TITLE: You Know How I Do
AUTHOR: Tahlia
RATING: PG-13
PAIRING: (subtle) Sam/Jack, (subtle) Sam/Martin
SPOILERS: "If A Tree Falls," "Copycat"
DISCLAIMER: Bwah. I wish.
NOTES: The fic that never was to be, except that Eolivet made it be.
Thank you for that. Title by Taking Back Sunday, because I can.
SUMMARY: "We're both such magnifacent liars." (post-IaTF)
*
"His mother killed herself."
Martin's slurred words startle Samantha. There were sounds of David Letterman in the background of her apartment when he knocked on her door: she could tell he was drunk by the way he leaned against her doorway. (Apparently, her invitation for a drink hadn't gone completely unnoticed.) "We need to talk," was the last coherent thing sheremembers hearing him say, before it all become a long strain of whispered babble. Maybe something about Vivian. Against her better judgement, she shoed him in and her limbs ached with sleep as she reached into the kitchen cabinet to retrieve the coffee.
She's not sure she heard him right, anyhow. "What?" From the dishwasher, she takes two freshly washed mugs. Might as well treat him well.
A small thud, probably him running into the back of her couch. For a split second, she prays he doesn't crash there; she is chased shortly thereafter by lingering guilt about kicking him out. "His mother," Martin repeats, "committed suicide."
Her hands curl around the mug as she pours one cup, eyebrows furrowing. She raises her voice: "Delgado?"
Silence. She imagines him brooding. "Martin?"
"Jack."
Samantha's head tilts to one side as she pours a second cup, for herself, caffeine despite the late hour. "What are you talking about?"
"Jack's mother." He pronounces each syllable, frustrated. "Fucking killed herself."
The vulgarity catches in her throat. It takes everything in her not to drop the two mugs full of hot coffee, to let them slip from her fingers and shatter against the counter, liquid everywhere. Her first instinct is not to believe her, but something inside her... Her breath hitches, and she's not aware of much else. She probably makes some kind of sound, because she looks up and Martin is standing in the entrance to her kitchen, eyes heavy with intoxication. "Sam?" He says it as if the last five seconds (was it really only five seconds?) haven't happened.
She swallows. "Yeah?" (Breathy. She won't make eye contact.)
"You okay?"
Her, "I'm fine," is far too quick, even for her taste. Dammit.
Martin is quiet, foot swinging and skidding on the tile floor, posture rigid. He's trying very hard not to appear as drunk as she knows he is. Then: "You didn't know." To Samantha, it's hard to tell whether it's a question or a statement of fact.
A lightbulb. "How did *you*?" she deflects.
He opens his mouth, and her mind makes the connection before he says the words. She can't act quick enough to cut him off, though she's forming the words along with him. "The Spaulding tape."
She considers the time when she asked Martin how he was doing and he brushed her off. She feels him watching her, knowing this is exactly what she's thinking of; that kind of connection scares her. "You didn't know," he says again, differently. Like it's some kind of justification.
The mugs make a thud when she sets them down, traces of a bit of anger on her part. "Of course I didn't know." She shouldn't. She shouldn't let him provoke her, but she can't help it. More anger, "You wouldn't have brought it *up* if I knew!"
Immediately, she sighs, regretting her tone.
He slumps against her doorway, letting himself go. His words become sloppy and his tone is righteous. It takes him time to form the word: "Right." (Sarcasm abounds.)
Samantha turns. "What's *that* supposed to mean?" Again, against her better judgement.
"Nothing," he replies quickly.
She crosses her arms against her chest. "Bullshit."
Martin waves a drunken hand at her. "Forget it."
He rubs his forehead; she wouldn't be surprised if her apartment is spinning for him. Again, she considers kicking him out, but she knows better; she could call a cab. She takes a step toward him. "No, I don't think I will."
It's not what she anticipated. She can see him snap right in front of her eyes, the way she thinks he probably snapped when he aimed his weapon at Delgado and shot him. The look in his eyes makes her flinch. "You're just pissed because you didn't know before the rest of us." And just for good measure, he takes a breath and raises his voice: "That you don't know every dark, little god damn secret about Jack fucking Malone."
A pin drops in her apartment and the whole world hears it.
Samantha feels naked, exposed. A tiny part of her brain reminds her that there's only a small chance that he means it *that* way, but she's not listening to rationality. Her voice is quiet, thanks to her nerves. "Martin, I want to help you get through this--"
He makes a dismissive sound. It sets her off. "-- But I don't know what the *hell* you're trying to imply--"
"Oh, for Christ's sake!" He's shouting, cutting her off. "Get over it, would you?" he snaps. Martin leans into her, and she can smell the alcohol on his breath. "You can't keeping secrets, Sam." Pause. "Both of you."
There. There, it is.
She blinks. Immediately, anger leeps into her throat, threatening to wrangle her control and take her over. She swallows it; her voice is cool and she looks him straight in the eye. "You're a mean drunk, Martin."
He holds her gaze for a moment before breaking away. "Yeah, well," and he runs a hand through his hair, though he hasn't regretted a thing he's said, "like father, like son."
Maybe she should feel pity for him. Her mind flits back to the cab, but then she looks up at him, and doesn't see an ounce of sympathetic anything. His eyes are stone: he doesn't want her help.
"I think you should leave now," she says.
Martin looks at her, vaguely shocked, before shaking his head and turning toward the door. Of course, his stance is wobbily, swaying when his feet leave the carpet of the living room, but she doesn't care. She thinks she hears him mutter for her to fuck off.
