Disclaimer: Nothing's changed... These characters still don't belong to me!
Summary: A bad case, a bar, two o'clock in the morning, and only one way to make it right.
Rating:Strong T for language, T for contents.
A/N: This one-shot's rather AU, set after their affair ended and told from Sam's point of view. Mariel, thank you once again (I'll never say it enough!) for beta-reading this.
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One Way
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There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls− George Carlin
00:31 AM
The lights were low and there was a scent of cigarette and alcohol in the air, that one smell associated with smoky bars and tattooed guys with poker hands gambling in dark corners. I'd never thought I'd end up here tonight, and I certainly hadn't planned on holding this desperate, one-sided conversation at this hour− but then again, a lot of things had happened today that I hadn't seen coming.
I think the worst part of it was his obstinate silence− his indifference and that stubborn resolve not to acknowledge my presence. He was staring at his glass instead, at the brown liquid that seemed to both comfort and fascinate him.
"How drunk are you, Jack?"
He swallowed another burning gulp, wincing slightly. "Not nearly enough."
I didn't know what I was expecting, but his answer stopped me from reaching out to touch his arm. All I wanted to do was take his hand, grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense and life and reason into him; but for the first time since I'd known him, I was afraid. Afraid of what I'd see in his eyes, afraid of what he'd tell me, afraid of what this day would end up doing to both of us.
-:-:-:-:-:-:-01:23 AM
I might only have been killing time, sitting on that uncomfortable stool with an elbow on the counter. I might just have been delaying the inevitable, avoiding that moment when I'd run out of arguments, fall quiet, and we'd lapse into the silence I'd so desperately been trying to avoid.
It had been almost an hour, but not much had changed since I'd started to speak. My throat was drier and the amount of whisky in the bottle had diminished; but aside from that, he still hadn't turned to look at me, and I had stopped expecting him to reply.
"What you did today… it was the right thing to do," I said for what felt like the hundredth time. When you pulled that trigger, I wanted to tell him, it was the right thing to do. When you shot that bastard down, it was the right choice to make. You were right to get him before he got you. "You told me once that in these situations, you have to act quickly. That your decisions can't always be based on rational thought, and that sometimes you don't have enough time to think things through."
They were his words; the exact same ones he'd told me when I was just a rookie− and I refused to admit that they were just words, that they were useless and futile and would never, ever account for what had happened.
"You made the right decision," I said again. "You can't second-guess or else−"
"Damn it, Sam!" he suddenly slammed his glass down. "Like you never do?"
It was my turn to remain silent; to contemplate the wooden counter in front of me and trail my fingers along the irregular marks left by bottles and cigarette ashes.
-:-:-:-:-:-:-01:28 AM
It would have been so much easier to handle this if he'd been angry with me− I could have protested, or reciprocated his rage and used it to my advantage. Right now, however, he was doing a really good job of hating himself.
"Jack−" I started again.
"I shot a man today," he interrupted brusquely, the self-disgust in his voice making me cringe. "I fucking killed him."
"You saved a little girl today," I corrected in a soft tone.
"No I didn't." Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew his FBI badge, held it for a second, and laid it down on the counter between his half-filled glass and my empty one. We both stared at it for a second, except he quickly discarded it from his thoughts to take another gulp, whereas I couldn't take my gaze off his ID.
"So you're just going to quit?" He didn't answer. "What good will that accomplish, Jack? You're going to spend the rest of your screwed up life here, drowning your sorrow in a whisky bottle?"
"You don't get it," he laughed. The sound was hollow and desperate, so desperate all I really wanted to do was cradle his face in my hands and pull him into my arms. "I've already resigned."
Incredulity and shock registered on my features, and I was quiet for a moment− afraid, now, to find out how badly this case had affected him.
"What do I tell them?" I asked suddenly.
"Who?"
