A/N: No more flashbacks in this second part, but a long conversation... I tried to make it plausible, so that at first Sam's still angry; I don't think she would just fall right back into his arms without putting up a fight first. Needless to add that I just HAD to get rid of Anne, so unlike most of my other fics it's a happy JS ending...

Mariel, thanks as always for being such an awesome beta-reader... Thanks also to everyone who read and/or reviewed the first chapter, the feedback was wonderful!

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Chapter 2/2

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"It's quite early, Jack."

The absence of warmth in her words was enough to convince him that this meeting was going to be as difficult as he feared.

On the surface she looked the same as always, save maybe the darkness under her eyes that had nothing to do with the cloudy sky. But he knew, from the way she looked aside when he tried to meet her eyes, from the way she swallowed when he took a step forward, that something about her had changed. How many hours had she spent alone, contemplating what her life had become? How many sobs that he hadn't heard, how many tears that he hadn't wiped away?

It hurt so much that he couldn't breathe. He was incapable of stopping the flow of sounds and images that assaulted him, powerless to block away the memories of them together. He was compelled to remember what they had had before the awkward silence, before this frosty indifference between them, before he had to call her home at dawn to get a chance to talk to her in a completely unfamiliar place, before he had to look at her and see on her face the same combination of ache and regret that had invaded his heart.

Hating the chilliness in her tone and the distance she was keeping between them, he said, "I know it's early." His voice scraped, raw as if this were the first conversation he'd had in years. Maybe it was the case; maybe he had spent too much time alone, imprisoned by his own demons. "I just didn't want to talk about it at work."

It. He didn't want to talk about it. That told Sam a lot, if he wasn't even able to articulate the proper words− and those would have been Anne, pregnant, and other things she'd rather not think too much about.

He seemed indecisive for a moment, as though not sure whether to enter the coffee shop or not. When a few raindrops splattered on his jacket, he finally headed for the door. She followed him inside, waiting wordlessly as he ordered two cups of coffee.

The waitress behind the counter gave them a glance, and Samantha wondered what she was thinking. Somehow, it wasn't so hard to guess. She knew what she would have supposed if they had been working on a case and their investigation had brought them here. She could picture the scene in her mind perfectly well: she'd be standing near the door with her notepad, pen in hand, and would observe everything carefully. Then she'd make assumptions.

He's not married− that's obvious from the absence of ring− and she isn't either. That rules out the married couple spending time together before going to work their separate ways. He's wearing a suit, but it's too early for a business meeting, not to mention that this is hardly the place. That suggests they aren't colleagues. They aren't friends either: friends come in and order a big breakfast to get a chance to stay together for a while and chat happily about anything and everything.

That leaves lovers. It's what fits best: he knows exactly what kind of coffee she likes, and there's something intimate in the way they seem to interact with each other, especially when his eyes stop on her. There also seemed to be a silent understanding between them when they entered the shop side by side and made their way towards the counter. They're unquestionably more than acquaintances.

Yes, these would definitely be her observations. Except… there would probably have been other things to notice, Sam thought wryly. Things like the distance between them, for example. She wouldn't have been able to explain why he had let her take her cup of coffee from the waitress instead of handing it too her, nor why they hadn't exchanged a word or smile.

Interrupting her line of thought, Jack headed for a table in the corner of the shop. Turning, she followed him. She sat across the table from him in a booth that was hidden from the counter, one that would grant them at least the illusion of privacy.

She remained silent as he stirred his coffee unnecessarily, his eyes averted until he couldn't pretend anymore that his Styrofoam cup was more important than what had brought them here on a grey, rainy Monday morning.

This time she gazed back at him, her eyes stopping on his jacket, his shirt and tie, his shaved face. The image of him holding a razor made its way into her mind, and she heard his whisper as clearly as if she had been sent back in time.

It's 'cause you find it handsome−

She tore her eyes from his chin, forcing herself to meet his gaze instead. It probably wasn't such a good idea though, not when his eyes were so lost and desperate and she was instantly reminded of the reason that had brought them here.

"I need to address this now," he began hesitantly, "Because… it's been almost two weeks and it's affecting our work."

To anyone from the outside, he would have been little more than a businessman getting a coffee and seizing the occasion to discuss work issues before the beginning of the day. But she could see through him like none other, she could see that there was a war raging behind his nearly impassive features, that he was questioning the choices he'd made, struggling against himself to decide what was right and what wasn't, what he'd say and what he'd end up doing. She knew of his inner turmoil because there were signs that gave him away, signs she had learned to recognize: the hollowness in his expression, the dazed look in his eyes, the way he had clasped his hands together to keep them from shaking…

"I'm not saying it's your fault, because it's not," he went on. "But we have to figure out a way to make things work at the office. This can't go on forever; we still have to be a team."

She knew what it was costing him to say this, and yet gave him a frosty look. Yes, she was aware that he wasn't the only one to blame, that she had her share of responsibility in the situation they were in. But what else was she supposed to do? He used her home line for the first time in two weeks; he invited her for coffee and pretended he didn't want it to be work-related; and now he was giving her the this-is-your-boss-talking rehearsed speech… it didn't make sense. Or rather, she knew only too well what he was getting at, and she wouldn't take the bait.

