Sam/Jack, Martin/Jack, Sam/Martin
R
Based on 2.01- The Bus
„Let me guess", Samantha said, smirking. "2.2, white picket fence, golden retriever".
"Yeah, maybe", he nods, returning her smile. "Something like that."
He awaits her answer, but she turns around, avoiding his eyes.
"Not for me", she finally says. "Not in this world."
…
When he closes his eyes he sees Jack, shoving Samantha up the wall, sweat running down his face, making her scream his name. Sometimes, his children appear next to him, eyes wide open, mouths twisted into a strange, knowing grin. One look at them and "2.2, white picket fence, golden retriever" starts to falter, one look at Samantha's eyes, closed in ecstasy and Jack's face, reflecting this feeling, and "2.2, white picket fence, golden retriever" shatters.
He doesn't pick up the splinters but walks right through them, joining Jack and Samantha in what looks nothing like a game, but rather bitter seriousness.
When he opens his eyes again, his feet are in pain.
…
He is angry at Jack. It really is that simple- just pure anger, an emotion that encompasses everything else. When he sees him the next time he can't put away the pictures and he wonders if they ever fucked on Jack's table. If he ever made her kneel under the table, if she ever made him only feel the soft touch of her lips, her caressing hands; fooling everybody but themselves.
He wonders if Jack also turned up unpredictably at Samantha's house, if he ever stopped her questioning by kissing her hard, pushing her doubts aside until he leaves again and they come out, haunting him at night.
He wonders whether Samantha would taste like Jack if he kissed her.
…
He is not surprised when he sees Samantha turning up in the office late in the afternoon, with only him and Jack left. He knows what she means when she says that she forgot something. He knows, because he turned up with the same excuse so many times before and returned with swollen lips and a sweet yet bitter taste on his tongue. For a minute he wants to hold her back, tell her that she was right. That "2.2, white picket fence, golden retriever" is not possible, not once you've felt the flesh of someone owning all this turning hot underneath your fingertips, getting slippery and wet from sweat. Not when you know that "2.2, white picket fence, golden retriever" could possibly mean "living a lie".
He doesn't say it, only brings up a safe subject. And just when his thoughts arrive at a safe, comfortable harbour, when they've already said goodnight, she calls him back.
"Martin?" she says, and he tries hard enough hear desperateness shining through this one word.
"You know how you said we should get a drink sometime?"
He knows. He remembers and he nods.
"I could really use a drink." Before he says anything he silently comes to the conclusion that, no, she wouldn't taste like Jack. Maybe she would taste like himself. "Well ... nothing worse than a beautiful woman drinking alone.", he says and knows that he himself, does taste like Jack. It's a vicious circle and when he guides Samantha out of the office it feels just like walking on splinters, the difference that this time, his eyes are not closed.