"The parents who are going to be in the office tomorrow looking for their missing children… The mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters wanting to find their relatives?" He turned to me, fuming, but I didn't relent. "What do I tell them, Jack? That we're not going to find them tomorrow, or the day after, that they should go home because the best profiler in this city simply chose to quit?"
"Don't use this job against me," he let go of his glass, his fist closing tightly into a ball. "That's not fair−"
"No, you're being unfair to them, Jack," I retorted angrily. "What about when they beg me for help? Do I tell them I'm sorry, that Jack Malone decided he was better off drinking whisky in a bar rather than saving−"
"Fuck you! Just− just fuck you, Sam."
His eyes shut when he realized the words he'd spoken to me, and he hung his head with shame, now completely incapable of looking at me, for fear maybe of what he might see on my face.
My voice dropped, my heart aching for him in a way I wouldn't have thought possible. "You okay?"
"Yeah," he said quietly.
I knew that voice. I'd heard it before in his office, in his car, in my apartment when I woke up at night and found him staring at me and at the night with regret, grief or guilt on his face. "Jack−"
"It doesn't matter."
"Perhaps not to you."
"Bullshit, Sam," he cut me off, eyes on the bottle in front of him. "You don't care anymore."
"I wouldn't be here if that were the case," I replied quietly. "I care and Danny and Martin and Vivian care. Your daughters care. Think about them, Jack… they need a father."
He snorted. "I don't think I was ever a good father, Sam," he looked at his hands, and I couldn't help but look down too, noting once again the absence of a ring on his finger. After a second, he added bitterly, "I don't think I was ever a good husband, either."
My stomach flipped, his quiet admission unexpected; the implied reference to our past even more so.
He couldn't avoid my eyes anymore, so he gazed over at me, the desperation on his features begging me for help despite the resolve with which he was keeping me out. Before he turned away, I had the time to see the tears forming in his eyes.
"Shit." He looked aside, embarrassed.
-:-:-:-:-:-:-01:39 AM
When he resumed drinking, I had half a mind to get out, to flee this gloomy place and leave him there, right where he wanted to be. But it wasn't about me tonight, it was about him− although some part of me had come to question where it stopped being about Jack and where it became about us.
"Are you aiming for a personal record?"
He downed his drink. "No, I'm leaving," he decided, putting a few dollars on the counter and rising.
Before I stood after him, my reflex was to grab his badge that was still beside our glasses and slip in into the pocket of my coat. He didn't notice, too intent on finding his keys.
"Are you driving?"
He merely met my gaze, challengingly.
"Jack, if you'd rather I gave you a ride−"
"No."
"I−"
"I don't need it, Sam."
"You're drunk!" I shot back.
He glared back at me. "I've been worse. And I didn't force you to come along, so no need to yell at me."
I bit down on my lip, realizing I'd almost been shouting, but still blocked his path to the door, placing a firm hand on his upper arm− which he jerked away.
"Step aside."
"No. You can't drive. You of all people should know better."
He didn't move, but neither did I. We stared at each other for what seemed like an hour before his gaze suddenly dropped and his shoulders slumped in defeat. He turned around, heading the other way, toward a telephone booth and a minuscule corridor, and I saw him disappear inside the men's bathroom.
-:-:-:-:-:-:-01:43AM
My heels resonated on the tiles as I entered and shut the door. "Jack?" I asked uncertainly.
He was leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest defensively, the pain as blatantly obvious on his features as in his tortured gaze. For an instant he just looked at me, trying to make it all go away with a glance; but then a lone, solitary tear fell from the corner of his eye and rolled down his cheek, gathering strength as it reached his lower jaw. One of his hands trailed upwards, ruffling his already messed up hair before falling back slowly; and he slid down against the wall, his arm coming to rest weakly at his side.
"Jack," I whispered softly. He was Jack, the man I took orders from. He was the one I had once touched, kissed, slept with and confided in at night. He was this little boy plunged into a numb stupor, crying over things he couldn't control and would never completely understand.
