Impetus
by Midnight Caller
Rating: R
Spoilers: Uhh... it's been half a season... :)
Summary: I'm fairly convinced Mr. Malone and Ms. Spade are regular sailors on the USS Doin' It (there's been far more room ever since Grissom and Sara seemed to have left), and so I wondered about their first time together. It's strange writing fic for a show not even halfway through its freshman season, but I guess it's just a testament to the kickass staff writers for fleshing out these people we love so much. This is my first WaT fic, so... I hope it's do-able.
Notes:
Griss-- oh, sorry. Jack and Sam, Without a Trace, Danny and Vivian don't belong to me; they're property of the House of Bruck, a charity helping older men find romance with younger women for over two years. Give to Bruck: watch CBS.
Big thanks to Eolivet and Devanie.
The eraser felt heavy in her hand as she pulled it across the board, the markings disappearing as quickly as they'd arrived on the smooth surface. 'Mark Spelling #745845' was soon reduced to a blank, faceless slate, the way it always started for them.
This was usually when she went home, stopping for coffee on the way -- decaf, of course – to ward off the chill and make it seem as if there was some kind of regularity to her life, even if it was just the route she drove to and from work.
She spun around to face the table, watching her colleagues pack their things before heading out. Danny disappeared through the doors without a word, and smacked the wall with his hand on the way out. She smirked; it was just his way of venting, and she'd rather he use the wall than a person. While not keeping them up that long, this case had been especially disturbing. They had found Mr. Spelling... but not alive. She couldn't decide if that was worse than if they'd never found him at all.
"Hey, Vivian—" she called out, just in time to see the last of her teammates cross the office floor.
Vivian turned. She looked tired, her eyelids heavy, her shoulders slumping from more than just the bag hanging from them.
"Have you seen Jack?"
"I think he went home, Samantha. Managed to sneak out of here before any of us, I guess," Vivian replied, offering a slight smile. "I'll have to have him teach me that trick one of these days..." she muttered, pushing the door open.
Sam watched her leave and then glanced around at the vacant office, both loving and hating the brief silence it presented before the second shift arrived.
The car offered no solace from the case. Somehow, every radio station was playing the same track, or discussing the same issues. Impending war. Inadequate schooling. What kind of memorial to put at Ground Zero. The never-ending battle of the sexes. Pollution in the Hudson. Potholes on the West Side highway. Sighing, she switched it off, regretting her decision to drive this morning; she hated being alone in this car.
Her entire existence was so ironic sometimes; making a career out of looking for people, yet pushing them away when it came to her own life. All but one, it seemed like lately. And as she blew on the top of her coffee to cool it, she suddenly turned onto the Northbound 95, fully aware that it didn't lead anywhere near her house.
After a short while she tore her gaze from the road and glanced out the windows. The sheer amount of foliage caught her off guard, and she checked the next exit to make sure she hadn't gone too far. A few minutes later she passed the Connecticut State line, and then saw the ramp she wanted.
She almost turned the car around three times as she made her way down the streets and past the lights. What was she going to say, anyway? Would the door be slammed in her face, or would she go in for a drink? Would... *she* be there, or would it just be the two of them? Would he have just woken from a nap? Watching TV, perhaps, or possibly in the middle of a shower? Or maybe he would be doing what she would be if she were home; laying prone on the sofa, mentally exhausted, wondering what the hell went wrong and why they had let someone die today.
She decided to park a few houses down and walk, just in case.
It was cold today, the wind brutal and biting as it swept across her cheeks, and she pulled her scarf up to just below her nose.
The thick groves of pines lining the street were wearing a thin coat of snow that hadn't gotten wet enough to stick to the road just yet. Instead, the dusting had transformed the street into a kind of muted, quiet tundra, like the inside of a snowglobe. Her feet squeaked quietly on the occasional clumps of whiteness on the pavement, and she looked up into the bleak, gray sky that almost seemed to crackle with the anticipation of snowfall.
At the foot of the walkway, she stopped, watching her breath spiral out of her nose into the air, before dispersing into nothingness. A long, thin trail of smoke puffed out of the chimney, and all of a sudden, the thought of a warm, flickering fire sounded like the most welcoming thing in the world to her. Anything had to be better than being alone right now, even if *she* was in there with him. The cold, crisp air stung the inside of her throat and nose as she took another breath, and then she started toward the door.
A long minute passed before she worked up the courage to knock. Three sufficiently loud raps should do it.
There was a lengthy pause before she heard movement on the other side. Locks turned. A chain unhinged. And then the door opened just enough for Jack to poke his head through. When he saw who it was, he opened it all the way.
"Sam..." His voice was rough, as if he had been overusing it in the privacy of that hidden place he shared with his demons.
His hair was wet, sticking up from his head as if he'd just run his hands through it. He squinted out into the street, wiping his face with the towel draped around his neck.
