DISCLAIMER: I obviously don't own any of the characters from 'Without a Trace', sad though it is I own nothing of this fic except what came out of my own mind!
This is post 'Fall Out' – as that's as far as has been shown in England! Please R&R, but take pity, this is my first Fanfic!
She had never had so much time to think; time to reflect, time to delve into her conscience, time to regret. She knew that it was not aiding her recovery, but somehow she couldn't help it. She felt a need to immerse herself in thought, if only in the vain attempt to numb the mental and physical pain.
How many people had visited to tell her how impressed they were that she had kept a cool head, had bided her time and hadn't tried to play hero? How many times had she looked at her leg, just wondering whether the situation had called for a hero long before Jack had donned the cloak and rushed headlong into the store? Perhaps, just perhaps, she should have been that hero; she was an FBI agent with a revolver in a hostage situation for God's sake, and yet she had come out the victim.
She hated being the victim. Ever since childhood she had been the strong, invincible one, or at least she tried to create that impression; the mirage that she had no weakness and that she could handle anything. The only person who had ever seen through her act had been Jack but not even he really understood. He thought he did, but he didn't, not really. He'd come to see her every day since the shooting, just to be with her, but, although she appreciated the sentiment, she could tell that his mind was elsewhere and he had no idea where to even begin to talk to her.
Nobody could tell her that everything was going to be alright, not while looking her in the eye. They tried to comfort her with futile words and with stories of the latest case but they only succeeded in compounding her fear. She was scared, for the first time in her life, she was really scared, but she couldn't bring herself to admit it. She was scared that she might never be able to walk again; she was scared that her life was going to dissolve in front of her in the tears that this new weak Samantha would undoubtedly cry. But most of all, she was scared of her nightmares; whenever she could no longer keep her eyes open, the images of the bookshop, those seconds before the shot went off, were replayed time and again in her mind. Every time the moments before the shot would change ever so slightly, but every time the result was the same, the same deafening bang and the same excruciating pain.
They told her that she could go home the following day and that, if she wanted to, could return to the office to do some desk work or something until she was back up on her feet again. Maybe it was greedy, but she wanted more. She couldn't stand the thought of being stuck behind a desk all day, struggling even to move between filing cabinets without wincing in pain and everybody asking her whether she was ok or if they could do anything to help. But worse still, by not returning to work, people would start talking and saying that she had obviously been traumatised by the experience and required counselling or time off or even that she just wasn't up to the job.
She knew that she wasn't ready to return to work, not yet at least, the memories were still too vivid and pain too raw. But she couldn't admit that she wasn't ready, that she was being haunted by nightmares and that she believed that she should have at least tried to play hero.