I lowered myself on my knees beside him, feeling so utterly useless. He didn't react, maybe reliving the events of the day, that waking nightmare that he couldn't detach himself from.
Touching his arm, I reached out for his hand; but then he stopped me with a single word.
"Don't."
I saw the denial in his eyes and retrieved my hand, the silence falling between us once more.
-:-:-:-:-:-:-01:50 AM
"You should go home."
He looked up, a dazed expression on his features.
"Back to your apartment," I said after a beat.
His unfocused eyes stopped somewhere between my chin and the bathroom door behind my shoulders. "My apartment doesn't feel like home, Sam," he said in a broken voice. "It's dark and lonely and… it's so damn empty." He paused and said, almost as an afterthought, "It's can't be home if it's empty."
One of his hands slid under his jacket, reaching for something that I didn't even know he had taken with him. A couple of seconds went by, long enough for me to understand what he was doing, but not long enough for me to react in time to stop him.
"Jack−" my voice was full of a fear and a panic I'd never experienced before. "Jack, what the hell−?"
He waved his gun between us, his shaking fingers dangerously close to the trigger. We both stared at the metal weapon, a weapon that had the power to take a life in a split second; and I distantly wondered how he had managed to get it back so quickly after a shooting.
"Take it," he declared.
I blinked. "What?"
"Just take it," he waved the Glock in front of me once more. "I can't− I don't want it to be mine anymore."
"Okay," I said quickly, taking the gun from his trembling hands and putting the safety back on.
"Van Doren will require that I hand it back," he tried to explain. "She− she'll need it."
"Okay," I said again. "Okay, Jack. I'll make sure she gets it."
An eternity seemed to go by, but they were merely seconds; seconds that held a thousand unanswerable questions and a million corresponding emotions. He stood up as slowly as he had sat down on the floor, the circle of light from the bathroom neons illuminating his tear-streaked cheeks.
"Is it over, Sam?"
His head was resting against the cold wall and we were only a breath apart; I could smell the whisky in the air I breathed. At first I didn't understand what he was asking, but then his piercing gaze crossed the vast distance between us, the emptiness in his eyes visible from behind the dark strands of hair that fell on his forehead− and suddenly, it dawned on me that he was talking about us.
I stilled, eyes begging him not to go there. "Yeah. We're over."
His fingers stopped on my wrist, his hand hovering above my skin as he stilled, somehow realizing what he was doing; and his eyes slipped shut, in a futile attempt to hide from me the melancholy and ache that I had already glimpsed in his gaze.
-:-:-:-:-:-:-01:59 AM
It had been a few minutes, but neither of us had moved.
"Sam?" he muttered, tentatively. His voice was raw, filled with a desire that I couldn't ignore. "How long has it been?"
Too long. A month, a year, five years; an eternity had gone by since we'd done this, since we'd been this close, this connected, since we'd been together to overcome the pain that coursed through our veins.
His alcohol-filled breath was suddenly on my face, and he leaned forward to kiss me, the smell of whisky rapidly encompassing the rest. I felt myself being pressed backwards, my initial instinct making me pull him toward me, hands reaching for his back to bring him closer until I felt my own body collide with a stall behind.
A hand on my arm found its way to my cheek, then to the back of my head, and I shut my eyes, my guard falling completely when his lips parted. I could taste the liquor in his mouth, and my exhausted mind failed to process what was really happening. There must have been the voice of reason, somewhere between the fire in his eyes and that burning taste of alcohol, between his hand on my hip and my arm around his neck. But all I could feel was Jack, his warm hands travelling along my body and my longing to be with him again in that one way that would make us forget all the others.
He broke from my lips to take a breath and we stood face to face, our eyes locked.
"Are we over?" he repeated. He was drunk, but that voice… that voice knew where it was headed.
