Some Danny/Sam friendship in this chapter. tidbit: oh, you'll find out. I'm not saying when, though ; )
Chapter 10- Day off
Following Day - Lunchtime
CSIs, after all, are not very different from FBI agents. They share the same passion for law enforcement, the same feeling of satisfaction when the good guys win and the bad guys go to jail. It's pleasant to discuss the aspects of the job with someone who understands, and by the time dessert is served, Samantha realizes she's very much into the conversation. Eric digs into his cheesecake, grinning when he sees Sam's disgusted look.
"Admit it," she chooses to pursue the subject, "A CSI's job is less dangerous than an FBI agent's."
"But more complicated," he retaliates in between mouthfuls of the God-awful cake. "It's all about details and fine-tuning. Inspecting a crime scene's an art. You have to pay attention to every element, learn the techniques."
"What, like fingerprinting?"
"Exactly. You guys don't even know to lift prints properly."
"Because we don't have the right tools, Eric. You don't think I could manage with a CSI's kit and powder?"
He scratches his chin. "Well, you're blonde."
Flabbergasted, she finds she doesn't even know what to reply.
A joking grin lights up his expression. "I think−"
"You actually think?" she mocks, getting even.
"Ah. Never mind," he laughs.
She tastes a bite of her pie, remembering her conversation with Martin as she savors the cherries and crusty dough. They fall silent for a minute, idle chat and forks the only sounds in background. Having lunch with Eric on her day off wasn't such a bad idea, after all. She's glad to see him outside of work, outside of the confines of an office.
"What does it feel like, getting shot?"
She freezes at the question.
"Eric−" she warns, not wanting him to go there because for the first time in days she was actually enjoying lunch.
His eyes meet hers, and she can tell he needs to know, needs her to tell him if his partner felt the blazing pain and his own blood pouring from a hole so deep it leaves a void inside you, an emptiness where there used to be flesh.
"Nothing," she lies. "You don't have time to think."
"Not even about what's happening?"
"No. It doesn't hurt, it's numb, and then… then it's dark." And you fall, she wants to tell him. "Then you stop thinking, Eric, and it just… it kind of feels blurred, you know?"
He considers her words, considers what Alex's life became in those last seconds. Knowing where his thoughts are drifting and why, she attempts to find the few words of comfort that always escape her. "You couldn't know Alex was going to die, Eric. It could've been anyone… it could've been no one."
"I know," he says with a defeated sigh. "I just… sometimes I wonder what if… what if it had been me and whether I would have given my life to save that little girl and if I hadn't… what does that make me, Samantha?"
Shifting uncomfortably in her restaurant chair, she tries to ease his guilt. "It wasn't your fault," she says forcefully. She, of all people, knows what happens when you lose yourself in the what-ifs.
Eric takes out some cash, nodding in silence. "I'm sorry. I'm not very good company," he suddenly laughs. "How much for the psych consult?"
She laughs it off as well. "I think I'd make a dreadful shrink." Tilting her chin at his wallet, she reminds him, "I'm buying. I invited you, remember?"
"It used to be the other way around."
"Yeah, but I owe you."
"It wasn't so hard," he shrugged. "All I had to do was tell my boss the wound marks on Mathew and Ryan fit the marks found on Jeremy Holloway fifteen years ago. If you hadn't told me about Irina Connelly in the first place, we still wouldn't have anything to link the cases. Now my boss thinks I'm a genius." He rises from the table, and she follows him as they exit the restaurant.
Stepping out, he turns to her curiously. "Am I ever going to know the whole story?"
Sam hesitates. "Oh, I don't know. You might."
"On another one of your days off?"
She thinks about the piles of files she's supposed to review. Somehow, day off and leisure time have completely opposite meanings. "We've got a lot on our plates nowadays− tons of paperwork. I'm not sure I'll ever see the dawn of another day off."
"Well then, good luck," he says supportively. Pausing, he waits a second before asking, "Are we still on for Christmas eve?"
"Definitely."
o o § o o
She doesn't know what she expects. Maybe for the video to have changed since the previous evening. The tapes are old, grainy, with grey horizontal lines on the images every now and then− not DVD quality, but they certainly show more than enough.
She replays the last scene. The slow approach, the badge raised so that the other officers back away.
What was so important for Jack to tell Irina in a courtroom? Why the sudden need to talk? Why the whispers, inaudible but for Irina, why the silent promise he seemed to be settling with the hand-squeeze?
