Disclaimer: Characters aren't mine. They belong to the Profiler folks, who's
name I can't for the life of me remember. But I do know it's not mine.
The Memory Remains
by Erana Zeitler
Chapter Two
John awoke to the smell of strawberry.
He opened his eyes slowly, disoriented from his first good night's sleep in
days. Unfortunately, John knew no amount of sleep was going to make him
forget, even for a second, just what was going on.
On second thought, maybe it was fortunate he couldn't forget.
Because that smell of strawberries was most definitely coming from Sam's hair.
She'd fallen asleep across the couch from him, which he'd known from the
brief moment's during the evening that he'd woken from one sound or aonther.
During the past few hours she'd shifted position enough so that strands of
blonde hair were lying in front of his nose, and her head was resting
comfortably on his stomach.
If the circumstances were different, John knew there was no way in the world
he'd be able to stop himself from acting on the impulses coursing through his
veins. But the circumstances weren't different, and he was having a hard
time allowing his imagination to go where it wanted to. It wasn't even the
reason he'd shown up on her doorstep that was stopping him so much as the
fact that last night was the first time he'd seen her, or heard her voice, in
two years.
Unlike Sam, John could resist a lost cause. He'd never been a big fan of
pointless, wasteful longing.
At least, that's what he was repeatedly telling himself as he stared down at
her face.
Of course, even the smallest bit of his heart that refused to listen to his
head was silenced by memories of their last conversation with one another.
It hadn't been much of a goodbye. In fact the only thing remarkable about it
was it's complete lack of such. She'd been friendly, distant, every bit
Samantha. And if she was in the least bit bothered by never seeing him
again, it hadn't showed. At the time he hadn't minded, firmly believing that
she'd keep in touch.
Suddenly his hurt feelings were far stronger than any sexual attraction could
ever hope to be.
John shook her arm roughly. "Hey, Sam, mind moving?"
She mumbled incoherently and buried herself against his chest for a moment,
before realization came to her. A second later she was back on the opposite
side of the couch, rubbing her eyes and stretching. "S'morning already?" she
mumbled, her voice deep with exhaustion.
"Yeah," John replied flatly. "If you tell me where the coffee's at I'll make
a pot."
Sam looked up at him, surprised by the tone of his voice. "It's in the
cabinet over the stove," she told him cautiously.
It occurred to John that he hardly had a right to be angry. After all, what
should she care about how he felt? Her not keeping in touch proved plainly
enough that he occupied little of her thoughts, if he even made it into any
of them at all. "Be right back," he said after a moment's silence, forcing
himself to make an attempt at sounding normal.
Knowing he'd failed miserably, John rose carefully from the couch and limped
towards the kitchen, wanting nothing more than to be away from her.
Sam watched him go and knew that it was only a matter of time before her own
interrogation began.
* * * * *
As it turned out, Sam mused a half-hour later, she needn't have worried.
Instead of the questions she'd been convinced would come, John had
steadfastly avoided any thing resembling a personal conversation, aside from
the facts necessary for her to come up with theories. When she asked how
everyone was, his reply was 'fine'. When she asked how he was, besides the
obvious, his reply was 'fine'. By the time she heard the seventh 'fine'
coming from his mouth she wanted to scream.
Finally, exasperated, she decided it was time to call George. Reaching for
the phone she dialed the familiar number, and waited to be transferred.
Tapping her finger on the desk impatiently, she looked over at John and
wondered, not for the first time, whether he'd missed her. She'd been so
sure he'd be filled with questions about why she hadn't stayed in touch and
instead there was nothing. Not even the vaguest comment or implication.
Nothing.
It was bothering the hell out of her.
"Hello?"
Sam jumped slightly as the voice on the other end of the phone pulled her
from further rumination. "George! How've you been?"
There was a long silence before George answered, "Fine." The word
immediately set Sam's teeth on edge, and she took a deep breath. "It's nice
to hear from you."
