Title: Fading to Bare
Authors: Midnight_Blue and Running Up Fawn
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: We own nothing; the characters you recognize belong to the brilliant Steinberg, Bruckheimer, and CBS.
A/N: M_B and I are setting this little WIP around present-time on the show. Love and thanks to Maple Street, the best forum around.
*
"And there's a memory of a window, looking through I see you, searching for something I could never give you.." – God of Wine, Third Eye Blind
*
"I remember a lot of things..the heat, God, it was so hot in there..and the carpet, the carpet was so clean and tan and then it was stained this deep crimson, and--"
"Samantha."
"What?"
"You said crimson."
"So?"
"So, you were talking about blood, am I right? Most people describe blood as being red. Crimson is a very specific color."
"I'm a very specific person, Doctor."
"I see. As long as color seems to be standing out in your mind, are there any others you remember from the day you were shot?"
"You're blunt. I like that."
"Excuse me?"
"Most people refer to it as my incident, or ordeal. No one wants to remind me that I got shot."
"I don't imagine you'd need a reminder."
"Yeah. I don't imagine I would, but sometimes it's nice to hear one. Crazy as that sounds."
"Colors, Samantha. We were talking about colors?"
"I don't know. Just crimson. Just a river of warm crimson. It was everywhere and it wouldn't stop."
"That's it?"
"Yeah. No. I don't know..I guess that wasn't the only color."
"No? What else was there?"
"Well, you know..it wasn't like a fucking box of Crayola, Doctor. But..the air. It was like a gray blanket and it kept getting darker. Heavier and darker and it mixed with the river. Crimson and gray."
"Gray?"
"I'm sorry if gray isn't specific enough for you. If it's not what you want to hear. But that's what it was, the color of the air."
"If gray is what you saw, gray is specific enough for me."
"Well, good."
"Anything else? Samantha?"
But before Samantha can tell Doctor Lisa Harris, FBI in-house counselor, about the explosion of fiery, brilliant amber-orange that was the bullet's searing heat shattering her skin, or the color of the simultaneous split-second and eternity after orange and before crimson (and how would she explain that, anyway, empty and translucent, like condensation still clinging to the broken shards of a clear glass bottle..), the hour is up and her mosaic disappears.
*
It's not something she could ever put a date or time on, and so she didn't try, not really, but Samantha sometimes wondered exactly when she became so jaded, when the searches that went cold started slipping beneath the surface instead of following her home at night, when people became known as cases ('the Billy Robinson case', 'the Sarah Wagner case'..) instead of by their names and faces and the lives they lived.
'You're not supposed to get used to this,' Jack once told her. 'How could I?' had been the words poised to slip from her lips in reply, but she'd swallowed them whole because she wasn't ready for the answer.
But although the twist she used to feel in her gut every time a new picture made its guest appearance on their whiteboard had faded from sharp, deliberate and pointed to a dull, stifled ache, it was still there, constant and nagging, and inside she clung to the twinge while outwardly trying to pretend she had never felt it.
At times, she had discovered, it's easier to hide than others.
That day, the throbbing in her leg wasn't unbearable and it wasn't faint enough to go unnoticed. It just was, existing, it seemed, for the sole purpose of making it impossible for her to ignore its presence, not unlike the small cluster of apprehension that had settled in the pit of her stomach as the team gathered around their usual table and waited to see whose life they would be unraveling next.
The pain in her leg didn't change when Vivian clipped their latest picture to the board, a glossy photograph of a handsome young man, but her stomach dropped, much in the same way it did when a rollercoaster flew down a series of rolling hills except this time, the initial shock was replaced by a quiet sorrow instead of raging adrenaline.
"Do you think you'd maybe want to grab lunch sometime?"
"Hey, Sam.." Danny studied the photo briefly before turning his gaze to her, forehead wrinkled in concentration. "Isn't that..?"
Michael Adler, Vivian had just finished writing across the top of the board.
"That was his name," Danny said with a nod, still watching her curiously. "What ever happened with you two?"
"I don't..I don't usually date people I meet at work, Michael.."
"It's not exactly a date, just some lunch. And I'm barely involved in your case at all. Come on, let me take you out."
"Okay. Okay, yes. Lunch would be nice."
By now Vivian and Martin were watching her with the same mild interest that remained on Danny's face, and Jack's eyes burned into her with such intensity that she found she couldn't meet them with her own.
