TITLE: Will
AUTHOR: Blaze
RATING: PG, maybe? There's a not-nice word in there somewhere. ;-) Spoilers? I don't think so.
SUMMARY: Answer, don't answer, lie by omission, just lie, tell her the truth. J/S.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, by any means, although I'd be totally honored to own such a rocking show.
A/N: I hate headers. That's all. Wise One: Thanks, dude. You rock.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was as if someone had stolen his cortex and his memories, sandwiched them into a blender and hit Pulse. Colors played on each other, tastes and sights intertwined with skinned knees and cigarettes, his first beer and the last time he'd seen Star Wars. The feel of crime scene tape and the smell of sulfur were becoming one and the same. That deep nausea he'd always felt right before he threw up and a chill he only associated with fever and nightmares washed over him and he took a stilted deep breath, exhaling in a rush.
Oh my God.
He was sure his skin was burning, he could feel a thin layer of heat over his face, but he was so cold underneath. So cold.
This was not happening.
"Jack? I'm real sorry, man. I'll, uh, I'll come by for the papers tomorrow, okay? And, if you need anything, a beer, whatever, call." Cobb, the bastard. A good lawyer would've called before his client had gotten divorce papers. And even a semi-good lawyer wouldn't have left a message.
He replaced the receiver, adjusted his glasses, and removed the cover letter. Scanned the first page quickly, noting with interest that he hadn't seen his full name written out in ages, not since they'd applied for a marriage license. There was some sort of irony in that, and Jack made himself promise to forget his middle name ever existed-it was obviously a curse.
Ah, the magic reason. Irreconcilable differences. In Marie-ese, as spoken through her lawyer, "You're a cheating, lying workaholic, and I don't want to be married to or have my children exposed to a lying slut of your caliber."
Well, she probably wouldn't have used 'slut'.
She shouldn't have kissed him. He shouldn't have kissed her. And not just because he had a ring on, not because his wife was on line two, not because he was her boss, not because there was a file folder full of autopsy photos of a little boy sitting inches from them. There were a thousand and one reasons they should've avoided each other's lips--regulations, age, that damn ring--and yet, there they were.
What do you do when your boss slams a child's life in pictures and reports on his desk, and, voice just under a roar, says, "He's FIVE, Samantha! Five years old. This shouldn't have happened to a five-year-old."
Samantha wasn't sure, but she was convinced that kissing him probably wasn't an appropriate response. Especially not at work when his wife was on hold. And line two was definitely blinking, the blinds were drawn on his door, it was almost nine o'clock, no one was there, and they really, really needed to stop.
She wanted custody of the girls. She wanted the house and she wanted that godawful statue she'd picked up on their honeymoon. It was worth a couple hundred dollars, but he'd made no secret of how much he hated it, and wasn't even sure why she'd put it into the claim. Asserting that something from the last few years was still hers? Everything had been hers.
He sighed, taking off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. This was going to be hell.
So make it easy on yourself and sign it. Give her everything she wants. You beat up the marriage anyway, every late night case, every trip out of town, every missed school event, anniversary, birthday. You killed it dead with Samantha, but it was already dying, no matter how much you sutured and transfused and gave it oxygen. That little emergency room separation was never going to fix it, and you knew it.
He picked up a pen.
Uncapped it.
Turned to the dotted line.
Touched the tip to paper, added just enough pressure to begin the first smooth line of a J.
And stopped.
He couldn't sign away his girls, his house, his marriage. He couldn't sign away the last decade of his life, couldn't sign away Marie. He couldn't sign away that statue, either. He was not going to sign his name on the death certificate.
"Shit." The pen dropped from his hand.
Why is this so hard?
I don't know.
Are you happy?
No.
Is she happy?
No.
Is this making the kids happy?
No. Well. . . I haven't been around much lately. . . No.
Then what's the problem?
I don't know.
Are you still in love with her?
I. . .
Jack?
"Jack?" Samantha.
He started, looked up quickly from the papers and the pen to meet her eyes. "Yeah?"