The carefully guarded tone told her instantly that they wouldn't be able to
have a conversation free of subterfuge. "Can you talk?" she asked.
"Not really, no," George replied, sounding amused for the benefit of whoever
was listening. "I'm not so sure you should, either," he continued with a
laugh.
Sam frowned. She hadn't been expecting that, but he had a point. Chances
were good the FBI wouldn't trust the VCTF to take care of the murders now
that one of their own was the prime suspect. There was no reason to think
they wouldn't have every phone they could get their hands on bugged or
tapped. "I hear you," she told him, frowning. "But there is something I
need."
"I know just what you mean. Hey, what's your new number there?" George
requested casually. She gave it to him. "Well, I'll give you a call just as
soon as I can," he promised.
"Thanks, George."
"Any time," he assured her, and then there was nothing but a dial tone.
Sam hung up the phone, and turned to look at John. "He'll get back to us,"
she relayed.
"I got that much," John confirmed.
Sam rolled her eyes heavenward before opening up the refrigerator and
surveying the contents. She glanced towards John. "Feel like eating?" she
offered.
John's eyes lit up. "Food?" he said incredulously. "Real, genuine, solid
food?" In an instant he was on his feet and standing beside her to look
inside the fridge. He reached inside for an apple, then turned to face her.
"I'd worship you forever."
Sam laughed and pushed him out of the way gently. "I'll take that as a yes,"
she replied good naturedly.
John moved to sit back down, taking a bite of the apple he'd stolen. "Hell,
yes," he confirmed eagerly. "I'll even help, if you want. Although the last
time I tried to cook the fire department ordered me to never try again." He
frowned thoughtfully. "On the other hand, I'm a wanted murderer, I might as
well break some kind of rule, right?"
Sam stared at him for a long moment before answering, "That's okay, really,
I'll do it myself."
John gave her his best puppy-dog expression. "I'll tell you the same thing I
told them, brand new stoves are not nearly as good as old ones. It wasn't my
fault it blew up. And it certainly wasn't my fault poor old Mrs. Silverman
didn't get out in time."
Sam shook her head and laughed. "I'll admit, you had me going for a moment
there," she confessed, pulling a carton of eggs out of the fridge.
"Yeah, I'm such a kidder," John said sarcastically, and was inwardly
satisfied when Sam continued to give him worried looks as she cooked.
* * * * *
It was three-thirty in the afternoon by the time the telephone rang.
Sam hit record on the VCR so as not to miss a moment of her soaps, a fact
John found exceedingly hard to believe even as he witnessed it first hand,
and picked up the receiver. He sat forward on the couch cushion, wishing he
could hear both ends of the conversation. "Hi... yeah... really?... I don't
actually have one... well, I didn't know I'd need one... yeah, I know... I do
have that... Sam492@aol.com... you think so?... are you *sure*?... yeah, I'll
tell him. Thanks, George." She hung up, a nervous expression on her face.
"What'd he say?" John asked the second the phone was out of her hand.
Sam looked over at him, then without saying a word picked up the telephone
again and dialed. "Hi. Look, something's come up, do you think you can
watch Chloe for a few more days? I'll let you know when. Thanks. No, I
gotta go, but tell her I said hi." She hung up the phone for a second time,
then finally turned to look back at John. "George said the FBI's planning on
coming out here, but he's not sure when."
John frowned. "Great, more driving," he muttered, already moving to stand.
Sam blinked, and held out a hand to stop him. "He's also going to e-mail the
information to me, but I need to get it printed out and deleted before we go,
otherwise they'll find it on the computer and they might be able to trace it.
George said he could hide the trail, but just from it being hidden they'll
know it was him."
John turned to stare at her. "'We'?" he repeated incredulously, raising an
eyebrow. "What we?"
"You didn't really think I'd let you leave here without me, did you?" she
asked, just as incredulously if not more so. "You came to me for help, and
whether you like it or not you're going to get it."
"Sam..."
Sam shook her head firmly to stop whatever he was going to say next. "No.