No more than a second went by before it all became so clear, before I tilted my chin and kissed him again, more needlessly, applying more pressure as a new sense of urgency passed between us. He ran his fingers through my blonde strands and I gripped his shirt, seeking his warmth, a closer intimacy, an escape from the world in the form of his touch.
A soft moan from me when he ground his hips into mine was accompanied by a groan from him, and my vision blurred from the overwhelming feeling of him pressed against me, his lips brushing across my neck, across my body, reclaiming my flesh in a flash of ache and need and desire. One of his hands had found my waist and he held me to him, and it wasn't until I looked up again at his dark eyes that I felt his salty tears on my lips, mixing with mine.
We moved against each other, hands clinging to whatever would bring us nearer, his quiet sobs echoing the incoherent words and gasps that escaped our throats. But we didn't pause to think, we didn't pull away and we didn't stop, because it was fitting, somehow, that this day, which had begun with something totally unexpected, would end with something more unexpected still.
-:-:-:-:-:-:-02:17 AM
We had collapsed against the wall, arms still wrapped around each other. His fingers remained in my neck, keeping a hold on me long after his breathing had calmed and our hearts had slowed to a much more normal rhythm.
Even as we walked out in silence, he still held my hand; and he didn't really let go of it as I drove in the direction of his apartment. His fingers remained entwined with mine, maintaining this physical proof of my presence at his side, as if the mental and emotional link that once again joined us wasn't enough to convince him that I was really there.
"What if you were wrong?"
I stopped at a red light and glanced over at him. "About what?"
"This job." He paused. "Sometimes we never find the ones who go missing, whether in a day or in a year. And all we can tell their relatives is that we're sorry."
I considered his words. "But whatever happens, you always give the families something they would never find elsewhere. Something they couldn't live without."
"And what's that?"
"Hope, Jack," I explained softly. "You give them hope."
-:-:-:-:-:-:-02:48AM
Later, when we stepped out of my car, I handed him his badge and he took it mutely, a ghost of a smile on his lips as his eyes fell on the outdated picture. I held out his gun next. I trusted him, but perhaps he didn't trust himself, because he didn't reach out for it.
"I'd rather you kept it for tonight, Sam," he said hesitantly.
I nodded and we both looked at each other again. He must have felt it too, that indecision that floated between us, for he held out a hand to touch me, his hand coming to brush my cheek in an achingly familiar gesture.
"Come up with me," he whispered.
I could tell he was sincere; and I wished I could have said yes, stayed right there with him and listened to nothing but my heart. "I wish I could," I said quietly. I cast around for a justification to my refusal, but all I could come up with was, "Things changed, Jack."
"You didn't."
His reply was no real surprise, and yet it was painful, the blunt honesty in his voice making his offer so much harder to turn down. "I guess you didn't change that much either."
"So what happened?"
I shook my head to myself. "I don't know. One day you were there, the next one… you were gone. You were gone and I had to get over it, over you, except it's not that easy. You had your girls to keep you going, but I− I had no one. I had no one and I had nothing but my job, and even then, you were a part of it and that made it a thousand times more complicated."
My voice caught and he shut his eyes briefly. "I tried to make it up to you," he said. "And I'm sorry I never could, Sam." He trailed his fingers along my lower jaw, his warm knuckles brushing against my skin once again. "I just miss your smiles so damn much."
The hopelessness in his voice stung my ears, and in spite of the time and place and that crushing emptiness within me, the corners of my mouth stretched. My lips parted into a small smile, and it broke my heart to be able to do no more than that for him.
He moved closer to me. "Thank you," he whispered gratefully against my ear.
He stepped back and began to walk away. He walked away and I could still feel his warm hands on my body and his salty tears and quiet sobs, along with the regret and longing in his gaze when he'd glanced at me one final time. My smile slowly faded as I got back inside my car, left only with his gun and that one scent of alcohol and cigarettes that lingered on my clothes; a reminder of how, that night, unpredictably, we'd both found a way to make things right.
/ End