Author: Neurotic Cat Goddess
Title: Rain
Warnings: Language, mention of Sexual Abuse, mild violent imagery, mention of sex.
Rating: R
Summary: Oneshot, post-ep for Suspect 1:05, Without a Trace. Martin's reaction to everything. Dark.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of this. This is not for profit.
I.
It's raining outside the car. The sky is dark and Martin can barely see anything, and they're on a dirt road, and he worries that they might get stuck in mud. He tries to focus on the rain, on what's outside the car, so he won't have to think about what's inside the car. He can hear Jack's voice, calm, steady, and suddenly he finds it hard to breathe. His chest tightens, he gasps for air. He sets his jaw and watches the road, clenching the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles are white. He feels sick, and afraid and…
How the hell can Jack do this?
How the hell can he sit there and look that- that man in the eyes and say those things? It's all Martin can do not to pull over right that instant, drag that bastard Spaulding out car and beat the crap out of him. It's when he's imagining putting a bullet between that fucking monster's eyes that he realizes what he's thinking. He wonders what's wrong with him, when be became so… so what? So angry, so bloodthirsty? He doesn't know, and that scares him.
Dammit, Fitz!, he chides himself, snap out of it! It's just another case. He can deal with this.
He's always sucked at lying to himself.
Then he's holding the CD, the one that Andy's mother said he worked on all weekend, and he thinks Jack's telling him to play it, he's not sure, he can barely hear anything above the roaring in his ears. He doesn't want to hear anything. He doesn't want to be here, he doesn't want to-
He puts the CD in. Hits the play button.
Jack says something else now, something about beautiful boys that makes Martin's stomach twist and he feels like he's going to hurl right in the car, but he doesn't. He doesn't move, doesn't react. He can't fuck this up.
Jack's voice is like poisoned honey, soft, close to ear. He tries to let the words flow past him like water, tries not hear, not to let his mind turn the quiet syllables into those awful words. He's listened to Jack speak a hundred times, but this… it's Jack's voice, but not his words.
It's then that he realizes that the heat pricking at the back of his eyes is tears. He blinks furiously, trying to hold them back. He knows if he starts crying, he won't be able to stop. They won't get Spaulding to talk, and they won't get there in time. And then Andy will be dead, and it'll be all his fault.
His hand is shaking, and if Jack notices, he doesn't say anything. Martin's not sure whether he should be grateful for that, because he can hear what Jack's saying, and some little traitorous part of his mind is asking if anyone can be that good of an actor, and Martin tries not to think about that. He grips the steering wheel more tightly, and he can feel the bile rising in his throat, and he wishes he had some water.
This is the first time he's ever seriously considered quitting his job. He could leave, start over somewhere no one has ever heard of him or his father. He wouldn't have see things like this, to hear someone he trusts, someone he likes, pretend to understand a child molester.
Of course, he dismisses that thought, because he likes job, he likes saving people. He doesn't like when he can't save them, when he finds them just a little bit too late. He can't let go of it, not a good quality in an FBI agent, he knows, but he can't just forget. They stay with him, all the ones he can't save, they flicker across his vision everytime he closes his eyes. He can hear them begging him to help them, accusing him of letting them die, everytime he tries to sleep. He's always tired now, but he can never sleep, and he knows something in him's going to break. He can't keep on like this.
He can only pray to a god he stopped believing in a long time ago that Andy Deaver will be all right. No, he's not all right. Andy Deaver will never be all right again. Martin hopes that, at least, he is alive. He can tell that Jack's close, now, and he bites down hard on his lip to keep from hurling. He wishes he could close his ears like he closes eyes when a crime scene is too bloody. Even just for a second, to collect himself. To make sure his mask is firmly in place, before he opens them and gets to work.
Then Spaulding tells him where Andy is, and Martin can taste his own blood in his mouth, coppery and warm. He's shaking because of the cold, he tells himself.
II.
They get to the scene, and then there are a thousand cops all over the place, and he hears that Andy's gonna be fine. And he's so relieved, so goddamn relieved, but he can't find it in himself to be happy.
Then Spaulding says something about the fifteen minutes Jack promised him, and Martin has to restrain himself from spitting in that fucking pervert's face. He tries to get Patrick McCullen's face out his head, the look in his eyes when he told Martin about what Spaulding did.
Part of him's surprised that Patrick was able to go through with it, press charges, admit to the whole world what happened, because he was never able to, and does that make him weak?
He tries not to think about it, about-
Oh, God no, please don't, please no, don't, no, I don't want this, no, please
He stumbles, just a bit, and he's dizzy and shaking and he feels like he's going to pass out, but there are these people around, and there would be questions, and,
You know it's not your fault
That's what he said, and he made Patrick tell him what happened, and he knows he's a goddamn hypocrite, because he never told anyone. If they knew what happened, they'd think he was weak, because he never told anyone, because he just let it happen, and he's supposed to be strong. He learned that from his father, that denial of emotions, that silence in the face of pain and fear, and it's times like this that he thinks he could really hate his father.