"Don't even think about doing this, Jack."

Her voice was dangerously close to a growl and he blinked. "Doing what?"

"Don't pretend this is just a work issue."

"It is a work issue," he said, irritated. "God, we're talking about finding missing persons. We can't jeopardize their lives because we have communication problems."

She opened her mouth incredulously. Communication problems? If only it were just that.

He sighed. Both of them knew everything would be decided here, this morning, in this innocuous coffee shop three blocks away from her apartment. Every hurtful word they had always held back, every accusation they had never spoken, every truth they had never told each other face to face was on the verge of spilling into the air between them. "Look, Sam, if you have something to say…"

She refrained from banging her fist on the table. "Yeah? Well it turns out I got only one thing to say, Jack: just what the hell were you thinking?"

This was the least they could give to each other: honesty. In the name of what they had once shared, in a mutual, unspoken accord, they never lied to each other. He had the right to see her pain, her doubts, her vulnerability− and she had the right to be angry with him.

And she was. She was angry with what he'd done, angry with what he hadn't done, angry with herself. She was angry because she should have been sleeping at this hour, and instead was facing Jack, unable to shut him out of her life, unable to forget him, unable to pretend his presence wasn't disturbing her. She was angry because the truth was, there was nowhere else she'd rather be than here, seated at this table with him.

She gritted her teeth. She couldn't, wouldn't let him get away with it so easily. "You know, I actually tried to understand," she said, her voice louder than even she had expected. "But I can't, Jack. I can't, not when you had to get her pregnant and pretend that it wouldn't affect me."

He caught her eyes, the hurt in them and the pain on her face that was showing through her anger.

"Sam," he said forcefully, straining to keep his voice low, conscious that someone might overhear them. "Sam−" he caught her arm across the table and held on to her even as she tried to free herself from his grip. "Please listen to me. I know you have reasons to be mad, but I'm still your boss and−"

"Were you my boss when we slept together?" she spat back. "Where you my boss when you came to my apartment and stayed overnight, when you pretended that what we had was strong enough to overcome the rest? Were you just my boss all that time, Jack?"

He clenched his jaw, biting back either anger or pain, she couldn't be sure. "What we shared was strong enough to overcome the rest," he spoke in a mild, controlled tone. "And I never meant for anything to happen with Anne. I made a mistake."

"Yeah," she whispered. At least he had the decency not to bring up her past mistakes− the biggest one being Martin.

They lapsed into silence again, but this one was neither secure nor comfortable, neither knowing whether their next words would be heated and loaded with anger or calm and rational. A few seconds went by, maybe even minutes before he spoke.

"Sam?"

Something in his tone took her by surprise. There was a sense of sadness and uncertainty in it, and a silent, searing pain that she'd never quite heard before. He seemed almost afraid to speak, and yet she felt that there was something he desperately needed to know, something that was possibly more difficult for him to say than anything they'd already said this morning. She waited uncomfortably, both concerned and unsettled by his unexpected apprehension.

"Do you hate me?"

Whatever she had been expecting, it wasn't that, and his few words stopped her. "Of course not," she let out in a breath.

A brief relief passed on his features. "You certainly have the right to."

"I'm mad at what you'd done, Jack; I'm mad at Anne," she explained. "God, I don't hate you; I just… I don't get it, that's all. I don't understand why you went with her in the first place."

"Why? Damn it, Sam," his voice almost cracked, but he managed to keep it steady. "I thought it was over. We said it."

She looked away, staring unseeingly outside through the window beside them. Passers-by were running, most of them with umbrellas; and droplets of water trickled on the window from the store awning, leaving small trails on the glass.

Yes, they had said it was over.

But they'd never actually meant it.

He fidgeted absent-mindedly with the corner of a paper napkin he had picked up at the counter. Then, at last, he answered her initial question. "You wanted to know what I was thinking. Well I wasn't thinking, Sam." He looked at her again, and she could see the memories dancing in front of his eyes, the same ones that never left her mind. He was trying to blink them away but couldn't, and he declared quietly, "I missed you, that night."

His voice caught and she felt a sudden urge to reach for his hand across the table. She had come here prepared to pick up a fight and now all she felt was a crushing emptiness, and a solitude that made her want to cry. One soft word from him and her resolution faded away, one glance and her world was turned upside down. Every second they spent together was making it ten times more difficult to resist, and she could no longer find something to fuel her anger, not when her eyes stung and she read the sorrow carved in the lines of his face.

A sad smile formed on her lips. "I miss you all the time," she said sincerely. "It doesn't mean I'm going to fall into the arms of− of−" she couldn't find words to describe a male counterpart of Anne.

He seemed to understand and tightened his hold on his cup of coffee, as if all he would have wanted would have been to touch her hand, too. "Anne and I− I mean, we talked and−"

She stiffened. "I don't want to know, Jack." In fact, the least she knew about the outcome of that discussion the better.

He continued anyway. "She's not going to keep the baby."