She either hadn't noticed his jumpiness or was ignoring it. "Just wanted to let you know before I headed out that the Megivern interview went really well-" Megivern? "-The guy's a Kafka freak, thinks he's Gregor, might turn into a bug any second, but he saw a lot. Told us most of it between the insistence that he was late for his train and was going to lose his job and the boss was going to ream him for it. . ." Sam paused, cocked her head slightly and, her tone halfway between annoyance and glee, said, "You're not listening."
"I'm sorry," he said, exhaling. "I was trying to place your subject."
"Taxi driver disappears after he drops off his last fare. Last fare's name is Johnny Megivern, reads a lot of Kafka, and, uh, is losing it upstairs. Shame, really, he's only a kid." Her eyebrows furrowed as she focused on his face. "Are you okay?"
"Hmm?" Damn it. Don't let her know, don't let her know. "I'm fine."
She pointed at something on his desk. "You took off your ring, Jack."
I did? He followed her finger to the papers, where his ring rested, propped up slightly on the pen. "Yes, I did." His eyes met hers, a quick flash of his eyebrows and the challenge was set.
"You never take your ring off." Not at work, not at home, not when you wash dishes, not in the shower, not with me. "Hey." She moved closer to his desk, to him, to the papers. "Is everything all right?"
Ah, hell. She was going to find out eventually. "No." He took a deep breath, let it out, and said, "Marie. . ." Her face tightened nearly imperceptibly at the name. "Marie doesn't want to make it work any more."
"Jack, I. . ."
"Marie doesn't want to be married to me anymore, I can't say I want to be married to her anymore, either, but I can't sign the papers, Sam. I didn't think it would be this hard."
"Neither did I. But some things just have to be done. If you aren't happy and she's not happy, there's no point making both of your lives difficult." She grew quiet, averted her eyes, looking at the floor as a range of emotions crossed her face, then looked back up at him and asked, "Do you still love her?"
Marie on the day he met her. Marie on their third date. Marie's parents. Fumbling to extract a proposal from his stumbling tongue. First phone call from the first big all-nighter at work. Final emergency page. Holding a baby that, for the first time, was half his. Meeting Sam. Teasing Sam. Working with Sam. Calling and being called at all hours of the night. Horrific case made better with support from someone who understood. A place to stay, a couch to sleep on. Kissing Marie, kissing Samantha, realizing just how different the feeling had become.
"Love is a concept," he said finally, the lie slipping smoothly past his tongue. "Love is a learned behavior."
Something unrecognizable, but definitely dark passed over her face. "Love is a concept?"
He nodded.
"Then why does that hurt so much?" she asked, gesturing at the papers and his ring. "God, Jack, this isn't like failing a math test. This isn't changing classes until you find a professor you like. This isn't brushing off gravity because you don't like the concept!"
"Fine. I'm in love with her, I've always loved her, I can't not be in love with her."
"Don't lie to me." Every word so carefully pronounced, so commanding, he almost wanted to check his nameplate, see who was really in charge of the unit.
"I don't know that I was."
"Are you sleeping with her, Jack?"
"Marie, I. . ."
"Damn it, are you sleeping with her?"
Answer, don't answer, lie by omission, just lie, tell her the truth. She's crying, Jack. Are you going to tell her the truth or tell her the lie?
"Marie. . ." Deep breath. A drink would've been nice before this came out. "Yes."
"Oh my God." She looks like hell. "How long?"
I hate hearing your voice break. I hate seeing tears on your face. I hate that you hate me. "Not very long."
Sam's voice whispered, "So this is what they mean by taking my work home with me," in the dark of a chilly night as Marie's face crumpled in full daylight, and his wife's voice, so very different from that of his agent's, hissed, "Get out."
The chill had returned, and seemed to be spreading. It was silent in his office, quiet outside, and the world at that moment consisted of the two of them and those damn papers. She hadn't taken her eyes off of him, but he couldn't keep his eyes on her or the papers for very long.
The papers were intolerable. Physical, legal proof of how bad he'd screwed up three lives too many.
Sam was certainly tolerable, but every time he made eye contact with her, she fixed him with the intense gaze she gave suspects.
"You're staring, Samantha," he commented, his voice partly teasing, as he moved his eyes away from hers again. That look could make anyone uncomfortable, and it was certainly working its magic now.