"Is everything okay?" He regarded her condition, looking her up and down.
She smiled. "I was just about to ask you the same thing."
"I just got out of the shower," he stated flatly.
Sam shifted her feet. "I can see that."
He just stood there for a moment, still in the process of trying to form a response.
"Jack," she finally said, stepping closer to him, "Let me in before you catch a cold."
"You want some coffee?" he called out as she shrugged off her coat and set it on the back of a chair next to the kitchen table. She nodded and watched him scoop another spoonful into the filter.
He turned around, leaning against the counter as the machine gurgled and dripped in the background.
"So..." He crossed his arms, watching her fidget with the tablecloth.
"So." She cleared her throat, probably louder than was necessary, and looked around the room, searching for something to distract her. There was nothing except some photographs on the wall. Family portraits. Her heart sank slightly, and she swallowed the lump in her throat.
"How's your family?"
He pursed and then licked his lips, holding onto the bottom one with his teeth. This time it was his turn to clear his throat.
"They're uh… they're good. I just talked to them a few days ago."
Sam narrowed her eyes. "A few days ago?"
He met her interrogative gaze with a determined stare all his own, and took a deep breath.
"She left. With the kids. Went to her sister's up in Binghamton."
"What?" Sam asked softly, trying to contain the sudden surge of blood throbbing through her body. "How long has she been gone?"
"One week, three days, and ten hours." He met her eyes and smiled sheepishly. "Sorry... habit." He shrugged, smiling again to cover what he didn't want her to see. "I came home and there was a note on the fridge. It shouldn't have come as a huge surprise to me, I mean things hadn't been going so well …"
"Jack, I'm—"
"Don't," he stopped her. "Just... don't." He gestured aimlessly with his hands before finally holding up his palms to face her. "It's okay."
The tablecloth was suddenly fascinating, and she played with a frayed thread, twisting it around her finger until it turned the tip yellow-white. She released the thread, watching as the blush slowly returned, and then she repeated the action.
She didn't look at him again until he set a cup of coffee on the table.
"So do you want to talk about it?"
Pulling herself from the trance, she gazed up at Jack, who had suddenly sat down right in front of her.
"About what?"
He didn't even blink. "About why you came over here."
She felt the blush rising to her cheeks, and quickly looked at the floor. A container of milk on the table caught her eye, and she reached for it. Anything to not look at him. But before she could grab it, his broad hand settled on to the top, pulling it away from her.
"Sam..."
"What?" she asked, playing the best coy she could. She had a feeling it wasn't working; it was his job to uncover secrets like the ones she was hiding.
"You didn't come here to talk about my wife."
"Didn't I?"
His only response was to cock his head to one side, his eyes reassuring her that he would find out what he wanted to know. His stare unnerved her, he knew, but that's the way he liked it – in control, by the book, no secrets.
Finally, she was able to look at him, and he smiled, trying to lighten the mood. She offered him a slight grin, and they sat there staring at each other for what seemed like a long time before she spoke.
"Can I use your bathroom?"
He sat back in the chair and jerked his head. "Third door on the right."
It certainly smelled like a man who had just showered, the strong scent of shampoo, soap and aftershave hanging in the air, brushing against her every time she moved. She took a deep breath, and then stepped over to the sink, passing the shower on the way.
Raising an eyebrow, she gently tugged on the frosted door, stirring loose a few water droplets, causing them to run down the surface, leaving streaks on their journey down to the floor. The stand-only shower was tiled in a muted blue, matching the lighter shade on the walls. A half-used bar of soap was poised on the edge of a small shelf near the hot water handle, and a bottle of baby shampoo sat on a ledge on the opposite side. Two razors hung from a plastic rack suctioned to the door, a light blue one next to plain black. She smirked and closed the door, turning to the sink.
Glancing at herself in the mirror, she dabbed a few drops of water on her eyelids, and then lightly ran her fingers over her cheeks and forehead. The cold stiffened her pores, helping to wake her from whatever weird trance she had been in since the moment she entered this house.
Why was she here, anyway? To break up a marriage already seemingly on its way out the door? That's not who she was, or who she wanted to be. He's married. *Married.* Committed. Loyal to a woman she'd never met, father to kids she'd only seen in pictures. And yet... there was something... something she sensed when they were alone, when he looked at her like he'd done just moments before. And that something was why she was here.
When she turned off the light and stepped into the hall, she found herself in near darkness. Feeling her way back to the kitchen, she saw flickering coming from the living room.
"Jack?" she called out quietly. He didn't answer.
As she moved into the living room, she saw the source of the flicker. The crackling and popping of the flames licking around the edge of the fireplace was intoxicating, and she stood there for several moments just staring at the way the fire raced around its brick enclosure.
When she finally blinked, she looked around the room. Shadows danced across the walls, which were glowing orange from the only source of light, and then her ears pricked up as another sound rose above the quiet hiss of the fire. Was that... breathing? Snoring, even?