Samantha cleared her throat before replying. "Nothing. We went on a few dates, didn't work out. I haven't spoken to him in over a month."
"Are you okay to work on this case?" Jack asked slowly, and she shifted uncomfortably under his heavy, unwavering scrutiny, as if he was searching for something in her eyes, her face, her expression, something that would tell him what her words never would.
"I'm fine," she responded, matching with her determined tone the ardence in his gaze. "It didn't mean anything, anyway."
"We talked to him about the Morrison case, right?" Martin finally spoke, dissolving the heavy tension that had settled over the table.
"Yeah," Samantha answered, grateful for an excuse to duck out from under Jack's close watch. "He, uh, worked with Morrison before the firm laid Morrison off. Barely knew the guy."
"We should still look through those files," Jack said with a frown. "Adler's boss called it in when he didn't show up for work today, said he wasn't there yesterday, either."
"You think there's something going on with this law firm?" Vivian questioned with a glance down at the paperwork in front of her.
"I guess we'll find out. Samantha, we're going to need to know everything you learned about this guy; any problems with family, friends, co-workers.."
"Jack, I told you--"
Jack held up his hand, which served both to silence her and act as a peace offering. "I know it was just a few dates, but you may have picked up something important. Sometimes it's the little things that mean the most."
The little things..
She hadn't thought about Michael Adler since their rather awkward, final date ended over a month ago, since she'd conjured up the regretful smile that went hand-in-hand with the customary, "I'm sorry, it's just not working out", firm but gentle letdown, and she supposed she might never have thought about him again if his picture hadn't been staring down at her from the last place she'd ever expected to see it.
Now, though, she recalled every facial expression, every nuance, the way he never forgot to hold the door open for her and always smiled after she ordered her meal..it was almost as if by remembering him, the good things along with the reasons she'd stopped seeing him after only three meetings, she could keep him real, in the here and now, away from the world where he would only exist captured in one moment, one dimension, the world where he would be referred to simply as 'the Michael Adler case', where his identity and thoughts and dreams would cease to matter.
So she closed her eyes and searched, simply let the memories drift lazily, easily, to the surface, take over her conscious, and she remembered the little things.
*
Outwardly, nothing seemed unusual about this particular law firm. Given the average number of law firms she'd been to over the course of her time with the FBI, she would almost classify this one as welcoming. With its classy front doors, polished walls, and friendly staff, the firm didn't seem to say to her 'Out to get your money'; in a funny way, it seemed to say, 'We work for you.' So many lawyers claimed this, of course, but she felt it.
And Michael, with his boyish charm and rugged good looks, seemed to belong here in a way she never would have imagined.
For the second time that day, it made her regret turning down his last offer for a meal again – dinner, it had been. Casual, though, at a diner no less, and for a minute when he'd offered, she'd almost wavered on what to do. He was just that type of guy.
Jack strode behind her, Danny with him, and a cynical laugh was building in his throat. Clearly, they didn't share the same opinion on this place.
"Danny, Sam, I want you two talking to Michael's coworkers, his secretary, see if you can get access to his recent cases. I'm going to speak with the boss."
They separated and Danny held the door as they passed through the main hallway to where the offices were located. Danny's hand went out, flashing his badge simultaneously, as they met the woman whose office was right next to Michael's.
"I'm Danny Taylor, this is Samantha Spade, we're with the FBI."
"Susan Felt. I guess you're about...Michael," she spoke, retreating back into her office and motioning for them to have a seat.
"Yes, ma'am, we are. Did you work closely with Michael?"
Her elbows went to the arms of her chair and she brought her hands into her lap. "Well, we consulted each other on cases every now and then, got lunch, a few drinks after work, you know, the usual coworker stuff."
Danny smiled a little and watched Samantha take notes from the corner of his eye.
"Yes, ma'am. What can you tell us about Michael, what kind of guy was he, how did he act?"
Susan's lips lifted into a soft, lilting grin. "Great guy. He'd charm you in a few minutes and he'd have this incredible power over you. I think that's part of the reason he always had more clients than anyone else."
Danny cleared his throat, looking at Samantha as he said, "Power over you?"
Susan folded her hands into her lap and started rocking back and forth. "Yes, in that endearing sort of way. You couldn't say no to him."
*
As so often happened in life, she found herself being constantly reminded of Michael Adler, finding him, in way, through his disappearance. It was both ironic and incredibly fitting: to start knowing someone just as they become out of reach.