Look, their are people looking for you everywhere. But no one's looking for
me, and no one's going to be *able* to look for me without some kind of
evidence that I'm with you. It makes more sense for me to go with you than
for you to go yourself."
"No," John said resolutely. "No way in hell."
Sam rose to her feet and stared him down. "What are you going to do on your
own?" she asked. "You're hurt, and everyone's looking for you. There's no
way you can prove you're innocent without me, and you know it."
"Sam, you're not coming with me, and that's that." She looked ready to argue
some more and he quickly continued, "Look, whoever's doing this is doing it
to me. It's *my* problem. I'm not going to let you put yourself in danger
because of me. Especially when you're not even an agent anymore!"
Sam couldn't keep herself from releasing a small laugh. "How many times,
John, did I tell you the exact same thing when we were investigating Jack?
And how many times did you insist that it *was* your problem, and there was
no way you were going to let me face it alone?"
John, knowing she had a point, looked away. "It's not the same thing," he
said.
"No," Sam agreed. "No, it's not. But it's a chance for me to repay a debt,
regardless of the circumstances. So let me."
John opened his mouth to retort, but before he could begin he was interrupted
by a loud knock at the door. The two exchanged looks of concern, both their
minds jumping to the conclusion that the FBI was waiting on the doorstep.
John took two steps towards the bathroom, and Sam shook her head, pointing
towards the laundry room, instead. He headed towards it obediently, but
before disappearing mouthed the words, 'Be careful'.
Sam nodded, and yelled out, "I'll be right there!" Her eyes quickly skitted
over the items in the living room, falling on the bloody towel John had
abandoned the night before in favor of her bandages. She grabbed the towel
and threw it into the laundry room with John, then headed towards the door,
knowing it was too late to fix anything else now. She threw it open, to
greet the two men in dark suits.
The taller man gestured to the shorter. "This is Agent Michaels, and I'm
Agent Simone. We'd like to ask you a few questions regarding a former
partner of yours. Can we come in?"
Sam stepped aside, and held her breath.
~End Chapter Two~
name I can't for the life of me remember. But I do know it's not mine.
The Memory Remains
by Erana Zeitler
Chapter Two
John awoke to the smell of strawberry.
He opened his eyes slowly, disoriented from his first good night's sleep in
days. Unfortunately, John knew no amount of sleep was going to make him
forget, even for a second, just what was going on.
On second thought, maybe it was fortunate he couldn't forget.
Because that smell of strawberries was most definitely coming from Sam's hair.
She'd fallen asleep across the couch from him, which he'd known from the
brief moment's during the evening that he'd woken from one sound or aonther.
During the past few hours she'd shifted position enough so that strands of
blonde hair were lying in front of his nose, and her head was resting
comfortably on his stomach.
If the circumstances were different, John knew there was no way in the world
he'd be able to stop himself from acting on the impulses coursing through his
veins. But the circumstances weren't different, and he was having a hard
time allowing his imagination to go where it wanted to. It wasn't even the
reason he'd shown up on her doorstep that was stopping him so much as the
fact that last night was the first time he'd seen her, or heard her voice, in
two years.
Unlike Sam, John could resist a lost cause. He'd never been a big fan of
pointless, wasteful longing.
At least, that's what he was repeatedly telling himself as he stared down at
her face.
Of course, even the smallest bit of his heart that refused to listen to his
head was silenced by memories of their last conversation with one another.
It hadn't been much of a goodbye. In fact the only thing remarkable about it
was it's complete lack of such. She'd been friendly, distant, every bit
Samantha. And if she was in the least bit bothered by never seeing him
again, it hadn't showed. At the time he hadn't minded, firmly believing that
she'd keep in touch.
Suddenly his hurt feelings were far stronger than any sexual attraction could
ever hope to be.
John shook her arm roughly. "Hey, Sam, mind moving?"
She mumbled incoherently and buried herself against his chest for a moment,
before realization came to her. A second later she was back on the opposite
side of the couch, rubbing her eyes and stretching. "S'morning already?" she
mumbled, her voice deep with exhaustion.