Her eyes followed her ears around the room until they finally rested on the sofa. She had to bite her lip from laughing. There, sleepily flopped across the cushions, was Jack. One arm and one leg hung over the side, and the towel had fallen from his neck to the floor.
Sam knelt down and picked up his arm, laying it across his chest. She left her fingers on his arm for a few more seconds, warming her hands against his skin.
"Stop trying to rearrange me."
She jumped at the sound of his voice, and sat back on her heels, realizing just how close she was.
"I thought you were asleep."
"I never sleep."
"You were snoring."
"It's a talent."
Sam laughed lightly, and then watched as he raised himself up, leaning on one elbow. His dark eyes locked onto hers, clinging to them with unrelenting force. She easily gave in and gazed back, lost instantly in their mysterious, shadowy depths.
Her hand was still on his arm, and she regarded this entire scene as if she was watching from outside her own body. This wasn't right. If she were on the phone, describing this situation to a girlfriend, there'd be no question about it; this wasn't right. But she wasn't on the phone, wasn't talking to a friend, and she didn't want to explain what was happening even to herself, much less to anyone who would listen. She was here, he was here, and that's all her mind could register at the moment.
Not exactly all. There was that relentless nagging sensation tickling at the back of her brain, telling -- no, screaming at her to leave, to get out, to run before this went too far and --
His hand was so warm as it covered hers, and she shut her eyes, trying not to lose herself in what was happening.
"I... should go..." Her voice seemed to coming from somewhere else, from someone else's throat, and it was so soft it barely registered in her ears.
The quiet protest was quickly smothered by the heated air hanging in the distance between their bodies, a gap that quickly dwindled into nothing. She felt herself lean against him, his breath warm on her cheeks.
"Sam..." he whispered, reaching his other hand toward her until he found that soft, tender spot right below her ear. Every time he lightly ran his thumb across her skin, her breath quickened, and he could feel her accelerated pulse beneath the flesh of her wrist.
"Jack, I –" he silenced her by suddenly leaning forward.
It didn't matter who had moved first, if their current state was because she had touched him and that he had responded, or that she had shown up here in the first place – all that seemed to matter at this one, singular instant was the smooth firmness of his lips on hers, the roughness of his tongue, the feel of his body as he pulled her on top of him.
If she had been unsure of why she had come here, it was at least partially answered by the way his hands ran down her back, lightly at first and then with more force, seemingly freeing her before pulling her toward him again. Their bodies tensed and then relaxed, over and over as they fell into a subtle yet transfixing rhythm, like two magnets in a dance, repelling and then attracting, over and over.
The way he touched her was some kind of methodical, wordless promise, his hands and mouth hinting at actions he would later perform with his entire body. She always knew if this happened, she wouldn't be able to resist, wouldn't be able to close down the sensations in favor of rationalism and logic. But she had never thought the familiar, fiery ache, that unmistakable primal urge, would spread so easily, transforming every inch of her skin from a simple collection of cells and blood into a throbbing, hungry life-force all its own.
Their lethargic foreplay was eventually abandoned for pure, unmitigated need, and they wasted no time in shedding their barriers of clothing, ridding themselves of the last remaining voice of reason in a room that didn't want to listen.
They soon found themselves on the floor, his body settling gently between her legs, his hands reassuringly smoothing her skin. In one single moment, as the pleasure of their union caused him to gasp her name, a vow was silently broken, shattered into forgotten fragments as the hunger overtook him and all he could think of was his imminent release.
Perhaps a small piece of that vow brought flickers of memories to his consciousness, for he voraciously attacked her mouth with his own in a desperate attempt to silence the guilt, burying it beneath the ecstatic pulses of energy flowing through his body. At this moment, those memories paled in comparison to the feel of her against him, surrounding him, breathlessly urging him not to stop, to keep going, to continue making love to her.
His spine tingled when he sensed it, the crest of the wave that would soon drown him in intense, overwhelming pleasure. As it approached, unbidden and with a ferocity that almost scared him, he opened his eyes long enough to see Sam arch up toward him, quivering and shaking as surge after surge of indescribable bliss suddenly rushed through her body.
The sight of her lips mouthing his name proved to be his undoing, and the wave was suddenly upon him, breaking against his back, between his legs, across his face, anywhere he allowed it to go.
When it had finally run its course through his body, he collapsed on top of her. Sam's arms wrapped around his sweat-covered back, tender and warm, so unlike…
He didn't even let himself finish the thought, quickly shaking it from his mind before the cloud of remorse had a chance to take shape. Turning his head to one side, he watched flames wrap around logs, caressing the wood before scorching it and coating the surface with a layer of charred carbon.
He must have not heard her the first time.
"Jack?"
Finally, he lifted his head to look at her. She wasn't sure which emotion to show him, and hoped that some form of happiness had surfaced in her eyes in front of the confusion and anxiety.
