Title: Clean Hands, Clean Soul

Pairing: Sam / Jules

Rating: K+

Spoilers: Season 3, Episode 7: Acceptable Risk

Water ran freely into the bottom of the sink punctuated by drops of red that swirled and disappeared down the drain. Hydrogen peroxide. That was what had been prescribed for his acute blood-stained problem. He had raided all first aid kits and cabinets around the premises and did not find a single bottle of the chemical. At the end of his failed search he had wondered if the demand had always been higher than the supply around here, perhaps in previous desperate needs to go home with apparent clean hands.

So he attempted with hot water and soap again to erase at least the physical reminder of that night, even though it would be permanently engraved in his brain.

After the interrogations had been over and the case closed with a short, poignant talk from the boss, all of them had silently returned to the locker rooms with heavy hearts. The others had hastily discarded their uniforms, attempting to unburden a piece of their minds with it, and returned home to their families to find some resemblance of normalcy. Silence was all that waited for him at what he reluctantly called home. He dreaded it. It was strongly woven into the fabric of his life: in the heavy silence of his family home where no one dared to talk, in the silent wait for a target, in the deadly silence after a shot, in the deafening silence in an apartment with no one to embrace him when he arrived.

The hours had stretched slowly across the night and he was left alone stubbornly rubbing his hands by the fluorescent light of the sink. His eyes avoided his reflection in the mirror for he knew if he looked he would see a man made of failures and guilt. A knock on the open door effectively cut the dark thoughts that had started to plague his mind.

"Decent?" Her soft voice pierced the silence in the locker room accompanied by the sound of her heels on the floor.

A head of brown hair appeared in his peripheral vision which made an involuntary smile cross his lips. To this day he did not know why she bothered to knock in advance when it barely served as a warning for her barging in anyway.

"I come bearing gifts." She said in a melodious tone while waving a brown bottle and a small amount of cotton. Although hesitant and still a little gloomy around the edges, her smile was a welcoming gift in itself.

"So, you're the one holding the last bottle of hydrogen peroxide captive!" Humor had always been a comfortable shield to hide his feelings, although he had learned with time that she could easily see through his jokes and sarcasm at such moments.

"I keep a bottle in my locker." She answered while placing the bottle on the counter. Her deft hands made a small ball with a piece of cotton and soaked it with solution.

With surprised eyes he watched as she reached for his right hand and started to steadily clean his fingernails with a precision that only came from experience. He opened his mouth to protest and thought of pulling his hand away, but no sound came nor did his hand move when the piercing look of a single eyebrow lift challenged him to refuse her actions. He settled against the side of the sink and let himself enjoy the attention. After so long, it felt good to feel her hand touch his, to watch her display a little kindness to him. The aftermath of their separation came with strained moments and sharp words, but in the past months they seemed to have arrived to a place of amiable conversations, although an immense longing now resided in their eyes. Now, they stood so close that he could smell the flowery scent of her freshly washed hair, a smell that had featured in many of his dreams after that particular bottle became absent from his shower.

A comfortable silence enveloped them as she brought his hand to her face and closely examined her work. Clearly not satisfied, she poured more liquid into cotton and resumed the activities. His hands were a mixture of red patterns, the irritated skin from his previous fervent scrubbing mixed with the residual stains of blood, and she would not rest until the latter was completely gone.

"You seemed very upset after the interview with the SIU." She finally said after a while.

In the loneliness of her own locker room she had debated at length on how to approach the concern that had been boiling in her mind ever since they saw the crime scene. He had not even said a word, but his barely noticeable change in breathing from the usual controlled intake of air to a sharp one, had been enough to alert her that something was happening in his mind. Back then she had offered a short explanation, hoping to stir his mind into focus again. The confirmation came a while later as he stood motionless in front of a woman, barefooted, drenched in a pool of blood. It had not made sense then, it had not been the first time they had seen wounded and dead, and although it never failed to elicit a primitive, nauseating reaction, it seemed to be affecting him profoundly this time.

With a sardonic chuckle he brusquely spoke. "That's an understatement."

The SIU officer had catapulted his already brittle state of mind beyond the line between fine and distraught. He felt shattered, stretched to his limits, exhausted as if his own life essence had been drained out of him after an already horrific night.

"Do you want to talk about it?" She gently pressed.

His eyes had been red rimmed with unshed tears when he stormed out of the briefing room after the interview. The concern she felt for him, and often failed to hide, had compelled her to follow. But then the scrutinizing gazes of their colleagues turned to her, seemingly advising her to stay put in a chorus of silent understanding. Now they were alone and she offered her undivided attention without judgement, as she had done many times before.

He shrugged with one shoulder and made a struggling sound in his throat. "She made me talk about something I rather have kept to myself."

