Disclaimer: I own nothing associated with "Without a Trace". I make no money from this!

A/N: Thank you all for the feedback; your comments make me smile! SpyMaster – you know I always enjoy your analysis and am glad you have faith in my missing person! Mariel – I'm honoured to have your trust, I just hope I don't mess it up with this next chapter! Newlands – no pressure at all; I enjoy the challenge. (That sound you hear is just me hyperventilating and the nervous sweat dripping onto my computer!)

Also, I've upped the rating to PG-13 (although I'm still not too sure about this crazy ratings system!), because I used a bad word. Apologies!

Chapter 10

Office of the New York Branch of the FBI, Manhattan.

8.05pm

By the time Jack Malone re-emerged from his office and stepped into the dim glow of the deserted bullpen, the light outside had faded until a shimmering veneer of thin frost was perceptible on the ground below. Distractedly he wandered to the window, absorbing the eerie winter glow that reached over the city. Even at this early evening hour, the bleak weather gave the streets beneath him a desolate quality. The only signs of human life were in the scattered lights of the surrounding office buildings. But, as the night spread out before him, he drew little comfort from this. It had been a while since he stood here in solitude, staring into nothing but the bottom of a scotch glass. In a brief moment of harsh irony, he considered how he'd merely traded one cliché for another. It was misleading, he reflected, the serenity which accompanied such moments as this, moments which occurred only when you accepted that you really had no where else to go. Since his marriage had officially ended, he seemed to have had little use for deliberations of this nature, at least not here. The office was again merely a site of work. He could no longer seek that once familiar refuge which he would always associate with this place. And if the desire for that refuge had not dissipated with time as he had once hoped, he was aware that it was now lost to him. He did his job. He played his role. And, at the end of the day, if he lacked the energy to visit his father, he went home to his empty house. Maybe, if he was lucky, he spoke to his daughters on the telephone, and he waited; waited for something to happen, for the next event that would somehow turn it all around.

When he thought back, there were very few moments in his adult life which replicated this unique feeling that he couldn't quite locate. There'd always been some kind of plan, a next step, a next fix, a resolution. No matter how badly he fucked up, it was what he did. He solved the case. He found the bad guy. He fought for his marriage. He kept his family together. He'd never pretended it was easy. But he'd never really thought it would end. Not the way it did. Not beyond his control. So what happened now? Even in the year after he'd left the army, he'd always known that he would do something, eventually. It was a natural progression. There was college, marriage, a Master's degree, a fulfilling job, a family, a promotion. His mind came to a stop. He wasn't going to think about the next thing on that list. In fact, right now, he didn't much want to think about any of the things that came after that.

He turned his attention back to the view before him. A blinking light in the sky caught his eye and he momentarily wondered whether Danny and Martin had caught their flight on time. Maybe he'd call and check in with them later. On second thoughts, he might be better off waiting until tomorrow. Even the normally easy going Danny had been a little bemused by his bosses' insistence they be on a plane tonight when a call to the Boston PD could have sufficed. And then there was the questioning look that Martin gave him as the two young agents had left his office earlier that evening. After Jack's reaction in the meeting, he had kept his mouth shut. But the expression on his face was maybe defiance, or superiority, or… fear?

Fear? Now that was an odd choice of words. What did Martin have to be afraid of? Somewhere along the line, he'd obviously got what he wanted. But whose fault was that? When he allowed himself to think about it logically, it wasn't exactly a mind-altering conclusion. The suspicions had been forming for quite some time. He didn't know where and when, and he damn well didn't want to. But two people – two young, attractive people who develop a healthy relationship through common professional interests; it happens all the time; another natural progression. Maybe it was inevitable? All it takes is for one person to make the right move at the right time. In hindsight, maybe that's where his problems lay? He'd always prided himself on not taking the easy option. But, what if he'd got it backward? What was so noble about doing the right thing when maybe it would have been more courageous to just admit he was wrong?

Or maybe this would have happened anyway? Regardless of choices that were presented, decisions that were made. No matter what he'd said, what he'd done, the eventual outcome would have been the same. Did he really believe that? It made sense. It was possible. But it was bullshit. Even in the midst of his self-pity he couldn't help but smile at the arrogance of it all. What did he think? That she would wait? Indefinitely? That he was worth even more than he had already put her through in the short time that they were actually together? It was laughable. So, why did he still somehow believe it to be true?

But then there was another thought that was nagging at him more; a thought that brought with it a more acute sense of guilt and regret. Why Martin Fitzgerald? This was petty, and he knew it. He'd known it when he'd ignored Martin's comments in front of the team. He'd known it when he'd ordered him onto the plane. And he'd definitely known it as he'd watched the two of them in conference, quite obviously rearranging whatever they had planned for that evening. He knew it, yet at the same time he'd felt a strange sense of relief - because it was Martin, safe, dependable, available Martin. What he offered was open, uncomplicated and reliable. All the things that Samantha thought she should want; all the things that he had been unable to offer. Hell, maybe he was just being selfish, and childish. Maybe Martin really could be the one to make her happy. Shouldn't he want her to be happy? Wasn't he the one who ended things? He made his choice.