"Are you okay?" she asked quietly.
He rolled onto his side, resting his cheek in the palm of one hand. With his other arm he reached for her jaw, tracing it with his index finger.
She stared at him for a moment, hoping he would answer her. Instead he avoided her eyes and focused on the trail his finger made up the side of her neck.
Biting her lip, she nodded, mostly to herself, and blinked a few times to keep the tears away.
"That's what I thought."
In her eyes he saw the hurt, the pain, maybe even an echo of the guilt that was slowly seeping through him. Before he could stop her, she had picked up her clothes and was dressing as fast as she could.
He got to his feet and found his pants, stumbling into them as he tried to get to her before she left the living room.
"Sam," he called to her back, but she didn't turn back.
"Sam!" This time the frustration in his voice was clear. He lunged for her arm, grabbing it and spinning her around. "Where are you going?"
Her face was stiff and unforgiving; lips draw tight, eyes wide and angry. "Home."
He let go of her arm and clenched his jaw.
After a few moments he asked, "Do you want to talk about it?"
"What?"
He stared her down. "My wife."
His honestly caught her off-guard, and her mouth fell open and stayed there, poised for a remark that had suddenly vanished from her mind. She tried to form words, but nothing came out.
He sat down on an arm of the sofa and placed one hand on each knee. Raising an eyebrow, he waited for her to respond.
Finally, she cleared her throat, and unconsciously took a step toward him.
"Do you love her?"
The only way this would work is if he didn't hide from her; dismissing this recent deception as nothing more than some empty, hedonistic enterprise would make him feel as pathetic as he did this afternoon when he had to call Mrs. Spelling and explain that her husband was dead.
"Yes."
He watched as her shoulders and head slumped as if she'd been defeated in some long, drawn-out battle. She cleared her throat again, and then ran a hand through her hair.
"Sam..." he said quietly to draw her eyes upward. "This isn't about her."
"Yes, it is."
He licked his lips and stared at the floor, wondering how his already upside-down life could have also just imploded in the span of an hour.
She took another step forward. "This has everything to do with her. You're married, Jack, I know that. But you knew what you were doing, and now you're regretting listening to your libido instead of your -- "
He suddenly stood and crossed his arms. "I never said I regretted anything. You're the one who got up and walked away."
"Oh, so this is somehow my fault now?"
"This isn't about who's fault it is, Sam, but if this is anyone's fault, it's mine." Stepping closer, he uncrossed his arms. "I let you in. I kissed you. I didn't stop... and I'm not sorry."
He made sure she was looking at him. "The only thing I regret is that you think I don't care about what just happened."
As he finished speaking, he reached out and gently touched her arm. She swallowed hard and then finally leaned into him, laying her head on his chest.
Her arms wrapped around his waist, and she felt his hands against her shoulders and back, warm and comforting. She closed her eyes, listening to the gentle thumping of his heartbeat.
Sighing against his skin, she finally pulled back to look at him.
"So now what?"
He looked slightly confused, so she continued. "What happens now? With us? I mean... at work and -- "
"I don't know," he interjected, his voice low and raspy.
The phone startled them both, but they stayed locked in their embrace, listening to ring after ring until they heard the faint message for his answering machine. Jack's recorded voice crept quietly along the walls until it reached the living room.
*Hi, you've reached the Malone residence. We're not here, so please leave a message.*
The next voice was shriller, higher-pitched than Jack's. Biting, almost. Sam had never heard the voice before, but she knew instantly who it was. She wanted to see Jack's face to gauge the reaction, but she was too afraid to move.
"Jack... it's me." It echoed through the house like a wailing, despondent ghost. Sighing loudly, the voice continued. "I'm... I'm sorry, Jack. I'm sorry for leaving, for taking the kids, for everything. I know we have a lot of things to work out... to talk about... I just... I just want to try again. Please call me when you get this... I love you."
After a resounding CLICK signified the end of the call, they still stood there, frozen in place. His hands had stopped moving along her back, and her grip around his waist slackened, her arms falling to her sides.
She simply stepped backward, sliding easily from his grasp, and picked her coat off the floor where she'd dropped it.
His eyes glazed over, too afraid to blink, too shocked to move, or emote, or do much of anything but just stare.
He was still staring when she turned her back and walked to the door, eyes still blank as she slipped into her coat and tossed her scarf around her neck, pupils locked in their dilated position as the locks turned and the door swung open and then closed, dim orange firelight hitting the retinas of his wide-open eyes as he eventually sank into the cushions of the couch, the softness consuming his form until he felt like he had disappeared altogether.
By the time he able to blink again, she was long gone, her scent lingering in the air, the feel of her skin still fresh in his mind.
He laid his head against the back of the sofa and closed his eyes, hoping sleep would somehow rid him of the task of trying to sort out his not-so-simple life.
