Disclaimer: These characters are not mine… unfortunately. / Please, no season 6 spoilers in your reviews. I haven't seen it yet! Thank you!
The Way We Were
Part I: Facing Him
The security camera panned slowly across the entrance gate, capturing the light rain that had begun to fall. Even though it was more of a fog than actual rain, one's clothes seemed to be soaked wet in a matter of minutes. The whole world was as grey as the paved driveway that led up to the four-bedroom villa.
It was quarter past three in this seemingly endless afternoon as Martha walked up to the iron gate. Almost immediately the camera set on her face, which was still halfway hidden under her broad black hat. She looked up, directly into the lens, fully aware that Charles was watching her at this exact moment.
Martha raised her hand halfway; without a word from the speaker the gate silently started to open. The green villa seemed to be miles away, sitting in the landscape like a crouching toad. Martha slowly walked along the wet driveway, collecting her thoughts for what lay ahead of her. She had to be strong; she had to be brief. She couldn't let Charles pull her inside again.
She had escaped his train of thought, and was determined to keep it that way. It would be hard facing him again, alone. But it was what she had chosen to do.
It had been four months that she had seen him and over six since she had actually talked to him, on that day on the airfield. Everything had already been shattered then, but she hadn't really been aware of that.
After Charles's arrest, everything had gone according to the plan this great nation held for presidents who happened to be traitors. There had been a deal; Charles was very willing to talk once he understood there was no other choice. Some guy called Graem had taken the fall; obviously the agencies had been looking for him for decades. Charles became the victim, something he had always been brilliant at.
All these top secret hearings had gone by in the blink of an eye or so it had seemed. They weren't really interested in what she had to say anyway.
Martha steeled herself before pressing the button. She had come this far; and it was her right to be here. But before she could even ring the bell, the door swung open by itself. "How sinister", she thought, "and how fitting."
Charles was standing there in the twilight of the hall. It would have been ridiculous if it hadn't been so ironic.
Martha forced a smile unto her lips. "Hello, Charles", she said in a strong voice while her leather-gloved fingers just wouldn't stop trembling.
Finally, Charles stepped into the grey light of the rainy day. "Marty!" he said in such a warm, radiating voice that Martha shuddered, his arms outstretched.
He tried to kiss her on the lips. Quickly and with as much dignity as possible, she turned her face, and he pecked her on the cheek.
The door closed silently and again by itself behind them. Martha had no time to think about it. In here, the rooms were high but didn't really achieve the feeling of greatness they once did. There was a faint smell of coffee and Charles's familiar cologne, but underneath, there was mould and mediocre whiskey. It made her feel embarrassed.
Charles had put his hand on the small of her back and led her to the parlor where the smell of coffee became stronger and her unease slowly – very slowly – turned into determination. Charles, on the other hand, took short, hurried steps and had a small smile on his face that told of extreme nervousness.
Martha had been here before. This was one of innumerable large, impersonal houses of the Logan family. Even after Charles's fall, the family was there for him, or at least their wealth was. Martha didn't think they ever came to visit.
"Marty, I'm so glad you're here!" Charles said as they sat down, but there was a desperate undertone, one that probably only she could hear. He poured her a cup of coffee, his hands not completely steady. "Black, no sugar, like always", he said, smiling this smile he had so often used for the cameras.
Martha closed her eyes for a second in disgust, but also in endless sadness. Somehow, her mind was still resenting the idea that they were sitting here like this.
"So, how have you been, Marty?" Charles asked, crossing his legs. He obviously insisted on calling her by her old nickname. To him she had always been Marty.
In a matter of seconds she contemplated a hundred of different answers. How dare he ask her that? What did he THINK how she'd been?
Her purse, and the papers inside it, was sitting beside her on the fauteuil. She clenched it with her left hand, like a straw.
Then, she looked up, directly into his eyes. "Charles, I haven't come here to make small talk. You know that." Those were the rehearsed lines. She did pretty well, she found.
His face grew cloudy, fitting the fog-clenched park they overlooked from their seats. Like a chameleon, Martha thought and had to suppress a scared little smile.
Charles looked at the hands in his lap and silently said, "I know", surprising her. He was too sincere, too relenting.
"You… do?" she asked, thrown out of her concept. The script she had learned by heart for this scene suddenly seemed useless.
He looked at her and said in a voice she hadn't heard from him in a very, very long time, "I know I've made mistakes. I deserve this, all of it. I deserve your mistrust, your disappointment, maybe even your hate. But I'm willing to do everything…" he gulped, "…everything…to make it right." He had obviously rehearsed this, too.
