, get up! Get out! Go!"

"She says there's a daycare in there. There's more kids!"

"Aaaargh!"

"Jules!"

"She's gone, Eddie. She was right in front of him. Son of a bitch… Son of a bitch!"

"We need a medic up here, now!"

"Medic! Medic!"

Sam expelled a breath of air and angrily swished the head of his disposable razor in the water of the stopped-up sink. Tiny bits of hair and globs of shaving foam floated to the surface, unnoticed. Why was it that even after a year, he still could not separate the bad memories of that day from the good ones? Why did panicked, hurt, desperate voices still echo in his head and painful emotions rise to the top?

Because you still haven't healed, that's why, soldier, Sam told himself. The cuts and bruises might have healed, but you know you're not over it because you still feel guilty...

A brief, yet potent rage surged forth, and Sam shoved down the knob of the pull-up stopper with more force than was necessary. He watched the murky water swirl down the mouth of the drain with a swish and a gurgle.

We're all circling the drain, aren't we? Sam thought dejectedly, as he stared at his reflection in the vanity mirror. Just some faster and sooner than others, and that bastard Marcus Faber was somehow able to run around that day and pull the stopper on the lives of so many people he never even met.

Sam closed his eyes and breathed out, forcing himself to think good thoughts again; thoughts of his wife; his daughter. Presently, he felt strong, but tender arms encircle his waist and his eyes flew open at the unexpected embrace. His lovely wife's face was smiling at him in the mirror. He couldn't help but smile back.

"Hey, there, beautiful," he said huskily.

"Good morning, handsome," she replied in kind.

"I didn't want to wake you," Sam uttered ruefully.

"You didn't," Jules said sleepily, stifling a yawn, "my bladder did."

Sheepishly, Sam said, "Ah… right…"

Jules let him go and went about her business while Sam cleaned the sink of his shavings. He continued with his morning routine by brushing his teeth.

"Ed says the team is still really missing you at the station," Sam stated conversationally after rinsing.

"You mean you are missing me," Jules corrected with a knowing glance.

Sam shrugged. "They do miss you, though."

"Yeah, well… Even though we all know I would love to be out in the field, I also really love being home with Sadie right now," Jules said of her maternity leave. "How's Team Three doing?"

Sam dried his face with a towel before answering. "They're… uh, doing alright, considering…"

Jules sighed as she stood up and flushed the toilet. "It's never easy replacing anybody, is it?"

"Nope," Sam answered, monotone. In the couple weeks since he'd taken over the Team Leader position, he still hadn't quite settled into the role as quickly as he had hoped. "It was tough when we had to replace Wordy… It was really tough when we lost Lou… and for me, it was the worst when we had to look for someone to replace you… but at least I could hold on to the hope that you could be coming back. Team Three… Jules, they're still hurting pretty bad. They know Donna and Jimmy aren't coming back."

"I know… I felt the same way when Leah came in," Jules murmured. "I resented her for so long, even though I knew it was such a stupid thing to do. She had nothing to do with what happened to Lewis, and even tried to make a peace offering with those memorial bracelets. But… grrr… her presence just galled me all the same."

"You resented Leah?"

"Couldn't you tell?"

"Not really. You never told me."

"Well, I did resent her," Jules said, "but I got over it, and we've bonded over things like battle-scars and music and how tough it is to be a woman in a man's world."

"Hmm…" Sam said, a disquieting feeling winding its way through his gut, and came to the conclusion he'd been keeping a lid on his true feelings about his new team. "To be totally honest, Jules, I think Team Three resents me quite a bit, though they won't say it to my face." The ex-soldier gave a short laugh. "I guess I kinda deserve it, since I resented the hell out of Donna Sabine when the team chose her to replace you."

Jules looked up at Sam in surprise. "You did?"

"In the beginning—yeah. Just the sight of her made me want to throw something. I was so furious that she was there instead of you; that the rest of the team seemed so eager to embrace her. It was like they had forgotten you. I didn't want you to be forgotten or replaced that easily."

"Oh, Sam… How did you deal with it?"

Sam sighed uncomfortably, remembering his initial reaction; how he'd slammed the weight-lifting equipment and stalked off the exercise floor when Donna had appeared for her very first shift. "I avoided her whenever I could; couldn't stand to even be in the same room." Another short, mirthless laugh broke free from Sam. "And now… I'm the one replacing her."

"It's tough for Team Three for several reasons, not the least of which is dealing with the loss of two of their own," Jules commented, sidling up to her husband. "They've been inactive for months, and then there's obviously going to be some survivor's guilt… having to rebuild… having to accept you as their new TL because of the circumstances… and having to choose another new face on top of that to replace Jimmy? I can't say I'd begrudge them a little resentment, either."

Sam frowned. "Team morale is just so low, Jules. They haven't even bothered to try any hazing rituals."

"I don't recall hazing you when you were foisted upon us," Jules said jokingly.

"Oh, so going 'coffee shop' on my ass wasn't a hazing ritual?" Sam asked, feigning incredulity. He prodded her side, which was particularly ticklish.

This prompted a burst of giggles from Jules, and she grabbed at his fingers to try to get him to stop.

"No, that was Ed trying to knock you down a peg or two," Jules said, grinning at her husband. "Big, bad Joint Task Force II soldier thought he could waltz in and teach the SRU cops a thing or two about tactical entries… You were galling Ed, big-time."

"I deserved to be taken down a peg," Sam admitted. "You know, with Team One, I started to feel like I had a purpose again after my tours… after what happened to Matt. All of you—Greg, Ed, Spike, Wordy, Lou—became like a new family to me. You kicked my butt when it needed kicking, and picked me up when I was down. You put this rookie through his paces and made me feel like I belonged; like I was part of the team."

"And you were part of the team," Jules said insistently, "even when Ed went 'coffee shop' on your ass."

"I know… It's just that it's different with Team Three," Sam groused. "I'm supposed to be their TL, but instead I feel like the outside man."

"Give them time, Sam," Jules said, trying to soothe his distress. "You're a good leader. No, you're a great leader. You're tough and you're fair, and you know how to do the job. They're bound to see that."

Sam grasped Jules' hand between his and brought it to his lips. He planted a kiss on her knuckles. "Thank you," he whispered, "I think I needed to hear that."

"From an objective point of view, of course," she chortled.

"Absolutely."

Sam released Jules' hand and put an arm around her as they exited the bathroom. "I'll let you get back to sleep; you were up pretty late with Sadie."

Stifling another yawn, Jules clambered into bed, pulled the sheets up to her neck, and nestled her head against her pillow. "Love you," she whispered, "and have a good day."

"I love you, too," Sam replied affectionately, "and I'll sure try to have a good day."

He closed the bedroom door behind him as quietly as possible, knowing that the baby monitor was functioning and that Jules slept with one eye open, anyway. If the infant awoke, Jules would know about it, closed door notwithstanding.

Silently, Sam tiptoed into the nursery. Sadie was sleeping soundly, a complete contrast to her fussy mood the night before. Sam took in her soft, chubby cheeks, long eyelashes, tiny nose and mouth. The baby's breaths came evenly, and her little chest rose and fell with each exhalation and inhalation. A smile of contentment spread across his face, heart filled with joy at the miracle he and Jules had brought into the world. Their precious child was healthy and happy, developing as every child should.

At least here I can remind myself I did something right, Sam thought. He bent down and planted a delicate kiss on Sadie's forehead. I love you, sweetheart.

OOO

When he entered that morning, the SRU locker room was not the usual noisy bustle of activity and playful banter Sam had grown accustomed to as a member of Team One. He could always count on a quip from chatter-box Spike, or an energetic pep-talk from Ed, or something sagacious from Greg. There was almost always something positive going on at the start of a shift, and his former team members could begin the daily job on a high, united in attitude and mind-set.

As Sam sat down on a bench and glanced around the room, he felt his spirits sinking. Tom Grady was motionless and mute as a statue in front of a particular locker. Sam didn't even have to look to see which one; Grady made this daily "pilgrimage" to the deceased Jimmy Gallagher's locker and memorial every single shift. If the Ladies' locker room was vacant, Sam knew Tom would slip inside to Donna's memorial locker, too.

Two seconds later, without making eye contact, Grady turned and swept past Sam on his way out to the exercise floor. A hastily muttered, "Hey, man", and he was gone. Boisterous conversation and camaraderie—Sam missed it dearly. He expelled a frustrated lungful of air as two other members—Russell Morris and Jude Wojcik—ambled out from behind their row of lockers, neither one uttering a word. A toilet flushed, and Team Three member Leonard Moreau exited the stall, washed up and left for the morning workout, not bothering to acknowledge Sam's presence.

Seconds later, the newest recruit to the team, Grant Cooper, zipped into the locker room, cracked open his locker and shoved in his duffel bag. "How's it goin', Braddock?" he called.

Surprised to hear his name, Sam got up and walked around the bank of lockers to where Cooper was standing. "Uh, not bad," he replied.

Cooper was combing his wavy hair in front of a tiny mirror he'd stuck to the door of his locker. "Oh, yeah?" he said, noting the ambivalent tone in Sam's voice. "Baby keeping you awake nights?"

"Not really," Sam said. "She's been pretty good, mostly. Kept Jules up last night, though."

"But not you, huh, 'Dad'?"

"That's what the nursery is for," replied Sam.

"Sure, man," Cooper said easily, as he slipped the comb inside his locker and shut the doors. "See you out there."

"Yeah," Sam said with a quick nod. "See you out there."

Cooper departed jauntily, evidently unaware that the rest of the team was in a sulky mood.

At least Cooper's not affected by this mess, Sam thought sullenly, but unless something changes soon, it's going to rub off on him, and this team is going to start to implode. I've got to do something, but what? After a few moments of reflection, Sam decided on a course of action, and was pleased by the lift in spirits he felt at the notion his plan might bear fruit.

OOO

"Dinner was great, Jules," Marina Levin said to her hostess as she closed her knife and fork over her empty plate.

"Thanks," Jules replied, and sent a glance in Sam's direction across the table. "I had help."

Sam grinned. "She gives me too much credit. I mostly watched while she worked."

"You took care of Sadie," Jules countered. "That's just as important. I can't handle cooking and holding a hungry baby at the same time."

"You can't?" Greg Parker said, jokingly aghast.

Jules smirked. "Oh, you! Just keeping bringing the 'supermom' jokes, why don't you?"

"This was really nice, Jules," Greg said warmly. "Thanks for inviting us over. It was so good to see you and my god-daughter again."

"Here, I'll help with these," Marina said, standing up to attend to the dirty dinner dishes.

"Thanks," Jules said. "I believe there's something Sam and Greg wanted to discuss—alone."

Sam sent a grateful look in his wife's direction, and Greg interlocked his fingers under his chin, waiting for his former team mate to start the conversation.

With Jules and Marina chattering away in the kitchen, filling the dishwasher and putting on a pot of coffee, Sam poured out his concerns about Team Three to Greg.

"We're not gelling," Sam said morosely. "They follow orders just fine, but there's no connection. I might as well be ordering around a team of robots. Punch in the directions, and they comply."

Greg remained silent, choosing to let Sam work through his frustrations out loud. He didn't want to interrupt the younger man's thought processes or interject before it was absolutely necessary. Sometimes, saying absolutely nothing was the best course of action in such a situation.

"They don't even joke around," Sam sputtered, throwing his hands up in the air. "It's like someone's broken their 'fun' switch, and nobody has bothered to fix it."

"Is that how you view your team, Sam?" Greg asked softly, finally breaking his silence.

Relieved as he was that Greg was giving him a verbal response at last, Sam frowned. "What do you mean 'is that how I view my team'?"

"As broken," Greg responded.

"That's not exactly what I said," Sam said defensively.

"No, but it's coming through loud and clear," Greg stated, making sure to keep any kind of accusation from his tone.

Sam sighed loudly. "They lost two members on one of the worst days any of us is likely to see in our entire career. They're not over it, and they're shutting me out. I just—I just want things to be—to be like—"

"Like they were with Team One?" Greg gently supplied.

With a nod, Sam said gruffly, "Yeah."

"Sam, I don't doubt that one day down the line, things with Team Three are going to get better," Greg stated, leaning forward, spreading his hands on the table. "Donna learned all she could from Team One, and took the best of that with her when she transferred to Team Three. She treated them with respect and fairness, and they were a hard-working and highly successful team under her leadership. But I'll tell you, she didn't have it easy in the beginning. You know she was the first female TL any of them had had, so she had to take some time to prove herself. Right now, I think you're being too hard on yourself."

"So, what, you think this is a gender thing? Our leadership 'styles' are too dissimilar and they've got their backs up?" Sam asked.

"Not at all," Greg replied. "Do you remember how the team treated you when Ed was out of commission and you took over TL duties?"

"They were fine," Sam replied dismissively.

"And both you and Donna learned from Ed," Greg commented. "It's not a gender thing, or even a leadership styles thing, Sam."

"Then what?" Sam's frustration was about to boil over.

"You need to acknowledge their loss, and you need to let go of the guilt you feel for taking over the TL position, because I think at the core, Sam, you feel like you didn't deserve to get it, at least not in the way you came into it."

Sam drummed his knuckles on the table, lips pursed; the word guilt echoing in his mind. He recalled those early weeks when it was Donna who was filling the spot vacated when Jules had been so badly injured. Uncomfortably, he replayed how he showed his disgust with the situation by his churlish reaction to Donna's presence.

Greg seemed to have an uncanny sense of where Sam's ruminations had carried him. "Sam, I remember what it was like back then for you. You were the only one who wasn't enthusiastic about choosing Donna to replace Jules. Even then, I suspected the reason, but I didn't want to acknowledge it. I didn't want to break up the 'family' we had, either, even though it was risky."

"But Donna didn't deserve my disrespect," Sam murmured. "I gave her the cold shoulder and the silent treatment, even when she could have probably used a listening ear when she had to take her first fatal shot. I think she suspected I didn't want her there… I was a jerk, and I never got the chance to take it back…"

Greg sent a sympathetic look in Sam's direction. "You can't beat yourself up about it, Sam. It's not your fault what happened. You know that."

"I know, I know," Sam said impatiently, "but when Ed was out of commission and I took over TL duties, I knew I'd have to give it up when he came back, but I hated giving it up. Made me start to think of what I was missing if I stayed with Team One. I mean, I knew I wanted to be with Team One for as long as I could, to be close to Jules, but a part of me was champing at the bit to lead a team of my own."

Sam paused for a moment, as if carefully considering his next words.

"Then Donna got married. She said all this stuff about retiring after the wedding, and I thought: That's it. There's my chance! I could lead Team Three. I'm ready. But then she chose to stay on, and even though it meant I was still with Team One, I was…"

"Upset?" Greg offered.

"A little," Sam said uneasily. "So, you see, I feel like even more of a jerk now… Like I shouldn't be happy I get to lead a team."

Greg nodded in understanding. "Because if Donna hadn't been killed, you wouldn't be where you are now," he stated.

"Yeah. Something like that." Sam's eyes were downcast as he worked through his emotions. "I get to lead her team, along with the happiness of my married life with Jules and our baby girl, and Donna gets… what—a memorial plaque on a locker?"

Greg gave a small, sad smile. "I know, buddy. I know it doesn't seem fair."

"I guess I do have some guilt to let go of," Sam huffed.

"But don't let it handcuff you, Sam. Come clean to your new team how you're feeling. Don't keep it in," Greg advised. "And even though it'll never be right, Donna is gone. If she had even once been offended by how you treated her when she first joined the SRU, she would have made an official complaint where she would have made her concerns known. She never did, Sam; I don't think she would have had any concerns about you taking over her TL duties."

With that, Greg stood up, palmed his walking stick, and ambled over to Sam. He put a steady, reassuring hand on the younger man's back. "You're going to do great things with Team Three, Sam. I believe in you."

For the first time in a while, Sam started to believe in himself, too.

OOO

One week later…

Team Three sat together silently in briefing room number two, waiting for the shift's patrol to commence.

Sam Braddock stood at the front the room, readying himself for what he was about to say. Presently, he called for their attention, and was pleased to see five other pairs of eyes looking up at him with interest.

"This is something I should have done a long time ago," Sam began. "But I want you to know that taking over the role of team leader here has been one of the most difficult things I've ever had to do in my life. I want you to know that not a day goes by that I don't wish we hadn't lost Donna and Jimmy on that day."

Sam let a few moments pass as a couple of the guys cleared throats and shifted in their seats.

"Donna Sabine and I served on Team One together for a few months," he began again. "I'm sorry I didn't get to know her better than I could have. The truth is this: I treated her like an outsider when she joined, so I've felt it wasn't right for me to take this role as team leader on her team. This team has been through hell, but I want today to be the start of something better, if you'll let me lead you the best way I know."

He let his words sink in, watching their faces as they chewed on his confession of sorts; saw Tom Grady blinking back tears.

"I also brought something with me today," Sam said, "and again, it's something this team should have done a long time ago. Maybe before now, it would have been too painful a reminder of that day. But maybe now, it's just what we all need to acknowledge everything we've been through, and to remember with dignity and honour those we had to bid 'farewell'."

Knowing he had their full attention, Sam opened a small case he'd brought with him. "I've been through this before," he said, keeping his voice as steady as he could, "but that doesn't mean it ever gets easier. This is just a small token, but like one of my colleagues once said when she was replacing another fallen officer, it helps."

And one by one, Sam disbursed wristbands bearing the names and badge numbers of Donna Sabine and James Gallagher to all the members of his team.

OOO

Next shift… morning

Sam walked into the locker room feeling particularly unrested. Even though both he and Jules had done their utmost to comfort Sadie, some new teeth were erupting, and the baby's tender gums were causing her grief. Sadie let her discomfort be known by incessant fussing and crying throughout the night, and the Braddock parents were feeling worn out.