(fin for now.)
by Midnight Caller
Rating: R
Spoilers: Uhh... it's been half a season... :)
Summary: I'm fairly convinced Mr. Malone and Ms. Spade are regular sailors on the USS Doin' It (there's been far more room ever since Grissom and Sara seemed to have left), and so I wondered about their first time together. It's strange writing fic for a show not even halfway through its freshman season, but I guess it's just a testament to the kickass staff writers for fleshing out these people we love so much. This is my first WaT fic, so... I hope it's do-able.
Notes:
Griss-- oh, sorry. Jack and Sam, Without a Trace, Danny and Vivian don't belong to me; they're property of the House of Bruck, a charity helping older men find romance with younger women for over two years. Give to Bruck: watch CBS.
Big thanks to Eolivet and Devanie.
The eraser felt heavy in her hand as she pulled it across the board, the markings disappearing as quickly as they'd arrived on the smooth surface. 'Mark Spelling #745845' was soon reduced to a blank, faceless slate, the way it always started for them.
This was usually when she went home, stopping for coffee on the way -- decaf, of course – to ward off the chill and make it seem as if there was some kind of regularity to her life, even if it was just the route she drove to and from work.
She spun around to face the table, watching her colleagues pack their things before heading out. Danny disappeared through the doors without a word, and smacked the wall with his hand on the way out. She smirked; it was just his way of venting, and she'd rather he use the wall than a person. While not keeping them up that long, this case had been especially disturbing. They had found Mr. Spelling... but not alive. She couldn't decide if that was worse than if they'd never found him at all.
"Hey, Vivian—" she called out, just in time to see the last of her teammates cross the office floor.
Vivian turned. She looked tired, her eyelids heavy, her shoulders slumping from more than just the bag hanging from them.
"Have you seen Jack?"
"I think he went home, Samantha. Managed to sneak out of here before any of us, I guess," Vivian replied, offering a slight smile. "I'll have to have him teach me that trick one of these days..." she muttered, pushing the door open.
Sam watched her leave and then glanced around at the vacant office, both loving and hating the brief silence it presented before the second shift arrived.
The car offered no solace from the case. Somehow, every radio station was playing the same track, or discussing the same issues. Impending war. Inadequate schooling. What kind of memorial to put at Ground Zero. The never-ending battle of the sexes. Pollution in the Hudson. Potholes on the West Side highway. Sighing, she switched it off, regretting her decision to drive this morning; she hated being alone in this car.
Her entire existence was so ironic sometimes; making a career out of looking for people, yet pushing them away when it came to her own life. All but one, it seemed like lately. And as she blew on the top of her coffee to cool it, she suddenly turned onto the Northbound 95, fully aware that it didn't lead anywhere near her house.
After a short while she tore her gaze from the road and glanced out the windows. The sheer amount of foliage caught her off guard, and she checked the next exit to make sure she hadn't gone too far. A few minutes later she passed the Connecticut State line, and then saw the ramp she wanted.
She almost turned the car around three times as she made her way down the streets and past the lights. What was she going to say, anyway? Would the door be slammed in her face, or would she go in for a drink? Would... *she* be there, or would it just be the two of them? Would he have just woken from a nap? Watching TV, perhaps, or possibly in the middle of a shower? Or maybe he would be doing what she would be if she were home; laying prone on the sofa, mentally exhausted, wondering what the hell went wrong and why they had let someone die today.
She decided to park a few houses down and walk, just in case.
It was cold today, the wind brutal and biting as it swept across her cheeks, and she pulled her scarf up to just below her nose.
The thick groves of pines lining the street were wearing a thin coat of snow that hadn't gotten wet enough to stick to the road just yet. Instead, the dusting had transformed the street into a kind of muted, quiet tundra, like the inside of a snowglobe. Her feet squeaked quietly on the occasional clumps of whiteness on the pavement, and she looked up into the bleak, gray sky that almost seemed to crackle with the anticipation of snowfall.
At the foot of the walkway, she stopped, watching her breath spiral out of her nose into the air, before dispersing into nothingness. A long, thin trail of smoke puffed out of the chimney, and all of a sudden, the thought of a warm, flickering fire sounded like the most welcoming thing in the world to her. Anything had to be better than being alone right now, even if *she* was in there with him. The cold, crisp air stung the inside of her throat and nose as she took another breath, and then she started toward the door.
A long minute passed before she worked up the courage to knock. Three sufficiently loud raps should do it.
There was a lengthy pause before she heard movement on the other side. Locks turned. A chain unhinged. And then the door opened just enough for Jack to poke his head through. When he saw who it was, he opened it all the way.
"Sam..." His voice was rough, as if he had been overusing it in the privacy of that hidden place he shared with his demons.
His hair was wet, sticking up from his head as if he'd just run his hands through it. He squinted out into the street, wiping his face with the towel draped around his neck.