Sam let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. How was she supposed to react to that? Telling him she was glad hardly seemed like an appropriate response.

"I'm sorry."

He gave a slight nod and kept quiet, taking a sip of coffee. She drank her coffee too, hating the strained silence, hoping he would be the one to break it off, then realizing she had to ask, ask if they still had a chance, ask if he had really wanted to talk to her to address the issue of their efficiency at work or if it had been the last of his concerns.

"Why did you really call me, Jack?"

He caught her eyes, dim with tears, and at last whispered the one and only truth. "Because I don't want to lose you."

The raw honesty in his voice finally broke the façade she had managed to keep through the course of this surreal conversation. She was tired of fighting, tired of pretending she was all right, tired of acting as if she didn't want him and he didn't want her. She shut her eyes for a second, opening them when she felt tears running down her cheeks.

"Sam−" he muttered, his heart breaking with every tear she shed. He stood up and walked around the table.

She rose from her chair and he put an arm around her shoulders as he hadn't done in ages. They exited the coffee shop together and she leaned against him, glad that he was here to keep her on her feet as she took unsteady steps beside him.

"Hey−" Jack said gently once they were outside. It was still raining, thick, heavy drops of water that fell in cascades over their heads, but neither of them took much notice. There was too much at stake here to care.

She let go of him and stood back, and his arm fell to his side. He looked at her then, just gazing at her intensely, and she gazed back at him, oblivious to the water that ran down her cheeks and melded with her tears.

Finally he moved, taking a step toward her, closing the distance they had put between them once again. He took her hand and tangled his fingers with hers. There were people all around, but he didn't care. So what if someone saw them together? He had, at long last, realized that it didn't matter, that what he risked in being with her was nothing compared to what he would lose if he never held her again.

She knew what he was about to do; she could read it in his eyes, in the way he was looking at her right now, in the way his fingers were not relinquishing their hold on hers. She could read the silent question he wanted to speak, the one he was never going to ask aloud, the one that seemed to ask her are you going to let me kiss you? And she didn't have to answer, not really, not when they both knew she would say yes anyway.

She felt his lips on hers before she had the time to lean forward, and she squeezed his fingers as his lips played over hers with a tenderness that made her want to spend the rest of her life with him. He slid his free hand around her waist to bring her closer and she kissed him back, her craving only intensified by never-ending years of loneliness. They both clung to each other, he to the softness of her lips, she to the feel of his hands on her skin, and both of them to this fragile, magic instant, when each breath was an entire conversation and each touch was worth more than a million words.

He pulled away to look at her and she could almost see the pain on his features dissipating, as if kissing her had been enough to fill the emptiness within him and enabled the rain to wash away his grief and guilt. He wiped the water off her face with his thumb, whispering in a ragged breath, "I just wish it wasn't so damn complicated."

She caught the frustration in his voice and pointed out quietly, "Was it ever easy?"

He shook his head sadly, droplets of water running down his face, his shirt soaked and plastered to his chest despite the presence of his jacket; and she told herself that nothing in life was ever simple.

She must have spoken out loud without realizing it, because his fingers brushed her cheek and he said softly, "Loving you isn't so hard, Sam."

Her mouth opened but no sound came out.

His lips stretched into a small, almost embarrassed smile, as if he were anxious to find out what her reaction would be− but she could tell that he didn't regret his words. Unable to voice her answer, she tilted her chin at him and brushed her lips against his again; and when she looked back at him, there was something warm in his gaze, something that had been missing for a long time and that she had hoped she would see again one day.

And yet− yet she didn't want to let herself hope. Not yet. Not until she had an answer to the question that burned her lips.

"What are you going to tell Anne?"

His smile vanished slowly, as though her words needed a long moment to sink in. For a horrible instant she thought she had ruined it all, that he was going to turn around and walk away. But a strange light danced in his eyes as he said simply, "That I don't want to be with her."

Now that would surely be an interesting conversation. Sam raised a doubtful eyebrow at him, not quite believing he'd have the courage to tell her that.

He didn't waver. "I'll tell Anne it was the biggest mistake of my life."

"Sleeping with her?" she spoke without thinking.

"No," he said, his eyes temporarily resting on her blonde strands before he met her gaze. "Letting you go."

She shut her eyes and he drew her to him, wrapping his arms around her, holding her, finally allowing himself to love her as he should have done a long time ago, shamelessly and unconditionally.

Time passed, meaningless as they simply held each other. The side of his head was leaning against hers, and she could sense his quietude now as they remained almost completely still, neither willing to let go. It was no longer raining, but she had to admit the situation was incongruous, with them both standing here at barely seven thirty in the morning, drenched from head to toe. Not to mention that−

"You're still my boss, Jack."

She wondered what he would find to answer to that, but he didn't let the question hang in the air between them for more than a couple of seconds. It seemed that the last drops of rain had taken away his uncertainties, leaving nothing but a quiet resolution.

His answer came as a whisper in her ear, "That was never really a problem, Sam."

The silence that greeted his words was as relaxed as the understanding that flowed once again between them, and, as he held her tightly against him, she reflected that maybe things weren't so hopeless after all.

/ End