TITLE: Looking For Talk
AUTHOR: Blaze
SUMMARY: Samantha meditates on Jack in a small café on a Saturday morning.
RATING/SPOILERS: PG, and the Chet Collins episodes
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Nothing's mine.
A/N's: It's a little rambly, un-betaed, and written all in the space of about an hour. It makes no sense, but I will never claim to make sense. Thanks to Maple Street for being the rockingest bunch of rock ever to congregate over a show, and thanks to the W.O. for always listening to me not making sense. ;-) Enjoy!
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Jack cannot avoid work outside of work.
He's a classic workaholic. He can talk your ear off about old cases, new cases, his greatest successes and his biggest failures, what he thought about moving the unit up a floor, why the New York police hate the FBI so much, the investigative skills and slips of every agent under him. But he's weak in other areas of conversation.
At least when he's with me.
He sits in cafés sipping at his coffee and picking at the crumbs of a frou- frou pastry he claims he didn't really want as his eyes drift over every surface, however minute. He searches for non-work topics as he stares at other customers, watches artwork like it's an especially transfixing sunset, and sometimes, he just looks at me.
I'm a tough, kick-ass FBI agent, I carry a gun. I don't like displaying how much a case is bothering me, and I hate any insinuation I can't do my job because I'm a girl. And when my very married supervisor looks at me like I'm the last thing on Earth he'd let go of, I let all of that go and stare back.
It sounds crazy and in love and nonsensical and cliched. But I think I like him best when he's looking for something to talk about.
Every movement of his eyes coincides with a different topic. The writer in the corner with the five-inch-thick manuscript and red pen is Marie, which switches to the jar of chocolate almond biscotti (his girls), which shifts to the overly tattooed and pierced college student behind the counter (culture or just weird-looking?). When he gets to the artwork, it's a matter of "ugly or artistic?", "emotionally valuable or emotionally unstable?", and most often, "What the hell is that?"
When he gets back to me, he's back on work.
He'll start with a glib comment about the state of the café, how the owner's taste in art is slipping, and oh by the way, Chet Collins dropped by and said Sean was blending into the family really well.
Jack has his subtle moments. He has his blunt moments, too. And it's endearing when he tries to make a blunt gear-shift subtle and fails. It reminds me that he always says good night to the security guard when we leave the building, that he'll kill for his daughters without a second thought, that he smells really good where his neck meets his shoulder. All the things I can't love because I'm not supposed to love him.
He's married, after all. He has kids. He has a part-time wife and a part- time me. I can't tell who he's fooling more: Marie, when he tells her he wants to work it out; himself, for trying to make it work with her and still engaging in late-night visits with me; or me, for not letting him go and not believing him when he tells me "This can't happen again."
Maybe he's not fooling anyone.
No, that's too easy. Too simple. Pretzels are twisted for a reason, triangles don't exist without three sides, Darwin's theories don't work without variation. And for all my investigative skill, I haven't entirely figured out my side or his angle in this triangle.
I'm not sure I really want to know. I'm not sure he really wants to know.
And we'll still be looking for something other than work to talk about on a Saturday morning in a café with crappy art, a writer-in-residence, and a native behind the counter. He'll stare at everything but me.
And when it's my turn, I'll stare back.
AUTHOR: Blaze
SUMMARY: Samantha meditates on Jack in a small café on a Saturday morning.
RATING/SPOILERS: PG, and the Chet Collins episodes
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Nothing's mine.
A/N's: It's a little rambly, un-betaed, and written all in the space of about an hour. It makes no sense, but I will never claim to make sense. Thanks to Maple Street for being the rockingest bunch of rock ever to congregate over a show, and thanks to the W.O. for always listening to me not making sense. ;-) Enjoy!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jack cannot avoid work outside of work.
He's a classic workaholic. He can talk your ear off about old cases, new cases, his greatest successes and his biggest failures, what he thought about moving the unit up a floor, why the New York police hate the FBI so much, the investigative skills and slips of every agent under him. But he's weak in other areas of conversation.
At least when he's with me.
He sits in cafés sipping at his coffee and picking at the crumbs of a frou- frou pastry he claims he didn't really want as his eyes drift over every surface, however minute. He searches for non-work topics as he stares at other customers, watches artwork like it's an especially transfixing sunset, and sometimes, he just looks at me.
I'm a tough, kick-ass FBI agent, I carry a gun. I don't like displaying how much a case is bothering me, and I hate any insinuation I can't do my job because I'm a girl. And when my very married supervisor looks at me like I'm the last thing on Earth he'd let go of, I let all of that go and stare back.
It sounds crazy and in love and nonsensical and cliched. But I think I like him best when he's looking for something to talk about.
Every movement of his eyes coincides with a different topic. The writer in the corner with the five-inch-thick manuscript and red pen is Marie, which switches to the jar of chocolate almond biscotti (his girls), which shifts to the overly tattooed and pierced college student behind the counter (culture or just weird-looking?). When he gets to the artwork, it's a matter of "ugly or artistic?", "emotionally valuable or emotionally unstable?", and most often, "What the hell is that?"
When he gets back to me, he's back on work.
He'll start with a glib comment about the state of the café, how the owner's taste in art is slipping, and oh by the way, Chet Collins dropped by and said Sean was blending into the family really well.
Jack has his subtle moments. He has his blunt moments, too. And it's endearing when he tries to make a blunt gear-shift subtle and fails. It reminds me that he always says good night to the security guard when we leave the building, that he'll kill for his daughters without a second thought, that he smells really good where his neck meets his shoulder. All the things I can't love because I'm not supposed to love him.
He's married, after all. He has kids. He has a part-time wife and a part- time me. I can't tell who he's fooling more: Marie, when he tells her he wants to work it out; himself, for trying to make it work with her and still engaging in late-night visits with me; or me, for not letting him go and not believing him when he tells me "This can't happen again."
Maybe he's not fooling anyone.
No, that's too easy. Too simple. Pretzels are twisted for a reason, triangles don't exist without three sides, Darwin's theories don't work without variation. And for all my investigative skill, I haven't entirely figured out my side or his angle in this triangle.
I'm not sure I really want to know. I'm not sure he really wants to know.
And we'll still be looking for something other than work to talk about on a Saturday morning in a café with crappy art, a writer-in-residence, and a native behind the counter. He'll stare at everything but me.
And when it's my turn, I'll stare back.