augmented fifth
Title: Augmented Fifth (1/1)
Feedback: bitterviolet[at]gmail.com
Rating: K+
Disclaimer: I let them out for oxygen once every couple of days.
Category: MS, Sam angst
Spoilers: 5x19
Summary: 'to the whole of my undoing'
Notes: I know, I know. Another one of those cliché post-ep fics. I hate myself a little bit for writing it, but I had the end scene in my head and it just would not go away no matter how much I told it to. Though I promise this one won't require insulin if you choose to go further.
This was apparently my attempt at making some sense of the complete crap that I found "At Rest" to be. I tried to write Sam without making her sound too whiney, and this is the end result.
If you're wondering about the title, I was playing around with the lyrics from the intro song and trying to make something stick, but that wasn't working out for me. So I landed somehow in my music theory dictionary and pulled this out. For a better explanation of specifically what it means, the wikipedia page should be helpful. Look specifically at the last line of the article and you should get what I mean.
Soundtrack Recommendations:
"Black & White" - Sarah McLachlan
"Who Makes You Feel" - Dido
"Flicker" - Trespassers William
"I Saw" - Matt Nathanson
"Time" - Sarah McLachlan
"Shasta (Carrie's Song)" - Vienna Teng
Email me for details. And by details, I mean the zip file.
xxx
unravel me, untie this chord
the very center of our union is caving in
i can't endure, i am the archive of our failure
and all i feel is black and white
and i'm wound up small and tight
and i don't know who i am
-Sarah McLachlan, "Black & White"
xxx
Jack tells you to take a few days off, and you realize, suddenly, that it is exactly what you will be doing.
And that it is exactly what you did not want for yourself.
Joe and Jeff Henry. Your mother's distracted carelessness. Emily's silence, her pain. Your own. You wanted to be done with the whole mess. But in a few days' time, you will be back at work, and once again it will be like nothing ever happened.
The bullpen is busy and full of life as you enter, unnoticed. You see another photograph pinned up on the white board and events outlined loosely as they are uncovered. The team will handle this one without you, and they will be fine. Their distracted faces barely see you as you silently move to seek solace in the calm quiet of the balcony.
The wind whips against your face, and you lean against the cool metal railing, bracing yourself against your own sorrow.
You watch, like you always do, as the world passes you by on the ground below. Sometimes slowly, sometimes in the blink of an eye, but it always happens. It is what you do best. Or rather, it is what you best allow to happen.
For someone who is trained as a federal agent, you realize that you rarely take action once you leave the safe confines of your job. Emily, after she finally returned home, trapped herself in a downward spiral and took you down with her. You thought you understood and, feeling guilty, wanted to help her any way you could. But the drugs and alcohol were a factor far beyond your control, and your husband -- unable to take your absence any longer -- left you behind. After all, it is difficult to have a honeymoon period when you see more of your wife's hung-over sister than your wife.
Jack could never stay, until one day he stopped 'not staying' and instead stopped coming altogether.
Martin, however, was the one who came as a surprise.
Even when you were eighteen married, you did not expect it to last. You learned early that marriage is not sacred, and parenthood even less so. You suppose, in a way, that made it easier when you were with Jack. If it was broken to begin with, you could hardly be held responsible.
But Martin, he was supposed to be different. Though you did not believe it at first -- nor would you believe it for the many months that followed -- eventually you came to that same conclusion.
You still hate him, a little bit, for the way that he let you down. He was supposed to be patient, he was supposed to crack a small smile when you agreed to go with him to the wedding and reassure you that it would be fine. You let your guard down, and it hurt that much more when he pushed the bagel away -- and in turn pushed you even further.
You do not usually dwell on this remaining bitterness, however. Instead, you act as though you are casual friends. Like your relationship with him is no different than your relationship with Danny, and you would not care if he suddenly started to date that brunette from fifth floor accounting who was never shy about her interest. Even though acting this way tears you up inside, you do not let it show. That would make you weak, and you cannot afford to be weak.
You are not good about being honest with yourself, but it comes as a small comfort that you are sure he has not been with anyone since you. First there was Dormvald, then there were the painkillers. And finally, there was his recovery.