As they walked back to the office, Danny made a remark to Jack about the decor of the office rooms and she felt her heart catch in her throat for a moment as they passed the diner she'd eaten in with Michael. Earlier, as they'd been searching his office, she'd spotted the card she'd given him when they'd been working the Morrison case; wrinkled, the ink broken in some spots, it was still sharply delineated against the brown, smooth oak desk he spun his legal yarns upon.
Samantha thought it both odd and slightly touching all at once, even blushing when Danny teased her about it.
She felt that in trying to distance herself from Jack – and she was trying – she also felt, more and more, that they were completely, and irreparably, tied together. It struck her then, in the twisty way life occurred, that they could remain apart for the rest of their lives and always be living with, around, and for each other.
Michael, it seemed, hadn't yet left her, but neither had Jack, as she was also being continuously reminded of. In small ways, but undeniably, he was still the part of her she couldn't escape. Like the bookstore–
I wasn't going to shoot you
God, why am I thinking about this now, she thought, after all this time.
She's bleeding really bad
And in her heart she knew. She knew why her mind still saw it in angry sketches and violent colors, this heart-breaking mess; because she hadn't allowed it to leave yet. Because her leg still cramped now and again; her hand still went to her cheek involuntarily where the blood had been; her lips turned pale and chattered from the cold in a stuffy room.
Because the blood was hers and it hadn't washed away.
And really, because sometimes, when night was darkest, she could still feel it and it would hurt like hell.
It still felt like dying.
I'm gonna get you out of here
Only, he never did.
So what's your story?
Story?
Everybody's got a story, Samantha.
Stories belonged to that place where memories were felt in warm shades of color, not scattered blood, like pieces of heartache.
Jack turned around to glance at her. "Boss said Michael was a good guy, honest, reliable, hardworking, won most of his cases."
She wondered where this was going and what it was supposed to mean to her, but was grateful for the company.
"Susan Felt seemed to like him, his secretary had nothing but good things to say. I don't know. If he won most of his cases, I can't imagine he'd have too many people out to settle a score or–"
"You never know. Martin's scanning over the Morrison case right now, there might be some similarities between the disappearances. I'm having Viv check up with clients, make sure this firm's clean. There could've been something going behind the scenes we don't know about."
She stuffed her hands in her pockets, warding off the chilly wind, and wishing spring would chase away the winter as soon as possible. Then she stopped. Spring. It would mean – it would be a year since it happened...in May. Only a few months, and there it would be–
A car backfiring a few streets down rose above the steady hum of city traffic and singed the corners of her ears like a knife. She jumped slightly, pulled her hands closer to her body.
"You okay?" Jack asked.
He had that look; the one that said, no matter how she answered, he wouldn't believe it.
"Fine."
And she closed her eyes and hoped, maybe soon, she would be.
Winter was cold and lonely, but spring...spring would burn.
*
The air in the file room smelled simultaneously of victory and defeat, of relief and despair, of happy endings and endings that had never come, lives that had been saved, completed, and lives that were still suspended, grasping precariously onto a shred of evidence in the form of phone records, a fingerprint or a timeline.
Martin was grateful that the file he now pulled from its drawer was one with a beginning, middle, and an end. Sean Morrison had gone missing over a month ago, just a week after being laid off by the same law firm that Michael Adler currently worked for. It had been a downsize in the firm, Martin recalled as he skimmed through the file, and Morrison, being a relatively new employee, was one of the first sacrificed.
As Martin scanned the facts presented in the file, the case grew clearer in his mind and he remembered that the firm had had nothing to do with Sean Morrison's disappearance. The young man was found a few days after he'd gone missing, hiding out in a friend's cabin as a result of a drug deal gone bad; a deal that was in no way related to the firm.
Leaning back against the wall, Martin skimmed a copy of Michael Adler's statement, in which he'd told the agents he'd barely known Sean Morrison and had no idea where he might have gone.
From what Martin could remember of the man, he'd seemed honest, sincerely bewildered about the whereabouts of Morrison, and more than willing to give them a statement.
There were no answers here, Martin realized, closing the folder and placing it back inside the drawer. With a final glance around the silent room, he left it behind and returned to the center of the unit, where Michael Adler's story was still unfolding.
*
"Michael Adler worked on your case two months ago, am I correct?" Vivian glanced down at the papers spread in front of her and then back to the quietly curious face of Kelly Bria, a former client of Michael Adler.
