Title: February
Author: Katerina
Rating: PG
Pairing: J/S, of course… with mentions of M/S
Disclaimer: They're really not mine. Trust me.
Author's Notes: I apologize for my incredible laziness, and thank the readers who asked for more. To try and make it up to you all, this chapter has both plot and length! Thanks to everyone who reviewed – it means so much to know people actually want to read this! As always, thanks to Mariel, for posting and kind words.
Chapter Five
On February 15, it snows in Washington DC.
Martin Fitzgerald is cold, and he shivers in his heavy coat even once he is inside, out of the foul weather. He stands quietly in the elevator, watching the numbers light their way to the 21st floor, and absently brushes several melting flakes from his shoulders.
He feels slightly hung-over. He hopes he isn't getting the flu.
The elevator dings, and he steps out into the plush carpet and polished walnut of his outer office. His success has surpassed even the expectations of his father, who, on his own retirement from the FBI nearly three years ago, had finally insisted Martin make use of his ridiculously expensive education. Martin had dutifully packed up his belongings and, with his degree in political science and a good foundation built on his father's contacts, eventually won a prominent position with the current government.
He felt no loss at leaving the FBI. He had failed his most important assignment, and there was no going back.
Martin spares a nod for the secretary guarding the door to his inner sanctum, and pushes his way inside. He hangs his coat in the small closet by the door, and tucks his gloves into one of the pockets. His scarf is draped neatly over another hanger, and then he turns to his desk. He needs a coffee.
There is one waiting, still steaming, but that is not what catches his attention. There is a brown paper parcel, thick and neatly wrapped, sitting in the middle of his blotter.
His brow wrinkles, and he moves forward. The address is printed on a neat white card, and glued in the exact center of the front of the package.
He relaxes a little. There is only one person he knows who is so methodical, almost to the point of obsessiveness. Martin had begun to fear he would never hear from the man again.
Known only to Martin as Andy, the man had been found after six months away from New York and several very quiet conversations with important people. Martin doesn't know exactly who he is or what he really does; all the information he has is a string of digits, which make up the number of a bank account. Here, Martin deposits an appallingly large sum of money each month. So far, all he has received in return are false alarms.
Martin lowers himself into his leather chair, and runs his fingers delicately over the brown paper. His heart beats faster, as it always does when he hears from Andy, but he tries to slow his breathing. Finally, slowly, he begins to peel away the layers of wrapping.
Several glossy novels fall onto his desk. Martin frowns, and picks them up. He recognizes the titles; they are favorites of his teenaged niece and her friends. On the cover of one is the design of a brass medal; he realizes it is the symbol of a well-known prize for writing.
Surely not…
He opens the first book to a page somewhere past the middle.
"Love is not kind. It tears us open, exposing the core of our humanity: we would kill for love. We would hurt anyone in our way, and we wouldn't be able to stop ourselves." She stroked her daughter's soft blonde hair. "Love does not make us tender, or kind. It merely makes us ruthless."
His eyes lift slowly from the page. Was this what she had felt? Was this what she'd done?
No. It can't be.
He is used to false leads, which dissolve into nothing as soon as he looks at them. He does not want to believe that this could be it.
Even though…
He reads the passage again, and he can almost hear her soft voice reading the words. There is something undeniably her wafting up from the paper in front of him.
Another page now, this one closer to the end.
She had wanted to fix it. She had tried so hard, giving her heart and her soul towards something that would never be right. Now, she had merely succeeded in destroying herself.
Very, very carefully, Martin closes the book. He flips briefly through the others; they are not love stories, per se, but books about youth and dreams and pain.
They are hers.
His breathing is shaky, pulling at a tight chest. Perhaps he is getting sick. He draws a hand across his eyes; it, too, is trembling. His eyes swim for a moment, and then focus on the one part of the package he has missed.
Half-hidden under the brown paper, it is a photograph of a beautiful, blonde woman as she leaves a white house. She is oddly older than he remembers, but then he recalls the lines around his own eyes, and smiles, ruefully. On the back of the photo, printed on a card identical to the one on the parcel itself, are the words: Pearl Bay, Victoria, Australia.
All Martin's breath leaves his lungs in one moment. He looks from the photograph to the books, then back. Should he…?
Love is not kind.
Yes.
I want to show you, Samantha.
He reaches for the phone.
End Chapter Five.