"I know." So calm, so simple. She knows exactly what she's doing. And doing a damn good job of keeping it from me.
"Didn't your mother ever tell you that it's impolite to stare?"
"My mother told me a lot. Doesn't mean I listened to all of it." She gave him a slight smile.
"What did she say about your divorce?"
"She told me I was too young, I should've waited until after college to marry him. Which I'd figured out, of course."
"Did you love him?"
"Of course I did. I wouldn't have married him if I didn't love him. Did I love him when we got divorced? Yes. But not like I had when I married him. Do I love him now? No." She reached across his desk and picked up his ring. "I don't think this is about love, Jack. This is about. . ." Samantha paused, looked at the ring. "You never take this off. Are you willing to take it off and hurt or are you going to put it back on and hurt?"
Jack raised an eyebrow. "You're speaking in tongues."
Sam frisbee-ing a bagel at his head, handing him a cup of coffee, not tainting either flavor with guilt.
She shrugged. "Lawyers speak in tongues, politicians speak in tongues, writers speak in tongues. Everyone does-- it's just a matter of knowing the speaker so you can decipher the code."
"I know you, and I can't fully decipher that sentence."
A corner of her mouth lifted. "Maybe you don't know me as well as you think you do."
"Maybe not." He caught her looking at the clock and said, "Why don't you go home? Day's over." She hesitated for a moment, so he continued, "Sam, please. Go home."
Samantha saluted. "Yessir, SAC Malone. I will report immediately to the barracks, sir. Anything else, sir?"
"Don't be such a smartass, Agent Spade."
"You wouldn't know what to do with me if I stopped being a smartass, and you know it," she grinned. Her face changed, her voice lowered, and she added, "If you need anything, you know where I am."
"I do." He inhaled as she got up, walked to the door, and left the office, exhaled as the door shut.
Marie. "I love you."
He picked up the pen.
Sam. "Hey, where are you going? Work's not supposed to leave before breakfast."
Uncapped it.
"That's the girl, that's the one, she's your whore?"
Stared down the dotted line.
"Marie, I can't transfer her, I can't make her go. It's not up to me!"
Sighed.
This was going to be hell.
AUTHOR: Blaze
RATING: PG, maybe? There's a not-nice word in there somewhere. ;-) Spoilers? I don't think so.
SUMMARY: Answer, don't answer, lie by omission, just lie, tell her the truth. J/S.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, by any means, although I'd be totally honored to own such a rocking show.
A/N: I hate headers. That's all. Wise One: Thanks, dude. You rock.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was as if someone had stolen his cortex and his memories, sandwiched them into a blender and hit Pulse. Colors played on each other, tastes and sights intertwined with skinned knees and cigarettes, his first beer and the last time he'd seen Star Wars. The feel of crime scene tape and the smell of sulfur were becoming one and the same. That deep nausea he'd always felt right before he threw up and a chill he only associated with fever and nightmares washed over him and he took a stilted deep breath, exhaling in a rush.
Oh my God.
He was sure his skin was burning, he could feel a thin layer of heat over his face, but he was so cold underneath. So cold.
This was not happening.
"Jack? I'm real sorry, man. I'll, uh, I'll come by for the papers tomorrow, okay? And, if you need anything, a beer, whatever, call." Cobb, the bastard. A good lawyer would've called before his client had gotten divorce papers. And even a semi-good lawyer wouldn't have left a message.
He replaced the receiver, adjusted his glasses, and removed the cover letter. Scanned the first page quickly, noting with interest that he hadn't seen his full name written out in ages, not since they'd applied for a marriage license. There was some sort of irony in that, and Jack made himself promise to forget his middle name ever existed-it was obviously a curse.
Ah, the magic reason. Irreconcilable differences. In Marie-ese, as spoken through her lawyer, "You're a cheating, lying workaholic, and I don't want to be married to or have my children exposed to a lying slut of your caliber."
Well, she probably wouldn't have used 'slut'.
She shouldn't have kissed him. He shouldn't have kissed her. And not just because he had a ring on, not because his wife was on line two, not because he was her boss, not because there was a file folder full of autopsy photos of a little boy sitting inches from them. There were a thousand and one reasons they should've avoided each other's lips--regulations, age, that damn ring--and yet, there they were.
