Title: Wicked
Disclaimer: Hank is my hero. So, I don't intend to steal from either Hank or his friends. If I inadvertently walked off with something, I didn't mean it, and I hereby give it back with apologies.
Spoilers: Any episode that tipped you off to the fact that our Jack and Sam were a little more "friendly" than your usual co-workers.
Author's Notes: The introductory text in bold and italics at the beginning of each chapter are lyrics from various songs in the musical, Wicked. All lyrics are by Stephen Schwartz. And the title of this story is (obviously) blatantly taken from the title of that same musical. Also, thanks to Maple Street. I would never have tried my hand at writing fan fiction if you hadn't been the nicest forum ever. Of course, I'm not entirely sure that subjecting any of you to this is a good thing. I've never done a WIP before. This could get ugly. The first chapter is incredibly short, but I promise that they will get longer. Then again, I'm not sure if that's a good thing either.
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Wicked
Through their lives, our children learn
What we miss, when we misbehave. . .
-- No One Mourns the Wicked
"Wicked." When Samantha was a child – acting out in moments of childish folly – her mother had often called her "wicked".
"Samantha Ryan Spade . . . you can be the most wicked little thing."
Samantha never took her seriously. How could she? The words were always accompanied by a look of dismayed pride that somehow managed to convey both a sense of affection and warmth ("That's my girl") right along with the obvious prohibition ("But if you ever do that again, there will be hell to pay.")
Her mother first applied the label when little Sammy decided to decapitate her new best friend's Barbie doll collection – payback for some now long-forgotten slight.
The label returned a second time when a slightly older, but no wiser, Sam was caught stealing chewing gum and unicorn stickers (several pockets full) after a dare from the same best friend.
And the label spilled out of her mother's lips again on that unfortunate afternoon when Samantha almost set their neighbor's dog on fire. Well . . . technically . . . it was just his tail. And . . . in theory . . . it was an accident. But since Samantha wasn't supposed to be playing with matches, she earned both that label and that look.
Once Samantha grew out of childhood and into her rebellious teenage years, the label disappeared.
The look, however, remained.
Samantha could still see that elusive mix of love and frustration in her mother's eyes. But now, it was also accompanied by just a touch of sadness. And a little bit of worry. And a small dose of where did I go wrong.
All of that was there the day that Samantha's mother found her runaway daughter at the local bus station.
And again on the morning that an 18-year old Samantha came home with a new husband in tow.
And on the night that Samantha told her mother about the divorce.
And about the men that followed.
And for the first time, Samantha thought that maybe . . . just maybe . . . her mother had even started to believe the label that she had once applied in jest.
"Wicked."
Eventually, Samantha and her mother grew apart. And in between them was the ever-growing chasm of disappointment that Samantha saw in her mother's eyes.
But to be perfectly honest, Samantha had never actually felt wicked. Not after her failed marriage. And not even after the string of men that she left behind in her attempt to forget that first great mistake.
No. She never felt wicked.
Well. At least not until after that day.
The day that she met him.
Little did she know, but he was about to give a whole new meaning to the term.
"Hello, Samantha. . . Paula Van Doren tells me you're looking for a job. I might be able to help. . . The name's Jack Malone."