You read anything you could find on Narcotics Anonymous, unbeknownst to him, in the early days of his recovery -- and you remember that you felt something upon learning the rule against beginning new relationships in the first year. It was not quite a feeling of relief, but it did sooth your wounded ego. You know him better than you let yourself show, and you knew he would follow the rules with meticulous caution.
Sometimes you can even convince yourself that the sudden increase in the casual aspect of your sex life has nothing to do with your ego or your pride, or that you are doing nothing more than reminding yourself that you can have sex whenever you want. You play a game where it has nothing do to with trying to find someone who could touch you the way that he did. Because the voice in your head if you do not play that game sounds annoyingly like Lisa Harris, and you hate talking to Lisa.
You are certain that when you return to work, you will be required to make several visits with Dr. Harris, and you briefly consider blackmailing Jack with the forged incident report to get out of it. He should have absolutely no say in how you decide to deal with this, and your stomach churns as it finally dawns on you that he has taken the decision entirely out of your hands. You hope he does not consider himself a hero, because you certainly do not.
When he ended it, it nearly broke you. But you loved him out of necessity, and not nearly enough just because you wanted to. And you spent an eternity getting over him, only to realize that you had actually been over him for quite a long time. But by then it was too late.
Now he thinks that he can just take control of a police investigation of your sister's kidnapping -- that he had no business being involved in -- and still be the one making all of the decisions as to how you are allowed to deal with the aftermath. Your blood boils, and you wish you had found the voice to yell when you had the chance.
The wind picks up speed, blowing in small gusts in around the corners of the balcony, but your feet stay rooted in place and you do not sway. With what little determination you have left, you consider Jack's untimely and inappropriate words about your personal choices.
But before you can fully process the relative accuracy of his words, you hear the glass door slide open behind you and the gentle sound of footsteps approaching you. It is not Jack, though, who crosses his arms and leans against the railing beside you. Instead, it is the one personal choice that you made inside the office that was not as poor as Jack might characterize.
Martin stands silently beside you. His shoulder less than six inches from yours, though the gap between you spans as wide and deep as an ocean.
You fight the urge to pick at a spot of rust on the metal railing and instead tilt you neck just enough that you can study his profile. He looks tired, though he does not hold himself that way. It is a calm weariness, and he appears more peaceful, more at ease than you have seen him in a long time. Maybe ever.
"Martin -" You breathe, uncertain, and your eyes do not quite meet his.
"Jack said you were going to take a couple of days."
You shrug, trying to read his tone of voice for some clue as to what is running through his mind and why he has suddenly decided to join you. Ever since he found out about you and Jack, there has always been a quality to the way he says the name.
Jack. He had said it in the first weeks you had been together, and it had been cautious. He stepped around it and simply tried not to trip and fall. It would be inauspicious to bring up an old lover so early in a new relationship.
Jack. He said it later on, towards the end, and had not attempted to hide his bitterness. You had ignored it, not knowing what to say, and each time the name fell from his lips - at home or in the office - it widened the invisible gap that separated you from him. The gap that you had created and then decided you did not want.
Jack. He said it after things were over, and you felt the slight sadness that tinged his voice. It angered you all the more, because he was the one who had ended it. You did not understand from where his regret stemmed.
But this time, there is neither tone nor signal revealed by the way the words fall freely from his lips. You cannot help but wonder what that means, and can only assume that it will make sense at some time in the future. That was, after all, the way it had always worked in the past.
"How are you doing with all of it?" He asks, as though you taking the rest of the week off per your boss' orders does not give it away.
Your shoulders lock, and your posture stiffens. "She's going to be fine."
He frowns slightly, his expression verging on disappointment. "That's not what I asked, Sam."
You shift your weight to your right foot, your body sliding those few crucial centimeters further away from him. You need your space to allow your voice to come out evenly, and that is not going to happen when you can practically feel the steady rise and fall of his chest in time with his slow breathing. It is not supposed to be like this, not anymore.
"It's fine. I'm fine," you say, more to reassure yourself than him. You do not have a choice anymore; you have to be fine.
"Okay" he exhales. He turns to lean his left side against the slightly rusted metal railing and, bringing his free hand to your shoulder, he rotates your own body until you are facing him. "Samantha," he says gently, and the way your name rolls slowly off of his tongue makes what is left of your heart shatter into a thousand tiny pieces. You try to decipher whether it was the genuine concern in his voice or the fact that he used your full name, and you almost miss when he releases another small whisper. "You're not fine."
