Title: Deliverance
Author: Stepf/CSIphile
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: None exactly, as long as you are aware of the Marie/Jack/Sam thing.
Summary: Deliverance: the act or an instance of rescuing; the process of being rescued. Sometimes the mighty need rescuing too. J/S.
AN: Thank you to everyone at Maple Streeeeeeet. Thanks to you, I felt the need to write this. Especially Dev, who encouraged me immensely to write my first Without a Trace fic. Dev, Adina, and Meggie get big thank you for telling me it didn't suck as much as I thought it did.
Please read and review, being my first WaT fic, I'm a little nervous here people. Reviews fuel the writers soul.
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Thirty, a number, not unlike every other one in the Arabic numbering system. But sometimes a number is more than just a marker of time, of things. When you see the same number over and over, something is trying to get your attention. If you chose to ignore it, it's a harbinger of evil, the bearer of bad news. A never-ending reminder of the past, the present, and the future.
The office is a testament to what havoc a mere number can cause. Silent. Empty. Dark. Abandoned even, in favor of warm houses and loved ones and comfort. But sometimes there is no comfort to be found. Sometimes a number eats into your soul and makes you wonder what happened. Life is filled with numbers, patterns. It's what makes Vegas rich. Odds. The odds had been against them that day, the house won, they lost. They lost right in front of him too. If only he hadn't waited that extra thirty seconds, if only he had ordered them in before. That child wouldn't be dead, and he wouldn't be wondering what could have been done. What SHOULD have been done had he been paying attention to the signs, to the numbers.
'There are no coincidences Jack, you should have been paying attention,' he thinks to himself and gets up from his desk. 'Attention to what exactly? Signs? Premonitions? A bad feeling? Agents don't work on that.' He sighs and walks into the bull pen. Empty. Like his soul. Everything quiet. Phones aren't ringing like they had been, no faxes with tips coming through.
Silence. Whoever said silence is golden was very, very wrong. Silence only fuels his thoughts; make him re-think more, and not just re-think what had happened that night; when it had all gone so wrong. There are thoughts of why a marriage had crumbled, and what he could have done different then also. If anything. Would it have mattered if he did? If he hadn't..If they hadn't, would his marriage still have failed under the stress of his daily job?
Thirty minutes ago the last of them had left. Martin. He had been sticking behind for Jack, and Jack knew that. What Martin didn't know was the only person that can help him isn't here. She is gone, home. To comfort. Also alone.
Walking over to the dry-erase board he pulls down the picture with a heavy heart. He had failed. He felt.nothing, except guilt. No joy in getting the bad guy, only remorse in bringing back a body instead of a boy. Martin and Danny had tried to convince him that they had all failed. There were more 'if only's' in this case than in his entire life. But in the end, it was only him. He made the call; he cost a 9 year old his life, and in the process lost more of himself than he thought possible. He wanted this case so bad to end the right way, the way it always did, the way it should have: with the kid home safely in the end, in his mother's arms eating cookies and milk. He could blame the father, the man who killed him, the man who took his own son's life. And he does, but he blames himself more for not seeing the signs which had been all over, like some mystical hint he simply wasn't getting. Nothing feels real to him, and it hadn't since this whole case started.
Thirty hours. The mother hadn't called the police until he was missing for thirty hours. She knew who had taken him, and her fear for her son's life had over-ridden her instinct to call the police. Only when she received a ransom note did she give in. Her ex-husband wanted money, for his own son, from a new, rich step-father.
Slowly Jack picks up the eraser and starts removing the physical aspect of the case. The timeline. He snorts, if only he could erase the end of real events as easily as the black markings came off under his light pressure. Coming to one line he cringes. The beginning of the end.
"Thirty thousand dollars. Unmarked bills. Lexington and 30th. 7 am." The note read, like something you only see in the movies. But this had been no movie, there was no director pointing out the thirties. Three times he had come across it, in maybe three- or was it four- hours. He should have seen it. Putting the eraser down, he couldn't finish erasing, like some talisman would come after him next for removing the signs they gave him.