It doesn't matter now. That was a long time ago, and he's put it in the past, and… and he's doing it again, trying to lie to himself. He knows it wasn't his fault, knows he shouldn't be ashamed, but he is, anyway. It's not logical, and he knows he should tell someone, fuck, a shrink, anyone. He can't, of course, and that's why he understands, and he knows they'll have a hell of time with this case, because every bit of it is questionable, and he's not sure if Andy will be able to testify, and fuck! How can he be thinking about the damn trial, the point is they got Andy back, and he's okay. No. He's not okay, and Martin doesn't think he'll ever be okay again, but he's alive, and that's what's important.
But he's still second-guessing himself, and he wonders what good it is to be alive, when life sucks so goddamn much, and he has to stop himself because he doesn't want to go down that road.
He sees Jack, over by a ditch, losing his lunch and at least Martin knows that he really is that good of an actor. And how can Martin be feeling sorry for himself right now, because Jack is there, puking his guts out along with his disgust for Spaulding, and Martin knows Jack will never really be able get rid of his disgust for himself. Even though it was all fake, even though it was just to save the kid, when he finally meets Jack's eyes an unspoken thought passes between them, and he knows he'll never really be able to look at Jack again, not without thinking about what happened in that car, and he's feeling sick again, and maybe he should just follow Jack's lead and hope that if he vomits enough, maybe he'll feel just a little better.
Finally he's done there, and someone brought over his car, he thinks Vivian arranged it and he'll have to thank her in the morning. He doesn't even want to think about tomorrow. He'll have to show up for work like nothing ever happened, and he wonders what would happen if he told them. But he won't, of course. It's not the sort of thing that you tell your coworkers while you're doing paperwork. It's not the sort of thing that people like Martin tell anyone.
Dammit, he's no more okay than Andy Deaver is.
III.
It's still raining when he's driving home, and he has the windshield wipers going as fast as they go, back and forth, but he still can't see a thing. A pair of headlights rushes past him in the opposite direction, and he's shaking so badly, he doesn't think he can drive right now, and it would be such irony, wouldn't it, if he survived all this just get killed because he crashed into a tree or something?
So he pulls over and stops, too suddenly, and he's slammed into the seatbelt as it locks into place. He draws in a shaky breath, lets it out with a sound that's a halfway between a whimper and a sob. Then he slams his hand down on the dashboard, shocking himself, and he's so overcome with rage that he's not thinking about anything. His head is in his hands, and he's shaking, shaking, so he doesn't even realize he's undone his seatbelt and then he's out of the car, and he hadn't known it was raining quite this hard, because the- the- crime scene was sheltered, and now he hasn't been outside for more than a few seconds, and already he's soaking wet and it's muddy and he's pretty sure this suit is ruined.
"Fuck!" He slams his fist into a tree. It hurts, more that he expected, a hell of a lot more that the punching bag, but he doesn't care, because the pain keeps his mind off other things, so he hits the tree again and again, and the bark bites into his hands and his knuckles are bleeding and torn.
He knows there'll be questions at work, but he'll dodge them with a shrug and an evasive comment, and they'll let it pass. After all, he's Martin Fitzgerald, the Deputy Director's son, and we all know he had a fucking perfect childhood, and no one would ever consider that he could relate to Andy Deaver, that when he was talking to Patrick McCullen he couldn't help wishing that someone had told him he had nothing to be ashamed of.
Then the desperate, white-hot rage is gone, and he bends over and vomits, over and over until there's nothing left and he's just dry heaving, and he collapses, finally crying and he knows his suit is completely muddy, and no dry cleaner will be able to repair it,
Real men don't cry
The voice bubbles up from his past, and Martin can't help but wonder what would've happened if he'd told his father about…
About what happened. He can't even bring himself to think the word, and he likes to think his father would have helped him through it, would have cared, but he knows his father would've put the guy in jail and then pretended it never happened, like it was any other case, and Martin hopes he hasn't inherited that gift for denial, and he can't believe he's calling it a gift.
He's shaking, and holding onto the tree for dear life, maybe for his sanity. When he realizes where he is, he pulls himself shakily to his feet, and tries to get the worst of the mud off his suit but only succeeds in smearing it further. He takes a couple of shaky breaths to collect himself, and he's still crying, but he thinks he can drive now.
He doesn't want to think about going in to work, tomorrow, and seeing them all, and seeing Jack, and remembering that car ride, which he thinks is his own personal version of hell. There'll be another missing person, and maybe he'll get to them in time,
And maybe he won't.
Right now, he doesn't want to think about that, he just wants to get home. Then he'll have a few beers to take the edge off, but that never really works, because he can't forget, not really, no matter how drunk he gets.
But he can try. If this was any other case, he'd pick up some pretty girl in a bar, and then maybe he could forget, for just a little while, but he can't think about sex right now, because with it comes all that other stuff, stuff he's kept locked away in a little box in his head for so many years. It'll stay there, locked away, for the rest of his life, because he's the Deputy Director's son, because real men don't cry, because, in spite of everything, he is ashamed.
In the morning, he'll do his best to shake off the hangover, he'll go into work, and he'll smile, and say he's fine.
Fin