"Did that have anything to do with your reaction to the shoes tonight?" As she spoke, her eyes did not need to leave his hands to notice how shocked he had been with her straightforward instinct. What she saw were is hands shake slightly at her question as she finished her cleaning process.

Whatever she asked he always seemed obliged to answer. A lifetime ago, after a particularly enthusiastic argument about the hazards of keeping secrets from her, they had laid on her bed, backs facing each other with a desert of sheets between them. That night he had promised himself he would not hide secrets from her, no matter how insignificant they were. He recalled that promise as he looked into her concerned face still focused on his fingers in spite of the already finished task. A shuddering breath left his lips and once more he felt newly formed tears burning his eyes. He moved away, gently pulling his hands from hers only to immediately miss the touch.

She watched him walk a short distance and sit heavily at the bench across the sink row. Strong arms flexed as his elbows rested on his upper legs, face hidden in his now clean hands. Shortly after, he sensed her petite body occupy the space next to him and a small, supportive hand laying on his back. It ultimately gave him strength to tell that story, the whole in the middle of his childhood, for the second time that night. This time there was no bitterness in his voice, only a deep longing for a little girl he would never see grow up.

She listened intently as he told the story of what should have been a happy day turn into a horrendous nightmare. With a heavy heart she watched as his eyes overflowed with sorrow for his sister, his husky voice broke as he tried to form the words to say what had been safely locked inside for far too long. Her own eyes threatened to spill unshed tears, but she never avoided looking into his blue ones.

In the end, it was he who averted his eyes and abruptly stood up. Through his narrative he had not seen a single ounce of accusation or pity in her eyes. All he had seen there was kindness, until he could not bear any longer, and walked the short distance back to the sink. His hands rested on the counter, his head lowered avoiding the mirror and his back turned to her.

"I should have protected her, make sure she was safe! I couldn't… "

With an intake of breath she quickly rose from the seat and gently pressed her body against his back, her hands circled his waist and came to rest against his stomach. She was sure that in other circumstances he would not have allowed her to embrace him, it was too close to the fire she had so unceremoniously put out long ago, but he needed the comfort and she offered willingly. For a second she felt his body tense, but instantly all tension seemed to release with a soft sigh.

"Sam, you can't carry that guilt, it was not your fault." She said softly, resting her cheek against his back.

"I know." He offered back with a hint of doubt still in his mind. "I was so used to not talk about her, not even think about it. That was the rule in my family, deal with it and move on. It became this issue I couldn't acknowledge or it would be too painful. And then tonight…" His voice broke.

"And tonight you saw the shoes, and the barefooted woman." She stated in a dejected whisper. Suddenly, some of his unconscious behaviors made perfect sense, his instinctive movements to reach for her arm whenever they crossed a street and safely guide her to the other side. His voracious need to protect others was not only something that seemed embedded in his genetics, but also a by-product of life's circumstances.

"Yeah, it suddenly brought it all to my mind, I couldn't control it."

In a distant corner of his mind he had registered her calling his name, demanding action when he saw the woman, but he had not been there at all. He had been over twenty years in the past perplexedly looking at the ground and into little pink sandals.

"I know. But you cannot run from, nor change what happened in the past, no matter how deeply it hurts. All you can do now is let yourself remember her for everything good she was."

She spoke so candidly, from a place of someone who knew painfully well how it felt to lose a loved one. An absence that would last a lifetime. No one had ever said that to him. He was growing exceedingly tired of carrying that burden through his life, of locking away the most precious memories of his childhood in exchange for perpetual silent grief. It was time to end that vicious cycle fueled by his guilt, and remember.

His hands rested on top of the slender fingers that so meticulously had cleaned his own, and braced himself for the upcoming storm. All the repressed memories, good memories, came crushing down on him.

She felt drops hit the skin of her hands which echoed in pain on her chest. He was crying, finally letting go of years of sorrow. His body shook with silent sobs, which only served to embrace him tighter in her arms and hold him on that emotional journey.

After a moment he calmed down while tenderly caressing her fingers with his own. Inside his chest a whirlwind of emotions with more than twenty years had seemed to break into a clear sky, and a watery smile appeared on his face.

"Thank you." He sincerely offered, not only for the act of cleaning his hands but also his soul.

For the first time that night he looked into the mirror. Beyond the reflection of a large man and a small woman completely hidden behind his body, only her arms showing, he saw a man that needed to forgive himself and carry on remembering his little sister.

Sensing his newfound peace, her head peeked from behind his back and he saw her reflection in the mirror. She smiled brightly at him, the first ray of sunshine after the darkest night.

I thought of turning this into a series of one-shots, but this might just be my last attempt for Flashpoint, even though I dearly love it.

I hope you enjoyed this, and thank you for reading. Feel free to leave reviews.