Martha frowned; she knew she had to keep this civilized in spite of her growing impatience and disorientation. "Make it right?" she asked trying not to sound too annoyed. "Make WHAT right?"
"Everything I can", he said without looking at her. "I've told the authorities everything I know…" "…to save your own ass!" Martha silently added. "I've given most of my money to the victims and their families…" "…but not too much of it, if you live in a house with four bathrooms by yourself", she thought.
"But… but most of all", and now he was looking at her again, "most of all I want to make it right BETWEEN US."
For a moment, Martha thought she had misheard him. This was so completely off, so not what she had expected to hear. This whole conversation went somewhere she didn't want to go. She felt slightly sick.
"We're still us, you know", Charles continued. "We need each other. I know that I still need you. We complement each other. I am missing something since you're gone; I'm incomplete. Together, we can overcome this… we can overcome anything. This we promised each other, remember?" Giving speeches had always been Charles's strong point.
Martha shut her eyes for a second and clenched her teeth. She had to restrain herself to not just get up and leave. But on the other hand, she knew she wouldn't. Something inside her had been waiting for this. She felt she deserved to be begged, and he deserved to be rejected. And she forbade herself this other thought, the thought that she wanted to take him into her arms.
"Charles, please…", she tried. He interrupted her, "Did you get my letter?" She frowned. It had been full of self-pity and self-righteousness. "Yes, I did, but…" He wouldn't let her participate in the conversation. "So you know that I have forgiven you. And now, Marty… I'm asking you, I'm begging you, to forgive me, too." It was like she had imagined it, but then, it wasn't. He was begging, but she didn't enjoy it.
Suddenly, he took her hands into his. "Marty, I still love you. I never stopped, not for a minute. Not even when you betrayed me. You are everything to me." He was looking into her eyes, his face that of a scared child. And he was her Charles again, the man who hadn't dared to kiss her on their first date. SHE had finally kissed HIM, on the porch of her mother's house, after they had seen the movie "Love Story" at the local drive-in cinema.
Martha knew she was on the verge of tears, but she kept fighting them. Just as she was about to speak, Charles looked down on her hands, then suspiciously raised his eyes. "Where's your wedding ring?" he asked sharply.
Martha pulled herself together; the memories faded away. "Well, Charles", she cleared her throat, "this… this is actually why I'm here." Her voice almost sounded normal. "I've come to…" She pulled her hands free and took the paperwork out of her bag. "…give you these. And ask you to sign them."
For an everlasting moment, the divorce papers lay between them like a stone wall. He looked at them shortly, then at her. He took them in his hands, looked them through, looked at her again. The silence stretched into an eternity.
Martha said nothing. She had done what she had come to do.
Charles broke the silence. "Martha… are you serious about this?" he said, his eyes downward. He had called her Martha.
"Yes, Charles, I am. THIS is why I came to see you."
"But… I thought…" He looked like a wounded deer. Everything smug and self-righteous had fallen off of him.
"No, Charles, you didn't." She was in control now. "You lied to yourself. You knew I was with Aaron. And you know that nothing can ever make it right again."
He still looked wounded, but also angry now. "You and Aaron? Oh, come on, Marty. You can't be serious about HIM."
"Yes, I am." She said solemnly. "He is everything you are not."
Charles was silent. Then he looked up with determination on his face. Still a child, but a stubborn one now. "Really", he said, not quite asking. "Well, I won't sign this, Marty. I won't give you up."
She was thrown. "Give me up?" she said in a high-pitched voice, almost shouting. "Charles, I'm not your property. Just… sign it."
"No, Marty." His face was now expressionless. Martha felt absolutely helpless, like sitting in a car that was about to crash. It wasn't supposed to go like this. But really, what had she been thinking, simply coming here and asking him for a divorce? She had forgotten what Charles was.
A pained expression on her face, she got up. She had to get out of here, before everything collapsed.
"Charles, I'm leaving. Please think about it", she said, barely suppressing her anger and confusion.
He looked up at her. "Marty, I HAVE thought about it. I won't change my mind. We belong together."
Martha frowned sadly and slowly shook her head. "Please, Charles…", she whispered.
He didn't answer. Martha turned and went out into the hall, once again the stench of cheap, strong whiskey in her nose. She took her coat from the wardrobe and, without putting it on, went out through the magic door.
Outside, the fog was gone. It was pouring long, ice-cold streaks now. Martha quickly went down the driveway and turned around one last time. Charles was a shadow figure in the doorframe, looking after her.
She straightened herself, turned and walked to the iron gate, coat and hat still in hand, while the rain on her face slowly mixed with her tears.
End of Part I.