"Is everything okay?" He regarded her condition, looking her up and down.
She smiled. "I was just about to ask you the same thing."
"I just got out of the shower," he stated flatly.
Sam shifted her feet. "I can see that."
He just stood there for a moment, still in the process of trying to form a response.
"Jack," she finally said, stepping closer to him, "Let me in before you catch a cold."
"You want some coffee?" he called out as she shrugged off her coat and set it on the back of a chair next to the kitchen table. She nodded and watched him scoop another spoonful into the filter.
He turned around, leaning against the counter as the machine gurgled and dripped in the background.
"So..." He crossed his arms, watching her fidget with the tablecloth.
"So." She cleared her throat, probably louder than was necessary, and looked around the room, searching for something to distract her. There was nothing except some photographs on the wall. Family portraits. Her heart sank slightly, and she swallowed the lump in her throat.
"How's your family?"
He pursed and then licked his lips, holding onto the bottom one with his teeth. This time it was his turn to clear his throat.
"They're uh… they're good. I just talked to them a few days ago."
Sam narrowed her eyes. "A few days ago?"
He met her interrogative gaze with a determined stare all his own, and took a deep breath.
"She left. With the kids. Went to her sister's up in Binghamton."
"What?" Sam asked softly, trying to contain the sudden surge of blood throbbing through her body. "How long has she been gone?"
"One week, three days, and ten hours." He met her eyes and smiled sheepishly. "Sorry... habit." He shrugged, smiling again to cover what he didn't want her to see. "I came home and there was a note on the fridge. It shouldn't have come as a huge surprise to me, I mean things hadn't been going so well …"
"Jack, I'm—"
"Don't," he stopped her. "Just... don't." He gestured aimlessly with his hands before finally holding up his palms to face her. "It's okay."
The tablecloth was suddenly fascinating, and she played with a frayed thread, twisting it around her finger until it turned the tip yellow-white. She released the thread, watching as the blush slowly returned, and then she repeated the action.
She didn't look at him again until he set a cup of coffee on the table.
"So do you want to talk about it?"
Pulling herself from the trance, she gazed up at Jack, who had suddenly sat down right in front of her.
"About what?"
He didn't even blink. "About why you came over here."
She felt the blush rising to her cheeks, and quickly looked at the floor. A container of milk on the table caught her eye, and she reached for it. Anything to not look at him. But before she could grab it, his broad hand settled on to the top, pulling it away from her.
"Sam..."
"What?" she asked, playing the best coy she could. She had a feeling it wasn't working; it was his job to uncover secrets like the ones she was hiding.
"You didn't come here to talk about my wife."
"Didn't I?"
His only response was to cock his head to one side, his eyes reassuring her that he would find out what he wanted to know. His stare unnerved her, he knew, but that's the way he liked it – in control, by the book, no secrets.
Finally, she was able to look at him, and he smiled, trying to lighten the mood. She offered him a slight grin, and they sat there staring at each other for what seemed like a long time before she spoke.
"Can I use your bathroom?"
He sat back in the chair and jerked his head. "Third door on the right."
It certainly smelled like a man who had just showered, the strong scent of shampoo, soap and aftershave hanging in the air, brushing against her every time she moved. She took a deep breath, and then stepped over to the sink, passing the shower on the way.
Raising an eyebrow, she gently tugged on the frosted door, stirring loose a few water droplets, causing them to run down the surface, leaving streaks on their journey down to the floor. The stand-only shower was tiled in a muted blue, matching the lighter shade on the walls. A half-used bar of soap was poised on the edge of a small shelf near the hot water handle, and a bottle of baby shampoo sat on a ledge on the opposite side. Two razors hung from a plastic rack suctioned to the door, a light blue one next to plain black. She smirked and closed the door, turning to the sink.
Glancing at herself in the mirror, she dabbed a few drops of water on her eyelids, and then lightly ran her fingers over her cheeks and forehead. The cold stiffened her pores, helping to wake her from whatever weird trance she had been in since the moment she entered this house.
Why was she here, anyway? To break up a marriage already seemingly on its way out the door? That's not who she was, or who she wanted to be. He's married. *Married.* Committed. Loyal to a woman she'd never met, father to kids she'd only seen in pictures. And yet... there was something... something she sensed when they were alone, when he looked at her like he'd done just moments before. And that something was why she was here.
When she turned off the light and stepped into the hall, she found herself in near darkness. Feeling her way back to the kitchen, she saw flickering coming from the living room.
"Jack?" she called out quietly. He didn't answer.
As she moved into the living room, she saw the source of the flicker. The crackling and popping of the flames licking around the edge of the fireplace was intoxicating, and she stood there for several moments just staring at the way the fire raced around its brick enclosure.
When she finally blinked, she looked around the room. Shadows danced across the walls, which were glowing orange from the only source of light, and then her ears pricked up as another sound rose above the quiet hiss of the fire. Was that... breathing? Snoring, even?