As Sam slowly got himself ready for the pre-shift workout, he thought he caught some snickers coming from a few of his team members behind a row of lockers. Sure enough, Tom Grady, Russ Morris and Jude Wojcik were talking about some amusing anecdote from some classic TV show one of them had been watching. He couldn't see them, but Sam was sure he was hearing comments from Leo Moreau and Grant Cooper, too.

Russ, clearly enjoying himself, said, "So then, Mr. T goes: 'Hey, wait a minute, I'm on to you guys... the one place you would never put sleeping powder, and that's in the first burger you gave me!'"

At this point, Jude stated, "Wait, why do you keep calling him 'Mr. T'? You do know the character was named 'B.A. Baracus', right?"

Tom elbowed Jude. "Don't interrupt!"

Sam smirked, realizing they were discussing a re-run of The A-Team*.

"Whatever," Russ said impatiently, "so of course, after all that rigmarole, Baracus takes the original burger he had been given, but doesn't even bat an eye at the milk he's about to gulp down!"

"So?" Jude said, not following.

"So? So?!" Russ exclaimed, flapping his arms, "he conked out! Enter Sandman! Dreamland."

"Because of the milk?" asked Jude, confusion evident.

Tom let out a snort.

"Of course it was the milk, Wojcik!" Russ muttered. "Anyway, that was the end of the episode. I brought it up because I thought it would be an excellent way to prank our new sleep-deprived team leader. You know… play the sleeping powder gag on him. I brought some pills we could crush up right now!"

Sam crept back quickly from his position. They don't realize I'm here! He thought, and listened to them start making elaborate plans to get him flustered about a sleeping-pill-spiked Iced Cappuccino from Tim Horton's, or a spiked bagel, or doughnut, or something edible.

Finally, after hearing enough of their supposedly clandestine scheming, he coughed loudly and rounded the corner.

"Hey, guys, what's up?" he said, as cheerily as possible.

"Hey, Braddock!" five voices chimed in.

"What's going on?" Sam asked innocently.

"Uh, we were just saying how we ought to do our coffee run right now, you know?" Jude answered. "I mean, you look like you didn't sleep so good last night, and that you could use the caffeine boost."

"Hmm…" Sam said dubiously. "Well, all right. Jude and Russ take off; but be back in fifteen. Any longer than that, and we might all be snoozing by then."

The five other members of Team Three sent confused yet covert looks to each other. Sam didn't miss them.

"I mean," he continued, emphasizing his words, "I wouldn't want any of you to fall asleep on the job, right?"

More uncomfortable looks as it was beginning to dawn on them that their TL was more savvy to their hazing plans than they realized.

"You heard us," Tom said, grudgingly.

"Yep," Sam said with a nod.

"Sorry, sir," Jude said sheepishly. "You know how it is… you're not properly welcome on a new team until you're properly hazed."

Sam pretended to be irate. "Really, guys? Hazing? Did Donna put up with this amateur garbage?"

"Uh… um…Well…" Tom stammered.

"Sleeping pills?!" Sam exploded. "Not only is that dangerous, but that is—by far—the absolute worst prank I have ever heard of in my entire life!"

A couple seconds passed, and the team caught the twinkle in Sam's eye.

"Guys, I'm yankin' your chain," Sam said, and reveled in the relief he read on their faces. "I expected to be hazed at some point, truly, but Donna was in Vice, and I hear they're the best when it comes to pranks. Come on, she must've taught you guys something!"

Tom Grady cleared his throat and said, "As a matter of fact…" and launched into a re-telling of an outlandish tale of some of the pranks that had been perpetrated by their former Team Leader. Peals of laughter erupted from the locker room for several minutes as Tom kept them in stitches.

They were still carrying on through the workout when Winnie's voice announced a Hot Call, and without missing a beat, Team Three sprang into action.

…And when Sam looked again at his team at the end of the call which they resolved peacefully, they were all happily grinning, genuinely united in purpose and spirit.

A/N: This is another post-finale story. There's a glut of them already, so if everything here sounds familiar, it's because others have done a fabulous job of telling that 'what if' tale before I have. I hope I have not inadvertently plagiarized anyone's work here. If there are elements that too-closely resemble something someone else has written, please let me know immediately, and it will be re-written.

This little story is something that's been on my mind for a while, and I finally sat myself down to get it out of my brain. I hope you enjoy.

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Pending Notification

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The crisis was over, but SRU dispatcher Winnie Camden knew the fallout from the day's horrible, senseless, and devastating events was far from behind them. Every television channel in the city was broadcasting endless loops of footage captured from the news cameras on the streets, from helicopters above, and from Johnny-on-the-spot eyewitnesses with camera phones. Eventually, Winnie had had to turn off the monitor mounted on the wall above her. It was agonizing to see the destruction; to see the crumbled buildings of her beloved city, and the injured, dust-covered civilians, all shell-shocked and bloody.

No authority had yet come forward with an official death toll, but early estimates were in the several dozens, with scores more fighting for their lives. One reporter acknowledged that it might be days, or even weeks, before a final tally was known.

Winnie sighed aloud and looked at her watch. She should have been off-duty a half-hour earlier, but Sidney had called to say he'd be late to relieve her; could she possibly hang on a little longer? Even though he lived close to SRU headquarters, he explained that traffic was still a huge nightmare. Well, of course she could work a little overtime; the same traffic Sid was battling would be the same traffic that would ensnare her, too. It would make little sense to be in any hurry to get out.

She tried to ignore the grinding pain that was pressing against the insides of her temples, twin balls of steel wool that seemed to scour her skull. Her heart ached heavily at the completely unexpected losses suffered in the past few hours. She knew her eyes were probably still puffy and red from all the tears she had shed earlier while helplessly listening to what was happening to the members of her teams.

Her teams.

That was how she thought of them whenever she was on duty at the dispatch desk. She was their nerve center, connecting them to each other while providing timely information and intel on the fly. They were in her hands, and their voices were constantly in her ears.

Now, two of those teams were irreparably shattered; two voices permanently silenced.

Team Three, on Commander Holleran's orders, had been stood down indefinitely. The unthinkable had happened to them, and Winnie couldn't begin to imagine how they were going to cope; how they were going to recover. She was having a difficult enough time wiping the sound of the blast at the Casey Jeffers Building from her own ears.

Team One had been temporarily stood down; ordered off duty for a week. Sam and Jules were supposed to be off on a three-week honeymoon, anyway, but after what had happened to Ed's son, and then to the Sarge… The remaining teams would be assisted by metro and other regional police for the foreseeable future. Emergencies normally handled by the SRU didn't just come to a halt simply because a bigger emergency had just occurred and laid waste to the city.

Teams Two, Four, and Five were finishing up their debrief conferences, and Winnie hoped there wouldn't be any calls to disturb them for the remainder of the night. They'd all put in yeoman's service today, and deserved some respite from what they'd had to endure. Team One, she knew, were all at the hospital, awaiting word on Sergeant Greg Parker, who was undergoing life-saving surgery. They were also waiting on Clark Lane, who had thankfully made it out alive of the City Hall parking garage rubble, but was probably still in surgery, himself.

A sob unexpectedly rose in Winnie's throat, as a wave of emotion flooded her chest. Please… please, God, don't let Greg die, she prayed silently. We've already lost Donna and Jimmy; we can't lose the Sarge, too. We just can't. He's such a good man…

The same anxiety that had plagued her during the final confrontation between Greg and the bomber began to creep forth again. It was a replay Winnie desperately wanted to shut out, but to no avail. In her mind, she heard again the report of Faber's weapon, followed by Greg's yell of pain as he was struck. Winnie recalled that she'd been holding it together pretty well up until that point, for the sake of Dean Parker and his girlfriend, both of whom had heard the blast that killed Donna and Jimmy. Dean's relief that his father had not also been caught up in that explosion was so palpable, she hadn't wanted to undermine his tenuous grasp on security by reminding him that two others hadn't been so lucky. Truthfully, she was grateful for the youngsters' presence; she would have been overcome with grief right then if she hadn't felt the need to put on a brave face for their sake.

She remembered how Spike had cried out for the boss after that bomb had detonated; how the seconds ticked by without a response, prompting a second desperate plea – this time from Jules – for him to respond.

"I'm okay," he'd managed to reply; before struggling against his own tears to explain that Donna hadn't been so fortunate.

Will you be okay now, Sarge? Winnie wondered. She resisted the urge to call one of the members of Team One. While the phone lines and cell service had been restored, she didn't want to disturb any of the officers unnecessarily. After all, Spike had assured her he would call her if anything happened.

Oh, Spike…

Winnie smiled a little at the thought of Michelangelo Scarlatti's nickname. I could have lost you today, too. What if Donna had waited for you to get there to defuse that bomb? Would it be you that Faber killed instead, along with Sam and Leah? Nobody knew it was a set-up. You would have walked in there, totally unaware that Faber had no intention of letting that sadistic professor live. He didn't care who else he took out, especially cops. You would have died, and then what would I have done? This is exactly why I never wanted to date a cop…

Caught up in her ruminations, Winnie's thoughts turned to her newly-wedded colleagues.

Jules and Sam… how can they stand it? How did they not totally lose it today when they were both in so much terrible danger? On a day that was supposed to be one of the happiest of their lives, they almost lost each other.

With an unexpected jolt, Winnie thought of another wedding, just over a year ago. Donna almost lost Hank on their wedding day, and now… oh, now… now he's lost her. It's just not fair.

Winnie knew that Commander Holleran was out there, somewhere, trying to track down Hank Gerald in order to deliver the worst possible news a cop's spouse could ever receive. From there, Holleran would be on his way to Jimmy's wife. She didn't envy the SRU commanding officer that role.

Are the risks of being with a law enforcement officer really worth it? Winnie pondered. Am I making a mistake with Spike? But even as she struggled to comprehend how cops managed to balance married life with all the inherent risks that came with the job, she knew she was already in too deep with Michelangelo Scarlatti to turn back. He'd chipped away at her resolve slowly and patiently until she'd had no choice but give in to what she was feeling, too.

The perfect guy is in my life. You'd just better not ever break my heart like that, Spike. Ever.

Movement caught Winnie's attention. A uniformed police officer had just walked on to the floor, looking slightly frustrated, as if SRU headquarters was the last place on earth he wanted to be.

"May I help you?" she asked uncertainly, when he arrived at her desk. She decided he was probably around forty-five years of age with his slightly greying head of hair and deep laugh-lines around his mouth.

"Sergeant Darryl Spencer," he said as an introduction, holding out his badge and ID as a formality. "I'm looking for Constable Donna Sabine."

He must have seen something in Winnie's face, because he immediately asked: "Is something wrong?"

She collected herself in a few moments. As far as she knew, Holleran hadn't yet made the next-of-kin notification; wasn't sure she could tell this other non-SRU officer what had happened to Donna. Instead, she posed a question of her own: "What's this about?"

"It's a private matter," Spencer huffed impatiently. "Is she here, or not? It's very important that I speak with her immediately."

"She's uh… she's not available," Winnie managed to say lamely, and was met by a glare of annoyance.

"Look, I already checked her residence-"

"Um, I think you'd better talk with her commanding officer," Winnie interrupted, reaching for her phone to dial Holleran's cell, willing the tears she could already feel forming behind her lids to recede. I should have just told him…

Norm answered his phone after the second ring. "Holleran," he said.

Winnie swallowed nervously. "Commander Holleran, I've got a Sergeant Darryl Spencer here… Sir, he's asking to speak with Constable Sabine. I, uh… I didn't know what to tell him…"

"Put him on," Holleran sighed.

Winnie handed over the receiver to the waiting sergeant.

"Commander…" Spencer said expectantly.

The SRU dispatcher watched as the other man listened to whatever Norm was telling him, and she saw his face visibly blanch.

"I… I see…" Spencer mumbled into the phone. "I'm sorry to hear that… You're what? Well, sir, I guess since it doesn't matter anymore, I think I can save you the trouble… Mr. Henry Gerald was with some of his co-workers at City Hall today. Apparently they were doing some last-minute tech upgrades for the mayor's office, or something. They were there when the bomb went off. He didn't make it."

Winnie felt her heart tumble to her feet. Hank is dead, too?!her thoughts screamed. Her mouth went dry, and she stared at Spencer as he wrapped up the call with Holleran.

"Thank you, Commander," Spencer said, "terrible day for us all, sir. I'm sorry for your losses. Good-bye."

The sergeant held onto the phone for a few moments, and then exhaled sharply before handing the receiver back to Winnie. "Thanks," he muttered.

"You're welcome," Winnie managed to say, though she knew her voice was barely audible.

"What a rotten day," Spencer said heavily, and rubbed the back of his head.

"Is it true?" Winnie asked, numb with shock. "Hank Gerald really died in the City Hall bombing?"

Spencer pursed his lips before answering. "Yeah," he replied ruefully. "You knew him, huh?"

A single tear slipped down Winnie's cheek, and she nodded her answer.

"Holleran told me what happened to Sabine," Spencer added. "It's a damned crazy coincidence, the two of them… Damned shame…" He let his voice fade to silence.

"Then… Neither of them had any idea," Winnie said with a dazed shake of her head. "At least they were spared that. At least they didn't have to go through that grief..." She was rambling now, and she knew it. But it was all just so incredibly awful, she couldn't help herself.

A new figure hurried towards the desk, and Winnie recognized Sidney. "I'm so sorry I'm late, Wins," he said in a rush. "You wouldn't believe how jammed up everything is. Roadblocks here; detours there; closures everywhere… Unbelievable!"

Winnie pulled off her headset and stood up quietly.

"Oh, sorry," Sid said, when he noticed Sergeant Spencer standing there. "Am I interrupting something?"

Spencer shook his said. "No, not at all," he uttered. "I was just leaving. Thank you, Ms. Camden. I'm sorry about your friends."

He turned and made for the exit, brushing past a perplexed Sidney.

"Are you okay, Winnie?" Sid asked gently, taking in her tearstained face.

"No," she answered slowly. "I'm not okay."

"Well, I'm here now, so why don't you just go right home and get some rest?" he suggested, trying to be helpful.

"Sid…" Winnie said miserably, her voice paper thin, "Donna and Jimmy were killed today… Sarge is fighting for his life… and… and that sergeant just came in here looking for Donna to tell her that Hank…" She could say no more; face crumbling.

"Hey, hey," Sid said, moving around the desk to get to her. "It's okay… you don't have to be embarrassed to cry around me. We're friends, right?"

Winnie allowed Sid to hold her for a few moments before breaking away. His touch was comforting, but it was not the one she desperately needed right then.

"Teams Two, Four, and Five are still debriefing," Winnie stated almost mechanically, not daring to meet Sidney's eyes, lest she see his concern and be pushed into deeper emotional distress. "Teams One and Three have been taken out of rotation. We're getting back-up from Peel, Durham, and Halton."

"I know the drill," Sid said softly. "Go on, Winnie; I know you want to get outta here."

She nodded and thanked him, leaving the desk and heading towards the locker rooms to wash her face and change into street clothes. The driving need to get to the hospital to be comforted by Spike consumed her and dominated every thought she processed as she navigated the disorder of the street traffic. Rationally, she knew he wouldn't be able to take away the emotional pain, but somehow, she sensed he'd be able to make it more tolerable.

The summer June sun still had a few hours to go before fully setting, but there was a dusty, hazy pall hanging over the city, filtering the natural light and giving a false sense of early twilight. Winnie was thankful that all traffic was being diverted away from the affected areas, so she would not have to see first-hand the carnage inflicted by the four bombs that had exploded. Still, the 'new' route to the hospital was a maddening series of detours which extended the travel time by nearly an hour. Everywhere, emergency personnel beside their vehicles were doing their utmost to keep some semblance of order and normalcy in a very abnormal set of circumstances.

Unsurprisingly, the hospital was a mass of activity and anxious faces of family members awaiting news about loved ones. Winnie already knew that Spike was with Leah, Jules and Sam on the third floor Trauma Unit waiting area, so she trudged on to a bank of elevators to reach them. Winnie didn't hate hospitals like some people did, but she didn't necessarily like them, either. Seven others squeezed into the elevator car with her, but she barely noticed them; didn't have the mental energy to spare on why they might be at the hospital and what they might be dealing with.

When the doors opened on the third floor, she hurriedly stepped out and followed the overhead signs that directed her to the Trauma Unit. Dozens of people lined the corridors, some sitting on the floors, others leaning against the wall, looking weary, worn-out and confused. It was all very depressing, and the collective mood hit her like a heat wave. She could almost sense their combined thoughts: How? How could this have happened to us and our city? Are we ever going to be okay again?

She swept her glance left and right as she continued along the ward, keeping an eye open for the distinctive uniforms of the SRU constables. It didn't take long. Leah and Spike were shoulder-to-shoulder against a wall next to a row of chairs, one of which was occupied by Sam with Jules nestled on his lap. Jules had her head against Sam's neck, eyes closed. It didn't look very comfortable, but at least she was able to sit, given the injury to her leg sustained when she was rescuing children from the daycare in the Health and Wellness Department building. Dean Parker and Marina Levin were next to them, quiet, unmoving. Marina looked haunted, blonde hair hanging over her puffy eyes and mouth pulled into a thin, taut line.

Winnie gazed at Spike. He was pensive, right thumb pressed to his upper lip while his left arm was wrapped around himself. Leah was staring ahead blankly, blinking every few seconds as if trying to stave off another round of tears. They were so silent, Winnie momentarily fretted that there had been bad news about the Sarge.

"Spike," she called softly.

The bomb expert looked up with a start, and relief washed over his face. "Hey, Winnie," he said, a warm smile creeping up on his exhausted face.

He stepped away from the wall and reached out for her. She allowed him to enfold her in his strong arms, not caring that others in the hall were eyeing them in a not-so-discreet fashion. The warmth of his body sent shivers down her spine, and she felt herself relaxing, enjoying the security of his embrace. Spike kissed the side of her face before pulling away. He left his hands on her shoulders and just kept staring at her lovingly. "Wow, are you ever a sight for sore eyes," he said with great tenderness. "I'm glad you came."