So why was there still that voice in his head? Why did it just sound so right? Jack and Samantha. Jack and Sam. They knew each other in ways that he could never imagine knowing anyone else, certainly never Maria. They understood each other. Could Martin ever understand her the way he did? That was how it all started, but how it got this far, he was beginning to think, he would never quite understand. Maybe it was the alcohol talking, this was something else he'd indulged in rarely of late. But deep down he knew there was more to it. Whatever it was that had been between him and Samantha, it was still there, somewhere. It had to be. He'd seen it today, and he knew that she had too. He may have spent the last year pretending that this wasn't the case, but it was a lie – a convenient lie – and he knew it. And that wasn't the scotch.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

9.25pm

"Jack?"

There it was again.

"Jack?"

"What?"

Pushing himself upright, Jack blinked and ineffectually smoothed his creased shirt. When his vision focused he found himself at eye level with a familiar sight. Shaking his head, he rubbed his hands over his face tiredly.

"Well, I'm not sure this is the best idea."

"Huh?"

He looked up to see the empty glass now dangling between Samantha's fingers as she hovered in front of his couch.

"Something about federal employees drinking on government property… People get kind of funny about it…"

He cringed guiltily.

"Does it count if I only had one glass?"

She laughed.

"I think they'd still prefer you to sleep it off at home."

He smiled back.

Sam looked at the man before her. He looked tired and lost… and defeated. She'd seen him this way in the past – over a case, over his marriage, over them? But seeing him like this, now, stirred within her a range of emotions that she was only beginning to comprehend. It would have been easy to put it down to pity; just another guy who lost his family to his job and another fatal flaw. She'd had enough time in therapy to rationalise her own role in this. She hadn't let her conscience play too large a part at the time, but what she'd said to Maria at that unfortunate Christmas encounter had been sincere. So here she was, enjoying a new relationship right in front of this man who seemed to have lost everything he'd clung to for so long; the very things that he had chosen over her. Shouldn't a small part of her feel superior? All things said and done, she'd moved on. So, why didn't she?

"I must look pretty pathetic, huh?" Jack's voice snapped her back to reality. "The guy who still passes out in his office, because he can't bring himself to go home."

"Jack." The resignation in his voice caused something inside her to twinge.

"Nah, it's okay you can say it. Just like old times, right?"

He felt her recoil at the bitterness which had slipped unconsciously into his voice and forced an edge of humour into his tone. "And I'm not drunk, you know."

"I know."

He watched her. Her expression was guarded and as he'd spoken she'd pulled her coat tightly around her body. For once, he thought, why couldn't he just do the right thing toward her? He couldn't exactly blame her for feeling uncomfortable in this situation. He wasn't making it any easier for her. An irrational wave of anger passed through him, as he wondered if she felt sorry for him. Self-pity was bad enough, but he couldn't take it from her. Not after everything that he'd done. But that wasn't quite it. Like other things, anger was also a convenient feeling. It was better than the alternative. Better than… Oh, this was ridiculous. Why couldn't he just let it go? Let her go? Why was it so hard to be the good guy? But then as he heard the next words falling from his lips, that question seemed irrelevant.

"So, what are you doing back here at this hour? I thought you'd left for the night. Surely you have something more exciting to be doing?"

Samantha eyed him warily. "I gave the guys a ride to the airport and thought I may as well grab some paperwork to take home with me. I saw your light on."

"Okay." He paused. "I just wouldn't want to think I'd ruined your evening."

"And why would you think that?" Her voice had gone from wary, to oddly detached.

"Oh, I don't know. I just thought maybe you had plans this evening."

Samantha's tone was calm but there was a dangerous undercurrent belying her words. "Jack, if you have something to say to me, I think we know each other well enough for you to just come out and say it."

A belligerent expression was pasted on Jack's face and he seemed unable to remove it. "It's none of my business."

Samantha sucked in a long breath as if considering all the possible responses his remark could elicit. A myriad of buried feelings were bubbling beneath her icy exterior and for a moment it seemed they might detonate. Then, maybe out of frustration, or simply a reaction to the convergence of so many conflicting emotions, she began to laugh. Echoing the guffaws of earlier that day that had followed her somewhat Freudian slip at the law firm, she caught Jack's eye and all tension dissipated. The relief was contagious and Jack too found himself gulping for air.

When they'd regained some semblance of normal control, Sam looked up. "You realise how stupid this is, right?"

His reply was barely audible. "Yeah."

"I don't owe you an explanation."

Jack nodded, but the melancholy undertone beneath Sam's next words caused his chest to constrict.

"So why do I feel like I do?"

The sheer force of the shared guilt in this confession, brought to Jack a new level of shame.

There truly was no response to that.

Sam shrugged hesitantly and a silent complicity was reached. She looked at the piles of case notes that lay scattered across Jack's desk.

"Looks like we both had the same idea. Care to share your theories?" She kept her tone purposefully light. "I know there's another reason you sent the guys to Boston."

Jack tilted his head, unsure whether to dare a smirk. "I'll admit that wasn't my finest moment."

She shrugged again, but a trace of humour danced across her lips. "It's your prerogative."