Her eyes followed her ears around the room until they finally rested on the sofa. She had to bite her lip from laughing. There, sleepily flopped across the cushions, was Jack. One arm and one leg hung over the side, and the towel had fallen from his neck to the floor.
Sam knelt down and picked up his arm, laying it across his chest. She left her fingers on his arm for a few more seconds, warming her hands against his skin.
"Stop trying to rearrange me."
She jumped at the sound of his voice, and sat back on her heels, realizing just how close she was.
"I thought you were asleep."
"I never sleep."
"You were snoring."
"It's a talent."
Sam laughed lightly, and then watched as he raised himself up, leaning on one elbow. His dark eyes locked onto hers, clinging to them with unrelenting force. She easily gave in and gazed back, lost instantly in their mysterious, shadowy depths.
Her hand was still on his arm, and she regarded this entire scene as if she was watching from outside her own body. This wasn't right. If she were on the phone, describing this situation to a girlfriend, there'd be no question about it; this wasn't right. But she wasn't on the phone, wasn't talking to a friend, and she didn't want to explain what was happening even to herself, much less to anyone who would listen. She was here, he was here, and that's all her mind could register at the moment.
Not exactly all. There was that relentless nagging sensation tickling at the back of her brain, telling -- no, screaming at her to leave, to get out, to run before this went too far and --
His hand was so warm as it covered hers, and she shut her eyes, trying not to lose herself in what was happening.
"I... should go..." Her voice seemed to coming from somewhere else, from someone else's throat, and it was so soft it barely registered in her ears.
The quiet protest was quickly smothered by the heated air hanging in the distance between their bodies, a gap that quickly dwindled into nothing. She felt herself lean against him, his breath warm on her cheeks.
"Sam..." he whispered, reaching his other hand toward her until he found that soft, tender spot right below her ear. Every time he lightly ran his thumb across her skin, her breath quickened, and he could feel her accelerated pulse beneath the flesh of her wrist.
"Jack, I –" he silenced her by suddenly leaning forward.
It didn't matter who had moved first, if their current state was because she had touched him and that he had responded, or that she had shown up here in the first place – all that seemed to matter at this one, singular instant was the smooth firmness of his lips on hers, the roughness of his tongue, the feel of his body as he pulled her on top of him.
If she had been unsure of why she had come here, it was at least partially answered by the way his hands ran down her back, lightly at first and then with more force, seemingly freeing her before pulling her toward him again. Their bodies tensed and then relaxed, over and over as they fell into a subtle yet transfixing rhythm, like two magnets in a dance, repelling and then attracting, over and over.
The way he touched her was some kind of methodical, wordless promise, his hands and mouth hinting at actions he would later perform with his entire body. She always knew if this happened, she wouldn't be able to resist, wouldn't be able to close down the sensations in favor of rationalism and logic. But she had never thought the familiar, fiery ache, that unmistakable primal urge, would spread so easily, transforming every inch of her skin from a simple collection of cells and blood into a throbbing, hungry life-force all its own.
Their lethargic foreplay was eventually abandoned for pure, unmitigated need, and they wasted no time in shedding their barriers of clothing, ridding themselves of the last remaining voice of reason in a room that didn't want to listen.
They soon found themselves on the floor, his body settling gently between her legs, his hands reassuringly smoothing her skin. In one single moment, as the pleasure of their union caused him to gasp her name, a vow was silently broken, shattered into forgotten fragments as the hunger overtook him and all he could think of was his imminent release.
Perhaps a small piece of that vow brought flickers of memories to his consciousness, for he voraciously attacked her mouth with his own in a desperate attempt to silence the guilt, burying it beneath the ecstatic pulses of energy flowing through his body. At this moment, those memories paled in comparison to the feel of her against him, surrounding him, breathlessly urging him not to stop, to keep going, to continue making love to her.
His spine tingled when he sensed it, the crest of the wave that would soon drown him in intense, overwhelming pleasure. As it approached, unbidden and with a ferocity that almost scared him, he opened his eyes long enough to see Sam arch up toward him, quivering and shaking as surge after surge of indescribable bliss suddenly rushed through her body.
The sight of her lips mouthing his name proved to be his undoing, and the wave was suddenly upon him, breaking against his back, between his legs, across his face, anywhere he allowed it to go.
When it had finally run its course through his body, he collapsed on top of her. Sam's arms wrapped around his sweat-covered back, tender and warm, so unlike…
He didn't even let himself finish the thought, quickly shaking it from his mind before the cloud of remorse had a chance to take shape. Turning his head to one side, he watched flames wrap around logs, caressing the wood before scorching it and coating the surface with a layer of charred carbon.
He must have not heard her the first time.
"Jack?"
Finally, he lifted his head to look at her. She wasn't sure which emotion to show him, and hoped that some form of happiness had surfaced in her eyes in front of the confusion and anxiety.