"What gave you that idea?" You inhale slowly and wait for his answer.
His lips curl upward in a half-smile. "You've been out here for almost half an hour without a jacket, and you hate the cold."
You rotate your head backward, stretching the tense muscles; you barely noticed the chill from the late morning breeze.
His eyes meet yours, and for a second you think you notice a flicker of something deeper in clear blue. You used to see it every time he looked at you, but it has been noticeably absent for some time now. You never knew what it was before, though suddenly it has come to you.
Faster than it came, though, it is gone. You recognize the look that replaces it, his eyes blank and emotionless, and it stings more than his looks of crestfallen disappointment ever did. Because when you disappointed him in the past, you could always tell yourself that he still cared. Now, you have nothing.
You tilt your head again with a small nod, and exhale. You are struck by the sudden urge to tell him, to confess everything. You want to tell someone, and not just someone who is there. You want to tell him because you know he will listen. But just as he always listened, the words catch at the base of your throat. It is too raw and bitter yet, and you cannot.
The urge to confide in him, though, is overwhelming. In the past, you always overcame that urge with ease. Battle-weary and exhausted, you do not even recognize the sound of your own voice.
"Emily and I were so different. She saw the good in everyone, and I always wanted to be just like her. I waited for her every night, after she ran away. I waited and waited, and eventually I just ... stopped waiting. And then suddenly, she was back. But she had changed. She was so quiet and angry, and I never asked her where she had been. Not once." You look up at him and wipe aimlessly at the dust that is irritating your eye. "Martin, I should have known. I should have done something to help."
His chest heaves, and he leans in, closing the gap that separates you. His hand reaches out, and for a moment he looks like he is going to hug you. It comes instead to rest against your shoulder, squeezing gently as he smiles at you. "When are you scheduled to have the bone marrow test done?"
You return his smile weakly and roll up your sleeve. The crook of your elbow is angry and bruised, bluish purple blotches marring your pale skin. You sigh audibly and shake your head. "They fit me in with my mom while I was still in Kenosha. The preliminary results have already come back; I'm not a match. They need to run a few more tests on my mom, but the preliminary HLA match looks good."
"I'm sorry, Sam," he says, his voice stuttering slightly. "I mean it's good that your mom matches, but..." He trails off nervously, but he brings the back of his hand to run against your cheek. You adjust your sleeve down again, anxious as goose bumps rise up on your arms.
Your cheek burns in the path his fingers traced, and you breathe deeply.
"I wanted it to be me," you whisper, turning your head away.
The seconds feel more like hours, and you are not certain he heard you until he tilts your chin, forcing your eyes upward to meet his. You expect him to tell you not to worry about it, that it is not your fault. Instead, he nods and shrugs his shoulders. "I know. I'm sorry."
You run your hand along your face, playing nervously with a lock of hair that has fallen from your ponytail. "What happened to us?" You ask him, suddenly very curious as to what is running through his mind. You drop your arm from your hairline, giving a small gesture as it drops down to your side.
"We broke up." He replies, so bluntly that you almost step back in shock. You bite your tongue, and swallow his brutal honesty with your own blood.
"I know, but you're here." Your chin falls against your chest.
But as your voice is quiet and rushed, his reply comes steady, with reassuring strength. "I never went anywhere."
He turns on his heels. In an instant, you hear the methodical sound of the glass door sliding open and shut again, and he is gone.
Your body slumps over the balcony railing once more, and your heart beats rapidly in your chest.
Your cheek still burning from the casual intimacy of his touch, you hear your own words echo against the late morning sunlight.
I wanted it to be me, you told him.
You realize, suddenly, that you did.
You still do.
xxx
End Notes: I am apparently experimenting with all kinds of styles, and I think I am mostly okay with the way this one turned out. I had a couple of pieces of post-episode dialogue running through my head, and it's taken me almost a month to link them together into something sort of coherent. There are a couple of ideas that I introduced but maybe should have developed more, but then, I kind of consider this a first draft until otherwise noted :P
The most important thing I think I discovered about myself as I was writing this is that it's a lot easier for me to get into Sam's head when I am less than sober. True story.
ConCrit would be wonderful. I still feel completely incompetent because my regular trusty betas don't watch the show, so I don't have someone yelling "NO! He would never say that!" in my ear as I'm writing.
