Quietus
By Midnight Caller
Rated: strong PG-13
Disclaimer: Jack and Sam are sick of me; they're going to run screaming back to Hank's open arms after this. But I never owned them anyway...
A/n: I started this story back in September, and for three months (heh, three months), it just sat around lazily and took up space, like that guy on 'My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiancée.'
So a big thank you to Eolivet for bugging me until I finished, and for the unfaltering support and encouragement. Oh, and the beta. ;) And thanks to Anya for the read-through as well. And, finally, thanks to Maple Street. :)
*****
Her hand lingered on the receiver when it fell back into its cradle, a sigh rushing from her mouth, carrying what hope she had left along with it. Samantha brought her hand from the phone to her eyes, pressing her thumb and middle finger into her brow, trying to massage away the pain and keep the tears at bay. This never got any easier, but she wouldn't have ever traded it for indifference; it was all part of the bargain of working in a job like this.
After another sigh, she let her hand drop from her eyes, and glanced at the clock: 3:15am. In the span of one phone call, 65 hours missing had just turned into six hours dead.
Her tired eyes trailed over the empty office, across the hall to Jack's closed blinds, and she finally pushed her chair away from the desk and stood. Her legs somehow carried her to his door, where her hand paused on the handle as she glanced in, amused and yet touched by what she saw.
Slowly, she pushed open the glass and quietly shuffled over to the closest couch, where Jack was stretched out, his arms crossed protectively across his chest. His sleeves were rolled up and the top few buttons undone, his tie having been discarded hours before, and his hair stuck up from random areas on his head.
She knelt, watching him for a moment, her eyes glancing quickly over the gold band to notice how calm he looked, and yet there was still an element of tension bubbling just below the surface of his skin, as if he could never allow himself the luxury, the illusion of complete relaxation.
But Maria now had the luxury of being his wife, of waking up next to him, seeing his hair mussed and his eyes sleepy, hearing him whisper and mumble in his sleep, feeling those warm hands as she fell asleep and as she awoke.
At least that's what Sam had assumed when he told everyone they could now reach him at his original home number. She'd never call there, of course, for fear of talking to anyone but him, and so instead, she stole what she could; moments in inappropriate times that only delayed the inevitable.
But as much as she wanted to just sit there and watch him in this rare moment of peacefulness, something in her felt compelled to do just the opposite.
"Jack," she whispered, and he stirred slightly, turning his head toward her, his eyes still shut. He licked his lips and lightly moaned something that she couldn't decipher. "Jack," she repeated, a little louder, and out of habit, she lightly touched his exposed arm. He stirred again, his eyes fluttering open in surprise before recognition set in and he regained his breathing.
Sitting up with a groan, he looked over to her, rubbing his head, causing his hair to become even more unruly. She tried not to smile as he licked his lips. "Did the Long Island P.D. call?"
Her smiled faded as she looked at the floor, nodding. "Yeah."
He took a deep breath, finding her eyes. "And the brother?" he asked quietly.
She blinked, and then slowly shook her head, knowing she couldn't say the words, but she didn't have to.
Jack let out a long sigh, his head falling back against the couch as he clenched his fist and smacked the leather with a solid whack. "Damn," he gritted through his teeth, his eyes closing as he brought a hand up to cover them.
She rose from her knee to sit next to him on the couch, unsure of what else to say. Her eyes struggled to stay open, and all she wanted to do was lie down, but she was afraid to leave him after seeing the fatigue in his features.
"Where is everyone?" he finally asked.
"They left about an hour ago. It was kind of pointless for all of us to wait for one phone call."
He looked out from beneath his hand. "You waited."
She shrugged and offered a weak smile. After a moment his hand covered his eyes again.
"Did you drive in today?"
He didn't answer right away. "Yeah." A few seconds later his hand fell from his eyes and he looked at her. "How are you getting home?"
"Oh, I'll just ... walk, I guess." The words flowed out as her head wobbled slightly, trying to stay upright on her neck.
A strong look of doubt passed over his features. "Sam, you look like you haven't slept in two days, and you're wearing designer shoes. If I were a mugger, I'd mug you."
She looked appalled. "Gee, thanks."
"I'm just saying," he smirked, his head tipping toward her.
He watched as her eyes slipped shut again, her head dipping toward her chest. For some reason he didn't dare name, he reached out and ran a hand down the back of her hair, giving her shoulder a light squeeze before dropping his hand back onto his lap. The gesture surprised her and her eyes widened, gazing up to search his.
"I'll drive you home."
**
She made it up her stairs through half-opened eyes, somewhat aware that he had been behind her the entire time, his hand making the occasional contact with her back as he steadied her or himself, or because he put it there just to touch her. Somehow, she was able to unlock the door, drop her bag on the floor, and then stumble to her bedroom, where she promptly flopped face-first onto the bed.
Seconds later, or maybe it was minutes, she felt his hands on her feet, discarding her shoes, and then he tugged on her jacket and her pants, helping her sit up as they came off before she fell back against the covers. He managed to roll her over enough to slide her beneath the blankets, bringing them over her body as he sat beside her on the bed, watching as she gave in to the fatigue that also threatened to claim his consciousness, only he was better at hiding it.