"Yeah, well, traffic was crazy," Winnie said, thinking it sounded horribly trite as soon as the words left her mouth. She was complaining about traffic when people were dead and others were fighting for their lives in this very hospital.

"I figured it would be," Spike commented. He took her hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze.

Leah, who had noticed her arrival and the display of affection, offered a friendly greeting. "Hey, Winnie," she said.

Winnie smiled and nodded at Leah, and sent a tiny wave to Sam, who gave her a brief nod in return. Jules stirred slightly, blinked and yawned. Sam moved carefully and let her stretch a little before she settled back again.

Dean looked over and mumbled a "Hey, Winnie" as well. Marina kept her silence.

"So, do we have any news about the Boss?" Winnie finally asked, almost afraid of the answer that might be forthcoming.

"Uh, no, we don't know anything new yet," Spike said gravely, "but it's bad. He got shot in the leg and the chest. They think the bullet punctured Greg's lung, and they're not sure how bad the damage is to his leg…"

"Well, he's got to pull through," Winnie said resolutely. "I mean, he has to, right?"

Spike rubbed her arm. "From your lips to God's ears," he said fervently.

"And Clark?" Winnie ventured to ask, hopeful for a positive answer.

"He's gonna be okay," Spike said, spirits buoyed momentarily by that one bright spot of news. "He got knocked around pretty bad. Ed and Sophie are with him right now in recovery. Poor kid has a broken wrist, leg… some cracked ribs and a concussion, but he's gonna make it."

Winnie breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm so glad," she whispered. "What a nightmare for Ed and Sophie."

Spike nodded. "No kidding. You spend your whole career responding to other people's emergencies, all the while knowing there's a possibility that one day that emergency might be someone you know or someone you love…"

He bit his suddenly trembling lip, and Winnie knew he had to be thinking about Lewis and Donna.

"I was so worried for you today," Winnie said quietly, "for all of you, really, but especially you."

"Hey, I'm okay," Spike said soothingly, running a hand through her hair. "I'm here."

"I know," Winnie said, almost choking on a sob, "and I'm so grateful…"

Just then, a bleary-eyed Ed Lane approached their little gathering.

"Ed," Spike said, "what're you doing here?"

"Clark is stable and sleeping now," he replied wearily. "I'm here to check on the Boss; any news?"

"Nothing new," Leah answered with a heavy sigh.

Ed nodded and grunted. "Then I guess no news is good news, right?"

"We hope so," Spike offered, shrugging as he spoke.

Ed looked over at Sam and Jules. "Hell of a way to spend your wedding night," he said to them. "You two sure you want to be here? No one's going to think any less of you if you take off, y'know."

Sam shook his head. "No way," he said. "We're not going anywhere. The reception's been cancelled, anyway, so it's not like we have wedding guests to greet."

Jules opened her eyes. "This is the Sarge we're talking about," she stated resolutely. "Hospitals suck, but right now, there's nowhere else we should be."

"Okay," Ed said. "Sophie's gone home to get Izzy from the neighbours, but I told her I wanted to stick around – for Clark and Sarge. Sophie says that she's going to put her catering skills to good use to make sure all the SRU family members stay fed through all this, because hospital food sucks, and y'know, for Jimmy's widow… and Hank…"

Winnie stifled a moan. They didn't know about Hank yet. "Guys…" she started to say, and then halted as she felt herself starting to tremble. "Guys, before I left work, this sergeant came by… He was looking for Donna…"

Spike's jaw clenched involuntarily, and Leah frowned. Sam and Jules held each other a little tighter, while Ed scowled.

Winnie sucked in a breath before continuing. "The reason – the reason he was looking for her was to tell her that Hank was at City Hall… when that bomb went off…"

"You've gotta kidding me," Ed blurted out, incredulous. "Is he alright?"

Winnie shook her head vigorously. "No," she whispered, throat constricting.

"…And she was right there, at City Hall, looking for Clark," Leah said, her voice toneless.

"She didn't even know Hank was there, I guess." Winnie's conjecture was mournful.

Ed was fuming. "I've gotta say it: shooting that son-of-a-bitch was too good a death for him! Too good!"

By now, other people waiting in the halls were looking at Ed, chattering to each other about what was going on, but he paid them no heed.

"What happened today with those bombs… None of it was right, Ed," Leah said gently. "Faber's dead. I'm not going to waste another ounce of energy thinking about him, because he doesn't deserve it."

Ed's voice was low and full of pent-up fury. "And Donna and Hank and Jimmy and all the other people that bastard killed don't deserve to be dead! My son didn't deserve to be almost crushed to death in his own car! Greg didn't deserve to get shot!"

"Hey, it's okay, Ed," Spike said, trying to placate his team leader. "We know. We get it. We're all angry and we're all grieving. But Leah's right. Faber is dead, and thanks to you and the Boss, he'll never be able to kill again."

The tension gradually left Ed's body, and he expelled a lungful of air. "Sorry," he said gruffly.

"Never apologize for being truthful about your feelings, Ed," Jules spoke up, "especially with us."

Winnie looked over at Jules, still curled up on Sam's lap. It was so hard to believe that they were now married, and that the wedding had only occurred that morning. She was bitterly reminded that on the same day that Sam and Jules' married life began, Donna and Hank's ended.

One year, she thought. That's all they got to have as husband and wife.

"Do you think," Winnie began tentatively to Spike, "do you think if either Hank or Donna had survived… would they have thought the year they had together was worth it?"

"Absolutely," Spike answered without hesitation. "You don't pledge to spend the rest of your life with someone and measure its value based on how long that 'rest of your life' might be. You treasure it because it happened in the first place, whether it lasts a year, or ten, or fifty."

"I'm afraid I'll lose you," Winnie said quietly, so only he could hear. "This job… it's too risky."

"Life is risky," Spike countered, lowering his volume to match hers. "Hank wasn't a police officer, and look what happened, anyway. We don't know for sure how things are going to go. All that matters is that we make the most of the time we get to have together. I think Hank and Donna did that in the time they had."

In her mind's eye, Winnie could see the years stretching before her, making a life, a home, and a family with Michelangelo Scarlatti. It was a beautiful picture, and it brought a surge of joy to her heart just imagining how wonderful it would be.

"I just don't ever want to receive that notification from your commanding officer that you're not coming home, Spike," Winnie said passionately. "You see? You can't promise me that you'll always be safe."

"No, I can't," Spike admitted. "But I can promise you that for as long as I am safe, and that for as long as I am here, I'm going to love you, Winnie Camden."

"You really mean that," Winnie stated, caught off-guard by his very sincere confession.

"You know I do," Spike said, gazing at her wide-eyed expression. She looked surprised yet pleased, and he decided on the spur of the moment to kiss her. Her lips were soft, and he felt her yielding easily, reveling in the thrill of their closeness.

Leah was grinning widely when they finally pulled away, a very satisfied expression on her face.

"You two should really get a room," Sam piped up, smiling slyly.

"And that sounded a lot like a proposal, Spike," Ed added, smirking at the tech expert.

"I'd keep him, if I were you, Winnie," Jules said.

Winnie felt herself blushing, and noticed Spike doing the same. "Guys, you mind?" Spike said, chagrined.

"Not at all," Leah chortled. "You two have been dancing around each other long enough. After the day we've had, this is a good thing to see."

Spike nodded in agreement. "Okay, fine, but the show's over for now," he said.

"Oh, really?" Winnie asked, raising her eyebrows. "What was that about making the most of the time we have together?"

And she pulled him in for another kiss.

---

END

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Chapter 1: Chapter 1

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A/N: This was a difficult one to write, but I finally managed to arrive at a point where I could distance myself enough from the finale to get it down.

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Unscripted

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Strategic Response Unit Commander Norman Holleran reluctantly left the relative safety of his black police SUV and entered the main lobby of CP Information Processing, the I.T. firm that was the current employer of Henry 'Hank' Gerald. Holleran felt every day of his fifty-two years, and thought that his already-grey head of closely-cropped hair probably turned even greyer in the past four hours. Three bombs had already exploded; an unknown number of lives had been lost, and Holleran knew the threat was still not over.

The errand that brought him to CP Information Processing was not one he wished on anyone else, but the responsibility was his, and he would not shirk it. The message he carried with him was terrible, and Norm hoped that once he'd delivered it, he'd feel some measure of relief, but in doing so, it would infect the recipient like a virus, causing unbearable pain and suffering for which there would be no cure.

Accompanied by a baby-faced constable named 'Swanson' who seemed to be relieved to be on this ride as opposed to out there amongst the panic and chaos besieging the city, Norm approached the admittance desk. The twenty-something woman seated there looked up with surprise at the officers. Doubtless, she was aware of the spate of bombings occurring, and Norm thought he detected a look of panic on her face.

"May I help you?" she asked them tremulously; eyes wide.

"Yes," the SRU veteran said in the most official tone he could muster, "I'm Commander Norm Holleran; Strategic Response Unit. It is imperative that I speak with one of your staff members: Mr. Hank Gerald."

At the mention of Hank's name, another woman poked her head out of an office just down the hall. She saw Norm and quickly approached him.

"I'm Ginny Foster, Hank's boss," she announced with some measure of concern when they were face to face. "Is everything all right? What's this about?"

"Ms. Foster," Norm stated calmly, not revealing anything, "is there a private area where I can speak with Hank? The matter is urgent and sensitive."

"Of course, Commander," Ginny replied, turning and gesturing down the corridor, "you may use my office. I'll get Hank now."

"Thank you," Norm said, grateful for her tact. Leaving Swanson at the front desk, Holleran followed Ginny to her office, and stood inside while she left to fetch Hank.

With a heavy heart and stoic face, he waited, his stomach roiling in anticipation; his thoughts churning. This was the sort of thing that ought to be somehow scripted, but the fact of the matter was no script was perfect, and no words could ever be right for the sort of lines he would have to deliver in the next few minutes. No amount of sensitivity training could suffice, and Norm decided he would be as direct as possible, as ambiguity and 'beating around the bush' would be the worst thing to do in this circumstance.

In spite of his resolve to be direct, Holleran found himself to be nervous and dry of throat when Hank Gerald quietly entered the office, his face revealing an expectant demeanour. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and Hank raised his eyebrows, the unspoken question 'What is he doing here?' flashing on his dark features.

The SRU commanding officer could see the wheels turning in the other man's head. Fear of that dreaded, unspoken subject crept forth, but was pulled back by a certain pragmatism and rationality. Hope surfaced, bringing with it assurances backed by a strong will not yet ready to succumb to the worst-case scenario before all the facts were known.

Norm cleared his throat and swallowed several times. Further stalling for time, he plucked his glasses from his face and massaged his temples with his free hand.

"Hank…" he started softly, and suddenly couldn't continue. He knew if he started speaking again, he would be overcome with emotion. Norm mentally kicked himself for the delay as he met Hank's questioning eyes again. Unable to hold the other man's apprehensive gaze, he let his vision veer off to some indistinct spot on the ceiling. Heaven, help me…

"Norm…" Hank murmured in a tone of warning and dread, "…tell me she's all right…"

The words were more of a plea, and every one of them stabbed at Holleran's heart, because he knew…

Holleran sucked in a shaky breath. Good Lord, why doesn't this ever get easier, he lamented silently. He cleared his throat again, in vain trying to tamp down the rising flood of tears that was starting to blur his eyesight and choke off his voice.

"You tell me she's all right!" Hank demanded furiously, abandoning all prior reserve. His voice was dangerously sharp, yet cracking with anticipatory horror of the knowledge he sensed was being kept from him, but could not yet bring himself to fully contemplate and accept.

"I can't, Hank," Holleran finally managed to articulate, slack-jawed, with a slow shake of his head, sorrow and regret drenching his words. "I'm sorry. She's dead. We lost her."

We 'lost' her? Holleran was appalled by the euphemism; sickened that the words had rolled off his tongue like that, so thoughtlessly. No, we didn't 'lose' her, he silently seethed. She was taken from us in a despicable, deliberate act of cunning and murder.

Hank just stood there, frozen in place, his unblinking gaze fixed on some spot behind Norm's head. Then his fists curled into tight balls at his side, and he began to tremble uncontrollably.

"I'm sorry," Norm whispered again, unable to keep his own tears in check. He recalled the previous occasions he'd had to deliver such a notice. During his tenure with the Strategic Response Unit, he'd been the bearer of bad news to parents only, most recently, those of Constable Lewis Young… but never a spouse, until today.

Hank wept. Quietly and uncontrollably, the tears streamed until he finally had to blink and gasp for air. He seemed to crumple from within, an unfathomable, staggering grief causing him to deflate and sink to the floor, oblivious to his surroundings. Norm crossed over to the stricken man and knelt down beside him, taking him in his arms, knowing that no gesture on earth could possibly begin to console him.

"How?" Hank asked finally, looking up at his dead wife's commanding officer, his voice coming out in a raw, painful rasp. "How could this… have happened… to her?"

Pityingly, Norm looked at Hank and sat back on his haunches. How, indeed? How to explain to the man before him that his wife had simply been doing her job when the unthinkable had happened? How to tell him that she was simply following orders when she was killed?

"Team Three was pursuing a lead on the location of the man we believed to be responsible for the bombings today," Holleran began. "The trail of evidence led to Brookfield University, and when they entered one of the laboratories, they found the suspect was wearing a suicide bomb vest. Donna and Jimmy stayed back to try to get the suspect to talk; tried to disarm the bomb. I don't know what went wrong, Hank, but… the suspect wasn't the bomber, he was bait. They were still inside when the bomb was detonated."

"No…" Hank shook his head disbelievingly. "God… a bomb? Donna and Jim?"

Norm closed his eyes and nodded, feeling suddenly weary and defeated, thinking that his next stop would be Jimmy's widow; thinking he didn't know how much more grief he'd be able to shoulder.

"Did she – did she even have a chance? Did she know?"

Norm knew what Hank was asking; read between the lines. Hank wanted to know if his wife's last moments had caused her to suffer, so he chose his words carefully. "If she knew anything, Hank, it would have been quick. It would have been over in an instant. There wouldn't have been time for anything else."

"You find this maniac, Norm," Hank's voice dropped in pitch, his eyes burning with a hatred projected towards the unknown man responsible for his terrible loss. "Swear to me that you'll find him and that you'll make him pay!"

"We'll find him, Hank," Norm said passionately. "The whole SRU is out there right now. Every cop in the city is on the job. We're going to get him. We're not going to let him get away with this."

Holleran then advised him as gently as possible that he could expect a follow-up call soon from the people with the Toronto Widows and Orphans Fund. He wondered if the name sounded as woefully inadequate to Hank's ears as it did to his own. Would the name of the organization be somehow offensive to Hank because he was not a widow, but rather now a widower? Complex and complicated emotions would be Hank's miserable lot for the foreseeable future as he dealt with the fallout of his loss, and Norm didn't envy the other man the process of grieving. But Donna had paid her dues from the time she was a rookie; Hank was entitled to every benefit the Fund offered to the surviving spouse.

He eventually left Hank in the office, feeling no less divested of his burdensome news than when he'd first arrived. Later, Holleran would describe Hank as a man who looked like he'd been mauled by a wild beast, as if his heart had been gouged right out of his chest, leaving behind a wide, gaping cavity that could never be filled.

It was with a sense of grim satisfaction that Holleran received word that the bomber had been brought down by Team One's Edward Lane. For quite a while, he thought that a bullet to the back of the head was too good a fate for Marcus Faber; that he deserved much worse for the terror he'd wrought on the city. Would a trial and a life sentence in prison have been better? Would it have alleviated the anguish of all those whose loved ones had been killed? In the end, neither scenario could bring back the dead.

But no one would mourn Marcus Faber; of that, Holleran was certain. The young man's parents were deceased, and he was friendless and single. There would be no one to inform about his death; no knock on a door, no work day unceremoniously interrupted; no marriage brought to a sudden and brutal end, no unscripted words reluctantly delivered. There would just be a body in a morgue until it was buried in a plot in Potter's Field. Perhaps that was justice; Norm couldn't be sure. All he knew was that he loathed being the messenger of death. He wished it did not fall under his purview as commander of the Strategic Response Unit, because no words could ever mitigate the suffering they would inevitably inflict upon those left behind.

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END

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A/N: My take on what Clark Lane went through on that day. Spoilers for 'Keep the Peace'. If you have not seen the finale, you have my permission to avoid this one.

If you are brave enough to read, I hope you enjoy.

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Find Me

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Clark Lane was starting to feel like a third wheel as he accompanied Dean Parker and his prom date, Mira, on their downtown shopping excursion. Clark was dressed casually in khakis and a white tee beneath a long-sleeved, buttoned shirt; his unruly mop of curls bouncing on his forehead as he navigated the busy sidewalk with his friends.

Mira, wearing a pink V-neck jersey and jeans, was chattering on about matching colours of boutonnieres and dresses. For the upcoming school prom, Dean's own blue shirt and jeans would be replaced with a suit and peach-coloured rose to compliment Mira's peach dress. Clark couldn't resist taking the opportunity to tease Dean about the fact that Mira had been the one to ask him out.

Not one to take a jibe lying down, Dean shot back: "What colour's your boutonniere?" all the while knowing it didn't matter because Clark was flying solo for the dance.

"Uh, whatever colour means 'no curfew because it's prom'," Clark responded smartly.

"Seriously?" an incredulous Dean asked, somewhat shocked that Clark's parents were relaxing the house rules for their son.

Clark answered that his folks had evening plans, something about going to a hotel. "Plus, they trust me," he added, "it's weird."

"Plus," Dean drawled, "you're not going to tell them."

"Scary," Clark admitted, "like your dad!" He folded his arms and eyed the blonde-haired Mira. "You sure you want to date a walking polygraph?"

