NOWHERE MAN

By AJB

Chapter Eight

The rain blew away moments before Jack and Deputy Stevens arrived at the clinic. When Jack unfolded from the vehicle and closed the door, he took a moment to stretch out stiff limbs and a lower back that threatened to seize at any moment. Bending back to release tight muscles, he tilted his face heavenward with a slight groan; his slide into the rental car's bumper would leave a mark on his arms and chest. He could already feel it.

Jack opened his eyes to a velvet black sky full of sparkling diamond stars that were strangers to a big city. His pains momentarily forgotten, Jack realized that the term "stardust" had true meaning. Nothing else could describe the bright swath of Milky Way above, usually hidden by city lights.

"The doc has muscle relaxers," Deputy Stevens commented cheekily. Jack straightened and tipped his head in the deputy's direction. "I plan on asking for some." Steven's rubbed his lower back, his amused grin turning into a wince, and ambled toward the entrance. Jack followed with a muted grunt.

Stevens stopped at the reception desk as Jack shuffled down the hall. In the hallway's light, he noticed the specks of dried mud and the generally rumpled appearance of his suit. It didn't take long to realize that his hands couldn't brush away the damage.

"Did you bring a change of clothes?"

Nettie's voice surprised him. Jack lurched to a stop and tugged his coat together. The small woman blocked his way into Martin's room and studied him over the edge of a steaming coffee mug. Jack felt as if he'd just failed some kind of test.

"How's Martin?" he asked, somewhat surprised that he wanted to rate higher in her evaluation.

"He woke up about forty minutes ago. Samantha is with him. He was a little muddled, but awake and aware."

Jack brightened. "That's great."

He took a step to pass her, but found Nettie in his path. She moved with determined skill to block the door, forcing him to meet her eyes again. Her eyes had an accusing edge. "They are both asleep at the moment. They need the rest, don't you think?"

Jack pursed his lips and held her gaze. "Okay," he said. A tickle of anger edged his tone. After several seconds he asked, "Is there a problem, Mrs. Wells?"

As she regarded him, Jack could tell that she had questions. Uncomfortable questions.

"I hope not," she said slowly.

Jack crossed his arms over his chest and set his feet. "Spit it out," he growled. "Although, I don't see why I need to answer to you regarding my agent." Still, he felt compelled to stay where he was, made to stand attention before a tiny, wizened guard.

"Which one?" Nettie snapped, eyes smoldering.

"Excuse me?"

"Which agent, Mr. Malone?" There was a silent stand off for a tense moment before Nettie sighed and set the mug aside on a chair next to the room's doorway. "I'm sorry," she breathed, rubbing her eyes. "We are all tired

"It has been a long day," Jack agreed, relaxing his stance.

Nettie eyed him again, this time with curiosity rather than animosity. "I'm feeling rather protective about Agent Fitzgerald." She smiled wearily. "That hasn't happened in a while - it's one reason why I stopped volunteering here. Too many losses . . ."

Jack nodded. "I can understand that."

She sighed again and managed a tight smile. Her eyes narrowed as she focused directly on Jack's. "I couldn't help but notice your . . . attachment . . . to Agent Spade."

Jack quirked an eyebrow, both surprised and annoyed. "You are quite astute," he said slowly, surprised at his flash of guilt. "But it's none of your business, really."

"Probably not, but I have to wonder how this will affect Martin's recovery. As I said, I've developed a certain protectiveness." She mirrored Jack's crossed arms stance and steady stare. "Does she know? Does he know?"

"As I said, this is none of your business." What was it about this woman that made him want her acceptance? "Sam and I have a mutual affection. Martin knows." Nettie's eyebrow mimicked Jack's questioning quirk. Jack snorted in amusement. "There's nothing more. She and Martin share a much deeper connection and I am happy for them." He could see her weighing his words. "Really," he finished lamely.