Rubbing his face with his large hands, Jack didn't even hear the sounds of her heels. Barely felt it as she stopped in front of him, her clothes lightly brushing against him. Only when she finally touched him did he acknowledge her presence, bringing his hands down and looking into her eyes. Oh God, those eyes had been his undoing once before.
"Jack." Her voice, her eyes. She says so much in that one word. His name. She says it like no other person does. In one word she conveys her understanding, her compassion and her willingness to be there for him.
He can't. He can't deal with her. He failed, he lost, the house won. He can't let her see him like this, falling apart like he has never done before. Something about this one means more to him then any of the rest. He needs space, time, the rest of his life maybe, to not feel like this. Like nothing. Cold.
"Samantha." He watches her head snap up at the use of her full name. He can't. "Go home."
"I didn't just take 2 subways at," Swiftly she looks at her watch "Three a.m. for you to tell me to go home."
Quietly he regards her; she is not moving a muscle. He has seen this stance many times. "How did you even know I would be here?" he asks quietly.
She simply continues to stare at him. Of course, she knows me. She saw me at the scene. She's not dumb. He pulls away from her, stepping away from the white board with the black writing. It's giving him the creeps just standing next to it.
"Why did you come?" he asks. Honestly unsure. They had solved this, hadn't they? Spending the night together once.ok, twice, while he was married doesn't constitute a relationship. Since then they have been doing a dance of sorts. There is something still lingering from those two nights. Something they don't ignore exactly, but only allow out at certain times, generally when others aren't around. Mostly it's just comments, light touches, looks. Just enough to be there, but not interfere. Enough to remind him why he is attracted to her.
"Why? Because I know you are hurting. It wasn't your fault Jack." This time his head snaps up; she reads him so well.
"Of course it was my fault, Sam. Can't you see that? If we had gone in, instead of waiting that extra thirty seconds, James Elliot would be alive." With that he slams one hand down on the nearest desk, the clanging of assorted items there breaking into the silence. The noise is all too reminiscent of the last real thing he remembers that night, the last thing before guilt and shame clouded his thoughts and actions. A gunshot. One, single gunshot. Thirty seconds too early.
And for the next thirty years he will wonder if he did the right thing.
"Jack, you couldn't have known. None of us did. Who would imagine that man would kill his own son."
Quickly he cut her off, the anger welling up again. Guilt fueled anger. "I should have known Sam. He threatened to do it. More than once. There wasn't reason to think he wouldn't."
"He was James' father, Jack. I don't think any of us really thought he would carry out the threat. Fathers are supposed to protect their children."
He had been moving slowly closer to her. Standing, taking a few steps toward her, then leaning against another desk. She had to notice his unease, notice his anxiety. He could see the white board with the black writing behind her, he wishes she would move. But with that comment, about fathers, he stopps in his tracks. Frozen to the spot. She is wrong, very wrong. "Not always" he practically whispers.
"What?" She moves toward him, away from the board.
"I should have known, Sam."
"How? You were giving the guy time to surrender. Elliot gave no indication what he was going to do. Even SWAT agrees. You.we couldn't do anything."
She moves again, closer still. He can smell her perfume, sweet, but not overpowering. He slides down the desk, closer to her. He has to admit he needs her, like never before. He's glad she didn't leave.
"I ignored the signs." He can't believe he just admitted that to her. She's going to think he's crazy.
"Signs? What signs?" She doesn't sound like she's humoring him. He looks into her eyes again, for the first time since she got here. He can read her just as easily. She's concerned, and wants to understand.
"I gave that guy thirty seconds, I told you to hold for thirty seconds. I should have known not to. It was everywhere, Sam. Thirty hours missing, thirty thousand dollars ransom, Lexington and thirtieth. Signs. Nothing good could come of giving him thirty more seconds." With that he gets up off the desk and walks away from her, farther into the darkness of the office. No overhead lights are on, only desk lamps. There is just enough light to illuminate the white board, which he approaches, stands in front of.