Feedback: bitterviolet[at]gmail.com
Rating: K+
Disclaimer: I let them out for oxygen once every couple of days.
Category: MS, Sam angst
Spoilers: 5x19
Summary: 'to the whole of my undoing'
Notes: I know, I know. Another one of those cliché post-ep fics. I hate myself a little bit for writing it, but I had the end scene in my head and it just would not go away no matter how much I told it to. Though I promise this one won't require insulin if you choose to go further.
This was apparently my attempt at making some sense of the complete crap that I found "At Rest" to be. I tried to write Sam without making her sound too whiney, and this is the end result.
If you're wondering about the title, I was playing around with the lyrics from the intro song and trying to make something stick, but that wasn't working out for me. So I landed somehow in my music theory dictionary and pulled this out. For a better explanation of specifically what it means, the wikipedia page should be helpful. Look specifically at the last line of the article and you should get what I mean.
Soundtrack Recommendations:
"Black & White" - Sarah McLachlan
"Who Makes You Feel" - Dido
"Flicker" - Trespassers William
"I Saw" - Matt Nathanson
"Time" - Sarah McLachlan
"Shasta (Carrie's Song)" - Vienna Teng
Email me for details. And by details, I mean the zip file.
xxx
unravel me, untie this chord
the very center of our union is caving in
i can't endure, i am the archive of our failure
and all i feel is black and white
and i'm wound up small and tight
and i don't know who i am
-Sarah McLachlan, "Black & White"
xxx
Jack tells you to take a few days off, and you realize, suddenly, that it is exactly what you will be doing.
And that it is exactly what you did not want for yourself.
Joe and Jeff Henry. Your mother's distracted carelessness. Emily's silence, her pain. Your own. You wanted to be done with the whole mess. But in a few days' time, you will be back at work, and once again it will be like nothing ever happened.
The bullpen is busy and full of life as you enter, unnoticed. You see another photograph pinned up on the white board and events outlined loosely as they are uncovered. The team will handle this one without you, and they will be fine. Their distracted faces barely see you as you silently move to seek solace in the calm quiet of the balcony.
The wind whips against your face, and you lean against the cool metal railing, bracing yourself against your own sorrow.
You watch, like you always do, as the world passes you by on the ground below. Sometimes slowly, sometimes in the blink of an eye, but it always happens. It is what you do best. Or rather, it is what you best allow to happen.
For someone who is trained as a federal agent, you realize that you rarely take action once you leave the safe confines of your job. Emily, after she finally returned home, trapped herself in a downward spiral and took you down with her. You thought you understood and, feeling guilty, wanted to help her any way you could. But the drugs and alcohol were a factor far beyond your control, and your husband -- unable to take your absence any longer -- left you behind. After all, it is difficult to have a honeymoon period when you see more of your wife's hung-over sister than your wife.
Jack could never stay, until one day he stopped 'not staying' and instead stopped coming altogether.
Martin, however, was the one who came as a surprise.
Even when you were eighteen married, you did not expect it to last. You learned early that marriage is not sacred, and parenthood even less so. You suppose, in a way, that made it easier when you were with Jack. If it was broken to begin with, you could hardly be held responsible.
But Martin, he was supposed to be different. Though you did not believe it at first -- nor would you believe it for the many months that followed -- eventually you came to that same conclusion.
You still hate him, a little bit, for the way that he let you down. He was supposed to be patient, he was supposed to crack a small smile when you agreed to go with him to the wedding and reassure you that it would be fine. You let your guard down, and it hurt that much more when he pushed the bagel away -- and in turn pushed you even further.
You do not usually dwell on this remaining bitterness, however. Instead, you act as though you are casual friends. Like your relationship with him is no different than your relationship with Danny, and you would not care if he suddenly started to date that brunette from fifth floor accounting who was never shy about her interest. Even though acting this way tears you up inside, you do not let it show. That would make you weak, and you cannot afford to be weak.
You are not good about being honest with yourself, but it comes as a small comfort that you are sure he has not been with anyone since you. First there was Dormvald, then there were the painkillers. And finally, there was his recovery.
You read anything you could find on Narcotics Anonymous, unbeknownst to him, in the early days of his recovery -- and you remember that you felt something upon learning the rule against beginning new relationships in the first year. It was not quite a feeling of relief, but it did sooth your wounded ego. You know him better than you let yourself show, and you knew he would follow the rules with meticulous caution.