Sam leans back into her couch, the files she has to go over piled on the coffee table. One last question tugs at her mind before she turns off the TV, and it's the one that troubles her the most.
Why didn't Jack want her to see the tapes?
o o § o o
"Oh, wow," Sam says as she opens her apartment door in the evening. She laughs, slightly hysterical. "My God, Danny, you've bought Thai food for twelve?"
"I figured you'd be hungry," he says lightly. "Who wouldn't be, after so much paperwork?"
She refrains from telling him that she has enough left-over as it is, and then she turns to him questioningly. He'd said he'd call her to update her on the day's events, but him showing up for dinner is unexpected. For a second, she considers protesting− saying she's tired, which is true, and not hungry, which also happens to be true. However, she can't find the heart to dash his joyful mood.
"I asked for some extra spicy sauce," Danny explicates, and for a moment cardboard boxes hover dangerously in the air.
"Ah," she comments, saving him the trouble of having to balance them in a pile by grabbing the top box. "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, is that it?"
"My point exactly." He sighs in relief when the assortment of spicy sauces, pork chops, and fried rice arrives safely on the kitchen table.
After ten minutes of casual conversation, finding something to drink to complete the takeout, and a couple of paper napkins that the Thai restaurant forgot to include on the menu, they both take comfortable seats on her couch.
"So are you going to tell me why you're here?"
"I just thought you could use it."
Samantha looks down at her plate. "The food?"
"The company."
"Right." She starts to eat, finding out that she's hungrier than expected. And, well, it's nice not to be alone with the files and video footage. She still doesn't know what to think of what she saw on the latter.
"Jack briefed us this morning about Irina Connelly. The CSI team did a really good job of finding coincidences between Ryan, Mathew, and the guy she killed back in '87."
Sam simply nods, knowing Eric couldn't have done it better. Just then, Danny adds, "She's a real sick one."
She puts her chopsticks down for a moment, asking carefully, "What did Jack tell you?"
"Irina Connelly, forty-one year old female, born in Pittsburgh from an American father and an Irish mother who'd moved to the States as a kid. Lost her father when she was young, went to school like every kid in the block, then went to College," Danny recites, like a well-learned lesson. "She has a Master's degree in Psychology, and a grudge against the Marines who presumably killed her father."
Sam already knows this, but it doesn't hurt to hear it summarized once more.
"Jack went to College with her." Danny waits, trying to figure out how Sam reacts to this news. When she doesn't, he continues, "In June 1987 she killed her first Marine, Jeremy Holloway, getting away with only a mild sentence because she claimed self-defense. She was quiet for fifteen years, biding her time. Prison affects most people, but Jack said she was pretty calm the last time he saw her."
"You mean in court."
"No, in prison."
At this, Samantha's head shots up. Trying to keep her voice even, she asks, "He went to visit her?"
"About ten years ago, but I guess it doesn't count now that she's out. Jack told you all this, didn't he?"
Making a mental note to ask Jack about this visit, Sam tries to sort out her feeling. If there's one good thing that came out of the past few days, it's the renewed comfort Jack and she have with each other. She wants to treasure the thought, but has to face the obvious: there are things he's not telling her.
"How are you, Sam?" Danny asks out of the blue.
Startled out of her thoughts, she answers, "Good." Seeing his doubtful frown, she sighs, pushing some fried rice on the side. "I don't know."
"Why not?"
"Because…" she doesn't even know where to start. Laughing to shake off the question, she points out, "You're starting to act like my shrink."
"Your shrink brings you takeout for dinner?" Danny jokes. Eating a bite, he chews and declares, "You should rest more often." And at her annoyed expression, he adds, "You have to rest, Sam. You never leave the office."
"I did today."
"You know what I mean."
She has to admit it's true. But she loves her job. Mostly, she likes to walk past Jack's office on some nights, picturing him in her mind, seeing the tilt of his head or his hunched shoulders. She can have him that way; she can love him without having to think of what it means, without having to think of rules, wives, OPR reviews. "I like it at the office."
"But it's not home, Sam."
"It feels like it sometimes."
"Because Jack's there?"
She's surprised Danny's decided to be so direct. Maybe it's a result of that spicy Thai sauce− it frees the tongue. Looking at him, she lets the question float in the air before she suddenly realizes why it is that Danny is the only one she can talk to about Jack. He's never judged her, never given her those snide comments that have the power to hurt. He's always just accepted the facts, been distant yet supportive, quiet yet always there when she needed him.
