# 10 - Books
Rating: T (for language)
Spoilers: S1
Genre: angst
Timeline & Setting: Barry's trial. It's messy, but deliberately so!
The experience is similar to watching an old tape, being forced to relive in detail a moment in time you never want to think about again. And she can't sort out her feelings. Confusion, certainly; fear, perhaps; discomfort, yes, absolutely.
Forward comes Sydney, forward comes Ted, forward comes Barry.
Heard the shot.
Saw the blood.
Tried to help.
Yeah, yeah, lots of screams and panic all of a sudden. All hell breaking loose… Barry? Yeah, yeah, total whacko. Or maybe, simply, a man who'd loved and lost his wife?
Confusion… yes, because they all stand within a distance of five feet from her and none of them ever meet her eyes when they speak. Have they been given instructions? Look at the jury and don't make eye contact with Samantha Spade because…
Because what, really?
Of all the things that have happened in the last few weeks, this perhaps is what puzzles her the most. She wants to shake them, ask them why they can't, ever, look at her in the eyes. Regret? Fear? Guilt? What?
Confusion, also, because every sentence, every word seem to be telling a very, very interesting story, but a story nonetheless. Something disconnected from the world, stuff a mile away from reality, something you see, perhaps, in novels and movies. Hostages, gunshots, blood. And books.
Lots of books. With titles she still sees in her sleep.
Damn it, she wants to tell them all. This is my life you're talking about. Can't you speak about that night like it's more than a story told in that glacial courtroom where a man is being tried?
"Supervisory Special Agent Jack Malone."
She watches as he stands beside her. They have questions for him. They will have questions for her too.
But his, perhaps, are harder to answer.
It's rewind and fast-forward all over again. It's every minute of that hot, painful night that he has to go through. Hostages, gunshots, blood.
And books.
Funny, how he puts it. He's spent the past three and a half weeks rehearsing this speech, these sentences, so they sound as every bit as formal and emotionless as they do now. Decision. Responsibility. Priorities. It sounds as cold and un-Jack as it can possibly sound, and she wants to clap. Bravo, Jack. You even sound like you mean it. Like I was this object you had to retrieve because it was your duty to−
Shit, why's he talking about me like that?
She feels what she's been feeling since that night− anger, pain, disappointment, loss, and this unbearable sense of confusion. Do you know what you do to me, Jack? What you mean to me? Why do you… why do you do that to me? Don't you realize that I was dead until you walked in and showed me that life meant love, and love was life?
I loved you. I still love you.
Did I tell you I love you?
He's back beside her, his face impassive, but there's this… this tremor in his gaze when he looks sideways at her. This… deep fear that she can see when he grips his seat with a trembling hand. She saw it once before, a couple of weeks ago, when he came to tell her they'd have to testify.
The judge calls for a break and she stands, stretching her bad leg.
"You ok?"
She sits again. No, Jack, not ok at all. Can't you tell? Can't you see that I'm not fine anymore? Can't you see that, Jack?
"We're gonna have to stop playing this game."
She says it like it's a fact, but in a half-whisper, because she doesn't want anyone to overhear it. A part of her hopes Jack hasn't heard either.
"What game?" he blurts out.
Ted walks by on his way out and she follows him with her eyes. Ted. The American kid who lost his innocence in a bookstore when a hostage taker unexpectedly fired his gun and shot an FBI agent. It sounds so much like a bad scenario that she laughs quietly.
"Sam?"
Anger, now. Ok, so you got the hell out of this relationship, don't you dare talk to me like we're still the best friends in the world.
"Stop calling me that."
He has this one third-frown, one-third concerned and one-third I-want-to-kiss-you look on his face. And it makes her downright uncomfortable.
"Stop pretending we're more than− than what we are." She swallows, hard. "Because we're not. Not now. Not anymore, ok?" She put a finger on his chest. "You got all you needed, Jack. You got this hostage crisis solved. You got your family back."
He stares at her fingers for a moment, like the answers are there. Like… Like she's some sort of puzzle he's still trying to solve and she wishes he could.
Wishes he had.
"What have you got?" he wonders in a breath.
I got my life, she wants to tell him.
I got this… memory of you with me.
I got−
Shit. I got nothing left.
There's a sudden activity in the room before they can continue this conversation. It signals the end of the intermission and tells her that she's up next. She's… going to be the one speaking. Remembering. Trying hard not to analyze. Trying hard not to simply come forward and say, it's unfair. That night was unfair. I got shot and I didn't deserve it. Nicole died and she didn't deserve it.
Ted finally looks at her for a brief instant.
Funny. How for the rest of her life she'll associate his face with books.
Lots and lots of books.
/ End of Books