Title: RED
Character: Sam, Jules
Word count: 558
Rating: PG
Prompt: #9 – Sorrow
Summary: The more he rubbed, the more the anger got the better of him. Sam-centric.
Spoilers: Acceptable Risk
Disclaimer: Not mine. Prompt belongs to flashpoint_sru.

:: I'm seriously experiencing a Flashpoint withdrawal.

It wouldn't come off.

Sam grunted, temporarily leaving the area behind his hands to begin chirping off the dry paint on his nails.

The color was rich burgundy.

Wordy had thought that it was too somber for a dining room, but one look from Shelley was enough to shut his mouth. He had scouted the rest of the team and aside from Ed and Parker, everybody was there. Spike because Shelley would be cooking risotto for dinner, Jules because home renovation was simply her thing, and him because well… it's not like he had a hot date for the weekend.

Now everybody was socializing in Wordy's backyard, drinking cold beers and watching his kids playing. Sam had excused himself to get clean up. To alienate himself.

Should have asked what color the paint would be, though.

Wouldn't have come if he'd known it was red. Possibly.

Even after all these years, these nightmares, he still hadn't gotten used to it. God, he hoped he would never. The blood. The coppery and pungent smell, the haunted feeling of having the red substance all over his hands… knowing that he's partly or solely responsible for them didn't help matter any.

As he had told Hastings last week, valuing human lives was entirely different matter. He told her he didn't suffer any PTSD, he should've also told her to STFU.

The more he rubbed, the more the anger got the better of him.

"You're going to hurt yourself."

Sam looked up to the imploring eyes of Jules Callaghan.

"I'll be right back." Not a minute had passed when she padded softly back down the hall. Taking the liberty to sit next to him on the stairwell, she showed him her finding.

"Baby oil?"

"It works wonder in removing paints." She smiled. "And it smells better than some hydrogen peroxide."

Sam stared as Jules took his left hand and carefully pouring two drops of the sticky liquid on the back of his hand. When her fingers started rubbing the paint spots on his skin in circular motions, he was suddenly hit with a strong urge to yank his hands away.

He might have shared his story about his sister when she asked him about the fallen shoes, but what rights did she have to think that she could strut into his shell and pretend like everything's alright?

Everything was not alright, and Jules, of all people, should leave him alone.

He watched the paint smear under the gentle pressure of her hands, the oil beginning to break up the hardened paint. He was ready to get defensive when their eyes met, but she lowered her eyes without saying anything.

The more she rubbed off the paint, the more Sam felt his anger slowly ebb.

It had been a long week and the effect of that particular episode still lingered. There had been an unspoken agreement to not touch the tender subject, but fact was fact. It happened. It was traumatizing. People got killed. Secrets were out of the closets. That being said, the team had never been more solid.

When Jules finished, an ounce of his burden had been lifted off his conscience.

"You should wash them again, it should work easier this time."

"Thanks, Jules."

Thanks for being here, for not pestering and asking questions, for understanding and being patient.

"Anytime."

:: Any vague estimation when the show will return?