Sometimes you can even convince yourself that the sudden increase in the casual aspect of your sex life has nothing to do with your ego or your pride, or that you are doing nothing more than reminding yourself that you can have sex whenever you want. You play a game where it has nothing do to with trying to find someone who could touch you the way that he did. Because the voice in your head if you do not play that game sounds annoyingly like Lisa Harris, and you hate talking to Lisa.
You are certain that when you return to work, you will be required to make several visits with Dr. Harris, and you briefly consider blackmailing Jack with the forged incident report to get out of it. He should have absolutely no say in how you decide to deal with this, and your stomach churns as it finally dawns on you that he has taken the decision entirely out of your hands. You hope he does not consider himself a hero, because you certainly do not.
When he ended it, it nearly broke you. But you loved him out of necessity, and not nearly enough just because you wanted to. And you spent an eternity getting over him, only to realize that you had actually been over him for quite a long time. But by then it was too late.
Now he thinks that he can just take control of a police investigation of your sister's kidnapping -- that he had no business being involved in -- and still be the one making all of the decisions as to how you are allowed to deal with the aftermath. Your blood boils, and you wish you had found the voice to yell when you had the chance.
The wind picks up speed, blowing in small gusts in around the corners of the balcony, but your feet stay rooted in place and you do not sway. With what little determination you have left, you consider Jack's untimely and inappropriate words about your personal choices.
But before you can fully process the relative accuracy of his words, you hear the glass door slide open behind you and the gentle sound of footsteps approaching you. It is not Jack, though, who crosses his arms and leans against the railing beside you. Instead, it is the one personal choice that you made inside the office that was not as poor as Jack might characterize.
Martin stands silently beside you. His shoulder less than six inches from yours, though the gap between you spans as wide and deep as an ocean.
You fight the urge to pick at a spot of rust on the metal railing and instead tilt you neck just enough that you can study his profile. He looks tired, though he does not hold himself that way. It is a calm weariness, and he appears more peaceful, more at ease than you have seen him in a long time. Maybe ever.
"Martin -" You breathe, uncertain, and your eyes do not quite meet his.
"Jack said you were going to take a couple of days."
You shrug, trying to read his tone of voice for some clue as to what is running through his mind and why he has suddenly decided to join you. Ever since he found out about you and Jack, there has always been a quality to the way he says the name.
Jack. He had said it in the first weeks you had been together, and it had been cautious. He stepped around it and simply tried not to trip and fall. It would be inauspicious to bring up an old lover so early in a new relationship.
Jack. He said it later on, towards the end, and had not attempted to hide his bitterness. You had ignored it, not knowing what to say, and each time the name fell from his lips - at home or in the office - it widened the invisible gap that separated you from him. The gap that you had created and then decided you did not want.
Jack. He said it after things were over, and you felt the slight sadness that tinged his voice. It angered you all the more, because he was the one who had ended it. You did not understand from where his regret stemmed.
But this time, there is neither tone nor signal revealed by the way the words fall freely from his lips. You cannot help but wonder what that means, and can only assume that it will make sense at some time in the future. That was, after all, the way it had always worked in the past.
"How are you doing with all of it?" He asks, as though you taking the rest of the week off per your boss' orders does not give it away.
Your shoulders lock, and your posture stiffens. "She's going to be fine."
He frowns slightly, his expression verging on disappointment. "That's not what I asked, Sam."
You shift your weight to your right foot, your body sliding those few crucial centimeters further away from him. You need your space to allow your voice to come out evenly, and that is not going to happen when you can practically feel the steady rise and fall of his chest in time with his slow breathing. It is not supposed to be like this, not anymore.
"It's fine. I'm fine," you say, more to reassure yourself than him. You do not have a choice anymore; you have to be fine.
"Okay" he exhales. He turns to lean his left side against the slightly rusted metal railing and, bringing his free hand to your shoulder, he rotates your own body until you are facing him. "Samantha," he says gently, and the way your name rolls slowly off of his tongue makes what is left of your heart shatter into a thousand tiny pieces. You try to decipher whether it was the genuine concern in his voice or the fact that he used your full name, and you almost miss when he releases another small whisper. "You're not fine."
