Disclaimer: The show and characters aren't mine… believe me, I wouldn't want to own Anne.

Spoilers: Crossroads (season 4 finale) and everything before that.

A/N: This is my own idea of what might have happened after the S4 finale… or rather, what I wish would happen in S5. The first chapter is mainly Sam remembering better times− until Jack calls her− hence the flashbacks. This fic will only have two chapters, but I assure you I'll get rid of Anne ; ). Thanks a bunch to Mariel for beta-reading it and for her wonderful suggestions!

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Unforgettable

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Chapter 1/2

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There were days and afternoons that remained eternal. They were only hours and minutes and seconds, different moments in time that didn't necessarily have a date but that lingered on her mind, the last remnants of a past that she should have tried to forget but couldn't.

She kept these memories preciously because they were proof that once upon a time she had lived the life she wanted. Back then, it had been simple to be, to exist in a pure, uncomplicated way; simple to believe that love was more than a mysterious word, more than an idealistic feeling; simple to see it in every smile, in every glance and in every whisper.

Unable to let them go, she clung to these fragments of the past that had a meaning, to the ones that still counted, even now, even after all that had happened.

She had nothing else left.

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She rubbed her eyes and he stopped writing for a moment, glancing at her across the table.

"Tired?" Jack whispered.

She met his eyes, a half-weary, half-playful smile on her lips. "Let's just say it's written too small."

He smiled back and didn't look away. Here, they could lose themselves in the other's gaze for entire minutes if they wanted to; they didn't have to pretend there was nothing going on between them, they didn't have to be careful with what they said and did in case it looked suspicious. They were still working because they had brought files home to her apartment to discuss leads; but at least now they could be themselves, and touch each other, and be together in ways they never could have in the office.

She seemed highly displeased with what she was reading, though. "What did you find out?" he asked, gathering the papers in front of him and piling them on the table in neat stacks.

"Well…" she sighed, discouraged. "Nothing. Everything seems perfectly normal, both in their phone records and bank accounts. No strange calls, no money withdrawn… I can't find anything that hints at anything unusual."

"I didn't find anything either," he ran a hand in his neck to massage his stiff muscles and pushed back his chair, walking around the table. "Maybe they're operating under another identity; we'll have to check tomorrow."

Sam nodded. Jack was right beside her, one hand on the table to support his weight as he leaned forward. "Sam," he said quietly, "We can continue in the morning."

She leaned back into her chair as his hand pushed a strand of hair that had come loose. "You know," he muttered, "I think I might have trouble sleeping tonight."

"Yeah?" she asked, unable to refrain from chuckling. It was one of their private jokes; he'd told her once he'd had trouble sleeping the previous night and she had taken that as a hint that he wanted to stay, so that now it was a code, or at least something that sounded like an acceptable excuse for him to stay.

He leaned in closer still, bringing his lips to her temple and giving her a soft kiss.

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She had forgotten the rest, forgotten the lies and forgotten the pain, remembering only the unique moments they had spent together. She knew them by heart, like a well-rehearsed play; she knew every word, every setting, every gesture down to the last detail. She recalled the moments they had smiled for no reason, the moments they had laughed and cried together, sharing everything, knowing that whatever happened, they would still have each other.

Her eyes stopped on her bedside table. There was just a clock, a lamp and her phone there. It could have been anyone's bedside table; it was… empty. Impersonal. She didn't even have a picture. She had no picture of her as a child, no picture of her mother, none of her past, none of the present. Danny, Vivian or Martin weren't there. He wasn't there.

Maybe memories were enough. Maybe it was enough to remember what it had been like, what it had felt like to be with Jack. She would remember every stolen glance, every accidental touch that hadn't been so accidental, every teasing whisper.

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He looked up at her reflection in the mirror a couple of times, feeling slightly self-conscious as she stood behind him while he shaved. She wasn't moving, just watching the small movements of his wrist as the razor grazed his skin. He took a towel before finally raising an eyebrow at her and smirking slightly, "Am I so hypnotizing?"

She blinked, drawn out of her contemplation. "What?"

"You were−"

"Staring, I know," she laughed quietly. There was just something about this morning that made her want to joke. Perhaps it was because they had spent the night together− Maria was away and he would be with here for the weekend−, or else because there was nothing in the world that could compare to the sight of Jack, alone with her in her apartment, bare-chest and with a hunger in his gaze that was completely, utterly unprofessional.

"I was just watching you shave," she said needlessly.

He was still gazing at her through the mirror, noticing that the bathroom lights created golden reflects on her blonde hair every time she moved. "Do I have such a unique technique?" he mocked.

She hesitated, and then admitted, "I've always wanted to see you shave. No rational explanation… It's just very…" She stopped. She found it cute, but there was no way she was going to say that.