"Yeah," John replied flatly. "If you tell me where the coffee's at I'll make
a pot."
Sam looked up at him, surprised by the tone of his voice. "It's in the
cabinet over the stove," she told him cautiously.
It occurred to John that he hardly had a right to be angry. After all, what
should she care about how he felt? Her not keeping in touch proved plainly
enough that he occupied little of her thoughts, if he even made it into any
of them at all. "Be right back," he said after a moment's silence, forcing
himself to make an attempt at sounding normal.
Knowing he'd failed miserably, John rose carefully from the couch and limped
towards the kitchen, wanting nothing more than to be away from her.
Sam watched him go and knew that it was only a matter of time before her own
interrogation began.
* * * * *
As it turned out, Sam mused a half-hour later, she needn't have worried.
Instead of the questions she'd been convinced would come, John had
steadfastly avoided any thing resembling a personal conversation, aside from
the facts necessary for her to come up with theories. When she asked how
everyone was, his reply was 'fine'. When she asked how he was, besides the
obvious, his reply was 'fine'. By the time she heard the seventh 'fine'
coming from his mouth she wanted to scream.
Finally, exasperated, she decided it was time to call George. Reaching for
the phone she dialed the familiar number, and waited to be transferred.
Tapping her finger on the desk impatiently, she looked over at John and
wondered, not for the first time, whether he'd missed her. She'd been so
sure he'd be filled with questions about why she hadn't stayed in touch and
instead there was nothing. Not even the vaguest comment or implication.
Nothing.
It was bothering the hell out of her.
"Hello?"
Sam jumped slightly as the voice on the other end of the phone pulled her
from further rumination. "George! How've you been?"
There was a long silence before George answered, "Fine." The word
immediately set Sam's teeth on edge, and she took a deep breath. "It's nice
to hear from you."
The carefully guarded tone told her instantly that they wouldn't be able to
have a conversation free of subterfuge. "Can you talk?" she asked.
"Not really, no," George replied, sounding amused for the benefit of whoever
was listening. "I'm not so sure you should, either," he continued with a
laugh.
Sam frowned. She hadn't been expecting that, but he had a point. Chances
were good the FBI wouldn't trust the VCTF to take care of the murders now
that one of their own was the prime suspect. There was no reason to think
they wouldn't have every phone they could get their hands on bugged or
tapped. "I hear you," she told him, frowning. "But there is something I
need."
"I know just what you mean. Hey, what's your new number there?" George
requested casually. She gave it to him. "Well, I'll give you a call just as
soon as I can," he promised.
"Thanks, George."
"Any time," he assured her, and then there was nothing but a dial tone.
Sam hung up the phone, and turned to look at John. "He'll get back to us,"
she relayed.
"I got that much," John confirmed.
Sam rolled her eyes heavenward before opening up the refrigerator and
surveying the contents. She glanced towards John. "Feel like eating?" she
offered.
John's eyes lit up. "Food?" he said incredulously. "Real, genuine, solid
food?" In an instant he was on his feet and standing beside her to look
inside the fridge. He reached inside for an apple, then turned to face her.
"I'd worship you forever."
Sam laughed and pushed him out of the way gently. "I'll take that as a yes,"
she replied good naturedly.
John moved to sit back down, taking a bite of the apple he'd stolen. "Hell,
yes," he confirmed eagerly. "I'll even help, if you want. Although the last
time I tried to cook the fire department ordered me to never try again." He
frowned thoughtfully. "On the other hand, I'm a wanted murderer, I might as
well break some kind of rule, right?"
Sam stared at him for a long moment before answering, "That's okay, really,
I'll do it myself."
John gave her his best puppy-dog expression. "I'll tell you the same thing I
told them, brand new stoves are not nearly as good as old ones. It wasn't my
fault it blew up. And it certainly wasn't my fault poor old Mrs. Silverman
didn't get out in time."