He watched her for a moment, attempting to ascertain any insinuation behind her response, but she remained stoic.

Jack rubbed his hands over his eyes, letting out a quiet, but involuntary, groan in the process. Sam's look took on a hint of worry. Repeating, more succinctly, Jack's words from the car, she asked softly, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Contemplating the unspoken, and unwarranted, truce that she had offered him, he considered his options. The fact that she was even still in the room with him was much more than he deserved and he was suddenly terrified of upsetting this fragile balance. For all his cynicism, since the moment he'd met Samantha Spade, a part of him had always believed that there would be a time for the two of them, and he just wasn't ready to be proved wrong. But she was still here. And he wasn't ready for her to leave.

"I know today's been frustrating," she prompted.

He looked up in surprise.

"The case," she clarified, raising an eyebrow. "This case is frustrating."

This time he shrugged, raising a hand to his head in that familiar gesture.

"It's just… I know everything about this points to a guy going through a mid-life crisis, who, instead of buying a Porsche, or a yacht, or whatever these people do, just found another way to escape his life."

Sam nodded. "Steve Mitchell said as much. It definitely sounds like Adam was sick of playing by the rules." She glanced over at Jack. "I'm sensing there's a but."

"I don't know."

Once again Sam found herself shocked by just how drained Jack appeared, how helpless. She smiled encouragingly.

"You're thinking something."

Again he paused, but this time the words seemed to flow out of him.

"I'm not sure. But then I was looking over all these notes." He indicated his desk. "And I was thinking about that photograph in Adam's office, and what his secretary said, and what all his colleagues said. Then there was what Viv said about his wife and their home and his relationship with his kid, and…"

"… And you just don't want to believe that all marriages end this way."

Once again their eyes met, but this time neither of them could bring themselves to look away.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, Jack."

He forced himself to maintain the contact, but his voice fell to a mumble.

"Well, there aren't many things I'm proud of these days."

Despite everything she intellectualised that she should be feeling, Sam felt a tangible grief for the figure before her.

"Are you sure you're okay, Jack?"

The concern in her voice was palpable, and the unexpected lump in his throat forced him to avert his eyes to the ground. His subconscious mind was urging him to let go, and just spill forth all the thoughts that had jumbled in his mind as he'd stood at that window little over an hour ago. After all this time, he still held to the notion that she was the one who could take his pain away. However, with the memory of his lunchtime revelation still fresh in his mind, he quelled his rising emotions. He could only allow his selfishness to go so far. It might be too late to undo so much of the damage which he had caused as far as Sam was concerned, but there was no excuse for inflicting fresh wounds. He was no longer her burden – assuming, that is, that he ever was.

When no response was forthcoming, Samantha sighed. The instinct to lean over, even to lay a hand on his shoulder, just to show him that there was someone to reach out to him, was overwhelming. But again, things had shifted on her. She'd been telling herself for a while, that Jack must at least have his suspicions about her new situation, but a part of her was refusing to listen. It was as if a part of her still clung to those tender, private moments, those comforting touches that this man would still occasionally proffer in her direction. The instinctive nature of such gestures and her innate response to them gave these memories a perverse purity which held more power than she could admit. But with this new acknowledgement between the two of them, she was forced to confront the nagging doubt that had been with her since that fateful taxi ride. For the first time in either relationship, Samantha felt like a cheat.

Pushing aside the new, and somewhat alarming, realisation, she forced herself to regain composure. The success of her efforts surprised her.

"I still worry about you, you know."

Jack took a deep breath before raising his eyes to meet hers.

"I know." He moved as if to draw closer to her, before thinking better of it. Instead he simply held her gaze. "I know I've said this before, but I am sorry."

Her face was still neutral, but there was a glimmer of amusement breaking through. "Let's just add this one to the list, okay? For both of us." She laughed softly as she moved toward the door. "It's not like I haven't developed a talent for saying the wrong thing around you, today."

There was a longer pause but when his response came, it was hesitant yet painfully disarming. "Actually, sometimes I think you're still the only one who can say the right thing." He caught her eye and the gentleness of his expression caused her to inhale. Feeling the need, for both their sakes, to break the moment, Jack let out a slight chuckle. However, his tone was still soft and full of emotion. "I'm not going to say that I hope you two will be very happy together."

She eyed him closely as her voice dropped to a whisper. "I'd be disappointed if you did." She smiled wistfully.

"Good night, Jack."

"Night, Sam."

TBC

A/N: Hmm. Think we can write at least the first part of this chapter off as an experiment that may or may not happen again! This is new territory and I fear I am treading on the wrong side of that fine line between angst and total b.s., with a quick foray into cliché! I'm not entirely sure where bitter, self-pitying, drinking Jack came from, but I'm guessing the quantities of red wine consumed during the writing process didn't help – sorry!

A/N (cont.): I've also now had to go back and re-do parts of this as, since finishing it, I've just read chapter 3 of Dayliobserver's wonderful fic "Gone" and there were a few too many similarities for my liking. I'm aware that some still remain but they're the ones that I set up in the first couple of chapters and I didn't know how else to approach it without completely re-writing. I just hope my take on the situation is different enough so you don't take offence.