She hadn't blushed, but he knew exactly what she was thinking. "It's 'cause you find it handsome," he said casually.

When she seemed at a loss for words, he knew he had guessed right. He winked at her as though to say 'See? I have a point' before turning around, with a cleanly shaved face this time and a large grin.

"No I don't!" she finally found her voice and playfully pretended to whack him over the head.

"Yeah, you do. What, you want an autograph?" he teased.

She shook her head and took a step forward, loving these moments when there was nothing in the world that mattered except them. "Autograph wasn't what I had in mind," she mumbled against his lips, and then kissed him fiercely.

"What was that for?" He broke the kiss after a few seconds to take a breath. "Trying to choke me?"

"No," she replied in his ear, "That's just because you're so handsome."

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It did no good to live in the past, someone had once told her.

Except right now, the past was far more welcoming than the future. Thing that had happened in the past were certain; you couldn't alter them, they were just… there. Immutable. The future was far less definite. She could always make up a thousand different scenarios, something unanticipated would most likely happen, changing it all in the same, painful way that everything had changed barely two weeks before.

She definitely liked the past better. What had happened had happened, and it wouldn't change. She knew it, and somewhere in the back of her mind she knew that Jack had the same memories, that they were a part of him and that he couldn't just blink at them, that they would follow him wherever he went, relentlessly, in the dark corners of his office, in the silence of the night, haunting him as they haunted her.

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"What do you have in mind?" he enquired in a low tone. He'd just joined her after work, having left fifteen minutes after she had. It was dark because night had fallen long ago, and the only light came from the streetlamps and the headlights of cars driving by. He was wearing a dark suit and she had dressed in black, so that there was little chance someone might recognize them in the night− but they still maintained a reasonable distance between them.

"I don't know… Chinese, maybe?" she suggested. "Or we could get a pizza if− if you don't have much time."

"Chinese sounds good," he replied, accepting her unspoken invitation to stay with her for the time being. It was she who had offered to head out, walking into his dim office long after everyone else had gone home and asking tentatively if he had eaten anything since breakfast.

It wasn't until they were served the nems and rolls they had ordered that they realized how hungry they both were. Conversation flowed easily between them as they devoured the food, and often stretched into comfortable silences during which they merely looked at each other and allowed themselves to relax in the other's presence. Moments like these always made him wonder how he could feel so at ease with her, with someone who wasn't his wife− and yet, these were precisely the instants that made it worth it, the moments that gave him the strength to get up every morning.

He took her hand in his discreetly as they left the tiny restaurant, and resisted the urge to wrap an arm around her shoulder as they started walking side by side. There were things they just couldn't risk.

"Do you want a coffee?" she asked quietly after a few minutes. They were back to the parking lot where his car was parked.

He stopped walking and turned to face her. He knew what she had in mind; she didn't have to elaborate. Coffee meant her apartment. "That'd be nice, yeah."

She nodded slightly and waited for him to find his keys before sliding into the passenger's seat. He sat behind the wheel, hesitating before he put the key in the ignition, and finally surrendered to his desire to touch her.

She looked up and met his dark eyes when she felt his hand on her knee, then let out a breath as it travelled along her thigh. "You think you'll have trouble sleeping tonight?" she asked in a low voice.

There was no way he could have missed the mischievous note in her tone, nor the longing in her gaze.

"Always," he whispered, and then he brought his lips to hers and kissed her slowly, taking his time with it as if it were for the first and last time. She reached out for his neck and drew him closer, only breaking the kiss to question quietly, "Missed that?"

"You have no idea." The past seven days had given them no occasion to enjoy this privacy, and waiting patiently for that opportunity had been excruciating.

She smiled against his lips. She'd never thought a week could be so long. "Actually, I think I do…"

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For now, it was the past that kept her alive; because at least in those memories Jack was with her, not off with another woman, not playing father-to-be with someone she desperately wished didn't exist. She barely knew Anne− and didn't want to know her better− but hated everything about the woman, everything she did that ended up hurting him, everything she didn't do to make him happy.

Each time she saw her it felt as though she were dying, as if somehow that woman had the power to turn each joyful instant from the past into a scar in her heart that would never fade away.

She tried to imagine an escape. Maybe a day would come when they would leave this city, leave everything that kept them apart and tied Jack to his family, his job, his life. Anne would be nothing more than a bad dream, the sort of bad dream you can forget easily when you wake up and find out that nothing is binding you to the darkness of nightmares.

They would disappear from this world, and no one would ever find them. He'd take her out one evening, he'd tell her everything he had failed to tell her before and she'd fall back into his arms. They'd go to her apartment for the night and when morning came, they'd leave, hitting the road and going as far away as possible, without planning anything, just enjoying the moment. It would be the best time of their lives. They'd find deserts and mountains and blue sky, unpolluted air and beautiful landscapes; and when night came they'd stop at a restaurant and head off to a hotel together. And they'd be alone, completely alone, needing no one but each other.