The girl smiled, and sent an affectionate look Dean's way. "Yeah, I'm sure," she asserted, linking hands with her dark-haired boyfriend. Mira was fully aware that Dean was the progeny of Gregory Parker, a sergeant on the city's Strategic Response Unit and head negotiator with its best team.

They reached Clark's car, a second-hand, Harvard Blue Pearl-coloured '92 Honda Civic LX EG sedan. Dean and Mira politely turned down his offer for a ride, and he unlocked it, bidding them a quick 'see you later'. Part of him was pleased that he wouldn't need to drop them off somewhere else. A detour like that would have delayed his plans to get to City Hall to obtain a permit for the outdoor party they were planning. Why the responsibility to take care of this task had fallen to him, Clark didn't know. Maybe it was because all his friends and classmates thought he'd have an easier time with it just because his father was a police officer.

As if that makes any difference when dealing with the city for this sort of thing, he grumbled to himself as he drove towards his destination.

If Clark had turned on his radio, he would have learned of the sudden and unexpected bombing of a downtown federal building that set off city-wide panic. As it was, Clark had music blaring through the ear buds hooked to his iPod. The rolling bass and pounding drum beats of the songs he played cancelled out any noise from the world outside.

Even if he had known of that first disaster, he would still not have noticed the young man dressed in dark blue coveralls carrying a toolkit who was exiting the underground parking garage at City Hall just as Clark was entering.

The teen cruised around for a few minutes, somewhat annoyed that the first level of parking was full. He thought he spied an empty space, but the other car was parked badly, and even with his smaller vehicle, decided he didn't want to risk scratching either by squeezing in too close. Undaunted, he continued down to the second level, descending the ramp smoothly. He found a space almost immediately and pulled into it with ease.

He set the parking brake, unbuckled his seatbelt and plucked the ear buds from his ears, completely unprepared for the hellish disaster zone City Hall was about to become. Without the slightest warning, a deafening, earth-shaking blast ripped through the compound, followed immediately by a sickening, jarring crash. Clark felt as if every bone in his body was being pummeled at once by a sledgehammer; felt his world go dark with the certain, terrifying knowledge that he was being crushed to death inside his own car.

---

Clark's brain was a foggy mess when he slowly regained consciousness. His entire body felt as if it had just been through ten rounds in a mixed-martial-arts match against Georges St.-Pierre, and disoriented as he was, realised that he was somehow supine.

"What happened?" Clark thought groggily. "Why am I on my back?"

His left side was on fire, and every breath was agonizing. The air was choked with heavy dust that smelled of concrete and ash. Flickering fluorescent lighting cast dancing shadows across his blurred eyesight of massive, irregular shapes and dangling wires.

It soon dawned on Clark's hazy mind those irregular shapes were pieces of concrete that were once part of the parking garage structure.

His legs demanded his attention next. He'd never broken a bone before, but with his kind of excruciating pain, Clark figured they must be in very bad shape. There wasn't quite enough light to see, but he felt his lower limbs were probably jammed beneath the steering column.

I need help, he slowly pondered, still in a dazed state. Gotta call dad… Tell him something… bad happened at City Hall… Can't be an earthquake, can it? Earthquakes can't happen in Toronto, can they?

Where's my phone? Where did I leave it?

Pocket. I put it in my pocket…

He nearly yelled in pain as he tried to move his left hand towards the pocket for the cell phone. Something was wrong with his left arm, too.

Gingerly, Clark snaked his right hand across his body and began the difficult task of finding the mobile device that was his salvation. After several interminable minutes, his numb fingers finally secured it.

Ten missed calls…?

Clark squinted at the screen, which was thankfully not broken as he feared it might be.

Dad… Mom… Dean… They've all been trying to reach me…

He hit re-dial to the one person he knew was fully capable of making things better; of making things happen: his father. He needed his father to assuage his fears and to rescue him; needed to hear his father's voice tell him everything was going to be okay.

Clark was unprepared for the tone of recrimination in that voice when it answered.

"Where the hell are you?"

"D-dad…" Clark managed to weakly croak.

Instantly, worry replaced his father's initial brusque manner. "Clark, what's goin' on? Talk to me."

"Uh…" the teen whispered, taking in another ragged, pain-filled breath before answering.

"Talk to me!"

Every word was a struggle as the air quality continued to degrade. "Can't… move…"

"Clark… Clark… you at City Hall?"

A gasp was the only reply Clark could provide.

"Are you in City Hall?"

Clark heard the tremble in his dad's voice; noted how the pitch changed. He knew his father was terrified for his safety.

"Yes…" Clark groaned, "…garage…"

"Okay, okay, stay with me."

"Can't…mm-ugh…" Clark tried to squeeze the words through clenched teeth.

"It's okay, just stay with me."

Clark realised that his dad was trying to remain calm for his sake, but knew the panic was still there.

"I'm…here…"

"Call Donna, tell her Clark's at City Hall! Track his phone!"

He must be talking to the team, Clark deduced. Spike will track my phone... Thank you, God! They're gonna find me… they're gonna find me…

"I'm comin' to get you."

Dad… hurry.

"Stay with me."

I'll try, dad… Please, just find me. Get me outta here.

"Clark, let me ask you: do you feel any pain?"

"Yeah… side… hurts… legs… legs are killing…" Clark grimaced.

"Hey, it's good, buddy. Means your spine's okay. Now, Clark, I know this is hard, but I need you to slow your breathing right down for me. Let's get that heart-rate down, okay?"

Clark obeyed, putting every ounce of effort into tamping down his own panic; forced himself to inhale and exhale at longer intervals; heard his father tell him it would help slow any blood loss.

"Now, I taught you sniper breathing, right? Clark?"

Sniper breathing, Clark mulled. Breathe slow and steady. So slow, you can count your own heartbeats… so slow… so slow you can shoot someone dead between heartbeats…

The teen felt his head swimming. He didn't know if his vision was fading or if the lighting had finally sputtered out, leaving him in darkness. His grip on consciousness was slipping away from him, and the sound of his father's voice started waning to background static.

"Clark? Clark! Look, I know it's hard for you to speak, but… Clark, I know you can hear me. You are such a strong kid, and I am so proud of you. Now, I need you to stay strong. I'm on my way."

Clark gasped again; felt powerless to keep his eyes open any longer. Without a trace of fear or panic, he wondered if he'd ever wake up again.

"I love you, buddy; I love you."

I love you, too, dad…

---

"Clark!"

Clark stirred slightly at the sound of someone calling his name. It was oddly familiar; feminine, and fraught with worry.

I'm here, he wanted to cry out, but his vocal cords refused to obey.

"I'm at City Hall, looking for Clark. Can anybody hear me?!"

The fog clouding his brain cleared marginally. He was certain now he knew that voice.

Yeah, I do know who that is… That's Donna Sabine… Dad must have sent her…Thank you, Team Three.

Relief washed over him like a warm, comforting tide, believing fully that his deliverance was at hand.

"I know protocol, Boss, but this is Ed's kid!"

A small memory, unbidden, sparked in some region of Clark's brain of his would-be rescuer sharing a laugh with his dad at the Lane dinner table several months ago. He'd never considered it before, but it dawned on him that after the members of Team One, his father probably counted Donna Sabine as one of his closest friends. He remembered thinking it was weird at first that his dad had walked her down the aisle at her wedding, but now he realised the bonds of friendship and trust must run very deep between them.

"Clark! Eddie, I'm right here!"

Donna, I'm right here! Can't you see me? God, please let her see me! Let her find me!

Clark wanted to call out; made several lame attempts to make some kind of noise to attract attention, but it was as if he were paralysed.

"Clark?!"

Donna! Constable Sabine… Why can't you see that I'm right here?

The teen wanted to cry tears of frustration that his body refused to obey. The noises of people moving around with crunching footsteps, thuds and echoes, tantalizingly close, brought hope surging to the fore that he was only moments away from being released from this prison.

"Anybody there?"

Another voice called out, this time male.

"Jimmy, we gotta go. Team Three, let's move."

Clark felt his stomach lurch and his blood run cold at this command.

You're leaving?! Oh, no. No! Don't go! Damn it, I'm right here! Please don't go… Donna… Oh, God, make her come back. Get them to come back! Clark sent his desperate, silent petition as he heard the sure sounds of people retreating.

"Always, Eddie."

One last utterance, and then there was a terrible, mocking silence.

Dad… Dad… Are you talking to Donna? Why is she leaving? Tell her to come back! Tell her to come back!

Please… Team Three… he silently begged. Please, come back…

But there was no reprieve for the trapped son of Ed Lane.

Darkness enveloped him once again as hopelessness forced him into merciless submission.

---

I love you, buddy; I love you.

It wasn't so long ago that Clark Lane would have had a hard time believing those words from his father. In fact, the expectation of even hearing those words had eroded away after too many days, weeks and months of watching his dad come home from a job that had turned him into a monster.

A monster. That's what Ed Lane was: a monster that killed people for a living.

As Clark hovered just below the surface of consciousness, reflexes sluggish and limbs like dead weights, his brain carried him off to places and times he wouldn't ordinarily travel on his own. But now, he was an unwilling passenger, helpless to wrench himself from the mental journey that was filled with memories of disturbing conversations, harsh words, and terrifying tableaux. Oddly enough, Clark seemed to sense that only physical pain awaited him on the other side of wakefulness, so perhaps remaining here, floating in an almost dream-like state, was a safer option.

Man of few words. Like your dad.

Me? Like my dad? No way, man. My dad kills people for a living. Trains, like, 24/7 with all of that sniper breathing crap so he can be better at killing.

You sure? I see a lot of Ed in you.

There is nothing about my father I can relate to. Nothing. I can't even stand to look at his face; the sound of his voice… nothing! He's like… he's like a friggin' zombie when he comes home from work. Everything pisses him off.

I'm practicing for my recital… Izzy's fussing in dad's arms, and he goes off on me like it's my fault she's in a crabby mood, like it's my playing that's bothering her. Mom tries to explain that I'm not just messing around on the piano… As always, dad's clueless. Like it's our fault he can't keep it straight in his head about when I'm performing. Why are you the last one to know? You're not the last one to know, dad. You're just so messed up right now. It's all about your job. You don't care about us. You only care about what goes on out there. And you can't even see that it's turned you into a monster.

Clark stirred slightly, his brow creased, tormented by his mind's replay of the recent past.

Dad's team members calling out for his status… My father doesn't respond… Silence. No response. No response… The minutes seemingly ticking by, much longer than they should without contact; without any word or sign…

A whimper escaped the teen's lips. Surely, his father had to be okay? Maybe the ride-along was a bad idea. It was definitely a bad idea getting out of the truck… What kind of person runs into a house without knowing the full extent of the danger within?

There's a right way, and a wrong way. We have to obey the law.

Yeah. 'The law'. My dad shot a teen-aged girl. Did you know that? Yeah. She was protecting her mother. Trying to stop a violent man. She didn't deserve to die.

No.

The newspaper said her name was May Dalton. She was eighteen years old. I just turned eighteen. She was my age. We could have been classmates. I could have known her; she was probably just like any of the girls I know from school. She didn't have to die.

Everyone knew it, Dean. He knew it. But he followed 'the law'.

Did he tell you that?

Of course not; mom did. She had to say something. Something to explain the mood swings; the silence… I mean, sometimes, you'll just find him, and he's in the middle of doing something, just … getting a glass out of the cupboard. You know, it's like someone had just pressed 'pause'. He's just dead still, staring at the countertop. And the worst part is, when I look at him now, that's all I see: the guy who had to do that. The guy who had to put a bullet in that girl's head. I mean, what kind of guy even does that, Dean?

Clark moaned. His physical trauma was starting to overtake his mind's ability to block out the worst of it.

Clark, what you said earlier: about your dad killing that girl? He had to do it. It was the right thing.

Yeah?

When we were in that lane, talking to that sergeant? He was messed up. You could see it. He was just so lost. That's why your dad followed the law. He knows what happens when you don't. He knows what you become.

He is so torn up, Dean.

What your dad had to do was terrible. But he made the right call.

We are going to be in a world of trouble when our dads get back…

You know, if you wanna be a cop, you've gotta learn to follow the rules.

Yeah, we- we get it.

Okay, let's go.

That's it? I'm not grounded til I'm like, thirty? Did our dads really just say we're going for pizza? After all that stuff that just happened?

Practicing again, quickly, before dad gets home. He'll only ride my case if he catches me again, because it gets on his nerves; because he thinks it bothers Izz… If he were around more often, he'd know it actually soothes her. He'd know she's scared of him when he's in one of his dark moods, which is pretty much all the time…

Sorry… I can stop.

No, don't stop; it's beautiful.

Don't stop? That's new. Wait. I think he means it… And he's looking at me as if he really sees me. Not like the past few months where it's like he's looking past me; like I don't exist; like everything I do disgusts him. He's seeing me. There's something… different about him… something has changed… The tension… it's not there anymore. He wants me to know something about the job; wants to share what it was like to be the one to end that girl's life. Wants me to know how much it hurt him to have to follow the law in that situation.

He's crying. My father is honest-to-God crying. He's holding me now. Wants me to know he's sorry. Wants me to know he's proud of me, and that not a day goes by that he doesn't think about the lives he's taken, and the lives he failed to save. Wants me to know he's been going about it all the wrong way, and hopes that I can forgive him for not being real about how the job affects him. Wants me to know he's not a cold-blooded robot who only knows how to pull a trigger on another human being. His tears are so real, I start crying, too, because I've never seen him cry, and this is new, for both of us.

"Ed, we tracked his signal to the second level of the parking garage, but we haven't found him yet. Hold on, Ed – Ed, I got the car. I'm sorry, Ed, but, uh – it's crushed under concrete. It's not looking good."

Is someone there? Don't give up. Please. Don't leave like the others did. I'm here. I'm in my car. Please, find me. I don't want to die here. Not like this.

"Steve! Steve!"

Dad?

"Ed."

Dad, are you really here?

"Where is he?"

"Phone signal's here, man. It's gotta be him."

"Clark! Clark!"

I'm right here, dad… Hurry…

Through his semi-conscious state, Clark was aware of the rumbling of concrete chunks being moved and shifted; heard the desperation in his father's cries.

"Clark!"

Relief surged forth once again, and Clark was almost content to let his tired, battered body succumb to painless sleep; his father's voice, so close, filling him with hope, knowing that if he passed out again, he'd be in safe hands.

"Donna, what's happening?"

An anguished yell… No, a wordless scream; a deep, prolonged bellow of rage and fury reached Clark's ears. It filled him with trepidation; frightened him. He'd never heard his father sound like that before.

"Clark! Clark! Steve, get in here. Get the oxygen mask in there. Clark! Clark!"

So close. Clark could tell that his dad was right there; right above him, directing the emergency workers to assist. More light began filtering in as debris was tossed away from the broken window and twisted doorframe.

"Let's clear the door. Let's clear it."

A grating, crunching noise rattled the thin air. With so much activity going on around him, Clark was becoming confused and even more disoriented.

"Pull it."

"Get in there."

Something was pressed to his face. Clark wasn't sure what it was; couldn't decipher what was going on anymore; a bright light in his face, visible even through closed eyelids, almost painful after being so long in the darkness. But he could feel air being forced into his lungs, pushing him back to the surface of consciousness.

"Clark, I'm here. You're gonna be alright, buddy. I'm right here."

The hiss of the oxygen mask mixed with his father's desperate mutterings; words that were both pleading and encouraging him to be okay.

His lungs finally responded, and a cough emitted brought total relief to his overburdened, anguished father.

Clark's eyelids fluttered open, and he blinked several times before focusing on his father's tear-stained face.

"Let's get a board," Ed commanded, the request being hastily repeated by an attending paramedic.

Clark was still woozy and aching terribly, but he was quickly comforted by the grateful smile gracing his father's lips.

You found me, he thought, unable to quite articulate his own relief yet. His mouth felt so dry; throat scratchy.

"Let's get that board!" Ed cried out again, as if repeating the request would somehow make it happen faster. "Let's get that board down here."

Ed's need to extricate his son from the contorted confines of the destroyed Honda was almost starting to interfere with his professional judgment, but the emergency responders knew the situation; knew that they would be just as demanding if it was their own flesh and blood trapped down there.

"Wha-what happened?" Clark finally managed to utter, the question of why the parking garage had collapsed on top of him foremost on his mind.

His father was calmer now, reassuring him. "You're okay. You're okay. We're gonna take care of you, alright?"

Clark merely nodded and let his eyes close again, secure in the knowledge that he'd soon be on his way out of this hellhole.

"You guys, I've got him. We're good. We're good here."

---

While the paramedics did their best to avoid any jarring movements that could potentially exacerbate Clark's injuries, the teen still felt every minute shift in position multiplied exponentially.

Now would be a great time for some painkillers, he thought, gritting his teeth as his head and neck were immobilised and his body strapped down to the board to begin transport. All along, his father was there, muttering soothing words that everything was going to be all right. It got to be a little annoying after the first dozen times, but Clark had to admit he needed to hear those assurances.

"Dad…" he stated anxiously when there was a brief lull in the activity around him. "Was it an earthquake?" If it had been, as Clark had initially surmised, fear of a sudden aftershock began to creep into his thoughts. He didn't relish the thought of being buried under a pile of concrete again, not after finally being found.

Ed quickly shook his still tear-stained face; pondered what to tell his son. Honesty won out. "No. Not an earthquake. It was a bomb, Clark."

"A bomb? Seriously?" Clark uttered in shocked surprise.

"Yeah," Ed replied with a short nod, feeling his chest tighten at the destruction and death he'd witnessed at the Health and Wellness building earlier; holding back more tears as he thought of Donna…

Well, that explains everything, Clark concluded, remembering now the deafening blast he'd heard just before his car had been crushed. Who'd want to bomb City Hall?