"I should get going," he whispered, and she nodded sleepily.
He leaned down and placed a soft kiss in her hair, his mouth lingering longer than it should have for the kind of kiss that he had originally intended it to be. He stayed there long enough for one of her arms to snake around his shoulders, her fingers gripping the hair at the nape of his neck, a shiver traveling down the length of his spine as her nails grazed his skin.
It was hard to tell if his mouth moved downward or hers moved upward, but their lips met halfway in a gentle, tender kiss that was meant to calm but only served to quicken their breaths. In less than a fraction of a second as their eyes connected, a silent, mutual decision was made, and their lips met again with more pressure, parting as their tongues sought and found a deeper, more intense contact. She pulled him beneath the covers with her, sighing into his mouth as he enveloped her in his arms, their hands curious but desperate, clinging to whatever they could find.
His mouth traveled down to her neck and she gasped loudly into the quiet of the room, his name leaving her lips as his tongue drew circles below her ear. She was so very tired, but he felt so good, too good, she knew, and when he kissed her again, she responded with pure instinct, her fatigued mind unable to contribute much of anything at all.
The kiss slowed and then stopped, his head falling against her chest, his breath hot on her neck. His hand made slow circles against her shoulder, but as her eyes struggled to stay open, she could sense the same exhaustion in his touch as it became lighter and lighter, slower and slower...
Eventually, his finger stopped as the full weight of his head finally fell against her, his breathing having now deepened and slowed. A quiet, soothing snore escaped his nose as she suddenly found it nearly impossible to hold her eyes open any longer. Her lids slipped shut and his arm wrapped around her, their bodies finally collapsing against one another as they both surrendered to the sleep that had eluded them for so long.
**
She hadn't intended to hear his phone ring, but she hadn't intended for him to spend the night at her apartment, either. When she awoke wearing just a t-shirt and underwear, he was gone from the other side of the bed, a slight dent in the pillow and rumpled sheets the only indication he had been there at all. And that's when she thought he had left for good – until she heard the shrill ring from the next room.
She rose off the bed, stepping close to the door that was now cracked open a few inches. He was sitting on her couch in his pants and shirt, his back to her, one hand massaging the back of his neck, the other holding the phone to his ear.
"I slept at the office," he said into the phone. "No... No... Because I didn't want to wake you and I was falling asleep at my desk."
That much was mostly true, but her apartment had been an excuse. She knew that.
"Because I haven't been at my desk all morning," he sighed. "Yes, I know she's sick. Look, can we talk about this when I get home?"
Home.
She swallowed and blinked, crossing her arms to try and keep warm as she heard the quiet beep of his phone and another heavy sigh. Slowly, she pushed open the door, leaning against the framework as he rose and turned around, jumping slightly at her sudden presence.
He tossed the phone onto his blazer on the sofa. "Look, Sam, I, uh..."
"It's okay. We were both tired. Very tired, in fact. Good thing, too, I guess, or you might even be more sorry this morning."
He sighed and looked at the floor. "You know that's not—"
"I know," she cut him off. "Sorry, I just..." she searched his eyes for help, but found none. "Sorry."
He swallowed before looking down at the wrinkled mess of his shirt, adding sleeping in his clothes to the list of regrets about last night. Finally, he released a heavy sigh.
She looked up from the floor, her arms still crossed protectively across her chest.
He met her eyes. "Is it okay if use your shower before I ..." he paused, the words trapped in his throat.
"...Go home?" she finished for him.
He licked his lips and blinked, remaining silent.
She'd always been his other woman, but until this moment, she had never felt like one.
"Yeah," she finally answered, turning away from him.
**
The familiar squeak of knobs was followed by the quiet hiss of running water and the subtle scream of the hot water flowing through the pipes. It was always odd to hear her shower when she wasn't in it, but to know he was in there and why... she tried not to think about it as she made her bed and gathered up the rest of her clothes from the tangled sheets.
She found her dress shirt and brought it to her nose; she could still smell him, and she knew that same smell was in her bed now, and yet as much as she wanted it gone, she couldn't bring herself to strip the bed and purge his presence from the room. At least not right away. If she couldn't have him forever, she could at least remember she had him for a little while.
The shirt covered her eyes now and she wept into it, hating herself as she did so, for being so dependent on something that was so treacherous to begin with. Suddenly she stopped, hearing the shrill sound of his phone again. For just a brief moment, she thought about telling him, but instead, she just squeezed her shirt and listened to one ring after another until it finally stopped.
The quiet static of the shower reclaimed the room again, and her thoughts turned to the bathroom door and the man behind it, determination washing over her features as the tears halted and her shoulders stopped slumping. And then she was moving toward the door, her fingers finding the bottom of her shirt as she pulled the material from her body.
The door opened slowly, steam seeping through the crack as it widened, and she quietly stepped out of her underwear as she made her way over to the shower door, passing his shirt and pants hanging on a towel rack. She stood at the door for a moment before slowly sliding the glass to the side, until it was open enough for her to step in. She waited until the cool air from the room hit his skin and he turned suddenly, facing her.