"That's right," the young woman nodded, folding her hands on top of the table.
"Can you give me a general idea of what the case was about?" Vivian requested, leaning back in her chair and watching Kelly's face carefully.
"It wasn't very interesting," she replied with a shrug. "I recently got divorced, and my ex-husband and I were having difficulties dividing our assets. We ran a business together, so it got rather messy. From what I understand, Michael doesn't usually work the small stuff, but I was lucky." A quick smile. "He agreed to work with me."
"How did that work out?" Vivian wanted to know.
Kelly Bria tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear before answering. "I thought everything ended up pretty evenly divided. I was pleased with the outcome, and Matt -- that's my ex-husband -- he was happy with it as well."
"And what was Michael Adler like, Kelly? As a person, as a lawyer..anything you can tell me would be helpful."
"I remember he was really a great guy," the younger woman said earnestly. "Really supportive, you know? He understood that I was going through a tough time. Easy to talk to, smart, kind of a charmer." Kelly smiled a little. "He was a great guy," she reiterated.
Vivian scanned her face before nodding slowly. "Thank you, Kelly. You've been a big help."
"Sure, of course. Michael helped me; I'm glad I can do something to help him out. Good luck with the investigation, Agent Johnson."
Vivian waited until the younger woman left the room before paging through the papers she'd gathered over the course of her questioning. So far, every client of Michael Adler's had told her virtually the same thing; he was a great guy, a wonderful lawyer, and there was nothing evident at all to suggest a conspiracy within the firm.
Still..she couldn't help the feeling that something here wasn't right. It was barely even an inkling, a flash of an emotion she couldn't quite place that had crept into the faces and voices of Michael Adler's clients for an instant briefer than a second, and yet, it was there.
It was there, and at the moment, it was all she had.
*
The room the agents stood in was as foreign to Samantha as it was to Jack and Danny, and yet they looked at her as though she knew it like the back of her hand.
"I've never been here," she reiterated for them, turning to take in the small but impeccably decorated living room of Michael Adler.
It reminded her sharply of him, all clean lines and angles, classy, elegant and tasteful, but with an air of distance, as well, almost as if there was only glass below the clear-water surface.
Somewhere behind her, she heard Jack tell Danny to work on the bedroom, but focused once again on Michael and the way pieces of him both infused and surrounded the room.
Pictures of Michael and friends, Michael and a woman she assumed was his sister (and though he'd only mentioned her once, it killed Samantha that she couldn't remember the younger woman's name, but she was almost certain it was Claire, or Cara, or Carrie..), Michael and his parents..frames adorned every shelf, as if they were placed there to give evidence to the life he led outside of the perfect square rooms that were so like him.
"Find anything useful?" came Jack's hard voice from across the room, startling Samantha out of the mess of memories that had entangled her over the past few minutes.
"Just some pictures," she replied softly, grazing one of the frames with her fingers before turning back to the center of the room. She crossed to where Jack stood in front of Michael's mahogany desk, sifting through the papers he'd found in the drawers.
Samantha maintained a safe distance, choosing to study the calender that rested on top of the desk instead of peering over Jack's shoulder.
"He had an appointment with a client this morning," she read, squinting as if that would help her decipher the shorthand in which the reminder about the meeting was written.
Jack glanced up at her, gave a quick nod. "Viv's talking to former clients, but we should get ahold of this one, too, see what he was working on."
"It's just preliminary stuff," Samantha pointed out, tracing the calender with her fingers. "A new case."
"It could still be important," Jack reminded her, eyes fixed on her hand as it trailed across the paper.
The little things..
Right.
Samantha wondered if Jack would think it important that she hadn't told Michael about being shot. He'd asked for her story and she'd known in an instant that wasn't the one she wanted to give him.
She wondered what Jack would think if she told him that when she was with Michael, with Martin, with any of the other men she'd tried to escape into and found she couldn't because they always wanted to know what she didn't want to tell them..when she was with them, she tried to forget and never could and with them, the world was black and white.
She wondered how important it was to Jack that the only time she lived in color was in her own mind, reliving that day and it's vibrant, searing heat, vibrant, encompassing numbness, vibrant, brilliant pain.
She lived in color when she remembered that day and she lived in color when she looked into his eyes and saw all the shards of midnight, fell into the absence of color and the totality of it.
There, she lived.
TBC..