"Some sicko trying to kill the mayor, or something?" Clark asked, half-jokingly. He stifled a morbid giggle, and grimaced at the shock of pain that stabbed through his side.

"No… we don't know… There's been others… Not just City Hall." Ed swallowed the lump in his throat, again tormented by the terrible knowledge of what the third bomb had just taken from them. "When we couldn't reach you, Clark… Dean told Greg you'd gone to a municipal building… Your mom and I…. We were so worried, son."

Steve gently nudged Ed. "Okay, we've cleared a path to get him out, Ed. Let's go."

"All right," Ed nodded. He gave Clark a look of encouragement and edged himself back carefully, still keeping hold of his hand.

"You ready, Clark? We're gonna get you out of here, so hang on," Steve advised.

"Okay," Clark whispered hoarsely, and braced himself for the inevitable jolt of pain and discomfort that was sure to greet him when he was moved.

The movement was surprisingly gentle as the paramedics and firefighters angled him carefully through a narrow opening in the demolished parking structure. It was almost surreal to Clark as he was carried through the dim, dust-choked surroundings with electrical wiring dangling like odd tentacles from what used to be the upper level of the garage.

"Easy, easy," Ed urged them on. He pulled away when his cell phone started ringing. Sophie. It was with a thankful heart that he was able to reassure his wife that their son had been found alive. "He's gonna be okay; he's getting an IV started, and... and he's okay. He's conscious."

Sophie, however, didn't want to be spared anything, and Ed gave in, knowing it would hurt her to hear her first-born was indeed injured.

"Soph, he's got a broken leg, a broken wrist… I think he's got some broken ribs… I'm telling you everything I know."

"Is-is he okay?" Sophie inquired timidly, voice on edge, still needing to have her fears allayed, in spite of Ed's attempts. "Where are you taking him? I'll meet you there."

"No, no," Ed warned. "Stay at home with Izzy. Just stay safe. It's not over, okay? I'm gonna take him to the hospital; get him X-rayed. We're gonna check him out, everything's gonna be fine."

Sophie's voice was still trembling. "Just tell him I love him, okay?"

Steve broke in. "Ed – we're ready to move."

"Okay, Soph, I gotta go," Ed said.

"Eddie… please," Sophie entreated, "be careful."

"I will," he vowed. "Okay. I love you. 'Bye." He ended the call and followed his son's gurney to the waiting ambulance.

"Dad?" Clark called out weakly. His father had been out of his line of sight for too long.

"I'm here, Clark," Ed replied, coming right up to the doors as Steve and his team were hoisting the teen.

"Good," he sighed. "Was that mom?"

"Yeah, buddy." A smile graced his lips. "She's home with Izzy. I told her you're okay. She wants you to know she loves you, okay? Now, I don't want her to leave the house because this thing still isn't over yet."

Clark's eyes widened with understanding. "There's more bombs out there?"

Ed nodded solemnly. "We think so. We thought we had the guy, but…"

"But what?" Clark prodded.

"We were wrong. He's still out there." Ed had to ruthlessly shove aside his grief as his grip on his emotions was slipping away again. It was taking every ounce self-control not to yell and curse at what the madman's actions had done to his son; to keep certain knowledge that Donna was dead from utterly undoing him.

"Dad…" Clark said tentatively, his expression turned pensive.

"What is it?"

"I think I might have been hallucinating or something, but… I could have sworn that I heard Donna and her team down here before you came, but then they went away… Did I imagine all that?"

Ed's spirits dipped and he shook his head, his throat constricting as he remembered how he instructed Donna to abandon her search for his son. "No," he whispered. "You didn't imagine it. She wanted to find you Clark, she was down here, but she had to go try to track down the guy who's been planting the bombs, so… I told her to go…"

"Because you wanted to find me," Clark added.

"Because I wanted to find you," Ed echoed, smiling through his heartache.

Clark read the expression on his father's face and knew something awful was hiding behind the smile. "What's wrong, dad? You found me. I'm-"

"Right after Donna left, she took her team into a building where we thought the bomber was," Ed explained, seized with a fit of anger and remorse. "I don't know all the details, Clark, but… it was the wrong guy. It was a set-up from the beginning, and... She's dead, Clark. Greg said she was standing right in front of the guy when the bomb he was wearing went off."

Clark went silent for a few beats, realising for the first time how much more tragic a day this was turning out to be. He hadn't considered for a moment much beyond his own predicament; hadn't imagined there could have been heavier losses suffered. Now he saw the very real pain in his father's eyes that had initially been veiled by concern for his safety.

"I'm sorry, dad. I didn't know," Clark said. "I –I was so mad and scared when she stopped looking for me when they were so close… but…"

"Don't think about it anymore, Clark. It's not your fault," Ed stated. "The guy who did this will pay for what he's done, all right?"

"Yeah," Clark said in agreement, "after all, he totalled my car. Nobody gets away with that."

In spite of everything, Ed couldn't help but chuckle. "Okay," he said, "let's get you fixed up. You ready to ride?"

"I'm gonna be okay," Clark said, closing his eyes briefly, suddenly feeling fragile and vulnerable, trying to reassure himself with a mini pep-talk.

"You're gonna be fine," whispered Ed lovingly.

Clark took a breath. He truly wanted his father to stay with him, but felt in his bones that this time, the job truly needed to come first. "You gotta go, dad," Clark said bravely.

Ed shook his head. "I'm not goin' anywhere."

"No, dad, please," the boy begged, thinking of how proud he was of his father and of all the sacrifices that had already been made. I'm safe now, he thought, but the rest of the city isn't. "You gotta get this guy."

"Ed," Steve interrupted from the open bay doors of the ambulance, "comin' or goin'?"

"Just – no, hang on, hang on," Ed answered distractedly, and turned back to his son. "Buddy, I'm not-"

"Dad, no," Clark insisted, "you gotta do this. I'm gonna be fine. Please…"

Ed could see in Clark's face it wasn't false bravado urging him on. "Are you sure?" he asked, nevertheless.

"Yes," Clark responded. You have to do this, dad. Do it for me, and do it for Donna. Get this guy. I know you can do it.

Ed didn't need any further convincing. "Okay," he said, struck by the fervor in his son's plea. "Okay, I'll see you at home." He leaned over and gently kissed Clark's forehead. "I love you," he uttered. "Your mom and I love you."

"I love you, too," Clark said, and watched as his father hopped off the back of the ambulance, sending him one last look, a look filled with pride. Two slaps on the closed doors signalled to the driver it was time for them to take the precious cargo to the hospital, and Clark was on his way.

As he was borne quickly to his destination, Clark whispered a silent prayer for his father's safety. Somehow, he had the bold confidence that his father, the man who had been such a distant, damaged stranger for so long; the man who had come to his rescue and found him would also be the man who would work with his team today to find the solution to the chaos – and ultimately find the man responsible.

I know you'll find him, dad. And when you do, I know you'll nail his sorry ass to the wall. You'll find him, just like you found me.

---

END

A/N: Hey, massive spoilers for the series finale, 'Keep the Peace' parts I & II. So just in the unlikely event there are folks who read fanfiction who've not actually seen the episodes, you may want to avoid this one. I promise I won't be offended if you hold off reading. In this little story, Greg says goodbye to fallen comrade, Donna Sabine.

---

If You Need Me

---

Painfully slow movements – hampered more than helped by the cane he gripped in his left hand – caused a grimace of frustration to cross Greg Parker's careworn face. In his right hand, Greg kept careful hold of a bouquet of fragrant yellow roses.

He appreciated the gentle ministrations provided by his girlfriend, Marina, as she seemed to have an innate sense of when her assistance was required and when it wasn't. She was at his right side now, her hand lightly cupping his elbow; not quite guiding or supporting him, but tacitly communicating with that simple touch that she wasn't about to let him take an unceremonious tumble to the ground should he happen to lose his balance.

One week ago, Greg had finally been given the all-clear to leave the hospital where he'd spent the better part of a month recovering from multiple gunshot wounds sustained while attempting to defuse a potentially radioactive bomb. Marcus Faber, an intellectually gifted but horrendously psychologically- damaged young man, had emptied his magazine trying to stop Greg from foiling his final plans for total chaos and destruction. Greg's vest had afforded him some protection, but one of the deadly projectiles found its mark in his left knee, tearing through flesh, bone and cartilage, permanently damaging delicate nerve pathways. Another bullet had found its way through an impossibly small and unprotected area, puncturing a lung and bringing him to death's door. After shooting Faber dead, team leader Ed Lane had tearfully begged Greg to hold on, desperate to preserve the life of this dear friend after already having lost another earlier in the day.

Greg grunted with effort as he hobbled towards his destination, willing the ache in his joint to give him some respite. The soft, carefully-manicured lawn he trod upon was a luscious green, healthy and vibrant, and he was grateful for this very obvious sign of life.

Life: it was a gift he'd been granted yet again after those harrowing hours on that wickedly devastating day where the entire city was under attack. Not so for several dozens of other innocent lives caught up in the blasts that rocked a federal building, City Hall, and an old laboratory housed in the Casey Jeffers Building at Brookfield University. Greg wasn't even sure of the final tally; he'd been out of the loop in the first few days, anyway, and hadn't been privy to the never-ending coverage of the aftermath of the tragedy while in hospital.

A bird's sudden flight from a nearby tree caught Greg's attention, and he paused for a few moments. He followed the bird's path as it circled lazily above him, framed by a bright blue sky. Joined by another, the two winged creatures danced on the breezy currents before settling on another tree branch some distance away.

Life. It was a gift denied Donna Sabine.

Donna, who'd been in such cheerful spirits on that day… Donna, who'd been apologetic for arriving late for Sam Braddock and Jules Callaghan's wedding ceremony. Delayed by a debriefing that went longer than anticipated, she'd told him that she had no intention of missing the reception that was scheduled to take place once the members of Team One got through their own shift that fateful day. Donna, who herself, had only been married a year earlier… She had shared a few other playful remarks with Wordy and Ed before Team One had to clock in, none of them ever imagining it would be the last time they would all be together; that it would be the last casual conversation they would ever share.

Greg continued on, more determined than ever that he was going to get through this; that he was going do what he'd been unable to do last month due to his convalescence.

He passed rows of well-tended headstones, crosses, marble slabs and granite markers, many of them with bright bouquets laid upon them, lending some much-needed colour to an otherwise dreary amalgamation of white, grey, and slate-coloured stone carved with names and dates of the deceased. Votive candles flickered on other plots, keeping silent vigil for the souls being memorialized there.

A few minutes later, he and Marina slipped past a funeral in progress, and he averted his eyes from the scene of mourning. The traditional black attire and solemn faces worn by the mourners threatened to undo Greg, and he steeled himself against the rising tide of emotion. There was still so much untapped grief he knew he was keeping locked in some chamber of his heart, he wasn't sure he would be able to safely control its release if he let go too suddenly.

Intellectually, Greg knew he would have to lay down the burden at some point, and maybe today was going to be a step in that direction. The rest of Team One and remaining members of the SRU had had that luxury; they'd been able to attend the funeral of their fallen comrade. They'd been able to commiserate with each other; he'd been left to his own thoughts and emotions in the silence of his hospital room after everyone returned home after visiting hours.

Presently, Greg's arduous trek was over, and he felt Marina's hand slide from his elbow to encircle him about the shoulders. "Here we are," she said softly, though it was hardly necessary.

Greg gazed down at the polished granite headstone at his feet and drew in a ragged breath as he read the epitaph engraved there.

Donna Sabine

1969-2012

Beloved Wife and Sister

In the Line of Duty

She Kept the Peace

Shuffling forward, Greg set down the flowers he'd brought next to an arrangement of carnations and orchids that looked as if it had been placed quite recently. His knee screamed in pain as he straightened up, and a gasp escaped his lips.

Marina was there in a second, and she wordlessly supported him while he waited for the hurt to subside to tolerable levels.

"I'm okay," he finally said, giving the hand she'd placed on his arm a soft pat. "Thank you."

He knew it was important to assure her that he wanted her there; that he needed her to be there for him. There had been so much shared horror and tragedy in their lives, knowing he could rely on her, and she on him, was invaluable.

"I recruited her to the SRU, you know," Greg commented to Marina, as he recalled the lengthy process Team One went through to find the perfect candidate to fill the spot left empty when Jules Callaghan had been shot. "Jules had been sidelined indefinitely. We needed to find someone who could do the job, and the team chose Donna."

He recalled how eager the other members of the team had been to approve her admission to Team One.

'She rappels like a spider!' Spike had raved.

'Thinks on her feet,' Lou had commented.

'She's a no-brainer,' Ed had put in after Wordy called for a vote, convinced that any other choice would be pure folly. Greg had admitted to them that Donna indeed had the chops for the job, but that he needed some time to think.

Standing now in the cemetery, Greg remembered he'd had some reservation about Donna, but couldn't think of what it was anymore. In the end, it hadn't mattered. They'd selected her, and she'd proved her mettle through some very difficult situations, eventually taking over the Team Three team leader position once Jules returned to active duty.

"Ed wanted her to stay when Jules came back," Greg continued, as memories of that time flowed through his mind like a rushing river.

"Well, she and Ed were close, weren't they?" Marina asked.

"Yeah," Greg replied, "they formed a strong bond when she was with us… he even walked her down the aisle when she married Hank…"

Eddie… you saw something special in her; pushed her to be the best she could be… You could have fought harder to keep her on the team, but you deferred to my decision to welcome Jules back…

The moment Greg was to tell Donna that she was being asked to relinquish her position played in his mind again. It was a moment that came on the heels of Donna's second SIU hearing following a call where she'd provided a vital piece of information they would not have had otherwise, thanks to her former days with Vice. She'd been the one to stop a drug dealer from killing a pregnant woman, firing the fatal shot when no one else could.

Donna… You saved two lives that day, and how was I going to repay you? By telling you to leave Team One.

But she'd been gracious, already having seen the writing on the wall the moment Jules had showed up at headquarters that morning; she'd known what was coming, and had accepted her fate.

'Can I make this easier on you?' she'd asked Greg, as he stumbled over the best way to break the news to her. 'Team Three has a spot for me; they say it's got my name all over it.'

He'd been pleasantly surprised by the news; happy that her skills would be still be put to use with the SRU. 'How do you feel about that?' he'd asked.

With a knowing smile, Donna had said: 'I'm not here to upset your team's center of gravity. Call me if you need me. If you need me, I'm going to be here.'

Greg closed his eyes and sighed, feeling his chest tighten while his heart thudded painfully within.

You kept your promise, Donna. You were there when we needed you, every single time. You were there when Eddie got shot, riding shotgun to Team One because we wanted to be the ones to apprehend his shooter… You could have protested and demanded that Team Three be allowed to take the case, but you let us take it so we could get justice for Ed.

And Donna… you were there on that day, when we thought Anson Holt was the bomber. You wanted so badly to find Clark when you were at City Hall and you knew he was trapped there. You wanted to be the one to rescue him because you knew how much it meant to Eddie, because you cared so much for him… you could have disobeyed me, but you didn't. You knew we all needed to find the location of the rest of the bombs. You followed my orders to go after Holt. You followed my orders… and I… I sent you to your death… I sent you to your death…

At this realization, Greg began to weep. Quiet sobs shook his shoulders and streams of tears coursed down his face. Marina, for the first time unsure of what to do as Greg continued to cry, kept a soothing hand on his back, offering the occasional caress. She was distressed at his outburst, and eventually fished in her purse for a packet of tissues to help him dry his tears. Greg gratefully accepted them and dabbed furiously at his watery eyes; blew his nose noisily.

I'm so sorry, Donna… I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry for devastating Hank, because it's my fault you're gone. I haven't even been able to tell him face to face how sorry I am. The life you wanted with him was much too short. He needs you, Donna; he needs you desperately. Your sister needs you. Team Three needs its leader. Eddie needs his friend... We need you, Donna. We need you to tell us you're okay; that you're not gone; that you made it out of that death trap alive; that this is some twisted nightmare and that you're going to walk right back into headquarters with your bright smile and your vibrant, courageous spirit.

Greg glanced down one more time at the grave, struck once again by the finality of it all.

Donna, I need you to forgive me. Please…

Unexpectedly, a bird fluttered down at that moment and settled on the bouquet of yellow roses Greg had brought. It flipped its wings a few times and cocked its head to look up at Greg. Not daring to move lest he startle it from its perch, Greg held his breath as the bird continued to stare at him for several minutes.

Then, just as quickly as it appeared, it spread its wings again and took to the skies, vanishing from sight.

I have to say goodbye now, Donna, Greg thought as he let go the breath he'd been holding. It hurts to say goodbye, because the truth is we'll never stop needing you. Ever.

---

END

A/N: Inspired by the movie 'Inception', with a nod to the Stefan Petrucha X-Files comic issue #7, "Trepanning Opera". If you've not seen 'Inception', see it. Then come back and read this.

---

Man on the Edge

---

Shawn Henson opened his eyes. Even though it was still early morning, the sunlight was bright as it peeked through the narrow slats of the venetian blinds that he hadn't quite shut the night before.

The day would be a hot one, judging by the already warm interior temperature of the bedroom. The city had reached a high of 33 degrees Celsius the day before; today would probably be just as hot.

Shawn expelled a lungful of air and forced himself to sit up, drawing back the thin sheet he used as a cover. He slid his feet out to touch the floor and sat for a few moments, trying to collect his thoughts. He made an attempt to grab hold of the quickly fading memories of a dream he had, but found, as usual, that the more he tried to pin down the details, the more elusive they became. Shawn had heard that if he kept his eyes closed after waking, recalling a dream would be easier, but he rarely found that to be helpful.

His dreams were of little consequence to him now, anyway.

There was a coin on his dusty bedside table. Shawn reached for it, held it in the palm of his hand for a few seconds, and then flipped it. He caught it, mid-air, and slapped it on the back of his left hand.