After his initial surprise passed, he simply stood there as the water fell against his hair, rushing into his eyes before spilling onto his chest and shoulders. There was a strange pity in his eyes amidst the sorrow, but perhaps more than anything, there was a recognition, an understanding that kept him from shutting the door, and her from turning around and walking away. She saw it, and reciprocated it, and then stepped in, shutting the door behind her.
Only a second or two passed before they moved, but it clicked by so slowly and deliberately she thought she could almost hear it in her head. It echoed, resonant and unmistakable, and she closed her eyes briefly, opening them at the same time she stepped forward.
Their mouths collided, the spray from the showerhead quickly soaking her dry hair and skin as she pressed him up against the tile. Her lips slid against his slippery ones, their mouths opening as they both inhaled deeply through their noses, her tongue demanding as it claimed his in the heat of their mouths. She ran a hand through his hair and then gripped his shoulders, as one of his hands found her hair while the other pressed flat against her lower back, pulling her against him.
She broke from his mouth, panting heavily against his lips, and then she suddenly gasped when he spun them quickly, pinning her to the wall. Her back felt the cool of the tile as he pressed against her, a collective groan-gasp rising up amidst the steam around them.
Their mouths joined in brief, firm kisses, the tips of tongues skimming across lips as she tried to speak when she could.
"Oh, God, Jack..." she gasped, her fingers gripping his wet hair. His mouth found her neck, and then her voice grew quiet. "Please..." She whimpered, but the rest of her sentence drifted off as her eyes slipped shut.
"Please... make love to me," she pleaded, her words escaping out into the steam. "Please," she repeated, his mouth hot on her neck, but she grew silent when his lips left her skin and she could sense him looking at her. Her eyes fluttered open and met his as the shower continued to drench them both, water streaming over his hair and his eyes, almost as if he was weeping.
Cupping his cheek, she whispered the word one more time, running her thumb over his lips. Her eyes were starting to burn, the saltwater from her body welling up, begging to join what was already flowing over her, but she pushed it down, swallowing hard.
A single droplet managed to escape down her cheek when he could no longer look at her, his gaze dropping to the floor.
"I'm sorry," he offered shamefully, their eyes meeting again.
She shook her head, her eyes searching for something else as they silently filled with tears.
"Oh, Sam... please don't cry," he whispered, running a hand down her hair, but she pushed him away, covering her eyes as she leaned back against the wall.
He sighed and turned off the shower, the steam quickly replaced by a chill as the cooler air of the room hit their skin. She shivered slightly when he opened the door, but she could tell he hadn't left the bathroom yet. Turning around, she buried her head in her hands and pressed her forehead against the tile.
A few seconds later, she felt softness on her shoulders, and recognized the material as her bathrobe. The warmth of his skin bled through to hers as his hands lingered on her back, moving slowly in small circles, the gesture tender enough to make her want to cry all over again for a different reason altogether.
She turned and found his eyes, darkened by a sorrow she'd only seen once before, all those months ago when they had said their goodbyes on that bench. And as the look was then, it was the same now; a sorrow mixed with resolve, as they both clung hopelessly to what they knew was ultimately a lost cause.
Looking at the floor, she leaned into his arms, her head falling against his chest. After a moment, her eyes closed as she felt his warm breath on her forehead, followed by the lingering moisture of his lips as he pressed them to her skin.
**
She didn't know how long she'd been sitting on the edge of her bed, still in her bathrobe. Perhaps five seconds, maybe an hour. Time seemed to lose meaning as she watched him get dressed, her hope dwindling with each piece of clothing he wrapped around himself.
The air was stagnant, suffocating, prickling with apprehension and fear and sadness, and she almost felt faint for a moment as she briefly shut her eyes. His clothes continued to rustle as he moved about the room, but with the deafening silence, it sounded more like the harsh, gravelly crunch of sandpaper on rough wood.
And then, the seconds slowed to near infinity as she looked over to him, and they both paused, eyes drawn to the small, round object in his hand. She hadn't even noticed that he'd taken it off, but it was impossible to ignore as he slipped it back onto his finger. It seemed to weigh down his hand as his arm fell to his side, and then he was coming closer until he came to stand in front of her.
She was still staring at his shoes when he kneeled and his face suddenly entered her field of vision. Their eyes met, and she felt sick to her stomach.
"I have to go," he whispered, but made no move toward the door.
She wanted to nod, but she just looked back at him, her eyes trying to act as arms, holding him, keeping him from walking away from her again.
A hand went to her hair, stroking it briefly before he suddenly leaned forward. His mouth tipped upward to find the top of her head, his eyes closing as he kissed her hair, just as he'd done when he'd brought her back here.
She gripped his arm, knowing she couldn't make him stay, feeling the tears swell again as he pulled back and stood up in front of her.
His shoes padded on the soft carpet as he walked away, pausing as he stopped in the doorway.
She glanced up, met his eyes.
"Bye, Sam," he said quietly. And then he was gone.
(fin.)