Finally, Nettie acquiesced with a sharp nod and stepped aside with a smile. "And I believe you," she noted. "That boy is going to need all his friends. I heard about his father." Her eyes turned bright with banked tears. "He's very lucky to have Samantha."

"Yes, he is. He has all of his team, Mrs. Wells."

"Okay, then." She stepped aside and cleared the way to the door. "I wish you all the best of luck."

Before the word "thanks" passed Jack's lips, Nettie Wells was already striding down the hallway. Jack watched her disappear around a corner. "What the hell just happened here?" he muttered to himself as he pushed the door open and looked inside.

It took a few moments for Jack's eyes to adjust to the dim light of the room. He didn't hear anything at first, but as the forms on the narrow hospital bed slowly became visible, he heard soft, even breathing. Samantha's hair fanned across her shoulder onto Martin's chest. Stretched out on her side, she nestled against Martin, fitting perfectly to the silhouette of his body with her head snuggled deeply into the curve of his neck. Martin was on his back, one arm wrapped protectively around her. His cheek rested on her crown of gold.

Jack couldn't seem to move from the doorway as he mulled over Nettie's words. "He's lucky to have her." As he watched, the shadows etching Martin's face twitched. His breathing hitched, and Jack heard a low moan.

Samantha reacted even in sleep. She reached across Martin's torso and pulled him impossibly closer. He responded, his arm crossing hers as he completed the embrace and tucked his cheek deeper into her hair. Martin quieted. Jack, feeling like an intruder, stepped back and allowed the door to swoosh closed.

He stood in the hallway for a few minutes and sorted though his thoughts and feeling a little useless and a lot lonely. He put the feeling aside and addressed his wrinkled situation; he needed clean clothes and sleep, but not necessarily in that order. At this moment there wasn't much left to do, but tomorrow promised to be a very long, emotional day. Running his hand through his tangle of hair, Jack turned to seek Stevens and the possibility of finding a bed for the night.


The scent of wildflowers teased him, luring him through the open field circled by towering trees. He tilted his head back and saw the canopy alive with birds and butterflies. Billowing clouds puffed lazily across a deep blue sky. He scanned the grassy meadow, curiosity pushing him into a walk to try to locate the elusive garden that tickled his nose. The field was beautiful - dark emerald grass edged in light sea foam where bleached by hot, golden sun rays - but it did not yield a single blossom.

A hummingbird's wings thrummed the air near his ear as it zinged past, seeking nectar. Martin followed its sharp, woven path and his heart lifted. They were close. The wild, sweet scent grew stronger as he approached the edge of the woods. The hummingbird zipped into the stand and disappeared, leaving Martin behind.

He pushed through the grass, now thicker and hip-high., puzzled at how difficult it was to move forward. When he reached the dark shadow-line of the trees where deep green turned muddy black, Martin stopped, breathless. The air was heavy now, pressing against his lungs from the outside instead of the inside. He forced his chest to expands and suck air. Spots dotted his vision.

The ink of the woods was cold, its fingers reaching to suffocate the lone figure.

"Martin! Help him, he can't breathe!"

An unpleasant buzz cut through his brain and it awoke, pounding to awareness. Martin scratched at his head, his hands full of hair. A groan rolled up his throat and though his teeth. There was nothing but blackness and red pain.

Then cool hands cradled his cheeks. He forced his eyelids apart, stunned by the golden field before him that urged his lungs to work. Martin inhaled deeply, finding the wild flowers in Samantha's hair.

"Martin? Come on, look at me. Wake up, please? Martin?"

Wide, worried brown eyes hovered before him, drawing away his pain. Samantha's face became clear when his suffering fled. The sharp buzz ceased, replaced by a racing, but muted, beep. As his breathing eased, the beep subsided. His total focus was on her amazing eyes. He was safe.

Suddenly weary, he sighed and sagged back into the hospital bed. The recognition of where he was oddly reassuring. He heard a strange voice, lilting upward in a question.