Heads.

Shawn flipped four times more, and each time, he counted heads. He put the coin back on the table and made his way to the bathroom for his usual shower and shave.

This was his current morning routine: Rise, flip the coin five times. Shower. Research. Read. Plan. Maybe remember to eat. Sleep. Maybe dream. Rise again, flip the coin five times. Shower, research, plan, plan, plan…

Predictable.

In the past, the routine would have been vastly different. Shawn would have opened his eyes, showered, eaten a quick breakfast with his wife and then headed to his downtown office where he worked for an engineering firm.

That had all changed one morning not so long ago when Shawn had opened his eyes, but his wife hadn't, plunging his world into the predictable nightmare that it had become.

Today, there would be a notable deviation in the thirty-four-year-old's current, predictable routine. Shawn convinced himself that today, his plans would come to fruition. He would finally fix it so that his world would return to the way he wanted it to be.

…

The members of Team One's Strategic Response Unit paired off and departed from the compound in their vehicles for the day's patrol. There were no warrants to serve and no training exercises on their schedule, which almost always meant the shift would be spent being a visible presence in the city they had sworn to protect and serve.

Anything was possible during patrols. Things could be peaceful, or things could be turbulent. There was never anything 'routine' about 'routine patrols', and as such, Team One knew they had to be prepared for anything and everything.

So, it was no surprise that an hour into the shift, the voice of dispatcher, Winnie Camden, announced that their expertise was needed immediately.

"Team One, hot call! We have reports of a gunman at the CN Tower; white male, mid-thirties."

Sergeant Greg Parker and Constable Michaelangelo 'Spike' Scarlatti were nearest the renowned landmark.

"We're on our way, Winnie," Greg announced over the comm. Spike, who was driving, switched on the blue-and-red flashing lights and shrieking sirens. City blocks whizzed by in a blur as they speedily bore down on their destination.

"Okay, what else do we know about the situation?" Greg asked the dispatcher, hoping to get as much pertinent information as he could. In this job, he was called to make split-second decisions, so the more he knew, the better the chances of resolving the incident without bloodshed.

"Hold while I patch you through to the guy who called it in, Sarge," Winnie said. "His name is Elliot Todd. He's an employee there."

"Yeah, patch him through to my phone, Winnie," Greg instructed.

"Will do."

"Thanks, Winnie," he said, and waited for the connection. He introduced himself when Elliot was on the line.

"Hi, Mr. Todd; I'm Sergeant Greg Parker with the Strategic Response Unit. I understand there's a gunman inside the tower right now?"

"Yes, Sergeant Parker," Elliot answered with a nervous edge. "He's uh, he's actually taken the elevator up to the Edge Walk platform."

"Edge Walk?" Greg repeated. "That's where you can step outside and get a 360 degree view of the city from the top of the tower, right?"

"Well, not quite the top," Elliot corrected, nervously filling in unnecessary details. "I mean the top is the top; the platform isn't… Never mind. It's not the top, but it is still very high up. Yeah."

"Okay, tell me more about the gunman, Elliot," Greg gently urged, ignoring Elliot's digression. "Did he say what he wanted? Has he harmed anyone or made any demands?"

"Um, everyone's okay… a little freaked out, maybe…" Elliot responded, obviously shaken by the surprise twist his day taken. "But this guy… white guy in his mid-thirties, I guess… He seemed pretty normal in the beginning. Presented his ticket and everything like everyone else, b-but… When we started with the metal detector check, he got really shifty-looking; jumpy and nervous, if you know what I mean. That's when he pulled the gun…"

"I see," Greg said encouragingly. "Go on."

"He, uh, he told all of us – me and some staff and the rest of the Edge Walk participants – to back off and let him go to the elevators by himself," Elliot said, recounting the sequence of events.

"Is there any way to lock down the elevators from where you are?" Greg asked, hoping they might be able to halt the gunman before he reached the top. Already, his gut was telling him that if the gunman wanted to be alone in the elevator, he probably didn't want an audience for when he reached the platform on the outer edge of the tower. And once he reached that edge, Greg suspected the gunman probably wanted to end his life by jumping off. Death would be certain from that height.

"I guess we could have shut them down… shoot," Elliot berated himself with a groan. Greg could almost hear through the phone the mental slap Elliot was giving himself. "We were just all so panicked. We didn't think of it. But it's too late; he's already out there."

"He's 'out there', as in out on the edge?" Greg asked, raising his voice. "How do you know?"

Hearing the change in his boss' vocal volume, Spike frowned and briefly sent a concerned look Greg's way. He pressed the accelerator as the need to reach the tower was obviously that much more desperate.

"There's a camera mounted out there so people on the Observation Level can see their family and friends taking the walk," Elliot answered. "One of our security staff just reported they're seeing the guy out there now."

Greg cursed silently. They were probably going to be too late. But if the man hadn't yet jumped – if indeed he did want to jump – then there might still be the chance to coax him back inside to safety.

"Boss, we're here," Spike muttered, as he pulled the Chevy Suburban alongside the curb right behind a couple first response police cruisers.

"Thank you, Elliot," Greg spoke into his phone. "We're on the scene right now and we'll be inside shortly. Can you tell me exactly where you are so we can find you?"

"Yeah, I'm – I work at the Edge Walk 'Basecamp'," Elliot replied. "It's at the Visitor's Centre. You can't miss it. Oh, man… I hope that guy doesn't decide to do a swan dive… This whole thing is a friggin' nightmare!"

"I'm with you on that, Elliot! I'll be with you shortly." Greg ended the call and grabbed his leather-bound notebook before exiting the SUV. Spike had already hopped out and was selecting weapons for himself and Greg from the rear of the vehicle.

"Team One," Greg addressed the remainder of the members through the comm unit: "what's your ETA?"

"Still a little while out," was Jules Callaghan's reply from the SUV she was driving with Sam Braddock riding shotgun. "Maybe ten minutes; give or take a couple."

"We'll be there in about three minutes," Ed Lane said as he drove with Raf Rousseau.

"Okay, team, thanks. Spike and I will 'Alpha' here. We'll assess the situation, and I'll advise you as I go. Right now, witnesses have placed the gunman outside on the Edge Walk platform, so he's only a danger to himself at this point."

Unless he plans to jump, Greg thought. If his body hits a pedestrian… we're looking at more than one fatality.

Greg considered his options. Certainly, he should clear anyone in the immediate vicinity and stop traffic, so he instructed several first responding officers to go about this task.

With that taken care of, he and Spike made their way inside to meet up with Elliot at the Edge Walk Basecamp.

"Sergeant Parker? Over here!" called a voice. Drawn to it, Greg and Spike approached the Basecamp area, which had signage that welcomed visitors in English and French.

"Elliot Todd?" Greg asked, as he extended his hand to the forty-something man outfitted in a blue jumpsuit and harness.

"Yeah, that's me," Elliot responded.

"How ya doing? Is everyone still okay down here?" Greg inquired.

Elliot nodded. "A little shaken, that's for sure, but since nobody got shot or anything, we're okay."

"All right. That's good to hear, Elliot. This is Constable Scarlatti," Greg continued, gesturing to the Team One tech wizard. "Is there someplace we can set up a temporary command post?"

"Yeah, I can take you to see our security guys. They'll be able to help out for sure," replied Elliot.

"Okay, lead the way."

The two Team One members followed Elliot to the Security Office, and were introduced to the head of security, a gentleman in his late fifties by the name of Thomas Schneider.

"We can get you security camera feeds; anything you need," Schneider said to the SRU officers.

"Great," Spike said, setting down the tools of his trade on a desk. "I'll set up right here."

"Mr. Schneider," Greg addressed the security chief, "Elliot told me that there's a camera set up outside so people on the Observation Level can see the platform. Is there any way we can tap into that feed?"

"Sure, Sergeant," Schneider said. "We have it up on this monitor right here."

With relief, Greg saw that the gunman was there, sitting on the one-and-half meter wide ledge. The gun was nowhere in sight, but the subject, dressed in jeans and a black windbreaker, appeared to be repeatedly flipping something in the air and catching it.

Is that a coin he's tossing? Greg silently asked himself. What's that all about? Is he leaving a decision to jump or not jump to random chance? Heads he jumps or tails he stays put?

"Okay, we need to know who this guy is and what he wants if we're going to get him safely down from there," Greg commented to Spike.

"Copy that, boss," Spike said. "Grabbing a still of his face from security footage now, and… running it against the driver's license database. I'll let you know if we get any hits."

A few moments later, they were joined by constables Ed Lane and Rafik Rousseau.

"Hey, guys," Greg greeted them briskly.

"What do we know, boss?" asked Ed.

"Not much, Eddie. We have eyes on the subject, but he's just sitting there, as you can see."

"What is he doing, flipping a coin, or something?" Raf queried as he peered at the security monitor.

"Yeah, looks like it," replied Greg.

"Boss, got a hit on the driver's license," Spike spoke up. "His name is Shawn Alexander Henson. He's thirty-four years old, and lives on College Street… and oh, lookey-here… he's got a record, too."

"What is it, Spike?" asked Ed.

"He was arrested last year for 'disturbing the peace' and vandalism at a doctor's office. He was also charged with uttering threats, but that charge was dismissed. Mr. Henson didn't do time but was assessed a fine, which was paid in full."

"We need to speak to that doctor," Greg said with urgency. "Maybe he has a medical condition or something. Any intel about this guy at this point would be helpful."

"Boss," Sam Braddock piped up, "Jules and I are close to College Street. We can check out this guy's residence, see if there's anything there to help get inside his head."

"Okay, you do that, Sam," Greg answered, pleased that the young man was using his head and taking the initiative.

"Copy," Sam answered.

"Spike, let me know when you get that doctor on the phone," Greg instructed. "Sam; Jules, feed me what you find out from Mr. Henson's home as soon as you can; I'm heading up to the platform now. Ed and Raf: you're with me."

There was simply no more time to waste. Greg, Ed and Raf trooped to the elevators to hopefully stop a man from leaping to his death. The ride up was amazingly speedy, and the sudden change in pressure made the SRU officers' ears pop.

After less than a minute in the elevator, they reached the Edge Walk level, and made use of the harness cables already in place to secure themselves.

"Spike, we're here," Greg spoke over his comm link. "What do you see?"

"He's still on the ledge, boss," Spike answered. "But the wind is beginning to pick up a little out there. You need to hurry. He's not secured by anything. He's already pretty lucky he hasn't lost his balance if you ask me..."

"Thanks, Spike. How's it coming getting a hold of Henson's doctor?"

"Listening to the canned music while I'm on hold, boss. It's 'Breezin' by George Benson," Spike quipped. "I'll let you know as soon as I get through to a human being."

"All right," Greg said. "Sam; Jules… You find anything yet that could be helpful?"

"The landlady just let us inside," Jules answered. "She says Mr. Henson is a quiet guy and keeps to himself. He always pays on time, never any trouble."

"Boss," Sam interjected.

"Go ahead, Sam," Greg spoke as he double-checked his harness. Ed and Raf followed suit and the trio cautiously made their way towards the entrance to the platform.

"This guy looks like he's a movie buff. He's got a massive collection of movies and movie memorabilia all over the place," Sam said.

Greg didn't know if that would be useful, but it might be a way to start a conversation with the subject by finding common ground. Movies could be a safe topic.

"Hey, boss," Jules said, "I'm looking over this guy's shelves. His book collection seems pretty limited to a few topics: dreams, lucid dreaming, the unconscious, dream analysis, solipsism… there's one book here open on his desk. It's titled 'Bore Hole'… Hmm."

"'Bore Hole'?" Spike echoed. "Boss, that's a book about actual attempts at trepanning."

"Trepanning?" Greg repeated the word with a questioning tone, thinking the word sounded vaguely familiar. He was at a set of double glass doors which led directly out to a small anteroom. He could see out to the platform through the exit which reminded him of something he might see on a space shuttle. He still wasn't about to step all the way out before he had more intel on the subject. He had to be able to get inside the man's head and understand his motivations.

"Yeah, trepanning," Spike responded. "It's where you drill a small hole in someone's head. Some proponents thought they could experience higher planes of consciousness by relieving intracranial pressure. It's pretty much frowned upon by modern medical experts. But there are still kooks out there who think it works."

"Okay, thanks, Spike…" Greg muttered.

A movie buff with an interest in dreaming, higher states of consciousness and drilling holes in his head, he mused. I think we're dealing with someone who might be battling a mental illness. I'll need to really go careful here. If I say or do the wrong thing, it'll send him over the edge, both figuratively and literally.

"Eddie; Raf," Greg whispered to his teammates, "I'm going through the opening and I'm going to step out onto the platform. Cover me from behind. If you see the gun come into play, you have 'Scorpio'. But I really don't want it to come to that."

"Copy," Ed and Raf responded in tandem.

Greg tried not to make too much noise as his heavy boots trod on the metal grating. He inched his way forward and was immediately hit by a tremendously strong gust of wind. It buffeted him and blew his cap off his head, sending it sailing back inside the passageway. He really didn't like heights, but knew he had to put aside those fears and get the job done.

Shawn Henson was sitting on the platform just as he had been for the past five minutes. His fingers were curled tightly around the ledge.

Greg approached cautiously, but his footfalls inevitably clanked on the grating, drawing Shawn's attention with the noise.

"Don't come any closer!" Shawn shouted, turning his head suddenly to stare at Greg.

"Whoa, okay, buddy," Greg said calmly. "I'm just gonna stay right here. No pressure."

"You just let me finish what I have to do!" Shawn barked.

"You wanna tell me what it is you're trying to finish? My name's 'Greg', by the way… what's yours?"

"Well, 'Greg', since you're just a projection of my subconscious, my name doesn't really matter, does it?" Shawn countered.

"A 'projection' of your subconscious? You wanna explain what you mean by that?" Greg asked, a little thrown by this.

"Boss…" Spike quietly broke in.

"Just a moment, Spike," Greg whispered.

"This, all of this," Shawn was saying, waving an arm around, gesturing to the entire cityscape, "you, the clouds, the sky, this tower… this is all from my subconscious. You are just a part of one really long, idiotic, horrific dream that won't quit. That's going to change today, though."

"Boss," Spike cut in again, "I think I know what's going on with this guy. When he mentioned 'projection', I think he was referencing the movie 'Inception'."

Greg hadn't seen the movie, but said under his breath: "Copy, Spike… What else can you tell me about the movie that could help?"

"If Shawn thinks he's dreaming, he's following what's known as 'movie logic', in this case, the logic from 'Inception'. If he thinks this is a dream, the only thing he believes will wake him up is if he dies."

"Oh, great," Greg sighed. "Any way to get around this 'movie logic'?"

"Try getting him to talk about why he wants to end his dream," Spike suggested. "At the very least, it'll stall for time so we can work on some options for you."

"Sir?" Greg called out to Shawn. "I'd really like to help you out here. You mentioned 'change'. Is there something that needs changing that I can maybe give you a hand with?"

"No, you can't 'give me a hand' with this!" Shawn bellowed in frustration. "You're not real! You're just doing what my mind thinks cops like you should do. Don't try to stop me. This is the only way I can fix things."

"You plan to 'fix things' by sitting up on a ledge high above the city?" Greg cautiously asked. "Enjoying the view will make things better?"

Shawn gave a curt, condescending laugh. "Now you're being really stupid. Of course I'm not just up here to enjoy the view. I came up here to jump off. Then everything will re-set and it'll be back to normal."

"Okay, explain that to me," Greg said. "Explain how jumping off the edge will make things normal again."

"When I hit the ground, I'll 'die', and I'll wake up," Shawn replied. "You'll all just cease to exist, and the dream will end. I'll be back in the real world."

"The 'real world'?" Greg repeated.

"Yes!" Shawn yelled in exasperation. "I don't expect you to get it. You don't know any better. But none of this is real. It's all a dream. You're all just a creation of my mind. My real self is asleep. When I jump, I'll wake up when I hit the ground!"

"Is this dream world so bad that you want to leave it?" asked Greg, as gently as possible.

"Are you kidding me? This isn't just a dream; it's a nightmare!" Shawn verbalized angrily.

"Yeah, I agree things here can be pretty nightmarish…" Greg commented. "I've seen some pretty terrible things in my world as a cop, lemme tell you! How 'bout you share a little of your nightmare?"

Shawn seemed to get instantly morose. His whole body sagged, and he put a hand to his face.

"Boss, I'm on the line with Shawn's doctor right now," Spike broke in. "Her name's Sheryl McManus."

"Put her through, Spike," Greg requested quietly, all the while keeping a watchful eye on the subject.

"Hello, Sergeant Parker?" The voice of Shawn Henson's doctor filtered through Greg's earpiece.

"Dr. McManus, hi," Greg said in a low tone so Shawn wouldn't overhear. "Thank you for speaking with me. I'll cut to the chase: one of your patients – a Shawn Henson – is sitting three hundred-and-fifty-six meters above the ground, and he says he's planning to jump so he can 'wake up' and re-set his life. He thinks he's dreaming, and that by dying, he'll wake up. Does any of this sound familiar?"

"Oh, no. This is terrible!" Dr. McManus exclaimed. "Shawn Henson is a very troubled man, Sergeant. The last time I saw him, he became enraged because I… because I refused to perform a completely unnecessary surgical procedure on him."

Greg heard the reticence in her voice. Though he already suspected the answer, he nevertheless asked: "Why did you refuse to work on him, Dr. McManus? What was it he wanted you to do?"

The doctor's sigh was audible. "He wanted me to trepan him, Sergeant. He wanted me to drill a hole in his head. I mean, of course I refused! Nobody in his right mind would want a hole in his head. I'd have my medical license revoked for performing a procedure like that. The whole thing was preposterous."

"And when you refused him, that's when he vandalised your office and verbally threatened you, doctor?" Greg asked.