Sam shook her head and laughed. "I'll admit, you had me going for a moment
there," she confessed, pulling a carton of eggs out of the fridge.
"Yeah, I'm such a kidder," John said sarcastically, and was inwardly
satisfied when Sam continued to give him worried looks as she cooked.
* * * * *
It was three-thirty in the afternoon by the time the telephone rang.
Sam hit record on the VCR so as not to miss a moment of her soaps, a fact
John found exceedingly hard to believe even as he witnessed it first hand,
and picked up the receiver. He sat forward on the couch cushion, wishing he
could hear both ends of the conversation. "Hi... yeah... really?... I don't
actually have one... well, I didn't know I'd need one... yeah, I know... I do
have that... Sam492@aol.com... you think so?... are you *sure*?... yeah, I'll
tell him. Thanks, George." She hung up, a nervous expression on her face.
"What'd he say?" John asked the second the phone was out of her hand.
Sam looked over at him, then without saying a word picked up the telephone
again and dialed. "Hi. Look, something's come up, do you think you can
watch Chloe for a few more days? I'll let you know when. Thanks. No, I
gotta go, but tell her I said hi." She hung up the phone for a second time,
then finally turned to look back at John. "George said the FBI's planning on
coming out here, but he's not sure when."
John frowned. "Great, more driving," he muttered, already moving to stand.
Sam blinked, and held out a hand to stop him. "He's also going to e-mail the
information to me, but I need to get it printed out and deleted before we go,
otherwise they'll find it on the computer and they might be able to trace it.
George said he could hide the trail, but just from it being hidden they'll
know it was him."
John turned to stare at her. "'We'?" he repeated incredulously, raising an
eyebrow. "What we?"
"You didn't really think I'd let you leave here without me, did you?" she
asked, just as incredulously if not more so. "You came to me for help, and
whether you like it or not you're going to get it."
"Sam..."
Sam shook her head firmly to stop whatever he was going to say next. "No.
Look, their are people looking for you everywhere. But no one's looking for
me, and no one's going to be *able* to look for me without some kind of
evidence that I'm with you. It makes more sense for me to go with you than
for you to go yourself."
"No," John said resolutely. "No way in hell."
Sam rose to her feet and stared him down. "What are you going to do on your
own?" she asked. "You're hurt, and everyone's looking for you. There's no
way you can prove you're innocent without me, and you know it."
"Sam, you're not coming with me, and that's that." She looked ready to argue
some more and he quickly continued, "Look, whoever's doing this is doing it
to me. It's *my* problem. I'm not going to let you put yourself in danger
because of me. Especially when you're not even an agent anymore!"
Sam couldn't keep herself from releasing a small laugh. "How many times,
John, did I tell you the exact same thing when we were investigating Jack?
And how many times did you insist that it *was* your problem, and there was
no way you were going to let me face it alone?"
John, knowing she had a point, looked away. "It's not the same thing," he
said.
"No," Sam agreed. "No, it's not. But it's a chance for me to repay a debt,
regardless of the circumstances. So let me."
John opened his mouth to retort, but before he could begin he was interrupted
by a loud knock at the door. The two exchanged looks of concern, both their
minds jumping to the conclusion that the FBI was waiting on the doorstep.
John took two steps towards the bathroom, and Sam shook her head, pointing
towards the laundry room, instead. He headed towards it obediently, but
before disappearing mouthed the words, 'Be careful'.
Sam nodded, and yelled out, "I'll be right there!" Her eyes quickly skitted
over the items in the living room, falling on the bloody towel John had
abandoned the night before in favor of her bandages. She grabbed the towel
and threw it into the laundry room with John, then headed towards the door,
knowing it was too late to fix anything else now. She threw it open, to
greet the two men in dark suits.
The taller man gestured to the shorter. "This is Agent Michaels, and I'm
Agent Simone. We'd like to ask you a few questions regarding a former
partner of yours. Can we come in?"
Sam stepped aside, and held her breath.
~End Chapter Two~