"No, we're fine now, thanks." Sam spoke to the unseen person, but kept her eyes locked on Martin's. "Thank you, he's fine."

Martin blinked sleepily. Sam's mouth twitched into an unsure smile and her eyes glittered.

"You awake now?" she asked, stroking the side of his head.

"Yeah," Martin sighed, allowing his eyes to slip closed as he absorbed her touch. He felt her back under the flat of his hand. She trembled, and his eyes peeled open. "I scared you. I'm sorry." It was an enormous effort to talk and his words felt as heavy as stone.

"You have nothing to be sorry about. I am so happy you're here to scare me." Her voice was light with joking.

He saw truth in her eyes and smiled. He also saw concern, weariness and most of all, love. He couldn't look away. Loss washed over him when her hands left to adjust the pillows, the cool sheet and the wire leads that trailed off the bed to a monitor.

The feeling of loss bubbled in his chest. Martin touched her arm with his hand to confirm her presence as the bubbles grew and boiled, pressing his lungs again. Sam immediately noticed his growing distress and she gathered his hands in a firm grip.

"Martin, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. I'm here."

"Mom," he choked. "Dad . . ." It hurt to breathe and his vision swam. His throat was a raw wound, open and bubbling and taking away the air.

"I know, I know. I don't know what to say to take the pain away." She drew his hands up and caressed them with her lips. "I'm here. I will always be here, I promise you."

Bright tears split the shadows on her face with silver. Martin locked his eyes on them. Their warmth trailed over his knuckles, hypnotizing him. Words drawn from his parched throat reported a memory as it boiled forth.

"He didn't tell me she was sick," Martin rasped. "He said she wanted it that way. I didn't believe him -"

They met in the airport baggage claim area in Pittsburgh. Martin thought he looked distracted and wondered if Uncle Roger's death actually mattered to his dad. "That's pretty cold, even for him," Martin thought. He was about to chastise himself when Victor's distraction turned to disapproval.

"Glad to see you dressed up," Victor snipped.

Martin's defenses shot up. Already worn thin from dealing with the violent death of his friend, Martin felt lucky that he had a change of clothes in his car. Sure, a logo t-shirt and cargo pants weren't Esquire inspired, but at least they weren't bloody. Anger warmed him and he curled his fingers to hide any dried blood still caked under his nails. Fuck you and your judgments, he nearly snapped when he noticed the lines on his father's face. Okay, they were both tired. Martin chuffed shortly and remained silent as they left baggage claim and headed to the car rental counters.

While Victor arranged for a vehicle, Martin reached for his phone to call Samantha and came up empty. Slightly puzzled, it took a few moments to remember and his gut coldly rolled. He'd just stepped on the plane when Allie called and told him that Uncle Roger had passed. In shock, Martin vaguely recalled sitting and the request to go to the cabin, and then tucking the phone in the seat pocket in front of him.

"My phone," he said aloud. Victor turned, car key in hand. "I left my phone on the plane."

"You can get it later," his father snapped. "We need to get this over with."

Martin, taken aback at the venom, failed to fall in line with his father. Anger simmered again and Martin barely pushed it down. It wasn't the time or place. He followed his father out into the humid air where they collected a rental sedan. Martin tossed is backpack onto the rear seat and dropped in the front passenger's seat.

Victor put his travel bag next to Martin's and slipped behind the wheel. "Don't you have a suitcase?" He started the car as Martin buckled up.

"I was heading out to go backpacking," he snapped. "I'm lucky I had that. I was in a bit of a hurry. I hoped to see Uncle Roger before. . ." His throat closed, cutting off his voice. Martin turned to look out the window.

Once they discussed the quickest route to the cabin, heavy silence endured. Martin's mind swirled with half formed thoughts and visions as the scenery raced into darkness. The recalled sight of Ed's blood on his hands caused sweat to prickle his palms. He fought the urge to look at them, imagining blood instead. When he finally looked, odd relief made him feel sick.