"What gave you that idea?" You inhale slowly and wait for his answer.
His lips curl upward in a half-smile. "You've been out here for almost half an hour without a jacket, and you hate the cold."
You rotate your head backward, stretching the tense muscles; you barely noticed the chill from the late morning breeze.
His eyes meet yours, and for a second you think you notice a flicker of something deeper in clear blue. You used to see it every time he looked at you, but it has been noticeably absent for some time now. You never knew what it was before, though suddenly it has come to you.
Faster than it came, though, it is gone. You recognize the look that replaces it, his eyes blank and emotionless, and it stings more than his looks of crestfallen disappointment ever did. Because when you disappointed him in the past, you could always tell yourself that he still cared. Now, you have nothing.
You tilt your head again with a small nod, and exhale. You are struck by the sudden urge to tell him, to confess everything. You want to tell someone, and not just someone who is there. You want to tell him because you know he will listen. But just as he always listened, the words catch at the base of your throat. It is too raw and bitter yet, and you cannot.
The urge to confide in him, though, is overwhelming. In the past, you always overcame that urge with ease. Battle-weary and exhausted, you do not even recognize the sound of your own voice.
"Emily and I were so different. She saw the good in everyone, and I always wanted to be just like her. I waited for her every night, after she ran away. I waited and waited, and eventually I just ... stopped waiting. And then suddenly, she was back. But she had changed. She was so quiet and angry, and I never asked her where she had been. Not once." You look up at him and wipe aimlessly at the dust that is irritating your eye. "Martin, I should have known. I should have done something to help."
His chest heaves, and he leans in, closing the gap that separates you. His hand reaches out, and for a moment he looks like he is going to hug you. It comes instead to rest against your shoulder, squeezing gently as he smiles at you. "When are you scheduled to have the bone marrow test done?"
You return his smile weakly and roll up your sleeve. The crook of your elbow is angry and bruised, bluish purple blotches marring your pale skin. You sigh audibly and shake your head. "They fit me in with my mom while I was still in Kenosha. The preliminary results have already come back; I'm not a match. They need to run a few more tests on my mom, but the preliminary HLA match looks good."
"I'm sorry, Sam," he says, his voice stuttering slightly. "I mean it's good that your mom matches, but..." He trails off nervously, but he brings the back of his hand to run against your cheek. You adjust your sleeve down again, anxious as goose bumps rise up on your arms.
Your cheek burns in the path his fingers traced, and you breathe deeply.
"I wanted it to be me," you whisper, turning your head away.
The seconds feel more like hours, and you are not certain he heard you until he tilts your chin, forcing your eyes upward to meet his. You expect him to tell you not to worry about it, that it is not your fault. Instead, he nods and shrugs his shoulders. "I know. I'm sorry."
You run your hand along your face, playing nervously with a lock of hair that has fallen from your ponytail. "What happened to us?" You ask him, suddenly very curious as to what is running through his mind. You drop your arm from your hairline, giving a small gesture as it drops down to your side.
"We broke up." He replies, so bluntly that you almost step back in shock. You bite your tongue, and swallow his brutal honesty with your own blood.
"I know, but you're here." Your chin falls against your chest.
But as your voice is quiet and rushed, his reply comes steady, with reassuring strength. "I never went anywhere."
He turns on his heels. In an instant, you hear the methodical sound of the glass door sliding open and shut again, and he is gone.
Your body slumps over the balcony railing once more, and your heart beats rapidly in your chest.
Your cheek still burning from the casual intimacy of his touch, you hear your own words echo against the late morning sunlight.
I wanted it to be me, you told him.
You realize, suddenly, that you did.
You still do.
xxx
End Notes: I am apparently experimenting with all kinds of styles, and I think I am mostly okay with the way this one turned out. I had a couple of pieces of post-episode dialogue running through my head, and it's taken me almost a month to link them together into something sort of coherent. There are a couple of ideas that I introduced but maybe should have developed more, but then, I kind of consider this a first draft until otherwise noted :P
The most important thing I think I discovered about myself as I was writing this is that it's a lot easier for me to get into Sam's head when I am less than sober. True story.
ConCrit would be wonderful. I still feel completely incompetent because my regular trusty betas don't watch the show, so I don't have someone yelling "NO! He would never say that!" in my ear as I'm writing.