What do you do when your boss slams a child's life in pictures and reports on his desk, and, voice just under a roar, says, "He's FIVE, Samantha! Five years old. This shouldn't have happened to a five-year-old."
Samantha wasn't sure, but she was convinced that kissing him probably wasn't an appropriate response. Especially not at work when his wife was on hold. And line two was definitely blinking, the blinds were drawn on his door, it was almost nine o'clock, no one was there, and they really, really needed to stop.
She wanted custody of the girls. She wanted the house and she wanted that godawful statue she'd picked up on their honeymoon. It was worth a couple hundred dollars, but he'd made no secret of how much he hated it, and wasn't even sure why she'd put it into the claim. Asserting that something from the last few years was still hers? Everything had been hers.
He sighed, taking off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. This was going to be hell.
So make it easy on yourself and sign it. Give her everything she wants. You beat up the marriage anyway, every late night case, every trip out of town, every missed school event, anniversary, birthday. You killed it dead with Samantha, but it was already dying, no matter how much you sutured and transfused and gave it oxygen. That little emergency room separation was never going to fix it, and you knew it.
He picked up a pen.
Uncapped it.
Turned to the dotted line.
Touched the tip to paper, added just enough pressure to begin the first smooth line of a J.
And stopped.
He couldn't sign away his girls, his house, his marriage. He couldn't sign away the last decade of his life, couldn't sign away Marie. He couldn't sign away that statue, either. He was not going to sign his name on the death certificate.
"Shit." The pen dropped from his hand.
Why is this so hard?
I don't know.
Are you happy?
No.
Is she happy?
No.
Is this making the kids happy?
No. Well. . . I haven't been around much lately. . . No.
Then what's the problem?
I don't know.
Are you still in love with her?
I. . .
Jack?
"Jack?" Samantha.
He started, looked up quickly from the papers and the pen to meet her eyes. "Yeah?"
She either hadn't noticed his jumpiness or was ignoring it. "Just wanted to let you know before I headed out that the Megivern interview went really well-" Megivern? "-The guy's a Kafka freak, thinks he's Gregor, might turn into a bug any second, but he saw a lot. Told us most of it between the insistence that he was late for his train and was going to lose his job and the boss was going to ream him for it. . ." Sam paused, cocked her head slightly and, her tone halfway between annoyance and glee, said, "You're not listening."
"I'm sorry," he said, exhaling. "I was trying to place your subject."
"Taxi driver disappears after he drops off his last fare. Last fare's name is Johnny Megivern, reads a lot of Kafka, and, uh, is losing it upstairs. Shame, really, he's only a kid." Her eyebrows furrowed as she focused on his face. "Are you okay?"
"Hmm?" Damn it. Don't let her know, don't let her know. "I'm fine."
She pointed at something on his desk. "You took off your ring, Jack."
I did? He followed her finger to the papers, where his ring rested, propped up slightly on the pen. "Yes, I did." His eyes met hers, a quick flash of his eyebrows and the challenge was set.
"You never take your ring off." Not at work, not at home, not when you wash dishes, not in the shower, not with me. "Hey." She moved closer to his desk, to him, to the papers. "Is everything all right?"
Ah, hell. She was going to find out eventually. "No." He took a deep breath, let it out, and said, "Marie. . ." Her face tightened nearly imperceptibly at the name. "Marie doesn't want to make it work any more."
"Jack, I. . ."
"Marie doesn't want to be married to me anymore, I can't say I want to be married to her anymore, either, but I can't sign the papers, Sam. I didn't think it would be this hard."
"Neither did I. But some things just have to be done. If you aren't happy and she's not happy, there's no point making both of your lives difficult." She grew quiet, averted her eyes, looking at the floor as a range of emotions crossed her face, then looked back up at him and asked, "Do you still love her?"
Marie on the day he met her. Marie on their third date. Marie's parents. Fumbling to extract a proposal from his stumbling tongue. First phone call from the first big all-nighter at work. Final emergency page. Holding a baby that, for the first time, was half his. Meeting Sam. Teasing Sam. Working with Sam. Calling and being called at all hours of the night. Horrific case made better with support from someone who understood. A place to stay, a couch to sleep on. Kissing Marie, kissing Samantha, realizing just how different the feeling had become.
