September 2013

When Sam slips into the apartment a little after eight o'clock in the evening, she doesn't realize she isn't alone. She's changed out of her dress blues and heated up a white cardboard container of assorted Thai leftovers before she notices Jack is camped out in the living room.

He's sitting in the long shadows of the early autumn evening, lights out, TV off. Oblivious to his newfound audience, Jack is staring down a harmless looking cardboard box.

Sam watches in silence, waiting for his finely honed combat instincts to alert him to her presence. Long minutes later, she realizes they aren't going to; it's up to her to announce her arrival.

"Jack?"

He jumps – not much, just enough to let her know she's caught him completely off-guard – and flicks his gaze to her ever so briefly. "Hey."

No explanation for his uncharacteristic behaviour appears to be forthcoming. Sam decides to bite the bullet and try to coax some answers out of him.

She abandons her dinner on the dining room table and crosses the room to take a seat beside him on the far end of the couch. "What's in the box?" she asks, voice carefully controlled.

"Home movies," he murmurs. His eyes are locked on the box again. "Sarah had a bunch of them converted to DVD. She sent copies."

"Oh." Sam bites her lip, undecided. Even after all these years, he doesn't talk about Charlie. He's come a long way – he has pictures of his son set out in his office now, where others can see them and ask questions – but the pain of Charlie's death is still raw. She doesn't want to pry but she suspects this time he needs her to do exactly that. "Have you watched…"

"No."

"Are you going to?"

Jack takes a slow deep breath, in through his nose and out through his mouth. When he looks up, eyes locking on hers, the mask he so often wore in the field is firmly in place. "Watch them with me?"

Sam fights to keep her surprise locked down tight. "Me?"

Her uncertainty visibly shakes his resolve. His expression hardens into carefully schooled neutrality as he begins backtracking. "Forget it. It was a dumb idea…"

"I want to," she interrupts quickly. "I mean, if it's okay with you."

Jack looks away and reaches for the box. He rips into it with single-minded determination, committing to this course of action before he can rethink his choice.

Sam sits in silence, leaving him to move things along at his own pace. It's no surprise that he wastes no time deciding which disc to watch first. He simply pulls the first one out of the box, strides determinedly to the DVD player, and pops the disc in the machine.

The only sounds in the apartment are their measured breaths, and the gentle whir of the disc spinning up.

Jack reclaims his seat on the couch but in the middle this time rather than in the corner opposite Sam. Years ago, when they'd still been a couple, a seat in the middle of the squishy couch was an invitation to cuddle. Neither one of them has claimed the middle spot much since they broke up, and she's unsure of his intentions. Or at least, she is until he pats the cushion beside him, carefully averting his eyes.

She's under no illusions. He's avoiding her on purpose. If she rebuffs him, he can pretend she simply hadn't noticed the invitation.

Even though she's not sure it's the best idea when they're about to watch memories leading up to the single biggest regret of his life, Sam obliges. She slides across the couch and curls into his side. She's not surprised to find she still fits perfectly against him.

They really are made for each other, just not in the way they'd once thought.

Jack's arm curls around her shoulders, feigning a level of relaxation he doesn't feel. Snuggled against him as she is, Sam can feel the tension strung taught through his every muscle. She reaches up, catches his fingers with hers and squeezes reassuringly.

"Breathe," she says quietly.

He does. Her head rises and falls with his chest.

She's so wrapped up in his distress that it takes her by surprise when the movie starts and the bright laughter of a young child fills the silent apartment.

Jack's heart beats hard against his ribs as he sucks in a ragged breath. Sam can only imagine how hard it must be for him, hearing his son's voice for the first time in almost 18 years.

On the screen, a brown haired, brown eyed toddler is splashing happily in a bubble-filled bathtub. His hair is sculpted into a Mohawk. Foam clings to his hair in patches, slowly dissolving as the camera rolls. The little boy is grinning widely, displaying the same dimples that too rarely grace his father's face.

"He looks just like you," Sam murmurs. It's a thought she's had many times over the years, but this is the first time she's felt comfortable voicing it.

"Not his smile. That was all Sarah."

Sam squeezes his fingers again, but her attention remains fixed on the TV. She's fascinated by the little boy who played such an integral role in molding the man beside her.

"He loved bath time," Jack says quietly. "We used to have to wrestle him out of the tub."

On screen, a much younger version of Jack moves into the frame. His shirt is soaked, suggesting that the little boy in the tub has been very busy splashing up a storm.

Sam watches as father and son goof around, giving one another bubble beards and enacting an impressive naval battle with brightly coloured plastic boats. The pair keep their one-woman camera crew in stitches. The image shakes in time with the lilting laugh coming from off-camera.

