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chapter eight

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being weak, when i am strong
being seen, for who you are
being sad and lost but not alone
but listen and think when i say

oh, but listen and think when i say
-Dido, "Who Makes You Feel"

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Martin fidgeted restlessly in his seat, the metal folding chair squeaking beneath him in protest.

It was a cool Sunday afternoon in spite of the bright sun that stung his eyes through the large panel windows at the community center. He could not be bothered to focus as a middle-aged man told the story of his tragic long battle with alcohol: how he lost everything important in his life before he had realized just how low he had fallen, and how he was struggling just to get his three children to talk to him again.

Martin's thoughts, instead, were racing at warp speed, and the meeting that happened to best suit his schedule was secondary at best.

It had been two days since he had offered to share his Chinese food and, in return, Sam had confided in him in way that she never had before. Everything happened so suddenly that he had barely been aware of what she had been saying, but he knew that the look of relief that washed over her face would be etched in his memory forever.

Suddenly, Sam fell into place right in front of him. He idly studied his memory, finding traces of her at every corner of his brain and struggling to put the pieces together to form a concrete picture.

She was not supposed to have this effect on him still, not anymore. The mutual agreement stood that they could be casual friends who worked together, and nothing more. More tread on dangerous waters, and it could not be permitted.

His eyes anxiously scanned the room as he tried to clear his head and take his mind off of her, but to no avail. His gaze landed on a young woman who had hobbled in on crutches. Back at the beginning of the meeting, when he still held vague hopes of paying attention, he remembered her telling of her struggles in refusing the pain medication offered to her when she broke her leg.

The young woman had introduced herself as Darlene. Her curly light brown hair fell around her shoulders, framing her tanned skin, and her tall, thin frame leaned heavily on her crutches as though she were hanging on for dear life. And though she bore no physical resemblance to Samantha, she held something deep behind her eyes that reminded him of the look that Sam offered far to infrequently, the same blank sorrowful stare she had revealed the first time he had asked about her family.

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He walked past her door three times before finally getting a few perturbed looks from the direction of the nurses' station.

Danny had dropped by late last night, after bringing Sydney Harrison by to be checked out in the emergency room. He had mentioned he was going to stick around to see how Sam's surgery went -- just to be sure -- and Martin, not feeling comfortable enough to go that same night as well, had insisted Danny call him no matter the hour to give him the progress report. He simply chose to ignore the suggestive looks Danny had given him at this request.

Finally planting his feet firmly in front of the door labeled 518, he took a deep breath and tried to settle his nerves and let the butterflies fall to the pit of his stomach. He swallowed and willed himself to walk across the threshold of her hospital room.

The curtain was drawn, and he rapped his fist against the side of the wall.

"Come on in," Her voice carried weakly from just a few feet away, and he cautiously pulled the curtain aside to step forward into her room. She lay on the hospital bed, appearing tired and weak, but her face had more color than the previous evening and she clearly looked to be getting better. Her left leg was propped up in front of her, and she had CNN muted on the television screen in the corner of the room.

"Hey, Samantha," he smiled down at her. "Are you feeling any better?"

She coughed, trying to clear her throat. She waved her arm in the air and nodded towards the IV line in place. "This morphine stuff is pretty good," she laughed quietly.

He chuckled softly in return. "I'll bet."

He eyed the few 'Get Well Soon' gifts that lined the otherwise empty, bare walls of the hollow room. A brightly colored balloon had been tethered to the armrest of one of the chairs in the corner; a knot that was clearly Danny's handy work. Two floral arrangements sat on the shelf side by side: one card read 'Get Well Soon! Love Vivian, Marcus and Reggie.' The other was unsigned.

"From your family?" He asked, motioning at the second arrangement.

She shook her head slowly and bit her lower lip, only a subtle change in her expression that seemed to speak volumes in a language he did not quite grasp. Later, he would overhear Danny and Vivian whispering that she had specifically requested that they not call her mother or her sister, even though her sister lived close enough that she could be in the city in a few hours. And he would wonder if the sorrowful expression that crossed her face had been directed at the mysterious person who had sent the flowers, or at the family members who had not.

He slid his backpack off his shoulders and took out the small gift he had come across in the hospital gift shop downstairs. He sat the brown stuffed bear on the shelf next to the second vase of flowers, and surreptitiously slipped the card behind it. "To add to your collection," he explained, grinning, as he looked at her affectionately. "Try to keep this one away from your drunken roommates," he teased.