"Love is a concept," he said finally, the lie slipping smoothly past his tongue. "Love is a learned behavior."
Something unrecognizable, but definitely dark passed over her face. "Love is a concept?"
He nodded.
"Then why does that hurt so much?" she asked, gesturing at the papers and his ring. "God, Jack, this isn't like failing a math test. This isn't changing classes until you find a professor you like. This isn't brushing off gravity because you don't like the concept!"
"Fine. I'm in love with her, I've always loved her, I can't not be in love with her."
"Don't lie to me." Every word so carefully pronounced, so commanding, he almost wanted to check his nameplate, see who was really in charge of the unit.
"I don't know that I was."
"Are you sleeping with her, Jack?"
"Marie, I. . ."
"Damn it, are you sleeping with her?"
Answer, don't answer, lie by omission, just lie, tell her the truth. She's crying, Jack. Are you going to tell her the truth or tell her the lie?
"Marie. . ." Deep breath. A drink would've been nice before this came out. "Yes."
"Oh my God." She looks like hell. "How long?"
I hate hearing your voice break. I hate seeing tears on your face. I hate that you hate me. "Not very long."
Sam's voice whispered, "So this is what they mean by taking my work home with me," in the dark of a chilly night as Marie's face crumpled in full daylight, and his wife's voice, so very different from that of his agent's, hissed, "Get out."
The chill had returned, and seemed to be spreading. It was silent in his office, quiet outside, and the world at that moment consisted of the two of them and those damn papers. She hadn't taken her eyes off of him, but he couldn't keep his eyes on her or the papers for very long.
The papers were intolerable. Physical, legal proof of how bad he'd screwed up three lives too many.
Sam was certainly tolerable, but every time he made eye contact with her, she fixed him with the intense gaze she gave suspects.
"You're staring, Samantha," he commented, his voice partly teasing, as he moved his eyes away from hers again. That look could make anyone uncomfortable, and it was certainly working its magic now.
"I know." So calm, so simple. She knows exactly what she's doing. And doing a damn good job of keeping it from me.
"Didn't your mother ever tell you that it's impolite to stare?"
"My mother told me a lot. Doesn't mean I listened to all of it." She gave him a slight smile.
"What did she say about your divorce?"
"She told me I was too young, I should've waited until after college to marry him. Which I'd figured out, of course."
"Did you love him?"
"Of course I did. I wouldn't have married him if I didn't love him. Did I love him when we got divorced? Yes. But not like I had when I married him. Do I love him now? No." She reached across his desk and picked up his ring. "I don't think this is about love, Jack. This is about. . ." Samantha paused, looked at the ring. "You never take this off. Are you willing to take it off and hurt or are you going to put it back on and hurt?"
Jack raised an eyebrow. "You're speaking in tongues."
Sam frisbee-ing a bagel at his head, handing him a cup of coffee, not tainting either flavor with guilt.
She shrugged. "Lawyers speak in tongues, politicians speak in tongues, writers speak in tongues. Everyone does-- it's just a matter of knowing the speaker so you can decipher the code."
"I know you, and I can't fully decipher that sentence."
A corner of her mouth lifted. "Maybe you don't know me as well as you think you do."
"Maybe not." He caught her looking at the clock and said, "Why don't you go home? Day's over." She hesitated for a moment, so he continued, "Sam, please. Go home."
Samantha saluted. "Yessir, SAC Malone. I will report immediately to the barracks, sir. Anything else, sir?"
"Don't be such a smartass, Agent Spade."
"You wouldn't know what to do with me if I stopped being a smartass, and you know it," she grinned. Her face changed, her voice lowered, and she added, "If you need anything, you know where I am."
"I do." He inhaled as she got up, walked to the door, and left the office, exhaled as the door shut.
Marie. "I love you."
He picked up the pen.
Sam. "Hey, where are you going? Work's not supposed to leave before breakfast."
Uncapped it.
"That's the girl, that's the one, she's your whore?"
Stared down the dotted line.
"Marie, I can't transfer her, I can't make her go. It's not up to me!"
Sighed.
This was going to be hell.