He slams the door.
*
AUTHOR: Tahlia
RATING: PG-13
PAIRING: (subtle) Sam/Jack, (subtle) Sam/Martin
SPOILERS: "If A Tree Falls," "Copycat"
DISCLAIMER: Bwah. I wish.
NOTES: The fic that never was to be, except that Eolivet made it be.
Thank you for that. Title by Taking Back Sunday, because I can.
SUMMARY: "We're both such magnifacent liars." (post-IaTF)
*
"His mother killed herself."
Martin's slurred words startle Samantha. There were sounds of David Letterman in the background of her apartment when he knocked on her door: she could tell he was drunk by the way he leaned against her doorway. (Apparently, her invitation for a drink hadn't gone completely unnoticed.) "We need to talk," was the last coherent thing sheremembers hearing him say, before it all become a long strain of whispered babble. Maybe something about Vivian. Against her better judgement, she shoed him in and her limbs ached with sleep as she reached into the kitchen cabinet to retrieve the coffee.
She's not sure she heard him right, anyhow. "What?" From the dishwasher, she takes two freshly washed mugs. Might as well treat him well.
A small thud, probably him running into the back of her couch. For a split second, she prays he doesn't crash there; she is chased shortly thereafter by lingering guilt about kicking him out. "His mother," Martin repeats, "committed suicide."
Her hands curl around the mug as she pours one cup, eyebrows furrowing. She raises her voice: "Delgado?"
Silence. She imagines him brooding. "Martin?"
"Jack."
Samantha's head tilts to one side as she pours a second cup, for herself, caffeine despite the late hour. "What are you talking about?"
"Jack's mother." He pronounces each syllable, frustrated. "Fucking killed herself."
The vulgarity catches in her throat. It takes everything in her not to drop the two mugs full of hot coffee, to let them slip from her fingers and shatter against the counter, liquid everywhere. Her first instinct is not to believe her, but something inside her... Her breath hitches, and she's not aware of much else. She probably makes some kind of sound, because she looks up and Martin is standing in the entrance to her kitchen, eyes heavy with intoxication. "Sam?" He says it as if the last five seconds (was it really only five seconds?) haven't happened.
She swallows. "Yeah?" (Breathy. She won't make eye contact.)
"You okay?"
Her, "I'm fine," is far too quick, even for her taste. Dammit.
Martin is quiet, foot swinging and skidding on the tile floor, posture rigid. He's trying very hard not to appear as drunk as she knows he is. Then: "You didn't know." To Samantha, it's hard to tell whether it's a question or a statement of fact.
A lightbulb. "How did *you*?" she deflects.
He opens his mouth, and her mind makes the connection before he says the words. She can't act quick enough to cut him off, though she's forming the words along with him. "The Spaulding tape."
She considers the time when she asked Martin how he was doing and he brushed her off. She feels him watching her, knowing this is exactly what she's thinking of; that kind of connection scares her. "You didn't know," he says again, differently. Like it's some kind of justification.
The mugs make a thud when she sets them down, traces of a bit of anger on her part. "Of course I didn't know." She shouldn't. She shouldn't let him provoke her, but she can't help it. More anger, "You wouldn't have brought it *up* if I knew!"
Immediately, she sighs, regretting her tone.
He slumps against her doorway, letting himself go. His words become sloppy and his tone is righteous. It takes him time to form the word: "Right." (Sarcasm abounds.)
Samantha turns. "What's *that* supposed to mean?" Again, against her better judgement.
"Nothing," he replies quickly.
She crosses her arms against her chest. "Bullshit."
Martin waves a drunken hand at her. "Forget it."
He rubs his forehead; she wouldn't be surprised if her apartment is spinning for him. Again, she considers kicking him out, but she knows better; she could call a cab. She takes a step toward him. "No, I don't think I will."
It's not what she anticipated. She can see him snap right in front of her eyes, the way she thinks he probably snapped when he aimed his weapon at Delgado and shot him. The look in his eyes makes her flinch. "You're just pissed because you didn't know before the rest of us." And just for good measure, he takes a breath and raises his voice: "That you don't know every dark, little god damn secret about Jack fucking Malone."
A pin drops in her apartment and the whole world hears it.
Samantha feels naked, exposed. A tiny part of her brain reminds her that there's only a small chance that he means it *that* way, but she's not listening to rationality. Her voice is quiet, thanks to her nerves. "Martin, I want to help you get through this--"
He makes a dismissive sound. It sets her off. "-- But I don't know what the *hell* you're trying to imply--"
"Oh, for Christ's sake!" He's shouting, cutting her off. "Get over it, would you?" he snaps. Martin leans into her, and she can smell the alcohol on his breath. "You can't keeping secrets, Sam." Pause. "Both of you."
There. There, it is.
She blinks. Immediately, anger leeps into her throat, threatening to wrangle her control and take her over. She swallows it; her voice is cool and she looks him straight in the eye. "You're a mean drunk, Martin."
He holds her gaze for a moment before breaking away. "Yeah, well," and he runs a hand through his hair, though he hasn't regretted a thing he's said, "like father, like son."
Maybe she should feel pity for him. Her mind flits back to the cab, but then she looks up at him, and doesn't see an ounce of sympathetic anything. His eyes are stone: he doesn't want her help.
"I think you should leave now," she says.
Martin looks at her, vaguely shocked, before shaking his head and turning toward the door. Of course, his stance is wobbily, swaying when his feet leave the carpet of the living room, but she doesn't care. She thinks she hears him mutter for her to fuck off.
He slams the door.
*