Title: Crying On Your Shadow
Author: The Confused Idiot
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Hank Steinberg and CBS, etc.
A/N: Requested by Eolivet to include the line, "I thought I would just kiss you, you know, on the mouth, and then I could get past it." :) It was supposed to be a drabble, but...
---
He wondered how she could sleep.
Instead, he sat, awake, on the couch—the couch that was once his haven, the same couch that he had stopped sleeping on more than a year ago. And here he was again.
I don't want to be married to you anymore.
It still rang in his ears, the silvery shards beat-beat-beating into his brain.
How could she sleep? After everything, every sin he'd repented of, every tear he'd kissed off her face in the past year, every promise he'd kept. And she slept.
The empty room seemed to taunt him in the darkness, telling its story of anger and bitterness. And love. It used to be love.
He'd told her everything, started at the beginning, faced the humiliation and guilt, and promised never to do it again. And he hadn't. He still felt his heart thudding in his ears when Samantha looked at him, walked by his office, stopped in with information he needed. But he always looked away now. Always assigned her to work with Vivian or Danny or Martin. Always made sure someone else was nearby. He was hurting her, but he'd promised. He'd even tried to tell her he didn't want to, but somehow it didn't come out right.
I'm sorry if I ever hurt you.
---
She sat in her closet, knees folded up to her chin, staring into the darkness. All she'd wanted was to be loved. And to love.
I thought I would just kiss you, you know, on the mouth, and then I could get past it.
But he hadn't gotten past it that night or the next or the next when he'd kiss her on the mouth in his office, in the elevator, in the cab. Are you past it? she'd sometimes ask with a smile and wait for him to kiss her again in reply. He'd smile back, look thoughtful, kiss her again, and say no. Sometimes he forgot to say no, but she knew.
And she'd come home and sit in the closet, whispering to the darkness words that no one else could, would, should hear. Her heart still beat-beat-beating with his.
They'd said goodnight in her doorway so many times, then one night he'd said goodbye instead. And then things were different. His hand would no longer find her knee under the table at meetings; he stopped bringing coffee by her desk; someone else was always in the room. And she understood.
She'd cried that night, sitting alone in the closet, the solitary darkness pressing in around her shaking shoulders. With the fear that he'd stopped loving her—or that he never had.
Yeah, it's over.
---
How could she sleep?
Night after night he'd stayed up, packing their sheets, their books, their photographs, their coffee maker while she slept. She said she had to get up early, but so did he, and if he didn't pack, who would? So he stayed up.
There's just a lot to do...
Now he was still up, but the boxes of their things were somewhere in the back of a truck bound for Chicago. Their things. Things they had bought together, received as wedding gifts, bought for their girls. Things she was taking. Leaving only an apartment whose lease was up and papers for him to sign.
What had he done wrong? He'd picked the girls up from school every day, packed their lunches, sent her flowers at the office. All the things a good husband should do. And now punished, abandoned, rejected.
He'd thought about leaving so many times—leaving for real, not just a few months here or there. Then he'd spend an afternoon with the girls at the zoo, watching them make silly faces at the monkeys, and he'd melt inside. Some days their smiles and sticky hands in his told him that they loved him more than their mother did. And it had turned out to be true.
He wondered if they would miss him. If she would tell them that he loved them. If she would tell them about the horrible thing Daddy had done to her.
If they would ever know what she had done to him—and that eventually, he did the right thing.
It's your turn.
---
She stared into the darkness.
Somewhere, beyond where she could see, a figure stirred under the blankets. She shrank back into her corner, hoping he wouldn't wake up, notice she was gone. Realize that she regretted it.
Want to share a cab?
She'd only asked him because it was expected, clichéd, like two kids and a white picket fence. What she should have done all along because it was the right thing.
Deep inside she knew it was because she hadn't wanted to be alone. To walk into the apartment alone and to go to sleep alone and to wake up and go to work alone. Forever alone. So she asked him.
Doing the thing that hurt her the most—with a smile on her face—because somewhere, somehow, she deserved it. Deserved the pain, the heartache, the walking around every day with half a heart. Deserved taking home the man she didn't want because she could never have the one she did. She had to go and fall in love with someone who could never love her back.
All she'd really wanted was to put her head on Jack's shoulder and say goodbye. Please tell me it's okay to cry.
---
He couldn't sleep.