"I'm telling you!" She exclaimed indignantly, "Katie made me look like a saint."

He smirked. "Now that I'd like to see."

She huffed silently for a few seconds, before clenching her jaws together and inhaling deeply through her nose. Her eyes closed as she willed herself to keep the pain under control.

"Do you want me to get you something? Call a nurse?" He asked, worriedly.

Eyes still closed, she shook her head no. "It comes in waves," she mumbled. "It's okay."

She shivered, and he reached out to adjust the blankets better over her small frame. His hand accidentally brushed against the bare skin along her collarbone that was not covered by the flimsy material of the hospital gown. He pulled back, suddenly, and tried to ignore the way it burned as he hid the offending hand inside the pocket of his slacks.

It hit against something cool and leather that was not his, and he remembered the item he picked up impulsively at the scene the night before.

"I wanted to make sure you got this back," he said, willing his hand not to shake as he held her ID badge out. "We all missed you today, Samantha."

"Thanks," she said softly. She stretched her arm to meet his and adjusted her torso so that she was sitting up. She inspected her own ID badge carefully for a few seconds, then cast her eyes back towards him. She smiled. "And Martin?"

"Yes?"

"You can call me 'Sam,' you know."

His heart skipped a beat, and he smiled back, hoping the shadows masked the flush he felt rising on his face.

"Sure thing," he answered, "College girl."

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"Martin?" Ed leaned over and shook his shoulder. "Hey Martin, are you still with us? Meeting ended almost five minutes ago, and you haven't moved."

"Oh, yeah, sorry." Martin rose from the metal folding chair and stretched his shoulders out.

"What do you say we blow this joint, grab some real coffee, and you can tell me what's really on your mind?" Ed was a large, imposing man for someone who was pushing sixty-five. His graying hair and wide smile usually made him feel more of a grandfather type, but his lips were currently pursed and his eyes insistent, showing traces of his NYPD background. This was a statement, not a question.

Rather than waste energy arguing in a losing battle, Martin agreed. "Sure," he slipped on his trench coat. "I think there's a place a couple of blocks from here if you want to walk?"

Ed nodded in affirmation, and they quickly slipped out of the bustling community center.

The nearest hole-in-the-wall coffee shop was actually closer than Martin had remembered, and they quickly settled into a booth in the back corner of the room. Soft jazz played over the speakers, and Martin took in his surroundings. A flustered young mother stood at the counter, trying to order while simultaneously hoisting her toddler onto her hip; several students sat in a group, bent over textbooks and a small pile of to go cups building up by their feet; along one wall, an older couple sat, seemingly content to just sit together holding hands.

"So, Martin. What's on your mind?" Ed sipped his coffee and sat back, signaling that he was ready.

Martin took a deep breath and began, "I was on call Friday night, and I ran out to pick up something to eat while I sorted through some backed up files. Sam was still in the office when I got back, and we started talking about this case that we wrapped up earlier in the week." He paused and rubbed his hand along his chin and cast his eyes to the Sunday afternoon sunlight through the window. He wanted to focus his thoughts; he knew he needed to talk about this so as not to stall his recovery. But it was still raw and fresh and new, and he did not want to betray her confidences or his own emotions. "It was a tough case, and it hit close to home for her in more ways than I realized. Her sister actually went missing at around the same time, and we worked that case too. It all sort of hit at once, and we were already overwhelmed from some backlash against another team..."

"So how does all of this involve you, specifically?" Ed adjusted the lid to his drink, giving Martin an encouraging smile and silently urging him to continue.

He swallowed, "While we were talking, she started talking about something that happened to her a long time ago. When we were together, talking about her past -- or about anything personal -- Well, she never really let us. At first I didn't push the subject, and after a while, I got tired of trying." He lowered his eyes to inspect several scratches on the table top, and took a long drink. He sighed audibly and furrowed his eyebrows, not trying to hide the hurt and confusion coursing through him. "I had forgotten that she could make me feel like this."

Ed leaned forward and emphatically put his drink down on the table. "How so?"

"In that moment," he said, crossing his arms and mentally calling up the image of her soft expressions as she spoke, "it was like I could actually see her."

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