"Jack.," she sighs. He can hear her, pity, she has pity for him.
"I should have seen." Her hand on his shoulder stops him. She grips it firmly and turns him toward her.
"Jack, everything could be a sign if you really want it to be. It's a coincidence. You really think that by doing your job, by waiting to storm that house you cost that boy his life? You didn't kill him Jack. David Elliot did, with his own hands. With his own gun." He can hear her, and the words make sense, but he can't help thinking 'what if'. What if that last thirty seconds had played out differently?
"Sam." He can't form a thought, her small hand has slid down his arm, stopping at his larger one. She is currently mingling her fingers with his, holding his hand carefully. He's not stopping her. "It doesn't change the fact I made a mistake, one that destroyed a family."
"You did what you thought was right. You can't be faulted for that."
Her thumb is making circles on his. It's hypnotizing. The cold he has been feeling is abating, the numbness is leaving. He can feel a little more than guilt now. Only she can do this. He wants to feel more, he needs to feel more.
Lifting his free hand he touches her cheek, running his thumb along the soft skin. It feels real, familiar.
"Thank you," he whispers, moving his hand down, touching the sensitive skin at the base of her neck. He watches her eyes close slowly as he slowly runs his fingers along her collarbone, tracing the delicate line. He feels her take a deep breath, feels her heart beat start to accelerate. This is real, this is feeling. This is what he needs. Her.
Silence again. This time it is golden. This silence doesn't hold fear, guilt or anger. The darkness seems to be retreating as well. Her. She did it. Perception, it felt dark, alone, empty without her. Not just that night either, life felt that way without her. He didn't know when it happened, either. Long before the first time they were together.
A hand on his face pulls him out of thoughts. A soft hand moving over the rough texture of his two day old beard. A small thumb just touching his lower lip, running over it. She continues on the other side of his face, tracing his jawbone, all the while slowly moving into him, closing the gap. Leaving nothing between them but clothes. Cotton, and silk and Victoria's Secret as a barrier. Not much of a barrier to what they are both thinking. It has been so long though, since they have gone down this road. She has waited, so patiently, while he tried to work it out with Marie. And when he couldn't, she never said 'I told you so', just nodded: accepting, and still waiting for him to sort it all out.
If tonight has taught him anything it's that sometimes waiting is not the prudent course of action.
Leaning in, he slowly makes light contact with her lips. They feel exactly the same as last time. Her one hand is resting on his chest, over his heart, the other snaked around to the back of his neck, holding him in place. That's his sign, and not one he is planning on ignoring. Quickly he deepens the kiss, the need to taste her overpowering. She eagerly responds, turning what had been a brushing of lips into something fervent. He pushes his hands through her hair, she presses into him a little more. He leans her against the nearest cubicle wall- some part of his brain recognizing it's Martins-, she slides her hands under his suit coat. He breaks the kiss for one moment of air, she merely looks at him. He can't stand it and quickly returns his mouth to hers, she undoes one, then two buttons. When her cool hands make contact with his hot skin he shivers slightly. This is what's real, not mystical numbers or signs, or empty offices. He's not less guilty, that won't fade for a long time coming. Life has bled back into him though. For the first time in two days he can feel again, just when he thought he never would.
Finally he pulls away from her, looking again into those blue eyes. Her hair is mussed, from his hands, her lips are slightly swollen from his lips.
"We probably.," he starts.
"Yeah. Not here," she finishes quietly.
"Sam..Thank you."
She only smiles back at him and grabs his hand as she moves past him, picking up his coat, guiding him out the doors. As he turns to lock the office doors, he peers through the smoked glass. Tomorrow they would come back and try again. A new missing person, a new challenge. They will do their best, they might win, they could lose. Jack knows his team gives 100% plus every time, no matter the outcome. And that's all he can ask, even from himself.
