TITLE: Fifty-Nine
AUTHOR: Blaze
RATING/SPOILERS: PG, and none thus far. May change
SUMMARY: Fifty-nine nights and she isn't ready for it to be over. J/S
DISCLAIMER: Are they mine or have they ever been? Nope.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: First fic in a loooong time. This is an extremely conditional WIP: I have plans to make this have all 59 nights of the journey, but I can't promise I'll finish it, as I have a horrible record with WIPs, especially long ones. Thanks to D for the enthusiasm and the support and encouragement; and to Maple Street for being talented and just awesome!
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Night fifty-nine.
Samantha walks into the room, heart pounding, head rattling with thoughts battling for her attention, and knows this will be the only time she has to get that prickly feeling behind her eyes to go away before he gets back from the police station, from the meeting and interrogation and the paperwork.
She closes the door behind her and heads for the duffle she moved into the room forty-six days ago, pulling her pajamas—a worn pair of sweats and a tank-top she had planned on throwing away sixty nights ago—out of the bag for the last time.
Fifty-nine nights and she's alone.
He's there when she comes out of the bathroom, her wet hair soaking into her shirt, and she's glad she had her chance to cry before he got back.
"You left your key in the door," he says quietly, and they can see the strain of night fifty-nine in each other's eyes.
"Oh." She knows it's not enough, not right, but right now she's too out of it, too overwhelmed by night fifty-nine that it doesn't really matter. She doesn't move to take the key from his hand, nor does he move towards her to give it back, and they stand there in a silent limbo, neither knowing what to say.
He breaks the silence with, "Sam…" and she replies, "I know. I don't want to talk about it."
"What if I do?"
"Jack…" The prickly feeling behind her eyes returns, her throat goes raw, the autonomic reactions paired with a heavy heart, and an awareness of an abject loss, one she hadn't planned on noticing until the next morning.
Fifty-nine nights and it's all happening too fast.
"Don't do this to me." She doesn't know who said it, can't remember if the words bubbled up from her throat or his, and doesn't know if it matters.
All that matters is he's feeling night fifty-nine just as much as she is; it's on his shoulders, in every inch of loosened tie and wrinkled shirt, in his exhausted limbs and ever so slightly bloodshot eyes.
Their eyes lock, and it's impossible for her to fathom seeing anything else. Fifty-nine nights have created their own routine and rhythm and even though this night is different, that routine pulls them in and pulls them closer, and they're almost touching when the phone rings.
"Damn it," he whispers and, with a heavy sigh, takes two steps towards the bed and picks up. "Hello?"
She knows exactly who it is and why they've called. Pinches the bridge of her nose and bites the
inside of her lower lip, sits in the uncomfortable motel room chair she's made
her safe spot. Pulls one knee close to
her chest and watches him stutter to a sit on the bed—their bed—saying,
"Yeah. Have you told them I'm
coming home? I bet they were. It'll be good to be back. We're heading out in the morning." He tilts his head back, face changing from
weary to annoyed. "Of course she's
in her own room, Maria, where else would she be?"
Fifty-nine nights and the lies were almost over.
He wraps up the conversation with, "Yeah. I'll see you tomorrow or Thursday. Okay. Bye." Jack stares at the phone for a long, desolate minute. She feels his hurt from across the room, knows his hurt, shares it.
She wants to solve it like they've just solved the case, but it's night fifty-nine and there's no time to solve it now.
"I don't want to go home," he murmurs to the phone and to her, and she's afraid to breathe for fear the echo of his statement will emerge without her permission.
"We have to," she says a moment later.
"I'm so tired," he says, and there is no question as to how tired he is and why.
"Want to go to bed?" She wants him to say no, knowing that the sooner they climb in, the sooner they'll sleep, and the sooner tomorrow will come.
Fifty-nine nights and she isn't ready for it to be over.
He inhales and lets the air out slow. "Yeah."
She stays in her chair as he climbs under the covers, still in his suit. Night fifty-nine has changed them both.
When he's settled in, she gets up and turns off the light, carefully making her way to his side. Slipping in next to him on cool motel sheets, she revels in this one last night, this one last time he slides his arms around her, this one last time they can be perfect.
It will not be anything less than an emotional death for the pair when night fifty-nine gives way to dawn, and she keeps her eyes open as long as she can.
"I love you," she tells him, not expecting a reciprocation, not expecting anything, but needing to tell him the truth before it all goes away.
And in the darkness, he pulls her closer and lets "I know" brush her ear.
Fifty-nine nights and it's finally over.