"Are you okay?" she asked quietly.
He rolled onto his side, resting his cheek in the palm of one hand. With his other arm he reached for her jaw, tracing it with his index finger.
She stared at him for a moment, hoping he would answer her. Instead he avoided her eyes and focused on the trail his finger made up the side of her neck.
Biting her lip, she nodded, mostly to herself, and blinked a few times to keep the tears away.
"That's what I thought."
In her eyes he saw the hurt, the pain, maybe even an echo of the guilt that was slowly seeping through him. Before he could stop her, she had picked up her clothes and was dressing as fast as she could.
He got to his feet and found his pants, stumbling into them as he tried to get to her before she left the living room.
"Sam," he called to her back, but she didn't turn back.
"Sam!" This time the frustration in his voice was clear. He lunged for her arm, grabbing it and spinning her around. "Where are you going?"
Her face was stiff and unforgiving; lips draw tight, eyes wide and angry. "Home."
He let go of her arm and clenched his jaw.
After a few moments he asked, "Do you want to talk about it?"
"What?"
He stared her down. "My wife."
His honestly caught her off-guard, and her mouth fell open and stayed there, poised for a remark that had suddenly vanished from her mind. She tried to form words, but nothing came out.
He sat down on an arm of the sofa and placed one hand on each knee. Raising an eyebrow, he waited for her to respond.
Finally, she cleared her throat, and unconsciously took a step toward him.
"Do you love her?"
The only way this would work is if he didn't hide from her; dismissing this recent deception as nothing more than some empty, hedonistic enterprise would make him feel as pathetic as he did this afternoon when he had to call Mrs. Spelling and explain that her husband was dead.
"Yes."
He watched as her shoulders and head slumped as if she'd been defeated in some long, drawn-out battle. She cleared her throat again, and then ran a hand through her hair.
"Sam..." he said quietly to draw her eyes upward. "This isn't about her."
"Yes, it is."
He licked his lips and stared at the floor, wondering how his already upside-down life could have also just imploded in the span of an hour.
She took another step forward. "This has everything to do with her. You're married, Jack, I know that. But you knew what you were doing, and now you're regretting listening to your libido instead of your -- "
He suddenly stood and crossed his arms. "I never said I regretted anything. You're the one who got up and walked away."
"Oh, so this is somehow my fault now?"
"This isn't about who's fault it is, Sam, but if this is anyone's fault, it's mine." Stepping closer, he uncrossed his arms. "I let you in. I kissed you. I didn't stop... and I'm not sorry."
He made sure she was looking at him. "The only thing I regret is that you think I don't care about what just happened."
As he finished speaking, he reached out and gently touched her arm. She swallowed hard and then finally leaned into him, laying her head on his chest.
Her arms wrapped around his waist, and she felt his hands against her shoulders and back, warm and comforting. She closed her eyes, listening to the gentle thumping of his heartbeat.
Sighing against his skin, she finally pulled back to look at him.
"So now what?"
He looked slightly confused, so she continued. "What happens now? With us? I mean... at work and -- "
"I don't know," he interjected, his voice low and raspy.
The phone startled them both, but they stayed locked in their embrace, listening to ring after ring until they heard the faint message for his answering machine. Jack's recorded voice crept quietly along the walls until it reached the living room.
*Hi, you've reached the Malone residence. We're not here, so please leave a message.*
The next voice was shriller, higher-pitched than Jack's. Biting, almost. Sam had never heard the voice before, but she knew instantly who it was. She wanted to see Jack's face to gauge the reaction, but she was too afraid to move.
"Jack... it's me." It echoed through the house like a wailing, despondent ghost. Sighing loudly, the voice continued. "I'm... I'm sorry, Jack. I'm sorry for leaving, for taking the kids, for everything. I know we have a lot of things to work out... to talk about... I just... I just want to try again. Please call me when you get this... I love you."
After a resounding CLICK signified the end of the call, they still stood there, frozen in place. His hands had stopped moving along her back, and her grip around his waist slackened, her arms falling to her sides.
She simply stepped backward, sliding easily from his grasp, and picked her coat off the floor where she'd dropped it.
His eyes glazed over, too afraid to blink, too shocked to move, or emote, or do much of anything but just stare.
He was still staring when she turned her back and walked to the door, eyes still blank as she slipped into her coat and tossed her scarf around her neck, pupils locked in their dilated position as the locks turned and the door swung open and then closed, dim orange firelight hitting the retinas of his wide-open eyes as he eventually sank into the cushions of the couch, the softness consuming his form until he felt like he had disappeared altogether.
By the time he able to blink again, she was long gone, her scent lingering in the air, the feel of her skin still fresh in his mind.
He laid his head against the back of the sofa and closed his eyes, hoping sleep would somehow rid him of the task of trying to sort out his not-so-simple life.
(fin for now.)