"That's right," Sheryl responded. "He never actually harmed me, but I considered getting a restraining order against him… Sergeant Parker, if he kills himself…"

"It won't be your fault, doctor," Greg assured her. "I don't think his actions today have anything to do with you refusing to drill into his skull. But is there anything else you can tell me about him that might help?"

"Uhm let me think…" Sheryl said. "I know that he lost his wife a little while ago… Her name was Regina, and I was her physician, too. It was completely unexpected… Congenital heart defect that we just never detected. She'd been completely asymptomatic. Sad, really. I think Shawn was having problems dealing with it. I guess he still is."

"Does Shawn have any other family or friends that you know of?" Greg asked.

"Both mother and father are deceased," Sheryl answered. "Father had a stroke and mother had colon cancer. I know Shawn and Regina didn't have any children… I couldn't tell you about friends."

"All right. Thank you, Dr. McManus," Greg said. "If you're able, please stay on the line with my team member in case I have more questions for you."

"Of course, Sergeant; anything I can do to help."

Greg decided it was time for the kid gloves to come off. "Hey, Shawn!" he called.

Shawn's head turned suddenly and his eyes widened in surprise. But the surprise faded quickly. "I told you to just leave me alone," he groused.

"I can't do that, Shawn…" Greg said. "You seemed surprised just now that I knew your name."

"You only 'know' it because of course my subconscious knows my own name," Shawn said wearily. "You're just feeding back to me stuff I already know."

"Listen, Shawn, I know about Regina, and I want to say I'm very sorry for your loss."

"Regina…" Shawn choked.

"Why don't you tell me about her?" Greg suggested, hoping to get the other man to open up.

"What's there to tell?" Shawn said sullenly. "We went to sleep together one night. When I woke up, she was gone."

"Is that why you're here, Shawn? Is that what you're trying to fix?" Greg asked.

Shawn nodded. "We met here five years ago on the Observation Level. I proposed to her there. We spend every anniversary and birthday having dinner at the restaurant. I feel closest to her here…"

"I hear you, Shawn," Greg said. "It sounds like you loved each other very much, and I can see how you'd want to be able to share good times with Regina again."

"That's right," Shawn said. "I want her back. So you just let me get this over with."

"Boss, tell him if he jumps, he risks falling into Limbo," Spike said quickly.

"I don't think this is the time to get theological on him, Spike," Greg chastised.

"No, not that Limbo," Spike replied, "it's a concept from the movie. The dreamers were aware of several levels of dreaming, and the deeper the dreams, the harder it was to wake from. Even if you 'died' in the dream, you risked falling into 'Limbo', a state of un-constructed dream space that could last for decades."

"You sure about this, Spike?" Greg asked uneasily. It all sounded pretty ludicrous to him. He'd never used 'movie logic' on a subject before, and didn't want to foul it up.

"Yeah, boss," Spike replied, doing his best to reassure the head negotiator. "Shawn wants to wake up. But if you can get him to at least consider the possibility that he won't wake up even after jumping; that he risks being trapped in an even deeper dream state if he jumps, he might reconsider."

"Okay, Spike," Greg said reservedly. "I'll give it a try… but I'm starting to think that if you know how to get inside this guy's head, I think I might need to step aside and let you take a crack at him."

"You want me to try to talk him down?" Spike asked with a hint of incredulity.

"Yeah. You understand this 'movie logic' thing," replied Greg, "I don't."

"If you think that's the best chance we have, then I'm on my way up," Spike stated. "But in the meantime, go ahead and try to plant the idea that if Shawn jumps, it could mean he'll just end up in Limbo."

"Shawn," Greg called out to the troubled man. "Listen, I know you think you'll be able to fix things by jumping off this edge. I know you think that this is a dream, and that if you die, you'll wake up. But what if that doesn't happen? What if you only get trapped in a deeper state of dreaming? What if you fall into 'Limbo'?"

"Limbo…" Shawn murmured.

"Could last for decades, my man," Greg continued, parroting what Spike had said. "You don't want that, do you?"

"No…" Shawn said slowly, as if carefully considering this piece of information. "But that's not going to happen to me."

"And why not, Shawn?" Greg asked, feeling his heart sink that Spike's idea apparently wasn't working to convince the subject to reconsider.

"I don't expect you to understand," Shawn said with insolence. "You're only trying to stop me."

"Shawn, of course I'm trying to stop you," Greg said calmly, praying that Spike arrived quickly. "I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't at least try to get you to come back inside."

"Well, I'm not going back inside," Shawn retorted. "So either you leave me alone so I can finish this once and for all, or I make you leave."

With that, Shawn reached inside his windbreaker and waved the gun in the air as a show of force.

Ed and Raf, both of whom had been simply keeping watch from the anteroom, tensed at the sight of Shawn's weapon. They instantly raised their own weapons and trained them on the subject; Greg wisely having made sure he had given them space to shoot if necessary.

"You don't want to do that, Shawn," Greg stated. "Nobody here wants to hurt you. We just don't want to see you do something you might regret."

"Something I might 'regret'?" Shawn re-stated. "Ha! You sound like you actually care."

"That's because I do care, Shawn," Greg said. "My whole team cares. Come on, buddy. There's got to be other ways of doing this-"

"I tried other ways!" Shawn cried. "I went to my doctor! I told her what I wanted!" He tapped his index finger in the middle of his forehead. "She refused to do what I asked her to do!"

Greg felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I'm here, boss," Spike said.

With a sigh of relief, Greg said, "Great, Spike… things are a mess with this guy… I can't get anywhere with him."

"No problem," Spike said. "I have a couple things I want to try before we totally give up on him, though."

"Okay," Greg said. "Hey, Shawn? I know what happened with Dr. McManus, and I'm sorry she didn't want to help you. But there's someone here I'd like you to meet before you step off that ledge."

Slowly, Shawn looked up at Greg and Spike.

"Shawn, my name's Mike," Spike announced, "and I know you think that this is all a dream, but I want to ask you a couple questions…"

Shawn gave a short laugh and closed his eyes. "Sure. Go ahead, 'Mike'. Since you're just another projection of my subconscious, ask me anything. So far, this has been the most entertaining part of my entire dream."

"Can I see your totem?" asked Spike.

Shawn's eyes blazed open. "No. I can't let you see my totem," he growled.

"Why not?" Spike asked. "If I'm just a projection of your subconscious, I'd have already known what it is and what it does, because your subconscious knows. I wouldn't have had to ask you. But I don't know, and I'm kinda curious."

Greg listened to this, and wisely chose to allow Spike the freedom to ask whatever probing questions he felt necessary, but decided that when this call was over, he'd have a pile of questions of his own.

"Well, maybe you're not a projection of my subconscious," Shawn responded angrily. "Maybe you're an invader. You've infiltrated my dream, and now you're trying to trap me here so you can get to my secrets! Well, I don't have any secrets, so you can just give up."

"It's the coin, isn't it?" Spike ventured to guess. "Your totem is that coin you've been flipping."

A look of shock crossed Shawn's face. "How did you…"

"Lucky guess. Look, I'm not a projection of your mind, Shawn, and I'm not here to invade it, either," Spike said. "I know that you use your totem to help you tell the difference between the dream world and the waking world, because that's what they did in the movie 'Inception'."

Shawn reached into a pocket in his windbreaker and withdrew the coin. He held it in his hand for a few moments, as if scrutinizing every detail.

Spike watched as Shawn tossed the coin and then caught it again.

"Heads," Shawn muttered, and returned it to his pocket.

"And what does that mean?" asked Spike. "It is supposed to mean you're still dreaming?"

"Yeah," Shawn admitted. "But it doesn't matter anymore, because now I'm going to jump."

"No, Shawn," Spike begged. "You don't know for sure you're gonna wake up! What if- what if this isn't even your dream?"

"What do you mean?" Shawn asked, looking at Spike with narrowed eyes.

"What if you're not 'The Architect' of all of this?" Spike asked, desperate now for some other way of getting through to the delusional man. "What - what if there's an updraft built into this dream scape that'll just carry you back up when you jump? What if there's still a mission for you to carry out here? Maybe you've just been here so long, you've forgotten what that mission was?"

"Like a half-remembered dream..." Shawn uttered.

"Yeah!" Spike said excitedly. He began to feel like he was getting somewhere. "Don't quit on this dream yet, man. Try to remember your purpose. Try to remember what you're here to do. Maybe you have a promise to keep to someone?"

Shawn appeared to be thinking. "I don't know… I don't think so…"

"Look, why don't you put down the gun, and come back inside where it's safer to think and talk?" Spike asked.

Shawn shook his head vigorously. "No. This is my mission. I'm not supposed to be here. I want to be back with Regina… She's waiting for me."

"Where is she 'waiting' for you?" Spike asked.

"At home. In our bed," Shawn answered. "She's been sleeping. She doesn't want to wake up, but she will when I get back there. We'll be together again when I get back."

"How do you know for sure, Shawn? How do you know your totem is right?"

"Because it just is, okay?" Shawn shouted back. "Now leave me alone, all of you!"

"Okay, Shawn, I'd like to do that, but do me a favour, would you?" Spike begged. "Flip one last time. If it's heads, you come inside with us, and if it's tails, we'll leave you alone and you can do whatever you like after that."

"Spike!" Greg's whispered protest was steeped with anxiety. The Sergeant couldn't believe his team mate was leaving such a momentous decision to chance.

Shawn sat there, contemplating this request.

"One last flip, Shawn," Spike said. "Heads, you come in; tails, we go."

Shawn slipped his hand into his pocket and withdrew the coin again. "I… I can't…" he whispered sadly as he looked at it.

"I think you can," Spike gently encouraged. "Unless…"

The coin spiralled upwards in the air as Shawn gave it a final toss. But the toss was un-controlled, and Shawn had to reach out awkwardly to catch it. As he did so, he lost his balance.

Just as he went over the edge, Spike and Greg rushed forward to grab onto the falling man. Their harnesses strained to the maximum as they caught Shawn and slowly pulled him back to safety.

Ed and Raf came to their aid and quickly took possession of the firearm and placed handcuffs on Shawn.

"Subject secure," Ed commented matter-of-factly.

"Here's the coin, too," Raf said to Greg, handing him the small, silver object.

Greg looked at it as Ed escorted a cooperative Shawn back inside and towards the elevators with Raf in tow.

"Well, I'll be damned," Greg said with a whistle, as he turned the coin over in his gloved hand. "Spike, how on earth did you know?"

Spike only grinned as they disconnected the safety cables.

"It's the only thing that made sense," he finally replied, after catching a warning look from Greg.

The coin Shawn had been flipping wasn't legal tender, but it did have an unusual feature as it sported two heads: one on each side.

"It's a novelty coin," Spike explained on the way down to the ground level. "Ever heard of the character 'Two-Face'?"

"Isn't he a villain from Batman?" asked Greg.

"Right," replied Spike. "This is a replica of the coin that character would carry. Sam and Jules mentioned that Shawn was a movie buff and collected movie memorabilia… This 'silver dollar' is two-headed, guaranteeing that every time Shawn flipped it, it would land on heads. Used as a totem, it's pretty easy to convince yourself you're in a dream when the odds are always stacked in favour of that outcome."

"Yeah, I won't pretend I 'get' any of that stuff," Greg said with a shake of his head.

The doors to the elevator opened and they stepped outside into the lobby.

"I'm just glad those cables held when we went to catch Shawn," Greg said with obvious relief.

"Are you sure about that, boss?" Spike asked enigmatically.

"What do you mean, Spike?"

"Oh, I dunno," replied the tech-wizard-cum-movie-buff. "Maybe we really are just projections of Shawn Henson's dream. What if the cables didn't actually hold? What if we actually fell over three hundred meters, and that what we're experiencing right now is a limbo-like dream state?"

"Spike…" Greg warned.

"I mean, we'd never know for sure, would we…?" Spike winked.

---

END

A/N: From the POV of Joanne, Greg's as-yet unseen ex-wife. Spoilers for 'Jumping At Shadows'. This is loosely based on what happened in that episode between Greg and Dean, and what might have happened after Dean returned to Dallas. Probably should be considered an A/U, since I do take certain liberties with timelines and so forth. Hope you enjoy, regardless.

---

But Not For Me

---

Joanne waited impatiently at the Arrivals gate at Dallas Fort Worth International airport. The flight was on time and had just landed safely, according to the large display screen she'd been anxiously staring at for the past half-hour. Still, she tapped a restless foot and blew out a breath; arms folded tightly across her chest.

It wasn't supposed to have been this way, she reflected, her hazel eyes searching the newly disembarked passengers for the familiar mop of dark hair that belonged to her only son. Dean never wanted to have anything to do with his father; was going to tell him once and for all that his parental rights were forfeit…

But that's not what had happened the afternoon Dean had slyly sneaked off on his own to hash it out with his estranged father, Greg Parker.

Joanne absently ran a hand through her shoulder-length, brown hair. She cursed herself for even allowing the boy to have had that much freedom in a city he hadn't lived in for almost a decade. But she'd loosened the leash, thinking him to be mature enough and responsible enough; certainly never dreaming what would transpire in the hours he slipped away from her.

She didn't know whatever possessed Dean to boldly seek out her ex-husband that afternoon. She couldn't understand his reasoning or his motivation. Dean had absolutely resented Greg for the rotten childhood he'd had due to the volatile combination of Greg-the-workaholic and Greg-the-alcoholic; was bitter for all the broken promises and drunken behaviour. Joanne had to admit it was a blessing that Greg had never once raised a hand against either her or their child, but he was a moody, brooding drunk who tended to push away those he loved. Dean, being a sensitive child, just couldn't understand why his father was rejecting him; why his father was so remote.

So it was a shock to the system when Dean tried to explain to her that he wanted to spend time with the man who had been emotionally abusive and absent and repulsive for a good portion of his life. This, after all, from the boy who had refused to open the door to the father who had flown 1200 miles just to see him not so long ago. Joanne had taken particular satisfaction in that rejection, knowing well Greg's fear of flying in planes; believing that perhaps now he had a taste of what it was like to make the effort, only to have those hopes crushed by the other party.

"He's different," Dean had said to her, after she'd cooled down from her apoplectic reaction when he'd returned from his clandestine visit to his father. "You should have heard him on that call, mom… he was… well, he was pretty awesome. He's not at all like I remember him."

Well, that was nothing new, Joanne thought with cynical hostility, he always saved his best for the job. Other people always mattered more to Gregory Parker. When he made it home after a long day on the job, emotionally drained and mentally spent, there was never anything left in reserve for her… or for Dean. And he ignored them and chose booze instead to try to fill that emotional void caused by the stresses of the job.

"You don't get it, mom," Dean had almost pleaded. "It's like he's a new person. He's sober. There wasn't even anything alcoholic at his place. I checked."

Okay, so he was back on the wagon, Joanne thought sullenly, but that didn't absolve him of his past sins. Not by a long shot.

"I just think it would be cool to get to know him," Dean had said with a shrug. "You know, man-to-man."

Well, she'd nearly laughed at the absurdity of that statement. In spite of his casual tone and body language, Dean had been dead serious, even if his manner of expressing himself wasn't exactly adult in its presentation. He quite genuinely believed that the man who'd left them emotional refugees was worth getting to know.

"He's just going to let you down," she'd said in reply. It was a weak warning, but a heartfelt one. The last thing she wanted was to have Dean's spirits crushed again by the man who'd caused untold damage in the first place. It had taken the divorce and the escape to Dallas to remake herself; to heal the wounds of that failed marriage; to see Dean smile and hear his spontaneous laughter again. It had taken her this long to feel enough self-confidence to say 'yes' to another commitment, and the man she was now set to marry was a wonderful man who loved Dean as his own. This man would never let her down, and would never let Dean down.

"You're not being fair," Dean had countered. "You weren't even there. You didn't hear him. You didn't see him and talk to him."

Joanne knew that once Dean got a notion in his head, he didn't easily back down. He got a determined look in his brown eyes – eyes he'd inherited from his father – and would be quite intractable.

So, she'd grudgingly relented.

"Fine. You want to spend time with your father? Spend time with your father. I just don't want to have to say 'I told you so' when you finally find out he isn't the man you hope he is."

The boy got his wish, spending a few extra days in his father's company; Joanne reluctantly letting him travel back to Dallas on his own. Now that his plane was back on U.S. soil, she didn't know what to expect.

"Mom!"

Dean's voice calling out to her snapped Joanne back to the present moment.

"Over here!"

The teenager was waving at her; his backpack slung over his shoulder.

One thing she loved about Dean was that he wasn't embarrassed about public displays of affection, and he greeted her with a big, warm hug. It didn't matter to him that hundreds of people were milling about who could possibly witness him embracing this middle-aged woman; he was happy to see her and wouldn't hold back his love for her.

She planted a kiss on his cheek and felt relief that he was finally home with her. Where he belongs, she thought with fervour, as they began making their way to the parking lot. Though she was dying of curiosity, she refrained from peppering the boy with questions about his extended Toronto trip.

Still, those unspoken questions ping-ponged through her brain, refusing to give her any peace: How were things between him and Greg? Did Dean still harbor a silly desire to foster a relationship with him? Or had he come to the conclusion she had come to long ago that life was simply better off without Greg? That Greg would never really change; that Greg would only ultimately disappoint them all in the end?

But Dean kept his counsel for a good ten minutes into the drive out to the suburbs where they lived with Joanne's soon-to-be husband and Dean's soon-to-be legal father.

She was itching to ask something; anything to break the silence, so she began with a neutral question:

"Do you want the radio on?"

Dean shook his head. "It's okay. The movie they were showing was stupid, so I listened to my iPod for the whole flight. Enough music for one day."

"Okay," she replied in a casual tone. "But the flight was okay, apart from the 'stupid movie'?"

"Yeah," Dean said, noncommittally. There was a slight frown on his face as he glanced out the passenger-side window. There was a long pause before he spoke again. "How come you never told me dad was afraid of flying?"

