Disclaimer: Not my characters.

A/N: I found this when I was doing some spring-cleaning on my hard drive and thought I might as well post it. Hopefully I'll actually get around to finishing it. If, you know, people are still reading Profiler fiction :o)

Life doesn't promise a bed of roses or white knights

Field of emotions, I'm trapped in darkness

Why me?

Save me

To win this twisted war inside me won't justify the pain

Life doesn't promise a bed of roses

Anastacia, "Where do I belong?"

Dusky light filtered through the gaps in the blinds, casting shadows across the room. The house was unnaturally quiet, filled with the heady scent of death and sex. The couple on the bed lay tangled together; arms and legs entwined, the woman's long, blonde hair fanned out over her partner's chest.

Something beeped, breaking the spell. She stirred, lifted her head and looked around, confused at first. Then she saw where she was – and who she was with – and realization washed over her. She scrambled away from him, pulling up the sheet to cover her nakedness.

Then she saw the blood: dry blood, flaked across the man's arms and chest. She looked down at her own hands and saw they were streaked with blood too.

Ohgodohgodohgodohgod.

The sound of something ringing intruded on her thoughts. Locating the source, she picked up her cell phone and answered with a shaky, "Hello?"

"Sam! Thank God! Where are you?"

She looked around the room, her gaze resting on the bed. "Uh—"

"Sam? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, Bailey. Uh . . . can I call you back?" She pushed her hair out of her face, feeling light-headed. The room suddenly seemed hotter and she sat on the edge of the bed, praying that she wouldn't pass out.

"Where are you?" Bailey repeated.

Sam didn't have the energy or the willpower to try and figure it out. She hung up, then turned the phone off so Bailey couldn't call back. She stared at her hands, afraid to turn around and face the evidence of her betrayal.

Please, God, I'm sorry. Please make this not be true!

There was movement on the bed behind her and she stiffened, unconsciously folding her arms across her stomach. As hard as she tried, she couldn't remember what had happened. Feeling suddenly nauseous, she stumbled into the bathroom.

When there was nothing left for her to throw up, she slowly straightened and caught sight of herself in the mirror. She gasped and her hand flew to her mouth of its own volition. The sheet was streaked with blood and Sam's blonde hair was reddish-brown in patches.

What happened? What did I do?

She let the sheet fall to the floor and stepped into the shower. The water was hotter than she normally liked it; if she noticed, she didn't care. She scrubbed at her skin until it was raw and still, she didn't feel clean. Squeezing shampoo into her cupped hand, she lathered her hair and used her fingers to comb through the knots. Her tears mixed freely with the water as bits and pieces of what had happened started to come back to her.

I'm so sorry.

She'd been on a date. Angel had set her up with a friend of hers: Joel Something-or-other. Sam couldn't remember. The only reason she'd agree to the date in the first place was because Angel had caught her in a weak moment. They'd gone for dinner and when they were getting into the car, Jack . . . Jack had shown up. He'd used chloroform. Sam had woken up in a living room she didn't recognize, and then . . .

And then . . .

Sam turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, rubbing herself dry with a towel. She didn't want to remember the rest.

The bedroom was empty. The cupboards were bare except for a bathrobe and some white negligees. Sam chose the bathrobe.

It was dark outside. Sam wondered how long she'd been here, how long she'd been asleep. She'd lost track of time and wasn't even sure what day it was. No wonder Bailey had sounded so concerned.

Shit. Bailey.

Sam picked up her cell phone, then realized she had no idea what to say to him. Hearing the bedroom door creak open behind her, she dropped the phone and whirled around.

Jack! I . . . we . . .

"Hungry, Samantha? I was just about to make dinner?"

She stared at him, uncomprehending.

"You must be hungry. You haven't eaten anything since yesterday."

Sam shook her head; she still felt nauseous. Jack moved towards her and raised his hand. She flinched, involuntarily stepping backwards.

"You know I'd never hurt you." He sounded wounded.

Sam finally found her voice. "Your hands are dirty." She'd meant to tell him not to touch her, to stay away from her, but her mouth obviously had a will of its own.

Jack smiled fondly. "My Samantha . . . I'll go wash up."

No! she wanted to scream. I'm not your Samantha!

Jack went into the bathroom. Seconds later, Sam heard the shower being turned on. Deciding that she was, in fact, hungry, she ventured downstairs in search of the kitchen.

She made it as far as the living room.

Sam was used to the sight and smell of blood – in her job, she had to be. Still, she was never unaffected by it, especially if she had a personal connection to the victim.

Joel, her luckless date, was sprawled on the living room carpet.

Sam leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, overcome by images of what had happened.

A gurgling noise had woken her up . . . the sound of Joel struggling for breath. Jack had done to him what he'd had Sharon do to Coop. Sam had held his hand, telling him that everything would be okay, that an ambulance was on its way. She'd wondered if he could tell that she was lying. Jack had stood in the doorway and watched. Then he'd pulled Sam away from the dying man and kissed her.

And her body – her traitorous body – had responded. She'd kissed him back with more passion than she'd kissed anyone in years. She had pushed him down onto the couch. Had slipped her hands under his shirt. Had . . .

Oh God.

What had she been thinking? She had slept with Jack! The one person on earth who she truly despised and she had fucked him . . . next to a dead man, no less.

She slid to the ground. The worst part was that she'd enjoyed it. She hated herself for that. It seemed like hours later that she felt herself being lifted. She tensed her body.

"Stop running, Samantha."

She shook her head, her eyes still closed, and felt his lips on her cheek as he tenderly kissed away her tears.

"Jack," she whispered. Instead of pushing him away, she wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Shh. Don't cry."

She finally opened her eyes. She knew there would be no judgment from him, only acceptance. He was possibly the only person who really understood her. Though the knowledge should have frightened her, it was strangely comforting. It wasn't that surprising; he spent as much time trying to get into her head as she did trying to get into his.

Sam felt so lost. She laid her head on Jack's shoulder, too tired to fight anymore. She'd done the unthinkable and there was no going back. Was there?

Nobody can ever know. They would never understand.

Then why should you go back?

"The FBI will be here soon."

Sam nodded numbly. "You need to leave then."

He looked crestfallen. "You're not going to come with me?"

"Jack, you know I can't."

"Things have changed."

"Jack, please--"

"How long do you think you can go on working there now? It doesn't matter that they don't know what happened, you'll still be thinking about it every day. Can you still catch me, Samantha? Can you still kill me?"

"Don't make me choose between you and Chloe. Please . . ." She looked up at him, her eyes pleading with him. Misinterpreting his sigh, she clutched his shirt, twisting the fabric in her hands. "If you hurt her, I'll-"

"I would never hurt her."

Sam stared at him for a long time, then hung her head, her hair falling to cover her face.

TBC