Fin~
Author: Stepf/CSIphile
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: None exactly, as long as you are aware of the Marie/Jack/Sam thing.
Summary: Deliverance: the act or an instance of rescuing; the process of being rescued. Sometimes the mighty need rescuing too. J/S.
AN: Thank you to everyone at Maple Streeeeeeet. Thanks to you, I felt the need to write this. Especially Dev, who encouraged me immensely to write my first Without a Trace fic. Dev, Adina, and Meggie get big thank you for telling me it didn't suck as much as I thought it did.
Please read and review, being my first WaT fic, I'm a little nervous here people. Reviews fuel the writers soul.
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Thirty, a number, not unlike every other one in the Arabic numbering system. But sometimes a number is more than just a marker of time, of things. When you see the same number over and over, something is trying to get your attention. If you chose to ignore it, it's a harbinger of evil, the bearer of bad news. A never-ending reminder of the past, the present, and the future.
The office is a testament to what havoc a mere number can cause. Silent. Empty. Dark. Abandoned even, in favor of warm houses and loved ones and comfort. But sometimes there is no comfort to be found. Sometimes a number eats into your soul and makes you wonder what happened. Life is filled with numbers, patterns. It's what makes Vegas rich. Odds. The odds had been against them that day, the house won, they lost. They lost right in front of him too. If only he hadn't waited that extra thirty seconds, if only he had ordered them in before. That child wouldn't be dead, and he wouldn't be wondering what could have been done. What SHOULD have been done had he been paying attention to the signs, to the numbers.
'There are no coincidences Jack, you should have been paying attention,' he thinks to himself and gets up from his desk. 'Attention to what exactly? Signs? Premonitions? A bad feeling? Agents don't work on that.' He sighs and walks into the bull pen. Empty. Like his soul. Everything quiet. Phones aren't ringing like they had been, no faxes with tips coming through.
Silence. Whoever said silence is golden was very, very wrong. Silence only fuels his thoughts; make him re-think more, and not just re-think what had happened that night; when it had all gone so wrong. There are thoughts of why a marriage had crumbled, and what he could have done different then also. If anything. Would it have mattered if he did? If he hadn't..If they hadn't, would his marriage still have failed under the stress of his daily job?
Thirty minutes ago the last of them had left. Martin. He had been sticking behind for Jack, and Jack knew that. What Martin didn't know was the only person that can help him isn't here. She is gone, home. To comfort. Also alone.
Walking over to the dry-erase board he pulls down the picture with a heavy heart. He had failed. He felt.nothing, except guilt. No joy in getting the bad guy, only remorse in bringing back a body instead of a boy. Martin and Danny had tried to convince him that they had all failed. There were more 'if only's' in this case than in his entire life. But in the end, it was only him. He made the call; he cost a 9 year old his life, and in the process lost more of himself than he thought possible. He wanted this case so bad to end the right way, the way it always did, the way it should have: with the kid home safely in the end, in his mother's arms eating cookies and milk. He could blame the father, the man who killed him, the man who took his own son's life. And he does, but he blames himself more for not seeing the signs which had been all over, like some mystical hint he simply wasn't getting. Nothing feels real to him, and it hadn't since this whole case started.
Thirty hours. The mother hadn't called the police until he was missing for thirty hours. She knew who had taken him, and her fear for her son's life had over-ridden her instinct to call the police. Only when she received a ransom note did she give in. Her ex-husband wanted money, for his own son, from a new, rich step-father.
Slowly Jack picks up the eraser and starts removing the physical aspect of the case. The timeline. He snorts, if only he could erase the end of real events as easily as the black markings came off under his light pressure. Coming to one line he cringes. The beginning of the end.
"Thirty thousand dollars. Unmarked bills. Lexington and 30th. 7 am." The note read, like something you only see in the movies. But this had been no movie, there was no director pointing out the thirties. Three times he had come across it, in maybe three- or was it four- hours. He should have seen it. Putting the eraser down, he couldn't finish erasing, like some talisman would come after him next for removing the signs they gave him.