There was nothing left for him to do but he stared at the ceiling from the couch with eyes unable to close. Unconsciously they scanned the sterile walls, moving to the places where he expected pictures, bookcases, and shelves. Reminding him that nothing would be the same again. Most of the furniture and boxes were gone, leaving only a skeleton to remain in his care.
I don't want you to come with us.
Rejected and terrified. He had gotten so used to this life that he wondered if he might miss her when she was gone, even after all she had done and put him through. Even after all the fights they'd had, the days they'd gone without speaking to each other.
He wanted to blame her, be angry with her, hate her for it. But hate is a disease, he knew, because he saw it every day—saw it, smelled it, felt it, breathed it. And he couldn't live like that.
He stared into the darkness, knowing that somewhere deep inside there was a relief washing over his soul, relief that he didn't have to give up all of this life after all. He still had his city, his people, his father, Samantha.
Samantha. He wished she were with him in this darkness, next to him on the couch. Wished he could put his head on her shoulder and have her tell him that it was okay to cry. That he should cry because things would never be the same again and he really would miss them and he really was sorry that he had hurt her. And because he had missed her.
He could feel the tears in his ears first, then on his cheeks as they rolled off his nose and onto the pillow.
---
The darkness stared back at her.
Tears dripped from her face and fell to the floor, tears that she tried in vain to hold back when she remembered Martin in her bed. Remembered Martin sitting her down and asking her about Jack.
I guess old feelings die hard.
But the tears told her that they didn't really die or fade. It was as if he had died, and a part of her had died along with it. They were dying, and nothing could ever make it right.
She would go back to work incomplete, with an aching in her chest because she could never get that completeness back without him. He was the best thing that had ever happened to her. He made her whole and complete. He was the only person who knew the real her, the Samantha who could cry or be silly or laugh so hard she couldn't stand up.
And she'd never again have the comfort of having him near. She could never open the door and have him standing there, making her smile or laugh before he was even inside. She would never be able to pass his office and see him at his desk, never share her passion for their work with anyone the way she had with him.
Never tell him goodbye, never whisper in his ear the things that the darkness had heard so long ago.
She sat awake in the closet, her knees pressed close to her chest and tears on her face, surrounded by a darkness that tried to comfort.
[end]
Author: The Confused Idiot
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Hank Steinberg and CBS, etc.
A/N: Requested by Eolivet to include the line, "I thought I would just kiss you, you know, on the mouth, and then I could get past it." :) It was supposed to be a drabble, but...
---
He wondered how she could sleep.
Instead, he sat, awake, on the couch—the couch that was once his haven, the same couch that he had stopped sleeping on more than a year ago. And here he was again.
I don't want to be married to you anymore.
It still rang in his ears, the silvery shards beat-beat-beating into his brain.
How could she sleep? After everything, every sin he'd repented of, every tear he'd kissed off her face in the past year, every promise he'd kept. And she slept.
The empty room seemed to taunt him in the darkness, telling its story of anger and bitterness. And love. It used to be love.
He'd told her everything, started at the beginning, faced the humiliation and guilt, and promised never to do it again. And he hadn't. He still felt his heart thudding in his ears when Samantha looked at him, walked by his office, stopped in with information he needed. But he always looked away now. Always assigned her to work with Vivian or Danny or Martin. Always made sure someone else was nearby. He was hurting her, but he'd promised. He'd even tried to tell her he didn't want to, but somehow it didn't come out right.
I'm sorry if I ever hurt you.
---
She sat in her closet, knees folded up to her chin, staring into the darkness. All she'd wanted was to be loved. And to love.
I thought I would just kiss you, you know, on the mouth, and then I could get past it.
But he hadn't gotten past it that night or the next or the next when he'd kiss her on the mouth in his office, in the elevator, in the cab. Are you past it? she'd sometimes ask with a smile and wait for him to kiss her again in reply. He'd smile back, look thoughtful, kiss her again, and say no. Sometimes he forgot to say no, but she knew.
And she'd come home and sit in the closet, whispering to the darkness words that no one else could, would, should hear. Her heart still beat-beat-beating with his.
They'd said goodnight in her doorway so many times, then one night he'd said goodbye instead. And then things were different. His hand would no longer find her knee under the table at meetings; he stopped bringing coffee by her desk; someone else was always in the room. And she understood.
She'd cried that night, sitting alone in the closet, the solitary darkness pressing in around her shaking shoulders. With the fear that he'd stopped loving her—or that he never had.