Bath time lasts a few minutes longer before a curtain of static washes over the screen. When the picture clears, Charlie and Jack are tearing across a lush green field on a bright summer's day. Charlie is running circles around his father, tiny sneakers moving this way and that as he tries to steal the soccer ball from his dad's superiorly coordinated feet.

Jack's hand moves in a slow circle on her upper arm. "He loved soccer. He was good at it too. I had to practice every night after he went to bed for three weeks just to get good enough to keep the ball away from him."

"Really?"

Jack shrugs, jostling her head slightly. "Soccer wasn't big in Minnesota when I was a kid. I didn't have a whole lot of practice."

Charlie manages to steal the ball away, and immediately takes off in the opposite direction, racing away from the camera. His giggles fade as he moves away from his parents, but they're still there in the background.

"Anytime you want to step in, feel free," Jack says.

"No way. I spend plenty of time chasing around after him when you're gone," Sarah replies teasingly.

"Daddy, come get me!" Charlie shouts from across the field.

Jack shrugs and says, "Duty calls." Then he looks over his shoulder and hollers back, "On my way, buddy!"

"He kept you pretty busy, huh?" Sam asks. It's not that she feels the need to fill the silences. Rather she's trying to keep Jack grounded in the present. Too often he's allowed himself to get lost in the hurt and sadness of his past. He's learning how to remember the good without getting caught up in the bad, but sometimes he still needs a little help.

"Yeah."

More static. This time when the picture clears, a pyjama-clad Charlie is racing for a gigantic Christmas tree. He skids to a stop in his sock feet and only his mother's quick reflexes keep him from winding up in the tree.

"Hold on, bud. We've got to see what Santa left in your stocking first," Jack reminds.

"But Daddy…"

"You know the rules, Charlie," Sarah says sternly.

The picture bounces around unsteadily for a few moments. When it settles, Jack appears in the frame. He sits on the floor and pulls the eager boy into his lap. Strong arms wrap around the squirming little body, gently pinning him place until his mom can deliver a brightly coloured stocking overflowing with treats.

With Charlie sufficiently distracted, Sarah plops herself down beside Jack. The Sarah of twenty-odd years ago is curled against him the exact same way present day Sam is.

Sam has always been aware that she and Sarah bear a passing resemblance to one another. That one time they'd met face-to-face, they'd even had the same hairstyle. But it's not until this moment that Sam appreciates just how alike she and Jack's ex-wife are.

If they were still a couple, the realization would bother her, raising doubts that perhaps she's just a convenient substitute for his ex-wife. But there are no doubts tonight. She knows Jack loves her for who she is. It's not the kind of love she'd once hoped for, but that doesn't make it any less real.

Sam is snapped out of her musings by the sudden silence that fills the room. Jack has a white-knuckle grip on the remote, thumb jammed tightly on the pause button. He lets out a ragged breath, visibly struggling for control.

Twisting around to get a better look at him, Sam places a hand on his chest and moves her thumb in a slow circle. She gives him the length of a few deep breaths to pull himself together.

"Tell me what you're thinking," she urges quietly.

Jack ignores her and continues to breathe.

"Talk to me, Jack."

"I didn't have to lose them," he says roughly, voice uneven. "If I'd been more careful…"

"What happened to Charlie wasn't your fault, Jack. You know that," she says. Because even though he does know it, sometimes he still needs to hear it. Jack will never absolve himself completely, but every time someone else offers him absolution, he comes a little closer to granting himself some small measure of forgiveness.

He doesn't reply, but he also doesn't deny it. It's not much but it's progress.

"I can't watch anymore right now," Jack says gruffly. He moves to climb out from under her, but Sam leans more of her weight on him, pinning him in place. "Sam…" he says warningly.

She doesn't answer, just shifts so she's facing him, balanced carefully on the edge of the couch. She gets to her knees and wraps her arms around him, hugging him tight. He's tensed, as if ready to spring into action. His arm falls from around her shoulders and he makes no move to replace it.

"Don't shut me out," she says softly.

Jack sucks in another ragged breath, and then another. She doesn't say anything more, doesn't try to push him. All she can do now is wait him out.

Eventually Jack shifts ever so slightly and his arms come around her. Then he's holding on tight, clinging to her with the same ferocious strength usually devoted to maintaining his self-control.

"You can watch the rest when you're ready," Sam murmurs. "If you want me to watch them with you, I will. If not, that's okay, too." She turns her head into his neck. "They're good memories, Jack. You deserve to have them."

"Can we just… Not talk for a while?" he asks unsteadily.

"Sure." She moves to break off the hug, but his arms remain locked around her.

"Can we also just stay like this for a while?"

Sam runs her fingers through his hair in the way that had always soothed him back when they'd still been together. She hugs him again in answer.

Jack buries his face in her shoulder. His voice is muffled, but his quiet "Thanks," is still crystal clear.

Sam squeezes him, good and hard. "Always."