"You've never commented on it." She looks away, adds quietly, "On us."
He digs into his cardboard takeout container, taking another bite, the question always easier than the answer. "Does it matter?" he asks slowly.
"To me, yes."
"What do you want me to say, Sam?" he replies. "He was married. Is still married. Do I think it was wrong? Yes. Would I change it if I could? No." She looks up at his last words. "I've seen the way you look at him. The way he looks at you. And… there are things you can't change."
"Like what?"
He pauses, as if surprised of having said so much already. He averts his eyes, drops them on his plate of rice, as if wondering as well about the side effects of the spicy Thai food.
"Jack and you. You have… I don't know, you just have this bond, this thing that's so obvious. Like… you're his and he's yours despite everything else and you're always going to be together somewhere near the heavens."
She smiles at him sadly. "I wish that were true, Danny."
Making a conscious effort to drive the conversation out of these waters, she changes the subject. "Don't you have some good news to cheer me up? Didn't the Mets win a game or something?" she asks, knowing that regular season doesn't start until April.
"I've heard a record got broken last night."
Puzzled, she waits. "Really?"
"Yeah. They've sold more Christmas front-door bells than ever before in New York," he grins.
She reaches sideways and steals his chopsticks, and he quickly attempts to take hers− except she's made sure they were out of his reach. Laughing, he takes her cardboard plate.
"You're got the sticks and I've got the food− trade?"
She laughs with him, shakes her head, and hands him his chopsticks. She gets back what's left of her fried rice.
"They found Julia safe and sound," Danny says, seriously.
Sam leans back against the couch. Julia Thompson, the wife who disappeared after her conference in Dallas. "Alone?"
"No. I was leaving this news for dessert, but since you're asking… she tried to get her kid back− Richie. It turns out you were right, she'd given him up for adoption, then decided she couldn't live without knowing her son. Her plan was to leave with him and go to Atlanta."
Curious, she wonders, "What's in Atlanta?"
"She had an interview there for a job. She really wanted to change her life. It's going to work out for her; the foster family agreed it was best for Richie to visit his mom from time to time. After a trial period, it'll be up to him to choose whether or not he'll live with her. And the husband said he'd file for divorce."
Dropping her shoulders, like a weigh's been lifted off them, Sam lets her gaze travel to the empty takeout container, and she's a bit taken aback when she discovers how much they've eaten. The pork chops for twelve look like they were indeed for two. Rising, she stretches her legs and gathers the remains of their dinner− dirty plates and napkins− with the hope that Julia can finally live the life she wants.
Danny follows her to the kitchen to help, then suddenly freezes in the doorway. "Samantha?" he looks surprised and maybe a little bit uncomfortable.
"What?" she shoves the plates in the trashcan.
"Why are you carrying your gun inside your apartment?"
Her eyes drop to the holster clipped to her belt, her fingertips grazing the cool metal of her brand new Glock 23. She knows its characteristics by heart. 21.16 oz empty, 31.03 if loaded. Trigger pull, 5.5 lbs, with 13 bullets. She knows what it feels like when one of these .40 S&W, straight, rimless bullets breaks through layers of skin and flesh and what sound it makes.
Jack has a loathing for guns she never understood until the day she saw her own weapon pointed at her, until she saw the blood on the red carpet and his stained shirt, the darkness in his gaze.
"Are you feeling unsafe?" Danny worries. After a second, something seems to click in his mind. "Jack… There's something Jack and you aren't talking about. Something about this case. Isn't there?"
She shakes her head. "This is personal, Danny. This case is… personal."
"And Jack's wife and kids? Are they in danger too?"
"No, no. They're not. He− Jack doesn't think his family's the target. Connelly wants his career… his reputation. That's what she's after."
"And how is she going to do that? By killing innocents so that Jack looks bad on TV?"
Sam doesn't answer. She knows how Jack's reputation can be ruined. She leans back against the counter, thinking about the pictures in Irina's possession. Her scheme is clearer now that it was before. Blackmailing Jack was the first step; killing Marines was the second. Using the pictures comes third.
"Samantha−"
"Don't start, Danny."
He looks hurt and a bit uncertain and like all true friends, though, he does exactly the contrary, and comes to stand in front of her. Knowing it won't go away just because she says so.
"Oh God," she whispers, feeling desperate.
And like all friends, he wraps her in a hug, giving her some amount of comfort, and a shoulder to cry on.
tbc...