Yeah, it's over.
---
How could she sleep?
Night after night he'd stayed up, packing their sheets, their books, their photographs, their coffee maker while she slept. She said she had to get up early, but so did he, and if he didn't pack, who would? So he stayed up.
There's just a lot to do...
Now he was still up, but the boxes of their things were somewhere in the back of a truck bound for Chicago. Their things. Things they had bought together, received as wedding gifts, bought for their girls. Things she was taking. Leaving only an apartment whose lease was up and papers for him to sign.
What had he done wrong? He'd picked the girls up from school every day, packed their lunches, sent her flowers at the office. All the things a good husband should do. And now punished, abandoned, rejected.
He'd thought about leaving so many times—leaving for real, not just a few months here or there. Then he'd spend an afternoon with the girls at the zoo, watching them make silly faces at the monkeys, and he'd melt inside. Some days their smiles and sticky hands in his told him that they loved him more than their mother did. And it had turned out to be true.
He wondered if they would miss him. If she would tell them that he loved them. If she would tell them about the horrible thing Daddy had done to her.
If they would ever know what she had done to him—and that eventually, he did the right thing.
It's your turn.
---
She stared into the darkness.
Somewhere, beyond where she could see, a figure stirred under the blankets. She shrank back into her corner, hoping he wouldn't wake up, notice she was gone. Realize that she regretted it.
Want to share a cab?
She'd only asked him because it was expected, clichéd, like two kids and a white picket fence. What she should have done all along because it was the right thing.
Deep inside she knew it was because she hadn't wanted to be alone. To walk into the apartment alone and to go to sleep alone and to wake up and go to work alone. Forever alone. So she asked him.
Doing the thing that hurt her the most—with a smile on her face—because somewhere, somehow, she deserved it. Deserved the pain, the heartache, the walking around every day with half a heart. Deserved taking home the man she didn't want because she could never have the one she did. She had to go and fall in love with someone who could never love her back.
All she'd really wanted was to put her head on Jack's shoulder and say goodbye. Please tell me it's okay to cry.
---
He couldn't sleep.
There was nothing left for him to do but he stared at the ceiling from the couch with eyes unable to close. Unconsciously they scanned the sterile walls, moving to the places where he expected pictures, bookcases, and shelves. Reminding him that nothing would be the same again. Most of the furniture and boxes were gone, leaving only a skeleton to remain in his care.
I don't want you to come with us.
Rejected and terrified. He had gotten so used to this life that he wondered if he might miss her when she was gone, even after all she had done and put him through. Even after all the fights they'd had, the days they'd gone without speaking to each other.
He wanted to blame her, be angry with her, hate her for it. But hate is a disease, he knew, because he saw it every day—saw it, smelled it, felt it, breathed it. And he couldn't live like that.
He stared into the darkness, knowing that somewhere deep inside there was a relief washing over his soul, relief that he didn't have to give up all of this life after all. He still had his city, his people, his father, Samantha.
Samantha. He wished she were with him in this darkness, next to him on the couch. Wished he could put his head on her shoulder and have her tell him that it was okay to cry. That he should cry because things would never be the same again and he really would miss them and he really was sorry that he had hurt her. And because he had missed her.
He could feel the tears in his ears first, then on his cheeks as they rolled off his nose and onto the pillow.
---
The darkness stared back at her.
Tears dripped from her face and fell to the floor, tears that she tried in vain to hold back when she remembered Martin in her bed. Remembered Martin sitting her down and asking her about Jack.
I guess old feelings die hard.
But the tears told her that they didn't really die or fade. It was as if he had died, and a part of her had died along with it. They were dying, and nothing could ever make it right.
She would go back to work incomplete, with an aching in her chest because she could never get that completeness back without him. He was the best thing that had ever happened to her. He made her whole and complete. He was the only person who knew the real her, the Samantha who could cry or be silly or laugh so hard she couldn't stand up.
And she'd never again have the comfort of having him near. She could never open the door and have him standing there, making her smile or laugh before he was even inside. She would never be able to pass his office and see him at his desk, never share her passion for their work with anyone the way she had with him.
Never tell him goodbye, never whisper in his ear the things that the darkness had heard so long ago.
She sat awake in the closet, her knees pressed close to her chest and tears on her face, surrounded by a darkness that tried to comfort.
[end]