She sent him a brief, sideways glance. "What do you mean?"

"Dad told me it's like his biggest phobia, ever. He described it like getting inside a flying, metal coffin."

Joanne frowned uncomfortably. "It just really never came up, Dean…"

"It's just that… you know… if I'd known how much he hates it… I might've given him a chance that time he came down." The boy seemed distressed, and Joanne heard the self-recrimination in his voice.

Joanne's frown turned to a scowl. "Is that what your father did the entire time you were there? Take you on a guilt trip for not opening up the door to him? Unbelievable!"

"No, it wasn't like that," Dean replied hastily; defensively. "Dad just said he admired me for flying back all by myself… that he barely had the guts to do it when he came down. He said he white-knuckled it the whole way so bad that his hands cramped. It wasn't about making me feel guilty. It was only when the plane lifted off that I realised how much of a big deal it must have been for him to do that."

"Oh, no, you don't get it, Dean," Joanne blurted out in frustration. "That's exactly the way he lays on a guilt trip. Passive-aggressive behavior is his forte!"

Dean stared at her and shook his head in disbelief. "Wow, mom…"

She huffed and bit her tongue to keep from following up her comment with another rant, but already her mind was filling with dark thoughts about the way Dean's visit with Greg must have gone.

"Dad actually seemed really, really happy to have me spend some time with him. Relieved, even, that I wanted to," Dean commented when Joanne's extended silence seemed to offer him an invitation to continue.

"Oh?" she asked, not bothering to mask her skepticism.

"Yeah," Dean struck back with a sharp, defensive tone. "He said that he never expected me – or you – to ever forgive him for what happened. He knows he hurt us, mom. But he's put himself back together. What he does on his job… it's great. He's in charge. He's responsible. He saves lives."

Joanne shifted her eyes momentarily from the road to Dean and back again. The boy's eyes were shining. She couldn't miss the admiration and awe in Dean's voice as he related what transpired during a particular call he'd heard involving a family endangered in what became a city-wide search-and-rescue operation.

"Mom," Dean said softly, "dad's a good guy… his whole team looks up to him. They respect him. If you don't want to believe me that he's different now, then that's your loss."

Her heart gave an odd twang, and she swallowed a lump in her throat.

"We had dinner at a nice restaurant last night even when he could have spent it out with some of his pals from the force," Dean went on. "He wanted to hear all about me; how school's been; when I broke my arm; stuff like that … And he really listened to me. He was… he was acting like a really great father should."

With her lips pursed, Joanne maintained her silence and gave a curt nod just to let Dean know she was still listening. But her heart continued to shrink within her, battling with the position that a second chance with Dean was undeserved, and the position that Dean might have actually had some positive interactions with Greg.

"He didn't lecture or anything like that… but he just let me say what I wanted to say. I kinda let him have it at one point, too," Dean said, with a hint of discomfiture. "Everything I ever wanted to say from when we were still living there sort of all came out. All the bad stuff I remember; all the hurt… Mom, he cried. He actually cried, right there in the restaurant."

Tears… Joanne reflected, the one thing Greg was determined never to show me while we were still married… Oh, he'd shown sorrow and sadness; regret, even, back when he was still in the early stages of his alcoholism and would swear he would change… when he'd be apologetic that he came home too late or that he had to miss that school recital because of that extra shift he had to work… but he'd never break down and cry in front of her. Never. Not even when begging for forgiveness or for a second chance did he shed a tear.

Dean wasn't finished. "It was so bad, he had to excuse himself. He was literally falling apart in the Men's room when I followed him to make sure he was okay.

"Mom, he never thought he'd get a chance to see me again. All this time, he just wanted me to know he still cared about me, even if he didn't think he deserved a second shot at being my father. But you know what? I think I'd like to give him that second shot."

"You would?" Joanne asked in spite of herself, as she turned the vehicle onto the side-street that led to their residence.

"Yeah, I would…" Dean trailed off, not knowing how to gauge his mother's reaction. "Is that okay with you? I mean, you said he'd only disappoint me, but he didn't. He's really sorry for what happened; I know he is. Everything he did after we left proves he's not the guy he was back then."

Joanne pulled the car up the driveway and parked in front of the house. The remnants of heartaches of old seemed to cast long shadows as she considered Dean's request.

So, Greg truly wants to be able to have a relationship with our son, Joanne mused, and Dean wants the same.

"Well, it sounds like the two of you have really made your peace with each other," she said in a failed attempt to sound gracious. You shed tears over your failed relationship with our son, she thought.

"We did," Dean responded with a nod.

"If that's what you really want, Dean…" Joanne mumbled, trying to tamp down the rancour that came surging to the fore from an unexpected source deep inside her. You shed tears for our son, she repeated to herself, he reached out to you, and now you want to re-connect with him… But what about me, Greg, she questioned with fierce, unrelenting bitterness. Where are the tears for me?

"Thanks, mom," Dean replied with a huge grin. "Dad wasn't sure you'd be cool with it, but I knew you'd understand."

---

END

A/N: Damn plot bunny! Only this one hatched in the unlikeliest of places. Sometimes I think I take RPing way too seriously...

Yeah, so SPOILERS for "A NEW LIFE" yada-yada.

Greg writes a short letter to Donna Sabine in the aftermath of the wreck of a wedding day she had.

---

A New Life, Interrupted

---

Dear Donna,

                    When you’re on the job this long, you inevitably make mortal enemies. It’s an occupational hazard. But that enemy is usually a threat from without, not from within. We consider as family those people we work with so closely, don’t we? We’re not ever just co-workers or colleagues when we trust each other with our lives and our secrets.

I’m deeply sorry you had to suffer such a devastating betrayal from someone you thought of as a member of the family, Donna, especially on what was supposed to be a most joyous occasion for you and Hank.

Thank you for letting us be there for you; to bring you back from that edge. You could have crossed the line and fallen, but you didn’t. My faith in you never wavered. 

Bill is going to face justice for what he’s done, but your hands are clean. Don’t ever blame yourself for his downfall. He made his choices. You can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped, and he pushed you and everyone else away. You know this.

Ida Logan and her henchmen are in custody, and we’re going to make sure they stay that way.

We’re all very thankful that Hank is going to pull through. Be with him. Enjoy your honeymoon. And after four weeks of mind-numbing boredom (well, okay, I’m sure some things won’t be boring), maybe we can convince you not to retire just yet. I recruited you to the SRU, and it would be a damn shame to lose you so soon.

Just think about it, okay?

Your new life doesn’t have to exclude this family.


 
Sincerely,

Sgt. Greg Parker,
SRU Team One

---

Chapter 2: A New Life Concluded

---

A/N: So, I never expected to do a follow-up to this piece, but... The finale of the Show sort of made it necessary. Spoilers for 'Keep the Peace'. If you're the type who doesn't like to be spoiled before seeing the episodes in question, you may stop reading right here and stow for a later date...

---

A recuperating Greg Parker writes a letter to Donna's widower, Hank Gerald, in the aftermath of that day of infamy. 'Keep the Peace' probably took place a little over a year after Hank and Donna got married. (By my estimation, their wedding date was June 17th, 2011.)

---

A New Life... Concluded

---

Dear Hank,

Words can't begin to describe the depths of my sorrow. My heart is in pieces. I'm sorry I can't be there for you right now; that my injuries will prevent me from attending Donna's funeral.

I wish I could be there to add my voice to the litany of praise and commendation that will surely be showered upon her. Please know that when those words of acclaim come that they're not mere platitudes that are so commonplace when we honour a loved one's passing. Each and every tribute that will be paid to Donna's memory is richly deserved.

You don't need me to tell you that she was an amazing woman; the SRU was richly blessed to have her. She was an exceptional officer, brave and compassionate, dedicated to the highest ideals represented by the uniform she wore and the badge she carried for twenty-one years.

I remember clearly the day I recruited Donna to the SRU when Team One was down a member. She was eager and willing to do her best; ready to keep the peace. Everyone instantly saw how special she was; knew that she possessed the skills and strength to make the jump from Vice, though she would have done well anywhere she went on the force. She could have been relegated to a simple placeholder until Constable Callaghan resumed her duties, but that wasn't Donna's style. She brought to the SRU a spirit and confidence that made us a better unit, ensuring she would always have a place with us.

Team Three thrived under her leadership, a testament to her personal dedication to excellence in a profession that is always so demanding. She was more than just a Team Leader; she was a nurturer and teacher, building up a group of officers to be the best they could be. She is irreplaceable.

I want you know the full truth of what happened that day, because you deserve to know of Donna's bravery. It was on my orders that Team Three went out to the Casey Jeffers Building at Brookfield that afternoon. We had uncovered intel that pointed to that building as being a possible target, and Team Three was geographically the one nearest to Brookfield.

When they arrived at approximately 2:20 PM, Donna identified there one Anson Holt, an individual we suspected at that time of being the mastermind behind the acts of terrorism. I advised her that due to the extreme urgency of the situation that there was no time for kid gloves when dealing with the suspect. Team Three entered Lab number 2 and found that Holt was primed with an M1-12 demolition charge, which implied some sort of suicide mission. Despite Donna's best efforts at obtaining the information, Holt remained uncommunicative about the location of the remaining bombs. Her search for a detonator was equally fruitless. Too late, we realised that Holt was not the bomber. Before Donna and Constable James Gallagher could vacate the premises, Marcus Faber - the actual bomber - remotely detonated the C4 charges.

I know it's no consolation, but you should know that Donna did not suffer. I was assured by Captain Barry Steele of the Toronto Fire Department that it was all over in a second. You also need to know that while her death may seem a pointless and egregious injustice, it was not in vain. After that bomb went off, I rushed into that building, hoping against hope that Donna and Jimmy were somehow okay. In doing so, I unwittingly exposed myself to the potentially deadly radiation from the dirty bomb Faber had manufactured. As a result, I had to be taken to the emergency triage centre at Fletcher Stadium to scrub down and be treated.

As you know, it was there at Fletcher Stadium that Faber set his final bomb. Had I not been there; had I not been exposed to the radiation at Casey Jeffers, we would never have found that bomb in time. Countless other lives would have been lost; still untold numbers throughout the entire city would have been exposed to the fallout from the dirty bomb.

Donna's sacrifice meant that that madman's twisted mission did not succeed. You see, she was much more than just another member of the Toronto Police Service, Hank. I loved her as a sister and trusted colleague, the same as I love my own team. I would not have run into that bombed-out building for anyone else but my own. Because I loved her, I lost all rational thought, wanting to believe that she was strong enough and lucky enough to have made it through that blast. I wanted to believe that she was too good, too young, and too special to be taken from us like that. But it does take someone very special and very courageous to walk that line every day, knowing that at any given moment, she might be expected to give her life for the sake of others.

Hank, I want to recognize that Donna's sacrifice wasn't just her own: it was yours, too. You were her husband. You married her knowing that the possibility existed that one day, she might not come home to you. Yet, I know that you supported her from the first day to the last; encouraged her and loved her through all the late shifts, early mornings, interruptions, emergency calls, and missed dates. You loved her and let her go out to do her job, in spite of all the risks. Because of that, this city is a safer place, and I thank you.

Donna had the heart of a lioness, Hank, and the moment that heart stopped beating, our world truly lost one of its finest.

Please accept my sincerest condolences, and the hope that you will forgive me for giving the order that sent Donna to that building where she gave it all up for the lives of the people of this city. I will miss her dearly; indeed, I already do. We mourn with you and weep with you, because our hearts are also in such pain.

The responsibility lies with us, now, to continue her legacy of exemplary service. Know that Donna's sacrifice will never be forgotten, because we will carry her memory with us for the rest of our lives.

Sincerely,

Sgt. Gregory Parker,

SRU Team One

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END

A/N: Okay, so this plot bunny hatched (as they so often do) at 2AM in the morning and would not leave me alone. Ed and Wordy have Sophie and Shelley. Sam and Jules have each other. Spike has... Babycakes, I guess. This story can definitely be taken as an AU, since clearly what I'm insinuating for Greg has not been established on the Show. Spoilers for 'Fault Lines' and 'Personal Effects'.

***
To Comfort the Afflicted

It was nearly midnight when the Team One Sergeant, Greg Parker, dragged himself out of his car and slowly made his way to the door. He was bone-tired by this time, and didn't want to think about anything after the Boston Marathon of a day they'd all had. Truthfully, all he wanted to do was tumble into bed and sleep for a week.

He entered his house and paused to slide the deadbolt into place with a noisy click. Groaning, Greg stepped out of his shoes, mechanically hung up his jacket on the peg behind the door, and rubbed his weary eyes and sockets until he felt somewhat better.

As he turned to continue down the passageway, Greg noticed a light shining from the living room.

She was still awake.

"You shouldn't have waited up," he gently reproached, staring at her as she perched on the couch, an open book on her lap and a mug of warm milk on the coffee table. She'd let down her hair from the tight, formal French-braid, and it was spilling around her shoulders, bright in the lamplight.

"Of course I should have," she replied, as if it were unthinkable that she fall asleep at a time like this, after everything that had happened today. "How's Ed?"

"Still in surgery when I left," Greg said as neared and sat down next to her. She put aside the book and snuggled closer to him. Grateful for her presence, he rested his head against hers, slipping an arm around her shoulders.

"Is he going to be okay?" she asked, hand on his chest rubbing soothing circles against his aching muscles.

Greg could hear the shade of worry in her query. He'd seen it in her face the moment the 10-33 call came in and he'd asked if all her team were accounted for; saw the worry escalate and when he'd stated with certainty that the SRU 'officer down' could only be Ed Lane.

"They're concerned there might be some nerve damage to his arm, but they've got the best surgeon they have working on him, so…" he trailed off.

"So we'll just hope and pray for the best outcome," she said decisively. "Ed's a fighter. That he waited so long to even let them operate on him so he could be with Sophie… He took what, seven bullets? Greg, he's lucky to even be alive. He'll be back; I'm betting on it. Team One will be good as new."

"Yeah… probably so," Greg muttered, noncommittally.

She stopped massaging him and looked at him curiously. "What is it? Did something else happen with Toth?"

Greg heaved a weighty sigh at how perceptive she was. "We're on probation."

"What?" she couldn't hide her shock. "Why?"

"He poked at every possible weak spot you can imagine. Things about Spike… and Wordy…"

At the mention of Constable Wordsworth's nickname, she felt a prickle of unrest. She mentally gave her head a shake, dismissing what she'd overlooked during his weapons requalification. If anyone had asked, of course his weapon had jammed. Then, she outright lied to herself that it had nothing to do with the fact that she wanted Team One to succeed because of her esteem for its Team Sergeant, and much more.

"He also knows about Sam and Jules," Greg continued, knowing the snipers' dalliance was an open secret, "and he's holding me responsible for turning a blind eye and possibly endangering the team and the public."

"The 'priority of life' code?" she guessed, with a rueful twist of her mouth.

"Yes. Toth is now going to be copied on every call we answer. He says if Sam and Jules cross the line again and violate the code, he's going to call for them to be re-assigned, and for my dismissal."

At this point, she was silent for a few moments. She thought about the entire day, from the requalifying and testing in the morning to the second her team started their pursuit of Ed's shooter, to the takedown of Neil Cavell in the evening.

She thought of Greg's curt commands to her during the call, his shortness and his seeming impatience with how things were progressing. At the time, she'd let it go, because it was his TL's life on the line. Besides, she knew better than to expect him to show her preferential treatment just because they were involved with each other.

Now, she reasoned Greg might also have been brusque with her because Toth had been listening in to the entire exchange. But it shouldn't have mattered, Greg, she thought, even if Toth managed to guess something about us, I'm on Team Three, and you're on Team One.

"How can I look my two team members in the eye and tell them I don't want them seeing each other?" Greg asked her. "It's like the pot calling the kettle black."

"No, it isn't," she countered. "We aren't on the same team; we're not breaking the rules."

"Would you be saying that if Jules had been the one to go to Team Three and you had been the one to stay with Team One?" Greg shot back.

"Okay, I can't pretend the thought hasn't crossed my mind," she answered slowly, "but Toth would have no grounds when it comes to us. Sam and Jules are a different case entirely. And anyway, I thought they'd stopped seeing each other."

Greg looked away. "They may have stopped seeing each other, but…"

"But… ?"

"I don't think you ever stop feeling something for someone else – not after what they've been through."

"So, that's it, then," she said sourly, "Toth's made it so it either comes down to your job, or their happiness."

"Yeah, that's what it comes down to," Greg mumbled, wondering how he was going to face the new day, wondering how he was going to regain the trust and confidence of his team.

She went back to working stress-relieving circles on his chest, unsure if her gesture was having any comforting effect at all.

He instinctively understood her desire to console him. After so many years of being alone and of picking himself up when there was no one left to support him, it was a luxury he thought he'd never again be able afford. Greg drew her in closer, burying his face on her shoulder, hoping that somehow she'd be able to chase away his fears.

"Donna," he said miserably, almost breaking down completely in her arms, "I just don't know what to do anymore."

---

END

A/N: Spoilers for 'Fault Lines'; minor spoilers for 'Clean Hands'. Written because Wordy is awesome and someone needs to offset the over-abundance of JAM fics presently dominating the fandom (not that there's anything wrong with that).

---

Clean Hands; Shaky Hands

---

"Four, two, three, one!"

Constable Kevin 'Wordy' Wordsworth, already squared to the targets, took aim and squeezed the trigger of his handgun four times in reply to Constable Donna Sabine's shouted instructions.

Sam, Jules and Spike had already come through the shooting phase of the requalification without issue, and Wordy had high hopes he would follow suit.

He lowered his arms after his split-second volley of fire. The #1 and #4 targets remained, mocking him and his inability to take them out the first time through.

Damn, he thought, giving his head a shake in frustration.

But Constable Sabine, all business, reached for his weapon. "Let me see," she said.

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