A sign welcoming them to West Virginia distracted him and his thoughts turned to Roger and Bonnie. He'd spent many summers at the cabin, many happy summers filled with swimming, hiking and camp fires. His eyes burned and he cleared his throat. His children would have the same experience, he thought. Martin knew that his and Sam's parenting skills would be the exact opposite of his parents; they were reverse role-models.

"Change your shirt." Victor's first words since the airport were terse.

Martin felt up to the challenge. "There's nothing wrong with what I have on," he said distractedly, his eyes still on the passing of black woods. It began to drizzle. He felt his father's glance.

"Must everything be an argument with you?"

That got Martin's attention. He turned to his father, his face illuminated by the dashboard lights. The lines around his eyes seemed deep as he rubbed his head. Victor's frown did little to improve the map of his face.

"There's a plain t-shirt and a button-down shirt in my bag. It's better than-" he glanced at Martin. "-than whatever advertisement that is." He flicked a sharp wave in Martin's direction. "If we don't look like beggars maybe the neighbors won't call the Sheriff."

Martin's growing rage caught him off guard. He opened his mouth to argue, but something about Victor's demeanor stopped him. Victor stared straight ahead, seemingly unaware that Martin was even there. After a moment's pause, Martin unbuckled and reached back, working his dad's small suitcase open. He turned on the dome light to see and noticed Victor flinch at the sudden brightness.

Martin pulled out a white t-shirt and traded it for the one he wore. Then he flipped the suitcase completely open to dig for a cover shirt. Just as he found one, Victor growled, "Turn off the light. I have a headache."

"What is your problem?" Martin finally snapped as he flicked off the light. He shook out the shirt to find the inside tag. "Honestly, I'm surprised you're even here. I didn't think you even liked Roger; or Bonnie for that matter!"

"Don't talk to me in that tone. I deserve more respect than that." Victor rubbed his temple as he spoke.

"The last I heard, respect is earned." Martin was shocked at the words spilling from his mouth. He glanced aside, waiting for the reaction.

"You need to grow up, Martin. The world doesn't revolve around you. Your aunt and uncle spoiled you too much."

Martin blinked. "Grow up? What the hell does that mean?"

Outside, the steady drizzle turned into fat raindrops, each thud on the roof too loud in Martin's ears. Victor only gave him a grunt in reply as he turned on the wipers and gripped the steering wheel hard enough to whiten his knuckles.

"I would expect Mom to be here, seeing Roger was her sister's husband. Not you. Where is she?" Something in Victor's hesitation caught Martin attention. Alarms rang and his heart pounded. "Dad? Where is she?"

Victor's phone sang and he pulled it from his shirt pocket. It was then that Martin noticed how bad his father really looked. Martin grabbed the phone from his hand. "You're driving." He flipped the phone open, still watching his father. The look Victor gave him turned Martin cold; his father wore a mask of fear. "Martin Fitzgerald speaking."

"Martin," his father choked. The car swerved.

The caller identified himself as Doctor Weaver. After that, Martin heard only "You're Katherine's son" and "I'm sorry to report", something about "passed away" and "condolences" before the phone slipped from his grasp.

"She didn't want you to know." Victor's ragged voice replaced that of the Doctor. "We argued about it, son. It wasn't right . . ."

No words. Martin had no words, no thoughts, no emotions. Then an inhuman noise escaped Victor's throat and his hands flew up and clutched his head. The car shimmied and Martin automatically reached for the wheel . . .

Samantha cried silent tears for her lover. He blinked slowly, his huge eyes filled with despair, pain and unimaginable loss as his story trailed to a halt. His eyes pleaded for her to take it all away and all she could offer was her body. Without uttering a word, she pulled him close, enveloping him in her arms as sobs from the very depth of his soul rocked them both.

TBC

A/N: I apologize if it read rough - I kept getting interrupted.