Rubbing his face with his large hands, Jack didn't even hear the sounds of her heels. Barely felt it as she stopped in front of him, her clothes lightly brushing against him. Only when she finally touched him did he acknowledge her presence, bringing his hands down and looking into her eyes. Oh God, those eyes had been his undoing once before.
"Jack." Her voice, her eyes. She says so much in that one word. His name. She says it like no other person does. In one word she conveys her understanding, her compassion and her willingness to be there for him.
He can't. He can't deal with her. He failed, he lost, the house won. He can't let her see him like this, falling apart like he has never done before. Something about this one means more to him then any of the rest. He needs space, time, the rest of his life maybe, to not feel like this. Like nothing. Cold.
"Samantha." He watches her head snap up at the use of her full name. He can't. "Go home."
"I didn't just take 2 subways at," Swiftly she looks at her watch "Three a.m. for you to tell me to go home."
Quietly he regards her; she is not moving a muscle. He has seen this stance many times. "How did you even know I would be here?" he asks quietly.
She simply continues to stare at him. Of course, she knows me. She saw me at the scene. She's not dumb. He pulls away from her, stepping away from the white board with the black writing. It's giving him the creeps just standing next to it.
"Why did you come?" he asks. Honestly unsure. They had solved this, hadn't they? Spending the night together once.ok, twice, while he was married doesn't constitute a relationship. Since then they have been doing a dance of sorts. There is something still lingering from those two nights. Something they don't ignore exactly, but only allow out at certain times, generally when others aren't around. Mostly it's just comments, light touches, looks. Just enough to be there, but not interfere. Enough to remind him why he is attracted to her.
"Why? Because I know you are hurting. It wasn't your fault Jack." This time his head snaps up; she reads him so well.
"Of course it was my fault, Sam. Can't you see that? If we had gone in, instead of waiting that extra thirty seconds, James Elliot would be alive." With that he slams one hand down on the nearest desk, the clanging of assorted items there breaking into the silence. The noise is all too reminiscent of the last real thing he remembers that night, the last thing before guilt and shame clouded his thoughts and actions. A gunshot. One, single gunshot. Thirty seconds too early.
And for the next thirty years he will wonder if he did the right thing.
"Jack, you couldn't have known. None of us did. Who would imagine that man would kill his own son."
Quickly he cut her off, the anger welling up again. Guilt fueled anger. "I should have known Sam. He threatened to do it. More than once. There wasn't reason to think he wouldn't."
"He was James' father, Jack. I don't think any of us really thought he would carry out the threat. Fathers are supposed to protect their children."
He had been moving slowly closer to her. Standing, taking a few steps toward her, then leaning against another desk. She had to notice his unease, notice his anxiety. He could see the white board with the black writing behind her, he wishes she would move. But with that comment, about fathers, he stopps in his tracks. Frozen to the spot. She is wrong, very wrong. "Not always" he practically whispers.
"What?" She moves toward him, away from the board.
"I should have known, Sam."
"How? You were giving the guy time to surrender. Elliot gave no indication what he was going to do. Even SWAT agrees. You.we couldn't do anything."
She moves again, closer still. He can smell her perfume, sweet, but not overpowering. He slides down the desk, closer to her. He has to admit he needs her, like never before. He's glad she didn't leave.
"I ignored the signs." He can't believe he just admitted that to her. She's going to think he's crazy.
"Signs? What signs?" She doesn't sound like she's humoring him. He looks into her eyes again, for the first time since she got here. He can read her just as easily. She's concerned, and wants to understand.
"I gave that guy thirty seconds, I told you to hold for thirty seconds. I should have known not to. It was everywhere, Sam. Thirty hours missing, thirty thousand dollars ransom, Lexington and thirtieth. Signs. Nothing good could come of giving him thirty more seconds." With that he gets up off the desk and walks away from her, farther into the darkness of the office. No overhead lights are on, only desk lamps. There is just enough light to illuminate the white board, which he approaches, stands in front of.
