TITLE: Ninety-Nine Percent
AUTHOR: Blaze
RATING/SPOILERS: PG, and one for Fall Out.
SUMMARY: All we've got is maybe you love me and maybe I love you. J/S
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Anything vaguely recognizable as something copyrighted is also not mine, just lovingly borrowed.
A/Ns: Another FO post ep. Thanks as always to Maple Street and the Wise One for being amazing people to be around and for just rocking so very hard.
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If her mother had had it her way, her precious first-born would've been born in San Francisco. Not because she loved the city (she'd never been and had only seen photos, heard the songs, heard of the drugs and free love and all that hippie nonsense), not because the climate was moderate, not because it was California (which was far more exotic than her current location). Oh, no. She wanted her precious baby to come into the world in San Francisco for one reason, and one reason alone (although, she would admit that it was somewhat silly of her).
The Maltese Falcon took place in San Francisco.
Sammy's father had given in to her request of Samuel or Samantha for the new arrival, but he had refused to fly his eight-months pregnant wife to California. "You crazy or something?" he'd demanded. "We are not goin' to San Francisco because of a goddamned movie!" Playing second fiddle to Bogart was bad enough, naming his child after a blond Satan was worse, and for chrissakes, didn't she know the kind of people who lived out there?
"You have got to get this movie off your mind," he muttered. "It's fiction."
Samantha's mother nursed her baby girl in front of the TV, pointing out the child's namesake to her sleepy daughter as her husband finished another beer and muttered, "Should've married Bogart." She wished the best for her baby then, held her when she came home in tears because some kid at school had teased her about her name, chastised her when she came home gleefully with a bloody nose and sore fist and a declaration of, "They won't tease me any more!", screeched at her to "Take off that skirt, Samantha, what are you thinking?", hunted her down when she ran away again and again, let her go when she ran away for the last time and married that husband of hers. Didn't say a thing when Sammy came home and off-handedly announced she'd divorced Michael. Cried at her daughter's graduation from Quantico.
"She cried because she didn't want me to be shot. That's what she said."
Samantha Spade paused in her narrative as Jack's head came up from stuffing underwear into her suitcase. She nodded at his raised eyebrow. "I think she cried because I 'fulfilled the namesake.'"
"You certainly did," he responded with a slight smirk. "Sam Spade slept with his partner's wife."
"Shut up, Jack."
He shrugged. "Just stating the facts." A white tank top disappeared into the suitcase, and as he pulled the zipper around the bag, he watched her face lose the glower aimed at him.
"And all we've got," she said sweetly, quoting from the film, "Is maybe you love me and maybe I love you."
"Shouldn't you know who you love?" Jack asked, standing.
"I do," she replied. "Shouldn't you?"
"What if I do?"
"You don't." She'd never seen an eyebrow arch that high.
"Excuse me?"
"You don't."
"How do you know?"
"Well," she said, gesturing at his left hand, "You've got a ring on, but you're packing my bags and taking me home."
"You know, Ted offered," he muttered. "You could still catch a ride with him."
"Ted? Table of Contents Ted?" She frowned. "He's not old enough to drive."
"Sure he is." Jack picked up her crutches, held them out for her. "You ready?"
Sam grabbed them, swiveling towards the edge of her bed. "Yep." The little rubber tips at the end of the aluminum grabbed at the floor, nearly taking him down at the ankles as she got them positioned. "There we go," she mumbled, hoisting herself up.
If her mother had had it her way, her precious first-born would never have left their small town. And certainly would never have ended up in New York. Of course, her precious first-born had shown a tendency at an early age to be obstinate, and though she loved her very much, somewhat of a royal pain in the ass to rein in.
"Really?" Jack asked. "Never would've guessed."
Her mother certainly would not have approved of this situation, thank you very much, because if there was one thing worse that sleeping with someone you weren't married to, it was sleeping with someone married to someone else. God would make her pay for her pleasure, she told Sammy. And if she knew that her precious first-born had not only moved to New York, slept with a married man, but had moved to New York and slept with her married boss…
"It's a good thing we don't talk much," she said. "I think this business of getting shot and having an affair would make her explode. Poof, no more mother."
"Did you just say poof?"
"There's a parking spot right there," Sam replied, gesturing to about eight feet of bare sidewalk and asphalt in front of her building. "Thanks for the ride."
"Any time," he said, pulling into the spot. "Can you hobble from here or should I come up?"
She grinned. "What do you think?"
"You sure?"
Her mother had asked again and again if she was sure about all of this insanity. Marriage? Divorce? The FBI? "You want to carry a what? And you're moving where? Are you sure about this?"
"Ninety-nine percent sure," she said.