Her phone rang, interrupting her reverie. She picked it up reluctantly and gave a glance at the number to see who was calling so early. Involuntarily, she sat up when she recognized it. It was just one of these numbers you could dial with your eyes closed, one you knew by heart just like an anniversary date or the password to your computer.

"Samantha?"

The tone was hesitant, almost careful. She shut her eyes, disturbed at the effect his voice had on her so early in the morning. Hearing him conjured up too many unforgettable memories, ones that involved waking up beside him and resting her head on his shoulder while they enjoyed the peaceful minutes they could share before they had to go to work.

"Yeah?" she finally muttered. She opened her eyes and a feeling of emptiness rose inside her as they stopped on the unoccupied pillow beside hers. She hated it, hated the power Jack still had on her even after all this time.

"Were you asleep?"

The question did nothing to improve her bad temper. No, she hadn't been asleep; sleep wasn't something she could find lately. "Of course not, Jack, I'm always up at five in the morning," she declared sarcastically, aiming only to make him feel uncomfortable.

There was a moment's silence. "Six," he corrected her.

"All right, six," she conceded coldly as her eyes fell on the clock by her bedside table. God, this had better be work related− it had to be, considering he no longer called her at home. Not since−

She cast around for something to say and found nothing but: "What's wrong, are you having trouble sleeping?"

She realized her mistake too late, when a sudden and awkward silence filled the line. She had wanted to stop at what's wrong, but somehow the words had found their way out of her mouth; and now she could only wonder how she had been foolish enough to ask that question again, this one question that was no longer a tease, no longer the symbol of their relationship.

Even though he was miles away she could feel his uneasiness, and she knew for sure that in this moment he was thinking the same thing as she was. She fumbled for words, knowing she was the one who had to apologize.

"Jack?" she said in a barely audible whisper. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. I mean− I−"

"It's all right," he replied, and his voice was oddly flat, as though he was trying to keep it devoid of emotion. "I− it just caught me off guard."

"Me too," she admitted sincerely. After another pause she asked, "So why are you calling?"

"I wanted to−" he began hesitantly, but his voice trailed off into silence.

She waited, suddenly resentful again as the events of the past two weeks unfolded themselves in her mind, the bad memories meddling with good ones. Elena's voice saying she had found Anne. The relief that followed the good news. Seeing Elena and Danny leaning against a car. Looking towards the ambulance and−

Sam swallowed. It had been two weeks but the pain was still fresh, and every time she replayed the scene in her mind it felt like someone was twisting a knife in her open wounds. It hadn't been the first time Jack had helped a victim ontoher feet or helped one keep her balance. It had been the first time, however, he had held one against his chest and clung to her as if she were the most important thing to him on Earth. The hurt she had felt when she'd turned away had been unbearable− and yet, yet it had been nothing compared to what she had felt when she'd found out Anne was pregnant. Danny had mentioned it casually that evening− she would never know how he had been privy to that information. He had apologized, later, when he had found her crying silently; he had said that he was sorry, that he had assumed she already knew

She'd never felt more foreign to this universe than in that moment. She hadn't gone to Jack's office after that to talk, hadn't confronted him. What right did she have to do that? She wasn't his mother, for Christ's sake.

She had said nothing and he had let her go home that night, and the night after that, and the one after too; without an apology, without a word, without so much as a glance. That had probably been the worse part of it.

"What do you want, Jack?"

Her words sliced the air, cold and accusatory.

"I need to see you. I just… want to talk to you."

"There's nothing to talk about," she replied curtly.

"Sam, please."

He was begging and she didn't know what to make of it. It was harder on the phone, when she couldn't meet his eyes− but she could imagine, from the ache in his voice, the pain and desperation that must be imprinted on his features.

She wondered at the renewed use of her nickname. How long had it been since he had called her Sam? It had been exclusively Samantha, lately, or even a couple of times Agent Spade− a cold, distant, cruel reminder that things had changed. So why use it this morning? Because he wanted to soften her? Or was it unconscious, had it escaped his lips because it was early, and because no one would ever overhear this conversation?

She didn't know what to do. Talking to him wouldn't change anything; it would only bring more pain. She didn't need that− and yet she desperately wanted to see him outside the office, to talk to him and be with him and−

"Where?" she asked quietly.

He told her the place and she didn't comment. He had chosen a coffee shop they had never been to, not the one that was only a block away from her apartment.

She hung up after a quiet "I'll be there" and stared numbly outside the window for a long moment. Rain lashed the glass, seeming to match her mood.

Looking at the dark grey sky, she wished things weren't so hopeless.