"Jack.," she sighs. He can hear her, pity, she has pity for him.
"I should have seen." Her hand on his shoulder stops him. She grips it firmly and turns him toward her.
"Jack, everything could be a sign if you really want it to be. It's a coincidence. You really think that by doing your job, by waiting to storm that house you cost that boy his life? You didn't kill him Jack. David Elliot did, with his own hands. With his own gun." He can hear her, and the words make sense, but he can't help thinking 'what if'. What if that last thirty seconds had played out differently?
"Sam." He can't form a thought, her small hand has slid down his arm, stopping at his larger one. She is currently mingling her fingers with his, holding his hand carefully. He's not stopping her. "It doesn't change the fact I made a mistake, one that destroyed a family."
"You did what you thought was right. You can't be faulted for that."
Her thumb is making circles on his. It's hypnotizing. The cold he has been feeling is abating, the numbness is leaving. He can feel a little more than guilt now. Only she can do this. He wants to feel more, he needs to feel more.
Lifting his free hand he touches her cheek, running his thumb along the soft skin. It feels real, familiar.
"Thank you," he whispers, moving his hand down, touching the sensitive skin at the base of her neck. He watches her eyes close slowly as he slowly runs his fingers along her collarbone, tracing the delicate line. He feels her take a deep breath, feels her heart beat start to accelerate. This is real, this is feeling. This is what he needs. Her.
Silence again. This time it is golden. This silence doesn't hold fear, guilt or anger. The darkness seems to be retreating as well. Her. She did it. Perception, it felt dark, alone, empty without her. Not just that night either, life felt that way without her. He didn't know when it happened, either. Long before the first time they were together.
A hand on his face pulls him out of thoughts. A soft hand moving over the rough texture of his two day old beard. A small thumb just touching his lower lip, running over it. She continues on the other side of his face, tracing his jawbone, all the while slowly moving into him, closing the gap. Leaving nothing between them but clothes. Cotton, and silk and Victoria's Secret as a barrier. Not much of a barrier to what they are both thinking. It has been so long though, since they have gone down this road. She has waited, so patiently, while he tried to work it out with Marie. And when he couldn't, she never said 'I told you so', just nodded: accepting, and still waiting for him to sort it all out.
If tonight has taught him anything it's that sometimes waiting is not the prudent course of action.
Leaning in, he slowly makes light contact with her lips. They feel exactly the same as last time. Her one hand is resting on his chest, over his heart, the other snaked around to the back of his neck, holding him in place. That's his sign, and not one he is planning on ignoring. Quickly he deepens the kiss, the need to taste her overpowering. She eagerly responds, turning what had been a brushing of lips into something fervent. He pushes his hands through her hair, she presses into him a little more. He leans her against the nearest cubicle wall- some part of his brain recognizing it's Martins-, she slides her hands under his suit coat. He breaks the kiss for one moment of air, she merely looks at him. He can't stand it and quickly returns his mouth to hers, she undoes one, then two buttons. When her cool hands make contact with his hot skin he shivers slightly. This is what's real, not mystical numbers or signs, or empty offices. He's not less guilty, that won't fade for a long time coming. Life has bled back into him though. For the first time in two days he can feel again, just when he thought he never would.
Finally he pulls away from her, looking again into those blue eyes. Her hair is mussed, from his hands, her lips are slightly swollen from his lips.
"We probably.," he starts.
"Yeah. Not here," she finishes quietly.
"Sam..Thank you."
She only smiles back at him and grabs his hand as she moves past him, picking up his coat, guiding him out the doors. As he turns to lock the office doors, he peers through the smoked glass. Tomorrow they would come back and try again. A new missing person, a new challenge. They will do their best, they might win, they could lose. Jack knows his team gives 100% plus every time, no matter the outcome. And that's all he can ask, even from himself.
Fin~